Chapter Text
Over the next few days the other members stuck close by his side, making sure he was never alone, that he ate and showered and got himself out of bed in the mornings. Minho let them, did as he was told. It didn’t matter anyway. Nothing mattered anymore.
The fallout from the gala was immediate. Initially the reaction was one of horror and disgust, calls for Minho to be punished, to resign, even to be locked up or kicked out of the country because what kind of monster would go and physically assault a poor, innocent man like that, and in the middle of a public celebration, no less?
But, as always, reporters got to digging. It perked up some ears, after all, Minho calling Kang Beom-joo a pedophile, and each new stone overturned ended up revealing beneath it blackness, the tar-like evils of whispers and silence and decades of cover-ups. Questions were asked. Investigations were conducted. Why did Kang Beom-joo have more than a dozen complaints filed against him over the past twelve months, none of them substantiated but all bizarrely similar in their description of what had happened? Why were a good portion of these complaints from trainees or staff who were minors? Why did so many idols leave BJK Entertainment within the first couple of years, acting like they couldn’t get out of their contracts fast enough? And why was so much of Kang Beom-joo’s money being funneled into shadow accounts that every month paid out at least three young women of childbearing age, two of whom lived with toddlers who mysteriously didn’t have a father?
Almost overnight, the tide changed. Young men and women, some of whom had left the industry under undisclosed circumstances, came out of the woodwork with heartbreaking stories of harassment, manipulation, and years of abuse. Civil rights groups and child trafficking organizations staged demonstrations and boycotts. BJK Entertainment suddenly found itself embroiled in multiple costly lawsuits. The name Kang Beom-joo became a vulgar word, while the name Lee Minho became elevated alongside labels like justice, defender. Hero.
But Minho didn’t give a shit about any of it. In fact he barely even followed the news, ignoring the fans inundating his IG with praise and staff’s wide-eyed stares and urgent whispers as he passed them in the hallways, because what did it matter, anyway? He didn’t care. The only thing—the only person he cared about was gone, had vanished from his life after Minho had betrayed him in the worst way possible. In the face of that, everything else just became…blank.
And he tried. The first couple of days he called Jisung multiple times, trying to apologize, begging for a second chance but the younger man ignored him, his silence more deafening than any storm. In desperation Minho even drove out to Wonju, only to find the store locked up and the apartment above dark. There was no sign of Jisung anywhere, like he had vanished into thin air the same as that awful night nine years ago, and his door remained locked and none of his neighbors would say anything and Minho wandered the streets of Wonju alone for hours, desolate and lost, until finally Chan and Changbin pulled up and forced him into the van because, as it turned out, a reckoning was happening in more ways than one.
“—inho?”
The sharpness of the voice broke into his thoughts. Minho blinked and looked up, watching as Park Jinyoung frowned at him from behind his giant oak desk. The twinkling lights of Seoul sprawled out beyond the wall-to-wall windows of his office, hauntingly beautiful—and utterly meaningless.
The CEO of JYPE raised an eyebrow; it was evident this wasn’t the first time he’d called Minho’s name. Next to him, standing so ramrod straight it was a miracle he hadn’t snapped his spine right in half, Chan cleared his throat. “Sorry, sir, he’s…distracted. Could you repeat that?”
Park Jinyoung sighed. “I was saying that both Legal and PR are recommending that we take advantage of the positive public perception of your actions at the gala. That means Stray Kids will headline the charity concert at the end of the week.”
Oh. The charity concert. He meant the event that had been quickly cobbled together by the biggest companies in the wake of the revelations about Kang Beom-joo, where half the profits would be very publicly donated to organizations fighting against child exploitation. The event that was performative, that was meant to beg the world not to judge the entire industry for the actions of one bad apple because he was acting on his own, okay, can’t you see how much we care?
His stomach churned. Next to him Chan shifted. “Um. Yes, sir. It…It would be an honor.”
Because of course he would say that, Chan the rule-follower, the one who could always be counted on to do as he was told. Minho wished he could judge him for it, but he couldn’t. Not when he had nothing left.
“Good.” Park Jinyoung sat back in his chair and folded his hands, thoughtful. “And don’t worry, Lino. I pulled some strings so there will be no charges filed against you for the assault. Lord only knows what that would do to our brand.”
