shinysobi - Tumblr blog

shinysobi · 1 month ago

Text

sleepless in busan (lee jihoon)

what do you think about nostalgia?

☆ strangers to lovers, diner owner! jihoon x writer! mc ☆ w.c: 19k. (i know. i know) ☆ genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ☆ warnings: mentions of alcohol, smoking, underage smoking ☆ notes: long time no see lol. i spent way too long on this, but there was a lot to say. this chapter is dedicated to the lovely people in my discord dms, i promised angst, so i shall deliver. also big thanks to my betas: @mylovesstuffs and @cheers-to-you-th, for reading and commenting on this ginormous chapter <3 hope you enjoy this, and if you do, let me know what you think! chapter one | chapter two | masterlist playlist here

Verse 3 — milmyeon.

Gukbap is a strange dish. All the ingredients that go into making it are found in a typical Korean kitchen. Rice, salted shrimp, onion, noodles, kimchi, garlic. A bit of pork, if you want it. All of them are found in the kitchen we inhabit—the same spaces that see us moving in and out of them on a daily basis. I wonder sometimes, how long does it take for us to realise that the kitchen is where we spend most of our lives—and for women, it becomes an accepted form of prison. I don’t know about the politics of it, but growing up, the kitchen was an unlikely refuge for me. Away from everyone else, a space where even the relative solitude of my room was unmatched.

It’s not like I enjoy cooking, or that I'm any good at it. Most of my experiences with cooking have ended in disaster, or at the very best, something barely edible. It was not until I was 17 that I learnt how to move beyond the realm of instant noodles and got over my fear of the gas flame. Even so, I spent hours in the kitchen, watching my mother and grandmother, making meals for people like us, who didn’t even learn to appreciate it.

My father enjoys gukbap. It’s a homely dish, one that my mother whipped up on a daily basis when she got tired from all the work that needed to be done around the house. Simple ingredients for a rice soup that seems to be a representation of all that we are. Even when he goes out to eat, he gravitates towards gukbap. ‘If the restaurant doesn’t have good gukbap, it’s not really a good restaurant’. These are words to live by, of course, but from time to time, I think: would he still like gukbap if it wasn’t something my mother cooked all the time?

The gukbap here is good, because of course it is. The first time I had it, it was garnished with abalone because the owner ran out of other protein to put in it. I should be calling him out on this, but I don’t, instead, tucking into the soup with all the grace of a starved salaryman. Like every time I’ve had food at the diner, he says nothing, just smiles as I eat it. There’s a bit of guilt in there as well, for bothering him so late at night, but all of it fades away as my nose gets a whiff of the sesame oil put in the last step.

It’s nostalgic. I’m transported back to the kitchen of my younger days, in a stuffy apartment where I shared a bedroom with my sister, five years older than me, going through puberty under the worst possible conditions. All the anger, all the arguments, even the misplaced passion of my youth, condensed in the soup, my own nostalgia trap laid so carefully, so unintentionally, all in a stone bowl garnished with abalones.

Nostalgia is a hell of a drug, I’m afraid.

—

“Did you know that Haeundae Beach has a sea life aquarium? I’ve never really seen an aquarium that big, the pictures were all so gorgeous,” my father says as soon as he steps onto the train platform, “KTX was crappy, as usual.”

“It always is,” I laugh, wheeling his luggage out of the train station, “how long are you here for?”

“A week, if everything goes well,” he replies, taking the cart from me, “do you want to have lunch outside?”

“Lunch outside?” I’m a bit surprised at this tone, to see my father who never really ate out if he could help it, voluntarily suggesting a diner for lunch, “so suddenly?”

“You kept talking about that one diner and their rice soup, so of course I’m a bit interested,” he shrugs, “you’ve never really talked about Busan in all these years that you’ve been here. The only time you said anything about this city was when you talked about that diner two weeks ago.”

“Really?” I shake my head, “I doubt that it took me three years to tell you anything about Busan. I remember talking to my mom about the city all the time.”

“You only talked about the places you visited, which were the house, and your office,” He laughs, “I don’t think we ever heard anything about what Busan was actually like, until six months had passed. Your mother had started to worry by that point.”

I turn away, trying to ignore the question, “well, I was busy trying to hold down my job, dad, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to explore the city.”

“One would think that moving to a comparatively slower city would afford one more time to take care of themselves, but here we are,” he laughs, “how far is your home from the train station?”

“We’ll take a taxi,” I reply, getting onto the first taxi at the line. My father grumbles, but allows me to take his luggage and place it in the trunk of the car. It’s a small thing, but it’s important for me, to be able to take care of him, even in trivial ways like these. He’s never once allowed us to lift heavy bags by ourselves, even when we grew older and could very well do so. My father, the strongest man I knew, was now old and frail, sighing as he handed me the suitcase he’d brought with him for a week-long trip to my city.

“I didn’t bring any side dishes with me,” he says, as soon as I finish giving my address to the driver, “it’s going to be New Year’s next month, so she’s making both you and your sister’s favorites, for you to take back home.”

“Really?” I perk up, “is she making kimchi from scratch?”

“She’s saving all the work for when you get home to help out,” he replies, “she’s not as young as she was, you know. She needs a lot of help right now.”

I raise an eyebrow, “and you left her to fend for herself? She’s stuck in Seoul while you’re in Busan? Not cool, dad.”

“She’s visiting your sister,” he answers, “your niece and nephew are kicking up a fuss daily, demanding to see their grandmother. As if they don’t see her on a weekly basis,” he adds, disgruntled at the prospect of living away from my mother for a week, “she would have liked to come here too. She likes the beach a lot more than the mountains.”

“I know that,” I reply, “she’s always been the one to suggest seaside trips whenever we could manage to get a holiday.”

“She has not been on a holiday since she came here two years ago,” he replies, “I keep telling her to take a break, but no, she can’t go a day without working herself to the bone.”

“She’s still teaching at the hagwon?” I ask, although I’m not really that surprised, given how my mother loved to teach, “I thought she would have quit the hagwon by now. Even if she owns it, she doesn’t have to work that hard every day. She can take it easy now.”

“She might own the institute, but she’s under a lot of pressure to make sure all her students get excellent grades,” he replies, “she was a schoolteacher half her life, and now when she’s retired, she opened up her own private coaching centre just so she wouldn’t get bored. Your mother has worked hard all her life.”

“So have you,” I pause, as the car pulls up on the street in front of my apartment complex, “you still teach, don’t you?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. Bingo. “Still taking lectures at the university, even though you’ve retired years ago,” I shake my head, “still working, and you come here to gossip about my mother.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he sputters, but I’m already out of the car, pulling out the suitcase from the trunk, “come on, dad, I’ve got lunch ready for you.”

—

As I had predicted, my father spends an enormous amount of time cleaning up around the house. He spends about two hours dusting every surface, because I do not “maintain a hygienic standard of living”. It is annoying, but at the end of the day, he does make the house look better than what it was before he stepped foot inside. It’s funny, actually, how he managed to make my relatively clean apartment spick-and-span in a matter of minutes. At least he didn’t find my stash of cigarettes.

“Do you still love playing chess?” I ask casually, placing a bowl of rice in front of him, “mom told me you still go out to play at the park.”

“I do, actually,” he nods, looking appreciatively at the meal, “I play chess all the time. Your mom hates it so much she’s told me to stop on three separate occasions.”

“And you haven’t.” I sigh, placing the big bowl of tofu stew in the middle of the table, “hey, you could go out to play at the nearby senior citizen’s park if you get bored. I’m going to be at the office, so you can go there to play against all the oldies.”

“Not interested,” he mutters, “I doubt there’s anyone in Busan who can beat me at chess.”

I say nothing in response.

—

After dinner, I peel an apple and cut it into slices for my father to eat, and we sit in silence, chewing thoughtfully on the apples, when my father reaches into his backpack and brings out a copy of my book. Yes, there’s no doubt about it; it’s my book all right, the cover art, the pseudonym, everything points to it being my book. I try my best to not cringe away from the sight.

“Your sister gave this book to me,” he says, “I actually enjoyed it a lot.”

“Hmm,” I say, “didn’t know eonnie was into reading collections of fictional essays.”

“You’ve read this?” my father perks up, “it’s really good, and the author is from this city, too, they won the Daesan Literary award for their second book, but I do like this one better.”

“What’s your favorite essay?” I ask, unable to resist, “out of the ten in the book, which one do you like the most?”

He has to think for a while, “the one about high school.”

“The high school essay? I enjoyed the one about university and family life much more,” I say, “the one about high school was so—vague. It barely made any sense to me.”

And it’s true. Even while writing it, I had felt no sense of connection to the place I called my school, all of my memories having faded into unpleasant nothingness. Save for one person, I don’t think I remember anything from my school life. To think that the most formative years of my life were reduced to fleeting memories is a humbling thought, “why did you like that one the most?”

He pauses, “it reminded me of you.”

Ah. There it was, the inevitable moment where my father figured out it was me who wrote that book, “why did you think so?”

He says nothing for a long time, chewing on the apple slices I place in front of him. After five minutes pass, he speaks, so low I barely catch it, “you were the same in high school.”

“I was vague in high school?” I snort, “Dad, I was seventeen. Of course I was vague, I barely knew what the hell to do with my life.”

“Not that, of course,” he waves a hand, “you always seemed to be struggling back when you were in high school. At first, your mom and I thought it was just puberty, but towards the end, we all grew anxious about it.”

“I was just stressed,” I laugh, “we all were, it was the final year of high school, of course we were stressed, dad. I wasn’t struggling.”

A lie. Of course I was struggling. Yes, we were all struggling, but mine took on a different form altogether, morphing itself into the many-eyed monster of my childhood nightmares, even after I finished high school and moved on to university. I just thought I had managed to hide it pretty well from everyone. Hadn’t realised my parents knew all about it.

“It looked like you were,” he waves a hand, ‘and I thought it was the same as what your sister had gone through, and left you to your own devices, because that’s what we did with your sister. It’s only after all these that I took some time to think to myself, and I came to the conclusion that maybe, we should have been a bit more proactive.”

“Dad,” I sigh, “I was fine in high school. I did well in my exams, I got into Hankuk university like my sister did, and I even had friends to share the burden of exams. Don’t worry too much.”

Blatant lies. High school was where my existence was a mere blip on the radar of most people—to the extent that I don’t know if anyone from my school even remembers who I was. Three years—three years spent in the middle of a crowd, and I walked away with nothing.

“Oh, I heard Doyeon got married,” he says, “did you hear?”

“I didn’t, actually,” I reply, shrugging, “she got married? Didn’t realise she was into the whole marriage thing.”

“You didn’t know your high school classmate got married?”

“No, I just didn’t know she was so keen on getting married in the first place,” I reply, “did she invite you?”

“She did, actually.”

“Huh?! Why the hell would she do that?”

“Because she’s also our neighbour?” He makes a strange gesture with his hands, “her mother invited us, actually. We’ve been close friends for years.”

It’s strange, because my memories of Doyeon from all the time that I have known her, are restricted to vague recollections of a girl who ignored me in the hallways. We used to be close friends in middle school, which had petered out upon entering high school. Now, she was a married woman, had been for some time, and I wasn’t even aware. Apparently, my parents were.

“Are you still in contact with anyone from high school?” my father asks, “everyone from the neighbourhood went to the wedding. We didn’t go, but we got the pictures.”

“Yes, of course,” I mutter, “I don’t know why you’re bringing it up right now. I didn’t go because I wasn’t invited.”

“It’s not that,” he fidgets, “you know what I’m trying to get at, right?”

I groan, “stop doing this, dad. I’m not looking to get married right now.”

“It’s not about getting married,” he sighs, “I don’t understand why you have to be so needlessly difficult about everything. It’s marriage, not a death sentence.”

“You still don’t get it, right?” I stand up, grabbing a hold of the plate of fruit, “it’s fine, really. I just don’t want to get married, not right now.”

“You’re not getting any younger,” he replies, “all your peers are getting married and settling down, and here you are, living in the middle of Busan. Do you even want to think about us?”

Deep breaths. Don’t lose your temper. “It’s really nothing to be angry about, Dad. I just don’t want to get married right now, that’s all.”

“It’s been five years since you’ve told us that, you know.” He doesn’t let up, “I’m not the only one who’s worried about you, we all are. Your mother keeps asking your sister if you’ve told her about someone. We’re all worried.”

“Great, good for her, it’s just that I don’t want to get married. Not right now, probably not ever.”

My father stands up, and he’s obviously about to berate me again, for deciding against marriage so early in my life, but I hold up a hand, “get some rest, dad. It’s been a long journey for you. We’ll go out for dinner, yeah?”

—

My father mentions nothing about the interaction after his afternoon nap. Instead the two of us spend the rest of the evening at the supermarket, picking out groceries for me to prepare for the coming week. Sure, I can get the store-bought side dishes that everyone my age uses, but according to my parents, nothing beats the health benefits of cooking everything by yourself.

“Sometime it’s really apparent, that you never grew up in a largely capitalist economy,” I grumble, watching my father place a box of unpeeled garlic in the shopping cart, “I barely have enough energy to make myself a single meal after work, how do you expect me to prepare these on a weeknight?”

“I’ll peel the garlic, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” he mutters, throwing in more groceries, “you always seem to eat out for dinner. I found nothing in the fridge other than fruit. Is this how you plan on living?”

I scowl, he has a point. “I wasn’t planning on doing that,” I grumble, but push the cart obediently, watching with increasing horror as he places the expensive soy sauce in my cart. Everything goes in, and it’s becoming increasingly evident that my father is planning a cooking session for a family of four, not a single-person household. And I can’t even return some of the things.

“Isn’t this a bit too much for one person?” I ask, after he’s placed a cut of salmon in the cart, large enough to feed me for a week, “do I really need this much food? I’m just cooking for a single person, not a whole family.”

“Huh?” he turns around, holding a whole skirt steak, “oh, right, of course. Silly of me to forget, really.”

He places some of the groceries back, more notably the half salmon and the skirt steak, but I can’t help the feeling that I’m missing out on something important. Sure, there’s a sense of familiarity in this, us shopping for groceries like I am back to being seventeen again, impatient waiting for my parents to hurry up and finish shopping so I could go back to studying.

When we get to the counter, the cashier gives us a strange look, obviously judging us for the sheer amount of stuff that we dump onto her desk, sorting it out with a level of efficiency that is almost frightening. Dad helps her in putting things away, but as soon as the time comes to pay for things, I swat away the proffered card, instead offering mine.

“I’ll be the one eating all of it anyway,” I say, without giving him a chance to counter the argument.

It’s fine, really. I’m going to be home soon, back in my room, where there will be no one standing between me and the futon and I can finally get some rest. The day has been a long one.

—

It’s not over, apparently. The next day, he makes me go through the same ordeal, and as soon as we get out of the supermarket, dad takes it upon himself to go to the diner. When I ask him why, he just shrugs, saying, “I want to try eating gukbap at a diner”. This is a lie, because he’s eaten that dish at diners more times than I can count, but I let it go, instead following him obediently along the wharf, dragging the folding cart behind me like I’m back in elementary school, only instead of dragging my school bag behind me, I am dragging groceries. It’s no less humiliating, unfortunately.

The place is as bustling as I remember, and the dinner rush makes it difficult for the two of us to get a table at first. It’s only the third time that I’ve been here, but the additional time spent waiting allows me to look closely at the walls; covered in memorabilia from Paris, interspersed with small trinkets from different cities in Korea. It’s as if Jihoon has made the walls of his diner into a shrine for all his memories, a living time capsule of all his experiences. I don’t want to, but I can’t help comparing it to my apartment; bland walls, devoid of any personal touch, almost like a hotel room. It’s been three years since I’ve lived here, and I haven’t even made any memories worth putting up on my walls.

“Table for two?” This time it’s a random part-timer, a wide smile in place as he shows us to the table, set against a large bay window, overlooking the beach, “order when you can, right?”

And he’s gone, tending to other customers, leaving behind my father with a disapproving grimace on his face, “we never treated customers like that when we were young.”

“You never worked a retail job, dad,” I shake my head, calling out, “two gukbap, please!”

“How would you know?”

“You’ve told us at least fifteen times, dad,” I set out chopsticks and spoons for the two of us, “you never knew anything other than studying when you were a young man, and you expected us to be the same. You went on and on about it, actually.”

He looks affronted, “I lied.”

I make a face, “no, of course not. You wouldn’t lie about something that stupid, right?”

He sighs, “never mind.”

The part-timer (whose name tag reads Kevin) places two steaming bowls of rice soup in front of us, and a plate of chicken skewers, smiling, “this one is on the house.” I look up, and of course, there is Jihoon, smiling and waving at me like he’s done something great. Great. Now my father is going to go after me and force me to tell him everything about my relationship with Jihoon, no matter how non-existent. And if he’s feeling adventurous, he’s going to go over to him and ask him about his relationship with me, which has historically meant that Jihoon is not going to ever talk to me again, which would not bother me in the slightest, but I would hate losing out on such a good diner, just because my parents want me to get married to someone I can tolerate at the earliest—

“You must be a regular here,” My father mutters, taking a sip of the soup, “oh this is good, let me take a picture to show your mother. She keeps worrying that you don’t really get to eat well.”

“You were the one who went shopping two days consecutively,” I reply, pointing to the shopping cart, “the cashiers were all staring at us, didn’t you see? They were wondering who the hell are we, going shopping on a regular basis.”

“No one was staring at us.”

“They were! They probably thought we opened up a restaurant or something,” I groan, “really, we did not need two large steaks, dad. One would have been enough.”

“You cannot possibly survive on a single steak for a week,” he says, as if I am not allowed to consume anything other than protein, “you look like you’ve lost weight, again. Do you want to make us worry by living like this?”

Again with that line. They mean well, but they don’t really know the proper way to go about things. “It’s fine,” I shrug, dumping half my rice into the soup, “I’m set for two weeks, at least. More than that, even.”

“You know, this would not have been the case at all, if you were—”

“Dad!” My tone is perhaps unnecessarily harsh, because it makes at least two people (one of them is Jihoon, not that I care) look over at us, “stop with the marriage thing! We’ll discuss this later.”

I want to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the twenty minutes that we spend eating dinner, not telling him what I really wanted to say, I keep telling the two of you that I don’t want to get married now, and you keep ignoring me, pushing for me to do what you want me to, and it’s fucking suffocating me. I might have left Seoul for a different reason, but I think I’m never going to return if you keep asking me to hitch myself with the first man you find appropriate.

“Your sister has got a promotion at work,” he says, halfway through his meal, “she keeps saying she wants to come to Busan to visit you, but I don’t think she has the time to take a holiday.”

“She also has two kids to take care of, dad,” I mutter, “even if my brother-in-law takes on the larger share of the housework, a lot of childcare falls on her. She doesn’t have the time to go on holiday right now.”

“She talks to you?” my father asks, eyes narrowed, “she never told us that she talks to you.”

“Probably because you’d rope her into your idiotic schemes to get me married off.”

“It’s not a scheme, and I don’t appreciate the two of you keeping secrets like that from us,” he replies, “at least sign up for a matchmaking service or something like that.”

“When my sister doesn’t force me into thinking about marriage, why should I give into societal pressure?” I shake my head, “really, dad, you both think too much about what other people are going to think. If and when I get married, I’m the one who has to spend my life with someone, not random aunties with whom my mother goes on walks.”

He shakes his head, and there’s five minutes of blissful silence, until, “there was an invitation from your high school alumni association for their reunion next month. I don’t think you changed your address.”

“High school reunion?” I shrug, “good for them, but I don’t really think I’m going to get the time off to go to Seoul for a reunion, dad. Maybe next time.”

“You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” he asks, although it’s more of a statement when you think about it, because of course I have not.

We do not speak for the rest of the night.

—

[Ten years earlier]

“Of course, it’s no question,” Yura, the class president, laughs, loud enough that it grates on my nerves, “she’ll do it.”

The task in question is to stay behind and clean the classroom in place of the president and one of her friends, who had fallen sick in the middle of school, while also being conveniently on duty for staying back and cleaning the classroom after school got over. And now, they were all giggling over delegating their work to someone else, and who else was better suited for the work than me, right.

“Sowon,” Yura’s now standing beside me, a smile on her face, “Kim Sowon.”

I stay silent, pencil tapping on the thirtieth problem in the math chapter. Being an outsider is better than doing her bidding. “Kim Sowon,” Yura wheedles, “Jiyeon’s sick.”

“Tell her to go home early,” I reply, moving on to the thirty-first problem. Integral calculus, chapter two. The double integral of a positive function of two variables represents the volume of the region between the surface defined by the function (on the three-dimensional Cartesian plane where z = f(x, y)) and the plane which contains its domain. Multiple integrals will calculate the hypervolume of a multidimensional function, “if she’s sick, she shouldn’t be here in class. She should go to the nurse’s office.”

