Work Text:
Surely, Dongsik thinks, it is tonight.
Seven in the evening in Manyang is often marked by shops closing up except for the restaurants, which are frequently populated by their patrons until a little later at night.
Seven in the evening in Seoul, however, is characterized by incessant yet incomprehensible chatter from passersby, of couples walking together with arms linked, and the occasional group of young, high school students rushing back to cram school.
On Christmas Eve, the scenery shifts with a generous addition of Christmas decorations on the streets, of jaunty, cheerful tunes blasting from the overhead speakers.
Dongsik watches all of these as he stands in front of Han Joowon’s apartment building, towering and gleaming as the city lights reflect off the glass. Technically, he should be ringing the doorbell somewhere in the fifteenth floor, but the noises all around him prove to be an enticing distraction.
Seven years ago, Dongsik first stepped foot in Seoul after climbing up the ranks with the kind of speed that was attributed to either the well-connected or the insane. Inspector Lee Dongsik, who had made strings of arrests and solved a multitude of cases—enough for him to be plucked from a small town’s Violent Crimes Division and tossed with the elites.
Seven years ago, Dongsik thought of Seoul as a city rife with youth and crime, of monsters lurking nearby. He resolved to catch one after the other, substituting them for the void in him that he could never fill.
He’d caught more than a dozen criminals, but none of them were responsible for Yuyeon.
Seven years later, Seoul hardly changed. The buildings and the winding streets remain the same, the entertainment district still a popular destination as the skies change hue. He passed by his old work building on the way here just for the heck of it, and nearly stumbled in his steps.
Not because of the pain. But because of its resonating absence; his thigh not flaring with any phantoms linked to the memories of the people he’d lost. There’s no ache despite Dongsik remembering Sangyeob’s determination, his foolhardiness. There’s no ringing in his ears and for the first time, Dongsik considers throwing away the bottle of pills that he carries in his pocket.
It’s as if the inanimate objects and places that once hurt him have entered dormancy. Dongsik is not so hopeful that it’ll all mean something in the long run; he’s not his court-assigned therapist.
After a few more minutes of walking, he eventually made it back to where he was supposed to be: to closely observing the doors and the people coming in and out of Joowon’s apartment building. A family of four heading west, followed by a young lady speaking to someone on the phone, her heels clicking against the pavement with each rushed step, an elegantly wrapped present tucked under her arm. After her comes a businessman around his age, checking his watch and hurriedly flagging a taxi. They head south, presumably towards a high-rise hotel.
He’s no longer part of the police, but this particular habit is hard to let go of. He observes the clothing, the mannerisms. The kind of accessories that some of them have on, or the phone model they carry in their hands. Aspects difficult to change on a whim and items easy to identify.
All these people hail from wealthy families. Anyone who lives in this place dresses like it, including Han Joowon himself with his pristine coats.
Dongsik, meanwhile, is only a visitor. He doesn’t belong here. This is the terminal observation, the culmination of wasting minutes standing in front of the building instead of heading upstairs where his host awaits him.
Tonight, he thinks, with more certainty. Joowon will realize it tonight.
Each step he takes is done slowly, and he’s counted at least sixteen before he reaches the doors of the lobby. He enters then, and from there, he keeps his eyes on the ground. He shares the lift with an elderly woman whose nails catch his attention because of their color, and Dongsik looks at their face.
They could’ve been Yuyeon if life was kinder and time was magnanimous. Yuyeon at sixty, nearing seventy. Him at her side looking just the same, in due time.
The woman catches his gaze and wishes him happy holidays, and Dongsik returns it.
He leaves the elevator ahead of them, and once the doors slide shut once more, Dongsik’s memories of his sister’s smile fade as he remembers the time.
7:10. Joowon will have some questions.
He rings the doorbell at 7:12, and only waits for three seconds before the door unlocks, a waft of something mouth-watering and distinctly Western hitting his nostrils.
Dongsik enters then, changes into the slippers Joowon has provided for him the last eight times that they’ve done this, and finally meets Joowon’s inquisitive stare.
“The traffic?” he asks.
“My knees,” Dongsik lies, because it’s easier to come up with a joke that will suit his purpose. “At my age, it takes twice as long.”
