hismelody | I'm on waves, out being tossed

Entry tags:

I'm on waves, out being tossed

Eventually, the lack of sleep was always going to catch up to him. Through three sleepless nights, or at least mostly sleepless, S knew it, exhaustion increasing, though easy enough to push past with so much else to focus on. Still, it was only ever a temporary solution at best, nothing that could have lasted much longer than it did. With that being the case, it shouldn't be such a surprise when, after that third night, on their third full day together, he hits a wall, no longer able to keep his eyes open, drifting off while sitting on the couch. He isn't expecting it all the same, though even that, he barely registers, just as he's only half-aware of J ushering him back to bed, too tired to protest or to focus on why he should.

It's different when he wakes up. S grew accustomed a long time ago to sleeping and waking up alone, though it was one of the most difficult things about all that solitude, no longer having a warm body beside him at such times. He and J shared a bed for years, even before their relationship became more than platonic, cuddling together for warmth in the one bed in their small studio when the weather began to change. Of course, he felt it then, the beginning of something more, and it wasn't all that long after that they admitted their feelings for each other, but they spent ages like that. Even when they fought, even when J would barely speak to him, he still had the anchor of J's presence at his side, the distance sometimes easier to breach that way. It was comforting, always, but like so much else, he never thought he would lose it until he did.

He had months, though, after J left, after J died. At some point, following the former, it just became routine, as sad and empty as everything else about his life, J's absence as tangible as it ever was to be with him. It shouldn't, then, have taken only three nights to change that. They've hardly been apart in that time, though, save for brief moments of one going into another room for something or other. He's spent every night holding J as he slept, so overwhelmingly grateful to be able to do so, determined to do anything in his power to keep him safe.

So, when S wakes up distinctly alone, disoriented and unaware even of how long he's been asleep, the first thing he feels is cold, sheer terror.

For moments — sometimes hours, even — at a time, he's managed not to dwell on it. It's always been there, though, never too far from his thoughts, always ready to creep back in, the memory of how J sounded that first day on his couch, what S was so fucking scared he might do, J's promise not to stay, but to try. Even that was more than S could have asked for, and yet he knows it's not a guarantee, either. And while the past couple of days have been good more often than not, there's no telling what might happen with J alone, left to his own thoughts. Believing that a couple of decent days would be enough to override all that darkness would be entirely too naïve, even for S; it isn't as if he ever stood a chance against it before, and things are far worse now than they ever were then, even if, in some ways, they're better, too. He doesn't know how long it's been, he doesn't know what might have happened, and it's too much, his chest so tight that it feels like he can't breathe. Despite still being tired and out of sorts, it takes him only moments to pull himself out of bed, trying not to move quite as frantically as he feels but unable to take his time about it.

Not so very long ago at all, he woke up to find out, not very long after, that J was already gone. Now, as he moves out of the bedroom and down the hall, he silently prays to whatever deities might exist that he won't be too late again. He only just got J back. He isn't at all ready to lose him again.

He's dimly aware of a few things — muffled noise that he can't distinguish, the fact that the bathroom door is still open and the light off, which is something of a relief in its own right, though he doesn't really feel it until he rounds the corner and sees J sitting on the couch, watching TV. Overwhelmed and breathless, trembling with worry, he presses his free hand to his chest, the other resting against the wall for support he's surprised to realize how much he needs. "You're alright," he finally manages to say, though it's more to himself than anything else, his voice so small he's not even sure it will be fully audible over the sound of whatever J is watching. He doesn't care, just taking in the sight of him, mercifully alive and alright, relief mingling with the panic he can't yet shake off.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's almost funny, if not altogether surprising, that what J says is something S could just as easily have said in turn. Although there are exceptions — like the day J got here, when he so utterly fell apart thinking he might have been about to lose J again — most of the time, it's easier to pull himself together for J's sake, to be a source of support, someone he can lean on. At least, hearing this now, he feels a bit less guilty about the times he's needed it in turn, though it doesn't rid him of the feeling entirely.

Maybe it's for the best, though, that he's a mess now, too. If part of what J resented about him before was the sense he gave of being calm and in control, having lost some of that can't be an altogether bad thing.

"I do need you," he murmurs, a confession in its own right. For so long, he was, or at least tried to be, the steadier of the two of them. He was so empty, though, without J. Practically from the first time they met each other, it felt like finding a missing piece, one he wouldn't otherwise have even known to look for. Losing that — losing J — was like losing a part of himself, and knowing he would never again be complete. Thinking about it in those terms feels unbelievably dramatic, far too much so to say it outright, but he means what he's said all the same. He does need J. He's not even sure he realized just how much until getting him back. "If it makes you feel better... I'll try. I will." He almost, almost smiles. "And it helps me to be here for you."

