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IN SOPHOMORE YEAR, JISUNG SWITCHES HIS MAJOR FROM PSYCHOLOGY TO FILM.
"I want to make documentaries," he says, with resolve. Renjun stares at him as if he's popped a third head. Chenle's not surprised. Jisung's always been one for the atypical — having documentaries as a centre for wanting to switch to film is one of his tamer associations.
They frequent the vintage theatre that year. The ticket seller's started giving them regulars' discounts. In return Jisung lets Chenle drag him to remote restaurants to try unconventional food. Chenle likes to call it mutualistic symbiosis. Renjun likes to call him an idiot. Chenle's yet to figure that one out.
"THEORY OF GENRES IS TEDIOUS," Jisung's telling him, snapping his fingers in a warm up exercise. The timers on their screens tick from 01:03 to 01:02 to 01:01. "But I'm really hoping I get into FILM381."
"Remind me what that is again," Chenle says, except he's not really listening. The timetable in front of him is perfect— no early morning classes, no classes on Monday or Friday, no long wait times between back-to-back classes. Chenle needs to register into this exact schedule so he actually has a life this semester.
"—which is great."
"Huh?" He hears Jisung chuckle. 00:21, 00:20, 00:19.
"Practicals," Jisung says, no doubt summarizing whatever he'd been saying before to accommodate for Chenle's distracted attention, "I get to make a movie this time."
"Oh." 00:07, 00:06, 00:05.
"I'm excited."
Chenle turns to look at Jisung, watches his smile curling into a half moon on his face, ears pink like they always get when he's looking forward to something. Chenle's lips are turning up of their own accord. "I'm excited for you too."
"Chenle, you're going to miss your registration!"
Jisung's already managed to register in all of his classes. The timer's been at 00:00 for ten seconds now. Chenle doesn't get into two of the classes he wants, and has to switch for one early Monday and one late Friday. It's Jisung's fault. (It's not.)
EVERY FRIDAY, THEY FIND SOMETHING NEW TO EAT. There's an oxymoron hidden there somewhere — a habit of change, or something of the like. Jisung's better at figures of speech than he is, anyways.
Today, they try Jjapaguri with hanwoo beef. "We've had this before," Chenle says, but Jisung shakes his head, too-long bangs falling to his eyes. Chenle reaches over the rickety table in the pojangmacha to swipe them away. Jisung's cheeks are bright red, and Chenle proceeds to snatch the soju away from him. "You're a terrible drinker," he says, and downs the shot in his stead, "You were saying?"
"We haven't thought about it before," Jisung says, and he leans his hands on the table and speaks with his fingers, which is something he always likes to do whenever he's explaining something to Chenle, "Jjapaguri is a poor man's meal. It's inexpensive, easy to make, and relatively quick. Hanwoo beef is a noble man's food. It's expensive, and needs to be made with a lot of care. But when you put those two together, you're essentially abolishing the class-based boundaries that are put on us as humans. This is why I respect Bong Joon-Ho director-nim so much. He uses mundane occurring to give social commentary."
Frankly, Chenle doesn't think so much about anything. "So you wanted to eat it with meaning?"
Jisung shrugs, but he's grinning. "I was just craving Jjapaguri. You could just indulge me regardless of reason, you know."
Truth be told, Jisung doesn't need reasons to be indulged by Chenle. Not that that's something Chenle would care to admit. Instead, "Now, what's the fun in that?"
Jisung shakes his head, but he's smiling. Almost like he knows he's won. It's unsettling, at the pit of Chenle's stomach.
What does Jisung know that Chenle does not?
THE CARDINAL RULE WHEN IT COMES TO FOOD IS THAT IT IS ENJOYED IN COMPANY.
Unsurprisingly, Chenle cooks best when it is for people. Which is why living with Jisung is a perfect arrangement for the both of them. Chenle gets to cook for his best friend on the daily, meaning he actually makes an effort with the food. And Jisung, with his two left hands, stays away from the kitchen and still gets fed.
Most days, Jisung likes to stand at the island and watch Chenle cook. Chenle's sure some part of it is guilt that he's unable to help, a constant need to hover in hopes he would find himself of some use and slot into Chenle's space, despite Chenle assuring him it's not necessary. Today he watches Chenle's hands. It isn't as noticeable at first, his staring, as Chenle rolls the dough and leaves it to sit for two hours. He helps Jisung with an assignment for his mandatory math elective in the time it takes to rise.
It's much more noticeable as he chops up the onions (big bits, one onion in eight parts), and then the potatoes (smaller than the onions, because they need to cooked through), and then the spring onions and hot peppers.
"What is it?" he asks, and Jisung's eyes snap from Chenle's hands to meet his eyes.
"Huh?"
"Do you want to come help?" He uses one chopstick to immerse the pack of anchovy broth into his pot of boiling water. The smell makes Jisung scrunch up his nose, but he comes and stands next to Chenle nonetheless, crowding their tiny, 60 sqft kitchen.
"I can help," he agrees, and looks to Chenle for instruction.
"That wasn't my question," Chenle says, but he's passing Jisung the chopping board to add the vegetables to the boiling water even as he says so, "Why do you keep looking at me like that?"
