Work Text:
There’s a grey porcelain bowl in front of him, a note stuck to its base: with special compliments from the chef.
In it, is a revelation. Pork back-bone in golden-brown broth, misshapen potatoes, tempting half-glimpses of sesame seeds. The humble gamja-tang, flooding his tongue with its richness, turning this half-forgotten countryside restaurant in Eastern Gyeonggi into something miraculous.
Wonwoo looks up, and it’s immediate, the curious eyes on him - every single patron crammed into the tiny establishment staring at him like he’s some kind of alien. And maybe he is, in his carefully-starched dress shirt, his rolex watch, his expensive car parked in the driveway. Maybe he is an anomaly in this modest countryside town, reeking a little too much of urban disillusionment.
But there’s another pair of eyes too, far more forgiving of Wonwoo’s alienness, far more inviting.
The owner of those eyes has his long, dark hair pulled up in a ponytail, his bright-blue chef’s apron streaked with oil imprints and angry-brown stains. But the strength of his (surprisingly muscular) arms are in glorious display as he balances three loaded trays simultaneously, sets one of them down at a nearby table with a murmured, “Enjoy your lunch, halmeoni, I added extra mackerel to your order, just how you like it.”
But his eyes flit back to Wonwoo, to how Wonwoo is carefully picking apart the pork bones, to the increased slackening of Wonwoo’s jaw in response to every mouthful of broth he swallows.
And Wonwoo doesn’t know what to do with it. With the aforementioned special compliments the chef has sent his way, with the sizzling pork bones on his tongue. With Kim Mingyu, the chef in question, the scruffy, ponytailed wielder of trays in question, whose eyes remain transfixed on Wonwoo.
Wonwoo gulps down another bite of pork, hoping that the reddening of his cheeks isn’t too obvious. But maybe it is, because in the very next moment, those muscular arms are setting down a tray on his table too - a series of side dishes that Wonwoo is sure he didn’t order. Kim Mingyu's ponytail sways in the late-summer breeze as he bends to whisper, “I hope you’re enjoying your lunch, Wonwoo-sshi.”
And.
This too, is a revelation.
The way Wonwoo’s heart flutters (even though fluttering is the very last thing his heart should be doing at this moment), the way the red in his cheeks deepens, the way his fingers wobble around his chopsticks as he manages a nod.
Maybe Wonwoo has bitten off more than he can chew.
—
“So, let me get this straight,” Mingyu leans forward, eyes glittering under the Gyeonggi-do moonlight, errant strands of hair coming loose from his ponytail, “You’re writing an article on me? Me of all people?”
It’s late, far too late for Wonwoo to be working, to be interviewing the subject of his next profile, but he's had no choice. Mingyu closes only after eleven pm, and Mingyu is free to talk only after he closes, only after the last of the good-natured, half-tipsy patrons have trickled out and the restaurant lights have dimmed from bright-yellow to muted-orange.
Mingyu is a one-man miracle - cooking, cleaning, serving, managing front-of-house all on his own. Some locals occasionally drop by to give him a hand, to help portion the meat and vegetables, to help navigate customers, but Mingyu is still at the centre of it all. The sole proprietor of this modest establishment, brimming with incorrigible sincerity.
And so, Wonwoo waits. Waits until dinner service is over, until Seokmin - the owner of the local peach farm, who dropped by earlier to help with dinner service - takes his drowsy leave. Until the hum of it all dies down and Mingyu finally settles at an empty outdoor table opposite Wonwoo, top-buttons of his shirt undone, sliding a bottle of grapefruit soju towards him.
"You're an interesting person, Mingyu-sshi," Wonwoo replies, a little mesmerised by how the errant strands of Mingyu's hair are now curling over his forehead, beads of sweat glistening on his bare collarbones, "A world-class chef, trained at a French culinary school, with experience working in Seoul's best michelin star restaurants. Yet here you are now, selling pork back-bone stew in the middle of nowhere."
For a prolonged moment, Mingyu is quiet, his face passive, his eyes unreadable, taking a liberal swig from his own half-empty bottle of grapefruit soju.
Wonwoo gets the sneaking sensation that he’s under the microscope, that he’s being prodded and turned over under Mingyu’s unwavering gaze. That the verdict of such an investigation means everything, will determine everything.
But perhaps, that verdict isn’t quite so unfavourable. Perhaps, Mingyu finally cracks Wonwoo open like raw shellfish, pierces past the flesh and bones of him, because, in the next moment:
He's smiling, tinged with amusement, but also a flash of something else that Wonwoo can’t quite unravel.