“She’s not that sick,” Yura’s still smiling, and I have to physically restrain myself from lashing out at her, “you’ll help her, right?”

“Tell her to go to the nurse’s office, Class President,” I reply, focusing again on the math problems at hand, “if she’s not that sick, then she can do her share of the work. And if she’s that sick, then she should go to the nurse’s office, not sit here and gossip.”

Yura gives me a look, which can be interpreted in two ways, do it while I’m being nice, or, of course you’re going to be this way, huh. “Don’t be this way, please?” she’s batting her eyelashes at me, which means, of course, that there is something else that she wants out of me other than free labour for her friend, “you promised me you’d get me Mingyu’s sns, and you still haven’t—”

“I asked him, and he said no,” I replied, standing up, “I asked you very nicely, Yura, to keep me out of your little games. I don’t want to be involved in this bullshit. Go ask him yourself if you want to get close to him that bad.”

“Really, Sowon?” another one of her lackeys pipes up, “she’s asked you so nicely, and you still don’t want to give it to her? Are you interested in Mingyu?”

This one elicits a loud gasp from the rest of the class, as though my feelings towards Mingyu were important enough for Yura to stop with her dogged fucking pursuit of him, “I don’t care, Yura. date him or don’t, that��s not up to me. Just leave me out of these stupid games.”

I can feel them staring at me when I leave the classroom, heading towards the playground. If there’s any place where I can find Mingyu in this school, it’s the playground, where he’s almost certainly playing football right now.

Pushing past a gaggle of underclassmen, I make my way to the edge of the field, where Mingyu is showing off his skills in dribbling to a bunch of enamored football club mates. He’s even posing for the crowd, that vain idiot. He’s two compliments away from dumping a bottle of water all over himself in an attempt to look sexy.

Five minutes pass before he even catches sight of me, running over to where I stand, far apart from the crowd, “what’s up, Tteowonie?”

“Go on a date with Yura,” I reply, ignoring the childish nickname, before following him to the water fountain, “she’s going to make my life hell if you don’t, so I’m asking you nicely, just go on a single date with her, okay?”

“I don’t like her,” he shrugs, “she smiles too much, and that creeps me out.”

“Smiles too much? Is that why you’ve been blowing her off every time she asks you out?” I scoff, “is that why you hate the idea of going out with her? At least you have options, man, unlike the rest of us, who must survive on your cast-offs. Just go out with her one time, and then she’ll finally get off my back about asking you what the fuck you think about her.”

He looks up from drinking his water, “Is that why you came to find me?”

“Yes,’ I nod, “I don’t have time to be bullied because Yura hates that she can’t get you. I need to get into Hankuk university, not waste time in high school.”

“So, you’re pimping me out?”

“Now that you say it like this, I hate that idea,” I shake my head, “never mind, I’ll tell Yura you have a girlfriend or something.”

“But I don’t.”

“That’s not important, you idiot,” I shake my head again, “she just needs to know that you’re off the table when it comes to getting into relationships.”

“I don’t get it,” he mutters, picking up his bag and following me to the classroom, “why is she so hell-bent on dating me? She’s popular and pretty, she’s got boys dying to hang out with her. Why me?”

I turn around, “Kim Mingyu.”

He stares at me, “the tone is making me scared for my life.”

I scowl, “What do you think makes someone sexy?”

Mingyu gapes at me, “what? Why would you say that?”

“You’re missing out on the point,” I shake my head, “Yura doesn’t want to date you because you’re more attractive than everyone else in the class.”

“Way to make a man feel better about himself, Kim Sowon.”

“She wants you precisely because you’ve got no interest in her,” I reply, making a venn diagram with my hands, “she’s not interested in the people who pay her attention, but you, precisely because you’ve got the air of being unattainable.”

“I’m unattainable?” Mingyu looks shocked, “that’s nice of you to say.”

“Unattainable because you don’t pay her attention, not because you’re some kind of god,” I mutter, “she’ll lose interest if you go out on a date with her one time.”

“Pimp.”

“Jerk.”

The door to the classroom opens, and Yura’s still sitting at her desk, surrounded by the members of her entourage, but she smiles as soon as Mingyu steps foot into the room, running over to me, “Sowon!” she giggles, “did you ask Mingyu to come over to help us out?”

“I thought you were going to take Jiyeon to the nurse’s office,” I say blandly, “or is she fine enough to do her share of the cleaning chores now?”

“She’s still sick,” Yura makes a face, turning to Mingyu, “Will you help me take her to the office?”

“Huh?” Mingyu, who’s already made his way to my desk, looks confused, “why? I’m here to solve math questions with Sowon for our academy class.”

Never mind. He’s got no hope.

—

Even now, I’ve never been to a high school reunion. Not when they asked me right after university, when emotions were at an all-time high, and I was practically on cloud nine after landing my first job, and certainly not after I had made the decision to move away to Busan. Of course, every time the invite lands in my inbox, I spend a moment reading it, and promptly deleting it off of my inbox. No need to go to a place where there were so many people reminding me of whatever I did wrong.

Which was why, when my dad asked me, “You’ve never gone to a reunion, have you?” with all the certainty of old age, all I could think of was the endless veiled insults and taunts of the people around me, the late nights and the hours spent poring over practice problems and English exercises. I used to walk to school with a notepad of English words to practice; not a moment spared, because as everyone around me liked to point out, all the people of my family had gone to either Seoul National or Korea University, and anything else from me was a sign of failure.

“I have not, actually,” I reply, “I didn't think it would have been important. Who did you meet?”

“Choi Yura,” my father says, picking at his meal, “she’s getting married a week after the New Year, and asked us to invite you. She said she was trying to get in contact with you, but apparently you’ve changed your number since high school, and she could not get in contact.”

“I had a very good reason to change my number, “ I sigh, “really, did she ask you to get her wedding invitation to me? If I have not responded to her invitation, then it means I don’t want to go.”

“Her parents are close friends,” he replies, in that tone of his, “it would be a good thing for you to go. Especially since you’ve been spending all your time in this city, working even on the weekends. This is why you should have gone to law school.”

“Except I didn’t really want to go to law school, you wanted me to go to law school,” I point out, “we wanted different things at that point.”

“It’s not about wanting different things, it’s about wanting what’s the best for yourself,” He points out, “you even got accepted into a doctoral program, and now you’re working on what—the newest HR communications model?”

“Maybe don’t look down on my job, please,” I sigh, “fine, I’ll go to her wedding. It’s a matter of a few days, anyway, I don’t mind spending my time in the middle of those people.”

Dinner is over before it even begins, but the inside of my mouth feels bitter as I pay for our meals and follow my dad out onto the patio where he’s looking at the sea. He’s always had a habit of doing that, looking intently at things, trying to figure out their flaws. It makes me wonder every time he looks at me, if he’s trying to find a fault in me too.

“You’re looking at the sea pretty intensely,” I say lightly, standing next to him, “anything on your mind?”

He sighs, “you’ve always been like this.”

“Like what?”

“Stubborn, hot-headed. Always going your own way, even if you didn’t have to. Your sister was the one who fought all the time, but you always went ahead and did whatever you wanted anyway. We all told you not to get a transfer, but you did anyway, moved to Busan, where we knew no one.”

“You make it sound as though being stubborn is something to be ashamed of,” I reply, trying to laugh, “why all of a sudden?”

“Sitting back there, I realised something,” he says, “you don’t need us anymore.”

I make a face at that, “what do you mean?”

“You live in a different city, away from your parents, away from the life you’ve known, and you seem at ease here. Maybe it’s just me and your mother, who have been waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m comfortable here, dad. I don’t even miss Seoul anymore.”

“Do you miss us?”

To that, I can’t say anything.

—

My father leaves three days after that, making me promise to go to Seoul for Yura’s wedding, and for the New Year. It’s only half a month away, I realise. A new year, in a place that I’ve only known for three. I wave him off at the bus stop, before walking back to the diner for an early lunch.

It’s empty, with only Jihoon behind the counter, who smiles when he sees me walk in, “did you come here with your father the other day?”

“How did you know that?”

“You both look exactly the same. You’ve got all his features,” he explains, “it would have been strange if he was not your father.”

“You got me,” I sigh, “he was doing what they call a ‘welfare check’.”

“A welfare check?”

“Yeah, they do a six-monthly check on how I’m actually coping with living on my own.” I sigh, “do you have something other than gukbap? My father craved it so much this past week; I feel like I’ve had enough of it for a lifetime.”

Jihoon laughs, “what do you feel about cold noodles?”

“In the middle of winter? I’m not averse to it, but will I get a cold?”

“Not if you’re used to it,” he shrugs, “okay, one milmyeon it is.”

“Cold noodles in the middle of winter?” I laugh, “are you trying to get me sick?”

“Not at all, actually,” Jihoon replies, not at all fazed, “just thought that having cold noodles would help with the whole situation that you have going on right now.”

“It’s not a situation,” I try to defend myself, but who the hell am I kidding. It is a situation, one that could potentially turn my carefully curated life into a pile of smoking ruins. “All right, fine. You got me. It’s a situation. But it’s nothing I cannot control on my own.”

He sets out a bowl of noodles in front of me, with bits of ice floating around the soup. I sigh, before digging in; delicate wheat flour noodles, floating in a gentle meat broth, seasoned just right. Even the ice is not overpowering, and cools down the broth enough for me to start eating without fear of burning the roof of my mouth.

“They made this when resources were scarce after the war,” Jihoon says, sitting down on his usual chair, “when the northerners, who moved to Busan, didn’t have buckwheat flour to make their usual noodles with, they changed it to wheat flour.”

“Quintessentially Busan, eh?” I make a feeble attempt, and he does not laugh.

He does not speak until I have finished my entire bowl, and then starts speaking again, “What I mean is, human beings are endlessly adaptable. People moved from North Korea, and made this dish using things they did not have, just to get a taste of home. People move on, people adapt. Situations that seem difficult right now, you’ll probably get used to them in some time.”

“That is funny,” I laugh, “it’s been three years since I moved, and I cannot seem to get used to anything.”

“You might just need more time,” he smiles, “it’s been a long time for me too, and unfortunately, what I thought of as a cataclysmic, world-changing event, just seems like a mild inconvenience in hindsight.”

“Why do I have the feeling you are lying to me?”

“Probably because I am.”

I laugh, “do you want to come to a wedding with me?”

—

New Year in Seoul is less like a family occasion, and more like a battlefield; I spend the day before my vacation obsessively going over every little detail of my pending work; I had to beg my supervisor to let me work from home in order to be able to attend Yura’s wedding, on top of New Year’s.

Damn Yura and her timing to get married. I should not be angry; the week after New Year is when wedding venues are slightly cheaper because no one wants to attend, not after a week of eating the unhealthiest food known to mankind, and drinking more booze than is healthy for even a grown horse. Hence the random wedding date. Saving costs on people who are trying to lose weight, and also making sure they don’t have to take time off in an inconvenient month.

“At least prepare the bean sprouts normally,” my sister scolds from her vantage point in front of the television, where she’s currently busy with helping her little children with their homework, “you were the one who volunteered to do this, not me.”

“Making the kids do the homework is probably easier,” I mutter, “is this why you all asked me to come a day before New Year's? So I could be a glorified slave? Just get them prepared, no one does this much work nowadays.”

“Imagine the amount of money they’d have to shell out on every important day,” my sister muses, “and do you think our parents would do that? Miserly Lawyer and Penny Pinching Professor?”

“Miserly Lawyer never had a ring to it. And yes, they’d rather die than give out money to other people to do this bullshit,” I mutter, peeling my thousandth bean sprout.

“Still, we get to see your face in something other than a video call. When mom told me you were going to come here before New Year's, I was excited, actually. Who knew my little sister, the runner of the family, would come back for New Year like an obedient child?”

“Prodigal daughter?” I laugh, “mom threatened me, actually. And between the two days spent in Jeju and Yura’s wedding, I doubt you’re going to see much of my face around here.”

“Yura’s wedding?” My sister yells, “that b—girl is getting married?” The swear word is, of course, censored, for the sake of my young nephew and niece, who have the awkward ability to become Einsteins when it comes to learning swear words.

“Apparently, yeah. Her husband works at Samsung as a production engineer, I think.” Of course, my parents had heard of this from her parents, and repeated it to me about twenty times, but I keep that from my sister, who’s jaded and bitter from marriage, “anyway, she’s asked our parents to pass on the wedding invitation to me. Plus one included.”

“The girl who kept hanging around Kim Mingyu in high school?” My sister still cannot believe her ears, “the one who hated you because she thought you were ruining ‘her chances’ with Mingyu? She’s getting married? And what? A plus one? This is not an American wedding, who the hell brings a plus one?”

“Many people, actually.” I reply, “calm down, eonnie. I’m going to her wedding, that’s decided.”

“You even refused to apply to law school because she was going there, even if she never really made the cut,” my sister sighs, “god knows why the hell you’ve been this scared of her, but if you’re going to go to her wedding, then at least dress up well.”

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” I ask, and she gestures to the outfit I was currently wearing—patterned pajamas, and a black sweatshirt, “please do not judge me on the basis of this.”

“Do you even have clothes appropriate enough to wear to a wedding ceremony?”

“Aren’t people supposed to not outdress the bride at her wedding?”

“Not if the bride was their high school bully.”

“Mom,” Ui-jun pipes up, “what’s a bully?”

“A bully is someone you should never become,” I say, loud enough that his curiosity is satisfied, “you need to get them earplugs.”

“They’re amazing, aren't they?”

“This is not a product launch, you idiot, that’s not how children work. Stop swearing around them.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” my sister makes an accusatory jab with Ui-jun’s crayon, “no one goes to a wedding in casual clothes unless they are a celebrity, which you aren’t. So, do you have clothes for a wedding reception?”

I shake my head.

“Knew as such,” she sighs, “we have to go shopping the day you come back from Jeju.”

“You’re going to make me shop for clothes after I land from Jeju?”

“Are you swimming to the mainland?” She makes a face, “you’re going to take an early morning flight, no traffic either. Shopping will be fine.”

“Ugh, whatever,” I groan, “fine, I’ll go shopping with you.”

“And the plus one?” She’s still skeptical, “no way you got a plus one to go to a wedding with you.”

“What if I ask Kim Mingyu?” I make a face, “he’s going to say yes, right?”

“And Yura will kill you,” she snorts, “no, seriously. Who is going with you to the wedding? If you show up with someone random, they’re never going to let you, or us, hear the end of it.”

‘Don’t worry about people talking nonsense, just tell me who’s coming with you to the wedding.”

“Really?” I narrowed my eyes, “and you are not going to tell the parents?”

“Scout’s honor, I promise.” She makes a cross on her chest, but the whole effect is kind of destroyed when a three-year old Seoyeon starts yowling for her favorite stuffie that her brother had stolen from her.

“Fine,” I sigh, wrestling the stuffed toy from Ui-jun and giving it back to Seoyeon, “he’s a restaurant owner. Back in Busan.”

“A restaurant owner?” it takes her about a whole minute to realise who I was talking about, and she stands up immediately, half in shock and half in genuine surprise, “don’t tell me you are going to Yura’s wedding with the guy who owns the diner you’re a regular in?”

“Yes, actually,” I settle back down on the sofa, “the very one. He’s agreed to go with me as my wedding date.”

“Doesn’t he live in Busan? Why the hell would he come to a wedding in Seoul, just to go to a wedding with you?” She stares at me, “no, you’re too boring for a love affair. You’ve probably befriended him or something.”

“At least have some faith in your sister’s flirting skills,” I mutter, “why the hell do you think I am some sort of annoying caveman with no sense of social cues?”

“Because you are one,” she replies, grinning shamelessly in the face of my despair, “you have no sense of shame, and you behave like an annoying caveman.”

“Anyway,” I pick up Seoyeon, who’s now beginning to get fussy, “I’m going to go back to peeling my bean sprouts because mom will kill me if I am still stuck on them by the time she comes home.”

“You’re going on a wedding date with the diner owner, and you’re worried about the bean sprouts,” she sighs, joining me at the dinner table, “at least tell me why he agreed to be your date.”

“He’s going to be in Seoul that week, so he just moved around a single plan to make sure he can accompany me to the wedding,” I shrug, “and for your kind information, he’s not a diner owner. They have an Orange Ribbon, and he used to be a music producer and composer before he changed careers.”

“You’re arguing like you’ve been dating for years,” she raises an eyebrow, “no matter, mom and dad will blow their top off either way. Imagine Sowon, the baby of the family, dating a man. They’re all going to go insane.”

“Which is why I need you to keep your mouth shut.” I sigh, “it’s already awkward as is.”

“Just make sure you don’t make a mistake,” my sister says, half of her attention on the kids, “remember what happened at university? Do you want a repeat of that?”

“It’s a miracle I got Jihoon to agree to come with me to the wedding, so please don’t bring up random stuff from my past,” I mutter, and she drops the subject, but the final words remain; do you want a repeat of what happened at university?

Hey, at least Jihoon said yes to this ridiculous idea.

—

“A wedding?” If this was a comedy, there would be a funny sound effect right about now, but this is not a comedy, and so, I stare at Jihoon, who’s staring right back at me, looking as though I have handed him a marriage registration certificate. “Why would you want me to go to a wedding with you?”

“It’s a high school classmate's wedding,” I offer as little explanation as I can, “nothing more than that.”

“But you are asking me to go with you to their wedding.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “well, the thing is, I’ve not been on good terms with them, not since high school.”

“And you want them to know you are not a loser?” He’s smiling now, which would actually be very attractive if I was not actively trying to remain sane.

“Sort of. I don’t want them to think I left Seoul for them or something like that.”

“I thought you ran away from Seoul.”

“Yes, but no one needs to know that,” I reply, “although, in retrospect, they probably already know.”

“So, you want to show up with someone in order to prove rumors wrong,” he’s smiling now, “am I going to be your trophy boyfriend?”

I promptly spit out the water I was drinking, “what are you talking about?”

He’s still smiling, “I mean, asking me to go to a wedding with you, isn’t that slightly romantic? And I still don’t know your name.”

“Is my name really important to you?” I scoff, “I doubt people at my work know my name either. It’s always Miss Editor or Miss Kim to them.”

“Kim is the most common surname in the country,” he replies, “and I would like to think I am slightly more important than the people at your work. You’ve been eating here for a month now, and I don’t think I've ever seen you with any of your coworkers. Is the food not good?”

“If it was not, would you think I would be coming here for a month?”

“Touche.”

I sigh. Who knew convincing someone to come to a wedding with you was this difficult, “if you want to know that badly, it’s Sowon. Kim Sowon. My parents were not terribly imaginative with their naming of me and my sister.”

He shakes his head, “the name means hope. That’s a nice name, actually, Kim Sowon.”

I stare at him. The way he says my name, it’s different. Not the Kim Sowon my parents use when they are angry with me, nor the Sowonie that my sister uses when she wants to tell me something sad or heartbreaking. It’s my name, but why does it feel like he’s saying it like no one has ever before?

“That’s the name. Kim Sowon. So, will you be coming to the wedding, or not?”

“Depends. Will I be introduced as the boyfriend?”

I laugh at that, “me, with a boyfriend? My friends are going to catch on to that little deception sooner than you think. I’ve been single almost my whole life.”

“Almost? Do I need to look out for potential ex-boyfriends to come out and attack me while I am sipping on martinis?”

“That is a very detailed mental image you have there, Lee Jihoon,” I laugh, “but no. No exes, at least none that will come out and attack you. They might tell you to dump me at the first opportunity, but no, they will not attack you for dating me.”

“That seems self-deprecative.”

“It’s the truth, actually,” I smile, picking up my coat and bag, “give me your number, I need to send you the details of the wedding venue.”

“You just told me your name. Aren’t you moving a bit too fast for anyone’s liking?” He laughs, but holds out his phone anyway.

—

“You have his number?” my sister says, who’s been holding it in while I relay the incident of me asking Lee Jihoon to come to the wedding. “You have his number, and you didn’t even tell me?”

“Babe,” her husband pats her shoulder, “maybe this is not something you want to discuss in the middle of the day.”

We are all piled into my room. The children are splayed out on my bed and sleeping after lunch, and the three of us—me, my sister, and her husband—areall lying down on the heated floor, trying to get some rest before the evening meal is to be prepared.

“I did not think it was important, really. When have I ever told you anything about my love life?”

“Oh, so you are admitting it is something related to your love life,” she grins, “let me see his Kakaotalk profile picture.”

“And what will you do with it?” I make a face, “you never let me see my brother-in-law’s picture until you were dating for a good seven months.”

“I am slightly hurt by that.” The man in question says from his spot in the corner, “why didn’t you show her my picture for seven months?”

