Chapter Text
He’s doesn’t exactly know how he ended up in this current predicament, besides a hefty dose of testosterone and an unfortunately placed flyer for a Freshers event.
Facing yet another night staring at the textured patterns on the ceiling in his dorm room was beginning to become a frighteningly real possibility. So he whipped his empty duvet cover off his rumpled body and scrunched his eyebrows in frustration at his meagre closet, full of oversized t-shirts, joggers and tattered faded jeans, organically laden with rips. With a huff, he pulled out a pair of black jeans and a loose band T.
Now nestled begrudgingly in the corner of some random guy’s student flat, the LED string’s lights were alternating between red and orange like an alarm. Wooyoung initially thought he had recognised the guy in question from his Ancient Chinese Dynasties seminar. However, when he attempted to make introductions all he received was a kindly delivered confused smile and a shoulder bump, before the guy - Jongin - ventured off into the other side of the kitchen, visibly rowdy. A massive bottle of lager and some shot glasses reflected light onto the ceramic floors from the kitchen.
Which he had time to notice, because he was extremely bored.
Sounds of raucous laughter of various tones and shouting embedded his ears, as the scent of sweat, remnants of bleach and a mélange of colognes waded through the room. He could only assume it was a regaetton playlist that had been going for the last hour, but it seemed really shit. People seemed forcibly glued to their chairs - the last thing you want when reggaeton’s playing.
He felt like a lighthouse, hoping that with the right expression he’d miraculously pull someone in to keep him company. But the room was seeped in strawberry-scented vape clouds and a daunting smell of sweat, yet all he could think about was a devastating sense of loneliness that spread throughout him like a spilt drink on carpet. Slowly seeping into the fibre, invisible in the barely lit room.
Now he didn’t mind a drink, not at all, but getting drunk at a party, for the sake of being social when you knew no one there seemed like a terrible idea. The only thing that kept him there was the slight feeling of embarrassment at leaving before the clock even struck ten. He was no cinderella - he didn’t have any evil stepmother to rush back to. Then again there was no prince to keep him there either.
Unless Prince Charming was the guy currently throwing up in the kitchen sink, hopefully rinsing his mouth before, then his chances didn’t look good. He rose to his feet, empty cup in hand, then an audibly drunk voice broke his bubble abruptly .
“Hey you, could you s-settle a bet buddyy?”
A lanky boy, a couple of inches taller than him, slurred through the turn, ending with an excruciatingly high-pitched ‘e’. Something most likely he didn’t intend to be annoying, or he did and didn’t care.
Wooyoung decided to indulge.
“Yeah sure.” He shouted past the loud music someone abruptly turned up the volume.
The lank boy gestured to his friend, “Do you think he looks like a parakeet or a peacock?”
His friend had vibrant green hair, so illuminescent it almost looked neon.
“Definitely parakeet.” He said of captivated. He thought he had started hallucinating again.
“Oh man - Soobin who are you asking about my hair now?”
“Me, and why this colour can I ask?
“It was bad dye! Soobin the more people you tell about this the more I have to explain myself! Find a new subject!”
“But why would I do that when I could revel in humiliating you like like a quality friend?”
“If it makes any difference I actually think it looks pretty sick.”
He’d always wanted to dye his hair, but he didn’t want anything else bringing him negative attention in high school. The last thing he wanted was to be labelled as an attention-seeker. If he could have shed his human skin to turn into a gelatinous blob who disintegrated and respawned between classes, he would have been absolutely content.
“Thanks mate, that actually means a lot. Soobin’s been taking the piss out of me a lot for it, but I actually think its looks kinda cool.” Boyish features hid a gentle smile.
“Don’t tell him but I actually chose this colour. I’m Yeonjun by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, I’m Wooyoung.”
“And you, your jeans are great.”
Yeonjun hadn’t seemed affected, but the cadence of his voice as it verged on being emotional at admitting his choice of hair dye gave him away. Plus the confession, if it can be called that, seemed rather like something only a drunk person would think is profound.
“Enough talking, now let’s get the jager going!”
Soobin declared in a frenzy as he dived behind the counter, before emerging victoriously and aggressively jutting out the glass bottle with some shot glasses.
“Want one?” Yeonjun inquired delicately, seemingly benign in his intentions.
Wooyoung nodded eagerly.
