Work Text:
San didn’t make a habit of drinking alone. He didn’t make a habit of drinking at all, actually, tending to be a bit more of a lightweight than he’d like to admit. Not to mention, he’d never been a fan of the way that alcohol felt - especially the day after. The morning after drinking, be it one glass or five, always felt like being hit by a freight train and dragged for three city blocks before passing out on gravel. All that to say, he wasn’t a heavy drinker or a frequent one.
But tonight was different. Tonight, his apartment felt even more empty and dull than usual. Or perhaps it was just as empty and dull as usual, and it was simply his ability to cope with it that was lessened. He was bored, to put it bluntly. Restless. Agitated.
This wasn't far off from his usual state of being, to be fair. He tended to be a restless human being in any and all aspects of his life. Jumping from one thing to the next like he was flipping through TV channels, he never could bring himself to commit to any one thing for any reasonable amount of time before the all-consuming boredom began to seep in. He had just wrapped up the first semester of his third attempt at university and was already beginning to feel the familiar itch forming beneath his skin at the idea of having to spend the next three and a half years of his life in the exact same place, doing the exact same thing.
He was getting better at staving off the restlessness when he was busy, which was one benefit that school allowed him, heaping more and more things into his schedule that his days were packed to the brim and spending any time between classes in the gym to work off any additional energy. But with his classes now officially finished for the winter holidays, he suddenly found himself with days wide open and impossible to fill all the way in any satisfying manner. Hence, tonight.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried any other distractions first. He’d tried putting on some music, but it just made him more antsy. He tried to watch a movie, but found himself zoning out within the first five minutes. His gym closed early outside of the school season, so that wasn't an option. He wasn’t even going to attempt to go to bed, even despite the fact that it was already after midnight, because of his raging insomnia, which only seemed to worsen by the day. The only thing more boring to San than sleeping was lying in bed awake for hours at a time, until his sheer exhaustion finally allowed him to pass out for a handful of hours before waking to find himself more exhausted than the night before.
This is what had him slipping his feet into his tattered old sneakers, his too-big jacket, grabbing his wallet. It wasn’t a far walk to the bar, just a few blocks over. The city was never quiet, but it was more peaceful at this time of night. Huddling against the winter chill, he pushed forward until he reached the dingy red doors of the dive bar.
Inside was dim, smelling vaguely of dust, smoke and alcohol. There was a pleasant, low-level rumble of music and indistinct conversation, the inhabitants already at various stages of intoxication. It was warm, too. His hands and face burned, flushed with the stinging sensation of a thousand nerve endings coming back to life all at once.
Stepping inside, letting the door slam shut behind him, San moved to the bar. The interior of the bar was mainly wood and leather, just dingy enough that the drinks wouldn’t be too pricey, but the beer wouldn’t be too warm.
He slipped onto a free stool, and it was only a moment before there was a drink in front of him. Downing it quickly, he ordered a second. It wasn’t long before his bones felt pleasantly fuzzy, the perks of being a lightweight. Two turned to three, and it was when the third reached his hand that he noticed another figure a little ways down the bar.
The boy was beautiful, fluffy blonde hair framing a soft face, high cheekbones, sharp eyes. He was alone, slouched forward on his elbows as his hands absently played with an empty glass, subtle frown creasing his features.
If angels were real, San would have sworn he was looking at one right now.
The one upside of alcohol, and the reason he was here and now in the first place, was the way it stopped him from thinking. Like right now, as he didn’t even stop to think about what he was doing before he slid off his barstool and sauntered over to the empty seat beside the object of his attention.
“What’s the frown for?” San asked, conversationally. Man, this small talk shit was easy.
The boy startled, wide brown eyes blinking prettily for a moment as he considered San. Whatever he saw must have been alright, because he quickly relaxed, lips perking up into an embarrassed smile.
“Oh, it’s nothing. I just.. I only brought enough for the one drink.”
If San could think rationally right now, he’d have spent longer wondering if that was the truth or if it was an invitation. But San wasn’t thinking rationally, and so both options felt like an invitation. He signalled the bartender for another.
“Oh, no, you don’t have to-” the boy started, but San just slid the fresh drink over to him.
“Sure I don’t, but I want to. My name’s San.”
The boy just stared at him consideringly. At last, he took the drink, sipping it carefully. It must have been all right, because he was smiling now.
“Yeosang.”
“That’s a pretty name,” San said, again without thinking, “You’re pretty.”
Yeosang’s eyes widened, turning quickly to glance around them, but the locals were loud and drunk, and nobody was paying attention to the two at the corner of the bar.
Shit, San realized, he probably should have caught those words before they came out of his mouth.
“Sorry,” San attempted, “It’s not that type of bar. I shouldn’t-”
“Shut up,” Yeosang hissed, and San was still panicking until he realized the hint of a smile through which he’d said it. “It’s fine. And, thanks. You are, too.”
San blinked.
"Pretty," Yeosang whispered, leaning in. “You are too.”
Oh.
San blinked again. Yeosang looked uncomfortable. “What?”
“I didn’t think that would work, to be honest,” San thought, out loud. Close enough. “I didn’t think I’d get this far.”
He was already about to stand up and leave from pure humiliation, but then he realized Yeosang was laughing, face crinkled up and so endearing that he felt his breath leave his lungs and momentarily forgot how to get it back. He hiccupped.
“You’re very cute. And I also think you’ve had enough, maybe.” Yeosang downed his own drink and gently took San’s from him, ignoring his slurred protest and handing the glasses to the bartender. “Let’s go.”
“Go?” San watched as Yeosang slid on his jacket.
“I’m going for a walk, and inviting you to join me.”
San scrambled for his own coat, closing out his tab and turning to find the mystery boy already gone. Panicking, he rushed to the door, only to be met with an empty street and the slow fall of snowflakes. Where the fuck-?
