Chapter Text
The first knock’s faint. Barely a brush of fingers against the door. Honestly, Jongwoo isn’t sure if it came from the door or from the paper-thin walls separating him from the others.
He closes his eyes and tries his damnedest to drain his thoughts and get some sleep before he’s forced to get up and face yet another day in the company of Jaeho and his little team of wearisome employees and his ever-growing superiority complex.
This time, the knock’s a little louder. Two raps of knuckle against worn wood.
Jongwoo opens his eyes, only to close them again with a huffed out sigh. Today’s been enough, he’s not in the mood for some loony encounter with one of the maniacs he calls his studio mates.
He considers pretending he’s asleep. But one more knock has him sitting up, rusty bed springs creaking with the movement. He rubs his jaw with both hands, kneads his fingers into the tension in his neck to ready himself for whatever – whoever – is on the other side of the door.
He can’t say he wasn’t expecting Moonjo. The other day unit 306 kept juddering the doorknob until Jongwoo woke up and raked him over the coals for his manners. Ms. Eom usually yells through the door, and 313 prefers to watch Jongwoo from the outside of his own pig dirty room.
Moonjo’s the only guy who’s polite enough to knock.
“Can we talk?” Moonjo questions, all collected airs. Back straight, hands in pockets, not a single wrinkle on his shirt.
Jongwoo looks over his shoulder like there’s something important he needs to get back to. “I’m actually trying to sleep.”
“Just for a moment,” Moonjo adds.
Jongwoo purses his lips, chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment before nodding his head once.
He follows Moonjo up to the rooftop, their usual place that’s gradually lost comfort the creepier Moonjo began seeming.
There’s only one beer this time. Moonjo cracks it open and sets it down on the ledge in front of Jongwoo. Which. Well, Jongwoo nearly cringes at the idea of sharing a drink mouth-to-mouth with Moonjo of all people.
He’s about to object, say that he’s had enough to drink today, or that he’s in a hurry and needs to get back to his room soon.
Moonjo stops him short, sliding a cigarette out from behind his ear and tucking it between his lips, eyes dead ahead as he pulls a lighter out of his breast pocket.
So Jongwoo wraps his fingers around the beer and traces its rim with a finger until he hears Moonjo’s first inhalation of smoke, then, “What did you want to talk about?”
He can see the cloud of smoke leave Moonjo’s lips from the corner of his eye, slow and steady. Come to think about it, Jongwoo doesn’t think he’s ever seen him empty handed. There’s always a drink or a cigarette or a tennis ball around.
“I did some voluntary work today,” Moonjo states. “At an orphanage in Yongsan-gu.”
Jongwoo can’t bring himself to be interested. He nods, lifting his can up to his lips to take a long sip.
Realizing Jongwoo won’t be putting effort into making the conversation two-sided, Moonjo starts again. Takes a different route. “I don’t mean to intrude. I couldn’t help but hear you complain to your girlfriend about your job.”
Jongwoo side-eyes him, then fully turns to furrow his brow at the taller man. “Are you listening in on my phone calls?” he doesn’t bother sieving the annoyance out of his tone, shifting his weight with an irked tut of his tongue. What’s with these people and their lack of basic decency?
“The walls aren’t soundproof,” Moonjo corrects. “I was raised well, but you get loud when you’re angry, honey.”
Honey. Jongwoo can feel his grip on the drink he’s nursing tighten. And given the way Moonjo’s eyes flicker to his white-knuckled hold on it, he can tell Jongwoo’s not particularly fond of what’s going on right now.
He slides his tongue over his lips and brings the cigarette up to them, eyes not once wavering from him.
There’s something about the way the cherry at the end of the coffin nail sizzles and burns brighter for a moment that makes Jongwoo itch for a cigarette between his own fingers.
He quit once he was discharged from the military. He sometimes wonders if that’s another fountainhead for the unabating anger that’s always breaking out under his skin at the smallest of inconveniences.
Moonjo offers him the cigarette. “Oh, excuse my manners. Do you smoke?”
“I’m quitting,” Jongwoo replies bitterly.
Moonjo’s brows rise. “Ah… I must be tempting you then,” he laughs it out, like it’s funny in any way. But he has the decorum to put it out, smothering it into the ledge before he blinks back at Jongwoo.
