Chapter Text
“Renjun, you tried to kill my boyfriend.”
“I said I was sorry!” Renjun throws his arms up in exasperation. “What else do you want me to do?”
Donghyuck mutters out something incomprehensible – it’s probably better that Renjun doesn’t understand – before resuming his tirade up and down the hospital hallway. When he gets to the end, he pauses in front of the mostly empty vending machine. Renjun thinks he might buy a snack to calm himself down, but instead he thunks his head against the smudged glass right in front of a row of lukewarm iced teas.
“I wasn’t trying to kill him. If that helps.”
Donghyuck slides down the glass a little bit.
It does not help.
Heaving a sigh too big for his twenty-four year old body, Donghyuck turns around and brandishes a finger at Renjun. “Okay. This has to stop.”
Renjun mimics the gesture, pointing a finger at himself. “This?”
Donghyuck pads back down the hallway and takes the seat next to Renjun. He stares at the opposite wall for a bit, then wraps an arm around Renjun’s shoulders, squeezing just a little too tight. “Listen. Renjun. I love you, you know that? You’re my soulmate. If you weren’t I would have left your ass on the playground in third grade the minute you convinced me my moles were actually bugs that would burrow into my skin.”
“Hey, I’m just as much a victim as you. I was equally convinced. As far as I knew I was saving your life!” Renjun kicks his feet childishly, gaze fixed on the floor tiles. He doesn’t want to see what kind of expression Donghyuck is aiming at him. “Jeno wouldn’t like hearing you call me your soulmate. You know he’s sensitive.”
“Jeno is busy getting his fucking stomach pumped!”
The hallway is quiet.
“Okay, okay. I’m calm.” Donghyuck pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Renjun. My love. Listen to me carefully. Trust that this is coming from a place of care and concern, okay?”
Donghyuck grips him firmly by the shoulders and leans in close. Renjun almost goes cross-eyed trying to hold his gaze. If he wasn’t acutely aware of the countless tabs open on Donghyuck’s laptop researching engagement rings, he might think he’s about to get smooched.
Donghyuck enunciates each word clearly, carefully, letting them really sink in. His voice is quiet but firm. Deathly serious.
“Renjun. You. Cannot. Cook.”
Renjun blinks.
“Before you protest–” Donghyuck cuts in, because he knows Renjun better than anyone and can probably spot the indignance flickering up in his eyes, “–need I remind you why we’re here?”
Donghyuck waves meaningfully at the hospital wing around them. Discreetly, Renjun checks his watch. They brought Jeno in a few hours ago and he still isn’t out. It can’t be that bad though, right?
“So I made one bad meal,” Renjun concedes with a frown. “That doesn’t mean I can’t cook!”
Donghyuck pats Renjun’s shoulder. “This has been a long time coming. The doctors say his stomach lining and general ability to tolerate disruptive foods has been on the decline for the last two years. I can’t imagine what yours is like. Now tell me dear, when did you become roommates and start cooking for him on a regular basis?”
“...Two years ago,” Renjun says mournfully. He can’t help the sullen pout forming on his lips. “But he never complained or anything! He just eats everything I make without protest. How was I supposed to know I was destroying his stomach lining…”
“We both know Jeno is way too nice to tell you your cooking is terrible,” Donghyuck breaks it to him with a tight smile. “It’s not too late though, Junnie, we can fix this! Jeno and I have been thinking about something for a while, but we didn’t know how to give it to you without, um, offending you. Well. Now that ship has sailed, though I didn’t think it would come at the cost of putting Jeno on the brink of death.”
“He’s literally fine.”
“Stomach. Pumped,” Donghyuck grits out, then relaxes again in such a practiced manner Renjun can nearly hear the boy’s therapist whispering breathing exercises into his ear. He composes himself, reaches for his phone, and fiddles with it. After a moment, he gestures for Renjun to check his phone.
Warily, he complies. Obscuring his pastel Sailor Moon lockscreen is an email notification bubble.
From: Donghyuck Lee [[email protected]]
Subject: Fwd: Kitchen Intervention Program Order Confirmation
“What the hell is this,” Renjun says. At Donghyuck’s silence, he opens the email to be met with what can only be described as an utter crime against retinas across the globe.
