Chapter Text
Chapter 4 – An Incoming Tide
Wooyoung
He had slept through the majority of the drive south. The stress of the last few months had taken its toll, and exhaustion won out in the end. Wooyoung wiped the sleep from his eyes and tried to chase the remnants of dreams away. Terrible dreams of relentless, yet impersonal cities, and failure. He watched through the passenger window as the road hugged the coast, and the sky shone gold to the horizon, the kind of light that belonged to the south. His chest tightened as he passed landmarks he hadn’t seen in years. This place felt like it belonged to another time, another life.
His mother hummed softly to the song on the radio, an old song that he recognised but couldn’t place. “We’re almost there,” she said softly, realising he was awake. He just nodded and watched the familiar landscape pass him by. A small “yay” came from the seat behind him. Kyungmin hadn’t really been able to understand his breakdown, and Wooyoung realised he had shut out his whole family in his distress, including the brother he loved.
He wound down his window, the sharp salt and seaweed scent hitting him, and for a moment, he could almost forget that he had been away, almost pretend the previous years hadn’t changed him. They drove through the town centre, the streets clinging to the curve of the bay, fishing boats bobbing on the gentle swell. Spring was in full bloom, with cherry blossoms lining the main street, as Wooyoung’s mother followed the road towards his grandmother’s house. He tried to hide the tears filling his eyes as they turned into the driveway, the gentle crunch of gravel beneath the tyres. He was coming home.
His grandparents' house was just beyond the edge of town, an older wooden structure that smelled of pine and floor polish, as well as the pot of seaweed soup bubbling on the stovetop. His grandmother had held him for a long moment when he arrived, and waited for his sobs to settle before taking his face in her worn hands.
“Ah, our Wooyoungie is home,” she said, drying the tears on his cheeks. “You look thinner.”
“I eat,” he lied.
His grandparents and his mother exchanged a look, but said nothing.
“Come, sit,” his grandmother urged them all, ushering them to the table. “The soup is ready.”
Wooyoung ate in silence, taking in the atmosphere as the three other adults talked about the trip south. Kyungmin looked at him, a small, shy smile on his face, and for the first time in months, Wooyoung smiled back.
His mother and brother headed back to Seoul the following morning, and Wooyoung spent the day reacquainting himself with the town. He wandered the streets to the harbour, an iced coffee sweating in its cup. Every corner carried a ghost of his younger self, the market stall where he and San once stole tteokbokki sticks, before San’s guilt got the best of him and he went back, shamefaced, to the shopkeeper to pay; the town square where the group had sometimes done choreography covers; his old house, where they shared their last moments before he left for Seoul. A small ache bloomed in his chest. The town hadn’t changed at all, and time here had stopped in his absence.
There was one place that he was actively avoiding, but by early evening, he found himself outside the dance studio. The music, something by Shinee, filtered out through the open windows. Wooyoung could hear the shuffling of many feet, loud steps on the hardwood floor, and a voice…
“Five, six, seven, eight. Watch the count. We step on the beat…” Each beat of the music accompanied by a loud clap.
Wooyoung crept closer to the window, ensuring he was out of view of anyone in the room. The children inside were trying their best to follow the rhythm, clumsy yet full of joy, but it wasn’t the children that captured his attention.
San laughed as he stopped the music, his voice deeper, yet still full of the warmth that Wooyoung remembered so well. “Guys, guys. Right, let’s try that again. From the top!” He stood, barefoot, at the front of the class, his tank top clinging with sweat. The music restarted, and with it, San and his class began to dance. Wooyoung didn’t watch any of the children; his focus was stolen by San, the same power and fluidity he remembered, but tempered now by the deliberate grace that only comes with maturity. He was beautiful.
He wanted to linger, watch San long into the night, but he knew that was a dangerous thing to want, so he turned and walked away, against the tide that had brought him here.
Wooyoung had taken to wandering the streets during the evenings. If his grandmother had noticed this new habit, she didn’t comment on it. “You’ll remember how to breathe here,” she had said one night, pouring tea after dinner as she always did. “The night air is good for that.”
He was grateful that she didn’t question him further, grateful that she didn’t try to fix him or offer solutions or answers. She just gave him the space to just be, and heal.
That night, he found himself walking along the river past the Blue Summer. He sat at one of the outdoor tables, listening to the cicadas in the trees and the soft music filtering out from the bar. Jongho spotted him loitering outside.
