Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dr. Lee had to be the hottest person Jisung had ever set eyes on. And that didn’t even take into account the fact that the guy was trying to save his life.

Okay, so that was a bit of an exaggeration. Jisung sighed, trying not to squirm as his bare ass shifted against the scratchy sheets of the hospital bed. Why they’d insisted on stripping off his gear and shoving him into one of those paper-thin gowns instead, he would never know. It wasn’t like he was physically injured or anything; Chan was just a dick who had probably sent Jisung over to the emergency room just so he could be rid of him for a while. Really, their captain was lucky Jisung liked him so much.

So yes, here he was: sitting on the edge of a bed in an observation room wearing next to nothing, with only a thin blue curtain separating him from the rest of the hospital. And Jisung didn’t mind it, really he didn’t. He’d actually lost track of how many times he’d been inside this place, though it was usually under different circumstances: kneeling on a gurney as he administered chest compressions, or running for the OR while he held up an IV bag and briefed the staff on the status of the patient. So yes, Jisung was actually quite comfortable here; when you were a firefighter in one of the busiest districts in Seoul, it was just part of the job.

It was the first time he’d been here as a patient himself, though.

He sighed, lifting his gaze to the too-bright lights recessed into the ceiling above. Really, he should be grateful; it could’ve been a lot worse. Those questionably labeled metal barrels down at the port could’ve exploded rather than just springing a tiny leak, and then his entire team would’ve been fucked. Yeah. In the end Jisung was glad to be here, just getting his blood drawn and tested to make sure he hadn’t been exposed to anything too damaging since he’d been the one closest to the barrels. If it had been Changbin or Jeongin or, God forbid, Chan…

The hiss of the curtain being pulled aside broke into his thoughts. Dr. Lee stepped through, face buried in his tablet, and Jisung had to take a moment to breathe because did he mention hot? Holy shit. The physician wore a pair of thick-framed glasses that might’ve looked dorky on anyone else, except they perfectly complemented the shape of his eyes, his sharp nose, the fullness of his lips. Fuck, there wasn’t any part of the man that wasn’t absolutely fucking gorgeous, and without even thinking about it Jisung glanced down at his own arm, seeking, expecting…

But—nothing. Just like when he’d checked a few minutes ago when Dr. Lee had first come over and introduced himself, the skin of Jisung’s forearms was bare. No small yet distinctive mark appearing out of nowhere, shining golden like the sun, like everything glowing and beautiful in the world. No indication that Dr. Lee could be his soulmate.

It was a shame, but honestly not all that surprising. Sure, soulmates were a thing—about half of Jisung’s friends had found their partners this way, making eye contact with a stranger for the first time and having that shining golden mark appear on their arm as a result. And Jisung was happy for them, he really was. Soulmates were the ultimate form of connection, the best iteration of a relationship you could ever hope for. Nothing could be greater than fate, after all.

But, well. Then you got people like Jisung, who went their whole lives looking everybody in the eyes, and nothing happened. Bondless, they were called: people who would likely never find their soulmate, usually because that other person had died or was on the other side of the world. If you believed the dramas it was really a miserable way to live: lonely, wistful, always wondering what if. Frankly, Jisung thought that was bullshit.

He liked being Bondless. He liked that anyone he chose to date was exactly that: a choice. And, well. He did a quick once-over. Dr. Lee didn’t wear a wedding ring, and his forearms where the sleeves of his white coat were rolled up were bare. Also Bondless. Also, perhaps, willing to make a choice.

“Okay, Han-ssi.” The other man pushed his glasses further up his nose and fixed Jisung with a soft smile that totally did not make his stomach flip right over. Christ, he had it bad. “It looks like your labs all came back normal, so you don’t have anything to worry about.”

Jisung blinked. “Oh. So…all clear?”

“All clear.” Dr. Lee lowered his tablet. “I’d advise you to avoid hazardous situations from now on, but…”

Jisung laughed. “Yeah. That’d make for a real boring shift down at the firehouse, Doc.”

“Well, let’s at least try to keep the biohazard exposure to a minimum then.” Dr. Lee’s eyes twinkled. “Wouldn’t want that handsome face of yours to melt off or anything.”

And—oh. Jisung blinked and…yeah, that was definitely a light dusting of pink across the bridge of Dr. Lee’s nose. His heart did a little victorious somersault in his chest before beating doubletime. So that’s what they were doing. Okay then.

He grinned. “I’ll try my best, Doc. But you know, just to be safe, you should probably inspect it more closely…say, over dinner this weekend?”

The other man’s eyebrows rose. Jisung put on his most winning smile. All around them the hospital continued on in its endless grind: the beeping of machines and the scratchy intercom announcements, the too-bright lights and the sharp scent of disinfectant, a place of terror and loss but also of hope and healing, and a chance at a glowing future.

Then Dr. Lee ducked his head a little. His smile was pleased, even as the tips of his ears went red. “I’d like that,” he said, before turning back to his tablet. “I’ll sign off on your discharge paperwork now. Just make sure to call emergency services or come back here if you notice any strange symptoms: dizziness, fever, nausea, anything of that sort. Oh, and…” He reached into his pocket, took out a little prescription pad, and scribbled something down. “Here. Just in case.”

“Thanks.” Jisung took the script and hopped off the bed, not missing the way Dr. Lee’s gaze lowered immediately to his legs before snapping quickly back up. He grinned, ran a hand backward through his hair. They’d said all the right things and it was a promising start, but… “Just checking, okay? All clear?”

The soft look Dr. Lee sent him was like an ember: quiet, unassuming, yet carrying within it the potential to set the world alight. “Yes. All clear.”

It wasn’t until Jisung was walking out the front doors of the hospital thirty minutes later that he remembered the script. He reached into his pocket, pulled it out—and smiled.

Scrawled messily across the little piece of paper was the name LEE MINHO, along with a phone number.

Yeah. Jisung laughed, shaking his head even as warmth bloomed in his chest, his heart expanding until it seemed his ribcage wouldn’t be able to contain it. Things were definitely looking up.

Maybe he should get himself exposed to mysterious chemicals more often.

FIVE YEARS LATER

“Goddamnit.” Jeongin slammed his locker door shut. “Sometimes I really fucking hate this job.”

“Easy,” Changbin answered from across the way. “Things like this are thankfully rare.”

“Yeah, but…” Their youngest team member shook his head, eyes flashing. “He set the apartment on fire with their kid inside. Like I don’t care how fucked up you are in the head or how much you think your ex-wife deserves to die. You just don’t do that.”

“Hey, at least the kid made it out okay.” Changbin offered a soft smile. “And last I checked the asshole was covered in third-degree burns when we carted him off to Bestian. He’s in for a nice long stint in their ward, right, Hannie? …Hannie?”

“Hm?” Jisung glanced up from his phone. “Oh. Yeah, no, six months at best, and that’s if they’re able to do skin grafts.”

Changbin frowned. “You okay? You’ve been kind of quiet all day.”

“Oh.” Jisung frowned down at his screen, then shook his head and quickly shoved his phone back into his pocket. “No, everything’s fine, just…Minho-hyung’s conference should’ve wrapped up hours ago, but he hasn’t called me yet.”

He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth, especially when Changbin and Jeongin’s faces sharpened into identical teasing grins. “Ah, whipped as usual,” his older teammate said, while Jeongin chuckled.

“Really, hyung, the way the two of you are attached at the hip you’d think you really were soulmates.”

He didn’t seem to mean anything by it, so Jisung just shrugged. Jeongin didn’t really have a frame of reference, anyway: the stark light overhead clearly illuminated the bond mark embedded in the skin halfway up his right forearm, a curling half-circle like a particularly fancy golden comma. Jeongin had been with his soulmate, Hyunjin, since they laid eyes on each other in high school. He wouldn’t have any idea the impact his words could have on someone like Jisung who, even after being in a relationship for five years, still remained Bondless.

And honestly, it really wasn’t a big deal. He and Minho…what they had transcended any fancy mark or romanticized depiction of predestination. They might not be soulmates but Lee Minho was still the love of Han Jisung’s life, his partner’s smile enough to light up his world, his soft laugh and warm, affectionate touch making up the solid foundation beneath Jisung’s feet, the one thing he knew would always be there, that he could always rely on no matter how crazy his shifts got or how often he had to witness human beings hurting each other in the very worst ways. In a world of fire and ash, terror and trauma, danger and flame and never knowing when the next moment might be your last, Minho was his hope, his light. His forever, if Jisung dared to ask for it.

And he would. Jisung swallowed and glanced up at the shelf in his locker where a small velvet box sat tucked behind his spare helmet, containing within it a solid platinum ring. Yeah. Two months from now, when Minho would be promoted to department head at the hospital…that was when Jisung would ask. That was when they would finally seal their future together.

“Hyung?”

Jeongin’s voice brought him back to the moment. Jisung blinked and looked up to see his two teammates watching him, a little concerned. Quickly he shook his head. “It could be worse,” he said, grinning. “We could be fucking in the rig—”

“Oh my god,” Jeongin gasped while Changbin made gagging noises behind him. Jisung chuckled, but before he could say anything else a new voice rang out.

