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[By recalling a memory of the past, you are remembering it as your brain has chosen to distort it, not by the actuality of its events.]
As a kid, Seoul seemed so vast and so much better than Mokpo. The buildings were taller, the people walked faster, and at the peak of the ferris wheel, he thought he could see the whole world.
He steps off the train, and with each step, he misses home. The smell of saltwater in the air, the sheen of dried squid hanging on laundry lines. Streets full of familiar faces; corner store owners treating every kid in the neighborhood like their own. Summers of sweat-soaked t-shirts and muddy sneakers, bloody shins and scraped up knees. Playing soccer with his friends every day like time was endless, like they’d always be together.
Dragging his suitcase behind him, he hails a taxi, reciting the address of his uncle's house as if he were speaking another language. In just a few months, he'll be a first-year college student, preparing himself to navigate the tough transition into adulthood.
His uncle's place looks a lot different than he remembers. The first thing he notices is the wallpaper, or the lack thereof. Growing up, he would always note the tiny little sailboats in a sea of blue going across the walls, how the texture tickled his fingertips. The second thing he notices is the new couch, and the unfamiliar limbs of boys with unfamiliar faces tangled together on it.
"Uh," he manages, standing just past the entryway and into the front of the living room.
The high-pitched singsong of his aunt's voice greets him from the kitchen. "Youngjae? Is that you coming in?"
"Yeah, it's me, Auntie," he calls back, belatedly remembering to switch to Seoul dialect, "I've arrived safely."
He glances at the boy pile sitting on the couch. One of them jumps up excitedly.
"You're Youngjae? Choi Youngjae?"
Panic briefly surges through him. "Y-yes? Um, who ar—"
"Oh my god, this is Youngjae," the boy says to the other inhabitants of the couch. The other two barely react.
“Well, obviously,” one of them replies. “There are at least five pictures of him on the wall of the staircase.”
“Those are baby pictures. It’s not the same.”
“He looks exactly the same though.”
“Why do you always disagree with me?”
“I’m not disagreeing with you, Jackson. You’re stating the obvious.”
“Guys, you’re freaking him out, stop it.” The room goes silent. “Sorry. That one’s Jackson, this is Jinyoung, and I’m Jaebum.”
“Nice to meet you, Jaebum-ssi.” Youngjae bows, duffle bag’s weight pushing him down further. “Jackson-ssi, Jinyoung-ssi.”
Jaebum smiles. “Just call me hyung,” he says. “I’m a junior this year. Film major.”
“I’m...uh...what’s it again...department of physical….uh….”
“Jackson’s a kinesiology major,” Jinyoung explains. “He’s from Hong Kong so his Korean’s a little..rough.”
“You’re always judging my Korean,” Jackson says. “Just because you’re a lit major doesn’t mean your Korean is perfect.”
“My Korean isn’t perfect because I’m a lit major. It’s perfect because I’m Korean.”
“So my Korean can’t be perfect if I’m Chinese?”
Before Jinyoung can say anything more, his aunt yells for them to wash up and eat dinner.
Youngjae heads upstairs to deposit his bags. The room he and his older brother used when they visited during breaks is covered with a jersey reading ‘WANG 94’ and a few sheets of A4 with ‘Jackson Wang’ scribbled on it. His cousin’s room before she married and moved in with her in-laws is now home to a Jimin and a Youngji.
The third bedroom has his name on it, neatly spelled out in those foam block letters he remembers from kindergarten. His face splits into a grin. From what he remembers, the bedroom at the end of hall is the biggest and has it’s own private balcony. It made his aunt paranoid to sleep in a master bedroom with sliding doors, so they opted to take the bedroom on the first floor. Youngjae can’t wait to call his sister and brag.
He turns the knob on the door, bags slipping from his hands and feet tripping over air as he pushes the door open to reveal——
Someone sleeping on his bed.
That someone is extremely good-looking.
If Youngjae thought Jinyoung had been the textbook definition of handsome, then this guy had to be heaven’s definition of handsome. Thick brows, slender nose, pink lips slightly parted on slow exhales, soft skin illuminated by a rotating light projecting stars along the walls. He’d believe it if someone told him he just walked into a manhwa.
Youngjae doesn’t know how long he just stands there staring, but he snaps out of his reverie when someone shouts up the stairs.
