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Baek Saheon is usually the first to arrive in class. He takes the front row, spine stiff, eyes fixed on the board. It’s the middle of the semester and most people sit with their partners now, but Soleum still prefers the middle. Not too close, not too far. Just about a third of the way in. He likes that he can keep his phone in his lap and still look like he’s paying attention.
Usually, their lives in class don’t intersect at all, except on the days Soleum runs late and ends up in the row directly behind him. Then all he can see is the back of Saheon’s head, bobbing up and down as he diligently types out class notes on his laptop. Sometimes Soleum catches himself drifting off and watching him instead of his phone. Watches the way his fingers seem to skate across the keys, moving at a speed that looks unnatural.
Soleum knows Baek Saheon sells his notes, and that many people buy them. It tells him two things: Saheon works hard, and he needs the money. Not much else. Soleum likes that about him; he likes people who put in effort.
But he doesn’t understand him. The way he changes depending on the moment. In the front row he’s stiff, composed, unreadable. With animals he’s gentle. Sometimes with other people he even comes off flirtatious. He never eats lunch alone, and when they’re working he’ll mention plans in passing—I’ll finish the rest at home. I have dinner with a friend. It never sounds like bragging, just a fact.
He’s never like that with Soleum, though. With Soleum he’s sharp, impatient; always on the verge of getting upset about something. He makes small remarks that sound like jokes but aren’t; at least they never land that way. Soleum can’t think of anything he did to deserve it, apart from being assigned as his partner, which wasn’t his choice anyway. So it feels like Saheon has decided, in some private calculation, that Soleum’s role is to make his life difficult.
Soleum doesn’t mind what others think about him, much less Baek Saheon, not really. He only wants to see the project finished. The sooner they hand it in, the sooner they can go their separate ways, though Saheon’s constant resistance drags it out. On occasion he brings it up to Yeongeun as a complaint, whose wide brown eyes seem to grow impossibly bigger when she blinks up at him, before she gives him an inscrutable look. It makes him feel like he’s missing the context to an inside joke, which cannot be true because they have run in the same social circles since they were ten. He can’t remember why or how they became friends, but he’s thankful for their friendship; he can be frank with her in ways he can’t be with other people, because they’ve been friends too long for her to keep any secrets from him.
Still, when she wants to, she can be maddeningly opaque. She answers questions with other questions, especially about people. Once, when Soleum brought up Saheon over lunch, she only said: Okay? He waited for more, but nothing came.
So when he walks into class, he fully expects to see Baek Saheon sitting where he always sits.
But Saheon isn’t there. And still isn’t there five minutes later, when Professor Eun finally strolls into class, smelling too much like cigarette smoke. Soleum used to smoke but quit, because Saheon’s eyes would water whenever they sat together. It makes him feel like a bad person whenever Saheon looks close to tears because of him.
Soleum turns back to the front, as Professor Eun greets the class in her usual deadpan. He slips his hand into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and scrolls back to the tab he left open.
It’s more than twenty minutes into the lecture before Saheon finally arrives. Soleum notices because he’s watching the door instead of the slides—it doesn’t matter, the material is all from classes he’s already taken.
He looks exhausted but slides into his usual seat. This unsettles Soleum. He’s only seen three versions of Saheon in class: the back of his head, his eyes in fixed concentration; sometimes, the pout of his lips when he squints at the board to decipher Professor Eun’s handwriting, when his vantage point changes. He knows the glasses are fake, because the lenses don’t distort his face. Today there’s something else, a strange air of urgency that doesn’t fade even when he sits down. His fingers move slowly on the keys, like each one is heavy. Soleum doesn’t know why this bothers him, but it does.
By the end of class, he realises he’s re-read the same paragraph twenty-eight times. He remembers the act of reading it, but not the words he's read. Around him people are packing their bags, getting ready to leave. Saheon doesn’t move. His laptop is still open on his notes, though his hands are curled against his chest like he’s trying to protect them. Soleum watches, pretending to fix his bag strap. There are dark circles under Saheon’s eyes.
You look terrible, he says.
Go away. Saheon presses his palms against his face, dragging them down over his eyes.
We were supposed to meet after class. For the project.
Saheon pulls his hands away from his eyes.
I know. Five minutes, he says, his voice thin.
Soleum has only seen him like this once before, outside the library, arguing with his sister. He doesn’t have siblings, so he isn’t sure what passes for normal between them. Even with Saheon—after months of working together—he wouldn’t call it a relationship. But in this moment he only remembers the look on Saheon’s face: his features all scrunched up, as if preparing to cry. Not crying. Just holding it in, like it might crush him if he let it out.
Still, Soleum hears the second Go away for what it is, and steps outside.
Five minutes later—almost to the second—Saheon comes out. Soleum shoves his phone into his pocket, brushes off his trousers in an absent, performative way that fools no one. He doesn’t need to look up to know Saheon’s watching; his gaze is sharp enough.
Library? Soleum asks. It’s meant as a courtesy. In the library they don’t have to talk, not unless they want to be shushed, or kicked out of it. Sometimes it makes things easier. He works better with Saheon that way, the silence pressing them both towards action, towards honesty. He’d like to talk to him properly, if Saheon would ever let him. But he doesn’t. Instead he stays behind his laptop, his books, the version of himself he shows everyone else. Soleum can’t tell which is the mask and which is the real one. He tells himself it doesn’t matter, though the not-knowing bothers him more than it should.
Saheon nods, already walking ahead. From behind he looks broad, though Soleum doubts he works out. If he does, no one has ever mentioned it.
All Soleum really knows about him can be summed up in a single line: Baek Saheon is a hard worker. He sees it most clearly in the library, Saheon hunched over his laptop again, frowning at his own slides. He can't pick at Soleum's; he hasn't uploaded his yet.
Once the project ends, they won’t see each other again. The thought leaves him oddly heavy, like the end of a school year, packing everything into bags. That same heaviness keeps pulling his eyes back to Saheon’s face.
His brows are knotted in concentration, his mouth set in a thin line. He looks focused, mildly upset, like anything could break his patience. Soleum’s gaze lingers, tracing the crease between his brows. He thinks of Yeongeun, then shakes his head, as if the answer might fall loose that way.
That drags Saheon’s attention back onto him. What? he says.
Nothing.
You’re staring. His voice sharpens.
I wasn’t.
I don’t care, Saheon says. The way he says it makes it sound like he's decided something final about Soleum, and that sits poorly with him. The plane of his nose crinkles with the glare, and his glasses slide down his nose. The lenses are smudged.
On impulse Soleum reaches across, takes his glasses, and wipes them with a tissue from his bag. For a moment he thinks of setting them down on the table, but instead he places them back on his nose, adjusting them slightly. Saheon is watching him now, light catching in his eyes. His expression isn’t angry. It makes Soleum feel suddenly self-conscious, like he’s been caught.
He leans back, fiddling with his bag strap; tries to disguise it with nonchalance.
What did you do that for? Saheon asks.
I just wanted to, Soleum says. He doesn’t have an answer.
Of course you— There’s an irritated pause, before Saheon continues. Fine. Are you going to finish your slides?
He nods slowly, though he still hasn’t started. His fingers hover uselessly over the keyboard.
Yeah, he says. I’ll do it now.