beklemmt | 아프더라도 너만 있으면 돼

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아프더라도 너만 있으면 돼

J doesn't dream. Or, if he does, it's nothing that registers as he starts to wake, nothing that lingers or haunts him. With that being the case, it doesn't much matter if he did or not; it's a relief, even to a mind not yet awake, not to remember.

It's confusing, a little, waking up here. Even before he opens his eyes, he knows things aren't what they were yesterday morning. The light is different. The bed is different, too, bigger and cleaner and much more occupied, though that, at least, makes perfect sense. He doesn't need to be alert to know this, to recognize how it feels to wake up beside S. That sinks in before anything else — that S is here, that he's safe, even before he processes what he needs to be safe from. Even as that comes back to him, it feels astonishingly distant.

He hasn't slept this well in a long time. As he shifts and sighs, fighting the urge to roll over and go back to sleep, he finds he's still exhausted, but in a better way now, the pleasant ache of yesterday's exertion, rather than the insomnia dullness he's grown accustomed to. Being rested is new. He shifts closer to S instead, burying his face against S's shoulder. He isn't even sure if his boyfriend is awake yet, only that that wakes him up a little. His boyfriend. If he doesn't open his eyes, in spite of all the differences, he can stay here, time unwound, back to where they're meant to be.

But he can feel S under him, the shift in his breathing, the tiny things that tell him instinctively that they're both awake after all. "Hi," he mumbles, eyes still closed, making an indignant little whine at having to be awake. Even that's nice, though, to be annoyed at having woken naturally, rather than breaking abruptly from a nightmare or not having slept at all, and to do so tucked against S. His presence is reason enough for J finally to open his eyes, his expression softening as he blinks to try and clear his blurry vision, his voice softening too. "Morning."

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For a while, S hadn't thought he would have even that much. Close as he and J were when they were younger — inseparable, really, after J let him in — and already sharing more than he ever had with anyone else, there was still a point at which he hadn't known if he could come out to J or not, or if he ever would. Once that barrier broke down, though, there were none left between them, nothing that he hadn't told or couldn't tell J. Not for a long time, anyway. No matter how much they talk about it or what J tells him, S isn't sure he'll ever fully understand what happened between them or how they lost that. It doesn't make sense; it never did. Far more important, though, is that they have that again, or at least what feels close enough to it. The things he isn't saying now aren't because he doesn't feel like he can, but because he thinks he shouldn't. Everything is still so fragile, and they've both already cried so much in the past day. It wouldn't be worth the potential harm they would do, which doesn't mean not saying them ever, just not saying them yet.

"I think that's an understatement," he replies, rolling his eyes a little at himself, teasing and self-deprecating both. It's easier by far to say something like that than the first thing that crosses his mind, which is that he's much worse at it than he used to be. After all, it isn't as if he could really open up about the things that happened back home aside from the basic known facts. Whatever risks he may have been willing to take, talking about the effect it had on him would have been a different matter entirely. "One is plenty. And at least we can be bad at opening up to other people together."

J laughs, soft, even fond. "Ah, so we'll become shut-ins," he teases, then pauses, brow quirking in thought. "Well, I was already that." If he's honest, he's not entirely sure when that happened in full. He kept to himself a lot, always has. Aside from S, he's never known anyone he could call a real friend — a couple of acquaintances who were more open-minded and less annoying about it than others, but no friends — and he was happier to hang around S than to try and broaden or deepen those connections. Once they parted ways, though, once he left, he became increasingly withdrawn, and somewhere along the way, it went from simply introverted to entirely secluded to the point that he stopped going to class. At first, he forgot or slept through them, but at some point, he just... stopped caring.

Eventually, he thinks, he'd like to change that — to find it in himself, at least, to explore this new city. For now, though, that matters much less than this. They have a lot of ground to cover, a lot of catching up to do, and that's the most important thing he can do now, devote his time to finding his footing, trying to get himself steady, and repairing the damage he did to their relationship.

"Now we'll both be. Alone, but together. The company's much better like this."

