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“Do you like ramen?”
It was a simple question; a simple courtesy. Truthfully, Jongho didn’t answer at first. He didn’t feel the need to. It lingered in the back of his mind, though – that one question; one courtesy. He kept it in for so long that by the time he’d started to find it in himself to answer, the rich smell of broth and gently seasoned pork had begun to fill the tiny kitchen.
The stranger’s name was Seonghwa. Jongho only knew that because he’d introduced himself when he’d found him at the edge of the alley.
“It will be cold tonight. Please come with me.”
Jongho didn’t care. Let it get cold, he thought, sitting with his arms around his backpack – the last thing he had left of that life. It had a toothbrush in it. And the first clothes he’d managed to grab off of his bedroom floor. No spare socks. No jacket, aside from the extra sweater he had already been wearing when he’d been found. He’d forgotten his phone charger, too – not that it mattered anymore. His phone had died three days ago. The bill had gone unpaid for five.
And yet, despite the dropping temperature, Seonghwa had sat down next to him. He didn’t say anything more – didn’t try to touch him. He just sat there in silence until Jongho felt guilty enough about keeping a stranger out in the cold that he tried to get up and leave. Seonghwa had followed him, and said it again: “It will be cold tonight.”
Jongho wanted to scream and shout. He wanted to throw those stupid, infuriating words back into his face because why would some stranger give a damn about him? Jongho was fully prepared to accept his inevitable demise at the age of almost-seventeen (his birthday was in three days; that didn’t matter anymore either) at the hands of fate. If he survived the early October cold snap, then God truly had forsaken him. Not that he even believed in God. After everything, he didn’t think he ever would.
He ended up following Seonghwa home. Then came the question – the small courtesy, asking if he liked ramen. Fucking ramen.
Jongho felt the guilt like a vice over his heart. It smothered him and forced him inwards. He wrapped his arms tighter around himself to keep himself together. He didn’t dare speak out of fear that if he did, he would just be sick. He wanted to tell Seonghwa to stop cooking – to just give up on him. He wasn’t worth the clothes on his back; hell, he wasn’t worth the air he breathed. He wanted Seonghwa to turn his back on him like so many others had. It would be less painful than the guilt of burdening a complete stranger with his presence.
Jongho didn’t realize the sounds of cooking had stopped until the bowl was placed in front of him. A hand slid into his hair and ruffled it gently. Startled, Jongho’s spine went rigid. His breath caught heavily in his throat as a wave of anxiety rushed up to greet him. He waited for that hand to curl tight and yank his hair – he waited for Seonghwa’s soft voice to turn ice cold and angry.
“Eat up,” Seonghwa said – and then his hand was gone. He moved to the other side of the table and sat down.
Jongho’s eyes burned. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes. He wouldn’t eat it, he decided. He couldn’t eat it. His stomach hurt too much. He was so hungry. He was guilty. If he didn’t eat it, Seonghwa would be upset and then he would yell and remind him of how ungrateful he was. If he ate it, he would burden someone needlessly and Seonghwa would be upset and he would yell and remind him of how worthless he was.
On the other side of the table, Seonghwa picked up his cup of tea and took a slow sip. Jongho hid his face in the bowl so he wouldn’t see the tears. Men didn’t cry, after all. If he cried, he would be weak. He would be the incapable one who wasn’t able to look after his family like he was supposed to.
Jongho’s hand trembled as he slowly took a bite of the noodles. The flavours exploded over his tongue. His old friends used to talk about their mother’s cooking. The friends who no longer looked at him because he had dropped out of school to work to support himself and his mother as she drowned herself in soju. He’d had no choice. Things were getting worse. If he didn’t bring home enough to pay the bills, she was angry. If he had any extra, he was expected to give it to support the family. If he refused and tried to use it for himself, she was angry. She didn’t cook. She gave him a handful of change so he could purchase a triangle kimbap from the convenience store in the morning. It usually wasn’t enough. At best, he could sneak a few snacks into his room after getting paid and hide them beneath his mattress to eat when she was asleep. He never knew what home cooking tasted until now.
