Archive of Our Own

The spotlights are a mix of muted yellows and subdued whites shining on the occupied stage. They follow lithe bodies elegantly clad in flowy satin and silk as they bend and flex and glide across the length of the floor, highlighting each movement and lending the performance a sublime appeal.

The dancers, to their credit, are ethereal on their own. Eight of them take up space on the stage, moving in gracefully calculated motions—six form a circle around a lone dancer like petals touched by the wind, swaying by their waists from left to right and back again as the one in the center lissomely raises their arms heavenward as if asking for a prayer to be answered.

In the audience, Jeon Wonwoo sits with his eyes trained on the last performer, neither petal nor pistil. He skilfully alternates between strides and pirouettes from one end of the stage to the other, traversing the floor with ease. His arms, long and sinewy, extend after each turn, making his movements appear not only large, but also poignant. He is the breeze, blowing east to west to make the flowers dance to a song only the wind can play.

Enthralled, Wonwoo watches as the performance culminates into an almost frenetic shifting of limbs, up until it settles calmly into its denouement. By the end of the dance, the petals have scattered into wayward wisps throughout the stage. The lights dim, and every performer queues at the fore of the stage for their final bow. Wonwoo joins the crowd in standing up for an applause, careful not to disfigure the bouquet of roses and daisies in his left hand. When the curtains close and the clapping dies down, he immediately excuses himself to the aisles, intent obvious in his gait. He exits the hall and navigates the theater’s corridors with ease, familiarity evident in the way security knows to let him through as he expertly turns into the correct lefts and rights.

Wonwoo is with purpose, and that is to reach the second to the last door along the length of dressing rooms at the northern wing of the theater.

He reaches his destination in under six minutes, and he knocks four times in a playful rhythm which he is sure the occupant inside would recognize. It’s rote at this point, but it’s one they both revel in for intimacy’s sake, just like how he correctly predicts a euphonious “coming” to sound from the room’s interior.

The door opens just a few beats after to a smiling face and open arms. Like clockwork, Wonwoo quickly hands over the bouquet and settles into the embrace, his face buried in his welcomer’s neck while his right hand cradles the back of the other’s head.

“You were awesome out there,” Wonwoo whispers. He feels laughter rumble through the body in his arms, and soon enough, words meant to chide follow.

“You always say that. I’m not sure I still believe you when you readily give it to me all the time—your compliment, I mean. You’re like a parent who can see their child do no wrong.”

Wonwoo untangles himself from the embrace, his palms on the other’s shoulders keeping him an arm’s length away, and there’s sincerity in his voice when he says, “Hey, look at me. You’re always so magical up on that stage, and I hope you realize how awe-inspiring every performance you give is. You’re—”

“Hey, Junnie,” a voice from the doorway calls. “Are you done with your makeup remover?”

“Oh, hey, Soonyoung. Not yet, but you can go ahead and take it. I’ll get it back from you later.”

The newly arrived Soonyoung pauses, makeup remover seemingly forgotten. He narrows his eyes at the two in front of him, still in physical contact with each other. After a while, with index finger waggling from one person to another and tone heavily inquisitive, he asks, “Am I disturbing something here?”

“Ye—”

“No, silly. You weren’t. Wonwoo here was just telling me how well I did. For the thousandth time this season alone, if I may add.”

“Mm-hm,” Soonyoung succinctly replies, incredulous and with eyes fixed on Wonwoo still.

Wonwoo clears his throat in an attempt to thwart the scrutiny. Sensing the moment earlier gone, he extracts his hands from their perch on wide shoulders and, addressing the man in front of him, gives himself an out. “Junhui, I’ll see you at the lobby.” He turns to go, but not without tipping his head at the other man, supplying a short acknowledgment of “Soonyoung” on his way.

He waits for exactly seventeen minutes before Junhui makes his way to him at the lobby, the pep in his steps revealing his excitement. “So, the supermarket on Fifth, right?”

“Yup. You ready?”

“Of course. Let’s go,” Junhui says as he hooks his arm through Wonwoo’s.

