Chapter Text
Jisung’s nails are painted.
Minho doesn’t know the color, of course. He can only tell the shade is dark.
That was something Jisung always wanted to do but never could when they were together—they aren’t soulmates, so for them the world was always black and white. Jisung was afraid of picking a color that was ugly, even if he wouldn’t be able to tell.
Now Minho wonders if Jisung painted them himself or if Jeongin did it for him. He wonders if they picked out the color together. Then he decides to just stop thinking about it.
He doesn’t even want to be here, crammed into some tiny booth at a shitty bar on a freezing cold Tuesday night with Jisung and his soulmate and two of his friends. But it was important to Jisung that he show up—something about “merging” their friend groups now that he and Jeongin have been together for a little while. Never mind that Changbin and Hyunjin couldn’t even come.
Minho doesn’t want to “merge.” He wants to be home, ordering delivery and watching sad movies the way he has for the last three months.
Scratch that. He wants his old life back, the one where Jisung was his and no one else’s and it didn’t matter that they were both seeing in black and white.
“When’s Channie-hyung getting here?” one of Jeongin’s friends gripes. Minho’s already forgotten his name; it’s Seunghoon or Seungjae or something. “If he flakes again I’m gonna kill him.”
They’ve been waiting for a third friend of theirs to arrive. Apparently this Chan person is a huge workaholic and just getting him to commit to coming tonight was a big achievement.
“He texted earlier and said he’s running late,” Jeongin answers. “He should be here soon. I’m gonna get another drink.” To Jisung, he asks, “Hyung, you want anything?”
“Yes please,” Jisung says. Jeongin nods and stands up, heading to the bar. Apparently he doesn’t even need to ask what Jisung wants. They probably have some sort of dumb soulmate telepathic connection. Or maybe Jeongin just knows by now. Maybe it comes with the territory.
“So, Minho-hyung,” Jeongin’s other friend says, turning to look at him. He’s got big eyes and a smattering of freckles on his cheeks and nose, his hair tumbling almost to his shoulders. His name is Felix, Minho remembers, but Jeongin calls him Yongbok. “What do you do for work?”
“I’m a dance teacher,” Minho answers, dragging his finger through the condensation his beer glass left on the table. There’s a pause, like Felix is waiting for him to say more, but he doesn’t.
Then Jisung pipes up, “He teaches at Seoul Dance in Sadong-dong.”
Felix’s eyes light up. “No way! Didn’t the group who won Street Woman Fighter last season train there?”
“Yup,” Jisung says proudly. “Hyung literally taught them.”
Minho scowls. He used to secretly like when Jisung would brag about him to their friends, but now it just feels hollow.
“Wow, that’s so cool,” Felix gushes. “I’d love to take a class from you sometime, hyung.”
Minho swallows back a snarky response and merely nods. “Sure, you’re more than welcome to.”
Jeongin returns to their table at that moment with the exact kind of beer Jisung likes, sliding it to him casually across the table. Jisung ducks his head, but Minho can see the tips of his ears are pink.
Minho hates this. As annoying as they can be, he wishes Changbin and Hyunjin were here so he wouldn’t feel so alone. Everyone’s tried to be nice, but it’s clear they’ve all been filled in about his history with Jisung. The knowledge hovers over all of their heads like a chandelier poised to fall at any moment.
“I’m gonna step outside for a second,” he says abruptly, rising from his seat. “Be right back.” He’s halfway across the room before anyone can even offer to accompany him.
The cold air stings his face as soon as he steps out. He moves away from the door and leans against the wall, tilting his head back and breathing deeply. He’s irritated at the burn of tears that presses against his eyes. He will not cry over this. At least not here.
He stands there silently for a few seconds before the sound of rapid footsteps approaching catches his attention.
There’s a man sprinting down the street, presumably coming from the bus stop around the corner. His form is honestly pretty good. Minho watches, bemused, as he stops a few feet away. But instead of going inside, he places his hands behind his head, trying to catch his breath. All in all it’s a pretty dramatic entrance.
