Chapter Text
The ceiling of his dorm room has exactly thirty-nine cracks in the paint.
Jisung has counted them four times now, lying flat on his back while his phone vibrates intermittently with a group chat he can’t bring himself to open. His lecture notes from last week are still sitting in his bag, and he really should look at them before Monday’s class, but the thought of dragging himself over there—of doing anything other than counting the cracks above his bed—feels like too much effort.
From the corner of his eye, he sees his phone light up again—probably Hyunjin asking if they’ve eaten. Or Felix with another meme. They’re good friends. Friends who keep inviting him to hang out no matter how many times he’s flaked over the past month, who deserve better than his pathetic excuses and vague replies.
I’m just tired.
I got caught up with coursework.
Maybe next time.
Jisung locks his phone without checking the messages. But with the buzzing now gone, the silence of his empty dorm room suddenly feels amplified to a suffocating level. Maybe he needs some air. That’s what people always say, isn’t it?
Jisung rolls off the bed with a groan, his stiff legs loudly reminding him how long he’s spent lying down. He’s pretty sure he’ll just feel like shit outside instead of inside, but hey, at least it’ll kill some time before he has to face his assignments again.
The street outside is deserted. Unsurprising, considering it’s 8PM in the middle of winter and sunset was over two hours ago. Jisung’s breath fogs in front of him and he shivers in his hoodie. He probably should’ve thrown on a coat, but oh well. Too late now.
As he passes the seven-eleven around the corner, the smell of ramyun and fried chicken makes him pause. When was the last time he ate? This morning? Or was that yesterday? He has a feeling it’s the latter.
The bright convenience store lights make his eyes water, but at least the warmth is a welcome reprieve. Jisung shuffles down the aisle and grabs one of the strawberry cheesecakes in a little plastic container, pays, and steps back out into the night, snapping the spoon from its wrapper.
Okay, sue him—perhaps cheesecake isn’t the most nutritionally responsible choice he could’ve made—but he’s emotionally vulnerable right now so it doesn’t count. And although he can’t remember the last time small pleasures felt pleasurable, he figures it’s worth a shot.
He eats as he walks, the creamy sweetness satisfying on his tongue even if it doesn’t quite deliver the comfort he’d hoped for. He has no idea how long he spends wandering aimlessly, but at some point, the city streets start becoming unfamiliar. He should probably head back. But to what? To another three hours of staring at his laptop screen, trying to force his burnt out, cotton-wool stuffed brain to memorise readings that refuse to stick? He’d rather freeze into the pavement.
He turns left instead of right.
The park in front of him is one he’s never noticed before, and it isn't hard to figure out why—there’s no playground, no pond, not even a properly maintained path. Just overgrown frosty grass and a strip of half-dead trees. Jisung crunches over leaves and broken twigs, his trainers snagging on brambles with every other step. He can almost imagine—
“Ah—fuck!”
He trips over something solid, nearly faceplanting straight into the ground. He squints down at the offending object and sees what looks like… a shrine? Or at least, the sad ghost of what was once a shrine. The stone is so mossy that he can't tell whether it’s supposed to be a fox or a fat hamster.
He doesn’t believe in this stuff. Prayers, offerings, spirits—they’re all just fairy tales his grandma used to entertain him with. But still, something makes him pause. It’s not like he has anything to lose. And there’s still some cheesecake left.
What the hell. Why not?
He kneels, then immediately regrets it when the damp ground soaks through his jeans. He tips the half-eaten cheesecake onto the stone platform where it lands with a wet splat. It looks ridiculous. It’ll probably just be eaten by ants. At least he’s contributing to the ecosystem.
“So, um. Hey,” Jisung mumbles, looking at where he thinks the stone creature’s eyes are supposed to be. “If anyone’s there… you can have my cheesecake. It's strawberry. And, uh, I would appreciate it if you helped me get through this semester. It’s not going too great. Just… yeah.”
Silence.
Nothing happens. Of course nothing happens.
Jisung pushes himself up, brushing wet moss from his knees and feeling thoroughly foolish. What did he expect?
The walk back to his dorm seems longer than it should, and he unlocks the door in a numb haze. The blast of warmth does nothing to chase away the hollow ache in his chest.
Thirty-nine cracks.
He doesn't bother turning on the lights before he lies down in the dark.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
Jisung wakes up to the smell of ozone and strawberries.
For a moment, his sleep-addled brain just accepts it. Maybe he was dreaming about lightning striking a jam factory or something. But then a very real, very distinct clinking sound drifts from the kitchen area—and his eyes snap open.
Okay, definitely not a dream. And he doesn’t have a roommate, which can only mean… someone is in his dorm. Shit. He hears another clink, followed by soft footsteps. Jisung slowly sits up, trying not to make the bedsprings creak.
