Chapter Text
The funny thing about living with a spirit, is that magic starts to become normal.
Not right away. For the first few weeks, Jisung noticed everything—the way his phone battery never seemed to drop below twenty percent, how his keys always ended up being on the hallway table, the fact he hadn’t had to sharpen a pencil since October.
By sometime around week three, he got used to his favourite hoodie being warm when he pulled it on, like it’d been sitting in sunlight instead of stuffed in his closet. And by week five, he slowly stopped commenting on them. They’re just… facts of his life now. The sky is blue, water is wet, and leftovers reheat evenly. Though he never quite got used to the way Minho smiled when he thanked him for things—along with the accompanying jolt in his chest. But all in all, he barely thought about it anymore.
Except for the cats.
Yeah, he definitely noticed that one.
It had started when Jisung mentioned, in passing, that he sometimes felt lonely on his early morning walks to campus. Not sad lonely—he’d been careful to clarify that, because Minho had a tendency to take his depressive spirals personally with a ‘use a flamethrower to kill a spider’ approach—just… aware of the quiet. The way his footsteps echo in the empty streets.
“I don't mind it,” Jisung had said. “It's peaceful, actually. Just sometimes I wish there was, I don't know, a cat or something. Something alive.”
Minho had nodded thoughtfully, and said nothing.
Jisung should have known better.
Two days later, he stepped outside and a scruffy grey tabby immediately trotted up to him, winding around his legs and purring loudly.
“Hey, little guy,” Jisung said, and quickly bent to scratch its ears before continuing to walk.
The tabby followed him. So did a large orange cat that appeared from behind a parked car. And a black cat that hopped down from a wall. By the time he reached campus, he had seven cats trailing behind him like he was some kind of feline Snow White.
“Okay. This is weird, right?” he asked the orange cat, who just headbutted his shin happily.
It got worse. The cats waited outside his buildings. They followed him to the convenience store during lunch. One particularly bold calico tried to follow him inside, and Jisung had to physically block the door before the cashiers noticed.
“Dude, are you a Disney princess now?” Hyunjin laughed as he filmed the whole thing.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” Jisung said, which was a lie. He knew exactly what was happening. Or rather, who was happening.
When he got home that afternoon—trailed by fewer than a dozen cats—he found Minho waiting at the door, looking extremely pleased with himself.
“How was your day?” Minho greeted.
Jisung stared at him, stumbling forward as the herd of cats bumped his legs. “Minho. Why have I been swarmed by cats all day?”
Minho stepped inside to let Jisung in and shrugged. “You will have companions when you walk now. I simply made your presence a little more enticing.”
“A little?” Jisung squeaked, collapsing onto the couch. “You can’t just—I can’t just—”
“You looked happy,” Minho said. “When you came in. You were smiling.”
And, okay. Yeah. Maybe he was.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
The next time it rains, they build a pillow fort in the living room.
“This is structurally unsound,” Minho says, frowning at the blanket draped over two chairs and the back of the sofa. “It will collapse.”
“Then we’ll rebuild it.” Jisung crawls inside and arranges the last few pillows. “Come on, I need to make you appreciate Spirited Away.”
Minho ducks under the blanket, folding his long legs into the small space with surprising grace. There’s just barely enough space for both of them, if they squish up together with their knees touching.
“Why are we watching it inside this unstable structure instead of on the sofa?”
“Because it’s fun and cozy,” Jisung says, pulling his laptop in front of them. “Trust me, it’s a whole experience. I used to do this a lot when I was a kid.”
The fort does not collapse. Jisung suspects Minho has something to do with that, but he doesn’t mention it. Just presses play and settles in. By the time the credits roll, they’ve migrated to lying down, Jisung’s head on a pillow that’s definitely warmer than it should be, Minho curled up beside him.
“That was really good. Can we watch another?” Minho asks.
“It’s past midnight now.”
“You do not have class tomorrow.”
Jisung turns his head, which is a mistake because Minho is already looking back at him with those damned stars in his eyes.
“Yeah, okay,” Jisung says. “One more.”
One more turns into two, which turns into three, which turns into a full Ghibli marathon all-nighter—not that Jisung resists particularly hard. He ends up falling asleep at a weird angle slumped against Minho’s chest, legs twisted awkwardly beneath him and one shoulder pressing against the hard floor.
When he wakes up around noon in his actual bed, feeling none of the ache he should be, with Minho tucked in next to him still watching the laptop, he doesn’t even pretend to be surprised.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
A week later, Jisung suggests they visit the shrine.
“It’s gotten kind of mossy. Considering it’s been a few hundred years and all,” he says, pulling on his jacket even though he knows Minho will make sure they’re not cold anyway. “We should probably take care of it.”
Minho pauses, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. “You want to clean it?”
“Yeah? I mean, it’s important, right?” Jisung shrugs, suddenly self conscious. “It’s yours. Or was yours. Besides, it’s where we met. Sort of. You know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean,” Minho says, and he’s smiling now, soft and pleased.
