Chapter Text
"Man is a bird without wings and a bird is a man without sorrow."
― Louis de Bernières, Birds Without Wings
DECEMBER 30TH, 1999
Ten years was only a grain of sand in an hourglass. But to Sang-woo, ten years was everything.
Ten years was childhood and adolescence and adulthood all wrapped up into one messy, mangled memory; ten years was middle school, high school, university, the impending threat of his mandatory military service. Ten years was the evolution of a city —Seoul had swelled in the aftermath of the 1988 Olympics, grown taller, multiplied; layers upon layers of concrete and glass piled atop each other until the wounds of the Korean War were buried six feet beneath roads that unfurled like the shallow shape of scars. Ten years was bricky technology and the coming of the internet and thick, rectangular phones with neon-green screens. Ten years was a rubber band pulled back to snap.
Ten years was change.
The bridge was trapped in a stagnant pocket of time. Withered and arched, like the curl of an old man’s pointed finger. The bridge, contrary to the city surrounding it, had not changed. The bridge was as it had always been. A crossing. A link. Concrete connective tissue across gray, polluted water.
The phrase time flies was as bland a cliche as any, but it was also true in a way that most people didn't entirely comprehend until it was too late. Sang-woo realized it, then, and it was, predictably, too late.
It had been a decade. The realization punched him in the stomach. A decade since he’d leaned against this metal railing, rusted brown and splotchy from age; a decade since they’d flown over wrinkled concrete on Gi-hun’s squeaky, old bike, Sang-woo’s arms wrapped tight around him; a decade since they’d last sat down by the river and fed the minnows and the eel cheap tuna from a can. The summer heat had slipped down their throats like liquid. Filled up their lungs. They’d drowned in it. Swallowed sunlight whole.
(Sweat and salt and skin and the smell of the sea.)
It wasn’t summer anymore. Frost chewed the air to a pulp. Winter came as it always did: with a gasp, a sucked-in breath that it held until the sky was stripped of oxygen and bruised purple. Yet somehow, it was as if he were stepping back into a memory. The river was frozen to glass beneath him, but if he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend he heard the lazy lilt of the current. A slow and steady exhale.
Even the construction site remained unchanged. Abandoned as it had been ten years ago. A puncture hole in time. Yellow diggers stood like storks, framed against the sky, their long, clawed arms drooped in death. (How long had it really been? Ten years or ten weeks? He suddenly couldn’t tell.)
It was ethereal in all the wrong ways. An off-color dream. Sang-woo needed to wake up.
He lit a cigarette. The nicotine hit was instant.
It was instinctive. Automatic. He felt like a well-oiled machine whenever he did it — sipping on cigarettes until his lungs were full of cloud. Sang-woo knew he’d picked up a bad habit, but bad habits tasted better than the good ones.
Besides, he needed it.
Gi-hun was running late.
As per usual.
Sang-woo almost hoped he wouldn’t show up. He didn’t want to be here, though he hadn’t much of a choice in the matter. It was that time of year again. When his mother called him back home. An invitation. A command. A plea. It was all of those things, and none of them, and more, so much more. Typically, he listened. Ever the obedient son. But last year, for the first time in his adult life, he hadn’t, fumbling around an excuse; I’m too busy and I’m sorry and definitely next year. Well, next year had finally come, and he didn’t have it in him to lie to her again.
It was cold, bitterly so. Sang-woo tugged up his scarf. He buried his nose in it. Breathed. It smelled like home. Even after so many years. His mother had made it for him. A gift for his eighteenth birthday. He remembered her fingers trembling around the needle and thread, hole-pricked, bloody, but she’d smiled through it, said he needed something to keep him warm in winter once he’d flown the nest for SNU. He was twenty-four now. It did keep him warm, though not in the way she’d intended; it was too threadbare and shoddy to be of much practical use, but it lent him a childish sort of comfort, which took a lot of courage to admit even to himself.
