Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

No one had made any reservations for the whole week. Nor the whole month. So it was a surprise to the entire hotel that a guest was now waiting inside the lobby.

The two people on hotel duty that night rushed to their feet and prepared a room for the guest, who was shifting his thick green jacket every now and then.

The pale pink paint was peeling at some corners of the reception, and some of the plants looked thirsty. Through the half-closed window panes, the eager rain was forming puddles on the white tiles and was filling the stale room with the scent of newly watered concrete.

It was no fancy place, but Youngjae was satisfied.

The rain was unexpected, but a guest at this time in the evening was an even bigger jolt to the crew. Youngjae could easily tell by the sight in front of him: a wide-eyed receptionist who had barely enough time to comb his hair flat.

Seeing his guest lock eyes with him, Jihoon suddenly became interested in the framed image of Manila on the wall, which needed to be pushed a little to the left. And the ceiling that needed dusting. And in the logbook on the desk in front of him, which he realized still said August 2005. It was the middle of September.

He was thankful to have found something to do when he located the radio beside him. He decided to flick the power on. But stupid Jihoon, the radio was at max volume. And now, Aegis was belting at deafening levels.

Jihoon hastily turned the volume knob down. He could tell the guest was looking at him. Judging. Laughing, definitely. He didn't dare look. But Youngjae didn't mind.

Just when Jihoon couldn't think of anything else to busy himself with, Hanjin finally came into the lobby to announce that the room was ready. Youngjae got up, shook his umbrella dry and folded it neatly. Youngjae followed Hanjin's lead to his room. Jihoon followed the guest with his sight.

Suddenly insecure with the poor state of the room and needing to do something, Jihoon took his feather duster and went around the lobby.

This building used to be his uncle’s house, but was converted into a hotel of sorts when he moved in for good with his wife in Korea. The low-ceiling living room was refurbished, and was decorated with little tidbits of Korean souvenirs.

Jihoon was on his tiptoes to dust the dirty ceiling above him. He sneezed.

Being the middle child of three siblings, Jihoon needed to find a way to help cover his family’s needs. His uncle’s hotel in Manila was the perfect solution. With this job, he could send money to his family back in Laguna province, while his uncle had someone he could trust to watch over the hotel. Besides, there weren’t too many guests coming in, so Jihoon didn’t have to worry too much about being a host.

Jihoon shut the window panes and tossed a rag over the puddle on the floor. Tipping the photo of Manila to the right, Jihoon allowed himself a rare moment of reflection.

Being plunged into this city three years ago was tough. It cost him much to live away from his family. But he can’t keep his eyes away from his purpose, not when his family is counting on him.

And his adoptive city took him into its arms and endowed him with its signature grit and determination. There was nothing else for Jihoon, but to push and push. Nothing else.

Satisfied, Jihoon took a nap in the empty reception with Aegis finishing their song on the radio.

Ten minutes later, Hanjin was elbowing Jihoon. "Cute guy, eh?"

"Quiet, Hanjin!" Jihoon said with big eyes, elbowing Hanjin back. "He might hear you!"

"Don't worry Ji, he's in the back room. He asked for it."

"Why would he want it there?"

"I don't know, some weird mysterious person shit, I'm sure. Why don't you go ask him yourself since you conveniently forgot to ask him to sign the logbook?" Hanjin rolled his eyes.

Jihoon looked at the empty paper in front of him. He tore the empty page for August reservations, and with Hanjin's shove, he headed to the last room across the hotel corridor, beside the shared bathroom. This was his least favorite part of his work as hotel staff, the cramped corridor that sometimes made him feel claustrophobic.

Normally, Jihoon wouldn’t forget to ask guests to sign the logbook, but something odd about today was shifting the routine.

No guests usually come this time of the year. It’s the rainy season. And there aren’t any beaches in the city anyway. And in this hotel? What’s his business?

When Jihoon reached the last room, he saw the door wide open. He looked up, and saw the guest without a shirt on. They caught each other’s stare.

Quickly, Jihoon looked away. “Sorry,” they muttered at the same time.

Jihoon turned around, noticing another dusty corner in the hallway. He heard the door creaking to close a little. “Hi sir, sorry. I forgot to … would you please sign our logbook?”

“Oh yeah, hi, sure,” Youngjae called from the inside. “Could you give me a sec?”

“Yes, no, no worries, sir, thanks,” Jihoon stuttered.

A minute later, Youngjae came out in a white sleeveless shirt with shorts above his knees, and the beige slippers courtesy of the hotel. It’s a bit small for him. “You wanted me to sign something?”

While waiting for his guest to fill out the sheet, he peeked through the small awning through the door, careful not to be caught by his guest who sat with the logbook on the bed.

His green coat was tossed haphazardly on the table. Despite the strong rain outside, his AC was turned to the max. Just one suitcase, pried open, and a few sheets of paper already by the warm lamp on his desk. A pen was resting atop the pile, interrupted mid-sentence. The writing was hard for him to understand. He recognized it as Korean.

“Thanks, sir. There’s breakfast tomorrow, 8 a.m.” Jihoon said, looking at his guest’s shoulder. “Please drop by the reception desk if you need anything.”

His guest just mouthed a thank you, turned around and closed the door. Jihoon looked to his side, where the shared bathroom was open to his view. In the mirror, he saw his hair sticking out making it obvious he had just woken up. He hurriedly fixed his hair and wet his face.

When Jihoon was reading the logbook back at his desk, he saw his name. Choi Youngjae. Length of stay: five days.

“We’ve never served breakfast! What are you talking about?” Hanjin was shouting at Jihoon from the reception table.

On the kitchen countertop, Jihoon was in his own world, carefully peeling garlic cloves and mincing them on a white plastic chopping board. Hanjin was packing his things. His shift at the reception table has just ended and Jihoon’s in charge for the next day.

“That better be company wallet, Ji,” Hanjin pointed his finger to the plastic bag of vegetables on the table. “I paid so much for enoki mushrooms. You know how many stores in Manila have enoki?”

Silence from Jihoon, who was now frying the rice.

“Exactly. None,” Hanjin rolled his eyes. He peeked at the September logbook with a new name on top. “Just cause your guest’s some cute Korean guy—”

“Watch it, Hanjin,” Jihoon said over the loud stir-fry sizzle. Jihoon gave it some thought.

“Hey, why don’t you take some of this to Kyungmin?”

“We’re eating out later, Ji. He’s taking me out to a lunch date today. You know, pay day,” Hanjin said, wearing his knapsack.

“Good for you, Jin,” Jihoon said with a tone of sadness. “Say hi to Kyungmin for me.”

“Will do,” Hanjin replied, uncertain whether to press further. He approached Jihoon and whispered: “Hey, he just met a guy you might like.”

“I told you, Jin, I’m not looking. But thanks for looking out for me.”

“Boys are for enjoying, Ji. Live a little!”

“If only it were that easy.”

Hanjin gives Jihoon a back hug to say goodbye. Silence in the room, except for the sizzling wok.

“Don’t do anything stupid when I’m not around,” Hanjin said, opening his umbrella and closing the door behind him.

Jihoon found his rhythm while cooking. His uncle and aunt taught him the recipe he was now attempting with focus. With confidence, he poured the kimchi on the wok and stirred the mixture with two wooden pans. He opened the window by the kitchen to make sure some air was aiding his deep breaths.

He only broke his focus when he heard someone behind him in a rush to leave. Youngjae, wearing his green coat again, was behind him in the lobby, with a notebook on his left hand. The guest raised his eyebrows and politely smiled at Jihoon’s direction. But he left with his gray umbrella before he could notice the kimchi rice the receptionist had cooked for him. Just for him.

When the rice had cooked, Jihoon turned the stove off, packed the meal and put it aside. He lost his appetite.

The rain had not stopped that evening, and Jihoon heard from the radio that a typhoon was coming. Bored and bothered by the rain, Jihoon decided to go through his daily routine.

The tiles are mopped and cleaned. Check. The light bulbs are working. Check. There are no leaks from the ceiling. Check. Jihoon even watered the reception plants that Hanjin seemed to have forgotten from his shift.

Peeking at the long corridor with the bathroom at the end, Jihoon tugged his shirt collar and decided to do his dreaded task of wiping the grime off the hallway walls. He wet a rag in the sink, and began wiping, not forgetting to take deep breaths every now and then. Whenever he would reach up, he would lose his focus and feel the walls falling on top of him. But Jihoon decided to power through the task while he was here anyway.

Focused on the work, Jihoon hadn’t noticed he was finished with three of the four rooms. All that was left was Youngjae’s.

He began diligently wiping the pale pink walls of his doorway, revealing some shine underneath the dust. He took a deep breath, reached up, and dusted the door mantel. He sneezed.

Wiping near the door frame, he paused and stared long at the golden knob. He thought twice about it. And thought again. Decided. No one would find out anyway.

He opened the door with his duplicate key and was greeted by the musty smell of rain in the room. The AC had been kept running, Youngjae must have forgotten to close it, or did not bother to.

He could see the crumpled paper thrown on the ground, despite the steel trash can right beside the desk. There were neat stacks of paper on the left side of the table top, and one sheet in the middle separate from the rest, with a pen on top of it.

In his palm, the fountain pen felt warm. With the lingering touch of his guest.

With his other hand, he smoothed out the paper in front of him, wondering what it all meant. While his uncle and aunt had taught him Korean cooking, he hadn’t actually learned how to speak the language.

After checking outside the room to see there was nobody in the hallway or the lobby, he sat on the chair in front of the desk, and tucked his legs below the table.

He placed his cheek on the paper and caressed his fingertips across the man’s handwriting. He inhaled the scent of his ink, and the points where he must have jotted deeper, or where he might have lifted his pen.

Lost in the feeling and the sound of the rain’s pitter-patter on the window, he closed his eyes to feel the man’s writing on his skin.

With his feet swinging from the chair, Jihoon had kicked something below Youngjae’s desk. Curious, Jihoon looked underneath the table to see the singular briefcase Youngjae had brought with him when he came yesterday, the one he saw when he asked him to sign the logbook.

He sat on the floor and peeked underneath the table to open the suitcase.It was leather, with thick metal bracing the exterior. While the inside was a rich velvet, there was nothing much there, spare more sheets of paper and a modest change of clothes. Tucked at a corner of the case, he felt with his hands, was a wallet, which he opened with deep, itching curiosity.

Looking inside, his breath hitched. There were credit cards that Jihoon could only dream of having, and a wad of cash that he could never earn with a month’s work.

And there, nestled in the wallet was a photo. A handsome Youngjae, smiling on stage, accepting … an award? A writing award, it seems. Beside him, a woman, seemingly Youngjae’s age. Jihoon’s age. Youngjae looked happy. The woman was happy. With effervescent joy.

And that was when the power cut out. The lamp went dead. The AC had shut off. The distant sound of the news on the radio was gone. And there was nothing but darkness and the melancholy of rain around him. The rain outside, distant, hammered loud in his thoughts. The walls felt like they were caving in.

He was alone, suspended in darkness, in a place he wasn’t meant to be in, clutching the photos like a weight he wasn’t ready to carry. Jihoon sat frozen, with his heart, heavy, heavy with something he could not name. Did not want to name.

Chapter Text

Jihoon was trying his best to shut the suitcase and leave the room as it was, fast, with the little light from the occasional lightning strike. Deep breathing. He locked the briefcase, and crawled out of the room, trying his best to get up. Deep breathing.

Finding his way across the corridor with the walls he had just cleaned, he felt his way back to the reception, where he was sure he kept a bundle of candles ready. With a brief flash of lightning from the lobby window, he lit a candle on the desk, beside the September logbook.

And after an exhale he saw the candle illuminate a man on the hotel doorway, with a green jacket and a gray umbrella. A smile.

“Power’s out, huh?” Youngjae called from the entrance.

Jihoon felt a jolt. Then a sense of relief. “Yes sir, I’m sorry, it happens all the time.”

“It’s nothing,” Youngjae said, shaking off his umbrella dry. “Part of the experience.”

Jihoon leaned on the wall behind the reception desk, checking his hair with his right hand. How long had he been there?

He watched as Youngjae neatly folded his umbrella, took off his green coat, and walked to the direction of his room.

“Sir, there’s, there’s kimchi rice here if you’d, if you’d like,” Jihoon quickly uttered, looking at Youngjae’s collar. “It’s nothing much I’m sure, but you can have some, if you’d like.”

Youngjae looked over his shoulder with a smile. “Sure. Just like home.”

Youngjae said that last word with too much weight, he was hoping his host wouldn’t notice. He wanted to be as far from home as he could.

“I’ll serve you, sir.” Jihoon took the lighter and another candle, noticing that his guest’s face had soured. He must have made a bad offer. Was he not in the mood for dinner? Had he somehow known what Jihoon had just done?

He signaled for Youngjae to follow him into the kitchen. He was suddenly very aware of the man behind him, as if he was absorbing the room with his gravity.

At the center of the kitchen was a round table, meant only for the two-man crew who could cook and eat in the room. Jihoon placed another candle in the middle of the table for his guest, lit the flame and caught a glimpse of Youngjae staring at him. His heart fluttered. He focused on the fire.

From the two sets on the dishrack, Jihoon placed utensils, a plate and cup in front of Youngjae. Careful not to knock the candle, he opened the kimchi rice he set aside for breakfast and saw a polite smile flash on his guest’s face.

“I’ll eat outside on the desk, sir.” Jihoon said, taking his utensils with him, bowing out of the room.

“No, let’s eat together,” his guest replied. “I need to ask you something.”

Confused, Jihoon sat on the chair in front of Youngjae. He let his guest scoop out of the rice bowl first, then he followed suit. Watching his guest’s smooth hands, Jihoon realized Youngjae had probably never experienced a power outage before.

Youngjae looked down at his plate. The aroma filled his senses. For a moment, his hand hovered above the spoon. Like his heart just dropped with something heavy. There he was again, home.

Looking around, he could see a different kitchen now, a different time. Back when he had love and laughter in between spoonfuls of breakfast. A different time.

He picked up the spoon, took a bite. Slowly, he chewed, feeling the pain of nostalgia bite his chest. A memory, too much salt in the taste.

Noticing his host steal a glance at him with concern, he kept eating to show his gratitude.

From the opposite side of the table, Jihoon watched anxiously as his guest took his first bite. It seemed like Youngjae was looking at something far from the plate, far from the present. He was looking at the candle now, his spoon hovered on top of the rice. Was he thinking about his lover? About the fame and prosperity he misses in Korea?

Youngjae, silent for a long time, finally looked at him and asked, “What time does Intramuros open?”

This is what Youngjae wanted to know? Is this part of the service? Is he quizzing? How did Youngjae even know about Intramuros?

“It’s always open, sir.”

“I see,” Youngjae said, taking another spoonful of kimchi. He paused, the bright light of the candle burned into his sight. Silence, with only the sound of loud rain filling the room.

Toying with the lettuce on his plate, Youngjae felt in the monsoon air an opportunity to start anew. Looking at his host through the dancing candllelight, he considered it. Thought about it. Did Jihoon feel it too? Wondering, maybe. Maybe.

“Would you be free tomorrow?”

The question jolted Jihoon. What was his guest expecting of him? Is this how foreigners expect service from this country?

Uncertain what his host wanted from him, he nodded, “Yes, sir,” out of service for his guest, maybe. Maybe, out of longing. Of hope. Maybe. Jihoon looked down at his dish, unable to stop his smile from forming.

From his periphery, he saw Youngjae was looking down at his plate, he too, with an unmissable, irrepressible smile. Effervescent.

But just as quickly as Jihoon’s heart leapt with joy, it sank with immense sadness. From the window he opened while cooking breakfast, there came a breeze that made the candlelight dance, almost dousing the flame. There it is, there it is again, that feeling he can’t name.

“Please, just call me Youngjae.”

Jihoon was lying down on the bottom mattress of the bunk bed in his and Hanjin’s shared room. Hanjin, the noisy fellow, wanted to be unbothered in the upper mattress. And because the upper mattress is too close to the ceiling, Jihoon preferred sleeping in the relatively more spacious bottom bunk. Besides, he would be face-to-face with the window across him.

Here, in the room diagonal to Youngjae’s across the corridor, Jihoon could hear his guest tutting out of frustration. He thought he sensed displeasure from Youngjae after tasting the kimchi he cooked just for him. He had finished his meal alright, and he thought he followed his family recipe, but Jihoon wondered if it had tasted different for him, if he said something that set him off, or if he didn’t like the candles he gave before they parted ways.

Jihoon could hear Youngjae ripping paper, again and again, and again, like thunder was brewing in his own ceiling. He could imagine the balls of paper landing on his feet, the texture of his gracious handwriting. The smell of his ink. And below, the suitcase carrying Youngjae’s wallet.

So what? Why does it matter to Jihoon anyway? What makes this man different from all the other guests? The wind kept whispering, but it couldn’t give an answer.

Across Jihoon’s room, for the fifth time tonight, Youngjae was rewriting the climax of his story. He wrote in his paper with vigor, looking at the stack of chapters to his left. Unlike his other books in the past, he had no plans in writing his story, no chapters, no outline, just following what felt right with his heart.

He lost his thought at the fountain pen in his right hand. It had his name engraved on the spine, a special gift from his girlfriend when they graduated college together. Now, an ocean away, her memory feels heavy in his palm.

Those days they spent together in his house, fueled only by ramyeon and kimchi rice, there was nothing that could stop their future. Ever the methodical person, her girlfriend would list her plans for their life together. Get her degree, land her dream modeling job in Europe, get married by 30.

He would lose his thoughts listening to his girlfriend narrate their plans after graduating. He could spend his whole life looking, writing about his muse with enchantment in his eyes.

When his girlfriend booked her modeling job in Barcelona, a continent away, Youngjae was all smiles. She was checking every goal she made for herself. She was unstoppable, and Youngjae’s heart would flutter with every magazine cover she sent in the mail.

In their phone calls, Youngjae would listen intently to her girlfriend and hear her passion for the work she did. She would hear her list the bookings that month, planning what she would wear, where and at what time.

In one of their calls, her girlfriend told him the only goal left was for her to get married. When the call dropped, Youngjae thought about whether her girlfriend wanted to know about what he was doing, or what he had to say about their future.

Three months after she left, she called Youngjae to ask whether she had left her green jacket back in Seoul. She was going to wear it for an audition for a big Spanish magazine. It was the jacket Youngjae gave her in one of those cold, drunken college days by the Han River.

It’s here, Youngjae told her on the phone, thumbing the pocket with his right hand, It’s alright, don’t worry … It’s okay, I’m busy too, yeah, I know, I know, it’s okay. I love you too, it will work out … we’ll work it out … Okay, good luck on the audition, okay, take care.

Youngjae thumbed through the manuscript with his left hand, and remembered he hadn’t told his girlfriend that he was in Manila. How could he have said it? Did it matter to her? Was it working out?

Deciding to call it a night, Youngjae blew the candle off, and kicked his briefcase shut.

Jihoon was trailing behind Youngjae, who was carefully matching his feet to the steps of Jose Rizal in Fort Santiago. The city had placed footmarks on the floor to indicate where the national hero of the Philippines walked when he was imprisoned in the fort before his execution under Spanish colonizers. Under the rare moment of sun, the park was packed with guests.

One such guest, Youngjae, the tall figure, made excited strides across the pavement, his green coat flapping behind him as he walked, almost hopping. While trying to follow behind his guest, Jihoon was walking a bit more hesitant, cautious of the walls all around them. They climbed up the stairs of the fort, to a view of the city.

Looking over his shoulder, Youngjae could sense Jihoon was a bit fatigued from the long walk and the heat. They sat on what used to be a tall wall in the fort, which was knocked down by World War I to form a bench for guests to sit on. In front of them, the sprawl of Manila, taking in as much as it could of the bright weather. Jihoon was thankful for the air.

“After this, we could go to Sta. Ana church, then to Manila Cathedral to finish the tour. Then we need to go home before the rain comes again. The forecast said it would rain tonight,” Jihoon told Youngjae.

Youngjae, lost in the view of the city, smiled to himself. “We have all day. Ever notice the view in front of you?”

“Sorry, Youngjae.” While Jihoon was relieved his guest was enjoying the time, he had other things planned for the day. And the rain could really come again tonight.

Youngjae took out a small notebook from inside his coat and a pen. It seemed to Jihoon to be a new notebook, with the National Book Store tag fresh on the cover. Youngjae wrote unintelligible writing on the page.

“I need a good setting,” he said. “Can’t find anything like this in Seoul.”

Jihoon couldn’t figure out why the heat of Fort Santiago or the sprawl in front of them was anything worth writing about, but figured his guest saw something he couldn’t understand. From where he was sitting, a few inches away from Youngjae, he could hear his scribbling, loud and clear. He saw the grace of his hand delicate on the page, and the texture of the paper where he wrote.

Youngjae caught him staring. “Don’t worry,” he said with a smile. “I won’t forget to write about the receptionist who forgot to brush his hair.”

Behind them, a tour guide had just gotten to the top floor, and was now pointing foreigners to the view of Manila. One of those paid tours, Jihoon guessed. The tourists, just like Youngjae, muttered their amazement at the view of the city. After five minutes of photos, the tour guide, a man in his 40s, told the tourists they would now go on a private tour of the Jose Rizal museum below the fort.

Youngjae got up, looked at Jihoon with a smirk. He was charged with an idea. He got up from the bench—the former wall, broken. He tapped Jihoon on his shoulder, nodded, and they snuck themselves among the tourists who were too busy to care. Jihoon let himself go.

Youngjae got lost in the details of the Jose Rizal diorama in the museum. The hero sat there, silent, with a faint light from the ceiling bouncing off the tall, white display walls. From where he stood in front of the chain, blocking guests, Youngjae could see the heros’ pen and ink.

“Rizal was a hardworking man, he spent most of his time in Europe writing his novel in between jobs,” the tour guide behind Youngjae explained to the tourists, who were now scattered around the main room, too amused to listen. Jihoon seemed to be the only one heeding the tour guide, who returned his attention with a smile.

Jihoon turned, and saw a glass display case in front of him with a lifesize mannequin of Rizal. Inside the glass was a pair of brown coats, which Rizal used to wear in his travels to Europe. By the foot of the mannequin, Rizal’s briefcase. Lost in thought for a while, Jihoon caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass case.

While Jihoon thought himself an attentive student, he found history class easiest to master. He would memorize the dates, the names and the places, so it was easy for him to ace the tests. While he couldn’t care less about what actually happened, Rizal was different from all the other heroes who were just names and figures to him. He understood why Rizal had worked hard for his family even at his young age. He had that grit Jihoon admired, that determination—to have too much on you to fail or to risk.

Written on the glass was a quote from a Filipino historian, printed in white cursive stickers: Like the overcoat that snugly wraps Rizal in all his statues and photographs, Rizal is obscured by countless myths and preconceived ideas ... Without his overcoat, Rizal was human, like you and me.

Beside his own reflection in the glass staring back, Jihoon’s eyes refocused to catch a glimpse of Youngjae behind him, with his green coat wrapped on his wide shoulders. A smile. Jihoon quickly looked to his right.

He saw the tour guide now calling on the visitors to come to a narrow hallway, more akin to a cave. He was nervous about the cramped space, but seeing Youngjae excited to go, he followed his guest inside.

It was dark, and there was little space for the crowd inside the packed corridor. Water was dripping from the low stones above them, to the complaint of some of the tourists. Some of the taller visitors were slouched to avoid hitting their head. “This is the pathway that would have led Rizal to his prison cell,” said the guide, holding his flashlight in front of the crowd. There was a damp smell of earth from the heavy rain the night before, and there were splashes of water when the crowd walked behind the guide’s lamp. Some of the children were horsing around at the excitement of the sudden darkness.

Jihoon was finding it hard to breathe. Is Youngjae ahead of him?

“Here, he would have been writing to his lover, in his final moments.”

“A lover?” One of the visitors said, one of them who wasn’t paying attention moments ago. “By that mustache and style you would have thought him to be gay!” Laughter was booming across the cave walls. The children were laughing, laughing.

Jihoon’s sight was darkening, his hands were getting cold. More laughter, loud. He could have sworn all the visitors were looking at him. Laughing, wide smiles. Thought him to be gay. Laughter again. Then Jihoon couldn’t hear anything anymore, except for the voice calling out his own name to him.

Chapter Text

Jihoon woke up to a lightning strike from his left. He was lying down on the bed, warm under a set of white sheets, but not his own. He caught the scent of his laundry soap on the hotel blanket, and a smell of damp earth from his shirt. Outside, the rain was pouring strong. The radio forecast was right.

Jihoon blinked and saw the entire room tilting. Dizzy. Blinking again, he recognized where he was. In front of him, a desk with a green coat tossed on top of it. Beige hotel slippers pointing out of the bed.

To his left, the candlelight was shining on Youngjae, who was wearing his sleeveless shirt despite the cold. In the orange glow, Jihoon could see Youngjae’s slender back tensing under the shirt as he focused on the paper in front of him. He was writing, his hand dancing across the pages. Youngjae’s brown eyes reflected the candlelight, and his eyebrows furrowed in deep focus.

His hand danced across the page, with the same pen Jihoon held last night. Now, Jihoon was in Youngjae’s room, sharing this evening with him. Jihoon watched, transfixed, as though he was intruding on something sacred but unable to tear his gaze away.

