Archive of Our Own

Minho doesn’t like to complain about his job too much.

Being a grim reaper is tedious work depending on the cases that appear on his desk on a given day, but he almost always gets through the stack before the sun sets in the mortal realm. 

Getting through each case is a routine procedure at this point: read a person’s case file and get them to drink the pot of tea that magically appears next to his desk on a quaint golden cart with the deceased’s name engraved into it. The tea wipes them of the memories of their past life so Minho can send them on to the next with a clean slate. Everything is smooth and simple as long as Minho sticks to the rules. 

And Minho always sticks to the rules. Sticking to them means he gets to finish early and spend some time in the mortal realm maybe even enjoy a walk by the river. If a day is particularly slow, he might stop by the chicken and beer shop he likes to frequent. 

He lives for those types of days.  

He dreads the days he gets stuck with special cases that eat up his time. Cases like Han Jisung—the phoenix sitting across him. 

“Minho-hyung! It’s good to see you again,” Jisung greets. 

Minho wants to imagine that Jisung’s hair has grown out longer since the last time he saw him, but it’s not true. His hair is dark and just past needing a haircut and he’s dressed in black skinny jeans and a ripped oversized striped long-sleeve shirt. He looks exactly the same as he did after his first life. He always looks the same. 

“Jisung-ssi,” Minho greets, already tired. 

Minho resists the urge to glance at the clock on his desk. He can already tell he won’t have any time to spare after he’s done with Jisung. 

“Are you going to drink your tea this time?” he asks, voice stale. 

Jisung’s smile widens and his eyes crinkle at the corners. It’s answer enough. 

“Of course not,” Minho mutters and slumps in his chair. 

He looks down at the thin stack of papers grimly. The struggle Minho has with Han Jisung is not that his case has many nuances—it’s just that the negotiation stage of things has reached a stalemate. 

Jisung hasn’t drunk his tea once in his one hundred lifetimes. 

The nature of being a phoenix means that even if he doesn’t drink his tea, he’ll still be reborn by the next sunrise in the mortal realm. Unlike humans, the lives and deaths of phoenixes have always been managed naturally by the sun. It must be some sort of cosmic error that Jisung’s file keeps ending up on his desk. 

When Jisung had come bounding in for the first time, eyes bright with the memories of his first life, Minho had brusquely gone through the steps, confirming details tended to calm humans down and remind them of where they’d come from. He chose to ignore the fact that Jisung’s soul burned bright red in his chest rather than the typical, human blue. 

“Name?”

“Han Jisung. What’s yours?”

Minho had blinked, thrown off by the cheeriness in Jisung’s tone.

“That doesn’t matter,” he replied neutrally. “Date of birth?”

“Of course it does,” Jisung insisted, his doe eyes boring into Minho. “How else will I know what to call you?”

“You won’t need to call me anything in a few minutes,” he responded. 

Jisung’s cheeriness unsettled him. He scanned over the document and found it rather sparse for a first life. Most people lived long first lives—curious and cautious in equal measure but generally with a strong survival instinct. The man in front of him—a kid really—was only twenty-two when he died. 

Minho held back a frown as he read the file. Jisung had died saving a group of kittens that ran out in front of oncoming traffic. 

It had ticked him off in the moment. What a ridiculous way to die. He should have been more careful with his life; he should have cherished it more.

It was a ridiculous notion in retrospect. 

Since meeting him, Jisung has lost his life a dozen times over in order to save others. He has no real regard for his own life, rarely living past his thirties. Minho supposes his enduring cheeriness might be attributed to Jisung’s prolonged youth, never having lived through middle or old age. But then again, neither has Minho. He was twenty-seven when he died. 

He had no way of knowing which lifetime he’d been on when he passed. There was no magical file for him to read through, no grim reaper to explain the empty room or the steaming tea. He’d hardly been cheery about his death. He rarely feels cheery now, years into his job. Death isn’t exactly a cheery topic. It’s why Jisung’s broad smile made him nervous then; it makes him nervous now. 

The thought brings Minho back to the present. 

He reads the file over again. He already glanced through it before Jisung walked through the door but Minho flips through it to give his hands something to do. There’s a photograph of a gruesome scene on the final page. Jisung’s body is slumped in what looks like a dark abandoned building. His clothes are tattered and a pool of blood frames his head like a halo. 

“Aren’t you going to ask what happened?” Jisung asks. 

“It’s in the file.” 

“Yeah, but don’t you want to hear it? The file never includes the good parts.”

Minho pauses, debating it. He suspects Jisung will tell the story regardless of whether or not Minho wants to hear it. But he ponders the question anyhow, indulges in Jisung’s sparkly-eyed gaze. They seem to twinkle extra bright when he realizes Minho is actually giving him the time of day. 

“Who did you save this time?” he asks finally. He flips through the file as Jisung speaks. 

“You’ll never believe it, hyung. I was in class with this really cool boy,” Jisung pauses and leans forward, tapping his finger on a photo of two boys in tracksuits at the top of the previous page, “Hyunjin! That’s him. We became great friends right away and I…” 

Jisung goes on to paint the tale of the sad but hopeful son of a gangster, how Jisung had gotten close to Hyunjin, how they’d made plans to run away, how they’d almost made it out before Hyunjin’s father and his lackeys had caught up with them. He tells him how Jisung had slipped up at the last moment. How he was caught but he was sure that Hyunjin had made it out alright. 

“We’re both on the track team. We run strides after practice to see who will pay for dinner. Hyunjin always wins but he still pays because he is the hyung. Was the hyung.” 

Jisung’s smile dims like it always does when he gets his tenses mixed up. It’s a common mistake, but Minho can see it pains Jisung to make it. 

“Uhm,” Jisung clears his throat. “But I’m sure Hyunjin outran them. He was always faster than me. He could outrun anyone.”

Minho nods along with the story, resigned to the fact that the rest of his day is forfeit. Like Minho, Jisung knows that their time together is limited. He tends to use it to its fullest, not sparing a detail, no matter how insignificant or gory. 

Minho tries to contain his fond smile when Jisung gets carried away talking about Hyunjin’s dog. 

