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Jongho, his mind a little elsewhere, walked slowly down the same street he had walked throughout his youth. He dragged his suitcase behind him, oblivious to the screech of a bus whose brakes could probably use a little TLC. His eyes wandered over the shops he saw again every year when he came back to his childhood neighborhood for his birthday. It was a routine outing, a privilege that being born in Seoul gave him, compared to the other members. Every year, for his birthday, he could take the day off to go see his parents and celebrate with them. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air that felt lighter and fresher than what he usually breathed in the hustle and bustle of his idol life. The humidity in the air, the faint smell of baking bread, the sound of his own footsteps, which he never heard so loudly anywhere else, all of it truly made him feel like he was coming home. Yet this year, that feeling wasn’t as warm and comforting as it had been in previous years. Something was missing, someone was missing.
Yeosang.
The older man had apologized the day before for not being able to go with Jongho to his parents’ house, as he had in years past. Although he wasn’t part of the Choi family, Yeosang had always gotten along very well with Jongho’s parents, and a routine had developed over the years: for each of his birthdays, Yeosang would drive him to his parents’ house. Jongho always chose the music, deliberately playing only his hyung’s favorites. They would take a short walk before arriving at the family home, spend the afternoon on all sorts of activities, and stay overnight after stargazing while eating warm cakes freshly baked by Jongho’s mother. But this year, Yeosang hadn’t been able to make it. And that made Jongho much sadder than he cared to admit.
He sighed, one hand in his pocket, the other gripping the handle of his small suitcase, a feeling of emptiness in his chest. He blamed this strange feeling on the fame he’d been handling a little less well lately, on the impression of missing important stages of his life, on the sensation of being a puppet acting out a life rather than a human being truly living it.
°❀⋆ .ೃ࿔*:･ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔
After dropping off his suitcase at his parents’ house, Jongho decided to go for a walk anyway. Without even headphones in his ears, he let his steps carry him instinctively somewhere, wanting to surprise himself with an unexpected direction. So, guided only by the rustling of leaves in the slightly cool wind, he found himself on a small hiking trail. An uphill path of dust and pebbles, beloved by the hikers of his neighborhood for its constant tranquility. He walked peacefully along the silent trail until he reached the top of the hill. There, a wide overlook offered a magnificent view of the Han River and various districts of Seoul. It was especially beautiful at night, when all the lights of the capital shone almost as brightly as the stars and the hubbub seemed muffled by the altitude. But it was beautiful by day too; Jongho could watch the city’s bustle with a certain amusement. The human tide that had so often overwhelmed him was now nothing but tiny black dots scurrying about, and perhaps they, too, felt as he did that life was moving too fast.
Then he remembered. Perhaps it was the scent of a plant, perhaps his eyes recognizing a tree or a viewpoint, but a memory buried deep within him surfaced: he had been here before, with Yeosang. And just like that, something unlocked, and clearer recollections came back to him. He turned toward the dirt path he had just climbed and couldn’t help a fond chuckle as he remembered how much his hyung had grumbled while climbing it in flip-flops, all the way up to the top of that hill for a picnic.
“I’m really going to end up spraining my ankle!”
“Don’t worry, hyung, I’ll carry you if you get hurt.”
Jongho smiled, picturing the flush on Yeosang’s cheeks, back when his hair was still brown. That time, thankfully, he hadn’t ended up carrying him. They had simply sat in the grass, the basket between them with all the food, and spent the afternoon talking about everything and nothing: their favorite movies, a game that was about to come out, their packed schedules, how they pictured their lives in ten years.
Jongho closed his eyes, hands in his pockets, as if depriving his eyes of the place’s present view would bring back the one he’d had years earlier, in the company of his favorite hyung. And it worked. He remembered the badly packed basket Yeosang had insisted on putting together, the thermos of tea that had spilled on the grass and the wasps it had attracted, the warm wind that had tousled Yeosang’s hair so many times that he’d spent the entire meal tucking his brown locks behind his ears. He remembered wanting to fix Yeosang’s hair himself, holding back with a heavy heart, feeling his own heart race at his hyung’s deep laugh at each of his silly jokes. He also remembered wanting to stay longer than planned, sitting there, just the two of them, even with nothing left to eat or say, and that Yeosang hadn’t made a single move to go home either, until Jongho’s mother called to scold them and warn them that dinner would be served without them if they were any later.
