Archive of Our Own ^beta

Funerals, Minho learned, varied from culture to culture. Though every human was guaranteed to die, not everyone approached death the same. It all came down to traditions: burials, cremation, a celebration of life. Despite their differences, all funerals held the same truth: a final act of love. 

Minho witnessed it, time after time—in broken eulogies, in scorching tears, in piercing silences. Even though funerals burst at the seams with love, they were heavy, almost a burden. For humans, funerals were draining, soul-crushing, the end of a world. 

Minho was indifferent to funerals—he had to be. 

But that didn't stop them from tugging at his very being. Even now, as he focused on a widower and his two kids, Minho felt himself tear—just a bit, less than a fraction of what the grieving family must have been experiencing. 

He closed his eyes, continued to let the love roll off him in waves. It permeated the room, seeped into the hearts of every attendee.

Just as Minho prepared to release another ripple, a choked sob caught him by surprise. His eyes jumped between the family and the attendees until they landed on a man sitting at the back of the service. 

His curls were just shy of covering his doe-eyes, and even from their distance, Minho could see the tears filling them. The man looked just as devastated as the family, maybe even worse. Minho watched him, mapped the way he buried the heels of his palms into his eyes, the way his body trembled with each broken cry. 

The familiar tug at his being returned, more so than usual. Minho focused some of his love on the man and waited. But the man remained the same; and he stayed like that until he left. 

Minho couldn't help him.

ᡣ𐭩ˋ°•*⁀➷

Funeral after funeral, and Minho still thought about the man he couldn't help. 

It was a mishap, a momentary lapse in his power. It had been his third funeral that day, and Minho had simply been depleted. Nothing more, nothing less.

But no matter how much Minho thought it over, tried to rationalize the new experience, it didn't make sense. Regardless of his fatigue, the amount of funerals he attended in a day, he never faltered—

A shrilling wail pulled Minho from his thoughts. He refocused his attention to the closed casket, the woman crying for her best friend. He stood by her. Love flowed out of him, enveloped the woman in a warmth she could feel. 

He could help her, everyone he had come across at every funeral he attended in the past week—except the man from before. 

Minho pursed his lips. He pushed the thought away. There was no use dwelling on the past, nor what he couldn't control. He had to stay here, grounded to those who needed him now.

He looked over his shoulder, scanning the room, and felt his breath catch in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed the colorful spots from his vision, and the man was there. 

The same man, the same tears, the same look in his eyes. 

But they were at a new funeral, on the other side of the world, with a different family. 

Who is—

Another pained cry alerted Minho. He couldn't think about the man, not now.   

ᡣ𐭩ˋ°•*⁀➷

One day turned to two, turned to three weeks, and Minho found himself in a similar scenario: a funeral, soothing the deceased's loved ones, only to see the man again.  

This time, though, Minho was determined to help him. He shuffled away from the family and approached the man. The closer he was, the stronger his power. This would help; it had to. 

Minho took the empty spot next to the man and startled when he turned to look at Minho. Fresh tears, rosy cheeks that matched the tip of his nose, soft eyes. He was—beautiful. 

The man wiped his tears, then cleared his throat. “What was he to you?” 

Minho blinked repeatedly, tried to process that the man was speaking to him. Humans should not be able to see him, let alone question Minho's relationship to the deceased. 

The man wasn't human.  

Minho stiffened. “What are you?” 

The man sniffled again, and his brows knitted together. “What?” 

“You can see me,” Minho stated, though it sounded more like a question. 

“Yes,” the man said. His voice matched his confused countenance. “Of course I can see you.” 

“Then, what are you?” Minho repeated, rougher, firm. He looked at the man's sneakers, the black suit he wore, then returned his gaze to the man's. “No human can see the God of Love.” 

The man shot up. “You're…the God of Love?” 

“Yes.” 

“I'm…” the man cleared his throat again, toyed with the cuffs on his suit. “I'm a reaper.” 

Minho narrowed his eyes. “A reaper?” 

The man didn't meet Minho's eyes as he slowly nodded his head. Minho's gaze could have bored holes into the reaper, left him empty. It didn't answer Minho's questions, but it was all he could do. 

Minho's power not working on a human was more understanding than a reaper attending a funeral. It was more than odd, practically unheard of. 

“What is a reaper”—Minho looked at the open casket, the ghost of a mother clinging to her son's cold hands, then back to the man—“doing at a funeral?” 

The man—reaper—scowled. He clenched his fists over his thighs, then faced Minho with a look that could kill. “What are you doing here? Shouldn't the God of Love be at a wedding?”—he vaguely gestured with his arms—“Making teenagers fall in love for the first time?” 

Minho laughed, boisterous and free. His entire body shook with each chuckle, and his stomach began to ache. He took deep breaths, tried to ease the laughter all together, but almost broke when he caught the reaper's concerned look. 

He didn't know the extent of Minho's being, how there was so much more to the God of Love. Though, what could Minho have expected from a reaper. And yet, here he was: sitting next to a reaper at a funeral and thinking about love. 

It was comical.  

“Are all reapers this dumb?” Minho finally asked, breathless.

The reaper glared at Minho, scowled again. Though, it looked more like a pout. 

Cute.  

The reaper's eyes widened, almost endearingly, as he waved his arms. “Are all Gods so—so…” 

Minho cocked a brow, tilting his head. “So?” 

“Just let me grieve in peace,” the reaper huffed, jumping to his feet. He marched across the room, walking around the humans in lieu of walking through them, and sat next to the deceased's cousins. 

“Grieve in peace,” Minho whispered to himself. 

Reapers were immortal beings—not angels, not demons, not Death. Their sole purpose was to collect souls of the newly departed and lead them to the underworld. That Minho was certain of. 

They didn't grieve.  

Their existence wouldn't allow that. Any semblance of humanity in a reaper could jeopardize their duty, threaten the balance between the worlds. Reapers couldn't—

A piercing scream wrangled Minho's attention. He looked just in time to see the mother of the deceased man collapsing to the floor, crumbled eulogy in hand. She called her son's name, over and over, like a prayer, like it'd bring him back.

Minho didn't hesitate. He closed the distance between them, then squeezed the woman's shoulder. Like this, he returned her son's love, eased part of her overwhelming grief. 

The mother's crying dwindled, and she returned to the podium. She recited her words through shaky breaths and long pauses, and Minho remained by her side the entire time so she could feel her son's love. 

Minho glanced at the family members, then found himself meeting the reaper's gaze. Despite the tears in his eyes, Minho noticed the anger directed at him. 

Look, Minho wanted to say. This is why I'm here.  

The reaper stood tall. He turned his back to Minho and left without another glance. 

Minho hummed. He followed the mother to her seat, encased her in more of her son's love and watched the light return to her eyes.

What could a reaper know of this? 

ᡣ𐭩ˋ°•*⁀➷

Minho's cheeks stung, but he couldn't bring himself to stop smiling. He watched as the happy couple signed the final documents, then shook hands with their realtor. They hugged each other right after, even shared a kiss like they had at their wedding, and Minho softly chuckled. 

He followed them out of their newly purchased home, grinning from ear to ear as they giggled together to their car. Part of Minho wished they could see him. He wanted to congratulate them, to express how he enjoyed being there for them when they needed a little love to get through life. But this, glimpses from the outside, would have to do. 

Just as the couple began pulling out of the driveway, Minho saw him—the reaper.  

His heart stopped, only to sink to the pit of his stomach. Acid ate away at the organ, and Minho could only manage a choked breath. 

He knew how the universe worked; he even took a part in it. People died—their one guarantee in life. Minho knew this, witnessed the aftermath one too many times. But knowing did nothing to alleviate the ache in his chest, didn't stop the anger from taking root. 

He stormed towards the reaper, felt his fingers twitching at his side. The reaper didn't acknowledge Minho. His eyes were glued to the couple, followed every move, and Minho's frustration grew.

“They just bought a house,” Minho declared, catching the reaper's wrist between his fingers. He heaved, frantically looking between the couple driving away and the reaper. “They've only been married for six years, and they're still so…young.” 

