[Team Four] Congee
Another snippet from a wip I started but I couldn't finish in time.
What are you doing after school?
Porchay looks at the sentence and then presses backspace fervently with his thumb. He watches the caret blink. The last thing in the chat is a sticker of some Korean idol Porchay has no idea who is. The redheaded boy is leaning over, wearing a pink jacket and a white t-shirt, clutching his stomach. The text “hungry” is displayed somewhere behind him. Macau had sent it two days ago and their conversation has been dead since then. Porchay’s fingers are itching to type something, anything. Curious about what Macau’s up to and if he knows more songs on the guitar.
If he wants to hang out with Porchay after school.
Someone knocks on Porchay’s door before the door is opened and Big steps in. Porchay thinks he still looks a little thin and anemic, but apparently, he’s well enough to come back to work. Porchay would never go back to work where he got shot and/or stabbed like ten times in the chest. But then again, Porchay thinks that looking after him is the easiest job Mr. Korn could give to Big. Especially now that Kim, well it doesn’t matter anymore. Porchay doesn’t do anything except for going to school or the practice room with his band, so he doesn’t give Big that much of a hard time, he thinks.
“Kh-”
Porchay sends a pillow flying towards Big, which Big dodges with the grace of a newborn foal, his black man bun wobbling. He’s unable to hide the wince as he curls his body sideways, and Porchay immediately feels bad. Underneath the ill-fitting suit, Big is wrapped up in bandages, still. Porchay head Big and Arm talk about it a couple of nights prior. The doctors are worried because one of the wounds doesn’t heal as it should.
“Don’t call me khun,” Porchay tells Big for the umpteenth time. Big blinks slowly at him, reminding Porchay awfully much of a frog. Porsche had told him that people would want to call him that now. Porchay wishes they didn’t. He never wanted any of this.
Big picks the pillow up from the floor and places it gently on the bed, next to Porchay’s folded legs. Big remains standing next to Porchay’s bed.
“Kh-”
“Don’t!” Porchay snaps, teeth clacking. Big’s mouth is still open, shaped around the word that partially made it’s way out of his mouth. Big closes his mouth, bites his bottom lip. Porchay wonders how much Big wants to yell at him now. It’s understandable. Porchay is acting like a brat after all. Big opens his mouth again, only to close it quickly.
It’s raining outside. The sound of raindrops hitting the windows in Porchay’s room is loud, drowning out Porchay’s thoughts.
“Porsche wants you to come down to breakfast,” Big says. It looks like he has eaten a whole lemon, what with the way his face twists, like it’s painful to say the name of Porchay’s brother without using the preferred honorific. Porchay finds that weird, especially since Porsche used to work with Big.
“Why didn’t he just text me?” Porchay asks. Porsche is only a little bit more used to the bodyguards than Porchay is, and Porchay knows his brother never would send a bodyguard to get him. He’d go himself.
“He has,” Big tells Porchay, eyeing the phone in Porchay’s hand pointedly. Porchay takes one look at his phone to see the little envelope symbol at the very top of his screen, next to a couple of phone symbols. Porchay doesn’t have to check them to know that they’re all from Porsche. Porchay had been too busy writing and erasing a message to Macau that he hadn’t been paying attention to the notifications. His stomach churns.
Even though they (Porsche and Kinn) more or less have moved Porchay into the main family mansion, Porchay still feels like he barely sees Porsche. Porchay had said yes to move in after Porsche told him it’d be easier for them to see each other, easier for them to stay together. Their parents would’ve wanted that, Porsche had told him, his big hands on Porchay’s shoulders, eyes pleading.
Well, it’s impossible to know what their father would’ve wanted because he’s dead. But their mother, she’s alive, but she could as well be dead. There’s something unsettling about her, something that makes the fine hair on Porchay’s neck rise whenever he sees her. It’s like she knows, like she’s always watching. Porchay doesn’t visit her alone.
Porsche had asked him a couple of days earlier if they could eat breakfast together on Friday, today, and Porchay had totally forgotten about it.
In a swift movement, Porchay pockets his phone, picks his backpack up from the ground, stuffs a couple of note sheets, a book, and his laptop into it, before diving past Big and out of his room.
In the style of a true anime protagonist, Porchay arrives at the kitchen with his backpack slung over one shoulder, his uniform only barely buttoned, his white t-shirt peeking up from between the buttons.
