Work Text:
The door looms in front of Cheol. It's scuffed, with chip marks on the green paint. The handle looks worn too, with dulling on the brass. Most of the marks are small, except for a long scratch near the bottom of the door that stretches from end to end. Each of them has its own explanation—it wouldn’t be a surprise if most of them trace back to Mi-ae.
Cheol rests his head on the door, almost touching the frame. He has to check on her. Mi-ae’s mother called him earlier asking to make sure she was alright, as she’d been sick the night before. It’s not that Cheol minds, but his timely escape from the Hwang home isn’t an assured thing. He can’t say he wasn’t relieved not having the kid follow him around and getting into trouble today.
His chest tightens, a vague hysteria building in his throat. In and out. Easy. He straightens up, releases a breath, and knocks on the door.
The TV that was playing goes quiet, and he can hear footsteps. The door swings open, Mi-ae holding its edge with her hand, swamped under a quilt. Her hair’s frizzed up and purple crescents sit under her eyes, but she looks like herself. Cheol’s chest tightens again.
Her eyes widen. “What are you doing here?”
“Your mom asked me to come check on you.”
She deflates, looking at the ground. “Oh. Come in,” She says, turning around and waddling back to her nest on the couch.
She’s acting like he forgot about a hang-out or something. Why would they? She’s sick. Does she want him to get sick too? It’s not like they could do anything together while she’s like this either. She’s so weird. Cheol steps inside, closing the door behind him.
“When’s the last time you had meds?”
A few moments pass. Cheol rolls his eyes and walks to the kitchen table. It has a prescription bag and a bottle of cold medicine inside.
“Hey, when’s the last time you—”
“This morning.” Mi-ae says, eyes on the TV.
Cheol drags a hand down his face, biting his tongue. He uncaps the bottle, listening to the TV play. It’s some cartoon he’s never seen before, but Mi-ae giggles at it once or twice, so it’s either funny or juvenile. He fixes a glass of water and brings it and the pills over to her.
He puts them down on the table, kneeling in front of Mi-ae. All her attention is on him now, the weight of her eyes pulling his gaze away from hers. She goes for the glass of water but he taps her hand—his fingers tingling—and puts it back down.
“Not yet. It’ll mess up the temperature.” He says.
She stares at him and nods. Ears burning, he grabs the thermometer and hands it to her.
Silence. It’s strange and feels wrong. Of course, she’s taking her temperature, but his ears should be bleeding by now. She should've babbled the entire time he was there; he should’ve had to tell her to be quiet so the thermometer would work. Panic constricts itself around him, his skin prickling. Is she upset with him? He’s said worse to her before and didn’t get this reaction. Is it because she’s sick?
The thermometer beeps, and Mi-ae holds it up for him to see. 38 degrees. She grabs the pills and starts to take them.
Right. She’s feverish. It’s stupid and egotistical to think that she's upset. Not everything is about him.
He stands. “I’m gonna go. Have you done your worksheets?”
“What?”
“Have you done your—”
“No. I mean why are you leaving?”
Cheol pauses. “Why wouldn’t I leave? I just came to check on you.”
Silence. Cheol starts to turn away.
“Wait.”
Cheol looks down at his wrist. Mi-ae’s grabbed his sleeve, and she’s looking at him with big, watery eyes. “Don’t leave.” She says. “Please.”
“I—”
“Please don’t leave me.”
Oh. He's a dumbass. Cheol looks away, his face on fire. “Okay.”
He sits down beside her on the couch, straight as a board. She grins at him for the first time since he’s arrived, a switch flipped. She starts telling him about the show playing on the TV, her favorite characters, why she likes them, and what’s happening in the current episode. He tries to listen, but it’s all muffled. The relief from her acting normal nauseates him, filling his head with air. Thank God.
“Can I play with your hand?” She asks, startling him. It seems her lack of shame is back intact too.
“Why?”
“Mom lets me do it when I’m sick.”
He rolls his eyes, sticking his hand out for her. “I’m not your mom.”
“You’re right,” She says, grabbing his hand and giggling, “you have way bigger hands than her.”
Cheol scoffs and she laughs again. She goes back to watching the show, adding commentary, and playing with his hand. He can’t focus on the show or anything she says, all his attention singles to his hand. She traces his lined palm with her fingertip, in no set pattern. She’s not thinking about it, or waging a game of psychological warfare against him. She’s playing with his hand. It’s sometimes hard to remember that she’s genuine, earnest. This is without motive.
His stomach flutters and the fingers in her grip twitch. Ticklish.
“Are you sure you're okay with this?” Mi-ae asks.
He looks at her. “I mean I guess.”
“It’s just that you were weird the last time we sat together like this.”
“What do you mean I was weird? You were the one who cornered me like a pervert—”
“I told you that was an accident!” She shouts, shaking his hand around.
“Whatever.” He says. “No, I don’t care. This is fine.”
She looks back at the TV. “Okay,” She says, “thanks. I know you don’t want to be here. I’m glad you are though. I really didn’t want to be alone anymore.”
“Yeah,” Cheol says, like an idiot.
She yawns, and her head tips, hitting his shoulder. The medicine must be starting to work.
She’s quiet now, and her hands warm him, and he smiles. “I’m glad too.” He says, quiet enough that the TV drowns him out.
Mi-ae’s hands tighten around his, and he sees her smile a little. Not quiet enough it seems.