“Yeah, yeah Himchan, don’t worry. Junhong is fine. No, I don’t think he’s found the weed. No. No. Yeah. Okay. Okay, I got it,” Yongguk mumbles into the phone while stuffing his mouth with a handful of Doritos, blanket covered body lazily lying on Himchan’s stained couch. The sound of objects crashing onto wooden floorboards echoes inside his ears. There is a thud. Then there is agonized hollering.

Yongguk lifts the TV remote from his chest to raise the volume of some soap that’s airing, hoping to drown out the background noise—and possibly his boyfriend’s voice. The man on the other line is loud and Yongguk nearly gives up on trying to block him out, instead opting to end the call. But Himchan is swift by tongue.

“Did I just hear the kid screaming?”

Yongguk groans and scratches his chin, unwilling to respond. His thin hands grip the blanket and pull it higher until it’s covering the lower half of his face. “Technically, no,” he mumbles. “It was more, like, shouting.”

There is silence on the other end. “Yongguk,” Himchan starts quietly.

And Yongguk holds his breath.

“I am,” he says, “so busy with paperwork right now. It’s Saturday—you know how it gets on Saturdays. I have five entire files I have to sort through within the next hour and every sheet of paper is written in size ten Times New Roman like, who the does that. And my boss is being a and the secretary is so rude and she refuses to leave me alone for some reason and my eyes are burning. And. I literally can’t focus on anything right now and it’s.” He breathes. “So just.” His voice is delicate, coming out through strained chords. Himchan stops speaking and heaves a harsh sigh. Then he’s quiet again, and then he groans loudly and the sound of a hand smacking against forehead resounds through Yongguk’s ears.

“Hey, hey, calm down—”

“I am calm,” he seethes. “I just. I—can’t. Why are you such a ty babysitter?” His voice comes out strained and exhausted like he’s been on edge for a millennia and his legs are screaming to give out.

“Himchan,” Yongguk says, guiltily swallowing down the last of his Doritos, “did you drink your coffee in the morning?”

“Yeah,” Himchan replies abruptly, nearly cutting him off. “I’ve had like, ten Americanos.” His words come out rushed and eager and torn. Yongguk in a sharp breath.

“Ten? Why in the world…Are you okay?” he asks, concern laced chokingly into each syllable.

“‘Cause I was stressed,” he says loudly. “And I’m still stressed, God.”

Yongguk’s hand rubs over his face in distraught. He doesn’t really know what to say. Himchan is exhausted and it’s worrying him but he doesn’t really know what to say.

And Junhong is still crying.

Yongguk will check on him. He will. But he’s not great at sorting his priorities and right now, neither Himchan nor Junhong seem okay and naturally, he thinks Himchan might be a bit more important.

So he asks, “Why are you so stressed? This hasn’t happened before, it’s not only work that’s got you like this.” He frowns, lips stretched into a thin line. “Just tell me.”

Himchan is quiet. “Why am I so stressed?” he repeats, voice a hushed whisper. “Because of you. Why, why are you so dense?” he asks, voice cracking like he might cry. Yongguk gapes at the revelation. He hasn’t done anything wrong. Some noises then leave Himchan’s mouth, as though he is trying to form words but is miserably failing to conjugate anything appropriate to say. “I just. I physically don’t understand how you’re so stupid? You’re fake deep and I mean, you literally have the same brain capacity as Patrick Star. The only difference is that you’re not a fish.”

“Uh, yeah,” Yongguk chokes out, offended.

What the heck, man.

“You’re right. I’m not a fish.” He raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. “I get that you’re stressed but why are you taking it out on me? Man, I feel so attacked right now and I’ve honestly done nothing to deserve it.”

There is a strangled screech. Yongguk fears for Himchan’s sanity and for his own life.

“Yes you have. See, this is why you’re stupid, ‘cause you don’t have a clue what’s going on. Jesus Christ Yongguk. Think. Use your tiny of a brain and figure it out and—why is Junhong still crying? Please can you just. Actually take care of him. He’s my nephew, you know. And. Oh my God. Look, I’ve just wasted so much time, oh my God. God my.  My oh—”

“Chill.”

“I can ing assure you that I am one hundred percent chillaxed, I—” Himchan gasps, and then there are thuds like a thousand objects have fallen. Then there is a loud thud and a distanced, strained screech. Then there is a beep, and the call ends.

Yongguk stares at his phone, eyes wide. He deliberates on calling Himchan back, but Junhong’s loud sniffles coming from the other end of the apartment enter his mind like a cold sting.

