Chapter Text
Cross Stitch
A stitch formed of two stitches crossing each other.
Seonghwa glared at the fried end of his thread and then at the tiny hole of the embroidery needle held by two of his trembling fingers as if they had personally insulted him. The stubborn strand refused to cooperate, twisting and splitting apart like a live thing determined to mock his efforts.
Class hadn’t even properly started, yet pearls of perspiration were already trickling down his sideburns and dangling from his pointy chin.
The yarn he had chosen for his warm-up round of stitches was a delicate but stubborn one. Mrs. Han, the teacher, had warned him plenty about its trickiness, but Seonghwa was nothing if headstrong and inflexible.
He bypassed the pot of thread wax by his side and wet the frizzled end with a quick swipe of his tongue like he’d seen the ajummas do thousands of times before. He took a slow breath, even knowing that it couldn’t do much to steady his hands.
There was a faint warmth constantly crawling through his skin, like the lazy flames of a bonfire licking up wood logs. It made the needle feel especially slippery. That, and pre-heat was never kind on fine motor skills to begin with.
Just as he was about to smash both the thread end and his whole damn fist against the needle eye, Mrs. Kim softly cleared her throat at his side. The gentle click of her trusty knitting needles made for a steady counterpoint to his mounting irritation.
“You’re too tense, dear,” she said, threading gently.
Seonghwa could tell she had purposefully made her voice as soft as a well-worn shawl to not irk him further.
“Cut off that end and lead the new one where it needs to go. It’ll find the path on its own if you offer it a gentle hand, you’ll see.”
Seonghwa let the insulting tools fall on the table and forced a small, tight smile before facing up. He easily found her full, rosy cheeks a few seats down the table.
Mrs. Kim was the friendliest-looking auntie in class and the one who had first greeted a skittish and unsure Seonghwa when he had shown up to his first knitting class at Banul, the previous fall. She had short poofy brown hair always styled in a perfect bob and a homey smile.
Her favorite items were hair clips and she never missed a chance to brag about her ever-growing collection, curated by her loving husband. Seonghwa always made it a point to compliment her new ones every Saturday in class. That day she wore a big one, a denim flower with petals so large they occasionally fanned over the smooth plane of her forehead.
“I appreciate the advice, but you’ve had thirty years of practice imo, go easy on me please,” he replied, unable but mostly unwilling to stop a sulky pout from molding his naturally soft voice into something whinier.
He would normally be mindful of not coming across as too petulant, but it didn’t matter here. At the law firm it would garner him weirded-out stares, even from his closest colleagues, but the Banul ajummas loved it. When he let himself pout and whine, they would flock all over him like endeared mama birds. Perks of being the only under-thirty attender, he figured.
Mrs. Lee too chimed in from the other side of the long table they all gathered and worked at, “Unnim, can’t you see the poor darling is all frazzled? How could he possibly have a steady hand? Look, I bet you could fry jeon on his cheeks”.
The scolding but somehow fond look Teacher Han gave Seonghwa from across the table then only made him blush harder. He patted the scalding and clammy skin of his face with both palms and made sure to send her a doe-eyed look back. As expected, it instantly melted the tightness from her lips.
“Don’t give me that look, young man,” she nagged, though the serious growl in her voice couldn’t win against the genuine, benevolent twinkle in her eyes. “You know we don’t like you coming here when you’re so close to your heat,” she admonished him.
Seonghwa pressed his lips together and nodded slowly, doing his best not to wrinkle his nose as a warm, roasted-barley scent curled into his nostrils.
Mrs. Kim had shuffled a seat closer, making room for a few late arrivals who’d just stepped inside. Seonghwa shot the incoming ajummas a welcoming smile and moved his bag on the floor to free up a seat.
“See? You’re all sensitive, warm and squirmy. And what is today’s class about? Embroiding, snipping and being patient” Teacher Han argued, pointing an accusing finger at his twitching nostrils.
“I’m naturally responsive to earthy scents,” he protested.
She scoffed, then opened her other hand and held it there as if weighing her next argumentation, but Seonghwa beat her to it.
“And there is no chance I’m going to give anyone trouble here with my own scent anyway.” Something in his voice, just a notch crankier, must have tipped him off because Mrs. Kim’s expression softened. She reached out, cupping and patting his hand in quiet consolation.
The ajummas had learned all about his scent impediment, eventually. Seonghwa had told them often enough not to feel sorry for him, but their soft hearts wouldn’t be swayed. And truthfully, he didn’t mind, he liked the coddling. Not being able to properly scent others didn’t bother him much anymore. It was still enough to nest, and that was all that really mattered to him.