Eventually, Jisung runs out of things to say. Minho takes advantage of the window. 

“Sounds like a busy life. Maybe you’d like some time to rest?”

Jisung raises an eyebrow. “Rest?”

“Maybe you’d like to go into your next life without the burden of all your past lives.”

Jisung catches on to Minho’s goading words, but he doesn’t playfully brush it off like he usually does. He frowns, mouth set and unhappy. 

“I barely remember my past lives when I’m living. I only get flashes sometimes. It’s only after I come here that I remember everything. But my past lives aren’t a burden. Hyunjin wasn’t a burden.” 

Minho raises his hands as if to placate him. It’s not often he manages to actually upset Jisung. He proceeds cautiously. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Minho says, and because guilt begins to twist inside him, he adds, “And I’m sorry for your loss.”

Sympathy is a step he usually skips with Jisung. The younger man is usually too eager to get into it with Minho. He forgets that between his past life and the next, this is the only time Jisung really has to grieve what he’s lost. 

“I didn’t lose anything,” Jisung says, petulant. 

“Then what are you doing here?” Minho asks. He gestures around the office. 

He keeps it fairly sparse. Once he figured out he could summon personal effects from his life, he experimented with putting up old posters and photos from his old bedroom. After a while, the reminders of his life began to depress him. 

Now, he keeps it simple. A plain oak desk. Two well-structured office chairs. A file cabinet beside the desk and a blank puppy calendar in the corner. He can’t remember the year he got the calendar only that it was a gift for a birthday one year. The calendar reflects his faulty memory. All the dates are blank and in the space where a month should be listed is what Minho assumes is the name of the dog. 

Blueberry the golden retriever stares at Minho from across the room. He looks awfully judgemental given his tongue is spilling from his mouth and taking up half the page. Minho makes a note to flip the page after Jisung leaves. 

Whenever that will be. 

Jisung stews in silence, refusing to answer Minho’s question. 

“Jisung-ssi, I don’t want to argue with you–”

“Then why are you here?” Jisung snaps. His eyebrows are drawn together, lips pouted in a way that makes Minho want to coo. He suppresses the instinct and distracts himself by smoothing a hand over the files. 

“I’m only encouraging you to drink the tea because I think it might help you,” he says. 

“Help me with what?”

“Live longer lives. Yours are always cut short. You’re always throwing yourself in the way of danger for someone else. Why don’t you try living for yourself for once?”

“I am living for myself,” Jisung insists. 

“Do you think Hyunjin would agree?” Minho asks.

It’s a low blow but Minho swings anyway. They only have so much time and when Jisung’s eyes light up, he knows it’s not just rage burning in them. It’s sorrow. 

“It doesn’t matter because Hyunjin is still living his life. He’s living it because I saved him. I chose to save him. I could have lived that life a thousand times over and I would have always chosen to save him. It’s who I am. It’s my life and it’s my choice what I do with it.”

Minho doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he’d served both Hwang Hyunjin and his father tea that morning before Jisung ambled through the door. 

“You’re right,” Minho concedes, “it’s your life to live.”

Jisung doesn’t drink his tea.

⛾   ⛾   ⛾

Jisung is endlessly curious about Minho but it takes a dozen lifetimes before his curiosity extends to actual materials in the office. Namely, the reports of his life that sit on Minho’s desk.

 Jisung squints at the current file lying flat on the desk. 

“What does it even say in there?”

Minho debates hoarding it over him but then slides it across the table. Encouragement and threats haven’t worked; he doubts a little pettiness will suddenly convince Jisung to comply with the rules.

“It’s nothing you didn’t already live.”

Jisung flips through the pages, eyes critically scanning the concise summary of his life. 

“This barely covers it.” 

Minho shrugs. “It’s not about full coverage. It’s just enough for me to get a picture of who you are and what your life was like.” 

It’s what Minho has come to theorize over time. The format of the reports is direct and to the point, the type of work he might have done at his job when he was living. Really, he thinks, it’s just enough for him to formulate the right questions. 

“That’s stupid. You can just ask me.”

“Ok, Han Jisung.” Minho closes the folder. He’s feeling lenient today even a little playful. “Tell me about your life.”

Jisung’s eyes light up. 

⛾   ⛾   ⛾

“Am I only the one?” Jisung asks once. 

“Only one of what?”

“The only phoenix case you’ve had?”

Minho pauses his file flipping. Jisung doesn’t seem particularly interested in discussing his case file this time around. He can see why. The details aren’t exactly riveting. He died in his mid-twenties. He was studying architecture. No strong familial connections or significant others. 

Close to no friends. 

Minho wants to ask him about it, but he doesn’t. Their time together is short and it’s not his job to ask why even if the thought of Jisung alone in the world, in any lifetime, unsettles something deep inside of him.

He answers Jisung’s question with a simple, “yes.”

“What about other supernaturals?”

“Others?” Minho questions. 

Jisung waves a hand. “Yeah. You know, vampires, werewolves, fairies.”

Minho blinks. “No, I’ve never had another supernatural case.”

Jisung nods as if this is the answer he’s been looking for. Minho wants to ask why, but he doesn’t. He never does. Jisung is always so eager to tell him what’s on his mind, that he’s never had to ask. It’s not just this lifetime that’s left Minho with questions still hanging in the air. 

Jisung’s been quiet lately. He doesn’t talk as much about his lives unless Minho prompts him and Minho never prompts him. Instead, their conversations have turned to this—Jisung peppering Minho with questions about his job and life. 

“It’s never struck you as odd that I’m the only supernatural case you’ve ever had?”

“Of course it has,” Minho admits, tone a bit sharp.

He’s not actually that irritated. It’s hard to recall the genuine irritation he used to feel when Jisung walked through his door. These days, he can’t help but look forward to his appearance, to the way his eyes light up with recognition. He doesn’t dwell on the why of it all. Thinking of why would lead him down roads he was no longer interested in following. 

The thought alone is enough to sour his mood. But it’s not irritation that makes his chest tighten with unease. Not irritation that makes him want to close the distance between them, to touch Jisung in a way he’s always denied thinking about. 

The feeling stewing inside of him is much worse. 

“Don’t you think—” Jisung starts. 