“Holy shit, Wooyoung?” Jongho called out incredulously. He dropped the rubbish he had been about to empty into the bins before he started across the lawn toward Wooyoung. A grin split his face as he wrapped him in a bear hug that smelled of beer and salt. And home. “You’re really here? How long have you been here? Thought Seoul had swallowed you.”
“It spat me out,” Wooyoung remarked dryly, a smile curling his lip.
Inside, the bar hummed with indistinct laughter and cheesy pop music. Yunho and Mingi sat perched by the counter, playing some vague game involving balled up napkins and half empty beer glasses; Yeosang sat beside them, tapping his fingers on the counter, keeping time with the beat. The conversation stalled for half a beat as he followed Jongho inside, before it burst back to life.
“What the fuck?! When did you get back in town?!” Yunho shouted, jumping to his feet before he launched himself at Wooyoung.
“Couple of weeks ago,” Wooyoung said, feeling slightly overwhelmed.
“You owe me at least three shots of soju for vanishing,” Mingi added, his arms tight around Wooyoung’s waist as he hoisted him in the air and spun him around
Tears sprang to Wooyoung’s eyes, and he struggled to compose himself. He laughed, sniffling a little, “Okay, okay, fuck! Put me down!”
He found a seat next to Yeosang, who smiled, eyes soft and genuine. “It’s so good to see you, Wooyoung.”
They fell into the easy rhythm of old banter, and for a while, Wooyoung almost forgot the years and the silence between them. But he couldn’t help but notice the changes. They’d built new routines without him, shared new stories and new lives. He felt like a ghost haunting a house that was changing around him.
At some point, Jongho proposed a toast. “To the ones who come back.” Wooyoung clinked glasses with each of them, the burn of alcohol warming him. He noticed Yunho’s periodic glances at the door, eyes flitting away as he met Wooyoung’s gaze. Something unspoken lingered between them. He didn’t ask about San, and no one else mentioned him.
San
There is a certain safety and comfort in routines. San’s world had narrowed to lessons at the studio, his small, quiet apartment, dinner at his parents’ house on Sundays, and occasional Saturday nights at the Blue Summer. He had come to rely on the peace he found in small things, especially here at the studio.
It had become an anchor for him, giving him a sense of purpose, the place where he could rebuild himself when it felt like his world had cracked. It was here that he could focus on the present, counting beats, leading his students through the steady rhythm of another choreography. On good days, teaching came as easily to him as breathing, but on the bad days, he clung to that sense of purpose like it was the only thing keeping him afloat.
San’s phone buzzed with an incoming notification as he finished locking up the studio for the night, the scent of pine floor cleaner still lingering in the air.
Yunho:
We’re all down at Blue Summer Even Hongjoong and Seonghwa are back It’s been so long since we’ve all hung out Please come
He was so tired, but Yunho was right. He’d been making excuses for weeks now. It would be good to see everyone for a while, so San headed home to change before heading to the restaurant.
The bar smelled like beer and fried chicken, and San took comfort in the familiarity of good food and good company. The laughter and chatter filled the space in warm waves. He found his friends at their usual table, multiple conversations floating through the air at once. Seonghwa and Hongjoong greeted him with warmth, commenting on the amount of time that had passed since they had last seen him.
At the bar, Jongho was lining up glasses, raising one to San in welcome as he sang along to an older ballad playing through the sound system. Not for the first time, San was in awe of his talent. It made complete sense that Jongho had begun his studies in music and performance this year. He also noticed how Yeosang was attempting not to stare too obviously at Jongho. Yeosang was not succeeding, San thought with a smirk.
“You’ll never guess who’s back in town,” Jongho said as he placed a round of beers on the table.
“Who?” San didn’t know anyone who had left town apart from Wooyoung, Seonghwa and Hongjoong.
“Wooyoung.” Yunho, who had been playing pool with Mingi, came up beside San and placed a hand on his shoulder.
San almost flinched. “What?”
“Yeah. We saw him earlier. He looked good, maybe lost a bit of weight.” Jongho hummed. “Probably city stress.”
“He came by tonight,” Yunho added quietly.
A smile froze on San’s face. “Oh.” He took a sip of beer and immediately felt his stomach twist.
Mingi asked Hongjoong something about music production software, and the conversation moved on, but San didn’t hear anything after that. The name repeated in his head like an echo. Yeosang noticed San’s disconnect and slid into the seat beside him.
“You okay?” San could only nod. Wooyoung had come home.
“He seemed tired.” Yeosang’s voice was quiet, as if he were breaking a confidence. “He’s staying with his grandparents for a while. He didn’t give many details, but I think Seoul was hard for him.”
