BW C98

Chapter 98

“…….”

Hoeun tilted his head. Had Taemuk really been carrying the ribbon all along? Then why hadn’t he given it earlier? Forgotten? Many questions arose, but in the end, what mattered was that he had it now.

“Thank you,” Hoeun said, bowing as he received it with both hands. With practiced ease, he began to braid his hair. Ever since leaving home, he had tied it himself every day, and now his hands moved skillfully.

He parted his long hair neatly, braid after braid, but he couldn’t shake the sense of a gaze lingering against his cheek. When he looked, however, Taemuk’s eyes were fixed on a tree in the courtyard.

Had he imagined it?

Hoeun brushed the thought aside. At last, he tied off the braid with the ribbon, pulling it tight. Only then did he feel complete. Now, even outside, he would bring no disgrace to Taemuk’s name.

He smoothed down the ribbon with a satisfied face—

Grrrk—

“…Ah.”

His stomach growled. Hoeun clutched it in surprise, as though a frog had leapt inside. For an absurd moment he even thought he might have swallowed one while running through the rain last night.

But then it struck him—this was hunger.

Hunger. To think he’d feel it—it was astonishing.

He had no memory of ever feeling hungry before. Meals had always been set before him well before hunger could strike. His parents had been especially attentive to his health. So this sensation was not only unfamiliar but wondrous.

Hoeun pressed his lips together, stroking his belly in awe, when suddenly Taemuk rose to his feet. He tossed away his cigarette and crushed it under his heel.

“Where are you going?” Hoeun craned his neck to look up at him. With Taemuk’s height, it nearly hurt his neck just to do so while seated.

Without a word, Taemuk headed off, circling the veranda. Hoeun trailed behind along the wooden floor instead of stepping down into the yard. In a hanok, one could move between rooms along the veranda without shoes.

Taemuk’s destination was the kitchen, where a great black iron cauldron sat. Since the veranda didn’t extend inside, Hoeun braced against the wall and peeked his head in.

Taemuk lifted the lid. So heavy it could serve as a shield in battle—yet he raised it one-handed as if it were nothing.

Steam billowed out, as if a cloud had been trapped within.

Taemuk reached straight into the cauldron, groping and grabbing. Then he dropped what he retrieved into a nearby basket. Round things, rolling about—potatoes.

He filled the basket until it grew heavy, then carried it back to the veranda. Hoeun scurried to follow, returning to his place. Taemuk set the basket down with a thunk beside Hoeun’s thigh, then sat as if nothing had happened.

Inside the basket lay eight potatoes, huddled together. Hoeun stared at them as if seeing them for the first time. After a while studying them intently, he asked cautiously,

“…Did you… make these yourself?”

“….”

Taemuk answered with silence. Hoeun took it as affirmation. His brows lifted in astonishment. He had half-doubted it, but truly—it was Taemuk.

“You know how to do such things?”

Taemuk’s brows drew together at once, and he shot back,

“Do I look like an idiot to you?”

“…No?”

“Then why ask?”

“I just… I didn’t know how myself, so I wondered…”

“….”

“Is it… on the battlefield, if you can’t steam potatoes, they call you an idiot?”

Hoeun looked at him as if to ask what would become of him, then. Taemuk let out a short, incredulous laugh. Hoeun’s ignorance wasn’t quite like illiteracy or poor arithmetic—different, but just as exasperating. That pure, neat face hardly suited such foolishness, yet there was no other word for it.

“As soon as we return, I must learn from Chilbok,” Hoeun declared, clenching his fists tight. “Next time, I’ll prepare them for you.”

His lips firmed with determination, his fair cheeks puffing like rice cakes. Taemuk almost raised his hand without thinking, nearly pinching those cheeks before hastily dropping it. Childish, unbearably so.

“Stop babbling and eat the damn potatoes.” He turned his gaze away sharply.

“Yes. Thank you—I’ll eat them gratefully.” Hoeun smiled, nodding, then carelessly grabbed a steaming potato with his bare hand. He knew it would be hot—but hadn’t realized how hot, since Taemuk had handled them barehanded.