"And what about you, Wonwoo-sshi?" Mingyu counters, his voice both playful and inquisitive, "Critically-acclaimed author of five bestsellers, two-time winner of the Seoul Literary Fiction Prize. What are you doing here, in a restaurant in the middle of nowhere, writing an article on a chef way past his prime?"
The soju is cold on Wonwoo's tongue, even if midsummer heat prickles at the back of his neck, clings to his skin like toffee. His veins threaten to burst, his heart stammering and stuttering, but-
But Kim Mingyu continues to smile, and it's inquisitive, it's amused, but it's also-
Kind.
Mingyu’s question isn’t a retaliation, isn’t an accusation, but rather - an even further breaking open of Wonwoo, done with more care and compassion than ferocity.
And this, too, is a revelation.
Wonwoo finds himself smiling back, finds himself leaning forward, eyes coasting over Mingyu’s bare collarbones again, over the glimpses of bare chest underneath those damned undone top-buttons.
"Looks like we both did our homework, huh?" is all Wonwoo can offer, though the roaring of his pulse isn’t half as smooth as his voice sounds.
Mingyu's smile widens by an inch, more strands of hair escaping his ponytail as he veers even closer, breathtakingly close. "Not all things are mere homework, Wonwoo-sshi."
And.
Something lurches in the pits of Wonwoo's consciousness - a distant, almost foreign emotion that he hasn't felt in decades.
Mingyu's eyes continue to glitter underneath the pale Gyeonggi-do moonlight, in this deserted, tiny restaurant in the middle of nowhere, and-
"Would you like to come upstairs with me?" Mingyu offers, and it's like a magnetic pull, unmistakable heat flickering in the tug of his lips, his glittering eyes heavy with suggestion.
Wonwoo lurches, inwards and onwards, clambering to reach for that magnetism, to be able to bathe in it, to hold something glittering in his palms.
"I-I'd like that." It spills out before Wonwoo truly knows what he's doing, can parse out the consequences of the words.
But he's well past rational decision-making now, soju unfurling in his stomach, the gravitational force of Mingyu's smile unavoidable.
Without further preamble, Mingyu glides out of his chair, straightens his collar, holds out a hand for Wonwoo to take.
Wonwoo's ascent from his own chair is far less graceful, feet nearly tripping over an undone shoelace. But there it is, anyway - Kim Mingyu's eagerly extended hand, midsummer-warm under the pale Gyeonggi-do moonlight - and Wonwoo is spellbound. Utterly, completely.
He takes it, pulse deafening in his ear, legs trembling with equal parts nervousness and anticipation.
He holds something glittering in his palms.
—
Upstairs is a cosy two-bedroom apartment, lined with shelves of cookbooks, with a surprisingly giant living-room couch, with an open kitchen that looks as unconditionally loved as it is crowded with utensils.
There is also a resounding bark, followed by an equally insistent mewl, with twin pairs of claws tugging at Wonwoo’s dress pants. Mingyu’s responding giggles brim with delight, bending down to scoop up both an absurdly tiny white puppy and a tabby cat nearly twice the puppy’s size, “Bopbul-ah, Goyangi-yah, say hi to my new friend Jeon Wonwoo-sshi.”
Wonwoo doesn’t know which of the three turns his stomach upside down - the jubilant wagging of Bopbul’s tail, Goyangi’s low, content purr, or the warmth Mingyu infuses into the my new friend, his voice getting softer around the words.
But Wonwoo hardly has a chance to dwell on it, hardly has a chance to even properly marvel at the interiors of this upstairs apartment, because in the very next moment, Bopbul and Goyangi have both darted out of Mingyu’s arms. In the very next moment, those very arms - infinitely muscular, infinitely glorious - are caged around Wonwoo’s waist, are propelling him into one of the two cosy bedrooms, are tackling him into the mattress.
Kim Mingyu’s lips are relentless on Wonwoo, devouring the contours of his mouth, of the slope of his chin, swooping downwards into the folds of his neck, into the valleys of his shoulders. Wonwoo can barely breathe, can barely summon up even a single smidgeon of coherent thought and emotion, can barely do little else but offer Mingyu complete access, letting Mingyu’s hands absolutely mutilate his dress-shirt, now eagerly hovering over his bare nipples.
“Fuck,” Wonwoo whimpers, his cock already half-hard, his hips already buckling upwards to collide against the crest of Mingyu’s knee, “Fuck, Kim Mingyu.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Mingyu smiles, as resplendent as he had smiled underneath the moonlight - even if his lips remain on the circumference of Wonwoo’s nipples, culling shivers out of Wonwoo’s entire being. “Or perhaps, trying to get you to do it to me?”