Okay, okay, don’t panic. It’s probably just—what? A very confident burglar helping themselves to breakfast?
Jisung briefly wonders whether he should grab a makeshift weapon in case the intruder’s armed. Maybe the adrenaline of a fight would finally make him feel something. Or would he even want to fight back? Hard to say.
He ends up taking the metal water bottle on his nightstand and slides out of bed, tiptoeing his way across the room and creeping towards the small kitchen. The sounds get louder as he approaches; whoever’s in there clearly doesn’t know he’s coming.
Jisung peers around the corner, raises the water bottle and—
What the fuck.
He freezes. There’s a guy standing at his sink. A guy who looks around his age, maybe a bit older, with dark hair that falls just past his ears and the kind of face that would make Hyunjin scramble to pull out his sketchbook. But that’s not the weirdest part.
The weirdest part is what he’s wearing.
Robes. Actual, honest-to-god, floor-length traditional robes in silvery white that shimmer like they’re made of moonlight. The fabric flows around his arm like water as he reaches up to open one of Jisung’s cabinets—which, rude—and looks completely out of place next to Jisung’s overflowing trash bin and the stack of unwashed plates in the sink.
The guy pulls out a mug, turns it over in his hands with a frown, and sets it on the counter beside a crowded assortment of bowls, pots, and jugs.
Jisung blinks hard. Is this a prank? Was his cheesecake drugged? Is this guy high off his mind and stumbled into the wrong place on the way to a historical drama cosplay event?
But the way the guy moves—elegant and unhurried in a way that makes Jisung think of old Korean tea ceremonies—doesn’t really scream stoner.
“Um,” Jisung says blankly, then immediately snaps his mouth shut and wishes he could take it back, because what the hell is he supposed to say?
The guy doesn’t even flinch. He smoothly turns to face Jisung and leans casually against the counter. His eyes are dark, unreadable, and he studies Jisung with the kind of assessing look that makes him abruptly very aware of his crumpled sleep shirt and pillow creases on his face.
“Sunrise was nearly half a candle ago. I was beginning to think you would never wake up,” the guy says, like Jisung is the weird one in this situation. His voice is low and pleasant in a way that Jisung would pause to appreciate if he wasn’t currently having a psychotic break.
“I—what?” Jisung squeaks, tightening his grip on the bottle, which suddenly feels stupidly inadequate. “Who the hell are you? And how did you get in here?”
The guy tilts his head. “That is not very welcoming. I know I have not manifested a human form in a few hundred years, but this place has changed more than I expected.”
Human form? A few hundred—
Jisung’s brain fizzles weakly. “Okay, no. You know what? Get out.” He points the bottle towards the door. “I don’t know what you’re on, but you need to leave. Now.”
“Where is the nearest well?” the guy asks, completely ignoring him. “And which one of these do you use to hold water? I would like a drink.”
“Wells? What—no, we have taps, you’re literally standing next to one—” Jisung shakes his head hard. “That’s not—stop distracting me! Get out before I call campus security!”
Jisung moves forwards to physically push the guy out the door. But just as his fingertips are about to brush the silk sleeve, the guy sighs and—
And vanishes.
Jisung stumbles straight through the empty space, flailing to catch himself, metal water bottle clanging loudly to the floor. There’s nobody there. The mug is still on the counter next to half of Jisung’s crockery, but the guy is just—gone.
“What the fuck,” Jisung breathes. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the—”
“You are the one who called for my help.”
Jisung whips around so fast his socks slip on the tile. The guy is standing right behind him, arms crossed, looking mildly put out.
“Did you change your mind already? I was looking forward to having a patron again.”
Jisung’s back hits the fridge. His heart tries to jackhammer its way out of his chest as he manages weakly, “How did you—you were just—”
“Why are you afraid? I am answering your prayer,” the guy says slowly. “You left an offering and asked for my help.”
The shrine. The fucking shrine.
“No,” Jisung insists, pressing himself further against the cool metal. “No, that’s not—spirits aren’t real. You’re just some creepy stalker who followed me and saw what I did, and now you’re breaking into my dorm to—to—”
To what? What’s the endgame here? It would be the weirdest home invasion in history.
Jisung falters as the guy’s expression falls.
“Is that what you have been told? That spirits are not real?” he muses with a sad-looking smile. “It really has changed a lot. I suppose I should not be surprised.”
“Wh—what?”
“This used to be farmland, you know.” The guy gestures around the dorm. “I protected the people here for generations. Then the village became a city and everyone forgot about the guardian spirits. I have not been strong enough to assume a form for a very long time. You are the first person I have heard from in over five hundred years.