After a moment of hesitation he decides to leave Himchan to cool down. He thinks, maybe he’ll do something nice for him when he gets back tonight. Prepare him a bath. Something relaxing and calm.

He securely wraps the polka dotted blanket across his shoulders like a shawl, shuddering from the cold, before standing from the couch. He tosses his phone onto the table and stays silent, letting Junhong’s voice guide him to where the child is. The wails have subsided to throaty sobs coming from his right, so Yongguk twists the handle of the door to Himchan’s room and pushes it open.

Junhong is there, lying down by the bed on his stomach with his arms crossed in front of his face. His body is shaking, and he is surrounded by toy tractors.

“What happened,” Yongguk says, pacing over to him. “Are you okay?”

Junhong abruptly stops crying, peeking his red eyes out from under his arms, before swiftly resuming his prior position. He sniffles, ignoring the question.

Yongguk sits down in front of him, tenderly wrapping his fingers around Junong’s arms and lifting them, but Junhong does not budge. He instead tightens his arm’s grip on his head until his body caves into itself form the pressure.

“Junhong, what happened?” Yongguk tries again.

Junhong sniffs some more, wiggles around next to the bedframe. His head knocks into the wooden frame and he screeches, jolting away from the bed. He sits up and scrambles to Yongguk, stumbling over a toy tractor and falling into the man’s arms.

“It hurts!” Junhong cries, tightly holding onto Yongguk with one arm, his other hand preoccupied with feeling the upcoming bruise on his head from the recent collision.

“Where does it hurt?”

Junhong remains mum, considering. “Like…my arms. My legs. Everywhere. My arms, I dunno.” He shakes his head.

Yongguk frowns, replacing the boy’s hand against his head with his own, touching his sensitive skin that had just been damaged. Junhong flinches, nearly falling back, but Yongguk’s arms wrapped around him keep him in place.

“That hurts more, stop it,” Junhong wails, pushing Yongguk’s hand away. Junhong’s voice is hoarse and he rubs at his swollen eyes, before staring at Yongguk unblinkingly with trembling lips, tears still streaking down his grimy skin.

Yongguk holds the boy away from him and stares at him inquisitively at eye level. He frowns, the little boy’s stare so expectant. Junhong’s arms reach out, trying to grasp onto Yongguk again, but he’s only able to feebly grab the blanket wrapped around the man in his small fingers.

“What did you do to yourself?” Yongguk sighs. Regret injects itself into his being, streaming through his veins and feeding each individual cell of his like oxygen. Junhong’s eyes are so swollen, face so stained.

Because, because Yongguk left him.

Junhong recoils, eyes squeezing shut and reopening. They are welling with tears again at the memory of pain, and Yongguk panics.

“Don’t cry,” he says abruptly, before it’s too late. But the harsh sound of his voice only triggers the tears to fall from the little boy’s eyes.

“I—” Junhong starts between choked sobs. “I fell and, and the bed hit my knee. It hurts so much. I hate the bed,” he mumbles, falling against Yongguk’s chest. “You’re so—warm. It’s so cold.” He nuzzles against the blanket that separates them, snot and tears dirtying the thick wool.

Yongguk grimaces, scrunches his nose, though he smiles fondly at the little boy. “It’s okay,” he tells him, “you’re a big boy now, aren’t you? You’ll be okay.” Junhong nods quietly against his chest, humming in fierce agreement through his pink lips. Yongguk adjusts the blanket so it’s wrapped around the both of them, cradling Junhong in his arms and nimbly rocking him back and forth.

Junhong is five—or, six. Maybe seven. Yongguk isn’t quite sure. And though he was, admittedly, not pleased about having to wake up at seven in the morning to babysit the boy—especially considering how cold it was out, and the fact that he had to walk—he still thought that Junhong was moonlight and sunshine in the least.

“What are you doing in your uncle’s room, anyway?” Yongguk asks once Junhong has settled down.

Junhong peeks up at him, and his cheeks colour with a rosy tint. His lips purse, he shakes his head.

Yongguk thumbs under the boy’s eyes, wiping the wetness from his soft skin. He raises a brow. “You can’t tell me?”

Junhong shakes his head again to confirm this, more frantically this time.

“Why?” Yongguk asks, pinching his nose.

He puffs out his cheeks in frustration, large eyes holding a stern façade as he stares down his babysitter. “Let go,” he says, voice coming out nasally.

“Not until you tell me.” Junhong deflates. Yongguk grins.

“But I can’t.” The boy throws his arms up in exasperation, fingertips rising above the polka dotted blanket.