“It’s the two-hour trip down from Seoul we are all worried about here, honey, you know this”, Teacher Han reminded him.
Seonghwa pursed his lips and glanced around the small room to avoid her searching eyes. He longed for something, anything, to break the heat blooming in his cheeks, but Banul was always the same.
Wide windows framed the steady, slow shimmer of Lake Majang just outside. Its ripples moved so lazily in the serene fall season that they only made his own restlessness more obvious. Sun-warmed baskets of yarn were stored in cubicles fixed to the walls, their colors soft and unchanging, smelling faintly of lanolin.
Other than the subsided scents of the women around him, soft notes of fresh, roasted coffee wafted up the staircase from the little café below. Even the gentle shuffle and click of needles and hooks around him felt like part of a well-rehearsed lull.
It was all familiar, safe and entirely useless for distraction.
Unfortunately, Teacher Han had the aggravating ability of always being right. He was awfully sensitive, horridly warm and terribly squirmy, but he also was an overworked junior associate with no other vent valve but these classes. A mild fever and the threat of cramps couldn’t deter him from attending.
“Either way, you can’t send me home. I paid for the entire year in advance,” he pouted, resolutely picking up his fried thread. That elicited a circle of giggles and chuckles all around him.
He grabbed a pair of scissors from one of the many woven baskets full of sewing and knitting equipment on the long table and snipped way more than was needed with a self-satisfied grin. When he finally looked up, everyone was still looking at him with knowing eyes and irremediably fond smiles.
“That I can’t,” Teacher Han conceded, sending an equally tender and vexed smile his way. “But I can keep you at those cross stitches until you’ll want to quit” she winked, clapping her hands once to finally start class.
By the time the stubborn thread finally slid cleanly through the needle’s eye, Seonghwa felt smug like he’d ultimately wrestled it into submission. He gave it a small private smirk, then bent over and started on his warm-up cross stitches.
He was secretly grateful to Teacher Han for the chosen task. While cross stitching without a pattern quickly grew dull, it gave him the momentary peace of simply repeating the motion over and over.
His fingers were shakier than usual and most of the lines looked somewhat wonky, but Seonghwa decided to not be too harsh on himself and just enjoy the manual work for what it was.
The bell downstairs chimed faintly just as he was about to punch the needle through the cloth to tie it up. He startled slightly but luckily didn’t unhook his thread. The ring was quickly muffled by the café’s warm hum and he relaxed again as the soft sound of needle work around him drowned it out.
It was but a few minutes later that the stairs creaked and Seonghwa once again blinked out of his engrossed state.
There was someone peering at them from the doorway. A young man, all wind-tossed hair and sharp citrusy scent. It was a crisp contrast to the warm and soft blend of scents already settled in the room. It cut straight through it and tickled Seonghwa’s twitching nose with the unexpected sting of pollen in spring.
Even sitting down he could tell he was shorter than Seonghwa by several centimeters, with bright orange hair that looked almost aflame against the golden light of the room. He looked rather awkward as he shuffled in place in front of the excited group of ogling ajummas, but for some reason he didn’t exactly look out of place.
Instead, just like his scent, his presence too quickly molded itself to the room until he was invited to sit by a very cheerful Teacher Han.
Seonghwa muttered a few expletives under his breath, glancing up just long enough to take in the newcomer’s cream-colored knit cardigan before bending back over his work with renewed determination and the most aggravating tremble in his fingers.
The familiar wave of nausea followed swiftly, but he pushed it down with practiced effort. His own rain-and-lavender scent never sat well against anything citrus, but he was determined not to let it get to him especially today.
Chemically incompatible scents were common enough, it was just that his cycle made it far more pronounced. The floral head of his scent became unbearably gentler and the acidity of citrus easily became overwhelming, creating quite the jarring contrast.
It usually gave him migraines and wooziness, but he couldn’t expect every citrus-scented person to immediately pull out a scent patch around him. Still, he allowed himself a few muttered grumbles of frustration just to dispel his raging temper.
Teacher Han offered the newcomer the seat nearest the door and met Seonghwa’s eyes with a very worried gaze.
Seonghwa sent her a small smile and gently shook his head. I’m okay, he mouthed, proudly waving his embroidery hoop around to brag.
The needle stung his raw cross-stitch pattern right in the middle, but he was sure that from afar his chosen cherry red thread still made a very compelling sight. He smoothened the wrinkles of worry on her forehead with his signature smug grin and promptly ignored the man who was curiously glancing at him.
