Chapter Text
The counselor's office has a burgundy leather chair that's worn soft from years of use. Seonghyeon sits in it now, back straight, backpack balanced on his knees. He's attended this academy for two years and this is the first time he's needed to be here. There was never a reason for him: students who end up here are usually in some kind of trouble. Eom Seonghyeon is good.
Too good, he thinks, as he slides the form signed by his parents across the desk. Mrs. Lee receives it with a smile.
"This is a good thing you're doing, Seonghyeon. You're a good kid."
"It's nothing. Thank you for your help." He rises from the seat, bows, and mumbles a polite goodbye as he pushes past the heavy oak doors.
It's three weeks into September. The hallway is full of afternoon light coming through tall windows, making the floor wax shine. There's something about this time of year that feels like standing at the edge of something: not quite dread, not quite possibility. Just the sense that time is moving and you're supposed to be ready for it. Seonghyeon spent the entire summer thinking about how he'd spend his final two years, agonising over which subjects would look best on university applications. Advanced physics looks impressive on a transcript. Visual arts does not.
But Seonghyeon's goodness, it turns out, is more valuable to his family than his grades.
─── ✶ ───
Last weekend, Mr. and Mrs. Eom sat him down at their twelve-seater dining table. Just the three of them in all that space, his father's voice careful, his mother's eyebrows drawn together:
"They're very worried about him, son. We all are. If you could try help—"
"Dad, I haven't talked to him in years."
"Which is why we're asking you to consider transferring to art. You two will have opportunities to reconnect."
Seonghyeon knew they weren't really asking. The please was implied, but so was the expectation, hanging in the air like the expensive chandelier above their heads. He could have said no, technically he was allowed to say no, but they all knew he wouldn't. That's not how it worked in this house.
"We thought about this carefully, Seong-ah," his mother said, reaching across the table. "You want to be a doctor, right? There's no need for physics. Let's use that slot for something more important, hm?"
He hummed instead of saying yes, which was the biggest act of defiance he could muster. His father patted his back; his mother kissed his cheek. Good son. Good friend. He stayed at that table long after they went to bed, staring at the empty chairs and wondering when exactly he'd stopped being able to disappoint them.
Now he's walking toward the arts wing for the first time. His footsteps sound different here; the floors are scuffed linoleum instead of polished tile, and the walls are covered in student paintings instead of achievement plaques. On the way, he throws out a folder containing three weeks of notes on Galilean relativity. Paper-waste bin, of course.
As he approaches the classroom door, he catches a glimpse of what lies inside.
Dark hair, hunched shoulders. The boy he's come not to know anymore, already bent over a beaten-up sketchbook with tape holding the spine together like a bandage, while the few other students are just starting to find seats and pull out supplies that clatter and scrape.
Seonghyeon realises, all at once, who he's doing this for.
There was a time when Ahn Keonho wasn't a mystery. When they were the kind of friends who didn't need words, when they fit together like two parts of the same whole. Back then, Keonho's bad grades weren't a concern—all the boys except Seonghyeon scored about the same—and his creativity was something to be proud of, not worried about.
They were the same height, always had been, as if they'd been measured and cut from the same cloth. But Keonho always seemed bigger somehow; maybe because Seonghyeon idolised how easily he could say no, how comfortable he was doing his own thing. Keonho's hair got messy easily, sticking up in the back where he'd slept on it wrong, while Seonghyeon's stayed neat, shining almost golden when the sun hit it right.
Seonghyeon used to know everything about him. Could tell when Keonho was falling asleep during their flashlight conversations across bedroom windows, when his responses would slow and the beam would waver. Could tell the difference between Keonho listening and Keonho just nodding along, which no adult ever seemed to notice. Now all Seonghyeon knows is that Keonho spent the entire summer locked in his room, that his parents are worried, that Seonghyeon was once the only person who could reach him.