"Mm, so much better," S agrees, the words turning into a contented little hum, accompanied by a lopsided smile. "You already were one, I was... well on my way there, now we can be shut-ins together instead." It's a bit of an exaggeration, but not much. If anything, he wonders for a moment if it's more than he should say, but there's really only so much he can hold back. That he couldn't have gone out much recently even if he wanted to — that for a couple months there, he couldn't at all — is just a fact, and not one they need to dwell on the reasons for at all.

It's as much a joke as it is an admission, anyway. Tempting as it might be just to stay here together, to leave the shelter of the apartment that's now theirs as little as possible, that isn't really an option. Before long, he'll have to find a job of some kind. Back home, he would have, too; though he was technically on a medical leave from school, he's reasonably certain that he would never gone back, even if he could somehow keep his scholarship, which is far from guaranteed. At least here, that decision is more straightforward. There's no sense now in studying something he isn't even sure he's interested in, and one of them needs to be bringing in money. He doubts J will be ready for that just yet.

Leaning in, he steals a brief kiss, simply because he can. "Definitely better company. This place has felt so empty, too, and now it won't have to."

He's been so much of a shut-in, J thinks, so isolated, so lonely — no, not just lonely. He's longed so much to return to S, kept himself from doing so for so long, for so many reasons, that every single thing S does right now feels like a gift. Even that little kiss has J starting to melt, wanting nothing more than to stay curled up in S's arms, lost in brief, lazy kisses. It would be better than dwelling on the past, thinking about how alone they've both been.

"It's still a big place," he says. "Too big just for you." It's a relief they won't have to deal with it. He reminds himself he might yet have to change his mind, if he feels less stable in coming days, but for now, they get to have this, to make a home of this apartment. "Lucky you I'm here to fix that." Bravado like that used to come much more readily, but he's feeling gradually more comfortable, more himself.

There are still more things to sort through, but he ignores them a little longer, drawing S toward him for another kiss, a little slower, a little softer. "Ah, maybe we should leave the rest of this for later," he murmurs, "and start on dinner before we get hungry."

"Lucky me," S echoes, soft and adoring, not pulling back very far at all. Soon, he should, but in the face of a statement like that, however simple, he can't do so just yet. It's true, after all, far more so than he could have expected to be. "I really am. I don't know how I came to be so lucky." He lifts one hand as he speaks, the backs of his fingers tracing lightly over J's cheek. Maybe it's ridiculous to be so sentimental, but he doesn't really think so. He's long since loved J more than he would have known how to put into words, and this is a chance they were never supposed to get. Luck doesn't even cover it. He doesn't know what would best describe it, but luck is a vast understatement, and not just because this apartment feels far too big to live in alone.

J is right, though, that they should probably get started on dinner before too much longer. They will — he thinks, he hopes — have plenty of time just to sit around like this, all wrapped up in each other, what used to be so commonplace for them. "I think the rest can wait," he agrees, glancing over toward the table as if to be certain that there isn't anything particularly pressing left to look at. The important thing, though, was the apartment, which they've dealt with, and he can't pretend he doesn't breathe a little easier for knowing that J has agreed to stay here, at least for now. They'll both be better off this way, he thinks. "We should. Start dinner. Before we get hungry or too tired." It isn't especially late, but he's exhausted all the same. Errands and sex and crying and more sex and more crying have taken a lot out of him, and he has less stamina these days than he used to.

In a way, J thinks, this is part of why he stayed away for so long. It's difficult now to make himself understand that S isn't just seeing everything in a brighter light than he should, but he knows it's true. They're lucky, both of them, that they're both here, that they're together. He isn't the only one who's been struck by unimaginable good fortune, whatever weight he might have to carry in exchange. With the way he behaved for so long before he left and everything he did after, it was hard to stomach the idea of being forgiven. It hurt to be given kindness he doesn't deserve.

He doubts that's entirely over; he hasn't been here long enough to know what a normal day will look like or if he'll ever have one again, and it seems unlikely he'll suddenly just be okay with everything he's done. But at least now, as bewildering as it might yet be to hear S call himself lucky with such love in his eyes and to know it's true, he does know it's true. At least it doesn't leave him feeling deceitful and monstrous — more awestruck and grateful and a little melancholy. How they got this, he has no idea, but they're here now, and that matters more than anything else in this moment. Everything else can wait.

