Chapter 8: The Morning Nag
The kitchen held its breath. Steam curled from the coffee maker, a thin, frantic plume mirroring the tension in the air. Hyukjae’s mother stood frozen, her hand paused halfway to a cabinet, her ears a brilliant, burning red. The only sound was the distant rush of water from upstairs where someone was showering.
Donghae stood in the doorway, his own face hot. He watched as Hyukjae, utterly unperturbed, took a slow sip from his mug.
“The doctor said it’s fine,” Hyukjae repeated, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. “With proper lumbar support. Which we have. The pillow is medical-grade. I ordered it from Germany.”
His mother’s mouth opened, then closed. She looked from Hyukjae’s calm face to Donghae’s horrified one, and something in her seemed to short-circuit. The stern, flustered authority from the bedroom melted into pure, undiluted maternal exasperation. She pointed a trembling finger at the panoramic window.
“Air,” she choked out. “I need… more air.” She turned on her heel, marched to the glass sliding door, fumbled with the latch, and stepped out onto the deck. The cold mountain wind swept in, cutting through the warmth of the kitchen. She stood with her back to them, shoulders hunched, taking deep, visible breaths.
Hyukjae met Donghae’s gaze over the breakfast bar. A faint, unrepentant smirk touched his lips. He raised his mug in a tiny, private toast.
“You are the worst,” Donghae mouthed, soundless.
Hyukjae shrugged, the picture of innocence.
The moment stretched. From outside, they could hear the faint, agitated muttering of his mother, words stolen by the breeze. “…German pillows… my age… should not know these things…”
Sora wandered in then, dressed for travel, her hair damp. She glanced at the open door, her mother’s rigid back, and then at the two of them. Her eyebrows climbed. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” Hyukjae said.
“We didn’t do anything,” Donghae said at the same time, his voice pitched too high.
Sora’s eyes narrowed. She looked at the German coffee maker, the untouched breakfast spread, the profound awkwardness thickening the air like stew. A slow, wicked grin spread across her face. “Oh. It’s the ‘yet’ thing, isn’t it?”
“Stop naming it,” Hyukjae sighed, finally showing a crack in his composure.
Sora laughed, a bright, crowing sound. She grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. “You two are a public health hazard. Mom’s going to need therapy.” She took a loud bite and sauntered back out, calling over her shoulder, “We’re loading the cars in twenty! Try not to give anyone a coronary before we leave!”
The sliding door slid shut again. Hyukjae’s mother re-entered, her color somewhat normalized. She refused to look at either of them. She moved to the sink and began washing a single cup that was already clean, her movements precise and violent.
“Eomma,” Hyukhae started, his voice softer.
“Don’t,” she said, not turning around. The water ran scalding hot. “Just… don’t. Help your father with the bags.”
It was a dismissal, but not an unkind one. It was the sound of a mother recalibrating her entire understanding of her forty-one-year-old son’s private life. Hyukjae exchanged a last look with Donghae—a mix of amusement and fond exasperation—and obediently left the kitchen.
Donghae hesitated. He moved carefully to the breakfast bar and lowered himself onto a stool, his back giving a familiar, dull protest. He watched her stiff shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
She shut off the water. The silence was heavy with steam. She dried her hands on a towel, turned, and leaned against the counter. Her expression was complex: embarrassment, worry, and a deep, weathered love.
“It’s not… the idea,” she said finally, her voice low. “It’s your back, Hae. I see how he looks at you when you try to stand up. How he counts your pills. The spreadsheet.” She shook her head. “I worry he’s… that you’re both forgetting to be careful in other ways.”
Donghae felt a lump rise in his throat. This wasn’t about propriety. It was about the fear that lived in all of them—the fear of a wrong move, a setback, more pain. Hyukjae’s mother had simply given it a very specific, very awkward name.
“He’s the most careful person I know,” Donghae said. “Sometimes I hate how careful he is. But he… he makes sure I’m safe. Even when I don’t want him to.” He offered her a small, genuine version of his heart-shaped smile. “The German pillow really is very good.”
A surprised laugh burst out of her, sharp and brief. She covered her mouth, her eyes crinkling. “Aish, this boy.” She came over and cupped his cheek, her hand warm and slightly damp. “Just get better. That’s all I want. So he can stop looking like a man waiting for a storm to hit.”
The loading of the cars was a controlled chaos of luggage, leftover food containers, and repeated goodbyes. Donghae was made to sit on the plush sofa like a deposed prince, receiving a parade of well-wishes.
His mother hugged him tightly, whispering, “Listen to Hyukjae. Even when he’s being… graphic.” She shot a look at Hyukjae, who was innocently zipping a suitcase.