“Are you done?” Jongwoo blurts, much ruder than he’d intended. He doesn’t make amends, just goes on in a tamer manner. “It’s late and I need to get some sleep.”
“I have a friend who works for a publishing company, and he’s looking for an editor,” Moonjo answers. “You’re a writer, aren’t you?”
Jongwoo stills. “What?” then, with less indifference, “No. Not yet. I’m just…” he shakes his head, averts his eyes. Doesn’t finish the sentence.
Moonjo tilts his head to chase his eyes with a small, squint-to-see quirk of his lips. “Don’t sell yourself short, honey,” he muses. “We all start somewhere.”
Jongwoo opens his mouth but closes it a moment later and bows his head. Kicks a pebble with a shrug.
“I told him about you,” Moonjo says absently, turning away to look at the rooftop view.
“Why?”
It’s honest curiosity. He doesn’t understand why Moonjo, or anyone really, would do something like that. He’s been complaining Jieun’s ear off for the past two weeks and all he’s gotten from her was, quit or, oppa, maybe you should talk to Jaeho about it, he’s an understanding man, or, can we talk about this later?
And that’s his girlfriend. The closest person to him in Seoul. So why?
“I can’t stand people who exploit others’ labor,” Moonjo responds, drumming his fingernails on the concrete of the ledge. He sucks his teeth, then turns his head to look at Jongwoo as he pushes himself upright. “Think about it,” he steps close and Jongwoo takes half a step back before standing his ground.
If Moonjo noticed, he doesn’t say anything. He pulls a card out of his pocket and tucks it into Jongwoo’s. “Good night.”
…
He’s pacing the small space of his room quietly, the business card a heavy weight between his fingers.
On the one hand, it’s a good opportunity. A step in the right direction; the direction he’s been wanting to take for a while now. On the other hand, what if he’s not qualified enough? He can’t risk it. That way he’d end up jobless and, ultimately, on the streets. He hates working for Jaeho but he can’t deny that it’s getting him a roof over his head.
And he hates Eden Studio and everyone in it, but it’s still better than a park bench, so.
He plops down on his bed and looks at the card, flips it over a couple of times. It’s thick. A deep shade of wine red. Just as tempting. His thumbs trace the gold numbers inscribed in it a second before he makes up his mind.
…
“Good morning.”
Jongwoo reaches for the shower tap to turn it down a little as he looks over his shoulder. “Ah, yeah. Good morning,” he mumbles back.
Moonjo ambles past him to stand under the shower head a few feet away. He’s silent as he pours shampoo into the palm of his hand, hair eclipsing his face from view.
Jongwoo can’t help but steal a glance or two at the scars marring his arms and back. Just a brief look that could pass as cursory before he clears his throat and goes back to his own business.
“I heard you called Hak Dae-Seong for the job.”
Jongwoo opens his mouth, then closes it and nods once. “Yeah,” he tilts his head back to wash the lather out of his hair. “I gave it a lot of thought before I called him.”
Moonjo hums noncommittally.
“I have an interview in a bit,” Jongwoo adds, making a quick job of cleaning himself before he grabs his towel off the hanger and wraps it around his waist. “Thank you for the opportunity,” he bows his head at Moonjo out of respect if anything.
“No problem,” Moonjo drawls. “We’re as good as roommates, it’s only normal to care for each other’s wellbeing, right?” it sounds rhetorical, but his eyes linger on Jongwoo for a few moments like he’s anticipating an answer.
Jongwoo nods, ducking his head again with a tight-lipped smile.
…
It would be hypocritical of Jongwoo to complain about the tenants’ lack of propriety then go and act the same way they do. And while he’s not a big fan of being in Moonjo’s company, he still owes him something for getting him a job that not only doesn’t require physical attendance, but also pays him nearly double the amount Jaeho does.
It doesn’t hurt that Hak Dae-Seong seems like a decent guy. Jongwoo hates to admit that he’s used to being trampled all over by his superiors, to the point where bottling up all his intrusive thoughts has become muscle memory. So of course, meeting with Dae-Seong today was, strange to say the least. He treated Jongwoo with a respect people higher up have never bestowed upon him.