The reaper glanced at Minho's hand, gaze soft. “Do you think I don't know this? That I can't see how unfair and cruel it is?” 

Minho pursed his lips and met eyes that didn't reveal anything. 

“But death is death,” the reaper said, eyes flicking to the couple's car again, “and nothing will stop it.”

“You could,” Minho said, voice desperate. He squeezed the reaper's wrist, felt a rabid thumping against his fingertips. “You could.” 

The reaper yanked his hand from Minho's grip and narrowed his eyes. “What?” 

“Don't collect their souls,” Minho said. 

He wanted to take his words back the second they left his mouth. Minho didn't interfere; he didn't change fates already set in stone, never even thought to attempt it. And yet, he wanted to, for this couple. 

“I'm sorry—”

“That wouldn't stop their deaths,” the reaper sighed, scratching the back of his neck. He watched as they drove down the street, then looked at Minho again. “They'd be stuck in limbo, in nothingness—and that's worse.”   

Minho nodded his head once. 

“And I don't need the God of Love telling me anything about the souls I collect,” the reaper said, sharply. He pushed past Minho and started walking towards the couple. “What could you know?” 

“I…brought them together,” Minho said, barely audible. His voice was meek, on the verge of collapsing, just like his heart.

It was—strange. To feel weak, guilt.  

The reaper paused. He looked over his shoulder, and one corner of his mouth lifted more than the other—a rueful smile. 

“I'm sorry,” he said, then continued walking. 

Minho traced the reaper's silhouette over and over, like he was tethered to him. He couldn't look away, even as the pang in his chest flowed to his throat, even as the reaper disappeared from his view. 

Minho stayed.   

Three days passed before Minho crossed paths with the reaper again. This time, though, Minho expected it. 

Throughout the burial service, Minho's eyes jumped to the attendees on more than one occasion. He searched and searched and searched, until his eyes met the reaper's, and Minho's chest twinged. 

Nonetheless, Minho kept his distance. 

He kept to those he could help, stepped in when the agony became too much for them to bear. He did what he was best at—what was within his control. 

The couple's love flowed through him like running water. He used it to chip away at the attendees’ pain, breaking it down to pieces smaller than sand. The couple's love filled the gaps, and Minho let it circle those grieving. A warm hug, the final goodbye they never received. 

He repeated the process once, twice, until the burial service was over and he stood before the grave alone. He looked at the dirt, questioned if the couple were together in the underworld too. 

“Their last words were to each other.” 

An answer to his question he didn't voice—an answer he wasn't sure he wanted. It didn't quell his anger, nor did it prevent guilt from seeping further into his bones. 

Minho swept his tongue across his incisors. He took a deep breath, then another.  

“I don't think I've ever loved anyone like that before.” 

Minho scoffed, head snapping towards the reaper. He parted his lips, felt wrath on the tip of his tongue. Ready to aim, to seek retribution. 

Before Minho could utter a word, the reaper turned to face him, and Minho saw it. The somber look in his eyes, the truth behind his words. 

“Have you?” the reaper asked, voice heavy. He lowered his head, slowly fiddled with his fingers. “Who does the God of Love love?” 

A beat passed, two. Minho looked at the grave, then at the reaper. “No one. I am love.” 

Sympathy overtook the doleful look in the reaper's eyes. “That sounds lonely.” 

“Lonely?” Minho repeated, brows knitting together. He was the God every human sought—needed—he was anything but lonely. 

“You bring humans together and witness their love—experience love through them.” The reaper sighed, glanced at the grave. “But when will you experience love?” 

“That…” 

Minho shook his head, ran his fingers through his blond hair. Experiencing love for himself never crossed his mind; he existed for others. Love wasn't his to have, and he didn't even know if he wanted it—to love, to be loved. 

“That doesn't concern me.”

The reaper's eyes softened. “It should.” 

Minho traced the lines between the reaper's brows, the look he held. Sorrow swam in pools of brown, threatened to cause a storm. The realization came slowly: the reaper was externalizing his feelings. 

It shouldn't have vexed Minho; he lived it. But the reaper doing it infuriated him. Maybe because he involved himself after collecting souls, maybe because his mere existence taunted Minho. And yet, regardless of Minho's frustrations, they were tied together—the reaper would be there to gather the pieces Minho used. 

“What about you?” Minho asked, gesturing towards the reaper. “What do you—a reaper who only knows death—love?” 

“Everyone, everything,” the reaper said, a small smile tugging on his lips. He tilted his head back, sighing as the sun gleamed across his face, highlighting his cheeks, his heart-shaped smile. “I'm full of it.” 

“A reaper who loves,” Minho murmured; it came off like a question, maybe even an accusation. “Sounds like a bad joke.” 

The reaper hummed, shoving his hands in his pockets. He walked towards Minho, stopping just before their shoulders could brush against one another. “More like a punishment,” he muttered, then continued walking forward. 

Minho's body instinctively turned, but he didn't follow the reaper. “Punishment?” 

The reaper halted. He looked back, gaze moored to the grave. “How else could I know?” 

Minho watched the reaper leave again. He questioned how many more times they'd meet again, if he were fated to watch the reaper go. 

ᡣ𐭩ˋ°•*⁀➷

Languid beeps echoed in the room, morphed into the backdrop of quiet cries and choked breaths. Minho stood at the foot of the bed, eyes glued to the heart monitor. Up and down, up and down, up and down—the fluctuations grew further apart, were barely there. 

Minho looked at the elderly man. Despite the needle under his skin and his paling color, he looked peaceful, like he was sleeping. But his family didn't find comfort in his appearance, and a pained sob eclipsed it all. 

Minho closed his eyes. He pictured the love—from the elderly man, from the scared family—circulating the room. It was thick, unwavering, and it huddled the family closer together. Unknowingly, they clung to the affection, allowed it to offer the slightest semblance of peace—the same one their dying loved one had. 

The elderly man's death was going to welcome them soon. In a few seconds, in a few minutes. It was inevitable, and Minho could only help like this.  

Just as Minho released another wave of affection, the reaper walked in. The same one from all the funerals, the same one who collected the souls of Minho's last couple. The same one who loved.  

It felt jarring to see the reaper like this—in the before. Minho had grown accustomed to seeing him after the pieces were scattered, collected. This time, though, Minho witnessed in real time as the pieces came apart. He was in the before, ready for the after—just like the reaper. 

The reaper's eyes widened when he noticed Minho. He looked at the devastated family, then at Minho again. Minho raised a brow, but the reaper didn't say anything. His feet carried him to the heart monitor, right by the elderly man, and he clasped his hands behind his back. 

The rest came in slow motion, like the critical moment you could never outrun. A flatline, an eruption of shouts for help, the bustling of doctors and nurses entering the room. Minho became a voyeur of death, and through it all, he couldn't help but turn towards the reaper. 

He pursed his lips, brows coming together as the reaper remained unmoved. Minho couldn't read the muddled look in his eyes, but he could make out the spark of regret, despair.

“What…” Minho swallowed, tried to alleviate the scratch in his throat. “What are you doing?” 

“Letting him say goodbye,” the reaper answered, looking at the elderly man's quivering lips. 

A beep, then another. It was too weak, hung by a frail thread, but it was enough for the elderly man to murmur I love you.  

He flatlined again, and the reaper moved to action. Despite the medical professionals crowding the bed, the reaper found a spot next to the elderly man. He held the man's hand, softly hummed as he touched his chest and an ember emerged—his soul. The reaper lowered his head. His lips parted, whispered something Minho couldn't understand, and then he slipped the soul into a worn, leather satchel. 

“Is that allowed?” Minho gestured to the secured soul, the doctors stating they did everything they could. “Letting them say goodbye?” 

He had never seen a reaper at work, had rarely encountered them. They moved like a forgotten dream; there, for the briefest of seconds, then gone before you could recount the memory. Minho never cared to see them work, to know every detail behind collecting a soul. But with this reaper—the one he kept crossing paths with—Minho wanted to know. 

“No,” the reaper smiled. He swung the bag's strap over his shoulder, carefully held it as he stood. “But if I can, I want to grant them a little peace of mind.” 

Minho tilted his head to the side; his question already written across his features. “Why?” 

