Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

–

“Oh no,” Jeongin whispers at his reflection. He runs the pad of his index finger along his forehead. “How did that happen?”

“Mm?” Seungmin hums, the elevator continuing to whir as it takes them past the tenth floor. He looks over his shoulder, hands tucked into his coat pockets.

“I have a wrinkle,” Jeongin says, “a vertical one. How ugly.” He is old. God, he is so old.

Noticing this on the night of Minho’s fortieth birthday party no less. A disaster.

Chan’s puppy dog eyes are to blame. It was a flat no to any of this when Seungmin suggested he tag along, but Chan wore him down – relentlessly so – for two weeks. Now Jeongin’s pretty sure he’s going to throw up all over his clothes. These are expensive. Well, the blouse is. And the boots.

In the reflection, Seungmin is trying extremely hard to suppress an eye roll over Jeongin’s predicament. Like Jeongin is so childish. He turns around, throwing Seungmin a churlish glare. “Oh, don’t get all cavalier on me.”

Seungmin raises an inquisitive brow. “I have at least thirty wrinkles. Counted them fresh last week. Does that make me ugly too?”

“Yes,” Jeongin huffs, petulant and in jest, turning back to the mirror. “You’re so ugly.”

“Brat,” Seungmin says, grabbing Jeongin to wrap his arm around his neck in a headlock. He uses all his weight to try and push Jeongin to the floor. Asshole. That’s the trick Jeongin used to play on his younger brother before he went to the military.

An unearthly scream scratches out of Jeongin, trying to fend him off. His shoulder pangs with agony, the old injury of his long-scarred rotator cuff making itself known. “My hair, hyung,” Jeongin moans. “My hair!”

The elevator slides to a stop, doors peeling away, and Jeongin manages to detangle himself from Seungmin.

The nausea is really setting in now. He is seriously considering running. Finding the nearest fire escape and getting the hell out of here. How many flights of stairs are there from the twenty-secondth floor? Too many, probably, and Jeongin is unfit after years of chauffeurs, butlers and first class flights. Hell, he gets puffed out just up the hill to the train station from his new place.

Guess he’s stuck here.

Well, it’s fine. He’s only staying for a couple of hours.

Just making an appearance.

These hallways are foreign, but Seungmin navigates them with ease. Trailing behind, Jeongin wonders how much he’s been here. Probably a lot. He can see it so easily: Minho, Seungmin and the others. Laughing, eating, playing, and enjoying their lives together, while Jeongin watches the phantom scene through a looking glass.

Hunger, coldness, emptiness and pain clutch at his chest all at once. He ignores it. Pushes it down.

They approach the door to Minho’s apartment, and Jeongin lets out an inelegant sound. “Wait,” he pleads. “My nuts are caught.”

“That's your own fault for wearing pleather,” Seungmin mutters, eyeing Jeongin, who is surreptitiously adjusting the material around his crotch. “In the year of our lord '38, even. You are something else.”

Balls, rescued.

And he’s fresh out of things to stall with.

Behind the door, there is life and laughter, a warm light flooding along the slit where the door meets the frame.

Jeongin stares at the spotless hallway tiles under his pointed chelsea boots, thumbing the rosary ring on his index finger. He lets out a nervous shake of a breath.

“It’s just the guys,” Seungmin offers, voice softening. “They all love you.”

“Do they?” Jeongin mumbles back. Seungmin simply gives him a final, commiseratory pat on the back before raising his finger to the doorbell. Jeongin’s insides tighten into a boulder in the base of his stomach, taking in a breath and holding it.

There is someone yelling, muffled, the sound of it growing closer. “– get it. Probably just– leave it, hyung, it’s fine!” Whoever they are, they are very exasperated. Is it Minho? A ripple of fear goes down Jeongin’s spine.

The door is thrown open, and there is Hwang Hyunjin.

Tall, remarkable and flamboyantly handsome, as always, and Jeongin’s stomach twists. Black hair kisses his shoulders in a relaxed style. Truly, Hyunjin looks effortless in a tan-coloured linen shirt and matching chino pants, and white socks. There are Versace Odissea sneakers in the entryway that match the outfit and are probably his. It’s twelve degrees outside and this guy is dressed like he’s at a resort in Bali. Jeongin once had this exact thought during one of their winter comebacks. Or maybe it was an award show. It comes back to Jeongin in the moment, Hyunjin spilled coffee down the front of a cream blouse in the MMA waiting room and threw a strop for the rest of the night.

Jeongin is so frumpy in comparison, then and now. He is wearing pleather pants, for christ’s sake.

With one hand on the doorframe, Hyunjin is frozen in place, eyes wide and disbelieving. “No fucking way,” he utters. “Yang Jeongin?”

So, he didn’t know.

Slowly, the tension in Hyunjin’s shoulders melts, starting to accept what’s in front of him. “Oh my god? Oh my fucking god!”

Jeongin is grabbed and pulled into a bear hug, one that squeezes all the life out of him. “Ah!” Jeongin screeches. “My hair!”

“You think I give a shit about your hair, you little brat?!” Hyunjin demands, pulling back to hold Jeongin’s shoulders in a death grip. His cheeks are flushed, so he must be a few glasses in already.

“Not so hard–” Jeongin grimaces, trying to detach the sharp fingers digging into his right shoulder.

“Let me look at you,” Hyunjin ignores him, eyes glittering. His hands move to palm Jeongin’s cheeks, which is embarrassing at any age, but especially now. At least gives his shoulder relief. “My god, you're still the cutest baby angel bean bread in the whole history of the universe ever of all time. I missed these cheeks so much, do you have any idea?”

Jeongin blinks at him, pained.

With a dramatic gasp, something occurs to Hyunjin, and his attention snaps away from Jeongin. “Kim Seungmin. You knew.”

Pleased with himself, Seungmin simpers at him.

“I will kill you,” Hyunjin threatens, an easy, old playfulness between them that makes Jeongin’s chest tight. “Because don’t think I won’t. It will be slow. And agonising.”

“Chan-hyung knew too,” Seungmin adds, throwing up a peace sign.

“Dead to me!” Hyunjin explodes. God, who knew a career change into acting would make Hyunjin more dramatic? “A pox on your houses– no! You’re distracting me.” Back to Jeongin. “You. You’re here! Did you come to surprise Minho-hyung? And when are we going out for dinner? There’s a new place in Gangnam. You’ll love it. Super exclusive. I’m free on Thursday night, I think – let me message my agent – how long are you back for?”

“Where’s my invite?” Seungmin puts in.

“Shut up.”

“Forever,” Jeongin says.

Hyunjin pauses. “What?”

“I’m single.”

“WHAT?!”

Jeongin winces back, that one penetrating right through his skull and rattling his brain around. In the temporary daze, he’s squeezed against Hyunjin’s body once more with an involuntary oof. There goes his hair, for real this time. The wax will be rubbed out before he even steps through the threshold of Minho’s apartment.

“I'm never letting you go now, you know that?” Hyunjin murmurs against the crown of Jeongin’s head, so serious, all the theatrics washed away into something soft and earnest.

“Mmfph.”

The drinks party is intimate, housing as many guests as a moderately-sized apartment will allow. There are a lot of familiar faces, Chan did say everyone from the band would be here, and an eclectic mix of others that Jeongin doesn’t recognise. Some of them he should know, but in the time apart he has tried to avoid looking at social media profiles and any news articles of his old teammates. The guilt wasn’t worth it.

Everyone here seems relaxed. Lounging on the furniture and sipping cocktails between engaged conversions. Meanwhile, Jeongin is pulled as tight as a bowstring about to be loosed. An upbeat funk and soul album plays through the gaps at a considerate volume, with crooning lyrics in Japanese.

Hyunjin drags Jeongin to where Chan is on a sofa next to a massive window in the living space, his face lighting up as he sees Jeongin. He puts his beer down to hug him, as tight as the one when he picked Jeongin up from Incheon Airport three weeks ago, but not as long, or wet. The man soaked the shoulder of Jeongin’s cotton trench coat with tears, refusing to let go, while Jeongin’s stomach contorted into knots of shame.

“Liar!” Hyunjin yells, pointing a finger at Chan.

“You came,” Chan says at Jeongin, ignoring Hyunjin, giving him a look with such warm joy that Jeongin does not deserve.

“I said I would,” Jeongin mumbles, stepping back for Chan to receive Seungmin, clasping his hand with a warm, dimpled grin.

“Have you seen everyone yet?”

“Just this one,” Jeongin says, motioning to Hyunjin. His deliberate use of polite tone doesn’t escape Chan by the way his expression falls slightly.

“Do you want a drink?” Seungmin asks. Thankfully, before Chan can follow up.

“Beer.” Jeongin is doubly grateful for it because Seungmin is saving him a trip to the kitchen, and that’s likely where Minho is. The thought of going through four more tearful reunions almost makes Jeongin want to put the couch through one of the glass windows and throw himself out. Changbin, Jisung and Felix– Jeongin has an idea of how they might react, but Minho. Minho will either be pleasantly surprised to see him, or will straight up kick him out of his home, insulted by Jeongin’s sheer impertinence. In a way, Jeongin convinced himself that he could come to this party and avoid Minho altogether, like two ships in the night. Now that he’s here, in this small space, he knows that’s simply not possible. He must have been delusional as hell.

It’s Felix who spots him next and Jeongin almost doesn’t recognise him, because his hair is short and natural. The last time he saw Lee Felix was at the 2032 MET Gala, a night that was supposed to be a culmination of Jeongin’s hard work and persistence. His coming out as a model who had made it. The reality was that he spent the entire time with the worst anxiety in his whole life, avoiding his former member at all costs. Clinging to the toilet bowl in the bathroom for hours, praying for the acid reflux in his throat to go back down to his stomach and stay there.

In hindsight, that whole time Jeongin had been only focused on himself. His comfort. His emotions. His career. How awful must that have been for Felix.

