Siwoo came from far away. Not just in the physical sense, but theoretically too. He was just a little boy when his parents moved to Britain, where he quickly learned – and would forever remember — the ebb and flow of the North Sea and the way a country breeze could tug at a European woman’s airy skirt. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, his parents – ruined by the collapse of their once-thriving business –  decided to return home. And now, it felt as though everyone expected Siwoo to forget everything he had believed in so far. 

The truth was, when Siwoo decided to believe in something, it was nearly impossible for him to let go, no matter how inconvenient it might be. He never thought what he believed in had to be inherently true. He didn’t saw it as his job to seek truths, but rather to decide what he would accept as truth. Once he embraced something he would hold onto it unwaveringly, no matter how others argued against it. This was how he thought about Europe. About God. And about Junho.

Siwoo didn’t know Junho. Not at all – he barely knew anything about him. Up until now, all he had noticed that Junho was beautiful, extraordinary, and incredibly, achingly quiet. But by now, Siwoo had come to realise that Junho wasn’t just quiet – he was lonely too. At school, anyone who didn’t openly disdain Junho would fawn over him in disgusting, disrespectful ways – at least, over his body.

As the weeks passed, Siwoo started to notice not only Junho’s behaviour but also how others treated him. For example, one day in the hallway, a tall boy with a buzz cut pretended to slap Junho’s backside as he stood with his back turned, then smirked cynically at his mate while muttering something along the lines of, “bet he’d enjoy it.” (Siwoo suspected it was the tall boy himself who’d enjoy it more, despite his mocking tone.) Another time, during PE – one of the only classes Siwoo was “fortunate” enough to share with Junho – they had been tasked with climbing ropes. Junho had done well at first, but his hand slipped, and he fell hard to the ground.

Siwoo’s blood ran cold. If he hadn’t climbed on another rope himself, he’d have leapt down to catch him. Luckily, Junho landed on a crash mat, so he wasn’t hurt. But Siwoo noticed something odd: no one moved to help him. If it had been anyone else, the class would have rallied around, helping them up in a show of camaraderie – or at least to flex their strength. But this time, no one budged. Some looked startled but stayed rooted in place (out of fear or indifference, Siwoo couldn’t tell), while others laughed at Junho’s mishap, whispering obscene comments about how he must “love a bit of pain.”

The explicit video featuring Junho was about a year old, uploaded – presumably by an ex or a vengeful partner. At least, that’s what Siwoo gathered from the gossip swirling around it. When someone in class sent him the clip, he was horrified. He hadn’t expected it. But then again, he didn’t know Junho well enough to expect anything. That’s partly why Siwoo felt no inclination to judge him, unlike the others, he didn’t felt he had right to. Everyone has sex; everyone makes mistakes – nothing extraordinary about that. And anyway, Siwoo believed Junho was a remarkable person. He didn’t know it, but he believed it, the same way he believed in God and that tea tasted best with milk.

These were Siwoo’s thoughts. But what about his feelings?

It was Friday afternoon when Siwoo decided to use the school gym. Normally, he’d head to his usual fitness club, but it was always far too crowded, and today he wasn’t in the mood for people. It had been a rubbish day – his first maths test had gone terribly, he’d spilled soup all over himself at lunch, and he’d been laughed at in Korean class for mispronouncing a word. He could have explained that he’d never formally studied his native tongue, only learning from his parents, but it didn’t seem worth the effort. He just needed some space to clear his head.

The gym was massive – easily big enough to host a professional basketball game – and equipped with all sorts of modern gear: vaulting horses, rings, climbing ropes, and stacks of crash mats. And standing there, by one of the ropes, was Junho, staring up at it with wide eyes.

The sight of him stopped Siwoo in his tracks. His heart seemed to skip a beat. From the other end of the gym, Junho hadn’t noticed him, too focused on scaling the rope. He was dressed in the school’s grey tracksuit and a plain white T-shirt, but even in such simple attire, Siwoo found him breathtakingly beautiful as he climbed higher and higher with his elegant, slim body.

Siwoo took a steadying breath and approached him as Junho began to descend. He was convinced this wasn’t just a coincidence – after such a dreadful day, it felt like a gift from heaven. And he wasn’t about to mess it up.

“You’re miles better at this than the guys who laughed at you the other day,” he called out, referencing their earlier PE class.

Startled, Junho turned. When his gaze landed on Siwoo, his dark eyes softened into a shy smile, and Siwoo felt like his knees might give away.

“That’s kind of you to say,” Junho replied, his cheeks tinged pink. “But I think I’ve still got a lot to learn.”

Siwoo rolled his eyes theatrically, letting out a small laugh as he stepped closer.

 “Yang Siwoo,” he introduced himself, holding out a hand.

Junho hesitated, then took it. His palm was a little rough from the rope, but his cool fingertips felt like silk against Siwoo’s skin.

“Kim Junho,” the other boy replied with a slight bow, and Siwoo realised handshakes weren’t exactly the norm here. Still, he was grateful Junho hadn’t made a fuss about traditions.

"You did much better, by the way,” said Junho. “I mean, with the rope climbing.” He then nervously ran his hand through his own wavy, chestnut-brown hair, and Siwoo felt as though every organ in his body started trembling with joy, like leaves in the wind.

“If I'm already here, I could help you, if you’d like,” he blurted out, then added a bit shyly, “Not that you really need it.”

Junho's gorgeous, cherry-red lips curled into another soft smile as he replied, “I’d be glad if you helped me.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. They stood facing each other, gazing into each other’s eyes as though Junho’s simple response was more than just an agreement for help. It felt like an unspoken, deeper pact had been formed between them: yes, you can help me, because I want you to, and I know you do, too.

Then, blushing slightly from the prolonged eye contact, Junho reached out and grabbed the rope again.

“Alright, I’ll start climbing, and you can tell me what I’m doing wrong,” he instructed Siwoo gently, whose heart melted at his companion’s determination.

In that moment, Siwoo forgot everything. He forgot about his terrible day, the video, and even the overwhelming homesickness he carried for his homeland. His heart was filled with joy as he watched Junho’s beautiful figure, and time to time he could even touch his slender waist or his shoulder blades; he was so happy that he even forgot the fact that he too only gazed at Junho’s body.