Archive of Our Own

Jisung says, “do you ever think about how sad the term ‘ill fated’ is?”

Minho continues poking at the kimchi fried rice, but his thoughts halt their fuzzy, inchoate ramble and direct themselves to what Jisung just said. As he thinks, Jisung continues.

“I mean – I saw this video, you know. About ill-fated ships and before they began their journey, those people were standing on the deck and waving and cheering,” he sighs and though Minho can’t see him, he knows that Jisung is ruffling his hair. “Then the next footage we have is of the ship on the sea’s floor, lost and broken.”

Minho sprinkles more salt into the pan. “The seafloor is a graveyard,” he agrees. “It is sad that it is the final resting place of many.”

“But what is sadder is the fact that they didn’t know that they were ill-fated. Isn’t it sad how you never know what’s going to happen?”

The spicy, pungent scent of the food clouds the room and Minho’s mouth waters. He has not eaten in hours. “I know that I am going to bury my face in this rice,” he says as he turns off the gas. “You better be quick if you want some.”

Jisung sighs, but he’s smiling. “Every day is a battle.”

───────

You never know what will happen. It runs through Minho’s mind as he pats his sheet mask so that it adheres to the contours of his skin. Once satisfied, he sits on his bed and scrolls through his phone, but he can’t really focus because it strikes him that he never really knew what was going to happen to him when he came to this city at the age of seventeen. Here he is eight years later, not an idol, not a dancer, but a salary man with a respectable firm and so deeply in love that he is scared and elated all at once.

He opens the chat box that he has with Jisung and types: not knowing what is going to happen makes life bearable. You don’t anticipate pain and the good things are a pleasant surprise.

Jisung replies: I would rather know if I am going to die. Or suffer. So that I can brace myself or not enter the ship at all. I think what I want is a choice to decide for myself about what path to take.

Minho says: But would you choose a path filled with pain?

After a long time Jisung replies: Pain is important too. It gives us perspective about life.

───────

Jisung gets accepted to the college. There was no doubt about it and a week passes in a haze of celebration. Then the work starts.

“I am already scared of packing,” Jisung pouts, as he scrolls through his laptop. “I basically have to pack enough of my twenty-three years of life to sustain me for two years in a foreign country.”

Minho leaves his place near the arm of the sofa and cuddles into Jisung’s side. He presses a kiss to Jisung’s neck. “You know I’ll help you right?” Jisung smells like lavender and warm cotton. Minho buries his head into his shoulder.

“I know,” Jisung says, and Minho can hear the rumble of his voice through his shoulder blade. “But it is scary.”

Minho hates that you get used to smells so quickly. That you breathe in a few times and your brain stops savouring it. He drags his face away from Jisung’s shoulder and looks at him. Jisung is still staring at his laptop, but he’s chewing his lips, and the light gives his skin a washed out hue.

“I know,” Minho says and the lump in his throat gives him away. I am scared too .

Jisung turns his head, eyes downcast. “What about us?” he whispers. He is staring at Minho’s mouth.

“We’ll figure it out,” Minho says, softly. “It’s just two years.”

Jisung kisses him then, warm and soft. He doesn’t deepen the kiss, just traces the contours of Minho’s lips. Minho thinks, two years. You never know what will happen . He tilts his head, slips his tongue past the seam of Jisung’s lips, chasing the taste of him.

───────

Jisung says, “I love you so much.”

There’s a month and two weeks left till Jisung leaves. Minho spends his office hours immersed in work with a vague unease curdling in his stomach and his free time helping Jisung. There’s so much work that there’s no time to talk about anything except the things at hand.

But it’s midnight and the only thing that is on hand is Jisung’s hand in his. He squeezes Jisung’s fingers. “I love you too,” he says. In the following silence, he studies Jisung, traces the curve of his cheekbone and the jut of his jaw. Jisung’s eyes are flickering over his face, too and Minho exhales, feeling something give away in his chest. “What if time–” he pauses, unsure if he should say the words that will clip the threads of sleep and fondness that is woven around them.

“What if?” Jisung prompts, kissing all the tips of Minho’s fingers.

They’re on their sides, facing each other. Like a nested bracket, flanked by the wall on one side and the window on the other. Minho says, “what if time changes us – everything?” He’s glad that he’s giving sound to his fear now; when his legs are tangled with Jisung’s legs and his hands are cradled in his. “I know it can be a good – it will be a good change too, but we can never know what time will do.”

Jisung weighs his questions. The modern fan whirs with smooth efficiency, too proud for the sonorous rattle of the older models. “I know,” Jisung says, “we’ll have to...,” he raises his shoulder in a half shrug, “we’ll have to face it together.”

“Yes,” Minho whispers, untangling his hands from Jisung and pulling him close. “We’ll – deal with it when we come to it.”

Jisung huffs a laugh and it vibrates against Minho’s neck. Minho shivers. “You talk like we’re preparing for a battle.”

Minho flushes, faintly. “Sorry,” he says into the darkened corners of the ceiling, “I’m just sad,” he admits. It is easier to say things now that he would balk at before. It is because Jisung takes everything he says and cherishes it. How can he say no to that? “I’ll miss you terribly.”

Jisung’s arm is around his waist and he squeezes. “I already do – I mean, I am proactively sad for everything that I’ll miss. Like our birthdays, for example. We don’t do anything fancy, but I am already missing it. It’s weird.”

Minho sniffs, “I expect a midnight call,” he says though he doesn’t, “and you’re just weird.”

Jisung’s bark of laughter echoes in the room, “and here I was really getting into the sappiness,” he says. “Please tell me how much you’ll miss me and weep for me!”

“You’re a spoilt brat,” Minho informs him. “Now face the other side.”

Jisung grumbles, but does as he’s told. Minho attaches himself to his back and nuzzles his shoulder. He doesn’t know when he falls asleep; somewhere between Jisung chuckling at a video and the rumble of a bus on the street he closes his eyes. He drifts away with the gentleness of a leaf caught in water.

He dreams of the sea.

His childhood home stands silent and strangely ramshackle though his parents had just had it repaired recently. Jisung in his dining room, eating, as he talks about something that Minho understands only because it is a dream of his own making. But there’s no sound, only the roar of the sea echoes in the room like the presence of an unseen guest. When he glances out of the window, he sees the lighthouse looming.