Sang-woo checked his watch. It was to be expected — Gi-hun operated on his own skewed sense of time. If Sang-woo said, ‘Let’s meet at 9.00pm,’ then he could safely assume Gi-hun would turn up at 9.45, dragging his feet and complaining about traffic as he did so. Sang-woo could imagine it now: he would catch the disgruntled look on his face, laugh, sling his arms behind his neck and say, calm down, it doesn’t matter. I’m here now, aren’t I? And Sang-woo would bristle, but he’d listen, if only because Gi-hun was older than him and he fell into that instinct like a dog commanded to heel.
There were some things even time was powerless to change. Liminal spaces, like bridges and abandoned construction sites; certain kinds of people (and certain kinds of feelings.) Gi-hun would always hold a particular type of power over him. Sang-woo wondered if he was aware of it, or if he turned a blind eye to it, the same way he turned a blind eye to so many, many things.
“I didn't think you'd come.”
Sang-woo jerked back from the railing. Gi-hun stepped out from behind a digger, running his hand along its flank as he did so; his palm came away dark with dust.
He was still in his work clothes. Ruddy overalls, smudged by stains. A short streak of oil slashed across his cheek, and his hair had a familiarly greasy look that spoke of sweat and long, hard hours pecking like a crow over the picked-apart remains of cars.
Sang-woo's chest ached at the sight of him. He chalked it up to the cigarette. That, and and the sudden surge of a memory.
(The last time they'd seen each other, Gi-hun's mouth had tasted like ash. It had been a drunken impulse of a kiss. Sudden. Deeply pathetic. He couldn't remember who'd initiated first, but maybe that didn't matter. They'd never talked about it. Sometimes Sang-woo wondered if it had ever even happened at all.)
“You're late,” said Sang-woo. It was all he could think to say — the obvious.
“Is that any way to greet a friend you haven't seen in years?” Gi-hun replied.
“...It's good to see you again.”
“There! That's more like it. It's good to see you again, too.”
Gi-hun crossed the bridge to meet him halfway. This, too, was achingly familiar. Snow crunched beneath his shoes. The moon was a fat thumbprint in the sky, and it cast Gi-hun in a pallid, shallow glow that reminded Sang-woo of the outline of a ghost.
He tried to think of something to say, but he came up empty. He’d never been very good at conversation, though that usually wasn’t the case with Gi-hun. They used to talk for hours and hours on end about anything and everything (except for the things that really mattered.)
It had been so long. Close to two years. Suddenly Sang-woo felt as if he were a squeaky hinge, rusty from disuse. Nausea settled low in his stomach. Swirled. A roiling sea. (“We should go someday, Sang-woo-ya,” Gi-hun had once said, “let's steal a boat and become pirates!”)
Words had flowed so effortlessly when they were kids. Limited only by the scope of their imaginations. Now they were adults. Stoppered bottles of wine. Maybe words would never flow between them again.
Gi-hun swung himself up onto the railing. His legs dangled over the edge like a loose fishing line. “Sorry,” he said, without sounding very sorry at all. “I had to stay overtime for work. It was bullshit. What’s new, eh? It doesn’t matter. I’m here now, aren’t I? Calm down. You’ll give yourself wrinkles frowning like that.”
“You made me wait for forty-five minutes,” Sang-woo said testily. “It’s cold. I feel like I’m going to freeze to death.”
“Oh, please. You’re so dramatic! You have, what? Fifty cigarettes in your pocket? You could start a forest fire with all that ammunition. I think you’ll be just fine.”
“I don’t smoke that much.”
“Could’ve fooled me. You’re the very definition of an addict.” Gi-hun reached over and plucked the cigarette out of his hand. He stole a drag. “Then again, who am I to judge?”
Silence fell over them, accompanied by a thin curtain of fresh snow. Sang-woo squeezed his eyes shut, fists coiled around the metal railing until his knuckles were drained white.
(“It’s that time of year again, Sang-woo. You have to come home.”)
“You’re back,” said Gi-hun unhelpfully. “Have you told your mom yet?”
“I will. Soon.”
“You should tell her now.”
“It’s late. She’s probably asleep.”
“I mean, yeah, probably. But she’s also worried sick and missing you like crazy. One phone call a month doesn’t cut it, Sang-woo-ya.” Gi-hun threw a playful punch at his shoulder. “And they say I’m a sorry excuse for a son. You’re terrible!”
