Chapter Text
Soobin doesn’t have much trouble sleeping the night before his first session with Prof. John, although it turns out to be the barest minimum of rest. When he wakes up, he gets that familiar rhythm in his chest, the one that feels as if he’d been running a marathon in his sleep; but as usual, no traces of a nightmare or whatever dream arrive to prove that theory.
As he rides the bus to Chung-Ang in the afternoon, he dozes off—despite not being used to falling asleep on public transport—if only to escape the uneasy thumping of his heart, so hard now that he could almost hear it echoing in his ears. He thinks of how this is such a disproportionate reaction to what’s to come; after all, he isn’t about to commit a crime, is he? Yet this isn’t the first time he’s reacted this way, and perhaps this is a crime—at least, in some (non-legal) respects.
Soobin doesn’t miss his stop, but does have a bit (a lot) of trouble looking for the room he’s supposed to meet Prof. John in. It’s not that the CAU campus is particularly huge or anything (especially not for someone who goes to Konkuk), and he’s not the absolute worst at directions (as that title goes to Kai, for sure), but there’s something about the building’s layout that makes all the doors and hallways look the same. He’s in the middle of scoping out a person to ask—everyone seems so busy, hurrying from class to class—when he gets a text from Yeonjun, who ends up helping Soobin find the right room through video call.
“And if you go straight ahead, you’ll see it at the very end of this hallway.” There’s a pause as Soobin thanks him and starts walking. “But you know you could’ve just asked me to take you there myself.” Yeonjun’s addressing Soobin from where he sits in the green room; he’s the only person there, everyone else in the auditorium. It makes Soobin feel guilty, albeit somewhat special, that Yeonjun went and excused himself from rehearsals to call him.
“I didn’t exactly expect a labyrinth for a school… plus you’re rehearsing right now. I didn’t want to bother you.” As Spring’s premier grows near, Yeonjun’s gotten a lot busier; although it’s also during this period that he’s the most excited, as Soobin’s come to notice. “Besides, you’re probably only saying that ‘cause you wanna see your Johnny-ssaem,” he teases with a roll of his eyes.
“Or,” Yeonjun looks around the room before staring straight back into the camera, his pixelated smile lighting up Soobin’s screen—the signal’s pretty shit up here, “it’s because I wanna see you.” His voice is tinny through the phone, but it still manages to ring clear in Soobin’s ears.
Soobin only blushes for half a second at that (a new record!). Truth be told, he kind of saw it coming; maybe even purposely said what he said, knowing that. “You’re seeing me now, though?”
This hallway is pretty long, and for a moment Soobin wishes it were longer, that it would go on forever. “And we’ll be seeing each other later today, too.” He pauses, slowing down as he reaches the end of the hallway. “Oh, looks like this is it.”
Soobin takes a few more strides until only a door separates him from his destination, hand inches from the knob. He instantly feels that buzz under his skin again, the vibrations starting from his chest: one beat after another. What is this? Now that he’s here, is he having second thoughts? Now it’s got him thinking. Maybe losing his way wasn’t due to any flaw in interior design, or whatever newness the place has, but it’s all just him, just Soobin, just how his body subconsciously delays the inevitable with every wrong turn and step it takes. But he’s here now, and his fist is shaking and he forgets to breathe until a voice from his phone extends itself to him.
“Hey, tell me all about it when you’re done, okay? Fighting!”
Soobin runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath. “Yeah, thanks, hyung. Uh… don’t miss me too much.” Wow, where did that come from?
Yeonjun does that thing with his nose—that little scrunch—that Soobin’s starting to like more and more these days. “Can’t promise that. I miss you all the time,” Yeonjun replies, and it takes everything in Soobin not to run to the theatre, ignore whatever scene or song the cast is practicing, barge into the green room, and pinch Yeonjun’s cheeks.
Soobin settles for a soft “whatever” instead, because he’s already late and he knows that he won’t stop at cheek-pinching if he ever does actually give in to his whims. “I’ll tell Prof. Johnny you said ‘hi.’”
It’s bright once Soobin enters the room. Not the kind of fluorescent white that plagued him as he roamed the hallways earlier, but a natural light: open blinds, glass windows at three in the afternoon, the presence of a friendly figure.
Johnny greets Soobin with a smile from where he's standing over his desk—sorting through a stack of papers—and motions for Soobin to continue inside. Soobin sets his bag on the floor and immediately starts drumming his fingers on the chair’s table top, careful not to hit the wood with his nails; he knows how annoying that can sound, and the last thing he wants to do is make his nerves contagious.
In an effort to feel calmer, Soobin looks around to familiarize himself with the room. Directly to his left, near the door he was so hesitant to open, are wooden bookcases filled with spines he can’t read the text of from this distance. They’re most likely magazines, photobooks, manuals, and the like. In the corner to the right of where Johnny’s desk is are two display cabinets, housing several types of cameras, lenses, tripods and other paraphernalia. He thinks of his own Instax, tucked safely in his bag, so modest, so small compared to what he’s seeing. He isn’t given much time to ponder over how that makes him feel because he hears Johnny square up his papers and store them inside a drawer, signaling that his attention is fully on Soobin now.
Johnny makes eye contact with him, and Soobin gulps. He remembers how he lied in bed last night, doing research on (i.e. online stalking) Prof. John Suh. He checked his website—it was in English but was easy enough to navigate—went through his portfolio, and did a quick scroll of his social media feeds. What he saw convinced him that Johnny knows what he’s doing, but it also brought up the more important question, that is, if Soobin knows what he’s doing, coming here with nothing but an Instagram of archived posts and a photography pipe dream to his name.
What if Johnny asks him just that? What if he goes, so, what brings you here, Choi Soobin? And what if Soobin clams up, just stares back at him, mouth agape and empty? Or maybe Soobin would say something, tell the truth, tell Johnny how his love of photography was born from his family’s influence, as most things are; and how it died the same way, as most things do. What’s given is eventually taken away by the same people who handed it to you.
Much to Soobin’s relief, when Johnny acknowledges him, he doesn’t throw existential questions his way—not to say he spares him any of the regular ones, though.
“Do you have any prior experience taking and sharing photos? And yes, Instagram does count.” Johnny gives him a warm smile, and Soobin relaxes a little. It’s like Johnny read his mind. It’s either that, or he must’ve heard the question from countless students before him.