Mingyu’s own hardness is palpable, is curled against Wonwoo’s abdomen, its weight insurmountable - yet another revelation Wonwoo doesn’t know what to do with, doesn’t know how to unscramble.
(Or perhaps he does. Perhaps he has known from the minute he walked into the tiny countryside restaurant, from the minute he was offered special compliments from the chef.)
Wonwoo is disentangling at the seams like never before, his fingers buried into Mingyu’s scalp - ponytail already having come undone, unruly strands of hair now everywhere, tickling at the goosepimples that coat every inch of Wonwoo’s skin.
“I can’t believe you named your cat…cat.” God, Wonwoo is embarrassing, deliriously hard and gasping for breath, his brain short-circuiting, all capacity for rational thought destroyed. He can only latch on to the silliest of details, give in to trivial flights of curiosity.
“If that’s what you’re choosing to focus on, maybe I’m not doing a good enough job here.” Mingyu chuckles (teeth now scraping against Wonwoo’s belly button), the sound reverberating across Wonwoo’s very bones, sending every last synapse tumbling into chaos. His hands travel down to the fly of Wonwoo’s trousers, brushing against the erection tenting it. “Maybe you should take over.”
Wonwoo knows it’s just banter, just sweet nothings whispered into his skin as an aftermath of their shared want, this temporary eagerness for release. It doesn’t hold weight or meaning, it doesn’t hold its shape outside of this cosy upstairs bedroom of a tiny, ramshackle Gyeonggi-do restaurant, and yet, yet-
And yet. Wonwoo doesn’t know what it is. Perhaps, this, him finally holding something glittering in his palms, finally swimming to shore after almost an eternity of being lost at sea. Perhaps it’s the stammering and stuttering of his heart, or perhaps it’s the loss of all rational, coherent thought, and-
With lightning-fast agility, Wonwoo has turned them around, Mingyu now caged against the mattress, Wonwoo’s knees straddling his thighs, their twin erections rammed against each other with an identical brand of desperation. Wonwoo’s dress-shirt is mutilated - half-torn, half-undone - his fly glaringly open, and Mingyu’s shirt is unbuttoned too, beads of sweat still glistening on his collarbone, dishevelled long hair haloed against the pillow. His smile, however, continues to remain resplendent, even if it’s glittering with something else entirely - a recklessness that makes the blood rush to Wonwoo’s cock with even more alacrity.
Mingyu chuckles again, and the sound is delectable, like the scalding fire of Mingyu’s eyes, like the scent of sandalwood that surrounds him from head to toe, like the restlessness of his hands as they trace Wonwoo’s back. Wonwoo crumbles, it takes him all but a second to crumble.
“I’m breaking, like. Fifty different codes of professionalism right now,” it comes out more strangled than Wonwoo intends it.
But Wonwoo can’t get enough, can’t help but punctuate the confession with a blistering kiss, with hands discarding Mingyu’s shirt for good, caressing the tautness of his biceps, of his stomach, of all the glorious muscle Wonwoo has been aching to touch since afternoon. “I shouldn’t be fucking the subject of the article I'm writing.”
"But do you want to?" Mingyu’s smile is still resplendent, but the fire in his eyes only intensifies, a near-dangerous edge to it. "Do you want to fuck the subject of your article?"
"Yeah," Wonwoo's answer is embarrassingly immediate, punctuated with another strangled moan against the curve of Mingyu's chin, "God help me, but yeah. Yeah."
“What are you waiting for then?” Mingyu lips find Wonwoo’s for what seems like the millionth time that night, and Wonwoo crumbles, Wonwoo holds something glittering in his palms.
As he grabs a condom from the bedside drawer, puts it on with trembling hands, as Mingyu stares up at him with equal parts tenderness and indomitable hunger, Wonwoo forgets.
Wonwoo forgets his curiosity around Mingyu's cat-naming choices , forgets every line of questioning he’d practised before driving to Gyeonggi-do, forgets, that he’s breaking fifty different codes of professionalism right now, that Mingyu is his subject, his interviewee.
But maybe he was already past the point of no return, biting off far more than he could ever chew.
—
“You're staying at the traveller's lodge in Sanmeong-ro, right?" Mingyu mumbles only later, half-sleepy, lips snagging against the dips of Wonwoo's earlobe.
The sheets are soiled between them, Mingyu's bare chest heaving as it envelops Wonwoo's back, arms languidly scaling the length of Wonwoo's torso.
