Escape

by Riddlerattler

Summary:

Hyunjin's grief is a wound that never healed-until the night he almost runs over a boy with honey-brown eyes and sketch-filled hands. In the blur of pain and headlights, two broken souls collide.

A hyunin story

Notes:

New work and so excited
.....see the end of the chapter for more notes.

Chapter 1

Hyunjin felt like shit.

He had been feeling like shit for the past few days. Maybe even weeks. He wasn’t keeping track anymore. What was the point? Time had started blending together in a way that made everything feel indistinct. He woke up, existed, tried to breathe, tried to function, and failed miserably at all of it. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get himself back to normal—whatever the fuck normal was supposed to be.

The ache in his chest hadn’t lessened. It hadn't dulled, hadn’t faded into the background like people said it would. Time heals all wounds? Bullshit. Time was a fucking liar. If anything, time had only made it worse because now, there was an expectation that he should be better. That he should have moved on. But he hadn’t. And he couldn’t.

Hyunjin slammed his foot against the brake, bringing the car to a jarring stop on the side of the empty road. His hand trembled as he reached up, yanking his tie loose with too much force. The fabric burned against his skin for a second before coming undone. He let out a sharp exhale, pressing his forehead against the steering wheel.

"Why is the universe so cruel?" His voice cracked, the words barely making it past his lips. "Why is love so cruel?"

He clenched his jaw, nails digging into his palms.

Why does love last when the lover doesn’t?

Why couldn’t he have buried his love along with him?

His fingers twitched against the wheel as he finally lifted his head, eyes drifting to the rearview mirror. And fuck, he looked like a disaster. His face was blotchy, eyes bloodshot, lips bitten raw. He had been crying—he knew that much. But at some point, the tears had become so familiar that he didn’t even register them anymore. It was just another part of his routine. Another thing that made him feel like he wasn’t human anymore.

He wasn’t moving forward. He was stuck in the same fucking place, looping the same goddamn pain like some broken machine. He didn’t even feel real anymore. Just an echo of the person he used to be. A shadow.

He rubbed a hand over his face, inhaling shakily before leaning back against the headrest. The silence in the car was suffocating. He hated silence. Silence was dangerous. It left too much room for his thoughts to spiral. Left too much space for the memories to creep in—the way he laughed, the way he smelled, the way his fingers curled into Hyunjin’s when he thought no one was looking.

A sharp sob forced its way out of his throat. He barely had time to slap a hand over his mouth, as if that would stop it. As if he could suppress all the grief clawing at his ribs, curling around his lungs like a goddamn vice.

He gasped. He had forgotten how to breathe.

His hands shook as he reached for the glove compartment, yanking it open with unnecessary force. His fingers fumbled through the mess inside until they found it—the small, worn-out photograph tucked into the corner. He pulled it out with more gentleness than he thought himself capable of, running his thumb over the faded edges.

There he was.

Smiling.

So alive.

Hyunjin let out a ragged breath, pressing the picture against his chest like it would bring him closer. Like it could somehow fill the empty space inside him.

But it never did. It never would.

He closed his eyes.

"I don’t know how to do this without you."

And he didn’t.

He really fucking didn’t.

He yanked the photo back in the compartment closing it.

He started the car again. His fingers were shaking against the wheel, and his knuckles had turned white from gripping it too hard. The world outside was just a blur neon signs blending into each other, streetlights flickering in and out of his vision like dying stars. But none of it mattered. Nothing felt real. The roads were empty, but his mind wasn’t

The last few days he spent with Felix were the best of his life. The kind of days that didn’t feel real until they were over.

And if Hyunjin had known... if he had known they were the last, he wouldn’t have just tried to memorize Felix’s smile—he would’ve carved it into stone. He would’ve begged time to stop, clawed at the clock hands, burned every calendar page if it meant staying there just a moment longer.

Or better, he would have killed himself too.

The thought slammed into him so hard he almost let out a laugh. A bitter, hollow one.

His fingers clenched tighter around the wheel, his eyes stinging even though he’d already cried so much his tears had turned into ghosts Hyunjin never saw Felix cry. Not once. Felix was the kind of person who held the whole world together, who smiled through the pain, who made life feel lighter just by existing. Now, he wonders—what would Felix have said if he were here? Seeing Hyunjin like this? Would he have scolded him for being a mess? Held him and whispered, it’s okay? Or would he have cried too?

One thought bled into another. Images. Memories. Flickers of light behind closed eyes. The curve of Felix’s lips. The warmth of his fingers against Hyunjin’s neck. That stupid way he said Hyunjin’s name when he was annoyed but still in love.

And just like that, he saw Felix die one more time.

The impact was instant, a car crash in his brain. His breath cut short. His grip on the wheel loosened. The world tilted. The image of Felix, lifeless, cold, slipping away. Hyunjin gasped and clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

And then—

Hyunjin’s throat tightened so violently he could barely breathe. He didn’t even realize how fast he was driving until

The shape. The blur.

Someone.

He slammed the brakes, the tires screeching against asphalt, the car lurching forward before jolting to a stop with a sickening jerk. His chest slammed against the seatbelt. His breath hitched.

“Fuck—”

The boy was on the road, legs bent awkwardly, blood trickling down his scraped palm and staining the cracked asphalt beneath him. But Hyunjin… he couldn’t move. His legs had gone numb.

His fingers gripped the steering wheel long after the engine had gone quiet, knuckles white, jaw clenched, lungs struggling to remember how to breathe. Because for one horrifying second, he’d thought he’d hit him.

For one second—one blink, one thought too late—he had almost done the same thing someone had done to Felix.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. His heart thrashed violently against his ribs, like it was punishing him, screaming inside his chest, you almost did it. You almost did it too.

He was out of the car before he even registered it, boots crunching against gravel as he staggered into the night, eyes wide.

The headlights were blinding, throwing long, eerie shadows onto the road. The engine was still running behind him, humming low like it was holding its breath.

And then—

Honey-brown eyes. So bright in the headlights of his car.

That was the first thing he saw.

Wide, deep, and staring directly at him. They shimmered like glass in the light, soft and sharp all at once. A breath caught in Hyunjin’s lungs. The rest of the world fell away.

But those eyes God, those eyes looked like they belonged to someone who hadn’t been touched in a long time. Like no one had spoken gently to him in months. Like the world had forgotten he was here.

Hyunjin stared at him. The boy stared back.

And in the seconds that passed, something strange happened—Hyunjin’s rage, his fear, his pain... all of it cracked.

The boy blinked slowly, like he was trying to figure out whether he was dead or dreaming. And Hyunjin... Hyunjin just breathed.

Hyunjin’s legs finally moved. He stepped closer, boots crunching under the weight of urgency. “Are you hurt?” His voice came out low, strained. He was already crouching without thinking, eyes locked onto the boy’s bleeding palm.

The boy looked up slowly. There was a pause, one of those soft, quiet moments that somehow stretched and lingered in the space between strangers.

And then he smiled.

A real smile. One of those rare ones that curled at the edges without trying, that glowed even under the stifling weight of night and blood and headlights. His eyes lit up with it, honey-brown and warm even in this cold place between chaos and chance.

“It’s okay,” the boy said gently. “My fault too. I thought I could cross.”

His voice was soft. Calming. As if he wasn’t the one who had almost died just seconds ago.

He shifted and stood up slowly, brushing gravel off his pants with one hand, the other still hovering near his injured palm. As he stood, a thin stack of papers scattered across the road behind him like fragile leaves. They fluttered in the breeze, a breeze that always came after a storm, when the world felt heavy with things left unsaid.

Hyunjin moved to help, but froze when his eyes caught what was on them.

Sketches.

Dozens of them, some folded and smudged, others still crisp. Fine pencil lines traced expressions and faces—strangers, maybe lovers. One page showed a boy crouching like he was hiding from the world. Another had eyes that looked a little too much like his own.

“You draw,” Hyunjin murmured, picking up the one that almost came beneath his shoes with the wind .

The boy glanced over, a bit sheepish now, cheeks tinged pink. “Yeah. Helps me think.”

Hyunjin’s gaze dropped to the boy’s palm again. Red. Swollen. Still bleeding. “But your hand,” he said, voice rougher now, concern blooming like panic in his throat. “You’re hurt—”

“It’s nothing, I've had worse.” the boy cut in softly, holding his hand like it was no more than a papercut.

But Hyunjin’s concern wouldn’t leave him. There was something about his own urgency, an ache beneath his ribs, that made him feel like he had to help, had to do something. “But it's bleeding and it doesn't look good though,” he said, trying to steady his voice, make it sound casual even though he knew he was anything but.

Hyunjin shook his head, stepping closer. “You need to get that cleaned. It could be worse than it looks.”

The boy’s eyes flickered to him, he must’ve caught the way Hyunjin’s voice trembled, just slightly. The way it cracked at the edges like it wasn’t used to caring out loud anymore. Maybe he noticed the way Hyunjin was holding himself too tightly. Like he was barely holding it together.

“I can take you to the hospital,” Hyunjin offered again, this time gentler. More certain.

The boy looked at him for a moment longer. His gaze softened again.

Hyunjin didn’t wait for a yes.

He turned and walked back to the car, swallowing the pressure in his chest. It wasn't just about a scraped hand. He didn’t even know why it mattered so much—why this boy, this moment, had pressed itself so suddenly and permanently into his night. But it had.

He slid into the driver’s seat and glanced toward the passenger side just as the boy began to move.

The boy hesitated only once, glancing down at the sketch pages gathered under his arm like they were a shield. Then he stepped closer to the car.

Hyunjin reached across and unlocked the passenger door with a soft click.

It opened.

The boy slid in, careful not to press his hand against anything. His movements were slow, maybe from the pain, maybe from the weight of surprise. He closed the door gently, looking around the car like it held a thousand secrets.

Hyunjin didn’t start the car yet. He just sat there, fingers still on the steering wheel, stealing a glance at the boy beside him.

His hair fell messily over his forehead, casting shadows over his bruised cheek. His lips were parted like he had something to say but didn’t know how to say it.

Hyunjin stared ahead, his own heartbeat pounding loud in the silence.

So he started the car.

This time, slower.

This time, with both hands steady on the wheel.

This time, with a whisper in his mind that sounded a little like Felix.

…………….

The hospital was sterile and cold. The kind of that made its way into your skin, like it didn’t care if you were bleeding or just broken on the inside. It made Hyunjin feel sicker than he already did. The smell of antiseptic, the sound of someone coughing down the hallway, the flicker of overhead fluorescent lights, all of it was too familiar, too much.

He followed the boy inside like a shadow, a step behind, not knowing what to say or where to look.

Jeongin—that’s what the nurse called him when she handed back his ID card.

“Here you go, Jeongin. You’re all set. Nothing serious—just some abrasions. Keep the area clean, and it should heal up fine.”

That name—"Jeongin"—just... stuck in his chest like a pin.

Jeongin.

So now the boy had a name. And somehow that made it worse. Made it more real. More personal. He wasn’t just *the boy Hyunjin almost killed*. He was Jeongin.

Soft-spoken.

Kind-eyed.

The one who smiled even with blood on his hand.

Jeongin slid off the exam table, carefully flexing his fingers as he looked down at the wrapped gauze on his palm. He turned to Hyunjin with that same lopsided, effortless smile.

“See? I told you I was okay.”

Hyunjin stared at him for a second too long. There was a moment, barely noticeable, where he wanted to reach out. Just to make sure. Just to feel the warmth of Jeongin’s wrist, to remind himself that he was really, *really* okay.

But instead, he just nodded. “Yeah. I see that now.”

The hospital doors hissed open behind them as Jeongin stepped out first, his body slightly hunched as he cradled the stack of sketch papers to his chest with his bandaged hand. The city had grown quieter. The quiet that came after a storm—not silence, but a hum that lingered in the cracks.

Hyunjin followed slowly, a few paces behind, shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets. His jaw ached from clenching, his ribs felt tight, and his heart hadn't slowed since he’d slammed the brakes back there. He couldn’t shake the image. That moment where his headlights hit skin instead of pavement. Fuck. His stomach twisted all over again.

Jeongin glanced left, then right, standing near the edge of the sidewalk, brows furrowing slightly. His hair fell into his eyes, messy from the wind. The stack of papers in his hand shifted, threatening to scatter.

He wasn’t saying anything, but Hyunjin could tell—he was looking for a cab.

“Are you looking for a cab? I can drop you.” Hyunjin asked, his voice low, hoarse from hours of tension.

Jeongin turned toward him, a little surprised. “It’s okay. I’ll manage.”

“It's alright. I will. Get in the car.”

“I really don’t—”

“I almost ran you over. Just let me do this one thing without arguing. Take this as an apology as well.”

Jeongin stared at him, unreadable. Then his gaze dropped to his bandaged palm, now stained a little with the faintest trace of blood from holding the weight of his papers too tightly.

“Put your stuff in the backseat,” Hyunjin said more gently this time, already moving toward the car. “You’re holding it with your fucked-up hand. You don’t need to be that stubborn.”

Jeongin hesitated only for a second before giving in. He opened the back door and slid the sketchpad and papers onto the seat carefully, like they were more valuable than they looked. Then he moved to the passenger side, climbed in, and pulled the door shut behind him.

They didn’t talk at first.

Not even for the first ten minutes.

The silence wasn’t awkward, at least that's what Hyunjin thought, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either. It was the kind that pressed into your ears and made you overthink every sound. The turn signal clicking. The thrum of the tires over the road. The quiet, barely-there sound of Jeongin tapping his bandaged fingers after flexing them, checking for the damage.

Hyunjin's fingers flexed and unflexed on the steering wheel.

He kept glancing at Jeongin through the corner of his eye, studying the way his profile looked under the passing glow of streetlights. He had a pretty face. A soft one. Not in a way that begged for attention, but in a way that made Hyunjin feel like the world would be a little worse if something happened to it.

He swallowed hard and tried not to think about how close that came to being reality.

“Left here,” Jeongin said quietly.

Hyunjin nodded and took the turn, more careful than he usually would be.

Another pause.

“Are you feeling pain in your fingers?” he asked suddenly, needing to hear something. Anything.

“No,” Jeongin replied. “I just... i thought they were getting numb so I was moving them..”

Hyunjin nodded again. His knuckles tapped lightly against the gearshift.

“I almost fucking hit you.”

Jeongin looked over, surprised, not by the words, maybe, but by the timing.

“Yeah,” he said simply.

“If I hadn't come to my senses on time, I would’ve ruined your life.”

He heard Jeongin exhale beside him.

“You didn’t.”

“But I could’ve.”

Silence again.

Hyunjin wanted to punch the steering wheel. Or himself. Anything to get this weight off his chest.

“Do you always spiral this hard?” Jeongin asked after a moment.

Hyunjin turned to him, shocked for a second—but Jeongin wasn’t being cruel. He was just... observing. Like he was trying to understand a painting. The monochromes one on which the more you stare at, the more you start to see things.

Hyunjin let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

“Right here,” Jeongin said, pointing toward a quiet street with low trees and bright porch lights.

Hyunjin pulled up to the curb slowly. He shifted the car into park but didn’t turn it off yet.

When they pulled up to an old apartment building with rust stains under the windows and dim hallway lights you could see from the street, Jeongin leaned forward slightly and unbuckled his seatbelt.

“Here,” he said, nodding to the faded curb. “Thanks for the ride.”

Hyunjin pulled up to the curb slowly. He shifted the car into park but didn’t turn it off yet. His hands were already on the steering wheel, ready to pull away.

But then Jeongin paused with the door halfway open, and glanced back.

“You should come in.”

Hyunjin blinked, confused. “What?”

Jeongin shifted in his seat to face him more directly. “You came all the way here. Took me to the hospital. Sat through that whole awkward check-up. It’d be kind of rude to just... send you off like that. You know?”

Hyunjin’s gut tightened. He didn’t want to. Not even a little. The idea of stepping into someone else’s home tonight, of being offered warmth when he didn’t deserve any, made his skin crawl. He wasn’t ready to be around anything soft.  He’d fucked up. That guilt was still eating him alive from the inside out.

But Jeongin was watching him. Not expectantly, just with that same quiet calm, like he was offering water to someone who’d been walking in the desert. No pressure. No pity. Just... here.

Hyunjin sighed, jaw flexing.

“I don’t know if I’m—”

“Just for a minute,” Jeongin added, already stepping out of the car. “You don’t even have to sit. Just come in if you feel  uncomfortable. Breathe. Then you can go.”

That was what finally got him.

That he wasn’t asking for anything. Not really.

So Hyunjin killed the engine, shoved the door open, and followed.

The building smelled like old tile and dust. The elevator had a flickering bulb and made a low moaning sound as it climbed three floors. Jeongin didn’t say anything, just stood beside him with his arms around his bundle of papers. He just leaned against the elevator wall, eyes cast down. Hyunjin caught him glancing at his hand once, frowning faintly like he was only now realizing it hurt.

They reached third floor and Jeongin led him in the hallway, coming to an abrupt stop as he reached his room.

"Come in." Jeongin smiled opening the door for apartment 308.

......

Chapter 2

Hyunjin had followed Jeongin into the apartment mostly to avoid looking like an asshole. That was all. Or that's what he told himself. It was polite. It was decent. It didn't mean anything.

The door clicked open and Jeongin stepped inside first, kicking his shoes off with the ease of someone who didn't think about being watched. The second Hyunjin stepped over the threshold, he was hit by something unexpected: calm.

And not just calm but clean.

It was... spotless.

Not sterile, not empty, but clean in a way that felt lived in but not chaotic. The floor was a dark walnut wood, smooth under his boots. A small, low-slung couch sat beneath a big window that wore sheer curtains like a Sunday dress. A soft cream throw was draped across one arm of the couch. Books stacked neatly on one corner of the coffee table. No clutter, no dishes, not even a pair of socks lying around like casualties of exhaustion. Which only made Hyunjin wonder...

Did Jeongin never have time to be messy?

Or was he just that lonely?

Before he could decide what to make of it, a soft pat-pat-pat broke the silence, followed by a light meow. A tiny silver-grey kitten came bounding from the hallway, paws quiet but eyes wide and excited.

British Shorthair.

Hyunjin recognized the breed immediately. Thick plush fur, a face too round to be real, and legs a little too short for its confidence.

"Chirpy!" Jeongin beamed, kneeling down despite his hand still being a bit stiff. The kitten squeaked, purring hard enough to vibrate through the room as it ran straight to him. "I'm home," he said softly to it, scratching behind its ears. "And this is Mister...." He turned his head over his shoulder, lips curving into something between a smile and a question. "Um...?"

Hyunjin blinked. "Hyunjin. I'm Hyunjin."

Jeongin nodded. "Mister Hyunjin, then."

"Just Hyunjin."

The kitten decided it liked that name just fine and scurried over to Hyunjin, sniffing around his boots, then circling him like he was being accepted into some feline cult.

"He's friendly," Hyunjin muttered, slightly stiff.

"He's nosy," Jeongin replied, already walking toward what looked like the kitchen. "Make yourself comfortable. You can sit on the couch. Or... anywhere really."

Hyunjin sat down like the couch might bite him. His back stayed straight, his hands clenched together between his knees. The apartment felt too quiet, too intimate, like he had stepped into someone's diary and didn't know which line not to read.

He looked around. The kitchen was directly attached to the lounge, only a narrow breakfast bar separating them. Minimalistic layout. White tiles, silver appliances, soft yellow under-cabinet lights. One of the room doors was still open a crack.

Chirpy hopped up next to him, curling into a ball on the far cushion, tail flicking against Hyunjin's thigh like a quiet metronome.

The kettle clicked on in the kitchen. Jeongin didn't say anything at first. He was busy measuring tea leaves into a tiny glass pot, and Hyunjin couldn't help but notice the way he moved, precise, like he was always trying not to take up too much space.

Then Hyunjin asked, without looking at him, "Was he alone the whole time?"

Jeongin's back was to him. He didn't turn. "No. I left him with Minho hyung for the day."

"Hyung?"

Jeongin turned just slightly, leaning back against the counter, the kettle now gently boiling behind him.