“Yes,” Soobin replies. It’s only when the word escapes his mouth does he realize that Johnny might ask him to show his feed, and he’s not quite prepared for that. Fortunately, Johnny doesn’t, and for the remainder of the questions, Soobin can only nod his head, like a bobble head toy on the dashboard—along for the ride. He nods when Johnny starts shaping into more like an actual person and less like the ominous interrogator Soobin had conjured in his mind, nods as Johnny leads him to the display cabinets like Soobin hoped he would, nods when Johnny tells him that choosing a camera is as much personal as it is practical, nods as Johnny asks if he brought his own and to not worry if he didn’t, because he can borrow one of theirs.
Soobin considers it for a moment, but in the end brings out his Instax. He hopes that his little device doesn’t look too lame in comparison to the DSLRs and bridges displayed; to be fair, Prof. John doesn’t seem like the type to judge.
“You’re holding on to that mini like it’s something precious.” Soobin thought too soon. Johnny is definitely thinking that the camera doesn’t suit someone like him.
“I—” Soobin stammers, and looks down to where he has something precious in his hands. Does it really seem that way? “Well, I mean, my brother did give this to me as a gift,” he bites his tongue right after, as if it’s supposed to be a secret.
Johnny smiles and opens the cabinet to pick out his own gear. Soobin predicts that he’ll go for that sleek and stylish Leica on the top shelf, or that Fujifilm with the retro design next to it. Both would fit Johnny well, Soobin thinks, already picturing how cool and professional he’d look while taking photos. To his surprise, though, Johnny reaches to the far back of one of the bottom shelves to pull out the same Instax model Soobin has, only in neon green—too flashy for Soobin’s taste, but Johnny seems to like it just fine.
“What?” Johnny asks, no doubt noticing how taken aback Soobin is.
Soobin shakes his head. “It’s nothing,” he raises his camera, “it’s just interesting that we’re… matching?” Johnny smiles and mirrors Soobin’s gesture, which is a relief because Soobin thinks his choice of words wasn’t the best. Johnny is simply attuning himself to his student’s equipment, gauging their skill and comfort level. It makes sense, but it also makes Soobin self-conscious. His appreciation ultimately outweighs his concern, however, as he finds himself—once again—nodding in understanding.
Johnny closes the display cabinet. “I have a friend who collects these, those limited edition ones.” Soobin’s seen them promoted online, once or twice. “And he’s only ever used each of them once, all for the same photo concept. Want to take a guess as to what it is?”
Soobin has no idea. Is this some sort of quiz? Should he know who this person is? He blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “I’m not really sure. Selcas?”
Johnny sways his head side to side, chuckling. Wrong answer, probably. “Well, yes and no. You could call them selcas, I suppose, but not of people.” He shoots a glance at Soobin and Soobin is sure that he looks confused, because Johnny continues explaining. Soobin’s mostly just curious, though. “What he did was place the camera on a table, in front of a mirror, and set the timer on. The shots turned out pretty trippy, but cool, and it even earned him an article in Aperture, so.” He shrugs, as if it’s not a big deal, and even though Soobin hasn’t heard of the publication he mentioned—he makes a mental note to look it up later—he gets a sense that it is not something to shrug about. Or maybe you can shrug about it, if you’re the Seo John, that is.
Johnny asks if Soobin is into portraiture, and when Soobin answers that he isn’t entirely up for taking photos of people (he leaves out that there are a few exceptions to this rule, all with the named ‘Yeonjun’), Johnny doesn’t press, reassuring him that Chung-Ang has plenty of scenic spots for landscape photography, or still life, if Soobin is more into that. They grab a few packs of film, stuff them in bags, and head outside to explore the campus, with Johnny beaming at how nice the weather is. And it’s such a simple thing to take note of, but it’s enough to make Soobin smile too, as he quietly agrees.
Soobin is (unsurprisingly) awkward at first, a little too conscious not only of what to take photos of, but of what he looks like as he takes those photos. When he’s certain that Johnny isn’t actually watching him like a hawk, ready to swoop in and berate him for wrong posture or horrible angling or just plain hesitance, he finally relaxes, capturing whatever catches his eye: the gaps between joint canopies, crushed leaves atop cobblestones, and then this garden of purple and red chrysanthemums, almost beckoning him to come with the loudness of their color. He walks over and tries not to bother the gardener working on them. The lady must’ve sensed Soobin’s presence, though, because she turns around, crow’s feet visible as she grins, wide and friendly. She looks to be about as old as Soobin’s mother, or maybe older.
“Oh, were you trying to get pictures of the flowers? Aren’t they pretty? Ah, sorry, let me get out of the way.” She nudges her chin to the side. “If you stand right there you can get a really good view of the plot.”
Soobin thanks the woman with a bow, positions his Instax, and that’s when a thought occurs to him. He pauses, thinks about it some more, looks at the gardener and asks before he changes his mind. “Would you like to be in the photo?”
The corners of the woman’s eyes wrinkle again. “Was it that obvious? That would be nice, yes.” She points to the ground, “Do you want me to go back to work? What’s the word—a candid shot, right, something natural? Or maybe I could do this?” She puts both hands under her chin, palms up, a pose to match the flowers she tends to. “It looks silly on someone like me. I know, I know. I’m mostly kidding.”
“Not at all,” Soobin says. “You can pose whichever way you want.” She stills for a moment, and as Soobin thought she would, holds on to that flower pose, her cheeks taut from smiling. Soobin counts down, takes the shot, and waits for the photo to develop. The gardener immediately runs to him, and the giddiness is almost tangible in her steps.
“Ah, it’s a polaroid camera! I used to have one of those back in the day, too.”
When the photo comes out—clean and clear, much to Soobin’s relief, as he’d gotten duds during his first few shots earlier—the gardener immediately gushes over it, hand over her chest. “Oh, it’s lovely. You’ve sent me back a good two decades here! Is this one of those cameras that have those fancy filters?” She cups a hand over one of her cheeks and gives back the photo, repeating her pose for confirmation, “Does this ahjumma really look like that in person?”
Soobin looks at the polaroid. Then at her. Doesn’t need to think much of it, just nods enthusiastically.
She guffaws and playfully slaps Soobin’s shoulder. “Why, aren’t you a sweetheart? But I have to get back to those flowers. I can hear them calling for me. Right now they’re just begging for attention.” She gives him a pat on the back, already leaving, but Soobin stops her.
“Excuse me,” he says, offering the photo with both hands, “but uhm, you can keep this.”
“Oh no, but aren’t you a student? Isn’t it for an assignment?”
Soobin shakes his head. “Please, it’s yours.”
