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Despite having spent every living breath in the lap of seaside hills, having never left the place he was born in, Hwanwoong has never had an affinity to the sea. He stays in the inner parts of their tiny town; sits at his father's shop near the beach during the day and caters to his customers, few as they are on some days. It's mostly a bunch of sailors or fishermen who stop by for cigarettes or something else, their laughter loud and manners rowdy. Hwanwoong likes them; they tell him jokes and odd tales, and their presence is familiar.
Sometimes, it's Youngjo who stops by.
Youngjo always comes by when he finally returns to shore; it's the first place he visits after docking. Youngjo is a sailor too, with small gold rings dangling from his pierced ears and linen shirts faded and stained with age, with pretty eyes and a soft smile he reserves only for Hwanwoong. He lowers his voice and speaks with the same tenderness that sparkles in his eyes, with a lilt that reminds Hwanwoong of a folk song. The rough sailor slang that he's grown up with is still stubborn on his tongue, despite his best efforts to impress Hwanwoong with polite language; Hwanwoong hardly minds, though—he's fond of it even. Ever so often a curse will slip out of Youngjo without him meaning to, and he'll look so distraught, eyes wide and face a little red. Hwanwoong will just laugh and pinch his cheek when this happens, heart full because of how endearing he finds it all.
Hwanwoong calls Younjo his sailor.
Youngjo's arms are inked in various designs; some are words and sayings he holds dear and others drawings and patterns which remind him of special things. They used to be crisp but have bled and feathered out over the years, turning some words illegible, the black ink paling into a blue-green shade. Hwanwoong likes to rest his head on Youngjo's chest and trace the tattoos slowly, asking the sailor for meanings and stories no matter how many times he's heard them. One day during his last visit home, Youngjo had held him against his heart and told him that he'd get his name tattooed there too, and Hwanwoong had blushed, shaking his head shyly. You don't have to, he'd said, and Youngjo had thumbed his cheek and in the most tender voice told him that no, he didn't have to, but it was what he really wanted.
Youngjo loves the sea. He goes often, never staying more than a few weeks, leaving with a kiss to Hwanwoong's head and a promise of coming back soon. He always, always asks if Hwanwoong wants to come with him; even though he knows Hwanwoong will never say yes, not now. And Hwanwoong always shakes his head and squeezes Youngjo's hand tight in apology, head down. Youngjo is never mad at him, he only smiles in understanding and kisses Hwanwoong sweetly one last time at the pier, with traces of the ocean's salt upon his lips and fingers warm against Hwanwoong's face.
I'll be back, he says earnestly, I'll be back for you, my darling.
And right from the moment his ship pulls away from the port, Hwanwoong begins to wait. He whiles his time away at the shop and thinks of Youngjo's calloused fingers, of his adoring gaze. He sniffles in silence of his room on lonely nights, plays with he remainders of Youngjo's presence and waits and sighs through the long days until he can find Youngjo again one day, leaning against the wooden counter with a grin, smelling of the sea and wind, a little trinket clasped in his palm just for Hwanwoong.
He always brings back Hwanwoong little gifts from his journeys: sometimes colourful shells or glittering gemstones, other times silk tassels or some lovely miniature painting bought at a faraway marketplace. He'd brought Hwanwaoong a beautiful locket once, silver and shaped like a heart—it hangs around his neck even now, like a promise, on a black cord Hwanwoong had braided himself.
Hwanwoong misses Youngjo, he's been gone too long now. He wishes every day that one of the ships docking at the port might belong to Youngjo, but luck hasn't been kind to him. He sighs, rearranging a row of sweet jars on the counter after watching a sailor stroll by with his wife clutching at his arm.
There's a knock on the counter just as he bends down to pick up a coin he'd dropped when the last customer, an old lady come to buy a matchbox, had given it to him. Another customer, he thinks, a little wearily, as he straightens up, pocketing the shiny coin.
Hwanwoong looks up.
His eyes widen as something akin to a cry climbs up his throat, and he almost leaps across the counter to press himself against the smell of wet salt and sun-warmed sand when he sees pretty eyes and the softest smile, golden earrings and windswept curls catching the afternoon sun.
His sailor is back.