Even though Minho doesn’t say anything, the man seems to sense him staring. “Sorry,” he pants without looking up. “I’m running late. Was supposed to meet some friends here like twenty minutes ago.”
Minho doesn’t normally talk to strangers, especially when he’s just a few seconds away from crying. But he also really doesn’t want to go back inside just yet. “It’s fine,” he says. “Are you . . . alright?”
The man nods, still breathing heavily, his eyes closed. “All good,” he says. “Just gotta catch my breath. Shit, I really need to do more cardio.”
“It’ll help if you put your hands on your knees,” Minho offers.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Minho makes his students cool down that way all the time, but he doesn’t feel like elaborating on that right now.
Still, the man shrugs and obeys, bending over. Now that he’s closer, Minho can see he’s actually very handsome. Or at least his side profile is. He’s not impressively tall, but he’s well built, with curly dark hair and full lips. And a pretty nice ass—not that he’s looking. “Thanks for the tip.”
“No problem.” Minho turns his gaze back to the sky as the man straightens up after a minute.
“Are you staying out here?” he asks. It’s an oddly personal question. Minho answers it anyway.
“Yeah, for a little longer.”
“You’re not cold?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Alright,” the man says, sounding a little uncertain. “I guess I’ll—oh, hey. Did you drop these?”
Minho looks over. The man’s hand is outstretched, holding his keys. They must’ve fallen out of his pocket when he made his way outside. He grimaces, thinking about how humiliating it would’ve been to lose them and have to stay at Jisung’s or something.
“Oh, yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m an idiot. Thank you.”
“No problem. It happens.”
Minho takes his keys. Their fingers brush, and what feels like a spark of electricity shoots up his spine. They both pull back immediately, glancing at each other in astonishment.
Their gazes meet, and the effect is instantaneous.
Suddenly there’s a loud, sharp ringing in Minho’s ears and an intense pressure behind his eyes. He lets out a grunt of surprise and pain, automatically squeezing the bridge of his nose as though that might help. Instead it only gets worse, building and building until he feels like his head might explode, and then—
The pressure releases with a POP, and Minho doubles over, dropping his keys again as a harsh gust of wind blows directly into his face. It’s worse than the cold air outside; somehow it burns and stings at the same time. He can’t speak, can’t see, can barely even breathe. For a split second he wonders if he’s dying.
But just as quickly as it happens, the sensation wears off. The ringing fades away, and all Minho can hear is the sound of his own heavy breathing. He slowly lifts his head and almost collapses.
The world is so bright. It’s overwhelming how saturated and vivid everything around him is. He squeezes his eyes shut again because no, this can’t be happening. There’s no way this random person with whom he had a five-second conversation could actually be—
“Minho-hyung?”
Minho turns, still struggling to get his bearings. Jisung is standing in the doorway to the bar, his eyes wide. He’s letting all the frigid air inside, but he doesn’t even seem to notice.
“Jisung,” Minho croaks. “What—?” What are you doing here? What’s happening to me?
“I came to check if you were okay,” Jisung says slowly. His eyes are darting back and forth as he takes in the scene before him. He swallows. “But . . . I see you met Chan-hyung.”
Chan-hyung.
Minho looks back as the pieces start to click in his head.
“I’m running late. Was supposed to meet some friends here like twenty minutes ago.”
The man—Chan—is already staring back at him, his face a mixture of shock and confusion. Everything about him is so . . . vibrant. So alive. Even when Minho looks away, his face is still burned into his brain. He’s never been more aware of another person before, more conscious of the distance between them and how badly he wants to close it.
Please no. Not him. Not now.
Jisung is speaking again, but his voice is a million miles away. All Minho can focus on are his fingernails.
He knows now—they’re painted blue.
When Minho and Jisung first met, he expected they’d be able to see color.
They didn’t.
It was disappointing for half a minute. Then Minho decided he didn’t care. Plenty of people went their whole lives without meeting their real soulmate and were just as happy. It was unusual but not uncommon.
