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