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Gihun has always been the better cook.
When they first got married, Eunji could never quite get food combos, brands, or measurements—things he understood intuitively and without practice. Even now, when Eunji has gotten better at cooking because he was never home to do it, there is something unmistakably functional about her food. It’s why he’s picked it up again after coming back; he can no longer stand functionality.
His eyes trail to the steaming pot. For a moment, he imagines the lid rattling out of place. He’d have to get himself up, drag himself a few feet to the stove, and push the lid back. But he doesn’t want to. Ever since . . . that, he doesn’t want to do anything.
Gihun twists the silver band on his left finger. After several years, Eunji shyly asked if he could make dinner. It felt strange because Eunji has never been shy. But there’s something about her that has changed overall—lately, she’s been kinder, more lenient.
It’s probably because of the money.
Eunji is out with Gayeong, Christmas shopping. Ever since he came back, they’ve been spending more time together, just the two of them. He’s not included in as many of their activities. It’s not their fault; it’s he who won’t let them in. What if they suspect something? Would they realistically forgive him if they knew? There’s no point; all he can do is spend the rest of his life making up for his failures. He fought for that much.
A ring breaks through the noise of the bubbling stew, echoing from the apartment’s walls. His brows furrow. Are they creditors? He thought he paid all his debts. What else do they need from him? The chair creaks as he rises from it. The soles of his slippers catch against the linoleum.
He grits his teeth—what do they want from him?
By the time he gets to the foyer, he’s let his temper fester to the point of violence. He throws the door open, prepared to curse up a storm with whoever has decided to bother him. But before he can say a word—
“Gihun-ssi.”
His ire melts away. The ground threatens to fall from beneath him.
He gulps.
“Inho-ssi.”
It’s not unwelcome. It’s not even surprising. Inho came here once, back when they first voted to leave and were left to realize that reality was much worse than dying. Gihun couldn’t face Eunji alone, and Inho wanted to return the favor after Gihun accompanied him to the hospital. Except, Eunji had taken Gayeong and left. Inho stayed longer than planned.
Now, he’s back.
“Come in,” Gihun murmurs.
He moves out of the way so Inho can step inside, and he watches in silence as the younger man slips off his shoes.
“What brings you here?”
Inho looks up. Something aches behind his eyes.
“Christmas is in two days.”
Gihun nods, pretending to understand.
“Would you like anything?”
Inho shakes his head. “Don’t go through the trouble. I won’t stay for long.”
Inho walks to the living room with a gait that feels too intrinsic to be a visitor’s, and he makes himself at home on the furthest corner of the couch. He sat in that spot the first time he came here. With a hand on Gihun’s knee, he sat there as Gihun frantically called Eunji twice, thrice, four times before leaving to look for her.
Now, it seems like Inho is the one who needs support. He remains still, robotic, with his feet planted on the floor and fingers gripping his knees. Gihun carefully lowers himself beside Inho.
He hasn’t seen Inho since the funeral. Months went by, then, in which Gihun tried to forget. Though Eunji called off the divorce, their marriage hangs by a thread. Distrust still runs thick between them. Neither of them quite has the courage to apologize, too consumed by their pride to admit that they caused each other’s pain. So yes—Gihun had to forget Inho. He had to forget the sudden, mind-breaking clarity he felt after meeting the former detective. There is no room for a do-over of his life.
There is only room to fix what is broken.
“Let me get you some tea,” Gihun offers.
“You don’t—”
“Just say you’d like some,” Gihun cuts, unable to suppress the dull ache in his stomach that flares at the idea of Inho leaving. He remembers himself, lowering his head a little. “I’m sorry. It’s just been a while since . . . since I’ve seen you.”
Inho looks up. His mouth thins into a flat line.
“Sorry. What do you have?”
Gihun relaxes, flexing his fingers above his knees. He rolls his shoulders back.
“Well, we don’t have much of a variety.”
“That’s fine. I’ll drink whatever you give me.”
Gihun grins. “Sure. The ones we have are nice, I’d say.”
He heads to the kitchen and finds the cupboard where Eunji keeps all her favorite teas. There, he rummages through the boxes to find the spicy ginger tea he likes. The box for it is shoved to the very back of the cupboard, shrouded in dust; he sneezes a couple times as he grabs the teabags.
