Chapter 7: The Family Gathering Begins
The chaos was a symphony Hyukjae had composed note by note, and he listened to it now with deep satisfaction. The great room of the villa hummed with overlapping conversations and the rustle of grocery bags. The scent of garlic, sesame oil, and freshly chopped scallions cut through the pine-clean air, emanating from the kitchen where their mothers had immediately commandeered the countertops.
Donghae was stationed on the wide, plush sofa, a fortress of pillows built around him—one under his knees, another supporting his lumbar, a third hugged to his chest. He looked both sheepish and supremely content, a monarch receiving subjects.
“Aigo, our Hae,” Hyukjae’s mother clucked, her hands still damp from washing herbs. She swept over and pressed the back of her wrist to his forehead as if checking for fever. “You look thin. Are you eating? Is he feeding you properly?” This last part was directed at Hyukjae with a sharp side-eye.
“Eomma, he’s eating more than me,” Hyukjae protested, leaning against the stone fireplace. The heat at his back was pleasant.
“Nonsense. Injury requires nutrition. Seaweed soup. I brought the ingredients.” Donghae’s mother emerged from the kitchen, holding a jar of dark, tangled seaweed like a trophy. “My sister’s mother-in-law sent it from Pohang. The best.”
“Pohang seaweed is for postpartum women,” Hyukjae’s mother retorted, hands on her hips. “He needs anti-inflammatories. I have a turmeric and ginger paste recipe from a very good Chinese medicine doctor.”
The two women faced off, a friendly but formidable stalemate in the middle of the room. Donghae caught Hyukjae’s eye over their heads and grinned, a flash of his heart-shaped smile. He gave a tiny, imperceptible shrug as if to say, See what you’ve unleashed?
“Why don’t you both make your specialties?” Donghae interceded, his voice warm with amusement. “I’ll be the taste tester. My back might be broken, but my stomach is fully operational.”
The mothers huffed, but the tension broke. They turned back to the kitchen, now debating broth techniques with competitive zeal.
The front door burst open, letting in a rush of cold, clean mountain air. Sora, Hyukjae’s sister, stamped her boots on the mat, her cheeks pink from the wind. Her husband, Joon, followed, carrying a backpack laden with water bottles. Right behind them came Donghwa, Donghae’s brother, a broader, quieter version of him, with his wife Mina clinging to his arm, laughing about a slippery patch on the trail.
“The stairs here are a menace,” Sora announced, shucking her coat. She marched straight to Donghae, bending to peer at him. “Let me see the patient. You look better than Hyukjae described. He made it sound like you were on death’s door.”
“He’s a worrier,” Donghae said, accepting her kiss on his cheek.
“He’s a professional nag,” Sora corrected, straightening to shoot her brother a look. “I saw the spreadsheet on the fridge. ‘Medication & Stretch Schedule.’ Really?”
“Structure aids recovery,” Hyukjae said evenly, though a faint blush tinged his ears.
“It’s sweet,” Mina offered, ever the diplomat. She placed a container of homemade yakgwa on the coffee table. “It shows he cares.”
Donghwa grunted, settling into an armchair. “He always cared. Just used to show it by dragging him out for midnight noodles, not timing his lateral leg raises.” He looked at Donghae. “How’s the pain, really?”
“It’s there,” Donghae admitted, the playful mask slipping for just a second. He flexed his foot subtly, a movement Hyukjae caught instantly. “Better when I’m still. Worse when I forget and move like my old self.”
“So don’t forget,” Donghwa said, simple and direct.
The room settled into a comfortable, sprawling familiarity. Joon and Hyukjae discussed the hiking trails they’d just tackled. The mothers called out questions about rice measurements. Sora stole a piece of yakgwa and fed half to Donghae. The fire popped and crackled, painting everyone in shifting amber light.
Hyukjae watched it all from his post. This was the picture he’d wanted. Not the quiet, sickroom intensity of the past few weeks, but this—Donghae immersed in life, surrounded by the uncomplicated, noisy love of family. It was a distraction, a reminder of the world waiting for him beyond the injury.
He saw Donghae’s hand sneak down to press gently at his lower back, a faint grimace tightening his eyes. The conversation flowed around him, but Hyukjae was tuned to a single frequency. He pushed off the fireplace.