They make their way leisurely through the bustling Friday night of the city, walking with arms linked and engaging in hushed back-and-forths on the train. It’s not any different than if they were in their own bubble, their own little cosmos insulated from the busy world outside.

They only separate when Junhui has to grab a shopping basket from the stack by the entrance. After he does so and still as lively as when they were at the theater, he turns to Wonwoo to inquire, “Hot pot, yes?”

“You got it. Shall we?” Wonwoo asks back as he holds out his hand in the direction of the aisles.

Together, they scour the shelves and freezers for noodles, sauce packets, leafy greens, mushrooms, and meats, although it is mostly Junhui reaching for ingredients after careful consideration which brands, varieties, and cuts are best. Wonwoo suspects a lot of them are those he is mostly keen on, like the thin slices of beef Junhui chose over the fish balls and shrimp, but he keeps mum and lets Junhui do what he does. After all, the other is nothing if not considerate to a fault to the people he cares for.

Once that’s done, they line up at checkout with their haul, and they end their grocery run on a high note with their shopping totes full and heavy. Together, they head on to Wonwoo’s place ten minutes away on foot, the anticipation of the night’s dinner buzzing in their veins.

The broth bubbles bright red and spicy on the burner above the kitchen table. The cold indoor air, potent with the scent of boiling chili and Sichuan pepper, is tempered by the heat from this very same pot, a stewing scarlet not dissimilar to a warm heart.

By the counter, Junhui finishes up the last of his tasks by plating the meat and washed greens, careful to make them look presentable as if they were dining in a restaurant. Wonwoo, no stranger to this scene, sets the bowls and utensils as he always does.

Once all the preparation is done, the two sit themselves across from each other, ready to dig into the fare in front of them.

They start the meal in typical Junhui fashion—he samples his creation and assesses it, making sure nothing is off before he lets Wonwoo eat. It’s routine, almost a ritual, even though Wonwoo knows for a fact that there is absolutely no need for the rigid taste-testing—whatever Junhui cooks always turns out to be incredible. So Wonwoo watches as Junhui ladles a small amount of the broth into his soup bowl, spoon dipping just halfway into it. He sips and takes a few moments to savor his concoction. A smile blooms on Junhui’s face after a few beats, approval on his lips when he says, “Ah, spicy hot pot really is the best celebration food!”

Wonwoo knows it for the go-signal that it is, so he takes his chopsticks into his hands, pincers a few slices of beef, and lets them swim in the hot ruby liquid before taking them out to dip in his sauce. “Yep, no better celebration food than this,” he agrees, mouth still half full with meat. “It tastes as good as always, Junnie.”

“It’s the beef tallow. You always gotta get good beef tallow.”

“So that’s the secret, huh, chef?”

“It is. Don’t tell my mother I’m giving away the family secret,” Junhui indulges Wonwoo with a grin and a wink.

The conversation hits a comfortable lull as both start putting ingredients into the pot to cook. In the silence, the clang of their utensils is distinct, almost as if it’s a sacring bell stressing the sanctity of this small rite. They eat like this, familiarity settling in their tired bones like a home.

The quiet stretches on until Junhui takes a few gulps of his lemonade and sets his chopsticks down. Wonwoo knows words are coming next, so he does the same and waits for Junhui to begin.

“So. The season’s over, and I have nothing going on except for the gym to keep in shape for the next one, so I might come around more frequently now,” Junhui prefaces.

“Junnie, I know the ropes, and you have my passcode. You don’t need permission every time.”

“I know. It just feels proper to ask.”

“Well, it’s not as if you don’t stop over most nights anyway.”

“Why, are you tired of my cooking?”

“With hot pot this good? Never.” At this, Wonwoo makes a show of scooping more meat into his sauce bowl, eating with exaggerated gusto that makes Junhui laugh. The sound is infectious, and it makes Wonwoo chuckle as well. But the laughter eventually ebbs, and with it, Wonwoo turns more serious. Careful not to come across as ungrateful, he says, “Hey. You know you don’t need to keep on doing this anymore, right? I make good money now; I’m not the same boy you knew in college who only ever ate buldak ramyeon when left to his own devices. I’m pretty sure I can pay for take-out from the aunties at the market.” Junhui looks at him sternly before he adds in surrender, “Okay, fine. Or fast food delivery.”