“Button it up, folks.” Chan was leaning against the entrance to the locker room, arms crossed, captain’s badge still streaked with soot. “Second shift’s already here, so let’s get out of their hair.”

“Yes, sir!”

They filed quickly out of the room, but Chan stopped Jisung with a hand on his shoulder as he passed. “Hey. Everything okay?”

“...Yeah.”

He knew he’d taken too long to answer when the older man frowned, the two of them falling easily in step with each other as they reentered the truck bay. “What is it?” Chan asked, and not for the first time Jisung wished they couldn’t read each other so well, that Chan hadn’t been his senior and subsequent mentor back in the fire academy all those years ago. But it was what it was. Bang Chan was the first fire captain he’d ever served under and, if Jisung worked it right, he would also be the last. He couldn’t imagine working for anyone else, and this conversation right here, the way the older man looked at him with nothing but care in his eyes? Yeah. He would always consider Chan one of his closest friends, his brother in everything but name.

He sighed, shook his head. “Nothing. I mean, I don’t know, something just…doesn’t feel right.” It had been eating at him all shift, like the tiniest of nails scratching at the back of his skull. Why hadn’t Minho gotten in touch? Sure, he was busy with his fancy medical conference—Jisung didn’t really know the details but he understood it was one of those bigger ones that all the cool physicians went to, and it was apparently a big deal that it was taking place in downtown Seoul this year. But even when they were both drowning in work, Jisung running from call to frantic call while Minho shoved people’s intestines back into their bodies, they still always found time to exchange at least a few texts every day. Yet ever since that morning, there’d been nothing. Was Minho okay? Had something happened?

Chan squeezed his shoulder. “Is it that quack of yours?” he asked, and Jisung couldn’t help the soft snort.

“Don’t call him that, he’ll punch you.”

“He’s welcome to try.” But Chan was grinning, and yeah. Ever since they became official six months after meeting at the hospital, Minho came by the station at least once a week, usually toting some freshly-made food that endeared him immediately to everyone on shift. He drank Changbin under the table at the holiday parties; he ruffled Jeongin’s hair and laughed when he squawked in indignation; he sat quietly with Jisung and the others outside the OR for hours while they waited to see if Chan would make it out of surgery after that absolutely awful ambulance collision two years ago. 

Yeah. To Firehouse 143, Minho was as much family as Jisung was. So why did he keep getting the nagging feeling that that family was about to break apart?

Whatever. He turned back to Chan, pasting on his best this-is-fine smile. “Everything’s okay, hyung, I’m just tired. I’ll see you on Friday.”

Chan ended up letting him go with only another worried look and instructions to call if he needed anything. But Jisung wouldn’t have to—because everything was fine.

The lights were on in the apartment when he entered; that was a good sign at least. “Baby?” he called as he nudged his shoes into their usual spot by the foyer. “Hey, did your phone die or something?”

No answer. Jisung frowned, picking his way through this small space that reflected all the ways in which they’d merged their lives over the years. Minho’s slick steel appliances sat neatly along the kitchen counter, but those were Jisung’s mismatched dishes in the sink. The sofa in the living room was Minho’s, fancy imported leather, but Jisung’s beat-up old throw pillows littered its surface. Framed photos on the walls depicted his partner’s escapades all over the world when he’d been with MSF, while their refrigerator was covered in scribbled crayon drawings by Jisung’s niece and nephew. The entire place was a testament to how their lives intertwined, how the two of them had over the years realized a love that shone golden with promise despite the fact that their forearms were bare. Minho was it, Minho was his everything, and something tightened in Jisung’s stomach as he made his way down the hall. “Baby?” he tried again. “Hyung?”

Shuffling from the bedroom an instant before Minho appeared in the doorway and—shit. Quickly Jisung rushed forward, reaching out to grasp the older man’s shoulders. “Hey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Because god, his partner looked like shit. His eyes were puffy and red-rimmed from crying, face pale enough to match the walls surrounding them, and sure, Jisung had seen Minho in rough states before—it kind of came with the territory when you were dating the highest-ranking physician in an extremely busy trauma center—but still it had never been like this. He had never seen Minho look so defeated, and Jisung couldn’t help the fear that shivered down his spine as he stared at his partner. “What happened?”

It took a moment for Minho to answer, and when he did it was in a voice Jisung almost didn’t recognize, it was so small, so very meek. “I-I’m sorry,” he whispered, and Jisung just blinked.

“For what? For not calling? That’s okay, I get it, I’m sure you were busy at the conference—”

The laugh that startled out of the older man was dry and humorless and utterly miserable. “Yeah,” Minho murmured. His fingers were curled in the cuff of his shirtsleeve, keeping it pulled down over his wrist, though Jisung had no idea why. “Busy.”

He looked like he was about to cry again, and Jisung didn’t—his heart pounded in his chest, everything inside him lit up in panic and concern because Minho didn’t do this. Minho was a doctor, an ER physician whose whole shtick was keeping eerily calm in the middle of utter chaos, and seeing him broken like this was like waking up one morning to the sun having suddenly winked out. It was terrifying, it wasn’t right and Jisung swallowed, squeezed his partner’s shoulders. “I-I don’t understand. Hyung. Did something happen at the conference?”

Minho flinched at that. Then, even as Jisung stared, the older man sighed, exhausted, utterly spent, and took a step back. “I need to show you something,” he whispered, and pulled his shirtsleeve up.

And Jisung.

Just.

For a moment he couldn’t even comprehend what he was seeing. Had Minho gotten a tattoo? But that was impossible, they’d never let him get away with that at work. Was it paint? Like maybe he’d been walking around the hotel for the conference, just heading to a panel or networking meeting and there was a crew of guys doing some renovation in the hallway, yes, that had to be it, and one of them told a crude joke and his teammate guffawed and flung his brush out and some of the paint must have gotten on Minho’s arm because—because—

“Sungie?” Minho’s voice was tiny, barely audible like he was afraid even to be heard. And Jisung just. He couldn’t breathe.

Because set neatly over the inside of Minho’s wrist was a mark. Colored a soft gold that almost seemed to shimmer in the low light, it was made up of two identical parallel lines maybe an inch long, fused directly into his skin like it had been stamped there. Like it had been placed with intent, by something bigger than either of them could comprehend. By fate.

It was a bond mark. The man he loved, the one he intended to marry, now bore a sign on his skin that proclaimed he was promised to someone else.

And Jisung’s entire world crumbled into nothing.

He sat on the couch staring down at the coffee table, everything inside him turned utterly numb.

“Sungie?” Minho’s voice was soft, too soft. His partner was seated a couple cushions over, pressed up against the opposite arm of the couch. They used to flop all over each other here; even a centimeter of space between them had been too much. Now Minho sat a whole world away straight-spined and stiff-shouldered, like a statue. Like a stranger.

“Jisungie.” The older man’s fingers twitched, then curled into a fist. “Sungie, please, will you just…talk to me? Baby?” 

It was so kind, so gentle. Like Minho was afraid Jisung might break if he spoke too loudly—and he would, he would fly apart and shatter into a million pieces because he couldn’t…he didn’t…

Jisung swallowed, lowered his gaze down to his partner’s wrist. Minho had pulled his shirtsleeve down again, but it didn’t matter. Now he knew what was hidden beneath. Now he knew what his future would look like: gray, forlorn, meaningless without Minho’s smile and warmth and fierce love.

Because Minho had found his soulmate. Minho had found his soulmate, and it wasn’t Jisung.

The words tumbled from his lips, flat, emotionless. “Who is he?”

To his credit, the older man didn’t bother pretending. “His name is Aiden Hendrickson.”

Oh. Jisung grimaced. “American?”

“English, but it’s not like I would know the difference.” The corner of Minho’s mouth quirked up just a bit, just the briefest flash of a smile before it disappeared once more. “He, uh. He’s a cardiologist. We met at a talk about acute cardiac emergencies and malignant arrhythmias.”

Well, that was just fucking great. Jisung didn’t even know how to pronounce those words, much less what they meant. But of course Minho did, and so did this mysterious Aiden who also practiced medicine, who had also completed all those years of extra schooling and had his fancy advanced degrees and was smart and young and probably super hot and exactly Minho’s type. Fuck.

“That’s nice,” he managed, and Minho frowned.

“I didn’t mean…” His partner shook his head. “Jisung. It’s not…I mean we talked, we kind of had to seeing as we all of a sudden had matching bond marks, but it didn’t mean anything. Okay? And then I left and came straight home. I came back to wait for you, Sungie. Okay?”

He said it like it was important. Like he deserved a prize for meeting his soulmate and not immediately deciding to cheat on the man he’d been dating for five years. Hats off to Dr. Lee Minho and his restraint. Yay.

Jisung cleared his throat. “Do you like him?”

“Jisungie—”

“No. Tell me. Are you attracted to him?”