“Hia, I’m sorry, I-”
Every fiber in Porchay’s body freezes. His feet feel like they’re filled with lead, his feet feel as if they’re glued to the floor. Porchay’s brain is screaming at him to move, go, do literally anything but standing completely still like this. Every alarm, every natural fight-fight-fright response in Porchay’s body is going off, but Porchay is unable to move.
In front of him, wearing a crisp, pressed shirt and maroon slacks, sits Kinn, smiling at Porchay, greeting him with a gentle “Good morning” when he notices him. There’s a punk mug, presumably filled with coffee, in front of Kinn. There are glittery letters on the mug, written by a five-year-old with a trembling hand. The text says The world’s best brother in Porchay’s handwriting. It was a Christmas gift for Porsche. The last time Porchay had seen this particular mug was in their old home. Porsche must have brought it with him the last time they had gone back to pick up the last of Porchay’s most important things.
There’s a bowl in front of Kinn, too. Congee. Porchay could recognize the scent of Porsche’s congee anywhere. It has been years since Porsche made congee. Something heavy curls in Porchay’s stomach as he looks away from Kinn and finds Porsche standing by the toaster. The scent of ginger and garlic paints a memory in Porchay’s brain. Memories of him sitting on the countertop in his footie pajamas while twelve-year-old Porsche tries to make congee by reading the recipe in their mother's cooking book. Memories of Porsche making him congee when Porchay got surprised by the rain on his way back from pre-school and got drenched to the bone. On most days Porsche would pick him up, but on this particular day, he had to work a double shift. Porchay remembers hearing Porsche cry after he had gone to bed.
Twenty-four-year-old Porsche beams at him from his place in the kitchen, brandishing a plate of toast in Porchay’s direction. His black hair is styled to perfection, his eyes little crescents as he wishes Porchay a good morning. Both Kinn and Porsche are going out for work later, as Porsche, too, is wearing his usual business attire, only with a yellow apron over his shirt-and-slacks-combo.
“Look who showed up for breakfast!” Porsche chirps, his smile so wide it threatens to cut his face in two, as he picks up a bowl of congee from the countertop, shoving it into Porchay’s empty hand.
Porchay’s throat tightens.
On Kinn’s left, staring straight at Porchay, sits a slender man with long, coiffed hair that’s tucked behind his right ear. He’s wearing an all-black ensemble, and even though it has been almost four months of avoiding him, Kim looks just like Porchay remembers him.
To Porchay’s surprise, Kim doesn’t look particularly angry despite the fact that Porchay has blocked him pretty much everywhere and has refused to take his call or answer his messages for nearly half a year. Kim’s got a half-eaten bowl of congee in front of him, too. He looks so out of place, Porchay thinks, but he also looks like he fits in, in-between Porsche’s yellow rubber duck apron and Kinn’s gun holster hanging over the back of his chair.
Why don’t you stay?
No, Porchay is done. Furiously, Porchay swallows down the lump in his throat, fights the burning in his eyes as he quickly looks away from Kim, turning to his brother.
“You can sit down next to Kim and I’ll bring you tea?” Porsche says, still beaming. It’s probably because he’s living out his domestic dream. Back when it was only Porsche and Porchay, Porsche always wanted them to eat at least one meal together each day, preferably breakfast, as it is the most important meal of the day according to Porsche. But Porchay can’t stay, not now.
“Hia, I’m late, I got to go,” Porchay mumbles, grabbing a napkin from the countertop, wrapping up his piece of toast in it.
“Late? Doesn’t school start in like an hour? I can drive you, I-”
Porchay mumbles something about a project and that he’s supposed to meet up with his group to discuss their research. He deposits his backpack on the floor briefly, grabbing his lunch money out of a box on the counter. The kitchen is quiet as Porchay quickly packs his bag.
Guilt rips through Porchay as he takes in the crestfallen look that consumes Porsche, his shoulders slumping, making him seem much, much younger. Quickly, Porchay wraps his brother into a brief hug, mumbling something about saving him some congee, before he ducks out of the embrace and almost runs out of the kitchen.
“Porchay!” Porsche yells.
“Porchay!” Kinn calls.
“Porchay!”
Porchay stumbles over his own feet as he hears Kim’s voice call his name. A small, small part of him wants to turn around, to talk to Kim, to tell Porsche everything. But Porchay is done with this, done with the feeling Kim gives him, done with crying over a man who dated him only because he wanted to know more about Porsche. Shrugging, as if he can shake off the feeling, Porchay continues to walk briskly down the hall, heading for the garage.
alchemicink, you're up! This is your (long ass) sentence: Shrugging, as if he can shake off the feeling, Porchay continues to walk briskly down the hall, heading for the garage.