“She was making sure you were the one,” I shrug, “I told her not to bother me with showing me a man if I was not going to get him as my brother-in-law.”

“That’s nice.”

“Anyway, that was your condition, not mine,” my sister announces, “I want to see who this man is, that you managed to strong-arm into going on a date. That too, to a wedding.”

“It’s not a date,” I groan, but I hand over my phone anyway, and she eagerly opens up the messaging app to check out his profile picture. I know what the profile picture is. I would not admit it to anyone, but I had the whole thing memorised; a snapshot of the sea from his diner window, in the middle of winter, with rolling clouds on the horizon. I’ve seen it thrice too, hoping that he would change it into a picture of his own, something that I could see whenever I missed Busan.

“He doesn’t have a profile picture!” she says, annoyed, and the sound wakes up Ui-jun and Seo-yeon, who immediately start calling for their parents. With my sister and her husband busy with the kids, I look at the photo again, smiling softly to myself. What’s the menu at the diner tonight? Milmyeon? Or gukbap? Or do they have samgyeopsal on the menu for tonight? Or a special New Year menu? Should I have stayed back to see what he was cooking?

I miss Busan; I realise with a shock that I miss the city and the sea. It’s different from missing Seoul; in my first few months in Busan, I missed Seoul so much I had to physically restrain myself from buying a ticket back home. Seoul is where I was raised; I remember the streets of my home, filled with old-fashioned houses built back in the sixties. I even longed for my old home, the two-bedroom apartment where we lived until my parents could afford a house. Seoul is a city I will never be able to escape, I realised in those few months, no matter how much I hate it, I will still carry bits of it with me. It will always be the same—suffocating, oppressive—but I will still miss it. Much like a caged bird once freed thinks about the cage, I too, think about Seoul.

If there was a word that conveyed both love and hate, I would use it for the city I grew up in.

But I miss Busan differently. I miss Busan’s beaches and the way people speak and the slight lilt in my voice that has crept in after three years. I miss the way it has made a place in my heart despite my desire to close off everything. Like the sea, like water, it has managed to creep into my heart and make a place for itself, despite how much I tried to resist. Most of all, I think about the diner; my sole place of refuge, the place I wanted to keep hidden from everyone in the world for as long as I could. Just the diner, or Jihoon as well, a voice whispers in my mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like my sister, the drama addict in the family.

Either way, I miss it.

Before I can stop myself, I send a text.

What’s the menu for today?

—

Jihoon doesn’t hate New Years. He’s simply not interested in it anymore. Why celebrate a meaningless turn of the Earth around the Sun? They should be congratulating the Earth, not themselves. Still, he makes a new, celebratory menu for the diner, meticulously prepares everything on the menu, and makes sure to set out a notice in front of the door, that tells passers-by, new menu!

Even the group chat is silent, which is to be expected, really. Wonwoo’s company was launching a new update for a game, and Wonwoo had been working overtime to make sure the code was up to date and not crashing when someone tried to tweak it the slightest bit. Crunch time was hell, apparently. Both Jeonghan and Seungcheol were busy preparing for Hoshi’s comeback in the first quarter of the new year, and he was expected to send in his final composed scratch track by the end of January.

“Boss,” the part-timer, Kevin, saunters into his line of sight, “two tteokguk for table four.”

“Coming up!” He’s fine. Jihoon is not thinking about the dead group chat and definitely not thinking about Sowon. She really was an enigma. Who else would come into the restaurant they were a regular at, and demand the owner to go on a date with them? He even talked to Jeonghan about this, which just showed how desperate he was getting.

“Hyung, how would you react if the woman you were thinking about just showed up at your doorstep, and asked you to go to a wedding with her?” Jihoon is doing fine. He really is, but the twin laughter from Jeonghan and Seungcheol on the opposite end of the phone call confirmed whatever suspicions he has had—those two were listening on to the whole thing.

“So? Did you manage to get her name or did you agree to go to a wedding with her without knowing her name?” Seungcheol laughs, “yes, Jeonghan told me everything.”

“Wow, you’re still a married couple after ten years, huh,” Jihoon mutters, not displeased, but feeling slightly betrayed, “and why the hell would you think I would agree to accompany someone to a wedding without knowing their name?”

“Because it is something that you would do, Jihoon,” Jeonghan says, “you would go to the wedding even if you did not know her name. You’d print out a sign that said ‘Diner regular’ and hope that she showed up.”

“Glad to see my oldest friends have so little faith in me,” he grumbles, “no, she actually gave me her number and her name.”

There’s a scramble on the other end, and Seungcheol’s indignant voice floats through, “her number? She gave you her number and her name? The same woman who told you straight up that it was not required for you to know anything about her?”

“Well, I did say that finding the correct wedding venue would be impossible if I did not know her name, so maybe, I asked her and she gave in,” he muses, and Jeonghan laughs, “why the hell are you two laughing?”

“I just think it’s funny. Lee Jihoon, the man who only pined once in his lifetime, is openly down bad for a woman he’s met maybe five times.”

“She’s been to the diner at least ten times. Besides, I even saw her father with her the other week.”

“Meeting the parents already?”

“Shut up!” He’s yelling in the middle of the night, and oh god his neighbors are going to report him for real, “I did not meet her parents. Just tell me what the hell do I do to make this thing go in my favour.”

“Wear something good, for one,” Seungcheol offers, “I’m pretty sure she does not want to see you wearing the same uniform that you wear all the time. Ditch the apron, wear something fashionable.”

“Right, yes.” Jihoon mutters, “something fashionable. Now what would that be?”

“You’re fucked,” Jeonghan replies, “what do you mean you don’t know your personal style? You used to wear so much black leather stuff when you were here.”

“And I was also in my twenties then,” Jihoon snipes, “maybe wearing the same style in your twenties is not the best idea you can give me.”

“Wear something nice, not flashy. Understated is the way to go,” Seungcheol says loudly, talking over Jeonghan, “and for god’s sake, wear an expensive watch. You used to have a really nice one, what happened to that?”

“I still have it. It’s kind of inconvenient to wear it on a daily basis, so I keep it in my closet.”

“Then wear it for the date,” Seungcheol groans. “You really like her, huh?”

“Apparently, I do,” Jihoon doesn’t even fight the smile on his face, “it’s strange to feel so strongly about someone this fast, but I can’t help it, it seems.”

“Why?”

Why, huh? He’s asked himself this about ten times, and always comes up empty. Why do you like her? Does he even like her? “I don’t know what I feel just yet. All I think about when I look at her is how much she reminds me of myself.”

“And?”

“And I would like to be there for her, if I can. The wedding seemed like it was a big deal to her, so I said yes. She really needed someone to be there for her, at least at that moment.”

Seungcheol whistles, “wow, you’ve gone mad. You’re entirely gone. Good luck with the date, huh? Call us to the wedding later on.”

��

He’d even brought out the watch collection and pondered for an hour straight on which watch to wear to a wedding. Nothing too flashy, his mind had supplied, it’s a wedding. Don’t draw attention to yourself.

Then he thought about what Seungcheol had said. Good luck with the date. Even though he had tried to ignore it, it really was a date; even though they both drew strict boundaries, there was no mistaking what this was: a date.

In the end, he had picked out the flashy one. If I have to make an impression on her, I need to pull out all the stops.

—

“Boss,” Kevin’s voice brings him back to reality. “Three japchae for the bar.”

“So many people are ordering bloody japchae,” he grumbles, but he gets started on the order anyway. Sales for today have been higher than the entire month, and he really should not be complaining when it concerns money.

Still, half an hour later, when they’re all tired out from the lunch rush and he’s contemplating closing up the diner for the night, his phone rings with a message notification. He’s really not hoping for anything, but it’s her.

What’s the menu for today?

Jihoon bolts upright, scaring Kevin, and starts pacing around nervously. What’s the menu for today? Realistically, he should be able to answer this easily, but he cannot find himself to type out the words. He’s not chickening out; he’s just nervous.

“What was the menu for today?” He asks. Kevin, who’s still staring at his boss pacing the entire length of the diner floor, shakes his head, “tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon—”

“Fine, I get it,” he sighs, typing out the words on his phone. Tteokguk, manduguk, bindaetteok, three kinds of jeon. Finished, he holds it up to Kevin, “is this a good text?”

“Depends, are you her private chef?” He raises an eyebrow, “why the hell are you sending her a menu?”

“Because she asked!” He’s fully aware that he’s yelling, thank you very much, but he also can’t help himself, “oh god, why the hell did I ask you? Go back to what you were doing, Kevin.”

Kevin shrugs, “my name is not Kevin.”

Jihoon stares, “you wrote Kevin on the application form.”

“Yes, but it’s kind of a pseudonym I’m trying out,” Not-Kevin shrugs, “I have other ones, do you want to know?”

“Now you’re gonna tell me you’re not Korean-American or something.”

“I am not.”

“Oh dear,” Jihoon sighs, “what other names were in consideration?”

“Dino, for one,” the other man shrugs, “Dino.”

“Short for Dinosaurs?” Jihoon asks.

“Correct. The actual name is Chan, though. Lee Chan.”

“Stupid fucking name,” he mutters, but there’s already another text from her, a reply to his earlier message.

That’s a lot. We made tteokguk and jeon only. Couldn’t manage so many things.

“She replied! Hah!” Jihoon waves the phone excitedly, “see this, Kev—I mean, Chan.”

“Wow, you’re weird,” Chan sighs, picking up his bag, “your mother called, she asked you to go home for tteokguk in the evening. I am out of here, since I have a date to go to, unlike you.”

“Little shit,” Jihoon mutters, but it’s really nothing bad, because he has a proper excuse to talk to her now.

I run a diner, Kim Sowon-ssi.

Sorry, forgot about that one, really. Shouldn’t you be spending time with your parents?

Will go to drink ceremonial new year’s soup at their home after I close up.

Fun. I'm packing for two days in Jeju.

Jeju?

Seungkwan, my friend, invited me. To be fair, his sisters did, so now I’m going to crash their family holiday.

Make sure to carry gifts for the whole family.

I’m a competent houseguest, thank you very much.

Jihoon looks out of the window as he begins to gather up his things. Winter is here, with snowflakes that have fallen fast and unyielding over the past weeks, but he’s really never paid them any attention. Today, though, he takes some time to bask in the beauty of nature. He’s never really liked winter, despite being born in the middle of November, when the tips of his nose turned pink from the cold, but today, it’s different. Today he can think about the snow in January, in the longest month of the year. He hopes it snows next week as well.

—

“You look good,” Jihoon’s mother remarks as soon as he enters the house, dusting off the snow from his hood, “did something happen?”

“Nothing worthwhile,” Jihoon shrugs, toeing off his shoes, “where’s dad?”

“Waiting for you,” she replies, “something good has happened, I can feel it.”

Tteokguk is fine, as usual; his mother had brought out the recipe from her mother, and Jihoon pays his respects to his parents before settling into a meal with them. He even takes a picture of his soup bowl before tucking in.

“That’s new,” his father notes, “you never take pictures of food.”

“That’s not true,” Jihoon lies, “I take pictures of food all the time.”

“He’s met someone,” his mother sighs, throwing down her chopsticks, “really, do you think we are going to tell you to not date them or something like that? You’re thirty, we’re glad you found someone to date.”

“Is it a therapist?” his father asks, “the last time, with Seungcheol, you said he was seeing a therapist. Are you seeing his therapist, too?”

“God, no!” Jihoon exclaims, a bit louder than he should have, and the self-satisfied smiles on their faces give away the whole thing; they’re onto him. “Look, it’s nothing yet,” he reasons, “it’s not even a date, or attraction. I just know someone.”

“Leave him alone,” his father says, silencing his mother, who looks like she’s bursting at the seams to grill Jihoon about his love life, “you know how he is, he’s never going to tell us anything. At least you’re going to be taking the next week off, right?”

“Yes, but I have to go to Seoul,” Jihoon replies, “I have an appointment there.”

“With the boys?”

He hesitates, for a split second. That’s all it takes for his parents to zero in on him. Seriously, they’re like sharks, tasting blood. “Don’t ask me what I am going to do.”

“You’re going to meet her, right?” his mother asks, excited, “who is she? What does she do?”

Jihoon sighs. Even his father shrugs, indicating that he really cannot help him out in this case. He doesn’t even look sad or guilty. Traitors. “I’m going to a wedding,” Jihoon says, settling on the least exciting version of the events, “an acquaintance of mine is getting married the week after the New Year.”

“Strange time to get married,” his mother muses, but his father does not look convinced.

“It’s her, right?” he drags Jihoon out for a smoke as soon as the dishes are cleared, “you’re going to meet her in Seoul, aren’t you?”

Jihoon really hates how perceptive his parents are. Sure, it’s worked out in his favor mostly, but right now? Right now he wants to get some alone time to figure out his feelings in peace, before being accosted by his parents into divulging whatever secrets he has.

“Why wouldn’t I tell you if I was meeting her in Seoul?” he argues, “it’s nothing, really. I’m attending a wedding.”

“With her.” his father nods. “Well, you’ve never really been one to maintain secrets, so I’ll let you have this one.”

“How—how did you know?”

“Well, since you’ve brought her up every time you’ve come over to our house, I figured out she was someone important, but I did not know that she was accompanying you to a wedding.”

“I am accompanying her to the wedding,” Jihoon sighs, “she’s going to a wedding, and she asked me to come with her.”

“As a date, or as a friend?” His father stubs out his cigarette, “it’s important you make the distinction yourself. Make sure of what you are, before you go around getting hurt in the process.”

“I’m thirty, not thirteen,” Jihoon sighs, “I’ll manage myself just fine.”

“Just because you are thirty does not mean you can’t get hurt over matters of the heart,” his father says, serene, “your heart can always get hurt, Jihoon. Don’t be careless with it, just because you’re over a certain age.”

“Really, there's nothing to it, dad.” Jihoon argues, but he’s getting slightly tired of saying this too, “I’m not even interested in her romantically. She just reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

—

“Do you have anyone to take with you to the wedding?” My mother asks, on the morning of my flight to Jeju, “you can ask Seungkwan if he can go.”

“He’s busy with hosting New Year celebrations at his ancestral house, mom,” I reply, “he’s definitely not interested in coming to a wedding with me.”

From across the table, my sister squints at me, mouthing what is wrong with you? Just tell her the truth, but I shake my head. If I tell her the truth now, she’s going to have expectations of me later on. She’s going to ask me where I met Jihoon, what are my plans with him, do I see a future with him—questions that seem routine to her, but to me, really, it does not make any sense to me. Whatever he said about me, the flirting, the talk of being a trophy boyfriend, all of that was for show, I know it.

“So you seriously have no one to go with?” She asks, more insistent now that I have ruled out Seungkwan as a possibility, “Yura’s getting married. You should make some effort at least.”

I keep silent. I want to say, I’m going to the wedding of the girl who ruthlessly antagonised me in high school. Is that not enough? It’s true as well, while Yura was not someone to be an outright bully, she used her words and her influence to her advantage, and knew exactly where to hit, in order for it to hurt the most.

Hey, Kim Sowon, are you sure you’re not hanging out with Kim Mingyu just to sleep with him?

Hey, you know, Sowon just goes around with Mingyu all the time, don’t you think the two have something going on between them?

No wonder she tried to keep everyone away from Mingyu. I feel sorry for him, having to put up with her.

It’s all meaningless high school gossip, I’ve told myself. Nothing matters in the end. I left that school, went to Hankuk and left it behind. Still, on days I barely feel like a person, I think, would things have worked out better if I had told them all off? Took a stand for myself? They knew they could say whatever they wanted about me and I would not antagonise them. It’s easier to ignore the hurt than to do anything about it.

“Do you want me to set you up with someone?” My mother prods, “he’s a doctor, you know, and he’s got a clinic of his own—”

“Mom,” I sigh, “I doubt anyone would like to think of me romantically when I don’t even recognise myself as a person anymore.”

“I don’t understand why you keep talking like this,” She grumbles, “you keep making us all uncomfortable when we are just trying to help you.”

“Sorry for making you feel uncomfortable, mom, but I really don’t think I’m ready to be dating anyone right now,” I reply, standing up from the table, “and tell the aunties to stop the matchmaking. I’ve been here for two days and they’ve already accosted me thrice to tell me about their eligible matches. I don’t care about getting married right now, and doing all this is making me uncomfortable.”

“They’re just being nice, you know. Would not hurt to let them be nice to you for once.”

“They are not being nice!” I really should learn how to control my temper, “they’re not being nice. I hate the way they look at me, as though I’m some kind of exhibit, a zoo animal to be paraded around for their entertainment. Why do you want me to be nice to them anyway? They hated me all throughout high school, they spread rumors about me all throughout university, they even gossip about me now that I’ve finally left and moved to Busan. When does this end?”

“Watch your tone, Sowon,” my sister warns. I ignore it.

“They did not care about our family, so I suggest you stop caring about them too much, mom,” I say, picking up my luggage, “take it from me; don’t waste your time on people who do not care about you.”

—

“Noona!” Seungkwan has kept his promise, waited for me at the airport to pick me up in his family car, “how long are you here for?”

“Just two days, thank you,” I mutter, picking up my suitcase for him to stash in the boot, “nothing too much for me right now.”

“Two days?” He’s pretty surprised, “I thought you had tickets for at least five.”

“Yes, except I have to attend a wedding in three days,” I shrug, “I need to go shopping for clothes as soon as I get back. Then I have to work on the draft again, which I have been ignoring for far too long to be normal, and then get started on work-from-home.”

“They didn’t give you a vacation?” Seungkwan scoffs, “hey, noona, just leave the damn job. You’re popular enough that you can do it. Just leave the damn job and start writing full-time.”

“I need twenty million more in savings, and then I can think about resigning,” I shake my head, “besides, you know why I keep this job.”

“So that your parents don’t bother you about it,” He nods, “but if you get a proper contract, you should leave the job. They don’t pay you enough, and you clearly hate working there.”

“Not all of us are blessed with workplaces that let us do whatever we want, Boo Seungkwan,” I sigh, “although you’re still stuck at Associate Editor. Why the hell don’t they promote you?”

“You’re what they’re looking for, noona,” Seungkwan has a tight sort of smile on his face, “until you bring out another book, they’re not going to promote me. I’m busy with the day-to-day goings as is.”

“Basing your promotions on my work seems a bit silly and counterproductive,” I grumble, “and why the hell won’t they promote you? Should I write that I want my editor to be promoted for all his work?”

“And that will not help,” Seungkwan grips the wheel a bit tighter, “I can come off as pushy and annoying, which does not help my chances of getting promoted in my company.”

“I thought they liked that you were slightly pushy.”

“Now they think it’s annoying,” he points out the window, “look, there’s the village.”

Seungkwan is trying to change the subject. Well, it’s bound to be difficult for him, I think, being solely responsible for my success, but I do wish he opened up to me, from time to time. Beyond the usual editor-writer relationship, Seungkwan is probably the only person left in my life who I can consider a friend. Whatever happens, he’s always been there for me, something which I have come to appreciate much more than I did in the beginning of the relationship.

“By the way,” he says, “the series is working out really well.”

“Series?” I ask, “oh, the diner series?”

“Yes, the very one. Over five hundred thousand hits on the magazine website, not to mention subscriber count has increased. Even your writing style has changed, which might be why so many young people are reading it.”

“Hold on, five hundred thousand?” I ask, “who the hell is reading a column about what I eat every week at the diner?”

“A lot of people, actually,” he points to the tablet sitting beside him, and I pull up the publishing house’s website. I could have looked at a physical copy of the magazine, but the website seems easier, and Seungkwan insists on me looking at the comments people have been leaving.

“How did this get so many views?”

“Apparently, a lifestyle blogger read that column,went to the diner, and then made a video about it. Don’t worry, they didn’t show the owner, but they talked a lot about the food. It became very popular, surprisingly.”

“The diner has been in the running for an Orange Ribbon, of course they’re going to be popular,” I sigh, “let’s see the comments, shall we?”

The column was about the gukbap I’d had before my father came to visit, written evidently in a hurry, with grammatical errors and typos in the first draft that had taken me ages to clean up. Still, it’s not a bad piece of writing, and it’s something that I do take pride in.

There are about five hundred comments, and I managed to read the first few before giving up:

—it’s pretty obvious she’s in love with the owner, LOL

—when’s the wedding?

—she’s not wrong, though. Gukbap is the representative dish for Korea

—need to go to the diner she’s talking about, stop gatekeeping

—this reads less like a column and more like a lovestagram haha

“They’re all speculating,” I shrug, setting the tablet down, “there’s really nothing of importance in the column itself.”

“Really? Not even the bit where you wax eloquent about his cooking skills—which might I suggest, are not Michelin-level?”

“He’s good, Seungkwan.”