“I couldn’t… oh, I know!” At that, she runs to her garden, returning with a single chrysanthemum wrapped in old newspaper, a deep burgundy in the middle before fading at the edges. “Freshly cut this morning. It’s an extra. I usually bring these home to my daughter, but she’s on a school trip until Sunday, so today I’m giving this to you,” she remarks, and Soobin feels something bloom inside his chest.
Prof. John must’ve watched the whole thing unfurl, too, given his expression once Soobin walks back over to him. Soobin half-expected him to say, all sly, I thought you weren’t into taking photos of people, but Soobin is one step ahead, already answering. “The picture looked better with her in it.” He shrugs, as if it’s not a big deal, then blushes, because he felt the need to defend himself like that. Johnny only hums as they continue walking, and Soobin is convinced that Johnny can see his ears burning, no doubt the tips as red as the flower he just put in his bag.
The more they roam the campus, the more it becomes apparent that the little anecdote about Instax selcas earlier wasn’t just something to break the ice, and that sharing stories is just part of Johnny’s teaching style. Soobin listens to him as he recounts whens, whos, hows, and whats, and he discovers more about Johnny and photography in the thirty minutes or so that they’ve wandered around Chung-Ang than when he did hours of online sleuthing and preparatory research last night. Even better is that he’s actually engaged in conversation, the responses coming to him easily. They spill out, often without pause or filter—as if they’d all already been inside of him, waiting in line for their turn.
Soobin isn’t sure how they end up in front of the CAU Art Center—a place so familiar to him that he almost believes that his feet must have guided him here subconsciously—but that’s where they are now, his shoes skidding on the pavement as he and Johnny take their final stop. The words that come out of Johnny’s mouth make Soobin think that he's been deliberately led here by him; although if that were the case, Soobin might not really mind.
“Yeonjun’s in there right now, isn’t he?” Johnny asks before taking a quick snap of the facade of the building. “Rehearsing for Spring, was it?”
“Rehearsing for Spring,” Soobin repeats absentmindedly, reaching for his phone to check the time, surprised at how long it’s been since they left the first building. It’s close to five-thirty p.m. now; Yeonjun’s rehearsals end at five, and they rarely go overtime, because Key insists he is not running a “dictatorship” (although Dejun insists otherwise). He’s about to text him, but is interrupted when Johnny speaks up again.
“What do you say we start wrapping up? It’s too late to go all the way back, so we can head in here to take a look at the photos we took.”
Soobin agrees, and although he’s a bit sad that it’s about to end, he tries not to show it on his face. It’s difficult, however, when he recounts how Johnny has been a great mentor so far, and he ends up imagining how much greater he could be if only Soobin could take more classes—or even a semester, an entire year. He shakes his head, determined not to get too ahead of himself, and follows Johnny into the building.
They occupy one of the tables on the ground floor lobby, with the photographs spread out in between them. Johnny’s feedback is thorough, noting where Soobin excels at, and giving him advice on what he could improve on. “Your first few shots were a little spotty, but after you got the exposure settings right, they all got a lot better each time. See?” Soobin ends up bringing a notepad out to take down all the stuff Johnny’s saying, partly because he can be such a nerd sometimes (especially when it comes to things he actually cares about), but mostly because he needs to do something with his hands.
At one point, Johnny asks Soobin which one of Johnny’s photos is his favorite and why, and Soobin picks each photo up, noting the variety in each, yet concluding that they all share a common theme: people. Campus life, and how it seems to tell a story even though the photos are only related to each other by that theme. Soobin chooses a candid of a group of friends hanging out, teeth flashing as they laugh at someone's joke. When prompted to pick his favorite shot from his own set, Soobin thinks about it for a moment longer before deciding that it’s the one he snapped of the gardener and her flowers. He doesn’t have it on hand anymore, so he did his best to describe it. “It just had the right amount of brightness, like everything in the shot was reflecting light off of each other… in the best way possible.” He felt that was too inconclusive of an explanation, so he adds—perhaps a bit clumsily, but genuine all the same, “And the red hues of the chrysanthemums didn’t feel overpowering, if that makes sense?”
“I wish I could’ve seen it, but I trust your judgment, especially given the way she reacted when you gave her the photo,” Johnny responds, and Soobin gives him a small smile, stopping himself from looking too flattered.
After Soobin’s exhausted all of the questions he prepared beforehand—throwing in a few new ones, then some more, just to stall—Johnny starts clearing the table, and the cold reality settles into Soobin’s bones: how their session has come to an end, how he only has this now-memory of a good thing to hold on to, how he has to go home and pretend he doesn’t ache for more. How there could be more, how he doesn’t need to ache or pretend not to, if Soobin only had the money or time, if he didn’t spend his summer earnings on mending a broken heart, if he had the gall to ask his parents to consider—just consider—that maybe Soobin can think for himself, think of himself, for once.
“I know you said that you don’t plan on taking any more classes after this, but you have my number, so you can ask me about… anything, really, and I’ll answer as soon as I can. Just… shoot your shot.”
Johnny’s being so kind that it makes Soobin’s stomach curl. Why did he have to be such a cool teacher with his goofy jokes? This makes everything twice as hard for Soobin to let go of.
Soobin can only croak out a laugh and a polite “I learned a lot today, thank you,” his left leg bouncing under the table so much that he has to physically press both hands to his knee to calm it down. He glances at the cafe across from them, remembering that the exhibit for Prof. John’s class is just around that corner. He makes a mental note to visit it again sometime next week, since it’s due to end soon, too. Maybe he can go there with Yeonjun; that would be nice.
Yeonjun. That reminds him.
Soobin checks his phone as he and Johnny stand to leave, only catching a glimpse of the notifications on his lock screen, before he hears footsteps coming toward them. And as if summoned by Soobin’s thoughts, there he is, making his grand entrance: Choi Yeonjun, arriving with Dejun’s arm slung over his shoulders. And it’s in this scene that Soobin notes, perhaps for the first time, of just how close they really are. It sends a small, singular prick of intrigue to his chest, which jumps up to his throat as Yeonjun and Dejun approach them.
“Soobin, it’s like I haven’t seen you in forever!” Dejun exclaims before giving Prof. John a friendly bow. He still has his arm around Yeonjun’s shoulders—like a koala clinging to a branch—and Soobin wonders how forever feels different from person to person: for Dejun, it’s two weeks after the festival; for Soobin, it’s every second that passes where Dejun has his arm around Yeonjun. He starts busying himself with the hems of his pockets, tracing the outline with his itchy fingers.