Funny the little things you picked up when you lived out of each other’s pockets for half a decade. He watched it happen in real time: Minho’s surprise, then indignation, then worry and concern before finally arriving at his decision, the choice not to lie even if it would hurt. And Jisung was grateful for that, really he was as the older man took a deep breath and fixed him with a steady look.

“Yes,” Minho said then. “He’s my soulmate, Sungie, so…yes. Of course I’m attracted to him.”

And, well. There it was. Jisung turned away, felt the sting of hot tears in his eyes. “Okay.”

He could almost see Minho’s confused blink. “Okay what?”

“I don’t know.” Because he didn’t. He couldn’t. “Just…okay.”

The silence stretched. There was an old stain near the edge of the coffee table, a neat ring from the bottom of the mug Minho always drank tea from whenever they curled up together here to watch a movie or catch up on their shows. Jisung’s breath caught, heart tightening painfully in his chest. Would it fade away eventually, after Minho left him? Would he ever even see it again, because the table was Minho’s so would he take it with him when he moved out, would he take everything and leave Jisung alone and bereft, unworthy and unloveable just like he’d always known he was—

“I can, um.” Minho’s hands twisted in his lap as he looked everywhere but at Jisung. “I can go stay with Yongbok tonight if you—”

 “No.” And God forgive him for being so fucking weak but Jisung just. He didn’t want Minho to leave, to go over to his ICU charge nurse’s house because Jisung wanted him here. He needed him here, and even if there was now a time limit to how long Minho would stay, still Jisung loved him. Minho was still his one and he was here, he was choosing to be here rather than off gallivanting with fucking Aiden Hendrickson, and maybe for today, just for today, it was enough. 

He had to be enough, at least until Minho left.

He turned and practically dove at his partner, pulling Minho in and wrapping him up as tightly as he could. The older man’s scent exploded in his nose, musk and sweat and the light floral notes of his favorite cologne and Jisung couldn’t help the tiny little noise that shivered from his throat as he burrowed in close. Minho, for his part, responded immediately, practically crushing Jisung to his chest as soft lips pressed to his hair. He was shaking, they both were and Jisung let himself take just a bit of hope in that, just the tiniest flicker of light in a world fast going dark.

“Stay,” he whispered, hating how it came out meek and pathetic. “Just—please, hyung. Please just stay.”

“Okay,” Minho answered, unhesitating and easy and oh, how Jisung wished it was. How he wished Minho could make that promise: to remain here, warm and safe and right by Jisung’s side. But he couldn’t, not anymore. Not while he still had that mark on his wrist, slowly but surely pulling him away into a future where Jisung couldn’t follow.

He curled into his partner, trembling, holding tight to a connection that would soon be no more. His voice when he spoke was a bare whisper, small and scared and so very, very lonely. “All clear?”

Minho’s grip around him tightened, firm, grounding. Suffocating in its weight. “All clear,” his partner answered, and Jisung nodded, that tight fist around his heart loosening just a tad because it meant, just for tonight, that Minho still loved him. Just for tonight, they were okay.

It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough, but for now Minho was here. And Jisung knew better than to hope for anything more.

He stood in the middle of the kitchen staring down at his phone, and didn’t know what to feel.

Minho had left early that morning to return to the conference. He’d offered to stay, argued that a bunch of boring panels and symposia he could barely even stay awake for hardly mattered when he just wanted to make sure Jisung was okay. But that was the problem: Jisung wasn’t okay. He would never be okay now that Minho was bound to someone else, and since they couldn’t do anything about that, it made no sense for him to hold Minho back.

So Minho had left. And Jisung didn’t regret pushing him away like this; he was going to have to get used to it, after all. But also he had the next three days off, and what was he supposed to do all by himself? Wallow in the apartment, thinking about how his life was falling apart right before his eyes?

Minho must have feared the same thing because the older man had been texting pretty much nonstop since the morning. Just the usual stuff: a stupid-looking tie one of the speakers was wearing, how they were out of coffee stirrers, the way a vendor in the exhibit hall talked so fast he thought the guy would have an aneurysm mid-sentence. Typical Lee Minho just chattering about his day, and Jisung had allowed himself to get lost in it a little, to pretend that the previous night hadn’t happened and they were still planning a bright, wonderful future together…except then Minho sent his last text.

Do you want to meet him?

He didn’t need to say the name; Jisung knew. Aiden Hendrickson: the soulmate. The other man.

Or, well. Technically that label was inaccurate, because Aiden was the one who was Minho’s intended, written out by fate. Jisung was the other man. The proverbial ball and chain. The anomaly.

He’d spent the entire morning in a grief- and caffeine-fueled daze, devouring everything he could find about soulmates and Bondless and what happened when the two collided in an atomic mushroom cloud that destroyed worlds. The good news: this sort of thing did happen, though it was rare.

The bad news: the soulmate won out every. Single. Time.

He’d never really noticed it before, how much the concept of soulmates infiltrated this society they lived in. How closely all their infrastructure, laws, and social norms were designed around the idea that two people with matching marks on their arms were the most ideal of relationships. If a person wanted to divorce their Bondless spouse for their soulmate, the spouse couldn’t object. Adultery was permitted, even encouraged, because cheating on your partner with your soulmate couldn’t actually be cheating, could it? Even custody cases were influenced by it; judges overwhelmingly favored soulmate couples when it came to who was deemed a better fit to care for children. There were horror stories of Bondless mothers who lost custody of their kids, simply because they didn’t have a golden mark on their skin.

It was insane. It was evil and wrong and horribly unfair, and it was happening to him right now, in real time. Because Minho wanted Jisung to meet his soulmate, the man who completed him, the man he was going to choose. And there wasn’t a single thing Jisung could do to stop it.

His phone buzzed once more. You don’t have to, Minho wrote. Jisung could just see him standing in the lobby of the hotel, surrounded by expensive decor and luxurious amenities and other well-known physicians, people who were so much smarter and better than Jisung. People like Aiden, and Jisung’s stomach churned even as he typed his reply.

Where?

Because Minho was wrong. Even if it tore his heart right in two, Jisung had to meet Aiden. He had to know who this man was that he was about to lose the love of his life to. He had to know all the ways in which he didn’t measure up.

The cafe was a quaint little place around the corner from the hotel, all cute decorations and small, intimate tables and baristas who somehow balanced being covered in tattoos with uniforms that made them look like boarding school students. It was quirky and unique, exactly the kind of place Minho loved, and Jisung couldn’t help the twinge in his chest as he approached the table.

Minho spotted him first, of course, twisting around in his chair like he had a radar in his head that pinged whenever Jisung was near. His whole face lit up and he immediately rose to his feet. “Hi, baby.”

“Hi.” Jisung walked into his partner’s embrace, letting himself enjoy for just one moment Minho’s closeness and familiar warmth. The older man, for his part, wrapped him up immediately, tight and unwavering. Almost desperate, if Jisung didn’t know better.

“All clear?” Minho murmured, and Jisung nodded.

“All clear.” At least for now.

“Okay.” His partner stepped back and reached down to take Jisung’s hand before turning back around. “So, um. This is Aiden.”

The man seated across the little pink table rose to his feet. He was clearly European, all short blond hair and hazel eyes, wearing a neatly-pressed suit that exactly complemented the brand-name work clothes that hung from Minho’s side of the closet, and he was handsome with a gorgeous smile that was all perfect white teeth and Jisung didn’t know what to do with any of it as Aiden offered a hand. “Hello,” he said in English. “It’s nice to meet you.” He’d rolled the sleeves of his jacket up, and in the bright sunlight his bond mark was clear: two parallel golden lines along the inside of his wrist. A perfect match to Minho’s.

Oblivious to the nausea creeping up the back of Jisung’s throat, Minho patted his shoulder. “This, um, my boyfriend,” he said. “Han Jisung.”

“Hi.” Jisung shook Aiden’s hand. His grip was firm, confident, like he knew exactly what space he took up in the world and how to make the most of it. Just like Minho. “Nice to meet you too.”

“Your English is very good,” Aiden commented, eyes sparkling, but Jisung didn’t feel like smiling.

“Thank you. I go to international school in Malaysia for a while.” Minho was already pulling up a chair so Jisung took a seat, unable to help how he leaned instinctively into his partner when Minho settled his arm around his shoulders. The movement didn’t go overlooked by Aiden, who watched them with something almost like sympathy.

“I know this must all seem very sudden,” he said, voice soft. “Especially for you, Hanji.”

Next to him Minho blinked at the mistake, confused, so Jisung handed him his phone to open Google Translate even as he cleared his throat. “My name is Jisung,” he said, “and yes. Thank you for…for acknowledging.”

Aiden nodded. “I can’t imagine being in your position,” he said, “and I know this entire situation came out of nowhere and it’s all screwed up, so I really am sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“I know.” And Jisung believed him. Aiden seemed like a good guy, despite how he was currently destroying Jisung’s life.