“Yeah, he’s good. He’s not Marco Pierre White.” Seungkwan sighs, “look, what you do with your life is not my business. It will never be my business either. But you’ve got to stop writing lines like ‘I wonder what secrets he has been hiding behind those perfectly manicured nails’. Frankly speaking, it looks a bit desperate.”

“I’m not desperate,” I resist the urge to snap at him, “I’m not anything but exhausted right now.”

“We’re almost there,” Seungkwan swerves from the main road to another one, driving through a traditional village, “welcome to the casa, noona.”

“Casa,” I scoff, “we are not kids trying out new Spanish names, Seungkwan.”

“While you’re here, write a few lines about the famed Jeju hospitality too, eh?” Seungkwan gets the bag out of the boot, yelling, “look who’s here!”

��

“Thirty pages?” Seungkwan is more surprised at the volume of the pages than at the fact that I have been able to write anything, really, after the first twelve hours of non-stop feeding, “you write thirty pages in half a day?”

“Had twenty of them written down, actually,” I mutter, snacking on candied tangerine slices, a Jeju specialty (the tangerines) and a Seungkwan’s mom specialty (the candied bit), “just needed ten more, and wrote them in the middle of the night.”

“Why the hell would you write ten pages in the middle of the night?” Seungkwan asks, “you look like you’ve been well-rested, though.”

“It’s probably the weather out here,” I stretch my limbs like a cat, yawning, “I haven’t had a nice rest like this in a long time.”

“Yeah, too bad you’re going back to working from home in two days, and be out of here,” Seungkwan sighs, looking at the PDF on his tablet, “you know, if you want, you can just stay here for the rest of your life.”

“At your grandmother's house?” I raise an eyebrow, “I give it three days before they all kick me out of here.”

“You were given a plate of dried persimmons, and I was given only one,” he points to the empty plate next to the one with the candied orange slices, “they like you more than they like me, you know that, right?”

“Is it because I am the daughter they always wanted?” I smile, and he scowls, “the youngest daughter, so charming she has her family wrapped around her thumb?”

“You’ve already got my family under your thumb, why are you even crying about it,” Seungkwan mutters, “this is good enough for an introductory chapter, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” I shrug, “but I’m not really looking to publish right now. Just see if these pages are good enough to put on the company website. Not even the literary magazine, just the website for serialisation.”

“Well, they are, but why the sudden need to not serialise?” Seungkwan asks, “have you been caught by the sophomore novel bug? But wait, you’re on your third novel already, that cannot be the reason, right?”

“I just don’t want to rush into publishing something when I know the material is not good enough,” I shrug, “why do you want me to publish so fast?’

“Because public opinion is always shifting,” Seungkwan smiles, “and they want something new, every few months.. And you’re one of those people who doesn’t have an active social media presence, not that I can fault you for that, but you have to admit, it goes against object permanence. If they are not seeing you at all times, they’re going to forget about you. Public memory is like that of a goldfish.”

“And I don’t make public appearances, either,” I say, “that was partly why I agreed to the serialisation.”

“Glad to see you’re still taking your literary career seriously, noona,” Seungkwan replies.

“Hey, your parents home?” I ask after a beat, “do you mind me smoking?’

“Really? Smoking while on holiday at the family home?” Seungkwan laughs, “go ahead, they’re all busy. Besides, we’re sitting in the back courtyard, so I doubt they’re going to notice. The only witnesses are the vegetables, and I doubt cabbages can speak.”

“Do you think I should write about the wedding?” I ask after lighting a cigarette, puffing out smoke away from Seungkwan, “they’re going to have a buffet there.”

“Noona,” he turns to look at me, “you’ve never once told me about them, and now you’re going to go to someone’s wedding when you haven’t been in contact with them for what, ten years? A whole decade? Do you even want to write about that experience?”

I scoff, “really, Seungkwan, I don’t need the damn lecture. And I would not be going to fucking Yu-ra’s wedding, but my parents promised them that I would, and now my sister is treating this like it’s some sort of personal project. Revenge for all the times that I did not allow her to dress me up.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I just got sent a Chanel catalogue,” I show it to him, and his face falls, cringing, “I wish I was kidding when I said that this was a nightmare of my worst proportions. Never did I think once that I would be going to see those people again, not after whatever went on during those years.”

“Seriously? You didn’t have a single friend during high school?” Seungkwan narrows his eyes, “what about Mingyu? You were really close to him.”

“I feel very grateful that Mingyu existed in my life, at least in that moment,” the cigarette is halfway gone, and Seungkwan, who leans forward to listen to me better, catches a whiff of the smoke, wincing, “he’s the only person I think I would talk to, if I ever ran into him on the streets.”

“And the rest?”

“Running in the opposite direction,” I shudder, “no way. No way in hell.”

This is nice. Seungkwan doesn’t push, and I don’t say anything. Our relationship is not based on total transparency—god knows what secrets of his own he has hid from me, but it’s easy. It comes easy to both of us, or me, at least, to sit in the silence of a winter afternoon and smoke cigarettes one after the other, ignoring all his warnings. He doesn’t need to know how my school life was, nor does he need to know anything about my growing pains. For the both of us, companionship is easy—it means staying when the other one needs you. And he doesn’t need to know. It’s better this way.

And to think I haven’t even told him about the transferring of book contracts.

—

“Seriously?” My sister throws her hands up in despair, looking at the outfit I had picked out for the wedding the next day, “you’re going to the wedding of your high school friend, and you’re wearing work clothes?”

“They’re not work clothes, eonnie,” I sigh, “they’re what I wear for going to funerals. Excellently made, and comfortable in the biting cold. Look, it’s going to snow tomorrow morning. I’ll need all the help I can get for this one.”

“Do you have something against dressing up?” She asks, sitting on the foot of the bed, “you used to dress up all the time when you were a kid, saying it made you feel special and like a princess. Now, you cringe at the very idea of wearing something other than funeral clothes to a wedding.”

“They’re not funeral clothes,” I protest, “it’s just that I have worn them to funerals.”

“That’s the same,” she sighs, “what happened at high school?”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You used to be such a normal kid, then you clammed up entirely during high school, and never seemed to recover from that. I want to know what happened during those years, that made you like that.”

I sigh. How do I tell her that it was no one’s fault, but my own? I went into the situation with higher expectations than I should have. It’s my fault, really.

“I just got lonely,” I replied, “high school was lonely, and I got too used to it, I think.”

“You had Mingyu, right?”

“I couldn’t depend on Mingyu all the time,” I mutter, holding out a white dress shirt for her inspection, “and besides, everyone got so busy during that time, with studies, with work, with everything. I didn’t think my problems would have been very appreciated in the midst of all that.”

“Now you’re making us the bad guys.”

“I’m just stating what happened. I’m not making anyone the bad or the good guys out here.”

“And this has nothing to do with all the rumors about you in university?” She asks, “yes, I heard them too. Everyone talked about you for months, Sowon, and you never gave me an explanation for that.”

“Why do I have to give you an explanation?” I snap, “why is it that my life revolves around me being accountable to everyone—you, our parents, my boss, my editor, my friends, everyone? Yeah, there were rumors about me at university, and I did not tell anyone, because I didn’t want to repeat the damn situation over and over again!”

“Telling someone your problems is not making yourself repeat the situation, Sowon.”

“Yes, but I am doing it, even right now. When you’re asking me for an explanation about what happened, you’re assuming that I was in the wrong.”

“Were you? Were you in the wrong?” She snaps back, “at least tell me what exactly happened, so I can make some sense of the situation!”

“You’re supposed to be on my side!” My brain has gone into overdrive now, and I can feel it, feel the inevitable panic attack, the shortness of my breath, “you’re supposed to be on my side, because if I had done something wrong, I would have come to you. To this family. But I didn’t, and I’m still being interrogated like I’m some sort of common fuck-up instead of your sister.”

I pause, chest heaving, breathing shallow, and my vision is blurring right now. All I want is to be able to breathe normally, but even that seems impossible. It’s okay. You’ve got experience with this, haven’t you? Just focus on the breathing. Seeing what’s in front of you is not important right now.

“You’re not in your right mind now, we’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she mutters, without casting a second glance at me, leaving the room. I manage to take three steps to my bed, before I collapse on top of it, breathing heavy and shallow. It’s fine. It’s all fine, I tell myself, don’t worry about it too much. I’ve gone through this.

In the end, I go with what I know, as usual. The only time I have strayed from what I know, has been when I left this city and went to Busan.

All my life, I’ve knowingly or unknowingly, done exactly what my parents wished of me. Got into the top public school in the city, the one that we moved school districts for. My sister got in, and so did I. I went to Hankuk University on a scholarship, because my parents told me I had to. Studied Pre-Law, because my father was a lawyer, and he wanted at least one of his daughters to follow in his footsteps. Graduated from the university to train at a law firm, just like my father wanted me to. Even before I applied formally to Hankuk Law school, I was poised to become a lawyer, just like him. Even a prosecutor, if I put my mind to it.

And I left it all to get a random job at a random company, and moved to Busan as soon as my transfer application was processed.

What a pathetic life, I think, the only time I’ve tasted freedom, has been when I went to another city. What a life you’ve led, Kim Sowon.

—

He’s really not waiting for anyone. Jihoon’s standing in front of the hotel, waiting, nonchalant in the way he shoves his fists inside his pockets. I’m not waiting for anyone. This is not a date.

Really, she’s not even said this was a date. This was merely an arrangement for her, a way to get out of a sticky situation and come out of it unscathed. He’s trusted, that’s what he is. She trusts him enough to ask him to accompany her to this wedding, and he’s out here, thinking about her in terms she does not want to be thought of, imposing his feelings on her like some kind of idiot.

I’m an acquaintance, he repeats to himself, I am an acquaintance, nothing more. The snow falls thick around his ears, the sound of it rushing around his brain. He should really go inside, he thinks, he should go inside where it’s warm and he’s not in danger of freezing over—

The sound stops. Pure white snow. No sound. All that remains is the loud thudding of his heartbeat, over and over as it reaches a hundred twenty, racing against time and space.

Because in front of him, is Kim Sowon, dressed in her usual black suit, the same smell of menthol cigarettes wafting around her. Her face is pale, devoid of makeup as usual, and her hair is cut short for ease of movement.

But he still can’t say anything, because even a single noise would destroy the landscape in front of his eyes. He’s transfixed, waiting helplessly for her to say something before his knees give out. He’s reminded of a line he read in a book a long time ago:

The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country.

“Shall we?” She doesn’t smile at him, merely squares her shoulders. Jihoon offers her his arm, and they wordlessly set off into the hotel. His heart is still racing, and he hopes she doesn’t notice.

This is—this is bad. He wants her to think of him as a friend, not like this, not like someone who is halfway in love with her already.

Still denying your feelings, huh? The voice in his mind suspiciously sounds like Seungcheol, and Jihoon wants to hit himself for letting his stupid words affect him like this. Nothing will happen. I’m here as a friend. As a helping hand.

When it came to Kim Sowon, Jihoon, runner extraordinaire, found that his feet would not move.

—

I wish I never came here.

Even for a hasty post-new year wedding, the ballroom is filled with people. Did she even have that many acquaintances? I think to myself, before signing the register and depositing my gift money (50 thousand won only). Guests keep filing into the foyer, looking at the wedding venue, the names written in fancy script, congratulatory bouquets from the couples’ acquaintances.

“Wow, a lot of people here,” Jihoon whistles, and I wish I could have a cigarette right now.

“Too many people, I think,” I sigh, “let’s go visit the bride.”

Yeah, this is easy. This is what I am supposed to do, as the bride’s high school classmate. “It’s good manners, I think,” I laugh, hoping it does not give away how nervous I actually am, “we should go there.”

“And why are you going to visit the bride?” Jihoon asks, “you did not seem that enthused when walking into the actual building. And I’m supposed to just take you at your word?”

“It’s good manners, Lee Jihoon, “ I reply, “and I’m trying not to come off as an asshole here.”

There are people coming out of the bride’s reception room, and I can recognise the people I went to school with; Jiyeon, Soyeon, all the people who had, at one point, ignored my very existence. Not that they’re doing anything else right now, I sigh, as Jiyeon passes me by without a second glance; there are always people who will fall behind, huh?

I knock politely on the door, Jihoon standing right behind me, and Yura calls out, “Come in!”

The first thing I can think of when I walk into the room is how vulgarly pink. Everything is pink, everywhere, from the pale pink of the peonies to the pink gemstones on her wedding tiara, everything is draped in pink. And so very distasteful.

“Kim Sowon?” Yura stands up, all smiles, “I didn't think you’d be coming to my wedding! Oh my god, what a nice surprise!” She stumbles over her feet in her excitement to get to me, and I rush forward to catch her, half in my arms and half-dangling, precarious, but not too much.

“Be careful,” I mutter, helping her back to her seat, “we don’t really need an accident on your wedding day.”

“Kim Sowon, still the same knight in shining armor,” Jiyeon teases, “you never really grew out of the habit of saving other people, did you?”

“I never saved anyone,” I reply, tone more clipped than proper, “I’m the only person here who’s wearing flats.”

“Sensible,” Jiyeon shrugs, before spotting Jihoon by the door, “oh, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Uh,” I take a deep breath, “this is Lee Jihoon.”

“And who might he be?” Yura’s eyes are sparkling the same glint that I used to see whenever she managed to unearth something about the other, overlooked members of the class, something to use as leverage, “you should introduce him to us, properly, Kim Sowon.”

Fuck, I hate the way she says my name. I take a deep breath, the words ‘he’s a friend of mine’ on my lips, when Jihoon beats me to the punch, taking my hand in his, and smiling widely for everyone to see, “I’m a close friend of hers, as you can see.”

The implication of those two words are not lost on anyone. I can practically see the cogs turning in their heads, making calculations about how long I've been dating him and how far is it that we’ve gotten, and Jiyeon walks up to us, smiling bashfully, “so you’re close friends, huh? Does that mean you know everything about her?”

I roll my eyes. Really, they had no business even talking about me like this. “What are you talking about?” I ask, after a deep breath, “what do you even mean?”

“I mean, does he know about everything you got up to in high school?” She laughs, turning to Jihoon, “Sowon used to be very famous in high school, you know. Especially amongst the boys.”

Lies. None of that happened. And they know it.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, and they all just laugh, the noise grating over my ears as I desperately look for someplace to hide. I wish I had never come to this fucking wedding. I wish I had a cigarette with me right now.

“We all heard from your university friends, that you had moved down to Busan,” Yura smiles, shifting her flower bouquet in her lap, “Bora and Eunji, was it? They told us that you had taken a job as an editor at a publishing firm.”

“Stop it, Yura,” I sigh, “this is your wedding day.”

“I’m not doing anything illegal here, am I?” She smiles again, and I feel an irrational wish to punch the smile off of her face, and continue, until her face is bloody and her teeth are knocked out. It’d take three minutes, I think. Two if I can be fast enough. “You should have some idea at least, Lee Jihoon-ssi, of how Sowon used to be in high—”

“I doubt that is of any importance now, given that she’s almost thirty years old,” Jihoon replies smoothly, “and I doubt anyone here has kept track of everything Sowon-ssi has been up to after high school.”

Taking another look at everyone, he smiles again, “whatever she was, if she was even anything—that was the past. At present, she’s one of the best people I know, and that’s the impression I would like to continue with.” With that, he half-drags me back to the main lobby, making our way to the wedding lobby with a singular look on his face that I can only say is determination? Perhaps.

“Did you really have to say all that?” I ask, after we’ve taken our seats, “I mean, they weren’t really doing anything outright horrible, per se.”

He turns to look at me, “Was any of what they said real in any capacity?”

I sigh, “it’s complicated. High school was—not my best moment.”

“Whatever happened, I’m sure you didn’t do it,” he grins, “from what I’ve seen of you, you don’t seem to be that kind of person.”

“And if I was? That kind of person, I mean.”

“Even if you were, it would not matter. It’s been ten years; you’re allowed to change during that time. As long as you never hurt anyone, it does not matter.”

I stare at him. Does he really mean all this, or is he just saying it for my benefit? Even as the bride and groom step into the hall, flanked by applause, I keep staring at him. If he’s uncomfortable by it, he doesn’t show.

He’s attractive, even an idiot would be able to say that. In a way that’s quieter, perhaps. Not that I am an expert on the attractiveness of men, but Lee Jihoon has that sort of confidence in him that makes one want to look twice. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t looked twice. Thrice, too. Halfway between brooding and open, his features are as enigmatic as his words.

“Didn’t realise my face was that interesting,” he says, mild enough to be only for my ears, “you’ve been staring.”

“You have something on your face,” I lie, looking away, “it’s just distracting.”

“You mean handsomeness?” He grins, “don’t worry, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

I scowl, “please never use those cringey lines with me again.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, and I lean back, trying not to look as though I have been forced to come to this wedding in the first place.

—

In the spirit of feeling cheap, I ate three servings of beef ribs, had two desserts, and three bowls of the expensive french-sounding soup from the buffet hall. Jihoon doesn’t say anything, merely observes as I pile more food onto my plate, but at one point he asks, “are you a camel?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, “oh, the resource-gathering part. No, I’m not a camel. I’m just traumatised from this wedding.”

“And trauma must be overcome with galbi.”

“You get it,” I mutter, taking another bite of it, “I need to overcome this trauma with meat.”

Even after all the food has been consumed and the pictures taken, I still wish to be as petty as I can, and snag the biggest flower arrangement from the wedding hall, grinning triumphantly at Jihoon as I emerge from the crush of people wanting some flowers for themselves, “the pink scheme was a monstrosity, but the lavender theme matches my room perfectly.”

“You’re going to put that big bouquet in your room?” Jihoon asks, “your childhood room?”

I want to say yes, in a way that’s both chic and sexy and flirty, like everyone else does, but really, who the hell am I kidding? I manage to nod once, before I open my mouth to ask him the one question that has been weighing on my mind since I heard the words being spoken.

Did you actually mean it when you said I was a special friend, I want to ask, or was it simply something you did because you felt abject pity?

“Tteowonie!” There’s really one person in the entire world who called me by that name, a childish bastardisation I had always pretended to hate. I turn, hands full of lavender and hydrangeas, and come face-to-face with Kim Mingyu.

I felt hatred for Yura the moment I stepped into that room and saw her in her bridal gown, waiting as though she had expected me to come and pay my respects and prostrate myself at her feet, hoping to be fucking included in the group. With Mingyu right in front of me, all I can think of is I missed that stupid nickname. He’s still taller than everyone in the room, standing impressive amongst the rest of us commoners, looking like a Greek god carved out of stone. It’s funny, how I remember him as the boy who failed three math tests at the private academy we went to before begging me to help him out just this once.

“Kim Sowon?” Mingyu gives me a hug, enveloping me warmly in his too-big frame, because of course he does that, he’s Kim Mingyu, the boy who never really knew how to turn off the physical affection with his friends, “fancy running into you here!”

“I was invited, I’m not gatecrashing Yura’s wedding, of all people,” I mutter dryly, “have you managed to get flowers?”

“No, but the bouquet you have in your hand is pretty impressive,” He nods towards the sprigs of flowers in my hands, “planning to decorate your whole house tonight?”

“None of your business, Mingyu,” I scowl, turning to Jihoon, who’s been looking at the two of us like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle without opening the box. Like if he says something at all, it’s all going to fall and spill out and get ruined. “This is Lee Jihoon, he’s my—”

“Friend,” Jihoon pipes up, smiling tightly, “we’re friends. I live in Busan. Nice to meet you, Kim Mingyu.”

And he shakes his hand, in that strange way that all men seem to have perfected, the one where it’s not really a sign of affection nor of greeting, but a casual thing in between, that hides more than it tells.

“Well, if you’re here with her, then you must be a great friend,” he grins, “did you know, she used to be my best friend in high school?”

Jihoon’s expression changes, from devastated to curious and then settles on a mix of the two, “Best friends, huh?”

“Yes, well, no one would hang out with her,” Mingyu offers as an explanation, “she used to be obsessed with getting into Hankuk university.”

“Really?” Jihoon is smiling, “she seems like someone who always went for what she wanted.”

“She is that kind of person, yes.” Mingyu grins, “have you told them about the time you gave up the Class president position because it would interfere with your studies?”

I sigh, “I try not to think about that moment. And really, I do not. I should have accepted it at the time.”

‘Still, you got into Hankuk,” Mingyu grins, “that’s what you wanted to do.”

Jihoon changes the subject, “What do you do right now, Mingyu-ssi?” It’s less of a desire to know what Mingyu does for a living, and more about not bringing up the memories of my past, “since you’re her high school friend.”

“I work as an architect,” Mingyu smiles, “went to a Seoul university because I had her study notes with me.” He passes us his card, and I take a look at them. Kim Mingyu, Senior Architect. At a firm specialising in office buildings. He’s made it big, thank God. He deserved it.