“Why?” He lets go of the boy’s nose.  “Are you hiding things from me?” Junhong hurriedly shakes his head, mumbles out a ‘no I promise’ and interlocks their pinky fingers. But Yongguk retrieves his hand. He’s not sure, but if Junhong is messing about, then he’d be the one to get in trouble, and seeing as Himchan was already upset with him (god knows why) and depleted of all his energy, the prospect of letting Junhong run about with his business did not sit well with the man. “Then why can’t you tell me?”

“Because he said that I have to put it somewhere you won’t find it, duh.” Junhong flutters his lashes.

Yongguk blinks. “Who, Himchan?”

Junhong nods, and then, as if coming to a sudden realization, his eyes widen and he gasps, covering his mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you that,” he whispers through his hands.

And Yongguk is only more confused than before. “Junhong, just tell me what it is.”

He looks uneasy, so, so uneasy—and almost afraid. He locks his lips tightly, staring down to his lap.

“Junhong,” Yongguk repeats, holding the boy tightly. Because he’s starting to worry a bit. “What did Himchan tell you to hide?”

Junhong says something, so quiet and uncertain that Yongguk misses it entirely. So he presses his thumb against the boy’s chin and lifts it up, meeting Junhong’s wide eyes. Junhong clicks his head to the side and says, “It’s your present. For your anniversary, but you can’t tell him!”

Yongguk stills. He stares at the boy, then looks around the room. Numbness confines his being and his hand slips from Junhong’s face.

“What,” he says. He breathes deeply. “, Junhong, tell me you’re kidding. Please, —”

Junhong squirms uncomfortably. “Um, my mom said you’re not supposed to say those kinds of words…”

“Junhong you’re kidding, right?” he asks, eyes wide and searching, a certain franticness growing behind how seemingly calm they are.

The boy flinches back and frowns. “About what?” he asks innocently.

Yongguk pulls Junhong off him, coming to a stand. “What day is it today?”

“It’s um, Saturday,” he mumbles.

“No, I mean the date.”

Junhong blinks, taps his finger against his bottom lip. “Yesterday, I thought it was the fourteenth, but Ms. Han was mad at me because I wrote the date wrong, and she had it on the board! But I forgot to look there,” he admits guiltily. “So, I paid extra extra attention after that and found out it was the fifteenth yesterday! So today’s gotta be the sixteenth.” He brightens the room with a toothy, prideful grin.

“No,” Yongguk whispers. He’s pacing across the room, running his hands through his hair and over his face. “No, Junhong no.”

The little boy becomes quiet then, he appears hesitant. “Did I get the date wrong?” he asks quietly, fingers closing in by his sides, throat going hoarse.

“Just—” Yongguk scratches his neck, eyes scanning the room. He swallows thickly before bending down to his knees so he’s eye level with Junhong. “Tell me you’re lying,” he says, hands placed firmly on Junhong’s shoulders, “tell me today’s the fifteenth, please.” His voice is entwined by desperation, fear drenching each syllable being spoken.

“But I paid extra attention, and the teacher said—”

“I don’t care what your teacher said,” Yongguk half-shouts. But his eyes go wide and he regrets it when Junhong hunches back, caves into himself. Pouts and crosses his arms over his chest and looks away.

 

 

Yongguk is holding Junhong by the hand, leading him through a jewellery store. Junhong is clad in a winter toque and jacket, gloved hands holding a lime flavoured lollipop, given to him from Yongguk as a form of apology (as well as a few minutes of hugging the boy and, hectic piggyback rides involving running and spinning in circles and sore legs. And maybe a kiss on the cheek or two).

Today is December sixteenth, more commonly known in Yongguk’s agenda as ‘YONGGUK AND HIMCHAN’S ANNIVERSARRY. DON’T FORGET IT THIS YEAR, DICKHEAD.’

It is the third one. And it is the second one that he has forgotten. At least, he thinks, this time he was reminded on the day. Last year, he didn’t realize until about a week later, and Himchan was nice enough back then (before Yongguk’s several more ups) to pretend like it never happened.

But now Yongguk kind of gets why Himchan was so upset at him earlier over the phone. If he’s being brutally honest which, he should be and, normally is, he should’ve gotten the hint that something was amiss this morning, when he came over to babysit.

Himchan had opened the door looking radiant in his white dress shirt, face adorning a huge smile that Yongguk couldn’t bring himself to look away from, despite that it was seven in the freaking morning and he could hardly keep his eyes open to begin with.

“Hi,” Himchan said, a bit breathless. His arms moved, reaching out for Yongguk like he was about to hug him.

Yongguk remembers yawning. He scratched his ear. “Sup.”