The memory was too vivid, too precise, the sensations still too alive, to leave him unmoved, but he chose to ignore the strange pang of unease in his chest, turning his back on the impressive view he had barely taken in, and resuming his walk.
°❀⋆ .ೃ࿔*:･ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔
Coming to another street in his neighborhood, Jongho passed a restaurant that wasn’t open yet. The storefront was wooden, with two potted plants hanging at either end, though Jongho never could say what kind. An old-fashioned doormat welcomed customers at the door, along with two dog statues. A colorful garland and a few light bulbs strung across the restaurant’s small porch lit up the night. It had been the same décor since his childhood, and even as an adult Jongho thought it made no particular sense. But he had always found the place warm and cozy, besides being delicious. That was why he had taken Yeosang there once, a few years earlier, after Yeosang, whose hair was now an odd shade of gray, had burned the birthday dinner he’d wanted to make for him. At the mere memory, Jongho smiled fondly. He still remembered exactly what Yeosang had ordered: a huge plate of japchae whose flavor had made his eyes light up, plus a delicious serving of bibimbap and tteokbokki. Jongho even remembered that, that day, Yeosang had ordered some tteok, steamed glutinous rice cakes, to stick a few candles in.
He remembered that the few people there had gathered close to sing “Happy Birthday” to him. He knew this because he could still hear Yeosang’s voice very clearly over almost no background noise. It was a sweet, touching memory, and it almost made him want to wait for the restaurant to open and taste their food again… but it wouldn’t be the same without his hyung, and anyway, he wasn’t very hungry at lunchtime.
So Jongho continued his stroll down the quiet, silent street until he reached the little convenience store, which had only opened a short while ago, maybe last year, maybe the year before, maybe the year before that. Yeosang had come with him there the year he had red hair; it had even earned them a nice basket of cherries. Jongho approached the store slowly, as if bracing for the new wave of memories he could feel coming. He immediately recognized the slightly yellowed neon lights of the storefront and the smell of cardboard and fresh vegetables at the entrance; from where he stood, he could see the newspaper rack by the register. It was in this store that he and Yeosang had done the shopping for one of his birthdays, on a day when Mrs. Choi hadn’t managed to take time off work and had to leave the heavy responsibility of the groceries to the two adults she still saw as children. Jongho went in and wandered the aisles without really looking for anything to buy, just to retrace his hyung’s old steps. He remembered how Yeosang had hesitated in front of the shelves, locked in an inner debate over which brand was better. Jongho had laughed at the time, seriously doubting that his hyung’s cooking skills qualified him to have a real opinion on the best brand for cooking. He also remembered, a little too clearly, how Yeosang had nearly snatched from him the list his mother had scribbled, not out of animosity but with the exasperation of someone helpless before an overwhelming enemy. He remembered Yeosang’s face after he’d hung up the phone with Jongho’s mother, his stammered apologies, how cute he’d been. Jongho also remembered the warmth of the older man’s hand brushing against his as he handed over the packet of sticky rice the matriarch had specifically asked him to get, how his cheeks had flushed and his gaze had darted away. He remembered it vividly because, for one of the first times in his life, Jongho had thought about dropping the rice to catch Yeosang’s chin, just to capture his attention, to see that shy expression on his lovely face again. Jongho shook his head hard, realizing what he was thinking, and ran a hand through his hair to distract himself, to keep from going out of his mind. But in a corner of his mind, the thoroughly domestic image of Yeosang blushing at his touch and dealing with his mother as easily as someone who was already part of the family swelled his heart with an unsettling warmth, though far from unpleasant.
Finally, Jongho bought a sandwich to snack on along the way.
°❀⋆ .ೃ࿔*:･ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔
His steps led him to a park he knew like the back of his hand, having come there since his diaper days. It was a municipal park with benches worn smooth by time, timeless playground equipment, tall trees he had never seen cut down, and sandboxes. Jongho decided to take a break, sit for a while, and enjoy the last, surprisingly warm rays of sun and the quiet that would soon end when children from the nearby schools took the place by storm.
