Work Text:
When the season came
Where the wind blew and the flowers withered
It still felt like I was holding your hand
In the falling sunlight, there was you and me
We dreamed a happy, heart-numbing dream
I thought it would last forever
The you and me of the past
SEOUL, MARCH 2026
Shotaro was twenty-one when he fell in love.
He remembered it clearly: a dinner party, too many men crammed into too few booths at hot pot, his voice barely audible over the racket everyone else was stirring up, someone next to him saying, “They’re always like this, aren’t they? Want to get out of here?” and Shotaro with no choice but to agree because it really was too stuffy and loud for his comfort anyway. It turned out that Sungchan was friends with Jungwoo who was friends with Doyoung who was basically one of Shotaro’s lifelines when he first came to Korea, so it was easy enough to get along with him over tteokbokki and soondae at the pojangmacha they’d escaped to.
It was even easier to fall head over heels for Sungchan, this tall and broad-shouldered and handsome alpha who’d inexplicably taken an interest in him, asking for his number after that night and promising to treat him to something even more delicious next time. They traded numbers, then addresses, and it felt like no time at all before they traded mating bites and twin promises of forever and more. It was easy to curl up next to Sungchan on lazy Sunday mornings in their shared apartment, and it was easier still to get his attention when he wanted it, because Sungchan was nothing if not freakishly doting.
He supposed that’s why it was so easy for them to fall apart, their five-year bond splitting at the seams suddenly and without notice, except maybe it had been crumbling for a while and it had just been easier to ignore the signs. They split their belongings in half, Sungchan taking the chairs Shotaro had picked out and Shotaro packing up the photo frames Sungchan tacked up around their place. And when it came time to say goodbye, Sungchan’s eyes bloodshot from the cold, Shotaro found that words were hard to come by.
“Maybe I’ll see you around then,” Sungchan had said, and Shotaro watched as his hand came up to rub his neck, a nervous habit of his, and he felt it through the bond.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Shotaro replied, and added, thinking perhaps it was better like this, better to be cruel to be kind, “It’ll disappear on its own, so you don’t have to do anything.”
Sungchan’s eyes went hard, and he said, “I hope it does,” and that was the last of it.
TOKYO, OCTOBER 2026
Or so he thought.
The company moved him over to their Tokyo branch with no questions asked when he requested a transfer. After that, it was easy enough to stay at home and commute the hour or so it took to make it to the office each way, and easier yet to reconnect with old friends and create a social net so strong he rarely felt the urge to reach out to a number he’d deleted but long ago had already committed to memory. He kept in touch with a few friends, who looked like they were bursting at the seams to say things they shouldn’t, but who were often careful to tiptoe around topics that felt like pouring saltwater in a fresh wound to talk about.
Then came the nausea, the vomiting, the inexplicable weight gain, and then Shotaro knew that the break wasn’t as clean as he’d hoped. He kept it, though. Started wearing loose-fitting clothes, started tilting the camera up higher when he was video calling friends from Korea. He wondered, briefly, if Sungchan could tell. If the bond, strained with distance and time and separation, was intact enough that he might expect a phone call in the coming days. But no such call or text or message came, and he pretended to himself that he was alright with that, with the inevitable severance of their once-vibrant bond, with everything that carrying a child on his own entailed. After all, the cards were fully in his hands. It was a conscious choice he made, he decided, to continue moving forward on his own.
Kanata was born just after dusk on a rainy October night. He was soft and pink all over, and he had a head of fluffy fine hair and ten fingers and ten toes and a loud squalling cry, and when the nurse placed him ever so gently on Shotaro’s chest it was with his father’s eyes that he smiled.
TOKYO, AUGUST 2027
The wedding invitation came in the mail one summer day, and it was a heavy weight in his hands, cream-colored and smelling faintly of roses.
We humbly request your presence at the marriage of Nakamoto Yuta and Lee Taeyong, the gold foil script inside read. Shotaro had half a mind to send in his reply of no and be done with it— going would be like walking deliberately into a den of snakes, each step more harrowing than the last. It wasn’t either of the grooms Shotaro was worried about— no, it was near-certain that Sungchan would be in attendance as well. After over two years apart, he wasn’t sure how he would react, if the passage of time had done anything for the heartbreak at all, or if what remained of their feelings had festered over into something uglier, something he couldn’t dare speak of.
