#! threads

“remember when you were little?” his mother asks over the phone. “how you made hand-made chocolate for that girl in your class for valentine’s day because you didn’t know the holiday was meant for girls to give chocolate to the guys they like?” 

“yes,” he replies, laughing, his stomach clenching at the memory of a tentative first love. “and you didn’t tell me until after i did it!” 

“it was very cute,” she insists. “and if i remember, she loved it.” 

“mhmm,” he says, and waits for a moment before changing the subject to safer, less nostalgic topics.

it’s always been a thing with hyunseok, expressing his feelings through food. recipes, he finds, are often easier to grapple with than words—less of a chance to be misunderstood this way, as long as everything tastes fine and doesn’t make the other person sick. it doesn’t take much to convince hyunseok to make his friends and family their favorite dish, no matter how difficult or time-consuming. cooking for people he likes as more than just friends happens rarely, but hyunseok approaches it with the same kind of energy and enthusiasm. it’s his love language: i like you, and i want you to eat well. 

his success rate varies. the valentine’s chocolate girl had enjoyed the candy, but told hyunseok she just didn’t see him that way. “you’re sweet, but in a friend way,” she said, and hyunseok stared at the smear of chocolate on the corner of her mouth while trying not to choke on the jagged shards of his broken heart. the memory’s bittersweet, but he hasn’t let that deter him from pouring his heart into dishes. they’re always the focal point of any confession—his heart on a plate, so to say. 

but with seolmi, it’d been spontaneous. no dainty, hand-made valentine’s chocolates wrapped up in a pretty bow, to hyunseok’s immense regret. just post-practice comfort and familiar heart-to-hearts that tipped into new, uncharted territory he’s still trying to figure out how to navigate. he’s pretty aware of his strengths and his shortcomings, or so he likes to think. there are things hyunseok is good at (cooking) and things he’s not (relationships). maybe it comes down to experience: he’s made himself comfortable in the kitchen over the last ten-odd years, while his romantic history is spotty at best. 

he doesn’t want his inexperience or his clumsy feelings to ruin things, and so he falls back on what he knows best. with a box in hand, hyunseok searches for seolmi at the building. nerves make his palms clammy, fear of rejection (or worse, a that was nice, but i like you in a friend way) casting a shadow over his thoughts. a part of him worries, will always worry that he’s not enough or not right in situations like these, but hyunseok knows he has to learn how to ignore it. what good is sabotaging something before it has a chance to grow? 

hyunseok would rather focus on the sense of anticipation building in his veins, the hope nestled in his heart, the desire to see seolmi smile when she opens the box to see the tiniest token of his affection, a promise that hyunseok is in this for real. 

his face splits into a grin when he finally spots the familiar head of blonde hair. “seolmi!” he calls out, bounding over eagerly. the box is momentarily forgotten. he makes it a few steps before checking himself and slowing his pace to make sure he doesn’t jostle its contents more than necessary. “hey, are you free right now? or… free for a while?” maybe he should’ve asked if she’s hungry instead. it seems more fitting. “it’s fine if you’re busy, but i just had—it’s not a big deal or anything, but i just wanted to give you something.”

according to his older sister, hyunseok’s list of bad habits is a mile long. hyunmi gives no quarter; she’s ruthless when the occasion demands, and growing up she’d often sharpen her proverbial knives on hyunseok. he used to take all her words to heart—it was impossible not to—but as an adult, he can recognize that half of her grievances were just of an older sibling in general. some, however, he agrees on and has tried very hard to shake without success.

his dad used to joke that hyunseok’s snores could shake the house (there was an incident once with a picture frame that fell off the wall in his room that haunts hyunseok to this day). he acknowledges he has a problem; he’s heard it played back for him on a friend’s phone, amidst laughter that for a quiet guy he sure can make a lot of noise. he’s given all the home remedies a shot, but not a single one of them have worked in the long run. temporary relief fades quickly, and he’s back to being a menace.

his ability to fall asleep virtually anywhere at the drop of a hat makes the problem worse. it’s one thing to terrorize his roommates, another to subject anyone else to his bad nighttime habits. but hyunseok finds himself more exhausted than normal these days. training’s hard as always, and work’s been a bigger challenge than usual. not for the first time, he wonders if he shouldn’t lighten his schedule—but he’s not comfortable with giving up either one of his big commitments just yet.

so he resorts to stealing a nap here and there wherever he can. in this case, he finds himself dozing off in an empty practice room, curled up in a corner with his hoodie rolled under his head as a makeshift pillow. it’s not the ideal place to sleep, but hyunseok figures it’ll only be for a little while. hopefully without his usual comforts, he won’t be snoring either—there’s no pillow to hug, for one, and no blanket to tangle up in his legs. he’s on his side too. this should be the perfect formula for a relatively quiet and undisruptive nap.

ideally.