“Alright, break’s over,” he announced, cutting through a story Joon was telling. “Time for the evening round.”
Donghae groaned. “Already? The sun’s not even fully down.”
“The schedule,” Hyukjae said, retrieving the dreaded ice pack from the freezer. It was met with a chorus of good-natured boos from the room.
“See? Nag,” Sora sang.
“Efficient,” Hyukjae corrected. He approached the sofa. The family watched, their chatter dying down to an observant quiet. He knelt on the thick rug, his movements deliberate. “On your stomach. Pillow under your hips.”
With a long-suffering sigh, Donghae began the careful, awkward process of turning over. It was a sequence they’d perfected: the slow roll, the hissed intake of breath, the careful arrangement of limbs. Hyukjae’s hands were there, not doing the work for him, but guiding, supporting his ankle, stabilizing his shoulder. It was an intimate, clinical dance. Donghae’s shirt had ridden up, exposing the pale skin of his lower back. The room felt very still.
Hyukjae laid the ice pack over the offending area. Donghae jerked at the initial shock, then melted into the cushions with a relieved exhale. “Cold.”
“Fifteen minutes,” Hyukjae said. His hand rested, just for a moment, on the back of Donghae’s neck, a thumb stroking the hairline. It was a touch that said, I know. I’m here.
He became aware of the silence. He looked up. Four pairs of eyes—their siblings, their spouses—were fixed on them. There was no pity there. It was something more profound: a witnessing. They were seeing the mechanics of the care, the unspoken language of it. The spreadsheet was a joke, but this—the kneeling, the precise hands, the public tenderness—was the reality.
Donghwa cleared his throat, the sound unusually loud. “You’re good at that.”
Hyukjae shrugged, pulling his hand away as if embarrassed. “Lots of practice.”
“No,” Donghwa said, his voice firm. “It’s not practice. It’s you.”
The moment hung, warm and slightly awkward, before Sora shattered it. “Okay, enough with the reverence. Who’s helping me set the table? We’re starving!”
The spell broke. The noise swelled back, louder than before. As everyone migrated to the dining area, Hyukjae remained on the floor, a silent sentinel beside the sofa. Donghae turned his head, his cheek smushed against a cushion. His brown eyes were soft, a little shiny.
“You planned this,” he whispered, his voice muffled.
“Planned what?”
“All of it. The villa. The families. This… noise.” Donghae’s lips curved. “You knew the quiet was starting to feel too much like a hospital.”
Hyukjae didn’t deny it. He adjusted the edge of the ice pack. “Quiet has its uses. But you recharge like a solar panel. You need people. You need this.”
Donghae’s hand crept off the sofa edge, his fingers searching. Hyukjae met him halfway, threading their fingers together on the rug, out of sight of the others. The connection was electric, a private current beneath the public care.
“Thank you,” Donghae breathed.
“Fourteen more minutes,” Hyukjae replied, squeezing his hand before letting go. He stood, his knees cracking, and went to help with the plates. The room was full of laughter, the clatter of dishes, the layered smells of home. Donghae lay still under his cold compress, listening to the life Hyukjae had built around him, a temporary fortress against the pain. For the first time in weeks, the future beyond the next painkiller, the next exercise, didn’t feel like a narrow, lonely path. It felt like this room—crowded, warm, and insistently, lovingly alive.
It felt like this room—crowded, warm, and insistently, lovingly alive. That life continued into the next morning, a vibrant chaos of sunscreen and hiking boots. Sora, Joon, Donghwa, and Mina headed for the steep trails with loud promises to bring back pictures.
“Try not to fall,” Donghae called after his brother, earning a rude gesture in reply.
Hyukjae herded the remaining party toward the car. “Beach day. Less exciting, more horizontal.”
“A beach is cold and flat,” Donghae grumbled, leaning against the SUV as Hyukjae opened the passenger door. He’d woken up stiff, the previous day’s social exertions settling into a deep, stubborn ache along his spine.
“Exactly. Cold is good for inflammation. Flat is good for you. In you go.” Hyukjae’s hand was a firm, guiding pressure on his elbow.