“The same reason you're here,” the reaper said, nodding towards the family. They gravitated towards each other, sought what they needed most. 

Love.  

Minho eyed the reaper. A reaper who cared, a reaper who knew of love. It was confounding, lacked reasoning. 

The reaper cleared his throat, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet. He patted his satchel, then toyed with the buckle. “I'll, uh,” he pointed behind himself. “I'll be on my way now.” 

Hastily, he spun on his feet and headed towards the door. Minho's eyes widened, and he shook his head. 

“My name's Minho,” he blurted, too rushed, too loud. 

The reaper stopped. He faced Minho, flashed a smile that made Minho's chest tighten. “The God of Love has a name?” 

“Constantly being called The God of Love by fellow Gods and friends got a little old,” Minho said, a smile threatening to grace his lips. 

The reaper nodded his head. “And it's a little long.” 

“Yeah,” Minho laughed, letting the invisible string pull him closer to the reaper. “It's a little long.” 

“I'm Jisung,” the reaper said. His smile matched the warmth in his eyes; Minho liked it more than he should have. 

“Jisung,” Minho repeated. The syllables rolled off his tongue easily, like the name was meant to form a home in his mouth. 

Red coated Jisung's cheeks, the base of his neck. “Minho.” 

They exchanged smiles one last time, then Jisung left.

Minho returned to the family. He felt lighter, a little at peace himself, knowing they got their goodbye. 

At the funeral, Minho sat next to a crying Jisung. A part of him wanted to take Jisung's hands in his, to ease his pain. But the weight of Jisung's thigh pressed against his, the slightest brush of their hands, would have to suffice. 

ᡣ𐭩ˋ°•*⁀➷

Minho hummed to a Latin love song, tapping his fingers to the beat of the song. He rested his head against the bench's hard railing. He'd have a sore neck by nightfall, but it was worth it. He liked seeing the birds take flight, the flock coming and going together. 

It was peaceful—a break from being needed. He didn't indulge often, but now, after meeting a reaper who did, Minho found himself trying to. Even if it was a brief ten minutes on a park bench, Minho reveled in it, let the moment satiate a hunger he couldn't name. 

He hummed to the same song anew. He got as far as the chorus before an eruption of high-pitched screams overpowered his soft melody. Screeching tires accompanied the shrieks, then was followed by aggressive honks and distant sirens. 

Minho smelled the smoke before he saw it. Strong. Overbearing. It trailed behind the birds, overtook their paths as they fled. He closed his eyes, not more than a breath, and when he opened them, gray clouds painted the midsummer day. 

Minho sat upright and pursed his lips. Wild flames surged through an apartment building, desperate to consume, to harm. They were bound to claim a life. Maybe two, maybe ten. 

Minho couldn't tell. That wasn't in his cards. Though, even if it was, he would still be powerless to do anything. No one could change the fates. 

His eyes jumped to the halted cars, the drivers running towards the fire. One turned to two, turned to ten, turned to too many to count. Together, they began saving those they could. They'd rush into the inferno, bring someone to safety, then return to the engulfing flames. An endless cycle they repeated until they were forced to stop, until the firefighters continued their efforts. 

Streams of water graced the building. But it still wasn't enough. That's when Minho finally felt it: adrenaline morphing into fear, anguish.  

He closed his eyes again. He focused on each person near, their beating hearts, their love hiding just beneath the surface. He took a little from each person—nothing they could notice—and circulated it through the street. 

It wasn't much, but it was something—just enough to give those the push to continue. This was the closest Minho could get to saving someone. 

Despite his efforts, someone did die. Minho knew it the moment he caught Jisung in his field of vision. He'd recognize those doe-eyes, all the emotions swimming in them, a moon away. 

Minho's mouth twitched, and he felt that familiar tug. 

On more than one occasion, Minho found himself hoping to see the reaper. He didn't know when it happened, much less how. He always thought his cupids and fellow Gods were enough company; sometimes, he even considered them friends. But he couldn't ignore how he and Jisung kept crossing paths. They'd meet at someone's death, then again at their funeral. And somewhere down the line, Minho looked forward to it, wanted to continue their fated encounters. 

The creeping desire came to light at their last meeting. It had to. Maybe it was when Minho felt a little desperate and took a crying Jisung's hand in his. Maybe it was when Jisung immediately looked at him—Minho couldn't read his expression then, but maybe now he could—then rested his head on Minho's shoulder and called him a good friend. Minho didn't know, just that when they parted ways, he wanted to stay by Jisung's side. 

Minho scanned the burning building. Jisung slipped inside, then came out shortly after—sorrow on his face, a heavy bag in his hands. Minho wished the love could reach him. 

Just as Minho opened his mouth, Jisung's name on his tongue, their eyes met. A choked breath replaced his name, then a smile as Jisung beamed at him. Minho waved him over, softly laughed as Jisung looked both ways before crossing the street. 

“Jisung.”

“Minho.” 

Jisung smelled like the smoke, and his cheeks matched the fire's flames. But he was softer, kinder. Minho traced his soft features again, smile widening as Jisung shifted the weight between each leg and scratched the tip of his nose. 

“Is there…” Jisung cleared his throat. “Is there a reason you called me over?” 

Minho patted the empty spot on the bench. “Sit with me.” 

Jisung tilted his head to the left, brows pinched together. His confusion remained even after he sat down. Minho found it endearing. 

“Are we friends, Jisung?” Minho finally asked. He tore his eyes from the frenzied fire. Jisung's confusion shifted to something like astonishment, and Minho couldn't help but grin. 

“Friends,” Jisung repeated; he almost sounded like he was in a daze. 

“At the last funeral you said I was a good friend,” Minho said matter-of-factly. “So, are we friends, Jisung?” 

Red returned to Jisung's cheeks. This time, it was brighter than the flames. Still softer, kind. Minho liked this fire better. 

“Well, I just”—Jisung vaguely gestured with his hands—“assumed we were.” 

Minho laughed, boisterous and free. “The God of Love and a reaper, huh?” He shook his head, laughed again. “How weird.” 

Jisung stiffened next to him. He pulled his bottom lip between his incisors and toyed with his fingers in his lap. “Good weird or bad weird?” 

Minho bumped their shoulders together and smiled. “Good weird.” 

Jisung relaxed against him. He nodded his head, flashed his own gummy smile. “Okay,” he said. “Good weird.” 

“It's nice to have a friend that isn't one of my cupids,” Minho hummed. He glanced at Jisung, took in his checkered flannel and baggy pants. “Or a God.” 

Jisung puckered his lips and cocked his head to the side. “I thought you were cupid.” 

He thought Minho was cupid—the one humans depicted in their media—yet he didn't question the lack of bow and arrow, nor that Minho very much did wear clothes. Minho looked at his own appearance: a white t-shirt with a cat's silhouette and blue jeans. Some cupid he made. 

Minho chuckled. “That'd be like mistaking you for Death.” 

Jisung slowly nodded his head, a quiet ahh tumbled past his lips. 

“But anyone mixing you and Death would have to be a fool,” Minho added, eyeing Jisung's round cheeks. Death could never be so—

“I'm not Death-like?” Jisung asked, eyes widening as his brows shot up. 

Minho had to bite back a laugh. He was sitting on a park bench, next to a reaper, questioning how normal—human—they both looked. If people could see them, they would look like your average pair of friends. Nothing close to beings that witnessed the creation of the cosmos. 

“Maybe you could be,” Minho hummed. He raised both hands, squinting as he tried to envision them as fabric draping Jisung's head. “If we got you a dark hood—a scythe even—and got you to talk in a more menacing way.” 

Jisung laughed. He squeezed his eyes shut, head tipping back, and his body shook. He looked so carefree, beautiful even. “You're so weird,” he breathed. 

Minho raised a brow. “Good weird or bad weird?” 

“Good weird,” Jisung smiled. He bumped Minho's shoulder, but didn't move back. 

The pressure was warm, and Minho's chest tingled. He liked this—the budding friendship with a reaper.  

