Archive of Our Own

    “Well,” Minho grimaces as he cautiously inspected the corn dog sitting in the cardboard tray in front of him. The sad piece of food, blackened to a crisp near the very tip and yet...only three-fourths covered with batter and very much still glistening raw near the base of the stick; Minho wasn’t quite sure how his assistant could have managed a feat as baffling as this. “Perhaps we should leave it for today...don’t want you wasting all our stock of corn dogs before the day is over,” he mutters, trying his best to ignore Jisung’s apologetic, if cute, grin.

    What was normal to Minho was usually eccentric or strange or downright weird to others. Not to say that Minho was your average manic pixie dream girl; he was anything but. He just liked a sprinkle of something new, something odd, something alive in the life he considered simplistic and mundane. Which is exactly what he did when he made the executive decision to go to culinary school instead of following through with a computer science major, based solely on the idea that he preferred being in the kitchen more than he did sitting in front of his laptop.

    One would think, “oh, why doesn’t he just drop everything and go on a life-changing, globe-trotting journey” or something of the sort, to which Minho would say one thing: bullshit. He simply doesn’t believe in wasteful tactics such as those. Just as his mom once said about cooking, a sprinkle of something new will take something to the next level.

    ...Which, it might have seemed like Minho dumped the proverbial salt shaker into his metaphorical life stew the day he decided to quit his prestigious restaurant sous-chef position...and then proceed to spend nearly all his savings buying a truck. Not just any truck, but a food truck. Starting a food truck business was easier said than done, and part of Minho’s new hustle was finding a location where business would be booming all year long. So he packed his bags, loaded his car (and his new truck), and drove east into Gangwon, where the ski resorts and the pristine beaches met.

    Everyone called him extreme for it, and even his mild-mannered parents showed concern for his jarring change in career, but...this was exactly what Minho needed. The light sprinkle of flavor he craved after a year of mundane busywork cooking someone else’s recipes. All the julienned vegetables, sous vide chicken breasts, and demi glace on succulent roast beef in the world couldn’t replace the feeling of being in the kitchen by himself, trying out new things and taking old classics out for a new spin...the primary reason behind the radical shift in his career.

    “I’ll get it next time, I promise — “

    “I know, I know, you said that last time. Just...stay by the drink cooler and make sure the cooler stays on again so all the ice doesn’t melt like it did last week. Gotta get that checked out…,” Minho mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck. He only spares Jisung a glance — finding that the boy is now staring at the floor of the truck like a sad puppy — and decides to ruffle his hair affectionately.

    “...We’ll practice it sometime this week. You’ll get it for sure next time,” Minho says softly, before promptly turning around and diverting his attention out the window of the truck.

    Minho rescinds his statement. His new assistant-in-training is actually the proverbial salt shaker dumped into his stew.

    He remembers the very day he first met Jisung. Minho first laid eyes on him not too long ago, maybe five months ago. Not that Minho specifically remembered what he looked like — he doesn’t remember most of his customers, except for the rare few regulars. However, Jisung began to stand out, not after the first or second visit, but on the third, when he parked his pretty little self on a bench beside his truck and began playing...a guitar.

    At first, Minho had the idea to shoo away the random musician, with all the discretion of a typical business owner not wanting some riffraff potentially driving away their business. Except...Jisung is decently good-looking, and can carry a tune much better than he anticipated. This presented itself as...more of a blessing than anything, and if there’s one thing Minho can be assed to remember from working in high capacity fine dining, it’s that people love eating while being entertained.

    (And he totally didn’t spend more than a weekend trying to replicate those silly ice cream vendor videos, not at all.)

    So the musician stayed. He never stayed for more than a few hours, maybe two or three at the max, but at least he had the courtesy to ask Minho if he was being a bother. (Spoiler: he wasn’t.) Little did Minho know that this would become the start of an unofficial...agreement of sorts between them. The young musician — couldn’t have been any older than twenty — appeared at the food truck every Friday, probably because Minho only appeared by the beach every Friday, for three weeks straight. 

    Minho didn’t consider himself a “lonely” person by all means, but he ended up not minding Jisung’s presence; him, his guitar, and the single sugar-coated, half-mozzarella, half-sausage corn dog he always ordered. Minho even decided to ask him for his name, since hey, kid was getting old and there had to be some credit due towards the musician who managed to increase his revenue by just a little every Friday afternoon. It wasn’t even like they talked to each other; Jisung just shared his greetings, ordered his food, and sat down with his guitar for an hour or two, occasionally stopping to buy more food or a drink. It was yet another welcome sprinkle of flavor in the simmering pot of his life. 

    On the fourth Friday since they first met, it would be the first time the young musician didn’t show up at the food truck’s usual beach hangout. Not long past noon did he decide to pack up as a sudden torrential rain came in and basically shuttered all business for the rest of the day. Minho figured the rain was the reason why Jisung didn’t show, as did many of his usual customers...at least not until spotting the boy waiting in the rain at the bus stop. 

    The combination of Jisung’s ragged appearance, the fact that he was carrying three times as much bags as he normally was, and his general downtrodden and not-so-sunny demeanor was enough for Minho to park the truck and usher the boy inside, much to Jisung’s surprise. 

    Minho didn’t ask him any questions, even after Jisung began crying halfway through the drive back to his apartment. He would save any questions he had after Jisung had gotten himself back together, with dry clothes, a hot meal, and a roof over his head — and only if Jisung wanted to answer questions, of course. Fortunately, Jisung was willing to open up about his sudden and apparent state of disarray, sniffles withstanding.

    And so it came to light that Minho was correct about his assumptions about Jisung being a musician, at least, a third year student at a local university’s music program. Unfortunate circumstances led to him being kicked out of his foster home just earlier that week after an altercation with his guardian...which led them to that moment in Minho’s small living room, huddled over a tiny pot of soup on his coffee table.