He wakes up to an empty bed, the fan whirring in full speed. He checks the time – six A.M. – and since he can’t hear any noise in the bathroom, he grudgingly wraps himself in his blanket and drags himself to the living room.

Jisung is sitting on the sofa, watching something on his laptop. Minho harrumphs though it is futile since Jisung has his headphones on. He trudges to the sofa and cuddles into Jisung’s side. He has to wake up in an hour anyway. Might as well cuddle.

Jisung raises his arm to accommodate him, but Minho nudges the laptop until Jisung removes it from his lap. Minho rests his head on his thigh and exhales when Jisung runs a finger through his hair. “Did you sleep?” he asks.

“No,” Jisung tugs gently at a knot in Minho’s hair, “I couldn’t stop thinking.”

“Mhm,” Minho says, sleep already curling around awareness, snuffing it slowly.

“I couldn’t stop thinking if I should enter the ship or not, you know,” Jisung’s fingers still in his hair. A beat. “I am so fucking terrified.”

Minho blinks away the sleep from his eyes. “You have to go – you have to enter the ship,” he insists, “you can’t miss out on this.” He pokes Jisung’s chin until he looks down at Minho, “I’ll kill you if you don’t go.”

Jisung’s eyes are red but wholly soft in their bearing, his brows furrowed in a way that means he’s fond. “Is it worth uprooting my life? I mean I’ll be all alone there and … I kinda come across as – as standoffish? – and I don’t think my English is that good and what I–”

“You’re not uprooting your life,” Minho interrupts, petting his cheek, “and I am not saying you’ll be surrounded by friends right off the bat or something. It’s not easy in the beginning and it’ll be full of days when you feel lost,” Minho exhales deeply, “but you’ll manage. Everything will be fine eventually,” he says, “more than fine.”

Jisung is silent. Minho drops his gaze.

Minho squirms a little, embarrassed by his outburst and he fiddles with the blanket. “But I will be there for you,” he adds, voice so soft that it is nearly lost to the chirping of the birds outside. “And you have plenty of friends here who care for you.”

Jisung leans down, the crack of his back echoing in the room and places a sloppy kiss on Minho’s forehead. “I wish you hadn’t been so lonely and lost when you first came to the city,” he says, voice wavering, head still bent over Minho’s.

Minho cranes his neck and kisses Jisung on the tip of his nose first and then on his lips. “Aren’t we talking about your crisis?”

“This is my crisis,” Jisung says, straightening up. He sighs and ruffles his hair, “I need to sleep, I was this,” he brings his index finger to his thumb, leaving only a breath of space between the two, “close to tears right now.”

Then Minho says, “let’s go to the sea.” He sits up, shifts and turns until he is sitting on his folded knees and facing Jisung. The blanket is tight around his knees and ankles, but he doesn’t fix it. He repeats, like a long forgotten hymn, “let’s go to the sea.”

Jisung blinks, surprised, but he tilts his head a little. “To any sea or your…”

“My home town,” Minho says with a clarity that is out of place at such an early hour. Light starts filtering into the room, casts shadows in the shape of the windows on the wall.

“Okay, but why so suddenly?” Jisung asks, rubbing his eyes.

They say that when you need it the most, the sea calls to you. The salt of the sea calls to the salt in your blood. “We can spend some time together,” Minho says, curling his fingers over the jut of his knee caps, “and I can show you my childhood home. But mostly it can be just the two of us.”

Jisung licks his lips, his eyes drifting in thought. “That sounds perfect, but when can we go?”

Minho let’s go of the image that has ensnared him: Jisung’s silhouette against the lighthouse. Jisung at the top of the lighthouse. “I’ll need to ask my parents first,” he says, making a mental list, “and then ask Mrs. Choi to clear it for us. Maybe I could take a holiday from Friday to Monday,” he pauses to think, “yeah, I need to use up my holidays anyway.”

“So next week?” Jisung asks, smile lighting his face.

“Next week,” Minho agrees.

───────

He calls his mother during lunch time.

“Hello?” his mom says, sounding worried, “Minho, is everything alright?”

“Yes, yes,” he says quickly, “um – I just wanted to ask you something.” A sharp, hot wind blows in from the open window and he presses his fluttering tie to his stomach.

His mother makes a whistling sound of relief. “You scared me. You usually text,” she says. “What is it?”

“I was thinking of taking Jisung to our cottage,” he says, dropping his voice halfway and nodding at a co-worker who passes him, “...before he leaves. Is that fine?”

His mother is silent and Minho strokes his tie, waiting. His mother’s voice is kinder when she speaks again, “of course. I’ll tell Hana to fix it up and give you the keys,” she says.

Minho smiles at his reflection in the window pane, “thanks,” he says. Then, without quite knowing why, he says, “do you really think that the sea calls to us when we – when we need it the most?”

“Yes,” mom says even before he can blink, “the sea – when you exist in the sea’s orbit, it enfolds you,” she says, then hesitates. Minho thinks of her shaping the words with her worn mouth, the same mouth he has. How sad is it that you know how you’ll age watching your parents grow old? “The salt of the sea calls to the salt in your blood,” she says with certainty, “and you have to go because it is the sea that’s asking you to come.”

Minho suddenly misses her. He swallows, drops his hand from his tie. “We’re the people of the sea,” he murmurs and he’s seventeen again, promising his father that he’ll never forget his roots, but knowing that he’ll do everything to forget. When you’re seventeen, it is easy to disbelieve.

“Yes,” his mother says, now with a proud lilt to her tone, “and so it calls to us.”

Minho texts Jisung after he ends the call with his mother. He says: step one done!

Jisung replies with a sweaty selca of himself because he’s a brat. A text follows and it says: we should celebrate and there’s a winky face at the end. 

───────

Jisung refuses to let him go and clings to him, sweaty, sticky and creating a mess. “No,” he wails when Minho tries to get up from the bed for the second time.

“Jisungie,” he cries, annoyed and amused in equal parts, “we need to clean up.”

“Five minutes,” Jisung grumbles and nips at his neck.

Minho manages to free himself from Jisung’s grasping limbs and goes to the bathroom ignoring Jisung’s betrayed howling. As he cleans himself, he can hear Jisung lamenting, but the words are muffled by the door and the rush of tap water. A glimpse in the mirror tells him that he’s grinning like a loon, but he’s so warm and full of simple joy that it is tingling in his fingertips.