Besides, he never really liked the idea of soulmates anyway. He always preferred to make his own path, and having something so important as the love of his life predetermined for him was unappealing. Who got to decide something like that? Shouldn’t it be up to him?
With Jisung, everything felt as it should. They liked the same things, had the same hobbies, and were practically glued at the hip. How could this person not be meant for him? How could there be someone else out there who was a better match?
Of course there was always that fear lurking—the fear that one day, they’d accidentally make eye contact with a stranger on the bus, or the cashier at the grocery store, and then things would be different. Jisung worried about it often, but Minho refused to dwell on it. For starters, he didn’t believe in living like that and wasting the time they had together. Second, even if he did meet his soulmate, he knew it wouldn’t change anything. He loved Jisung—end of story.
Things were perfect for almost two years. But then Jisung locked eyes with Yang Jeongin in the middle of a 7-Eleven, and everything changed.
Jeongin was 23 years old and originally from Busan. He was in his final year of university, studying to be an elementary school teacher. He had long legs and dimples and an ever-present laugh in his voice. Despite everything, Minho couldn’t hate him.
In fact, he was the one who put his foot down after yet another day of Jisung rebuffing Jeongin’s attempts to see him. It had been a week since they met. “We knew this could happen,” he said gently, stroking his fingers through Jisung’s hair. “We knew the risks.”
“I don’t care,” Jisung sniffled, his head pillowed against Minho’s thigh. “Just because I met him doesn’t mean I have to get to know him.”
“True,” Minho agreed, “but now the universe is just going to keep throwing him at you. That’s how it works.”
“But I love you,” Jisung said softly. “Not him.”
“I know,” Minho answered, swallowing the lump in his throat. “But you’ll learn to.”
“No. I won’t leave you.”
“Jisung-ah,” Minho shook his head. “You aren’t. Just because we’re breaking up doesn’t mean we won’t still be in each other’s lives. You’re my best friend, okay? No matter what.”
“We’re breaking up?” Jisung said, looking up at him with big, watery eyes.
“Yes,” Minho said. He was glad his voice didn’t crack. “Now text him back.”
Sometimes Minho looks back at that moment and hates himself for choosing not to be selfish. Of course he didn’t want to let Jisung go. But he wanted him to be happy, and he knew it would happen with Jeongin. They both deserved the chance to be with the people they were meant for.
He also knew all of their friends were secretly hoping he’d move on and find happiness of his own. But Minho knew he wouldn’t. He may not have a choice anymore when it came to being with Jisung, but he could still choose to love him no matter what. And at least that was the one thing no one could take away from him.
Changbin calls him the morning after he meets Chan.
“I heard last night was interesting,” he says in lieu of a greeting. “Figures it was the one time I couldn’t make it.”
“What do you want.” Minho grunts.
“To see my favorite hyung, of course.”
“Pass.”
“Too late. I’m outside your building,” Changbin says sweetly before he hangs up.
Minho considers just not letting him in. But knowing Changbin, he’d probably just stand out front and whine all day and earn him the ire of his neighbors. So he relents.
“I brought coffee,” Changbin says when Minho opens the door.
“I knew you valued your life,” Minho says dryly. Then he pauses. “Hang on, that’s your hair color?”
Changbin met his soulmate Wooyoung in their first year of university—pretty early, all things considered. Minho knows he’s dyed his hair a few times, but he’s never been able to see what it looked like until now.
“Ah, yeah. It used to be blue.” Changbin absently brushes at his curls, which are now a faded purple. The crown of his head is darker where his roots are growing in.
“Ugh,” Minho falls heavily onto his couch, assuming the position he’s been in all morning. He called out of work already, citing a stomach bug. Thankfully Mina asked no questions and told him to stay home. “I hate this. These colors make my eyes hurt.”
“Yeah, it can be overwhelming at first.”
Overwhelming doesn’t even begin to describe it. The last twelve hours have been nothing short of debilitating. It’s like he’s been reborn and has to learn the world all over again—now he knows the exact shade of dark brown his hair is, the curtains in his bedroom clash horribly with his carpet, and that Soonie’s fur is not gray, but orange.
