Work Text:
A roadside alley, one downpour later:
The cobblestone path imprints streaks of water onto the soles of passers-by’s shoes, while the awnings stretching across the lane hang heavy with collected rainwater, awaiting the unlucky bastard who’s about to win a free shower.
Jaeyun sits in one of the shops along it. He bends over, flicking off the moisture that’s accumulated on his pant legs, watching the beads of water bounce onto the dry flooring. He’d come here to kill some time, wait out the rain, but now that the shower’s completely stopped, he’s reluctant to leave. His gaze sweeps across the floor, his glance landing on the silhouette seated on a high bar stool tuning an instrument. The man seems pretty tall, at least compared to the accompanists around him, and a guitar is balanced on his leg—if Jaeyun’s hazy knowledge of instruments serve him right—as he chatters on about whatever.
The largely empty pub is partially lit. Jaeyun guesses that the people busying themselves with putting together and setting up the small, narrow, stage are staff. Though, to call the space before him a stage would be an exaggeration. Rather, it’s a slightly elevated platform, really only ten or twenty square metres wide. Jaeyun watches the people continue fussing about. More precisely, he watches the guitarist fuss about.
The guitarist can afford to be more leisurely than the others, it seems, with his only duties being moving the stool up on stage and moving any unnecessary things off stage. Once he’s done, he sits on the stool, one leg on its footrest, the other on the ground. It, along with his fingers, taps along to a rhythm. Jaeyun has a feeling that his presence has been noticed when he finds, time and time again, the guitarist’s line of sight falling upon where he sits.
When they make eye contact again, Jaeyun raises the glass in his hand towards the man. He downs the drink with a gulp, puts on his earbuds, and leaves the shop, in his arms the flowers he had just bought.
They agreed to meet at night, at the mouth of the alleyway, by the entrance of the guesthouse there. There was indeed some distance between it and the hotel Jaeyun booked, but he’d come here on the pretence of a holiday anyways; even if he wasted his entire afternoon sitting around in a shop, who could say anything about it? He waits for six in the evening exactly, for the hooded figure, finally off work, to round the corner in a hurry. Jaeyun gives him the flowers, a cliche but, nonetheless, fresh bouquet of fragrant rose and lisianthus, that only receives a gasp of astonishment.
“Wanna grab something to eat?”
Despite making the offer, Jaeyun himself is a stranger to the area, familiar with neither its fine dining nor street food options. The friend before him, his friend with benefits, tugs him aboard a bus to another cramped alley, then to a shop thick with a vaguely savoury aroma where they seat themselves at a rickety, but freshly wiped, table still streaked with water stains. Jaeyun takes out some tissues to wipe it down again. It gets the table considerably cleaner.
Their postprandial exercise takes them back to the guesthouse. As the door swings open, the carefully wrapped flowers fall to the floor. Pushed against the wall, the man lets out a cautionary mutter to watch where you step, be careful of the flowers. Jaeyun kisses the side of his neck up to the corner of his mouth, gladly agreeing to the suggestion with a move to the bed, still embraced. His touch follows where heat goes, and the skin under his palm shudders.
“Jake… Jake…”
Right before he comes, for no reason he can summon, Jaeyun thinks of the lone glass he raised. He thinks of the translucent red liquid in it; while he can’t quite figure out the source of its beautiful tone, a similar hue tints the soft abdomen he faces in the red marks that have been left across it. It rises and falls, slowly, in his partner’s refractory period. Out of some dark curiosity, Jaeyun reaches out to pinch at it, earning a low cry.
So it hurts. Jaeyun lowers his head, soothing the area with licks of his tongue, deepening the colour of the reddened skin.
“Jake, how long will you be here?”
“Dunno,” Jaeyun straightens himself, taking off and knotting the condom with a practised hand. It’s tossed to the side. “I sought you out first, I should be the one asking how long you want me to stay?”
His wet fringe sticks to eyes that sting in discomfort. Jaeyun rakes his fingers through his hair, pushing it back. Like this, the two nude bodies lay back down onto the bed.
“If I don’t score anywhere else, how about we do this again?”
Jaeyun’s eyes flutter shut, a comfortable sigh escaping him.
“Yeah, of course.”
He takes the flowers with him when he goes. Jaeyun cleans up after, then leaves the guesthouse.