When he exits the bathroom, he sees Jisung lying spread eagle on the bed, scrolling through his phone and saying, “woe, woe, woe,” in a sing-song voice.

Minho rolls his eyes, “shut up. I was gone for five minutes. Now go clean up or I’m kicking you off the bed.” He opens the closet door and picks up the first pair of briefs he sees. He turns to see Jisung groan and trundle to the bathroom. Minho slaps Jisung’s bare ass when he passes by him and laughs at his wounded expression.

Later, when the lights are off and sleep is imminent, Jisung says, “you’re going for the first time in a long while.”

Minho nods, knowing that Jisung will be able to feel it. “I haven’t been back after the repairs were done.”

“Um,” Jisung dithers and Minho looks at the blurred edges of his face. “Thank you for doing this,” he says and kisses Minho.

There are a lot of things people say about the sea. Some people say that they have the sea in their veins and its salt at the back of their tongue. They say their blood rushes with a roar that is the same as the seas’ and that they never lose their taste for it. They say that the salt in the sea calls to the salt in your blood.

Minho teeters somewhere in the middle of belief and disbelief. Never quite losing his footing, never straying to one end. But he says, hidden by the darkness, but too close to Jisung to actually hide, “I think the sea was calling to us.”

Jisung is silent and Minho knows that he’s groping for words. “It’s something we believe,” he rushes to say, “that the sea is a part of us and we are a part of it. And when we need it the most…” he rubs Jisung’s arm, “it calls to us.” Heat flares in his cheeks and there’s a swirling discomfort of having revealed too much.

“That’s–” Jisung whimpers, burying his face into Minho’s chest, “that’s so sweet .”

Minho flushes deeper and winces when Jisung flicks on the table lamp. He crawls on top of Minho and Minho’s hands find their place on his waist. “What?” he asks, confused, the heat of his blush deepening when Jisung grins at him.

“Hyung,” Jisung says, eyes twinkling, “are you blushing because you said the sweetest thing ever?”

Minho groans and covers his eyes with his forearm. “Shut up,” he whines, but he knows that Jisung’s in a teasing mood and that he’s not going to let it go.

“But you’re so cute, baby,” Jisung says, pressing quick kisses to Minho’s cheeks, nose, and chin. He drags Minho’s hands away from his face and kisses his brows. “Leaving is going to be so hard,” he murmurs, resting his forehead on Minho’s.

“It’ll be easy if you make a list of all my faults,” Minho says and smiles when Jisung rears back with a laugh.

“That’s an interesting solution,” Jisung says and then his face softens. It is a stark sight against the white glow of the lamp that hits his face and the muddy darkness behind him. “When you say things like this, I feel like I am drowning,” he says, “because I am so overwhelmed.”

Much to his consternation, Minho finds himself flushing harder. Jisung is fiddling with his fingers, too and Minho’s eyes burn when he realises that this – this cocoon, this shelter, this place that is an extension of the chamber of his heart – will be the first to change because Jisung will be miles away. It will be the first sign of a vacant space.

“There’s more where that came from,” Minho tells him even though he stumbles over the words, “and I think when we reach the sea, the floodgates will open.”

“The floodgates are already open,” Jisung grumbles and settles into his side of the bed.”

“That they are,” Minho agrees, clearing his throat.

───────

In the morning, the fears of the night seem ridiculous. But in the night,  time feels like sand, the grains of another day slipping away even before he can grasp it. A week passes in a haze. He has work and so does Jisung. Jisung also has to make arrangements for settling in a foreign country and handle the immense fear and pressure of stepping into the unknown.

“I said – I texted ,” Jisung hisses, waving the takeout box so hard that a few grains of rice spill out, “who the fuck wants to eat fried rice?”

Minho twitches, but controls his tongue. “You can have mine then,” he says, holding up the container of bulgogi.

Jisung slams the box on the table. “I don’t want bulgogi!” he says, “I texted you what you wanted!”

“I told you they ran out!” Minho snaps, “so I got what you eat literally every–”

“Oh so we don’t do this thing where we ask , do we?” Jisung laughs, but it is a bitter laugh and his face is twisted in rage.

Minho slams open a drawer and takes out a pair of chopsticks. “Do whatever you want,” he says, “and talk to me when you’re not acting like a child.”

“Right, play the age card,” Jisung snorts, rolling his eyes. “Young Jisungie, whom I have to coddle and scold,” he says in a high pitched voice.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Minho tells him, softening his voice when he sees the gathering tears in Jisung’s eyes. He sighs and places the container and chopsticks back on the table and takes a step closer to Jisung. “I am sorry that I didn’t ask you,” he says, gently touching Jisung’s elbow, “we can order what you want.”

Jisung blinks and the next moment he throws himself on Minho, crushing him against the edge of the table. “Sorry,” he sobs, “sorry, I am such an idiot, I am sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Minho says, rubbing his back, “shush, Jisungie.”

Jisung sniffles, wet and loud. Minho winces and reaches a hand behind him to grab a tissue. “Here, do you want a tissue?” he asks.

Jisung detaches himself and sits on the floor before blowing his nose. Minho sits behind him, and drags him into his chest by putting his arms around his waist. “I’m here,” he says, kissing Jisung’s ear.

“I started packing today and already it’s already going beyond the weight limit,” Jisung says in the middle of sobs, “and I don’t want to pack so early but my parents won’t stop cribbing and I fought with them and they said they’re not gonna help at all.”

“They were probably just angry, baby,” Minho says, squeezing his waist, “and it’s better to start packing slowly, isn’t it?”

Jisung blows his nose again, “it is too final,” he says. “And my college keeps sending orientation related stuff and my head is spinning. I know I am being dumb.”

Minho’s heart pangs. “You’re not dumb. You just had a stressful day.”

Jisung doesn’t stop crying, so Minho rocks him and waits for the spell to pass. Jisung cries like he’s wrung out and burdened at the same time, like he’s pouring out his sorrows and drinking in the air. Minho whispers in his ear, “it’ll be okay, I am here, it’s alright, everything will work out, love,” but he doesn’t know if Jisung registers it.

Eventually, Jisung’s tears taper off, reduce to sniffles and then to hiccups. “I am so tired,” he says when a shuddering breath – the end of tears – leaves his lips. “I am tired,” he repeats.

“Eat a little, then we can sleep,” Minho says, lips pressed against his ear. Jisung shivers, presses into Minho’s chest. He nods.