Minho blinked, but before he could say anything their boss sighed and continued, as if this whole thing were simply a minor inconvenience, like a piece of gum he’d unexpectedly found on the bottom of his shoe, “The concert, at least, will make some corrections. Marketing projects it’ll even draw in new fans, new revenue streams so we’ll have to make sure to schedule as many fanmeets and lives as possible afterward. Product is already working on a new Leebit ‘boxing hero’ concept—”
Wait. Fucking what? And he was staring but Minho couldn’t even care because—because after everything that had happened, after all the terrible secrets Jisung had tried so desperately to keep safe from the world had been revealed by his stupidity…this was what their company was focusing on? Selling merchandise, making profit and adding to their bottom line when Jisung was hurting, when Jisung had been—
Oblivious to the anger boiling up inside him, Park Jinyoung nodded, fixing them both with a steady look. “I’m sure you don’t need to be told this, but our company’s reputation is also at stake here; Kang Beom-joo used to work for us, after all,” he said, as Minho began to tremble. “So it will be especially important that we have a strong showing at the concert. In fact I want you to look through your setlist and select whatever songs you feel could be adjusted to fit themes of reclaiming power, surviving through adversity, stuff like that. We need your performance to set us as far apart from Kang Beom-joo as possible, we need this to resonate—”
“You knew.”
Park Jinyoung paused, mouth still open. His eyebrows rose, and for one surreal moment Minho panicked, thought the words had issued from his own mouth—except then Chan took a deep, trembling breath and continued, speaking slowly, “You knew about him.”
Silence. Minho swallowed, unable to speak as he gaped at their leader. The older man was still standing perfectly straight, entirely polite and respectful—except for how his eyes sparked with something sharp, something that almost looked like anger. And then Chan sighed, almost tired, like he’d been done with this conversation a long time ago.
“None of the complaints filed against him here stuck either,” he said, and his voice was so soft, almost gentle—except for how it was completely, decidedly not. “And while you may not have seen any of it directly, you knew exactly who he was. You knew he was unsafe to be around, especially for minors—for children, and yet you let him hang around us anyway. You made all those complaints go away, and then when he left to start his own company you sent him off with a pat on the back, like it was nothing. Like what he had done, all the hurt he had wrought was nothing.”
The words rang in the silence of the room, sharp with accusation. Behind the desk Park Jinyoung’s eyes narrowed, and apropos of nothing the doubt flickered through Minho: it was possible, wasn’t it, that Chan was wrong? JYP couldn’t be expected to know all the tiniest goings-on at his company, it was too massive, too multi-layered. And yes, Kang Beom-joo was—had been his friend, but also he cared about them. Park Jinyoung looked after them, he broke them down and built them back up and made sure they had everything they needed in order to succeed in their dreams, and surely he wouldn’t…surely he hadn’t looked at someone like Kang Beom-joo with his coal-black eyes and greedy fingers, and thought…
But then he saw it. It was only a half-second, just one brief flash, one tiny hint of vulnerability—of guilt—flitting across Park Jinyoung’s face—but it was enough. Something closed deep inside Minho, slammed shut like the door of a vault that would never again be opened, because in that moment he knew. He knew the truth, and the world faded out along the edges of his vision and a strange ringing noise started up in his ears so that he barely heard Park Jinyoung’s next words as he cleared his throat, expression smooth once more. “It sounds like you’re accusing me of something, Bang Chan.”
His voice had become sharp, just this side of dangerous, and ordinarily Minho would’ve been terrified. This was the CEO of their company, after all, the one who had given them their success and who at any time could take it away. But now…now, he realized as he stared at Park Jinyoung, at this man who purported to care and yet turned a blind eye at every opportunity to the pain being caused right under his fucking nose…yeah. Minho didn’t give a shit. Because he’d never thought about it this way before: what it meant that all those complaints had been filed against Kang Beom-joo while he’d been at JYPE, but nothing had come of it. How even after those girls reported sexual harassment the only change was moving the bastard to another department, everything quiet and done below the table—covered up so effectively it was like it hadn’t happened at all. And it didn’t matter what Park Jinyoung said or claimed about his role in the company, how busy he was or how distracted by his job. Kang Beom-joo was important enough that anything that occurred with him would only happen with the knowledge of the man seated before them now, and…fuck. Maybe none of this would’ve happened, if he had chosen differently. Maybe none of the other innocent kids—maybe Jisung wouldn’t have been hurt, if Park Jinyoung had protected them like he should have, like he always claimed he would.