“What happened this time? Why was it cut short?” Minho interrupts. 

“What?” Jisung's eyes go round as they tend to do when Minho catches him off guard. 

“Your life. No family, no friends, no kittens to throw yourself into traffic for. Why did you die?”

Jisung falters for a moment, mouth open before settling into a small frown. 

“It’s in the file,” he mutters after a moment. 

“How you died is in the file, not why. Besides, aren’t you always telling me the file never captures the full picture?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Jisung says quietly and if Minho was a bit kinder, he would back off. 

“No? That’s unusual; you’re usually content to waste my time with your chatter.”

The hurt that flashes across Jisung’s face isn’t unexpected but it still pinches something inside of Minho. 

“Hyung,” he starts but Minho doesn’t let up. 

“If you’re not going to chat and you don’t want to drink your tea, I believe our appointment is finished. You know where the door is.”

For a moment Jisung only stares at him, eyes wide and disbelieving. 

“You want me to go?”

“I want you to stop wasting my time,” Minho says. 

Jisung stares without saying anything, eyes wide and sparkling. For a moment, it looks like he might start crying but then his expression shutters and goes blank. 

“See you in the next life, hyung,” Jisung mutters and walks out. 

⛾   ⛾   ⛾

The rules aren’t real. 

They came about over time, often out of moments of fear and terror so acute, that Minho felt paralyzed by them. He marked down new rules in a small notebook, detailed and precise like instructions from a professor or boss phrased like they’re addressed to Minho. 

They’re meant to keep his world small, as small as the space of his office. The rules exist because nothing else can exist in this space. The rules are all Minho has. 

For a while, he had them typed out on a laminated sheet taped to his desk. For a while, he had a whiteboard and a dozen dry-erase markers he used to write and rewrite the rules in different colors each day. For a while, he had a PowerPoint presentation on a laptop he conjured up from his past life. 

He gave himself little tasks, organized his notes, added to the rule book, and translated those rules to a whiteboard, to a chalkboard, to the laminated piece of paper taped to his desk. He made typos just for the task of editing them away, correcting them until everything was neat and orderly and perfectly even. 

That was before Jisung. 

⛾   ⛾   ⛾

“Have you considered, hyung, that maybe I was sent for you?” Jisung says in lieu of a greeting. 

Minho takes it in stride, somewhat relieved by the chipperness in Jisung’s tone. If he’s still hurt by their last interaction, he doesn’t show it. 

“Han Jisung,” Minho replies, ignoring his question. 

He doesn’t bother opening the file. Jisung had only lived until thirteen in this life. He’d died during a hunting trip during an era where not even the most advanced medicine of the time could have saved him. Other than that, he’d seemed happy. 

He seems happy now despite the tragedy of his short life. 

“Who pours your tea, huh? How do grim reapers move on?” Jisung asks.

“We don’t,” Minho says gruffly. “We chose this.” 

Well, Minho has never met another reaper. He’s not even sure if they’re out there, but he has to imagine that they’re not all like him. That they didn’t all stumble into their offices after screwing up their own fates.

“Did you?” Jisung questions. “Are you sure there isn’t some way to move on?”

“Don’t you think I would have found it by now?” Minho has found that the less curious he is about his circumstances, the easier it is to get through the day. 

A dozen lifetimes ago, Jisung’s line of questioning might have been enough to irritate Minho into shooing Jisung out the door. Now, he just indulges in Jisung’s heated look, helplessly endeared by the way his interest seems to take over his body, his leg bouncing and body leaning forward like the closer he gets to Minho, the better he’ll be able to convince him of his argument. 

“Maybe you’re not being creative enough. It wouldn’t hurt you to think outside of the box or,” Jisung waves an arm around, “at least get out of this stuffy office every now and again. There aren’t even any windows.”

“There’s nothing out there to see,” Minho retorts. “And that’s enough about me.”

“I’ll never get enough of you, hyung,” Jisung says.

The line is cheesy and stupid but Jisung says it so earnestly, his eyebrows furrowed and eyes shining that Minho feels his heart flutter in his chest despite himself.

“You can’t save everyone,” Minho says softly. 

And surprisingly, Jisung blushes as if embarrassed to be caught in the act. 

“I’m not saving you,” Jisung mutters. “You’re not in danger.”

Minho can’t help the laugh that escapes him. The sound only seems to alarm Jisung. 

“You’re not in danger, right? No one is keeping you here?” His fists are clenched and he looks ready to pounce if necessary, his eyes darting around the room as if trying to locate a threat. Minho tries to hide his amusement.

“No one is keeping me here,” he assures. It’s a half-truth. For someone to be keeping him here, there would have to be someone. Someone else besides Minho and his desk and this tiny office. 

“Then why do you look so sad all the time?”

Minho opens Jisung’s file instead of answering.

“How about you, Jisungie? Were you happy in your last life? It ended awfully short again. Have you considered living a full life? Not throwing yourself in the mouth of danger for once?”

Jisung looks taken aback. “It’s not like I’m trying to be killed.”

“Well, it doesn’t seem like you’re trying that hard to stay alive.”

“That’s not fair. I live great lives,” Jisung says, voice almost veering on defensive. “And besides, I get to see you at the end of each one.”

Minho hums. “Maybe you’d live longer lives if you didn’t know there was an endless supply. They say that’s what makes life so special.”

“I think my life is pretty sweet as is. Or rather, my afterlife.” Another cheesy line. 

Minho bites his lip, debating pushing the topic again but then shuts the file closed instead. He’s in a good mood today and he doesn’t want to spoil it. 

⛾   ⛾   ⛾

Minho likes Seoul in the winter.

He thinks he’s probably among the few, but he can’t help the nostalgia that washes through him. The first snowfall in Seoul. 2:00 PM. The air is sharp and crisp. It was his last day alive. 

Somewhere across the city, his real body is slowly decaying in a hospital bed. He doesn’t remember much about his actual death only the brief flashes of light and a nurse pulling the curtains back in his room to point out the snowfall. 

Minho doesn’t give the hospital much thought. He’s lived through that death once; he has no interest in going back anymore. It’s not why he comes back to the mortal realm anyhow. 