The drive wound down from the mountains, through sleepy towns where persimmon trees sagged with orange fruit. The mothers chattered in the back about recipes and relatives, a soothing, familiar drone. Donghae watched the pines give way to scrub, then to the wide, gray expanse of the East Sea. The air changed, tasting of salt and damp sand.
Hyukjae parked at a near-deserted cove, a crescent of pale sand hugged by rocky outcrops. The wind was brisk, carrying the rhythmic crash of waves. “Quiet,” Hyukjae declared, popping the trunk. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
“You’re not a doctor,” Donghae muttered, but he accepted the thick woolen blanket Hyukjae handed him.
The two mothers became a whirlwind of efficient preparation, laying out a vast plaid blanket and anchoring its corners with shoes and the picnic basket. They unpacked an absurd feast: rolled omelets, glossy japchae, sweet potato strips, kimbap rolls tight as scrolls, and containers of fresh fruit. Their chatter continued, unfazed by the wind, a comfortable backdrop to the sea’s rumble.
Hyukjae spread their own blanket a few respectful feet away. He sat first, patting the space beside him. “Slow and easy.”
Donghae lowered himself with theatrical caution, a series of tiny adjustments until he was semi-reclined, propped on an elbow. The sand beneath the blanket gave softly, conforming to his body. A quiet groan escaped him, part pain, part relief.
Hyukjae’s hand came to rest lightly on the curve of his lower back, a silent question. The warmth of his palm bled through Donghae’s thick sweater.
Donghae nodded, leaning back incrementally into the touch.
“Posture check,” Hyukjae said, his voice low. His fingers began to move, tracing slow, deliberate circles over the knit fabric. The pressure was perfect, a measured counterpoint to the throb deep in the joint. It was a medical pretext, but the touch was pure devotion, mapping the familiar territory of tension.
Donghae’s breathing deepened, his eyes slipping shut. The cold air on his face, the sun’s weak warmth, the rhythmic press of Hyukjae’s fingers—it all coalesced into a singular point of solace.
From the other blanket, Hyukjae’s mother caught his eye. She didn’t say a word. She simply watched her son’s attentive hand, the focused set of his shoulders, and gave a small, knowing smile. It wasn’t teasing. It was approval, deep and satisfied. Hyukjae glanced away, a faint flush on his neck, but his fingers never stilled.
The afternoon bled away in a haze of mild conversation, stolen slices of pear, and the relentless, cleansing sound of the sea. The mothers dozed, nestled in their coats. The sky began to soften, the light turning liquid and peach-colored as the sun dipped toward the waterline.
Donghae’s mother stirred, brushing sand from her sleeves. She stood and walked over to their blanket. She knelt, her movements graceful, and took both of Hyukjae’s hands in hers. Her eyes were bright, the wind or something else making them glisten.
“Hyukjae-ya,” she said, her voice thick. “Thank you. For taking such good care of our son. I see it. I sleep well at night because I see it.”
Hyukjae froze. He looked utterly disarmed, his sharp gaze dropping to their joined hands. He cleared his throat. “It’s… it’s nothing, eomonim. Really.”
“It is not nothing,” she said firmly, squeezing his hands before letting go.
As she returned to help pack the remnants of the picnic, Hyukjae remained still, staring at the sand. His careful composure had a hairline fracture, and a raw emotion flickered in its place—vulnerability, perhaps, or the weight of being truly seen.
Donghae saw it all. Without a word, he slid his hand across the blanket, his fingers finding Hyukjae’s and tangling with them tightly. It was an anchor. Hyukjae’s hand gripped back, hard, and he didn’t let go until the last of the sun was swallowed by the sea and the wind grew too cold to bear.
Hyukjae’s hand gripped back, hard, and he didn’t let go until the last of the sun was swallowed by the sea and the wind grew too cold to bear. The drive back to the villa was quiet, the mothers dozing in the back, the day’s emotions hanging in the car like fine mist. Donghae stared out the window, his thumb tracing idle patterns on the condensation.