ᡣ𐭩ˋ°•*⁀➷

Water droplets struck the cement. They splashed, danced in the air once more before gravity brought them down again. The drizzle seeped into the ground, and the smell of earth lingered in the air. 

Minho stretched an arm out. He collected the spring showers in his palm, felt each drop of rain becoming heavier and heavier. He pursed his lips and yanked his hand back to the safety under the arena's roof. 

He didn't like the rain. It ruined one too many good moments for humans—weddings, graduations, outings. But more than that, it claimed lives. Sometimes the ones Minho just took part in. He hated that the most. 

Minho shuffled inside the arena. He watched the soon-to-be graduates walking out, bustling with nerves and fears. He couldn't help but smile, almost a little too fond of humans. His eyes jumped to the audience, and his smile widened as they erupted in cheers. 

Minho closed his eyes and focused on the audience—their love bubbling to the surface. One by one, he took a fragment of their love, just a little more than was necessary, and pieced them all together to form his own cloud. It hovered over the students, then dispersed into the kindest rainfall, washing away all their apprehensions. Ease took root in the students, morphed into excitement and delight. 

But as Minho continued to shower them with love, he couldn't help but question if the hammering rain would ruin their celebration. Would it lead to an accident that would injure them? Claim their life? 

“Wow. This is a massive audience, huh?”

Minho's eyes turned to saucers. He whipped his head towards the familiar velvet voice; the same one he enjoyed listening to. Now, though, Minho didn't want it anywhere near him. Not if it meant Jisung was here to work, and Minho would have to witness the before and after again. 

“What—” Minho shook his head. “What are you…”

“I saw you come in,” Jisung smiled. Bright and beautiful and warm; it was akin to the hidden sun, the love radiating in the arena. “I wanted to see what you were doing here.” 

“Oh,” Minho said. He glanced at Jisung's satchel, the glowing ember that shone through the leather. “You collected a soul?” 

“It's my eighth one of the day.” Jisung ran his hand over the leather flap, then smiled at Minho again. Weaker this time, but it moved Minho all the same. “The rain keeps us busy.” 

Minho hummed. 

“But I saw you and thought I'd take a break from—work,” Jisung said, waving a hand as he spoke. He turned to the arena again, joined in on the audience's cheering as students began crossing the stage. “You come to graduations, too?” 

“I try to come for the most important moments in a human's life,” Minho said, warping another cloud above the students. From the corner of his eye, he could see Jisung watching him. “I try to help in all the moments they might need a little love—good or bad.” 

“That's amazing,” Jisung breathed, gaze flashing between Minho and the crowd. “You're amazing.” 

Heat swelled in Minho's chest. It traveled down to the pads of his fingers, up to his nape and the tip of his ears. 

He existed for this. There was no need for the praise, nor the astonishment in Jisung's eyes. And yet, Minho liked it. He wanted more of it. 

“How do…” Jisung gestured to the crowd. “How do you do it?” 

“I take a little love from every single person,” Minho said, motioning with a finger. He could see the strands of love coming together, his own love emanating from his fingertip and joining the haze. “Give a little of my own and then,” Minho let the love engulf every person, “let it encase each person—slip through the cracks to reach their hearts.” 

“I wish I could see it,” Jisung murmured, head tipped towards the falling love. “Is it the same when you make people fall in love?” 

“No. That's different.” Minho looked at the crowd. He noted the different couples, the soon-to-be couples, then turned back to Jisung. “But it's been a few years since I brought anyone together.” 

Jisung furrowed his brows. “But before—that couple…” 

The couple who had just bought a house, who had their whole lives ahead of them. Their deaths were set in stone, and still, Minho foolishly wanted to tempt the fates and ask Jisung—back when he was just a reaper, and Minho was only the God of Love—to leave their souls. 

“They were the last couple I brought together,” Minho finally said. 

“Oh.” Jisung frowned. He toyed with the buckle of his satchel and pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. “I'm sorry.” 

“You don't have to apologize, Jisung,” Minho said, voice honey. His arms fell to his side, and he took a step forward. He placed a hand over Jisung's, stopped him from fiddling with the metal, and caught the regret swimming in his eyes. “It's not your fault, and I don't blame you. It's…it's not up to us.” 

Jisung slowly nodded. “Is there…is there a reason you don't bring people together anymore?” 

Minho's earliest memories were all of romantic love, of the different couples he brought together. Sometimes, they became muddled with one another, and Minho couldn't tell where they ended, where he started. And still, Minho watched and watched and watched—humans coming together, falling in love. 

Despite focusing on other forms of love, romantic love tugged on his being too much. It tucked an ache into his chest, threatened to to leave a cavity that begged for attention. So, Minho stopped.  

He focused solely on other forms of love and left romantic love in the hands of his cupids; and he never looked back, never felt the need to. 

“I can just have my cupids do it,” Minho shrugged. 

Jisung parted his lips, then snapped his mouth shut. The spark in his eyes dwindled, and a pang shot through Minho's chest. 

“Do you…” Minho cleared his throat. “Do you want to see how it works?” 

“You'll show me?” Jisung grinned, wide-eyed and endearing.

“There's plenty of fated lovers,” Minho said, biting back a smile. “We'll bring two people together after the ceremony. Okay?” 

Jisung's smile was captivating, worth saving for a difficult day. “Okay.”

The audience exited the arena in clumps, carefully slipping past the doors together, only to scatter outside. They formed new bubbles, chatting amongst themselves as they waited. 

“At least it stopped raining,” Jisung said, tapping his foot against a puddle. 

Minho agreed. Though, even if he was getting drenched and had to deal with wet fabric clinging to skin, Minho wouldn't have minded. He stared at the ripples forming in the puddles, then at Jisung's insistent tapping and small pout. He would have borne it, easily, just to stay by Jisung's side a little longer. 

“They're coming!”

Minho tore his gaze from Jisung's grin and followed his line of sight. Despite standing in the parking lot, leaning against a SUV, he was more than capable of making out the new graduates' smiles, their threads of love. 

“Every human has different threads of love,” Minho said, pushing himself off the car to stand upright. He focused on one of the new graduates running to her family, and encased her threads with his own love, just enough to make them visible. He pointed to the woman, traced the threads enveloping her. “Can you see them?” 

“Yes,” Jisung said; he sounded almost star-struck. “They're beguiling.” 

“The strands seek out their counterpart.” Minho shifted part of his being into the woman's family's threads. They came together as the woman leapt into their arms. “They come together easily. But the thread for romantic love is a little different.”

Minho gestured to the thread draped over the woman's shoulders. “Sometimes they need a little push to find their other half.”

“And that's where you come in?” Jisung asked, glancing between Minho and the woman. 

Minho laughed, softly. “That's where I come in.” 

Jisung beamed. 

All Minho needed to do was tug on the thread. A mere touch sparked the dormant string, turned it into a live wire desperate to be connected, tied to its fate. It wasn't grand, and it paled in comparison to the collection of a soul. But he wanted to make it memorable, a dream to treasure, for Jisung—all for Jisung. 

Minho cupped his hands together, leaving a small opening, and raised them to his mouth. Again, he called for his own love. It pulsated in his palms, releasing in waves as it gleamed. 

“Beautiful,” Jisung said. 

His honey skin glowed under Minho's love, and Minho traced his soft features. Part of him wanted to reach out, to brush his love onto Jisung—over his lips, on his mole, under his twinkling eyes. Jisung was beautiful, mesmerizing. 

Jisung smiled at him, and Minho felt that familiar tug again. 

The love he held blossomed, almost felt heavy as it radiated in his palms. 

“It's like a sun,” Jisung murmured. 

Love, a sun—both essential to life.

Minho pressed his hands together. He closed his eyes, focused on conjuring his love into a bow and arrow, then pulled his hands apart. 

The bow was simple, archaic even. The arrow, too. But the fetching flickered a deep red, just like the bow's string. 

“All I have to do is shoot her thread of romantic love,” Minho said, nocking the arrow. He dragged his arm back to reach the anchor point, then aimed. “And it'll come alive.” 