“Mark! Mark, wake up, there’s meat and kimchi jjigae downstairs! MARK!” It’s Jackson yelling, voice bouncing off the walls and startling Youngjae into knocking his suitcase to the ground. The sharp sound of the metal handle hitting the ground combined with the increasing volume of Jackson’s screams causes Mr. Adonis in Youngjae’s bed to jerk awake.
“Mark~ the rice will get cold~” Jackson sings from downstairs.
Youngjae watches in silence as the Adonis—Mark—stands and stretches. He continues to watch Mark, even as Mark notices Youngjae standing there like the physical embodiment of a loading screen.
“I’ll be down in a second,” Mark says.
Youngjae blinks, turns on his heels, abandons his things and heads downstairs.
His earlier hunger forgotten in the rush of getting settled in Seoul suddenly returns with a vengeance. He drops into the chair next to Jaebum, saliva starting to pool in his mouth at the aroma of a homecooked meal.
“Youngjae, was it hard getting up here by yourself?” his aunt asks. “I should have sent my hardworking husband to come pick you up from the train station.” She says hardworking with the strong articulation of a curse word, and Youngjae wonders briefly what it is his uncle did this time. Shoveling rice down his throat, he shakes his head.
“It was fine.”
His aunt smiles. Jaebum’s shoulder knocks into his as they both reach for more meat. Jackson and Jinyoung toast for no apparent reason, then drink Cola with their arms entwined. Mark finally joins them for dinner, sitting across from Youngjae wordlessly.
The entire table seems to calm into one cohesive unit of silent eating. A few times Youngjae has refrained from draining his bowl in fear of disrupting the rhythmic stillness. When Mark’s foot grazes his ankle beneath the table, he nearly drops his spoon on the floor.
“Youngjae, what do you plan to study at SKU?” Jaebum asks.
Youngjae looks up from discreetly scraping lettuce away from his gums with his chopsticks.
“Computer science.”
“Oh~ smart guy,” Jackson comments. “Can you hack into the school system and change my grade in math?”
“I’m afraid I’m not that good with computers.”
Everyone laughs, except for Mark. Mark’s foot is still touching Youngjae’s.
“Hey.” Jinyoung nudges Mark’s side. “Computer science and architecture are in the same department, right?”
Mark nods.
“Then you and Youngjae will probably go to the same MT, since you switched majors. That should be fun.”
Youngjae has no idea why Jinyoung’s words send a chill through his spine.
Mark moves his foot backwards. Youngjae was just getting used to the warmth.
“Yeah, fun.”
[90% of people text things they can’t say in person.]
There’s an unwritten rule somewhere that when having a terrible day, things can only get worse and never better.
Case study 1:
It rains. Every drop of water falling from the sky has a personal vendetta against the ground below. Fresh from the water cycle and looking for revenge, the wet icy sky daggers cut deep, clothes soaked with retribution. Heed the weather reports next time, Mark, watch the news every now and then.
Monsoon Monday aside, he’s halfway to campus and missing a key component of a semester long project.
“Shit.” Thunderclap, the sky replies. “Yeah, fuck you too.”
cyj: hey do you have mark-hyung's number?
bambambam: ye...why
cyj: he left this...thingy he's been working on here. looks impt.
bambambam: u live w/ him and don't know his number???
bambambam: why didn't you ask jackson???
cyj:....i don't want jackson to know i don't have mark's number
cyj: the semester is nearly over and we never exchanged numbers
cyj: it's embarrassing. please just text me his number.
bambambam: lol ok.
bam: hey youngjae doesn't know mark's number lol
bam: why are they so awkward?
wang852: rly? they seem like they're getting along
bam: i've never seen them talk b4
wang852: mark doesn't talk
bam: tru lol
wang852: what if we lock them in a room together
bam: didnt u and mark try that when jaebum and jinyoung were fighting
wang852: yeah
wang852: oh...that...didn't end up working.
bam: lets get them rly drunk first then lock him in a room
wang852: that's a good idea!
Case study 2:
His phone rings. Unknown number. Seoul area code. He answers. Garbled voice, unintelligible words spoken with urgency. The call disconnects.
Lightning streaks across the sky. He swallows some rainwater, then continues walking. He should check to see if 10,000 won notes get soggy like dollar bills do.
Case study 3:
He’s one coin short for the phone booth. It’s dry inside. One loss. One win.
Case study 4:
Questions to ponder—do all phone booths in Seoul smell like piss, or is it just this one?
Case study 5:
About the previously mentioned rule of bad days, there exists one exception.
It stops raining. Like nature’s form of a record scratch, the sky brightens a fraction, taking with it the threatening thunder. The chances of getting pneumonia have decreased to fifty-two percent.