He lifts a hand, fingers twining through S's, and leans forward to kiss him again. S is right that it isn't just a matter of getting hungry, though he knows, once they smell the food as they start cooking, that's going to happen very quickly. They've thoroughly exhausted themselves and each other in numerous ways, and staying on their feet long enough to cook jjigae will be quite a feat. The actual making shouldn't be too bad, but there's a lot to prepare first, and J has already made up his mind to try as hard as he can to be as helpful as possible, even if he doesn't yet know how comfortable he'll be tending to the pot on the stove.

Still, all of it can wait just long enough for him to kiss his boyfriend slow and deep, drawing in a breath when he carefully pulls back. "We might be too late for too tired," he teases. Still he slips away, swinging his feet over the sides and wincing as they hit the floor. He's been sitting on them too long after standing on them too long. Wrinkling up his nose, he gets to his feet and holds his hands out for S.

"Ah, you might be right about that," S says with a smile, letting out a quiet laugh as he takes J's hands and gets to his feet, still nothing short of fond. He's gotten used to it, at least, how he tires out more quickly than he once did, and he was never exactly athletic to start with. With everything they've done today — shopping and walking back, laundry, sex — he's pushed himself further than he has in a long time, and that's before bringing any of the emotional highs and lows into it. Still, they do need to eat. Once they've started, he's sure it will be easier anyway. On his own, being this exhausted, he would just throw together something quick and simple, if he even bothered at all; he's had plenty of nights in the past few months in which he just hasn't, or has eaten only because a neighbor brought him food.

He doesn't want to tell J about that, about any of it. Just thinking so, he feels a little guilty, knowing that he's said he'll talk to J too. Yesterday, though, J only glimpsed the scars on his chest and wound up wanting to kill himself for it. Talking in any kind of depth about the damage done, the physical and emotional toll it took, is simply out of the question. Even details like there having been days he didn't eat and days he didn't get out of bed would probably only do further harm, even if he thinks J would understand that feeling.

Even more off-limits, at least for now, is the fact that the one thing that got him and then kept him going again was the idea of getting revenge, getting some measure of justice. Eventually, he'll get into that. Eventually, he'll tell J everything — not about himself, but about what happened and why he sees it all the way he does. Tonight, though, especially with the way J was crying not very long ago at all, he just wants to relax and cook dinner with his boyfriend.

"This is all yours now, too," he adds in the same affectionate tone, the words leaving his mouth as it occurs to him, one hand lifting J's to his mouth so he can press a kiss against the back of it. "Your kitchen. Your couch." He shakes his head a little then, correcting himself. "Ours."

Again J feels the way his heartbeat flutters at that soft brush of S's lips, at the words that once came so instinctively. Ours. They were an us then, a we, and they had nothing at all and they had the world. Even the relief he's felt at finally agreeing to stay and the guilt he feels at allowing himself to do so haven't made it feel quite as real as hearing S say that. He squeezes his hand gently, lashes fluttering at the unsurprising threat of tears, however pleasant the reason for them might be.

It passes quickly enough, and he tugs at their hands, draws S closer. "Ours," he agrees, a little rougher for that flare of emotion, and that in turn just leaves him a bit bashful. He ducks his head, smiling to himself. If he doesn't watch himself closely, if he isn't careful what he says next, he might well start crying again, but it feels so fucking good to realize how true what S says is. It's been so long since anything was theirs but the past. He didn't have anything at all for a while there, nothing but the darkness and the yawning abyss of fear and anxiety stretching wide beneath him. This is more than he ever could have imagined or expected; this is coming home, and suddenly all he wants is to curl back up in S's arms again, to let S hold him close.

But they're on their feet and they do need to make dinner, and it won't be long both of them are thoroughly over the first of those two things. So he makes himself resist. Instead he leans closer, pressing a soft kiss to S's cheek. "I love you so much," he murmurs. He missed him so much, more than he wanted to admit, even in the last few days when it was impossible to pretend otherwise. Pulling a face, he draws back, hand still tight in S's as he continues on to the kitchen. "If you make me cry again before I even get a single ingredient, I'll be mad."

