Archive of Our Own

Sieun’s never been the type to believe in soulmates. To be tied to someone, bound and never let go? He’s seen what that kind of “love” has done to his parents, and he wants no part. And a red string tied around each other’s pinkies, that only the two soulmates can see? It seems to him that people just make that sort of thing up to excite their uninteresting lives. 

(The alternative would be that Sieun has no soulmate, thus explaining why his own pinky is bare—he’s almost glad he’s spared from that kind of nonsense.)

Impractical and illogical—Sieun’s long blocked out that kind of fancy, preferring to put in his earbuds and ignore that talk along with all of the other nonsense people spout. Including the taunts and mid-classroom brawls, as he finds himself in today. 

With Youngbin towering over his desk, Sieun doesn’t back down: he stares up at Youngbin, face blank and eyes cold. It’s not a challenge, but a warning: Leave me alone. 

When the classroom door slams open, Youngbin finally takes his glowering eyes off of Sieun. They both turn to see what the commotion is: the Byuksan baseball team, uniforms and bats and all. Sieun’s past the point of asking the universe why trouble keeps stirring up at Byuksan. 

The baseball team targets someone in the back, a boy that’s always sleeping when Sieun comes to class in the early mornings. Today is no different—he looks up, face disoriented and eyes disinterested. 

They advance. Sieun watches as the boy disengages and immobilizes all of the athletes, throwing them over tables and knocking them into each other with ease. 

“Isn’t that Ahn Suho?” 

“I heard he’s a former MMA player.” 

“They just poked the sleeping bear.”

The gossip around Sieun serves as the backtrack to this Ahn Suho’s little playfight. When it nears his own desk, Sieun doesn’t back away or flinch. He finds his eyes glued to Suho, how his scarcely buttoned uniform falls off of his shoulder when he dodges the flying baseball bat.

“You crossed the line,” Suho notes. Even after having a weapon thrown at him, his tone and whole demeanor is nonplussed. Like he’s scolding a small child. 

He probably thinks he’s cool, like one of those protagonists from an action novel.  

When the athlete approaches, Suho squares up and delivers a swift punch to his jaw. The athlete drops cold. 

In the commotion, Sieun’s pencil bag had fallen to the ground. When Suho notices him, Sieun directs his gaze to the ground where his pens and white-out are strewn on the floor. He looks back up at him wordlessly. 

“Ah.” Suho points a finger to himself. “Is that because of me?” 

Sieun’s gaze is unflinching. “Yeah.” 

Suho stares at him for a moment longer, then bends down and picks up the fallen stationery. He sets it on the edge of Sieun’s desk and holds up a hand in acknowledgement. 

“Sorry. Here you go.” He gestures to the pencil bag as he straightens up again.

“Why do that in a classroom?” Sieun doesn’t wait for a response as he turns in his seat again, facing his notebook once more. 

With his back turned, Sieun doesn’t notice the furtive smile on Ahn Suho’s face. Nor does he notice the red string materializing on his pinky, trailing down to the floor and up again to wrap around Ahn Suho’s pinky. 

It’s when he sits down to do his notes that he notices it. Sieun goes to grab his pencil case, and instead of fumbling around in the dark, the dim lamp on his desk not reaching the space below, he’s able to see by a very faint red light.

The string glows. Sieun thinks he might faint. 

He’s logical, but he’s not stupid. Yes, he doesn’t believe in soulmates, but when a string somehow appears on his pinky without him noticing, Sieun’s bound to look for a plausible explanation. It’s a bleak realization when he finds soulmates to be the most reasonable one.

Sieun tugs on it experimentally. It pulls his pinky along with it, so he’s not imagining it. 

He tries untying it. No dice.

Sieun traces the string with his eyes. It drops to the ground, snaking across his floor and under the door. 

Who is my soulmate? 

Sieun pretends he does not feel a zip of excitement at the prospect. He stamps it down, locks it behind a steel door in his mind labeled, Do Not Explore. Sieun won’t get his hopes up. 

Still, he finds himself wondering as he watches the red string. According to common legend, he must’ve met them recently, since Sieun definitely didn’t have it before. 

But who? 

His mind jumps to earlier today, to the commotion in the classroom. When one of his classmates, once peripheral, came into his focus for the first time. 

No. Sieun rejects it. It’s not him.

“Delivery!” 

Sieun jolts at the sound. It comes in at the exact moment Sieun had been looking at the front door through his bedroom doorway.  

The knocking at his door resounds through the empty apartment.

But I didn’t order anything? Sieun pads to the foyer. The red string trails along with him, glowing innocuously. 

When he opens the door, he comes face to face with Ahn Suho. 

Oh no. Sieun pointedly does not look down. If he doesn’t acknowledge it, it’s not real.

Suho looks equally as surprised as Sieun feels. “Oh? Nerd?” 

Sieun stares up at him, then down at the takeout in his hand. He focuses on the takeout bag only, not periphery things like Suho’s hand. “I didn’t order that.” 

“This is for apartment 102, though?”

“This is 101.”

Suho looks down at the tag. “Ah.” He looks up at Sieun, face now subdued and tired, mostly. “Can I have some water?”

Huh?

“Why?”

“We’re classmates, right?” Without warning, Suho pushes into the apartment. He drops down onto the floor of the foyer, taking off his helmet. “It’s not a big deal. I’m dehydrated right now; if I faint, it’s your fault.” He looks up at Sieun.

Sieun wonders how Suho entered his home so easily. Sighing, he makes his way to the fridge, takes out a bottle and a cup, and pads back to the foyer. Just when he’s uncapping the bottle, it’s taken out of his hands entirely. Suho chugs the whole thing in one go.

“What a ridiculous prick.”

Suho seems unfazed. He gets up, sighing heavily as he hands the bottle back.

“I’ll buy you three more bottles tomorrow, okay?” Picking up his helmet, Suho reaches for the door. “Study hard. See you tomorrow. Listen to your mom.” And he’s off, closing the door behind him with a swift click. 

Sieun looks at the space he once occupied. Finally, he lets himself look: the red string trails across the floor, slipping under his apartment door and out into the hallway. 

It doesn’t mean anything. 

Silence flows back into the once-lively apartment.

When Sieun feels the drowsiness come on during the exam, he knows exactly what’s happened. That rat, Youngbin, put the new student up to it—Sieun feels around on his nape, and his hand comes away with a little patch that was applied to his skin.

He can’t lose this. Not when he’s studied so long for this mock exam—he won’t fall asleep or remain drugged on his watch. Sieun lifts his hand and slaps himself once, twice. He continues until he can’t feel anything anymore, stinging in his cheek or otherwise. 

(Suho sits up, now wide awake, when the sound of skin hitting skin resounds through the classroom. Suho feels his pinky tighten. He looks behind him (a welcome distraction; Suho has no clue what half the questions are asking) and sees the boy from the other day with a hand raised, eyes unfocused. 

Yeon Sieun. He’s got a hand raised, and even from here Suho can see the redness forming on the round apples of his cheeks. As he continues slapping himself, Suho feels the string on his pinky tighten. 

Stop. Stop hurting yourself. But Suho doesn’t reach out. He just watches as their star student continues to inflict pain unto himself.) 

When the teacher calls the answers afterward, Sieun doesn’t let himself believe he’s in the clear. He’s got the first half’s questions right, of course he did, but the second half’s results are variable. 

“3,” the teacher’s droning voice calls. 

2, Sieun had circled. He slashes the 15. with a sharp red line. Sieun stares down at his paper. 

The drug has long left his system—it was a relatively small dosage anyway, given the size of the patch—so Sieun feels clear of mind. He feels his searing anger, his shaking vision as his hand tightens around his pen. 

Sieun stands abruptly, the sound of the chair scraping on the ground a background noise to the rushing in his ears. Sliding his gaze from his paper to the tiles in front of him, Sieun stalks down the aisle. 

The next events happen in slow motion. 

Newton’s second law. Force equals mass times acceleration. Sieun transfers his pen to his other hand and grabs a book from a nearby table. 

Using centrifugal force, you get a much greater impact. With his rotary motion, he generates a stronger force and whacks it upside Youngbin’s jaw. Following the same rotating motion, Sieun spins and strikes his pen down into the hand of one of Youngbin’s lackeys. 

The classroom erupts around him, but Sieun doesn’t hear them. He keeps his momentum and pummels the book in Youngbin’s face, over and over and over. When Youngbin knocks into the wall, groaning, Sieun grabs the curtain and wraps it around his face. He tightens it around his neck, hard. 

