Work Text:
the lights on the house next to hers are on. song hagyeong wonders how long will it last this time.
she looks around and thinks the same thoughts she had when she first stepped onto the paveway. a girl with peanut allergy living in a place called peanut house, how ironic. but perhaps irony is what all she is. she has never been the one who wants to stay, always talking about leaving and never coming back; yet, it's her who's been watching people's backs from behind as they leave—hands cold and trembling, waving goodbye.
there are traces everywhere of the people who once spent their time in this house: the foster kids, the baeks from next door, her parents, the guests—both regulars and one-timer. in every nooks and crannies, they've been touched by memories that haunt her every waking hour.
this house is too big for one person and a dog, even if she doesn't count the other half owned by the baeks. the huge unused space—it suffocates her.
baek doha may call it his home but what does he know, anyway. he's not the one who has to wake up everyday in this damned house, this damned neighborhood, this damned town. he doesn't know the aching loneliness and the anxious waiting for the summer; for someone to come visit or for it to end. (the latter, it's always been the latter in the recent years)
what does he know, anyway. he's never here to stay longer than 21 days.
how long until a house can be considered a home? she thinks as she slips inside—today, both houses are dark when she returns and she can feel her hands are starting to freeze again, despite it being 28° outside.
she's still thinking about it as she stares at the new lamps and the now-fixed shoe rack—her communication way with subak now washed away by the oil. the house feels both familiar and strange to her at once. each time he comes, baek doha claims this place as his own too. why is it so easy for other people to feel at home in the place she spent the last 17 years trying to?
imagery of those who'd left float around as she tries to get subak up on his feet; his body feels too hot on her touch. cold hands and tremors and willing for (dad / mom / foster siblings / baek doyoung / baek doha) to stay—memories of farewells come rushing in and she's not ready to put subak in that bracket; he's the closest thing she can describe as home.
but what is a home, anyway? she ponders as she gives her speech to doha. your job is to design fantasies, so you might think i’d be grateful for the fix. but this is not a blueprint or 3D screen house—this is a real home. and yet. hagyeong doesn't feel like believing in her own words.
because if it's true, then why're her hands still so cold?
that's when she feels the warmth of his rough calloused hand, rubbing over hers. her gaze goes back and forth from the hands and him; not even looking at her, his other hand is busy typing on his laptop.
when he notices her staring, all he say is, “just … you looked cold.”
she tries to pull away but he doesn't let go; holding her hand slightly tighter. she doesn't understand—the reason for his action; or just him, honestly. but somehow, it provides an answer to her question.
she looks over their intertwined hands once more, with subak sleeping inches away from both of them—his breathing has become more stable, and feel herself being more relaxed too. this, she decides, is enough.
maybe, hagyeong thinks, home is all about sharing close proximity with the ones she cares the most.