He blows warmth into his hand, mimicking the other passersby around him going to and from errands, jobs, dates, appointments, etc. 

He can’t really feel the cold, but with enough of his senses engaged, he can feel its phantom touch. That’s the odd thing about being neither dead nor alive. He’s no longer alive in any way that matters but the memory of life is strong enough that sometimes he feels like he can pretend himself into existence. 

He opens the door to the shop and places his order at the counter. The girl at the cash register takes it and places it with a glazed look in her eyes. She’ll forget Minho in a few moments. That’s the thing about grim reapers. Everyone can see him but no one can remember him. No humans at least. 

She barely registers him when she brings out a basket of fried chicken and a pint of beer filled to the top, the foam nearly spilling over the sides. 

Minho takes it and sits in the corner booth as always, biting into the steaming hot chicken he swears he can almost taste. 

He loves this moment. The moment when everyone in the room seems to pause. The din quiets and there’s a gentle gasp from a child eating with her father in the far corner booth of the shop. 

Outside, the first snowflakes begin to fall. Everyone watches for a moment. It stretches out—moments like this. Some people look around and smile, their eyes twinkling. The awe in their eyes seems to swallow the room whole. They are remembering they are alive. 

Then, of course, the moment passes and the noise picks up and people pick up their phones and clink their beers and move on with their days. 

It’s just one moment in a billion. A single moment none of them are likely to remember.  

Minho sighs, satisfied, and returns to his office. 

⛾   ⛾   ⛾

Minho can tell immediately that this appointment won’t be like the others. 

When Jisung looks at Minho, there is an unbearable sadness in his eyes. The file on Minho’s desk is thicker than it has been in a long time. Jisung had lived until he was in his late sixties this lifetime. It had been equal parts gratifying and startling flipping through his file, seeing the way age looked on Jisung. He looked good with laughter lines and crows feet.

There’s no sign of it on his body now. Outwardly, he’s the same Jisung as always, dressed in his usual skinny jeans and striped shirt. He looks the same except for the weak flickering light in his chest, the usual vibrant red more of a dull ember. 

His soul is tired. 

Minho debates taking advantage of his vulnerability. It might be the right time to get Jisung to finally drink his tea. The thought makes Minho want to swallow glass. He lets the silence hang between them, considering what he might say in the face of Jisung’s weariness. 

“Did you know I was an accountant?” he opens with. 

Jisung cocks his head. “What?”

“In my lifetime,” he explains. “I was an accountant. I was on a promotional track in my department when I died.” 

Jisung blinks at him. 

“That explains a lot,” he says deadpan. 

Minho laughs. “Should I be offended?”

“No,” Jisung says, genuine. “It suits you.” 

“It suits you too apparently.” Minho gestures to the file. 

Jisung grimaces and then shrugs. “My mother’s choice. Father took off when I was young and I needed something dependable.” 

“Not just for your mother,” Minho notes lightly. 

Jisung’s eyes glaze over slightly, something glassy and fragile taking over. He tries to blink it back but doesn’t quite manage. 

“No,” he says quietly. “The rest of my family relied on me too.”

The rest of his family meaning his wife and two daughters. Out of all the lives Han Jisung had lived, he’d never had children. He’d had lovers of all kinds, different relationships with all sorts of people but never a family like this. 

He’d watched them grow old enough to start families of their own. 

Minho wants to ask him about them. He wants to prod and ask what made this lifetime different, what kept him living long enough to start a family, to start something that would outlive him. But Minho doesn’t ask about them.  

Instead, he keeps his questions simple, asks him about his job as an accountant, and indulges briefly about his experiences as an office worker from his lifetime. 

Jisung’s eyes light up at the divulgence of personal information, the type of details he’s always trying to get out of Minho usually without success. Minho expects him to press for more details but instead Jisung talks aimlessly about his own job, the kind of gossip he might have shared with a friend over beers. 

It’s surprisingly mundane but it’s all Jisung can seem to conjure up, endlessly rambling about work scandals and other innocuous stories. After a while, the conversation drifts off and Minho can tell Jisung is getting lost in his memories. 

It’s something he’s witnessed with others in the past—even on the cusp of their next lives, most people can’t help but simmer in nostalgia. The longer they live, the earlier the memories people tended to share: their mother’s smile, picking strawberries with a sibling, their first broken bone, their first kiss or heartbreak, the first time they saw the ocean. People lingered on their first times despite being at the end of their lives. 

Minho has more patience than when he first started this job, perhaps in partial credit to Jisung. He usually lets them talk until they’ve reached a point of contentment if they can—that or a point of silence where words seem to fail them. 

Jisung, Minho knows, has never been at a loss for words. He has dozens of them at his disposal, always eager to share with Minho. The silence that takes over their conversation isn’t so much the case of a well running dry as much as it spilling over. 

Jisung has the weight of over a hundred lives swimming in him. 

Minho gives him time, unbothered by the quiet. Eventually, Jisung clears his throat. 

“My wife,” he starts and then cuts off again, voice hoarse. He takes a steadying breath, not looking at Minho.

“Take your time,” Minho says quietly. 

Jisung’s eyes flicker up and catch on Minho’s gaze. He smiles slightly and then clears his throat. 

“She reminded me of you.”

It’s the last thing he expected Jisung to say and he can’t help the dumbfounded look that takes over his face. 

“We fell in love almost immediately. We were both young and we rushed into things. We got married as soon as we found out she was pregnant. We were still kids when it all happened. It wasn’t easy of course but I don’t regret it. She was my best friend. She—” Jisung cuts off again, voice choking up. 

Minho manifests a tissue box with a wave of his hand and nudges it towards him. Jisung takes it gratefully and blows his nose. 

“Thanks,” he mutters.

Minho waits silently as Jisung gathers himself, heart racing. 

“She always felt so familiar to me. As I got older, I realized it was because she reminded me of you. My memories started to come back to me…not of my past lives but our time here, wherever this is,” Jisung says, gesturing around the office. 

“It really felt like…I wondered if it was you,” Jisung admits. “I wondered if you’d been reborn after all.” 

Minho’s heart squeezes so hard in his chest that he worries for a moment it might pop. 