“Ready?”
He jumped, then quickly faked nonchalance when he found Yeosang leaning against the wall beside him. “Y-yeah sure.”
Yeosang giggled, and San forgot to feel embarrassed as he followed him down the silent street. They quickly fell into a comfortable pace, side by side, neither talking, breaths coming in puffs of steam. There was a thin layer of white on the ground that hadn’t been there before. The first snow.
“It’s romantic.”
“Hmm?”
San realized he’d forgotten to say the first part out loud.
“The snow,” he repeated, “It’s romantic.”
“Oh,” Yeosang’s tone gave little away. They walked in silence for a bit longer. Then: “You’re a romantic person.”
“Me?” San thought for a minute, “I guess so.”
“I like it.”
“Yeah?” San flushed, feeling very giddy and stupid and not minding one bit.
“Yeah.”
Yeosang didn’t elaborate, but San didn’t mind that either. They walked in silence for a bit longer, watching the city turn more and more white around them, snow falling in thick, fluffy clumps and catching on their hair and clothing. It had a way of muffling everything, turning the world into a snowglobe, nothing but the two of them and the serenity of the slow falling snow.
He felt lighter now than he had in a while.
“Where are we going?” He asked, suddenly realizing they were heading to a park, and not... what? What was he expecting? An apartment, probably. Yeosang’s apartment. Not San’s, Yeosang hadn’t asked his address, and San certainly wasn’t the one leading the way.
“The park,” Yeosang answered, like it was obvious. And, to be fair, it should have been, but San’s brain was slowly turning less fuzzy and was trying to start thinking again and was doing a very poor job of it.
“Oh.”
San followed him as he headed down the path - or the faint indent in the snow reminiscent of a path. The snow sparkled under the lamp-posts, illuminating the night around them. It felt like they were the only ones in the entire world, and strangely, San enjoyed the thought.
Ahead, the skeletal frame of a playground came to light, and San quickly realized that Yeosang was headed towards it. Picking his way across the playground, Yeosang stopped at the swingset, dusting off a seat and sitting down. He looked up to find San watching in confusion.
“Gonna join me?”
Unsure why, San did, dusting off the seat beside him and sitting himself carefully down. The leather was freezing and stiff and definitely too small, but San didn’t complain, kicking his feet once experimentally and shouting as his weight immediately pitched over backwards, body landing hard on the snowy ground.
He could barely make out the pain because all he could hear was Yeosang laughing. A smiling face appeared above him then, followed by a hand.
“Here.”
Humiliated, San took it, letting Yeosang help him up to his feet. This time, he was more careful, sitting back down and using more of his focus to keep his balance. Yeosang was watching him, swaying side to side on his own swing, hands shoved deep into his pockets.
“You come here a lot?” San asked, conversationally.
Yeosang nodded. “Sometimes.”
“At-” San checked his watch. “- 1 AM?”
Again, Yeosang nodded. “Sometimes.”
“With random men who tried to pick you up?”
Yeosang’s eyes narrowed. “Actually, this is a first.”
San had to restrain himself from fist-pumping at that.
Nice.
“Shut up,” Yeosang snorted, “Don’t look so happy.”
San sucked in his lips, biting them between his teeth, and Yeosang laughed harder.
“You’re cute,” he wheezed, “Stop it. Tell me about you.” Yeosang tipped his head back and stuck his tongue out to catch a snowflake as San watched, enraptured. “Why are you out on a weekday night alone?”
“Huh?” San blinked, attention suddenly on Yeosang’s mouth until he registered the question, and suddenly everything in his body soured at once. “Oh.”
The sudden change in tone seemed to catch Yeosang’s attention, and he sat up, curiously attentive. Uncomfortable with the attention for the first time tonight, San looked down at his hands and shrugged.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Oh.” Yeosang graciously allows it. Then, less graciously, “Does that happen a lot?”
Again, he shrugged. “Usually.”
“Ah,” Yeosang pushed himself onto his toes and then let himself drop, falling into a slow, easy swing. “Sorry.”
“What about you?” San asked, avoiding the prodding feeling. Avoiding thinking too much, now that the cold was starting to sober him up, and the thoughts were starting to creep back up. “Why are you here and not home in bed?”
“I’m not going home.”
San frowned. Sitting up, he turned to look at him, but Yeosang was staring ahead, kicking his feet slowly and swinging gently. It could have been an innuendo, but nothing about him - the way he said it, the distant tone in his voice, the far-off look in his eyes - none of it felt like one.
“Why not? Do you need a place to crash? I - “
“No.”
The finality of his tone had San’s mouth snapping shut. Not an innuendo, then. Obviously. Of course.
Before he could say anything else to try to rectify the situation, Yeosang was talking like nothing had even happened.
“Sometimes, I think it’ll be just like this.” He turned to San, his brown eyes unnervingly deep and glimmering in the streetlights, like a lake you can’t see the bottom of, no matter how hard you try.
When San only stared blankly, Yeosang nodded at the snow falling around them.
“When we die.”
San blinked, looked up at the fluffs of white falling silently around them.
“What do you mean?”
Yeosang smiled, but there was something off about it. “Everything so still and peaceful and soft. I love it. It’s the exact same world as always, but like this, in the snow, after dark, when everything’s asleep, it feels.. New. Changed. It’s like a graveyard of the world it was before.”
A snowflake caught on Yeosang’s eyelash, and San was immediately overcome by the need to brush it away. Hand extended across the space between them, he was fully transfixed on the fluffy whiteness when Yeosang was suddenly pushing himself up onto his feet, standing on the leather seat, then hoisting himself up to hang from the bar overhead. With one quick motion that had San’s vision swaying, Yeosang was suddenly upside-down, hanging from his knees and grinning impishly at him, arms dangling lazily.
“On nights like this, I like to imagine that I’m a ghost.”
