Archive of Our Own ^beta

The KTX from Busan to Seoul takes two-and-a-half hours. 

Seungsik used to take it every other week back when he was in high school. He was a pretty even-tempered kid, preoccupied with causing as little ruckus as possible wherever he went. But the move from Seoul to Busan for his father's job was harder than anticipated. School wasn't the same and he missed his friends, missed the restaurants and bookstores and arcades he grew up with. He supposes the train rides were his version of a temper tantrum. All of the money he got for allowance stowed away in a tattered white envelope under his bed that he only ever pulled out on Friday evenings when he wanted to run away (but never for good).

His parents probably knew he was venting this way because they never said anything. Every now and then, his mom would ask, Where are you going? And he'd lull by the front door with his over-stuffed backpack and flash her a smile, explaining that he was going To meet Chan in Seoul!

It's been years since high school. Even then, he'd stopped making the bi-monthly journey after he found his footing in Busan, some time into his second year of high school, maybe. Everything fell into place eventually—calibration had just taken its sweet time.

He still makes the trip every now and then. His parents have since moved back to Seoul. Seungsik hasn't left Busan once since he settled after getting his master's. 

"You're practically a native," Head Teacher Lee says, his smile warm—small, but warm—as he offers a mug of fresh coffee to Seungsik. The head teacher is a Seoul native too, but he's been in Busan for the past ten years; once said in passing that he fell in love with a person first, and then the city after he decided to stay. Seungsik can relate. "The only thing you're missing is the accent." 

"I'm pretty good at imitating one," Seungsik offers with a faint laugh. "Or, well, I think I'm pretty good."

"That's because you haven't heard yourself," Bomi, the school nurse, drawls out, clearly unimpressed as she walks into the teachers' lounge, heels clicking and clacking uniformly. She eyes the mug in Seungsik's hand before swiping it from him (and he lets her, always does), taking one long sip of the dark roast, eyes fluttering to a close. "God, I needed that." 

"Good morning," the head teacher says, handing Seungsik another mug without skipping a beat.

"Mornings are never good," Bomi sighs out. "Monday mornings are even worse. Like, come on? Another week? We just had one of those. Can't the powers that be give us a brea—"

An indistinct clamor effectively silences Bomi's weekly complaint. Seungsik feels his heart sink when he recognizes a voice shouting, and he's careful—practiced, even—as he sets the mug of coffee atop the nearest surface and sprints to the door, sliding it open just in time to step between what would undoubtedly have been a couple of bruises and a solemn walk to the nurse's clinic.

"What's going on here?" Seungsik demands. It's funny. Even when he wants to sound angry, wants to sound stern, he can't. Can only manage to sound disappointed, exhausted—though that seems to be enough to snap one of the smaller students out of his momentary anger. 

"Teacher, it wasn't Subin's fault!" another boy shouts immediately. "They were making fun of him again, and even after he told them to stop they kept—"

"Hwanhee," Seungsik says, calmly. "It's okay. Why don't you head to the classroom?" 

The boy parts his lips to protest before immediately clamping his mouth shut, gaze flickering from Seungsik's face to the unchanging expression on Subin's face beside him. He seems to know there isn't any room for his advocacy here, only nodding his head sullenly before stalking off to their classroom.

Bomi steps out of the lounge then, eyeing the situation with particular derision before she grabs the ears of the two students Seungsik presumes instigated the entire debacle. "I'll take care of these two," she says, donning a deceivingly bright smile. 

Seungsik mirrors her smile, albeit weakly, watching (helplessly) as she drags her victims down the hall. He's still new to teaching, and definitely didn't have any experience breaking up little spats like this one up until he started working here. Now, he's used to them; they happen every week, sometimes more than once, and it's stranger if seven days go by without someone in his class sitting in the teachers' office with a cut on their cheek. 

He lets out a soft sigh. 

"I'm sorry," Subin murmurs from behind him, and Seungsik almost startles, having forgotten the younger boy was still there. "I didn't want to make them angry." 

"I know," Seungsik assures him. He hopes his face doesn't show how exhausted he feels. He smiles wider. "Were they teasing you again?" 

Subin doesn't reply immediately. 

They're in a tight-knit part of Busan, a ways from the bustling city-center. Everyone seems to know each other's business, and Subin's been the target of some heartless bullying since he moved into town last month. His mom isn't around; his dad's busy, almost always missing from action. Subin's an easy target in the eyes of the other kids who are looking for something, someone to push around. It's a shame how cruel kids can be. Seungsik wishes he was better at teaching them things beyond what's contained in the lesson plan. 

"Just the same old stuff," Subin finally says. He purses his lips, kicking at the ground once, avoiding eye contact with Seungsik. "Are you angry?"

Seungsik mimes contemplation, stroking his cheek pensively. "Hm, should I be?" 

"No!" the boy blurts out. He's embarrassed a second later, his cheeks a faint pink when he meets Seungsik's gaze. The teasing glint in Seungsik's eyes must be easy-to-read because Subin frowns soon after. "I didn't fight back. I didn't even yell." 

"I know," Seungsik promises. "You never do. You thought I'd be angry?”

"You were angry last time I yelled," Subin continues, his voice getting smaller by the second. "I don't want you to not like me."

Seungsik smiles faintly. He should have figured. "I wasn't angry at you,” he clarifies. “I just didn't want to see you guys fighting." 

"I know," Subin echoes. He's quiet for another moment, kicking idly at the ground again. "You don't think what they're saying is true, right?"

He doesn't know the full extent of what they're saying, period. But Subin sounds so desperate for any sort of affirmation that Seungsik doesn't even have the heart to ask. "Subin, they're just trying to bother you. I wouldn't be surprised if they wanted to be friends but are too shy." 

Subin frowns deeper. "I don't want to be friends with them." 

"You don't have to be," Seungsik says, laughing faintly.

"My dad said he'd come in for the conferences," Subin says instead, finally lifting his head, gaze flitting from the window to Seungsik's face. "Grandma's sick, so he promised. Can you ask him for me then?" 

Seungsik blinks. "Ask him what?"

There's a furrow between Subin's brows that eases then, his expression flickering from one of stubborn consternation to minute fear. He hesitates. "If he..." He furrows his brows, struggling to think of the right word. "If he regrets me?" 

Ah. 

Truth be told, Seungsik's never met Subin's dad. The only encounters he's had with anyone related to Subin have been with his grandmother, a kind, elderly lady who'd lugged along a case of ginseng drinks for Seungsik when Subin first transferred in. He's shy, she'd told Seungsik, the smile on her lips warm but tight. Please watch over him kindly, Teacher.

Back then, he’d only laughed. He already had his hands full trying to figure out the ins-and-outs of a job he was catapulted into. Months later and Seungsik still thinks he might be in over his head, grossly under-qualified. 

It’s often in moments like these that he feels it most: the palpable, almost grating voice at the back of his head asking, Can you even do this? 

"Subin, I'm positive he doesn't," Seungsik says. 

"You don't know him," Subin protests, wringing his hands together. On most days, Seungsik catches Subin gazing out the window during class-time, mind drifting to something that isn't basic mathematics or whatever else they're learning for the day. He's always seemed a little disconnected from the rest of the class, as though there's a invisible weight on his shoulders he's stubbornly committed to stomaching alone. Like this, Subin seems more his age—uncertain, almost pleading, with the way he fidgets under Seungsik's gaze, like he wants a specific answer but he isn't sure what that answer is.

Seungsik's too sensitive. His own heart aches a little too insistently as he combs his mind for something to say. He lets out a small exhale, crouching down ever-so-slightly to pat Subin on the shoulder. "I don't need to," he promises. "I know he doesn't regret you. Don't let what your classmates are saying get to you. Now, should we head to the classroom together? Hwanhee's probably getting antsy waiting for you." 

That seems to do the trick for now. Subin's gaze jumps from Seungsik's face to their classroom, down the hall. He parts his lips to add something but doesn't. Only nods. 

"Do you think..." Subin suddenly starts to ask after he's turned on his heels, his shoulders bunched together. 

"Subin?" Seungsik asks, patient.

"Um, never mind." He takes a step forward, a step away. "Thank you."

He moves to Busan the year before he starts high school. Eventually, he graduates with distinction. Attends a good university in Seoul. Somehow, he ends up in Busan again. Doesn't it smell like fish?  Sejun jokes the night before Seungsik's slated to move. Chan slings an arm over Seungsik's shoulders, pulling him so close that Seungsik can smell the soju on his breath, as he says, It smells like the ocean. Seungsik loves the ocean!

The plan, initially, is to do exactly what everyone expects of him: graduate from his program, work at a prestigious private school in the suburbs of Seoul, find a nice girl to marry, settle down. The end.

He gets somewhere into the second or third phase of the plan—gets an offer from an academy in Cheongdam (his mother tells everyone at her church about it even when they don't ask) and Seungsik has zero reason to complain. 

And then, at the very last minute, he gets a call from the principal of his old high school in Busan asking how he is. The old high school's moved to a new location; the vacated building's an elementary school now, and Seungsik's principal decided to stay behind to help establish it. There's an empty spot in our staff, the old man explains, sounding unfairly apologetic, like he knows he's about to ask for too much—like he knows Seungsik has no choice (or so he likes to believe) but to acquiesce. Do you have it in your heart? 

Back then, he doesn't ask. Doesn't clarify. Doesn't follow up with, Have what in my heart? The space? The energy? The sheer stupidity?

Back then, he doesn't ask. Doesn't clarify. Doesn't follow up with, I shouldn't. I can't. I'm sorry.

Instead, he breaks the news to his parents the next morning. Packs his bags the next weekend. Sejun throws him a goodbye party and though his friends tease him and congratulate him, toward the end of the night, Chan's tearing up and Byungchan mumbles, Why are you leaving again?

(He writes it off as a favor, as something he's doing because he's too nice to say no. There's a timestamp he attaches to the whole thing, an expiration date. If things go well, smoothly, he'll be back within a year. It's nothing more than a break before he starts his life for good; before he really settles down in Seoul. He doesn't have to say it out loud for Chan to linger by his side as they're walking out of the restaurant, shoulder bumping Seungsik's. "I'm not doing anything stupid," Seungsik insists to him, without prompting. 

