ruru's fic archive

Changbin turned around to face him. “Hyung, we are advised not to do that.”

“I know,” Minho laced their fingers together. It was calloused, from all the work Changbin did in the warehouse. So was Minho’s, from cutting and carving wood all day. “I already know Changbin-ah.”

There was a very clean line in their life, from beginning to the end, fate didn’t prepare big surprises for either of them. Life started at Hailsham, ended on a hospital bed. Love came naturally, at the fingertips of Minho’s caring touch and his lips covering his own, the slow nights murmuring sunsets, the crickets, the lullabies. The walks at Verulamium Park. Feeding the birds. Falling asleep behind Roman ruins. 

The constant every donor got used to. The reason for their sole existence was that their bodies were not their property. They were cloned from a source, nurtured to be owned by the source. Devoured. Limb by limb. Minho’s left kidney. Changbin’s right eye. 

Changbin lived to let it happen, Minho did not. 

“He is nothing like me,” Minho breathed with heavy salt on his tongue. “He has my face but he is nothing like me Changbin-ah.” 

The downward slant of Changbin’s lips went even lower with worry. It tugged on Changbin’s heartstrings in all the ways it shouldn’t and bloomed into this ugly heavy weight that shuddered in his stomach. 

“What about me?” Changbin tried. 

Minho’s face hardened, all the lines on his face drawing this pained version of him. 

Changbin turned his back and closed his eyes. Swallowed heavily. Didn’t say anything when Minho hugged him from behind.

“Changbin-ah, I need to tell you a secret.” 

Don’t. He wanted to say. 

“I will kill him.” 

—

In the morning, an empty bed welcomed him. And a note that the words between the parallel lines said, “I had to.” 

Not I’m sorry. Not I love you. 

None of those.

But his fridge wasn’t empty like it was yesterday and the day before. It had all of his favorites, prepared and cooked by Minho, and was brought here with a thirty minute bus trip that took between two towns. 

Changbin didn’t touch the food. 

—

But eventually he did, because his heart wasn’t the type to hold grudges. It knew hurting and it knew acceptance. 

Sometimes he wondered if he himself was the cruelest. 

—

Changbin rushed to Verulamium Park when he got the call. 

The sun was above, the winds were at bay and the weather forecast wasn’t expecting rain. The crowd grew naturally, separated by the lake in the middle. People moved in groups but not all of them. Children ran after the birds. Couples had their well cared dogs on leashes. Some were heading to the cathedral. 

Minho was alone. Minho wasn’t moving. It took Changbin a little while to spot him. 

“Fuck you! ” His first words after another two weeks of radio silence were said before his fist found Minho’s right cheek and then the grass below. “Fuck you! Fuck you for ruining everything! You could’ve just waited. With me. We had time. We fucking had time! ” 

The tears swelling up in the corners of his eyes blurred Changbin’s vision and gave him this disoriented image of Minho under him, laying there with no protest, baring himself all with a terrible smile blooming. “We were still alive, how could you then? ”  

Minho reached up and kissed him. All blood and red because Changbin did a number on his face. Yet he kissed Changbin slowly, held his face between his palms and kissed him in calmness until they were both out of breath. 

“I had to,” Minho said. “I had no choice, Bin-ah.” 

To that Changbin wanted to kill him himself there and then. 

“I was never going to make peace with my life. I was never going to be happy, please understand that.” Minho’s voice was softer, pleading. “If anything, it wasn’t for revenge.” 

But it wasn’t for freedom either, Changbin thought.

Then he sat up when he couldn’t hold back his tears, nor his body from trembling and shaking. 

Most donors didn’t see after their third operation. Some lived only until the second. Changbin went through one, Minho too. But they had time. 

Changbin thought life wasn’t so bad as long as he had Minho. They weren’t allowed alcohol but the small, crowded space of pubs were still somewhat where their hands covered the other, then their fingers intertwined. When they met for a small exchange, when that became hours, when the rain poured down over them and they were running to find a shelter, together sharing one raincoat. When they sat together in the train, when they were browsing through the stalls of Herne Hill market on Sundays, when it was just him being an unhelpful hand in the kitchen to Minho. When Minho brought a hand and carded his hair, murmuring a recent pop song his old radio played. When they were laying down together on his bed, Minho planting lazy kisses down below his spine.

Their lives could have ended anytime, most humans didn’t live long either. 

(It was a lie. Now most of the population had their donors to keep them breathing and alive for a long, long time. It was just a truth from past times.) 

“I love you,” Minho managed to say. “I love you Bin-ah.” 

“I know, hyung.” Changbin let out but couldn’t say the same words back. He remembered to be brave. He once was. He wasn't one when love felt like a goodbye.

Changbin pushed himself on his knees to wipe away the blood on Minho’s face with his sleeves but it just left stains in red. A horrible feeling sank down heavily in his stomach. The red, he thought. Couldn’t dare to imagine the rest.

But Minho tugged Changbin’s hands away from his fruitless effort and kept it between his own firmly, pulling Changbin with him when he got up. 

“You should leave now, Binnie-ah.” The grip Minho had on him screamed against the words spoken. He didn’t have time to protest. He didn’t have time to say goodbye, either.

But Changbin knew very well, the moment he got the call, he knew. 

He knew he should have never come. 

The grave feeling of dread wasn’t easy to swallow down when he saw Minho’s eyes following something from far. How his focus shifted entirely the moment realization dawned on him. 

It happened so fast. A little red dot right at the center of his forehead, next second Minho was collapsing on the ground. 

No . 

Changbin couldn’t scream at first, something blocked his throat. 

Then he managed to croak out his name, “Minho hyung,” he muttered. “No.” Disbelief. The tip of his fingers found Minho’s neck, then his pulse point. “No. Wake up. Hyung, wake up.” Disbelief. Firm. Stubborn. 

Each second his sight got blurry. 

The tears dampened his cheeks. 

“Hyung ,” Another try. His voice shaking, his voice cracking like the reality caught him finally. “Wake up! Please wake up!” 

Changbin grabbed Minho’s shoulders to rock him back and forth. But Minho didn’t wake up. So then, he shouted. “Help! Please help him, please!” 

No one did. The crowd took one glance at their wrist piece and their gazes only held pity. But was it for them, and solely for their agony, genuinely or was it because a donor, a potential, was wasted? 

Changbin knew the answer. From how they only came to collect Changbin, and rushed him to the emergency mobile for a checkup. From how they left his questions unanswered. From how they remained indifferent to what happened, from how they acted like nothing had happened. 

Changbin knew the answer.

— 1 —

There is no sunset in space. There is no twenty four hour clock either. And seasons mean so little. Time is adapted according to the little watch screen. And everything is counted. 1, 2, 3  then 735, 736, 737 and then 826342, 826343, 826344. 

There is no age either. It’s the heartbeats that are calculated.

“He had lived for 1.419.120.537 beats,” says Changbin while checking Ahn Sanghun’s death certificate. It is on another screen, transparent with purple neon writings. 

“Long enough,” his client answers. 

Changbin eyes him carefully. Then the guy three steps behind him. The typical lifespan for a man is twice as long, but he keeps that thought to himself.

“Do you believe he would give a beautiful…” His client’s voice drags at the last syllable. He checks him from top to the bottom. When his eyes land on something —the little name plate on his shirt— a faint smile appears on his lips. “red, Mr Seo Changbin?”

What an odd question. 

“It’s up to him,” he responds, his fingers fidgeting on the cold surface of the old countertop, kept white and clean, always presentable and respectful. Death demands a certain kind of reverence. 

His client makes a gesture. Go on , his body language says. 

“Levels of bone acidity and the residual mineral composition determines the color. That’s why it is unique.” Words roll naturally from his tongue, he explained it with the same exact words many times before. 

“But I need it red, Mr Seo Changbin,” In a manner most subtle, his client pouts as if that’s the most normal request ever. Manages to look sad, even. “Otherwise, it'd just look ugly in my collection.” 

Changbin checks for Ahn Sanghun’s cause of death. It’s asphyxiation. 

“Ahn Sanghun was fond of reds,” The taller guy behind him sighs. It’s a long one, one that doesn’t cover the annoyed tinge in it at all. “Mr. Lee here is being dramatic is all.” 

“I’m just a man with exquisite taste for jewelry,” He is wearing black, head to toe, there is nothing else, not even an accessory. “And I love to tell a good story. This one has a soul for it, don’t you think Mr. Seo?”

That’s not entirely wrong , Changbin thinks. It’s to honor the lives that passed away. To let them outlast even the existence of stars. A memento, sacred one. 

Yet still. 

“All has a soul,” he opts for the safer option. He doesn’t say, the dead can’t have a soul. 

“Must be red then,” Mr. Lee decides. “His soul reminds me of reds. Like blood, blood reds.” 

It’s asphyxiation, he reminds himself. If it really is asphyxiation. That his actual death cause is. 

“What color do you think I would be once I die Mr. Seo?” 

Suddenly Changbin prefers silence over words, company of the dead to the living, his boring life compared to what Mr. Lee plans to do with him. He gulps, his eyes stray. 

But Mr. Lee continues. 

“Please Mr. Seo, no need to get shy with me right now. You can just say I’d make a pretty red!” He doesn’t stop there. “You too, you’d make a pretty red too.” 

And he winks. 

Changbin can be quick. With one swift motion he is a touch away from calling the guards. But his eyes stop at the payment made. In neon purples, it’s more than double the required amount.

No one does that. It’s already expensive as hell.

Mr. Lee is smiling at him. 

“It’s Minho by the way,” he says and extends his hands. 

“You, uhm, you already know my name…” 

“Yes!” Mr. Lee, no , Minho starts, excited. “And now that we finally drop all the formalities, tell me you agree with me. That the reds suit us both.” 

“Stop it,” The taller guy speaks once more. His voice keeps the same tired and annoyed tone. “you are scaring him.” 

That actually stills Minho, for a moment of heartbeat at least. He checks him out, eyes lingering on his body longer than Changbin feels comfortable. Than says, “For once you are right Kim Seungmin. He seems to be the marshmallow type. Just like Mr. Ahn here.” 

The Kim Seungmin guy face palms. It's as loud as it can be, all the while Changbin’s thinking what the hell is a marshmallow type and its connection between him and Ahn Sanghun. 

Does it mean he is on the hit list? Or he is an easy target? Easy to squish so that he can’t breathe at all? 

Jisung says his muscles are squishable. Is that what it is? 

“It’s better we leave him to work.” But Seungmin cuts his thoughts and Changbin can give him the stars.

Surprisingly, Minho doesn’t protest. He displays not a hint of any inclination to object, no pouts, no dramatic remarks, nothing. He just follows Seungmin to the entrance quietly.

Maybe he has mercy in his soul, maybe he is just as slow to take everything in. Grief turns people weird. Changbin saw people being weird over death. 

But right before leaving the crematorium Minho stops and says, “Don’t forget Changbin-ah, a red diamond. Or else… ” 

His eyes are so big, delving deep into Changbin's very soul. Challenges him to go against, a sly smirk playing at the edges of his face.

Then he is gone. 

Sending a chill down Changbin's spine. Changbin blinks, once and twice. 

Lee Minho must be a murderer . 

— 2 —

It is not uncommon to have vegetation in space stations. Parks have them, same species throughout the heartbeats if it is a small one, bigger parks on the other hand tend to have some variation. Malls have them, although very scarce and rather like decor than anything. The earth related museum do carry many, little rooms to big halls, biome to biome, with artificially generated climates. 

Changbin is with Jisung at the movie set, sitting somewhere far away from the crowd of people rushing in frustrated steps, all stressed, all with heavy thoughts, some with slumped shoulders, some with anxious fidgeting, and some with the distant look of lost ambition. The set is a big one, designed to mimic the earth’s biomes. Towering trees reach up like ancient guardians, among them are the vibrant flowers burst forth in a kaleidoscope of colors. Almost like a museum hall rather than a movie set. Very unfamiliar to the eye.

“Must be expensive,” Changbin mutters while munching an oat bar. It’s one of the better brands.

“You tell me hyung,” says Jisung when he beelines for the chair next to Changbin, holding a tray of something that smells delicious. “Just because I, accidentally , tackled one of the planters the director had the audacity to call for the other lighting artist! Says I’m a walking disaster for everyone that is involved. Can you believe that?” 

The older drops his oat bar and grabs a fork. 

“ Biohazard for the flowers. ” Jisung imitates the director's voice, adopting a deep and husky tone. “I love flowers!” 

“He sounds like a jerk Sung,” It’s marinated cloud gar with solar raspberry sauce and it tastes just as delectable as its smell suggests. So Changbin says, “But he lets me eat here, maybe he is not that much of a jerk.” 

“ Traitor ,” Jisung turns to the side to keep Changbin away from his tray. “I do good and all I get is a traitor.” 

“Sorry,” Changbin is not sorry at all, if anything he is more than happy to munch on something that doesn’t taste like a rotten clothes rack. “But this is really good. Better stand on your director’s good side.”

There is a scandalized expression on Jisung’s face, one that comes with a slap on Changbin’s biceps. “How dare you!” And he is back to whining, a monologue of complaints on the tip of his tongue. “I can’t count how many times I told you it’s the sponsors, not that jerk . Why do you always forget that, hyung?” 

“Whatever,” Changbin answers. It's not like Jisung ever remembers to keep quiet when there are people at the crematorium.

“Besides,” Jisung continues. ”the main sponsor is the royal family, which means it's our taxes. Which also means I'm the one covering your meal. Be nice to me, hyung.” 

“What about all the food coupons I let you take with no questions, huh?” snaps Changbin in return. Neither has a cooking station at their pods. Just a small fridge and nothing else, not even a quick heat unit. 

“That was a long time ago!”

“That was five full sleeps ago you brat,” There is no bite in his tone, however, he manages to headlock Jisung in the process. Only using a little of his strength. Just enough to bring the tray closer. 

“So,” he says after a while. His fork is once again inside the bowl, preparing a big bite of gar and its sauce. “Does that mean you are unemployed now?” 

“Nah, today they are more irritable than usual. Heard there’s a royal someone was visiting? It’s got them all on edge,” It's somewhat muffled when Jisung talks with a mouthful of food, his cheeks forming small circles as he chews. ”I give no shit, I live paycheck to paycheck. Royals my ass.” 

“Careful,” Changbin warns him. “What if someone hears you? You think prisons are better than your miserable pod?” 

“Who cares,” Jisung shrugs off just as new, familiar faces join them. 

“Changbin-ah!!!!!” 

It’s his voice Changbin hears first, then sees him completely.

Oh no.  

No. No no no no no no .

Changbin knows that this is just the stars’ way of punishing him for complaining about the laundry and dumping everything in Chan’s bin, hoping the older will take pity on him.

Because Lee Minho is approaching him, carrying something substantial, something heavy in his arms. It's wrapped in a colorful covering —a blanket he notices— soft hues of pink and brown adorned with tiny little dots. It does look cute, really. 

For a while.

Changbin then discerns the presence of small tufts of hair, and beneath the blanket, he sees a hand .

Oh stars , he is carrying a body isn’t he? 

Seungmin is a step behind. He carries over the same stoic, almost annoyed expression, unlike the bright smile that gradually grows on Minho’s face.

“Did you miss me?” Minho is quick to ask, eyes housing little shining stars. 

Everything in Changbin screams no. For him it is the opposite, that he never wants to see him ever again. 

Stars, perhaps, have other plans when something shifts in Jisung’s face. He looks between the two, cheeks full of food, like a little child preparing for mischief, he doesn’t even finish his bite when he parts his lips, “Oh he is the guy you’ve mentioned!” 

Minho beams with joy. “Really? He talked about me?” He is looking at Changbin expectedly while offering an impish twinkle in his eye. “All the good I hope.” 

“In exact words he said—“ 

“— that it was a memorable moment. ” Changbin finishes instead. That’s not a lie either. He is just letting out the half truth for that statement was followed by his graphic depictions of dread, and how Minho was either a psychopath or a murderer.

Probably both . 

“Ah I know I’m not an easy one to forget. Don’t worry, you are not the first Changbin-ah,” Another wink of his. Flutter of eyelashes. “I’ve been meaning to visit you actually,” Minho continues. “to let you know how much I appreciated the diamond. It was beautiful. And red . Already got a bunch asking me about it.” 

“Well…” What remained of Ahn Sanghun indeed made a red diamond. And Changbin, already equipped with a borrowed intelligent color ray laser, felt as relieved as he did horrified. That’s his secret. One that he will take to the death. “Even star tellers can’t guess the future that well Mr. Lee.” 

“It’s Minho,” he corrects. “Didn’t we already establish that?” 

Jisung seems one heartbeat away from snorting. Yet the brat chooses to open his big mouth again. “Ah Binnie hyung is just shy like that,” he says. “Needs a bit of cracking. Like a nut. Then he is all soft inside.” 

“He looks soft outside too though. Resembles a marshmallow,” Minho hums appreciatively, his eyes glance downward and then back up, lips slightly twisted to one side. Changbin notices him biting the inside of his cheek. “See, he even gets pink. Perfect marshmallow.” 

Marshmallow this, marshmallow that. This stupid talk again.

“That’s because his muscles are all squishy! Look,” Jisung starts poking his arm initially, then encircling it with his hand, wiggling his fingers with a gentle but insistent pressure. “Wanna poke him and see it for yourself?” 

That’s it, once they are free Changbin is killing the brat. Letting him starve, not listening to his complaints, no more free orbit coffees, no more expensive starlight ales or cans of buzzer beers and no more skyhook tickets to see hallow stars. 

He even looks smug. Brat. Fucker . 

“Let me have a say for my own body, brat.” snaps Changbin. But his throat goes completely dry when he remembers who they are with. 

Minho shrugs. “Only if he lets me,” he says. “It’s not like I don’t have muscles either, maybe not perfect in shape like Changbin-ah’s are but if I can show you—”

Minho gets silent when his eyebrows are furrowed, he is looking down at the person he is carrying. It’s as if he is weighing his options. He parts his lips, his eyes find Seungmin who shakes his head to the left and to right.

In a way, it’s amusing to see him jutting his lips, eyes making gestures between the lump in his arms and Seungmin. As if asking, carry him Seungmin . 

“It’s not like I will strip, Kim Seungmin,” he defends himself with the biggest pout. “When did you see me commit public indecency?”

“The correct question is, when did I see you not ,” Seungmin gives Minho a sharp, piercing look, his expression tinged with unmistakable exhaustion. “And the answer is never , because you always get away thanks to me.”

“I will show you how wrong you are with those senseless accusations,” With his chin, Minho points out the sleeping figure between his arms. “You just have to carry him a bit.”

“Who is that?” It’s Jisung again. As noisy as ever. 

“Oh him? This is —“

“— he seems pretty exhausted already. Do we really want to wake him up?” Changbin cuts in when he senses where this conversation is heading. He doesn’t trust Minho nor does he want to get fined. “I mean,” he tries. ”if we shift him, we might disturb his sleep, which I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate.”

If he is not already dead, he thinks.  

“Don’t worry,” Minho chuckles with a look so sure. ”Yongbokkie here is not waking up any time soon.”

Maybe he is already dead, he thinks. 

Jisung squints his eyes, and scratches his cheeks. He looks a little unconvinced. So maybe , thinks Changbin. Maybe now he witnesses the truth about Minho firsthand.

Yet apparently the brat has other thoughts. “He must be a heavy sleeper,” he says. “Changbinnie hyung was so loud all this time, he didn’t even stir a bit.”

“I didn’t even open my mouth that much, you damn brat!”

The brat in question gives him a look. Changbin then recognizes he was indeed quite loud, just as Jisung had suggested. He promptly clamps his mouth shut, holding his hand over it. Like caught guilty. 

On the other hand, Minho is giggling like a little boy. “There, there Changbin-ah,” Minho seems unaffected, nor is he judgemental. He playfully nudges Changbin’s shoulders with his own. “Told you, he is not waking up anytime soon. It takes much more than that. Scream all you want, but he will stay asleep.” 

Then Minho starts belting out the opening lines of a cheesy love song, the person he's carrying remains completely motionless, not a hint of movement is there. 

Stars, save him. Isn't this an outright admission of murder? Or a declaration that he poisoned him, all without a trace of remorse?

“It’s just typical Yongbokkie, falling asleep in weird places and waking up in the medical ward because someone thinks he fainted. Or worse,” All knowingly, Minho gazes deep into Changbin’s eyes, his voice almost a whisper. “ they assume he is dead. ”

In hindsight, Changbin should have known better. That’s a threat , he thinks. Say something, and you are next.  

Jisung, however, chooses to give him the look . 

“What?” Changbin asks, fully aware that whatever resides within the younger's words is not intended for his own good. He must be a masochist, digging his own grave.

“Minho hyung is such a good hyung, taking care of this Yongbokkie person,” There is a twitch on Changbin’s eyebrows, born from betrayal. “Whenever I crash at yours, you kick me out!”

“It’s because you take up all the space!” Changbin can’t help himself. He feels cornered, he is not good at being cornered. “And you live like four rooms away from me, brat.”