Once the graduate stepped back from her family, Minho released the string. He knew the coming sequence: a jolting thread, fated lovers unknowingly finding each other, threads intertwining. But he didn't know this: Jisung's eruption of excitement as the woman bumped into her fated lover; the hitch of his breath as their threads intertwined; awe blooming in his eyes, his heart-shaped smile. 

Minho's heart stirred. Bringing together two people had never felt this good.  

“Thank you,” Jisung said, jumping into Minho's arms. 

The hug was brief, the faintest brush of their bodies, and Minho's chest ached for more. He wanted to pull Jisung back into his arms, feel the vibrations from his thumping heart. 

Jisung smiled at him. The same smile he always gifted Minho, and yet, it tugged at Minho like it never had before.

“Thank you, Minho.”

“Of course, Jisung.” 

ᡣ𐭩ˋ°•*⁀➷

The air hockey table's scoreboard flashed a red seven. With every glint, it taunted the sad two by its side, and in turn, Jisung huffed. 

“For the God of Love,” Jisung began, ducking to reach for the puck, “you're, for the lack of a better word, an asshole.” 

Minho chortled, shaking his head. “Is that so?”

Jisung hummed in response. He slammed the puck onto the table, then placed his disc on top to stop the puck from floating to Minho. 

“Asshole,” he sang, stretching the second syllable. 

Minho held a hand to his chest and groaned as he feigned being hurt. He toppled towards the air hockey table, but caught himself before he could collapse onto it. “You,” Minho panted, bracing himself on the table, “wound me, Jisung.” 

Jisung laughed. Like everything he did, Jisung put his all into it (it was one of Minho's favorite things about him). His body trembled with it, flushing brighter the longer his laughter went on. 

“At least you're a good actor,” Jisung sighed, finally catching his breath. 

“Yeah?” Minho cocked his head. “Time for a career change?” 

“Nah,” Jisung shook his head. He grabbed his disc, then toyed with the puck. “I like that you're a God of Love who's an asshole.” 

His smile was wide, heart-shaped. It carried a fondness that conveyed he was only teasing Minho. Though, even if he wasn't smiling, Minho would know. Jisung's eyes gave him away just as easily as his smiles. 

Minho rolled his eyes. “Were you expecting me to shoot rainbows and sunshine out of my ass?” 

Jisung hummed. He held a hand to his chin, tapped a finger against his cheek, then beamed at Minho. “More like pink hearts and rainbows.” 

Minho softly laughed. He watched as the forgotten puck floated across the table. The second it entered his zone, he swiped it. He waved it at a pouting Jisung and winked. 

“I'm the God of Love,” Minho said, holding the puck against the table. He smiled at Jisung. “I can't only be kind.” 

Jisung furrowed his brows. “Isn't that expected? Love is—” 

“Versatile. To love is to feel pleasure and pain, to be strong and weak.” Minho looked at the people in the arcade, the two teenage boys struggling with the claw machine. “It's hard—resilient.” 

Minho glanced at Jisung again, then gestured to the boys. 

“It can't only be soft,” Minho continued. “It'd give too easily.”

The teenagers succeeded, and one shyly handed the stuffed bear to the other. Minho watched as the grin spread across Jisung's lips, and he found himself smiling just as hard. 

“Love is so much more than we think,” he murmured. 

Jisung nodded his head. He took to watching the people in the arcade—a small family cheering the youngest child as they played Dance Dance Revolution; two best friends, bursting into fits of laughter and struggling to fight off a raid of zombies; an elderly couple strolling into a photo booth. 

“Also,” Minho said, returning his attention to the air hockey table. He let the puck float away, just a little, then hit it straight into Jisung's goal. “I'm not an asshole for not purposely losing to you at air hockey.” 

“I called you an asshole because you've been cheating all this time,” Jisung whined. 

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Minho smirked. 

Jisung scowled. He grabbed the puck again, eyes narrowing and lips puckering as he concentrated. 

Cute.  

The puck flew. Without a doubt, Jisung would have scored. But right before the puck slipped into Minho's goal, Minho banged his hand against the puck. 

Jisung gaped at him. “Cheater.” 

“I'm just skilled,” Minho shrugged. 

“You stopped the puck with your hand!” 

“Is there a rule that says you can't do that?” 

“Yes!” 

“Well, where is it, Mr. Air Hockey Expert?” 

Jisung smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. “Up your ass.” 

Minho gasped. “When were you there?” 

Scarlet bloomed across Jisung's cheeks. Bright and twinkling, like the numbers on the scoreboard. He flailed his arms, sputtering as he tried to speak, “That's not—I didn't mean—”

Minho took another shot, giggling as the puck loudly clinked as it swished past Jisung's goal. 

“Minho!”

“You make it so easy, Jisung.” 

Jisung glared at him—tried to. He was more pout and rosy cheeks than anything. Minho liked it a little too much.

“Shouldn't you be focusing on those teens' first date?” Jisung asked, both brows shooting up. “Isn't that why we're here in the first place?” 

It was, and it wasn't.  

Minho had just left a funeral when he caught Jisung at the site of an accident. He had watched the reaper collect a soul, then convinced him to accompany Minho with the promise of helping young love blossom. He hadn't realized what he was doing—how he wanted to spend more time with Jisung before he had to go—until the two were walking into an arcade, hand in hand. 

“I can multitask—help some nervous teenagers and kick your ass at air hockey,” Minho finally said, proudly nodding. He sent Jisung another wink. “Aren't I such a skilled God of Love?” 

Jisung scoffed. “Not one bit.” 

But his gleaming eyes and warm smile said otherwise. 

Heat settled on the tips of Minho's ears, and his chest tingled. 

ᡣ𐭩ˋ°•*⁀➷

Jisung was…off. 

He still attended the funerals of the souls he collected. But he was more a ghost, a shell of himself, than an attendee. 

For the past week, he stood at the entrance of every building, or towards the back of a crowd at the cemetery, and just stared. He didn't speak, didn't shed a single tear, and sometimes, he didn't notice Minho at all. 

He looked lost—empty. He wore the same dazed stare Minho saw across every human that died alone, with only his love to provide comfort. 

It didn't suit Jisung. 

He was a reaper, but he—

Minho blinked repeatedly. He caught brown curls, the weak smile Jisung flashed him, and felt the love he was emanating shake a little. He offered his own smile, then stabilized the love circulating in the room. 

Despite wanting to focus on Jisung, he shifted his attention to the loved ones attending the funeral. He stomached the ache jolting through his being. 

As the services came to an end, Minho peeled himself away from the deceased's loved ones. He smiled as Jisung blinked at him, eyes briefly widening in surprise. 

He stopped, a little less than arm's length away, and tapped the tip of Jisung's sneakers with his shoes. “Let's go.”

“Go?” Jisung's brows came together, and he tilted his head. “Where to?”

“It's a surprise,” Minho winked. 

Jisung sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. He glanced between the attendees and Minho. “But what about…”

“I've done all I can for them,” Minho nodded. He looked over his shoulder, caught the wave of love tightly securing itself over each person. “The rest is up to them.” 

“Are you sure?”

Minho's eyes snapped back to Jisung. Despondency painted his features, and Minho wanted to take it for himself. Bear it so Jisung didn't have to. 

“Yes,” Minho said. I'm always sure when it comes to you, he left out. He held a hand out. “Come on.” 

Jisung's hand slid into his, warm and soft. Minho interlaced their fingers together. He squeezed Jisung's hand once, then again, then one last time for good measure, and pulled him into a run. 

Their thumping footsteps blended into the bustling streets, became the perfect bass for the passing cars and crowded sidewalks. Their suit jackets flapping in the air joined the tune, and Minho wanted to laugh. They must have looked as ridiculous as he felt, maybe even more. 

Jisung followed closely behind him, gripping Minho's hand tighter when their sweaty palms threatened to tear them apart. He panted with each step, and still, he managed a weak how much further?  

This time, Minho chuckled. He squeezed Jisung's sweaty hand and breathed a we're almost there.  

Another minute passed. Two, then ten, and their steps slowed until they stood at the building's entrance. Just as Minho was about to stroll through the hospital's doors, Jisung tugged on his arm; a barely there pressure, but the hesitation was enough to make Minho stop all together. 