It’s a flyer…supposedly. Renjun can hardly make out what it’s supposed to be through the assault of vibrant colors and textures. The text splayed across the top, at least, is mostly legible – though in horrendously bright pink bubble letters.
“Rescuing your kitchen with Chef Nana?” Renjun reads out uncertainly. “Hyuck, what the fuck did you do?”
Donghyuck resumes petting his shoulder soothingly. He lets out a nervous chuckle. “Remember that we love you, Jun...”
“Just spit it out already!”
“Fine. We bought you a spot in a cooking class. Well, we thought of it more like a rehabilitation program, but hopefully it’ll help you work on some, um, non life-threatening recipes. Chef Nana is supposed to be really talented, he can rescue even the most hopeless of cases!” Donghyuck nimbly dodges the fist aimed toward his nose at that comment. They definitely spend too much time together.
“You enrolled me in a cooking class? Hyuck, you really think I’m so terrible I need some stuffy professional to hold my hand through chopping celery or something?” Renjun crosses his arms, insulted.
Donghyuck, once again, gestures emphatically at the hospital hallway.
“Admit it, you owe me this.” Donghyuck narrows his eyes when he doesn’t get the response he’s looking for. “Fine, you know damn well you owe Jeno this. I know you can’t resist his puppy eyes, but please don’t make him beg you to agree to this while he’s recovering. Just imagine I’m asking you in Jeno’s timid, gentle voice. You’re a creative boy, you can do it!” He raises a fist as if to say, fighting!
Renjun considers it. Jeno’s big, sad eyes, staring up at him from the hospital bed Renjun landed him in. Softly asking him to please humor him and Donghyuck, just this once, because it would make him so happy. He just wants Renjun to hone his skills, that’s all. There’s always room for improvement, right, Injunnie?
Yeah. Jeno would probably word it like that.
“Whatever. It’s your money to waste.” Renjun mutters, moving his thumb away from the delete button on his inbox.
Damn that Lee Jeno, persuasively kind even in Renjun’s imagination. He mentally shakes a fist at the image of Jeno he conjured up, then stops because even that feels too mean.
“The first five classes are guaranteed to show improvement or your– my, money back! So just stay with it for the first few sessions and if it’s really not working, you can drop it and just stick with microwave meals for the rest of your life as long as you never try to poison my boyfriend again!“ Donghyuck chirps, instantly brightening up at Renjun’s begrudgingly raised white flag of surrender.
“Should’ve never made that damn soup,” Renjun mutters, sinking low in his chair. So sue him for trying to do something nice for his beloved roommate after a long day.
“Are you here for Jeno Lee?” A voice calls out briskly. Donghyuck shoots up instantly and stumbles his way over to the doctor. He’s wringing his hands as he tries to peek at her clipboard.
“Well? How is he?”
The doctor’s mouth twists. “Yeah, we’ll need to keep him a little longer.”
Donghyuck’s eye twitches as he whirls back around. For the first time in his life, Huang Renjun gulps, presses his palms together, and prays to God.
Let it be known that Renjun sulks the entire commute to this godforsaken eyesore of a cooking class.
He tries pretending to be too wrapped up in chores to remember his obligation, but Donghyuck – who is always on their goddamn couch for some reason – is having none of it. He spends an extra-long time meticulously curating his playlist for the twenty minute drive to the building. First he forgets his wallet (can’t go anywhere without it), and then his favorite cherry chapstick (a necessity, his strawberry flavored car-specific tube just won’t do) and then his raincoat (in case there’s a freak typhoon), and then his left shoe (haha wow, how did that get there?).
After the shoe incident, Donghyuck slams the door in his face and threatens to barricade it and change the locks the next time Renjun goes out for hotpot (tonight, probably). Whatever.
Renjun tries very hard to get lost on the way, but it’s tragically a pretty straight shot from his apartment. Gas is expensive these days anyways. Renjun is a stubborn man, but he’s also financially responsible.
(Renjun side-eyes the wealth of expensive lotions and perfumes he keeps in the car just in case, then his mind wanders towards his extensive collection of rare washi tape.
Mostly financially responsible.)
“Can’t believe I’m getting suckered into a stupid cooking class,” Renjun grumbles. “Just because I’m not a gourmet chef means I need professional intervention? What a load of shit.”
This is for your own benefit, Jeno had said gently, still a little woozy in his hospital bed.