“Do you see these dark circles, Minho hyung?” He doesn’t have any dark circles, they are all covered under the concealer if he is using any. “It’s because Changbin hyung doesn't let me sleep. He is a meanie hyung.”

“Sounds like someone I know very well, right Seungmin?” Minho casts a mischievous glance at Seungmin, one eyebrow arching in anticipation.

“I pray to the stars for the time I will get enough, undisturbed sleep.” Seungmin answers.

“I was talking about me , myself,” Minho huffs but it sounds more tired than usual. “Don’t try to steal my spotlight.”

“But are you really fine carrying him around like that, hyung?” Jisung looks concerned. “He doesn’t look heavy but still, it’s been a while in that same position…” 

An abrupt surge of determination blossoms within Changbin's heart, a sudden urge to prove himself to Jisung. “Maybe we should wake him up,” He suggests. If he can wake up at all, that is. “The brat is right for once, you can’t be comfortable like that Mr. L– Minho.”

Seugnmin clears his throat and cuts in before Minho can part his lips. “And that’s why it’s better we leave Mr. Lee ,” He continues after putting one hand on Minho’s shoulder as he speaks. Like he is the authority. “Lix and I need a proper sleep and we’ve already gathered enough attention.” 

“Don’t be rude, Seungmin.” Minho's mouth pulls down in a disappointed frown before he turns to face the taller one. “Changbin-ah and—“

“It’s Jisung,” The brat helps, too enthusiastic for his own good. 

“—and Jisungie here are my friends.” 

Seungmin glances at Changbin, then his gaze shifts back to Minho. His stare is unnerving as much as it is mocking. “ Your friends. ” he says dryly. 

“What, are you jealous Seungminnie?” Minho narrows his eyes at Seungmin. “Tell them we are friends Changbin-ah.”

Changbin feels like he's been placed on a silver tray, ready to be served as the main course for the dinner. He nervously parts his lips. “Uh we are…” he tries and ends up being miserable. “ …yeah . I guess?” 

There is a singular trait that is quite clear with Changbin, and that is he is a terrible liar. 

He sounds so unconvincing that silence stretches between them, into the long beats of thick air. Neither moves, neither dares to speak. Changbin watches everything around him with no words, already feeling awful. 

Minho sighs in defeat. “Right,” he shakes his head. “Can’t argue with the truth after all.” 

He is stepping away from Changbin and Jisung when he bids them farewell. “Goodbye you two,” Minho’s voice is devoid of any emotion, nothing like how he usually holds himself. It’s synthetic, heavy with disappointment. “Better find new friends.” 

Jisung waves his hand. Changbin does not. 

When they are out of sight he feels the younger’s gaze on him. Changbin knows it will be a long one. “Go on,” he encourages Jisung. 

“Honestly, from where I stand he seems like a genuinely sincere guy while there is you, who is awfully rude.” Jisung leans back and rests his back against the chair as he continues. “Why would you flirt with him if you are going to reject him in the end? That’s a low blow, hyung.” 

There are so many wrongs with Jisung’s sentences. But his brain picks the last one, he is as simple as that. So he says, “I was not flirting with him.” 

The brat sighs, like he’s the one who’s being terribly inconvenienced here. “Then what was ‘Even star tellers can’t guess the future that well Mr. Lee ’, huh? That was blatantly flirting hyung.” 

“I was trying not to be rude .“ Changbin purses his lips. “You know, because, who knows what he might do to me ? To you ?” 

“He might do to you? To me?“ Jisung rolls his eyes. “All the things considered he just called you sweet as a marshmallow and you took it as a threat? So what, are you scared of his teeth or something?” 

“Yes!” Changbin exclaims. “He is dangerous Sung, he called Ahn Sanghun a marshmallow too and look what happened to him.” 

This earns him a glare from Jisung. “That’s a pet name,” He explains, folding his arms across his chest. The bowl is already forgotten on the small coffee table between them. “A weird one, I admit, but he was very endeared to you. Maybe even with that Ahn something.” 

“Then what about ‘Yongbokkie’ ?” 

Jisung makes a face at him. “What about him?” 

“He was kidnapping him! In broad light!” Changbin waves a hand in the air, his frustration evident on his face. “Even Seungmin admitted they were gathering attention. Didn’t you see how quick he was to step in when I suggested waking him up?” 

Jisung ignores him. “I think you are delusional, hyung.” He speaks with an air of unwavering finality. “And I also think next time you see him, he deserves an apology.” 

The younger springs to his feet with an abrupt motion, swiftly collecting his belongings into his backpack.

“What are you doing?” Changbin asks, reaching out his hand towards Jisung's wrist, but the younger is swift in deflecting the gesture.

“Leaving, of course.” And without sparing a glance at Changbin, he turns his back and heads for the stairs.

“Hey!” Changbin yells from his back. “I’m your best friend, not that fucking psycho you’ve just met!” 

Jisung stops at the threshold. “And why do you think I’m telling you all of this?” he laughs but it’s bitter like he is offended.

Fuck , thinks Changbin. Jisung is probably offended.

And fuck , thinks Changbin again. Not only is Lee Minho a murderer, he is also a kidnapper who got in between his best friend.

.

.

.

.

Jisung’s weird behavior only makes sense later when the younger sends Changbin a new coffee machine upgrade link with winking face emoji, captioned with, “Ty ty ty the bestest hyung ever”. 

— 3 —

Bars at the space station cater to various occasions, offering diverse attractions. Themes are important, so are the current trends. The young has a tendency to follow what appears to be a game of collecting-stars, hopping from one bar to another, diligently following the given instructions. The rest has their own tastes; some prefer the scorching heat of nebulas and would dip in the little pools to cool off or get lighter, some other would grace themselves with a lightube , a classic, reminiscent of a train journey around the whole space station, then disappearing into the vast ocean of a starry blanket.

Changbin’s mood is off when he finds himself in what is called a hole . The crowd in the hole is cheering for the fighters, excited mantras on the tip of their tongues, bodies fluid like water, they move like one. Some boos there, another group is shouting an insult and occasionally all are extending their hands holding cups to the flying’tender, getting their refills of the game’s drink, Perlin Cider.

Changbin is not drinking that, he had his lesson before. His drink is a Spicy Skytini; one and a half ounces of vodka, one ounce of maraschino liqueur, lemon twist and cinnamon schnapps topped with ice and chrome chillies. A fancy choice, compared to his usual rock royales or buzzer beers. But it suits his sour mood. Very sour mood. 

He is half done with his drink when purple lights flicker on the top of his booth and biopetals of artificial decorations flutter in a like together. He suspects it's one of the bartenders, handing out bonbons whenever a winner rises. So he holds his hand to decline the gesture, as in to say he doesn’t need any sweets, as in to be left alone in his thoughts.

But what appears to be on his side and playing with his fingers is not a bartender. It is Lee Minho, very drunk, cheeks flushed with red and eyes half closed in haze. “Changbin-ah,” he slurs. “Can I sit?” 

Minho doesn't wait for Changbin's answer, he just sits across from him and eyes his drink very, very carefully. “What is that red thing?” and adds, “A taste, please pleasee?” 

His pout and big, dark eyes might seem adorable at first, that is if not Changbin has a lot on his plate and is already pissed. At something that has to do with the person in front of him. No, Changbin is not just pissed but now he is fuming with anger, a burning, bright red like his drink. 

But he keeps his cool, and ignores him. Sipping his drink, eyes fixed on the fighters hitting each other with a punch after a punch. Their half naked bodies on displays, and screens, Changbin is watching them giving into their rages. 

Minho, on the other hand, is like a cat on a hunt. “Changbin-aaaaah,” He tries again, voice persistent. “Lemme try it.” 

Changbin can be very stubborn when he wants to be, so he does not give in to him. Not an ounce of his attention is on Minho’s when the name in question stomps his feet to the ground and attempts to steal his drink in weak, uncoordinated moves.

“Where is Seungmin?” he asks finally, losing his facade. Maybe it is because his previous client looks too pitiful, like something weighted too heavy in his own body to regulate his autonomy in order to keep himself dignified. Like something that is vulnerable. ”You are too drunk.” 

Minho looks at him. “I don’t know any Seungmins,” he dares to say. “Who are you talking about?” 

“What?” 

“Kidding,” Minho is giggling, body slumping forward in rhythms, the metal around the hem of his shirt hitting the edge of the table, each time with an annoying cling! cling! “He must be somewhere there. Making sure nothing happens to me.” 

He is waving his fingers to the crowd, eyes narrowed like he is determined to find Seungmin, lips moving in small, “Not him, not there, no, not Seungmin, ” he repeats, mostly to himself, giggling each heart beat. 

“That doesn’t cover you being drunk as fuck I guess,” Changbin savors a gulp from his glass, letting the flavors linger on his tongue. It stays burning on his tongue, but it is sweet as in his lips are moving to catch another sip. Maybe , he thinks. Seungmin hates dealing with his ass while Minho is drunk. Changbin can respect that. 

It takes three heart beats for Minho to turn his face, and once he is doing that then it takes another three heart beats for him to place his head between his palms. Each time was his pitiful attempt to keep his elbows secure on table, but each time one gave in to the pressure, and he slipped, sending his upper body forward in a sudden, uncomfortable motion. 

“Oh I’m sure it says something like that…” He looks lost for a moment, innocent akin to a small child when he manages to keep himself still. “But we don’t exactly have a normal employer and employee relationship.” 

Yet that innocence is gone in a beat.

A mischievous glint dances in Minho's eyes as his fingertips hover tantalizingly close to the glass, almost brushing against Changbin's. His elbows bearing the weight of his entire frame, he leans in. “Why?” Sultry tones lace through his voice. “You want to trade places with him? With your… ” He eyes Changbin, gaze directed at his arms but doesn’t touch, no. “ …strong arms , when I’m helpless and in need, will you protect me Changbin-ah?”

Changbin swiftly snatches his drink away from Minho, downing the remaining spicy liquid in a single gulp. “So you really have no shame huh?” Murderer or not, he sees red. ”Is it because of money? You think you are better than me to belittle my work?” 

That stills Minho, in the oddest way. His lips part, like he is unsure. Like he doesn’t understand where his sudden outburst finds a surface. ”I guess you were not joking when you implied we were not friends…”  Minho averts his eyes. Changbin, however, doesn’t think he is that naive. “I thought maybe it was because you were shy and maybe I reacted too much and—“ 

“Fuck off,“ Good thing he already paid his drink because Changbin is leaving.  “You sent your minions after me, and dare to play the victim here?” 

“What minions?” 

He'd have no part in Minho's wicked, hypocritical game, no more. There's a threshold to how much he'll ignore, how much he succumbs before his pride won't allow him to compromise any further. “Ask your Hyunjin ,” Changbin spats venom. “Ask him what he did at the crematorium. But you already know, don’t you?” 

Changbin couldn't care less about whatever Minho might spout. He rises, snatches his jacket, realizing the whole 'hole' idea was a mistake. He should have just stuck to drinking in his own room, shielded from further ridicule and whatever stars planned to throw at his feet. 

Before he can step further, Minho grabs his wrist, then with his other hand, he presses his fingers into the fabric in a tight grip. “Don’t go please,” he mutters in panic, using his whole body mass to prevent Changbin from walking away. “I-I can explain…” 

Yeah, that. Changbin doesn’t give shit about that. 

But in the haze of drunkenness, Minho's strength proved deceptive. The current circumstance locked Changbin in place, his previous client glued himself to Changbin’s back with an unyielding grip. With each pulse, the grip tightened, heavier with weight, yet it never pulled Changbin nearer, never expending that energy for more than enough.

In a way, it is scary . Changbin is no stranger to training, but he knows little about self defense techniques, a little about having an opponent across from him. This realization prompts a recollection about who Minho is, what their current engagement entails.

Then dawned the realization of inquisitive eyes upon them, some tinged with amusement, others harboring a keener interest in the potential escalation of a conflict between the two, overshadowing the happenings within the confines of the hole.

Changbin sighs. It is a weary one. 

He settles back down, his form aligning seamlessly with the autoshaped curve of the seat's back, a customized contour molded to accommodate his body form. Then the screen attached to the table pulses in purple once he touches it, he orders two Cloud Punches with no alcohol.

“Explain,” he demands, crossing his arms in front of him. 

“I never told him to visit you,” Minho manages to look guilty, eyes fixed on his fingertips. “But I might have bad-mouthed about you behind your back…” 

“And that was enough for him to fuck with me?” 

“That sounds like Hyunjinnie, yes,” Minho extends his pinky. “I don’t know what he has done, but I will put him in a heating unit for 600 heartbeats and record him saying sorry.” 

But Changbin doesn’t laugh nor does he accept his pinky. 

“Sorry, that wasn’t funny right? I was just…” Minho trails off, for the first time ever since their paths crossed he looks genuinely struggling finding his words. “What did he do?“ He asks in a small voice. 

“You really don’t know?” Changbin is determined to be sure of the truth from the man seated across from him. He studies every movement, the lines on his face, the subtleties of his posture. Chan says he is natural at reading people, peering beyond the facade of their falsehoods. Changbin doesn’t know, not when he is with Minho, not when he is always toying with him. 

But there is something sincere when Minho shakes his head to the right and to the left. He looks small, a vulnerability that strips away his usual defenses. So he opens his mouth. “Not only did he somehow forged a death certificate,” he starts, “he brought a box full of mannequin parts.” 

It was unnerving, what Changbin had to go through. Not a beat went without him dreading accompanying every moment with Hyunjin and his overpowering expensive fragrance, his overwhelming existence, since he entered the crematorium. Adorned in an excess of jewelry, no bare skin visible amidst the opulent stones, he exuded an aura, silent yet judgmental, belittling, akin to a predator toying with its prey.

“Are these really authentic?” Hyunjin asked, then added a voice full of accusation. “How can I make sure you don’t steal?” 

People were rude, Changbin was familiar with the rude. So he explained, that the boxes were sealed with a code, a lock he was not permitted to breach without the presence of the proper authority. His protocol involved perusing the accompanying certificate, ferrying the box to a specialized apparatus for calculations of carbon density, acidity levels, and the residual weight of any minerals. Subsequently, guided by the generated report, he would transfer the box to a distinct enclosed mechanism, either for waste disposal or to allow it to mature until the desired state. Only then would he introduce the box into the final machine, commencing the process.

Hyunjin's words sliced through the air, a touch too gleeful. ”So, you're just a decoy, a liability here?” he chimed, the mirth evident in his tone. ”Say I buy this place, swap you out with another machine, program it to carve tiny fragments of diamond at each stage. I'd rake in a fortune, wouldn't I? After all, the diamond's dimensions are speculative, according to your explanation.”

“As by law,” Changbin tried to maintain his composure. The rich, he thought. They will die one day, too. “we are obliged to record every step through security cameras.”

Hyunjin laughed at his face. “Money buys everything,” he said. “My money buys that person inside the box. My money buys his remains. And my money buys him red , Mr Seo Changbin. Just as you did with a previous client.” He sauntered towards the door. “But don’t worry, my money will stay away from the so called records, consider it my good nature because you entertained me very well.” 

“Imagine this,” Changbin starts as a flying’tender places their non-alcoholic Cloud Punches on the table. “I ignored his straight up obnoxious ass, and brought the box to the machine and everything started alerting because something was obviously wrong. The data didn’t match, because given what was inside of fucking course they didn’t.” 

Minho's mouth releases a near-curse, but Changbin presses on. “I called the guards, because what else was expected of me? Big mistake,” He notices his grip on the glass tightening. “Apparently he was merely ’ a skeptical citizen checking if everything was proceeding as it should .’ Not a fucking nepo baby, yeah yeah. At least they didn’t offer me hush money, I’ll give him that.” 

The older shifts restlessly in his seat, appearing entirely sober by now. His drink is untouched. “What he did was… unacceptable to say at least,” Minho sighs, weariness stripping away any remnants of his once proud and scheming self. “He usually is never like that, you should see how sweet—“

“Save it,” Changbin interjects sharply. “The last thing I need to hear is someone defending him.” 

“I’m not,” Minho says truthfully. “Trust me, I’m not. But I’m equally sorry as well. Because it is my fault in the end.” 

Seeing Minho as small as now, without any attempt to cover his guilt, the openness he is willing to share with him is new and it leaves Changbin at a loss. He's more accustomed to the elder's flirtatious glances, commanding posture, or the cryptic aura veiling his half-disclosed sentences. 

There is none of it now. 

Minho doesn't even shy away from making eye contact, yet his gaze carries a weight of remorse. If Changbin were to admit it to himself, he'd notice that Minho is earnestly seeking a suitable approach to apologize, if allowed the chance. As if he is sincere. 

But perhaps, he thinks. It is too early to put him there. 

So Changbin clears his throat and takes a sip from his drink. He prefers to have what they had before, to a certain degree. “I didn’t know you had it in yourself to be sorry,” he says. There is no bite in his tone. Playful even. 

It proves effective as Minho, finally, lifts his own drink to his lips, responding, "You simply don't know much about me yet, Changbin-ah." His face lights up as he savors the flavor of the Cloud Punch. “Oh, this is really good,” 

“Pretty sure nothing like your fancy stuff,” Changbin challenges.

“Not really,” Minho answers, taking another sizable sip. "Unless there's an expectation for me to fit in at events, I’m mostly a rock royale or a buzzer beer type.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah, I like simplicity.” 

Changbin eyes him very carefully. Across all their three encounters, he hadn't witnessed Minho clad in anything particularly extravagant; always black head to toe, no jewelry except a belt or silver linings around the hem of shirt, nothing else. Rather it was how he carried himself in the crowds or his looks that drew eyes in.

Yet.

“But I take it you didn't just drown yourself with buzzer beers or rock royales tonight to get this much drunk, right?” Unless he drank more than usual, both has less alcohol than anything else on the counter. 

Minho shields his face behind his blue drink. Appearing embarrassed at being called out. Changbin senses a hint of triumph buzzing in his insides. "I may have gone a bit too far today, considering," the older confesses in a soft tone, pausing momentarily as if on the verge of letting something slip. "...Seungmin is here with me," he concludes instead. 

“But you were drunk and alone, without him to look after you, weren’t you?” 

It is one of those looks, the mischievous one tinged with annoyance that finds surface whenever Seungmin says something that does not favor his ways. Changbin finds courage to press on, then. “And you also don’t know what his job covers…” 

“How can I know?” Minho whines, shoulders slumped, face casted downwards, lips jutting. “I never asked for such a thing, but when you are in my shoes, it turns out you don’t have any choices.” 

“Why? Do you suck so much taking care of yourself that you need a babysitter to attend to you all the time?” It’s a bait. He feels comfortable enough to poke Minho’s secrets, to get the word out that he is not entirely what he seems. Because he's curious about the extent to which he can push boundaries.

“I’ll have you know that I don’t,” Minho says. “But I understand their point, it is dangerous. The life I’m living I mean.” 

Changbin raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you already a part of the danger itself at least?” 

Must be why he needs Seungmin all the time. Either his babysitter or bodyguard, maybe both. 

“Oh, you think I’m dangerous Changbin-ah,” With his elbow firmly planted on the table and one hand cradling the weight of his head, Minho leans in close, very very close . Yet, he withdraws abruptly, disappointment now evident upon the lines on his face. “Don't flatter me like that,” he mumbles. “I get all blushy blushy inside then you crush my dreams.”

“I didn’t do such a thing.” Changbin defends himself. 

“You did,” Minho replies, his pout growing more evident each beat, even tangling with his words. ”I was miserable, cried even. Boo .”

Changbin is skeptical. “You don't strike me as a crying type Mr. Lee.”

“Minho. ” 

“Right, Minho .”

“And that’s right, I’m not,” Minho finishes his drink and starts playing with the glass, shaking the remaining ice until they spill over the table. Then he draws little stars with the melting ice. “But I did cry because of you.” He mumbles, voice not higher than a whisper. 

What the heck? 

Changbin is left perplexed. Given Minho's history, it must be another trap. Perhaps the entire setup, beginning with Hyunjin's visit to his workplace, leading up to Minho's display of humility and authenticity, all was laid upon himself as a game of deceit. But instead he says, “That makes no sense.” 

With a swift flick of his finger, Minho sends crushed ice skidding across the table toward Changbin. It hits and leaves wet traces across his tshirt. “Don't call my tears senseless,” he pouts. ”they had their reasons.”

“And that is…?” 

Minho sends more ice in Changbin’s direction until none is left, and then he shrugs in frustration. He is out of ammo. “How can I know?” he asks. “You made me cry, ask it to yourself.” 

He looks cute, all worked up and ready to attack in tiny. 

Oh no.

No, not even close, Minho is not cute. Changbin is just tired. Yeah, that. 

He follows with, “I never made anyone else cry before, so I have no idea either.” 

“Don’t lie to me.” Minho doesn’t look convinced but that is the truth. 

“Unless you count kindergarten, I was pulling Jisung’s hair all the time.” Because he was jealous that Jisung had long hair, while his was curly and short. It ended shortly after the girls in his class showed more appreciation towards his own, then he made a cease with Jisung. 