Junhui rolls his eyes before he retorts, “You’d have to do better than that if you want to keep me from worrying and doing this.”

Wonwoo’s gaze softens at that, and, with an exhale, asks Junhui, “Don’t you ever get tired? Taking care of me like this, I mean. You know I don’t ever want to burden you, right?”

“No and yes,” Junhui supplies plainly. “It’s not as if you’re coercing me to do something against my will, Wonwoo. I don’t get tired of doing this because it’s something I enjoy. And of course I know you don’t want to be a yoke on my back; you’re the last person who would ever wish me to struggle. I’m doing this because I care, and caring means showing up, even on the days you would rather not.”

“That’s… Thank you, Jun,” Wonwoo says. Overcome with gratitude and rendered speechless, he toys with his scrunched up paper towel, thankful to have something to keep him from looking Junhui in the
s.

Junhui, already privy to this version of Wonwoo, tries to prompt him to do the opposite. “Wonwoo… Look at me?” When Wonwoo does, Junhui offers him a smile, the softness in his eyes betraying the kindness he is ready to offer. “How many years have we known each other?”

“Nine,” Wonwoo answers easily.

“Exactly. Almost a decade now.” Junhui takes Wonwoo’s occupied hand, a gentle prod to keep him in the moment. “See, I believe we wouldn’t have gotten here if we didn’t make a conscious choice. We wake up each day and decide, not by fate or chance, to be present in each other’s lives. I cook for you because I choose you. Each day that I rise I know I want to keep you in my life, so I show you in the best way I know how. You’re not an obligation, Jeon Wonwoo: you’re a choice I happily make. And I know, when you religiously come to the company’s matinees and galas, that you do the same in the way you know how. Am I right?”

A smile paints itself onto Wonwoo’s face, and his eyes light up with affection. His voice, steady and sure, leaves no room for doubt when he supplies Junhui with a simple answer. “Correct.”

Outside, the city pulsates under the dark blanket of a summer night. The lights, harsh and oppressive on the streets, are soft through the windows of Wonwoo’s apartment, much like the distant glimmer of stars.

On the table, between them, the broth continues to simmer, now more scarlet and spicier.

Fourteen days into Junhui’s summer break, a particularly wet week sweeps over Seoul. With the rains pouring nonstop and the sun hidden behind the dark and heavy clouds, it was the perfect setup for the flu to get around.

At a quarter past seven in the morning, on a still-damp Wednesday, Wonwoo receives a call. The voice on the other end, sickly and groggy, is unmistakable, even through the sniffles and the hoarseness. “Wonwoo, hi. I’m so sorry to bother you on a weekday, but I caught the flu and I’ve been confined to my bed for two, three days now. Gosh, I don’t even remember how long. I just know it’s been days and… well…”

It does not happen often, but Wonwoo knows a favor from Junhui when he hears it. So he takes a day off from work and makes his way to Junhui’s flat, a mere 12 minutes away from his place by bus. In his right hand is a yellow umbrella the color of a sunny yolk, and in his left grip is a canvas shopping bag filled with fruits and packets of bitter traditional medicine, all packed with care by his mother for the ailing Junhui.

“Junnie? I‘m here,” he calls out as soon as he unlocks Junhui’s front door. Well-acquainted with the apartment, he does not wait for an answer and toes his shoes off by the rack at the entrance.

He stops by the common room first. Usually the picture of cleanliness, he is surprised to see its sullied state—Junhui’s neat stack of throw pillows is disarranged, and there is a big mug sans coaster on his coffee table. Sensing the gravity of the situation through this aberrance, Wonwoo hurries to Junhui’s bedroom.

At his door, he hazards a knock, rapping four times in his coltish rhythm to let Junhui know it’s him. He opens it a moment after to a sleeping Junhui, bundled up in his favorite blanket.

He makes his way to the bed, and gingerly, kneels by his side. It takes a few beats of staring at Junhui’s face, red from fever, before he slowly cards his fingers through the sick man’s hair, matted at the forehead from sweat and heat.

