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Seungcheol sees the boutique next door while waiting in the coffee shop drive-thru line. It must be new. He's never noticed it before while doing his pre-appointment caffeine run. The shop's exterior is bright and cheery, jewelry and tiny accessories glittering in the display windows. People leaving (all women except for one presumed boyfriend) carry small, pastel blue gift bags stamped with the boutique's curly logo.
He considers it as he taps his steering wheel, scooting forward around the coffee shop as each car pulls out. Seungcheol always keeps a face mask in his car, and it's cold enough outside that it will not attract attention. There is still plenty of time before the appointment. Money's no concern.
But he shouldn't.
After Seungcheol has settled his drink in the cupholder, he hesitates long enough at the coffee shop's exit that another car honks at him.
He pulls around to park.
“Done?” Seungcheol asks, looking to his physical therapist for mercy. But Eunkyung just laughs and thumps his heaving back.
“Another ten reps,” she says. “Come on, tough guy. You’ve got this.”
“I’m not a tough guy,” Seungcheol whines, but he resumes the single leg squats anyway. Single leg squats, he’s decided, are the most evil exercise. Squats are bad enough with both legs. With one leg, his bad leg? Terrible. Worse yet, Eunkyung has steadily been modifying the exercise to make it harder—removing the sitting step in-between movements, making him go down lower, stay down longer, and now making him do the exercise while holding a dumbbell. She is a wicked woman.
She’s also very good at her job. His knee has improved far more quickly than he expected. Eunkyung and his surgeon are both forecasting a complete recovery—as much as can ever be hoped for after an ACL tear, at least. It still hurts sometimes, and the potential for re-injury remains high. Between that and his panic attacks, the military passed him over. He’s still not sure how he feels about that. Relieved? Guilty? His brother insists he won’t be missing anything, good riddance, but he also never argues when their father and uncles talk about military service as a rite of passage that turns boys into men.
Seungcheol tries not to dwell on it.
Anyway, he’s glad this will be his final physical therapy appointment.
The electronic chime of the clinic’s front door sounds off. Another victim entering the lair, Seungcheol thinks between squats. For a while, all he hears is Eunkyung counting his reps and his own strained breath. But just as he finishes and drops the dumbbell to the mat, a familiar voice rings through the clinic’s small gym.
“Noona,” Jeonghan calls in his broadcast tone. “I’m back.”
Eunkyung turns and puts on a mock scowl, hands on her hips. “Yoon Jeonghan! Didn’t I say that I never want to see you here again?”
“Hehehe, sorry. It’s not my elbow though. I’ve been doing my home exercises diligently. Scout’s honor!”
His crutches and walking boot make it obvious that his elbow is not the problem. Despite these burdens, Jeonghan crosses the room with grace, long hair already held back with a black fabric headband. He hands a file folder to Eunkyung, settles on the bench neighboring Seungcheol’s, and greets him with, “Yo, Coups-ah. Are you almost done?”
“I’m done!” Seungcheol pants, triumphant. Then he looks to Eunkyung. “Right?”
Eunkyung nods, her eyes already flitting over the documents in Jeonghan’s folder.
“Do you want me to wait?” Seungcheol asks Jeonghan. “We could get dinner.”
“You just want to record me making ugly faces.”
“That’s something you’d do, not me.”
“Hmm, fine. Treat me to baeksuk.”
“Baekseuk in winter?"
“It'll be good, trust me.”
Since the surgeon hasn’t cleared Jeonghan to put weight on his foot, Eunkyung is limited in what tortures she can put him through. Still, she’s inventive, so she sets him first to testing his range of motion once the boot is off and then begins teaching him special stretches.
Seungcheol watches for a while before going to the clinic’s restroom to wash up. He ducks his head over the sink and scrubs water through his hair to clean out the sweat. Then, dripping, he digs a tiny bottle of facial cleanser out from his bag and massages it in with slow, indulgent circles.
He’s looking rough, and he can’t even blame it all on Eunkyung. While off-camera and recovering from surgery, he hasn’t gone to his usual esthetician appointments or hair cuts. His hair is getting shaggy; he likes the length, but it looks messy and uneven no matter how he tries to style it. He’s bulked up too, more muscle than fat, but it’s…just too much, he thinks. That’s the best he can figure for why looking in the mirror feels weird lately.