“Jisung.” He doesn’t know what to say. Minho doesn’t remember his past lives. He doesn’t know if his short life as an accountant was his first or one billionth life. Time isn’t linear either; it’s more of a subjective twist what era souls are thrown into, a sort of cosmic chaos. 

He doesn’t have any answers for Jisung, just a blossoming thorny softness in his throat. 

“I know now that it wasn’t you,” Jisung continues. “I think I would have recognized your soul…I’m sure I would have. But it was all so new. It felt like you were with me. It felt like you were there. It was the first time I really wanted to stay.” 

“I’m sorry, Jisung,” Minho says quietly, overrun by emotions. 

“Don’t be sorry,” Jisung says, eyes crinkling into a glittering smile. “I wasn’t sad to go. Even when I was happy, I wasn’t sad about it ending. Not when I knew I was coming back to you.”

⛾   ⛾   ⛾

Jisung’s next few lives are remarkably short. His soul burns dimly in his chest. 

He doesn’t marry or have children in the many lives that follow. 

Minho stops talking about the tea. 

⛾   ⛾   ⛾

“Why don’t I stay with you for a while,” Jisung says one day. “We can be reapers together. We can good cop bad cop people into drinking their tea.” Jisung says the words with a light joking tone but there’s a dead look in his eye. 

“You can’t stay,” Minho says. “And most people don’t need too much encouragement to drink their tea.”

 He’d soften his words except he’s not trying to be mean. It’s the truth. Even when Jisung doesn’t drink the tea, he’s reborn. Either he leaves through the door into his next life or like clockwork, after twenty-four hours in the office, Jisung passes out. He can’t seem to stay awake. After that, his body burns bright and hot for a moment and then disappears.

The first time it happened was terrifying. He’d all but begged Jisung to drink the tea the next time he saw him. 

“Why not? Why can’t I stay? Who says? Show me who makes the rules and we’ll see who wins in a fight.”

Minho sighs. It’s pointless arguing with Jisung when he’s like this.

They don’t have many options in here but being a grim reaper isn’t without its perks. He waves a hand and a chessboard appears on the desk. 

“How about this,” Minho says, setting up the pieces. “We play a game and if I win you have to drink your tea.” 

“What if I win?” Jisung is still pouting but there’s also a competitive glint in his eyes. 

“You don’t have to drink your tea.”

Jisung rolls his eyes. “I’m not drinking it anyways.”

“Not unless I win,” Minho reminds.

“I haven’t agreed to play yet,” Jisung responds. 

Minho raises an eyebrow. “Haven’t you?” 

Jisung has already started arranging the pieces on his end. It’s a nice set. Minho thinks it must have been his grandfather’s, but details like that have long since faded. The material things though, Minho can manifest them in a blink of an eye no matter how deep the memory is buried. 

Jisung shrugs and then mutters a quiet whatever and continues setting up the board. 

They play five games. Minho wins the first two and then Jisung the final three. He’s triumphant initially and then pouts when Minho doesn’t seem particularly surprised by his loss. 

“Did you let me win?” he gripes. 

“Of course not,” Minho says. “But if you want to be sure, we can do a rematch.”

Jisung agrees immediately. 

“After your next life of course.”

“I see what you’re doing,” Jisung says, unimpressed. 

“Do you now?”

“Why don’t you hurry through the door. Your tea has gone cold.”

Jisung scoffs but rises. He goes with a smile. 

⛾   ⛾   ⛾

They play a thousand games over the course of  a dozen lifetimes. 

Minho never quite manages to win. 

⛾   ⛾   ⛾

“I thought about you a lot,” Jisung says immediately when he walks in. 

Minho raises an eyebrow. “Did you now?”

Jisung nods and settles into his chair. “It’s always a bit fuzzy but my memories start to come back to me over time. I lived a long life this time. By the end of it, I could remember all of the details of your face.” 

Minho already previewed the file. He already saw that Jisung was a painter. He’d lived during the late Joseon dynasty. He’d kept to himself, interacting with the same few names that had started to make consistent appearances in Jisung’s many lives. Hwang Hyunjin, Seo Changbin, Kim Seungmin, and Yang Jeongin. They were all there. Bang Chan and Lee Yongbok were newer souls, but they had also been popping up more frequently in Jisung’s lifetimes. 

Sometimes souls were like that—attracted to each other, eager to orbit around each other across time and space. He wonders, briefly, if Minho had drunk his own tea like he was supposed to if he would have been another thread in the tapestry of Jisung’s many lives. 

He pushes the thought away and continues to flip through the file, stopping when he almost gets to the end. 

He looks at the painting, printed large and taking up the whole page. He blinks at it and then stares up at Jisung who is smiling shyly back at him.

“I felt like something was missing, you know? None of my paintings looked right until I tried painting you.”

The painting is accurate down to the small scar on his cheek. Jisung painted him dressed in a hanbok but kept his hair the same, dark and cropped just at the bottom of his neck. 

Minho feels oddly choked up staring at it. It’s as if Jisung had found a way to bring him into his next life with him. 

“This is,” Minho starts. “This is really lovely. Thank you, Jisung.” 

He wants to keep it. Even better, he wants the real thing. He wishes he could have seen Jisung in his element, stretching canvas and preparing his brushes, biting his lip and scrunching his nose up like he does when focused on something. 

“Of course, hyung,” Jisung says. “I’m glad you like it.” 

They stare at each other and Minho’s heart rages in his chest but he can’t seem to find any words to say. Jisung, too, seems content to just stare at him. 

“It would be nice if you could be reborn into my next life with me,” Jisung says, voice wistful. He goes on before Minho can interrupt him, “I know, I know, it’s not possible. I’m just saying. I just wanted to say it.”

Minho closes his open mouth. And then offers Jisung a small smile. 

“It would be nice,” he agrees. 

⛾   ⛾   ⛾

Minho is at the chicken and beer shop. 

It’s been months since he’s had a free moment. The world is always wrought with disaster but lately the files have been stacking up on his desk, hardly giving him a moment to rest. 

He hasn’t seen Jisung in a long time. 