“Junnie? I’m here,” Wonwoo repeats.

A groan, and then, slowly, Junhui wakes up.

“I was dreaming,” Junhui croaks without preamble.

Still running his hand through Junhui’s hair, Wonwoo indulges him. “Tell me about it?”

“The first time we met. In university. Do you remember?”

“As clearly as a bright summer day,” Wonwoo deadpans.

Junhui, recognizing it for the joke that it is, laughs, and soon enough, his amusement turns into a struggle as he tries to breath through his coughing. Wonwoo helps him through it, rubbing soothing circles on his back and offering him water to drink.

After the fit subsides, Junhui continues, “We were in our first year then, weren’t we?”

“We were,” Wonwoo supplies.

“And you were really brattish then, too, weren’t you?”

“Says who?”

“Says me. Remember that time we were paired up for a project in our Art App elective? Really wanted to put you in your place back then, Mr. Computer Engineering Major.”

“Huh,” Wonwoo smirks. Glad to have Junhui in high spirits again despite his current condition, he continues, “Not my fault a performance arts student majoring in dance couldn’t tell when a piece was performance art or not.”

“See? That’s exactly what I mean!” Junhui hacks out.

“Hey, easy there,” Wonwoo says as another coughing fit takes over Junhui, left hand continuously rubbing circles on his back.

Quiet settles on them like a soft lace veil when Junhui’s bout of coughing abates. It stretches on for a moment, easy and familiar, much like Wonwoo’s careful fingers raking through Junhui’s tresses. The hush builds, peaks, and then breaks when Junhui asks a pensive question.

“Remember the first time I cooked for you? Senior year, in your dorm?”

“How could I forget? You made me kimchi jjigae when I was sick just like you now at that time, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. Sick from all that buldak ramyeon,” Junhui retorts with a giggle as Wonwoo eyes him with mock contempt. “Hey, don’t give me that. It was extremely unhealthy to live that way and you know it.”

“Okay, I will concede for the benefit of the sick for now,” Wonwoo smartly replies, not without a teasing smile gracing his lips. “Why do you ask, though?”

“I was just thinking—I miss my mom. She always makes me congee when I’m down with something like this,” Junhui says, sentimentality seeping into his tone. Frail and vulnerable from his fever, tears follow soon after, wetting his eyes with sadness and longing. “I’m sorry, Wonwoo,” Junhui apologizes, rubbing his eyes as he adds, “I didn’t call you over on a workday to listen to me whine. It’s just that… I could really use a bowl of something warm like that kimchi jjigae right now.”

Right then and there, Wonwoo’s heart breaks.

“You’re either going to quit sighing or I’m going to kick you out,” Wonwoo’s friend, Jihoon, reprimands, hunched over his console as he mixes his latest creation into the perfect master.

They are cooped up in the studio, bathed in the purples and pinks and blues of Jihoon’s mood lights, air conditioner set too low to combat the summer heat.

“Sorry,” Wonwoo sighs.

This time, Jihoon swivels to face him, reproach ready on the tip of his tongue. “You’re doing it again, Wonwoo, and it’s distracting me. I hate to not be productive, so please, if you’re not going to do anything else except bug me with your sighing, just go and come around another time instead.”

“Sorry, okay?” Wonwoo cries out. “There’s just been a lot on my mind these past few days,” he adds, a bit more softly.

“Okay, then, let’s hear it,” Jihoon decides.

“Huh?”

“What’s been on your mind that has gotten you like that?”

Dejected, Wonwoo supplies, “It’s going to sound so silly if I say it out loud.”

“Well,” Jihoon says as he crosses his arms over his chest. “If it’s going to get you to stop moping and being a downer, better to be out with it, no matter how stupid you might think it is.”

Wonwoo takes a moment to consider the offer, not wont to discussing his feelings with others. He turns the idea this way and that in his head, and, after sensing no harm in what is proffered, starts after careful consideration, “Okay, um… You remember Jun, right?”

“Junhui, your longtime friend from university. Yes, I am familiar.”

