Work Text:
With the news channels forecasting a heavy thunderstorm precisely 4 hours from now, Hwa-jeong is not really expecting anyone to knock on her door that isn’t I-jun. Somehow, just by hearing the knock, she already, instinctively knows who it is — knows by the way her cells react, a cacophony of her name on their tongues. Knows by the way she reacts — her stomach clenching, her heart already picking up speed. She thinks that she might be too old for these feelings to solidify their roots in her life anew, and then realises that these feelings have been older than her — running imperceivably deeper.
On the other side of the door stands Cho-hui, a nervous smile adorning her pretty pink lips, visibly brightening at the sight of Hwa-jeong.
It’s too radiant, she thinks. She does not remember any other person who looked so… happy to see her, as though her mere existence was grace and delight all the same.
The cacophony of Cho-hui’s name on her cell’s lips only loudens, drowning every tangible thought in Hwa-jeong’s mind, drowning the way her heart pounds, her stomach clenches, and her hands automatically reach out to her, bringing her inside her home.
“Cho-hui,” she calls, smiling — she can’t keep the smile off her face in Cho-hui’s presence these days and it is as frightening as it was, all those years ago — and pulling her in, “come on in.”
Inside, Cho-hui does not look away from Hwa-jeong, looking at her as though she’s the only one in the vast universe and places her bag on the table. “I brought some soup,” she says. “The news channels say that it’s going to rain soon, and I… well, you always… uh.” Cho-hui looks down, as though suddenly bashful, as though suddenly careful with her words.
“I always?” Hwa-jeong prompts, leading her towards the sofa, pushing the duct tape aside.
Cho-hui holds the duct tape in her hands instead and smiles, running her fingers coloured by balsam over it. “You’d said to me once that the weather of Gongjin and your mood are twined together. During a heavy storm, you end up feeling… heavy as well, gloomy and grey. You’d said that soup always helps you, so I… I made it for you.”
Hwa-jeong is stunned at this. She feels a humming under her skin. There is no chance for her to process, react, or respond because Cho-hui is suddenly standing up and pushing the chair in front of the window, duct tape in her hands.
“You like to tape the windows from inside, don’t you?”
“Don’t climb all alone,” Hwa-jeong says, fretting already and holding the chair tight. “I am not strong enough to catch you if you fall.”
The playful grin is back on Cho-hui’s face. “Unnie has always been strong enough to catch me,” she says. “Besides, I am not alone.”
“Huh?”
Cho-hui looks down from where she’s taping the window shut, her eyes twinkling, and with a breath-stopping smile, she says, “I have you. How can I ever be alone?”
At that moment, Hwa-jeong decides that she is, in fact, very old to hear such careless things being spoken to her with a tactful smile. If Hwa-jeong didn’t know any better, she’d think that Cho-hui’s intentions slip far beyond the platonic boundaries she drew back then, those whose existence she kept insisting on even when they decidedly weren’t a thing after those fifteen years. And now, after old resentments burning into nothing have come to a past, their interactions can hardly be considered platonic. Hwa-jeong is a lot many things, and naïve is far from it. If Hwa-jeong didn’t know any better, she’d think… she’d think—
“Unnie,” she hears, effectively breaking her out of her reverie. “The newspaper, if you can?”
Ten minutes later, the corners of the windows are stuffed full of old newspapers that Cho-hui had brought over. “I’ve heard that stuffing the newspaper helps too,” she says, staring at them as she nurses a warm cup of tea to her chest.
“Oh,” Hwa-jeong says, still unable to look away from the balsam painting her nails. “I thought,” she starts, and then stops, sipping the blistering hot tea regardless. She doesn’t hiss then, but the burning on her tongue is a welcome sensation, away from the way her thoughts bend in a dangerous way.
Cho-hui catches her gaze and smiles wistfully. She doesn’t have to say it, but they’re both thinking it, of course — a strange summer, a wild erupting feeling trapped behind both their ribs, words spoken softly: love will come true if the colour lasts until the first snowfall.
Suddenly, being alone with Cho-hui is too much. It is not enough. Her skin feels itchy under the intensity of Cho-hui’s gaze and yet she wants to bask under it like a cat stretching under the gentle sun. Hwa-jeong drinks her tea in one go, it burns her throat and it doesn’t take her mind off of Cho-hui; it can’t. She gets up, slams her knee against the table, curses out loud, and suddenly Cho-hui is kneeling in front of her, her hands wrapped around Hwa-jeong’s knees, grinning up to her with worry and concern in her eyes.