Seungcheol rinses his face, strips off his soaked shirt, and applies deodorant and a spritz of cologne before putting a fresh shirt on. He packs everything tightly back into his bag, careful not to crush the pastel blue gift bag tucked away there. Then, tugging a beanie over his still-damp hair, he emerges from the restroom to find Jeonghan now working on the floor. He’s rolled on his side and doing what Eunkyung calls “clamshells,” a weird sort of leg lift meant to strengthen glutes for stabler walking. They are tough—Seungcheol was relieved when Eunkyung cycled them out of his routine, and he actually had decent glutes to begin with. Jeonghan, nearly assless, is struggling, jaw tight and brow furrowed.
Even like this, with sweat beading on his forehead, he is pretty.
Seungcheol looks away from his pink cheeks and mussed hair, tunes out his breathy sounds. He distracts himself with vanity searches instead while Jeonghan and Eunkyung complete the routine. Soon, they are wrapping up, Jeonghan wiping himself dry while still seated on the floor, listening as Eunkyung outlines what he should do at home between appointments. Seungcheol puts his phone away to eavesdrop too. Jeonghan is good about managing himself, but it’s a decade-long habit for Seungcheol to at least be aware of the members’ needs.
“Make sure you eat plenty,” Eunkyung tells Jeonghan. “While you’re in the habit of doing rehab, it’d be good to also try putting on more soft muscle. I know you’re already really active, but you’d get injured less often if you were stronger and better nourished.”
Jeonghan laughs. “So, I should aim to be like Coups-yah? People won’t like that for me.”
“It doesn’t have to be to that extent. Just think about it.”
“Of course, noona.”
And Jeonghan smiles his sweet smile that means he will absolutely not do what you want.
One of the managers dropped Jeonghan off, so they take Seungcheol’s car to the baeksuk restaurant that Jeonghan swears is nearby. But they don’t drive far before the ice-slick streets narrow and they are forced to complete the journey by foot, turning down tight alleys and climbing a steep hill that bulges with uneven pavement. Seungcheol bites back a complaint about the hill only because Jeonghan says nothing. He just puts his crutches down firmly with his uninjured foot and trudges forward step by step.
Finally, Jeonghan announces, “It’s up these stairs.”
Seungcheol follows his gaze and frowns. On the second floor of a building, there’s a sun-faded sign simply advertising both chicken and duck baeksuk. The steps leading up to it are skinny and tall with no guardrail.
“You sure?”
“It’s the best baeksuk you’ll ever taste in your life,” Jeonghan says. “One of the other patients recommended it back when I was going in for my elbow, and I went all the time then. They don’t deliver, so it’s been a while.”
He’s already stopping his crutches in front of the first stair and stepping up with his good foot. With a grunt, Jeonghan heaves himself up with the crutches, his immobilized foot still hovering in the air. Seungcheol makes sure his bag is well-balanced on his shoulder and sticks close behind him. At least he will break Jeonghan’s fall if he slips.
“Maybe I should just carry you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jeonghan says. “With your knee?”
“It’s mostly better. Noona said I can stick to home exercises now, unless something gets worse.”
“Carrying me up a flight of stairs seems like a fine way to make it worse.”
“You’re light.”
Jeonghan and his crutches are on the third step now. It’s more than enough for him to look down at Seungcheol disdainfully. “Not that light.”
So, pride slightly dented, Seungcheol follows Jeonghan. It takes them far too long to ascend a single flight, but they make it up the stairs with no further injuries. Jeonghan takes a moment to gather himself, slipping on his stage face, and then he steps aside for Seungcheol to open the door.
“Auntie!” Jeonghan calls.
A woman looks up from behind a massive, out-dated cash register, her lined face cracking into a broad smile. “Hanie! Where have you been? And what have you done to yourself now?”
“It’s just a little ankle problem. The surgeon fixed me up good.”
“You’re too young to be having all these surgeries! Hurry up and sit down. And who is this?”
“My friend Cheolie,” Jeonghan answers, already maneuvering himself to one of the four tables inside the tiny restaurant.
Seungcheol bows his head in greeting. “It’s nice to meet you, auntie.”
“Oh, you’re a handsome one! Just like my husband when he was a boy. Sit down, sit down. What’ll it be today?”
