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A single raindrop drips onto the cold, lifeless pavement. The gray clouds gather overhead, like a group of friends catching up and bonding over tragic life stories and a glass of cold, bitter beer. The air is so still, you could almost hear the hum of lights in the diner two blocks away. The city shakes with each inhale, and bleeds life with each exhale.
One step, and another.
A raindrop lands on Jihoon’s cheek, another on the sleeve of his coat. The weather’s chill finally seeps into his bones, drowning his senses in a dark form of ecstasy. His worn out sneakers slap against the damp concrete, creating a harmonious symphony with the orchestra of passing cars and pedestrians’ conversations.
Two steps, and two more.
The sound of his phone’s ringtone slices through the evening air with a vengeance, an insistent humming resonating from the pocket of his one-size-too-big slacks. Jihoon fishes it out without urgency, there’s only one person who would call at this time anyway.
“Hello?”
“Where are you? It’s raining, did you bring an umbrella? Wait - of course you didn’t, I see it right here, how many times have I told you to bring the damn umbrella? Are you close to home? Hurry up, I don’t want you getting sick.”
Concern is a funny thing, especially when directed at someone other than yourself. The idea of caring about somebody else’s well being when you have no obligation to, other than the goodness of your heart, is kind of hilarious. Jihoon has always been caring, but it seems that even the holiest of saints would bow down to the person huffing and puffing down the phone’s receiver.
“Hoonie? Baby, are you listening? Hey, are you alright? Where are you, let me go and pick you up. Why you insist on taking the bus and walking when I am perfectly capable of picking you up from work, I will never understand.”
Love is an even funnier concept to Jihoon. He never bought into the idea of true love, was never interested in finding ‘that one person who makes you feel like even if the world were to end, you would feel safe in their arms while watching the destruction of humanity.’ He always thought love was a fickle thing, volatile and unstable, just like his parents’ marriage. So, he refrained from believing, from hoping.
“I’m okay. I’m almost there, no need to pick me up. I’ll see you soon, Soonyoung.”
But now, standing in front of a 7-Eleven in his crinkled office clothes, rain dripping from his bangs and into his skin, a block away from the dingy studio apartment he shares with Soonyoung, and a fiery warmth settling into his chest, repelling the cold as he listens to his boyfriend fuss into the phone, Jihoon thinks, this must be love.
Three steps forward, his heart in his throat.
“Fine, but hurry up. I made ramyeon, but it’s getting soggy. I know you like your ramyeon soggy, but I do not, so if you make me eat soggy ramyeon, you’re sleeping on the couch.”
Jihoon’s heart is playing leap-frog in his throat, desperate to pour out of his mouth and into the ears of his lover. He settles for a laugh instead. No matter how many times Soonyoung threatens to kick him out of the bed and onto the couch, they will still end up entangled in bed together at the end of the night. Two strings of fate intertwined around their bodies, pressed as close together as possible, taking comfort in the fact that they have each other.
“I’ll be quick.” He hesitates. His heart knocks on the roof of his mouth. He decides to open the door.
“I love you.”
“... I love you too. I’ll be waiting for you at the door.”
Jihoon keeps walking. The rain keeps pouring. Despite the weather, people keep moving. Raucous laughter filters out from the brightly lit pub, the invitation of Friday Happy Hour tempting passersby to take a quick detour inside. Across the street, a young couple sits on the bus stop bench, hands tightly clasped and giggling. When Jihoon passes them, he notices that the roof of the bus stop doesn’t reach far enough, so the tips of their sneakers are thoroughly soaked, but they pay it no mind. Jihoon smiles.
Soon enough, he arrives at the lobby of their less-than-average apartment building. He greets the 70 year-old security man - Mr. Kim - with an easy smile, and gets an enthusiastic greeting in return. Jihoon rides the creaky elevator with an everlasting mild scent of mold, all the way up to the 17th floor.
His feet stop in front of the door with dark brown paint, peeling at the corners, hinges, even at the center. Before he can even reach for his keys, the door swings open, and Jihoon is faced with home.
Home in the form of one Kwon Soonyoung.
Soonyoung ushers him inside, taking off his coat for him, telling him to “Take off your shoes before your toes prune!” He sends Jihoon off to the bathroom to take a hot shower, not forgetting to press a sweet peck on his forehead and a chaste kiss on his cold, chapped lips.
As Jihoon reaches the bathroom, he turns back with a frown.
“What about the ramyeon? It’ll get more soggy if I shower now.”
Soonyoung frowns back.
“Who cares about the ramyeon? Go shower before you get sick and start whining like a baby.”
This must be love, he thinks as he washes off the dirt and exhaustion of the day. Love must be waiting for almost an hour with a cooling pot of ramyeon, worried about his whereabouts and whether he’s feeling okay. Love must be preparing clothes for him for when he gets out of the shower - sweatpants and Soonyoung’s sweater that he knows Jihoon loves -, uncaring about the bloated ramyeon left sitting on their cold kitchen table.
Jihoon steps out of the bathroom, fully dressed and hair fluffy, to see Soonyoung in the kitchen area preparing two mugs of tea. He knows that Jihoon loves chamomile when he’s feeling chilly, so he makes sure to stock up on it during the rainy season.
Soonyoung turns around and spots Jihoon standing frozen, and gives him the biggest and brightest smile he’s ever seen. Soonyoung has always smiled easily, it’s one of Jihoon’s favourite things about him. He should look ridiculous, standing in the kitchen with their favourite mugs - a white cat and a tiger - and dressed in an oversized purple shirt that says ‘SUNDAY FUNDAY’ and blue shorts, but all Jihoon can think is, this must be love.
Jihoon joins Soonyoung to sit at the kitchen table, which barely has enough space to fit two bowls, a pot of ramyeon, and their mugs, but Jihoon is very fond of it. The sounds of the city trickle through the open crack of their window - cars driving past, the faint music from the live band playing at the bar across the street, their neighbour's cat purring on the windowsill adjacent to theirs.
It serves as background noise for their silent apartment, only broken by the sound of chopsticks hitting against the sides of the bowl. Soonyoung knows that Jihoon prefers silence for a while after returning from work, to wind down from all the noise and chaos, which is why he always turns off the television around the time Jihoon is expected to come home.
Soonyoung brings one of his hands to rest on top of the table, palm side up. Without looking, Jihoon places his hand on top of his, and smoothly interlocks their fingers. Jihoon knows that Soonyoung craves physical affection especially after a lonely day, where they are separated by their jobs, which is why Jihoon indulges him.
Sitting there together, hands interlocked while eating bloated ramyeon, with the sound of their cheap heater buzzing in the corner of the apartment, they think,
This must be love.