Himchan blinked, opened his eyes a bit wider and stared at him. His arms deflated to his sides, fingers twitching uneasily. Yongguk was wearing a stained gray hoodie and matching sweats. His hair was uncombed. The dark circles under his eyes were prominent and were possibly deep enough for Himchan to claw his fingernails into them.

If he really, really felt like that was necessary.  

Yongguk gave him a lazy lopsided smile that screamed ‘you’re cute but can I leave. Please I’m tired and also scared. What is a child and how does one work.’

Himchan’s smile dropped. His hand fell from holding the door and he raised his brows. “Nothing, I guess,” he bit.

Yongguk frowned at the disappearance of Himchan’s smile, but remained mum. The man’s eyes bore into him expectantly. Yongguk raised a brow, then Himchan blinked and quickly looked away.

There was a sudden, unexplainable drop in the atmosphere between the two of them. But it was seven in the morning and Yongguk didn’t have the energy to muse over it.

“Junhong’s asleep on the couch. There’s not a lot of food in the fridge but figure something out and feed him if he gets hungry. His mom should be back around half past six.” He stared Yongguk up and down as if sadly deeming his worth. He tilted his chin up, narrow nose stuck in the air. “Might as well leave when she comes,” he said, but his tone was not strong and his eyes held a glimmer of hope behind their façade of apathy.

Yongguk winces at the memory.

“Uh,” he’d said in reply, scrunching his nose and peeking through the doorway, “‘kay.”

Uh.

‘Kay.

He groans internally, tugging at his short strands of hair. Himchan was upset. Yongguk was too tired to care. He should’ve at least given him like…a hug. Or something. At least something.

“You look very distressed, sir.” A shadow casts over the glass casing of jewellery Yongguk is standing near and he looks up. A young man with hair that appears to be near white stands at the other side of the casing, smiling at him with a smile that seems ancient, as though it’s been engraved into his features for longer than the man himself can recall. “Is there anything in specific you’re looking for that I can assist you with today?”

“Uh,” Yongguk thinks. He stares at the man’s nametag for what seems to be far too long. “Yeah, uh, mister—um, Jongup. Do you have anything for like, anniversaries?”

The guy, Jongup, raises his brows and smiles brighter. “Yeah, we have plenty of stock that might interest you,” he says, soft-spoken in a way that makes the words spilling from his tongue persuasive. Yongguk’s heart pounds restlessly against the worn bones of his ribs as the worker leads them to a different section of the store, where the glass cases are full of jewelled rings and diamonds and everything that Yongguk could probably never afford.

Jongup’s eyes dissolve in the jewels, handpicking out an array of rings that are all too small for Himchan’s fingers. “How’s your special lady like?” he asks, tapping one of the rings.

Yongguk bites back a choke. “Uh, she’s uh—” not a lady “—she’s a—guy.” He swallows. “Yeah.”

Jongup stares at him pensively, and then notices Junhong’s small fingers wrapped around Yongguk’s pinky. “Oh. Is it for your son?” he asks, lips curled upwards.  

Yongguk’s jaw goes slack. “He’s not my son,” he says quietly but what he means is I’m not that old. He hesitates before saying, “And it’s for a man.”

“I am a man.” Junhong frowns.

Yongguk stops and stares down at the boy. He smiles, gives him a toothy grin, gums showcasing widely. “Sure you are kiddo,” he drawls, ruffling Junhong’s hair. 

“Oh,” Jongup says, and Yongguk looks back up at him. “How’s your man like?” he asks, a grin b up his lips as he begins leading them to another glass case. “How old is he and what does he do?” His words are brief. Business.

Yongguk is nervous. He doesn’t really know how to describe Himchan, or where to start. Himchan is…wonderful. He is bright and full of life and Yongguk feels like a parasite that does nothing but leech it from him. He doesn’t know how to explain it. Himchan can’t really be explained in words—at least not through Yongguk’s feeble, ineligible diction.

So he puffs out a quiet breath of air, walking along with him. He keeps it simple. “He’s young—twenty-four. Uh, he does tech work. Like. Computers.”

They stop at an area clearly designated for men’s jewellery, filled with thick matted bands and flat chains.

Jongup immediately pulls out a watch that doesn’t really look like a watch. At first Yongguk thinks it’s some sort of high-tech gizmo but Jongup promptly guides his eyes to the curved dial and the ominous holes that supposedly represent the time.

“Gee, I dunno,” he says with a frown. It’s priced ten thousand and then some. Yongguk has only brought pocket change.

(And his credit card but—but! That’s only for desperate measures.)

“Why not? It’s beautiful, really, and you said he does tech work—and this looks like some crafty tech work if I do say so myself,” Jongup urges. “We do engravings, too.”