Jisung runs his tongue across his chapped lips. The space is too tight for it to offer Chenle any form of distance, and he wonders if it's the forced intimacy that makes him notice.
"Would you be willing to help me make a short film for my class?"
Chenle sighs, before pulling the bowl of dough between the two of them. "Small pieces, otherwise it won't cook," he says, and demonstrates a the size of a few pieces of sujebi for Jisung before returning to the matter at hand. Jisung looks at the dough like he's measuring the bits out to be exactly the size Chenle showed him. "You know I'm not artistic in any form."
"That's alright," Jisung says, and he's still not looking at Chenle, "I wanted to make a video about cooking."
"Like a recipe video?"
"Er, not exactly," Jisung says, and out of habit goes to scratch his head. Chenle pulls his arm back before he can do that, and Jisung grimaces in apology when he realizes he's still helping him cook. He's looking at Chenle now. "I'm more looking to film the process of making food as a way of showing love. And a way of finding peace. Does that— does that make sense?"
Chenle thinks about it. Cooking in itself isn't special once you're used to it — it's just a mixture of ingredients that go well together, parts of a picture that form more than just the picture when done just right. But the act of it with additional parameters — who you're cooking for, or what mood it is, evokes a dish out of you. That could be a way of showing love. A way of finding peace. "Sure," he agrees.
"Sure, it makes sense? Sure, you'll do it?"
Chenle scoffs. "Like I'd say no to you."
And that is that. It's probably still the forced intimacy that makes Jisung's smile feel as warm as the sun on a cold day. Chenle doesn't think about it too much.
"YOU NEED TO LOOK INTO THE CAMERA," Jisung says as he cuts the recording off again and steps out from behind the camera, "Looking at the ground makes you look awkward on the video.
"It's weird looking at it like it's a person, you know," Chenle says, then, after a second, "I'm sorry."
Jisung's quick to dismiss that, shaking his head. The veins on his neck pop up when he's focused like this, and briefly, Chenle looks away. "Oh no, that's alright, it's not like I expect you to be comfortable with it right away."
He helps Chenle get the second round of acacia flower fritters out of the oil in the pan in front of him. It's golden brown and crispy, coiling around the still slightly green stalk prettily. Jisung had said something about love through seasons, and a flower motif. Most of it went past Chenle's head. All he knows is he's making dishes he'd make in different seasons, and that he has to incorporate flowers in it somehow. Thankfully, spring is already hovering in the air, and Chenle finds some fresh acacia flowers at the local market. He leans over to pop one in Jisung's mouth just as he's about to speak. Jisung rolls his eyes at him, but he's grinning as he chews. "You're a good cook," he says, like he does every other day.
"I know," Chenle says, but there's something warm, warm, warm in his chest.
"Okay, so, let's try that again," Jisung says, "Maybe if you don't like looking at the camera, you can look at me instead. We're far enough that it'll be hard to tell exactly where you're looking in that case."
Here's what the next ten minutes look like — Chenle uses up his last batch of acacia flowers. Dip them in batter, slowly let them fry in the oil, right until they're separating, full and bloomed. Pull them out of the oil and slowly arrange them on the plate. Let Jisung take a close up. Lift the plate up and look into the camer— at Jisung. Take a bite, watch him smile. Smile back.
"Chenle, that was perfect!"
Break out of the daze. "Hm?"
"I got the perfect shot at the end. That contented smile and everything, you nailed it! I'm getting excited about how this is going to turn out."
Chenle'd forgotten about the camera that stood between them completely. "Perfect shot," he repeats, "Right, for your movie. That's great."
He texts Renjun after Jisung pops his headphones on and starts editing.
We need to talk.
RENJUN ASKS TO SEE THE FOOTAGE, ALMOST A WEEK LATER. He then slams Chenle with, "You look at him like you're in love with him."
"Huh?"
"It's clear you were looking at Jisung and not the camera here," Renjun says, and he's pointing at the screen where on-screen Chenle is frozen on a frame as he smiles after eating his fritter. There's something incredibly happy about the smile, something that reminds Chenle of the smile that you'd use to greet someone you're seeing after a very long time.
"Did you notice that because I biased you by asking?"
"No," Renjun says, firmly, "It's obvious as fuck."
"What does that mean?"
"What do you think it means?"
Chenle doesn't think much. He's going to have to, now.
"HOW DO YOU PLAN TO INCORPORATE FLOWERS, THEN?"
Chenle thinks of kongguksu. The clatter of ice cubes as he brings the bowl to the dining table from the kitchen counter. The fresh green of the cucumber noodles standing out starkly against the creamy white of the homemade soymilk. The three halves of cherry tomatoes on the top, not too sour but enough to break the taste. Colour looks good on plain dishes.
"Apple blossoms," he says, "They're in season right now too, and they'll add the perfect pop and colour and continue your motive."
"Motif," Jisung corrects. Chenle shrugs. Jisung smiles and scribbles into his little notebook. Chenle chances a peep — arrows that point to different framing ideas, short storylines to create the scene, chronologies scribbled at the top of the page. Chenle doesn't understand what it is that Jisung does. It doesn't matter, since he cares about what he does regardless.