The apartment is devoid of any decor that would have reminded him of tonight’s occasion. No tree or any gifts in sight, and Dongsik is thankful for it. Christmas wasn’t anything he looked forward to either; one has no use for presents when there was an absence of company. Tonight is different, but this is likely a one-time thing.
Joowon is frowning at him as they sit across from each other, with Dongsik on the couch. Even the frown suits him, is what his traitorous, weak mind thinks. Joowon is in a black turtleneck and cream-colored slacks, a pair which encases his thighs rather nicely.
Dongsik simultaneously wishes there’s someone else around to appreciate this and for that someone to continue not existing. It’s a conundrum.
“You took the elevator to get here,” Joowon says. Something flashes over his eyes, and he’s too slow to blink it away before Dongsik looks at him.
A dash of hurt, followed by confusion, and immediately done away with steady, ceaseless determination. This close, Dongsik can dissect every flit of emotion that crosses that handsome face and not tire of it.
Resisting the temptation to point out what he’s seeing, he gestures to the food between them. “Tell me what this is.”
Having found something else to focus on, Joowon then utters a series of French words that goes over Dongsik’s head. Whatever it is, it’s best paired with the blackcurrant wine that they’re also having for tonight, dated 1962 and imported from Seville.
Dongsik eyes his plate and the side dishes accompanying it, and makes a single, passing comment.
“Fancy.”
Joowon gives him a look that’s too much like rejection, and while Dongsik once enjoyed seeing him distressed and at a loss, witnessing it now stings like self-flagellation, so he picks up his fork and samples the meat.
Tender, cooked to perfection, and bursting with a myriad of flavors that Dongsik rarely indulges in. He prefers the sourness of a kimchi stew over this—this caters to an aristocratic palate that he doesn’t possess.
It’s good, and Joowon has undoubtedly perfected this recipe. But it’s not for him. An heiress would’ve been impressed with this meal, or any well-to-do young lady hailing from a well-connected family.
Instead, Joowon is serving an incredibly intricate and extravagant meal to a man who’s only learning what healing feels like. A man who picks up pieces of whatever’s left behind, hoping that they no longer hurt him.
“You don’t like it,” Joowon says, astute as ever. It frightens Dongsik sometimes, how he used to be wholly unpredictable to Joowon, only for Joowon to know exactly what’s on his mind with a single look.
Joowon should direct that single-minded focus elsewhere.
“I didn’t say that,” he denies, washing the taste off with a sip of wine. It’s sweet and somewhat spicy against his tongue—another foreign taste compared to the familiar comforts brought about by the burn of soju or the sweetness of makgeolli running down his throat.
“You hate the wine too,” Joowon notes, and Dongsik sees him deflate: broad shoulders slumping, eyes downcast. He takes a generous sip from his own glass and avoids looking at Dongsik.
Tonight, Dongsik thinks, absolutely certain.
“I’ll get you some water,” Joowon offers, and despite Dongsik’s protests, he’s standing to retrieve two bottles from his fridge. He places them at the table and Dongsik takes pity on him, unable to enjoy his misery like he used to.
“You’ve seen my cupboard at home,” he says, because they’ve had these meals at his house too, and there, Dongsik served him instant noodles straight from the pot and ignored his complaints about the lack of nutrition and presentation. “You know what I prefer.”
“Soup,” Joowon says. “All kinds of it: beef, fish, pork, mushroom, or even made from vegetables. You’ll eat anything that has a broth.”
“Yes,” Dongsik acknowledges, punctuating it with sampling another piece of whatever Joowon made for him. It even melts in his mouth; if he was younger, he would’ve been so, so flattered.
“You don’t have to force yourself,” Joowon tells him, and when Dongsik reaches for the glass of wine, Joowon wraps his fingers around his wrist to stop him. “Stop.”
Dongsik does, because there’s something in that voice. Something he may have missed, if he was completely honest with himself.
There is no torrential downpour soaking them, no more darkened, dusty basement concealing decades-old secrets, and still Han Joowon is pleading.
Joowon lets him go, and Dongsik uncaps the water bottle instead. He drinks unceremoniously, a few droplets running down his jaw that he has to wipe them away with the back of his hand.
“You knew I’ll be driving on the way back,” he says. “Why offer me wine?”
Joowon looks as if he’s been caught red-handed. His face colors, the tips of his ears turning pink. But he answers in that same baritone that Dongsik likes to hear.
“I was hoping.”