The rest of the night seemed like a rush, not because of the alcohol - well maybe a bit because of that, - but because he’d laughed more than he could ever remember doing. He thought of Minho once, then let the thought be washed down the stream.
Soobin, much more boisterous and energetic, created a brilliant foil to Yeonjun who was sarcastic and snarky. Soobin literally would jump in circles around him, pottering off about his recent romantic conquests while Yeonjun laid still on a sofa chair, head leant back, commented on their eligibility based on many episodes of Drag Race they’d seen. The other occupants of the room stopped mattering. The hours floated like bubbles up to the surface.
———
Wooyoung was in a boxing ring currently and he had two opponents to deal with:
Number one was most definitely the hunger. He doesn’t skip breakfast - he can’t fast for the sake of him otherwise his blood sugar plummets and he’s feeling faint within an hour.
Number two was the fact that the primary instigator of his number one most humiliating memory was currently sitting at the only made breakfast table in the dinner room - a table he was sat at alone, with two settings.
Because he had no sense of self-preservation he had already veered into the room - to inspect of course - and no other tables were set up. He could go into the kitchen and scout Hongjoong, maybe ask him to eat in there, and bring up his odd behaviour from the other night, but you can only go into the kitchen through the dining room anyway. So either way his options don’t look great.
Why would they have only two settings, are there no other guests except for him and someone else? Then why would they put the settings down on the same table if they’re both here alone?
His most significant questions though was why Adonis was sat there in the first place? Unless employees get breakfast on the house too? But he’s never seen Seongwha or Hongjoong or the other handyman here either?
The longer he stood there engrossed in a series of questions his brain wouldn’t stop pumping out like carbon dioxide, the more frustrated he felt.
He decided just go for it, he’s probably just being stupid. Who’s to say that San deemed him important enough to even remember. But also, completely nonsensically Wooyoung hoped he did. Just to have it confirmed that San found him noticeable, even if he was doing his job.
Desperation and hunger can be powerful in tandem. Also, delusion.
Without any concrete reason, he felt sucked into a magnetic current that seemed to emanate off him. Feeling pulled in, his legs jumpstarted his body. He blinked as he took a few big strides, suddenly plopped on the leather sofa opposite the guy he had been trying to avoid since yesterday. Chest palpitations mixed uncomfortably with the mild pressure that convened behind his forehead.
“Hi.”
“Hello”, Wooyoung glanced up wryly at San’s face, who unveiled a reticent smile that slowly widened.
“Do you mind if I join you?” He could feel his own voice coming out dreadfully weakly as he took a napkin from the centre of the table and started scrunching it in his right palm. His ears heeded notice of the delicate baritone chuckling that radiated from San. It was wonderfully earthy as it reverberated around the room and enveloped him.
“Well, you already have, so I guess so.”
Wooyoung could feel his face getting hot - he grazed his neck slightly with his fingers. It felt hot to touch.
“I’m joking, of course you can join.”
“It’s merely because there’s only two settings, and they happen to be on this table.”
“Really?”, he turned, sweeping dark, inquisitive eyes across the room. “Strange - well, you have been welcome to join, even if there were more tables set.”
San’s posture was straight and shoulders were squared, eyes scrunched earnestly. His skin was smooth, slightly tan, but still bore some blemishes. Straight, dark eyebrows fanned across his brow ridge and pink lips were pursed, as if hesitantly taciturn. There was also something faint in his language, like a minimal accent almost. Probably a dialect local to the region.
He was so painfully attractive, and usually Wooyoung would read something into his flirtatious words, but he did not want to indulge himself. Not after the embarrassment that laced yesterday morning, bleeding into his thoughts for the rest of the day.
“Well, that is very considerate, thank you for your thoughtfulness.” He tried to be polite, but he could himself blundering his way through the bulky words that just didn’t make sense; not in this context and absolutely not between two guys of their age.
Abruptly his eyes wondered across the banquet of food that surely had gone cold. He reached determinedly for the toast.
San’s pursed his lips, “You’re so formal.”
“What?” His hand froze, clutching the top of the butter dish.
He must be chronically transparent at this point, first Hongjoong called him out without even trying, now San has too.
San perched his jaw in his palm, his eyes were buoyant but there there was an element to his expression that was contemplative and almost wistful. His face resembled a book with a collection of pages vast in depth but beleaguered in dust.
“You’re so formal,” San enquired with care. “We’re the same age aren’t we?”