They eat in silence. Jisung’s eyes are swollen and he looks wan and when he puffs out his cheeks as he eats, the tear tracks are obvious. Minho picks at his food, the stone in his chest refusing to crumble. It sits there, a heaviness that can’t be ignored.

“I’ll clean up,” Minho says after Jisung pushes his half eaten food away from him.

“No,” Jisung shakes his head, “I want to take my mind off things.” He bites his lips, looks at Minho with sad eyes, but his brows are furrowed in that way they do when he’s fond. “And I want to be near you.”

Jisung washes the dishes as Minho transfers the food to another container and writes the date and contents on a sticky note. Another thing that’ll be the first to change, he muses, will be the food.

Over the sound of running water, Jisung asks, “do they say anything about tears and the sea?”

Minho opens the fridge and places the container inside. He closes the fridge and leans against it. “All I know,” he says slowly as he watches Jisung’s hand scrub at a plate, “is that the sea gives and it takes.”

Jisung hunches his shoulder, closes the tap. He turns to look at Minho, the corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “So, if I give my tears, will it give me,” his eyes flicker to the clock and his mouth tightens, “will it give me peace?”

It is hot in the kitchen; the heat is still clinging to the air even after the sun has long set. “It depends on what you believe,” he says, echoing what his father told him, “but the sea – it is its own. It gives and takes what it wants.”

“All those sunken ships,” Jisung says, turning to the sink again.

“And all those treasures from its belly,” Minho adds, walking up to Jisung and hugging him from behind.

Jisung exhales a shuddering breath again. “Give and take,” he says in a steady voice. “It makes sense when I put it that way.”

Minho knows that he isn’t talking about the sea.

───────

Later that night, Jisung collapses into the bed and falls asleep in minutes. He’s curled into a ball and his jaw is clenched, brows knit. Minho rubs a thumb across his cheeks as he checks the text.

His mother has texted him: the cottage is ready. Pay Hana a visit if you can.

Another text, signed dad: the sea hears our prayers. Ask what you want and hope for the best.

His heart jolts when he sees what his dad has written. He texts a thanks and an affirmative, but his mind loops around the coincidence. They say that when you need it the most, the sea calls to you. But what can the sea give when it comes to Jisung leaving?

───────

They leave early on a Friday morning. The sky is grim; the clouds hold back the scorch of the sun as they prepare their deluge. Jisung is sleepy and soft, his eyes clouded with exhaustion, but his frame is jittering with excitement.

“I am so happy because I think I’ll be able to manage three cups of coffee before ten o’clock,” he chirps, holding up the travel mug. “I didn’t manage that in college, you know. I always switched to energy drinks after a point.”

“I love knowing about the various ways in which you ingest caffeine,” Minho says drily though he is brimming with adoration, “do you plan on injecting it next?”

“Might!” Jisung grins, pecking Minho’s cheek.

First, they journey by train. Jisung graciously yields the window seat to him and Minho spends time watching pockets and clusters of life rushing past him. He quite likes trains and travelling in vehicles in general because they permitted him to sit back and watch life pass by without having to participate in it for a bit.

Jisung is immersed in his phone, practising English. Minho puts on his earbuds and returns to the window, studying the blur of green outside the window and the way the sea flashes silver beyond them. He passes time like this, losing himself in nature rushing past him and the crawl of people in the stations where the train stops.

There’s a poke in his shoulder and he smiles as he turns to Jisung. Jisung is pouting and he says, “I don’t like the fact that your side profile is perfect,” he says and shows him his phone.

“How terrible to have a boyfriend with a great side profile,” he teases as he examines the photo. It is a good photo, a bit shaky, but it makes him look good.

Jisung sighs, “it is indeed terrible to have a handsome boyfriend,” he agrees, mouth twitching.

Minho feels warm around his ears and it is, as always, because Jisung called him his boyfriend. Overcome, he pinches Jisung’s cheek hard. “You’re handsome too,” he coos, tugging at his cheek, grinning when Jisung starts smacking his hand, “and adorable as well, you’re a full package, aren’t you?”

“I hate you,” Jisung whines, pushing Minho away. He rubs his cheek and gives him a baleful look. His phone chimes then and Minho hands it to him. Jisung checks it, his face turning stony as he reads it. “My parents,” he says at Minho’s curious look, “they’re tearing their hair out more than I am,” he grumbles.

Minho closes his lips around what he was going to say because Jisung is chewing his lips in thought. He waits.

“Were you this much of a mess?” Jisung asks, voice dropping. He turns towards Minho and it is like the drapes are drawn over their bubble. “When you left home, I mean? Were you this scared?”

Minho takes a few moments to think. “I was excited,” he says, “but that’s because all of us wanted to go away.” He remembers drinking on the jagged rocks with his friends, very sure that it was the city that was calling to him and believing – believing with all his might that he was just what the city needed. “I was scared only when things didn’t turn out the way I expected it to,” he shrugs.

Jisung nods slowly, his eyes fixed on the window. Minho traces the contours of his face. When you first see a face, you never realise how familiar it might become one day. Who would’ve thought two and a half years ago that he would be taking Felix’s roommate to see his home? That he would be taking Jisung – his friend, his boyfriend, his love – to visit the sea?

“Do you remember how I said that I would want to know,” a wry smile touches Jisung’s lips, “about my imminent demise?” He looks at Minho again, “I am preparing for all the things that could go wrong, but,” he tugs at the sleeve of Minho’s hoodie, “there are many more things that can go wrong.”

“That’s true,” Minho says, pulling his sleeve down so that Jisung has more loose fabric to fidget with, “but we never know what will happen.” Jisung’s finger touches his wrist briefly when he winds the fabric around and then disappears when he unwinds it.

Jisung laughs and it is a bleat of mockery. “I am just going to let my mind run around in circles until I am too exhausted to worry.” He nods again, “that’s the only way this will work.”

“I can kick you every time you worry to hurry the process along,” Minho offers, pinching Jisung’s cheek.

“Always so helpful,” Jisung says, rolling his eyes, “and very sadistic.” He leans his forehead briefly against Minho’s before turning back.

───────

They reach the town nearest to the village at noon. Minho swivels his head, looking for the car renting booth as Jisung carries their bag.