“Jun and I just finished another fitting, which took a while ‘cause the designer had to make a few adjustments to somebody’s costume.” He pats Yeonjun’s chest with his other hand, and for someone who’s trying so hard not to look, Soobin sure is noticing everything. “Y’know, lately he’s been eating like a bear going into hibernation, and I keep telling him that—” Yeonjun rolls his shoulders and scoffs, visibly annoyed. He might have momentarily flit his eyes Soobin’s way, too, but Soobin wasn’t looking.
“You’re exaggerating, DJ,” Yeonjun tells him, and that should’ve been enough for Dejun to take a hint, but now he has both hands free to gesticulate his point.
“Exaggerating? But whenever we go to Hyuck’s café, you order enough for a whole crew! I mean, you even steal food off of my plate...”
“It’s because you’re such a picky eater,” Yeonjun counters, poking Dejun’s shoulder, “and it’s bad to let food go to waste.”
“They also tend to have really modest portions there, based on experience,” Johnny adds with his signature shrug, but Dejun still doesn’t let up.
“Oh, definitely, Prof.,” Dejun says as he rubs his shoulder, “But that’s not all, you should see how quickly he wolfs everything down in record speed…”
As Soobin unwillingly listens, he comes to the conclusion that Dejun and Yeonjun couldn’t be that close, after all, because why would Dejun say any of this out loud otherwise, especially with his supposed friend looking so visibly uncomfortable next to him? He glances at Yeonjun, who only watches as Dejun plays with his imaginary utensils in the air.
Soobin tightly grips the strap of his sling bag—unsure of what to do that doesn’t involve him straight-up telling Dejun to shut the fuck up—when he’s reminded of what’s inside it. He gets an awfully stupid idea at that moment, but it just might work, so his body moves before his brain throws the (barely) plan out the window.
Soobin takes the chrysanthemum—thankful that it’s still intact—and reaches an arm out to offer it to Yeonjun, fighting how his fingers tremble around the thin stem. “Hyung,” he says, washing down the last trace of mortification from his tongue with a solid gulp. “For… you. For doing a good job at rehearsals today.”
Soobin doesn’t care if that didn’t make any sense. Nobody gives flowers after practice, anyway, and he wasn’t even at rehearsals in the first place. And maybe Yeonjun is used to this, to having flowers handed to him—after every successful show; from his countless admirers, gray and blue in their Judy Hopp ensembles, red and black rows of chairs in the auditorium, present only to witness Yeonjun in action. But then again, Soobin doesn’t care. Nothing about this makes sense, but it just might work.
Yeonjun’s gaze is piercing, and Soobin would avoid it, but maintaining his current stance is the better alternative to seeing what reaction Johnny or Dejun might have. Besides, what’s important is Dejun finally drops the subject, as he settles to muttering an impressed oh, wow beside Yeonjun instead. The fact that Soobin likes how Yeonjun is looking at him—a blush trailing his cheeks as he takes the flower from Soobin’s hand—is merely an unsuspected bonus.
“I was going to message you,” Yeonjun says as he plays with his ear piercings, his other hand twisting the flower by its stem. Cute, Soobin notes—almost says. “I wasn’t sure what time you’d be done. How was it? Did you learn a lot from Chung-Ang’s best of the best?” He shoots Prof. John a playful grin, and just like that, is back to his confident self.
Johnny crosses his arms, snorts out a laugh. “If I remember correctly—and feel free to tell me if I’m wrong here—I already agreed to shooting your musical’s promotional photos, so there’s no need to butter me up like this anymore. Besides, that doesn’t work on me.” You’re in luck, though, because Soobin and I just finished for today… I mean, learning is never truly finished, obviously—you guys get what I mean, right? Learning never stops.” It’s easy to forget—when he’s joking around and rambling like this—that Johnny isn’t just another regular uni student like them. To be fair, Soobin surmises that he couldn’t be any older Minhyuk—perhaps the same age, or even a little younger than that. Both have that older brotherly vibe.
Eventually, the group disperses, with Yeonjun joining Soobin for dinner at their favorite place.
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“There, perfect,” Yeonjun says with a flourish, the red chrysanthemum trembling in the glass-turned-vase before it settles, a slight tilt to its stem. His eyes stay glued to the flower as he talks, elbow propped on the table, a cheek stuck to his palm.
“I’ve been telling Hyuck that he should think about sprucing up the place; it’s barely changed since my first year in Chung-Ang.” He reaches his other hand out to lightly trace the petals, starting from its clustered center to its tapered edges; Soobin follows these small movements, watching pale fingertips touch delicate blades of red. “People like a little variety, right?” Yeonjun asks without looking at him.
Soobin considers it for a moment. He cranes his neck around the cafe, as if to find reason to agree, but sees nothing wrong with what he sees. He’s no good at interior design or advertising, but as a semi-regular customer who likes the food here, he’s content with how the place looks now. Yeonjun’s been here many more times than he has, though, so of course he would feel different about it.
“I don’t know, hyung,” he says, “I like how it is now.” He realizes that that doesn’t really answer Yeonjun’s question, so he adds, “…and some people like familiarity. It feels safe.” He scrunches his brows and drinks from his glass, throat suddenly dry. “But the flower’s a nice touch. Try talking to Hyuck about it again.”
Yeonjun finally looks at him—perhaps for the first time since they sat down to have dinner—and his smile is pretty, as it always is, but with an indiscernible curve to it this time.
His expression changes, though, before Soobin is given the chance to really look into it. “I still can’t believe you made a scene like that! I felt like I was in some sort of drama; all that was missing was the cheesy music. You can be so romantic when you want to. You definitely succeeded in sweeping me off my feet earlier, at least,” he says with a grin full of teeth.
“It was cringey as hell and you know it,” Soobin counters. Now that the moment’s passed and Yeonjun’s even acknowledged it (confirming that it did, in fact, happen), he realizes how impulsive he had been, and the mortification of being witnessed (by a professor, no less!) acting that way is somehow doubled after the fact. He shakes his head, and starts aggressively mixing his pasta bowl to try and get rid of the feeling (it does not work). He twirls his fork even though he ordered penne, and now he looks like a fool doing it. He stabs a few pieces this time, thinking that perhaps he can replace embarrassment with food instead.
“Woah, slow down, are you that hungry? Your cheeks are so full, you’re starting to look like a chipmunk.”
Soobin swallows the food in his mouth before muttering, “Sorry.”
“And for the record, it was not cringey; even DJ texted me about how cool you were.”
“As if he would know what's cool and what isn't.”