The walk over is shorter than Jisung remembers. Maybe because it’s spring now instead of winter, or maybe because he’s not running on fumes and desperation anymore. Probably because Minho is next to him, holding his hand, pointing out birds and telling him their old names.
The shrine looks exactly the same as he remembers—hopelessly weathered and tucked away at the base of a ginkgo tree like a forgotten secret. Which, he supposes it has been. For a very long time. Jisung kneels in front of it, holding a brush in one hand and a water bottle in the other.
“I have no idea what I’m doing,” he admits. “So if there’s like, a proper way to do this, you should probably tell me.”
“There is no wrong way to care for a shrine,” Minho says, crouching beside him. “Though, it would be a good idea to start from the top.”
They work in a comfortable silence, Jisung scrubbing at moss while Minho uses his hands to clear debris from the crevices.
“I am glad you called me back here,” Minho says eventually, running his fingers over the worn stone. “That night.”
Jisung’s hands still. “I didn’t really call you. I sort of just… showed up and had a breakdown at your doorstep.”
“You called for help. That is all a guardian spirit can hope for,” Minho murmurs. “This year would have been my last one, I could feel it. You saved me.”
No, it was the other way round, Jisung thinks. He swallows and says, “Yeah, well. Best decision I ever made. Even if it was kind of an accident.”
“Fate,” Minho corrects.
“You’re so dramatic,” Jisung mutters, but he’s smiling.
They finish cleaning as the afternoon sun filters through the trees, and the shrine looks almost new. Or, new-ish—Jisung would still struggle to identify the eroded stone slab as a cat. But cared for. Loved.
“Should we leave an offering or something?” Jisung asks. “How does this work now?”
Minho is quiet for a moment before replying, “That shrine is empty now. There is no one to receive it.”
“Maybe, but…” Jisung pulls out a salmon onigiri from his bag. “It’s the thought that counts, right?”
He moves to place it on the cleanest part of the shrine, when a hand on his arm stops him. Minho gently takes the onigiri from him, breaks it in half, and holds the bigger half out towards Jisung.
“You have not eaten lunch yet. I am sure the spirit would not mind,” Minho says, eyes glittering.
Jisung huffs a small laugh and takes it.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
Minho discovers Korean cooking shows three days later, and immediately becomes obsessed.
“Look at this!” he exclaims, showing Jisung a video of Choi Hyun-seok dicing vegetables at impossible speed. “How does he do it so fast and get them the same size?”
“Probably a lot of practice,” Jisung says, glancing over from his laptop. “Did you not have skilled chefs in your time?”
“Not in the village, no.” Minho rewinds the video, pausing on a close-up of a grilled fish. “How do they make the heat so consistent?”
“There’s all sorts of fancy stoves nowadays. We don’t really use wood fires.”
“You can produce flames without wood?”
“Yup, with gas. Or electricity.” Jisung tries not to smile. Minho’s fascination with mundane things is never going to not be endearing. “Want me to explain?”
“Yes,” Minho says instantly.
So Jisung does, and Minho listens raptly. It’s cute. Really cute. Right up until Minho looks up from the video and says, “I want to try.”
“Try what?”
“Cooking with my hands. The human way,” Minho says with a determined expression. “I want to make japchae.”
Jisung blinks. “You want to cook? But you can just—” He waves his hand vaguely to imitate magic.
“Yes, but it is not the same. This looks fun. I want to learn.”
And, well, how is Jisung supposed to say no to that?
“I can help,” he offers, watching Minho flit around the kitchen pulling ingredients from places Jisung didn’t even know he had any.
“No need. I have watched the video closely. I understand the process.”
Jisung has doubts, but he’s learned to pick his battles. He retreats to the kitchen table with his laptop, ostensibly to keep doing homework but mostly just keeping a wary eye on Minho as he starts dicing onions.
Everything goes fine until Minho needs to actually cook something.
“Jisung,” Minho says, staring down at the induction stove. “How do I make this produce heat?”
“Just turn it on. The touch controls are at the bottom.”
Minho presses the power button. Presses it again. Frowns at the cooktop with deep suspicion. “It is not working.”
“Did you put the pan on first?”
“Why would that matter?”
“It’s induction. It only turns on when there’s a pan on it.” Jisung gets up to help, placing the pan on the burner. “Here, now try.”
“Oh,” Minho says with a nod. “I see. And to make it hotter—”
Jisung isn’t sure what Minho does exactly, but one moment the stove is on a reasonable medium heat, and the next there are literal flames shooting up around the pan.
“Minho!” Jisung yelps and jumps back. “It’s induction! It doesn’t make fire! Why is there fire?!”
“The video said to use a high heat,” Minho says, looking bewildered as the flames dance merrily in the pan. “I turned the heat up.”
“Not with magic!” Jisung grabs the pan off the stove, and the flames disappear immediately. “You can’t just—this is an electrical heater, not a—oh my god, you could have burned the apartment down!”
“The fire was contained,” Minho says defensively. “I would not let it spread.”
