Their front door is starting to get muddy.

Hongseok grew up with a Peruvian acrylic fibre mat outside his house, that looked and felt like straw; he’s in the habit of brushing the soles of his feet back before he enters a house, like a bull ready to charge, but a lethargic bull, who is preparing for a stroll. Jinho has no such habit though, so what happens is that all the grime Hongseok kicks off outside in the hallway gets dragged in by Jinho when he comes home an hour later. At least Hongseok’s shoes stay clean?

During the winter it’s usually water and ice that seep their way into the dark bamboo floorboards near their entrance, but recently the residue is increasingly speckled with brown. Today there’s even a clump of mud on the left side of the door frame, where the side of Jinho’s loafer must have brushed when he was taking his shoes off. Jinho’s short term balance leaves much to be desired. It’s not just stolen topsoil though; it’s bonafide dirt.

Spring must be here.

“No flies today?” Jinho asks, making his way into the kitchen and seeing Hongseok leaning against the island, phone out and head collapsed.

“No, I think that fly repellent spray Jongdae recommended worked its magic.” Hongseok admits, even if he doesn’t want to.

“What time are we meeting your parents again?” Jinho asks, more because he wants to argue about it some more than because he actually forgot.

“Seven.”

“So eight?”

“Jinho, we’re leaving at six fifty.”

“Eight thirty then?”

“You know I think you actually get along with my mother more than you’re letting on.” Hongseok teases, remembering how the two of them had folded and sealed the envelopes for all two hundred invitations in under ninety minutes, glaring at each other and competitively scrawling addresses down the entire time. The two didn’t even argue, much at least, hands too busy trying to outrun one another.

Hongseok honestly hadn’t been sure if was even going to tell his parents he was going to get married, but he certainly wasn’t going to do it until the actual ceremony was imminent. It’s nice to relish the feeling of waking up and seeing fiance, of opening the door between 6:13 and 6:15 to see fiance, of going to work parties and introducing himself as fiance, without any of the skepticism and underhanded jabs regarding their uality or his declining socioeconomic status. Naturally, though, their announcement makes it through the KBS group chats because Jinho is everyone’s favourite munchkin boss, some Singaporean intern recognises him, and soon The Straits Times is covering the Yang’s first son’s “Fabulous Gay Love Affair.”

The Yang’s are on a plane not even the next day to show some public sign of support for their first son, and his mother makes some statement about how she loves Seoul and can’t wait to learn about Korean culture from the Jo’s. Hongseok, impressed that she remembers his fiance’s last name of all things, understands why his parents are here and it comes as a minor inconvenience, but Jinho doesn’t. It takes three promises—that none of Hongseok’s family will stay within two subway stops of their apartment, that neither of their parents will have to meet before the wedding, and that they will never be required to eat more than one meal per day and four meals per week with the Yang’s leading up to the wedding.

Hongseok’s mother isn’t necessarily thrilled with the arrangement, but between the two warring parties he goes home with one and doesn’t with the other, so Hongseok’s priorities aren’t really difficult to sort out.

“I don’t want to get up.” Jinho groans, throwing his jacket off and collapsing on the couch. His forehead looks shinier than usual, but Hongseok doesn’t know if that’s just because the seed of spring has already been planted in his head. There aren’t any sweat stains under Jinho’s arms when he dramatically sprawls his limbs in mock defeat, but then again it’s not like it’s summer. “I just want to stay in.”

“Should we invite them over then?” Hongseok suggests, paddling over to see if Jinho feels warmer. “We can order Thai food.”

“Hm.” Jinho responds, unlike the enthused protests Hongseok was anticipating; Jinho’s temperament has mellowed in the past few days, now that Hongseok thinks about it.

“Really?” Hongseok asks, sitting next to the couch and poking at Jinho’s torso. It doesn’t feel warmer than usual, but he can’t be sure.

“As long as they promise to leave before nine. Your mother’s been nagging about seeing this place anyway.” Jinho sighs, his tone underwhelming reluctant.

“You two are getting along.” Hongseok accuses, laughing and jabbing harder at Jinho’s torso. “What happened? Is she growing on you?”

“Absolutely not she’s still Satan you’re still half demon.” Jinho retorts, squirming, too listless to fight the other off. “I guess we’re in a different place now? It’s not like she can stop us from getting married at this point, so there’s no need to worry.”

Hongseok remembers them making up after their first and last trip to Singapore, and Jinho’s admission of “You don’t seem like mine when you’re with them,” and he has a lot of things to say but it seems futile to just say them.

___

Hongseok meets Jinho’s parents before their 50th day anniversary, after Jinho’s mother notices that Jinho’s Katalk profile photo has two people in it now, and forces them to come for Jinho’s grandmother’s 80th birthday. It’s a little soon, but twenty three year old Hongseok had been new and chalked it up to gay relationships. Maybe gays meet each other’s parents sooner than straight people do? They arrive three days before the holiday itself, after a moderate train ride, and end up at a high rise in the northern half of the city.

It’s a pigeon underwater experience.

It starts when Jinho opens the door to his parents’ place, and Hongseok looks up, expecting to see a chandelier, but is instead greeted with what looks like a dusty, ceramic ceiling and a taupe stain that’s been up there long enough to have homeowners insurance.

So Hongseok knows that not all homes have chandeliers, but the thing is that Hongseok doesn’t actually know that not all homes have chandeliers. Sure, his apartment has never had a chandelier, and neither has Jinho’s, but they’re broke bachelors. Are gay guys also called bachelors? Well they’re both broke single people, without families, so he expects them to live in filth and depravity. No chandeliers, no doormats, no wood furniture.

