the corkscrew does its dance inside the lips of the bottleâ the spiraled end of the tool pulls and pries until the sound makes a loud pop. had he not trusted Simonâs words, Han would have been careful to tuck that wine bottle opener into the front pocket of his loungewear. it would have hidden there safely until he needed to use it in retaliation. instead he finally listensâ not to quip back a smart response, nor to fixate on words and meanings. he listens with a reverence and a smile forming on his lips. perhaps there were some parts of his relationship with the other man that were resolvedâ but would that also mean they could carry on with forgiveness in their hearts? if not hatred and deception, could absolution and that divine admiration he felt for Simon finally churn away that ache and yearning and pain. he pours two glasses of the full-bodied cab from Chile, the notes of black cherry and currant pair well with what Han presumes is beef stock on the stove.Â
he finally speaks as he slides Simonâs glass across the table for him to take, âI agree.â his eyes fall to the crystalized stem as he takes his first sip. he tastes a hint of tobacco as the truth continues to filter outâ which he begins to crave as he continues with this honesty. âAnd you mean that?â there is no inflection at the of his voiceâ there is no real question posed. he asks for confirmation, but it feels like an affirmation nonetheless. he offers his own, âFine.â he corrects the grandiose promises of final expirations and grave endings. âIâll live for youââ no, âLive with you.â he punctuates by setting his wine glass down and placing palms on the table to ground him in his words. âIâve only wanted the same thing. Iâm tired of going through the motions without you, and Iâm sorry I gave you any impression otherwise.â this apology dates back to almost a decade ago. âIâm sorry I continue to give you this impression, but itâs not my truth. All Iâve ever wanted was a life with you.âÂ
the resentment he has for the wedding ringâ the wedding aisle heâd watched her walk downâ the alter he stood upon next to that man he had not only respected but attached himself to so deeply. the anger was the better emotion he could latch onto. repressing the endless pain itâd caused was not easier than pretending. it made him a monsterâ it ultimately pushed him away, and yetâ to his direct contrast, there was Simon. despite others attempts in separating them, gravitational pull would prevail. âYou punished me first,â he explains, âAnd yes, I wanted to get even, and for my efforts I should perhaps rot alone, but with youââ he wonders of the spoilage and how it would conclude. would their decay fuse to the floorboards of the bedroom floor? which fungi would sprout? would his home smell worse or in love and death is there a sweetness to the twinge? in that eternal rest would hollowed out skeletal arms be able to be made out by archeologists? and in their blight would it be known that they decomposed while wrapped securely around that singular person who made Han feel so festering and irrationally infatuated with? would those who come across their fragmenting end conclude that the were not alone so long as they had each other? would they be just friends in death or could they somewhere in between that passage of time finally admit to that love they shared?
heâs besotted with words, heâs smitten in watching these actions, heâs overcome with emotion in receiving forgiveness. strong eyebrows soften as he slowly nods in his agreement. âI forgive you too.â in saying so, he finally feels a sense of peace. âMaybe Iâll start forgiving myself as well.â âthat would be the harder of feats to accomplish.Â
wine-stained lips mock him, or feel mocking as the compliment dangles in their to which Hanâs expressions brighten. he tries to cast his smile asideâ physically turning away from Simonâs words. knuckles curl to his face to rub at temples as he takes a seat at the table. Once heâs finally come to grips with such a pretty words does he finally speak one of his own. His words are bashful, clumsy, but carefully placed. âIt feels like deja vu, doesnât it?â fingers tap against the wood grain of that table as soup is ladled into a bowl. he canât remember the last time it was Simon serving him a meal in his own home. âIt feels like a memoryâ an after image that has been plucked from so far away.â he chuckles to himself, hearing the spoon hit ceramic. it echoes in a sweet lull. âBut I suppose Iâm a little biased. All of my favorite moments are with you.â a firm nod follows, âIn fact, I donât think Iâll ever enjoy another meal for the rest of my life.âÂ
he takes another whiff around the kitchenâ eyes peer into Simonâs as if heâs searching for a hidden clue. heâs not in on the punchline yet. for once, he feels lost, but everything is okayâ so long as he trusts and forgives. it feels right. he feels the two souls reconnect once more with a single second of prolonged eye contact. Simon has his full attention, and Simon would forevermore have his attention. âIsnât it hangover stewâ?â his puzzled tone speaks as if itâs an obvious call. there is a metallic smell in the air that brings fourth this observationâ the darkened color adds to this assumptionâ the smell of salt aids his hypothesis as well. âIsnât it? It smells familiarâ but I donât remember this recipeâŚâ or rather his nose doesnât âHave you made this for me before?â he racks the brain for the answer.