Chan shifted then, the expensive fabric of his coat rustling with the movement, and though every bit of his body language practically screamed uncertainty, a long-ingrained deference now more a reflex than a choice, still when he spoke his voice was nothing but steady. “It’s not an accusation,” he said. “It’s a fact. You didn’t do anything about him back then, and you’re not doing anything about him now. Because if you had—if you’d cared back then, then we wouldn’t be here. Then Ji—then all those kids would be okay.”
Park Jinyoung didn’t answer. Chan took a deep breath, and though he didn’t look at Minho it was like his next words were for him anyway. “It seems Stray Kids is no longer in line with this company’s philosophy,” he said, perfectly reasonable like they were simply negotiating next month’s shooting schedule, and Minho had to struggle not to burst into hysterical laughter because really. “Perhaps we haven’t been in a long time, and I was just too stupid to see it. So consider this our official notice, sir. We’ll still headline the concert, we’re committed and despite how you all are trying to twist it, I think it’s important. But after that…”
He shook his head, squared his shoulders and fuck but Chan had never looked taller, proud and strong and the indomitable pillar at the center of their group like he’d always been, like Minho always should have trusted him to be. Because Minho may have landed the punch but Bang Chan was the one who delivered the killing blow, and he did so now, without an ounce of hesitation, as he looked Park Jinyoung square in the eye and said, “Please be advised that I will be instructing all the members, myself included, to reexamine our contracts under the advice of our legal team. We’ll have a decision for you by the end of the week as to whether or not we’ll be continuing with the company.”
And without another word, he spun and headed for the door. Minho hurried to follow, nearly stumbling in his haste and behind them he heard a soft rustling and a creak, like perhaps JYP was rising out of his chair—but he didn’t say anything, didn’t do anything because he couldn’t stop them. Because he didn’t control them, not anymore.
He had to give Chan credit: the older man made it all the way to the elevators around the corner before his knees gave out, and Minho had to dart forward and grab his elbow to keep him from slamming face-first into the wall. Chan laughed then, high-pitched, hysterical. “Oh. Oh, holy fuck.”
“Yeah.” Minho squeezed his arm. “Are you okay?”
It was the world’s stupidest question in retrospect but Chan didn’t seem to mind, shaking his head with a grimace. “I just basically told the CEO of our company and one of the most powerful men in Korea to fuck right off,” he said. “I’m…gonna need a minute.”
“You meant it, though.” It wasn’t a question, and Chan didn’t seem to take it as one.
“Yes. Because…” He swallowed, eyes shining. “Because you and I both know it’s what Jisungie would do.”
And—well. What could Minho even say to that? Chan was right; this was something Jisung would do. Jisung, who was goodness and care and all the light in the universe, who had experienced one of the worst things that could ever happen to a person, and set forth to grow beyond it. Jisung, who had welcomed Minho back into his life and his heart with no hesitation, simply because he felt it was right. Jisung, who had then gone on to shatter, when Minho took everything he offered and destroyed it through blind selfishness and bloody-fisted violence.
He didn’t know what face he was making but whatever it was had Chan stepping forward, reaching out to grip his shoulders, firm. “Lino. Hey. Talk to me.”
And god damn it but Minho couldn’t help the hot prickle of tears as he shook his head. “I just…fuck. I miss him so fucking much, hyung.”
“I know.” Chan’s smile went a little lopsided, and Minho braced for it: the useless advice. The futile attempts at comfort and pleasantries, just like everyone else over the past week, over and over until Minho wanted to scream. I’m sure he’ll understand. He just needs some time. He’ll come back eventually. He loves you.
“So what’re you gonna do about it?” Chan asked.
Minho blinked. Stared, but the older man just shrugged, looking all of a sudden…sheepish? “Hey, if there’s anyone in the world who understands the importance of doing something rather than sitting back, it’s me.” He frowned then, gaze boring into Minho with a weight he felt sinking somewhere deep into his bones.
“So don’t be me, Lee Minho,” Chan said. “Don’t fail Jisung like I did.”
And Minho…well. Fuck. But what could he do? He’d already tried everything: calling Jisung, trying to find him in Wonju, inquiring with all his neighbors until Mrs. Kim threatened to call the cops for harassment. It was clear Jisung didn’t want to be found, and if the past nine years were any indication, he’d only emerge once he was ready to. It didn’t matter how desperately Minho searched. If his partner didn’t reach out, then they were done.