Yongguk pulls his lips up to his nose. The watch looks weird. “Dunno.” He sighs, glancing over to other encased pieces.

Jongup puts down the watch and opts for something simpler, prodding a plain silver band towards Yongguk. “Here, maybe he would prefer something like this. It’s more on the simple side, looks quite smart.”

Yongguk takes it from him with a grimace. Something about seeing the ring makes him feel a bit sick. He loves Himchan, he really does, but he just feels like a ring would be a bit much. It’s not that he’s still uncertain about their relationship—he’s really not—he just doesn’t want to make it seem forceful or too sudden. Or fake, considering that he completely forgot about their anniversary.

“Oh he’d like that one!” Junhong says beside him.

Besides, it’s expensive.

Yongguk frowns. “No, I don’t think he would, Junhong.”

There is a moment of silence before Junhong says, “Can I have it then?” He is tugging on Yongguk’s jeans light, staring up at him with wide eyes.

“Uh, no—”

“I’m afraid we don’t have that in your size, mister.” Jongup is looking at the boy gently, and Yongguk mouths his gratitude.

“Oh,” Junhong says as he nuzzles himself into Yongguk’s waist. “Minji would buy it for me.”

Yongguk glances at Jongup with a confused expression. He opens his mouth and then closes it again before saying, “Who’s Minji?”

Junhong stills by his side. Yongguk stares down at him. The little black haired boy looks up, cheeks flushed and eyes wide.

He flutters his lashes innocently up at Yongguk before glancing towards the floor. “She’s my girlfriend,” he admits shyly.

What— “Junhong you’re five.”

Jongup laughs.

“I’m seven!” Junhong says hastily. “I’m big now,” he defends, crossing his arms. He hides his face in Yongguk’s coat again, hugging the man’s waist and refusing to let go. He blubbers out, “I think…I love her.”

Yongguk cringes visibly, uncomfortably attempting to pick Junhong’s gloved hands off his waist.

God have mercy on my soul.

 

 

Junhong is sitting in the shopping cart with his legs dangling out the back while Yongguk runs it through aisles and aisles. He’s looking around frantically to find literally anything to throw into the half empty cart while Junhong sings along to the merry holiday songs blasting from the grocery store’s speakers. He squeals, telling Yongguk to go faster. Yongguk groans because he’s not really doing this for Junhong’s entertainment.

Amongst his panic he accidentally throws the cart into a possibly thirty by thirty colony of stacked tinned tomatoes, causing the cart to come to a sudden stop. Metal clangs against more metal and Yongguk gasps a bit. A hundred tins of tomatoes crash to the ground.

“Junhong,” he whispers, glaring at the dented cans violating the store’s white flooring. “Looks like we’re making spaghetti tonight. With lots of tomatoes.” He releases a choked sob.

It is presently five o’clock and the sun has set. Himchan will be home for seven. If he really, really wants Himchan to forgive him, the thin bracelet he ended out buying from the jewellers (using his credit card) probably won’t be enough. It’s a nice bracelet. It’s silver with blocked, matt indents and it’s really nice. Sure, his bank account may have wept a bit as he pressed his credit card into the wireless machine, but he did not. Because Himchan would like it, a lot. And his heart brims with warmth at the thought of seeing Himchan happy tonight.

But still. He forgot about their anniversary, and he feels lacklustre if that’s the only thing he can provide for his boyfriend.

So he decided to make dinner. And, well, he’s never made dinner before.

But he figures an hour and a half should be enough, taking into account how long it’ll take for him to walk back to the apartment carrying all this baggage.

Besides, Junhong’s mother should arrive somewhere around half past six, giving Junhong lots of time to help Yongguk with the process.

“Well,” Yongguk sighs, eyeing the kid up and down, “what are you just sitting there for? Pick up some tomatoes man, hurry ‘cause we don’t have time!”

Junhong sticks his little arms out the cart, wiggling them as far as he can. “I can’t reach,” he pouts.

Yongguk thinks what a stupid kid but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it when he spots a worker in his peripheral vision. So he hurriedly grabs however many of the tins he can in his arms and throws them into the cart, leaving the rest on the floor and pacing away.

He grabs pasta—or noodles. Or something, that looks like it has carbs. He doesn’t really know.

And then he grabs a set of bananas, because why not and they book it.

 

 

Yongguk finds some flat wooden cutting board with countless scratches etched into it and places it on the kitchen counter. He glances again at the recipe he’s pulled out on his phone before saying, “Junhong, can you get the basil out for me?”

“What’s that?” Junhong asks unsurely, head peeking into the fridge drawers. Yongguk glances over, smiling a bit to himself at the sight of Junhong’s small stature, clad in an apron and white toque, matching his own.