Sparks of confusion settled in doe-eyes. “What are we…” 

“Do you trust me?” 

“Of course.” 

Minho smiled. “Let's go.” 

Minho led Jisung through the hospital. They skipped down long hallways, turned corners, hopped into elevators. Jisung didn't ask any more questions, and Minho hummed to a Latin love song as he followed the signs to their destination. 

Soft lullabies played as they entered Minho's desired section of the floor. Newborn babies, peacefully sleeping in their incubators, were surrounded by their parents and nurses. Despite the anxieties and fears buzzing throughout the room, Minho could feel the love swimming through, easily overtaking them. 

Minho let Jisung's hand go, pushing past the twinge in his chest, and leaned against the door. “We're here,” he said. 

“You…” Jisung slowly blinked. He eyed the room, almost frantic as he jumped back and forth between the new families and Minho. “You brought me to a hospital's NICU?” 

Minho hummed. “One of the best in the world.” 

Jisung's brows furrowed. “Why?” 

“Babies are cute,” Minho shrugged. “Unless…” he stood upright, eyes widening as he gasped, “you dislike babies!” 

“What?” Jisung laughed, incredulous. “Of course I don't dislike them!”

Minho faked a sigh of relief. “Good to know.” 

“You are so annoying,” Jisung huffed, bumping Minho's shoulder. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Minho chuckled. He cocked his head towards two moms fawning over their baby. “Now, just watch.” 

“What exactly,” Jisung shifted to stand closer to Minho, “am I supposed to be watching?” 

“How they fight—how they're loved.” Love emanated off Minho, joined the abundance of warmth already circulating in the room. “How life doesn't feel so bad because they exist.” 

A newborn baby smiled, and their parents and nurses erupted in fits of excitement. It was one of the moments that made everything bearable, that showed just how beautiful life could be. And still, Minho found himself looking at Jisung, his smile. 

Jisung looked at Minho again; a faint glimmer sparked in his doe-eyes. “You always show me new things to love.” 

Minho's being trembled again, and with it, more love than was necessary seeped out of him. He didn't think to stop it. He expected it to flow through the room and encase the families. But it didn't. His love morphed into a cloud and reached for Jisung, draped itself over his hands.  

Minho pursed his lips. 

His very being—his soul—had no reason to cling to a reaper. Minho was love, through and through, and lived as such. He worked his love, controlled every fiber of his being for humans. That was his purpose, his reason for existence. Minho didn't get to— 

“I can show you more,” Minho finally said. He took Jisung's hand, reeled in his love. “Ready to go?” 

Jisung squeezed his hand, and Minho's chest fluttered. He turned to the family again, heart-shaped smiling returning. “Just a few more minutes.” 

Despite trying to stop it, his love still wavered.

“Okay.” 

The next location, a family owned restaurant, took them to the other side of the world. Minho led Jisung to a table in the center of the restaurant—where love could be felt the strongest. This time, Jisung didn't look confused. He simply waited and watched. 

Little by little, the customers began to pour in. One particular elderly couple, unbeknownst to them, sat right next to Jisung and Minho. The pair spent their entire time gushing over the food and chatting with different members of the family. It was sweet—to see the love radiating from them with each bite, with each interaction. 

“Think they're regulars?” Jisung asked, watching as the couple began to gather their belongings after paying their tab. 

“They fell in love here,” Minho answered. He gestured towards the couple again, how the owners continued talking with them as they walked them out. “With the food, with the people. They're lifelong friends.” 

Jisung's eyes widened, lighting up even more. “You were there?” 

“Sat right here,” Minho knocked on the faded red table, “as I watched them become friends.” 

Jisung smiled; his gummy one where his eyes crinkled, drowning in a warmth that could be touched. Minho felt another tug on his heart. 

He jumped to his feet and held a hand out to Jisung. “Ready for the next one?” 

“Ready,” Jisung said, flashing another mesmerizing smile as he interlaced their fingers. 

Minho circled back to a city he and Jisung had met before. Where, like always, their paths crossed. That day, though, the downpour only brought in Jisung, his desire to see people fall in love. It was one of Minho's favorite memories—one he recounted when he was alone, aching to see Jisung. 

Instead of an arena, they stood in a hall. Nothing as close as big to the arena, but much more intimate. The hall was crowded, filled to the brim with guests and roses and an everlasting love. 

Just as Minho led them as close as possible to the aisle, a bridal chorus began playing and the guests stood. “We're just in time,” he said. 

“Looks like we're dressed for the occasion,” Jisung said, adjusting the cuffs on his suit.

“I don't know,” Minho hummed. He tapped his dress shoe against Jisung's sneakers, and the corner of his mouth curled upward. “Well, at least I am.” 

“Dress shoes are uncomfortable,” Jisung whined, tipping his head back. 

Minho traced the line of Jisung's throat, how the protrusion moved when he swallowed, and wondered what it'd feel like to touch Jisung there. Or, if his fingers trailed more to the side, and reached Jisung's pulse point. Did Jisung's heart beat to a steady rhythm? Strong and unwavering? Did he have one? Was Jisung a reaper with a heart, too? One that did more than pump blood throughout his body? Did it carry—

Minho snapped his eyes shut. He visualized his futile thoughts, trapped them in a locked box, and pushed it to the farthest corner of his mind. When his eyes fluttered open, he caught Jisung's confusion again. Brows furrowed and a pout. 

Minho smiled, poked at the lines between Jisung's eyebrows. “Pay attention to the brides, Jisung.” 

Jisung swatted Minho's hand, narrowing his eyes just the slightest. 

Cute.  

He turned his attention to the second bride walking down the aisle, and Minho watched realization dawn upon Jisung as the brides joined hands at the altar. 

“They're…” Jisung rapidly blinked, like he was trying to make sense of his thoughts. “The couple you brought together—at the graduation? They're a little older, but it's them. Right?” 

“The couple we brought together,” Minho corrected. “Yes.” 

An incomprehensible noise slipped past Jisung's lips. Almost as loud as the love soaring through the room. But if his endearing eyes and bright smile were anything to go by, Minho would have said it was close to a squeal from excitement.

“This is amazing.” Jisung vibrated with elation, bumping closer and closer to Minho. “This is my first time at a wedding.” 

Minho held Jisung's hand again, an attempt to help soothe his jitteriness. “I'll bring you to another one soon.”

Jisung tore his gaze away from the brides exchanging vows. “You…you started bringing people together again?” 

“I…” 

Minho hadn't meant to. He was chasing after the feeling he felt when Jisung watched him bring the fated lovers together—the warmth that settled over him when Jisung smiled at him that day. So, he started bringing people together again, weaved in a pair of fated lovers between his usual routine. But the feeling was never the same, nothing close to it. 

“It was mainly for selfish reasons.” Minho scratched the back of his neck, kept his gaze tethered to anything but Jisung. He didn't want to meet disappoint—something worse. “But yes.” 

“I think the God of Love can be a little selfish,” Jisung said, squeezing Minho's hand. 

Minho snapped his head towards Jisung. He traced the sincerity in his features, his beaming smile. 

“Really?” 

“Yes, really.” 

“Then, I'll bring you to every wedding from all my selfish work.” 

“But we have to stay for the entire thing—starting with this one!”

“Of course. Anything for you, Jisung.” 

Twinkling lights cascaded along the gazebo's top railing. They swayed with the night breeze, looked close to shooting stars, and the dancing brides giggled every time one of them bumped the flickering bulbs. 

Their wedding reception was long over, and yet, they continued to dance to nothing but their promise of tomorrow. One bride dipped the other, then stole a kiss. 

Jisung shot up, almost knocking the table over. “We should go.” 

“Okay,” Minho said, then followed behind him. He mapped Jisung's back, the returning tension. It had started in his hands at first—as the guests began to leave one by one. And now, it traveled up Jisung's bicep, to his jaw. Minho's fingers twitched at his side. 

Jisung didn't speak, and Minho didn't feel the need to fill the silence. They just walked—walked and walked and walked. 

Five minutes turned to twenty, turned to an hour. Minho didn't know when he started counting, nor why he started to. But it kept his mind preoccupied and stopped his hands from moving of their own accord. 

