Chapter Text
1.
It will be a cold day, Seungcheol can already tell. The sun is still low in the sky, grey light barely cresting the waves, and the seabirds that accompanied him as he left the harbor have fallen oddly silent, swallowed into the fog just like the coast behind him. Yet Seungcheol can see the lantern of the lighthouse shining ghastly through, a ghost hanging above the water, beckoning him closer. His fingers are cold on the helm and he grips it tighter, sparing a glance at the monitor telling him he’s still far off; in the fog the lighthouse always appeared closer than it really was. Seungcheol is tempted to turn on the jigger’s lights yet the image of his little boat, sailing alone through the fog with its lights on leaves him feeling oddly exposed, a lure for something other than the squids the lights are meant to attract.
He’s reaching the deepest waters, the echo sounder tells him; the most dangerous ones, too, strong currents and stronger storms when the sea would rise to rend and swallow. That’s why the lighthouse was here, to guide to safety, yet there was nothing reassuring about its tall, dark shape appearing through the fog as if floating above the water, the island it stood on yet hidden. Seungcheol maneuvers carefully through the strait that will lead him to the open ocean and, further off, the island, keeping an eye on the radar warning him of hidden reefs. It would be so easy, the thought rises again, so easy to run aground, watch the boat capsize and sink as he struggles to the surface like so many before him, much too far to hope for help. And yet, just like countless times before, he crosses the passage without hindrance, the wind picking up as the boat reaches open waters.
The sun has risen above the waves yet light still won’t break, the fog sitting heavy and fat atop the grey waters. Seungcheol stares through the clear view screen, listening to the rumble of the engine and the sound of the waves. He stares at the lighthouse, its contours slowly sharpening as the boat draws nearer, the jutting rocks of the island piercing through the fog. There’s a sharp sound, suddenly, the cries of a seabird overhead and Seungcheol leans forward to peer at the sky yet he cannot see it – it doesn’t sound like a gull, though, and something about this lone, unfamiliar bird sits uneasily in Seungcheol’s stomach as he rights his stance, angling the helm to stir the boat towards the island’s landing. It sits at the bottom of stairs carved out of the rock and paved over with mortar, shining slick with humidity, a heavy rope dangling at the side as a safeguard against the plunging drop of the cliff.
Someone is already waiting for him, Seungcheol notices, perched on rope crates, face disappearing into a heavy scarf. Junhui, and Seungcheol answers his awkward wave with a bow as he prepares to disembark, dropping the anchor and gathering the dockline to moor the boat to the landing. Junhui moves slowly, standing near the edge of the dock as Seungcheol throws him the line. He secures it to the cleat with a hitch knot, quick and efficient.
“You took the jigger,” Junhui remarks in his slow voice as Seungcheol reaches him, closing his pea coat against the cold of the island.
“Yeah,” Seungcheol answers, turning back to look at the little boat, at the huge lamplights dangling from the electric wires about the deck.
“The trawler is still pretty banged up and the weather was uncertain, so…” Seungcheol trails off, turning back to Junhui who’s not looking at him, gaze lost past the boat to the dark waters beyond and the heavy fog that still won’t lift, draping the island in a stifling shroud. Seungcheol suppresses a shiver, waiting for Junhui’s absent stare to come back to him. The lighthouse keeper always struck him as abstruse, empty stares and empty smiles and his soft way of speaking, drowning words reluctant to pass his lips.
He fit the island, though, standing there in this desolate landscape as the ocean’s breeze washes over him, tangling in his hair and Seungcheol watches him, his soft profile and the wistfulness lodged there in his gaze. And not for the first time Seungcheol wonders what brought him here, someone like him, so young and gentle, what brought him to this chosen solitude and the harshness of this place. He almost asks, then, but Junhui turns to him and once again the words wilt in Seungcheol’s throat, dropping like stones back down to his stomach under the keeper’s unmoored stare.
“Should we unload?” Junhui asks and Seungcheol simply nods, stepping back onto the boat to fix the gangplank. He hadn’t bothered to bring the supply crates down into the cargo hold, simply securing them to the deck. Junhui helps him untie them, and back and forth they go, three times over the gangplank until all the crates are gathered on the landing.
“You should have enough for three weeks,” Seungcheol is saying as they work, “and this one contains all the fresh stuff, so you should go through it first.”
“Okay,” Junhui replies as they ready themselves to ascend the stairs. On the second trip Seungcheol divests himself of his peacoat, only then noticing Junhui had only been wearing a knitted sweater with his scarf, an old thing, worn at the elbows, loose threads hanging from the hem. He looks like a ghost, the thought rises then, unbidden. Yet Junhui does look like one, in his timeless clothing and frayed edges, washed-out under the spray; Seungcheol has the urge to reach out and touch him lest he were to disappear before his eyes, joining the fog and the wind.
He keeps his hands to himself though, helping Junhui fit the fourth and last crate into the dingy side-car waiting for them at the top of the stairs. The thing is old and rusty yet it still withstands, good enough to cover the small distance between the landing and the lighthouse standing at the point of the island. Seungcheol has no idea how anyone could have gotten it up the stairs, and even less of an idea of what they will do once it finally breaks. He watches as Junhui sits himself upon the bike, turning to him with a gentle smile.
“Do you want a coffee before you leave? I can bring you back down afterwards.”
