Archive of Our Own

Home; a place existing in two separate forms. Its physical entity: windows and doors, hallways with linoleum flooring. A person: handmade memories that bloom and take root deep in the living soul. The conclusion: a place to simply exist, a place of comfort. 

—---------------------------

Minho never really liked his parents. 

He has far from fond memories of his childhood; doors slamming across the house, blowing dust to billow from the foundation. His father’s hand, coming down sharp and piercing over his small form. His mother’s rueful disdain at the dinner table. And eventually, the reality: they always knew. 

Minho’s affinity for dance was the first sign. The quirks began to pile up, passions that only heightened his own confusion as they came. And then- 12 years old, and Minho walks in holding hands with Jaehyun from across the street. 

He hadn’t understood it, then. Hadn’t connected his father’s sneer to Minho’s choice in partner, or his mother’s cruelty to who he chose to love. But he was never looked at the same. 

A foreign concept, now that the years with them are behind him. Maybe not so foreign in memory, but foreign in its practice. 

So love, yeah. Minho loves his parents, obviously. Liking them is just a much harder concept to grasp. 

“How can you even come to church with us, boy?” His father had spat one day. Droplets hit Minho across the face. “When you’ve brought such sin upon this family?” 

Time passes, years running like sand through an open palm. On the first day of his new beginning, Minho meets Seungmin. His mother has already passed, and his father’s already begun to drink himself into oblivion. 

Minho’s 21, alone on a bench at Gimpo international station, few belongings clutched haphazardly in his grip. He looks up, and Seungmin’s there. 

Pretty, the first thing Minho thinks. Tall. Round, curious eyes, curved lips, the softness of a boy just becoming a man. Pretty, and Minho finds himself filled with a familiar shame.

Seungmin lifts a finger, pointing it right at the black eye swirling its way under his left eyebrow. Minho supposes that’s the easiest thing to spot, before the suspicious-looking stain painting the sleeve of his old polo. 

“How’d you get that?” Seungmin quips, and the older boy balks. 

Direct, the second thing Minho thinks. He likes it. He’d rather speak plainly nowadays, after years of skipping around conversations that were had too late. He shouldn’t like it, though. He knows that much. 

“What’s it to you?” Minho responds bluntly. His lips are dry and split, and the other boy’s eyes zone in on them before dropping to the duffel in Minho’s arms. 

He takes a seat next to Minho. He says, “I’m Seungmin,” and for some stupid reason, Minho responds.

“Okay. I’m Minho.” 

And then… the younger just starts talking. Seungmin says he’s in Gimpo to visit his friend Jeongin. Says that Jeongin’s younger than him, and while he didn’t graduate high school early like Seungmin did, he’s still hoping to go to the same university. Seungmin’s an English major there. It’s the university Minho has a flier for in his bag, but he doesn’t tell Seungmin that. 

Minho doesn’t know why Seungmin’s telling him all of this, either. But he does remember the strange familiarity of it all, the way words settle into rhythm much quicker than he expects. Minho doesn’t feel obligated to reply, either. He’s not even part of the conversation, really. A hum here, a nod there. Seungmin just fits; 10 minutes go by and Minho already likes him more than he likes his own parents. 10 minutes go by and-

A train rolls in then, and Seungmin stands up. Minho pauses where he was zoning out to look up at the boy in confusion. 

Seungmin’s lips purse. “Are you coming?” He asks, an eyebrow raising in question. “It’s the last one of the night.” 

The few yen in Minho’s pocket seem to grow heavier at the very question. He realizes then, that he forgot to budget for the fucking train. All the way to Seoul, and he’ll only have twenty thousand when he arrives. Minus rent, that’s-

Seungmin clears his throat. Minho looks up, and the boy’s silhouette is splitting the moon in half, a halo of light around his head. An angel, Minho thinks. The last thing he’ll see before he’s homeless on the streets. 

No. He’s not stupid enough for that.

“Minho?” Seungmin coughs, and the train blares behind him. It’s like a scene from a drama, Minho thinks. Especially when Seungmin goes, “Hyung?” and holds out a hand.

Minho blinks. Seungmin’s hand looks soft, uncalloused, untarnished by whatever poison Minho carries with him. 

“Hey, so. My parents are rich.” Seungmin says, like it explains everything. Then, “I have an apartment. By my university.” A pointed look at the flimsy bag in Minho’s grip. “And I don’t have a roommate.”

Minho looks at Seungmin’s hand again, still outstretched. The boy’s fingers are curving ever so slightly, like he’s deciding whether or not he’s said the right thing. 

And that’s it, that’s all it is. The life-changing good fortune that’s thrown so suddenly over his shoulders, hidden behind the shy smile of a ridiculously attractive boy. It’s the only thing, in that slightest moment, that ever makes Minho consider the existence of god. 

A fissure grows between Minho’s ribs. A single pinprick of light. Something gives way inside him, right then. Minho lets it. 

—-------------------------------------------

For a while, he lives not as a whole, but as a digestible version of himself; there’s a reason for this choice. Minho’s roots grow in the same soil as the skeletal remains of his mother, and through this, it’s clear. God has no place in heaven for a soul like his.

Life with Seungmin is… different. For a while, Minho just watches. Sees the way the world seems to lean towards the boy, shooting stars sneaking through the windows of Seungmin’s apartment at night to tangle themselves in his hair. It’s a gravitation, Minho thinks. A gravitation they have towards the brightest star of them all, a boy who gives so much that entire universes are created through the oscillations of his heart. 

All of it, Minho sees. And through that, Seungmin becomes his universe. 

He realizes the boy is even prettier on the inside than on the outside, if that’s possible. He’s organized; Seungmin keeps his entire life tidy, wrapped up in neat sections of an advent calendar. He’s social, but not to the extent that would ever bother Minho. Seungmin adapts to Minho’s tolerance almost immediately. And in all the years Minho’s been alive, he doesn’t think he’s ever met someone who’s been able to read him so quickly. 

It’s shocking, how easy it seems to come to Seungmin. Minho feels normal with Seungmin. Like maybe, in the distant future, he could fathom holding a similar stability over his own life. 

It all takes time to process. Minho toes a line with Seungmin. He knows he’s already been blessed, being able to stay here. But as time passes and Minho tries not to grow used to what he’s been given, his self-awareness only heightens. Nobody, nobody likes it when he’s greedy, he’s been told that enough times. It’s just-

Seungmin is kindness wrapped in human-shaped tissue paper. It’s new; it’s appealing. Minho likes it. He likes it so much that it builds an emotion within his stomach, a venal little flame that wants nothing more than to absorb Seungmin in his entirety. 

It’s vile. 