“You are lying because I have proof,” Minho is showing himself with his index finger, almost too proud for crying. But he is weird, Changbin can give him that. “Why do you think Hyunjin made it his mission to hunt you? That must be what prompted him, he never saw me cry before.” 

That might have clarified his interaction with Hyunjin, had he known him earlier. However, the mere mention of Hyunjin's name is enough to sour Changbin's mood —he scoffs, as if having swallowed something unpleasant and repulsive.

Minho’s feather like touch is on his wrists, it is very brief, and not demanding but enough for him to notice. “No more of him,” he whispers, almost apologetic. “But two rock royales, ok?” 

“I didn't know I made you cry,” Changbin confesses after Minho orders their drinks.

“Don’t worry about that,” Minho replies, seemingly dismissing its significance. "Not everyone is as quick to warm up; I get that. And that’s why we should…” A mischievous twinkle gleams in his eyes, casting a youthful charm easily. “ask each other questions.” 

Changbin stops sipping his drink and looks at Minho. “What questions?”

Minho snatches his drink with a sly wink, and empties everything in one gulp. But before Changbin can judge him for his actions, he finds his rock royale in front of him. He’s just had enough alcohol in his system with two Spicy Skytinis earlier, but the candy sweetness of the sparkling liquid is nothing close to skytini’s mixed aroma. Rock royale is cheap and leaves a raw, long lasting taste after each sip. 

So he decides to enjoy his drink. Few beats of comfortable silence between them is nice as it is, until Minho finishes savoring his own rock royale. “You know,” he continues from where they left off. “the general get to know questions?” 

Changbin licks his lips. “How do you know I want to know more about you?” 

“Everybody wants to know more about me, and I know you do too Changbin-ah.” There is a hint of teasing in his voice, eyes dark and gaze too intense on him. 

It is true , Changbin thinks. He is curious about Lee Minho, but not for the reasons Minho thinks. Or so he believes. 

“I will start,” Minho says, his amusement never diminishing. “Do you own any pets?” 

Not any close to questions he has been expecting but he just shrugs and sets his drink down. “I had a flying void rock when I was little, if it is anything.” 

"I had those too!" Minho's eyes glimmer with delight, his voice slightly elevated in excitement as he recounts, “Used to stick some color balloons on top of them, and when they hit something it burst into a spectrum of colors. Everywhere was either pink or blue, sometimes red, sometimes green,” Changbin’s eyes widen in return. “Mum, of course, hated them but with Yongbokkie by my side, everything turned out just fine in the end."

“I don’t know whether I should be impressed or not,” Changbin wets his lips. “But my mum would have my head if I were to do such a thing.” 

“Mine did too, but I was just as stubborn.” 

“What about you?” asks Changbin, then. “Any new flying rocks?” 

“No, not flying rocks,” There is fondness in Minho’s tone when he looks away very, very proud. “But I have three cats. Soonie, Doongie and Dori. They are my babies.” 

Cats . Lee Minho has cats.

Cats cost a fortune. Changbin shifts trying to digest that Minho is able to afford not one but three cats. 

He doesn’t say anything but his stare must be enough because Minho pokes against his fingers gripping the rock royale glass. “Don't look at me like that,” he murmurs. “I actually adopted them.”

That gives nothing to Changbin. He blinks hard. Imagines three cats from the documentaries and from the earth museum. 

Minho giggles while sipping his drink like a cat himself in tiny licks. Then Changbin thinks, his sharp and pointy eyes, his whole demeanor and playfulness, hard to get aura all resembles a cat. 

“I did my studies in one of the earth preservation stations.” Minho starts explaining after a short while. “That’s how I found them, or maybe Soonie found me first and introduced me to Doongie during our little trips,” Minho tilts his cheek into the cradle of his palm, elbow propped against the table, and shuts his eyes, seemingly to reminisce about that time. He looks serene, his expression adorning a sincere smile. “Then I saw an ad for Dori, and that’s how I got him.” 

For the first time, Changbin shares a smile with him. Minho can’t see it, as his eyes are closed but Changbin smiles and pictures him with his cat, then himself with his cats. It does stir a weird sensation in his chest, one that he knows yet would prefer not to name, no. 

“They must be adorable,” he replies instead and watches Minho nodding his head in delight, murmuring something in acknowledgement. “What did you study in uni?” 

That steals away the light on Minho’s face, but he is quick to gain his senses. He opens his eyes slowly. “What I did had nothing to do with earth studies,” he says as if there's some deeper meaning Changbin is meant to gather from beneath his words. Yet it never comes. “It was meteor engineering. Then I moved with artificially extracted fuels and space relationships for my masters.”

“Shit, you are smart.” Chanbin’s eyes are huge and round, lips forming an ‘o’ in surprise.

“Not really, just had time and money.” Minho shrugs, his expression unreadable yet nothing close to bragging. 

The mood feels off somehow.

“What about me?” Changbin asks. There is a pause on Minho’s end, hands going for his drink stills. “What do you think I studied?” 

“Hmmmmmm,” starts the other, dragging the ’mmm’s as much as he can in one breath. That brings out a concerned, determined face and cuts through the weird shift between them. Everything sounds normal once again when Minho answers with, “Acting out isn’t gonna work out, I already know you graduated from biochemistry.” 

How he obtained that specific information is beyond Changbin's understanding. He assumes that someone with connections to Hyunjin likely has the capacity to gather additional details effortlessly. That, however, doesn’t mean he will take it lightly that his privacy is breached. 

But Minho is quick to read his thoughts, or must be, because he continues, “Diamond crematoriums employ biochemists, I know that much. It was a safe assumption.”

“So you didn’t do any background checks on me?” His lips are pressed tightly together. 

“No, I didn’t.” answers Minho in a firm voice. 

“Not even Seungmin? What about your Hyun—“

“I said I didn’t,” Minho presses his fingernails into the glass surface of his rock royale, drawing an uncomfortable sound. A spasm of emotion crosses his face. Drops his gaze to the ground. Bites his lips. “Is it that impossible for you to believe me?” 

There is a plea there, almost desperate as much as it is exhausted. Changbin feels awful, maybe this was what Jisung meant before. He reaches out and takes Minho’s hand between his palms. That gets the other’s gaze on him once again. “Sorry,” he says. “That came out quite harsh, didn’t it?” 

Minho nods but remains quiet. 

“I know you are trying your best here…” Changbin trails off when he gets unsure if that’s what Minho is trying to achieve, if he is reading between the lines right. 

“…but I have a history?” finishes Minho for him instead, voice meek and tired. 

“Kind of,” He is still keeping Minho’s hand between his, and he doesn’t let it go. He tightens it once, to let him know he is not holding any grudges, that he understands, that he is sorry. 

He refrains from acknowledging the growing warmth within his heart, avoiding any mention of the way his heart somersaults and throbs with a sensation that closely resembles longing.

Changbin even keeps it away from himself, instead lets it happen. It feels delicate, scary even. 

Minho hums, his gaze is searching for something until it falls on their connected hands. He pulls back slightly, but their fingertips still touch, still together. He seems relaxed. “Your turn,” he prompts. 

Slowly coming back to himself, Changbin realizes Minho is offering peace to him, in his usual very sudden way. He is smiling at him, careful and hesitant. 

Changbin smiles back. 

It grows between them into something slow but steady. 

So he goes back to the question, to safer territories.

Possibilities are bottomless with what Minho asked, Changbin can question his choice of actions, whether he had any connection to Ahn Sanghun’s death, Yongbokkie’s unlikely neverending sleep, if his hand touched something and painted it red. 

He does not. 

Changbin collects the silence stretching around and weaves it carefully, he lulls the familiar playfulness into words as he accepts the encouragement Minho gives him. So he asks, “Ok, what the heck is a marshmallow type then?”

Minho laughs, it is effortless and resembles jasmine kissed breezes they launch at the sky rooms during festivals. “Sorry, should have expected that given whenever I called you that the most hilarious expressions appeared on your face.”

Changbin pouts, lips turning downwards, cheeks puffed. 

“That one, yeah,” Minho continues giggling. “Well ‘marshmallow type’ means,” he says, “you are soft . But not only as in how you look, also as in you are kind, inside and out.” 

“So nothing close to implying I am an easy target…?” There's that lilt in Changbin’s voice, the one that he uses when he's trying just a little too hard to appear offended. 

“No, none of that Changbin-ah. Not even close, ” Minho speaks with no boundaries, words rolling from his lips with a sincerity he is not afraid to hide. But for his next breath, his smile dies a little. It is fear he shares with Changbin when he parts his lips with more meaning than before, “Tell you what,” he whispers. “ I happen to like marshmallow types .”

Changbin grows quiet, Minho’s confession falls heavy that he can’t name it in his heart. It is nothing he can brush aside with a laugh, with a smart remark. Because a warmth blooms in his chest, although the silence drags on, and he can dance around the subject until it lands on something safe, there is enough evidence it is not nothing. If he is true to himself. 

“You can tell me if I’m being too much,” Minho mumbles softly. But Changbin can see him hunching his shoulders into himself, uncertain and hesitant. ”I don't want to mess up again.”

“No,” Compared to Minho’s unsure demeanor, Changbin’s answer comes quick and firm, in a fashion even he catches himself off guard. “you are not being too much, I think… I think I enjoy it? ” 

Minho raises one skeptical eyebrow but the tips of his ears turn reddish each passing beat. Closing his eyes, he flops back against the seating. Or almost flops back, because when Changbin laces their fingers together, he stops. 

“And I mean it,” Changbin says. Minho’s face breaks into a half smile, hesitation lingering in his eyes, coupled with the silence that restrains his words. So he tries his best with, “Oh for fucks sake,” and then, “Where did all of your, ‘I’m so unforgettable and I know it and I will use it to end you Changbin-ah’ went huh? Where is that confidence right now?” 

Minho twists his lips and narrows his feline-like eyes. It is fun to challenge Minho, Changbin realizes because that seems to always work for him; puts him in line, brings his personality back in an instant. “Well, excuse me if someone has been playing with my heart as if it is a toy but not a fragile work of art,” Minho snaps, although he looks amused more than agitated. “But I’m internally screaming here.” 

“I doubt it is a fragile work of art,” The look he receives shuts him up, sending chills to his spine. 

“You know what?” Minho starts, beaming, and Changbin knows from the tone of his voice and the smirk that appears on face, whatever is coming next, it is a bad idea. “I will not subject myself to this misery.” 

If Changbin is confused at first, then when he registers the shriek-like scream in front of him, he mentally face palms himself. Minho is on his feet, gathering ridiculous amount of attention and complaints. Some regard him with a mix of pity and amusement, akin to how they might perceive drunkards, while others appear horrified, as if mere meters away people are not punching each other for money. 

Changbin chooses to groan, a loud one. He attempts to stop him but Minho slaps his hands away. Until he is out of breath, he screams, screams and screams. Changbin hides himself behind his jacket. 

It is Seungmin who actually puts it to an end. He doesn’t even question, he simply casts a glance at peeking Changbin and releases a sigh. “The manager wants you out,” he explains. “And I’m not gonna deal with the consequences if he calls the guards.” 

“You kill all of my joy Seungminnie,” Minho replies, voice hoarse from screaming nonstop. “Try screaming for once, heard it is a good practice for fun sponges.” 

“Just move, please.” But when Minho waits for Changbin, Seungmin and he exchange a prolonged, silent gaze that culminates with Seungmin rolling his eyes in exasperation. He guides them to a back door with no questions asked. 

Once they are outside and the fresh air registers in his lungs, Changbin moves away to a corner to give Minho and Seungmin space. From where he stands, he tilts his head to one side as he studies Minho carefully. Minho is frowning, pursing his lips and then rolling his eyes. The street lights illuminate his face half in purples and muted yellows, the colors moving within the lines on his features as he is talking. The edges between the shadows and the light are not harsh nor sharp, but rather gentle and seamlessly merge, making him look soft despite his seemingly upset posture.

When Minho turns his face, he catches Changbin staring. A tiny, mischievous grin has his lips go upward slightly and in a few beats, he is no longer talking to Seungmin. “Sorry, scolding time,” He is wetting his lips while reaching forward to nudge Changbin playfully with his shoulders. “According to Seungmin, I was being a menace, which I disagree.” 

“How unpredictable of him to say such a thing,” Changbin joins him. 

“You were supposed to say I was delightful, Changbin-ah,” Minho clicks his tongue in disappointment and rests his back against a ball gummy gacha machine. “And did you know, the law forbids you from screaming as you like? Ridiculous.”

The conversation from their prior encounter about public indecency arises in Changbin's thoughts. He understands Seungmin's implications now but chooses to withhold his what he thinks. Instead, he finds himself amused, witnessing Minho's dramatic antics, that is. “Maybe you should take the crown and initiate a reform,” Changbin says. “Because if you disrupt the public order, you will be fined for starters,” Changbin knows, he was fined for being too loud more than he can count. “or will spend some time in jail.”

If Changbin notices a hint of agitation on Minho's face, he interprets it as a simple distaste for the concept of being held against his will in a prison cell or any form of legal restrictions that might hinder his freedom. 

“Good thing that I can never be jailed then.” Minho answers with certainty, although looking down.

“And how is that possible,” Changbin starts, crowding Minho’s personal space while the corners of his lips quirking upwards. “What are you, someone untouchable?”

“Ever heard of blackmailing Changbin-ah?” Minho points out, too proud for such a concept. “I’m great at that.”

Neither of them hear Seungmin’s footsteps coming closer, yet his presence speaks volume when he stops near Minho. Compared to the two, he looks put together, though a faint trace of alcohol smell is hard to not notice. “The neuron mobile is here,” he declares.

“If you haven’t noticed, we are still talking,” Minho grumbles. Sighs heavily, obviously annoyed. 

“I’m aware,” Seungmin says and he stares intently at Minho, something in his eyes that Changbin hasn’t quite learnt yet to read out loud. It is their silent conversation of sorts, one that leaves Changbin out.

Changbin is annoyed too.

Minho turns to him, he looks defeated. “And if I ever fail at that,” he mumbles. “Seungmin is better at blackmailing than me, as you can see.” 

Jaw clenching, biting his lips, Changbin realizes what he feels is disappointment. He understands why, there was a faint expectation that had sprouted in his mind, albeit cautiously and centered around Minho and despite his wariness, Changbin had not dismissed it outright.

"It's alright," Changbin attempts to reassure Minho, but a tinge of frustration creeps into his tone, his voice carries more irritation than he anticipates. “He seems scary.” 

“I’m sorry,” There’s a brief pause, then Minho exhales as if he is going to say something but Seungmin interferes again. 

“Mr. Seo, I understand this rather comes out as rude, but we need to take our leave,” For once, Seungmin’s stoic expression changes into something akin to genuine apology when he faces Changbin. “If it was up to me, I’d happily be giving you some more time for goodbyes but stars don’t favor us right now.” 

A beep resonates through the air, and Seungmin swiftly strides toward the neuron mobile, covering his mouth with his hand to muffle the contents of the conversation.

When Minho parts his lips, Changbin is quick to interrupt him. “You don’t have to apologize,” he asserts. “And you better leave, before causing more problems for him.” 

“Are you upset with me?” asks Minho anyways, with no inclination to start moving. 

“No,” Changbin mumbles. “Not to you, at least.”

But he is confused. And frustrated. 

What cuts his thoughts is a faint brush of lips against his cheek, then he registers Minho has just kissed him. Realization has his eyes widen, he is taken aback, but it is not unwelcomed. His heart rate increases when he finds enough courage to hold his gaze to Minho’s. A small, sad yet sincere smile resides there. 

It does things to his stomach. 

And his heart .

“I’ll see you again?” Minho asks, hopeful. 

When Changbin nods, Minho takes a few steps backwards without turning his back. A beat follows, then another, Minho has to turn back, and a few more beats later he disappears into the neuron mobile with no words exchanged. 

Changbin takes Minho’s position, his back against the ball gum gacha, watches the neuron mobile leave with purple and green lights engulfing its surroundings. It makes a whistling sound, just for a moment, and instantly it is gone. 

He sighs, his heart heavy where it resides, holding something close to hope that leaves Changbin in fear rather than solace. 

Lee Minho , he thinks and remembers how angry he had become because of him.

Lee Minho , he thinks and remembers his feline-like sharp gaze staring into his soul with mischief yet equally fondness.

Lee Minho , he thinks and remembers the fragile vulnerability he found courage to show with no walls in between. 

Lee Minho , Changbin thinks, is many things. Maybe not a murderer, not a kidnapper anymore. Maybe he is both. Maybe he is also a blackmailer, given the information he revealed. 

Lee Minho is many things , yet Changbin thinks he is not as bad as he pictured him before. 

— 4 —

Medical wards are provided free of charge and are easily accessible to everyone, typically maintaining a consistent structure and equipment across the areas they serve. Citizens of the station are mandated to undergo checkups with a general practitioner every 180,000,000 heartbeats. 

Changbin is late. 

To his right lies Kepler Park, the shortcut to the screening venue of his beloved anime ‘Magical Girl Himari-chan’. Heart brimming with anticipation, he clutches his cherished Himari-chan wristwatch charm. They will let me in , he thinks as if his entire world hinges on this belief.

They will , he thinks once more. I will see Himari-chan. 

It is comically pitiful the situation Changbin finds himself in. His one-two-three card’s servers are down, a heavy burden of an unshakable headache has been his unwelcome companion since he opened his eyes and now, amidst everything, his feet betray him, sending him crashing to the ground. His cherished Himari-chan collectibles, an array of vibrant colors and sparkling glitters, spills onto the pavement when the impact shatters the glass part of her Moon Justice Staff. Swollen and aching, his throat silences his cry of dismay, leaving only a faint, muffled gasp to escape his lips.

The cruel stars throw unfortunate events at his feet, but a kind stranger is helping him to get up. When Changbin comes to his senses, he sees the stranger picking his things from the ground, putting everything in his arms with a huge smile that reminds him of the so called sun. 

“Thank you,” Changbin's lips curve in a sheepish smile, concealing the lingering ache that persists throughout his entire body. “You are a lifesaver.”

“Himari-chan would have never forgiven me if I didn’t help you,” the stranger says, radiating warmth and peace. “Although I am equally late to where I have to be.” 

“Shit,” Changbin lets out and in a moment of panic he covers his mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to curse but fuck —“ 

The sunshine guy is laughing, eyes turning into two crescent moons in doing so. It is a warm one, one that makes Changbin feel at home, at ease and not like he is in a hurry to catch his show’s screening. 

"Don't worry about it," his lifesaver grins, smoothing out the wrinkled fabric of his attire in an attempt to make it appear more presentable. "I should probably head off before Miss Song scolds me for being late yet again, though."

The radiant hero gives a wink before waving his hand, promptly flagging down a passing one-two-three mobile and catching it in an instant. Changbin watches him in awe, in his eyes he thinks, what a pretty person that stranger is. 

What he initially overlooks is that he verbalizes that thought.

And that he is not alone, no.

“Why were you flirting with Yongbokkie, Changbin-ah?” comes Minho’s unexpected voice out of nowhere. Changbin can’t even comprehend what is happening to him, he remains frozen in place, his senses dull and he tenses up. The next moment, the ground is shaking then it is slipping and he is falling. 

Minho’s steady grip on his arm stills and prevents him from the crash. “Maybe I should have let you fall,” Minho remarks bitterly. “Because how dare you cheat on me! And with Yongbokkie out of everyone you could’ve picked!” 

Startled, Changbin jerks away in alarm, causing the Himari-chan merchandise he had collected from Yongbok to tumble from his grip and smash against the floor once more.

However, there's more than just his physical grasp slipping away from Minho. His vision darkens abruptly, followed by an intense, violent shaking of everything around him. He barely registers Minho's voice calling his name before his consciousness fades away entirely. 

There, Changbin’s gone, his world slipping into nothing but darkness.

***

An expansive black ocean of galaxies, punctuated by scattered splotches of muted yellows and reds, echoes faint rhythmic beeps somewhere along. The air remains devoid of any discernible scent, lacking the fragrance of florals or the inviting aroma of newly baked pie.

Ever so slowly, his senses trickle back, his existence more concrete than an abstract idea as he breathes in and out, as he swallows, as his fingernails trace lines upon his skin.

He wakes up, yet his eyelids serve as shrouds, concealing what to behold and what to veil, yet he lingers. He contemplates, he roams within the confines of his own flesh, piecing together who he is and what deeds he's wrought. Amidst this, he discerns an absence of ache, a pain he remembers against and in his skin. No more the persistent discomfort of the throbbing headache that once plagued him, no more he feels the annoying sensation of a swollen throat that tethered his peace.

Changbin opens his eyes. Blinks. Once. Twice. 

Then he remembers what has happened, how he found himself in the weakest he has ever been. 

Someone squeezes his hand, gentle, almost absent but it seeps through the tranquil stillness. He turns his face, slowly because the dizziness is eager and hungry. It is Minho who welcomes him, Minho and his shy of a small smile, that gradually shines upon the lines of his lips with each heartbeat. 

“Welcome back,” he whispers. “How do you feel?” 

Changbin takes his time. Awful , because the vulnerability of his consciousness slipping away against his will leaves him crippled with a void in his memory. Better compared to when he woke up, because his muscles no longer ache with exhaustion or surprise him with dull, persistent throbs.