Someone knocks on the glass of the phone booth. He turns around into a dreamscape sequence.
His housemate, Youngjae, framed by an emerging rainbow, holding his semester long project as if it were an infant.
Mark could kiss Youngjae square on the mouth right about now.
heoyoungji: hey
wangjackson: read 8:31pm
heoyoungji: hey!
wangjackson: read 8:32pm
heoyoungji: wang jackson!
heoyoungji: !!!!
wangjackson: what?
heoyoungji: did u tell our ta that i have a crush on him?!
wangjackson: dongwook-hyung? i didnt tell him. i promise!
heoyoungji: there's nothing to tell bc i dont have a crush on him
wangjackson: so its bambam, isn't it?
heoyoungji: whats bambam?
wangjackson: the one you have a crush on
heoyoungji: i dont have a crush on anyone!
wangjackson: liar liar pants burning
wangjackson: liar liar pants *on fire
wangjackson: it was autocorrect.
wangjackson: u know what i meant
wangjackson: u have a crush on sum1.
wangjackson: i heard u and jimin talking
heoyoungji: you eavesdropper! how much did u hear?
wangjackson: i didnt. i lied just now.
wangjackson: you confirmed it
wangjackson: is it mark? its mark right
wangjackson: why does everyone like mark??
heoyoungji: it's not mark!
heoyoungji: who is everyone??
[Cold is tightly connected with the feeling of loneliness.]
The rooftop.
Frantic phone calls, two person search parties, and a series of seemingly contagious panic attacks and no one thought to check the rooftop.
Jaebum isn't relieved.
He's angry.
He shouldn't be angry.
Jinyoung should have been the one to find him.
"Aren't you afraid of heights?"
Youngjae spooks just like Jaebum imagined he would. His anger subsides, carried away by the swift wind. Youngjae isn't wearing a jacket.
"Hyung, this building isn't that high up."
"You're crying." It's meant to sound worried, not accusatory. Jaebum spends a second trying his best to be Jinyoung. "What's wrong? Why are you crying?"
Youngjae sighs. "It's cold."
"You should have worn a jacket." Why didn't you pick up the phone. You scared everyone.
"I know."
Jaebum waits. It's difficult being patient.
"I'm not doing too good in a few classes. My mom keeps calling. I don't want to lose my scholarship. Mark's being weird. Or I'm being weird. Coco doesn't sit when I say sit. Jackson beat my high score. Jackson."
Jaebum closes his eyes, asks himself, what would Jinyoung say?
"It's going to be okay." Jinyoung would say something better than this. "I know someone that can tutor you. He's a jack of all trades, triple majoring in three things I don't care about."
Youngjae sniffles.
"Call your mom, tell her about everything but school. She's probably worried. If you can't do it, hand the phone to Jackson. He never shuts up."
Youngjae laughs.
"Coco doesn't listen to anyone."
"She's rebelling."
It's Jaebum's turn to laugh.
"Jackson beating your high score is probably a fluke. He doesn't know the rules to most games we play. You're still the best player. You gaming addict."
“Thanks, hyung.”
“Don’t mention it.”
[The chemical name of caffeine is 1,3,7 trimethylantihine.]
Youngjae has better things to do than attend an interdepartmental group blind date.
“You’re just gonna stay home and play video games!”
Youngjae gives Jackson his most scandalized look. “That is not true.”
Jackson points to the two monitors sitting side by side on his desk. “The cords are hooked up to your laptop. You don’t have any textbooks open. I can see the convenience store bag you’re trying to hide with your foot.”
“Fine.” Youngjae sniffs. “I don’t have anything important to do. But,” he emphasizes, “I don’t want to gooo, Jackson, don’t make me gooooooo,” he whines.
“You are the most boring freshman I know.”
“And you’re the most carefree junior I know. Don’t you have exams or something?”
“Humans are social creatures! You need to get out and mingle. It’s important for proper mental functioning and stuff.”
“And stuff,” Youngjae mocks.
Jackson sighs. “Is today don’t listen to Jackson day?”
“Everyday is don’t listen to Jackson day.”
“You...you...okay, be that way Choi Youngjae.”
Youngjae arrives to the group blind date a nervous wreck. He graduates from butterflies, and now there are baby birds learning how to fly in his stomach. Coffee shops floors do not deserve projectile vomit. Calm your nerves, clear your mind, Choi Youngjae. (Jackson and Bambam will suffer for this, somehow, someway).