    With a sigh, Minho laid out his stipulations; he’d only be able to house him for the weekend, as the storm continued to brew over. He wasn’t cruel enough to let Jisung stay the night, only to kick him back into the pouring rain the following morning. That generosity was enough for Jisung...and Minho didn’t mind the company for the time being. However, he did wonder what the young musician would do next.

    It was the exact next morning that Jisung suggested working for Minho, in exchange for a roof over his head while he worked towards his degree, and looking for somewhere else to settle down in. Of course, the food truck connoisseur was quick to shut down this idea, citing stipulations like “not having enough room in his apartment” or “needing a work permit” or “I’m not going to go through all that trouble”.

    (An hour later, Minho quietly suggested Jisung could work “under the table”. He was more than surprised when the musician burst into tears and wrung his arms around Minho’s neck...but it wasn’t like he minded it.)

    “Do you regret it, hyung?” Minho barely hears him, not when the deep fryer is this loud over the radio currently blasting music inside the truck.

    “I rarely regret anything, Jisung. Gotta be more specific.”

    “Aish…!” A tiny smirk pulls at Minho’s lips as he turns to the younger man, now standing there staring back at him with the posture of a judgmental mother. “Do you regret it? Like taking me in, letting me eat your food, stuff like that.”

    “Now why would I regret doing something that’s out of the goodness of my heart?” He bats his eyelashes in a very plastic sort of way, enough to make Jisung cringe and return to mixing the metal bowl of batter in front of him.

    “You know, like...you’re not worried I’m going to rob you, or kill you — “

    “If you were gonna rob me or kill me, you’d have done it the first night you stayed over. Hell, you would have done it the earliest chance you could get. You’re nearly not intelligent enough to play the long con either.”

    “So mean!”

    “You wanted me to answer a question.” A haughty laugh slips from his lips as he walks over to the deep fryer, now removing the corn dogs that had been cooking for the past few minutes. “Don’t overmix the batter or it’s going to get really gummy.”

    “Ah, right. Sorry.”

    It had been only a few weeks since their hastily-planned arrangement came into fruition, but Jisung’s demeanor had only gone up since. As someone who wasn’t that much older than Jisung but also had been in his shoes once as a college student, it seemed like second nature to give the well-mannered kid a place to stay in the meantime, even if only for a little while.

    “Another question...when do I get to start actually cooking things?”

    “You’re cooking right now.”

    “Mixing batter is not cooking.”

    “And you’re talking to the guy who graduated from culinary school and worked as a sous-chef at an actual restaurant,” Minho retorts, scooting over to place aforementioned corn dogs onto a heating rack with the rest of their snacks. “You’ll get to cooking when I say you get to cooking. If you do get some free time, maybe I’ll take you back into the kitchen so I can teach you some “actual cooking”, as you put it.”

    Minho passes his gaze from the glowing corn dogs on the rack over to Jisung, who is now staring at him with a more than cynical smile on his face.

    “What, do you think I’m lying about that too?”

    “So you want me to burn more corn dogs.”

    “I’m trying to teach you so that doesn’t happen. Besides, maybe you’d be a hit making other food that doesn’t involve things getting fried in oil.”

    Jisung only rolls his eyes but loosens his posture anyway. “...I think I’m free this weekend. Even if I had anything to do, it’d probably just be me working on papers on classical music...or something.”

    “Diligent, kid. I like that.” The smirk hanging off Minho’s lips is enough to make Jisung recoil in disgust, and he only groans in mild annoyance when the older man ruffles his hair on the short walk over to the drink cooler.

    Part of Minho’s personal deal in seeking a culinary job outside of the restaurant business was the agency to have all the freedom he wanted in the kitchen. Whether it regarded switching an ingredient in a recipe and changing its entire flavor profile, or creating entirely new menu items right on the spot, such creative freedom was of the utmost value to him. While he trusted his taste buds like no other, a second opinion was better than nothing...and Jisung living under his roof provided the perfect test guinea pig for his culinary concoctions.

    “Hey Jisung? When you’re done shoving your face in your textbooks and pretending that knowledge osmosis works for you, can you come to the kitchen? I want you to try something for me.”

    What follows is the loud, overdramatic and exasperated sigh from across the room that Minho’s gotten very accustomed to in the weeks since the music student moved in. Doesn’t stop him from cracking a smile, though.

    “More corn dogs? Lemme guess, this one’s stuffed with kimchi.”

    “No...but that’s a good idea. I’m writing that down.”

    “Dude, that’s gross. No one’s gonna eat that.” Minho turns his head from the stove, just in time to see his new roommate stepping into the kitchen, dressed down in an oversized red sweater, plaid lounge pants, and fuzzy socks that he could attribute as study wear. “I started smelling whatever it is you’re cooking in the kitchen and started getting hungry, but you were taking so long I was wondering if you were actually cooking dinner or just tossing things into a pot again until something stuck,” Jisung mutters, inching over to the stove to get a closer look at whatever Minho had sitting in his pan.

    “Something usually does,” he replies coolly with a light shrug of the shoulders. “Here, come taste this.” Minho steps aside with a flourish, presenting not one, not two, but three frying pans crowded on the stovetop, each one filled with what looked like...chicken wings.

    “...Is this the reason why we stopped by the store to get chicken wings? That was a lot of chicken wings, please tell me you don’t use up all of them just for your experiments — “

    “Aish, just try the damn wings already!” Minho whines, before grabbing Jisung by the shoulders and pulling him closer to the stove top. He never was one to brag about his admittedly strong culinary skills, but...he still expected good results out of Jisung’s little taste test.

    “...I know they’re chicken wings, but what exactly am I working with here?”

    He sighs. “...This one is dark soy sauce, a bit of black pepper, some brown sugar, and a bit of lemon juice,” Minho begins, lifting his hand over the dark brown, almost black, glazed chicken wings sitting in the pan closest to the edge of the stove. 