The route back to his hotel brings him past the joint he’d been at that afternoon. Unconsciously, Jaeyun turns to look inside. The storefront glass is plastered with decorative stickers. Standing a distance from the door, the continuous thrum of music reverberates outwards. He can already imagine the place being a hotspot for nightlife. As he turns to leave, the door opens, ringing the chime that’s been placed just outside it. The person who’s come out onto the street freezes for a moment upon spotting him.
It’s the guitarist from the afternoon. Jaeyun remembers, crystal clear. He’s still wearing the same outfit as he did earlier in the day: a hoodie paired with a denim jacket. He’s not carrying his guitar now, though, the instrument now swapped out for a phone, its screen lit up in what looks to be an incoming call. Jaeyun doesn’t really want to leave anymore, so he stands where he is; he surveys the flickering neon sign boards placed around the entrance, listening to the guitarist’s phone call.
Don't mind me. It’s not like he’s deliberately eavesdropping. With the few feet between them, Jaeyun would much rather hide away, but the snippets of the conversation he catches worm into his ear and root him to the ground.
“I’m not going back.”
“I thought you were clear on this as well, why are you still trying to force this onto me?”
It doesn’t sound like a particularly pleasant topic, Jaeyun thinks, sensing the unhappiness in the man’s voice as much as it’s been tempered by polite civility. Whoever’s on the other side of the call must be someone senior, with some kind of authority, judging from the tone of respect that’s been maintained throughout the unwilling exchange.
“Alright, I understand.”
“We’ll leave it at that, then.”
Jaeyun quickly busies himself with pretending to be absorbed in the advertisements in front of him, but, as simple as the words on them are, Jaeyun takes in none of it—he can feel a presence nearing him.
“I’ll treat you.”
A sudden loud voice by his ear snaps Jaeyun’s head round. The guitarist points at a sign propped up on the ground, “This, there’s a promotion, it’s really good.”
At this point, Jaeyun finally understands what he’s been staring at. All along, the gaudy signs have been touting a huge discount, the headline shilling some new mint-flavoured cocktail, while the eye-catching “NEW” adjacent to it is appended by a good number of exclamation marks.
The guitarist is one Park Jongseong. His live music guitar gig is just a side hustle. The slight tan to his skin takes on an indescribable lustrousness under the scattered rotation of multicoloured disco lights. As a glass filled with that new drink is served up, Jongseong asks whether Jaeyun’s here for leisure. Jaeyun nods.
“Yup, on holiday.”
“Solo travel? Or you’re here with a friend?”
Jaeyun shrugs, “Solo travel’s a very freeing experience; I mean, when else it is perfectly acceptable to spend a rainy day like this one just lying about in a hotel?” It sure beats sticking rigidly to a timetabled itinerary, hell bent on eking a fairytale ending out of terrible weather.
But, Jongseong asks, “Did you have a date today? You were holding those flowers in the afternoon.”
Good eye. The stage was pretty far from Jaeyun’s afternoon seat. One could easily miss it if they weren’t specially looking out for it. Now, Jaeyun is sure that all those glances Jongseong sent his direction were trained on him.
“Not a date per se,” Jaeyun offers up an evasive explanation, “met up with a friend.” He notices that Jongseong has ordered a drink too, the same as his; the drink holds a small mint leaf, suspended in a greenish base in the transparent glass. Jaeyun takes a sip. It’s okay, not exactly the type he’d usually order. Still, when Jongseong asks him how it is, Jaeyun is nothing but agreeable. Sure, he’s not being very honest, but his drink is on Jongseong, after all.
They don’t chat for much longer before someone comes up from behind with a tap on Jongseong’s shoulder and some whispered words into his ear. After listening to whatever the messenger has to say, Jongseong tells Jaeyun: “Sorry, I’ve got something to settle.” He gestures to the stage behind, to which Jaeyun expresses his understanding. Jaeyun’s eyes follow Jongseong as he takes his sweet time leaving the bar for the little platform where he settles himself and strums out a song that Jaeyun sways along to. A staff member finds Jaeyun pen and paper at his request. Some scribbles and a refreshing swig of his free drink later, Jaeyun sticks the note under the empty glass and leaves the place without so much as a look back.
That night, he receives a new friend request from a black cat, its neck craned as it gazes out of a window.
Jaeyun hadn’t planned to stay here long, but the local rainy season seems to have something against him, and it's left him waiting for the day that the skies will clear. He asks Jongseong if this is how the weather is usually like; Jongseong tells him through laughs that he’s just unlucky.