What are you doing after school?
Porchay looks at the sentence and then presses backspace fervently with his thumb. He watches the caret blink. The last thing in the chat is a sticker of some Korean idol Porchay has no idea who is. The redheaded boy is leaning over, wearing a pink jacket and a white t-shirt, clutching his stomach. The text “hungry” is displayed somewhere behind him. Macau had sent it two days ago and their conversation has been dead since then. Porchay’s fingers are itching to type something, anything. Curious about what Macau’s up to and if he knows more songs on the guitar.
If he wants to hang out with Porchay after school.
Someone knocks on Porchay’s door before the door is opened and Big steps in. Porchay thinks he still looks a little thin and anemic, but apparently, he’s well enough to come back to work. Porchay would never go back to work where he got shot and/or stabbed like ten times in the chest. But then again, Porchay thinks that looking after him is the easiest job Mr. Korn could give to Big. Especially now that Kim, well it doesn’t matter anymore. Porchay doesn’t do anything except for going to school or the practice room with his band, so he doesn’t give Big that much of a hard time, he thinks.
“Kh-”
Porchay sends a pillow flying towards Big, which Big dodges with the grace of a newborn foal, his black man bun wobbling. He’s unable to hide the wince as he curls his body sideways, and Porchay immediately feels bad. Underneath the ill-fitting suit, Big is wrapped up in bandages, still. Porchay head Big and Arm talk about it a couple of nights prior. The doctors are worried because one of the wounds doesn’t heal as it should.
“Don’t call me khun,” Porchay tells Big for the umpteenth time. Big blinks slowly at him, reminding Porchay awfully much of a frog. Porsche had told him that people would want to call him that now. Porchay wishes they didn’t. He never wanted any of this.
Big picks the pillow up from the floor and places it gently on the bed, next to Porchay’s folded legs. Big remains standing next to Porchay’s bed.
“Kh-”
“Don’t!” Porchay snaps, teeth clacking. Big’s mouth is still open, shaped around the word that partially made it’s way out of his mouth. Big closes his mouth, bites his bottom lip. Porchay wonders how much Big wants to yell at him now. It’s understandable. Porchay is acting like a brat after all. Big opens his mouth again, only to close it quickly.
It’s raining outside. The sound of raindrops hitting the windows in Porchay’s room is loud, drowning out Porchay’s thoughts.
“Porsche wants you to come down to breakfast,” Big says. It looks like he has eaten a whole lemon, what with the way his face twists, like it’s painful to say the name of Porchay’s brother without using the preferred honorific. Porchay finds that weird, especially since Porsche used to work with Big.
“Why didn’t he just text me?” Porchay asks. Porsche is only a little bit more used to the bodyguards than Porchay is, and Porchay knows his brother never would send a bodyguard to get him. He’d go himself.
“He has,” Big tells Porchay, eyeing the phone in Porchay’s hand pointedly. Porchay takes one look at his phone to see the little envelope symbol at the very top of his screen, next to a couple of phone symbols. Porchay doesn’t have to check them to know that they’re all from Porsche. Porchay had been too busy writing and erasing a message to Macau that he hadn’t been paying attention to the notifications. His stomach churns.
Even though they (Porsche and Kinn) more or less have moved Porchay into the main family mansion, Porchay still feels like he barely sees Porsche. Porchay had said yes to move in after Porsche told him it’d be easier for them to see each other, easier for them to stay together. Their parents would’ve wanted that, Porsche had told him, his big hands on Porchay’s shoulders, eyes pleading.
Well, it’s impossible to know what their father would’ve wanted because he’s dead. But their mother, she’s alive, but she could as well be dead. There’s something unsettling about her, something that makes the fine hair on Porchay’s neck rise whenever he sees her. It’s like she knows, like she’s always watching. Porchay doesn’t visit her alone.
Porsche had asked him a couple of days earlier if they could eat breakfast together on Friday, today, and Porchay had totally forgotten about it.
In a swift movement, Porchay pockets his phone, picks his backpack up from the ground, stuffs a couple of note sheets, a book, and his laptop into it, before diving past Big and out of his room.
In the style of a true anime protagonist, Porchay arrives at the kitchen with his backpack slung over one shoulder, his uniform only barely buttoned, his white t-shirt peeking up from between the buttons.
“Hia, I’m sorry, I-”
Every fiber in Porchay’s body freezes. His feet feel like they’re filled with lead, his feet feel as if they’re glued to the floor. Porchay’s brain is screaming at him to move, go, do literally anything but standing completely still like this. Every alarm, every natural fight-fight-fright response in Porchay’s body is going off, but Porchay is unable to move.
