Chapter Text
Jiwoo awoke before his alarm could sound, the hush of the room pressing against his eyelids. Behind his closed lids, the clock’s dry tick pulsed like a distant heartbeat. If sleep had visited him at all, it was the fitful kind, each slip into oblivion snapping him back to the same spot, tense, slick with sweat, his thoughts cloaked in fog.
The house was heavy with early morning stillness, so deep that every step down the hallway made the floorboards creak like old bones. Jiwoo drifted, sock-footed, to the kitchen in oversized pajamas. He moved quietly out of habit, even here where no one could punish him for making noise.
The kitchen light was a bruised gray, not strong enough to color his world, only enough to reveal the outline of things that comforted or betrayed him by turns. He reached for the mug at the back of the counter, feeling the familiar nick at the lip with his thumb.
He set the kettle on to boil, staring at the rippling water as if it might blink first. In the pale reflection, he amusedly thought he looked similar to the zombies from those k-drama’s Kartein really liked—pale skinned with dark circles under his eyes and messy hair.
The pantry shelves were stocked with various things ranging from a massive box of chips Kayden had bought impulsively, imported coffee, and several packs of sports drinks. He opened it, closed it, then opened it again. His gaze moved absently over the bags of flour and sugar, the last packet of instant hot chocolate, the ancient bottle of hoisin sauce nobody ever threw away. His hand hovered, then closed on a battered box of baking soda. He held it carefully, then set it down on the countertop and stepped back to take in the rest of the kitchen. There was a fine sifting of flour already on the floor, footprints leading back and forth from the island to the sink and into the living room, a ghost-trail of last night’s failed efforts at something—he barely remembered what.
He had a choice: go back to bed and try again, or do something with his hands until his heart slowed down. He pulled out the big mixing bowl and set it on the counter with a clang that reverberated up his arms. Baking was a kind of muscle memory—flour, salt, sugar, baking powder, a ratio he could assemble by touch. The first time he tried to teach himself via the internet, Jiwoo ruined the batch so thoroughly that even the cats wouldn’t sniff it.
The rest of the steps were a blur. He dug through the fridge for chocolate chips, found none, substituted a handful of crushed Oreos and a dash of cinnamon he’d always liked even though Kayden said it was “weird.” He spooned the dough onto trays, careful to space them evenly, though he knew they’d run together and collapse into one big rectangle anyway. It was always like that—no matter how precise he tried to be, things collapsed. Still, the smell in the oven was warm and forgiving, and the sharp edge in his chest dulled just a little.
He didn’t realize how much time had passed until dawn’s flat light spilled across the kitchen tiles, turning the flour on the floor into something faintly luminous. The oven timer beeped, and he jerked, nearly dropping the mug he’d been holding. He set it down with trembling fingers, then turned to survey his work.
Every inch of counter space was lost beneath a landscape of baked goods: cookies, biscuits, a lopsided loaf that was more burnt than not. Stacks of plate edged up against each other in a cityscape of sugar and starch. He started cleaning, stacking the cooling racks, scraping dough off the cutting board, even scrubbing the sink for no reason other than the need to keep moving.
He was so intent on this—on not thinking—that he barely heard the floorboards above him creak. Footsteps, tentative and uneven, signaled the approach of someone who didn’t want to startle him.
The stairs groaned, first under the weight of Kayden, then under the more shuffling step of Kartein. Jiwoo heard them muttering, probably arguing about whose turn it was to make breakfast, or whether Kayden had remembered to turn the porch light off again. He didn’t look up. He focused on running a cloth over the counter in tight, feverish circles, pretending he didn’t know they were there.
Kayden was first into the kitchen, filling the doorway with his broad-shouldered silhouette. He stopped, took in the devastation of cookies and flour, and fixed his gaze on Jiwoo. The look was unreadable, but there was an unfamiliar softness around the eyes—a kind of wary concern.
