Chapter Text
J U N E
Graduation caps fly above San’s head. Jongho, who sits to his left, wears the happiest smile, one where both rows of teeth show. The park is sweltering, the sun brutal already, even though summer has only just begun. San throws his arms around Jongho’s shoulders and gives him a squeeze. They did it. He did it. San doesn’t have to sit through a stats lecture ever again. He looks over his shoulder, eyes scanning the sea of students behind him.
“C’mon, let’s go!” Jongho tugs his sleeve.
San finds his parents, losing Jongho along the way. They stand at the edge of the procession area. Namji has tears in her eyes, and Jongcheol has abandoned his typically stern expression, smiling from ear-to-ear.
“Don’t cry,” San wraps his arms around his mother’s shoulders.
She lets out a tiny, overjoyed sob.
They’re so proud. The first Choi to earn a degree. And in finance, no less.
“Where’s Wooyoung?” Namji asks, patting a tear from her cheek while looking over San’s shoulder.
San follows her gaze into the ocean of university blue. “I’ll find him. Stay here?”
They both nod, and San’s heart squeezes when he watches his father pull his mother into an embrace.
The crowd is giddy. Everyone is cheering and laughing. There’s not a long face in sight. It’s loud, too, different conversations melding into each other. One family is singing a song San doesn’t know. There are chants, “Class of 2022!” He weaves around bodies, eyes never pausing for more than a moment until he finds who he’s looking for.
The most beautiful boy with the most gorgeous smile and sparkling eyes. The love of his life: Jung Wooyoung.
J U L Y
Squished together on the beanbag in San’s childhood bedroom, Wooyoung lies with his head on San’s chest. His breath tickles the older’s collarbone. Tingles dance along San’s skin when Wooyoung presses his lips to his skin.
“How many days?” Wooyoung asks, arm wrapping tighter around San’s waist.
San’s eyes disappear as he smiles. “Still thirteen.” Wooyoung had asked the same question ten minutes ago.
He lets out a wistful sigh. “I can’t wait.”
“Less than two weeks.”
Their teeth click as they kiss, smiles too big, too real, to suppress.
Thirteen days later, their childhood bedrooms are in boxes in a moving truck, and they squeeze shiny keys in their palms so hard the metal leaves indents. It’s small but perfect: one bedroom, one bathroom, and an open concept living space. The front door is in the middle with the kitchen to the left, the living room to the right, and the hallway dead ahead. There is only one window in the living room, big and centered, and while it’s not the balcony they had wanted, it still feels perfect.
It’s a cardboard castle: walls lined with boxes.
And it’s just the them. Everyone wanted to help, but their friends were no longer just down the hall or on the next street over. They were hours from the bubble they’d grown so fond of, from their loved ones.
The plates go in the cabinet next to the refrigerator. Colander above the sink.
The towels go in the hall closet next to their spare sheet set and winter coats.
Their clothes hang side-by-side in the bedroom closet.
When their mattress is made, because they’ve yet to find a bedframe, and the kitchen is settled, San feels Wooyoung’s arms slip around his waist, cheek against his back.
“I can’t wait to spend the rest of our lives together.”
A U G U S T
San pokes his head through the front door, body still lingering in the hallway. His hair is wet against his forehead, rain beating the pavement outside. He had forgotten an umbrella before he left for work that morning.
“Wooyoung-ah, where are you?”
Wooyoung had been in the bedroom—San smiles as his boyfriend appears, in a pair of thick gray sweatpants and a matching hoodie. He has the same set in his own dresser. His mouth twists to the side, confused when he spots San half-in half-out of the apartment.
“What are you doing?”
“I need you to promise you won’t get mad.”
His brown eyes widen as Wooyoung takes a hesitant step forward. “What's going on?”
“You have to promise.”
With a sigh, Wooyoung nods. “I promise.”
His shoes leave a puddle on the wood floor of the entryway.
Wooyoung’s jaw drops. “San...”
In the crook of San’s arm is a Siamese cat. It’s half soaking wet and has the prettiest blue eyes. She’s purring softly, nose tucked against his forearm.
“San, we can’t.” He shakes his head. “The lease...”
Their lease says no pets. In big bold letters at the bottom, just above the line where they had signed their names. But their neighbor across the hall, she has a dog. And it sounds like the people upstairs have a horse stuffed in their apartment.
“I couldn’t leave her out there.” San looks to the window. “It’s supposed to get really bad overnight and throughout the week.”
“Her?” Wooyoung’s eyes fall to the cat again.
“She’s so skinny.” San shakes his head and strokes the top of her head with two of his fingers. “We don’t have to keep her forever, but can we at least make sure she eats and stays dry?”
He feels tears start to well at the thought of putting her back outside. “Please, Woo.”
Wooyoung sighs, chewing on the corner of his mouth, then nods.
By the end of the evening, the cat is curled on Wooyoung’s lap.
“Byeol is a pretty name, don’t you think?”
S E P T E M B E R
“I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
Wooyoung laces their fingers together as a giggle spill past his lips. They’re downtown, brick-paved sidewalks under the soles of their matching Nike sneakers. “Aren’t you excited?”
San can see the neon of the tattoo parlor sign down the block, and his stomach turns in on itself. He never thought he’d get a tattoo. Let alone a matching tattoo. But Wooyoung isn’t just a boyfriend. He’d never say it out loud to anyone other than the man next to him, but he believes that they are meant to be. The other guys would laugh or shove him, playfully, across the room, but he knows it’s true.
So, he’s getting a tattoo.
Wooyoung thought it up on a random weekend afternoon at home. “ I want to get a tattoo,” he had said.
The man has tattoos. He has Latin scrawled over his ribs and his mantra just below his neck and a sort-of ugly, sort-of cute black cat on his hip—he claims to hate the story of his and Yeosang’s drunken night out, but he always looks at the tattoo so fondly, like it’s a good memory, and he refuses to have it removed, so San thinks he doesn’t hate it that much.
But San has none. His parents had always been anti-tattoo, and San, while he didn’t judge anyone who did had them, and could appreciate the talent and artistry, just never saw himself marking his body for eternity.
The parlor is frigid, but it’s cozy. The walls are wood-paneled and stretch upward to an ornate ceiling. The building must be old. The floors are black marble with cuts of white streaking through.