He picks the latter. “Better than before.” 

“Good,” Minho sighs in content. “I was really scared, didn’t know what to do.” 

Minho helps him into a sitting position, each step gentler and slower than before and pours him water. “You had a fever,” he explains, voice soft, like lullabies, like talking to a little child. “The doctors did their things,” Meaning they gave him medication and put him in the UV unit for 2400 heartbeats. “and it stopped your fever.” 

To ensure, Minho edges closer. Changbin's dizzy mind anticipates a kiss, reminiscent of the one shared before, playing the scene out once more. Yet, this time, as Minho inches within a breath's reach, it's not lips that touch Changbin's forehead but Minho's hand. It lingers there, a beat, and another one. But no more than necessary. 

“Still no fever.” Minho announces in tiny, unaware of Changbin’s disappointment.

“Isn’t that expected?” It comes out less than content, tinged with a lingering frustration that takes Minho by surprise. 

“Yeah, of course,” Minho says reluctantly, although he seems to be dismissing it. Concerned but still with a soft voice, he continues. “I kept thinking maybe you fainted because I startled you, but Seungmin said you were probably sick before. I’ve just made it worse.”

Changbin chooses not to offer false reassurances, because that would be a lie. But he himself did play a bigger role, in his recklessness and lack of attention to his health that is. 

But sometimes , he thinks. Withering is unavoidable. We desire, we hope, we wander and we get lost.  

He feels lost, he feels dizzy. The world around him consumes him. 

The places his mind wanders and touches and a familiar discontent dissolves into his thoughts, cutting through where he’s lost, and takes his hand. 

Ah. He remembers. He remembers his unease for medical wards. His unhappiness with loneliness. 

But Minho is with me, he thinks.

But Minho wasn’t with me , he thinks once more. 

Changbin parts his lips but his voice proves to be unnecessary as a nurse enters through the sliding door, shifting the focus away from the need for words. 

Minho settles into the seat beside the bed as the nurse tends to the body monitor, directing routine questions at Changbin. With a series of button presses, the machine emits answers. It feels like a dream, the robotic voice calculates everything about him and his body, putting them in binaries. There Changbin is a number, a series of codes. No emotions, no wills, no future. 

He feels alone in a big vast ocean. 

He never saw an ocean. Never dipped in one even. 

Changbin finds himself wheeled through dimly illuminated corridors, navigating turns until they halt in front of a room he recalls with a sense of discontent. He doesn’t remember when they took him out of bed, or when they put him in an automatic patient transfer unit. He only remembers the big, endless ocean. 

The doctor is inside, extending a stern yet reassuring gaze as she welcomes them. "It's nothing serious, despite your boyfriend's concern," she remarks. "However, it's advisable to stay here until your body fully recovers." 

The nurse helps him to the tubular unit, and straps his wrists and ankles. He puts ointment on his pulse points and plugs cables around his body. Changbin is silent, his mind repeating the doctor’s line, your boyfriend, your boyfriend, your boyfriend…  

He comes to his senses. Embraces the now, rather than the cocoon of the void his mind surrounded him as defense.

But the difference is visceral, too raw, too real, too soon. 

Your boyfriend, your boyfriend, your boyfriend…

Each repeat stings like a blow to his soul, his call for the reality check. It feels ridiculous, as if a part of his heart was carved and hollowed out despite his will and he was fed a false truth. 

They are not boyfriends. How can they be boyfriends?

Then there comes the question, does he want to be boyfriends with him?  

With him. With Minho . 

Minho who is a murderer, kidnapper, blackmailer. 

He sends a look to Minho’s side, cautious, but bites his tongue until the doctor starts the machine and leaves with the nurse. 

“ My boyfriend? ” Changbin lets out rather more spite than he intended once they are alone together. 

“They weren’t going to let me in,” Minho hovers next to him nervously, unsure. “I had no choice.” 

So nothing. A mere lie then.

Tension fills the air, crackling with an intensity that makes Changbin long to escape and seek refuge. He can’t bring himself to turn and look Minho in the eye. The persistent headache, triggered by his thoughts, returns when he thinks too much.

He had no choice, Minho said. 

He feels awful. Like a ping pong ball, his mind hits one side and to the other, boyfriends and not boyfriends. The winner is not boyfriends . But it doesn’t matter, his mind never stops. It hits and hits and hits and reminds him, slaps him, ridicules him.

Trapped within the machine's confines, the horizontal lines tracing over his body, Changbin speaks up as the scanning process begins. “Maybe you should let Jisung know I’m here,” he suggests, voice kept even, careful and cold . “so you don’t have to wait until they release me.”

“I am unwelcomed?” The end of Minho’s sentence lifts like a question. He is tilting his head, wary and guarded. 

“When did I say that?” Changbin objects and bites on his lower lip to give himself something to do, he has no other options after all. But he implied that, until regret found him.

Minho heaves a huge, exaggerated sigh. “I deal with Seungmin heartbeat basis Changbin-ah. Don’t think I am one to give up easily.” He has one of his hands on his hip, frowning slightly. “Jisungie mentioned you’d be grumpy when you are not feeling okay. I can clearly see that he was not exaggerating it.” 

“You talked to him?” and he adds, “Also gossipped behind my back when I was sick?” 

Minho chooses not to hear his last sentence. “ Your Channie hyung too,” he says. “He was considering canceling his business trip because he got very worried.” 

“Oh, fuck.” Chan’s business trip, the important one. Because he is meeting with the big ones, he told them when they were having tea and picnic, right next to his big window, when they were playing a guessing game. 

“Hyung will meet his soulmate this time,” Jisung remarks, hands covered in sugar because of tea biscuits and shorties. 

“Yeah, those old farts are hyung’s type, sure Sungie,” Changbin nods. 

“Stop it!” Chan laughs, giggles and blushes, almost spilling his cup of Yorkshire tea. Funny how they claim it never changed the taste considering all these billions of heartbeats. 

Minho is quick to his side, crouching down in an uncomfortable position, yet he is reaching for Changbin’s hand. “Ssshh,” he whispers, sensing his worry and discomfort. “I did a pretty good job of convincing him not to come and that you are doing fine. So please do fine,” he says before continuing. “But if anything, Seungmin is also sending him live updates about your condition, we can say he is alright now.”

That gives Changbin a relief and lifts his mood. 

And makes him feel weird, dizzy and warm because Minho is being nice, too nice even. And they are not boyfriends , no.

Maybe friends then. 

It surrounds Changbin with disappointment but also calms him when he registers he is still something , not nothing. 

A thought pops up, dwells around the corners of his mind and pokes it until Changbin finds himself asking why, why is he disappointed that they are not boyfriends? 

His answer condenses into being on his tongue, heavy and solid and desperate to be spoken. But Changbin chooses to swallow it.

Must be meds , Changbin thinks. Also everything else they put him on, it is inevitable that he wants the sky, the moon, the stars at once. “And Jisung?” he asks instead. 

“He will probably be here once they release him from the set. He is bringing a surprise.”

“What surprise?” 

“Can’t tell you,” Minho makes a face. “Surprises are supposed to be mysterious.” 

Changbin pouts. It’s his killer pout, super effective especially when he has the advantage of being sick. 

“That’s cheating,” Minho's hand inches closer, almost inadvertently landing in what would have been a playful slap, until he refrains at the last moment. “I’m not gonna let you cheat, I’m a very strict person.”

Changbin makes a noise of something akin to a whine. A loud one. A long one too. Furrows his brows, mouth twisting in frustration. There is so little to do when his whole body is strapped to a machine.

Minho extends one of his pinky fingers, poking against the side of Changbin’s hand. “Tell you what,” He whispers as if he is revealing the biggest secret ever. “There is a vending machine right at the end of the corridor. I'll make a short trip there to get you sweets until Jisung comes with the surprise.” 

What Minho gets is a wary look. “Pretty sure that’s not advised,” Changbin puts into words, yet inside he craves for choco puffs. 

“So what?” Minho raises an eyebrow in disbelief. “One candy won’t make you sick but brooding here, being all grumpy grumpy with the saddest face ever surely will.” 

“Then choco puffs,” Changbin‘s eyes get bigger, light up a little and he beams, the happiest ever been since he regained his consciousness. “cloud bites and rocket tarts?” 

He watches Minho getting to his feet, him leaving the room, and talking to Seungmin until the door slides shut with little to no noise. Then the lights get dimmer, pulses with a pale yellow through the linings hung across the walls. The machine emits rhythmic, aquatic tones; a series of nine low vibrations followed by a larger one that buzzes faintly against his skin, he only realizes because he is paying attention.

Because it is better than paying attention to what his heart is doing. Getting all warm, and hopeful, cozy even though he is restrained, being loved and pampered. From someone he least expects . 

That does things to him. 

He knows the aftermath will stay lingering because he is never one to let go easily. And he knows it is not just the meds causing numbness in his mind and collapsing everything he has built to protect his heart. 

The thing is Changbin gets attached easily. Falls in love in a heartbeat. Blink of an eye and he is enamored, prone to affection. For him it is as simple as drinking his precious buzzer beers or rock royales, as natural as light hearted bickering. Little touches, shy of the smiles, flickering stars in the eyes. Being allowed a space, welcoming of his existence. Deep enough and roots tangled with no end, that’s how he grows with his heart open and yearning.

He doesn’t know if he has fallen in love. How serious this new development is. 

But it is something, because when the door opens Minho returns bearing stars, arms full of an array of colorful candy and chocolate wrappers, his heart does that thing again. 

“You are lucky,” he tells Changbin, unaware of what goes inside Changbin’s mind. “Pick quickly, green or pink choco puffs?” 

Changbin’s eyes land on the green ones. Sees the amount of the cloud bites. And there he finds two rocket tarts. He says, “Greens…?”

“Good,” Minho mutters while he is picking a chair to drag it in front of the machine. “Because I don’t like the greens but Yongbokkie and Innie are crazy for them.” 

He places all the leftover snacks on his lap, then focuses on removing the wrapper from the choco puff. All the while humming a recent song of a pop idol group. Something about stars, about young love and flowers. 

Minho changes the lyrics, turns it into a song about his love for choco puffs as he offers the snack to Changbin's lips. “Chocobinnie,” he sing-songs. “open your mouth.” 

Without hesitation, Changbin complies, parts his lips, and does as he is told. Few giggles leave Minho at the cause of his earnestness but pays well. Changbin loves the taste, munches everything in one bite. 

They don’t finish everything, Minho doesn’t indulge him further although Changbin juts his lips and protests but Minho promises a cake for later. Doesn’t let Changbin pick the flavor, but says he will make sure to find something baked with enough love and sweetness. Changbin doesn’t know if he sees Minho’s cheeks color, just a little dust of pink, or if he imagines it when the other suggests the cake. 

“I knew the way to your grumpy heart was through the sweets.” Minho teases. His voice sounds like all the chocolates he’s just eaten, face split into a small smile that is sweeter than anything. 

Changbin, however, wants to correct him. Maybe it’s you , he would say. Thanks to you I don’t feel awful, he would rather prefer. 

The stubborn nature of Lee Minho is a band-aid to Changbin’s own reluctance to admit he is needy. He stays although with no obligation, he stays with pure contentment. He continues with his songs, playing with the words, just to have Changbin join him. He brings conversation to the most absurd points and asks Changbin’s opinion with the most serious face he has ever seen. Gushes about his cats, mindlessly making two pointed ears above his head because he tries to get Changbin meow. Yet he meows instead. He is unpredictable but easy to fall into his welcoming, charming embrace. 

Yet Minho knows very well how to stir a whirlwind in his heart, within mere words he speaks.

“From now on I don’t want to call you a marshmallow,” Minho says out of nowhere. His legs pulled against his chest, brows creasing his forehead, he looks thoughtful, voice small and serious. He says it so quietly, so hushed with the words half-formed. 

“Why?” Changbin asks, his disappointment laid bare like an open book. Wants to know, where did that come from, we were smiling a heartbeat ago?

“It’s silly,” He whispers with this hesitation in his voice. It takes a few beats until he is coaxed into opening up more but mostly they sound like words he narrates to reassure himself. “and maybe weird.”

They are silent for a while, before Changbin says, “Everything is weird with you.” 

He wants to hear more. Funny how a stupid word he detested so much means a lot for him right now.

Minho looks at him as if he is missing something, as if he is seizing what has just Changbin commented on him. He keeps his face neutral, until he rolls his eyes. But it is pained. “When you collapsed,” Minho replies slowly. “I decided not to call you a marshmallow anymore.” 

Minho slides his arms onto the chair's sides, then leans in, resting his head upon his hand and doesn’t look at him. 

“You thought I fainted because you called me a marshmallow?” Changbin fills the silence instead. 

“Told you it was silly,” Minho pauses for a moment, and turns his face to the side like he is embarrassed, like he is doing his best to hide. “Yet I can’t help but think maybe I should have picked something tougher, like a coconut or a cookie…”

It is silly , agrees Changbin. Silly how Minho picks up the scraps and puts them together in a way it means worlds and thousands of blades. He cuts and weighs himself down for a mere worry, and makes it into a word game. Marshmallow, coconut or a cookie, all the same, all the different. “You are silly,” Changbin admits. “For picking food to define me. Food will always perish, you know?” 

“Right…” Minho hums. “A marshmallow, or a coconut. Doesn’t matter, Changbin-ah is Changbin-ah,” His face lights up, as Changbin’s smile grows. “My marshmallow.” 

It sounds much the way Changbin hopes. His marshmallow , he repeats. 

“But I wonder,” Minho starts, this time his feet touch the ground, he looks more relaxed and calm. “why didn't you visit a medical ward sooner?” 

Changbin considers what to say. To which extent he can dwell, to which extent he is willing to share. He has his options, valid ones, although not the entire truth but passable. Probably leaves Minho satisfied. 

Leaning in carefully and taking his fingers into his hand, Minho answers for him. “I know it isn’t about Himari-chan,” The other squeezes his fingers, yet he is gentle. A reminder. “You don’t have to explain what it is about, but I prefer nothing instead of half truths.” 

Changbin should feel cornered, yet the air grows lighter, thinner, and breathable. “Promise you won’t laugh? Or find it stupid?” 

A laughter fills the room, coming from Minho’s parted lips. He circles his thumb and forefinger around Changbin’s. “You can say a tentacle monster followed you around the corridors and tried to suck your soul in but I’d always find ways to entertain you, Changbin-ah.” 

“You are weird,” Changbin shakes his head. It is difficult when his muscles and joints are held at constraint points. 

“Yeah, so go on,” Corners of Minho’s mouth quirks. “All the more reason not to shy away from me.” 

“It’s just that…” It’s simple, nothing to worry about, Minho is not one to judge , Changbin supposes. “I’m not very good at staying still. When I can’t move my hands freely or can’t move at all.” 

It’s the loneliness that makes it worse. Changbin is so used to filling the blanks left from solids, he can shape himself into anything anytime to rebel against the time. He moves naturally to where people pull, carves himself a space between many bodies. It’s as a whole, his whole body, his arms, his legs, his hands and his feet, his limbs , his voice, his smell, his everything. His need to be a constant presence fails and he handles himself very difficult when that space, the space to be himself that is, taken away. 

“It’s not like I panic,” He starts explaining. “or that I can’t be left alone with my thoughts. But it’s not pleasant, because I feel like I don’t matter. Does that make sense?” 

Minho nods, looking thoughtful and serious. After a while he says, “I get a similar feeling when I travel between stations.” Minho finds Changbin in his thoughts. “I don’t like it either when I’m confined in a small place where I matter as much as my thoughts, but even those don’t matter.” 

Changbin wets his lips, takes a big breath. “Today is the first time I didn’t have that suffocation.” 

Minho beams. It is beautiful how his entire face takes a different shape so quickly. How he is able to affect the other the way he holds himself. “Guess I was right about sweets.” 

“Not just that,” Changbin can’t keep his heart away from his tongue. “Because you are also here—“ 

But Jisung can keep his heart, his words and his confession away. 

He chooses exactly that moment to invite himself in, loud, very loud and panting. “Oh my stars hyung, I was so worried!!!!” 

Jisung’s clothes are disheveled. His shirt no longer neatly tucked in, his cardigan hangs halfway off his elbows. His hair is tousled, and his boots are left untied. Kneeling down, dirt , somewhat mud-like, yet more yellow than brown, colors his knees. He breathes in and out, in and out. His chest heaving heavily with each. 

But what catches Changbin’s eyes is not the poor condition Jisung is in, no, it’s not. His gaze is stuck at the huge cardboard he is carrying. 

“What the fuck is that?” is how Changbin welcomes Jisung. 

“I see, as grumpy as always hyung,” Jisung takes no offense, finds himself in the middle of the room meddling with choco puffs and cloud bites, stuffing them in his mouth. The cardboard stays put next to the door. “It’s your surprise!” he announces then, all bright and smiles. 

Completely unaware of the air between Minho and Changbin. 

“What’s that surprise?” He asks instead, eyes following Jisung around. 

Jisung shrugs. “Minho hyung’s idea.” 

Changbin’s gaze catches Minho’s. “Nothing bad, nothing horrible I promise.” he amuses. 

His gaze fixates on the cardboard figure. The edges are curved, none forming perfect ninety-degree angles. Changbin squints, noting that its length mirrors his height. He blinks in disbelief.

"Don't fucking tell me you've created a cardboard replica of me," he exclaims incredulously.

Minho and Jisung share a look. And laugh. Like sharing an inside joke, leaving Changbin out. The audacity they have. 

“Go on,” Minho nods at Jisung. “show him the masterpiece.” 

Yet Changbin closes his eyes. That much he still has freedom although his wrists and ankles are strapped. 

“Hyung, please,” Jisung whines, too close to his liking. “Don’t be a baby and open your eyes.” 

“I’ll show you what a baby is, you brat!” Changbin groans, all teeth yet no bite. 

There are fingertips on his right cheek, and Changbin feels his heart rate increase. It is gentle, not commanding, too soon to be happening in front of Jisung. But guessing from how warm he feels, he is already blushing. 

“Changbin-ah,” Minho is whispering in his ear. “just a little peek. It’s nothing bad, I promise.” 

When Minho is this close, voice soft and inviting, this tender in asking, Changbin does as he is told. Just a peek, he promises to himself. Then I will bite their fingers off for messing with me.

There he opens his left eye, the right one stays closed, a heartbeat then another, he is looking at the cardboard with both eyes open. It is not a real life size of him but Himari-chan. They got him a cardboard cutout of Himari-chan. 

Changbin’s first response is skeptical. He eyes Jisung in disbelief. “Stars, tell me you didn’t steal it from the screening…” 

“Jisung didn’t steal it,” answers Minho, moving next to stand with cardboard Himari-chan. 

Yet that doesn’t clear the implication, Changbin is smart that much. Their silence and mischievous glances to each other only deepens his suspicion. “But someone did, right?” 

The youngest of the three has the loosest tongue amongst them, his affection for any drama material only fuels it in the end. Because it doesn’t even take one heartbeat for him to spill what ties his words. “It was Minho hyung’s friend, I’m the getaway driver here.” 

Minho doesn’t seem offended by being outed. “That makes you a delivery guy Jisungie, not a getaway driver.”

“Please hyung, let me have my dreams come true for a moment here.” Cheeks making full rounds, brows tight in the middle, Jisung whines.  

There is someone who doesn’t share the same enthusiasm between them. Minho, of course, notices it right away. “Changbin-ah,” he starts, his hand landing on Changbin’s forearms. “It is just a friend, he was paying his debt to me. I didn’t ask how he managed to get it.” 

“But you should’ve seen him hyung,” It’s Jisung again. “He was a real beauty, the type where you wouldn’t think twice to rob a bank. Now thanks to you and Minho hyung, I have his number.” 

“Damn brat, I’m here sick and in pain but all you think is getting your—“ There is Minho, right in front of him. He bites his tongue. “Don’t rob a bank!” He feels a need to add and then, “I need better friends!” he says instead. 

“But who else is gonna get you Himari-chan, then?” Minho tells him. He is circling around the cutout, eyeing it from head to toe. And turns back to him, half of his body hidden behind Himari-chan, hesitant and wary, “You didn’t like it?” 

Changbin wants nothing more than to hold his hand. To reassure him it is nothing like that, no. “I’mjust messing with Jisung,” he starts. “I love it, it’s everything to me.” 

The conversation turns into Jisung spilling Changbin’s embarrassing details about his Himari-chan collection, embellishing tales of how Changbin pours all his hard-earned cash into the merchandise. He exaggerates, claiming Changbin has watched the entire series a multitude of times, more than one can tally on two hands' worth of fingers. Minho giggles effortlessly, his body moving with graceful ease. Changbin gets loud in return, a crescendo of boundless energy, as if he was never sick to begin with. 

“You should see him doing the dances,” Jisung goes on. “He is the best.” 

Changbin doesn’t protest but exhales, sighs and pouts. He is not ashamed, nor embarrassed. When all he sees is Minho’s corners of lips moving up, cheeks rounding and in pink, his stomach bores dancing stars. He talks. Steals the embarrassing tales from Jisung’s voice to weave them on his own. Carefully stitch them together to have Minho entranced and entertained, hoping to keep him that way. 