Seungcheol hesitates, glancing at the edifice down the road. The lighthouse had always seemed daunting to him; the dark stones, piling higher than any other lighthouse he’d seen, streaked a darker shade where salt and humidity had left their marks, and the ghastly lantern at the top, looking out over the ocean. Yet Junhui’s eyes are warm, and Seungcheol thinks of the empty house that waits for him, nestled at the foot of the tower. He nods then, and Junhui’s smile grows more solid as he helps him perch on the crates, the sidecar creaking ominously under the added weight.
“Will this hold?” Seungcheol asks dubiously, Junhui waving him off as he starts the engine.
“It will, don’t worry. Hold on to something though, so you don’t lose balance and brain yourself,” he says as the bike putters before rumbling to life.
“That’s a nice prospect,” Seungcheol grumbles, holding on to the rope circling the crates below him. Junhui laughs, the sound lost to the noise of the bike barreling down the rickety road.
It’s not ten minutes to the lighthouse yet Seungcheol’s heart is pounding in his chest, hair in disarray and the taste of salt on his lips. He doesn’t say anything, though, not when Junhui is humming under his breath as he helps him climb down, gathering a crate in his arms, trudging unbalanced to the house’s door he opens with a kick. Seungcheol follows, himself weighted down by another crate he leaves by the entrance. He’s been here before; it’s not the first time Junhui invites him in. Yet each time he’s struck by the bleakness of the surroundings; every furniture old and withered, every item eaten by the salt and the rust.
“Sit,” Junhui tells him as he marches to the stove in the far corner of the room, Seungcheol dropping in a rickety chair at the wooden table occupying the center. It’s a big table, much too big for someone alone and Seungcheol wonders how it must look like in the evenings, if Junhui even sits here or retires to his room, the smaller space much more suited to contain his loneliness.
“Here,” Junhui joins him, setting a canteen cup in front of him, black coffee catching the light below the rim. “Black is fine, right? I’m out of milk.”
“Yeah, it’s okay,” Seungcheol replies softly. “There’s milk in the crates.”
“Thank you. I’ll tidy up after.”
They fall silent, sipping at their burning coffee yet Junhui seems content to simply be, the grey light of the early morning filtering through his dusty windows, drawing shadows on the wooden floor. Yet it feels stifling to Seungcheol, much too aware of every crick of the house, of the wind picking up outside and the sound of the waves breaking onto the rocks. And it seems as if he can feel the tower, too, looming above them, the weight of its stones grounding them into the earth as the wind hurls against them. He shifts uneasily, glancing at Junhui and the vacant expression that he wears.
“What do you do all day?” he blurts then, biting his lips as Junhui’s hand stops halfway to his mouth. He puts his cup back down, smiling at Seungcheol as he draws in a breath.
“Maintenance, mostly. Sometimes I have to go repair buoys. There’s the foghorn, too.”
“I didn’t hear it as I was sailing,” Seungcheol remarks and Junhui nods, bringing his cup to his lips.
“Yeah, but you don’t really need it, do you? With all the fancy navigation systems. I barely use it anymore. Only when the fog is really thick.”
“I like it, though,” Seungcheol says, pensive. “It’s like someone is looking out for you.”
Junhui peers at him, his stare, much sharper than usual, throwing Seungcheol off kilter. He is quick to recover, though, continuing his line of questioning, finding the sound of his own voice preferable to the noisy silence of the lighthouse.
“And when there’s no maintenance or nothing, what do you do?”
Junhui seems to hesitate, glancing at him above the rim of his cup before putting it back down, a finger tracing the ring it left on the old wood.
“I walk around. I read. I’m not bored, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It just seems like it would be lonely,” Seungcheol says, peering into his cup. He can feel Junhui’s gaze on him, but when he looks up the latter is staring through the window. Seungcheol follows his line of sight, and the fog hasn’t let up, creeping inland instead, the far end of the rocky island almost entirely hidden. Seungcheol sucks in a breath; he has to sail back, somehow, and it seems the longer he waits the worse it will be. The wind has picked up, too, rattling against the windows and a sinking feeling makes a home in his belly.
“You should go now,” Junhui says, echoing his thoughts. “If you want to avoid the storm.”
“The weather didn’t say anything about a storm,” Seungcheol says in a small voice, already picturing the jigger slammed against the sharp reefs of the strait.
“Sometimes it seems the island has a weather of its own. You will be fine farther out. But you should go now,” Junhui answers as he stands, gathering Seungcheol’s cup with his own.
“I will drive you back down, there’s the empty crates from last time to bring back.”
“Thanks,” Seungcheol says as Junhui disappears into the cellar, feeling distinctly like he is been thrown out.
Outside the air has grown heavy with humidity, and by the time they reach the landing Seungcheol feels vile, a stickiness clinging to his skin, the taste of salt drying his mouth. He retrieves his coat from the rope crates he left it on, Junhui helping him secure the empty supply chests to the jigger’s deck in a focused silence.
“I’ll come back in three weeks,” he tells Junhui as he retrieves the gangplank, the keeper watching him from the landing. “Will you need anything special?”
“More books,” Junhui simply says as he throws the dockline back onto the deck. Seungcheol nods, hesitating before bowing goodbye. Something feels unfinished, yet he cannot quite pinpoint the exact source of his uneasiness, and so he watches helplessly as Junhui goes back up the stairs, waiting until the anchor has emerged to stir the boat back onto the open sea, the rumbling of its engine covering the sounds of the wind.