But all the same, he couldn’t not go, couldn’t do that to them. Taeyong took him under his wing when he first joined the company, and it was Yuta who taught him the ins and outs of living in Korea. He remembered them fondly, and they were two of the very few friends from back then whom he’d confided in about Kanata’s existence. So he checked off his reply of yes and indicated that he wouldn’t need a plus one, and then he began searching for flights back to Seoul.
SEOUL, AUGUST 2028
Incheon is as busy as Shotaro remembers. He hasn’t traveled much lately, owing to the absolute lack of freedom that raising a child on his own affords, so he’d struggled a bit with the logistics of plane travel. Still he navigates it with ease, muscle memory leading him out of the gates and to customs, where he gets in the line for foreign passport holders. He’s over-packed as usual, cramming into his two suitcases more clothes and gifts than he really needs to bring for a week-long trip, and tossing the rest into a duffel bag.
There’s another reason for the over-packing: Kanata coos at him from his seat, strapped tight to the trolley Shotaro’s loaded full with their belongings. He’s almost two now, and Shotaro notes with no small amount of pride that he’s bright for his age, cleverer and more well-behaved than all of the other children he’s met so far. Case in point: his chubby hands are clutching a stuffed airplane plush a flight attendant had pressed into Shotaro’s hands on the way over from Narita, telling him in hushed tones that “Sir, your son is so good on this flight, what’s your secret?” and, well, Shotaro’s never been one to turn down a compliment.
“Tou-chan,” Kanata says, waving the plush. “Tou-chan friend? Stay home.”
Shotaro blinks before understanding settles. “Yes, Kana-chan, we’re staying with Tou-chan’s friend. You can call him Yoshi jii-chan. Can you say jii-chan?”
“Jii-chan,” Kanata repeats dutifully, and Shotaro briefly resists the urge to lean down and press the biggest kiss to Kanata’s face. It would be embarrassing. But he does it anyway, overcome with what his younger sister calls cuteness aggression. Kanata squeals, giggling when Shotaro pulls back, and like this, staring down at him, Shotaro’s glad he brought Kanata with him.
Despite his mother’s protests, Shotaro had gone ahead and booked tickets for the both of them, citing Kanata’s need to know the culture of his other parent and how he couldn’t possibly leave Kanata for a week. Never mind that Shotaro’s well-versed enough in Korean cuisine to cook Kanata the dishes he’ll like most in the future. Never mind that he has an entire village to help out at home, waiting and ready to scoop Kanata from his arms at a moment’s notice. He can’t explain it. He just wants Kanata with him.
“We’ll have fun, Kana-chan,” Shotaro says, and Kanata warbles in response. “Exactly, it’ll be a good time.”
SEOUL, JANUARY 2024
Once upon a time, Sungchan had spoken often and longingly of children. He wanted kids, and a full house of them, too. Enough for him to have his own little football team, he joked, but Shotaro could tell it wasn’t that far from the truth. He’d grown up with just an older brother, Sungchan had explained when they were first starting to get to know one another. It was fine, but he wanted a more raucous, a more rambunctious household.
“I think it would be nice to have both girls and boys, too,” Sungchan would say on a Saturday in, curled around Shotaro on their bed when their sheets were dappled with the afternoon sun. “We should have a lot so we can dress them up. They’d be the most fashionable kids in school.” Or, “If they all looked like you, I’d be happy, hyung,” punctuated with a dreamy sigh, fingers dancing lightly over Shotaro’s stomach.
Shotaro couldn’t help but startle at that, nearly knocking his elbow into Sungchan’s face. “Are you crazy? They should look like you!” An army of tiny Sungchans, all with those big doe eyes their father used for nefarious purposes more often than not. Right then Shotaro could imagine it in his mind’s eye, how they could beg and plead for anything under the sun and he would be powerless to say no.