âAre you sure you wonât eat with me?â a tiny frown pulls at his lips, âThe memory isnât complete if you arenât indulging as well.â with the bowl placed in front of him, he can finally see the ingredientsâ a thickened broth with white radish, green onions and one more ingredient he misses. a counter clockwise stir begins and rounds the ceramic until finally it scoops the first taste into his mouth. tastebuds meltâÂ
though Simonâs, by far, his favorite cookâ there is something in the bowl that tucks away into the depths of Hanâs heart to further soothe, and cement the words spoken across the dinner table. the first spoonful is followed by another, and the second hasty spoonful is just as good as the first. a droplet of stew dribbles at his chinâ âAm I allowed to ask for your recipe?â though heâs uncertain if heâll have time to hear these directions at allâ his stew is addictive, to say the least.Â
In both his working and personal lives, Simonâs opening lips are so often met with groans and rolling eyes. His pessimistic nature, pretentious air, his unprompted opinions and tendency to ramble - particularly in subjects he finds interesting - are justly greeted with signs of discontent. As a result, he keeps to himself. He purses his lips and folds his hands and presses himself against walls to make room for others.
But Han sits. And waits. Not only does he listen, but he smiles, and Simon knows heâs heard.
He knows shattered teacups can never be truly mended; their severed limbs will never return to the same strength they once had, but as Simon takes the second glass of wine for himself, he thinks itâs for the best that not all shards can be glued back together precisely. Going back to staring at Han from across the room? Idle touches and hungry gazes, only to sleep alone each night? Simon doesnât want that - heâd shatter a hundred more teacups and dinner plates before that. He longs for something not unrecognizable, but not returned to its original state: something new and whole in its own right.
âLive for me. Live with me. Lay by my side and take your last breath with me, when the day inevitably comes,â He imagines his bones bleached white and indistinguishable to Hanâs - his rib, Hanâs rib; they were one in the same, in the end. âIâm afraid reversing history is not an ability I possess. I canât forget about the bullet I put in your shoulder. Nor that letter opener you drove into my back. But I donât want to, either. I canât keep returning to my quiet home alone night after night. Not when I know your own bed is as empty as mine. Han I wantâŚI want to glue those broken pieces back together. I want something touched by your hand alone. That teacup may not sit the way it used to or hold tea as well as it once didâŚbut it can still be oursâŚâ
Perhaps if he hadnât been a coward when theyâd first met, Simon could have spared them both years worth of heartache, but the risk of losing the single friend heâd managed to grasp onto had left Simon burying even the potential for anything to happen between him and Han deep in his belly until his stomach was so full of poison heâd made himself sick; if Han hadnât laced his drink with arsenic some months ago, only in due time would Simon have checked himself in the hospital with similar symptoms of nausea and vomiting from the toxic lies heâd swallowed to keep the truth buried.
âI think I punished myself long before I started punishing you. For what, having a friend? For feeling soâŚâ Words fail to define Simonâs feelings for the man who sits to his side in a simple manner. Intense? Infatuation? How could a single word explain how living with Han would never be enough? Language had yet to evolve to the point for Simon to easily say that he couldnât be satisfied until their skin turned to dirt and became inseparable from one another. When Simon finally takes a sip from the glass Han poured for him, he thinks to all the dinners they shared in the past, where Han must have pressed his own lips to the rim and partaken in a drink. They had shared dozens, if not hundreds, of ghostly kisses before, but this time had been enough. âI made you watch as I pledged my life to another. I nearly watched you do the same, but I believe youâve always been the true owner of my heart. If doing so didnât kill me where I sit, Iâd show you my own heart as proof,â He looks to the piping soup that remains on the table just in front of Han. âThat may not be my heart, but it is just as close and personal to me. I hope itâs a close enough replacement for the real thing.â
Rather than answer Hanâs question regarding what is in the contents of the soup, Simon gestures for him to eat before it gets cold. âThis is my gift to you. It would hardly be much of a gift if I were to partake in it myself, would it?â Still, Simon does share silent agreement that sitting at the table with Han eating dinner draws back pleasant old memories of sitting begrudgingly side-by-side in the dining hall to work on their class project together over lunch ( they could have sat across from one another, but it at least gave them an excuse for their thighs to touch while still maintaining the false belief of their hatred toward each other ). Not returning to the experience by dining alongside Han is a tad unsettling, but watching the expressions on his face brings a much more satisfactory feeling than Simon eating the meal himself.
âTo answer your previous question, yes, it is Haejangguk,â He at last nods once he watches Hanâs bulbous adamâs apple bob against his throat. âItâs the only thing my father ever taught me how to prepare, you know. We made it for my mother once, I believe,â Heâd still been in high school at the time, but the one time he cooked with his father stands out in his mind. The kitchen had been so silent, save for the water boiling with bones and the knives slicing into radishes. âIâm certain Iâve made it for you before too - it does help with hangovers,â And while Simon still considers himself a stranger to parties and social events, he had an intimate relationship with throbbing headaches and dry mouths the morning after heavy drinking. âI must make one last confession,â He lays a single index finger on the table between them. âI have altered the recipe since those old college days of ours and no, you will not be recreating it; it will be the one secret I take with me to the grave,â His smile returns. âThe rest of the pot is, of course, for you to keep and enjoy. But perhapsâŚâ Simon looks to the bits of broth that have clung to the corners of Hanâs lips and the savory film of broth made from bones and blood that must have coated the inside of Hanâs mouth. âPerhaps you could still offer me a tasteâŚâ