As the island slowly disappears behind him, swallowed back into the fog, Seungcheol hears the deafening sound of the horn and a slow, wistful smile tugs at his lips. He pictures Junhui bent over the controls, his perpetually disheveled hair and his old sweater gaping at the collar, alone in that dismal place where only the wind dwells. Seungcheol turns back, looking over his shoulder but even the tower has disappeared, concealed by the fog, its leviathan jaws closing on the dark stones. Only the light at the top is shining through, washed out and grey, and Seungcheol stares at its blinking eye until his attention is called back towards the prow. He’s reaching the strait and it seems Junhui was right; here the winds abate, here the fog disperses into a clear mist.
He hears it again, that strange bird, just once before engaging into the strait. One raucous, loud cry and a shiver lodges against his spine. Seungcheol leans closer to the helm, peering into the waters before him as he maneuvers through the reefs. Something dark lingers on him; it’s in the salt on his lips and the dampness of his clothes, in the ribbons of mist clinging to the prow and the spray of the grey waters opening before him. He has carried it from the island, something as sinister as the dark stones of the lighthouse looming over him. And there’s an image in his mind he cannot depart himself of: Junhui standing alone on the landing, watching the empty sea and he is weightless, diaphanous as the wind pierces him through. Overhead a bird is circling, dark wings bearing it aloft, high above the island, above the tower, its cries remaining unanswered and there is nothing on the island below it; nothing and no one.
2.
Junhui stares at Seungcheol’s cup in the sink, still half full, the coffee inside long grown cold. It just seems like it would be lonely, he’d said in that smooth voice of his and if only it were so, Junhui thinks, if only it were so yet the wind is full of ghosts that tap and sigh at his windows, asking for entry. Junhui lifts his head towards the glass, staring at their ghastly eyes yet there is only the rocky island and the sea beyond, dark waters churning, an enormous body cupping his frail shelter in its dark palm. The fog had receded with the coming of the night and the cold winds that followed, howling through the rocks, throwing themselves at the tower as if they could topple it, find the cracks in the dark stones and crush them under their might. But the tower remains, and it will endure Junhui knows, just as he did, much longer than anyone expected, much longer than it wanted to.
He sighs, opening the tap, cold water gushing and he cleans the cups under the spray, drying and putting them away for the next time he’ll have use of them. Three weeks, Seungcheol had said, and Junhui looks to the calendar stuck crookedly to the wall. He used to mark the passing of the days, a cross drawn each morning over the little numbers in black pencil. He had stopped when the meaning had escaped him – there was nothing to count towards, each day bleeding into the next, each night darker than the last. His eyes fall from the sheet, back towards the window and the wind rattling the glass; the night is oddly clear tonight, the moon perching high and fat, presiding over its lesser consorts and Junhui’s gaze travels over the stars, at times obscured by the beam of the lighthouse as it sweeps over the island, over the sea beyond.
He wonders if anyone is out at sea, jiggers and their squid-luring lights or cargo boats with their belly full, if anyone is watching the light, knowing that the strait is close, that home is near. Somehow he knows it isn’t so, somehow he knows it is only him, and the light, and the sea.
Junhui steps away from the sink and its window, grabbing the coat hanging on a peg by the door. He shrugs it on as he steps outside, the wind piercing him through, a sticky wind, heavy with moisture and salt it deposits on his skin, in the threads of his clothes, the strands of his hair. Junhui hunches his shoulders against the cold, starting down the path crossing the island yet it isn’t the landing that he seeks; there’s a fork, barely visible amongst the rocks and he steps cautiously, down, down towards the sea. Here the ground slopes gently until it reaches the water, sand and algae filling the spaces between flat, broken crags. Junhui remains high on the slope, listening to the crashing of the waves, to the howling of the wind in his ears, his nose filled with the sting of rotting algae and the brine of the sea.
A gust of wind rocks him forth and he steps forward, crouching amongst the rocks as he reaches the end of the slope, the sea churning a few feet away from him, white foam straggling on the wet sand. The spray wets his face and Junhui rubs a sleeve against his eyes, looking for the flat, smooth pebbles he’s sure to find there. He gathers them in his pockets, chilled to the bone. When his pockets bulge, wet and heavy, Junhui stands to walk along the shoreline towards a place he knows well, a flat stone hidden in a nook carved out of the cliff. Upon the stone stand a myriad of cairns he built out of the same pebbles he now holds in his hands, finding an empty space to raise another tower. Junhui works quietly, taking a step back when he is done, eyes roving over the spires. Some toppled under the countless assaults of the winds and the tides, some still stood in spite of it, and in his heart stirs a quiet pain for every face whose shape he had lost to time, for every forgotten voice and silenced laughter.
He remains standing before the stone, summoning half forgotten memories until the voice of the high tide brings him back, and he realizes then how cold he truly is, how damp his clothes are against his frigid skin. He shivers under the relentless wind, dropping his head and hunching his shoulders, every muscle tense, every breath shuddering past his lips. And so he turns, slowly, leaving the stone and its city of pebbles behind him, slipping along the shore to reach the way back to the lighthouse. It’s only then, that he sees them. The ghost lights, flickering over the decayed seaweeds. Junhui stops, staring, his heart speared on his ribs and that quiet pain bleeds through his chest, spreading like ink underneath his skin. Slowly he steps forward, crouching the nearest that he dares to the wisps of translucent light dancing above the weeds.