S has made it clear these last few days — or, rather, he's reminded J of the truth of something he once knew — that he wants to be here to support him. That this is better for both of them. Still, it helps to be told. When all of those fears and uncertainties ran so deep for so long, it's something that's going to take time. Going to S is so instinctive, and a lot of this feels like returning to who he's supposed to be, having that back, but every now and then, those old worries flicker back to life.

All he can do, though, is to try and push them aside, to keep moving forward, and S's reminders make that possible. Besides, there's such a relief in having S to confide in again. He does smile, pleased and grateful, leaning closer to press a kiss to the tip of S's nose. "Then we'll help each other," he says, heart thumping, dizzying. It's the I need you, he thinks, that did that. He spent a while resenting his own need for S. Settling back into that, it helps to hear he isn't alone, even if he didn't really think he was. It's still good to be needed.

"I need you, too," he adds, earnest. "I've felt a lot better, being with you again. Even now — it wasn't very bad, but I came out here to watch TV because I was — my thoughts, sometimes, it's like they go around and around, repeating. It wasn't anything important, but I thought, if I let this continue, it will get worse, so I turned that nonsense on, and it worked." He tips his head to the side, not sure if that will make things worse to have said or not. "If it had gotten bad, I would have woken you up, but since it wasn't, I thought you should sleep some more. In any case, I was okay just watching TV, but sitting with you, talking to you, I feel better than okay."

It isn't something that S likes hearing, exactly, but he thinks he gets it even so. These past months, he's had far too much time alone in his head, left to cycle through the same few thoughts, unable to think about much if anything else. When he started getting his strength back, there were times that seemed like a good thing. It gave him purpose, kept him going when it would have felt far too easy not to, something to work towards when he had nothing else left. The times in between, though — when he was still too badly wounded to spend much time on his feet, or when he was just worn down from the weight of everything — it was dismal and empty, his loneliness only magnified by the continued quiet, leaving him feeling as haunted as J wrote about being in his journal. It's not exactly the same, but it's close enough to it, he figures, for him to have some idea what J means.

"I feel better, too," he says, gently reassuring, though he pulls a slight face a moment later, self-deprecating. "I feel awful for making you worry about me, but I also feel better." Adoring and bittersweet in equal measure, he just looks at J for a moment, taking in the sight of him. They're both a mess, but even like this, he's beautiful, S thinks. Making himself turn away, he glances down for a moment, weighing his words, trying to figure out the best approach. He doesn't want to ignore what J has said, but he doesn't want to make too much of it, either. It's worrying, a little, but it's understandable, too, and at least this time, J found something that helped.

Too often, his words have come out wrong, skewed his meaning, given J the wrong idea. This, though, he hopes, will be straightforward enough. "And I'm glad it worked," he adds, a little softer, though a little lighter, too, as he continues. "Even if it does sound like the worst show ever made." It isn't much of an attempt at humor, but he doesn't linger anyway. "I'm glad I woke up, though, too. And if it does get bad, or worse... I'm here. I'll be here."

J huffs out a laugh at that assessment, brow raising briefly in agreement. Nothing he watched was much good, but that was spectacularly awful. But then, in a way, he thinks that's precisely what he needed, something so engagingly terrible that it provided a distraction. His smile softens as S finishes, and he shakes his head. "I know," he says, reaching for S's hand to hold between both of his. This time, he thinks, he really does know. Even if he has to be reminded, even if it takes effort to be aware of sometimes, he knows in a way he forgot.

"If it had," he says, "I promise — if it does, I'll wake you. I'm glad you woke up too, though, so we can have dinner together. And fall asleep together later." It's not as if they don't spend plenty of time together, given that there's no one else here to spend time with and nowhere they really go. Still, they missed out on a lot of dinners, a lot of nights drifting off wrapped up in each other, and he's enjoying the chance he's got.

He wrinkles up his nose then, leaning a little closer. "I feel awful making you worry about me, too," he continues. "But it's what we do, isn't it? That's part of loving someone." He made a mistake before, after all, trying to keep S from being able to know he had more reasons to worry.

Every time J promises to wake him up if it gets bad, S feels a little more at ease, a little more convinced that he actually will. He feels a little more ridiculous, too, for needing that reassurance at all, but then, he's not actually sure J was wrong when he pointed out that he'd been through a lot. The months he spent on his own after J left would have taken something of a toll on him anyway, but J dying, never mind his own near-death, compounded that more than he would know how to say. More than he would want to, too. He can't, he knows, keep it from J entirely, but he has no desire to say any more on that subject than he has already. No good would come from dwelling on it. As it is, it's something he knows he's going to have to carry around with him. Even in the face of all he just promised — and did so earnestly, too — the least he can do is try to keep it from coming to the surface too often.