What happened that afternoon? Jihoon remembered having entered the cave to follow Youngjae, despite his dread. If only he hadn’t entered, they would have finished his plan of touring Sta. Ana Church to Manila Cathedral with Youngjae. He was bummed his itinerary didn’t push through. Youngjae must have booked a taxi to carry Jihoon back to the hotel.

Another lightning strike, and more rain pouring outside the window, which Jihoon noticed was wide open. Jihoon turned to the left, and saw that the door too was open to let in more air.

It was then that Jihoon remembered that the door to the hotel wasn’t closed, and the windows in the reception and kitchen were wide open. There would be a mess on the floor tomorrow. Jihoon thought about getting up, but as quickly as he considered it, he remembered his handsome guest on the desk and decided not to. Jihoon’s eyes fell on the suitcase underneath the table, and closed his eyes to sleep.

“Good morning, miss beautiful!” a voice was shouting from the corridor, and the door knob was clinking. “Had a good night too, with Korean boy, huh?” Hanjin appeared on the door frame, mop to his side.

“Oh, Hanjin,” Jihoon got up and propped himself with his elbows. “I’m so sorry.”

Hanjin laughed. “Come, there’s breakfast on the table. Kyungmin’s here.”

Jihoon looked at the room, which felt emptier than it should have. His eyes drifted to the pillow beside him, which was tilted a little to the left, and the sheets on the other side of the blanket creased as if someone left in a hurry. 

Youngjae had slept beside him. But looking around, the man was nowhere to be seen, just his paper stacked neatly on the side. He was beside me all night, Jihoon thought to himself, smelling the sheets before getting up.

Jihoon’s chest tightened at the thought. What if he had been awake? What would they have told each other?

He got up, shut the door and looked at the mirror. He combed his hair flat, washed his face, and met Kyungmin and Hanjin outside. Jihoon lit up, seeing Kyungmin on the chair. The chair where Youngjae sat two nights ago.

“Hey, bud!” Kyungmin stood up, greeting his old friend. Jihoon greeted Kyungmin with a big smile. He was wearing a vest with a white shirt underneath, a sling bag across his torso, which Jihoon was sure had nothing inside it. It would normally be an odd choice for the hot and humid Manila, but given the weather, Jihoon gave him a pass.

Kyungmin gave Jihoon a big hug. “I missed you.”

“Me too!” Jihoon said, looking at Hanjin to the left, who was mopping the puddle by the window, shaking his head. They all gathered by the reception desk.

“This guy,” Kyungmin looked at Hanjin with his warm, round eyes which Jihoon couldn’t help but notice. “He picked me up from the jeep, umbrella and all. Always taking care of me.”

Hanjin rolled his eyes but gave Kyungmin a back hug, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He laughed it off, but his hand lingered on his back for a beat longer.

Jihoon spaced out watching them exchange these intimate moments of affection, speaking a language only they knew, but incredibly clear. It was the kind of closeness Jihoon could only let himself dream of, or live out on his own.

Kyungmin offered to take Hanjin’s mop and help, but Hanjin simply shook his head to decline the offer. Kyungmin gave Hanjin a quick peck on the cheek, and leaned back at the reception instead. So casual, thought Jihoon, but to him, it felt as if the world stopped for a second.

Feeling like he was breaking the intimacy of his friends, he averted his gaze to the right, where he found himself staring at the empty seat where Youngjae sat when he came into the hotel. His mouth was dry, feeling an ache in his chest, not just from watching his two friends in love, but with the thought of what could be. What if Youngjae was sitting there now? What if Jihoon just told Youngjae that … that …

Kyungmin interrupted Jihoon’s thoughts, turning to him with a wide smile. “You know, I’ve been telling Hanjin about living here in the hotel with him, maybe for good,” he said, looking back at Hanjin with a silly grin. “But Hanjin would have to clean every day.”

Jihoon didn’t have to look to know Hanjin was rolling his eyes. “As long as I’m with you, anywhere is good.” Hanjin said. “And Jihoon will do the cooking.” They shared a laugh.

Then the couple noticed how quickly Jihoon’s laugh faded away. Kyungmin raised his eyebrows as if to ask Hanjin whether it was apt to tell Jihoon about that friend he knew he would like. But Hanjin shook his head no, Not this time.

Listening to them talk about their future struck Jihoon hard, stirring a deep, deep longing inside him. Would I ever be that brave? What if I stopped holding back? Said something real? When Jihoon really thought about it, he asked himself, what’s stopping him from living his life?

But before Jihoon could dwell any more on the longing in his chest, his phone buzzed in his pocket. It was his mom.

“We’re at your Aunt Celia’s house to get better reception,” his mother’s voice crackled from his Nokia phone, distant but laden with concern. Her voice would falter every now and then, but he could pick up on her mother’s worry from the other end, for him, more than the phone bill. “I’ve been wondering how you were doing, Jihoon.”

Jihoon swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He leaned on the door to his room, looking at Youngjae’s door across from him. His mother never called him unless there was something important, and these long-distance calls didn’t come cheap. “Is everything okay, Mom? Why’d you call?”

A beat. “It’s just,” his mother hesitated, “the flood, Jihoon.” Her tone, faltering. “It’s getting terrible here. Those down the street, us too, we’re … we had to leave the house. Your brother helped us out to your Aunt Celia’s.” Her voice was saturated with anxiety over the thunder. “We just wanted to make sure you’re safe in Manila.”

The guilt pushed Jihoon like a wave, his stomach twisting. While he had spent the whole day out with Youngjae, letting himself go of his responsibilities, his family had been worried about the flood, worried about him. It was jarring, unfair.

He tugged on his shirt, the room suddenly tilting. “The radio said it’s been raining a lot over there. How are you and Hanjin holding up, son?” His mother asked, her voice soft.

Jihoon blinked, his own eyes flooding, struggling to find the right words. What could he tell his family? That he’d spent the whole afternoon away from his shift, forgetting his responsibilities, forgetting them? That he was toying with his emotions for a man he barely knew, while his family was fighting to keep themselves safe?

The line was silent, though the storm continued to rumble. Then, Jihoon heard it—his baby brother’s cry, sudden and scared, startled by the thunder. His stomach twisted. He should be there, helping his mom, his brother, holding his baby brother, not feeling sorry in this cozy hotel room.

“Jihoon?” His mother’s voice called his name.

“I’m here, Mom. Sorry, yeah, I’m fine,” Jihoon forced the words out, tugging at his shirt, suddenly aware of the phone bill. “You should stay at Aunt Celia’s until the water goes down.”

“Don’t worry, we’re staying here tonight. Your brother helped us pack. We’ll be fine, but you, you sure you’re safe?”

Jihoon nodded, though she couldn’t see it. “I’m safe, ma, no flooding.”

“Thank God,” she breathed, the relief palpable through the crackling connection. “You take care, okay? How’s Han—”

The call was cut. His mom’s phone call balance had run out.

While it was Jihoon’s day off today, with Hanjin taking care of the reception, he couldn’t keep his mind off work. He needed to do something, something that could make him feel less useless. Just staying in the hotel would be too much, he needed some fresh air, a change of space.

Sat at the back of the jeepney, Jihoon was thinking about his younger brother. Having spent the past three years here in the city, he barely had time to get to know his youngest sibling. He would keep his hands busy with work, hoping instead that the money he sends would be enough to raise him into a man of his own, a man Jihoon would meet someday, when times are better, some other time. Jihoon hoped his younger brother would understand when that time arrived.

He got off the jeepney with three other passengers, and opened his umbrella. He squeezed himself through the heavy crowd outside Quiapo Church. 

Everyone here had their own hustle. Vendors to his left selling mysterious charms, extending their bracelets to him. To his right, a man with a megaphone selling herbal medicine to a fast crowd of disinterested churchgoers. Everywhere he walked, beggars were shaking their cups for alms. Here, this Thursday afternoon, Jihoon fit in this ocean of people, each with their own dreams.

Amid the chaos, he could have sworn he heard someone from behind him call out in jeering laughter. “F*ggot!” The voice shouted, laughing away behind him, a losing voice in the dense crowd. Jihoon was too preoccupied to care.

When he entered the church, what he saw confused him. For some reason, the church, a devotee site in the middle of the country’s capital, was empty, spare for some guests who sat in the pews up front.

Hesitant and suddenly conscious of his presence, he stepped closer to the scene. At the altar was a beautiful lady wrapped in white, a long veil tracing the outline of her lacy gown. Beside her, the beaming husband, in a gray, shiny tuxedo, smiling for the camera. In the pews, two rows of guests, women to the left and men to the right, looking fondly at the couple in the middle. It seemed the priest had left, and it was time for the two to pose for the photographers they hired.

Jihoon hid himself in the left wing of the church, observing the ceremony from a distance. What a striking difference from the noise of the scene outside. In front of him, the solemnity of these two lovers, wealthy, no doubt, renting out the whole church, with their own patrons to cheer them on.

From where he sat, the guests’ cheering and photographers’ instructions were unintelligible. With the soothing rain outside, he found the chance to meditate, to focus. Jihoon kneeled down to pray. His hands folded loosely before him, fingertips brushing.

In the rhythmic pattern of the rain outside, now a drizzle, he tuned in to his thoughts, feeling the familiar weight of responsibility settle in his heart.

Jihoon wasn’t sure who exactly he was talking to, but he took the chance. Protect him, protect them. The words weren’t spoken, but they pulsed within him. His mother’s voice in his mind, her tone crackling with concern, the distant sound of the thunder and his brother’s cries. Please watch over them. Protect them from the flood. Keep them safe.

But even as his mind drifted towards home, something else tugged at his mind, quiet, but insistent. A presence that lingered in the corners of his thoughts. Youngjae.

The thought in his mind came in fast, and he couldn’t stop it when it came in. It was imperceptible, as though his thoughts were waiting for a chance to latch onto the memory of him. Jihoon’s fingers tightened slightly, the ghost of Youngjae lingering, just out of reach. He slept beside me.

He hadn’t meant to dwell on it, not here, not this place. But his body remembered what his mind could not process, and the ache of that memory slipped quietly into his prayer.

Jihoon could feel a heavy guilt settling in his heart, cold and heavy. What was this feeling, really? Why was he so connected, drawn to Youngjae, who he barely knew? Is this wrong? 

But the more he distanced himself from the thought of Youngjae, the more it clung to the edge of his mind. Forgive me.

He bowed his head, trying to focus, but beneath the weight of the guilt and confusion, there was another feeling, one he didn’t want to admit. A longing for Youngjae’s presence. The stillness around him deepened, and for a moment, Jihoon allowed himself to sit with that feeling.

For a moment, from where Youngjae stood by the church’s doorway, he could see the wedding unfold before him. The silence, away from the crowd, allowed him to plot a scene. A vision of his life had he been married to his girlfriend now. Her radiant glow, practiced modelesque walk across the aisle, her dreams unfurling before her very eyes. And waiting for her there, by the altar, shifting, an uncertain apparition of himself. Would he be happy, standing there, caught in the expectation of what was supposed to be? He locked eyes with that vision of himself. He was waiting for her, just always waiting.

Jihoon decided to step outside the building, an area meant for churchgoers to light their candles. Dozens of metal tables stood here, crowned by rows upon rows of candles from people who lit them for intimate, personal wishes. There were more people here, making silent whispers into the candles they lit with prayer.

He lit his own candle, covering it from a gust of wind just then. In his hand, the candle offered warmth from the tough rain outside the church. He closed his eyes and offered his own prayers in secret.

When he looked up, Youngjae was in front of him lighting a candle of his own. His eyes closed, too. His green coat was dotted with drops of rain, his hair catching some of the raindrops from the gutter. In the silence, he caught himself thinking about being wrapped in the smell of his coat, kissing his long eyelashes.

Jihoon never thought Youngjae to be religious, but wondered what he could be praying about. He quickly realized he may be praying for someone back home.

Now would be the perfect time to turn around and go, but then, Youngjae opened his eyes, raised his eyebrows in surprise, smiled, and moved closer. Jihoon was closing his eyes, looking up, Why now?

Noticing his host deep in prayer, he stared at the candles in front of him, an entire row of which was extinguished just now by a strong wind from their left. Jihoon opened his eyes.

“What are you praying for?”

Jihoon paused, reminded of his family. “My folks back home,” He paused again, considering what a host can and can’t share with a guest. “Things are a bit tough right now.”

Youngjae looked at him. “I’m sorry.”

Jihoon sighed, looking at his candle melt away. “It’s alright. Tough being out here away from them. But it’s the job.”

Youngjae thought about pressing further, but hesitated. Jihoon who never hesitated from his job. Who let him eat from the dinner first. Who cleaned the pink walls every time. There were people back home counting on him.

It was stories like that of Jihoon that Youngjae traveled the world for. Stories of inspiration worth living, with a life driven with purpose. Stories he could never find back home.

Outside, the rain poured harder. Youngjae pulled out his notebook and began scribbling. One of the beggars, a lady with a small infant, who found shelter inside the church, approached the two, noticing the tall foreigner in the expensive coat. Only Jihoon seemed to notice. He gave him some loose change in his pocket, and the lady turned around with a blank expression.

The two hopped into a jeepney, and Jihoon paid the driver the fare, feeling the weight of the coins in his palm. He glanced at Youngjae, figured he might share something about the iconic king of the road here in Manila to brighten the mood, but seeing Youngjae lost in his world, he reserved it for another time.

There were two others in the ride, a young girl with ripped Levi’s jeans, a knockoff, no doubt, and an elderly lady with a white veil above her head, who cast the two intrusive glances.

Jihoon averted his gaze, and turned instead to Youngjae, who was lost in his story. Jihoon made sure his guest was not wet from the rain trickling from outside, though the drops were making patterns on his pants.

“How’s the story going?” Jihoon asked, breaking the silence between them.

“Manila’s a great setting, turns out,” Youngjae responded, not lifting his focus from the notebook. He let out a small smile tugging at his lips. “The rain adds a whole vibe to it.”

A vibe? Jihoon was taken aback. The word sat uneasily with him. What was it about the rain that inspired Youngjae so much? Jihoon frowned, his chest tightening with an emotion he couldn’t pinpoint. Envy? Frustration? A longing for the privilege to view the world with rosy glasses, instead of being plunged into obligation?

As Youngjae closed the notebook and kept it in his coat, he stared at the empty seat in front of him. From beside him, Jihoon observed the details of his face, his handsome nose, and the texture of his neck. Some part of him was wondering, hoping, he was part of the world Youngjae was building. Not just some metaphor he met in Manila. Jihoon swallowed hard, shaking off the uncertainty.

“Thought of an ending yet?” Jihoon pressed, redirecting his spiraling thoughts.

“Not quite, but it’ll come out soon, I know,” Youngjae’s gaze still distant. “I just need more of a feel about it.”

Jihoon nodded, his own mind drifting to the weight of his own pressing concerns. He had a family to think about, a brother growing up without him. The idea of growing closer to Youngjae felt exhilarating, but it was terrifying. The last thing he wanted was to jeopardize their professional relationship. He couldn't afford to lose this job. But the truth was, the closer he got to Youngjae, the more he felt his gravity, an invitation to explore something deeper.

The two boys, lost in their own thoughts, were interrupted only by a buzz in Youngjae’s right pocket. His Blackberry flashed his girlfriend’s number, now reduced to numbers on his screen. Jihoon caught the flicker of indecision in Youngjae’s eyes and the bob of his throat before he dismissed the call. A choice Jihoon did not miss.

What used to feel right to Youngjae didn’t feel the same anymore. He needed something genuine, natural. He decided to just let it go, doing what felt right to him at the moment, right there.

“Why don’t you come over later?” Youngjae asked, his voice certain. Needing a way to convince his host, he added, “I could use a fresh pair of eyes.”

Silence falling over them, heavy with words unspoken. Jihoon’s heart raced. Was he really going to blur the lines between friendship, and something more? The prospect of being alone with Youngjae brewed something in his stomach, excitement, mixed with fear of the unknown. He glanced out the window, watching the raindrops trickle down, forming puddles on the seats.

“I—” Jihoon hesitated. He turned to a hem in Youngjae’s coat. At the corner of his eyes, he saw Youngjae watch him with such intensity it sent shivers down his spine. Deep breath.

There they were, at the heart of Manila, two boys in the same room, under the candlelight, while the whole city was plunged into darkness. The rain outside had weakened for a while, with small trickles of rain dripping on the windowpane.

The glow of the candlelight in Youngjae’s table cast long shadows on the pink walls. When they entered, Youngjae took off his coat and tucked it inside his brown suitcase. Taking his notebook with him, deciding to write on the foot of the bed instead of the desk, Youngjae cast a spill of gray up to the ceiling. 

His eyebrows were relaxed, a small curl in his lips, telling Jihoon behind him that he needed to sharpen some sentences before he could present his work. Jihoon could feel his guest’s excitement. His head bent low, scribbling in his notebook, the scratch of the pen filling the room in brief intervals. To Youngjae, first impressions of his writing are always important. Especially now, when Youngjae was charged, writing with a sense of purpose and renewed energy.

The shadows seemed to dance around Jihoon as the candlelight flickered with the billowing wind. Jihoon lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the world around him quiet down. His mind, however, was anything but still.

What he forced in the back of his mind in the afternoon was making its way up again. His mind kept wandering back to his family, his responsibilities as a son, the pressure of being here, the unease that gnawed at him, remembering how far he was from where he should be.

His chest tightened at the sight of Youngjae in front of him, a reminder of something he did not want to think about, much less confront. The light was revealing the contours of his back, bared open by his white sleeveless shirt. There was something in Youngjae that was calming, but unnerving at the same time.

Then Youngjae broke the silence, his voice quiet, like a passing thought. “It’s beautiful here, it really is,” he murmured, pausing his pen. “The rain, the power outage, the simple life.”

Jihoon couldn’t hide his pain at those words. A simple life. As if it were some romantic idea, not the reality he lived with. The one he was fighting through for his family, for survival. Keeping his patience, he swallowed the resentment brewing inside him, sharp. Bitter. How could Youngjae look at this life so easily?

Youngjae returned to his notebook, oblivious to the tension in the room. A smile. His words lingered in the air, now heavy with the weight of unspoken feelings. A simple life. Jihoon lay there still, uncertain what to make of the web of frustration and confusion wrapping him. He wanted to say something, rebut Youngjae, to burst out about how people are afraid of the rain. It was hard. Complicated. It wasn’t something to be admired from afar.

The air broke and the bed shifted as Youngjae stood up, made his way to Jihoon’s side, the notebook tossed haphazardly on the table, shaking the candle. Jihoon’s body was frozen as he felt Youngjae’s presence grow closer, each step deliberate and heavy in the candlelit room. The air between them hummed with electricity neither of them could name.

Youngjae sat on the edge of the bed, tucking his knee under the blanket, brushing Jihoon’s leg. For a moment, neither of them moved. Neither one knew what to do, or say. To Jihoon, the sound of the rain was louder. Jihoon’s heart was racing. Out of anger? Nerves? Something else?

Youngjae leaned closer. For the first time, Jihoon was looking straight into Youngjae’s eyes. He could see himself in his pupils, bathed by the orange glow of the candle. His lips pulled him in, the gravity of the room strong. He could feel his breathing caressing his cheek. 

Closer, Youngjae was searching Jihoon’s face for a sign. That it was okay. That this was okay. That this was what they both wanted. His hand loomed over Jihoon’s arm, hesitant, but dying to close the distance. His voice was barely a whisper. “Jihoon…”

Jihoon’s breath hitched at the sound of his name. He knew what was about to happen. He could feel it, thick in the air, in the way Youngjae’s fingers danced up his shoulder. Jihoon’s eyes, filled with something he wasn't ready to face. His mind was flooded with thoughts, his family, his duties as a host, his life back home. He was here in Manila for a reason. An important reason.

Youngjae was adoring him, his heart filled with love, all for his newfound inspiration, his eyelashes fluttering. He leaned in, closed his eyes.

But before Youngjae could close the gap, Jihoon looked away. His eyes landed on the door. A sharp movement. Cut through the charged air. He didn’t look at Youngjae. Couldn't bear to meet his eyes. His eyes fell on the floor, hands clenched in his lap. Heart still pounding.

Youngjae froze, the rejection hanging between them. Thick. Neither of them moved. Jihoon could feel the energy draining off Youngjae, but couldn’t find the right words to say.

Youngjae leaned back slightly, his hand falling to his side. He sighed. A sound full of regret. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice raw, as if speaking to himself, not to Jihoon. He ran his hand through his hair, looking away, smiling with bitterness, certain he was foolish for even trying. What was I thinking?

Jihoon lay back down, his face turned away from Youngjae, his heart aching, torn between his feelings and his sense of responsibility. He closed his eyes, willing the tension to drain away. Breathing it out. But there it was, drowning in it, pressing down on his chest.

The room fell quiet again as they lay beside each other. Here in Manila, miles apart, uncomfortably close.

Chapter Text

It was laundry day today, and Jihoon was collecting the sheets from the rooms to take to the attic. He was reminding himself to breathe, finding it hard to do so not just because of the tight corridor, but because of the heavy air in the hotel.

Having finished placing his and Hanjin’s sheets in the laundry basket, and replacing them with new ones, he carried the basket out of the room and into the corridor. For a moment, his gaze fell on the door far across from him, to the room where he was last night.

He hadn’t seen his guest leave his room for the day, even though he had been leaving in the mornings he was here. His eyes landed on the doorknob, considered it. Thought of it again. He paused for a moment, focusing his gaze on the door as if to will Youngjae out of his isolation.

Should he have just opened himself up to Youngjae yesterday? What was there to lose? Would anyone have known? The weight of the basket suddenly heavy on his hands, he turned around and went down the attic. 

Hanjin, whose day off was today, lounged by the reception, letting his eyes follow his friend make his way down the washing machine below. While he didn’t know what was happening, he could tell there was something different with his friend’s demeanor, as if carrying a new weight on his shoulders.

Jihoon went down the stairs, heading to the basement below, where the hotel washing machine was stowed. A Korea-brand appliance brought by his aunt, the white box was tucked awkwardly to the left, one of the few expensive items of the hotel. A window to the right was providing what sunlight the heavy, gray skies could give for the yearning cement floor and the chipping white paint on the walls.

Here, the smell of the earth was strong, spreading all around the small room. But despite Jihoon’s fear of cramped spaces, the window to his right made everything look spacious.

His mother hadn’t called him back yesterday nor today, and he knew he wanted to save his call credit for more important matters. He was hoping the flood had sunk, and that the water had receded from their street. But looking out at the dismal weather outside, he wasn’t hopeful.

Jihoon was too dazed to function today, an odd departure from his methodical and attentive work. Anywhere he looked, he couldn’t hold his focus, and his mind would wander somewhere else. His mother. His brother. His duty. Youngjae. The candles. When his hands moved, they felt like jelly, unable to cling or touch anything with certainty.

He took a small chair, pulled the laundry basket close to him, sorting the clothes between the white and the colored, mechanically sorting the laundry. Colored. White. Colored. Colored. He was almost mindlessly tossing the clothes. He was certain some of the T-shirts mixed with the beddings, but he didn’t care enough to sort them again. For the first time, after three years working in his uncle’s hotel, he felt the chore of doing the laundry. His eyes welled up with too many thoughts, more than what his humble heart could carry, but no tears came.

Wanting to be done with what he was doing, he stood up, turned his attention instead to the washing machine.

Too lost in his thoughts to think, Jihoon plugged the washing machine and turned the knob to the right, letting his muscle memory guide him into the routine. 

But to his surprise, an emotion he can finally name, the machine did not move. He returned to the switch, flicked it on again. Nothing. He went through all the knobs, trying out all the buttons he could see. Nothing. He pressed on the power button again, nothing. Again. Nothing.

Jihoon crouched. He reached his hand behind the machine, twisted the wiring in his thumb and forefinger, checking the connection. Nothing. He unplugged the connection from the box and plugged it again. Nothing. He yanked the cable from the wall socket and tried again, nothing. Nothing. Nothing was working.

It was then he realized that the power all around the city was still out, and no matter what he did, the machine wasn’t going to work. It wasn’t going to work. Crouched, he felt his weight drop to the floor and felt the cold cement against the back of his legs. It was then he let go, let it all out, the pain, the frustration, the hurt, and all the tears came. Steady. Falling warm, pouring down his skin, falling, Another tear, falling. Falling. A steady stream on his left cheek, where he felt Youngjae’s breath land on him last night. Stupid. Stupid. So stupid. His shaky weeping echoed all around the room, returning to him with amplified hurt, all over.

He placed his hands on his chest, soothing himself into comfort, then shifted his hands, now wet with tears, all over his body, where he felt the pain, caressing his knee, arm, his shoulder, imagining that stranger, touching him now where he did last night, holding him, alone, by the washing machine telling him it was okay, that he was loved, that he was seen, that his tears were alright, to let it all out. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Jihoon’s fist clenched and pounded on the washing machine with every whisper. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. The tears fell nonstop. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Hanjin could hear every pound upstairs, from the reception, clueless to the room full of aching and longing underneath his feet.

There was a little rain outside Youngjae’s room. The sky was still gray and dark, but there was enough sun to bask the room in some glow. When he woke up, he blew the candle off, its smoke snaking all around the room, gliding his eyes to the right side of his bed, where Jihoon was lying down last night. He had left before the morning broke.

His gaze lingered on the sheets, where Jihoon laid underneath him last night, still carrying the imprint of his warmth. He could still feel in his fingers the texture of his skin, his knee, his arms, his shoulder. The memory of their intimacy made him feel a pang of guilt. Why was he so stupid to feel this way?