Their artist’s name is Dillon. Her hair is pulled into a top knot on the very crown of her head, and colorful ink crawls up both of her arms. She spots San’s nerves right away. “First time?”
He nods, cheeks going pink.
She tells him not to worry and explains the entire process from start to finish before the couple steps beyond the counter. It’s nice. Calming like the candle that burns next to the card reader on the counter.
He changes into shorts in the bathroom and sits in Dillon’s chair. Wooyoung stands beside him, a grin stretched from one side of his face to the other.
“How long have you two been together?”
Wooyoung beams. “Three years today.”
It doesn’t hurt as bad as San thought.
He stares at the tattoo while Wooyoung gets his done.
They leave with their fingers intertwined and get smoothies from the cafe before they go home.
“Do you like it?” Wooyoung asks in the dark of their room that night.
“I love it.”
“Really?”
San wants to wash away all of Wooyoung’s hesitance. “Yeah. I’m glad we did it.”
Wooyoung rolls toward him and drapes his arm over his stomach. “Your dad is going to kill us.”
“No,” San shook his head. “He’ll purse his lips and shake his head, but he knows we’re meant to be together.”
He hums.
“Do you like it?”
Wooyoung breathes out a little laugh. “I love it. I look down, and I’m reminded that you’re mine. That I’m yours, forever.”
There’s heat to his voice and the way his fingers curl around San’s hip. They have to be up early, but neither care. Their mouths find each other, tongues sliding together. Filled with desire, San pulls Wooyoung on top of him.
He’ll sleep when he’s dead.
O C T O B E R
“I’m nervous.”
San looks up from the bowl of half-peeled grapes in front of him. His fingertips are cold. “About what?”
Wooyoung flattens his palm against the ceiling to brace himself as he looks over his shoulder, careful not to lose his balance where he stands on the arm of the couch. “For the party.”
San’s brow furrows. It’s not like Wooyoung to be nervous for a get together with their friends. “It’s just the guys.”
“Yeah,” Wooyoung sighs and turns back around. He rips a piece of tape off the roll that’s looped around his finger and secures his nth black, crepe-paper streamer to the white of the ceiling. “But it’s our first party here.”
San looks around the room.
The apartment is decorated to the nines. Wooyoung always goes all-out, but this might be their best year to-date. Black and dark orange, almost rust-colored, streamers hang from the ceiling in the living room, dangling down just above their heads. Their taller friends will have to deal with the ends in their eyes when they stand, but that’s not Wooyoung’s problem. The TV stand is covered in battery-operated candles, flickering every few breaths to simulate real flames, and there are pumpkins everywhere. The uglier the better , Wooyoung had said earlier while they were at the farmer’s market downtown. He picked the knobbiest, bumpiest, and most awkward shaped pumpkins and gourds and placed them delicately in the basket San was carrying. Like they were precious to him.
A large cauldron-shaped soup pot sits on the stove, a delicious batch of stew simmering away on the front burner. Appetizers and sides are spread over the counter with Halloween-themed paper plates, napkins, and plastic cutlery.
Wooyoung had even decorated the bathroom, buying one of those cool bathmats that look like blood spatter when wet and draping a black gauzy curtain over their charcoal gray shower curtain.
“Do you want me to go buy more pumpkins?”
At least his offer makes Wooyoung laugh. The younger looks around, admiring his work for the first time. “No, I know it looks good. I just,” he stops to sigh. “I’m just nervous.”
He tapes another streamer to the ceiling, standing on his toes to reach toward the wall. The oversized-shirt he wears inches up with the stretch, exposing more thigh and the hem of his black boxer briefs.
San wets his lips.
“Can you get me—” Wooyoung turns mid-sentence and catches San’s eyes on his bare legs, and his mouth shifts into a smirk. San knows he’s been caught. “I thought after all these years, you’d get used to the view.” He steps down from the arm of the sofa. “Bored even.”
San frowns. “You know I’ll never be bored of you.”
Wooyoung smiles, one brow raised.
“You just shaved.” San knows it’s a flimsy excuse, despite his attempt to sound matter-of-fact. He pulls the corner of his mouth between his teeth.
Wooyoung carefully lays the streamers over the coffee table and tosses the roll of tape to the side. It lands dangerously close to the crease between the cushions, threatening to wander into the upholstery.
His tattoo stretches across his smooth thigh as he crosses the room. San doesn’t have enough eyes to look everywhere all at once, settling to dart back and forth between those gorgeous legs and the way Wooyoung’s hair sweeps across his forehead. But the tattoo—a permanent reminder that they would always belong to each other, he’ll never get tired of seeing it, of touching it, tasting the raised skin.
There are warm hands on the bare skin of his waist, pinky fingers teasing his waistband.
“Grapes aren’t going to peel themselves, San-ah.”
San swallows hard. “How am I supposed to focus on anything when you’re right in front of me?” He can see the tip of Wooyoung’s tongue peek from between his teeth. “You’re distracting.”
Wooyoung doesn't have to stand on his toes to kiss him, but he does it anyway. He knows it makes San feel taller, bigger, stronger, and he rarely admits it, but he likes to feel small, likes the way San’s shoulders stick out on either side of his own.
San’s hands find Wooyoung’s hips, and they kiss in the middle of the kitchen until their lips are spit-slick.
“ Sannie ,” Wooyoung whines.
His breath catches at the plea San has heard a million times. He only gives himself half of a moment to catch his breath, the air hot between their faces, then he trails kisses from the cover of Wooyoung’s mouth, up his jaw, and to the very special spot behind his ear, the spot that pulls the prettiest noises from Wooyoung’s plush lips.
It’s music to his ears.
Wooyoung’s fingers curl around the collar of San’s crewneck, and in one swift motion, San gets his hands on the back of Wooyoung’s thighs and lifts him onto the counter. Wooyoung plants his hands on the surface behind him and leans back, giving San full access to the column of his neck.
They peel apart when a text comes through that Hongjoong, Seonghwa, Jongho, and Yeosang are twenty minutes out and are adding finishing touches to their costumes when Yunho and Mingi’s Uber driver pulls alongside the curb.