"That sounds nice," he agrees, quiet, with a small, tentative smile. "Having dinner and falling asleep together." It's hardly new, except that they spent a long time not being able to do either of those things, except that he hasn't actually slept since J got here. He has, he thinks, dozed off a few times in very small bursts, but he that doesn't seem like the same as really sleeping. As soothing as he finds it just to lie beside J all night, he already likes the thought, too, of going to sleep in J's arms and then waking up that way. Hopefully he won't be in a panic like he was tonight, though if he's with J, he doesn't see that being much of a concern.

Shrugging, he leans closer in turn, the tip of his nose brushing J's, not quite closing the distance for a kiss. "And I guess it is," he agrees. "I still wish you didn't have to — worry about me, I mean — but I doubt I could stop you worrying any more than you could stop me." Fond, he gives J's shirt a little tug with his free hand. "There's no one I would rather worry about than you."

Even though he was the one to point out that worrying is part of loving someone, it still makes J's heart leap to hear S put it like that. He hadn't thought of it quite that way, and it feels good — less like an imposition, more of a choice. The way S tugs at his shirt feels good, too, much more playful than they were less than an hour ago, and he leans after it, hand slipping into S's hair as he pulls him into a soft kiss.

"No one," he agrees, fond, as he draws ever so slightly back. "And you can't stop me, no. I'll worry regardless. And I... I know you'll worry, too." He hates that part of it. It would be one thing if it were a normal amount of worrying; there's no one in the world who doesn't cause someone some kind of concern. But he knows that, with him, there's a lot more to fret over, a lot more reason to be a little scared. Or a lot scared. It isn't something he'd want to put S through, but he tried, before, to keep things from him, and it really only made it worse for both of them. Not knowing what was happening never kept S from fussing over him or watching to try and figure out the issue, and it made J feel even more on edge, resentful of the hovering. Back then, he was so sensitive to every little thing, and it was easy just to blame S for it. These last few days, though, have started to reshape his view of the things that bothered him, of how much of it he misinterpreted and how much he could have fixed if he'd just been honest.

That won't happen again. He keeps promising himself that. Even if he feels the urge to stay quiet, even if the idea of talking about these things makes him anxious, even if there are topics they both know he isn't yet ready to discuss, he'll do his best, at least, to resist the paranoia and the secrecy. S deserved the truth then and he deserves it now. "I'll just try to be less worrisome," he says lightly, his smile wry. That's going to take a lot of work, but already he can feel things changing.

Although it isn't really funny at all, given the reasons he has to be worried about J, that phrasing warms his smile the slightest bit. Truthfully, S isn't sure if that could even be possible. No matter how different things wind up being here, no matter how well J seems to be doing, he'll still have the weight of having lost him before to contend with. He'll still remember what it felt like to find out that J was dead, that he'd killed himself. He'll still, for that matter, know how strained and awful things were during that last year they were together — not as something to hold over J's head, because he wouldn't, and not as some kind of grudge he holds, because he doesn't, but simply as something that happened, that he doesn't want to let happen again. He wouldn't say it outright the way J did, that J was horrible to him, though that's probably not inaccurate. They were both so unhappy, though, and having gotten this back, having come so far in the past few days, he thinks it would hurt all the more to wind up back there again.

It's not all bad, though. He was always appreciative, always a little bit awed, that he got to be with J at all, but he's infinitely more so now for having lost him before. There's no way, now, that he could take this for granted or see it as just a given; he wouldn't want to. And he would, as he said before, rather worry with reason than be unconcerned, or less concerned, and oblivious. He didn't know how bad things were before. Though they can't go back and change it and don't actually know what would happen if they tried, it's hard not to wonder how different things might have been if he'd been more aware of what was going on with J.

"Even if you aren't," he says, still fond, quiet, almost shy, "I'll still be here to worry about you. No matter how worrisome." Despite his own awareness that it really isn't something to make light of, he lets his smile pull a little wider still before he kisses J's cheek, tasting a hint of salt from all their crying when he does. "There's nothing that could change that."

J pulls a face, but it's appreciative, really, an indication that he likes that, even if he doesn't like the context. He doesn't want to worry S. He doesn't want to cause the kind of distress he knows S went through tonight, or what he put S through a year or two ago or even, for S, a few months ago. He's endured too much, just for loving J, and J doesn't want that anymore. He has enough sense, though, to know that won't make it go away. And there is, there has always been, something comforting about knowing someone worried about him. Almost no one ever has, and certainly not like this.

And he believes S, this time, when he says nothing could change that. There was a time when he really did assume that was true, that neither of them would ever give up on the other. Saying it would have seemed silly, such an obvious fact, though they say plenty of silly, obvious things anyway. Then, for a while, he was sure it wasn't true at all. Now he knows it is. Always was.