    “This one is a little more mild. It’s white miso with a bit of fish sauce mixed with sugar, then fried with minced garlic. Not as strong I would say as the other two but I’m expecting a nice mix of flavors.” The wings in the next pan are golden brown, with a creamy-looking, pale beige sauce pooling around it. 

    “And last but not least, that one uses a mix of gochujang, a little bit of lemon to cut the salt, and then sugar so it’s a little sweet, but not too sweet. There’s also some chili flakes in there to help support the heat. I know you don’t handle spicy — well, not as much as I can — but I still want you to try it. It’s not that spicy...I think.”

    Jisung grimaces at first, then tilts his head with a curious grin, then shakes his head again. “...I still don’t think you should have cooked this much chicken, but since you’re housing and feeding me...do as the French do, I guess? Bon appetit.” A shy grin appears on his face again when he looks to see the chef already handing him a clean plate.

    Minho watches like a vulture as Jisung gingerly picks up a single piece of chicken from each of the three pans. Something is telling him not to be offended that Jisung is a bit hesitant, and yet the concern is still there; in some way his pride is on the line, after all.

    “Do you want me to eat all of them and then tell you, or eat one at a time and tell you what I think?”

    “Whichever’s fine. I just wanna know. And it better not just be this is good or this tastes like shit or I’m kicking your ass.”

    Jisung’s eyes roll into the back of his head before he picks up the first of the three: the chicken wing covered in a shiny black glaze. The initial crunch that resounds from Jisung’s teeth sinking into the chicken wing is enough to bring a tentative grin onto Minho’s face, but the real treat is observing his reactions forming on the younger man’s face. Minho stares him down like a detective for about a few seconds as Jisung chews the food in his mouth, letting the flavors seep into his taste buds.

    “...That’s pretty good, actually. The dark soy sauce gives it this kinda smoky flavor, a tad strong, but that’s where the brown sugar kicks in and kinda evens it out. It’s not sour either, but you can tell the lemon juice really helps not make it too salty. Oh, and the crunch is nice, but that just means you know your way around fried chicken.”

    “Properly cooking chicken is a rite of passage, yes.”

    And so Jisung devoured the other chicken wings, with more or less the same satisfaction the soy-glazed wings gave him.

    “And now that you’ve tasted all three...which one do you think is the best?” Minho asks, now leaning against the counter with his phone open to his notes app.

    “...I mean, frankly, my personal favorite is probably the miso-flavored one, but...you could sell all three. They’re all pretty well-developed, even if they’re flavors you just came up with now,” the younger of the two replies, sucking on the tips of his thumbs like a child.

    “Hm...alright. Well, I was wholly expecting worse reviews from you, but this is good. Thanks for trying them out. I’ll see how I wanna incorporate this into the menu next...as soon as I remember how exactly I made all of these sauces.” Minho bites down on his lip before surveying all the pans filled with chicken.

    “I don’t mean to bring up the elephant in the room but...this is a lot of chicken,” Jisung mutters, looking back down over the scores of chicken wings. “Are we...is this — “

    “Our dinner? Yeah.”

    “...You didn’t have anything else in mind to cook, huh?”

    “Nope. Do you have a problem with it?”

    A sigh of concession slips out of Jisung and Minho only smiles his typical, cat-like smile in return.

    “...Y’know, it’s a good thing you know how to cook.”

    It’s a stunning warm spring day by the beach, and despite it functionally still being the middle of March, beachgoers are arriving by the dozens to take advantage of the sunshine. That includes Minho, his food truck, and his protégé, of course.

    Admittedly, it is a wonderful day, perhaps mid-70s with not a cloud in sight and nowhere near unbearable like the previous summer, when Minho hadn’t properly anticipated the heat wave and figured he could sit in a stuffy vehicle surrounded by hot grease and a steaming grill.

    “Ever think about uniforms?”

    Minho blinks, and turns his head toward Jisung. “...What?”

    “Uniforms. Y’know, fun hat, maybe a t-shirt, logo, branding — “

    “What? No, no uniforms. Uniforms are dumb.”

    “Aw,” Jisung whines, clambering on over to the window to be next to Minho. “I think uniforms are cute, though. People might think they’re cute.”

    Sigh. “...Jisung, this is a self-operated, self-employed food truck, not a fast food franchise. We don’t need uniforms.”

    His eyes latch onto the way Jisung’s mouth immediately scrunches into a dramatic pout, and he has to look away before the other boy could see the smile cracking through his own features.

    “Don’t you think you need to...y’know, maybe start building a brand? You want to let your customers know where you are, so they’ll be there when they want your product. Do you even have an Instagram? Or any social media, for that matter? God, I feel like I’m talking to a grandpa — “

    “Hey.”

    “I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” Jisung cries out, stepping away from Minho with his hands up as the latter raised a fist in the air. “But seriously, you need to put yourself out there if you want more business to come in. We’ve been open for half an hour now and no one’s come over to buy anything yet.”

    “Jisung, it’s also, like, ten o’ clock in the morning. We’re less of a breakfast joint and more of a snack joint.”

    “Point taken. But still, I think advertising your food is going to go the distance for your business...especially now that you’re supporting for two.” His grin is affable, but not affable enough for Jisung to avoid getting flicked in the forehead. “Ow…!”

    “I’m not supporting for two, you’re supporting for yourself, nimrod. I’m only giving you a roof over your head and food in your belly if you can pull your weight around here. You should be lucky I’m not making you stand out in the sun all day twirling a sign.”

    “And what if I am great at twirling signs?”