“Not our best costumes,” Wooyoung says with a little pout. Wooyoung is a vampire: fake fangs and dark red liquid lipstick trailing down from the corner of his lips, and a billowing black velvet cape; San is a vampire hunter: a leather harness around his shoulders, cargo pants that are sliced open to show his tattoo, and slicked back hair. They stand shoulder to shoulder in front of the bathroom mirror. “But we look good.”
“We do.”
No one is super original this year. Yunho is dressed as a police officer, handcuffs looped to his belt that San knows will need to be hidden later in the night, and Mingi is a 1920’s American detective, trench coat brushing his ankles and an unlit cigarette between his teeth. They arrive in their getups, meaning they definitely earned a few weird looks in the airport bathroom.
Hongjoong comes in a royal purple sweater with a crown on his head: a very lackadaisical king.
Seonghwa wears sparkly, too-small-for-him wings over an all-white outfit. There’s glitter on his temples and the shiniest lip gloss San has ever seen across his lips. “Fairy?” Wooyoung asks, head tipping to the side. When their oldest friend nods, he grins and throws his arms around his shoulders.
Yeosang and Jongho win the couples’ costume contest, an unspoken battle every year. Neither San nor Wooyoung wanted to picture Yeosang clumsily shoving his legs into the red fishnets that are tight around his legs, nor the dip-dying process of the Harley Quinn twin ponytails.
“Jongho wouldn’t let me spray his hair green,” Yeosang pouts, patting the top of Jongho’s head and cringing a bit at the gel that slicks back his hair. “The coat is cool, though, isn’t it? We found it at a thrift store!”
San hadn’t realized how much he missed everyone. Sure, they always had the group chat, but being together in person is unmatched. Knowing it would happen less often now that there is significant distance between them makes these moments more important, more meaningful.
They catch-up while they eat and laugh when Wooyoung spills soju over the sides of their glasses.
They throw back shots like they’re sixteen and in Mingi’s parents’ basement.
Sadness seeps into San’s bones after the fourth bottle is empty, a cloudy haze of sentimentality hovering over him like it just rained. But he doesn’t want to be sad, so he cracks open another bottle and pours another round.
Some of the liquor sloshes over the rim when he shoves his hand in the air. There’s two of everyone in the room, and he’s sure to look at all fourteen faces as he slurs, “We are the great eight.”
As soon as the soju slides down his throat, San lies down. The ceiling fan makes him dizzy.
“Young-ah?” He speaks softly, his friends' voices surrounding him like a warm hug.
Wooyoung cups his cheek. “You okay, honey?”
San starts to nod, but the room whips around so fast. He squeezes his eyes shut. “M’tired.”
“Ready for bed?”
San nods, too drunk to be embarrassed that it’s only a little after ten o’clock. He’s always been a lightweight. Wooyoung runs his fingers through San’s hair. “Let’s get you washed up, then, yeah?”
The others look on fondly.
“Need any help, Wooyoung-ah?” Yunho offers.
“That’s okay.” He shakes his head. “I’ve got him.”
They stumble to the bathroom, where Wooyoung helps San remove the makeup he applied earlier. He helps him brush his teeth. And then he helps him to bed, one arm tight around his waist as they cross their tiny hallway.
San groans happily when he faceplants against his pillow. He turns his head, mouth agape. Wooyoung is radiant—the most perfect man with the most perfect face and the prettiest voice and laugh, and San loves him so much.
“M’gonna marry you someday, Young-ah,” San murmurs.
Wooyoung’s eyes sparkle.
“Gonna have the biggest, fanciest wedding in matching suits and a really fucking big cake.”
“Yeah?” Wooyoung asks, amused.
San nods, just once. “Love you so much.”
“I love you too, Sannie.” Wooyoung kisses his cheekbone, and butterflies take flight in San’s chest. “Get some good sleep.”
He wakes with the biggest headache and long arms around his waist in the early afternoon.
N O V E M B E R
There’s no space on San’s desk in his tiny cubicle. He’s on his lunch break, but the glass container full of fried rice sits to the side, and wrapping paper is spread across the surface. He’s using his precious, unpaid thirty minutes to prepare Wooyoung’s birthday presents.
His boyfriend had a naughty habit of searching for his gifts before San was ready to give them, looking in the trunk of San’s car or the back of San’s half of the closet or in Mingi’s closet when they hung out in his and Yunho’s apartment. So, to combat his endearing little brat, San had all of his gifts delivered to his office, where they have been living under his desk until now.
Half of the boxes are wrapped in shiny black paper that looks a bit like a pool of oil against pavement. The iridescence of it is pretty and matches the deep purple bows that San bought to go on top. A wave of self-satisfaction washes over him, despite the crooked edges and lumpy folds. He doesn’t get to eat until after his lunch period is actually over, squeezing bites between lines of reports, but he’s actually going to surprise Wooyoung this year and couldn’t be more excited.
Wooyoung texts him all day, sending pleading messages to tell him what his plans are and pouty selfies to try to entice him. San resists. On his fifteen-minute break, he carries the boxes down to the car and piles them into the backseat, and on his drive him, he sings with the radio, fingers thrumming against the steering wheel.
“What the hell!” Wooyoung rushes to the front door. He takes the box balanced on top of the stack in San’s arms and places it on the counter. His eyes are as wide as saucers. “Why are there so many?”
San snorts and sets the rest down on the coffee table. Wooyoung sees his newly-freed arms as an opportunity and wraps himself around San’s torso. He presses a kiss to Wooyoung’s forehead.
“Do you want your presents before or after dinner?”
His eyes light up. “What’s for dinner?”
“I ordered your favorite.”
Wooyoung gasps. “Really?”
San kisses the tip of his nose. “Really. It’s on the way.”
“Then I can be patient. Food first,” Wooyoung decides.
They collapse on the couch, legs intertwining and arms around each other.
“I really should make you wait for your actual birthday.” San is weak to the brush of Wooyoung’s lips against his jaw.
“Sannie,” Wooyoung pouts. “It’s Friday night, we’re off work for the weekend. It’s perfect. Besides,” Wooyoung looks at the clock over the TV, “it’s only six hours early.”
When the food arrives, they spread everything out on the coffee table and eat shoulder-to-shoulder, and when they finish, San clears everything away with a promise clean everything up after Wooyoung opens his presents.
San scoffs a laugh. “Of course you pick the biggest first.”
Wooyoung grins. “I know what’s good.”