“Oh,” San said, simply, wanting to seem like he understood, but not quite understanding. “Why?”
Yeosang shrugged, upside-downwardly, “It makes me happy. It’s sort of.. freeing, I suppose.”
“Dying doesn’t sound like freedom,” San scoffed.
At that, Yeosang’s smile faltered, for a moment, while something in his eyes turned even more lucid. There was a profoundness to the boy that San couldn’t put his finger on, the sense that he had far more to him than there seemed at a glance. It was the same feeling one gets when deep in the mountains, or an old church: an underlying energy. It was the sensation that he contained some ancient, unsettling wisdom beyond his years.
For a brief moment, San nearly wondered if Yeosang himself was a ghost.
“On the contrary, I think dying might be the only freedom we ever get," Yeosang said, “Just think about it - “
Suddenly, he was kicking his feet back around and somersaulting backwards off the bar, landing gracefully on his feet in the snow.
“Untethered from the demands of life, of physics itself. Drifting like a shadow from one place to the next. No work, no family, no debt, no money, no disease, no poverty, no war, no bodies to distract us from who we really are. Nothing but the pure, unfiltered energy of souls swaying in the wind.” He spun round, arms extended out on either side like a ballerina, smiling.
“Like jellyfish,” San murmured, and Yeosang slowed to a stop, looking over at him, face shifting first from surprise to pleasant delight.
“Like jellyfish!”
There were suddenly two hands in front of him, for San to take, so he did, finding himself tugged up to his feet, stumbling slightly. He was pulled into a firm body, and then they were dancing, Yeosang leading them in a slow and easy sway.
“You’re strange,” San blurted, then burst out giggling.
Yeosang just hummed a quiet tune, deep and haunting as the sea beyond the borders of town. “I’ve been worse things than strange.”
“Like what?”
“Complacent.”
San thought for a moment. “I don’t understand.”
“Well, you did call me strange.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
“Complacency is something like dying. It’s living a life you know you’ll regret, and not doing anything to change it, even though you have the power to do so. It’s worse than dying, in a way. It’s having control, and giving that up. It’s surrendering. It’s cowardice.”
Something about that felt bitter in San’s stomach. “But what about when you don’t?”
“Hm?”
“Have the power to change it,” San elaborated, “What about when you don’t have that power? You wouldn’t say it’s cowardice then?”
Yeosang watched him for a moment. He wasn’t sure why the topic made him so heated. Wasn’t sure why the words made him stiffen uncomfortably against Yeosang’s body, like it was a threat dangling over him.
“We always have the power,” Yeosang said, then. “We just don’t always have the courage.”
There was something in the way he said it that gave San the feeling they were talking about different things.
“Then where do we get the courage?” San asked weakly.
Yeosang smiled, something pitiful and sad.
“By doing it anyway.”
For a long moment, they stood there, in each other’s arms, under the slow-falling snow. For a long moment, San just looked at the boy in front of him, his soft features, his lips, his eyes. For one quick moment, San realized just how much he wanted to kiss him.
But then Yeosang was pulling away, unravelling his tentacles from San’s body, and he was walking away, off into the night. Blinking twice, San watched him go, trying to process what he did wrong, what just happened.
It felt strangely like a test, but for a topic San still wasn’t quite fluent in. Complacency? Cowardice? Courage?
“Are you coming?” Yeosang asked then, and San realized he wasn’t being pushed away, after all. He was being brought with, carried along in the same invisible current that carried Yeosang in its saltwater arms.
Grinning stupidly, he gave in to the pull of Yeosang’s tide.
The snow crunched pleasantly underfoot as they walked down the silent, empty street, past buildings and neighbourhoods and fences and shops. It was something almost meditative, the rhythmic sound of their footsteps beneath them, frigid winter air against bare skin, breath fogging the air around them and dissipating into the night. The snow had eased up, and San almost wished it hadn’t, missed the way the thick, fluffy flakes had seemed to isolate the two of them into their own little world.
Yeosang was distant, as he’d been all evening, gaze somewhere far away from where they were. The silence that had long enveloped them was easy, and San felt strangely comfortable in the boy’s presence in a way he was no longer accustomed to.
“Where are we going?” San asked, after a moment, blinking as he registered their surroundings.
Yeosang startled, eyes flicking over to him before softening considerably. He shrugged, a smile turning up his lips.
“The water.”
“Oh,” San hummed, “Why?”
Yeosang shrugged again, shoving his hands into his pockets as a gust of wind hit them, “I go there a lot.”
San waited for an elaboration, but was quickly beginning to realize he shouldn’t expect one. “Why?”
Another shrug. “I like it. It helps me to think. It makes me feel... small.”
“Small?”
“Yeah. When everything gets too much, I go to the shore and stand on the rocks and just look out at the water and feel the wind that comes off it. It’s so big, so much bigger than me - it seems to stretch out forever in every direction. It makes me realize how small I am, and how little my problems are in comparison to everything else.”
“That makes sense,” San said after a moment.
Dark, curious eyes turned to him. “Does it?”
San nodded, staring up at the haze of sky overhead. “When I was a kid, I used to visit my grandpa out in the country. He had a farm with fields that seemed to go as far as I could see. At night, I used to go climb the roof of the old barn out back and just lie there looking up at the stars. I’d never seen a sky so big anywhere else, and full to the brim with stars. I’d just lie there and look at it, not really at anything in particular, and I’d think about how those stars probably have no idea we even exist. We’re just one little speck in a sea of a billion lights.”
Yeosang didn’t say anything, but from the corner of his eyes, San could see the pale oval of his face still turned towards him. He smiled.
“I used to wonder what else might be out there. The universe is far too big for us to be totally alone, y’know?”
“You mean, like, aliens and shit?”
“Or something,” San turned to fix him with an easy grin, “I used to call them angels. I’d talk to them sometimes. Made it feel less lonely.”