He hesitates outside Moonjo’s door. It’s the first time he takes the initiative to meet him and he’s not exactly excited about it. He kneads his fingertips into his forehead, squinting an eye as he tries coming up with an appropriate thing to say once Moonjo opens up.
He doesn’t have the chance to ponder on it though, not for long. The door opens and Moonjo doesn’t even try looking surprised to see him outside his room. He blinks at Jongwoo in an almost blasé manner, then his eyes drop to the bag in his hand. His brows rise. “I see you bought beer,” he muses. “Should I be congratulating you?”
Jongwoo lowers his hand from his face and looks over Moonjo’s shoulder to not have to look him in the eye. There’s something unsettling about how bottomless they are. He forces his eyes back to his face a few seconds later. “I got the job,” he says after swallowing. “I wanted to thank you, but I wasn’t sure–” he cuts himself off when Moonjo eases the door a little more shut. “Are you busy?” a part of Jongwoo, a really big part of him, wants Moonjo to say yes and take a rain check.
But luck, as usual, isn’t on his side. Moonjo steps out, making Jongwoo take a pace of his own backwards to keep the space between them a constant. “Are you hungry?”
“Ah. Yeah, I ordered takeout,” Jongwoo responds. “Do you like Chinese?”
Moonjo tongues at the inside of his cheek like he’s thinking about it. Then he nods his head to the side, in the direction of the kitchen, and says, “Lead the way.”
It’s safe to say that Moonjo absolutely does not like Chinese.
He toys with the chopsticks for an unnecessarily long time, rolling them between his fingers as he stares at the dish before him. When he coils the noodles around the utensils, he keeps twisting them until Jongwoo clears his throat. “If you don’t like it–”
“I do,” Moonjo interrupts coarsely. He lifts the chopsticks to his mouth.
It’s the most expression Jongwoo’s ever seen come from him. His eyes close and his face twists into something disgusted. He forces himself to chew, molars moving slowly as he looks into the dish. When he swallows, he looks like he’s swallowing live coal.
“You hate it,” Jongwoo isn’t asking this time.
Moonjo tongues the residue food out of his gum as he puts the chopsticks down. “It isn’t to my liking, no,” he admits.
“Sorry, I didn’t know what you’d like–” Jongwoo rubs his curled fist against the back of his neck. The tips of his ears feel hotter all of a sudden. “And I wasn’t sure how to thank you.”
“There’s no need,” Moonjo asserts. He lifts his can of beer to his lips and sips at it slowly. Probably to flush out the aftertaste.
Jongwoo nods. “But still…”
He wants to thank him again, but he feels like there are no words that can amount to how grateful he actually is to be out of Jaeho’s clutches.
Speak of the devil.
Jongwoo’s phone lights up, moving a few inches with the vibrations of a call. Shin Jae-Ho.
“Aish,” Jongwoo curses. He reaches for it, taking it in a vice grip before he slides his thumb over the screen and brings it up to his ear. “Hello?”
“Jongwoo-yah!”
Jongwoo’s hold on his beer turns a little tighter. “Ah, hyung,” he greets in a mumble.
“Why didn’t you come in today?”
Jongwoo opens his mouth, then closes it and hisses. “I forgot,” he replies. “I forgot to call and take the day off. You see…”
Jaeho sighs on the other end of the line; a sigh that clearly says how do I put up with you? “Yah, Yoon Jongwoo,” his voice’s considerably calmer. It takes a composed and condescending note; the same one he uses when Jieun’s around. “Do you know how many people would die to be in your place?”
Jongwoo looks at Moonjo to see if he’s paying any attention to him. It’s disarming, the way Moonjo doesn’t even hide his interest, head tilting to the side as he watches Jongwoo struggle with his boss.
“I have mountains of resumes piling up on my desk every day from people who want to work for me,” Jaeho boasts on. “And all of them are more qualified than you are, but do you know who I chose?”
Jongwoo’s toes curl in his shoes, burning against their soles as he tries keeping his frustration at bay. “Hyung–”
“You,” Jaeho says. “I thought ah, Yoon Jongwoo, he’s a good kid with some potential, go ahead, Shin Jaeho, hire him,” he scoffs at his own words, like they’re a joke. “Not even a phone call to tell me you won’t be coming in?”