He unsticks the bow from the top, holds it in his palm, then reaches forward to place it on top of San’s head. Then, smirking, he tears the wrapping paper, gasping when the strip he pulls away reveals the brand name. His mouth drops open. “San! Kitchen Aid!”
San can’t help but smile. Wooyoung had been doing so much baking recently, always sneaking a brownie or cookie into his lunchbox, and he’d been doing it all by hand with a cheap wooden spoon.
“For your baking.”
San reaches for the paper and rolls it into a ball, setting it to the side as Wooyoung runs his hands over the box. “You like it?"
“I love it.”
He hands over the next box, lighter and easier to pass. “I hope you love this one too.”
Wooyoung had opened the presents in reverse order to how San imagined. The matching hoodie and sweatpant set feels slightly underwhelming after the stand mixer, even though they’re Wooyoung’s favorite brand and color, and the little trinket figurine of Howl seems a little silly.
“Be right back,” San says before pushing himself to his feet. His heart beats hard in his chest as he makes his way back to their bedroom and to his dresser. The box has been hiding in the second drawer for months, waiting for this moment.
He doesn’t bother hiding it, but he does stop to scratch Byeol’s ears where she’s curled up on the foot of the bed. Wooyoung is on the couch, massaging one of his ankles, eyes glued to the Kitchen Aid box. His attention shifts to San when he re-emerges from the hallway.
“Last one,” he says softly, sitting close and opening his hand to show the box.
The air in the apartment seemingly freezes around them. It’s very obviously a ring box.
“San,” Wooyoung says softly.
San wets his lips. “Take it.”
Wooyoung does, holding the box carefully between his fingers like it’s a detonator, like the space around them is about to implode.
He lifts the lid of the box and his breath catches in his throat.
A gold band sits atop the plush of the box. It matches the one around San’s forefinger, the ones his mother and sister wear on chains around their necks, and the one his father leaves on his right middle finger.
San swallows the lump in his throat. “I want to be with you for the rest of my life. We talked about marriage later, when we’re older, so this isn’t a proposal, but it’s,” he sighs, “an invitation. You know everyone in my family has one. And we—I want you to have one too.”
Wooyoung slips the ring onto his index finger to mirror San’s. Eyes wet, he says, “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.” Wooyoung brushes a tear from his cheek.
San wipes another tear away. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
The younger leans against San’s shoulder. “They’re happy tears.”
He kisses Wooyoung’s temple and chuckles. “Good. I’d be the shittiest boyfriend if I made you cry sad tears on your birthday.”
D E C E M B E R
“Oh fuck...”
“What’s wrong?” San asks. He’s halfway down the hall, long fuzzy socks calling to him from their home in his dresser drawer.
Wooyoung doesn’t answer until San is back in the kitchen. His hands cover his face, elbows braced on the island countertop. “I forgot the damn walnuts.”
San nearly trips over Byeol, who weaves between his legs, a hopeful glint in her eye. She needs to be fed, but Wooyoung has tears streaming down his face. He goes to him, arms easily wrapping around his waist.
“Baby, it’s okay.” He tries, “No one is going to be upset with plain chocolate chip.”
Wooyoung is known for his walnut and chocolate chip cookies. His family has always been very competitive. They held bake-offs at family functions, and a few years back, Wooyoung became the new reigning champion, narrowly beating his aunt. He had made walnut and chocolate chip cookies. And for every dinner or party or get-together, he hasn’t forgotten his family’s favorite cookies.
He would never skip baking them on a holiday as important as Christmas.
They were to leave for Wooyoung’s parents’ house early the next morning. They’d hit the road before the sun wakes up, before the traffic lights switch to their usual rotation, and before the grocery stores open.
“I can’t take plain cookies.”
All San can think about is how adorable Wooyoung looks with his lips pushed out and tears resting on the rim of wide eyes, threatening to spill, and he melts. He nudges Wooyoung’s nose with his own, urging the other to look at him. “Want me to run back out and get them?”
Wooyoung looks to the window.
There had already been a thick layer of snow on the car when the couple stepped out of the grocery store. New snowflakes the size of nickels were falling faster than San could brush it all off, and it had taken nearly ten minutes to clear it off enough to drive home. He ran the wipers at full speed the entire journey, and by the time they got inside, their boots were soaked through, socks damp and toes cold.
The snow has picked up even more, whipping around through the double-paned glass as if the world were a snow globe in the hands of a rowdy child.
“I don’t want you to go out in that,” Wooyoung shakes his head, eyes fixed on the snow.
San purses his lips. “Well, I don’t want you to go out in it either. It’s a whiteout. We can just do the chocolate chips this time.” Wooyoung’s frown deepens. “Everyone will understand.”
“No,” Wooyoung shakes his head. “I can go. I’ll be quick.”
“Wooyoung-ah, please don’t.” An awful feeling sits along the bottom of his stomach. He follows Wooyoung’s gaze to the window. “The storm....”
“It’s fine! I’ve driven in worse.” His voice wavers, just the smallest bit.
“Then I’m coming with you,” San says, starting toward the tall rack that holds their coats next to the door.
Wooyoung’s fingers curl around his upper arm. “I need you to stay and start the dough. If you come with, we’ll be up all night baking, get awful sleep, and be grouchy on Christmas.” He pulls San toward him, hand resting against the side of his neck. “I’ll be back before you know it, we can finish together.” He presses a soft kiss to the corner of San’s mouth, and when he speaks again, his voice is lower softer, “Then we can shower, and you can take me to bed.”
They kiss on the doormat, puddles from their boots soaking their socks. The wind howls. San pulls back to rest his forehead against Wooyoung’s. “I don’t want you to go,” he says just above a whisper.
“It’ll be fine!” Wooyoung gives him a quick peck. “I’ll be back in less than an hour.”
“Take your time,” San stresses. He holds Wooyoung’s waist. “Go slow, and don’t rush.”
He earns another peck. “I will, promise. Get started on the dough for me.”
San watches Wooyoung loop his—San's—scarf around his neck before pulling on his coat, boots, and beanie. He winces as he steps in another puddle while reaching for Wooyoung’s face. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Gloved fingers slip from San’s hold, and Wooyoung closes the door behind him. Hurrying to the window, San waits until Wooyoung is in the car, backed out of the parking spot in their barely-plowed parking lot, and disappears around the corner. He squints, catching glimpses of taillights and takes a breath.