“No,” Sungchan said with a pout, “I would be so happy if there were five little yous running around. So many little Taro-hyungs.”
“You’re crazy, you’re actually insane,” Shotaro said flatly, turning in Sungchan’s arms to stare at him until he became cross-eyed, and Sungchan only laughed before slipping his hand into Shotaro’s shorts.
“I’m not. Everything I said is perfectly true,” Sungchan said, sweet like honey, then lower, “Taro-hyung, wanna get started on them right now?”
SEOUL, AUGUST 2028
The wedding is everything Shotaro expected it to be and more. It’s in a gorgeous venue outside the city, high ceilings and balconies that open onto the gardens below. Light scatters throughout, refracted off the chandeliers, and the bouquets of roses they’ve made centerpieces for each table fill the air with their fragrance. Taeyong cries no fewer than three times, and Yuta isn’t really any better, his eyes brimming with unshed tears.
Jaemin’s the one who catches the bouquet. In an uncharacteristic move, he expends his limited reserves of energy, leaping up and grabbing it from its apex high in the air before he hands it off to Jeno, who flushes, his eyes never once leaving Jaemin’s face. Donghyuck looks like he’s about to say something snide, but Renjun shoots him a glare. It’s not enough.
“Someone should ask him when he’s finally going to propose, it’s literally been a million years,” he mutters under his breath, but it’s loud enough that everyone hears, anyway. Jaemin’s head swivels in Donghyuck’s direction, and it takes Jeno resting a hand on Jaemin’s thigh to keep him from going over to the other side of the table with a fork and a butter knife.
Yangyang nudges Shotaro’s side. “What about you?” he asks, quiet. “Are you seeing anyone right now?”
“I’m not,” Shotaro admits. He traces a finger on the rim of his wine glass. “Things are a little hectic right now. The company wants me to lead a new team, so I haven’t really had time to find someone.” Among other reasons, he thinks to himself.
Shotaro breathes a sigh of relief when the conversation turns to less anxiety-inducing subjects, and Donghyuck is in the middle of grilling Jeno about how he can stand to live with someone who’s clearly afraid of commitment when Shotaro’s phone vibrates. A call from Yoshinori, the screen reads, and Shotaro excuses himself to take it, his heart in his throat.
The breeze is cool against Shotaro’s skin as he steps out onto the balcony, into an alcove partially hidden from view. “Yoshi? What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“Nothing, calm down. I just called because Kana-chan wanted to say goodnight to you before I put him to sleep.” Yoshinori’s voice is tinny in the speaker, and Shotaro exhales, relief filling his lungs. “I tried to tell him you were busy tonight, but he insisted, so…” Yoshinori trails off.
“That’s alright, put him on.”
The rustle of fabric and the sound of low murmuring come through the line, before Shotaro hears Kanata’s voice. “Tou-chan?”
“Hi, Kana-chan? Are you behaving for Yoshi jii-chan? How was your day?” Kanata babbles along in half-formed sentences about the playground Yoshinori took him to earlier in the day and about the dog he was allowed to pet. “Fluffy,” he concludes, and Shotaro laughs.
“Fluffy,” Shotaro repeats before he puts on his it’s time to go to bed voice. “Kana-chan, be good for jii-chan and go to sleep now, okay? Tou-chan will be home soon. Goodnight, I love you.”
Yoshinori comes back for just a moment to tell Shotaro he doesn’t need to worry— even though he will, probably will stress and worry about Kanata for the rest of his life but it’s fine, really— because Kanata’s in bed with his airplane plushie now. Shotaro hangs up.
Something in the air shifts, something heavy, something almost palpable, and Shotaro already knows without knowing who it is. He turns slowly, like he’s magnetized, pulled by an invisible force in a certain direction.
Sungchan stands at the opposite end of the balcony, his hand on the railing, his hair blowing in the breeze. Shotaro had known Sungchan was at the wedding, of course, had seen him when Shotaro first walked in, seated at a table on the far end of the hall. It was hard to miss him, hard to forget. He was surrounded by mostly unfamiliar faces, people Shotaro didn’t know save for Eunseok whom he’d met when he and Sungchan were still together. He hadn’t known at the time, but Sungchan must’ve also requested a transfer out of their previous team.