He’s not sure how long it’s been since time, even though it passes in twenty-four-hour periods, doesn’t necessarily correspond to anything in the mortal realm. He pretends he’s not filled with disappointment every time he opens a file to see a name that isn’t Han Jisung. 

Minho is good at suppressing these types of thoughts. He’s always been good at narrowing his focus. When his workload lightens, he takes advantage of it and orders his usual at the shop, pinpointing his attention on the hot chicken, reveling in the almost taste on his tongue. 

He’s taking his final sip of beer, content to call it after seeing the snow starts to melt on the pavement when he hears a familiar voice call out. 

“Minho-hyung!”

Minho blinks and turns and there in the doorway, eyelashes lightly coated in snowflakes is Han Jisung. 

“Jisungie?” is what slips out of his mouth. 

Jisung all but body slams him into a hug. 

They haven’t touched before but his body inherently seems to recognize Jisung. He melts into his embrace as easily as if it was their one hundredth hug instead of their first. 

“What are you doing here?” Minho wheezes out. 

Jisung releases him from the tight hug but keeps his arms loose around Minho’s waist. “I live here! Down the street. What are you doing here? I thought you couldn’t come to the mortal realm?” Jisung says, his voice shifting from excited to accusatory. 

“I can’t. I don’t,” Minho stutters through his words as his mind reels. “This was my lifetime. Grim reapers can’t visit outside of lives we haven’t lived. I can’t really come back anywhere besides my last day before I died. I used to come here a lot.” 

“So you’re somewhere out there right now? In this world?” Jisung’s eyes light up, reflecting the awe in Minho’s own chest. 

“No,” Minho says softly. “Not really. I think I’ll probably be gone in an hour or so but I can usually hang out until the end of the day.” 

Minho doesn’t remember a lot from his last day alive. He knows that this is his final day alive though because he can’t visit any further. The scene resets to 2 PM every time. He wonders if the world will do so with Jisung here with him. If Jisung will begin to see the world around them shift and change while Minho’s stays the same. 

He didn’t think it was possible for Jisung to be born in his own lifetime. 

“Today?” Jisung asks, voice suddenly soft. “Right now?”

Minho hums in affirmation. 

“Why do you come here?”

Minho shrugs. “It’s lively in here. The people…” Minho trails off not sure how to explain it. 

He’s never tried to explain it to Jisung because he never imagined he’d see Jisung anywhere outside of his office. Staring at him against the backdrop of the shop, among all the other diners makes his brain want to split in two.  

“I like it here,” Minho says lamely. 

“I like it too then,” Jisung says easily. He removes one hand from his waist so he can tuck a loose chunk of hair behind Minho’s ear. Minho nearly jerks back from the touch before abruptly leaning into it. 

Jisung giggles and then, like he can’t help himself, leans forward and pecks him on the cheek. 

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Minho says again, voice breathy. “I didn’t think this was possible.”

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Jisung says just as amazed. He can’t seem to stop touching Minho, fingers still grazing his cheek and clenching at his waist. “As soon as I saw you, everything came flooding back. It was like a switch turned on. I have a study session for chem later today.” 

Jisung laughs and then abruptly glances around. 

“Wait—are you here? You’re real, right? Why is no one looking at us?”

It’s true. Like usual, no one seems to particularly notice Minho’s presence. Whatever logic that keeps Minho separate from this world seems to blanket over Jisung too. The diners continue to eat their chicken and sip their beers, chatting and scrolling on their phones. 

“Humans can’t see grim reapers,” he says. “I’m not really a part of this realm.”

“Good thing I’m not human,” Jisung says, grinning. 

Minho smiles and in a moment of bravery leans forward and pecks Jisung back on the cheek. 

“Good thing,” he says shyly. 

Jisung looks delighted and retaliates by kissing him all over his face. 

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he keeps repeating. “It’s got to mean something, right?”

The question makes Minho’s smle slowly fall. 

“What’s wrong?” Jisung asks, pulling back immediately. 

“I don’t know if it means anything.” 

“But this has never happened before.”

“No, but–”

“Hyung,” Jisung says emphatically. “I believe it means something.”

Minho breaks eye contact. The emotions that he’s tried to keep at bay—the hope and desire threaten to spill over. He takes a steadying breath, only realizing he’s shaking when Jisung holds him tighter. 

He wants to believe it too but he can’t quite get himself to give into the feeling. Even if today is different, if the universe decided to reincarnate Jisung into Minho’s timeline, it doesn’t mean that the world won’t just go back to normal after this day is over. 

It doesn’t mean Minho gets to keep it. He never gets to keep it. He doesn’t want to delude himself into thinking he might get to keep Jisung. The alternative might break him. But he doesn’t want to ruin the hope in Jisung's eyes. 

Even here, he can see Jisung’s soul in chest. It’s roaring today, bright and red, vibrant with life. Minho doesn’t want to be the reason it sputters out. 

“Maybe it does,” Minho allows and then if only to give himself a second to collect himself he says, “should we order something?”

 ⛾   ⛾   ⛾

Jisung looks intrigued as Minho takes a bite of the chicken, chewing slowly. Jisung has refused to let go of his hand, so they both look a little silly trying to eat one-handed but Minho holds him just as tightly just as reluctant to let go. 

“I didn’t know grim reapers got hungry.”

“We don’t,” Minho says. “I just like the taste.” 

The chicken he’d already eaten had made no real dent in his stomach nor had the beer. He can’t really taste so much as remember what it was like to taste. He similarly tastes the beer he sips on. He explains as much to Jisung whose eyes brighten with the knowledge. He’s more talkative here, still too stunned by their circumstances to do anything else.

“Does that mean you can only taste things you’ve eaten or drunk in your lifetime?” Jisung asks. 

Minho shrugs. “I guess so. New flavors don’t really exist after you die, so I doubt I’d be able to taste anything new.” 

Jisung hums and seems to consider something.

“You always say we.”

“What?”

“You said we don’t get hungry. Who is we? Did you finally meet another reaper?”

Minho gapes slightly, caught off guard by the question, caught off guard by the whole scenario really—Jisung here alive and in Minho’s timeline.