Jisung stares at him. This is insane. He’s either definitely having a complete mental breakdown, or there was a gas leak and he’s hallucinating, or—
Or there’s a guardian spirit from the Joseon dynasty standing in his kitchen.
“You’re… serious,” Jisung says faintly.
“Very.”
The guy takes a step closer, his expression brightening again. “You are my first patron in centuries. I am tied to you now, Han Jisung.” He places a hand over his heart and bows gracefully. “I vow to help you with whatever you need.”
How does he know my—nevermind. Jisung opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
“I… okay,” he finally manages. “Do you, um, have a name?”
The guy—the spirit—straightens with an eager smile. “Minho. You can call me Minho.”
⋆⭒˚.⋆
Five minutes later, Jisung is standing at the sink demonstrating how a tap works. He’s still half-convinced he’ll wake up at any moment drugged in a basement or an alley, but he figures he might as well go along with it until then.
“You turn it like this,” he says, twisting the handle. “Left is cold, right is hot. Well—it’s supposed to be hot. The boiler’s broken so it’s more like… vaguely lukewarm?”
Minho leans in and mimics the motion. He turns the tap off, then back on, then off again several times, making the water stream out in bursts. “Incredible,” he murmurs. “And this comes from where, exactly?”
“Uh, pipes? Underground. The water comes from mountains, I think.” Jisung realises he has no idea how plumbing actually works, and has never thought of it as incredible.
“I see why nobody prays for their wells to never run dry anymore.” Minho cups his hands under the stream and brings the water to his lips. He makes a face. “It tastes strange.”
“Uh, yeah, city water’s like that. Probably chemicals or something.”
He watches Minho fill the mug he’d picked out earlier, then frowns. “Wait. If you were in charge of keeping wells full, doesn’t that mean you can just… make water appear? With magic spirit powers or something?”
“I could,” Minho agrees as he starts poking at the washing up sponge. “But where is the fun in that? So much has changed since I last walked among humans. I was always busy when I had a whole village to look after. But now it’s just you. I have time to understand how all your new stuff works.”
“Right. Okay. Well—” Jisung hesitates. Is it safe to leave Minho unsupervised while he goes to shower? It feels like leaving a toddler in the kitchen. Wait—is that offensive? Can Minho read his mind?
“I can explain how everything works later. Feel free to look around,” Jisung says with a strained smile. “Just, uh, don’t move or break anything. Please? I’m gonna take a shower.”
Minho looks up from the sponge. “A shower?”
“Yeah, it’s—” Jisung wracks his brain. “It’s like… rain? But inside and warm so you can clean yourself.”
“Indoor warm rain,” Minho repeats wondrously. “I did not realise you were that advanced. Humans can control the weather now?”
“What? No, it’s just plumbing. Like the tap. Definitely not weather control.”
“Still,” Minho says, shaking his head and looking genuinely impressed. “In my time, only spirits could summon rain. And you have it in your home to use as you please.”
Jisung trails off. He’s never thought of showering as anything other than yet another task to drag himself through. But Minho, who casually summons rain at will, is looking at Jisung like he and his shower are the magic ones—
“Can I watch?” Minho asks brightly.
“No!” Jisung’s voice cracks. “Absolutely not! Just—just stay here. Look at stuff. Don’t break anything.”
He grabs a towel and retreats to the bathroom before Minho can ask any more questions, praying to—well, someone else—that he comes back to an intact kitchen.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
The shower is exactly as lukewarm as expected, but at least it’s something. Jisung stands under the spray, letting it run over his face and trying to process the fact that there is a spirit in his kitchen. A guardian spirit who has no concept of technology and has apparently bound himself to Jisung over half a slice of cheesecake for—what, forever? Until Jisung dies? He should probably ask about that.
This is insane. How has he not woken up yet? There’s no way this is all—
“Jisung.”
Jisung yelps, nearly slipping on the wet tile. Minho is standing right there in the bathroom, holding up a bulky cream-coloured object.
“What is this?” Minho asks curiously. “It was attached to the wall with a string. I cannot figure out what it does.”
“That’s—” Jisung scrambles to cover himself with his hands, cursing the lack of a shower curtain. “That’s a toaster! It’s for bread! Couldn’t you have waited until I got out?!”
Minho blinks at him. “Why?”
“Why?” Jisung’s voice comes out an octave higher. “Because I’m naked!”
“Yes? I can see that.”
“No! Don’t look! You can’t just teleport into the bathroom when someone’s showering!”
Minho frowns, turning the toaster over in his hands. “I do not understand. You told me you would explain how things worked.”
“I meant later! Like, after I finished showering later! Not—” Jisung gestures helplessly. “Not here!”
“Oh.” Minho glances around the bathroom. “Is this space forbidden?”
