Archive of Our Own

And isn't it just so pretty to think —
all along there was some invisible string,
tying you to me?

“You’ll like the new apartment,” Jihoon’s mother promises.

She’s small, like him; neither of them will ever hit that last growth spurt. More patient than Jihoon will ever be. Tired from working long days at the nail salon a few blocks away, but she isn’t going to work there anymore once they move. She promised him. His dad’s new job is much better, and the pay will be higher. She’ll have lots of time to stay home with him.

Jihoon is already prickly and difficult to get close to, even at the tender age of seven. He feels deeply but holds it close to his chest, unwilling to risk the embarrassment of letting anyone see the softness inside of him. He takes things too seriously, holds grudges for too long.

“I won’t,” he says stubbornly, and his mother’s face falls.

Sour guilt twists in Jihoon’s stomach, but he’s already so stubborn. He keeps his arms firmly crossed, so he won’t give in and wrap them around her. Keeps his mouth shut tight so he won’t open it and beg for forgiveness.

“Clean your room quickly, then. There’s a family coming to look at our apartment this afternoon,” his mother says, then, giving up on trying to make him come around.

“Another family?”

“They have a son, I think,” she says distractedly, turning towards the sink. When she turns on the faucet it makes it harder to hear her voice. “Close to your age. Maybe he’ll get your room.”

Jihoon doesn’t like the sound of that. It’s his room. Even if he moves away, he still doesn’t want anyone else to have it.

His mom tries to get them out of the apartment before the other family comes but they don’t quite make it, brushing past each other in the hall. The other boy is close to Jihoon’s age, like his mother said, but skinnier, with knobbly knees and sharp elbows. His ears stick out. He looks nervous, clinging to his older sister’s hand.

Jihoon hates him in that moment, petty but absolute, in the way only a child can. He sticks out his tongue and watches, with a vicious satisfaction, as the boy’s face crumples.

The satisfaction doesn’t last, though, already souring in his stomach by the time they make it to the elevator, yet another thread of guilt twisting in with the rest.

“We’ll stop at the mart on the way back,” his mother promises, squeezing his hand. “I’ll buy you ice cream.”

She does buy it for him, just like she said she would, but in the end it does little to soothe the sting.

“You should try out for the music competition.”

His clarinet teacher brings it up as he’s packing up at the end of their lesson and his head jerks up, surprised at the suddenness of her offer.

“What music competition?”

She smiles encouragingly, not put off by Jihoon’s skeptical scowl, or the way his voice comes out much too harsh. He snaps at everyone, these days, a habit to cover his newly developing insecurities, but his music teacher is new enough that she hasn’t gotten tired of trying yet.

She hands him a flyer pulled from her notebook, a brightly coloured informational notice for the provincial competition for both instruments and voice, open to fifth and sixth grade elementary schoolers as well as all middle school students.

“I don’t think so,” Jihoon says flatly, ignoring the way his heart has started to beat a little faster at the thought. He’s one of the best players in his grade, but that doesn’t mean much. It’s a small school.

“Are you sure? Sign-ups last until next week.”

For a moment Jihoon lets himself picture it — standing on a stage, playing in front of everyone. Winning a prize. His mom and dad in the audience, proud of him like they haven’t been in years.

He pulls himself back to reality with a sharp tug. What’s the use of trying? He’ll never win.

“I’m sure,” he says flatly. He knows he’s disappointing her, but he’s made his decision.

The kid who ends up winning is a year younger than Jihoon. He’s a singer, apparently, from the town where Jihoon used to live. He wins a cash prize and a TV appearance, which Jihoon resolutely does not watch.

He quits the clarinet a year later, anyway. It was never going to go anywhere.

“Still working on your composition project?”

Jihoon barely manages a grunt, focused so intently on the screen in front of him that the world around him has lose meaning completely.

“Do you need any help?”

Jihoon grunts a ‘no’ instead of a ‘yes,’ this time, eyes still on the screen.

Seungyeon huffs out an impatient noise, rapping her knuckles once on the doorframe.The sound is sharp enough to catch Jihoon’s attention for real, forcing him to wrench his gaze over towards her.

“Still the vocal thing?”

Jihoon nods, frowning. He did the guide himself and it’s fine, mostly, but it’s not quite right and now nothing is coming together properly. He can’t make his voice sound effortless the way it’s supposed to, can’t reach the soaring heights he’s hoping for.

“My friend said she’s got a friend who could help,” Seungyeon offers. “He’s the year below us, I think? I guess he’s in the theater program. Anyway, apparently his voice is insane.”