Minho knows what he’s feeling towards Seungmin and he knows it’s more than friendly. He doesn’t know how to make it stop. He also knows that silence is safer than being misunderstood. 

“You know,” Seungmin starts one night, when they’re watching Studio Ghibli on his couch. It’s been two months, and the younger still treats him with the same care. Minho can’t believe his luck.  

“You’re not leeching off of me if I want you to be here,” Seungmin says.

Minho swallows, mouth drying at the sudden severity of the statement. “I know.” 

Seungmin looks over at him. Minho’s sat as far away from the younger as possible; he thinks if he were any closer, he’d ask to share Seungmin’s blanket. Worse, he might confess what’s been bubbling up in his throat for weeks. 

“Really?” Seungmin questions, and his head tilts. Soft pieces of hair fall into his eyes, and Minho’s fingers twitch in his lap.

“It doesn’t seem like that, hyung.” Seungmin turns back to the tv, and the pit in Minho’s throat swells. “Will you stop sleeping on the couch, then? There’s a guest bedroom for a reason. I wake up in the morning, and it’s like you were never here in the first place. What’s up with that, hyung? I wouldn’t call us strangers anymore. Would you?”

Minho frowns. “I-”

“You act like you’re going to up and leave any day now, hyung.” Seungmin’s voice cracks. “Are you? Going to leave?”

Anxiety fizzles across Minho’s tongue. “No,” he says quickly, maybe a little too fast. “I’m not leaving.”

Seungmin sniffles, and oh, Minho’s chest aches. He would hug the boy, were he allowed, would it not taint Seungmin’s purity.

“Good,” Seungmin says, and he stands to leave the room. “I’m going to put new sheets on your bed.” A pause. “The couch is cold at night.”

Minho is a gangly old tree with gnarled, crooked branches, years of exposure scarring his trunk. Seungmin is his bird of passage; the traveler that needs shade and something sturdy to rest his back against. 

Minho wonders when Seungmin will realize that the park has other trees. Ones that are nowhere near as weathered and worn, ones that are more suited to Seungmin’s needs. 

When Minho sleeps in Seungmin’s guest room for the first time, he lets his roots crawl down the bedframe and dig into the foundation.

—-----------------------

Another month later, Minho finally finds a job. There’s a dance studio not far from Seungmin’s apartment, and the manager is a kind old woman in her 60s. She watches Minho dance all but twice, and that’s all it takes to convince her. He’s in charge of a small group of children just the week after his 22nd birthday, the youngest instructor at the studio. 

Minho tells her himself that he’s only taken a few years of classes; that he might not be at the level to teach.

(It had reached a point in Minho’s youth when he realized he had to stop saving money for his classes, and start saving money to leave.)

Old Myung-ok disagrees, says Minho’s a natural talent. She nods her head vigorously when he finally accepts, clapping him across the back. It stings, but it doesn’t hurt his heart in the way he expects. Doesn’t hurt at all, actually.

Once he’s fallen into the swing of things, Seungmin stops by an evening to sit in on a class. He just hovers at the back of the room, really, watching Minho teach. The dancer pretends it doesn’t give him goosebumps, that it doesn’t make him ten times more aware of his own presence. 

Minho finishes teaching, and he’s tying 7-year old Min-jun’s laces as the crowd filters out. The boy’s one of his best students. Minho ruffles his hair gently, pushing the unkempt pieces away and pulling the child tight into his chest. He’s so warm. A beating heart, bright and full of hope. Untainted, with a loving family waving cheerfully at Minho from the studio’s doorway. 

For a moment, Minho wonders what his life could have been like, were he to have had the same childhood as Min-jun. But then the boy is pulling away, shouting a, “see you tomorrow, seonsaengnim!!” and running out the door, leaving Minho alone in the quiet. 

Alone but for Seungmin, that is. Minho turns around, and he’s there. Standing before him, cheeks ever so slightly flushed, watching the whole interaction with peaked interest. Beautiful.

“You- you’re good with them.” Seungmin says, like it surprises him. “Like, really good.”

Minho shrugs, but he can already feel the burn traveling up his ears. “Could be better.”

Seungmin frowns. “That’s not objective. There’s always better.”

Minho walks to the back of the room to pack up his things. He can hear the tap of Seungmin’s shoes, following softly behind him. He stands up, turns around. Yet again, the younger is right there. 

A surprise, then, more shocking than anything Minho could’ve imagined. Seungmin reaches a hand up to Minho’s face; cups his cheek, brushes a soft thumb along where months ago, the skin was purple. “Hyung. You deserve better, too. Why won’t you let yourself have it?”

Seungmin’s fingers are warm, painting lines of heat into the depths of Minho’s skin. Portions of soul embed themselves in his pores. It stings. The touch stings, his eyes sting, it’s too much. 

It’s in quick succession, the way Minho shrugs off Seungmin’s touch and runs. He speedwalks away from the boy, away from the heady emotions building behind his pupils. Minho doesn’t cry. He’s not a fickle, sensitive person. 

“Are those tears, adeul? Are you a little girl too, on top of everything? Are you not ashamed of yourself?”

Minho exits the building, rounding a corner into the nearest alleyway. He doesn’t know what to do with what he’s feeling. He doesn’t know what to do with the feelings he has for his fucking roommate, someone who’s been so unusually kind to him. Someone who’s given him so much.

Was Minho really going to ruin it all? What would Seungmin say, if he found out how many times Minho had to be disciplined at home, if he found out how bad he was? How many times he went against the person he’s supposed to be, and how he left at the first opportunity he got?

Minho drops to his knees at the corner of an abandoned lot, hand tight to his chest. He’s afraid. He’s scared, and he doesn’t want to ruin what he has. Doesn’t want to waste Seungmin’s generosity, but doesn’t want to take advantage of it either. What does Seungmin mean, he deserves better? Anything is better than what Minho left. Anything he has now is a rare privilege, but the closer he grows to Seungmin, the more he wants even more. He wants Seungmin. He wants Seungmin to want him too, when it’s already a burden for the boy to shelter him under the same roof. 

It’s not natural. Loving Seungmin is not natural, and for Seungmin to know how Minho feels would only spread his disease even further. He only ruins things. Taints them and tears them down, spreads a decay that’s infectious and a poison that burns. A splinter in the world’s aching thumb, the cancer clinging to mother nature’s core. He’s something -not a human, not a person, but something else - that should have been eradicated a long, long time ago. 

Minho’s throat is swollen. He doesn’t know who he is. He hates what he’s trying to become. 

A throat clears behind him. Minho turns, and there, just a few feet away, is Seungmin. Yet again. Of fucking course. There’s an arm outstretched towards Minho, water bottle in its hand. The dancer can’t believe his odds. 

“You should get up,” Seungmin says, like Minho isn’t already scrambling to his feet. “You look like shit.”