"He's my neighbor," he explained, brushing hair from his eyes with the back of his hand. "Lives two doors left. Has three cats of his own. He helped me get this place too."

Hyunjin nodded once. Tried not to make it sound too much like a grunt. The quiet between them filled up with the whistle of the kettle.

Jeongin poured hot water into the pot and let the tea steep. Everything about him looked soft in that moment, his voice, his cardigan sleeves pushed up just enough to show a bracelet on his wrist, his socked feet slightly turned inward like he didn't quite know how to stand.

"What do you do?" Hyunjin asked, trying to distract himself from the stupid part of his brain that wanted to know if Jeongin ever had someone who just stayed.

Jeongin glanced toward the living room wall. There was a cork board hanging above a slim desk, pinned with several sheets of paper, some hand-drawn, some printed. Rough sketches in pencil. Lines shaped into bodies, hands, emotions frozen mid-expression.

"You draw?" Hyunjin asked.

"Yeah," Jeongin said simply, walking over to the board. He picked up one paper that had fallen half-off, smoothing it out with the palm of his hand. "I do picture illustrations. Mostly for children's books. Sometimes commissions. Some graphic novels too, when I have the time."

"Nice."

Jeongin turned to look at him, eyebrow slightly raised. "You sound surprised."

"I'm not," Hyunjin said quickly, then paused. ". You just don't exactly scream artist."

"I get that a lot." Jeongin smiled, not offended. Just... used to it.

He brought over two mugs of tea, handing one to Hyunjin before plopping onto the other end of the couch beside Chirpy, who barely stirred. The silence settled again, but this time it was more awful. Too many things to talk about in world, too many jokes to make but they sat in front of each other like they were having a silent off.

Hyunjin wasn't sure when the tea had stopped steaming.

He hadn't touched it. Not really. He just held the cup because it gave his hands something to do. It was that or clench them into fists. He wasn't angry. He just... didn't know how to be in a place like this. It made his skin feel tight.

He shifted on the couch, gaze following the tiny grey kitten as it stood up, padded back and jumped effortlessly up onto Jeongin's lap. Chirpy let out a tiny, squeaky noise before curling up into a ball. Jeongin looked down at the kitten fondly, one hand stroking along the soft ears, before glancing up.

"You don't like tea?" Jeongin asked, tone light, maybe a little hesitant.

Hyunjin's voice came after a pause. "Didn't think it'd suit the moment."

It was the kind of thing he'd always said when he wasn't sure how to name what he was feeling, deflective, clipped, easier than honesty. A breath escaped him, almost a laugh, but not quite. It didn't reach his lips. Just passed through them like a secret he hadn't meant to tell.

Jeongin didn't push.

Instead, he looked down, nudging the kitten's paw gently. "It's okay. I didn't really make it for the tea."

Hyunjin let his eyes scan the room again. The sketch board, the carefully stacked books. It was strange how everything in here felt neat but not soulless. It didn't feel staged. It felt like a person lived here who took care of things, even the small ones.

There was something oddly intimate about being let into a space like this.

He asked, voice quiet, "You live alone?"

Jeongin hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. My parents are usually out of the country for business. They check in. Not much else."

Another pause. Jeongin glanced sideways at Hyunjin, who wasn't looking at him anymore. His eyes were on the bookshelf, or maybe nothing at all.

"Minho hyung helped me move here like I told you," Jeongin added. "It's been five years I think."

Hyunjin nodded slowly, still not meeting his eyes. "The place doesn't look temporary."

"It's not," Jeongin said softly. "I chose everything."

Hyunjin didn't answer.

Hyunjin remembered moving into his first place. Bare walls, borrowed furniture, a mattress on the floor that he didn't bother to fix most days. He hadn't chosen a damn thing. He'd just taken what didn't look broken. But this didn't sound worth sharing.

He didn't know what to say. He wasn't good at this. He hadn't meant to stay this long. He hadn't even meant to come inside. But declining Jeongin's request would've given him more guilt to trip onto. So he decided the best for his sanity. And now he was sitting there not able to decide what to speak next.

His fingers tapped the rim of the mug. Once. A small, staccato sound in the hush of the room.

Jeongin tilted his head, watching him like someone trying to read through frosted glass. "You don't talk much, do you?"

Hyunjin looked at him then. His eyes weren't guarded so much as weary. "No," he said. "Not really."

Jeongin's smile was small but real. "That's okay. I talk more when it's quiet."

"How do you manage living alone?" Hyunjin asked. His timidness was dripping from the way he said it.

"I am used it by now. You get used to it overtime."

Hyunjin nodded, then regretted asking. It felt too personal, even though it wasn't. He wasn't trying to dig. He just didn't know what else to say. The room smelled faintly like green tea and something herbal. Something grounding.

He looked at the front door briefly.

Too long.

Jeongin noticed.

His gaze dropped to Chirpy again. The kitten had settled completely into Jeongin's lap, tiny body trusting, defenseless. Contradictory to the name, the cat barely meowed once.

Any moment of silence only brought Hyunjin back to his spiraling thoughts. Back in the days when he used to be happy, one thing he hated was thinking. Thinking about future and what will happen. He considered it useless and preferred living in present and enjoying whatever life brings him. But now, he couldn't help but overanalyze everything and anything. And one thing for sure, that was driving him nuts.

He didn't realize how long he'd gone silent again until Jeongin stood and gathered the cups.

"I can reheat yours," Jeongin said, not quite looking at him. "Or... not. It's fine."

Hyunjin stood too, too quickly. It was the kind of movement people made when they realized they'd overstayed.

"I should go," he muttered. It didn't come out cold, but it wasn't warm either.

Jeongin paused, then nodded. "Okay."

He didn't stop him. Didn't try to hold the moment together. Just turned, set the mugs down on the kitchen counter, and stood there with his back half-turned.

Somehow, that hurt more.

Hyunjin moved to the door. His shoes were still neatly lined up where he'd left them. He slipped them on, feeling like the air in the apartment didn't want him to go. Like it had grown used to him.

He didn't look back. Not until Jeongin said softly, "Thanks for—"

But he didn't finish.

And Hyunjin didn't ask him to.

He opened the door, stepped into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind him, barely audible.

The night had a particular bite to it, not freezing, but enough to graze along Hyunjin's cheeks as he stepped out onto the pavement. The door shut with a dull thud behind him.
He tugged his coat tighter around his body, the collar brushing up against his jaw, and let out a slow breath that fogged in the air before vanishing.

It was late. Later than he meant it to be.

He stood there for a moment, one hand resting loosely against the car roof, looking down the empty stretch of road. Buildings stacked against each other in the distance, windows blinking like tired eyes.

The conversation, if it could even be called that, still clung to him. An awkward, timid thing.
Words fumbled out. Long silences stretching thin between them. He hadn't meant to stay as long as he had.

With a quiet click of his tongue against his teeth, Hyunjin pushed himself off the car and moved around to the driver's side. His steps were slow, like dragging himself through something thick and unseen.

He yanked the door open and slid into the driver's seat, pulling it shut with a hollow slam that echoed too loud in the stillness. The interior was cold, stiff. The kind of cold that stuck to your skin even after you tried to shake it off. Hyunjin let his head fall back against the seat. He stared up at the ceiling for a long while, not moving.

His phone was dead. He knew that already. Still, he reached for it automatically, thumbing the black screen once, twice, as if hoping it would flicker back to life.

Nothing.

A humorless, almost invisible laugh pushed past his lips. The kind you didn't really feel.

He dropped the phone onto the passenger seat and sat back again, fingers absently curling into loose fists against his thighs. It had been... how long? Months? Years? Since he'd actually sat somewhere with someone and had a conversation that wasn't hollow or transactional.

He wasn't used to it anymore. The pauses. The way someone's voice filled a room without expectation. The way Jeongin had answered his questions without pushing back, without asking Hyunjin to give anything in return. It was unfamiliar. It itched under his skin.

He shifted in the seat, the leather groaning faintly under his weight, and exhaled through his nose. The breath sounded too loud in the silence. He didn't know what he had expected. Or why he felt a little like he'd stepped into something he didn't know how to walk back from.

He was supposed to be better at this. Keeping people at arm's length. Slipping out of rooms before anyone noticed he'd been there in the first place. Instead, he was sitting here, parked like a damn fool, replaying the awkward small talk and the way Jeongin had smiled, polite and maybe a little uncertain.

Hyunjin inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring, and sat up straighter. The keys jangled in his fingers as he pulled them from his coat pocket. He slid them into the ignition but didn't turn them right away. Just sat there, staring blankly out the windshield.

The streets were starting to empty out. Shops closing, lights blinking off one by one. The city slipping into its quieter, lonelier skin. Hyunjin wet his lips absently, tasting the cold on them. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, ruffling it messily, and finally twisted the keys. The engine rumbled to life, loud and jarring in the dead quiet.

Hyunjin shifted into gear and pulled away from the curb, the tires crunching over loose gravel.

He didn't look back.

Not because he didn't want to. But because he knew if he did, if he so much as glanced back at that building, he wouldn't be able to lie to himself about what he was starting to feel.

And that scared him more than anything.

The road opened up ahead, long and empty, and he let the car roll forward into the dark.

...........

The house was dark when Hyunjin pulled into the driveway, the engine's soft growl dying into a low hush as he switched off the ignition.

For a moment, he just sat there, the keys dangling loosely from his fingers, the cool metal clinking in the heavy stillness. The porch light had been left on, a dim circle of yellow barely cutting through the thick shadows that draped the front of the house.

Hyunjin let out a breath, long and quiet, before finally dragging himself out of the car. The door clicked shut behind him with a careful push; he winced at the sound anyway, even though it was barely audible. Gravel shifted under his shoes as he made his way toward the door. The key slipped into the lock with a soft scrape, and he turned it slowly, cautious like a thief in his own home.

Inside, the darkness was heavier, like a blanket thrown over the world.

He kicked his shoes off by the door, nudging them into the corner with the side of his foot, and shrugged out of his coat. The fabric caught briefly against his wrist before he wrestled free, tossing it wordlessly onto the nearest chair.

He didn't bother turning on the lights. The house was familiar enough to navigate blind.

Hyunjin moved quietly through the hallway, steps feather-light against the wooden floorboards, trying his best to reach the stairs without a sound.

He was almost there.

Almost.

And then-

"Where were you?"

The voice was low, firm, and far too calm.

Hyunjin froze mid step, his shoulders locking up, his fingers twitching uselessly at his sides.
He turned slowly, heart sinking already.

Chan stood in the doorway of the living room, arms crossed loosely over his chest, barefoot, wearing an old hoodie, his hair pushed back like he'd been running his hands through it all evening.

Hyunjin didn't answer. He just stared back, jaw tight.

Chan shifted, stepping into the hall, his socked feet silent against the floor.

"Do you know how worried we were?" he continued, voice steady, almost infuriatingly patient. "We called. You didn't answer. Your phone's dead."

Hyunjin ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply through his nose.

The last thing he needed right now, the very last thing, was a lecture. Another reminder that he was screwing everything up, that he was disappointing everyone all over again.

"I'm not a kid, Chan," Hyunjin said, his voice a low scrape. "I don't need you breathing down my neck."

"Obviously." Chan sighed, taking a step forward. "But you could've said something. You can't just disappear and switch your phone off, we were—"

"Oh my God," Hyunjin snapped, louder than he meant to, "Can I just get upstairs without being grilled for once?"

Chan didn't flinch. He never did. He blinked slowly, like he was biting his tongue.

Hyunjin shook his head, scoffing bitterly. "You always do this. You act like I'm some kid who needs a tracking device strapped to his ankle."

"I act like someone who cares when you vanish for hours without a word," Chan interrupted, calm, his voice controlled. "You know what that does to Mom?"

Hyunjin let out a harsh, bitter laugh and gestured vaguely toward the door. "You think I care? Do you know how exhausting it is to constantly feel like I owe everyone something? A text. A phone call. An explanation. Like I'm some broken machine and you all need status updates so you can sleep at night."

"You don't owe us status updates," Chan said, stepping a little closer. "You owe it to yourself to stop pretending nothing's wrong."

Hyunjin's laugh turned jagged. "Stop pretending? Chan, what do you think I've been doing this whole time? I am pretending. I've been pretending for months that I'm fine, that I'm functioning, that I'm not unraveling a little more every goddamn day and..."

His voice cracked. He didn't care.

Chan's eyes softened.

"You're holding on too tight," he said gently. "To everything. It's hurting you. You need to let something go."

"Let go of what?" Hyunjin barked. "Huh? My brain? My memories? The part of me that still thinks if I stay quiet enough, still enough, maybe I'll finally stop feeling everything so fucking much?"

Chan didn't speak.

"Do you think I want to be like this?" Hyunjin's hands were trembling now. "Do you think I like being this mess of thoughts and rage and guilt and whatever the hell this is?"

He took a shaky step back, one hand over his mouth like it would stop the heat building behind his eyes.

Chan didn't move. He just watched and waited. Like always. A patient older brother

Hyunjin looked into Chans eyes. It reminded Hyunjin of when they were younger, when he'd come home crying from school and slammed his door shut. Chan would sit outside, just breathing quietly on the other side. Not knocking. Not demanding answers. Just there.

That annoying patience.

"I can't talk to people, Chan," Hyunjin said more quietly now. "Not the way normal people do. I say things wrong. I read too much into shit. I get weird, I get distant, and then I regret it, but it's already too late and I don't know how to fix it."

Chan's arms dropped from his chest. "You don't need to fix yourself."

"I do." Hyunjin's voice was small. "You don't get it, Chan," Hyunjin suddenly muttered. His voice was quieter now, but sharp at the edges, like something fraying. "You have Seungmin. You have a life. A real one. Balanced. Safe. Someone to come home to."

Chan blinked. "Hyunjin-"

"No, seriously," he cut in, laughing bitterly. "You have someone who looks at you and sees you. Not someone who's just... confused by you. You know what it's like to come home and actually feel home."

There was a tightness in his throat now, swelling. His chest felt like it was full of splinters.

"I don't even know if I'm jealous," Hyunjin went on, his voice faltering. "I don't know if I want what you have or if I just want something. Anything. Someone to tell me I'm real. Someone to fucking slap me across the face and scream that this is reality, this, his noise in my head, this weight in my chest, it's not some dream I can keep slipping out of."

His voice was rising again, fevered now, like the thoughts were tripping over each other.

"Maybe that's what I want. Someone to lock me in a room and say it over and over again 'This is real, Hyunjin. Felix is dead and You are left alone. You're real. You're here.' Until it tattoos itself into my goddamn brain like a psychological experiment. Like.... I don't know....like maybe repetition will finally fix me or something."

Chan looked at him for a long moment. His face didn't shift. He didn't speak.

Hyunjin scoffed, wiping at his eyes roughly.

"I'm sorry," he said, but it didn't sound like an apology. "I know I sound insane."

"You sound tired," Chan replied softly. "And overwhelmed."

Hyunjin blinked. He wasn't expecting kindness and that just made him angrier. Why can't Chan for fucking one time actually shows what he was feeling. Why can't he just slap him hard, like the one he deserved.

"You think I've never hated how balanced my life looks?" Chan added, voice quiet. "You think I haven't looked at you some nights and wished I had your courage?"

Hyunjin frowned. "Courage?"

Chan nodded. "To feel the way you feel and still wake up. Still try. Still face the world, even when it hurts like hell. That's not broken, Hyun. That's strong. Messy. But strong."

Hyunjin said nothing.

There was nothing to say when someone sees the parts of you you thought were unlovable... and doesn't look away.

Chan finally stepped closer. "You don't have to fight me," he said quietly. "I'm not here to fix you. I'm here to stay."

Hyunjin exhaled shakily. For a long second, he let the silence fall between them.

Chan was really annoying.

Notes:

A/N: Hi guys...sorry for late update ... I was busy with exam sand writing the chapter. I am still not satisfied, maybe 70 percent but here it is.  So sorry again for everyone who waited. And yes, one big motivation for me is you guys messaging me that You miss me .. So mwah

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Chirpy was actually the opposite of his name.

He didn’t chirp. Not really. He made little squeaks, yes, soft, breathy ones when he yawned or when he stretched too far and rolled off the cushion but there was nothing particularly chirpy about him.

At the moment, he was curled beside Jeongin’s hip, batting at an invisible enemy in the air with both tiny paws, his round head wobbling with every swipe.

Jeongin lay sprawled on the floor, his legs propped up on the sofa like a makeshift therapy exercise, one arm cradled protectively across his stomach and the other, the broken one, the bruised and bandaged left resting beside him uselessly.

He watched Chirpy’s slow, silly war with the air and blinked once.
Twice.

“Still small,” he muttered under his breath.

Chirpy paused, turned his round head, and let out a faint hiccup-like squeak before resuming battle.
Jeongin sighed.

Minho had told him, "British Shorthairs grow slow. They look tiny for months and then suddenly balloon out of nowhere." But it had been nearly a year. Chirpy was still the same size. His paws still barely made a sound on the wooden floor. His body still fit neatly into the hollow of Jeongin’s palm when he curled up. His purring still vibrated faintly like a mismatched phone on silent mode.

Jeongin had quietly decided, months ago, that there was something wrong. Not with Chirpy. But with himself. Maybe he’s small because I’m the one who’s stuck.

It sounded stupid when said out loud, so he never did.

Today was supposed to be different. At least a little.

He’d told himself, When you get home, you’ll sit at your desk. You’ll finish those sketches. You’ll try.

Not because he had a deadline. Not because anyone asked. Just because… maybe it would help. Maybe it would remind him that he was still capable of making something beautiful, even if he wasn’t feeling beautiful at all.

But then the damn fall.

The broken wrist.

And now, the half-dead weight of his left arm throbbed every time he moved too fast or too far. Which meant every attempt to do anything felt like walking through glue. He wasn’t even left-handed. That was the part that made it worse.

He could still hold a pencil. Could still press lines onto a page. But the will had shriveled, like some invisible balloon losing air with a slow hiss.

It wasn’t about the wrist.

It was about how it had taken this one, small thing, this one unlucky break to remind him how little motivation he really had left.

He rolled onto his side.

Chirpy meowed, confused by the movement, then promptly climbed over Jeongin’s thigh like it was a mountain he’d been trying to conquer for hours.

“Alright,” Jeongin muttered, eyes half-lidded, voice raspy from disuse. “I get it. You win.”

He hauled himself up slowly, groaning under his breath, his left arm hanging by his side like a dead vine. He didn’t really know why he was getting up. Maybe he thought standing would make him feel something. Maybe he was hungry. Maybe he just couldn’t stand lying down anymore.

Chirpy followed.

He always did.

Tiny paws tapped behind him with annoying determination, weaving through his ankles like some hyper-aware toddler on a sugar high.

“Stop,” Jeongin muttered as he stumbled into the kitchen. “You’re gonna trip me and I’m gonna break the other one.”

He leaned against the counter, staring at the cupboards like they were an exam question.

What did he want? Coffee? Cereal? Toast?

His right hand reached up instinctively for a mug. His left hand tried to help and instantly reminded him it wasn’t up for anything. The mug hit the floor with a crack, not shattered, but chipped. Like him.

Chirpy jumped back with a yelp, fur puffed. Jeongin flinched.

“Shit—sorry,” he whispered, more to himself than to the cat.

He bent down slowly, knees clicking, carefully reaching for the mug with one hand while balancing his weight with the other on the edge of the counter. Chirpy came close again, brushing against his shin.

Jeongin stared at the cat for a moment. Then down at the mug.

“See? Not totally useless,” he mumbled as he managed to place it in the sink with his good hand. “I mean… you don’t exactly see me drawing again anytime soon, but hey. At least I can clean up my own mess.”

He wanted to laugh, but the sound that came out was too dry to count.

He moved to the fridge. Opened it. Closed it again.

His legs felt weak. Not physically, emotionally. Like if someone handed him one more task, one more thing, he’d collapse with a sigh and just stay there until next week.

He leaned against the fridge, eyes drifting to the quiet kitchen window. Outside, it was dark.

Another day.

Chirpy meowed again, quietly this time, and rubbed his face against Jeongin’s ankle. Jeongin looked down at him and exhaled. Long and slow.