In front of him, wearing a crisp, pressed shirt and maroon slacks, sits Kinn, smiling at Porchay, greeting him with a gentle “Good morning” when he notices him. There’s a punk mug, presumably filled with coffee, in front of Kinn. There are glittery letters on the mug, written by a five-year-old with a trembling hand. The text says The world’s best brother in Porchay’s handwriting. It was a Christmas gift for Porsche. The last time Porchay had seen this particular mug was in their old home. Porsche must have brought it with him the last time they had gone back to pick up the last of Porchay’s most important things.
There’s a bowl in front of Kinn, too. Congee. Porchay could recognize the scent of Porsche’s congee anywhere. It has been years since Porsche made congee. Something heavy curls in Porchay’s stomach as he looks away from Kinn and finds Porsche standing by the toaster. The scent of ginger and garlic paints a memory in Porchay’s brain. Memories of him sitting on the countertop in his footie pajamas while twelve-year-old Porsche tries to make congee by reading the recipe in their mother's cooking book. Memories of Porsche making him congee when Porchay got surprised by the rain on his way back from pre-school and got drenched to the bone. On most days Porsche would pick him up, but on this particular day, he had to work a double shift. Porchay remembers hearing Porsche cry after he had gone to bed.
Twenty-four-year-old Porsche beams at him from his place in the kitchen, brandishing a plate of toast in Porchay’s direction. His black hair is styled to perfection, his eyes little crescents as he wishes Porchay a good morning. Both Kinn and Porsche are going out for work later, as Porsche, too, is wearing his usual business attire, only with a yellow apron over his shirt-and-slacks-combo.
“Look who showed up for breakfast!” Porsche chirps, his smile so wide it threatens to cut his face in two, as he picks up a bowl of congee from the countertop, shoving it into Porchay’s empty hand.
Porchay’s throat tightens.
On Kinn’s left, staring straight at Porchay, sits a slender man with long, coiffed hair that’s tucked behind his right ear. He’s wearing an all-black ensemble, and even though it has been almost four months of avoiding him, Kim looks just like Porchay remembers him.
To Porchay’s surprise, Kim doesn’t look particularly angry despite the fact that Porchay has blocked him pretty much everywhere and has refused to take his call or answer his messages for nearly half a year. Kim’s got a half-eaten bowl of congee in front of him, too. He looks so out of place, Porchay thinks, but he also looks like he fits in, in-between Porsche’s yellow rubber duck apron and Kinn’s gun holster hanging over the back of his chair.
Why don’t you stay?
No, Porchay is done. Furiously, Porchay swallows down the lump in his throat, fights the burning in his eyes as he quickly looks away from Kim, turning to his brother.
“You can sit down next to Kim and I’ll bring you tea?” Porsche says, still beaming. It’s probably because he’s living out his domestic dream. Back when it was only Porsche and Porchay, Porsche always wanted them to eat at least one meal together each day, preferably breakfast, as it is the most important meal of the day according to Porsche. But Porchay can’t stay, not now.
“Hia, I’m late, I got to go,” Porchay mumbles, grabbing a napkin from the countertop, wrapping up his piece of toast in it.
“Late? Doesn’t school start in like an hour? I can drive you, I-”
Porchay mumbles something about a project and that he’s supposed to meet up with his group to discuss their research. He deposits his backpack on the floor briefly, grabbing his lunch money out of a box on the counter. The kitchen is quiet as Porchay quickly packs his bag.
Guilt rips through Porchay as he takes in the crestfallen look that consumes Porsche, his shoulders slumping, making him seem much, much younger. Quickly, Porchay wraps his brother into a brief hug, mumbling something about saving him some congee, before he ducks out of the embrace and almost runs out of the kitchen.
“Porchay!” Porsche yells.
“Porchay!” Kinn calls.
“Porchay!”
Porchay stumbles over his own feet as he hears Kim’s voice call his name. A small, small part of him wants to turn around, to talk to Kim, to tell Porsche everything. But Porchay is done with this, done with the feeling Kim gives him, done with crying over a man who dated him only because he wanted to know more about Porsche. Shrugging, as if he can shake off the feeling, Porchay continues to walk briskly down the hall, heading for the garage.
alchemicink, you're up! This is your (long ass) sentence: Shrugging, as if he can shake off the feeling, Porchay continues to walk briskly down the hall, heading for the garage.