Chapter Text
The port of Jeju eternally smelled of three things: salt, rotting seaweed, and the rusted metal of fishing boats that swayed against the worm-eaten wooden dock. It was 1950, and poverty stuck to your skin like the dampness of the sea. This was a place forgotten by the mainland, where people worked until their backs broke just to survive another day.
Jeonghan was barely nine years old and already had calloused hands from helping shell corn, wash clothes in the stream, and care for his half-siblings when his stepfather was too drunk to move from the floor. That day he wore a dress mended three times—the patches were from different fabrics because his mother used whatever she could find.
His mother, Sun-ok, was a haenyeo. One of the diving women who plunged into the freezing waters with no equipment but a worn rubber suit and lungs trained to hold their breath for minutes underwater. Every morning, before dawn, Jeonghan would wake to the sound of his mother putting on that black suit that smelled of ocean and death, preparing to descend to the seafloor to collect abalone, sea urchins, octopus, anything she could sell.
Jeonghan hated the sea. He hated how it took his mother away each day with no guarantee she'd return. He hated the sound of the waves that reminded him he was trapped on this miserable island.
That day, as he waited by the port with his stomach growling from hunger—it had been two days since he'd eaten anything but a fistful of rice.
That's when he saw him.
He was a ten-year-old boy, the fisherman Jongsoo's son, with scraped knees from climbing rocks and hair disheveled by the salty wind. He wore a frayed cotton shirt and pants that were too short, showing tanned ankles, but in his hands he held three fish wrapped in newspaper.
The boy walked directly toward him. Without hesitation. Without wavering.
"Here," he said, extending one toward him without ceremony.
Jeonghan looked at him with the natural distrust of someone who had learned that nobody gave anything away without expecting something in return.
"Why?"
The boy—Seungcheol, though he didn't know his name yet—shrugged, looking toward the horizon where the fishing boats were returning.
"My dad caught a lot today. And you..." he looked him up and down, but not mockingly, rather with something that seemed like concern, "...you look like you haven't eaten in days."
It wasn't pity in his voice, just a simple fact, stated with the brutal honesty of children. Jeonghan took the fish with trembling hands, feeling tears gathering in his eyes but refusing to let them fall.
"Thank you," he whispered, so quietly the wind almost carried it away.
Seungcheol nodded and ran off toward where his father was unloading the day's catch. But before disappearing among the boats, he turned back one last time.
"I'll bring one tomorrow too!" he shouted.
And he kept his word. The next day, and the next, and the next. Seungcheol brought him fish every time his father went out to work. Sometimes it was just a small fish, other times squid or even a piece of mackerel. He never said anything, just handed it over with that serious expression that made him seem older, and left.
But after the third week, when Seungcheol handed him a particularly large fish, he finally spoke:
"What's your name?"
"Choi Seungcheol," he answered, smiling. It was a crooked smile, with one front tooth slightly larger than the other. "And you?"
"Yoon Jeonghan."
"Jeonghan-ah," he tried the name, as if savoring it. "It sounds beautiful."
He blushed, looking at his bare feet.
"It's just a name."
"It's your name. That makes it special."
It was a simple conversation, almost silly, but it was the beginning of something. After that day, when Seungcheol brought him fish, they would stay talking for a few minutes. At first they were just brief exchanges—how the weather was, if the waves were high, if there were many fish that day. But slowly, like the tide that rises without you noticing, they began to share more.
Seungcheol told him his father was teaching him to fish, but that he was terrible with nets, his fingers always got tangled. That his mother had died when he was five and he barely remembered her. That sometimes, when he was alone in the boat with his father, he looked toward the horizon and wondered what was beyond the sea.
Jeonghan told him about his mother, the haenyeo who dove to the ocean floor each day and returned with blue lips from the cold. About his stepfather who always smelled of alcohol and shouted when there was no food. About his young half-siblings who looked at him with big eyes hoping he would somehow fix everything.
"I hate this island," Jeonghan said one day, with a vehemence that surprised even himself. "When I grow up, I'm going to Seoul. I'll become someone important. And I'll never, ever be hungry again."
Seungcheol looked at him with those dark, serious eyes.
"I hate being hungry too," he said softly. "That's why I bring you fish. Because... because I don't like seeing you suffer."
It was the first time anyone had said something like that. That someone actively cared about his suffering. Jeonghan felt something warm and strange in his chest, something he couldn't name yet.
"Thank you, Cheol-ah."
"You don't have to thank me," he replied, rubbing the back of his neck shyly. "It's what friends do, right?"
Friends. The word floated between them like a promise.
"Yes," Jeonghan said, smiling for the first time in weeks. "I guess that's what we are. Friends."
᠃ ⚓︎ ᠃
Five years passed. Jeonghan was fourteen, Seungcheol fifteen. In those five years, their friendship had become as constant as the tides. Seungcheol still brought him fish, though now Jeonghan insisted on helping him with schoolwork in exchange—he was terrible with letters, but Jeonghan was the best in the class.
They saw each other almost every day. Sometimes at the port, other times by the small stream that ran behind the market, or in the secret cave they had discovered on the east coast, where the waves echoed against the black volcanic rock walls.
Seungcheol had brought him a notebook once—worn and with bent corners, but with blank pages—because he knew Jeonghan liked to write poems. He had looked at it as if he'd been given gold.
"Where did you get this?"
"I bought it with money I earned helping uncle Minsu repair his net," Seungcheol said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to spend his hard-earned money on him.
Jeonghan had wanted to cry, but held back. Instead, he gave him a light punch on the arm.
"Idiot. You should have bought something for yourself."
"Seeing you write is something for me," he responded with that devastating simplicity that characterized him.
Seungcheol taught him to swim. Well, tried to teach him. Jeonghan hated the water—it reminded him too much of his mother disappearing beneath the waves every morning, of that emptiness that swallowed everything. But for Seungcheol, he tried. He went into the water up to his knees, then to his waist, trembling, with Seungcheol holding him by the arms, telling him in a low voice:
"Trust me, I won't let you fall."
And he didn't let him fall. Not once. His hands firm, his body like an anchor, his calm voice repeating "breathe, float, I've got you." Little by little, Jeonghan learned to move in the water without panic, to let the waves carry him instead of fighting against them. He never came to love the sea, but he stopped hating it so much when Seungcheol was in it with him.
Jeonghan, in return, taught him to read better.
They would sit under an old, twisted pine tree—a tree that seemed to have survived more storms than the entire village—and Jeonghan would read aloud from the worn books he got from school. Poems by Yu Chihwan, traditional stories, fragments of forbidden novels that passed from hand to hand.
Seungcheol listened with his eyes closed, his head resting against the rough trunk, the wind tousling his hair. Jeonghan sometimes thought he had fallen asleep. But then, suddenly, Seungcheol would repeat an entire line from memory and Jeonghan would feel something warm expand in his chest.
"I like how it sounds when you read," Seungcheol told him one day, opening his eyes to look at him directly. "You make words sound... important. Like they mean more than just letters on a page."
"That's because they do mean more," Jeonghan responded. "Words are all we have to make sense of the world."
"Then you must understand the world better than I do," Seungcheol said, with a half-smile.
"No," Jeonghan said quietly, watching the pine needles move in the wind. "You understand things that words can't explain."
But Jeonghan's dream of leaving this island persisted, a dream that consumed him, that became his religion, his mantra, his reason for opening his eyes every morning. Not just leaving. Escaping. Fleeing. Leaving behind this island that smelled of rotten fish and desperation. This island where people were born poor, broke their backs working, and died poor, never having seen anything beyond the horizon.
"I'm going to Seoul," he told Seungcheol one day, with a ferocity in his voice that made him blink. "I'm going to study like crazy, get a scholarship and get the hell out to Seoul. I'm going to university. I'm going to be a writer, or a teacher, or whatever it means that I never have to see this shitty ocean again, smell fish, or be poor."
Seungcheol looked at him with an expression Jeonghan couldn't quite decipher. There was sadness there, yes, but also something more. Admiration mixed with silent resignation.
"I believe you," he said simply. "If anyone can do it, it's you."
"What about you?" Jeonghan asked. "What are you going to do?"
Seungcheol looked toward the sea—that sea that had raised him, that had killed his grandmother, uncles, his father's friends, but that also fed them, gave them life.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I guess I'll fish like my father. And like his father before him. It's the only thing I know how to do well."
"You can swim," Jeonghan said. "You're the best swimmer I've ever seen in my life."
"And what can I do with that?" Seungcheol asked with a bitter laugh. "Become the town's attraction? 'Come see the boy who swims like a fish.'"
"You could compete," Jeonghan insisted. "In real competitions. Win medals. Leave here too."
"Maybe," Seungcheol said, shrugging. "But that requires training. Money to travel to the mainland. Things we don't have."
They both fell silent, looking at the horizon that seemed unreachable. In that silence, without saying it out loud, without being able to name it yet, they both felt exactly the same thing: They didn't want a future without each other.
᠃ ⚓︎ ᠃
Jeonghan was sixteen now. He was no longer the skinny boy Seungcheol had met at the port. He had grown tall and slender, with a svelte figure that seemed to float rather than walk heavily. His face had refined: soft cheekbones, delicate jaw, large eyes framed by long lashes and black hair that fell slightly disheveled over his forehead. He had a quiet, almost ethereal beauty that made people look twice without quite knowing why.
His hands were long and fine, with elegant fingers despite the calluses from work. When he walked, he did so with natural grace, as if the wind of Jeju pushed him gently instead of battering him. He wasn't fragile—there was strength in him, the kind that comes from having survived much—but there was something luminous and soft that contrasted with the harshness of the island. Seungcheol sometimes looked at him and thought that Jeonghan seemed made of something else, of light or dreams.
He no longer looked like a child. But he didn't feel like an adult either. He was suspended in that liminal space—too old to be protected, too young to truly protect himself.
Seungcheol had also changed. At seventeen, working on the boat with his father had transformed his body. Broad, solid shoulders from pulling nets. Muscular arms that could carry boxes of fish that weighed more than he himself had seven years ago. Strong back, powerful legs. Calloused, large hands that made Jeonghan's look small when they touched.
His face had lost all childlike softness. Square, firm jaw. Straight nose. Dark eyes that now had depth—no longer the innocence of the boy who had given him fish, but something more intense, more aware. When he looked at you, you felt the full weight of his attention. He still smiled with that crooked smile, but now there was something different in that smile. Something that made Jeonghan's stomach twist in ways he didn't fully understand.
Because in seven years, their friendship had changed too. Seungcheol still wasn't good with romantic words; he didn't know what to say when Jeonghan cried or laughed heartily. But he was a silent warrior: always there, protecting him without asking for anything in return. He put on his shoes when he forgot them, sold his vegetables at the market, smoothed his hair tousled by the sea wind. For him, Jeonghan was the center of his world. He, in turn, followed him like a protective shadow. But now when they sat under the twisted pine, there were charged silences. Gazes that lasted too long. Brushes of hands that felt intentional. A love that had been growing silently for years and that now, at sixteen and seventeen, was beginning to demand to be named.
It was February 1957, the sky was the color of burnished steel, heavy and low, threatening snow or sleet or some other winter misery. The wind blowing from the sea was so cold it cut like knives, getting under clothes, finding every exposed bit of skin and biting it with teeth of ice.
Jeonghan stood on the rocky shore as always, with his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his threadbare jacket—a jacket that had been his mother's first and now fit tight on his shoulders but short in the sleeves. His feet, stuffed into rubber boots mended three times, were already numb from the cold.
Around him, the haenyeo were preparing for their morning dive. There were twelve of them that day—all women between twenty and sixty years old, with bodies molded by years of fighting against the sea. Thick, muscular legs. Broad backs. Calloused hands that could tear abalone from rocks as if they were nothing.
They got into their diving suits—those black neoprene suits that made a wet sound when they put them on, that stank of mold, sweat, and ocean. The suits stuck to every curve of their bodies, and Jeonghan could see the pink marks where the material had rubbed the skin too many times, leaving permanent scars on necks, wrists, ankles.
His mother was among them. Sun-ok was twenty-nine now but looked fifty. Her face was weathered by sun and salty wind, with deep wrinkles around her eyes and mouth that had become more pronounced in recent years. Her hair, which had once been black and shiny, was now more gray than dark, tied in a tight knot at the nape. Her hands trembled slightly—something new that Jeonghan had noticed in recent months.
"Jeonghan-ah," his mother called to him, with that hoarse voice she always had in the mornings, but that sounded more tired lately. "Did you bring the timer?"