“I’ve been working."
“On what? A heart?”
Sang-woo glared.
“...Bad joke,” said Gi-hun sheepishly. “Still. I know you’re busy and all, but you should always make time for family.”
“I’m making time now, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, and I’m making bank. See, I can lie too.” Gi-hun caught himself too late. He bit his lip, hard. "Sorry. That was uncalled for.”
Sang-woo didn’t have the energy to fight him on it. It was the truth, after all.
“How is she?” he asked.
“Your mom? She’s great. Well. She’d be better if you visited her more, but that goes without saying. She’s doing well. You know I’ll always look out for her. Especially around this time of year.” Gi-hun paused, choosing his next words carefully. “That goes for you, too. Obviously. Do you … I dunno. Do you want to talk about it? ‘Cause we can. If you need somebody to talk to, that is. Or I can shut up. That’s fine too. Just — you’ll tell me, won’t you? If I can help with anything? I know it’s been a long time but … you’re still my best friend. That has to count for something, right?”
They’d never been very good at talking about the big, important things. Even when they were kids, there’d been this unspoken rule between them, you don’t ask, I won’t tell, and it had suited them just fine.
He swallowed around the lump of words in his throat. There was a lot he wanted to talk about, actually. But if he started, he was afraid he wouldn't stop. Useless bullshit like, I hate coming home, because you're here, and my mother is here, and it reminds me of him, and when I’m reminded of him I feel sick, because I’m reminded of myself, or, I hate my job, which is stupid, because the money’s good, and I’ve sacrificed so much to get where I am today, but it feels like I’ve sacrificed too much, like maybe I don’t know who I am anymore, but then again did I ever really know who I was in the first place? or maybe even, do you remember that summer, with the bird? I think that was the last time I was ever truly happy. You do remember it, don’t you? Please tell me that you do.
“I'm fine,” he said instead. “I'm great, actually. I have a new job. It pays well.”
“Wow, that's awesome! I'm happy for you,” said Gi-hun sincerely. Sang-woo didn't miss the flit of relief that passed over his face, quick as a hummingbird's wing. “Guess your degree's finally paying itself off, huh? I'll let the whole neighborhood know. Drinks on Sang-woo! The most expensive alcohol money can buy!”
“Sure. Why not?” said Sang-woo, his tone flat. “Invite whoever you want. I can afford it.”
“Showoff,” Gi-hun said fondly. “Don’t think you can buy your way outta this one. It's no excuse. You gotta keep in touch, Sang-woo-ya. I get it, your life is so big and important now, but you can't forget your cheerleaders back home. You owe us everything!"
I owe you everything. But he kept that secret inside of himself, like a cicada tucked underneath a floorboard.
He looked down at the river. A plastic bag was frozen beneath the ice. From the distant winding rope of road came a blaring car horn; the sound shook the pigeons from their trees. A hundred beating wings passed by over them. Sang-woo winced. He ducked down to avoid the scrape of their feathers, but Gi-hun followed their retreating shapes with his hand stretched out, as if he’d never seen something so magical before.
When they were gone, that new uncomfortable silence settled over them again. Sang-woo didn't know how much more of it he could take.
“Sometimes I come here when I’m feeling shitty,” Gi-hun said softly. His hand dropped back to the railing, resigned. Sang-woo wondered if he felt it too, and if he mourned for the time when this sort of silence had been an uncommon occurrence between them, rare as hen's teeth. “I dunno. It’s nice. We got up to so much bullshit, remember? Oh shit, Sang-woo-ya, the bird! Do you remember the bird? What did we call it again? Ah, man, it’s on the tip of my tongue.”
“Yu-jin,” said Sang-woo automatically.
Gi-hun rocked back on the railing, kicking his feet delightedly. “Yu-jin! That’s right. Jeez. We were so stupid. That was a good summer. I miss it.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Mm. Crazy how we’re adults now, right? I have a job, Sang-woo. A fucking job. I pay taxes! At least, I think I do. Isn’t that insane? I’m halfway through my twenties already. I’m so not ready to turn thirty and gray.”