He had nursed the same beer for the evening, and later, as he walked the quiet streets towards home, he was half-drunk, but mostly on memories. When he found himself at the seafront, he headed to the pier. He could have sworn there was someone sitting on the bench there, but as he approached, he saw it was just a trick of the light.
San sat on the weathered timber, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. The air smelled of salt and unexpected change.
“You’re really back,” he whispered to no one.
Wooyoung
Rain set in the following morning, not a storm, just a muted drizzle blurring the sharpness of the world, and frogs croaked somewhere out of sight. The bay was sullen grey under heavy cloud, and Wooyoung watched the rain bead on the window, a mug of coffee cooling in his hand. It should have felt calm, peaceful, but to Wooyoung, it just felt like waiting.
He needed to remind himself that he had come back to get his life in order, not to chase ghosts. He should have been looking for a job, researching study options for the coming semester and figuring out what to do next, but he can’t face it. It doesn’t help that his thoughts tend to drift, back to the studio’s golden light, to the memory of a body in motion, a voice that used to call for him across a dance floor.
He had never said it out loud, but he knew; San had always been the one thing in his life, the only person who had ever made him feel certain, and he had run from it, run from the promise, the confusion, the allure.
With a sigh, Wooyoung opened his laptop, trying to research which classes might be available at the community college after the break, but he couldn't concentrate and closed it again. Outside, the sky threatened a deluge, but undeterred, he slipped into his jacket and stepped out into the late afternoon.
The town was nearly empty, and umbrellas bloomed like flowers in the drizzle. The sea was veiled by mist. He walked without a destination in mind, past the arcade where the whole group had spent long afternoons when they were younger, past the bookstore that currently had a ‘summer reads’ display in the window.
As the day slipped into evening, he found his way back to the dance studio. The rain had cleared, leaving the road gleaming under the street lights. The studio stood across the street from him, and it glowed, warm and inviting, as though it would beckon him closer.
He stopped at the doorway, the music seeping out, something soft, slow, maybe a modern arrangement of an old ballad. Inside, the mirrors caught the light and the reflections of bodies in motion. He stepped closer without noticing.
Wooyoung’s breath caught in his throat. San stood at the head of the class, a commanding force who drew every student’s attention. He led the small group of older teens, accomplished dancers themselves, their movements practised and precise. His voice was calm, steady, yet authoritative as he guided them through transitions and formations, demonstrating as he went, conveying the rhythm.
“Ok, I’ll see you all next week,” San called as the class ended, the students gathering their things. “Don’t forget, Summer Festival is next month, and if any of you can help out with the younger kids, hair, make-up, that kind of thing, we’d really appreciate it.” He seemed older, his features more striking, broad-shouldered, his body sculpted and well defined, but when he laughed with his students, his dimples popped, and Wooyoung caught a glimpse of the boy he remembered.
Wooyoung remembered how close he was to the door as it opened and students spilled out into the evening air. He found himself face to face with San as he farewelled the last of his students, and neither San nor Wooyoung could move, could speak. The silence stretched, uncomfortable, and as taut as a rubber band pulled too tight.
“...Wooyoung,” San said finally, his voice low and even.
“Hey,” Wooyoung answered, but it caught in the back of his throat. It was humiliating, how inadequate the word felt after two years.
San acknowledged him with a nod. “So, you’re back?”
“For a while.”
San paused. “How long is a while?”
Wooyoung almost smiled at that. “Guess we’ll find out.”
“I have to finish tidying here so I can close up for the night.” San’s voice was gentle and measured, but the dismissal was clear.
Wooyoung backed away from the door. “Oh, ok. Catch you later, San.”
“Bye, Wooyoung.” San raised his hand in farewell and closed the door behind Wooyoung. He stood there for a moment, watching San’s retreating back through the glass panel of the door, before turning to find his way home in silence.
San
Sleep did not come easily to San. The night hummed, the cicadas seeming unusually loud outside his window. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Wooyoung’s face, eyes drawn and tired, and seeming to carry an unknown weight of sadness. It shocked him, and he could not reconcile what he saw in his eyes with the boy he remembered, the light, the joy, the mischief.
He had rehearsed that moment in his mind over and over again, how he’d be indifferent and the past wouldn’t sway him, but the reality was smaller, quieter, almost treacherous. He was frustrated with himself for freezing, for saying nothing important, for not demanding answers. Disappointed in himself that, after all this time, one appearance from Wooyoung could be his undoing. Just the sound of his voice was enough to shake his resolve.