Renjun scowls at the voice echoing through his head. The driver next to him at the red light notices his stink eye and gives him the finger in return.
And our lives, Donghyuck had added under his breath. Man, fuck Donghyuck.
Unfortunately, parking is extremely easy at the building, even for chronic fender-bumper Renjun. The building is rather unassuming, a typical area with rented space for independent instructors. The halls are drab, with the exception of a few aesthetically pleasing signs.
Hell, Renjun legitimately drags his feet walking up the stairs to room 318 and yet he still finds himself face to face with…
“What the hell is that,” Renjun says out loud.
He can barely make out the room number because the door is so densely covered in flyers and hanging strings of construction paper hearts. At least he knows he’s in the right place, though, because the cut-out letters of Rescuing Your Kitchen with Chef Nana! are unmistakable. In fact, plastered next to the title is a picture the size of Renjun’s torso, depicting what can only be the acclaimed Chef Nana. He’s posing with a cake the way a white boy on Tinder poses with a fish.
Freak.
With a sigh, Renjun’s hand reaches for the doorknob. Somehow, the door swings open before his fingers can even brush the metal.
There he stands — Chef Nana. The devil himself.
(Renjun’s gaze travels up and down his body and suppresses the gay urge to whistle. If the devil was hot.)
The man’s face instantly brightens once he sees him. It's the happiest anyone’s looked to see Renjun since pre-hospital trip. “Are you Lee Donghyuck?”
“No, and thank God for that.”
“Ah, then you must be Renjun!” He claps his hands together gleefully, beaming. His nails are painted bright pink to match the bubblegum shade of his hair. “Oh, come in come in! I just can’t wait to get started!”
This guy has way too many teeth and they’re all on display right in front of God and everyone, is the first thought that crosses Renjun’s mind. Luckily, it doesn’t escape his mouth. He doesn’t think he can take losing his dignity this quickly.
At least that’s what he thinks, until his eyes land on the rest of the class. They’re all at their individual stations, aproned up and ready to go. One girl, bored, twists her head to check the clock on the side of the room. Renjun’s mouth runs dry, and he points at himself with a shaky finger.
“You…You weren’t waiting for me to start, were you?” he asks, cheeks already reddening with shame.
Chef Nana’s eyes gleam. “Oh, no. I have a policy of waiting exactly six and a half minutes after class starts for any stragglers to trickle in. Traffic accommodations, and all that. You had twenty-four seconds left. Glad you made it!”
For some reason, that makes Renjun shudder worse than anything. This guy is scary.
Feigning composure as best as he can, Renjun makes the walk of shame towards the last open station. It’s in the front row, directly in front of Chef Nana’s demonstration table. Because of course it is.
Chef Nana slams his hands together out of nowhere. The sound pierces the quiet room and makes several students jump. This seems to please him.
“Welcome to Rescuing Your Kitchen! My name is Jaemin, but you can call me Chef Nana. I also respond to screams of terror and oven fires, but let’s try not to resort to any of those, shall we?”
Everyone casts uncertain glances around the room, then nods furtively.
“The recipes for each class will be written on this chalkboard,” Jaemin says, gesturing behind him. “I like to keep you all on your toes, so you won’t get any hints about the recipe of the day until you arrive. I also might completely change my mind the morning of, so it’s really whatever I’m feeling for the day. I’m ungovernable. But! No matter what we make, I can promise you that the recipes I choose will help you build important kitchen skills and become proficient in both cooking and baking.”
Renjun squints at the lettering on the board, curious about the dish of the day. Pink chalk is hard to read regardless of Renjun’s stubborn refusal to get real glasses, but he’s pretty sure the menu for today is haemul sundubu jjigae.
Renjun’s gaze drifts across the rest of the chalkboard. Some basic steps are written out as a reference point for visual learners, and there’s also a printed out copy of the recipe at each station. It’s rather considerate, actually.
Beyond that, the board is covered in doodles. Winking cats and rabbits brighten up the space, and Chef Nana has written his name in carefully perfected calligraphy across the entire top of the board.
Without drawing attention, Renjun peeks around at the rest of the room. Strings of construction paper hearts like the ones that decorated the door are also hung up all around the room. The napkins at each station are patterned with colorful Sanrio characters and a few girl group idol posters adorn the walls. It’s a surprisingly cheerful and warm atmosphere for a rented studio space.