With the same unforgiving motion, Sieun strikes the book into the shape of Youngbin’s face. He doesn’t stop even when a red blot unfurls on the curtain. He hits and hits and hits until he can’t anymore, until the initial inferno has tempered into a smaller blaze.

Youngbin crumples to the ground. Sieun looks down, sees his bloodied nose and his weak eyes. 

Sieun stares down at him. He breathes, chest heaving lightly. He feels his anger hit him again in waves. He raises a foot.

A hand grabs his collar, pulling him backward and shoving him to the ground. Disoriented, Sieun sprawls on the ground.

“Don’t cross the line, alright? Know when to stop.” It’s that boy. Suho has his hands in his windbreaker, a self-righteous grin on his face. Sieun feels his blood boil hotter.

Sieun rises to his feet. “And you?”

“Me?” Suho points a finger to himself, looking around amiably. “I’m like your guardian angel that just woke up from a nap.” He procures a paper airplane from nowhere, throwing it with a self-satisfied grin. He must think he’s so clever.

Sieun stares. “Is this funny?”

“A little bit.”

He sees red, the color of Suho’s windbreaker taking over his whole vision the longer he stares at this insufferable boy. 

Unconditioned reflex. If an object suddenly appears, you instinctively close your eyes. It’s an innate response to stimuli.

Sieun surges forward, grabbing a nearby pencil case and flinging it at Suho. He puts his arms up to shield his face as Sieun advances. Taking hold of a chair, Sieun swings it once, twice at Suho. 

Suho, the bastard, side-steps easily, avoiding Sieun’s swings. 

“Geez, knock it off, you nutcase, or you’re really going to get hit.” 

The blood rushes in Sieun’s ears, louder and louder, until he can’t hear or see anything but the boy in his tunnel vision. 

He faces Suho again and swings a third time. Instead of backing up, Suho steps forward and punches him. 

The hit disorients Sieun—he drops the chair, head spinning from the exertion of lifting a chair and getting a punch to the face. 

“I said knock it off.” 

Sieun’s irritation returns, breaking him out of the daze. He gives Suho a sharp look. 

“Don’t tell me what to do.” 

Suho just stares at him, eyebrows furrowed like Sieun’s a befuddling puzzle he has to solve. The longer he stares, the hotter Sieun feels under his skin, until the fury is almost burning him alive. Sieun jerks forward and grabs a chair again. 

“What is going on here?” 

Sieun’s head snaps towards the door, where their teacher stands with her hands on her hips, flanked by cowed students and scattered desks. His grip on the chair slackens immediately. Silence descends upon the classroom. Sieun looks around at his classmates lining the walls.

Beside him, Suho straightens up. 

“Teacher! I was trying to stop them from fighting!” Suho glances sideways, a determined look on his face. “We’re sorry!” 

Suho bends ninety-degrees in a bow, head ducked. When he straightens up, Sieun still hasn’t moved. 

“Well? Apologize!” Suho gestures a hand at Sieun in frustration, and that’s when he sees it for the first time: a red string, tied around the base of Suho’s pinky, extending midair and landing in a neat knot at the base of Sieun’s own pinky. He looks down in mute shock. 

“I said apologize!” Suho sounds more agitated, waving his hand as he speaks, and the motion shakes the red string on his pinky. Sieun looks at it again, then up at his apprehensive classmates and dismayed teacher. 

What have I done? 

On the bus ride home, Sieun’s mind replays the events. 

He was called into the hospital after school to talk to Youngbin and his mother; as usual, Sieun’s own parents were out of town, so his teacher came to represent him. They told him that Sieun got off without assault charges because it was “self-defense” against Youngbin drugging him—Sieun doesn’t care to respond beyond the cursory nods and bows. He put his earbuds in, watched another online lesson while they finished talking, then excused himself to the bus stop to go home. 

Now, he sits and wonders whether this will be the end to Youngbin’s torment. Sieun won’t lie and say he’s never thought about retaliating, but he couldn’t risk his grades and Youngbin knew it. Today was just the day Youngbin went too far, just extreme enough to justify Sieun’s rebuttal.

And Sieun was stopped from going too far, too. 

Don’t cross the line. 

Sieun knows what it looked like. No one knew or cared that Youngbin and his lackeys picked on Sieun, as long as it wasn’t them. To his classmates, Sieun’s outburst was unexpected and probably disturbing. 

Sieun thinks back to Youngbin’s marred face on the ground. I was going to step on him. 

Still, there is a line, one that Ahn Suho had taken upon himself to uphold for himself and his classmates. 

Ahn Suho. Sieun looks down at his pinky, sees the red string tied around it, trailing down from his pinky and snaking along the aisle behind Sieun’s seat. Just when I thought I was exempt. 

Sieun doesn’t know how to feel about the whole soulmates business. To believe in that would mean believing in love, the thing that trapped his parents and made them miserable and him, a product of that misfortunate union. 

I don’t want that. 

What is it supposed to feel like? Don’t people usually feel bursts of love when they meet their soulmate and their string materializes for the first time? 

Sieun doesn’t feel that. He doesn’t feel anything in particular, except some initial mild annoyance, for Ahn Suho. If this is supposed to change his life, then maybe Sieun’s not the extraordinary type destined for a grand love. 

He watches the string. It’s not particularly interesting, but nothing really is in Sieun’s life, so he continues watching. 

Then, it twitches. It twitches, and it shifts, and it drags across the aisle and around the back of Sieun’s seat and . . . through the wall? 

Sieun sees it at the same time he hears it: the motorbike, stopped at a red light like his bus, and the rider, who honked his horn at Sieun.

Suho raises his arm, lifting his visor and waving his arm insistently. Mildly surprised, Sieun reaches up and opens the window.

“What’s this, we’re running into each other again? Must be fate, right?” Suho waves his hand, the red string on his pinky somehow glimmering in the moonlight. 

Sieun blanches. It’s almost as corny as if Suho had said something like, were we married in our past lives?

Sieun shifts. “Don’t believe in stuff like that.” 

Suho makes a face. “Huh?” He leans closer, like he couldn’t hear Sieun over the din of traffic. 

Sieun leans a bit out of the window. “I said don’t believe in stuff like that.”

Suho scoffs. “Don’t believe in it? You’re gonna deny this?” He holds up his hand. “It’s tied to you, too, you know.” 

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Whatever.” Suho leans forward on his bike, a little smile on his face. 

Sieun finds himself staring at Suho. His little smile, the way he casually drapes himself on his bike, face framed by his choppy bangs and helmet as he stares up at Sieun. Words come up on Sieun’s lips, something he wants to say. 

“Sorry about yesterday.” 

“So suddenly?” Suho looks forward at the traffic light, then back at Sieun. “If you’re sorry, buy me a meal.” He drops his visor again. “I gotta go. See you.” Suho lifts his hand, flashes him a little heart, and then he’s off. 

Sieun watches him go, the string between them stretching as his bike turns at the intersection and speeds along. It shimmers still, until Sieun can no longer see Suho and it drops to the floor of the bus again. 

It looks so unassuming beside Sieun’s feet, as if it’s just another regular string. Sieun looks at it, and he thinks of Suho. 

Who are you, Ahn Suho? 

The next day, when Sieun slides the classroom door open, his hand gravitates towards the light switch, but he doesn’t flip it. Wordlessly, he turns his head and directs his gaze along the length of the wall until it lands on the sleeping figure sprawled across three desks. 

He doesn’t turn the light on. Sieun crosses the room and draws the curtains open, so that the only light in the dim room is rising sunlight and a faint red glow.

When Sieun stands over Ahn Suho’s desk the next day, he doesn’t shake him awake right away. He’s in no rush—they have an hour to eat, and Sieun’s not a big eater. He wonders if Suho is, if he’s the type to pile his plate sky-high with rice and meat. 

Sieun wonders this as he stands over Suho’s sleeping form. What does he do, that he sleeps all of the time? 

Finally, he reaches a hand out and prods Suho’s shoulder. 

No dice. 

He tries again, but harder. 

Suho’s arm shoots up, the pink arm pillow slicing through the air. He looks up blearily at Sieun. 

“It’s lunchtime.”

Suho looks like he couldn’t be bothered. “I’m good.”

Sieun stares blankly. This boy. “I’ll pay.” 