“I don’t know,” Wooyoung feigned ignorance, but it was obvious “Are we? I’m 22”
“So am I, so you don’t have to be so formal.”
“Sorry,” he tested out the lower register, it felt like tissue on his tongue. “I just assumed you were older.”
“Why? Do I look old?” He lifted his head onto his palm, whilst two tufts of hair stuck out on either side of his head. His bangs were elegantly side-swept, making the red stripes in his hair pop even more. He had a silver hoop in his cartilage and the muscle shirt he wore did not hide much, much less how ripped he was. Life was cruel.
“Obvious not” he couldn’t resist rolling his eyes at that, “You just have this aura about you, plus you work full-time, so I just thought - “
“So I have an ‘aura’ huh?” Wooyoung was very occupied staring at his toast, but he could tell San was smirking. He could hear it in his voice.
“A bit, and you have a proper job I’m guessing with healthcare and benefits, which adds to the ‘aura’.”
“Job?” He scrunched his eyebrows, meek in his expression.
“Yeah,” Wooyoung looked at him in exasperation.
“Here at the hotel..” San still looked baffled, “You fixed my shower yesterday, you’re the handyman?”
San exclaimed in recognition with a noise that he could not identify if he tried.
“Of course, well you know - lots to do when you’re the only one fixing up this place” A pitchy laugh erupted from San, very different from his earlier earthy tone.
“I keep telling Seonghwa to replace the - the…”
A precarious silence took hold of them before Wooyoung chanced a guess, “The PVC pipes?”
“Yeah, the PVC pipes. ” San blinked in relief, visibly grateful as his shoulders deflated slightly.
However, a small detail still seemed awry.
“Doesn’t the other guy help out?” He asked, feeling his own eyebrows furrowing.
“Nah, annoyingly I’m the only handyman around here.”
Wooyoung felt his back tighten, leaning forward on crossed, bent elbows that pressed into the grain of the wooden table.
“San-“
What interrupted his utterance was a flash.
The flash of emotion on San’s face, contorting his formerly relaxed expression into one of hardened eyes, a downturned mouth and tight jaw, as, as he repositioned his eyes to point above Wooyoung’s shoulder.
“Seongwha.”
Wooyoung peers over to find Seonghwa staring at them. He looked burdened - from his scowl to his scrunched-up brows and downturned mouth; but even still, there was something soft to his eyes that Wooyoung had no idea how to interpret. He didn’t have to because San seemed spurred by the motionless room to jump in ahead of him.
San, abandoning his jam toast, slid out of his seat and grabbed his black collared jacket that had been on the backrest of the chair. He swivelled to face Seongwha, bodies in parallel.
From where Wooyoung was settled, he could detect a slight height difference between the two men, but it didn’t seem to matter. San exuded an authority that seem to poise the scale.
Whatever moment that been before Seongwha arrived, evaporated in full. The air felt thinner.
“Did you need me for something.”
But whereas the energy between Seongwha and Hongjoong was fully pressure-filled, this tension seemed to merely invoke a sense of stiffness, like two limbs that needed stretching. But San was more keen to bend to Seongwha’s will, than crash against him - highlighted by the question that wasn’t a question.
“Yes, please come with me. I’m sure our guest would like to be alone, undisturbed” Seongwha’s expression was concealed as usually, eyes deliberately made duller, face softer by design than what his inner-thoughts must resemble. Wooyoung wondered Seongwha if was always this way, or if he alone was worthy of being on the receiving end of his ecstatic demeanour.
Seongwha's statement also echoed with a kind of double meaning that only he seemed privy to.
Before Wooyoung could blink, Seonghwa had sauntered away, his footsteps resonated audibly as the only emitter of noise - in the hallway that was as usual, empty.
San began to take steps in the direction Seongwha had gone, but angled his stare at him. Despite seemingly irked by the situation, his face was light, hopeful even, and his eyes beamed with a sense of innocence joy, reminiscent of getting your favourite flavour of ice cream.
“Bye for now Wooyoung, take care of yourself.”
Then he was gone.
Wooyoung, once again left with more questions than answers, stared forlornly at the melting butter. Meanwhile his chest fluttered in a way that he did not care to name.
———
It was nighttime but the time he had a moment to himself again. He had spent the whole day with Yeosang and Mingi, who had very enthusiastically showed up at the hotel. They were absolutely buzzing with energy like they had eaten themselves into a sugar frenzy.