Jeonghan pulled the old watch from his pocket—a secondhand watch with a cracked crystal and a nearly worn-out strap. But it worked, and that was all that mattered.
"I have it, umma."
"Good boy." Sun-ok came over and planted a quick kiss on his forehead. She had to stretch up a bit now—her son had grown taller than her. Her lips were cold, already preparing for the shock of the icy water. "Count well. No more than three minutes. If I go over three and don't come up..."
"I know, umma," Jeonghan interrupted, because they had had this conversation thousands of times in seven years. "I tell the others and they look for you."
"Exactly." Sun-ok touched his cheek with rough fingers. She stayed looking at him a moment longer than normal, as if she were memorizing his face. "You're already a grown man, aren't you? When did you grow so much..." Her voice broke slightly. "You're going to leave this island, Jeonghan-ah. I know it. You're going to school on the mainland. You're going to be more than I could be. Promise me you won't stay here. That you won't settle for this."
There was an urgency in her voice that made something in Jeonghan's stomach twist with unease.
"Umma, are you okay?"
"I'm fine," she lied with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Just... promise me."
"I promise you," Jeonghan whispered, though the bad feeling grew.
She nodded, satisfied. Then she turned and went into the water with the other haenyeo.
The ocean in February was black as ink and barely warmer than ice. The waves broke with white foam against the rocks, sending salty spray that froze in the air. The haenyeo walked forward, the water rising from ankles to knees to hips to shoulders, and then they dove, their bodies cutting the surface with barely a splash.
Jeonghan watched them disappear under the water, twelve dark heads submerging. He raised the watch, waiting. His long fingers—so different from the small child's hands he'd had seven years ago—held the watch firmly.
One. Two. Three. Four...
At thirty seconds, the first haenyeo emerged with a "suuuu"—that characteristic whistle when exhaling after being underwater. She had two sea urchins in her net.
At forty-five seconds, another emerged. Then another. Then three more together.
Sixty seconds. Seventy. Eighty.
Sun-ok still hadn't come up.
Ninety. One hundred. One hundred ten.
Jeonghan's heart began to beat faster. It wasn't unusual for his mother to take two minutes, sometimes two and a half. She was one of the most experienced, with lungs that could hold out longer.
But something felt wrong. That premonition he hadn't been able to shake.
One hundred fifty. One hundred sixty. One hundred seventy.
Jeonghan's hands were trembling now, making the watch move so much he could barely read the numbers. The cold had disappeared, replaced by a sickening heat that rose from his stomach to his throat.
One hundred eighty.
Three minutes.
"Umma hasn't come up!" Jeonghan shouted, his voice breaking. It was no longer the high-pitched voice of a child—it was deeper now, but equally desperate.
Aunt Chungsu—the oldest haenyeo, almost sixty but strong as a bull—dropped her net.
"Everyone down! Now!"
The haenyeo dove again. Jeonghan ran to the water's edge, going in up to his knees, up to his thighs. The icy water soaked his pants but he didn't care.
"UMMA!" he shouted, his voice stronger now, capable of projecting over the roar of the waves in ways it couldn't when he was nine. "UMMA, PLEASE!"
One hundred ninety. Two hundred. Two hundred ten.
Every second was an eternity. Every heartbeat resonated in his ears, in his throat, in his trembling fingers.
Two hundred twenty. Two hundred thirty.
And then, Aunt Chungsu emerged.
Jeonghan knew immediately from her face—from how her eyes looked big and filled with something terrible—that everything was wrong.
"We found her!" Aunt Chungsu shouted. "Help me bring her up!"
Three more haenyeo emerged, holding between them a body that Jeonghan recognized but didn't want to recognize. A body in a black suit, with hair floating around the face like dark seaweed. They brought her to shore. They placed her on the black rocks carefully. Jeonghan ran, stumbling on numb legs, until he fell to his knees beside his mother's body.
"No," Jeonghan whispered, his hands hovering over the body but not daring to touch. "No, no, no..."
Aunt Chungsu was on her knees on the other side, pressing Sun-ok's chest, pumping in that familiar rhythm.
"Come on, Sun-ok-yah," she grunted between breaths. "Come on, sister. Come back."
But there was no response. Not a tremor. Not a gasp. Nothing.
Another haenyeo blew air into her lungs. Once. Twice. Three times.
Nothing.
They kept trying for ten minutes that felt like hours. Compressions. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Blows to the back.
But Jeonghan already knew. Somewhere deep inside, he knew his mother was gone.
Eventually, Aunt Chungsu stopped. She looked at the others, and something silent passed between them.
"She's gone," she said, voice hoarse. "Sun-ok-yah is gone."
"No," Jeonghan said. His voice sounded strange, flat. "No, you haven't tried enough yet. You have to keep going."
"Jeonghan-ah..."
"YOU HAVE TO KEEP TRYING!" he shouted, with something wild in his chest. "You can't give up!"
But the words died because he couldn't say "she's still alive" when he could see it wasn't true. Aunt Chungsu tried to hug him, but Jeonghan pulled away. He didn't want comfort. He just wanted his mother to really open her eyes and say "Jeonghan-ah, why are you crying? I'm fine."
But that didn't happen.
They found the cause afterward. A lost fishing net, tangled in the rocks. Sun-ok's left foot had gotten trapped, the rope wrapping around her ankle. She had struggled—broken nails, scraped fingers from trying to undo the knots.
But the sea doesn't give second chances.
The funeral was two days later. Jeonghan didn't cry for those two days. Not while they prepared the body, washing it and dressing it in her best hanbok—faded and mended, but the best they had. Not while they built the cheap pine coffin. Not while people came to pay respects with empty words.
His stepfather cried. Ironic, Jeonghan thought with distant coldness, considering how he had made Sun-ok's life miserable. But there he was, sobbing loudly, saying "what am I going to do without her?"
And Jeonghan felt something dark twist in his stomach. Pure hatred. But he said nothing. He just looked at the closed coffin, feeling that emptiness grow until it wanted to swallow him whole.
The cemetery was on a hill overlooking the sea. Of course. They dug the hole—the village men, including Seungcheol's father, with shovels that hit the hard earth with dull sounds.
And Jeonghan just watched. Watching that dark rectangular hole that smelled of damp earth and decay. Watching how they put his mother in there, how they buried her. He was supposed to feel something, he thought with distant clarity. Cry or scream or collapse. But he felt nothing. Just emptiness. As if someone had emptied out everything that was him, leaving only the shell. People cried. His stepfather sobbed. The haenyeo sang a traditional lament. His young half-siblings clung to their father's legs, frightened.
He stayed there long after everyone had left. The light faded, the sky turned gray and then dark. The cold seeped into his bones, but he didn't care.
It was Seungcheol who found him, hours later, when night had already fallen completely. He walked up the hill without making a sound and stopped a few steps away. He didn't say anything at first. He just took off his jacket—the only one he had, old and worn—and put it over Jeonghan's shoulders. Then he sat down beside him on the cold earth.
They remained silent for a good while. Only the wind could be heard and, in the background, the sea.
Finally, Jeonghan spoke. His voice came out low, hoarse.
"I don't want to stay here, Seungcheol-ah. I want to leave this island. Far away. I don't want to end up like her... dragged to the bottom by a net, drowned before thirty. Killing myself working all my life for nothing, dying alone in the cold water."
His voice broke on the last word. He clenched his fists on his knees.
"I'm scared," he admitted, almost in a whisper. "Scared that this is all there is. That the sea will take me too someday."
Seungcheol looked at him for a moment. Then he took Jeonghan's hand between his—calloused, strong hands that made Jeonghan's feel protected.
"It won't happen," he said firmly, though his voice also trembled a little. "I promise you. I won't let anything happen to you."
Jeonghan turned his head toward him. His eyes were red, but the tears weren't falling yet.
"Really?"
"Really," Seungcheol answered, squeezing his hand tighter. "You're not alone in this. Never again."
Jeonghan looked down at the ground. A single tear rolled down his cheek and fell on the earth. He said nothing more, but leaned slightly toward Seungcheol until their shoulders touched—shoulders that were now broader, more adult, but that still sought comfort in the same way.
"My stepfather says he can't support me anymore," Jeonghan said after a long silence, voice flat. "He says I'm old enough now to fend for myself. He's going to send me to my uncle on the other side of the island."
"When?"
"Tomorrow."
Seungcheol clenched his jaw—a jaw that was now strong and defined. Jeonghan could see how his chest rose and fell with controlled breaths, how the muscles in his neck tensed trying to contain something enormous inside him.
"I'll come see you," he said finally. "Every Saturday, like always. No matter how far your uncle's house is."
"Cheol-ah, it's on the other side of the island. It would take you hours to walk..."
"I don't care," Seungcheol interrupted, turning to look at him with an intensity Jeonghan had never seen in him—an intensity of seventeen years, of almost-man, of someone who knew exactly what he felt. "I'll walk those hours. I'll swim if I have to. But I'm not going to leave you alone. Never."
Jeonghan finally cried then. All the tears he had been holding back since he saw his mother's body came out at once, shaking his entire body—a body that was no longer a child's but that broke just the same. Seungcheol hugged him, and now his arms were stronger, capable of holding him completely, of wrapping him in a protection that felt real and solid.
"I promise I'll be there," Seungcheol whispered against his hair. "I'll always be there for you."
They stayed like that, sitting in the darkness, with the cold around them and the sea roaring below. They were no longer two children—they were two young men, sixteen and seventeen, on that threshold between adolescence and adulthood, facing an ocean of fear and pain.
It was a promise that Seungcheol would keep with a devotion that some would call love, and others obsession. But for him, it was simply the truth.
And for the first time that night, Jeonghan felt that maybe—just maybe—he wouldn't have to face everything alone.
᠃ ⚓︎ ᠃
His paternal uncle lived on the other side of the island. He had four children of his own and a wife with a permanently furrowed face. When Jeonghan arrived with his small bundle of belongings—a change of worn clothes, a broken comb, and a book of poems his mother had once bought him at a distant market—his uncle's wife looked him up and down with evident disgust.
"You'll sleep in the storage room," she said dryly. "And you'll earn your food. We don't raise lazy people here."
The storage room was a tiny space behind the kitchen where they kept jars of doenjang and blocks of fermenting meju. It smelled intensely of soy, a smell so penetrating that Jeonghan felt it got into his skin, his hair, his clothes. He slept on a thin mat between the jars, and every night he heard rats scurrying over the wooden beams, their little paws scratching like nails on his own desperation.
During meals, Jeonghan's cousins ate fresh fish, pork, crispy vegetables. Jeonghan was given a bowl of rice with old kimchi and nothing else. If he protested, even with a look, he went without food. He learned quickly to swallow in silence, to chew slowly so hunger wouldn't betray him.
He worked from before dawn until after nightfall. He washed clothes in the frozen river until his fingers went numb and cracked. He carried water from the well in heavy buckets that marked his shoulders. He took care of the younger children, who pushed him and made fun of him. He cleaned the house, prepared food that smelled delicious but that he couldn't taste. His hands developed calluses over calluses, and his back ached constantly, a dull pain that became sharp stabs when he bent over.
At night, when everyone was asleep and the house was quiet except for snoring and the creaking of wood, Jeonghan would take out his book of poems and read it by the silvery moonlight filtering through a crack in the wall. He would run his fingers over the worn pages, whispering verses in a voice so low they were barely a breath. He dreamed of escaping Jeju, of boarding a boat to Seoul, of becoming someone who wrote their own poems, of a life where he didn't have to break his back just to survive another day.
But dreams didn't feed you. Hunger did, and exhaustion, and the cold that seeped through the cracks. Jeonghan quickly learned that, in his situation, dreaming was a luxury he couldn't afford. He put the book under the mat, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep before the rats came running again, before the smell of fermented soy reminded him that he was still trapped, that the island didn't let anyone go easily, and that maybe he would never escape either.
And then, one Saturday afternoon, three weeks after Jeonghan had moved, Seungcheol appeared at the door. He was sweaty, with legs dirty from the road's dirt, breathing heavily. He had walked for three hours from his village.
"I came to see how you were," he said simply, as if it weren't extraordinary that he had crossed almost the entire island just to see him.
Aunt Soonsil looked at him with suspicion.
"Who are you?"
"Choi Seungcheol, ma'am. I'm—I'm Jeonghan's friend."
"He doesn't have time for friends. He has work to do."
But Seungcheol didn't move. He stood in the doorway, with that serious, determined expression that made him seem older than he was.