Suho’s head shoots up. Finally, he gives Sieun a good look; Sieun sees his furrowed eyebrows, his suspicious eyes as they dart over Sieun’s face. 

Sieun picks up a bean sprout and puts it in his mouth. Across from him, Suho lounges in his chair, giving Sieun a flat look over his plate piled sky-high with rice and meat. I was right. 

“I can pay for my own school lunch, y’know.” 

Sieun doesn’t look up. “Then don’t eat.”

Suho pokes his cheek with his tongue. “You’re pretty. The way you talk.” Before Sieun can respond, Suho sits up, picking up his chopsticks. “All right! Thanks for the meal.”

“Did you say that because of the string?”

“Huh?” Suho looks up, mouth full of food. “What’d you say?”

“Swallow first.” Sieun watches him, frowning, as his cheeks puff up with an improbable amount of food. How can he stuff his face so full like that?

Suho obliges, making a show of chewing exaggeratedly as he maintains eye contact with Sieun. He doesn’t break it when he swallows, so they’re left staring at each other over their plates. 

“There. I swallowed. Now what were you saying?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Come on, tell me!” 

Sieun feels his earlier irritation flare up again, and he remembers why he didn’t like Suho’s cocky demeanor at first. 

“I asked if you said that because of the string,” Sieun mutters. 

Suho gives him a confused look and Sieun considers deserting Suho in this lunchroom so that he doesn’t have to deal with the mortification of explaining to Suho that Sieun heard his throwaway comment and was acknowledging it. 

As if by some small mercy, Suho seems to remember. “Ah! That! I thought you didn’t believe in that kind of stuff?” 

Just kill me now. “I don’t,” Sieun retorts. “You’re the one who keeps mentioning it.” 

Suho looks unconvinced. “Sure,” he says, drawing out the syllable with a sly grin. Sieun wonders why he even offered to have lunch with this boy in the first place. 

“Why do you sleep at school?” This one Sieun’s actually curious about.

“Full of questions today, huh, nerd?” Suho grins. “It’s because I come here right after work. If I went home, I’d oversleep.” He pauses and flashes Sieun a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“My halmeoni tells me even if I don’t go to college, I have to finish high school, so that’s why I still come to this place every day. That answer your question?” 

For once, Sieun is at a loss for words, even as naturally quiet as he is. 

So it’s like that? Sieun’s perception of Suho is beginning to shift—no, that’s not right. It’s sharpening, like a hazy image with little detail slowly gaining more definition. 

“I have a question for you, too. How come you’re always wearing your earbuds? It’s rude.” 

Somehow, Sieun isn’t expecting this type of question. He thought Suho would’ve asked, why’d you go ballistic on our classmate? 

“I get annoyed.” 

“Huh?” 

Good lord, you need to get your ears checked. 

“I said I get annoyed. I wear them so people don’t talk to me.” 

Suho stops chewing, staring at Sieun with an appraising look.

“You’re fucking weird, you know that?”

“You’re one to talk.” 

That earns a laugh from Suho. He ducks his head as he chuckles, perhaps a small mercy, because then he doesn’t notice the faint glowing of their red string. 

(Sieun was trying to ignore the string, the way it was laid out next to their arms on the table, but he finds he can’t tear his eyes away from the glow.

He can feel his analytical mind whirring the longer he stares. 

Why does it glow? What are the properties of this string?

Sieun may not believe in it, but he’s always been studious. Logical. Never left a problem untouched. This soulmate string will be no different.)

For the third time that day, Suho feels someone shake him awake. Yes, he tells his seatmates to wake him when class ends or when the school’s about to close, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy to be woken up. 

(The only exception was when Sieun woke him up for lunch. Sieun and lunch, two of Suho’s favorites an interesting combination to wake up to. And Sieun’s interesting, so Suho lets it slide.)

Instead of his seatmate like he’s expecting, Suho comes face-to-face with the new kid. 

Isn’t this the kid that stuck a patch on Sieun’s neck? 

Suho looks up at him, face guarded. The kid looks harmless, but you can never be too sure. 

“What do you want?” 

The kid fidgets. Oh Beomseok, his nametag reads. Suho forgets it as soon as he reads it. 

“Jeon Youngbin just dragged Yeon Sieun somewhere.” 

Sieun? Youngbin’s harassing Sieun again? 

But Suho doesn’t fight unless someone strikes first or they’re about to cross the line. That’s why he left MMA in the first place. 

But Sieun’s in trouble. 

Still, Suho barely knows the guy. He’s not his keeper (You called yourself his guardian angel, remember?), and Sieun seems like he can hold his own in a fight. 

He looks up at the kid again. “And?” 

The kid looks confused. “What? You have to help.” Suho frowns. Who are you to say I have to? “I heard you know martial arts.”

Suho grimaces. “We aren’t that close.”

“How close do you have to be to help?” 

Suho yawns. Is being soulmates close enough?

“Go find a teacher or something. I have to work.”  

“I’ll pay you!” The kid sounds desperate when Suho gets up, turning his back to him. 

Suho weighs his options. He could go about his merry day and clock in at the restaurant—their rate’s not bad, and he likes the auntie who works in the kitchen. Or he could help this kid out (and see Sieun again). 

Imperceptibly, Suho feels his pinky tighten. Without alerting the kid, he discreetly looks at it: it’s the one with the red string, the string tightening around the base. Suho feels a churning in his gut.

“Alrighty! Where to?”

As Suho follows the kid, Beomseok, out, he eyes the back of his head warily. Suho may have agreed to help, but that doesn’t mean he’s not still suspicious of this kid. 

I mean, sticking a patch on your classmate’s neck? For some bully you just met? This kid looks frail, like the kind of kid Byuksan picks on, the “sheltered with Daddy’s money” type. The kind of kid who thinks he can buy Suho. 

They zoom up and down the streets on Suho’s bike, peeling their eyes for a sign of a fight in the alleys. As he drives, the tightening on Suho’s pinky worsens, a pressing pressure against his skin.

“Keep your eyes out for him.” But even as Suho says that, he eyes the red string on his pinky. It tugs, as if to lead him somewhere. Lead me to Sieun. 

Suho subtly follows the string.

There. 

“There!” Beomseok points at the alley the string feeds into, and they veer in. Suho jumps off and zooms past a girl leaning on the wall outside—probably their watchman—and comes onto the scene just as he sees Youngbin lifting a foot and slamming it into Sieun’s outstretched hand. 

You asshole. 

Suho runs up, kicking on their backs and relishing in the way they stumble, scattering away until it’s just Sieun coughing on the ground and Suho standing above him. 

“Are you okay?” 

Suho holds a hand out, their shared string hanging in the air between them. Sieun looks up, eyes red-rimmed and watery as another round of coughs wrack his body. 

“Don’t leave me hanging.” Suho looks around, eyeing his surroundings warily.

Just when Suho thinks he’s about to swat his hand away, Sieun takes it. Their pinkies brush, the string beginning to pulse with a faint red glow as Suho hoists him to his feet. 

Suho reaches out and adjusts Sieun’s jacket on his shoulder. He looks back at his attackers: Youngbin, his lackeys, and a few older guys. A gang? 

“Let’s call it a day, hm?” Suho begins to walk away, but he knows that won’t be the end of it. 

Sieun clutches his throbbing hand. It’s only lightly bandaged, courtesy of Suho insisting they stop by a convenience store before going to eat. 

The wind whips through Sieun’s hair as he sits at the front of the bike. It should hurt, the biting cold as it hits his face, but Sieun finds himself warmer than usual. Maybe because Suho’s pressing his entire front to Sieun’s back, wrapping his arms around Sieun to reach the handles. 

Sieun steals a glance behind him. Rather than peering over Suho’s shoulder to see if Beomseok is hanging onto the bike—if he’s pressed against them the way Sieun and Suho are pressed to each other—Sieun’s met with Suho’s bright face. 

He’s laughing, probably at the way his helmet squishes Sieun’s face, pressing his hair and cheeks together. Sieun can barely see with his bangs shrouding his eyes.

“What’re you looking at?” Suho’s eyes are alight with glee as he zips through traffic. 

“You’re driving too fast. Keep your eyes on the road.” Sieun turns around again before Suho can respond. 

Finally, they reach the place: one of those barbecue restaurants along the busy street. Suho pulls into the alley beside the restaurant and parks abruptly, jolting Sieun against Suho’s front. 

Suho gets off first, hopping on one foot as he regains his balance. He looks up, flashing Sieun a sharp smile. 