(it takes less than three minutes for him to fall asleep and start snoring. passersby whisper that the practice room might be haunted).

the last festival hyunseok attended was the harbor festival in his hometown, and admittedly, most of his time there had been tied up with a fishing contest. legacy’s festival is as different as night and day—no fish, for one, but the sea’s distant too. unless you’re counting the sea of people as something, which hyunseok isn’t (though there sure are a ton of eager fans here). it makes him a little uncomfortable; big crowds aren’t his forte, but god knows he’s been working hard enough lately that he deserves a (short) break. with that in mind, hyunseok is determined to enjoy the festival to the fullest.

and the highlight of every festival is the variety of food stalls. a glazed-over, happy look crosses his eyes as he stares open-mouthed at the sheer number of them. normally, he’d be spending most of his time hopping from stall to stall, but hyunseok had promised some of his free time to youngmin, who really wants to see the project origin boys perform. hyunseok is just happy to be dragged along for the ride. it’s easier to navigate the crowds when he can rely on someone else to lead for the most part. the exception to this food. this, he reflects gravely, is his domain.

but the project origin boys aren’t scheduled to start until six, which means… they should have just enough time to hit up one food stall, right? he turns to youngmin with a grin, his eyes alight with anticipation. “hey, let’s go grab a couple of sticks of tornado potato!” they’re a staple, and hyunseok is starving—he wonders if the stalls here have the kind with the potato wrapped around sausage. “or, i mean, if you want something else we can get that too! i think bingsu is nice this time of year, or, oh! donuts would be nice…” he trails off, rubbing his chin in deep thought. so many choices...

it takes a moment, but he soon realizes that there are eyes on them. hyunseok slowly turns to see a cluster of fans from the VIP section watching them—likely watching youngmin, because even objectively he can admit the other man is striking. if hyunseok was here as a fan, he’d probably watch him too. giving the other man a small nudge with his elbow, he drops his voice to a whisper and says, “youngmin, i think they want to say hi.” for his his part, hyunseok, tries to arrange his features into a bright smile, but it lacks the easy charm so many of his fellow trainees seem to possess in spades.

“wait.” with dawning horror, he turns back. “are we even allowed to stuff our faces in front of fans? seems kind of counterproductive to building an image.”

one of these days, he’s going to have to learn how to use the word no. 

one of these days, hyunseok thinks, resolved. he can’t keep blindly agreeing to any request someone makes of him—he doesn’t have the capacity to help everyone on top of his busy schedule without running himself ragged. but easier said than done; since elementary school, hyunseok has been the type to acquiesce without putting up much of a fight. there’s the fear of disappointing someone, yes, but it goes deeper than that. he doesn’t want to be the kind of person who abandons someone in need. perhaps it’s led him to be too indulgent, too considerate of others, but he’s not really sure it’s possible to exist any other way. even a gentle no gets caught in his throat, and point-blank refusals are far out of his reach. 

but it’s tiring to always be the one who says yes, to be the one who’ll drop everything at a moment’s notice for someone else. the one who’s resigned to a lifetime of pushing his own desires aside to accommodate other people. for the most part, he’s happy, even satisfied, when someone thanks him earnestly for all his help, but sometimes hyunseok just wants to say, i can’t, and stand by it. he’s not quite there yet—a goal for the future, then—but at times he feels like he’s making strides, when he manages to sidestep a request by the barest of margins.

and other times, he’s back to square one. though in all fairness, hyunseok doesn’t think there’s a way to turn down a request made by one of the coaches, even if he’s clearly in the middle of a practice session when asked. what else can he do but smile, bow, and say, “i’d be happy to help!” while cutting his practice short? he tries not to feel too bitter about it; the fact that they’d asked him is a good thing, isn’t it? can he view it as the coaches thinking he’s a responsible and trustworthy person? it takes some of the sting out of having to pack up his things and vacate the room in search of the main character here. 

it takes almost half an hour and more than a few instances of awkwardly barging into occupied rooms before he finally finds the person he’s in search of. he lifts a hand and waves at aaron before entering the room, a grin slowly forming on his face. “hey! long time no see!” aaron was one of the first trainees hyunseok met when he’d first entered legacy, and he’d relied on the older man a lot in those early days. the memories are a little embarrassing to revisit now, but he likes getting the opportunity to meet with aaron again whenever he can. 