In front of him Chan sighed, turning back toward the elevators and pressing the button with a cheerful ding! “Anyway, I guess we’d better call up the others, get them into a meeting stat,” he said, as the corner of his mouth quirked up. “So how many expletives do you think Minnie’s gonna hurl my way, for what I just did? Maybe I can bribe him with a solo at the concert, think he’d be less likely to murder me if…Lino?”
He blinked, confused, but Minho hardly noticed, too busy reeling with the realization. Solo. Concert. It came to him with no effort at all: the memory of that warm sunny morning so long ago, when Jisung had smiled at him, fragile and uncertain as he handed over a page ripped out of an old notebook. Take it, he’d said, soft and so vulnerable. I, um. I call it…
“Lino?” Chan asked again, but Minho just shook his head, something warm blooming in his chest, something like resolve. Like the settling certainty of a decision made. Like hope.
“I need to go home,” he said.
Kim Mi-soon really didn’t like to think of herself as a worrywart. Soojin would disagree, of course, but that was daughters for you: always rebellious, always looking to nitpick. Really, she couldn’t wait for little Ha-eun to grow up. Maybe then Soojin would get a taste of her own medicine.
But anyway. The point was, Mi-soon was really the epitome of levelheaded—she wouldn’t have been able to keep her little barbecue place open for so many years if she was busy panicking over every little thing, right? So no, it wasn’t anxiety that had her glancing repeatedly over at the nearby table, where a small, skinny figure sat hunched over an untouched plate of food. It was just…concern. She was allowed to be concerned about a neighbor, right? Especially when that neighbor was Han Jisung.
Mi-soon sighed, regarding the young man out of the corner of her eye. She couldn’t be sure but it looked like he’d lost even more weight, so skinny a strong breeze would probably knock him right over. Was he sick? He’d gone on a day trip to Seoul a few days ago, she remembered because he’d asked her to water his plants while he was gone. Maybe he caught something on the train? They were all packed together so tightly in those cars, barely any room to breathe much less stay safe from germs.
Her stomach tightened. Jisung had seemed so excited when he left, smiling brightly and talking about all the cool souvenirs he would bring back for her. But then when he returned, everything was different. It was like the light inside him had gone out, like all that hope and happiness had suddenly vanished. He looked…well. He looked like the same scared little boy who’d first wandered into the neighborhood a few years ago, with fear in his eyes and hesitation in every step, swimming in multiple layers of too-large sweaters despite the heat, who’d launched into a panic attack when Mi-soon accidentally dropped a pot and had only calmed down when Mr. An from across the street saw what was happening and rushed over, seizing the boy’s hands and instructing him to breathe, slowly, yes, just like that, you’re doing so good.
Was it any wonder that Jisung had latched onto him like a duckling imprinting on its parent?
And it had been such a beautiful thing to witness, the boy slowly flourishing under Mr. An’s patient guidance. He’d been stubborn at first, prone to bouts of frustration and anger that almost seemed like tantrums whenever he couldn’t fix something immediately or get one of the clock mechanisms to work, but every time Mr. An just shrugged and sent him for a walk around the block to clear his head, and by the time Jisung got back he was better, smiling, ready to get back to it. No stranger to either hard work or failure, Mi-soon sensed from the start.
And, as months became years, he…mellowed out, for lack of a better term. Became softer, less jagged, and things improved even further once he discovered his knack for carving those beautiful wooden clocks. Really, it surprised absolutely no one when Mr. An moved to Yeongyang and Jisung promptly left his family’s little apartment the next district over and moved into the unit above the clock store. And Mi-soon was so grateful for that, not only that Mr. An had someone to continue his legacy but that Jisung had a place to truly call home, a place where he felt safe, where he could focus on his work and heal from whatever horrid thing had driven him and his family from the city. And he was healing, Mi-soon could see it in the way his smiles got warmer, how he laughed and joked with her regulars and even once spent an entire weekend searching patiently in the rain for Mr. Yoon’s lost dog. Whatever darkness had touched Han Jisung, he was starting to recover from it…and then that strange man from Seoul arrived.
It wasn’t that Mi-soon disliked him or anything. In fact she remembered Lee Minho as unerringly respectful and polite, even though his choice of hair color was…questionable, at best. And she hadn’t thought anything of it at first, the two of them spending so much time together—except then Minho went back to Seoul, and Jisung followed him there shortly after. And when he came back, it was like everything had fallen apart.