Hongseok is definitely not calling Jinho’s parents home filth, or depravity, but he’s put on edge as soon as he walks in and notices the ceiling , dearth of shoe storage, and how Jinho has to throw his whole weight against the front door twice and Hongseok’s left arm to get the door to lock properly. The house is warm, there are fresh flowers on a coffee table and abundant homely clutter all around, but Hongseok is immediately and anxiously aware of how differently they grew up.

He hasn’t brought up the whole trust fund minor Singaporean socialite thing yet, because there’s no way to start that conversation without it ending in unease and discomfort, but walking into Jinho’s family home feels like being put on display. Everyone watching, spectacles on and notepads out, waiting for him to screw up and out himself as an ignorant, privileged . Hongseok wonders if it shows when he slides his shoes off, when he greets Jinho’s parents, when he takes his coat off to throw on a love seat in the corner.

The worries are momentarily interrupted when Jinho’s father sends them to his old room, telling them that dinner will be ready in twenty minutes and to unpack beforehand.

“They do know we’re dating, right?” Hongseok blurts out, and then turns red, flustered at his own implications.

“My aunt and her family are staying in our guest room.” Jinho mutters, embarrassment palpable in his tone. “You can take the floor if you’re going to be an about it.”

“But I’m the guest!” Hongseok protests, Jinho’s equivocal bashfulness reassuring. They both end up under the covers within minutes, something about public transportation draining even if all you do is sit there.

“We should probably be unpacking.” Jinho notes, turning and burying his face under Hongseok’s shoulder. “So we can at least change out of our pajamas before you meet my parents officially.”

“You’re right.” Hongseok nods, unmoving, concerns emerging through the silence. “We should probably change.”

“My mom’s a little crazy. Your last chance to run home.” Jinho warns. “She’ll definitely like you more than me. She’s always talking about organic apples and how preservatives are ruining my digestive system.”

“The flavour is better.” Hongseok agrees, on principal. “My parents are spending Chuseok in Venice any way; I couldn’t go home if I wanted to.” He finishes, before he loses the nerve.

“Oh.” Jinho replies; Hongseok has verbalised the word ‘parent’ maybe 1,12 times since they’ve met. “Have you talked to them recently?”

“There were photos of them in the newspaper.” Hongseok replies, words dragging. “My aunt is friends with the editor in chief of the Straits Times, and they always have some entry level writer cover anything my family gets up to in an effort to stay relevant.”

“Is that a newspaper? Like Choseon Ilbo?”

“More like the Korea Times or Hankyoreh.” Hongseok corrects. “In any case, your mother can’t be worse than an entire weekend of sitting on my .”

“They aren’t… is your mom an actress?” Jinho blurts, head coming up to watch Hongseok’s reaction, eyes bleary yet focused. “Your dad?” He presses, not knowing when he’ll get another chance.

“You haven’t tried Naver?” Hongseok asks wryly.

“Jongdae did.” Jinho admits. “But I didn’t let him tell me. I just went through your Facebook history. You aren’t like, royalty or some , are you?”

“My mother’s… comparable to a Singaporean Paris Hilton.” Hongseok sighs. “My dad owns an automobile manufacturing supplier. Nothing artistic, just a lot of money.”

“Money’s still impressive.” Jinho nods, leaning back down to rest an arm and his chin on Hongseok’s chest. “I want the full story since you’re finally talking now. What’s your dramatic, rebellious, rich story?”

It’s anti-climatic, to say the least.

That something that’s tortured him for so long makes its way out so easily, in casual conversation. Hongseok has repressed it to the point where he sometimes forgets he grew up waited on head to toe, the world nothing more than a constantly moving stream of pricey details placed before him and soon replaced. His childhood is either a rueful, immature waste of time or a gilden standard he’ll never climb his way back up to, and nothing in between.

But talking to Jinho makes even the words Hongseok has sworn to keep to himself flow like water, light like wind, smooth and weightless. Jinho makes him run with time, bud upward, blossom outward, even when Hongseok doesn’t want to, has told himself he can’t. There’s something about holding hands with Jinho that makes Hongseok rethink his limitations.

Maybe Jinho will understand.

“Jinho! Dinner in five!” Jinho’s father yells, banging on the door five times before opening it, giving Hongseok just enough time to tumble off the mattress and pose awkwardly against the floor lamp. “Patch up the broken screen in your aunt’s room first though! She wants to sleep with the windows open but the hole’s big enough to let bugs in.”

“Fine.” Jinho drones, hiding his face under his blankets, naturally regressing under his father’s familiar gaze.

Hongseok feels momentary discomfort watching Jinho dig out a hot glue gun and tape from his desk and head on over to the guest room. There’s a west facing window, and its screen has a Mongolia shaped hole in the bottom left hand corner. He’s never had to fix a window screen, Hongseok thinks, watching Jinho hot glue around the hole in small trails before pressing tape down. Hongseok’s never had to replace anything at home, old replaced with new before it gets a chance to experience actual oldness. He squirms a bit, watching Jinho press down on the clear tape with stubby fingernails to avoid burning his finger pads, before Hongseok kneels down next to him.

“Let me finish.”

“I’m almost done.” Jinho protests, yelping when Hongseok grabs the hot glue gun.

“My nails are longer.” Hongseok replies, using his thumb to finish lining the patch.

“Why is your thumb nail longer?” Jinho acquiesces, sitting down off his knees as Hongseok closes the patch. “Is that a chef thing?”

“For pinching chives.” Hongseok replies. “And string beans. They’re like mini knives.”

I’m going to propose first, Hongseok faintly remembers thinking, when he’s chopping chives nearly two decades later. Because Jinho made it official first, and gay relationships are supposed to be equal.

“Makes sense.” Jinho nods, unplugging the glue gun once Hongseok’s finished. “Let’s put this back before my demon mom yells at us fo