"Good," he says, soft, smiling a little. "That's what I want." He's ready to return the sentiment when a knock sounds at the door, startling him. Eyes going wide, it takes J a moment to understand why anyone would be at their apartment at any point in the day, never mind in the evening, especially when he's not used to company at all. He's almost never had them anyway. And then it clicks and he lets out a short sighs and then a helpless laugh. "Aish, I'm a mess. Do you have the money? I'll get the door, but I didn't think to get the money."

Startled by the sound of a knock on the door, S lets out a soft laugh of his own, quickly followed by a shake of his head. They're ridiculous, the pair of them. At the same time, they aren't, really, having a plethora of perfectly good reasons to have been so emotional, but it feels ridiculous to have been sitting here, clearly crying, and have to get the food, which he'd nearly forgotten about. On the bright side, he feels more like he'll actually be able to eat than he did when they first ordered, having mostly figured at the time that he would just save some leftovers to eat later tonight or tomorrow, but he thinks that he'll be able to eat now after all, which is honestly a little relieving. He's given J more than enough reasons to worry tonight without skipping dinner, too.

"I have the money," he says, groaning quietly as he eases back from J. He doesn't really want to move, but he doesn't want to keep the delivery person waiting, either. There's little to be done about the state they're both in, tear-stained and red-eyed, cheeks still a bit flushed. At least ordering food isn't something they're likely to do very often. With any luck, whoever is dropping their food off won't remember them or their fairly obvious emotional state. "I'll get it, you get the door."

He leans in to give J one more quick kiss before he gets to his feet to retrieve the cash they have on hand. At least, with J having decided to stay here, he feels far less trepidatious than he otherwise would about spending as much as this is likely to be on food. They can afford it, and all of it will keep, and fuck, given the evening they've had, it's more than worth it not to have to make the effort to cook. Money in hand, he heads over to meet J by the door, hanging back a step. "Here."

It helps, that quick kiss, soothing J's nerves. He hadn't quite realized they were in need of soothing to begin with, but then, he'd also mostly forgotten there are other people in the world.

As S darts off to get the money, he calls out "I'll be right with you." Even so, he takes a moment, blinking quickly and swiping at his cheeks. It probably only serves to make them pinker, given that all the tears have already dried, and there's no hiding it if they've left tracks. No hiding, either, that his eyes are probably bloodshot from all the weeping, so all there really is that he can still do is smooth back his hair. It doesn't really matter anyway, not like the person delivering the food will care.

He flashes S a smile, reaching out for the cash before he opens the door. It's a relief, too, to find that the person at the door is, in fact, delivering the food, since it doesn't occur to him until he opens the door that maybe that isn't necessarily the case. He's not sure what other options his brain has conjured up, though, and then it doesn't matter anyway. "Thank you," he says to the indifferent young woman waiting there, and even with his fumbling first over the cash and then how to hand off the money for the bags, it doesn't take too long for him to figure out how much to give. She gives a little wave and heads off down the hall, and J lets out a tiny sigh of relief he doesn't quite hear. The savory smell of familiar foods wafts up from the bags as he picks them up and steps back, nudging the door closed, and that takes up most of his focus anyway. "Ah, it smells really good."

Somehow, it all happens more quickly and more easily than S expected. He isn't even sure why, really, when it isn't as if it's something that ever takes very long. It's hard not to be self-conscious about the state they're both in, though — nervous, almost, which he wouldn't usually be, except that he's tired and it's been an incredibly emotional evening already, his nerves already frayed from all that panic earlier, despite its having long since subsided. He really didn't get it before. That the bouts of anxiety J experienced were bad was clear enough, but he never knew how it felt, how the effects of it linger, how visceral a sensation it is. Having calmed down, he still feels a little shaky, and in a different way than just being worn out from crying would leave him.

Still, being with J helps, and the exchange of money for food happening quickly and easily does, too, and he can't even bring himself to be worried about the cost under the circumstances. They'll eat well tonight and probably tomorrow, too, with all this food. He's been so careful since he got here, anyway, too used to having too little money to start spending it frivolously, even having some supposed continued source of it to rely on. One night of a little extravagance isn't going to bankrupt them. Worn out as he is, he wouldn't really have wanted to cook tonight anyway.

"It does," he agrees, not bothering to try to hide his relief once the door is closed behind J. Stepping closer again, he reaches to take one of the bags of food to bring to the kitchen. "This was a good idea, I think." It may technically have been his idea, but he wouldn't have thought of it if J hadn't started talking about food and craving tteokbokki, so really, it feels like both of theirs. Besides, he wouldn't likely do this sort of thing on his own, or order so much. "I'm hungrier than I thought I was."

It's a small comment, but one that makes J brighten. S looks a bit worn around the edges in a way J thinks he can recognize, though he has a tendency to avoid mirrors of late. To see him look a little more ease, to hear that he's hungry, it's comforting. Had S not said they could get delivery, he's not sure he would have asked to do so, not wanting to make him worry about money on top of the rest of it. It's a relief that he did, though, since it spares them the trouble of cooking when S clearly needs a break.

