Chapter Text
The day is now dark enough outside for the hour to pass as too late. Despite the ending of winter, the sun sets quickly still, and in the night, time is more difficult to discern.
Vincenzo had spent his evening walking around Geumga Plaza’s neighborhood to conduct some casual surveillance, take a leisurely break from his various preoccupations, and search for a restaurant. He mustn’t skip his meals, Chayoung had told him before she left for her judicial training reunion. So, his lunch was an efficient affair, but for a late dinner, no menu appealed to his tastes. After a rather long day of being left mostly to his own devices, Vincenzo doesn’t feel like seeking anyone else’s company either, too restless, only his own.
It has been nearly an hour since he last checked in with Chayoung, and have her reply, and approximately fifteen minutes since he arrived back to his apartment. Yet to change out of his suit for the day, Vincenzo is idling. He stands at the counter in his kitchenette, under the single fluorescent strip light, not having bothered to illuminate the rest of the apartment when he isn’t sure he is staying for long.
A nightcap of wine and a favorite opera to unwind before an early bedtime sounds perfectly indulgent, but the drinking, he is reconsidering. His phone remains silent and unlit on the counter. Picking up the wine bottle beside it again to uncork it this time, Vincenzo reconsiders the early bedtime too, in case he can be of use to Chayoung.
Although Chayoung denied his offer to pick her up later—he’s not sure how much of her bouncy replies were in jest though he doesn’t doubt she can take care of herself, she’d also said she would be drinking a lot, the only way alcoholic consumption goes at any reunion especially one in a South Korea that has an unhealthy obsession with soju. Such events are also where even the best of friends try to one up each other, and with Chayoung being Chayoung, diving headfirst into the pool of snakes that are competitive and cutthroat for a living, her success will surely attract the most venomous bunch. If need be, Vincenzo could be Chayoung’s last straw. The world they live in thinks more highly of a woman if there is a handsome man standing by her.
Fractured; how did he not notice that the wine glass was chipped at the rim? Vincenzo places it to the side to be recycled later, reaching around to the cupboards for another option. A yellow mug, by the sink, sits, not yet put away since the previous day’s morning when Chayoung joined him for breakfast before work. It’s hers, he knows because the demitasse he’d used is already stored, and it will have to do for now. Vincenzo pours a decent amount of wine into Chayoung’s yellow mug and taps his phone awake.
More than an hour has passed since their last correspondence. It’s late enough for the reunion to be over or be close to finishing, so he calls her. He leaves the call connecting on speaker, having no patience to wait for a message to be seen and then to be replied—that’s never quite a concern as Chayoung is always so good at replying immediately, and because of that, she’s conditioned him to expect such from her. The call rings and rings and rings and Vincenzo waits, swishing the wine around and around in the mug.
In the quietness of his place that is only regularly broken by the phone’s ringing, Vincenzo feels laughter bubbling higher in his chest with each unanswered round, mostly at himself, for worrying, for acting on it, and for still acting inexcusably as he also did earlier in the afternoon. Chayoung was fine an hour ago, if her lack of spelling mistakes and her little “ppyong!” at the end of the reply message were anything to go by. He is familiar with her in that state, tipsy but stable on her feet, talkative and bolder than usual but sweet, nevertheless sweet, and clearly enjoying a good time. Vincenzo scoffs against the upward tug of his lips. Letting a last ring go through, he drops the call, not wanting to be overbearing.
His phone lights up again, before he could place it down. Hong Chayoung byeonhosa…
“Ya, why did you hang up!” Chayoung greets; Vincenzo allows himself a smile at the complaining. “My phone was silenced so I was digging through my purse. I was about to pick up.”
“How are you, byeonhosa-nim?”
“Great!” Chipper as always, her answer is easy to trust.
“Is the reunion over? Do you need me to pick you up?”
“I’m already on my way.”
“Ah…” That would explain the lack of ruckus in the background of the call; she must be in a taxi or a friend’s car. Vincenzo takes a hearty sip of the wine, aerated plenty in a mug out of all things. “Be safe. Message me when you arrive home.”
Chayoung hums a neutral response and he racks his brain for something to say, but the humming ends in a fed-up groan and a “I’m so hungry.”
Vincenzo can’t help chuckling as he follows her conversation. “Did you not like the food provided? Make sure to eat something before bed. Not ramen; something easily digestible,” he says, and he listens to her complain further about the quality and the size of the hors d’oeuvres as he ambles around his kitchen area. “I don’t think a full meal is a good idea, byeonhosa-nim.”