Yeosang wrinkled his nose, “How Catholic. Did they ever answer back?”
“Sometimes.”
“Oh yeah?”
San nodded, “Once I asked them if they were really out there, and asked them to send me a message if they could hear me.”
“And you saw a sudden bright light and shiny green men.”
“Nah, I saw a comet.”
“Fuck off!” Yeosang barked, “Really?”
“I shit you not, it was glowing blue and had a tail that crossed the entire sky.”
“No shit,” Yeosang murmured, tipping his head up as though trying to picture it for himself against the haze of city lights on the clouds above, “Huh.”
“Yeah,” San agreed, not sure exactly what to.
“So you believe in them, then?” Yeosang’s gaze met his, and San momentarily forgot the question.
“Angels?” he shrugged, “I guess.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. I guess.. I don’t believe we’re alone in the universe. I think there’s someone else out there looking out for us, there’s just - I’ve heard too many stories and seen too many coincidences to make me think that we’re the only ones in control. It’s dumb, I don’t know.”
“It’s not dumb,” Yeosang said, startlingly earnest. “I think that makes perfect sense.”
San’s face was warm. His whole body was warm - even his hands, tucked comfortably up under his armpits - and tingling with the way Yeosang was watching him. It took him a moment to realize they had stopped walking, and that Yeosang was so close to him now that their breath, visible between them in the cold, formed a single soft cloud.
It wasn’t the first time that San was struck by just how pretty Yeosang was. It certainly also wouldn’t be the last.
“You keep looking at me like that,” Yeosang murmured, then, and San blinked, pulling his attention back from where it had landed on Yeosang’s plush pink lips.
“Like what?”
His eyes sparkled, and it took everything in San not to look away.
“Like you want to kiss me.”
San flushed. “Am not.”
Yeosang cocked an eyebrow, and San folded instantly, staring down at his feet where his eyes and his yearning heart wouldn’t be able to get him in any more trouble.
“.. Am too..” he mumbled.
His utter shame was interrupted all too quickly by a sudden burst of laughter. Head shooting up, he found Yeosang giggling, toothy and deep and so brilliantly genuine that it had San at a loss for words.
“Sorry, I’m -” Yeosang tried to catch his breath, hand coming up to his mouth to hide his grin. “- Sorry. You’re just so cute.”
“Me?” San cocked his head.
“You’re sweet.”
Suddenly, there was a hand on his cheek, patting it softly. Before he could fully comprehend what had happened and that it was, in fact, Yeosang’s hand and that he was, in fact, just patting his face with it, it was already gone, and San’s own hand moved up to feel the place it had just been. His head spun.
“Tell me about yourself, San,” Yeosang said, three steps ahead, it seemed, in every single way. San hurried to keep up, jogging after him.
“What do you want to know?”
“You mentioned your Grandpa, are you close with your family?”
He shrugged, “I guess.”
“You guess?”
“I was closest with my Grandpa.”
“Was?”
San winced, pace slowing. Beside him, Yeosang slowed to match.
“He passed away. Couple of years ago now, I guess. I don’t know. It’s just.. It hasn’t been the same ever since.”
For a few blocks, they walked in silence. Eventually, Yeosang drifted closer until San felt their arms press together, almost like he was offering up his support in the most physical gesture. He smiled, and only then realized how tight his throat had gotten.
“I always used to think that the hardest parts of growing up would have to do with my own life, like having a career, paying bills, and watching my hair go grey without being able to do anything to stop it. Y’know, like, having to accept my own mortality. But, like.. We only have to die once. I think the worst part of growing up is realizing that everyone we love is also only going to get older too.”
A sudden shudder caught him off guard, and he laughed.
“Damn, I haven’t cried in years, and here I am crying in front of someone I’ve just met.”
“Why not?”
San laughed again, but this time a little more forced, a little more nervous. “What do you mean?”
“You’re allowed to cry.”
“I don’t need to,” he said quickly, wondering why the idea prickled at his skin so uncomfortably and wanting desperately to change the topic as soon as he’d begun it.
Yeosang watched him for a long moment, in that strange, intense way he always did. “Do you ever feel happy?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean really happy. Day to day, do you wake up and see the sun and feel happy? When you hear something funny, do you laugh? Do you hear music that’s so rich and fascinating it makes you just want to move your body to it, regardless of who’s around or where you are? Do you ever just get overwhelmed by the beauty of things until you feel giddy?”
Something in the question had San feeling a bit like a cornered animal, panicked and looking for a way out. Something in the way Yeosang only continued to watch him had him feeling so incredibly, awfully naked in front of him, vulnerable in a way he wasn’t used to.
“Why does it matter anyway?” The words came out far more weak and pitiful than he had intended.
And there was something in his question, deep under the cage of his ribs that already intrinsically knew the answer. It was the same question he’d been asking himself night and night again as the numbness took hold and he lay awake staring at the backs of his eyelids, wondering why it hurt so much not to feel anything at all. The question that demanded an answer, and yet he had none to give.
Yeosang, this strange and lovely boy with his all-knowing look and unsettling maturity, had found the single gap in his armour, the hole in the chain link fence he’d wrapped around his life and guarded like a scrapyard dog for so long. And the more he prodded at the wound, the deeper and more all-consuming he began to realize it had grown.
“We don’t exactly get to choose which emotions not to feel,” Yeosang said quietly. “If you give one up, it comes at the cost of all the others along with it.”
“What if it’s better not to feel at all?” San snapped.
“What if it’s not?”
They stopped walking, eyes fixed in a silent standoff.
“From the sounds of it,” Yeosang said, “I don’t think you’re immune to feeling. So why do you keep fighting it so much?”
San narrowed his eyes, feeling the fight already bleed weakly out of himself, replaced instead with curiosity. It was becoming far too easy to give in to Yeosang’s probing fingers, with the delicate way he had of untangling San’s knots. The unnerving way that he could read San was beginning to feel less predatory and a lot more like it was coming from a place of very similar lived experience.
