Archive of Our Own ^beta

In the group of university friends gathered by class president Bang Chan, everyone got along well. They could be called good friends—they always supported each other and helped when needed.

But in any large group, it was impossible to be equally close with everyone.

For example, there were Chan and Felix, brought together by fate in a foreign country. They always hung out with Changbin, whom Felix had been giving not-so-subtle looks for the past six months. There were Hyunjin and Jeongin from the arts department, inseparable since childhood. There were Minho and Han, best friends who met at a party and stuck together so tightly that even gravity would be jealous.

And then there was Seungmin. He was with everyone and no one at the same time. One day, he’d cling to Jeongin, teasing him as "kid." The next, he’d sit through student council meetings with Chan and always convince him to pay for dinner afterward. In the evenings, he’d cook with Felix, listening to him complain about how dense Changbin was. He could easily spend the whole night at Changbin’s studio, pestering him with tales of the hardships of being a political science student. And afterward, he’d probably listen to Changbin gush about how much he loved Felix and how hard it was to confess. What a joke!—Minho would have said if anyone had asked him.

Of course, Seungmin was with Minho too. He’d drop by the bookstore during Minho’s shifts when there were no customers, filling the silence with talk about baseball games, annoying third-year students, or how Hyunjin had once again turned their shared apartment into chaos.

"Seriously, hyung, if he leaves his paintbrushes in my cup one more time, I’m moving in with you and living on your floor until you let me stay." That’s what he’d say. As a joke, of course. But the problem was, Minho took his playful threats and complaints seriously. And yes, he would let him stay. Maybe even forever.

He thought about it so often that the idea had lost its novelty. Or sometimes, the thoughts vanished entirely when Seungmin pulled up a chair beside him, rested his head on Minho’s lap, and smiled up at him blissfully. When he’d take Minho’s hand to flip a book back to the right page because he hadn’t finished reading yet. When he brought Minho coffee before lectures, helped him sort library cards, or sat with him in the kitchen late at night, helping him cook. Minho really would offer him a place in his apartment, food, and even himself—all he needed was the courage to say it. But sometimes, it felt like Seungmin didn’t need any of it.

Today’s university baseball match was decisive for advancing to the top four of the season.

Minho sat in the stands, his cap pulled low over his eyes, watching the field. Below him were Chan, Changbin, and Jeongin. Jisung sat beside Minho, fiddling with his phone and occasionally glancing at the scoreboard. Hyunjin and Felix sat even lower, exchanging glances. Minho didn’t see where the others were—his eyes were fixed on Seungmin.

On his distant, focused face. On his fingers gripping the bat.

He watched Seungmin and realized: the numbers on the scoreboard were counting his lives. Every win added one; every loss took away ten.

He knew nothing about baseball, but he knew one thing about Seungmin: losing would break him. So Minho watched intently, trying to read even a fraction of his emotions through the crowd of fans. It was the seventh inning, their team was on offense, and Seungmin was up to bat. This wasn’t the decisive moment, but Kim, as always, took everything personally, and Minho knew—right now, Seungmin believed the outcome of the match rested on him. Minho was sure he depended on Seungmin.

"Hyung, do you think he’s okay?" Jisung’s voice came from the side. He’d finally looked up from his phone and was now staring at the field. "He doesn’t look great."

"Yeah, not great," Minho echoed dumbly, then corrected himself, "He said he’s scared of missing like last time, after his injury."

"Injury? I didn’t know," Jisung hesitated. "When did he tell you?"

"He got hurt during practice six months ago. Said he couldn’t play properly for two weeks after," Minho replied.

First strike—a miss. Two more, and Seungmin would be back on the bench.

"Tsk tsk," Jisung clicked his tongue. "Come on, Kim Seungmin!" he shouted so loudly the whole stadium seemed to flinch. Minho froze—because now he saw it clearly: Seungmin’s eyes were locked on him.

Second strike—a hit. Seungmin took off like he’d grown wings for a moment.

Jisung gave him a weird look as Minho gripped the armrest. Cheers and whistles erupted across the stadium as Seungmin reached base. Minho exhaled. The game wasn’t over yet, but everyone could breathe easier now.

Their team won, and as they left the stands, Minho headed straight for the locker rooms. The others got lost in the crowd, but Lee practically flew down the stairs, and a minute later, he was leaning against the wall near the back exit.

Seungmin was the first one out, scanning the area. Minho waved, and Seungmin instantly brightened.

"Hyung!" he blurted. His hair was damp and messy, his cheeks still flushed—he looked adorable.

Minho stared. He kept staring as Seungmin, zipping up his jacket on the go, ran toward him. He stared as Seungmin grabbed his hands and laced their fingers together.