“Y’know,” he said softly, “sometimes I think you’re the only reason I still remember to eat.” He said, pulling out some left over mac and cheese from the refrigerator and putting it in the microwave,

The microwave beeped with a soft, dull ding that echoed faintly through the quiet kitchen.

Jeongin stood barefoot on the cold tile, watching the container of mac and cheese rotate for the last few seconds. The yellowish plastic had warped slightly from too many uses, and there was a dried sauce stain on one corner that refused to come off, no matter how many times he scrubbed it. He didn’t bother anymore.

He pulled it out, ignoring the steam that fogged up his glasses, and set it carefully on the counter. With his good hand, he scooped a portion of soft, overcooked kibble into Chirpy’s little ceramic bowl, the one with a fish cartoon half-faded at the bottom.

“There,” Jeongin muttered, glancing down as Chirpy trotted over, tail up, eyes wide like he hadn’t just been fed hours ago. “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

Chirpy didn’t reply, just dug into his food with feral focus, chewing like he had no idea Jeongin was talking.

Jeongin sighed and sat down at the kitchen table with his bowl. He blew on the mac and cheese, even though it was barely warm, then took a slow bite.

Chewy. A little dry. Over-salted. Still better than nothing.

He chewed thoughtfully, his mind already ahead of him, on the mess of papers in his room, on the decision he’d made.

He swallowed and looked at Chirpy, who was now licking the empty bowl, fully ignoring his presence.

“So, I’m gonna do it,” Jeongin said aloud, pushing the food around with his fork. “Tonight. I’ll finish those damn sketches. Or at least...try.”

He waited for some sort of cosmic sign. Chirpy licked his paw, then started cleaning behind his ear.

“Thanks for the support,” Jeongin muttered.

 

He finished his food in silence and cleared the plates, working slowly with one hand, careful not to bump his left wrist. He didn’t want to think about the painkillers he hadn’t taken today. It felt like cheating. He wanted to do this clear-headed, if only to prove he still could.

As he wiped down the counter with a damp cloth, he said it again, this time more to himself than to Chirpy.

“I am gonna do it. I have to.”

Because if he didn’t do it now, then when? Tomorrow? The next week? After the cast came off? After everything felt better?

But what if better never came?

The thought made something twist in his stomach.

He walked to his bedroom, exhaling slowly.

The sketch pages were where he had left them after he was dropped by Hyunjin, a mess on his desk, some stacked, some strewn on the floor, some stuffed haphazardly between books and under pencils. He sat down at the desk, pulled his chair closer with his foot, and began to organize the sheets one by one.

Character studies. Costume ideas. Loose lines and scribbles with little notes in the margins. All his.

There was something grounding about the way they smelled, that light mix of pencil graphite and cheap paper. It reminded him of college. Of long nights. Of dreams he hadn’t yet questioned.

He shuffled through them, muttering, “This one’s done… this too…”

But something didn’t sit right. There were gaps, literal ones. He remembered drawing three versions of that fight scene, two were here. One was missing. There was a sketch of the alley layout, gone.

The angle he’d drawn of the side profile with the smirk, missing.

He flipped through the pile again. Again. Then started crawling on the floor, checking under the bed, under the rug, behind the desk.

“No. No, no, no—”

His voice rose with each word.

“They were right here. I had them. I fucking—”

He gripped the edge of the desk with one hand and slammed his forehead lightly against the surface once. Twice.

A third time.

The sound wasn’t loud, but it was sharp.

“I knew I should’ve organized them earlier,” he muttered against the wood, jaw clenched. “I knew-God, Jeongin, you had one fucking job.”

 

Chirpy, who had followed him in and had been watching from the doorway, padded forward and let out a quiet meow.

Jeongin didn’t look up.

He just sat there, head against the desk, eyes closed, body tense. The weight in his chest returned, heavy, hot, and awful.

“I can’t even do this one thing,” he whispered.

Chirpy circled his leg once, then hopped up onto the desk beside him. The cat sat and stared with those too-round eyes, then lowered his body and curled up beside the stack of papers like a paperweight with fur.

Jeongin didn’t move for a long time.

The panic was still there, the ache of knowing that something you made, something that came from you, might be gone forever. But underneath it was that other voice. That deeper one.

 

Why does this always happen to me?

Why does everything feel like I’m just barely holding it together?

He opened his eyes and stared at the grain of the desk wood, breathing slow. His voice was quieter now. Barely audible.

“I just wanted to feel like I still had something.”

He reached out with his right hand and touched Chirpy’s side gently. The little cat purred softly and leaned into his palm.

And Jeongin just sat there.

One broken hand. One missing sketch. A hundred invisible bruises.

But also, one cat. One page still blank. One night left to try again.
…………
If Hyunjin could skip one part of the day, it would be nights.

Not that he particularly liked the day either, the constant noise, the forced interactions, the unbearable brightness of everything. But at least during the day, there were distractions. Expectations.

Movements that gave him the illusion of momentum, like maybe if he kept walking fast enough, he wouldn’t hear the thoughts trailing behind.

But nights?

Nights were merciless.

He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. It was dark, not a comforting kind of dark, not the soft kind you could hide in. It was dense, heavy. Like tar coating every thought and breath. His arms rested above his head on the pillow, and his blanket was kicked halfway off the bed, like it always ended up.

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Still wide awake.

His body was exhausted, so damn exhausted he could feel it in the aching base of his skull, in his heavy arms, in his sore feet. It was the kind of tired that usually dragged people into sleep like a tide.

But for Hyunjin, it did the opposite.

The more tired he got, the angrier he felt.

Why couldn’t he just sleep like everyone else?

Why did his brain have to keep punching him in the face with memory after memory, thought after thought, like some fucked up slideshow curated by self-hatred?

He sighed loudly, shifting to his side. The pillow was cold on his cheek. He didn’t like it.

His jaw tensed.

Tonight’s thought-of-the-night the “feature presentation,” as he mockingly called it was, of course, Jeongin.

That stupid, wide-eyed, kind idiot of a boy who didn’t even look scared when Hyunjin almost killed him. Who still looked concerned after the chaos. Who had blood on his hand that Hyunjin could never unsee.

The image slammed into his mind like a wave “I didn’t mean for it to go that far,” he whispered into the pillow, like someone was listening. Like Jeongin was in the room to hear it. “I didn’t fucking do it on purpose. No one—”

He cut himself off, groaning. What was the point of saying it now?

He could have died because of you.

His stomach twisted.

He wanted to punch the wall, but that would wake up Chan and then Chan would walk in, arms crossed, face stiff with disapproval, ready to give him another lecture.

You need to control your temper, Hyunjin.

You have responsibilities, Hyunjin.

People around you are suffering, Hyunjin.

He pulled the blanket up, covered his face with it, and screamed into the fabric.

It came out muffled and broken.

Hyunjin lay on his bed like a body washed up on the shore, eyes open, unmoving, unblinking. The ceiling above him stared back, plain, cracked at one corner, silent. The fan turned in slow revolutions, cutting through the quiet like the ticking of an old clock, rhythmic and taunting.

Sleep didn’t come. It never did when he needed it.

He turned to his side, then to his back again, then to his other side. The sheet crumpled under him. He hated it. The air was too still. The silence too loud.

His eyes stung, not from tears but from exhaustion. His chest felt tight, like he was being pressed down with something heavy, invisible. Something old. The chain of thoughts stopped at Felix

It was always Felix, eventually.

 

Even if the night started with anger, guilt, confusion, somehow it always circled back to him.

He hadn’t said his name aloud in months.

Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Because the moment he did, he was afraid something inside him would shatter that he’d never be able to fix again. He blinked up at the ceiling.

Felix used to hate the nights too. But not for the same reasons. Felix hated them because “they end too soon.”

“It’s like... they’re the only time I get to think clearly, you know?” Felix had once said, arms behind his head, lying on the hood of their stolen car, staring at stars they didn’t believe in.

Hyunjin remembered the way Felix used to talk. Like he was narrating a story, even when he was just ordering food. He had this softness in his tone that didn’t match the roughness of their life, the cracked knuckles and bloody noses.

“Do you think we’re gonna end up normal?” Felix had once asked, staring at a broken vending machine outside a gas station at 3 a.m.

Hyunjin had scoffed. “Define normal.”

“You know. Like… paying bills. Having a mailbox. Owning towels.”

“Towels?” Hyunjin had laughed.

“Shut up, towels are a sign of adulthood. You only buy them when you know you're staying somewhere.”

Hyunjin shut his eyes now, the faint ghost of that laugh still echoing in the back of his throat. It made his stomach ache.

They used to dream together, even if they never admitted that’s what it was. Quiet, reckless dreams. About apartments with peeling walls and maybe a plant or two. About having names that didn’t come with records. About cooking something that didn’t come out of a microwave.

They used to sit on rooftops, high off adrenaline and shitty vodka, talking about the lives they could never have.

Felix had always been the light in their darkness.

Chirpy. Bright. Unreasonably hopeful.

Until one night, he wasn’t.

Hyunjin swallowed hard.

He didn’t let himself think about that night too often. But tonight, the image of Felix’s hand slipping from his own felt sharper than ever. The coldness of it. The sudden stillness. The blood warm, and then not.

Hyunjin turned onto his stomach and buried his face into the pillow. His whole body was tense, stiff with the memories he never asked for. The grief was old, but it was loud. Louder than it should’ve been, like a wound that hadn’t figured out how to close.

He had promised Felix he’d get out. Said they'd both walk away from the mess one day.

But Felix had walked away too early.

And Hyunjin had been left behind, still stuck in the same loop, still waking up to the same guilt, the same anger, the same empty nights that never seemed to end.

His hands trembled a little as he gripped the edge of the sheet.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracked and hoarse. “I should’ve saved you. I should’ve gone first. I should’ve—”

His voice broke, the rest swallowed by the dark.

He hated the night.

Because the night always reminded him he was alone.

Not in the way where no one was around, there were people. Names. Faces. But none of them were Felix. None of them knew how to listen without judging, how to sit beside him and be silent in the right way, how to call him out without pushing him away.

No one else knew how to make Hyunjin feel like he wasn’t a monster not even Hyunjin himself.

The air felt heavy again. He pressed his face deeper into the pillow, like he could disappear into it. Like maybe if he closed his eyes hard enough, the night would swallow him whole.

But it didn’t.

It never did.

And so, like every other night, Hyunjin laid there, broken in ways no one could see, haunted by a voice that no longer existed, and waited for sleep that wouldn’t come.
……………..
Chan turned off the lights of the main hall one by one, his hand brushing against switches he could find even in pitch black.

Click. Click. Click.

The rhythm of habit. Like every night.

He moved through the place with the quiet grace of someone who had done this same routine too many times, checking the front door, twisting the lock just slightly to hear that extra click, checking the sliding windows in the kitchen, shutting the stove’s knobs just in case, and finally, passing by the hallway mirror where his own tired eyes stared back at him for half a second too long.

He looked like someone who lived with noise in his head.

In his room, he didn’t bother with the lights. Instead, he walked straight to the tall windows, pulling the curtains shut with a sharp tug. The outside lights still leaked through the gaps , the streetlamps, the neon boards across the street, the occasional flick of car headlights passing by.

He tossed his phone on the bed, peeled off his jacket and threw it somewhere on the chair without looking. Then, he turned on the AC and collapsed onto the bed face-first. The cold air kissed the sweat that still clung to the back of his neck. It felt good.

Tired didn’t quite cover it. He wasn’t just physically exhausted. He reached out and grabbed his phone again, lazily flipping it over to check the screen.

Two missed calls from Seungmin.

Before he could hit “Call Back,” the phone vibrated again in his hand.

Incoming Call: Seungmin.

Chan picked it up with a soft sigh. "Hello?"

Seungmin's voice came through the other side, sharp as always, but it had a certain warmth tonight. "Good night, Chan."

There was a pause.

Chan didn’t say anything.

Something about the way Seungmin said that, not casual, not teasing, not filler. It had weight. Like he meant it more than usual. Like it wasn’t just a greeting, but a check-in.

Is this what Hyunjin meant? Chan found himself thinking.

The question echoed in his head.

"Chan?" Seungmin's voice came again, this time with a slight edge. "You there?"

Chan nodded instinctively, even though he knew Seungmin couldn’t see. Then he mumbled, "Yeah. Just tired."

"Tired from what? What happened?" Seungmin asked, and he wasn’t asking like someone making conversation. He was asking like someone who knew there was something under the surface.

Chan turned to his side on the bed, the AC air now hitting his bare arm. He stared at the crack near the ceiling, his voice quiet, unsure.

"Hyunjin. He… said some things today."

"Like?"

Chan hesitated.

He didn’t want to say it all, not yet. Not when the words still felt like fresh cuts.

"He snapped," Chan said slowly. "Said I don’t understand anything. That I make everything sound easy. That I talk too much."

Seungmin hummed softly, but didn’t interrupt.

Chan continued, but his words started spacing out. Pausing more than speaking. "He said I act like grief is a problem to be solved. Like I keep pushing people when they’re not ready. And maybe… maybe I do. I don't know. I just... I try to help, Min. But somehow, it never feels like the right way."

There was silence on the line for a moment.

Then Seungmin replied, and his voice didn’t carry judgment — only careful understanding.

"Maybe he's not entirely wrong."

Chan's brows furrowed. He sat up slightly. "What?"

"Don’t get defensive. Just listen," Seungmin said, and this time, his voice was more gentle. "You’ve always been the fixer. That’s your instinct, you look at broken things and try to hold them together with your own hands. Even when you're bleeding. I’ve seen you do it. But, Chan... not everyone wants fixing. Some people just want space. Or silence. Or someone to sit next to them and not say anything."

Chan didn't speak. His throat felt tight.

"And Hyunjin… he lost someone. Someone he really, really loved," Seungmin went on. "That kind of loss rewires you. It doesn't just hurt — it changes the shape of how you exist. And no, that doesn’t make his anger fair, or right. But it does make it real. And human."

Chan closed his eyes.

He remembered the way Hyunjin’s voice had cracked. Not from volume, but from the strain, like it cost him something to say what he did. The kind of pain that builds up because you never let it out in time, and then it just explodes when it can’t fit inside you anymore.

"I can't even think about losing you," Seungmin said quietly. "If something happened to you, I don’t know what I’d do. And I know you’d hate that. You’d hate that I’d fall apart. You’d tell me to be strong and keep going. But I wouldn’t. Not right away. Maybe not ever."

Chan looked down at his lap. He held the phone tighter now.

Seungmin’s voice came through again, soft but sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade dipped in honey.

"What would you do if something happened to me someday?"

The question hung in the air. For a moment, it didn’t even register.

Chan blinked. The ceiling came back into focus. The hum of the AC. The low street sounds outside.

He sat up straighter in bed, the phone pressed a little tighter to his ear now.

"Why would you say that?" he asked quietly. Almost accusingly.

But Seungmin didn’t take it back. He just said, "Answer me."

Chan opened his mouth to speak, to dismiss it, maybe, or tell him not to be dramatic, but nothing came out.

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.

What would he do if something happened to Seungmin?

He forced himself to think about it. Really think about it.

And immediately, he hated it.

His brain recoiled from the idea like skin to fire. His stomach clenched. There was this cold rush in his chest, and his breath hitched without warning.

He could picture it now, a version of life where Seungmin’s contact photo just sat in his phone, never lighting up again. Where Seungmin’s seat at the café was always empty. Where their group chat never buzzed with his sarcasm, where his voice existed only in old voicemails Chan didn’t have the courage to delete.

Where there was no call that would come at midnight with his familiar, teasing voice saying, “Good night, Chan.”

Chan leaned forward, elbows on knees, hand covering his mouth.

"I don’t know," he whispered. He really didn’t.

He’d never allowed himself to imagine the world without Seungmin in it, not seriously, not in any real way. The thought was too much. Too absurd. Too cruel.

And now that Seungmin had said it out loud, it was like something had cracked open in him. A horrible, vulnerable truth he never wanted to look at.

"What kind of question is that?" Chan’s voice came out strained, shaky. Not angry, just lost. "Why are you saying that?"

"Because you keep trying to understand Hyunjin without understanding what it means to be afraid like he is," Seungmin said gently. "And because… I want to know if I matter to you the way I think I do."

Chan let out a shaky breath. "You matter to me more than you can even imagine."

"Then say it."

"I can’t," Chan snapped, suddenly. Not with rage, but with something closer to helplessness. He rubbed his face with his hand, trying to swallow the wave of emotion building in his chest. “You don’t understand… I— I literally can’t think about that. I’ve lost people before, Min. I’ve buried people. I’ve had to live through those days when you wake up and your brain forgets for a second, and then it remembers, and the pain hits you like a fucking truck.”

His voice cracked.

“And you don’t get better. Not really. You just… learn to walk around it. Like it’s a part of you. You pretend you’re fine because people need you to be. And you smile, and you work, and you breathe and every second, you’re just trying not to drown in the quiet.”

Seungmin was silent on the other end.

Chan breathed hard through his nose. He looked up at the dark ceiling like it could anchor him.

“If something happened to you,” Chan whispered, “I wouldn’t survive it.”

The silence now wasn’t empty, it was full. Heavy. Real.

And then, Seungmin finally replied. "That’s what Hyunjin’s living with."

Chan closed his eyes, and the ache in his chest spread to his limbs.

"You’re right," he said. Voice hollow. "I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner."

"You’re not a bad person for not knowing," Seungmin said softly. "But now that you do... maybe try giving him the thing he needs, not the thing you would’ve needed."

Chan nodded to himself, wiping a hand across his damp eyes.

"Okay."

“I’m not going anywhere, by the way,” Seungmin added, with a gentleness he rarely showed.

“You better not,” Chan said, a faint, broken laugh escaping. “Because I’d lose my goddamn mind.”

“Yeah, well… you’re not exactly stable to begin with.”

Chan laughed again, for real this time. It sounded small, but it was there. Alive. Honest.

They sat in silence after that. But it wasn’t tense. It was the kind of quiet that comes after a storm. Where the air smells cleaner, and everything feels just a little more true.

And somewhere in that stillness, Chan realized maybe this was what Hyunjin needed.

Not someone to fix him. Just someone who stayed.
…………...

Hyunjin stirred from a sleep that felt more like a faint interruption of his insomnia. Maybe two hours. Three, if he was being generous. His body didn’t feel rested, just forced into function.

He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand down his face. His hair had come loose, strands sticking to his cheek. He grabbed a hair tie from the side drawer and tied it back into a small ponytail not neat, not clean, just enough to keep it out of his face.

A splash of cold water to the face in the bathroom did little to shake the weight from his eyes. He stared at himself in the mirror. Eyes puffy. Jaw clenched. His expression wasn’t angry, not exactly, just distant. Dull. Like he’d been stretched too thin and now he couldn’t snap back into shape.

He got dressed quickly, jeans, black shirt, jacket, functional. No drama. Just something to get him through the day.

When he stepped out, the air felt cooler than expected, like someone had opened a window or turned the AC down a notch. He blinked a few times before stepping into the kitchen.

Chan was already there.

He stood by the counter, his back straight but not stiff. A cup of coffee in his hand, steam curling upward like a slow sigh. He looked up, and their eyes met.

There was no conversation. No greeting. Just… a moment.

Then, without a word, Chan extended the mug forward, offering it.

Hyunjin blinked again. He almost shook his head , started to, even, but then something in him shifted. Maybe it was the look on Chan’s face. Maybe it was the way the coffee smelled. Or maybe it was the weight in his chest that just wanted something warm to hold.

He took it wordlessly.

It was hot against his palms, and that small sting grounded him.

He carried it back to his room, still quiet, sipping it slowly as he changed into his boots. The warmth settled into his chest gradually — not enough to comfort, but enough to soften the edge.

When he came back out, he placed the empty mug gently on the counter, giving Chan a brief glance he didn’t bother to decode.

Then, out the door.

The morning light was gray, the kind of light that didn’t promise anything. Not hope, not dread. Just existence. He opened the car door and slid into the driver’s seat.