Shotaro looks his fill, drinks in the sight of him, long-legged and broad-shouldered. He’s filled out in their years apart, and Shotaro idly wonders if he’d gone to the military in that time. He recognizes the suit Sungchan’s wearing, remembers picking it out together at a department store in Cheongdam-dong for his brother’s wedding.
“Shotaro-hyung,” Sungchan says. A distant memory springs to the front of Shotaro’s mind— one spring night so many years ago, when the wind blew past them just like this and the din from the crowd within disappeared. Back then, they were young and happy.
“Sungchan,” Shotaro replies. “You look good.”
“You look—” Sungchan hesitates, something unknown flitting across his face for just a fraction of a second. “Different.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, you brat?” Shotaro jokes, but he’s panicking, wondering if there’s a tell somewhere, something he can’t figure out. Does Sungchan know? Has he always known?
“Nothing, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that it’s been a long time, hyung.”
Silence stretches out between them, and Shotaro looks up at Sungchan. He’d forgotten what Sungchan was like, this overgrown boy, this handsome man. He wonders if Sungchan’s found someone nicer, someone better for him.
“I didn’t think you’d be here,” Sungchan finally says, his words punctuating the silence. He takes a cautious step forward, then two. “I thought you’d be too busy in Japan to come back.”
“Honestly, I wasn’t going to,” Shotaro admits. “But Yuta would’ve hunted me down and dragged me across the sea if I didn’t, so here I am.”
“So you’d come back for a wedding, but you’re so quick to leave otherwise,” Sungchan says, and Shotaro stares at him, taken aback by the hint of resentment in his voice. “Well, you’re here now. How long are you staying?”
“Just a week. I’ll probably do some sightseeing and some shopping, I don’t really have much planned.”
“Okay. Are you alone?”
“I’m— yeah.” Shotaro glances at Sungchan, who’s smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Sungchan exhales, loud in the quiet night. “Hyung,” he says. “I missed you a lot. Come home with me later.”
SEOUL, JANUARY 2026
Shotaro felt the bond tugging, alerting him to Sungchan’s presence before he heard the door creak open, before he saw Sungchan poking his head into the room.
“Why are you here,” Shotaro said, and Sungchan frowned at him, coming over to sit on the bed. Shotaro rolled away from him, tucking his blankets around his body and scooting over to the other side, staring pointedly at the other wall. Sungchan came closer anyway, leaning over the bed and tucking a stray hair from Shotaro’s face. Shotaro leaned into it, involuntary. “You have work.”
“I came home as soon as I heard you took the day off. Took the first train back. You’re looking—” Sungchan didn’t finish the sentence, let it hang heavy in the air between them, and Shotaro flushed.
“Stop it,” he hissed, tugging the blanket even higher up his body, and he didn’t even need to see Sungchan’s face to know that he was staring at him, staring at the curve of his neck, at the sweat beading along his spine. Didn’t even need to smell the air to know that Sungchan’s scent only grew heavier since he entered the room, since he touched Shotaro’s skin. He wondered how it was possible that Sungchan could still be so calm, so collected, even when the scent of Shotaro’s heat was already so pungent in the air.
And Sungchan slipped underneath the blankets, dragging a hand down Shotaro’s body, brushing his lips against the scar on Shotaro’s neck, and Shotaro shuddered, full-bodied, at Sungchan’s touch.
“Sungchan, go away,” Shotaro whined, and Sungchan’s hand wandered lower, brushing over Shotaro’s belly. “I’m fine, you didn’t have to take time off. You could’ve just waited until you got home.”
“Who’s going to help you with this, then?” Sungchan asked guilelessly, fingers brushing against Shotaro’s clit, and Shotaro could feel slick drip from his cunt again, eased by his last orgasm. A request, a plea, an invitation. “Your body’s more honest than you are.”