Felix must despise him.

But, he doesn’t.

“Innie!” Felix yells, barely getting the word out without squawking in disbelief. “It’s really you–? I can’t believe it! Innie, Innie, Innie!!!” He hugs Jeongin tight around the chest, squeezing him like he’s trying to kill him. God, oh god, Jeongin’s shoulder is not going to last the night. Please, he doesn’t want to go back to the physio again. It’s such a pain in the ass.

Hyung is on the tip of Jeongin’s tongue, closer than it has been with any of the reunions with the others. Jeongin is undeserving of such a thing, though, at least until Felix insists like Chan and Seungmin did three weeks ago. So, he allows himself to wrap his arms around Felix’s lithe shoulders, hoping to soak up some of that sunshine for himself, selfish and weak.

“You didn’t come for dinner?” Felix says when he pulls back, fingers tight around Jeongin’s upper arms and not letting go. “Have you eaten?”

No, Jeongin didn’t come for dinner. “I came with Seungmin-hyung, and he had a late schedule,” is his vague excuse, but really, Jeongin had paled at the idea– a meal out with everyone and then back to Minho’s apartment for drinks.

A meal, in public, where anyone could see them, pap them and upload the photos of their has-been’s reunion. The type of photo that would headline a news post, before dropping out of the Trending tab within a couple of hours. Jeongin isn’t sure what would be worse, getting spotted alongside the other Stray Kids or the bruise to his ego when no one gives a shit about it. Jeongin’s breath had become high and short at the suggestion, and Chan had to work him through the attack before reducing the offering to just the after party.

“I had hamburgers,” Jeongin insists.

Felix beams. “Still our Baby Bread, after all.” He toys with Jeongin's hair, fixing the black strands framing Jeongin's temples. “You look amazing in this,” he says, now smoothing down the lapels of Jeongin's blouse, inspecting the crest-embossed buttons. “Is it McQueen?”

Jeongin nods.

Felix’s face warms. “I love it. Suits you so much better than Givenchy.”

Oh.

Felix gets it. Of course he does. All the layers to be those words, and the unsaid meaning: I forgive you. I wish I could have done more. I love you.

Touched, Jeongin leans forward to hug Felix again. “Oh, baby,” Felix says breathlessly, a small hand cupping the back of Jeongin's head to hold him in place. This nostalgic, brotherly care, Jeongin almost loses control of his emotions and he works hard to keep himself stable. “You’re still doing the modelling thing, right? I’ve been following your work. I collect all your front covers.”

“You–” Jeongin is shocked, heart racing, “you do?”

Felix laughs with delight. “Of course I do! I’m always so proud of you. You’re amazing, our maknae.”

Jeongin falls quiet. He has no idea what to say.

Felix doesn’t live in Korea anymore, he tells Jeongin. He was one of the ones who stayed on with JYPE after the band. He didn’t do a lot of music by that point, but he had a lot of solo gigs, Felix still very marketable to the company as a whole. Then, there was a report that Felix had married an actress. It was shocking. That was one of the few reports that was unavoidable, even for Jeongin. The actress had been one who was flung into superstardom off the back of a very successful k-drama which gained popularity in the West. So, even French outlets reported on it.

At the time, Jeongin had been suspicious at how public the whole affair was. When he was still with the company, their dating ban was far more enforced than most of their contemporaries, and yet JYPE was very directly endorsing this marriage? It was not a surprise when Felix was divorced only two years later after a highly publicised cheating scandal. The Korean media abandoned Felix so quickly that he departed JYPE and returned to Australia. So, it really is a surprise when Felix introduces Jeongin to his new girlfriend, Tasia.

She’s Australian too (and not a celebrity, thank god), with big eyes, brown skin and a laid-back smile. They’re still firmly in the honeymoon period of their relationship, Jeongin thinks Felix said they only met in June. It’s a little hard to understand him with how quickly and excitedly he talks about her, and he already had a bad habit of restarting his trains of thought back in the day. The two of them are very cute together. Even when they’re clearly trying to keep the PDA to a minimum, they can’t keep their hands off each other, even if it’s just a grounding hand to the lower back, or a pinky finger pinched between a thumb and forefinger.

How nice that Felix has found love after divorce. Even after all the public trauma he was put through. That he not only believed that there was someone out there for him, but also that he was worthy of it.

Seungmin has returned with Jeongin’s drink, and Jeongin feels very grateful to have something to do with at least one of his hands. Especially when Felix and Tasia are eye-fucking each other so hard that Jeongin’s probably going to avoid any bedrooms for the next half an hour at least. It’s not that Jeongin’s unhappy, or even jealous of Felix. It’s just that seeing any kind of expression of love feels like picking at a wound under his nail bed with teeth, never allowing it to heal.

It’s when he sees an elderly couple at the bus stop holding hands, and he feels the layer of dust thick over his lungs and heart.

Why didn’t she love him like that?

What about him wasn’t good enough to commit to no matter what?

“Where’s your next big adventure, Lixie?” Seungmin asks in English, drawing Jeongin’s attention back into the room. At first Jeongin’s confused why Seungmin isn’t speaking Korean, and then realises he’s doing it for Tasia’s benefit. Seungmin is so thoughtful, of course. Why didn’t Jeongin think to do that? Why is he like this? 

“Oh!” Felix replies, managing to drag his eyes away from Tasia for a record four seconds. “A company reached out to me who does these, like, five star cruises of the Arctic, and they offered it to me for free in exchange for a five part video series!”

“It’s, like, thirty-seven thousand dollars for the sixteen day trip per person,” Tasia puts in. “What’s that in won, do you think, baby?”

“Thirty million won, or something,” Felix answers, waving his hands in the airspace in front of him. “Anyway, we’re going together!”

Christ. Jeongin pales. He’s quitting modelling and becoming a travel vlogger too if those are the kind of perks for jet setting around the world and uploading a twenty-minute video a week. And here he thought he was top shit for the €3,500 Dior Saddle Bag he was gifted by VOGUE Italia once.

“Are you Jeongin?” someone asks, startling him. Someone Jeongin doesn’t recognise, or know. He– no, Jeongin can’t tell their gender actually, and he doesn’t want to assume. They’re extraordinary androgynous, a small ponytail sits atop a sharp undercut, dressed in all black with gold accents. Hanging heavily in the center of their chest, an anatomical heart pendant necklace.

“Yeah?” Jeongin chirps, swallowing thickly. Their gaze is intimidating at best, and Jeongin wonders what this person’s relationship to Minho is. They’re so cool, and– god. Are they…?

Who Minho is dating now?

“I’m Eli,” they say, an underbite as they smile which makes them so handsome. “I’ve heard so much about you from Sung.”

“Sung?” Jeongin parrots.

Eli looks over their shoulder now, a smile to their raised voice as they call out into the party, “Babe!”

Not too far away, Jisung swings around. Jisung, who's silhouette Jeongin did not recognise from behind. Why would he, when Jisung is wearing an oversized, graphic print muscle tee over a skirt. Not even the half-skirts the stylists would sometimes wrap over their pants. A real skirt with bare legs underneath. Jisung is sporting a choppy, blond hairstyle, plugs stretching his earlobes out of shape and a leather choker around his neck with a large silver hoop that hangs past his collarbones. In fairness, Jeongin did know Jisung had begun to dabble in piercings and tattoos, but he didn’t know it had gone this far, a patchwork of mismatched tattoos up the length of his slender arms.

While Jeongin has spent tens of thousands of euros in attempts to look eternally twenty-five, Jisung has metamorphosed into something far beyond the beauty of this world.

Jeongin sucks in a breath, Jisung staring right at him in a state of utter shell-shock.

“Babe,” Eli says, and they’re– they’re Jisung’s partner. “It’s Jeongin. Jeongin is here.”

Jisung’s eyes are glimmering, flickering back and forth, desperate to believe. Jeongin bites the inside of his lip, a flush developing hot over his cheeks. He wishes someone would take a machete to the tension in this room and slice it anew.

“Innie,” Jisung does finally whisper, taking a cautious step forward. Jeongin gives the tiniest smile, a tweak of his mouth, enough to show a dimple and Jisung promptly loses it. He surges forward, jewellery jangling, tears streaming down his round cheeks, and before Jeongin can bat him away, flings his arms around him. Jeongin gasps, the metal of Jisung’s choker driving into his ribs as Jisung clings onto him and snivels into his neck. “Innie!”

“Hey,” Jeongin croaks out, keeping a desperate hold on his beer, some of the liquid splashing onto his hand and Jisung’s cool clothes. “Your shirt–”

Jisung pulls back, scrubbing at his face. “Sorry,” he mumbles, looking apologetic. “I don’t want to overwhelm you. But– oh my god. I don’t know what to say.”

Overwhelmed. Well, Jeongin crossed that line when he stepped through the door and into this apartment. He is so far gone, the line has become a dot on the horizon at this point. At least Felix and Tasia have moved on from the circle, choosing to look through a record collection on a nearby display cabinet, whispering conspiratorially to each other. What the hell. Since when was Minho into vinyl records?

Clicking in front of his face makes Jeongin blink and turn his head. “Earth to Iyen,” Seungmin says, before smirking at Jisung. “You broke him, Boss-nim.”

Tearing his eyes away from Jeongin, Jisung’s lips sour, and he kicks Seungmin with his socked foot. It makes him seem so tiny and cute. “I told you to stop calling me that!”

Nestled in the tattoos of Jisung's upper right arm is a cute, stylised fox, it's eyes scrunched up into a thin, crescent smile. 

Jeongin can't look at it, chest and throat burning with extreme guilt.

He tries to forget he saw it at all. 

“But my Skies think it’s so cute,” Seungmin is saying with a faux-innocent pout. “That I divorced Lino-hyung and married you instead.”

Oh, god. Here they go again.