Jihoon wrinkles his nose. It’s always hard for him to work with new people, enough that most of the time the awkwardness just isn’t worth it. It’s easier to just get things done by himself.

Usually. But now by himself it isn’t working, and he’s running close to the deadline.

“Sure,” he says, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Give me his number, I’ll call him.”

“Wow,” Seungyeon says, audibly surprised. Jihoon pulls his hands back so he can scowl at her properly. “I didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”

“I can accept help when I need it,” Jihoon lies. “I know my limits.”

They both know he does not, but Seungyeon’s restrains herself to only a pointed eyebrow raise, taking out her phone to type out a message.

“I sent it to you,” is all she says, turning to let herself back out of the room. “His name’s Lee Seokmin!” she calls, already halfway down the hall.

“Would you close the — ” Jihoon sighs, but it’s too late. He pushes his chair back slowly from the desk and gets up to close it himself, wincing at the weakness in his legs as he stands. He really has been at this for way too long.

Jihoon’s never been good at texting first, but three hours and two cans of Diet Coke later, he’s desperate enough to send a message to Lee Seokmin.

I’d love to help you!!!!!!!!!!
But actually I came down with laryngitis yesterday ㅠㅠ
My hoobae is available though!!!!!
He’s very good I promise
Should I give you his number???

It’s another testament to how desperate (and sleep-deprived) Jihoon’s gotten that he agrees without even thinking.

Boo Seungkwan is, in fact, very good. He shows up precisely on time with two coffees. He nods very seriously as Jihoon plays the track for him and explains what he’s looking for. He manages to hold himself back from offering a critical opinion on everything that comes out of Jihoon’s mouth, but the effort is visible and straining.

“Is your sunbae this bad, too?” Jihoon asks, laughing in disbelief, after Seungkwan informs him matter-of-factly that the bridge isn’t coming together properly. Seungkwan frowns, considering it, then shakes his head.

“No, Seokmin-hyung’s really nice,” he says. “He’ll agree with anything you say.”

Well. Honestly, that doesn’t sound particularly helpful. It’s probably better that Seungkwan came instead.

“Maybe it’s better that he sent you,” Jihoon admits reluctantly. “Can you repeat what you said about the bridge? Slowly?”

He guesses Lee Seokmin is really nice: he gets Jihoon an A on his project and a longtime friend and future coworker, all without ever showing his face.

“Jihoon-hyung,” Mingyu wheedles. “Come on. Come onnnnnnnnn. It’ll be fun, I swear.”

“I don’t believe you,” Jihoon says flatly, tugging sharply at his hoodie where it’s pinned under Mingyu’s body. The hoodie doesn’t move at all until Mingyu huffs and acquiesces, rolling onto his back like a dog looking for a belly rub. Jihoon pulls the hoodie over his head. He does not go anywhere near Mingyu’s stomach.

“Hyuuuuung,” Mingyu tries, pushing himself upright. “You owe me, remember? For the thing?”

“What thing?”

“With the neighbours,” Mingyu reminds him.

Jihoon scowls. He could have handled that on his own just fine, he was just waiting until it became absolutely necessary. He definitely wouldn’t have let Mingyu “help” him if he’d known Mingyu was going to call it in like this.

“I don’t owe you anything,” he tries, but Mingyu huffs and pouts, draping himself over the back of the couch and blinking up at Jihoon. Jihoon feels his cheeks heat up, irritatingly enough. They haven’t been doing — whatever they were doing — for months, now, and he knows there aren’t hard feelings but it still feels a little fragile, sometimes. Like if he says the wrong thing he’ll break Mingyu’s heart for real, instead of somehow, miraculously, turning out to be a better friend than fuck buddy. “Fine,” Jihoon sighs, which he knows is exactly what Mingyu’s angling for with the big eyes, but the potential for possible guilt just isn’t worth it. “I’ll meet your friend.”

“Great! I’ll set it up.”

Mingyu beams, and the way his face brightens immediately solidifies Jihoon’s suspicions that the pout was deliberate. He scowls, trapped, as Mingyu pulls out his phone and starts typing.

“Oh,” Mingyu says suddenly, his smile falling at whatever he reads on the screen. “Seokminnie’s not gonna be in town for a while.”

“Oh no,” Jihoon says, not bothering to summon the energy to make it sound sincere. Mingyu obviously catches it, pausing to look up and make a little face at him, mouth pursed, before turning back to type something furiously on his phone.