He thought back nostalgically to everything he had done in that park: the afternoons of games when he was little, then the afternoons of sports as a teenager, when soccer was still his future. It had always been one of his favorite places, for no particular reason. That was why, throughout his hiatus and despite being forbidden to play sports, he had often slipped away to that park to work out a little. Ignoring the pain, listening only to his frustration, he had run and jumped, done push-ups and pull-ups despite his freshly operated knee. Even on his birthday he had put himself through the same torture, but since Yeosang had once again come to spend the day with him, it hadn’t gone quite as planned. Jongho still remembered how his hyung had come to find him.
Jongho was out of breath, his face flushed from the effort. Since no one was around at this late hour and the evening was still mild, he had taken off his shirt for his daily workout. Even though it was forbidden. He was sweating far more than usual since his surgery, a sign that his body needed rest, and cold sweat beaded on every inch of his skin. But he didn’t care, just as he didn’t care about the pain or the doctor’s orders. He needed to clear his head and think about something other than his injury, the worried comments from fans, and the strange warmth in his stomach that had nothing to do with his career. The headlights of a car finally reached the park gates and didn’t go out, though Jongho had heard the engine cut off. He sighed, weary, knowing who had come for him.
“Jongho.”
Yeosang’s voice was gentle, not at all what Jongho had expected. He had thought his hyung would give him a good scolding for sneaking off like that, and even more for exercising against the doctor’s explicit orders. He had expected at least a hint of disappointment in the older man’s voice when he saw him as something other than the strong, responsible maknae who did everything right. Yet that wasn’t the case at all. Yeosang simply came over with a soft towel in his hands and gently dabbed his forehead, wiping away the sweat beading at Jongho’s temples. Then he drew the towel over the top of his head and folded it under his chin, wrapping up his whole face like a little gift. And he laughed. A genuine, amused laugh that deepened the flush on Jongho’s cheeks and set his stomach fluttering. Jongho even felt his heart race at his hyung’s smile.
“You look like an otter like that!”
After blinking for a few seconds, Jongho laughed too. At first it was just a faint, amused breath, before swelling into a real, full laugh, his eyes closed and a hand on his stomach. It wasn’t even that funny, but Yeosang had a special knack for making everything more fun. At least for Jongho, everything was always nicer with Yeosang nearby. Less heavy, less distressing, more natural, with no need to perform or explain himself right away.
And just like that, Jongho put his T-shirt back on and followed Yeosang to his car. Yeosang got in on the driver’s side and Jongho on the passenger side. He gazed out the window for a moment at the now empty, utterly silent park. He wasn’t sad, not since Yeosang had arrived, but he must have looked it, because Yeosang gently laid a hand on his cheek. He stroked Jongho’s tanned skin with the care of someone holding something precious, a comforting, encouraging smile on his lips. Then he tucked a strand of hair neatly behind Jongho’s ear, and Jongho realized, with perfect mundanity, that he really needed to go to the hairdresser. It was a silly thought, meant to distract him from the frantic pounding of his own heart, from his tight, dry throat, from the urge to lift a hand and brush his thick fingers against Yeosang’s lovely smile, to lean in and press a kiss there.
In the silence of the car, where the two of them could hear only their own heartbeats, thrown off by unfamiliar feelings, Jongho wondered whether it was really normal to want to kiss his friend, whether there was truly only friendship in the tenderness he felt at the mere sight of that smile.
°❀⋆ .ೃ࿔*:･ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔
The daylight had faded further, and the neighborhood streetlights had already come on for the night. Jongho kept walking, still without headphones, so that he heard only the familiar sounds of life and his own footsteps. He came to one particular alley that stopped him in his tracks. Yet there was nothing special about it. It was a narrow alley linking two different main streets; there had been no drama, no event of note in the lives of the neighborhood’s residents. But for Jongho it was the site of a painful memory: his first fight with Yeosang, the day before one of his birthdays.
