Kyungsoo loved food like nothing else. Oh, wait. He did. He loved singing as well. His life revolved around these two, food and singing. Singing, food.

So, why on Seoul’s blessed earth did he have to meet the one person that was bound wreak havoc in his blissful routine?

It has been 746 days since he’d started wondering, pondering for an answer to that question, all in vain of course. Nothing seems to surface. Not when he saw those milky chocolate orbs focus on his own shamefully wide ones. Not when those thick, pink lips would open up oh-so-beautifully and he would immediately lose track of whatever was it he’d sought after. Not when he insistently would push his head under his rough, work-hardened hands, the silky texture of his hair wrapped around his fingers and he would be contentedly, long before he was able to form thoughts coherent enough to realise what he’d done.

And in the rare moments where the answer seems to be just slightly elusive from his grasp, the murky surface finally clearing, something would definitely occur.

In the form of Kim-bloody-Jongin.

Like today.

He’d been working out on a new recipe, just for the thrill of it. Plain ol’ spaghetti was starting to bore his quaint taste buds. Just as he was chewing on a leftover piece of cabbage from the kimchi he’d made yesterday, an idea bulb lit above his dark-haired head: why not put the two and two together?

As he settled down on a melancholic daydreaming mood, waiting for the spaghetti to boil to perfection, the irony of the whole situation struck him:

Jongin (that sneaky bastard) was as versatile as tomato sauce, well-liked and easy-going. Though he can be slightly bossy at times, the boy was usually sweet-tempered and rarely disagreed to things.

And he, Do Kyungsoo, was nothing if not disagreeable.

Offensive, moody. Ice Prince. These were the words associated with him. Just like the strong, faintly unpleasant flavour of kimchi that conquered his palate now.

And yet when he mixed in the tomato sauce into the pan was already dominated by the kimchi, all he did hear was a pleasant hiss, as the tomato sauce seeped in and filled out the void between the kimchi, the aroma tantalising his senses. He tried mixing them haphazardly, with large, sweeping motions of his spatula, trying to prove something. A char, a burn somewhere. A distortion, however slight. A proof that kimchi and tomato sauce did not bond well together.

Proof that he and Kim Jongin can never co-exist together.

But he found nothing; it was all blending beautifully, too beautifully actually. The kimchi had absorbed the sauce’s vibrant carmine colouring and the acidity of both ingredients seemed to perfectly balance out each other when he’d dipped his tasting spoon into his mouth. The taste exploded in his mouth, and Kyungsoo had – to his utter embarrassment – let out a moan from the delightful zest of it. He’d always been an appreciative gastronome, food was his addiction. His guilty pleasure. Alongside a certain platinum blonde of course.

The tinkling sound of his spoon hitting the stainless steel counter brought his jarred senses back to reality; he had not just equated Kim-ing-Jongin to food!

Aghast, Kyungsoo stared at the plate of perfectly cooked kimchi spaghetti in front of him, waiting perfectly innocently to be devoured.

“Soo?”

Nimble footsteps barely registered his audio field as the enlightenment he’d fought for all these months was elucidated so simply in front of him, in the guise of a dish of his own making.

“Soo, what’s wrong? Oh wow.. Did you just cook that? Gods, it smells so good!” The husky, just-got-up-from-sleep voice neared him, low in admiration.

Kyungsoo stared at him, at the question that has been plaguing him for the past 24 months, then stared at his dish, answer to the 182 cm enigma standing tall in front of him.

“Soo? Are you okay? Why are you staring at me like that? I know I’m cute, gee Soo, don’t tell me you just realised that?” A faint, but definite blush bloomed in the tanned contours of Kim Jongin’s face.

And in that moment, he, Do Kyungsoo, realised that all these times the answer had clearly been in front of his huge eyes:

Kim Jongin was not the question, he was the answer. 

End.