The older boy laughs. Low, intolerable. Seungmin cringes, and passes him the water. Minho cracks the bottle open, places it to his lips.

“You like running away, don’t you?”

Minho chokes. Water immediately leaks from the corner of his mouth, and Seungmin’s eyes hone in on the droplet. Minho sees his fingers twitch. It reminds him of himself on the couch, over a month ago. 

“I’m not running away.” Minho replies resolutely; he still sounds like a child. 

“Sure.” Seungmin speaks plainly, looking the older dead in the eye. “That’s not what you were doing at the station either, was it? Three months ago?”

A pause, then-

“I was leaving. Not running.”

Seungmin stares at him. His lips press, and something seems to click. Then the boy turns, and starts to walk away.

Minho’s jaw pops open. What’s happening? He can be stubborn, too. He doesn’t want all this that bad, does he?

Liar. 

But then Seungmin stops walking. He throws a head over his shoulder, eyebrow raised in question. Car keys jingle between his fingers. “You coming?”

Minho’s mouth dries. Say it, say it. “You were right. Before.”

Seungmin frowns, facing the older. “About what?”

Minho swallows. “I did run away. From home.”

Seungmin nods, expression still blank. “Okay. Why?”

Minho’s eyes shift down to his feet, then back up again. He’s not a nervous person. “I wasn’t- I wasn’t what my parents wanted.”

Seungmin tuts. “Try again. Parents don’t get to decide what kind of child they’d prefer to have.”

Minho doesn’t know what to say to that. 

“You know what answer I’m asking for. Can’t you fucking speak, Lee Minho?”

“Okay.” Seungmin says. “So they were bad people.”

“No- no. Not that.”

Seungmin rolls his eyes. “Then what? What could possibly make you the bad one?”

Minho bites his lip. He has a feeling Seungmin already knows where this is going. “I- I didn’t clean up after myself? I didn’t have great grades. My interests were weird, they-”

“So I’m hearing that you were a normal teenager. Is that all?”

Minho lets the pit in his throat slide down to sit in his stomach. With a deep breath, he takes smoking prongs and decides to poke at it like a chunk of coal. “I’m gay.”

Seungmin’s expression doesn’t change. “Okay. What else?”

Minho blinks. Once, twice. A click. Understanding; familiarity. “I- what?” He thinks his heart might’ve stopped beating. “You- that’s it.”

Seungmin nods, and he’s walking away again. Minho stumbles in his effort to catch up. 

“So they were bad people,” Seungmin presses the button on his keys, and a Honda Civic lights up from across the lot. “And you left.”

Minho hums softly. He doesn’t know what the fuck is going on.

They settle into Seungmin’s car, and the boy starts up the engine. Minho was going to walk home. He thinks about how much nicer this is, despite the circumstances. 

“Good job.” Seungmin says suddenly. Minho’s head snaps over to him.

“For what?”

The boy sighs, hands brushing across the wheel. “To leave a place is to be brave. To set aside your dreams, or in some cases, to follow them. Leaving something comfortable for something that isn’t.” 

Seungmin starts driving. Minho almost laughs. He forgot that he’s in the car with an English major. “It’s my parents that I left,” he defends. “That I cut off. I haven’t spoken to them in months.” 

Seungmin smiles, wry. His eyes don’t leave the road. “Good. I hope you don’t hear from them again unless it’s an apology.” Red light. Seungmin turns to Minho, scans his features. “It’s a pity, isn’t it? That the first time I saw such a pretty face, it was marked up by hands that are supposed to heal?” Minho’s jaw pops askew, and Seungmin hits the gas pedal. He sounds angry when he speaks again. “Some parents just don’t fucking deserve children.”

Minho doesn’t know what to address first. He’s never heard Seungmin speak like this. “I’m not, though. I’m not a child.”

Seungmin straight up scoffs. “But you were. You were only a child.”

“Then-” Minho’s voice cracks. It can’t be this simple. “I still miss them. Why’s that?”

Seungmin makes a sharp turn. “You uprooted everything you knew in order to leave. It’s as simple as that. If you raise a child in a warm home with homemade food and Christmas trees that always have presents, then that child, when faced with discomfort, will always run back home. On the other side- raise a child with cold eyes, drunken laughter, slaps across the face-”

Minho inhales sharply. 

“-that child, when faced with the same discomfort, will also run home. Do you know why, hyung? Do you understand why that is?”

Minho doesn’t dare say a word. 

“Children are strange. That’s all it is. We haven’t even lived a quarter of our lives, hyung. A home is a home. It could be a fucking haunted house for all I care, but it’s always going to be the place you know most. I don’t know how else to help you rebuild the picture you have in your mind than to tell you this straight. I’m trying to remake what’s home for you, and you won’t fucking let me. Why? Why can’t you just let it happen?”

Why? Minho inhales sharply. He’s a mutant covered in bruises and the spilled guts of monsters. He’s everything at once, too much and and never enough at the same time. 

“Why did you ever let me stay with you?” Minho asks abruptly. It’s been on the tip of his tongue for months, and he’d rather let it out at the wrong time than never at all. 

Seungmin reels himself back with an exhale. He shrugs, and then they’re pulling into the apartment complex. “I had an extra room.”

Minho laughs, sudden, the sound escaping from his throat like a bird taking flight. Seungmin startles, the smallest of smiles cracking free, hands loosening around the wheel.

“Seungmin? Can I ask another question?”

Seungmin pulls into his allotted space; parks, turns to face Minho. “Yes?”

He knows it’s not nice of him to ask, but-

 “Why do you… like me?” This one time. This one time, Minho’s letting himself be selfish. 

Seungmin smiles, like it’s the easiest question in the world. “Hmm. You ask me about my day when I get home. You make breakfast, and you remember the dishes that I like the most so that you can remake them. You play Radiohead out loud on the stereo because you want me to love their music too. You’ve only known me a few months, but somehow you value me more than you value yourself.”

Minho nods, listening intently.

Seungmin side-eyes him. “Hyung. That one’s a bad thing. We’ll work on that.”

It’s Minho’s turn to roll his eyes. “You’re not my mother, Kim Seungmin.”

Seungmin unbuckles his seatbelt. “This too. You’re snarky. It’s cute. I like it.”

Minho’s eyes widen, and heat flies like wildfire up his neck. Seungmin can’t be-

“But-” Seungmin leans over the console, and Minho’s breath catches. “Don’t compare me to your mother ever again. I think that’s the highest insult I’ve ever received.”

Minho laughs, breathy, soft, and Seungmin moves away. He’s exiting the car then, and Minho’s quick to speak. 

“Seungmin?”

The younger boy’s eyes dart to Minho’s.

“I- I really like you too. Just letting you know.”

It’s Seungmin’s turn to laugh. Starbright, free, beautiful. The prettiest sound to ever bless Minho’s ears. 

“I know, hyung. I know.”

—--------------------------------------------------------------

Minho thinks about it all that night. A silent film reel, his life in black and white. Aching for happiness like missing a phantom limb. He takes and takes; he knows he does, and he can’t make himself stop.

He doesn’t want to stop. And maybe, just maybe, that’s okay. 

—---------------------------------------------------------------

From there, Minho falls into a sort of rhythm with Seungmin. Seungmin stops telling Minho not to make him breakfast. He just thanks him, eats it all, and leaves the dishes soaked in the sink for Minho to wash. The older likes doing them, even if Seungmin’s still the one unloading. It makes him feel useful. 

The studio becomes more popular, and another month later, Minho gets a significant raise. He forces Seungmin into letting him pay half of the rent, and as a result, he stops feeling like he’s completely taking advantage of the boy’s generosity. 

Seungmin finally introduces Minho to some of his friends. Hyunjin and Felix come attached at the hip; yin and yang, salt and pepper. 

Felix pulls him into a hug almost immediately, which Minho tenses before awkwardly accepting. Hyunjin, on the other hand, eyes the older with curiosity, peering on from behind Felix’s shoulder. 

“Seungmin’s told us a lot about you,” the taller boy says, a sly smile creasing his perfect skin. 

Minho raises an eyebrow at Seungmin, whose face is already tinting. Felix pulls away from the dancer, looking up at him with glee. 

“He’s right! But you’re even prettier than Minnie said!”

It’s Minho’s turn to turn pink, ears reddening and blown eyes darting over to Seungmin. The younger is quick to move, pulling Felix away from the older and hissing something in his ear. Felix’s smile just grows wider, if that’s even possible. 

Minho decides to leave it alone.    

Dinner with the new boys is… eventful. Minho only observes, really. Felix talks the most, blurts of rapidly changing topics between quickly shoved mouthfuls of food. Hyunjin takes slow bites, addendum comments working to season Felix’s words like a well-oiled machine. Seungmin, too, fits the flow of conversation well. It’s like watching puzzle pieces click together, Minho thinks. It’s entertaining, and he wonders if he could get used to a full dinner table if it’s one like this. 

They leave eventually, and Minho doesn’t miss the “keep him, Min, I like him” that Hyunjin whispers to Seungmin in the doorway. He pretends it does nothing to him. He wonders how much longer the fantasy will last. 

When they watch a movie that night, Minho lets himself sit just a little closer to Seungmin. If the boy notices, he doesn’t say a word. 

A commercial break comes on. 

“You friends are very different from me,” Minho starts, trying to communicate the surface of what he’s thinking. 

Seungmin hums, eyes on the screen. “And I think of you very differently from how I think of them.”

Minho nods. It’s a solid answer, he supposes. But, “good different?” His voice wavers. Subconsciously, he wonders how much weaker he can get for a single person. 

The younger takes it all in stride. Seungmin stretches his fingers towards Minho, and they momentarily hover over where the dancer’s palm lies flat to his knee.

“You tell me, hyung.” Seungmin smiles, so Minho does too. It’d be impossible not to, really. Contagious, is what the younger is – a religion that Minho would let consume his entire being. 

Seungmin’s hands are bigger than Minho’s. It hurts, but Minho knows the boy’s heart is, too. 

—------------------------------------------------

Life takes the smallest of turns for the better. Minho even makes a friend of his own. 

A 4 year old girl joins his lowest-level dance class, and quickly becomes one of Minho’s most avid students. He refuses to pick favorites, but Seol-ah’s just the sweetest, with the most bubbly, contagious laugh. She makes Minho imagine having a family of his own. If. 

Eventually, he meets her father. Minho’s familiar with most of the parents of his students at this point, especially now that he’s established as a teacher. Seol-ah’s dad, however, had evaded him thus far.

Minho’s surprised to find that her father is young. Older than him, but not by much, he guesses. A sturdy build and feature focused nose; dark curls poking out under a black beanie. 

The man smiles, and there are dimples. He sticks out a hand, smiling widely. “Chan,” he says, and Minho sees dark bruises along his undereyes. “You must be Minho?”

The dancer nods, dipping his head ever so slightly as he shakes the older’s hand. “Your daughter is a pleasure, Chan-ssi. She’s very advanced for her age.”

Chan smiles, eyes glowing as he eyes Seol-ah from where she’s hiding behind Minho. “Didn’t get that from me,” he laughs softly. “She’s been talented since the day we met.”

So, not his child, Minho thinks, trying and failing to keep his surprise hidden. Chan is young, he supposes.

Chan raises an eyebrow. “It’s not a touchy subject, Minho-ssi. You can ask.” The older smiles warmly, dropping to his knees. He opens his arms, and Seol-ah comes running. “My sister’s daughter by birth. She passed last year.” 

“Oh,” Minho isn’t quite sure what to say. “I’m sorry for your loss.” His voice comes out robotical, uniform, and he cringes despite himself. 

Chan laughs softly. “Thank you, Minho-ssi.” 

Minho looks down at his feet awkwardly. “Just Minho is fine.”

Chan tilts his head. “Alright, Minho. Seol-ah looks forward to your classes. We’ll be back tomorrow.”

Minho nods. Waves at Chan as he leaves. 

They start to talk more, as the days pass. Minho teaches every day of the week, and Seol-ah comes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. He learns that Chan is a producer, perhaps more of a bigshot than he gives away, and that Seol-ah is his entire life outside of work. 

“It’s hard to get time off, nowadays,” Chan sighs one afternoon as the other parents clear out. “Harder to meet people to hang out with, too.”

“Come over.” Minho blurts it out before his brain attaches to his vocal chords. He likes Chan, and he feels like a definite friend at this point. But come over? To Seungmin’s house?

“Oh!” Chan looks taken aback, eyebrows raised as he stares at Minho. “I- okay? Are you sure?”

“I-,” It’s too late, Minho supposes. “Yeah, definitely. Tonight. Bring Seol-ah, too. My roommate loves kids.” Seungmin does not like children. Minho should stop talking.

Chan smiles, and his eyes crinkle. “Sure. She’d love that, Minho-ah. I’ll bring some food.”

The dancer nods, and Seol-ah waves at Minho enthusiastically as they leave.

Fuck. 

—---------------------------------------------

Minho hurries to Seungmin’s apartment at the speed of light. He can’t believe what he’s done. Sure, they’ve lived together for months now, but Seungmin’s never said it’s okay for Minho to invite someone over. They’ve placed absolutely zero boundaries, actually. Hyunjin and Felix have barely come over twice, and Seungmin has told Minho beforehand every time. 

Who was he, to settle himself in like this? It’s almost like the apartment is his and not Seungmin’s to begin with. Who is he, to take advantage so quickly? Seungmin said to get comfortable, not take as you please.

“When did I raise such a greedy boy, Minho-ah?” His mother pinches the round of his cheek. Her fingers are greasy, and her breath reeks. “You’ll just turn up a nasty drunk like your father, won’t you?”

Minho’s quick to reach his phone, the one he was finally able to pay off last week. He only has 4 contacts in the first place, though there’s only one of real importance. He’s never sent Seungmin a text; all there is is a series of ‘Home late today, hyung’ from the younger boy. Minho taps the box to type. 

: Seungmin. 

Minho hits send. He starts typing again, fingers as frantic as his pulse.

: I invited someone over for dinner. 

Sent. Minho’s breath catches. There’s nothing wrong, really. 

He’s never had an actual friend. He doesn’t want to scare Chan away, but he doesn’t want to come on too strong. He doesn’t want Seungmin to feel the need to scare Minho away, either. The difference is, Minho doesn’t exactly see Seungmin as just a friend. 

Read receipts appear below his message, and Minho’s throat clogs. Typing bubbles pop up, and Minho hurries to power off his phone. He doesn’t want to see. He knows, he knows he messed up, and he can’t have that be the focus right now.

Minho’s eyes raise to the old-fashioned clock in Seungmin’s doorway. Seungmin will be home from classes in just under an hour. Chan is likely to arrive just a bit after that. There is no dinner ready. Seungmin is a clean freak, so the place isn’t a mess, but- nothing is ready.

Minho hurries himself over to the kitchen. He bought groceries a couple days ago, so he won’t have to pay Seungmin back if he uses them now. He can cook well, this he knows. He cooked for himself often in his teenage years. 

Minho brings out a big pot to boil his vegetables. Soups and stews, he can do quickly. It’ll be fine. There’ll be a lot of dishes, but he can do them quickly if he washes and Seungmin unloads like they normally do.

The fuck? Was he seriously going to ask Seungmin to do chores for him after letting someone the boy’s never met into his apartment?

Minho can feel the pounding of his own heart climb, the heady pound of it tense behind his ribcage. He brings out Seungmin’s cutting board, pulls cabbage and scallions out of the fridge. Seungmin’s fridge. Seungmin’s house, Seungmin’s knife that he’s cutting vegetables with. 

What’s mine is yours, Seungmin told him once when Minho hadn’t yet had the money to buy himself new clothes. Seungmin’s t-shirts were impossibly soft, and Minho knew they weren’t the same when he returned them. 

His vision blurs. What the fuck is he doing? Take, take, take. He has everything he could ask for. And he knows, he knows that Seungmin would most likely be fine with him having someone over. But since when was he someone to force decisions like this on people, especially people that have given him so much?

Minho coughs, and the knife slips. He blinks, and his vision clears when electricity shoots its way down his thumb. There’s a slice there, vertical along where he was holding the scallions still. 

Crimson beads instantly. Then it’s dripping, and suddenly there’s a little pool forming on Seungmin’s cutting board. 

No. No.

Minho feels delirious as he swipes at the liquid haphazardly. It simply smears across the table, little specks flying down to Seungmin’s clean tile floor.

NO.

Minho’s eyes are blurry again. He wants to cry. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He can’t fucking cut vegetables properly. A wave of dizziness crashes over him, and his throat closes up. It makes sense now. Truly, completely, he understands why his parents couldn’t bear the sight of him.

With the dizziness comes nausea, only strengthened by the light trail of iron. He expects it, then. He expects to throw up the oily, black tar resting in the pit of his stomach; a living parasite eating from his gut, clawing at his organs. Expects it when his ribcage pushes into his lungs, hard, harder, until he can’t breathe at all. He’s cold. It’s empty, he’s fucking freezing on the inside, and he can hear his mother speaking like a revenant in his ear. 

“Minho-yahhhh,” she says softly, voice sing-song in his ear. “Making a mess again, are we?” She hums, and she looks the same as she did a year ago. “Are you trying to make him take pity on you, aegi?”

“Eomma,” Minho says, voice hoarse. He knows she’s dead, he swears he knows, it’s just-

“Eomma, I think I love him.”

His mother laughs then, sharp, condescending in a way that drops ice down the ridge of Minho’s spine. “Love, Minho-ah? You think love is enough for a boy like you, who’s been rotting from the inside for so long? Nothing will be enough for you. I hope this wretch of a boy you’re latching yourself onto realizes what kind of person you are.”

Minho falls to his knees, and he swears he hears them crack on the tile. He can’t breathe, and he feels so small, living again as the child he was never allowed to be. His eyes blur, and this time, it is with tears, because oh, he can’t. He doesn’t know what to do when he can’t leave, he can’t run, he can’t be grateful for what he’s been given. He cries. The tears leech from his eyes like acid rain, trickling past his nose and lips with the corrosive taste of saltwater. He cries, because he knows there is absolutely no fix for a person like him. 

Keys jingle somewhere in Minho’s periphery. He doesn’t have the energy to look up when Seungmin opens the door. 

“Hyung, I’m home! I brought chicken and- is that blood??” 

There’s a thud as Seungmin drops what he’s carrying, a patter as he rushes over to where Minho is sitting on his knees.

It’s quick, and Minho can only blink through the wet as he suddenly registers the warmth of Seungmin’s hands on his face.

“Seungmin?”

Seungmin chokes, and he looks so, so sad. “Yeah, hyung. What happened? You- did your parents call? Did something happen at work?” 

Minho almost laughs, because he knows with complete certainty that his parents will never want to contact him again.

Seungmin reaches to the counter for the washcloth, and Minho wants to cry again at the absence of the boy’s touch. Greedy, greedy, greedy.

“Where-” Seungmin fumbles with Minho’s wrists, voice cracking. “Where are you hurt?”

Minho laughs then, the sound bubbling dry and hoarse from the depths of his throat. He lifts his bleeding hand, and Seungmin’s eyes latch to limb in horror. Minho shakes his head. 

“No,” he says, and his eyes are wet again. “Here.” He presses the hand to his chest, to the cavernous hole that hides behind layers of clothing and skin. “Here. Hurts here, Seungmin.”

He lets a sob break free then, rawer and weaker than Minho has ever felt in his entire life. The sound of his heart crumbling echoes between them. Minho almost looks down to confirm that the organ is really being ripped from his chest. 

Seungmin’s mouth pulls down, lower lip trembling. “Hyung, hyung please. You don’t deserve this, hyung.”

Pathetic. Minho thinks. He’s a pathetic, rapacious virus, sucking the happiness out of everyone he interacts with. He’s nothing, nothing at all, but a-

“Hyung,” Seungmin’s crying. “Hyung, where are you going?” Hands are on Minho’s face again. Seungmin’s touch is volatile, a livewire spreading unfamiliar feeling through down his cheekbones and the lines of his jaw. “Hyung. You’re here.”

Minho’s eyes draw back to Seungmin’s. Embarrassment is beginning to creep its way into his bloodstream. 

“You’re with me, hyung.” Seungmin’s voice is recognizable over any other. Minho hears him singing in the shower sometimes. Beautiful; not worthy of a world so material. 

“Seungmin?” Minho knows his voice is small. So, so small. 

“Yes, hyung?” Seungmin slips his hands back down to Minho’s injured one. The washcloth gets wrapped tightly around the cut. Something much too insignificant to deserve such care, but Minho lets it be.

Seungmin holds him like something delicate, something susceptible to cracks and breakage if not handled carefully. If not treated like something precious. 

Minho doesn’t know what to think of it. 

Seungmin puts his hands under both of Minho’s. “1, 2-,” Seungmin hoists Minho up with a huff, the dancer staggering up awkwardly. He doesn’t feel lightheaded anymore.

He’s so, so ashamed. 

“Come.” Seungmin pulls up a chair from his little dining table, lowering Minho onto it carefully. The older doesn’t let himself think about the fact that he’s leaning on the boy again. 

“Stay here,” Seungmin says, red-rimmed eyes trying and failing to look at Minho sternly. 

Minho watches the boy head behind the counter, sees the way he bends down to wipe specks of red off of the tile. Seungmin stands up, and his hair fluffs down over his eyes. He turns off the stove next, drains Minho’s boiling water. He rinses the knife Minho used, putting it securely in its drawer. 

Minho swallows. He holds the washcloth tighter with his injured hand.

Seungmin pulls something else out of the drawer. It’s a white roll of gauze, packaged and unopened. Minho watches as Seungmin walks back over to him with unnecessary speed. 

Seungmin kneels in front of Minho, and the older boy wants to cry again. He lets Seungmin unwrap his finger and eye the cut analytically. 

“You’re lucky,” Seungmin says, like he’s a doctor in a drama. “You probably missed some of the bigger nerves.”

“You probably picked the wrong major,” Minho sniffs. He’s fully embraced how pathetic he’s being. 

Seungmin scoffs. “I think you’re deflecting.”

He says it seriously, but Minho doesn’t miss the alarm just behind the boy’s pupils. Seungmin’s worried about him. 

Seungmin’s worried about him. 

What have you done, Lee Minho?

“Do you want to tell me what happened? Why you were on the floor of our kitchen, crying and bloody?”

Our kitchen. Seungmin and Minho’s, Minho and Seungmin’s. 

Oh.

“I- I got distracted. While I was trying to make dinner.” The dancer can feel how fake the words feel even as they’re just dropping off his tongue. 

Seungmin frowns. “Distracted by what?”

Minho hums. He pulls his freshly-wrapped hand away from the boy. “I don’t know. A lot of things.”

“...Okay.” Seungmin tries again. “Things like…?”

“I didn’t ask you before inviting Chan!” Minho blurts, throat clogging.

“Chan? Is that who’s coming for dinner? Did you even read my text? I said that it’s-”

“I didn’t ask for a room, I didn’t ask for a place to stay, I didn’t ask for the way you treat me. I’m so confused, Seungmin.” Minho’s eyes are watering again. “I don’t know how I could deserve this. What’s the catch? Please, it’s just so- I keep waiting. Something’s going to go wrong, isn’t it?”

“Minho.” Seungmin deflates. His eyes have gone sad again. “I told you, I’m not trying to do you favors. I wanted to help, and I know you can look after yourself. It’s going well. Nothing is going to go wrong.”

“No!” Minho stands up suddenly, stumbling away from Seungmin. “You- you don’t understand, Seungmin. I’m going to go wrong. I always do. I don’t know how to be so you’ll still want me after that happens.” 

“What the fuck?” Seungmin’s alarm has shifted to outrage. “You think how you act determines whether I want you here or not? Are you kidding?”

Seungmin’s eyes are blown, and Minho takes a step back. He doesn’t know what the right answer is. 

“Hyung, I-” Seungmin sighs, and he sounds exasperated. “I genuinely- I’ve already decided I want you here. I’ve decided, it’s a permanent decision, the end. You’re not going to ‘go wrong’. You could rob a bank for all I care. That’s just on my misjudgement. I. have. already. picked you.”

“Seungmin-” Minho’s voice trembles. “Seungmin, last time I messed up, I had to leave. I had to leave and, and, it was hard. It was so, so hard.” His voice is cracking. He sounds like a child, and he can’t make himself stop. He couldn’t if he tried. 

“Minho.” Seungmin’s voice cracks miserably. “That was horrible. It was bad, and you know it was bad. Do I have to say it again? They were just-” He steps up, and Minho’s breath catches. Seungmin’s fingers reach forward tentatively, like he’s grasping at something forbidden. “They were so undeserving of you, hyung.”

Minho stares at Seungmin. A second, a minute. He sits himself down on Seungmin’s their tile floor, and curls himself up small. The boy takes a seat in front of him.

“Seungmin,” Minho whispers again. The name feels beautiful on his tongue. “Seungmin, they- they were horrible. You’re right.”

Silence. Seungmin hums in response, and it’s all Minho needs. 

“Seungmin,” he says, and it won’t stop now. “Seungmin, my mother died last year. She was horrible. She hurt me, and I love her. I love her, Seungmin. I miss her.”

Seungmin hums again. 

“My dad’s a drunk. I haven’t heard from him in a while. Do you think he misses me, Seungmin? Do you think he thinks of me as I think of him? Do you think he hates me?”

Seungmin sniffs, fixing his legs to sit comfortably on the floor. “I’m not sure, hyung.” A pause. “Does it matter?”

Minho thinks about it all. He can sense it - not the smell of rot, but the effects of it. The scent of funeral flowers, the way one’s body shakes after they vomit. “It doesn’t matter,” he tells Seungmin. “I wish it did to him, though.”

Seungmin smiles, small, hopeful. “We can share the same wish, hyung.”

Minho smiles back. His face stretches and he feels like he’s contorting and it’s unnatural in its entirety. He smiles anyway.

“What do I do now, Seungmin?”

The boy stands. He hoists Minho up again, and electricity travels down the older’s core at the touch.

“I’ll tell you right now,” Seungmin says. They’re around the same height, and he looks Minho straight in the eye. “Tomorrow, you will wake up again, just like today. You will wake up with the weight of your entire life on your shoulders, and you will remember it as the moment you stopped being small. The tomorrow after that, you will do the same thing. Again, and again. Over and over.”

“Forever?” Minho questions. His voice is quiet.

“Would you like it to be forever?” Seungmin’s gaze is soft.

“Maybe.” Minho doesn’t like how unsure he sounds. It’s a possibility. Something like this is different if he deserves it. And he might; he really, really might just be worthy. 

He’s not quite sure yet, though.

“Then, maybe.” Seungmin replies like it’s the simplest answer in the world; like the weight is really not a weight at all. 

Minho realizes, right then, in that moment. He is not 13 anymore, speaking when he didn’t want to be heard. He is not 16, his mother’s son, an existence neither here nor there. He isn’t 19, screaming just to be listened to rather than heard. He’s 21, and Seungmin’s found him. He’s almost 23, and he’s not alone. 

A knock at the door. Minho breaks out of his trance, head flipping towards the entrance simultaneously with Seungmin. The younger walks over to the opening, pulling open the latch gently. Chan stands in the doorway nervously.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hello,” Seungmin responds. His eyes drop down to the figure holding Chan’s arm. “Oh. Hello, little girl.”

Seol-ah sticks out a small hand, waving at Seungmin shyly. Minho laughs. Loud, unabashed. Something clicks into place. He doesn’t know what it is. He doesn’t care.

Chan steps inside. “Thank you for inviting me, Minho-ah,” he smiles warmly. Then, face dripping slightly, “what happened to your hand?”

Minho’s arm is still held outwards, wrapped in all too-white gauze. He tucks the limb into his body, smiling sheepishly. 

Seungmin turns to Chan, deadpan. “He doesn’t know how to cut vegetables.”

Chan snorts, covering his mouth, while Seol-ah runs over to Minho to inspect the injury. 

“Ow,” she says, squinting at the bandage. “Ow.”

Seungmin smiles, and Minho feels warm. He kneels down to pull the girl in tight to his chest, and over her shoulder, he can see Seungmin introducing himself to Chan. It fits, he thinks. Everyone, everything, fits. Dinner will go well.

Dinner. 

Suddenly, like a psychic, Seungmin leaps up in earnest. “Chicken!” He runs behind the counter, picking up the forgotten takeout bag. “I have fried chicken!”

Minho feels lucky. Minho feels full. He thinks Chan will be very okay that he wasn’t able to make soup. 

—--------------------------------------

Chan and Seungmin click. It’s satisfying, Minho thinks, watching two people this important to him mesh so well. He’s blessed. 

Chan tells Seungmin about Seol-ah’s classes, about how Minho’s her favorite teacher. The girl beams as she nods along, cheeks stuffed with food. They don’t have much to discuss, but Seungmin’s intrigued once he finds out that Chan is a producer. When he hears the company Chan works for, Seungmin’s eyes widen, and he leans closer to the table. 

Apparently, Chan is semi-famous and very young for a producer of his status. It doesn’t surprise Minho, if he’s being honest, but Seungmin is more than interested. He shoots question by question, all of which Chan answers more than willingly. 

It’s cute, Minho thinks. Seungmin talking about anything with passion. Minho thinks he could listen to the boy talk about nothing and everything, all day, every day. It’s beautiful. Seungmin’s beautiful. 

“Excuse me?” Seol-ah interrupts, gaze flitting between Minho and Seungmin. “Are you married?”

Chan chokes, turning to his daughter in shock. “Hey! You can’t-” he coughs, lost for words. Minho’s ears are tinted pink, and Chan turns around quickly to apologize. “Sorry, I-”

“We’re not married,” Seungmin tells Seol-ah casually, like he’s talking to a colleague. “But he’s missing out, isn’t he?” Seungmin preens, flaunting himself Minho’s way, and the dancer’s jaw drops. Seol-ah nods enthusiastically, and Chan laughs in surprise. 

“Cute,” the eldest says. His eyes flit between Minho and Seungmin. Minho wants to dig a hole through the floor and crawl into it. 

Eventually, Chan leaves, hugging them both bye and promising to come back again soon. 

“I like him,” Seungmin says, locking the front door. “I’m glad you have friends besides Hyunjin and Felix.”

Minho huffs. “I have plenty of friends,” he says. Lie. He’s working on it, though.

“Mm.” Seungmin hums knowingly. “Chan’s very different from me.”

Minho nods. “I think of you very differently than I think of him.”

Seungmin takes a step forward. “Are you stealing my line, Lee Minho?”

The dancer smiles, and something careful begins to bloom in his chest. “Maybe. You’re the English major. Can’t you think of another?”

Seungmin’s eyes crease. “You’re not doubting my abilities, are you?”

Minho fakes a gasp. It comes out a little hoarse after all the crying. “I would never.”

Seungmin takes another step closer. “Hyung,” he says, and Minho can see all his eyelashes in perfect focus. “Have I ever told you how pretty you are?”

Minho’s chest tightens. His hands clench around his shirt. He wants, he wants, he wants.

“How greedy are you, Lee Minho?”

He lets it happen. Minho brings a hand up to Seungmin’s face, cupping the soft of his jaw, thumb over his pulse. A thump, thump under his fingers. Living, breathing proof that Minho is loved. Minho is wanted. 

He pulls Seungmin in. The younger comes willingly, arms wrapping around Minho’s neck, a swoop that draws them impossibly closer. And oh, Seungmin sighs, and it’s pretty and soft and content. Minho swallows up the sound with a gentle press of lips, a connecting force between him and Seungmin. His blood feels too hot for his veins, and they come closer, closer, closer. 

The world grows quiet. Minho feels like a little kid, running along the stippled creeks of his cracked childhood. A glow bursts from the fissure between his ribs; the pain in place of his heart explodes, a million sparks reforming into the shape of his world. Seungmin, Seungmin, Seungmin. They feel like equals here, the boy's face warm in Minho’s hands, his arms looped over Minho’s ears. They are equals, Minho realizes. He doesn’t know what he was waiting for, all this time. All this time, when his future has been waiting right before him.

They pull apart. Seungmin’s pupils are dilated, blown wide, and he’s just- he’s all Minho’s ever wanted. He can’t believe how lucky he is.

“I think that was long overdue,” Seungmin laughs, and his hands are coming up to brush through Minho’s hair. 

“I think,” Minho pauses. “I think I love you.”

Seungmin’s mouth falls open, ever so slightly. He freezes for a moment, searching Minho’s face for any sign of uncertainty. “Are you going to trust me if I say it back, hyung?”

Minho pauses. Would he? ‘I love you’ is an instinct, a reaction to comfort. “No,” he says, and he’s disappointed in himself. “I probably wouldn’t.”