    “Do you want me to make you twirl — “

    “No, please, no. I wanna stay inside the truck. My youthful skin isn’t made for extended UV exposure, please — “ Jisung grasps at Minho’s arm as he feigns repentance, and as the older male shrugs him off, he wonders as an aside how comfortable they’d become with each other lately. “But I really do mean it when I say you should create a social media account for your business. It’s not like your food is ugly, and if there’s one thing people like better than aesthetically pleasing food, it’s good-tasting food.”

    “...I’m not entirely sure what you just meant but I think that was a compliment?” A ghost itch at the back of his neck bothers him, and so Minho reaches up to scratch it.

    Jisung cocks his head curiously, suddenly staring him down. “You do have an Instagram, don’t you?”

    “Yeah. It’s mostly just pictures of my cats, though.”

    A deep sigh erupts from Jisung’s chest as he stares out over the sandy expanse of the beachfront. “We have a lot of work to do.”

    “I hope you know how much work it is to be cooking all this food, only for you to just stand there and take pictures of it for an Instagram account.” Minho grumbles as he reaches for his shirt collar and wrings it a little bit; his minuscule kitchen has been stuffy for the past two hours after having been hard at work cooking “six of his best menu items” as Jisung put it. Just enough for a small spread, Jisung claims, even though it basically just boils down to his corn dog recipe, some of his special fries, his chicken wings, and a cup of tteokbokki.

    “Also, you do realize I’m not cooking any more dinner after this.”

    “That’s fine,” Jisung chirps, his eyes twinkling and his lips moist while Minho is plating his food on a few spare paper trays like he’s serving it in a restaurant. “You really know your stuff.”

    “Thanks. I left a year of software engineering behind for it.”

    He’s never been the greatest at plating food, rather average at it really, but Minho supposed it wouldn’t really matter in a job where all you need to do is get the food out hot and quick. At least, until a certain twenty year-old leech started living with him and thinking he could run a business better than he could.

    With nimble fingers, Minho places an adequate amount of chopped spring onion on a bed of crispy fries topped with glistening, succulent bulgogi , fresh kimchi from his own cooler (handmade like his mom used to make), and drizzled with a spicy gochujang mayo sauce he created himself. Joining the tray of fries are his signature corn dogs, both a cheese-filled and regular variety, but still dusted in sugar and toasted golden brown; there were his brand new chicken wings, just a few of each flavor but still immaculately fried and glazed. Last but not least, a simple cup of tteokbokki in the typical, sticky but not sticky red sauce. His recipe even called for fish cake and crab sticks as well as a layer of gooey mozzarella on top.

    Minho stares at Jisung for just about three seconds, the other boy eyeing the selection of foods like a vulture having found its first kill in days.

    “If you keep standing there with your mouth open, a bee might fly in there.”

    “O-Oh! Yes, the pictures. Give me your phone.”

    “My phone?”

    “Yeah, your phone. You have a better camera than I do.”

    He raises his eyebrow at the younger boy, but unpockets his phone regardless and hands it over. “A-Alright.”

    “Good, good,” Jisung murmurs like the faux photographer, beginning to reach out and adjust each tray of food individually for a palatable group shot. “And then the lighting...here,” Jisung pulls his own phone out of his pocket and hands it toward Minho. “Turn on my flashlight and like...hold it behind a white plastic bag.”

    “...What — “

    “Just do it, trust me.”

    The unnecessary flair of needing to take pictures of one’s food had always been something of a miss with Minho, so the grimace forming on his face was of no surprise as he does what Jisung tells him — now standing awkwardly to the side of the dining table with a spare plastic bag draped over Jisung’s phone like an awkward and ill-fitting glove.

    “Perfect…” the younger boy drawls, before crouching in front of the table and beginning to take a few photos. “Your camera quality is so nice, much nicer than mine. These pictures are turning out quite nice, honestly.”

    Minho doesn’t know how long he stands there like a mannequin with the oddly efficient, cheapo smartphone light fixture set up, but Jisung takes enough pictures of the food that not only has the entire selection gone lukewarm, but he’s sure the both of them smell like fried grease and melted cheese at this point.

    “...Are you done yet? The food’s getting cold and it’s not gonna taste any better if you microwave it.”

    “Just about...and done!” Jisung cheers and straightens himself up before bouncing on over next to Minho. “Here, take a look.”

    True to his word, the thirty or so pictures now sitting in his photo gallery were indeed very well taken, angular shots of his food. Jisung took special care to get crystal clear close-up shots of his dishes, as evident from the glaze and texture on a particularly zoomed-in picture of his white miso chicken wings. Other pictures included overhead shots of his dishes, akin to those from professional food accounts he’d seen while scrolling through his feed.

    “...These pictures aren’t bad,” Minho begins, looking up at Jisung with a smile. “How’d you learn how to take pictures like this?”

    “Just a bit of knowledge from my YouTube binging repository,” Jisung responds proudly and matter-of-factly, all while tapping the side of his head with an angled finger. “I am a man of many talents.”

    “Okay, Vitruvian Man. Now help me finish all of this so I can go shower off this greasy stench. We’ll get to work on that Instagram account tomorrow; I’m too tired for this.”

    Their gazes meet but their smirks are mirror images of each other. “Aye, aye, captain.”

    Despite a relatively sunny disposition and conversations filled with nothing but harmless banter and sating Jisung’s curiosity regarding everything related to the food industry, naturally there were times when the wires don’t cross as well as they should and things are just...out of whack. Having been roommates — and grown adults, for that matter — for a few months now have allowed them to be more in touch with each other’s personal quirks and pet peeves.

    Like how Minho sleeps with blackout curtains, and trying to rouse him from his sleep before his alarm goes off is asking to summon a bat out of hell. Jisung, on the other hand, is quite the messy tenant, and letting him take the living room for himself hasn’t done much wonders for Minho’s neater tendencies. But these haven’t been on a strain on their budding partnership — and fast friendship.