Following to the kitchen, he nods. "Now that I smell it, so am I," he says, laughing a little. He was hungry, but not distractingly so, the tteokbokki more a craving than a matter of his needing dinner just yet. But with the mingled smells of all these dishes, he's ready. There are hints of spice and herb and a savory sweetness that must be the bulgogi, and walking into the kitchen, he's greeted by the scent of fresh, hot rice on the air. He sets the bag on the counter and immediately turns away to hunt down a couple bowls for the samgyetang, and some plates for the rest of it. Even before he's got either bag open, there's just enough of that rich combination of ginseng and chicken broth noticeable for him to feel a bit nostalgic. He's never tried to make it himself, but his mom used to, now and then.

He grins, handing the plates to S. "Rice please," he says, sweeping away to take the bowls to the table, deliberately angling himself to stay visible as he does so. It isn't long before he's coming back to help lift dishes from the bags. "If this is as good as it smells, we may not have leftovers."

Exhausted and wrung out though he feels, it's hard — impossible — not to grin when J does, moving around plates and containers of food almost instinctively, getting the rice from the cooker. Nothing is fixed, exactly, but he still feels a hell of a lot better than he did when he woke up. Still worried, somewhere in the back of his head, and not just because of the residual anxiety from all that panic, the way it still doesn't feel like his body has caught up to his mind, but better all the same. This isn't really something that can be fixed, after all. The things that happened still happened; the reasons he has to be afraid still exist. He can only trust what J has said, and he does, or at least he's trying very hard to. For now, J is here and safe, anyway, and it would be wrong not to make the most of that, to enjoy it. There's so much that's heavy behind them, and plenty more still ahead, too, but that's all the more reason to savor any peace while it lasts.

Being together, moving around the kitchen, substantially bigger than their last though it is, having gone all out ordering good food like it's a special occasion, he has a lot of reasons to be happy, too. Though he only lived here for a week before J showed up, it's still stunning how quickly this apartment, empty as it's felt, has begun to feel like a home. In that alone, there's a measure of comfort. He hasn't had that in so long. If he's honest, he thought he never would again.

"I don't know about that," he says with a soft laugh, one hand grazing J's hip for a moment. "We got a lot of food." Ordinarily, it might seem like too much, if only given the cost of ordering from a restaurant. As it is, though, tired and content, afraid and comforted, he doesn't mind the expense at all. They'll make it work. They always have before. Nodding towards it, he adds, "Rice. Ah, I barely know where to start."

There have been so many days when J didn't want to move. Now, though, he bustles around the rooms, setting out dishes, collecting utensils. There's a lot he can't do or fix or solve, but he can eat well, which S might find comforting, and he can make sure S eats too. Familiar food can help a lot sometimes.

Once he has things laid out, though, he doesn't yet sit down. Instead he gravitates back to S, settling in front of him so he can't go yet either. Lifting his hands, he cups S's face, drawing him close for a kiss. Soft though it is, he lingers, fingers drifting up into S's hair. It feels so much like home right now, even if it doesn't look anything like anywhere they've lived before, together or apart, and he just wants to kiss his boyfriend and be happy.

Even when he draws back, it isn't much, his hands falling to curl in S's shirt as he presses a kiss to his cheek next. "Start there," he says, playful, then steps back, tugging S along by the shirt toward the table. It isn't until he reaches his seat that he lets go so he can sit. There's a big spoon he brought specifically for the samgyetang, and he uses it to ladle portions into their bowls. "And then start with everything, clearly." It really is a lot, so for now he just starts moving helpings from the cartons onto their plates.

With a rush of warmth, S smiles into it when J kisses him, hands instinctively coming to rest at his waist. Even with the tantalizing smell of food that he wants to eat while it's still hot, he's hardly going to resist the opportunity to kiss his boyfriend. As he's thought several times over the past few days, it feels like the right sort of familiar. They can't, and shouldn't, go back to the way things used to be, but aspects of it have carried over all the same, the best parts, the ones that were always so instinctive. Before they became a couple, when they were still just kids newly living on their own, there was a lot that was difficult to get used to, things he'd never had to do on his own before, but coexisting together, sharing even that small studio, that part was simple. It is now, too, but more than that, it's a welcome relief after having been on his own for so long. These moments of easy affection, they might be the aspect of this that means the most to him now.

"Well, I can't argue with that," he says, half-teasing, letting J drag him over to the table. He's only a little reluctant to separate when J lets go, the food a good reason to do so and an excellent distraction, both from the part of him that would like to keep kissing or to curl up in J's arms again and the distant thoughts still circling through the back of his head. All of it smells incredible — like home, really, which wouldn't be so noteworthy except that after a week and a half away from the only place he'd ever lived before, even having been cooking only foods he knows, he'll take whatever familiarity he can get. He hasn't gone all out like this, anyway. "With either of those things. I have to try a little of everything at least."