“You would have gotten in regardless,” I shrug, “hey, make me a house.”

“Pay me first.” He holds out his hand.

“I have no money.”

“Why the hell would I do that without any payment?” Mingyu laughs, and I think what a relief it is to hear him laugh the same. His laughter has not changed; still the same carefree boy of my years past, the brightest spot of my youth. If I close my eyes, I can imagine him laughing at the edge of the field, voice loud enough to be heard from the classroom, after scoring a goal, calling out to me to just come down and enjoy.

“I’ll pay,” I begrudgingly say, “friend discount.”

“No friend discount for the girl who terrorised me with her math workbook.” He grins, “what do you want it for?”

What do you want it for? I can think of no idea that would suffice, because I do not want an office building, I don’t want anything to do with offices anymore. All I want is a place of my own, where it does not feel like a hotel room, where breathing comes easy.

“Not an office building. Can you redecorate my house?” I ask, and both of them laugh, Jihoon and Mingyu, before he gives an indignant squawk, hitting me across the shoulders.

“Do I look like an interior designer to you?”

“What she means is,” Jihoon steps in, “she thinks you’d do a better job of decorating her apartment than any interior designer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

—

Jihoon has been waiting for his friend to pick him up, he tells me, and the three of us—Mingyu, me, and him—stand awkwardly on the sidewalk like elementary school children waiting for their parents after school. I have a cigarette in my mouth, slowly taking a drag on it like Jihoon or Mingyu might find it uncomfortable, to see me smoking right in front of them.

“Really? Still onto that habit?” Mingyu turns to Jihoon. “I caught her smoking for the first time when she was in senior year. She told everyone that she’d give it up, but never did.”

“Really? You’re going on about the one incident in my final year of school?” I make a face, “at least I wasn’t preening in front of all the school for a football match.”

“It was not a football match, there was a lot riding on it!”

“Your dad told me you gave up law school to get a job,” Mingyu says, “not that I thought you’d ever have a career in law.”

“Are you calling me an idiot?” I scoff, “doesn’t matter, whatever I did back then. I’m fine now.”

“I’m going to Busan for a meeting next month,” he says, after a beat, “do you want me to bring you anything?”

“Cigarettes.”

A large car comes screeching to a halt in front of us, and a man with long hair and a pleasant, almost sly-looking face jumps out, arms outstretched, “Jihoon! How nice to see you again!”

“That’s Jeonghan,” Jihoon, from beside me, mutters, “where’s Seungcheol?”

“Gone to get coffee for you,” Jeonghan grins, before pointing at me, “is that her?”

“Where the fuck are your manners?” Jihoon hisses, swatting at him, “I’ll see you back in Busan, Sowon-ssi.”

I want to say something, but I really can’t. There’s an easy dynamic there, borne out of years of familiarity, nothing like the awkwardness between me and Mingyu. Even if I could, I should not.

“See you in Busan, Lee Jihoon.”

—

“Who was that man with her? That was her, wasn’t it?” Jeonghan starts his rapid fire as soon as Jihoon gets into the car, “she looked right comfortable with him. Also, I don’t think I’ve told you this, but she’s really fascinating.”

“Gets your attention right off the bat, right?” Jihoon muses, “the first time seeing her, I don’t think I breathed for a minute.”

“I get why you wrote three R&B songs about her, Jihoon,” Jeonghan laughs, “I would do it too, if I could.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he sighs, “didn’t you see them back there?”

“See who?” Jeonghan takes a look through the rearview mirror, “ah, them. They seem like friends to me.”

“Doesn’t matter. There’s history there; too much history.” Jihoon sighs again, watching the heater in the car steal away the mist of his cold breath, “if I were to barge in, it’d be an intrusion.”

Jeonghan draws the car to a stop in front of a cafe, and Seungcheol hurries into the car, “who’s intruding?”

“Me,” Jihoon raises a hand, “I'm realising that with her, I can’t compete with history.”

—

#icymi <3

167 notes · View notes

shinysobi · 1 month ago

Text

love's labour lost (lee jihoon)

in the end, all he does is run away.

☆ lovers to strangers: lee jihoon x composer! reader ☆ w.c: 2.5k (shortest yet!) ☆ genres: idol au, angst, dissolution of a relationship, jihoon is an asshole here i'm sorry (or am i) based entirely on all my love ☆ written for bella's event !! thank you so much for letting me write this haha i had a lot of fun! ☆tagging: @bella-feed (bc it was her event) @mylovesstuffs (because she's the one who listens to me yap) @gyubakeries (my comrade in this mess) and @hannieoftheyear bc she loves a toxic romance masterlist

All my love has amounted to, is this.

Jihoon doesn’t know where exactly he went wrong. He did the things that were expected of him, he said the right things, he went to the right places, met and schmoozed with the right people, and yet, at the end of the day, he was there, and they were not.

Jihoon knows who he is, really. He knows he’s not the most expressive guy; knows he is a bit slow on the uptake, knows he comes off as intimidating and standoffish most of the time. He’s not the easiest guy to get close to, unfortunately.

Which leaves him here, looking at the phone screen in dismay, rereading the final two texts he’s sent them. Even now, looking back at the relationship, he wants to ask, what happened? Where did he go wrong, where did they go wrong? There is nothing apparent within the texts; they’re meaningless, accounts of a bad day that Jihoon had been having, updates on his meals, everything that was mundane and bleak and yet, they contained so much of his heart.

In the end, the conversation had petered out easily, like the final burst of a firework, there were no explosive arguments, no throwing things, no tears, nothing at all. No spark in his life, nothing that told him about the steady dissolution of something that went on for perhaps too long. Jihoon doesn’t know how to live life without them, and yet, somehow he does, muscle memory pulling him through the motions of the day with an accuracy that scares him at first. He wakes up, brushes his teeth, goes to the studio to write, and ends up staring at the blank pages of his diary for far longer than necessary. He goes to practise, goes through the motions of being a dancer with a degree of precision that scares him at first, but now, now he’s used to it.

The rest of Seventeen leave him alone, whispering amongst themselves about how Jihoon has been pulling away from the world even more. Have you talked to him? They ask, and Jihoon has to use force to get Seungcheol out of his studio, an action that Cheol protests by sitting in front of his studio doors for an hour until they have schedules together. He’s supposed to be working on song lyrics for their upcoming album, but all he can think of is the last time he met her. It had been a hasty meeting, held in one of the many boardrooms at HYBE, and he kept avoiding her gaze as she tried to explain the new concepts that management wanted them to try out for the album. She had kept trying to meet his gaze, and he had kept avoiding her, feeling the weight of at least thirty pairs of eyes on his every reaction as she stumbled through her words and her scratch tracks. He had shook his head, trying to control his reactions as much as he could. She was a phenomenal writer, no doubt, but no one took her seriously, not in PLEDIS and HYBE, at least. When he stood up to present his work, with similar themes to hers, they all murmured compliments and nodded with positive affirmations. Out of the corner of his eye, Jihoon could see her shrink into her seat. She was never really someone who would speak up for herself, and Jihoon knew that.

He doesn’t say anything, even when he knows he should. Instead, he sits back, and allows himself to take credit for her work, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach. Her eyes follow him for the whole day, a mix of sadness and something else entirely. Jihoon knows what that is, he just does nothing to change that look in them.

She looks like a wounded animal, he realises that night at three a.m, sipping on coffee as he works on tracks sent by her on a single USB. the files always have the same names, nothing of note, nothing of importance. Just the name of the song she’s sending it in for, and the date and version of the file. There have been times where she’s sent in files with nothing but the name, Song Draft#1, or something like All My love, draft #2. He likes the way she writes these, likes the way her filenames leave nothing for him to question. On the other hand, Jihoon sends the producers and songwriters drafts named (very creatively) Vernon is being a bitch, or as on one single, memorable occasion, how do I kill Seokmin and bury his body without anyone knowing? They had looked at him like he was crazy, but really, Jihoon doesn’t mind. He likes being known as the crazy one, the problem child of the company. Jihoon remembers the one time he went on lockdown in the studio to make a whole album from scratch in a week, and the rest of the company gave him a wide berth, because really, no one wants to fuck with Lee Jihoon, the insufferable genius of Pledis.

Which makes entire sense as to why she left him, of course.

Jihoon is not a stranger to how awfully their relationship began. Even by his standards, the way he asked her out was shitty. They had been sitting in his studio, drinking coffee and working yet another late night, when he had turned to look at her, and said a single word, “chicken?”

“Huh?” she had asked, looking up from her laptop, “right now?”

“No, I mean later,” Jihoon had clarified, looking slightly exasperated at how slowly this was moving along, “chicken. Fried chicken. Do you want to get some with me?”

“Uh, sure.” She had turned back to her work, and Jihoon had nodded, murmuring, it’s a date, then.

That was how it had begun. Jihoon knew he should not have begun a relationship, or even dated anyone like that, attaching himself to the first person who caught his eye after recovering from a breakup. He knows he should not do it, but he does it anyway. Watches as she gets grilled by higher-ups during meetings, watches as he opens his mouth to say something, but keeps quiet instead. Even his bandmates, people who barely knew her, tried to speak up when they could, but he kept his mouth shut.

Why did he do that?

At first, it was to maintain distance, to maintain the farce that while they were professional colleagues during work hours, he was not pressing her up against the couch in his studio afterwards. A way to let himself know that the Lee Jihoon of Seventeen was a different person to producer Lee Jihoon, who was a different person to just Lee Jihoon, the man who was using a woman for his benefit.

It all grew hot and cold, after a while. She stopped expecting things from him, he hadn’t been doing anything for her in the first place. Even with his growing guilt, Jihoon couldn’t stop going back to her day after day, taking whatever she gave, and leaving without giving anything in return. He had it down to a science, almost.

They were caught once. Well, he was the one who was caught, and it was Seungkwan of all people, who had run into him one late night. Seungkwan was there for practice, and Jihoon was there because he wanted to unwind fuck in peace. They ran into each other in the company elevator, and Seungkwan just stared at him for three seconds, before opening his mouth, “don’t do this, hyung.”

Jihoon stared at him, too. What the hell? “What do you mean,” He’d asked, but from the look on Seungkwan’s face, any explanation was unnecessary.

“Don’t hurt someone just because you’re hurting too, hyung,” Seungkwan muttered, before getting out of the elevator, “She’s not someone you can hurt and leave when you want to. No one is.”

With that, he was gone, leaving behind Jihoon, still in the elevator, thinking. Hewas free to do whatever he wanted, Seungkwan and his fucking stupid moral policing be damned. And she was an adult. She knew what he wanted, she knew what they were getting into. There was nothing that Jihoon had not told her, so this line of thinking was irrelevant.

—

Slowly, things start to change. Jihoon suspects Seungkwan’s involvement, but without any proper proof, he can’t even charge the man with anything. She becomes slightly more confident, slightly more outgoing. Earlier, when he called her after work, she came running, no matter how busy she was. Now, he found himself waiting for hours for a reply, and even then, it was all noncommittal, nothing more than yes, maybe, or sorry, no, I’m busy. He got the second text far more often than the first one.

And then one day, Vernon came into the studio, visibly excited, and started talking about her, “did you know?” He said, “she’s composing the music for this new film.”

“She is?” Jihoon can’t even hide how much it rankles, the news that she’s moved on beyond him, that now she’s begun work as a film composer, “which movie?”

Vernon, who apparently got the news from her, says the name, “it’s going to be shown at Jeonju International Festival, and the lead actor came here today! They finished production on the film, and he came to congratulate her and take a look at her workspace and all.”

Ah, so that was why. Jihoon doesn’t say anything, gives a grunt and goes back to his work, a sign that Vernon interprets as get out. He leaves his studio an hour later to go to the cafeteria, and he sees her eating with another person. The actor; he thinks, and then turns around to leave before she catches his eye. If he saw her, she would come over to greet him, he knew her well enough for that.

And, he’s never seen her laugh that way

—

Unfortunately, somewhere between using her for his emotional benefit and discovering she had moved on without him knowing, Jihoon’s feelings had changed. He now looked for her in every meeting; her absence rankled in a place that was not quite familiar to him before. Hell, he even missed the way she ate her food, it was a trivial detail, but now he remembers the way she would carefully arrange everything on her plate and obsess over calories, insisting that she needed to have a certain amount to not keel over and faint.

Then the conversation peters out entirely. Even when she was actively ignoring his texts outside of work, she would respond to his emails, send over USBs with the song files she was working on, sit in on meetings to workshop lyrics. Those stop too, and now he gets USBs through harried interns who don’t know who they are from, or gets his emails rerouted to another (usually higher) person in charge. Nothing non-professional, nothing he can fault her for. It’s annoying. It’s fucking annoying, how in the end of this twisted fucking mess, Jihoon is only one with mud on his skin. He’s still the terrible toddler, she’s the one whose reputation is pristine. Jihoon didn’t much care for his reputation either way, but if he was getting called an asshole, with rumors of him pursuing and abandoning an employee, he wishes she were affected too. It's selfish to be thinking about another person like this, but Jihoon does not care. He wants everyone to suffer along with him.

It’s been about a month now. Within this time, he’s been the worst version of himself, locked Cheol out of the studio, ignored everyone’s calls and threatened to kill Seokmin on three separate occasions, but it’s been a month. A month since she stopped responding, a month since he’s had any sort of news from her. He knows he doesn’t deserve it, but he craves it anyway.

He runs into Seungkwan on the way to the studio one morning, and the younger man takes one look at him and shakes his head. Jihoon doesn’t say anything. He walks into the studio and closes the door behind him.

“She’s left.”

Jihoon turns. Seungkwan had walked into the studio, and was looking at him with a mix of pain and contempt, “she’s left PLEDIS. Left HYBE.”

“Wait, what?” It’s his turn to not believe his ears, “who did?”

“The girl you were actively trying to fuck over, hyung, she left,” Seungkwan sighs, “and one more thing, I think it’s a good thing she did.”

“What?”

“She’s now a fully-fledged film composer, hyung,” Seungkwan replies, not a hint of sarcasm in his voice, “she’s composing scores for two more upcoming films and one television drama. She no longer needs PLEDIS.”

The subtext is clear.

Jihoon says nothing, just allows Seungkwan to leave.

—

Three months later, her film premiered at Jeonju International Film Festival. Four of them go; make a show of it, as per Cheol’s orders. He wasn’t aware of what Jihoon did. If he knew, he wouldn’t have let Jihoon go. Anyway, the four of them go, in show of support for an ex-coworker. It’s too much, even for them, he thinks, who the hell organised this?

He gets his answer before the show, when Vernon shakes her hand enthusiastically, grinning, “I knew you’d be a phenomenal film composer.”

She doesn’t even look at him.

They take their seats, it’s refreshing to be in a crowd of cinephiles where no one cares about who the hell SEVENTEEN are. Jihoon settles down into his seat, and the starting credits roll.

The score remains with him even after the film ends. Jihoon doesn’t care for movies, not like Vernon does anyway, so he focuses on the score; which is haunting, stretching like a yawning cat over the expanse of the film, occasionally baring its claws to let people know the genius of its composer. She had done well, and now he thinks the reason why everyone was so critical of her was because they were scared. Cheol claps enthusiastically, Seungkwan claps like he’s the person behind her success (with all his subterfuge, he might as well be) and Vernon even lets out a whoop to show her how much he’s enjoyed her work. Jihoon, out of all the four of them, doesn’t do anything, doesn’t clap, doesn’t smile. He can’t even think properly. So she left the company to do this. To be a film composer. Why did it matter? Why did it matter to him how she lived her life? He used her, she left him, in the end, it was his own actions that led him to be this way. She has always remained the pristine one, unbothered and unaffected of anything that happened in any space. In the end, Jihoon doesn’t even clap, because he’s afraid of tainting her. To be associated with me is the equivalent of throwing mud on yourself, he reasons, as they walk out of the theatre and into a waiting car, this is better. This way, she doesn’t have to remember me anymore.

Now he knows what he feels, but it’s far too little, far too late. As always. In the end, the guy does not get the girl. In the end, Lee Jihoon remains where he has always been, waiting, a spectator in someone else’s curtain call. All his love has amounted to, is this.

#icymi <3

127 notes · View notes

shinysobi · 1 month ago

Text

si bel homme list (x.mh)

☆ best friends to lovers: photographer! minghao x lawyer! reader ☆w.c: 5.3k ☆ genre: non-idol au, romance, fluff, comedy, angst, slight coercion involved, copious references to smoking and drinking (mentions of cheating , NOT by Hao). masterlist

☆ a/n: so the first chapter is here, after months of procrastination and general breakdowns lol (not lol) i think i finalized the plot for this fic before any other one, which really is on brand for me, because then i stopped writing it entirely. while this is the first part for now, the rest will follow soon (i promise) because this is too fun to not write obsessively <3 ☆ huge thank you to @mylovesstuffs for betaing this, as usual, without the amazing feedback and support from cel there would be no fic from user shinysobi; thank you to the people i made this collab with, yuki ( @eclipsaria ) rae ( @nerdycheol ) and tiya ( @gyubakeries ). without these amazing people there would be no collab at all <3 check their works for this collab too yall, theyre all certified bangers <3 ☆ credits to @seungnm for the banner, and since this is part of yuki's 100 follower collab, check out the other works here ! (I might post another fic tomorrow ) also tagging resident 8stars: @solstyce-ent, @okiedokrie-main, @hannieoftheyear, @haologram

Unfortunately, despite whatever they said about relationships, they always ended easily; with a handshake and about a three-hour karaoke session where I poured my heart and soul into singing the most awful breakup songs known to man, while Minghao looked on in despair. No, more often than not, my breakups sound like a boring business discussion, where my exes and I meet over a cup of coffee or a business lunch, and discuss the matter of our collaborative project (relationship) going forward.

And every time it’s the same reason, one that I am sick of hearing—you’re too cold for a human.

“This is false,” I had moaned over my morning cup of coffee, “I’m a divorce lawyer, for god’s sake. I’m not an unfeeling robot like they make me out to be.”

“Maybe tone down the arguing and the obsessing over details,” Minghao had commented, sipping on his tea, “then the allegations will drop.”

Which brought us to this day, where it has been three years, six months, and five days since I began seeing Kim Cheong-hee, and thirteen days since he had gotten down on one knee and proposed marriage in front of a restaurant full of people. It was not my style, but I took it in stride, tamping down the feeling of discomfort and general squeamishness that came with the territory.

It has also been exactly eleven minutes since I found out conclusive proof of my fiance cheating on me.

Look, I’m not bothered by this. Men cheat. Women cheat. If they didn’t, I would not have been able to put down a deposit on my flat. Marriages dissolve all the time, because of one reason or the other. But apparently litigating in civil court over the dissolution of marriages does not mean one gets used to the sight of their fiance in bed with another woman. Or the sight of their wedding invitations lying on the table, apparently. Just how much of an asshole was this guy?

“Yewon,” he holds up his hands, “look, I can explain.”

“Is that why you asked me to get married to you that lazily?” I scoff, even as the woman in question scurries from the room, “I mean, semi-expensive restaurant, candlelit dinner, ring on top of the desserts. Too unimaginative, even for a man who spent his entire life fixing spreadsheets for a mid-sized company.”

“Hey,” He stands up, and I cringe at the sight of his naked body, “demeaning my work? Isn’t that a bit too much, even for you?”

“Sorry, old habits die hard.” I shrug, removing the ring from my hand, “I know your mother pushed you to continue seeing me. I knew you were never really interested in the first place. Even the whole proposal mess was her idea, not yours. She wanted a hotshot attorney with political proximity as her daughter-in-law, so she forced you to date me. Wait, is that why you wanted to come to those dinners so badly? Did you really think politics was your place?”

He says nothing. It's all true, then. Dating me when he really did not give a shit about me, is that why I liked the relationship in the first place? Having something in my life without really having to work for it, that's what I wanted. I can't even blame him for continuing this mess for so long—I was an active participant.

“Doesn’t mean you get to string me along for three years, without even thinking of the consequences.” I sigh, placing the ring down on the table, “is she pregnant? Is that why you're marrying her?”

He nods.

“And when, pray, were you going to tell me?” I grimace, “at the altar via video call?”

“Look, Yewon, I tried telling you—”

“I can sue you for this, you know that, right?”

He shuts up. He was arguing with me so passionately even a moment ago, but all that went out of the window when I brought up money. I snort, “Look, I don’t care. Just make sure you have nothing in my apartment by tomorrow morning.”

He nods, and I turn back to walk out of the bedroom. Outside, on the sofa, I look at the woman in question, who looks fairly mutinous at having to deal with a random woman barging into her boyfriend’s place and interrupting their time together, all the while claiming to be his fiance. Well, technically, I was his fiance at the moment; he just didn’t tell me he also had another one. “Don’t worry,” I bow politely, “I don’t care about men like that.”