Turning back to the desk, the smoke was now dissipating. The notebook he tossed mindlessly beside the candle suddenly had more weight in his hands now than he remembered from last night. He flipped it open, and he was filled with the urge to rewrite the novel from cover to cover.

With a deep breath, he reached for his phone from the suitcase, the heaviness in his chest urging him to make the call.

He hesitated, thumb hovering over the call button. Could he really reach out to her after dismissing her calls yesterday, absorbed in the conversation between Jihoon and him? He could just explain he was busy, but part of him knew she wouldn’t understand. With a sigh, he pressed the call button, the sound of her voice visceral miles away.

“Hey,” she answered breathlessly. “I’m about to hit the catwalk in five.”

Youngjae’s heart sank. “Oh. I just—”

“Busy, you know. Show’s starting soon. Anything wrong, love?” There was no warmth in her tone, only an urgency that twisted his stomach into knots.

“Of course, I… I just wanted to check in, it’s raining nonstop here… How are you?”

“Fine, but can we talk later?” She sounded distracted, her sentences clipped in her rush. It was always like this. “You know how it is.”

Youngjae felt his frustration bubbling deep inside. “It’s just, I’ve been thinking about my writing. I think I’m finally onto something.”

“Your writing?” She scoffed slightly. “Jae, I didn’t think you would actually write that story. I thought you were looking for a job instead of this… novel nonsense?”

His heart pounded. “Nonsense? It’s important to me!”

“Important? A silly bedtime story about Manila? Who cares about that place?”

“What do you mean, ‘who cares?’” A pause, Youngjae leaning on the wall, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. “You didn’t even ask… didn’t… You didn’t even know I’m here in Manila!” He paused, letting his revelation unfold.

Silence. A beat. He could almost hear her thoughts racing, the realization settling in. Her girlfriend’s voice breaks the silence. “Come on, I know you, and I know you can do better than this, baby.”

“I’m here to experience life, something, something genuine!” He shot back, hurt flickering in his chest. “Do you even care?”

“Of course, love, but you need to be realistic. What’s writing going to get you? We can plan it out, come on, you’re being directionless right now you don’t even realize it! Let me help you.”

Youngjae clenched his jaw. Her words struck deep, echoing his insecurities. Directionless? How could she not understand how important this was for him?

“You always think you know what’s best for me,” he said, voice low, shaky breaths, tears welling in his eyes now. “But, I need you… I need you to trust me. Trust what I’m going with here. Trust what I’m trying to build!”

“Trust? Jae, I’m not going to ‘trust’ my way into letting you waste away chasing after some dream that would lead us nowhere! You need to think about your future. You need to think about our family, the home we’ll build together!” Her tone hardened, leaving no room for debate. “How are we going to get married in the future if we don’t have anything to our names? Have you ever thought about that?”

“Oh, yeah?” Youngjae felt the fire strengthen within him. “Well, have you ever thought about me? What I want?”

He inhaled sharply, feeling the space between them widen. His breathing grew unsteady, but he was too enraged to let his tears fall. He walked to the right side of the bed, where Jihoon was underneath him last night. He was more than a checkbox in a list. He was more than a means to an end. “Maybe…” his voice softened. “Maybe I don't want to be what you think I should be.”

Silence hung heavy between them. As he looked around the room, he saw, underneath the table, inside the briefcase, the green coat he had given to his girlfriend. He had loved her once, they had many memories filled with joy. But those moments felt overshadowed now by the reality of their disconnect. With every word, she was pushing him further and further away.

More silence, each second stretching into an eternity.

“I just…” he began, but he couldn’t finish his sentence. He couldn’t find the right words now. What else was there to say?

“I can’t believe you’re doing this. I don’t have time for this right now.” She paused, her voice cold. “Look, I have to go. I can’t keep doing this. You’re in Manila chasing some fantasy, I’m here building a career. I can’t be the one waiting around for you to figure things out.”

“What are you saying?” he breathed, a chill spreading through him.

“I’m saying this isn’t working. I can’t do this anymore. Sorry, I have to go.”

The line went dead, leaving Youngjae in a suffocating silence. He stared at his phone, its weight feeling heavy in his hand, the finality of her words crashing over him like a wave. He sank to the floor, the cold cement grounding him. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

He closed his eyes, suddenly aware of the tears falling down his cheek. All he wanted was someone to believe in him and what he could do. To give him the same support he was willing to give. He looked up, at the edge of the bed where Jihoon was last night, his face below his nose. He felt a bittersweet feeling sweep through his chest.

He wanted to finish the novel, not for her, but for himself, for the love he hoped to explore in his writing. He was on his own now, on his own feet. He got up, firm with enraged resolve, certain that he could hear the earth pounding below him.

“Hey, lover boy. Cheer up.” Hanjin was across from him now, sitting with his legs folded in front of him. Jihoon looked up. “I got you a present.”

Hanjin opened the white plastic bag and Jihoon saw a bottle of small, cheap wine, and the two mismatched glasses from the kitchen clinking from hitting the cold cement, filling the quiet basement.

“I know, I know,” Hanjin said, seeing the worry in Jihoon’s face. “It’s nothing fancy. This was supposed to be for Kyungmin and I, but I’m sure he’d understand.”

Placing the bottle on the floor, his hand lingering on the glass, Hanjin caught Jihoon’s eye. “And I locked the door. I don’t think your cute Korean guy’s going anywhere soon.” He raised an eyebrow. “God, you could hear him ripping pages all day.” Hanjin rolled his eyes, making Jihoon smile a little. Hanjin gave Jihoon one of the glasses, wondering if it was the one Youngjae drank from, nights before.

“Yeah, he’s at it nonstop.”

Hanjin winked, then used his teeth to open the bottle of wine. “Where’d you learn that?”

“Ah, just one of my many talents,” Hanjin grinned, pouring the wine. Jihoon was sure he picked it up from whatever places Hanjin went to during his days off.

They toasted their glasses to open the conversation, Hanjin raised his glass first, the cold wine swirling in his grip, and Jihoon followed suit. They both took a sip, Jihoon’s glass lingering for a bit longer than Hanjin’s. Hanjin couldn’t deal with the overly sweet taste, but as long as it would cheer Jihoon up, it didn’t matter.

As the rain pattered softly against the window, Hanjin looked around the basement, the poorly sorted laundry, and the plugged washing machine, the scene making sense to him now. The redness in his friend’s eyes revealed his frustration with the chore.

“You know, Kyungmin and I saw how quiet you were in the reception yesterday,” Hanjin stole a glance at Jihoon. “You could fall in love too, you know. You’re a great guy.”

Jihoon blinked, surprised by the sudden turn in conversation. He swallowed the lump in his throat, feeling the burn of wine in his stomach. He didn’t drink often, but figured he could let go a bit. This was Hanjin, anyway.

Feeling renewed by the alcohol in his throat, he swallowed, feeling it burn his stomach. “It’s not easy, you know. I can’t…” His voice faltered. “It’s hard for me to be open about… who I am.”

Hanjin looked softly at his friend, the weight of Jihoon’s words hanging in the air between them. For a while, they locked eyes together, and Hanjin could tell Jihoon was retreating inward, into memories he hadn’t talked about in a long time.

Jihoon used to be bullied in elementary school for being soft. To the young Jihoon, he was just being himself, and didn’t see the need to cover who he really was. 

But one morning in third grade, when one of his classmates, a bigger guy in his room, saw that he was sketching women in long gowns in his notebook, he laughed, gathering his friends, took Jihoon by his collar and stuffed him in the cabinet outside the room, down the hallway where people rarely passed, in a box where they had kept all the brooms and cleaning materials.

Jihoon banged endlessly on the door, calling for help, but with the thickness of the door, no one was responding to him. With tears in his eyes, he crammed himself into the tight space, face-to-face with the broom that was tickling his nose. He was sneezing endlessly. He was only let out of the closet when the janitor saw him unconscious in the evening.

Hanjin could tell it was this exact memory Jihoon was thinking about. Hanjin caressed Jihoon’s hand to comfort him. Jihoon’s breath hitched.

“You’re not that scared kid anymore, Jihoon. You’ve come so far since then.”

“I didn’t know how to deal with it back then. It was just… survival.”

“And you survived,” Hanjin tightened his hold of Jihoon’s hand.

A bittersweet smile touched Jihoon’s lips. “I try to be brave, but sometimes, it haunts me.” Jihoon looked at the laundry on his left. “I can’t fail. There’s too much on the line.”

Hanjin took another shot, letting the wine mince in his mouth while thinking about what he would say next.

“It’s okay to choose yourself, you know?” Hanjin said, more earnest than usual. “You can still take care of your family without losing who you are in the process.” Hanjin looked at Jihoon, who was watching the wine in his glass. “That, that drive, that’s who you are, yes, but what you’re feeling, that’s also a part of you.”

Jihoon took a deep breath, letting Hanjin’s words resound inside him. That’s also a part of you. Hanjin was right, it was a part of him. A part of him, just as important as anything else. Denying this was like removing a limb, being half a human.

Tears pricked at his eyes again, thankful for this moment of sincerity under Hanjin’s casual dismissiveness. 

In his pocket, Jihoon’s phone buzzed. A text from his mother. Jihoon hurriedly opened his Nokia, he’d been waiting for this the whole day. Hi, son. Flood’s coming down. Hope you’re safe. He shared the text with Hanjin, and they smiled at each other. A shared moment of relief.

Away from home, Jihoon was glad to have found his chosen family. Hanjin might as well be part of his blood family too, knowing how Hanjin was adored by his mother, and bonded well with Jihoon’s brother, his only sibling at the time. 

On one of the occasions when Jihoon’s family visited them from Laguna, two years ago, Hanjin, fresh from his hotel management degree, served with great care. One evening over dinner, Jihoon’s mother slipped and called him a “son.” It was from then on that Jihoon began to see Hanjin as a brother of his own.

Hanjin raised his glass, and Jihoon did so too. Their glasses clinked in the air again, and they downed what was left in their hands.

“I’m sorry, this really tastes awful,” Hanjin said, shaking his head in dismay, scrunching his nose in exaggerated disgust, thankful to see his friend laugh beside him, shaking off the tension in his heart.

That evening, the pair went back upstairs, leaving the laundry there, for manual washing, We’ll fix it tomorrow. Ascending slowly now, Hanjin ahead, swaying a little from the alcohol. Because the two forgot to bring candles downstairs, getting upstairs was even more difficult.

Hanjin headed to the corridor, yawned, unlocked the door to their room with a lazy twist of his wrist.

“I’m heading in,” Hanjin muttered, his voice heavy with sleep. He gave Jihoon a lazy salute before closing the door behind him, earning a small laugh from Jihoon. The click of the lock echoed through the corridor.

Jihoon stayed behind in the kitchen, the faint clatter of dishes echoing throughout the hotel. He took the candle still on the table where he and Youngjae ate kimchi rice, and placed it to his left, careful not to douse it with sink water.

Aside from wanting to keep his hands busy, he wanted some alone time to think about what Hanjin had told him in their afternoon together. His head buzzed with wine and his thoughts drifted, but he still found himself moving on autopilot. Taking the glasses they used, lathered them with water, and rinsed them, before placing them in the rack to his right. He was clearing the dishes, albeit not too many, but his mind was elsewhere. From Hanjin, his family, and inevitably, to Youngjae. That’s also a part of you.

With the last plate stacked nearly, Jihoon wiped his hands dry and cleaned the sud off the sink. He headed to the reception, locked the door and paused, exhaling slowly as the alcohol loosened his limbs.

As he turned around and walked down the corridor, he noticed a candlelight in the bathroom. He heard water running from the tap. The bathroom door was cracked open enough just to drag a shadow across the pink corridor walls. He recognized the shape instantly. It was Youngjae, facing the mirror, wearing his white sleeveless shirt. 

From the bathroom, Youngjae was washing his hands. He splashed water on his face, looked up, and opened his eyes to see himself in the mirror. Then, Youngjae shifted his focus away from his reflection, and noticed the figure behind him in the glass.

Youngjae turned, and Jihoon stood there, frozen. 

Their eyes met, the space between them charged with something unspoken, electric.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, locked in a gaze that felt deeper than anything Jihoon could describe.

Youngjae’s dark eyes softened, and Jihoon felt something warm in his chest. It wasn’t just the wine, this was different.

Jihoon took a hesitant step forward and walked towards him, but his balance wavered. He stumbled against the floor, and in an instant, Youngjae swooped in, his arms steadying him.

Youngjae caught him effortlessly, holding him close. The sensation of Youngjae’s firm grip around his waist sent a rush of heat through Jihoon’s body. His breath hitched. 

He leaned into Youngjae, feeling the strength of his arms, the warmth of his chest.

For another moment, they stayed like that, not because they were unsure what to do, but because they were certain this felt right. 

Outside, the rain was starting to trickle, stronger, then stronger. Jihoon nestled against him, head tipped below Youngjae’s chin. Youngjae didn’t pull away, his hands instead held Jihoon a little lighter, a little closer, grounding him.

He inhaled softly, catching the scent of Jihoon’s hair, a mix of shampoo and something that was distinct to him. Jihoon was adorable with his hair messy. 

Youngjae closed his eyes, savoring the closeness.

In the flickering candlelight from the bathroom, their shadows danced in the walls. The wind from the outside swept through them, stoking the flames, getting bigger now, bathing them in an orange glow. Jihoon felt reborn with fire.

Jihoon, his heart pounding, couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. He felt safe in Youngjae’s arms, for once not hiding, not pretending. The weight of the world lifted off his shoulders.

“You…” Jihoon started, his voice soft, barely above a whisper. “You’ve been writing all day. Did you… did you finish it?”

Youngjae chuckled low in his throat, catching the alcohol in Jihoon’s breath. 

When he spoke, Jihoon felt his breath warm against his ear. “Not yet,” he murmured. “But… I think I’ve found the ending.”

Jihoon pulled back just enough to look up at him, their faces inches apart. Jihoon was taking in all the details, burning the sight into his memory. Youngjae’s eyebrows were amber from where Jihoon was, his lips, and the mole in his cheek, all glowing.

“The ending?” he repeated, curiosity mixing with something else, a yearning bubbling just beneath the surface. A thought rose from Jihoon’s inside, which tightened his chest. Youngjae's flight was tomorrow evening.

Youngjae nodded, his gaze on Jihoon, never leaving. “Yeah,” he said quietly, his tone saturated with meaning. “I think I have.”

Chapter Text

Jihoon opened his eyes to a bright view of the sky in the window in front of him. His eyes were groggy from the wine he and Hanjin drank last night, and his vision was still a bit blurry. Outside, there was little rain, but the wind was strong through the windows. Jihoon wrapped himself in the white sheets and looked at the upper bunk.

He tapped the bed on top of him, no response. Hanjin might be already in the basement, finishing the laundry they left yesterday. Jihoon closed his eyes, deciding to savor the Saturday morning of his day off.

In the blank slate of his closed eyes, yesterday panned out like a movie. There was still some sting in his fist from banging on the washing machine yesterday, since he was stupid to forget that the electricity has been out for almost a week now. He could feel the wine trickling down his throat, and hear the clink of Hanjin’s glass when he shared his mom’s message about the flood back home clearing out. 

Jihoon felt his cold cheek, dreaming about the feeling of Youngjae’s chest so close to him. The fabric of his shirt, his hands on his waist. The orange light in his eyes.

Jihoon felt overwhelmed with the pace his life was going, but at that moment, basking in the candlelight glow, the world seemed to stop.

He opened his eyes to the sound of a knock on the door. He looked up, and saw Youngjae peeking in.

“Are you awake?” Youngjae’s voice was soft, filled with the same warmth from last night.

Jihoon looked up, smiled, blinking the sleep from his eyes. “Not yet, but I can be.” He stretched lazily, and turned to face the wall, making room for Youngjae behind him. As he did, he felt the mattress dip behind him.

Youngjae settled in, lying down behind Jihoon, wrapping his arms around him. Here they were, mere inches apart. Despite the cold outside, the warmth radiating from Youngjae made Jihoon feel like it was summer. He couldn’t help but place his hands on Youngjae’s knuckles, his wrists, and the tips of his fingers. He could spend forever like this.

Out of nowhere, from Jihoon’s bottom, he could feel something hard pressing against the fabric of his pajamas. He quickly turned around, raising his eyebrow at Youngjae.

“Why do you look like you’re plotting something?” Youngjae teased, his eyes twinkling, brushing Jihoon’s hair from his face.

“I’m plotting something?” Jihoon chuckled, lightly pushing Youngjae on his shoulder, letting his gaze linger on Youngjae’s features, his grin, the curve of his lips, the gentle slope of his nose. 

A thought crept back into his mind.

“Can I ask you something?” Jihoon said, his eyes falling down on Youngjae’s shirt. “Do you… Do you have someone back home?”

Youngjae’s expression shifted slightly, a flicker of surprise across his features.

“What do you mean?”

“I just… I heard some things,” Jihoon made up, recalling the evening when he snuck into Youngjae’s room to peek into his wallet.

A moment of silence hung between them, the tension palpable. Some part of Jihoon wished he hadn’t brought it up, he didn’t want to sour Youngjae’s mood.

Finally, Youngjae sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “We broke up yesterday,” he confessed, the words cutting through the quiet. “I called her, she said she didn’t believe in my writing. Said it couldn’t make a life for us.”

Jihoon’s heart sank, sympathy washing over him. Looking at Youngjae, he could see the joy in his eyes fading.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Youngjae,” he said softly, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “That, that must’ve been really tough.”

Youngjae turned to face the upper deck, his hair glinting in the sunlight. “It was. But it’s been a long time coming. A year ago, when I told her about this book I planned on writing, she didn’t think it would help our relationship.”

Jihoon saw Youngjae grit his teeth, his jawline tense. “I… I always felt like I was just a piece in her story. Like I was just playing along. But… I know I’m more than that, Jihoon. I’m more than that.”

Jihoon let Youngjae’s words take up space.

“I went to Manila without her knowledge, and the call yesterday just confirmed what we both knew a long time ago.”

Jihoon thought about what to say to comfort Youngjae, but thought it best to hold his thoughts. “I’m sorry, Youngjae.”

Youngjae forced a smile, but Jihoon could see the hurt lingering in his eyes. He turned to look at Jihoon, who reached out, brushing the hair off Youngjae’s face.

Just then, the electricity returned, jolting the hotel room with a bright flash. The cool air from the AC wrapped around their bodies.

The lights flickered on, the hum of Hanjin’s washing machine whirring underneath them. Paired with Hanjin’s unmistakable hollering from the basement.

Outside, in the reception, a Roselle Nava tune spilled out the radio, filling the room with soft melodies.

“Look at that,” Jihoon said, smiling. “I played it full blast on your first day, and now it’s like it’s playing for us.”

Youngjae’s laughter danced around the room, a delightful sound that cleared the air around them. “You’re such a dork,” he teased, leaning closer, pinching his nose, their foreheads almost touching. “How could you blast the radio on day one? You’re trying to shoo me away!”

“Just figured it added to the charm,” he replied, smelling the intoxicating mix of wine and Youngjae’s breath.

Feeling bold, Youngjae settled close under the sheets, their bodies fitting together perfectly. Jihoon’s heart raced, and he instinctively wrapped his arms around Youngjae, pulling him in. The warmth of their bodies fueling them from the cold of the air on the AC.

“Guess I picked the right hotel,” Youngjae mused. Jihoon felt a blush creep up his cheeks, his heart pounding as he absorbed Youngjae’s words. 

Silence, as Youngjae rubbed his nose on Jihoon’s chin. He could feel water forming at the back of his eyes as he relished the mirth of doing what felt right to him. The ability to do whatever he wanted with Youngjae.

“What if I told you I’m going to miss you?” Youngjae confessed, the sincerity in his voice breaking through the playful atmosphere. Jihoon paused with the new sensation of being missed, being wanted.

“I’ll miss you too,” Jihoon said quietly, his expression serious. “But we’ll figure something out. Right?” Jihoon nodded in reply.

As they lay there, Jihoon felt the unmissable bittersweet tension swirling around them. He didn’t want this to end, didn’t want to let go of their newfound connection. How could he let go of the love he spent a lifetime looking for?

“Promise me you’ll remember me this way,” Jihoon said, his lips touching Youngjae’s nose. Youngjae held his hand, “Always will.”

Jihoon looked at Youngjae, who was already gazing at him. This time, Jihoon didn’t flinch, but held his stare. Then he caught it, the mischievous glint in his eye.

“Now act like a proper host and help me pack my things.”

Jihoon let out a smile, playfully kicked Youngjae’s shin. Both of them, laughing, not holding back.

Hanjin woke up early to begin his manual washing, but wrapped up before 8 a.m. (Thank God the electricity was back). He was now helping Jihoon bring the baskets back up the living room, noticing a little pep in his step.

“I bought some bread for you, good with the black coffee you like,” Jihoon told Hanjin, pointing to the kitchen table with his free hand. Hanjin didn’t think the bread would go well with the bitter caffeine, but appreciated his friend’s gesture.

“Thanks, Ji. Perfect hangover meal.” Hanjin laughed, giving Jihoon a back hug. “Kyungmin’s coming over later. Saturday. No classes.”

Jihoon thought he heard the radio man say classes had been suspended for a week anyway, and knew his friend was just making excuses for Kyungmin to come over.

Jihoon peeked at the open door and caught Youngjae hunched over his desk. Too focused to notice the man in the doorway, Jihoon knocked on the door.

Youngjae looked up, his eyebrows relaxing. For some odd reason, Youngjae had kept the candle on. Helps with the mood, Youngjae explained.

Jihoon walked over behind Youngjae, dropping his arms on his shoulders. The AC was still running at max, and the windows were wide open. He peeked over at the bed, which was already made, and his coat hanging behind the door, ready to go. Yet the stack of manuscripts by his side was untouched.

Youngjae took Jihoon’s hand, which was resting by his collarbone, and kissed his wrist. The hair at the back of Jihoon’s neck stood up. So that’s what it feels like.

Jihoon bent over, smelling Youngjae’s hair, sharing in the glow of the candle on the table. He glanced at the pen and the texture of Youngjae’s handwriting, remembering how it felt in his hand nights ago. He could watch him write for all his days.

Suddenly, Jihoon’s pocket rang, the loud call tone breaking the silence. It was his uncle, making the long-distance call he only makes once a month, despite being able to afford hours upon hours worth of call load credit. Jihoon let go of Youngjae for a while and sat on the bed.

“Hey, Jihoon! How’s it going?” the voice crackled from the phone. Youngjae turned to Jihoon, turning his chair around with him, one hand still on the pen. Uncle, Jihoon mouthed to Youngjae.

“Hey, Uncle! It’s great here, sun’s up again.”

“Yeah, I heard about that. Called your mom too, she said flood’s gone over there. Did it flood in the hotel?”

“Not at all uncle, just the electricity got—”

“Wait, sorry, Hoonie. Your aunt’s here.”

Jihoon heard a voice from behind his uncle, speaking in Korean.

“Annyeong, Hoonie!” his aunt called to him, turning to her husband for a while to ask for a translation. “We miss you!” she continued, in heavily accented English.

Youngjae raised his eyebrows at Jihoon, mouth agape. Jihoon was confused at the shocked look on his lover’s face.

More whispers from auntie. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, auntie, gwaenchana!” Jihoon recalled the basic Korean she taught him when they lived together in Laguna province. She was certain his auntie was listening closely to the call, leaning on his uncle’s shoulder.

As the conversation went on and the Korean lady spoke to his nephew on the phone, Youngjae’s eyebrows curled, his mind racing. His heart, pulsing. He looked down, up, to Jihoon and back to his manuscript. His eyes, busy, moving from one thought to another.

“...you for the opportunity, uncle. Really glad I could help back home.”

“Oh you know it. You’re like a son to me, you know that. But hey, look, bud, I was calling to let you know something. I don’t mean to rock the boat, but we’re planning on shutting the hotel down for a while for a renovation. We’ve given some thought, to what you and Hanjin said last month about having few visitors, and we thought maybe the hotel could do with some improvements.”

Jihoon’s heart sank with worry. Does this mean who would lose his job?

“Oh, I…” Jihoon’s voice trailed, his phone heavy in his hand. Some part of him felt glad that the hotel would get a much-needed facelift, considering how worn out some of the rooms were. “That’s… that’s great, Uncle.” But another part was hurting for feeling let go by the uncle he was so grateful for.

His uncle, who watched him grow up instead of his father. Who he missed deeply when he moved to Korea with his wife. Who he helped through the phone practice his Korean citizenship interview and score his job at the local university. Who helped him earn his chance to make a living here in Manila.

Sensing the silence on the other end of the line, his uncle spoke, clearing his throat. “Hey, I know what you’re thinking, pal. Your aunt and I thought that too, which is why I called your mom earlier…”

Youngjae, who returned to his manuscript, was anything but focused on what he was writing. His ears were pointed to the conversation Jihoon’s uncle was now having with him.

“... to offer that you could work and live here, with us.”

Youngjae dropped his pen, making a loud thud on the table. Before Jihoon could react to what his uncle was saying, he saw Youngjae swipe his head to turn to him, with wide eyes. Only now realizing what Youngjae was thinking.

“I don’t want to pressure you, Hoonie, I know it’s a big ask. But maybe you could think about it. Hanjin could stay to watch over the construction. Your mom said she would support you, and you could continue that history degree here at our university. We have a good school here, you know?”

Jihoon knew this well. Whatever schools there were in the Philippines, Korea could do it much better. And the job, the pay. Much better too.