Even if S mentioned being hungrier than he thought he'd be, J is careful not to put too much on his plate. When he's been through these moods himself, he's never sure if he's going to want to eat or not, not until he's in the process of actually eating. And, really, he could let S take care of it himself. He isn't trying to baby him, after all. It's just nice to do; it feels domestic, even if the food he's doling out was cooked in a restaurant. He puts a little of everything on both plates, smiling warmly as he does. It smells good. Maybe it won't be as impressive once he actually eats it, but he doubts that.

Maybe he just misses home. Not the actual place — he doesn't want to go back. Even if he could, he doubts he'd feel safe or comfortable in Seoul now. But he misses the point in their lives when that was home, when home was somewhere they shared, and food like this was easy to get or even something his mom made for them when they'd visit. Sometimes he'd go on his own to see her, but even then, she'd press leftovers on him to take home. Sometimes, though, he'd drag S along, especially for holidays. He's been trying not to think about it too much the last few days, because he might unravel again if he looks at it too closely, but still, this feels comfortably like home.

"You can kiss me again later," he promises, teasing, and nudges S's leg with his foot under the table. "But first, we eat." As tempting as the samgyetang is, he grabs his chopsticks first to dive into a helping of tteokbokki, the cheese dragging out from the tteok as he lifts it away from his plate, and he grins even before he takes a bite. That's always the best, when the cheese in the sauce is thick enough to stretch like that, and he's happy to find, as he bites into it, that the flavor lives up to that promise. "Ah, I haven't had good tteokbokki in a while."

S smiles, fond, at the way J starts fixing a plate of food for him before he can do so for himself, nudging him back under the table. He could just as easily have gotten his own food, but it's sweet, having J do it, and he's hardly about to object when they both get to eat either way. Besides, in a way, he just agreed to this. He's sure it isn't what J meant, but he did say that he would try to let J take care of him too, to work on allowing himself to be taken care of at all again, and there's no reason not to start with this, relatively insignificant though it might be. He did mean what he said, too, that it's hard to know where to start; of course, the same is true with a plate of food in front of him, but at least it's enough to keep him from thinking too much about how he'd like to kiss J again.

"I intend to," he says, as much teasing as not. Exhausted as he is, from the lack of sleep and the panic and the crying, he highly doubts he'll be up for doing anything more than that tonight, but there isn't a chance that he won't kiss his boyfriend again for a little while before he goes back to sleep. If anything, he suspects they might both need it after all that.

Right now, dinner takes precedence. While J starts on the tteokbokki, S turns his attention to the samgyetang, blowing gently on a spoonful before tasting it. "Oh, it's good," he says. "Still hot, but good." That's for the best, though, better than if their food arrived cold. Far from surprisingly, he thinks the restaurant must have been one nearby, the trip to deliver it short. It isn't as if it would have been any particular problem to reheat everything, but still, there's something comforting about living close to shops and restaurants that are reminiscent of home when so little here is. Well, so little outside of this apartment, anyway. The two of them could be anywhere, in any world, and he would feel just as much at home. "I'm glad you started talking about food."

He's not sure he would have wanted to eat otherwise, or that it would even have crossed his mind to do so. This, though, is definitely worth it.

J keeps darting glances at him, occasionally distracted by his food, sometimes distracted by S instead. He looks better now, J thinks — more color that isn't just from crying, calmer, genuinely pleased with the food. It is, really, more than J could have hoped for. If S isn't used to this kind of thing, it has to be even more jarring, but it's always disorienting for J, no matter how many times it's happened. To see him a bit more settled and eating is soothing for J, and it makes it easier for him to relax, too, and enjoy the food.

"I don't remember why I did," he says lightly, "but so am I. I wouldn't have wanted to cook anyway." He's not even sure he should try to cook by himself yet. He's fine when he's helping S, but the pressure of going it alone might make him more nervous, frustrating though that is, and he wouldn't have asked S to do it on a night like this. He follows S's lead, lifting a spoonful of soup and sipping carefully. It's a bit hotter than he's expecting somehow, but not too much so. More importantly, it's as good as it smells, bringing with it a sense of nostalgia. That's what he wanted, though, something familiar like home, something comforting for S.

"I like this," he adds after another moment and a mouthful of bulgogi and rice. "It's nice there's such a place close by."

For a moment, S almost agrees that he doesn't remember why J did, either. In all fairness, a lot has happened in a short time, and he swung from panic to tears without much of a break in between, and it's hard to keep track of everything that's been said when he still feels not quite wholly settled yet, his head a bit foggy. Before the words can leave his mouth, though, he realizes he does remember, his expression softening a little at the thought of it. In the moment, worked up and afraid as he'd been, even the most comforting parts of their conversation were bittersweet or heartbreaking. It's a little easier to think about now, a softer but similar feeling to the warmth he felt when J pulled him into a kiss in the kitchen a few moments ago.