“If only it’d have been a week earlier.” A new message bubble pops up, mocking him, “Did you not check the weather forecast before coming?”
“When has it ever been accurate?”
“Right now,” Jongseong immediately replies. “Want to grab supper tonight?”
It’s a lot more initiative than Jaeyun expected of Jongseong. Perhaps, it was Jaeyun’s first impression of Jongseong as the man bent over a guitar, fully absorbed in tuning it that carried over into some assumption of him being some moody, quiet guy— which Jongseong was not. While he was indeed quiet while focused on his work, his typical state was that of a relentlessly carefree chatterbox with a speaking rate comparable to a bullet train.
“Nah,” Jaeyun lifts his head, looking over to the person beside him getting dressed and ready to leave. “Already got plans.”
“With the friend you gave those flowers to?”
“You still remember that? Does Jay want my flowers too?”
“Don’t spout bullshit,” Jongseong says. “If you have all that money, use it on something good to eat. Not like those flowers are edible.”
“I’ll bring some food over?”
The instant replies to Jaeyun’s messages stop there, and he sits up to dress himself.
Today’s dinner is settled at a roadside stall at his friend’s suggestion. Jaeyun slides the meat pieces off the skewer and into a disposable paper box, eating two cubes before he goes to the counter once again.
“This. Also, this. Two portions. Boxed up, to-go.”
Plastic bags secured on his wrist, a spiced smell wafts out of the boxes that swing about with every step Jaeyun takes. He cancels his previous hotel booking, choosing instead to arrange for his accommodation for the next few days to be at that guesthouse near Jongseong’s workplace. The front desk asks him how long he’ll be staying, Jaeyun pauses to think for a little bit. “One week.”
When he waltzes into the pub, Jongseong is on stage. The two dudes that had previously accompanied him, those lead singer-looking guys who would never let go of their microphones, are gone. A mic stand is instead set up next to Jongseong’s stool. It doesn’t take much for Jaeyun to figure that this is Jongseong’s solo performance, and he picks out an empty place to sit down. But, with how persistent the aroma from the boxes by him are, Jaeyun fears that if Jongseong doesn’t come down soon, the food will soon end up in his own stomach.
Jongseong sings a ballad. Jaeyun has never heard it; maintaining a traveller’s curiosity, he watches Jongseong’s fingers on the guitar. It’s a downtempo melody, not quite appropriate for a venue like this, but no one seems to mind. The song diffuses into the crowds and dissipates into a backdrop for conversations: whether it’s upbeat or easy listening, it wouldn’t make a difference to the patrons. Jaeyun slumps across the table and sends Jongseong a message.
“If you stay up there any longer, your food is mine.”
Naturally, Jongseong is too occupied to check his phone. With the conclusion of one song, Jaeyun thinks that the gig is over too, until Jongseong flips another page of the score and begins another; Jaeyun’s patience fizzles out there. The steam coming out of the to-go boxes have condensed by now, turning the plastic bag slippery. Jaeyun snaps a pair of chopsticks apart and starts eating his share. His phone in his free hand, Jaeyun is halfway through the food when there’s a knock to his head.
“Eating alone? Is that not what you left for me? Why are you the one eating it?”
Jaeyun lifts his head to see Jongseong standing beside him. “Eat, then. Eat.” He pushes the remaining half of the food towards Jongseong, who sits beside him and snatches the chopsticks from his grasp.
“You didn’t have dinner?”
“Nope.” Jongseong shakes his head, “Only got done in the afternoon. I had to cover someone last minute for tonight—something about a girlfriend’s birthday. Otherwise, I’d be resting at home.”
Jaeyun listens to him explain. He honestly doesn’t really care about whoever Jongseong's covering or the reason he's been saddled with the extra shift. He'd only tilted his head and asked the simple question of whether Jongseong had enough to eat. If he was still hungry, they could go out to eat again after his work.
“When are you done?”
“In a while.” Jongseong gathers the trash on the table, “There’s a PC cafe beside us. Go there if you’ve got nothing to do. Don’t take seats away from guests that actually want to come in.”
“I’m also a paying customer,” Jaeyun retorts in indignation. “I’m a guest, too.”
Jongseong stretches a hand out. “Sure, if you pay the cover.”