That was one good thing about Paris. No ‘shipping discourse’.

Also, not true. Seungmin got quietly married to his wife after his enlistment, while Stray Kids was still active. He apparently didn’t even get permission from JYPE, he just did it. Truly did not give a fuck. When he didn’t re-sign with JYPE, he worked with an independent label for a while, mostly on ballads and OST’s, slowly growing a base of aunties to rival even the indomitable Lim Woongyoung. She couldn’t make the party tonight but, yes. Kim Seungmin is very much married, and has been for a long time.

“Do you think we can convince him to sing again?” Seungmin goes on, gesturing his head towards the kitchen, so he must be referring to Minho. “Our love triangle would make us so much bank.”

“Hot,” Eli agrees.

“You already make bank,” Jisung retorts, then does a little double take at Eli, pointing a finger with a silver skull ring at them in warning, “and calm down you.” Back to Seungmin, “I’m going to reconsider our split. I’ve been too generous for far too long.”

Seungmin sips on his beer, smug. “Wearing a camel coat over a black turtleneck was the best thing I ever did for my career, you’re right.”

Seungmin’s fucking court case. After all that time at the independent label, Jisung ended up starting his own company and Seungmin broke contract to join him as the first signing. When Seungmin retold the story while Jeongin was staying in Chan’s guest room, Jeongin was simply stunned into speechlessness by Seungmin’s flagrance. Seungmin had squirrelled away so much savings since his debut days that when the label tried to sue him, he took the court case head on, knowing that he had the money to take them down and expose their poor business practices.

Jeongin doesn’t really believe in zodiac signs, but it was extremely Virgo behaviour of him.

On the day of Seungmin first hearing, he served so hard – long, black bangs fanning over a severe gaze and that FENDI camel coat – that the fansite pictures went viral. Really viral. To the point Dispatch coined him a national darling, Korea’s Prince of Song. Seungmin’s influence on Korean fashion from one ten second walk from a car to the courthouse was so significant it bled into European waters.

“I had to wear turtlenecks for three seasons because of you,” Jeongin snaps, narrowing his eyes at Seungmin.

“Aw,” Seungmin chirrups facetiously. “See, hyung is always with you, even when you were so far away.” When he goes to pinch Jeongin’s cheek, Jeongin flinches back and leans away from him. He holds up his beer, like he’ll pour it over Seungmin.

“You’re drunk!” Jeongin squawks, the sound of it making Eli laugh warmly, slotting into Jisung’s side. These two could not rob a bank together, the metal detectors would simply explode. “We’ve barely been here half an hour!”

“Am not!” Seungmin whines, the deep flush on his cheeks betraying him. “Hyung got Hallasan Soju. It’s the good stuff!”

Jeongin shoots Seungmin the daggers, top lip curling. “Are so then! Even your wrinkles are sweating.”

Seungmin pushes the pad of his index finger into the center of Jeongin’s forehead and Jeongin hisses, snapping his teeth to bite at Seungmin’s hand. He’s unsuccessful as Seungmin steals his hand back with a yowl. It’s there Jeongin notices Jisung’s eyes on him, watching him, emotional and loving.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Jisung whispers, too sincerely. Jeongin pouts, feeling hot around the collar as he takes a sip of his beer and tries to look anywhere but.

And in the kitchen, his gaze snags on a flash of bright brunette hair.

Minho.

He’s in profile, talking to someone else. Minho’s friend, Jeongin remembers the face but not his name. They met once, briefly. The friend he used to go on trips with when they were idols and would vlog it. Jeongin never liked him that much, to be honest. He was so handsome and he worked some boring government pencil pushing job. What a waste. Then Minho would invite him to all those trips where he would pay for everything. Also, do those vlogs even still exist? Though Jeongin thinks he might trip into a depressive spiral if he sees the date marker say something like 15 years ago or worse.

Amazing that Minho is still friends with the exact same people after so long. Consistent. Stable.

Even the friends Jeongin had in Paris weren’t that close and he’ll probably never see them again. What are Beomgyu, Heeseung and Lim Jimin up to these days? Jeongin has been such a bad friend.

Speaking of, Minho’s friend says something and Minho bursts into laughter, eyes bright and mouth happy, reaching forward to grab the other man’s collar, who is in equal mirth. A wave of intense emotion floods over Jeongin, constricting his lungs, pulling all the breath out of him. He hates it. He hates them together so much. Jeongin rips his eyes away, fighting down the sour expression that is threatening to surface.

Fuck.

He is being so fucking immature. A child.

And Eli is saying something to him. Shit.

“Um,” Jeongin says, trying to refocus his attention back to the circle, but a thread is tugging on him, eyes wanting to drift back to Minho. “Sorry, I couldn’t hear you.”

“How long are you back for, Jeongin?” they repeat.

“Uh,” Jeongin says. Minho is hugging his friend, a bear hug, whispering something in his ear, cupping it. He looks happy-tipsy. Jeongin swallows, skin tingling with a million little pinpricks.

“He’s back for good,” Seungmin answers on his behalf. “He got in three weeks ago and was staying with Chan-hyung.”

Jisung looks so hopeful, like it’s not real. “Are you serious?”

“Sorry we didn’t say anything, we just wanted to give him the space to get settled. You just moved to… where was it– Apgujeong?”

Jeongin tries to breathe. “Um–”

“Oh, we should all go out, or invite you over,” Eli says, turning to Jisung, who looks like he’s on the verge of another bout of tears, pressing two fists to his mouth. “You’ll have so much to catch up on. We can crack out the fancy wine. Do you like red or white, Jeongin? I have French wine too. Monier-Perréol?”

“Yeah,” Jeongin replies absently. He feels way too wired, suddenly, like all the muscles in his body are trying to vibrate out of his skin. “Uh, bathroom?”

A pause.

“That way,” Seungmin points.

“Thanks,” Jeongin mutters. “Sorry, I’ll be right back. Busting.”

Jeongin doesn’t actually need the bathroom. He just needs to get out. There are too many people at this party, all shoved into this living room, and Jeongin can see a veranda door, a promise of freedom and fresh air. He moves towards it. It’s just past the kitchen, which is not ideal, but maybe if he keeps his head down–

“Jeongin-ssi.”

At his name barked, Jeongin jolts, freezing on the spot. His heart is racing so fast, he can hear it in his eardrums, drowning out the ambience of the party. Slow, he turns to the owner of that loud, loud voice.

“What?” Jeongin says the first word he’s spoken to Lee Minho in eight years.

Minho beckons him with a hand.

Frowning, Jeongin does as he’s told, avoiding the curious, too-knowing eyes of Minho’s fucking bestie. Without another word from Minho, a shot glass is being shoved into Jeongin’s hand, and a bottle of the premium Jeju soju in the other. Glaring, Jeongin pours for the two older men before Minho snatches the bottle back, and pours Jeongin’s glass, bottle clinking against it clumsily. All three men cheers and Jeongin turns his head to drink. The liquor burns as it slides down his throat.

“I like your shirt,” Minho says.

Huh?

Jeongin looks down at himself. He’s wearing a white cotton blouse with balloon sleeves and bold, black lithographic designs. Over the left breast is a sacred heart, an illustration which looks like it was pulled out of an antique book lower down. On the right shoulder, a renaissance cat. Jeongin blinks, horrified. There is a cat on his outfit and he didn’t even realise it. Minho is going to think he did that on purpose.

Minho’s friend is completely silent, meanwhile, eyes flicking back and forth between them, like the awkwardness is a positively visceral experience for him. Jeongin doesn’t know if he can endure this humiliation much longer. “It’s McQueen,” Jeongin answers, though he isn’t sure why. It’s not like Minho cares.

And he doesn’t. No reaction.

Jeongin makes a small noise of resentment. How can he expect Minho to understand the statement Jeongin is making by wearing this? And it’s not about the cat, either. Just another reminder that Jeongin is here and far, far away from that place. Minho moves his hand towards the soju bottle and Jeongin’s quicker on the draw, snatching it. He tops up his own glass, foregoing Minho and his friend, and kicks the whole thing back without turning his head. He doesn’t let his gaze waver from Minho as he does it, and looking back, those cat eyes are precise and locked on.

“Is that how the French do it?” Minho wonders, voice mild but intrigued, corner of his mouth curling up. Patronising. Minho’s looking down on him, Jeongin realises. “The maknae went overseas and came back with bad manners.”

An expression blooms on the face of whatever-his-stupid-name-is. Like Minho and Jeongin are about to start scratching each other’s eyes out over the counter and he’s got a front row seat.

Jeongin despises them both.

“Merci et va te faire voir,” Jeongin seethes back, slamming the shot glass down on the counter with an awful sound and turning to find the veranda, the bathroom, the front door, anywhere but here.

His travels lead him down a hallway to where the other rooms of the apartment are, only a few people dotted around here. He’s not sure where he’s going, but there’s an open pathway to a door that’s ajar, a soft, orange glow from inside. Jeongin gets a sense this is likely the master bedroom and he takes his chance with it, praying that he’s not going to open the door to Felix and Tasia dry-humping or worse on the bed.

“Too much information but I hate being in my thirties,” says Hyunjin, his back to the door Jeongin enters from. He is leaning on the frame of an open ensuite door and speaking to someone inside. “I discovered a new mole, but it should be harmless.”

“You should still get it checked probably,” comes a woman's voice. Jeongin slips inside fully and pushes the door quietly closed without latching it. He lets out a breath, trying to exorcise all the buzzing in his body from that interaction with Minho.

Hyunjin groans. “I don’t hate my thirties, but everything is making me worry!”

Changbin steps out of the bathroom, focused on dabbing a towel on the white shirt he is wearing over his left pectoral. Over that is a dark plaid jacket that is handsome and slimming, but Jeongin can’t immediately tell the brand. There’s a rough, frustrated type of motion to Changbin’s wiping, like he spilled something down his front and it’s not coming out easily. Jeongin could probably help with it, if he was in the mood for it.