he’s preoccupied with ruffling through his bag as he bounds up. “dad, the vocal coach asked me to give you some music sheets and, um, wanted to let you know that tomorrow’s session needs to be pushed back by fifteen minutes because they have—” hyunseok pauses as the sound of muffled laughter reaches his ears. the few scattered trainees around them are positively giddy with amusement, and perplexingly enough, looking at him. “hm? what’s so—” 

oh. wait. he… did he… did he actually call… yes, his contact name for aaron is ‘legacy dad’ as a joke and yes, he does sometimes think of aaron as wise like a dad but he’s not supposed to say these things out loud! face burning in mortification, he freezes and blurts out a half-formed apology. ”uh, i’m—crap, dad, i’m so sorry for—wait, no, hyung, i’m sorry—”

suddenly having free time on his hands shouldn’t feel as novel as it does. it shouldn’t be a rare thing, leaving hyunseok at a loss of what to do with it. he’s used to staying occupied, whether by choice or design. the sole perk of having a busy schedule means that he always knows what he needs to do next—he’s always moving forward in the direction of some goal, instead of wandering aimlessly. and yet tonight, wandering aimlessly is exactly what he’s doing.

with his hands jammed in his pockets, hyunseok weaves through the halls of the legacy building with no real goal in mind. since the restaurant closed abruptly for the evening, he doesn’t have any pressing obligations to take care of. the next best thing after work is to try squeeze some extra dance practice in—or lie in bed, but hyunseok feels guilty about wasting the time he has on hand. he needs to be productive in some way even when he’s meant to be ‘relaxing’ or he’ll be left with the vague sense of failure because he could’ve done more—and chose not to.

(“i think this is what we call a sickness,” his older sister comments.  “you need to learn how to chill.”

“i’m chill,” hyunseok responds, even though she’s right and he’s never ‘chilled’ a day in his life.)

this is how he likes to do things: he needs a sense of accomplishment to fully relax. but that might prove hard to find tonight. a crease forms in between his eyebrows as he passes by the occupied practice rooms. most, if not all, are full with the evening sessions trainees working hard. on some level, hyunseok should’ve anticipated this, but he rarely stays beyond the end of the morning training sessions. trying to gauge how busy the building would be at this hour completely slipped his mind, and now he feels like he’s doomed to just lurk outside various rooms and waste time until people start leaving. the guilt, the vague sense of urgency (you should be doing something) is already forming in the back of his mind.

but hyunseok hits a hard pause on those feelings when he spots a familiar face leaving the practice room for dinner break. really, this one hour is his best chance of getting some practice in tonight, but he feels like it’s been a while since he last had the chance to talk to meng. he’ll always have a soft spot in his heart for people who joined the company at the same time as he did—they’re comrades-in-arms, or something like that. meng, hyunseok remembers, had some specific challenges to deal with, and he’s always felt the need to watch over her, just in case she needs help. though more than that, he’s just happy to see her doing well.

“meng!” he calls out, waving brightly before falling into step with her. “are you going to grab some dinner? mind i join you?” for all the emphasis on productivity, he’d gladly reject it to spend time with a friend. “i was just hanging around and—you know, i haven’t seen you in a while! we should catch up.”

on some level, hyunseok knows that not everyone can pull off a five course meal or fill a table with side dishes. peoples’ skillsets vary; what he’s capable of may be something another person struggles to master, and he understands that all too well.

however, there are certain things he thinks everyone should know how to make, just to… well, just to stay alive. rice, for example. at least one hearty soup. a stir fry. seafood pancake. an omelette. kimbap, at the very least.  he really feels like he’s scraping the bottom of the barrel here. but hyunseok isn’t one to judge anyone else for what they can or can’t do; he’d rather help someone learn to overcome their shortcomings, even if those shortcomings make him want to tear up in the middle of the kitchen. 

which is how he finds himself here with alec, idly flipping through a collection of illegible, incomplete recipes. most of these dishes are ones he could make in his sleep, hence the vague, sometimes nonsensical instructions he’d written down on the train home last night. there are things he just knows on instinct, like how to season or how long to leave something on the stove. great for him, but terrible when he’s trying to pass on the knowledge. 

and he is genuinely trying to pass on the knowledge to make the world a better place one step at a time—in this case, specifically by making sure that alec is able to feed himself whenever the need arises. a lifetime of subsiding on instant ramen and convenience store food sounds like hell to him, and while he’s sure alec probably has a network of restaurants for delivery purposes, sometimes things happen. hyunseok will prepare him for those sometimes. 

it can’t be that hard! he’s sure it’s a case of ‘never learned how to’ rather than ‘can’t do it very incompetent how do you boil water.’ hyunseok believes in alec’s ability to make something without causing serious harm in the kitchen to himself or others...! “okay,” he says, rubbing his hands together. the recipes are fanned out in front of him, a collection of the simplest dishes he can think of. hyunseok pulls an apron from the drawer (hot pink, with ‘kiss the cook’ emblazoned on in sparkly red text) and hands it to alec before pulling out his own (black, plain, thankfully less embarrassing). 

