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Jungwon wonders what it was like for the first person who cooked food. Did they cook for themselves, as a means for survival? Or did they feed a loved one first? A loved one that sits quietly to the side as they watch you work your magic and put the purest corner of your heart onto a plate for them.
Maybe the first bite of cooked food humanity took was an act of love. And maybe cooking food for someone you love and giving them the first bite has always been a love language.
🍊
Jay’s been taught from a young age the proper way to peel an orange. To score gentle lines into the rind with a knife, to shave off the peel with precision as it winds around the fruit in a spiral and leaves a ribbon of orange that unfurls on the kitchen counter.
Then, carefully breaking off each piece with the pads of his fingers and arranging them neatly in a circle, lining the walls of the bowl. It’s a clinical process, surgical, almost. Because each wedge has to break off in the exact same size, and the thickness of the ribbon peel should be even the whole way through. Jay’s mom had explained to him that it was a form of respect for your food, that you should treat it with the utmost care. Because it feeds you.
So when Jay walks out of his room one afternoon in 2021 and the tell-tale citrusy tang lingers throughout the dorm, a feeling of home washes over him. It’s something between yearning and guilt and familiarity. Or a mix of all three.
Jungwon’s hunched over the kitchen counters, with his back towards Jay and his shoulders trembling. Jay’s heart plummets to the bottom of his stomach for a split second, before Jungwon spins around with an exasperated sigh and a war-ravaged, mutilated orange rolls across the countertop and stops at the base of the knife block.
“This is crazy,” Jungwon shakes his head and looks at the lone orange on the counter. “Whoever made oranges this hard to peel must hate me or something.”
Jay walks over to Jungwon’s side and picks up the orange, dropping it back into Jungwon’s hands.
“Could you try again?”
“I already have!” Jungwon points to the crescent-shaped welts littering the expanse of the rind and the countless puncture holes. “I just can’t seem to do it like how they do in the movies.”
Jay watches as Jungwon works through the orange with grubby hands and knitted brows. Watches as Jungwon’s fingers pierce right through the peel, and juice splatters on his face and across the countertop.
“Hyung, do you know how to peel oranges?”
“I think I know a thing or two about peeling them.”
Jungwon drops the orange into Jay’s palms delightfully and watches with his chin propped up. Jay’s cradling the orange like a mother would carry her newborn, like an angel would cradle a fallen star. So full of tenderness and love, Jungwon thinks oranges must hold some sort of a special meaning for him.
His eyes widen as he observes the way Jay transforms into a surgeon of sorts and gets to working on the orange. The knife slides beneath the rind in one smooth motion and before Jungwon knows it, there’s a nice, long orange ribbon on the table before them, albeit slightly torn and wrecked by Jungwon.
It looks beautiful, though. Like a work of art, like everything’s been done with so much care and attention. Jungwon thinks it’s almost like a superpower Jay has, to turn whatever he touches into something so tender and loving and sweet.
“Hyung, you’re amazing!” Jungwon pops a wedge into his own mouth and another into Jay’s. “I hope I learn how to do it as well as you, one day.”
Jay is grateful everyday that Jungwon can’t peel oranges, because with everything that Jungwon’s done for him, he knows this is the one thing he’ll always be able to do for the younger boy.
So Jay hopes Jungwon never learns how to peel oranges properly.
Love is stored in the orange Jay peels and shares with Jungwon. In the neat orange ribbon, in the juicy, tangy flesh and in the sticky, sweet residue that stains Jay’s hands. The juice’s like sunlight that spills all over his hands, sunlight that he can’t wipe away.
Jay’s hands are daylight all through the night, and he waits until they both go to bed to wash it off in the sink.
🍊
Growing up, Jungwon had big dreams smushed into that tiny brain of his. You’d think big dreams like having a mountain of gold, catching Santa climbing down their chimney or being able to talk to the birds on the sidewalk. No, Jungwon had bigger dreams.
Big dreams of a Henri Charpentier Cake in his fridge. More specifically, the one with fresh whipped cream piped round the cake like Chantilly lace. The one with big, glossy strawberries up top and layers of moist, chocolate cake within.
When Jungwon said the Henri Charpentier cake was on his lifelong wishlist, something he’d die for, he wasn’t exaggerating at all. He’d spent way too many visits to the local mall with his nose pressed up against the glass displays, adorned with gold accents and delicate floral motifs.