Donghwa clapped him on the shoulder, a gentle, brotherly weight. “Call if you need anything. Even if it’s just to complain about Nurse Hitler over there.” He jerked his thumb at Hyukjae.
Sora kissed his cheek. “The ‘yet’ is legendary. I’m telling my kids.”
“You have no kids!”
“I’ll get some just to tell them!” she sang back, skipping out the door.
Finally, it was just the two of them and Hyukjae’s parents in the echoing foyer. His father, a quiet man of few words, gripped Hyukjae’s shoulder. “You’re doing good.” He then turned to Donghae and gave a firm, single nod. “Rest.”
Hyukjae’s mother stood before Donghae. She didn’t speak. She simply pulled him into a long, fierce hug, her grip saying everything her words couldn’t. When she pulled back, she looked at Hyukjae. “The turmeric soup is in the freezer. For inflammation. Not for… other things.”
Hyukjae’s lips twitched. “Understood.”
And then they were gone. The crunch of gravel under tires faded into the mountain quiet. The great door shut with a solid, final thud.
The silence was instantaneous and immense. It wasn’t the anxious quiet of the past few weeks, but a sudden, vacuum-like absence of overlapping voices, laughter, and clattering pans. The villa felt vast and hollow.
Donghae let out a long, slow breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. The emotional levy of the weekend broke, and a profound fatigue washed over him, bone-deep and mental.
Hyukjae stood in the middle of the foyer, looking slightly lost. He scanned the empty space, then his gaze found Donghae. Without a word, he crossed the room and sat beside him on the sofa, not touching, just leaning back with a soft groan.
They sat there for minutes, listening to the old house settle.
“Well,” Hyukjae said finally. “That happened.”
Donghae started to laugh. It was a weak, breathless sound at first, but it grew, bubbling up from his chest until he was wheezing, tears pricking his eyes. Hyukjae joined him, his own laughter quiet and shaking. They slumped against each other, shoulders trembling.
“You told her… about the doctor…” Donghae gasped.
“She asked!”
“She asked if you were tiring me out! She didn’t ask for a seminar on coital spine alignment!”
“Accuracy is important!” Hyukjae defended, wiping his eyes. “Now she knows. Now she’ll never ask again. Strategic disclosure.”
Donghae’s laughter subsided into hiccups. He let his head fall onto Hyukjae’s shoulder. The familiar scent of his laundry detergent and skin was an anchor. The silence now felt cozy, earned. “I’m really tired, Hyukkie.”
“I know.” Hyukjae’s arm came around him, careful and sure. “It was a lot. But was it… was it good?”
Donghae thought of the beach, his mother’s tears, the crowded table, his brother’s steady presence, the horrifying and hilarious kitchen showdown. He nuzzled into Hyukjae’s neck. “It was perfect. Even the bad parts were perfect.”
Hyukjae kissed his hair. “Good.”
They sat until the angle of the sun through the windows shifted. Then Hyukjae moved, his CEO mode clicking back into place. “Okay. One night left. Minimal schedule. Options: one, we watch that terrible movie Sora recommended. Two, we order overpriced resort food and eat it in bed. Three, we do nothing at all.”
Donghae considered. His body ached with a full, satisfying soreness that wasn’t just from his disc. “All three. But in reverse order.”
Hyukjae smiled. “Deal.”
He helped Donghae up and, instead of leading him to the bedroom, guided him to the vast living room window. The Taebaek Range sprawled before them, deep blue in the late afternoon shadow, the peaks holding the last of the sun like glowing embers. Hyukjae stood behind him, his hands resting lightly on Donghae’s hips, chin on his shoulder.
“No one’s watching,” Hyukjae murmured, his breath warm against Donghae’s ear. “No schedules. No audiences. Just the mountains.”
Donghae leaned back into him, letting Hyukjae take his weight. The support was absolute, unflinching. He closed his eyes. The fear, the embarrassment, the worry—it was all still there, tucked away in a drawer. But for this moment, held in the quiet heart of the mountains and the steady circle of Hyukjae’s arms, it felt manageably small. The season would change. The path was still there. But here, now, there was only this silent, monumental view, and the profound, simple fact of not being alone within it.
But here, now, there was only this silent, monumental view, and the profound, simple fact of not being alone within it. Hyukjae’s hands squeezed his hips once, a silent punctuation, before letting go. “Stay right there.”
Donghae heard him move across the room, the soft tap of his phone connecting to the villa’s sound system. A moment of silence, then a familiar, pulsing intro filled the spacious room, smooth and soulful. Justin Timberlake’s “Mirrors.”
Hyukjae walked back into Donghae’s line of sight, facing him. His expression was soft, a little mischievous. He began to move, not with his usual performer’s sharp precision, but with a loose, casual sway. His shoulders rolled, his feet tapped in a simple rhythm, his eyes never leaving Donghae’s. It was less a performance and more an invitation, a private sharing of a mood.
