Work Text:
Extract from Vanity Fair Korea , September 2022 Issue:
AS GOD CREATES THE EARTH, KANG YEOSANG CREATES HEHETMON
One last milestone for Hehetmon as the fourteenth and last volume of the hit series arrives on shelves. Fans of all ages have fallen in love with Kang Yeosang’s slice-of-life comedy series, described by some as this generation’s Moomin .
But what’s next for the mangaka known by his fans as the ‘peaceful king’? [...] When we asked Kang about his goals for the future, he replied: “manga, probably…” When pushed for more details, Kang-sensei looked out the window pensively and sighed.
COMMENTS [4823]
[...]
hawlahawla : thank you for your hard work kang-sensei <3 rest well and take some time for yourself!!!
sooj1 : buckle up boys. for we are entering the era of the HCU (Hehetmon Cinematic Universe) !!!!
—
Yeosang drops off the final chapter of Hehetmon and is struck by a strange and aimless feeling of suspension. He imagines himself as a vehicle from a Fast and Furious film, wheels careening off of some non-decrepit slope. He imagines the spray of gravel, the smell of burning tires, and the gray sky, the entirety of the scene viewed from below. Then he takes the train home and goes for a run.
If Yeosang were the type to linger on discomfort he might have traced this sentiment back to a) the end of his flagship series, after seven years of publication, b) the immediate reception of a new deadline from his publishing house, not even three hours after the completion of Hehetmon , and c) the adrenaline-filled Best of the Fast and Furious Spotify playlist he’s been looping pretty permanently in the last few weeks, as compensation for lack of sleep.
But Yeosang is not the type.
Yeosang’s usual running route takes him through an athletic field, about an hour there and back. It also carries him past Hongjoong’s face twice.
The first billboard is for an energy drink. Hongjoong’s face, up close. He is smiling so hard his eyes are closed. He has a sparkly orange star encrusted in one tooth. The rest of the billboard, perched above a family mart like some sort of juiced-up benediction, is covered in exclamations. The second billboard is a Balenciaga ad, nestled over an intersection three blocks from Yeosang’s complex. This second Hongjoong stares down at Yeosang as he runs past. Between his wet orange hair and his black latex top, cut strategically to reveal slinky panels of skin, Hongjoong seriously looks like an action hero–straight out of Gantz .
Things have gotten pretty futuristic in the world of fashion, thinks Yeosang as he slows to a walk. Androgynous too. And the world of fashion, these days, is the same as the world of cinema and thus the same as the world of comics. Maybe it’s an action series he should write next. Yeosang wouldn’t mind drawing some of those fancy cuts and fabric, though they might be a bit more time-consuming than what he’s used to.
Yeosang stubs his foot as he goes to unlock his door. It takes a second for the pain to register and then another for him to identify the perpetrator–a crate of ripe clementines.
CONGRATULATIONS , reads the note that lies amidst all the fruit. Yeosang picks up and flips the card.
In the same scrawled handwriting, a local phone number.
—
“This is Hongjoong.”
Hongjoong picks up on the first ring. He sounds professional and his voice is sharp. Because of the crisp acoustics Yeosang imagines him in the darkness of his studio, distracted by the buzz of his phone but itching to return to work.
For some reason, Yeosang also imagines his hair dripping wet.
“Thanks for the gift,” says Yeosang. “It’s important to me to know you haven’t lost your flair for the dramatic.”
Hongjoong laughs. “I actually wanted to wait for you inside. But you don’t keep your key under your welcome mat.”
“That’s because it’s under the flowerpot,” says Yeosang. He wonders how long Hongjoong had waited outside, after ringing the doorbell, if he had at all. “Are you in your studio?”
“Yeah,” says Hongjoong. “But I’m not doing anything. Are you busy?”
–
Nine piercings, Yeosang calculates reflexively.