Yeonjun laughs from across the table, and when Soobin looks up from his bowl, he catches a glimpse of the tomato soup Yeonjun ordered, and he’s reminded of what got him in this situation in the first place. He clears his throat, unsure of if he should bring it up at all, but ultimately deciding that it’s worth discussing. “Hyung, I—”
“Yeah, DJ can be such an idiot sometimes,” Yeonjun says as he brings a spoonful of soup to his mouth, blows on it two, three times, and puts it back down in his bowl without so much as grazing his mouth to the spoon. He licks his lips before continuing, “What was he going on about, anyway? I mean, I forget to have lunch this one time—which naturally makes me order a bit more than usual for dinner, right?—and he goes and turns it into this whole thing in his head.” He tuts, takes a careful sip of his soup, then another, until the orange of the tomato has been licked clean off the stainless steel spoon, which he starts waving around as if to emphasize his point. “His cluelessness astounds me sometimes. Though I do have to admit that the thing about me being a bear preparing for hibernation was pretty funny.”
“I think he might’ve gone a bit too far… maybe,” Soobin says, conviction faltering at the last word.
“Maybe,” Yeonjun repeats, wiping his mouth with a napkin, the white of it stained a deep orange as he sets it back aside. “But you know how we are. We like teasing each other and shit; it’s part of our dynamic. And I’m not so fragile as to let it get to me like that.”
Soobin only nods, starting to feel that he might’ve read the situation wrong. What if it really wasn’t that big of a deal to Yeonjun, and he was acting all frustrated for his sake for no good reason? He takes another bite, this time chewing slowly, taking what Yeonjun just said into account before concluding that he must have overreacted.
Dejun has known Yeonjun longer than he has; he’d know when he’s crossed a line, thoughtless as he may appear at times. And Soobin does have a tendency to make mountains out of molehills. Still, he can’t shake off the memory of Yeonjun looking so defeated when Dejun kept talking, and how relieved he turned when Soobin interrupted Dejun. Or maybe he only saw what he wanted to see, and the thought of why he wanted to see that scene play out sends a trickle of shame down his spine.
In front of him, Yeonjun is focused on his soup, stirring the thick liquid over and over again, the heat of it likely having dissipated with how much it’s been mixed. It oddly reminds Soobin of when his baby nephew first started eating food by himself, how he’d hover his little plastic spoon over his little plastic bowl as if it were a wand that’d magically make his meal teleport into his belly. He remembers how his sister chided Soobin then, when Soobin reached over to try and feed him. But he's still struggling, he said, just as little Haneul successfully directed the spoon to the inside of his mouth for the first time. See, his sister told him as wiped Haneul’s cheek, He just needed some time to figure it out on his own.
Yeonjun pauses, no doubt having caught Soobin staring at him now. Soobin tries to go back to minding his own business, but Yeonjun says something that stops him.
“He doesn’t know, by the way,” Yeonjun says. He purses his lips, takes a deep breath, and meets Soobin’s gaze, who at this point can’t keep his eyes off of Yeonjun—listening intently to every word he says, watching closely over every shape his mouth takes. “Dejun, I mean. He doesn’t know about the stuff I’ve told you,” he clarifies, and something clicks in Soobin’s head, thumps in his chest, rattles in his brain in a burst of words, parallel phrases: he doesn’t know—I know—he let me know.
And of course, come the questions, too many and too heavy for him to ask right now. He just lets the silence exist between them, lets it simmer and form meaning, until Yeonjun breaks it by way of asking how his first lesson with Johnny went. “But hey, you haven’t told me about what happened to you and Johnny-ssaem’s class yet! How was it? Did you learn anything that you didn’t already know yet?”
Soobin is thankful for the quick exit, the change in subject. He immediately starts recounting the events of the day: going around campus, the professor’s many anecdotes—Yeonjun exclaiming, “he loves telling that story about Ten. I think he tells it to every class! You can see how heart-eyed he is as he tells it, too.”—about the gardener and her chrysanthemum—“So you really did just get it along the way? And here I thought you picked it out especially for me!”
When Yeonjun asks if Soobin intends to take any more lessons (from Johnny or elsewhere), Soobin licks his lips, contemplative.
“Probably not. It was a nice experience, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t really see myself doing it again.” Well, it’s not exactly a lie. “But he did say that I could message him any time and he’d answer, so, that’s great, I guess.” He waits for Yeonjun’s response, maybe some encouragement, to try and convince him to pursue it further. But to his surprise, Yeonjun just nods.
“Well, at least you had fun today.”
Soobin is halfway through his meal when he hears his phone vibrate incessantly, the sound strong and almost non-stop against his bag.
Even Yeonjun notices. “Looks like someone’s blowing up your notifs. You should go check.”
Soobin’s eyes widen once he sees where all the messages are coming from. He’s been added to a group chat on KaoTalk named jacob’s bye-day bash 🏹🏹🏹, typed in English. It takes him a moment to realize who “Jacob” is—the boa and arrow emojis offering a hint—when he sees the names of the other members of the chat, sending messages and stickers and gifs one after the other.
hwall
(6:52 PM)
» lol what!!
» who came up with that corny-ass group namesunwoo
(6:52 PM)
» hi hello
» yooooooo what’s this 👀
» archery boyz reunion soon? 👀younghoon
(6:53 PM)
» @hwall don’t hurt your sunbae’s feelings
» i summoned every english-speaking bone in my body for thathwall
(6:54 PM)
» well maybe you should summon some moresunwoo
(6:54 PM)
» i think younghoon-hyung can name this gc whatever he wants tohyunjae
(6:54 PM)
» anyway…
» i’m pretty sure ur all wondering what ur doing herejuyeon
(6:54 PM)
» i’m not tho
» i already knowhyunjae
(6:54 PM)
» except u, juyeon 🤨
» obviously
Soobin skims the rest of the chat before promptly locking his phone without replying. He looks up and he’s met with Yeonjun’s expectant eyes, asking him for details in lieu of words. He shakes his head and puts his phone face down on the table.
“It’s nothing, just a couple of texts—” his phone vibrates. Again, and again. Soobin’s about to mute notifications for the group chat when Yeonjun reaches over and places his hand over Soobin’s. His skin is cold.
“Are you sure it’s nothing? That does not seem like a couple of texts to me.”
Soobin runs a hand through his hair, decides that ignoring is not going to help him at all. “Well, uhm, I actually got added into this group chat… with my old archery clubmates.”
Yeonjun gets a curious look on his face, which he immediately dials down. “And then?” he asks, urging Soobin to continue.
“I’m not sure of the details yet but it looks like they’re throwing a going-away party for one of our members. He’s moving to Canada… I think.”