Even Changbin’s denim jacket is giving Minho a headache. He considers getting rid of all of his decor and switching to minimalism from now on.
“So,” Changbin says, lifting Minho’s legs so he can sit down next to him, then dropping them back across his lap, “what happened last night? After you met—what was his name again?”
“Don’t know,” Minho lies. “And nothing happened. I left.”
That part is true. Jisung went back inside the bar to get Jeongin, Felix, and Seungmin, leaving Minho and Chan alone once more. They were both still in shock, but Minho managed to recover first.
He stooped and grabbed his keys again, shoving them into his jacket pocket before heading towards the bus stop. “Hey,” Chan said, then he called a little louder, “Wait! Where are you going?”
Minho didn’t turn around. He was trying to put as much space between them as possible, but deep down he knew it was fruitless. The words he once said to Jisung echoed in his head: Now that you’ve met, the universe is just going to keep throwing him at you.
It would only be a matter of time before they found each other once more. But until then, Minho was going to shut the entire world out for as long as he could.
“You left? Seriously?” Changbin says in disbelief. “You didn’t even exchange info with him?”
“I don’t want his info,” Minho says. “And besides, Han Jisung’s probably told him my entire life story by now anyway.”
Changbin sighs. “Hyung, resisting isn’t going to help.”
“And how would you know? You and Wooyoung were obsessed with each other from the start,” Minho points out.
He’s now able to see the very specific shade of red Changbin’s ears turn when he’s embarrassed, which he has to admit is pretty funny. “Maybe so,” Changbin says haughtily. “But still, we were both really young when it happened. It was hard to come to terms with the fact that we were going to be tied to each other for the rest of our lives.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, think about it. We met in our first year of university. We were each other’s first and last . . . everything.”
“You didn’t want to try dating other people first?” Minho asks. It would be unconventional, but not unheard of, especially since they were so young when they met.
Changbin shrugs. “We thought about it, but it didn’t feel right. Especially since we knew we were just going to come back to each other anyway. And I don’t regret it now, but I won’t lie and say it took some time to get used to.”
Minho’s phone lights up with a message before he can answer.
han jisung
you left pretty quickly last night
i wanted to tell you i really am happy for you
and i gave chan hyung your info
please call me later?
Minho feels it again—that stupid prickle of tears behind his eyes. He drops his phone on the couch and Changbin picks it up, reading through the messages.
“Chan,” he says slowly, like he’s testing the name out. “Are you going to answer him if he reaches out?”
“No.”
“Hyung,” Changbin says. “Come on.”
“What?” Minho snaps. “I don’t care what the universe thinks it’s decided for me. I don’t want him and I’m never going to want him. Okay?”
Changbin opens his mouth, presumably to argue back. But he must see something on Minho’s face, because after a second he closes it again and nods. “If that’s what you think is best.”
”It is,” Minho says stiffly. There’s silence between them for a few seconds before Changbin says, “Wanna watch anime?”
“Yes,” Minho says gratefully. Changbin might push, but he always knows when to stop. Minho turns on the TV, and they don’t talk about Chan or soulmates or anything of the sort for the rest of the day.
As the week passes, Minho waits to hear from Chan, but he never does. It makes him equal parts confused and nervous—he knows Jisung gave Chan his info, so why hasn’t he reached out yet?
Not that he wants to talk to him, of course. But it’s the anticipation that’s bothering him: surely Chan’s going to message him at some point. Minho wants to just get it over with and block him already.
In the meantime, he does his best to continue his life like normal. He goes to work every day and pretends the colors everywhere don’t give him a headache still. At least in the studio there’s some respite; the walls are white and the floor is a dark, polished wood. He can shut off his brain and push his body to its limits and pretend like nothing’s happened.