Back at the villa, the hikers had returned, filling the space with boisterous tales of vistas and wrong turns. The scent of roasting meat and simmering stews now layered over the pine and salt air. The great table was soon laden with a sprawling, noisy feast—glazed galbi ribs, steaming bowls of doenjang jjigae, a rainbow of banchan, the promised seaweed soup, and the turmeric-laced chicken his own mother had insisted on.
Hyukjae watched Donghae navigate the room, his movements slower now, more deliberate. He accepted a heavy plate from Sora with a grateful nod, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. There was a gathering quietude in him, a pressure building behind his usual playful demeanor.
Glasses were filled with rice wine and barley tea. Laughter bounced off the high ceilings, stories overlapping. Donghae listened, pushing kimchi around his plate. Then he set his chopsticks down with a soft, decisive click.
He cleared his throat. The conversations around him dwindled, one by one, until only the fire’s crackle remained.
“I just,” Donghae began, his voice unsteady. He looked at his hands, then around the table at each face—his brother, his mother, Hyukjae’s family, the people who had crossed mountains and oceans of routine just to sit in this room. “This weekend. I just wanted to say thank you.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Hyukjae’s knee pressed against his under the table, a solid line of contact.
“It’s been… hard. Feeling like a burden. Watching Hyukjae run himself into the ground between the company and… me.” His breath hitched. “Seeing that spreadsheet on the fridge and knowing it’s because I can’t remember simple things. It’s humiliating.”
A tear slipped down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away.
“And then you all just… show up. You bring food and argue about seaweed and make stupid jokes about my back. You just come. And you have no idea…” His voice broke completely, crumbling into a soft, ragged sob. He covered his face with one hand, his shoulders shaking. “You have no idea what it means. To be reminded I’m not just this… this broken thing in a quiet house.”
The silence was immense, tender.
“Yah, Lee Donghae,” Donghwa said, his own voice rough. “You’re not a burden. You’re my little brother. Shut up and eat your soup.”
“Exactly,” Sora chimed in, reaching over to steal a rib from his plate. “This is what families do. We annoy you. We eat your food. We show up uninvited.”
“The seaweed is for vitality, not for crying,” Hyukjae’s mother added, her tone brisk but her eyes shining. “Now drink your soup before it gets cold.”
Donghae laughed, a wet, choked sound, and dropped his hand. His eyes were red, but his heart-shaped smile was starting to reassert itself, wobbly and real.
Hyukjae’s mother leaned forward. “You listen to me. You two built a life together. A company, a home. This?” She gestured at Donghae’s back, then at Hyukjae’s careful posture beside him. “This is just a season. Families weather seasons. We are here for the season.”
The table erupted in a chaotic chorus of agreement—clinking glasses, affirming grunts, more food being shoved toward Donghae’s plate. The moment of raw vulnerability was gently, firmly enclosed in the practical, loving noise of kinship. The conversation rose again, deliberately light, purposely everyday.
Hyukjae said nothing. He simply slid his arm around the back of Donghae’s chair, his fingers finding the knobs of his spine beneath his sweater. He rubbed a slow, concentric circle there, a private message in the public din. Donghae leaned into the touch, finally picking up his spoon and taking a mouthful of the soup.
It was rich, briny, perfect.
Later, when the plates were cleared and the families had scattered to various rooms, claiming bathrooms and arguing over board games, Hyukjae guided Donghae to their bedroom. The door shut, muffling the distant, comforting racket.
Donghae sat heavily on the edge of the bed, the emotional fatigue now compounding the physical. “I’m so tired,” he whispered.
“I know.” Hyukjae knelt, removing Donghae’s socks, then his pants, his hands clinical and tender. “But it was a good tired.”
“It was.” Donghae let himself be maneuvered under the duvet. He watched Hyukjae move through the room, turning off lights, checking the lock on the balcony door. “They see you, you know. What you do.”
Hyukjae stilled by the window. The mist had returned, obscuring the mountain peaks. “I don’t do it for them to see.”
“I know that, too.” Donghae’s voice was soft, sure. “That’s why it matters.”
Hyukjae finally came to bed, sliding in beside him. He didn’t reach for the ice pack. Instead, he turned onto his side, facing Donghae, and gathered him close, tucking Donghae’s head under his chin. His hand swept in long, soothing strokes down the length of his back, over the silk of his undershirt, avoiding the injured zone but offering a wider comfort.
