Page 85 of The Way Back Home

The third bottle opens. Yoohan and I get into a very passionate and very slurred debate about whether the ‘98 World Cup squad or the ‘02 squad was better. He’s wrong. I tell him he’s wrong. He tells me I’m too young to remember ‘98 properly and I tell him we’re the same age, you idiot, and then we’re both laughing too hard to finish the argument. Jinwon and Sihyung have graduated from trot to what I think is supposed to be a ballad but sounds like cats being strangled in a dryer, and Haeil is now conducting with both hands, swaying in place with the solemnity of a man leading a symphony at the national concert hall.

Ryowoon doesn’t touch any of it. He sits and smokes and sips his cola and watches us all make fools of ourselves with near saint-like patience. When Sihyung nearly topples off his rock mid-verse and Jinwon grabs him by the collar to steady him, both of them collapsing into each other in a heap of wheezing laughter, Ryowoon tips his head back and lets out a long, suffering sigh toward the sky.

“Animals,” he mutters around his cigarette, his eyes warm with affection.

At some point past midnight the party starts to wind down. Yoohan passes out on a flat rock and Haeil throws his jacket over him. Jinwon sits back down heavily, his face pink, his smile dreamy and unfocused. Sihyung lies on the rocks staring up at the stars and announces with great conviction that he loves every single one of us, and Ryowoon flicks a pebble at his forehead and tells him to shut up.

I sway when I stand. The world tilts at a gentle angle and my legs have the consistency of overcooked noodles. I take a step toward the path up from the rocks and the ground lurches sideways.

Ryowoon’s arm catches me around the waist before I eat gravel.

“Alright,” he says, stubbing out his cigarette against a rock and flicking the butt into his empty cola can. “Let’s go, lightweight.”

He slings my arm over his shoulders and takes most of my weight against his side, steering me up the incline from the harbor. I stumble twice on the first hill and he hauls me upright each time without comment, adjusting his grip. His body is warm against mine, his shoulder solid under my arm, his stride shortening to match my pathetic shambling.

“‘m not that drunk,” I mumble into his shoulder.

“Sure you’re not.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re stepping on my feet.”

“Your feet are in the way.”

He snorts and hitches me higher against his side.

The walk home takes twice as long as it should. The streets are empty and quiet and the only sounds are our footsteps and my occasional hiccup. Ryowoon navigates the route without hesitation, turning at the right cross street, climbing the hill toward my mother’s house. His arm doesn’t loosen around my waist. The night air cools my flushed skin and the gentle swinging motion of walking makes my eyelids droop, my head lolling.

We reach the gate. Ryowoon pushes it open with his free hand and walks me across the gateyard. The front door’s unlocked and the hallway light is on, my mother never goes to sleep when she knows I’m out, and when the door creaks open I hear the shuffle of slippers from the living room.

My mother appears in the hallway, her reading glasses perched on her nose, a paperback in one hand. Her eyes widen as she takes in the scene: her grown son draped over his best friend like a wet towel, head bobbing, grinning at nothing.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Seyeon.”

Ryowoon bows his head politely, his free hand coming up to his chest in a gesture of deference, disarming grin spreading across his face.

“Good evening, Auntie. Delivering your son in one piece, as promised.”

My mother opens her mouth, closes it, presses her fingers to her temple.

“Just—” She gestures down the hall. “His room. Please.”

Ryowoon steers me through the house with the ease of someone who’s walked this layout a thousand times. My room is the last door on the left and he kicks it open with his foot, walks me to the bed, and dumps me onto it unceremoniously. I bounce on the mattress and the ceiling spins pleasantly overhead. My limbs splay across the blanket and I lie there grinning up at him as he straightens, rubbing his shoulder where I’d been hanging on him.

“Take an aspirin when you wake up in the morning,” he says, tapping the side of his head with two fingers. “You’re going to need it.”

I roll onto my side, curling up, and lift a hand off the mattress in a lazy wave.

“Thanks,” I murmur, my eyes already closing. The warmth of the soju and the walk and the whole night are pulling me under fast. “Love you.”

Silence.

I don’t open my eyes. I’m already sinking, the room turning fuzzy around me. I hear the creak of the floorboards as he pauses too long. Then his voice snapping roughly, clipped.

“Nevermind. Just be in pain, fucking idiot.”