Another breeze came. Minho saw it before he felt it; it danced through Jisung's hair, made one too many curls stick up before it kissed Minho's cheeks. This time, the breeze was cooler and brought the smell of the ocean. Minho smiled. 

“You brought us to the beach.” 

“Wanted to take you somewhere, too.” 

“That's sweet, Jisung.” 

They kicked off their shoes, almost tripped over themselves as they yanked off their socks. Their laughter rang through the air, unrestrained and loud, like the ocean. 

Jisung took Minho's hand and ran. He led Minho through the shore, sharply inhaling every time the freezing water returned. He shivered—Minho wondered if his teeth were clattering together, if the roaring water eclipsed the clinking—but he didn't pull away. He held Minho's hand tighter. 

He looked over his shoulder, a shy smile forming. “We'll bring fishing poles next time.” 

“We'll fish on a sunny morning,” Minho said, squeezing Jisung's hand. “Come on,” he pulled Jisung's back from the water, “it's too cold. Let's sit.”

“Okay,” Jisung said. 

They returned to their forgotten shoes and socks. Minho plopped into the sand first, and Jisung followed, sitting close enough for their knees to touch, a hand falling to his side. Minho considered taking it in his, just to feel the warmth of Jisung's fingertips interlaced with his again. 

But Jisung acted first. 

His fingers sprawled along the sand. Miniscule grains crept over the ridges of his knuckles, up to his wrist. His hand slid back and forth, like the receding waves, and Minho slipped his hand beneath the sand, too. His pinkie bumped Jisung's, and Jisung stopped. 

“I enjoyed everything from today. Really. Thank you, Minho…But it made me…” Jisung's voice was barely audible against the crashing waves. “I miss it.” 

Minho looked to the ocean, then at Jisung. “What do you miss?” 

“Feeling loved,” Jisung whispered. 

Minho slowly blinked. 

“Just loving from afar isn't enough,” Jisung said, bringing his knees to his chest. He wrapped his arms around his legs, pillowing his head atop his knee. “Not anymore.” 

Minho gaped at Jisung—his friend, a reaper.  

Reapers walked through the human realm as something less than a ghost. Never seen, never felt. To humans, reapers were a concept, a creation that portrayed what they didn't understand. Reapers represented Death, and in the face of it, humans would learn of their honest mistake. 

That was the only time a reaper's presence was known—the only time a human could have a connection to a reaper. Just at the cusp of an eternal rest, never before. 

Humans couldn't feel for reapers, not really. 

And yet, Jisung, a reaper who claimed to love, had felt a human's, had known what it meant to be loved by one. 

It didn't make sense. None of it made sense. It was too—human.  

Minho blinked rapidly, tracing over Jisung's soft features every time he opened his eyes. 

Jisung was—  

“You…you were human?”

“Yes.”

“A human turned reaper?” 

“Yes.” 

A reaper who knew love.  

“How…” Minho shook his head, trying to rid himself of every thought he knew regarding reapers. Maybe they were all wrong. Maybe he had foolishly formed his own truths, attempted to make sense of what he didn't know. “How does that happen?” 

Jisung sighed, pulled his legs closer to himself. “He helps his friend cheat Death.”

That would explain it. Minho had never met Death. They were everywhere, just always out of reach. But Minho had heard of them, what they were like, and every story held one constant: Death did not like being toyed with. 

And somehow, a human managed to pull the wool over their eyes. Minho wasn't surprised, though. If any human was capable of tricking Death, of course it would be Jisung.  

Minho leaned closer to Jisung. He fixed a stray curl and smiled. “Sounds like an interesting story.” 

Astonishment danced across Jisung's countenance. It stayed for a beat, two, then shifted into a bashful grin. He relaxed under Minho's gaze. He sat upright, rested a hand in his lap as the other returned under the sand, right next to Minho's. 

“It's,” Jisung tilted his head back and forth, as if weighing his options, “a long one.” 

Minho turned towards the ocean again, caught the edges of the sun beginning to rise. It was akin to a paradise, a sight you could spend an eternity gazing upon. But it didn't tug on Minho's soul—not like Jisung did. 

“I have time,” Minho said, a little winded, a lot of love. 

“Because you keep sending your cupids to do part of your workload,” Jisung laughed, airy and soft. “Seungmin gave me an earful when he caught me at an accident.” 

“I'm delegating,” Minho shrugged.

Jisung raised a brow. “Delegating?” 

Minho slid his hand closer to Jisung, until his palm rested over Jisung's knuckles. “Is it so wrong for me to make time for you?”

Jisung's gaze dipped, and a deep scarlet rose to his cheeks, the base of his neck. He looked at Minho again, then slowly shook his head. 

“So, tell me your long story.” Minho squeezed his hand; a light pressure, just enough for Jisung to feel, to know it was intentional. “I always have time when it comes to you, Jisungie.” 

Jisung smiled—the same one he always gave Minho, the same one that stirred Minho's entire being. But this time, Minho could recognize that it wasn't the smile that moved him. It was Jisung.  

Jisung made him feel alive, made him feel— 

Minho was the God of Love. He existed for humans, to help them. Minho didn't get to love, to feel it. 

And yet.  

ᡣ𐭩ˋ°•*⁀➷

Minho didn't measure time. He had no need for it. But on more than one occasion, he found himself doing it. All because of Jisung—it was always because of Jisung. 

Absent-mindedly, he'd count the fleeting minutes spent with Jisung, the long hours that always ended too soon. All his counting led to one conclusion: time was working against him. It dragged, turned an hour into a lifetime when he was apart from Jisung, then slipped between his fingers when he was reunited with the reaper. 

Minho abhorred it. But he couldn't do anything to stop it. So, he measured time—again and again and again. 

Sometimes, Minho wished he never noticed the new habit. But on some days, right before he and Jisung parted ways, he wished he had caught it sooner. Maybe it could have helped him recognize his feelings, shed light on what it looked like when the God of Love loved. 

“Bored already?” 

Jisung's laugh rang through the air, like bell chimes in the wind, and Minho smiled. He slumped further into the thick tree, didn't care for the bark digging into his back. He couldn't. Not when Jisung was beaming at him. 

“You kept me waiting for too long.” 

Jisung rolled his eyes, another breathy laugh tumbling from his lips. “I was gone for five minutes.” 

“Felt like hours,” Minho sighed, pushing himself off the tree and stepping back into the hiking trail, closer to Jisung. 

Jisung scratched the tip of his nose, hid an ethereal smile behind his hand. Minho wanted to kiss him. He stifled the desire instead.  

Minho was certain about his feelings for Jisung. But he didn't know how Jisung felt, if he reciprocated Minho's feelings. At times like this, when Jisung's gaze carried a warmth and affection Minho thought only he could conjure, Minho thought Jisung felt the same—loved him. 

Maybe that's why he happily followed Minho along to weddings and arcades and restaurants and any spot Minho led them to. Maybe that's why he didn't protest when Minho decided to tag along, why he easily answered any and all questions Minho voiced. Maybe Jisung—a human turned reaper, a reaper full of love—did love Minho. 

“Guess you're gonna have to miss me some more,” Jisung murmured, cheeks matching the colorful leaves in the trees. He ran a hand over his leather satchel, pulled it closer to himself. “I have to take them.” 

Minho hummed. 

“It's not—it's not that I want to go—to leave you and cut our da—” Jisung snapped his mouth shut, and the red in his face scattered to his neck. 

Minho bit back a smile. “Our?” 

“Our,” Jisung stretched the word, nodding his head along, “hike! I didn't want to cut our hike short.” 

This time Minho couldn't stop his smile, and his cheeks stung. 

“It is a shame to cut our,” Minho glanced between Jisung's mouth and eyes, “hike.” 

Jisung scratched his nose again, took a breath to recollect himself. “It's because I've been delaying the arrival of the souls I reap,” Jisung sighed. “Changbin lectured me about it.” 

“He sounds like a perfect match for Seungmin,” Minho chuckled. He wiggled his eyebrows, and his lips curled into a mischievous grin. “Should we set them up?” 

“Only if we want to spend a millennium being scolded,” Jisung laughed. 