That’s when he felt it, a shift in the seat behind him. The soft drag of paper against leather. He turned, eyebrows pulling in slightly. A few sheets were scattered across the backseat. Drawings.

Sketches.

Hyunjin stared.

It took a second for recognition to hit. Jeongin.

They must’ve slipped out yesterday, when he’d told Jeongin to put his mess in the backseat. Jeongin had hurried. Flustered. These pages must’ve fallen without either of them noticing.

He reached back and pulled one forward.

The lines were sharp, dark, confident. The shapes expressive. There was something alive in the way the shadows were done, deliberate strokes, not careless scribbles. A rawness. A voice.

He flipped to another. Then another.

And something in his throat tightened.

He hadn’t really looked at them before, not closely. He’d written them off as messy, scattered, chaotic. But these weren’t scribbles. They were layered. Detailed. Obsessed over. There were faint eraser marks. Corners curled. Smudges from fingers too hurried to care about mess.

Jeongin had cared. Deeply. These sketches weren’t just doodles. They were work. Real effort. Probably hours.

Hyunjin exhaled slowly and leaned back into the seat. The paper crinkled lightly in his hand. He could’ve thrown them away. He could’ve crumpled them, left them at the curb, said it wasn’t his problem.

But he didn’t.

He knew where Jeongin lived. He could return them. Not because Jeongin had asked, he hadn't but because...

Because something about it didn’t sit right in his chest.

He turned the key in the ignition, the engine humming to life, and glanced again at the pages.

Jeongin hadn’t come back for them. Hadn’t asked. Maybe he didn’t even realize they were gone yet. Or maybe he had and just assumed Hyunjin had thrown them out.

Hyunjin ignited.
…………

He climbed the stairs two at a time.

The sketches were pressed under his arm, and with every step, the corners of the pages nudged against his ribs, a quiet, persistent reminder of why he was here. He could’ve taken the lift. It was faster, and he was already running late for his studio shift. But the mechanical creak that echoed in the lift shaft yesterday still clung to the inside of his ears like a phantom, like something broken trying too hard to work. He didn’t want to hear that again.

So he walked.

Floor after floor, he pushed forward, trying not to let his breath quicken. He wasn’t out of shape, it wasn’t that. It was just the way his chest felt tighter with every flight. Like something unknown was building inside.

When he reached Jeongin’s floor, he didn’t pause. He didn’t need to double-check the number. He remembered it too well , the golden digits hanging crooked on the wooden door, as if someone had once slammed it too hard and it never quite settled back.

He knocked. Once. Then again.

No answer.

He shifted the weight on his feet, lips pressing into a line. Maybe Jeongin was asleep. Maybe he was in the shower. Maybe he was—

“He’s not home.”

The voice came from behind him. Smooth. Matter-of-fact. Just on the edge of amused.

Hyunjin turned around quickly.

A man stood leaning against the doorframe directly opposite Jeongin’s apartment. Barefoot, shirt loose and hanging from one shoulder like he didn’t care how it looked. Several cats wandered around his ankles like he was their sun and they were orbiting him. One of them, small, fluffy, too familiar meowed up at Hyunjin.
Chirpy.

The guy bent down and scooped him up casually, stroking the cat’s ears without looking away.

“I don’t know where he went,” he said before Hyunjin could ask. “And I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

Hyunjin blinked, unsure what to say to that.

The man grinned. “Minho,” he added, like he was used to filling silence before it got awkward. “I live here. Across from your ruined artist.”

He knelt to gather one of the cats that had started chewing on the corner of his slipper. “He’ll probably come back in a few hours. Or not. He has this habit of wandering around the city when his head’s messy. Doesn’t even tell me where he goes, just disappears with a sketchpad and returns looking like he’s aged a year.”

“That happen often?”

Minho shrugged. “Often enough that I don’t freak out anymore. Still annoys the hell out of me.”

Hyunjin glanced down at the sketches in his hand, then back at Minho. “I’m just here to return these,” he said. “He left them in my car.”

Minho nodded like that made perfect sense, like people showed up with misplaced sketches all the time.

“I figured,” Minho said, gesturing vaguely at the papers. “He draws like a maniac when he’s stressed. Did you piss him off or something?”

Hyunjin frowned, caught off guard. “No. It wasn’t like that.”

“Mm.” Minho scratched Chirpy’s head. “Could’ve fooled me. He came back last night looking like he’d been through a storm.”

That made Hyunjin’s stomach sink a little. He’d thought Jeongin was fine when he left, maybe quiet, maybe withdrawn, but nothing... storm-like. Had he missed something? Was Jeongin just good at hiding it?

“He didn’t say anything,” Hyunjin muttered, almost to himself.

Minho raised an eyebrow. “Jeongin? Saying things? Yeah, not really his strong suit. He does that whole ‘I’m fine, but let me silently disappear into a corner’ act. Kind of frustrating, honestly.”

Hyunjin stayed quiet. The pages in his hand felt heavier.

Minho tilted his head, studying him. “You look like you weren’t planning on coming here.”

“I wasn’t,” Hyunjin admitted.

“Then why did you?”

He hesitated.

It was a stupid reason, wasn’t it? A few sheets of paper. A forgetful moment. It didn’t require all this. And yet, here he was, standing in front of an empty apartment, talking to a stranger with four cats and a sharp tongue, holding drawings that weren’t even his.

“I just didn’t want to throw them out,” Hyunjin said finally, his voice low. “They looked like they mattered.”

Minho’s face changed, only slightly. His expression wasn’t teasing anymore. It wasn’t soft either. Just... neutral. Listening.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “They do.”

The cats purred and rubbed against Minho’s legs. Chirpy nestled further into his arm like he belonged there.

Hyunjin stared at the closed door behind him. The place looked ordinary. The kind of apartment that got swallowed in a city skyline and didn’t demand attention. But it held Jeongin. Or at least, it did.

“Do you think he was hurt?” Hyunjin asked suddenly.

Minho blinked at him.

“I mean...” Hyunjin shook his head. “He seems... I don’t know. He was hurt. .”

Minho let out a low breath. “Jeongin’s stronger than he looks. But that doesn’t mean he’s fine. He’s just... used to not being noticed when he isn’t.”

Hyunjin looked down.

I… I almost hit him with my car,” Hyunjin said, quieter now, more to the hallway than to Minho. “It was stupid. He walked out of nowhere. I slammed the brakes and the whole car skidded. He hit the hood, kind of hard. It wasn’t bleeding or anything, just… scared the hell out of me. I think him too.”

Minho let out a low whistle. “Jesus.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Hyunjin added quickly, then scoffed at himself. “Of course I didn’t mean to. But it was close. Too close. And afterward… he looked like he was going to disappear.”

Minho tilted his head, expression unreadable. “So… what? You brought him home? Played nurse? Or just handed him a blanket and pretended everything was fine?”

“I took him home,” Hyunjin replied quietly. “This was the least I could do. That’s all.”

Minho nodded, his tone shifting just slightly. “Okay. Not a complete bastard, then.”

The sketches in his hand were wrinkled at the edges now. He hadn’t even realized how tightly he was holding them.

“He should come back soon,” Minho said eventually. “If you want to wait, you can. But I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

“I’ll just leave them,” Hyunjin murmured. “By the door.”

Minho nodded, stepping back inside his apartment.

Just before the door clicked shut, Minho added, “Hey.”

Hyunjin turned.

“If you didn’t piss him off,” Minho said, eyes steady, “then maybe you were the first person in a while who didn’t.”

Then the door closed.

Hyunjin stared at it for a long second. Then slowly, carefully, he crouched and placed the sketches at the base of Jeongin’s door. He adjusted them so the corners wouldn’t get caught if someone passed by. Pressed them down like they were fragile.

He stayed there for a few seconds more. As if the door might open. As if Jeongin might appear, still sleepy-eyed, and say something soft.
But it didn’t.

So Hyunjin straightened, gave one last glance to the door, and walked away.

And for some reason, the stairwell felt heavier than when he’d come up.

Notes:

Hey everyone.... posting a new chapter. so sorry for the late update but university is draining the life out of me ...... still ...nothing can take writing away from me ....not very satisfied with the chapter but i hope you all like it...read and enjoy

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Minho was nosy as fuck.

He always had been. He didn’t even try to deny it anymore. People had pointed it out his whole life with exasperation, with amusement, with resignation. “You ask too many questions.” “Why do you care so much?” “You need to mind your own business, Minho.” He had collected those statements like participation trophies.

The truth was, Minho liked knowing things. Not just for gossip or drama, but because information was power. And knowing meant caring, even if he rarely admitted that second part out loud.

He stood leaned against the chipped doorframe of his apartment, one socked foot lazily rubbing against the other, sipping on the half-melted iced coffee in his hand like it was a fine whiskey. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up to the elbows, exposing pale wrists littered with faint scratch marks, Chirpy’s idea of affection.

He was just about to head inside when the unmistakable sound of wheezing and synthetic sandals against tile echoed from the stairs.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Minho muttered under his breath.

The landlord.

That wrinkled fossil of a man, waddling toward Jeongin’s door with his clipboard of doom, khaki trousers hiked up too high, and the eternal scent of moldy paperwork trailing after him like a curse. His belly jutted out like a broken grocery bag, and the top of his bald scalp glistened under the corridor light. He wasn’t threatening, just irritating on a cellular level.

Minho didn’t hate many people. But the landlord? He hated with flair.

The man reached Jeongin’s door and knocked with the self-importance of someone who thought their presence should command attention. Then he turned, predictably, and caught sight of Minho lounging across the hall like a nosy old cat sunbathing on a porch.

“You. Where’s Jeongin?”

Minho took another sip of his drink, slow and steady, letting the silence stretch out like chewing gum. He blinked once. Then again. Didn’t answer.

“I’m asking you,” the landlord repeated, stepping forward. “Where is the boy?”

Minho dragged his gaze from the man’s fuzzy socks to his unbothered face. “Yeah. I charge for giving out information.”

The landlord blinked. “What?”

“You want the scoop?” Minho drawled. “It costs. Gossip tax.”

The old man’s brows furrowed, eyes narrowing like he couldn’t decide if Minho was joking or clinically insane. “This is not a joke. He owes rent.”

“And I owe therapy from having to smell you every time you come up here, but here we are.”

The man’s lips twisted into a frown. “You young people have no respect.”

Minho smiled. A slow, poisonous one. “Respect is earned, boss. And I don’t take life advice from someone who still uses a flip phone.”

The landlord sputtered. Minho watched, satisfied.

He lived for moments like this, the ones where people’s egos deflated right in front of him like sad party balloons. It was an art, really. Annoyance as a lifestyle. And god, was he good at it.

“I don’t care who you are,” the landlord barked. “This is tenant business. If I don’t see him by tomorrow, he’ll be fined-”

Minho cut him off. “You really think threatening someone who draws for a living with a fine is gonna motivate them? You think he’s hoarding gold bars in there or something?”

“He’s behind on dues-”

Minho’s tone sharpened just slightly. “He’s hurt.”

The landlord paused. “What?”

“Physically. Emotionally. Take your pick,” Minho said, and it was the first time his voice lost that lazy, sarcastic lilt. Just for a second. “So maybe dial back the witch hunt.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then the man muttered something unintelligible, probably a curse and turned around, grumbling as he shuffled back down the corridor, defeated. Minho watched him go with a deep sense of satisfaction, like a cat knocking over a cup on purpose.

“Dick,” he mumbled, draining the last watery remnants of his coffee.

Chirpy wandered out of Minho’s apartment again. The kitten looked up at him, tiny ears twitching, oblivious to the drama that had just unfolded like a shitty reality TV episode. Minho bent down and scooped the cat up, cradling him to his chest.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of Chirpy’s head. “Your dad’s not getting evicted by that troll if I can help it.”

He stood there a bit longer, resting his head back against the doorframe, eyes flicking to Jeongin’s door.

Still locked. Still quiet.

Minho didn’t know exactly what Jeongin was going through, and he was the type to ask unless he absolutely hadn’t to. But he saw things. Heard things. The way Jeongin’s steps had gotten quieter, more hesitant lately. The long hours out, the hollow way he smiled sometimes, like it was an obligation, not an instinct.

Minho wasn’t a savior. He didn’t want to be one. But he could be a buffer. A wall between the quiet ones and the people who didn’t care.

He looked down at Chirpy, who mewed up at him with a soft blink.

“Guess it’s just you and me holding the fort today, little guy.”

He turned, slipping back into his apartment, the door clicking softly behind him.

“Come on, troops,” he muttered to the cats following him in. Dori pranced through first, his youngest, the most energetic little hellion in the house and right behind him, with much smaller steps and a softer meow, was Chirpy.

The kitten was so tiny that he barely made a sound when he walked. Minho still wasn’t over how much smaller Chirpy was than Dori even though the little thing was already nearly some months old. He was all fluff and fragile bones, eyes always wide like he was discovering the world for the first time.

Dori immediately went to his stash of rubber bands near the coffee table and batted one across the floor. Chirpy gave chase like it was the most important mission of his life.

Minho watched the two of them for a second, his hand moving almost mindlessly to straighten the edge of a blanket on the couch, adjust the crooked picture frame by the wall.

Then, like muscle memory, he pulled out his phone. The screen glowed to life. No messages. He clicked straight into video call.

It rang once.

Twice.

And then the screen changed to Han Jisung’s face, sleep-rumpled hair, reading glasses slightly tilted, and a pen still tucked behind his ear.

Minho’s face softened instantly.

Han blinked, squinting. “Hyung?” His voice was raspy, caught somewhere between confusion and exhaustion. “You okay?”

Minho slumped into the couch dramatically. “No. Absolutely not. I’m dying. I haven’t seen you in, like, a decade. I forgot what your face looks like.”

“It’s been four days.”

“That’s basically a decade in cat years.”

Han sighed, pushing his glasses up properly. “I’m studying, hyung. Finals. That thing we talked about?”

“Can’t you skip the exam?”

“Hyung.”

Minho pouted exaggeratedly. “I miss youuuu. You’re always buried in books. You’ve abandoned me. I think I’ve developed separation anxiety.”

Han rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the amused smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “You have the emotional range of a drama queen.”

“True, and I own it. But still.” Minho leaned back, hair a mess against the cushion. “We haven’t spent any time together this week. You’re going to forget you have a boyfriend.”

Han tilted his head, slightly softening. “That won’t happen.”

“Liar.”

“I mean it.” He looked like he wanted to reach through the screen. “I think about you all the time.”

Minho’s heart did a stupid little flip. He looked away for a second, catching the sight of Chirpy climbing Dori’s back and falling off, landing in a thud of fluff and mew.

He laughed quietly.

Han was still watching him, eyes narrowing. “You okay, though? Really?”

Minho hesitated. His fingers tapped the back of his phone lightly, rhythm uneven.

“Jeongin’s missing,” he said finally, quieter now. “Not missing-missing, just… not home. He left without saying anything. Hasn’t come back.”

Han frowned. “Is that normal for him?”

“Sort of. But something feels off.”

Han didn’t interrupt.

Minho exhaled. “There’s a guy. Some new one, looks like a brooding poem with legs. Brought Jeongin home last night. Said they almost got into an accident. Now Jeongin’s sketches were returned, but he’s gone again.” Minho scratched at the back of his neck. “I just hate not knowing things. Especially about people I care about.”

“You care about him a lot,” Han said softly.

Minho didn’t respond. Not directly. His eyes fell back to the cats.

“They’re like tiny versions of us,” he said instead. “Dori keeps dragging Chirpy into chaos and the poor guy just follows, half confused but happy anyway.”

Han laughed. “So I’m Dori.”

“Obviously.”

“And you’re the tiny, confused one?”

Minho smiled, lopsided. “Maybe lately, yeah.”

Han watched him through the screen for a long moment, his expression sobering. “If you need to talk about anything, you can.”

“I know.”

There was a pause. Minho felt the weight of it and tried to cut the tension.

“Also,” he said, smirking, “as payment for emotional honesty, I think you owe me a dick pic.”

Han groaned and turned the camera toward the ceiling. “Why do I even try talking to you seriously?”

“Because I’m very handsome and you love me.”

Han muttered something in English that Minho didn’t quite catch.

“Okay, okay,” Minho chuckled, raising his hands. “I’ll behave.”

The camera turned back to Han’s face. His ears were slightly pink. Minho leaned into the phone screen just a little. “You really wanna know what I miss most?”

Han squinted. “Is this going to be inappropriate?”

“No. Maybe. Shut up.” He grinned. “I miss falling asleep on your chest. And your smell. And how your foot always finds mine under the blanket.”

Han looked like he might melt on the spot. “You’re being unfair.”

Minho shrugged. “Sucks to be you, then. I’m miserable and I’m dragging you down with me.”

Han smiled, kind of smile that made Minho forget, just for a second, that the world was a mess outside of them. “Finish your study session,” Minho said quietly. “But come over when you can.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

And they just looked at each other.
………….

The room smelled like polished mahogany and expensive indifference.

Hyunjin sat still in his chair, back straight, ankles crossed beneath the heavy wooden table. His hands were folded in his lap, a learned posture, not a natural one. Every movement in the room was laced with restraint, and the silence between speeches felt like an unwritten rule none of them were allowed to break.

Across from him, his brother Chan sat with his usual calm composure, fingers lightly tapping the screen of his tablet, nodding once every few minutes in response to their father's comments. Chan had always been good at this. Good at looking like he belonged.

Hyunjin, on the other hand, was starting to forget what it felt like to fit into this world at all.

He could feel the heat of his father’s gaze move briefly over him, a flicker of acknowledgment that lasted all of three seconds. That was enough. That was all Hyunjin ever wanted from him. Just enough not to disappear, never enough to be the center. Any more would mean scrutiny, expectation, the kind of weight Hyunjin had spent the past few years trying to unlearn.

He kept his expression blank as the meeting rolled on. The voice at the head of the table, deep, clear, full of unnecessary emphasis spoke like it was giving a sermon rather than delivering instructions.

“This fan sign event must be planned meticulously,” his father said. “It reflects not only the publishing house but our family name. We’re collaborating with the writer directly, someone who has a deep understanding of youth and social impact.”

Hyunjin tilted his head, only slightly, as the screen on the wall displayed a name: Seo Taeyang, a bestselling author known for his minimalist prose and surprisingly warm-hearted storytelling. His new book, “The Unfolding,” had debuted last week and was already stirring discussions across literary circles.

“He’s a generous man,” their father continued. “Dozens of printed copies from his initial run were sent free to orphanages and underserved communities. He believes in literature as access, not privilege. I respect that.”

Hyunjin blinked. Access, not privilege. What a simple thing to say. What a hard thing to mean.

“He has agreed to a limited-time fan sign, and it must be handled carefully. Invitations, security, press filtering, everything needs to reflect the author’s tone. Elegant. Thoughtful. Humane.”

Chan nodded. “I’ll speak with the event design team this week.”

“Good,” their father replied. “I want no missteps.”

Hyunjin didn’t say a word. He hadn’t spoken since the meeting started.

He didn’t need to.

His presence was more of a placeholder than a contributor.

And honestly? That suited him just fine.

Sometimes, he had thoughts that felt… too rebellious for a room like this. Not loud or loud-mouthed but thoughts that carried a bitterness too dense to voice. Thoughts like What does this even matter?, or Why do I need to sit through a meeting about paperbacks when my chest hasn’t stopped hurting? Or worse Why do I still pretend like I care?

Once, he used to think he wanted to inherit this. The suits, the boardrooms, the quiet respect. He used to think he’d grow into the mold shaped for him at birth.

Now?

Now he found most of his own aspects useless. Outdated parts of himself that once felt vital.

His perfectionism, for one, the way he’d agonize over aligning the pens on his desk, or making sure his signature had the exact same slant on every legal form. Now, he barely signed things with a full last name.

His competitiveness. His obsession with being ahead, with being praised. Now, praise made his skin itch.

His charm. The curated way he used to smile during public events, tilt his head just right for cameras, laugh politely at people’s terrible jokes. That person had bled out quietly one day, and Hyunjin had never gone looking for the body.

Now, he sat quietly and existed in rooms like this, nodding occasionally, never making waves.