"You watched, hyung? I’m so happy," Seungmin said calmly, but his eyes sparkled with excitement.

"You were amazing. A little more, and you’ll make it to the pro league," Minho said, then blinked at his own words.

Seungmin threw his arms around Minho’s neck, squeezing so tight it knocked the air out of him.

They stood like that for a while, and Minho was happy. Happy that he was the first to congratulate him. Happy that Seungmin kept holding his hand, hugging him like Minho was his only anchor.

"Guys, this is Minho, my good friend," Seungmin said, smiling sweetly. That smile stung Minho’s eyes, blinding him. When the other players approached, Seungmin’s hand slipped from his grip, and the happiness in his chest was replaced by an empty ache.

"We decided where we’re going. You coming?" one of the guys asked. Minho didn’t remember his name but had definitely seen him on the field.

"Didn’t the coach tell us to get some sleep?" another laughed, then added seriously, "Of course I’m coming."

Then, to Minho: "Tell the guys I’m glad they came. We’ll celebrate this weekend—my treat!"

"I’m glad they came," he said. Minho frowned for some reason.

"So, what’s the deal with your Kim Seungmin?" Han joked under his breath. "Ran off without even waiting."

"If someone hadn’t been glued to the stands, he might’ve waited," Changbin playfully smacked Jisung’s neck.

"He suggested we all hang out this weekend," Minho looked up from his phone. "Even wrote it in the group chat."

He said it and stopped. From here, he had to go straight down the street; the others were heading different ways. But Jisung confidently stepped in his direction as soon as everyone said their goodbyes.

"What?" Minho asked, kicking a pebble on the road.

"You seem down, hyung," Jisung said matter-of-factly. "Not even gonna invite me over to watch anime?"

"Admit it, you just don’t want to be alone with Changbin while he’s in his lovesick phase."

"No one would, hyung, seriously! It’s a nightmare, I’m telling you. When they finally get together, I’m getting wasted," Jisung made a face. "Oh, woe is me, the light of my life will never look my way, what shall I do~?"

Minho felt a little better. Maybe because he wasn’t the only one with this problem. Maybe because when Jisung mocked Changbin, it was impossible to stay sad.

"You’ll take any excuse to drink, Han-ah," Minho teased back.

Jisung puffed his cheeks and stayed silent until they reached Minho’s apartment, then asked seriously, "So what actually happened with you?"

Minho had expected this question. Expected it from Chan the moment they met at the stadium exit. Expected it from Changbin or the overly observant Felix. He’d expected it least from Jisung—the guy understood love about as much as Minho did, couldn’t read moods, and even as Minho’s best friend, he noticed things last.

If even Jisung could see it, Minho was in deep trouble. His misery was obvious enough for a blind man to notice. "Seungmin would’ve noticed first," flashed through his mind.

"It’s nothing. Just hoped to celebrate Seungmin’s win tonight," he shrugged.

Jisung seemed to believe.

"And you were making fun of Changbin a second ago," he giggled, slinging an arm over Minho’s shoulder. "It’ll be fine, hyung, don’t stress." He looked up through his bangs in a way that made something click in Minho’s head.

And damn, yeah—he was definitely in trouble.

Four hours and nearly fifteen episodes of Naruto later, Minho’s phone buzzed.

"Who is it?" Jisung instantly jerked awake.

seungminnie:
Hyung, can you meet me? I’m in your area. 01:43

"Seungmin wants me to meet him," Minho said, pulling on his sneakers.

"Perfect, I was just about to head home," Jisung yawned, tugging on a hoodie.

Minho raised a brow. You were asleep a minute ago. Why so eager to leave?

"Because I’m your good friend," Han joked. "And Changbin’s great friend—honestly, what would you guys do without me?" He laughed.

"What’ll you do if you get home and Felix is there?" Minho joked back, typing a reply to Seungmin.

"Sleep on the street," Jisung raised his hands. "Or go to Chan’s."

Cool air wrapped around them as they stepped outside.

"We’re going the same way," Minho started forward, but Jisung stayed put, awkwardly shifting his weight.

"Uh, hyung, thing is… I wanted to stop by the mart, so I’ll take a different route. See you this weekend?" he mumbled, then waved and turned the corner.

Minho rolled his eyes. His phone buzzed again.

seungminnie:
I’m here. 01:54

He quickened his pace and arrived five minutes later. The streetlight only illuminated part of the road—Seungmin wasn’t there. Minho looked around and spotted him further ahead, lounging on a bench in the shadows, head tilted back toward the sky. Hearing footsteps, he jolted, then grinned when he saw Minho.

"You came," he stated.

