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It's the second time Hae-won drops by and asks him if he wants to go get lunch that Jong-in starts wondering when the people in his guild got so good at reading him. Hae-won's an exception, to be fair— he's known Jong-in for far longer than the guild has existed, far back enough that he remembers the days when getting up to eat at all was difficult for Jong-in. But Hunter Son had asked him this morning— not very subtly, bless his heart— whether he'd had breakfast. Some of the people on his strike squad had pushed a box of donuts towards him when he came into the break room for a quick coffee break. Even Gina had shot him one of her infamous side-eyes.
Hae-won doesn't push, at least. Jong-in tells him that he isn't hungry, and Hae-won backs off. Still, the concern in his gaze lingers. Jong-in wishes he could assure him that he'd take a food break right after this document, but as much as he's tried, Hae-won still remains one of the few people he's never been able to lie to.
He should eat. He really should. He didn't have breakfast, and he didn't have dinner last night, either— not after that mess of a dungeon break that stretched until midnight. But there's documents on his desk, an emergency A-Rank gate in three hours, and a whole host of other problems to deal with. Food isn't going to help right now.
Jong-in bends his head and keeps working. It takes only half an hour for him to drain his first coffee cup of the day, and another thirty minutes for him to get up for a new one. He puts way too much condensed milk into it and ignores Hunter Son blinking at him with wide, concerned eyes. It's not going to kill him. He knows exactly how he's going to die, and it's not a cup of coffee. If anything, it'll help him get through this mess of a day.
He works methodically, going through tasks and documents. When the second cup is drained, he pushes down the urge to get a third. His manager comes by and the documents multiply across his desk. His head pounds; he debates the merits of taking a quick break to lie down and rest his eyes, before deciding that the stress of putting off work for even a second might actually fuck him over.
Instead, he gets the third cup of coffee.
This time, Hunter Son does say something. "Um, Guildmaster. Not to, uh, try and boss you around or anything, but isn't that coffee super strong? And you're— you're drinking a lot of it."
Jong-in lets his usual smile fall easily across his lips as he stirs in more condensed milk than he really needs. "It's alright. I'm used to it, and today is a busy day."
Hunter Son looks vaguely terrified. "Well, I suppose, but—" He eyes the coffee with all the fear of someone facing down a giant scorpion. Jong-in frowns behind his cup. He does, admittedly, feel a little bad about stocking all the coffee machines with his preferred brew without telling anyone how strong it actually was. At least some of his hunters seem to be enjoying it. Son is just one of the unlucky ones who took a sip and spent the rest of the day experiencing heart palpitations severe enough to make them take flight. Lee Bo-ra swore up and down that she could hear colors.
Jong-in takes the coffee back and tries to ignore the stirrings of hunger in his gut. It happens like this, sometimes. He feels hungry, but experience has taught him better. If he eats now he's sure he'll just throw it up later. Not much else to do but try and get through all his work before he explodes.
Back at his desk, he stacks the papers into neat piles before reaching for his coffee again. His stomach hisses in displeasure; he ignores it.
… He could really go for some noodles right now.
As the last of his team leaves the gate, Jong-in checks his phone for the time. It's getting late, late enough that he won't really be able to swing by the store for ingredients after all. Disappointment curls tight in his chest. With the gate done and the majority of the most pressing issues checked off his agenda, he was hoping he'd be able to make himself something somewhat decent for dinner. He's starving, now, and the hunger is making him a little lightheaded.
… It's fine. He'll have ramen, then. Just as well, since he also kind of wants to pass out for twenty hours straight. There's still somethings to deal with tomorrow— and wasn't there another gate that just cropped up? He can't remember who was going to take it, if anyone. He'll have to look into it, and—
His phone buzzes. He watches as a text message comes in, labeled with nothing but a tiger emoji and some sparkly hearts that he'd intentionally spammed. The contact photo is one that the person in question doesn't even know he has— probably because he'd been asleep. He'd try to delete the photo if he ever found out, which is why Jong-in is keeping it firmly hidden.
Hey, says the text. Come over.