They used to come often, blue lights along the shore and Junhui would stare at their moving shapes, breath stuck in his lungs, echoes of what they used to be whirling in his mind; the bright laughter and the young voices, the small hands and the clumsy feet. But time had passed and the ghost lights had faded just like the memories did, leaving behind a hollow filled only by the swirling winds of the island, by the icy spray of the tide and the brine of the air. And so Junhui kneels on the wet sand despite the cold and he stares at the ghost lights, welcoming them back to their place amongst the crags, no matter how bittersweet, no matter how sorrowful their fragile shine. They gather atop the mound of rotten seaweed, agitated and cross, and as the beam of the lighthouse spans the sky above Junhui realizes that they had not come in vain. There is something underneath the algae upon which they dance.
He inches closer, slowly, the ghost lights darting away yet remaining close, flitting in and out of existence; could they talk Junhui figures he would hear their excited chatter as he peeks at the mound, at the white streaks he can see through the layer of algae. He reaches a tentative hand, pulling at the weeds, frowning at the cold, slimy feel under his fingers and the stench that rises, salt and rot and brine. He sees it, then. White feathers and grey wings, folded against a fluttering side. The bird is breathing, its beak opening and closing as if gasping for air yet its eyes are closed and Junhui stares, stares at the white of its breast and the struggle taking place underneath it for the heart to keep pumping, for the lungs to keep breathing.
“It has been long since anyone came here to die,” Junhui whispers, freeing a palmed foot from a tangled mess of algae.
As he frees the bird the ghost lights disappear one by one and Junhui is left alone to stare at the dying animal, its feathers fluttering in the wind that had swelled anew, the tide growing ever closer to swallow back its hollow bones. And Junhui should let it, he knows, let it take back what it owned; yet the ghost lights had danced atop this watery grave, yet they had led him here and he knows what they had wanted, what they had meant. And so there is no choice – Junhui leans forward, carefully, cradling the bird in his arms, sheltering it against his chest and the animal lets him, limp in his hands. Maybe it knows, Junhui thinks, maybe it knows no harm is meant. It comes to him as he climbs up the path to the lighthouse, shoulders hunched against the wind at his back. The bird is an albatross, heavy in his arms, and as Junhui reaches sight of the house nestled at the foot of the tower, the storm breaks over the island.
3.
Day has yet to rise when Seungcheol wakes, a heavy weight suddenly smothering him. He grunts, kicking the giggling mass atop him until his brother rolls off, spreading uninvited on the empty side of the bed.
“What the fuck, Seungjae?” Seungcheol asks in a sigh, turning his bleary gaze on his brother, his face partially obscured by the shadows still inhabiting the little room. Seungjae rises up on his elbows, extending a hand to ruffle Seungcheol’s hair in that annoying way big brothers’ have, and Seungcheol isn’t quick enough to push him away.
“The harbor called,” Seungjae says as he falls back against the mattress. “They say you gotta go back to the lighthouse.”
“What?” Seungcheol squeaks, much more awake than he had been. “I went yesterday! What the fuck? Can’t they send someone else?”
“Apparently Junhui radioed in,” Seungjae continues, picking at a fresh blister on his palm. Seungcheol stares, trying to quell the rising urge to kick him off the bed as Seungjae presses on until it bursts.
“And?” Seungcheol prompts as his brother interrupts himself with a wince, wiping his hand on Seungcheol’s bedsheet.
“He needs first aid supplies and fresh fish, for some reason.”
“Fresh fish,” Seungcheol repeats, Seungjae nodding solemnly as he turns his gaze to him, finally leaving his hand in peace.
“He’s hurt?” Seungcheol asks and watches his brother shrug, wide shoulders rising to his ears.
“I don’t know. That or he fished out a mermaid.”
“Isn’t there already a first aid kit in the house?”
“It’s probably a hundred years old,” Seungjae remarks absently, going back to staring at his calloused hand.
Seungcheol rubs at his eyes, a heavy sigh leaving his lungs. His limbs feel heavy, sinking into the mattress like they would on wet sand. He pictures himself going through the strait again, navigating these treacherous waters under the watchful eye of the lighthouse and he’s already exhausted, indolence washing over him as he turns on his side, burying his face against his brother’s side.
“I don’t wanna,” he mumbles like a whiny child, Seungjae patting his hair in commiseration. “Why is it always me? Can’t they send someone else?”
“The adults are going fishing,” Seungjae says, his warm hand leaving Seungcheol’s mess of hair.
“I am an adult,” Seungcheol protests vaguely, feeling the warmth of his blanket and his brother’s side pulling him back down under where there is no sea, no boat, no strange keeper to wait for him.
“That’s debatable,” Seungjae says and Seungcheol forces himself to roll off him, kicking the covers down lest he would fall back asleep.
“I will kick you off this bed,” he mumbles, Seungjae swallowing back a yawn as he burrows against the pillows.
“You can’t move me,” he says, “I’m unmovable.”
“You wish you were unmovable,” Seungcheol grumbles in response, his brother’s laugh spilling from his lips. Seungcheol ignores him in favor of grabbing his phone on the bedside table, checking the time, another sigh escaping him as he watches the digits on the screen.
“Why are you even awake at 5?” he asks, turning to Seungjae who shrugs, his eyes closing on another yawn.
“I have my own cross to bear. I’m accompanying dad for a gut and we leave soon, it’s in Ulsan.”