“So that means you’re invited?” Yeonjun beams, and Soobin wonders why he looks so intrigued—excited, almost.
“Yeah, but I don’t know if I should even go…”
“But weren’t you close with them? And you haven’t seen them in a while, I bet.” Yeonjun asks, his head tilted, as if confused, or hopeful. Of course Yeonjun—this social butterfly, this extra-extrovert—would be perplexed at how Soobin could even think of not going.
Still, Soobin considers the question for a moment. He didn’t have that many friends in high school, but it’s an indisputable fact that the closest to a friend group he had was the archery club. And he definitely remembers them, the camaraderie they fostered on account of all the bus rides, the assigned rooms, the games, the wins, the losses.
Sure, it was only because of Changmin that he even joined in the first place, but he would have never stayed if he didn’t enjoy the company of the other members. They may not have all kept in touch, only exchanging likes and the occasional comment or reply on Instagram, but that doesn’t mean that they’ve returned to being strangers, either. Soobin can never go back to being strangers with people he experienced all those growing pains with.
“Yeah, I guess you could say that we spent a lot of time together.” A complete understatement, Soobin thinks.
“So, why not go then? What else is stopping you?”
Soobin decides then and there that there’s no use in stalling, or denying what’s already written on the wall. “My ex is going to be there, y’know. I never really mentioned it before, but we were in the same club, from middle school to high school,” Soobin reveals, this trump card of an excuse not to go.
It’s one thing to not mind seeing Changmin live his happy, Soobin-less life on social media; it’s another to see him in the flesh again, witness that same smile in motion, and face the fact that he’s smiling for a different, non-Soobin reason now.
Yeonjun blinks—once, twice—before leaning back in his seat. “I kind of already figured that he was… sorry.”
“Wait, you knew that he could’ve been there? And you still insisted that I go?” Soobin back-pedals with a cough, acutely aware that he may have sounded too hurt or offended just now. But the truth is he’s neither—only curious. He follows with a joke, just in case. “Aren’t you supposed to be… jealous or whatever, and not let me go?” He glances over at Yeonjun, hoping that his so-called joke didn’t land wrong.
Yeonjun scoffs, then narrows his eyes at Soobin. “Come on. I’m not that type of boyfriend. Besides, if you still decide to get back with your ex knowing that you already have all of this,” he puffs his chest out, and gestures from his face to the rest of his frame, like a peacock on display, “then that’s your loss, not mine.”
Soobin stifles a laugh, covering his face with one hand and looking around the café to see if anyone else is seeing all this, all of Yeonjun in his unabashed, flirty glory. But nobody else is looking, only Soobin. And what do you know? Maybe Soobin does have this—whatever this is in front of him, however temporary this is—he has it now, at least, has the good it’s given him: perspective; time; something else to think about, to feel; someone else to look at, to pay attention to, to get to know.
“But I could drop you off, make sure they know that you’re taken.”
“You just said that you weren’t that type of boyfriend.”
“Well, I could be, if that’s what you want.”
Soobin raises his eyebrows. “What, are you just going to do anything I want now?”
Yeonjun smirks, as if Soobin fell right into his trap.. “So you admit it, then? You do want me to act jealous.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “You should have just told me from the start. Would've been happy to oblige.”
Soobin feels his face heat up, and he stammers. “H-hey, I didn’t say that!”
“And to answer your question, no, I won’t do anything you want—I have my limits, too, y’know.” He props his chin in his palm, and Soobin swears that he can hear Yeonjun almost purr the next bit out, like some sly cat.
“But I’m open to a lot of stuff, especially if you ask me really nicely.”
Soobin doesn’t do any asking (nicely or otherwise) after that. Just chugs down the water in his glass, then immediately goes to call the waiter, “Excuse me, can I get a refill, please?,” drinking one more glass for good measure, until he’s sure that whatever fire was starting inside him has calmed down now, leaving a remnant warmth that finds its way to the tips of his fingers and toes as Yeonjun looks at him from across the table, all satisfied and victorious.
“Should we get the bill?” Soobin asks, wiping his mouth.
Later that evening, as Soobin kisses Yeonjun goodbye in the car, he feels Yeonjun’s lower lip tremble in between his teeth; and briefly wonders what it’d be like to feel the entirety of Yeonjun trembling against him—to truly have all of this, and then some, then some more.
They pull apart, and Soobin's eyes roam Yeonjun's face: cheeks flushed underneath the light, lips red with the slight sheen of spit. How would you rate that, Soobin imagines him asking, recalls. Yeonjun doesn’t ask Soobin for ratings anymore, hasn’t for a while now. Soobin already gave that 10/10 Yeonjun asked of him days ago. What would have come next, anyway? An eleven? A hundred? Why say anything at all, when they could just listen to each other catching their breaths, knowing they’ve stolen it from the other; or better yet, when they could just kiss again… and again?
Despite this, as Soobin closes the door on his way out, he privately gives that kiss another solid ten out of ten.
»» 🐰 ««
On Tuesday afternoon, Yeonjun joins Soobin on the penultimate day of the Work It exhibit. Soobin wanted to attend the culminating event tomorrow afternoon—an open forum where the photographers, alongside the dance majors who were the subjects of their work, would share and discuss their experiences preparing for the gallery—but he couldn’t really fit it into his schedule.
“The sendoff for your old sunbae—Joonyoung, was it?—is this Saturday right?” Yeonjun asks him as they sit down on one of the benches in the gallery, in front of the piece that caught Soobin’s eye when he first went here: the ballerina with agony written all over her monochrome face. He never was able to find out what was going on behind the scenes of this photo; maybe the subject would reveal it during tomorrow’s event, if she were to attend.
Soobin nods. “Yeah, though he’s going by Jacob now.”
“Where is it again,” Yeonjun pauses, then snaps his fingers just as quickly, “somewhere in Sinchon, right? And you’re okay with me dropping you off there?”
“It’s at this noraebang place owned by Sunwoo’s parents.”
“Sunwoo’s the one who’s the same age as you, right?”
Soobin raises his eyebrows, impressed. He’s only ever given Yeonjun a brief rundown of all the clubmates that’ll be attending the farewell party, but it looks like he’s already managed to get their names and relations to Soobin down pat. Has he been taking notes or something?
Before Soobin can think of something ridiculous—like how Yeonjun might just be genuinely interested in his life, and whatever that entails—he concludes that it’s only natural for Yeonjun to be good at this, since a lead actor who can’t memorize his lines would be disastrous. Soobin, on the other hand, can’t imagine keeping that sort of character list in his head without direct proximity acting as the glue to his memory.