"I figured," Chan replies. "Just chasing ghosts.")

It's been about three months now. The perks of the job include that Seungsik has zero time, zero energy to think, to ruminate. His homeroom class is troublesome, to say the least. There's a reason why the spot's been vacant on-and-off over the past two years. Seungsik lasting more than two months is already a good omen, and the principal's in high spirits. Head Teacher Lee always says he thinks the students only cause trouble because they're not used to anyone giving them the right amount of attention. But they're getting better, he adds, squeezing Seungsik's shoulder. Because of you.

He's exhausted, but truth be told, this is the kind of work he wanted to do from the start. It's difficult: students get into little fights every other week and there are times when he can't get anyone to pay attention for the life of him, but it's impossible to miss the way the kids warm up to him, lingering longer after hours to help him carry books and binders from the classroom to the door of the teachers' office. Have a nice day, Teacher! they chirp, and Seungsik's fatigue dissipates, just like that, into thin air. 

"Whatcha lookin' at, Kang seonsaeng?" Bomi asks, peering over Seungsik's shoulder while he's hunched over his desk. Surreptitiously, she slides a mug of coffee across the surface. "Oh, Jung Subin's file? Getting ready for conferences?"

Seungsik laughs faintly. "Trying my best."

"Subin's a sweet kid, don't you think? You can tell he's trying his best." Bomi plops down unceremoniously in the swivel chair beside Seungsik's. "He just attracts trouble, but that's how you know he's a good kid. Sits still and the rest of the kids would do anything to get his attention."

"Yeah," Seungsik hums. "Nothing out of the ordinary from his last school. He was—" He pauses. "Have you ever met his father?"

"Subin's? Nope. I've met his grandmother a few times. Nice lady. Always picks him up from the clinic with a jar of homemade yuja tea for me. I heard his dad's quite the busy guy, though. Do you know if he's coming in for conferences?" 

"Apparently," Seungsik says, smiling. His gaze lingers on the name printed neatly next to Subin's 'family relations' section. Han Seungwoo. He bites back a bitter, almost wistful laugh. What are the chances he'd have a name like that? "Wonder what kind of a person he is. Subin seems to hold him in high regard." 

"Who knows," Bomi sighs out. "For all I know, he's a ghost. Hey, hey. Speaking of, how do you like ghost stories?"

Seungsik stifles another laugh into the back of his hand, scrawling a black-inked star next to Han Seungwoo's name. "Not a fan," he says, finally, with a shake of his head. "Don't you think the average human has enough ghosts as is?" 

"Wow, kind of dark of you. Guess you're right. But you know, if anyone asks, I've heard the gymnasium is haunted—"

With Bomi chattering away, eliciting a couple of laughs here and there from Seungsik, it's easier to remove himself from the worst of his distractions. It's been years. Years since it felt like his heart ran away from him.

Years since he let it. 

Han Seungwoo taunts Seungsik out of the corner of his eye. He closes the file and pushes it aside. 

He's the furthest thing from superstitious. At some point in middle school, his parents stop going to church. He follows suit—never really took much away from the sermons anyway. His mom starts again when Seungsik's in high school, but he stays home. It's not that he's jaded or anything, but there are few things beyond the physical, the real, that really catch Seungsik's attention. Life after death seems nice, in theory, but when he dreams of heaven, all he thinks of is a winter night on the shore of Haeundae. 

He doesn't believe in karma. Doesn't really think he believes in luck. A lot of people find it strange, bizarre that someone with a smile as unblemished like Seungsik's would be so mechanical in his world view.

The truth is, there are days when Seungsik humors it: tells himself that someone's out there, made to be his other half; writes off a green bill he finds on the street as luck, maybe karma's cycle passing him again. But most days, he tries to avoid it. Goes out of his way to remind himself that reality is what it is, face-value—because if he doesn't, then it's too dangerously easy for him to define encounters like this one as fate.

"Thank you for coming in," Seungsik says, voice vacillating for a second before he sets a mug—one of the nicer ones that Head Teacher Lee keeps stowed away in the special cabinets—down in front of Subin's father. "I understand you're busy, but Subin was very excited to hear you'd be able to stop by." 

Han Seungwoo doesn't even bat an eye, doesn't even look at the cup of coffee in front of him. Since the second he slid the door of Seungsik's classroom open, peeking his head inside to ask if this was Teacher Kang's classroom; since the second they met eyes; since the second Seungsik's chest started to cave in on itself, his breath catching in his throat—

(All it took was a second: one moment, they were teacher and parent; the next, they were two high school kids suspended in time itself. All of a sudden, Seungsik felt smaller, like he was sitting in the corner of the third floor classroom they used for their sorry excuse of an oceanology club, just waiting for Seungwoo to stop by.) 

Since the second Seungwoo re-entered Seungsik's life, as though he'd never left, Seungwoo hasn't looked away from him. 

He looks like he's seen a ghost and Seungsik isn't sure how he feels about that.

"I'm sorry," Seungsik continues, mostly out of courtesy. He isn't really sure what he's apologizing for. At this point, it's just instinctive, a nervous knee-jerk reaction to the silence sitting between them. He doesn't know if he's supposed to act familiar, if he's supposed to acknowledge that this isn't a first meeting at all. There's something cold to Seungwoo's expression, like he's he's reading every jump in Seungsik's heartbeat. He looks cold, his hair styled meticulously, wearing a blacker than black suit, and a skinny tie done perfectly. "It won't take long. Um, I know you're probably already aware, but Subin's had some difficulty settling into the classroom. I'd like to tell you that it's nothing he should be faulted for. He's tried his best to be respectful of his classmates, but there have been—"

Seungsik rambles for longer after that, dragging a pen down the journal he's scrawled his notes into. He checks off every point he's brought up, scans the list once or twice in the process to make sure he isn't missing anything important.

By the time he's finished talking, Seungsik realizes belatedly that Seungwoo hasn't said a single word.

His mouth is dry. He wants to say something (has to say something—hasn't he been hoping for, dreaming of this exact moment for years now?), but the words get tangled at the tip of his tongue.

"That's all," he concludes. "Do you have any questions?"

Seungwoo shakes his head. And then, after a weighted pause, says, "I don't." 

The room falls quiet. He's supposed to end the meeting now, supposed to thank Seungwoo for his time and then bow at a ninety-degree angle until he can't hear footsteps anymore.

He doesn't want to end it. Not yet. 

"Then, I'll be on my way," Seungwoo says, rising from his seat. He dips into a half-hearted bow, one last lingering gaze settling on Seungsik's shoulders too heavily before he turns on his heel. "Thank you for watching over Subin." 

"Right! Of course!" Seungsik scrambles to his feet as well, mirroring the motion before trailing behind Seungwoo to see him out at the door. At the last minute, Seungsik remembers Subin's worried gaze as he suggested Seungsik ask Seungwoo if he was someone deserving of regret. "I, uh, Seungwoo-ssi—"

At that, Seungwoo freezes. For a second, his grip around the handle of his briefcase tightens, knuckles white before he relaxes.

"It's nothing serious, I just wanted to—"

"Seungwoo-ssi? Isn't that too cold?" Seungwoo asks, his back to Seungsik. He almost sounds amused. And after a beat, he lets out a small chuckle. "Have you changed that much since I last saw you?"

Seungsik's heart squeezes and then bursts in a matter of seconds. "I don't understand what you mean," he stammers out. Seungwoo's right in front of him, mere inches of distance between them. It's the first time in the past hour that Seungwoo's showed any sign of recognition. And yet, Seungsik's never felt further away, even compared to the years they spent apart. He feels a little sick, feels like hiding in his shell again. Feebly, he throws on a smile. "Is something the matter?"

"I guess you're right," Seungwoo murmurs, mostly to himself. "No. Well, thank you again, Teacher. I'm sorry, but I have to get going. Subin's in your care."

He has to watch Seungwoo walk all the way down the hall, and it isn't until he's almost completely out of sight that Seungsik's feet start to move automatically.

"Wait!" he calls out.

Seungwoo stops. He really does wait, an excruciating long three seconds before he turns to face Seungsik, expression trained and neutral. He doesn't say anything; he just waits, expectant.

"Subin..." Seungwoo trails off. Suddenly, the question he'd been meaning to ask seems too prying, too invasive, and Seungsik flusters trying to figure out how best to phrase it. "Subin did really well on his math test. He's a good kid—a great kid, but, um, I think it would mean more if you reminded him of that every now and then. He did—he got the highest score." He's stupidly nervous again and he doesn't know why. Or, well, he does know why—it's just hard to confront the truth.

Han Seungwoo shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be in this port-side town on the edge of Korea, where the only things bright enough to write home about are the stars at night. He shouldn't be here. Seungwoo left because he knew he didn't belong. Seungwoo left because he knew there were bigger skies for him to traverse and Seungsik stayed behind, said goodbye, because he knew he couldn't stomach them.

"Is that why you chased after me?" Seungwoo asks, unfairly composed. "To tell me how Subin did on a math test?"

In a matter of seconds, Seungwoo's too close and Seungsik feels like he's in high school again, cornered in an empty classroom with a sign that reads OCEANOLOGY CLUB hanging outside the door, covering the glass pane where someone might peer in and see Seungwoo kissing him. But they're not in high school. They're not in that dusty third floor classroom. They're standing in the middle of an empty hallway, after hours, in the school they both made stupid, unfulfilled promises in. They're adults now. Those stupid kids with stupid promises aren't here anymore.

But Seungsik's eyes clamp shut anyway.

"I was wrong," Seungwoo whispers before pulling back. When Seungsik meets his gaze, he looks frustrated for a second, and then almost guilty. "You haven't changed at all."

He lets out a sigh of relief he didn't realize he'd been holding. "It's—it's good seeing you again," Seungsik says, because he isn't sure what else is worth saying. There's a lump in his throat that feels sharper by the second. "I don't think I'd sleep well at night if I didn't at least say hello properly."

It takes a lot out of him to remind himself that this isn't the Seungwoo he knows.

He wants to ask so many questions. Where have you been? Why didn't you ever call? Why did you leave? Where did you go?

(He'd practice this conversation sometimes. On the better days, Seungwoo would say, I missed you, and they'd fall back to the way things were before they stopped existing in the same space. On the worse days, Seungwoo would say, Why does it matter?, and Seungsik never could figure out a good reason.)