They were so excited that instead of taking turns speaking, they continued to talk over the other, but over the cacophony Wooyoung surmised that they were very upbeat because they were were given the day off unexpectedly and wanted to make the most of it, so they rushed to Wooyoung so they could show him around the town.
Wooyoung was too touched to mention that he’d scaled the town multiple times in looking for leads for his quest up Gwasa, so he silently nodded but could tell his cheeks were smiling.
And so they did really did show him around, they took him to karaoke, (“Mingi you’re off pitch. No, no you’re still off pitch.”
“I don’t know if you’re aware of this info, but you’re not actually JK Simmons, Yeosang.”).
They had lunch together again in a quaint restaurant, this time for hot pot. It was obviously family-run. An elderly women sat behind the till, children’s drawings on the noticeboard, greeting them warmly before leisurely showing them to a table. Small children bounced up and down besides the tables, whilst aunties and uncles took the orders and delivered the food, evading the children with a sense of rhythm that seemed adept and yet natural. They dug voraciously into their kimchijiggae and Wooyoung only hesitated slightly this time when Mingi offered him a napkin.
In the afternoon, on the way to the cinema the two had become enraptured in a very intellectual argument that lasted for hours:
Aquaman or batman.
“Aquaman? Out of every hero in never mind Marvel, but even DC, you pick the undisputably worst one?”
(Wooyoung thought as much, but didn’t want to risk voicing his opinion, lest he be pulled into whatever insanity this discussion was.)
“What’s your problem batboy? His powers are very advanced aquatically-speaking and Jason Mamoa is hot.”
This continued for hours, long after they had left the cinema, but at modest volume even during(!), which got the attention of many members of the audience all around them. Especially since they were watching a rerun of a Julia Roberts romcom dubbed in Korean. Needless to say it was distracting.
By the time they had reached the zebra crossing where he was going to split, Wooyoung almost felt a small spark of joy at parting ways. They were still sweet guys, but their tolerance for petty arguments and banter was in the heavens, and Wooyoung had reached his full for the night.
Then completely without warning they both gave him a hug simultaneously which turned into a slightly awkward group hug, where he was the stunned third participant. Expectedly they let go, wished him a good night and walked side by side across the road with blending into the crowd of school students, office workers on their route home and others languishing in a refreshing, humidity-free night.
He found himself absorbed by his own crowd shadow, found his ears tuning into others’ conversations, groups he was categorically not a part of, and unconsciously found himself aching for the presence of the other two sooner than he thought he would.
Yet his feet kept carrying him forward until he caught sight of a very peculiar coincidence that made him pause in his movement, earning an annoyed grown from a man in a grey suit, who dodged Wooyoung’s still form and proceeded to bypass every other slow pedestrian as well.
It was a small, European-style patisserie. Outside seating, with dainty circular table tops, white upholstered backrests and a wide-extended beige awning with a faded, ‘Café’ typed in Edwardian script. Moss-green tiles orbited the entrance.
And in the window it was none other than Yeongja herself, pulling down the blinds. Her eyes lowered from her point of focus, identifying him in the crowd and immediately started to wave in big motions from elbow to hand almost frantically.
He entered without second thought; bells jingling with cheerfully as the door shut with a soft, affirming ‘click’.
Sugar wafted around him in a vast mist, as little cakes of various forms, like colourful gems, lined up to greet him behind the immaculate glass display. Exquisite cream puffs, eclairs, pistachio cakes shifted as they caught the light.
“My dear boy, it took you long enough to find me.” Her white apron was smattered with splashes of brown stains and her forearm was grazed in a substantial quantity of flour.
“I’m sorry Yeongja.” He spoke sincerely, “A few things distracted me.”
Like a spell, scenes from breakfast burst across his mind like an ephemeral spark. San’s candid joy as they parted, his charm; Yeosang and Mingi’s freedom of expression in their tender care, even Seonghwa’s dismissiveness. And how much that deeply irked him in a way he could not name.
Like a pendulum, his mind swung to a hospital. A hospital bed with mislaid, starchy sheets - rough to the touch. An empty pack of plain biscuits on the side-table. Grey turbulence in the skies outside, that gathered.
“Now now, that’s very youthful of you to be so coy.” Little lines gathered around her eyes. Her arms folded and held behind her back. “You could have just said you were busy.”