"Thought you’d had too much to drink and needed picking up, but here you are stargazing," Minho said, slightly disappointed but soft.

"I was drunk. Sobered up waiting for you," Seungmin pouted like Minho had accused him of something awful, then brightened. "And you rushed here, huh?"

Minho froze, not understanding. Seungmin was suddenly right in front of him, lips quirking as he drawled, "Dummy."

He smelled faintly of malt, a little more of cologne, and mint gum. Minho tensed slightly, trying not to show how stupidly his heart was pounding. Not wanting to let the teasing slide, Minho leaned back and feigned irritation.

"Hey, Kim Seungmin, first you ask me to pick you up in the middle of the night, then call me a dummy when I show up?"

Seungmin laughed. Laughed so long it was like Minho had told the funniest joke in the world. Then, out of nowhere, he started pulling off his jacket.

"What are you doing?"

Seungmin hooked a finger under Minho’s sleeve—the cold bit his exposed skin. He draped the jacket over Minho’s shoulders, still laughing. "You rushed out so fast you forgot to dress properly? It’s cold. Hence, dummy."

Minho just stared. There was nothing else to do. Seungmin misinterpreted the pause and grabbed his wrist with one hand, looping the other around Minho’s arm like a vine.

"I’m kidding, stop sulking. Come on, Minho-hyung, let’s go," he tugged Minho’s hand. "I don’t wanna freeze out here."

Minho let himself be led toward his own apartment. Once sure Minho was following, Seungmin let go and grabbed his sports bag from the ground, falling into step beside him.

"Won’t your parents notice you’re gone?"

Seungmin pursed his lips, caught off guard. "They shouldn’t. Think I’m studying for exams. Or at your place," he winked.

Minho side-eyed him. "Am I your personal excuse to skip studying now?"

Seungmin didn’t answer. Minho kept walking, eyes on the ground. Then stopped.

Seungmin was ten meters behind, perched on the stone wall separating the road from the houses and cars below, now a meter above the ground.

"Trying to kill yourself?" Minho hissed under his breath.

"Nope!" Seungmin called, as if hearing him. Ignoring the height, he walked along the wall and stopped above Minho. "Catch me!" He jumped down.

Minho didn’t react in time, but the drop wasn’t far, and Seungmin landed easily.

"Which hand, hyung?"

"What kind of trick is this?" Minho grumbled, then nodded at his right hand without thinking.

"Wrong," Seungmin took his hand, laced their fingers, and squeezed. Then uncurled his left fist—inside was a single white flower. "You guessed wrong, but here—take it anyway." He pressed it into Minho’s free hand.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. Seungmin swung their hands like a pendulum, looking around. Minho held on tight.

"Yeah," Seungmin said at the doorstep.

Minho looked at him openly. "Yeah what?"

"Yeah, you are my personal excuse."

Kicking off his shoes, Seungmin flopped onto the couch. He often stayed over at Minho’s, with or without reason, and Minho was used to it.

"Hyung?"

"Hm?" Minho called from the entryway.

"Where’s Jisung?"

Minho blanked. "Why would I know?"

"He was definitely here," Seungmin mused. "Did he really leave this late?"

"How’d you even know he was here?" Minho snapped, still flustered from their earlier exchange and now annoyed by the vague questions.

"Well, your bed’s only this messy when he visits," Minho could practically hear him shrugging, nodding at the pile of blankets and half-eaten snacks.

He stepped into the room. The bed was made. "I tidied it before leaving," he remembered, giving Seungmin a questioning look. Seungmin watched him expectantly.

"A wild guess," he answered the unasked question. "Just figured."

Minho’s mouth opened and closed a few times in disbelief. He’d fallen for it so easily—like Seungmin could magically know who’d been here just by the state of the apartment. Seungmin, noticing his shock, nudged his shoulder.

"Hope you didn’t kick him out because of me," he said, standing. "I brought you caramel cola," he rummaged in his bag, "and a new comic."

He pulled out a thin volume and a bottle. "Read it at work," he smiled, diffusing the awkwardness.

"Thanks," Minho took them, his gaze lingering on Seungmin’s hands for a second too long.

"You look tired," Seungmin said. "Want me to make tea before bed?"

Without waiting for an answer, he rustled into the kitchen, clattering dishes like he owned the place. Minho only had time to fold Seungmin’s jacket over a chair and unmake the bed before an energetic "done!" came from the kitchen.

Minho sat on the lone chair while Seungmin leaned against the window frame, mug in hand. The view outside was barely visible, but he stared past the trees and benches across the street. Hearing the chair creak, he turned.

"Let’s buy another one."

Minho rubbed his tired eyes—the day had drained him, so he didn’t immediately follow.