Silence, as Jihoon is filled with so many thoughts in his head, the sight of the candle burning in his periphery. He let his uncle’s voice echo through his mind.

“Jihoon?”

“Yes uncle, yes I heard. I…” Jihoon looked at Youngjae, who was now looking at him with wide eyes, his knees giddy. 

“I’ll think about it.” Youngjae’s knees paused.

“No pressure, Hoonie. Give it some thought okay?” 

“Alright, uncle. I’ll call.” Jihoon could hear his auntie speaking on the phone.

“We miss you, Hoonie!” His auntie cheered in her heavy accent, more whispers. “You come live here! Annyeong!”

Jihoon asked Youngjae for some fresh air and some calm to think about his uncle’s offer. Standing out by the street, looking at the hotel, he admired its worn face, hinting at the countless stories it housed. The nights of private drunkenness only Hanjin and he would know, the guests who this house had sheltered, and the family that once lived in this place. The renovations promised to breathe new life into the building, but the thought of leaving filled him with a sense of dread.

He leaned against the cold wall, which matched the pale pink of the interior. He ran his hand through its rough concrete. His mind was swirling with a tumult of emotions.

Faces of his mother, older brother and younger sibling appeared before his eyes. Just the thought of being much further away from them made his heart ache. His uncle said his mom would support him, but could he really leave that behind? What would it mean if he left? Would they feel abandoned? Would his baby brother understand?

Looking around the street, he could feel it lighten up now that the sun was out and neighbors were finally powered with electricity. He let it envelope him, this cacophony of sounds and scents, where dreamers like him could thrive, if they worked hard enough.

He had been in Manila only three years, only just recently getting into its rhythm and routine, and the thought of uprooting himself again was daunting.

As Jihoon stood, a different air surrounding him, Youngjae’s memory swooped in like a warm embrace. He couldn’t erase from his mind the quiet intimacy that morning, and the nights before, where the world outside faded away, and everything felt alright.

What if he chose to leave? What would life be like with Youngjae by his side, waking up to the gentle sound of rain against the window, the good mornings, the nights by the candlelight, the kimchi breakfasts? The thought of waking up to his lover beside him, with the world at the palm of their hands.

For a moment, he closed his eyes, looked up. Uncertain of what he would say or who he would talk to, he whispered his questions to the wind.

“There you are, Jinnie!” Kyungmin got up to greet Hanjin, who was fresh from a bath. “I missed you!”

Hanjin lit up seeing Kyungmin sitting beside Jihoon in the kitchen, lost in conversation. But Jihoon’s chest tightened remembering what his uncle said to him on the phone.

They collided with a hug, an embrace so tight it used to seem foreign to Jihoon, but was now something he understood fully well.

“Sorry I kept you waiting. Can’t meet my boyfriend smelling like laundry, can I?”

As the morning light streamed through the kitchen window, the air buzzed with laughter and chatter. Jihoon sat at one side of the table, absently swirling his coffee cup, while watching Kyungmin across him, Hanjin’s hands resting on his shoulders. 

Admiring them from his seat, Jihoon admired how much his two friends had grown together, about a year into their relationship. Kyungmin was a rookie journalism student back then, working on a story about tourism in Manila when he came into the hotel. He was all ears on Jihoon, who was talking about how the government’s “WOW Philippines” campaign was shaping up tourism in the capital, but his eyes were fixed on Hanjin. Between the two of them, Hanjin was the experienced lover, but Kyungmin gave a steady joy in his life. He loved Kyungmin deeply.

“Okay, Jihoon,” Kyungmin began. “Remember the boy I thought you might like? Well, he said he’s—”

Hanjin tapped his shoulder, and Kyungmin turned up to face him. “He’s already taken, you know.”

“Taken?” Kyungmin’s voice softened in confusion. “Who?”

“Well, Miss Korea over here scored a cute guest named Youngjae.”

At that, Kyungmin turned to Jihoon, eyes shining with excitement. “Wait, what? Jihoon, you didn’t tell me! I can’t believe it! You’ve been waiting for something like this for ages!”

Jihoon felt his cheeks heat up, caught off guard by Kyungmin’s expressive enthusiasm. He managed a shy smile, looking down, recalling Youngjae’s laughter. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, it was replaced by the call with his aunt and uncle this morning.

“Yeah, it’s… complicated,” he admitted, his heart flickering between excitement and anxiety.

Hanjin, sensing the shift in Jihoon’s mood, leaned closer. “What’s going on, Ji?”

Taking a deep breath, Jihoon opened up about the call from his uncle, his plans for renovation and for Hanjin, and his invitation to continue his studies. “He told me mom was supportive of it. But I don’t know what to do. I’m worried about you, Hanjin, I can’t leave you.”

Hanjin’s expression softened, this Jihoon was different from the one who offered him bread earlier this morning. “Ji, I don’t know anything about construction work, but I bet it’s easier than taking care of guests. I’m more worried about you, Jihoon. This is a great opportunity. Better pay, more support for your family…” He let the thought linger, watching Jihoon’s eyes for understanding.

Jihoon’s heart lowered slightly, torn between the two lives in front of him. “But what if I don’t fit in? What if studying was harder than before?”

Silence, as the three looked at each other. Kyungmin beamed, smiling at the thought of an idea.

“No, no!” Kyungmin tugged at Jihoon’s shirt. “Don’t go under there!”

Jihoon looked up, wondering what his friend was so concerned about. In front of him, he saw an ancient arch, weathering from the centuries it outlasted. On top, a statue of a man Jihoon figured represents St. Thomas Aquinas, the landmark before him, an image he only saw in the photos.

Kyungmin offered Jihoon a trip to his school since he was going to submit some papers anyway, and since it was Hanjin’s shift, he stayed, with the promise of takeout from the famous Mang Tootz in Padre Noval Street.

Even though Jihoon had been in Manila for three years, he never really took the time to stroll around the city. Like Intramuros, this school was a place he only read about in history books.

There was a feeling of joy everywhere Jihoon looked. To the left, players having fun on the open field, which was still muddy from the downpour. There were parents taking their children around campus. And students, who seemed to be living inside the dormitories, were strolling under the long-awaited sunlight.

As Kyungmin took Jihoon to his college, he was telling him about an offer he got to work at a local branch in Makati of an international news company. But while Jihoon was really happy for his friend, his mind couldn’t stop tuning into thoughts of his own.

He considered that there wouldn’t be any problem living by himself, since he was already doing that in the hotel. He could wash his own laundry, cook his own food and clean up after himself. But while he was already living on his own, away from his family, it was still difficult to imagine himself, a country, an ocean away from those who mattered to him.

Kyungmin wore his ID and dropped him off at Quadricentennial Park. “I won’t take long, pal. Let’s get coffee when I come back!”

Left alone, he watched Kyungmin step into the Faculty of Arts and Letters, the guard by the doorway peeking at his ID. Had he continued his schooling, he would’ve been graduating just like Kyungmin, he too, securing a job with higher pay. But because he needed to work for his family, he decided on his own that he would quit schooling and accept his uncle’s offer to work in Manila, an urgent stream of income.

His mother’s hesitation was not because she didn’t want to be left behind, his older brother and Aunt Celia could take care of them, but because Jihoon was sacrificing so much for his family. Jihoon understood then that taking the offer was not a choice for him to make, but a duty he needed to fulfill for his family, and seeing the decision firm in her son’s eyes, his mother gave in.

What made this time any different? Jihoon asked himself. Here was his uncle, thinking about him, giving him the chance to study abroad. Board, guaranteed. While he might have rusted in his memorization skills, he would do what it takes to get a degree.

And having that degree would basically be a guarantee that he could work with better pay, help his family in Laguna, and maybe even pay back his uncle and aunt for all the help they’ve provided him.

The worries he had about fitting in, it didn’t matter, that was only secondary to him, he would find a way. What was more important was how his family would fare without him near.

Too busy in his thoughts, he didn’t notice the two students sitting on the bench to the left. They seemed to be deep in conversation, the girl’s head lying on the man’s chest. The man’s hand was snug on the girl’s waist.

In that view, Jihoon could picture himself living life independently in Korea, in Youngjae’s arms, an opportunity to live, unabashed and authentic. Mornings like this one, filled with his scent and presence.

Despite the recluse the vision of Youngjae offered, he thought to himself, Am I moving too fast?

The girl, noticing the stranger looking at their direction, offered a polite smile.

Jihoon returned, carrying the meal Kyungmin bought for Hanjin. He made his way to the kitchen, sat on the chair, his elbows resting on the table, watching Hanjin by the open window open his takeout like a present. Jihoon told Hanjin about their day, the arch, the college, and the coffee after.

Hanjin, in return, told Jihoon that Youngjae had settled his payment to the hotel.

“He showed me a credit card. Black!” Hanjin’s eyes widened, settling on the seat across Jihoon. “I told him I don’t take credit cards. If he can’t pay in cash, I told him I’ll charge you instead.” Hanjin laughed, starting on his lunch.

Hanjin couldn’t say it, but in their transaction earlier, Youngjae told him how happy he was with the thought of living in Korea with Jihoon.

Youngjae had approached the reception with his files. “So, you’re really leaving?” Hanjin asked, flipping through the papers. “Yeah, I’ve had it booked in advance.”

“I hope you’ve found good inspiration for the story,” Hanjin replied, asking him to sign.

“More than that,” Youngjae chuckled. “I found rest here. I mean, in Korea, I’ve always felt like a means to an end for so long. I just wanted to follow where life took me, not be so suffocated.”

Hanjin recalled what Jihoon had told him about Youngjae. “You deserve that,” Hanjin replied, leaning forward. “Jihoon really makes you happy, doesn’t he?”

Youngjae was silent, breathing in the thought of expecting a mere story, a background in Manila, but finding its reality in Jihoon, its power outages, rains and all, a tangible reality he understood deeply.

Youngjae’s expression shifted, the light in his eyes dimming slightly. “I hope so. I want to build a life with him back home, but I don’t know if he’d want to move in.”

Hanjin took a moment, receiving the signed paper. “You care about him a lot,” he said, his voice gentle, listening to how Youngjae’s voice softened talking about Jihoon. “It shows.”

A soft laugh, Youngjae scratches his head. “Hard not to. He just makes everything feel real. But he’s scared, I know that.”

Hanjin leaned back on the wall behind the desk, contemplating, his arms folded. “You really love him, don’t you?”

“So much,” Youngjae nodded. “I want to let him breathe, give him the space to be himself,” he added, Hanjin nodding too, remembering his own advice for his brother. A pause, as Hanjin remembers that drunken night by the washing machine.

“Jihoon will realize it,” Hanjin reassured, getting up, clapping Youngjae’s shoulder.

“You think so?” Hanjin nodded in reply, but shrugged his shoulders slightly.

He tucked the papers below the desk. “Whatever happens, know you’re worthy of this. I’ll be here for you, no matter what.”

Youngjae’s shoulders relaxed. Hanjin watched him, unable to shake his excitement for his friend, who now had the chance to live as he told him to, Youngjae earning Hanjin’s deep trust.

Hanjin simmered the memory, feeling his mood brighten, taking a spoonful of Mang Tootz. In front of him, though, Jihoon looked wary.

“What’s wrong, Ji?”

Jihoon was again reminded of Youngjae’s flight later that evening. His mind was racing again, thinking about his family, his uncle, Youngjae. He looked at Hanjin, who was mid-bite.

“Hanjin, promise me you won’t get mad at me if I leave,” Jihoon told Hanjin.

Hanjin shook his head, held Jihoon’s hand. “Well, if you leave, there are many other things I’d be mad at you about. The enoki, leaving the reception window open while it’s raining.”

Jihoon replied with a bittersweet smile. “But seriously, Jihoon. I’ll be fine here. Besides, Kyungmin could live here too, help me watch over the hotel.” Jihoon listened to his friend shift his tone, finishing his spoonful of rice.

“And it would be great for you too. Like you told me, Ji, back then, it was just survival. You survived, you’ll survive again.”

Sensing that Hanjin was looking at him, he looked up and returned his stare. Hanjin already aware of what Jihoon was thinking. “You could fall in love too. That feeling, that’s also a part of you.”

Hanjin returned to his meal, getting another spoonful of rice. Jihoon was really grateful for his friend’s advice and understanding. Hearing his brother’s words sent a calm over him, an assurance that everything would be alright. 

But he still couldn’t fully let himself go, it wouldn’t be easy with his mother and brothers further away from him. Being unknown to his baby brother, for God knows how many years, growing more distant from him. Not having the chance to ride the bus back to Laguna for a quick visit. Being away from the ones who mattered to him.

He fished out his phone from his pocket, reminded of the phone load credit he’s been saving. He looked for his mother’s number and pressed the dial. Let this be the ultimate call.

Jihoon’s feet were dangling down from the bench by the bay walk, his mother’s voice fresh in his ears. Ahead, he looked at the sun, living through the storm that had just passed and all that came before it, sinking back down to the comforting arms of the ocean, their unity rippling across the waves. Rejoicing in their love were families of birds circling Manila Bay, heading home in the warmth of their nests.

His head fell on Youngjae’s chest, whose arm was wrapped around Jihoon’s waist. His other hand rested on the brown suitcase, his fingers touching its metal frame, his manuscript snug inside. Figuring he needed more space in his bag, he handed Jihoon his green coat, which he draped lazily on his shoulders.

“You didn’t forget anything?” Jihoon said, looking up at Youngjae, then pointing with his lips to the suitcase.

“All here,” Youngjae replied, tapping on his temple. Jihoon smirked.

The sun cast them in an orange glow, the air starting to cool down, their shadows cast on the road behind them. Jihoon felt good like this, being loved in the open, in the light.

“When I get back, I’ll publish this as soon as I can,” Youngjae whispered, feeling his suitcase, his breath glazing Jihoon’s ear. Jihoon nodded in support.

The sun dipped lower in the sky, bathing the bay in a golden hue. Youngjae shifted slightly, loosening his embrace around Jihoon. Below them, the waves were lapping against the shore, a gentle soundtrack.

“You know,” Youngjae murmured, his voice, only for Jihoon to hear, “this last chapter, it’s about you.”

Jihoon’s breath caught, he turned his gaze upward, his heart racing. Youngjae nodded in reply, his eyes glinting with something deeper.

“I’ve been waiting for your answer.”

The weight of Youngjae’s words hung between them. He’s waiting for his own answer too. Here, in the fading light, Jihoon felt the emotions he’d been holding back the whole day well out, forming streams of tears on his cheek. Youngjae came closer, wiping them with his thumb.

“Youngjae, it’s too much. I don’t know… I don’t know if I’m ready… I’m scared.”

Youngjae moved to Jihoon closer, wrapping his arms around his waist, protecting him in a cocoon of warmth. Jihoon’s tears were forming dots on his green coat.

“Hey, hey,” Youngjae rubbed Jihoon’s back. “It’s okay, Ji, it’s okay, let it out.” Youngjae kissed his forehead.

More tears came, falling. “Everything’s moving too fast, Youngjae. It’s happening, so, so fast,” Youngjae could hear Jihoon’s breath huffing. "I'm so... I'm so afraid, Youngjae."

The sun was sinking lower now, halfway down the water. The birds have gone from the view now, leaving the sun and the ocean in privacy. Youngjae could only hear the waves and the sound of Jihoon’s breath.

“It’s okay, we don’t have to rush into anything,” Youngjae said. “We’ll take our time, just doing what feels right, figuring it out together.”

Jihoon’s heart fluttered at the promise in Youngjae’s voice, doubt still lingering. “What if I fail? What if I can’t do it?” His voice faltered, feeling himself more vulnerable now with Youngjae than he could have ever allowed.

“You won’t be alone,” Youngjae replied, thumb tenderly stroking Jihoon’s back. “You could live with me, I’ll help you find a job. I’ll publish my book. We’ll make it work, Ji, together. It will be alright. I have your back.”

As Jihoon met Youngjae’s gaze, a warmth unfurled within him. A flicker of hope, the sun, like a candle in the distance, their shadows longer now but out of their vision, behind them. Jihoon could imagine in the amber of Youngjae’s eyes a future version of himself, his true self, strong, who can provide for his family.

Jihoon, not knowing how to say it, nodded. And nodded, and nodded and nodded. A smile from Jihoon, and a grin from Youngjae, hesitant, nodding, but growing wider. Teeth, a shared laugh between the two of them, just the two of them, their noses touching.

The sun melted into the horizon, and clarity washed over Jihoon. He can’t let fear or uncertainty tether him any longer. He has given so much already, and now he craved the chance to truly live, to truly love. It wasn’t him being selfish, but him taking care of himself to take care of others.

Locked in his lover’s eyes, Jihoon could see, not imagine, himself, in the present, in Youngjae’s stare, someone sure and steady, the person he wanted to become. That, that is who he already was.

In that instant, Jihoon leaned in, capturing Youngjae’s lips in a kiss that was both tender and electric. A kiss that spoke of new beginnings, of dreams intertwined, futures shared. Right there, the world fell away, the worries, the doubts. Their hands met on the bench, bringing static to each other.

In their kiss, Youngjae touched Jihoon’s cheek, tracing his jaw, his shoulder, his knee. Savoring the person who truly cared about his work, his endings, his dreams. Who taught him much about reality, taught him to connect, to find genuine joy, to matter.

An opportunity to be true, to make his family proud like his mom told him over the phone, to choose himself.

It’s what mattered to the receptionist, what mattered to the writer, in this moment, in Manila. Where dreamers find home.

The sun will rise, then sink again, back to the ocean. The world will turn again and again, and again, but none of that matters. Let it be, thought Jihoon. He dared it to. Let the world burn.

Chapter Text

At the heart of this humid 2003 summer, Jihoon readies the shabby hotel for his family’s visit, bracing for news that could upend his life. But when his estranged brother, Dohoon, arrives, the quiet routine he and Hanjin have kept quickly begins to unravel.

The hotel burns brighter in Candlelight 0.5.

hi! author youngjae_lite here! thank you so much for supporting the first part of this story! i hope you continue reading through this spicy prologue on hanjin’s deep relationship between jihoon and his older brother dohoon.

just a heads up, some of these stories contain some steamy scenes. these scenes will be placed in separate chapters, each with a 🔥  on the title. please feel free to skip the scenes if you’re uncomfortable. possible trigger warnings are placed atop the chapters, as always.

thank you very much, and enjoy!

Chapter Text

Hotel kitchen cleaned, check. Sheets changed, check. Light bulb replaced, check. This was the fifth time Jihoon went through his mental checklist of chores. Kitchen, check. Sheets, check. Bulb, check. Make that six.

He was restless, his mind buzzing. Needing his hands busy too, he flipped through the logbook pages again in front of him on the reception desk. It was June 2003, summertime, quite the busy month within hotel circles here in Manila. He wiped off the sweat pooling on his right eyebrow.

His repetitive trance was only broken by his crew mate, Hanjin, who was now belting the high note in a Regine Velasquez tune on the radio. Looking beyond his desk, Jihoon saw that Hanjin had done a good job of mopping the floor, even though he was using the rod as a microphone half the time. 

Jihoon was amused, but called out to his friend, eyes wide, pointing with his lips to the guest at the end of the corridor who was probably still asleep. Conscious now, Hanjin lowered his voice and settled with humming instead.

Looking more attentively at the floor now, Jihoon had a private thought that his friend had missed some spots on the white tiles, but he kept it to himself. There are many more things that Jihoon was grateful for in Hanjin. He was clearly the better of the two candidates who applied for a job in this hotel about two months ago, chosen personally by his uncle before he left for Korea with his wife.

And Jihoon understood immediately why he was selected. Here was this buzzing, fresh graduate from a nearby school in Intramuros, who had the rare passion for his hotel management degree and the graceful personality foreigners seemed to enjoy.

They tried their best to maintain the hotel’s appearance despite the building's age. There was only so much they could do to sparkle up the reception, previously his uncle's living room, with the pale pink paint chipping off the walls in the occasional hidden corner, or the dust collecting on top of the Korean souvenirs by the lounge wall. And this weather seemed to trap everything in a suffocating pressure. Jihoon has to make sure to always leave a nearby window open to keep the air flowing.

Kitchen, check. Sheets, check. Bulb, check. Seven times. Still, Jihoon felt that it was not enough, especially as the hotel wasn’t just preparing for any guest. Jihoon received a long-distance call from his uncle in Korea a week ago, to let him know of a surprise. His mom was visiting him in Manila from Laguna province because she said she had news to share. Despite his nervous insisting, his uncle told him to ask his mother instead when she gets to the hotel. His brother Dohoon was also coming along with her, he was trying to apply for a job in Malate. 

When Jihoon told Hanjin this, he joked around wondering if Jihoon’s brother was cute. Hanjin had a hospitality to him that could be easily taken as being flirtatious, a common misconception among hotel workers. There was little Jihoon knew about Hanjin’s story. And sometimes, Jihoon was curious if there really was depth under Hanjin’s rosy facade of romance. 

What gave the truth away was the automatic blush on Hanjin’s cheeks when he saw Dohoon at the door. Noticing his family had arrived, Jihoon went through his checklist one last time.

“Hey, bro!” Dohoon strode through the reception, his shoes leaving marks on the floor, to Jihoon’s displeasure. Dohoon approached his brother and gave him a pat on the shoulder, a little too strong for Jihoon, who stepped back to balance himself. Jihoon was amused by his brother’s choice of Brad Pitt hair, with white highlights all over, and his graphic sleeveless shirt. His skin was shining from the sweltering sun outside. Despite the heat apparent on Dohoon, Hanjin looked frozen in his spot.

Dohoon looked back, realized he had left his mother at the door, and scratched his head. Hanjin was the one giving Jihoon wide eyes now.

It seemed to Jihoon that his mother was walking strangely, as if more conscious about her body. She was wearing a floral dress she would wear to church on Sundays, carrying a colorful tarpaulin bag packed to the brim. With goodies, Jihoon was sure. She was struggling to lift the bag to the hotel’s raised floor, and Dohoon took it from her hand. Her face was turned down as if watching her own steps. Jihoon was struck with the realization that his mother had been growing older since he had left for Manila. So quickly too.

But those worries faded away when he saw his mother’s eyes light up looking at him, with the unmistakable water shining on her pupils. The crinkles in her eyes showed her age, and the white strands of her hair shone in the sunlight coming from the window.

They clashed with a tight embrace, his mother brushing his hair. Jihoon wrapped his arms around his mother, who whispered in his ear. “Oh, I’ve missed you, Hoonie. I’ve missed you so.” His mother’s back caressed her son’s shoulders, as if unable to believe she had seen him in the flesh. He could pick up the smell of his mother’s detergent, mixed with the smoke no one can avoid when commuting in Manila.

They separated, with his mother thumbing his cheeks and pinching it red. Deciding their embrace was not enough, his mother hugged him again, speaking loud enough for Dohoon to hear. “How great is it that your uncle let us stay. Your brother’s looking for a job, you know.”

They separated again, and Jihoon turned to Dohoon, who had just lifted the bag up the chair in the lobby. “Hope they let you in with that hair,” Jihoon chided, and Dohoon replied with a joking threat of a punch. Jihoon poured cold water from a pitcher into cups and Dohoon instantly gulped his down.

At the corner of his eye, he could see Hanjin busying himself with the logbook, which Jihoon was sure he had already cleared off his checklist.

Jihoon missed having moments like these, being with his mother in the kitchen, watching her prepare food, and listening to her hum while cooking. When they started, his mother opened the window for him, aware of how his son always needed air, even more so in this humid weather. The radio, announcing an unsurprising forecast of hot summer weather, was turned down to a crackling whisper.

Jihoon remembered the long journey he went through to be able to cook beside his mother. He began as a grade school student just buying soy sauce from the store, getting promoted to peeling the onions, and finally, standing side-by-side with her in the kitchen. To him, he had successfully aced a rite of passage to receive his mother’s culinary trust.

The kitchen was where he found his rhythm. His brother Dohoon teased him for his skill, but would fall silent once he was full with whatever his brother and mother cooked. Jihoon was content with only the duet of knives hitting the dull boards, the wind coming in hesitantly from the window and the aroma of vegetables stirring the air.

Now, he was his mother’s sous chef for dinner. It was no question to his mother what to cook, it would be the homemade beef broth that she was sure Jihoon missed. Earlier, his mother was boasting about the province-bought potatoes and lettuce, assuring Jihoon that ingredients from home just tasted better. Jihoon needed no convincing.

He was entrusted with slicing the meat into cubes. He was very careful, knowing his mother’s eyes were watching him over her shoulder. Still, his body was moving on autopilot.

The mechanical motions of cooking allowed Jihoon room for thought. Then, he felt a pit in his stomach. His mother wouldn’t have come all this way if there was nothing significant to say in person. 

After more minutes basking in the silence and even more configurations of words to phrase his question, Jihoon settled finally with: “You had something to tell me, mom?”

Jihoon’s eyes remained on the meat, too nervous to look at his mother. But he caught in his periphery his mother turning to him, leaving the freshly chopped potatoes to fall on the board. 

A beat, and his mother breathes deeply. Without an answer from her, Jihoon finally turns to his mother, looks her in the eyes, and she manages a small smile.

“I’m expecting, Jihoon,” her smile gets bigger, looking down at her belly, freeing her hands to rub her stomach. “I asked your father to buy some tests on his way home from the city, and I… Ji, you’re having a sibling.”