“And I really respect you for even showing up here,” the other man continued, leaning ever so slightly forward across the table. “Really. I mean, so many other people wouldn’t have had the courage, or would immediately paint me the villain but you’re willing to actually talk to me and I just want you to know that I’ll support Minho in whatever choice he makes—”

“What?” Next to him Minho’s head snapped up from where he’d been following along with the conversation on Jisung’s phone. “Choice?”

“Yes.” Aiden smiled, infinitely kind. “It’s always been your choice, Minho. I mean, we both know the meaning of these bond marks but also you’ve been with him for so long so I understand if it takes you a while to pick. And you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, so I’m sure whatever choice you make will be the best one for you.”

Silence. Minho frowned down at the phone, brows knitted together like he didn’t entirely understand what was going on; maybe the translation app wasn’t working well or something. Jisung cleared his throat.

“Um, so. Minho say you are heart doctor?”

“Oh. Yes!” Aiden leaned back in his chair, eyes sparkling. It made him look even more handsome, even more of a perfect match for Minho’s own beauty. “Yes, I’m a cardiologist, primarily preventive with a subspecialization in congenital disease. Actually it’s rather funny, did you know most of my research is in the relationship between bond status and chronic heart conditions?”

“Oh?” Jisung didn’t have to look to see the expression on Minho’s face: curious, excited, intrigued at the prospect of learning something new. It was the same look he got whenever Jisung came home from a particularly busy shift with a new story about the latest way somebody had managed to fuck up their life. Now, it made him want to disappear. “You mean the…the…ah, wait one moment…” He held Jisung’s phone up to his mouth. “Are you referring to the chronic cardiac stress Bondless have been hypothesized to experience without the physiological and hormonal stabilization of a soulmate connection?” he said in Korean, then held the phone up to Aiden.

The other physician’s gaze flicked across the screen before he nodded. “Yes, exactly! In fact I’m in the middle of writing a grant proposal for a study examining the potential effects of titrated statin administration on various cardiac disease markers in Bondless adults.”

“That’s amazing! What’s your control group?”

“Well, there’s the intent-to-treat control but we’ve also combined it with a double-blind clinical trial, so we’ll have one group who receives the placebo and the other will be given a low dose of Atorvastatin over a period of…”

Their voices faded out. Jisung stared down at the table, at its plastic pink surface that was ugly and cheap. His stomach roiled, threatening to send his breakfast coming right back up and maybe that would interrupt them at least. Maybe that would make them stop this ridiculous mating dance or whatever it was they were doing while acting like Jisung wasn’t even there.

God, he was stupid. Why had he ever thought it was a good idea to come here, to rub his own face in the evidence of his inadequacy? He never should have come. He should have stayed home where it was quiet and safe, where he could at least pretend Minho wasn’t drifting away from him, a magnificent ship he’d always thought firmly docked but now steaming steadily off toward the horizon, leaving Jisung alone to crumble to pieces on the shore.

“—adverse side effects,” his partner was saying, and he was talking light and fast the way he always did when he was passionate about something, except this time that something wasn’t Jisung. “In fact I’d always suspected those Stage II clinical trials coming out of the US were junk, I know IL-1 inhibitors are all the rage right now when it comes to chronic inflammation but personally the fact that no one is even really looking into colchicine derivatives is just—uh, Jisungie? Wait, where are you—”

“I have to go.” Jisung practically leaped to his feet, chair scraping across the concrete as he turned and hurried down the sidewalk as fast as he could. 

“Baby, wait—” Minho’s voice rang out behind him, alarmed, confused and that was what hurt the most, what made Jisung duck his head and pick up the pace, rounding the corner and leaving behind his partner and the man he would end up choosing. Because Minho hadn’t even realized what was happening, probably didn’t know even now why Jisung was leaving. And why would he? He had everything he needed to be happy in the man sitting across the table from him, the man who had been marked out by the universe as his soulmate.

The man who wasn’t Jisung. Fuck. Why had he ever let himself believe there was a chance?

Chan took one look at him and his expression immediately crumpled. “Oh, Hannie,” he said, opening his arms, and Jisung toppled immediately forward, the tears already rushing out even as the older man wrapped him right up, and at least he still had this. At least someone out there still loved him for who he was.

He didn’t know how much time passed then, only that eventually he found himself on Chan’s couch, knees pulled up to his chest as Changbin rubbed his back. “I’m sorry, Hannie,” his friend said, eyes shining. “God. This is so fucked up.”

“That’s an understatement.” Seungmin plopped down on his other side with a sigh. “So they met at a conference and it just…happened? The mark just manifested out of nowhere?”

“That’s the way it works,” Changbin said, “though of course none of us would know.” His voice dropped, and Jisung didn’t miss the way he and Seungmin exchanged a meaningful look over his head, heavy with unspoken feeling. And he knew why Chan had called them over almost immediately after Jisung collapsed in his arms, sobbing like his heart was being ripped right out of his chest. Changbin and Seungmin had been together for three years, ever since then-rookie Dispatcher Kim found himself strangely intrigued by a soft, friendly voice on the other end of the radio. At Firehouse 143 they were known for their constant bickering, Seungmin’s tendency to blow up Changbin’s locker whenever he was feeling annoyed, and the fact that they, too, lacked bond marks on their skin. Our second old married couple, the folks at the station liked to say.

Jisung and Minho were—had been—the first.

“Anyway.” Chan sighed as he lowered himself into the armchair opposite. He looked exhausted, face pale with bags under his eyes and Jisung almost regretted coming here because out of all of them their captain was the one who needed to rest the most—but also there was no mistaking the glint in Chan’s eyes as he continued, “So what are we going to do?”

We, not you. God, Jisung had never been more grateful for his team. He swallowed, ducked his head. “I don’t know. They were…they were having such a good time together.”

That got a snort out of Seungmin, but Chan only nodded. “Has he reached out to you?” 

They all knew the answer to that question. Jisung’s phone on the kitchen counter had been going off pretty much nonstop since he left the cafe. He’d glanced at it briefly a few minutes ago: three missed calls and a pile of texts, all from Minho, all pleading and filled with desperation.

I’m so sorry baby please call me back

Jisungie?

Baby I’m not there anymore, I left the cafe so please

Please can you just let me know you’re okay

I’m really worried

Baby

Look I know I fucked up, I’m sorry

Please come home I’m waiting

Please

All clear

He hadn’t responded to any of them, not because he was actively trying to ignore Minho but because he just didn’t know what to say. What could he say, in the face of what had happened? How could they possibly fix this when the universe itself was dedicated to tearing them apart?

Next to him Changbin sighed. “I just…I can’t believe he’s even considering it. Like Minho actually feels like he has to choose? Between some rando he only met yesterday and the guy who’s gearing up for a proposal soon? It shouldn’t even be a contest.”

“To be fair it sounds like it’s this Aiden guy who’s pushing for a choice,” Seungmin answered. “God, what an asshole. And to do it right in front of Hannie like that, I can’t even, I don’t know how you even managed to keep from socking him right in his smug fucking face…Hannie?”

He trailed off. Jisung felt his friends’ eyes on him but said nothing, instead just staring blankly down at the coffee table. Proposal. That’s right; he’d meant to ask Minho to marry him, before all this shit went down. The ring was still in his locker.

Fuck. What the fuck was he supposed to do now?

“Hannie?” Chan rose and made his way over, reaching down to take Jisung’s hands in his own. “Hey. You’ve been through a lot today. Why don’t you stay over tonight?”

“Or you can come home with us,” Seungmin said. “Binnie’s making his mom’s haemul jeongol, and there’s always way too much for the two of us to finish.”

“Says you,” Changbin muttered. “Last time I barely had any left over to bring to the station—”

“That’s because you left out like half the seafood—”

“I put in a bunch more fish though—”

“No.” Jisung sighed, and even though it felt like his limbs were made of lead he rose slowly to his feet, turning to offer his friends a smile that felt taut and brittle and far too close to breaking. “Thank you all, really, but…but I should go home.” Because spending the night elsewhere was tempting, but it was only a stopgap. A tiny little bandaid slapped over a gushing open wound, and it wouldn’t change his situation. It wouldn’t change the fact that Minho was going to leave him. Whether it was today or tomorrow or next week, Jisung would end up alone.

But maybe…maybe if he pulled the bandaid off and exposed the wound enough, it would bleed out all that much faster. Maybe that was the quickest way to get rid of the pain. Maybe that was for the best.

He could tell his friends wanted to object, to keep him in their line of sight where they could protect and support him. But in the end they let him go, and Jisung was glad for it, as he watched the lights and buildings of Seoul sail past the train window. There was a love that he and his team had forged amongst themselves over the years, built brick by brick through fire and smoke, warm meals and wailing sirens, hearty laughter and breathless desperate prayers whispered out over bloodied hands. It was a connection built on trust, on throwing yourself without hesitation into life-or-death situations and knowing your brothers had your back no matter what. It was a beautiful thing, and Jisung would never stop being grateful that he would always have his family at Firehouse 143.

Especially since his other family was fracturing right before his eyes.