"Then I'll help. With the work, I mean. If I can spend time with Jeonghan afterward."
Aunt Soonsil frowned even more, but something in the boy's determination made her give in.
"There's wood to chop behind the house. If you want to be useful, start there."
Seungcheol chopped wood for two hours, with precise strikes of the axe that resonated in the air. When he finished, his hands were full of blisters, but he didn't complain. He just looked for Jeonghan, who was washing clothes in the stream.
"Hello," he said, sitting on the bank beside him.
"You're an idiot," Jeonghan responded, but his voice trembled. "You walked three hours. You chopped wood. Your hands..."
"I don't care about my hands," Seungcheol said, putting them in the cold stream water. "Are you okay? Are they treating you well?"
Jeonghan wanted to lie. He wanted to say yes, that everything was fine, that Seungcheol didn't need to worry. But when he looked at him, when he saw the genuine concern in his eyes, the words stuck in his throat.
"No," he finally whispered. "I'm not okay. I hate this place. I hate my aunt. I hate..." He paused, swallowing hard. The next confession weighed heavy on his chest. "My uncle and aunt decided I'm leaving school. They know how important it was to me, and they just..."
Seungcheol went still. The water kept flowing, but between them, the air froze.
"What? Why? It's the only thing that... it's your future."
"They say it's a waste of money. They say you learn more with your hands here than with books. I... I lost it. I lost my temper. I yelled at them, told them they were unfair. That my mother wouldn't have allowed it." Jeonghan's voice dropped to a thread, almost inaudible. He looked away, but not before Seungcheol saw the shine of shame and pain in his eyes. "My uncle hit me for talking back. And my aunt just said it was time I learned to find my place. In the end... in the end, I had to accept it. Because when it comes down to it, I'm living under their roof. I had no other choice. It was that or the street."
The last words came out like a poisoned confession. And what burned Jeonghan's chest the most wasn't the anger—it was the betrayal of himself. The act of accepting it. Of giving up the one thing he felt tied him to a different future, to the possibility of escaping someday with his own hands, his own mind. School wasn't just books; it was the map out of there. And he'd let it go. That was the poison coursing through his veins: surrender. He felt stained by it.
A thick silence stretched between them, broken only by the sound of water. Then Seungcheol jumped to his feet, hands clenched, anger radiating from him like a heat wave.
"No. I won't allow it. I'm going to talk to them right now. They can't do this."
"Cheol-ah, no!" Jeonghan's voice was a choked, desperate cry. He grabbed Seungcheol's arm tightly, stopping him. "Don't do it. It won't help. They won't listen to you. And it'll make things worse. For you and for me."
"Worse? Jeonghan, they're taking away your future! And they're hitting you!"
"And if you go there and cause trouble, they'll come after you too!" Jeonghan exclaimed, eyes filled with genuine fear. "Or worse. And then, when you leave, they'll make me pay double for bringing you into it, for telling you. It won't just be one beating. Don't make it harder for me."
The iron determination in Seungcheol's eyes shattered, replaced by an agony of helplessness. He took deep, ragged breaths, as if the air burned his lungs. Slowly, he sank back down on the riverbank, his fighting spirit depleted, leaving only deep, furious pain. He took Jeonghan's wet hand in his own, ignoring the protest of his blisters.
"Okay," he said, but his voice was hoarse, loaded with a new, fierce promise. "I won't go talk to them. Not now. But listen to me, Jeonghan. I'll come every week," he declared, each word edged with freshly tempered steel. "Every Saturday. Not just to see you. To make sure you're still in one piece. And when we're old enough, we'll find a way to get you out of here for good. A way where they can't touch you. I promise you."
"Cheol-ah, you can't walk three hours just to see me. It's too much. I'm not worth..."
"You're worth everything," Seungcheol interrupted with a ferocity that cut off his breath. "Your education, your future... this isn't over. I'll teach you what I can. I'll bring you notes and books. And it's not too much. It'll never be too much when it comes to you."
And he kept his word. Every Saturday for the next two years, no matter the weather—rain, wind, suffocating heat—Seungcheol walked three hours to see Jeonghan. He always brought something: fish, a piece of sweet bread he'd bought with his savings, a wildflower... and often, a used book or crumpled notes.
But what hurt Seungcheol most wasn't the journey, the exhaustion, or even the open hostility from Jeonghan's aunt and uncle. It was the slow darkening in Jeonghan's gaze. He watched as resignation settled into his friend like an endless winter. The Jeonghan who rebelled, who dreamed out loud, who had a tenacious, bright spark, was retreating to somewhere deep and unreachable. Sometimes Seungcheol caught him staring at the horizon with an emptiness that shredded his soul. He was alive, but he seemed to have stopped fighting. He simply existed, day after day, completing tasks with mechanical, lifeless precision.
That surrender, that silent "it doesn't matter anymore" emanating from Jeonghan, hurt Seungcheol more than any physical blow. Because the Jeonghan he knew, the one he loved, wasn't like this. He was fire, not ash. Stubbornness, not submission. And every Saturday, Seungcheol wasn't just fighting his friend's circumstances; he was fighting that internal tide of despair threatening to drown him. His promise became fiercer, more desperate: not just to get him out of there, but to rescue that drowning Jeonghan, to give him back the spark the world was stealing from him. Because without it, without that yearning for something more, what future could they build? Each visit, each note, each word of encouragement was also a lifeline, a constant reminder: "I still see you. I still remember who you are. Don't give up completely." It was a painful tug-of-war against resignation, and Seungcheol swore never to let go of his end of the rope.
᠃ ⚓︎ ᠃
The village people began to talk.
"That Choi boy is crazy about his orphaned nephew," said Mrs. Park while selling fish at the market. "He walks three hours every week just to see him. Have you ever seen anything like it?"
"It's a shame," Mrs. Kim replied, shaking her head. "A handsome, hardworking boy like him, wasting his time on such a cold kid."
"Cold is putting it mildly," added Mrs. Lee. "I've seen him give him flowers, and he barely even looks at them. And that Choi boy, chopping firewood for him like a servant. It's depressing."
The whispers became part of daily life. Every time Jeonghan walked through the market, feeling the weight of his worn clothes and the dust of the fields on his skin, he sensed their stares, heard conversations that stopped as he passed and resumed in low voices as he walked away.
The truth was infinitely more complicated and more painful.
Jeonghan didn't just appreciate Seungcheol; he needed him like air. He was the only ray of light in a gray existence of unceasing work and resignation. But that need terrified him. To depend was to have something to lose. And Jeonghan had already lost too much: his parents, his education, his dreams. To hold onto Seungcheol was to open the door to even greater pain if it ever fell apart. And the villagers, with their whispers, constantly reminded him that he was a burden, dead weight for someone as bright as Seungcheol.
But when he was with him, when Seungcheol arrived with hands roughened by work but with his smile intact, when he looked at him as if he could still see the boy full of dreams he once was... Jeonghan felt something inside him, something he believed dead, stir weakly.
One Saturday, after a particularly brutal day when his uncle had humiliated him for a small mistake, Seungcheol arrived in a downpour, soaked through, with a book wrapped in cloth to protect it. Seeing him, something in Jeonghan broke. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that Seungcheol wore himself down for someone who was no longer worth it.
"You shouldn't come anymore!" he burst out, voice hoarse with pent-up emotion. "It's stupid! Don't you see? You're wasting your life!"
Seungcheol blinked, confused and hurt by a fury he didn't understand. "It's not a waste if it's for you."
"Yes, it is!" Jeonghan shouted, tears mixing with rain on his face. "Look at me, Seungcheol-ah! I'm not the same anymore! School's over! My dreams are over! I'm just... this!" He struck his chest with his fist. "A pair of hands to work. And you... you keep coming with books, with flowers, as if I could... as if I deserved... Our paths won't come together, they'll only grow further apart! What's the point...?"
"What's the point?" Seungcheol asked, stepping closer through the curtain of rain, his voice rough, a whisper that cut through the air. "What's the point of loving you, even if everything else falls apart?"
The world stopped. The word—so vast, so forbidden—echoed between them louder than thunder.
"Seungcheol-ah, don't..."
"I've been in love with you since I was ten," Seungcheol said, voice heavy with a truth that weighed years. "Since the first day I saw you looking hungry at the harbor. And every day I fell more in love. Every time you smiled, every time you read me your poems. Every time... And I fall even more in love now, every Saturday, when I see how strong you are just to survive, when I find in your eyes a reason to fight, even when you can no longer see it."
"Stop," Jeonghan pleaded, a sob caught in his throat. "Please, stop. It's too much. I'm not strong. I'm... resigned."
"Why? Because you think you don't deserve it? Because your plan now is just to endure? Jeonghan-ah, I understand you don't talk about Seoul anymore. I understand the future is just the next sunrise you have to get through. But... can't I be part of that endurance? Even if it's just this? Loving you here, now, in this mud, under this rain?"
Jeonghan shook his head desperately as tears flowed freely.
"You can't! Your love is too good for this place, for me! It's like bringing a rose to a dump! It'll wither, Seungcheol-ah. And it hurts more to watch it die than to never have had it at all. I... I can't be the reason your heart breaks when all this finally drowns me."
"Then let me love you while I can," Seungcheol insisted, taking Jeonghan's face in his hands, rough and cold from the rain. "If the future is uncertain, if everything is dark, let me be this. Let me be the fool who walks three hours in the rain for the privilege of loving you. If one day I can no longer reach you, at least I'll have had this. At least I'll have loved the bravest person I've ever known with everything I have."
It was so tragically beautiful it shattered Jeonghan's heart. He wanted to scream that he was an idealist, that he was wasting his youth on a bottomless pit. But the words choked in his throat.
Instead, he collapsed forward and buried his face in Seungcheol's wet shoulder, clinging to him like a drowning man.
"You're an idiot," he sobbed, voice muffled by damp fabric. "The most stubborn, wonderful idiot. And I... I don't deserve this."
"Let me decide what I deserve," Seungcheol whispered, wrapping him in a firm embrace, as if he could protect him from all the rain and all the pain in the world.
From that day on, something broke and something mended between them. Jeonghan no longer fought against the warm current Seungcheol brought with him. He still couldn't call it love—it was too big a word, too tied to a future he no longer dared imagine—but it was a respite. A refuge. A place where, for a few hours a week, he could stop being alone and simply be, without having to be strong.
But the village whispers, which had never been kind, grew sharper, more venomous.
"He's taking advantage of that boy's good heart," Mrs. Park complained. "Has him working like a mule and doesn't even smile at him. Acts like he's too good for him, even now, ruined."
"Selfish," Mrs. Kim nodded. "Poor Seungcheol would give his life for him, and he just takes and takes. Doesn't he realize he's also consuming that boy's future?"
"Poor Seungcheol-ah. So loyal. Trapped by an affection that will only bring him sorrow."
Seungcheol heard them sometimes and clenched his fists, but kept going, his determination reinforced by the love he felt. But Jeonghan heard them too, and each word was like a nail driving into his chest the certainty that he was, indeed, a burden. Dead weight. The shadow darkening the light of the only good person in his life. And that knowledge became another thorn embedded in his already difficult existence, a silent pain he carried along with all the others.
᠃ ⚓︎ ᠃
It was 1959, and now Jeonghan was eighteen and Seungcheol nineteen.
It was during the school sports competitions that everything changed. There was a swimming race in the bay, and Seungcheol participated almost by chance—a friend had dared him. But when he got in the water, something magical happened. He moved through the water as if born for it, with powerful, elegant strokes that left all the other competitors far behind. He won by such a wide margin it seemed impossible.
A teacher from Seoul visiting the island saw him and was amazed.
"That boy," he told the school principal, "has natural talent. With proper training, he could compete nationally. Maybe even internationally."
The news spread like wildfire. Suddenly, Seungcheol wasn't just fisherman Choi's son. He was "the swimming prodigy," "the one who could put Jeju on the map," "the island's future pride." They started talking about scholarships, training programs in Seoul, a bright future far from the sea and fishing nets.
Seungcheol's father was torn between pride and sadness. On one hand, he wanted his son to have the opportunities he never had. On the other, it meant losing his only son, being left alone on the fishing boat, growing old without company.
"What do you want to do?" he asked Seungcheol one evening while repairing nets.
Seungcheol didn't answer immediately. His hands worked automatically, tying and repairing, but his mind was elsewhere. "I don't know," he finally said.