"Another chair," Seungmin clarified.

"Sure," Minho nodded, finishing his tea. "Aren’t you tired?"

The question slipped out, but it had been on his mind for the past half-hour.

"Nope," Seungmin said. "Adrenaline." Then, after a pause: "Honestly, I’m still shaking."

Despite his words, he looked… relaxed? Serene. Five minutes ago, he’d been bouncing around like he was high on adrenaline; three minutes ago, cracking dumb jokes. Now he stood by the window like a marble statue—calm and quiet. Minho was enchanted.

"Ready for bed?"

Seungmin didn’t answer. He rinsed his mug, took Minho’s empty one, rinsed it too, and only then headed to the bedroom.

When Minho mustered the energy to follow, Seungmin was already on the couch, knees tucked, hands under his head.

Minho sighed and sat at the foot of the bed, leaning against the headboard. Seungmin’s hand brushed his hair. Minho turned slightly, nudging his shoulder. Seungmin wasn’t asleep—he was pretending, probably smiling. Again.

"Go to sleep," Seungmin whispered.

"Don’t tell me you’re planning to sleep like that after a match," Minho said. "Get on the bed."

"If you keep sitting there, hyung, I will sleep like this," Seungmin said softly, tilting his head. His bangs fell over his eyes, lips quirking in a faint smile.

"Seungmin," Minho sighed. Hearing his name, Seungmin stirred and finally moved to the edge of the bed.

"Then you lie down too, Minho-hyung."

And Minho did.

Space was tight, so he kept his arms close, barely moving. Seungmin shifted toward the edge, giving him room. He wasn’t looking, but Minho could feel his gaze. They’d slept over often, but usually passed out unintentionally, or Seungmin took the floor or unfolded couch.

As if sharing his thoughts, Seungmin suddenly moved closer, wrapping an arm around Minho’s and resting his head on his shoulder.

"If I move any farther, I’ll fall," he muttered, as if excusing himself, and didn’t budge. Minho shifted slightly, now able to see part of his face—his high forehead, messy bangs, thick brows, the bridge of his nose. Afraid Seungmin would sense his stare, Minho closed his eyes. Sleep crept in again.

"Hyung, know what?" Seungmin mumbled drowsily. Minho shifted to show he was listening.

"I’d stay here with you for a couple of years…" he said. "Let’s—" he yawned, "—stay here together."

After the match, everyone looked forward to the weekend. Chan and Changbin suggested meeting at one of their places—their apartments were on the same floor. Seungmin offered to buy beer for everyone as the guest of honor.

Minho didn’t want to think about the party, the preparations, the pizza choices, or the board game debates. The last night with Seungmin hadn’t left his mind. He could’ve confessed then, but in the moment, it hadn’t even crossed his thoughts.

Finding time alone with him in that atmosphere was hard. After matches, Seungmin changed—briefly, but drastically. He joked more and teased less, became more tactile, like he’d let go of something invisible that usually weighed him down. He talked less with others and more with Minho. Whether it was adrenaline, a need for praise, or something else—Minho didn’t care.

He loved when Seungmin saw him. Minho was the one he came to on those days, the one whose couch he claimed, the one he called on Zoom, sent random texts and photos of street cats to. Then everything settled back to normal.

Lately, though, Seungmin had stopped coming just for support. He started coming just because. And that recent night probably wouldn’t be the last. Minho felt it—a little more time, and it would happen again. Because Seungmin seemed to really see him now. And that meant Minho would have another chance to confess.

With these thoughts, he flipped another page of the comic. The doorbell jingled, and Minho looked up. A breathless Seungmin stood in front of him with two coffees. He set one on the counter.

"Hi, hyung. Got a midterm last period," he exhaled. "No phone, might be late. See you!" He bolted before Minho could respond, leaving him with a dumb smile that quickly faded.

Seungmin was still outside the glass door. He handed the second coffee to the same girl as before, smiling warmly. They walked off together. Minho shook his head, trying to dispel the stupid thoughts.

She’s just a classmate. And that’s just Seungmin. As if he didn’t smile at Minho like that. As if he didn’t smile at other guys like that. A nasty voice in his head insisted: "He doesn’t."

Minho had no reason to be jealous—they weren’t even dating. But insecurity said otherwise.

Trying to shake it off, he picked up the coffee. On the light-blue sleeve, above the cardboard holder, was written: "To my favorite hyung" with a silly doodle. Minho smiled stupidly. He took the note, folded it in half, and tucked it into the comic like a bookmark.