"Would you even be able to cry any more?" S asks without missing a beat, teasing, though his expression is soft, hopelessly endeared. "Ah, don't. You said fifteen minutes before, right? Let's try to go fifteen minutes without crying again." This time, he hasn't actually cried, at least, but he still doesn't want J to, even if it would be for a much better reason this time. It's sort of nice, actually, in a way, for J to be so moved by the thought of all of this being theirs now — the way everything used to be, except that then, it was all second nature, not half as noteworthy. Now it's been a long time since anything was theirs. Nothing but the past, anyway, and even that was really just his with J gone and himself the only one left to carry it. This is infinitely, impossibly better.

He keeps coming back to it, how just yesterday afternoon, this apartment was just a place where he was living, empty and impersonal and too big. With J here, in all of a day, it's become home. Their home, truly. There will be paperwork still to deal with — turning over the lease for J's assigned apartment, getting him added to this one, replacing his ID, for that matter — but it's decided now, and if there's ever a reason for that to have to change, they'll deal with it when the time comes. S really doesn't think it will come to that, though. With everything that's happened since they found each other again, everything J has told him, the way J just broke down at the thought of living elsewhere but was too afraid to stay here, it's hard to imagine anything like before ever happening again, and that's even without factoring in all the extenuating circumstances. If he's wrong, he's wrong, but it isn't as if this is the first time he's had more faith in J than J has had in himself.

None of that seems worth getting back into now and sacrificing this tenuous calm. Instead, reaching the kitchen, he tugs J toward him to give him a quick kiss on the lips, then tilts his head in the direction of the refrigerator. "Start getting things out for me, please?" he asks. J said he wanted to help, and S means to find ways for him to do so that don't involve actually using the stove. For that matter, it might not be the best idea for him to be cutting anything right now, either.

J whines, indignant, at S's quip, though he's not entirely wrong. With all the crying he's done tonight, his eyes hurt. He's tempted just to find something frozen to hold to his face until it feels better or, barring that, to stick his head in the freezer. Hopefully, if nothing else, he'll sleep well again tonight. If he cries again, it might be really painful for physical reasons.

He doesn't get to play petulant for long, though, before S is pulling him close again, and that little kiss softens him up all over again. A day will come, he knows, when he's just as stubborn and annoying as he often was before. For that matter, he was utterly confident and in control earlier tonight, too. Right now, though, he feels docile as a kitten, soothed by the prospect of staying here after all and how sweetly S kisses him and the domesticity of being in the kitchen together. The tension goes out of his shoulders, and he steals another quick kiss before he draws back. "Yes, Chef," he teases, still just barely resisting the urge to press the frozen hotteok to his eyes when he approaches the refrigerator.

For that matter, he has to be careful not to get ahead of himself, always wanting to do the most. It won't help if he tries to bring it all out at once and drops it, so he makes himself go a little slower, first drawing out the pack of silky tofu and the meat they'll add. Once that's on the counter, he continues digging around for the vegetables and such they picked up to round it out. The eggs will go on last, so he doesn't bother setting those aside yet. "I haven't cooked in a long time," he says as he works his way through the ingredients. He barely had a kitchen anyway, and he definitely hasn't had the will to make the effort. "But if you tell me what to do, I've got it."

The little sound J makes probably shouldn't be so cute, but it is, and S doesn't bother trying to hide the fact that he thinks so. Grinning, he turns toward the stove when J moves to the refrigerator, beginning to assemble everything he'll need to cook with. Aside from this morning, they haven't done this in so long, and yet it feels so perfectly normal, a habit he can fall back into as easily as breathing. It used to be an everyday occurrence for them, or close enough to it. Sometimes he would cook while J did something else, and sometimes they would heat up leftovers or throw something together quickly, but they still spent plenty of time like this, sharing a space, working in tandem. For all that he knows that this can't be what it was, it's nice, better than nice, to recapture a little of that feeling.

"Mm, can you wash those vegetables?" he asks, glancing over his shoulder as he does, busy in the meantime with getting things ready to cook. This is, really, something he could have done on his own without too much trouble. He would have been glad to, too, pleased by the thought of cooking for his boyfriend, but doing it together like this is both faster and more fun, plus it's a good way to keep him distracted from how worn out he is. Staying on his feet for as long as it's going to take to get dinner ready isn't going to be particularly enjoyable anyway, but it'll be worth it, and at least they'll have a good time while they're doing it. "Thank you."