There aren’t many people in the station and they sidestep the single minded luggage carrying folks and the absent minded lost in their phone folks with ease. Jisung is one of the latter. Minho catches sight of the booth and tugs Jisung there by holding his elbow.

Once they’re in the car, he doesn’t turn on the AC. Instead he leaves the windows down. Jisung sits in the passenger seat and watches people around him embracing or haggling with taxi drivers or puffing under the weight of their luggage. Minho brakes when the car in front of them stops abruptly.

“What the hell,” he mutters, tapping the honk. A lazy, warm breeze ruffles his hair.

Jisung turns to his side and cranes his head out of the window. “Wait, someone’s getting out,” he says.

Minho honks again. “Put your head back in,” he says, and uses his free hand to tug at Jisung’s shoulders. “I swear people don’t know what one way roads are.”

“They’re fighting,” Jisung says, head still craned out of the window. “Ooh, the man threw money on the drivers face!”

Minho snorts. “You’re such a gossip monger, I swear to god.”

“I am not a gossip monger!” Jisung sniffs, “I observe human behaviour.” He settles against his seat and the Minho manoeuvres the car ahead.

“Did you miss your home when you left?” Jisung asks as he scrolls through his phone, “do you want music?”

“Not really,” Minho says, “I mean for both. Like I said, we all wanted to leave but I did dream about the sea.”

Jisung puts his phone away. He settles deeper into his seat and fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt. “I dreamed about home even though I was the same fucking city,” he sighs. “I think I’m just a homebody who is averse to change.”

Minho pats his knee and leaves his hand there. “What matters is that you’re willing to make changes anyway,” he says. A truck roars past them, the sound of its horn trailing behind it.

“A sea of change,” Jisung giggles and twines his hand with Minho’s hand.

A silence falls over them after that. A comfortable silence , the sort that’s soothing by itself. The roads are familiar and there’s an odd cloying sensation in his chest. It’s excitement, he decides, about arriving but also about leaving. To stay here forever but also to never see it again.

“So pretty,” Jisung sighs, head turned to the window, “I can’t believe how clear everything looks.”

“It’s the air,” Minho says, “this side of the country isn’t touched by industrialization yet.” That’s why we all wanted to leave , he doesn’t add.

As always, the closer he gets to the village, the stronger is the tang of salt in the air. It is so thick that he can taste it at the back of his throat. Some people say that they have the sea in their veins and its salt at the back of their tongue. He is one of them, isn’t he?  There’s a warm wind blowing, teasing his hair and cooling the sweat on the back of his neck. There’s no one on the road and Minho can only see the crisp blueness of the sky, clouds so thick and low that it seems possible to reach out and touch them.

“We’re close,” Minho says and points ahead. “Look, there’s the lighthouse.”

The lighthouse is silhouetted against the sky like a needle. He can’t hear the sea yet, but he catches sight of a far off glimmer. Jisung gasps beside him and Minho’s heart swoops.

“So beautiful,” Jisung whispers. “Where should I rest my eyes? Everywhere. On what? Everything,” he says and Minho takes a second to look at him. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright.

“Do you like what you see?” Minho asks, softly, a sudden, urgent weight making his heart beat quicker.

“Yes,” Jisung says, “Absolutely.”

───────

Mrs. Choi – Hana– has left the keys in her mailbox with a note saying, ‘Come for dinner before you leave! And bring your friend too!!’ She’s probably at school, he thinks as he jogs back to his cottage – it’s a ten-minute-long jog – preparing for the new school year.

Jisung is standing where Minho left him and he is straining his neck to look at the lighthouse. He has taken off his hoodie, and sweat glistens on his forearms. He brightens when he sees Minho.

“It’s hot,” he says, fanning his face.

“Shower first, then food?” Minho asks as he unlocks the front door.

Jisung hums in assent. The inside of his home doesn’t smell like his family anymore, he notices, the walls only hold the musty smell of dust and the fading sharpness of new paint. It is dark and when Minho flicks on a switch, it is too bright, the light bouncing off the bare walls and scant furniture.

“We gave away a lot of stuff,” Minho explains as he goes to the window to open the curtains, “when we repaired the cottage.” He’s a touch embarrassed because this place is small with only two bedrooms and even bare like this, the living room is tiny in comparison to the sprawl of Jisung’s family home.

“It’s adorable,” Jisung says, dragging Minho into a sudden hug. “It’s so cosy and I can hear the sea here,” he cocks his head and his smile turns softer. “I am glad I’m here,” he says.

Minho buries his face in Jisung’s shoulder, breathes in his scent. “I’m glad too,” he says, already bereft.

───────

It is evening when Minho takes Jisung to the beach. Much later than he’d planned but he had pushed Jisung against the wall and it was a heated haze after that. The afternoon had melted as they cuddled and napped, and ate, and now the sun was dipping gently into the horizon, spilling gold into the water.

“This isn’t a friendly sea,” he tells Jisung as they stand on the rocks lining the lip of the sea, watching the waves beat against them. “It’s too wild, too rough.”

The rocks are warm and rough beneath his feet. The sea roars as it approaches and thunders as the rocks hold still. It retreats with a hiss, leaving foam on the sand between the cracks. It’s the same – same as it was eight years ago, same as it was two years ago when he came here to oversee the repairs. The sea calls when you need it the most. He looks at Jisung who is staring at the sunset, face soft and relaxed.

“It holds power, doesn’t it?” Jisung murmurs, “and it’s too much for people to handle when they don’t respect it.”

Minho inclines his head, “That’s what the people of the sea say but it depends on what you believe,” he explains, “some say that it is because this place is too underdeveloped to be of much use.”

Jisung sits on one of the rocks. He tugs at Minho’s hand until he sits down beside him, pressed against his side. “I would rather believe what the people of the sea say.” He leans his head on Minho’s shoulder, “I can’t believe you grew up here,” he says, waving a hand at the grey-gold expanse of the sea.

Minho thinks of all the time he spent wishing to get away, wishing to leave behind the rumble of the sea and its jagged rocks. How all his prayers had been, give me a good life somewhere else . “It is sad but you get used to everything eventually,” he says, putting an arm around Jisung’s waist. He wonders if the sea called to him to ask something of him or to give him something.

Jisung is still leaving.

“That’s what scares me,” Jisung says, taking his head off his shoulders and resting them on knees drawn to his chest, “that we will get used to the distance – to – to the smoothening of all that is important now.”