But it was a lie. He did know. He wanted to stay. He wanted to be near Jeonghan. Because in his nineteen-year-old mind, in love to his core, no medal or glory was worth more than seeing him every week.
When he told Jeonghan about the opportunity, he expected... he didn't know what to expect. For him to say stay? To confess he loved him and couldn't live without him?
Instead, Jeonghan looked at him with eyes bright with excitement.
"Seungcheol-ah, this is incredible! It's your chance to get out of here!"
"But I..."
"You have to go," he interrupted, taking his hands. "You have to take this opportunity. Don't you see? It's exactly what I wanted for myself. A scholarship, a way to go to Seoul, to be something more than... this."
His enthusiasm was genuine, but something in Seungcheol's chest contracted painfully.
"What about us?"
Jeonghan blinked. "Us?"
"Jeonghan-ah, if I go to Seoul, I won't be able to come every week. I won't be able to see you. I won't be able to..."
"Seungcheol-ah," he said softly, releasing his hands, "you can't give up your future for me. I would never ask you to do that."
"You're not asking. I'm choosing..."
"Then you're choosing wrong," Jeonghan interrupted, something like desperation in his voice. "Don't you understand? If you stay here for me, sooner or later you'll resent me. You'll wonder what would have happened if you'd left. And I... I can't be the reason you waste your potential."
"What about you?"
"What about me?"
"I'm going to miss you," Seungcheol said, voice rough. "Every day."
Jeonghan felt tears building but blinked them back.
"And I'll miss you too. But Seungcheol-ah... if you really love me, do this. Go to Seoul. Become someone great. And maybe... maybe someday, when I get there too, we'll see each other again."
It was a vague promise, a nebulous hope, not a concrete plan. But it was all they had.
᠃ ⚓︎ ᠃
Seungcheol's father finally agreed to let him go. Arrangements were made. Seungcheol would travel to Seoul in three months to begin intensive training with one of the country's best coaches.
During those three months, Seungcheol and Jeonghan spent every free minute together. They were no longer limited to Saturdays. They met at their secret cave, that hidden corner between the rocks where waves crashed with deep echoes and they could pretend the rest of the world didn't exist.
One day, while sitting in the cave watching the sunset paint the ocean gold and pink, Seungcheol handed him something wrapped in old cloth.
"Open it."
Jeonghan unwrapped the cloth carefully. Inside was a simple necklace: a worn leather cord with a small shell polished to shine. For Jeonghan, who had never in his life had anything that could be considered jewelry, it was more valuable than anything made of gold.
"Seungcheol-ah, this is..."
"I made it myself," he said, blushing to his ears. "I found the shell on the beach where we met. I polished it for weeks until it was smooth. The cord isn't fancy, but..."
Jeonghan interrupted him, pulling him close and kissing him. It was their first real kiss; before there had only been awkward, nervous brushes, but this was different. Slow, sweet, tasting of sea salt and all the words they'd never dared say.
When they pulled apart, Seungcheol was breathing hard, his cheeks burning.
"Wear it always," he whispered. "So you remember there's someone on this island who loves you. Who will always love you."
Jeonghan touched the necklace and felt tears sting his eyes.
"I promise I'll wear it. Until we meet again."
But deep down, part of him wondered if they really would meet again someday, or if this was just a goodbye disguised as "see you later."
᠃ ⚓︎ ᠃
The day arrived. March 1959, the air still cold, but the scent of spring beginning to permeate the wind. Seungcheol stood at the harbor with a small suitcase containing only two changes of clothes and nothing else. His father was beside him, a firm hand on his shoulder, giving words of encouragement that sounded forced even to himself.
The whole village seemed to come to see him off. After all, "Jeju's swimming prodigy" was going to conquer Seoul. The market women patted his arm, the fishermen wished him luck, children looked at him with admiration.
But Seungcheol only searched for one face in the crowd. Jeonghan was there, in the back, almost hidden behind a group of haenyeo. He wore the necklace—he'd worn it every day since he'd given it to him—and his eyes were red, as if he'd spent the night crying.
Seungcheol pushed through the crowd to reach him.
"You came," he said, as if he'd been afraid he wouldn't.
"Of course I came, idiot," Jeonghan replied, but his voice trembled. "How could I not come to say goodbye to my...?"
He stopped. What was he? A friend? Something more? The words seemed too small for what he felt.
"To your Seungcheol," he completed softly. "I'll always be your Seungcheol, wherever I am."
The boat sounded its horn. It was time.
Seungcheol climbed onto the deck on legs that felt like stone. He set the suitcase at his feet, but his hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped it. His father remained on the dock, shoulders hunched, hand raised in a farewell that seemed to tear something from his chest. Tears ran freely down the old fisherman's weathered face, without shame, without trying to hide them.
The boat began to pull away. The engine roared like a hungry beast, the water foamed white and violently against the metal hull, and each meter that opened between the boat and the dock felt like a physical tearing.
Jeonghan stood motionless, feet planted on the dock's wood. He could feel the splinters under his sandals, smell the rotting fish and salt, hear the voices of the haenyeo around him saying goodbye to other passengers. But everything sounded distant, muffled, as if he were underwater.
This was the moment.
He should let him go. He should smile, like he'd practiced in front of the broken mirror in his room, raise his hand in an elegant farewell and be strong. Be the practical boy he'd always been. The one who understood that sometimes love meant letting go.
But his lips trembled too much to smile. His hands were clenched in fists so tight his nails dug into his palms, leaving red crescents on his skin. His chest rose and fell with increasingly rapid, shallow breaths, as if someone had placed a stone on his ribs.
No. No. No.
The boat was pulling away. Slow but relentless. Like a sentence. Like an executioner taking his time.
Seungcheol was on deck, a figure growing smaller with each second. His white shirt fluttered in the wind. His hand was raised, frozen in a farewell gesture he couldn't complete.
And then Jeonghan saw him start to turn away. Saw his shoulders begin to sink. Saw him surrender to the inevitability of his departure.
Something inside him exploded.
It wasn't a clean break. It was violent. Chaotic. Like glass shattering into a thousand sharp pieces. Like a dam breaking and releasing years of stagnant water. Like a scream that had been trapped in his throat since he was nine years old and his mother sank into the sea.
All the emotions he'd been storing—months, years, a lifetime of repression, of being practical, of not asking, of not needing, of thinking only about escaping, surviving, being strong—came out at once with a force that made him stagger.
"SEUNGCHEOL-AH!"
The scream tore from his throat, so loud it hurt, so desperate people on the dock turned to look at him. His voice broke on the last syllable, becoming a guttural sob he didn't recognize as his own.
On the boat's deck, Seungcheol whirled around. So fast he almost lost his balance.
Jeonghan ran. He stumbled over his own feet, nearly fell, grabbed the wooden dock post to keep from collapsing, but kept moving forward to the edge. To where the dock ended and the water began. So close to the shore that waves splashed his bare feet.
Tears ran uncontrollably down his cheeks, hot, salty, mixing with the sea breeze. He didn't try to wipe them away. He didn't care who saw. He didn't care about anything but him.
"DON'T GO!"
His voice broke again, but he screamed louder, fighting against the engine's roar, against the wind that seemed to want to carry his words away, against the entire universe conspiring to separate him from him.
"PLEASE! SEUNGCHEOL-AH, DON'T GO!"
The boat kept moving away. Three meters. Five meters. Seven meters. Each centimeter was agony.
The haenyeo rushed to his side. Aunt Chungsu grabbed his arm, trying to pull him back from the edge.
"Boy, you're going to fall in the water..."
But Jeonghan pushed her away with a strength he didn't know he had. He clung to the wooden post with both hands, leaning so far forward his body hung suspended over the water, held only by his hands, knuckles white.
And he screamed the words he'd kept inside for so long. The words he'd been too afraid to say because saying them meant admitting how much he needed someone, how much it could hurt to lose them.
"I LOVE YOU!"
Sobs shook his whole body, violent and uncontrollable. His nose was running, his face contorted, ugly from crying so hard, but he didn't care.
"SEUNGCHEOL-AH, I LOVE YOU! I'VE ALWAYS LOVED YOU! SINCE I WAS NINE AND YOU GAVE ME THE FIRST FISH! I'VE LOVED YOU EVERY DAY SINCE!"
His voice broke completely on the last word, dissolving into an inarticulate moan of pure pain.
"I CAN'T... I CAN'T LOSE YOU! PLEASE! PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME!"
On the boat's deck, Seungcheol stood motionless. Petrified. As if someone had turned him to stone. The entire world seemed to stop. The engine's roar became a distant hum. The waves stopped moving. The wind froze in the air.
Only his name existed on Jeonghan's lips, between desperate, raw, real sobs. Carried by the salty wind that smelled of home and farewell.
"I love you. I love you. I love you."
The words reached him in waves, each one hitting his chest like a fist. He could see his face; even at that distance, he saw how it contorted with pain, how tears ran, how his mouth opened in screams that tore something from his soul.
He could see him clinging to the post, leaning dangerously over the water, as if he were about to throw himself into the sea just to reach him.
He could see the haenyeo trying to embrace him, console him, but Jeonghan pushed them away, shaking his head violently, refusing to be consoled because the only consolation he wanted was pulling away on a boat.
Something in Seungcheol's chest, something he'd been holding in since he accepted this scholarship, since he packed his suitcase, since he boarded this damn boat, broke with a silent sound only he could hear.
His hands gripped the metal railing of the deck so hard his knuckles turned white. His whole body trembled. The tears he'd been holding back—because he had to be strong, because this was his opportunity—finally fell, hot and bitter.
He saw Jeonghan collapse to his knees on the dock, still clinging to the post, still screaming his name though his voice was gone, only mute movements of his lips remaining.
And Seungcheol knew, with absolute and terrifying clarity, that he couldn't go through with it. Scholarships didn't matter. Opportunities didn't matter. The bright future they'd promised him didn't matter.
Because what would the future be without him?
What were medals if he couldn't hang them around his neck?
What would glory be if Jeonghan wasn't there to see it?
Nothing. It was all absolutely nothing without Jeonghan.
He saw his face—that face he'd memorized in a thousand details—twisted with pain. Saw how he hunched over, as if the words had cost him something physical. Saw the haenyeo rushing to his side, trying to console him, but he pushed them away, gaze fixed only on Seungcheol.
And something in Seungcheol simply... decided.
There was no thought. No logic. Just an absolute, crystalline certainty that pierced his chest like lightning.
He removed his shoes with trembling hands, letting them fall to the wooden deck with two dull thuds no one else heard. The metal railing was ice-cold under his sweaty palms. For one eternal instant, he looked down at the churning black, foaming water meters below, feeling the salty wind whip his face.
And without another thought, he jumped.
The air whistled in his ears during the fall. Then the impact, like crashing into concrete. The March water was so freezing his body went into instant shock. It stole his breath in one brutal second. The ocean swallowed him, dragging him down with invisible, hungry fingers. The dark green turned black. Bubbles from his own breath rose desperately toward a surface he could no longer see.
I'm going to die, he thought with strange clarity. I'm going to drown right here.
But then Jeonghan's face exploded in his mind: twisted with pain, tears running, mouth open screaming his name. I love you. I love you. I love you.
And something primitive in him roared: NO.
His swimmer's instincts took over. He kicked hard, desperate strokes upward, upward, upward. His lungs burned, demanding air he didn't have. Black spots burst in his vision. But he kept rising.
He broke the surface with a violent gasp that sounded like a sob. Air entered like knives down his throat. He coughed salt water that burned his nose and eyes, but filled his lungs once, twice, three times. Alive. Still alive.
The boat was already circling in wide arcs, horn wailing like a wounded animal, voices shouting things he didn't understand. But Seungcheol swam in the opposite direction; each stroke was an act of pure will against the ocean pulling at his legs, licking his face, whispering "give up, let go, it's easier."
Toward the dock. Toward Jeonghan. Toward the only future that mattered.
His strokes cut through the water desperately; not with the perfect technique they wanted to teach him in Seoul, but with the brute force of someone swimming toward their reason for being. The current pulled him back. The cold numbed his fingers and legs. The soaked clothes weighed on him like chains. But he was stronger. He had to be.
Jeonghan. Jeonghan. Jeonghan.
The name was a heartbeat. A prayer. The only real thing in the universe.
Meanwhile, on the dock, chaos erupted like broken glass.
"He jumped!" Women's voices broke hysterically. "My God, the boy jumped from the boat!"
"He's swimming back!" A fisherman pointed with a trembling finger, voice rising three octaves. "Against the current! It's impossible!"