Mrs. Kim, however, stiffened beside him. Her gaze kept darting between Seonghwa and the newcomer. Her frown deepened as soon as she took a good sniff of the fresh, unsettled mix of scents in the room.
“You okay, dear?” she murmured, low enough for only him to hear.
Seonghwa diverted his eyes from the new attendee and hummed, firmly keeping his eyes on his needle as he picked it back up.
“I’m fine. A little queasy, but fine. Nothing that your warm scent can’t fix, imo” he made sure to put in some extra sugar as he smiled down at her, but she didn’t seem convinced.
“But with your heat coming on it surely can’t be good…” she trailed, expert fingers twitching on her curved needle. She was clearly fighting the impulse to soothe him with a few, well-placed pats on his back.
“I’m really fine, imo” he repeated gently. “I can’t ask him to leave, can I? And I’m not sitting this out for the world. You need me to make your stitches look extra clean, don’t you?” he asked cheekily.
He did his best to ignore the staggering feeling of being watched to instead focus on Mrs. Kim as she sighed, patted his arm with her left hand and let the topic go. Though Seonghwa enthusiastically went back to his stitches, her eyes still flicked toward the young man now tentatively picking up a spare piece of cloth and a royal blue ball of yarn.
The room eventually settled into a gentle, industrious quiet. Only the muted thud of needles piercing fabric, the quiet bustle coming up the stairs from the café and Teacher Han’s soft steps broke the hush. She drifted up and down the long table, leaning over shoulders to offer a word of praise here and a small correction there.
Seonghwa kept his frowning gaze on the taut fabric in his embroidery hoop. The cross-stitch pattern that class was focused on today was proving far more trouble than it had any right to be.
It was an innocuous-looking rose, rather simple in shape, but the three shades of pink they were meant to use for the petals were supposed to blend seamlessly into each other, and his thread work was not looking the neatest.
Teacher Han had, as always, given all her students the same tools and pattern sheet, but after his miserable warm-up attempts Seonghwa was already lagging behind. Mrs. Kim had already leaned over his side three times to straighten his thread or redirect his needle.
Seonghwa told himself the real reason for his slow progress was the hidden difficulty of the pattern. It wasn’t the bright, citrus-snap scent drifting from the far end of the table, or how it hooked under his ribs every time he breathed.
It wasn’t the faint nausea, the heat warming his cheeks or the small tremors that refused to still his fingers. His pre-heat was still manageable and he was good at working under pressure, but that unpleasant scent pressed in mercilessly. It prickled at the back of his nose in a persistent sting that made him aware of every bead of sweat cooling against his skin.
Still, Seonghwa blinked hard and focused on lining up the next stitch.
“Very nice work, Hongjoong” Teacher Han’s warm voice floated over, followed by a gentle chuckle. “You’re a natural, I could tell right away!”
She was standing by the newcomer with a blinding smile. Even from his side of the table Seonghwa could hear the easy, pleased hum in the young man’s reply.
He didn’t dare look up from his cloth, but the words still lodged like a burr under his skin. “Oh this is me really putting in effort, trust me” he chucked, “but I’m really enjoying this class, Han-ssaem.”
Mrs. Kim’s shadow pressed over him again just then and she brushed a gentle hand over his to correct the stitch he’d just fumbled. He forced a thankful smile and let her expert fingers punch the next few stitches. He idly looked at his work then, slowly becoming aware of just how lopsided his rose looked.
“It has personality,” Mrs. Kim reassured warmly, tilting her head as if admiring a rare breed of flower.
She cross-stitched a smaller petal with inhumane speed and Seonghwa could only watch with a mix of admiration and envy simmering low in his gut.
“That’s one way to put it,” he muttered, lips twitching in distaste despite himself. When her gaze followed his own, she caught sight of Hongjoong’s hoop and the glare Seonghwa had fixed on it.
Mrs. Kim’s eyes softened in quiet amusement. “Ah… I see where the storm is blowing,” she said, voice rich with amusement.
She’d long since learned that Seonghwa’s pride didn’t take kindly to being outshone, even in a skill that wasn’t exactly his strong suit. Even at school, he’d always been told his ambition was too fiery and that he needed to reign it in if he wanted to make friends. The results were poor either way.
Seonghwa kept glaring at the almost completed and beautifully executed rose pattern and set his jaw as a slow lick of irritation curled in his chest. Hongjoong’s smile was sharp and self-satisfied.
Handsome. The thought flickered unbidden, only for Seonghwa to sever it with the same curtness he reserved for snipping his threads.
“Don’t scowl too hard dear, or you’ll wrinkle before your time.” Mrs. Kim only giggled again, the sound full of mischief.