When Seonghyeon walks in, Keonho doesn't look up. Part of him is grateful for that. It gives him a few more seconds to think of what to say, though he usually never had to think about it. The words just came.
Seonghyeon moves closer, his shadow falling across Keonho's sketchbook. The sudden darkness makes the younger boy look up.
His eyes are exactly the same. Big and dark and startling, the kind of eyes that seem to hold entire worlds. But there are shadows underneath them now, purple-grey crescents that speak of too many sleepless nights. They widen for a moment before going carefully blank.
"Hey," Seonghyeon says. "Can I sit here?"
Keonho glances at the vacant stool beside him, then back at Seonghyeon. "Uh, yeah. Sure."
His voice is deeper than Seonghyeon remembers. Still high—Keonho's always had a high voice—but lower somehow, like he's grown into it.
Seonghyeon smiles. His dimples appear whether he wants them to or not. But Keonho has already turned back to his sketchbook.
The silence that follows is immediate and heavy. Seonghyeon has always liked quiet, has always found it easier than conversation, but not with Keonho. Silence between them used to mean something was wrong.
"So," Seonghyeon clears his throat. "How was your summer?"
The other boy doesn't look up. "Fine. Didn't do much."
"Oh. Yeah, same. Just studying, mostly."
"Makes sense."
Seonghyeon waits for more. Nothing comes. Around them, other students are chatting, laughing, the sound of backpacks unzipping and supplies clattering onto tables like small avalanches. "Are you still into swimming? I remember you used to—"
"Not really."
Another silence. Seonghyeon can feel himself losing ground with every word. The metal legs of his stool scrape against the floor when he shifts his weight.
"So, how much do I have to catch up on?"
Keonho glances up. "Sorry?"
"This class. What are we studying?"
"Oh. Um, Baroque still lifes. But it's not much, we just started."
"Right." Seonghyeon has been looking at Keonho's sketchbook this whole time, stealing glances while pretending not to. The drawing doesn't look like a student assignment, nothing like the heavy compositions of fruit and flowers he'd expect from a Baroque unit. "Why are you sketching something contemporary?"
Keonho flinches. His hand moves to cover the page.
They look at each other. Really look, for the first time since Seonghyeon sat down. Keonho's eyes are wide, caught. Seonghyeon doesn't know what his own face is doing but he feels frozen.
Then Keonho exhales. When he speaks, his voice is quiet enough that Seonghyeon has to lean into Keonho's space in a way he hasn't in years.
"I know why you're here. Why you transferred."
Something sinks in Seonghyeon's chest.
"You don't have to talk to me, dude. Your parents won't know."
Seonghyeon wasn't trying to fool him. He knows Keonho knows him too well for that, knows Keonho would never believe he chose art class voluntarily. But hearing it said out loud, so matter-of-fact, makes him feel caught anyway. He wants to say he actually does want to talk, that he misses this, misses them. But if that were true, why did he wait three years?
All that time in debate club, learning to argue and counter-argue, to never let an opponent have the last word, and he can't think of a single defence. "I—"
The classroom door swings open. Ms. Shim rushes in, coffee cup in one hand, papers and binders balanced in the other.
"Sorry, sorry! Was printing references." She sets everything down on her desk in a precarious pile. "Here we go."
She hands out packets of images, and it's only after the fourth and final packet that she notices she's one short.
"Oh! Seonghyeon! I completely forgot you were starting today." She laughs, and Seonghyeon laughs too, though nothing about this is funny. "Just share with Keonho for today, okay?"
Seonghyeon nods. He turns to Keonho again, hoping for something, acknowledgement, eye contact. A sign that they're okay or could be okay or might one day be okay again.
Keonho slides the reference packet between them without a word, positioning it exactly halfway. Then he goes back to his sketchbook and doesn't look at Seonghyeon again.
Thirty minutes in, while Seonghyeon is pretending to study the composition of a painting he couldn't care less about, he realises that good intentions don't mean much to someone who never asked for help.