The diligent little cakes, formerly gems, had now all but gone. What remained in its stead was a cloud of opaque, black smoke that hovered uselessly in abundance behind the glass, moving without direction nor reason. Little patches of light exploded soundlessly amongst the dark mass as the glass gave way to the smallest cracks from the pressure. He felt the rise and fall of his chest hasten.
“I wasn’t, not really. At least I wasn’t trying to be.”
It started to slowly and viciously seep through the fissure, like blood is flowed thick up towards the smooth ceiling. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be because it never was.
He desperately tried to not seem overt in his scruntizing, keeping his eyes fixed on Yeongja’s expression and not on the gliding black smoke that pooled menacingly above him. There was no smell of smoke either. yet it taunted him like it knew that he couldn’t do anything about it.
And it was right, he couldn’t. He never could.
“That’s okay dear, let’s simply get on.”
Yeongja, without saying anymore, patted him on the shoulder. Her hands felt warm on his shoulder, as she pressed into his trapezius firmly, ushering him into the kitchen.
—
Yeongja resembled nothing like she did before.
By the crossing, crouching down onto the pavement, clutching onto her bruised apples that seemed desperate to run away, she’d appeared bothered and helpless.
Now standing with an arched back, focused and determined, commanding her space - she was truly a force to be reckoned with.
“As you can tell I have already started on a cookie batter. I’m not sure on the decoration yet, but that is what is so splendid about baking!”
Her movements were precise - every move was measured in its impact. She was harsh and excessive when needed to spread flour onto the wooden counter, but careful in rolling out the dough, in order to not split it.
“Each time you bake, you have a chance to create something entirely new that has never existed. The freedom in it is wonderful.”
Almost pedantic in her fervour to get into a rectangular shape. Her grey hair, caught in bobby pins and a mahogany claw clip, was shaking with each motion. Loose strands fell on her face in the struggle.
"I wanted to make some sourdough bread for breakfast tomorrow, could you assist me with that?”
“Might as well make myself useful.” He gestured at the work station with pre-measured flour, yeast and salt and began to gradually pour in the flour into a large stainless steel bowl.
He inhaled sharply to catch the cinnamon and wafts of strawberry jam that tangled tightly into the air, hands immersed in kneading a dough that stuck to his hands like a dilemma.
Dry flour encased his knuckles as he dug some out of a glass jar and spread it on the cutting board. He felt his pride tugging at his chest, prodding him to make sure his hands knew how to knead bread calmly - to show he knew what he was doing.
“Can I carve a pattern on top?”
He never felt like he was particularly talented or really good in anything. He never achieved the best grades, never learnt to play any instruments to perfection, nor was a great athlete really. He was a decent runner, but nothing extraordinary.
“Whatever you like, dear.”
And the same was true for baking and cooking - but he enjoyed it.
Something about the repetitive actions loosened the tightness that often sat in his chest and unravelled the taught lines across his forehead. But it was the act of creating something special, something physical that made it so endearing to him; that he could give to others and for one moment cement himself in their mind as someone good - as someone worthy of being loved because of what he had to offer.
For a singular moment they would eat what he had made and he knew he had given them a piece of himself that he could never take back, and never wanted to take back.
Being able to share this with Yeongja made nostalgia bubble in his mind, spilling into caverns of hidden memories. Recalling the empty void in his mind when he thinks of the word ‘grandparent.’
“Mum, did you like my cookies?”
“Yes Yong-ah, they were scrumptious!”
Despite ignoring it in the foyer and hoping it would magically eclipse the problem, had accomplished nothing. The black smoke he secretly yearned would dissipate, did the opposite. It crawled recklessly into the kitchen, pluming in great tuffs above his head. He could tell from the his peripheral vision that it was gathering in wait, all the while hoarding poisonous thoughts.
“Can you make some bread dear? It’s so much better than anything at the store.”
“I’ll do it after homework. Is it a late one tonight?”
“Afraid so, but I’m aiming for crashing my but in bed before midnight tonight.”
“Aiming high I see.”
“Your mother is tough as nails dear Yong-ah, you’ll see.”
The kitchen was warm, hot - and uncomfortably so. There were 3 or so ovens on simultaneously. Sweat dripped from his forehead down his smooth cheeks. He felt he had kneeded the dough enough and set it aside to rest in a metal bowl that he excavated from the cabinet.
After a moment of reflection, he realised he wanted to make something sweet so he decided on Soboro. With Yeongja’s blessing, he wandered the kitchen in search of red bean paste.