Bold, if Dongsik isn’t mishearing or misinterpreting those words. He eyes the entire apartment: the interior that can be interpreted as minimalist when the proper word is either practical or austere, the distinct absence of memorabilia from any of Joowon’s previous workplaces and schools.
All in his father’s estate, Dongsik recalls, collecting dust and untouched. A side of Joowon that he hasn’t bothered to bring here.
“Were you hoping for a nice dinner?” Dongsik asks.
Joowon finishes his meal and his wine, and starts gathering the dishes. Dongsik watches him clear the table meticulously, balancing the plates on his forearm while holding both glasses in one hand. His free hand is what he uses to turn on the sink, and the sound of rushing water tells Dongsik that dinner is over.
He barely ate anything, but he has no appetite.
Joowon doesn’t speak until he has the plates and the glasses deposited in the rack, his hands continuously exposed to running water. He doesn’t speak until he’s washing his hands, painstakingly scrubbing even the webs between his fingers.
A distraction. A desperate attempt.
“We have nothing in common,” Joowon observes, and the way he delivers it makes Dongsik ache. It’s a curious thing; he’s been thinking about it since Joowon’s return to Manyang, but to hear it voiced out splinters him in ways he hasn’t anticipated.
“I prefer Western food,” Joowon continues. “The food at Yoo Jaeyi-ssi’s is good, but it’s an acquired taste to me. You love that kind of meat: marinated and sizzling over a griller, as opposed to ones seasoned with obscure spices and selected after minutes of contemplation.”
Dongsik inhales, and the sting in his chest intensifies.
“You prefer soju or makgeolli over wine,” Joowon says. He’s still washing his hands, now soaping the back of his wrists the way schoolchildren are taught, and it would’ve made for an endearing sight if only he wasn't shelling out truths that Dongsik has been waiting for him to realize. “You like low-budget films with poorly done CGI and comedies. You like sitcoms. I’ve never seen anything that isn’t foreign or subtitled in my life, except the movies of old that were in black-and-white.”
Tonight, Dongsik thinks, knowing it’s their last. When he goes home after this, there’ll be no calls from Han Joowon. No text messages asking if he’s free while specifying a date, no more casual inquiries about whatever he’s doing. After this, the chances of seeing Joowon take part in their group meals will decrease exponentially, until his disappearance ceases to make Dongsik feel anything, because he has no right to long for someone he isn’t compatible with.
Han Joowon is not even thirty and at his prime. He should be out there, in some high-class bar on the top floor of a luxury hotel, mingling with people around his age, sharing champagne with them the moment he solves a case.
He should cease doing things for Dongsik out of misguided remorse. He shouldn’t be inviting Dongsik here on Christmas Eve and making a meal for him, only for his efforts to not be appreciated. Somewhere out there is someone who will swoon at everything that he’s doing, if only he’ll go out and meet them.
Perhaps, after this. It took some time, but Joowon is making the same conclusions now, and all Dongsik has to do is wait. Then he’ll return to Manyang and never see Joowon again, the both of them living their separate lives.
It was one thing to go and solve a twenty-year-old serial murder case together. But now that that’s behind them, all the glaring differences made themselves known: the age gap, the varying experiences, the clashing opinions and tastes. Dongsik hasn’t had the chance to date anyone because finding his missing sister had eaten him away when he was younger, but surely, hoping for someone as polished and refined as Han Joowon is shooting for the moon.
Joowon deserves someone whole and not mending. Someone who has this apartment’s keys in their pocket instead of a bottle of painkillers.
Joowon is wiping his hands with a towel as he steps towards the player, pressing a button there, and the first few notes of classical music can now be heard from the speakers.
“I like this and opera music,” he tells Dongsik, despite knowing that there’s no need to. “You like rock songs from the eighties and ballads from the nineties, and even though you don’t know half the lyrics to Bon Jovi’s music, you still try to sing their songs anyway.”
Dongsik smiles at that; Joowon may have witnessed a couple of his embarrassing attempts to sing along to a song in a different language.
“While you can sing them perfectly because you speak English,” he says with a nod.
Joowon lets out a breath and remains where he is: in front of the player with his finger frozen over the play button, his eyes nowhere on Dongsik’s person. Dongsik estimates the distance between them to be fewer than five steps, but it gapes the longer the silence stretches.
