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When Sakuya was younger, he always wondered about the Korean man who seemed to appear at every Maeda family gathering. Birthdays, New Year’s Eve, dinner parties, reunions—you name it. Uncle Riku never came alone, always with a bright smile on his face as he stood beside the Korean man towering over almost everyone in his family. They called each other “roommates,” said it with an easy smile like it explained everything. But to Sakuya, it never really did.
And so Daeyoung-samchon had become an unofficial uncle in his eyes, because that’s what he was in all the ways that mattered. He sent Sakuya gifts on his birthdays. Sometimes he sent toys, sometimes books, and sometimes whatever trendy item tickled Sakuya’s fancy that year. The packages always came with a personalized card tucked neatly inside, the handwriting careful and delicate. Kanji strokes that looked a little shaky when Sakuya was six, steadier by the time he was ten, and elegant by the time he was a teenager. Daeyoung-samchon had worked hard on perfecting those strokes, Sakuya could tell, and they always looked like they were written with love and care. Sakuya would be loath to admit it out loud, but it was even prettier than his chicken scratch of a penmanship. But he loved them. He treasured the cards just as much as the gifts they came with. And Sakuya, the ever-sentimental boy that he was, had stored them all away in an old cookie tin under his bed along with other precious memories he couldn’t bear to throw out.
On New Year’s, Daeyoung-samchon never forgot his envelope either. A fancy shūgi-bukuro, patterned with cranes, flowers, or leaves, with money folded crisply inside. He bowed when he gave it, and Sakuya always bowed just as deeply, even deeper, eager to show that Daeyoung wasn’t just his uncle by association but he was family in full, by heart if not by blood.
Daeyoung-samchon was there in other ways too, not just on special occasions, but in the small moments of everyday life that cemented his status as one of Sakuya’s favorites, even though he’d never admit that to anyone. He’d remembered and indulged Sakuya’s love for bread, always bringing along a bag fresh out of a bakery whenever he visited. He cheered at his school sports days, clapping and whooping loud enough that Sakuya could pick his voice out among the roaring cheers of the crowd. He slipped him snacks from his pockets under the dinner table when the grown-up conversations stretched on for too long, eyes crinkling with mischief as if it was a secret smuggling operation only they shared.
He was present in almost every major family function, always the one standing behind Uncle Riku at the door, always with a bag of bread for Sakuya, and always with a charming eyesmile that managed to disarm even the scariest granduncle in the Maeda clan. Slowly, like water dripping and shaping stone, Daeyoung-samchon had somehow molded himself into his family’s lives, had somehow integrated himself into the fold. A jar of ssamjang sat casually in his grandma’s kitchen. The indie Korean band that slipped its way into his cousin’s playlist. The Pororo keychain that dangled from Sakuya’s bag among the handful of keyrings he proudly showed off. It was little things, always little things, that wove Daeyoung into the fabric of the Maeda family life. His laughter drifting through the kitchen, his Korean accent peppering family conversations, his shoes lined neatly by the door as naturally as anyone else’s. To Sakuya, it was as if Daeyoung-samchon had always been there, long before he could even remember. Technically, he was, because he could faintly recall a memory from when he was four, of meeting Daeyoung in a dinner party and learning that it wasn’t even the first time they’d met.
Sometimes, Daeyoung-samchon was there even without Uncle Riku. And he was always welcome—at least he was in the Fujinaga household—because Uncle Riku was his Mama’s brother and his Mama loved Uncle Riku so much it extended even to his roommate. Daeyoung-samchon had become a familiar name, a familiar face that would flash in Sakuya’s head when he thought of uncles and extended family.
But what puzzled him, what tugged at the edge of his understanding as he grew older, was the way almost everyone else seemed to accept the 'roommate' explanation so easily. The word floated through the air with a kind of knowing silence. Like the word roommate was sufficient enough to explain the way his Uncle Riku and Daeyoung-samchon always seemed to come in pairs, or why Uncle Riku always lit up when relatives included Daeyoung-samchon in headcounts for family, or why their eyes sometimes caught on each other and forgot to let go.
Sakuya noticed. He always noticed. Seventeen-year-old Sakuya could put words to it now, but back then he couldn’t. He only knew that something about his uncles telling the world that they were ‘roommates’ felt incomplete, like a puzzle where all the edges were neatly in place but the center remained frustratingly blank. And when he was small, it was easier to ask. It was the only way he knew how to understand the world back then. But then as he grew older, he hesitated asking. It felt as if the answer was right at his face sometimes. And it felt like he was years too late to even broach it. Nonetheless, he knew the truth. Everyone did. They just chose which version of the truth was easiest to live with.