“Eomma.”
Mi-soon blinked. Soojin was watching her with a raised eyebrow, elbows-deep in marinating sauce as next to her Ha-eun had her gaze glued to the little television on the counter, playing some sort of live-broadcast pop concert. Her daughter shook her head and dropped her voice low. “Would you stop staring at him? It’s creepy.”
“I’m not staring.”
“You’re totally staring.” Soojin rolled her eyes, and really, did all colleges just suck out any respect and filial piety from the students who walked their campuses? “Seriously, Eomma, just leave him alone. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to talk about what happened.”
Which was true. Any attempts Mi-soon had made to ask Jisung what was wrong had been met with anxiety and quick backpedaling. The boy looked spooked, like whatever happened in Seoul had wounded him in his heart somehow, and, well. Mi-soon may have been a country bumpkin who barely finished primary school and whose asshole of a husband had left her for another woman when she was pregnant with Soojin…but she wasn’t stupid.
Whatever was bothering Jisung had something to do with Minho. It wasn’t just because any mention of the other man made Jisung clam up tighter than a fortress. Minho himself had come by Wonju just the other day; Mi-soon knew this both because she’d seen him running around across the street, frantic, and because Jisung had quickly found an excuse to go stay with his parents as soon as he heard Minho was in town.
She sighed, slid her gaze once more back to Jisung still seated at his table, lonely and forlorn and so very sorrowful. She just…she wished she could help him, somehow. Help them, because whatever had happened had been between them. And it wasn’t her business, she’d never pried deeper into their relationship despite her suspicions about the way Jisung smiled at Minho, or how Minho’s whole being softened whenever Jisung was around. Whether they were friends or something more, it didn’t matter to her. She just wanted Jisung to be safe. She wanted him to be happy, because it was obvious he hadn’t been for a very long time.
Across from her, Soojin sighed. “You’re hopeless,” her daughter said, but before Mi-soon could chide her for the blatant disrespect Ha-eun squealed and pointed at the television.
“Look, Eomma! It’s that group you like!”
Soojin straightened up, and Mi-soon frowned, turning to the television. There was, indeed, a group of people singing and dancing on the stage now: she counted seven of them, all young men maybe about Jisung’s age, and really, kids these days, did they have to be prancing around and gyrating their hips like that, didn’t they know there were children watchi—
And then the screen shifted, and Mi-soon froze. Wait. Wasn’t that…
Quickly she turned back to the other table. But Jisung hadn’t moved, didn’t even seem to be aware of what was on the television. Of who was on the television, and Mi-soon swallowed and turned back to Soojin, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Who is that?” she asked. “The, ah. The one with the silver hair.”
Soojin smiled. “Oh, that’s Lee Know!” she chirped, as at the table behind them Jisung suddenly sat up straight. “He’s, like, the best dancer in Stray Kids, maybe in all of fourth gen! And he’s a great singer too, of course, he actually released a solo earlier this year and I think he’s gonna perform it at…”
Mi-soon tuned her out, not because she didn’t care about her daughter’s interests but because across the way Jisung had risen from his table, staring at the television. It was difficult to describe the look on his face: somewhere between yearning and a pain so deep it made Mi-soon’s heart tighten in her chest. God, what had happened? What had Minho done to him, to wound him so deeply when he had just begun opening back up again?
On the television, Stray Kids’s current song wrapped up. The audience screamed, cheers echoing throughout the giant stadium. On the stage covered in confetti and pyrotechnic fallout, the seven group members seemed to take a collective breath, before moving into an odd formation: six of them kneeling on the floor, while one remained standing, tall and resolute as an eternal watchtower.
And then he began to sing.
My life was rock bottom, an edge of a cliff
I’m walking in a dark tunnel
A sudden crash! behind them startled them all. Mi-soon jumped and spun around. Jisung’s water glass was on the floor, spilling everywhere, but the young man didn’t even seem to notice, staring wide-eyed at the television screen.
The classroom hallways get farther away
I’m on unfamiliar paths
I’m so unlucky
On this path I’m on
They were rapping now, some guy with short hair and broad shoulders, but Mi-soon wasn’t even paying attention anymore. No, all her focus was on Jisung, whose entire body had begun to tremble, everything about him broadcasting nothing but shock as he watched Stray Kids perform a song about darkness and pain and rising up from it all.