Wonders how it would feel like kissing him in the middle. When it is about a movie, The Short King of Bookclub, the movie he cried and cried and cried. Imagines watching it with him, kissing him instead of crying. 

With the revelation, Changbin doesn’t grow quiet. Instead, his lips form more words, his heart on full speed, he keeps the attention away. 

Or so he thinks, because Minho looks at him. He always looks at him, so Changbin gets louder. It is what he is best at. He puts it just like that.

Minho disagrees, “There are things you are better than that,” he says but doesn’t elaborate. Drops the bait in front of Changbin and plays with him, teases him, lays him bare for Jisung to poke and stick his own lures. 

It is light, it is funny, it is warm. 

When the doctor releases Changbin finally out of the confines of the small space and straps, Minho hands him his tote bag. “I regret not indulging Yongbok with his Himari-chan time,” He starts as they are heading for the registration screens. “But now I have enough teasing material.” 

“What, you will try using the stuff I told you today?” 

“Yeah, quick, give me some fandom tips. For example,” Minho is playing with a small Himari-chan plushie, it is the size of his finger. “why does her skirt have seashells?”

“In one of her lives,” Changbin cherishes the episodes dearly; it's the arc closest to his heart, his favorite one. “She was trapped in the sea.  But she became friends with the tides, and when she left her messages in seashells, the tides brought them to the beach.” 

“What about this one?” Minho’s swaying another Himari-chan plushie, almost too careless, left to right to left and Changbin saves her from the other’s torture. 

“That’s one of the limited editions,” Jisung cuts in instead. “Be glad he didn’t kick you for handling it like that.” 

Changbin groans and puts his newly freed hands to good use by attempting to slap Jisung’s neck. He flies away like an annoying venus mosquito, moving in between Minho and Seungmin for protection. Stucks his tongue out like the brat he is. Seungmin looks away, Minho chuckles and shows his own tongue sticking out techniques. 

“I’m even better at sticking my tongue when I’m kissing someone.” declares Minho out of nowhere.

“Oh hyung, don’t worry we all know it very well.” 

Before Changbin can visualize Minho's tongue and kissing techniques, perhaps imagining himself as that someone, a new voice joins them. He is wearing the doctor uniforms, clad in indigos with three lines at the collar of his shirt. Younger in appearance, though it is difficult to tell. 

“Innie, I thought you had a conference to attend,” Minho resembles a reprimanding mother, a stern crease between his brows, arms folded across his chest in a disapproving stance.

Innie, Changbin reads his name plate as Dr. Yang Jeongin, shrugs it off with an air of nonchalance, dismissing the topic entirely with a casual, "Already done with that," as though it holds no significance. But he is focused on something, something being Changbin himself.

“Who is this,” He says with an odd interest. ”your new victim? You bit another person to death?” 

Oh stars. No. No, no, no, no. Not this again. 

Changbin was thinking about kissing him, holding his hands, and smiling with him. Not this, no. 

“ Really!? ” It’s Jisung who is screaming. “You really bite people? Is that really why you called hyung a marshmallow?” 

“He is no longer a marshmallow—“ Minho defends.

“Ah hyung you brought him here as a prebiting caution then—“ Innie exclaims.

“Should have guessed Minho hyung is a descendant of a vampire clan, probably a prince with his looks—“ Jisung muses. 

All three, at the same time, disregarding the surroundings, all ready to chirp and turn into a whirlwind of a chaos. 

It’s not Seungmin who puts everything into an end. Not this time. He simply shrugs and starts walking, gesturing Changbin to follow him. Together, they leave the group behind. 

“You need a raise, man.” Changbin remarks when they stop in front of a registration screen. He shows his face to the camera before sliding his wristwatch under the UV reader. Screen goes green and he is free to go, finally discharged.

“No, I need to resign ,” Seungmin says as he moves closer to the walls to allow space for passing people. “But I happen to be fond of that idiot, unfortunately.” 

That idiot and Changbin’s idiot round a corridor that leads them toward Changbin and Seungmin. Minho spots them in an instant, and opens his mouth to show his teeth. Jisung immediately copies him. 

They make the worst pair.

Once they are outside, in front of the familiar neuron mobile from the last time, Changbin finds himself missing the time from moments ago when everything crashes down and reminds him of this is where they will part ways, this is where Minho’s kindness extends. 

Except, deep down, it is not like that. One look at Minho, and Changbin knows he is not going to leave loose ends. He will find ways to tie himself up with Changbin, he will grow into a constant in his life. 

Changbin moves to say goodbye, but Minho pulls him to the neuron mobile. “Can’t let you suffer with public transportation,” he says. And when Changbin’s hesitation is evident, he shakes his head. “Promise, I’ll be tame. No biting, I swear.” 

Jisung pushes him inside with groan, mumbling something close to, “You think too much hyung,” and he follows after, hands pressing buttons on screen to write their address. Once they are seated, it takes only four heartbeats to be in front of their place. 

Neither Seungmin nor Minho exit the mobile, but just as Changbin is about to leave, Minho brushes the top of his hand. “Please rest as much as you can, no Himari-can until you get enough sleep,” he threatens with a look not so scary. “I will send someone with soup, ok? You need to eat well to get better.”

He doesn’t say he is already better, the time spent in the tubular unit was to ensure that. But he keeps quiet and let Minho speak, for he loves being pampered and being doted on.

“Am I to see you soon?” Changbin asks, hopeful.

Minho squeezes his hand, looks past Changbin to see Jisung is already at the door to the building and not paying them any attention, so he brings Changbin’s hand to his lips and before he leaves he puts a little peck right there. It is very brief but enough to burn where it touches, enough to burn Changbin when he is alone with his thoughts. 

The other only grins with his mischievous feline-like eyes, perhaps already very aware of his effect on Changbin, pushing it further to lovingly torture him and he is gone. 

Heartbeats later his door rings and Jisung discovers containers filled with soup and dinner inside, accompanied by a tiny post-it note bearing child-like handwritings, “drink everything, eat your veggies, or else i’ll bite u two” and at the corner it writes, “to death” 

Jisung must be right , Changbin thinks. So a vampire then, Lee Minho is.

— 5 —

Each space station has a set number of residential lots, typically allocated based on the immediate family's population. Consequently, many structures are equipped with shared amenities to cater to their occupants' needs. For roughly every five hundred individuals, a food hall operates on the ground level of their building. Most one-person-pods lack a full kitchen setup, featuring only a compact fridge and a basic countertop area instead.

In his third cycle of sleep and awakening after his discharge from the medical ward, Changbin discovers Lee Minho sitting in front of his door. 

Changbin is back from work, just done ordering his groceries in the elevator. He pauses while munching on a pack of sour'lanets as he notices him. Minho is on the floor, one leg is pressed close to his cheek, the other sprawled on the metal paneling. Leaning against the cold surface of the wall, his mind seems to be off, and wandering away, zoned out and lost. Until Changbin’s a step away, then Minho looks up and his face schools a small smile that doesn’t really reach the weariness of his eyes.

“Changbin-ah,” Minho says, voice strained. “Can I come in?”

Changbin doesn’t ask him any questions, just swipes his card to the reader, hears the familiar beep of his door and welcomes him inside. Then it is him and Minho, alone in his cramped and confined studio room.

Alone but loud in silence. 

Within the chambers of his mind, curiosity drips and leaks like a fractured pipe. It floods his corridors with panic, brimming with scenarios that refuse to play right. So many why s lingering on the tip of his tongue, his hands awkwardly find mundane tasks to keep himself busy. He takes Minho’s jacket, puts it together with his own, noticing the ways their scents will combine as one later. Notices the way Minho will linger in his space for longer, that he will remember his visit times after. 

“It’s small,” Changbin starts, unsure and hesitant, reluctant and scared. His heart beats so fast. “and untidy, probably you might see some of my mess around here—“

“It’s perfect,” Minho hushes him, a hand finding his. It is a feather kind of touch, not daring but falls into a comfortable support. “It’s just me, the weird guy who scared the shit out of you in first meeting.” 

“You here to murder me?” Changbin’s brows tick up when Minho’s humor joins his voice, as he gathers the array of clothing strewn across his bed—a mix of pajamas, sweatshirts, and jumpers—placing them in a haphazard stack atop the sole chair he possesses. He finds a sock on his way back, the other on Minho’s hands, pink and patterned with little seashells. Another from his Himari-chan collection. Minho offers the other pair with no comment. 

“Remember, you let me in,” Minho reminds, inviting himself on the bed and reaching for the popcorn packet on the nightstand.

Changbin looks at him, really looks at him and sighs. But Minho doesn’t look at him.

Better , less chances for him to catch Changbin keeping his thoughts on and around him, as if he is incapable of doing anything else within his heart. 

To prove himself such, he finds solace behind the counter, moving to busy himself with preparing their drinks. It’s his usual one, a routine, a ritual of sorts, always having it after he is back home. Two spoons of earthroot extract, one sachet of mercury coffee, cyanfruit as sweetener and two packs of protein powder, shaked and mixed with cold galactic soy milk. He collects two mugs, one plain and boring white, the other with bunny ears bought many heartbeats ago from a museum as a gift.

Minho pats his side, gesturing for Changbin to come back and take his place.

Changbin’s gaze follows him, then down on the mugs, puzzled, he wets his lips. “I forgot to ask but—“

Minho reads him like an open screen. “Is it any good?” he cuts in instead, tongue outside, kitten licks playfully on display. 

It is bad. Bad for Changbin’s heart.

“I love it,” He lets the older take the bunny mug. “Better after a tiring day. Refreshes you instantly, Chan hyung’s recipe. But I add cyanfruit because it is too bitter otherwise.” 

“Smells good,” Minho says before taking a small sip. “Tastes good.” 

He reminds him of a house cat he saw from documentaries —curious, swift, and inquisitive. 

It is easy with him. Easy when Minho asks about his Lemon Land and Factory Trio posters on his walls, easy when he points out his curiosity about the choice of Changbin’s collection of sound cards, easy when starts talking about rocketboard styles. 

“I refused to be beaten by a mere rocketboard, so I mastered it myself,” Changbin savors the last drop of his shake as a smirk glows on his face. “I was a legend in my community back home.” 

“Maybe you should teach me then,” Minho joins him with a child-like curiosity that takes Changbin aback. Their space station unions are notorious for rocketboards. It is their traditional sport, one that gathers folks in rounds and is celebrated every finale after finale. Everyone with enough heartbeats is taught how to use one.

So he asks, “You don’t know?”

“Never had a chance,” It comes out somewhat weak, almost embarrassed when he fumbles with his words. ”Seungminie is good with it but… My parents had other matters to attend to and my brother was away…”

Changbin lets out a half laugh, like a cough candy for sore throats, a burn first then a balm. “Guess you will learn from the best.” he declares, proud and loud, in his element.

Minho scrunches up his nose, his eyes portraying an exaggerated disbelief for Changbin’s cockiness. “I’m serious!” Changbin whines although it is rather coated with sweetness. “Can’t count how many times I got first place.”

First when he was half in height, many many heartbeats ago, with his red rocketboard. He remembers Jisung and him side to side, painting the surface with spray guns. Changbin sketched a big bunny face, awfully nonsymmetrical and lanky, perhaps a bit lacking in color too when they ran out of paint. 

Second time was close, just before the classes had started, because of a stupid dare the other kids sparkled. Many victories followed afterwards, but the most remarkable ones were when he was on his university’s team. His name was chanted by crowds, cherished by many. That’s how he met his first love, and had his many firsts after. When he was the happiest and ugliest, in person and in heart, in words and in memories. All gone, not even the bitterness is left.

Shortly after their breakup, Changbin stopped playing with his rocketboard all together. 

“Why?” Minho rests his half-finished mug on the nightstand and crosses his legs. “What happened?” 

“No actual reason,” is Changbin’s answer just as his door rings with the familiar tune of grocery delivery notification. He gets up on his feet, opens the door and collects his bags. “Assignments were intense, guess I was tired of giving my best to everything too.” 

Except, he wasn’t. He wanted it to last, because back then any commitment was a serious promise that needed to be forever. Kyungsoo didn’t view it as such. To him, love was never infinite. When kisses turned into sharp and judgmental gazes, hugs were replaced by passive aggressive comments and they were finding any small reason to start a fight, the love diminished. It clenched like a candle losing its fire in a heartbeat. 

But it was in the past.

Changbin puts everything on the counter. Bunch of jelly, popcorn, choco puffs, buzzer beers, energy drinks, a sandwich and three cups of instant noodles. The same brand his hand always goes after, the same brand his ex partner introduced, the same brand they shared in times money was short. Doesn’t matter now, he has grown up. Only the taste lingers and the feelings die. 

Cabinet doors open, he starts stocking the shelves. Minho follows after, offering a helping hand until he doesn’t. Because Minho stops —his hands, just as his eyes, wander around the surface of the miniature pomegranate pot on his window sill.

One that the said partner, Kyungsoo , gifted to him —bloomed, flourished and fruited before it lasted to something. 

“Do you know what pomegranates mean Changbin-ah?” 

Curiosity lits his eyes, like carnelian moons staying above the crafted sky. He bites down the first three responses and manages a fishy swallow instead of the fourth, and tries to come at the question sideways. First, the taste of winter —although winter means nothing more than the chilling of his bones in designated seasonal rooms to simulate part of the long gone history. Second, something so beautiful, so red, so pink, that it is preserved for centuries in little, glass pots for eyes to feast on.  The third, the least favored answer amongst all, that it’s the reminder of his first kiss, that bore many after like its never ending seeds. 

So Changbin comes up with, “Crowned and ready to take over the throne in the battle of fruitsdom?” 

Minho blinks, shots him a look and throws his head back. A laugh bursts out of him, so loud that it hurts his throat on the way out. It dies a little, then a little bit more. Very abrupt, very sudden Minho trembles, hesitates, as if he is back to reality and remembering. His face momentarily goes glassine, like a pool, every emotion visible straight down to the bottom. 

“To some it is death and for others fertility. The Ancient Greek viewed it as such, for their Goddess Persephone,” A pause. ”I was told it’s a promise.”

A promise , thinks Changbin. Was it a promise when Kyungsoo gave it to him? His mind does its thing, searches, searches and searches. But the stars do not light his pathway, The Greek means so little to him. 

“It was probably another trend that time, and he followed along,” barely a whisper, yet Minho hears it very well.

“A gift?” 

Changbin nods. 

“From a lover?” 

Another nod, but Changbin feels a need to add, “Not anymore. But it’s not the plant’s fault.” 

Throwing out everything that came with Kyungsoo was Changbin’s closure, pulsed like a need inside, rooted deeper with each piece of memory that was destroyed. But getting rid of a mere tree, something still living, completely unsuspecting and irrelevant in two people’s choice of parting, seemed too cruel. So he kept it, changed the batteries when the screen gave a signal, took off the glass lid every once in a while and followed the instructions as it didn’t take much of his time. 

Minho hums in understanding. “Why did you guys break up?”

Changbin shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “It didn’t work out well,” It’s been so long he looked past his life to remember all the details, but less is gone from his memory. So he knows the reason, that thing gnawing the sides of his heart. “I asked for more than he could provide. He got scared, and left.” 

What Changbin means is that he was needy . It kept them strong first —together and each passing time more in love. So Changbin was drunk and stupid as fuck, but also greedy as in to the point he was blind. It scared Kyungsoo. And drained him, tired him. 

“I don’t even know if it was love,” Changbin continues, seizing the pomegranate tree up and down, recalling the time Kyungsoo brought it with a huge smile. Remembers the cake place they visited afterwards. “But it was nice. Then it involved a lot of ugly crying. Jisung and Chan hyung brought me to places until I calmed down.”

Kyungsoo wasn’t even the one that hurt him the most but he was the first —the first of his many times. 

Minho watches him silently, then his eyes wander around the small area that is his kitchen, as if to imagine two of them here. Turns to himself, his gaze sits at the tip of his feet then back to his window sill. “What a coward,” he says, disapproving. “And a stupid one, too.” 

Changbin shrugs, dimmed to memories, imagines Kyungsoo in Minho’s place, sitting on his countertop and eating all of his ice cream. Using his body wash and shampoo, stealing his underwear. 

But it doesn’t move anything in him. 

“Looking back I can’t say it was a mistake but we didn’t have much in common either. It worked until it didn’t, and it was all because we put effort into it.” he answers honestly.

It gets silent afterwards between them, Minho doesn’t say anything but nods with his head. He looks thoughtful but for something that belongs to the past there is not much to add. Changbin is not giving him anything to play, and for a moment he ponders, whether he is distancing himself —as in to protect himself— or whether this is because Kyungsoo already lost the importance he once held.

“But you’ve kept it, the tree,” he comments and adds, “Someone I knew of had these. Many of them, on his desk, on his shelves. One beautiful on his nightstand.” Minho talks in such a way that words go through him like a knife into a pomegranate. 

A shared pain then, as Changbin recognizes as much. But still he needs to hear it from the other’s mouth. “He didn’t keep any of his promises, did he?” Your lover , he doesn’t say. 

Minho turns to him, his back resting against the countertop, right where the previous tenants left a deep dent. He pulls the corner of his mouth to Changbin, a near smile, a bitter one. “To him, I wasn’t even worthy of promises, Changbin-ah.” 

That enrages something within Changbin. The way Minho said it. The way he dared to call himself. “ Asshole ,” he mutters with all the hatred he can muster. “Did he say that to your face?”  

Minho curls a hand around Changbin’s wrist, Changbin answers by lacing their fingers together, leaning closer to step in front of him. “He didn’t need to,” Minho wets his lips. “I knew it from the start, and I knew he was right. I was just a stubborn child who didn’t know what a no looked like,” His gaze shifts at their intertwined fingers. ”I had a lot to learn and doing so, a lot to unlearn.” 

Changbin doesn’t keep his expression neutral as he shakes his head. A ghost-like touch on his face, right on his cheeks and he stills. “He would tell me that I still needed time to let go of things, so that I could make space for who I really am…” 

He pauses. But Changbin can’t succumb to silence, there is nothing else he is as bad at. “But isn’t that what we do all?” he says. “We fall and bounce back, shedding skin and growing a thicker one.” 

The hand in his own grows tight in response, and it’s grounding, to have that weight. Changbin returns it, once and twice. “I know,” Minho whispers. “But sometimes it still stings.”

Perhaps it's the way in which Minho says it, the way in which his voice becomes brittle on the upkeep, but Changbin settles to ask, a lump clogging his throat. “Are you still—“

— in love with him?

To that, Minho cups his face, running a thumb over to soothe the stillness of fear away. “No,” he says, voice no higher than a whisper but sure, so so sure. “no I’m not.” 

A beat. A breath. Eyes fixed on him. Watches him. Trailing down when Changbin swallows, snapping back to his lips following an inhale and back to his eyes, pointing out answers, pointing out his means. 

“But there is someone else.” 

And it takes Changbin’s breath away. 

“…why?” comes Changbin’s question. It is a weighted thing, heavy in his stomach, difficult to keep his hands away if he dares to indulge himself further. But he is not surprised, no.

“Why…” repeats Minho. “ Why, Changbin-ah ?” asks Minho, in tones of affection, open and warm, without any doubt, a teasing yet sincere smile, simple and so true. 

A question. 

A question that is a kiss, so so sweet. 

One hand, already cupping his cheeks and a thumb brushes his lips first to ask, is it ok? , and Minho leans in, oh they are kissing. Minho not shying away, Minho not running away, Minho is kissing him. 

Catches him in the middle, caressing the soft of his skin, as if telling him before his lungs are out of breath, do you see why Changbin-ah? , Minho’s lips and his own lips dance in rhythm.

It is Changbin who follows him for the second kiss, only mere inches away, one hand settles on Minho’s hip and the other leaves his hand to touch his hair, tangled in and around each strand, he pulls him closer and closer, and pushes himself further and further. 

Until all distances are covered. 

It is not an innocent thing, how their kiss is. Growing desperate in each heartbeat, Minho going all over Changbin’s back, every once in a while muttering a breathy compliment against the lips he is kissing and being kissed. It is not a battle of dominance either, rather experimental, rather with the intention of satisfying the other, to learn about him, to memorize him. Memorize how he tastes, how he whimpers, how he makes the smallest of the sounds. How raw he is in the face, in the skin he bears. 

Changbin never knew he could be this into someone, but maybe the answer lies in how they first met. Minho, so untouchable, almost a different deity than his own very existence. Layer by layer, after each shedded facade, each scraped pretense they find each other. 

He is still scared, Changbin is. Because this is too new, and perhaps too early for him to have a taste. 

Yet he wants it.

So wrong , a voice says. Little child, you will be devoured. 

Then he will be devoured, for he is not flawless either after all. 

He keeps parts of his hidden from you, neck deep and you will be drowned, the voice insists.

Fuck off, Changbin thinks.

A murderer after your—

So Changbin kisses Minho more, tongue in and greedy, just to shut the voice out and to open his heart. He is better devoured and drowned. He will live, he will find ways to be devoured and drowned, rinse and repeat.