It isn’t a fear of being social. It isn’t a fear of girls (he prefers guys, but hey, equal opportunist lover he is).
All this nervous energy is due to one Mark Tuan, technically an engineer (for architecture) like Youngjae (for computer science), therefore he is included in the pool of eligible bachelors of the department.
That’s not the best (worst?) part.
Due to there being an unequal amount of girls to guys, there’s an awkward moment when this weird group blind date turns into Mark and Youngjae seated across from each other, sipping their iced coffees and avoiding eye contact. Or what if it’s Youngjae avoiding eye contact? What if he looks up right now and Mark is openly watching him? (Update: he’s not).
The MCs of this group date are two sunbaes from their respective majors. Despite the fact that at least three pairs of guys are awkwardly awaiting the chance to switch partners, the discussion points the MCs pose actually generate conversation. Youngjae begins to converse, in the hopes Mark responds to his enthusiasm.
In a strange way, Mark’s short answers feel less discouraging than usual. A simple yes of agreement from anyone else, with no further elaboration, would feel a little like rejection. With Mark, Youngjae notices he uses words sparingly. That kind of sustainable communication is lost on talkative types, but Youngjae can work with quiet. Mark is just quiet. A silent, mysterious type. He’s made friends with stranger people.
“You want to get out of here?” Mark asks, after two rounds of seat swapping. Youngjae scratches behind an ear. Positive thinking gets you places, apparently.
“Sure. Are we going back to the house or…?”
The corners of Mark’s lips pull upwards a fraction. “Do you trust me, Youngjae?”
This is the most you’ve talked to me this month, he wants to comment.
“I guess I do.”
“Then let’s go.”
“Hyung, hyung, this isn’t working, please,” Youngjae begs. “Bambam tried already. I can’t do it.”
Mark adjusts Youngjae’s stance. “I’m a better teacher than Bambam.”
“I’m going to fall and end up in a full body cast.”
“You’ve got this.”
“I have nothing!”
“Your body knows what to do.”
“No, it doesn’t! You don’t know what my body can do!”
Mark drags his eyes from Youngjae’s sneakers up to the flyaway strands at the top of his head. His mouth does that twisty thing it does when he’s holding back a smile, his eyes light with mischief.
“You’re right. I don’t know what your body can do. You’ll have to show me.”
Youngjae’s skateboarding crisis dissolves like sugar in hot coffee. Firstly, what the hell, did Mark just? Second, okay he kind of walked straight into that. Thirdly, (see also: Firstly), Mark making that kind of double entendre to him?
Youngjae can’t stop the boisterous laugh from bubbling out of him. He tosses his head back, mouth open towards the sun like he could eat it whole. The wheels under his feet move, and he’s falling backwards, eyes clenched shut, gasping as gravity disagrees with his decision to be a sk8er boi.
Six seconds pass and Youngjae’s skull hasn’t cracked against asphalt. He opens his eyes. Mark’s head is blocking the sun. He still squints at the brightness.
“Oh my god. My life flashed before my eyes.”
Mark shakes his head, chuckling. “I’m here next to you, to catch you. Come on, one more time, you almost got it.”
“I’m not seeing the progress you’re seeing.”
“Don’t be scared. I won’t let you get hurt.”
“Ohmygodwaitnohyungpleasestop! You can’t push! Why are we going so fast?!”
“Let go of me when you’re ready.”
“How is this better than Bambam? You both just push me down the street and expect me to do well.”
“I’m letting go.”
“No! Wait, no, Mark—”
Youngjae expects to nosedive into the ground, roll a bit into the bike trail and get trampled by a cyclist. What actually happens is:
He shifts his weight to his left and the board jerks back into a straight path. Mark screams encouragement from behind, volume fading and fading because he’s moving farther and farther and fuck how’s he supposed to stop? Does he just jump off? At this speed, would putting his foot down shatter his tibia and ruin his chances of ever being the next Park Jisung?
Nothing of the sort happens, because, eventually, as physics dictates, an object in motion etc etc, skateboard hits crack in pavement and Youngjae trips forward into a stumble while the board bounces backwards with the force.
The bones in his legs are still intact.
Mark is by his side in a matter of seconds, (okay maybe he wasn’t actually going that far and that fast if Mark is able to catch up to him that quickly).
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“See, I told you.”
“What?”
“I told you I won’t let you get hurt. You trust me, right?”
“More than I trust Bambam.”
Mark laughs.
“Let’s go home.”