“They’re letting you perform your horrid janggu playing in public?”
“Fuck off,” Seungjae laughs, kicking Seungcheol in the shin. Seungcheol overplays the pain, rolling around on the bed until he’s half sprawled against his brother who doesn’t push him off, once again carding a hand through his hair.
Seungcheol’s earlier lethargy catches up to him as he lays there, his head pillowed on Seungjae’s belly, the gentle rhythm of his breath lulling him back to a somnolence that dims the sounds and blurs the sights. He still hears, though, as if faraway; his father’s voice in the courtyard below his window and the sound of a car, more voices threading into the one he loves as the cardoors open to spill people on the gravel. The other aksas, the musicians who will accompany the shaman who hired them for her ritual and Seungcheol wonders what it is for, this time. Safe passage for the sailors, maybe, no more bloated corpses to fish out of out the straits. Or bounty at sea, for fishes to come to the nets, squids to swam up to the lights.
Seungcheol sighs, watching as the ray of sunlight upon his floor seems to grow with each passing minute, chasing grey shadows back into the corners. Under him Seungjae must have fallen back asleep, his breaths soft and equal; Seungcheol cranes his neck to peer at his face and he is right – his eyes are closed, his mouth slack. It’s a pity to disturb him yet the house is waking up all around them – water in the pipes and voices in the kitchen, a bark of laughter that has Seungcheol smiling. He wiggles back onto his belly, shaking Seungjae’s shoulder until his brother wakes with a whine, rubbing at his tired face to try and chase the sleep from his eyes.
“I hate this,” he says as he swings his feet to the floor, stretching his arms far above his head.
“I usually wake-up earlier than this,” Seungcheol remarks absently, trying to find the pair of fluffy socks he wears in the house. The floor is cold under his naked feet and he hears the wind tapping against his window, a shiver curling against his spine as if it was howling through his bones.
“That’s because you lead a hellish life,” his brother is saying as he traipses out of the room, the sound of a yawn following him out. Seungcheol listens to his footsteps retreating down the corridor, sitting back down onto his bed as another wave of exhaustion hits him. He closes his eyes, and if he focuses enough, through the voices and the wind and the cracks of the house he can hear it: the sea, churning in the harbor under the cawing of the birds and the calls of the dockers. He thinks of the strait waiting for him, of the island beyond and that dreadful tower, Junhui sitting at its foot like a wraith born out of the waves. He thinks of the ocean, its dark waters and abyssal depths. All it asks for, in exchange for what it gives.
Seungcheol opens his eyes, loath to follow these thoughts where they lead and he stares through the window at the sky beyond, the light of day spilling shyly through the glass, still new, still raw. He stands, traipsing quietly to the window and beyond the roofs of the houses huddled down the hill where he stands he can see the ocean bleeding into the sky, a great mass, a dormant beast upon which they sail in the walnut hulls he can see littering the grey expanse, brittle and weak. The shiver he had felt raises its head anew, gripping at his bones and Seungcheol hunches on himself, peering at the sky and the grey clouds the wind pushes across. It wasn’t supposed to rain, Seungcheol knows, yet it is as if he can already feel the first drops upon his face and he steps back from the window, the sense of wetness clinging to him.
When he emerges in the kitchen, clean and fully dressed, the musicians have already departed and the house is calm, echoes of their presence still seen wherever Seungcheol looks: coffee stains on the table and dirty mugs in the sink, a forgotten sweater draped over the back of a chair. Seungjae’s, Seungcheol recognizes, and he shrugs it on over the long-sleeves he’s wearing, the hem falling atop his thighs, the sleeves brushing the tip of his fingers. He pulls them back as he carefully peeks under the cloth left on the table to cover dishes – seaweed soup and rice, a fried egg layered on top, still warm. Seungcheol sits, eats quickly as the hour turns and the foreboding feeling he had felt all morning solidifies itself as he steps out of the house, locking the door behind him. A smooth stone sitting low in his belly, weighing him down as he bikes down the hill, feet off the pedals and the wind rushing past his ears.
“You’re late,” the kid at the reception desk remarks as Seungcheol steps into the harbor's control center, bike abandoned up front.
“I didn’t want to come,” Seungcheol says and the kid laughs, stifling a yawn, his too long fringe flopping into his eyes.
“Understandable, didn’t want to either,” he says, leaning against his arms as they rest upon his messy desk. His computer isn’t even turned on, Seungcheol remarks absently, wondering once again what it is exactly Seokmin is supposed to be doing.
“And then I did,” Seokmin continues, “and they had me go down to the shop to get antiseptic and micropore tape.”
“What the heck is micropore tape?” Seungcheol asks, gaze going back to Seokmin in time to see him shrug.
“I don’t know. The lady at the shop did, though, so that’s that on that.”
“You guys are really sending me there for micropore tape and antiseptic?” Seungcheol tries, Seokmin offering him a blinding smile.
“And fish. Don’t forget the fresh fish.”
“Oh, yeah, how could I ever forget the fish?” Seungcheol replies acidly, tugging on his sleeves.
“Look,” Seokmin says, sounding vaguely sorry, “they want him to keep the job as long as possible because there’s no way in hell anyone is gonna want to go live there after him. So whatever he wants, he gets. And you’re our little errand boy,” Seokmin ends with a bright smile, somehow managing to sour Seungcheol’s mood even further.