He hasn't made this in a while — hasn't put much effort into cooking in a while in general — but like much else, he's sure it will come back to him quickly enough. This, too, is familiar despite how long it's been.

J would roll his eyes, playful and fond, at the unnecessary thanks, but that would hurt too, so he just arches an eyebrow instead, even as he moves the vegetables closer to the sink. The scallions are the most important, as far as he's concerned, to the flavor of the broth, so he starts with those; they'll go in sooner and they'll need to be chopped, too. He gestures with one to a jar he grabbed out of the fridge as well. "Kimchi's there," he says. There are other things to use, and he might need to peel some garlic, he thinks, to add to the broth, but kimchi will bring a nice spice to it.

It's one thing, though, to know what he likes in jjigae, another to remember the process for putting it all together, so he contents himself with preparation. It doesn't take much to find a cutting board he can put the vegetables on after he washes them, working his way through. It's quiet, pleasant work, and he likes it more than he remembered; it's good to have something to do with his hands that requires just enough attention to keep him occupied. He purses his lips in thought as he works on the cabbage, then glances over at S. "Do we have a peeler?" he asks. He can always use a smaller knife to peel the carrots, but something actually intended for the task will be much faster. The sweet potato, he figures, he'll leave most of the peel on, but not the carrots.

Standing by the stove, S takes a moment to think through the steps of what he's doing. When they were first living on their own and he was doing much of the cooking for them, it was a little easier to rely on instinct; he'd far more recently been helping in the kitchen at home. Although he's fended for himself of late, he still hasn't done very much, and feels far more out of practice now as a result. Besides, he has only his own memory to fall back on, too. As much as he often wished, before, that he could call home and ask his mom for help with anything he couldn't quite remember, at least they could call J's mother if they were really stuck, or see if a neighbor was around who could tell them what to do. Now they're all the more on their own, just two of them here in this strange new world, and there's certainly no one else he would want to be in this position with, but he still wants to make sure he gets this right, too.

It isn't too difficult to figure out where to start and what his next steps will be, at least, even as he shoots a grin over at J. "In the drawer," he answers, tipping his head to gesture in its direction. "I may not have much here, but I have enough to cook with." Even when he had every reason to believe he would be here alone, it still seemed like one of the most important things to take care of, making sure he would be able to keep himself fed.

J makes a small approving sound, reaching to pull the drawer open. It's better organized than it would be if he were in charge of the space (or, admittedly, probably, if S had lived here longer), so it's easy enough to find the peeler. When time passes, he tells himself, and their situation changes, if and when S has to go off to work while J stays here, he'll do his best to be a bit more like that, organized and thoughtful, not so rushed.

"Thank you," he sing-songs, wagging the peeler at S. He steals a longer glance as he returns to the washing of vegetables, smiling to himself. They're both exhausted, yes, and they've both cried a lot, but neither of those things keep S from being breathtakingly handsome even just standing there at the stove. J has no doubt he'll manage the broth fine, which is good, because J can only barely remember what's involved in the process. At least the vegetables are easy. "I haven't had this in so long. Well, I got takeaway sometimes, but it isn't the same." He starts peeling carrots as he talks, working up a rhythm, strips of orange falling into the sink.

Making it for himself would have been ridiculous, and going home — ah, he should have gone home more. He tries not to let himself think about it. In a way, he did his best to be a good son by not visiting as often as a dutiful son should. Silly of him, really, to think he could avoid worrying her. Certainly his absence didn't keep S from worrying, and he was right to.

It's better, he tells himself, trying to shove his thoughts back onto the right track. It's good he isn't moving out. He shouldn't be so alone with himself. "But now," he says with a wry smile, "ah, see, I'll eat well tonight. This is why I'm not moving out; you're a better cook than me."

"Ah, I knew it," S crows without missing a beat, giving J a look like he's nothing short of pleased with himself, having gotten J to admit it. He's entirely teasing, of course. Even if he didn't remember too well the way that, just minutes ago, J clung to him and wept at the prospect of living somewhere else, he wouldn't for a second think that J would only be staying to reap the benefits of his cooking abilities. That's exactly why he can joke about it now, levity that he thinks they need after all that crying. Of course, often, when he's thought so, J has very much felt otherwise, but it seems like a safe enough bet now, and he's sure J will know he doesn't actually mean it, given that he's the one who commented on it first. "I knew you only wanted to move in so I'd keep cooking for you."