“Unnie!” she gasps, “are you okay?”
Hwa-jeong’s heart skips a beat.
Suddenly, she is 26 again, facing the terrifying onslaught of feelings she barely understands and Cho-hui, radiant as she is, casts a light on all the parts she’d left unexplored — her heart, first and foremost.
“I’m okay,” she mumbles, bending down to pull Cho-hui upright.
She comes up with ease, gazing concernedly, her fingers twitching towards Hwa-jeong’s hands as though she wants to hold it.
Hwa-jeong would let her, she thinks wildly. She wants to push her face in Cho-hui’s hands and wants her to press her gentle fingers against her face.
A flash flits across Cho-hui’s eyes as though somehow, she knows what Hwa-jeong is thinking. Cho-hui extends her hands again, and although Hwa-jeong knows what she wants and Cho-hui does too, she just pats her cheek, like she’d do to I-jun, and smiles at her softly. “Does your knee hurt?” she asks, her voice low.
“No.” Hwa-jeong doesn’t know why she’s whispering, and it’s as though they’re sharing this one private moment, impenetrable by outsiders.
Hwa-jeong can still feel the phantom touch on her cheeks, and she wants to say something, do something, anything to break how oppressive this silence feels for her. She wants to fill it with words, with jokes, with futile promises, but it feels too delicate and too heavy at the same time, even though they are, essentially, only gazing at each other and gravitating towards each other centimeter by centimeter.
Cho-hui’s mouth parts open and closes, as though she is forming words and discarding them right before they stay suspended in the moment, as though they’re not worthy enough to break this silence between them.
Wildly, Hwa-jeong wonders what might happen if she were to hold Cho-hui’s face, curl her fingers on the back of Cho-hui’s neck and bring her closer until their nose touch, bring her closer until they have no choice but to tilt their head and press their lips together.
Would Cho-hui hold Hwa-jeong by her waist? Would she taste sweet or bitter like the tea? Would she kiss her back with fervour or would she take her time in exploring Hwa-jeong back? Would she pull her closer? How would her hands feel on Hwa-jeong’s skin — warm or cold? Would she take the lead in pressing up against Hwa-jeong or leave it up to Hwa-jeong? Would she, ah. Ah.
Hwa-jeong really is too old to be fantasising about kissing her first love in her kitchen as though she’s a teenager, drunk on the taste of her first love.
But that’s how Cho-hui has always made her feel, though — giddy and drunk and stupid and free. Lovely and warm and dizzy and in love. No one has known Hwa-jeong the way Cho-hui does, and no one will ever come close.
They’re effectively closer to each other than they were at the start. Cho-hui’s mouth is pretty and pink and stunned, and Hwa-jeong is helplessly looking at her.
Cho-hui parts her mouth to say something again, and Hwa-jeong is about to catch it and keep it safe behind her ribs, but the house is suddenly full of giggles and laughter, full of the sound reminiscent of Gongjin, full of I-jun’s “Amma!” and Bo-ra’s “Auntie!” that Hwa-jeong and Cho-hui widen their eyes in tandem and jump apart, skittering away with words unsaid, feelings bottled up and corked.
The moment suspended in time is cut loose.
Hwa-jeong lets the regret wash over her. She wanted... wants to clarify this spilling between them, too hard to be contained. She wants Cho-hui to know, in some degree at least, what it means to Hwa-jeong when she is gazed Like That by the most beautiful woman she knows.
***
The house becomes full of lively sounds and laughter spilling from its corners. Outside, the wind whistles and the sky lightens and booms with a thunder so loud, it rattles Hwa-jeong’s insides.
From across the room, Hwa-jeong looks at Cho-hui who plays with I-jun, fondly smiling as he talks about a book he read over the weekend, her hand gently patting the top of his head.
From across the room, Cho-hui’s eyes meet hers, and she gestures at the half-full bowl of soup in Hwa-jeong’s hands.
From across the room, Hwa-jeong smiles back. She does not remember the last time someone took care of her who wasn’t her mother. Something warm settles into her stomach as she drinks the soup again. The warmth doesn’t leave her, not even when the rain sounds louder and the lightening is brighter.
Outside, the wind picks up speed, the rain crashes across every surface to make itself known. The thunder booms and the lightening crackles and sparkles.
Inside, Hwa-jeong feels... lighter than she remembers feeling when the weather is so fraught.
Inside, Hwa-jeong meets Cho-hui’s eyes and smiles.
For a moment and eternity, being with the two people she cares the most about feels enough.