The fact remained that they were roommates. They weren’t lying about that. And yet the word ‘roommates’ barely skimmed the surface. It didn’t capture the steadfast consistency of their presence in each other’s lives, the small ways they carried one another forward, the glances that conveyed something deeper. It didn’t hold the laughter shared across years, nor the care that sustained them through every ordinary day. And though they never said it out loud—not in front of Sakuya at least—he understood.
They weren’t just roommates. They were partners. He knew they were, in every sense that truly mattered, family.
♡🪑
Sakuya was four and a half years old when he first encountered the word roommate.
“What’s a woommate?” He had asked, tugging insistently at Uncle Riku’s pant leg until the fabric wrinkled. He had heard his Uncle Iku say it earlier, introducing the tall man beside him to one of the scarier uncles. “This is my roommate.” The word was stuck in Sakuya’s head, heavy and strange, so much so that it tumbled out clumsily from his mouth, his cheek bunching up as he forced out the last syllable.
He had been staring at the tall man who never seemed to leave his Uncle Riku’s side since earlier. The man clearly wasn't Japanese and, in Sakuya’s mind, looked a little like the big, friendly dog his friend from the playground once brought along. Back then, Uncle Riku’s roommate had seemed impossibly tall. Taller than his Papa, even. And his smile didn’t seem to run out no matter how many aunts and uncles and grannies and grampies and cousins he greeted. He smiled at everyone, one after another, until it looked like his face must’ve been sore from holding it for so long (There were so many Maedas, after all. Four-year-old Sakuya gave up counting at twelve).
Uncle Iku blinked down at him, and Sakuya thought he looked strangely sad for someone who was smiling. Before he could ask why, the tall foreign man crouched low, squatting until they were eye level.
“A roommate,” the man said slowly, voice careful but warm, “is someone who shares a home with you.”
His Japanese was a little clumsy, Sakuya remembered that much. Back then it had sounded funny, but his voice was nice. It wasn’t like how his Uncle Iku and his Mama and most members in the Maeda family spoke with a different accent and words that people back home in Tokyo didn’t use. The words bent and stretched in ways that sounded unfamiliar to little Sakuya’s ears, like the man wasn’t used to speaking Japanese. (Now, at seventeen, Sakuya could recognize the carefulness, the way Daeyoung must have been trying so hard to get it right).
Four-year-old him frowned, head tilting. His little hands clung tighter to Riku’s pants. “Is mama my woommate?” he had asked, wide-eyed. “Mama lives with me. And Papa too. Are they my woommates?”
The tall man blinked in surprise, then laughed. His laughter sounded bright, like sunshine, and it strangely made Sakuya want to laugh too even if he didn’t know why. And Sakuya, ever observant like his Mama always said, noticed how the man’s eyes flicked toward Uncle Riku when he laughed. Like the sound was meant for him too. And his Uncle Iku had looked back with something light in his eyes, the same way he looked at Sakuya when he gave him a drawing he made of his Uncle Riku the last time he visited. Uncle Iku looked like a cat in that drawing and he promised to put it up on his fridge.
“Not quite,” he said. “Mama and Papa are your parents. Roommates are usually friends. Grown-ups who decide to live together.”
Sakuya’s frown deepened, his lips pushing forward in a pout as he tried to sort the rules out in his head. “So… only friends can be woommates?”
“Yes,” the man nodded, amused. “That’s right.”
Huh. Friends living together, like playdates that never ended? Little Sakuya tried to imagine it. That sounded fun.
Sakuya turned to look up at his Uncle Iku who was looking down at him with a huge smile. His uncle's cheeks were puffed up like the squirrels he watched on Youtube Shorts. Then Uncle Iku crouched down too, his hand landing into a gentle pat on Sakuya’s head. “Sakuya, this is Daeyoung,” he said softly, like he was introducing someone important. “Do you remember? You met him when you were very little.”
Sakuya peered at the man again. Something tickled at the back of his mind, a memory too fuzzy to grab onto, like those dreams he sometimes forgets when he wakes up. Four year old Sakya always thought that those were so annoying. He wanted to remember his dreams so he could tell his mama and papa. And maybe Uncle Iku too whenever he comes around to visit. He can’t seem to place where he’d met Mr. Daeyoung before. Maybe he had seen this uncle before. Maybe he had been carried once in those long arms. But he had been too small to remember clearly.