Minho met him at the door. Jisung had barely stepped inside before rapid footsteps approached and the older man pulled him into a tight hug, crushing Jisung to him so close it actually got a little difficult to breathe. “I’m sorry,” Minho whispered, as his whole body trembled and…and was he crying? Why? “I’m so sorry, baby, thank you so much for coming home…”

He sounded destroyed. Absolutely devastated, and once again it was so weak but Jisung couldn’t help the tiny little noise that shivered out of him as he ducked his head and burrowed into his partner, leaning almost his entire weight into Minho, wanting his support, just wanting him here. Even if only for a little while longer.

He didn’t know how long they stood there, just holding each other. Minho’s breaths came in short, hitching hiccups, and when he finally pulled back Jisung could see he was an absolute mess: face drawn and streaked with tears, with his hair all messed up and still wearing the same clothes from the cafe. Like maybe he really had come straight home from there instead of finishing the conference, but before Jisung could ask Minho reached up to cup his face, eyes shining. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, then winced. “No, I mean of course you’re not—and I’m so sorry for what happened at lunch. I just, I don’t even know what came over me, it’s like I wasn’t even thinking about it and all of a sudden he’d drawn me in and I swear I didn’t mean to cut you out, it was just…it just happened.”

And he looked so guilty, so sincere—and, well. Of course he would be; just because Minho had found his soulmate didn’t mean Jisung now meant nothing to him. He swallowed and reached up to take his partner’s hands. “It’s okay, hyung, really—”

“No, it’s not.” Minho shook his head, brow furrowed. “It just—this whole soulmate thing is such a total mindfuck, I can’t even…it’s like everything’s just changed and I can’t think about anything else and I just, I know what I have to do but I have no fucking idea how to get there and—”

Jisung kissed him. It was instinct, an impulse done completely without thought because he couldn’t listen to Minho finish that sentence. He couldn’t hear the man he loved telling him he couldn’t stop thinking about someone else and that he was trying to decide the best way for them to break up, not now, not when it felt like he was already about to fly right apart. So Jisung pulled Minho in and kissed him with everything he had, and Minho stiffened in surprise for a half-second before melting right into it, a soft desperate noise erupting from his throat even as he pressed close. And it was wonderful as it always was, his taste and touch and how his partner just fit against him like he’d been made for it—except he hadn’t been. Minho had been made for someone else, and Jisung swallowed down a sob and surged forward, pinning his partner up against the wall as he plundered his mouth because he just. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t think about this, not right now and maybe if they just came together for a bit again, just for tonight, then he could pretend one last time that everything was going to be okay.

“Wait.” Minho’s words came out muffled by Jisung’s lips, palms pushing weakly at his shoulders even as he kept kissing back like his life depended on it. “Wait, Sungie, we—we have to talk about this—”

“No, we don’t.” Jisung popped Minho’s fly open without looking and reached inside, drinking in the older man’s low groan as Minho arched instinctively into his touch, breathless. “Just…be with me, okay, hyung? Please.”

“God, fuck. Okay.” And Minho kissed him again, deep, passionate even as he began pulling Jisung toward the bedroom down the hall, and that was okay. Jisung meant it: they didn’t have to talk about this. It wouldn’t fix anything, anyway—not the bond mark on Minho’s wrist, not the way Aiden smiled at Jisung’s partner like it was already done, not how Jisung’s own heart broke further with each step Minho took away from him. There was nothing that could heal any of that, but maybe this would still help, just a little bit: coming together like this, relearning Minho’s body and the way they fit, even if he wouldn’t get to have this anymore in the future.

But he had Minho now. At least in this moment his partner was still here, so Jisung pressed Minho back onto their bed and kissed him with everything he had, and hoped desperately that tonight, just for tonight, it would be enough.

It had to be enough.

The next couple of days were…strange.

Jisung woke up the next morning a little bemused to find Minho still wrapped naked and warm around him. His partner just yawned and said he didn’t feel like attending the rest of the conference, that he’d much rather they had breakfast in bed and then watched anime all day. Jisung didn’t quite understand it, but far be it from him to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe Minho just wanted a bit more time to enjoy what they had together, before he went to Aiden.

Except he didn’t. The entire day his partner hovered within arm’s reach, making him food, rubbing his shoulders, kissing and touching him at every opportunity. It was like Minho was trying to prove a point, though Jisung had no idea what that might be. Did he want to make some final lasting memories of their time together? Did he feel guilty about what he was about to do, so he was trying to soften the blow when he inevitably chose Aiden?

But also he didn’t talk much about his soulmate. And Jisung got it; after what happened at the cafe Minho probably felt bad and didn’t want to hurt him like that again. But it didn’t really explain why he changed the subject whenever their conversations drifted in that direction, or why calls and texts showed up periodically on Minho’s phone from an unknown number, but his partner didn’t even bother to open them. It was like Minho was pretending Aiden didn’t even exist, that the golden mark on his arm meant nothing, and Jisung just.

He couldn’t help it. He’d always been so fucking weak when it came to Lee Minho, no part of him able to stand up to the other man’s soft smile and twinkling eyes, so as the hours continued and Minho stayed close, he couldn’t help but start to hope. To wonder if maybe there actually was a chance for them, that maybe Minho had looked at his options and decided to choose him after all. Even though it didn’t make sense. Even though Aiden was undoubtedly the better match.

But Minho didn’t seem to think so. The way he kissed Jisung, the way he brought him coffee from the shop around the corner and talked about booking flights for their Japan trip in the summer and made them a full candlelit dinner with all of Jisung’s favorite foods before proudly presenting a giant chocolate cheesecake for dessert…just. Jisung couldn’t stop it, the tremulous hope that unfolded in his heart. How he slowly started feeling like he could smile again without falling apart inside. How it felt like maybe, just maybe, the light in his world wasn’t going to go out.

It was this thought that buoyed him up as he headed down the sidewalk the following day. He started his shift at the station in a couple hours and the weather was unseasonably warm, so he might as well enjoy it before the craziness of work. Especially since their apartment was empty, Minho having finally gone back to the hospital after Jisung practically shoved him out the door, chuckling because someone’s gotta support our lifestyle, hyung, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be me.

Minho had laughed at that, bright, before ducking in to plant a sweet kiss on Jisung’s lips. Don’t worry, you contribute to this relationship in other ways, he’d said with a wink, then darted quickly down the hall before Jisung could smack him. And it was light and playful the way they’d always been, like nothing bad was happening. Like they had a future together, and maybe they did. Maybe Minho had chosen. Maybe everything was going to be okay.

And Jisung, well. He’d honestly been acting like a bit of an asshole, hadn’t he? Being all mopey and shit, when Minho was trying to show him in all these different ways how much he loved him. He should probably pay the older man back somehow, right? Do something nice for him too, show him that he wasn’t alone in this. That Jisung was just as invested in their happiness as Minho was.

The idea came to him out of nowhere. He recognized this neighborhood; he was about two blocks down from one of Minho’s favorite restaurants, this bougie high-end American style place where the menu didn’t have prices and a glass of wine cost more than Jisung’s entire monthly salary. They’d celebrated their anniversary there just last year, and Minho swore by the steak and it would be nice, wouldn’t it, to book them a table here? Maybe for later this weekend, after Jisung got off his schedule again. Yes, he thought as he approached the front of the building. Minho would like this, and it was expensive but it wasn’t like they didn’t share an account anyway and he couldn’t wait to see the look on his partner’s—

Then he saw them, and everything just. Stopped.

Through the giant-paned windows that looked into the restaurant from the street, Minho sat at one of the inside tables. Jisung recognized him easily, from the navy blue shirt he was wearing to the shape of his shoulders to his short, carefully-styled dark hair. But it wasn’t the sight of him that made Jisung’s heart freeze right in his chest, every bit of light inside of him abruptly winking out until there was nothing left but a sucking, bottomless black hole. No.

That would be the man seated across from Minho, watching him like he was the only thing in the world that existed. Because to Aiden Hendrickson, he was.

Jisung stood there on the sidewalk, staring as Minho’s soulmate chuckled at something his partner said, bright, unfettered. He looked comfortable, utterly content—and why wouldn’t he be? Aiden was eating dinner with his soulmate. Aiden was eating dinner with his soulmate, and said soulmate’s partner hadn’t known about it.

He. He couldn’t breathe. Jisung stared through the window at Minho and Aiden, how they watched each other, intent, entirely focused on their conversation and nothing else. Because outside of the two of them nothing else existed—not the restaurant, not the world. Not Jisung.

The black hole inside him yawned open and deep, stealing his breath and his heart and every bit of hope, and. Fuck. Why. Why had he ever thought Minho loved him, when Aiden was right there? Why had he even dared to believe he could have a chance, when the man he was going up against was literally Minho’s other half?

He’d been so stupid. Gullible and naive and exactly the type of person who deserved to be left behind. Because that was what Minho had been doing the last two days: preparing. Buttering Jisung up with smiles and sweet nothings, enjoying himself on his body, playing at love and hope while the entire time he’d known he was going to see Aiden again. That he was always going to choose his soulmate, from the very beginning.