Kim Hongjoong, Billboard regular and 21st century Vitruvian man, sits on Yeosang’s couch. Nine visible piercings, Yeosang corrects. Two more than the last time Yeosang had seen him. Hongjoong’s hair is a shaggy carrot color and he is wearing a sweater that looks like a smaller green sweater ate its way through a larger aubergine sweater, along with about six hundred necklaces. If Yeosang squints, Hongjoong vaguely reminds him of a bag of salad mix.
“You’re staring” says Hongjoong, peeling a clementine. “I can’t have changed that much.”
“I’m not used to looking at such bright things,” Yeosang says. “Especially not in my apartment.”
“You don’t own a mirror?” Hongjoong asks.
He hands Yeosang half a clementine.
“Thank you,” says Yeosang. “It’s not that you’ve changed. It’s just that you look closer to the way you did in high school than you do on the billboards and in the music videos, so I was surprised. What I’m trying to say with all this is that you still look like yourself. ”
Hongjoong is looking at him fondly.
“That’s a good thing,” Yeosang stresses. “I was wondering whether you’d have a gem in your tooth.”
Hongjoong opens his mouth–
“--which wouldn’t have been a bad either,” Yeosang clarifies quickly, trying to stop his brain from continuing to embarrass him. “I’m a fan of yours.”
Hongjoong laughs. “You know,” he says, “I kept up with Hehetmon until the very end, even when I was touring.”
“You read Hehetmon ?”
“Me and the rest of the world. You’ve been working hard, Yeosang.”
A QUICK MEMORY
In September:
In the flipbook of Yeosang’s memory, year two of highschool smells like fried chicken, pencil shavings and chestnut trees.
And like with many other eruptive events in Yeosang’s life, Wooyoung is present.
“No,” says Yeosang, out of habit, even though he’s already planning on saying yes later. He has a general rule to only indulge Wooyoung after a few days of groveling, as a futile blocking system to Wooyoung’s rapidly expanding hubris.
“But Yeosang, wails Wooyoung, “Hongjoong-hyung says we’re just one member short from applying for club funding! Don’t you believe in the future of the arts, Yeosang? Don’t you believe our generation to be deserving of beauty? The job market can’t kill us all!”
“No,” Yeosang repeats, even though there was a box of dog-eared Shonen Jump volumes under his bed, and even though privately, he had already capitulated. “You can go impress your upperclassman of the month by yourself.”
****
In November:
“Don’t think I’m not onto you,” Wooyoung says, swooping into frame. It’s cold but the weather is no match for their youthful metabolism. They wear their fur-lined parkas open over their uniforms and breathe crystals into air as evening falls.
“Hm?” Yeosang’s not really paying attention. He’s inking his pages from today’s club meeting with the sleek pen Hongjoong gifted him as they wait for the bus.
“You want Hongjoong-hyung to tell you you’re doing a good job, aren’t you?”
While he isn’t the club leader, Hongjoong is the art club’s real gatekeeper. Despite his age he maintains a sort of dignity that earns the others’ attention. Because of Hongjoong’s measured maturity, his feedback is perceived as valued and encouraging. In parallel Hongjoong sometimes reminds Yeosang of a little crabby dog, usually when Hongjoong forgets to eat. It’s endearing.
“ No,” says Yeosang, even as he feels his face blush tremendously.
“You do , ” Wooyoung says, all lecherous, and it’s ridiculous how everyone in Yeosang’s social circles is just so loud all the time. “You like him, you think he’s smart and cool .”
“I don’t,” Yeosang says, panic rising. “I don’t –he barely knows who I am–”
“Well you know what’s so funny,” Wooyoung cuts in,“is what hyung told me just the other day–”
“What,” croaks Yeosang, and then “ what did he say?” And Wooyoung gloats and cackles (see, the hubris!!)
“You’re really oblivious, aren’t you?”
“ Wooyoung– ”
“Well first he said that you were hard-working. Then, he said, and I quote, hyung said you had an honest heart, that you––”
Yeosang goes steam engine red. He slaps a hand over Wooyoung’s mouth. Immediately it is bitten.