“Sometimes, we’re taught in life that the only safe way we can channel our emotions is by turning all of them to anger.”
Yeosang was still watching him in that uncomfortable way, like he could see right through San and into a part of him that San wasn’t sure he even knew himself.
“I don’t think you’re numb - that is, I don’t think you’ve stopped feeling altogether. I don’t think that’s possible. I just think you’ve forgotten how to translate the sensations inside of you into what they really are.”
“Fuck off,” San mumbled half-heartedly.
At that, Yeosang smiled, a clever little grin with his pretty, round teeth. “Seems like I’ve struck a nerve?”
“Seems like you’re a little nosy.”
He laughed, “I prefer to call it curious.”
“Fine,” San snorted, feeling unusually bold in the strange boy’s company, “What about you then? Tell me something about your family.”
It was so subtle, it could have been nothing more than the wind, or a passing streetlight, the way Yeosang’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly at the question. If he hadn’t been looking closely, he wouldn’t have caught it at all, except that he had been looking - staring, honestly. So help him. San’s heart felt a bit like a sunflower around the boy, like his entire purpose was just to follow his mesmerizing glow from one edge of the sky to the next. His gaze fixed wherever Yeosang was, he was unable to tear himself away for the fear of missing out on something as vital as breathing.
But Yeosang was an enigma, and the sheer brute mystery of him outweighed even the amount of attention San paid him.
“There’s not much to say,” Yeosang smiled, easy as anything, digging his hands deeper into his pockets, “I don’t have any.”
“None?” San asked, stupidly, “Are you an orphan?”
“Maybe,” he shrugged, “They might be dead by now. Hell if I know. Haven’t heard from them since they kicked me out, but I was just a kid back then. I’m as good as dead to them, so they may as well be dead to me too, hey?”
At that, he grinned conspiratorially, but San didn’t have it in him to smile back.
“I’m sorry.”
A scoff. “Don’t be. Getting outta that house was a net win.”
On even the best of days, San had little control over how honestly he wore his emotions on his face, a fact that was not helped by the lingering presence of alcohol. He was frowning, even when he was mentally telling himself not to frown because Yeosang wasn’t frowning, which in turn made him frown even more.
“Do you want to talk about it?” He tried.
“Are you always like this?” The question wasn’t malicious, asked from several steps ahead, where Yeosang had taken a running start to send himself skating across a large patch of ice on his sneakers.
“Like what?”
“Sincere, to a fault.”
“Yeah,” San admitted, carefully picking along the edge of the ice patch after him.
“It’s admirable,” Yeosang said, “You have a good heart.”
Not knowing what to do with that, but trying to ignore the way it made his cheeks heat up in a way that was surely visible, San shrugged and said nothing.
By now, the houses and shops around them had turned to the warehouses and boatsheds of the wharves, the wind becoming considerably sharper, and the air taking on the distinct bitter tang of brine. It was always colder by the sea, but the night was a mild one, and the chill was bearable, even as they approached the weathered path across the dunes and the dark void of the sky opened wide before them.
“What time is it?” Yeosang asked, suddenly.
San squinted at the dim light of his wristwatch, "One forty-seven."
It must have been the right answer, because Yeosang’s entire face lit up. And then, in the blink of an eye, Yeosang took off screaming down the snow-covered shore. His brain had hardly registered the sight before him when Yeosang had turned back around, jogging backwards and waving a distant arm.
“Come on!”
And San... he didn’t have a choice, did he? It seemed, this entire evening, this entire interaction - he never had a choice when it came to Yeosang. Like a stray leaf in the pull of a river or an asteroid trapped in the gravitational orbit of a star, San had been helpless to resist the invisible force tugging him toward Yeosang from the moment he first laid eyes on him.
The inevitability with which San took off running after him was so guaranteed that he could almost swear it had been written in the stars. A universal constant, an inescapable force between two bodies. It was mathematical in the certainty with which San went sprinting giddy after him.
Frigid air pinched at every inch of his exposed skin, his face, his neck, his hands, but he hardly noticed, flushed warm from exertion. When he finally caught up to Yeosang, the other was staring up at the dark sky and spinning in circles, arms stretched out wide around him. Giggling and silly, San joined him, spinning and spinning until he couldn’t keep himself upright anymore and stumbled into Yeosang, knocking them both over into the soft cushion of sand and snow beneath them.
When his vision finally slowed to catch up with the stagnation of his body, and only then, did San realize how close they were. Yeosang was lying flat on his back beneath him, chest heaving and cheeks flushed pink, hair a soft mess splayed around him, brilliant and shining in every single way. His own little star, captured, somehow, by San’s own two hands.
His breath caught.
Yeosang was looking up at him, eyes dark and twinkling, the ever-present glimmer of mischief that had San mesmerized every time he looked too closely.
“Are you going to kiss me?” he asked, quietly, as San made no other movement.
“D-” San cleared his throat, licked his lips, “Do you want me to?”
Instead of an answer, San was met with a pair of hands wrapping themselves around the back of his neck and pulling him down, down until he started going cross-eyed at how close Yeosang was to him, and it became easier to let them fall shut.
The warmth of a foreign breath against his mouth.
“I think I’ve been waiting for it all night,” Yeosang murmured, low.
“Oh,” he said.
There was a fleeting moment where his foggy mind realized that they were going to kiss, and then there was a mouth warm and wet against his own, and his mind decided it was done with thinking.
It was slow, experimental. Yeosang was warm and soft all over, San quickly discovered, his hands unconsciously seeking out more of him to touch - his hands, his neck, slipping up under the hem of his shirt and pulling him closer, closer. The kiss deepened, and so did their mutual exploration, grasping and holding and touching and shivering from both the cold and the voltage of electric jolts down spines every time a pair of teeth grazed lip and tongue.