He no longer really knew why they had fought that day; he no longer even knew what year it was. Maybe it was a disagreement about the group, maybe something personal. Maybe it was simply an overblown reaction from two exhausted teenagers, their hearts heavy with things left unsaid. Maybe it was pride and stubbornness, maybe just a wish to be seen differently. Jongho truly couldn’t remember. But what he did remember were his own hurtful words and Yeosang’s. How he had trampled on Yeosang’s feelings, and how Yeosang had hit back with hurtful words he hadn’t even meant. He remembered that Yeosang’s anger hadn’t come right away, that his face had first frozen, then crumpled, and Jongho could have sworn he saw Yeosang’s heart break in the way his eyes filled with tears and his lips trembled around a stifled sob. Then Yeosang had struck back, far from the wisdom and passivity people often associated with him. He had been hurt and, out of resentment, had hurt Jongho in return. Because back then they had been sad, hurt, foolish teenagers.
Jongho remembered how his heart had clenched when Yeosang turned on his heel to leave, shouting that he didn’t want to attend the birthday of a selfish jerk. Jongho’s sharp tongue had hit back faster than his reason, saying that he didn’t want a pathetic crybaby either. But he hadn’t meant it, of course. He could never think that of someone as wonderful as his hyung. But his mouth had been too stubborn, and Jongho remembered Yeosang’s trembling shoulders, his back hunched with sadness, his fists clenched on the hem of his shirt. He had regretted his words immediately, but the instant shame had kept him from apologizing, and Yeosang, after several minutes standing motionless, had left. For a few seconds, Jongho had thought that this moment when Yeosang didn’t move might be a silent plea to be caught and held. But Jongho hadn’t moved, his feet firmly rooted in the dust, and his heart had fallen to pieces at finding himself alone.
What he remembered most clearly, though, wasn’t the fight itself, nor how it started, nor what had been said, but the anguish of the aftermath. The nausea that had gripped him at the thought of losing Yeosang, his stomach aching physically at the idea of a life without his hyung. Jongho vividly remembered being terrified of going home and finding that Yeosang had packed his bags to leave. He even remembered thinking, in that moment, with great shame and bewilderment, that if any of his other friends had turned their backs on him over a fight that size, it would have hurt less than losing Yeosang. Because Jongho’s real fear wasn’t simply losing a friend, but losing Yeosang in particular.
°❀⋆ .ೃ࿔*:･ 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔
On his way back to his childhood home, Jongho came upon the little bench across from the fountain. A white stone fountain shaped like a snake, which made little sense. A fountain that never ran in winter but ran every day in summer. For a few minutes he felt like sitting on that bench, alone this time. Unlike other years, when Yeosang always came with him to spend a moment on that bench, facing the fountain. Nothing special ever happened; sometimes the two young men didn’t even speak, but it was never awkward. They simply sat there, side by side, shoulders brushing and fingers narrowly avoiding each other. The place held no particular memory, no grand anecdote, unlike most corners of the neighborhood. Jongho had only realized it that day, but it was just as precious. Because he remembered the peace and serenity he had always felt there, in a silence barely disturbed by the sound of the fountain or the birds bathing in the basin, without either of them needing to fill the void with pointless words. For once, Jongho had no reason to remember that precise spot and how Yeosang had inhabited it, but he remembered it anyway, all of it, down to the smallest detail, his heart swollen and warm.
He closed his eyes, tilting his face up to the last warm rays of the sun, the kind that paint the sky orange, and took a deep breath. God, he really missed Yeosang today. And he knew that tomorrow, even though it would no longer be his birthday, he would still miss Yeosang. He would miss him until they saw each other again.
And with that thought alone, Jongho’s whole world reeled at a revelation that was almost obvious. It had been there all along, but Jongho had barely been opening his eyes, and he had to get back to his parents’ house.