“Let’s go, slowpoke.” Suho tugs on Sieun’s hand, the non-bandaged one, and pulls him off of the bike.

When they enter, Suho bows to the auntie behind the counter. 

“Sorry I’m late!” He turns, cocking his head at Sieun and Beomseok. “You guys are the reason I’m late, so help out, yeah?” 

That’s how Sieun finds himself lugging boxes in—Your hand’s not that injured, Sieun, you can do it, Suho chirped—and sitting on a crate beside the fridge, restocking drinks with Suho. 

“You have two part-time jobs?” 

Suho glances at Sieun. “Hm? Oh, I do deliveries only three times a week. Not every day.”

Sieun stares up at him wordlessly. His perception of Suho is sharpening again, refining its definition and taking on a real shape. 

“Isn’t it hard?” 

Suho glances at him. He smiles, but his voice is more subdued when he responds. “It is what it is.” He puts the next bottles in. “I work as a mover on weekends.”

He looks up again, grinning cockily at Sieun. “Why, does that make you want to call me hyung?” 

Sieun blinks. “Don’t be absurd.” 

Suho just hums. The front bell rings, and they look away from each other to the front door, where a couple customers have entered. “Coming!” 

“Seems like you liked it,” Suho calls over his shoulder as he walks away from Sieun. He lifts his pinky in a wave. 

Sieun stares at it, how the string tied to it shines under the fluorescent light—Sieun doesn’t have to look to know his end is shining, too. 

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Sieun mutters, a little petulantly, as he turns back to the fridge. 

Later, Sieun’s sitting at one of the nearby tables with fresh meat grilling on the racks. He’s technically seated with Beomseok, but a passerby may not be able to tell from the way neither of them are speaking. 

It’s not like Sieun’s trying to be rude, either. He just prefers not to talk, especially small talk with people he doesn’t know. 

It’s Beomseok who breaks the silence. “About the patch. I didn’t know it was like that… Youngbin put me up to it.”

Sieun stares at his bowl. “I know,” he says, picking up his chopsticks. “It’s fine.” 

Beomseok nods, and cracks a smile for the first time. It’s a nervous one. “Okay.” 

“Alright!” Suho comes up behind them and claps Sieun on the back as he sits at the third seat. “I’m starving!” 

Sieun watches as Suho grabs a leaf of lettuce, piling two, three pieces of meat directly from the grill to the leaf in his palm and swiping a dollop of sauce on it. He wraps the whole thing in a fist and puts it in his mouth, chewing vigorously. 

Beomseok, evidently, was also watching. He lifts his chopsticks hesitantly, pointing at Suho. 

“Is it good like that?” 

Suho nods, mouth still full, and holds up a thumbs up. 

“Should I try it?” Beomseok copies Suho’s motions, eyes flicking to Suho for approval as he works. He puts it in his mouth carefully, looking at Suho again. “Ah, it’s hot.” 

Sieun watches him in mild surprise. He didn’t expect someone like Beomseok, who looks like he’s never stepped a moment out of line, to do something . . . unrefined like that. It makes him curious.

“To die for, right?” Sieun turns his head at Suho’s voice, a look of open curiosity on his face. 

Suho’s smiling as he swallows his food, leaning back in satisfaction. 

Sieun thinks about how he works early in the morning and late at night, how he sleeps at school because he has no time otherwise, how he eats mountains of school food because he likely doesn’t have the time or otherwise to eat much. Even now, this is the second meal he’s sharing with Sieun and Suho’s in a uniform because he’s still working, even at this time. 

And he’s warming up to Beomseok, Sieun notices. He watches the way Suho laughs at Beomseok and the hot food, and he thinks, I want to, too. 

The thought is unlike him, and it unnerves Sieun. Still, he can’t look away. His eyes flick to Beomseok, then back to Suho. Somehow, his eyes always come back to Suho.

Suho notices his staring. “You want one too?”

Sieun breaks his gaze, eyes dropping to his bowl as he picks up his chopsticks again. 

“Eat it in one big bite, like I did.” Even as Sieun picks meat off of the grill, Suho’s preparing a second wrap and holding it out to him. 

“You eat it.”

Suho looks offended, like Sieun personally insulted him. 

“Come on, try it! No one’s ever been led astray by hyung’s suggestions!” He tightens the wrap and holds it out again. 

Why are you calling yourself hyung? It makes Sieun shiver. 

Sieun stares at his hand, then flicks his eyes up at Suho, unimpressed. “Did you wash your hands?”

Suho looks at Beomseok like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. He turns back to Sieun giving him an indignant look. 

“Food tastes better with hands!” And as if to prove his point, Suho squeezes the wrap in his fist. “Come on, eat it!”

He pushes the wrap against Sieun’s lips insistently. “Come on!” 

Sieun stares at him over the wrap. They hold each other’s gazes, Suho determined and Sieun challenging. 

Without breaking eye contact, Sieun opens his mouth, letting Suho push the wrap past his lips. He doesn’t blink. 

Suho pats his lips once he’s done. The touch makes Sieun’s mouth tingle. 

Smug and triumphant, Suho smiles. “It’s good, right?” 

Sieun averts his eyes then, chewing as his eyes dart around the table. 

Beomseok says something to Suho, but Sieun doesn’t hear it. He sneaks a glance at Suho, and jumps slightly when he finds Suho staring at him, too. 

Suho raises his eyebrows imperceptibly and directs his eyes to the space between them. Sieun glances down, eyes widening. 

The red string glows softly. Spooked, Sieun glances up and catches Suho’s eyes again. They’re crinkled at the corners, as if something is amusing him. 

See? his eyes say. 

Don’t be silly, Sieun thinks back. Suho seems to get his message because he laughs, like he always does when Sieun brushes him off. 

The rest of dinner is much the same, and Sieun is glad that Beomseok is keen to talk to Suho and keep up the conversation so Sieun can think through his thoughts. 

(Routinely, Suho will try to loop Sieun back in, but Sieun only interjects with a quip when he feels like it, preferring to sit back and just be in their presence. Suho seems to get it—no matter how much he talks his mouth off and Sieun just listens, Sieun never feels excluded. 

It’s strange, this kind of closeness. 

Is this what friendship feels like?)

Maybe this is friendship, like the kind Sieun hears about and sees in the halls of Byuksan. Going to play billiards together, sitting together at lunch, hanging out after class—Sieun’s high school experience is rapidly changing, morphing and shifting to accommodate this new presence in his life. 

(Once, Sieun asked Suho if he’s not busy, what with his deliveries and restaurant jobs. Somehow, he always has time to go, no, drag them to billiards.

“My halmeoni always says I should take breaks sometimes,” he’d responded. “Be a kid, is what she says. You know?” Suho smiled down at Sieun under his arm. “Why, you wanna get rid of me?” 

Suho chuckled, but Sieun didn’t respond. He’s reminded, again, that Suho is only sixteen like him. 

You should take breaks, Suho. You deserve it the most. 

Then again, Sieun’s not in any position to talk either—before Suho, his world consisted of only his books and lectures, a salaryman-to-be before Suho stepped in and forced him to venture beyond the lines of his notebook. 

It’s strange, how similar the two of them are. 

Is that why we’re soulmates, Suho?)

Sieun wonders if it’s within the bounds of friendship to accompany him to where Youngbin is leading him. Suho had tensed up when Youngbin approached Sieun in class, and demanded Youngbin say whatever it was he wanted to say to Sieun right there, in the classroom where Suho stood. 

He thinks about this as they descend the stairwell to the parking garage, Suho griping about the location and how suspiciously Youngbin was acting. 

When Sieun stands beside Suho before the gang leader, he knows, probably from the moment Youngbin approached him, that they’re in trouble. It’s at this point that Sieun thinks, no. You shouldn't have come with me. Don’t put yourself in danger because of me, Suho. 

The gang leader spits in their faces, making his threats as he sneers at them. And just before he leaves, he slashes Suho’s arm with his knife. 

Sieun feels it as soon as it makes contact: the sudden tightening on his pinky, in time with the knife cutting through Suho’s skin. 

He looks down in shock at the string—this string, again?—as it tugs at the base of his pinky, digging into his skin. Suho seems not to notice, his face stone cold as he faces the gang leader despite the slash in his arm. 

It’s only when they leave that Suho drops the facade, and Sieun fully turns to look at him. 

The slash is an angry red, a hard line not unlike the red of their soulmate tie. As Suho clutches his arm, putting pressure on the wound and wincing, Sieun feels his own pinky squeeze. 