Breaths hiccupped and gasped, and San had long lost track of who they belonged to, so shared any oxygen between them had become. Every part of Yeosang, San discovered, was deliriously inviting. His sweet lips, his sharp teeth, his lucid tongue. He was quick and clever in every way, and San was drunk on it.
Wherever Yeosang touched him seemed to come alive, his skin prickling with gooseflesh, thrumming with radio static. Everything about the way their bodies, their hands, their mouths slotted together was perfect. Rhythmic. Inevitable. The way Yeosang’s tongue curled into his mouth was like a homecoming. The way his deep voice caught in a whine when San tugged at his lip was melodic. The way his hands fit against the curve of his marble body was heaven-made. It was so incredibly right and so incredibly perfect in every single way.
If San were more sober, he would have been floored by the way he’d never experienced anything like this before, not with anyone he’d ever kissed.
But San wasn’t more sober, and his mind was thoroughly consumed by the way that Yeosang’s body shuddered invitingly everywhere he touched him. And that was more than enough.
At one point, Yeosang pressed lightly up against him, and San went willingly, allowing himself to be rolled over, near oblivious to the wet snow against his back, mind too fully occupied by the weight of Yeosang’s body shifting on top of him, thighs thick and meaty straddling his waist, all of his senses completely overwhelmed by the boy now above him.
It was like time was kind enough to stand still, if only for that moment, the galaxies whirring to a stop, the sun waiting at the crosswalk of the sky. It was like nothing else on earth existed - not the wind or the waves or the sleeping town beyond the snow-covered dunes - nothing but him, Yeosang above him, and the warm, unhurried press of lips.
He only returned to himself when Yeosang pulled away, after what could have been minutes, hours, days later - it was all the same to San, who only chased the cruel retreat of him. It could have been months or even years, but it wouldn’t have been enough to stop him from wanting more, wanting everything.
The weight shifted off him, and when his eyes blinked open, it was to Yeosang lying in the snow beside him, looking up at the dark expanse of the sky above.
Limp and breathless, San stared openly, jaw slack and lips still damp from the boy’s mouth. He missed the warm enveloping touch of his body like a newborn pulled fresh from the womb, but he made no move to chase him, choosing instead to commit the sight of him to memory — the bewitching curl of his pink lips, the strong slope of his perfect nose, his straight brow, the faint heart-shaped mark just beside his eye. Everything about him was somehow perfect, and all that San could do was stare and stare and stare, drinking in the sight of him and the faint glow of his presence and marvelling at the way his chest now felt lighter and freer than it had in a very long time.
And yet.
The snow was falling more slowly now, scattered fluffy cotton balls drifting in lazy spirals around them while the sea lulled a drowsy rythmic drone out of sight, and Yeosang was staring up into the dark sky, cheshire grin curling his mouth at the edges, his warm fingers creeping over the small space between them to find his own, everything about this moment beautiful and bewildering, and San found himself consumed with some strange unexplainable ache. Wordlessly, he took hold of the hand offered him, entwined their fingers, and held on desperately, against the creeping dread that this moment, like this hand, was one he would inevitably have to let go.
Is it possible to love someone this quickly?
"Will you tell me about yourself?" He asked, quietly, but what he meant was: will you let me know you? To be loved was to be known, to be known: loved. And in the fleeting infinity of this time and place beside him, San was overwhelmed with urgency to find out everything that Yeosang was willing to offer him, and to love and love and love it.
Yeosang turned to him, hair an iridescent halo splayed out around him, collecting snow, and cocked a brow.
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything," San murmured.
You. I want to know you.
San didn't remember when exactly it happened, but they ended up sitting side by side, watching the dark silhouette of the sea. It was freezing now that they had stopped moving, sea breeze turning sharp and unforgiving, and so they had huddled together for a sort of meagre warmth. Yeosang was talking, and San was watching him talk from his peripherals. He was a bit like the sun, where it was easier to observe him indirectly, too brilliant to look at head-on.
There was something innately tragic about him. It wasn't the first time the thought had crossed San's mind that night, but it was the first time he'd let himself sit with it properly. It was like everything he'd said so far was twofold, hiding some deeper meaning that no matter how much he tried, San couldn't read into. A strange overlay covered their conversations, and as the night progressed, it only seemed to grow more prominent, an unrelenting disconnect that he couldn't decipher.
San chewed at his lip, thinking.
"What is it?" he asked.
Glancing over, San studied him for a moment before realizing he'd been asked a question. "Hm?"
"You want to ask me something," Yeosang murmured gently. "What is it?"
"You just," he began, then stopped, unsure what question he was looking for, "There's a strange sort of.. grief .. about you."
Yeosang was quiet for a moment, gaze thoughtful on the sea. "I've been told that before."
"Yeah?"
He wiped at his nose with the sleeve of his jacket, an action that seemed more due to the cold than any great emotion, and nodded. "I think some of us tend to carry our grief with us, instead of learning to let it go."
San nodded, not entirely understanding. "Why do you think that is?"
"It's comfortable." Yeosang leaned more firmly against San's side, head tipping to rest the weight of it on his shoulder. "There's a saying that grief is just love with nowhere to go. People, places, childhood nostalgia — the whole act of living requires letting so many things go and knowing that they're never going to come back, it's this big and endless string of griefs, one after another. The more that you love your life and everything, everyone in it, the more that grief inevitably starts to consume you. I think some of us just love too much, too deeply for a life that demands us to let it all go."
"Oh," San said, trying his best not to move, lest he cause Yeosang to leave his place beneath his chin. Slowly, he lifted an arm to circle Yeosang's shoulders, feeling his heart swell as it caused him to lean into him even further. "I think I understand."
"It's the strange paradox of life," Yeosang went on, "The more you love your life, the more it hurts in the end."