At a loss for words, Jihoon leaves the knife on his own board and walks to his mom for a warm embrace, careful not to hug her too tight. In their union, Jihoon could feel his mother’s resolved laughter, sense the tangible relief, and relish the joy blossoming between them. He felt his body shouting with genuine happiness, and he could hear two hearts answering back.

“Mom, that’s… that’s great news!” Jihoon could feel tears brewing behind his eyes. He wiped them away with his wrists. “That’s… I don’t know what to say, I’m so glad, mom.” He hugged her again.

“I told your uncle over the phone, and he was so happy,” her mother said, voice muffled in Jihoon’s chest. Jihoon opened his eyes and saw a ray of light from the window fall on the kitchen, dazzling the entire room.

They faced each other, and Jihoon rubbed his mother’s elbows, looked at her with love. “It was your auntie who convinced me to join your brother here in Manila and tell you myself.” 

He could just imagine the sound of his uncle’s voice on the phone, being ecstatic over his younger sister having a child. Jihoon was sure it was a welcome source of joy amid the stress of their migrating to Korea. Especially as his uncle and aunt have been trying for a while to have kids of their own. Jihoon felt even more excited, knowing the presence of a baby would bring so much light into his and his parents’ lives. 

His mind was charged with many good thoughts, a lifetime of companionship unfolding before him. He was thrilled with the thought of a future with his sibling, someone he would grow old with, someone he could watch develop, someone he could love unconditionally. He was seeing himself now, walking his sibling to school, cooking dinner, spurring inside jokes, whispering bedtime stories.

But just as fast as he was filled with gladness over his mother’s announcement and a vision of a fulfilled life with his sibling, his emotions were eclipsed by the fact that he would need to be watching the baby from afar, working here, in Manila. Looking at his mother, he felt terrible that he couldn’t help her through the pregnancy, not even in the process of raising the child. That a year ago, he himself made the decision to leave for his uncle’s hotel, leaving his family behind. A decision that leaves him torn now.

Before his mother could catch the change in his mood and the tear coming down his cheek, he returned to the meat in front of him, trying to mask his regret with a smile. Deep breath.

“What’s… what’s wrong Jihoon?” Too late, his mother caught him, her hand rubbing Jihoon’s shoulder.

“Nothing, mom. It’s just…” Jihoon resolved, realizing there was no emotion he could hide from his mother. “It’s nothing mom, it’s just sad that I can’t be with you because… ” Jihoon looked around them. “Because of…”

“I know, Hoonie,” his mother stepped closer to him, understanding her son even without the need to finish his sentence. She moved her arm to her back. “It’s okay, your father’s working hard. And I know your brother’s doing his best to land this job.”

Jihoon tried his best to believe his mother, but knowing his brother, something in his instincts doubted what his mother said to be true. He instead wiped the tear in his cheek, and tried his best to show no signs of worry.

“He was very insistent on joining me here,” his mother comforted him with a smile.

“That’s great, mom,” Jihoon nodded passively, returned to the meat and kept slicing, unaware that a cube of beef had fallen into the sink.

Jihoon realized early on that Dohoon would be hopeless trying to locate Mercury Drugstore, and could not be trusted with a grocery list. So, with pleading but insinuating eyes, Jihoon asked Hanjin to join his brother in buying toiletries.

This was nothing compared to the nearest branch to their home in rural Laguna, which was a jeepney ride away. He kept looking up at the towering skyscrapers above him, almost running into a zooming pedicab. The night felt warmer here, Dohoon thought, as if the buildings were blocking the air from outside. He had a towel over his shoulder and used it to wipe the sweat on his nape.

When they got to the store, Dohoon was instantly relieved by the cool temperature. In front of him were aisles upon aisles of medicine, and various products for home cleaning and hygiene. He scratched his head, realizing it would take him forever to buy the groceries on his own. He was sure he would miss something, to Jihoon’s certain scolding. Instead, he resolved to give Hanjin the paper.

Hanjin was combing the aisles on his own, list in hand, stiff, red basket hung on his elbow. Dohoon, who was on his trail just a minute ago, gave up and retired by the door instead, folded his arms, and waited under the strong AC by the entrance.

He was wondering whether he should feel nervous about that job interview. It was just a construction firm in Malate where his uncle used to work, and they needed an inventory man to watch over their warehouse. With his uncle’s referral, Dohoon shouldn’t be stressed. Besides, there were hours between now and tomorrow afternoon. Should be easy, right?

Even though he conceded he was unsure how he would do it, he was driven to land that job. For his mom, and his new sibling.

Dozing off by the door, he was only awakened when he caught the scent of perfume from Hanjin, who just passed by him on his way to the far left corner of the store. It was subtle, but it smelled like a field of lavenders, like the ones the pretty girls wore in his classes before. Distracted, he was hypnotized by the creases of Hanjin’s white T-shirt, noticing his effort to pair the top with baby blue shorts above the knees. He had a pink hat on, matching the paint in his uncle’s hotel. 

Dohoon bit the inside of his lip, smirking, with slow-blinking eyes. Huh. The interview might be a challenge, but this, this should be nothing.

He swooped his hair and watched Hanjin reach for the tall stacks of toilet paper, helpless on his tiptoes trying to stretch his arm towards the upper shelf, revealing the lines of his waist and the smooth skin on his midriff. Damn, Dohoon thought, feeling pressure between his legs. Amused with Hanjin, he approached, grabbed the napkins with ease, and tossed them like a basketball on his red basket.

“Anything else we need?” Dohoon turned, with a twinkle in his eye unmissable to Hanjin.

Hanjin looked away, sure there was something else he missed. Something. He returned to his list, then to the basket, and found that everything was there. He gave a polite smile, beckoned Dohoon to join him, and headed to the counter.

Hanjin took a deep, deep, sigh, watching that there was a line of people ahead of them. Hanjin hoped that Dohoon would just wait back at the door instead, but tilting his head, he caught his exposed arms flailing behind him.

“You’re an expert at this, aren’t you?” Dohoon started.

“A bit,” Hanjin was trying his best to avoid small talk, too shy to continue the conversation, which he could have done expertly if he wanted to.

“Are you new to the hotel?” 

“Few months in.”

“Fresh grad?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.” Dohoon looked up and moved a step in the queue.

“What course did you take?”

“Hotel management, LPU.” Hanjin replied coolly, referring to a nearby school in Manila, and moved forward again. Feeling guilty at his clipped answers, afraid now to be perceived rude, he tilted his head back, asked “And you?”

“Civil engineering. But I… I didn’t pass the board.” Hanjin saw Dohoon scratch his head from his periphery. Hanjin turned back to the line. “So, good on you for landing a job just like that.”

Hanjin nodded, moved forward, wanting to ask more questions. But it was their turn at the counter now.

Jihoon felt a sense of pride when he opened the pot, steam dancing in a show of smoke and scents for the table. There were only two chairs in the kitchen, meant only for the two hotel staff who could cook there daily. 

But Jihoon gave up his seat for his mother, now in front of Dohoon, who was yawning and stretching his arms up in front of the table. Mother tutted, and Dohoon tucked his arms, embarrassed.

Hanjin took two mismatched sets of a bowl and cup by the dishrack and two more sets from an upper cupboard. Dohoon pretended to scratch his head to catch a glimpse of Hanjin, returning only to the table once Hanjin turned around with the rewashed ware in his arms. Hanjin provided each guest with utensils, clean as a robot in his performance.

Taking his own set by his chest, he bowed his head and walked in the direction of the door.

“Hanjin, eat with us,” mother called at him, stopping Hanjin at his steps.

“It’s fine, auntie, I’ll eat outside by the reception.”

“No, son, you eat with us,” Hanjin caught Jihoon’s stare at his mother’s slip-up, and they shared a laugh over the aroma of the beef stock.

Dohoon stood up, and slightly grabbed Hanjin by the waist to direct him to the chair. Hanjin was already sitting before he could decide whether he wanted to.

There was silence in the kitchen as the four enjoyed the warmth of the beef stock. On her first spoonful, mother tasted cautiously for the balance of salt, pepper, star anise and fish sauce. She turned to Jihoon, who was also watching her by the window, and gave him a nod of approval. 

Jihoon was happy to be surrounded by a band of clinking spoons and forks, a sign of a good meal and of good companionship in this otherwise empty hotel.

Feeling the warmth in her belly from the soup, mother turned to Dohoon by her side, who was leaning by the kitchen counter, face covered with a bowl. “Interview’s tomorrow, Dohoon. We ready?”

Dohoon put the bowl down by the sink with an audible clink. “I’ll score it, mom, I know I will. For you and the baby.” Dohoon turned to his side. “And of course, my other baby brother, who grew up a little too well.” Jihoon was shaking his head, toying with the rice in his bowl.

“I hope it turns out good. Your uncle’s really hoping you ace it, you know. You sure you’re ready?”

Dohoon was feeling a little irked at the repetitive questions, which to him, wasn’t really helping. Not wanting to ruin the mood, he just nodded in reply. He straightened, placed his cup on the sink and turned to the door.

“Done so fast, son?”

“Need to ace that interview, mom.”

By night, everyone had decided how they would sleep in the hotel. Since the room by the end of the corridor was occupied, they needed to split themselves among the remaining three.

Since Hanjin and Jihoon already share a bunk bed in the room closest to the lobby, Mom and Dohoon would share the room opposite them. 

But Dohoon figured no one would get mad if he called dibs on the third room, especially because he needed to practice his interview lines out loud.

And once the assignments were settled, Jihoon, Hanjin and his mother stayed behind in the lobby. The fourth-room guest, a man with large hands and a strange accent, was keeping Jihoon and Hanjin busy with questions about the best places to go to for midnight snacks. His mom was backing the hotel staff up, reclining in the reception chair.

“Ji! Did you see my file case?” Dohoon shouted from inside his room, splitting through one of the guest’s questions. Jihoon was irked with his brother’s impoliteness, but luckily, the guest was too engaged in the conversation to notice. 

Jihoon tapped Hanjin on the shoulder subtly, pointing his lips in the direction of the bag moved beside the reception chair where his mother sat. His mother fished out the blue plastic case, and Hanjin offered to take it to the room. Jihoon’s mother insisted she could do it, but Hanjin politely told her to stay seated.

“It’s in that bag! Did you see it, Ji?” Dohoon kept shouting. Hanjin walked through the corridor, his heart thumping fast, for some reason. His palms were sweaty. What’s up with this weather? Hanjin wiped his hands on his shirt.

The door was wide open to let air in. Passing his line of sight was Dohoon, shirtless, sweating, looking for his case, a pile of clothes on his bed. Hanjin knocked on the door. Hanjin stood quietly, his hands cold.

“Did you see it, Ji?” Dohoon asked, voice lowered. “It’s there by the—” He turned and saw Hanjin by the doorway.

“Sorry, Jihoon’s busy with the guest.” Suddenly locking eyes with Dohoon, he snapped his face to turn toward the reception, looking away, giving the bag instead with an outstretched arm.

Dohoon smirked, his eyes lazy. “Just what I was looking for,” Dohoon replied, looking at the case, which he could have easily just taken. But he took his time, took the chance while his bellhop was looking away, and slowed to admire Hanjin’s profile. His shirt bunched up just enough to see his smooth forearm, his eyelashes long and curly. He could catch a distant but steady scent of flowers from him.

Dohoon reached for the blue case. Hanjin’s hand instinctively reached for the doorknob, leaving the room.

“Wait,” Dohoon called, scratching his hair. “I… I need help for the interview.”

Hanjin, feeling guilty about his clipped answers earlier, turned to him inside the room, reluctantly nodded. “Yeah, sure, um, how do I help?”

Dohoon beckoned Hanjin to come in. Hanjin went inside, feeling the heat in the room, wiping his palms on his shirt again. “We could um,” Hanjin moved carefully to the wall across from him. “...start by turning the AC on.”

“Oh,” Dohoon said, smiling with his teeth. “Didn’t think it was working.”

God, he’s handsome. Hanjin thought, shutting the window, pointing to the bed. Dohoon nodded, and they sat in front of each other. There was silence in the room as the AC’s machine whirred louder, the room beginning to cool. Hanjin watched Dohoon fiddle with the lock on his file case.

“I’m feeling a bit nervous about the interview,” Dohoon began. “I… This is my first time applying for a job, you know.”

Hanjin breathed, knowing the feeling. “Yeah I… I understand. I was nervous too when I was interviewed by your uncle. But, it worked, I guess.” Hanjin gave an empathetic smile.

“Yeah?” Dohoon replied, folding his legs above the bed. “What did you do?”

Hanjin was taken aback by Dohoon’s sudden interest, trying to recall if he had made any preparations for the interview. “I… I don’t know what I did. It was just me, answering the questions.”

Dohoon nodded, silent, thinking about just how easy it must have been for Hanjin to score this job. It fully made sense to Dohoon that Hanjin did, though. He was perfect here, he seemed to be an expert at housekeeping. It seemed like he was made for this kind of work. 

But Dohoon? When he looked inside himself, he was unaware of what exactly it was that he wanted, what exactly he was good at. When he took up his degree, he finished quickly so he could get a job. Not because he was really interested in construction work, but because it was where the money was.

So sitting now in front of Hanjin, he was embarrassed to be holding a thick stapled script he wrote in pencil of the things he wanted to say in the interview. He was going to practice what he was going to say in English and memorize it so he knew what to answer.

“I uh…” Dohoon said, “have this script here,” he added, flipping through the pages. “Could you help me…”

Hanjin nodded, knowing what Dohoon was asking for. He reached for the script, and strained his eyes going through the handwriting. Recognizing finally that the script started with “INTRODUCE YOURSELF,” Hanjin raised his eyebrows and signaled for Dohoon to start.

Dohoon, realizing what Hanjin meant, began. “I’m Kim Dohoon,” he breathed, “I’m 22 years old,” he continued. “My birthday is on January 30.” 

He paused, squinting his eyes to try and peek at the paper in Hanjin’s hand. Catching this, Hanjin kept the script close to his chest, feeling his cheeks flare up. 

Hanjin loosened up a bit, paused. “Dohoon…” he muttered, thinking of the best way to say it. “I’m not really sure that’s what your employer wants to hear.”

Confused, Dohoon curls his eyebrows. “Okay, uh, well…” Dohoon grinned. “What do you wanna know about me?”

Hanjin pointed to himself. “Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, my interviewer,” Dohoon replied with a wink.

Hanjin shook his head, looked back at the script with a smile. Of course, yes, the interview. God, why is he like this?

With the tone in his voice, Hanjin understood exactly Dohoon’s type. He was no stranger to boys flirting with him, testing out their charm—in high school, in college. And while he had long removed his own feelings from that crushing cycle of attachment and disillusion, the cogs turned in his head. Hanjin decided to give this boy a challenge.

“You think you can charm your way into this, huh?”

Dohoon gave him a smirk, catching the playful tone of his interviewer. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Worked on you didn’t it?”

His gaze was burning Hanjin’s cheek, it was lingering a little too long. Tense, Hanjin laughed softly, staying firm in his place, holding his ground. “A wink isn’t going to work for this interview, Mr. Dohoon.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dohoon raised his eyebrows, smirk forming on his lips.

Hanjin shook his head, feigning disappointment as he glanced at the script. “Well, if you can’t impress me,” he teased, “I’ll go and find someone who can.” He started to get up, hand on the bunk bed ladder to help him stand. But Dohoon’s hand shot out, stopping him by the wrist.

“No, you won’t,” Dohoon said, his tone frisky, getting on his knees pinning Hanjin on the bed under him. Dohoon was suddenly aware of the pressure in his pants, of the soft pulse in Hanjin’s veins with his index finger on his cold skin.

He leaned closer. “I think you’re the only one who could actually handle me.”

Hanjin was becoming hyper-aware of his surroundings. The AC humming on the side, the pile of clothes on his leg, the paper loosening in his fingers. His own heartbeat, as he thought about the many times he burned his heart coming too close to the flame of boys.

But this, Hanjin thought to himself. The lines on Dohoon’s lips, the white streaks of his hair, the scent of his presence, the kiss of the sun on his skin. Hanjin could feel his cheeks flaring up. He could feel a different drive in Dohoon. Not just to go after his lust, but to work on himself and provide for his family.

Hanjin blinked, taken aback by the sudden closeness, but leaned forward again in a challenge, his confidence summoned. “Let’s see about that,” Hanjin raised his eyebrow at Dohoon and dropped the script on the bed, propped himself up by the elbows. He moved his right hand on Dohoon’s shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin.

Hanjin could feel his own heart flickering between protecting himself from the dangerous motions of physical attraction, or trusting Dohoon and letting himself go all in for him. He moved his hand to Dohoon’s jaw, feeling the pulse of his neck. And became reminded then and there that in front of him was a human too.

“I want to help you, Dohoon,” his voice barely above a whisper, his fingers tracing circles on Dohoon’s cheek. They froze, locked in, feeling the sudden genuineness in the air.

Dohoon, caught off-guard by Hanjin’s sincerity, thought about how fast the boy in the drugstore changed, all vulnerable now underneath him. He enjoyed knowing he had that kind of charm—that he could draw people in with his allure. This really was easy, thought Dohoon.

But try as he might to hide it, he was genuinely scared of the interview and the expectations brought upon him by his own family. His eyes fell on Hanjin’s soft cheek, now to his creased shirt. He just needed to get a break from it all. And Hanjin’s cool, calm and collected presence was like a welcome lavender breeze in the summer.

“You know,” Dohoon placed his left hand on top of Hanjin’s fingers. “I really am nervous about this interview.”

Hanjin’s gaze softened, drawn in by Dohoon’s softness. Their fingers meet on the side of Dohoon’s neck. “Then let me help you forget about it, just for a bit.”

Hanjin leaned forward, his lips brushing against Dohoon’s in a kiss that was exciting, lingering. Laughing fading into a quiet intimacy. The discomforting thoughts of the interview, his family outside, the wandering guest in the reception, all disappeared. All that remained was Hanjin’s cool touch on Dohoon’s skin.

Chapter Text

Dohoon’s lips pressed hungrily on Hanjin’s, the tension between them flaring with every kiss. In their collision, Dohoon felt himself growing more quenched for the cool steadiness of Hanjin’s steady presence. 

Their hands were slow, tracing curious lines along each other, exploring, testing, asking questions with every caress. Hanjin’s fingers settled lightly on Dohoon’s neck, feeling the rapid beat of his pulse again, the heat emanating from him. Hanjin knew he was playing with fire—reckless, eager, consuming. Yet he was drawn in, his coldness beginning to thaw with Dohoon’s intensity.

The room was a dizzying mixture of things. Of warm and chilly, of the steady hum of the AC and the heat rising from the bed. Of lavender from Hanjin’s cologne and Dohoon’s earthy scent, which carried the slightest hint of sweat.

Hanjin broke away for a while, pausing to gaze at his lover, who had just opened his eyes from the kiss. Dohoon seemed like a ravishing lion disturbed from his dinner, but Hanjin held his gaze. He was enjoying the rawness of his stare. Hanjin grinned, ready to give Dohoon a show.

Slowly, Hanjin reached for the hem of his own shirt, giving Dohoon permission to peel it off. As the fabric slid over his head, Hanjin felt Dohoon’s gaze rake over him, lingering with a mute, almost reverent curiosity. Hanjin tossed his white shirt to the white tiles.

Dohoon’s eyes traveled slowly, and Hanjin could see his pupils move from top to bottom, his hands following where his gaze went. He was enjoying the soft contours of Hanjin’s collarbone, the tender definition of his chest, and the gentle curve of his waist which had riled him up earlier. In the dim light, Hanjin’s skin looked almost like ivory. Every inch was precious to Dohoon, who was perhaps unaware of his tongue licking his lips.

There was nothing in Hanjin’s past that could compare to Dohoon’s face right now. Those boys were only there for the rhythm, the routine, something quick to last them the night, and would disappear before things got serious. But Dohoon’s touch wasn’t assuming, he was careful, like he was holding Hanjin in praise. Trusting him, Hanjin leaned into the fire of his touch, feeling his own defenses cracking.

With a silent shift, Hanjin flipped their positions, taking charge now. His knee was nestled in between Dohoon’s legs. Hanjin gazed down at Dohoon, his white hair a mess on the pillow, lying there with a look of wonder. Unaware of what was about to happen, but excited regardless. Hanjin could tell by the hardness pressing on his knee. 

Determined to give him pleasure, Hanjin’s lips moved down, leaving marks of shine on his neck and chest, reveling in the small breaths escaping from Dohoon’s lips. Hanjin was already halfway down when he heard Dohoon’s voice over his head. Husky, a little shy.

“This… It’s my first time like this. With a guy,” he confessed. A smile from Hanjin, who reached up to thumb over Dohoon’s cheek. “Then let me guide you.” There was the same coolness in his voice, but beneath it, a spark Dohoon could feel was growing.

With Dohoon’s nod, Hanjin went down, moving further, trying his best to return his lover's attentiveness, catching every gasp he heard, every twitch from Dohoon’s muscles tensing and relaxing beneath him. Dohoon was watchful of Hanjin too, his hands stroking Hanjin’s bare shoulder, sometimes his hair, as if wanting to share the pleasure, to make sure Hanjin felt it too.

A sudden shudder as Hanjin’s breath falls on Dohoon’s length, his fingers dancing on the shaft. It was throbbing hotly against his skin, thick, substantial, girth filling out the space on Hanjin’s palm. Veins along Dohoon’s shaft stood out, pulsing with steady arousal, the heat of it almost burning the cold nerves on Hanjin’s hand.

The head was flushed with a deep shade, slick with a generous bead of precum. Hanjin smoothed it out with his hand, smearing it all over the length, adding a wet, gliding ease to each movement. His hand moved with expert skill, every stroke drawing some panting from Dohoon’s parted lips. Their mingling scents almost took shape in the room—the aura of Dohoon’s coarse arousal joining the floral notes on Hanjin’s skin. The AC did little to cool them. The heat was deep, beyond skin and skin.

As Hanjin’s face closed in, Dohoon caught something in the corner of his eye. His script was sprawled like a fallen dove on the floor, a half-crumpled memory from a parallel world. His heart skipped, a twist of anxiety tightening his stomach. Feeling Dohoon’s organ soften, Hanjin looked up to notice that his fire had flickered. Following his line of sight to the creased paper, Hanjin paused.

Sensing Hanjin’s worry, suddenly feeling the coldness of his hand, Dohoon made an impulse decision. This was too pressing, too pleasurable to give anything else a thought. He didn’t want to lose this moment to worry. Not when Hanjin was here, making him feel something he’d never felt before. He needed to be present, to memorize as much of this as he could.

He shook his head, his hand reaching down to curl his fingers around Hanjin’s, encouraging him to continue. Hanjin’s hand resumed its slow, deliberate strokes, bringing Dohoon back to the moment. It was revived as Hanjin’s grip tightened, harder as his hand moved up and down the stiffness. Each stroke stoked the fire between them.

Unable to hide his thrill, Hanjin drew closer, his lips grazing the slick, sensitive skin of Dohoon’s length, leaving a trail of kisses along the head, tasting the salt of his arousal. His tongue encircled the tip and traced a slow line along the underside, down and up again, his warm breath fanning over Dohoon’s skin.

With each pass of his tongue, Hanjin took him deeper, letting his lips stretch around the denseness, his mouth warm and wet as he moved with intention. Hanjin felt his jaw loosen. Saliva glistened along Dohoon’s length, each slow bob of Hanjin’s lips leaving a new, slick trail. The taste, the weight—it all blanketed Hanjin, who let himself fully commit to pleasuring Dohoon. He looked up, and felt relieved to see Dohoon’s eyes rolling back, his mind easing. Despite the coldness, Hanjin saw sweat trickling down Dohoon’s neck. 

When Dohoon’s eyes returned, they locked eyes intensely.

Minutes were lost with the rhythm of Dohoon’s quiet gasps and low groans. Each bob was bringing them closer, even beyond a physical dimension. Neither of them could break the stare.

Dohoon propped himself up by the shoulders, feeling more adventurous. His hand started skimming the small of Hanjin’s back before grazing the curve of his bottom. His hand was warm inside Hanjin’s pale shorts. Dohoon hesitated, hovering for a moment, awaiting his lover’s approval. Hanjin winked, and Dohoon responded with a pat on Dohoon’s skin. Another pat. A light slap. Then, an audible smack.

Hanjin let out a soft, pleased moan, his head cocked to the side slightly as if recoiling to the bang, mouth kissing the side of Dohoon’s tip. He murmured. “Careful, now,” he said, his mouth still half full with Dohoon. “Keep it quiet… or we’ll have company.”

Dohoon’s grip tightened on his ass, more confident, basking in Hanjin’s boldness. His fingers explored Hanjin’s tightness, rubbing up and down the middle. Silent as they may have needed to be, they were shouting and howling loudly in their heads. Dohoon knew that behind the expert iciness, Hanjin was moaning loud and clear.

A thought drifted through Dohoon’s mind—he wanted to give back. He tapped Hanjin on the shoulder, and nodded his head to beckon him, breathing a little shakily. “I want to… let me take care of you too,” Dohoon said, realizing just how unsure he was of his words when he said it.

Hanjin obliged, attracted even more by his lover’s growing confidence. He laid back, watching as Dohoon’s hands danced across his body, leaving tingling sensations all over him, making Hanjin draw in the air. He kissed his way down to Hanjin’s waist, paying special heed to the lines crossing his milky skin.

He then palmed the fabric in front of Hanjin’s member and loosened the string of Hanjin’s baby blue shorts. Like opening a present, Hanjin thought from over his head. How endearing. Hanjin let out a breath of a dry laugh. Seeing Dohoon confused looking up at him, Hanjin nodded his head and urged him to continue.