Jisung texts him a few times, wanting to get together, but Minho makes up excuses not to. He feels a little bad; he knows Jisung cares about him, but there’s also a chance he’s trying to meddle. Minho won’t risk showing up somewhere and having Chan be there too. Besides, seeing Jisung with Jeongin is still a tender spot.
It all comes to a head one week later. Minho’s running late for work, but decides to stop at his favorite coffee shop anyway. He’s always lived by the motto that if he’s already late, he might as well show up caffeinated too.
The barista puts out his iced Americano and he grabs it, calling a thank-you over his shoulder as he rushes to the door. Of course, he doesn’t realize someone is on the other side, and immediately collides with them as they walk into the shop.
Minho stumbles and watches, almost in slow-motion, as his drink slips from his grasp and hits the floor with a wet plop. Ice and espresso goes everywhere, including on his sneakers. He opens his mouth to let out a string of curses, but then a familiar prickle of electricity zips up his spine and stops him in his tracks.
He turns to look at the person he bumped into and sees a pair of broad shoulders and curly dark hair.
It’s Chan. Because of course it is.
Chan hasn’t noticed yet, too busy apologizing profusely and grabbing napkins from the dispenser. People are milling all around them, shooting them dirty looks as they enter and exit the shop. Like they’d planned to do this right in the doorway or something.
Minho just stares until Chan finally glances over at him. His eyes immediately go wide with recognition and his face pales. He stops his frantic movements. “Oh,” he says. “Of course it’s you.” Minho doesn’t say anything and Chan’s ears turn bright pink. “Wait, I didn’t mean that like—I just meant, because, you know . . . now we’re . . .” He trails off.
Thankfully, an employee comes out with a mop and starts to clean up the mess. “I’m really sorry,” Chan says again as they move out of the way. “I should’ve been watching where I was going.”
It was more Minho’s fault than anything, since he’s the one who came barrelling out of the store, but he’ll let Chan take the blame if he wants. “It’s fine.”
“Here, let me buy you another.”
“No, don’t,” Minho says immediately. The last thing he wants is to owe Chan something. “That’s not necessary.”
“No, please,” Chan insists. He’s already in line and pulling out his wallet. “It’s the least I can do. What do you want, an iced Americano?”
Minho glances at his phone. He’s already supremely late now; he might as well ride this out and get another coffee. “Okay,” he gives in. “Sure, thanks.”
“Of course,” Chan says. He seems relieved that Minho is allowing him to do this. They stand silently together in line before Chan asks, “So, um, do you come here a lot? I’ve never seen you.”
“Every morning,” Minho says, though he thinks he’ll probably go somewhere else now that he knows Chan is a regular here too.
It’s their turn, so Chan orders an iced Americano and a green juice for himself. Minho forces himself not to scoff at it. Of course Chan is too enlightened for coffee. He probably gets enough sleep at night and wakes up early to do sunrise yoga, or go for a jog, or volunteer with orphans—
“Caffeine makes me anxious,” Chan explains as they wait for their drinks. “It’s better if I don’t have it at all.”
Minho exhales. “Right.”
The barista sourly hands them their drinks and they hurry to leave the shop. “Well,” Chan says as they stand awkwardly outside, “I won’t keep you. I’m sorry again.”
“Why haven’t you messaged me?” Minho blurts out.
Chan blinks. “Sorry?”
“Jisung said he gave you my info. That was over a week ago. Why haven’t you said anything?”
“I—I didn’t think you wanted to hear from me,” Chan says, seeming bewildered. “You just kinda stormed off that night. I didn’t want to make it worse.”
“Oh,” Minho says, deflating. He wasn’t expecting such a respectful answer.
“Did you want to hear from me?” Chan asks timidly.
“No,” Minho says immediately. Chan’s face falls, and it does something strange to his insides. “I need to go,” he says quickly, before he grudgingly adds, “Thanks, uh, for the coffee.”
“Sure,” Chan says. “Bye, Minho.”
Later that evening, when Minho leaves the studio and checks his phone, he sees Chan finally texted him. Nothing monumental, just hi.
Minho doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t block Chan either.