Mr. Daeyoung smiled at him again, and the smile was just as bright as his laugh. He smiled so widely until his eyes curved like half-moons. Sakuya thought they looked pretty. He liked looking at the moon when it was curved like this man’s eyes. Uncle Riku’s eyes also looked like that when he laughed too hard. But they weren’t exactly the same as this man’s. Uncle Iku’s half-moon eyes looked more like his Mama’s. He was Mama’s brother, after all. And the moon was pretty, therefore this man was pretty. Like Uncle Iku and his Mama.
"Hello, Sakuya,” Daeyoung said gently. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
Uncle Riku ruffled his hair. “You can call him Samchon,” he said.
Sakuya blinked. “What’s a Samchon?”
Riku’s smile was gentler now, and his voice had that careful, encouraging lilt he only used when he was teaching Sakuya something important. “In Korean, Samchon means uncle.”
Sakuya had repeated the word, fumbling, rolling the syllables around like candy. “Samchon.” He said the word a few more times, testing the word in his mouth until he got it right. Then his face lit up. “Daeyoung-samchon!”
The name had burst out clumsily, the name too foreign for his little tongue. But the excitement in how he said it was all that mattered. Sakuya had decided right then and there that he liked this Mr. Daeyoung guy.
Mr. Daeyoung had laughed again, the sound bright and easy, and when he offered his hand, it made Sakuya’s look impossibly small. Of course, he took it. For little Sakuya, it meant one more person to show off his new panda stuffed toy to.
At four and a half, Sakuya hadn’t fully understood what a roommate was. But it didn’t really matter because he learned two new words that day. Roommate didn’t mean much to Sakuya. But samchon? That he understood. Samchon was family.
♡🪑
Uncle Riku and Daeyoung-samchon had been living together for as long as he could remember. While everyone else built families of their own, they stayed “single,” “unmarried,” no bands on their left ring fingers to deter anyone from trying their luck with them. Questions came, sometimes gentle, sometimes insistent, about when his uncle would find a good woman and settle down. BUt Uncle Riku only laughed it off, the way he always did when people became too nosy, and kept showing up with Daeyoung-samchon, no good woman in tow. Year after year, holiday after holiday, until their chairs at the table together felt as natural as the food laid out. Whenever someone asked, “Aren’t you scared of dying old and alone?” he would only shake his head, a small smile on his lips, a quiet “You don’t have to worry about that” following soon after.
And as Sakuya grew older, he began piecing together the truth hidden in plain sight. His uncle was never really alone—he never had been. There was always the man beside him, the one who filled the empty seat next to his, the one who laughed when he laughed and softened when he softened, the one who had been sharing a roof with him for more than a decade now. His uncles weren’t alone. And they were happy. They always seemed so happy together.
But their happiness, as Sakuya had learned through the years, did not come without a cost. Their happiness came with sacrifice. With tears and pain, lots and lots of them. Uncle Riku—confident, fearless Uncle Riku—once told him that even he had to learn how to stand his ground and be comfortable in his own skin, that courage didn’t come naturally, it was built. Daeyoung-samchon—warm, brave Daeyoung-samchon—had once mentioned in passing that everything he had now, he had to fight for piece by piece, and that even love was something worth losing everything for. It all seemed like boring and preachy words to a young Sakuya, the gravity of their words not settling in. He hadn’t realized then that those words carried the weight of battles fought in living rooms and around dinner tables, of wounds invisible but lasting. Only later did he come to understand that his uncles weren’t simply speaking of life in general. They had been telling him the story of their own love's survival.
The story was never told to him outright, but it reached him in hushed tones between older relatives, passed around as anecdotes, through overheard voices dropped low when they thought the children weren’t listening. When Sakuya was eight, Uncle Riku had admitted the truth to the adults in the family for the first time—that Daeyoung wasn’t just his roommate or his friend. Daeyoung—kind and friendly, but clearly not a woman, Daeyoung—was his boyfriend. Sakuya didn’t remember the day itself because all he remembered was playing with his cousins in a different room while the adults talked, but over the years, he pieced together its fallout. One of his great-uncles had stormed out, said cruel, cutting words that were never repeated in full. That uncle stopped coming to family gatherings altogether.