Yunho noticed the dark shadows beneath his eyes as he arrived for the morning classes. “Wow, looks like your eyes are about to fall out of your head!”
San laughed, dryly. “Thanks, that’s the look I was going for.”
“Seriously, you look like you haven’t slept for days.” Yunho handed him one of the coffees in his hand, his eyes concerned.
“Wooyoung was here last night.” Grateful, San accepted the coffee.
“Oh, how did that go?”
“He didn’t stay long,” San said softly. “I kind of rushed him off, said I needed to close up for the night.”
Yunho nodded in understanding. “You okay?” San just hummed, a quiet affirmation.
Yunho could see right through him. “It’s okay if you’re not. You know that, right?” San didn’t respond; didn’t know what to say.
“He’s different, you know,” Yunho sighed. “Not as loud. Feels like he’s... kind of lost.”
San only nodded, but didn’t answer.
San found himself at the Blue Summer again that night. The air hummed with familiarity, the banter of people who had been friends for almost half their lives. Later, when Wooyoung walked in, the noise faltered for a moment before conversations carried on as before.
He found a seat across from San, sitting next to Jongho, and greeted everyone at the table, including San. He seemed subdued, so unsure of his place, not just within the conversation, but within the friend group. It was so unlike the Wooyoung he remembered, but eventually the easy warmth of the group wrapped around them both. San felt Wooyoung’s presence like electricity in the air, almost close enough to touch and impossible to ignore.
“Dance studio’s so busy,” Jongho was speaking to Wooyoung. “San’s almost full-time there now. He’s great, and all his classes are packed.” San shot him a look, almost a plea to stop making him the topic of their conversation.
Wooyoung chuckled. “I saw. He’s always been outrageously good.”
“Not outrageous,” Yunho joined in, smirking. “Just disciplined.”
“Same thing,” Mingi added, and the table erupted into laughter.
For a moment, they were just friends again, all of them together, the easy camaraderie he remembered, but each time San looked up, he found Wooyoung’s gaze meeting his across the table, insecure and searching.
“We should probably head home,” Seonghwa nudged Hongjoong, who was dozing on his shoulder. The others followed suit, peeling away in pairs until only Wooyoung and San remained. With the others gone, the silence settled heavily between them.
Wooyoung leaned back, eyeing his empty glass. “Kinda weird, isn’t it? We’re all older, but everything else here feels the same.”
“Time doesn’t move much here,” San murmured.
Wooyoung studied him, head tilting. “You look good.”
San exhaled. “You look... tired.”
“That’s fair.” A ripple of amusement passed between them, an attempt to return to some kind of equilibrium.
“I watched you for a while last night,” Wooyoung admitted quietly. “Wanted to see you.”
San’s eyes narrowed a little. “Why didn’t you come in?”
“Didn’t know if I was allowed.” The words hung between them, honest and vulnerable.
San couldn’t look at him too long, and his eyes dropped back to the glass in his hand. “You don’t need permission.”
“Don’t I?” Wooyoung’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. “I left, San. I didn’t call. I-”
“Wooyoung, just…just don’t,” San’s voice cracked on the last word, and he was afraid he would cry. “Don’t say sorry. It won’t fix anything.”
Wooyoung's silence was loud until he murmured, almost to himself. “Maybe not. But I still need to say it.”
San stood suddenly, the sound of his chair scraping across the floor too loud in the room. “I need to get home. It’s late and I’ve got early classes.”
“Yeah, okay,” Wooyoung said softly, rising too. He hesitated. “See you at the studio?”
“Maybe.” The door closed behind San, and he stepped out into the night.
He didn’t head straight home; instead, he walked along the pier long after midnight. He watched the tide coming in, licking at the edge of the boardwalk while the moon hung low and full, the reflection rippling on the water.
His thoughts turned to Wooyoung’s voice, how it softened on his name, the apology that he didn't want to hear. He didn’t understand what he wanted to feel: resentment, justified in his hurt, a sense of closure. Maybe all of it. Maybe nothing at all. But beneath the confusion was the troubling, familiar admission; he had never stopped wanting Wooyoung.
San let his head fall back, closing his eyes as the wind cut through his shirt. “Why did you have to come back?” he asked in a whisper.
The waves had no answer.
Wooyoung
He dreamed of the studio that night, the music pulsing through the floor, and San standing just out of reach, turning his back before Wooyoung could speak.
He woke to a golden dawn, light filling the room. He knows he can’t keep circling forever. He has to go back, not to explain, and not to ask anything of San. Just to start over, if San will let him.