His smile warms before he turns back to where he's started the broth, a clear enough sign on its own that what he's said isn't genuine in the slightest. "Though we'll have to see how this comes out," he continues. "I haven't had this in a while, either. Haven't made it in even longer." It was too much for just one person, especially more recently, as he was getting back on his feet again. He's pretty sure it was one of the dishes his neighbor brought over on occasion, but so many of those days have blurred together now, it's hard to be entirely sure what he ate or when. At least he did, most of the time. "Hopefully it doesn't turn out disastrous. Though I guess at least if it does, we'll still have dessert we can eat."

As long as one of them keeps an eye on the time, it would be hard to get frozen hotteok wrong. He thinks this will be fine, though, too. Familiar as it is, it will probably keep coming back to him as he makes it.

J laughs at the idea of having nothing but hotteok for dinner. It wouldn't be the first time he scraped by on whatever was quick and easy, regardless of nutritional value, and it's more charming like this than it would be if he were on his own. Still, he doubts it's going to come to that.

"And rice," he points out, because that's quick to make and they should probably make some, actually, since it's nice to add to the jjigae when there's nothing left but traces of broth. "A perfect meal." He's running out of space on the cutting board, since he's currently using it to store vegetables. Stepping around S, he digs through the cabinet for a plate he can set to the side, moving the washed cabbage and scallions over to that, along with the peeled carrots. That just leaves the sweet potatoes, which is good, since everything's got to get chopped up into appropriately sized pieces, including the meat and tofu. This is about as much as he's sure of, though. Actual ingredients for the broth and how long things need to cook for, these are better left in S's hands.

"Already smells nice, though," he adds. It's not even really anything yet, but he likes the smells all the same, the familiar spices drifting around him.

"I've barely started cooking," S points out, exhaling on a soft laugh. In spite of that, though, he can't really disagree. When so much here has been so unfamiliar, anything that feels a little like home is a welcome change of pace. Of course, with J here now, it would be that anyway, but all the same, it's been impossible not to be aware of how different everything is. Something he knows goes a long way. More than the aroma of spices, though, he likes this, the two of them here in the kitchen together, the conversation refreshingly different from just a little while ago. He knows, of course, that it won't be nearly as simple as just putting all of that behind them. Still, for the moment, they've weathered the storm and made it to calmer waters, and he would rather savor that than hold his breath waiting for the moment it all turns rough again.

That in itself makes him slightly grateful that J has mentioned rice, making it easy to turn that into a suggestion. S has had in the back of his head that it might be better for him to be the one who does the cutting, but he doesn't want to say that and draw attention to the reasons why if he doesn't have to, knowing how easily that could make the mood turn dark again. It's the last thing they need right now, when they're finally a little more at ease again and with dinner in progress, albeit barely.

"Ah, rice is a good idea, though," he adds. "Better with the jjigae than dessert. When you're finished with the peeler, can you put some on? Might as well get it started now."

J nods in agreement. "Sure," he says. S is busy readying the broth, after all, and rice is easy to manage. But it also takes a little while, so if they start it soon, it'll probably be ready around the same time as the soup.

"And I know you barely started," he adds with a small laugh. "But the smells — it's like home, right?" He turns that over in his head after he's said it, reconsidering. "Well, it is home." He's not letting go of that soon. Though he tells himself again that, if he finds he's changed his mind, he'll leave anyway, it's not something he can let himself think about too much right now. It's better, safer, to think about how this is his home now, how he gets to claim it as belonging to them both. And this, making dinner together, is part of that. It really is satisfying to do, cooking a meal with S, even if that mostly involves him peeling sweet potatoes.

"But it's nice, though," he continues, making rough work of them, pouting slightly in his concentration. They're tastier, in his opinion, with a little peel still on. "All domestic like this, you and me." Satisfied with his efforts, he sets the last of the sweet potatoes down and turns his attention to making rice instead. "I thought we were so grown-up last time, but we really are now, aren't we?"