Jong-in tugs at his lip with his teeth. I didn't think you missed me that much, he replies, in lieu of an answer, because he doesn't know how to say that he wants nothing more than to head over to Yoon-ho's warm apartment and face-plant into his very nice chest, but he also wants to go to the privacy of his own apartment, eat plain ramen, and then try not to cry.
Yoon-ho replies, Asshole. Jong-in laughs.
I'm making dinner, is the second message. Come over. Please?
Dinner? That's nothing new— Yoon-ho likes cooking— but he's never used dinner as a way to lure Jong-in over. Dinner is a secondary thing, something they decide after Jong-in's already taken off his shoes and made himself comfortable on the couch. Usually it is Yoon-ho who cooks, because he complains that Jong-in puts too much garlic into everything and also makes the apartment smell like fish.
(Jong-in had once replied that Yoon-ho should like that, given… well, everything. Yoon-ho had slapped him— lightly— with a couch cushion. But the next time Jong-in came over, there was a new bottle of fish sauce in the cupboard, so he figures Yoon-ho wasn't really upset.)
Still. It's a little odd, is all. But Yoon-ho said please, and Jong-in does miss him and his stupid haircut and his laugh. So he replies, Okay.
The apartment smells familiar when he gets there.
Not familiar in the way it usually does. Yoon-ho doesn't like scented candles because they hurt his nose, but his apartment always does have a faintly warm scent to it. Sometimes it smells like sugar or cinnamon or whatever else he'd baked in his spare time. Sometimes Jong-in can tell what's for dinner the second he walks through the door.
This, though, is different. This scent brings him back to a home he hasn't visited for a good couple of years, with how busy he's been— back to sunlit streets echoing with the sounds of traffic and chatter. Jong-in stands in the doorway, one shoe off, his coat slipping from his shoulders, and wonders, faintly, if the hunger and lack of proper sleep are making him have olfactory hallucinations.
Slowly, he kicks off his other shoe and wanders deeper into the apartment.
Yoon-ho is in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge. There's a pot on the stove, covered by a lid. The smell is still obvious. Jong-in lifts the lid and blinks down at the broth inside— dark, clear, and familiar.
"Surprise," says Yoon-ho, from behind him. He says it like a question— like he isn't sure if it is. Jong-in turns to face him, and Yoon-ho offers him a hesitant smile. There's a bundle of spring onions in his hand. He's wearing the stupid apron Byung-gu got him as a gag gift, the one that says— in English— "Mr Good Lookin' is Cookin'". Byung-gu had laughed his ass off when Yoon-ho opened the gift. Jong-in had, too. Then they both explained it to Yoon-ho, who had told them both, very calmly and firmly, that he was going to kill them.
It's been a year and he still wears the apron. Jong-in doesn't know if he wants to laugh or cry at the sight of it. He drags his gaze up to meet Yoon-ho's, instead. The scent of the pho broth is still wafting past his nose. It's been at least months since he had it in a restaurant— even longer since he had it home cooked. He's been meaning to make it for himself, really. He just— keeps forgetting. Keeps putting it off, keeps telling himself that tonight will be the last night he eats leftovers or ramen, and tomorrow he'll make himself something proper.
"I figured you haven't had this in a while," Yoon-ho says softly. "So I wanted to try my hand at making it. You haven't eaten at all, have you?"
Jong-in frowns. "Who told you?"
Yoon-ho gives him an exasperated look. "Hae-won, but I wouldn't need him to tell me. You're shit at taking care of yourself when you're stressed."
"Sometimes," Jong-in tells him, trying very hard not to let his voice waver, "we should keep our thoughts inside."
Yoon-ho's whole face softens. He puts the onions down and reaches out his arm in invitation. Jong-in slumps against his chest and valiantly fights against the urge to cry.
"I got you more of that shrimp paste, too. Hell if I know why you like it so much, but it's there." Yoon-ho tucks an arm around his waist, squeezing gently. "I got the right brand this time."
"It's good," Jong-in tells him, muffled. Shit. He really is going to start crying. "You just can't handle the smell, like a loser."
"I don't know how you can get past the smell. It's terrible."