“You don’t turn gray when you’re thirty,” said Sang-woo, unable to keep the amusement from his voice. “Unless you’re incredibly unlucky.”
“Here’s hoping I don’t take after my dad, then. Apparently, he was bald by thirty-three. Talk about bad genes. I wouldn’t know, though. I can’t remember what he looked like. He left when I was super young. Do you remember? What your dad looked like, I mean.”
Gi-hun froze. Guilt shadowed his face. He refused to look his way, like he wasn't quite ready to face what he might see.
“Sorry. I know you don’t …” He shook his head helplessly. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t have to answer that.”
It was too late. Sang-woo was thinking about him. And whenever he thought about him, he was blurry, like an overexposed polaroid snapped mid-movement. Water-stained and yellowed from age. Yet he could still somehow remember all the miniscule, unimportant things, like the thick frames of his glasses, bent slightly askew. (He’d been too poor to afford a new pair.) And the smell of the sea when he returned from the fishing boats. Or even the way in which he spoke, slow and methodical, choosing his sentences carefully, as if he were afraid to reveal too much. ("You sound just like him," his mother sometimes said, which wasn't the compliment she seemed to think it ought to be.)
He’d been tall, impressively so. Sang-woo remembered the Olympics; he hadn’t been able to see anything, the crowds closing in on him, thick as fat. But then his dad had plucked him up, weightless, and placed him on his shoulders so they could watch the archery together. They'd cheered their throats dry for Park Sung-soo and the Korean team. (They had won gold medals, in the end, and it had been the happiest moment of his life, because he’d suddenly felt part of something so much bigger than himself.)
“I do remember,” said Sang-woo quietly. “Be glad you don’t.”
Sometimes he could still feel that same sullen child inside of him. Trapped. Or, no, not trapped — but buried. Buried alongside everything else. Beneath concrete and paper and cold white walls that smelled like nothing. Nothing had its own scent. It was wrong to say that it didn’t. Nothing smelled like many things, actually. Sang-woo had become well acquainted with it. Nothing was the empty space between dreams and waking; nothing smelled like glass disinfectant spray and clinically white linoleum floors, and where he worked now, well, that was a prime example. Desks that slotted perfectly into each other like a blank and featureless puzzle. Money, crisp and green. That was the smell of nothing.
"...Sang-woo-ya," said Gi-hun softly. "Talk to me. What's wrong?"
And Sang-woo couldn't answer because he knew what was wrong intimately well, and it was nothing Gi-hun could ever hope to fix. Ordinary nights were subject to ordinary truths. And the remarkably ordinary truth was this: Sang-woo did not like himself.
A long time ago, they'd come down to this bridge and played by the water, in the rough, violent way boys were obliged to play. Summer had closed in on them, fanged and sticky, but they hadn't cared because they'd had each other, and back then, that had been more than enough. He remembered the eel, a rope of black; he remembered the bird, its feathers drenched. He remembered helping his mom in the kitchen, learning how to gut a fish, sneaking scraps in his pocket. And he remembered the grief, like a cancer in his chest. He remembered Gi-hun forcefully dragging him out of his own head, out into the dizzying July sun, and he remembered the bike, and he remembered flying. He remembered it all, really, because he thought about it a lot, even though it was now a decade ago.
Ten years was a boy’s last summer. Ten years was growing up.
Summer meant different things to different people. To some, summer was endless work out in the field; calloused fingertips; sunburned skin peeled red; a toxic shadow of pesticide; cuts and scrapes and blood; the feeling of coming home after a long and difficult day, body tender as an electrical wire, collapsing into sleep. To others, summer was ice blocks and air-conditioned rooms; curled waves at the beach; the ocean’s salt in the air, an endless blue sky, squished sand between toes. Summer was infinite in its meaning. Summer was freedom and poverty and heatstroke and flies and ice cream and boyhood and the resurrection of grief. Summer was living. Summer was death.
But to Sang-woo, summer was all of those things, and none of them, and more.
To Sang-woo, summer was a bird.