Jeonghan leans his crutches against the wall as he orders for them. Seungcheol takes the chance to look around. It’s an old-fashioned place, kind of dingy but scrupulously clean with not much decor aside from the menu on the wall and a framed newspaper clipping that has yellowed with age. Seungcheol squints, but he’s too far away to read the headline. They are the only customers, but it’s a weird time to eat dinner, and baeksuk is a summer dish anyway. Aside from the woman waiting on them, it sounds like there is one other person hidden away in the kitchen, judging by the occasional clangs and bumps. A savory aroma permeates the entire restaurant, and Seungcheol's stomach clenches.
Jeonghan orders a lot. A large chicken baeksuk for them to split plus memil buchimgae, fried mandu, and warm moju to drink. The restaurant owner brings the moju and banchan right away. When she finally finishes loading their table and leaves, Seungcheol says, “I’m not that hungry.”
“What? Don’t lie. I saw you puffing away with Eunkyung.”
Seungcheol corrects himself. “I should probably cut back.”
“Why?”
“I’m too big. It won’t look good when I resume activities.”
Jeonghan sips his moju, considering him over the cup with his eyelids low. He sets it down and swallows before answering. “You look good to me.”
Seungcheol can't help but ask. “You like it?”
“Yeah.” It's just one word, but Jeonghan must think it is too honest because his gaze cuts away, back to his cup. “You seem healthier than you have in a while. It makes you even more handsome.”
The compliment goes down like the moju does, warming Seungcheol even as he wonders whether it’s all right for him to have. “People won’t like it,” he says, using Jeonghan’s own excuse.
“It suits your image to be broad and bulky. The leader should look dependable.” Jeonghan’s hand curves around his own elbow, fingertips brushing his still-pink surgery scar. “I can’t look like that.”
“You could. Your father’s pretty solid for a guy his age. And I’ve seen your huge uncle.”
“I could. Seventeen’s Jeonghan can’t.”
Seungcheol taps his cup, watching the thick moju ripple inside. He recognizes this Jeonghan mood, tired and resigned and a tiny bit bitter, but that doesn’t make it any easier to handle. It’s a relief when Jeonghan exchanges his cup for his chopsticks and starts picking away at his favorite banchan dishes. Seungcheol follows suit, sticking to the spinach and green beans since they have so much other food arriving soon.
"I don't really mind sticking to my image," Jeonghan says suddenly—a peace offering, an apology. "It works for me. We all have our part to play, right?"
"Yes." They agree on this much, at least.
All of the banchan that Seungcheol samples are perfectly seasoned and promisingly delicious. Seungcheol's resolve to keep his calorie count low crumbles to dust when the owner emerges with the buchimgae and mandu. Steam still rises off the buckwheat pancake as they tear off big pieces to eat. The wrappers of the fried dumplings crunch satisfyingly beneath their teeth. If the baeksuk is even half as good as the appetizers, then Seungcheol understands why Jeonghan insisted on climbing up that damn hill.
He looks across the table to tell him this, but Jeonghan has his head ducked over his dish, hair falling forward and hiding his face. One pinky tucks the wayward hair behind the left ear and then the right. The black locks curl lushly against the soft skin of his neck, ready to fall again.
“Goodness!” the restaurant owner tuts, and Seungcheol startles. Neither she nor Jeonghan notice, too busy with exchanging the empty banchan dishes with filled ones. A cart is parked beside her, a pot steaming away on it with only glimpse of pale chicken flesh visible from Seungcheol's seat.
“When are you going to cut your hair? You could almost be my granddaughter.”
“Hehehe, you wouldn’t want a granddaughter like me. I might cut it soon. I just haven’t had time with the surgery.” Then, as if tattling, Jeonghan tips his chin in Seungcheol’s direction. “What about him? His hair is almost as long as mine right now.”
The restaurant owner regards him. For some reason, Seungcheol finds himself straightening his posture.
“He needs a cut too,” she declares. “He’s no granddaughter though.”
“Ah, but he’d be a much better one than me!”
She laughs and waves a hand as if to dismiss a silly joke. Seungcheol isn't so certain it was a joke though. Then, with a grunt, she hefts the baeksuk cauldron into its designated place at their table. The whole chicken is an aromatic wonder, stuffed full of ginger and jujubes and garlic and different kinds of nuts. Seungcheol and Jeonghan marvel at the dish to the restaurant owner's satisfaction. She watches them take their first sips of broth and first bites of the tender chicken and toasted rice from the bottom of the cauldron.
When finally the restaurant owner leaves them to enjoy their meal, Seungcheol lets his chopsticks rest against their holder.