Maybe that was worse than rebellion. It was just resignation.

His eyes drifted to Chan again. His older brother was still listening, responding occasionally, steady as ever. Always the composed one. The patient one. The one who, even in childhood, knew how to soothe a room instead of tearing it down.

Hyunjin exhaled slowly.

There were moments when he envied Chan. Not for his position, or his confidence, or even for Seungmin, although that, too, stung sometimes. No. He envied that Chan had managed. That he’d been bruised by the same expectations, the same pressure, and still emerged as something whole.

Hyunjin felt like driftwood. Floating too long to remember where he started. A shape without a shore.

A voice cut into his thoughts.

“Hyunjin?”

He blinked. Looked up.

His father.

“I asked if you could handle the social media correspondence, coordinate with PR to ensure the announcements reflect the right tone.”

Hyunjin stared for a second longer than necessary. Then nodded once. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Good,” his father replied, already moving on.

The screen changed to a schedule. Names, times, venues. Everything plotted out to the last second. Everything so precisely shaped that it left no room for error or meaning.
Hyunjin leaned back slightly in his chair, watching the flicker of numbers change.

He wondered, not for the first time, how many parts of himself had been drafted like these timelines polished into neat blocks of responsibility, outlined in deadlines and expectations.

And if any of them had been real at all.

The doors of the conference room opened with the soft hiss and Hyunjin stepped out without a word, loosening the top button of his shirt with a slight tug. The air outside the boardroom felt cooler, though he knew it wasn’t. It was just the illusion of freedom, like stepping out of a cage and pretending the hallway wasn’t another one.

He had only made it a few steps down the corridor when he heard footsteps match his pace.

“Hyunjin.”

He turned slightly.

Chan stood there, tablet under his arm, his expression softer than usual. “About the PR coordination… If you’re okay with it, we can work on it together.”

Hyunjin nodded, eyes flicking briefly to the floor before meeting Chan’s. “Yeah. That works.”

Chan hesitated, like he wanted to say something else maybe something brotherly, maybe something he thought Hyunjin wouldn’t want to hear but then only gave a small, understanding smile.

“I’ll send you the outline tonight.”

“Okay,” Hyunjin replied, voice quiet.

Then he turned and walked away, not fast, not slow, just steady, like someone with somewhere to be even if they didn’t quite care where.

His room was exactly the same as he’d left it. That was the thing about expensive places, they held your emptiness neatly. No matter what kind of mess you were in, the space stayed untouched, pristine, sterile.

He threw his blazer over the back of a chair and unfastened his watch, placing it on the nightstand with a soft clink.

That’s when he noticed it. Lying on the edge of his desk. The soft matte cover, the embossed lettering in minimal black: The Unfolding by Seo Taeyang. Someone must’ve dropped it off, maybe Chan, maybe a staff member after the early release copies came in for the PR team. It didn’t matter. It was here now.

Hyunjin moved toward it slowly, like it might break if he reached too fast. He sat down, fingers brushing over the textured cover. For a moment, he just stared. He sat down and flipped the cover open.

The first line was simple.

“Today I saw a red balloon stuck in a tree and I decided it wasn’t sad. I think it looked happy up there, like it chose to stay.”

He blinked once. Then turned the page.

“My mom says I talk too much. But if I don’t say the good things out loud, how will they stay?”

The narrator, clearly a young boy, had a way of saying things without making them heavy. He wrote about his day like a friend catching you up: his teacher who always wore mismatched socks, the old man who waved from the same bench every morning, the cat that followed him three blocks even though he had no food.

“People say Mondays suck. But the vending machine gave me two chocolate bars today instead of one. So maybe Mondays aren’t all bad.”

He let out a bitter laugh. Not because it was funny because it was so innocent, it was almost offensive.

His school vending machines didn’t work half the time. When they did, they ate coins. Once, he banged his fist against the glass so hard that the machine tipped forward and the janitor screamed at him until his ears rang.

Mondays, Tuesdays, Fridays, it didn’t matter. Bad days didn’t choose a calendar square. They happened because life was indifferent.
Still, the book didn’t let go of him.

He turned another page.

“My friend was sad today. I gave him my last grape-flavored candy because that one’s the best and if you’re gonna be sad, you should at least have the good flavor.”
That one gave him pause.

He didn’t remember the name of the boy who used to sit beside him in sixth grade, the one who got nosebleeds when he was anxious. But he remembered the day Hyunjin tore the foil off his only chocolate and handed it over without speaking. He hadn't done it out of kindness. Just… instinct. A way to avoid the discomfort of someone else’s sadness. Like throwing a bone to a dog pacing a room.

The boy said thank you.

Hyunjin never answered.

This book didn’t know that.

This book believed noticing things meant you still had softness left inside you. That not all damage needed to be hidden. That kindness could still be practical.

And it made him feel… tired. Hyunjin leaned back in his chair, the book still in his hand. It wasn’t poetic or dramatic or trying to be clever. It was just... soft. And somehow, that hit harder than any lecture, any meeting, any talk about moving on. The boy in the book wasn’t pretending life was perfect.

He just knew how to notice when it was good.
…………..

“My friend was sad today. I gave him my last grape-flavored candy because that one’s the best, and if you’re gonna be sad, you should at least have the good flavor.”

The line sat on the page like it had been waiting for Jeongin all day.

He let out a soft exhale, part scoff, part laugh, part something too tangled to name and tilted the book back to rest against his raised knees. He was lying on the floor, spine aching just enough to remind him he wasn’t twelve anymore. His legs were still thrown up over the edge of the couch like he'd flopped there out of pure emotional exhaustion. And maybe he had.

The carpet beneath him smelled faintly of laundry detergent and the incense Minho kept giving him even though he rarely lit them.. The world was soft right now. And it felt like a lie.

Jeongin read the line again.

He didn’t know why it hit so hard. It was childish, almost silly, like something written in a second-grader’s diary. And maybe that’s exactly what it was supposed to be. But it tugged at something beneath his ribs.

The last grape-flavored candy.

Of course it was grape. Everyone knew that was the best one. That’s why it mattered.

He rolled over, slowly, placing the book flat on the rug as he shifted onto his side. His left hand throbbed dully where the bruising had started to yellow. It wasn’t broken, thank God, but it wasn’t good either. And despite being right-handed, it was enough of a nuisance that it stole whatever willpower he had to finish the commissions waiting on his desk.

Today was supposed to be the day. The day he would finally sketch again. Get back to the pages that had fallen behind. Something about getting things in order made him feel like he could breathe. And yet-

He hadn’t even touched a pencil.

He hadn’t touched much of anything except that book.

His eyes drifted toward the cover again: The Unfolding by Seo Taeyang.

There were authors who made you feel impressed. Some who made you feel inferior. Some who inspired you. But Seo Taeyang?

He made Jeongin feel safe.

He wasn’t even sure when that started. He had first found them by accident.

He remembered that day more clearly than he wanted to admit. School. Rainy. Cold. He was wearing his oversized uniform jacket and trying really hard not to cry when a group of older boys had followed him to the hallway, laughing too loud, calling him names he didn’t deserve. He hadn’t even known where to go, just ducked into the library like it was instinct.

He hadn’t been there to read.

But the librarian gave him a look, that soft but unimpressed look all adult women seemed to master, and so he panicked. Reached out and grabbed the nearest book. Opened it and pretended to read.
It had no pictures. He almost put it back.

But then

“There are so many people in this world who forget they’re allowed to be soft.”

He’d blinked, read it again. And again. And then another page.

And by the end of that week, he had read the whole thing cover to cover.

He never returned it on time.

Jeongin smiled faintly at the memory, running his hand over the page now like it was an old friend.

And then the next. And the next.

He ended up finishing that book in three days. Hid it in his locker so no one would find it. Reread it under the covers with a torch when he couldn’t sleep. Checked the author’s name again and again so he wouldn’t forget. Seo Taeyang.

That name stayed with him like a whisper on the back of his mind.

He’d read every book since.

They weren’t fancy. No awards. No long philosophical monologues or world-shattering metaphors. Just gentle stories. Of boys who cried. Of kids who were kind. Of people who gave away their favorite candy without expecting a thank-you.

And maybe that’s why Jeongin loved them.

This author, these books, they were the only pictureless books he’d ever gotten attached to. The rest of his shelf was filled with comics, Mangas, visual storytelling. He read to learn expressions, posture, tension in the way limbs moved, facial language that felt real. Comics were how he improved his art, how he figured out emotion through lines and shadows.

But these books?

These books were the only time he read just for the feeling.

Just for himself.

Now, lying here with the newest book balanced over his stomach, Jeongin felt that same quiet ache.

He wanted to draw again. He really did.

Maybe he’d try again tomorrow.

He gently lifted the book to turn the page, whispering aloud before he read:

“…alright. What else have you got for me?”

There was a knock at the door.

Not loud. Just enough to stir the quiet of the room, to pull Jeongin out of the moment, out of the warmth of a fictional world where kids gave each other candy to fix sadness.

He blinked, closed the book with care, and slowly rose from the floor, stretching out his spine with a faint groan.

Jeongin padded barefoot across the apartment and pulled the door open, only to find Minho standing there with a familiar deadpan expression… and Chirpy in his arms.

“Your parcel,” Minho said in mock seriousness, holding the cat out like he was delivering something sacred.

Jeongin blinked. “Chirpy?”

“And these,” Minho added, raising his other hand, a bundle of loosely stacked sketch pages held together by a rubber band. The corners were bent, but otherwise intact.

Jeongin took Chirpy first, who immediately squirmed to climb up his shoulder, claws slightly snagging on Jeongin’s oversized t-shirt. “I knocked first,” Minho added casually, “but when no one answered, I figured you were either dead, depressed, or in the bathroom.”

Jeongin nodded, distracted by the stack of papers. “You were right. I was taking a bath.” Then his eyes widened, recognition settling into his bones with a strange weight. His fingers reached for the papers before his mouth could even finish forming the thought.

“These are mine.” His voice was quiet, like he didn’t want to jinx it. “These are actually mine.”

Minho rolled his eyes and leaned against the doorframe. “Yes, Sherlock. I figured that out when I saw your signature on three of them.”

Jeongin flipped through them quickly, his chest tightening. The missing pages. The ones that had slipped out during the chaos of that evening, the near accident, the ride to Hyunjin’s apartment, the brief vulnerability of that night. He hadn’t even realized how much they mattered until he thought they were gone.

“Minho hyung, how did you get these?” he asked, not looking up yet, fingers tightening on the edges.

Minho scratched the back of his neck and answered with zero ceremony, “Some tall stranger came earlier. Said you left them in his car.”

Jeongin finally looked up, eyes wide. “Tall…?”

Minho raised a very pointed eyebrow. “Mmhmm. Tall. Pale. RBF like he’s permanently disappointed in the entire human race.”

Jeongin tried not to laugh, but his lips twitched.

Minho tilted his head, voice dripping with feigned innocence. “Car sex?”

Jeongin choked. “Hyung!”

“What?” Minho shrugged, strolling past him into the apartment like it was routine. “You disappear overnight. You come back with bruises, a weird expression, and now he’s returning your stuff like some post-breakup exchange. What am I supposed to think?”

“There’s like, a hundred things you could think before that.”

“But car sex is funnier.” Minho plopped down on the couch, petting Chirpy who had settled beside him again. “Besides, the guy looked like he wanted to die standing here. Stiff as a pole. Very my-type-if-I-wasn’t-taken energy.”

Jeongin shook his head and set the pages down on the table, smoothing the top one gently. “It’s not like that.”

Minho hummed. “So what is it like?”
J
eongin hesitated.

He didn’t really know. Hyunjin was… strange. Distant but not cold. Quiet but not entirely closed off. Jeongin had felt things that he didn’t know how to name. A kind of silence that wasn’t lonely.

“He was just… kind,” Jeongin said finally, almost to himself. “Kind in that way people don’t even realize they are.”

Minho didn’t tease this time. He just nodded and leaned back, watching Jeongin carefully.

“Kind doesn’t come easy to most people,” he said, more serious now. “If you felt it, maybe you weren’t imagining it.”

Jeongin nodded faintly, sitting down beside him. “He didn’t even know me.”

“Maybe he didn’t need to.”

Silence settled for a moment between them, soft and shared.

Then Minho flicked Jeongin’s forehead. “Still could’ve been car sex.”

“Hyung!” Jeongin shoved him with his elbow, and for the first time in a long while, he laughed, not a full one, but a real one.

And Minho smiled too, eyes softer than his sarcasm ever let on.

Notes:

sorry, this chapter is late....I kept laughing at word dick

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

Jeongin had always had some bad luck.

It wasn’t just something he joked about anymore. It wasn’t just a self-deprecating line he threw in for a laugh with people who barely knew him. It was something real. Something that followed him like a second shadow, curled under his feet. At first, he thought he was just overthinking. Maybe he was being dramatic. Maybe it was just one of those off weeks. Or months. Or years.

But then it started piling up.

Every damn time.

Every damn fucking time.

He burned toast even on low settings. Spilled coffee on white shirts right before leaving. Lost things he never remembered moving. Got calls for rejections minutes before sleep, jobs, galleries, clients, even contests he entered half-jokingly.

Sometimes it was worse.

Sometimes it was almost funny how the universe seemed to wait until he cared, really cared, before it pulled the rug.

Like the day when he brought his best sketch to class back in college, excited for critique, only for a gust of wind to drag it under a car’s tire on the way in. He remembered crouching in the parking lot, trying to salvage what was left of the page, graphite smeared and tire marks like a cruel joke across the middle.

And then there were smaller heartbreaks. The ones no one noticed but him.

Like when he made instant ramen and the flavor packet tore wrong and spilled across the sink instead of into the pot. Or when he tried to sew a button back on and ended up poking himself three times before giving up entirely.

Tiny things. Stupid things. But they piled up like bricks.

And today wasn’t any different.

He had woken up hopeful. That should’ve been the first red flag.

Jeongin had seen the advertisement for the fan sign at least a hundred times.

He had saved the post, screenshotted it, even written the details on a sticky note that he stuck to the inside of his closet door. Just in case. He didn’t trust algorithms or apps or the unreliability of memory. He checked it every day like someone checking a lifeline. Just to be sure. Date: Saturday. Time: 11:00 a.m. Venue: Sejong Arts Center, Hall B.

It wasn’t even that far.

But Jeongin knew his luck  and he wasn’t going to give the universe any chance to fuck this up for him.

He woke up earlier than needed. Not with an alarm, he hadn’t even needed it. His body was buzzing with something between nervous energy and fragile excitement. He lay in bed for a few moments, staring at the ceiling, heart thudding softly in his chest, like it knew today meant something.

He got up slowly, moved to the kitchen and made breakfast, toast with honey, eggs slightly overcooked just the way he liked them, and a single mug of warm milk. It wasn’t a meal fit for celebration, but it was comforting, and that was what he needed. Normalcy.

Chirpy purred against his ankle while he cooked, weaving between his legs like he was trying to trip him. Jeongin gave him a small bowl of cat food and patted his head.

“I’m going to see him today,” Jeongin whispered to the cat, crouching down. “The author. Can you believe it?”

Chirpy blinked slowly, unimpressed.

Jeongin smiled, standing. He walked to the living room and triple-checked his bag. The book, The Unfolding, was already in it, wrapped neatly in a soft cloth like something precious. Which it was. That book had already made him cry twice, and he wasn’t even halfway through.

He chose his clothes carefully. Not because he wanted to impress anyone, he didn’t think the author would even look up for more than a second, but because he wanted to feel… right. New jeans. Cream cardigan. Hair combed out, bangs pinned loosely so they wouldn’t fall into his eyes. A little gloss on the lips because his mouth always cracked when he got nervous, and he couldn’t be licking it raw in front of someone important.

When Minho knocked on the door, Jeongin was already halfway through adjusting the collar of his shirt.

“Chirpy daycare?” Minho asked, already reaching down to scoop the little cat up into his arms.

“Be nice to him,” Jeongin said, placing Chirpy’s small carrier bag on Minho’s floor. “He gets whiny when he doesn’t see someone he knows.”

“So do I,” Minho replied. “Want me to pack you a lunchbox too, like a proud boyfriend?”

Jeongin rolled his eyes. “Just feed Chirpy on time.”

“okay babe,” Minho said quietly, no teasing this time. “have fun with your author.”

Jeongin blinked, then nodded, clutching the strap of his bag tighter.

Outside, the sun was just beginning to climb. The sky was pale blue, painted with early gold. It was the kind of morning Jeongin used to sketch back in school, the kind that made you believe maybe, just maybe, good days weren’t extinct.

He walked to the subway with his earbuds in, his favorite playlist playing, soft vocals, gentle guitar, a few movie soundtracks tucked between indie tracks and lo-fi beats. The kind of songs that made you feel like you were the protagonist of something. That today could mean something.

On the train, he stood with his bag hugged tight to his chest, staring out the window at the blur of passing stations. He replayed the script in his head like a broken record.

“Hi, I just wanted to say I’ve been reading your books since I was twelve. They’ve helped me a lot. This one especially… it came at the right time. Thank you.”

Simple. Genuine. Not too much.

Still, he stumbled over the words in his head. Practiced them again, then again. Wondered if he should say it differently. Wondered if it sounded childish. Then told himself not to care. But still cared. It was hard not to. His palms were slightly sweaty, so he wiped them on his jeans. He looked down at the book through the thin fabric of his bag, heart skipping. Just one signature. Just one second. Just a smile, maybe. That’s all he wanted.

He stood at the subway doors before they even opened, sneakers bouncing slightly in place as the train slowed to a stop. His fingers curled tightly around the strap of his bag, knuckles white from the pressure. He glanced down once more, just to double-check that the book was still there safely zipped up in the front pocket.

The train hissed to a halt. The doors opened. And Jeongin stepped out into a tide of people.

The morning crowd was heavier than he anticipated. He thought arriving early would’ve meant fewer people, more calm. But apparently everyone had the same idea. People moved fast, business shoes clicking, phones glued to faces, coffee cups clutched like lifelines. Jeongin hugged his bag close and maneuvered carefully through the corridor, trying not to breathe too heavily or brush too close.

He wasn’t sure exactly when it happened. It was small at first, his shoulder brushing someone’s back as he tried to squeeze past a woman in a beige coat. She flinched slightly, startled, and turned sharply.

"Watch it!" she snapped.

Jeongin bowed immediately. “I’m so sorry-”

But someone behind him bumped forward at the same time. He was pushed into the next person, an older man holding a thermos. The thermos jolted and hot tea sloshed over the man’s sleeve.

“Hey! What the hell?!”

“I-I didn’t mean to, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see-”

“What is wrong with you?” someone else muttered, brushing past.

“People are in a rush, kid! Get out of the damn way!”

“I didn’t-….I just-”

“Are you blind?” the man snapped. “You better fucking watch where you’re going.”

“I’m sorry,” Jeongin choked, trying to move out of the way, to disappear, but then another voice joined in.

“Some people just don’t pay attention.”

“Jesus, is he drunk?”

“Fucking kids.”

“No awareness at all.”

The voices overlapped, got louder. The woman from before was still glaring. The man was shaking tea off his hand and shouting. Jeongin’s heart pounded like it was lodged in his throat, his ears filled with a thick, ringing noise that drowned out reason. It was happening too fast. And he hadn’t done anything on purpose. But no one cared. No one stopped to listen.

And that was the worst part.

He wanted to explain. He wanted to yell that it was just an accident. That he had said sorry again and again. But his mouth wouldn’t work. His face burned, his ears were ringing, and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

"I'm sorry- I'm sorry, I really- " Jeongin repeated, voice breaking. His face burned, eyes stinging. “I didn’t mean to-” He backed away, hands raised slightly like someone being arrested, chest tightening with shame. He stumbled out of the group, muttering apologies, his voice growing smaller and smaller, until-

He ran wiping his cheeks with the back of his sleeve. He hadn’t even realized he was crying.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry here.

Not now. Not in front of all these people. But he couldn’t stop it. His footsteps echoed louder than they should have. His breath came in short, shallow gasps. He hated how loud he felt. How wrong.