“I wish I still had time to worry,” Changbin mumbles, inspecting his shirt again and giving up on it with a defeated click of his tongue. “I feel trapped in a perpetual cycle of arranging kids’ parties. One in early June, and the other in late November. I am only ever six months away from another party to organise.”

The woman laughs, also stepping out of the ensuite. “Ain’t that the truth– oh!”

Caught, Jeongin’s heart stops. His hands flex and unflex. Why doesn’t he have anything to hold? Where did his beer go?!

He left it in the kitchen. With Minho. Fuck!

Changbin looks up, eyes widening. For a long moment, he just stares at Jeongin like he’s come face to face with a ghost reinvented in the flesh. “Baby! You are here!”

With a roll of his eyes, Hyunjin throws his arms in the air. “I told you!”

“Jeongin-ah, this is my wife, Heo Somin,” Changbin says, proudly stepping aside to gesture to the beautiful and vibrant woman beside him, fox-eyed and sporting a trendy, sharp bob. She’s wearing an ankle length dress in brocade fabric, with soft pink flowers on a blue background. It’s very flattering on her, with dainty loop trim and ruffle details. Very classy and sophisticated, yet casual.

Jeongin bows, a little awkward with it. “Hi,” he says, fiddling with his ring. “Um, can I ask who the designer of your dress is?”

Somin seems momentarily surprised at the question, exchanging a brief glance with Changbin. “It’s V. Chapman,” she answers. “She also designed my wedding dress. I just love her work. It’s probably a little on the formal side for a birthday party but we don’t get much of a chance to dress up with the kids and all, and this cost my darling an arm and a leg, so it would be a shame to not pull it out every now and again.”

“Ah,” Changbin waves the towel. “Only prettiest dresses for you, my beautiful and sexy wife.” At this, Somin scoffs, batting him on the arm and Changbin clutches his arm in dramatic faux-pain.

“It’s a beautiful frock,” Jeongin compliments. “It suits you very well.”

With a small, touched sound, Somin holds her hand against her chest with an endeared frown. “Oh, you are just as lovely as Bin always said.”

Blushing, Jeongin’s wrings his hands together.

“Yes, this is my baby boy,” Changbin agrees, so sudden and loud it makes Jeongin flinch. He is then approaching Jeongin for a hug with a gurgling goblin screech. The base instinct from years ago returns to Jeongin so fast, craning his head away and pushing at Changbin’s chest to stop it from happening. “You can’t run away from this hyung anymore! I know you’re back forever and ever, Chan-hyung told me!”

“I’m going to kill him then!” Jeongin whines, fruitless to stop Changbin from pulling him into a hug, crushing Jeongin between his biceps. Ah, his fucking shoulder! Why the hell is Changbin still bulking, this man is an addict, for real! The deep sound of a drowning rat is squeezed out of Jeongin’s throat, writhing desperately. “You’re going to crease my blouse!”

“Baby, baby! My baby!” Changbin teases, puckering his lips for a kiss and a shock of fear goes through Jeongin, finding the adrenaline necessary to finally shove him off.

“Honey, leave him alone,” Somin chuckles.

“No, no,” Hyunjin intones, holding up a hand. “He deserves it for abandoning us.”

Brushing his sleeves down, Jeongin makes a frowny face at them all.

Jeongin decides to hang out in the bedroom for a little longer, since even though Changbin and Hyunjin are loud when they’re together, it’s still less stimulating than the main area of the apartment with everyone else. Somin turns out to be a very impressive person, a director at a prestigious interior design firm, but she has an easy, laid-back energy to her where nothing seems to be a problem. She’s got a great sense of humour, too, her and Changbin riffing off each other with every second sentence. It’s a little– difficult to watch actually. Is that how long-term couples are supposed to be? Jeongin never knew. It was like that at the start for him, but after the honeymoon phase, there was definitely a lot more tension. A lot of time spent apart because of their busy jobs.

He thought that was normal.

To distract his thoughts, Jeongin looks around the room instead, having the terrible realisation that this is Minho’s bedroom. There’s minimal decorating, every piece of furniture unfussy but functional. A sturdy oak wardrobe with a long mirror on one of the doors. On the side of it is a cat sticker, put there haphazardly, one edge slightly peeling. The bed is, honestly, stupid comfortable. Where Jeongin is perched on the edge of it, there’s a medium firmness to cradle his bum but with reinforced sides so there’s no chance of sliding off. Good for clumsy people like him. The duvet spread out on top is puffed up like a cloud, so it can’t be anything other than real feathers. It’s adorned with a handsome two-tone duvet set, dark grey, and where the top edge is folded over, a pretty sage colour. High quality linen, too. Jeongin can tell Minho doesn’t purchase a lot of things, but what he does is clearly well-thought out and intentional.

A far cry from Jeongin’s online shopping boxes that would pile up in their old dorm hallway they used to share, blocking Minho’s door.

Jeongin inclines his head with a small, nostalgic smile. He has no idea why this memory is coming back to him now, but there was one time Minho got so furious with the Coupang boxes that he barged into Jeongin’s room with one, intending to hurl it at him. Jeongin had been in front of his mirror. Naked. On the floor with his knees spread, vibrating nipple clamps attached and fucking himself into a fleshlight. Minho had frozen for a full ten seconds, Jeongin staring back, flushed and panting, heart in his throat.

“I’m sorry!” Minho had screeched, making the most hilarious horrified face, clutching the box into his chest and fleeing the room. Jeongin got himself decent as quickly as possible and found Minho in the kitchen, standing in front of the sink, tap running forgotten. Minho was still holding onto the box like it was the only thing keeping him grounded to the earth. “No need,” Minho had said when Jeongin awkwardly tried to broach the conversation with him, hoping he wouldn’t be judged too harshly for the weird shit. “You are a man now, clearly, and I was at fault.”

“Hyung,” Jeongin had replied, very quietly, when the seconds continued to stretch. “Can I have my package now, please?”

Minho never came into Jeongin’s room unannounced again.

“What about you, Jeongin?” Somin asks.

Jeongin blinks back into the room, looking up to the other three. “Huh?”

Somin makes a face, very similar to the way STAY would used to when they just found Jeongin so cute, even when he wasn’t trying to be. “You also lived overseas, what differences were there when you were purchasing property?” She pauses. “At least, I’m assuming you bought!” Ah. She’s trying to include him in the conversation they’re having, which is very nice, but–

“I’m so lucky Troye owns,” Hyunjin goes on. “All the visa bullshit has been hard enough, I can’t imagine trying to deal with a mortgage on my own on top of it.”

“We only kept the interest rates down because of the kids,” Somin says. “We almost considered having a third because of it, but the two is enough with our jobs, and everything is so expensive these days. I’m guessing they don’t have anything like that in Australia.”

“Yeah, I can bench press two with both arms,” Changbin says, posturing. “Where would the third go?”

“Wait,” Jeongin says. “What’s happening? Australia?”

“Hyunjinnie is moving to Australia,” Changbin informs.

Jeongin balks. “Why?”

“To live with my husband,” Hyunjin answers, hiding a chuckle behind his fingers. Oh, what the fuck, he’s blushing. When Jeongin stares at him like he’s grown ten heads, Hyunjin smiles, all coy. “I’m married to Troye Sivan, Iyen.”

“I–” Jeongin chokes. “I thought that was a rumour?!”

“Well, that we’re dating is the rumour,” Hyunjin corrects. “But we got married just before I came out, because the Australian Spouse Visa takes up to nineteen months to get processed. I swear, they don’t want to let anyone in. Don’t they know who I am?!”

Hyunjin publicly coming out as queer, that was over a year ago now?!

Jeongin remembers where he was when he found out, even. In a five star hotel, getting his make-up and hair done at Milan Fashion Week ahead of the Givenchy showcase. There had been at least four GQ cameras on him, and he was chewing on a croissant when he opened his phone and the first headline on the international news tab was: “I’m not 100 percent straight”: Former Stray Kids Hwang Hyunjin opens up about his sexuality.

“You’ve missed so much!” Changbin says, giving Jeongin’s shoulder a hearty pat, sending an electrical shock down his spine. Hand not leaving Jeongin’s body, Changbin flashes Hyunjin a smirk. “Good on you, though, we had to change conveyancing solicitors in the middle of buying our Cheongju house and that was a nightmare. Wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.” He pauses. “Well…”

Hyunjin and Changbin look at each other, then say in unison, “JYP.”

To the floor, Jeongin gives a tight lipped grimace.

–

Second pint of beer in hand, Jeongin remembers he promised himself he would only make an appearance at this party. He arrived around eight, and it’s already past ten now. He saw everyone, which is as much as he needed to do, and now he can get the hell out of here. Maybe swing by a convenience store on the way home because he is craving spicy tteokbokki like mad.

Okay, piss first. Then cigarette. Then home.

Jeongin is doing a great job of avoiding his former members when he’s stopped by someone he doesn’t expect, a hand resting on his elbow to stop him in his tracks.

“Jeongin-sunbae!” Chaewon says, face all opened up like she’s so happy to see him. She’s wearing an oversized white button up, flowing open over a striped sailor top with gold buttons. A Celine ensemble if he’s ever seen one. “I heard the whisperings, but it’s really you!”

“Chaewon-ssi,” Jeongin says, surprised. She’s standing with Chan and Felix, though Felix’s girlfriend is shockingly nowhere to be seen. The nearby bathroom door is closed through, so maybe she’s currently occupying it. So close yet so far…

“Noona,” she insists Jeongin call her, bumping his arm with her shoulder. Yeah, nice try. He is not getting friendly with anyone at this party. “We’re just talking about the Winter Showcase!”

Jeongin has no idea what the Winter Showcase is.