“Well, he got sick with the flu,” Wonwoo discloses.

“Everybody got sick with the flu,” Jihoon remarks in exasperation. “That has got you sighing, how?”

Indignant, Wonwoo declares, “I couldn’t do anything and that’s what bums me out!”

“Unless you’re his physician, I don’t see how that should take a toll on your state of mind,” Jihoon gives back, pragmatic and straightforward.

Wonwoo balks, takes a minute, and then refutes his friend. “Jihoon, he told me that he missed his mother and that he wanted a nice, homecooked meal. And I was just sat there tapping away on my phone for a delivery of kimchi jjigae! Stew, Jihoon. Stew that anybody could make except for me!”

Jihoon loses his words at Wonwoo’s short but sudden outburst. Careful, as if evading landmines, he settles on a hum, just enough for Wonwoo to know he is acknowledged.

The musician pivots to face his instrument once more, trying to occupy himself with the video game song he is currently working on, and the conversation ends at that. Wonwoo, to his credit, has stopped sighing, but the air still feels charged from the electricity of his grouch. An hour passes like this, with neither pressing the other for more words.

Later, after Jihoon clicks save on his progress, he spins to face his friend again, still in low spirits. “You know,” he starts. “For someone who can develop games from absolutely nothing and who can catch pesky bugs in complicated programs, you sure suck at figuring out solutions to your own problems.”

“Excuse me?”

“Listen. If not knowing how to cook is what’s troubling you, then don’t you already have an easy fix available to you?”

“I’m not sure I’m following,” Wonwoo says, in doubt.

This time, it’s Jihoon who sighs. “God, you’re dumber than I thought.”

“Hey!” Wonwoo interjects, mildly incensed.

“Plain and simple, Wonwoo. Ask Junhui to teach you how to cook, and then actually cook for him. Start from that kimchi jjigae if you must. There. Problem solved.”

“That’s…”

“I know. You can thank me later.”

Jihoon stands up to get his guitar, already on the cusp of creating something new. The air, frigid to the point of numbing, is heavy with the weight of near realizations. On the couch, Wonwoo sits, thoughts stewing in his mind like a pot left to boil on the stove.

Kimchi Jjigae

Ingredients:
3 cups water (or anchovy broth - I know you’d rather have plain water instead of the umami-filled anchovy broth, but just in case…)
1 tablespoon sesame oil
220 grams pork belly, cut into bite-sized pieces (Don’t listen to what other recipes say—belly is the best cut for kimchi jjigae. All that pork fat—yum!)
2 cups kimchi, cut into bite-sized pieces
1 tablespoon gochugaru
1 tablespoon minced garlic (I say the more, the better, but let’s start with this, shall we?)
1 tablespoon soy sauce
1 tablespoon oyster sauce
1 medium onion, sliced
A pack of firm tofu (Don’t believe the recipes that say half a pack—you’re gonna wanna have extra)
3 scallions, chopped

Preparation:
1. In a heated pot, cook the pork on medium high heat, making sure to render the fat (but don’t burn it!).
2. Add 2 cups of kimchi.
3. Add gochugaru, oyster sauce, and soy sauce and stir fry until fragrant.
4. Add 3 cups of water or broth and boil for 10 minutes.
5. Add minced garlic, sliced onions, tofu, and scallions and boil for another 5 minutes.
6. Turn off heat and finish with sesame oil.
7. Serve in a ttukbaegi (I don’t make the rules. You just have to.). Enjoy!

“So I just have to follow everything to a T, right?” Wonwoo inquires, eyes on the piece of paper in his hands.

“Yup,” Junhui replies, popping the p for emphasis. “Easy as 1, 2, 3.”

He’s seated at Wonwoo’s kitchen table, content to be the spectator for once. Wonwoo, on the other hand, is stood by his range, not quite ready to take on the challenge yet. They’re reversing roles for the night, a result of Wonwoo’s coaxing Junhui into letting him use his own kitchen in an attempt to learn to cook kimchi jjigae.

“Might I remind you that I am terribly inept at any and all kinds of culinary endeavors,” he declares, not without a dramatic flair after staring at Junhui’s recipe for another good while.