The air’s infused with a refined sweetness of sorts, way too saccharine and nauseating, but all Jungwon can think about is the little gold-plated price tag that sits in front of the cake. Sometimes, Jungwon wishes they had a strawberry cake stocked in their refrigerator at home every week. Just in case they had guests over to their house.
Just in case, one day, they had a house big enough to accommodate guests.
When Jay comes home one day with a Henri Charpentier cooler bag in tow, it takes everything in Jungwon to not sink to his knees and sob.
“Guys, I got a little something to celebrate our first ever music show win!” Jay lowers the bag onto the dining table gently and slides the cake box out. Everyone in the dorm gathers round like preschoolers watching a chick in an incubator. “It’s not anything special, but I thought it was really pretty.”
It’s the same cake that’s been etched into Jungwon’s mind for a good chunk of his life. The same cake that’s always sat behind glass like an unattainable indulgence, a luxury he’s admired from afar all these years.
“No way! I used to get their bakes all the time with my family.” Jake chimes in as he studies the whipped cream circling the cake. “Still as beautiful as ever.”
Jungwon feels a faint pang twist through his stomach, but he smiles along with the others as Heeseung heads off to the kitchen to grab cutlery.
Jay knows something’s up when Jungwon doesn’t react to the cake like how he normally would. He’d be the first one to open up the cake box, the first one to dole out slices to each and every member, the first one to wipe the cream off his lips with a satisfied hum.
“Jungwon-ah? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing…” Jungwon’s gaze lingers on the cake, even as everyone eagerly plunges their forks into their slices and devours with delight. Even as the dorm buzzes with sweetness and celebration in the form of delighted chatter and applause.
The cake’s right in front of him now. It’s real, it’s cut up and Jungwon can finally see the insides of it for the first time in his life. It looks just like the illustration displayed beside it in the glass case so many years ago.
Velvety layers of chocolate cake sandwiched between decadent swirls of ganache and cream. The same Chantilly lace-like whipped cream and the red, juicy glossed-over strawberries. The only difference is that the chocolate plaque, once empty, now sits at the very top with neat writing.
축하해요EN-! (Congratulations, ENHYPEN!)
This feeling that lingers in Jungwon’s heart, it’s like a bittersweet hesitancy. Years of yearning for just a taste of the sweet, fresh cream and the moist cake. The cake’s more than just a cake to Jungwon at this point. It’s like a tangible reminder that tells him that he deserves good things in life, that he deserves to taste fresh cream and sweet strawberries. That he deserves to eat well.
Jay cuts a tiny piece from his own slice and feeds it to Jungwon with a tender smile. He doesn’t even hesitate, just offers Jungwon bite after bite until the entire slice is gone and what’s left are hot tears down Jungwon’s cheeks.
“You get to have it now, Jungwon-ah.” Jay wipes at the tears forming at the inner corners of Jungwon’s eyes, wipes at the cream he’s gotten on his lips. “It’s all for you.”
“But, how?” Jungwon sniffles in between sobs. What did Jay mean when he said Jungwon gets to have it now?
“We walked past a Henri Charpentier store the other day and I noticed you lingered on this particular cake longer than the others.” Jay smiles as he takes another bite of his slice.
Jay won’t mention to Jungwon the tiny photograph he’d accidentally stumbled upon while cleaning up the dorms. Won’t mention the way Jungwon had looked into the camera, with so much joy and bliss on his face as he posed next to the strawberry cake behind the glass case.
Jay doesn’t mention a lot of things. Jay thinks a strawberry cake is enough.
And it’s funny, because sharing food goes against every evolutionary principle of survival out there, but still, every time Jay brings home a slice of cake for himself, he thinks about giving Jungwon half of it.
“Jay-hyung, you feed me so well, you know?"
🍊
It’s not supposed to happen this way.
Jungwon curls up into a ball under the covers and lets the tears flow. Tears of anguish and betrayal and quite possibly guilt.
Jay shouldn’t have gone on stage tonight. Jay shouldn’t even have felt the need to go on stage tonight. It’s all so wrong and so fucked up, Jungwon thinks he might implode. From anger or from remorse, he can’t quite tell anymore.