"L-lies and slander." Jong-in reaches a hand between them to wipe at his eyes. His glasses are getting smudged. He makes the executive decision to take them off and blindly place them on the countertop so he can more effectively smush his face into Yoon-ho's shoulder. Sight is overrated, anyways. He doesn't need to see.
"You're going to break your glasses," Yoon-ho snaps, shifting. Probably reaching out to save Jong-in's glasses from having an unfortunate meeting with the floor. "At least put them somewhere safe."
Then his arms wrap back around Jong-in's waist, squeezing him tight, and Jong-in's breath hitches. He squeezes his eyes shut. He won't cry, he won't—
But Yoon-ho's presence has always had a way of making all of Jong-in's walls crumble. He feels one tear trickle down his cheek, then another. Yoon-ho's hand moves up to rub his back and Jong-in breathes shakily in, out. He reaches between them to wipe his damp eyes.
(He doesn't mean to cry, really. He never does. Yoon-ho says that it's bad for him, but Jong-in's been doing it for years and he's not dead yet, so it can't be that bad. But— it has been a terrible week. A terrible day. Just this once, he can allow himself to break a little.)
"Thank you." Jong-in finally, reluctantly pries himself away from Yoon-ho's warmth and wipes his eyes again. Yoon-ho doesn't comment, thankfully. He just leans in and kisses Jong-in's forehead.
"It smells perfect," Jong-in tells him, leaning into his touch again. At this rate he's never going to be able to actually detach himself and go shower or change. "Where did you learn?"
"From you, idiot," Yoon-ho says. "Remember when we went to that restaurant and you didn't like the pho? And then you spent twenty minutes lecturing me on what makes good pho?"
Ah. He had, in fact, done that, fueled by mild infuriation at his bland bowl of pho.
"Anyways," says Yoon-ho. He reaches for the onions again. "Try the broth. Tell me if it's good."
Jong-in tastes it. He reaches for the fish sauce and, ignoring Yoon-ho's side-eye, pours a little more into the pot. Yoon-ho had even remembered the star anise; they bump against the ladle as Jong-in gives the broth a few quick stirs.
"I haven't done the noodles yet." Yoon-ho's knife flashes as he slices the green onions. "But I have the beef ready. It just needs slicing."
"I can do the noodles," Jong-in says. They're a little different, here in Korea, but he's worked with them before. He passes Yoon-ho cilantro and lime from the fridge before setting another pot of water to boil for the noodles.
They work in comfortable silence, finishing up the meal. Jong-in sits on his designated countertop spot— the only place Yoon-ho allows him to sit— as he waits for the water to boil. "How helpful," Yoon-ho says, deadpan, even as he feeds him a piece of meat. Jong-in throws him a wink and watches in satisfaction as Yoon-ho's cheeks flush a dark red.
He looks sharply away. That won't do, Jong-in thinks. Leaning his elbow against his thigh and propping his chin up in his palm, he calls, "Yoon-ho. You're ignoring me."
"And I'll keep ignoring you," Yoon-ho mutters. His cheeks are still delightfully pink.
"Don't make me pull out the big guns," Jong-in says, lowering his lashes.
Yoon-ho's hand stills on the knife. He begins to look up. "Do not—"
"Anh ơi. Won't you look at me, hm?"
Yoon-ho looks as if he's spent the last three hours running top speed in the blazing hot sun. He sets down his knife and glares at Jong-in— the effect of which is largely mitigated by how flustered he looks. "You're the worst. Do you want dinner or not?"
Jong-in laughs. "Not my fault you like it when I call you that." He'd figured out, relatively early into their relationship, that Yoon-ho has a— well, thing, for Jong-in calling him pet names in other languages. He has, admittedly, been abusing this information since.
Yoon-ho mutters something under his breath about stupid and attractive, and then he comes over, nudging Jong-in's knees apart to stand between his legs. He leans in, his lips brushing against Jong-in's cheek. "There. Happy?"
Grabbing him by the chin, Jong-in turns Yoon-ho's face to give him a proper kiss. "Now I am."
"If you don't mind," Yoon-ho grumbles, "I'd like to actually finish dinner before you starve."
"What about you?"