Soobin hears Yeonjun mutter something. “What was that?”
Yeonjun has both hands on either side of his thighs, gripping the edge of the bench, his ankles crossed beneath him. He points to the photo in front of them.
“I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned this before, but I know her. She was my sunbae in high school.”
“You've never mentioned it, no.”
“Since the theatre and dance departments are pretty tight-knit at school, I run into her during all sorts of events. Just the other day, we were at this café, catching up.”
Soobin tilts his head, unsure of where this conversation is heading. Why is Yeonjun suddenly bringing this up now?
“And I remembered how intrigued you were about this photo when we first came here, so I asked her about it.”
Soobin blinks. “Wait. So you’re telling me that you solved the mystery of this photo…” Soobin trails off, stopping just before he adds for me.
Yeonjun chuckles. “Slow down, Sherlock. I don’t think you’d want to know the real reason. You might find it underwhelming… or overwhelming; could go either way, really.”
Soobin only further locks his gaze on Yeonjun as he urges him to go on.
Yeonjun glances at him, turns back to the photo abruptly, and scratches the back of his head. “Well, I mean… she’s a dancer—a ballet dancer, at that. Their bodies need to endure a lot if they want to improve. And I know her, she pushes herself more than most.”
“But that’s not all there is to it, is it?” Soobin asks.
Yeonjun pouts, as if hesitant if he should continue or not. “Are you sure you’re okay with me spoiling the truth? I mean, she’s going to be telling this story at the forum tomorrow, anyway.”
Soobin vigorously nods, straightening his back so he could focus on what Yeonjun’s about to say. “Yeah, tell me. I won’t even be able to go, so, might as well know now.”
Yeonjun licks his lips. “Well we can’t have you losing sleep over this, can we? It’s not as glamorous as you may think, though, small disclaimer. It’s actually kind of funny. I mean, yeah, ballet is hard, but Mina-noona has been doing it practically since she was born—she used to joke that she learned how to jeté before she even learned to walk. So when Chanhee asked her if she could be his subject for the exhibit, she immediately said yes, ‘cause it’d be so easy, right? It was supposed to look natural: she would do her usual barre routine while Chanhee was in his corner taking photos of her, but she couldn’t quite get the expression on her face right; that is, until—get this—”
Yeonjun pauses, no doubt for dramatic effect. Soobin indulges him, even biting on his lower lip for effect, if only to finally get to the bottom of this story once and for all.
“She suddenly started getting indigestion in the middle of the shoot… and voilà, that’s what resulted in the masterpiece you’re seeing in front of you right now.”
Soobin furrows his eyebrows, all bewildered. That’s it? He points to the photo. “Wait, what? So you’re telling me… that she was having stomach problems here?”
“Told you it was silly. Sorry if it ruined the entire piece for you.”
Soobin tilts his head, tongues his cheek, as if trying to chew on this new revelation. He looks at the photo again, narrows his eyes, and imagines the face of someone with indigestion. How the hell does anyone manage to still look that graceful while their gut is screaming at them to go to the nearest restroom?
“And that’s not even the end of the story,” Yeonjun adds. “‘Cause you know what happened when she saw this exact shot? She cried—just, started full-on sobbing on the floor. She told me that she’d never seen an uglier photo of herself in all her years of doing ballet. She’d been trained—“programmed” her exact word—to look perfect and effortless on stage, and even when the scene called for tragedy, her expression would still look plastered on. This was the first time she saw herself in real, unfiltered pain. All because she was secretly stressed out about the shoot, and ended up going through five orders of spicy chicken feet to calm herself down the night before.”
There’s a quick pause before Yeonjun shrugs. “Something we have in common, I guess. Just a pair of performers with a food complex.”
Soobin might’ve made a telling face just about now, because when Yeonjun looks at him, he shifts in place and looks down at the floor. Yeonjun can never make anything truly awkward—considering that’s more Soobin’s specialty—but right now he seems tense, like he regrets whatever he just said, or he wants to say more but is holding himself back.
“It’s nothing like a full-on relapse or anything, so you don’t have to worry about that. I just tend to eat more when I have a lot on my mind. It’ll stop after a while. I appreciate it, your concern. What you did ”
Oftentimes, Soobin’s found that it’s when people tell others to not worry where they should worry the most. He knows it, has lied enough times about it himself.
“Things like Spring?” Soobin asks, not sure if there should be any other things on Yeonjun’s mind. “Or, like, school stuff?”
“Yeah,” Yeonjun nods resolutely, “Like Spring. I’m super stoked about it and everything, but… it’s my biggest role so far.” He takes a deep breath, rolling his shoulders. “I guess even I’m not immune to the pressure that comes with it, huh. Who would’ve guessed? A star like me?”
Soobin would've never guessed, but having spent time with Yeonjun for months now, he could see how it’s possible. And he would never be able to relate, but he could at least understand. “Thank you for telling me,” he says, even though the exact word in his mind is trusting.Yeonjun’s trust—where it came from, how Soobin managed to earn it. If it’s something that should be earned in the first place, and not freely received. And if it is something paid for, does that justify what Soobin’s feeling now, this touch of greed?
“Hyung, you know you can tell me if there are other things on your mind, right?”
“Why? Is that the type of boyfriend you are? My sweet Soobinie, so eager to listen. I’ve been telling you plenty, though.”
Soobin “You encouraged me that way, you know. Told me to listen more. It’s helped me a lot… so I just want to help you, too.”
“You know how you could really help me right now?” Yeonjun leans over to him, and Soobin knows what he’s implying. And maybe there are strangers here who’d see. But even then, isn’t it just the perfect opportunity to kiss? Right here, in front of this huge framed photo of a ballerina who, quite literally, went with her gut; as if it’s this whole metaphor of how Soobin should do the same, go by the instinct that’s telling him to lean forward, cup Yeonjun’s cheek, and bring their lips together, maybe just for a long second. Not so much as a romantic gesture, but something like comfort, a reassurance that words aren’t enough for.
Just as Soobin is halfway to closing his eyes, he feels his phone buzz in his pocket—two shorts ones, followed by another two. He bristles, Yeonjun licks his lips and turns his attention back to the photo, and Soobin reads the texts. When Soobin sees who they’re from, he immediately opens them, wondering what article or video Prof. John shared this time. His mind is already set on which thank you sticker to send him, noting how he’ll check the link later once he gets home.