Jungwon knows Jay loves powering through the pain. He knows Jay hates to be on the receiving end of it’s okays , hates to hold himself back from what he loves doing most. Being on stage. Dancing and singing his heart out on stage.
But it’s a different story when Jungwon finds out Jay’s knee isn’t completely healed. And he’d only found out because he’d eavesdropped on a conversation between him and their manager.
So when the concert ends and confetti rains from the ceiling, bathing the group in the luminance of a thousand glittery lights, the two of them are first to close their eyes. A trick they’d learned in tandem months ago. Because closing your eyes just before the lights go out allows your vision to adjust much quicker to the dark.
The lights eventually go out with a dull boom, and Jungwon opens his eyes back up to see Jay giving him a wry smile from the other end of the line. It hurts Jungwon when Jay starts limping to the side of the stage and ends up crumpling into an empty, waiting chair in a heap of exhaustion, sweat and adrenaline, above all.
Jungwon watches as staff members tend to Jay and rage starts bubbling under his skin. No human should have to suffer to make others happy, no one should feel compelled to do such a thing. It just doesn’t make sense to Jungwon.
How much love must one hold within themselves to endure even the most profound pain? When each step on stage carries the weight of the world but the smile on his face never falls, not even for a second. Jungwon wonders how much love Jay holds in his heart, wonders how he turns that palpable agony into something that’s so beautiful and genuine for those whom he loves.
“Jungwon?”
His voice is muffled from behind the door, but even as Jungwon’s curled up into his sheets, he hears it loud and clear in his heart.
“Come in.”
Jay nudges the door open and steadies a tray in his hands. There’s a plate of piping hot curry rice, topped with a deep fried pork cutlet that smells so good, Jungwon wants to stick his head out from beneath the covers like a cat attracted to a Churu treat. But he can’t, because he’s supposed to be mad at Jay. He’s supposed to be all sorts of angry at Jay for making such a rash decision and risking so much of himself.
Jungwon can’t find it in himself to be mad at Jay. He just can’t. Jay’s standing in the doorway with one knee swaddled in layers of tape and bandages and suddenly Jungwon feels like sobbing into his shoulder.
“Here,” Jay lowers the tray onto Jungwon’s nightstand and sits on the edge of the bed. If Jungwon notices Jay wincing as his knees bend, Jungwon doesn’t let it show.
“Huh?”
“Pork Katsu Curry.” Jay says softly. “You should get out of bed. Eat it while it's warm.”
So your stomach won’t hurt when you end up having it cold.
Jungwon wants to complete the sentence for Jay, but realizes nothing comes after that. Jay simply purses his lips and looks down at him.
Jungwon thinks Jay should just learn to apologize. They’d give each other the cold shoulder and make every possible attempt at denying whatever that’s happened. Jay would sit next to Jungwon on his bed and say in the softest voice, “Are you hungry?”, and Jungwon would say, “Yes, let’s have something nice together, hyung.”
Except, Jungwon doesn’t actually say any of it out loud. Instead, he looks down at the sheets and gives Jay a low hum of approval.
He doesn’t say anything now, but he thinks later, he will.
🍊
Jay knows that he loves Jungwon when he starts catching himself daydreaming about making grocery lists together. Rinsing tangerines in the sink as Jungwon hugs him from behind. Knowing the exact kind of furikake Jungwon likes in his rice and his soup.
He likes shiso furikake the most, the one with red perilla leaves and bits of seaweed. Because when sprinkled onto his rice, transforms his bowl into a mini garden of wildflowers. Jungwon thinks it’s cute, and eventually, Jay does too.
Jay will carefully fold and press and sculpt each dumpling, peel oranges with the deftness of a surgeon, and make Jungwon whatever he likes to eat. Like the Jingjiu Pork Ribs he had when they’d visited Qingdao, or the Nasi Goreng he’s grown to love ever since they visited Jakarta. Even that burrito Jungwon had gotten from Chipotle in the States. He remembers every single ingredient by heart.
Jay is happiest when people eat. It’s his love in its purest form. A love that stretches to the ends of the world and runs deep like the oceans. He’ll make food for Jungwon for the rest of his life, if Jungwon would like it. Every morning, every afternoon, every evening, and every night. Seconds, thirds, hell , even fourths. Food from every imaginable corner of the world, all made by hand because it tastes so much better when it’s made by Jay.
I love you, Jungwon-ah.
I want us both to eat well.