“So what are you in town for? That is when you’re not standing around helping old women with their apples or wandering a port town. I can tell a non-local when I see one.” She finally released her motivated grip on the rolling pin and with an approving nod, began to cut out small shapes with old-fashioned brass cookie cutters.
“You’d be correct,” he earnestly chuckled, never mind if it was slightly diluted. Just another reminder of his limited deadline of his residing here and how he has another life, waiting for him.
“I’m from Incheon. I’m a student, just finished my undergraduate degree in history.”
“Ahh - how smart you are!” A few wrinkles gathered in meeting on her forehead as her eyes turned to crescents. “I know how to catch the best young men for baking that’s for sure.” There was an uncertainty to her however, that came to light only as she turned to face him.
Her expression was visibly bright but her hands clutched at the tray in her hands, now boasting an array of almost obstentatiously symmetrical, raw cookies.
“Yeongjaaaa-“ Unable to control himself, a childish whine burst out of him, without a second of trepidation. “ I am actually better than you might give me credit for. I used to bake a lot for- for my mother when she worked late nights.” She didn’t mention his unsubtle hesitation at stating something so simple, for which he was grateful.
“Really!” Her tone was genuinely surprised. “Nevermind my teasing dear. I’m sure you would have been decent regardless, but this has definitely instilled some confidence in me.”
“That’s what I like to hear - from no expectations to the bare minimum.” He remarked in jest.
“Now what do you mean by that?” She inquired in a low voice. From a glance she was deeply engaged with the temperature setting on the oven, body turned away from him.
“Everyone should know how to bake and cook. Men have no excuse to be lazy.” He stated plainly, but he absolutely meant it. How some men have the nerve to think that they don’t want to and therefore don’t have to participate in housework, especially cooking, will never not irk him to his core.
“Right you are, now I definitively think you should have a chat with my grandson. Bless his heart he tries, but his skills definitely leave something to be desired. Did I tell you how he burnt eggs one time - he cooked them for 2 hours!" She exclaimed humorously.
"Spectacular really. I have no idea where he gets it from.”
He giggled at her deadpan delivery. “That is truly something.” Wooyoung quipped, still laughing.
The conversation smoothly tapered away as they became engrossed in their own work. Yeongja lowered herself so she could peer into the oven. Her skin seemed immune to the heat, as she tenderly continued to nudge the cookies whilst the tray laid innocently on the blazing wire rack as steam flew out in an angry roar.
He, on the other hand, had gathered finally found his beloved red bean paste, but opted to combine the wet ingredients together first. The mixer hummed joyfully as it did just that, the noises of mechanical whirling filling in the hush that fell discreetly over the kitchen. Wooyoung enjoyed the fact that the machine was raucous enough that his compulsive thinking could not counteract it. He let himself melt into its tirade with zeal in fact, to the extent that the menacing threat above his head felt as if it was almost powerless. Almost.
“You didn’t answer my question from before.” Wooyoung whipped his head around, startled.
“Which was?” He challenged delicately.
Her hands were perched behind her on the counter, hidden from his sight, “Why have you come here, of all places in the world?”
The first time she had inquired, it had seemed casual, conversational even. Now her words were measured and prying, hunting for a specific artifact hidden amongst the soil.
“Because I have to find someone - or some people.”
“Who is it that you need to find?” Yeongja squinted at him dissently.
“Someone who caused me a lot of pain and disappointment.”
It felt too close, much much to close to what he had been avoiding since coming here. While before he had the whirling of the mixer and a mind weighed down with an endless list of things to measure, cut, and chop, all at once he had been set free to hobble after the spaceship. Like he had been detached from his cord and left to float through the incessant void of space.
Yeongja tucked a stray hair behind here ear. “Right… I see. And do they live in the city?” She inquired further.
What’s more, his distractions and had served their time and now his attention lay askewed, magnetised by the dreadful, shadowy mass. Once again it was on the move, scraping across the room with frail, spindly arms crawling over the counter.
Its elongated arm reached grotesquely for the metallic bowl that housed the resting bread. It narrowly dodged the metallic exterior, but jutted the bowl a centimetre or so. Fowl scraping noises filled his ears, but his alone. Yeongja didn’t react.
“No, no they don’t.” He swallowed, the inherent feeling of being interrogated coming over him.
“They live up on Gwansa.”