There’s nothing
No one to care or worry about me
Only cold words
Telling me to give up on my dreams
For better or worse, Mi-soon had seen Han Jisung cry several times over the past few years: in frustration when he couldn’t get a project to work; in anger when a shipment was late and he had a customer yelling at him over the phone; in sorrow when Mr. An moved away. But never before had she seen it like this: the tears that spilled down his cheeks as Jisung lifted a hand to his mouth, entirely silent. His eyes shone, glinted with something so deep and meaningful Mi-soon felt a lump form in her own throat even though she had no idea what was even going on.
I’m running so I can forget
As the bell of a new start rings
I get on, hold my hand
And take me to the penthouse, my hellevator
I’m on a hellevator
My hellevator
I’m on a hellevator
Why was Jisung so upset? What the hell kind of song was this? Why—
And then, suddenly, Jisung was moving. He turned and bolted for the door, and even as Mi-soon lurched forward with a helpless shout he was through it and gone, the echoes of his footsteps down the street the only remnant of his presence. And Ha-eun stared and Soojin made a confused noise but Mi-soon just stood there, shaking, watching as the door to her restaurant swung slowly shut, as a hurt young man who carried the world on his shoulders booked it for a destination she couldn’t name and didn’t understand. But one thing was for certain: whatever—whoever waited for him, Jisung needed to be there.
She only hoped, with everything in her heart, that he made it.
Minho had nothing left to give.
He’d long last track of how many hours had passed since they wrapped up the concert. Since he, Chan, and the rest of Stray Kids took a song that encompassed a single person’s pain, and broadcast it for the world in all its glory. Since he made his final plea to Jisung, to forgive him. To find him again.
To say their fans went crazy would be like saying Kang Beom-joo was just a little misguided. Social media had lit up almost as soon as they started their final set, tweets and shares popping up everywhere talking about how SKZ was killing it again, debuting a new song about hope and recovery that was perfectly in line with the theme of the concert. Oh, what beautiful lyrics, their fans swooned. How relevant! How genius! My goodness, how did they manage to keep it a secret all this time?
Unsurprisingly, almost every single question at the subsequent endless line of fanmeets and signs and interviews and events had been about Hellevator. Minho didn’t even have to ask; the other members quickly took over for him, providing their polite non-answers, giving STAY just enough to keep them intrigued but not enough for anyone to make a connection to Jisung.
And he was grateful for it, he really was. His bandmates—his brothers had his back as they always did, as they always would—and also he just wanted to get back to the dressing room, change, and go home as quickly as possible.
Because it didn’t matter in the end: not the concert, not the song, not their screaming fans. His phone had remained silent over the hours since the performance. Jisung hadn’t called, hadn’t tried to reach out. His partner was still gone, still vanished from Minho’s life after Minho betrayed him and there was nothing he could do to get him back. He’d lost the only thing that gave his life meaning, the only thing that made this all worth it and Minho bit his lip, trying to clamp down on the fresh tears as he pushed open the door of SKZ’s dressing room because he didn’t get to cry about this, not after what he’d done and Jisung didn’t want him, didn’t even love him—
“Oh. Hi.”
The world froze.
Changbin ran right into his shoulder with a startled “Oof!” but Minho barely felt it. And behind him Hyunjin gasped and Felix let out a high-pitched noise and Chan quickly pushed his way through from the back, voice panicked, leaping to their defense as always as he demanded, “What is it? Who—oh, shit.”
Brief silence, absolutely stunned. Then, leaning one hip casually against Seungmin’s dressing station, Jisung lifted a hand. “Manager-nim really does like me, I suppose. Surprise?”
Minho stared. The others weren’t much better off judging from Jeongin’s bitten-off curse, but he couldn’t focus on that right now because all he could see was Jisung. Jisung, his partner, looking tired and harrowed and like he hadn’t slept in a couple of days and also he was still the most beautiful fucking thing Minho had ever seen, and he was here. Jisung was here and—and Minho couldn’t—
In front of him Jisung’s smile faltered just a bit, but before he could say anything Chan’s voice suddenly boomed out in the room. “Oh, would you look at the time!” their leader practically yelled, as he turned and began shoving the others back out the door. “I forgot we have to go do that thing with the person at the place! Come on, guys!”
“What,” Hyunjin squawked, half-stumbling as Chan pushed at him. “Wait, what thing, I didn’t see—”
“Oh, right! The thing!” Seungmin grabbed his arm and hauled him back down the hallway. “The very important thing! Can’t wait, you know? Gotta go!”