“You—”
“Why don’t you ever let me be the one to take care of you,” Sungchan murmured, words soft against Shotaro’s neck, and Shotaro shivered, full-bodied. Sungchan could be mean about things like this at times. Shotaro knew this side of him wasn’t one others were privy to. Only him.
“Just this once, then,” Shotaro said, and he opened up and he let Sungchan in.
SEOUL, AUGUST 2028
The taxi ride back to Sungchan’s place is quiet, the stillness punctuated only by the voice of the singer on the radio and the occasional blare of the car horn outside. Shotaro doesn’t look at the other occupant of the back seat, keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the back of the seat in front of him.
Just once, he dares— he darts a quick glance over at his companion. Sungchan’s profile is backlit in the city lights casting long shadows along his face. Shotaro looks away. It’s all too much suddenly, the closeness jarring after so long apart. It’s too close now, too much.
He’d gotten some curious looks from the others at his table after he and Sungchan had returned from the balcony outside together. Yangyang had pursed his lips at him, the gears in his head visibly turning, his gaze roving across Shotaro’s face like he could get the answers he wanted if he just stared at him enough. He busied himself with rearranging the table settings in front of him. Yangyang didn’t say anything, which Shotaro was grateful for. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to defend himself.
“We’re here,” the driver says, pulling up in front of a high-rise in Cheongdam-dong and breaking Shotaro out of his reverie. He follows wordlessly behind Sungchan, making their way through the sparkling lobby and past the bellhop, up the elevator and through the wide halls before they stop at a nondescript door.
Sungchan keys in his code, pressing his thumb against the reader, and the door clicks open, beckoning them inside. Shotaro steps inside after Sungchan, toeing off his dress shoes in the entryway. The lights come on, and Sungchan wanders off to the kitchen, busying himself with something. Shotaro makes his way to the living room instead, perching on the edge of the couch and looking around. It’s a nice place, if somewhat sterile— it feels like a show home, the walls starkly bare and the lack of much personal affect throughout the space immediately noticeable.
But then Shotaro’s eyes catch on something familiar in the corner of the room, and he turns to get a better look. He sees it then, the armchair he used to curl up and read manga in, the coffee table they used for dinners in front of the television and for putting together jigsaw puzzles, the beanbag Sungchan collapsed into after a long and grueling day at work before he would pull Shotaro in with him. So Sungchan kept them all in the end, these clunky reminders of their time together.
He’s still staring at the beanbag cushion, lost in thoughts, when Sungchan reappears with two beers in his hands and sits down on the couch, his weight nearly tipping Shotaro towards him. He pushes one toward Shotaro, the condensation leaving a wet trail in its wake, before he pops the other one open, taking a swig of it. He’s gotten rid of his suit jacket, and Shotaro can see clearly now that Sungchan fills out the shirt better than he had before. Shotaro wordlessly pops the tab on his own can, tongue darting out to lick off some of the bubbles that spill over before taking a sip. It’s quiet again, the air fraught with a tension Shotaro doesn’t know what to do with.
“It was nice seeing you tonight,” Shotaro offers. Something like an olive branch, an attempt at peace. “You really do look good. Did you go to the army or something?”
In lieu of a response, Sungchan downs the rest of his beer, setting it down on the table with a loud clang. Shotaro nearly jumps, still nursing the can in his hands.
“Shotaro-hyung,” Sungchan says, more broken than Shotaro’s ever heard him, save for their last meeting, and when he looks up at Shotaro for just a split second, his eyes are rimmed with red. “Why can’t you ever be honest with me?”
Shotaro stares at him, puzzle pieces slotting neatly into place— you look different, I thought you’d be too busy to come back, you’re so quick to leave, are you alone?— and realization is ice-cold, a chill creeping up Shotaro’s spine. He tries, desperately, to keep his fingers from shaking too badly on the beer can. He sets it on the table anyway, clasping his hands together, willing the trembling to stop.
“You already know,” Shotaro says, and the words sound hollow in his own ears. Sungchan doesn’t look up, but he nods, the tiniest movement of his head. Shotaro’s tie feels too constricting. He reaches up for the knot, slips a finger through, struggles to make more room so he can breathe. “When?”