"I remember," he says, smiling almost shyly across the table at J. "We were talking about... if we ever had a house. What we'd make in our kitchen." It feels like such a silly little dream. J has always been so ambitious, and S has long since felt that J doesn't understand his lack of it. There are things he wants to do, and he was eager to improve, when he was still playing and composing, but his real goals, the most significant ones, were smaller, more domestic. That's even truer now that he's gotten J back after so long. A quiet life with the man he loves is all he really needs to be happy.

"But I'm glad we didn't try to do that tonight," he agrees. "I wouldn't have wanted to cook, either."

J's expression softens in turn, all fondness, food forgotten for a moment. He'd feel silly for having forgotten that, but the last hour or two has been exhausting — more for S than for him, he assumes, but for himself too. Taking care of S involved a lot of changes in topic and a lot of more serious ones, too. This, though, is a particularly nice one, and now it comes back to him — a nice dream to have, he thinks. A better one than he used to have. He used to want acclaim, used to want to be a prolific composer of masterpieces, but he can't think about it for long. The piano frightens him too much, and he'd rather hardly anyone at all know who he is now.

Tonight, certainly, all that matters is that S knows him — better, in some ways, than J does. "Not tonight, no," he agrees warmly. "But one day. It would be nice, wouldn't it? Even if we don't get a house one day, a kitchen like this is good." Few people really had houses back home anyway, at least in the midst of Seoul. He never would have imagined it as a kid. Even now, he supposes, he has big dreams. "I've never tried to make samgyetang before."

He has vague memories of having helped his mother once or twice, but not very often and probably not very well. More likely it was busy work she gave him to make him happy and because she thought it was cute. More often, she made it herself — something warming in winter, especially if he had long hours of study after school, or something for if he was sick. It won't help him with making it as an adult, but they can figure it out. Besides, he remembers that wasn't even the dish that set him off looking for menus. "But tteokbokki shouldn't be too hard, right? We should try."

Even back in their little studio, S used to think about it sometimes. He was happy there, never bothered by how small the space was when it was theirs, but that didn't stop him from imagining that they might one day have a place all their own. Just a bigger apartment, one with actual rooms and thicker walls, would have been nice, but a little house somewhere would have been even better, the sort of thing he dreamed about without much of an expectation that they would ever get it. Now, it's hard not to start envisioning it again — a small home, just spacious enough for the two of them, a yard with a fence, maybe even room enough for them each to have a piano, certainly an actual kitchen. It's one thing he's quickly finding that he appreciates about this apartment, especially now that he has a reason to put more effort into cooking again.

"You mean a kitchen that actually is one?" he asks, teasing, though he can't really manage to look anything other than deeply fond. "We should. I'm sure we can manage." Tonight, even if they had the ingredients on hand, wouldn't have been the time to try it. Even something simple and familiar, he wouldn't have wanted to make; he would have managed if he had to, but even now that he feels far more settled, not nearly so panic-stricken, he's just out of sorts enough that it probably wouldn't have been the best idea, taking more focus than it normally would. Ordering out like this might not be an expense they can spare very often, but tonight, it's worth it, all the more so because J was right a moment ago. It's nice to know there's somewhere nearby with food like they could get at home. He would never have expected that to be so significant, but then, he could say the same about everything that's happened over the past week and change.

"We could try samgyetang sometime, too," he adds, pausing for another spoonful of the dish in question. "I remember helping to make it at home, I think. Years ago, of course, but still."

He probably has similar memories, J thinks, and then corrects himself. S probably has memories of actually helping, not just clumsily cutting up vegetables or stirring a pot that was just a little too high up for him. It was lucky for them both, J thinks, that S learned so much with his mother. J's own efforts are never quite as good as what S can make.

He glances up with a warm smile, finishing another bite of tteokbokki. They could even buy the pre-made tteok from the store and just make the sauce, then learn how to make the rice sticks later, take it a step at a time. "But still," he agrees, licking a bit of cheese from his lips, stifling a laugh at it. "Ah, I know I helped a few times, but... I don't think I was as useful."

Truthfully, he wishes he could have been more so. There are things he learned to make, especially on days when their roles were reversed, when J would get back from his studies before she came home from an especially long shift. It always felt important to do as much as he could, but given why that's so, he didn't have many chances to learn at his mother's side. At least now he can learn with S. It isn't quite the same thing, but it's good, too, in its own right, and something he can focus on instead of the pang of longing that comes with thinking of his mother. There are too many feelings to sort through there, and he can't let himself do so now.

"Hopefully you remember more than I do," he adds lightly. "And hopefully I'll be more useful for you, too. It would be nice to be able to make it, especially when the weather gets colder."