Despite his better judgement, he scooped out the dough from the metal bowl and placed it on a tray lined with baking paper.
“Up Gwansa?” She crossed her arms in defence, her eyes widening. “But-”
“I know I know - everyone says its haunted, abandoned-“
“Don’t interrupt me please.” She cleared her throat, as it had gone hoarse.
He tossed it in the oven and slammed the door, albeit slightly violently. He turned to face Yeongja and she was looking at him, as if witnessing an aspect of him for the first time.
“I’m…” She paused, breathless, “Wooyoung?”
Something in that moment had appeared altered, despite him being unsure as to what it was.
“Yes? What is it Yeongja?”
“Why have you come to Posang Wooyoung?” Her voice came out as frantic, volume raised. This time demanding rather than merely asking.
He inhaled deeply, the funeral casket flashing before his eyes.
“Because I’ve never met my family. My mother was my family and she died.” He heard a subtle, yet audible gasp. “I invited her family, or who I supposed was her family to the funeral, but nobody came. No one.”
The oven’s extractor fan whirled with amplified power.
“I don’t mind their indifference towards me, but I cannot let them disrespect my mother, nor her memory.”
The atmosphere was heavy, burdened with emotions that had nothing to with this sweet lady who invited him for an afternoon of baking, but everything to do with life that lacked purpose; with him for lacking a backbone, and for his family, that do not care about him.
He wouldn't be shocked if she made an awkward, transparent excuse to cut the night short and gently asked him to leave.
“Firstly, I’m terribly sorry for your loss, she was a kindhearted and very strong person - I’m sure.” She put on a wry smile as her hand rested on his shoulder. “She had to have been to raise a devoted, kind son like you. I am so sorry that you were left to yourself. It must have been so hard, and so lonely.”
Enough to say, he found her response absolutely bewildering - for a couple of reasons even.
There are times when a random piece of wisdom that someone, even a relative stranger, utters, that somehow manages to hit the absolute truth of the matter - the emotional funny bone if you will - that cannot be unsaid or taken back, even though they lack complete knowledge about what topic they are giving advice for.
These were completely generally platitudes that could apply to anyone who was grieving their mother, and yet it was the most profoundly empathetic one anyone has every said to him. Almost as if Yeongja could peer passed the jagged rocks that surrounded him, right through to his soul.
He could feel his petulant eyes start to seep in moisture. He didn’t want to cry. He promised her he wouldn’t. He started to blink heavily, turning to look at the batch of dough that glowed yellow in the light of the oven.
“I had people to depend on, so it wasn’t all bad.” He smiled feebly as a traitorous tear escaped. Roughly, Wooyoung wiped it before it had a chance to cascade.
Her tender eyes sparkled reassuringly, as she took his hand from where it had clutched the counter, grasping it firmly. “Second, you have to go up Gwansa.”
“But how?” Desperation melted hot on his tongue. “A tour guide said the car roads were all torn up, there were no walking paths and that it was too steep to get up otherwise.”
“Leave it all to me. I’ll make the arrangements tomorrow morning, you can stay here tonight and get a head start tomorrow. I stay above the cafe anyway.” She smiled at him kindly. “At least you can start the day with a fresh scone, and don’t doubt for a second, mine are the greatest on this coast.”
“Yeongja…” Wooyoung was speechless. There was entirely too much he wanted to express at once. That he was grateful, not only for her benevolence and empathy, but for her grand-parent-like affection - something he never had the chance to witness firsthand.
The amount of competing thoughts ensured that none of them managed to breakout, much to his chagrin. Instead he stared at her with these bittersweet feelings convulsing rapidly in him.
“You don’t need to say anything.”
And he didn’t say anything, didn’t dare utter a syllable. His attention had been so engrossed by the conversation, he took his eyes off the target.
No longer clinging to the ceiling, the black smoke had started to close in without his detection. Its long, yet meagre arms had multiplied copiously, spreading itself like a thin web all over the counters; clinging to the walls and the floors, except for a narrow circumference of space near their feet. One itched closer to them gradually, as if waiting for its moment to strike, laid stark against the cream of the tile.
The black mass was threatening to concave onto both of their heads, but only he could see it.
He knew he was acting strangely, whipping his around like he was possessed. But the slim line between reality and his illness had never been so fucking hard to manoeuvre.
Was he actually going insane?
“Is something troubling you? You keep looking around the room.”