The first thing that comes to my mind as I close the door behind me is — ah, so that was why he did not sleep with me.

—

“That was the question on your mind?” Minghao says, in disbelief, as I devour a leg of fried chicken, “not why the hell did my fiance have another woman on the side, but why did he not have sex with me?”

“To be fair, he dated her first, then started meeting me because his mother set him up and he really couldn't say no to her," I shrug, “if we get into semantics, I was the other woman, except I had no idea about it.”

Minghao presses his temples, “and why the hell would you think back to having sex with him?”

“No, I did not have sex with him,” I shake the chicken leg at him, “at first, I thought he was saving himself for marriage or whatever. Then I thought he was closeted, which was fine by me.”

“How the hell is being closeted fine with you—”

“Then I realised he just did not want to have sex with me,” I say, shrugging, “not important anymore, really. If I knew he had a girlfriend, I would not have spent so much time thinking about his sexuality. I spent so much time thinking I had something fundamentally wrong with me because he would not sleep with me.”

“Did you want that?” Minghao looks at me, expression unreadable, “did you want him to sleep with you?”

I make a face, “not really, no. The thought of being touched by that man was so disgusting, I had to avoid him in the beginning. Then I realised he didn’t have any interest in sleeping with me, so I gave up on avoiding him.”

“So you didn’t sleep with him at all, for all these years?” Minghao shakes his head, “this seems a bit much, even for you.”

“You’re talking to the woman who has never slept with anyone in her life, so no, this is not out of the ordinary,” I shrug, “I just find the act slightly disgusting.”

“Sex?”

“Yes, that.”

“Very well,” Minghao shrugs, setting down his phone to pick up a piece of chicken, “what do you plan on telling your family?”

I freeze. Right. I had forgotten about that. Telling my family means I have to be entirely truthful with them, and tell them about the disaster that was the relationship, the proposal, and the subsequent betrayal. They already thought I had a borderline personality disorder, this will land me in a hospital, if I’m being generous. My father might even have a heart attack. “I had not thought about that. My mother is going to kill me.”

“Prosecutor Kim?”

“Prosecutor Kim, yeah, that woman.” I groan, “she’s going to kill me. She hates it when I keep things from her, and I broke up with Cheong-hee without even consulting her in the first place, she’s going to kill me. My father will have a heart attack, and my sister is going to get me admitted for a check-up. My life is ruined.”

“Then?”

“Look, if worst comes to worst, I’ll just tell my mother I broke up with him over something trivial. Instead of telling her he had me as a side piece while he was off having the best time with the love of his life. Or that he dated me entirely because he was so much of a mama’s boy he couldn’t even tell her about his girlfriend.”

Minghao makes a low whistling noise, “I feel sorry for the girl actually, being stuck with Kim Cheong-hee for life.”

“I do not,” I shrug, “she’s an adult, not some poor child who got taken advantage of. The only person who’s getting the short end of this arrangement is their child. His mother will never forgive the child for ruining her chances of having a lawyer for a daughter-in-law, and eventually that resentment is going to seep into their married life as well. There’s nothing to be done anymore, but I do feel bad for the child.”

“What’s this, Choi Yewon, top divorce lawyer of Hwaseong, daughter of Professor Choi and Prosecutor Kim, is expressing sympathy?” Minghao gasps, “this is a new emotion.”

“Shut up, Minghao,” I grumble, “I’ve seen this exact playbook too many times to not recognise it instantly. Couple gets married because they’re pregnant and well, raising a child out of wedlock is not advisable, and everyone starts resenting the child for ruining their plans. I’m sure Cheong-hee will be thinking whatever his mother is thinking a few years down the line.”

“You’re saying he’s going to resent his fiancee, or wife, or whatever, a few years later?”

“I hope he does not, but statistically, there is not a lot of chances where that does happen,” I sigh, “sometimes I wish I had been a criminal lawyer instead of a family lawyer. At least then I would not be looking at the worst parts of society every day.”

“If you were a criminal lawyer, you would think of everyone as potential criminals, and act accordingly,” Minghao stands up from the table, “so, do you want to crash on my couch, or should I call a taxi for you?”

“It’s three in the morning, dumbass, I’m not paying premium prices to go to my home,” I mutter, “just give me some of your pajamas, I’ll sleep here tonight.”

“Don’t you have work tomorrow morning?” Minghao asks, but he’s already going off to his room to get clothes for me, “should you really be spending the night here at my place?”

“One of the few perks of being the genius at work, is that I get to roughly choose my own hours,” I smile as he hands me his sleeping shorts, “one of the only perks, that is. I barely get enough sleep, but at least I can come in at eleven in the morning and no one bats an eye.”

“That’s also because you don’t go home until ten at night,” he grunted, putting away the remnants of the fried chicken, “who told you to work this hard?”

“Staying in until ten at night got you the all-expenses paid trip to Bali last year, you buffoon,” I called out, before retreating into his spare room, “I spend all my disposable income on you, you dumbass.”

“Point taken. Please stay in until eleven at night from tomorrow, Miss Attorney.”

“Opportunistic asshole,” I mutter, “you’re giving me a neck massage every night then.”

When I emerge from his room dressed in his sleep shorts, Minghao is leaning on the wall opposite mine, staring at his phone. He slips his phone into his pocket, staring at me, “why the hell do you look even uglier than before?”

“Shut the fuck up, dumbfuck,” I grumble, walking back out into the kitchen, “what are you looking at? New appointment?”

“Yeah, someone has their bridal photoshoot scheduled for tomorrow, so I’m just going over the brief,” Minghao says, showing me a presentation of floral designs and happy couples, “they’ve changed their needs at least three times, so I am wary of making permanent decisions. No idea if they’ll even like this one.”

“Do you have a contract?”

“No, why?”

I stare at him, “you know what, you deserve it. You deserve to be mooched off of.”

“Don’t say that,” Minghao laughs, “it was a favour someone called in for them. Nothing I could do.”

“Just say no, you asshole.”

He shakes his head, then walks into his room. I sigh, then move out of the kitchen and into the guest room. Minghao can’t resist doing a favour, as usual. He’s been doing favours for people ever since we were in university, and even now, years later and with several awards to his name, he’s still doing the same favours for the same people who think it’s fine to treat him like garbage. And on top of that, he won’t even let me intervene.

—

“Attorney Choi,” my secretary peeks her head into my room, “your mother is here.”

I stare. What do you mean my mother is here? “Are you sure it's her?” I ask, suddenly aware of the day-old suit I was wearing, because Minghao did not have a suit in my size I could borrow, “it’s my mother? Prosecutor Kim? That woman?”

“Pretty sure it’s her, given how famous she is,” The paralegal grins, “she says she’s here to meet her daughter, and you’re the only woman in the office today.”

I sigh, feeling a headache come along. I did not need this, not on top of all my responsibilities that were waiting for me, “should I go to the visitor’s lounge, or is she going to come here?”

“I asked her the same thing,” my secretary replies, sheepish, “but she said she knew the way herself, and—” the telltale sound of a pair of high heels echoing down the corridor, “she’s here.”

With that, she escapes, scurrying off to finish whatever tasks I had assigned to her, and my mother opens the door to the office, walking in as though she owned the whole place. Well, I think, given the amount of power she still has, she might as well own Hwaseong entirely. “Yewon.”

“Yes?” I say, far too sharply for my own comfort. “What brings you here this morning, mother?”

My mother, never one to waste too much time on an introductory statement, dives right off the deep end, “Tell me why Cheong-Hee's mother called me this morning and told me the wedding was off.”

“Uh…” I sigh, “tea?”

“I am not here to drink tea, I want to know why I had to hear of your breakup from a third-party, instead of the person herself.”

I sigh, no point in hiding anymore, I guess, “Cheong-hee is getting married.” I say, pouring out a cup of coffee for myself, “he told me last night that he was getting married to the woman he was originally pursuing a relationship with.”

The expression on my mother’s face is interesting, because it’s a cross between wondering whether or not she’s heard it correctly and wanting to kill Cheong-hee for his transgressions, “what do you mean by that, Yewon?”

“I mean, he had a girlfriend all along, it's just that his mother did not approve of her very much,” I say, shrugging, “so he went along with her and dated me, but he found out she was pregnant, so I broke it off.”

My mother looks like she’s turning over my words in her mind, “so, you are telling me, that boy went along with whatever his mother said, and dated you for three years—”

“Three years, six months, and five days,” I mutter underneath my breath.

“—and never, not once, did he have the decency to admit to you, or your family, that he had a steady girlfriend on the side?” She’s seething now, but not at me, “I need to sue him. What the hell did he think would happen?”

“He’s not worth much to be sued over,” I take a seat across from her, “I took a look at his taxes last year, he has more debt than he has assets.”

“So, no to suing, I think,” she shrugs, “did you see the woman he was with?”

“She was in the bed with him, actually,” I cringe, and my mother cringes, because it is never very comfortable to be talking about anyone’s sexual activities with your mother, let alone your ex-fiance’s, “and I think she knew who I was. At least she seemed to know me.”

“She probably went along with the whole thing just to appease that buffoon of a boy,” my mother says, “and you wasted all those years on him, just to find out you were the second woman all along. What a family.”

“Well, I did not waste time on him,” I make a face, “he was my boyfriend, not my whole life.”

My mother stares at me, and it’s the same kind of stare that I have been at the receiving end of, so often, the one that says, are you sure that is the case? “I mean,” I hurry to do damage control, “I was disappointed, really. And angry at being deceived. But that was it. Nothing more.”

“Nothing more,” My mother repeats, although she does not look like she believes me at all, “very well, then. Your father is terribly upset over this.”

“Wait, Father is upset?” I stand up, “don’t tell me he’s gotten sick again, the doctor told him to not be in stressful situations—”

My mother raises a hand to silence me, “I’ll worry about your father, not you. Have you thought of a second plan?”

“Second plan?” I make a face, “mother, it’s not like I put a down payment on a house or something. I didn’t even have concrete wedding plans with the man. I do not need a second plan.”

“You do realise, you’ve got about thirty different parties to attend for the upcoming election season?”

I groan. Of course they were going to bring that up. “My brother-in-law is the politician, not my sister. She’s a judge. I don’t even need to bring a plus one to those events. I’ll be fine.”

My mother levels a stare. I sigh. Of course I have to bring a date to those events. Everyone does, and apparently, everyone in my sister’s circle knew about the fact that I was dating and almost engaged to a man. They just didn’t know who. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“I’ll come up with a proper cover story. Don’t worry, I’m not going to advertise the breakup to the whole nation,” My mother says, standing up from the couch, “but make sure you’re prepared for any questions that might go your way.”

“From nosy aunties?”

“They’re richer than we can ever imagine being,” my mother scolds, but she’s smiling, “but yes, nosy aunties.”

“What if I just get a date?” I say suddenly, fully aware of how desperate I am, “look, no one knows who Cheong-hee is, right? I did not bring him to any parties or dinners. I’ll just get someone else to come along with me, and it’ll be fine.”

“Never mind, you’re going to a hospital.”

“Mother!” I squawk, “ugh, fine, I’ll just tell them I’m broken up or something like that.”

“Yeah, better stick to the truth. You are a terrible liar,” and with that, Prosecutor Kim is out of my office, leaving me behind in my stupid little chair and a stupid cup of coffee in my hands.

The next fundraising dinner for my brother-in-law was in a week, and it would take a miracle for me to get a date by then. Now, everyone is going to ask me why I did not have a fiance on my arm, and I’ll have to play the role of the dumped woman, drawing a sharp contrast to my sister and her perfect family and perfect life, while all I chased was money and professional goals. Not even a corporate lawyer or a prosecutor—that's what they said behind my back, she’s just a family lawyer. Why does she behave like that, then? In comparison to my father, the law professor, my mother, the prosecutor, and my sister, the judge, all my achievements seemed paltry. I should at least get someone to show off if I wanted to be considered to be on the same level as them.

—

The rest of the day goes by in the same manner. I take a look at multiple depositions, advise three clients, and sour the general mood of the office with my scowls. At one point, my secretary comes up to me and asks if I am on my period. If so, she could get me painkillers to help with the pain and discomfort. I dismiss her with a wave of my hand. If my headache could be magicked away with painkillers, I would be the first in line. No, instead of painkillers, I’m stuck rifling through depositions long past nine in the evening, long after everyone else has gone home for the night. I refuse to order food, hoping the growing hunger in my stomach provides sufficient motivation to be done with my work as soon as possible.

It is eleven at night when my phone rings, with a call from Minghao. I picked it up on the second ring, “Hello, Choi Yewon.”

“Still at the office?” Minghao’s tone seems bored almost, but nonetheless, concerned for my health and sanity, “this much overworking cannot be good for the heart, Yewon.”

“I have not had my dinner yet, so save the lecturing until then,” I mutter, “how was the photoshoot?”

“Fortunately, she said yes to the concepts and did not ask me to change everything and begin from scratch,” he sighs, “I swear, if she had told me to make one single correction, I would have been on the news for murder in the second degree by now.”

“Careful, Minghao, I’m not a criminal lawyer,” I sigh, “hey, do you mind getting me food?”

—

“Refresh my memory,” Minghao says, about half an hour later, picking up a piece of chicken, “your mother came to your office? Prosecutor Kim?”

“She did,” I mutter, “wanted to know why the hell did she get to hear about my engagement failing from Cheong-hee’s mother, and not from me.”

“Sheesh,” He grimaces, “not the best decision, to keep her in the dark. What was she like?”

“Surprisingly nice about the whole thing,” I reply, still struggling to understand this action of my mother. “She said she wanted to sue him and his family.”

“He went into debt because of crypto. He asked you for money last year. What money does he even have?” Minghao says.

“Precisely why I cannot even sue him,” I shrug, “he’s not worth anything at all.”

“What else did she say?”

“She was worried about all the comments I would get,” I reply after a beat, “because of the upcoming fundraisers.”

Minghao drops the piece of chicken he has been holding, and I know what he realises—reputation is key. Even as the terrible child, the constant disappointment, I was expected to live up to some expectations, no matter how lowered they were for my own benefit. And for those standards, being without a fiance, especially when I had told everyone about the existence of one, was a mistake. A mistake that might as well cost my brother-in-law his political career. Minghao nods, and I mimic the gesture. There needs to be a fiance, or at the very least, someone who will serve their purpose on my arm.

“You need a boyfriend,” Minghao finishes my thoughts, nodding gravely, “or at least a date.”

“My mother thought the idea was preposterous,” I grimace, “but the thing is, I need to have a date on my arm. If I don’t, then people start talking about me. And I need people to not talk about me as much as possible.”

“Did Prosecutor Kim think the idea was ridiculous?”

“Half of it is because the idea itself was so preposterous she did not think it was feasible,” I reply, “I mean, getting a boyfriend in a week? Who does that? Even if I paid someone, they wouldn’t.”

“Yewon.”

“And look, I know how long it took for me to even like Cheong-Hee enough to go on a date with him of my own volition,” my hands are shaking now, “it will be difficult to get even a singular date, much less someone willing to put up with my family’s expectations and their status.”

“Breathe, Yewon,” Minghao is holding my hands now, his face close to mine, breathing loud enough to distract me, “concentrate on the breathing, Yewon, in and out.”

“Shut up,” I smack him with a pillow, “I can take care of myself this much.”

“Does not look like it,” He grins, but leans back anyway, “so, do you have any particular qualities you’re looking for?”

“In a relationship?” I ask, “you know the list, right?”

“Yeah, the 시발 놈 list,” Minghao sighs, “you do realise how stupid the name is?”

“Yes, and it has the list of my preferred traits in a romantic partner, so I’m not changing it,” I grumble, “and they’re not even outrageous demands, you know. What am I asking for?”

Minghao sighs, before counting my conditions off the top of his head, “the man has to have a good job, must be good with housework, must be compatible with my family, must be respectful of my personal space—you think there are men who actually fit all these demands?”

“I’m merely asking of them whatever they ask of me,” I shrug, “nothing more than what will be expected of me, if I were to pursue a relationship with them. I’m expected to be the perfect wife, the perfect girlfriend, with a perfect career and family. Why can’t I expect the same of the person I am going to be shackled to for the rest of my life?”

“Don’t say it like that,” Minghao groans, “don’t say shackled like you’re going to be forced to spend your life with the guy. You have a degree of choice in the person you live with.”

I stare at him, “Minghao, I really don’t think you are the person who should be lecturing me about my dating life and activities.”

“At least I’ve managed to get some in the past decade, unlike you.”

“Hey!” I sat up indignantly, “Take that back!”

Minghao takes a look at my face, no doubt sporting the angriest expression it can muster, and dissolves into laughter. I stare at him, my best friend of twelve years, six months, and ten days, who’s currently laughing himself sick on my office sofa. He’s been through it all—watched me move through university and law school and then struggle to prepare for the bar. He’s been a part of my family too; Prosecutor Kim loves him, and even Professor Choi approves of him enough to let me continue being my friend. He rarely approves of my relationships. My sister and my brother-in-law also love him, the award-winning photographer Xu Minghao who was somehow best friends with their disappointing little sister. Minghao was… perfect.

“Minghao,” I say, grinning, “Xu Minghao.”

He looks up, and immediately goes on the defensive, “Yewon, whatever you are thinking, don’t do it.”

“I haven’t even told you what I am thinking about!”

“The last time you made that face at me, we spent the night in jail,” Minghao warns. “Don’t even think about it.”

“It was not my fault!”

“Why the hell did we end up in jail in the first place? Because you took us there! You got me into trouble!”

“Look,” I raise my hands, “this is not going to land you in jail. It’s a small favour, really. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing too bad for you to be worrying over, just a little ruse that I need you to partake in.”

“Ruse—” Minghao’s face turns white as a sheet when he realises exactly what I mean, “no, Yewon. You cannot be thinking about that. I refuse.”

“Why the hell would you do that?” I make a face, “it’s a perfectly fine proposition, a great one, even. You get proper exposure and expand your social circle, and I get to throw nosy aunties off of my back for once in my life.”

“So you want me to pretend to be your fake boyfriend?” Minghao sputters. “Do you not see how ridiculous this sounds? And do you think we can fool the Professor and the Prosecutor? They’re going to see through this little ruse as soon as we come up with it.”

“They won’t,” I grin, “because they like you too much. If I told them I was dating you, they’d likely welcome it with open arms, or give you a lecture about not dating women like me. I know them.”

Minghao frowns, “why do you speak like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like your entire family hates you or something like that. You’re going into every situation with the preconceived notion that people will hate you.”

“Look, Minghao, we can think about psychoanalysing me later, okay?” I grin, “focus on the goal in front of us right now, yeah? You need to get more exposure, and I need to get people to think I still have a boyfriend, and I have not managed to scare him off, as I usually do.”

“I don’t need exposure,” Minghao makes a face, “unless you forgot, I am one of the few people in Korea who won both the Higashikawa Prize and the China International Press Photo Contest. I don’t need the exposure.”

“And even though you’ve gotten the awards, you’re still doing bridal photography for favours,” I scowl. “Do you know how much money these people have? They have more money than is entirely necessary for anyone to live on, and the funny thing is, they think it’s their birthright to own obscene amounts of wealth.”

“You are not exactly poor, you know.”

“We’re working class.” I reply, saying the words working class like it's a slur, which it might as well be, given how many times I have heard the same phrase being uttered in galas, you’re working class, Choi Yewon, no matter how much money you make, you’ll always be working class.

“How is owning a house in the middle of Seoul considered working class?”

“These people do not work!” I exclaim, too loudly, “Minghao, these people do not work. They wake up, go golfing, then go out to lunch, golf again, go shopping, and then go out to dinner. These people are people of leisure, like some obscure Victorian-era relic. They’re not spending days in the office like my parents or my sister and her husband;. they are people of leisure. So yes. I would argue you need to make those connections, and milk them for as much money as you can.”

“Isn’t that extortion?”

“I prefer the term ‘due compensation’,” I grin, “and yeah, getting you to pretend to be my boyfriend is not exactly the most moral of acts, but it’s only a hundred days to the election, and I need the focus to be entirely on my brother-in-law. Do you know how much money his opponents have invested in the election?”

“I can imagine,” Minghao says dryly, and sighs, “only for a hundred days?”

“A hundred days, and then we can break up peacefully.”

“Wait, can we still remain friends after we’ve broken up?” He asks, “or is that a bit too much?”

“We’ll be like Americans, you know. They stay friends even after divorcing.”

“So, this fake break-up will involve what?” Minghao asks, wary, “are you going to swindle me again?”

“I will not land you in jail, Xu Minghao,” I say, irritated, “you can even cuss me out in public or whatever, if you want. After the breakup, that is.”