They're both spent from the magnitude of their orgasms, Wonwoo still trying to catch his breath, trying to muster up coherent thinking. But he can't help it, when even the most innocuous of Mingyu's touches feel like his veins being lit ablaze, when even this - just a whisper against his earlobe - feels like impending destruction.
"How'd you know?" is all Wonwoo can muster up in response, trying not to fixate on how Mingyu's dishevelled hair is now tickling his neck.
"It's a small town, Wonwoo-sshi," Mingyu smiles, gentle, ever-resplendent. "Everyone knows everything."
What else do you know? Wonwoo wants to ask, his heart stammering and stuttering all over again. What else do you know about me? What other homework have you done on me?
But instead, he lets impulse take over. He turns around - soiled sheets sticking to his skin just the slightest bit - swooping in for a sloppy, unpractised kiss. Mingyu smiles into the kiss yet again, warm, so breathtakingly warm, his hands on Wonwoo's waist unrelenting.
"Stay with me instead," The words are nearly weightless as they are exhaled against Wonwoo's lips, like something out of a dream.
"Wh-what?" Wonwoo struggles to process the offer, struggles to keep his stammering heartbeat in check.
"The ahjumma who runs the lodge overcharges tourists. You'll be paying double than what a room out here should actually cost," Mingyu emphasises the words with kisses to the bridge of Wonwoo's nose, to the expanse of his cheek, to right underneath his eye. "Stay with me instead. Observe me in my natural habitat while you write about me."
Wonwoo can barely stifle the embarrassing noise at the back of his throat, can barely resist yet another opportunity to hold something glittering in his palms. Yet another revelation he doesn't know what to do with.
"You're sure?" Wonwoo hates the way his voice cracks around the edges (and yet, he can't really muster up the energy to care, can't really focus on anything apart from Kim Mingyu's eager hands and lips), "It might…take me weeks to write and research and-."
Mingyu drowns out the rest of that sentence with another kiss, this one to the corner of Wonwoo's bottom lip, perhaps a little more insistent than the rest of his kisses.
"Lucky I have a spare bedroom, then."
—
December 13, 2022
Notes by Jeon Wonwoo
Bopbul - name of Kim Mingyu's restaurant - also the name of Kim Mingyu's dog - He named his restaurant after his dog?????
Interesting how the dishes on the menu are all rustic Korean dishes with roots in peasant and working class communities ( sidenote 1: research the history of gamja-tang)
Must go deeper into why he chose to quit a career is a michelin-star fine dining chef to cook homely community-based food
( sidenote 2 : have to make locals hate me less so i can interview some of them)
( sidenote 3 : why does he have a cat named cat)
( sidenote 4 : kim mingyu is way more handsome in person than he is in the pictures)
—
Thing is, Kim Mingyu had hit the nail squarely on its head.
Jeon Wonwoo is spiralling, has been spiralling for a long time now.
All that unprecedented fame - the bestsellers, the book tours, the public appearances, the Seoul Literary Fiction prize - all of it has been a hoax. A hoax, that has now been worn out to its dregs, that has exhausted its chances at redemption.
Wonwoo’s last two novels have been both commercial and critical disasters, the Seoul Literary Herald calling it the end of an era, the death of one of the most promising young voices in contemporary Korean literature.
It has felt like a death too: The glaring lack of words on the page despite endless late nights, endless bottles of beer and soju. The increasingly passive aggressive emails from his publishers, the ending of exclusive contracts, the sudden cancellation of book deals “due to unforeseen circumstances”.
And yet, writing is all he has ever known. With mortgage payments piling up on his Seoul apartment, with royalties from his past books petering out quicker than he can keep track of, he’s had no choice but to - improvise.
He’s had no choice but to take on any and all freelance writing gigs that Choi Seungcheol, his long-suffering literary agent, can scrounge up for him.
He's had no choice but to take on this, an article for a food magazine about a once-michelin-star chef quitting the Seoul culinary scene to start his own countryside restaurant. The enigmatic Kim Mingyu.
And so, here he is, in a half-forgotten restaurant in Eastern Gyeonggi, summer crawling into the crevices of his bones, heart fluttering and stammering and stuttering. Biting off more than he can ever chew.
—
“You want me to- what?”
“You heard me right, Wonwoo-sshi,” there’s a familiar glint in Kim Mingyu’s eyes - something akin to a challenge, yet far too soft to actually be one. “I want you to chop the potatoes.”
It’s seven am, and they’re in the restaurant kitchen - which is just three parallel countertops, slightly worse for wear yet betraying no dearth of affection. Their surfaces are spotless, despite the scratches of friction that are littered across it.