Beomseok herds them out of the garage and across the street to the corner convenience store, and they make quick work of bandaging off Suho’s arm. 

As he sits at the counter, a dull throb in his pinky and a sullen Suho by his side, Sieun begins to rue how their friendship led to Suho getting hurt like this. Even if Suho brushed it off, insisting that it doesn’t hurt that much anymore, Sieun-ssi, Sieun still feels uneasy. 

The uneasy feeling doesn’t go away as they formulate their plan to pay the settlement money and rat the gang out to the police. When they walk out of school and see Gilsu and his gang camping at the entrance, the twisting in Sieun’s stomach only gets worse and worse. 

As if he could sense Sieun’s worry, Suho glances at him and gives him a sideways smile. He herds them to the side, forming a loose huddle with the three of them. Then, he starts talking about how he should go first, and Sieun will come after with the cops, and Sieun’s really feeling like he might throw up.

“Don’t sweat it, Sieun-ssi.” He pulls Sieun closer with the arm on his shoulder. “I’m a smart cookie, okay?” 

“They’re a dangerous gang, Suho,” Sieun retorts. 

“And I’m former MMA, and you’re one hell of a genius, and Beomseok’s rich,” Suho replies. “We’re basically unstoppable.” 

“Stop playing around, Suho,” Sieun chides, and Suho looks at him again. This close, Sieun sees that his easy-going smile is in sharp contrast with his guarded eyes. He’s worried, too. 

“Don’t you know I’m the top dog of this school? Just trust me, okay?” Suho breaks off and walks backwards towards Gilsu, raising a hand in a wave.

When Suho disappears into the car with them, Sieun feels his chest tighten even more. 

One of the watchmen left behind, the girl from the convenience store that gave information to Sieun, breaks off from her members and runs up to him. Sieun tenses, but something—perhaps the naive child in him that believes the good in people—knows she’s not going to betray him. 

And she doesn’t, really. When Sieun gets the information on the hideout, he types it all out to Suho and, when Beomseok leaves in his own taxi, dashes down the road towards the police station. 

I have to be quick. The longer I take, the more chances they have to hurt Suho. Sieun hopes it won’t get to that point, but pointless wishing doesn’t stop the universe from working its will. Sieun knows that one all too well. 

He almost doesn’t manage to get the policemen to go out to the location, but Sieun lays out the facts clearly; this kind of tip would cost them if it turned out to be true.

In the backseat of the police car, the tightening begins. Sieun is about to jump out of his skin. 

“Sir, is it possible to go faster?” 

The cop eyes him through the rearview mirror. 

“We have to abide by the laws, kid. Just wait.”

Sieun bristles at the cop’s condescending tone, but he sits back in his seat. His pinky is worsening, the string routinely tightening and digging into Sieun’s skin. At one point, it tightens sharply and loosens just as quickly, which only serves to unnerve Sieun even more. It stays slack for the rest of the ride, but somehow Sieun knows Suho isn’t out of danger yet.

Finally, the car slows to the road outside of the location. Sieun jumps out of the car, running up the alley towards the alleged blue door Yeongi was describing. 

The cops do not move quickly enough for Sieun’s liking. Still, all Sieun can do is stare at the blue door until the two men come up the path. He watches as they ring the doorbell three times, knock twice on the door, and call out over the wall. Nothing.

One of them looks at Sieun. “Hey, kid, are you sure this is the place?” 

Sieun’s pinky twitches. “Yes.” He stares imploringly at the officer. Do something! 

The other one clears his throat awkwardly. “Listen, this is kind of a tricky situation.”

“Huh?” 

“We don’t have a warrant.” He gestures to the door. “We can transfer it to another department, but we can’t do anything right now with just a few pictures.”

The other one puts his hands on his hips. “Come by the station later, okay?” 

Sieun watches them leave, his heart sinking in his chest as they go. He knows they hurt Suho, and other kids, but they’re just walking away. 

In despair, Sieun turns back to the door. He scans it, the surroundings, then— there. An alley around the side of the property. 

Checking over his shoulder to confirm that they’re not watching—of course not, they can’t wait to get out of here—Sieun hurries to the alley. 

The wall the door is hinged on extends around the corner, and Sieun spots hastily placed barbed wire running along its top edge. Behind it, the unassuming house stands, overgrown greenery partly shrouding it from prying eyes. 

Sieun’s never been the athletic type, but he analyzes the wall and he knows it can’t be that hard of a climb, and jumping off should produce only negligible force up. 

He’s right, sort of. Hoisting himself over is definitely not a simple feat, but his desperation determination lends him strength. 

Ignoring the minor stinging running up his legs from the impact, Sieun surveys the property he just trespassed into. It’s as run down as it looks from the outside—very fitting for a gang hideout that exploits children for money. 

Approaching the door on the back stoop, Sieun shakes the handle once, twice, to no avail. He eyes the glass panes of the window, looks around, and finds a conveniently placed rack of dumbbells. 

Breaking the window with a dumbbell and opening the lock from the inside is certainly a new experience, but this whole ordeal feels nightmarish already. Sieun steps into the musty house, the resounding sound of his footsteps coupling with his rapidly beating heart and nearly overwhelming him. 

Sieun blinks, trying to calm himself. As he steps into the living room, he sees it: blood stains, streaked against the floorboards. 

No. Sieun feels a sharp pain in his pinky. He stares at the spot and his mind supplies the image of Suho kicked down, head bleeding and eyes closed as they beat him unconscious. 

Sieun’s hands shake. He calls Yeongi. 

“They’re not here.”  

In the cab ride to the new location, Sieun is about to strangle the driver to go faster. The tightening of his pinky has returned, insistently pulling his attention as if to say Look! He’s being hurt! 

Still, Sieun can’t do anything but watch the GPS show their vehicle inching closer to the location. 

Sieun forces himself to think, to ignore the squeezing in his pinky and think rationally to get himself and Suho out of this situation. He jumps out of the car, bidding the driver a hasty thanks and farewell, and dashes up the hill and through the rusty gate. 

The location is an abandoned amusement park hidden in the hills. 

This would be an eerie place to die. 

Sieun jerks violently when the thought comes. The string stops squeezing. No. Think rationally. 

So he calls the police again, reconfirms his location, and opens the video player to the sirens. He hits play, raising his volume to the maximum and tosses his phone into a nearby bush. 

The first thing he sees when he turns the corner is Suho, all the back, slumped on the ground with his hands tied behind his back. 

“Give it up.” Sieun faces Gilsu, flanked by his lackeys. “The police are coming. They’ll search your car.” 

“Fuck!” His eyes are crazy, beady and bloodshot as he looks around. He and his lackeys rush in hordes out of the clearing. 

Sieun runs over to Suho, picking up a nearby knife and slashing the bonds around his wrists. 

“Are you okay?” 

Suho looks at him, eyes half-lidded. 

You’re here. Suho looks up at Sieun’s wide eyes, his bangs mussed on his forehead as if he’d been running. His cheeks are red, too, as he looks at Suho with open concern. 

When the fucker comes back, Suho’s gotten to his feet and recovered his bearings, for the most part. Of course, places all over his body still hurt when Suho’s fending off the gang members: his arms, his legs, his pinky hands most of all. 

Suho looks up in time to see the gang leader swing his knife in an upward arc, swiftly slicing through the skin of Sieun’s skin. He feels it like it was his own skin that was slashed, feels it too in the base of his pinky where the red string is squeezing.  

Just when Suho thinks they might be done for, that he failed to protect Sieun, the real police show up. Not like the phony sirens that were blaring from Sieun’s phone. 

(Later, when they’re not fighting for their lives, Suho will look back on that little stunt fondly. Yeon Sieun, you clever little shit). 

The leader fakes out the cop and runs away, but Suho thinks good riddance; he can get lost in this jungle of a park for all Suho cares. 

That is, until Sieun starts running after him, too. 

“Yah, Yeon Sieun, where are you going!” 

Watching Sieun sprint after him—damn, when did he get so fast?—Suho feels the red string tug on his finger like a physical tether pulling him towards Sieun. He doesn’t think about it; Suho just runs, following the direction Sieun ran in. 

By the time Suho gets to the area they’re in, he sees Sieun hunched over on the ground, clutching his stomach. 

“Hey!” 

Sickeningly, Suho and Sieun make a good duo fighting Gilsu. He goads him, acts cool and cocky to piss him off, but Suho feels it in his chest every time Sieun gets knocked over, gasping for air on the concrete. 