Dohoon’s gaze dropped back down, breath catching as he took in the sight of Hanjin’s length. It was firm, standing, but not as long as his, Dohoon thought. He had seen many of his mates’ before, but this was a new sensation to him. He was looking at one not with passiveness nor disgust, but with eager curiosity. It felt right at the moment. It felt right with Hanjin.

He swallowed, feeling his mouth go dry yet watering all at once. He leaned his cheek on Hanjin’s thigh and took a nervous breath, the clean scent of Hanjin’s soap filling his nose. “Go on,” Hanjin whispered from above him, guiding his shoulders and head to a more comfortable position to provide. “Trust yourself.”

Leaning down, Dohoon let his lips brush over Hanjin’s length,  savoring the curious taste for the first time. There was no hesitation, only a sharp, curious hunger that drove him forward. This was a first for Dohoon, and yet, he did not feel any need to question it. He never even considered his sexuality in the past, but whether he’d ever used the term “straight” seemed irrelevant now. He wanted this, wanted Hanjin, it feels good, meant to happen. He began to touch himself too, their pleasure twisting together in sync.

He breathed between licks over the tip, the shaft, before he took Hanjin more fully into his mouth. Hanjin exhaled sharply, jolted by the sudden warmth in his member. Then he felt the pleasure surge, his hand moving instinctively to Dohoon’s hair, threading the streaks of white on his scalp. The heat of Dohoon’s mouth sent waves of pleasure through Hanjin, whose hips were twitching in response.

This was new land for Dohoon, uncharted territory. He was mapping every contour on Hanjin. The warmth of his mouth enveloped Hanjin fully now, surprised as Dohoon tried to take him in fully. Feeling the head scratch the back of his throat, Dohoon pulled back a string of saliva, tethering lip and tip together. Another first sensation for Dohoon today.

Dohoon continued. His tongue dragged slowly along the sensitive underside. A faint moan slipped from Hanjin’s lips before he could stop it, and Dohoon quickly placed his hand on Hanjin’s mouth. Who needs to keep it quiet now?

Hanjin can’t be blamed, though. This for him was new as well. This act of receiving and not providing was novel for him. But Dohoon’s earnest curiosity made Hanjin let go, allowing himself to feel each new sensation fully. Dohoon’s head rose, and sank, up and down. Not in the same practiced skill, Hanjin thought to himself, but there was an unpracticed care in Dohoon that made each motion more intense. The minutes pass as both learn new things about each other, and themselves.

Then, from outside, in the corridor, the door creaked and footsteps echoed. Jihoon’s unmistakable steps, his fingers feeling the wall to keep him centered in the tight corridor, walking towards the reception. Dohoon’s pace stuttered, a jog of awareness. In his mouth, he could feel Hanjin tensing up too. 

They both froze, listening intently, relaxing as Jihoon’s steps grew faint, melding into the sound of keys and papers at the reception desk.

In spite of, or maybe because of the faint risk, Dohoon found himself growing more confident, his loose hands tracing the firm lines of Hanjin’s thighs. He even let go of Hanjin’s mouth. Without any thought or fear, Dohoon quickened his pace.

Their breathing grew ragged, their bodies melting as a wave of pleasure rose, cresting to a peak they both reached at once. Dohoon’s bed was creaking with the tremors they made.

Dohoon shuddered, his own hand shaking even faster now. He felt his release build, growing thick and unyielding, until he could hold back no longer. He parted from Hanjin’s member and moved up to kiss him. Their reunion felt good, unmarred by either one’s vibrating hand, their organs almost on top of each other. Their kiss recalibrated their synchronicity and brought them both to a higher level of intensity. 

Their kiss made way for Dohoon to let himself go on Hanjin’s stomach. He was feeling the hot rush as his release spilled, spurting ropes of white across the lines of Hanjin’s waist. Hanjin followed a mere heartbeat later, his own release mingling with Dohoon on his navel. It was warm, pooling in soft rivulets on Hanjin’s body, some dripping down Hanjin’s waist. Their infusion charged the air. It felt steamy, rich and heady despite the AC.

Dohoon looked down, watching the trail of release fall over his tip, some dripping on Hanjin. The sight filled him with a sense of satisfaction, thinking if he was able to mark Hanjin. They locked eyes with each other, their intense breaths responding to each other, back and forth.

Hanjin resigned on the bed, his arms spread beside him, drained, watching Dohoon above him weaken with a tender stare. He savored the sight of Dohoon’s face, all flushed and content, and the tickle of Dohoon’s white streaks landing on his forehead. They share a silent kiss, rubbing each other’s noses, sharing a laugh.

The scary thing was how easy Hanjin thought about saying those three words then and there. How quickly the thought passed his head, as he looked at Dohoon, vulnerable on top of him. How suddenly he was willing to let go because of instant pleasure. How long he trained to distance himself from his body, and how in a matter of minutes, he was willing to change. 

But why does it matter? He gave it some thought. Some serious consideration. Who cares? Why am I so afraid? Then, he thought about saying it. Maybe. Maybe, just maybe. Did Dohoon want to say it too?

Instead, he swallowed, his mouth feeling dry. The resulting silence of Hanjin’s private pondering was aching and souring the moment, but Hanjin held out.

Hanjin breathed himself to calm down, looking at Dohoon with a lazy gaze. Hanjin was uncertain, but he thought he saw I love you written all over Dohoon’s eyes.

Chapter Text

It was in these rare moments alone in the kitchen that Jihoon could find time to reflect. It was as if the entire hotel stopped, with only the dishes clinking in the sink in front of him, so that he could hear his thoughts sharp and crisp. He began by opening the window to let some air in.

Clearing his first plate and slotting it into the dishrack, Jihoon entertained his secret excitement at the thought of being seen as a big brother to someone. The idea of being able to learn from where his relationship with Dohoon lacked, and forge a new bond with a sibling. He could never voice it out, but Jihoon always felt like Dohoon did not play the part of an older brother well.

While the family thought Dohoon was always busy with classes or school work, as he always assured them, Jihoon found this out to be a lie. One afternoon, when Jihoon was having a snack in the classroom by the window, he could see by the corner of his eye that Dohoon and his friends were playing hooky, sneakily hopping over the school fence. When Jihoon got home that afternoon, on his own, Dohoon was not there, and he could not conjure up an explanation for his mother who was worried about where her eldest child had gone.

It was heartbreaking for Jihoon to see his parents keep their heads down at work trying their besot to make a living for their family, while Dohoon wasn’t taking schooling seriously. Their father is a farmer in Laguna province, breaking his back over rice fields. His mother had been a store clerk who left her job to take care of her children at home. Knowing their parents were laboring hard for them inspired Jihoon to return the effort, making sure to grasp the lessons by hook or by crook. 

Dohoon, meanwhile, day after day, would skip his classes, and Jihoon would helplessly watch him through the window sneak out with his friends. He was barely in the house, going who knows where, and came back late in the night with the smell of alcohol. 

When their grades that year were released, Jihoon was thrilled to show his parents his report card, particularly his 95 mark in history. But Dohoon had not come home that day. It was not until months later they had found out that Dohoon had flunked his English exam, and was given one last chance to pass through a remedial exam.

Still, Jihoon could never let his parents know what Dohoon had been doing. He knew Dohoon would get in trouble if Jihoon ratted him out. So he kept to himself, hoping to God that Dohoon would stop on his own. Younger Jihoon saw this as a form of respect for Dohoon, but this Jihoon, now down to the last plate on the sink, wondered if that was true. Was it courteousness, or just fear of his older brother?

He turned to the spot where Dohoon had stood earlier while eating dinner, remembering the time Jihoon had offered to help him with the English remedial test. Dohoon raised his voice, got up, grabbed Jihoon by the collar, and told him never to speak to him again. He stormed out the door and went out the whole night, while Jihoon stood frozen in his place. They only spoke to each other again after Dohoon’s graduation, almost a full year after that confrontation.

Jihoon’s work in Manila had distanced the two of them even more, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Dohoon was now the same person who grabbed him by the collar that one afternoon. That same hard-headed older brother who never wanted anyone to help him. Who had too much pride to let anyone tell him he was wrong? Was this the same brother who walked into the hotel this morning?

He felt shame over how he viewed having a younger sibling. Could he really turn his back on his sibling just like that? And besides, could Jihoon be a good role model for his younger sibling?  Was he any better? How could he fulfill that role when he would be miles away from Laguna, missing the baby’s first steps, first words, first memories? How could he claim to be a better older brother than Dohoon when Jihoon couldn’t even be there?

Unable to calm his thoughts, he wiped his hands dry and knocked on his mom’s room. Hearing his mom from the inside tell him to come in, he turned the doorknob and saw his pregnant mother below him on the floor, bent over, unpacking clothes from the bag. Dohoon wasn’t around. Though Jihoon wasn’t surprised at this, he was hoping their mother’s pregnancy would concern his older brother. Even just a little bit.

Hearing the knock, Jihoon’s mother looked up, saw him standing there, catching the light reflecting off the water in her son’s eyes. His eyebrows were curled, and watching him stand by the doorway, she felt like his limbs could collapse out of sadness at any moment. She cleared space for him amid the pile of clothes and patted the space beside her. She opened her arms and beckoned for him to come.

Jihoon couldn’t contain his emotions anymore, sat on the floor beside his mother and let himself loose in his mother’s arms. The room was silent except for Jihoon’s shaky breathing and the strong AC. Too many thoughts were competing in Jihoon’s mind, his mother, his brother, his sibling, his family. She soothed his forearm, offering warmth for the children in her presence. The tears came falling down Jihoon’s cheek, one by one, then a steady stream, watering the flowers in his mother’s dress.

That morning, Dohoon was lounging in the reception chair. He told himself he wanted some morning air to memorize the script Hanjin had ironed out for him, but really, Dohoon was enjoying the sight of his lover preparing breakfast, going through practiced strides in the kitchen. He was still wearing the creased shirt Dohoon had skillfully removed from him the evening before. Just the memory of last night got Dohoon’s heartbeat pumping. Some sweat trickling down his temples now.

For a second there, reveling in the sun by the window, Dohoon imagined waking up every morning to the sight of Hanjin preparing breakfast for them. Silent mornings of Hanjin being so accommodating and fresh, planting a soothing kiss on Dohoon, doing nothing for the rest of the day. And after dinner, they would lounge by the radio, with Hanjin’s warmth in his arms. Questions of How was your day? And whispers of Can’t be away from you, baby, charging the air with electric romance. He could live that life, Dohoon thought. Days and nights of nothing but Hanjin.

But lost in his thought, he dropped the script he was supposed to be memorizing, making a thwack on the floor. Hanjin turned around, saw that Dohoon was watching behind him, and shook his head, conscious now that Dohoon was looking. Hanjin could feel his heart flutter, remembering where his hands were last night. He returned to the eggs on the skillet.

Jihoon had gone out to a nearby convenience store to buy medicine. When they woke up that morning, Jihoon had told Hanjin from the bottom bunk of their shared room that his head was hurting. Hanjin reminded Jihoon that it was his day off anyway and that he should take the morning to rest.

So Hanjin was on his own when it happened. The guest from the fourth room had gone out, the wheels of his baggage rolling down, sound bouncing off the corridor. From the corner of his eye, Dohoon could see the tourist, floral shirt with hat and all, heading to the reception desk. Hanjin had heard the guest, wiped his hands on his apron, and headed to the lobby to meet the visitor.

“Hello,” the tourist said, sweaty, with an odd accent Dohoon was unsure was because of his language, or him dumbing down his English for the receptionist. “I’m going now.”

Hanjin reached from under the reception desk and pulled out the printed bill in front of the guest. “Here’s the total, sir,” he said, a practiced steadiness in his voice, pointing to the total charge in bold figures. The guest took his hat off, fanned himself, and glanced over the bill, his eyebrows furrowed.

“It includes the standard room rate, plus a check-in fee we added because you did come late in the night, sir,” Hanjin explained, sensing some confusion in his guest.

The man leaned closer, his fanning paused, scanning the receipt with his large hands. Dohoon was sensing trouble. 

“What’s all this?” he asked sharply, a voice cutting through the morning calm. “This is a lot more than I expected!”

Hanjin adjusted the paper so the guest could see. He had a specific script he had prepared for irate guests like this one. “I’m happy to go through the charges with you sir,” his tone remained soft and polite, careful not to disturb Jihoon’s mother, who was probably still sleeping. “I can—”

“I didn’t know any of that!” The man’s ears were reddening. “Come on, this is just robbery. Are you adding charges hoping I won’t notice?”

Hanjin gave a patient smile, looking away to subtly wipe the spit on his hair. “I understand the confusion sir, and I apologize if there was a miscommunication. Let’s go through the items to make sure it looks correct.”

He took a deep breath, taking a pen to point at each item carefully. Then, again. Hanjin was wondering if the guest was just trying to get a discount by stirring a scene. But he continued, and satisfied with his explanation, he lifted the bill and handed it to the guest with a smile, looking only at the visitor’s reddening neck.

“Oh, don’t give me that crap,” he muttered, his eyes flashing with disdain. “I know what you’re like. You’re probably just trying to scam extra tips out of me.”

Hanjin felt a bubble in his throat, warping his voice as he replied. “I assure you, sir, that’s not the case. As I’ve shown—”

“Enough!” The guest’s hand shot out, knocking the bill out of the counter. Hanjin flinched, stepped back and looked at the white tiles beneath him. Hanjin was trained in school for conflicts like this, but having these confrontation scenes unfold in real life was different. He was finding the right words to say, but before he could even speak, he felt a motion in front of him.

“Back off.”

Hanjin looked up to see that Dohoon, who had been watching the exchange, stood up. Too focused on the conversation, Hanjin had forgotten he was sitting there. But now his presence was firm, unmissable. The white streaks of his hair glinting in the sun, his head cocked back. Dohoon’s face remained calm, but there was an edge in his glare Hanjin hadn’t seen before. If Hanjin were in the guest’s shoes, he would be trembling.

“And who do you think you are?” the guest turned to face the voice behind him.

He took a step closer, his voice low but sharp as a razor. “What’s it to you?” He locked eyes with the guest. “If you have a problem, you can handle it without threatening him.”

Hanjin felt his breath hitch as he watched Dohoon, his steady confidence giving weight to every word. He was certain he could have cleared the situation on his own with a compromise. He considered just waiving the check-in fees to end the fiasco.

But he saw that Dohoon had shrunk the guest. He was winning and he knew it. Hanjin could tell by the triumphant curl of Dohoon’s lips and the intensity of his eyes. The sight of Dohoon coming face-to-face with this stranger, over him, made Hanjin’s heart skip a beat.

The guest tried his best to glare back but hesitated. Suddenly unsure.

After a tense beat, he reached into his pocket, yanked out his wallet. A wad of bills flew into the air. 

“And keep the change,” he spat, his voice heavy with disdain. He propped up his luggage and stormed out the door.

The space between the two of them was empty now. Hanjin could see how Dohoon’s taunting expression changed, frame by frame, to concern. His temples loosened, his lips curled down now in worry. The wind was heavy between them, not because of the tension the guest had departed with, but because of a gravity Hanjin felt from within Dohoon. The hair on his arms stood up. Did Dohoon feel that too?

Their gaze broke only with Dohoon’s chuckle. He turned to the door, thinking what a coward that guy was. He swiped his hair, the strands of white catching the light from the window. “Those guys think they can push anyone around,” Dohoon said, still to the door.

“Thanks for… for stepping in,” Hanjin whispered, but Dohoon caught it. His eyes were on Hanjin again, giving him a handsome grin. “I was handling it, but that was… impressive.”

Dohoon shrugged, looking at him. “You okay?” Hanjin’s lips parted, but couldn’t find the words. He gave a weak nod.

Dohoon took a half-step closer to Hanjin, brushed the sweat off Hanjin’s forehead with the back of his hand. His fingers danced down Hanjin’s ear, his cheek, and his chin, which felt cool on Dohoon’s skin. He softly lifted Hanjin’s face, and planted his lips on his forehead. Hanjin closed his eyes as if to burn the kiss to his memory. In Dohoon’s warmth, Hanjin felt protected and assured.

Dohoon bent down, reached for a P500 bill on the floor, and handed it to Hanjin. “Terrible guy but generous tipper.” Hanjin let a chuckle loose.

I just survived that. Hanjin thought, his hand resting on the whirring washing machine. 

That was nothing compared to the roleplays they had in the safety of their classrooms. Even though Hanjin felt pride at having held his ground and recalling what he learned in the university, he was disappointed to have been taken over by fear by the end. Maybe next time, Hanjin could highlight the check-in fee earlier.

Good thing Dohoon came through. It was risky coming toe-to-toe with customers like that, but Dohoon didn’t seem scared at all. Not one bit. He only hoped that scene wouldn’t mess up his interview prep too much.

Starting the spin cycle, Hanjin caught memories of last night. They were in a dizzying and steamy state of thrill. But even after, when they were both exhausted, Dohoon took time to polish his tone and dialogue with Hanjin. Dohoon genuinely seemed driven to work hard for his family. It just seemed to Hanjin that he was struggling to find the ways to get there. Just a little help and he would be perfect.

Hanjin turned around and left the machine to do its thing. He returned to the low seat, behind the two piles of sorted colored and white cloth. 

Ahead, the pale pink walls framed the open window like a painting—the sun was starting to come down, basking the bare floor of the basement with an ochre hue. The wind was coming in steadily, offering some chill while Hanjin continued sorting the laundry.

Hanjin had no problem with the routine here in the hotel. It was the same every week, but he was satisfied, not just because of the gratifying feeling of serving guests, but because he had good company in Jihoon. Often, Hanjin would joke that he would have long rotted in the hotel if he didn’t have Jihoon to talk to.

This was a major part of what made their bond deep—their shared appreciation of routine and set tasks. They had a daily checklist they needed to clear, earned the same satisfaction from their orderliness and alternated their day-off schedules, which didn’t mean much since they were both living here anyway.

But one of their differences became starkly clear when Jihoon’s family arrived.

When Hanjin tossed a thick white duvet to the left, he uncovered a red long-sleeved shirt hiding underneath. The gold on its seams and buttons glittered in the sun, almost in a burning glow. Hanjin paused at the sight and touched the cuff of the shirt, certain of an energy transmitted by its fabric.

This was one of the few items Hanjin had packed with him when he left his family in Binondo after he graduated. It was a present his uncle gave him on his 15th birthday, made special by the golden thread that ran through the shirt. His uncle was a worshiper of feng shui and believed the color to be lucky. The irony, however, is that things seemed to only go downhill since then.

With the clash of cymbals, music blaring outside the window, and the faint smell of firecrackers in the air, his family gathered over sticky rice to welcome the new year as marked in Chinese tradition. Despite the ardor that surrounded him though, all he could remember were the sneers and long frowns from his aunt and mother when he said he wanted to take up hotel management in college. Maybe hotel ownership, but hotel management? More crackers outside, Hanjin flinched. Really, Jinnie?

While his parents eventually gave in, his mother gave a stern warning on the eve of his first day. Don’t forget we have a name to take care of. We worked so hard for that name. His mother puffed a cigar. Don’t mess it up, baobao.

All his success at school, his good marks, all faded away like smoke, bearing no weight nor mass at the family dining table. What good was his studying if he would be penniless by the end of it? Even on graduation day, he had to convince his mother to come watch him deliver the valedictory address. She didn’t come.

He went home that day, dejected, but thrilled at the plan he had been cooking for almost a year now. He saved up his allowances so he could leave home and stand on his own feet.

In the living room, he was greeted only by his uncle, who was on his knees in prayer, incense dancing across the space. He passively said his mother joined his aunt at Binondo market, while his father had matters to attend to for their cigar business.

But congratulations, Jinnie. Huh? Of course, I remembered, yeah. So what now, where are you working? Where… What do you mean? That’s… I don’t think that’s… Well, that’s unlucky, zhizhi, and you could do better, come on.

Tossing the red shirt to the colored pile, Hanjin realized that it was the last time he had talked to his uncle or anyone in his family. For about a month, Hanjin lived alone in a humble space he bought for himself in one of the mid-range hotels in the city. He disposed of all his emotions, opting to lose himself in the rhythm of routine. 

In the first few days, Hanjin felt new air surging through his lungs because of his newfound independence. He was able to do whatever, go where he wanted, explore uncharted territory with the boys in college. But in the weeks that came, there was an emptiness inside him that worried about the ties he couldn’t fully cut. Wondering whether his family was worried about him, or if they were looking for him at all.

That conversation with his uncle, the only one he felt could understand him, or even try to, gave him the go signal. Hanjin packed his clothes, his papers and whatever he could stuff into his bag. He sneaked out while his uncle had his eyes closed, jolting open only at the sound of the door slamming shut.

As if on cue, Hanjin heard the door to the basement slam shut above him, drawing him back to reality. Then, heavy footsteps made their way down the lower flight of stairs. When he lifted his head from the laundry piles, he peeked at the dress shoes and gray slacks to see it was Dohoon, still in his interview attire. Hanjin fixed his hair and wiped the sweat off his brows.

The sun’s rays shaded his white long sleeves into scarlet. He brought warmth to the room, but Jihoon sensed a blazing heat to him now. His shoulders were rigid with frustration as if to throw the low seat he took under his legs. His cuffs were rolled up to his elbow, some sweat falling down his forehead. When he found his place beside Hanjin, Dohoon ran his hand across his hair. There was an audible growl in Dohoon’s breath.

“How did the…” Dohoon’s jaw clenched, stopping Hanjin’s question dead in its tracks. 

“Not great,” he muttered, unable to look at Hanjin, his eyes facing the sun head-on. “Didn’t even get through half of what I’d prepared before it went off-script. I… I stuttered. I fumbled.” He closed his eyes, let out a laugh, dry without humor. “Damn blew it.”

Hanjin faced Dohoon, his cheek also catching the glow of the window. Hanjin gave a long look of concern, thinking of the right words to say. This was not the Dohoon who fought off that customer earlier. Dohoon needed help.

Hanjin reached his hand out, ran his fingers down Dohoon’s rolled-up sleeves, which were dotted with sweat. “Hey, don’t beat yourself up. That was just one shot. There are other places I could help you find—”

But before he could finish, Dohoon stood up, removing Hanjin’s hand from his arm, the stool making a sound from being knocked over. “You know what?” Dohoon’s sudden shout shook Hanjin. “I’m so sick of everyone offering me pity. Talking down to me like I’m some…. some helpless…” His voice was trailing off in pain. 

Dohoon loosened his necktie, strangled it out of himself and threw it on the floor. Hanjin had mistook Dohoon’s silence for vulnerability and missed the warning signs of wildfire inside him. It was like Hanjin’s fingers accidentally set off a live grenade.

He pointed to Hanjin. “You, Jihoon, my mom. God, I wanted to ace this so bad for her, the baby. But now,” from finger to fist, Dohoon smacked the wall to his left, the collision vibrating the walls awake.

Hanjin got up from his seat and went behind Dohoon. He wanted to soothe him terribly but hesitated before reaching out. Hanjin’s fingers hovered over Dohoon’s shoulder, resisting the urge to comfort him until he was sure Dohoon would let him in. 

They stood there, frozen, with only the sound of the washing machine. The sun was casting long shadows across their faces. The air was still now, the wind from moments ago gone, leaving them in humid tension. Hanjin could see the light etch the contours of Dohoon’s fist, which was paralyzed on the wall.

Hanjin waited for a tense beat, and proceeded, caressing Dohoon’s back, rubbing it with terrified caution. “Dohoon, it’s not pity,” Hanjin whispered, walking closer to him. “I just… I know what it’s like to feel stuck.” His hand moves from Dohoon’s shoulder and wraps both arms around his waist. He places his cheek on Dohoon’s back, his arm still frozen on the wall. “I know the pressure.”

Hanjin could feel Dohoon’s muscles, tensing. His pulse. Hanjin was feeling the creases of Dohoon’s shirt, his ear listening to the turmoil inside him.

Then he heard his breath, slowly building up, Hanjin could feel it in his fingers, his heart thumping, faster and faster. Like a blaze renewed with oxygen. Then it exploded. 

Dohoon turned around to face Hanjin and he let go of Dohoon’s waist instinctively. “You don’t get it, Hanjin. You with your… perfect job. Your plans, your career. You would never understand me and don’t ever think you can.”

Hanjin was trembling at the sight of Dohoon glaring at him, understanding now why his guest shrank earlier. He was terrified at the rage Dohoon was showing now. The sun, now barely above the horizon, carved a menacing look on Dohoon’s face, some beads of sweat trickling down his cheek.

“You… you don’t know me, Dohoon,” Hanjin’s voice was soft. “I just want to…” Hanjin’s voice trailed as Dohoon started striding towards him. “I just want to help you,” he was whispering, his palms raised in surrender. Hanjin started retreating backward.

Sensing the weakness in Hanjin’s stance, Dohoon kept pacing forward. The fist, red from the wall, now a pointing finger straight at Hanjin’s face. “That’s easy for you to say. Everything goes so perfectly for you.” Seeing Hanjin was cornered, his pace stopped, taking a deep breath, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Meanwhile, I’m this mess.”

There was something in Hanjin’s calm that irked him, but drew him in. It was not because he wanted to find comfort in Hanjin, that’s not what he needed at the moment. Dohoon wanted to see the basement burn with his anger, and he badly wanted to ignite the flammable soul in front of him, to leave a mark, to feel in control for once.