"I'm—"

"Sorry?" Seungwoo asks. "You're always sorry. For nothing at all." He chuckles, but he sounds sad. "I'll take my leave now. Thank you for your time."

He doesn't get to ask a single question, only watches as Seungwoo leaves for real, his back getting smaller and smaller as he descends down the stairwell.

For a second, Seungsik thinks he might be dreaming. After all, even in his dreams, Seungwoo's centimeters out of reach.

Seungsik closes his hand over the empty space in front of him, squeezes his nails into the his palm. Drops his arm to his side.

He shudders.

(Hyung, Seungsik used to say into a mirror. I didn't come back to chase you. I came back to let you go.)

Seungsik has friends in high school. Mostly curious natives who've spent all of their lives in Busan, crowding around his desk at lunch to ask if it's true that all of the Seoul kids are starting a max exodus to the States. It's not the cool thing to study in Korea anymore, is it? Aw man, someone groans. Should I try to study abroad too?

It's not that he doesn't have friends in high school. He does. And for all of the people he has around him, there really isn't any rhyme or reason, any sure explanation for why Seungsik always feels so lonely.

Most weekends, he takes a train down to Seoul. Meets Chan at the station. They spend the weekend catching up—on not much at all—and wasting too many hours at the arcade with the rest of their friends. Busan isn't too different from Seoul at all, but it's the people. Seungsik misses his friends. He misses how comfortable he feels around them. Misses feeling like he belongs in his body, like he doesn't have to practice his smiles or rehearse pleasantries. It's why he runs away from Busan so often: because he thinks he might as well keep chasing after his happiness in Seoul if Busan is only temporary at the end of the day.

The train rides lessen in frequency in the second half of his first year of high school. Everyone's encouraged to join at least one extracurricular club. Seungsik signs up for a handful, but it's only when he stumbles into his first Oceanology Club meeting five minutes late, an apology at the tip of his tongue—only to fall to nothing when he sees a nearly-empty classroom with only one person sitting cross-legged on top of a corner desk, flipping through a self-help book on Finding Happiness!—that he really finds a space for himself.

Seungwoo's in the year above Seungsik. Doesn't actually care much about oceanology (and neither does Seungsik, really—not the nitty gritty stuff at least), but he used to play soccer until he hurt his knee, and now he's biding his time until he's better and the coach'll let him come to practice again. (The unfortunate reality is Seungwoo never does quite get better.) No one else shows up to the first meeting, or the second, or the third. Seungwoo doesn't seem too concerned, seems to think it's nothing out of the ordinary. The first few weeks are spent in silence, Seungsik doing his homework in one corner and Seungwoo thumbing through another self-help book that seems completely out of his niche in another.

And then Seungwoo starts sitting right next to Seungsik, starts draping his arms over Seungsik's shoulders to correct him while he's doing his biology homework. They start talking about more than just class and people they might both know. Seungwoo tells Seungsik about his family—his brilliant older sisters; about how he was born and raised in Busan, but his dream's to be a pro soccer player someday—outside of Busan, outside of Korea. Since his knee's made that dream hard, he's settled on being a pilot. Anything to get away. Seungsik tells Seungwoo about homesickness, about his friends in Seoul, about train rides and the one time he got a stomachache at Seoul Station because of a granny who sat next to him on the train who wouldn't stop feeding him hard-boiled eggs and roasted chestnuts. Seungsik tells Seungwoo about how someday (if things go right) he might be a teacher for kids just like himself.

Seungwoo is something of a legend at their school. Former soccer star, good head on his shoulders, and the younger brother of two popular sisters who passed through the school as well. Even after he embarks on his soccer hiatus, spending most of his free time alone (or with Seungsik, for some reason), every time Seungsik does spot him outside of their third floor club room, he's surrounded by a swarm of people, at the center of everyone's attention. That's why Seungsik convinces himself—for a long while, up until the middle of his second year—that the way he seems to gravitate toward Seungwoo is normal; that the way Seungwoo treats him (hand lingering over Seungsik's for a second too long; the way he slots his chin over Seungsik's shoulder when he's trying to get a better look at what Seungsik's working on for the day) isn't special. 

But then he realizes he's wrong.

Because Seungwoo tells him. Or rather, he shows him. 

One day during Seungsik's second year, Seungwoo's third, Seungsik decides to sit on the corner desk he first spotted Seungwoo occupying. Decides to peruse through one of the old books Seungwoo seems to re-read religiously. And when Seungwoo asks, "What are you doing?" and Seungsik replies too sunnily, still focusing on the book, "Trying to understand you!" he doesn't get get a response. Not a verbal one. What he gets is Seungwoo's fingers circling his wrists until the book's abandoned between them on Seungsik's lap. What he gets is Seungwoo's free hand tilting Seungsik's chin upward until their gazes meet. What he gets is Seungwoo leaning in closer, lips centimeters apart, asking, "When are you going to realize?" 

It's Seungsik's first real kiss. The next day is his second. And every now and then, in-between Seungwoo pulling Seungsik closer until their limbs are a tangled mess in the corner of a near-empty third floor classroom, Seungwoo will apologize, say, "I'm sorry for being selfish." 

(But Seungsik didn't mind back then because he thought that was probably what being in love was. Or, well, he knew. He knew, but there was something terrifying, still, about admitting it out loud when Seungwoo stared at the sky like he wished he could be a part of it someday.) 

He asks Seungwoo to promise to stay in touch. He does that a lot—pinky promise stupid, frivolous things. But he means this one. He doesn't want to lose Seungwoo. Seungwoo humors him, interlocking their pinkies before he pecks Seungsik on the cheek, not saying a word before going back to his book. 

Eventually, Seungwoo graduates. He pulls Seungsik to the side, leads him all the way back up to their third floor classroom after the ceremony, after he's taken pictures with his family, after Seungsik's managed to hand over a bouquet of nearly-crumpled flowers to him, after he's said goodbye to his friends (see you later). And then it's just the two of them in the same space, the same place. Seungwoo leans over, presses Seungsik against the door, the paper sign outside that reads OCEANOLOGY CLUB tattered and dusty from years of neglect. He kisses Seungsik once and apologizes again ("Sorry I'm selfish"), asks for more ("I just have one more thing I need you to promise me"), and then he's gone ("Just forget me"). 

Seungsik's selfish too.

He never quite forgets. But Seungsik's always been an even-tempered person, the type to go out of his way to make sure everyone else is happy. So, he pretends. When he takes a weekend KTX to Seoul and Chan meets him at the station, welcoming but a little confused, the only thing Seungsik says, smiling pitifully, is, "He's gone," and Chan doesn't ask any questions that'll hurt him. 

Subin seems a little more excitable these days. He's more engaged with class, less reclusive, and when Hwanhee cautiously asks him if he wants to look at some beat-up Yu-Gi-Oh cards with a kid in the next-door classroom, Subin uncharacteristically says yes. 

"A whole 180-degree transformation?" Bomi says as she trails into the teachers' office beside Seungsik. "You must have spoken some sense into Mister Subin's Dad at the conference last week."  

Right. It's been a week since he ran into Seungwoo. A whole week and Seungsik hasn't reached out, hasn't freaked out, hasn't even told Chan or Sejun anything beyond cryptic KakaoTalk emojis. He wants to—of course he does, but when he thinks of Seungwoo (in his perfectly fitted suit, with the cold air about him, his expression a mix of caution—apprehension), Seungsik has to remind himself that things have changed. They've both changed. The person Seungsik met last week—Subin's father—isn't the Seungwoo he was hoping to find here. 

He isn't sure what he was expecting.

"Hardly," Seungsik says, smiling. He sets his files down on his desk, bowing when he sees Head Teacher Lee entering. "I think I rambled at him for almost an hour about how Subin's been doing. I was shocked he didn't fall asleep." 

"You do ramble a lot," Bomi concedes, plopping down into an empty swivel chair. "But you should give yourself some credit, ssaem. The kids are surely changing now that they can tell someone really cares enough to stay." 

"...Thank you."

"Anyway, now that that's done with," Bomi says, leaning conspiratorially close, "a little birdy told me that Jung Subin's dad is hot with a capital—ow! Ugh, Oh Hayoung! I was in the middle of reconnaissance!" 

"You don't need to do any of that. I'm telling you, I saw with my own two eyes! He's hot!" Hayoung's another teacher, freshly returned from her honeymoon. "Anyway, sorry Bomi unni's such a bother. Do you happen to know what Subin's dad's phone number—oh! Haha, Head Teacher Lee... I didn't see you there..." 

Seungsik stifles a laugh. "I don't know when or if I'll be seeing him anytime soon," he says, honestly. "But if I run into him," Seungsik continues, raising his voice a couple of decibels, teasing, "I'll be sure to ask him that my fellow teacher would love his phone number."

"You witch," hisses Bomi. "You just got back from a honeymoon in Bali and you're still prowling around?"

"Not for me!" Hayoung protests. "Naeun unni said—"

Head Teacher Lee clears his throat purposefully from his desk and both Bomi and Hayoung fall silent, prodding each other childishly with their elbows. Seungsik grins. 

Bomi starts to whisper. "Instead of focusing on Naeun, let's focus on Kang seonsaeng. He's in need of someone to hold at night too—"

"You're right!" Hayoung gasps. "Okay, so Subin's dad is maybe a couple of centimeters taller than Kang seonsaeng, so..." 

Seungsik rubs at his eye idly and lets out a long sigh to let them know he can still hear them. "You don't have to concern yourselves with my love life," he pleads.

"You don't have a love life for us to concern ourselves with," Hayoung says, sounding much more crestfallen than Seungsik appreciates. "Do you know him, by the way?"

He freezes, settling his pen down on his desk and turning to address Hayoung. "Do I know...?"

"Subin's dad," says Hayoung. "I thought I saw you two talking in the hall, but I might have been wrong. I just thought I'd ask. Whoever it was, they seemed pretty close, so!" 