“Come on, you fucker,” Suho hisses as he swings at Gilsu. The gang leader just keeps pummeling his face, backing Suho into a fence. “Just give up already.” 

He throws Suho against the fence, straightening with a crazy gleam in his eye. Just when Suho thinks he’s going in for one final hit, Gilsu crumples—behind him, Sieun wields the cinderblock that he had knocked into Gilsu’s leg. 

With the new opening, Suho roundhouse kicks Gilsu. He drops like a sack of potatoes. 

Suho feigns another swing. He stumbles backward into the fence, catching his breath as Sieun ties off Gilsu’s hands. 

“Yah. Are you fucking crazy?” he pants. “Why the hell did you go after him alone?”

Sieun looks at him, squinting from the cut on his cheek. 

“You came.”

Suho huffs, even as the string on his pinky glows at the comment. “Seriously crazy.” He gives Sieun a good look. “You’re a total lunatic, you know that?”

Sieun lifts a hand, brushing his cut gingerly. “You’re one to talk?” 

Even as Suho scoffs, he feels affection bubble up in his chest. “You always need to have the last word, huh?” 

Sieun doesn’t respond. “If I were you, I’d just take it, hm?” 

“You lunatic.” Suho cracks a smile, then, grinning at Sieun. They must look crazy, with cut cheeks and lips, breathing heavily and staring at each other deep in an overgrown park. 

Sieun looks away, but it doesn’t hide how the string emanates a glow, tied and stretched between the two of them. 

You can’t hide, Sieun-ah. 

“I really want ox bone soup right now,” Suho groans. He leans back against the stretcher in the ambulance, staring up at Sieun with half-lidded eyes. 

“Is eating all you think about?” 

“You like it.” 

“No, I don't.” 

Smugly, Suho nods to the string. Sieun bristles when he sees that it's still alight. 

“That doesn't mean anything,” Sieun mutters. 

If Sieun's honest with himself, the prospect of soulmates scares him. How is he supposed to act, knowing there's someone deigned by the universe to be tied to him, when he's been alone for so long? Clinging onto his parents never made them stay, so Sieun's forgotten what it's like to hold onto someone. 

How does a solitary creature adapt to a sudden overflow of light and energy? 

The scariest part is that maybe, if Sieun is truly honest with himself, he's already fallen in too deep. Like a child given candy for the first time, it's like a drug, how addicting it is to be near Suho. He finds himself craving, wanting to sit with him or watch him work or eat with him, and it hits the hardest when Sieun's alone in his room. When he's studying like nothing has changed, like a monumental shift hadn't occurred in the universe the moment Ahn Suho stepped in and stopped Sieun from crossing the line. 

But when he's here, made to acknowledge the red string that ties his pinky with another, Sieun balks. He retreats to the logical recesses of his mind, the part that says soulmates are illogical and unnecessary, and pretends he does not hear the demands of his beating heart. 

It's harder still to avoid it when Suho looks at him like this. Like he knows Sieun's hesitation, and he's saying, It's okay. Take your time. I'm here. He'll tease Sieun and take his resistance in stride because he can see, maybe better than Sieun can, the way Sieun's heart beats too strongly for his body. 

When Suho gets situated on the hospital bed, Yeongi crashing on the empty bed next to him, Sieun lingers. 

“Are you going home, nerd? Got a lot of studying to make up?” Suho smiles, a bit tiredly. 

Sieun nods wordlessly, bids a quiet farewell to the two of them, and makes his way home. 

When he steps into his foyer, Sieun pauses. He stands in the dimly lit hallway, apartment void of sound as per usual. He stands there, alone, and he thinks of Suho. 

I really want ox bone soup right now.

Thus, Sieun finds himself bowing to the receptionists at the hospital, two bags of takeout in hand. He takes the elevator up, walks down the hall, and faces the hospital room door once more. 

Come on, Sieun. 

He slides the door open, eyes finding Suho lain against the pillows of his bed. He looks bored, maybe thinking that his injuries aren't that bad, and the thought of his petulance makes Sieun bite back a smile. 

Sieun sets the first bag down in front of Suho, then the other in front of Yeongi. They make twin noises of confusion.

“What's this?” 

“You wanted it.”

Suho looks confused. He opens the container, the smell of ox bone soup wafting through the air, and looks up again at Sieun. “What's this feeling?” 

Sieun doesn't respond. He just watches Suho's eyebrows furrow as he looks between the food container and Sieun. 

“You,” Suho begins. 

Me? 

“You're so warm-hearted. Your gaze, your behavior, your words, your expressions—it all feels so strange.” 

Sieun feels time stop.

Warm-hearted? 

Is this the first time someone has called Sieun that? Not cold, or creepy, or unfeeling? 

How does he know? Why makes him say that? 

Sieun can't help it—he smiles, looking away from Suho's disbelieving face. 

“Just eat.” 

Sieun sits on the edge of Yeongi's bed, Suho following the movement with his sharp eyes. 

Sieun glows under the attention, savoring the way it makes him feel: light-hearted, giddy, like someone has finally seen him for the first time. 

It's hard to ignore the way their shared string glows, pulsing as it hangs across the small space between their two beds. Sieun tries and fails to hide his smile. 

I'll take responsibility, Suho-yah, Sieun thinks. This time, he knows the string is glowing because of him, because of the undeniable love he feels. Sieun feels vulnerable and soft in the best way. 

He thinks of earlier, when Yeongi makes the joke about her and Sieun dating. Suho's eyes had narrowed, his smile dropping immediately. 

“You guys are dating?” 

“You know we're not,” Sieun had replied. He shrugged off Yeongi's arm. 

Now, Sieun twitches his pinky lightly to tug the string on Suho's hand. 

Suho looks up when he feels it. His eyes track the movement, and he smiles knowingly, ever so slightly. Like he knows something, a secret, and only he and Sieun are in on it. 

One day, when Sieun is strong enough, he will embrace Suho fully instead of coming close and running away. But for now, Sieun will continue to seek the thrill of being wanted.

“Don't take too long. I can only wait five minutes, seriously.” 

Sieun nods, and he's off, the door closing with a resounding sound and leaving Suho alone in the party room. 

You need to trust him, Suho, the voice in his head that sounds an awful lot like his halmeoni says. Sieun will come back. 

Suho doesn't remember when he stopped eating and migrated to the couch, but the exhaustion of the past couple of weeks hits him then. The emotional turmoil of Beomseok denouncing Suho and Sieun, siding with those scum who were tormenting Sieun—it makes Suho's blood boil when he thinks about it. 

Maybe it's the residual resentment that bleeds into Suho's subsequent dream. He dreams that Sieun is in danger, that his pinky is throbbing with the squeezing pressure of the red string alerting him that Sieun is in trouble! 

It feels so vivid, too. Suho sees Beomseok and some faceless people circling Sieun, beating him and kicking him down. They’re in a dark room; a dim parking garage, maybe? 

Suho wants to jump in, throw them all aside and give them a good beating for laying a finger on Sieun, but Suho can't move. 

The worst part is when he sees one of the faceless people break off and come back, wielding some large weapon. Suho watches in horror as he raises the weapon. Sieun is curled up on the ground, bracing himself. 

Suho wakes up with a start. He thinks he's in that dark room, that he couldn't get to Sieun in time, but then he looks around. 

“What the fuck,” Suho whispers. He stares at the balloons and decorations on the wall, lit by the harsh fluorescent light of the party room.

Suho looks down at his string. It's limp, like it usually is when Sieun's not in any particular danger. It doesn't hurt anymore, not like it did in that strange dream. 

“Sieun?” 

No response. Suho pats around—where's my phone? 

By the time Suho finds his phone, the sun has set completely. The time, according to his phone (that was stuffed in the couch cushion, powered off for whatever reason—how did it get here?) is 7:03 PM. 

“Yeon Sieun,” Suho commands. He stands, stretching out his limbs as he surveys the room. 

It’s empty. He’s the only one there, and it’s at this moment that Suho feels Sieun’s absence so viscerally. When he unlocks his phone, it opens to his chat log with him. 

“Beomseok,” Suho hisses under his breath. He swipes out and opens his contacts. 

The phone rings uselessly in the silent room, the sound particularly loud against Suho’s ear. 

“Yeon Sieun, pick up your phone.” It goes to voicemail. Suho throws his phone onto the couch in frustration, hands clawing at his hair. 