But first, a thought between breathless kisses, a reason enough to stop something so sweet, his head tips away. Minho chases after him, but lets him have his moment. Their foreheads touch, Minho closes his eyes, caresses his arms, and his face. 

Changbin is sentimental, a pure chaos of emotion, and carries his heart on his sleeve. “I want to make a promise to you,” he declares, like it is unfathomable to be stingy with his devotion. 

Minho straightens up, licking his lips where Changbin already touched and touched and touched. His throat moves, a nervous swallow, then, “Don’t,” he says, voice low and pleading. “Don’t say that.” 

“Minho—“

“I lied,” Minho interrupts and the worry, the kind that pierces right through heart, finds Changbin. “He didn’t promise me anything because I didn’t know how to handle any.” 

“It’s okay,” Changbin presses, a finger trailing down his cheek bone. “It’s my promise to make.”

“You are wrong,” In nature, Minho is a stubborn one. “A promise works both ways. I wasn’t ready for mine.” 

But Changbin is just as stubborn. ”What about now?” he asks. “Just one. I’ll start slow, nothing big. I promise.” 

“Silly,” Minho goes. “You just did it.” 

Something fond appears in his eyes and the lines next to them, as Changbin groans. “Not that,” he gets loud in frustration. But Minho’s giggle silences him and the realization dawns a little later, when Minho’s thumb runs up and down in his palm. He is listening, he is letting him have a voice. 

But the thing is, nothing comes in smaller portions with Changbin. Nothing can be confined to the borders of restrictions, but instead, the buds grow and bloom flowers in colors. Colors of joy, loneliness, worry, bitterness or confidence. Colors of affection .

“What if it’s a promise of acceptance?” Changbin puts the question on his tongue like it is the easiest thing. “I don’t expect perfect, and you’ll find none either. Just us. That’s all.” 

Minho turns his head away from him, Changbin ducks his, trying to catch his eyes. Sees his reddened ears and cheeks. He takes Minho by the neck and shoulders, pulling him into his side. Minho sighs.

“A moment ago you were asking me why , Changbin-ah,” His words resemble a scold, like a mother does to her child, but there is more than that, Changbin can see that when Minho melts against him. He recognizes the look of a man who longs to be defeated. “But you don’t even know me yet.” 

“I know enough,” he responds back, quick and confident. “What? Scared that now that you realized I’m a full package?”

It is not a trap what he lies ahead. Rather, as if, playing with a cat, swaying a toy in front of him with the intention of him to puff up and catch it. 

But Minho, he is unpredictable. “And if I’m scared?” 

“Then we are both scared.” 

Something shifts in Minho’s gaze as his face softens, as his body eases when any ounce of stiffness leaves. “And if I’m plotting a murder? Presumably yours, maybe?”

The sweet taste of determination rolls off Changbin’s tongue, it is how his confidence plays. “Do it by kissing me.” 

“You expect me to take your breath away, Changbin-ah?” Minho’s words get out, eyes boring stars from mirth, left brow arching, he regains his composure. 

“As if you are not doing it already.” As if the hook is not already casted, tugging something inside each moment they are together. As if Changbin’s thoughts don’t start and end with his name, as if he can be anything less than that. 

“I should leave for the cheesiest lines you chose to throw at my face, though.” Minho sighs, deep and sharp. It escapes his lungs like exhaustion, brimming with fondness —so much of it now that Changbin heard it he can’t stop thinking about it— but more as a laugh to Changbin’s ears. 

“Not cheesy if they are the truth.” He doesn’t shy away, not even a moment his devotion sways. Because he wants him. He is sure, more than anything, now he has a chance, he will get it. 

Another sigh. A long one. But Minho is taking his face between his hands and kissing him. When it is time to breathe, right against his ear, Minho is whispering, ”You are going to be the death of me.” 

Like they exchanged the roles, like it is Changbin who is after Minho. It holds some truth, he is after his heart. 

They kiss. Some more where they are pressed against the counters and the cabinets. Some more when Changbin is taking him to the bed. Some more when Minho pushes him back, climbing atop of him. 

The kiss is the kind where they both grow desperate for each other. Wet, with tongues, with muffled voices of longing. With hands. Their hands are everywhere, Minho’s not greedy with his touches. Everywhere his hands land, everywhere his lips trail, it leaves a burning Changbin will live to follow for more. 

Changbin is everywhere on him, too. Just to hear the sharp hisses that escape his mouth, Changbin does his best. It is not a difficult task either, the dark eyes brimming with lust, desire and asking for more and more, Minho is attuned to him, as needy as him. He moans, he grunts, he whimpers. In turn, Changbin groans, whines, wails and makes sounds he forgot they existed. 

Lesser the clothes, the more they get close, lured in and with the sweet taste of satisfaction that existed within the soul that is desired, they dance through the sheets —body on body, skin against skin, inhaling Changbin and exhaling Minho— they fuck, they make love. 

One arm all over his torso, Minho cocoons him from behind when they are done. Puts his lips right behind the warmth of his ear, follows him down and more little pecks linger on the tender skin of his neck. On his biceps, Changbin feels kisses with teeth, nipping with no pressure. As if to keep his mouth busy. He remembers the documentaries, the cats biting as their love language. 

It feels nice when Minho whispers how soft he is, even nicer when it rolls on his tongue following an appreciative hum with praises, when Minho tells him how there is so much to love in him, that he only discovers more reasons to be endeared by Changbin. The slow voice of Minho envelopes him, tucked into him like a bird to its wing, the rest of the world seems to dissolve into stardust. 

It is the slow humming of Minho and background noise of his refrigerator that fill the air. His own slow draws of breath. Then Minho is running a finger down his spine. He draws circles behind his back, writing Changbin’s name, then his own, a shape in the form of a heart follows after —or so Changbin interprets. 

But Minho stops, a thought forming, to say, “Can't believe you let Himari-chan watch us.”

It is so sudden how Changbin turns his head to see the angled cardboard of Himari-chan resting against the wall in front of his bed. Then Minho is giggling to his skin, a slight brush of his lips tickles him. 

Changbin picks all of his weight and turns over to fully face Minho. His hands graze over the bare skin where the purple lights gather around the curve of his hipbones. Minho takes his other hand and places a kiss onto his palm. And Changbin just smiles, because it feels good to, because he can, and leans further into Minho’s side. That feels good, too.

“Better when it’s just the two of us, right?” Minho murmurs, speaking slowly. 

There is also Himari-chan, thinks Changbin but instead he closes his eyes. Alone in his thoughts for a moment, wrapped in a safest embrace, he nods in agreement. Better when his body is spent, muscles aching but there is someone to soothe it all. Without anyone, without Jisung and without Seungmin. 

Without Seungmin .

Changbin opens his eyes and blinks. They slipped inside each other’s bodies so naturally, reassurances tumbling from their lips with every breath that Changbin forgot the existence of everything else that is not Minho with him. 

“Does Seungmin know you are here?” 

Minho going still beside him for a moment is all the answer he needs. “It’s okay,” he continues then. “We don’t have to let him know if that’s what you prefer.” 

But there is something bothering Minho, a reason behind why he found himself in front of his door alone. 

Minho makes a small sound, easily picking apart the riddle that is Changbin’s brain. “Things are… complicated at home,” he mutters, sucking at his bottom lip. “Some of my choices are not approved because I don’t really share the same views with my parents.”

“But you are grown-up,” Changbin remarks, thoughtful. “Does what they think really matter?” 

“When it concerns…” A pause. “ …the family business and the public image, it matters.” 

Both are very foreign concepts to Changbin, neither his family owns a business, nor they have any reason to give a shit about public image. He comes from a small space station, routing accordingly from one c-type asteroid to another. His mother is an engineer, working in a facility to purify asteroid water and his father is a manager in distribution of this collected water. 

Like a weighted blanket, Changbin pulls Minho close and uses his arms and legs to cover him. “Do you regret your decisions?” he asks. 

“Not really…” His eyes are focused on the patterns across the ceiling panels. There is a silence, not heavy nor unwarranted, but a silence all the same as Minho thinks it over. His chest heaves and he exhales his answer into the room. “Nothing is really expected of me. I’m not… going to take over anything either.” A weak and breathy sigh creeps its way past Minho’s lips as he tilts his head to Changbin’s direction. “But it was important to me, so no. I don’t think I regret it.” 

That doesn’t sit right with Changbin, and it must be sprawled across his face because Minho moves a hand up, to press a finger on the growing furrow between his brows. “That life— I mean what is expected from my brother is, not something I’d choose either. I never showed interest before, and I don’t think I will ever. It’s just…” He wets his lips. “I realized I could do things to help without getting anyone’s way. But it does get in people’s way if people you are dealing with are greedy as fuck.” 

Changbin hums in agreement as his mouth purses into a sour line and runs his fingers across Minho's scalp, carding the tousled hair. He doesn’t know how to ease the weight that hurts him but Minho offers a silent thank you between a breath, and it gets his heart to do spins, flutters like it is a very precious thing. It is a very precious thing, then Changbin decides. 

An offered ear and tightened embrace, Changbin can do that.

Because Minho allows him. 

Because Minho is willing to be vulnerable with him. 

Because that’s the least he could do before the gap between their lives, the amount Minho keeps in the dark restricts him. 

It takes some time for conversation to shift, but they talk. In silence and in giggles, it rolls and grows naturally. They gossip about almost anything, Changbin gets loud. They brag about some matters, Minho whines. When they get cold, and their naked skin no longer is warm enough, they pull the blankets over and kiss. For them, there is no concept of time. It does not move the way it does for the others. They float and orbit in each other's chambers. 

It feels nice. 

Changbin is the happiest when it is this effortless to achieve it. 

Almost asleep with exhaustion, their words lay softly against their hearts. Until Changbin’s wristwatch sounds repeatedly, his notifications demanding his attention. Beside him Minho groans, and buries his face deeper in his neck, earning an appreciative chuckle from Changbin. 

That chuckle changes a turn, diminishing instantly with a very sincere, “Fucking asshole…“ 

Minho tips his head in concern, his voice still lulled with sleep, he asks, “What’s wrong?” He puts his weight onto his elbows to elevate himself, worry leaving a pit between his brows. 

“Some fucker—“ Changbin begins but chooses to start from elsewhere, from the source if messages. “Jisung sent me a news title,” he nearly spits out. “ ‘Our loveliest Prince Lee Know ,’” Minho’s body beside him visibly tenses but Changbin doesn’t really notice it. “ ‘mentions his recent affair with the local diamond crematorium went quite well. He says he plans to fund it for the citizens.’ What the fuck, what a prick.” 

Minho looks away, hands folded over each other, right forefinger unconsciously rubbing along the edge of his left hand. “Is it,” he hesitates. ”so wrong for him to consider that?”

“Of course it is,” Exasperation sighs out of Changbin as he leans against the bed. “Now some weirdos will show themselves at my door as if a crematorium is not a something that deserves respect but a fucking museum.” 

The young follows the trends like crazy. Until they get enough spotlight, until they consume and drain with nothing left to be spoiled, they know no boundaries. 

“Have you considered that maybe he thinks this is a way to help those who are unable to get the same treatment for their loved ones? You know it better than anyone else that it is not a cheap thing.” Minho tries to reason. It only annoys Changbin further.

Bundled up in blankets and bitter like a sulking little kid, Changbin scoffs. “Quietly funding it through passing a law is something, advertising it to gain publicity reputation for himself is something else.” The Department of the Death already informs families about the crematorium and its regulations. The last thing they need is adverts all around their station. “Now people will think it is a fucking circus.” 

“I think you are seeing the empty side of the glass right now Changbin-ah.” 

“ Am I really?” Changbin rears back with such a look of offense that it takes Minho by surprise. “Do you seriously believe this is an act out of honest sympathy? Or maybe, to cover who knows what they do behind the curtains?” 

“That’s a stretch…”

“Fine, I admit, maybe it’s taking it too far. Then all I’m saying is he is a senseless idiot who doesn’t know how to deal with his citizens.” Changbin gets rid of the sharp edges his voice carries when he comes to his senses, when he realizes that Minho is not the source of his sudden displeasure. He pulls Minho’s hand on his lap, but it remains unresponsive to his touches. 

In a slower and less mean demeanor, he parts his lips and says, “On the bright side, at least it is not him who is next to the throne.”

But it must have been the wrong thing to say because he sees the look Minho gives to him, something spasming across his face so near to hurt that his throat is closed, jaw clenched, his whole body still. 

When Minho opens his mouth and finds his voice to stitch his words together to make sentences, it comes with a distance. “And you must be so sure about the media's influence and this Lee Know person’s intentions considering you feel comfortable making such harsh comments."

Changbin drops the hand he is holding, thinning his eyes at him. His mouth dries when he watches his happiness crumble down like an earthquake hits the ground, when everything shatters with a piercing blow that is Minho’s voice. 

It’s his job. His everything . Something he puts his time, his values, his knowledge. 

He knows his clients, learns from them, providing them a closure, he sees people in the passing, he sees people losing it, he sees them when they cry, he sees them when they smile. It’s bittersweet, it’s joyful, it’s the ending and a new beginning because Changbin holds a life between his palms. 

A life . Not a fucking joke. Maybe no longer alive in blood and in flesh, but a life that made a change.

Changbin is devastated, because he expects support from him. It makes his skin crawl, to be treated like his work is less than nothing.

He speaks with venom, brimming with anger. “I’ve dealt with enough clownery. You know it very well.” 

“What Hyunjin did was—“

“—as if you were any less bothersome!” Words that get out of him come out higher than his intention. They are doused with the kind of accusation that leaves both parties miserable afterwards. 

And leaves him hurt —like he is being stabbed from his back when he least expects, right when he bares his everything to Minho. 

But Minho stirs his anger, boiling it effortlessly with how he plays himself. “You let that bother to be a part of your life.” 

“Clearly that was a fucking mistake,” Changbin grits his teeth. 

Minho lets out a dry, humorless laugh.

“A mistake you say,” Minho hisses out the word mistake like it burns his tongue. He storms out of the bed and starts collecting the pieces of his clothes splattered around the floor. His hands are balled into fists, and he refuses to meet Changbin’s eyes. 

Fire lits Changbin’s gaze and a shiver crawls down his spine. This is the ending , he thinks, of us . Without even a proper start. But Changbin, foolish enough, opened his heart with the slightest affection he received. 

And it is handed back. 

In pieces, for him to sew everything together if he can.

“Of course you ,” Changbin’s tone raspy with aggression and tinged with betrayal, it’s his broken heart that licks the edges of his voice that keeps what remains of his soul together. “out of all people, would not understand how it is. And I trusted you to be different.” 

Because deep down, Changbin’s torn. Changbin’s wailing in silence. He wants to be greedy with the time, so he can spin it to his liking to never go through this. Jumping over it or altering it to his liking because then, they would not fall apart like two deities clawing each other’s heart just to eat it whole, just to hurt it more. 

Because for once he felt understood and loved without boundaries. Maybe not loved in a way that is big enough to hold galaxies, but loved as in sincere, as in with a genuine interest that can grow in time to keep them as a whole. That’s what he hoped, to have with Minho.

But he is as powerless as a small particle in space, holding no importance in the vast emptiness. 

“I can see how much you put your trust in me,” comes out in a low and cold voice when Minho is next to his door, holding the handle with a white knuckled grip, his words running circles down his skull. 

“So much for your fucking promises .” Minho says with a finality before he leaves for good and it hits Changbin’s guts like a punch. 

So much for your fucking promises. 

So much for you to rather lick the floor a fucking royal blood walks on than choose me over them.

So much for you not to respect me at all. 

Perched on the bed's edge, Changbin grabs his boxers and slips them on before crouching down by the refrigerator, snatching a buzzer beer. It tastes like shit. 

He feels like shit .

He should have known that a person like Minho would choose to run over him like he means nothing, because the likeliness of Minho would always choose the closeness of royals. All nepo babies do, and if he is not, all the higher ups in the system do. It is what they breathe in and out, Changbin is just a small, exotic thing that dares to step in a life he doesn’t belong to. Something fun, something odd, something expendable in their eyes. 

And Minho is no different. 

Changbin wanted him to be different.

— +1 —

Time flows slowly for Changbin, much more than to his liking. 

He follows a routine. He wakes up, brushes his teeth, showers, dries himself, eats his sandwich and changes his clothes, then he is off to work. When it is time to go back home, he finds Jisung. Other times, Wooyoung occupies the space where Jisung once stood. Chan makes an appearance in these instances. Changbin is only present in the confines of his room to sleep, and for nothing else.

Because it is a routine, it is not perfect.

Changbin cracks eventually, and it is an ugly thing. 

It starts with a pack of marshmallows. The marshmallows are a gift bestowed by a grieving child who had just bid farewell to their beloved grandmother. The little girl, solemnly clinging to her mother's legs, wore a weary yet gentle smile. The passing of her grandmother, though anticipated due to her age, had been a well-rehearsed pain, portioned over time. She was a kind soul, silent words appearing on her mouth were spoken with great sincerity that Changbin envied to be as pure as her. As they prepared to depart, the girl left behind the pack of marshmallows on the modest coffee table, accompanied by a handwritten note that bore heartfelt gratitude, “Thank you for making grandma forever.” 

Forever , thought Changbin, holding the pack of marshmallows. Then he lost his footing and everything that kept him together. And there he felt his cheeks getting wet, eyes stinging, body trembling. He was crying. 

In the solitude of his room, shrouded in darkness with all lights extinguished, Changbin lies nestled beneath his blankets. Tears continue to stream down his cheeks. He cries so much. So much so that he is disoriented and fragmented into two distinct entities within a single body. One part of him seethes with hurt, while the other throbs with an undeniable fury. 

His sobs are too sharp, as if yawps of his anger ripple through his lungs to his sheets, from inside to the outside. He cries and cries but his pain and anger persist. The rhythmic ache of his desperation echoes inside his room and ricochets against Changbin’s chest. His heartbeats mimic the call, his whole body spasms, hurting and alone. 

He cries, he sleeps, he wakes up. 

Time moves, but not so much. Changbin clings to his memories like a child searching for his prized space bears. He digs down his wounds and finds Lee Minho who is nothing more than a silhouette, shadowed and restless against his bed, his room. But Lee Minho is salt to his bleeding heart, a knife. 

Him being everywhere at once then his abrupt lacking presence doesn’t go unnoticed by Jisung. He looks at Changbin, one long glance, disapproving. 

“As if you are any better,” is what Changbin says to him. Heartbroken Jisung is ugly crier, wails like there is no hope and drinks like it is the end. 

Jisung supplies him with drinks. Electric dreams and air gins. Buzzer beers and rock royales. He brings everything, and drinks with him. Jisung gets drunk first and dozes off, leaving Changbin with his thoughts for a long time. Next he wakes up, he breaks into tears. He apologizes and convinces Changbin that he will make it up to him.

Even introduces him an app with dating profiles and says, “Maybe you should fuck him out of your system,” 

He considers that. Changbin can do that. 

But the guy he brings home is not the face he longs to see. The girl on his lap is not the person he wants to touch. Quickly, it dissolves into a mundane effort, that it is clear how much it doesn’t work, because sex with strangers leaves a sour taste on his tongue and wets his eyes, yielding only salt. 

So much for your fucking promises, Changbin thinks, staring into his empty room. Recalling everywhere he had Minho. 

And the funny thing is, Minho’s presence here wasn’t even much. There was only one time, and that was all. Beyond that, there wasn't any history between them to classify whatever this — a breakup?— to affect him to the point where he is so wrapped in bitterness.

Chan and Jisung keep him company. They are careful with Changbin; careful as in the choice of words, careful as in picking the right movie, careful as in only playing songs that aren’t about heartbreaks. Always handing him the sweetest of the drinks, and tastiest of the foods. It is nice at first, to be taken care of, to be subject of such attentiveness but soon it grows to be suffocating, then Changbin is close to screaming.

But he steps back and looks at himself and his surroundings, thinking everything over and over. He is nothing more than a mere simple being, and Chan and Jisung are not being careful as he is accusing them of. Rather it is them giving him a peace, a space that he can come clean and feel comfortable enough to tell them what he needs, bleed his heart out to his liking. 

Maybe what he is in need of is not to fuck Minho out of his system but a good honest time full of him shedding his defenses, layer by layer, one by one, as he cries his eyes out and shouts until his throat aches. 

But for the first in a while, he feels fine. It is fine, he dares to think, when a buzzer beer finds his lips.

His good old life. 

What did Minho change?

What did Minho promise to him at all? 

Nothing , he decides. Minho only brought him trouble and belittled him. How the fuck he forget that and dare to let his heart get better of him? 

So Changbin convinces himself Lee Minho was a result of his overachiever and perfectionist ass, fuelled by his need to please to the point that the truth tumbled out of him faster than he could open his eyes and keep it inside. The reality was shrouded away from him, hidden behind the curtains that is his heart. He clings to that thought like it becomes the water he drinks, the air he breathes and he is fine. 