“You know very well I would not do that,” He groans, then holds my hands, “you know what? Why the hell not. At least I’ll get money out of this.”

“Done,” I grin, shaking his hand vigorously, “Xu Minghao, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

#icymi <3

147 notes · View notes

shinysobi · 1 month ago

Text

a prescription for romance (l.jh)

☆ established romance: neurosurgeon! lee jihoon x cardiothoracic surgeon! reader ☆ w.c: 8k ☆ genre: non-idol au, established relationship (or is it) slice of life, fluff, comedy masterlist (also the characters from resident playbook make an appearance here because i was having major brainrot)

☆ a/n: TWO fics in two days? who is this, shakespeare? anyway, the first installment of this fic is here, after way too many breakdowns and copious amounts of tears involved, because of course i had to cry ☆ huge thank you to cel @mylovesstuffs for betaing this as (without her i dont think there would be any new fic from user shinysobi), thank you to the people i hosted this collab with, yuki ( @eclipsaria ), tiya ( @gyubakeries ) and rae ( @nerdycheol ), without them, there would be no fic at all <3 ☆ credits to @seungnm for the banner, and again, as part of yuki's 100 followers event, check out the rest of the fics here! also thank you to everyone who helped brainstorm this, alta( @haologram ), and emita ( @hannieoftheyear ) <3 and well, tell me how you like it!

It all begins, as usual, in March.

“The interns are arriving today,” Jaeil announces, stepping into the fourth-year resident’s lounge, “who wants to bet on how they’re going to turn out?”

“Not me,” Sabi replies from her corner of the room, focused on taking notes for the surgery she’s supposed to be assisting in the next day, “they’re always frazzled on the first day, so make sure they’re not going around jumping in on surgeries they’re not qualified for, Chief Resident.”

“As if you stuck to that rule,” he makes a face, “hey, it’s good that I got to be the chief resident, right? I’ve been preparing for this for so long, but it still feels like a dream that they chose me.”

“They didn’t choose you,” Sabi finally looks at him, from the book she’s been poring over, “out of the four of us, you’re the best fit for managing the new residents. If they came to me they’d run away crying.”

“You’re not wrong in that,” he mutters, “anyway, we got two new ones this year!”

“Two?” Sabi’s interest is piqued. The previous two years had been devoid of any new residents joining OB-GYN, and they had been overworked and understaffed, “we never had new residents since Tak Gi-on joined OB-GYN two years ago.”

“And now we have two more!” Jaeil grins, “what surgery do you have tomorrow?”

“C-section and cardiopulmonary bypass,” she mutters, leaning back, “this is the first time I’m going to be assisting in a surgery like this. The mother has been taking blood thinners for the clot, but this might put her into postpartum haemorrhage if not managed properly. Professor Kim wants me to do well on this one, so I can become more familiar with leading such surgeries later on.”

“Ugh,” he shakes his head, “Cruella is still going strong, huh? She’s doing most of the work of the head of her department, no one expects her to work on so many cases at once. She’s also doing VIP surgeries that no one else wants to do.”

“Where are Namkyung and Yiyoung?” Sabi grumbles, “and don’t tell the first-years that her nickname is Cruella,” She narrows her eyes, and Jaeil is, inexplicably, filled with a strong sense of fear. “What nickname did you give me?”

This one is easy, “We all called you AI for the whole first year,” he grins, “you didn’t lighten up until the final month of second year.”

“When I ignored my huge fibroids, overworked myself, and collapsed in the middle of the ward?” she groans, “really, you bring it up all the time, and I was only exhausted, there was nothing wrong with me.”

“Still, that made you a lot easier to deal with.” He bumps her shoulder slightly, “there’s still half an hour before the residents come.”

She narrows her eyes again, “no.” Sabi checks her watch and says, “Namkyung and Yiyoung are in surgery, right?”

“Yes, they went in half an hour ago. Please,” he bats his eyelashes at her, and Sabi giggles, hand clasped over her mouth. “One time, please?”

“You’re annoying,” she mutters, but gives him a small peck on the lips all the same. Jaeil smiles to himself, because of course he’s going to, because who the hell can resist anything when Sabi is like this?

“One more,” he wheedles, “please.”

She narrows her eyes at him, and he braces himself for the inevitable scolding that’s going to follow. She’s always been a stickler for rules.

—

“Welcome to the OBGYN department. I am your senior, Kim Sabi, and he’s the Chief resident, Um Jaeil,” Sabi says, a smile on her face. The two of them look fairly terrified.

“This is nothing to be scared of,” Jaeil assures, looking at the list of people who joined their department, “oh, you both were top students in your departments, Kyu-young, and Jae-min, right?”

They both nod, and he has to suppress a smile. Cute. Sabi just nods, looking at their profiles, “since today is your first day, you’re not going to get a lot of tasks. Instead, all you have to do is join the professors on their rounds, make notes, and do whatever they tell you to do. It’s important that they don’t notice you at all.”

“What happens if they notice you?” Kyu-young asks, “they don’t seem all that bad, right?”

“Listen up,” Jaeil sighs, with all the seriousness of a university professor delivering a lecture, “there are a few kinds of people in this hospital, and the worst of them come to surgery. Our OB-GYN department also has some weird ones, which means that they’ll notice you either to yell at you, or to assign you more tasks than is humanly possible.”

They both nod, and the girl, Kyu-young, pipes up, “how are the professors? I’m sorry, I didn’t do my internship from here, so I don’t really know.”

“They’re all normal,” Sabi counters before he can reply, “Professor Jo can be a lot, but it’s fine. He usually does not care about the first-year residents enough to yell at them too much.”

“Professor Jae-hui is a total sweetheart, though,” Jaeil hurries to inform them, “she’s usually the one who takes care of all the newbies in the department, making sure they’re settling in well. Even when on rounds, she’s making sure they’re rested well and all that.”

“She can be tough, but she’s fair,” Sabi concedes, nodding, “if you’re on rounds with her, it’ll be fine.”

“I heard the newbies are here.” The door opens to let the sole remaining fellow of the department, Eunmi, enter. “Already yapping about the professors, are you?”

“No!” He protests, but she is already lounging in one of the chairs, “I’m the only fellow in the department, Dr Ki Eunmi. Whatever these people have told you, it’s all false.”

“All false?” Jaeil gasps, “of course not! We told them only the truth!” He wants to grumble, but Ki Eunmi has become a lot more relaxed since she became a fellow, even though she’s retained the whole angel aura, as he’d once said. Still kind to a fault, just a bit more spirited.

“And you’ve been telling them about all the nicknames for the professors, have you?”

Both Jaeil and Sabi freeze in place. Gossiping about a professor, especially one of the youngest in the hospital, was not something they strictly should be doing, but let’s face the facts, the object of their interest was one of those people who struck fear into the hearts of everyone, including fellow professors.

“Nicknames?” the two newbies echo. “What nicknames?”

Eunmi sighs, “no, you sillies. This hospital has given nicknames to every attending professor, especially the ones who directly deal with the residents.”

“We haven’t told them about Cruella, though,” Jaeil pipes up, and both Sabi and Eunmi look at him as though they want to beat the shit out of him. He claps a hand over his mouth. Too late.

“Cruella?” one of the residents says, “is that their real name?”

“No, it’s a nickname,” Eunmi sighs, “because in the first week of being in this hospital, she managed to make Professor Jo Joon-mo cry. This may or may not be true, but I’m betting all my money on it being the real deal.”

“Don’t scare the residents, Um Jaeil,” Sabi gripes. “Professor Kim Sowon is really tough, but she’s fair. She also makes sure that the residents get to learn as much as they can, while they’re working here for four years. She’s one of the only experts we have here on Cardio-obstetrics.”

“Work them to death, you mean,” Jaeil begins to say something else, but one look from his girlfriend, and he’s silent. Better keep my mouth shut over making Sabi angry. I don’t like it when she gets pissed off with me.

“She’s tough all right,” Eunmi nods her head, “if you’re on rounds with her, you’re going to learn a fair amount. She does so many surgeries in a day it’s almost a wonder how she’s still on her feet after a week.”

“The name was supposed to be Ghost, but another fellow coined the term Cruella, just because he didn't like the way she grilled him after he screwed up in surgery one time,” Sabi smiles, “she’s so good, it’s wonderful watching her work.”

“She does pediatric cardiac surgery, cardio-obstetrics,” Jaeil lists them off on his hand, “she’s pretty much a regular at the OBGYN department. She’s scary, but she’s great.”

His phone rings, and he stands up, “just make sure no professors take note of you today.”

“I’m going to go on pre-rounds before scrubbing in,” Sabi stands up, “let’s go do some charts.”

—

“What do you mean you’ve not put in an order for the medication yet?” Professor Jo barks, and Sabi, walking over to the nurse’s station, cringes, because of course he’s yelling at Kyu-young, who doesn’t know how to read a chart properly, if at all.

“The first day, and they’re going at it already,” the head nurse mutters, “imagine the poor residents. They’re all going to resign within a year.”

“Someone needs to shut him up, and it’s not going to be me,” another nurse mutters, “he can be really scary when he wants to be.”

“Professor,” a voice pipes up from the corner of the station, “scolding the first-years on their first day is a bit much, don’t you think?”

Both Sabi and Kyu-young look up, and Sabi can feel Kyu-young’s jaw drop, because standing casually, leaned against the side of a wall, is Professor Kim Sowon—wearing her trademark black scrubs, an anomaly from the hospital-issued blue ones, “I was coming here to consult with Dr Kim Sabi about the cardiopulmonary bypass scheduled for tomorrow, but it seems as though you’re busy scolding the first-year resident on their first day.”

“Excuse me?” Professor Jo, still not used to her presence, barks, “why are you interfering in the matters of the OBGYN department when you’re from Cardiac Surgery?”

“Because it would be a shame if both the residents who I’ve asked to scrub in for my surgery tomorrow, are incapacitated,” Professor Kim says evenly. Even Prof. Jo looks shaken by that. Yeah, they normally don’t allow first-years into a co-op surgery, especially if it’s a high-profile one.

“You want the first-year to scrub in for the co-op surgery?” Prof. Jo sounds incredulous, as if he can’t really believe his ears, “isn’t that a bit too tall an ask for a first-year?”

“They’re only going to observe,” Prof. Kim shrugs, pointing to Sabi, “let’s go, Dr Kim, and bring the first-year with you too.”

Sabi nods, and Kyu-young scampers off behind her as well, grateful to be escaping from the scolding she was receiving, “Professor, we weren't supposed to have a first-year observe on this surgery.”

“It’s fine,” she shrugs, “the case got enough attention from the press for all of us to be on edge, so I was thinking of adding a first-year to help during the surgery. It’s nothing, really.”

Beside her, Kyu-young stiffens, likely understanding the gravitas of the situation, and asks Sabi, “what are they saying?”

Professor Kim sighs as they make their way to Professor Seo’s office, clearly amused by the cluelessness of the resident, “Dr Kim Sabi, go on.”

“Kim Se-kyung, age 30, developed serious complications while pregnant with her first child,” Sabi says, looking at the chart, “she developed pulmonary embolism during her thirty-eighth week of pregnancy. In normal cases, this would require emergency major surgery, but since it’s close to the delivery due date, we’ve decided to operate on her after observing her, as she can’t be on blood thinners anymore.”

“And what happens when there are too many blood thinners in a patient’s bloodstream and they undergo major surgery?” Professor Kim asks, knocking on the door.

“Uh,” Kyu-young looks confused, “they need more blood during the surgery?”

The door opens, and Professor Seo steps out, a frown on her face. “No, they run the risk of PPH, especially in a C-section,” She turns to Prof. Kim, “really? Harassing the first-years with questions? They haven’t even been here for more than an hour.”

“It’s fun, though,” the other professor smiles, “shall we start the meeting?”

Sabi as usual, takes copious notes during the meeting in case any of the professors ask her for some, and Kyu-young barely holds on while the two professors go on and on about possible complications during surgery and post-op care, even have a small argument about whether they should work on the blood clot before or after they’ve extracted the baby.

“The mother’s health comes first, oh my god,” Professor Kim argues, “Professor Seo, I understand why you’d want to save the baby first, but the mother’s health is more important to me than the baby.”

“The mother wants us to save her baby first,” Professor Seo argues, “and in the OB GYN department, what the mother wants, the mother gets.”

“Ugh, fine,” Professor Kim holds her head in her hands, “fine. We’ll put catheters in her thigh before you start the C-section, and divert blood flow to the oxygenator. You’ll have to work hard, though.”

“Forty minutes.”

“Thirty, that’s all I can give you.”

“Fine, thirty,” Professor Seo concedes, “wait, you didn’t get any new residents this year?”

“Zero.” Professor Kim sighs, “why they don’t want to come to the Cardiology department, I wonder. You can study and make a lot of money.”

“It’s the study part they hate.”

“Fair enough,” Professor Kim shrugs, “lunch?”

“I need to scrub in for an OR in an hour,” Professor Seo waves, “see you tomorrow, Professor Kim.”

The three of them leave the office, and briefly, Sabi recalls what she’s supposed to do that day, and how much she’s already done. She’s finished half the charting she was supposed to do, and the surgery she was scheduled for, wasn’t until three in the afternoon. Both Yiyoung and Namkyung were supposed to be out of surgery in an hour, so she could just wait until then to have her lunch.

“Lunch, Dr Sabi?” Professor Kim’s voice shakes her out of her thought process, “they’re serving western-style food in the cafeteria right now.”

“Lunch?” Sabi looks at her, confused. “Are you offering to buy us lunch right now?”

“I get paid more,” she shrugs, “might as well put it to some use.”

—

The cafeteria is half-empty by the time they get there, but even before they can make their way to order, Jaeil comes running, a big smile on his face, “Kim Sabi! Do you want to have lunch together—oh.”

“Come on, Dr Um Jaeil,” Professor Kim laughs, “you can join the three of us for lunch.”

She goes off to order for everyone, and Jaeil turns to her and Kyu-young, “she’s buying us lunch?”

“She is,” Sabi nods, “she said she gets paid more than all of us, so she should make the best of it.”

“She really does,” Jaeil sighs, “imagine being one of the few specialists in cardio-obstetrics in Korea. The consultations alone would bring you a ton of money.”

“Really?” Kyu-young, intrigued by this piece of information, pipes up, “she makes that much?”

“Both of them do.” Jaeil sighs, “ugh, the legendary cross-departmental rivalry.”

“Are you making up stuff for fun again?” Sabi frowns, “there’s nothing like that, is there?”

“Don’t you know?” Jaeil, who spends half his free time getting information out of others and being the social butterfly that he is, scoffs, “looks like there is something that Dr Kim Sabi does not know.”

Sabi scowls, but before she can scold him, another voice calls out from the other side of the cafeteria, “Dr Kim Sowon!”

“Who’s that?” Kyu-young cranes her head to look, “doesn’t seem like someone from our department.”

“Professor Lee Jihoon, Neurosurgery.” Jaeil grins, “told you. Legendary cross-departmental rivalry.”

She cranes her neck, too—for all she wants to be known for, she isn’t immune to the allure of high intelligence and competency, but Lee Jihoon of Neurosurgery seems like someone who would fit into an idol group instead of a hospital. He’s all perfect features and long limbs; she’s maybe been slightly enamored with the paper he wrote about fetal brain development, but he’s known to be a grump in his department.

“That’s Sauron.” Jaeil whispers in her ear, making her roll her eyes. Typical. If it were two years ago, she would have jumped. Now she just rolls her eyes.

“Sauron?” Kyu-young asks, moving ahead in the line. “That’s a weird nickname.”

“They love Lord of the Rings over there, actually.”

Sabi, who’s still looking at Lee Jihoon, who is dressed in similar black scrubs as Professor Kim, narrows her eyes. This is interesting. Professor Kim, grumbling, makes her way to the large empty table where Professor Lee is sitting, and they all follow suit, “Looks like your department abandoned you again. Jihoon.”

“Terrorising the residents on their first day?” Professor Lee grins, “don’t let her boss you around, you know.”

“They do what I ask because I’m nice,” Prof. Kim smiles, “not because I'm terrorising them.”

Sabi wants to be anywhere but in the cafeteria. She really does not want to get in the middle of a professor’s argument, but both Jaeil and Kyu-young look amused as hell.

“When’s your next surgery?” Lee Jihoon checks his watch, “or are you still intent on ruining your own health to fix your patients?”

Professor Kim scoffs, “look who’s talking. As if you didn’t end up in the ER twice over our residency period.”

“It was once, and you knew exactly why I ended up there,” he grumbles, “you were the one who put me there.”

Professor Kim sighs, and Sabi finds herself sitting upright, “what do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” Professor Lee leans forward, “your Professor Kim here, she once got into an accident in the ER, and landed the both of us in the hospital actually.”

“That was a mistake.” Professor Kim scowls.

“It wasn’t, and you know it.”

They both end up bickering again, and Jaeil leans to whisper in her ears, “do you think they’re going to notice if we just left?”

Sabi shakes her head. They’re already too preoccupied to even notice our presence at the very table, let alone our absence. They’re probably going to be just fine.

The three of them get up from the table, and they’re just about to leave the cafeteria altogether, when Professor Kim’s yell makes them stand at attention, “what the hell do you mean? I need the OR on that day!”

Sabi and Kyu-young, both spring to attention, scurrying back to the table, Jaeil following in their footsteps. Professor Kim has her head in her hands, “look, it’s an important surgery. Both the OBGYN department and the Cardiology department had notified Anesthesiology a week ago, so don’t take this from right underneath our noses, okay?”

“An emergency patient came in this morning,” Professor Lee shrugs, “look, I don’t want to be the one demanding an OR from another department, but the surgery cannot wait. The patient requires emergency surgery, and we’ve already delayed it as is.”

“Then delay it another day!” Prof. Kim sighs, “Jihoon, you can’t be doing this to me.”

“It’s not a matter of what I want, it’s a matter of what the hospital thinks is best,” Prof. Lee makes a gesture, “there’ll be other ORs tomorrow, so just adjust the time for that one, yeah?”

“I have a conference tomorrow, you dimwit,” Prof Kim seethes. “You’re going to pay for this, I swear to god.”

Sabi looks at Jaeil, who’s staring at her, looks confused as hell. She doesn’t blame him. Even she doesn’t know what the hell to make of this dynamic.

—

“This is Choi Gaeul, the third-year Cardiology resident,” Namkyung, who’s apparently got connections in every floor of the hospital, introduces, “this is Kim Sabi, she’s the one who’s going to be assisting Professor Seo on the surgery tomorrow.”

Sabi gives a tired wave, looking at the equally haggard resident in front of her. Yiyoung, who’s looking suspiciously refreshed, sits up properly, “Oh Yiyoung, fourth-year, Obstetrics. Sabi’s in Gynaecology, but she’s better at this than I am. Plus I have three labour deliveries assigned for tomorrow, so Sabi got this one.”

Choi Gaeul sighs, sitting down heavily on one of the chairs, “Professor Kim’s going to chew me out if I don’t get an OR by tomorrow morning.”

“The original slot was for eleven in the morning, right?” Jaeil, who’s apparently got no work, pipes up, “I heard Professor Kim arguing with Professor Lee of Neurosurgery this afternoon. Did they have to push the surgery?”

“Both of them are emergency cases,” Dr Choi says, “Professor Lee’s patient came in this morning, with a tumor pressing down on the optic nerve. They were aware of the tumor, but didn’t think it would progress this fast, this soon. The surgery has to be done by tomorrow at the latest.”

“And Professor Kim has a conference to attend tomorrow at three in the afternoon,” Dr Choi sighs, “I really don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to schedule the OR without getting yelled at by Anesthesiology. They already hate me after all the time I’ve asked them to arrange ORs at zero notice.”

All four of them nod, because who the hell has not been chewed out by the grumpy Anesthesiology fellows after asking them to arrange for an OR? Yiyoung and Namkyung, from Obstetrics, have been on the receiving end the most—Gynaecology did not have too many surprise surgeries.

“Anyway, I don’t know how I’m supposed to pull this one off,” Choi Gaeul sighs, “all the fellows I know are not answering my phone, because they already hate me, or something like that. And I doubt even Professor Seo could get us an OR at eleven in the morning.”

She smacks her head on the table. “Hey, do you guys think if I change my name, they’d be able to find me? I could change my name and move to a different country. They won’t be able to find me then, right?”

“Professor Kim could,” Sabi mutters, “she’s got contacts in every continent.”

“She does,” Dr Choi groans, “why the hell did I opt for Cardiology? This whole rivalry between Prof. Lee and Prof Kim, this is going to kill me.”

“Rivalry?” Namkyung pipes up, clearly interested, “wait, I never heard of this rivalry before.”

“Professor Lee joined this January, of course you would not know,” Jaeil replies, “They were both classmates in university.”