“I’ll be here, won’t I?” Junhui assures. “And don’t you remember? You said you were doing this for someone special. That you wanted to cook for them. Isn’t that enough motivation to get on with it?”

“I know, but that doesn’t make this less… daunting.”

Convinced that the other needs cajoling, Junhui stands up from his seat at the table and approaches Wonwoo, words of encouragement ready to leave his lips when the other starts again.

“But you’re right,” Wonwoo continues. “The best way to go about it is to just do it, right? I will never get to where I want to be if I don’t face this head on,” he declares, the fire in his eyes lit up from motivation.

Junhui, watching Wonwoo's confidence unfurl like petals to a flower, beams, his fondness palpable through the way his eyes smile along with his lips. He says, as kind as always, and with a hand on Wonwoo’s shoulder, says ”Right. I, for one, believe you can do it, Wonwoo. So go practice and knock your special someone’s socks off,” He finishes with a poke to Wonwoo’s flank.

Wonwoo, surprised but never not used to this Junhui, makes a show of getting hurt. Junhui laughs at him, full teeth showing from his mock guffaw, but rubs at the spot on Wonwoo’s rib with gentle hands nonetheless.

“Yeah, I can do this,” Wonwoo parrots.

“Okay then. Shall we start with the tofu?” Junhui asks out of courtesy, but his washed hands are already reaching for the block. Let me show you how it’s done, and then you can follow right after. Is that okay?”

“Okay,” Wonwoo acquiesces, voice small and unsure.

Junhui picks up the knife and slices a few bite-sized squares off of the block, slow and careful as if Wonwoo would miss his hands if he did it any faster. Once he’s done with his share, he passes the knife to Wonwoo, carefully guiding his fingers at the handle for a safe and proper grip. Together, with his hands over Wonwoo’s on the scale, and his chest pressed to the other's back, they go over the motions until Junhui lets go to let Wonwoo take charge.

It takes Wownoo a good fifteen minutes with the tofu, and another fifty-six minutes to ready all the other ingredients for the stew. In spite of the time it took, the spread in front of them looks less than palatable with the way Wonwoo cut haphazardly through the ingredients—not out of contempt for the task, but a mere inexperience on his part.

It’s a bit too late for dinner at this point with just the preparation done, but if he’s vexed about the slow progress and the look of the dish’s components, then Junhui is doing a good job of hiding it.

“Junnie, how do you even do this every night?” Wonwoo caterwauls. “Straight from ballet class and rehearsals, too, at that.”

“I’ve had practice. Now come on, it’s time to get to the actual cooking,” Junhui urges.

To say that the actual cooking progressed more smoothly would be a lie—Wonwoo almost burned his pork belly, (Wonwoo, you have to lower the heat and stir once in a while.) added too much salt (Well, we can always add more water, right?) and not enough gochugaru (Lacks a little spice, but don’t worry, nothing a few more dashes wouldn’t fix.), and almost set his kitchen on fire by letting the liquid boil over (Wonwoo, quick, turn down the heat!). Never had a picture painted chaos more accurately than now.

But Junhui doesn’t get mad, doesn’t even reprove Wonwoo with placating words or subtle, humorous jabs at his inaptitude in the kitchen. Junhui is patient, and Wonwoo—he feels an ache in his chest, something like a craving gnawing at him, threatening to claw its way out.

By the end of the fiasco, they manage to salvage a bowl of unburnt and mildly salty kimchi jjigae for their dinner that night. It’s nothing grand, and it’s not even something worth writing home about, but it is theirs—hot and fragrant from the garlic Wownoo minced and the sesame oil, flavorful from the pork fat they rendered and the aged kimchi from Wonwoo’s mother, and rife with the magic of two people working together to create something wondrous.

So they sit at the table, almost solemn in the way they’re quiet while their spoons clank against the earthenware vessel, the bowl between them heavy with broth and words left unsaid.

The door beeps open to the rush of cold air, robust with the scent of something hearty and spiced. By the entrance, a voice sing-songs in a familiar melody, calling out: “Wonwoo“ to let the occupant know he’s come.