“I told you I forgot,” Jongwoo says quietly.
“Do you forget to eat? Do you forget to shower? Yah, you wouldn’t even have food on your table if it weren’t for me, you know that, right? That roof over your head? If I–”
Whatever else he has to say turns to muffled noise when Moonjo reaches across the table and takes the phone from Jongwoo’s hand. Jongwoo’s about to protest but Moonjo’s already hanging up and putting the phone back down on the table.
“Why did you do that?” Jongwoo asks, irritated and small. “He’s my–”
“Boss?”
“Friend,” Jongwoo corrects.
Moonjo’s brows lift in surprise. “Friend,” he echoes, drawled and amused. “Do all your friends treat you that way?”
Jongwoo swallows, bitterness settling on his tastebuds as he looks at Moonjo.
“Whoever he is,” Moonjo slides the phone back to Jongwoo. “Wouldn’t you feel better if you just told him how you feel?”
The phone vibrates again. Jongwoo reaches for it, accepts the call and readies himself for a salvo of insults. “Sorry, hyung,” he says. “My phone lost signal.”
Jaeho sighs and Jongwoo knows what he looks like right now. Shifted to one side with a hand on his hip and his head hung in disappointment. “You really need to get a new phone, kid.”
“Mm,” Jongwoo nods.
“Don’t be late tomorrow,” Jaeho orders.
“I won’t be,” Jongwoo replies.
He thinks maybe it’d be easier to quit over the phone. That way he won’t face the humiliation of having Jaeho chastise him in front of his colleagues. He’d also save the bus fare. But Jaeho gave him a job when no one else would, the least Jongwoo can do is tell him face-to-face that he’s found greener pastures elsewhere.
Jaeho hangs up without so much as a good night.
And Moonjo’s gone. Just like that. Not a can of beer or a bowl of untouched noodles in sight.
Jongwoo shrugs it off and goes straight to his room.
After some contemplation, he calls Jieun. Waits a few rings before she picks up. “Oppa,” she greets in her saccharine voice. “I was about to call you.”
“Ah, really?”
“Yes. Shin Jaeho-ssi called me and said your mind’s been all over the place lately,” Jieun replies. “Is everything okay?”
Jongwoo curls his lip at the mention of Jaeho’s name. Since when were they so close anyway? “Everything’s fine,” he answers.
The silence stretches on for a few seconds, then, “I’m quitting.”
“What?!” Jieun exclaims. “Why?”
“I found another job,” Jongwoo chews on his lip. “At a publishing company. It’s not that known but the pay is good…”
Jieun sighs. “Oppa, are you sure…” she thinks better of her phrasing and starts again. “I mean, writing is good. And you enjoy it. But aren’t you scared it might fall through?”
Jongwoo swallows. “Jieun-ah, you don’t know what it’s like going to that place. The people there… Look, my chief. He’s so condescending. Every time I ask him a question… They’re all–”
“Just like the people at the studio?” Jieun asks. She sounds irritated. She tuts her tongue. “Oppa, maybe you should just take a break. Jaeho wouldn’t mind. Think it through properly.”
Jongwoo clenches his jaw. “Ok.”
“I’ll talk to you later,” Jieun’s back to soft-spoken. “Get some sleep, okay?”
Jongwoo nods. Hangs up. And when he slams his fist against the wall, he hopes Ms. Eom doesn’t come complaining the next day.
…
It goes just as well as Jongwoo was expecting. Jaeho lords it over him for the better half of the day before Jongwoo breaks the news at lunch.
Everyone’s silent until Jaeho speaks up and says, ‘Are you for real?’ then continues into a long dialogue about how Jongwoo’s ungrateful and disrespectful and how he’s only ever treated him with goodness and kindness. Jongwoo tries to explain himself, which only makes Jaeho’s voice grow louder, drawing the attention of some nearby tables.
Jongwoo’s shoulders slump, hands curling into fists on his lap. His jaw clenches, eyes not meeting Jaeho’s. They’re fixed on the bottle in front of him. His heart picks up speed at the mere idea of slamming it into the side of Jaeho’s head just to hear him shut the fuck up. He tamps the idea down, swallowing thickly as Jaeho raves on and on about how great a CEO he is. About the amount of people who begged for Jongwoo’s position. About the team caring for Jongwoo since day one because he told them to.