“That’s when it started?” Yiyoung pipes up, “that’s a long time to be holding a grudge.”

“They’re both so annoying, god, it feels like I’m talking to toddlers, not Assistant Professors,” Dr Choi sighs, “they’re so intelligent, but they just don’t know how the hell to behave.”

Namkyung has a glint in her eye, and Sabi knows what that glint is. It’s the same look she got when she arranged a ‘group dinner’ for all the residents in their second year, and ‘accidentally’ gave Jaeil and her the wrong address, so they spent a whole evening in an upscale steak restaurant, wondering whether or not this was a setup. Spoiler alert: it was. Namkyung had even roped in the fellows on her bullshit, the little snake. She would never forget the teasing smiles of Dr Gu and Dr Ki the next morning, commenting on whether they had a fun ‘group dinner’. “Don’t even think about it,” she warns, “whatever you’re thinking, it’s not going to end up well.”

Right at that moment, the door opens, and another resident walks in, looking equally haggard. “Dr Baek Jung-Hwa, Neurosurgery, third-year.” Dr Choi introduces, and the man just drops into a chair without any proper greeting.

“He works under Prof. Lee.” Dr Choi offers, “he’s one of the only third-years who’s taken him on.”

“Do something about him and Prof Kim of Cardiology, I beg you,” Dr Baek groans. “Today it was the OR, last week, they argued for so long about what kind of approach to take on an AAD, even the patient asked them to shut up in the end.”

“AAD?” Yiyoung asks.

“Acute Aortic Dissection.” Dr Choi replies, “they were arguing in the middle of the ward, you guys. The patients were worried they were going to die. The nurses thought they were going to start an all-out fight in the middle of the day.”

“As if there’s an appropriate time to be fighting.”

“You get it. They’ve been here for a year, at the most, and the whole hospital knows about their arguments. It’s not even restricted to surgeries—they fight over what to get for lunch, too.”

“Lunch?” Jaeil asks, “who would fight about lunch?”

“Not everyone is like you,” Yiyoung snipes. “You only order what Sabi wants.”

“That’s a given! She’s my girlfriend!”

“Everyone, shut up,” Namkyung waves, “what I’m getting is that we have two professors, who cannot seem to stop arguing, and three departments, who are fed up with their antics.”

“Four, if you count Pediatrics.” Yiyoung offers, “they had another argument outside the NICU about post-op care of a co-op surgery.”

“Yes, so,” Namkyung claps her hands, “we need a solution.”

“Make them transfer?” Dr Choi offers, “if one of them were in another hospital, they’d not be arguing for an hour daily.”

“Where’s the fun in that, though?” Namkyung grins. “Hey, let’s set them up.”

“Huh?” even Yiyoung is confused, “they clearly hate each other, why on earth would you set them up?”

“Because it’s fun.” Namkyung shrugs, “and besides, if they manage to get together, they’d be a lot more forgiving of their residents, and the whole hospital, actually.”

“Or, they’d start adding their relationship arguments into the mix,” Jaeil shakes his head, “this is a bad idea.”

“Then you give me another one!” Namkyung makes a face, “you’re an idiot when it comes to dating.”

“Yes, you can’t be a judge, Um Jaeil,” Yiyoung agrees, “you’ve only dated Kim Sabi here.”

“Statistically, they have more experience,” Dr Baek nods. “Are you sure this is going to work?”

“About thirty percent,” Namkyung sighs, “but hey, this is better than nothing, right?”

—

Ploy one: mechanical intervention. (day seven)

“This is not going to work,” Sabi mutters, watching furtively over her shoulder, “are you sure about this?”

“Positive,” Dr Choi mutters, also on the lookout, “she doesn’t come out of her office for about three hours after a surgery. She’s reviewing notes right now. And Dr Baek told me Professor Lee was about to head out at one as well. Hey, is your friend done yet?”

The last sentence is addressed to Jaeil, who’s holding a torch over his head, throwing a light directly into the hood of Professor Kim’s car, and his friend, who has been working on it furiously for the past ten minutes. Sabi takes another look over her shoulder, confirming that there is no one spying on their little ring, and Jaei’s friend emerges from his work, slightly worse for wear.

“Why did you need a favour like this?” the man asks, “never thought I’d have Um Jay of Hi-Boyz asking me to destroy someone’s fan belt on a Wednesday morning. Wherever it was, they must have pissed you off royally.”

“It’s for a professor, actually,” Sabi blurts out, unable to keep a secret for very long, “this is a professor’s car.”

“Well then, good luck to the professor. Getting their fan belt destroyed in the middle of the night,” the man whistles, picking up his bag, “well then, I gotta be off. See you around, man.”

And he leaves, not before giving Jaeil an awkward side-hug and waving goodbye to her and Gaeul, but Sabi isn’t exactly convinced with the whole thing. She still cannot see the appeal of forcing people in strange situations together and forcing them into a semblance of a relationship, but this is not her idea, and it’s been vetted by three separate departments, so she’s going along with it, for the time being.

“She’s here,” Dr Gaeul says, half-panicked, “I’m going to hide, see you!”

With that, she’s off, leaving behind Um Jaeil and her in the parking lot. Sabi is not feeling awkward, she really is not. She just doesn’t want people to see and think they were slacking off, when they clearly were not. Jaeil, on the other hand, has no qualms sidling up to her, grinning widely.

“Do you think this is going to work?” he whispers, holding her hand, “I mean, they’re all going through a lot.”

“I don’t understand why we’re doing all this for another department,” Sabi shakes her head, “it’s not as if either of them have a direct impact on our lives or our patient care.”

“Remember last year, when they arrived here, and had to work on that one complicated case of a pregnant woman with a heart condition that was affecting blood flow to her child’s brain?”

Sabi nods. She was not supposed to be assisting on the case, but they had enough overlap between the departments; making it a four-way collaboration between Pediatrics, Ob-GYN, Cardiothoracic surgery, and Neuro. The two of them—Professors Kim and Lee, had fought bitterly even then, resulting in Professor Seo telling them to either get it together, or to leave the meeting room and come back another time. They had fallen silent after that, but Sabi still remembers the look on everyone’s faces when the two of them were arguing; waiting for something horrible to happen. Calm before the storm, or whatever they call it. Professor Seo had muttered underneath her breath about ‘stupid idiots’ and Sabi, who had volunteered to scrub in in place of Namkyung (busy with her three deliveries that week) had watched the two distinguished professors, each armed with a considerable number of degrees and papers under their belt, fight on their way to the cafeteria.

“They didn’t fight at all in the operation theatre,” she mutters, allowing herself to squeeze Jaeil’s hand the way that he likes, “I saw them operating in tandem. She worked on the mother’s heart while he examined the baby seconds after birth, making sure the restricted placental blood flow did not impact any neurological activities. They didn’t speak either, but the way they worked, I'm sure they’ve worked together before.”

“Impossible,” Jaeil shrugs, “those two and working together? I think you’re mistaken, Sabi.”

But before she can even retort, they’re face to face with Professor Kim, who smiles widely on seeing them, “getting off work?”

“Ah, no, not yet,” Jaeil laughs, “we just had a bit of free time.”

Professor Kim looks at their joined hands, and nods, “I understand. These days it’s all about dating publicly, right? We couldn’t even look at the person we were seeing.”

Sabi wants to ask who it was that you were looking at, but Jaeil beats her to the punch, staring innocently at the professor, “did you date in medical school, professor?”

Professor Kim suddenly grows a little bashful, shrugging, “no one important,” and then reaches into her pocket to extract her card, “get yourself a coffee with this, yeah?”

Jaeil accepts it, and the two of them stare at her as she walks over to her parked car, none the wiser about her destroyed fan belt. One, two, three. Sabi wants to kill herself, but if she does that, she’s not going to become the youngest Gynecology professor at the hospital. She watches, horrified, as Professor Kim attempts to get her car to start, and fails three separate times. She then comes out of the car, sighs, before turning to look at her and Jaeil. Beside her, Jaeil is the picture of innocence, looking wide-eyed at her, “is there anything wrong, professor?”

“Yeah, my car is refusing to start,” she grins, “I’ll just get a taxi.”

“No!” Jaeil yelps, loud enough for even Sabi to raise an eyebrow, “I mean, it’s already one in the morning, Professor, getting a taxi will be next to impossible right now.”

“Yeah, and they usually have a surcharge,” Sabi nods, finding herself going along with Jaei’s stupid plan, “you could ask for a lift from someone?”

“A lift?” Professor Kim muses, “but I don’t think there are people in here who can give me a lift—”

She pauses, and Sabi follows her line of sight to see Professor Lee, dressed in casual clothes, walking out of the lift. He walks over to where the three of them were standing, taking a look at Professor Kim’s car, “totaled it, have you?”

“I don’t think you really understand what that means,” Professor Kim snipes, “and no, I did not total my car, it does not start anymore. Just makes a sort of sputtering noise when I hit the ignition.”

“Serves you right for getting a diesel car,” Professor Lee shrugs, “how long have you been driving this monstrosity? People graduate medical school in the time that you’ve held on to this stupid car.”

“Who the hell are you calling stupid, you jerk?”

They were possibly going to argue for longer, but Jaeil jumps in right at this moment, smiling, “Professor Lee, I was just telling Professor Kim here how it would be difficult to get a taxi in the middle of the night.”

“In the middle of the night!” Professor Lee shrieks. “Hey, you were thinking of going out in the middle of the night like that? What if you got hurt?”

“Why the hell would I get hurt?”

“The world is a scary place!”

“It’s scary because of men!”

That makes him pause, and he shrugs, something like a ‘fair’, but then starts arguing again, when Sabi interrupts, “could you give her a ride, please? If you are going in the same way.”

She feels horrible for doing this, but out of the corner of her eye, she can see Dr Choi whooping for joy, and Sabi thinks that this is okay.

“A ride?” Professor Lee stares at Prof Kim, “don’t drool on my seats.”

“Your faux-leather seats,” She snipes, “why the hell do you even care? It was one time!”

“One time too many,” he replies, “why the hell should I even let you into my car?”

“Because the world is a scary place,” she smiles, taking out the key fob from his hand and walking away. Sabi swears she can hear Professor Lee mutters, “damn woman,” under his breath before running behind her to catch up.

“They’ve got history,” Sabi says, offhandedly, as Dr Choi runs up to them, “did you know they had history?”

“They do not have history,” Jaeil snorts, “even if they did, it clearly never ended well.”

“They say married couples were enemies in a past life,” Dr Choi shrugs, “anyway, this means we might get them to at least warm up to each other instead of fighting all the time.”

“Might be a good change around these parts,” Jaeil smiles, tucking his arm underneath Sabi’s before walking back into the hospital. They’ve got history, Sabi can’t help but think, no one fights that pointlessly with anyone, that much. It’s either that, or they hate each other so much that even looking at the other person is unbearable.

—

Ploy two: team dinners are an excellent way to foster interdepartmental relationships. (day 20)

Dr Choi Gaeul was actually looking forward to becoming a doctor her whole life, thank you very much. Her parents were poor, which meant that she only had one way of getting out of the mess of her life; studying. She studied like a crazy woman all throughout her life, finally landing into medical school, the first one from her seaside town. It also meant that she had the burden of striking it big, and as her parents told her over and over again, failing was not an option when it came to her. Everyone else could go to hell, but she had to survive.

And she had. She’d finished medical school, landed in one of the most competitive disciplines, Cardiothoracic surgery. She’d even gotten into a Seoul hospital, cementing her success in the minds of her whole town. And the best part? She got to work directly under one of the few female Cardiothoracic professors of the entire country, Professor Kim Sowon. Her life was going swimmingly.

Until of course, the first day of Professor Kim, when she realised one little thing—surviving college and university was far less complicated than surviving the workplace.

“This is pretty much guaranteed to make me spend hours sitting around on my ass,” Prof. Kim seethes, looking at the consult for the co-op surgery. “What the fuck is Lee Jihoon up to? Does he think that being the neurosurgery professor means he can order us around? We have our lives too, damn it.”

It was over important things, at first. Arguing over long-running surgeries that would force Professor Kim and her residents to wait around for ungodly periods of time while the Neuro team finished up their part of the work, or co-op surgeries where their presence was not required beyond staying on standby, and the Neurosurgery department asking the professors to stay in the operating room until they finished working on the patient, for any kind of emergency. That was fine. She could understand that.

But what do you mean there was an argument about what dinner menu they should stop serving in the cafeteria? Was that even something professors got interested in?

“I’m telling you, tonkatsu has no place in a hospital cafeteria. It’s unhealthy, raises the risk of heart disease, and frankly speaking, they don’t do it that well here.”

“And I think they should stop serving oyakodon. Why the hell should we spend upward of an hour waiting around for a Japanese dish where I burn the roof of my mouth?” Professor Lee snipes back, “just because you like it, you can’t terrorise the lunch ladies into keeping this here.”

Dr Gaeul was shocked. Why the hell were they here in the first place?

Which brought them all to—today. Where Professor Kim was arguing with Professor Lee about Neurosurgery getting less residents than usual. They’re seated in the cafeteria, where the neurosurgery department is coexisting peacefully with the cardiothoracic surgery department, chewing on their bland meal, too exhausted to say a word.

“I don’t think your stellar personality did the hospital any favours, Jihoon,” she says, idly turning the page of a research paper (how the hell did she even get that in here?) “scaring off all your residents with the speech about how Neuro is more important than one’s family has got to have ruffled some feathers.”

“I don’t think I should be taking advice from the woman who regularly quizzed interns in the elevator,” Professor Lee snaps, “are you laughing at the extra workload? Are you?”

“I’m just saying that all this could have been avoided if you were a little bit kinder to the interns. You’re not supposed to scare them off at the beginning of their stint. You’re supposed to make sure they want to enter your department at the end of the period.”

“You used to grill them at every point!” Professor Lee snaps, “you even got a nickname because of it. How the hell did your department still get more applicants for residency?”

“Maybe I wasn’t an unmitigated asshole, like you,” Professor Kim sighs, “god help the residents who are shackled to you for four years.”

“Hey, don’t you say shit about my residents!”

Dr Choi wants a hole in the earth to open up and swallow her. Why am I saddled with two of the brightest doctors, and why do they behave like children? It’s incredible, how two of the most-decorated surgeons in the country, and one with multiple certifications from the USA, could behave like kids when dealing with each other. Then again, it’s probably the high stress of the job, she reasons, they don’t get any time to be themselves, so they make do wherever they can.

Her phone rings, and her sigh of relief is audible, “Professor,” she leans in to whisper to Professor Kim, who’s suddenly debating the benefits of daily consumption of red ginseng with Professor Lee, “we’re getting a call from Emergency.”

Professor Kim nods, standing up, “we’ll talk about this later, Lee Jihoon,” and sets off, Dr Choi right in tow. She wasn’t lying, of course, the call is from the Emergency Room, and they need to be there at the earliest, but she’s also not going to lie and say that she was not relieved she didn’t have to stay any longer than she had to, in the cafeteria.

“What’s the situation?” Professor Kim asks, walking into the Emergency ward, “you would not call my resident and me if this was not something important, right?”

The fellow who actually put the call through to her cringes, and Gaeul sighs. She’s angry because they used to call us for random things before, and it wasted a lot of time. Well, the intent is good, but she could have said it a bit differently, right?”

“Three-car pileup, ten minutes out,” Dr Bae, the ER attending, comes forward, “hold on, I’ve paged Neuro for this as well.”

“Stroke?” Professor Kim asks, “how bad is it?”

“Preliminary CT shows the presence of two blood clots, one in the brain, one in the aorta. The heart one is dangerously close to blocking heart function, so I doubt we have a lot of time before we can do emergency surgery.”

“Heart rate?”

“Sixty-five and falling,” Dr Bae holds out the chart, “it’s not looking very good.”

“I’m here,” Professor Lee walks in, followed by Dr Baek, “dual clots? Result of the accident?”

“Yes, we’re assuming that, but she’s already pretty bad,” Dr Bae holds out a clipboard to him, “I think we should prepare for emergency surgery.”

“Let’s scrub in right now,” Professor Lee nods, turning to Dr Baek, “I’ll be late for the departmental conference.”

“Ask Anesthesiology for an Operating Theatre,” Professor Kim tells her, “tell them it’s an emergency case, and both Neuro and Cardio are co-operating on it.”

Dr Choi nods, before hurrying off to make the call. As expected, Anesthesiology makes a fuss initially, given the influx of emergency patients, but once they hear the words “both Neuro and Cardio requested it,” they’re hurriedly assigning her the first available operating theatre they have.

“Operating theatre is prepped, so we just need the rest of the labs to come back before we can begin preparing for the surgery,” Professor Kim says, nudging Professor Lee with her shoulder, “hey, scrub in with me.”

“Right now?” Professor Lee sighs, “you know what? Let’s do it. We need to scrub in for surgery in about ten minutes anyway, best get it done.”

And they’re off, which leaves behind her, Dr Baek and the Emergency surgery fellow, who seems nervous and not at all happy to be here. Dr Choi sighs, before taking off at top speed towards Pathology.

—

That was the first time she had seen the two professors collaborate on a surgery, instead of working one after the other. They were a revelation, if she was being honest. None of the bitter arguments that seemed to be the norm every time they met, or the vitriol that they seemed to reserve specifically for each other. They worked in total silence, only asking for surgical tools, and Dr Choi could swear she even saw Professor Kim sigh in relief once it was over, but it could have been a trick of her mind too. Professor Lee, on the other hand, seemed equally steady, navigating around the blood clot with a practised ease that made the resident visibly nervous. The both of them seemed to be in their comfort zone, with the practised ease that only comes from hours put in the job. She can only watch in wonder, as Professor Kim finishes up the open heart surgery in a couple of hours, a thrombectomy that would take three hours for even the most senior of surgical fellows.

The whole process is over in four hours, and after the patient is carted off to the ICU, Professor Kim reaches over to pat Professor Lee’s shoulders, “you did good, Jihoon.”

Professor Lee sighs, agreeing with her for once instead of arguing, “good work on the thrombectomy. I thought the patient was going to die there for a moment.”

“Not on me, they are not,” Professor Kim grins, “I don’t know about you, but I would rather no patient dies on me.”

“Why are you insistent on pissing me off?” Professor Lee had sniped, and that was that; the tender moment had gone, replaced by the same annoying arguments that made Dr Choi rethink her choice of specialty at least once a week. She could have gone to general surgery at the main branch. They had such good professors there too. She could have gone intotaken nuclear medicine too; there was always more research to be done in the new and upcoming areas of medicine. They even had better funding. In short, she could have gone anywhere, instead of coming here to Jongno.

Which brought them all to this morning, when Dr Choi was sitting in the lounge, eyes vacant as she regrouped after a night shift. She was cursed, because two patients had coded in the middle of her shift, and three of them had complained to her about post-op complications,and she knew for a fact that no one had problems the previous night, when Dr Bae had been in charge. Everything horrible happens to me, she moaned, I’m the only one being mentored directly by Professor Kim, and on top of that, she’s the one with the most random beef with Professor Lee of Neurosurgery. There’s nothing going correctly in my life, and for once I want to go back to my home without being scared shitless of what fresh new hell the future has for me. Is it too late to write a letter of resignation and move to a different city to practise medicine on my own? If I managed my finances well, I could move to a mountain town and practise in peace. I’d much rather deal with old men than two bickering professors who did not know when to stop.

This reminds her of a sentence she had seen in a movie a long time ago: Everything that can go wrong, will go wrong. Which explained the string of post-op complications that she had to deal with this morning, not to mention the timing. The convenient timing of all of them to be suffering from bleeding, when she only had about ten minutes left to the end of her shift. There was no doubt about it, the universe hated her. The universe had a grudge on her. If she had been more religious, she would have named a specific god, but the universe was good enough for the job.

“Dr Choi,” the intern rushes in, and she braces herself for a disaster, “Professor Kim asked you to scrub in for emergency surgery.”

Choi Gaeul groans at no one in particular. The universe was kicking her ass in the most spectacular way lately. And she’s going to go outside and run into Professor Kim, who’s probably arguing with Professor Lee all over again. Maybe this time it’s about the vending machine drinks.

Someone has to force those two to get together as soon as possible.

—

#icymi <3

199 notes · View notes

shinysobi · 1 month ago

Text

writing an smau gotta be top ten funniest decisions

#ro: textual #my gallery gonna be full

3 notes · View notes

shinysobi · 1 month ago

Text

i won so bad hehehehe

i don’t wanna write the yaoi…

ᵇᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖᵃʳᵃˢᶦᵗᵉˢ ʷᵃⁿᵗ ᵐᵉ ᵗᵒ ʷʳᶦᵗᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ʸᵃᵒᶦ

#ro: textual #alta aka haologram

18 notes · View notes