“That changes everything,” he mutters, flustered, starting up an anxious monologue that he obviously doesn’t expect Jihoon to respond to. “I really thought you and Seokmin would be perfect. He’s so kind … I could set you up with Myungho, but I just don’t know if — ? Maybe he knows someone….”

“Why don’t we just skip it, then,” Jihoon says loudly, and then, to placate Mingyu, “Whenever this Seokmin guy comes back you can try again.”

Jihoon has zero intention of letting Mingyu try again, and he’s sure Mingyu knows that — his eyes are narrowed in suspicion, mouth pinched together in displeasure.

“I dunno when he’s coming back,” Mingyu says, hedging around actually agreeing to leave it alone. “It sounds like it’s a family thing, so….”

Jihoon nods, like that means anything to him. The name Seokmin does sound kind of familiar, actually, but he can’t picture a face or anything to go with it. Maybe it was just someone in one of his seminars, or a friend of a friend.

“Don’t worry, though,” Mingyu says, now having moved on to completely blowing past Jihoon’s suggestion to drop it. “I’ll talk to Myungho, we’re getting lunch tomorrow. We’ll find someone good.”

“Right.”

Jihoon’s voice is just as unenthusiastic as his expression and Mingyu huffs again, mouth threatening to turn down into a pout. Jihoon ignores it, used to Mingyu’s antics, turning back to his own phone. “Let me know what turns up,” he says, making it very clear with his tone that he does not actually want to Mingyu to do that. Knowing Mingyu will ignore his tone and do it anyway.

Mingyu smiles at him, a good pass at oblivious.

But Jihoon doesn’t end up going on the blind date, after all. He sneaks out early to pay the next three times they get dinner, just so he can call it in when Mingyu brings it up again two months later, and then fate intervenes for what feels like the first time in Jihoon’s life and Mingyu gets distracted trying to fix Seungkwan’s personal life and moves on.

Seungkwan actually does find someone, apparently, but Jihoon doesn’t find that out until months later. That proves it, he thinks to himself when Mingyu tells him: he should have been focusing on Seungkwan from the start.

Jihoon has always been a lost cause.

The collision is so sudden that Jihoon doesn’t register what’s happened until he’s already on the ground, scraped palms behind him holding himself up as he blinks upward, stunned. There’s a man holding an opened briefcase standing in a half-crouch above him, staring down at Jihoon with his mouth open in horror.

“I’m so sorry,” he gushes, hunching down immediately to start reaching for the papers that scattered out of his bag. Jihoon watches him dully for a long, drawn-out moment, before it occurs to him to try and help.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says automatically, wincing at the sting in his palms as he reaches for the page closest to him. His voice sounds flat, not even the shock of the fall enough to shake some life into him. It’s been a while since he spoke out loud to another person: he’s working from home these days, and all his communication with his clients is by email. He and Seungkwan usually get coffee once a week — Seungkwan’s idea, of course — but Jihoon’s cancelled the past four weeks in a row. “Sorry I was in your way.”

“No, no, I should have looked where I was going,” the man says distractedly, the papers in his hand crumpling sadly when he tries to shove them in his bag all at once. When he meets resistance he only shoves harder, pushing determinedly until he can snap the latch closed. He looks up, then, and his eyes widen in shock when they catch on Jihoon’s face once more.

His bag drops back onto the sidewalk — staying latched this time, at least — as he steps briskly forward, not hesitating at all as he cups Jihoon’s face with a soft hand and tilts it up.

Jihoon jerks back instinctively, trying to pull out of the man’s grip, but the man holds firm, his grip unexpectedly strong.

“You’re bleeding.”

He sounds hurt as he says it, like he’s the one who got hit.

“I’m not,” Jihoon says, even though he can’t actually see whether or not that’s true. He guesses his temple is kind of aching, now that the guy pointed it out, a dull throbbing warmth. The briefcase must have gotten his head when the man tripped. Jihoon reaches up to prod at the wound gingerly, wincing at the sting when he touches raw skin.

“You have to let me take you to the hospital,” the man says, letting go of Jihoon’s face only to reach for his arms instead, bodily pulling him upright with a lot more force than Jihoon would have expected, considering the guy still looks like he’s about to cry.

“I really don’t think it needs — ”

“It’ll scar,” the man interrupts, frowning, already tugging Jihoon along. “You have such nice skin, I don’t want it to scar.”

It’s a weird thing to say to a stranger, and even weirder that Jihoon doesn’t yank his hand out of the man’s grip.