“No, I just—“ Minho stops abruptly. Finds it embarrassing all of a sudden—pretending there’s someone else like it’s not just Minho alone in his office, sifting through cases and every day anticipating when the one person in the whole world who remembers him will walk through the door.

“There’s no one else. It’s a bad habit, I guess,” Minho admits quietly. 

A silence hangs between them for a moment before Jisung says, “Ok, Minho-hyung, I’ll drink the tea.”

Minho nearly spits his own drink out. 

“What?”

“I’ll drink the tea when this life is over,” Jisung says, voice gaining confidence. 

Minho’s body jerks, reacting to the news before his brain. He moves to pull his hand back but Jisung doesn’t let him, hand tightening into a vice grip. 

The searing pain in his chest that follows a moment later robs him of his breath. Disappointment and cold fear pulse inside of him, warring for space amongst the other rising well of emotions. Minho blinks rapidly, trying to shove them down, struggling harder against Jisung’s grip. 

Jisung frowns but then finally lets go. 

Minho takes a short gasping breath trying to rein in his emotions. 

“Why now?” he blurts.

“Ask me next time,” Jisung says cheerfully like he isn’t breaking Minho’s heart into a million pieces.

There will be no next time. If Jisung drinks the tea, he’ll no longer remember Minho. He might be reincarnated and his files might still appear on Minho’s desk but he won’t be him anymore, won’t be Minho’s Jisung. 

I don’t understand, he wants to say. But it’s not really for him to understand. Jisung has endured a million lifetimes. He’s lived through countless heartbreaks and sorrows and pains. It’s not really fair of Minho to have a change of heart now. Jisung deserves a clean slate, a real clean slate. 

He just wishes they had a little more time. 

He looks down at his hands, missing the twinkle in Jisung’s eye as he speaks up. 

“But only on one condition.” 

Minho perks up. “What?” 

“I’ll drink the tea if you agree to spend another day with me.” 

“I can’t spend a day with you,” Minho says, almost relieved that the condition isn’t one he can meet. “My day ends here.”

Jisung shrugs, “Fine then. I’ll spend the rest of today with you. I’ve always been curious what a grim reaper gets up to when I’m not around.” 

Minho blinks, uneasy. 

“You can’t. My day—my life ends here,” Minho repeats. “You have to keep on living in this world.”

“And what if I want to stay with you?” Jisung asks and Minho has to look away, startled by the tenderness in Jisung’s eyes. What has he done to deserve such tenderness? 

And what Jisung’s asking isn’t realistic anyhow. He doesn’t know what he’s asking. 

“You’d die,” Minho says softly. “You can’t live in this world and mine. It doesn’t work like that.” 

Jisung shrugs. “I die all the time. I’ll spend the day with you and then start on my next life.”

“You shouldn’t treat your life so casually,” Minho says. They’re words he’s said a million times. They taste like ash on his tongue. 

“I’ve lived many lives, hyung. I’m not treating my life lightly. I mean it when I say I want to spend a bit more time with you,” Jisung insists. “Just today. I just want a few more hours and then I’ll be ready, I promise.”

“Ok,” Minho finds himself saying. “You can spend another day with me and after that, you’ll drink the tea?”

“After that, I’ll drink the tea,” Jisung repeats.  

Minho sees himself in the reflection out of the corner of his eye. He watches himself smile and squeeze Jisung’s hand. He pretends the devastation isn’t obvious in his expression. 

 ⛾   ⛾   ⛾

They stop by Minho’s office first.

Jisung doesn’t ask questions or seem to particularly care when the shop flashes and disappears before them, depositing them into the small office they usually meet in. 

On Minho’s desk is Jisung’s file and on the small table next to it is a fresh steaming pot of tea, confirming that the moment they entered the office, Jisung’s current life was cut short. Minho feels a twinge of guilt at the thought before he reminds himself that in doing this—in getting Jisung to drink the tea—he is righting a wrong that should have been corrected a long time ago. 

This is his job. Those are the rules. After Jisung forgets him, the rules will be the only thing he has left. 

“Looks like you’re my only appointment for today,” Minho says, shooting for joking and nearly cringing when his voice cracks on the words. He clears his throat. “We’ll have to come back later for the tea.”

“Why not take it to go?” Jisung suggests, voice cheery. 

“What?”

“Don’t you have a thermos or something you can put it in? It would be nice to drink it somewhere more pleasant than this stuffy office,” he waves a delicate hand, “no offense.” 

Minho wrings his hands. He’s already breaking rules by prematurely ending Jisung’s life. He’s been breaking the rules for Jisung for years and once Jisung is gone, he won’t have anyone around worth breaking them for.

“Is there one you have in mind? One you can think of?” he asks, fingers curling around the drawer handle. 

Jisung just starts to nod and Minho feels the memory. He pulls open the door and a dented thermos plastered with stickers rolls around in the door. He pulls it out and Jisung blinks at it. 

“That’s my thermos.” 

“It is,” Minho agrees, delicately transferring the tea from the pot into the thermos. It’s clear but smells like nothing to Minho. Jisung’s eyes latch onto the stream and Minho wonders what it must look like to him. The scent and color depend on the drinker’s tastes. 

Minho’s own pot of tea had smelled bitter, almost medicinal. He’ll never know what it tasted like. He’d smashed his teapot. 

 ⛾   ⛾   ⛾

With the last few hours they have together, Jisung insists on getting hot pot. 

“We just ate,” Minho says despite depositing them outside the hot pot place he remembers from his own lifetime as soon as the request leaves Jisung’s mouth. 

“It’s nice sharing a meal with someone you love,” Jisung says easily. 

That shuts Minho up and he orders for them quietly, fighting off his rising blush. 

They make light conversation, Jisung oddly disinterested in asking the more invasive questions like he usually does in Minho’s office. It’s mundane almost. 

“It would be nice,” Jisung says as they eat, “If I could have had a life with you. I wouldn’t mind being reincarnated without my memories if I knew I was going to meet you again.” 

Minho doesn’t usually indulge Jisung when he gets like this—hoping and wishing and contemplating impossible scenarios. It breaks Minho’s heart. But this is the last time he’ll get to talk like this with Jisung. He indulges him. 