Let it be known that Renjun really does try to refocus on whatever the hell Chef Nana is saying. It’s just that he’s calmed down a bit from the late-entry fiasco now and he’s really noticing how striking Jaemin is, in more ways than one.
His pink hair is nearly fluorescent against the blackboard. Without the colorful barrettes pinning it out of his face – and out of range of the food – it would probably sweep into his eyes. His round eyes are remarkably earnest and his gestures are enthusiastic as he over-explains the mundane task of washing your hands before you work. Right now, he seems to be going off on a tangent listing all different songs they can sing in their head while they scrub.
Weird guy.
An equally bright pink apron is tied around his waist, and Renjun’s eyes definitely do not linger on it. At all.
There’s a Care Bear printed on the breast of the apron. It’s pink, keeping in with the theme, but Renjun is not well-versed enough on Care Bears to pinpoint the exact character. Jaemin’s cookware is also pastel and seemingly branded after cute characters, though the rest of the class is equipped with standard utensils.
All in all, he makes quite the spectacle at the front of the classroom, waving a fuschia ladle around emphatically as he pitches the wonders of cooking like they hadn’t already signed up for the course.
Renjun shuffles to the handwashing station with the rest of the class. Jaemin is intensely watching each person as they take their turn. Renjun is pretty sure Jaemin isn’t a mindreader, but he sings happy birthday to himself regardless as he furiously scrubs his hands under the water.
Just in case.
Each student’s area has been carefully set with the exact amount of ingredients needed for the dish. At least, that’s what Renjun assumes. Jaemin’s demonstration table has a few big boxes on it and there’s a cooler behind him, so he hopes there’s backup material in case things go awry.
Not that that would ever happen to Renjun, of course. He’s just here as a courtesy.
Jaemin runs through the first few steps, which are pretty much just chopping up vegetables and preparing the broth. Rookie stuff. Renjun could do it in his sleep.
(Renjun promptly slips with the knife and nearly slices his finger off, but the important part is that he doesn’t. So no harm done, really. It’s like it never happened.)
To mince the garlic, Jaemin presses the flat side of his knife to the clove, then gracefully pushes down to break it before chopping into fine pieces. Renjun tries his best to mimic the movement, but it takes an embarrassingly long time for him to get the leverage to put enough force against the blade. After a nearby student side-eyes him for straining up on his tiptoes, he decides to give up. It’s probably fine.
The rest of the class must be absolute machines at chopping vegetables, because they’re already finished by the time Renjun has moved onto the leek sitting on his plate. He tries to chop it quietly as Jaemin moves on through the next part of the recipe, but quickly gives up when the chef casts him an inquisitive glance, as if wondering if they should wait for him to catch up.
Renjun would rather die actually, so he dips his head in a gesture to shoo him along.
By the time Renjun finishes dicing all his ingredients, he’s pretty much forgotten whatever Chef Nana had been talking about. Oh well, that’s what the printed recipes are for, right? It can’t be that hard. Renjun is literate, after all.
He squints down at the recipe. It looks like he’s supposed to prepare the seafood next. He quickly locates the small bowl of shrimp at his station and rinses them. So far, so good!
Renjun rolls his shoulders to hype himself up and gets to work stripping the outer shell of the shrimp. They aren’t supposed to remove the head, so he leaves that alone. It’s all going pretty well until he has to peel the vein out.
He vaguely remembers Jaemin’s technique – he made a slit at the back with his knife and used a toothpick to pluck it right out. Renjun takes a hearty swing at his shrimp and nearly cleaves the thing in two.
Renjun suppresses a wince at the sight of his skewered shrimp. That was probably a little too heavy handed, but what matters is that it’s still in one piece. The rift in the flesh should make it easier for Renjun to fish out the vein, but it only gives the damn thing more room to slip around and escape the sharp prong of his toothpick.
His classmates are already pouring in the broth. Renjun is losing precious time.
Gritting his teeth, Renjun pins the piece of shrimp against the cutting board and goes absolutely wild on it. By the time he’s done stabbing at it, little bits of the thin string are littered around his area.
His shrimp is now vein-free, though it comes at the unfortunate consequence of being essentially diced into bits. It’s destroyed, sad little lumps of gray gathered in a loose clump.