San mulled the thought over in his head for a moment, thumb idly stroking the fabric of Yeosang's coat. "You'd almost think that not feeling at all would be better, wouldn't it?" He mused.
"You'd think." Yeosang grinned up at him.
"But it's not?" San continued, feeling like it was the right thing to say.
"You'll have an eternity to not feel anything once you're dead. I think grief is proof of just how fervidly you've been alive."
"So grief is a good thing?"
"I don't think good or bad are really adequate ways to measure it. It's more like..." He paused, thoughtfully, "Have you heard of the sublime?"
San shook his head.
"It's something like a blend of awe and terror and beauty, the juxtaposition of the depth of vividity within a human's lived experience against the nihilistic continuation of the universe. It's something a lot of people have used to describe near-death experiences, where understanding the meaninglessness and insignificance of one's own life creates, in its own way, meaning."
"So grief is.. sublime?"
"Grief is necessary," Yeosang corrected, "And when you stare at it long enough, it transforms into something that you stop being able to describe as good or bad, because you see it for what it really is."
"And what is it really?"
"It's beautiful." His voice took on a distant tone, like he was somewhere far away, despite the way he was still tucked under San's chin.
For a while, they didn't say anything, just sat there, curled into the warmth of each other and staring out into the dark sea. It was like the night was holding the two of them in its palm, like time and space themselves warped to wrap around them, and nothing outside of the little pocket of nowhere in which they found themselves existed or mattered.
And in this moment, with Yeosang, with the entire universe, in his arms, San found himself all at once overwhelmed with just how clearly he could finally see his own future ahead of him. For the first time, the thought of it didn't scare him. Because he realized now what had been gnawing at him for so many years was not restlessness or indecision, but deep-rooted fear of making a decision that he would regret, the permanence of making a choice he believed in.
What plagued him every night, in his dreams and his waking anxieties, was not an absence of love, but the presence of grief. It was grief of his own finiteness, the lives he would never get to live. It was grief of surrendering to the current of time, to the losses he would one day have to face. It was grief towards the fact that he hadn't loved them enough while he still had them.
It was grief, all of it. Everything was grief.
And so, he wondered, looking down at where Yeosang's hands played with the sleeve of his sweater, peeking out from under his coat, perhaps that meant that every single part of it was also proof of just how deeply he loved it, and had all along.
Something lodged in the back of his throat, tight and uncomfortable, and he swallowed against it, eyes falling shut as he tipped his own head down against Yeosang's, and let himself be lulled into serenity by the low roar of the waves and the warmth of Yeosang's body. His chest felt lighter than it had in.. what? Months? Years? But at the same time, there was something eking in at the edges, the looming shadow of something he couldn't bring himself to face just yet. This night had felt endless, and yet, he was becoming more and more aware of the edges of this little infinity, drawing nearer.
"What's wrong?" Came Yeosang's dark treacle voice from beside him.
"Nothing," San lied, through the thickness in his throat. He could tell that Yeosang was watching him, but refused to meet his all-knowing gaze.
"You look sad," he murmured, "What is it?"
San drew in a deep inhale through his nose, letting the salty thickness of it linger at the back of his tongue and tying it to whatever this sensation was that he felt in this moment, letting the memory of this night knit itself together into something tangible, something he could revisit again and again and again like bric-a-brac in a shadow box.
"I wish this night didn't have to end."
In that moment, the wind almost seemed to stop, as though it was the wrong thing to say and even the world around them was pausing in awkward silence to see what would happen. But when he opened his eyes, it was to a warm hand sliding far too easily up his face and turning him to meet Yeosang's waiting lips.
Slowly and more tenderly than he had any right to, Yeosang kissed him, sweet with his honeysuckle breath and clever tongue. All San could do was cup his soft face in both hands and kiss him back, drink in every drop of springtime breeze that he would offer. Holding Yeosang was like holding a small bird in your hands, the silent thrill of having earned the trust of this fragile, wild thing for however many fleeting moments it chose. Somehow, San knew that his time with Yeosang was not sempiternal, that it was an incredibly finite thing that every second he spent with him was being used up. And yet, greedily, he also knew he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he didn't see this night through to the very end.
Pulling away, just barely, Yeosang smiled up at him, and San stared back down with every single thing he would never be able to say lodged against his sternum. He stroked a careful thumb along Yeosang's cheekbone and watched his eyes flutter shut.
"Are you happy?" Yeosang mumbled.
Helpless, San leaned in, pressed a kiss to his cupid's bow, before tipping his forehead against Yeosang's. "I think I'm the happiest I've ever been. But.."
"But..?"
"But I also kind of want to cry," San huffed.
Yeosang nodded slowly against his head. "I know what you mean."
"What about you?" San pressed, "Are you happy?"
For a while, Yeosang didn't answer, and when San opened his eyes, it was to find Yeosang staring off into the distance. It wasn’t long before San’s senses returned to him, and he heard the sound that held Yeosang captive. It was the church bells, haunting and hollow, chiming the new hour.
One.
Two.
Three o'clock.
"It's time," Yeosang turned back to him, his dark gaze shimmering with stars, "I have to go."
San's chest tightened. He wasn't sure why. Some goodbyes seem more final than others.
"Am I going to see you again?"
Yeosang's smile softened, and it was devastating. Everything about the sight of him in that moment had San wishing for the days and weeks and months to come that he had followed his impulse to reach out and thread his fingers into every inch of him and never let go.
He shook his head, still watching San with those sad, haunting eyes.
"Not like this."
"I'll go with you," San rose to his feet, urgency burning beneath his skin, "Wherever you're going, I'll come too."
Slowly, Yeosang stood, brushed off his jeans. Biting his lip, he looked up at San from beneath dark lashes, amusement and fondness and something like heartbreak in his eyes. Again, he shook his head. "Goodbye, San."