It was beautiful.
And he didn’t deserve any of it.
A chair scraped. A shadow appeared next to him. Jongho flinched and held his arms up in front of him as he braced himself for a verbal strike. He had to hide his face – hide his tears – hide his emotions because men didn’t cry and if he cried, he was weak and worthless, like his father who left them when he was a child.
The hand slid into his hair again.
“Don’t,” Jongho said – the first thing he said to Seonghwa, and it was a plea. “Please don’t.”
“Shh,” Seonghwa shushed gently. He stroked his hand through Jongho’s hair. His fingers were gentle – soft and kind. Jongho tried to swallow another sob, but it came out of him instead. It was loud in the tiny kitchen, and it echoed in his ears and brought him more shame than he was already feeling.
But instead of berating him, Seonghwa pulled him against his chest. He smelled like pepper and chamomile – pepper from cooking, chamomile from the tea. Jongho clutched the front of his shirt, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away.
He just cried instead.
He cried until his throat burned and he lost whatever voice he had left. He cried until his eyes ran dry and his head throbbed deep and low, like the beating of a drum. He cried until there was nothing left inside of him but empty cracks and holes that he’d never find a way to fill. He cried until he grew too tired to keep his head up.
Then, he fell silent. He wondered how one person could feel this much pain without dying.
Seonghwa gently pushed him upright. He ran a soft cloth over his cheeks to dry his tears. The white came back stained black and grey from the dirt on his face. Seonghwa brushed the tangled bangs from Jongho’s forehead.
“If you can’t eat it all, finish as much as the broth as you can, and eat the pork.” Seonghwa said gently. “It’ll be good for you.”
“I’m sorry...I’m...sorry...” Jongho breathed.
“Don’t be,” Seonghwa said, then picked up the spoon. “Just eat what you can. Then you can shower and change. You have no reason to be sorry.”
“I’m sorry—” Jongho whimpered.
“Shh,” Seonghwa shushed again. He pulled his chair over. He brought the bowl closer and held up the spoon. “Eat. Get clean. Then you can rest. Okay?”
Jongho trembled. The hand on his shoulder was heavy, but Seonghwa’s fingers were warm. He took the spoon and sipped the broth. The flavours woke his tired tongue. His stomach rumbled again. He picked up his chopsticks and ate.
Though Seonghwa had asked him to only eat the broth and pork, Jongho ate it all. He didn’t stop until the bowl was empty and he was leaning against Seonghwa’s chest once more. Pepper and chamomile. It was cathartic. It was painful.
“Do you have anywhere to go?” Seonghwa asked. His fingers were gently combing the knots out of his hair.
Jongho shook his head.
“Then...I want you to stay here,” Seonghwa said. “Don’t—shh.”
Jongho’s mouth fell closed once more.
“Don’t say ‘no’,” Seonghwa finished untangling a particularly stubborn knot from his hair. “I don’t know your story. And I won’t ask. Someday, you can tell me. But if you need a home, you have one here. Please don’t let yourself be alone.”
Jongho sniffled again, but no tears came. He was too tired to cry any more.
“Come on,” Seonghwa said, and helped him back to his feet.
Jongho’s knees were weak as he was led to the bathroom. He was too tired to be embarrassed when Seonghwa helped him undress. Too tired to care that his fading bruises were on display. Too tired for it to matter that Seonghwa was getting his clothes wet and washing his hair for him. Though he had no tears left to cry, he still felt the burning in his eyes. This perfect stranger was showing him more love – more care – than his own mother had.
Seonghwa brought him clean clothes – warm pyjamas that were a little too big on him, but no less comfortable. He laid out a floor mattress and pillow. He made sure Jongho had tucked himself in before laying a bottle of water next to him.
“If you need me, I will be in the other room,” Seonghwa said. He smiled softly. “Sleep well, now.”
Jongho sniffled again. He nodded. His throat ached.
Jongho slept.