“...Kid,” he said, voice gravelly with sleep but not unkind.
Jiwoo straightened, the rag still clutched in his hand. Behind Kayden, Kartein hovered in his usual way, arms folded loosely. Kartein’s gaze swept over the kitchen, then landed on Jiwoo with an almost amused interest.
“Good morning,” Jiwoo offered, a sheepish smile on his face.
Kayden just grunted, gesturing towards the mountain of cookies. “You trying to poison us or something?”
Jiwoo shook his head. “No, I just… I didn’t want them to go to waste.”
Kartein stepped carefully around a tray cooling on the floor, picking up a piece and examining it with the suspicion of someone who had once found a screw in his sandwich. “If you continue at this rate,” he said, “we’re going to have to convert one of the bedrooms into a bakery annex. Exactly how many people do you intend to feed?”
“I don’t know.” Jiwoo’s voice came out thin, almost brittle. “I guess I got carried away.”
“You think?” Kartein’s mouth twitched in something nearly resembling a smile. He reached for a cookie, then hesitated, as if deciding whether or not to break whatever spell held the kitchen together. He finally took one, bit off half, and chewed with deliberate slowness.
“Not bad,” he said, licking a grain of sugar from his lip. “Though I question your portion control.”
Kayden, for his part, leaned against the counter and regarded the cookies as if they might offer up a confession before he risked eating one. His gaze flicked from the cooling racks to Jiwoo’s face and back. Only after Kartein had survived two bites did Kayden reach for a cookie himself, palming it with the casual aggression of someone who could, if called upon, kill with a kitchen implement.
Jiwoo watched them both, heart clamoring in the hollow of his chest. He tried to will the flush from his cheeks, but it only deepened when Kayden took a bite, chewed, and then, rather than offer praise or complain, reached for a second.
Kartein’s eyebrow arched. “See, now that is a record,” he observed. “He never eats more than one unless he’s actively trying to clear the evidence.”
Kayden ignored this. “You used cinnamon,” he said, voice flat but not unfriendly. “Didn’t you say you were out?”
Jiwoo floundered. “Um, I found a little left in the bottom of the jar. I know it’s, uh, not very traditional.”
Kartein took another cookie, “You ever consider, Jiwoo, that you might be overcompensating for something with all this baking?”
Jiwoo flushed, the spark of shame igniting under his skin. “No,” he said. “I just like having something to do.” He tried to arrange the next words in his head—something about how it was easier to keep busy—but nothing coherent emerged. Instead, he started stacking cookies into neat rows on the tray.
Kartein shrugged. “If you say so.” His tone was light, but the look he gave Kayden over Jiwoo’s head said otherwise.
Jiwoo caught it and frowned. “What?”
“Nothing,” said Kartein. “Just noticing you’re in a better mood when there’s something on the table, that’s all.” Kartein reached out and ruffled his hair. It was a clumsy gesture, more used to tending wounds than offering comfort, but Jiwoo found himself leaning into it anyway.
The thing was, neither of them said a word about where he’d been the night before. They didn’t mention how he’d retreated to his room, or the fact that Kayden, who usually let him stew for days at a time, had knocked twice on his door and asked if he was alright. Instead, they hovered in the kitchen, making small talk about the weather, the state of the neighborhood, and the latest crime statistics that Kartein seemed to follow with unhealthy devotion.
“Did you see the report about the break-in a few streets over?” Kartein asked, passing Kayden a plate stacked with still-warm cookies.
“Looks like petty theft,” Kayden replied.
“Shouldn’t you tell Jiwoo about security?” Kartein prodded. “He leaves the back door unlocked half the time.”
Jiwoo bristled. “Only because the lock is broken.”
Kartein opened his mouth to retort but shrugged instead. “Touché.”