Jeonghan ran to the edge on legs that barely responded. The entire world had reduced to that dark head appearing and disappearing among the silvery waves. Each time it submerged, something in his chest contracted so hard he couldn't breathe. Each time it emerged, air returned in a painful gasp.
"Please," he whispered over and over, hands pressed against his chest as if he could contain his heart before it exploded. "Please, please, God, please..."
He wasn't religious. He never had been. But in that moment he would have sold his soul to any demon, any god, anything that would keep Seungcheol alive, that would bring him back.
The haenyeo had congregated around him—women who had witnessed drownings, who had lost husbands and sons to the sea, who knew the ocean's intimate death. They watched with pale faces and hands covering their mouths.
"I've never seen anyone swim like that," Aunt Chungsu murmured, voice barely audible. "Against that current... oh, that boy... it's impossible."
"Love makes the impossible possible," another haenyeo replied, and her voice trembled as if witnessing something both sacred and terrible.
It was ten minutes that felt like ten lifetimes. Jeonghan counted each stroke he saw: one, two, loses count, starts over. His nails dug into his own palms without realizing. Silent tears ran down his cheeks, mixing with the salty sea breeze. His jaw ached from clenching it so hard.
Wait. Wait. I'm here. I'm waiting for you. Don't give up.
As if Seungcheol could hear his thoughts. As if love were an invisible thread dragging him back to shore.
And then, miracle or madness or both, Seungcheol reached the dock rocks.
Strong hands reached out to help—fishermen with calloused palms, haenyeo with strength that belied their age. They pulled him from the water as if he weighed nothing, but he collapsed on the dock wood like a freshly caught fish. He was shaking so hard his teeth chattered audibly. His lips were a terrifying blue. Water dripped from his hair and clothes, forming a dark puddle around him. But his eyes—dark, wild, alive—searched for only one thing.
"Jeonghan," it came out as a raspy croak from his destroyed throat. "Jeonghan-ah..."
Jeonghan fell to his knees so hard the impact echoed in his bones. His hands flew to Seungcheol's face, touching his frozen cheeks, his forehead, his neck, where his pulse beat erratic but real, real, so fucking real.
"You're an idiot," he sobbed, words coming out broken. "A complete idiot. You could have drowned..."
His hands pressed Seungcheol's chest, feeling how his lungs expanded and contracted.
"You could have died. You could have... you could have..."
He couldn't finish. The enormity of what almost happened hit him like a delayed wave. His whole body shook, sobbing in violent spasms that hurt his ribs.
"Your future, your scholarship, your whole life and you... you just..."
Seungcheol took his wrists with fingers so cold they felt like ice. Carefully, trembling so much he could barely coordinate the movement, he placed Jeonghan's hands against his own chest. Right over his heart that beat wild, desperate, alive.
"You're my future," he said, and his voice came out hoarse, destroyed by salt water and cold, but so firm that Jeonghan felt each word drive into his chest. "There's no medal, no glory, nothing, nothing in this world worth more than being with you."
A tear rolled down his cheek, mixing with the seawater.
"You called me. You said you loved me."
His voice broke, becoming something small and vulnerable Jeonghan had never heard before.
"How... how could I keep leaving after hearing that? How could I leave you when you said...?"
He couldn't finish. A sob caught in his throat.
Jeonghan shook his head violently, tears falling so fast he couldn't see.
"But I didn't want to ruin your opportunity," he said through sobs. "I didn't want to be selfish. I didn't want you to sacrifice yourself..."
"Then let's be selfish together," Seungcheol interrupted, pulling him closer with still-trembling hands. "Because I love you too."
His forehead pressed against Jeonghan's, both breathing the same air, sharing the same small space in the universe.
"I've always loved you. From the first day. And I'd rather..." His voice broke, but he continued fiercely. "I'd rather be a poor fisherman by your side than a famous swimmer without you. I'd rather have your hands in mine than a medal around my neck. I'd rather this..." He brought their hands to his heart. "This, you and me, together, even in poverty, even if it's hard. I'd rather this a thousand times over than a bright future without you."
Then they kissed, right there, on the wet dock wood, with Seungcheol shaking from hypothermia and Jeonghan sobbing so hard he could barely breathe.
Seungcheol's father was there too. Seeing his son alive, soaked, kissing the boy he'd risked everything for, he simply shook his head. A tired smile, sad and proud at the same time, curved his cracked lips.
"I never saw anything more foolish," he said, but his voice trembled with contained emotion. "But I suppose foolish love is the only kind that's really worth it."
That night, the whole village talked about "the crazy swimmer who jumped from the boat for love." Some called it romantic. Others called him "a suicidal idiot." But everyone agreed on one thing:
Choi Seungcheol loved Yoon Jeonghan with a devotion terrifying in its intensity. A love that didn't calculate. That didn't measure. That simply jumped.
᠃ ⚓︎ ᠃
The days following the boat incident were strange. The whole village seemed to look at Seungcheol differently—some with admiration, others with pity, others with a confused mixture of both.
Seungcheol had rejected an opportunity most Jeju boys could only dream of. A full scholarship. First-class training. The chance to compete nationally, maybe even internationally. The chance to escape poverty, to be someone, to have a future without fishing nets, destroyed hands, and the constant threat of the sea killing you like it had killed your grandfather, your uncle, and dozens of others.
And he'd thrown it all away for a boy.
His father was more resigned than angry. The first nights after the incident, Seungcheol heard him pacing through the small house, his steps slow and heavy, the sound of someone carrying an invisible weight. But he never yelled. Never said "I told you so." He simply looked at his son with sad, tired eyes that said everything.
One night, while repairing nets together—the silent, meditative work they'd done together for years—his father finally spoke.
"Do you know what you sacrificed?" It wasn't an accusation. Just a question, honest and direct.
Seungcheol didn't stop working. His fingers kept tying, repairing holes in the net with expert movements.
"I know, appa."
"Do you really?" His father set the net aside and looked at his son directly. "You didn't just lose the scholarship. The coach in Seoul is furious. He's been talking to other coaches, sports organizations. He's making sure you won't get another opportunity. He says you're unreliable, that you waste your talent, that..."
"I know," Seungcheol interrupted, voice steady. "I know, appa. And I'd do it again."
His father sighed, a deep sound that seemed to come from somewhere ancient and painful.
"Your mother would have said the same thing."
Seungcheol looked up, surprised. "Eomma?"
"Your mother," his father said with a slight sad smile, "was just as foolish as you. When we met, she had the chance to marry the son of a wealthy merchant from the mainland. She would have had an easy life. A big house, servants, never would have had to work again."
He paused, looking at his own hands—fisherman's hands, calloused and full of scars.
"But she chose a poor Jeju fisherman. She chose me. And never, not once in all the years we were together, did I hear her regret it. Even in the hard times, even when we went hungry, even when..." His voice broke a little. "Even when she was dying, she took my hand and told me: 'I would choose you again in every life.'"
Seungcheol felt a lump in his throat. "Then you understand."
"I understand," his father nodded. "But understanding doesn't make it less terrifying to watch my son give up everything for love. Because love... love doesn't pay the bills, son. It doesn't fill empty stomachs. It doesn't protect from winter cold."
"I know."
"But," his father continued with unexpected gentleness, "love is the only thing that makes living through all of this worthwhile. So if that boy, Jeonghan, is your reason for getting up every morning, I suppose you made the right decision."
It was as close to a blessing as Seungcheol would receive from his father, and he accepted it with silent gratitude.
But not everyone in the village was as understanding. The market women spoke in voices loud enough for Jeonghan and Seungcheol to hear when they passed.
"He wasted his talent for a boy," people said at the market, shaking their heads. "What a tragedy! What a waste of potential!"
"Poor Seungcheol-ah," said Mrs. Park while selling dried fish. "So devoted to that boy, and what does he get in return?"
"Only trouble," Mrs. Kim replied, shaking her head. "That Jeonghan... always was cold. Even as a child. Only thinks of himself."
"If I were Seungcheol," another woman said, "I'd look for someone who really appreciated him. There are plenty of good girls in this village who would value him properly."
Jeonghan heard these conversations and each word embedded itself like a thorn. Because part of him—a small but poisonous part—wondered if they were right. Was he selfish? Had he ruined Seungcheol's life?
He carried that guilt like a stone in his chest, heavy and cold. Every time he looked at Seungcheol—working on his father's boat, hands cut and bleeding from the rough ropes, back hunched from the weight of physical labor—he thought: He could have been in Seoul. He could have been someone. And instead he's here. Because of me.
One afternoon, while walking on the beach, his safe place where the waves drowned out the village's cruel voices, Jeonghan finally couldn't hold it in anymore.
"I ruined your life."
Seungcheol, who was collecting shells, stopped.
"What?"
"I ruined your life," Jeonghan repeated, voice trembling. "I did. Everyone's right. You were... you were special. You had a gift. And because of me, because of me, you threw it all away. And now you're stuck here, fishing with your father, with no future, with no..."
"Stop," Seungcheol said, dropping the shells and turning to take Jeonghan's hands. "Stop saying that."
"But it's true. If I hadn't screamed your name that day, if I'd been strong and let you go, you..."
"What?" Seungcheol interrupted, intensity in his gaze that made Jeonghan fall silent. "Would have been miserable every day of my life? Would have won medals that meant nothing because the only person I wanted to show them to wasn't there? Would have lived with the regret of choosing metal and recognition over the person I love?"
"But you could have been someone..."
"I am someone," Seungcheol said firmly. "I'm the man who loves Yoon Jeonghan. I'm the man who swims against impossible currents for him. I'm the man who chose love over ambition. And you know what, Jeonghan? That makes me someone I can respect when I look in the mirror."
Jeonghan felt tears burning in his eyes.
"The village people..."
"To hell with the village people," Seungcheol said, though without anger. "They don't have to live my life. I do. And I chose to live this life with you."
He pulled Jeonghan into an embrace that smelled of salt, sweat, and home.
"Stop carrying guilt that isn't yours," he murmured against Jeonghan's hair. "I made my decision. Eyes open. Mind clear. And I don't regret it for a second."
Jeonghan clung to him, wanting to believe him, needing to believe him. But weeks passed and things got complicated in ways neither of them anticipated.
᠃ ⚓︎ ᠃
It was a June afternoon when the bomb dropped.
Jeonghan's uncle had been unusually quiet lately. No more beatings, no shouting about how useless Jeonghan was. Just an icy silence and calculating looks that raised the hairs on his neck with a primitive warning.
He should have known something was wrong. Should have seen it coming.
But he didn't.
It was Aunt Soonsil who delivered the news, with a smile that was all teeth and malice.
Jeonghan had come home after spending the day with Seungcheol, hair still damp from the sea and sand stuck to his bare feet. He came through the back door—he always used the back, never the front, because he wasn't family, just the orphan they tolerated—and found his aunt and uncle waiting for him in the kitchen.
His uncle sat at the table with a cup of tea, watching him like a cat that just caught a mouse. His aunt stood by the stove, arms crossed and that expression of cruel satisfaction Jeonghan had come to hate.
"Sit down," his uncle ordered.
Jeonghan felt his stomach knot. Nothing good came from conversations that started with "sit down."
But he sat, hands clenched into fists on his lap, every muscle tense waiting for the blow.
"We have good news for you," his uncle said, though his tone didn't sound like he thought it was good news. "We've arranged a marriage for you."
The world stopped. Jeonghan blinked, sure he'd misheard. "What?"
"A marriage," his aunt repeated, savoring every word. "With the Park family's son. They have a fish processing plant in Busan. They're rich. Or at least, much richer than us."
"No..." Jeonghan shook his head, feeling panic rising up his throat like bile. "No, you can't... I'm not..."
"It's already arranged," his uncle said with finality. "They've paid the bride price. Three million won. And the wedding will be in August."
Three million won. A fortune for a poor Jeju family. Enough to pay debts, to repair the house, to live comfortably for years.
"No," Jeonghan said, voice rising. "No, you can't do this. I'm not going to..."
"YOU'LL DO WHAT WE TELL YOU!" his uncle roared, slamming the table with his palm. "For years we've fed you, given you shelter, tolerated you! It's time you paid that debt."
"You treated me like a slave!" Jeonghan shouted back, with years of contained rage finally coming out. "You made me sleep among jars of doenjang! You gave me scraps while your children ate! I don't owe you anything!"
His aunt opened her mouth to retort, but Jeonghan didn’t let her. His voice came out clear and sharp, like the edge of a knife.