    Despite this...Minho’s always had Jisung pegged as this otherwise indelible and incorrigible bucket of sunshine. The last time — and only time — he’d seen Jisung upset was the day he took the young boy in, all ragged and soaked with rain and tears. If Jisung was trying to keep his not-so-colorful past tucked away...then it wasn’t for Minho to find out, and only for Jisung to divulge on his own terms. As long as it didn’t interfere with the terms of their agreement — that being Jisung eventually finding somewhere else to live.

    An agreement that had yet to come to fruition...not that Minho really minded. Jisung’s congenital positivity had grown on him — like a rash. Still, while Minho maintains the notion that he never was a lonely person, he does appreciate the company, and especially if they helped with the dirty work and taste tested his concoctions here and now. Their unlikely friendship grew stronger by the day as Minho learned more about the young musician behind the odd circumstances of their acquaintanceship.

    “So you can play the piano and the guitar? Self-taught?” 

    The rain is but a dull thrum, unimportant background noise in the otherwise chill atmosphere of the living room. A sudden spring storm brought what would have otherwise been an eventful Saturday excursion to a close (Minho bought a new grill and wanted to set it up on his balcony so he could grill some steak for dinner; the storm said otherwise). With some quick adjustments, the both of them have decided for an indoor event, complete with the cheaper electric grill and a few boxes of soju between them.

    “You’re absssssolutely right,” Jisung chirps, taking another swig of his bottle and letting it clink against the small collection of empty ones already sitting on the coffee table. “Back in high school I found an old guitar near one of the dumpsters behind the campus and, like… It wasn’t even broken, y’know? A little beat up, yeah, missing a few strings, but...it was, like, a complete waste to throw it away!”

    “So you took a guitar from a dumpster in high school?”

    “Hell yeah, I did,” he snaps, an incredulously serious look painting his face — enough to make Minho snicker behind his own bottle of soju. “Did you know guitar strings are cheap as hell? It didn’t take me long to replace the strings and I had a pretty functional guitar soon after.”

    Minho chugs the rest of his bottle shortly before grabbing a new one off the table and immediately twisting the cap off. “And a piano? Did you go dumpster diving at the landfill for one too?”

    “Shut up,” the younger boy chuckles. “I got an electronic piano from a garage sale. A little outdated, and certainly not a grand piano...but it worked.”

    “I didn’t see you hauling around a piano when you were out on the street.”

    Jisung pauses, and Minho immediately notes the hesitation as uncharacteristic. The storm raging outside the apartment batters the windows with rain, but even the sudden few seconds of silence overpower that rolling drum of sound. “My, uh, aunt’s boyfriend broke it. Total asshole, he was kind of on a rager when it happened,” he mutters, before picking up his bottle and taking a big sip, only to realize that mere droplets were left inside. Jisung grumbles and sits it back on the table before grabbing another bottle.

    “At least you still have your guitar.”

    “At least I only picked guitar classes in college. Who knows where I would have gotten the money for a new piano if I needed to go out and get a replacement...fucking bitch.”

    The uncharacteristic change in Jisung’s demeanor is troubling, Minho thinks, when the boy is normally so bubbly and full of curiosity otherwise. That frown doesn’t match the rest of his handsome features.

    “I don’t mean to pry, but...sounds like your old home life wasn’t too great.”

    “Hah, no kidding. For better or worse, that’s how I ended up under your roof and on your couch,” Jisung dryly comments, and Minho affords himself a small smile to match Jisung’s attempt of lightening the mood.

    “Hey, I don’t mind you crashing on my couch as long as you’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to be doing. AKA not being a mess, keeping up with your studies, and working for your stuff. Rather you be safe here than out there doing...God knows what.” Minho’s voice falls to a murmur and he idly presses his thumb against the neck of his soju bottle.

    “You’re too nice to me, hyung,” Jisung replies, a warm, cheeky grin spreading across his face; however, the dull glassiness of his eyes tell a different story. “Nicer than anyone ever has been.”

    Minho remains silent, as silent as one can be when the raindrops are like bullets against the glass and even the soft r&b that’s been playing in the room for the past hour sounds like a distraction. He wants to stuff something in his mouth, like some of the meat they’ve been grilling on his coffee table but they ran out of that over an hour ago. Still, he remains silent because he knows Jisung wants to say something.

    A deep sigh slips out of the younger man as he reaches for his bottle again. “...I know you didn’t ask — never asked — and I thank you for not taking it there but...there is literally no one else to tell so I’ll tell you.”

    Minho quirks a brow and sits closer to the table. “I’m listening.”

    Jisung takes a deep gulp from the bottle before setting it down again. “My parents died in an accident when I was twelve. Kind of gruesome, I don’t really want to get into the nitty gritty but...I’m sure you can imagine what happens when you get t-boned by a truck in the middle of a storm.” Minho keeps his eyes trained on him, both wondering what possessed Jisung to start divulging such sensitive info, as well as making sure he was mentally sound enough to keep going.

    “I...kinda got passed around when I was a kid? It didn’t help that most of my relatives kind of looked down on my mom for marrying young and going against my grandmother’s wishes — not that I care, because I don’t even talk to that side of my family but…they’re all I had.”

    “And how did you end up in your aunt’s care?”

    “Passed around for like three years. No one wanted me. It was kind of frustrating because I was always switching schools and never really got to make any friends. My cousins didn’t wanna talk to me because their parents always talked shit about me and my dead parents. For better or worse, my aunt ended up being burdened with me just because she had the least on her plate but that didn’t mean she liked having me around.” His eyes roll just as he takes another sip of his bottle.

    “But...at least I had somewhere permanent to stay. She always skimped out, told me all she could offer was breakfast, a roof over my head, and a bed to sleep on. Everything else was my responsibility, and if I ever acted out then...game over.”

    In any other circumstance, this wouldn’t have been Minho’s business, but there was just...something about Jisung that was gravitational, magnetic. Hearing all of this now made Jisung seem more admirable in his eyes. Strong, determined, positive.