Soon, neither of them will be able to reach the other.
“We have nothing in common, Lee Dongsik,” Joowon says quietly, some of the words lost over the notes playing in the background, but Dongsik hears them because he’s been waiting to do so for months now. Since their first date, and he’s already lost count how many they’ve had. Late night dinners at Jaeyi’s that eventually led to midnight snacks at his house. All blamed on the alcohol served at the butcher shop, when they both know that Joowon had consciously partaken in, just to be with him for even longer because work takes him too far from Manyang.
Dongsik opens his mouth to concur just as Joowon sighs. Dejection radiates off him in waves, and he shuts his eyes.
“But there’s no one else I want,” Joowon whispers.
Dongsik stares at him, stuck in his seat and unmoving as he parses the words. They ignite something in him: a slumbering torrent of heat that swelters his insides, coursing through his bloodstream and sending his heart jackknifing in his chest.
Breathing seems like a task he’s incapable of, but he tries. He tries and the world fades into nothingness, and it’s only him and Joowon and the stereo and all its smooth, precise notes.
“Liszt,” he says, unable to help himself.
The confusion that sits on Joowon’s face makes him even more attractive, and something ravenous twists in Dongsik’s gut. A different kind of hunger, now that he knows just what this all means to Joowon. Why he went back, stuck around, and is determined to wait.
“What?” Joowon asks, frowning.
“Specifically from Piano Concerto No. 2,” he says, though it took a while to remember the number. “Unless I’ve forgotten what it sounds like.”
Joowon turns to the player and his lips part in surprise, and Dongsik stands. He makes his way to where Joowon is and nudges Joowon’s finger aside, and presses the button for the next track.
This close, their shoulders are touching, Joowon’s body heat undeniable against him even through layers of fabric, but Dongsik closes his eyes as a new series of notes begin playing.
“This one’s Chopin,” he says. “Andante spianato. My grandfather liked this one. Yuyeon used to practice it.”
He presses the button again, keeping his eyes closed as the music is abruptly cut off and transitions to another.
He lets a few notes play, head tilting in thought. “Mendelssohn,” he says with a decisive nod. “On Wings of Song.”
Another press, and he only needs to hear a few notes. “Brahms. Sixteen Waltzes, Op. 39.”
He lets a few seconds pass before he presses the button again, and has to pause.
It’s familiar to him, like all the others before it. But it takes him a moment, and he’s so preoccupied with thinking that he doesn’t notice Joowon move.
But when Joowon does, he’s got Dongsik trapped between the player and the bulk of his body, his breath ghosting the back of Dongsik's neck. Against his shoulders, Dongsik feels the brush of Joowon’s arms. Keeping him where he is.
He opens his eyes and sees that Joowon’s hand has covered the small screen of the player, concealing the track’s title from him.
“I wasn’t cheating,” he retorts, a bit offended.
“I didn’t say you were,” Joowon says, and this close, every exhale fans his skin, the hair there standing. This close, Joowon’s voice trickles like the rumble of thunder, and Dongsik’s breathing falls a little out of sync. “Guess this one. You were doing so well.”
Dongsik grits his teeth. Now that he’s distracted by Joowon’s proximity, his thinking falters. He knows this is inspired by an Arabic folktale, but he can’t remember what.
The title comes to him in a flash, and he can’t help smiling.
“Scheherazade,” he says, as best as he can. He may have botched up the pronunciation based on Joowon’s huff of amusement against his nape, but he knows he’s right. “It’s from Scheherazade.”
“By whom?” Joowon asks, because of course. The top graduate of the KNPU never gives half-correct and incomplete answers and expects the same from everyone around him.
This is where Dongsik’s memory fails him, and the song ends before he can even say anything. It’s followed by something that is distinctly Tchaikovsky’s, and he tells Joowon as much.
Joowon hums, rich and with a touch of curiosity. “You know them well.”
“I was planning to pursue music as a career before life said otherwise,” he informs him. “This was part of the teachings, and while I didn’t play the piano, Yuyeon did. I wanted to prove to her that I could name whatever she played.”
A moment hangs between them, and Joowon’s hand moves from the player’s screen to the stop button, the music ending prematurely. Dongsik gathers himself and finally turns in place, still ensconced in between Joowon’s body and the shelf housing books and Joowon’s collection of classical records.