"I am fine. You—" Yoon-ho picks up a pair of chopsticks and points them threateningly— "need to eat."
The laughter dies in Jong-in's chest. He watches quietly as Yoon-ho moves around, putting things in the sink and grabbing spices. Pho broth takes forever to make from scratch— he would know. He's seen his mother do it more times than he can count. It's why he's only ever done it himself once. How long has Yoon-ho been planning this? Or was it spontaneous?
Either way, Jong-in doesn't think he can remember the last time he was given such a thoughtful gift. He doesn't know if it's intended as such, but—
"Yoon-ho," he calls, softly. "Thank you. Really."
Yoon-ho pauses. Smiles at him, small and fond. "Long day, huh?"
"That's one way to put it," Jong-in mutters. "But you must've had a long day too. You didn't have to do all this. It takes forever."
"I know," Yoon-ho says. "But I wanted to. You deserve a nice meal, and it's something I'm capable of doing. I wanted to surprise you."
"Wow," Jong-in says, and he can feel himself starting to tear up again. Instead he grins. "I didn't know you were such a romantic, Yoon-ho. I could make out with you right now."
"Would you rather make out with me or eat a bowl of pho?"
"Oh. Eat a bowl of pho. Not even a question."
"Asshole," Yoon-ho mutters. Jong-in laughs. He hops down from the countertop and crowds up behind Yoon-ho, wrapping his arms around his waist and pressing his face into the space between his shoulder blades. He's warm, as always.
Jong-in squeezes him. "I'll make out with you after the first bowl. But then I'm going back for seconds."
Yoon-ho's whole body shakes as he laughs, loud and unrestrained. Jong-in smiles into his shoulder.
The pot of water begins to hiss steam. Jong-in stirs the noodles in as he listens to Yoon-ho talk about his day over the dull thump of the knife hitting the cutting board. The meat is set aside; the chili peppers are sliced and put with the basil and lime in a plate; the bean sprouts go in a small dish. Jong-in rinses the noodles and divides them into two bowls. Then Yoon-ho shoves him aside and tells him to go sit down, so Jong-in retreats into the small dining room.
He laughs when Yoon-ho emerges from the kitchen, still wearing the damn apron, toting two bowls. Yoon-ho raises a questioning eyebrow; Jong-in shakes his head. "Nothing. Come sit down."
"For you," Yoon-ho says, in that endearingly awkward tone of voice he uses when he's trying to flirt. Jong-in gingerly accepts the bowl. That familiar scent wafts up at him again, soothing something aching and tired in his chest. He almost wants to cry again. Yoon-ho would probably tell him that he's overdue for a good cry, and he'd probably be right.
But there's a bowl of pho in front of him— crying can wait until later. Jong-in decorates his bowl with basil and lime and chili peppers, snaps a quick photo, and digs in. His stomach growls. He's never been more hungry in his life, but he eats slowly, savoring every bite. Yoon-ho had gotten the flavors down perfectly.
"This is really good," Jong-in says softly, earnestly. "I— it's been a while since I've had this." Too long, honestly. It'll never quite be like the bowls he'd eat on a tiny stool on the sidewalk, listening to the shopowners banter— but it's close. It tastes almost like a different kind of home: this apartment that he comes back to almost every night, warm and suffused with the scent of sugar and the bark of Yoon-ho's laughter.
"I know," Yoon-ho says. "I'm glad you like it."
"You're a little too good at cooking, you know." Jong-in props his chin on his palm and smirks at Yoon-ho. "Why, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to seduce me."
Yoon-ho opens his mouth, then closes it. He scowls, even as a flush creeps across his cheeks. He looks a bit like he's short-circuiting— and Jong-in has to admit, that stokes his ego quite a bit.
"I'm just trying to make sure you don't starve," Yoon-ho grumbles, after a moment. He pokes at a bean sprout with his chopsticks. Jong-in waits patiently.
"… what if I was trying to seduce you?"
Jong-in hums, lifting his bowl to his mouth. He sips.
"I'd tell you to wait. I'm going back for seconds. Then you can seduce me however you please."
Yoon-ho grins, pleased. "Deal."