    “Things seemed okay only because we stayed out of each other’s hair. Up until she got a boyfriend, about a year ago. Complete asswipe, same one who broke my piano. He turned my otherwise apathetic aunt into an even worse version of herself, but it’s not like it was my problem. They were practically made for each other.” His words drip with venom, and it’s a kind of venom Minho is unfamiliar with, only seen once or twice in his entire life.

    “...How did you end up on the street that one night?”

    Jisung inhales sharply, and Minho realizes it’s the kind that usually precedes a deluge of waterworks. “...My aunt works as a pharmacist. Well paying job, it’s the reason why she could support both herself, a grown woman, and a teenager under her roof. Her boyfriend, piece of literal shit, buttered her up when really he was just using her for her money. Y’know, he was stealing from her? She began to lose a lot of valuables ever since they started dating, bit by bit, little by little, and I knew it was him, but...why would she listen to me?” He exhales, shakily, and Minho resists the urge to make him stop.

    “She caught on and her asshole of a boyfriend decides to pin the blame all on me. That was the first, last, and only time I ever spoke up to her, but of course she wasn’t having any of it. Tore through my shit trying to find evidence and then told me to pack my shit up and leave or else she’d call the cops. Ridiculous, right?” A single tear slides down Jisung’s cheeks, and wiping it away with the sleeve of his sweater only causes another to follow in its path. “You stay n-nice, quiet, and obedient for someone and you still get the short end of the stick. Shit sucks, but what can you do?”

    “H-Hey,” Minho slowly starts, leaning over to try and put a reassuring hand on the other boy. “It’s fine now. You’re...in a better place, I would hope. No one here is trying to hurt you.”

    “It’s just...sad, y’know? You think things have gotten better, but in reality you’re back at square one and everyone hates you and no one wants you and — “ Jisung chokes, and Minho watches his resolve crumble into pieces right before his own eyes.

    “H-Hey…” Minho murmurs, finally standing up and crossing around to crouch next to the young boy. With outstretched arms, Jisung takes the initiative and comes close, wrapping his own tightly around Minho’s frame. “You’ve had it hard. I’m glad I found you that night or...I’m not sure what would have happened.”

    Face buried in the fabric of Minho’s hoodie, Jisung only manages a weak shake of the head before sobbing again. “...You’re the only one who’s ever been nice to me, hyung. Thank you...thank you, thank you, thank you…!”

    The older man inhales deep, letting the air fill his lungs up entirely before expelling it all out. Minho’s not here to be anyone’s savior, and he knows how dangerous it is to be playing with someone’s emotions like this, but...the tiniest tinge of something tugs at him when he thinks of Jisung, his bright, handsome smile, his stupid jokes, and the way he just wants to try his best.

    Holding him now and smoothing his hand over the expanse of Jisung’s back to the sound of pouring rain...Minho only hopes Jisung’s feelings aren’t misplaced.

    It’s not like he doesn’t notice the little things, he really does. Jisung tries harder everyday — he gets up earlier to help stock the truck before they leave, he’s faster and more efficient in the tiny kitchen, and he’s even taken to getting more practice with the food so he makes less and less mistakes. He’s clumsy, he’s always been clumsy, but he has heart. It’s nice, yes, but Minho knows Jisung is doing it to get his attention.

    The Instagram account for the food truck has gotten moderate success, with its follower account multiplying in the weeks following its inception. Minho initially warned him that with more recognition, they’d get more business, and thus, more work, but Jisung welcomed it wholeheartedly. And his extra training was definitely paying off.

    Taking in a runaway off the streets was not the butterfly in the chain reaction, the missing cog in the machine, the last puzzle piece he needed for his business to take off like this. But beyond all the smoke and dust...what else was left if not his conflicting emotions?

    “...rth to Minho? Hyung? Yoohoooooo! Anyone there?”

    He shakes himself back to reality, blinking profusely before realizing that he’d been sitting at the cooler for about a minute now.

    “Huh? W-What now? What?” Minho babbles inelegantly, causing Jisung to chuckle at him.

    “Are you okay, boss man? You were spacing out in front of the cooler. You’re not tired, are you?”

    “What? Me? No, no, no, I’m...I’m fine. Um…” He pauses as he tries to regain his bearings. “...The sauce.”

    “Sauce?”

    “Sauce. The gochujang mayo. How much do we have left?”

    “Uhh… Last time I checked we were almost done with our bottle. Do you want me to make — “

    “Make more. Is there enough in that last bottle for one more order of the fries?”

    “Should be, yeah.”

    Minho’s nostrils flare as he stands up from in front of the cooler, before smoothing his hands over the seat of his jeans. “I’ll start marinating the next batch of bulgogi. You...keep doing what you’re doing.”

    Jisung narrows his eyes at him for a split second before shrugging noncommittally. “Aye aye, cap.”

    He’s normally more focused than this, but it’s halfway through pouring soy sauce into his marinade that Jisung’s voice cuts through the fog again (and keeps him from adding way too much soy sauce for only a pound of meat).

    “...Hey, Minho hyung?”

    “Hm? What is it?” When Minho turns his head, Jisung is bent over the other side of a counter, whipping together gochujang and mayonnaise like he’d asked. The pale orange color of the mixture indicates a lack of sauce, but he knows Jisung’s never been the best at eyeing the ratio anyway.

    “...I was doing a little bit of thinking, and...would it be alright with you if I got a job somewhere else? Y’know, started making some money of my own?”

    “Tch, tired of me barking at you now, are you?”

    Jisung laughs at his snark, as he usually did, and some of his hair falls out of place from where it’s usually tucked behind his ears. “No, it’s just...I’ve been living with you for nearly nine months now. Maybe it’s time I made good on my promise to get my own money and look for my own place instead of mooching off of you.”