“Maybe just the pharmacy,” Jihoon tries. “I don’t think it needs stitches.”

The man agrees to that much, at least. It isn’t until he’s seriously dabbing at Jihoon’s face under the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom outside the pharmacy that he introduces himself — Lee Seokmin.

Jihoon’s forehead wrinkles. Seokmin tsks and taps it at it.

“Hold still,” he murmurs. “I’m just going to put the bandaid on.”

“Are you friends with Kim Mingyu?” Jihoon asks, ignoring him. Lee Seokmin finally stills, drawing back to look at him properly. His own eyebrows are knit together, this time.

“Yes,” he says slowly, frowning. “Do you know him?”

Jihoon coughs out a vaguely hysterical laugh. This entire encounter feels surreal, like maybe he’s hallucinating, his brain connecting random pieces of information from the recesses of his brain. Maybe he’s been back at his apartment the whole time, asleep on his folded arms in front of his computer. Maybe he’ll wake up with red lines on his forearms and crumbs stuck to his wrists and a killer crick in his neck.

“We’re friends,” he manages, when a few seconds have passed and he hasn’t woken up and Lee Seokmin is still staring at him, obviously growing steadily more concerned. “I think he mentioned you before. I’m Lee Jihoon.”

Seokmin’s expression clears immediately.

“Oh,” he says, shifting just as rapidly from surprised to determined. He has a very expressive face, Jihoon notes dimly. “Then you have to let me buy you a coffee! As an apology.”

Honestly, Jihoon doesn’t even really like coffee, and he’s pretty sure Seokmin has apologized enough. But somehow he finds himself sitting at one of the chain cafés near the subway station anyway, poking at an iced americano and fighting the humiliating urge to blush under Seokmin’s curious stare.

“There’s nowhere you have to be?” he asks, only a little hopeful. “You were in a hurry before.”

“No, no,” Seokmin says, waving a hand. “I was only trying to catch a taxi, that’s all. Another one will come.”

Jihoon nods, unsure what he’s supposed to say next. Small talk has never been one of his strong suits.

“I think Mingyu tried to set us up once,” he offers awkwardly, finally, because every time he looks at Seokmin that’s the only thing he can think of. He doesn’t think he actually would have minded so much, horrifyingly. He can never, ever admit that to Mingyu, but — Seokmin’s handsome. He doesn’t really look like Jihoon’s type — as much as Jihoon has a type — but there’s something about the intensity of his kindness that makes Jihoon feel…

Something.

Seokmin squints at him, trying to remember.

“You were out of town,” Jihoon says, to try and help jog his memory. “He gave up after that.”

“Oh,” Seokmin’s expression clears, then tightens. He offers Jihoon another smile, but this one seems less sincere than the others. “Right. I had to go home for a year, to take care of my dad.”

Jihoon hesitates to push — it’s obviously a sore spot, and it isn’t really his business. But he has to respond somehow.

“Well, I’m glad you’re back now,” he tries, the words coming out heavy and stilted. Seokmin smiles anyway, like Jihoon just said something actually thoughtful.

“Is your dad okay now?” Jihoon asks awkwardly, wincing immediately when Seokmin’s face falls.

“No,” Seokmin says. He smiles, somehow, even as he shakes his head.

“Fuck,” Jihoon mutters. “I’m really sorry.”

Bizarrely, that makes Seokmin laugh — a real one, full and bright.

“You’re really honest, hyung,” he says. “Can I call you hyung?”

“Sure,” Jihoon says, blindsided by how easy Seokmin’s making it seem. “I mean, Mingyu was trying to set us up back then, right? So.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth he regrets them, familiar embarrassment settling in. He doesn’t know what made him say it like that. Maybe it was the way Seokmin keeps looking at him — like they already know each other, like they’ve skipped past the awkward introduction phase, like they’re comfortable enough to joke about things like that — but that’s not really a good enough excuse. Not when Jihoon’s ears are so red they’re starting to itch.

“Oh? Does that make this a date?”

No, Jihoon opens his mouth to say, scowling, only the word dies before it can quite make it out, because Seokmin doesn’t actually look like he’s joking.

“Um,” Jihoon stutters. Seokmin’s still smiling, but weirdly it doesn’t feel like he’s making fun of him. Jihoon’s usual defensive urge dries up; he finds he doesn’t want to laugh it off. Seokmin might have rushed Jihoon to the pharmacy out of guilt, might have insisted on buying his drink to be polite, but he didn’t have to push it that far.