Jaeyun looks at the hand, then looks back at Jongseong, his eyebrows cocked in waiting for Jaeyun to fork out the cash, his face twisted into a punchable expression. He slaps the palm before him as hard as he can, eliciting matching gasps of pain from both men.
He doesn’t leave. Jaeyun merely shifts his ass, moving to the absolute corner seat. Looking out from this seat, a pillar perfectly blocks the view of the stage. Jaeyun yawns, orders some random drink, and then rests his head on his arms to take a nap. As early as he’d slept yesterday, it didn’t stop fatigue creeping up on him today.
Before he slips into unconsciousness, through the clamorous ambience, the faint twangs of a guitar cut through.
When Jongseong gets off stage, backpack slung over his shoulder, he surveys the sight before him: the bastard who said he’d wait for him to knock off so that they could eat a late night snack together, splayed on the table, face half-tucked into the circle of his arms, black rim glasses not even taken off, hell, the glasses and Jaeyun's eyes not even aligned anymore. He sits down next to the sleeping man, reaches over, and gives him a good hard rap on the head.
“Hurts…” His mouth opens before his eyes do. A hand pressed onto his forehead, Jaeyun slowly sits up, instinctively moving his neck around, “We’re going?” While asking this, his other hand reaches out for the half-empty drink, only to be stopped by Jongseong.
“Don’t drink that.” Jongseong pulls Jaeyun onto his feet, “Have something new.”
Jaeyun’s mind finally fully rouses thanks to freshly squeezed fruit juice. From some unknown source, Jongseong passes a cup into Jaeyun’s hand. Without blinking, Jaeyun’s hand tips a sip into his mouth. His face puckers with the sourness. Jongseong turns away with a furtive giggle, to which Jaeyun responds with a knee to the shin.
They come to a night market; they're supposedly incomparably lively once the sun goes down and a staple of the recommended itineraries that Jaeyun's seen online. However, he doesn’t find it too different from the average shopping district here or elsewhere other than the slight uptick in tourists at this market. But—he eyes Jongseong—the man beside him is like a fish in water, easily taking him through several loops of the place he seems to know like the palm of his hand. With two short sentences of the local language, Jongseong obtains a bag from a middle-aged man they face. His elbow links around Jaeyun’s forearm. “Don’t just stand there, carry these.”
In a daze, Jaeyun accepts two or three bags which he peers into to find soft, fuzzy, plush keychains. “Didn’t we come here to get food? How have I become your grunt?”
“Why would I waste free labour?”
“Why the need for these?”
“For the anniversary event at the pub.” Jongseong cranes his neck, pushing himself through the throngs of people. “The whole of next week. Make sure to come.”
Jaeyun has half a mind to make a comment about the lazy sourcing of gifts for this event but, amidst the crowd, rushing to catch up with Jongseong’s footsteps is hard enough to do as is.
“What about mine? Is there anything for me?”
“Yeah.” Jongseong doesn’t even turn around, pointing at some stall in the distance, “This suits you.”
Jaeyun turns to look. It’s an ornament of a black and white puppy, its tongue stuck out.
For the next two days, Jaeyun pushes every hotel invitation away, deflecting them with the excuse of not having slept well; and how is a person who hasn’t gotten enough sleep supposed to satisfy another? The voice on the other side of the line suddenly asks: “Jake, leaving already?”
No, no, no, not for now. The pub downstairs put up a poster last night, an ostentatious sign that shoved their promotional event into the face of anyone standing before their door, its sharp, fierce, typography partially the brainchild of Jongseong. Gazing out of the window, Jaeyun agrees through the phone that indeed, he’ll soon be off.
Jaeyun isn’t probed further, only receiving an acknowledgement and a disconnect tone. He lets out a breath, tosses his phone away, and lies back onto the bed. To call this a holiday is honestly a bit of a misnomer. All he’s really done is experience the services of different hourly hotels and waste a good couple of days hanging around this street. Yet, in any case, as much as this trip warrants the title of world’s most boring getaway, Jaeyun doesn’t feel like he’s leaving entirely empty-handed.
Another day passes, and Jaeyun deliberately strolls into the pub on a Tuesday. Jongseong is nowhere to be found. Patronage is sparse; a few people occupy corner tables for their hushed conversations.
“Don’t see you today.”
“I’ll be there at night.” Jongseong’s response is quick. “Have fun by yourself.”