They don’t come back for the rest of the night. Suho strips the table of its tablecloth, pops every measly balloon Sieun and Yeongi had blown for him, packs the food into a box to put in the back compartment of his bike. When he gets to the stove, where the seaweed soup sits, cold and untouched, Suho feels tears prick the back of his eyes. 

It’s stupid. He shouldn’t cry. Suho’s no stranger to miserable birthdays, void of love or presence on the years halmeoni is busy and his no-good parents are absent, per usual. He doesn’t know why this one hurts so much. 

You do know, Suho-yah. This time, the voice in his head sounds like Sieun. The memory makes Suho sniff violently. 

Did you make this soup, Sieun-ah? Suho imagines Sieun standing sternly over the stove, stirring carefully for some time to make sure the soup came out right. He’s sure Sieun didn’t put nearly half as much care as Suho is fantasizing he did, but the mental image of a concentrated Sieun makes Suho laugh, even through his tears. 

The drive home is not unlike the many years Suho came home after working on his birthday. The sameness makes Suho choke back a sob. 

He still doesn’t get answers the next day. Sieun’s avoiding all of his calls, and Yeongi’s being frustratingly mum about what happened yesterday. Watching the empty seat in class, where a quiet boy used to sit and make up Suho’s whole world, makes Suho want to set the whole place on fire. 

He tries again at break. The call rings out but doesn’t connect, like usual. Suho stares at his phone in frustration. 

Then, by some miracle, a text comes in. 

Yeon Sieun: Something came up at home. I won’t be coming to school for some time. 

Should this make him feel better? If anything, it lets Suho know that Sieun’s seeing his attempts to contact him, and is trying to brush him off. He knows that something happened to Sieun, but he won’t tell Suho.

Suho looks at his red string; by some small mercy, it doesn’t tug or hurt, which means Sieun isn’t in immediate danger. Still, he feels it. Instead of the string wrapping around his pinky, Suho feels it cord around his heart and squeeze hard, until he feels like he can’t breathe.

Suho drops by Sieun’s house that night. He feels like an idiot, ringing the doorbell over and over, probably disturbing the neighbors. 

(At first, he thinks he might be disturbing Sieun’s parents, but then he thinks, let them be disturbed. Answer the damn door. 

After some time, it becomes clear that no one is coming to answer the door. Either Sieun’s parents are ignoring Suho, or they aren’t even home and usually aren’t—Suho doesn’t know which one is worse.)

The next day, after dealing with some scum underneath his feet, Suho tries again to interrogate Yeongi. He tries a different approach. 

“Where’s Sieun’s hospital?” 

Yeongi startles, like she’s worried. She shifts nervously. After a pause, she responds. 

“He got out today.” 

Suho gives her a long look. The guilt he feels hits him like a tsunami, washing over him in waves—Sieun was hospitalized. I couldn’t protect him. 

“I’m sorry I caused this.” With that, Suho turns, making his way to the door.

“Hey!” 

Suho turns around.

“Sieun didn’t want you to find out.” Ouch. Does he really hate me? “Don’t go causing trouble.”

Suho doesn’t give her a response. From the look on his face, Yeongi seems to understand. He gives her one last look before leaving. 

Holding a finger up to the doorbell, Suho thinks, please don’t hate me. Tell me, show me you don’t hate me. He presses the doorbell. 

Just when he thinks he’ll be ignored again, the door lock clicks. Suho’s heart jumps to his throat. 

Sieun. 

He looks tired, more than usual: his eyebags are more prominent, highlighting Sieun’s deep, dark eyes. Still, seeing him again eases some of the squeezing Suho feels in his heart. 

“Have you been well?” 

Sieun shifts. “Yeah.” 

Suho’s eyes drop to his body, and that’s when he sees it: Sieun’s right hand, wrapped in a thick cast and half-hidden in his jacket sleeve, Sieun moving his arm behind his body. Suho looks up again and sees Sieun avoiding his eyes, staring at the ground. 

“Are you okay?” 

Sieun looks up, eyes wide. His eyes flit over Suho’s face. They look watery, red-rimmed and nearly bloodshot. “Yeah.” 

“Okay, well, I was just checking in. You’re coming in tomorrow for the final exam, right?” Suho gives him a smile, trying for light-hearted like he’s not swallowing his heart. 

“Yes. I have to be.” Sieun looks at him again, then his eyes flick down. 

“Okay.” Another smile. “See you tomorrow.” 

Sieun doesn’t respond. 

Suho turns and begins strolling down the hall, turning his head so Sieun doesn’t see his hardening gaze, the set line of his mouth. As he walks to the elevator, Suho ignores the tightening in his pinky.

Sieun watches Suho go. 

He doesn’t know, but somehow he does; Suho is walking into something dangerous, and Sieun can’t stop him. 

As he watches Suho disappear down the hall, Sieun feels the squeezing in his pinky spread all over his body, until he feels like he can’t breathe.

Sieun shuts the door. Now, he has to act normal, like he doesn’t feel like curling up into a ball on his bed. 

He enters his room again, sits down at the table, and turns to his age-old coping mechanism: the books. 

The first hour, Sieun’s watching his pinky like a hawk. He can’t seem to focus on the words in his textbook, his eyes wandering again and again to his non-bandaged hand and the red string tied to its pinky. 

The second hour, his string has shown no signs of distress. 

By the third hour, Sieun thinks maybe nothing will happen. Then, his phone rings.

Yeongi. 

“Hello?”

“Suho knows about what happened the other day.”

What? “What?” 

“He didn’t come in to work today, and he won’t answer his phone. Did he talk to you?”  

The sharp tugging of his red string snags his attention. The string is pulling, pulling, as if it’s alive and trying to lead Sieun out of his room. 

“He wouldn’t try to go after Beomseok, right?”

Sieun watches the red string tug harder. 

“I’ll try to reach him.”

Sieun hangs up, then gets to his feet, now wide-awake and watching his string convulse on his pinky. To his horror, it begins to fray, ever so slightly. 

“No. No. No, no, no.” 

Sieun dashes out of his room and kicks off his slippers. He grabs the door handle, barely remembering to put on shoes, and flies out of his apartment. The string is still squeezing hard. 

Suho’s in danger. Where is he? 

Sieun doesn’t think; he just runs. He follows the direction of the red string, this string that directly ties him to his soulmate. If he follows the string, he will find Suho. 

Sieun runs out into the street, nearly getting hit when the string pulls him into the lane. The car honks, but Sieun barely hears it over the blood rushing in his ears. 

His pinky still hurts, his reminder that Suho is actively being abused and harmed and Sieun isn’t there. 

He runs, and runs, and runs until the string stops tugging. It goes limp, but that doesn’t mean the fraying has stopped. It’s only gotten worse as Sieun has been running, the microfibers coming undone the longer time passes

No. No. No! 

The string goes on for another block. Sieun follows it obsessively, gathering the string as he runs and pulling it in his hands, close to his heart. Take me to Suho. 

Finally, the string brings him to a boxing gym. Sieun’s stomach drops when he sees it. 

He runs in, and he sees it: the boxing ring in the center, the only one illuminated in the dark gym. In the ring, three people circle something, no, someone on the ground. 

“Stop!” 

The three people look up, their faces dropped in fear. Sieun’s blood runs cold. 

Beomseok. 

Sieun sprints to the ring. A figure appears in his vision—that boy, Wooyoung. He holds up a hand to stop Sieun. 

“Move!” Sieun shoves Wooyoung and punches him square in the jaw; as if by some superhuman strength, Wooyoung stumbles backwards. 

“Get off of him!” Suho’s attackers scatter when Sieun jumps into the ring. He pushes and shoves when they don’t move fast enough, revelling in the way his hands make contact with their bodies, harsh and unforgiving.

Sieun drops to his knees, his breath stuttering as he sees Suho’s state up close. His vision blurs as Sieun takes Suho’s head into his lap. 

“Suho, Suho, Suho,” Sieun whispers, rushed and desperate. “Suho, Suho-yah, please wake up.” He blinks rapidly, but his tears still fall, dropping onto Suho’s cheeks and face and mixing with the blood bleeding from his temple. 

He’s cold, so cold. Sieun puts a hand in front of Suho’s face. No breaths puff from his lips. His skin is quickly becoming clammy, the sweat drying into a cold coat. 

Faintly, Sieun registers someone else entering the gym, a vague commotion from the other boys, but Sieun doesn’t care. 