Minho had lied. The man he loved, whom he’d intended to marry and build his forever with, had lied to his fucking face and was now sitting and chatting happily with someone else. Someone who was smarter, more successful, so much better than Jisung could ever hope to be.

He’d lost. He’d lost Minho, he’d lost his future. And now there was nothing left.

Inside the restaurant, Minho smiled. It was soft, tender—intimate as the older man leaned forward just a bit, whispering something low as he reached out to place his hand gently over Aiden’s. And Aiden smiled back, warm and affectionate and so full of love, and Jisung couldn’t. He couldn’t be here watching the two of them, watching everything he’d deluded himself into thinking he deserved be destroyed in one fell swoop.

His vision blurred. Jisung spun and hurried back down the sidewalk, swiping angrily at the tears streaming down his face. Fuck. He needed to get out of here. He needed to not have to think about this, about how he’d just lost the best thing that ever happened to him. He needed to figure out how he was even supposed to live without Minho, without his smile and his laugh and the anchor of his presence.

First, though…he needed to take care of something.

Jisung stared at the little velvet box in his locker, mind entirely blank.

Changbin, Jeongin, and the others were already out in the bay, workout machines clanking as their teasing and laughter drifted to him through the door. Happy, content and entirely carefree, and Jisung would join them in just a moment, really he would…once he finished wrapping up this small, stupid thing.

He swallowed, glanced down at his phone where he’d dropped it carelessly next to his boots. The screen was dark; he’d turned it off basically as soon as he left the restaurant, struggling to see through the blur of his tears as he made his way toward the train station. And that was fine; it wasn’t like Minho was going to call him anyway. Not when he had Aiden, the man he had chosen. The man Jisung had lost to, in a race he’d known he couldn’t run in the first place.

He should’ve known better. He should’ve known someone like him didn’t deserve to be loved.

He reached up, swiped the box off the shelf, and marched out of the room.

Chan’s office was located in what had once been a utility closet on the other side of the station. The small space had never bothered him—I just need a place to get shit done, doesn’t matter how big it is, he’d said once, and it was one of the many things Jisung respected so much about him. That, and how Chan would always come through for him no matter what. 

His captain startled a bit when Jisung entered without knocking. Shift had started less than half an hour ago so he looked like he’d just turned his computer on and was preparing to clear out his inbox even as he smiled up at Jisung, open. “Oh, hey, Hannie. Are you feeling bet—uh.”

He blinked, confused. And that was okay, that was to be expected. Jisung glanced down at the box now sitting neatly on Chan’s desk, then lifted his gaze to fix it somewhere just past the older man’s left shoulder. “Please return this for me,” he said.

To say Chan looked shocked would be like saying the calls they responded to were just minor inconveniences. “What?” His voice came out strangled. “Hannie, what—”

“Minho is leaving me.” And—well. Maybe it was a good thing, that he felt nothing when he said those words out loud. Maybe that meant he really was done, that anything still human—still hopeful inside him had finally been scoured away. “And I can’t do this myself, I’m not—I’m not strong enough, so you have to do it for me.”

“Are you…” Chan stared at him like he’d just grown two heads. “He—Minho’s leaving you? What—What the fuck, oh my god I’m going to kill him, I’ll wring his fucking neck for this—”

And he might have said more, except suddenly the sirens in the building went off, lights flashing as the echoing wails of a fast-unfolding crisis bounced about their skulls. Chan leaped to his feet, eyes flashing as he stabbed a finger at Jisung. “We’ll talk about this later but for now you’re grounded, Firefighter Han, so—hey! Hey, I said don’t fucking move, what are you—”

But Jisung was already out the door and headed for his gear hanging from its hook next to the rig. And Chan was still shouting behind him but he ignored him, pulling everything on in short, quick movements that he’d practiced a million times, that felt familiar and safe in a world that now was neither. But that was okay. Everything was okay.

If he could still be of use in at least one thing, then he would take it.

The ride across the district was heavy and tense. Even though Chan was stuck up front helping with navigation the rest of his team picked up immediately on their captain’s foul mood, and it didn’t take long for them to connect it with the fact that Jisung spent the entire trip saying nothing as he stared listlessly out the window. Jeongin sat next to him pressed up close and Changbin tried to engage him in conversation a couple times, but he didn’t take the bait. What was the point, anyway? It didn’t matter. Without Minho, nothing mattered anymore.

He found himself almost relieved, when they finally pulled up to a small apartment building that was almost completely engulfed in flames.

It was one of those older ones, only three stories and probably eight units at most. That was likely how the fire had started, anyway, the building inspector missing something or maybe taking a bribe from the landlord to look the other way, and then one of the tenants forgot a pan on the stove or fell asleep with a cigarette in their hand, and voila. How tragic, that things could go from perfectly fine to utterly destroyed so quickly. 

Small blessings: the scene was in complete chaos, civilians running around screaming or piled up on the sidewalk recording it on their phones, while reporters set up shop all over the place and crews from two other stations got themselves set up alongside. Chan was too distracted to do much more than cast occasional worried glances Jisung’s way, coordinating with the other team leads to get people into the building as quickly as possible—apparently there were still a few residents trapped inside, and they were worried about the structure’s integrity.

Not that Jisung cared. He fed the thick firehose through his hands in efficient, well-practiced movements, passing it along to Changbin without looking as he watched Jeongin help the paramedics wheel a dazed, soot-covered patient toward the nearest ambulance. With any luck, they’d make it out of here without anyone dying. That would be nice, to know he’d contributed to something, to finally changing someone’s life in a positive way.

“Sir!” It was a firefighter from another crew, running up to Chan with a panicked look on his face. “Sir, they’re saying someone’s still missing, a young woman, they think she might be on the second floor—”

“Shit, okay.” Chan shook his head. “Seo, Yang, An, get the ladder ready, we need to check the stability of the—fuck! Firefighter Han! Motherfucker—Hannie, stop! Fuck, stop him, he can’t—Hannie! Hannie!”

But Jisung barely heard him as he booked it for the building, already shoving his mask down over his face. Here the world narrowed, nothing but the echoes of his own breath fogging up the thick plastic and that was good, he didn’t need anything else and somewhere behind him he heard Chan yelling, cursing as he fought against the men holding him back and that was good, yes, because only one of them deserved to survive this anyway.

Taking a deep breath, he shoved his way through the front door.

There was one thing they never showed in the movies, in all the dramas and over-the-top TV shows: that when you were in the middle of it, fire was quiet. Jisung had been shocked by it the first time he entered a burning room: how silent the flames were, how instead of explosions and shrieking howls there was only the occasional soft, almost embarrassed crackle, like the fire itself was trying not to intrude. Like its whole reason for existence was simply to consume, silent and sinister, until there was nothing left. Until you didn’t even know you’d lost until it was already gone.

The heat, though: that made itself known very quickly. Jisung coughed, flinching at the scorching blast that hit his face even as he picked his way forward step by step. “Hello?” he shouted, muffled through the mask. “Fire response, can anyone hear me?”

Nothing. Only the continued snapping of the flames like little bursts of mocking laughter, and underneath that a low, jagged groan. He knew that sound. The building was compromised, that was why Chan hadn’t wanted him to enter. He needed to get out of here—but first, he had to find the people who were trapped.

He had to prove he could be of some use. That he was worth more than just being abandoned.

“Hello!” It was getting difficult to breathe even with the filters. Jisung gasped for oxygen, eyes stinging even as he made his way toward the stairs which were already engulfed in flames. “Hello! Is anyone there!” 

Everything felt hot, too hot. It was like the top layer of his skin was burning, the thick layers of his gear doing nothing to protect him but he couldn’t turn back, not now. He had to find them, he had to save them. He couldn’t give up, not like this. Not like this.

Things after that happened very fast.

A sudden loud screech shattered the silence, followed by a series of sharp, snapping pops. The ground beneath him moved, shifted like an earthquake and Jisung cried out and fell to his knees, and when he looked up it was to the sight of the ceiling above cracking apart like a thundercloud, like an angry god getting ready to rain down lightning in a torrent of wrath. Except instead of electricity there was only the ruthless inferno: fire everywhere, bright destruction, golden like the end of all things. Like two small, innocuous parallel lines, that had the power to obliterate an entire universe.

Oh, Jisung thought, as all around him the world roared. Okay then.

The ceiling crashed down. Heat and searing, awful agony tore through his body, merciless and neverending. Everything went upside-down and sideways and utterly wrong, and it was a relief, really, when the darkness rose up and finally snatched him away.

Something was beeping.

It was an annoying, persistent sound, thumping in his brain like a tiny hammer drumming against the inside of his skull. Jisung shifted, let out a soft groan. Had Minho left the fridge open again?

Except…no, that wasn’t the sound of their refrigerator. And these sheets were way too scratchy to be their bed. Jisung frowned and tried to open his eyes; it was hard, like they’d been glued shut but he managed it after another moment and—oh.

White. Everywhere sterile white, and it took a second but eventually he recognized it. Hospital. He was in the hospital, staring at the curtain on his left and the wall in front, with a whiteboard hung neatly up proclaiming his name and date of birth. CC: impact trauma, TBI, 2nd deg burns. Someone had drawn a happy face next to it.