“I’d like that too,” Minho admits. He lets himself fantasize for a moment. “I’d still be your hyung.” 

Jisung snorts. “At this point, I’ve lived more years than you. I would be the hyung.” 

“It doesn’t matter how many lives you’ve lived. I was still born first. I’d be the hyung,” Minho teases. “But I’d be good to you. I’d make sure you live a long life. You wouldn’t have your memories, so you wouldn’t know there’s more waiting for you. But I’d help you out. I’d make sure you weren’t scared.” 

“Were you scared?” Jisung asks softly. “When you died?”

 “I was…” Minho trails off, unsure what to say. The truth is that he’d been angry, so terribly angry. And alone. He had been alone. 

There was no reaper waiting for him. There was just the empty office and the pot of tea sitting in the middle of the desk. In front of it was a small note that read, drink.

Minho had smashed the pot instead. He destroyed the room. He looked for a way out. At some point, he must have slept if possible. It’s fuzzy now when he thinks about it. He found, at some point, that he could leave—transport himself back to the day of his death and linger for a few hours before he’d ultimately end up back in the tiny room. 

The first time it happened, he was transported back and there was a new pot of tea sitting on a small table next to him. On his desk was a thick file with papers in it. There was a name on the folder and just as Minho finished reading through it, a woman walked through the door. 

She smiled nervously and asked if she’d gotten lost on the way to the bathroom. The woman was wearing a hospital gown. Minho was still and could barely mumble a few words. He remembers little else. He’d served her the tea and she’d moved on. She was the first of thousands. 

Maybe it was auspicious that Jisung has been his 1000th soul to pass into his small office. The thought of the man brings Minho back to the present. 

Jisung stares at him expectantly, waiting for him to finish his sentence. 

Minho clears his throat. “Yes, I was scared. I didn’t want to go into my next life alone.” 

Jisung nods. “That makes sense. I’ve always had you.”

Then he looks down at the boiling pot between them. The steam rises high but they’re running low on broth. Jisung eyes the empty water jug next to it. 

“We’re out of water,” Jisung says, pouting slightly, eyes flickering to the self-serve water station.

Minho rises almost immediately. “I’ll go get some.” It takes him by surprise how quickly he reacts. How quickly he wants to provide for Jisung. 

In another world, this is just another afternoon. Minho imagines meeting him between busy work or school schedules, Jisung tired and beat down but looking forward to a few hours with his hyung. 

Minho blinks himself out of his daydream and heads back to the table with the full water jug. Jisung is digging in happily to the soup. The broth has been refilled since he left. He smiles, somehow satisfied by seeing Jisung eat so much. His smile grows fond when he sees Jisung has filled his own bowl up to the brim. He smiles shyly when Jisung all but starts spoonfeeding him. 

He sits and digs in again, actually surprised to enjoy a break in his routine from chicken and beer for so long. The taste of hot pot is more distant than fried chicken but the hint of flavor feels almost new with how long it’s been since he’s changed up his routine. 

Minho’s smile fades slightly when he remembers the next time he comes will be by himself. Although he doubts he’ll come here again. It won’t be the same without Jisung. 

Jisung pauses his eating and they both speak at the same time. 

“—We don’t have much time left.” 

“—What do you want to do after this?” 

“Oh,” Jisung says, looking down. “How much time do we have?”

Minho looks at the clock on the far wall and frowns. 

“Two hours maybe?”

Jisung hums. “Let’s finish eating quickly and we can do one more thing.”

“We can just go now,” Minho says, guilt crawling up his throat. He suddenly regrets that they’d chosen to go somewhere to eat instead of doing something more adventurous, something more worthy of Jisung’s final moments in this life. 

“No,” Jisung snaps when Minho starts to rise. “I want to finish our meal.”

Minho sits back down, surprised by the intense look in Jisung’s eyes.

 “Ok, ok,” he placates. He picks up his bowl once Jisung finishes filling it and drinks the broth down. Jisung’s eyes burn with intensity as he does so. 

Minho puts the bowl down and Jisung’s face breaks out into a smile. 

“We did it,” Jisung says, amazed. “We drank all of it.”

Minho chuckles. “There wasn’t that much left.” 

“No, hyung,” Jisung says eyes shining. “It was everything.” 

Minho is about to ask what he means when Jisung places his thermos on the table. Minho stares at it for a moment, uncomprehending. Jisung unscrews the cap and overturns it. Not a drop dribbles out. It’s empty. 

It’s empty. 

Minho stares at Jisung with something like horror bubbling in his stomach. 

“Jisung…”

“Now we can live our next life together.”

Jisung must have refilled the pot while Minho was getting water. He didn’t even taste it. Of course he didn’t taste it. It was Jisung’s tea. It wasn’t meant for Minho.

“It doesn’t work like that. Jisung, you can’t do that.”

Jisung raises an eyebrow and it’s way too playful for the gravity of the situation. 

“Why not? What’s going to happen? Either way,  I’ll still be reborn. Clearly not drinking it doesn’t stop that from happening,” Jisung says and there’s something bitter in his voice that Minho hasn’t heard before. “Not drinking it doesn’t let me stay with you. Maybe you drinking it will let you come with me.”

“But you drank half of it! You can’t choose half of your memories.”

“You can bring me the other half when we meet again.”

It’s a ridiculous thing to say, something so full of naivety and hope and yet. 

Jisung has lived thousands of lives. He has saved millions more. He’s dedicated his lives to taking risks to help other people, always selfless. Always with the certainty that things will work out. 

“Jisung,” Minho says uselessly. He doesn’t know if Jisung just cursed them or blessed them. 

Jisung smiles again and it’s serene. “Don’t you trust me?”

Minho laughs because he’s been a grim reaper for thousands of years, likely longer. He can barely remember his last human life at this point. Even his first encounter with his office and tea feels like eons ago, a distant memory that might blow away with the wind. Would it be so bad to let it?

He laughs because, against all odds, cursed or blessed, he doesn’t feel scared. 

“Of course I trust you, Jisungie. Although I wish you had asked instead of tricking me.”

Jisung shrugs. “I’ll make it up to you in the next life.” 

Minho smiles. 

“I’m sure you will.”