It’s too early for Wonwoo to retain any kind of cognitive function, much less after last night, his knees still throbbing with the memory of Mingyu’s weight against it. He needs at least five gallons of coffee to process what’s happening right now - that familiar glint in Mingyu’s eyes , the challenge that brims underneath his words, and yet is nonexistent. He needs at least five more gallons to wash down the glaze of Mingyu’s half-smile, how Wonwoo’s fingers ache to touch it, to trace its undulations, to caress the jagged left canine that keeps peeking out.
There's also a minuscule bark, and Bopbul is at Wonwoo's heels, nipping at the plush leather of his boots, tail wagging in a desperate bid for attention. Goyangi is far less conspicuous, nestled in the cutlery cabinet, assiduously licking her paws.
But Wonwoo can barely focus on either of them when Mingyu is like this, freshly-showered and smelling of sandalwood once again, shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal the same muscular arms that Wonwoo had desecrated last night.
“Come on, Wonwoo-sshi,” Mingyu continues to cajole, his voice taking on the slightest shade of coyness, “Lunch service is in four hours, we have a lot to do.”
“I-I’m hopeless in the kitchen.” Wonwoo can’t keep the stutter out of his voice (he blames it on his early-morning lack of functioning, the absence of coffee in his system, definitely not the arms). “I’ll only slow you down.”
But Mingyu is undeterred, merely giggling in response, the sound reverberating along the otherwise-deserted kitchen, startling Bopbul into an all-new slew of barks. This - early-morning, sandal-scented Kim Mingyu - glitters brighter than the concentrated force of the sun, than the very core of every universe combined. Wonwoo has bitten off far more than he can chew, but he only inches closer and closer, willing the afterburn to consume him.
Goyangi pauses her paw-licking to crawl out of the cutlery cabinet and onto the countertop, levelling an inscrutable glare at Wonwoo as if she knows exactly what he's thinking.
“Wonwoo-sshi,” Mingyu’s ponytail is secured more firmly in the mornings, tied higher up. And yet, there are rogue strands of hair slipping out anyway as he fishes out a paring knife from the nearest drawer, places its hilt gently in the divot of Wonwoo's right fist. “It’s not about how fast or slow you are. It’s like dancing, you just have to find your own rhythm.”
Wonwoo opens his mouth to form another protest, to confess that he's never used a knife this delicate, that he'll end up with an injury rather than be useful, but-
Mingyu beats him to it.
Before Wonwoo can so much as blink, Mingyu is draped against his back, his own right hand curling over where Wonwoo shakily wields the knife, his chin settling on the brink of Wonwoo’s shoulder.
Goyangi goes back to licking her paws, even if she refuses to budge from the counter.
"Here, Wonwoo-sshi," and now Mingyu's fingers are guiding Wonwoo's, the touch intoxicating, even if all Mingyu is doing is manoeuvering their joint fingers over the paring knife, slicing the potato in half, "It's not so difficult, is it?"
"N-no," Wonwoo stutters yet again, half-dizzy with how Mingyu's nose is right below his ear, how Mingyu's sweet sandalwood scent is enveloping him from head to toe, how Mingyu's breath is ghosting the length of his neck.
"Good," The word reverberates along Wonwoo's skin, makes the smattering of hair along his sideburn prickle, "You have to get your hands dirty sometimes. It'll make your article authentic."
Right . The article.
It’s all for the article, of course. None of it selfish.
This, corkscrewing into the breadth of Mingyu’s touch, disappearing into the shadows of his breath. This, a half-forgotten restaurant Eastern Gyeonggi, and Wonwoo being entirely at the mercy of its owner, entirely pulled-apart.
And this, too, the unprofessionalism of waking up tangled in Kim Mingyu's sheets, of the lingering imprint of Mingyu's glittering-dark taste in the rivulets of his tongue.
It’s five hours until lunch rush begins, and twelve hours since Wonwoo decided to bite off far more than he could chew. A stupendous amount more than he could ever imagine chewing.
But what he chews drips with honeyed-sugar, sizzles with sesame-brightness, with the lingering notes of steaming gamja-tang.
But Kim Mingyu smiles at him, unfurling like supple-dawn, like a midsummer swim in the sparkling-blue ocean.
Kim Mingyu’s fingers tingle against Wonwoo’s thumb, find a home in its dips and valleys.
And.
This, too, is a revelation.
—
December 15, 2022
Revised Notes by Jeon Wonwoo
Need to conduct more thorough research than originally anticipated.
Might spend more time in Gyeonggi-do than planned.
Kim Mingyu has magic hands. And magic lips.