“Seokmin,” he says slowly, the kid leaning back into his chair at his tone, “one day I’ll drown you.”
“Better men than you have tried that already,” Seokmin deadpans, watching with amusement as Seungcheol makes a face.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I said what I said,” Seokmin replies solemnly, leaning back against his desk. “You can take the trawler, by the way, it’s been fixed. We already loaded it.”
“Wow,” Seungcheol says, a hand on his heart. “Loaded it all for me? One roll of tape and a dead fish? Aren’t you exhausted?”
“There were several dead fish, thank you very much,” Seokmin replies with fake annoyance, waving at Seungcheol to get going.
Seungcheol rolls his eyes, turning on his heels with a derisive wave at Seokmin but he stops right as he’s about to leave, stricken by how grey the sky has turned outside, seabirds flying low, calling to each other as they drift above the leaping waves.
“Hey, the weather report said nothing about a storm, right?”
“Nope,” Seokmin says from behind and something in his voice has Seungcheol turn back to look at him. There’s a crease between his brows, his eyes unusually sharp in the scant light of the entryway.
“But, like, you’ve seen outside,” Seokmin continues tentatively. “It feels like a huge one is brewing, yet I’ve checked the bulletin twice and there’s nothing. I’d hurry, if I were you. If it gets too touchy just turn back.”
“And leave Junhui tape-less?” Seungcheol tries for a joke but Seokmin barely smiles, shadows drawing on his handsome face and the stone in Seungcheol’s belly sinks lower still, swallowed by the miry pit of his unease.
“I’ll turn back, Seokmin,” he continues quietly and Seokmin nods, keeping his gaze on Seungcheol’s back as he leaves the building.
Seungcheol can still feel its weight as he draws near the boat anchored at the nearest dock, the little trawler with its hull painted blue. Seabirds are perched on its prow, taking flight as Seungcheol approaches. The air smells like rain yet the grey clouds are still far on the horizon and Seungcheol’s gaze follows the birds to the mouth of the harbor, to the strait beyond and the dark waters that will lead him there, cold and deep. Nothing had ever seemed so alien, so unknowable despite how often he had sailed upon these waves, despite the sights and the sounds never leaving his senses. And Seungcheol knew the others felt the same; the fishermen and the dockers, the navy and the boaters. They all shared that same dread, dulled by habit and grit, each time they had to sail – maybe this time it would be the last, maybe this time the sea would rise with leviathan jaws and claws of mist, leaving nothing behind but a grief and an absence too keenly felt, its shape cut of their sunken bodies.
As Seungcheol maneuvers the boat out of the harbor the image of his own bloated corpse surfaces in his mind, his hair flowing like seaweed, his putrid flesh carried by the waves, eyes picked out, tongue lolling out of his mouth. He pushes it back down, chains a ball to its rotten ankles so it would sink down where other corpses remain, swaying in the ebb and flow of half forgotten memories, hair of kelp and mussel nails. He thinks of whale falls, their great carcasses sinking to the depths where no light reach, cold waters closing in on them, halting the rot and decay until they lay on abysmal soil in perfect solitude. How it doesn’t last, how the inhabitants of the dark and the cold feed on their flesh and their bones, and Seungcheol would like that, he thinks; the quiet and the dark, sleeper sharks feasting on his soft flesh, naked bones turning to reefs as isopods crawl through his ribs. It wouldn’t be so bad, really, an end for a beginning, his remains slowly engulfed in new life.
The thought follows him to the strait and the sky has darkened here, the water churning against the hull as the first drop of rain falls against the clear view screen. Seungcheol tightens his grip on the helm, knuckles white as he listens to the wind outside, howling through the strait like the voice of a giant. The little boat heaves and sways and Seungcheol forgets to breathe, watching the tall waves crash against the hull, white foam washing over the deck and the rumble of thunder tells him to go back. Yet Seungcheol remains, gaze darting nervously to the monitor displays, the rumble of the motor threading in the wind as the rain thickens, blurring against the screen and it feels to Seungcheol as if the world is narrowing to this single point in front of him, to the sea and the boat and the waves carrying him forth, the depths below opening up to swallow him.
And he must go back, he knows, Seokmin’s plea echoing in his mind yet Seungcheol’s hands are frozen on the helm as the boat lurches, struggling to maintain course. The strait is closing in, cliffs looming on all sides as terrible howls fills his ears and it is all that there is, the wind and the sea and the reefs like so many pointed teeth looking to rend and tear. And yet, yet another sound pierces through – the cries of a lone bird in the storm, the one he’d heard before and Seungcheol leans in and peers through the glass of the view screen. It sounds so close, and then, then there is a dark shape perching on the prow, great wings flapping to keep balance. It is looking right at him, it seems, beak opening on a cry as Seungcheol stares. A great cormorant, dark feathers fluffed and angry, palmed feet anchored to the deck as rain pelts its body, sliding off its feathers to pool below it. The apparition breaks Seungcheol out of his trance and he grips the helm, angling the boat to follow the lurch of the waves, straining towards the opening at the end of the narrow strait.