“Well, that doesn't sound too bad,” Minho said, voice sincere. “Not if I'm by your side.” 

Jisung's flush deepened. He fiddled with the buckle on his satchel, kept his eyes glued to the dirt beneath their feet. Before Minho could catch himself, he took Jisung's hand in his. 

There were times when Minho thought his hands had a mind of their own—a heart. They acted on their own, bore thoughts Minho hadn't realized were stirring inside him. All of them were about Jisung, of course. Reaching out to him, touching him, holding him—Minho's hands didn't know how to not seek Jisung. Some days, Minho didn't remember how he used his hands before he met Jisung. All he knew, all he could remember, was that his hands carried a love he barely learned to name—all for Jisung, only Jisung. 

Minho massaged uneven circles into Jisung's hand. “I'll see you soon?” 

“Always,” Jisung smiled, and Minho felt his love surging, how it tugged him closer to Jisung. 

“But you can't cut our date short next time,” Minho said, just to see red coat Jisung again, to prolong their last few seconds together. 

Jisung wore a coy grin, cocked his head to the side. “I don't remember being asked on a date.” 

“Will you—”

“Yes.” 

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.” 

Jisung squeezed Minho's hand, then parted with one last look. 

Minho stayed. He deviated from the hiking trail's path, though. He sat at the base of a tree, tipping his head back, just enough to see the forest's rustling leaves. They moved in tandem, and Minho thought of Jisung and himself. 

Minho smiled and began counting.

ᡣ𐭩ˋ°•*⁀➷

Minho was no stranger to first date jitters. He had been present for one too many to count, soothing nerves and providing a sense of comfort, safety. Though he had witnessed first-hand how skittish people could become, he never made any sense of it. But now, as Minho waited for Jisung, he understood.  

Despite scrubbing his hands against his jeans for the hundredth time, Minho's palms continued to dampen. At this rate, he was bound to give himself a friction burn. And still, that wasn't the worst of it. His drumming heart only played harder and harder and harder, even as it dropped to his stomach and twisted his insides. Minho didn't think it was possible to get himself—the God of Love—so worked up; and yet, he was on the verge of combusting at the mere thought of spending the day with Jisung. 

Minho pinched the bridge of his nose, then took a deep breath. He followed up with a second breath, a third. Little by little, the nerves rolled off, fell into the roaring water beneath him. He leaned against the pier's wooden railing and watched the morning surfers ride the waves. 

“Did waiting feel like hours again?” 

Minho tensed, only to feel relief wash over him as Jisung leaned into his space. He tilted his head, traced Jisung's gummy smile and the pink and green tie dyed bucket hat he wore, and chuckled. 

“That's a nice hat, Jisungie,” Minho grinned. 

“Glad you think so,” Jisung hummed. He pulled a second bucket hat, exactly the same as his own, from behind his back and placed it on Minho's head. “I got you one, too.” 

And just like that, all of Minho's previous fears and worries vanished. “Thank you,” he breathed. He adjusted his hat, then struck up a terrible pose. “How do I look?” 

“Beautiful,” Jisung said, no hesitation. 

Heat crawled to Minho's face, his ears. “So do you. Beautiful, like a dream.” 

Jisung flushed, and satisfaction curled in Minho's stomach. Now they matched in more ways than one. 

“Come on,” Jisung murmured, taking Minho's hand in his. He led them towards a closed fishing gear shack, a bashful smile on his lips as he looked over his shoulder. “Wanted today to be our ‘next time’. But you need to teach me.”

Warmth encased Minho. He knew it was his own love taking shape, buzzing around him, then clouding the two in their own little bubble. 

“Okay,” Minho said. “But after this, I'm taking you somewhere.” 

Jisung squeezed his hand. “Okay.” 

They spent half a day fishing, going back and forth between standing at the pier and hitching a ride on a shrimp boat. After Jisung finally caught a fish, he deemed himself ready to let Minho take him anywhere. So, Minho took him around the world again. This time, though, they were in search of the café with the best cheesecake and coffee. It took another half day to make a decision, and they shared a slice of cheesecake in a park on the other side of the country. 

It was the perfect date. Not because of what they did, but because they got to spend as much time as possible together. Because the pair spent their date as just Jisung and Minho, Minho and Jisung—no meddling with humans’ love, no reaping souls. For a day, they got to be human together. 

Jisung stretched his legs over the checkered picnic blanket, sighing contentedly. He shook off his bucket hat, placed it right next to Minho's and the pair of tangerine glasses they got along their way. 

“Do you think we could feed the stray cats next time?” Jisung asked, eyes moored to a group of kids fighting over a bag of treats. 

Minho rested a hand on Jisung's leg, just above his knee, and kneaded the soft skin. “We'll find a way.” 

Jisung grinned, fervently nodding. The people in the park stole his attention again. His gaze jumped between friends, families, lovers, anyone that caught his eye, and his smile widened with every second. 

Endearment flowed through Minho, fondness dripping from him as he watched Jisung. He loved seeing Jisung like this, could spend the rest of his days just by his side. 

“Do you…”

Jisung looked at him, brows raised. “Do I?”  

“Do you ever miss it?” Minho's eyes dipped to their legs; their thighs were pressed against each other, and Minho still had a hand draped over Jisung. “Being human?” 

Minho didn't know why he was prodding now—at all. He ached to know, and still, a part of him wanted to remain in the dark. 

A second turned into a minute, then two, and Jisung finally said, “Not anymore.”

Minho's eyes flicked back to Jisung. “Why?” 

“Because I know that if I were human, I would have never gotten to meet you,” Jisung smiled.

Minho's shoulders dropped, just enough for him to realize the tension had been there. “You'd still feel my presence—all humans do.” 

“It wouldn't be the same,” Jisung murmured. He pulled Minho's hand into his lap, enveloped it with his palms. “I wouldn't have…” He swiped his thumbs over the soft skin; a way to soothe himself, Minho assumed, but he could still feel the slight tremor in Jisung's hands. “I wouldn't have gotten to fall in love with you.”

Warmth returned to Minho. Soft and kind, and different. It was love—pure love that wasn't his, nor an extension of himself. 

It was Jisung's.  

Minho blinked once, twice. He stared at Jisung. Love emanated from his silhouette—a mist that circled them, collided with Minho's own love. The remains showered them in a light pink and green drizzle, akin to falling stars. 

“Is that…” Jisung's grip on Minho's hand wavered. “Is that wrong?” 

Minho took Jisung's hand in his. “Ask me,” he curled his fingers over Jisung's and squeezed tight, “who the God of Love loves?” 

Jisung frowned. His brows pinched together, and Minho wanted to soothe the deep creases with a kiss. 

“Minho,” Jisung said, just on the verge of a whisper, but Minho could make out the sorrow in his voice. 

Minho leaned in closer, stole Jisung's hitched breath. He held a hand to Jisung's cheek and caressed the smooth skin. “Ask me, Jisung.” 

“Who does the God of Love love?” Jisung breathed. 

Minho was the embodiment of Love, a God dedicated to humans. He experienced love through them, bore witness to every form it took. It was always within his reach, sometimes he even grazed the surface, but it was never his to have. 

Until he met Jisung.  

“A reaper,” Minho said, voice laced in honey. He existed for humans, but he lived for Jisung, for himself. “The God of Love loves a reaper.” 

Jisung's doe-eyes widened, and his bottom lip quivered. “Minho.” 

“I love you, Jisung,” Minho smiled. He tucked a curl behind Jisung's ear, brushed a finger over the shell of his ear. “I'm in love with you.” 

Jisung kissed him. A firm press of lips that slowly came undone, only to come back together again. It was tender, delicate—a stark contrast to the booming in Minho's chest, the energy coursing through him. 

“Me, too,” Jisung murmured against Minho's lips. “I love you, Minho.” 

I love you, Minho repeated. Or Jisung did. Minho didn't know anymore, just that every first syllable started with a kiss and ended with their soft laughs. 

Minho kissed him again. Again and again and again—because he wanted to, because he could, because he loved Jisung with every fiber of his being. 

I love you. I love you. I love you.