By the time he reached the escalator, his eyes were already wet and red. He wiped them again, but they wouldn’t stop. A soft, stifled hiccup escaped his throat and he hated the sound of it. Hated how small it made him feel.

He slipped out of the crowd and onto a nearby bench near the station exit, letting the cold metal press into his spine. He dropped his bag on his lap and hunched over it.

Breathe. Just breathe. He bit the inside of his cheek, squeezing his eyes shut. It wasn’t about the tea. It wasn’t about the woman yelling. It was that moment, the split-second shift when the entire crowd turned on him. Like he wasn’t a person. Just a mistake.

He was still breathing too fast. Still shaking.

And then his fingers brushed against the corner of the book inside his bag.

He unzipped the pocket carefully, as if the book were something fragile now. The top corner had bent, folded from the chaos. But the cover was still soft. Still familiar. Still his. Normally Jeongin would have went straight home but today he didn’t. He still thought that that moment wasn’t the whole day. Maybe he’d walk into that room and finally say thank you. Not just for the books.

But for teaching him how to survive mornings like this.

Jeongin tightened his grip around the straps of his bag as he stood at the base of the subway station’s exit, looking up at the street beyond. His shoes felt heavy, like they were filled with sand but he moved anyway. One step. Then another.

He walked.

It was a long walk to the venue. Not unbearable, but enough that his legs started to ache in that dull, numbing kind of way by the time he turned onto the main street. Still, it gave him time, time to let the frantic thudding in his chest settle into something more manageable, more rhythmic. The weight in his chest hadn’t disappeared completely, but with every step, it felt a little more like he could carry it.

He glanced up once, the wind nudging strands of his hair into his eyes. The clouds were thick overhead, but not threatening. Just grey. Quiet. They matched how he felt.

Muted, but present.

The venue finally came into view a glass building, bright and big and then he saw the line. It snaked around the block. Dozens of people. All chatting, laughing, scrolling through their phones. The kind of crowd that seemed to know exactly what to do in situations like this, how to talk, how to stand, how to be casual.

Jeongin slowed to a stop at the back of the line.

He stepped in quietly, adjusting his bag so the book inside wouldn’t get bent.

He didn’t say anything.

No one turned to greet him. Not because they were rude, just because they were already engaged. A girl a few spots ahead was showing the boy next to her her favorite passage from the book. Two others were comparing which cover editions they owned. Another was telling someone how they once cried so hard reading the final chapter that they dropped their phone in the bathtub.

Jeongin stood in silence.

His fingers curled around the edge of his sleeves, tugging at the thread like it might distract his mind.

This part was always the hardest.

He didn’t dislike people. That wasn’t it. He just... never really knew how to start. Or keep things going. He didn’t know the rhythm of small talk. His mind always ran too fast or too blank. And when he did speak, it usually came out a little too soft, or too quick, or just wrong in some way.

So he didn’t.

He just listened.

He inhaled slowly and looked down at his shoes. He felt out of place. Not because anyone was making him feel that way, just because that feeling clung to him like a second skin. Like something that had lived with him for so long he no longer knew where it ended and he began.

……………….

The line was inching forward slowly, heads bobbing and voices murmuring in excited clusters. Jeongin stood still, pressed in a space between two groups, one of them laughing about who would cry first upon seeing the author, the other casually flipping through the book they were about to get signed. Jeongin kept both hands wrapped tightly around the strap of his bag, like it would steady the thudding rhythm in his chest.

Then came his turn.

He stepped forward to the small registration desk. The staff member, a young man in uniform wearing a black lanyard and an earpiece,  gave him a tight-lipped, professional smile. “Name?”

“Yang Jeongin,” he said, politely but firmly, voice a little higher than usual.

The man typed. Tapped. His brows knit.

He tried again.

“Yang… Jeongin?” he repeated.

“Yes. I filled the form online. Two weeks ago. I got a confirmation email too-”

The man was already shaking his head. “Not seeing it. Are you sure this was the right event?”

“Yes,” Jeongin said quickly, heart beginning to squeeze. “The one for The Unfolding, right? I… I double-checked the date so many times.”

“Do you have a QR code or email?”

Jeongin scrambled with cold fingers through his phone, unlocking it too fast, tapping the wrong folder. The people behind him were waiting now. He felt their presence like heat against his back. His breath quickened.

Finally, he pulled up a screenshot. “Here,” he said, offering the screen.

The staff member leaned closer, furrowed his brows, then turned to the colleague beside him. They whispered.

Then he looked up again.

“Your registration didn’t go through the system. There’s no slot under your name.”

“But I have the email. It says I registered.”

“I understand, but the confirmation you have might just be for the form, not for final admission. Only verified names are allowed beyond this point.”

“I-” Jeongin blinked, heart thudding so loud it muffled the rest of the crowd. “I swear I registered early. Please. There must be a mistake. I came here all the way, and I brought the book. It’s really important to me.”

The staff looked genuinely sympathetic. But their expressions didn’t change.

One of them said gently, “I’m sorry, but we can’t let anyone in without a confirmed name on the list. It’s a security issue.”

Jeongin’s fingers clenched around the book as he held it up, a soft, desperate gesture. “I just wanted it signed. I’m not trying to cause any trouble. I just…”

He trailed off. His voice trembled. The line resumed beside him, people were being allowed in. Laughter, excitement, footsteps, a whole wave of joy he wasn’t part of.

A staff member stepped slightly to the side, guiding him gently away from the flow of people. “You can wait here if you want. But we can’t let you pass the security barrier.”

He didn’t argue.

Jeongin just nodded, numb. He stepped away, further from the check-in table, book pressed to his chest like armor. He stood there, eyes fixed on the crowd beyond the rope line, the signed posters, the stage with soft banners fluttering overhead.

Everything he had imagined was happening in front of him  and he was right here, but not allowed in. Like watching life through glass.

A thousand words scrambled in his throat, but none felt like they would help.

All that careful prep. The early breakfast. The practiced lines. The little hope he let himself carry today, like a fragile paper bird tucked in his pocket. He remembered rehearsing what he would say. And he remembered how it felt to finally believe today would be different.

It wasn't fair. He had done everything right. But life didn’t ask for fairness. It didn’t owe kindness. The staff gently guided him to a waiting room telling him that they have contacted the management team and will surely get a response soon.

The waiting room was sterile and too quiet. He sat on the edge of the small vinyl bench, hands clenched around his book.  He looked down at the book again, running his thumb over the worn corner of the cover. Jeongin had tried not to cry earlier at the subway. Now it was harder to keep it in. Just as his throat tightened, the door opened.

He didn’t look up immediately. Not until he heard the familiar weight of shoes on polished tile, and a quiet, “Jeongin?”

His head snapped up.

Hyunjin stood there, crisp lanyard swinging against his chest, coat sharp, expression unreadable  but his eyes softened very subtly the moment they landed on him.

“You,” Jeongin said under his breath, stunned.

“I thought it might be you,” Hyunjin said gently, stepping in fully. There was the faintest pull at the corner of his mouth, not a smile, but recognition.

Jeongin stood up, awkwardly. “I didn’t know you work here. I mean, I didn’t think you’d…” He trailed off, flustered. This was the last place he had expected Hyunjin to be. Jeongin was an avid reader and with just one glance, he could tell that Hyunjin was not. Hyunjin had already done two favors for him and that would be the third one. But still, his grief of not meeting the author was greater than his conscience.

Hyunjin didn’t press him. “What happened?”

Jeongin looked down at the book in his hands. “They said my name’s not on the list. But I swear I registered. I even got the confirmation mail. I… I’ve been planning for this for weeks. They checked twice, but nothing. I told them I wasn’t lying, I just- I don’t know what went wrong.”

One of the staff stepped forward. “Sir, we’ve reported the issue. But it might take an hour to verify on the backend. In the meantime-”

“An hour?” Hyunjin interrupted quietly, his brow tightening.

“Yes. It’s a busy event. There are layers of verifications for crowd safety.”

Hyunjin’s jaw shifted slightly. He looked back at Jeongin, who stood like a boy unfairly left out of something everyone else got to enjoy. His shoulders were drawn in, his expression guarded, not because he was hiding, but because he was preparing himself for another disappointment.

Hyunjin’s eyes dropped to the book in Jeongin’s hands. “You really came for this?” he asked, not as part of the protocol. Something personal.

Jeongin nodded, blinking fast. “I’ve read his books since I was a kid. They were like… my quiet place. I just wanted to say thank you. That’s it.”

There was a raw honesty in his voice. No embellishment. No dramatic pleas. Just quiet, genuine want. Hyunjin exhaled, slow and silent.

“Sir we are strictly just following the rules.”

‘Come with me.” Jeongin blinked. “What?”

“I’ll take care of it. You’re coming in.”

The staff looked up in alarm. “Sir, he’s not registered. We’re not allowed to-”

Hyunjin turned to them, calm but firm. “I’ll sign off on it. He’s not a security risk. He’s a reader. If there’s fallout, it’s on me. That’s all.”

Jeongin hesitated for a beat longer than necessary, fingers tightening against the strap of his bag. Then he nodded, once, and followed.

Hyunjin led him through a side hallway of the venue, one Jeongin hadn’t noticed earlier. It was quieter here. Less polished. The white walls weren’t adorned with any posters or signs, just blank space and the echo of their footsteps.

Jeongin trailed a step or two behind Hyunjin, eyes flicking from door to door as they passed. The air smelled faintly like printer toner and disinfectant. There was a humming of distant equipment, a photocopier, maybe. Or a vending machine.

He tried not to stare at Hyunjin’s back too long, but his eyes kept returning to him. There was something about the way he walked, so composed, like every step was measured. Like he belonged in places Jeongin didn’t even know existed.

They turned a corner and passed a glass window revealing a row of folding chairs stacked neatly against the wall. Jeongin glanced at them absently, his brain still catching up to the turn his morning had taken.

That’s when Hyunjin spoke.

“How’s your hand?”

The question came so unexpectedly that Jeongin blinked before answering. “Oh. It’s… okay. Better.” He flexed his fingers out of reflex. The bruise was still faintly visible, but the pain had mostly dulled.

Hyunjin nodded without looking back. “Good.”

A few more steps of silence, and then “Did you get your sketches?” Jeongin looked up again. “Yeah,” he said. “Minho-hyung gave them to me. I actually wanted to Thank you for that. If anyone else would’ve found them, they must have threw them.” He let out a breathy laugh.

“It’s alright,” Hyunjin replied.”

Jeongin blinked. One moment Hyunjin was all soft and gentle and the next he would again build those walls around him. Jeongin swallowed. Either way, Hyunjin was helping him. Finally, Hyunjin pushed open a door to the left, an unmarked, modest-looking one, and motioned for Jeongin to step inside.

The room wasn’t large, but it was tidy. An office, clearly,  with a simple desk near the window, two chairs, a shelf of files, and a neutral grey carpet that had seen better days. The window blinds were drawn halfway, letting in slivers of daylight that stretched across the floor like faded stripes.

“You can wait here,” Hyunjin said.

Jeongin nodded and hovered near the doorway for a second before moving to the chair closest to the desk. He sat gingerly, resting his bag on his lap.

Hyunjin paused in the doorway. “I won’t be long.”

Jeongin looked up. “Okay.”

There was a flicker of something unreadable in Hyunjin’s expression. Like he wanted to say something else or maybe was waiting for Jeongin to but instead, he gave a small nod and stepped out, quietly pulling the door behind him.

Jeongin sat in the stillness that followed, the kind that felt more internal than external.

The hum of the outside world was muffled by thick walls and distance. He could hear a soft ticking maybe a clock, though he didn’t see one. His fingers moved absentmindedly against the edge of his bag, as though they didn’t know what to do now that they weren’t clutching it in fear or shame.

He let his eyes wander around the room, the pens lined up too neatly on the desk, the faint smudge on the window, the slight bend in one of the shelf corners. There was something grounding about being here. Strange, yes. But oddly safe.

His gaze drifted back to the door Hyunjin had just exited through. Not knowing what came next.

……..

The ticking of the wall clock had grown louder in Jeongin’s ears.

Maybe it hadn’t, really, maybe it was just his awareness of it. A reminder with every passing second: the event was nearly over.

He glanced at his watch again. The fan sign had probably ended by now. The long line of attendees must be slowly filtering into the grand hall, one by one, book in hand, heart full of anticipation. He imagined the little tables, the gentle hum of fans whispering their thoughts to the author, and the stack of signed copies growing on the side.

And here he was. In a quiet office. Alone. Doing nothing.

He swallowed, hard, and reached for his bag without much thought. His hand hesitated only for a second before his fingers curled around the strap. It wasn’t anger that built up inside him. It was just... weight. A quiet, heavy disappointment that sat right on his chest. He had waited. He had held onto hope. And somehow, that made it worse.

Maybe he should’ve known better.

He stood up slowly, quietly,  not wanting to make a sound even though no one was around to hear it. His footsteps felt heavy as he moved toward the door. Maybe he could at least go back home before it all hit him too hard. Before the sinking in his chest spilled out of his eyes.

He opened the door quietly. But the hallway wasn’t empty.

There, walking toward him, was Hyunjin and beside him, an elderly man with a kind expression and a slow, thoughtful gait. Jeongin recognized him before his brain even gave him the name.

Seo Taeyang.

His breath caught in his throat. The author was here. And he was walking this way.

Jeongin’s hand stayed frozen on the doorknob, fingers tightening unconsciously. He hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath until Hyunjin’s gaze flicked up and landed on him. There was no surprise in Hyunjin’s eyes, only calm recognition. As if he knew Jeongin would peek out. As if he had counted on it.

Hyunjin didn’t say anything, but with a small flick of his eyes, he gestured, subtle but clear.

Get back inside.

Jeongin blinked.

His heart was thudding now but not from anxiety. From something stranger. Warmer. Confused hope. He stepped back into the room slowly, letting the door stay half open.

He heard Hyunjin's voice just outside. “Thank you again for making the time, Mr. Seo. I know today’s schedule was already packed.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” the older man replied, voice soft and genuine. “I’m always happy to meet the readers, no matter the setting. It’s them I write for.”

Jeongin couldn’t help but step closer to the doorway, standing just slightly behind it. His ears strained toward the voices.

And then, just as they reached the threshold, without warning, without buildup, Hyunjin spoke again, this time more gently.

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” he said, nodding toward the open door. “He came today just to see you. But due to some... undefined circumstances, he wasn’t able to make it to the main event.”

Jeongin froze. The words felt unreal. He peeked from behind the door as Hyunjin stepped aside.

And Seo Taeyang turned his head toward him, eyes crinkled at the corners, an expression that held no judgment, only curiosity and kindness. For a second, Jeongin didn’t know what to do. His legs felt like they didn’t quite belong to him. So Jeongin stepped out slowly.

The old man’s gaze met his, warm and sincere.

The author didn’t speak immediately. He just looked at Jeongin with the quiet attentiveness of someone who truly listened.

“That means more than you know,” he finally said. “You waited here quietly. Most wouldn’t have.” Jeongin looked down, cheeks flushed.

“Do you have a copy with you?”

Jeongin’s head snapped up.

He nodded. “Yes… yes, I do.” His fingers fumbled slightly as he unzipped the front pocket of his bag and brought out the book, hands gentle as if he were handling something sacred. “It’s this one.”

Seo Taeyang reached out and took it, his thumb brushing over the cover with familiarity.

“This was one of my favorites to write,” he said, pulling a pen from his coat pocket. “Do you want it signed to your name?”

Jeongin nodded, his voice barely audible. “Yes, please. Jeongin.”

The author wrote carefully, his pen gliding over the inside cover with slow precision. When he handed it back, Jeongin stared at the page.

To Jeongin,
For seeing the world with soft eyes, even when it didn’t make it easy.
With all my heart,
Seo Taeyang

Jeongin’s throat tightened. His eyes burned. He blinked quickly, willing himself not to cry. But Seo Taeyang noticed.

“You remind me of one of the characters I never finished writing,” he said, voice warm. “He was quiet, too. And kind. Maybe someday I will.”

Jeongin smiled, shy and small, and cradled the book close to his chest. “Thank you,” he said softly, with all the weight of everything he hadn’t said all day.

The author gave him a gentle nod and turned to Hyunjin. “I’ll go wait outside. Thank you for telling me.”

Hyunjin nodded respectfully, watching the older man leave before he turned to Jeongin again. There was no smugness, no teasing. Just a question in his eyes.

“You okay now?”

Jeongin nodded, blinking fast. His voice came out cracked. “Yeah... I think I am.”

Hyunjin studied him for a moment longer, then stepped aside.

“Come on. I’ll walk you out.”

…………….

Jeongin walked quietly beside Hyunjin, the weight of the signed book heavier than it should’ve been in his hands , not because of its physical mass, but because of what it now held. A memory. A kindness. A moment that shouldn't have happened, but did , because of Hyunjin.

He had no words for the feeling that bloomed low in his chest. Relief, maybe. Gratitude, definitely. But also something quieter, something more personal, the way you feel when someone notices your presence, even when you didn’t expect them to.

When they reached the quieter corridor near the side exit of the venue, Jeongin finally turned to him.

“Thank you,” he said. It came out small, barely a whisper, but sincere.

Hyunjin didn’t say anything right away. He looked ahead, as if waiting to see if there was more.

Jeongin tried again, eyes lowered. “I mean it. For everything. You didn’t have to... do any of that. You didn’t have to recognize me. You didn’t have to help. I want to repay you for everything you did.”

Hyunjin finally turned his gaze to him. “I did recognize you.”

“I know. That’s what I’m saying.”

Hyunjin’s expression remained unreadable. “You said you want to repay me.”

Jeongin nodded immediately. “Yes. I do.”

Hyunjin tilted his head. “For what exactly?”

Jeongin blinked, caught off guard by the question. “For... for bringing the author. For letting me inside. For taking me to the hospital that day. For giving my sketches to Minho hyung.”

“That’s a lot,” Hyunjin said flatly, but his voice wasn’t unkind. Just matter-of-fact.

Jeongin’s ears flushed. “I know. I’m not saying it because I feel guilty or anything, I just... I mean it. I want to do something back.”

Hyunjin studied him in that unsettling way of his, like he was reading between Jeongin’s words, rather than the words themselves. And then, after a long beat, he said, “Alright.”

Jeongin straightened. “Alright?”

Hyunjin nodded once. “I’ll tell you when I think of something.”

Jeongin fumbled to pull out his phone. “Then can I have your number? Just so I know when you do think of something. Or in case I need to text you something. Like... thank you. Again. In case this time doesn’t feel enough.”

Hyunjin accepted the phone without a word, typed in his number, and handed it back.

As Jeongin was about to close the contact window, Hyunjin added under his breath, “Text me so I have yours too.”

Jeongin nodded, quickly sent a small message  “This is Jeongin” and heard Hyunjin’s phone buzz in his pocket. It felt like something quiet had settled between them after that. Something unfinished. Unwritten.

…………

Minho’s bedroom was a quiet mess.

The kind of mess that made sense to no one but him, half-folded laundry on the chair, a sketchbook on the bedside table with a paw print smudged across the page, and a single sock hanging from the lamp for no good reason. But right now, none of that registered.

Right now, Han was under him, half-arched, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in some half-spoken curse.

Minho wasn’t being gentle.

He hadn’t meant to be rough either, but the week had worn them both down. Han with his exams and caffeine shakes. Minho with his aching boredom, his running thoughts, the quiet house, the missing Han. All of it had pooled into something messy and warm and necessary. Like pulling each other apart was the only way to feel something clear again.

Han’s fingers clutched at the sheets as Minho moved, deliberate, heavy. His forehead was damp, jaw slack. And yet, between every ragged breath, he still managed to hiss complaints.

“Exams broke my back,” he groaned, head tipping back. “Now you’re finishing the job-”

“Shut up,” Minho murmured, laughing under his breath, breathless but amused.