"And school! Don’t forget that! You forced me to leave school! You knew it was all I had left—my only way out of here—and you tore it away from me!" He pointed a trembling finger at his uncle, who was turning pale with rage. "You beat me for wanting to learn! You beat me for having a dream! And you!" —he spun back toward his aunt— "you said that was my place! That was not my place! My place was where my mother wanted me—studying, building a future!"
The slap came fast and hard, making Jeonghan's head snap to the side. He could taste the metallic flavor of blood where his tooth had cut the inside of his cheek.
"You owe us your life," his aunt hissed. "If it weren't for us, you'd be dead in a ditch somewhere. And now you're going to pay that debt by marrying the Park boy and giving us a connection to his rich family."
Jeonghan stood up, the chair falling behind him.
"I'm not going to do it."
"You have no choice," his uncle said. "The contract is already signed. The money has already been paid. If you try to break this engagement, we'll have to return the money plus compensation. Do you know how much that is? Six million won. We don't have that amount. So either you marry, or you completely ruin this family. Is that what you want? To destroy your family?"
"You're not my family," Jeonghan spat.
But the damage was done. The words had been said. The contract had been signed. And Jeonghan knew—with horrible, sinking knowledge—that his uncle was right. If he broke the engagement, it would be a scandal. His uncle would have to return money he'd probably already spent. They could lose the house. His cousins—innocent children who weren't to blame for how their parents treated Jeonghan—would suffer.
He ran from the house with the taste of blood in his mouth and tears burning his eyes. He ran until his lungs burned and his legs screamed in protest. He ran until he reached the small house where Seungcheol lived with his father.
He pounded on the door frantically, knuckles hurting against the wood.
Seungcheol opened, hair wet from just bathing, with a sleepy expression that evaporated immediately when he saw Jeonghan's face.
"What happened?" he asked, pulling him inside. "Jeonghan-ah, you're bleeding..."
"They're going to marry me off," Jeonghan said, and his voice sounded broken, hysterical. "My uncle arranged a marriage. With a boy from the mainland. They already took the money. They already signed the contract. And I... I don't know what to do. I don't know..."
He collapsed against Seungcheol, sobbing, his entire body trembling.
Seungcheol held him, arms trembling with contained rage. For a moment—just a moment—his expression became something dark and dangerous. Something that said if Jeonghan's uncle were in front of him right now, Seungcheol might do something he'd regret.
But he breathed deeply. Once. Twice. Calming himself. Because Jeonghan needed his clarity now, not his rage.
"No," Seungcheol said simply. "We're not going to let that happen."
Jeonghan pulled back a bit, wiping tears. "Seungcheol-ah, they already took the money. It's an official engagement. If I break it..."
"Then we don't break it," Seungcheol said, and there was something in his eyes, something fierce and determined. "We just... disappear."
Jeonghan blinked. "What?"
"We run away," Seungcheol said, taking Jeonghan's hands between his. "Together. Before they can marry you to that boy. We go to the mainland. We lose ourselves in a big city where they can't find us. We start over."
"That's... that's crazy," Jeonghan said, but his heart was already beating faster with something like hope. "We don't have money. We don't know anyone on the mainland. Where would we live? How...?"
"I don't know," Seungcheol admitted. "I don't have answers to those questions. But I know this: I'm not going to let you marry someone you don't love. I'm not going to let you be sold like merchandise. I'd rather be poor and free together than separated and miserable."
Jeonghan looked into those eyes—those dark, honest eyes that had never lied to him—and felt something in his chest loosen.
"Your father..."
"My father will understand," Seungcheol said. "Or he won't. But I've already made my decision."
"They'll look for us."
"Then we'll be hard to find."
"It might not work. We could end up homeless, hungry..."
"Then we'll be homeless and hungry together," Seungcheol said with devastating simplicity. "Jeonghan-ah, I love you. And there's no version of the future in my mind that doesn't include you. So if we have to run away, we'll run away. If we have to hide, we'll hide. If we have to fight, we'll fight. But we'll do it together."
And Jeonghan, who had spent his whole life being practical, being sensible, always thinking two steps ahead, decided for once in his life to be impulsive.
"Okay," he whispered. "Let's run away together."
᠃ ⚓︎ ᠃
Planning an escape when you're poor and without resources is like trying to climb a mountain without equipment. Every step is dangerous. Every decision could be fatal. But Seungcheol and Jeonghan had no choice.
Seungcheol had been saving. Not much—fishermen didn't earn much, and most went to help his father with expenses—but every penny he could, he saved. A coin here, some bills there. He hid them in a rusty coffee can he buried under a tree near the beach, marking the spot with a flat stone.
Every night after his father fell asleep, Seungcheol dug up the can and counted. And counted again. And again.
Three hundred forty thousand won. That's all he had.
Ferry tickets to the mainland cost fifty thousand won each. That left two hundred forty thousand for... everything else. Food. Lodging. Transportation once they got to Busan. Emergencies.
It wasn't enough. Not even close. But it would have to do.
Jeonghan, meanwhile, had even less. His uncle didn't pay him for the work he did—"payment is having a roof and food," he said—so he had no savings. The only thing of value he had was the necklace Seungcheol had given him, the polished shell on a leather cord.
One afternoon, as they prepared, Jeonghan took it off.
"We can sell it," he said, voice firm though his hands trembled. "We'll probably get at least twenty or thirty thousand won for the shell. It's pretty and..."
"No," Seungcheol said immediately, closing Jeonghan's fingers around the necklace. "You're not selling that."
"But we need the money..."
"Not as much as you need that," Seungcheol said. "It's... it's my promise to you, remember? That we'll always be together. We're not selling promises."
Jeonghan felt tears stinging his eyes but blinked them back.
"You're too sentimental."
"I'm exactly as sentimental as I need to be," Seungcheol replied, helping him put the necklace back on. "Now close your eyes and don't move."
"Why?"
"Just do it."
Jeonghan obeyed, feeling Seungcheol's fingers working with the necklace clasp. Then he felt something else—something being tied next to the shell.
"Done. You can open them."
Jeonghan opened his eyes and looked down. Next to the polished shell now hung a small metal charm—a stylized fish, worn and old.
"It was my mother's," Seungcheol said softly. "My father gave it to me when she died. He said she always wore it for good luck when he went out fishing. And he always came back safe. So... I want you to have it. For luck. For protection."
Jeonghan touched the small fish with reverent fingers.
"Seungcheol-ah, this is... I can't accept this. It's your mother's..."
"That's why I want you to have it," Seungcheol said. "Because you're as important to me as she was to my father. More, maybe. And if her charm kept him safe, maybe it will keep us safe too."
There were no words for the emotion Jeonghan felt in that moment. So he just leaned in and kissed Seungcheol—soft, sweet, grateful.
᠃ ⚓︎ ᠃
They chose a night. Friday, July 28th. There would be a festival in the village—the annual summer festival with lanterns and food and music. Everyone would be distracted. Drunk. Happy. They wouldn't notice two young men sneaking away toward the port.
The last ferry to the mainland left at midnight. If they missed it, they'd have to wait until morning, and by then someone would have noticed their absence.
Jeonghan packed the essentials in a small bag he'd stolen from his cousin's room—so small it seemed like a cruel joke. One change of clothes. His notebook of poems. A toothbrush. Nothing else.
He looked at the bag's contents and thought about all the things he was leaving behind. Not many—he'd never had much. But still. Books he'd read dozens of times. The dress his mother had made him before she died. Old photos.
Everything had to stay. Because carrying more would raise suspicions.
The night of the festival arrived with a clear sky full of stars. Jeonghan could hear music and laughter coming from the village center, could smell food grilling—tteokbokki, hotteok, grilled fish—and his stomach rumbled because he'd been too nervous to eat all day.
He changed silently in his little room that smelled of fermented soy. He put on his best clothes—which wasn't much, but at least they were clean. He hid the small bag under a shawl.
His hand trembled as he reached for the doorknob.
This is real, he thought. This is happening. There's no going back after this.
He opened the door. The hallway was dark. He could hear snoring coming from his uncle's room—already drunk from the festival, probably. His aunt would be with the other women gossiping.
He tiptoed down the hall, every wood plank creaking under his feet sounding as loud as gunshots in the silence. His heart beat so loudly he was sure everyone could hear it.
The back door. He just had to get to the back door.
Ten steps. Nine. Eight.
"Where are you going?"
Jeonghan froze. He turned slowly.
His cousin—the oldest, fourteen years old—was standing in the hallway, looking at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes.
"Just... going out to the festival," Jeonghan said, trying to sound casual though his voice trembled. "To see the lanterns."
His cousin looked at the bag visible under the shawl.
"Why do you need a bag to see lanterns?"
"I... I'm going to buy things. From the market. For... for your mother. She asked me to buy..."
His cousin kept looking at him, and Jeonghan could see the exact moment when suspicion solidified into certainty.
"You're leaving, aren't you?" the boy whispered. "You're running away."
Jeonghan felt icy panic in his stomach.
"No, I'm just..."
"I won't tell anyone," his cousin said quickly. "I promise. Just... just go. Before anyone else sees you."
Jeonghan blinked, surprised.
"Why... why would you help me?"
His cousin shrugged, with a strange maturity for his fourteen years.
"Because I've seen how my parents treat you. And it's not fair. And because... because you deserve to be happy. Even if it's with that swimmer boy."
Tears stung Jeonghan's eyes.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"Go," his cousin said. "And don't come back. Never come back here."
Jeonghan nodded and ran.
He ran out the back door, through the dark garden, down the dirt path that led to the port. He ran with the bag banging against his side, breath coming in gasps, heart beating escape escape escape.
The port was dark except for a few scattered lamps. Most people were at the festival. The ferry waited like a dark, silent beast, swaying gently against the dock.
And there, in the shadow of a fish warehouse, was Seungcheol.
He had his own suitcase—bigger than Jeonghan's bag but still pathetically small to contain an entire life. He wore dark clothes, blending with the shadows. But when he saw Jeonghan, his face lit up with relief so intense it was almost painful.
"You came," Seungcheol whispered as Jeonghan reached him.
"I almost didn't," Jeonghan admitted, still breathless. "I stood at the door for ten minutes thinking about all the ways this could go wrong."
"And what made you come?"
Jeonghan looked directly into his eyes—those eyes that had looked only at him for years, that had been filled with constant love even when Jeonghan didn't know how to return it properly.
"Thinking about all the ways it could go right."
They kissed there, in the darkness, with the taste of salt in the air and fear in their hearts but also hope, that fragile, precious hope that says maybe, maybe, maybe.
They boarded the ferry just as the operator was about to release the ropes. He was an old man with an unfriendly face, but he sold them tickets without asking questions—just two more young people looking for a better life on the mainland. It happened all the time.
They paid for the cheapest tickets. Deck class. No seats, no protection from wind, no roof. Just space on the outer deck where you huddled with other poor passengers and endured the journey as best you could.
The trip to Busan would take all night. Eight hours of dark ocean.
They sat in a corner of the deck, backs against the metal wall that vibrated with the engine. Around them, other people—workers, families, young people like them—settled into positions that would allow them to sleep even a little.
The boat pulled away from the dock with a low roar. The motor rumbled like a hungry beast, the water foamed white and violent against the metal hull, and each meter that opened between the boat and dock felt like a physical tear.
Jeonghan looked back, watching Jeju become smaller and smaller. The festival lights shone on the hill like fireflies. The port where his mother had died. His uncle's house where he'd slept with rats. The pine where Seungcheol had read him poems.
Everything disappearing into darkness.
The island that had raised him. That had killed his mother. That had broken him and almost sold him.
"Goodbye," he whispered so quietly the wind carried the words away.
The ocean stretched in all directions—an infinite black mass that moved like something alive. Only the white foam in the boat's wake showed where they'd been. The sky was covered with stars so dense they seemed to spill. The moon was a waning quarter, giving barely enough light to see.
It was cold. The sea wind cut through clothes as if they didn't exist.
"Do you think your father is angry?" Jeonghan asked softly, snuggling closer to Seungcheol seeking warmth.
Seungcheol had left a letter. He'd written and rewritten it five times, each version sounding more awkward than the last. In the end, he'd only managed to say the basics: an explanation of why he was leaving, an apology for abandoning him, a promise to send money when he could.
It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. But it was all he could offer.
"Probably," he replied, voice rough. "I'll be leaving him alone. He's getting older. Fishing is getting harder for him. And I... I just abandoned him."