****
Finally, in March:
True to form, Wooyoung had made his unceremonious exit from art club halfway through the year in favor of joining the taekwondo club. This means that the club regulars, the members always holed up in classroom 3C during lunch and after 4pm are:
Yeosang (16, pencil-thin, tadpole voice, bad posture)
Hongjoong (17, acne-freckled, bleached hair, uneven bangs, five piercings and counting)
One afternoon Hongjoong looks up from his table, where he’s working on a three-meter mosaic of a boat sailing through choppy waves.
What does Yeosang want to do in the future?
“Maybe. Hmm.” Yeosang scratches his head. He gives the same answer he’s given his parents, friends and teachers. “Draw?”
“Draw what?”
“I don’t know,” says Yeosang. “Just draw for fun.”
“That’s it?”
Yeosang thinks for a moment. “As long as I’m happy and others around me are happy too, I don’t really care,” he says truthfully.
“It’s alright to want more for yourself,” says Hongjoong, but secretly Yeosang thinks this is fine too.
There’s a lot about Hongjoong that Yeosang doesn’t even try to understand. It’s not like with Wooyoung, where there are layers and secrets, waiting to reveal themselves. Rather, Hongjoong has the easy stamina of someone learning about themselves at a steady pace and enjoying the process.
But in all the stories Yeosang reads, the protagonists are always kids like Hongjoong who live their life fully and with precocious confidence. Yeosang has accepted this, much like he has accepted his role as one of faithful testimony and documentation. He lifts his pen from the paper.
“And you?” Yeosang asks.
“Me?” says Hongjoong and he looks quite wolfish, “Yeosang, I want to do everything.”
Yeosang thinks he would be happy to be admired by someone like Hongjoong. He resolves to work harder.
“Even if you decide to dream a little bigger,” says Hongjoong, returning to his drawing. “You don’t have to rush. Do things your own way.”
AND NOW, A RESOLUTION,
Cheeks flushed and eyes bright, Hongjoong lowers his empty beer.
“It’s just like the old days,” he says.
Hongjoong had gotten up half an hour ago to play a rock-ish Italian film soundtrack on Yeosang’s Spotify. They’d eaten the clementines and ordered chicken, and then more beer. They are good drinking buddies–while he has the tendency to drift off in thought, Hongjoong rambles through silences.
“It’s really not,” says Yeosang, thinking of pencil shavings.
“No,” says Hongjoong, laughing. “But it felt right to say.”
Yeosang’s still not quite sure who Hongjoong is. Wooyoung used to say: ( windshield wiper laugh ) the devil works hard but Hongjoong works harder and Yeosang isn’t so foolish as to think that Hongjoong hasn’t painstakingly crafted himself. But in the immediacy of Yeosang’s living room, filled with Yeosang’s drawing table, Yeosang’s mahogany MUJI shelves and his striped couch, and under the low low light Hongjoong just looks comfortable. Tired, but comfortable.
“Why are you here, Hongjoong?”
“Maybe I want an autograph from illustrious author Kang Yeosang.”
Yeosang smiles. Hongjoong’s glass rings as he circles the rim with a black nail.
“The truth is that I was thinking of you,” says Hongjoong. “The truth is that I was thinking about you quite a lot.”
A decade ago, a stammering Yeosang would have flushed beet red.
Yeosang just says: “you’re not doing so badly for yourself either, hyung.”
They watch each other. Both know what will happen if Hongjoong asks for another beer, or if Yeosang offers him one. But finally it’s Hongjoong, used to filling silences, who stretches and stands gracefully.
“I better see you soon, Kang Yeosang,” he says.
He exits just before midnight, leaving behind an empty case of beers and the lingering smell of clementines.
—
“Hello?”
It’s Hongjoong, calling to set up a dinner for next week. Yeosang balances his bookstore haul onto one arm so he can set the phone on speaker.
“What are you working on now anyway?” asks Hongjoong. “I totally forgot to ask.”
“You know,” says Yeosang, arms full of shojo manga, “I was thinking about writing an action series–”