“I’m going to fail calculus,” Han continued, gasping when Minho shifted just so. “And die. I’ll die a virgin because whatever this is doesn’t count-”

Minho grabbed his jaw gently, forcing his gaze up. He was too busy watching the way Han’s face flushed under him, all pink cheeks and bitten lips. He reached up and smoothed Han’s damp bangs back from his forehead, then leaned in close, brushing their noses before murmuring, “You sure talk a lot for someone getting wrecked.”

“That's because-” Han gasped. “I’m multitasking.”

Minho couldn’t help it. He laughed. That low, wrecked kind of laugh that only came when he was really, truly in the moment. But the mood shifted sharply when he opened his eyes and caught a pair of round, yellow ones staring directly at him from the edge of the bed.

Chirpy.

The cat was perched awkwardly on the bedside table, tail wrapped around his body like he had front-row tickets to a performance he didn’t fully understand. His ears twitched. His head tilted.

Minho stilled.

Han blinked up at him. “What? Why’d you stop?”

“Chirpy is watching.”

Han groaned. “Minho. God. Please tell me your cat is not watching us have sex.””

“He’s staring straight at my soul.”

Minho leaned over to swipe the cat gently off the table, muttering, “You little menace. Ever heard of privacy?” Chirpy landed on the floor with a soft thump and let out a lazy meow of protest.

Han laughed, flushed and breathless. “Thank God cats can’t talk.”

“I think he knows things,” Minho said gravely, reaching for Han again. “I see judgment in those eyes.”

“Minho.”

“Okay, okay.”

Their rhythm resumed, softer now, more deliberate. The humor had melted into something quieter, heavier. Their hands found each other, tight, grounding. The teasing faded, replaced by the kind of eye contact that made everything feel suddenly more naked than the act itself.

“Tell your cat to respect boundaries,” he said, muffled.

“I tried,” Minho shrugged. “He’s nosy. Wonder where he gets it from.”

Han slapped him weakly with the pillow. “Go to hell.”

Minho laughed again, wrapping an arm around Han and collapsing beside him in the sheets.

Chirpy jumped back onto the bed moments later, curling into a loaf at the corner like nothing had happened.

“See?” Minho said, pointing. “Forgiven.”

Han groaned. “I hate how domestic this is.”

“I love it.”

And as the ceiling fan hummed above them again, Minho’s fingers found Han’s under the sheets. They didn’t say anything after that. Not for a long time.

………….

Han had a lot of useless worries in his life.

Worries like: What if I used the wrong font size on the final report and my professor thinks I’m careless? What if my GPA drops by 0.01 and I never recover emotionally? What if Minho falls in love with someone cooler, who doesn’t triple-check their planner?

He worried about his pen ink running out during exams. About whether his socks matched when he left in a hurry. About whether his friends secretly found him annoying and were just too polite to say it.

But he also worried about real things.

Like the way his chest clenched when he thought about his future and how uncertain it all felt. Or how sometimes he forgot to eat when he was too deep in studying and his stomach protested like he’d committed betrayal. Or how exhausting it was to be a perfectionist in a world that barely noticed effort.

Han was a hard worker, relentless, actually. He didn’t half-ass anything. Whether it was writing a 3000-word essay or learning a dance routine for a campus event, he went in like the world was watching. Like he was watching, and couldn’t afford to disappoint himself.

But no matter how tightly he clung to his structure, his planning, his delicate balance of control.

There was always one storm that unraveled it.

Minho.

Minho, with his sleepy eyes and smug little smirks. With his midnight texts saying "Come over. I miss annoying you.” With his habit of making messes wherever he went and calling it charm. With the way he stole Han’s time, attention, and self-control like it was his by default.

Han sighed as he lay half-buried under Minho’s arm, his phone buzzing with reminders about an exam review session he was definitely going to miss now. His pencil case sat neatly zipped on the desk across the room. Unused.

“Why are you sighing like a widowed grandmother?” Minho murmured, still half-asleep, voice gravelly and smug.

“Because you’ve ruined my schedule.”

“You’re welcome.”

“That wasn’t a thank you.”

“You were thinking it.”

Han tilted his head to glare up at him. “I was not.”

Minho opened one eye lazily. “You love being ruined. Admit it.”

“You’re delusional.”

“You’re naked under my blanket and whining about productivity,” Minho said, shifting closer. “Sounds like someone who secretly likes it.”

Han groaned and shoved his face into the pillow. “I have an exam review session.”

Minho dragged a finger down Han’s bare back, featherlight, infuriating. “You can study later.”

“Later turns into tomorrow, and tomorrow turns into regret.”

Minho chuckled and buried his face into Han’s shoulder, warm breath fanning across his skin. “God, you're so dramatic. You act like one skipped study session is going to end civilization.”

“For me, it might.”

But even as he said it, Han didn’t move. He stayed pressed into Minho’s chest, letting the steady heartbeat beneath his ear lull him into calm. Because as much as Minho derailed him, distracted him, pulled him away from his rigidly organized life, Han couldn’t deny it anymore.

He liked the derailment.

He liked the way Minho made space feel less suffocating.

The way his touch could quiet the spiraling thoughts Han didn’t know how to tame on his own.

“Hey,” Minho said softly after a while, voice unusually gentle. “You know I’ll help you study later, right? I’m annoying, but not evil.”

Han lifted his head slightly, surprised. “You’d help me study?”

“I’ll wear glasses and pretend I’m a hot tutor.”

“You already are a hot tutor.”

Minho smirked. “See? That’s why I ruin you.”

Han rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He reached up and traced his fingers across Minho’s collarbone. “Sometimes I feel like I lose pieces of myself around you.”

Minho blinked. “What kind of pieces?”

Han shrugged. “The ones that tell me to always be responsible. To always be preparing for something. You make me want to… pause. And just exist.”

Minho didn’t laugh at that.

Instead, he leaned in and kissed Han’s forehead, slow and grounding.

“That doesn’t sound like a loss,” he whispered. “That sounds like you’re finally resting.”

Han’s throat tightened a little. He hated how Minho did that, got under his skin in all the right ways.

“I still love you,” Han said quietly. “Even when you’re a menace.”

Minho smiled against his skin. “I know. And I love you too. Even when you’re a walking anxiety.”

They stayed like that, limbs tangled, time forgotten. Outside the window, the city went on cars honking, people yelling, deadlines looming.

“Will you cook something?” Han asked, voice light but unsure. “I’m kinda starving.”

Minho lifted his head, pushing back his hair and yawning like a lazy cat. “You want food or you just want to see me in the apron again?”

Han tried not to smile. “Both.”

Minho leaned over and pressed a warm, lingering kiss to his cheek before stretching and sliding out of bed. “Alright, Chef Lee Minho reporting for duty. What does my painfully charming boyfriend crave?”

Han watched him wander toward the small kitchenette in nothing but his sweats, fingers absently combing through his hair.

He hesitated.

Then: “Minho.”

“Mm?” Minho reached into the fridge, pulling out eggs and a tub of kimchi.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

Minho paused.

He didn’t turn around right away, but Han could see the subtle way his spine straightened, how his hand stilled mid-reach. “Yeah?”

Han cleared his throat. “My mom... wants to invite you over for dinner.”

The silence after that was almost comical.

Minho finally turned around, an egg cradled in one palm. He stared, as if he hadn’t heard correctly.

“Come again?”

Han’s shoulders tensed. “She’s asking if you’d come over sometime this week. She said she’d make that black bean chicken you like.”

Minho set the egg down carefully, like it had suddenly become too heavy.

“You know your dad hates me,” he said, not cold, not angry, just stating a fact.

“I know,” Han said quietly. “But he’s out of the country. Business trip. He won’t be back for at least a month.”

Minho’s gaze dropped to the counter.

He remembered the last time.

Han’s house had felt like a stage, all pristine corners and uncomfortable silence. His mother had been kind enough, awkward, but kind. But his father? That man hadn’t said Minho’s name once. Had barely looked at him. And when he finally did, it was to hurl accusations that made Han shake with rage.

"You turned my son into this. A faggot. A joke."

Minho had clenched his fists so tight that night, his nails dug crescent moons into his palms. He hadn’t spoken a word in return, not because he didn’t want to, but because Han had looked at him, eyes wide and panicked, silently pleading: not now. Not here. I’ll handle it.

And he had.

Han had stood up for him, defended him, fought like hell behind closed doors.

That night changed something in Minho. It built a wall. And every time he thought about going back, the memory slammed into him again, sharp, ugly, humiliating.

“Your mom knows he won’t be there?” Minho asked, voice low.

“Yes.”

“She’s okay with me now?”

Han bit his lip. “She’s... trying. She’s been different lately. She asks about you sometimes. Quietly. And she told me the other day she wished I’d bring you next time I came home.”

Minho leaned back against the counter, arms crossed.

Han looked at him from across the room, eyes open and vulnerable in that way Minho always tried to ignore, because when Han looked like that, Minho wanted to give him everything.

“It’s not a trap,” Han said, smiling faintly. “She just wants to know the person I love.”

Minho raised a brow. “You say that so easily now.”

“I’ve always felt it easily,” Han replied. “Saying it just took time.”

Minho exhaled through his nose. “I still don’t trust it. Your family...”

“I know,” Han said gently, then got up, sheet falling away, uncaring. “But you’re mine. You’ve always been mine. And they can’t change that.”

He walked up to Minho and leaned into his space, fingers brushing the hem of his shirt.

“You don’t have to say yes,” Han murmured. “I’d never make you do that. But... it would mean something. To me.”

Minho looked at him for a long moment.

And he hated how much he still wanted to be accepted. Hated that small, broken part of him that still needed to be seen by people who once made him feel small.

But more than anything, he didn’t want Han to go alone.

He cupped Han’s cheek gently.

“I’ll think about it.”

Han nodded, as if that answer was enough. And maybe it was.

Because Minho was already moving again, grabbing the eggs, heating the pan, fussing with ingredients like a domestic distraction.

Han leaned against the doorway, arms folded.

“I’m still hungry,” he teased.

“You’re always hungry,” Minho muttered.

“I’m not the one who ruins diets and lives,” Han grinned.

Minho turned to glare, but there was no heat in it.

“Next time you call me a menace, I’m serving you instant noodles.”

Han grinned wider. “With extra love?”

“With expired kimchi.”

They laughed. The tension didn't disappear entirely, but it softened. It made space. Enough to hold on a little longer.

……………

If Hyunjin had a penny for every time his father made a microscopic issue into a national crisis, he’d be a millionaire. Maybe a billionaire, depending on whether you counted the times his father managed to spin Hyunjin’s breath into a personal offense.

He downed the last of the wine in his glass, sharp, dry, expensive enough to sting  and slammed it a little too hard on the mahogany counter. The bartender flinched. Hyunjin didn’t notice.

“Another,” he said. His voice was even. Detached. Almost bored.

The glass was refilled. He didn’t thank anyone.

He stared at the red swirl for a moment. There was a time he thought wine was pretentious. Now he drank it like it was a necessary evil,  not for the taste, but for what came after. For how it dulled the edges, blurred the sharp outlines of his thoughts. How it filled his chest with a warmth that wasn’t joy but something dangerously close to it. Forgetfulness.

The first sip slid down like silk. The second scraped like glass. He didn’t mind either.

He was still wearing his suit from earlier, now wrinkled at the collar. His tie was loose, shirt slightly open, sleeves pushed to his forearms. The alcohol clung to him like perfume,  he didn’t reek, but he was saturated.

The event had ended perfectly. Impeccably, even. Not a single detail out of place.

And yet, someone, some miserable coward had gone to his father with news that Hyunjin had allowed an unregistered person to meet the author. They had spun it into scandal, exaggerated it into disobedience. Protocol, image, boundaries, his father listed them all like commandments while Hyunjin sat there, hands in fists under the table.

And as if that wasn’t enough, as if perfection still demanded punishment his father had brought up Felix. Always Felix. Always his ghost.

Hyunjin took another sip. Let it burn longer this time. Let it ache going down.

He didn’t speak of Felix. Not to anyone. Not to Chan. Not to himself.

And especially not after nights like this,  when his father’s words lingered like ash, when shame and grief clashed in his throat and he didn’t know where one began and the other ended.

He stared at his phone lying face down on the bar. The screen buzzed once. A call. He ignored it. Buzzed again. A message this time. He ignored that too. Instead, he picked the phone up slowly. Opened his recent calls. Stared at one name for a moment too long.

Jeongin.

His finger hovered. He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. But he also didn’t want to go home. He pressed call. It rang. Once. Twice.

“Hello?” Jeongin’s voice was soft. Sleepy. Still polite.

Hyunjin didn’t hesitate. His tone was calm, clipped, low.

“You said you wanted to pay me back.”

A beat of silence.

“...Do you want to cash it in now?”

Notes:

sooooo.... this contains some sweet smut... plus it wasn't satisfies (i still am not) with this chapter but I think that's the best version .... ty so much for all of your love...

follow me on twt: tianrings

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

The smell of alcohol entered before Hyunjin did. Sharp. Bitter. Heavy, like smoke that lingered even after the fire was gone.

When Jeongin opened the door, the hallway light fell over Hyunjin’s figure. His tie was loose, jacket half off his shoulders, shirt wrinkled. He wasn’t stumbling, not exactly, but his steps were uneven in a way that betrayed how much wine was running through his veins.

For a moment, Jeongin just stood there, hand still on the doorknob, lips parted as though caught between asking why and saying come in. But Hyunjin didn’t wait for permission. He brushed past with that same air he always carried, though dulled now.

Hyunjin stopped a few steps in. He turned, eyes unfocused but still managing to land on Jeongin. His words came out slow, almost careful, like he was making sure they wouldn’t slur.

“I’m not… being a burden on you, am I?”

It was such a strange question coming from him, the man who never asked, nor cared. The man who filled every room like he owned it. Now he was standing there asking if his presence was unwanted, as though he was the one seeking permission.

Jeongin’s gaze flickered to the wall clock. Its hands pointed to 1:03 a.m.

“No,” he said finally, quietly, because he didn’t know what else to say.

Hyunjin exhaled, almost like that single word was enough. He moved further inside, and his body slumped as though the sofa was pulling him down before he even reached it. He dropped onto the cushions with an ungraceful heaviness, then shifted, lying back, one arm over his eyes.

His free hand raked through his hair, pushing it back again and again as though he could rub the thoughts away with the motion. The silence stretched. Jeongin stood a few feet away, watching the picture of someone who was too much in control to be fully drunk, yet too undone to pretend otherwise.

“Do you… want something for the hangover?” Jeongin asked, his voice breaking the silence carefully, as though afraid it might shatter the fragile quiet holding the room together.

Hyunjin gave a faint, almost humorless laugh. It was short, cut off. He shook his head against the sofa cushion.

“No. Don’t… don’t bother.” His voice was low, weighted, like each word had to be pulled out of him. “It’s fine. I’ll deal with it.”

His hand was still in his hair, pulling it back, letting it fall, pulling it back again. The movement was restless, unending. His eyes weren’t closed. They were half-open, staring at the ceiling as though it might answer him.

The smell of alcohol still lingered in the air like an uninvited guest. It clung to Hyunjin’s clothes, his hair, even the way he breathed out as he tried to maneuver himself onto Jeongin’s sofa. The problem was, in his half-drunken state, he nearly flattened Chirpy, who let out a startled squeak and leapt away just in time. Hyunjin mumbled an apology to the little cat that was clearly smarter at survival than he was at sitting down.

Jeongin, who had been hovering awkwardly, cleared his throat. His voice was soft, almost careful. “I’ll warm up some soup… that’ll help you.”

Hyunjin didn’t respond right away. He just sank deeper into the cushions, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand as though trying to grind out both the exhaustion and the lingering burn of his father’s words. His other hand kept dragging through his hair, restless, pushing it back though it fell forward again every time.

From the sofa, he had an easy view into the small kitchen. Jeongin’s movements were simple, unhurried: reaching for a pot, setting it on the stove, the click of the lighter followed by the low hum of flame. Hyunjin watched the way Jeongin’s body shifted with each small task, sometimes his back was to him, shoulders drawn in with quiet concentration, sometimes he turned just enough that Hyunjin could see his face in the warm kitchen light.

Hyunjin squinted a little, trying to read him the way he read suspects, associates, anyone who ever dared look him in the eye. Was there anger? Disappointment? Annoyance, at least? Hyunjin frowned to himself. That wasn’t right. No one could be that calm at one in the morning, with a half-drunk man collapsing on their sofa. Was Jeongin hiding it? Burying his anger so deep that it didn’t show? Or was he really so unaffected?

But Jeongin’s expression was… neutral. Maybe even gentle in its calmness. Too calm. Hyunjin couldn’t decide if that made him feel relieved or unsettled. He thought of all the faces he had memorized in his life, liars, betrayers, men who smiled with daggers behind their teeth. He had always been able to read them. A twitch here, a spark there. People wore their truths whether they knew it or not.

But Jeongin… Jeongin gave him nothing.

His chest rose and fell unevenly. He muttered, almost to himself but loud enough to carry “Are you just good at hiding it, or… are you really not angry with me?”

The soup simmered softly in the background, the scent of miso starting to fill the apartment. Jeongin stirred the pot once, then glanced over his shoulder at him, not with irritation, not with judgment, but with that same unreadable patience that had always made Hyunjin feel like he was under a microscope he couldn’t control.

Hyunjin shifted on the sofa, running his hand through his hair again, and let out a low laugh that was more self-deprecating than amused. “Maybe I don’t even know what I want your face to tell me.”

The alcohol in his veins made the words blur at the edges, but the thoughts behind them were sharp, jagged. He wondered if Jeongin could tell how much he was unraveling.

In a swift yet stumbling motion, Hyunjin stood up and Chirpy hid. Hyunjin didn’t knew where he was stepping but he do knew where he had to go. The kitchen was too quiet. Too still. The faint bubbling of the broth on the stove was the only thing grounding the moment, but Hyunjin’s mind was far from calm. His chest heaved like he had been running, though he hadn’t moved more than a few steps.

 

He stood opposite Jeongin, knuckles pressed against the counter as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. The silence stretched, suffocating, until his lips parted again.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered, voice low, like a confession he wasn’t supposed to say out loud. “It’s not just anger. It’s… it’s him. It’s always him.”

Jeongin set the ladle down, turning fully to face him. His gaze wasn’t sharp, wasn’t harsh, it was steady. But that only made Hyunjin unravel faster.

“My father-” Hyunjin’s words tripped over themselves, ragged and uneven. “He never fucking stops. He….he tears me down every chance he gets. He says I’m a disappointment. That I’m a failure, even when I’ve done everything he’s ever asked. I try harder. I always try harder. But it’s never enough.” His voice cracked. “Never. Fucking. Enough.”

He pushed back from the counter, pacing a short, tight circle in the kitchen. His hands trembled slightly, his head heavy with drink and rage. “Do you know what that does to you, Jeongin? To have the person who’s supposed to believe in you, your own father, look at you like you’re nothing? Like you’re trash he can toss aside when he’s done shouting at it?”

Jeongin swallowed hard, his heart tugging at the sight before him. He had never seen Hyunjin like this, well how many times he had seen Hyunjin?

Hyunjin dragged a hand through his hair, gripping it tight. His voice fell, quieter now, yet heavier than before.

“And I-I fucking hate him for it. But I hate myself more… because I keep wanting him to see me. To just once look at me and say he’s proud. Isn’t that pathetic? Isn’t that so fucking pathetic?”

Jeongin shook his head slowly, stepping closer despite the storm radiating from Hyunjin. “It’s not pathetic,” he said softly. “It’s human.”

Hyunjin’s chest rose sharply at the words, like they had cut through to something raw inside him. He stopped pacing, eyes locking onto Jeongin’s. For a long moment, neither moved.

And then Hyunjin laughed, short, bitter, and broken. He leaned back against the counter, letting his head fall back because it felt scornful. “You don’t know what it’s like, Jeongin. To grow up being told you’ll never be good enough. To have your entire existence measured in failures. I’m twenty five fucking years old, and I still feel like that terrified kid hiding in his room while my father yelled in the next.”

His hand clenched into a fist, knuckles white. “I drink because it shuts it off. For a little while, it’s quiet up here.” He tapped his temple with two fingers, eyes wild. “But when it wears off, it’s worse. The noise comes back louder. And I look in the mirror and I don’t even recognize myself.”