“Do you really think I'd be better?” he asks.
Jeonghan slurps his broth. "Better at what?"
"Being a granddaughter."
It's a ridiculous question. But Jeonghan entertains ridiculous questions from the members all the time. It's one of the reasons why they prefer to bring their feelings and problems to him instead of Seungcheol. Jeonghan doesn't even remark on how stupid it is or give Seungcheol an odd look over his dish. He just says, matter of fact, "You'd enjoy it more than me."
Seungcheol shouldn't agree, and so he doesn't reply. But just as Jeonghan is right that baeksuk is the perfect dinner for after physical therapy, he is right about most things.
They eat in silence for a while, bent over their dishes. Between bites, Seungcheol steals glances at Jeonghan's mouth, watching his lips spread around morsels, tracking a drop of broth that slips down his chin. When Jeonghan suddenly shakes his head, Seungcheol first thinks he's irritated at him. He's told Seungcheol to stop staring too many times. But it's his hair that's irritating him, the long locks having slipped from behind his ears and into his face again.
Seungcheol asks, “Where’s your headband?”
“Too sweaty. I forgot to bring an extra one.”
Seungcheol hesitates. Then he lifts his bag from the floor to his lap and digs inside. He doesn’t have an extra beanie, nor any hair ties since he wasn’t expecting to see Jeonghan today. But he does have his impulse purchase from the boutique.
“Here,” he says, opening the stamped paper gift bag and withdrawing its contents: two barrettes clipped to a backing card. The barrettes are silver and reflective all over, including the tiny twin cherries on each accessory’s end.
Jeonghan accepts them and examines the cherries closely under the restaurant’s dim lights. “Did you buy these for your dog or for yourself?”
“Kkuma, of course. I can't wear them.”
“You could. I think they’d look good on you.”
Despite this, Jeonghan unclips the barrettes from their packaging and places them in his own hair. They gleam as he resumes eating, and Seungcheol watches how the cherries catch the light, satisfied. Pretty stuff doesn’t suit Seungcheol, but he still likes seeing it around him.
"You can keep them," he offers, "if you want."
Jeonghan huffs. "I'm not going to steal from your princess."
He returns the barrettes after they finish eating and Seungcheol settles the bill. Carefully, Seungcheol clips them onto their backing card and replaces it in the gift bag as Jeonghan gathers his crutches and bids the restaurant owner farewell. She cautions Jeonghan to watch out while going downstairs, but Jeonghan cheerily tells her he will be fine.
Once the door is closed and the cold evening envelops them, however, Jeonghan reassesses the steep steps. He sighs.
"Give me a hand, Coups-yah."
The steps are narrow, so they press close together. Seungcheol takes one of the crutches with one hand and wraps the opposite arm around Jeonghan's waist, supporting his weight. Jeonghan keeps the other crutch and uses it and Seungcheol to keep himself steady as they slowly descend.
Seungcheol's bad knee twinges, but it's not any worse than how it usually feels lately when going downstairs alone. Jeonghan is so light. Eunkyung probably has a point about him needing to put on some soft muscle. The military didn't pass over Jeonghan even after the latest surgery, so maybe he can do it while doing his alternative service. Maybe he can keep it after.
They are on the last step when Jeonghan's crutch slips on the stair's edge. He gasps, but Seungcheol hugs him tight so he doesn't fall. Jeonghan clutches him back. His fingers dig into Seungcheol's coat as he gets the crutch safely back under him, not releasing until he is standing steady on the flat ground.
"You saved me," Jeonghan says, laughing nervously. His cheeks are flushed pink again, either from embarrassment or the air's chill. "You can let go now."
"Are you sure?" Seungcheol's arm fits around Jeonghan so well. "We still need to get down that awful hill. Remember how uneven the pavement was? I'm strong enough to support you."
Jeonghan considers him, eyes first assessing his expression before dropping to his chest and arms. The flush deepens.
"You are."
They are standing close enough to taste each other's breath, the meal they shared. Even with the sun having set, Seungcheol can see the chapped skin on Jeonghan's rosy lips. If Seungcheol leaned in—if Jeonghan allowed him—
But they shouldn't.
Seungcheol hands the other crutch back to Jeonghan silently. Jeonghan reaches for it, but his hand drops before making contact. It lands on Seungcheol's arm instead. Squeezes.
"Let's go," he says.
They walk back in the dark, arm in arm, as one.