Renjun shrugs after a moment of consideration. It’s still edible. He scoops it into his hands and tosses it into the pot on the ministove, atop the oil and garlic that have been sizzling for probably too long by now.
Hurriedly, Renjun dumps in his broth before he falls any farther behind. Twisting his head around, he catches a glimpse of what the girl behind him is doing. Their pots look nothing alike.
Renjun cocks an eyebrow at his work. Maybe she customized hers in a different way?
It isn’t until Renjun reaches for the clams that he realizes he completely forgot to add in the other ingredients before the broth, and also that he hasn’t looked at the actual recipe in a while.
Jaemin’s bright laughter sparkles from somewhere behind him, and Renjun’s skin prickles like he’s been thrust into a horror movie. Jaemin is making his rounds around the room to answer questions and help struggling students, which means Renjun needs to save his dish as fast as possible.
He doesn’t want to give Jaemin the wrong idea, after all.
In a flurry, Renjun tosses the pre-proportioned amounts of soy sauce and fish sauce in before following it up by tipping the rest of his cutting board into the pot. The bubbling broth spits and complains at him, but it all makes it into the dish so Renjun counts it as a win. He slides the entire slab of soft tofu into the pot and stirs like a madman to combine it as fast as possible.
Next step, next step, Renjun chants in his head. The recipe seems to have gotten buried under shrimp parts and spilled broth. Adrenaline ramping up, he starts frantically pawing through his workspace to find the paper.
“How’s it going over here, Chef?” Jaemin salutes as he materializes over Renjun’s shoulder.
Renjun startles at the nickname and the sudden proximity. He turns his head in surprise, completely forgetting about his arm that was mid flight toward the bowl of clams. Unattended by his brain, his hand miscalculates and slams into the bowl, knocking it clean off the station.
“Shit! My clams!” Renjun wails, diving after them as they scatter on the table and skid across the floor. Jaemin catches his wrist before he can get very far, and it’s only then that he notices his fingers were actually heading straight for his abandoned knife. Jaemin’s other hand has landed on his waist, squeezing just enough to prevent him from taking a step forward into the mess of broken glass that used to call itself a bowl.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Jaemin says with a playful tilt to his head. Renjun thinks he’s full of shit. He totally looks like the type of guy to enjoy scaring people. “Don’t move, I’ll grab a broom and sweep this up. Then we can take a look at…uh, whatever is happening over here.” He points at the bits of gray floating up in the broth.
“That’s my shrimp,” Renjun mutters.
“Oh.” To his credit, Jaemin is really good at maintaining a non-judgemental face. Renjun can tell he’s judging him, though. He’s judging him hard. “And…that?”
Renjun’s tofu has completely disintegrated into the broth, making little white pieces collect on the top like a milky film. It’s pretty hard to look at.
He almost wants to scuff his foot in embarrassment, but thankfully remembers in time that he’d be punting several shards of broken glass directly into Jaemin’s ankles if he does that, and so he restrains himself. “That is – was my tofu.”
Jaemin’s perfectly pleasant mask falters, a suppressed laugh rippling along his shoulders. He gives Renjun a little pat on the arm as if to order him to stay in place, and then he’s off to find a broom and dustpan.
Renjun tries to lean over and scoop up a nearby clam on the table, but it’s slippery and gross and he immediately drops it on the floor. Somehow, Jaemin hears this over the din of the class despite being buried deep in the supply closet in the back of the room. He calls out a sugary sweet, hands to yourself, Chef Renjun! that sours Renjun’s mood even further. It sounds like he’s talking to a kindergartener instead of a twenty-four year old who just has unfortunate luck sometimes, alright?
Jaemin checks in with a few other students on his way back to Renjun. This, regrettably, gives Renjun time with his thoughts, which are evil and cannot be trusted and for some reason really want to fixate on the phantom feeling of Jaemin’s large hand wrapped around his waist. Like, what the fuck.
All Renjun has seen of Jaemin so far have been sharp-toothed smiles and larger than life antics. It makes the serious line of Jaemin’s lips sit rather oddly on his face as he quietly asks to see Renjun’s palm.
He gingerly takes the hand that made contact with any glass. Clicking his tongue, he runs light fingertips over the creases and ridges of Renjun’s palm, tracing up and down his knuckles. After a minute, he looks up with wide eyes.