“I didn’t realise you were so close to Minho,” he says instead. She seems to be the only other former idol invited to the party. Well, she might still be working in the industry for all Jeongin knows, but probably not. It's rare for companies to keep women on contract that far into their thirties in non-staff roles. Something Jeongin doesn't agree with. 

Chaewon laughs, like Jeongin is so silly. “Did you not? Oppa’s business would’ve gone under years ago if not for me.”

“Business?” Jeongin repeats, blinking.

Minho, who buys duck down duvets, listens to vinyl records and owns a business now.

“Wow,” Chaewon says, exchanging a brief look with Felix before eyeing Jeongin carefully. “You were like, cut-off cut-off, huh?”

“Hyung runs a dance studio now, in Ahyeon,” Felix informs helpfully. “Chaewon is one of the teachers there.”

Ah. A dance studio. Well, that does feel like what a natural progression for Lee Minho would be post-idol life.

Jeongin imagines Minho in the likes of HYBE and SM practice studios. Teaching a room of up and coming teenagers to focus on their body lines and watch their timing.

He hopes those kids know how lucky they are. 

“Yeah, he was taking out personal loans for the studio when I first got involved. Fucking dummy shit. Put a stop to that real fast,” Chaewon says, rolling her eyes. “Anyway,” she goes on, leaning forward into the circle and lowering her voice, “the real reason I joined the studio back in the day was because I was hoping to get into oppa’s pants.”

Jeongin’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline, turning to eyeball her. The sheer chutzpah on this woman.

“And how did that turn out for you?” Felix asks knowingly, while Chan snorts behind his knuckles.

“I think we all know,” Chaewon jokes, and both Felix and Chan have to lean on each other to laugh. “I really thought I had a chance!”

Utterly confused and not in on the joke, Jeongin stares between them all. “I don’t know,” he sulks, unhappy to yet again be left out an inside joke tonight. His heart clenches, then, a thought dawning on him. “He’s gay?”

Chaewon shrieks now, quickly waving her hand to let Jeongin know that’s not the case. “No, no. He just doesn’t date. He’s really against it.”

Hasn’t–?

“What?” Jeongin blinks. “Ever?”

“Nope.”

Jeongin glances over to the entrance hallway, where Minho is currently leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. There’s an amused expression on his face, listening to Jisung rattle off about something or other with his partner beside him, who is looking besotted. Then, like some freaky sixth sense, Minho’s eyes slide across, meeting Jeongin’s gaze between the sea of heads.

For a second, they stare at each other. It’s a moment weighted, no air in the room to breathe.

Jeongin’s heart begins to rapidly pound, snapping his attention back to his own circle, guilty. Cheeks hot, he brings his beer to his lips, guzzling a third of it down.

“Next time I date a man,” Chaewon is saying, the conversation having barrelled on without him. She holds up a hand counting down from three. “He has to not live with his parents, drive a car, and have a salary. Surely that is not too much to ask?”

“Honestly,” Chan murmurs, face tired and flat. “Anything with a pulse will do.”

Still drinking, Jeongin abruptly chokes as Chaewon screams with delight, and Felix has to bang on Jeongin’s back passionately to dislodge the liquid that went down the wrong way.

Okay, now he really needs the bathroom, and blessed be. The door opens, Tasia turning off the light and taking two steps into the hallway. She blinks at the state of the group with a blank smile, needing to be filled in on what she missed. And Jeongin is not going to be here for it!

“I’m gonna–” Jeongin says, gesturing towards the bathroom and escaping the circle before anyone can stop him.

The piss is bliss. Dealing with zipping the fucking pleather pants back up is not.

Maybe he spends a little longer in the bathroom than he should. If he crouches with his head between his knees, breathing slow to calm himself down from an impending anxiety attack, then that’s between him and the cat-patterned shower curtain.

After washing his hands, Jeongin rubs off the water on a fluffy light grey towel hanging on a hook, nailed into the door. It’s directly adjacent to a mirror so Jeongin scrutinises himself under the brighter lighting of the bathroom. That fucking wrinkle. It’s far too late in the night to call his cosmetic surgeon, so he makes a mental note to do it first thing tomorrow. Hopefully they can squeeze him in.

He sighs at himself. In all honesty, he doesn’t have the string-pulling power he once had as an idol. Hell, if the clinic receptionist was a STAY, they might deliberately extend the waiting time. Or spit in his syringe.

“He seems…” Jeongin hears through the doorframe, a conversation taking place just on the other side of the wood panel. “I don’t know how to describe it. Melancholic?”

“Mm. He was so smiley when we were young.” That’s Changbin’s voice. It must be him and his wife. Jeongin’s chest catches, fingers tightening around the towel. They’re talking about him. “I’m so happy he’s back, but…”

“It’s okay.”

“He was just– such a joyful kid. Like he had this face for smiling. Now, it’s like his cheeks have this… grey complexion; I can’t explain it. Like the life’s been sucked out of him. I haven’t heard him laugh once all night.”

Jeongin’s eyes flick back to the mirror, heart pounding horribly in his chest. Changbin is right. There is something sickeningly sad to his appearance.

“Crazy to think how one person can do so much damage,” Somin says. “Actual malignant narcissist shit.”

Changbin makes a morose hum of agreement. “I don’t wish death on anyone, but–”

Jeongin grabs his beer and turns, opening the door with a rough movement. The bottom of the wood scrapes against tiles. Changbin goes abruptly silent, head whipping up to Jeongin. All the colour drains from his face, realising who just overheard his conversation.

Grey, just like Jeongin is.

“Innie,” Changbin gasps. “I–”

Jeongin can’t look at him, let alone his wife, and he hardens his gaze over his shoulder. “Bathroom’s free,” he mutters, fingers itching for that cigarette now. To not let any emotion well up, he focuses on his next two tasks of getting his pack and lighter from his coat, and then to Minho’s veranda. Hopefully without bumping into the birthday boy again.

He’s spared this time, but it’s stale and freezing on the tiny veranda when he shoves outside, though thankfully empty, so that’s something. Jeongin pulls his coat closer around his shoulders, not bothering to put his arms through the sleeves and tilts his head down to light up the end of his smoke. The buzz of pleasure and energy in the space between his brain and skull is immediate, and he closes his eyes to take another long drag, letting the smoke pour out between his lips and nostrils.

The sound of the veranda door sliding back. “Jeongin-ah.”

Jeongin looks up sharply, then flicks ash into a tray, despite there being barely anything to flick. “Chang–”

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” Changbin cuts over him, distressed and moisture glittering in his eyes. “That was so fucked up of me to say. I shouldn’t have said anything at all.”

“You’re right,” Jeongin says, and the surprise on Changbin’s face is predictable, shocking him quiet. “I mean– Not that you shouldn’t have said anything. Everything you said is right. It’s just– hard to hear, okay?”

Changbin looks relieved, but still on guard. “Right,” he agrees. “You weren’t meant to hear it. I promise.” He takes a small step forward, a frown pulling his face into awful shapes. “I don’t want to ruin this.”

“You’re not,” Jeongin says, switching the cigarette to balance between the fingers of his hand nursing his beer. The air has gotten cold. “I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to worry.”

It’s at that moment, and maybe it's the naked lightbulb of the veranda, that Changbin looks really tired, deep bruising under his eyes. He looks absolutely deflated at the miserable humiliation that’s just happened to him. “I don’t know how much you kept up with when you were there, or how much you saw,” Changbin says quietly, “but it was really hard without you, Jeongin-ah. It wasn’t right without you. We– We wouldn’t have–”

“I know,” Jeongin assures him, looking at the little container garden next to his feet. Minho has cabbage growing, along with some peppers and kale, though all of it is probably post-harvest now. There’s no consistency to the pots, clearly a collection of random vessels he has acquired over time to fill with soil and seeds. Jeongin attempted something like this in one of the Paris apartments and failed horrifically. “I know what that company is like,” Jeongin mutters, bitter, and as Changbin goes to open his mouth again, he quickly adds, “I don’t really want to talk about this right now. Not here.”

“Okay,” Changbin says, scuffing the toe of his pink slippers against the tiles. “Okay.” He looks up to Jeongin, a wave of remorse which seems to be welling up within him. “We’re okay?”

Jeongin nods, bringing the cigarette to his lips again to breathe in. On the exhale he says, “We’re okay.” It doesn’t feel enough to leave it there, so with a quirk of his brows, he holds out what’s left of his smoke.

“Thanks,” Changbin says, taking the offered cigarette gratefully. “I’ve been trying to quit.”

Jeongin pulls out another from the box, lighting it up with the end of Changbin’s. He puffs for a moment, then blows it off the open railing, the plume joining Changbin’s swirl of drafts. “I’m corrupting you,” Jeongin says with a tiny smile, one that turns smug and challenging. “I am ground?”

The words take a second to sink in, before Changbin’s face splits into a relieved grin, understanding the offered olive branch. Just as expected, Changbin tilts his head, flashing Jeongin crazed eyes, voice breaking over the words as he replies, “But I’m I.N~”

Once they finish up their smokes over some meaningless small talk guided by Changbin, Jeongin retreats back inside. That was an emotionally draining conversation, and he desperately needs a moment of quiet time. It's a relief to see the party is beginning to thin out, but his social battery has been absolutely obliterated. He is going to go home soon, but it is really chilly outside and Jeongin needs to warm up for a bit while he gets his energy back up to leave. What is he, a goddamn gecko?

Minho’s apartment is not stately by any means. Not like the properties Jeongin’s ex’s family owned (it was a major flex to have a multi-floored apartment in Paris), but this place is no shoebox either. And it’s Seoul. Two bedrooms and a study, from what he can gather, cosy and well-decorated, though not suffocatingly so. There’s something very Minho in that. He was always someone who lived within his means without complaint and with no desire to flaunt.