"Why did you decide on me?"
Here's how the question should've been framed: Was it that you wanted to film food, and I was a convenient choice, or was it that you wanted to film me?
Jisung smiles. "You're a good cook."
Strike. "Why'd you decide to film about food, then?"
"You're a good cook."
Those were confusing answers. Jisung raises his eyebrow in challenge. Are you going to ask me what you mean to ask me?
"Oh," Chenle says, "I see." Coward. Jisung pushes off the couch and stretches his hands above his head. Chenle wonders if he's leaving.
"I got us tickets to the movies," he says, "It's in an hour and a half, so you should get ready."
Not leaving. "What genre are we watching this time? Noir? Satire? Crime fiction?"
"That new superhero movie you keep talking about," he says, stopping Chenle dead in his tracks. He'd spoken about it maybe twice in passing, when Jisung was engrossed in his clips and his editing. "Also got us a table at Paik's Noodles. Heard they're debuting a new menu, thought you'd want to try."
"Why do you know that?"
"Because it's you," he says, so simply, "I'll always be interested in the things you're interested in."
It's not that Jisung's not leaving. It's that Jisung's staying.
"JISUNG, I'M REALLY IN NO MOOD TO FILM TODAY."
Murphy's Law had made its presence glaringly obvious in Chenle's day today, like a series of unfortunate events. Upset professors, low grades, tripping over his feet, burning his hand on an oven tray. There's enough and more reasons for Chenle to be in a terrible mood.
"I—" Jisung pauses, moving from one foot to the other. His fingers, long and fiddly, wrap over each other nervously.
"What is it?"
"I really want to get it done today," he says, "So I'll have a week to wrap up the editing and submit."
Chenle looks at him, standing underneath the ceiling light, hair glowing white. In their dingy apartment, the shadows wrap around the walls in drear. But Jisung's in the light like this, bright like the moon, despite borrowing the light from the sun. He still lights up the dark.
"Winter, right?" Jisung nods. Chenle hasn't had the time to really think about what he was going to make for the winter, especially given the weather actually isn't anywhere close to winter at all. But then he's looking at Jisung, and he wonders why he's thought so hard, when the answer is obvious.
"Fine," he says, "Let's test out your peace of mind and act of love theory today, shall we?"
Jisung raises his eyebrow, and Chenle manages a smile. "You should get set up. I know what I'm making today."
There's a skill to making sirutteok — you can't add too much water. You can't let the beans overcook. Your rice flour can't be too sticky, neither can it be too runny. There's precision in it, one that requires focus. It calms Chenle down, bit by bit. Taking inventory — spinach for the green. Gardenia seeds for the flowers, slowly soaked in warm water to seep out the bright yellow in them. Carefully layering the coloured flours and bean paste on top of each other in the steaming basket.
Peace, check.
And about love—
"Do you know this was the dish that got me into cooking?"
Jisung looks surprised. "It is?" His camera's still filming the steamer sitting on top of the gas stove in the kitchen, and they're sitting on the small loveseat in the living room, knees pressed against each other.
Chenle smiles, pushing up to his feet and walking to the kitchen. The smell of sweet red beans wafts in the air, and he slowly circumvents the camera to lift the lid and push a toothpick in to see if the tteok is cooked through. It comes out clean, and he slowly takes it off of the heat, laying it upside down on a plate. The tteok comes out, perfectly round and even, and he steps back to let Jisung take his close ups and overhead shots.
He then cuts a piece out, and pulls Jisung into the frame. There's surprise in his eyes that makes Chenle smile, as he offers him the first bite.
"There was this kid I knew," he says, "Who loved red bean bingsu, but his mom didn't allow him to eat it during winters because of the cold."
Jisung stops chewing. "Chenle, is it—"
"You see, I couldn't bear to see him so sad, so I had to figure out a way to cheer him up. At the time, a warm red bean cake seemed like the best way to do it. I wonder if that's the case even now."
— well, he thinks he has the love part covered too.
"I FORGOT TO TAKE THE RICE OUT," Jisung says, somewhere midway through their third date. Chenle lifts his head from where he's leaning on Jisung's shoulder to look at him, a hamster caught in headlights, eyes wide. "You told me to get it out of the microwave when we were having lunch today, and I completely forgot. It must've gone cold by now."
Chenle laughs. They're sitting in a dark movie theatre, some gory horror movie that Jisung needs to watch for class playing on the screen, and Jisung's thinking about cold rice. But Jisung's always been one for the atypical. Chenle's not surprised.
"That's alright," he says, because it always is when it's Jisung, "I'll just make some cold kimchi mari out of it for our dinner, and it'll be as if you intended to do it after all." Jisung has that little sheepish lopsided grin on his face. Chenle's happy.
Because see, he's figured out, love's about making it work even when you aren't sure it would. It's about staying. It's about thinking, but not too much.
And it's worth the leap. Even if he has to whip up kimchi maris out of cold rice for the rest of his evenings. (Especially then.)