    His left eye twitches. Minho would be lying if he said it didn’t hurt even a smidge hearing that coming from him.

    “No, no...that’s…” He pauses and curses under his breath. “That’s cool. Guess you were tired of sleeping on the couch, huh?” Minho laughs, only realizing halfway through that it sounds a bit of crass coming from him.

    “Hyung, don’t be like that,” Jisung replies, leaning over to nudge him in the shoulder with his knuckles. “I just wanted to let you know because...well, frankly I’m not sure I could handle this job and a new one, along with keeping up my studies. And of course, I just wanted to run it by you because you said you’d only house me if I worked here. You sure you’re gonna be okay working by yourself?”

    “I’ll be fine! I’ve been handling this truck by myself before you came along, I’m sure nothing much will change. Though it’ll be much quieter without your stupid jokes around.”

    “Hyung.”

    “Joking. But...that’s cool I guess. Let me know how job hunting goes and I can figure things out...accordingly.”

    “Gotcha. Thanks for understanding, hyung.” The smile Jisung flashes at him is the same as always, but him seeing Jisung in a different, brighter light each passing day doesn’t help. Minho only hopes that the smile he’s showing Jisung now doesn’t accurately convey the growing disappointment now sitting in his chest.

    The onset of summer meant that business is booming for...pretty much anything that’s recreational in even the slightest. More and more people come to the beach everyday, and Minho’s pulled out the trusty fan to make sure he and Jisung don’t fry themselves inside his truck when they’re stuck out on the pavement for nearly ten hours at a time. Despite Jisung’s announcement on wanting to find employment elsewhere, he keeps up his good work and he’s still his sweet, teasey self — much to Minho’s chagrin. Little did Minho know that he needed to cherish these moments because...

    Not even two weeks to the day Jisung announced he wanted to work somewhere else did he surprise Minho with the news. News that he’d gotten a job as a server...at another restaurant; specifically, a barbecue joint not too far from his apartment. The skills he’d been honing at Minho’s food truck would only bite Minho in the ass.

    (Is this how it felt like to get your employees stolen from underneath you, he wonders.)

    Admittedly, he’s been much too standoffish for his own liking, but he can’t help it if he’s being petty and just a tad bit resentful that Jisung’s leaving him to go work for some other restaurant. But because Minho’s nicer than he shows himself to be, he ends Jisung’s last day working for him with a grand dinner back at the apartment, with way too much food than he needs to put out for two people (and cooked with too much love than he cares to admit). They end the night with Jisung’s favorite — cheesecake, of course, and Jisung erupts into a fond recounting of his journey with the truck because of course he’s going to do that.

    “Man, you remember when I burnt that corn dog in the truck and we had to close down for the day because there was smoke and the fire extinguisher foam everywhere? Good times…”

    “Haha, you’re funny,” Minho chides, turning his nose up at the unsavory memory. “I’m not gonna lie...you were kind of brainless at the beginning, and I was somewhat worried about the future of my business when you came into the picture but...you really came into your own. Hate to be cheesy but...I’m proud of you, Sungie.” He raises his fork, clad with a piece of cake on it, as if trying to raise a toast.

    Jisung chuckles at the gesture and raises his own fork as well. “Sungie...that’s new. You’ve never been one to give me nicknames.”

    “Maybe…” It’s because I’m starting to understand what I feel. “Maybe because things have changed. I’ve changed.” He returns Jisung’s grin with a placid smile of his own, only wondering afterward if maybe he looks too down on his luck for someone who’s supposed to be celebrating.

    “...Honestly. You have. I don’t wanna say I was the cause for it, but...you’ve always been nice to me ever since the beginning. When I first started buying food from the truck and playing guitar on the bench, you never drove me away. You took me in when I had nowhere else to go and treated me like...like a person. You’ve only been nicer to me since.” What surprises Minho, nearly makes him jump out of his own skin, is when Jisung leans across the coffee table to take his hand in his own. “It’s not goodbye, because it’s not like I’m leaving, but...working with you has probably been one of the best times of my life. Thanks for that.”

    Minho sits in silence, staring blankly at their linked fingers, and it’s a silence too long and uncomfortable that finally catches Jisung’s attention.

    “...Hyung? Are you — “

    The metaphorical kettle on the burner is whistling, the steam shooting up and out in the air.

    “Jisung, I’m gonna be honest here: I don’t want you to work at that restaurant,” Minho sputters all at once, his hand sliding out of his Jisung’s palm and pressing flat against the glass of the coffee table.

    In an instant, Jisung’s expression changes from that of wonder to that of confusion, and Minho taking his hand away makes him recoil slightly. “Wait...why? I thought you said you were okay with…”

    “No, I am, it’s just…” Hot air blows out of his nose while he averts his gaze, trying not to look Jisung in the eyes. “You know what; forget I said anything. I’m just making this weird. Maybe I’m just tired, I — “

    “Hyung. Look at me.”

    Immediately, Minho stops babbling and forces himself to face the other boy. Across from him, Jisung’s face is unreadable, which is a first in their otherwise eye-to-eye kind of relationship.

    “Playing therapist now, aren’t we?” Minho mutters, perhaps out of habit, and Jisung only rolls his eyes before reaching over again to link their hands. This time, Minho doesn’t pull away.

    “Aight, stop snarking me and tell me what’s going on.”

    Minho glares at him for a split second, not because he’s mad, but because he knows Jisung’s right. So he drops the cold act and offers himself a deep breath before spilling his guts out.

    “...What if I don’t want things to change, Jisung? What if I said I was perfectly fine with how things were panning out for us — you and I working the truck together for most of the week, me having to deal with the stupid shit you say for ten hours a day, me watching you refill the mayonnaise bottle with your always inconsistent sauce ratios…”

    Minho hates the way his cheeks are burning, and he pulls one hand away from the other boy to scratch the back of his neck and run a hand through his hair in frustration.

