xiv. “I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.”

― The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul

_____

If I’d have to chose one fault from Jongdae, it might as well be the fact that he doesn’t ask for help.

It’s supposed to be selfless. And selflessness is supposed to be a good quality, right?

But not to this extreme; not to the point where it’s habit to refuse whenever someone tries to do something for him. So this time, I cross my fingers, glad that he’s asked me to help, and hope that despite it being one of the first times, it won’t be the last.

***

I’m not the best cook, which I suppose I’ve inherited from my dad, though I can’t say I’m terrible either. I get all the ingredients I need to make chicken soup, somehow locate the medicine Jongdae asks for, and then make my way to his house from the general direction I remember. I go into the wrong building once, get questioned by the security guard at the front who lets me off with some suspicion, and then arrive at the door of the apartment when my phone reads 5:08.

Holding my books, backpack, and all the groceries I had bought, I manage to knock on the door with the back of my hand. Then I figure that the doorbell is the best idea, manage to drop practically everything with a loud thud, before ringing it.

Barely two seconds pass when the door creaks open. Jongdae pokes a head out, squinting slightly, and I gape at him.

Put together isn’t the exact word I’d use to describe Jongdae, but I guess, in some ways, he’s always been that. Neat, even if he’s not wearing anything fancy. Maybe it’s the air of reserve around him; he always seems to know what he’s doing. Sure, he’s looked exhausted before, but this is on a different level.

Jongdae gives me a grin-turned-wince. “Do I look that bad?” he croaks.

I give him another once over. “Well, you’re not looking your best.”

That is, of course, an understatement, because he really does look horrible. Arguably, it’s not that bad given the fact that he’s pretty ill (I’m pretty sure I look much worse on my sick days), but it’s just so… not Jongdae that I can’t help but stare a couple seconds longer. His hair, for one, is all over the place, probably a result of tossing and turning. There are dark circles under his eyes—darker than usual—and one of his sweater sleeves are rolled half up and the other swallows his arm whole. He’s not wearing slippers but a pair of socks that look thicker than my shoes.

“Yeah, well,” Jongdae mumbles. His voice is scratchy; sore throat. “I’m pretty sick.”

“I’ve noticed.” I grab my things off the ground and make my way inside as he shuffles back into the living room. I hear the creak of the couches when he collapses on it, and I take off my shoes too before dropping the rest of the groceries on the kitchen table.

It’s funny; the two times I’ve been to his apartment, everything had been absolutely spotless. It is now, somewhat, at least better than mine. But there’s a bottle of what looks like cough syrup at the side with it’s lid open, a spoon for the medicine in the sink, and a glass of water on the table. It’s then that I realize that this favour is because Jongdae’s physically too sick to do much on his own. The little things, things he normally puts away, say it.

I take out the fever medicine and make my way back into the living room. Jongdae’s turned the couch into a nest of blankets and pillows, and it looks surprisingly comfortable. He opens his eyes when I step inside the living room with another glass of water and the pills.

“Thanks,” he mumbles as he takes the cup from me. His voice is so hoarse that it doesn’t sound like him. “For… this.”

I nod. “Not yet. I haven’t cooked yet.”

Jongdae swallows the pills with the water and leans back on his pillows with his eyes closed. He’s smiling slightly. “Let’s see how bad it can be.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“I really hope not.”

“All right, well, here’s the notes from chem.” I take out a couple of sheets of paper. “Uh… didn’t catch much in anything else.”

He takes them from me before setting them on the counter. “I’ll read them once my head stops killing me,” Jongdae groans. “The headache hasn’t gone all day.”

“Depending on how well your luck is, it’ll be better or worse after I cook,” I reply. “Just… sleep or something. I’ll be… uh, around an hour at most?”

Jongdae pulls the blanket up to his chin and turns to the side. It’s a vulnerable position, especially coming from him, and for some reason, I turn away quickly to the kitchen.

***

The soup is boiling on low heat when Jongdae either finds the energy to move or wakes up from his nap. He drags himself into the kitchen, wrapped in one of his many blankets, and sits down heavily on the kitchen table. “It smells good,” he rasps at me. “Are you sure you’re not actually a really good cook?”
 

“You’ll find out,” I reply as he reaches for a cup of water. “What happened to your voice? Is this like, a cold and fever combined?”

Jongdae runs a hand through his hair. It only sticks up more. “Something like that,” he groans. “Well, kind of. I tried to uh, well, I was doing vocal exercises from before—” he sees my expression, “I mean, I was just trying them and I don’t know how rusty I was and I guess I strained my vocal cords a bit because I haven’t practiced in a long time and just…” He shakes his head and gives a sheepish laugh. “Might’ve factored into why I can’t really talk.”