Some more indignant sputtering noises and Vincenzo has to pause, leaning against his fridge, and he is not aware that he’s smiling again until she says, “You promised me something.”
“Which promise?”
“That you’ll cook me dinner.”
“Yes. Yes, I did.”
The cold blast of air from the refrigerator unnecessarily sobers him up. The insides of it are quite bare, except for the plentiful green soju bottles and the bigger white makgeolli bottles—clearly he had no problem assimilating to that part of Korean culture—lining the door, some containers still full of the banchan Mrs. Kwak gifted him over the weekend, and the splash of red in the vegetable compartment.
Chayoung decides, “I want spaghetti.”
“Yes, of course; what else but the most basic of Italian foods.”
“Don’t be snarky or I’ll make you cook me two portions.”
“Do you want…” Vincenzo closes the fridge door and clears his throat, walking back over to the counter for a gulp of wine. It is okay to act on wants sometimes, he thinks—not too much, she’s still waiting on the other end of the line—if the desires are simple enough. A simple dinner with Chayoung, for example. Vincenzo tries again, “Would you like to have spaghetti tonight?”
Her response arrives quick, his partner eager as always. “Exactly what I was thinking! I’ll be there in ten minutes according to the GPS. Get cooking!”
Vincenzo’s hand slips on the counter, so much for supporting his weight, almost knocking the mug over and the wine onto his vest. “Now? What.”
“It’s really cold,” Chayoung whines as if it explains everything. Spring is not always warm, especially at its beginning. The cold spells dispersed in between, dropped often after the sun naturally cools, jitters Vincenzo towards being grateful for the mellower days that do come sooner than he expects. Daily temperature increments are an inching reminder of how things have had enough time to change since he arrived, and the clock even if he doesn’t check every minute is ticking. He will have to leave before spring is here to stay.
“… and I don’t want to have to dig for the spare keys. Can you have the door unlocked?”
“My door?”
“You don’t have the keys to my house, do you? Oh, I should make you a copy,” she trails off, clacking away on her phone to set a reminder, and then with a little accomplished huff, she brings herself back to topic, “I told you I’m on my way. I’ll see you soon, okay?”
“Okay,” he replies out of habit, unsurely, but she has already hung up.
—
There are tomatoes chilling in his fridge that he didn’t buy.
It was with his money that these fruits were bought, he has to admit, and it was him who put them in their trolley during their Saturday grocery run, but it had been Chayoung who insisted that they needed the tomatoes.
She started her plan to eat healthier this week, hence, salads. Her favorite roadside food stall takeaway has been designed as accompaniment for makgeolli nights only, which were becoming sparser the deeper they get into the Babel-related cases, although she has been staying over at Vincenzo’s more due to the workload and longer work hours that bleed into more hours spent discussing law and chaos, evil and fair play, South Korea and Italy and everything in between over his living room table.
Tomatoes, Chayoung claims, are good for her skin—Vincenzo doesn’t think he can comment on the status of her soft and smooth and fair skin but it’s always good to take care of one’s health—and an important part of salads. So now he has twenty something tomatoes in his fridge nearly softening since they both have been busy with work. And Chayoung also with her reunion. And what is one to do with tomatoes that will go to waste otherwise except invite someone (or let her invite herself) over for dinner and cook spaghetti bolognese. Vincenzo has made Chayoung a promise he’s yet to fulfill: to show her how an authentic Italian dinner is a whole different affair.
It has been a while since he used a knife, for cooking purposes anyway. He’s been subsisting on ramen, Mrs. Kwak’s meals, restaurant food, or Chayoung’s cooking. It’s too wasteful of time, effort, and ingredients to cook when it’s him alone eating. His nonna never taught him how to cook for one. Luckily, he and Chayoung are an army of two.
It has been a while since Vincenzo cooked for just two, but he still remembers the gist of it. The tomatoes in South Korea are smaller; he dices two more just in case. Too much is never a problem. He can save the leftovers for his next meal, send them home with Chayoung for when she’s too tired to cook, or allow Chef Toto to experience what bolognese sauce is supposed to taste like.
After the tomatoes are diced, the Korean beef minced, garlic crushed, and fresh basil washed, Vincenzo switches on the stove, click click and the fire catches, he puts a pot of water on, and then, he waits.
This is taking a while.
He has prepped the ingredients, measured out the spaghetti noodles, chilled the wine, and unlocked the door, and still… the water in the pot is so still. Maybe putting a lid on will make it boil faster.