It is then that he hears it, too, the fog horn sounding above the wind and the raging sea, and if he lifts his head the unblinking eye of the lighthouse is shining through the rain and for once it doesn’t seem so ghastly, for once it doesn’t seem so cold. Seungcheol maneuvers carefully, the old trawler groaning under the assault. Soon he reaches the end of the passage and the open ocean, the battered island taking shape out of the rain as Seungcheol pushes the boat to close the distance. As the island surfaces from the waters, the sharp edges of the crags almost visible, the black bird on the deck takes flight, drifting low into the rain, carried by strong winds that bear it towards the island. It disappears from view as the trawler lurches down the ebb and Seungcheol lurches with it, stomach in his throat as all he sees for an intense, breathless second is the dark of the water crashing against the hull of the boat.
The fog horn sounds again, calling to him as the sea spits him out on another wave, the boat heaving, rolling down another great wave and the landing is in sight, Seungcheol slowing down the motor, staring at the monitor displays as he maneuvers for the narrow shelter of the tall cliffs. His hands are trembling when he takes them off the helm, fingers stiff and aching, and he allows a great breath to come into his lungs as the boat still lurches under him, tugging against its anchor. But there is much left to do, and he hurries to the desk, raincoat shrugged on as he steps outside, the wind piercing him through. He gathers the dockline, readying to jump onto the landing and secure the boat but a quick appraising gaze has him freeze – there next to the cleat Junhui is standing, the hood of his raincoat obscuring his eyes yet his hands are opened, gesturing for Seungcheol to throw him the rope.
“What are you doing here?!” Seungcheol screams yet his voice is carried off by the wind, Junhui shaking his head as he gestures anew and Seungcheol throws him the dockline, securing the gangplank as Junhui ties the rope to the cleat.
Before he can disembark Junhui has climbed abroad and Seungcheol notices then how drenched he really is, wet hair sticking to his brow and his cheeks, fingers deathly cold when he pulls on Seungcheol’s wrist to bring him closer, as if he had stood there waiting for hours on end.
“Why is it you?” he’s yelling near Seungcheol’s ear and it strikes him how upset Junhui looks, eyes wide, his grip on Seungcheol’s wrist almost bruising.
“What do you mean why is it me?” Seungcheol screams back as the rain batters his face, “who else could it be?”
“I just–” Junhui stops himself, his fingers twitching on Seungcheol’s wrist and Seungcheol drops his gaze, staring at Junhui’s long fingers wrapped around the wet fabric of his raincoat and it comes to him then, that it is the first time Junhui is touching him. Yet it is not touching, not really, not when he can’t feel it against his flesh.
“I didn’t think it would be you,” Junhui says, barely audible over the wind and he sounds almost regretful; Seungcheol looks up at him, gaze searching but Junhui drops his arm, taking a step back and his eyes disappear under his hood, once again cold, once again indifferent. Seungcheol makes a helpless sort of gesture, stepping towards him before he stops, hesitant, turning instead for the bridge where they stored the supplies. Junhui follows quietly, and although it is not heavy enough to warrant help he still grabs one end of the crate as Seungcheol grabs the other. They heave the box up, walking back out in the rain, careful of the gangplank and the slippery surface of the landing as they go.
“Won’t we crash and die?” Seungcheol asks as they make it to the top of the stairs and the old sidecar is waiting there, seats drenched, a pool forming at the bottom of the car. Junhui smiles, shaking his head, gesturing for Seungcheol to take place. The ride is even worse than Seungcheol remembers it to be, the rain drenching him through, his raincoat damp and cold against his skin. He watches as Junhui lets go of a handlebar to wipe as his face, elects to close his eyes instead but it makes the lurching worse, as if he was riding straight through the waves he came on.
The lighthouse is barely visible through the curtain of heavy rain, its looming shape painted like a shadow against the grey sky and Seungcheol barely spares it a thought as the keeper’s lodgings finally spring into view. He doesn’t wait for Junhui to turn off the motor before he’s off, grabbing the crate and lurching himself through the door, stopping short in the entryway as he drops the box to divests himself of his raincoat, water dripping to pool on the floor. It is cold, so very cold with the door open and the wind howling through. Seungcheol jumps when Junhui bangs it close behind him as he enters, a shiver curling against his spine as the wind suddenly cuts off. Seungcheol can still hear it, rattling the windows and howling against the stones as if it wished to topple them, the rain tapping like so many fingers against the glass. He carefully removes his shoes, wet socks leaving a trail of his steps onto the old wooden floor and it seems he will never be warm again.
Junhui’s following him closely, the sweater he wears under his raincoat drenched through. Seungcheol is about to ask about the general state of him, wet hair plastered to his face, skin glistening with rainwater, when he notices the nest of shirts and towels upon the large table at the center of the room, a great white bird occupying it.
“Is this–” he starts, understanding dawning on him as he turns to Junhui.
“The fish? That’s why you needed fish? You’re not hurt, you’re not hurt at all,” he says almost with wonder; and Seungcheol hears how his voice goes higher on the last words, how it scrapes his throat on the way out.
“I’m not, but–” Junhui starts, eyes darting from Seungcheol to the bird.
“I almost died for a bird?” Seungcheol interrupts him, looking back to the animal which hasn’t moved yet he can see its flanks rising with each breath.
“You were safe, you wouldn’t have died,” Junhui says calmly, too calmly, and the stone in Seungcheol’s belly sinks deeper still, ripples felt through his entire being.
“How do you know that?” he asks, slightly shrill yet he can not bring himself to care. “There’s a storm outside, in case you haven’t noticed. Huge waves. My boat is two thousand years old! It could have sunk! And you’re not even hurt! Oh fuck. Oh damn.”