It was loud. It was always loud when they all got together. Changbin’s apartment, much bigger than the others, had turned into chaos. Wherever Minho looked, there was mess. Felix and Chan were doing something in the kitchen; Han and Hyunjin were fake-arguing over a movie. Minho had just arrived and already wanted to step outside for air. As he paused to set his things down, someone nudged him from behind.

"Hyung, why’re you blocking the way? Move," Jeongin huffed, stepping over bags. He was carrying four pizza boxes and, when Minho moved aside, shoved them into his hands. "Put these somewhere. I gotta go back down for the rest."

Minho felt awkward—work had made him miss most of the prep. Everyone was busy, and he’d only been asked to bring disposable utensils. He could’ve helped cook, but the kitchen was probably too crowded already. He toed off his shoes and walked in.

"Oh, hyung!" Jisung called. "Settle this for us, yeah? Hyunjin has no taste."

Minho would’ve loved to escape the debate over whether an artsy drama or a dumb heist comedy was better, but they didn’t give him a choice. As he listened to Hyunjin’s passionate rants and Jisung’s chatter, he realized—someone was missing.

"Seungmin’s not here yet?"

"Nope," Changbin answered. Minho swore he heard pity in his voice. Maybe he imagined it. But everyone in the room was looking at him like they knew something.

"Need a volunteer," Changbin announced. "To run to the store for chips." He paused. "And whipped cream. Lix asked for it."

Minho stood. He definitely needed a break—people at work, people here, his sour mood. Ten minutes outside sounded perfect.

"Let’s remember why we’re doing this," Hyunjin cut in. "Or rather, who for."

"Hyung, call Seungmin. Tell him to pick stuff up on the way."

"And to hurry," someone added.

As if summoned, the door slammed. Minho glanced toward the hall. Seungmin stood there, disheveled, in an unbuttoned cream trench coat.

"Hey!" he panted, hands on his knees. "Am I late?"

At the collective yes, Seungmin grinned and waved his hands. "Sorry, sorry! Let me just drop my stuff, then I’ll run to the store and come right back." He straightened. "I need a volunteer to carry the important stuff."

Minho laughed—Seungmin had promised to buy the beer.

"Sorry, but I only trust Minho-hyung with the beer," Jeongin cut in.

"Hey, what about me?" Jisung and Hyunjin said in unison. Jeongin stuck out his tongue. "Not you two. You’d drink it on the way."

They both gasped in mock offense. Minho stepped into the hall without answering.

A minute later, he and Seungmin were walking down the street, cool wind brushing past them.

"How’ve you been, hyung?" Seungmin asked, popping another mint gum and automatically offering Minho the pack. Minho declined.

"Needed air after work. Finally a day off tomorrow."

"Bless whoever invented Sundays," Seungmin sighed dreamily. "Though mine’s not exactly free."

"Why’s that?"

"Gotta practice while the guys aren’t around. Hate my swing lately."

"Not worried you’ll overdo it and wreck your arms before the next match?" Minho tilted his head.

"Terrified. Hence you’re carrying the beer, not me," Seungmin laughed.

"Kim Seungmin, have you no fear?" Minho hissed, half-raising a hand—but instead of hitting him, he just ruffled Seungmin’s hair.

"Relax, you love me anyway," Seungmin winked.

Minho froze. Because Minho did love him.

The playful tone, the teasing expression—none of it stopped the words from hitting him like a truck. He stared dumbly at the store sign as Seungmin disappeared inside. A minute later, he returned and actually handed Minho a whole crate.

"I thought you were joking about the crate," Minho admitted.

"As long as we have you and me, I won’t joke," Seungmin said. "If I had the money, I’d get two."

"Changbin also asked for soda and whipped cream," Minho adjusted the crate against his knee. Seungmin ducked back inside and returned with a small bag.

"Why the cream?" he asked, eyeing the can. "Strawberry season’s over."

"Felix wanted it. Probably for baking," Minho shrugged.

"How sweet. Think they’ll get together?"

"Dunno. When they talk about each other, it’s…" Beautiful didn’t fit."Inspiring?"

"I think they will get together tonight," Seungmin whispered conspiratorially, glancing around like they were being watched.

"What’s your source?"

"A little bird told me…" He coughed. "Changbin said he’s done tiptoeing. Plans to make a move."

"I wish I could do that," Minho said. At Seungmin’s confused look, he corrected, "Wish I had that kind of confidence."

"Who says you don’t?" Seungmin shrugged. Minho flinched at his suddenly sharp gaze.

"Heavy?" Seungmin asked. "Wanna swap?"

"I’m fine," Minho shook his head. "You need your hands."

"If we don’t bring that beer, someone will rip them off," Seungmin smirked. "Besides, I’m an athlete. I’ve lifted worse."