“The spreadsheet stays,” Hyukjae murmured into his hair.
Donghae huffed a quiet laugh against his chest. “I know.”
“But tomorrow’s schedule is blank. We’ll see what the season brings.”
Donghae’s arm tightened around Hyukjae’s waist. Outside, a board game erupted in laughter downstairs. Inside, wrapped in the careful architecture of Hyukjae’s arms, Donghae let out a long, slow breath. The broken thing feeling was gone, scattered by the voices downstairs, melted by the relentless, practical warmth of the man holding him. He drifted, not toward sleep, but into a deep, cellular certainty. The path was still there, steep and unknown. But he was not, and would never again be, walking it alone.
But he was not, and would never again be, walking it alone. He dreamed of deep, soundless water and woke to the pale, quiet light of morning seeping around the blackout curtains. The house was still. Hyukjae lay beside him, asleep, his face softened and unguarded. The sharp, attentive gaze was hidden, his lips slightly parted, his breathing a steady rhythm in the silence.
Donghae watched him. The fears from last night, the raw admission of feeling like a burden, felt distant now, bleached out by the new light. He carefully lifted his hand, ignoring the familiar twinge in his shoulder, and traced the line of Hyukjae’s jaw with his fingertips. He brushed a thumb over the delicate skin beneath his eye, over the faint frown line between his brows until it smoothed away.
Hyukjae’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked, focusing, and a slow, sleepy smile transformed his face. “Morning,” he rasped, his voice gravelly with sleep.
“You’re pretty in the morning,” Donghae whispered, his finger tracing Hyukjae’s lower lip.
“Liar. I look like a stranded mole.” Hyukjae turned his head, catching Donghae’s finger in a gentle bite before releasing it. He glanced toward the door, listening to the absolute quiet of the villa. “Everyone’s still asleep. It’s a miracle.”
Donghae’s hand slid from Hyukjae’s face down to his chest, feeling the solid beat of his heart through his thin shirt. He shifted closer, wincing only slightly as his spine adjusted. “We have time.”
“Time for what?” Hyukjae asked, though his eyes were already darkening with understanding.
“You know.”
Hyukjae let out a soft, amused breath. He rolled onto his side, facing Donghae fully, and nudged his nose against Donghae’s. “We absolutely cannot. Zero chance. Our families are literally in every adjacent room. Your brother snores through walls. My mother has hearing like a bat.”
“So?” Donghae teased, kissing the corner of his mouth. “We’ll be quiet.”
“You are never quiet.” Hyukjae stated it as simple fact. “You were loud on a deserted beach with ocean waves. You think a hollow-core door will stop you?”
“I’ll be good. I’ll bite the pillow.”
“The last time you said that, you bit my shoulder and screamed into it.” Hyukjae was smiling now, his hands coming up to frame Donghae’s face. “It’s not happening. Doctor’s orders. Rest.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“I am the CEO of your recovery.” Hyukjae kissed him, a sweet, closed-mouth press of lips that was meant to be a period on the conversation. “No sexy time. Final verdict.”
Donghae pouted, his heart-shaped smile inverting comically. He made a show of sighing, letting his body go limp against the mattress. “Fine. Brutal. Abusive, even.”
Hyukjae watched him for a second, his expression shifting. The playful denial melted into something warmer, more possessive. He leaned in again, his voice a low whisper against Donghae’s skin. “You know those people out there?”
“Mm?”
“They don’t own you.” Hyukjae said it simply. He dropped a kiss on Donghae’s forehead. “They don’t get to stop me from doing this.” A kiss on the tip of his nose. “Or this.” A soft press against his lips. Then he began peppering kisses all over Donghae’s face—quick, light, insistent touches on his eyelids, his cheeks, his temples, his chin.
Donghae giggled, squirming. “That’s tickling!”
“Good.” Hyukjae’s mouth traveled down, his lips gliding over the stubble on Donghae’s jaw, down the column of his throat. He sucked gently at the hollow there, earning a sharp inhale. He moved lower, nuzzling the collar of Donghae’s shirt aside to kiss his collarbone.