Jisung takes a deep breath. In for four, out for four. “Okay, new rule. You know I don’t mind a little bit of magic, but no magic on kitchen appliances. They seriously might explode if you mess with them.”
“They would not explode—”
“Minho.”
“...No magic on kitchen appliances. Got it,” Minho concedes.
The japchae turns out perfect anyway—unsurprising, as it takes nearly an hour with the number of times Minho pauses and rewinds the video at each step. They eat it at the kitchen table, Minho still looking vaguely disgruntled about the whole no-magical-fire situation.
“It’s really good,” Jisung offers.
Minho’s frown softens. “You like it?”
“Yeah, you did a good job.” Jisung twirls more noodles around his fork. “See? You don’t need magic to make good food.”
Minho considers this, then smiles. “No. I suppose not.”
⋆⭒˚.⋆
Jisung has a pretty normal Tuesday. He wakes up, goes to his morning lecture, suffers through a group project meeting, grabs lunch with Felix, and heads home around three. Normal. Routine. Painfully so.
He unlocks the apartment door, kicks off his shoes, and walks into the kitchen to grab a snack.
There is a dead pheasant on the counter.
Not a picture of a pheasant. Not a toy pheasant. An actual, very real, beautifully plumed pheasant with glassy eyes that takes up approximately half of his counter space. Jisung blinks. The pheasant does not disappear.
“What,” Jisung says to the empty apartment. Then, louder: “WHAT?!”
“Welcome home!” Minho materialises from the living room, and he’s—oh god, he’s beaming, a full-on proud smile, the kind Jisung has only seen a handful of times. “I was waiting for you.”
“Minho,” Jisung says slowly, not taking his eyes off the bird. “Why is there a dead pheasant in our kitchen?”
“I caught it for you,” Minho says. He gestures at the pheasant with obvious pride. “No magic. I caught it myself.”
Jisung’s brain struggles to process. “You… caught it.”
“Yes.”
“A pheasant.”
“Yes.”
“And brought it here.”
“Of course.” Minho tilts his head, some of the excitement dimming into confusion. “Do you not like it?”
Like it? Jisung’s brain screams. LIKE IT? There’s a DEAD BIRD in my kitchen, where did he even GET this, are there even wild pheasants in Seoul?? Did he leave the city? How far did he go? Oh god, it’s staring at me. Do I have to cook this? Does it still have its organs? Please don’t let it still have its organs—
“Jisung?” Minho sounds concerned now. “Is something wrong?”
“No! No, nothing’s wrong, I’m just—” Jisung tears his eyes away from the pheasant to look at Minho. “I wasn’t expecting this. You, uh… you went hunting?”
“Yes.” Minho perks up again, straightening a little. “You said you enjoyed the japchae. And since my capacity to be helpful is greatly limited, I thought… I wanted to show you that I am capable of providing for you properly. Even without magic.”
Oh. Oh no. This is—this is sweet. This is completely insane but also so fucking sweet and Jisung is actually going to melt into the floor.
“You did this—to prove you can provide for me?” Jisung chokes out.
“Yes,” Minho says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “In my time, when a man wished to show his regard for someone, he would demonstrate his ability to provide. To care for them.” He meets Jisung’s eyes. “I know the modern world has convenience stores and delivery services, but I wanted—” he pauses, looking frustrated with himself. “I wanted to honour you. Without magic. Just… as Minho.”
Jisung is going to cry. He’s going to cry right here in his kitchen next to a dead pheasant because apparently his five-hundred-year-old guardian spirit-turned-human went out and hunted a whole bird to try and court him.
“It’s—thank you, Minho,” Jisung chokes, blinking hard. “I love it.”
Minho beams so hard he actually seems to glow. “Truly?”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s weird—it’s super weird, and I have no idea what to do with it, but—” Jisung laughs, a little hysterical. “You did all this for me. How am I supposed to not love it?”
“I can show you how to prepare it,” Minho offers eagerly. “It is not difficult. We can cook it together.”
Right. Because of course Minho would want to cook it. Together. Like this is a completely normal activity and not the most absurd thing that’s ever happened to Jisung—which is saying something.
“Okay,” Jisung says, eyeing the pheasant’s long tail feathers. “Okay, we can totally cook this thing. Do I want to know how you caught it?”
“I tracked it through the underbrush for many hours,” Minho says proudly. “It was very fast. But I was faster.”
Jisung is definitely going to have to unpack the image of Minho stalking a pheasant through the woods in a hoodie and jeans, but that’s a problem for later. Right now, there’s a wild bird next to his rice cooker and apparently he’s about to learn how to prepare it.
“I can imagine. Alright,” Jisung says, rolling up his sleeves with more confidence than he feels. “Show me what to do. But if this goes badly, you have to let me order pizza.”
“It will not go badly,” Minho says with absolute certainty. “I have helped humans do this countless times.”
“In a field on an open fire.”
“It cannot be that different.”
Jisung looks at the pheasant one more time—still dead, still staring, still somehow the weirdest and most romantic gesture he’s ever received—and thinks, yeah.
This is his life now.