A part of him wants to lie. Even if he didn't answer, Seungsik thinks Hayoung might let the question go. But Bomi's gaze is heavy and Seungsik can tell she's waiting to hear some sort of answer. "I was his underclassman back in high school," Seungsik says, expression pulled back into trained neutrality. He smiles, faintly, and shrugs his shoulders as though he doesn't have much else to say. "It was my first time seeing him in a long time—maybe about eight years? More? We were just catching up briefly."

"Did you know?" Bomi presses. "That Subin's dad was your—"

"I didn't," Seungsik interjects. "I saw his name on Subin's file but I just figured it was a coincidence." 

"Speaking of Subin," Hayoung says, gesturing toward the front door of the teachers' office with one jerk of her neck.

Seungsik's attention focuses immediately on the little boy peeking shyly past a crack in the door. He must have knocked but no one appears to have heard. He frowns, wondering if maybe there was another fight or more trouble, but Seungsik brushes it off as he rises from his seat to meet Subin at the door, sliding it open and startling the boy. "Hi Subin. Do you need anything?" asks Seungsik. 

Subin stumbles back before collecting himself, standing up straight in front of Seungsik but looking awfully embarrassed about something. He looks like he might cry, in all honesty, and Seungsik takes one step forward, crouching down a little bit so he's at eye-level. He's one second away from asking Subin if he's okay when the boy presents a single sunflower from behind his back.

"It's for you," Subin explains quietly, eyes trained to the ground. 

"For me?" echoes Seungsik, gently accepting the bright yellow flower. It's vibrant, a little wilted and crumpled here and there (Seungsik figures it probably just came out of Subin's backpack), but it's pretty. "Just because?" 

"No, because—" Subin's ears are a bright red. "Thank you." 

Seungsik's grateful, he really is, but he isn't sure what he did to deserve a gift like this. "I'm sorry, Subin. I'm still a little confused. Did something happen?" 

"For talking to my dad," Subin whispers. 

Oh. 

"Of course. You didn't have to give me such a great gift for that! I enjoyed meeting your dad." 

"No, for..." Subin kicks at the ground once, eyes darting nervously at anything but Seungsik. "He told me you said a lot of nice things about me. That he was glad I was being good at school." 

Seungsik's heart feels impossibly tight as he reaches out to pat Subin's head. "I only said those things because they were true, Subin. You did all of the hard work." 

"He's always busy," Subin continues, shyly meeting Seungsik's gaze. "He said he was sorry it took so long to see you." A little more excited now, Subin gestures to the flower. "I picked it this morning from grandma's garden! Dad said I should give it to you!" 

His heart squeezes even tighter then. Seungsik almost hates himself for it. "Oh. That's really kind of him! I'm very thankful for it." 

Subin holds the flower a little higher, his small hand guiding Seungsik's until the sunflower's hovering right next to Seungsik's face. "Uh-huh!" confirms Subin, bobbing his head up and down. "He said it looks like you! I think he's right."

He lives in his grandparents' old apartment in Sujeong-dong, just a fifteen-minute walk from the subway station by the same name. When he was younger, his parents would stow away a cooler's worth of water bottles and sliced fruit in the car trunk and they'd make the five-hour (on a good day) drive to Busan. They'd sit in the same living room Seungsik grades tests in now, curled up around a glossy table low to the ground. His grandma would pile the surface of the table with plates of piping hot food until Seungsik swore he could hear the legs creaking with exertion.

His grandpa passes away while Seungsik's still in high school. His grandma's stubborn. She doesn't want to move; doesn't want to come to Seoul, where she can't hear the ocean. Even in her old-fashioned apartment in Sujeong-dong, Seungsik isn't sure if he's ever heard the ocean crashing into itself, but his grandma says she can hear the tides—says she can't fall asleep without counting the rolling waves like sheep. When she starts to lose her hearing, she pulls Seungsik out to the balcony, pats his cheek, and asks him if he can hear them; if he can count them for her. And he can't, but he counts them anyway. One (three seconds), two (three more seconds), three—until halmoni starts crying.

(Later, his mom asks him, Don't you know she's superstitious? The way his mom says it is with a bittersweet smile, shrugging her shoulders as she explains that halmoni finds solace in frivolous things. To halmoni, the closest thing she has to a memory of her husband is the ocean. You can't take the sea from a man like him, his grandmother would say, when they were all younger, livelier. She'd roll her eyes from the kitchen, and Seungsik would grin with her when his grandfather squawked in protest.)

His grandma passes away a month after he moves back to Seoul for university. For a while, the guilt eats him alive. Maybe she passed because she couldn't count the waves. Maybe she got tired of listening for something that didn't exist.

You can't be afraid to hope, she tells Seungsik once, hands shaking as she slices the peel off of a slice of pear. Can't be afraid to wish for more.

Sometimes, when the apartment's especially quiet, Seungsik thinks he can hear the ocean, too. He usually leaves to take a walk then, because there's something scary these days about indulging in his solitude.

When he first moved in back in August, he'd gone out of his way to introduce himself to his neighbors, had thrown on a sunny smile and offered styrofoam plates of sirutteok wrapped in plastic. For the first few months, he really did want to settle into the city, call it home.

The evening's wind is chilly, brisk. Seungsik lets out a shudder as he shuffles outside, the gate behind him clanging shut. He figures, if anything, he'll just take a lap around the neighborhood, maybe stop by the convenience store to grab a can of beer if he's feeling kind enough to himself.

At the very moment Seungsik's thoughts start to drift, however, he's snapped out of his trance by the rhythmic thump thump of footsteps getting louder, closer, until a stranger—a voice in the dark—shouts something unintelligible to get Seungsik's attention.

"Hey!" is the last thing Seungsik hears before he clamps his eyes shut, fully expecting to be collided into by the night-time jogger.

But a few seconds pass and nothing happens.

And then all he hears is someone panting, a low-voiced, "God", and when Seungsik opens his eyes—

"Most people don't dawdle in the middle of the street like that," Seungwoo says, hands pressed to his knees, his gaze flickering from the ground to Seungsik's face. He's sweaty, chest rising and falling steadily. "You live around here?"

Seungsik's heart is racing and he feels a little weak again, like he always is—always was around Seungwoo. "Sorry," is the first thing he says. And then, "I do."

Seungwoo straightens his back, letting out one last shudder of a breath, his focus unmoving from Seungsik's face. Like this, Seungwoo looks more like the Seungwoo that Seungsik fell in love with. "You look like you've seen a ghost," he says, sounding amused, almost. "Thought you were following me for a second."

He's waiting for Seungwoo to keep jogging, to leave Seungsik alone (again, but he doesn't want to unpack that). But Seungwoo doesn't budge.

It's strange. It's unfair. How even a tiny, fleeting moment like this is almost enough to chip away at the loneliness Seungsik had been trying to stomach earlier.

"I'll walk with you for a little bit," says Seungwoo, leaving no room for protest. "It's your grandparents' place, right?"

Seungsik throws on a feeble smile, doesn't want to admit he feels a little strange that Seungwoo remembers these insignificant details about Seungsik's life almost nine years later. "Yes."

They walk in almost complete silence for what feels like an eternity, the only sound available as white noise existing in the form of wind rattling rickety balcony railings and the rustling of leaves. He misses summer. At least then, he might hear the cicadas hum. 

"Why'd you come to Busan?"

Seungsik stumbles, doesn't dare look up from the ground when he feels Seungwoo's hand, warm, wrapped around his forearm to steady him. He shakes him off as politely as possible, prays to a god that's never listened to him for his voice not to tremble. "To teach," he says, as succinctly as he can manage. "I guess... the opportunity presented itself? I thought it would be nice." It's not the whole answer, but it's not a lie either.

Seungwoo seems to know there's more to it. "Didn't think I'd see you again," he says instead. "Was hoping I wouldn't," he adds, because he's cruel like that.

"That's a terrible thing to say," Seungsik protests, though he laughs not even a beat later. He's brushing it off as a joke because his heart always seems on the verge of breaking, shattering around Seungwoo. He doesn't want it to. Not yet. 

"I mean it," Seungwoo says. "Someone like you's better suited for a fancy elite school in Seoul."

He can't put a name to what he's feeling. There's an ache, but there's always an ache, in his chest. Something that seems to radiate heat—like it's close to bursting—with each level word Seungwoo hurls Seungsik's way.

"Maybe you're right," Seungsik manages, after a weighted pause. The words are starting to build up, starting to fall apart before he can rein them back and swallow them whole. "I could be in Seoul. But I'm not. I came here. Felt like I had to, for a lot of reasons. Felt like—"

"Hey—"

"Felt like I might be able to see you if I did." His throat feels dry, like it's crackling, closing up. "Even after all of this time, it's like I'm chasing after you. Isn't that funny? I..." He trails off when Seungwoo looks at him, through him, an unreadable emotion heavy in his gaze. "I know. You don't want to hear that. Not from me."

"You," Seungwoo murmurs, but he doesn't finish his sentence. He looks away, forward, his bangs falling over his eyes. He looks younger like this, not as stern and cold as he did when they first reencountered each other in their old high school, barely who they used to be when they were students. Seungwoo shakes his head. "You shouldn't have come to Busan."

I was here first, Seungsik wants to say. Seungwoo only moved back from who even knows where just last month. He wants to remind him—but he can't because Seungsik knows. Busan is Seungwoo's home. It was never Seungsik's. 

"I know," he says instead, laughing again, his eyes hot with unshed tears. "But you're not allowed to tell me that. That's not fair."

"You were supposed to leave," Seungwoo continues, jaw clenching the way it does when he's frustrated. "Supposed to figure things out in Seoul. You were supposed to figure out a life without me."

"That's not fair," Seungsik says again, voice tight. 

"It's not supposed to be fair." This time, it's Seungwoo who smiles. It's bitter, an unspoken apology deep in the press of his lips. "Not this."

Seungsik swallows thickly and looks to the right, away; he doesn't want Seungwoo to catch the way his lip his trembling. "How cruel can you get, sunbae?"

"Didn't you used to called me hyung?"

"That's—that's not fair." Nothing's fair. He gets it. Nothing's fair when Seungwoo's involved, and Seungsik means it as a joke, but his words come out a little choked up, strained, and it's probably obvious this means too much to him. He forces out a short laugh. "You don't get to pick and choose. If you want me to call you hyung, then—"

"Then what?" Seungwoo stops walking, curls a hand around Seungsik's wrist so he stops too. They aren't looking at each other—Seungsik won't let himself. "Then what? We have to go back to the way things were? I have to pretend I don't notice the way your eyes follow me? Have to pretend I don't think about you every other night? Have to corner you in the classroom to kiss you? Have to tell myself it isn't your smile that haunts me like a ghost? Then what?"