“Suho-yah.” Sieun’s voice cracks. He bends down, bringing his face closer to Suho’s cradled in his lap. “I’m sorry, Suho-yah. I’m sorry for brushing you off, and ignoring you, and not loving—” Sieun sobs, “loving you like I should’ve. I’m so sorry, Suho. Please wake up.” 

Sieun sobs, heaving huge, aching sobs that wrack his whole body. His hands shake as he wipes tears and blood from Suho’s face, brushing his hair out of his eyes. 

“Please wake up, Suho-yah,” Sieun whispers. 

The next events happen in a blur. The person from earlier is affiliated with Beomseok, somehow, and he’d called an ambulance. When the paramedics run into the gym, Sieun cradles Suho closer. 

“I need to go with him.” By some way or another—maybe Sieun’s crazed eyes, or him tightly clutching Suho—they let him ride in the ambulance. Sieun holds Suho’s cold, limp hand in his, their red string jumbling in their joined hands. He cries the whole way to the hospital. 

They wheel him to the emergency room, and at this point Sieun is not allowed to follow. He tries, but the nurses are firm in keeping him on the seat outside the room. Sieun watches through the window as they hook an IV drip to Suho’s body, slipping a breathing mask onto his face. 

It stretches into the night. They tell him to go home, but Sieun stays rooted to his spot outside Suho’s door. When they transfer him to another hospital room, Sieun demands to go with them. They don’t let him, not until he signs himself into the hospital and formally registers himself as a visitor with a pass and all. 

(Writing in his name, then friend in the relationship field makes Sieun bite back a sob.)

Then, Sieun takes up his new spot outside Suho’s new room. 

He can’t sleep, either. To pass the time, he watches the red string—it still hasn’t stopped fraying. Sieun feels like the string has wrapped around his beating heart now, squeezing its blood until he runs dry on the hospital floor. 

By early morning, a doctor and some nurses enter the room. Sieun still isn’t allowed in, so he watches from the door window again. They run some tests, talking quietly amongst themselves. Finally, the doctor breaks away and steps towards the door. 

Tell me. Is he okay? 

The doctor slides the door open. Sieun steps in her path. 

“Is he okay?” 

“Are you Yeon Sieun, the visitor for Ahn Suho? His friend?” 

Friend. “Yes, I am.” 

The doctor clears her throat. She looks uncomfortable as she holds her clipboard. “Please come with me.” She begins walking down the hall. 

Sieun is torn. He doesn’t want to get any farther from Suho, but this doctor has crucial information regarding his condition. 

She turns around. “Mr. Yeon Sieun.”

Sieun takes two, then three steps, then stops. “I don’t want to go too far.” 

He knows it’s irrational, and the doctor seems to know, too. Her face is saying, your friend won’t get any better just by you keeping vigil outside his door. Sieun knows, but he also knows that the universe has linked him and Suho together irreversibly. That has to mean something.

She sighs, and walks the couple of steps back to where he is. “Well, your friend suffered some pretty serious head injuries.” 

The string continues to fray. Sieun stares at her. 

“As a result, he will likely remain asleep for some time.” 

“How long?” 

She taps her clipboard. “About a week.” 

A week? 

Can Sieun stand a week without Suho?

“It’s actually very fortunate that he was found when he was, because the time spent unconscious without medical attention roughly corresponds to the length of time spent comatose,” the doctor adds. 

All Sieun hears is that he was too late. 

I should’ve been there earlier. If he hadn’t wasted time sitting in his room, wondering if Suho was okay, if he had just gone and found Suho, would Suho still be breathing? 

The string continues to fray. 

“If he’d been unconscious for more than the half hour,”—half hour?—“the damage done to his deteriorating body would have been exponentially worse.” She gives him a tight smile. 

No. No. 

Then, horrifyingly, Sieun feels his pinky squeeze. He looks down, sees the string tugging and wrapping until he almost loses circulation. The fraying has become more rapid now. 

No. Don’t leave me, Ahn Suho. Don’t you dare leave me. 

The door down the hall slides open. “Doctor,” one of the nurses begins. Her eyes are wide, frantic.

When Sieun’s feet finally move, rushing him down the hall, the string loosens altogether. It hangs limply from his finger when Sieun bursts into the room. 

Ahn Suho sits up in bed, looking towards the door. He looks disoriented, blinking slowly, but alive. Their eyes meet. 

“Suho,” Sieun breathes. His legs nearly buckle, but he rushes over to the bedside. Ignoring the nurses’ exclaims, Sieun climbs onto the bed and takes Suho into his arms. 

Suho is warm, so warm. His breathing quickens, the sound next to Sieun’s ear a buoy in an unforgiving storm. His arms, hanging by his side, the breathing mask clutched in his limp right hand—Suho drops it and brings his arms up around Sieun. 

Feeling Suho’s arms circle his body, warm and present and real makes Sieun sob. He buries his face into Suho’s neck, crying wet, horrible, heaving sounds. 

“Suho,” Sieun gasps. He can’t say much else around his hysterical sobbing. 

It’s only when his sobs subside, leaving him with only small hiccups and swollen eyes, that Sieun hears it: heavy, stuttering breathing. Sieun feels Suho’s chest rise and fall under his and he realizes, then, that Suho was crying, too. 

Sieun leans back, keeping his arms wrapped around Suho’s neck. He feels Suho’s hand settle on his waist, and they stare at each other. Suho’s eyes are red, the imprint of Sieun’s hair on his cheek. 

“Hey,” Suho says, voice a little raspy. Sieun nearly slumps forward into Suho at the sound of it. He feels his lip quiver again, his vision blurring. 

“Hey, why are you crying?” Suho, somehow, is smiling, a little teasing smile that Sieun has missed so much. A tear drops onto Sieun’s cheek, and Suho wipes it with his thumb. “I’m alive, aren’t I?” 

Sieun sobs again. “That’s not funny.” 

Suho looks at him, and as if he can’t help it, a soft you’re so cute slips out of his mouth. 

Sieun scans Suho’s face with his eyes, taking in his mussed hair and bandaged temple and cut lip. Then his eyes trail downwards, to the hospital gown Suho wears, and the blanket he’s wrapped in. 

More than just the blanket, Sieun sees their shared red string wrapping around him and Suho, around their arms and bodies and hands, as if it’s a cocoon that only Sieun and Suho share. It glows, brighter than it ever has, and Sieun wonders if the nurses can see it, too. If the love flowing through their soulmate tie is too bright, too potent to ignore.  

“Suho-yah.” 

Suho’s eyes widen at the affectionate tone. “Yes?” he breathes. 

“I love you.” 

For once, Suho is at a loss for words. His breathing seems to have slowed down—no—and in the ensuing silence of the room, the only sound that can be heard is an insistent beeping. 

“Hey, get off of him,” one of the nurses calls. Sieun feels arms pull at him and lift him. Sieun goes, watching the way Suho’s eyes are wide and almost wondrous. 

“You’re making his heart monitor go off the charts, kid,” the nurse scolds. She steers him towards the door. “We need to run some tests. It’s a miracle he woke up this early.” 

Sieun is silent. When they reach the door, he looks back over his shoulder again: Suho stares back, still wide-eyed in shock. Between them, their red string glows, and Sieun can see bursts of light travel from his pinky to the center, and from Suho’s pinky to the center, meeting in the middle of the string in a collision of light.

The nurse gives him one final push and closes the door behind him.

In the hallway, Sieun sniffs again. The sharp smell of the sterile hospital stings his nose. He turns around and presses his face to the window of the door. 

The nurses are busy, swarming Suho’s bed with towels and utensils and all sorts of medical instruments. In the midst of it all, Sieun can just barely make out Suho straining away from their hands. 

No, that’s not quite right. He’s not avoiding their hands; Suho’s leaning towards the door, bending around their arms and bodies, eyes searching. They meet Sieun’s through the window. 

Sieun holds his gaze. His mind runs through everything that’s happened: the birthday party, Wooyoung attacking him, Sieun’s hospitalization, Suho showing up at his door before disappearing to his near death. 

The moments before those, too: the moment Sieun saw Suho fend off the whole baseball team, knocking Sieun’s pens to the ground, when Suho saved him from Youngbin, the late night drives they’d go on. 

Despite it all, Sieun lands on just one detail, arguably the most important one of all: Suho is alive. 

Suho watches Sieun through the glass of the door window. Sieun holds his gaze, and he smiles. 

You’re alive.