He’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.
He changes his socks and starts the dough, following the recipe Wooyoung had scrawled onto the back page of his favorite cookbook and clearing the counters and dirtied dishes.
The dough sits in a glass bowl on the counter, waiting.
San sits at the window, waiting.
The snow whips around, blowing sideways and upside down. He hears the wind whistle through both layers of glass. The light over his head flickers.
An hour passes.
He’s fine. He’s just taking his time, like I told him. He’s being smart.
He chews on his bottom lip, teeth scraping over skin as worry gnaws at his core.
He puts the bowl of dough in the fridge and checks his phone. No new messages or missed calls. He wants to call, but if Wooyoung is really concentrating, he doesn’t want him to dig for his phone, likely buried in a pocket three-layers deep.
He walks the width of the space between the kitchen and living room. Byeol trails after him for a while before she retreats to her spot on the back of the sofa. She watches the storm outside.
He’s fine.
Thirty more minutes pass.
He chances a call.
“The number you called is not reachable. Goodbye.”
All his breath is sucked from his lungs and replaced with panic. He takes deep breath after deep breath and calls four more times, all to hear the same message.
“The number you called is not reachable. Goodbye.”
“The number you called is not reachable. Goodbye.”
“The number you called is not reachable. Goodbye.”
“The number you called is not reachable. Goodbye.”
Tears rolling down his cheeks, he calls the non-emergency police number. The words are heavy on his tongue, “My boyfriend left for the store over an hour ago and hasn’t come back.”
They try to rationalize with him, to calm him down.
“His phone isn’t working, and I know it wasn’t dead when he left.” The panic returns, racing from the soles of his feet to the rounds of his shoulders. He feels like an observer, like he’s watching himself from the ceiling. “I think something happened, with the storm.”
He thinks the officer on the other end of the call pities him. “We don’t have many here now, but I’ll see what I can do.”
They take his information and hang up.
And San is left to wait. Every minute feels like an hour, and as he stares at the clock, he doesn’t miss a single tick of time. Byeol trills and abandons her post to paw lightly at San’s thigh. He scoops her up and buries his face in her scruff. “It’s okay,” he tells her. “He's gonna be okay.”
San sits in his worry in the center of their couch. His heart aches. He wants to go out. He wants to look himself. If they had a second car, he’d be out there, checking every damn grocery store until he found Wooyoung.
Scenarios flash through his mind.
Maybe the car had sputtered out. It wasn’t new, but it wasn’t old. The thought of Wooyoung, purple-lipped and shivering, along the side of the road made San feel sick. He looks at the clock. If there had been a stranded car on the side of the road, they would have found it by now. It’s a small town. And Wooyoung would have called.
Maybe the storm had gotten so bad that Wooyoung took shelter in the shop with the owner and whoever else had been out. But he would have called.
Byeol is still on his lap, so he bends down to kiss her tiny forehead. He strokes along her spine, fur soft under his fingertips. “He’s gonna be okay.”
There’s a knock on his door at three o’clock.
He rushes to answer. Wooyoung wouldn’t knock, but if he had been injured, rushed to the hospital, this could be someone important. A police officer stands on the other side, mustache sprinkled with snow. He folds his hands in front of him.
“Are you San?”
San nods.
The officer introduces himself, offering a brief, horribly sad shrug of a smile, one heavy with sympathy. “There’s been an accident.”
They found the tire tracks first.
The tracks had veered off the road and over an embankment.
They found the car half-submerged in the half-frozen lake.
A 2018 Subaru, blue.
The car San and Wooyoung co-signed for—their first major purchase as a couple.
The salesperson said it would do great in snow.
San’s lip trembles. “Is he okay?”
The officer frowns, and his eyes fall to his boots.
San’s heart fractures, and he swallows the memory that officers don’t make house calls when everything is okay.
“I’m sorry,” the officer sighs, shaking his head slowly. “He didn’t make it.”
San is drowning.
The lake is deep. He and Wooyoung spent nearly every evening there for three weeks straight after they had settled in. They went with a backpack and a blanket, picnicking under an oak tree near a wooden dock. Ducks floated on the shimmering blue water.
He blinks and sees a blurred image of the car, windshield cracked like ice.
The car was half-submerged, the officer had said. Which meant he was already—
“Do you have someone you can call?”
He calls his parents and tells them around sobs that Wooyoung is gone. They catch the first flight from Los Angeles and arrive in the early afternoon. San can’t pick them up from the airport because the car is gone. He doesn’t know where it is, if it’s still halfway in the lake or if the police towed it out, he just knows it’s gone, and he can’t stop crying.
He collapses in Namji’s arms when they let themselves in after finding the key in the fake plant that Wooyoung wanted so badly for their first home together. They want to know what happened, and it takes everything San has to explain. He tells them what the officer told him, leaving out the whispers of thoughts that his own mind provides.
It could have been avoided. He could have stopped it. He should have put his foot down. He knew the storm had gotten angrier, more violent. The roads had been icy on their way home, and when the sun had set it only got colder.
He should have made Wooyoung stay.
He doesn’t eat. The mere thought of food makes him nauseous. Even drinking water is difficult. He dry heaves and gags because with every sip he takes, he thinks of Wooyoung in the lake, and he thinks about how Wooyoung will never eat again.
Wooyoung’s parents arrive in the evening. San feels like a coward.
When he had dialed Eunkyung’s number in the early afternoon, Eunkyung answered. She didn’t say hello, just started laughing about an assumption that Wooyoung had made them leave later than intended. The lump in San’s throat exploded into a sob, and his phone fell to his lap. He had squeezed his eyes shut as he heard Eunkyung through the phone, “Sannie? Sannie, what’s wrong?” Then his mother took the phone and shut the bedroom door behind her.
Namji lets them in. They take turns sharing hugs, eyes red-rimmed and swollen.
San sits on the sofa and continues to drown.
Although far away-sounding, he hears Eunkyung ask Namji if he’s okay. He should stand up like a man and comfort them, apologize to them—do something, but his anchor is gone, and there’s a replacement shackled to his ankle, and he’s drowning.