“I don’t know, I don’t remember when exactly,” Sungchan hiccups. Tears are dripping from his eyes, fat and heavy and staining his pants. If this were a different time, Shotaro would have reached over, put an arm around his shoulder, patted his cheeks, dried off his tears himself. But there’s a gulf between them now, a yawning chasm in the space between their legs. “It was the bond. I think I felt it sometime that spring—” And Shotaro does the mental math, realizes it must’ve been just weeks after he himself found out. “But I wasn’t sure what it was. It just felt like something big happened.”
Shotaro’s fingers clench, white-knuckled, into the fabric of his pants.
“You should’ve told me,” Sungchan says. He looks up, finally. “You could’ve told me. You had two years to say something, and you didn’t.”
“We already broke up,” Shotaro says. Moves backward inch by inch until his back hits the armrest, until he can’t go any further. There’s no escape, anyway. “I wasn’t going to come crawling back to you just so we could raise a baby together.” Then, a confession: “I didn’t even think I was going to keep him.”
Sungchan reels backward, like he’s been hit. Eyes wide, he asks, “Then why did you?”
Shotaro swallows. The truth is acrid in his mouth, rips itself out of his throat. “I was curious. I wanted to know what it would be like to have a baby that looked like you.”
The air is still, quiet. The heater hums to life, the buzz staticky, warming the cold air. Shotaro isn’t sure if it’s just his imagination, but Sungchan seems closer than before, a hand on the cushion between them, his entire body leaned in towards Shotaro’s, occupying Shotaro’s space like it’s what he’s meant for. His cheeks are tear-stained, wet, and his eyes are rimmed with red, and his mouth is parted like he wants to say something. He tries, once, before he licks his lower lip, wets it. Tries again.
“And what about now?”
“What do you mean?” Shotaro’s pulse thunders in his ears. He feels adrift, lost at sea without a life raft, like at any moment now he’ll be swept away in the current of whatever tonight is.
“Is it too late? For me to come crawling back to you?”
“We can’t. We shouldn’t. I don’t want to hurt you again.”
Sungchan pitches forward and drops his head, his forehead against Shotaro’s chest, his shoulders shaking. Shotaro freezes, his muscle memory leaving his arms in mid-air, trapped halfway to curling around Sungchan’s body.
“Hyung, it’s always been you. I never stopped thinking about you, I never stopped wanting you. I don’t even remember why we broke up in the first place.” Sungchan sniffs. “And I thought you’d found someone else and that’s why you didn’t tell me anything, but I could still feel you. I felt you through the bond for two years, and then I knew that you missed me. Didn’t you?”
“Sungchan-ah,” Shotaro says, softer than before. He can’t refute any of it, knows that everything Sungchan says is true, knows that he’d lain awake through countless sleepless nights wishing he had the courage to just ask. Knows that whatever Sungchan felt for him, he felt the same, multiplied tenfold. “You don’t deserve to be with someone like me. I ran away from you, took two years away from your life.”
“I know,” Sungchan says, simple. The admission is painful to hear, but it’s the truth nonetheless. “I know, but I want you anyway. Isn’t that enough?”
Shotaro thinks about it. Just for a second, this brief pause infinitesimal in the grand scheme of things, but he remembers it all— spring flowers cut at the height of their beauty to decorate their apartment, sunlit summer mornings spent warm and groggy in his lover’s arms, autumn leaves crunching underneath their shoes, dreary winter nights watching the first snow fall outside. They counted their life and their love in seasons, and in the end he’s still powerless, unable to resist the magnetism that pulls them together.
“Alright,” Shotaro says, and Sungchan’s head whips upward, his eyes wide and unblinking. He reaches for Sungchan’s hand, finds it clenched tight around nothing, forces Sungchan’s fingers to slot in between his like lovers. There are tears streaming down his own face now. He knows, and Sungchan doesn’t mention it, kissing the corner of his mouth instead, soft. “Let’s try again.”
TOKYO, OCTOBER 2027
On the eve of Kanata’s first birthday, Shotaro went to the store to pick up some toys, wandering through the aisles before ending up at the checkout line with a pink basket full of assorted squeaky toys.