But Sakuya also pieced together something else. The way Riku’s grandfather had immediately rebuked that uncle, how he had declared that Riku and Daeyoung would always be welcome. Their grandfather’s word had been final. No one really dared to oppose him at that time. And some family members had pulled the two in warm embraces, much like the way they had pulled Daeyoung into the fold from the very first day Riku had brought him over with a smile that could rival the sun.
Still, the past clung in subtler ways. Sakuya began to notice the pointed stares, the lingering sneers of some relatives who still hadn’t fully let go. He noticed, too, how Uncle Riku would stand a little taller in those moments, how Daeyoung-samchon would reach for his hand under the table. And slowly, through years of observation and listening to whispers, Sakuya understood just how much it had cost for that extra seat at the family table—and just how fiercely his uncles had fought to keep it. Maybe that was why they always introduced themselves as roommates. Because it was easier to state a truth that would not rehash unwanted conversations and split open old wounds. And Sakuya understood. Understood the need to keep the peace. But sometimes, he hated how even after years, even with everyone knowing the truth, the truth still felt like a ticking time-bomb keeping Daeyoung-samchon's position fragile.
At twelve, curiosity got the better of him. He asked his mother what “gay” meant and if it was something bad. She had paused in folding the laundry, looked at him for a long moment, and then shook her head. “It just means a man loves another man,” she explained, smoothing out a shirt before placing it in the pile. “And no, it’s not bad. Don’t ever let anyone tell you it is.” Sakuya had nodded slowly, remembering Uncle Riku’s quiet smiles and Uncle Daeyoung’s sunshine laugh, and the way their eyes sometimes met like a secret passed between them.
When he was older still, old enough to pick up on subtler cues, the whispers he overheard sharpened into words he finally understood. In hushed conversations he wasn’t supposed to overhear, in fragments of stories slipped between the lines of family gossip, Sakuya pieced together that Daeyoung-samchon had once belonged to a family of his own—one that had turned its back on him. That was why Uncle Daeyoung always went quiet whenever his own relatives were mentioned, why his smile sometimes faltered when talk of parents and siblings filled the table. Daeyoung-samchon had been disowned. It was why he had moved to a different country altogether, leaving behind the place he knew as home to follow the only family he had left. His parents had cut ties with him when he told them his truth, when he told them of loving Riku the way they believed only a man and a woman together should, and so he had no seat at his own family’s table.
And that, perhaps, was why Uncle Riku was so adamant about giving him one at theirs. Why he never came without him. Why every Maeda celebration had an extra chair waiting, a plate set especially for him, no questions asked.
And so Sakuya took it upon himself to make sure Daeyoung-samchon never felt like an outsider in the family. Every birthday, every holiday, every gathering, he tried—whether through a smile, a joke, or simply letting Daeyoung-samchon hug him longer than he’d like—to remind him that he belonged. Because if the world outside had cast him aside, then here, at least, he would always belong.
♡🪑
Sakuya was older now, twenty and halfway through college. Coming home for term breaks always reminded him of what he had grown up with. His family, who he sometimes took for granted, gathered around the table trading stories and memories was something he would be eternally grateful for. The laughter at the table was the same, the food still plenty, but the faces were a little older, the lines at the edges of smiles a little deeper.
Uncle Riku and Daeyoung-samchon sat side by side as always, their hands brushing when they reached for the same dish, their shoulders pressed together in easy familiarity. When the room grew loud with overlapping voices and clattering chopsticks, Sakuya glanced over just in time to see them steal a kiss—small, quick, a tenderness meant only for them. It startled him, not because it was strange, but because of how ordinary it looked, folded neatly into the rhythm of family life.
The moment passed quickly, washed away into the flow of chatter, but Sakuya found himself holding onto it. He thought then of the whispers he’d once overheard, of the stories that had made Daeyoung-samchon’s place at their table feel fragile. But here they were, years later, still side by side. The chair was no longer just an “extra,” no longer a mercy extended, but simply his. Because he was family. Uncle Riku and Daeyoung-samchon were family. And Sakuya promised himself he would carry that forward. That he would fight to make sure they never again had to fight for their place in this family. Never had to fight for the world to embrace them. He’d do it for them with the same tenderness Uncle Riku used to pat him on the head, with the same gentleness in Daeyoung-samchon’s voice when he explained what a 'roommate' was all those years ago.
His gaze drifted to the chair Daeyoung-samchon occupied, the one that had always been waiting for him, every birthday, every New Year, every dinner party, every reunion. A seat kept not out of obligation, but out of love. Because it wasn’t just a chair. It was proof of his place in their family. A seat at their table that would never be taken away.