Kyungmin sits next to San, but San can’t look at the boy. If he looks at him, he’ll see Wooyoung. He’ll see the family they’ll never have. Kyungmin doesn’t know that, though, and when he sits down, he sits close enough to rest his head against San’s arm, not tall enough to lean against his shoulder. He sniffles and pets Byeol, who only leaves San’s lap to use the litterbox or eat some kibble from her dish.
“I’m sorry,” he manages to mutter the over dinner: frozen pizzas from the gas station that’s open twenty-four hours, seven days a week, even on Christmas.
A tear rolls down Namji’s cheek, and her eyes are wide like she’d been startled. “San-ah, this isn’t your fault.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” Eunkyung says, taking his hand in her own to squeeze his fingers.
But Wooyoung’s father won’t look at him, and San wants to scream.
You should’ve stopped him.
“I should have gone with him.” He chokes. “Even when he told me to stay.”
Jongcheol clears his throat from the head of the table, where San usually sat when he and Wooyoung ate dinner together. “That’s enough,” he says.
San falls silent.
No one talks about how quickly everything goes after someone dies.
Grief is paused to draw out details because there are decisions to make, and they have to be made quickly because even though the person you love more than anything is gone, the time they have before the physical effects of death is limited. There are a million questions: Funeral or Cremation? Where will he be buried? Roughly how many people would attend the service?
San has too little air in his lungs. It’s not enough to answer the questions; it’s barely enough to keep him alive.
Eunkyung keeps everything together the best she can, even after her husband drives home because he needs time alone. San can see the hurt in her eyes when he leaves, a silent plea for him to stay, to not leave her alone.
It’s been two days.
San sits in the living room, Byeol in his lap, and he stares at a maroon spot on the rug. It was from the night they moved in. They bought a bottle of red wine because it felt right and danced in the living room. Wooyoung had gotten a little too excited when his favorite song came on and twirled a little too quickly. A bit of wine sloshed over the side of his glass, and neither knew how to get a wine stain out of a carpet, so they shrugged and kept dancing.
Eunkyung is in the kitchen, seated at the island with her back to San. She’s on the phone with their insurance company, where they had taken a small life insurance policy out for Wooyoung. They probably didn’t think they’d ever need it, but now they need the money because it’s expensive to move a body from one city to another.
He turns his head to listen to the side of the conversation he can hear. He thinks of the person on the other end and wonders what it’s like to work in a place where people call to collect money for dead loved ones.
He should be helping more, but there are weights tied to his wrists.
When she gets off the phone, she stands, and her feet carry her to the spot next to San. She sits down with one leg tucked under the other, in the same way Wooyoung always sat, and opened her hand. San takes it and mutters another, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Her voice doesn’t crack or waver. They don’t share tears: they’ve already exceeded the daily limit.
San isn’t sure who tells them, but their friends hear the news. Most of them send texts, but Mingi and Jongho call. He doesn’t hear from Yeosang at all, but he supposes that makes sense.
“He’s struggling,” Jongho tells him on the phone one evening. “You know how much they meant to each other.”
San knows.
No one asks if he’s okay because they already know.
He can only sleep that night because his mind is too exhausted to stay awake. He rolls from one side to the other on the couch that feels too deep for just one person, but it’s the only place he can sleep because when he lies in their bed all he’s left with are memories of making love and waking up next to the love of his life.
So Eunkyung sleeps there instead, on a fresh fitted sheet. The dirty one isn’t really dirty, and San isn’t going to wash it.
It still smells like him.
The next day they leave enough food and water for Byeol for a couple of days, rent a car, and drive back to Wooyoung’s hometown. San had been there before, visiting during holidays and summers. It feels so foreign now.
They have an appointment with a funeral director. He tries to hold himself together, to be polite and present with the man on the other side of the desk, just like Eunkyung is doing. Wooyoung’s father doesn’t come. He’s locked himself in his study from morning until late, sometimes sleeping in the recliner in the room instead of lying down beside his wife.
He feels like a shell of a person as the funeral director leads them through a room of caskets. He feels sick thinking of Wooyoung lying in one of these for the rest of time, alone. He looks at his watch. It’s nine in the morning. San should be in bed, and Wooyoung should be there too, arms around each other under warm blankets. Instead, he’s in a room with ugly wallpaper and carpet that feels too thick when he takes a step forward.
Eunkyung looks over her shoulder to San. Her fingertips are resting on the edge of polished mahogany. “What do you think of this one?” she asks him softly.
The wood is stained dark, a rich shade of deep brown. They hadn’t used up their allotment of tears for the day yet, but San doesn’t want to cry in front of the funeral director, so he bites the inside of his cheek and swallows. “I think he’d like it.”
San watches the funeral director notate their decisions in a black leather notebook. He wonders how many lives are in the book, wonders if more of the stories in those pages are dedicated to people who lived longer, fuller lives, or if he spent more time with those who died too soon.
It’s not important to think about, San knows. But he can’t help his mind from wandering. But all of his winding roads of thought lead him home, and he thinks of Wooyoung and has to close his eyes and clench his teeth.
Eunkyung gives the funeral director one of Wooyoung’s newer suits: a charcoal gray, almost black, two-piece. She gives him a white button-up to go underneath. San supplies Wooyoung’s favorite earrings, hands trembling as he places them into the funeral director’s palm.
They had already discussed the open versus closed casket. San is torn. Part of him wants to see him again, one last time: his handsome face and soft hair, sharp cheekbones and the dot under his eye. But the other part thinks seeing Wooyoung without the sparkle in his eyes would sting too much.
Wooyoung always said Saturdays were for two things, respectively: nursing Friday-night hangovers or lazing in bed watching anime. Saturdays aren’t for funerals, but San is learning that without Wooyoung, no part of the world is as it should be.
Their friends arrive from all over.
Mingi and Yunho flew in the night before. They don’t let San pay for their hotel, and Mingi doesn’t let go of San for five minutes, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, holding him against his chest. They sit in the silence of Wooyoung’s parents’ living room, asking stilted questions and sharing short answers.
Yeosang and Jongho drive from Los Angeles. Their car pulls up to the curb early in the morning. San watches Jongho help Yeosang out of the car and wonders if he looks as bad as his friend. Yeosang’s eyes are swollen, puffy, and red, and there are dark circles under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days.
San got a full eight hours last night, with the aid of just one melatonin. Guilt surges under his skin.
Jongho carries in their suitcases, and Yeosang sits on the sofa with San.