Guilt was a physical weight in his chest.
"But eventually he'll understand," he continued, more to convince himself than Jeonghan. "My father loved my mother the same way I love you. When she died, something in him died too. He became... quieter. More distant. Like he was living but not really alive."
His voice broke a little.
"I think deep down, he'll understand why I couldn't let you go. Why I couldn't see you forced into a marriage. Because he would have done the same for my mother."
Jeonghan rested his head on Seungcheol's shoulder, feeling his heartbeat through the thin fabric of his shirt.
"I'm scared," he admitted quietly.
"Me too."
"What if we don't find work? What if we don't have enough money for a place to stay more than a week? What if they find us? What if...?"
"Then we'll figure it out," Seungcheol said, kissing his hair that smelled of salt and wind. "Together. Step by step. Jeonghan-ah..."
He turned his face to look at him, eyes serious in the dim light.
"I'm not promising it will be easy. It will probably be very hard. We'll probably go hungry. We'll probably work until we break. But I promise I'll fight for us every day. I promise I'll never let you face anything alone. I promise..."
His voice broke.
"I promise it will be worth it."
They spent the night on the deck, sleeping in restless fits. The cold sea wind seeped into their bones. Jeonghan woke every hour, disoriented, before remembering where he was. Seungcheol barely slept, staying alert, his arm around Jeonghan like protection against the world.
When the sun began to rise—first as a gray line on the horizon, then exploding in shades of pink, orange, gold that painted the sky like watercolor—they saw the mainland coast appear.
Busan.
From a distance, it looked enormous. Buildings stacking on hills like poorly arranged shoe boxes. Cranes rising like metal dinosaurs. The port stretched for kilometers in both directions—ten times, twenty times bigger than Jeju's.
A city. A real city. Terrifying and full of possibilities.
Jeonghan clung to Seungcheol's arm, feeling his stomach contract—hunger, nerves, fear, all mixed in a tight knot.
"It's so big," he whispered.
"I know."
"What if we get lost?
"We won't get lost," Seungcheol said, though his own voice trembled slightly. "We'll be together. That's all that matters."
They disembarked at dawn, dazed and exhausted. Their legs barely responded after eight hours sitting on the cold deck. Busan's port was chaos of activity even at that early hour.
Boats of all sizes unloading merchandise—wooden crates reeking of fish, rice sacks, crates with labels in languages they didn't recognize. Cranes screeching like metallic animals, lifting containers that seemed too heavy to exist. Men shouting orders in harsh dialects they barely understood—the Busan accent was faster, sharper than Jeju's.
The smell was overwhelming. Rotten fish mixed with diesel, with sweat, with the omnipresent salt of the sea. The noise was deafening—motors, shouts, metal hitting metal, boat horns, the constant roar of a city that never slept.
"Now what?" Jeonghan asked, gripping Seungcheol's arm so tight his knuckles turned white. His eyes moved from side to side, trying to process everything, feeling small and insignificant.
Seungcheol looked around, trying not to show how lost he felt. Trying to seem confident when inside everything was panic.
"We need to find a place to stay," he said, with more confidence than he felt. "Something cheap."
They asked a port worker—an older man with a hunched back and hands that looked like claws from so much work. He gave them directions with such a thick accent they had to ask him to repeat them three times.
"Near the fish market," he grunted, pointing with a twisted finger. "Hostel area. For people like you."
He didn't specify what "people like you" meant, but the contempt in his tone was clear.
They walked for almost an hour. Their bags felt heavier with each step, shoulders burning. Busan's streets were a labyrinth—narrow, twisted, going up and down steep hills. Gray cement buildings stacked against each other, so close that barely any light passed between them. Electric wires crossed at all angles creating black spider webs against the sky.
They passed markets where vendors shouted prices, small restaurants where the smell of food made them stagger from hunger—it had been over twelve hours since they'd eaten anything—dark alleys where men smoked and looked at them with narrowed, calculating eyes.
Jeonghan pressed closer and closer to Seungcheol. Everything was too much. Too much noise, too many people, too much movement. In Jeju, you knew everyone. Here, they were invisible. No one looked at them twice. They were just two more among millions.
Finally they found the area the worker had mentioned. A particularly dirty street near the fish market, where the smell was so intense it made their eyes water. Dilapidated three or four-story buildings, with peeling paint and dirty or broken windows. Signs saying things like "Rooms" or "Hostel - By Hour/Night/Week."
They chose one almost at random—a building that didn't look more dangerous than the others. The sign said "Rooms Available" in faded red characters.
The main door was ajar. They entered a dark hallway that smelled of dampness, stale cigarettes, and something else they didn't want to identify. The walls were a dirty yellow, with stains of who knows what. The cracked cement floor.
There was a small reception—more like a rickety desk—where a woman sat. She was older, maybe fifty or sixty, with hair dyed an unnatural bright red and too much makeup applied carelessly. Bleeding red lipstick outside the lines. Blue eyeshadow reaching her eyebrows. Cheeks with pink blotches of cheap blush.
She looked them up and down with calculating eyes, evaluating them. Two young boys, with cheap bags, wrinkled clothes, scared faces. She knew exactly what kind of customers they were.
"Room by the hour or by the night?" Her voice was raspy, probably from years of smoking.
Seungcheol felt heat rising to his face at the implication of "by the hour."
"By the night," he said quickly, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "How much?"
The woman leaned back in her chair, which creaked under her weight. She lit a cigarette without offering them one.
"Five hundred won."
The number hit Seungcheol in the stomach. It was an amount they couldn't afford to lose night after night. If they paid that every night, it wouldn't last them even two weeks.
But they had no choice. They couldn't sleep on the street the first night. They needed a place, even if it was horrible.
"Okay," he said, pulling money from his pocket with slightly trembling fingers.
He counted the coins. The woman took them and counted again, distrustful. Then she gave them a key—old, rusty, hanging from a red plastic keychain with the number 307 written in marker.
"Third floor, end of the hall," she said, exhaling smoke. "Shared bathroom on the second floor. Don't make noise after ten. Don't bring more people. No drugs. No fighting. Break the rules and I'll throw you out without returning money."
They took the key and climbed the stairs. They were narrow, steep, with a wobbly railing. The wood groaned under their feet. On the first floor, they heard noises—voices, music, something that sounded like an argument. On the second, a couple passed them without looking, the woman with too much makeup and the man smelling of alcohol.
The third floor was a long, narrow hallway with doors on both sides, so close together they wondered how small the rooms would be. Dim bulbs hung from the ceiling, some flickering. The walls had stains that looked like mold.
They found 307 at the end. Seungcheol put the key in the lock—he had to force it a bit—and opened the door.
The room was tiny. So small that for a moment they thought it was a closet. There was barely room for a thin mattress on the floor—gray, with stains they preferred not to examine too closely, without sheets. A small table against the wall with a splintered surface. A dirty window with a view of an alley. Nothing else.
The walls were so thin they could hear everything from neighboring rooms—normal conversations sounded like they were in the same room. Someone was coughing repeatedly. A couple was arguing. Further away, sounds that made them blush.
It smelled of dampness, old cigarettes, accumulated sweat from who knows how many people who'd passed through here. But it had a roof. Four walls. A door that locked.
It was theirs, at least for tonight.
Jeonghan dropped his bag on the floor and sat on the mattress. The weight of everything—of what they'd left behind, of what they'd done, of the unknown stretching before them—fell on him like a wave finally catching up after he'd run from it all day.
"We left everything behind," he whispered, looking at his hands. They were dirty from the journey, with nails that needed cutting. "Our island. Our families. Everything we knew. Everything we were."
His voice trembled dangerously.
"We have nothing now. Just this horrible room and... and..."
Seungcheol knelt in front of him quickly, taking his hands between his. He squeezed them tight, like an anchor.
"We have each other," he said firmly. "That's not nothing. That's everything."
"What if it's not enough?" Jeonghan's eyes filled with tears he'd been holding back.
"Do you regret it?" Seungcheol asked softly, but there was fear in his eyes. Real fear of the answer.
Jeonghan looked at him—this boy who had jumped off a boat for him. Who had given up scholarships and bright future and his father's approval. Who had walked three hours every Saturday for years just to see him. Who had loved him even when Jeonghan had been cold and distant and too scared to reciprocate properly.
This boy who had risked absolutely everything. For him.
He shook his head, tears finally overflowing.
"No," he whispered, voice broken. "I don't regret it."
"Neither do I."
Seungcheol pulled Jeonghan’s waist with barely trembling hands, guiding him to sit straddled on his lap. Jeonghan’s heart beat so hard he felt it might burst from his chest. Seungcheol’s gaze, intense and vulnerable all at once, held him hypnotized.
“Is this… is this okay?” Seungcheol murmured, his voice barely a thread of sound. His fingers, still trembling faintly, clung to the fabric of Jeonghan’s shirt.
Jeonghan, unable to find words, nodded slowly. A warm blush crept up his neck.
“More than okay,” he managed to whisper, his breath grazing Seungcheol’s lower lip. “It’s exactly where I want to be.”
Then their lips found each other immediately, as if the air between them had become too heavy to bear any longer. At first, it was just a timid brush—lips warm and slightly dry from the sea breeze still clinging to their skin—a tentative contact that lasted barely a second before it happened again, surer, deeper. Neither knew exactly how to proceed; they explored each other with a mix of urgency and caution, as if afraid to break something fragile they had just discovered.
Seungcheol gently bit Jeonghan’s lower lip—not with skill, but with a hungry curiosity that made him gasp. Jeonghan’s mouth opened instinctively, receiving the other’s tongue with a slight start, tangling with his own in movements clumsy at first, learning the rhythm as they went. The kiss grew wetter, more desperate, full of small, choked gasps and awkward pauses that lasted just long enough to catch a breath before they sank back into each other.
All the emotions of the last twenty-four hours—the paralyzing fear of being discovered, the adrenaline of their escape, the overwhelming relief of being safe, the uncertainty that still tightened their chests—poured into that kiss, as if they wanted to melt into each other until there was no room for doubt.
Seungcheol pressed Jeonghan’s hips against his own, eliminating the distance. The accidental brush of their erections through the fabric made them both hold their breath at the same time; neither looked away, startled by the intensity of that simple friction. Seungcheol swallowed, his cheeks flushed with a redness that wasn’t just from the heat.
“Do you… want to keep going?” he asked, his voice hoarse, uncertain, though his eyes shone with a trembling certainty.
Jeonghan didn’t speak. A sweet, nervous determination washed over him. He slid down with somewhat clumsy movements, kneeling between Seungcheol’s legs. His heart pounded so loudly he feared the other could hear it. He rested his forehead against Seungcheol’s thigh for a moment, seeking calm, feeling the heat of his skin through the pants like a current running through him. His hands rose slowly, uncertainly, to Seungcheol’s waist. He looked up at Seungcheol—asking for permission without words—and carefully lowered the garment with exaggerated care, as if afraid of doing something wrong.
The pants slid down to his knees, revealing black boxers soaked dark at the tip, where the fabric clung obscenely to the thick, heavy shape of his erection. Jeonghan swallowed audibly; the sound of his own ragged breathing thrummed in his ears like a drum.
“I’m not… I’m not sure I know how…” he confessed in a whisper barely audible, his voice trembling with nerves and desire. He swallowed audibly; the sound of his own ragged breathing thrummed in his ears like a drum. “I’m not sure… if I can…,” he confessed in a hoarse, trembling whisper, his eyes fixed on the proud bulge, the vein pulsing visibly under the damp fabric. “It’s… so big, Seungcheol…”
Seungcheol ran a hand through his own hair, breathing raggedly.
“You don’t have to… really. Just seeing you like this already…” His voice broke. “It’s enough for me.”
“But I want to try,” Jeonghan insisted, firmer this time. He leaned in and rubbed his cheek against the cotton with a reverent tenderness, claiming that space as his own. Then, with visibly trembling fingers...
Before shyness could stop him, he closed the distance. He first kissed the head through the fabric, feeling the crown swell further beneath his lips, a new thread of pre-cum soaking the cotton. Then, with impatient yet careful fingers, he freed Seungcheol completely. The erection sprang free with a slight bounce: thick, veiny, the skin taut and shiny, the tip red and swollen, dripping thick, translucent strings of pre-cum that slid slowly down the shaft. Jeonghan let out a soft whimper at the sight of it so close, so real.