And then they were gone, the door shutting on Hyunjin’s continued confused protests. And then it was just Minho and Jisung, watching each other across the room, a vast no man’s land of unspoken hurt between them. Minho swallowed, looking the younger man over. God, Jisung looked like shit: his shirt hung off his shoulders, collarbones stark, and there were dark bags under his eyes and it was evident he’d lost weight. He looked, in fact, much like he had back when Minho had first found him and then proceeded to get in an argument and trigger all his trauma, which. Way to fucking go, Lee Minho.
But also he was here. Jisung had chosen to be here, for whatever reason had hopped on two trains and who knew how many buses in order to get here, to wait patiently alone for hours until Minho showed up. And that meant something, right? It meant everything.
“I.” His voice came out cracked, hoarse. Minho coughed and tried again. “It’s…It’s good to see you, Sungie.”
And it was. Fuck, after a week of silence, of heartbreaking, unbearable distance…it took everything Minho had not to rush right across the room and haul Jisung into his arms, where he always should have been, where he belonged. But he couldn’t. He no longer had the right.
In front of him Jisung sighed and crossed his arms, and though he looked nervous there was also something firm in his gaze, something rooted that lit just the tiniest flicker of hope in Minho’s heart as Jisung cleared his throat. “So I, uh. I think we need to talk.”
And, well. Minho just nodded. “Yeah.”
They watched each other for another moment, careful. The silence stretched, heavy with something Minho couldn’t name but also it didn’t entirely feel like judgment, like he was about to jump out of a plane with no parachute. Because Jisung was here, he had chosen to be here, and that…that was the start of something.
He took a deep breath.
“I’m sorry for—”
“I think I need to—”
They both paused. Jisung huffed an awkward laugh. “You go first.”
Minho swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said, “for everything. I’m sure you watched the concert, you wouldn’t be here otherwise and…and I’m sorry if you didn’t want us to perform Hellevator, I know you said we could do whatever we want with it but that was before I fucked everything up and I…just…”
And, fuck. Here were the tears, and he must look absolutely pathetic but also Minho didn’t give a shit because he just needed Jisung to see, he needed him to know…
“I am so sorry, Jisungie,” he whispered. “For what I did, for everything—I know you’re mad at me and you have every right to be, I should’ve done better, I should’ve protected you—”
“Okay.” Jisung shook his head. “I’m gonna need you to stop right there, hyung.”
So Minho did, his jaw clicking shut as he stared at the younger man, who just took a deep breath and—and why did he look guilty all of a sudden?
“So here’s the thing,” Jisung said, as he shoved his hands in his pockets. “I, uh. I run when I’m scared. I’ve been doing it for a long time and it’s the only thing that’s ever worked, the only thing I could count on especially back when…when he…” He swallowed, looked away, and as a confused mix of grief and protective anger surged through Minho Jisung just frowned down at the floor, unhappy.
“When I wrote Hellevator,” he said, “I was in a bad place. I was just…so fucking angry, and everything felt hopeless, like what that bastard did to me was always going to be this weight pulling me down no matter how hard I struggled. But then…but then I saw you all perform, and I don’t know, it just…it felt different. The way you went about it…it’s like you took all the despair and darkness I wrote and turned it into hope. And I don’t know if that’s what you intended but it just…it reminded me that I’m sick of it. I’m sick of running away, and I don’t want to do it anymore, especially when I’ve finally found someone worth staying for.”
And. Just. Minho’s breath caught in his throat because…because surely Jisung didn’t mean…surely after all of Minho’s awful fuck-ups and mistakes and betrayals the younger man wasn’t saying…
In front of him Jisung took a breath, and his eyes shone but it wasn’t with anger, Minho realized. It was determination, devotion, that same glowing resilience that had always characterized him, that had helped him survive the monstrosity of Kang Beom-joo, and now pushed Jisung to look straight at him and continue, “And I know. I know I’m a giant fucking mess and being with me is going to be a lot of work but—but if you’re willing to try, then I am too. Because we work, hyung. And I think about what we could build together and it. Just. It’s fucking amazing, and I want it and I want you, and…”
He ducked his head, a little shy, but when he looked up at Minho it was with nothing but hope. “And I want to ride this life with you,” Jisung murmured. “No matter what floor, no matter where we end up…I just want it to be with you.”