“Seungcheol–”
Junhui interrupts himself anew as Seungcheol crouches down to the floor, the enormity of what he had just been through hitting him with full force. The tension he had held within him during the journey seems to leak out of his pores, leaving him breathless and rattled; he hugs his arms to his chest, willing the trembling of his limbs to subside but his head is full of rain, glacial waters drowning each sober thoughts and it is only the sea that he sees, great dark waves rising to meet him, fingers of kelp and crags teeth scraping at his boat as he passes. And there are glacial hands upon his shoulders and wide, anxious eyes peering into his face and Junhui’s voice near his ear, words that slip through the white noise of rushing blood.
“...cheol, you’re okay, you’re safe, do you hear?” Junhui’s saying, repeating himself over and over until Seungcheol’s glazed eyes fix on him. “Nothing can reach you here, you’re alright.”
Seungcheol stares into Junhui’s eyes until the world slips away, until Junhui’s voice replaces the howling wind, until the cold of his hands anchor him back into his flesh and the dark of his eyes grows to swallow the nightmare in his mind under a thick coat of peaceful blackness. And then he lets himself fall back onto his rear, Junhui’s hands slipping off his shoulders. A great breath escapes his lungs, taking with it the taste of salt and the sound of the tide.
“It’s a bird,” Seungcheol says weakly, the words frail on his tongue and Junhui smiles, joining him on the floor.
“It’s not just any bird,” he answers, voice quiet, gaze averted as if bashful. “It’s an albatross.”
“Oh,” Seungcheol says, peering at the bird upon the table, its heaving flanks and the grey wings folded against its body. He remembers the tales, how the fishermen would point with held breaths when one of the great bird would soar above them – it had been years, since Seungcheol had seen any, and he wonders now just as he wondered then if there was any true wisdom in the sailor’s tales.
“The storm…” he starts, not sure what he wants Junhui to tell him. He knows that it cannot be true, that one bird cannot herald storms, that it cannot carry doom upon its wings. Yet deep down that primal fear is there, gnawing at his insides and he remembers the faces of the fishermen as they stared up at the sky, how they would whisper amongst themselves, nodding happily when the bird flew high above, how worry would eat at them when one would fold its huge wings to alight on the waves.
“I don’t know,” Junhui is saying, turning to look at the bird, something alien in his placid face, something Seungcheol isn’t sure how to interpret.
“It wasn’t supposed to rain,” Seungcheol tries again and a smile tugs at Junhui’s lips, a wistful smile looking inwards and he seems old, suddenly, so old, eyes peering through years of hoarded memories and a sadness so soft it might not be sadness at all unfurls between Seungcheol’s ribs as he watches him. Something worn out, as if it had been there all this time, forgotten under the waves, polished by the tides until its sharp edges were smoothed, until its outline was barely visible.
“A lot of things happen that are not supposed to,” Junhui says in his soft voice and Seungcheol knows what it is, then, this soft feeling: grief for something lost mourned long ago. Seungcheol knows it well, recognizing its faded colors, its soft edges that don’t really hurt, not anymore, not really. Only in the dead of night, when he laid in his bed and loneliness curled upon his chest, smothering each breath out of his lungs and it got sharp enough to cut, then, enough to separate flesh from the bones were he to let it. And he used to crawl in Seungjae’s bed when it got that way, his brother mumbling incomprehensibly as he opened his arms, letting Seungcheol curl into his chest, ear against his heartbeat and it was warm and alive, echoing within the hollow of his own aching chest.
Seungcheol wonders what the keeper lost, then, and what he does when it gets sharp; there is no one here to share warmth, no steady heartbeat to lull him back to sleep. Only the wind and the rain against the windows, only the waves and the crags.
“I wanted to save it,” Junhui starts again, gaze fixed on the quiet bird. “I didn’t think that who they sent would have to sail the strait despite the storm. I’m sorry.”
Seungcheol wants to tell him he doesn’t mind it so much, not anymore, not here seated on the cold floor, watching the flanks of the albatross rise and fall as the rain batters the windows, the wind howling all around the house. Suddenly there is nothing more important than this bird upon the table and the sadness in Junhui’s voice, but Seungcheol has no words to say it, nothing that could explain it, and so he remains quiet, gaze drifting to Junhui, his soft profile and the movement of his lips as he speaks again.
“I meant it, though,” he says, not looking at Seungcheol. “I meant it when I said you were safe.”
“How can you know?” Seungcheol asks, Junhui’s gaze falling to him. Seungcheol stares at his eyes, dark as the waters churning outside and he finds that he doesn’t doubt him, that his words taste of truth yet he couldn’t explain why.
“This storm isn’t meant for you,” Junhui says slowly, his gaze falling to his hands and it seems all sounds have dimmed, receding under the loud beating of Seungcheol’s heart against his ribs, under the rush of blood in his ears.
“Who is it for, then?” he asks, his hands clammy where they rest in his lap, his skin still damp, a shiver curling against his spine as Junhui raises his eyes to him and there is something old, something knowing churning in the blackness they hold.
“Me,” he simply says, and all sounds rush back in with his breath – the wind and the rain and the crashing of the waves, filling Seungcheol’s ears as he stares. And it seems the distance between them grows until Seungcheol would never be able to reach Junhui; in his mind the waves are crashing through the door, pulling Junhui under the tide and all that is left is the taste of salt on his own lips and the kelp in his wet hands.