Lee Minho was a temporary addiction, sweet as cocktails served in fancy colors and fancy dressings, that looks good in hands and the taste granting heavens on his tongue but nothing more than a fakeness of billboard advertisements, nothing more than colorful dreams of luxurious hotel rooms. Tempting, and seductive but equally prone to be forgotten.

Yet .

There is a but

Because that is a lie. 

Changbin just finds it easier to overlook that little detail when he is back to being drunk in his newly found returning happiness. 

It happens when Changbin is lying down on Chan's couch, engrossed in an action-packed movie, relishing handfuls of popcorn. Jisung is seated nearby, while Chan settles comfortably on the rug. They are quiet and still as anyone can be, immersed into the show that is playing. Wide eyes, gaping mouths, and bated breaths echo the intensity of the scenes. 

On the screen, a scene starts playing. The main character lays sick and bedridden. Then the main love interest is coming inside, doing everything she can to cheer him up and leaving the room only to come back with candies and giving him all of them one by one. 

What a stupid scene , Changbin thinks. You’re not supposed to feed patients junk food. 

“Hyung,” comes Jisung’s voice. 

And then, “Binnie-ah,” says Chan.

Because of course Changbin is crying. Tears welling in the corners of his eyes, his vision gets blurry and he is sobbing his heart out. It doesn’t even start like a fire silently growing from inside, but it is as strong and unpredictable as a thunder, roaring and growling. It is guilt that is straining to come out, lodged in his lungs and now tearing him apart, ripping his carefully crafted covers, leaving him bare and his soul raw. 

The thing is, Changbin knew from the beginning that it was never as bad as how he portrayed Minho to be. Minho was playful, he was patient, had his weird ways to live his life but he was also kind .

He was never a bother.

Neither was he a mistake at all. 

Jisung tried to reason with him once, but Changbin pushed him away. Didn’t listen to him because his words poked things he would rather not resurface. Because Jisung said, “Maybe the prince is someone he knew, maybe he was Minho hyung’s friend. And surely you’d be upset if he bad-mouthed any of us too.” But Jisung had more to add, “And if anything hyung, forgive me but, I think Lee Know was just being naive. I don’t think anyone wants to make things complicated for you.” 

When he looks back and plays the scene once again, — Minho on his bed,  smiling lazily at him and leaning in to leave a kiss at the corner of his mouth — he can see how foolish he had been with Minho. How much he fucked up. How much his sudden rage tainted the words he chose and scarred them both. 

Three sleep cycles later, Changbin is boiling water in his electric kettle. The whole body of water erupts like a volcano and Changbin watches it, flooded with the waves of memories. It is a vain attempt of indulgence because just like how the water in the kettle is too hot for a mere human’s skin to handle, flooding memories burn him just as much. Yet there is this thing called hope, the sinister one amongst the others, that drenches him with disappointment over and over. 

Changbin hopes to see Minho once again, he hopes to have them cross their paths like how it always happened. Minho always found him, maybe he can still find him if he hopes enough. But that’s naive and borderline stupid, even more so when his doorbell rings and his heart starts doing gymnastics in stupid because of course the face that welcomes him is not Minho and never can be him. 

Jisung invites himself inside, announcing he’s got dinner with him. They eat, Changbin finishes everything and even manages to smile Jisung’s jokes. Having someone beside him keeps him on track and grounded, no longer he is lost in his head, no longer floating like a particle with no sense of time or self. 

They settle on Changbin’s bed. Jisung is going through his TV channels, mumbling something akin to everything looking shit, shitter and the shittiest tier. Changbin is playing a racing game on Jisung’s portable console, his attention already elsewhere. 

“Holy fucking shit,” comes from his left and Jisung is straightening up. “Hyung, you need to see this.” 

His eyes trained diligently on racing doughnuts don’t falter, Changbin is busy keeping his mind occupied with everything else that is not Minho and everything else that is ridiculously stupid like a game with angry doughnut drivers. There is a flour event he is participating and this fucker in a huge sunflower hat is looking for trouble. The trouble being Changbin, he is on a mission. 

So no, he doesn’t indulge Jisung when he is busy making doughnuts. 

Jisung whines beside him. 

When cornered like this, he decides he can lend an ear for a heartbeat and maybe two. 

He listens for three heartbeats before his mood sours completely because, “Why the fuck are you watching something with Royal Family in it?” 

To Changbin, it doesn’t sound funny. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake hyung,” and Jisung is ripping away the console from his hands and elbowing him, hard. “Stop being difficult and look at the screen!” 

And he does. After he curses loudly, he does look at the screen and sees what gets Jisung so worked up. But it takes some time for his brain to do the connections — first because in all his naivety and pureness of his heart, he thinks Minho is looking so good in a suit, second because he remembers he fucked up his chances with him for good, and third because Hyunjin is whispering something to Minho’s ear and it gets Changbin’s blood boiling. 

But then he gets it . This time, he really really gets the thing Jisung probably saw and understood in a light’s moment. 

Stars, fucking stars. Of course Lee Minho is not a murderer, or a kidnapper, or anything close to a blackmailer. Of course he has to be the worst, he has to be the fucking Lee Know himself, the prince that caused the fall of his dreams, his happiness, his everything.

“Jisung,” Changbin says, voice too even and too calm for the situation. Because a knot tightens in his throat, withholding the surge of emotions hoping for release. It's a messy tango of his feelings—confusion, anger, guilt, disappointment, and pain whirl and twist within. Should he be furious first, then disappointed? Or hurt comes first followed by a naive confusion? Changbin simply doesn’t know, Changbin doesn’t even want to exist right now. So he opens his mouth to form what comes to his mind first. “Do you remember the person who stole Himari-chan cardboard?”

“Hyunji— Him ?” Jisung looks everywhere but him. 

“What do you mean by Hyunjin? Why do you even—“ Oh . Oh now Changbin finally connects the dots. But there is no fuel left in his bones to stoke the fires of further anger to be upset with the younger. He doesn’t care. “Do you still talk to him?” 

“Well… I mean after what happened between you and Minho hyung maybe I was… kind of, um, implied his friend is a dick? Maybe ?”

Of course Jisung still has his back, it is Jisung . A bundle of chaos but loyal to the core. “But you still have his contact?” 

Jisung nods his head, already fishing his wristwatch close to Changbin’s, reading his best friend’s mind. 

That’s all Changbin needs. 

Because after only one sleep cycle, someone is knocking his door and Changbin knows damn well it isn’t Jisung. 

The door creaks ajar, revealing Minho standing behind it. The lines on his face are neutral, his expression unreadable. He stands at the threshold, his gaze fixated on his shoes, avoiding any contact with Changbin's eyes. It's as though he never dared to imagine Changbin opening the door. His demeanor carries the weight of a man stranded in indecision, as if he doesn’t know what to do.

Changbin takes one step back, letting him in his room with no words. Minho doesn’t talk either but follows him inside in silence. 

He exudes an air of uncertainty —uncertain of his stance, in between whether to sit or stand, puzzled about the purpose of his own hands or how to position them. His eyes travel the room and stop at where they shared their first kiss. Then it lands on the small, miniature pomegranate tree. A subtle yet palpable strain clouds Minho's face. He clenches his fists. Finds himself another corner —farthest away from the kitchen countertop and the pomegranate tree— and rests his back against the door to the bathroom. Changbin chooses his only chair. 

But Changbin can’t stand the silence. Not when Minho stands in his room as if cast from porcelain, like a pretty souvenir that he is untouchable. 

“Were you ever going to tell me the truth?” 

Changbin's words slice through the silence, a cutting edge that is the sharpest knife. It doesn’t matter. The sting his words deliver fades against the enduring ache left by Minho's actions, what he put them through with his lies. How much he made Changbin a stupid. A fool . 

A fool dared to love. The mockery of the stars’ twisted sense of humor.

Minho remains motionless, wordless, voiceless. 

He has no right to, it angers Changbin. “No explanation? Nothing like a smart remark? None of your pretty lies ?” 

That gets a response from Minho, he flinches as though he is struck by an invisible surge of pain. He looks lost, hurt. Good . Changbin wants him hurt. 

Changbin settles himself comfortably in the chair, crossing his legs and arms. “If you have nothing to say,” He gestures at the door. “just leave.”

“No, I want to…” It’s the first real words Minho’s spoken in so long and his voice is rough from lack of use. The sound of his voice buries itself in Changbin’s head and he shakes it away with a shudder. Not yet, no forgiveness yet.

“Just let me…” Minho goes quieter, his body shrinking in on itself. 

It’s frustrating. 

“You did trick me well, Your Highness—” 

“— don’t .” Minho pleads but it reminds Changbin of anger, regret and heartbreak. 

“So much so Your Highness, that not even for a moment I thought it was a lie, a game.” And maybe partly it was his own fault, for indulging himself with the likes of Minho. He had his warnings. Many of them, Hyunjin, the biggest one among the others, was honest with him when he wore no masks to stomp down his whole existence under his expensive boots. Hyunjin laughed at his face, and confessed to him that he had his share of fun. “Was it entertaining at least?” 

Minho’s face twists at what he says. “Do you think I’m that low?” 

“Wouldn’t you?” Just a little while ago, Changbin was thinking of ways to apologize to him. Of how to make things alright, if he can show his promises are worthy of Minho’s forgiveness. A fragile hope, a timid wish. “If you were in my shoes, what would you do, Your Highness ?”

“Please don’t call me that,” Minho says, voice strained. “I’m not that when I’m with you.” 

“Oh, so I’m not supposed to get angry or not expect an explanation because you are not royalty when we are together?” Only someone from above, someone of luxury, can imagine money can buy them this sort of sickening fantasy. It is unbelievable. “Do you even realize how insane that sounds? You get to lie your way in our lives but I’m supposed to overlook it because you’ve said so?” 

“That’s not what I mean. Fuck. I’m just…” Minho’s eyes darken around the edges with quiet resignation, he looks everywhere but Changbin. “I know it doesn’t matter what I’m pretending to be, because I know, I fucking know my real identity is too much to cover it, hide it, lie about it —whatever you’d prefer to say. But I was going to tell you.” 

Minho moves from the door to the chair when his composure cracks. He sits down at the edge of the bed, in front of Changbin, a little further away. Doesn’t touch him but the hand hanging in the air midway seems like there was thought of it, once. 

“I wanted to tell you the truth. I swear I did, Changbin,” Minho breathes out. The shape of his name leaves his mouth and forms as condensation that weighs heavy for them both. Changbin considers him, and his words and the lack of explanation that stretches in between.

Minho is smart, he must see that. He must be aware of that. No amount of convincing done with pretty words would suffice. Changbin wants the truth, the honesty. That’s all.

“The time we spent at the hole got me thinking,” He parts his lips twice before he continues, as if he is having trouble putting his thoughts in order. “and after we left the medical ward I was going to tell you. It was important, you needed to know if we pursued something serious. Because I wanted it to be serious. But things got complicated and…”

“Because of my outburst? Because we fought? It’s my fault ?” Changbin fists his hands. 

“No,” Minho is quick to answer. Firm. Certain. “Before that, with my family about funding the crematoriums.”

Changbin scoffs, exasperated. “How in the hell is it even relevant?  

“It’s because… I will sound like a spoiled child when I say this but,” Minho sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. “it is the truth . I never wanted to be something of royal blood when I’m with you or when I’m with the others. I don’t give a shit about public appearances because I hate it just as much. The throne? Never had any interest, not even for a moment. They, my family, had their own values and plans which didn’t include me, and I was fine with that. They were too, because I posed no threat to them.”

Changbin fights against the urge to tell him his family sound like a bunch of assholes, but at the same time they were perhaps giving Minho the freedom he was seeking. Keeping him out of their ways, keeping him less on the line. 

Yet, still. 

He shouldn’t care, he has no reason to. 

But maybe he is genuine , he thinks. 

No. In due time they will be strangers, this is his farewell. His closure.

“And?” He says instead. “You decided to do something opposite of their expectations and now I can’t be in the picture?”

“What? No, not like that. Changbin, I…” Minho leaves the bed to come closer and crouches down in front of him. Then continues, treading through his explanation like murkey, flooded water —too raw to articulate. “What I was hoping to do with the diamond crematoriums was supposed to be a secret, even from my own family. Someone leaked it and they pushed it to the news because apparently if I was going to throw that much money to the void, I had to be at least responsible and show my face to possible sponsors once in a while . And fuck, their logic is not wrong either because publicity brings money. And I can’t be spoon fed if I’m going to oppose their stance, I need people supporting me. So I had to. Not because I wanted to or had a choice, but because I had to.” 

How easily Changbin’s defenses fall. How easily he is craving to forgive him. Because something in him melts in understanding, because that thing knows Minho isn’t lying. 

But his train of thoughts eventually stops at what seems to be a very stubborn place, his conscience that remembers the pain as much. 

His fingers fumble with the sleeves of his hoodie. Changbin is not a cruel person, he never was. “Excuses,” he mumbles, maybe to convince himself because it is easier. “All you give me sounds like excuses.”

Minho’s hands hover over his own, hesitant. The uncertain brush against his own seeks permission, his eyes watching Changbin’s face carefully. When Changbin makes no move to withdraw, he takes Changbin’s hand within his own. “Not excuses,” Minho tries to reason. “I’m coming clean. The truth, it is selfish. Stupid you can call it, even. I couldn’t tell you anything. It wasn’t because I wasn’t ready or I didn’t deem you worthy enough or worse that I felt nothing for you. Because I do. Fuck, I feel so much for you, you have no idea what your promise meant to me.” However it is brief, his face softens for a moment. His voice grows small, shy. But not less determined. 

Changbin’s heart skips a beat. 

“I wanted to make this right. But I was scared, stars I was scared shitless about what would have happened if you were to learn my identity and then you promised me to accept me as whole—“ His eyes tilt away as he stumbles over his words. Changbin only notices the tears pooling in Minho’s eyes now because he swipes his cheeks with the heel of his palm. “You told me you wanted to try and here I was flawed and selfish as fuck. Lying straight to your face. Keeping things in the dark. Of course you are angry, you have every fucking right to be.” 

The hand on his cheeks, cover the half of his face when it becomes too much and that is the last straw of Changbin’s self control. He reaches out and circles a hand around his wrist to get his attention. “Minho,” he murmurs, a pang of hurt going through his chest. “look at me.” 

When he can, all Minho muster is a weak, and quite frankly, childish, “I’m sorry,” one that nestles its way between Changbin’s overgrown heart. “I’m sorry I fucked us up, I’m sorry you had to learn it this way.” 

Changbin is not made of walls so high, rather he is an open land, vast as a welcoming sky. He can’t hide his feelings, so he can’t stop himself as his own tears join Minho’s. He doesn’t want to cry, he doesn’t even know why he is crying. 

The anger in him is dimmed but the hurt still stings, reminding itself in rhythms. 

“Of fuck, I made you cry,” Minho crawls closer to him, probably with the intention of wiping his tears away but instead Changbin throws himself at his arms. He finds no resistance but arms around him, holding him, welcoming him. 

Minho chants his apologies with no end while placing kisses over his head, then the corner of his eyes. Changbin doesn’t say he forgives him. Doesn’t mention his apologies are accepted. He is conflicted, he is in between. But Minho continues kissing him, little pecks, all around his face, his hair, his hands. Wherever Minho can reach, he kisses his apologies away to make it less hurt. 

Changbin knows he is trying his best. 

Changbin can see that. 

Changbin can look back and remember every line, remember every stupid little detail that got his heart racing like a little girl. 

Minho’s sincerity, his weird sense of humor, his attempts at keeping himself in Changbin’s life, him getting shy, him getting red. His honesty. 

Because here is the truth, Changbin hoped for this. Hoped for him to be as stubborn as himself to keep Changbin in his life, because he knows. He knows very well that Minho was never like the others, he was his own unique being that he can’t put him into anywhere specific.

Maybe his heart, he can keep him there. 

Because, a heartbeat later Minho laces their fingers so dearly, so gently and says, “I like you, Changbin-ah. That part was never a lie,” and as if he is not holding enough of his heart between his palms, he continues with, “and I want to grow to love you more, if you let me. If you give me another chance to make it up to you.” 

And what is Changbin supposed to do? Tell him that he is still bitter but his heart is weak as fuck and all he wants is to kiss him until their lips go numb?

Yeah, Changbin does that. Maybe he doesn’t say the part with his heart. Or doesn’t mention their lips going numb with kissing nonstop. Maybe he just decides with, “Do you really mean it? Because if not, I’d rather you leave now for good,” than to have his heart broken twice by the same person because he has no self control, he is weak for Minho just like that. 

Minho’s thumb brushes the bone of his wrist as he nods. He lets out a soft but decided breath. “I do, of course I do Changbin-ah,” he says. 

Yet Changbin can sense a but. 

“What is it?” he asks. 

The chapped and slightly parted lips of Minho now seal shut, forming a tight line. His chest heaves with a sigh, rocking Changbin like those nursery rhymes. “I hope this thing will last as long as it can,” Changbin tenses, it doesn’t go unnoticed by Minho because he stops and wets his lips in a moment of panic. “Funny, how I’m talking about a breakup before we even started anything…” 

“And maybe we would never either,” Minho’s eyes snap to him. 

“Right,” He laughs but it’s hollow to the ears. Changbin feels bad, regret bubbling up in his throat. 

“And if we start this thing ?” Changbin tries once more. Minho blinks —once, twice and for the third time. 

“If we start this thing,” Minho repeats, tips of his fingers circling lines on Changbin’s palm. “you need to be aware there might be people who are curious about you. They might ask you questions —about me or about you. They might cross your boundaries, and it might get ugly because I know some might even feel comfortable enough to follow you around like a—“

Changbin presses a finger on his lips to shush him. “I got that already,” he answers. “It is inevitable, isn’t it?” 

“But you might grow to resent it,” Minho insists. His voice is so sure, growing quiet before his breath ends. “And I’m terrified of that possibility.” 

If Changbin is shaking his head, it is not because he thinks Minho is wrong. Because suddenly it dawns on him —it was never about adopting another identity for fun. Minho is vulnerable to the thousands of eyes watching him, and judging him. To many, he is just a name to throw around, a mere made up character for fun that deserves no privacy nor freedom.

“Now you understand why I wanted to remain as Lee Minho,” he whispers with a pained smile that accompanies his words. “But,” he continues. “I’d do anything to protect you Changbin-ah. You don’t have to be a part of that, ever.” 

Minho explains to him. All the possible scenarios, he gives him those, he gives him how they might play out. He squeezes his hand to let him know it’s okay to be scared and prefer his previous life over what Minho might bring with himself. He says it like he expects it, as if that is the usual response, the hurt tinged in his voice is practiced so much that he doesn’t even falter, doesn’t even flinch. 

How many times , Changbin thinks. he had to make this conversation? How many times he had to repeat it?

“I promised to accept you with your flaws,” Changbin keeps him close and speaks slowly. “Told you I have those, too.” 

“ But— “

“You think I’m naive?” His expression goes darker. “There will be changes, for both of us. Of course there has to be, but we will find ways. Together.” 

“Together…” repeats Minho.

“ Together… ” repeats Changbin too. And imagines a together. Them holding hands. Them smiling at each other. Them eating soggy noodles. Them huddling up in blankets because the heating system is broken. 

Another them, outside. People taking their pictures. Minho doesn’t care. He himself doesn’t care either, he tells him that it is okay, that they can see all they want because it is better they know Minho through his eyes, so that they can find parts in him that is all to love. 

Changbin doesn’t realize he vocalizes the last part, but realizes late that he never mentioned his feelings to him either. 

But Minho is already blushing, tips of his ear red. He is hiding his face when he glances at the floor, the space between where their legs touch. Changbin tucks his hair falling over his eyes behind his ears and cups his cheeks to get his attention back. He demands for honesty, he has to give him some too. “You are lovable,” he says, a sly smile filling his way in. “The loveliest, Your Highness.” 

Minho hits him. It is playful. It is normal. It is fresh air. It is all Changbin hopes for. 

“And you are a menace,” Minho comments, equally grinning.

Another hit to his biceps, but Minho doesn’t let him protest. Changbin can’t even whine, because a gentle hand settles on his neck, pulling him closer for a kiss. Light. Fleeting. Sweet. 

Ends too fast. 

But Minho kisses him again, presses his lips for longer and tugs Changbin onto his lap. His free hand can’t seem to settle anywhere, it travels around his body until Changbin is smiling against their kiss, completely enamored with Minho’s childish eagerness. 

It takes a lot of time before they can be separated and it is only because they seem to find themselves on the floor, hitting objects and unbalancing the contents of Changbin’s memorycardcase. They rain over them once, roaring with pity and they are giggling like children.

Together , thinks Changbin. Because it feels easy. 

It feels difficult too. But less complicated now. He is hopeful. He likes him, in the way that matches Minho’s words. He wants to grow to love him.

But first things first. 

He takes Minho’s hand to bring his fingers to his lips and says, “You were never a mistake,” Minho’s eyes widen. He stills, his giggle dies halfway. “Never a bother either. I was just spiteful.” 

“I know,” Minho lets out a moment later. “I’m the loveliest.” 