“It’s the green leafy stuff,” he tells the boy. “Uh—I think…it should be the green stuff, yeah.”

“This?” Junhong shouts over his shoulder with a high pitched tone, holding out lettuce.

“No, no it’s a different one.” Yongguk walks over to him and bends down, picking out the basil from the drawer. “See, it’s this one here we just bought. The dark ones.” Junhong nods in understanding. “Okay, I’m gonna go chop these, and while I’m doing that you can get out the tomatoes and garlic, okay? Oh, and onions.”

“Onions? Ew, do adults eat those?”

“What? They’re nice.” He grabs Junhong by the shoulders, pressing his fingers into him, trying to convince himself of the absurd idea more than the boy. “Now get to work. We don’t have time to waste.”

Junhong agrees, albeit reluctantly, and sets out to find the ingredients while Yongguk starts cutting up the basil, but the leaves are soft and kind of mushy and—are they supposed to be like that—the knife is cutting all weird. The basil ends out not as pieces but as a mushy paste.

Yongguk stares at the vegetable, and then at the knife. It could be the knife, but he doesn’t really have time to experiment with knife varieties right now. There is approximately an hour left until Himchan should arrive, and knowing Himchan, he would not eat this disgrace to basil.

So Yongguk sighs, dumps the basil and resorts to using the lettuce Junhong found earlier. He chops it up hastily while Junhong watches, occasionally trying to pick out pieces of greens to eat from the cutting board before Yongguk shoos his hands away in fear that he might get hurt.

Lettuce should be an okay substitute when making pasta sauce. It looks the same minced, just a bit lighter. And it’s crunchier, which is always great. Logic.

So Yongguk fixes up and tosses all of the ingredients for the sauce into a pan and cooks it for thirty minutes, adding more ingredients during the wait. The recipe says around twenty, but Himchan’s always liked the taste of food that’s just a bit overcooked, with the insides slightly burned giving it the scent of smoked charcoal.

Yongguk grins as he stirs the sauce. He feels like Banksy defying social regulations to serve justice to the dinner table.

“That doesn’t smell good,” Junhong wails, pinching his nose.

Yongguk wiggles his finger at him as he sets out water in a pot to boil the noodles. “Listen up boy—that is the smell of my artistic license.”

He’s so damn innovative it’s brilliant. Himchan will love it. Himchan will love him.

“What’s an atrictis license?”

But then the steam turns a deep grey and the smoke detectors go off.

“Well ,” Yongguk groans, immediately removing the pan from the stove. But the smoke is still strong and the constant beeping of the detector is deafening.

Junhong releases a strangled cough. “It smells so bad I can’t breathe!”

Yongguk throws his head back and muffles a screech. “Why is this happening right now of all times? Oh my god.”

Junhong is still coughing weakly, fanning the air in front of his face. His eyes are teary from the smoke and, true to the boys words, the smell is suffocating.

Yongguk rubs his eyes. “Junhong you—uh, go wait outside in the hall, okay? I’ll fix this.”

Junhong obeys immediately, small legs running him into the door. He lets out a half scream and Yongguk smacks his hand against his face.

“Unlock the door,” he enunciates slowly, “and open it.”

Once Junhong is out Yongguk rushes to the windows and opens them all, opens the doors to all the rooms and slides open the glass frame leading to the balcony. Once the clean air circulates into the apartment the smoke grows weaker. The small home is a bit less suffocating but the smoke detector is still going haywire, bleeding out his eardrums.

Yongguk sighs lethargically, moving back to the kitchen. His eyes scan over the place; it’s a bit of a mess, with vegetables scattered across the counters and oil spilled onto a section of the floor. He stretches his neck, leans his back and arms onto the oven while he waits for the smoke to clear out of the apartment.

And he screams.

The shrill noise furiously escaping his throat drowns out the ending beeps of the smoke detector. He rips his arm off the stove and whips around, eyes the offending bright red glow of the stove.

He’d forgotten to turn it off.

His elbow aches. He turns on the cold tap and awkwardly sticks his arm under the liquid running ice but he can already see the blister forming. It’s not small.

He in a breath through his teeth at the stinging sensation in his bones, increasing the flow from the tap. He glances over to the clock worriedly.

It’s half past six. Junhong’s mother should be here to pick him up soon. Himchan should be here in around another half an hour and the place is a mess and he’s a mess and his arm can’t function anymore to fix anything and he just wants to cry a bit. Himchan doesn’t deserve this.