“Hey.” Yeosang’s voice is hoarse. “You okay?”
He’s honest because they’re alone, and because he thinks Yeosang is the closest to actually understanding.
“No.”
“Yeah,” Yeosang nods slowly, speaking quietly, staring into the nothingness of the floor. “Me too.”
Seonghwa gets there a little later, and Hongjoong is right behind him.
There are more stilted questions and more short answers.
Eunkyung is a wonderful host, despite the terms of the visit. San feels numb by the time they pile into cars and drive to the funeral home.
Their reserved room is big and stuffy. The casket lies at the far end of the room, closed, and a giant arrangement of flowers sits on top. They’re beautiful, all peonies and dahlias with sprigs of baby’s breath and greenery. There are flowers everywhere, daylilies and others San doesn’t immediately recognize.
Rows of chairs are lined up, feet sinking into the deep red carpet. San wonders why they picked red when it doesn’t even match the ugly wallpaper, but the ugly wallpaper matches the drapes hanging over the windows.
So many people show up. People he doesn’t know, distant relatives he had yet to meet. Every time Eunkyung introduces him to someone new, San feels the guilt tug at his nerves.
You should’ve done something.
San’s parents stay the whole time, close to his side, careful of how fragile they know he is, despite his set jaw. His friends stay, too. Yeosang sits close to the casket, on a seat by the window and three different flower arrangements with one leg crossed over the other and a vacant expression.
San speaks during the service, but he doesn’t remember what he says. He remembers swallowing an apology and the way his tears felt hot against his cheeks. He remembers looking at everyone looking at him and realizing that they’ll never see how happy he and Wooyoung had been. They’ll never visit for a wedding celebration or the adoption of a child. All they’ll see when they look at him is grief.
San drives back to the apartment the next day in the same rental car. He’ll have to buy a car, he dimly realizes. He’ll have to call their insurance company and tell them the vehicle was totaled. Worthless. That even though the salesperson told them that the car would be great to have in the winter, it still wasn’t good enough and it took the most important person in his life away from him.
He takes a deep breath, loosens his grip on the steering wheel so his knuckles go back to their proper color, and refocuses on the road. A terrifying streak of a thought races in front of him. What if he slid into a ditch? What if something happened and he crashed? This rental car doesn’t have four-wheel drive.
The highway is plowed and salted.
It’s not going to happen.
Byeol missed him. She twirls around his legs when he walks through the front door and meows at him with big eyes. He scoops her up, leaves his suitcase by the door, and sits on the sofa. He sits there until he can’t ignore how loudly his stomach growls.
He makes cup ramen.
When he finishes eating, he tosses the paper cup in the bin and shuffles to the shower. He washes his hair with Wooyoung’s shampoo and his body with Wooyoung’s shower gel. He takes one of Wooyoung’s hoodies from their closet and tugs it over his head and puts on his favorite sweatpants. Then he picks up the sheet that he had changed for Eunkyung, goes back to the sofa, and lies down. His eyes slip shut as Wooyoung’s smell surrounds him, and when he opens them again, fresh tears fall down his face.
He takes time off, appreciating his manager’s understanding. “Take the time you need,” he had said on the phone. “And I’m sorry for your loss.”
Everyone is sorry.
But not as sorry as San.
He’s sorry and guilty, and water is still filling his lungs. He only takes one phone call during his bereavement leave, from his mother, and ignores everything else.
He goes back to work, makes mistakes, goes home, doesn’t sleep.
He sees a therapist that his manager recommends. They prescribe him Xanax.
He goes to work, makes mistakes, goes home, takes a pill, wraps himself in Wooyoung’s clothes, and sleeps.
The pills make him numb to everything except one thing.
Byeol never leaves his side. The couch has a near-permanent dip in the center because it’s February, and San still hasn’t slept in their bed.
Mingi shows up one day, unannounced, except it isn’t actually unannounced because he called. San just didn’t answer.
“I’m working remote,” Mingi tells him. His backpack is slung over his shoulder, and the handle of his suitcase is sticking straight up in the air. It sits exactly where San’s suitcase sat after he got back from Wooyoung’s funeral. He only unpacked it last week.
San doesn’t ask questions, but another layer of guilt sticks to his back. “I’m sorry I made you worry.”
No one is as sorry as San.
“Don’t be,” Mingi steps inside. “I want to be here for you.”
“Thanks,” San says, voice hoarse. He doesn’t talk much these days.
That night while San is in the shower, he realizes that Mingi will take the couch. He’ll have to sleep in their bed. It’s after midnight, but San doesn’t work the next day. Or the day after. Or the day after that. He showers. Wooyoung’s body wash is almost gone. He’ll have to buy more soon.
After he’s dried and dressed, he returns to the living room. Mingi has set himself up on the couch. Wooyoung’s sheet is on the armchair in a crumpled-up ball.
“I quit my job last week.”
Mingi’s eyes widen, and his brows furrow.
“I think I need to move.” He swallows hard and leans against the wall. “Being here is so hard.” His voice wobbles. “I look around, and all I see is him.” Tears well in his eyes, he feels his mouth quiver, and he sniffles.
He looks to the left, to the kitchen. He sees them there together. They cooked dinner nearly every night, together, happy, in love. San would chop vegetables in uneven pieces, and Wooyoung would look at him with the fondest expression. And San would never see it again.
You should have stopped him. If you had stopped him, he’d be here. He’d be alive.
“Sorry.” He wipes the wetness from his cheeks and chin.
He doesn’t look at Mingi. Byeol is sitting with him, she’s always loved him.
“I forgot moisturizer.” He doesn’t acknowledge the look that burns through his back. He doesn’t even breathe until he locks the bathroom door, back pressed to the wood, eyes squeezed shut.
With a shaky hand, he reaches for the faucet, tipping it all the way up.
He starts counting back from ten, concentrating on his breathing. Not concentrating on his tears splashing against the basin. Not focusing on how sheet-white his knuckles are where he braces himself against the sink. He squeezes his eyes shut again, but then he can see him. He can feel the steam rolling over the top of the shower curtain. He can smell his shampoo. He can hear him singing his favorite songs.
Gasping, San jerks backward, stumbling against the wall behind him. The towels hang as they usually would. He still hung a second out of habit. He wrenches his eyes from where they hang side by side and looks at himself in the mirror.