If Changbin groans, it is from love. Because he is taking a peek to their future, and he agrees. That Minho is the loveliest. But he groans, exaggerates it even. Then lets his sound blend into their inhales and exhales. He puts an arm under his head to prop himself, like a makeshift pillow, and watches him. His eyes linger Minho’s every detail, shamelessly so. Because he can. Because he has nothing to be afraid of.

“What is it?” Minho eventually wonders, slightly standoffish and amused. A flushed tint of pink blends in with the streaming artificial daylight, casting soft shadows off his face. 

“You are nice to look at.” His voice is smug, because Minho gets even redder. The loveliest, he thinks. The loveliest shades of reds, he carries with. 

“Don’t stop,” respsonses Minho, with a slight challenge. “But I might just doll up a little bit to give you a heart attack next time.” 

“That’s how you plan to kill me?”

“Why not? Then I will get another red diamond. A memento of Seo Changbin. Cause of death, his heart was weak for Lee Minho.” 

Minho looks so invested, so happy. Changbin indulges him further. “Gonna wear me to the higher ups events and show off how beautiful we look together?” 

“Of course,” Minho answers. “They will be jealous because no one can be as beautiful as you, Changbin-ah.” 

Ah. That’s only fair. Probably. But his heart, yeah, his heart is weak . Minho was right.

And Minho is not letting it go. “My beautiful Binnie-ah,” he says. “I prefer you alive though. You are more beautiful this way. More to love, in your words.” 

It is so easy to fluster him, and Minho uses it given every opportunity like it is his secret weapon. Always on purpose. Sometimes with one arched eyebrow. Changbin already knows a lot about him —the littlest and the biggest details, he learns them one by one. 

“But,” Changbin lets out after he finishes The Lee Minho list in his mind. “What was that red diamond talk, honestly?” 

The question straightens Minho instantly. “You want to know?”

Changbin nods his head. “No more secrets,” he adds because his curiosity is hungry and craving for satisfaction.

“Fine,” Minho sighs. “But brace yourself for pettiness. Although in the end I think it worked quite well.” 

Changbin gives him a puzzled look.

“It is what Seungmin said before, Ahn Sanghun was fond of reds. He did a lot for me when I was this small,” He brings a hand to the air to show Changbin his height. And continues sharing his time with Ahn Sanghun. Mentions how he was his Foreign Histories teacher, how he taught him about animals and void beings. How he helped him to overcome any obstacles on his path.

“But I don’t understand,” Changbin interferes after a while. “What about the pettiness part? Why were you even petty? Did I say something wrong about him or…?” 

“It’s because you didn’t say anything, actually,” Minho shakes his head with a frustrated sigh. “And you still don’t seem to remember.” 

“Remember what?” Changbin sits up and rests his back against the memorycardcase. He doesn’t understand.

“Well, what do you think? Me of course.” Minho huffs. 

“You…” he trails off. He tries to remember a moment where they were face to face, talking. Maybe not talking, only existing. In the same place. In the distance. Maybe like two pictures on a screen. Changbin can’t find any. 

“Don’t give me that face, I already made peace with how you did a score on my self esteem,” Minho pushes Changbin’s foot with his own. Then with more force. Like it is his punishment. “But if you are curious, it happened during one of the Bioluminescence Symposiums, the one held at Station Delphini X. I was helping Professor Choi and you were at the Renewable Bioenergy Panel looking all handsome and smart.”

That wasn’t wrong, in fact he did attended the Bioluminescence Symposium in Station Delphini X. At that time his university was researching ways to have sustainable farming methods for bioenergy extracted from bioluminescent organisms. But Minho doesn’t paint a picture in his head. 

Oh . 

“But you didn’t look anything like how you are right now. Your hair was like— like burgundy !” Of course he remembers the cute guy that gave him gay panic when he was trying his best to keep his posture. He was obliged to look presentable because attendees were all important people. 

“So now you remember. Great,” Minho says dryly. “I was trying so hard to bed you before the symposium ended, even Seungmin felt sorry for my pathetic ass and brought people over who could appreciate my beautiful looks.” 

“Sorry, some has to stay in line to keep their grades high and academia proud.” Or he was just trying not to show his inexperience, but Minho doesn’t need to know about that.

“Academia is shit,” Minho says, frowning. “And I had to go an even shittier route because you suggested to me that artificially extracted energy sources could be fun.”

Of that, Changbin has no memory of. 

Minho reads him like he is an open screen.“Of course you don’t remember it at all.” 

“But I at least agree that academia is shit,” Changbin gives him a sheepish smile as he curls into Minho’s side and rests his head against his shoulders. 

“Thank you for your efforts. It meant a lot,” Minho runs a hand through his hair. Changbin just nuzzles into his neck, humming appreciatively. “There you go, now you know why I was petty and decided to tease you in the crematorium.”

“You also gave me a heart attack when you showed up holding a body at the movie set,” Changbin mumbles against the warmth of Minho’s skin. His lips brushes the exposed parts, so he leaves a kiss that seems to make Minho tickle. So he kisses him again. To see him squirm, and be caused it is nice. “How can someone sleep through that?” 

“Ah, that’s because Yongbokkie wasn’t sleeping at all.” 

Changbin pushes himself away from Minho with such intensity that his joints audibly crackles beneath the strain of his movement. “What do you mean by he wasn’t sleeping at all?”

But he remembers Yongbok. His radiant hero, the descendant of the sun. He was certainly a living being, not dead.

“He was simply pretending,” Minho crosses his arms in front of chest with the fondest gaze he can sport. Changbin can see it through all along, he is trying to cover his smirk. Fucker. 

So Changbin starts pouting. The power of his pouting and looking away, the jutting of his lips in the babiest way gets Minho all over him. Success . 

“But, it wasn’t my idea. I swear!” Minho is cradling him in his arms, rocking forth and back like Changbin is a real baby. “Let’s say Yongbokkie and Seungminnie together can be a scheming combo. They are evil, very very much.” 

“And I suppose you didn’t bite that person to death?” Changbin asks using his baby privileges.

“Technically I did,” Minho answers, stilling. It gives Changbin flashes of future images where Minho is sinking his teeth against his flesh. Hard . 

He doesn’t get horrified, like he expects from himself. Not when he imagines Minho between his legs, licking the sensitive of his thighs, peppering him with kisses before he feels the sharp edges of his teeth grazing over his skin. Then the pointed parts ripping past his flesh, slowly and sensually, all the while Minho is watching him with hazy eyes, full of lust and desire. 

Oh stars . He feels arousal peaking below, tightening his trousers.

Yet stars must have mercy on him because Minho goes on, not noticing the situation Changbin finds himself in. “But the guy kept pressing on. Bite me harder Minho-yah~ You’re doing great Minho-yah~ ” Minho mimics him. “Imagine how traumatized I got when there was blood in my mouth. I’m the victim here, not him.”

Well, maybe they can’t do it. If Minho finds it traumatizing after a bad experience, there is no reason to try it ever and resurface memories that need to be buried all along. 

But turns out Changbin is wrong because .

“You have a biting kink, don’t you?” 

He is eyeing him from top to the bottom, even this close. Then pointing out the obvious bulge between his legs with nonchalance. Changbin knows he is the reddest he has ever been with him, because suddenly his cheeks are burning, scorching hot with embarrassment. 

Minho pushes him on the ground to climb on top of him, grinding his own very hardening bulge against his. “Well I think that’s quite hot though, Changbin-ah,” he whispers to his ear before kissing and licking his neck. He takes some of his skin between his teeth, and nips it playfully. Not a full bite, but enough to get moans out of Changbin’s mouth. 

“I thought we agreed on being honest,” Minho adds, voice low, knowing he has the superiority here with his newly acquired knowledge. His hand rubs up and down the little exposed part on Changbin’s waist when they fall on the floor. “Do you intend to keep it?”

Changbin does, there is no backing away. Certainly not when Minho is this eager to have him like a mischievous, scheming kitten he is. But Changbin can play his part very well too, because he likes him enough and because Minho knows how to make it enjoyable. Because he knows how to make it all about Changbin. 

He watches Minho’s face, the dilated pupils of his, his ragged breath, reddened and puffed lips with great interest. Another moment of silence, Minho’s one eyebrow arches. He is beautiful. He is everything. Changbin likes him so much.

“Yes, my little prince,” he says, teasingly. Lovingly. “Gonna keep it till the end.”

And Changbin is kissing him.

To Changbin Lee Minho is many things, but in the end he is the loveliest.

One day Jisung moves into a cozy little flat right next to Minho's Meowbrews. The rent is a steal, but his new neighbors are a lively bunch; they make quite the ruckus. And the central heating system? It's as stubborn as a sleepy kitty.

It’s okay , Jisung doesn't mind. He bundles up in his cherished, soft sweaters and cozies up under a warm, snug blanket. Everything is fine , he thinks.

But it’s not ok . His shifts are at odd hours, and on top of that, his beloved coffee machine, which had been his trusty morning companion for countless cups of coffee, decided its time was over. With a gentle sputter and a final puff of steam, it served its final cup.

It’s okay , Jisung doesn’t mind. There is a cafe right next to his apartment; he can use that. As the sun is almost setting, Jisung, sporting his comfiest pants and a fashionable jacket, heads over to the cafe with dreams of sipping a fresh iced Americano in his head.

Yet a twist of fate and to the end of his coffee date, there's an unexpected scene unfolding that stills Jisung. Shouting and chaos are everywhere. A heated fistfight is in progress, and then two individuals are on the ground, the prettiest man Jisung’s ever seen is keeping them in place.

He's about to make his exit, but the pretty man turns to him. “How can I help you?” he asks, holding what appears to be a piece of ripped cloth in his clenched fists. His shirt is rumpled, and a smudge of blood is on his chin. The hanging lamp above is stuttering.

Jisung gulps, eyes as round as boba pearls and as dark as black coffee, lips wobbling, and without any word, he takes a step back, then another. Once more he finds himself outside and denied of his much-anticipated coffee.

It’s okay , Jisung doesn’t mind. He orders the cheapest coffee machine and invites himself to Chan’s and Felix’s couch while waiting. “It’s because of the heating problem,” he explains and lets himself be pampered for the next few days with their luxurious coffee machine.

A notification about the delivery pops up, and he's already back home, with a tiny kitten nestled against the crook of his neck and shoulder. The tiny monster is a biter but knows she is cute, and only sleeps if she is snuggled next to Jisung.

He can’t say the same for the tiny monster’s mother, aka Felix’s 6-year-old tabby, who has a beef with Jisung for no reason at all. She is a princess to everyone but hisses at Jisung, scratches Jisung, and steals from Jisung. That’s not a monster, that’s the archdevil for Jisung.

He calls his sweet princess Pumpkin, and from then on, little Pumpkin is everything. He spends all of his time and his savings on a cat tree for Pumpkin. Luxury snacks? He got them. A hammock with tiny little paws? It’s already on the way. Smooches on the belly? Jisung can’t get enough. When his mood sours, it's Pumpkin's little meows that bring the light back to his face. When he wakes up, it’s Pumpkin’s little licks on his cheeks saying good morning. It’s her little paws making biscuits on the blanket, it’s her big round eyes watching pigeons flying in the sky.

What’s better is that Pumpkin’s affection is reserved solely for Jisung. She keeps her distance from Felix and Chan. When Changbin visits, she shows her freshly groomed claws. If it is Hyunjin on the door frame, she starts hissing all puffed up and angry. Innie dared to eat something? That plate now belongs to her. Jisung is thriving.

So Jisung keeps himself occupied with Pumpkin, only ever letting thoughts of the pretty man creep in when he is outside to pick up Pumpkin's favorite treats because the pet shop is right next to Meowbrews.

(That’s a lie because Jisung thinks about the pretty man a lot. It’s usually when he is off from work and sees him taking chairs and tables outside, opening the shop. It’s usually when he sees him whispering something to his coworkers’ ear and giggling like a little child. But Jisung is always away, watching him from a safe distance, hiding behind his hoodie, on the other side of the road. He is glad his eyesight is good.)

He avoids the cafe like a plague. Instead, he either takes the scenic route, making a full loop around the apartment blocks to reach the pet shop or crosses the road twice to make a ‘U’.

It’s okay, Jisung doesn’t mind. It's their little secret between him and little Pumpkin. No one needs to know. “The things I do for you,” smiles Jisung while brushing Pumpkin’s soft fur and humming a lullaby. “He is very pretty and he sure knows how to throw a punch.”

But it’s not okay because days later Jisung’s heart is clenching with dread, eyes wet and red, panic in his throat, hands trembling, his breathing erratic. Pumpkin is not home.

Jisung looks everywhere, every little corner and every little hiding spot. He tries the treats, then the wet food. She doesn’t poke her head under her favorite blanket and comes running for him like she usually does. She is not home. It is an absolute nightmare for Jisung. He's overwhelmed by fear and guilt, his mind filled with the most dreadful possibilities because the street in front of his apartment is a busy one, always bustling with cars.

“What if she is cold?” he mumbles wearily. “What if she is hungry and hurt?” He is out on the streets, calling her name, leaving her favorite treats on the ground. He tries the dark, secluded places for Felix told him it might be worth a shot.

Jisung is close to giving up. But he would never forgive himself if he does, and he can’t find it in himself to sit down and wait because it’s his fault. If Pumpkin is injured, it’s Jisung’s fault. He is exhausted. But he will find her. He has to find her.

It's nearly half past eight when Jisung stands in front of Meowbrews. It's the last place he hasn't checked, and he's running out of options. Fear still lingers, and guilt weighs heavier on his heart. The pretty man is his last hope. He pushes the door and lets himself in. Lights are on but the shop is empty.

“We’re closed,” comes a voice from inside. “We don’t serve after eight.”

“Umm—“ Jisung starts, but just then comes the pretty man, feline-like eyes sharp as if sizing him up but softens almost instantly. He is carrying something between his arms, something tiny, something full of fur and—

“ Pumpkin !” Jisung lets out something akin to a shriek and rushes towards both, tears of joy streaming down his face. “Oh my god, Pumpkin, this is where you've been all this time!”

He wants to kiss the pretty man, wants to give him everything because Pumpkin seems healthy, just a little bit sleepy. When Jisung moves closer, he spots small cat bowls neatly arranged behind the counter, accompanied by the softest-looking cushion placed beside them. There are little toys scattered around. Pumpkin was well cared for.

“Thank you,” Jisung starts. “Thank you, thank you, thank you— ” It only takes one little meow from Pumpkin to silence him. Jisung is delighted, and the pretty man seems amused.

“I’ve been looking around for her all day,” Jisung starts explaining. “I was so scared; I thought something bad happened to her. I asked everyone if they saw her, but—” The pretty man raises one eyebrow as if daring him to continue. Jisung didn’t ask everyone.

“She was here with me since afternoon,” The pretty man begins while gently stroking the area between her ears, his eyes never leaving Jisung’s. “I’ve kept her company. She is the sweetest thing.”

“Really?” Jisung is surprised. “She didn’t hiss at you? Didn’t try to scratch you or bite you?”

The pretty man shakes his head. “No, she even asked for belly rubs, which I, of course, didn’t decline.” There is amusement in his soft voice, something mischievous, something tempting.

“That’s odd,” Jisung comments, but soon wishes he didn’t because the pretty man’s mouth shifts into a frown.

“Am I that scary?” he asks, and Jisung learns the pretty man is also very blunt with his words.

“No, no, of course you are not—“

“But you left that day too.”

So he remembers , Jisung thinks.

“It’s Minho,” the pretty man, no , Minho says. “And sorry, it must have been quite a sight. Since, you know, you’ve been avoiding here.”

Jisung smiles awkwardly, wets his lips, and suddenly he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He feels cornered. Minho must have connected the dots. If Jisung lost Pumpkin, and if Jisung is looking for her around here, he must be living pretty close.

“See, this is what I’m talking about,” he places Pumpkin into Jisung’s arms after a heartbeat. She meows unhappily. “Only cats and stupid Kim Seungmin is not scared of me, but I make everyone else nervous.”

“ It’s not that —“ Jisung starts, but there is a glare pointed towards him. Yet Jisung is stubborn, if he is anything. “It’s not only that,” he says this time quieter and almost immediately regrets his stubbornness. Eyes narrowed, Minho is looking at him.

“Go on,” he says. “What else do I make you feel? Terrified? You want to run for your life? Am I gonna punch you too? You don’t have to lie; I know I can be very scary when I want to be, but there is no reason to lie at all right now—“

“It’s because you are very pretty!” Jisung blurts out. Jisung has a thing for strong and pretty guys. From the very first day he laid eyes on Minho, amidst all that chaos, he found him irresistibly attractive.

But it wasn’t okay because then he got shy, he got nervous; all his cockiness and confidence amounted to nothing. Because how was he supposed to stay fine if he wanted those fists around him? If at first, he was shy and nervous, then a wave of guilt washed over him. Jisung couldn't stand the feeling of down, and at that time he stumbled upon the precious little Pumpkin. So he poured all his love and care into his newfound purry friend Pumpkin.

“I’ve found you very pretty ever since that punch of yours landed on that guy's face, and he was knocked out instantly,” and perhaps he also wants to kiss those fists, and his pink little puffy lips, but he has to focus because Minho’s eyes are widening, his mouth forming an ‘o’.

Jisung gulps.

Oh , he thinks. You and your stupid mouth, always talking too much.

Because Minho is silent, no words, nothing at all.

Jisung’s mind is like mush, he is a puddle, and the embarrassment grows in his insides, and in reds outside. “Right… umm,” he mumbles, stroking Pumpkin’s soft under chin awkwardly. “Thank you for taking care of her. I should leave.”

He considers paying for all the little cat toys and goodies Minho got for Pumpkin, but he is already mortified. Jisung is so bad at handling his crushes that Hyunjin and Felix keep a list. Chan’s couch has seen more of his tears than it has witnessed crisp crumbs and spilled drinks.

It is only when he finds enough courage to move his legs that something shifts in Minho.

“ Wait , you didn’t tell me your name—“ Minho stops him by reaching out and catching his wrist, their eyes locking in a brief, unspoken moment of connection.

“It’s Jisung. Han Jisung.” He answers immediately.

“Okay Jisung, if I’m this pretty and everything, are you really okay with leaving, hmm?”

Jisung blinks, once, twice and more. Because Minho’s hand is still around his wrist, still tight, still strong, and oh god he is so close, and he smells like musky vanilla and coffee—

“And what about Pumpkin? She fell in love with me, licked my fingers, gave me head butts and biscuits.” It’s endearing, really, Minho’s pout, Minho’s voice does things to Jisung’s heart. It’s butterflies in his stomach and the slight hope for something more.

“And I need updates. About her. So your phone. Give me your phone.” But if Minho’s flustered and red from head to toe, Jisung is not doing any better. He just stays, hiding behind the little kitten in his arms, his brain and his heart all over the place.

But it’s not okay because all of a sudden Minho grows distant, and the hand wrapped around his wrist is gone. “ Fuck , I should’ve known not to take any advice from fucking Kim Seungmin.” Minho swears one more time. “You should,” he says. “Maybe you should leave and forget everything I said.”

But that’s not what Jisung wants, and that’s not what Jisung accepts. He touches Minho’s arm briefly and then he asks, “You want updates on Pumpkin?”

Minho nods.

“And you want my number too?”

Minho nods once more, this time averting his eyes for a brief moment. “She is really cute.”

Oh , Jisung knows now. Or he thinks he knows now. He takes one step closer to Minho and watches him guard his stance. But Jisung is so much like him, or he hopes he is reading between the lines not wrong, because he understands. The heart is the most fragile place and the strongest. His heart is scared and his heart is hopeful. So he asks, “Am I cute too?” and it’s only fair he thinks, after what he blurted out minutes ago.

There, Minho’s smile growing back, first on his lips then his eyes shining little mischievous stars. He, too, gets it. “Cute enough to say yes if you ask me out on a date, Han Jisung.”

“Tomorrow, after you close the shop then?” his confidence unfurls like the petals of a blossoming flower, Jisung, failing to hide his grin, doesn’t even hesitate. He answers without thinking, with no hesitation and all too eager. “And maybe, you can visit Pumpkin too. Real-time updates, y’know?”

Minho is giggling, and that is everything. “So you’re taking me home for our first date?” Oh no , thinks Jisung. “Didn’t take you for this much straightforward, Han Jisung. But I should’ve known, you fell in love with me throwing my punches around.”

Unable to throw a playful punch with Pumpkin in his arms, Jisung instead leans in and playfully nudges Minho with a warm smile. Oh to be young, and flirting, and his crush flirting back. He only hopes to find more good in this.

So he says, “Yes,” just to see if he can fluster Minho more, and make him a blushing mess. “The prettiest man, throwing the best punches, knocking down the bad guys. How can I find it any less fascinating?”

“Oh my god,” Minho’s giggles are now joyous laughter and tinged with a touch of bashful charm. It suits him , thinks Jisung. Pumpkin meows with agreement

“So,” starts Minho after a while of them giggling like little children lost in the reverie of their shared moment and maybe with the anticipation of what lies ahead. “Tomorrow?”

Jisung nods, Pumpkin meows. “Tomorrow.”