He knows what J means, of course — home in the sense of where they came from, as opposed to this being their home now. He'd just been thinking the same thing a moment ago, after all. The distinction is a strange one to have to make, if only in his own head, but at least they both seem to be on the same page about it. There was a time when S wouldn't have found that strange at all. They didn't always agree on everything, but they were so well in tune with each other practically from the start. That, too, they'd lost by the end; that, too, it's nice to get back, just like the ease with which they move around the kitchen together now. He remembers having thought this morning about how nice it was for J not to seem like a guest here anymore. Now that J has agreed to stay, though, it's that much better. Every little thing they do here makes it feel that much more like it really is home.

"It is nice," he agrees, quietly pleased. "And we are, I think. Much more than we were then." Even then, still newly reeling from the loss of his parents, he felt so much older than his years, as if he'd aged a decade overnight. Now that he is older, though — not even very much, but just enough to count — he knows they weren't so grown-up, really. More so than others their age, maybe, thrust into adulthood sooner, but still just kids trying their best to take that on, like the children he remembers seeing in the playground when he was much younger who would play house, assigning family roles and going through the motions of doing normal family things.

They've both been through so much since then. If he feels so viscerally aware of it, a weariness having settled into his very bones, then he's sure J does, too. At least right now, in this context, it's a good thing that they've grown up so much. They really do have to fend for themselves now, with no one to turn to but each other. There's no one he would rather be in that position with.

The broth not needing his immediate attention anyway, he lowers the burner a bit as J steps away to get the rice, turning to move toward the cutting board instead. It seems better, he thinks, not to make a point of it, just taking over while J does something else and he's free for the moment. "Now we can be all domestic in a bigger kitchen, too," he adds, laughing a little and glancing at J again as he begins cutting the scallions. "Not standing practically on top of each other in front of our one little counter."

J laughs, bright, accompanied by a playful wince. "Ah, really, I think I bruised my elbows a hundred times and stepped on your feet twice as much," he says. It makes a change to have room to do this properly. They can be close, working together, and still not run into each other constantly, having to squeeze everything into the same tiny space. The rice clatters against the pot as he pours it in, pleasantly familiar, and, as he moves to the sink to rinse it, he doesn't run the risk of knocking into S — a vast improvement.

It was home, though, for so long. They were miserable there, but they were blissfully happy, too. They've already had both of those things in the last day, in very different ways from before, and maybe that's a good sign, exactly what they need, to be them, but new, changed. They better understand each other now, but they still have the old rhythm in some ways, S stepping in to fill the space J opened. Even rinsing rice is soothing. "I think I'll feel more like helping now that there's actually room for me too."

For just a moment, S lets himself feel slightly relieved that J doesn't seem to think much of his having stepped in to do the cutting. The last thing he wants is to draw attention to it, and for that matter, he doesn't want to dwell on it, either. There are more important things at hand, anyway, like the vegetables to cut and the pleasant sort of reminiscing they're doing. So he allows the thought to cross his mind, then sets it aside, barely suppressing another laugh as he glances over at J, just long enough not to take his focus off the cutting too much. The last thing he needs is to inadvertently injure himself now, when they've settled into such a nice mood again, when he can't imagine that would go over particularly well.

"I think you stepped on my feet more than that," he teases, hardly sounding bothered by it. Minuscule as their kitchen was, difficult though their life could be back then, it's still a time he thinks back on warmly — the best time in his life, really, despite of all the reasons for it not to have been. Now, though, they have a chance for even more, a new start, and a hell of a lot more counter space too. This apartment still isn't huge by any means, but it's far more spacious than their studio was. "Ah, it'll be easier to try more complicated dishes, too, without trying to cram everything into that small space."

J nods, though he's got his attention on the rice and S is busy with the vegetables, so he's not sure S actually sees. "Yeah," he agrees, carefully tilting the pot to drain the water again, doing his best to avoid losing more than a few grains of rice as he does. The water that spills into the sink is clearer than the first round, but he decides once more might be a good idea, and turns the water on again. "It's hard to try anything new if I don't even know where to put a bowl or a cutting board. Ah, now we even have enough room, we could put up a cookbook or something."

For now, he's thankful they're making something he knows. It makes cooking a little easier, since he's familiar enough to follow S's lead and S is familiar enough he, J hopes, doesn't have to think about it too hard. Besides which, it's food that feels like home. In the future, though, it would be nice to try new things — even, he thinks, to find something he can make to surprise S with, something he can cook while S is at work that he won't expect. It's not something he'll be able to do very soon, but then, he also doesn't expect S to find a job right away either. Besides, it's pleasant to think of even a small goal, an attainable one.