“Are you hurt?”
Taken aback by the sudden show of concern, Renjun just shakes his head mutely, breath hitching in his throat.
That familiar blinding grin bounces back on Jaemin’s face. He could be a news anchor with that smile. Or the face of a dentist practice.
“Great! I really don’t have the money to get sued and I’m pretty sure you haven’t filled out the waiver yet. You should do that.” Jaemin flashes a thumbs up at him. “And of course, I also don’t want any of my students to get hurt. Especially you. Your hands are too pretty for scars this early into your cooking career, anyways.”
Renjun’s mind doesn’t know how to process any of that.
As if nothing happened, Jaemin merrily whistles to himself and starts sweeping up the glass and clams. Renjun stands there, arms folded sulkily in case he blinks wrong and accidentally sets the room on fire. Better that he doesn’t touch anything.
“Now let’s see what we’re working with here.”
Jaemin saunters over to Renjun’s forgotten pot, which is bubbling quite angrily. He turns down the heat to just a simmer and scrapes off what must be burnt vegetables crusted to the bottom. Renjun cringes as he swirls the stew around and lifts the spoon to his lips.
Jaemin doesn’t choke, nor does he spit it out. He even swallows it, albeit with a pinched look on his face. He pulls the spoon away and looks at it, then at the broth, then back at the spoon as if it has betrayed him.
“Well that’s…” Jaemin waves his hand in the air as he searches for the words. Renjun can see the muscles in his jaw clench as an aftertaste hits him. He coughs, grabs a swig of water, then faces Renjun with a brave smile. “Unique. Definitely one of a kind, I’ll tell you that. And let’s keep it that way, yeah?”
Renjun doesn’t even notice his cheeks puffing up into a pout. “I’m normally really good at this. For the record.”
“Uh-huh,” Jaemin says kindly. He turns off the stove and skims the soggy tofu and minced shrimp from the top.
“Look, it’s not that…um, we might be able to salvage it.” Jaemin heartily claps him on the shoulder. “Tofu this soft is really delicate, so you want to use your spoon to cut it into three or four chunks before carefully sliding them right into the broth. You really want it to soak up the seasoning because it’s basically flavorless to start out with. Don’t stir or it’ll all break apart. Oh and next time, don’t chop the shrimp.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Renjun mumbles.
“I can get you some new seafood and tofu, just wait there and–” Jaemin is cut off as a loud guitar riff breaks the air. A woman’s voice fills the room, blaring from Jaemin’s phone speakers. He jolts, turning to look at the clock.
“Oh my, we’re out of time!”
Jaemin raises a hand to call everyone’s attention. “Please wrap up what you’re doing in the next few minutes and start wiping down your stations. The pots can be cleaned with the dish soap and sponges at the sink. Normally you’re welcome to sit and eat your meals after we cook, but due to some scheduling snafus someone will be using the space directly after us today. Let me know if you need any takeout containers. Well done on your first step to kitchen redemption, everyone!”
Renjun looks down at his miserable stew. The misshapen lumps of vegetables almost seem to be frowning back at him.
“I’m sorry Renjun, I don’t think we have time to redo your dish today. I’d be willing to send you a narrated video guide or email you some further instructions, if that’d help.” Jaemin’s voice softens considerably when he addresses him, mouth twisting into a genuine frown. He, too, casts a sad look towards the murky broth.
Renjun wonders if he sees anything in the chunks.
“I’d also be happy to send you home with my demonstration dish, since I doubt you’d want to take that back,” Jaemin says.
Now this really ruffles Renjun’s feathers. He sniffs, planting his hands on his hips.
“No thank you, Chef Nana. I’d very much like to enjoy the fruits of my efforts like everyone else!” Renjun huffs as he tips the remaining contents of the bowl into an empty thermos.
At least, he thinks it’s empty. There might still be some coffee residue in there. Renjun’s stomach churns at the thought, but he refuses to admit defeat. His pride is injured enough.
Jaemin stands back with an amused grin, hands held up in surrender. “Suit yourself. Either way, I’m sure you’ll perfect next week’s recipe!”
Next week. Yeah, right. Renjun is fleeing this stupid classroom that looks like a whole art supply store’s worth of glitter glue exploded on it and he is never, ever coming back. Ever.