Minho tightens his hand around his waist. “My offer to kick you when you worry still stands,” he says and winces when the sea roars around them once it’s close. The rocks gleam as the last rays of the sun touch them. Further ahead, he can see boats begin to head home.

“Maybe next time onwards,” Jisung says with a defeated chuckle. “I don’t know why I am like this. A lot of people are in long distance relationships.”

Minho’s insides are roiling, all emotions crashing on top of each other and then battering against him, relentless. “I understand,” he says, words thick, “but it’s about us and what we feel,” he says. Who had said, you’re unique to me in all the world, and I am unique to you in all the world?

Jisung nods and takes Minho’s hand. “Did you know that a ship sank here?” Jisung says, turning and adjusting himself until he’s facing Minho. He bites his lips, suddenly shy. “I looked up your village,” he confides, “when you first told me about your childhood and stuff,” he flaps a hand in the space between them. “But you were so disinterested that I didn’t ask much.”

Amusement bubbles in Minho’s throat. “You honestly looked up my tiny village?” he barks out a laugh, “I never knew that your crush on me was so severe.”

Jisung frowns and flicks a bit of sand at him. “As if your crush on me wasn’t equally soppy,” he says, “and it wasn’t like I searched or something. I just looked up the name and there was a news item.”

“But, Jisungie, I never looked up my crushes’ hometown,'' Minho sings, delighted by the blush suffusing Jisung’s cheeks. One of Jisung’s undying nightmares is the way he behaved around Minho before they’d started dating.

Jisung scrapes a handful of sand from in-between the rocks and hurls them at Minho, “shut up! I was trying to be poetic,” he grouses.

Minho laughs, his shoulders shaking, “and you begin by saying that you stalked me?”

“I wasn’t–” Jisung sputters, eyes rounding in annoyance, “I wasn’t stalking you! I didn’t know what to say around you and I wanted to find a common topic–” he groans, burying in his face in his sand streaked hands.

Minho’s laugh bounces off the rocks. Jisung looks at him, startled and brows furrowed in fondness and there are smudges of sand on his face. Minho’s breath stutters in his throat and the sea churns around him – around them – and he thinks that the sea is glad that they’re here too.

───────

That night, Jisung is rough, his nails scrabbling against Minho’s back, his fingers bruising, his breath low and harsh against his ears, his hips and hands unrelenting. Minho holds him close, pulls at him when there’s any unnecessary distance. They’re quiet and silent, they’ve already spoken much.

Minho wakes up from a dream at midnight and finds that he is sweating. There’s a heavy, muggy heat and the crickets drone ceaselessly, drowning out even the whisper of the sea. Minho pushes the blanket away from him and gets up to open the window. When he sees the waning moon and hears the soft, barely heard rumble of the sea in the distance, he realises why this separation seems so interminable.

It’s because it is the first of the many. They had not spoken about mandatory service – had buried it under the stress of this – and the years they’ll spend apart yawn like a void in front of Minho’s eyes. Nearly six years, give or take. This one is the first.

There’s not much air outside, so what filters in from the screen doesn’t even cool the sweat on his forehead. Jisung’s face is buried in his pillow and except for him, the room is strange and alien, stripped of everything familiar. He goes back to bed and lets Jisung’s breathing lull him to sleep.

They awaken too late to watch the sunrise. Clouds have gathered today and they look more determined than they were yesterday morning. The heat worms its way under his skin, settles there like grime. Minho nearly cries with how hot it gets in the kitchen while he’s cooking.

“Fuck, it’s humid,” Jisung complains as he hands Minho the chopped vegetables. “I didn’t get anything for frizzy hair,” he pouts.

“Neither did I,” Minho says, mopping his brow with a napkin, “but it doesn’t matter, we’re leaving–”

“I don’t want to look terrible in the photos,” Jisung sighs, “but I guess the sweat will make my hair stay down anyway.” Then his face brightens, “do you have childhood photos here?” he asks. “I want to see!”

Minho switches off the gas and pokes Jisung’s stomach to get him to move. “I have shown you so many photos,” he says as he puts food in bowls, “why do you want to see more?”

Jisung huffs. “You’ve shown me only cute photos,” he crosses his arms, “I want to see the weird ones,” he says as he takes out two pairs of chopsticks and fills two glasses with water.

“Maybe I was cute since childhood,” Minho says, placing the bowls on the small dining table.

“Impossible,” Jisung says sagely, “all teenagers look terrible. Here, baby,” he says and shoves a piece of watermelon into Minho’s mouth.

Minho sputters and smacks Jisung’s shoulder. “You don’t have to drop it right into my throat,” he complains. Jisung giggles, his cheeks bunching up with the force of his smile.

Minho takes him to the village after breakfast. They have decided to go to the lighthouse in the evening, so that they don’t faint in exhaustion on the stairs that lead to the top. The village is quiet and Minho doesn’t see anyone his age around. That’s not a surprise; all of them wanted to leave since the moment they deciphered that there’s a world outside the village.

“Is it usually so quiet?” Jisung asks as they pass a small grocery store. It is open but only darkness is visible beyond the display of newspapers on the outside.

“Most of them are at work,” Minho says, making a vague gesture with his hand, “and the others are hiding from the heat,” he says. He smiles at a cat that is walking across them, but it darts away when it notices them. “Plus there aren’t many people in general here.”

“Does everyone want to leave?” Jisung asks, twining his hand with Minho’s hand.

He thinks that for a time he must’ve had a film over his eyes that has melted away now because Jisung looks so vibrant, so real against the soupy grey light of the day. “Yes. Sometimes what the sea gives you isn’t enough,” he hesitates, unsure if he should say it. “But most come back,” he says softly even though there’s no one to overhear, “for their last days.”

“Oh,” Jisung’s eyes are wide, “to be beside the sea?” He doesn’t wait for Minho to confirm, his gaze drifts to the lighthouse. “The sea is in your blood, isn’t it?”

“We say that the salt of the sea calls to the salt in our blood,” Minho whispers, steering Jisung into a right hand turn. It is strange to say it aloud – it feels like baring his soul. But, Minho says it anyway because it’s Jisung.

Minho knocks on Mrs. Choi’s door. A smile lights her face when she sees Minho standing there. “Minho!” she says, dragging him into a hug.

Minho laughs, “Mrs. Choi, I am sweaty!”