He glances over at S briefly and smiles, then drains the rice again as he speaks. "I'll probably still step on your feet though."

Even now, it's all S can do not to move closer and lean against J's side. He's only stopped by the vegetables still to be cut, starting on the carrots once he's finished with the scallions. It doesn't keep the quiet adoration from his gaze, though, as he looks over, something still a little awestruck in it. How the hell this happened — how he got so lucky — he doesn't know. This shouldn't be possible. And yet, here they are, back together, making dinner like they have so many times before, and it's so normal and so good and maybe the best thing that's ever happened to him, or second, at least, to meeting J in the first place, like something innately wrong having been set right at last. Having his feet stepped on is absolutely nothing compared to that.

"I'll manage," he says, a bit dry, though too fond to really sell that tone convincingly. For a moment, he almost makes another joke, but even he has enough sense to know that what happened between them before is probably off-limits as far as humor goes. It's funnier in his head, if also very much true, to note that he's survived worse at J's hand than stepped on feet. There's no sense in risking saying something upsetting now, and anyway, he wants to comment on the rest of what J has said.

"We should get one, maybe," he adds, thoughtful now, if no less content. "A cookbook. If only so we have something to reference for anything we don't remember." He was thinking about it a little while ago, how there's no one they could call or ask for help now if they need to check on something. Having some resource on hand might make cooking a bit easier, or give them some different things to try, too.

There's a warmth in S's voice, even as he teases, that makes J look up from the rice cooker. However much he might have been joking earlier, J's not sure he was wrong to say the girls at school were crazy about S. They must have been. Even if he allied himself with an outcast, there's something so absurdly heartfluttering about him, enough so, surely, to overcome anything as stupid as that. And, granted, a lot of it is having all that fondness turned his way, knowing he's the reason for the softness in S's gaze, but even so, he doesn't know how anyone can miss how luminous S can be.

He ducks his head slightly, reaching for the lid to cover the pot, and clicks the buttons into place. With a quiet beep, a small light turns red, and J steps back, satisfied. "We could go to a bookstore next time we go out," he suggests. "Or maybe the time after that, if clothes takes too long." Bookshops tend to be quiet, at least, which he can handle well enough. It would be nice to have something they can flip through when they need guidance.

Even with more space in here, there isn't, J's pretty sure, enough room for him to pull out a second cutting board, even if they had one, and split the task at hand. He doesn't even think a second cutting board exists, and he has no idea if there's another suitable knife. It occurs to him briefly that he doesn't want to ask S to hand the knife to him, so he leans back against the counter and does his best not to think about it too much. "Mm, if we had a cookbook, I could try and make the pajeon while you finish that, but I don't remember how."

Even this feels oddly novel, talking about next time, about later. It's the simplest thing in the world, nothing that would have required even a moment's thought before, but even the vaguest and most basic plans are still something to wonder at when they weren't supposed to have a future at all. The idea is a good one, too. S hasn't been here long enough to know where there's a good bookstore, but if nothing else, he can keep an eye out next time they go out, or maybe ask someone the next time they're at the grocery store. In a place like this, so American, he's not sure how easy or difficult it will be to get a cookbook in Korean, and even if his grasp on English is better than he thought it would be, mentally translating is still an extra step he wouldn't particularly want to deal with in trying to cook. Better to have something familiar that they can just glance at as needed.

"I would try to talk you through it, but I'd probably forget something," he says with a soft laugh, shaking his head a little at himself. It's easy enough to make, at least, but more so to rely on instinct in the making of it than to try to think through each step while in the midst of cutting vegetables. "Come kiss me instead." That, he can definitely do without being too distracted. He's too tired, really — a pleasant exhaustion, but exhaustion nonetheless — to get carried away, but a kiss should be fine without him having to stop what he's doing. Even now, he just wants to be close.

Glancing up again from the cutting board, though careful not to let his mind wander too much from the task at hand, he gives J another soft smile. "Next time or the time after," he agrees, "we'll look for a bookstore, find a cookbook."

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