Time doesn't stop like it does in the movies, but Seungsik wishes it did. Even if every grain of sand in the universe filled up his hourglass, he isn't sure if that'd be enough seconds to figure out what to say.

He forgets how to speak. Forgets how to think. For a second, all he can focus on is the way Seungwoo's grip on Seungsik's wrist tightens for a passing moment before loosening, close to release. Belatedly, he realizes Seungwoo's hand is shaking too. 

"Then," Seungsik barely manages to choke out, pulling his arm away and out of Seungwoo's grasp. He turns, finally, looking Seungwoo in the eye with a shaky smile. "Then you have to stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're afraid of me," Seungsik says, biting the inside of his cheek, willing himself to keep smiling. "It's unlike you."

"I can't just stop," says Seungwoo. "I am afraid of you." 

Seungsik's lips part, a shudder of a breath leaving him. He inhales sharply; tries, in vain, to placate the unrelenting beating of his heart. "Please don't misunderstand. I didn't come back for you," he says. "I didn't come back to ask you to start over. I didn't come back to ask you questions. I didn't—I didn't come back for you. I love Busan. I think without you, it would have been hard to learn to love it. It used to feel like I was alone in a city full of people back then. But I learned. You helped, but I learned." Seungsik closes his eyes, presses the heel of his hand against one. His arm drops back to his side and when Seungsik opens his eyes again, Seungwoo's still there. He's not dreaming, but he desperately, desperately wishes he was. "I didn't come back for you. I came back to teach, to re-learn how to love the city, to let go of my ghosts. And I thought, maybe stupidly, that if I ran into you—" Seungsik laughs, weakly. "Maybe I could pretend it was a sign? That I could tell myself it was finally, finally time to let go of you." 

"That's—"

"Selfish? I don't know if I have the energy to care about that anymore," Seungsik confesses. 

"No," Seungwoo murmurs. "I don't think I have any right to call you selfish." 

"You said I looked like I saw a ghost." His entire body feels tight, tense. "Maybe I did," Seungsik says. "I don't know anymore." 

"Seungsik," Seungwoo says, desperately, and it's the way he says Seungsik's name that's heartbreaking. Like he doesn't remember how. Doesn't remember what it meant to him. 

"Do you think you can hear the ocean from here?" asks Seungsik, abruptly changing the subject. It's getting a little easier to breathe, but his heart's still aching, fraught with things he doesn't want to acknowledge. Not here, not now, not when he's doing so well convincing himself, convincing Seungwoo that things have changed. 

(But they haven't. Maybe they never will.)

Seungwoo falters, seems hesitant—like he wants to keep talking about things that are better left in the past. But the thing is, Seungwoo isn't as selfish as he thinks he is. He lets go, doesn't chase after the wrong things. Lets go of things that Seungsik doesn't think he would have done the same for had their roles been reversed.

"The ocean? From here? No. Why?"

It's kind of an epiphany. Why halmoni spent so much time leaning over the railing of her balcony, eyes closed, convinced she could hear the ocean waves rocking back and forth above every other noise of the city. She was lonely, wasn't she? Felt like the only way she could fill the gaping space in her heart was by pretending there was nothing to fill. He might understand. Might understand what it feels like to be so lonely it eats away at you from the inside out. 

"No reason," Seungsik murmurs, the fissure in his own heart growing tenfold. He'd like something to fill the silence too. "It'd be nice if we could." 

Nothing. For a passing moment, they stand there, merely existing. No words, nothing tethering them to each other—and even so, Seungsik feels like he's drowning in Seungwoo's company. 

"Seungsik—"

"I have to get back," Seungsik says quickly, feigning a grin. His cheeks hurt. "Tests to grade... Life's never easy when you're a teacher. You should get back too. I think—I think Subin probably misses you. Even if he doesn't say it." 

Seungwoo reaches out, hesitantly, again, but Seungsik stumbles back. One step, two steps. He bends at the waist into a half-hearted bow. 

"I'll be on my way, sunbae." Seungsik turns, feels his composure crumbling the second Seungwoo's eyes aren't on him. "Please get back safely." 

Chan's half-asleep by the time Seungsik musters up the nerve to call him. He's surprised Chan even picks up, the glow of his living room clock reading 2:12 AM as an afterthought.

"Sorry!" Seungsik blurts out in lieu of greeting. "It's so late, sorry. Go back to sleep—"

"What the hell," Chan grumbles, voice thick with sleep. There's a rustling noise on the other end of the call, a faint thud and the sound of Chan hissing in pain. A door creaks and then clunks to a close. Chan's voice is still tired and raw, but at the very least a little louder, when he asks, "Is something wrong?" 

"No," Seungsik lies.

"You called me at two in the morning just to say hi?" Chan yawns, loudly. "C'mon, Seungsik. Spit it out." 

Seungsik laughs weakly as he sinks into his couch, pressing the back of his forearm over his eyes. At the very least, tomorrow's Saturday so he doesn't have to worry about getting through a school day with minimal sleep. Maybe if he's lucky his body will let him sleep in past six. "I was just thinking." 

"About?" 

"High school."

Chan doesn't respond. "About him?" he asks, a weighted pause later. "Did you... Did you find him?"

"I wasn't looking for him," Seungsik protests, albeit weakly. He feels a little fragile like this, kind of wishes he was in Seoul, curled up over a cheap plastic table in that too-small barbecue place across from Byungchan's apartment. Hearing Chan's voice but knowing he's miles away is making the loneliness even more unbearable than it has to be. "But I guess I did. Find him, I mean."

"Seungsik?" 

"I think I'm a little twisted. Maybe I'm... Maybe I'm not a good person, after all." Seungsik laughs. "I mean, I don't know. I can be mean. I can be really cruel."

"You're not, Sik," Chan says. "You're a good person."

He'd been hoping that a numbness would settle in after the fact. That maybe after an hour or two, he'd stop feeling so anxious, so jittery, so scared, and that a calm would wash over him until he felt nothing at all. But Seungsik's always felt too much, has always been greedy for feeling more, and more, and more until his entire heart's close to bursting. It's your giant heart, Hanse always tells him. Your stupid, giant heart that wants to feel what everyone else is feeling and keep the bad things for yourself so no one else has to. 

"It's been eight years since the last time I saw him," Seungsik whispers. It's not a secret, but he almost doesn't want anyone to hear it. Eight years of being stupidly in love with someone. First loves are meant to be let go of, aren't they? What makes Seungwoo so special? "Everyone I dated since him, all of the things I did to try and move on. I thought I could move on. I thought I did."

"Yeah, I thought you did too. I honestly really thought you and Seongwu might work out," Chan sighs out. "But hey, that's in the past too, you know? You can't beat yourself up for things that weren't meant to be." 

"What's 'meant to be' then?" 

Chan hums, exaggerating contemplation. "You tell me." That gets another laugh out of Seungsik. "Well, how was meeting him again? Good? Everything you imagined? Terrible? Where does he live, by the way? I'm pretty weak on my own, but Sejun, Hanse, Byungchan, and I have been planning an organized attack. I dare him to break my best friend's heart again! I'll throw Byungchan at him!" 

"You're so ridiculous," Seungsik says with a fond roll of his eyes. "He has a kid. Really sweet kid. I guess he's... busy? With work. He doesn't have a wife. I don't know what happened. I didn't really... I didn't really think it was my place to ask much. I found out my student's dad was Seungwoo hyung when he came in for a parent-teacher meeting. And then I..." 

"Hey, you good?" 

"I ran into him a little while ago," says Seungsik. "I don't really know what got into me."

"What happened?"

"He was saying... Honestly, he was saying some mean stuff!" Seungsik huffs, feeling indignant—maybe because he's trying to distract himself from feeling heartbroken—as he reflects. "He said I shouldn't have come to Busan. That I was supposed to go to Seoul and stay in Seoul and live a long, happy life without him." 

"What an asshole," Chan grumbles, supportive as always. "But did you tell him you tried?"

Seungsik frowns. "Tried?"

"You tried. You went to Seoul. You tried to live a happy life. I guess you're not not happy, but..." Chan trails off uncertaintly. "Wouldn't you be happier with him?"

"I thought if I saw him I could get some closure." Seungsik curls up on his corner of the couch, wrapping an arm around his knees as he draw them to his chest. Maybe if he squints he can convince himself he hears the ocean. "That's... I didn't come back for him. I swear I didn't. But I think I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to see him at all." 

"You didn't answer my question."

He doesn't know the answer to Chan's question. Doesn't know if being with Seungwoo would make him happier—or if it'd break his heart all over again. Maybe he doesn't want to know (that'd be a lie). Maybe he doesn't care to know (he does, his curiosity is insatiable). Maybe he doesn't need to know. 

(He would hate that. If Seungwoo wasn't something he needed, in some way.)

"It's been so long," Seungsik manages to say. "So much has changed. There's so much I don't know about him." He clenches his hand into a fist, feels a shudder leave his lips like a prayer. "But it almost feels like nothing's changed. Isn't that unfair?" 

"I don't know, Sik," Chan replies, quieter now. He sounds tired, and Seungsik parts his lips to apologize when Chan continues. "You never know. Maybe the important stuff hasn't changed for him either." 

What would the important stuff even be? 

Does Seungwoo feel the same little pang at the center of his chest when he walks by Haeundae? Does he remember the hours they wasted there? How when no one was left idling on the shore and the moon grew dimmer, it was Seungsik who initiated the kiss for the first time? Does he think about that empty, dusty third floor classroom too? Does he remember their first meeting like it was just yesterday? The way Seungsik does? 

(Does he remember their last meeting like it was just this morning? The way Seungsik does?)

(Does it hurt him the same way?)

"I just have to move on," Seungsik says, resolutely. 

"You don't have to."

"I should." The sunflower Subin gave him is sitting in a vase on the coffee table in front of the couch. It's wilting. Seungsik wonders if he should dry it instead. He wants it to last. "I really should." 

