Work Text:
“My halmeoni won this place in a game of Godori a long time ago. Passed through the family.”
König and Horangi are not facing each other. They’re at the bar section of the restaurant, though it’s early enough that no one else is there.
There’s only a slight Korean girl on the other side of the counter, and the only attention she paid them was first a greeting, then briefly reeling at the size of König.
Both Horangi and König are maskless. It is a dangerous game, one that has taken them a long time to work up to. They don’t look at each other, carefully and deliberately.
The server— her name tag reading 문순, Moungsoon—comes bearing a large platter, lined with small dishes—the banchan. She places them on the table between them.
She is a new hire and Horangi doesn’t recognize her. He is careful to not come on the days his sister or father is working. He’s . . . building up to that.
He does, however, recognize the dishes. He holds his chopsticks in careful fingers as he reaches out to pick at one.
“How do you take spice?” he asks König, and he’s sure the other can hear his amusement.
König is slow when he answers, “Not well.” He knows how to use chopsticks—incorrectly, but Horangi won’t say anything about it—but he is careful and deliberate in his movements. “But I’m . . . willing . . . ”
Willing to try. That’s the agreement. That is what they’ll do for each other. Push into new territory, explore new things.
Both of them, as people, are scarred inside and out, and both have made home too long in their comfort zones. This is their leap of faith—or the beginning of it, at least.
“Oi muchim—or oi kimchi. Cucumber kimchi. It’s good—try.” He grabs a coin-cut wedge of cucumber out of its bath of fish sauce and rice vinegar, chili powder and minced garlic clinging to it. He deposits it on König’s plate as best he can without catching a glimpse of his face.
“Spicy?” König asks.
“No,” Horangi lies. He grabs one for himself and bites into it. The cool, refreshing taste of the cucumber and the tang and spice of the chili powder, red pepper, and chile oil brings him back to Pusan—back to sweltering summers taking back alleys with his sister, racing on their bikes to see who could make it back home faster.
He pretends the burning behind his eyes is due to the spice.
König makes a choking, coughing noise when he eats it, but is too polite to outright accuse Horangi of lying—even if they both know he did—and instead says in a thin voice, “It’s good.”
“Alright, tough guy,” Horangi says, laughing, and gestures to another of the banchan plates. “Radish kimchi is my favorite.” He hears König clear his throat again and feels just a tiny bit bad, though he can’t suppress his smile. “We can ask for some white banchan too. Not spicy.”
“No,” he says, though his voice is still strangled. He repeats, “No,” and reaches to take a piece of the radish kimchi Horangi had gestured to. “I like it. Thanks for taking me.” After a second, no sounds but their chewing, he finally asks, “Who owns this place now?”
“My abeoji. He—” he clears his throat, takes a swig of his water. He’s stalling—he knows he’s stalling—but this conversation is leaving a bitter taste in his mouth not even the tangy sweetness of the radish can drown out. “My nuna will take it over after.”
“Do you . . . get along with them?”
No. Not exactly. But yes. Time washed everything away—familial bonds, blood, tragedy. It was so much easier to pretend that that life had never happened.
He just says, “It’s been a long time.” Then, to distract, draws König’s attention to the menu, holds it between them. It’s an exercise in self-control to not steal a peak out of the corner of his eye, but he needs this. Needs König to trust him, needs to trust König. “Bulgogi and Kalbi are really good. Abeoji makes the best sauce.” He remembers it. Abeoji had bought a table-top grill and they’d cooked two pounds of bulgogi on it, ate until they couldn’t anymore. He’d bullied Horangi into trying some of the gamja-jeon even though he knew Horangi couldn’t stand potatoes.
“Or there’s bibimbap. Japchae. If you wanted—you know—not meat.”
Suddenly there’s a hand on his leg. It’s light, a presence barely even felt through his jeans, but Horangi’s mind clings tightly to the knowledge of it there.
König’s voice is soft, unsure—always unsure. Always hesitant, despite his size, his competence, his undeniable standing as a great human being. “What do you recommend?”
Horangi is never one to get flustered, though, so he doesn’t. “What are you in the mood for, gomdori?”
Horangi's sure König’s smile is hesitant, but it’s audible in his words when he says, “Why don’t we try everything?”
Which is how they ended up with a table ladened with bowls and plates, picking at anything that caught their interest.
Still they don't look straight at each other, but Horangi can see the hazy edges of red hair, a strong jaw. He’s sure König has seen him too, but with beer and soju between them, it doesn’t much matter to him anymore.
König is in the middle of pretending the green grape soju they’d tried isn’t atrocious, and Horangi is laughing and laughing and laughing and he isn’t even drunk—not drunk on alcohol, at least. Just this.
“It’s awful!” Horangi says, punching his arm. He doesn’t even have the good graces to pretend the hit affected him, just continues sitting there like an incredibly well-mannered rock.
“It’s not! It’s—it’s interesting!”
“Then drink more of it.” He offers him the bottle, one eyebrow cocked. “Go on. Chug. You like it so much, then finish it.”
König’s face is positively pained, but he manages to. Tips it back and lets it slide down his throat, the long column of his neck on display. Horangi can see the knot of his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, the sharp lines of his chin and jaw, the jagged scar tissue running like decoration along his skin.
He’s staring—even as he realizes it, he can’t stop himself. It’s a combination of this place and this person and all of the memories begging to be let out of their cage and his head is pounding and he’s either going to throw up or kiss König. He can’t decide which of them would probably gross him out more.
König makes a pinched face and wheezes, “Delicious.”
They both laugh, and the moment drags on forever and ever and ever and Hornagi sort of wishes he’d died on that boat in ‘94. At least then he’d know what drowning felt like; would have an experience to tie this feeling into. Because he is pretty sure he's drowning. Water lapping at his skin, pooling in his mouth. It slips down his throat before he realizes, and the salt stings every open cut Horangi hadn’t realized he’d had.
“Hong-jin?”
He’s spaced out, just sort of staring, and he can see König getting antsy. For a man who usually never has anyone look at his face, staring must be the worst. Horangi knows the feeling.
“Hm?” he asks. He blinks, hard, but it doesn’t really clear his vision. “Spacing out, sorry. What did you say?”
König is leaning close to him as if to check for injury or catch him if he falls, and the proximity is heady. "Are you alright?"
Any answer he might respond with will be a lie, so Horangi says instead, “There's one more Korean custom I haven’t shown you yet.”
König lights up, the bare edges of his white teeth shining. “Yeah?”
Horangi leans in, pauses just before their lips meet to look into König’s eyes. This close, they’re jade and emerald and growing things. They’re poison—a poison Horangi wouldn’t mind drinking down, if it felt just like this.
When they finally do kiss, it doesn’t last long. Just there and then over, like it’s common-place, like it’s as simple as the act of sharing a meal.
Hornagi clears his throat, finds he still doesn’t know what to say. Clears his throat again and says, “I’ll pay.”