Jeongin slowly exhaled. His instinct was to reach out, but something held him back. The air between them was so charged it felt dangerous to move too quickly.

Hyunjin’s gaze dropped back down, finding Jeongin again. This time, there was no barrier in his eyes, only exhaustion and something dangerously close to pleading. He stepped forward, closer than before, his presence overwhelming.

“You stand there,” Hyunjin said, voice unsteady, “and you look at me like I’m not broken. Like I’m not every fucking thing my father says I am. And I don’t understand it. I don’t understand you.”

Jeongin’s lips parted, but no sound came out. He felt pinned under the weight of Hyunjin’s stare, under the intensity that burned there.

Hyunjin’s breathing grew shallow, his face drawing closer without him even realizing. His eyes flickered, first to Jeongin’s eyes, then down to his mouth, lingering, then snapping back up as if ashamed. His hand twitched at his side, curling into a fist again as though fighting himself.

“I must sound insane,” Hyunjin muttered, almost to himself. “Completely insane. God, you must think I’m-”

He stopped.

The silence roared. Jeongin could feel his heartbeat in his throat, fast and unsure. And before he could find words, Hyunjin closed the distance, his lips crashing onto Jeongin’s.

Jeongin froze, shocked, his thoughts scattering as if someone had suddenly placed him in the wrong life, in the wrong skin. He could taste the faint bitterness of alcohol on Hyunjin’s lips, but underneath it was something else, something raw, frantic, unbearably human.

Hyunjin kissed him like a man drowning.

The last person on earth Jeongin thought he would ever be kissing was right there, inches away, his breath smelling faintly of wine and smoke, his lips pressing harder in a way that was not soft, not romantic, not anything Jeongin could define, just desperate. Desperate like someone drowning and clutching the nearest thing to stay afloat.

What do I do? Jeongin’s thoughts tumbled over themselves, tripping one after the other. He should push Hyunjin away, every nerve in his head screamed that. He should shove him back, draw the line, tell him no, that this wasn’t right. Hyunjin was drunk. Hyunjin was angry. Hyunjin wasn’t thinking clearly.

But his hands wouldn’t move.

They just hung at his sides, trembling slightly, as Hyunjin’s fingers hovered dangerously close to his jaw, like he wanted to cup it but didn’t know if he had the right.

Jeongin’s heart pounded so violently in his chest it almost hurt. Why me? Why is he kissing me? He searched for a reason. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe Hyunjin was just lashing out at the world, maybe he just wanted to feel like he could take something or was there something else?

The thought terrified him more than anything.

His eyes darted open briefly, meeting Hyunjin’s half-lidded gaze. And for a split second, just one, Jeongin could swear Hyunjin wasn’t drunk, wasn’t angry. He was just… tired.

“Hyunjin…” Jeongin whispered against the kiss, his voice shaky, unsure, almost pleading. He didn’t know if he was begging him to stop or begging him not to break in front of him.

Hyunjin didn’t answer, he pressed forward instead, his jaw tense, his breath uneven. The kiss wasn’t clean. It wasn’t perfect. It was messy, harsh, like every bottled-up word and swallowed scream was being poured into it.

Jeongin’s mind raced. He’s not kissing me. He’s kissing his anger. He’s kissing his loneliness.. He’s just using me.

For a moment Jeongin had convinced himself that he was going to push Hyunjin away.
That was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? The logical thing. To put space between them, to not let himself be tangled into the storm of someone else’s anger, someone else’s loneliness. But as the seconds ticked on and Hyunjin’s lips remained pressed against his, hesitant yet demanding, he realized he hadn’t moved at all. His hands hung stiffly at his sides, his back pressed against the counter, as if his body itself was undecided.

But then the strangest thought crept in, he chose me.

Out of everything, out of the wine, the night, the suffocating presence of his father, the shadows he tried to outrun, Hyunjin had ended up here. At his door. In his kitchen. Kissing him. Jeongin’s chest tightened painfully at the thought. He didn’t know if it was because of affection, desperation, or madness, but still, it was him. He was the one Hyunjin leaned on when he stumbled. He was the one Hyunjin looked at, stared at as if searching for an anchor in chaos. That thought alone, selfish and fleeting as it was, made a part of Jeongin swell with pride.

Why me? he wanted to ask. But beneath that question came another voice: Why not me?

He hated himself for feeling it. For feeling this warmth, this dangerous flicker of satisfaction, when he knew Hyunjin was drunk, wounded, and carrying more scars than Jeongin could ever understand. Yet wasn’t he just as lonely? Wasn’t he just as tired as him?

The weight of loneliness, the kind that builds silently and presses against your ribs until breathing feels hollow, suddenly rose in him like a tide. And maybe that was why his lips moved. Slowly, hesitantly, almost like betrayal. His mouth shaped itself back against Hyunjin’s, answering, giving in.

Hyunjin let out a sharp breath through his nose, as if he hadn’t expected Jeongin to respond at all. His hand faltered for a second before curling tighter against the counter beside Jeongin’s hip, caging him in. His other hand, trembling faintly, brushed Jeongin’s jaw, almost unsure whether to claim or to plead.

Inside Jeongin’s head, a war raged.

“This is wrong. He doesn’t mean it. He’s drunk.”

“But he chose you. Out of everyone, he came to you.”

“You should stop this before it goes too far.”

“But doesn’t it feel good, for once, not to be the one left behind?”

His lashes trembled as his eyes slid shut, and in that fragile, broken moment, Jeongin stopped resisting. The loneliness he never admitted to, the need to be needed, the quiet ache of always pretending he didn’t want more, it all clawed at him, urging him to hold on. To accept the kiss not as Hyunjin’s weakness but as a strange kind of gift, one Jeongin was starved enough to take.

His hand moved almost on its own, brushing against Hyunjin’s sleeve, gripping lightly, testing what it felt like to respond. And though his heart screamed that he was walking into something dangerous, maybe even cruel, another part of him was satisfied.

When they finally broke apart, both of them leaning back just enough to catch their breath, Jeongin caught the faintest glint in Hyunjin’s eyes. Hyunjin’s voice came low, almost cracked.
“Can I stay tonight?”

Jeongin blinked, stunned. Out of everything Hyunjin could have asked for, this, this was so simple it hurt. He searched Hyunjin’s face for some hint of a trick, some cruel edge to the question, but there was none. Just the weary curve of lips and the heaviness of a man who seemed to have been running too long.

Jeongin nodded slowly, his throat tight. “Yes.”

Hyunjin’s shoulders eased the tiniest fraction, as though that one word had carried more weight than anything else spoken between them all night. Without waiting for more, he let himself slide down onto the couch, his long frame sprawling with none of his usual grace. Within minutes his breaths had evened, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. He was asleep.

Jeongin stood there, still against the counter, staring at him. A disappointment curled in his chest, childish, petty, and undeniable. After a kiss like that, after a question that felt like a confession, Hyunjin had simply… fallen asleep. No words, no explanations. Just exhaustion swallowing him whole.

But the longer Jeongin looked, the more he realized this wasn’t nothing. If anything, it was the opposite.

This wasn’t just a drunk man collapsing into unconsciousness. It was Hyunjin, entrusting himself to Jeongin’s quiet little home, his couch, his presence. Falling asleep here meant something. Maybe more than the kiss itself.

A sigh slipped from Jeongin as he pulled a blanket from the armchair and draped it carefully over Hyunjin’s body. For a fleeting second, he let his hand linger, hovering over Hyunjin’s shoulder, but he pulled back before he could give into the temptation of brushing his fingers against him.

A soft sound broke the silence. Jeongin turned. On the armrest, Chirpy sat with its head tilted, dark bead-like eyes fixed on him.

Jeongin’s lips twisted into something between amusement and guilt. “You saw all that, didn’t you?” he whispered.

The cat blinked slowly, hair all puffed up, as if unimpressed or maybe, as Jeongin’s silly, tired mind wanted to believe, quietly judgmental. Jeongin chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmured, picking Chirpy up gently. The cat settled into his hands, warm and familiar. “I know what you’re thinking. That I’ve lost it.” His voice wavered. “Maybe I have.”

Carrying Chirpy with him, Jeongin padded softly into the other room. He set the cat on its bed, but stayed there, staring into the shadows as his thoughts churned.

The kiss still burned faintly on his lips, a reminder. Not just of Hyunjin’s desperation, but of his own. How long had it been since anyone had chosen him? Since anyone had relied on him, not because of what he could do, not because of his strength, but just… him?

That’s what unsettled him most. Not the kiss, not Hyunjin’s presence on his couch. But the aching realization that, deep down, he wanted it. He wanted to be someone’s choice. Even if that someone was the last person on earth he thought it would ever be.

…………

Jeongin woke to silence. A heavy, too-quiet silence that immediately told him something was missing. The first thing his eyes caught was the faint crease on the sofa in the living room, already cold, already empty. Hyunjin was gone.

He didn’t know why he felt a small, dull ache crawl into his chest, but he did. Some part of him had expected this, no, prepared for it. Hyunjin didn’t look like the type to linger, not after a night that blurred between anger and exhaustion, not after words slurred with alcohol and a kiss that Jeongin still didn’t quite know how to categorize.

Still, Jeongin had hoped. And that small, irrational hope now felt foolish.

He sat up slowly, running a hand over his messy hair, his throat dry. On the coffee table was nothing, no glass out of place, no jacket left behind, no sign that Hyunjin had ever been there except for the faint smell of his cologne that still clung to the cushions.

Chirpy hopped up on the windowsill, stretching lazily as if to say I saw it all, but I won’t tell. Jeongin looked at the cat and sighed.

“Guess it’s just us again, huh?” his voice was soft, almost swallowed by the stillness of the room.

He padded into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and leaned against the counter. The memories of last night replayed whether he wanted them to or not, Hyunjin’s slurred voice, the way his eyes had burned when he talked about his father, the strange, almost desperate kiss that had landed on Jeongin like a storm.

Was it real? Or was it just alcohol and fury twisting into something reckless?

Jeongin hated himself for how his chest tightened at the memory, for how part of him wanted to believe it had meant something, that for one suspended moment, Hyunjin had chosen him. That he had been the person Hyunjin turned to, leaned on, even if it was messy and broken.

But now Hyunjin was gone. And Jeongin couldn’t decide if he was relieved or disappointed. Maybe both.

He glanced at the sofa again. Did he even remember? That question haunted him more than anything else. If Hyunjin remembered, maybe it would mean something. If he didn’t… then Jeongin was just a passing stop in one of Hyunjin’s reckless nights.

Still, the thought surprised him: he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t bitter. He knew better than to expect permanence from someone like Hyunjin. And yet, a tiny, selfish corner of his heart clung to the warmth of that kiss.

“Pathetic,” Jeongin muttered under his breath, though he wasn’t sure if he was talking about Hyunjin or himself.

Chirpy purred in the background, tail swishing like he knew secrets Jeongin couldn’t say out loud. Jeongin reached over, scooped him up, and pressed his face into the cat’s fur, inhaling as if it could ground him.

It didn’t. Nothing could. Not really.

………….

The door clicked softly behind Hyunjin as he stepped inside. His face was unreadable, his movements careful, like someone who didn’t want to be noticed, but couldn’t help the sound of his own footsteps.

Chan looked up from the papers spread on the dining table. For a second, the words blurred, and all he saw was the faint slump of Hyunjin’s shoulders, the tired drag in his walk. Something in Chan’s chest tightened.

He wanted to ask. He wanted to demand. Where were you? What happened? But the words caught in his throat like barbed wire. He knew Hyunjin too well. Sometimes the wrong question was enough to make him shut every door for days.

So Chan swallowed all of it down, pressing his tongue against his teeth until he found safer ground.

Hyunjin’s eyes flicked toward him, just for a second, before sliding away again. He set his keys on the table with deliberate slowness, like someone preparing for a reaction that never came.

Chan leaned back, as though this was just another ordinary evening. His voice, when he finally spoke, was careful , level, warm in that restrained way that only an older brother could manage.

“You know,” he began, tapping his finger against the armrest as if continuing a conversation they’d left unfinished, “the marketing team finally sent in the proofs for that new poetry collection. Took them long enough.”

Hyunjin hummed faintly. Not quite an answer, more like a signal: I heard you. Don’t expect more.

Chan accepted it. He continued, casual, almost conversational.

“They’re pushing for a brighter cover this time , say the darker tones won’t sell as well. But honestly…” he gave a soft shrug, “I think they’re underestimating the readers. People still like subtlety. Not everything has to scream at you from the shelf.”

Another hum. A small nod as Hyunjin sat down across from him, stretching his long legs out but keeping his eyes on the floor.

“Did you have breakfast yet?”

Hyunjin’s head turned lazily toward him, as though dragged by an effort he didn’t want to give. “No.” His voice was rough, like gravel dragged across the throat.

Chan leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, pretending it was casual. “Me neither.”

For a moment there was nothing but the hum of the fridge and the faint tick of the wall clock. Then Hyunjin shifted, sitting up a little straighter. “I’ll make coffee,” he said, almost offhandedly.

It was small, so small, but it froze Chan for a moment. Hyunjin never offered things like that anymore. He used to, years ago, when he was younger, eager to play at being independent, wanting to take care of himself and maybe even others. Somewhere along the way, those gestures had slipped away.

Chan nodded slowly, not wanting to make it bigger than it was. “Alright.” His voice was steady, almost flat, but his chest ached with the surprise of it.

Hyunjin rose and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the sound of cabinets opening and the tap running.

Chan exhaled and opened his laptop again, fingers moving on instinct more than intention. He opened the chat window with Seungmin. The small green dot beside his name steadied him in some quiet way. He typed quickly:

Chan: He’s home.

The reply came fast, as though Seungmin had been waiting.

Seungmin: Good. I was worried you’d spend the whole day pacing again.

Chan almost smiled but didn’t. He typed back:

Chan: I didn’t know what to do last night. I called everyone I could think of. I was ready to drive to half the city if someone had even a rumor of seeing him.

He sat still, staring at the words. His shoulders tightened as the memory replayed, dialing numbers, hearing rings that went unanswered, his throat dry, palms sweaty as the night stretched on. He had told himself over and over: Hyunjin’s not a child anymore. He’s old enough. He’ll be fine. But each hour had stripped that reasoning thinner, until all that was left was the raw, helpless panic of a brother who couldn’t shake the memory of holding Hyunjin’s hand when he was five and wouldn’t stop crying over scraped knees.

The message bubble appeared again.

Seungmin: You’ve done this since we started dating. Every time he vanishes, you unravel like this. He’s not that little boy anymore, Chan. He’s grown. You have to let him live, even if it’s messy.

Chan’s throat tightened. He stared at the text, hearing Seungmin’s voice in his head, gentle but firm, like he always was. He knew Seungmin was right. He knew. And yet, that part of him, the one that had carried Hyunjin through every fever, every nightmare, every slammed door as a teenager, refused to disappear. It wasn’t logic. It was bone-deep.

From the kitchen came the faint sound of the kettle switching off, the clink of mugs on the counter. Hyunjin humming under his breath, tuneless, distracted.

Chan typed back, his fingers slower this time.

Chan: I can’t switch it off. It’s just how it is. No matter how many times I tell myself he can take care of himself… the moment he’s gone, I can’t breathe until I know he’s safe.

He didn’t wait for a reply. He closed the laptop gently, leaning back in his chair, closing his eyes for a brief second. The smell of coffee was drifting in now, warm, grounding.

When Hyunjin returned with two mugs, he placed one in front of Chan without a word. His expression was unreadable, but there was something softer around the edges, something that looked almost like a truce.

Chan wrapped his hands around the cup, letting the heat seep into his palms. He didn’t say thank you, not because he wasn’t grateful, but because he knew words might scare the moment away.

Instead, he just took a sip, eyes briefly flicking up to Hyunjin’s. For a heartbeat, it felt like something old had returned, not fully, not healed, but a fragment. And to not let that moment get carried away by something senseless he might say, he started talking about work.

“Printing deadlines are tighter this month,” Chan said, scrolling through a set of emails. “We’ve got two manuscripts lined up back-to-back. And the marketing team keeps insisting we adjust the paper quality, which, frankly, isn’t in the budget. Typical.”

Hyunjin sipped his coffee without answering, only nodding faintly, gaze drifting somewhere else.

Chan went on, pretending not to notice. “Also, there’s the anniversary collection. The reprints of the classics. Father’s-” He cut himself off. Old habit. He didn’t need to drag their father into this; not when Hyunjin already looked tired.

Instead, he adjusted: “The design team’s worried about the covers. The artist we usually work with… isn’t taking on new commissions anymore.” He tapped his pen against the table absently. “So, we’ll probably need to find someone else for the illustrations. Can’t exactly print blank covers.”

That’s when it happened. A shift. A subtle spark in Hyunjin’s eyes. He didn’t sit up straighter, that would’ve given too much away,  but Chan noticed the way his brother’s grip on the coffee cup stilled, the faint flicker of focus breaking through the fog that had been draped over him since he walked in.

Hyunjin’s voice was calm when he spoke, but there was a quiet certainty in it. “I’ll handle it.”

Chan blinked, a little caught off guard. He had expected another half-hum, another distracted nod. Instead, he found Hyunjin meeting his gaze for the first time that morning.

“You’ll… handle it?” Chan repeated, cautious.

“Mm.” Hyunjin didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. His tone alone carried a weight, the kind of weight that said: don’t ask how, just trust me.

Chan’s instinct , the one honed from years of being the older brother, the caretaker, the worrier ,screamed to press, to question, to remind Hyunjin that things like this weren’t simple. But he stopped himself. There was something in Hyunjin’s eyes he hadn’t seen in a while, a glimmer of control, of certainty. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

So Chan leaned back in his chair, hiding his surprise behind a small nod. “Alright,” he said simply, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

Hyunjin gave the faintest smirk, as if satisfied with Chan’s response, and returned to his coffee.

Chan watched him for a moment longer, then looked back at his laptop. He didn’t push. He didn’t pry. He just let Hyunjin have this becuase maybe, letting him have something to hold on to was the best kind of care he could offer.

…………………….

Hyunjin sat at his desk long after Chan had left for his morning meetings, the faint ring of porcelain still on the table where his untouched coffee cooled. His fingers tapped idly against the grain of the wood, but his mind wasn’t on work. It was on last night. Every second of it.

People liked to say drunken nights blurred at the edges, softened like smudged ink on wet paper. For him, it was the opposite. His memory, instead of blurring, sharpened. Every line. Every sound. Every fleeting brush of warmth. It all came back, mercilessly clear.

The kiss. The way Jeongin’s breath was against his. The subtle tremor in his own hand when he had reached up, hesitant, but didn’t pull away.

Hyunjin pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes, as if he could wipe it away. But it was still there, stamped into him.

He let out a short, bitter laugh. What a mess.

He didn’t hate it. That was the problem. He didn’t hate any of it. And he couldn’t bring himself to say he liked it either. His chest was a storm, caught between the thrill of something new and the guilt that burned like acid under his ribs.

Felix.

The name came unbidden, and it sat heavy in his throat. Felix, with his reckless laugh and his way of making every crowded room feel small and private. Felix, who loved him so openly, so fiercely, until death cut it short. Hyunjin’s chest tightened. The ghost of him still lived in Hyunjin’s every choice, every hesitation.

And what was last night, if not a betrayal?

His voice, low, cracked the silence of the room. “I don’t know if I’m allowed to feel this.”

The clock ticked on the wall, indifferent.

Hyunjin leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. He remembered the softness of Jeongin’s lips, the warmth in his eyes afterward. It wasn’t Felix. It could never be Felix. But for the first time in years, something stirred in him that wasn’t only grief.

It terrified him.

And yet…

His fingers curled into a fist. “Why does it feel like…something?”

The shame was sharp, but so was the ache of longing. He couldn’t erase it. He couldn’t stop remembering. And the more he remembered, the more he realized, forgetting would have been easier.

But Hyunjin had never been given the mercy of forgetting.

 

Notes:

hiiii...sorry for late update...uni has started and it was hard catching up... but here i am ... i guess.