“We have something in common,” Dongsik says, because he can no longer deny it.
Joowon has an eyebrow arched for him, gaze darting to the player somewhere behind Dongsik. “Classical music knowledge?”
Sometimes, Dongsik wonders if Joowon chooses to be obtuse on purpose because it makes him look less imposing. Dongsik will hate the act on anyone, but this is Han Joowon.
“There’s no one else I’ll drive to Seoul for,” he admits.
Joowon’s expression shifts like a flower blooming in time for spring as understanding sets in his eyes. The hesitation rapidly recedes, only to be replaced by something fierce—something possessive.
Dongsik takes note of his surroundings and finds that he has no wish to move elsewhere. It’s Joowon who takes a step forward just as Dongsik leans back, not minding the jagged edges that are now digging into his skin.
(He’ll mind later. It’s a problem for future him.)
“Rimsky-Korsakov,” Joowon suddenly whispers in the space between them—a hair’s breadth and incremental as their mouths inch closer.
Dongsik blinks, not comprehending. “What?”
“The one you couldn’t remember,” Joowon says, the corner of his mouth quirked, and he has his head angled while Dongsik’s pulse hammers against his ears when he pauses and blinks twice. “Am I misreading things right now?”
Dongsik reaches up, cupping Joowon’s nape and closing his eyes. The first brush of their lips is hot and not enough, but Joowon is taking too long to respond so Dongsik contemplates withdrawing and apologizing.
Only for Joowon to sigh against him and meet him with a ferocity that sends him backwards still.
His head knocks against a set of books and he gasps at the momentary pain. He’s rendered breathless by Joowon’s tongue seizing the chance and sweeping in, and Dongsik’s other hand finds purchase on Joowon’s shoulder, while Joowon loops one arm around him.
Joowon tastes like wine. Wine and the meat that he seasoned to perfection, accompanied by yearning and savage want. Dongsik burns for him and is met with the same feelings twofold: Joowon shifts his grip around him, instead planting both hands on his hips and effectively trapping him, heedless of whatever items the force they exerted together ends up knocking over to the ground.
In their desperation, somehow, Dongsik’s elbow bumps against the player and music echoes throughout the apartment once more.
“Vivaldi,” he husks when they break apart, a thread of saliva caught between their mouths. “Spring.”
“Winter,” Joowon breathes, and Dongsik nips on his bottom lip in response. “It’s Winter, and you’re mistaken.”
Dongsik laughs, most of it captured by Joowon’s hot mouth. The song becomes the least of his concerns, turning into background noise as he wills his mind to begin cataloguing the sounds Joowon is sweetly making for him: every sigh, gasp, and all the shudders along with each.
He hears his name, uttered so brokenly that he tugs Joowon closer to him, wanting to have him skin-to-skin, for his scent to catch onto his clothes so he’ll remember this night.
“Dongsik,” Joowon says in between heated, wet kisses. Dongsik hums, and is met by a hard, demanding press of Joowon’s lips. “Don’t go anywhere else tonight.”
Dongsik pulls away then, studying Joowon’s face: the tinge sitting high on his cheeks, his full, reddened lips, and his dark, bottomless eyes.
He’s mad, Dongsik thinks. Has to be, to want Dongsik this much after everything, to not look elsewhere despite his arduous wait for Dongsik to be ready.
But Han Joowon has always been mad; it’s another trait they share. It’s how they managed to find Yuyeon’s killer after twenty years.
He brushes the hair over Joowon’s forehead and plants a kiss there—soft, unhurried, less like a tease and more like a promise.
“I’ll stay,” he says.
Joowon allows a smile to grace his features, their foreheads pressing together as Dongsik gives in and smiles back.
“You should consider hanging some mistletoe up there,” he says, earning a curious hum. “To commemorate the occasion.”
Joowon looks up for a moment, eyes narrowing in thought. Then, resolutely: “I don’t need it.”
He leans in once more to prove his point, and Dongsik hates how the display of confidence has sent something in his gut plunging. Embarrassing for his age, really.
“Order some takeout,” he says when he recovers, grinning when Joowon pauses. “I haven’t eaten much tonight.”
“I’ll get some of that galbitang that you like,” Joowon says with a tiny nod, and Dongsik imagines hearing something similar to that in the future.
Tonight, he thinks.
Starting tonight, they’ll compromise.