In the study, overlooking the glittering lights of Seoul, is a small desk perpendicular to a daybed with a cat-themed blanket decorating it. Atop the bed is a young girl, no more than maybe eight, in a pretty dress with butterflies on it, white frilly socks and a high ponytail with lots of flyaways with where the back of her head has been resting against the wall. Her very presence makes Jeongin stop in his tracks. She doesn’t even lift her head, deep in a video game on the latest handheld Nintendo console illuminating her concentrated face.

“Who are you?” Jeongin demands.

The girl looks up, a dismissive flickering thing. “Who are you?” she demands back.

“I’m Jeongin.”

“Oh. You're my Dad’s friend. I.N, right?” the girl says boredly. “I looked it up on Naver earlier. He said you lived in France for a really long time. I can count to ten in French. Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix.”

It’s like a slap across the face. Aside from the fact that her pronunciation is pretty spot on, why is there a literal child at Minho’s party, and why isn’t she asleep?

No… surely not. Chaewon said Minho had never dated…

“You have to tell me your name now, since I told you mine,” Jeongin says.

She thinks this over, quite seriously, then relents, “Seo Arin.”

Changbin’s daughter. The relief that melts over Jeongin’s skin is like yellow jelly under direct sun on a hot day.

“May I join you, Arin-ah?” Jeongin asks tentatively.

She shrugs an easy shoulder.

Awkward, Jeongin nods to the air, then moves to seat himself on the opposite end of the daybed. With nothing cool like a video game to keep his hands busy, he sips his beer, the colourful soundtrack coming out of the console filling the remains of the room. The seconds tick on, quite literally, from a clock on the wall. It's a cat made out of a light wood, striking a pose with its front paws over its head and the clock face inside its round belly. Does– Minho still have any of his cats? Jeongin hasn’t seen any tonight, but maybe they’re chilling out in the guest room? That probably makes sense. The party is loud and overwhelming, and the guest room would be their feline kingdom.

Jeongin glances over to Arin, and then back to the wall. Christ. This is somehow worse than being out with all the adults. He came in here to recharge but now he can’t relax while hyperaware and desperate for the acceptance of an eight year old. He thinks she’s eight.

“How old are you?” Jeongin raises.

“Seven,” Arin answers curtly.

Seven. A 2031-liner.

He is literally crumbling into dust.

Jeongin kisses his teeth, glancing at the console screen. Some kind of racing game. “What are you playing?”

With a put-upon sigh, Arin conspicuously pauses the game and turns her head to Jeongin, disgruntled. “Mario Kart 11. Everyone’s playing it.” She eyeballs him up and down. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-seven,” Jeongin answers, hating the words as his lips round around them. He hates it. He hates getting older.

Arin makes a, frankly, hilarious expression, a low pout and raised eyebrows, now truly assessing him. “Really? You’re, like, my Dad’s age and he looks way older than you.”

Absolutely delighted by this, Jeongin sits up straighter, turning in her direction. “Hey,” he says, pointing to his forehead. “Do you think I have a wrinkle here?”

Getting to her knees on the daybed, Arin comes closer, using the light of the Nintendo to survey Jeongin’s forehead. She looks from all angles, like she’s struggling to find what he’s talking about. Jeongin’s chest rises with hope. “Yes,” she confirms.

Jeongin’s shoulders slump. “Is it obvious?”

“Yes.”

With a groan, Jeongin flops back onto the daybed, burying himself into his beer. Arin goes back to her game, naive to the burning blade she’s just driven through Jeongin’s chest, leaving him wounded and spilling.

“The world can be an unforgiving, cruel place, Jeongin-samchon,” Arin quotes wisely, making her character do a triple-spin off a rainbow ramp.

Samchon. Jeongin nearly weeps.

“Yeah,” he agrees and when he looks at Arin again, she offers an understanding nod of her head in approval. “Yeah, it is.”

–

It’s approaching midnight when the karaoke machine comes out. Most guests have left: Chaewon, Changbin’s wife and Arin included, Jisung’s partner, and a few of Minho’s other friends. Actually, the only partner left is Felix’s girlfriend, and, of course, Minho’s best friend is still hanging around like a silent but deadly fecal odour.

Jeongin’s heart hammers in his chest as Chan and Jisung engage in an impassioned argument over what the first song should be. If it’s going to be from the boy group Chan was the Creative Director of after Stray Kids, or a song from Jisung’s new label. In hopes to avoid getting dragged into the vote, Jeongin retreats back to the kitchen, poking around for another beer. Anything to keep his hands engaged. He is getting desperate… and a little drunk!

When he returns, renewed pint in hand, it appears the winner is one of Seungmin’s solo songs that Jisung produced, and Jeongin keeps himself pinned to a quiet corner of the back wall. Changbin is wielding the second microphone and drunkenly climbing into Seungmin’s lap to sing along and nuzzle their cheeks together between verses. Amazingly, Seungmin lets him, the two of them closer than ever. Everyone else seems to be joining in now, and Jeongin can’t even mouth along with the words. Honestly, he doesn’t know this song, or any of his old members’ new stuff. The thought of listening to it while he was in Paris would've been like pressing on a boil and having the pus spill out.

Jeongin senses eyes on him, and he shifts his gaze to find it’s Minho again. On the other side of the room, Minho is sitting on an ottoman, quietly watching Jeongin. A sweat breaks out on Jeongin’s nape, as if he were on the stand telling a lie, a whole lie and nothing but lies, god help him. This time, Jeongin doesn’t look away, and Minho doesn’t either. Cutting through the ruckus, they stare at each other, two stubborn bulls unwilling to budge.

He’s so beautiful, Jeongin thinks, and not for the first time. It’s not fair.

“They’ve got Maknae on Top!” Hyunjin yells, snapping Jeongin’s attention back to the party. “Yang Jeongin!”

Everyone is looking at Jeongin now, all with varying degrees of excitement and hope. In his throat, a familiar buildup of anxiety. “Ah–” he starts to say.

“Bin-hyung, give him the mic,” Felix says, voice slurred as he detangles himself from Tasia’s arms to swat at Changbin’s knee. She really has been velcroed to Felix all night, batting her pretty eyes at him like he’s the cutest little thing in the whole universe. Which… okay, maybe she has a point there.

“I’m literally a featured artist on this song?” Changbin protests, holding the mic in the air as high as it will go so no one will take it away from him. “Seungmin!”

Chan waves the other mic in his hand, Seungmin having already passed it over to him.

“Come on, Innie wants to sing,” Jisung argues, getting to an unsteady footing and lunging for the microphone. Oh god, they’re all so drunk. Innie does not want to sing, thank you very much! The song has already started to play, its Latin-trap beat pulsing through the room, and Jeongin can’t breathe.

I don’t sing anymore, Jeongin tries to say, throat closing up. I don’t–

Not since the accident, the depression killing his passion for it, and later, the chain-smoking. His voice is not in good shape, and he certainly can’t hit the types of notes he could when he was a professional. He hasn’t even tried.

“Maknae on Top!” someone sings – yells, actually – and Jeongin’s head whips over to find Minho now off the ottoman and behind the couch, having snatched the microphone out of Changbin’s hand. This puts him only a few feet from Jeongin, who’s watching this unfold with a confused, pleading expression. Minho turns to face Jeongin head on, leaning forward to sing at him, almost a challenge in it, “Woah-oh-oh.”

Jeongin wants– he wants to join in. He wants to sing, but he can’t. Yet another flay to his heart, trying to readjust to life in Korea after eight years in Paris. Getting on that plane with a one-way ticket, he thought this homecoming would be a relief, but it has felt more alien here than France. Even mundane things, like the supermarkets and restaurants feel disorienting and impersonal. Like he’s never going to readjust.

But Minho is saving him now, for some reason, an exaggerated performance enough to distract the others from being disappointed that Jeongin hasn’t taken center stage. Minho’s voice, also, is out of practice, yet he doesn’t care, belting every off pitch note with gusto. No one else seems to care, either. Even Chan is laughing through his verses, the lyrics abandoning the room every time he desperately clambours for breath.

Right, they’re not idols anymore. No one is going to tell them off for a breathy, pitchy performance.

Minho climbs onto the back of the couch, thrusting his hips so hard he actually rips a hole in the back of his jacquard trousers. The room descends into sheer chaos at this point and everyone has completely forgotten about Jeongin’s existence.

His underpants are lavender. Lavender!

As Jisung tries to protect Minho’s dignity (and Felix pulls on the material in an attempt to rip the hole wider) Minho catches Jeongin’s eyes again, something smug. Something pleased.

Like there was a victory, and they did it together.

Heart skipping a beat, Jeongin retreats into himself, embarrassed. In fact, he feels like he’s going insane.

–

Three hours later, Jeongin realises he was supposed to leave five hours ago.

No, honestly, how is it three in the morning? Jeongin doesn’t even remember how he got here. Hyunjin is currently wielding the television remote, looking up old videos of Stray Kids edits for them to laugh at. They’ve been cycling through these crackhead clips for at least an hour.

Jeongin was nervous, unsure how he would react to seeing it when he’s avoided it for so long, but, surprisingly, he’s fine. He can’t be sure, maybe it’s because he’s not alone, but with everyone. The only thing is a weird hole in his heart, trying to process the cognitive dissonance of how much time has passed since these videos. But, he’s breathing fine, and he doesn’t feel like he’s being stabbed in the chest repeatedly watching it. So, he’s calling this a tiny win.

The clip of Chan finding out that Felix only did a freestyle dance to get into JYPE and a befuddled Chan proceeding to list off that he had to play the piano, sing, play the guitar, dance does draw a chuckle out of Jeongin. He quickly flattens his face, though, when he sees that Jisung noticed him do it.

“Do you need a ride home?” Seungmin asks, the time closer to four when he lets everyone know that he has to head back home, his wife having messaged him about a poop explosion from their newborn. Jeongin hasn’t had a chance to meet her yet, but she sounds wonderful. She must be, if Seungmin’s been with her for almost a decade.