As he goes to another cupboard to get their mugs, his attention is caught once more by the steaming pot. He again imagines the lid rattling out of place. At this point, the chili’s fumes have begun seeping past it—he coughs as he inhales a bit too much. Shrugging, he goes over there to bring the soup to a simmer; since it’s done, all he has to do now is wait for Eunji and Gayeong to come home, which won’t be for a few hours.
He glances at the living room, where Inho sits stationary, staring forward.
He thinks for a moment.
“Inho-ssi, would you like to try some of this?”
Inho looks over. “What is it?”
“It’s yukgaejang.”
Surprise colors Inho’s features. Slowly, he rises, and he walks over and lifts the lid. “Like the one I made for my wife?”
“Yeah. I thought I’d try it.” Gihun hands Inho a spare spoon. “Would you like some?”
Inho takes the spoon and dips it into the pot, filling it with red broth. Then, he blows on it before slipping it into his mouth. Gihun watches with bated breath as Inho’s throat bobs. He wants to move closer. He wants to close the distance.
Inho looks at him after a moment.
“You . . . .”
He doesn’t finish. Gihun doesn’t prod him. Gihun can wait if he must.
The younger man swallows before dipping the spoon again and having another taste. He does this again and again, and Gihun lets him despite there only being enough for three. After a while, Inho sets the spoon down. He turns to Gihun with a pensive expression.
“You weren’t lying about the restaurant.”
Gihun looks at the boiling soup, and he shrugs.
“I would take you if I still had it. I would give you a free meal.”
“You wouldn’t have to.”
“Well, I would,” Gihun retorts, and his argumentative tone reminds him of Gayeong’s occasional tantrums. He gulps, trying to get a hold of himself. “I seriously would. You would’ve liked it. Really, if I still had it, I would’ve given you a job.”
Inho scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I would’ve!” Gihun insists. “You like cooking for your brother, and I like cooking for my daughter. It would work.”
“Neither of us know how to run or market a business.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“And the restaurant business, particularly, is too hard. Whoever starts one barely survives,” Inho finishes, glancing at the soup. Very quietly, he adds, “You didn’t.”
Gihun bites his cheek. Indeed, he didn’t. And despite having the money now, he hasn’t begun climbing back up. It’s too soon, he tells himself. He always tells himself.
“What are you doing these days?”
Inho blinks. He doesn’t seem prepared to answer.
He does so anyway.
“Nothing much. What gave me a purpose is no longer an option. The reason I went back there . . . it’s—not a reason. Anymore.”
Gihun lets this sit. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he found Gayeong and Eunji dead. Maybe he’d look like Inho—dark eyebags, gaunt face, sallow skin. Maybe he’d also sway on his feet with each step. Or maybe he’d be gone, having joined them in death.
He really shouldn’t think about that.
“Have you called your brother?” Gihun asks. “Your stepmom?”
Inho shakes his head. “What would I tell them?”
“Nothing. Just give them some of the money.”
“Already have.”
Gihun frowns. “And they didn’t call you?”
“No. I have them blocked.”
At this, Gihun turns to fully face Inho.
“What are you doing, then?”
Inho’s eyes don’t leave the ground.
Gihun wants to reach out and touch him, maybe put a grounding hand on his shoulder. But he also doesn’t want to invade the other man’s space—not when Inho is struggling to even open it up. Gihun’s brows draw closer together. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, either—why he keeps on with everything.
He speaks fine and moves normally. He goes on with life as if he doesn’t know about dying. No one gets why he roughly wipes Gayeong’s face after she eats anything with red syrup, desperate to avoid thinking of his baby’s body. Because no one should die before they’re supposed to, right? Even as so many people do?
“Existing,” Inho sighs suddenly, reeling Gihun from his thoughts. “What else can you call it? I’m too cowardly to end it here, but there’s no reason to do anything else.”
Gihun thinks of how he told Eunji she wouldn’t have to get a job, but a few weeks later, she suddenly told him that she would start a new cashier position at the convenience store down the street. He thinks of how Gayeong has stopped asking for bedtime stories, how she’s stopped curling up beside him when she’s scared, and leans on Eunji instead. Compared with Inho having a family who he hasn’t failed, who will still embrace him . . .