Jaemin also starts packing up his station at the front. With a grin, he holds up his phone, which is still playing the music that interrupted them albeit at a much more tolerable level. “If anyone was curious, this is my favorite song off the most recent Girls Generation album. I’ll be sending the class Spotify playlist in an email if anyone wants to make some additions!”
Thoughts of that’s really cute and fuck this class fuck this guy wait not like that clash in Renjun’s mind, and he ends up glaring at his cutting board like it personally committed crimes against him. It kind of did.
Since Renjun was late to…pretty much everything today, he’s also one of the last to finish cleaning up. This means he gets to witness Jaemin personally chat with and wave to every single student that files out the door. Some encounters are just a brief dip of the head and a quick goodbye. Others are full out conversations with warm laughter and well wishes. Renjun can’t help but notice how no matter who Jaemin is speaking to, his gaze never leaves their face, giving them his full and sincere attention every second they spend with him.
It’s…sweet.
Still, fuck that guy. Not like that!
It’s just that Renjun isn’t a bad cook, he’s really not, but this so-called ‘chef’ is clearly trying to tear down his confidence in the kitchen. Renjun doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone, especially not someone who wears Care Bear themed aprons.
There are few times in Renjun’s life where his petite stature plays to his advantage. He’s pretty good at weaving through a crowd, and there was one incident in elementary school where he was able to wriggle into a small space to retrieve a lost bracelet. It was just once and he’s definitely too big for that now, no matter how many times his friends try to cajole him into trying to squeeze into the apartment vents when they get drunk.
It seems he’s found a third circumstance wherein his small frame helps him out, because Renjun is able to escape Chef Nana’s classroom undetected by keeping a burly man in between them at all times. Hiding behind bigger people is an art form and Renjun has it mastered.
He catches his breath once he’s safely in the hallway, hand clutched to his chest in exhilaration. And they thought it couldn’t be done!
Renjun chews on his lower lip for a second as he stares at the thermos in his hand. It’s not that he doesn’t actually want to take it home, or that he’s afraid to taste it, that would be silly and definitely unbecoming of a master chef (which Renjun is definitely).
It’s because…well…Jeno could be triggered by it! Yeah, a soup was what sent him to the hospital, so reasonably he could get upset if Renjun comes home with another concoction so soon.
It’s a sensitive time for soup in the Huang-Lee household.
There’s no place to dispose of it, though. He doesn’t want to toss out the whole thermos, but he sure as hell isn’t going back into the studio to dump it out in the sink. Not in front of Jaemin.
Renjun looks up and down the hallway, then shuffles over to the wall. There’s a potted plant right there. Could he really…?
Shifty eyes making sure no one is coming, Renjun slowly cracks the top of the thermos open and tips it towards the soil.
The broth is just beginning to trickle out when the studio door bursts open across from him. Renjun yelps as he comes face to face with the devil himself, whose arms are outstretched in glee.
“Renjun! Oh, I knew I missed saying goodbye to someone!” Jaemin shakes his head in feigned shame as if he’s committed a cardinal sin.
Renjun’s entire body freezes. Jaemin’s arms stay flung open. Renjun blinks back at him silently, cheeks growing warm.
The only sound in the deserted hallway is the telltale squish of liquid still splashing into packed soil. A chunk of radish splats against a plant leaf. A knowing smile is slowly spreading on Jaemin’s face. The unmistakable aroma of fucked up seafood tofu stew fills the corridor.
“The plant needed a drink?”
Renjun, despite his best effort, can’t seem to break eye contact. It’s not a matter of being stubborn this time, his brain has just entirely shut down. He swallows, but all the moisture in his throat has dried up. His arm is still very deliberately positioned over the plant, thermos horizontal.
“Oops,” Renjun says weakly. “It spilled.”
“How unfortunate,” Jaemin replies, grin stretching from ear to ear.
Renjun nods once, twice, then turns and flees the scene. He only walks faster at the see you next week, Renjun! that Jaemin shouts after him through his laughter.
Renjun takes the stairs two at a time even though his legs aren’t really long enough for that and the only way this day can get worse is if he misses a step and faceplants at the bottom of these three flights of stairs. Actually, hospitalization might be a mercy compared to the red-hot embarrassment burning on his cheeks.
Renjun can never show his face here again.