“I’m not scowling,” Seonghwa said, tone clipped but defeated by the obvious pout shaping his lips like the bud of a rose. Mrs. Kim only patted his shoulder, as if humoring a child caught red-handed with sweets.
“Mhm, and I don’t add extra sugar to my tea,” she winked and went back to her embroidered bouquet, leaving him with the comforting scent of roasted barley and fabric softener.
He unclenched his jaw, but the sulking expression firmly stayed in place as he bent over his hoop again. He forced his stitches into sharper and cleaner lines, as though it might erase the earlier fumbling. It wasn’t about besting anyone now, just the principle of proving to himself he could do it.
Though, no matter how focused he tried to keep himself he couldn’t help but be hyper aware of his surroundings. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hongjoong pause in his work to examine his nearly completed work—the head of his rose was beautiful, he had to admit, but still had no stem nor leaves.
Just then, the man glanced up and over the green yarn basket on the table. Seonghwa blinked and adjusted his thimble, ignoring the awkward cling it made with the blunt end of his cross stitch needle. A moment later, Hongjoong stood and casually made his way over.
Seonghwa eyed the basket wearily, feeling a ball of anticipation form in his chest. The closest path would take him right past his seat.
He seemed to notice too, because when he neared Seonghwa’s ramrod straight back, he slowed his step and angled his shoulders away to give him space.
Hongjoong too was tense and wore the sort of contrite and oblivious expression people use when pretending not to notice a stray cat in their yard. One that means: I see you, but I don’t want to spook you.
Seonghwa kept his eyes on the crimson thread in his fingers, even managing another neat cross before the air shifted. Now only a few paces away, Hongjoong’s citrus scent hit him so hard that all the careful tolerance he’d built over the last half hour crumbled in an instant. It almost felt like the room tilted slightly, and the pleasant hum of chatter and needle work stretched aggravatingly thin in his ears.
His fingers tightened on the hoop as a wave of vertigo surged and pulled the breath right out of him.
Ever-observant, Mrs. Kim silently reached for the basket first and lifted a forest green spool, offering it with a gentle, “Here, Hongjoong”.
Her lively black eyes flicked briefly to Seonghwa, as if to assess his condition and silently warn him not to make a fuss at the same time.
Hongjoong gave her a small, almost apologetic nod as he extended both hands to politely accept the yarn.
“Thank you,” he gave her a small bow. His voice was a bit raspy but overall soft and even a bit high-pitched at the ends.
He then stepped back, still careful and measured as though he was planning each movement in advance. It was a deliberate courtesy, and Seonghwa knew he should’ve appreciated it, but his chest tightened instead.
The thought that a stranger’s presence had the whole class walking on eggshells because of him made his skin prickle. This was his knitting class, his sweet and slow Saturday at Banul, his Mrs. Kim with her warm smile and gentle hands.
Heat prickled along his spine and a mix of irritation, pride and pre-heat-fueled irrationality made him act rashly.
Ignoring the nausea still crawling up his throat, Seonghwa lifted his own hand and snatched the spool from Mrs. Kim, thrusting it toward Hongjoong’s outstretched fingers.
He should’ve been more careful, but he acted upon nothing but his instincts when he let their wrists brush. A fierce spike of citrus shot up his nose, and a dizzying twist made the edges of the classroom blur and his stomach swoop dangerously. Vertigo hit him harder and a wave of heat blazed through his gut.
Hongjoong immediately snatched his hand back and quickly retreated to his seat under the watchful, concerned gaze of all the ajummas.
Teacher Han kept a steadying but careful hand on Hongjoong's shoulder and studied his suddenly pale complexion for a few seconds.
Seonghwa too watched with beady eyes as he gave her a reassuring smile and class hummed on around them. The soft clatter of needles and hesitant murmur of conversation slowly picked back up.
Even as Teacher Han came over to offer gentle praise for his half-finished piece, Seonghwa felt untethered. The ajummas, familiar with his usual puppy-like delight at their attention, easily sensed his unease but they simply glanced at him with quiet concern and returned to their own work.
Seonghwa felt grateful and unnecessarily emotional but still stuck somewhere between irritation and an unfamiliar pull that churned in his stomach. He didn’t trust himself to speak so he just bent back over his rose.
He tried to coax the crimson thread into neat cross stitches, but his fingers trembled betrayingly. The brief pride he had felt in his handiwork crumpled and he swallowed a hiss of frustration as Mrs. Kim wordlessly abandoned her own hoop to help. He clenched his teeth but forced a small smile in thanks.