Backed up to a wall now, Dohoon’s gaze fell on Hanjin’s lips, and his pulse spiked, a pressure forming in his slacks. The washing machine halted, the spin cycle over.

Hanjin, perceiving the pause as a vulnerability in Dohoon, reached out for his arm to calm him, some sweat on his fingertips. But in a swift motion, Dohoon took Hanjin’s hand and pinned him to the corner. He pulled in closer, this time, his voice barely a whisper. Hanjin could feel Dohoon’s breath on his nose.

“You think you have all the answers, don’t you?” Dohoon growled. Hanjin’s breath hitched. He misinterpreted Dohoon again.

The sun was leaving only the streaks of Dohoon’s hair visible. But even without a clear view of his face, Hanjin was drawn to him. He was willing to do anything to help him, to fix him. He was willing to do what it takes, even if Dohoon himself doesn’t understand that right now.

“I don’t, Dohoon,” he murmured, his voice cool, almost a confession, a clear sound to Dohoon’s ears. “But we don’t need all the answers right now. I’m here for you. Just right here.” Hanjin’s voice barely rose above a whisper, careful to keep it steady, even as Dohoon’s words stung. This wasn’t about him—it was about showing Dohoon he wasn’t alone, even if he didn’t want to believe it. 

His calm voice, out of place in Dohoon’s rage, was the final straw. He couldn’t bear the calmness anymore. Their lips collided, Hanjin’s fingers clenching as Dohoon kept him in place against the cement wall. Quiet, or Jihoon would hear upstairs.

Chapter Text

Dohoon watched his mother smooth out the creases of the long-sleeved polo he wore to the interview before tucking it back into the laundry basket. Dohoon was tense beside her, legs folded on the floor. His fingers were drumming against the bed frame, tutting as the AC whirred, adding percussion to his mother’s rhythmic movements.

Half-hoping he would offer to help, his mother said she would wash the laundry on her own. But Dohoon was more stunned with the fact that his mother was folding used clothes, which would be tossed around the washing machine anyway. Must be another of her weird superstitions.

Then, Dohoon’s throat went dry, realizing his mother would be doing the laundry in the basement. Just last night… Dohoon gulped the thought down.

Handing her his red-lined cotton towel, Dohoon hesitated about telling his mother about the interview, practicing the words through soft mutters. But did he really need to open up? He could just keep quiet and play it off.

He glanced down at the slacks he wore to the interview. His mom felt excited to buy it for his graduation, earning up for a trip to the tailor, but was disappointed when she learned the ceremony was delayed by a year. Now, it was just another heap of fabric on the white tiles.

He clenched his jaw, broke the silence. He decided being quiet about it would only make it worse for his mother and uncle. Besides, Dohoon was just inching to let it out of his system.

“Hey, um, ma,” he started, finding beside him the loosened necktie he tossed on the floor yesterday. His voice was unusually low. “I uh… I don’t think I made it. Interview didn’t go as I thought.” He busied himself with the lace of the tie, too afraid to look up at his mother. He passed her another shirt instead.

Dohoon exhaled, knowing he passed the first hurdle. But while he landed the reveal, there were still many thoughts racing in his head. What would his mother say? I told you so? Would his uncle be disappointed, knowing he recommended him to the company? 

His mother paying him no mind and keeping her eyes on the chore made his heart run. Talk to me mom, just say it.

After a long beat, she finally paused, her hands slowing as she folded the shirt. “Don’t worry Dohoon. I already know,” she said, her eyes not leaving the fabric. “And I’ve asked your Aunt Celia before we left. She told me they'll need help with that house they'll build. The one up the street. Let’s visit.”

So many thoughts were competing in his head. Dohoon felt embarrassed, that his mother was still looking out for him even though he’s failed. He was relieved, knowing there was work waiting for him back home. But an urgent thought was winning from the rest. “You asked Aunt Celia even before we left?”

That made his mom look toward him. She paused, realizing she let out more than what she meant. She closed her eyes, searching her heart for the right words to say. She took a deep breath, held his son’s hand. “I’m just looking out for you, Dohoon.”

There was a sudden pain inside him, like his heart had just been sliced in half. Did his mother not believe he could make it? Was she anticipating that the interview would fail? Dohoon was biting the inside of his cheeks to distract from the anguish.

“Mom, why would you…” He was tasting both iron and betrayal in his tongue. He shook his head, unable to finish his sentence. “And how did you know I failed the interview?”

Another beat, as his mother placed the folded shirt inside the basket. “Your brother told me. While you were asleep this morning.”

Dohoon’s face darkened, irritation sparkling in his eyes. So Jihoon was telling on me, huh? His jaw clenched, frustration bubbling from inside. Why the hell is he in my business all the time?

His mother paused again, as if able to hear Dohoon’s thoughts. “He only said something because he’s worried about you, Dohoon. You know that.” She let the silence settle in, hoping Dohoon would understand. But Dohoon only shrugged, avoiding her eyes. God, he’s the worst, Dohoon thought.

His mother tugged at the slacks, lifting the pants before folding it in half. “It’s hard, I know. But this isn’t the end of the world. You’ve gone through this and you can keep going.” She folded the fabric again. “All I ask is that you try. Try again.”

Dohoon’s throat felt dry, and he swallowed, nodding quickly to shake off her words. He turned away, hoping his mom couldn’t see the tears in his eyes. “Feels like all I do is try, ma,” he bit the inside of his lip hard, drawing more blood. “That’s all you… that’s all you and Jihoon always say. Board exams, now this.” Dohoon was looking up, still facing away. 

“Every time I mess up, someone’s there to remind me,” he clenched his jaw, holding back the sting in his eyes. Conscious of the tears leaking onto his cheeks, he got up and left the room. He only heard his mother’s distant reminder to let Jihoon rest from sickness before anything.

Jihoon was placing the plates on the table for breakfast, trying to focus on the work instead of the pounding in his head. Feeling cramped with the hot air inside the kitchen, Jihoon opened the window, faced it, and took deep breaths. He wanted to have breakfast before drinking his medication, deciding the routine might help him get rid of the headache.

He placed the reheated beef broth on the table and opened the lid. Across the smoke rising from the soup, Jihoon caught his brother walking out of the corridor.

“Dohoon!” Jihoon called out to him. “Dohoon, there’s lunch!” But Dohoon kept walking, ignoring his younger brother’s calls. Jihoon left the kitchen to go after him, Dohoon’s hand now on the doorknob.

“Dohoon, where are you going? There’s breakfast—”

“Why do you think you know what’s best for me?” Dohoon shot back, his voice sharp, his eyes red, his senses readjusting to the warmth outside the air-conditioned room.

Jihoon parted his lips at the sight of his older brother, broken in tears in front of him, lost for words. “Answer me! Why do you always think you’re doing what’s right?”

“Dohoon, I—”

“Because you’re the perfect son? Because you’re mister perfect career?” Dohoon wiped his tears with his wrists. “Huh? Answer me!” Dohoon walked towards Jihoon, pointing his finger at him, his other hand a balled fist, both hands shaking. Jihoon flinched at Dohoon’s finger, but was even more surprised to see his older brother in tears.

Dohoon was pacing towards him. Jihoon was too stupefied to move. “You, you, you…” Dohoon repeated, a step closer each time. Now, Dohoon’s face was all he could see. 

Jihoon suddenly felt his feet lose the ground, his arms suddenly dangling, blood settled on his fingers and feet. If his head wasn’t hurting so much, he would have realized Dohoon had grabbed him by the collar. Jihoon could see his temples pounding, eyes red with rage, white streaks flashing with sweat. 

“You…” Dohoon lifted his collar higher. “You’re everything I’ve ever hated! You’re everything I could never be! You’re always … there, getting it right, and watching me just screw everything up!”

“Dohoon, stop it!” his mother called from behind him.

Dohoon kept his voice low, putting Jihoon down. Jihoon was struggling to breathe, the room tilting. “There, you happy now? Isn’t that what you wanna hear?” Dohoon’s whisper sent chills down Jihoon’s back. “You’re perfect. You’re the best. And I…” Dohoon’s voice cracked. “...and I could never be you…” He was breathing with much tremor, drawing more tears from his eyes.

He’s crouching now at Jihoon’s feet, his sobs filling the empty reception room. This might be the first time he saw his older brother cry.

Across him, his mom was looking down to Dohoon, then up to Jihoon, eyes open in surprise by what she just saw. Locking eyes with her, Jihoon broke, realizing what he had done to cause such pain in his brother, vulnerable now below him.

Jihoon’s mind reeled as he tried to find words, any word, that could defuse the crackling tensity in the room. He tried to crouch down to approach him but his knees just won’t fold. He tried extending his hand towards him but Dohoon was just out of reach. Always out of reach.

He thought about the many times he had tried to be there for him, and how he always shooed him away. The times he extended his aid, but got rejected painfully. What was Jihoon to do when the person he wanted to help didn’t want to be helped? And did Dohoon not realize that Jihoon had saved him by keeping his mouth shut on so many things?

Jihoon took deep breaths. The morning heat hung thick in the room, stifling and heavy, as though every unsaid word Dohoon held onto made the air harder to inhale.

At the corner of his eye, he saw Hanjin stepping out of the basement, half-filled basket in hand, the song he was humming killed by the sight in front of him. He stood frozen at his step at the sight of Dohoon helpless, his muffled cries sending pain to Hanjin’s heart. He looked up at Jihoon and gave him a confused look.

Across them, Jihoon saw his mother stepping out of her room towards Dohoon, shuffling slowly, finding her balance. 

Once near her children, she too, crouched, to Dohoon’s level, placing her arm on his back. She was whispering something to Dohoon that Jihoon couldn’t hear over the pounding in his ears.

“Just… just leave me alone!” Dohoon yelled, retracted from his mother’s touch, got up and stormed out of the hotel. His mother watched, arm falling limp as he pulled away, suddenly aware of the weight in her belly. In her heart, too.

Dohoon didn’t know anymore. He just kept walking, walking and walking. Never mind the sun, this humid air, the people all around him. Rather his feet kept moving than his mind. Never mind the hotel, never mind anyone inside it.

The streets were packed with many things to keep his focus off what happened earlier. The smoke hitting his face, random words from conversations he picked up on, people buzzing with a rush he could only find in Manila. The light was covering it all in a blinding glow, drawing stretches of black shadow on the asphalt.

Everywhere Dohoon walked, there were people going about their day. Busy, unbothered, hungry, desperate. Everywhere. He came face-to-face with nameless strangers, who were giving him odd stares because of the wetness in his cheeks. Why would anyone sane walk around Manila crying? Dohoon wondered too. 

But who cares? Everyone here was a failure, just like him. Every person he encountered once dreamed they could succeed, before they realized they would crash just like everybody else. He was sure of it. In this city of miseries, Dohoon fits right in.

He turned left, catching the sound of children sitting on the steps in front of a restaurant with foreign letters, laughing and pointing at him. Had he not been trying to detach from his emotions, he would have turned back to taunt them away. Sweat collected on his upper lip. Jihoon. It’s always Jihoon. Messing up everything: Working so hard, being so kind, being so… perfect. Everything he couldn’t be. Finding himself lost in thought again, Dohoon walked faster, working his legs instead, catching a faint smell of incense from the red house on his side.

He made a left. Why were people always comparing him with others? It was so easy to do that when there were those like the reliant Jihoon who could do everything better than him. The shining star of the family who cast a terrible shadow behind him. It was easy when there were people like Hanjin, who could do everything with such cool ease. He looked up, letting the clouds burn his eyes. He could feel sweat trickling down his forearm. Who was Dohoon if not the worse option? 

He made a left and found the Pasig River to his side, catching the smell in his nose. He briefly turned his head to recoil but kept walking. He collided with a small, thin lady who took a turn into his path, but Dohoon didn’t bother to look behind him. How much has he failed for people to expect it of him now? He could hear a different language behind him, surely the lady was angry, cursing him out. Did Hanjin think he would fail when they practiced that night? Did his uncle doubt his chances and gave him a recommendation with pity? Did his mom anticipate his failure by asking him about the interview nonstop?

And why did he fail exactly when people thought he would?

Dohoon looked up, and saw the same children from earlier laughing at him again, pointing their fingers at this crying lost boy with stupid white streaks in his hair. For a split second, Dohoon stared closer at the foreign food stall, wondering if they really saw him, or if he was having deja vu. He leaned on a nearby maroon gate, realizing he had ended up where he started. He is overshadowed so he lurks in the dark. He is expected to fail so he falls flat. It was all a loop. A perennial, exhausting loop.

The students in front of Dohoon began their routine again. This might have been the third time they went all the way back to the beginning of their five-minute choreography, and the students looked exhausted. Some of them, apparently from school, had loosened their uniforms and changed to slippers to dance better.

Dohoon heard an instruction from one of the students, perhaps the leader, to cue the music. The students, their backs to him, went to their positions. When it played, the students began moving, robotic dances to the techno music. The open space in Plaza San Lorenzo Ruiz diffused the sound, getting lost in the collective noise in front of Binondo Church. There weren’t too many people around because it was a weekday, but there were just enough revelers for Dohoon to blend perfectly.

Before he settled on a place to sit, he trailed along the middle of the park, where he found various structures for religious and historical figures, lined up as if in a queue. Dohoon walked from one end, reading the markers to busy himself.

There stood a white obelisk with foreign writing on the side, commemorating the Chinese who died in World War 2. The shiny ball on top reflected the noon sun, mirroring the red lanterns hung on the tree branches above it and on lampposts all over the street.

In front of that obelisk was a tall statue of San Lorenzo Ruiz, on his tiptoes, his left hand reaching up to the sky. He was an altar boy here in Binondo Church, and was executed in Japan amid persecution for his faith.

Further down the middle was a small marker commemorating Joaquin Santa Marina, which Dohoon learned founded the La Insular Cigar and Cigarette factory in 1863, which used to be a famous landmark here in Binondo before it was ravaged by fire in 1944. Dohoon tried to lose himself to the facts and figures and forget his feelings, but remembered that it was Jihoon who had a knack for this kind of stuff. He pushed the insecurity down his throat. Why is there too much history in this damn city?

Dohoon decided to sit at the other end of the plaza on the lip of a fountain, the Santa Marina marker in front of him, and San Lorenzo waving behind it. In the space between him and the marker, the dancers gathered about an hour ago, sweating now in the humid air. The tree above him provided a small pause from the burning heat of the sun.

They were now hitting the climax of their routine. Two students would be carried on the shoulders of two boys, and they would move around the space. But when the time came to carry the small girl, she missed the beat to the disappointment of the leader. The music paused.

Dohoon’s gaze softened, unbidden memories rising to the surface. At that age, Dohoon was dancing too, with the same kind of passion. He and his friends would spend long nights inside their classroom, dancing to booming underground rap music. With dancing, he didn’t have to think. It was the type of physicality that allowed him to let go of his worries and doubts, just letting himself go as if on a trance. He could hear his friends now, counting to eight and back again, groaning in exhaustion but laughing with fulfillment. 

All that work culminated in their foundation day, where a dance performance opened a weeklong celebration with festivities, sports and quiz bees, with students, teachers and parents invited. On the stage, Dohoon was feeling the energy of the packed crowd, moving with fire to their remix track. Their classmates were cheering them on.

When he spotted his mother in the crowd, she was with Jihoon and his history teacher. His mother was beaming with joy over something the professor had told her. Distracted, Dohoon lost his count and stood in the wrong formation, returning only when one of his friends yanked him to the front where he should have been.

Walking over to them after the performance, the teacher having just left, his mom greeted him with his red-lined towel, wiping his sweat off. “That was nice, Dohoon,” she said passively. “Maybe one day you can teach Jihoon some of those moves, huh?”

She chuckled, a lighthearted joke, then turned back to Jihoon, holding him by the shoulders. “Your brother’s invited to a provincial quiz bee on Friday, with a small cash prize.” His mother winked at Jihoon, elbowing his side. Beside him, Jihoon was scratching his collar, but was obviously excited too. “Good job, Jihoon,” his mother tousled his hair. “Isn’t that amazing?”

“It is,” Dohoon replied.

Walking home, Dohoon trailed behind them, watching his mom discuss Jihoon’s training schedule. And when they got home, his mother caught his father up on Jihoon’s quiz bee, making no mention of Dohoon’s performance.

Dancing was something he loved, a bright spot in his life that didn’t measure him in grades or compare him in a ranking. It was just something that felt natural, no rules, no pressure, nothing. And to be unseen, unrecognized doing something he loved—that hurt Dohoon deeply.

Dohoon couldn’t leave dancing behind. His friends cheered him up one night with a surprise bottle of alcohol one of his mates snuck in the classroom. They took turns downing a small shot glass, and he felt his worries dissipate slowly with every chug. 

That night, they decided not to practice in the classroom anymore, since their was no foundation day to justify them staying late inside. In their succeeding dance sessions, Dohoon was offered to drink, but always turned the offer down saying it made him lose his focus. Dohoon found companionship in his friends, and made special effort to foster their camaraderie. There were many times when Dohoon felt he would rather stay in one of his friends’ houses than to go home to Jihoon and their parents.

Dohoon’s friend group eventually found their new space. With the help of his classmate’s uncle, who was the town mayor, they could practice all they wanted at the park by the capitol. A park just like this one in Binondo.

It came to that part of the routine again, when the boys had to lift two of their classmates on their shoulders. This time, the girl was on time with the beat, to the satisfaction of their leader. Some of their classmates even hollered, glad to finally be over this difficult step. The two pairs moved around the space, into a part of their choreography Dohoon hadn’t seen before.

Dohoon was dozing off in the memory, savoring the joy of his distanced love for dancing, when he heard a voice call out to him from behind the Chinese war memorial across the park.

Chapter Text

“Hey, Dohoon, let’s talk!” Hanjin shouted across the bridge. 

Damn it, Dohoon thought. After running across an intersection and walking fast across Ongpin Street, Hanjin had still caught up to him. Dohoon, exasperated, gave up, and paused on the bridge by the edge of Binondo, releasing a sharp breath.

Seeing Dohoon had paused, Hanjin bent down, hands on his knees, huffing. “Let’s talk, please.” For a second, Dohoon softened, seeing Hanjin out of breath, and let him walk over. Hanjin felt himself wavering, wondering why he’d run this far after him.

Hanjin took his place at his right, putting his elbows on the railing, unsure of what exactly he was doing here or saying anyway. Dohoon was just another guy, right? Someone he’d met out of nowhere. But in the comfort of that evening they spent together, his determination to provide for his family, he felt himself getting even more drawn to him. And now, he’s panting in the middle of Ongpin bridge.

The scene behind them was busy. Off the bridge on Hanjin’s side, there was an old lady selling fruits to passers-by, some of whom looked to Dohoon as Chinese. There were cars and pedicabs behind them, cloaking the entire bridge with smoke and dust. Below, Estero dela Reina was poorly maintained, but was flowing nonetheless.

“I know a thing or two about running away,” Hanjin said, staring at a leaf that fell into the water. As soon as he said it, a twinge of doubt crept in. Why was he even doing this? He could’ve just let him go. If all he wanted was to make Dohoon feel better, he could have just offered some casual words and walked away. And yet, the words were already on his lips, giddy to jump out.

Dohoon, intrigued, looked at Hanjin. There was some shine of sweat on his pale forehead, but he didn’t seem at all affected by the heat. He still had the same cool look on his face, as if he had just come from an air-conditioned room. He put on a pastel red shirt, which Dohoon could tell was pressed well.

Hanjin took a deep breath and continued. “I ran away from my family three months ago. We lived over there, behind that building,” he gestured with his finger passively across the river. Dohoon caught the softening of Hanjin’s voice, a new intonation different from when he was speaking to guests or to Jihoon. Dohoon shifted uncomfortably, unsure if he wanted to hear this—if he wanted anyone else’s struggles to make his own seem smaller.

Hanjin paused again, questioning himself. Dohoon never asked for his help, much less his history. This wasn't even a moment where he needed to step in. In fact, he’d be in trouble if anyone he knew found him here, if they were actually looking for him. But for some reason, there was this pull to bridge the gap between him and Dohoon, even with advice he wasn’t sure would land.

Dohoon looked away, fixing his eyes on the water below, the turmoil in his heart pushing him to speak. “So what, you came here to tell me we’re the same?”

Hanjin shook his head, slowly, letting his hand fall to his side. “No, Dohoon,” he said softly, “we’re not. I just want you to know that I get it. Sometimes running away is the only way out.”

Dohoon kept his eyes on the river, unsure of where Hanjin was going. He could feel a big vehicle pass by behind them, the ground shaking underneath their feet. Dohoon took a deep breath.

Hanjin continued. “When I was on my own, I got stuck in this cycle, you know? Flirting with the next guy, drifting between bars, anything just so I wouldn’t have to feel,” he paused, gripping the bridge railing. Hanjin wasn’t fully sure why he was offering all this, but part of him felt that if he could get Dohoon to hear him, it would be worth it. “Worked for a while, until I was just… lost. Tired.”

Dohoon’s shoulders tensed. It was like Hanjin was reading his thoughts back at the plaza. His throat felt dry. 

After a long moment, Hanjin spoke again. “You’re not alone, Dohoon. People are here for you, not to pity you or judge you. Because they wanna help. Like Jihoon and the hotel helped me, like I’d like to help you if you let me.”

Dohoon’s jaw clenched at the sound of his younger brother’s name. Jihoon. Always Jihoon. He moved his foot closer to the edge of the bridge, hovering now above the river. “I don’t need pity,” he replied flatly.

“That’s not what I’m offering, Dohoon,” Hanjin moved closer. “People don’t build bridges out of pity. They build so others can cross on their own.”

Dohoon let Hanjin’s words simmer inside him. Cross on their own. Dohoon turned to the left, imagining that far side, just another busy street, another string of unanswered questions waiting for him. Even if he could get help, there would be more uncertainty waiting for him. But Dohoon thought about it again. Right now, on the bridge he’s on, he is over the troubled water, is he not?

“Why are you telling me this?” he turned back to the river, voice softer, almost defeated.

Hanjin took a shaky breath, exhaling all the remaining doubts he had. “Because you’re not alone, Dohoon. Jihoon, me, anyone else. People are here to help you. Only if you’re ready to take that step.” Hanjin turned to face Dohoon, his right elbow on the railing. “And I know that’s not an easy thing to hear.”

Dohoon felt the weight of his words, like they were drawing him to Hanjin’s side of the bridge. He couldn’t fully believe what Hanjin was saying. If his parents were truly there to help him, why did they leave him an outcast? Why did they pick Jihoon over him? How could he believe anyone would be truly there for him?

“I might need some air first,” he murmured, his voice almost inaudible, but Hanjin caught it. He smiled gently, glad to hear Dohoon soften. “I know a good spot here in Binondo,” Hanjin said, feeling strangely lighter, comical. “Hotel charge.”

Jihoon pressed the cold glass of water against his forehead, the lingering ache of his head dulling slowly with the paracetamol. Across the kitchen table, his mother sat, her hands resting tensely in her lap, her gaze turned to her hands. The room was silent, spare for the faint, steady ticking of the kitchen clock and the wind coming in from the window, filling the space between them.

“It’s great you’re feeling better Jihoon,” she finally murmured, her voice thick with something he couldn’t quite name. Her hands shook slightly as she reached over to clear a stray piece of rice on the table. Her gaze moved nervously to the clock, then to the reception behind her, where Dohoon and Hanjin had just been hours earlier. “But I… I’m worried about your brother. And Hanjin too, they just ran away like that.”

Jihoon nodded, sharing his mother’s worry. In all his years, he had never seen his mother quite like this. Her loose duster dress was creased on her chest, and her demeanor felt vulnerable, as if the weight of her thoughts might break her.

She breathed, a shaky breath. “I know I’ve been too hard on him,” she said, her voice a whisper. She looked at her hands on the table now, fidgeting with her wedding ring. “But… you have to understand, Hoonie. He’s the eldest.” Her voice cracked slightly. “My brother was the eldest too, you know? Your uncle, he took so much for our family, did everything he could when our parents died. And Dohoon…” her voice trailed off, as if she couldn’t bring herself to speak any further.

Jihoon swallowed, watching his mom lose her words. She had always been a protective fortress, strong and unyielding. But tonight, Jihoon was seeing her in a new way. He could see the cracks in her foundation, the spots where guilt had worn her thin.

“I thought if I just pushed him hard enough… If I were strict enough, maybe he’d find his way. Maybe he’d understand the role, like my brother did. I thought it was just what he needed,” her voice trembled, her eyes filling with tears she tried to blink away, as if ashamed to let him see her weakness. “But… but maybe I was wrong. All these years. Maybe all I did was… push him further away.” She looked up at Jihoon then, her face drawn, guilt evident in every crinkle and shadow on her face. “Do you think I… do you think I failed him, Jihoon?”

The question hit him harder than he’d expected, feeling an ache cracking deep in his chest. He understood now, the guilt she’s buried, the fear she hadn’t shown. And beneath it all, the helplessness of a mother who only wanted to do right by her son. But didn’t know how.

“Mom…” he started, unsure what to say. How could he comfort his mother? All the words felt too small, too flimsy to alleviate her sorrow. He reached instead across the table, taking her hand in his own. Her fingers were cold, trembling slightly as he held them.

“I’m sorry, Jihoon,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she looked up, trying to contain her tears. “I’m sorry that I put too much weight on him… on both of you. I’m… I’m just trying to do what I thought was right. But you know, Jihoon?” Jihoon softened at the mention of his name. “It’s my first time, too. Being a mother. And I don’t know if I’m doing this thing right. Some days I feel like I’m just making it up as I go.” Her tears finally spilled over, one after another.