"What, you’ll carry the crate and me?" Minho joked. The rough wood dug into his fingers.

"Hop on," Seungmin gestured to his back. Five minutes later, he’d not only taken the crate but pulled out four bottles and stuffed them into his own bag.

It was lighter.

The apartment was quieter now. After they’d eaten meat, followed by pizza while watching that dumb movie, and played Monopoly—Minho and Chan nearly fought over Boardwalk—everyone was drowsy. Deciding sleeping arrangements was easy once Changbin caught Felix trying to leave for Chan’s and said, "Stay with me tonight." And of course, Felix stayed. Han and Hyunjin were too drunk to cross the hallway, so they crashed on the couch.

Minho, Jeongin, and Seungmin ended up at Chan’s place. His apartment had two rooms, and Minho took the first, trying not to wonder who’d follow. The alcohol was slowly fading from his system, leaving a haze. His thoughts swirled somewhere deep, and he wasn’t about to dig them up.

Half an hour later, Jeongin walked in. Minho barely suppressed a disappointed sigh.

"Hyung, you awake?" Jeongin whispered as Minho cracked an eye open. "Just grabbing a shirt." He rummaged in the dresser and left, closing the door softly.

A few long minutes later, someone tiptoed to the bed. The scent of mint toothpaste and shower gel reached Minho. Seungmin sat on the edge of the bed. Minho could hear the droplets from his hair hitting the towel on his shoulders. His breathing was steady and quiet, like he was calming himself.

Minho forced his eyes open. Seungmin, who’d been sitting with his back to him, turned his head. They stayed like that until Minho finally asked:

"Why aren’t you lying down?"

Instead of answering, Seungmin straightened and climbed onto the bed, knees drawn up, leaning against the wall. A sliver of blue moonlight streaked across his face through the dark curtains.

After a pause, Minho shifted closer and sat beside him. Now the light touched them both.

Minho felt strangely at peace. The coolness of Seungmin’s damp hair contrasted with Minho’s burning cheeks. A little more, and steam might’ve risen between them—like water dousing fire, Seungmin always grounded Minho, calmed him just by being there.

A weight settled on his right shoulder—Seungmin leaned into him, turning his head. He wasn’t looking at Minho’s eyes but studying his face. Minho didn’t want to know where his gaze lingered each time. Because Minho was staring at his dimples, his thin lips, the mole on his neck.

A faint trace of alcohol clung to him, but his eyes weren’t drunk. His lashes cast shadows, his skin glowed like snow. Seungmin exhaled loudly through his teeth, clenching his fists a few times. Minho finally dared to meet his eyes.

Seungmin held his breath for a second, then leaned in. His broad palms cupped Minho’s cheeks. He searched Minho’s eyes silently—then kissed him.

His hands slid from Minho’s cheeks to his jaw, then his neck. The other hand brushed Minho’s hair back. Minho couldn’t move.

Seungmin kissed him again, slower this time, pressing firmly before pulling back slightly. Minho gripped his collar and kissed back, pouring everything he hadn’t said into it. He hoped Seungmin would understand, like he always did, without words.

And he did.

Seungmin climbed into Minho’s lap, arms looping around his shoulders, kissing him more openly, more tenderly. Minho’s hands slid to his waist, tangled in his hair. Seungmin gasped against his lips, moving closer, almost melting into him. Minho could feel the chill of his hands, the heat of his breath.

Then Seungmin suddenly pushed against his chest. Minho stilled, catching his breath. Seungmin slumped into his arms, forehead against Minho’s neck, and went still. Minho rested his hands on Seungmin’s back, gently smoothing over his shoulder blades. His heart pounded, blood roaring in his ears. Seungmin had to hear it.

Seungmin didn’t speak. He just existed there, unnaturally still, blending into the dark sheets like a shadow.

After a while, Minho tightened his hold and lowered them both onto the bed. Seungmin didn’t stir, just tucked his head against Minho’s arm, nose brushing his skin.

Minho shivered—his shirt was slightly damp, and every breeze from the window chilled him. But under his skin, he was burning. He looked at Seungmin—seemingly asleep—and smiled. If it weren’t for the others, he might’ve laughed loud enough for the whole building to hear. Instead, he just shifted closer, draped the blanket over them both, and stared at the ceiling.

It took him a long time to fall asleep.

The next morning, everything was the same. Minho left the room when the apartment was nearly empty. Jeongin sat at the kitchen table, finishing cereal and coffee. He looked rough, waving lazily when Minho walked in.

"Morning, hyung," he smiled slyly. "Chan already left to help clean up."

Seungmin was probably there too. The memory of last night hit Minho—his ears burned. He remembered cold fingers on his jaw, minty breath, dark shining eyes.