To his surprise, however, this time Johnny’s message is different. It still includes a link, and it’s still related to photography, but it's for something that requires more active participation from Soobin than just reading or watching online.
cau prof. john
(18:07 PM)
» hi, soobin. thought you might be interested, looks like they opened a few extra slots
» [instagram link]
» i’ll be part of this too… but i can’t tell you how exactly. it’s supposed to be a secret!
Soobin taps the blue text, and he’s redirected to the Instagram app. It sends him to a notice posted by an account with the handle seoul.seekers, announcing that registration is still open for their photography workshop. The poster is an image of a girl, only her chin and smile visible as she looks into the viewfinder of her camera, palm curled around the lens barrel. Soobin glances at the bolded question on top—Are you passionate about—before giving an instinctual nod to no one but himself. Then swipe for more info!, and so Soobin does.
‘Shoot Your Shot’ is an event that has been held annually by the Seoul Seekers Photography Association since the organization’s formation in 2001. The three-week long course aims to teach photography through lessons and activities that foster creativity, collaboration, and positive change within the community. Classes are free of charge and registered students will be provided with all necessary equipment and materials.
Soobin swipes to the next photo, text replaced by numbers: dates and times. He’s in the middle of reading the schedule when a hand touches his shoulder.
“Did something happen?”
Soobin flinches and clutches his locked phone to his chest. He notices a faint triangle form in the space between Yeonjun’s brows as he looks at him, and guilt draws its own shapes in Soobin’s throat. What kind of face did Soobin wear as he checked his phone, for Yeonjun’s concern to reveal itself like this? Did Soobin look scared, as if struck down by the arrival of bad news? Is he scared? Is this workshop—this chance—bad news?
Yeonjun drops his gaze to Soobin’s phone—still sandwiched between his shirt and palm—and Soobin realizes that he does give off the impression of someone on the brink of an emergency, prolonged silence preceded by an overreaction. He clears his throat and puts his phone down on his lap. “Sorry,” he says, and when Yeonjun doesn’t visibly relax, follows up with, “Prof. John sent me a link… He thinks I should join this workshop.”
Yeonjun’s expression lightens up, catching that first spark. “Oh, really?” he exclaims, and Soobin continues to fan the fire of careful curiosity in Yeonjun’s eyes. He unlocks his phone and re-opens the link to show Yeonjun, who leans in so close to him that Soobin could smell strawberries from his hair, recalling the story behind it. Soobin tagged along when Yeonjun picked the shampoo out at the cosmetics store, listened when Yeonjun explained that his usual was out of stock and he wanted to try this new brand. It’s odd, recalling the life of a product this way: from shelf to hand to cart to bag to Yeonjun’s head, and now Soobin’s lungs.
Soobin releases a clipped breath when he swipes to the last photo. His thumb hovers over his phone, and Yeonjun reads the address of the venue out loud, excited and eager. “It’s at the old municipal library at Hyehwa Station, Exit 4, near Sungkyung…” his voice trails off. He looks up at Soobin, his expression devoid of shape or color, as if waiting for Soobin to paint over his face.
Soobin has only ever mentioned the circumstances of his past relationship in passing, unable to dwell on it too long in conversation. But in this case, it’s impossible not to address it.
They both know that once Soobin gets off at Exit 4, he will be greeted by the Soobin from a year ago, that fresh-faced student of SKKU. Back when the words legacy, and engineer, and Changmin were still ingrained into Soobin’s life like skin, before they turned into the grime he’s been trying to scrub off of him for the past year. He’s transferred schools, changed majors, and is in the process of mending a broken heart; but there’s a reason he still avoids that part of the city, how its existence has been relegated to the liminal space of commutes. Exit 4 is the home of ghosts, and Soobin is haunted enough on his own.
Yeonjun takes a deep breath and rests his head on Soobin’s shoulder. He places his hand on Soobin’s lap, palm up. Soobin dismisses his phone and shifts his focus to holding Yeonjun's hand instead.
“What are you thinking of?”
Soobin doesn’t say it out loud, but the answer comes easy to him. Right now he is thinking of the guy beside him, Yeonjun who is tracing circles over the back of Soobin’s hand. Of how Yeonjun knows this city like the back of his hand. Of how he’s en route to knowing Soobin the same.
This he figured out a week ago, stuck in traffic with the rain pelting the roof of Yeonjun’s pickup. Soobin jokingly called Yeonjun out for never listening to N. Maps despite its looming presence on Yeonjun’s dashboard. It had warned them of heavy congestion on this very road and if Yeonjun had only heeded, had only turned right like instructed instead of straight ahead, they would have avoided this bumper-to-bumper zone. Yeonjun apologized by way of flirting—but at least they got to spend more time together, he reasoned, and this made Soobin’s cheeks burn bright like the tail lights around them.
Yeonjun eventually did concede, though, attributing the mistake to his stubborn nature, one that especially took the wheel whenever he was navigating Seoul. Soobin asked if Yeonjun was actually one of those boomers who cursed technological advancement, and Yeonjun agreed with a laugh that made Soobin forget they were packed under rainwater like metal sardines.
Yeonjun told Soobin of how his mother used to drive him around the city every chance she got: weekends, holidays, squeezing out every morsel of free time Yeonjun had away from school. He said that even as a kid, he’d sensed how lonely his mom was—with a husband at sea and a child still learning to understand her—so Yeonjun never refused her, not even on days he’d been so tired from classes that he hardly felt his limbs. He recalled how their footsteps took them to places wheels could not reach—restaurants, theatres, museums, gardens, boutiques—each visit a precious moment between mother and son. Yeonjun had promised to continue this tradition of exploration, his mother’s new spot the passenger seat; but by the time he acquired his own license at eighteen, she had already grown sick of the city, indifferent to its beckoning noise. So now Yeonjun drove alone, trusting memory to guide him.
A wave of fondness overcame Soobin then, just as the light ahead signaled go;, and he pointed out—his voice prevailing over the incessant honking that followed the switch to green—that at least for that day, Yeonjun was not driving alone. Soobin was there with him. And because it was late, with the rush hour and rain showing no signs of stopping, and because time was finite with theirs even moreso, Soobin stayed with Yeonjun for a while longer after that.
Later in bed that evening, Soobin recalled how he had stood under the awning of their front gate—watching Yeonjun grow smaller and smaller until he completely disappeared from view—and came to the realization that Yeonjun would continue driving until he reached his destination, with or without Soobin there.
And maybe Soobin can reach his, too, eventually—and at the very least Yeonjun can be with him too, for this new start.
So he turns to Yeonjun and tells him that he’s taking the first step: he’s signing up for the workshop.