The worst part was he didn’t have a migraine, not even a slight headache.
But the minor warmth on his face from earlier had all but dissipated. However, it had been replaced with an inner fiery heat that originated from the centre of his chest, which was permeating with fervour down his arms. The heat was scorching him.
He swallowed, tightly screwing his eyes shut and grinding his teeth.
It didn’t work. “If I told you something in con-confidence, would you keep it to yourself?” He divulged, paralysed and breathless. His eyes were immense in feeling, dripping fear like a soaked cloth.
Her countenance immediately reflected his, the abrupt panic that took hold of him undoubtedly contagious.
“By all means dear, what is it?
Shivers went down his back. The sickly, shadowy limb had found his white sneakers.
“Sometimes I s-see things. T-things that I’m quite sure, aren’t there.”
She exhaled intensely, “Such as?”
“I’d r-rather not s-say.”
For fear it would become real.
“Okay.” She said soothingly and whisper-quiet. Her expression had entirely transformed. Brows no longer flowed due to panic. Her eyes once taught, were now subdued, yet contemplative and focused.
“May I place my hands on your head Wooyoung?”
“Yes.” He mumbled in a low tone, but the laces of dread that had enclosed around his chest had loosened to a degree. Despite the fact that he could feel the frail arm of the dark mass enveloping his shoes.
She positions two hands at the crown of his head, with both of her thumbs moderately pressing into his forehead.
“Did I tell you I used to be a... medic, in the army?"
“No, you didn’t.”
He tried to no-avail to steady his breathing, all but to glance at a spindly arm reaching for them.
For Yeongja.
She smiled at him, encouraging and ardently unaware.
“They teach you all sorts of tricks there to alleviate the soldiers’ conflict-related stress. This one involves a bit of, well - acupressure. Let me know if I’m hurting you.”
He was frozen stiff, petrified.
He blurted out a faint “okay”, as his own joints bled heat. His hairline was saturated in sweat and his fingers trembled.
Yeongja began to hum, in a rich baritone manner, exceedingly distinct from her speaking voice. As if the noise was emerging from her stomach.
Composed, she pressed her thumbs more firmly into his forehead this time and pressed her eyes shut, lowering her head.
The low contralto humming was replaced with a steadfast mumbling, however he failed to determine the meaning of the words. He could only identify every other word, but not their connection to one another: ‘time’, ‘blood’, ‘ignite’ and ‘epoch’ flew past his ears at furious speed, as she riffed the utterances in a prosodic rhythm.
Suddenly, everything began to lag.
His heartbeat settled into a moderate rhythm, his trembling stagnated; even the sweat that streamed steadily down his face earlier, slowed its cascade. But something else was amiss.
He smelt eucalyptus. And it made his stomach curdle.
She withdrew her arms in a serene retreat, “You should start to feel a bit calmer.”
Before he had time to fixate on the emotional trigger, his stirring thoughts began to dwindle and scatter, along with his energy. He felt all but extinguished, his fury depleting. In its wake, came vertigo and exhaustion like a tidal wave. And it was all encompassing and omnipotent. Even the unbearable burning that overtook his chest and limbs, had cooled down into a subtle tinge so abruptly that he felt cold.
He had no idea acupressure could be so powerful.
“I need to sit I think. I’m feeling lightheaded.” He raised an arm to wipe the remainder of the sweat, but missed his forehead, fingers landing on his cheek, as if his motor functions were defective.
“Nonsense,” She blurted, eyes resolute. “Go and lie down upstairs, first door on your left. The sheets are fresh.”
It’s sweet of her to think he cared about anything, much less the cleanliness of sheets. At this point, he could fall asleep on a bathroom floor if he gave in to his fatigue.
He glanced up one more time at the dark cloud, apprehensive about the shadowy webs and blinding coruscating sparks, only to find it gradually dissipating. The sparks went dull, meanwhile the anger trapped in the smoky mass slipped away like silk.
Then, the ceiling cleared.
“Thank you Yeongja.”
Unable to summon anymore earnestness to his voice, he hoped that she would understand the depth of his gratitude.
“It’s the least I can do, Yong-ah.” She replied vehemently.
The noises of rickety steps accompanied him the whole route upstairs, his limbs swaying to their own accord as he clutched the dusty, wooden handrail. A distinctive drowsiness clouded his mind, as he settled his tired form on the supple sheets. The muted odour of burning bread eluding his senses.