On the surface, everything was the same.

"Morning, hyung," Seungmin smiled. He was gathering snack wrappers when Minho appeared in the doorway. He looked at Minho exactly like he had yesterday. A pang shot through Minho’s ribs—Seungmin slipped past him into the hall, barely brushing his shoulder.

He didn’t come back in five minutes. Or an hour. "Went to study for exams," Changbin said. Minho knew it was a lie.

After cleaning, Minho went home, exchanging a few words with Jisung, who either didn’t notice anything or chose not to ask. In his lovesick paranoia, Minho assumed what wasn’t obvious to him was glaring to others. So even that brief morning moment with Seungmin felt like an oncoming train—something destructive and terrifying.

Minho hid his feelings not just from Seungmin but from everyone. He didn’t know if he was succeeding. Sometimes, it seemed the only one truly fooled was himself.

Seungmin didn’t text or call for two days. Minho, having slept through Sunday, went to work. It was slow, and he was idly finishing his comic when the doorbell chimed. Seungmin stood at the counter—with the same girl. He set a coffee in front of Minho, this time without a note: just a plain cup.

"Hi, hyung! Sorry I didn’t text," Seungmin rubbed his neck nervously. "Swamped with school. I’ll message you tonight." He smiled easily, then left before Minho could reply.

True to his word, his phone buzzed half an hour before closing.

seungminnie:
Come to the gym after work. 18:30
If you want. 18:34
I’ll wait. 18:41

Minho inhaled the chilly spring air. Cherry blossoms were blooming, but the wind and sky felt like a blizzard. Dark clouds clung to the buildings, sinking lower. Minho tightened his coat.

Seungmin was in the small gym, sprawled on a mat, tossing a ball at the ceiling, ignoring the world. Minho had to cough to get his attention.

"Oh, you came," Seungmin sounded surprised, like he hadn’t expected Minho to show.

"You asked me to," Minho said calmly, shedding his coat and lying on the adjacent mat.

Seungmin didn’t answer. He tossed the ball a few more times, then set it aside and sat up abruptly.

"Don’t even know what to say now," he admitted, fiddling with his glove. "Hyung, I didn’t think—it all just… happened." He gripped his head like the words gave him a migraine.

"I like you, Kim Seungmin," Minho said. "Think I’m in love with you." He added, "With you."

Seungmin stared at him, a mix of emotions flashing—relief, nervousness, fear. Fear that flickered for just a second but was unmistakable in his eyes, in his frozen posture.

Then Seungmin laughed. First quietly, then hysterically, covering his mouth and eyes. Minho swallowed. He kept staring, trying to see through him, to reach his heart.

Seungmin collapsed back onto the mat, hugging himself, breath slowing.

"Why would you say that?" he whispered. "Of all the things—why that?"

The word that hit Minho like a record scratch—harsh and sudden. He stared at Seungmin, curled up on the mat, back to him.

"I wanted to say I messed up. That it—was a mistake, you get it, hyung?" He turned, hope in his eyes, and Minho’s ribs ached again. He nodded numbly.

"I didn’t mean to ruin everything," Seungmin said guiltily.

"You didn’t ruin anything," Minho whispered back.

"But you’re saying you love me," Seungmin laughed nervously. "I can’t say it back."

"Can’t?" Minho echoed dumbly. The memory of fingers on his skin turned to ice shards.

Seungmin shook his head. "I’m not like that, hyung. It’s all—" he fumbled, "wrong."

Minho snapped out of it, nausea rising. "Kissing me was wrong?" His eyes stung. Seungmin stayed silent.

"Wrong to give me hope, then act like I misunderstood," Minho flared.

Seungmin pressed his lips together, hurt.

"Hyung, listen, I—"

Minho didn’t let him finish.

"Everything was wrong, Seungmin, but loving you wasn’t. Loving you was the only right thing I did. Too bad it had to be you."

The light in Seungmin’s eyes flickered out. He looked trapped, scared, pitiful, gripping his glove like it might tear.

"I don’t know what to say," he finally whispered. He couldn’t meet Minho’s eyes. Minho still wanted to feel his gaze.

"We can stay friends," Minho said, calming. "I don’t want to lose you."

Seungmin looked through him. He frowned and shook his head tiredly. "No, hyung. I don’t want you to feel awkward around me. I don’t want to feel awkward. And your feelings—" Minho watched the shadow fall over his face, "—they’ll get in the way. I can’t be your friend like before."

Minho thought a tear rolled down his cheek. He touched his own face—it was wet. They were both crying.

Seungmin said nothing else. He stared at his hands, breathing so loudly it echoed in the empty gym. Anger flared in Minho—he wanted to shake him, to hit him, to make him see.

