The Busan Boy (EDITED)

4. an empty space

a/n: our first confrontation with minseok post-breakup...and with jihoon present. let's see where this goes...

hope you guys enjoy this chapter!

all my love,

krissy

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PRESENT DAY

OCTOBER 2018

IN ALL THE years I have known him, Jihoon has shown me his anger only twice.

I'm not even sure the first time counts. We were five, only two years after the night his dad left and never returned.

Back then, our neighborhood in Busan was so safe that the ahjummas living on our block left the doors unlocked, especially because all of them--my mother included--shared and exchanged groceries often. I remember watching them come and go while I sprawled across the scratchy couch in our living room. Eomma would disappear into the Ryu house with a determined shuffle of her slippers and return with a giant plastic bowl of soybean sprouts. The next day, Jihoon's mom would come in, wave to me with shining eyes--annyeong!--and hurry outside with our bag of pat, or red soybeans.

So then, I thought, Can I do that, too? When Jihoon's mom was out shopping at Jagalchi market, I snuck into their pantry and stole Jihoon's entire stash of Yakult. When he found out, he gave me silent treatment for an entire week. Not that I ever took him seriously. He was shorter than me back then, his small body dwarfed by oversized shirts as soft as cotton candy, and the defiant lift of his chin only made me smile. I must have made his anger worse, slurping on the milk noisily when I saw him, giggling when he glared at me.

The second time happened when were twelve. When his dad returned, shortly before Jihoon left for Seoul.

To this day, I still can't shake the cruelty I saw in the alley that night. I shame myself for remembering the face of Jihoon's dad better than mine. Even now, when I close my eyes, I can see Ryu Jihwan-ssi's dark features and his charcoal-black stare, so unlike his son's soft honey eyes.

So I was surprised when Jihoon and I slowed before his house one afternoon to see a small man with aging skin and wilting posture, waiting for someone to let him in.

He was wearing this really pitiful shade of dark gray. I wondered, dazed, if he was wearing the same black coat. If he was, it had faded terribly into the color of bleary clouds. There were no shadows that day to turn his tired face cold. Instead, he looked as weak and as frail as a piece of crumpled paper dampened by rain.

We had gone still, both of us. When he saw us, the man's watery eyes widened. They were reddish, as if the blood vessels in them had burst from lack of sleep.

"Jihoon-ah," he said, dumbfounded.

My body stiffened with unease at the guilt in his eyes, as if I was intruding on something painfully private.

Beside me, Jihoon fell still. Eyes darkening. It was as if his whole body shut down, leaving only anger.

"You have no right," he said quietly.

A frown twitched on his father's brows, as if this confused him. There were papers fluttering in his hands, I realized, and he rose them a fraction as if they could defend him. "I'm just—I had to settle some financial statements with your mom, but—"

"Leave." Jihoon's white-knuckled fists trembled at his sides. His dad flinched, but Jihoon's face didn't change. Even then, I knew Jihoon had expert control of his expressions. "You don't belong here."

"I know I don't, I just wanted to--"

"Go away."

"Jihoon--"

His temper flared. "I said go away!"

I tried to ease out of the situation, but Jihoon took my hand first, tugging me along with him as he stormed back the way we came. He must have been too angry to realize his fingers were intertwined with mine. I remembering seeing the dark, brooding rage on his face and feeling helpless to console him. He stormed to another alley, fuming.