He thinks, maybe, it would have been better if he’d never been reminded about their anniversary. He could just pretend today was a normal day and go on. Sure, maybe (probably—definitely) Himchan would dump his not so sorry , but hey, that’s life, isn’t it. You win some, you lose some.

(But if he lost Himchan he’d probably be losing a lot—like, maybe his world. And, he doesn’t think he’s really willing to give that up.)

He hears a creak and looks up to see Junhong poking his head through the door, curious eyes skidding around the place. “Can I come in now?” he asks quietly, as though they’re having some sort of a secret exchange.

“Yeah, you can come,” Yongguk says, running his free hand through his hair and releasing a huff of air. Just then he feels his phone buzzing against his thigh, so he grabs it and holds it out in front of his waist.

It’s Himchan. Whoot.

He slides to answer, keeping a watch as Junhong waddles over to him. “Hello?” he answers.

“Hey, Yongguk, go get—”

Just then, he notices the shininess of the floor beneath Junhong’s feet, and recalls the spilled oil, and his eyes go wide and he opens his mouth to shout and—

Junhong is a crying, curled up mess on the floor, clutching onto his head in absolute agony.

“Oh my god,” Yongguk whispers. He wants to move, to hold Junhong in his arms and soothe his pain away, but his elbow still really stings and he doesn’t know whose pain he should be prioritizing right now.

“Do I hear the kid screaming again?” Himchan asks from the other end. He just, sounds so done.

Yongguk bites his lip. “Look, Himchan, I can explain, I swear—”

An exasperated sigh resounds that causes Yongguk to wince. “Just, go help him, okay? And get dressed when you’re done, I want to go out for dinner. Eat somewhere nice,” Himchan says, he doesn’t sound angry.

Yongguk glances down to the grey tracksuit he adorns beneath the white apron, and he’s a bit relieved. But did Himchan just say they’re going out to eat because that is not okay no not at all.

“You’re probably the worst babysitter man has ever bred,” his lover mumbles through the phone before hanging up.

Yongguk lifts his phone to his face and stares at Himchan’s contact information, unblinking. He wonders if he should call back and tell Himchan that they’re not going out, but an outburst of Junhong’s wails block out any thoughts from forming in his mind.

He puts his phone down and turns off the tap, gingerly walking over to the distraught child. He carefully picks him up and stands, cradling him to his chest. He coos, pecks his head where it hurts and says, “It’s okay, you’re big now, aren’t you?”

Junhong sniffles into his chest. “No. I don’t want to be big.”

 

 

Himchan walks in a bit after seven and Yongguk does not notice until he turns around to put the pot of noodles in the sink. He jumps and gasps when he sees him, flailing his arms.

“Whoa, Himchan, you,” he says, eyes wide.

Himchan stands there, arms crossed, leaning against the counter. “Yeah,” he says, smiling with thinned lips and tapping his finger against his arm. “Me.”

Yongguk stares at him, mouth agape. He’s just set out the spaghetti into plates; the kitchen is still a mess. He’d left the spaghetti noodles in the pot for too long and all of the water had evaporated, and the noodles burned at the bottom and stayed stuck to the pot, providing him with yet another thing he has oh so unexpectedly messed up.

And he’s still wearing the tracksuit.

“You didn’t change,” Himchan points out right then. “Why?”

“I didn’t have time.”

Himchan shrugs, scans the kitchen. He raises his eyebrows subtly. “Like what you’ve done to the place.” He nods in mock approval. “A little change in interior décor never hurts, I guess.”

“Uh.” Yongguk points at the plates on the counter, waiting to be set out on the table. “I cooked.”

Himchan’s laughs. “I can see that. But why?”

“Because.” Yongguk his lips. “Today is…”

Himchan stares at him, leaning back further, elbows resting on the counter. “Go on.”

“Our, um.” Yongguk stares at him. He can’t speak because his heart is clogging his throat and leaves no room for words or for oxygen. His nails scratch at his fingers and he doesn’t really know why he’s so nervous.

But then he looks at Himchan, who is so, so calm.

Then he gasps.

And he breathes.

“I’m so sorry,” he says when he is calm. His voice comes out soft like the breeze at night.

Himchan smiles at him lightly. “You forgot.”

Yongguk is desperate to say I didn’t but lying is bad but he doesn’t care because Himchan deserves better than the truth.

So he says, “I’m sorry.”

And his heart hurts when Himchan replies with, “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

“Yongguk, it’s fine, really—”

“No, it’s really not. Look, I. I am a piece of okay, and I don’t really know why you put up with me but. You putting up with me doesn’t mean that what I do is okay. Because, this is the second time I’ve forgotten, and I don’t even have an excuse, and that’s not okay. You,” he says, not meeting his eyes. It’s hard to say and he nearly chokes out the words, “Deserve so much better. Than this, than me.”