And, god. Minho would tease him for being so fucking cliched but also he could barely even breathe around his heart expanding in his chest, a bright glowing supernova that grew and warmed inside him until it felt he held all the universe’s light right here in this man standing in front of him, this man who was joy and stubbornness and breathtaking courage, and everything Minho had ever wanted. Everything he had ever needed, all his hopes and futures converging on one single, shining destination.
And he couldn’t. He almost couldn’t believe it, that they were even here. That Minho had found someone like Jisung, and not just found him but got him to stay, to want to still be with him despite how impulsive and reckless and fucking stupid he was. Despite everything that had happened Jisung had returned to him, he had looked at all his endless options and then chose Minho anyway.
And the whole thing was fucking ridiculous, to be honest. Because Jisung claimed to be broken, brittle and unformed and needing to be shaped like a particularly stubborn wooden clock that wouldn’t bend to a knife. But none of that was true. Kang Beom-joo had done something terrible, but instead of shattering Jisung had endured. He’d shown the world the depths of his strength, a breathtaking beauty that needed no artist to carve but rather only someone to come along and say Look. Look at how magnificent you are.
Because that’s what he was: magnificent. Han Jisung was everything bright and beautiful in the world, a kintsugi bowl that had never cracked but was infused with gold regardless, and Minho would fight anyone who thought differently—actually had, a week ago. And…And he realized, with sudden shock, that no, he actually wasn’t sorry for what he’d done to Kang Beom-joo. That bastard had tried to steal Jisung’s light, and Minho had nearly killed him for it. Given the chance he’d do it again and, watching his partner standing before him, tall and resolute and willing to try again despite everything…Minho was pretty sure this time around, Jisung would let him.
The younger man shifted then, just a hint of hesitation. “Hyung?” he said, soft, and Minho shook his head with a watery laugh and finally let go of everything that had tried to come between them, his doubts and fears and self-accusations because none of it mattered. It was more than that—they were more than that, and god. Jisung was right. He couldn’t wait to see where they went.
“Jesus Christ,” he said then, as he opened his arms. “Come here.”
And, without an ounce of hesitation, Jisung did. Crossed the room in two broad strides and pulled Minho in to kiss him, and it was a shock and a miracle and a homecoming all in one. Minho gasped and fell right into it, pressing into Jisung as close as he could, his entire body lighting up in wonder and breathless joy as he relearned his partner once more, Jisung’s taste and touch and the marvel of having him close once again. God. It was even more incredible than he remembered, how easily they fit, how having Jisung here in his arms just felt right, like the universe itself had inched over a couple of slots and finally fallen into place. Minho gathered Jisung to him as close as he could, head spinning because this was what it meant to belong. This was what it meant to have finally found home.
It seemed an eternity later that they finally pulled apart. Minho smiled and pressed his forehead to Jisung’s, reveling in having his partner so close, wonderfully and irrefutably here.
“Okay, Sungie,” he whispered. “Let’s see where this thing goes.” And in front of him Jisung grinned brighter than the sun, and it really was that simple. Just two people, coming together to seal a promise between them. Two people, riding hand-in-hand up an elevator to a place they didn’t know, but that was okay.
Because Minho had no idea where they went from here. Maybe Jisung would heal, or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe Kang Beom-joo would get life in prison, or maybe he’d pay off enough people to skate by with a slap on the wrist. Maybe Stray Kids would leave JYPE and find success elsewhere, or maybe they’d disband and Minho would end up teaching dance classes at a studio around the corner. He didn’t know, but neither did he care.
Because no matter where they ended up, what questions or accusations or judgments awaited them on this road they were on, Jisung would be there. His partner, the man he loved and everything he needed to be complete, walking forever by his side. So it didn’t matter how their story ended, what floor they stepped off on. They were together, and so long as Jisung was here, Minho was ready for the journey.
So he smiled and leaned in, and Jisung met him, of course he did, he always had and he always would. And as they kissed, warm and glowing and thrumming with connection, Minho thought of their future, the fear and uncertainty but also the hope and gorgeous light, and wasn’t afraid. He would never be afraid, so long as he had Jisung by his side.
Take me to the penthouse, he thought, as he pulled his partner close, solid and shining and here to stay. And Jisung did: in the press of his lips and the warmth of his hands he pulled the door shut and pressed a single button, and Minho closed his eyes, leaned into the man who was the other half of his soul, and let himself rise.