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It is a strange thing, being there after being away for so long. Wooyoung breathes it in, feels the humid air sinking into his lungs and deeper into his bones. Perhaps the feeling should sparkle, should glitter like a sign of all that he has missed since he has been gone, but it is merely heavy. Heavy, and hot, and humid. He pulls his shirt up and ties the bottom into a knot; perhaps that will give him the illusion of comfort.
Beside him, San’s glasses shimmer where they catch the afternoon sunlight, tinted dark but making the cement prismatic. Brown sugar and honey hangs thick in the air, close enough that Wooyoung can taste it even before his tea arrives. There are many things he still has to see; there are many things he still has to show to San. Wooyoung is a foreigner in a strange land, yet he has never been more at home. Heat waves lick at the soles of his shoes and dance away off towards the horizon, but the drinks turn San’s fingers pink when he picks them up. They burst in flavors of peach and honey and brown sugar, just as expected, with the aftertaste of sweet cream lingering once Wooyoung is done. San’s brow is furrowed in determination, enough to make Wooyoung giggle. “Come on!” he exclaims, one hand still clutching the ice-filled bottom of his drink and the other extended to San. “We still have some time before nightfall, so let’s go get a snack and find somewhere to cool off.”
San follows him through the town, there to catch him from stumbling over the cracks in the sidewalk when he does not pay quite enough attention. They wander to the places Wooyoung once knew, and to the ones he does not, and explore until their feet are covered by the lapping of the ocean waves. “It’s cool,” remarks San, and Wooyoung kicks the sand.
“It’s comforting. I don’t like it when it’s too hot.” Wooyoung traces his toes in nonsensical patterns, washed away as soon as they form. “I just got here; how can I go back yet?” He lets his arms dangle, lets the sea breeze brush against them just enough to make him slightly chilled. San’s fingers are even colder when he takes Wooyoung’s hand, holding it tightly enough the chill seeps through Wooyoung, soothes the twisting in his gut and the whistling in his ears.
Wooyoung breathes it in, that humid air, and lets it whistle out his teeth. “Do you think he’ll come?” he asks, shaking his own head at the child-like whine to it.
“He’ll come,” says San.
“Are you sure?”
Gulls cry overhead, losing their voices in the emptiness above the sea. “I can’t predict the future,” says San, as he always does, “but I can tell you that he is a good friend, and good friends don’t leave you sitting alone in the middle of the night.”
The night blooms slowly, and Wooyoung and San linger near the coast even as the Sun sinks below the horizon. It prolongs the daylight for them, keeps the nerves further at bay, even as Wooyoung twists his fingers and San’s together more frequently. Wooyoung’s phone is leaden in his pocket, of little use for these scant few days. Soon, he will be back to the rituals of study, of the same pattern over and over again until the next year, until the next few days of return. A homecoming, Wooyoung wants to call it, except he’s never really had anyone to come home to before. Except Yeosang, of course, but their boats had come untied long ago.
Untied boats can sometimes drift back together, however, and be retied. Or so San tells him, ever pragmatic. Wooyoung whistles tunelessly as he and San settle on a hill, far enough away from other families and young couples scattered that their viewing will be uninterrupted. They are about to sit down on the towel they brought when something catches Wooyoung’s eye—the glimmer of an earring in the near-black, not far to their left.
It’s Yeosang. It has to be. He looks over at the same time Wooyoung’s back straightens, and he looks the same as Wooyoung remembered. The same clever eyes and wry smile beckon him over, and San follows a few steps behind. “Wooyoung.”
“Yeosang.” The name is heavy in Wooyoung’s mouth, cloying on his tongue. It makes him stumble over everything he had planned to say, every apology he had wanted to give. San lurks behind his shoulder, far enough away to not interfere but close enough to be a steady rock. Yeosang gets off of his blanket. His clothes are dark, but his eyes shine light.
The silence slips away in a hiss and a boom; fireworks fly high in the sky as the crowd gasps. Wooyoung has no eyes for them, no thoughts about the pinks and the blues. “I really want to hug you right now,” one of them says, although Wooyoung is not entirely sure it is him. He does not have to wait long, however, for crushing arms around his waist and Yeosang’s face buried in his neck. Yeosang’s hair smells different; he must’ve changed his shampoo. It is a small revelation, one with absolutely zero practical value, but it is what chokes Wooyoung’s throat. San is there in a moment, warm hands broad across Wooyoung’s back, and Yeosang’s grip around his waist catches Wooyoung as he folds. Together, they sink as one to the grass, fireworks prismatic through Wooyoung’s tears.
The grass is damp, enough to soak Yeosang’s jeans, but still he holds Wooyoung tight. San peeks over Wooyoung’s shoulder at the two of them and catches Yeosang’s eye; there is no jealousy, there is no fear, nothing but a quiet sort of longing. Wooyoung snuggles into Yeosang’s chest, legs sprawled across Yeosang’s thighs, and San decides it is within his prerogative to settle next to the two of them.
Wooyoung’s voice is hushed, lost in the rush of the fireworks. “I’m sorry that I left.” Yet before he is finished, Yeosang is already dipping his head down to press a kiss to Wooyoung’s hair.
Instead of I forgive you or why did you go so far away or why did you run, what he asks is: “May I come with you two?”
San and Yeosang look at each other then, then back down at Wooyoung. The fireworks stretch overhead, blooming into flowers and birds, a celebration.
“Maybe what you left was a home,” continues Yeosang, “but where you are now is a better one. A safer one.” San sighs into the darkness, breath clouding as the temperature drops. He already knows Wooyoung will fight.
Nothing of the sort happens, merely a meager “Yes.”
-
He’s stayed put for too long, Yeosang wonders as he watches Wooyoung in the passenger’s seat. Wooyoung truly has grown up without him. The luggage bumps against Yeosang’s knee, packed in around him like sardines in a can, but he feels no need to complain. Content joy fizzes on his tongue like the soda from the drive-thru San stopped at, and his mind runs like the miles under their tires.
Still, Yeosang perks up when Wooyoung addresses him. “Everyone’s so excited to meet you!”
Nerves coil around his fingers, wind their way around his throat, but Yeosang shakes his head and shakes them off at the same time. “Let’s do this,” he says, and catches San’s eye in the rearview.
It is a strange thing, being gone after being there for so long.