Jihoon felt his throat constricting, his heart breaking for her. He’d never seen his mother like this, so raw. His mother, without her facade of strength, was just as unsure, flawed as he was. He squeezed her hand.

“Maybe… maybe Dohoon just needs time,” he said softly. “Maybe he’ll open up when he’s ready.”

She nodded, trying to wipe her tears with the back of her other hand. But they would come, and Jihoon felt tears prick his own eyes. “I know I’m not fair comparing him to you,” she whispered, as if confessing a terrible secret. “But you… you’re always so strong, Jihoon. I guess… I didn’t see how much pressure that put on him, knowing he had to be someone else, someone I wanted him to be, someone like you.”

He could feel the way her words weighed on her, like stones tied to her heart. He wanted to apologize right now on his and Dohoon’s behalf, to tell her she hadn’t failed, but he realized maybe Dohoon was feeling the weight of her expectations all along in ways Jihoon hadn’t understood.

Jihoon took a deep breath, his hand tightening on his mother’s. “He might have felt it too. The pressure. It’s hard,” Jihoon responded. “Sometimes I wonder if I could be a better brother, too. With the baby, you know. Maybe I should be closer to help, mom. To be there.”

She shook her hand, the faintest smile touching her lips through the tears. “Jihoon, you’re already giving us more than enough. You’re being an example. An example of sacrifice, of doing what’s best for everyone.” She reached out, brushing his cheek with her hand, her touch warm. “And that’s a good example. A living example. That’s more than enough.”

He nodded, letting her words sink him, though a part of him still ached, wanting to do more. Already, calls were coming in for rooms for summertime and it would be busy for the next few months. But Jihoon understood that his place was to help his family, no matter the exhaustion, the doubts or the distance.

A silence settled between them, warm and fragile, like a truce. The clock ticked steadily, bringing Jihoon back to the present. He watched his mother wipe her eyes, a soft smile breaking the sadness.

“Why don’t I make you some soup?” she offered, her voice gentle, recalling she might have some province-bought vegetables left in the fridge. “I’m sure Dohoon and Hanjin would enjoy it too. When they get home.”

A creak on the door. Jihoon and his mother looked out from the kitchen to see Dohoon stepping inside the reception, his expression tense and defensive. His arms were crossed in front of a black T-shirt, the white streaks of his hair a bit disheveled. 

Behind him, Hanjin followed, some sweat marks on his pastel shirt. His hand was on Dohoon’s shoulder, perhaps to steady him, perhaps to comfort him. Hanjin was watching Dohoon from his back, cautious yet expectant, as if waiting for something to blow up in the next few moments.

Jihoon’s feelings tangled inside him. On one end, he was worried for his older brother and was feeling glad that Hanjin had taken him home. On the other, he was feeling sorry for the pressures that might have crushed him, and the part Jihoon played on those expectations. But a thin segment of him made room for a brief, nagging thought. Hanjin went after Dohoon, found him and brought him back to the hotel. Was this just how Hanjin normally was with his friends?

Jihoon’s thoughts dissipated when he saw his mother coming from behind him towards the center of the room. She was walking slowly, now her back was to him. He was watching her pace, then Dohoon again, with an anxious intensity, as if to say, Where have you been, my child? 

Without seeing her face, there was no doubt his mother was still carrying the guilt she had brought up earlier, as if Jihoon could hear the thoughts from his mother’s head. Her hands twitched at her sides, taking another cautious step towards her eldest. “Dohoon… Dohoon we're just glad you’re here. We’re really glad you’re back.”

She drew closer, lifting her arms hesitantly, reaching out to him, but stopped herself short. Dohoon shifted away, stepping back towards Hanjin, his hands dropping to his sides. He kept his gaze averted.

The room felt humid and dry all at once, a faint smell of misua coming in from the kitchen, blending with the stale smell wafting through the open door. Jihoon recalled the radioman’s words about this dry spell. Might just be an early sign of El Niño, or a drought, drying the land, cracking the surface.

Jihoon was reeled in from his thoughts when he heard Dohoon sigh. “It’s fine, nothing wrong,” he said, but he was clenching his fists. His voice was low, guarded, defiant. A hint of hurt and anger. His mother’s hands dropped to her side, and she looked down at the floor.

Dohoon shifted his gaze to Jihoon, sending him goosebumps on his arms. The anger in his eyes was electric, as if Dohoon had already been shouting with his stare. The unspoken tension took shape, bloated between them. Unlike their confrontation earlier in the day, this tension wasn’t Jihoon feeling resentment over his brother’s haphazardness, but was guilt over what his mother told him in the kitchen earlier. Some part of him also felt responsible for being the comparison point that made his life worse. But I just wanted to help.

“Dohoon, it’s okay to let people into your life,” Jihoon spoke, making the first move to amend a relationship he now felt responsible for. “I know you’re hurting over the interview. We’ve all been hurt over things. But shutting us out won’t make it better,” his voice was slow, as if to make sure Dohoon could absorb every syllable.

Dohoon’s expression shifted, and Jihoon thought for a while that he broke through his brother. He was wrong. “You don’t know anything… anything about my pain,” Dohoon replied, shaking his head. “You think you can…” Dohoon pointed at both mother and sibling. “You think you can just walk your way into my life and tell me how to feel? You weren’t even there when I needed you!”

Those words felt like an accusation for his mother, who leaned back to find her balance under a framed photo of Manila. What does Dohoon mean? Did Dohoon not know how much his mom gave up to take care of him? Leaving her job to take care of her family? Jihoon opened his mouth to respond, but Dohoon beat him to the draw.

“Remember my dance performance? I worked so hard for that. And what did you do? You ignored it. You didn’t care about it. And it was the one thing I loved most.” The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of disappointment. Dohoon was feeling the dryness in his throat, in his soul, rupturing now. Dohoon’s gaze lowered, his breath huffing, filling the room. “I was just a kid… trying to show you I mattered. But that was never enough, was it? My friends saw me. You did not.”

Hanjin shifted uncomfortably with the tension in the air, but lightened knowing his advice helped Dohoon open up. It was the start of something. He thought about rubbing his shoulder, but figured Dohoon might want some space. He looked at Jihoon to see how Dohoon’s words were landing, but his face was unreadable.

“All because you were going for some quiz bee. That you didn’t even win, did you?” Dohoon shook his head. Jihoon stepped back subconsciously. “But you were still the star of the show. I wanted to finish college fast so I could work, but I… I failed the board. But you, it was you who got the invite to work in Manila, not me. And you still think you and I have been hurt the same?”

His mother’s heart was racing, trying to remember that dance performance Dohoon was talking about. What made her even more guilty was that she couldn’t remember what he was referring to. “Dohoon…” She straightened up, her hands trembling.

“All I’m told is to try… and try and try again. But you don’t even see my… my successes! How can you… You only notice me when I fail and never see me for the things I’m good at! And still, I’m told, try, try, try,” Dohoon shook his head at every syllable, shuddering at the eloquence he had to say his point, letting out something he hadn't fully worded out until now.

His mother’s heart was aching at the sight of her son’s anger, the rift between them palpable. She longed to reach out, pull him into an embrace and reassure him that everything would be alright, but the distance between them felt insurmountable.

“I’m sorry, Dohoon,” she said softly, the vulnerability in her voice breaking through the tension. “I’m sorry I’ve been so hard on you, my son. I just want to be a better mother. I didn’t… I didn’t realize how much I hurt you. I’m sorry. I’m trying to understand you, Dohoon.”

Dohoon’s expression softened just slightly at her words, but the anger still washed over him. He fell silent, torn between the wanting to connect and the instinct to push everyone away. All around him, he was certain the walls felt pinker than they usually were.

As the room fell into an uneasy silence, Jihoon felt the weight of his own guilt, unable to shake the thought that he played in Dohoon’s struggles. He was just facing expectations and disappointment. But he understood that anger couldn’t be the answer. It had to be patience and understanding.

“Just… take your time,” Jihoon said finally, his voice steady despite the tension. “We’re all here.” Dohoon glanced away, feeling the heat on the back of his neck, before turning and running toward his room. Suddenly, Hanjin was on his own, face-to-face with a hurting mother and a guilty sibling, confronting a dryness he hadn’t expected to encounter. What did I get myself into?

The torridness was still lingering in the reception, but there was a different temperature in the kitchen. Jihoon stood at the counter, staring emptily into the orange bowl. He tried to distract himself from the heaviness in his heart, trying to recite his routine: Kitchen, check, sheets… He couldn’t remember what came next.

His hands were steady, ladling the meatballs and soup into three bowls. Hanjin hovered behind him, watching him with a slight concern. He flicked the window open beside Hanjin but felt no air coming in. He rubs Jihoon’s back. “Let me handle it, Ji,” Hanjin insisted gently. “You’ve had a long day, you’re sick.”

Jihoon shook his head, a small but resolute smile on his lips. “It’s okay,” he replied, shoving a stray noodle into the bowl with his ladle. “Chores heal me, heal us.” Hanjin gave him a wink, a soft laugh.

Hanjin relented, nodding softly, deciding not to put up a fight with Jihoon. He sat on the nearby chair across from Jihoon’s mother, whose hands were fidgeting on the table. Hanjin could see some gratitude and apology in her eyes. “Thank you for finding him, bringing him back,” she said quietly, reaching for Hanjin’s hands. “And I’m sorry you had to see all that.”

His face softened, cupping her hand with his own. “Please, don’t apologize, auntie. He just might need time,” he said, gently. “Families… they’re tough. Just glad I could help.” His face softened with a sudden steam hitting his face, a bowl of orange soup set in front of him by Jihoon. He thanked him with a small nod. He watched as Jihoon placed a bowl beside his mom’s elbow. Jihoon himself leaned on the countertop where Dohoon was a few days ago.

Jihoon let himself get even more lost with the food. The soup was dissipating the already faint pounding in his head. But he was still feeling some guilt boiling in his stomach, for being a comparison for his brother. That he was part of Dohoon’s pain. Still, Jihoon had tried his best to reach out. There was only so much he could do when Dohoon didn’t want to open up.

He was brought back hearing a delighted hum from Hanjin. “This is delicious,” taking a meatball in his mouth. He swallowed, closing his eyes. “My mom used to make something like this before. We’d eat this on special occasions. Well, we used to,” Hanjin paused.

Jihoon and his mother looked up in sync, catching each other’s curious stare, a question taking shape without words. Seeing them tune up, Hanjin shrugged, with a small, wistful smile, not caring anymore how much he’d already bared himself for the day. “I… I left home a few months ago,” he explained, his gaze falling to the bowl. “They didn’t like my career, I guess. But… I do miss moments like this, with family.”

The words settled between the three of them. If there was any sadness in Hanjin’s voice, Jihon couldn’t tell behind his cool tone, and the bittersweet clinking of utensils. He felt his perspective shift towards his friend, like a new warmth underneath his chill facade. There was a doused fire inside him, craving for a family, a hearth to be part of. Jihoon’s gaze softened on Hanjin.

Across the table, his mother hung her spoon on her bowl, her stare warm and steady. “You know,” she said gently, placing weight on each of her words. “I think of you… as part of this family now,” she paused after each word, making sure Hanjin felt it. And he did, deep inside him, there was a warmth starting. “I meant it before, when I called you ‘son.’ And I mean it now.”

Hanjin blinked, and felt water in his eyes when he opened them back. He looked at Jihoon, a smile. He looked down, took a deep breath, speaking almost in a laugh. “Thank you, ma’am, it means a lot.”

“Call me mom,” she cupped her hand on Hanjin’s. “And you’re welcome to join me in cooking. You’re family.”

Jihoon watched tears fall down Hanjin’s eyes, knowing how much of a privilege it is for his mother to invite him to cook. Hanjin was feeling a constant warmth inside him, pushing out more tears in his eyes. Whatever ties he hadn’t resolved from his family before, it didn’t matter to him now.

They ate quietly, the hum of the night settling around them, grounding them in comfort, interrupted only when the phone rang in Jihoon’s pocket. It was his uncle calling.

Dohoon was sprawled on the floor, as if forming a snow angel on the white tiles. His cheek was pressed against the smoothness, letting the cool siphon the feverish ache in his heart. The floor beneath him was like ice, drenching the seething emotions boiling inside him. An empty stare fell on the pale walls and the opened window, where the moonlight was coming in to land on his stomach. He couldn’t be bothered to open the AC.

Running his fingers across the grout on the floor, he recalled Hanjin’s words. Cross on their own.

Through a faint hum of the radio, Dohoon heard the voice of the host. To all our listeners, stay hydrated. Doctor, any advice on avoiding heat stroke? Yes, yes, it’s essential to seek shade, cool down with a compress…

Dohoon let the words pass over his face. He closed his eyes, feeling his heartbeat slow, the sharp pang of emotions from earlier easing down. He thought back to his mother’s apology, a sudden sharpness in his heart watching his mother tear up. How could he hurt his mother? He felt terrible for lashing out, for worrying her and burdening her with his frustration. 

He remembered her words. She had offered an attempt at repair, but there was still so much he wanted to say. He wanted her to see him, to understand that his efforts, even if imperfect, were real. His perseverance is real. He wanted to show that even if he failed the interview, there was an effort on his part to do his best. To help with the family, to help with the baby.

Take regular breaks, drink plenty of water. And please, listen to your body. Mhm…

A sigh escaped his lips, mingling with the faint static of the radio, temporarily filling the silence around him. He turned his head to the other side, where Hanjin lay bare beneath him nights ago. Did he want to cross that bridge? Did he want to change something? Has his pride and hurt cost him much? Was it time to meet people halfway?

What would it be like to accept Jihoon’s help? The memory of Jihoon offering help for his English remedial exam at the time felt like a pompous, pitying offer. But remembering what Hanjin said, he reconsidered it. Jihoon never pushed, never imposed. Maybe his brother understood something Dohoon hadn’t—there was no shame in letting people close enough to help. Maybe his brother’s patience wasn’t a reminder of what Dohoon couldn’t do, but of everything he could do.

Dohoon took a deep breath, sure now that he wanted to be better. For Jihoon, his mother, his new sibling. For Hanjin. It would take some time to change, but he would ask for help. It would take some time to make it up for his family, but he would be patient. It would take some time not being so hard on himself, but he would honor his progress. Everything, everything would take time.

Someone’s knocking on the door now.

Jihoon quietly walked into the room, his sight falling on Dohoon sprawled on the floor, his eyes red-rimmed and bare, somehow, calm. The room felt warm and dry, and Jihoon checked to see that the window was open. Seeing his brother, Dohoon got up, not bothering to wipe his eyes in front of Jihoon. Jihoon crouched beside him, handing over the phone. He cleared his throat.

“Uncle’s looking for you,” Jihoon tried to speak as softly as possible. Dohoon looked at him, his expression changed from a few hours ago when their eyes met. He was vulnerable, but somehow resolute.

He nodded, accepted the phone without a word, yet his hand reached out to hold Jihoon’s wrist before he could stand to leave. Jihoon paused, jolted by the warmth of Dohoon’s hand, reading the silent plea in Dohoon’s eyes— stay . Without a second thought, he lowered himself again, sitting on the tiles beside his brother, feeling the coldness on the back of his thighs. Nodding, as if to say, I’m here.

Jihoon shifted the radio knob down. Dohoon brought the phone to his ear, his voice low. “Hello, uncle.” The familiar voice on the other end made Dohoon’s heart pounce, unsure how he would say his next words. His uncle’s joy cracked the silence, which made Dohoon even more nervous about the news he was about to break.

“Dohon! How are ya? I’ve been waiting to hear about the interview. How’d it go, bud?”

Dohoon hesitated, his eyes following his fingers as they drew circles on the floor. “I… I don’t think it went too well, uncle,” he admitted, his voice heavy with resignation. He breathed as if to say something, but changed his mind. “I’m sorry, uncle, I let you down. I’m sorry I wasted your recommendation.”

He was glad to have let the news out of his body, basking in the feeling of relief washing over him. And to his surprise, his uncle’s voice was softened, with no trace of anger. “It’s alright, Dohoon, really.” Dohoon had wondered whether Jihoon or his mother gave his uncle a heads-up to soften the blow for him, but decided to think of it as help, not as pity.

“To tell you the truth, I know what it’s like. I’m processing my own job application for a position at a university here in Seoul. I’m just as nervous as you, bud,” his uncle’s voice said. Dohoon could feel Jihoon’s hand on the floor, drawing closer to hold him. He let Jihoon’s thumb rub the back of his hand. Their touch connected them in a spot that caught the moonlight by the window.

His uncle’s words reassured him that he didn’t offer the recommendation because his nephew was struggling to get by, but because he, too, understood, and wanted Dohoon to get ahead on his own accord.

“You there, Dohoon? Listen, we all face these moments. There’s always something waiting for us if we get up and seize opportunities,” his uncle assured him, the reception breaking some words. “Your Aunt Celia’s there for you when you’re back home. It’s okay, don’t worry, Dohoon.”

Dohoon felt a wave of emotion crash onto him, the lump in his throat growing heavier. Jihoon’s other hand was caressing Dohoon’s back now, and tears brimmed in his eyes. He wanted to hold them back, to appear strong, but they rolled out. He let them come. He took a shaky breath.

“Dohoon? Are you alright?”

“Yes, uncle, I just…” The words stumbled out, Dohoon breathing deeply, searching for stability. “I’m sorry I’m not being better, for not being enough.”

Dohoon relished in his uncle’s voice, letting his comforting words soothe him. If his mom and uncle were figuring things out, allowed themselves to be vulnerable and seek help when they needed, why should Dohoon be any different?

When the phone beeped to end the call, Dohoon lowered his hand, a daze settling over him as he savored his uncle’s words. He glanced at Jihoon beside him, who replied with another caress on his back. A soft smile. There were so many things he wanted to say to him, then and there. He wanted to apologize to Jihoon, but was unsure of what to say, and how to say it. Taking a deep breath, he let his instincts do the talking.

“Maybe it was this ridiculous hair,” Dohoon said, pointing to his highlights. The two brothers shared a laugh, filling the room. 

Jihoon let the laughter fill them both, waited for it to wash away, before continuing. “Dohoon,” he looked at his brother’s cheek. “I’m sorry if I ever made things harder for you, if… if you felt like you had to compete or compare yourself to me.”

Dohoon stilled, feeling the weight of Jihoon’s words. He nodded his head, feeling a spark of understanding dawning on him, recalling Hanjin’s words again. Dohoon wanted to tell Jihoon how much he’d struggled to open up, how hard it was to share anything vulnerable, to cross that bridge. That he, too, needed help. 

He looked down at Jihoon’s fingers on him, and took a shaky breath.

“I… I’ve tried, Jihoon. I don’t know how to talk like you, how to make it easy,” his voice low, barely above a murmur. Jihoon fell silent, giving his brother the space to open up.

A pause, before Dohoon spoke again. “You know, those days of me running away from school. I was out in dance practice. That’s all I wanted, to dance. They tried to get me hooked on alcohol, but I never caved. I wanted to be away from home so much. I couldn’t even open up about that damn remedial exam. I’m sorry Jihoon, I pushed you away.”

Jihoon nodded, knowing now that he had misunderstood his brother and placed heavy prejudice on him without knowing the truth. He looked away, recalling the memories of his brother from the window. The smell of alcohol. And now,  Jihoon caught sight of the blue file under Dohoon’s bed, unaware of the script tucked inside it. He felt sorry now, for thinking he was irresponsible, and was a careless older brother.

“I’m.. I’m sorry, Dohoon, I didn’t… I didn’t know.”

“It’s alright,” Dohoon said, smiling softly to the ground. “You’re just looking out for me.”

Jihoon thumbed the back of Dohoon’s hand, knowing now that his brother understood his efforts to reach out. The doubts faded away from Jihoon, thrilled now to the prospect of another sibling, how they could be good examples to the baby coming to grace their family. He smiled, and Dohoon caught it, he smiled too. They’re smiling now, both of them, smiling, letting it out. “We’ll figure it out. If ever you wanna talk, I’m here. You can talk to me.”

Dohoon’s smile faded, and his gaze fell on Jihoon’s chin. “I’ll try, for mom, for you, our family. I don’t know how I can, but I’ll try.”

“And trying’s enough for me.”

The two brothers shared their private moment under the moon, Dohoon was certain a breeze had come through the window just now.

Hanjin was washing his face in the bathroom by the end of the corridor when he felt arms wrapping around him, a cheek pressing on his back. He could feel the warmth of a cheek snuggle his skin. A whisper. “I understand now, thank you.” Hanjin let himself go, loosened himself up, and embraced Dohoon’s arms. He looked up to the mirror, and saw Dohoon’s face in the reflection, above his shoulder. Behind them, at the reception, Jihoon must have forgotten to turn the radio off, and Babalik kang Muli (You’ll Come Back) by Regine Velasquez was playing softly in the background.

Hanjin let his hand rest over Dohoon’s, feeling the warmth seep through like a brief rain after a long, dry spell. There they were in the mirror, faces hovering side by side. Throughout the past days, his hours were filled with Dohoon, his presence, and his memory. He was there, helping Dohoon, chasing after him, holding him just like this. In the hopes that he could help Dohoon open up, allow himself to be vulnerable, and realize his shine.

“We could find work together,” Hanjin murmured, his voice a soft invitation, fragile like the mirror. His fingers danced on Dohoon’s forearm. “Stay here, with me,” a soft, hesitant request from Hanjin. He dreaded the answer, knowing the vicious cycle of people he invited into his life, and the many times he’s broken his heart in the process. In Dohoon, he hoped for a chance, and whether that stake was worth it, was all up to him now.

Dohoon’s gaze faltered, and he swallowed, his arms around Hanjin loosening slightly. “I… I’d want that. But, there are so many things I have to mend. My family, my mom, Jihoon.” Dohoon shifted his chin on Jihoon’s shoulder. “You deserve better than who I am now.”

Hanjin took a deep breath, feeling his heart tighten. He understood. Despite all his work, the late-night conversations, all the memories that leave a dry taste in his tongue. He allowed himself to let go so easily, let him melt his facade because he trusted him. But he understood. He poured himself like water into the parched earth. But he understood. 

He was happy now to see a different person from the boy who fought against a crappy tourist, or took out his frustrations with such rage in the basement. He was happy to see him open up. After all, his determination to provide for his family was one of the reasons he allowed himself to fall in the first place. But he can’t help but ask himself. Why? Why did he let himself care so much? Why, after all the care and patience he’s given in all those moments, was Dohoon leaving? If only he had kept his distance, this wouldn’t have hurt as much.

He swallowed his questions, meeting Dohoon’s eyes in the mirror. He nodded, a soft smile. “I get it,” he whispered. “Do what you need to do.” The words cracked slightly, hiding his sadness, the tears welling in his eyes, with a smile. I understand. I understand… I…

Dohoon tightened his arms around him briefly, almost as if he felt the heaviness between them, as if to apologize to the boy he fell head over heels to in Mercury Drugstore. Hanjin wanted to say something to assure him, let him know that he understood, that he’d tell him he’d wait, but he held back. He didn’t want one more weight pressing on Dohoon’s shoulders. One day, maybe, he’ll cross that bridge on his own.

Dohoon caught the smell of lavenders on Hanjin’s shirt, letting his nose fall on the fabric. Hanjin took deep breaths, fogging the mirror slightly with each one. He could barely see them together ahead of him now.

Finally, Dohoon let go, and Hanjin turned to face him fully, their eyes meeting. Dohoon’s lips curled in a small, uncertain smile. His lips fell on Hanjin’s forehead and Hanjin kissed him back on his chin. And Hanjin thought to himself, God, why is he like this?

“Maybe,” Dohoon said. “Maybe someday, when things are better. When I find my way back.”

“Yes,” Hanjin replied, a glimmer of hope inside him. “Yes, maybe, someday.”

Chapter Text

hi friends! thank you for the support you gave candlelight and candlelight 0.5!

and thank you for waiting for candlelight 2.0! i wanted it to be the best, so i took much time writing and reviewing the stories you'll be reading. i hope it wasn't too long of a wait!

really glad to finally share the next part of the series with you. so find a good spot, and enjoy candlelight 2.0! it's here!

🕯️🔥🕯️

Six lives across Seoul and Manila collide in a web of heartbreak, betrayal and redemption. The candlelight flames threaten to burn them out or ignite something new.

Candlelight 2.0 out now!

Chapter Text

hi friends! thank you for the support you've given our candlelight series so far! 

im excited to share that the next part of our story, Candlelight 2.5, is out now!

just wanted to say thank you for waiting for this part of the story. i've worked so hard to deliver the best for you, and i hope you have a great time reading it. i hope you can give the next part of the series the same love!

🕯️🔥🕯️
 
An unlikely connection flickers between the careful Dohoon and the careless Shinyu. Somehow, in the quiet glow of the candlelight, they find themselves—and each other.

Candlelight 2.5 out now!

Chapter Text

hello, friends! thank you for reading through this story, and for giving this so much love and support.

im soo happy to share that the final part of the candlelight series, Candlelight 3.0, is out now!

the prologue is out, and stories come out every saturday and wedneday! i hope you can give Candlelight 3.0 the same love you’ve given our little series so far.

🕯️🔥🕯️

The hotel is closing. The candlelight dims. In the quiet before the lights go out, six hearts try to find what still matters—and what might begin.

Candlelight 3.0 is out now!