"Seungsik," Chan says. "You don't have to. Don't force yourself."

He closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the cushion behind him. He misses Seoul. Misses Seoul the same way he did when he was a first year in high school, moving to a brand new city filled with people he felt lonely in the midst of. 

"Sorry," Seungsik apologizes, tactfully shifting the conversation away from himself. "I didn't mean to wake you up in the middle of the night and pester you with my problems. That was selfish of me... You should head back to sleep. Let's catch up this weekend. You can tell me how your date went."

"It wasn't a date!" Chan squawks, extra loudly, and Seungsik knows he's being dramatic to make him laugh but he laughs anyway. 

Sunflowers don't usually grow in the winter.

It's getting colder. November will creep into December soon, and the frost will be stifling enough that Seungsik won't see any sunflowers at the flower shop he passes every morning on his way to the bus stop. He's surprised Subin even had one to offer him the other day. His grandmother must be better at gardening than the average enthusiast.

Truth be told, he wants to be more upset, but that's the only thought that crosses his mind as he stares at the broken sunflower in his hands, petals scattered on the floor, stem bent.

It's getting colder.

Subin's eyes are red, tears streaming down his face in mute frustration.

"What happened?" Seungsik asks, crouching down to pick up the petals one by one. When Subin doesn't answer, Seungsik looks at Hwanhee, imploring. "Was it—"

"They took the flower from him and stepped on it," Hwanhee says softly, frowning. "Subin didn't do anything!"

"I know, Hwanhee. Thank you for telling me." Seungsik offers him a small, encouraging smile. "Can you go back to the classroom and wait for Subin?"

There's obvious reluctance, and Seungsik's glad that Hwanhee's so attached to and protective of Subin. It's a relief that Subin has someone in their class that he's comfortable enough with to hang around.

Seungsik waits until the pattering of Hwanhee's reluctant footsteps turns to silence before he returns his attention to Subin, who's more or less wiped away the last of his tears.

"Are you okay?"

Subin shakes his head, sniffling once.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?"

It's Seungsik's first time seeing Subin cry. For the past few weeks, Seungsik thought that maybe the other boys that had been bothering him had moved on. Unfortunately, it didn't appear to be the case, and he's almost concerned what they could have said or done to elicit such a reaction out of Subin.

But then Subin presses his lips together, like he's trying to hold back another handful of tears. He blinks twice, purposefully, and then seems to decide he's okay for now. "It was for you," Subin says, sniffling again. "I'm sorry."

"For me?" Seungsik glances at the petals gathered in his palm. "Why are you sorry?"

Subin looks down. "Because... I can't give it to you now!"

Seungsik falters for a second before placing the stem and the half-naked bud in Subin's hand. "Sure you can. You can give it to me right now." He closes one of his own hands around the scattered petals he'd picked up and extends the other one to Subin. "Wow! Is that for me?"

Subin doesn't seem entirely convinced by the battered flower he's holding, but when he catches Seungsik smiling at him, he moves, offering the gift to Seungsik hesitantly.

"Thank you, Subin. I love it. I'll put it in my vase with the other one."

"But it's..."

"It's lovely," Seungsik concludes. He reaches out to tickle Subin's cheek with the flower before rising from his nearly sedentary position and straightening up. "Why did you want to give me this?"

The disappointment and frustration on Subin's face has all but ebbed away. He looks up at Seungsik, eyes wide and curious. The question registers belatedly and Subin only offers a shrug in response. "It was on the dinner table," he says, as though that's explanation enough. "I just thought dad might have wanted me to give it to you!"

There's his traitorous heart again, stumbling over itself in a mad dash for a finish line that doesn't seem to exist.

"Next time," Seungsik says, his voice a little choked up before he clears his throat, "you should ask your dad or your grandmother to make sure it's something you can bring to school, okay?"

"Okay!"

"Okay. Are you hurt anywhere?"

"I'm okay! Can I go back to the classroom now? I won't yell at them, I promise. I just want to sit with Hwanhee."

Seungsik nods, and he hopes his exhaustion doesn't show in the smile he gives Subin. From the corner of his eye, he can spot Hayoung corralling two of Seungsik's students toward the teachers' office. It looks like Hwanhee managed to get justice on his way back to the classroom, after all.

"I'll be right behind you," Seungsik promises.

Later, he calls Seungwoo. Not because he wants to and not as Kang Seungsik, his former hoobae, but as Jung Subin's homeroom teacher.

He almost thinks he'll hit Seungwoo's voicemail with the number of rings that have reverberated against Seungsik's eardrum, but right as he's about to hang up, the line clicks and a terse, "Hello?" pierces through Seungsik's drifting thoughts.

"Hello, this is Subin's homeroom teacher, Kang Seungsik," Seungsik says in greeting. "This is... This is Han Seungwoo, correct?"

He notices after the fact that Seungwoo hadn't changed his number after all, which means every time Seungsik called in the months after Seungwoo graduated—it was a deliberate avoidance. In a fit of determination, Seungsik had deleted Seungwoo's contact information from his phone during his first year of university. It's a shame. He still remembers Seungwoo's phone number by heart.

There's a bitter taste coating Seungsik's mouth. He bites his tongue.

"Yes," replies Seungwoo, after a beat. "Is Subin—"

"He's fine," Seungsik interjects, politely. He smiles, even though no one is in the office to see it. "I just wanted to let you know that he and a couple of other boys in the class got into a disagreement earlier. He wasn't at fault and no one was hurt, but we've already called the others boys' parents and they'll be disciplined appropriately. I thought you should know, just in case Subin seems a little exhausted or closed off tonight."

Seungwoo doesn't say anything.

"That's, um, that's all," Seungsik continues. "Sorry to bother you while you're at work. I'll hang up n—"

"Wait."

His hand trembles.

"What was the fight about?"

Seungsik swallows the lump in his throat. He scribbles absentmindedly in the margins of his lesson plan. "I don't know all of the details," he says. "Subin... Subin brought a sunflower from home and I'm assuming the boys that have been bothering him took it out of his bag and stepped on it. It was—it was honestly my fault. I shouldn't have left them unsupervised or let my guard down just because they haven't been bothering him. I'm sorry for that."

"Their parents already called me to apologize. Multiple times." Seungwoo chuckles faintly, to himself. "The boys want to be friends with Subin, apparently, but he's shy. It's not as easy as they thought it'd be, I guess." Seungsik's relieved to hear it, but he isn't sure why Seungwoo feels the need to share. "It's not your fault. Thank you for looking out for him."

"That's..." Seungsik glances at the corner of his desk, where he'd placed what remained of the flower from earlier. "It might be better if he didn't bring flowers..." He feels his cheeks getting warm. "For me, I mean."

"Was it for you?"

"Yes." Seungsik laughs, a little nervously. "He gave me one last week too."

"Do you like them?"

Seungsik freezes. It's about four-thirty in the afternoon now. Most of the other teachers are either in meetings for their class years or on their way home. There's no one in the teachers' office, but for some reason, Seungsik still feels like there's a spotlight burning right on top of him.

"I'm sorry?"

Seungwoo doesn't reply immediately, again. This silence is longer, punctuated only by a soft sight from Seungwoo's end.

"Seungsik?"

He almost wants to correct him. Right now, he's Subin's teacher—not whoever Seungwoo remembers him to be. 

"Can I ask for something selfish?"

Their last conversation was almost a week ago. He remembers it too vividly. Remembers falling asleep on the couch after talking with Chan, waking up the next morning and not even budging an inch until at least five in the evening. The day after that, Sunday, he'd gone on a run and nearly succumbed to his temptations to take a walk by Haeundae—but he didn't. Maybe his impulse control's getting better (kinder) after all.

Maybe it's what was said during that last conversation that makes Seungsik's tongue feels loose. He almost wants to ask, When have you not been selfish?

"Sure," Seungsik stammers out, catching himself at the last second.

Seungwoo exhales softly, inhales sharply. "Can we meet?" 

He almost wants to say no.

Almost, almost, almost.

(Shouldn't it be tiring? How everything with Seungwoo hangs by a loose thread? Everything with Seungwoo is defined by an almost.) 

He can't even pretend to hesitate. He draws a sun above the wave he's scribbled onto his notepad and swallows back his fear. "Yes," he says. "Of course."

He thinks about running away again. It's always at the back of his mind. The KTX to Seoul takes two-and-a-half hours. A ticket will take a small chunk out of his paycheck, but he has money saved. Saving money to run away is habit—something he never really grew out of even after he found Seungwoo all of those years ago when he encountered Busan for the first time. 

Tonight, the apartment is especially quiet. 

Seungsik sits on the floor by the balcony door, pressing his head against the glass and counting to ten. At some point the numbers stop taking shape in his mind. He might hear the ocean, might be able to keep track of the waves. 

A single text floats to the top of his cellphone screen. An unsaved number asks, Do you still like Haeundae?

Seungsik doesn't reply. 

(After his grandpa passes away, Seungsik's first and only real act of rebellion manifests. He runs away from home in the middle of the night, in the middle of winter, because there's an unbearable throbbing at his solar plexus that makes it hard to breathe. So, he sprints from his family's apartment down the street. Blindly. The city's so quiet and it's easy to forget he isn't technically alone.

But he feels like he is. It feels like his parents don't quite understand how hard it is to cope with loss for the first time. Feels like he can't call Chan or Byungchan or Sejun or Hanse and tell them because they did nothing wrong to deserve his grief or his mourning. Feels like no one's meant to understand what Seungsik's feeling, not even Seungsik himself.

So, he runs. 

At some point, he realizes he's lost. The only thing he has is his phone, wallet abandoned on his bed back at home. He thinks to call his parents, but he hesitates at the last minute—calls Seungwoo instead. 

When Seungwoo finds Seungsik, shivering under a bus station shelter, he doesn't say a single word. He tosses a spare jacket over Seungsik's shoulders, squishes Seungsik's face between his palms, and then he takes Seungsik's hand, guiding him out from the shelter and back onto the sidewalk.

"You aren't mad?" Seungsik asks. He'd called Seungwoo on impulse, not exactly knowing what they were, where he stood, or whether Seungwoo would even pick up the call. He did, though, and now he's here, and it's too late for Seungsik to regret it (but he does anyway).