The mood shifted, the playfulness heating into something else. Hyukjae’s hand slid under the hem of Donghae’s shirt, his palm warm and broad against his stomach. He kissed a path down his sternum.
“Hyukjae,” Donghae breathed, his hand curling into Hyukjae’s hair.
The door to the bedroom swung open without a knock.
“Donghae-ya, did you want the compression wrap before breakfast or—” His mother’s cheerful voice cut off, sharp as a snapped wire.
Hyukjae froze, his lips just below Donghae’s navel, his hand splayed on bare skin. Donghae stared over Hyukjae’s head, his eyes wide with sheer, unadulterated horror at his mother’s shocked face in the doorway.
A beat of absolute silence throbbed in the room.
Hyukjae slowly, so slowly, pulled Donghae’s shirt down. He sat up, arranging his own rumpled pajamas with a surreal calm. He did not look at the door.
“Eomma,” Donghae squeaked.
His mother’s face cycled through expressions: shock, disbelief, dawning comprehension, and finally, a stern, flustered authority. She pointed a finger at Hyukjae, who finally met her gaze.
“You!” she said, her voice tight. “Out of that bed. Now.”
“Eomonim, I can explain—” Hyukjae began, swinging his legs out from under the covers.
“Explain what? That you have no sense? That his disc is herniated and you’re—you’re—” She waved a hand vaguely, her cheeks pink. “Acting like a teenager! He needs rest! Not… this!”
“It wasn’t this yet,” Hyukjae mumbled, standing up. He looked profoundly, hilariously chastised, like a schoolboy caught drawing on a desk.
“Yet! He says ‘yet’!” She turned her ire on Donghae, who had pulled the duvet up to his chin. “And you! Encouraging him! Where is your spine support pillow?”
“It… fell?” Donghae tried.
She marched into the room, grabbed the orthopedic pillow from the floor, and shoved it emphatically behind Donghae’s back. “You will both come downstairs for breakfast in ten minutes. Fully dressed. Acting normally.” She pinned Hyukjae with a final, fiery look. “If I see a single hickey, Lee Hyukjae, I will make you drink the entire pot of bitter turmeric soup. By yourself.”
She spun on her heel and left, shutting the door with a firm, decisive click that echoed in the stillness.
Hyukjae stood frozen by the bed. Donghae stared at him. For three full seconds, there was no sound. Then Donghae clapped a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking. A high, helpless wheeze escaped him. Hyukjae’s own composure shattered, and he bent over, a silent, convulsive laughter racking his frame.
“She called me a teenager,” Hyukjae gasped, tears streaming from his eyes.
“The yet,” Donghae howled, dissolving into muffled shrieks against his palm. “Why did you say ‘yet’?”
“I don’t know!” Hyukjae staggered to the bed, collapsing beside him, both of them shaking with suppressed, hysterical laughter. “She’s going to poison me with soup.”
“Serves you right,” Donghae choked out, wiping his eyes. “For having no sense.”
Hyukjae’s laughter slowly subsided into breathless giggles. He lay back, an arm thrown over his own face. “I have never been so terrified in my life.”
“Worse than when Sora found your secret tattoo?”
“Infinitely.” Hyukjae peeked out from under his arm. The embarrassment was still there, but it was now glazed with a layer of absurd triumph. “We’re never living this down. They’re going to tell this story at our funerals.”
Downstairs, the clatter of pans and the smell of coffee began to rise. The normal sounds of the morning resumed, but everything was different. Donghae’s cheeks ached from laughing. The lingering ghost of Hyukjae’s kisses still tingled on his skin, a secret beneath the scolding.
“Come on,” Hyukjae sighed, sitting up. He offered Donghae a hand. “Fully dressed. Acting normally. Let’s go face our execution by side dish.”
Donghae took his hand, levering himself up with a grunt. He didn’t let go immediately. “For the record,” he whispered. “It was a really good ‘yet’.”
Hyukjae’s smile was quick and bright, a flash of shared conspiracy in the morning light. He squeezed Donghae’s hand once, hard, before letting go to find his pants. The path forward, Donghae thought as he hunted for a clean shirt, was evidently going to be strewn with far more absurdity than he’d ever imagined. He found he didn’t mind it at all.