Chapter Text
San was that kid at the back of the class. The one with a hood on his head, drawing a shadow over his features, hiding the deep dark circles underlining his tired eyes. San was that kid who no one knew whether he was being sarcastic or deadly serious. The one most people decided to let alone, too complicated to even approach. San was that kid hunched over his desk in concentration over something no one could distinguish. And he was also the one who built a mask of indifference to wear every day, staying silent as his red pen traced and bled on his fair skin.
He didn’t really want friends. He didn’t really appreciate someone else's company. Having no one to eat his lunch with didn’t bother him. Having no desk neighbor was like a privilege. Others were too loud anyway.
San liked the silence. He liked to draw, liked loneliness. San liked to listen to music and to watch boxing games. San liked to swear when he was alone in his room and couldn’t be scolded for it. San liked his grandparents. San liked watching the sunset. San liked the color red .
San was nine years old. He missed his sister, his couple of old friends, and his old town. But San liked the loneliness that came with moving in with his grandparents. Others would probably look at him as if he was crazy if he said the truth; that he cherished that empty seat by him in the class. It was supposed to be one long desk for two people, but as he was alone, he could even put his bag on the chair right by himself. So, where was the problem? The problem happened a couple of months after San turned ten years old, on the first morning of school. Before he could even give a seat to his backpack, someone sat on the chair.
“Hi! No one has taken this place, right?”
San had almost said it was for his dear bag but retained himself. He huffed, shaking his head before taking a random marker in his pencil case and drawing.
“What are you doing?”
His gaze didn’t shift from the tiger face he was precisely tracing on the smooth surface of his skin.
“Oh, that’s pretty!”
A sour smile crooked San’s lips.
“Fuck off,” he mumbled, so low that the boy at his right didn’t hear it.
“Uh? You said thank you or…?”
For the first time since ever, San chuckled, bitter.
“Can you draw a fox on my arm?”
“No.”
“Why not? Oh, I forgot the magic word… Please ?”
“No.”
“Okay, what about we become friends and then you draw a fox on my arm?”
“No.”
“My name’s Wooyoung!”
“I said no,” he gritted between his teeth, rolling his eyes at the obnoxious kid who would hopefully not annoy him until the rest of the year.
“So… What’s your name?”
He stayed silent for a couple of seconds, shading the muzzle on his drawing.
“San,” he whispered.
“Like a mountain? That’s so cool!”
The boy flinched at the other’s enthusiasm. Too loud .
“So, now we’re friends!”
“I said no , Wooyoung.”
“Wait, the way you said my name is so cool! Where are you from?”
“Namhae.”
“And why did you come here?”
The boy shrugged his shoulders as an answer. He didn’t choose to leave his parents. He was told he had to. And he wasn’t upset about it, even though he did miss his dad a bit.
“So, you don’t have friends here? Do you want to eat lunch with me? I’ll present you to my friends!”
San had shaken his head, preferring some time by himself, but a few days later, Wooyoung stayed with him in class instead of going to the cafeteria like he usually would.
“Go eat, Wooyoung.”
“I’m eating with you today! My friends are going to play soccer, but I don’t feel like it.”
The older of the two had only sighed, munching on his food. He never got told, but Wooyoung’s friends weren’t going to play soccer that day. He just wanted to get to know San more, and his hyung—Seonghwa—had told him to do so if he wanted. So, he did.
A year passed. San and Wooyoung were still in the same class. They had made eating together a weekly thing. The older of the two still hadn’t met the other’s friends. He didn’t want to.
One day, Wooyoung had proposed to do their homework together. San had hesitated, but when he talked about it to his grandfather, the elderly looked so happy he had decided to accept.
Wooyoung’s house was nice, he discovered. It wasn’t overly spacious, pricey, or anything. It was modest, simple, but homey. It had a blue door and the entryway was filled with a bunch of shoes. It wasn’t even close to modern and was a bit messy. It looked like a house from a movie, a house that seemed lived in. Wooyoung had an older brother and a younger one, so the place wasn’t specifically silent , but the laughs and playful arguments that were a background sound weirdly weren’t bothering San. It was nice and kind of calm. A bit loud , but it was fine.
Wooyoung’s mother didn’t yell at her husband when he came back home. San found it weird but kept it to himself. It was bizarre, not unpleasant. Actually, it was quite the opposite of it. He made a mental note to ask his grandfather why it wasn’t like that when he was living with his parents.
When he did ask, the elderly had cried, hugging him tight and telling him he was sorry. San didn’t understand why but kept quiet.
The next time San went to Wooyoung's house, he hadn’t been invited. He was in tears, a morning he was supposed to head to school. His grandfather had died in the night.
It’s Wooyoung’s older brother who had answered the door, and while San did feel a little embarrassed to be seen crying, he couldn’t stop.
“I-Is Wooyoung here?” he sobbed.
“Yeah. Are you okay, kid? Come in, I’ll go get him.”
Wooyoung’s mother peeked her head from the kitchen and hurried to the crying kid as soon as she saw him.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong? It’s okay, honey, it’s okay. Let it all out,” she said, enveloping him in a soft embrace.
She then walked to the kitchen to bring him a glass of water which he downed in no time. A minute later, Wooyoung was downstairs, hair damp and disheveled, and a worried expression tainting his features. He seemed a bit confused but didn’t let it show in his actions, as he hugged San tightly.
“Wooyoung, your brother doesn’t have school today. You can both stay here if that’s better,” his mother said softly. “Call me if you need help with anything . Okay?”
To which the younger one nodded before holding his friend’s hand and heading towards his bedroom. They didn’t say anything for a while until San calmed down.
“Grandpa died,” he sobbed.
The younger one held him tighter. He hadn’t been the closest to his own grandparents but was vaguely aware San’s were very present in his life.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
It’s only years later that Wooyoung understood the extent of the pain San must have felt back then. To lose a parental figure had to be horrifyingly hard. Eleven years old was too young for that. It was also too young to take care of an elderly in grief. It was also too young to fear going back to his parents, or another family.
A month later, San’s mother came to Ilsan and left the city with her child, to go back to Namhae.
During his time at Ilsan, San had always thought he liked the silence. Always believed he liked the loneliness and the color red.
When he came back to Namhae, San discovered he didn’t appreciate it all the way he thought. His parents’ house was too empty, too silent, and it felt too lonely. When Wooyoung called him, San said he wanted to go back home, between a few sobs. Wooyoung couldn’t do anything but listen. He was eleven years old too.
San came back to Ilsan at thirteen years old. His grandmother was still in grief but had done everything she could to get her grandson back. Wooyoung asked San about the few scars on his arm, and the dark bruise on his chin, but the older one had brushed it off.
That year, San wasn’t in Wooyoung’s class. It felt lonely, but it would be okay. He always liked loneliness, and his bag finally had its own seat again. He was still that kid in the back of the class. The one whom Wooyoung ate with once—or twice—a week.
And with Wooyoung’s company, anyone could have believed San would go past his abnormal youth. He was now thirteen years old but was still young enough to restart anew.