Jongwoo gets up abruptly, legs of his chair screeching across the floor. He can hear Byeongmin’s stuttered agreement with Jaeho, followed by complaints of his own.
He rushes to the bathroom to gather himself up. Keep himself under control. The splash of water on his face helps a little. He leans his weight on the sink, head dropping between his shoulders as he closes his eyes on a heavy sigh.
When he comes out, his team’s nowhere in sight, Jaeho having paid the full bill as a last act of superiority.
…
The tenants are playing Jenga when Jongwoo gets back. He holds back the are you children? inching to the tip of his tongue and instead goes straight for the fridge. “Ahjumma,” he says as his eyes skim over the shelves. “Where’s the leftover Chinese I put in here last night?”
“Ah, right,” Ms. Eom laughs. “Well, the smell of onion was all over the kitchen this morning, so I threw it out. There’s meat in the second shelf–”
Jongwoo slams the fridge shut with a force that’s muffled by the rubber framing its door. It only makes him angrier.
“Omo, someone’s in a bad mood,” Ms. Eom chuckles. “Do you want to play a round with us, young man?”
“Can you not touch my food next time?” Jongwoo says back. “His food’s been rotting in there for a week,” he points at the pervert whose attention is solely fixed on the brick he’s trying to push out.
“Yah, 303! I told you the smell was everywhere.”
Jongwoo’s about to retort with something else. Something along the lines of that sick pervert stinks, why don’t you throw ‘him’ out too? but he stops himself, pursing his lips tight.
“What’s going on?”
Jongwoo exhales heavily out his nose and looks at Moonjo, standing in the doorway with the usual blank look on his face.
“Unit 303 flew into a temper because I threw his food out,” Ms. Eom laughs. “I’m going easy on him because he probably had a bad day at work,” she’s talking lightly, playful in a way that makes Jongwoo’s hands clench into tight dukes as he glares at the back of her head.
“Why did you throw his food out?” Moonjo questions calmly.
Jongwoo can’t help the relief at that. He was starting to think he was overreacting.
“Yah, Moonjo-yah,” Ms. Eom’s voice takes a solemn edge. Motherly. Jongwoo doesn’t have to look at her to know she’s eyeing Moonjo. Glaring at him maybe. “Are you questioning me?”
Moonjo blinks at her slowly. Then he’s not blinking at all.
Giggly twin’s laughter ebbs into nothing and the tower of bricks goes forgotten as the tenants look between Moonjo and the landlady.
“Of course not,” Moonjo finally breaks the silence. He smiles. Then looks at Jongwoo. “You can order more. Ms. Eom’s treat.”
Jongwoo doesn’t reply. Just. Storms out, knocking his shoulder into Moonjo’s on his way past him. Moonjo sways with the impact but otherwise says and does nothing.
Which only grates on Jongwoo’s nerves more.
…
It’s later that night, when the floor’s eerily quiet, that Jongwoo deems himself calm enough to go to the kitchen and make himself a pack of ramen.
He creeks the door open and peeks out to make sure 313 isn’t lingering outside his room with a knife behind his back. Finding the hallway completely empty, he tiptoes out, flinching at the groan of the floorboards beneath his feet.
He’s too busy looking behind him as he approaches the kitchen, making sure none of the tenants is lurking, to notice someone’s already in the kitchen.
He jolts at the sight of Moonjo, hand shooting up to clutch at his quickening heartbeat as he jumps back a step.
Moonjo puts a brick at the top of the tower before him and sits back, eyes sliding up to meet Jongwoo’s. “I was waiting for you.”
Jongwoo scruffs the front of his hair with a heavy sigh. He knows he’s putting his irritation on display, but he could care less right now.
“Have you ever played this game?”
Jongwoo looks at the pile of bricks. Shakes his head once.
Moonjo keeps looking at Jongwoo, expression unreadable as his eyes flicker over his features. “Do you want to play a round?”
Jongwoo gives the kitchen a desultory look. “No, not really. I’m actually hungry.”