They went on like this, the three of them, for the better part of an hour: eating, sniping at one another, and occasionally letting the silence settle. By the time breakfast ended, every container in the kitchen had been filled with baked goods, the mountain of cookies divided into stacks for storage and stacks for sharing. Jiwoo’s hands finally steadied, muscles loosening as he packed several boxes for every neighbor on the street, plus a special tin for the old woman at the corner whom Kayden especially disliked but Kartein insisted was just lonely.
Kayden watched him tie the ribbon around the second box, eyes narrowed with obvious suspicion. “You know you’re giving away ninety percent of what you made.”
Jiwoo smiled, small and tight. “I know.”
“So why make this much?”
He shrugged, not quite meeting Kayden’s eyes. “It just… feels nice, I guess. The whole process of making and giving.” He waited for the lecture about wastefulness, or the reminder that kindness was a currency spent too easily, but Kayden only grunted.
“Don’t get used to it,” Kayden said, pretending to scowl. “Next time, you’re on cleanup duty for the whole week.”
“Deal,” said Jiwoo.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a way that was almost normal. Jiwoo delivered boxes of cookies to half the neighborhood, returning once with a cat that had followed him for three blocks and refused to leave his ankle. He spent an hour repairing the Cat Fortress in the living room, his efforts supervised by several extremely opinionated felines who perched on shelves and yowled instructions at him.
By evening, the house had settled into its usual rhythm. Jiwoo had just finished washing the last mixing bowl when he found Kayden dragging a cardboard box out from beneath the television stand.
"What's that?"
Kayden grunted as he shoved it across the floor.
“Movies.”
Kayden pried open the battered box with his thumb, sending a snowstorm of shredded packing tape onto the rug. “You know what a VHS is?” he asked. His tone implied Jiwoo might not even know what a hammer was.
Jiwoo nodded. “We watched them in elementary school. The teacher made us watch safety videos from, like, 2004.”
Kayden started stacking the tapes along the edge of the coffee table, muttering the titles under his breath. A few blockbusters, a martial arts classic with the box art sun-faded to jaundice, something with dinosaurs. Jiwoo pulled his knees to his chest and tried to picture Kayden as a teenager, sitting in front of a TV. The idea felt impossible, like imagining the river frozen solid in July.
“Pick one,” Kayden said, gesturing at the heap with a jerk of his chin.
Jiwoo scanned the covers, stalling. He tried to divine, from the battered spine of each tape, what the right answer would be. What Kayden expected, what he’d mock, what he might actually enjoy. He picked up a tape with a black label, some kind of action movie, glittered with dust. “This?”
Kayden wordlessly grabbed it from his hands, shoved it into the VCR with a plastic rattle, then dropped heavy onto the couch. Kartein followed, sitting on the other end.
Jiwoo tried to stuff himself into the crook of the armrest. Kartein’s hand closed around his wrist first, then Kayden’s arm hooked under his knees, and before he’d decided anything, his legs were across Kayden’s thighs and his cheek was against the warm fabric of Kartein’s pants. The blue screen blinked, and the tape whirred, the static snow resolving into the opening scene.
English voices, harsh and nasal, dubbed over Korean subtitles. Jiwoo squinted at the actors’ mouths, trying to match lip to word. Despite knowing English better than most other’s his age, it was still a pointless game.
An early fight scene sent a man through a pane of glass. Kayden’s arms were folded high on his chest, jaw set, and then he snorted. Not at the violence, but at the comically bad special effects, and said, “How did anyone ever believe this stuff? It’s obviously fake.” Jiwoo watched the man on screen stand up from the wreckage, shake glass from his shoulders, and keep moving. Then watched him do it again twenty minutes later. And again after that.
He must have dozed off at some point. When he opened his eyes, the end credits were rolling, music swelling and collapsing in tinny bursts, and the moon pouring silver through the living room windows. Neither of the men had moved. Cookie crumbs lay scattered across the coffee table and deep between the cushions. A scratchy blanket had been tucked around his shoulders at some point, and the left side of his face carried the ribbed imprint of Kartein’s pants. Neither had moved.