Vincenzo’s attention zooms away from the flames licking at the bottom of the pot, from listening for the water to come slowly slowly to a soft bubbling when the half-abandoned phone on the counter pings. He cracks the pot lid open, sprinkles some salt, and then goes to check on the notification. A message from Chayoung, that’s all he read before the sender herself flies into his apartment, cheeks blossoming pink from both the goose-bumping chill and tipsy heat and what he surmises is excitement, and announces, “I’m here now!”
She turns on all the lights in his apartment on her way to the living area, and Vincenzo winces at the sudden brightness, having forgotten that he was standing in relative darkness. As if this was any other night, like she’s returning from a work errand to debrief over dinner and not choosing to come all the way over after a socially eventful day that must be draining even for someone as outgoing as her, Chayoung walks over to the leather sofa she usually occupies, takes off her coat, and sits herself crosslegged on the floor. The lamp next to the couch, she clicks on as well. She asks, “How come I don’t smell anything yet?”
“Patience,” Vincenzo scolds with a teasing narrowing of his eyes, which she mimics back at him, and he turns away as he begins to smile at her antics, finally putting the pan on a second burner and getting to the sauce. “Would you like some wine first?”
“No more alcohol for me tonight,” she slumps her head on the table in front with a groan before jerking back up with eyes narrowed again. He’d made the mistake of raising the wine-filled yellow mug. “That’s wine in there?”
“No judging or I’ll poison your spaghetti.”
“You won’t waste good Italian food like that.” She’s right, and that little pout at his threat, that’s cute.
Vincenzo opens his fridge for an alternative, throwing suggestions over his shoulder, “Sparkling water would be good with the meal, or some green tea?”
“I’ll have the tea after?”
While the meat sizzles in the pan, he puts away the wine and instead pours two glasses of carbonated water, leaving them on the counter to be set on their table later. He lowers the heat, stirs to prevent crusting, adds the tomatoes, and then stirs and stirs some more. Over in the living area, Chayoung’s humming a tune, a light something she was probably listening to in the car, and she’s swaying a little to her own beat as she puts down her phone next to her purse and reaches around her nape, under her straight long hair, to take off her necklace. It is laid preciously on the white tablecloth, and then one earring, and then, turning her head towards him, the other earring. The jewelry is a well-chosen set, unique and pretty, and even more dazzling on her.
“The sauce is going to burn,” she says toward the table where the earrings now join the necklace. And right, yes; herbs still need to go into the sauce and the water’s boiling.
As Vincenzo busies himself with taking the lid off the pot, he hears Chayoung get up and walk over to join him in the corner of his apartment. He busies himself as she hovers around his right and left and right, and usually he doesn’t like it when others intrude upon his process and he wishes she were relaxing and he knows she won’t let this go. Chayoung pries for his recipe, asking this way and that way, but this kind of secret, familial, too intimate to be spoken about, the mafia knows how to keep best. Even as she tries to tickle him into submission with her pointer finger poking incessantly into his waist, Vincenzo only makes a shushing sound, shaking his head, and hands the spaghetti noodles over for her to put into the pot as appeasement.
Unfortunately, the noodles are store-bought; she didn’t leave him with enough time to make his own from scratch. That quality devaluation doesn’t seem to bother her at the least, because she tells him, clearly excited, “I’ll throw a spaghetto at the wall to check readiness.”
“Please don’t.” Vincenzo grasps at her hand that was already practicing the flick, grimaces at the state of his wall, peeling paint and dirt and grime and grease that were all previously irrelevant in his mind under the excuse of his occupation being temporary. “I’ll look at it.”
“But I want to throw.” She practices again with the other free hand.
Vincenzo sighs upon realizing holding only one hand hostage is futile and holding both is unthinkable and will only impede her purpose of being here. “It will be hot; I’ll pick up a strand for you in five minutes.”
“Okay! So, what exactly did you put in the sauce?” Chayoung rounds on him, asking again, relentless. He nods towards the counter on which he prepped for her arrival and his promise.
There is the small ziplock pack of dried oregano Vincenzo had brought from Italy, olive oil of a brand he’s always used, and he’s using Korean beef and her Korean tomatoes, and he’s offering her carbonated water to help with digestion, nothing special, and she’s laughing in his small kitchen corner after the spaghetto sticks to his wall. This rhythm of stirring all the ingredients into the sauce together is comforting like her presence, never out of place beside him among all the scents and tastes and these elements that he registers as home.