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Friday nights for Sieun follow a strict routine, one started in middle school that he’d yet to break. ‘Yet’ being the operative word; tonight being the exception.
Keum Seongje’s presence meant Sieun’s life was constantly adjusting to every whim thrown his way. Tekken after cram school, or convenience store runs (Sieun often walking Seongje back in to return whatever he'd shoplifted) , or barbecue on the rare occasion that Seongje didn't want to drink alone. Sieun never shared beers with Ganghak’s former leader, but the company was mutually enjoyed.
They aren't quite friends. They aren’t enemies, either.
Somewhere between lengthy paragraphs detailing centuries of Korean history, a knock at the door disrupts Sieun's studies. Not unnerved by it, Sieun still wonders — and passively worries over — who’d be visiting past midnight. He peers through the peephole and emits a sigh of relief.
Well, as relieved as he could be.
"Do you know what time it is?" Sieun asks, face-to-face with a flushed and very intoxicated Seongje. "If you want to drink, go somewhere else. I have a te–."
Sieun's complaints are cut off by the weight of Seongje’s head on his shoulder. "Just… gimme a minute," he urges, voice oddly small against his skin. It’s disarming how meek he appears, but Sieun knows Seongje and meek isn’t him.
“What’s wrong?” Sieun asks frankly. Under the warm light, Seongje can’t disappear into his shadow. He shakes his head anyway, “S’nothing.”
Sieun doesn’t believe it, but he’s never been Seongje’s confidant. "This is an awkward position, you know?”
"...Shut up."
From the corner of his eye, Sieun observes Seongje. Wisps of hair obscure heavy eyes, while a bright red welt mars his cheek. Sieun’s brow drops, mildly concerned. "Did you get into another fight?"
Seongje's breath catches in his throat; a moment of silence looms over. "Somethin’ like that," he eventually mutters.
Sieun is unsurprised, but the former's reply seems strained. "Did you win?" Sieun prods, lifting Seongje’s chin for a better look. Soft skin had split into a jagged line along his cheekbone, fresh blood dotting the fat underneath. Bits of it had begun crusting underneath his nose and lip, which were also bruised. "Not today," is the response. Sieun notes a strong smell of whiskey on Seongje’s tongue.
"So, you got your ass beat?" he frowns and touches Seongje's cheek. The latter winces at the sensation but, for once, doesn’t pull away.
"I didn't go down that easy," Seongje argues; Sieun simply hums, "You should clean this. I have a first aid kit in the bathroom."
Seongje peels himself off Sieun with a groan. “Help me.”
It’s such a blunt request that Sieun thinks he imagined it. Clearly, Seongje had lost his independence. “Demanding, but I will,” the former quips, softening his expression.
As Sieun disappears down the hallway, Seongje stumbles towards the dining nook and plops onto a rather uncomfortable wooden chair. He slumps against the table, stomach churning as a sour taste settles in the base of his throat. Sieun’s home is plain, but not as hollow as Seongje's. While few pictures decorate the space, its character seeps in from piles of books scattered around and the mismatched fabrics of his living room. A lonely plant hangs in the corner, completing the scene.
There’s irony in Sieun’s life being domestic in the absence of family, compared to Seongje’s suffocatingly formal one, only he’s too drunk to dwell on it.
Footsteps enter the room. Sieun fiddles with the child-lock on a bottle of Tylenol, then hands Seongje two white pills. “Take these,” he says, reaching into the fridge to hand him a water. Seongje chugs it hastily.
Sieun pulls up a chair with cotton pads and rubbing alcohol in each hand. He tends to the latter’s wound, fingers gently cleaning the area and lathering on antiseptic cream. Seongje sighs, defeated and desperate for consolation.
"–y dad."
"What?" Sieun replies, pausing.
Seongje stiffens, avoiding eye contact as though it’s salt to the wound. He considers taking it back, but he's learned to trust Sieun — despite his guarded emotions. "It was my dad. The fight.”
Sieun is struck speechless. No words felt appropriate to comfort Seongje, who deemed this a fact of life rather than faulty parenting. “He’s not abusive, if that’s what you’re thinkin’. We just have our days.”
The former sighs, placing a bandaid neatly across Seongje’s cheek. His touch lingers, “And this is how they look?” Seongje shrugs and rests his head against the wall, “Sometimes.”
“What else should I know?”
Seongje ruminates. “I’m sorry about the rooftop. You only got involved ‘cause my own lackey was fucking me over. Also, I’m shameless when angry, and pretty faces get me especially angry.”
"It was a good fight,” Sieun remarks. He doesn’t address the ‘pretty’ comment, but mentally files it.
Seongje scoffs, "Yeah, ‘cause you won."
Sieun grins and dips back into the first aid kit, unable to disagree. He tackles the rest of Seongje’s face, despite every groan and protest given. It’d be purple-blue by tomorrow; Sieun wonders what excuse Seongje will give the rest of the world.
“Can I stay here…?” he subtly pleas. “Just tonight.”
Sieun catches a distant look in Seongje’s eye. It’s lonely, an emotion all too familiar. “Stay as long as you need,” he replies.
Grabbing a blanket and pillow, Sieun leads Seongje into the living room where the latter sprawls atop the couch, clearly spent. He curls up under the knitted throw. It smells like lavender, soft yarn brushing against his skin and making him shudder. Sieun places a new water at his side and a trash can — in case Seongje can't hold his liquor. "Will you be okay?" he asks; "Don't worry," is all Seongje can say.
“Goodnight,” Sieun whispers, watching him shuffle until settling into a fetal (and fragile) position. He turns off the light, then struggles to get back into his studies, reckoning with the fact that Seongje — who’d terrorized Seoul for years — was defenseless against his own father. It’s hard to confront, but Sieun knows better than anyone how deceiving appearances can be.
By the morning, he’s gone. The only traces of him are wrinkled linens and a pathetic bowl of congee on the counter. Before taking a bite, Sieun reads the note tacked to its cling wrap: Thanks – Seongje
The congee is salty and cold. Somehow, it leaves him warm.