─── ✶ ───
A few art lessons have passed, and in any other scenario Seonghyeon would be hung up on the fact that he's not the most gifted in the class, not even close. But he can't seem to care. When he's sitting next to Keonho, all he can think about is Keonho. The way he holds his brush. The small line that appears between his eyebrows when he's concentrating.
It's not nothing. When his parents ask how it's going, and they ask every night at dinner trying to sound casual, he has things to tell them. Last Thursday, Keonho stayed after class to help wash paint palettes. They stood at adjacent sinks not talking, just scrubbing dried paint while water ran over their hands. On Tuesday, Keonho leaned over without being asked and told him to try blending his colors while they were still wet instead of waiting for them to dry. Small things. Progress, maybe.
It's not nothing. But it's not what it used to be either.
Tonight Seonghyeon is at his desk by the window, calculus textbook open to a problem set he's been staring at for twenty minutes. The window is cracked just enough that cold air sneaks in whenever the wind picks up, keeping him awake. He's stuck on a problem about related rates, nibbling on his pen cap when he looks up and out.
Keonho's window is dark. It's been dark all week, every time Seonghyeon has looked, which he's trying not to do too often but does anyway. It explains why Keonho looks so pale now, like he hasn't seen sunlight in months. He used to be tan all the time, always outside, what Seonghyeon's grandmother used to call a boy of the sun. Ajummas would scold him for it, say things like you look like a field worker and use sunscreen, their voices sharp with concern that felt more like criticism. Not anymore.
Then suddenly: light.
For just a second, Seonghyeon's heart does something stupid in his chest. Maybe Keonho saw him sitting there. Maybe he's grabbing his flashlight like he used to, the same one they'd use to send messages after bedtime. Three short flashes for are you awake, two long ones for come outside, one continuous beam for I need you. But no. The light is too small, too weak, the wrong colour. Just the cold glow of a phone screen.
Keonho appears at the window in a dark hoodie and jeans. He moves like water: smooth, practiced, like he's done this so many times his body knows the route by muscle memory alone. Onto the narrow ledge, down to the sloped section of roof between the first and second floors, then a drop to the grass that looks too far to be safe. The whole thing takes maybe ten seconds.
The straight-A student in Seonghyeon tells him to look away, go back to his calculus problem, and pretend he saw nothing. But the boy who promised to help, the one his parents are counting on, the one who still remembers what it felt like when Keonho was his best friend, tells him that following is exactly what he's supposed to be doing.
He grabs his jacket.
By the time Seonghyeon makes it downstairs and out onto his porch, Keonho has disappeared. The street is empty, lit by pools of yellow from the streetlamps. The night air smells like someone's burning leaves, even though it's not allowed in their neighbourhood. Seonghyeon is about to give up when the other boy reappears from behind his garage, now carrying a black portfolio case.
Seonghyeon ducks behind one of the porch columns on pure instinct, his heart suddenly loud in his ears. He stays completely still, barely breathing, until he hears it: the metallic tick-tick-tick of a bicycle chain catching. When he looks again, Keonho is already pedalling away, a dark shape against the darker street.
Seonghyeon's bike is still leaning against the side of the house where he abandoned it months ago, covered in dust. The kickstand is stiff when he tries to fold it up, fighting him, and when he finally manages to get on, the chain protests with a rusty squeak that sounds impossibly loud. He winces, freezing, waiting to see if anyone heard. No lights come on. No doors open.
He doesn't follow directly; that would be stupid, too obvious. Instead he cuts left at the first intersection, taking the parallel street, one row of houses between them. His heart is pounding hard enough that he can feel it everywhere: in his throat, behind his eyes, in his fingertips gripping the cold handlebars. He keeps glancing through the gaps between houses to track Keonho's shadow moving in the same direction. At each cross-street he slows down just enough to check which way Keonho turned before adjusting his own route.