That would completely defeat the purpose, then. Jaeyun’s lips jut to the side in a frown. He turns and leaves to return at about nine in the evening when he immediately spots Jongseong, at the usual seat he’s occupied the past few days, absorbed in typing something on his phone. Jaeyun leans over, Jongseong tilts his head up to look at him. An unobstructed view of the phone screen reveals a group chat, probably Jongseong’s main gig.
Messages outside of working hours, how inhumane. Though, that’s none of Jaeyun’s business. He takes the seat next to Jongseong. “When are you going up?”
“What, why?”
“So that we can support this generation’s greatest guitarist, Park Jongseong. Duh.”
“What for?” Jongseong laughs, “Not like my salary is dictated by my popularity. What do I get out of acting like some big star?” Jongseong finishes his water before going up on stage, and he’s a few steps from the table when a drink arrives for Jaeyun.
“From Mr. Park,” the staff handing over the glass explains.
Mr. Park. Mr. Park? It’s the first time Jaeyun’s ever heard someone call Jongseong by this name. More than just an air of politeness, there’s an air of formality, like Jongseong isn’t a guitarist at a pub but a cellist in a ballroom, impeccably suited, hair completely gelled back. Then again, it’s probably mostly to do with Jongseong’s disposition that Jaeyun doesn’t find it too difficult to reconcile this scene to the man. Nonetheless, the name that still seems to fit Jongseong best is Jay. It fits him like the hoodie and baggy jeans he never seems to go without, like the guitar and the pub he plays.
Jaeyun takes the chance to skim over the details of the establishment’s ongoing promotions. It’s an awful lot of text for what is essentially a raffle for a bunch of prizes. The more you spend, the greater the chance of winning; it’s a completely unoriginal idea. Jaeyun’s about to pull out his phone to tell Jongseong that it’s no wonder he’d bought those little toys, the event they were for was equally lame. But, Jaeyun is midway through typing when he hears a familiar voice float towards him from behind.
It’s the fuck buddy he hasn’t seen in a couple days; or, perhaps more aptly, the ex-fuck buddy.
Jaeyun isn’t too keen on seeing him after feeding him those lies, feeling haunted by some imaginary sense of responsibility owed to the story he cooked up. He doesn’t turn, and neither does he need to turn, to know that the man’s found a new friend. The tone of his voice is exactly the same as Jaeyun remembers from their meals together the past few days.
Whether it’s sheer fortune or misfortune, they sit right behind Jaeyun. The disco lights turning above him cast swirling colours over his glass, from yellow to blue to red to green, like some mocking signal. Still quiet, the music does little to drown out the conversation that drifts to his seat.
“Whatever you want to drink is on me. Even the most expensive one. It’s no problem.”
“Then I’ll take just that.”
A titter follows the reply. Jaeyun has no particular interest in listening to a fuck buddy flirt with someone else; even if he has been in situations similar to this one in the past, he hasn’t quite figured out how to maintain complete nonchalance. He glances at his phone. It’s almost ten.
Only looking straight ahead, Jaeyun makes a trip to the restroom. When he returns to his seat, a glass is extended to his table.
“Hi, Jake.” His ex-fuck buddy greets him in a tone that can be described as warm, “Jake, haven’t you already gone? Why are you still here?”
“Delayed a couple days.” Jaeyun clinks glasses with him, “Forgot to mention it, apologies.” Peripherally, he sees Jongseong rake a hand through his hair on a short break offstage. As Jaeyun prepares to get up and go to him, ending this awkward encounter on the way, he hears the man before him say, airily, “It’s okay. Anyways, Jake, you were so-so. No losses here, either.”
Jaeyun almost loses his cool. “I was so-so ?” He heard nothing of this sentiment after their first meeting. He tries, with some effort, to control his expression, ultimately forcing a laugh out of his throat. Spotting Jongseong close by, Jaeyun turns to wave him over.
Somewhat confused, Jongseong walks towards them. “What’s up?”
“Do me a favour.” Putting on a front of intimacy, he hooks an arm around Jongseong’s waist and whispers a few words into his ears. Then, Jaeyun raises the volume of his voice. “Babe, he says I’m bad in bed, do you have anything to say about that?”
From the way that Jongseong continuously tries to pry his head away from Jaeyun’s attempts to whisper to him, it’s clear that he is far from accustomed to the cadence of their lovers’ exchange. Jaeyun pinches his arm roughly.