“okay,” he repeats, patting alec on the back. “we’ll start slow with—hmmm… not rice, since you probably know how to make that already.” hopefully. “erm, you can make rice, right? just normal rice?” 

the station is empty for the most part—a few people mill around, their attention intermittently on their phones. they’re all dressed sharply, no doubt heading home after an evening of overtime or just a night out on the town, and hyunseok feels out of place still in his chef’s uniform. he feels a few distantly curious eyes on him and ducks his head, pretending to adjust the bag of food in his arms. he usually changes into something else after work is finished; outside the kitchen, his uniform smells like food and sweat and serves as a glaringly white beacon for attention hyunseok does not want. 

but he’d been in too much of a rush tonight to bother. cleaning up took longer than he expected it to, and if he’d stopped to change before sprinting to the station, he would’ve missed his usual train. his co-workers laughed as he rushed out of the back door, his hair still tied back. “you can always take the next train,” nayoung called out, and hyunseok waved her off with a shake of his head and a laugh. she’s right—there’s always the next train, but hyunseok wants to make sure he’s on the same one as normal.

his cheeks flush with unnecessary embarrassment at his own thoughts. it’s really not that big of a deal, he  reminds himself. hyunseok is a creature of habit, but a love of routine isn’t the reason he sticks so closely to this schedule. it’s silly, the desire to make sure his time in transit coincides with ahin’s, but since the day they met, he’s found himself unconsciously searching for the other man whenever he’s on the train. 

(to be honest, he loves travelling alone—loves the peace, loves the serenity that comes with pressing your cheek to the glass and watching the scenery whiz by. the train at night is like stepping into a liminal space; while you’re here, you’re suspended in an in-between state. 

liminal space is where he first sees ahin. it isn’t a meeting as much as a brief moment of eye contact between two strangers. his heart stutters, and then the moment passes and hyunseok’s brain scrambles to catch up with the feeling in his chest. they run into each other again at legacy in passing, and hyunseok thinks, ah, of course he’s a star. but it’s here on the train, when he forces himself to be brave for once and takes the empty seat next to ahin with a grin and asks, didn’t i see you at legacy? you’re an amazing dancer.

he doesn’t say i thought i imagined you, even if a part of him was convinced he did.

and as much as hyunseok likes travelling alone, over the next few months, he comes to the conclusion that doing so with a companion is nice too—or maybe ahin is the exception to the rule. he still hasn’t worked that out). 

when the train arrives, he climbs inside cradling his bag of leftovers, eyes immediately sweeping the area in search of ahin. it’s not hard to spot him, but hyunseok hesitates before heading over. any other night and he wouldn’t, but he looks and feels gross, the various stains on his uniform suddenly making him feel self-conscious. surely ahin would rather not be forced to spend time with someone as sloppy as he looks right now, but he doesn’t want to accidentally catch his eye while sitting elsewhere and have to explain why he’s ignoring him. 

hyunseok swallows his misgivings and lets his feet carry him to the empty seat beside ahin. he sinks down into it slowly, a little roughly, his shoulder bumping against ahin’s in a way that’s more friendly than nervous. “fancy seeing you here,” hyunseok says, his lips stretching in a genuine smile. “happy coincidence, huh?” it hasn’t been a coincidence since the fourth or fifth time they’d run into each other, but ahin probably knows that—hyunseok is not subtle. even when he tries to be, he gives himself away too easily. his heart’s been sewn on his sleeve since day one. but there are times when his true feelings are best left unsaid, moments where he keeps his cards close to his chest. 

like now, he doesn’t say, i was waiting to see you. 

he doesn’t say, the best part of my day is this, here.

he doesn’t say, hey, hey ahin, do you know what this feeling in my chest is? whenever we’re sitting next to each other, or talking, or you smile and i think i would do anything to capture the moment? 

the train moves forward. hyunseok leaves those thoughts at the station, on the platform. two truths and a lie, because he can put a name to the feeling if he really wants to. but hyunseok doesn’t want to. there are lines he’s unwilling to cross, insurmountable walls he doesn’t want to attempt to scale. sometimes he turns the questions over in his head—how much is hyunseok willing to ask for? how much can ahin give? isn’t he just being greedy with his feelings? what does he really want, anyway? 

maybe the answer to the last question is this: a quiet, stolen moment that exists between dreams and reality, where hyunseok can pretend he isn’t ashamed of the way his heart beats a little too fast, where for a second, ahin is wholly his—even if it’s just as a friend. 

“are you feeling hungry?” he asks, after a pause. “i have a bunch of leftovers from—” he looks down at the bag and lets out a strangled laugh. “um, i guess you can’t eat lobster in the middle of the train.” hyunseok probably shouldn’t even have offered (or fought nayoung for something more convenient to eat), but he’d wanted—well, he thinks ruefully. he always wants ahin to taste his food. “it’s probably not as good as your aunt’s hotteok anyway, so no big loss!” 

hotteok that tastes like love and comfort and home. it probably suits ahin better than what he has. than him.