It hits him again. Changbin and Seungmin are dads. What the fuck.

What is time?

“No, it’s okay,” Jeongin declines. “I’m going to hang around a bit longer then get a taxi.”

Seungmin nods, clasping Jeongin’s hand and giving it a squeeze goodbye. “Okay, well. I’ll see you soon, yeah? Come over after Kyungheon’s parents have gone back to Jeju and play with the baby. He’s really cute and we need a break.”

Jeongin’s chest warms. He would really love that. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Sounds good.”

“Hey, asshole,” Seungmin calls out to Minho, who is in a new pair of pants and talking to his friend on the couch. “You gonna see me out or what?”

A middle finger in the air is returned.

Seungmin rolls his eyes, giving Jeongin a tired, wide-eyed look. “Enjoy that!”

When Jeongin returns to the living room, Chan is plonking mindlessly at an antique upright piano. Not wanting to sit on the couch near the best friend, Jeongin glances over to Hyunjin, Changbin and Jisung, who are arguing with each other over brands of athlete’s foot cream, of all things. Piano it is. Jeongin squeezes himself on the stool and Chan shuffles over, letting them share a buttcheek. In the ambience of the room, Jeongin lets his fingers slide over the keys, surprised to discover they’re real ivory. This piano is old. He wants to play it.

“Not something I would expect to see in his house,” Jeongin says, letting his left hand stretch over the notes of D and D, but doesn’t press down.

“No,” Chan agrees. “He told me he wanted to try and learn, so I bought him this as a gift… and he said he learned chopsticks then never touched it again.”

Jeongin snorts. How very Minho. “He’s still got it set up, though.”

“Yeah, only because he said it was too heavy to move.”

Is that what he told Chan? Jeongin purses his lips to stop from smiling. He doesn’t believe that at all. The piano is in tune.

“Do you want to play?” Chan offers, sliding off the stool so Jeongin can sit at the center of the instrument.

In wordless acceptance, Jeongin moves his right thumb over A. He stares at the keys for a moment, focusing, letting all the other sounds of the room wash away, then plays the first chord of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. The delicate notes of the c-sharp minor sonata waft into the room. Haunting. Perfect for the slowing down of a party in the early hours of the morning when they should have long been in bed.

“You’re good,” Chan whispers to his left, amazed. “You learned this from memory?”

Apparently, the first part of this sonata, the exposition, was inspired by a murder. So, the first movement is a death scene. It’s easy for Jeongin to channel the required emotion into the song, since his heart already feels like it was murdered too.

As the first movement of the sonata comes to a close, Jeongin sits back, letting his fingers slide off the keys. He looks up at Chan, then over his shoulder to see that the rest of them are all watching him, awed. Except for Minho, who is still talking to his friend on the couch.

“Well, keep going,” Felix says.

Jeongin blinks, glancing back to Chan for confirmation. He nods with eager encouragement, gesturing back to the keys. The next movement is a lot more bright. The flower between two abysses. Jeongin chose to play the first movement because it’s not very disruptive and he didn’t think he’d be asked to continue.

A little nervous now that everyone is paying attention to him, Jeongin starts to play the next part of the sonata. It’s louder, and not very long, only three minutes, the long-practiced progression flowing off his fingers with ease. He must have played this over a thousand times at this point. The hundreds of hours of practice, the private performances for his ex’s extended family, killing time on the public piano in the middle of London St. Pancras Station while waiting to be called for the Eurostar. If he has one party trick in him, maybe it’s this.

As he travels towards the end of the movement, he looks over his shoulder again. Minho hasn’t looked up at him. Not once.

Fine.

Jeongin launches into the recapitulation of Moonlight Sonata, the third and final movement, with its fast arpeggios and strongly accented notes. His fingers punch the keys with a ferocious explosion of energy, a blast of well-chosen accents in a sea of quiet playing. He’s on the top level of the Eiffel Tower, the structure adorned in a golden covering of lights. The City of Lights. The City of Love. She sparkles, the beacon which shines over Paris, the stars above and the buildings below. The noise of the boulevards no longer reach him, but the wind catches his hair, and his heart begins to race. The most romantic place on earth.

The most romantic place on earth.

Rage and fury fly off Jeongin’s shoulders and back, brows furrowed as he concentrates on the extremely fast chords. He’s in it now, the emotional rhetoric of the sonata thundering into the room. A love song. A tragedy. A tower.

“Holy shit,” Chan breathes out. “You got good.”

Jeongin doesn’t acknowledge him. He’s close to the end anyway, his right hand trilling dexterously, flicking over the keys. The sonata slows, before revisiting parallels from the exposition and finishing with three massive chords.

The phantom of the final note resonates freely for a few seconds, until Jeongin lifts his foot off the pedal, dampening the room into quiet.

Jeongin clucks his tongue, disappointed. “I messed up a chord at the end,” he grumbles, rolling his shoulders and squeezing the tight muscles of his back. He turns around on the seat and is met with a comical scene, everyone staring back at him like they’ve been hexed by some evil wizard, most mouths hanging open and frozen. Finally, it seems, Minho has managed to tear himself away from the conversation with his friend, eyes wide and blinking several times.

Victory.

“Do you want a job?” Jisung asks, very loudly, breaking the utter silence.

–

At a quarter to five in the morning, they’ve firmly entered the last man standing portion of the evening.

Felix and Tasia left after Jeongin’s sonata. Chan not too long behind them. Changbin, after being a little trigger happy on the somaeks after his wife and kid left, had his head in the toilet for half an hour before promptly passing out on the study daybed. And Minho’s bestie is finally, finally fucking off.

Jisung and Hyunjin remain (Hyunjin, somehow, despite him being already very tipsy when Jeongin arrived), both of whom are in the living room, bickering over video games it sounds like. That leaves Minho, obviously, as it is his house, and Jeongin.

Jeongin, who is currently in the kitchen poking around for one last drink while Minho sees his friend out, a taxi waiting for him downstairs. Jeongin’s head is fully inside the fridge, trying to see if any sneaky beers have slipped into the back of the shelves, but it seems the stock has run dry. Fuck. That means it’s probably going to be soju, and he was really hoping for something that he could nurse for another half an hour.

“Do you need a hand in?” comes a low, hot voice by his ear.

Jolting, Jeongin looks over his shoulder to see Minho just behind him, smouldering with curiosity. Jeongin makes a shocked noise, banging his head on the underside of a fridge shelf before stumbling out, holding both arms over his head. Minho barks out a laugh, and he takes a step towards Jeongin–

“Hyung, can I use your Nintendo?” Jisung asks, standing at the threshold of the kitchen with a ridiculous pout. His big, innocent eyes are in hilarious contrast to the amount of metal added to his ears and face. “I need to show Hyunjin-ah something.”

Minho blanks him for a full four seconds. “Sure. Whatever.”

“Thanks!”

Once Jisung’s scurried off, Jeongin straightens up, rubbing the back of his head. “You don’t have any beer left. I don’t want to drink soju.”

“I have makgeolli,” Minho says, waving Jeongin to one of the two breakfast bar stools. “Sit down.”

Glowering a little, Jeongin slumps onto the stool, too exhausted to amend his posture. He blinks hard, trying to wet his eyes where they’re itchy and desperate for sleep. Minho pulls up the other stool to sit across from him, placing down two gold drinking bowls and an unopened bottle of makgeolli. When Jeongin reaches forward for the bottle, Minho slaps the back of his hand and begins to serve both of them. Jeongin narrows his eyes sleepily, unsure why Minho is humbling himself but has not the brain cells to process it right now.

“This hasn’t been updated since 2035!” Jisung exclaims from the couch, controller clutched in his hands and furiously pushing the button pad. “I got this for your thirty-seventh birthday, did you actually ever use it?”

Minho’s eyes flick over to the living room, unbothered. “I played Mario Party,” he defends himself, then lowers his voice so only Jeongin can hear, “once.”

The corners of Jeongin’s mouth raise conspiratorially, looking into the milky liquid in his bowl. Minho seems to be in a habit of his friends buying him expensive gifts and then never using them.

That’s on them. They should’ve got Minho a year’s supply of pudding. Or catnip.

Things he’d actually appreciate.

“This is going to take fucking forever,” Hyunjin complains. “I guarantee no two dollar fruit game is worth a fifty-seven minute update.”

“This one is,” Jisung says, voice high and strained. “See! It’s only forty-nine minutes now! Trust me, if you have ADHD, you should never play this game.”

“Jisung. We both have ADHD.”

Minho rolls his eyes with a shake of his head, raising his bowl to drink. Jeongin mimics the action, the fizzy taste nostalgic on his tongue. He hasn’t had makgeolli since he left Korea. Uncomfortable, Jeongin’s eyes slide over to Hyunjin and Jisung, who have scooted closer to watch something on Hyunjin’s phone. When there’s no plausible deniability left to keep his attention in that direction, he grimly returns to Minho, who was looking at him the whole time, gaze intense. Jeongin’s breath shortens, carefully placing the drink down.

“Why did you save me?” Jeongin asks quietly.

A confused look is returned, Minho running his hand back through his hair. There’s a dusting of grey around his ear which makes him seem mature and cool. Jeongin’s only had the odd white hair every now and then, which he immediately pulls out. If he had as much as Minho, he would definitely dye it, no question. Does Minho just not care?

How does he not care?

“During karaoke,” Jeongin clarifies.

Minho’s mouth opens in an ah shape. “Because you didn't want to sing and the guys were being assholes,” he answers, like it really is that simple.

Jeongin sighs, unable to keep his fatigued irritation in. Minho probably thinks himself so valiant, coming to Jeongin’s aid. Like he still sees Jeongin as that inept fifteen year old boy who almost got lured into a cult and didn’t know how to cook an egg.