He pushed himself upright, blinking hard.
“You used to do that,” Kayden said finally. “Sleep through movies.” Jiwoo tried to remember, but nothing surfaced. Maybe he’d forgotten on purpose, or maybe Kayden was just lobbing nostalgia at him to see what stuck.
“Sorry,” Jiwoo said, even though that wasn’t really the right word.
Kayden exhaled. “You really think I kept these around for the cinematic masterpieces?”
Jiwoo coughed out a laugh, short and awkward. “You’re a collector at heart, huh.”
Kayden started to say something, aborted it, then looked out the window as if expecting the neighborhood to have changed in the last few hours. “You gotta learn how to stop thinking so damn hard,” he muttered, running a hand across his face.
The blue-white TV light stuttered over Kayden’s features, carving canyons out of his cheekbones. Jiwoo tried to come up with a reply, but nothing materialized except a distant ache behind his eyes. He pulled the blanket closer, not sure what he meant to do with it.
“Next time you can pick something better,” Kartein offered. He stood, stretching with the creak and pop of old elastic, then started gathering up the mugs and crumbs. “But I doubt our little dramatist here could survive a romance movie. He’d combust after the first monologue.”
Jiwoo smiled in spite of himself, then began to help clean up. It was easier this way—hands busy, brain on autopilot, just one foot in front of the other. He crammed the tapes back into their box, the way Kayden had done. He liked how they fit together, edge meeting edge, no space for them to rattle or collapse.
He finished wiping the table and looked up to find Kayden eyeing him, something unreadable written across his face.
For a few heartbeats, Jiwoo expected Kayden to let the moment hang. Instead, he crossed the room in two steps, careful not to disturb the tape-box fortress.
Jiwoo dropped his gaze. “I’ll put out the trash in the morning.” He knew, in that way he always knew, that Kayden wasn’t thinking about chores.
Kayden huffed once, low, a sound that didn’t quite make it past his teeth, then stooped in a single motion and scooped up the blanket—and Jiwoo with it. Jiwoo barely even registered it until his knees were hooked over Kayden’s arm and his head tipped backward, hair falling into his eyes. The world swayed at a different angle.
He didn’t bother protesting. Kayden would’ve ignored him anyway. It was easier, somehow, to let himself be carried now than when he was younger and fought every gesture of care tooth and nail. The weirdest part was how light he felt. Kayden made it look like carrying another human was as easy as hauling laundry to the next room.
Jiwoo caught a glimpse of Kartein, leaned against the kitchen counter and watching with a mug balanced loosely in his hands. The healer didn’t smile, not quite. He just inclined his head once, as if to say, ‘About time,’ and made no move to interfere.
Kayden didn’t take him to the spare bedroom. He took the winding path up the stairs, every board announcing their ascent, then paused in the hall. For a second, Jiwoo thought he’d be deposited on his own bed, but Kayden jerked his chin toward the master, and Jiwoo’s face went hot enough to startle himself. “Seriously?”
Kayden raised an eyebrow. “You want to wake up in cold sweats again and freak out the cats? Or do you want to sleep like a normal human being for once?”
Jiwoo considered. “Do you snore?”
Kayden didn’t answer. He just nudged the door open with his socked foot and swung Jiwoo onto the bed, then dropped the blanket over both of them. The mattress barely dipped under the extra weight. There was that unfamiliar pillow smell—laundry soap, old aftershave, a faint static tingle from whatever shirt Kayden had worn last. Jiwoo pressed his cheek into the pillow, the tension in his shoulders draining out by degrees. He waited for Kayden to get up and leave, but instead, the older man stretched out over the covers, arms crossed behind his head, staring up at the ceiling like he could bore a hole through it.
“Are you going to sleep here?” Jiwoo whispered.
“Wouldn’t be in the bed if I wasn’t planning on it,” Kayden said, voice a little less gravelly now.