A slow grin spread across Donghae’s face. “What is this?” he asked, leaning against the window frame. “Is this a mating dance? Are you trying to lure me back to the German pillow?”
Hyukjae laughed, a bright, unguarded sound that danced over the music. He slid closer, his movements becoming a little more exaggerated, a playful shimmy in his shoulders. “Maybe. Is it working?”
“It’s embarrassing,” Donghae said, his cheeks hurting from smiling. “But keep going.”
The song built, layered and warm. Hyukjae’s playful dancing subtly shifted. His gestures grew more fluid, more heartfelt, his gaze intensifying. He mouthed some of the words, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Then the pivotal bridge arrived, the confession swelling in the room. You are, you are the love of my life.
Hyukjae’s movements stilled. He wasn’t dancing anymore. He was just standing there, three feet from Donghae, listening as the lyrics wrapped around them. His expressive eyes glistened, suddenly wet. He blinked rapidly, looking down at the floor as a single, traitorous tear escaped, tracking a clean line down his cheek. He wiped it away with a rough, impatient swipe of his thumb, but the emotion was laid bare, stark and undeniable in the quiet mountain light.
Donghae’s playful smile faded into something tender and aching. His own throat felt tight.
The song shifted again. Before the moment could grow too heavy, Hyukjae cleared his throat and tapped his phone. A new song began, its opening notes a gentle, wistful guitar riff that was a direct arrow to the past. Donghae recognized it instantly. Beautiful. His first solo song. A lifetime ago.
“Hyukjae,” he whispered.
A memory, vivid and bright: himself at twenty-four, wired with nervous energy backstage, gripping Hyukjae’s wrist. You have to come out with me. I can’t do it alone. Hyukjae’s protesting laugh, his reluctant agreement. The shock of the spotlight, the roar of the crowd, and then the solid, anchoring presence of his best friend appearing beside him in the haze, sharing the mic, turning a solo into a duet.
Hyukjae walked over, his emotional moment tucked away but still visible in the softness around his eyes. He extended a hand. “Come on.”
“I can’t dance,” Donghae said, gesturing vaguely at his own spine.
“Who said anything about dancing?” Hyukjae’s hand remained, patient and open. “Just stand with me. Like we did then.”
Donghae took the hand. Hyukjae pulled him gently forward, away from the window’s support, and drew him close. He arranged them carefully, his hands settling on Donghae’s waist, distributing his weight. Donghae’s arms looped around Hyukjae’s neck. They weren’t dancing. They were swaying, the faintest shift of weight from foot to foot, a shared breath of movement.
They swayed like that for the entire song, foreheads nearly touching, in the middle of the empty room. The mountains watched. The guitar notes curled around them like smoke from a long-extinguished fire, sweet and melancholy. Donghae felt the old melody in his bones, but it was layered now with the weight of every year that had followed—the struggles, the company they built, the quiet nights, the recent fear, the spreadsheet on the fridge, the argument about seaweed, the sound of their families laughing.
“You dragged me out there,” Hyukjae murmured, his voice thick. “Scared kid. You never did anything alone.”
“I still don’t,” Donghae said, his lips brushing the skin beneath Hyukjae’s ear. “I don’t want to.”
The last chord faded into the quiet. The only sound was the low hum of the appliances and their own breathing. Hyukjae didn’t let go. He held on tighter, his face buried in Donghae’s shoulder, his body a firm, steady line against him. Donghae absorbed his weight, his warmth, the faint tremble he felt running through him. He didn’t mention the tears. He just held him, his own eyes closed, anchored in the silent aftermath of the music.
Outside, the last of the sun vanished, plunging the peaks into deep blue silhouette. The room grew darker.
Hyukjae finally lifted his head. He didn’t speak. He simply leaned in and kissed Donghae, a slow, deep, tasting kiss that held the echo of the guitar and the ghost of their younger selves. It was a promise, and an acceptance, and a quiet, staggering thank you.
When they parted, Hyukjae’s professional demeanor was restored, though his eyes were still red-rimmed. “Okay,” he said, his voice husky. “Terrible movie time. I’ll get the pillows.”
He helped Donghae back to the sofa, building the nest of support with the German pillow at its core. He ordered extravagant sandwiches. They watched the film, a ridiculous comedy, their legs tangled under a blanket. Donghae laughed until his stomach hurt, until the poignant echo of Beautiful was dulled to a gentle, golden hum in his chest.
He fell asleep there, his head in Hyukjae’s lap, before the credits rolled. He drifted off to the feeling of Hyukjae’s fingers in his hair, stroking with a rhythmic, possessive tenderness, and to the soft sound of Hyukjae whispering along to the next song, already playing, just for the two of them.