Seungmin thought Minho and his feelings were a mistake. The only thing he was right about: that mistake was written over their friendship in red ink. It couldn’t be erased or covered—only torn out. And even that torn, crumpled page, Minho would’ve smoothed and kept. Because he was a coward, afraid of losing him.

"You’re such a goddamn coward," Minho hissed, standing. He pulled the comic from his bag, set it beside Seungmin, and walked out. He paused at the door—just long enough to hear, barely audible:

"If I weren’t a coward, maybe we’d have had a chance."

If he’d stayed a second longer, he’d have heard a thud—Seungmin hurling his glove at the wall. Then the sound of muffled sobs.

Outside, it began to snow.

The next day, nothing changed. Or the week after. Or the month after. Their group still met—mostly at Changbin and Felix’s place (they’d moved in together almost immediately). Less often at Seungmin’s matches, because Minho didn’t go anymore.

Seungmin was still with everyone and no one. Appearing and vanishing, blaming studies and practice. He was seen more often with that girl—no one knew her name. "Just a classmate," Changbin said. "Childhood friend," Chan said.

Seungmin was the same, but one thing was different: he and Minho were no longer them. No texts, no calls. At group meetups, they spoke politely, carefully, like avoiding landmines. Only Changbin and Jisung knew about their talk. The others saw but didn’t pry. Minho was grateful.

Without him, it was empty. Jisung tried his best, hanging around more, but it didn’t help. Minho missed him. He’d have crushed his own feelings just to be friends again. They never spoke about it again. They barely spoke at all—Seungmin distanced himself until, even in group settings, they just sat in awkward silence.

Minho had so much to say. But resentment tangled his thoughts, and the words caught in his throat.

If he could say them, he’d tell Seungmin: You can be with anyone, think of anyone, but you’ll still remember me. You can dodge and lie, but you’re still the same. You can hide and deny those feelings, but I saw them. We both did. And they were real. Don’t think I didn’t hear you that day. When you finally realize, remember me—and I’ll tell you I warned you.

Blind fury churned inside him, but no matter how much he rehearsed those words, he knew he’d never say them. They’d turn to gibberish on his tongue. And there was no one left to say them to.

Minho sorted library cards alone, fetched his own coffee, walked home alone. Sometimes, he went out at night to the old bench under the flickering streetlight. No one was ever there. Memories trickled back as he paced the distance from his door to the corner.

Seungmin was everywhere but with him. Walking past the bookstore windows twice a day—noon and five. Standing at the bus stop with his teammates, waiting for the one bus Minho didn’t need. After all this time only seeing each other in the group, Seungmin started appearing around campus—even though they were in different years. Like someone didn’t want them to break. Like that someone was Minho himself.

So he went to the final qualifying match. Took the farthest seats, where he couldn’t be seen from the field. He watched the scoreboard more than the game, still knowing: if Seungmin hadn’t changed, losing would break him.

And Seungmin didn’t lose. He stood there, head high—proud, but not happy. He smiled, but something was missing to call it joy. Maybe his old injury ached. Maybe he was unhappy with his play. Minho caught himself making excuses. Then he looked down and accidentally met Seungmin’s gaze.

Kim Seungmin saw him.

Minho didn’t go to the back exit. He was still angry, still hated those words, still couldn’t forgive—but he loved him. Stupidly, completely. So he stayed until Jisung appeared out of nowhere and dragged him home.

Warm spring rain began to fall.

One workday, Minho stayed behind to sort a stack of books left at the counter. Returns, donations—enough to keep him busy for hours.

Each book needed checking for inserts before being shelved. Minho worked through them: some worn, some new. He loved books. Like late-night anime, like caramel cola.

Books had always saved him. Given him knowledge and perspective he couldn’t find elsewhere. They helped him focus on what mattered and discard what didn’t.

He picked up the next book—the title felt vaguely familiar, but he’d read most of the comics here lately, so he couldn’t place it. He flipped to where the tiny heroine explained her plan to the drawn duke. The corners were dog-eared. He smoothed them with a ruler and kept going.

In the middle, a small grayish slip of paper stuck out. Minho pulled it, about to toss it, but something stopped him.

He unfolded it. Slightly crumpled, edges torn like someone had tried to destroy it but smoothed it carefully. In faded ink, it read: "To my favorite hyung." And a silly doodle.

After favorite , a pencil comma had been added.

"To my favorite, hyung." And the doodle.

The comma was crossed out in red. Hyung was scribbled over. The doodle was now a red heart.

The note in Minho’s hands said:

"To my favorite /,/ hyung." And a heart colored red.