“It’s been years since I saw you,” she says, ruffling his hair, her eyes drift beyond his shoulder. Minho turns and sees Jisung hovering behind him wearing his ‘shit, a human adult’ smile. Mrs. Choi grins, “and who is this?” she asks, stepping past Minho. She peers at Jisung.

Jisung squeaks and Minho wants to kiss him because he’s so fucking cute. “That’s Jisung,” he says, “Jisung, this is Mrs. Choi, our longest family friend and my teacher.”

“Hello, Mrs. Choi,” Jisung says, “nice to meet you.”

“Hello, nice to meet you,” Mrs. Choi says, shaking his hand and then immediately patting his cheeks. “You’re cute,” she tells him and Jisung blushes a deep red. “Now, come inside. Are you here for lunch?”

“Oh no,” Minho says, brushing his fingers against Jisung’s hand. “I thought we’ll come for dinner later, I just wanted the keys to the lighthouse actually.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Choi says, shooing them inside, “come inside and cool down a little. It’s blazing outside.”

“Is that alright?” Minho asks Jisung.

Jisung grins, “I think I can get a few embarrassing stories about you from her.”

The inside of the house is the same as it was before. The same photos, the same trinkets and the same furniture adorns the place, but there’s an aged air to the place. Mrs. Choi bustles around, filling Minho in about the gossip he’s missed as she makes lemonade. 

Minho sinks into the warm familiarity, something that he had missed the most when he first came to the city. But the familiarity has a brittle edge to it, he thinks, as Mrs. Choi references events and happenings that he has no idea about. It’s only the deep affection that’s holding their bond together for they don’t know each other like they did once. Or, maybe they do, but only as they were at that point of time – before Minho left. The stone aches in his chest.

“Minho was a good boy,” she says to Jisung, “he broke his hand once when he was trying to do a handstand, but he was pretty much like other teenagers.”

“And I was the best looking in the school, wasn’t I?” Minho grins and takes a sip of his lemonade. “Jisung here thinks I must’ve looked like an ogre.”

“He was pleasant looking, very cheerful,” Mrs. Choi says, her eyes softening, “He was a good boy, Jisung. We were sad to see him leave.”

Minho traces a drop of condensation that rolls down his glass with a finger. He is suddenly, desperately sad about leaving. And being left behind. He swallows.

Mrs. Choi must’ve noticed the change in his mood because she says in a too bright voice, “but of course, the sea calls him back,” she nods with the same deeply anchored surety, “so I know we’ll see him.” A pause. “Now, if you want to go to the lighthouse, you should go now,” she says, “it’ll rain soon – look at the heat! – so get it done as soon as possible..”

“Oh!” Jisung says, sitting up straight, “Mrs. Choi, do you know about the ship that sank on this coast?”

Mrs. Choi’s smile is a touch confused. “Of course, but it was so long ago.”

Jisung bites his lip, thinking. “I’ve been watching documentaries about sunken ships,” he says, placing his glass back on the serving tray. The ice clinks against the glass and the glass thumps against the wood. “So – um… I was just curious.”

“She was supposed to port during a storm,” Mrs. Choi says, after a sip of lemonade. “But she never reached. It was the saddest thing ever. You know what their last message was?”

The fan goes quiet at that moment and the silence is heavy. “No,” Jisung says. The fan falls into its rhythm again, clicking and rattling, overpowering the smallness of Jisung’s voice.

 “We are coming home,” she says, her polite smile turning downwards, her eyes losing light. “We will arrive,” she says.

The air in the room falls quiet as if it is refusing to carry away the last words of a lost ship. Minho hears Jisung’s breath hitch.

“They were fools,” Mrs. Choi continues, “they saw the lighthouse and decided they were home. They stopped fighting. The lighthouse wasn’t enough,” she sighs, placing her glass back too. “They underestimated the rage of the sea, I think and gave into it instead of fighting it. And the sea took them,” she says simply.

“The sea has many lessons to teach,” Jisung says, his voice twanging with fear, “and it teaches them well, doesn’t it?”

Mrs. Choi stands up and picks up the tray. “If you let yourself believe then you’ll learn them well,” she says. “Now, where did I put the keys?”

───────

The clouds are rumbling as Minho leads Jisung to the lighthouse. The smell of the sea – brine, fish and stagnant water – is stronger the closer they get. It shrouds him, settles into his pores. Or maybe it was always there and now the salt in his blood is answering to the salt of the sea.

“Should I not have asked her?” Jisung asks after a few minutes. “About the ship?”

Minho shakes his head. He thinks that Jisung is feeling the same disequilibrium that he is, the ripples that don’t sit right, that are not caused by the tides of their emotions, but by something else. “You were just making conversation.”

Jisung is still pensive, still tense around his jaw and shoulders. “It is weird to talk about sunken ships while drinking lemonade.”

“That’s probably the only interesting thing that has happened here which is not gossip,” Minho says, holding Jisung’s hand when they reach the rocky path that leads to the lighthouse.

“I love you,” Jisung says, coming to a stop. He flushes when Minho raises his brow, “I just wanted to say it,” he says, shrugging a shoulder.

Minho squeezes his hand, a slow warmth trickling to his fingertips. “I love you too,” he says and he thinks he can hear the weight of his feelings in the space between every syllable. “And don’t worry about Mrs. Choi. She’s seen me break my wrist because I was dared to do a handstand.”

Jisung snorts and it sounds shaky. “I think the sea is affecting me too,” he says, rubbing his sternum, “I find myself thinking about it all the time.”

“It’s because only the sea is prettier than me and you like thinking about pretty things,” he assures him, darting away when Jisung tries to punch him. “What!” he laughs, “you were the one who said ‘I can’t stop thinking about you’ when you confessed.”

Jisung shrieks and starts chasing Minho. Minho laughs as Jisung hurls curses at him and he’s half laughing, half panting by the time he reaches the base of the lighthouse. “Your face,” he gasps, “you looked like you were going to kill me,” he cackles when Jisung makes his way to him, gasping.

“I don’t even know why I am with you,” Jisung grouses, pushing Minho’s chest. “You’re an asshole ninety-nine percent of the time.”

Minho wipes his sweat with the back of his hand and takes out the key. “You only complain when I say the truth,” Minho says as he slots the key into the lock, “you never say anything when I say that you’re the funniest – ow!”