Seokmin wants it to be a date.

Jihoon hates first dates, usually. The awkward tension, the pressure. The way it always feels like the other person is asking for something he doesn’t know how to give.

It doesn’t feel like that now.

“It could be,” Jihoon says, regaining some of his footing, awkwardly aiming to match Seokmin’s smile. “Is that something you’d — want?”

“I asked, didn’t I?” Seokmin asks. He’s teasing a little, now, but not enough to make Jihoon bristle. Almost like he just — knows. Knows how far to push, how far is okay.

Knows Jihoon.

“Then I guess it is,” Jihoon manages, more to the table in front of them than to Seokmin himself.

If Mingyu finds out about this he’s never living it down.

Jihoon braves a glance up anyway, and doesn’t let himself take it back.

“Aish, how embarrassing,” Seokmin moans, his cheeks flushed at whatever he’s looking at his phone. He’s laughing, though, so it can’t really be that bad. Jihoon looks over at him, raising a curious eyebrow. Seokmin grins at him and scoots closer, turning his phone so Jihoon can see the picture.

“I asked eomma to send me some of my old pictures,” he explains, tapping at the screen to zoom in. There’s a little boy sitting on a bright yellow bench, mouth open as wide as it can go, more of a silent yell than a smile. He’s wearing yellow overalls and white shoes, a padded blue jacket with stars all over it on top. “Can you believe those ears?”

“I can,” Jihoon says. The ears were cute — are cute, still. He opens his mouth to tell Seokmin that, but he stops before he can actually get the words out, squinting closer at the picture.

He recognizes that yellow bench. He swears he does.

A weird feeling rises from his stomach to his throat, a funny little panicked flutter.

“What is it?”

Seokmin’s not paying the picture any attention at all anymore — his focus has all shifted to Jihoon, a sudden spike of concern in his voice that Jihoon doesn’t really know what to do with.

“Yeah, no, it’s fine, it’s just — ” Jihoon gestures at the bench. “Is that a Skyview apartment complex? In Yangsan?”

Seokmin’s eyes widen immediately.

“How did you know that?”

“I think I used to live there,” Jihoon says. He laughs a little, helpless. “Building three. We moved out when I was seven.”

Seokmin gapes.

“I lived in building three. We moved in when I was six,” he says, in an awed tone of voice. “We must have just missed each other.”

His eyes are still opened very wide, amazed by a simple coincidence. It isn’t really that strange, Jihoon wants to tease him. There are a lot of people from Yangsan; the Skyview apartment complex is big. And anyway, random coincidences happen every day. Last week Jihoon rode the bus to meet up with someone selling a set of noise-cancelling headphones, only to realize the man he was meeting up with had been sitting next to him for the entire bus ride.

Jihoon doesn’t tease, though, his own stomach still swooping strangely. This feels different, somehow.

“How funny,” is all he says, not sure how else to phrase it. His voice sounds normal, but his heart is beating oddly, like it’s caught in double-time. He watches as Seokmin’s brow furrows, then smoothes out into a smile.

“How funny,” Seokmin echoes. When he swoops to kiss him Jihoon stiffens a little, the natural response he still hasn’t managed to iron out, but he doesn’t pull away.

Seokmin’s warm, and he smells nice, and when Jihoon doesn’t push him back his arms tighten, firm and sure. His smile widens against Jihoon’s mouth.

“I caught you.” Seokmin pulls away just far enough to speak, still smiling. Their noses brush.

You didn’t, Jihoon could say. If anything, Jihoon was the one to catch Seokmin, his own body a trap that Seokmin tripped right into. But that doesn’t feel true. Seokmin likes to joke about it, sometimes. Where would you be if you hadn’t met me? Jihoon responds the same way every time, a dry remark about how he didn’t meet Seokmin, Seokmin nearly took him out in the middle of the sidewalk.

Seokmin’s probably waiting for that — for Jihoon to play along with the joke, like he always does.

“Lucky me,” Jihoon says simply, instead.

Seokmin’s mouth has gone a little slack, but his eyes are still curved with humour. Still warm. His whole life, Jihoon doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone who could give off that much warmth. It’s hard, even now, to admit that’s something he wants. Needs, even.

It’s Jihoon’s turn to lean in, one hand around the back of Seokmin’s neck guiding him down. His other hand grabs at the fabric of Seokmin’s shirt, keeping him where he wants him. When Seokmin pulls back to breathe he’s still smiling, even as he shakes his head.

“Lucky me.”