Stepping forward, ever so slowly, Yeosang took his head in his hands and pressed one last lingering kiss to his mouth, sealing his fate. He opened his eyes to a warm jacket being draped over his shoulders, the scent of Yeosang encompassing him.
"What are-?"
Yeosang straightened the collar around San's neck, then patted it gently, smoothing it down San's chest, smiling faintly. "Keep it. To remember me."
"It's too cold out," San protested, "You'll freeze."
"I don't need it anymore," Yeosang replied, quiet. "I want you to have it. As a thank you."
"For what?" San choked.
"For this small but definite happiness." He smiled sadly. "The most beautiful night of my life."
There were a million things San could have said to keep him there, but every single one of them ran dry at the edge of his tongue. It was all he could do to watch Yeosang turn and walk slowly away down the beach, disappearing into the mist. Rooted to the sand, his eyes searched the rolling fog, trying desperately to catch any last glimpse of him. But with the inevitability of the tide coming in, the beach was now empty, and the boy was gone.
He wasn't really sure how he got home that night. Thinking back on it, he can't remember leaving, can't remember the long out-of-body walk home, can't remember falling into bed, exhausted, or that for the first time in years, he didn't dream. His last memory of that night was the slow fade of Yeosang's silhouette into the mist, and then the morning that came after.
-
It was a pale blue morning, sky milky with clouds, and San woke feeling oddly serene, a way he hadn't felt in a very long time. He was still in his pyjamas, coffee bubbling in the background while he poured himself a bowl of cereal through the bleary haze of sleep. Bowl in hand, he wandered to the living room and switched on the television to the news, hoping to catch the weather forecast while his coffee finished percolating.
There was a sudden clatter of his bowl hitting the laminate floor, and the sensation of cold milk seeping into his socks, but San hardly even noticed, the room spinning around him, heart sinking to the depths of his stomach in dawning horror and wide-eyed gaze fixed on the screen, on the smiling image of a boy so beautiful he'd almost believed he'd been a dream, and the rolling text underneath that had the entire world screeching to a halt.
KANG YEOSANG. 24 YEARS OLD. FOUND DEAD.
Legs shaking, he lowered himself numbly to the sofa, feeling disembodied and vacant while the news anchors elaborated the meagre details. It happened early that morning, suspected drowning, no indication of foul play. Officials would like to remind the public of the support available for anyone struggling with their mental health.
San stared unseeing at the screen, thoughts entirely on the stunning vividity of the boy from the night before. Because he hadn't been struggling. Had he? Because San would have stopped him if he was about to do something reckless, wouldn't he?
Everything was suddenly suffocating and wrong, and before he knew what he was doing, he'd grabbed a jacket and jammed his feet into his sneakers, still damp from the night before, and he was outside running. His lungs burned and stung with cold air and exertion, but he couldn't stop; he couldn't slow down. Throwing one foot in front of the other, he ran and ran and ran, past the houses and the parks, past the ferry docks and the wharves, down to where the air turned pungent with salt and rotting fish, and the pavement turned to snow and sand, and then, only then, did he stop.
There lay the ocean in front of him — big and vast and empty and open, rolling with the rumbling thunder of dark, unfeeling waves. It was only a moment before he was running again, so fast his feet were barely able to stay under him. All of a sudden, he was knee deep in the frigid, churning water, and then he was screaming.
He screamed and screamed and screamed until his throat was raw and tinged with the taste of something metallic. He screamed until it hiccuped into sobs and then he was crying. He sobbed, over and over, deep and weighty, the immense pressure finally enough to snap open the dam after far, far too long. He cried, tears and snot running down his face, and a small part of him knew that he looked fucking insane right now, but that part of him was completely overridden by every other part of him that just didn’t care.
Every other part of him had been holding onto the weight of this grief for so long that it had started to feel like a part of him. A part that he was shedding now, fingers dug beneath and pulling, prying it from the suffocating space it had curled up next to his lungs and wrenching it free from his body. He fell then to his knees in the shallows, gasping at the cold as it clung to his legs, the sensation so all-consuming, every part of his body fully and undeniably alive.
For the first time in his entire life, he felt alive.
He cried until he couldn’t anymore. Until there was nothing left to cry. He cried until he was done, and then, only then, he stood.
The wind was bitter and fierce, tugging at his hair, his clothes. Every part of him was freezing, but the pain no longer felt as agonizing. Rather, it was something a little more like catharsis. Eyes scanning the dark, rolling waves, he was overcome by a strange sense of calm, like that moment just after a storm has passed. A peace spread through his body like the slow prickling numbness crawling up his legs where the ice water clung to his sodden pyjamas.
In his haste, he'd grabbed Yeosang's jacket, the one he'd given him last night, and he wrapped it tighter around himself, burying his nose into the collar and breathing in the lingering musk and floral of his cologne. Fresh tears prickled at his eyes, and he didn't fight them, let them roll silently down his cheeks and into the wind.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words lost immediately to the violent breeze. But deep down, somehow, he knew they'd find him. "Yeosang, I'm sorry."
It wasn't his death that he was apologizing for, however, nor was it the fact that he hadn't stopped him. No, it seemed to him now that the boy's mind had been made up long ago, and that nothing San could have said or done in the short span of the night would have swayed him in his endeavour.
Rather, he was apologizing for the fact that Yeosang himself had now become a grief that San wasn't sure he would ever be willing to let go of. Can grief exist outside of love? Because this thing he carried now in his hands could only be described as such. And if not, then perhaps it was the proof that, no matter how briefly, he'd loved him.
San had loved him.
And perhaps, like Yeosang, he would go on loving this awful, incredible life ahead of him, no matter how much it hurt. He would look this grief in the eyes, until one day, it ceased to be ugly, ceased to be anything but proof of just how deeply he'd been alive.
For the first time in his life, he was alive.