Minho pushes the door open and then stands on the threshold, rubbing his shoulders. Jisung sighs and kisses him. Minho steps aside with a smile.

“Are you sure you want to go up?” Jisung asks as he examines a few dusty photos that line the wall. “We don’t have to.”

“It’s alright,” Minho says, “I’ve been to the top drunk out of my mind  too. As long as I stand near the door and only look at the clouds, I’m fine.”

“This is the ship!” Jisung says, pointing at a photo, “the ship that sank.” The photo is black and white, and grainy in the way old photos are. The ship is medium sized and it is festooned, the flags seem to be waving in a breeze. Four men stand before it. At the moment the photo was taken, they didn’t know that the last words from the ship would be: we are home, we have arrived .

“The rocks look like teeth,” Jisung murmurs, his eyes fixed on a photo beside it. Minho studies the image. Seen from a photo, the rocks do look like jagged, flashing teeth.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Minho says, when he sees Mr. Choi smiling at him from another photo. The last keeper before this lighthouse was abandoned.

There are around one fifty or  two hundred steps that lead to the top. Their footsteps echo in the emptiness and the spiralling staircase looks like it is listing as if they’re quivering to the sound of the sea. Jisung bounds up the stairs, the muscles of his legs straining.

He unlocks the door that leads to the platform surrounding the lamp. The same dizzying sensation from his school years hits him and that makes him squirm as he remembers that his friends are scattered now with only their individual ties to the sea giving them something in common. He remains near the door as Jisung presses himself against the railing.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, “I can see so far.”

Minho can only see the heavy clouds rumble as they push against each other, trying to claim as much of the sky as they can. But he remembers what the top of the lighthouse shows. The endless sea and the twinkle of a city at its far edges. That was what caught his eyes back then.

Jisung turns to Minho and gestures at the sea, “it’s like I can feel the depth of the sea just because I can see how wide it is,” he says, his cheeks pink and sweaty. “Fuck,” he says, turning back to peer over the railing again.

Then, it starts to drizzle. The roaring sea drinks in the rain, blots out its hiss.  A wind rises and whips the rain towards them and Minho blinks away water from his eyes. There’s a grimy, smoky scent in the air that is tinged with bitter salt. Minho tugs at the back of Jisung’s t-shirt. “We should go,” he says over the rain and the soft pinging noise on the platform as the drops fall on it.

Jisung nods, turns, his front drenched and eyelashes heavy with water. He casts an entranced look at the rain once more before he slips out of the door. Minho shuts the door and the sound of rain cuts off.

Jisung says, “I want to watch the sea while it rains.”

───────

They find a flat, sturdy rock near the lighthouse to stand on as they watch the sea while it rains.

The sea during the rain is the greyness of the seawater and the drops from the sky merging into a roiling, swelling, swirling mass. The sea takes the water that it gave to the clouds, that the sun took from it over the long summer months. And there is only water – on their skin and their hair, in their bodies and in the space around them.

Minho can smell only water, can taste only water. The clean scent of the rain mingles with the inedible smell the salt of the sea – the same salt that he carries in his blood. The water leeches heat from his skin and he’s cold except for the single point of warmth where his hands are intertwined with Jisung’s.

Minho is not able to see far because all is grey and the waves are rising and falling as they chase each other to the rocks. He also can’t see because he isn’t able to open his eyes properly. Minho isn’t thinking – it is impossible to think with the sound of the sea in his ears but he feels. He feels dawning, blistering awe. Feels fear running cold and hot down his spine. feels the salt dissolve in his blood dissolve till he thinks he’ll float, feels the water fill him until he is weighed down.

He thinks even his blood is singing in time to the waves.

───────

 The sea demands that they leave. The waves become too big, too rough and they rattle his bones.  Minho walks beside Jisung in the rain, his hand tight in Jisung’s hand. It is only when they leave the beach can he smell the earth. All of Minho’s words are lost to the water and no sound passes the lump in his throat.

They shower together when they reach the cottage. Minho drags Jisung with him, hovers around him as he undresses in the bathroom. He wants to be Jisung right now, wants to keep feeling his warmth, wants to keep touching his skin. He holds him in the shower stall, runs his hand down his back and across his chest, over his legs and through his hair.

He is hard but he ignores it, focusing on the rivulets of soap that run over the dips and plains of Jisung’s skin. He brushes away the suds that go near Jisung’s eyes and buries his face in the crook of Jisung’s neck when he washes him. Jisung’s hands are gentle but they seem to brand his skin. He shudders and Jisung runs a soothing hand down his spine.

Only after all the soap has swirled down the drain, does he get down on his knees.

Later, as he is lying under the blanket and tracing the curve of Jisung’s cheekbone, he understands why the sea has called to him.

“I think,” he clears his throat, “I think the sea called me so that I could see it with you – see what it looks like while it rains.”

Jisung looks at him with wide eyes.

Minho runs his thumb over Jisung’s lower lip. “I think I wanted to experience this – this infinite awe with you beside me,” he whispers. “To share it with you, share the sea with you.”

Jisung exhales a shuddering breath. The rain pours outside, beats against the windows and the roof. The sound of the sea underscores the rain. In the gloomy shadows of the room, Minho thinks they are incandescent.

“The sea gave the answers that I wanted,” Jisung says. His voice is rough and his eyes are soft. “How should we handle this separation?” he says and he trails a hand down Minho’s chest. He rests his hand against Minho’s sternum, right where the rock sat. “To give and to take,” Jisung says, “to be my own person, to always be there and to fight.” His brows furrow in that way they do when he’s fond, “and most importantly, to believe.”

“To believe,” Minho echoes.

He doesn’t know what’s going to happen and he doesn’t know when he’ll return. He doesn’t know a lot, but he knows this:

He is in love and there’s much to fight for. That when he needs it the most, the sea will call him.

And he knows that he is one of the people of the sea... and maybe Jisung is too.

• •

I started early… and visited the sea

( Emily Dickinson )

• •

The sea rolls with love

Surging, caressing,

Undulating its great loving belly.

( Ernest Hemingway )

• •

Love one another but make not a bond of love:

let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls

( Khalil Gibran )

• •

But what really is the point of the lighthouse?

This is north, it says, 

Not: I am your safe harbour

( Louise Gluck )

• •

On the shore,

In the grey morning,

What I am is decided

In a haze of smoke

( Hans Magnus Enzenberger )

Finish.