Himchan snorts. “You’re being overdramatic.”

But his eyes say otherwise. Yongguk swallows down the urge to say so much more, to hug and to kiss Himchan until they reach the point of asphyxiation.

He stays silent, eyes shifting to the floor. “Here,” he says, grabbing the plates. The table is set when Yongguk puts down the plates, champagne filled glasses adorning their sides. The glasses leave a trail of glimmering topaz across short distances of the tabletop, accompanied by the warm, dim ember lights embracing the room.

It’s nice. Yongguk even sprayed Febreze.

But that doesn’t account for the fact that the food probably tastes like burned horse .

“Yongguk,” Himchan says, and Yongguk doesn’t miss the uneasiness to his tone. “You haven’t really cooked before, have you?”

“No.” Yongguk adds quickly, “but I did today. For you.”

“Oh.”

And Yongguk doesn’t really want to hear what Himchan has to say about his first attempt at food making, so he unceremoniously stuffs his mouth with a forkful of spaghetti and tomato sauce and chews out any thoughts of what Himchan might be thinking, or how he might be judging him.

Once his tongue embraces fully the taste of the noodle strands, he discovers that Junhong was more than right about his ingenious idea to burn the sauce. He holds back a belch.

Himchan stares at him curiously. Well.

The man before him experimentally lifts his fork and prods it to his lips. He examines the substance sitting peacefully atop his silverware carefully before deeming it worthy of his taste buds.

He chews, and Yongguk waits. He cringes internally when the crispiness remaining on some parts of the spaghetti from where it burned scratches the roof of his mouth.

“Yongguk,” Himchan says, staring him straight in the eyes. “Is this lettuce in the pasta sauce?”

Yongguk gulps. Was he not meant to do that? He thought it was the same difference.

“Yeah.”

It is silent. “Why?”

“The basil,” he says, “was weird. Like it was mushy and stuff. I didn’t think you’d like it.”

Himchan opens his mouth, waits, and then shuts it. “You don’t use lettuce in stuff like this.”

Yongguk shifts in his seat. “Is it bad?”

God, he’d just wanted to do something nice for Himchan, especially after seeing how frustrated he was at work. But, he’s probably just made it worse.

Himchan smiles lightly. He ignores the question. “This was sweet of you. And it smells nice. Is that Febreze?”

Yongguk grins a bit. “The lavender one.”

Himchan smiles thinly. “That’s the one I like,” he says, voice dry.

“Yeah…so. How’s the spaghetti?”

Himchan furrow his brows and looks down at his plate. He drops his fork. “Can we, maybe, not talk about that?”

“Is it that bad?” he asks, eyes wide and panicky.

“No it’s, good, it just.” He pauses. He’s at a loss for words.

“You’re such a liar.” Yongguk sighs, standing and picking up both of their plates. “Do you think I can’t taste it? It’s like literal .”

“I wouldn’t put it like that.” Himchan smiles sweetly. “It just doesn’t particularly entice my taste buds.

Yongguk sighs, leaves the plates on the counter. He’s a mess and he really, really doesn’t deserve Himchan. But he’s not willing to let him go, and he knows Himchan feels the same.

And he’s only twenty-four. He has time to change, to fix this.

“I tried. I thought I was doing it right, but, I really wasn’t,” he says as he nears the man whose eyes resemble the night sky. And Himchan knows that Yongguk’s not really talking about the food anymore.

He cranes his neck down and rests his chin on Himchan’s welcoming shoulder, wrapping his arms around him from the back. “I’m sorry, I…don’t have an excuse. I’m repeating myself. I’m just—”

“It’s okay,” Himchan quickly says to shush him, and he turns his face then and lightly presses his lips against Yongguk’s skin.

Yongguk’s heart flutters. He holds Himchan a bit tighter, a bit closer, leans into him a bit more. Himchan smells like offices and fresh ink and too much coffee too early in the morning, and though the scent would normally give Yongguk a headache, it is so, so comforting.

“I say, we eat out tonight, try to find some nice place.” He nuzzles his nose against Himchan’s silky hair and presses a kiss against his scalp. “I’ll go get dressed. You’re perfect, wait here. I got you something nice.”

---

HELLO YES this is like 2 weeks late almost i am so s o r r y idek what to say but um. i've never actually successfully written anything before without adding angst and my original idea for this was rly rly angsty omg but i changed this and hopefully this is better!! i'm not sure still who this is for but whoever asked for this i hope you like it?! late merrry christmas and happy new year ♥♥♥