Although it's been years now, S still sometimes catches himself wishing he could ask his parents things. It would be so nice just to be able to call his mother and ask how she made samgyetang, or other dishes he hasn't had as much practice with. Of course, even if she were still alive, it wouldn't make a difference now when he would still be here, and it's hard sometimes to think about what he would say to his parents now if he could — how to explain everything that's happened — but it would still be better than the alternative. That isn't a line of thought he particularly wants to continue with now, though. Most of the time now, it's fine, a steady but dull background ache, something present but manageable. When he's been so frayed and emotional tonight already, though, and so afraid of losing J too, he really doesn't need to start thinking about how much he misses his parents.

"Don't worry, I'll find ways you can help," he promises, shooting J a small smile, reaching over for a moment to let his hand brush against J's wrist. That's the only downside, really, to having ordered all this food. It would be hard to eat soup still curled up at J's side as he would like to be, with only so much contact they can feasibly manage while eating. Still, this was definitely worth it, and worn out as he is, he thinks he might actually sleep tonight. Aside from briefly dozing off the other night, he can't remember the last time he actually fell asleep and woke up in J's arms, but it's just one more little detail that he missed.

"And it would be nice," he agrees. He doubts he needs to say that they can't splurge on takeout like this very often. Every once in a while, it'll be nice to treat themselves, but for something so familiar and comforting, it would be good to be able to make it here and not have to rely on ordering out.

It takes him a moment to realize why J's statement, simple as it is, makes him feel all warm inside, but then it hits him. The weather won't get colder for months. He wouldn't have specifically expected otherwise, but it feels really, really good to have J seem to be thinking that far ahead, to imagine them still being together then. He wants more than months, of course, but it's still more of a future than he had any reason to think they would get.

Little touches like that mean so much now. It feels so good just to be able to touch each other in small, absent ways. A little at a time, he's adjusting to the feeling that this can just be a normal part of his life again, and soon a lot of it will start to feel routine. His life, though, has been anything but routine for a long time. He doesn't intend to take it for granted that it might be soon. And now, at least, it's soothing, the little gestures, the soft smiles, the easy, idle chatter. He spent a long time in silence, desperately alone. This is better company by far.

"Good," he says, "I want to help. Really, so you can't just give me busy work, okay? I want to know how to do things right." It occurs to him that tonight's panic poses a problem for the exact reason J wants to learn. Better, he thinks, to approach that head on, instead of eating the chicken wing he just picked up. "Eventually," he adds, "you'll have to leave me here sometimes, you know. One of us has to be able to work. I hope I'll be able to again soon, but... we both know I can't yet. So you need to be able to do so, and know that I'll call you or send you a message if I need anything, and I want to be able to make dinner for you. So you have to show me for real."

He's not sure it's really the best time to bring it up, when S has been frightened even to sleep for long in case he does something, but it's not something that can be entirely ignored either. Since he's thinking about it, it feels important to talk about. Serious though he's turned, his expression softens a moment later, his smile small and a little shy. "If you're off taking care of us, I want to be able to do so, too."

These past few days, S has considered the same thing more than once, both that he'll have to find work before too long and that J probably won't be able to, at least not for a while. Thinking about it now, though, on the heels of all that panic and several nights running without sleep, is different. For a moment, instinctively, he feels his chest tighten just a little; this time, though, he tries to breathe through it, focusing on the familiar scent of the food in front of them and J's slight smile to keep from falling back into it. He can't do that now. If anything, he doesn't want to deter J from being able to say such things to him, trying instead to think about how much he appreciates that J has. In a way, it helps, too, to have J openly admit that he wouldn't be able to work yet. S suspected as much, but he wouldn't have wanted to be the one to point that out, even just to tell J not to worry about it, certain that it probably wouldn't go over very well. This is better, even if he does have to fight off a small surge of fear at the thought of J being alone all day most days.

"I know," he murmurs, an agreement meant for all of it, summoning up a almost mirroring smile of his own in the name of being reassuring. "I've been thinking about that. About looking for work soon." It isn't like he had any plan for how or when he would stop staying awake just to be there if J needed him, no particular sign that he was waiting for, no precise amount of time that would ease his concerns. He doesn't want to say that, though, and have to admit that he hasn't just not been sleeping much, but rather not sleeping at all. "And about... I'm still getting used to the money here. The figures don't entirely make sense to me yet. But I think, if I get a job, and with the money we'll both get every month and the two of us sharing a place, we should be alright without you having to work yet. I don't... want you to feel any pressure to. I promise, I don't mind being the only one of us working for now."

It should, he thinks, speak for itself, but it should also be said. Granted, S is pretty sure that he's dodging the actual subject at hand at least in part, but it isn't wholly deliberate; mostly, he's just been sidetracked. It just helps that it means he doesn't have to address the part where he'll be leaving J here alone just yet.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject