Archive of Our Own

wumuti had never been bothered by the noise, the whispers, the shouts.

commotion had always followed them, from her grandparent’s house, their building filled with dancers, artists, musicians, to her noisy preschool classroom she shared with other 45 kids.

the city was loud, has always been, before and after him, will probably always be.

the distant chattering of the train against the rails, the bus passing by the street, a plane in the sky, kids yelling and playing outside in the middle of the road, calling out “car” every time one of the neighbors came back to their parking spot, the occasional pass of an ambulance, all discombobulated noise turned into a constant, indiscernible lull inside her head, blocked out, wiped clean.

if urumqi was loud, beijing was a thousand times louder, filled with so many people wumuti never thought he would find anyone familiar ever again.

but beijing was also quieter in the same places urumqi was the loudest.

from knowing every family, every neighbor, every kid her age in her block and three blocks more around her, wumuti suddenly went to not knowing anyone, thrown into a sea of people more immense than any ocean could ever feel, unknown face after unknown face, never the same twice, no matter how hard she stuck to her routine, how many times they walked the same path to the company building and back.

one day, one like any other, wumuti was swiftly and suddenly stripped from the comfort of her home to the foreignness of a city larger than life.

and then she did it again.

seoul was, in their head, somewhat of a middle ground.

urumqi was safe, familiar, tucked into a small corner of the world only she and a few others knew.

beijing was irrational, fast-paced at a level only a native could ever comprehend.

there’s a saying wumuti once heard in a foreign language he can’t remember about “small cities being big hellholes.”

her hometown feels like that sometimes.

she didn’t know seoul could feel like that sometimes, too.

—

haru’s body feels warm against hers, his body always running a bit too hot while theirs is famously known for always being cold.

it must have something to do with his size, more compact than hers, smaller in all the perfect ways. 

wumuti would never say this to haru, it would make him whine to no end, but she thinks maybe it’s because he just has too much love to give, more than his body can contain.

“eomma, you’re cold,” haru whines, as if reading her mind.

“i am,” wumuti nods, wrapping her arms tighter around him, their chin firmly hooked over his shoulder. “that’s why i’m hugging you.”

he can’t see haru’s face like this, her front flush against his back, but they don’t need to see to know there’s the smallest pout on his face. “you’re annoying.”

“i am,” she simply concedes again.

haru keeps pretending to be annoyed, but he still wraps his arms around hers, tucking them close against his body, trying his best to warm them up.

they must look ridiculous to anyone looking from the outside, waddling home through the dark and fog of the winter night. it’s slower like this that it would be if they walked normally, but maybe that’s okay for them both, maybe that’s exactly what they want.

none of them points out how wumuti is used to temperatures considerably lower than the mild cold of seoul.

none of them points out how haru didn’t “happen to be in the neighborhood” at the exact time wumuti clocked out.

it’s one of their silent routines, those they’ve built around each other after two long years of living together.

two years ago, the universe somehow managed to bring a boy all the way from china and a boy all the way from japan, here, together, right into each other’s arms.

from then on, wumuti and haru have become a singular unit, a package deal you could either accept as it comes or choose to ignore.

it’s only them outside right now, huddled together against the cold, humming senseless songs that don’t belong to any artist but them, safe, at home.

wumuti thinks back to the lull of urumqi, at the endless cacophony of beijing.

none of them compare to the sweet chiming of haru’s laugh as she tickles his sides.

—

the bustling noise of the crowd gets quickly drowned out as the heavy bar door closes behind him.

even outside, the air is still stuffy, but the lack of people and the scent of sweat still helps her breathe easier, for the first time since her shift started.

wumuti doesn’t hate the club. she doesn’t mind the people or the management all too much, and although the pay isn’t life-solving, it’s enough for what she needs, enough for a person serving cocktails until 4am and playing the guitar on a dingy little stage every once in a while.

it’s not how she imagined living the last of her 20s, but as she lights a cigarette and inhales the first breath, she finds she doesn’t feel bad about it, not in the way she would have five years ago.

maybe it’s the music, drowning out her thoughts, maybe it’s the noise of the cars coming from the main street two blocks over, she doesn’t know, but there’s no gnawing voice in her head anymore, telling her how much of a failure she is, how a whole life of effort is now being wasted on cheap alcohol and customer-service smiles.

truth to be told, the alcohol is not that cheap, and the smiles aren’t always so fake.

wumuti doesn’t live under the spotlight the way she dreamed about when she was a kid, but she has a good enough place, tucked in a good enough corner of a city she loves.

there are no fan pages for her anymore, no fan-sites waiting outside of events, no grueling schedules, no practice rooms. she would be surprised if anyone even remembered her name at this point, after so long, but even without fame or recognition, wumuti knows they’re not alone.

her biggest fear always was feeling alone.

fifteen minutes of break never feel like enough, but the owner is not around today and it’s past 3 in the morning, so the bar is not really busy enough to need two people, haruto reassures him, he can take a bit longer if he wants.

her feet thank her as he lets himself fall down on the back stairs, sitting down for the first time in the last seven hours or so.

they pat the pockets of their puffer jacket, looking for her bright pink lighter and also his phone, which she hasn’t gotten the chance to check in far too long. there are some texts from haru because, of course there are, a meme, something about dinner in the fridge and a text wishing her a safe walk back home.

he must be asleep by now, wumuti thinks as she takes a drag of her cigarette. he has early-ish classes on friday, and haru has never been good at waking up early in the morning.

work group chat also has some texts, but nothing she wasn’t already notified about during her shift.

there’s a text from hyun asking them for coffee sometime this weekend, which she marks as “unread” because she doesn’t have enough brain cells to think about her weekend schedule right now, and also because hyun is definitely asleep and not waiting for a response in the middle of the night.

at the bottom of her chat-box sits a message from an unknown number, starting with a country code she doesn’t recognize.

she opens it fully expecting some soft of spam text.

from: unknown number

> Hello Wumuti-ssi. This is MRS. KATO, my son KATO ONEDAY gave me this number. I would like to speak you if it’s okay, when you have time. It’s no bad news. Thank you and have a nice day.

it takes wumuti’s a moment, and then a second one to fully understand what he’s reading.

the text is worded weirdly, clearly translated from a foreign language, but once she recognizes that, it’s easy to understand what KATO ONEDAY means.

it’s a text from haru’s mom.

suddenly wumuti feels more awake than they’ve felt in hours, her head clearing as if she’d just been dunked into cold water.

she has known haru for four years, lived with him for two, and although he knows lots about his family, about his parents, his grandma and his sister, he has never gotten to meet them in person, or ever directly talked to them.

the most direct contact wumuti can think about is her saying, “say hi to your mom” when haru’s on the phone with her, blabbing away in japanese, syllables mushing together comfortably, adorably pitchy where haru’s dialect comes out. even with her basic knowledge, haru’s conversations with his family are too fast-paced for her to understand, so he doesn’t try, only pointing out a familiar word every once in a while.

wumuti’s hands tremble a little as she stares at the text.

even with the preface that there’s nothing wrong, he can’t help feeling like his heart has climbed up to his throat, his pulse loud and quick in their ears.

they look at the time again, 3:58 staring back at them.

there is no use in replying now, if anything, he’s just going to scare the poor woman to death, or make her think he’s an unemployed low-life punk that stays up all night on a weekday and feels no shame about it.

the clock turns to 4:00, it’s going to be time to close soon, and she needs to go back inside.

he gets up on shaky legs, letting the cigarette bud fall to the floor so he can step it out, and pushes her phone deep into her pocket.

that’s something for daytime wumuti to think about.

they know they won’t be able to sleep until that daytime comes.

—

wumuti makes it until 7 in the morning before texting haru’s mom back. three hours of waiting have become unbearable enough, and if she can cut her suffering short, she will.

he thought he might be able to sleep after that, but they’re not that lucky. anticipation sits too heavily on their chest, making its sticky way up her throat, choking her, almost.

wumuti’s still awake when haru wakes up at nine, much to his surprise.

“mom?” he asks as he steps into the kitchen, voice slow and controlled, but still colored by surprise.

haru isn’t very good at hiding how he feels, even less so when he’s still disoriented with sleep.

wumuti is so spaced out haru’s voice makes them jump in their seat. “jesus- fuck. fuck, haru. hey.”

“were you sleeping with your eyes open again?” haru asks with a raised eyebrow, lazily leaning on the kitchen doorframe.

“no,” wumuti quickly denies. he’s not actually very sure. “just thinking. do you want milk tea? i can make us some,” she says then, hurrying to their feet.

“it’s okay,” haru says, suddenly standing right behind her, hands gently but insistently on her shoulders, urging them to sit down. “i can make it today.”

he does. wumuti watches with fascination the way he moves around the kitchen, perfectly mimicking muti’s own morning routine. he confidently cracks a piece of brick tea, letting it simmer in the boiled water before adding steamed milk and a generous piece of butter.

there’s a pull in wumuti’s chest, a gentle pressure that grows into a knot in her throat when haru places the bowl of tea in front of him.

tears prickle in their eyes. she’s so sleep-deprived.

haru makes himself comfortable next to her, his chair way closer than needed, but wumuti’s grateful as she leans her head on his shoulder, her neck straining slightly because of their height difference and haru’s awful posture.

he takes a sip of the tea. it’s delicious, tastes exactly like the one she makes herself every morning, the realization only bringing more tears to her tired eyes. she loves haru so incredibly much.

“is everything okay?” haru asks, after a bit of comfortable silence which wumuti uses to subtly collect himself.

“yeah,” she nods. her head is still on haru’s shoulder, so more than a nod it’s like an aggressive rub against his chin. it makes haru giggle, and wumuti’s face break into a smile at the sound. “i’m just waiting for a message.”

she doesn’t see as much as she feels the way haru lights up. “oh! is this about the showcase you applied to?”

wumuti hums noncommittally in response. not a yes, but also definitely not a no. it feels less like lying like this, makes her feel less guilty.

the showcase is no big deal, in wumuti’s opinion. a small art gallery in the city center is about to open a new exhibition soon, and they have a slot for amateur artists to join. wumuti sent their application weeks ago, so the response should be coming soon, although probably not today. she’s certainly not worried about it, not enough to make her lose sleep, anyway. being accepted would be nice, a good opportunity to put her art out there and do some networking, even if she’s technically not as much an amateur artist as an unknown one.

the difference makes her chest hurt a bit, ache for things that could’ve been but never were.

haru, and all her friends for that matter, agree that he’s not “amateur” anymore. they’re very vocal about it, stressing how there’s a difference between being amateur and niche.

niche also isn’t a word wumuti would use.

mid, maybe. failed, definitely.

it’s why she doesn’t apply to anything above amateur level. the rejection would be too much, sting too bad.

it would be a reminder of everything wumuti doesn’t want to think about, everything she’s spent years working to overcome.

the showcase doesn’t worry them. there’s a chance she might get in because she’s somewhat good among other amateur-level works, but she also might be rejected under that same logic because she’s technically not a beginner anymore.

“i’m sure they will take you,” haru nods fervently. “they would be dumb not to.”

the word choice makes wumuti laugh. it happens less and less lately as haru gets exponentially better at korean than when they just met, but sometimes he still does this thing where he messes up just a bit the intonation, chooses just the second most natural word. it reminds wumuti of the old times, when haru still didn’t feel confident enough to have a full conversation without his phone in hand, ready to translate whatever he wasn’t too sure about. it reminds her of the way haru would lean into her space just the tiniest bit, whispering in the smallest voice “what does that mean?” when he couldn’t make sense of the syllables in front of him.

it might be silly, and it’s definitely oversentimental, but it reminds wumuti of how far they’ve come, how different they are, and how miraculous it is that they’ve still stuck together in spite of it all.

“you’re cute,” he finally says, drinking the last sip of their milk tea before placing an obnoxiously loud kiss over haru’s head.

“eomma,” haru instantly whines, because some things never really change.

“you’re gonna be late if you don’t hurry up,” she points out instead of acknowledging him, to which haru whines again. “go get dressed, i’ll do the dishes.”

it’s a good distraction, all in all. a good enough excuse to not look obsessively at her phone until haru comes back into the kitchen, duffel bag over his shoulder, ready to head to class. he doesn’t even complain about having to wake up early, which either means he’s really, really tired, or that he has noticed how tired wumuti looks and is trying his best not to burden her.

wumuti doesn’t know which option is worse, but they promise themselves that by the time haru comes back she will be put together again.

“bye, mom,” he says instead, arms thrown lazily around wumuti’s middle, his face hidden against her neck the way he loves doing, and wumuti loves indulging him in.

“bye, baby,” she nods.

none of them makes a move to break the hug.

instead they stand there, in the middle of the kitchen, bodies slightly rocking side by side, enjoying the silence and each other’s embrace.

as the seconds stretch, wumuti feels her eyes slip closed, her chin perched over the top of haru’s head. he could fall asleep like this, it wouldn’t be the first time she slept standing up. haru would scold them, though, so she doesn’t allow themselves to relax too much, just the perfect amount to feel warm and boneless without consciousness slipping away.

haru must notice, because he starts making that rumbly throaty sound he makes sometimes when he’s too comfortable, something between a hum and a purr, a little lap cat begging for cuddles and warmth.

wumuti, of course, replies with a purr of her own, her hold on haru’s waist tightening as they rock him a bit faster, overcome with cuteness aggression.

that seems to be haru’s tipping point, because soon after he’s squirming his way out of their hold, giggling as they put wumuti’s insistent hands away.

“okay, i need to go!” haru cackles as he finally escapes muti’s sticky grip.

wumuti sighs deeply in response, crossing her arms over her chest. “they grow so fast.”

haru smiles as he makes his way to the door, wumuti following him closely behind.

“will you be here for dinner?” he asks timidly once he has put on his shoes, hand already on the doorknob.

wumuti hates themselves as they shake their head no. “my shift starts at eight, but we can have lunch tomorrow and i’m free on sunday,” she offers instead, hoping it’s good enough for disappointing haru. nothing would ever be apology enough for disappointing haru.

“alright! let’s do lunch tomorrow then,” haru nods without missing a beat, smile just as bright as always.

the heavy feeling simmering at the center of wumuti’s chest comes back, a mix of fondness and sadness and frustration and love.

“have fun in class,” she says as haru skips his way out the door.

“bye eomma!”

“bye, haru-chan.”

the door closes behind him, and it’s just then that wumuti allows himself to fall back against the couch, forearm thrown over his eyes. she really hopes there’s nothing bad going on with haru’s family back in japan, because lying to him sucks and wumuti wants to stop doing it as soon as physically possible.

wumuti lets the silence of haru’s absence consume her. even with how tired he is, the jittery, anxious energy won’t let her get close enough to sleep to actually consider it. they also don’t want to make haru’s mom wait whenever she replies to his message. if she even does.

it takes two more hours for kato mom—a name wumuti gave her in her head just because kato-san feels too weird on his tongue—to finally text them back.

one would think her phone is a bomb about to go off, by the way the notification sound springs wumuti into action. he grips his phone with shaky hands, the feeling of dread making a home in their throat.

from: haru’s mom

> Sorry for make you wait. Is now OK?

wumuti holds his breath as he opens papago, korean to japanese translation ready to go.

they don’t doubt haru’s mom ability to use a translator app herself, but if wumuti can do anything to make the communication easier on her part, he will do it, no matter how unnatural and awkward his words might come across in a language he’s so unknowledgeable in.

to: haru’s mom

< Yes! Now is okay, it’s very nice to meet you.

from: haru’s mom

> Oh! You speak Japanese? I get Haru has taught you a bit, hasn’t he?

to: haru’s mom

< Just a little, I’m not too good yet, but hopefully soon.

from: haru’s mom

> Sounds great. I hope Harucchan isn’t too hard of a teacher, he can be a little stubborn sometimes, right?

> Well, Wumuti-san, the truth is I’ve been wanting to reach out to you for a while but again, our Haru can be a bit difficult when he wants to. First of all sorry for reaching out to you all of the sudden, it must be weird getting such a sudden text.

> I just wanted to say, from me and Haru’s dad too, that we are very grateful for everything you have done for Ha-chan. We used to worry a lot when he first left for Korea. I’m sure your mom has similar feelings about you. We felt he was too young to go so far away, but we wanted to support his dream too, so we allowed it, but it was still hard for us.

> He had a hard time getting used to it. He used to call me every day just to talk. He didn’t say he was struggling because he’s obstinate like that, my son, but I know him best, I knew he was calling because he felt sad.

> Ha-chan never used to talk about his classmates or colleagues too much either, he didn’t want us to get worried, but I think it was because it took him a while to make friends. Our Haru has a big heart but he can be a bit shy sometimes too, right? An introvert he is.

> But when Wumuti-san started taking care of him, Harucchan started calling less because he was more busy and enjoying his time. He talked a lot about this new friend he made and then he started mentioning more and more people until I lost track.

> What I’m wanting to say, Wumuti-san, is that you have helped Haru a lot, and I suppose my thankfulness is way overdue, isn’t it? It’s been what, more than a year since he went to live with you? And he sounds happy, he’s always happy when he calls and he looks well fed too.

> You have taken care of our son when we couldn’t because of distance, so for me and Haru’s dad, Wumuti-san is also our son, who took very good care of his baby brother.

> We will make Haru bring you to Japan one day. I can make you a meal and Haru’s dad can take you out for a drink.

> Let’s keep in touch, OK, Wumuti-san? Haru is our precious son, and since you are taking care of him, we want to take care of you too.

wumuti doesn’t cry over their coffee table.

wumuti definitely, absolutely doesn’t sob his way into a headache.

it’s past midday by the time she finally gets into bed, but it doesn’t matter that she will get less than six hours of sleep and will probably wake up with a swollen face. they go to bed with their heart full of love for haru, full of gratefulness to the universe for allowing them to find each other.

—

at some point, april gives into warmer weather, days get sunnier, and suddenly life doesn’t feel as bad as it did in the middle of january.

wumuti really doesn’t mind the cold, the rain, or the snow, but the lack of sunlight had really started to get to her by the time february starts rolling in.

march goes by painstakingly slow. it’s the same every year since she was in school, so at this point in his life, wumuti has started to dread that month out of pure habit.

haru doesn’t seem to be having any of those issues, something wumuti is both glad and jealous about. he strolls around life with the biggest smile on his face, finding joy in the smallest things, even as the sun sets at 3pm and wumuti feels trapped in constant darkness, sleeping away the few hours of daylight they get a day.

in april it all starts to get better.

it’s rainy because it’s korea after all, but at least it’s not that cold anymore, so wumuti can finally dust out his spring outfits, which is enough of a bargain for them.

wumuti tries to never work sundays because she likes having one normal free day a week where she can meet people and not feel so alienated by their irregular schedule. she likes spending lazy sundays in with haru, likes taking hyun out to fancy coffee shops where they can take aesthetic pictures he can later edit the shit out of. she also likes going on long evening walks with rui, which are spent half in silence, half in angry rants about whatever’s bothering them at the time. it’s therapeutic, really, even if unsuspecting passersby think they’re having very loud and heated arguments in chinese.

there are many things wumuti loves, but overall, she loves her friends—her family, really—and if she has to sacrifice what sometimes is her only free day running errands and playing therapist, then that’s exactly what they will do.

neither he nor haru are having a very good time this specific sunday, no matter how much hyun tries to convince them that they will.

they’re night owls, the both of them, that’s why living together works so well, because haru doesn’t care if wumuti uses the blow-drier at 2am after a half-shift, and they don’t mind the sound of haru typing away in their computer and yelling obscenities in japanese at 5am—wumuti would never tell haru’s mom that the most her child has taught them in their language is how to very graphically describe a murder.

everyone knows muti and haru are not morning people, so she genuinely can’t think of a reason why hyun and rui ever thought that this whole sunday market thing was a good idea, but they did, and now both her and haru have to make their sleepy way down the subway stairs and make two transfers before finally arriving to their meeting point.

“you made it!” hyun greets them, far too happy and far too loud for 8:30 in the morning.

haru doesn’t even dignify him with a response, instead, he just drags his feet in hyun’s direction and lets himself stumble against his body, caught at the last second by a mildly surprised hyun.

“here.”

an iced americano gets shoved into wumuti’s hand, and rui might as well have grown wings and have a halo hanging over their head because wumuti truly does think she’s an angel right now.

“thanks,” she grumbles with a tired smile before taking a long, loud sip.

it was an awful shift last night, and after just two hours of sleep, the caffeine feels not unlike energy being directly injected into her bloodstream.

“ah, okay,” she sighs after a second and then a third sip. “i’m a new and better person now, let’s go.”

hyun smiles at him where he’s still being held hostage by haru’s small but incredibly strong body. he mouths something that looks like “sorry”, but wumuti just shakes their head in response. she’s happy at least half of them have a somewhat healthy sleeping schedule.

haru takes a bit more prodding, but after a very convincing promise of pancakes, the youngest of the four finally lets go enough for hyun to be able to walk, and they all make their way to the market.

it’s a dingy little thing in the middle of nowhere, that’s what it is.

they are probably the youngest people within five kilometers around and certainly the only foreigners, but that’s what makes this market worth the early morning and long train ride. it’s small, not crowded, and dirt-cheap, exactly how they like it.

wumuti could do without the dusty, unpaved ground, but that’s another price she will have to pay for some cheap, certainly undervalued vintage pieces.

at least they all have the decency not to bargain, which vendors seem to appreciate enough to not try to scam them too blatantly.

they do at least two rounds around the market as per wumuti’s insistence, one to look around the goods without commitment and make sure there’s no other stand selling the same stuff for cheaper. it’s only on the second round when they’re all allowed to actually reach for their wallets, something rui does all too eagerly.

haru doesn’t because he has maknae privileges and never actually pays, he’s spoiled like that.

hyun is mostly just here for the ride and fresh air, too much of a minimalist to be interested in the infinite amount of useless trinkets the market has to offer.

wumuti is as eager as rui, but she also has a reputation to uphold.

it’s a surprise to absolutely no one that wumuti is the one spending the most money, but he still tries to look only mildly interested as she approaches the stands where she’s definitely getting stuff.

so far the stuff sums up to one red fur coat that’s going to be an absolute pain to wash, two pairs of sunglasses, a handful of rings, a second coat, this time an expensive looking brown velvet with the fuggliest beige faux fur known to mankind, and then she got everyone red bracelets and forced rui to get one for her because “the protection doesn’t work if i buy it for myself, you know this!”

haru is on his second bungeoppang, even if the weather is too warm for them to still be selling them. rui has yet again overspent on jewelry, and hyun has surprisingly gotten himself a little succulent that he’s been carrying close to his chest like it’s his firstborn.

a very successful trip so far, all in all.

they’re nearing the end of their third round when it happens.

it’s just wumuti and hyun at the stall, haru and rui standing a couple of meters away cooing loudly at a dog on the other side of the street. it’s an innocent enough interaction, wumuti is asking about a wallet that looks like a vintage chanel but after closer inspection, ends up being a way overpriced dupe. no big deal, they suspected that would be the case, and it’s still cheaper than some of the dupes in the city center near touristic spots, but he didn’t come all the way to the market just to be ripped off.

he gives the wallet back with an apologetic smile and polite nod, making sure to use both his hands to hand it back like any polite korean would.

not korean enough for the vendor, it seems, because he promptly snatches the wallet from wumuti’s hands, muttering under his breath but hard enough for them to hear. something about “fucking foreigners” and “cheap chinese people.”

she feels more than sees the way hyun tenses by her side. it’s a split-second decision, a minuscule fraction of time she has to do her best at damage control before their pretty sunday out is irreparably ruined.

wumuti grabs onto hyun’s wrist before he can say anything. his mouth is already slightly open, ready to argue back. “don’t,” she mutters, putting as much finality into her voice as she can.

“hyung—“

“don’t,” they repeat, giving the vendor one last tight-lipped smile. “not worth it. it’s sunday, sundays are for peace and fun.”

and before hyun can argue any further, he’s already pulling him away, quickly approaching haru and rui, who are as unaware and unsuspecting as ever.

it doesn’t matter how loud her thoughts are, she still manages to catch one last low blow about “freaks” and “sinners”.

“i think i’m done spending,” wumuti announces loudly when she reaches the other pair. “what about brunch?”

they both turn around at a neck-snapping speed. “oh my god, please!” rui nods.

“pancakes!” haru cheers.

“you had two bungeoppang already, i don’t think you need any more sugar today,” wumuti frowns, casually leading them away from the stand, towards the end of the market.

haru makes one of the most betrayed faces wumuti has ever seen him make. “but hyun hyung promised,” he whines, looking at them with his best killer combo: round puppy eyes and a child-like, displeased pout.

wumuti turns to hyun just in time to see his frown and clenched jaw melt into the most endeared smile, those he only reserves for haru and sometimes cute monkey-themed stuffed animals.

next thing wumuti knows, there are three sets of puppy eyes turned at her.

it’s a wordless agreement, who to push to the very frontline.

“noona,” haru pleads.

wumuti has to bite her lip hard not to roll her eyes. “you guys know you are all adults and can do whatever you want, right?” as if on cue, they all look at her even more pathetically. muti sighs. “yeah, whatever, let’s go get pancakes then.”

their exit from the market is accompanied by obnoxiously loud cheers and even more weird looks from both vendors and passersby. wumuti had almost forgotten hyun’s hand still on his until she’s surprised by a gentle squeeze.

her eyes are hidden behind her sunglasses, so no one, not even hyun, gets to see the still frazzled look in her eyes. they watch the way rui and haru skip down the street, blissfully unaware of anything bad in the world.

wumuti squeezes hyun’s hand back.

sundays are joyful days, she chants to herself.

—

wumuti largely doesn’t mind noise, but today the bustle of hongdae is making her feel like her head is being split open.

it’s his own fault, he knows. last night was supposed to be a casual hangout with some of their ex-trainee friends, some catching up on everyone’s life, some gossiping, of course, maybe some beer, some fried chicken, wumuti was even willing to give into going to a noraebang if the rest of the group decided to.

they were not supposed to mix in soju, and they were definitely not supposed to end up at the liquor store getting their cheapest whiskey available.

wumuti’s a bartender, but that has never stopped them from getting piss drunk on the worst drinks the korean market has to offer.

it was just one of those kinds of nights, everyone coincidentally being in the mood to forget their problems with the help of some liquid aid.

she knew when she stumbled her way into the apartment at 6am that going out shopping would be absolute hell.

that knowledge wasn’t enough for her to cancel on haru (rui maybe, she could cancel on rui, they have lots of friends they could replace wumuti with for a day, but she will not be an absent parent ditching haru because of a hangover.)

hongdae is packed, like always, and frankly the only things keeping wumuti together are their double espresso americano and haru’s hand holding tightly onto hers.

she’s good at pretending nothing’s wrong and haru is good at pretending he doesn’t notice that something’s wrong, so it works out for both of them when wumuti drags themselves out of bed, swallows two ibuprofen and tries her best to gather his brain-cells together for long enough to do their makeup.

the fresh air is helping, and so is the caffeine and the two slices of toast they had before leaving home. it’s not wumuti’s first rodeo, she has gone through idol training schedules while hangover, she can deal with a little window-shopping.

or not, she’s getting old, after all.

“hyung, let’s go there, i want to look at those pants,” haru suddenly says, swerving them both towards a clothing store.

wumuti wouldn’t really call those pants—jorts are not pants in her books—but she’s also wearing her top backwards right now, because it looked better, so it would be a little hypocritical for her to point it out.

the store is cold, air conditioning cranked down the lowest it would go, and for a second, wumuti feels functional again.

haru quickly leaves their side to inspect some racks, but wumuti doesn’t bother following them. instead she stays close to the door, standing directly under the a/c while sipping at their watered down drink. he also sends rui a text to confirm what time they’re meeting because rui is always running late, and wumuti knows that all too well.

“hyung,” haru suddenly calls, materializing next to wumuti and scaring the shit out of them. “i wanna try some stuff on.”

“okay,” she nods, suddenly on a mission. “let’s go.”

the chair outside the fitting room is made out of fake leather, which is great because it’s cold and also terrible because wumuti knows that there’s gonna be an imprint of their ass as soon as they stand up. hongdae really is testing him today.

with wumuti’s kind but honest advice, haru ends up deciding to get a pair of jeans with cute pieces of lace stitched to ridiculously big rips, and a pair of cyberpunk-esque jorts wumuti is surprised this brand even sells. they’re once again left to hold their bags as haru goes to pay, this time with his own money, which he will definitely make sure to point out when rui teases them later about failed “window-shopping”.

she can’t help but notice the way a group of girls look at haru as he checks out.

they’re younger, probably around haru’s age, probably uni students, all of them dolled up with delicate, feminine makeup and flowy, soft-looking skirts. they’re cute, wumuti thinks, cute girls going on a cute hangout.

from where he’s sitting, wumuti gets a perfect view of the way the huddle together, whispering and giggling, all their perfectly rounded eyes looking at haru’s unassuming figure, very openly staring as he pays and makes his way back to wumuti’s side.

suddenly, the stares don’t seem so awestruck anymore.

“all done! let’s go meet rui hyung now?” haru chirps as he takes his bag from wumuti’s hands, as cheerful as always.

wumuti tries not to read too much into that, but there’s a pointed look and a raised eyebrow on one of the girl’s faces. they all burst into loud giggles a second later, and wumuti has to force themselves to keep looking forward as haru grabs their hand and leads them out of the store.

she’s too old to feel intimidated by some teenagers, she tries to rationalize.

rationalizing doesn’t help ease the way her chest stings.

—

“where’s the keychain?” rui asks as soon as she’s done squeezing the breath out of wumuti’s poor, tired body.

“hey, don’t call him—”

“i’m here!” haru interrupts as he rounds the corner, the most insane looking frappuccino in his hands.

rui’s smile gets impossibly bigger as they forget all about wumuti’s existence, greeting haru with a tight hug of his own as if they hadn’t seen each other five days ago.

“you look so cute! did noona dress you today?” rui asks, finally taking a seat after he’s had their fix of physical affection.

haru sits in front of him, squeezing himself next to wumuti, always gravitating into their space. “no, he’s hungover today,” he says, the traitor.

rui gasps loudly, throwing wumuti an exaggeratedly disapproving look. “you don’t say,” she mumbles, eyes narrowed in an expression wumuti knows means danger for them, specifically.

“yep,” haru nods, making sure to pop the last sound just for the dramatics. “and for the record, i don’t mind being noona’s keychain, it’s cute, we’re cute, right?”

next thing wumuti knows, haru’s head is knocking against hers, one of his hands framing wumuti’s face while the other frames his own, as if trying to paint the best picture of “cute”.

wumuti gets a perfect view of rui’s knuckles turning white from how hard he’s squeezing his fists, and they also see the exact moment when his resolution breaks.

“you guys are both the cutest and most annoying people i have ever met,” she nods.

wumuti takes it as both the insult and the compliment that it is.

—

even with three dehumidifiers working overtime, her bedroom still feels moist and wumuti hates it, desperately wants to go back to winter when she could spend her lazy evenings bundled up on her coziest blankets and drinking warm tea.

there’s no winning with the weather in seoul, and even after seven long years, wumuti is still unable to make peace with that fact.

the air is heavy, it feels like breathing straight up water, and it’s warm and wumuti feels sweaty and sticky in places that should never feel sweaty or sticky.

what definitely doesn’t help is the fact that haru is currently lying flat on top of him, not a single care in the world as he scrolls on his tiktok feed.

“haru-yah, it’s warm,” she had tried to tell him about half an hour ago when he had first decided that the most convenient place to settle in their entire apartment was directly on top of wumuti’s already overheated skin.

“but eomma,” he had said, making himself even heavier against them. “your room is nicer than mine.”

and what was wumuti supposed to do, say no?

they didn’t even need to admit defeat out loud. haru knew he was gonna win, like he always does, if wumuti has any say in the matter.

thirty minutes later he still finds themselves here, weighted down by haru’s smaller frame, forced to pet his hair because the moment she tried to stop haru had grabbed their hand and placed it back on top of his head, wordlessly demanding.

the sound of a tiktok looping for the fifth time pulls wumuti back into reality. when he looks down at haru’s face, his eyes are closed, lips slightly parted because of the way his cheek is pressed against wumuti’s chest. his phone lays forgotten against the bedding, barely a couple centimeters away from his hand.

he looks so peaceful, like this, so content even in his sleep, steady heartbeat against wumuti’s stomach, breathing mellowed down to a comforting movement against her side.

it’s still too warm, and wumuti still feels sweatier and stickier than they would like, but there’s a pressure on his chest, one that’s entirely unrelated to haru’s ear against his sternum.

wumuti knows what love feels like, he has loved and been loved plenty of times before.

they have loved their hometown, their grandparent’s steady companion, his mom’s gentle voice singing him to sleep. wumuti loved big cities, with all their interesting activities and never-ending noise. he has loved art, has loved singing, has loved dance, and the arts have loved them back, filling him with a sense of reward he could have only ever dreamed about.

she has loved people, friends that felt like family, lovers whose kisses felt like sparkles deep in her gut.

none of those compare to the feeling she gets when she looks at haru’s sleeping face.

it’s not better, necessarily, not more intense, but it’s so remarkably different, so unlike anything he had ever felt before.

there’s a sense of pride in there, somewhere, pride that whatever decisions she has made in life have lead her to becoming someone’s safe space, pride at how much haru has achieved, before and while being by her side, proud that she helped, somehow, that she was there to see him grow.

there’s also a little sadness, apprehension at what the future might look like, a vague sense of concern about the moment in which haru decides they don’t need wumuti to lead them around, don’t want to be under her constant supervision, living under their shared roof, cuddling against her like a kid in their mom’s lap.

more than anything, in moments like this, wumuti feels their chest filled with a scarily uncontainable amount of love.

this is mine, a little voice in the back of their head says, mine to carry, mine to care for until they decide they don’t need me anymore.

it’s crazy, maybe even a little disturbing, if looked at under the wrong light—wumuti certainly does feel a little insane right now, there’s a little maniac giggle building up on their throat, past the knot of tears, which only makes everything worse—but there’s a little, completely irrational part of him that thinks this is what true, unconditional love is.

this what being a parent must be like.

it’s certainly the closer wumuti will ever get, and they’re going to enjoy every single second of it, until the very last one.

he doesn’t stop petting haru’s unruly hair, but she does close her eyes and tries to match his breathing.

it’s still sweaty and gross, and she wants a shower and should get started with dinner soon, unless they want to eat takeout again. none of those sound like convincing enough excuses as she lets haru’s heartbeat lull her to sleep.

—

surprisingly enough for wumuti, the gallery ends up selecting three of her paintings.

her friends congratulate them by taking him out to dinner, a small thing since wumuti urges them not to make a fuss about it.

getting into exhibitions used to be a big deal for her years ago. now it’s more like a routine thing. every couple of months she will apply to a gallery just to keep her name out there, not to let it get washed away by the waves of new, more talented, more motivated artists. not to let it go to waste like her idol career did.

wumuti, together with the other artist selected for the amateur section, finally got to see the gallery today after shipping their works a few weeks ago. it’s exactly what she had expected, a small room at the back of the gallery, bare and inconspicuous.

the other artist, a kid named hyeongjun with long hair and stars in his eyes, had shyly asked if wumuti would mind him decorating his side of the room, to which wumuti had quickly assured him they didn’t.

it’s been a long time since he has truly decorated one of his exhibitions, lately they just let their paintings do the work, not having the time, or money, or drive to put on a more immersive show like hyeongjun seemed to be planning.

it’s a good thing, truly, him taking the lead. it takes the burden off wumuti’s hands, and he’s sure it will make the room look less sad than it did today at the first viewing. now the only things wumuti has to worry about are arranging the paintings and then opening night.

easy enough.

she’s going home earlier than usual today, having canceled her shift at the club to attend the viewing.

the sun is barely just setting, making everything warm and golden. wumuti can’t help but stop to make a quick photo to send haru.

haru sends back a selfie taken approximately two centimeters away from his face, accompanied by crying emojis and a “still at the studio” text.

wumuti smiles fondly as she saves the picture.

some of their neighbors are sitting outside their building, a group of elderly women who like warming themselves under the sun while gossiping and knitting their afternoons away. it looks like a nice life, wumuti would love to spend her years like that when she’s too old to keep working.

he greets them with a small smile and a polite nod before rounding the corner and heading for the stairs. they’re about to reach the second floor when they remember haru’s earlier text about getting more milk and instant ramen.

she takes a deep breath and heads down the steps again.

“…not from here, right?” a voice is saying when he reaches the bottom of the stairs.

“of course not, didn’t you see what he looks like?”

“is it a he?”

“supposedly.”

“ah, a jwein.“

for a second, it’s like the world stops spinning, like wumuti’s feet are stuck to the ground beneath them, everything frozen, from his thoughts down to the beating of their heart.

there is no real reason as to why he stands there, why he decides to listen in. white noise fills their ears, broken only by the neighbors’ words, as if his mind has been narrowed down to recognizing their sound only. the birds chirping, the cars passing, the tree leaves rustling against each other, it all gets lost under the hot, burning humiliation coloring their face.

it’s like seoul disappears, and wumuti is 10 years old again, in urumqi, eavesdropping on his dance teacher talking to his grandmother, on their classmates whispers as he passes by, on his friends’ parents warning them about him, her, them.

memories that feel from a different life suddenly flood his head as the chattering of the ajummas gets even louder, more animated. the sound of his own scattered thoughts gets drown out by their conversation, their mocking remarks.

“and there’s a child living with him,” one of them says, like it’s a dirty little secret.

“poor kid.”

“what about their parents? who lets their child live with someone like that?”

“the kid is also a foreigner.”

“ah, i see,” one of them sighs, like the information truly does trouble her.

“must be one of them too, then,” wumuti’s upstairs neighbor says

“what a shame, he looked like a good kid.”

“maybe there’s still enough time for him to change, they have those programs, you know, at church.”

wumuti’s choking, choking on air, on tears, on the words stuck in his throat that he would never dare to say out loud. in a split second, he’s striding around the corner, down the street, into the main road.

the sudden gasps and shushing noises from the neighbors get lost under the blasting music coming from his headphones.

the more wumuti walks, the more the city gets blurred out, buildings and cars and people all look the same as he pushes his way through the crowd, away from his apartment, from his home, from the noise.

he should’ve known, after all, that the quiet suburbs of seoul could get just as loud as urumqi once was.

—

wumuti doesn’t go back home that night, or the next.

instead she sends haru a quick text telling him not to wait up and goes drinking, first alone, then with a random guy who keeps buying him drinks.

hours blend into days, shifts at the club melt into mornings spent lying in bed, locked in their room, unable to sleep.

she picks up more shifts, cancels on his friends under the excuse of the bar being understaffed, even when haruto offers to swap days with him so he doesn’t work himself to death.

he doesn’t bump into their neighbors again, but that’s mostly because of the hours she’s working. she doesn’t really see much of anyone at all.

wumuti’s not avoiding haru, but he picks up smoking during their walk home even if he knows haru hates the smell of smoke.

it’s not fair, she knows, but the realization is not enough to make her stop.

it’s not haru’s fault that people are nosy, that they’re mean, that they’re loud and rotten and wrong.

it’s not haru the one that turns heads whenever he goes, it’s wumuti.

beijing must’ve spoiled them. beijing and the trainee scene and his open-minded friend group and the gay bars and the fucking bubble wumuti has built around themselves, away from the world, protected inside the four thin walls of their apartment, the same bubble she’s been trying their best to keep haru in.

she has gotten too comfortable, too self-absorbed, only thinking of himself and what felt good to her.

none of this is haru’s fault, it’s all wumuti’s.

the words keep repeating themselves in his head, in the dead of night, while he’s tossing and turning, attempting and failing to fall asleep. it’s like a never-ending loop as he gets dressed for a shift, as customers look at them up and down, as a regular throws them a confused smile.

he starts pulling his hair into a low bun more often than not, the length too awkward, too ambiguous for his everyday look.

wumuti has never before minded the noise, but now the constant buzzing is driving her insane.

if his friends notice anything going on, none of them mentions it, mostly because wumuti doesn’t let themselves to be seen, texting them flimsy excuses as to why he cannot hang out. they will realize, sooner rather than later, but until then, wumuti has time to hide and try to think.

when time isn’t slipping through their fingers, minutes go by maddeningly slow.

it’s not fair, whatever she’s doing, that much she knows.

he thinks back to the texts haru’s mom sent.

the need to throw up overwhelms her enough to dry heave.

—

around a week and a half later, wumuti slowly starts to snap out of it.

haru’s last texts sit unanswered on her phone, something about dinner today, about whether he should wait up for her.

wumuti doesn’t reply, instead, she grabs her stuff and makes their way to haru’s dance studio.

it’s been a while since the last time she stepped in here. because of their schedules, it’s usually haru who picks them up from work and not the other way around, but after spending another sleepless morning in bed, wumuti decides it’s time to face whatever she’s fearing will happen.

nothing, that’s most likely what’s going to happen.

nothing, because he hasn’t been honest with haru, hasn’t uttered a word to them about what’s going on inside their head.

haru doesn’t need to know, a part of him rationalizes, there is no point in him knowing. hurtful words are the last thing haru needs to hear. if she told him, what good would it make? there’s nothing haru can do to change other people’s perception of them, of wumuti specifically.

there’s nothing for haru to do and everything for wumuti to fix.

he doesn’t need to be burdened with wumuti’s endless overthinking, with his juvenile insecurity, with the mess he has created himself.

best course of action is to just let it pass.

wumuti can do better, will do better, so that haru never needs to know, never needs to hear a degrading word thrown at them.

she will tone it down, everything, the clothes, the public affection, the mannerisms, the makeup, he will do it, will fix their image, make them blend in so seamlessly no one ever regards them with a second glance ever again.

their wardrobe can be replaced, rui would surely appreciate getting some of wumuti’s old cosmetics, it doesn’t matter, none of it will ever matter more than haru’s well-being does.

the studio is buzzing with noise by the time wumuti gets there, just in time for haru’s last class to be dismissed.

he waits outside patiently, leaning against the wall as groups of high-school aged kids slowly leave the room, thanking haru and their other teacher for the lesson.

it fills wumuti with pride, hearing them call out for haru-seonsaengnim.

not long after the last students are walking out, closing the studio door and regarding wumuti with a small bow. he still waits a couple more seconds, just to make sure, before peeking into the small window in the door.

it’s easy to spot haru, leaning against the barre, his recently dyed caramel hair hidden under a backwards cap. he’s wearing sweatpants and a sleeveless t-shirt, arms crossed against his chest as he talks to the other teacher, a japanese guy named shota, one he’s mentioned to wumuti before.

wumuti’s not trying to snoop on them, she doesn’t intend to be creepy like that, but as his hand finds the door handle, he finds themselves unable to push it open.

haru’s laughing with the guy, giggling at something the other must’ve said. he’s pushing shota’s shoulder playfully, a certain look in his eyes wumuti hasn’t seen before, and then instead of pulling his hand away, haru lets it linger, casually sliding down shota’s arm.

in that moment wumuti’s glad he didn’t have lunch, because otherwise he might’ve puked right there and then.

he pulls his hand away from the handle as if it burned, stumbling a couple steps back in their hassle to get away, far, far away.

this isn’t a moment for him to witness, he repeats to himself as he hurries out of the building, skipping down the front steps before they can be seen.

it’s an odd feeling, bitter-tasting and viscous as he swallows back tears. rejection will never get easier to digest, it doesn’t matter how many times wumuti is presented with it.

he feels stupid as tears start running down his face. stupid and childish and inadequate in a way they had promised to themselves long ago they would never feel again, but he can’t help the sting, the way his chest hurts with trapped sobs he refuses to voice, taking in deep breaths through his nose to try to slow his pulse down.

it’s just now, in the middle of july, in the middle of seoul’s rush-hour uproar, that wumuti realizes how much haru has grown.

after four blissful years, he finally realizes how much damage he might’ve done.

it’s too late to do anything but let guilt swallow him whole.

—

wumuti’s breaking a little, she’s not oblivious enough not to realize.

falling into old habits should be frustrating, but he has no mental space to dwell much on that.

life starts narrowing down to the basics, going to work, coming back home, sleeping, doing it all over again. they’re smoking more, drinking more, but wumuti’s an adult, he can do whatever the hell he wants with his money and time.

he’s not avoiding being home, but the hours they spend at the apartment start going down at an alarming pace. he goes out with old friends, crashes on their couches, walks beside the river late at night.

lately they don’t bother dressing up too much, people stop hesitating on honorifics when talking to him.

it’s dizzying how quickly things turn around, making wumuti feel utterly disoriented and like he’s slowly falling behind.

haruto asks them is they’re okay one night, and although wumuti nods and smiles tightly, in their head they don’t know if they have an answer to that.

haru’s been trying his best to keep up with wumuti even if he’s completely ignorant to everything going on in her head. he’s been texting frequently, small reminders to drink water and try to sleep, little notes stuck to wumuti’s bedroom door with cute cheerful messages wishing him a good shift and not to spend too much time at the studio because, right, that’s what haru thinks he’s doing, holing up in the art studio in an unpredicted flash of inspiration.

that’s what wumuti told him he’s doing, because he’s an idiot and a liar now, too.

none of them mentions the three times wumuti has found haru sleeping on the couch, the netflix menu bright on the tv, waiting for him.

none of them mentions the last three sundays cancelled in a row, or the eerie quiet in the apartment, or the untouched food left to rot in the fridge.

haru still texts him, “have a good day, noona! don’t work too hard <3” and wumuti still has to swallow bile at the words.

on the rare occasion they cross paths, haru still looks at him like a confused, rejected puppy, and wumuti still makes himself drink enough to not have to cry himself to sleep.

hyun and rui get understandably fed up quickly enough.

wumuti gets it, he really does, that’s why when rui calls on a thursday at 1pm demanding for them to meet up, she doesn’t put as much resistance as she would’ve liked. he knows he looks like shit by the way hyun and rui exchange glances over his head, as if he wasn’t standing right there in front of them.

they have a point, though, wumuti’s aware of the bags under his eyes, the way his roots are unkept and overgrown, black blending into a washed-out pink that was supposed to be red at some point. they’re wearing baggy jeans and an even baggier t-shirt that just a month ago was exclusively worn as pajamas. it’s only logical for them to be a bit worried.

still, none of them points it out, something wumuti is grateful for.

his gratefulness doesn’t last too long, because as soon as they’re done scarfing down their chinese takeout, rui’s on his case.

“so, what’s going on with you?”

hyun side-eyes her, but does nothing to intervene.

“nothing,” wumuti says with a shrug he hopes comes across as nonchalant. “i’ve been busy, that’s all.”

“right,” rui hums, taking a sip of their drink. “and what is actually going on?”

wumuti opens his mouth to argue back, but hyun interrupts before he can. “we are just worried about you, hyung.”

they do look worried, wumuti recognizes when he finally makes eye contact with them both. they look worried, and tired, and stressed, and wumuti’s not stupid enough not to realize it’s his fault, at least part of it.

he hates the pressure spreading through their eyes, their nose, a feeling that can only mean tears are about to fill his eyes. he hates the way his body tries to make itself smaller, knees drawn tightly to his chest, drowning in the fabric of his stupid t-shirt because he hasn’t been eating well, hasn’t been sleeping well and it shows, in every one of his slow blinks and lethargic steps.

the words come rushing out of her mouth before he can stop them, a discombobulated mix of broken syllables and shaky breaths that feel foreign and meaningless to her own ears, bouncing against the walls of rui’s studio, suffocating them in the raw desperation tinting his voice.

it feels like there’s someone else using his mouth, taking over his body and his mind as wumuti flies far away, drifting past memories of a different life, where he was the one inside of a practice room, sweating and crying and falling apart. he’s unable to face them, his closest friends, the ones he has helped pick up and stitch back together countless times.

he feels like a failure, a shallow vessel emptied of everything he has to give, everything he worked so hard to build crumbling under his fingers as he confesses, in a hushed, shameful tone, all the fears that have consumed him, ripped him open to shreds, until there’s nothing recognizable of what he once aspired to be.

the silence that fills the room is defeating, more than anything any of his friends could ever say.

“muti, do you think you were the one that made haru queer?”

“rui!” hyun scolds sharply, elbowing his side.

the words are again coming out of his mouth before wumuti can stop them. “[what the fuck are you trying to say?]”

hyun doesn’t need to understand the language, wumuti’s tone is more than enough for him to tense up.

it’s still not enough for rui to back down. “well, do you?”

“of course not! what the hell is wrong with you?!”

“then why are you trying to convince yourself you did?!” rui yells back, effectively shutting wumuti up. “you keep going on and on about how this is all your fault, about how you are—putting them in danger or something, like you’re perverting them, haru is an adult!” she says, hands thrown in the air, helplessness and desperation evident in her trembling voice. “he was already gay when he met you, and he will be even if you suddenly don’t want him to, that’s exactly why he found comfort in you!” her voice is getting louder, her hands are shaking, wumuti notices, but just like himself a minute ago, she seems unable to stop.

the mere idea of her wanting haru to be anything but himself feels like a stake aimed directly at her heart, ripping the flesh of their chest, letting him out to bleed himself out.

tears spring to his eyes, out of frustration, out of misplaced anger directed this time at rui instead of himself.

rui doesn’t get it, she never would. rui could never understand the burden of being needed, of always having to be the dependable, stable one. rui doesn’t know what it felt like to wipe away haru’s tears, doesn’t know the pain of hugging him through sobs late at night, has never experienced the crushing loneliness that the absence of his laughter leaves behind.

there’s a knee-jerk reaction to deny her words, to defend haru, but from what? rui’s not wrong, haru is gay, has always been and will always be, and as the automatic need to deny it crawls up her throat, wumuti can’t help the whimper that escapes his lips.

“i know you want to protect him and want to take care of him, but he’s not a child, gege,” rui continues. he has now shifted to his knees, almost looming over him, her frame dwarfing wumuti’s utterly pathetic figure. “he’s your kid, but he’s not a kid. do you think he doesn’t know discrimination exists? do you think he doesn’t know the way people see us, all of us?”

“rui’s right, noona,” hyun finally speaks, his hand blindly reaching out for rui’s shoulder, gently urging her to sit back down.

wumuti doesn’t get the same courtesy, the same tenderness, instead, he’s left to sink in an ocean of self-loathe, adrift, alone.

“you’re hurting haru, and you’re hurting yourself too,” she knows, wumuti knows, but hearing the words out loud, spoken by her oldest, best friend, feels like the final blow, the final nail in the coffin. “i know—we know we can’t understand the kind of bond you guys have, but you’re not giving haru enough credit. he’s not—he’s not oblivious. we all found each other because of the same reasons, because we felt lonely and like we didn’t fit in. you made a place for us to fit in, you gave haru a home, gave him a place to explore himself without judgment, do you think he doesn’t know that? how much you’ve done for him?” wumuti can’t bring himself to raise his head, hanging low between his shoulders. “how do you think he feels right now? when the most important person to him is suddenly pulling away out of nowhere, acting like the past four years didn’t matter?”

“what even is your plan?” rui cuts in again. “you’re going to start, what, dressing and acting like a man, hoping it will all be okay? and what will happen when haru gets himself a boyfriend? how are you going to fix the world for him then?”

the room starts spinning. wumuti’s breathing picks up, his throat itching, lungs desperate for air. he grips his pants between his fists, trying to ground himself, find his footing for long enough to reply.

it’s rui, cruelly enough, the one who’s most similar to him, the one that makes sure to kick him while he’s down. “if you’re a freak for being queer, then we all are. haru is too, do you think he doesn’t know that?”

wumuti runs, and neither hyun’s nor rui’s calls are enough to make him turn back.

—

opening night at the gallery goes exactly how wumuti thought it would.

it’s a lot of the old same, patrons parading around with glasses of champagne, looking at paintings from over the rim of their glasses, tilting their noses like it would make them look more interesting when in reality it just makes them look like they’re smelling shit.

wumuti stands there with a perfectly curated smile, dressed in a perfectly ironed suit with his still unretouched hair perfectly pulled away from their face. there’s a bit of makeup on their face, but it’s barely enough to conceal the dark circles under their eyes.

hyeongjun shows up with his hair dyed black and slicked back with gel, a single strand falling onto his forehead. he looks cute, wumuti can admit, adorable in his inexperience, in the way his hands shake just a little as he greets wumuti and goes around fixing insignificant details on his setup.

wumuti entertains himself looking at him, offering advice when asked and mostly just trying to calm his nerves down, sneaking him little pastries from the cocktail table they’re not supposed to be eating from and sending him encouraging thumbs up from across the room.

it takes a little while for most people to make it to their room, but hyeongjun’s friends are there in an instant, gushing over his paintings and giving him soothing pats on the back. one of his friends even sheds a couple of tears, which wumuti politely pretends not to notice.

for wumuti the experience is awfully underwhelming, a copy-paste from the past five-or-so exhibitions he’s been invited to. his job boils down to making an appearance and answering questions whenever someone’s interested enough to ask. most of them are not.

still, not everything’s bad. he meets a few people she’d like to keep in contact with, people established enough to have business cards, which he carefully puts in his blazer pocket, promising himself not to forget about.

a woman in a sparkly red dress asks about his second painting, a nude male figure on his knees, covering his face with his hands, big white wings coming up from his back but not hiding him, instead standing straight up.

that’s exactly what she brings up, asking in a gentle voice if there’s a specific motive as to why the wings are positioned that way.

wumuti hums thoughtfully, “in many paintings, wings are used as a shield, as a protective layer that keeps the body safe. in this picture i wanted the wings to be less of a safety blanket and more of a defensive point. the hands,” he explains, pointing at the painting, “are already doing the job of protecting the face, the psyche of the human, the wings don’t cower away from the motive because they’re not something to hide or conceal, they’re something to be cherished, used as an advantage point.”

the woman nods, taking a couple long seconds to look at the picture. “i’ve seen your paintings in a different exhibition before,” she says, after a while. “i enjoy your medium quite a lot, wumuti-ssi. i own a gallery in gangnam, you should come around sometime, maybe we can work something out if you’re interested in exhibiting long term.”

they exchange contacts, and soon enough she’s walking away.

“wumuti-sunbaenim is so cool.”

the voice startles wumuti badly enough to make him jump in place. hyeongjun materializes out of nowhere, suddenly standing shoulder to shoulder with them.

wumuti feels far from cool, but he doesn’t want to step over hyeongjun’s expectations just because she’s having a bad week. “thank you, hyeongjun-ah. you can call me hyung if you want, we’re both amateurs, right? not much seniority going on here.”

hyeongjun’s eyes shine as he nods a handful of times, cheeks tinted red as he promptly makes an excuse and escapes back to his friends.

he’s cute, wumuti thinks, not for the first time. the kind of cute that makes them want to pull him under their wing.

not that it would be a good call for hyeongjun, really. it certainly hasn’t been for haru.

who, speaking of, is one of the people coming in the next group, together with rui and hyun.

after their little celebratory dinner, they don’t really talk about the exhibition again. it’s wumuti’s fault, since he’s the one not talking much to anyone, and the last time he saw rui and hyun almost a week ago they ended up arguing. or something like that.

wumuti’s still not sure where they stand as of right now, but he’s only mildly surprised when he sees them enter the room. they’ve never missed one of her events, after all.

rui greets them with a hug, which feels awkward for a total of half a second before wumuti is melting into her embrace, his forehead resting on her shoulder as they press a kiss to his cheek. “i’m proud of you, jiejie,” she mumbles, and wumuti doesn’t trust his voice enough to reply, but he does nod in acknowledgement.

next is hyun, who greets them with a smile and a hug of their own, mumbling something about wumuti looking handsome in a suit and how he’s happy to see him in the spotlight again. a piece of paper is slid into his hand, and he doesn’t have to look at it to know it’s a letter. he dutifully puts it in the chest pocket of his suit.

lastly there’s haru, who approaches him with unusually cautious steps, hands politely pulled behind his back. he’s also wearing a suit, wumuti notes, something in his chest fluttering with endearment, and it’s just now that he realizes how dressed up all of them are.

“hi, mom,” he chirps quietly, his cheeks dusted the faintest shade of pink.

there’s no universe in which wumuti wouldn’t smile back.

“hi, baby,” she mumbles, voice just as quiet as haru’s, the words just for them to hear, to settle into.

before she can open her arms and pull him into a hug, haru presents her with a bouquet of beautifully arranged flowers.

wumuti’s no expert, but he can recognize the peonies and pink carnations, delicate in the way only blooming flowers can be, surrounded by a handful of smaller, star-shaped blooms, all of them framing three white lilies placed at the very center of the bouquet.

“congrats on your exhibition,” he smiles, a shy little thing, eyes refusing to meet wumuti’s, instead stuck to the flowers in his hands. “i knew they would pick you.”

this time wumuti doesn’t bother offering a hug, instead he just pulls haru in, his beautiful flowers almost squished between their bodies if it wasn’t for haru’s quick reflexes and hyun’s always helpful hand taking them away before they can suffer much damage.

“my haru-chan,” wumuti sighs, face buried in haru’s fluffy permed hair. he smells like citrus, like his shampoo and the perfume wumuti gifted him for his birthday, woodsy and rich. like home, haru smells so distinctively like home. “thank you for coming.”

“of course,” haru says, the words pressed against wumuti’s throat, that ticklish part of their neck he gently noses at. “noona’s my favorite artist, i will always come to your events.”

they stay like that for a second longer while rui and hyun wander around the room looking at hyeongjun’s work. by the time they pull away, wumuti doesn’t feel so much like crying anymore, but she still discreetly wipes her eyes just in case.

“should we take a photo?” hyun asks, a gentle, steady hand curled around wumuti’s waist, holding him in place.

“sure,” he nods, leaning into hyun’s space, letting his dongsaeng hold his weight, even if just for a little bit.

rui does a quick work of pulling them all together, and before he can even ask, hyeongjun is already offering to take the picture for them. immediately after rui is being pulled away to return the favor and take some pictures of hyeongjun and his friends too.

it’s nice, wumuti thinks, while looking at the picture on his phone. they look a little awkward, all of them, so formal in their polished, rented suits. it’s been a long while since the wumuti last saw himself look so traditionally masculine, but he can’t really say he hates it. it’s new, the slightest bit off-putting, but it’s not necessarily a bad look. his mom would giggle at the picture, probably, they make a mental reminder to send it to her later.

if anything, at least the soft smiles on their faces look sincere enough.

wumuti’s friends leave soon after with more hugs and promises to arrange dinner to celebrate a successful showcase, a routine practiced enough for them to know they’re not expected to stay until the end of the night, since there’s not much to do. their absence leaves wumuti to tend to the last rounds of visitors before the owner is giving his closing speech and wishing everyone a good night.

“wumuti-hyung,” hyeongjun says, as they’re leaving the gallery through the back door. “my friends are waiting for me up front, we are going out for drinks,” he mumbles, eyes trained on his feet. “would you like to come with?”

a small, stunned smile makes itself at home on wumuti’s face as he reaches out to affectionately pat hyeongjun’s shoulder.

“thank you for the offer, hyeongjun-ah, but i think i need to get home before i pass out right here right now.” it’s not a lie, wumuti does feel a little woozy from sleep-deprivation, the two flutes of champagne he had earlier losing their effect by the second. “but let’s keep in touch, okay? i have a feeling we will see each other around.”

wumuti doesn’t even have time to properly take off their tie before they fall face-first into bed, eyes closed before her body has even properly sunken into the mattress.

for the first time in weeks, she sleeps peacefully, no venomous words haunting their dreams.

—

To my lovely most amazing, strongest, bravest, Muti Hyung-Noona.

Wumuti Hyung, you’ve been having a hard time lately, haven’t you? It’s always such a shame when someone as great as you has to deal with things like this, but I guess that’s how life is.

Talking face-to-face… it isn’t really my strongest suit, you know this, that’s why I wanted to write you a letter, you like it when I write you letters, right? You’ve said so, and I hope you weren’t lying.

Last time Rui Noona and I, we might’ve come across as too harsh in the way we spoke to you, and I wanted to apologize for that.

Wumuti Hyung, you’re such a strong and reliable person in all our lives, you’re always there for everyone, checking on us, cheering us up, and I wonder if maybe we haven’t been doing a good job at giving that back. Noona is such a cool person sometimes it feels like you have it all under control, all figured out, you always know what to do, what to say, always give the best advice possible, so when I saw you were having a hard time I didn’t know what to do to help.

That’s our fault a little bit, isn’t it? We’ve been relying on Noona so much, but who are you relying on?

What we said to you that day… I’m sure you knew all that, deep down. You know you are important, you are beautiful, like a star guiding us all. I love you, and so does Rui Noona and so does Haru, but you know that too.

What happened that day, and all the other things that happened before, at the market too, none of that was your fault, and you know that, because if it had been me, you would’ve said so too.

Muti Hyung, it’s not on you to fix the world, even if your heart sometimes feels like it is.

That day when we talked, it wasn’t your head talking, it was your fears, and we should’ve understood that.

You didn’t need our harsh words, did you? You just needed a hug.

People will always be hateful, for whatever reason, for no reason even. People will hate you for being a certain way and then hate you even more if you prove them wrong.

My beautiful Noona, sometimes the world is too hard on you, sometimes we are all too hard on you (you included!!)

More than anything, I want you to know that I’m sorry. Sorry for not being able to comfort you when I had to, for not understanding it wasn’t words that you needed.

You are so incredibly loved, Hyung, and it saddens me that sometimes you don’t see that, but it only means that we have to love you harder, so you remember even during dark times.

Whatever happens between you and Haru, I can’t control you or interfere, but I’m going to be selfish one last time and ask you for one more thing:

Please reach out, when you are doubting yourself, when you’re down, when you don’t know what do to, when things get too hard to bear alone, please let us help, Haru, Rui Hyung, me, any of your other friends, let us in.

I know this is hard for you, the same way speaking out loud is hard for me sometimes, but maybe it will be less scary if we try together, what do you think? Let’s be scared and brave together, you and I.

Our Ümut, please never forget how much we love you, no matter where you are, how you look, or what you want to be called. And congratulations on your beautiful showcase!

—

wumuti ends up selling two of three paintings at the showcase, a fact so sudden and surprising she’s not even sure what to do with the extra money, so he just saves it, thinking of maybe inviting their friends for a meal once things have calmed down a bit.

it’s not that things are bad, exactly, at least not like they were just a couple of weeks ago, but there’s still a lingering tension behind every step she takes, every time she opens the front door and freezes, straining her ears to see if he can hear any noise coming from the inside.

more often than not, they can’t.

haru’s been mostly sticking to their room lately, gingerly tiptoeing around the apartment while wumuti tries to fall asleep in the morning, swiftly making his way into the bathroom when they cross paths in the early evening.

she met hyun a couple of days ago, after reading his letter and crying until she dry-heaved.

it was nice, all in all, making meaningless conversation while drinking coffee and pretending nothing is wrong. it was also a bit strange, the way hyun orbited especially close to her, choosing to sit by her side instead of in front, their thighs pressed together under the table as hyun listened attentively to their every word, his hand landing on her shoulder a couple times in a calculated-masked-as-casual way.

when they part ways, hyun hugs her tight, holds his body close, as if they’re something truly precious, and both of them do a pretty good job at ignoring their watery eyes.

it’s a weird meeting, awkward in a way they never used to be, not since a long time ago, but wumuti guesses that’s a part of changing, of adapting and growing and loving.

hyun isn’t great with spontaneity, be it physical contact or sudden deep conversations, and wumuti is not good with honesty, not when it means being vulnerable in front of those they long to only ever reassure.

they’re both learning, together, and luckily they have all the time in the world to keep trying.

things with rui are a bit different, because it’s always been a bit different between the two of them.

there’s a sticky feeling in wumuti’s chest every time they think of rui, a small fire burning away at their insides, warming but also consuming her at the same time. looking at rui has always made her feel especially tender, fragile in a way he can’t understand, wouldn’t be able to explain.

in a way, rui is everything wumuti has ever wanted to be, everything she has held close to their chest, tucked away from the world, hidden and safe. it’s something in the way they smile, so wide and unapologetically, the way their laugher fills out a room, capturing the attention of everyone around them in silent awe.

it might be something about rui’s personality, the way they carry themselves with such innate confidence, conducting a room without even trying to, always well-liked, infinitely admired.

there’s probably something about rui’s body too, the way their frame folds smaller, face molded softer, delicate in nature, floating around a space without a singular sound, the perfect image of finesse and femininity wumuti could only ever dream achieve.

and then in every way they’re different, they’re also infinitely similar.

both foreign, both far away from home, both raised with the same freedom inside their households only to then be met with the brutal rigidness of the real world.

they both traveled to korea with the same purpose, and they both failed after so long.

in front of rui’s sharp brown eyes, wumuti feels like he’s been stripped naked, the contents of their chest ripped open and exposed to the world. rui looks at them like he’s reading straight into wumuti’s mind, like he can tell, as easy as the weather, what she’s thinking, what she’s feeling, all the stupid ways her brain is trying to tear itself down in an endless cycle of self-destruction wumuti has fought so hard against but will never escape from.

rui knows, she always does, because they too deal with the exact same thoughts.

it’s both scary and devastating, being so in love with yet another reflection of yourself.

soulmates, rui has called them not infrequently. two halves of a same whole, two pieces of the same puzzle, made to be together, made to force them both to see themselves and maybe, hopefully, feel the least bit of empathy for what they both are.

rui texts them like nothing’s wrong, like everything has gone back to normal already, and wumuti does nothing to correct them, instead just follows along.

she’s giving him time, wumuti knows, but they’re both impatient at their core.

“hi mom,” wumuti says as soon as the line connects.

“my baby!” their mom coos on the other end of the line. there’s some rustling in the background, movement as she finds a quiet enough place to talk. “how are you, sweetheart? i saw the pictures you sent me, you guys look adorable!”

wumuti chuckles at her enthusiasm, trying her best to ignore the lump in her throat. “i’m good, just working, like always.”

his mother hums on the other end of the line. “is work treating you well?”

“it’s alright,” they nod, “how’s everything over there?”

“good!” she gushes, “i saw your aunts the other day, we had tea at your grandparent’s house, i showed them your paintings! your cousin came to visit some weeks ago from korla and she brought the baby, they’re the cutest, it reminded me of you at that age, with those big eyes and chubby cheeks, i was looking at photos the other day, i will send you some…”

her mom keeps babbling away, filling wumuti in on every important and not-so important thing that has happened in their extended family, every little detail crammed into an endless buzz of sweet, familiar sounds wumuti can’t help but feel soothed by.

lately talking to their mother feels like rediscovering an old life, remembering a forgotten side of them, practicing a language he’s slowly getting rusted at.

she’s only half listening, humming at the right moments but otherwise just enjoying the sound his mom’s mouth makes rounding around the syllables, the little throaty consonants that feel like a fuzzy dream, here in seoul.

“and what about you, my ümut?” wumuti gets pulled back into reality at the sound of their name, his real name. “what’s making you sigh so much?”

she didn’t even realize she had been sighing, wonders if they really were or if this is just a way for their mom to pry a little more. “nothing, everything is good,” he mumbles, unconvincing even to his own ears.

the thing is, wumuti loves their mom. he loves her so much sometimes just thinking about the thousands of miles separating them makes her heart hurt.

their mom was wumuti’s first best friend, her first confidant, his first and most loyal fan—she still keeps a corner of her apartment for all of wumuti’s old idol stuff, professionally taken pictures, little photocards, a fanmade version of his first and only single. talking to her makes wumuti want to spill everything, rip their chest open for her to look at, for her to help him make sense of whatever is going on inside.

they want to tell her everything, every little secret, every thought that crosses her traitorous mind, wants to run over to his mom and present it to her, let her take all the bad things away.

but as much as she misses her mom, wumuti knows she misses him just as much.

they don’t speak about it, none of them would ever dare, but they know, deep in their core, that the distance hurts her more than any lifestyle decision wumuti could’ve ever made.

mom never shares bad news, only the happy ones, chattering endlessly about her days, her job, the neighbors, family, but even with how much she shares, wumuti’s always painfully aware that those stories are all filtered, catered to him, the child that went away, carefully crafted not to worry him, not to pain him, not to impact the life he has built for himself.

wumuti has always been a carbon copy of their mom, everyone says so.

he understands her, because they also wouldn’t be able to bear the thought of his stupid decisions affecting her, on top of it all.

her mom hums on the other end of the line, uncharacteristically quiet. “but if there was something wrong, you know you can talk to me, right?”

can he?

“mom,” they say, after a second of expectant silence. “how did you know you were doing things right when you were raising me?”

if the question startles her, she doesn’t let it show. “i never knew,” she replies honestly. “it’s part of being a parent, i think, you never know if you’re truly doing well or not, you just do what you can and hope it’s the right choice.”

“was it hard?” wumuti asks next, almost scared of the answer.

“very,” her mom nods, “it’s always hard and scary, to be so dependable and have so much responsibility, you know? you were a good kid, always, you never gave me any trouble, but even just the fact that there’s someone at home waiting for you, counting on you, it can be scary, sometimes.”

and then, before he can change his mind, he asks, “do you ever regret it?”

“no,” mom says immediately, resolutely. it doesn’t sound like just words of comfort, it sounds like raw, unfiltered truth. “i wanted to have you, you know i always wanted to be a mom. i guess maybe that’s a little selfish, having a kid because you wanted to experience something, but it’s the truth. i wanted to be a mother, and it was hard, yes, maybe the situation…” she trails off, searching for the words, “just being you and i, maybe it wasn’t a perfect one, but it never felt wrong. even when it almost did, i would think of you and how much i love you, and i couldn’t imagine myself without it.” tears pool in wumuti’s eyes, but she refuses to cry, refuses to interrupt, needs, craves to hear it all. “i didn’t choose your name just because, you know? you always gave me a lot of hope.” wumuti’s breath hitches, and it must be audible over the line because their mom’s voice immediately softens. “who are you trying to raise over there, little love?”

“no one,” wumuti says, between a giggle and a sob, shaking their head slightly even though their mom can’t see. “no raising over here, fortunately all my babies are grown.”

“ah, but raising never ends, you know that, right? even when you’re old and wrinkly, i’ll be older and wrinklier and will still be raising you.”

i hope so, wumuti doesn’t say, but hopes her mom can hear it anyway, if he thinks it loud enough.

“i’m worried it’s a bit too much,” they say at last. “haru- haru is young, you know? how can i be a good enough role model when i myself don’t know what i’m doing?”

it sounds ridiculous, even to their own ears, but wumuti’s mom doesn’t laugh at him, doesn’t mention the absurdity of it all.

“you’ve been taking on a lot of heavy responsibilities, haven’t you, ümut?” she asks after a beat. “you’ve always been like that with all your friends, your idol friends too, you’re too protective, always, i guess since haru is so young it feels even heavier,” she muses, more like she’s thinking out loud rather than addressing him. “those thoughts… that’s the kind of thing i would wonder about too, when you were little. how can i be better? how can i do better? i want to be the best mom, how do i make sure i’m doing the absolute best i can? but the thing is, for better or for worse, no one is perfect, ümut, not me, not you.” wumuti nods along, and she must be able to feel it somehow, because she keeps talking. “i tried my best to do everything to make you happy, but also… happiness can look very different for two people. even if i gave you everything that would’ve made me happy as a child, maybe that wouldn’t have worked for you. you and i… we live very different lives, right? and of course there’s always things you wish you could change, things to improve, but i’m happy where i am, and i hope you are, too.”

a couple months ago, wumuti would’ve reassured her with no doubts. a week ago, he would have reassured her just out of guilt, not wanting her to worry. right now, wumuti’s not so sure where they stand, what happiness looks like for them, if that’s something in the cards for him at all.

it feels far away, all of it—the unrestrained laughs, the affectionate shoves, the evenings spent together piled up on wumuti’s and haru’s couch, pretending to watch a movie and talking all the way over it.

lately wumuti feels like they’re staring at an invisible wall, every step they try to take in any direction sending them stumbling back, unable to move forward but also unable to back down, to return to the safety and comfort she didn’t know she had.

“back then i couldn’t ask you what would’ve made you happy,” his mom keeps saying. “you didn’t have the words to express it because you were just too young,” she explains. “but in this case… i think you are a bit luckier, ümut, because you can ask them—haru—what their happiness looks like.”

wumuti worries their bottom lip between his teeth. “but what if they don’t know?” he asks, “what if they make a mistake and regret it later?”

there’s a stretch of silence on the other end of the line.

“i didn’t understand it when you left for beijing,” wumuti’s mom finally confesses. “when you went to korea and decided to stay there, i couldn’t understand it, i couldn’t see what it was about it that made you happy because for me it seemed so foreign, so incredibly hard, and i couldn’t understand why you wouldn’t want a quieter life, still making music and art and all the things you’re good at, but in a slower place, in a way that sounded a little—easier, i think. it seemed to me at the time like you were choosing the hardest way to live, and i worried a lot that you would grow to regret it.”

wumuti knew, she always knew that his mom didn’t get it, couldn’t rationalize their decisions, the way they decided to live life. but she never denied him, not once.

“you were so determined,” she says, chuckling softly. “i just couldn’t argue with you, i knew that if i did, something irreparable would break between us, and i didn’t want that,” she explains. “and then i saw you on a stage for the first time, and i saw how—how radiant you were, how big you smiled, and i couldn’t understand it, but i knew it was right for you. you knew it was going to be hard, but you decided that the joy it brought you was more important, and i wasn’t going to take that decision away from you. seeing you on stage, seeing how your friends hugged you after, hearing the way your bunnies talked about you—i realized that you weren’t just my hope, but also theirs, and i wish—“ there’s a shaky exhale on the other end of the line. “i wish one day you can be your own hope, too.”

—

the kitchen is cool where wumuti sits, the heat accumulated throughout the day mixed with the light breeze coming from outside making it for a fairly pleasant evening. his sketchbook and charcoals sit in front of her, forgotten as he checks their recently posted work schedule for the week.

she got less shifts than the past couple of weeks, something he’s both glad and slightly anxious about.

wumuti has never been good at not doing things. free time, sitting still, they can easily sound like nightmares for someone like her, so filled with nervous energy and the relentless drive to move, create, make.

having enough time to herself means having enough time to start thinking, and sometimes the only thing wumuti needs is to not think.

they’re pulled out of their thoughts by a light knock on the doorframe, a faint little thing, cautious, almost scared, the sound almost lost to the hustle and bustle of the city slipping in through the open window.

“hyung,” haru asks, his voice small, shy in the way he barely peeks around the doorframe, most of his body shielded safely behind the wall.

he looks tiny, with his ruffled hair and puffy face, skinny limbs barely sticking out of his oversized pajamas. he looks child-like in the way he avoids eye contact, like a kid who stole a cookie and is only waiting to be found out.

it’s not a look wumuti’s used to seeing on him. it’s not a look that she ever wants to see again.

“are you mad at me?”

there’s nothing quiet about the way wumuti’s heart breaks.

a treacherous noise escapes past her lips before they can stop it, something animalistic and raw, between a whine and a gasp, between a blow and a cry.

“no,” wumuti is immediately saying, the word scratching her throat, slitting her vocal cords, rolling off her tongue with the taste of desperation and blood. “i’m not mad at you, haru, why do you think that?”

it feels gross saying it, throwing such careless words at him when she knows perfectly well why haru is asking, what has given him the impression that wumuti is mad at him, even if it’s not true.

haru tries to smile, but his lips seem unable to stretch into anything more than a grimace. he takes a step forward, and although wumuti’s first instinct is to take one back, the closer haru gets the more wumuti feels drawn to him, their hands itching to reach out and wrap around his middle in that way that came so naturally to them just months ago.

he stops when he reaches the dinner table, a hand gingerly placed on top of it as if he too wanted to reach out but stopped himself at the last minute, unsure of whether that’s allowed for him or not. “well,” he mumbles, shoulders hunched, eyes trained to the floor. “you have been a bit distant lately.”

a bit is an understatement, they both know that.

even now, when wumuti’s being an idiot and an asshole, haru’s still trying to spare their feelings, to soften the blow. it’s not that wumuti didn’t know it before, but it’s just now that they realize the true extent of the damage she has done.

a sob gets caught in her throat, pitiful and entirely too embarrassing for someone their age. once the first tear has fallen, wumuti’s unable to swallow the rest, or to find his words, or to control the shaking of his hands where they try to find purchase at the edge of the table.

through blurry eyes, she manages to make out haru’s stricken face, the panic spread over his beautiful features, the second-long hesitation before they stumble forward, hands fluttering uselessly at his sides as he tries to decide what to do.

“mom—“ haru tries, begs, left adrift at a total loss for words.

“i’m sorry—“ wumuti hiccups, desperately wiping her cheeks only to let fresh tears spill over them. “sorry, i’m sorry, fuck, haru, i’m sorry—“

there’s a foreign quality to the way haru’s arms wrap around him. it feels like home, here, held tight and safe with her face hidden against haru’s chest, enveloped by his warmth, his scent. but there’s also a certain novelty to it, to the way haru’s biceps feel strong and defined, his hands steady and unwavering, holding her with a possessiveness wumuti’s not sure was there before.

they feel protected in haru’s hold, their roles reversed so suddenly wumuti feels a bit dizzy with it.

“breathe,” haru says, more of an order than a request, even if wumuti can hear the layer of uncertainty lying under it. “noona, take your time, breathe,” he repeats, softer this time, just slightly more confident. “just breathe.”

wumuti’s breath hitches, body going taunt at the panic rising up their chest, but then one of haru’s hands meets his hair, gently flattening the fizzy strands there, carefully threading his fingers through her overgrown roots, combing it with the same delicacy wumuti does his.

it’s like all fight suddenly evaporates from their body, leaving him limp and boneless, like a string-less puppet, sinking fully into haru’s embrace.

his hands fall at their sides, lifeless, her face directly squished against haru’s sternum, and it makes no logical sense, but here, suffocated by his warmth, by his scent, little by little, it gets easier to breathe.

it takes a while, how long wumuti simply doesn’t want to know, but eventually his crying dies out, either out of exhaustion or because she simply doesn’t have any more tears to give. she can feel haru’s heartbeat in his chest. just like her breathing, the rabbit-fast thumping slows into a lulling pulse, the steady rise and fall of his chest guiding wumuti’s own. she tries her best to mimic it until the room stops spinning, until her throat stops closing, and he feels like he has at least some semblance of control.

once wumuti thinks they can attempt to speak without breaking down, she straightens her back. haru’s hands stop mid movement, but they quickly pick up pace again, softly petting wumuti’s back, a small, gentle caress, brushing from the back of his neck to just under his shoulder blades, following the ridges of every one of their vertebrae.

wumuti’s hands easily find haru’s waist, still trembling fingers meeting firm skin. everything in her screams to pull closer, to hug haru’s middle and stay there until the world disappears around them, their problems washed away by the weight of time, but she knows she can’t keep avoiding this conversation, can’t keep making haru bear the burden of her insecurities.

he pulls away slowly, hands keeping haru in place as she moves back, preventing him from clinging to their frame, just in case. when they look up, haru is already looking at them.

“hi,” wumuti manages to croak out, voice scratchy and raw from crying.

“hi,” haru whispers back, his expression carefully blank, only betrayed by his brown eyes softened by worry. “hyung, what’s wrong?”

where does wumuti even begin?

she lowers her eyes, being met with the sight of haru’s shirt stained with her tears. “sit down, alright?” he says, gently patting haru’s hip. “i will make tea, there’s some stuff noona needs to tell you.”

—

“i’m not—i’m not really sure where to start,” wumuti says, looking down at the tea cooling on her mug. the smell is perfect, sweet chamomile softly warming her face. he holds the mug with both hands in an attempt to warm their still numb fingers. “there’s been some things i’ve been keeping from you,” she admits, then, voice charged with shame.

haru doesn’t say anything, but he nods. it’s clear that the information is not new to him. with how careless wumuti has been, they would be more surprised if it was.

she takes a deep breath, placing her mug on the table as she tries his best to come up with enough words, to push them out of his mouth, into the silence of the kitchen, out into the world.

maybe then they can stop weighing his heart down.

it hurts, it burns, her eyes filled with tears again at the strain, but after some struggle, she manages to say, “a couple of weeks ago i was coming back home and heard some neighbors talking about us.” the silence is defeating, the expectation crushing, pushing down on her shoulders, making wumuti want to curl up on the floor and disappear. “it was about us being, uh, well—it was about—about me being—,” haru’s hand reaches for his wrist, asking for permission, one wumuti is too eager to give. “about me being queer, and having you living with me.”

there’s a moment where the world stills around them, frozen in place. wumuti can see, can feel the way haru’s breath gets caught on his throat, the way his hand twitches, squeezing wumuti’s for a fraction of a second before letting go.

it doesn’t matter how quietly wumuti whispers, how carefully he tries to phrase it, it’s like the words echo around them, bouncing off the walls in an eternal, dooming chorus, mocking her, pointing their fingers at him and his foolishness, his shame, his guilt.

he can see, out of the corner of his eye, how haru opens his mouth, searching for something to say.

“they weren’t using those words, of course,” she chuckles humorlessly. “and it’s—it’s stupid, i know it is, because they’re older and they don’t understand, but—,“ his throat closes, more tears threatening to spill. “but that’s not the first time it has happened, and i don’t… haru, i’m not sure how good i am for you.”

haru jumps at the words, shoulders straightening, immediately defensive. “eomma—“

“i know what you are about to say,” wumuti hurries. “i know, i know you will say it’s not true and that they know nothing about us and that their opinions don’t matter, i know!” his voice is getting louder, more frenetic, panic tinting the edges. “rui and hyun already told me that i’m being unreasonable and cynical because i always—i always tell you guys the same but—,“ a lonely tear makes its way down wumuti’s cheek at the same time as he makes eye contact with haru, sees the infinite pools of pity in his eyes. “haru-chan, i love you so much, i feel like i’m making your life harder than it needs to be.”

the only thing that keeps wumuti together, that prevents him from breaking down, are haru’s arms wrapping around them.

the angle is all weird because they’re both still sitting and their knees are knocking together and haru is half hanging off their chair in order to properly reach them, but this, wumuti thinks, this is a place he would never want to leave.

“i’m worried one day you will realize and—,” their voice breaks. “and hate me for it.”

“i could never hate you,” haru says, his face pressed against wumuti’s shoulder, his voice equally fervent and wounded. “noona, i could never, ever hate you.”

“people look at us on the street,” wumuti insists, “they—they talk about us, about me, and the way i look, and i don’t care if they do, i don’t give a fuck! but then if you’re with me they talk about you too, haru, the same—the same things they say about me they say them about you and—“

haru pulls back at that, hands firm on wumuti’s shoulders as he forces them to look at him. “and what?” he asks, pretty much demands, his brow furrowed in distress. “am i not the same as you?”

“you’re not,” wumuti says, the words out of her mouth before she can stop them. “you’re not you’re—you’re—“

“normal?” wumuti’s mouth clamps shut. “is that what you’re trying to say?”

a million thoughts cross wumuti’s mind. “haru—“

“hyung, i’m not better than you because i don’t wear makeup, or skirts, or wigs,” haru says, almost desperately. “you’re not less than me, less than anyone, because you do, you know this, you are the one who taught me this, so why are you saying this now?”

wumuti’s hands climb to their own shoulders, wrapping around haru’s, looking at him in the eye, she says. “your mom texted me some months ago.”

haru’s mouth falls open, his eyebrow furrowing even further, “my mom?”

“she said she had been trying to get my number, but you wouldn’t give it to her,” wumuti nods.

“yeah i—i guess she asked, but why did she text you?” haru asks, looking utterly lost.

because she loves you, because you’re her baby, because you’re far away from home and she’s scared you’re alone, because i took you in, because i made myself responsible for you, because maybe i’m ruining your life, because i’m so scared i’m ruining your life.

“she was very sweet,” wumuti says, trying for a smile. she knows her attempt falls flat at the bewildered look haru gives her. “she just wanted to say thank you for taking care of you and all that.”

“and all that,” haru mumbles, still stumped.

“you were too young when we met,” wumuti says.

“i was seventeen.”

“young,” she repeats, “that’s so very young haru, you barely knew korean well enough,” haru’s cheeks turn pink at that. “we started hanging out so often, and then we moved in together and—“

wumuti stops herself, swallowing thickly. and what? he’s older, but they have never done anything inappropriate, he’s older, but their relationship is strictly platonic, she’s older, but she sees haru as a brother, as a baby, her baby.

they’re older, and haru was so young.

“you were twenty-four,” haru says softly after a beat of silence. “hyung, you were also too young.”

it’s like a bucket of cold water thrown over her head, like she’s being thrown into the endless ocean with nothing to keep her afloat.

the ground shakes beneath him, opens up, swallows them whole. flashes of images, fragments of conversations flood her mind all at once.

searching desperately for apartments, working three jobs to make ends meet, making sure rui was eating enough, making sure hyun wasn’t locking himself in his college dorm for too long, keeping up with her idol friends, reassuring her mom back home that everything was okay, that wumuti had it all under control.

the scant meals, fighting tooth and nail to make ends meet, taking care of haru, both of them sleeping in the same bed in wumuti’s awful studio that was barely short of being a goshiwon.

haru’s nightmares, the bills pilling up, falling asleep on the metro after another fourteen-hour workday.

rui crashing on their couch when he left her company, wumuti nursing her back to health after her world had just come crushing down.

the promises of a better future, whispers in the dark, hugging bodies that were merely skin and bones. the nonexistence difference between passing out and falling asleep, dragging herself out of bed every morning, making haru breakfast, visiting hyun at university, dragging them all out for a walk around the park because he couldn’t afford to invite them out for a meal, counting bills, counting coins, counting the hours before her next shift, squeezing taking care of her friends in between.

calls in the middle of the night, sobs pressed against her shoulder, attending showcases, sending good luck texts before job interviews, keep noona posted, okay? i will keep my phone on, just call if you need anything, just let me know.

a smile plastered on her face, his hair falling off in clumps, hiding the uncontrollable shaking of her fingers, muffling sobs behind her hands, hidden in the bathroom, their hot water about to be cut off.

haru’s bright laugh from the living room, rui running up to hug her after her first independent showcase, hyun dragging her for pictures, his diploma in hand.

pretending in front of his friends, the world turning fuzzy every time they stood up too fast.

wumuti is now twenty-eight, but back then they were so young, taking care of everyone, keeping all of them afloat.

he was too busy, everyone was too busy to take care of him.

“we were all young when we met,” haru whispers, voice thick as if he too wanted to cry. “but you were the oldest, so you took care of all of us.” silent tears stream down wumuti’s face, make her unable to speak. “noona when i met you—back then i was about to give up, you know?” he admits, “i felt so lonely and frustrated, i hated korea, i wanted to go back to japan and forget all about dancing because it made me feel like a failure, like i wasn’t good enough,” haru shrugs, ashamed of his weakness, of being so fragile, even when he hadn’t been more than a kid, trying to make it out in the world. “i don’t call you mom just as a joke, muti hyung, i call you mom because that’s really what you are to me.” a lonely tear rolls down haru’s rosy cheek, wumuti reaches to wipe it away before he’s even aware of what he’s doing. “you took care of me when i needed someone, sacrificed so many things to make sure i was okay and—and i know you don’t want me to repay you, and that you don’t resent me for it but still, i will never be able to thank you enough.” he sniffles a little, smiling, the first real smile wumuti has seen in weeks. “i don’t care if people look at us weird, or if they have anything to say about us, you’re one of the most important people to me, mom, and i want to be by your side forever, so one day i can help you and take care of you like you did with me.”

next thing he knows, wumuti is up on her feet, salty tear tracks drying uncomfortably on her skin. the need to wipe them clean is strong, but there are other, infinitely more important things to do right now.

haru yelps helplessly as she pulls him close, making him face plant against her stomach, one of the places he loves pushing his cheek against when they’re lying down on the couch, watching a show cuddled in bed, wumuti’s fingers absentmindedly petting his hair just the way he likes.

wumuti holds him tight, but haru holds them back just as tightly, burrowing against her sweater, breathing in the scent of their laundry detergent, soaking in wumuti’s warmth, in her immeasurable love.

“my haru-chan,” wumuti coos, her own voice bringing her to tears again. “my baby, my little fox,” haru giggles breathlessly, squirming in her hold. “i love you,” he confesses, for the thousandth time. “i love you so much it makes me scared because i only ever want the best for you, i want you to be happy, always.”

“i’m happy when i’m with you,” his voice is muffled against wumuti’s body, but it’s still audible enough to make her heart squeeze, painfully tender. “so don’t pull away from me, please.” haru looks up, his chin resting against wumuti’s middle. his eyes look so big and round, so full of wonder and all the stars in the sky, wumuti can’t help but think back to the first time they met, to the little kids they were back then. “you can be scared and worried, that’s okay, but i’m not a kid anymore, you can talk to me about it, noona, and we can find a way to fix it together.”

wumuti smiles down at him, but its underlying sadness makes haru frown. “i overthink too much,” she admits, a dirty little secret, one of the many skeletons he keeps in the closet. “i get in my head and it’s hard for me to get out,” they confess. “i’m scared of being too much, of fucking up what i have because i don’t know what i would do without you guys. sometimes i feel like without you i’m nothing, like there’s nothing about me worth remembering but the fact that i act like you guys’ mom.” a deep breath, steading, grounding. “i need to work on that, figure out who i am, find myself again.”

“okay,” haru nods, his eyelids fluttering closed as wumuti gently brushes his bangs back. “i will be here for you, then, for whatever you need.”

“whatever?” wumuti asks, just the edge of teasing in her voice. haru hums, the most adorable determined pout on his face. “sleep with me tonight?”

haru’s whole face lights up, the brightest of smiles breaking across his face. “yes! and can we cuddle, too?”

wumuti giggles, which only makes haru smile wider.

“of course we can, ruru-chan.”

—

they end up in haru’s room, at wumuti’s request, citing that she had been spending way too much time in her own room, the pale beige walls making her feel trapped inside a box.

haru is already in bed by the time she makes it out of the bathroom, their skin soft and shiny with moisturizer. the moment he’s under the covers haru is already on them, tangling their legs together in a synchronized dance they had perfected years ago.

she knew she had missed it because it ached in her chest, the need rattling against her bones, but he couldn’t begin to imagine just how she much yearned for haru until they were curled up under the blankets, limbs tangled together in an impossibly complicated puzzle, haru’s breath tickling against their neck, her amused chuckle brushing his hair out of place.

“i missed you,” haru mumbles, unexpectedly shy, curled up small against wumuti’s body.

he hums appreciatively, placing a small kiss against the crown of haru’s head. “i missed you too.” and a second later, “i’m sorry for not talking to you earlier.”

“it’s okay,” haru shrugs. “you didn’t know how, but you know now.”

“yeah,” wumuti nods, warmth spreading across their chest. “i do.”

they fall into a comfortable silence, the only sound in the room being their soft breathing, haru’s heart beating against her side.

even wumuti’s head is silent, appeased under the comfort of her favorite place in the world.

his eyes stray from the white ceiling, following the line of haru’s posters and the polaroids decorating the walls. there’s a picture hanging at the foot of the bed, one that wasn’t there before.

it’s a white canvas, and on it, the drawing of a little boy curled up in bed, the covers drawn up to his nose. stars shine in the boy’s eyes, his hair colored black, entire constellations painted on the black stretches, shining in the darkness of haru’s room. she can’t make them out well enough in the dark, but there are a couple of birds flying around the boy, talking about his ambition, his thirst for freedom.

wumuti would now, since it’s their signature displayed at the bottom.

“haru,” he calls suddenly, his voice amplified in the silence of the room. “is that my painting?”

haru seems confused for all of a second, before he’s abruptly sitting up flustered, eyes wide, the blankets pooling around his hips.

he follows wumuti’s line of sight, even if he knows perfectly well what she’s looking at. there’s a timid smile on his face when he looks back at them. “yeah, it’s yours.”

“but that—that one is from the showcase, it was sold.” wumuti sputters, utterly confused. slowly, the pieces of information start to fall into place. “you bought it?” she almost yells, his jaw hanging open, eyebrows almost disappearing under his bangs. “haru!”

“i wanted to!” the younger immediately defends.

“why didn’t you tell me? i would’ve just given it to you!”

haru huffs, equal parts amused and frustrated. “that’s exactly why,” he whines. “if i had told you i liked it, you would’ve just given it to me, but i wanted to buy it! i wanted to support you, not for you to just gift it to me.”

it shouldn’t even be possible, considering the amount of crying wumuti has done just in the past couple of hours, but he can feel the telltale sign of tears gathering in his eyes.

“you didn’t have to,” they argue, weak even to their own ears.

“i know,” haru says, still sitting up, leaning his weight in one of his arms. he suddenly looks so grown, so adult and dependable and strong wumuti can’t help but feel a bit small where he is, being looked down on. “but noona’s my favorite artist, so i wanted to buy one of your paintings.”

a belated breath gets caught in their throat, the words sinking heavy on her chest, in the pit of her stomach. “thank you,” she says, uncharacteristically quiet, too stunned to articulate anything else.

haru rolls his eyes playfully, huffing and puffing as he lays down again, his face half-hidden against wumuti’s shoulder, both arms wrapped firmly around his bicep. “you don’t need to thank me,” he sulks. “but if you really want to, mom can buy me lunch tomorrow.”

ah, there it is, the haru she knows.

“brat,” he accuses, but there’s no heat behind the words. judging by haru’s giggles, he knows it too.

later, when the buzz of the city has quietened down, the rise and fall of haru’s steady breathing almost lulled them to sleep, wumuti reaches for their phone.

she goes directly to her messaging app, pulls up a specific chat.

< remember when i talked to you about that doctor’s appointment?

< i think i’m ready to get it now

< will you come with me to the office?

from: hyunnie

>of course noona

>just let me know what time