“Ah, hot—hot—!”

His wrists jerked wildly, tempted to fling it away, but that would be disrespectful. The food had been prepared for him—by his superior, no less. So he passed it frantically between hands, trying to endure—until Taemuk snatched it away.

With bare hands, Taemuk split it apart. White steam roared forth, hot enough to sear the nostrils just to breathe it in. Hoeun’s eyes flew wide.

“Doesn’t that burn you?”

“….”

Unfazed, Taemuk split the halves again, quartering it. Steam gushed out in waves. He set it down before Hoeun, then reached for another.

Unable to bear it, Hoeun grabbed his hand.

“Stop—please stop! What if you burn yourself?”

He peered anxiously at Taemuk’s fingertips. Surely they were scalded. Blistered, perhaps.

Yet his hand was unscathed. Not even reddened. Hoeun poked gingerly at his fingers in disbelief. Not iron, only flesh—flesh that seemed merely a little firmer than most. Then how…?

Wide-eyed, Hoeun still examined him when Taemuk, finally out of patience, jabbed his cheek with an index finger. The soft flesh dented, then bounced back. Hoeun gasped and looked up at him. Taemuk’s voice was level.

“Planning to keep holding my hand? I don’t mind, but then the potatoes won’t get cut.”

“Ah—s-sorry.”

Startled, Hoeun let go. Taemuk flexed the fingers that still held his warmth. The potatoes, steaming furiously, hadn’t burned him at all—but where Hoeun had touched, it lingered strangely hot.

With a brief shake of his hand, he began cutting the rest into quarters. The especially large pieces he split again.

“Eat,” Taemuk said, jutting his chin at them.

Hoeun swallowed eagerly, eyes fixed on the steam rising in fragrant clouds. His belly clamored, begging to be filled.

He reached first for the smallest piece, then changed his mind and picked the largest instead, offering it to Taemuk.

“You first.”

“….”

Taemuk stared at the potato held out to him. Then at Hoeun. Then at the potato again. At last, he snatched it. Hoeun beamed faintly, pleased over nothing.

He took the smallest for himself, lifted it to his mouth, and bit delicately. Fluffy and soft, it crumbled on his tongue without need of chewing.

Delicious. That was his first thought. Faintly sweet, slightly chewy, and, lingering, a nutty savor.

“It’s delicious. Truly.”

He covered his mouth with his sleeve as he swallowed, smiling. Taemuk gave no reply, only ate.

Hoeun finished the first piece quickly and grabbed a second. But after a few bites, he choked, coughing. Eating hot potato on an empty stomach with no water was harder than he expected.

“Cough, cough—”

Clutching his chest, he coughed with his lips tightly shut. Taemuk suddenly stood, moving with a speed Hoeun couldn’t match, into the kitchen. He returned with a bowl of cold water and set it before him.

“….”

Hoeun gazed at the rippling surface. Such kindness—once, only Deokwoo had done this for him. To be served so by Taemuk, it felt strange. Stranger still, remembering how he had once gagged on rice balls he couldn’t even swallow, stuffed into him by force.

He only stared at the bowl until Taemuk arched a brow.

“What. Think I poisoned it?”

“No… It’s just…”

“Just what.”

“….”

Hoeun stopped himself from speaking of rice balls. He had wondered why Taemuk had been so cruel then—but feared to bring it up now, lest he lose this gentler Taemuk. Instead, he smiled faintly and lifted the bowl.

“Just… grateful.”

“….”

He sipped the cold water, then returned to eating. These potatoes were so good—he finally understood the saying that hunger itself was the best seasoning.

Soon the second was gone. Reaching for a third, he cast his eyes across the courtyard.

The house, owner unknown, had a yard of just the right size. A persimmon tree heavy with fruit in one corner. In another, a platform big enough for a family of four to dine upon. The walls were low, but jagged rebar jutted from them as defense against Shikgoes.

Laundry on the line hung tangled and askew. Red peppers lay scattered across the ground where they’d fallen from their mats. Household tools and belongings lay strewn about the dirt.