What…What happened?

Okay, first things first. He could move all his fingers and toes which was a good sign, but—fuck. He couldn’t help the soft hiss as agony tore up his side. Fuck, it hurt, like he was being stabbed by a thousand little needles simultaneously, and now that he was looking more closely he could see the stark white dressings peeking out beneath his gown: the bandages all across his chest and shoulders, wrapped around his arms—hell, he could feel the gauze on his face, the tight wrappings around his forehead. Had he hit his head? And why did it hurt so much to breathe?

“Baby?”

The voice drifted to him as if from underwater, muffled, near-incomprehensible. Jisung frowned and turned his head, squinting as the bright light of the room slowly resolved to reveal…

Oh.

Lee Minho looked like he was the one who should be in the hospital bed. His skin was sallow and pale, with dark circles under his eyes and several days’ worth of stubble on his chin. He obviously hadn’t slept in a while, and his clothes were all wrinkled and stained, like maybe he hadn’t showered recently either. Like maybe he’d been parked right here in this room for however long it had been, refusing to go home and clean up and eat. Refusing to leave.

And, just like that, it all came back.

The conference. Aiden Hendrickson, and the soulmate mark. How he and Minho had started to come back together, before everything crumbled when he spotted his partner with his soulmate. The fire. The collapse.

Fuck.

“The.” His voice came out hoarse and sandpaper-raw, a scratchy little thing in the silence of the room. Jisung coughed, licked his lips. “The woman…?”

Minho looked confused for a moment before it dawned on him. “Oh.” His face fell. “They, uh. They pulled you both out, but she had asphyxiated. And you…you were…” Something broke in his expression, something vulnerable and so very scared and Jisung would comfort him, really he would, except he was too busy sinking down in fresh grief.

Because he’d failed. Like everything else in his life—his relationships, his family, the person who was supposed to be his forever—now Jisung had failed in his job too. His only mission had been to save that civilian, and he hadn’t. Couldn’t even manage that, in the end.

How utterly pathetic. And it was kind of Minho, really, to be here; Jisung hadn’t had time to change his emergency contact so the older man would’ve been the first one the hospital called. And of course he came. Of course he stayed with Jisung the whole time, because Minho was a doctor first and foremost. He helped people, even when they didn’t deserve it. Even when they would always be his second choice.

“Um.” Minho looked away. “Chan and the others, they had to step out for a debrief with the department. ‘A first rate ass-kicking by the higher-ups,’ as Binnie put it.” He huffed a half-laugh, brittle. “Innie said he’s actually looking forward to getting yelled at, that it would be a nice change of pace.”

Yeah, leave it to Yang Jeongin to see the silver linings. Jisung blinked, slow. “How long’ve…I been out?”

“Three days.” The older man’s lower lip trembled. “You weren’t, um. You weren’t doing well, when they pulled you from the wreckage.”

Oh. Well, that was to be expected. Chan would probably never talk to him again, but he didn’t regret it. It was what it was.

It didn’t explain why Minho was still here, though. Sure, it made sense for him to stay while Jisung was unconscious, the hospital probably needed his help coordinating with the rest of his family and making sure they got all his paperwork and medical history right. But now that Jisung was awake…strange. It didn’t look like Minho was making any preparations to leave. In fact he was pulling a chair up to the bed and sinking down into it, exhausted, and Jisung couldn’t help but blink.

“You don’t…” Fuck, talking hurt, like splinters of glass clogging his throat. Hurray for smoke inhalation. “You don’t have to stay.”

Minho’s head snapped up so fast it was a miracle he didn’t dislocate his neck. “What?”

His partner—ex-partner was staring at him like he couldn’t quite believe his words, like out of everything Jisung could have said this was the last thing he’d expected. Which was odd, considering…

He cleared his throat, tried to force a smile though he was pretty sure he didn’t make it. God, he was tired. “You can go,” he croaked. “The others’ll be back soon, and Chan has my mom’s number so he can take care of everything. You don’t have to stay. I’m sure Aiden’s waiting.”

“I.” He didn’t think he’d ever seen Minho look so completely lost, like the rug had been yanked out from beneath him, like he’d all of a sudden been dropped into a whole different universe without his knowledge. “What. Why would I…what does Aiden have to do with any of this?” 

He looked genuinely confused, which honestly was fucking rich. Like he didn’t know. Like he wasn’t aware how his choices had shattered everything Jisung believed in. He looked away, biting his lip to keep the tears from spilling over. “What, you thought I wouldn’t find out? That you were meeting with him secretly behind my back?”

“I didn’t…” Minho’s eyes abruptly went very wide. “Oh. Oh. You saw us at the restaurant.”

He looked absolutely heartbroken, and yeah. Busted, as the kids used to say. And Jisung just. He was just so fucking done with all this, and he was tired and injured and everything fucking hurt so if Minho was going to go fuck off into the sunset with his soulmate then good fucking riddance, why were they even talking about this, Jisung had never been enough for him anyway.

“You looked like you were having such a good time,” he said, taking vicious satisfaction in the way Minho’s face fell more with every word. The older man shook his head.

“No,” he said, voice thin. “No, you don’t understand, I wasn’t—it’s not like that at all—”

And Jisung would’ve laughed if it didn’t threaten to tear his lungs right apart, because really. Minho had promised him the world, then snuck around behind his back with a man whose only connection to him was the matching mark on his wrist. He’d kissed Jisung like he meant something, then forgotten about him entirely to go smile stupidly at his soulmate. It had been decided from the very beginning, and Jisung didn’t want to fight anymore. He didn’t want to anything anymore. He was just so very tired.

“Please.” And he hated how small and pathetic it sounded but whatever, it wasn’t like they were ever going to see each other again after this. “Please just go. I’ll send a couple of the guys to go pick up my stuff once I get out of here—”

“No, will you just—”

“And you can keep most of it, I only need my clothes and the guitar, anyway, so if you—”

“Sungie, please—”

“Donate everything else then there’s no need to—”

“Goddamnit, Han Jisung, will you fucking listen to me!”

It came out sudden, sharp, stinging like a slap. Minho’s words echoed in the confines of the room, and Jisung stared, unable to speak as he watched the older man shoot to his feet, reaching up to scrub his hands violently through his hair, making the ends stick up everywhere. Like he was frustrated. Like he was really fucking pissed.

“You don’t know,” Minho hissed then, and—and why was he so upset? Why did he look like he was about to cry, why… “You don’t know what it’s been like for me, what it’s like to meet your soulmate—”

Jisung flinched. “Of course I—”

“No! No. That’s not—you don’t know, Sungie.” And god help him but it was like Minho was the one going insane, the way he threw his hands up as he rounded on Jisung, eyes wide and panicked, almost deranged. “You haven’t experienced it,” he said, stumbling over his words, “how it feels to be all of a sudden tied to a person with the weight of the entire universe. And I hope you never do, I don’t want it for you because it’s. Jisung. It’s fucking awful.”

And. Jisung blinked. Wait, what…? What was Minho…

But Minho had gotten himself going now, pacing the length of the room as the words tumbled from his lips, forceful and furious and yet underneath it all there was an unmistakable strong current of protectiveness that, despite his best efforts, made something tiny and stubborn flicker to life in Jisung’s heart. “It’s like I’ve been fucking drugged,” Minho said then. “Like someone went and pumped me full of GHB or ketamine or some shit and I can’t think clearly and I’m making stupid decisions, and he keeps pulling me in but I don’t like it because it’s not what I want. It’s not fucking consensual, it’s obtrusive and suffocating and I don’t have any fucking control and I just needed to get rid of it as fast as possible.”

And—wait. None of this made any sense. Get rid of it? Minho wanted to get rid of the soulmate bond? But why? It was supposed to be this beautiful thing, Aiden was his perfect match so why would he ever—

Then Minho finally turned to look at him, and something in Jisung’s heart tightened at the open vulnerability on his face. The older man looked destroyed, like he was just barely holding himself together as he continued, “At lunch, after you left, I told him we were done. I just—when you got out of your chair it was like you snapped me out of a trance or something, and I told him not to contact me anymore and I went home to wait for you. But he kept calling. I never should’ve given him my number but I was an idiot and so he kept trying to get in touch, to see if we could make it work and I was worried it was going to get out of hand, like he’d start showing up at my work or your work or something so I decided to put a stop to it.”

He paused then, took a breath. It was shaky, fragile as Minho swallowed and dropped his gaze to the floor. “I asked him to meet me in person so I could set everything straight,” he said then, soft. “I didn’t tell you because I figured it would just be a quick one-time thing and I didn’t want you to hurt. And when we were at the restaurant, I told him to go back to the UK. I tried to soften it as much as I could, and god, the fucking bond was still so fucking strong so I’m sure I did some lovey-dovey shit I didn’t mean, but I told him to get on a plane and to never come back to Korea and I’d call the police if I ever saw him again.”