The first contact was hesitant: The salty taste, slightly bitter and deeply intimate, hit him fully, flooding his senses. He opened his mouth and took him in slowly, sucking just the head while his tongue licked the slit with delicacy, collecting each drop that welled up. An experimental lick made Seungcheol tense and release a low growl, which made him flinch at his own reaction. Jeonghan explored slowly, learning with each small movement what drew gasps, what made Seungcheol’s hands clench into fists on the sheets as he fought the urge to take control, to not fuck his mouth. There was no expert haste, only discovery.
“Fuck…” Seungcheol panted, his voice broken and deep. “Just like that… you’re so good… so fucking perfect…”
Seeing him like that—jaw clenched until the hard lines of his face stood out, eyes squeezed shut in a devastating mix of raw lust and infinite tenderness—made Jeonghan lose all restraint. He grew bolder: took him deeper, sucked with more force, moved his head in a constant, wet rhythm while his free hand stroked the thick base and massaged the heavy, warm balls. When Seungcheol tensed and his hips lifted involuntarily, pushing all the way to the back of his throat, a choked, wet moan escaped Jeonghan. He pulled away gasping, eyes watering from the reflex, his chin gleaming with saliva mixed with pre-cum, lips swollen and red.
Seungcheol looked at him as if witnessing a miracle, his dark eyes full of adoration. “Come here…” he whispered, voice trembling, arms outstretched.
Without a word, Jeonghan parted his damp, swollen lips again, silently pleading for him to continue, to let go completely inside him.
But Seungcheol couldn’t hold back any longer. He let out a ragged groan of pure emotion and lifted Jeonghan from the floor as if he weighed nothing. Jeonghan’s legs instinctively wrapped around his waist as he carried him to the bed and laid him down with infinite care on the rumpled sheets. Their mouths crashed together in a deep kiss, salty from the remnants of Seungcheol’s pleasure, desperate and hungry, tongues tangling as if they wanted to devour each other.
Seungcheol covered him with his body. His large, calloused hands unbuttoned Jeonghan’s shirt with fingers trembling from contained impatience, gradually revealing the pale, smooth skin. He kissed every inch that appeared: the delicate hollow of his collarbones, the elegant arch of his sternum, the pink nipples that hardened instantly under his warm tongue. He licked them in slow, torturous circles, sucked them with increasing pressure until Jeonghan arched his back in a perfect curve of pleasure and released a sharp, prolonged moan, fingers tangled in Seungcheol’s dark hair.
“Seungcheol… please…” he whispered against his mouth, voice breaking. “Touch me… I need to feel you too… I’m burning up…”
Seungcheol smiled against his skin, a smile that was half tenderness, half predator. “Easy, my love. I’m going to give you everything. Every part of me.”
When Jeonghan’s pants finally fell to the floor, his own erection was exposed to the cool air: hard, throbbing, dripping copiously. Seungcheol wrapped his large, warm hand around it, stroking him with firm, slow, precise movements. Jeonghan came almost instantly, spilling hot and abundant between their bodies with a choked cry that echoed in the room, trembling violently as waves of pleasure crashed through him one after another.
Embarrassment hit him immediately, hot and sharp in his cheeks. “I’m sorry… that was too fast…” he murmured, covering his face with trembling hands.
Seungcheol gently pulled his hands away and kissed the salty tears rolling down his cheeks. “Look at me,” he whispered hoarsely, gently guiding Jeonghan’s hand downward, toward his own still-hard erection, throbbing and dripping abundant pre-cum onto Jeonghan’s stomach and chest, leaving shiny trails. “Look at what you do to me. Seeing you come apart like that, just from my touch… you have me on the edge without even trying. I’m so hard it hurts. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Don’t you ever apologize. You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect.”
Jeonghan felt the blush rise to his ears, but desire reignited with more force at seeing such raw proof of how much he affected him. “I need you inside,” he stammered, voice broken by shame and urgency. “Please, Seungcheol… I want to feel you. All of you…”
Seungcheol swallowed thickly, his eyes darkened by a mix of love and nerves he couldn’t hide. He leaned in to kiss him, soft and lingering, as if wanting to calm the whirlwind engulfing them both.
“Shhh… we have time,” he murmured against his lips, though his own voice trembled. “There’s no rush, my love. Let’s go slow, okay?”
He took a moment, breathing deeply. His large hands roamed Jeonghan’s back in broad, calming strokes, moving down to his hips and then to his buttocks, carefully parting them. Jeonghan felt the warm breath first, a timid brush that made him hold his breath. Then came the first touch of the tongue: hot and wet, licking his entrance with infinite devotion, slow, deep circles that opened him up little by little until Jeonghan cried out into the sheets, fingers clawing at the fabric, his whole body shaking from unexpected pleasure.
The first contact was again the tongue, but this time more deliberate: a long, flat lick from the base of his balls to his entrance, slow, deliberate, as if Seungcheol wanted to savor every inch of sensitive skin. Jeonghan released a sharp moan into the pillow, fingers twisting the sheets tightly.
Seungcheol paused for a second, as if seeking confirmation he was okay. Jeonghan pushed his hips back just slightly, a silent plea, and that was enough. Then, the tip of the tongue returned, more confident this time, tracing slow, wet circles around the entrance, tasting, learning. Each lick was tentative, yet full of a devotion that made Jeonghan melt into the sheets.
A choked moan escaped his throat when Seungcheol ventured deeper, the tip of his tongue pressing carefully, opening him up bit by bit. He wasn’t expert—there were pauses, ragged breaths, small adjustments—but it was precisely that clumsiness that made it more real, more intimate. Jeonghan buried his fingers in the pillow, his body trembling from a pleasure so new it overwhelmed him, his hips moving uncontrollably, seeking more.
Seungcheol groaned softly against his skin, one hand rising to stroke his back in soothing circles while the other remained on his hips. Every time Jeonghan gasped or tensed, he would pause for an instant, kissing the inside of a thigh or murmuring soft words that barely reached his ears: “You’re okay… breathe… you’re incredible…”
When Jeonghan finally let out a choked sob into the pillow, his whole body trembling on the edge of something unknown, Seungcheol slowly pulled away, breathing heavily. He moved up over him, covering him with his protective weight, kissing the nape of his neck, damp with sweat.
“Are you okay?” he whispered, his voice hoarse and trembling. “Tell me if you want to stop… at any moment.”
Jeonghan turned his head just enough to look at him over his shoulder, his eyes bright and glassy.
“Don’t stop,” he pleaded in a thread of a voice. “Please… I need you now. With you. Everything.”
Seungcheol positioned himself carefully behind him, his body trembling not just from desire, but from the overwhelming weight of what they were about to do. Neither of them had gone this far before; everything was new, intense. He took the base of his cock in an unsteady hand, guiding it slowly toward Jeonghan’s entrance, still wet and relaxed from the previous licks, but tight with anticipation.
When the thick, hot tip pressed against him, they both held their breath in unison. Seungcheol pushed forward slowly, just a millimeter, stopping immediately at the natural resistance, the tight heat that enveloped him like a living glove. Jeonghan let out a sharp gasp, a mix of surprise and a burn that made him squeeze his eyes shut, knuckles white as he gripped the sheets.
“D-does it hurt?” Seungcheol whispered, voice broken from the effort of holding back, motionless, kissing the sweaty nape of Jeonghan’s neck with trembling lips. “Tell me if… if it’s too much. I can stop.”
Jeonghan took a deep breath, feeling the initial stretch like a slow fire spreading from within him, but beneath that fleeting burn throbbed something deeper: a fullness that made him feel exposed, vulnerable, yet incredibly connected. He pushed his hips back just slightly, a trembling invitation.
“No… keep going,” he panted, voice hoarse and ragged. “Just… slowly. I feel you… so much.”
Seungcheol obeyed, moving forward another bit, stopping again at every small moan or tension he felt in the body beneath him. Millimeter by millimeter, with endless pauses to kiss his back, to murmur soft words against his skin—“Breathe, my love… you’re doing so well… you’re taking it all so perfectly”—until finally, with one last careful push, he was completely inside. His hips pressed flush against Jeonghan’s buttocks, the heat of their bodies merging, Seungcheol’s heavy balls resting against sensitive skin.
The sensation was overwhelming for both of them. Jeonghan let out a long, trembling whimper, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks as his body adjusted to the invasive thickness, the pulsating heat filling him to the limit. It was a deep, constant stretch that ached a little at first but quickly transformed into an intense, unknown pleasure that sped his heart and stole his breath.
Seungcheol, for his part, released a low, shuddering groan, his forehead pressed between Jeonghan’s shoulder blades, fighting not to move too soon. He was so tight, so hot, that every tiny adjustment made him gasp.
“God… Jeonghan… you’re…” He swallowed, voice rough. “You’re so tight around me. I don’t know… I don’t know how long I’ll last.”
“Move… please,” Jeonghan begged in a whisper. “I need to feel you.”
Seungcheol began with slow, almost hesitant thrusts: pulling out just halfway before sinking back in carefully, accidentally brushing that sensitive spot at first, making Jeonghan arch his back with a surprised moan. Each thrust was exploratory, uncertain but full of devotion; Seungcheol sought Jeonghan’s hands to intertwine them, holding on as if afraid it all might disappear.
Gradually, the rhythm grew more fluid. Seungcheol’s hips met Jeonghan’s with more confidence, the wet, obscene sound of skin against skin filling the room alongside ragged pants and small sobs of pleasure. Seungcheol’s hands settled on Jeonghan’s hips, leaving faint marks from the contained force, guiding him with each movement.
“Jeonghan-ah…” Seungcheol groaned, his voice deep and on the edge. “My Jeonghan… I feel all of you… you’re mine…”
The pleasure built to the unbearable. Jeonghan arched further, begging with a broken voice—more, deeper, faster—until Seungcheol buried himself one last time with a powerful yet careful thrust, remaining fully inside as his body tensed.
Jeonghan came first, with a long, deep sob, clenching around Seungcheol in intense waves, squeezing him until he couldn't hold back any longer. Seungcheol followed immediately, spilling hot and abundant inside him with a rough, ragged groan, pulsing wave after wave, filling him until they both shook, exhausted, united in their climax.
Afterward, they lay tangled under the thin sheet Seungcheol had found, naked, sweaty bodies pressed together, their breaths gradually calming in the warm silence of the room. Morning light filtered through the dirty window, painting soft, golden stripes across their intertwined skin.
Seungcheol gently kissed Jeonghan's nape, his shoulders, the curve where his neck met his back, and whispered against his damp skin:
—I love you… more than words can say. More than I ever imagined it was possible to love.
Jeonghan turned his head just enough to look at him with shining eyes, still glassy from tears of pleasure and emotion. He smiled weakly, his voice hoarse and sated.
—And I love you… forever. This… us… is forever.
The noise of the city drifted in from outside. Voices, traffic, life happening without them. But in this small, shabby room, they existed in their own bubble. Jeonghan traced meaningless patterns on Seungcheol's chest—slow circles, zigzags, following the rhythm of his heart beating steadily beneath his fingers. Listening to it. Memorizing it.
—What do we do now? —he asked, his voice soft, sleepy.
—We sleep a little —Seungcheol replied, kissing his hair—. We're exhausted. Then, when we wake up, I'll look for work. Whatever. Loading, cleaning, construction. Whatever pays.
His hand stroked Jeonghan's back in slow, soothing motions.
—We'll find a better place to live than this. Something small, but ours. We'll save. You can study eventually. I'll work hard. We'll figure it out, one step at a time.
His voice was so sure. So firm. As if he had no doubts.
—Seungcheol-ah...
—Yes?
Jeonghan propped himself up a little to look into his eyes. In the soft light, Seungcheol's eyes were tired but full of determination. Jaw set. Red marks on his neck where Jeonghan had bitten without realizing.
—Thank you —he whispered—. For choosing me. For loving me even when I was hard to love. For jumping off that boat. For running away with me. For… for everything. His voice cracked. —I don't deserve all you've sacrificed for me.
Seungcheol held him tighter, as if he could merge him into his body, as if he could absorb all that pain and doubt.
—I will always choose you —he said fiercely— In every life, in every universe, in every decision. It will always be you. Not because you deserve it or not. But because I can't do otherwise. Because my heart only knows how to beat for you.
They fell asleep like that—in that warm silence, their bodies still joined, they knew this was only the beginning of all that was to come. Two boys who had bet everything on love. Two runaways in a city that didn't know them. Two people who had nothing except each other.
But for now, in this moment suspended between the past they had left behind and the future waiting for them, they slept in peace. Together. Chosen. Loved. And that, for now, was enough.