Can’t you help? Can’t you? Jaeyun blinks. Jongseong's complexion has never been the fairest, but it darkens further in a flash. He sticks out an elbow, pushing Jaeyun aside. “Stay out of this.”
While entertaining thoughts of pouring his drink over him, Jaeyun turns, only to hear Jongseong tell the man: “Maybe you didn’t find the right position. He was pretty good under me.”
The blood coursing through Jaeyun’s entire body turns into ice. He looks at Jongseong. The man turns to look at him and shoots him a guileless gaze that might as well be an appeasing pat on the shoulder.
Now, he’s really going to throw his drink right in Jongseong’s face.
“What was that?” Jaeyun follows Jongseong out, halfway down the street. Jongseong turns around to ask him: “What, you want to go home with me?”
“All there is to do there is getting your ass… you know.” Jongseong slows his pace in front of Jaeyun. “Still coming?”
A guitar is slung over his right shoulder. Is this an actual invitation? The dim street lights blur any discernible expression on Jongseong’s face. Jaeyun runs his tongue over his teeth. Something suddenly comes to mind, and he barks out a laugh.
“Wanna get something on the way?”
Jaeyun’s plan is simple. He carries two bottles of alcohol; they’re not the drinks he’s used to, he’s opted for the hard, legit, stuff this time. From the observations he’s made over his time here, he can conclude that Jongseong is kind of a lightweight. It’s not like Jaeyun’s own tolerance is much better, but Jongseong seems to have less experience drinking. With the right amount of alcohol in their system, it becomes a matter of the less drunk one ending up on top.
But, he ends up losing the plot — when the moment he’s been awaiting arrives, when Jongseong is wasted past coherence, he realises himself that he, too, is completely out of it. So, their crap tolerances are evenly matched, Jaeyun thinks with a burp.
He asks Jongseong where the restroom is. Jongseong dips his head and points some direction further into his home. Jongseong’s residence isn’t big; past the connected living room and kitchen, divided by a partition, is a bedroom of sorts. Jaeyun rounds that corner. He doesn’t find a restroom, just a bed topped with a fluffy blanket. Before a single thought can formulate itself, he flops onto the bed and falls asleep.
The morning after unfolds like a scene of a comedy. Jongseong awakens on the sofa, finding one leg hanging off it, completely numbed by pins and needles. The pain from every brush against the ground forces him into a limp. Jaeyun is in a considerably better state, still in the clothes from the night before, slumped into the bed fast asleep. Jongseong pinches Jaeyun’s nose; the next breath the latter takes comes with a slap on Jongseong’s wrist.
“‘m sleeping!”
“It’s almost noon, get up.” Jongseong sits on the floor next to him, “You want anything to eat?”
Jaeyun mutters something that Jongseong doesn’t catch. “What?” He leans closer, only to be hit with the smell of alcohol before he hears a response.
It's a god-awful stench. Jongseong sighs. Naturally, he doesn’t smell much better. He attempts to clear the leftovers from last night. By the time he returns from throwing out the trash, Jaeyun’s slid down onto the floorboards where he stares into space.
“Awake now?”
Jaeyun neatens his hair a little, his face splitting into a dumb grin: “Awake.”
“Do you remember what happened last night?”
“Drank too much.” Jaeyun stands up, “I didn’t get anything out of this. Neither did you.” It’s even between them. Jongseong goes into the kitchen to cook something up, Jaeyun sits by the table, waiting, his phone propped up on the table. When Jongseong asks him what he’s looking at, Jaeyun says that he’s looking at flight tickets back.
“Something came up, I gotta go back soon.”
“Is it work?”
“Yeah.” Jaeyun’s face suddenly peeks out from behind his phone, “Jay, wanna come with me?”
“Why?” Jongseong asks with interest.
“Is anything going on between you and your family?” Jaeyun tries to put it as tactfully as he can, “If you come with me, there’s no need to go back.”
Oh, Jaeyun realises. He hasn’t mentioned where exactly he’s going back to. But, his chance at clarifying himself is dashed with Jay’s reply of “I’ll think about it.”
Looks like it must be a pretty bad situation with his family, Jaeyun thinks, though he doesn’t say a word.
“Just relax, if you’re coming with me, I won’t let you go hungry.” Jaeyun guarantees with absolute confidence.
A few days later, on the desk in Jaeyun’s room, there sits a new addition: a black and white puppy with its tongue stuck out.