    “...This is weird. I don’t like it.”

    Minho waits for it, for Jisung to explode or to laugh or to call him out for him being so odd and unpredictable...but it doesn’t come. 

    “You’re weird, hyung. But I like that about you.”

    When he finally lifts his head up to meet Jisung’s eyes, the other boy has leaned in closer, propping himself up on his elbows and clutching his one hand in between his two.

    “...I’m sure I don’t have to explain what exactly I’m feeling towards you, Sungie,” Minho murmurs, eyebrows furrowed and his voice quiet in a timid, unsure way.

    Jisung chuckles, and his bangs fall out of place in that way Minho’s used to seeing. “I think spilling your feelings like this is enough torture for you, hyung. But I think I get it. My question, however, is...why now? The timing makes it seem like you’re jealous that I’m planning to work at a different food place.”

    “I am not jealous.”

    “You totally are.”

    “One does not get jealous of food establishments. That doesn’t even make sense.”

    “But you don’t want me working there, right?”

    “Absolutely correct.”

    “So why now? I don’t want to beat the answer out of you, but I feel like I’m still missing something.”

    Minho rolls his eyes and makes a sound of disgust and agitation. “...I feel overdramatic laying it out like this but...I’ve been at odds with myself lately because of how I feel. About you. I feel weird because...I don’t want it to seem like I’m taking advantage of you just because I’ve given you a home, somewhere to belong, and someone to turn to. I wanted to know if these feelings were genuine, but I never knew how to breach that subject. Hell, I don’t even know where you fall in this discussion.”

    Jisung shakes his head, an all too-knowing grin spreading from cheek to cheek. “...Okay, maybe I’m in the same boat too, but boy am I glad it wasn’t me that fessed up first.”

    “So I wasn’t getting mixed signals, after all,” Minho grumbles.

    “You’d think being near impeccable roommates for almost nine months would make our telepathy much stronger than this.”

    “You’re smoking something if you think we’re even anywhere close to being impeccable roommates.”

    “Hyung, that hurts me.”

    “Good.”

    The both of them pause for a half second before bursting into combined laughter.

    “...Yes, I like you, hyung. A lot, actually.”

    “The feeling is mutual.”

    “The feeling is mut — aish!” Jisung stops momentarily to shoot daggers at him, but Minho only responds with even more laughter. “Could you stand to be a little more romantic? I thought we were having a moment.”

    “This isn’t a Twix commercial, Sungie,” Minho quips, shortly before lowering his tone to a softer volume. “...So, where exactly does this put us?”

    Jisung’s thumb brushes tenderly over the back of Minho’s hand. “...I’ll think about the job thing. But, us… Honestly, I like the sound of us.” 

    “Yeah. I think I like it too.”

    “You know, just because you’re my boyfriend doesn’t mean I enjoy being driven around with a blindfold over my eyes like I’m getting kidnapped…!”

    “Can you shut up? I told you it’s a surprise. We’re almost there anyway, so if you could stop making dumb comments every few minutes…”

    “Alright, alright, boss.”

    It really just so happened that their first month’s anniversary...fell on the date of Chilseok. Not that that was a real issue — in fact, it was quite romantic, thinking about it, and Minho thought it was perfect. He’d made it clear that he was about as dry as uncooked rice when it came to anything romantic, but Jisung reassured him time and time again that it was “all about the little things”.

    So of course it came as a surprise to the younger man when Minho handed him a blindfold and told him to put it on (“This is kinda kinky…” “Jisung...no.”), followed by him getting precariously led downstairs to the garage where his other car was parked.

    “Can you imagine the headlines? ‘Local Upstanding Man Found Murdered In — “

    “Jisung, please.”

    “Kidding!”

    Minho rolls his eyes and lets the car roll to a stop, prompting Jisung that they’ve reached their destination.

    “Okay...you can take off your blindfold now.”

    A silly grin plasters itself upon Minho’s features when the fabric falls away from Jisung’s face, but the reaction he was expecting is not quite the one he gets.

    “...Did you really take me to the beach? I’ve seen this place like hundreds of times, and you think just because it’s night time it’s gonna be different?”

    “Jisung, I’m trying to be romantic here.”

    It doesn’t stop Jisung from laughing, but the twinkle in his eyes is enough for Minho to know that he loves it.

    “Any other surprises I should know about?” he asks, leaning onto the dashboard and staring past the windshield, out at the expanse of stars dotting the night sky. “It’s so nice at night…”

    Bingo. Minho smirks and takes the opportunity to lean over into the backseat, now procuring a handful of plastic bags. “Of course, I came prepared for this little date. I have some ice cream, a pack of yogurt drinks, some bibim-naengmyeon , and last but not least: your favorite cheesecake from that one bakery.”

    “Wow, wow...not too shabby, Mr. Lee. Are you trying to get lucky tonight?”

    Minho quirks an eyebrow at him. “Keep calling me that and someone will get lucky tonight.”

    “I’ll hold you to that,” Jisung replies coolly, before crossing the short distance between them and pressing their lips together. Minho presses back urgently, and for a moment it really does feel like it’s just them two, him and the boy that salted his stew, peppered his marinade, and burnt his corn dogs.

    “...Happy one month,” Jisung murmurs, his hand lingering just a second too long on Minho’s cheek.

    “And happy Chilseok to you.”

    “...Seriously? Not even a ‘happy anniversary’ back from you?”

    “I swear to God, Jisung, I will kick you out of this car right now and drive back to the apartment myself.”

    “I’m kidding, I’m kidding!”

    Minho always valued the concept of change, and adding or removing a little bit here and there to keep himself on his toes. But maybe, just maybe...things didn’t need to change right now. Perhaps, Jisung’s bold, intense flavor was the spice he needed for this proverbial stew. And besides, why change it now that the flavor’s just right?