By the time Jongho made the trip back, night had completely settled over Seoul. A mild night, with a perfect temperature and an Olympian calm in the streets. He hurried into the house, relieved that his parents weren’t back from work yet, then rushed up to his room, as if chased by ghostly thoughts he couldn’t shake. Once in his room, wrapped in the familiar, reassuring scent of his childhood, he opened the French doors and stepped out onto the balcony. It was a prime spot for seeing the city lights and the stars, while behind him his soccer-ball-shaped bedside lamp cast his shadow on one of the blue walls that hadn’t been repainted since he was born. He took his phone from his pocket, hands trembling and damp, more anxious even than at his audition for KQ Entertainment. His shaky fingers dialed Yeosang’s number, and he found, unsurprised, that he didn’t even have to think, that he knew it by heart. One ring, then two, but not three.
“Jongho?” His voice was as soft as cotton.
“Hyung, I’m so happy to hear your voice.” He paused briefly and heard Yeosang breathing.
It was a habitual tic of Yeosang’s before answering something that made him shy, his lips parting to draw in a little air, as if to signal that he was about to reply, as if to prepare, as if not to surprise him. But Jongho didn’t give him the chance, too afraid of losing the surge of courage that now possessed him.
“I spent the whole day wandering around my neighborhood by myself. But it’s weird, because I wasn’t really alone, and no, I wasn’t being followed by a ghost or a stalker.”
He tried a clumsy joke because he knew Yeosang loved them. The soft laugh he heard on the other end of the phone comforted him enough to continue.
“You were there, hyung. You were everywhere with me. In every corner of this city, I have a memory with you. Good, bad, funny, emotional. I’ve spent twenty-six years in this city, I have countless memories, all of them precious, but it feels like they’ve all been replaced by the ones with you. It’s like coming back here isn’t quite right without you, because I don’t want to make a new memory where you’re not with me.”
He swallowed, catching his breath as his voice came out too fast, too high.
“I don’t even know where I’m going with this, because it only hit me, what, ten minutes ago? When I couldn’t feel your shoulder against mine and your fingers in my hand, I realized I don’t want another day to go by without you. It’s a little frustrating, because I know tomorrow I’ll die of embarrassment for telling you all this in such a childish and melodramatic way, when I could have done it in a thousand cooler ways, but I really need to tell you now that I love you, Yeosang. That I’m deeply in love with you. And I really need, desperately need, to hear that you’re in love with me too.”
Jongho took a deep breath at the end of that long tirade, already embarrassed at the thought that anyone might have overheard him being so passionate. On the other end of the phone, Yeosang blinked, surprised, a little caught off guard, his cheeks flushed and his heart pounding. Jongho heard the rustle of hair as the older man tucked a strand behind his ear, and it made him smile. It was a tic of his when he was embarrassed but happy. Behind his eyelids, Jongho could see him smiling, cheeks flushed, gaze averted, in that utterly adorable, shy way that was uniquely his and brought everyone to their knees.
“Jongho.”
Jongho shivered at hearing his name spoken that way by his hyung, a warm and especially gentle murmur.
“Could you say it again in person when you get back? I’d like to give you my answer face to face, not over the phone. If you still love me by then. Would you do that?”
Yeosang’s voice was soft, as if he were choosing every word carefully, and Jongho nodded, though no one could see him.
“I’m coming back tomorrow night, hyung.” He spoke in a whisper, as if talking any louder would shatter their bubble of intimacy.
“I can’t wait for you to come home." Yeosang replied, with the same care.
“Me too.”
Another silence settled in. Peaceful and calm, with neither young man feeling the need to fill it to make up for an awkwardness that didn’t exist. Then, after several long minutes, Jongho heard the front door of his parents’ house open and slam, and his mother call out that dinner was ready. He was about to answer, embarrassed to spoil the moment, but Yeosang’s sincere laugh silenced him before he could say a single word.
“Happy birthday, Jongho. See you tomorrow.”
“Thank you, hyung. See you tomorrow.”
Then came another beep: Yeosang had hung up. Jongho let himself fantasize a little, imagining Yeosang flopping onto his bed, cheeks flushed, the phone clutched to his heart, a foolishly romantic fantasy, but not so far from reality. And he, heart pounding in his ears and head full of clouds, joined his parents and little brother to celebrate his birthday in the noisy, cozy warmth of his family.
Right up until he fell asleep in the big bed he had so often innocently shared with Yeosang, he thought only about how to make his declaration cooler, so that Yeosang would have no choice but to accept his love.