“So, what happened?” Minho asks, topping up their drinks.

It takes a moment for Jeongin to click that Minho is asking about his ex, and his heart stops in his chest for a beat. He wars with himself on whether he should answer honestly, but exhaustion quickly wins out. He is so, so tired. Not just from tonight. From all of it.

Jeongin swallows around the lump in his throat. “We had an argument on top of the Eiffel Tower. The most romantic place in the world… and she dumped me.”

Minho doesn’t say anything, the silence signalling for Jeongin to continue.

“She promised me kids,” Jeongin goes on, scratching at a black mark on the side of his bowl. “From the start, she promised me kids. She told me she was the type of person who didn’t tell lies. But she was never going to give me kids, and that’s when I started to realise that maybe she wasn’t being truthful about everything– and all the other lies started to unravel too.”

Keeping himself carefully poised, Minho’s expression doesn’t change, but there is a growing horror behind his unwavering eyes. A stiffness to his jaw. Jeongin feels triumphant to see it.

He wants, for some reason, to see Minho crack because of him.

“I was prepared to do everything,” Jeongin insists, the floodgate opened now, hoping to convey the full extent of the unreasonableness of the whole situation. That this woman tricked him for a whole eleven years.

All he has wanted all his life is to be a father. Even more than being a singer. How could she do that to him? How cruel does someone have to be?

“I would've raised them, I was prepared to quit my job too. She wouldn't have had to do anything except– seriously, I would've been happy to adopt too, if she didn't want to be pregnant.”

Minho pauses up at this. Lines of pity are beginning to notch into his forehead. “Don't take this the wrong way,” he says slowly, “but I'm really glad that didn't happen.”

Jeongin stills, shocked.

No, he realises, of course he’s glad.

Minho despised his ex, was unwilling to see the good sides of her. Her humour, her generosity, her patience with Jeongin as he healed from the trauma suffered from his experience as an idol in Korea. The way they worked so well as a team, at least in the early days.

Amazing, to be honest, that this conversation with Minho is happening at all.

“Go on, say it,” Jeongin says, venom on the tip of his tongue.

“Say what?” Minho replies, having the audacity to look mildly puzzled.

“That you told me so.”

Emotion finally makes an appearance on Minho’s face. A wretched, wounded expression. “Why would I?” he says back, hard. “You know I wouldn't say that, Jeongin-ssi.”

Oh, that pisses Jeongin off.

“Don't do that,” he snaps. “Call me properly.”

Minho rears his horns, but ultimately concedes. “Fine.”

Silence between them, then.

Happy birthday, Minho.

“Card expired?!” Jisung wails from the living room. Jeongin looks over to see that the Nintendo has miraculously updated in record time and Jisung is attempting to purchase this aforementioned fruit game. Jeongin rubs at his dud shoulder, pushing on the pressure points of the bone. “Fucking– hang on, let me get my card details.”

“Give me,” Hyunjin sighs, exasperated, snatching the controller. “I know mine off by heart.”

Jeongin moves to turn his phone over on the counter, checking the time. Two minutes to five. If he can just hold out for another fifteen…

“Where are you living?” Minho asks, shattering through tense air. In the kitchen at least.

“Where am I living?” Jeongin echoes, raising his gaze to look into Minho’s eyes. “I just got a place in Hannam.”

“You bought it?”

Jeongin’s fingers tingle. “Renting for now but I'm planning to buy in the area, yes.”

Leaning back, Minho lets out a low whistle. “Guess we all can't be big shot fashion models, huh,” he grins playfully.

Jeongin doesn’t take the bait, and he tries not to look too scornful, turning his attention back to Hyunjin and Jisung. Though they aren’t doing anything interesting anymore, Jisung focused on the television while Hyunjin fiddles with his phone. Jeongin sighs heavily through his nose. He wonders if Minho has noticed his wrinkle yet.

“Are you eating enough?” Minho asks.

“What is with you?” Jeongin snaps, frustrated. “Why are you grilling me?”

Minho raises his eyebrows, expectant. Okay, when he does that, he has way more wrinkles than Seungmin, or even Chan.

“Of course, I am,” Jeongin grumbles.

“Balanced meals. Vegetables too?”

“Yes,” Jeongin says roughly. The kimchi in his ramen is a vegetable. He taps the dark screen of his phone, lighting it up. One past five.

“Give me your phone.”

A shot of molten fire shakes through Jeongin’s veins, all his senses on a sudden, high alert. His heart races, and he forces his breath to not become short and high. “Why?” Jeongin asks, the sound scraping out of his throat.

Minho gives him a weird look, clocking the reaction. “Going to give you my new number.”

“I can put it in myself,” Jeongin says defensively, reaching for his phone and unlocking it to open the contacts app. Suddenly, the thing flies out of his hands, Minho stealing it from him. “Hey–?”

Jeongin can’t breathe anymore, heart thundering in his throat, choking him, and all the while Minho taps away, extremely pleased with himself. Why does Minho have to put it in himself? Does he not trust Jeongin to do it?

When Minho does hand the phone back, Jeongin’s relieved to see the number has been entered into the new contact but yet to be saved. So he didn’t go looking around in any other areas of his phone.

Also, he’s put his own contact name in as nyang hyung 😽

“That's so childish,” Jeongin mumbles.

Minho just shrugs. “Call me.”

“Why?”

“So I can add you too,” Minho says, like it’s obvious. Making a face, Jeongin saves the contact without making any further edits and pushes the call button. Minho looks around frantically then, “ah, shit,” he says, clearly having forgotten where he put his own phone. It’s by the sink, vibrating, and Minho temporarily swings out of his stool to retrieve it before sitting back down and rejecting the call. He looks at his phone, blinking idly, tapping away at it. “What's bread in French?” he asks, then, out of nowhere.

Confused, Jeongin tries not to furrow his brows. “Pain?”

“Baby?”

“Bébé.”

“Bébé pain,” Minho murmurs to himself with a cute little smile, nose scrunching.

“It doesn't really work in French,” Jeongin admits on a sigh. When he thinks of Parisian bread, he thinks of a baguette, not a fluffy loaf with a sparkly, little smile. French people just don't find bread cute. Petit pain would be a more accurate translation, maybe?

He supposes it's befitting. No longer fluffy and cute, but long and crusty.

Regardless, Minho ignores him, adding Jeongin's new contact into his phone with the name bebepan.

“I'm not a baby anymore,” Jeongin mutters spitefully, tapping the top of Minho’s phone with a rough motion. “And pain is spelled with an i. Dummy.”

bebepani

Jeongin gives up, burying himself in the remainder of his makgeolli.

It eventually becomes 5.15 a.m., and Jeongin lets Minho know his taxi is waiting for him downstairs.

He made it. He can finally be released from the bounds of Lee Minho’s fortieth birthday party. Hallelujah.

While Minho goes into the hallway, Jeongin gets off the stool to rinse out the makgeolli bowls, since it’s the right thing to do. He turns on the tap, holding the vessels under the running water, letting it heat up. On the windowsill are various cleaning products, carefully lined up. Dark amber and fig hand soap from a nice brand, a pink cloth draped over transparent all-purpose spray, and what looks to be the entire Scrub Daddy range. The idea that even Lee Minho is influenced by online advertising brings a feeling of comfort to Jeongin’s chest.

Resting against the glass pane are five wishbones, triangular-shaped. Intentionally placed there to dry in the sun. A sign of someone who enjoys cooking, who prepares a lot of fowl.

A sign of someone who still believes in good luck.

That feeling of comfort bleeds away. Luck. Jeongin gave up on such foolish ideas a long time ago.

Jeongin hisses, dropping the makgeolli bowls into the sink as the water turns scalding. He pulls his hand back, nursing the stinging pain of his skin. He burned himself. With a grimace and trying to soothe it under cold water, Jeongin hopes it won’t leave a mark. Any blemish to his body will affect his chances of finding work, even with all the technology and airbrushing. He can’t afford that.

“Which ones are yours?” Minho asks in the hyeongwan after Jeongin has dried his hands and said his goodbyes to Hyunjin and Jisung. Though they barely acknowledge his existence, the two of them fully engaged and hollering over a tetris-like game where small fruits turn into bigger ones. Jeongin does pause to watch it for a moment, until two melons fuse into a giant watermelon. Hyunjin makes an orgasmic moan so egregious that it makes Jeongin flee down the hallway so fast.

“Pointy black boots,” Jeongin answers.

“Oh, I thought these were Hyunjin’s.”

“They don’t match his outfit.”

Minho glances up from where he’s crouched down and shrugs, eyes so big and cat-like that Jeongin’s pulse speeds up. Jeongin swallows, shifting on his feet as Minho moves his boots from where they’ve been tucked away in the shoe cabinet to the lower platform. Did Minho organise his guests' shoes himself so people wouldn’t drunkenly stumble and crush them?

“You’ve still got big feet,” Minho says as Jeongin pulls the first boot on.

“You’re still a weirdo,” Jeongin shoots back, the banter coming to him like second nature. While focused on his task, Minho commandeers the other, comparing his smaller, socked foot to the sole of the shoe. Jeongin snatches his boot and pointedly does not think about their size difference as he carefully shoves his other foot into the second boot. Pulling his coat on, Minho stands, looking at him. A relaxed smile. No hostility, just the light on his face.

Jeongin averts his eyes, double checking his pockets for his phone and wallet.

“Iyen-ah,” Minho murmurs, soft. “Get home safe.”

No forced physical contact. Not even an extension for a handshake that will send a hot shock up Jeongin’s arm. Just that old nickname, warm like a hug.

The bruise of it aches, the way Minho knows him so well.

Jeongin returns a stiff nod. When he steps over the threshold of the warm apartment and into the cold hallway, his hand remains on the metal of the door handle. For a moment, he doesn’t move, then turns to look back over his shoulder.

“Happy Birthday. Minho-hyung.”