It works. And it feels, this is probably going to sound ridiculous, but it feels like the most rebellious thing Seonghyeon has ever done in his entire life. Which it's not, not even close to actual rebellion. But somehow his body doesn't know the difference, and the adrenaline rushes through him anyway, electric and terrifying and almost good.
When Keonho turns onto the main road leading out of their neighbourhood, Seonghyeon loops back to follow from much further behind, keeping to the edge of the streetlight pools where the shadows are thickest.
They ride for fifteen minutes straight. Seonghyeon's legs start to burn. The streets gradually change: narrower and darker, the pavement cracked and uneven enough that he has to pay attention to avoid potholes. He realises with a sinking feeling where they're headed. His father, who almost never forbids anything outright, has always explicitly told him to stay away from this part of town.
Eventually the road becomes too narrow to follow without being obvious, just a single lane with parked cars on both sides. Seonghyeon has no choice but to dismount and lock his bike to a tree.
It's quieter here. Not a peaceful quiet but an unsettling quiet. The streetlights are sparse and far between. Most of the shops have metal grates pulled down over their windows and doors, covered in layers of graffiti. This is where people don't make eye contact with strangers, where you walk fast and keep your head down.
Seonghyeon does exactly that: head low, hands tucked deep in his hoodie pockets, following only the sound of Keonho's wheels against pavement. He realises too late that coming here empty-handed was incredibly stupid. His mother had always told him to carry something when going out at night. Keys between your knuckles, a flashlight, anything at all. But he'd left in such a rush he'd forgotten everything except his jacket.
The sound of wheels stops. There's a dull thud. Seonghyeon carefully looks up to see Keonho standing in front of a closed convenience store. Thick bars on the windows, shutters vandalised. Seonghyeon is directly across the street, crouched low behind a parked van.
A man emerges from the alley beside the store. He's tall, clearly older, broad-shouldered in a way that makes Keonho look impossibly small. Seonghyeon's heart is pounding so hard he's genuinely worried they might hear it.
The man's voice carries easily in the empty street. "...been waiting out here... damn cold... better be worth the money..."
Keonho says something back but his voice is far too quiet. It's wrong. It shouldn't be Keonho standing there in that alley, meeting a stranger in the middle of the night. He's just a kid. They both are. Sixteen, still in school, still supposed to be worrying about exams and colleges, not this.
When Keonho shifts his weight to pick up the case, Seonghyeon's stomach drops. Drugs. It has to be drugs. What else would someone be buying in a dark alley at this hour? His hands start shaking uncontrollably, and from where he's crouched behind the van, it looks like Keonho might be shaking too. Or maybe that's just Seonghyeon's own trembling body making everything in his vision seem unsteady. Or maybe Keonho really is afraid. He was never that much braver than Seonghyeon.
The thought hits him hard: this is Seonghyeon's fault. If he'd been there for Keonho, if he'd stayed his best friend instead of slowly drifting away, then maybe Keonho would never have ended up here. Would never have needed to do this, whatever this is.
The actual exchange happens quickly. The man takes the portfolio case from Keonho's hands and disappears back into the shadows of the alley. Keonho walks back to where his bike is leaning against the convenience store wall, pulling out an envelope and stuffing it deep into his hoodie pocket. Even from across the street, Seonghyeon can tell the envelope is thick, bulging with what must be cash.
Seonghyeon stays completely frozen in his crouched position, muscles screaming, just watching as Keonho bends down to unlock his bike chain. But then halfway through the motion, Keonho suddenly stops. He leans forward over the handlebars and buries his face in his arms, his shoulders curving inward, and his whole body goes still.
For a long moment, Seonghyeon thinks maybe Keonho is crying. But then Keonho straightens back up and wipes his nose quickly with the back of his sleeve. He doesn't look around or hesitate. Just starts pedalling away back into the darkness.
Seonghyeon walks his bike all the way home and the whole time he can't stop his hands from trembling.