And Jisung just. He stared at Minho, unable to breathe. That…That was what they’d been talking about, back at the restaurant? And—And now that he thought about it, when Aiden had smiled all affectionate and warm…also there’d been a hint of tightness around his eyes, like maybe he wasn’t entirely happy. And Minho’s shoulders had looked awfully stiff.

Was…Was it possible…?

Then, in front of him, Minho let out a trembling breath. His entire body seemed to fold in on itself as his expression cracked right open, the tears finally spilling over as his partner looked straight at him and said, in a voice that shook so badly he barely got the words out, “It was never a choice, Sungie. I never…from the very beginning, it was always you. Aiden’s my soulmate but he’s a stranger who doesn’t even speak my fucking language and I don’t want him. I never have. It just…it’s never been a choice because there’s never been a question. It’s you. It will always be you, forever.”

And then he lifted his left hand, the bright overhead light glinting off something metal. And Jisung forgot to breathe.

Minho was wearing the engagement ring. Since he’d woken up Jisung had been too distracted by the entire ridiculous situation to notice, but now he did: how the platinum silver gleamed against Minho’s skin, how it fit him perfectly. Like maybe, just maybe, it had been made for him.

The older man, anyway, just released a tired sigh, wiping at his eyes as he shuffled over to the chair and sat back down. Warm fingers wrapped around Jisung’s own, the cool firmness of the ring settling against his palm like it belonged there as Minho hung his head. “Chan gave it to me,” he whispered, “after you coded.”

And that. Just. Jisung stared. He’d—what? 

But Minho just continued to mumble at the floor, soft and small like he was afraid if he spoke too loudly it would summon something evil. “You coded,” he repeated, “in the OR. And I kind of completely lost my shit and I might’ve punched a couple of security guards, and the Chief of Medicine sent me a very strongly worded email yesterday and I’m not sure I’ll actually still have a job at the end of all this and also I don’t fucking care.”

He lifted his head then, and his eyes shone with tears and regret and fear and so much vibrant, endless love Jisung didn’t even know what to do with it as Minho swallowed, squeezing his hand hard enough to hurt. “For forty-six seconds you didn’t have a heartbeat, Han Jisung. For forty-six seconds I had to imagine a future without you in it, and I never, ever want to do that again. Never, Sungie. I won’t survive it.”

Jisung couldn’t answer. But that didn’t seem to bother Minho, who only dropped his gaze to their joined hands, to the ring glinting bright on his finger. “After they…brought you back, Chan sat down with me and we hashed it out. He told me you ran into the building with a death wish, I said that made you a fucking idiot but I was staying with you anyway, and he gave the ring to me.” 

He took a deep breath, thumb gently caressing the back of Jisung’s hand. “And if you don’t want me to wear it, I understand,” he murmured, thick. “I-I know I don’t deserve it, not after how I treated you these past few days, because I fucked up so badly so many times and you nearly died because of it. So if you can’t forgive me then I get it and I’ll leave, it’ll kill me but I will because I just. I can’t hurt you anymore, I can’t do it because I just love you so fucking much so just tell me, Sungie. Just tell me it’s over and I’ll go, and I promise I’ll never bother you again so just. P-Please.”

He was shaking. Just like back in their house, when Jisung finally came home and Minho cried and clung to him like he was afraid he might disappear. Like he meant something, like he meant everything—because he did. God. The tears came unbidden, stinging hot in his eyes but Jisung couldn’t even care because god, Minho loved him. Lee Minho had met his soulmate, had snapped into place the greatest connection anyone could ever hope for—and he’d walked away, pushed it away because he wanted Jisung instead. Because fuck fate, fuck destiny and everything else the universe tried to impose on them. It had no power here, not in this space they had built together. They were greater than any cosmic force or predetermined future.

And god, Jisung couldn’t wait to see what they would become.

Everything still hurt, his body a map of pain and a blind stupidity he would be paying for for a very long time. But it would be okay, because Minho was here. Minho was staying, and Jisung tightened his grip around his partner’s hand, tugging gently. “Hyung,” he whispered, then smiled when Minho lifted his head to blink at him.

“All clear?” he asked.

And he still had it, as it turned out: the ability to read Minho like a book. The surprise, the confusion—and then the realization, the hope, the pure unfettered joy as it clicked into place. As Minho released a breathless noise, shaky, and his smile was tearful and bright and the most beautiful thing Jisung had ever seen.

“All clear,” he answered, before knocking the chair right over in his haste to scramble up onto the bed and Jisung just laughed and pulled him in, ignoring his body’s protests and the machines going crazy all around them as he kissed Minho, as he brought his partner close and wove them tight and finally, finally got his forever back.

It was magnificent, it was everlasting. They kissed for minutes, hours, days, and his head hurt and his whole body ached and also Jisung didn’t give a shit because Minho was here, Minho would always be here. And when they finally broke apart he smiled and reached up to card his fingers gently through his partner’s hair, and thought his heart might burst with the feelings he had for this man, the vast, vibrant love that would always shine at the center of his universe brighter than any mark.

Slowly he brought Minho’s hand up to brush a kiss over the ring. “In case it wasn’t obvious,” he said, “marry me, Lee Minho.”

The smile Minho sent him in return could’ve set the entire world alight. “I suppose I could be convinced,” the older man answered before leaning in to kiss him again, and Jisung laughed into his mouth and it was hoarse and painful and maybe a little wet, and also it was perfect. It would always be perfect, because it was Minho.

God. Jisung gathered his partner in, smiling into Minho’s mouth because yeah, he was never going to let Jeongin and Hyunjin hear the end of this. Soulmates? Predestined bonds? Fuck that bullshit.

Devotion was greater than anything the universe could write. He and Minho were proof of that, and they would show them. They would show everybody, the haters and romantics and society and the whole rest of the world: that what they had was worth it. That love was more than a magical mark, that it was beautiful and unapologetic and shone bright no matter what form it took. It was magnificent. It was unstoppable.

And it was them, so the fire would never go out.

ONE YEAR LATER

It was hot. It was stuffy and humid and the chaplain was taking so damned long and his scars were itching again, and also Jisung didn’t think he’d ever been happier in his life.

Standing across from him as they held hands, Minho smiled. He looked absolutely gorgeous in hanbok—he’d always been more traditional than Jisung, who wore a white suit. It had been the easier choice, anyway; he’d always sucked at complicated knots, and his hands didn’t work as well as they used to these days.

Which was fine. As Chan and the others liked to remind him, you didn’t need perfect fine motor coordination to point a hose at a fire and open it up. (Minho, also, reminded him of this frequently, though for entirely different reasons.) Sure, his job at the firehouse had changed somewhat—he now served as backup support more often, managing the rig and making sure their rookie didn’t accidentally turn the wrong valve and spray himself in the face. Jisung didn’t mind. His life was so much more than his work, anyway.

Which was evidenced by what they were doing right now. Jisung smiled, squeezing Minho’s hands as the chaplain droned on. God bless the man; he’d been working at the hospital since probably the age of the dinosaurs, and Minho liked him so Jisung hadn’t objected to him officiating the ceremony. But now he regretted just a little not speaking up, because he kind of wanted to die of old age after getting married.

His partner, anyway, seemed to hold the same opinion because Minho let the chaplain continue for about another ten seconds before clearing his throat. “Ah, Moksanim? Not that this isn’t riveting stuff but could we, ah, hurry it along a bit? I’m sweating through my clothes and it’s not like you’re gonna spoil the ending or anything.”

Shuffling and bits of soft laughter rolled out from the people crowding the pews. “Yeah, you tell ‘im, Doc!” Chan shouted from the front row as the rest of Firehouse 143’s crew cheered next to him, and Jisung shook his head, cheeks hot.

“Remind me to kick all their asses,” he muttered just to hear Minho laugh in response, but before the older man could say anything the chaplain huffed and snapped his Bible shut with a solid whump!

“Well, do you wanna marry him?” he barked, pointing at Jisung, and Minho nodded.

“Yep.”

“And you don’t think it’s a terrible idea?”

Jisung grinned. “Nah.”

“Then you’re husbands, congratulations. Kiss.”

And, well. Since he asked so nicely.

The crowd erupted in cheers and applause and not a few catcalls from the pack of assholes Jisung sometimes called his crew. But he’d let it slide just this once, because he was a little distracted at the moment with Minho’s lips pressed firmly against his as they came together at last the way they always should have. As they finally sealed the promise they’d made to each other the moment Minho slipped the ring onto his finger, and Jisung asked him to stay.

It was beautiful, it was right. It was the future they had chosen together, that no grindings of a vast heartless universe could ever take apart. They were everlasting. They were forever, and Jisung smiled and lost himself in Minho, and knew everything was going to be okay.

As they kissed, the left sleeve of Minho’s jeogori slid back just a bit, just enough to reveal the pale skin of his wrist. There was a mark there, barely visible in the light but still present. It almost looked like a tattoo, maybe: two golden, inch-long parallel lines, surrounded by bold black letters to spell out a single distinct phrase.

A|| CLEAR.