"Why would I be mad?" replies Seungwoo, too easily. He squeezes Seungsik's hand, brushes a thumb across the slope of it. "You must have been cold. Did you wait long?" 

(He might have cried then, maybe because he missed his grandpa, maybe because he couldn't wrap his mind around why Seungwoo was being so warm to him. It didn't matter then. Seungwoo didn't ask, only pulled him a little closer, pausing every now and then to wipe Seungsik's tears away.)

They end up at Haeundae and idle there, drawing shapes in the sand and pretending the ocean's breeze doesn't chill them down to the marrow of their bones. When it gets too cold to bear and Seungsik thinks it's the world telling them to stop fighting its whims, Seungwoo turns to him, smiling so fondly it's unfair. "What were you running away from?"

Seungsik laughs sheepishly. "Nothing. I was just being stupid," he admits. 

"That's okay," Seungwoo says. "But don't run away from me, okay?" 

"Hyung?" 

Seungwoo pinches Seungsik's cheek. "I mean it. You can run away from everyone else, but don't run away from me." He's still holding Seungsik's hand; hasn't let go since he first took it at the bus station. "I won't judge you. I won't get mad at you. So don't run away from me. Don't shut me out." 

Winter is terrible weather to see the beach, but he's never felt warmer. It's easy to get swayed in the moment, to lean forward, upward, recklessly, stupidly, foolishly, to kiss Seungwoo. It isn't their first kiss, but it's the first one Seungsik starts, leads. 

He interlocks his pinky with Seungwoo's in the process, pulling away with a bright smile. "I promise.")

The school week ends and Seungsik and Seungwoo figure out a time to meet. When Seungsik gets to the designated coffee shop overlooking the beach (their beach, once upon a time), two minutes early, Seungwoo's already there—Subin fast asleep against his shoulder. 

"Sorry," Seungwoo sighs out. "I told him I was meeting you and he wouldn't let me leave the house without him." 

It's a little awkward seeing a student in a setting like this outside of school, but Seungsik has a soft spot for Subin. That, and Subin’s knocked out cold.

"We can meet another time," Seungsik offers, laughing softly as he sits in the empty seat across from Seungwoo. “I’ll be Subin’s teacher at least until the end of the school year.”

Seungwoo stills, gaze flickering from Seungsik’s face to Subin’s. He brushes Subin’s fringe away from his eyes. “You might leave?”

“I’m really only supposed to be here until they find a long-term replacement,” explains Seungsik. He scratches his cheek, feeling a little awkward all of a sudden. He’d been on edge this morning, close to backing out at the last second, but the walk from the bus station to the coffee shop had been chilly and mind-clearing. Now, he’s back to feeling nervous again. “I still have my apartment in Seoul and everything.”

“I see,” Seungwoo murmurs. “Sorry for asking to meet out of the blue. I just...”

“If it’s about anything beyond me as a teacher and you as Subin’s father, you don’t have to worry about it,” Seungisk interjects, speaking quickly, too quickly. He smiles but it’s shaky, a nervous reaction—a defense mechanism. “I mean it. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you when we ran into each other a few weeks ago.”

“You didn’t lash out,” corrects Seungwoo, mirroring Seungsik’s smile with a close-lipped one of his own, small, but there. “I was being mean anyway.”

“You were a little mean,” mutters Seungsik.

“What was that?”

He lifts his head abruptly, eyes wide and unassuming. “Nothing? I didn’t say anything.”

Seungwoo raises a brow. “Sounded like something.”

“Nothing,” Seungsik insists. “Not a thing. Sunbae, maybe your ears are due for a check-up.”

An unidentifiable emotion fades in and out of Seungwoo’s curious gaze. “You’re really not going to call me hyung.”

“I think,” Seungsik says, though his words come out a little breathless, “I think that’d be inappropriate.”

Subin stirs, twisting and turning before settling into a more comfortable position against Seungwoo’s shoulder. He looks peaceful like this, none of the doubt and concern he’s usually wearing tinting his features with gray. Seungsik smiles, fondly.

“You said I didn’t have to worry about it.” Seungwoo’s bangs are un-styled today, loose and soft over his eyes. He should trim them, Seungsik thinks. His eyes are pretty. Seungsik’s always thought so. “If it’s anything about the past, I didn't have to worry about it. But... I don’t know what to tell you, Seungsik.”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Seungwoo begins to say, “when I told you that you shouldn’t have come to Busan, what I meant to say was I missed you.”

(His heart thumps rapidly, starts sprinting. Seungsik hates this. Hates how easy it is for Seungwoo to tangle every heartstring Seungsik’s spent the past eight years unknotting.)

“You don’t have to force yourself to say things like that,” Seungsik replies, and the laugh he just barely manages after sounds canned. “I told you. We don’t have to talk about—”

“Seungsik,” Seungwoo says, and he says it so tenderly, carefully, like he’s teaching his lips how to shape the syllables; like he’s learning how to say it the way he once used to, overflowing with affection. “I know I don’t have to. I want to. I don’t think I’ve been very fair to you.”

He can’t help the disbelief that colors his face. “You haven’t,” Seungsik agrees, the smile on his lips sinking into something bittersweet. “But I learned to accept that. Please don’t try to explain yourself and make this any harder than it has to be—”

“I—”

“—for me. Please don’t make this harder for me.” Seungsik wonders if his voice is trembling as much as his hands are. He hopes not. He doesn't want to end the conversation like this. (But he wants it to end.) "I know you can tell," he adds. 

Seungwoo doesn't say a word. He doesn't want to say it out loud. 

Neither does Seungsik. 

"I know you can tell that I'm still in love with you." 

There's no shock, no surprise. Seungwoo sits quietly, still, his shoulders tight and tense. He looks down at Subin, smiling faintly. "Subin... isn't my biological son," he says, instead of replying to Seungsik. "My best friend in university—she had Subin while I was in the military and when I got back... I don't know. Maybe I was lonely. She couldn't take care of him, not when her job involved so much traveling, to all sorts of different, dangerous places in the world. I think she would have been heartbroken if she had to stay in Korea. I think she would have been devastated, actually. I told her I'd take care of him." He covers Subin's hand with his own. "It's just the way things worked out. He calls me dad because that's what I am legally, but he still calls his mom mom. Eunji's fine, before you get worried. She just doesn't have much time to strand herself here. I'm not sure if she'll ever come back for good, but that's okay. There's a lot of heartbreak and heartache and just... so many details that go over my head, that I don't have any place digging into. I'm happy taking care of Subin. To me, to anyone, he's my son." 

Seungsik doesn't know if he wants to hear this.

"That's why his surname's still Jung," Seungwoo says. "His mom's surname is Jung. I think it caused more trouble than it should have with the rumors and whatnot, but Subin's pretty stubborn. He doesn't want to change it. I guess this is one way he keeps Eunji close to his heart?" 

"You don't have to tell me this," Seungsik says, pleads. 

"I'm sorry. The truth is, I did run away from you."

"You don't have to tell me this," repeats Seungsik. It gets harder and harder to maintain his smile. "I don't need to know—"

"It took me until the second year of university, after I gave up on all of those dreams I told you about, to realize that I was really, really, really in love with you." 

It almost feels like falling. Almost feels like his entire ribcage is being filled to the brim with seawater. Seungsik's smile falters and then fades altogether. "What?" 

"I kept you a secret from the world and from myself too, I think," Seungwoo says, meeting Seungsik's eyes from across the table. "There was just this one day when Eunji asked me what my dream was and I told her I didn't have one. It was true. I gave up on them." He looks apologetic again. "She asked me a ton of questions. If you ever meet her, you'll realize—Eunji doesn't know when to shut up. But while asking me all of these questions about my dreams, what they were, when I gave them up, why I gave them up, she asked me if I had any regrets.

"So I told her I did. That I regretted a lot of things. I regretted kissing you for the first time. I regretted watching you fall for me and letting you, because I was greedy. I regretted falling for you, too. Regretted leaving you behind. Regretted all of the calls I ignored, the fact that I never deleted your phone number through it all. Regretted never looking for you. I told her I thought you might hate me by now. She said you probably did. But then she said it'd be stupid not to chase after you anyway when it was obvious I was 'crazy in love' with you." 

"But you didn't," Seungsik chokes out. "You didn't chase after me. Maybe you weren't—"

"I was stupidly in love with you," Seungwoo says, levelly. "I am, still." 

"This is so unfair," Seungsik manages to say, his words intermingled with a biting, almost incredulous laugh. He doesn't want to cry, so he tries to laugh, but the laugh falls from his tongue like salt. His eyes are glassy. "I thought you were done being mean to me." 

"I didn't think you of all people should have to struggle down the road to figure out how to fit me into your life," Seungwoo confesses, his voice growing quieter by the second. "I don't think I was ready to be rejected."

"Why would I reject you?" 

"I don't know," Seungwoo says. He chuckles, faintly. "Maybe you'd wake up one day and realize I wasn't the person you thought I was?" 

"I thought you were annoying." Seungsik looks at his hands, can't muster up the courage to look Seungwoo in the eyes again. "Lazy. All you did was sit there and read the same old books. Sometimes you'd hover over my shoulders while I was doing my homework like a know-it-all. I don't know why I kept coming out to club meetings when I didn't learn a single thing about the ocean from you." He laughs. "Maybe I did. You showed me Haeundae. Maybe I learned a lot from you. I learned to love the city, to chase my dreams. Learned what it felt like to be irrevocably in love with someone who acted like a baby one second and a full-fledged adult the next. You dropped everything to come find me that night I was lost in the city. I learned from you then, too. What unconditionality meant. Sometimes, when my classmates talked about you with stars in their eyes, I'd laugh. To them, you were everything. To me, you were too—but in a different way, because I think I loved you for the secrets you shared with me." 

The silence that follows is comfortable, filled slowly with Christmas music playing softly from the cafe's speakers. 

"Who were you, hyung? Did I miss something?" 

Seungwoo lets out a shaky laugh. "You called me hyung," he says. 

Seungsik grins, weakly. "I guess I did."