“I ordered Chinese.”
Jongwoo’s eyes rest on him again. “What?”
Moonjo doesn’t show any sign of wanting to carry the conversation on until Jongwoo’s seated.
So Jongwoo sits down opposite him.
Moonjo’s tone is idle as he pushes a brick out of the tower and places it atop it. “Ms. Eom raised me.”
Jongwoo doesn’t say anything.
“She took me in after my parents died so I owe her some respect,” Moonjo murmurs on. “Don’t you think?” he looks up at Jongwoo as he sits back, giving him the next turn.
Jongwoo lifts his hand. Presses his finger to a few bricks before finding one loose enough to keep the thing intact. He puts it on top quietly.
It goes on like that for a small while. Silent. A bit tense. Every breath hangs too loud between them.
Moonjo’s careful with every brick he eases out. Occasionally, he’d tap one out for Jongwoo. Offer him a small smile right after.
“How’s your novel coming along?”
Jongwoo shrugs. “I’m stuck,” he responds, eyes fixed on Moonjo’s hand as he slips a brick out. “I always get stuck at the macabre parts.”
Moonjo puts the brick down and leans forward, crossing his forearms over the table. The action has the indication that he doesn’t want to finish the game and is more interested in whatever they’re talking about now.
“Why?”
“I– I don’t know,” Jongwoo mumbles, brow furrowing at the game separating them. “I feel like a pianist would treat murder like…” he trails off, seeking out the right word.
“Art?” Moonjo offers gently.
Jongwoo’s brows lift as he raises his head to meet Moonjo’s eyes. “Yeah,” he nods once. He feels a bit short-winded. Too understood. Translucent even. It’s hard to hide things around here.
Moonjo keeps looking at him. There’s so much in his regard. Intrigue. Secrecy and openness at once. There’s a hardly masked gleam of adoration that makes Jongwoo clear his throat and glance away, swiping his tongue over the dryness of his lips.
“A crescendo,” Moonjo utters.
“What?” Now, looking back at Moonjo, eyes owlish with curiosity, he realizes it’s hard to look away from him for too long.
“Symbolism. You could have him perform,” Moonjo fleshes out. “Write about how he plays a crescendo, an accelerando that reminds him of his victim’s heartbeat against his skin before it wanes into the grand stop.”
Jongwoo’s own heart quickens in the confines of his ribs at the words. He shifts, uncomfortable with the heat that inches up the sides of his neck to settle in the tips of his ears. “That’s…” the word leaves him choked, so he clears his throat and nods. “That’s clever. Really good…”
Moonjo smiles, visibly pleased with the reaction.
It occurs to Jongwoo that maybe Moonjo’s just trying to get on his good side. That like Jieun said, people here are different but different isn’t always bad. Moonjo hasn’t really given him a reason to be so suspicious and on his guard around him.
“Thank you,” he breathes out. He waits a moment, biting the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. “Do you want to read what I have?” he pauses again. “Tomorrow? I’m going to the café because working here is really…”
“Claustrophobic,” Moonjo finishes for him.
Jongwoo nods once. “You don’t have to. I mean, you have work so I could send it to you. If you want. Don’t feel–”
“I’d love to,” Moonjo slices into Jongwoo’s rambles.
Jongwoo blinks at him, clearly taken aback by the enthusiasm he’s met with. People are usually half-hearted about Jongwoo’s passions. Shelve him away for later. This feels. Weird. In a good way.
He opens his mouth to say something, but the floorboards creak and Moonjo’s eyes aren’t on him anymore. He’s looking behind him and whatever warmth his smile held is completely wiped out.
“What are you two doing here at this time?”
Jongwoo clears his throat and looks over his shoulder at the landlady standing in the doorway. “I just came to eat,” he answers.
Ms. Eom doesn’t seem interested in his answer, beady eyes fixed on Moonjo. Somber and unsmiling. “Don’t you have an early shift tomorrow?”
Moonjo rises from his seat quietly and rounds the table. He places a hand on Jongwoo’s shoulder as he passes him. “Good night, honey.”
Jongwoo remains still under Moonjo’s hand until it slides off, and it’s only when he’s left in an empty kitchen that he gets up to sate his hunger.