They had a small and cheerful celebration the next day. Shotaro’s younger sister and brother baked Kanata a cake, and it was a little lopsided and piled high with strawberries, but it was delicious all the same. Shotaro cut the strawberries into bite-sized pieces and let Kanata have a dollop of whipped cream and some bites of cake.
After they cleaned up, Shotaro arranged all of the toys from the previous day’s excursion onto the rug. He set out a stethoscope, a gavel, a microphone, a brush, and a plush football, and picked up Kanata and put him in the middle of them. If he’d been brought up in Seoul, perhaps they would’ve held a bigger party for him with all their friends and family around, dressed him up, doll-like, for the doljabi.
“Which one do you want?” Shotaro asked, and he watched as Kanata crawled on all fours toward the toys. He went toward the microphone in the center first, then turned abruptly to the left, falling over himself with the plush football clutched in his chubby hands. For a brief moment, Shotaro saw the ghost of a child he’d seen only in aged photographs tucked lovingly into an album in a Cheongdam-dong home. He was his father’s son, after all.
SEOUL, SEPTEMBER 2028
It’s a sunny day out when Shotaro bundles Kanata up in an outfit matching his own and takes him to the park. He used to take walks with Sungchan around this very plaza, used to crack jokes about how they’d be like one of those elderly couples walking with their hands clasped behind their backs someday, used to watch young families with their children without speaking. He’s in the middle of applying sunscreen to Kanata’s face when a shadow falls over them, dark and looming.
Kanata cranes his face upward, trying to look at the newcomer, but Shotaro doesn’t move. “Kana-chan, stay still,” he murmurs, swiping one last dollop of sunscreen on Kanata’s cheekbones before he lets go. “Okay, you can go now.”
When Shotaro looks up, a hand shielding his eyes from the sun, Sungchan is staring down at them, transfixed. Shotaro isn’t even sure if he’s breathing, what with the way Sungchan’s eyes don’t seem to move from Kanata at all.
“Hey, earth to Sungchan,” Shotaro says, easy, trying not to think about how his heart is beating so fast it might just leap straight out of his chest. “Remember to breathe.”
Sungchan sucks in a lungful of air, but his gaze doesn’t waver. Shotaro doesn’t think he’s capable of moving at all, but Kanata’s always been a bit of a precocious child, so he toddles out of Shotaro’s arms, stumbling into Sungchan’s legs. His hands fist in Sungchan’s jeans, holding on.
“Appa,” Kanata says, just as he and Shotaro had practiced the night before, and Sungchan crumples up like a tissue, sinking to the ground on his knees and barely managing to hold back a wail. It comes out anyway, Sungchan letting out sporadic whimpers as he tries to decide his next course of action. He settles for reaching out for Kanata and hugging the boy to him, his fingers flexing on Kanata’s jacket, before he pulls away, back to staring at Kanata’s face again.
“He’s so cute. You’re so cute,” Sungchan whispers, hushed, awed. He puts a reverent hand on Kanata’s head, thumb brushing over his wispy locks. His eyes are brimming with tears again. “Hi, Kana-chan. I’m your daddy.”
“Isn’t it self-centered of you to be saying that about him when he looks just like you?” Shotaro asks, and Sungchan barely spares him a second glance.
“Your genes should’ve put up more of a fight, then,” Sungchan says, his pretense of false bravado shattered when he swipes a hand across his eyes. He holds Kanata to him, tight, breathing in his scent. “Not my fault.”
Shotaro snorts. “Kana-chan’s birthday is next month. We’ll come back so we can all celebrate together.”
“Or I’ll come to you,” Sungchan says over Kanata’s shoulder, his eyes wild. A little crazy, a little frantic. “I could get a transfer, too. I could do it.”
“You’re crazy,” Shotaro laughs, bowled over by the unstoppable force of everything Sungchan is. “You don’t have to. You’d have to move and everything, it’s such a hassle.”
“I know I don’t have to,” Sungchan replies, and his resounding grin is bright and beatific, “I want to.”