Class eventually wound down just around sunset, as was usual. The soft shuffle of chairs and murmured goodbyes blended with the clink of cups from the café below in a familiar lull. Seonghwa packed the embroidery hoop and needle in his pouch, then spun the thread with meticulous care, fingers still trembling and head worryingly woozy.
Once done with her tools, Mrs. Kim nudged him gently.
“dearie, let’s go grab our tea?” she said, eyes crinkling with warmth and worry.
Seonghwa hesitated, not exactly feeling like staying anywhere near that pungent citrus scent if he could help it. But then he looked at Mrs. Kim and willed her benevolent concern to draw out a small nod from him.
The corners of his mouth twitched into a visibly reluctant smile, but her barley scent didn’t sour and safely led him down the creaky staircase.
They settled at their favorite sunlit corner table and ordered their usual jujube tea with a single smile at Jinsoo, the owner, who was ready to greet them with two steaming cups. Seeing her bright cherry cheeks and quick eyes made Seonghwa’s smile a bit easier to uphold.
“Made it with CheongKwanJang syrup today,” said Jinsoo, setting the cups down with a silly flourish of her hands that made them all chuckle.
“It’s extra sweet, but no extra sugar! Very good for the blood,” she winked and hugged the empty tray to her chest as Mrs. Kim’s eyes lit up.
“No wonder it smells so rich! You’ll have us spoiled, Jinsoo-ya.”
“I already have,” she teased right back, straightening the spoons on their saucers before glancing at Seonghwa.
“You too, Seonghwa-ssi. I expect that cup to be empty before I see you go. You need all the energy.” Seonghwa gave a faint huff of amusement, instinctively curling his hands around the warmth.
“It will be, Jinsoo-noona” he reassured, though the queasiness still had him hesitant. Seonghwa lifted the cup to his lips. The faint tang of citrus was still there, sharp but manageable now that he had distanced himself from the source.
“I’ll leave you to chat,” Jinsoo said with her usual cheeriness.
“Thank you,” he murmured, echoing a decisively more enthusiastic Mrs. Kim.
Seonghwa sipped quietly for a few minutes, forcing the sweet tea down even though every swallow tasted a bit too much like bitter lemon to pretend he was enjoying it as he usually would.
The distaste must have been clear as day on his expressive face, but Mrs. Kim didn’t scold or fuss. She simply hummed contentedly under her breath and leaned back in her chair to savor her tea.
The small table by the window was warm beneath his elbows and the steam curling lazily in front of him smelled good, but the aroma did little to ease the lingering nausea. Mrs. Kim’s cup steamed invitingly under her nose as she cradled it between both hands, her eyes still twinkling at its extra sweetness.
Outside the wide café windows, sunlight bounced off the shimmering surface of Majang Lake and the polished wood floors of Banul.
Their quiet Saturday afternoon ritual was then interrupted by movement. Hongjoong descended the stairs with Teacher Han practically bouncing beside him, words spilling in rapid chatter and melting in the lazy whirr of the coffee machines and idle chatter of the patrons.
Seonghwa’s sharp gaze followed them intently. Every step the citrus-scented young man took, his chest tightened and his fingers instinctively curled around the handle of his cup. Hongjoong’s brown eyes found him for a split second and Seonghwa’s tea shook and waved around like a mini tsunami had disrupted its peace.
Mrs. Kim let out a fond chuckle then, watching Seonghwa’s taut expression as he glared at the man’s departing figure, now finally at the door.
“You look like you’d like to toss that cup at him, poor kid” she teased gently, her eyes dancing with mirth.
“Imo, whose side are you taking!” Seonghwa whined, though guilt flicked his chest and he made an effort to stop glaring at Hongjoong so overtly.
Mrs. Kim chuckled and her acquiescent, “Always yours, dearie” sounded more teasing than reassuring. Hongjoong reached for the door handle, paused with one last polite nod at a giddy Teacher Han and finally stepped out of Banul Café & Knitting club. It had looked like he wanted to take one last look at Seonghwa, but thankfully refrained at last.
The quiet returned, broken only by the soft clink of Mrs. Kim’s cup against the saucer as Teacher Han stopped in front of their table with an ear-splitting smile. She leaned closer and gave a pat to Seonghwa’s tense shoulder.
“Hongjoong had an amazing idea! He’s going to join our embroidery classes for a personal project of his and suggested we also learn how to apply beads. Next Saturday we’ll be adding them to our roses!”
Seonghwa forced his lips into a half smile as he finally lifted his jujube tea to his mouth.
He sipped carefully, but a wave of citrus-induced sickness still had his throat constricting until he almost gagged out loud.