He’s lost weight, can see it in his face. Dark circles have drawn themselves a home under tired, swollen eyes. His lips are dry, flaking around the edges, and when he presses them together, they stick together for an extended second.
I can’t do this.
Another tear falls from his lashes, landing on Wooyoung’s shirt.
I can’t do this without him.
He bunches up the fabric around his waist then lets it go.
“I can’t do this without you, Young-ah.” It comes out in a hoarse, choked whisper.
He sucks in three deep breaths and opens the medicine cabinet.
“San-ah, are you okay?” Mingi’s voice is cautious on the other side of the door.
He clears his throat. “I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”
The floorboards creak as Mingi retreats. He reaches forward. His fingers curl around the yellow bottle, then, with a thick swallow, he twists the top off. Although numb, he remembers the pharmacist's words, “Only take the appropriate dosage and do not mix with alcohol. They’re strong.” Then she rattled off the side effects and handed him the envelope.
Looking at himself again, he takes a slow breath. Controlled. As if he has control over anything in this damned world anymore. As if his entire world wasn’t ripped away by a bag of fucking walnuts.
He shoves two pills on his tongue and bends down, pressing the side of his mouth against the tap.
When he returns to the living room, Mingi is standing with his back to the room. He stares out the window, and when San blinks, he sees himself there instead. Waiting, watching. Snow whipping around with the wind.
He clears his throat, and Mingi turns around. “You okay?” Mingi asks.
Shrugging, San nods once.
Mingi slumps down on the sofa again and pulls a blanket up to his waist. “Wanna do anything?”
No.
San hasn’t wanted anything since Christmas Eve. Nothing he can have, that is.
“You know,” Mingi starts. His voice is different than it was a moment ago, wistful, like he’s boxed inside a memory. “Sometimes I forget he’s gone. Like when someone says something stupid in the group chat, I still wait for him to give them shit.”
Part of him wishes he could forget. But if he did, he’d truly be numb, and he’s not sure that’s any better.
“Sorry,” Mingi says, voice thick like he’s about to cry.
San shakes his head and moves to sit next to his friend. Mingi reaches for his hand and weaves their fingers together. The silence stretches, and they, or San at least, is stuck in a memory. Byeol jumps up, crosses San’s thighs, and settles between them.
Mingi swallows so hard that San can hear. “It’s a great place,” he says, eyes tracing the room. His eyes are wet.
“Yeah, it was.”
There’s another long pause, heavy like stratus clouds have made themselves at home on the ceiling.
“You want a drink?” San asks.
“Sure.”
He stands and crosses the room to the kitchen, feeling Mingi’s eyes on him as he stands on his toes to reach the cupboard above the refrigerator. His hand wraps around the neck of the bottle of Wooyoung’s favorite whiskey. He had only made a few cocktails with the handle, so it’s more than half-full. He carries it along with two glasses to the coffee table.
“It’s his.”
Mingi’s expression changes. “You sure you want to?”
No.
“He’d want us—me—to enjoy it.”
“Yeah,” Mingi quietly agrees.
San fills the lowball glasses, belatedly realizing that he should have dropped a few ice cubes in before. With a careful tip, they tink! their glasses together. Warm whiskey stings San’s tongue and burns as it slides down his throat. It makes his chest warm.
Mingi says nothing when San fills their glasses a second time.
He does tease him about spilling the liquor on the coffee table for their third round.
“I miss him.”
“Me too.” Mingi says, “I know not nearly as much, but I do.”
San is uncomfortable, and his brows twitch before pulling together in the center of his face. He frowns, feeling suddenly sober.
“It should’ve been me.”
It’s the first time he’s said it out loud. The words seem to sober Mingi as well. His head snaps to the side. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?” San bites.
Mingi turns to face him, one knee bent under himself. “Because it’s not true. It shouldn’t have happened to him, but that doesn’t mean that it should’ve happened to you .” Tears well in Mingi’s eyes. “You’ve been blaming yourself for something that should’ve never happened. But you didn’t cause it. Nothing changes by you saying shit like that.”
Life’s not worth living without him. I don’t feel alive without him.
Call it unhealthy, San didn’t care. Wooyoung was his world. His best friend. His soulmate. Nothing would ever be the same without him.
“Sorry,” San mutters.
Fuck.
Mingi doesn’t say anything else. San refills their glasses and downs the contents of his in two big gulps.
They drink until the sun comes up. They drink until the bottle is empty.
San lies on the rug, face next to the wine stain. He stares at the ceiling fan as it spins. His stomach churns.
Asleep on the sofa, Mingi snores.
Dizzy, San stumbles to the bathroom and empties his stomach in the toilet, throwing up nothing but whiskey, which burned even more on the way back up, and half-digest remnants of dinner the night before.
There are four sinks in front of him and six medicine cabinets when he stands.
He just wants to rest.
His fingers wrap around the yellow pill bottle, struggles with the lid. “ Fuckyou ,” he whines at it, blinking hard to bring the world into focus long enough to get the lid off. He tips the bottle to the side, dumping pills into his palm, then huffs as he tries to get the extras back inside.
He slaps his hand to his mouth, lips sticky from the whiskey, throat burning from bile, and there are more pills on his tongue than there should be, but he doesn’t care. He wants sleep. Wants rest. Wants peace.
He dry swallows, gags, and drinks from the tap to get the pills the rest of the way down.
Byeol waits for him in the hallway.
He drags himself to the bedroom and opens the door.
Flicks on the light.
He’s too drunk. Their bed expands as his vision doubles once more. He feels his way there, until his hands find the mattress, then climbs up, one knee at a time. Taking a deep breath, head on Wooyoung’s pillow, he can smell him.
“I miss you, Woo.”
His chest aches. He can hear their laughter.
San pulls his pillow to his chest, and he can feel him. He presses his forehead to the cotton pillowcase squeezes it tight. Byeol is there, on the other side of the pillow, where she used to sleep against Wooyoung’s back.
Closing his eyes, he is left with nothing but the vivid reminder that life will never be the same. It’s hard to breathe. There are black spots in his eyes. He loses consciousness quickly, nose pressed to Wooyoung’s pillow, and Byeol’s soft fur under his fingertips.
He just wants Wooyoung. He just wants rest.