He's probably seventeen when he falls in love with Han Seungwoo. The Seungsik then is wide-eyed and easily overwhelmed by things like loneliness. The Seungsik then feels distance palpably, and he hates it, does anything and everything to fill it. He takes train rides every other weekend back to Seoul to drink in the familiarity of his friends, of his city. He comes back to Busan on Sunday nights in time for dinner with his parents, and no one says a word because no one knows what to say. For a long while—after Seungsik's graduated from high school, after his parents have moved back to Seoul, after Seungwoo's all but disappeared—he calls them growing pains.

(What, exactly? His heartache, his loneliness, his stupid head-first dive into love and its complications.) 

First loves aren't meant to last. Nearly ten years have given him so many different opportunities to move on, to let go, to be a new version of himself that doesn't involve or include Seungwoo. 

But when Seungsik looks at Seungwoo now and sees glimpses of the boy he first fell in love with in a dusty third floor classroom of an old high school, his heart races the same way it did when he was seventeen, looking for an anchor and finding a heart instead. 

"I do still like Haeundae," says Seungsik, as he racks his mind for options, for directions. He isn't sure what it means that they're both living in their memories—that they're both still carrying the same feelings as they did all of those years ago. He isn't sure what Seungwoo wants; isn't even sure what he wants, himself. "I thought I could hate it if I tried," he continues, "but it's hard. You gave me so many good memories. I don't think I could resent any of them—or you." 

"It's probably foul play, but I was hoping you'd show some sign of it meaning something to you," Seungwoo admits, rubbing the back of his neck. "Maybe it means the same thing to you as it does to me." 

From here, with the beach in sight out of the glass windows lining the walls of the coffee shop, even if he can't really hear them, Seungsik can imagine the sound of the waves. 

He supposes his grandma was right. There's a certain peace, a certain calm that comes with counting the rise and fall of the ocean. 

(You can't be afraid to hope. Can't be afraid to wish for more.)

Seungsik exhales quietly before throwing on a wide, unfettered smile. He extends a hand across the table. "I'm Kang Seungsik," he says. (I won't shut you out.) "I'm twenty-seven and I teach at an elementary school here. I like train rides and the beach on cold, snowy nights because I'm kind of stupid and reckless every now and then.." 

Seungwoo's eyes widen ever-so-slightly before he takes Seungsik's hand, squeezing it once. "Han Seungwoo," he replies. "I'm twenty-eight and I'm an engineer. I like sunflowers and long jogs in neighborhoods I shouldn't go out of my way to see."

Subin stretches his arms, yawning groggily as he wipes the sand away from his eyes. 

"It's nice to meet you," Seungsik says, biting back a grin. "Let's see each other again."

(I promise.)

The smile on Seungwoo's face reaches his eyes. "Yeah. Likewise." 

Outside, a snowflake falls. Winter feels like a welcome memory.

Seungsik tries to listen for the ocean again after he gets home. His phone vibrates, interrupting his train of thought. There's a single text message—a photo of Subin grinning next to a sunflower—that reads He said next time he's going to meet up with you without me?? ㅠㅠ

He laughs for so long that forgets what he was looking for. It's not important. There's no gaping space in his heart for him to try to fill anymore, after all. 

"So you're... strangers?" Chan is trying his very best to keep up with everything Seungsik's told him. That much is obvious. He still sounds terribly confused though, and a part of that might be attributable to the fact that it's just past one in the morning. This time, Seungsik isn't the one who called first. "Congrats? I mean, congrats! I think?"

"Not strangers," Seungsik says through a laugh. "I guess, actually, it kind of seems that way? I don't know. There was just... a lot going on in the conversation we had, and it felt really heavy. For me, at least. I wanted to back up. It's been so long since we last saw each other. There's so much to catch up on. I wanted to..." 

"Show him you were ready?"

"Something like that," says Seungsik, feeling a little embarrassed out of nowhere. Maybe he's just giddy. "Yeah. I wanted to show him I forgave him. That I was... ready to move on. With him." 

Chan doesn't say anything for a few seconds, and then he hums. "I'm happy for you, Sik."

"Hey, don't be so sappy! It's going to feel weird if you make it weird! And I don't know if anything's actually going to come out of it..." 

"Nah, I'm pretty confident it'll be good," Chan says, and Seungsik can hear him grinning. "I have a lot of faith in your happy ending, Kang daengdaeng! I know you don't believe in this kind of stuff, but trust me when I say some people are meant to be together." 

Seungsik clicks his tongue, chastising. "Have you been watching dramas again?" 

"You asshole," Chan gasps, scandalized. "Insult Hotel Del Luna one more time, I dare you." 

Seungsik laughs again, louder. "I miss you," he says. 

"Miss you too, loser," Chan grumbles back. He sighs. "Guess you'll be staying in Busan even longer now, huh? At least I can rest easy knowing someone'll be looking out for you there."

"You can always visit," suggests Seungsik. "Bring everyone with you. It's only a two-and-a-half hour train ride."

Chan snickers. "You would know, wouldn't you?"

"Soooomeone looks like they're in a good mood!" Hayoung sing-songs when Seungsik makes it into the office during their lunch hour. She glides across the aisle between cubicles on her swivel chair, nearly colliding with Seungsik as he tries to take his seat. "What's happening? What happened? Something happened!" 

Bomi whacks the back of Hayoung's head with a rolled up magazine. She's been reading a lot of Men's Health these days, taking particular joy in explaining which of the models she could definitely take in a fight. "I could hear you from down the hall. How does Namjoo put up with you?"

"She loves me," Hayoung sniffs. 

"I heard from Head Teacher Lee that you're not leaving after the school year ends," Bomi says, artfully ignoring Hayoung as she takes a seat on the desk next to Seungsik's. It's obvious she has questions, but Bomi's a little better at picking and choosing which ones to ask. "Good news for the kids."

"Wait, really?" Hayoung bobs her head up and down in appreciation. "That is really good news. Not to be cheesy, but ever since you started teaching, they really have been opening up! I even saw Jung Subin playing with those kids that were bothering him a few weeks ago. Guess they've made amends?" 

Seungsik smiles, leaning back in his seat. "Hopefully?"

"When was the last time they fought anyway... Wait, it really was a few weeks ago. A whole month, huh?" Bomi purses his lips, contemplative. "I've been wondering why it felt so quiet these days. The clinic's been so empty." 

"So, what changed?" Hayoung presses, looking to Seungsik with bright eyes. "I thought you were set on going back to your fancy-schmancy private school in Seoul."

Seungsik scratches his cheek, shrugging his shoulders in feigned innocence. "Just had some realizations, I guess?" 

"I hate you and your secrets," says Hayoung, primly. 

"Maybe it has to do with the little boy who keeps bringing in flowers for his favorite teacher," Bomi suggests with a waggle of her brows, gesturing with her neck to the small pressed sunflower preserved between laminate that Seungsik has balanced on top of his folders. "Anyway, you guys have Christmas plans? Oh, I'm thinking we still have time to pitch in for a really ugly, tacky '#1 BEST TEACHER!' mug for Head Teacher Lee before everyone leaves for vacation." 

"Ugh, I can't believe it's already December," Hayoung groans. "Soon it'll be the new year and I'm still trying to process what went down in my life five years ago." She drapes herself dramatically over the divider between Seungsik's desk and his next-door neighbor's. "I don't know what we're doing. I think we're seeing Namjoo unni's family. What about you?" 

"My friend's coming back to town for a few days so I said I'd keep her company," Bomi says. "It's been awhile since I saw her, so I might as well. Kang ssaem?" 

Seungsik looks up from his notes. "Uh, I'm not positive either," he says with a tilt of his head. "Probably going to spend it with my boyfriend and his family and then New Year's with mine?" 

Hayoung and Bomi fall deathly silent. 

"Oh," Seungsik says, quieter. "Have I not told—"

"You. You and your evil secrets! Men are the worst!" Hayoung wails, at the same time Bomi raises a brow and takes an elegantly long sip of her coffee. 

(Later, he takes a picture of himself with the bookmark Subin's grandmother hand-pressed and sends it to Seungwoo with the message: Do we really look alike?  Seungwoo responds ten minutes later with an embarrassingly obnoxious barrage of heart-eyed emoticons before sending a concluding, Yep. Pretty.)

The KTX from Busan to Seoul takes two-and-a-half hours.

"You're shaking," Seungsik says, the grin on his face impossible to hide. It's kind of endearing, if he's honest, seeing someone like Seungwoo fidget in the seat across him. "Are you nervous?"

"A little," Seungwoo says, grumbling mostly to himself. He's acting petulant again, probably because he can tell Seungsik's making fun of him. The momentary consternation passes though when the anxiety settles in again. He keeps shaking his leg and gnawing on his thumbnail. "I just want to make a good impression."

"You will," promises Seungsik. "My parents aren't very high-maintenance. I think you'll be fine, hyung." 

"Besides!" Subin chimes in from beside Seungsik (Subin had played rock-paper-scissors with Seungwoo before they boarded the train to decide who would sit where), holding up Seungsik's hand and pointing at the silver band on Seungsik's fourth finger. "They can't come to the wedding if they're mean to you, dad!"

Seungwoo laughs in disbelief, but a tiny sliver of the tension he'd been housing seems to have left him.

"Subin's right," Seungsik says, nodding his head sagely as Subin laces their fingers together. Subin's a grade older now and not in Seungsik's homeroom class anymore, so opportunities like this one seem to be especially exciting for the younger boy. "He's in charge of wedding planning. We decided this morning while you were showering." 

"Do you guys exclude me from things like this because you know I'll get jealous?" Seungwoo huffs.

"Nooooooooo," Subin drawls out, having the decency to look a little bit scandalized. He can't hide the grin that follows, though. 

"You're lucky you're cute," Seungwoo sighs. He points his finger at Subin and then at Seungsik. "Both of you."

A short jingle plays from the intercom and then there's a voice alerting all passengers that the train is set to depart momentarily. 

Seungwoo's been staring at Seungsik from across their little four-seat cluster on the train, while Subin's been chattering excitedly about how Hwanhee's mom is going to drive them to the Lotte Water Park in Gimhae next weekend. 

"What?" Seungsik mouths, as soon as Subin gets distracted by the train moving and leaps to the window to look outside. 

Seungwoo shrugs, feigning ignorance. And then, at the last second, mouths, "I love you."