His expression is too hard to read, but I think I probably look pretty hopeful. “Are you picking up singing again?”

Jongdae rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he says, then falters. “No. I mean, I don’t know. Maybe. I’m just, uh, trying it, I guess?”

“Trying it,” I echo, though I’m beginning to smile. “Yeah.”

“Seriously,” he mumbles, but doesn’t protest anymore. I open the lid of the pot and stir slightly, the broken noodles ready to be tossed in.

A moment of silence follows, surprisingly light, before Jongdae breaks it with a question that’s much heavier. “What happened at school today?”

I nearly drop the ladle and the handful of noodles. “What happened at school today?” I echo.

“Yeah, what did?” Jongdae holds up his phone. “Baekhyun texted me. Something about you and Chanyeol.”

I freeze. “Uh… yeah.”

He swirls his cup absentmindedly. “What happened?”

If Baekhyun’s told him something, I don’t think I can get out of it with lying. Even if Baekhyun didn’t, I don’t think I can get away with lying.

Stabbing the chicken soup with one of the chopsticks, I start, “Chanyeol kind of… talked to me in the hall today.”

Jongdae’s eyebrows furrow. “What did he say?”

I think back. Chanyeol—or whatever he thinks of me—isn’t really a secret to Jongdae, so it’s not that that I’m afraid to tell him (maybe slightly; it’s his friend after all, and it’s also not the best news to break, given that he’s still extremely sick). If I tell him the whole thing, I don’t think it’ll be fair to pin everything on Chanyeol. And I’m still more than ashamed of what I said in retaliation, and the last thing I want Jongdae to know is that.

It’s not like I can hold anything back, and I know not telling him that one thing is going to do more harm than good. Stabbing my chopsticks at a piece of chicken, I start, “Chanyeol found me at my locker today.”

Jongdae nods. “Yeah, I got that part.”

Now onto the best part, I think miserably.

“Well,” I say, trying to find a way to phrase everything so it sounds nicer. “Chanyeol thought that I was… I don’t know, spreading rumours about him and his friends? Trash talking them to you? Convincing you that they were bad people? Something like that. And then, uh, I said it wasn’t and he pointed out that after we started the project, you’ve been skipping practice, ignoring your friends and not going to team events—”

“That’s not true,” Jongdae cuts in, frowning.

“Yeah, I know, but… well, he does have a reason for thinking that way, you know?”

“It isn’t your fault.”

Him saying that makes me feel slightly worse. “I know,” I mumble, then it all comes tumbling out. “It’s just that… well, after a while, I completely lost my temper at Chanyeol and told him that his attitude’s the real reason you stopped talking to him and then I said that it’s surprising you didn’t do so sooner, given the way he’s acting and then—” I break off, embarrassed, slightly angry, and definitely frustrated with myself. “It was stupid to say and untrue and I shouldn’t have even if he was provoking me.” Another angry stab at the chicken soup. “You guys shouldn’t even be fighting and I wanted to help, but after what I said, I don’t know if he’ll…”

Trailing off, I glance in Jongdae’s direction, nervous and very, very scared for what his reaction will be. He’s still cupping his mug, looking over the rim of it. It should be something I’m used to, but every time he gets that indecipherable expression on his face I can’t help but feel worried what his response will be.

Finally, Jongdae heaves a sigh. “It’s not something I would’ve said,” he starts, voice cracking slightly. “But if you want me to be honest, Chanyeol had it coming for him. I mean, he was the one who started it. And he did accuse you of some pretty bad things.”

A bit surprised at the response, I miss the pot completely and nearly hit the countertop. “Yeah, but…”

“I can’t blame you. And honestly, I might’ve said something similar.”

I turn around. “You?” I demand, then shake my head. “Jongdae, in case you didn’t actually hear that right, what I said was actually—well, it was downright spiteful. I literally told Chanyeol that he’s a bad friend and has been for a while and…” I shake my head again. “You’d never say what I did today.”

He laughs drily. “You’d be surprised.”

“Surprised,” I echo. “Why?”

He shrugs. “I might not say it, but sometimes the things I want to say are much worse.”

“Like what?”

“That’ll remain secret for now.”

I snort at the reply, feeling slightly better, before reaching over to turn off the fire. “Are any of those things directed at me?”

He gestures at me. “No, but they will be if that doesn’t taste as good as it smells.”

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