Wonwoo, waiting by the kitchen table, responds, voice heavy with unspoken nervousness. Trying to sound chipper for his guest, and trying to not give anything away, he calls out, “Yeah Junnie, in the kitchen.”

Wonwoo hears giggling, and then a very amused voice asks, getting closer as it does, “What are you even— Oh.”

The scene that welcomes Junhui is foreign, as common as an afternoon lit up in rusty sepia. The too-cold air, mingling with the heat from a lone source, is softer to take in, gentle on the nose and on the lungs.

There, on the table next to Wonwoo, is a serving of kimchi jjigae, warm and scarlet, still bubbling in its brown ttukbaegi.The pungent aroma from the kimchi permeates the air, wrapping them in the warm mix of flavors like a mother’s soft and delicate hug.

“Surprise?” Wonwoo declares in ardor.

“What even?” Junhui gasps. And then, almost indignantly, he adds, “Wonwoo?”

“Surprise?” Wonwoo repeats, voice a little less enthusiastic.

Junhui squares his shoulders, stands a little straighter. “This is kimchi jjigae,” he says, not a question but a certainty.

“I know it is. I made it. I… made it for you.”

“What? How?”

“I took lessons from you, didn't I, dummy? Said I wanted to cook for someone special and all that.”

“So it’s me?” Junhui asks with skepticism coloring his voice. “The person you’re trying to cook for?”

“The one and only.”

“That’s… But… why?” Junhui, unable to articulate, asks.

“Because. You were sick,” Wonwoo laments, voice dipping low to a sad timbre.

“I was sick and frail and swimming in my emotions then, Wonwoo. You don’t have to feel guilty for that kimchi jjigae you couldn’t cook.”

“Okay, that’s maybe kinda an excuse. It’s because...”

“Because?” Junhui prompts him to continue.

“Because.” Wonwoo takes a deep breath and holds it in, his chest puffed from the effort. He lets the air ground him, tether him to the moment before he crosses the threshold of no return. He lets it out a few seconds after, heart light from the expelled weight and mind clear from the exhale. Then, with courage and all hesitation gone, he gives back to Junhui what was given him all those weeks ago. “Because you are a choice I would happily make over and over again, Jun.”

“Wonwoo, what—”

“I love you. I love you and I care for you, Jun, and this is me trying to show you. Not in the way I know best, but in a language you would understand. This bowl in front of you—it’s saying I love you, Jun. I love you and I choose you. And I’m scared of where this might go, but still, there is a part of me that hopes, inside, that you love me as well, not as a friend would, but as a man.”

“Oh, Wonwoo,” Junhui exclaims. He rids his hands of his shopping bags to gather Wonwoo’s in his. His palms, big and callused, are warm and steady around Wonwoo’s fingers, anchoring them both to each other. Similar to Wonwoo, he takes a deep inhale of the sharp air, keeps it in his chest, and breathes out. After he does, his eyes are clear. And then, with all the surety and braveness he has mustered, says, “The spicy hot pot from three weeks ago. That kimchi jjigae from the very first time I stepped foot in your kitchen to cook for you. All the other ones in between.” Junhui pauses, but not without the corners of his mouth lifting in something akin to devotion. “They all say the same.”

Wonwoo immediately drops Junhui’s hands to pull him in by the wrists to embrace. The proximity feels right—a gentle touching of skin and skin, electric and charged with all the emotions of nine years.

It’s cosmic, in a way, how these two bodies meet and meld into each other. Their hearts, finally in sync, beat with the staccato of a shared rhythm that speaks of nothing but belongingness, of choices made, and choices given. They share this quiet but loaded moment in silence—the drone of the air conditioner, Wonwoo’s neighbor's dog barking, the quiet hum of a conversation in the hallway, the city outside—everything else is noise.

Outside of Wonwoo’s apartment, the city continues to be—alive and throbbing with the pulse of footfalls and car tires. The neon, still like starlight through the windows, illuminates Seoul, never dimming despite the hour.

Right here, at the kitchen table where the stew continues to bubble bright red and spicy, is where the world begins.