Seungmin’s expression doesn’t change. He nods. “I love you, hyung. I’ve saved a place for you in my home, in my heart. It’s there until you’re ready to take it.”

Minho inhales. It’s everything, all at once. It’s his. Deserving or not, he’s allowed to take it. Not an obligation or a favor. Take, take, take. Again, he doesn’t want to stop. 

Seungmin smiles, knowing. He reaches out a hand.

Minho takes it. 

Their family grows bigger. Minho meets Changbin and Jisung through Chan, his friends in production. Jeongin gets into Seungmin’s university in his second year, and they become a family of their own. More than family, perhaps, in the way Hyunjin speaks to Changbin, and the way Jisung and Felix become like siblings almost instantaneously. 

Minho doesn’t forget his parents. He never will, and that’s okay. 

But every night, Seungmin goes to Minho’s room. Some nights, Minho ends up in Seungmin’s. The younger says, “goodnight, hyung. I love you.”

Months later, Minho finally understands. He didn’t love himself until he met Seungmin. If he thinks about it hard enough, he still doesn’t, really. He just loves Seungmin so much that it’s easy to forget about hating himself. 

“I can’t believe it,” Minho says one night, tucked beside his partner in bed. “I can’t believe I got so lucky.”

Seungmin hums. “Not luck, hyung. Fate.”

Epilogue

Seungmin turns around, and Minho’s on one knee. 

Okay, there’s a build-up, obviously. Something that leads to where Seungmin’s standing over his hyung, jaw askew, while Minho’s own face is plastered with that foul, all-knowing smirk.

They’re at a get-together. Minho’s apartment (well, Seungmin’s too, he supposes), the weekend after Chuseok. It’s small and perfect and the first time it’s been just the 8 of them in months. Hyunjin left his art school roommates, Felix cleared his gaming channel schedule for the entire week, and Chan finally took the smallest amount of leave and hired a babysitter to watch his daughter. 

They’ve all gathered at Seungmin and Minho’s to finally, finally celebrate Chuseok on their own. And a celebration it is. Felix came early to ‘assist’ Minho in the kitchen, though Seungmin’s not sure how much was actually helpful. There’s cups and dishes all across the apartment; plates of japchae across the counters, galbijjim still being braised, a literal pitcher of sikhye that Jisung keeps eyeing dubiously. 

Seungmin desperately wants to pre-plan cleanup, but the party hasn’t even ended yet. There’s still drinking games, and karaoke, and-

“You look thrilled to be here,” Hyunjin wipes his mouth with one hand, slinging the other over Seungmin’s shoulder. “Join innn the fun!!” Hyunjin giggles, hair falling over his eyes.

Seungmin raises a brow, amused. “You’ve started drinking already?” 

The older frowns, stiffening his back to an unrealistic extent. “Nnoo. You’re such a worry-wart, you know that, Seungmin? I bet you’re already thinking about the cleaning.”

Seungmin snaps his mouth shut, chastised.

Hyunjin giggles again. “I mean, I wouldn’t blame you. I think Changbin’s still trying to get the soy sauce out of the carpet.” 

Seungmin straightens, shrugging off Hyunjin’s arm. “He’s what?”

Suddenly, music starts up from the living room, and Hyunjin’s eyes widen dramatically before he responds on an entirely unrelated note. “They’re starting the karaoke! Quick! Your boyfriend’s up first!”

Seungmin groans as he’s dragged out of the kitchen, trying and failing to hide his smile. “You can just say Minho, y’know. You’ve known him almost as long as me.”

“Pfff.” Hyunjin comes to a pit stop in the living room, and Seungmin sees Chan buried under bodies on the couch. “This way’s much more fun.”

Seungmin watches Hyunjin for a moment, catching the way the boy’s eyes then wander over to Changbin. The way they linger there, a smile curling over the full of his lips. 

Seungmin jabs Hyunjin in the ribs, side-eyeing him knowingly. “Is Changbin going to have to wait much longer?”

Hyunjin grins, another laugh bubbling out. “No, I don’t think so.” He nudges Seungmin. “Is Minho-hyung your forever?” 

Seungmin startles at the depth of the question, turning his eyes quickly over to Minho. Standing across the room, his hyung is already looking at him. Starbright eyes, the blow of a kiss once he catches Seungmin looking. The most beautiful thing. One last time starts up on the karaoke machine, and Minho picks up the mic. 

“Yeah,” Seungmin exhales, a fusion reaction to the gunpowder of his soul. “Yeah, I think so.”

—----------------------------------

The universe was listening, clearly. Because it’s that very same night, when Seungmin goes to the kitchen to grab himself a glass of wine, that he hears a familiar rhythm start up. 

“Minnie!!” Felix shrieks from the living room. “Quick! It’s your song!”

Seungmin laughs, glass in hand as he heads back to the room. It’s his and Minho’s song, but that’s for them and them only to know. Minho got Seungmin into Radiohead, not the other way around. The music starts up, and Felix smiles, suspiciously bigger than usual. 

Jisung sprints into the room, and Seungmin turns to face him. “AHHH!!! Congrats! You’re-”

Jeongin spawns behind Jisung, muffling the shouts with a clamped hand to Jisung’s mouth. Jisung flails enthusiastically, an unopened bottle of Seungmin’s favorite champagne in his hand. 

Where did he even get that?

“Okay…” He’s confused now, watching as Jisung’s eyes widen comically, fixated on something behind Seungmin. Felix, too, looks two seconds away from bursting. 

“Hyung,” Jeongin huffs, releasing Jisung abruptly. The boy almost falls to the floor. “Hyung, turn around.”

Seungmin’s more confused, if that’s even possible. The music grows louder. He turns around, and there Minho is. 

Except, he’s on the ground. On… one knee. 

Seungmin chokes, glass slipping from his hand. Chan materializes beside him, pulling the drink from Seungmin’s wary grip. Seungmin stumbles, and the older steadies him.

“Seungmin…” Minho smiles, like Seungmin isn’t already about to fucking cry. 

Don’t leave me high. Don’t leave me-

“Who the fuck told you to play this song?” Seungmin steps forward shakily, and sure enough, there’s a ring. Fine and delicate and silver banded, clasped between his hyung’s small fingers.

Minho smiles, wry, something innocent and keen burning in his irises. “Mm. Lucky guess?” 

Seungmin lets his eyes water. Lets Jisung start squealing behind him, feels Felix come up to hold his hand. 

“Minnie.” Minho smiles again. The best thing that you’ve ever, ever-

“You’ll marry me, won’t you jagi?” 

Seungmin sniffles, bringing a hand up to wipe at his eyes. What a stupid, stupid question. 

“Hyung,” Seungmin laughs, and he can see his own reflection in Minho’s eyes. If he looked deeper, he’d be able to see his future. “You know I will.”