When does that stop being a reason? When does it start being an excuse?
Gihun doesn’t realize he’s said this aloud until Inho looks up at him. His gaze burns, white-hot.
“What did you say?”
“What?” Gihun mutters. “Didn’t you hear me?”
He is unsure of where this sudden vitriol has come from. Maybe because he sees a man who can easily start over with someone else. Maybe because he can’t start over like Inho can because he’s already too deep in whatever shit he’s created for himself. Maybe because he can’t stand walking on eggshells around his own wife and daughter and can only be comfortable when someone who’s practically a stranger knocks on his door.
Maybe.
When Inho grabs him by the shirt, Gihun doesn’t move. He lets Inho shove him against the wall, into a small space between the kitchen cupboards. He doesn’t move even as Inho pushes in, as the younger man’s breath ghosts his lips.
“Don’t talk to me like that,” Inho snarls. “You still have—” He cuts himself off, jaw trembling. He takes a shaky breath. “Your family isn’t dead.”
“Then why do I feel like I’ve already lost them?” Gihun hisses. “Our relationship was already going to shit. Nothing has changed since I came back.”
Inho stills. “You never said that.”
“How would I when you didn’t contact me for months?”
“You—”
“Tell me that!” Gihun cries. “Tell me why you left when you promised to find me—”
“I—”
“And then you come here to say you haven’t even called your family? Why haven’t you called them?”
Gihun stops, heaving a breath. He’s acutely aware of how close Inho is to being on top of him. He feels Inho’s heat down to the hairs on his skin. He wants to pull Inho flush against his body, to never let him go.
“Inho-ssi,” he gulps. “Why did you come here?”
He thinks of that night, months ago, when Inho first saw this place. Their hands brushing against each other, sparking little fires. Then, after they went back . . . sleeping in that warehouse-like dorm, huddling together to forget possibly dying in mere hours. The night when all Gihun could see was the strike, his friend getting beat to death in front of him, and how Inho held him so tightly to try and make it go away. How close they were then.
How close they are now.
“I’m sorry,” Inho whispers, hanging his head. “Just . . . today.” He looks up at Gihun. “It would’ve been her birthday.”
Her?
“My wife . . . she has acute cirrhosis,” Inho reveals. “She needs a liver transplant.”
Gihun frowns, a deep ache blooming in his chest.
“What’s worse is that she’s pregnant,” Inho continues, “which we found out through some tests. Her doctor suggested a termination, but she won’t listen. I don’t know how else to convince her.”
Oh.
Her.
Gihun folds Inho into his embrace. The younger man clings to him, burying his nose in Gihun’s neck. When Inho starts swaying on his feet again, Gihun sways with him so Inho can keep balance. Gihun doesn’t mind even as Inho’s untrimmed nails dig into his back, even as Inho’s sharp nose pokes too hard against his throat. And when the fabric on Gihun’s shoulder grows wet, Gihun doesn’t let go—he tightens his hold.
“I’m so—so sorry.” The apology comes out broken, but Gihun goes on. “I’m always here. I’ll always be here. Inho-ya—”
Inho’s head snaps up, eyes glassy. His jaw quivers with disbelief.
“Inho-ya,” Gihun persists softly, his own eyes burning. “I’m here. And I won’t leave.”
Inho buries his nose in Gihun’s neck again, and Gihun doesn’t move an inch. For as long as Inho needs, Gihun will stay. He’ll take care of him. He won’t leave him. Even if Inho leaves from time to time, Gihun is determined to be a pillar for someone. If it can’t be Eunji, then it can be Inho. At least Inho will never judge him for anything.
“I’m here,” Gihun repeats, and Inho nods into his shoulder. When Gihun feels this, his lips curve up into a small smile.
His eyes trail to the steaming pot. If the lid rattles out of place, so be it. Maybe Gihun won’t have to get up at all. Maybe someone else will put it back in place. And he’ll be fine with that. As long as someone is there to put it back, then all of this will be more bearable. Perhaps he can start over. Perhaps he can start climbing back up.
Once he does, maybe everything will finally be okay.