“When someone’s using it? Yes!”
“Hm,” Minho considers. “Is it weird to be in the presence of others while bathing? That is new. The communal baths in the village were—”
“Nope!” Jisung interrupts. “We are not talking about this right now! Get out!”
To his credit, Minho looks apologetic. “I am sorry. I was only curious.” He holds up the toaster again. “But you will explain what this does later?”
“Yes, fine, whatever, just—out!”
Minho vanishes.
Jisung groans out loud, staring at the place Minho disappeared. He’s going to need a much longer shower to process this. And he’s ordering a shower curtain as soon as he gets out.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
Jisung emerges from the bathroom fully dressed and significantly more traumatised than he came in. Minho has moved on from the kitchen and is now sitting on the edge of his unmade bed, robes pooling around him and twirling Jisung’s charger between his fingers.
“What is this?” Minho asks as soon as Jisung steps inside.
“It’s a wire for charging my phone.”
“What is a phone?”
Jisung hangs up the towel and sighs. This is going to be a long day.
Twenty minutes and many headaches later, he's explained electricity (poorly), the internet (very poorly), and has started talking Minho through all the apps on his phone. Minho hangs on to every word with wide eyes and an intensity that almost makes Jisung forget he’s describing what ‘lol’ means to a guy who could probably curse him into spaghetti.
“And this ‘Wi-Fi’—it is invisible?”
“Yeah.”
“But it carries information through the air?”
“...Yeah.”
“Fascinating. Like flocks of invisible high-speed pigeons.” Minho points to a turquoise app with a fork icon. “What is this one?”
Jisung’s head spins as he tries to keep up. “Oh, that’s a delivery app. You can order food and someone will bring it over.”
“I see,” Minho hums. “I suppose you have no need to store food if everything is delivered.”
“No, not everything is delivered. That’d be too expensive. Most people cook at home. We have fridges and freezers and pantries and stuff.”
Minho cocks his head. “But there is no food in your kitchen. Unless kitchens are just for water and toast now? Are your… stores in another room?”
“Ah, well.” Jisung rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. How is he supposed to answer that? Just opening the fridge feels like too much effort most days? Caring what he eats means he has to care about himself first?
“Uh, no, kitchens are for food,” he says. “I’ve just been—uni’s been keeping me busy, you know? I don’t really have time to cook.” He hurries to hold up his phone again. “Look, this app is really cool. It tells you exactly where you are and how to get to anywhere you want.”
But Minho isn’t looking at the phone. He’s watching Jisung with those dark, perceptive eyes, and Jisung suddenly feels foolish. Very smart, trying to lie to a guardian spirit about your health, his brain supplies helpfully.
“I’ll, um, go to the shop later?” Jisung tries when Minho doesn’t say anything. “That’s the place we get food from.”
“I do know what a shop is,” Minho says dryly. “And that sounds like a good idea. I want to see what people eat now. Do you still have rice?”
The knot in Jisung’s chest loosens a little and his lip twitches. “Oh, we have rice all right. I’ll get some stuff you can try if you want. I don’t have that much money though, so don’t expect too much.”
“Do not worry about that.” Minho stands, brushing non-existent dust from his robes. “Alright. Let us go.”
Jisung gapes. “What? No, you’re staying here.”
“Why?”
“Because—” Jisung splutters, gesturing at Minho’s—well, everything. “You can’t just walk around looking like that! People will stare!”
“Is that a problem?”
“Well, no, but—yes! Just wait here. Please.”
Minho frowns, squinting down at his chest. “I can change my appearance if you really do not like it. I want to go with you.”
“It’s not that I don’t like it,” Jisung hastens to say. “Look, just—okay. Fine. Can you change into… something from this time period?”
Jisung has no idea what to expect, but in the next second, Minho’s robes shimmer and shift. The hanbok’s silvery fabric ripples like water, and when it settles—
“Oh my god,” Jisung squeaks faintly.
Because Minho is dressed in the exact same outfit as him. Same soft black hoodie, same worn jeans, even the same fluffy socks, though Minho somehow makes it look ten times cooler. He looks down at himself, then at Jisung, seeming pleased.
“Is this better?”
“I—yes, but we can’t both wear the same thing! That’s weird. Just—change the hoodie. Make it a different colour or something.”
The black hoodie ripples and turns blue. The shade of a summer sky.
“Good enough?” Minho asks.
Jisung nods mutely. In normal clothes, Minho looks… normal. Like someone who could be in his psychology class, or queuing behind him at the dining hall. His face still radiates a slightly-too-bright vitality and he moves with the same unnatural grace, but it’s definitely much less conspicuous.
“Yeah,” Jisung relents. “Good enough.”