Chapter Text
Hyunjin could still remember the first time he stayed over at Seungmin’s house. Rain had been tapping the windows in steady, hypnotic rhythm, and the warm smell of baked bread and clean laundry had made the small living room feel like its own little world.
Seungmin had been a new neighbor then, quiet but careful, showing them where to put their shoes and offering Hyunjin a plush pillow for the couch. Minho, though two years older, had tagged along, naturally hovering protectively, but even he seemed charmed by the soft glow of the house.
Seungmin’s dad, a gentle man with a worn cardigan, had settled between them to read a story. The words were whimsical—animals that talked and skies that rained candy—but Hyunjin didn’t fully understand them. Still, the tone, the warmth, the calm patience in the way the man read, made him feel safe. He’d noticed the illustrations in the book, too: every character’s eyes sparkled, every scene had tiny details tucked into corners.
He’d curled up on the couch, listening to Seungmin’s quiet murmurs about the story, and Minho’s snores somewhere beside him.
Minho didn’t usually sleep much back then, which made the quiet safety of the room feel even more unusual to Hyunjin.
Maybe homes could feel like this: warm, predictable, without sharp edges or sudden fear.
It wasn’t a long memory, but it stayed. Small, soft, and shining in the back of his mind, like something small and steady that never really went out.
Now, two decades later, sunlight spilled through the wide windows of Hyunjin’s apartment, catching on the edges of a half-finished sketch propped on the counter. The smell of something sizzling in a pan mixed with the faint aroma of coffee.
Seungmin had claimed the stool by the kitchen aisle before Hyunjin even poured his coffee, grinning like he owned the place—which, in a way, he almost did.
He was casually folding a blanket he’d dragged over from the living room while watching Hyunjin move around the kitchen. “That new character you’re working on—she’s cute,” he said, nodding toward the sketch laid beside the cutting board.
Hyunjin glanced over his shoulder, flipping eggs with practiced ease. “Thanks. She’s for the next book. Since I’m actually writing the story and not just illustrating it this time, I’ve been visiting Jeongin’s daycare. The kids are adorable, and they’ve got the cutest ideas for characters.”
“Is Jeongin giving you cute ideas? He’s basically the same age as the kids.” Seungmin smirked, sipping his coffee.
“He’s one year younger than us, Seungmin,” Hyunjin laughed. “But he did have a character idea, check out the next page.”
Seungmin placed the sketchbook in front of himself, flipping the page. “You always make them so full of… life,” Seungmin murmured. “It’s like they could step right off the page.”
Hyunjin smiled faintly and stirred the batter again. “How’s your mom doing?”
Seungmin shrugged, placing the folded blanket over himself neatly. “She’s good. Busy with work, but she asked about you the other day.” He grinned. “She likes your illustrations, bought your first three books.”
Hyunjin chuckled softly while plating up breakfast—eggs, whole-grain toast, and a handful of berries. “She’s my biggest supporter, buying my children’s books and all.”
“She forced my dad to bring them to work to show the kids.”
“But your dad teaches grades five to ten? Is he really showing my books to teenagers?” Hyunjin chuckled.
Before Seungmin could respond, his phone buzzed on the counter. He picked it up casually.
Hyunjin peeked over, catching sight of the name flashing on the screen before Seungmin could hide it. “Is Minho texting you?” he asked, a frown tugging at his lips. “He always sends Jisung to check in or something. Makes it feel like Jisung isn’t even my friend anymore, just someone obligated to see how I’m doing.”
Seungmin’s smile softened. “He’s probably busy at the dance studio. You know how it gets.”
“Yeah, but he’s my brother,” Hyunjin muttered, poking at a berry like it might have the answer.
Seungmin glanced at his phone again, checking his CGM. The numbers looked fine. He reached for his insulin pen — but paused. His eyes flicked down. The dial spun too easily.
He turned it again.
Nothing.
The pen was empty.
A quiet sigh left his lips, contemplating whether to drive home for a new one or skip breakfast entirely.
Stable numbers made it tempting to ignore the inconvenience, but it always came with calculations.
Hyunjin leaned casually against the counter, watching him a little too closely. “Are you out?”
Seungmin huffed a small laugh. “Apparently.”
Hyunjin straightened. “Second drawer in the fridge,” he said immediately.
Seungmin blinked. “You actually remembered to put it there?”
“Of course,” Hyunjin shrugged. “For emergencies. Like you almost having to skip my ridiculously good eggs,” he smirked.
“You’re ridiculous.” Seungmin laughed as he opened the fridge. As promised, inside lay a spare pen. It was neatly labeled, unmistakably his.
It was stored carefully, like it mattered more than it should. Seungmin recalled a vague memory of Hyunjin insisting on doing it “properly.”
He stared at it for half a second longer than necessary.
Then he exhaled again, softer this time, and took it out.
Behind him, Hyunjin spoke quieter. “You were going to skip breakfast.”
“It’s just breakfast.”
“It’s always ‘just’ something,” Hyunjin said, almost under his breath.
Seungmin didn’t look at him right away.
Instead, he prepared the dose — automatic, practiced, precise. The kind of routine that didn’t need thinking, only doing.
Hyunjin stayed close anyway. Not interfering, just watching a little too carefully for someone pretending not to panic.
Seungmin hesitated briefly before injecting, cold insulin always stung a little.
When it was done, he exhaled quietly through his nose. He’d expected it — but he still didn’t like it.
“You’re good, right?” Hyunjin asked quietly.
“Yes, doctor,” Seungmin replied dryly.
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“If I’d known you were gonna need it, I would’ve taken it
out the fridge in time.”
“Thank you,” Seungmin said, softer this time.
Hyunjin waved it off. “You owe me dessert.”
“You already eat mine.”
“That’s unrelated.”
“That was the spare pen,” Hyunjin smiled. “Take it with you when you leave and bring a new one next time.”
Seungmin nodded before leaning back on the stool, voice gentle. “About Minho, you know I’m here, though. And—” he paused, seeing Hyunjin’s expression, “don’t glare at me—I’m just saying.”
Hyunjin smirked despite himself. “You’re slipping into therapist mode again.”
“Maybe,” Seungmin admitted, grinning. “But in my defense, you sound like one of my patients.”
They ate quietly for a few minutes, the sounds of the city outside mixing with the sweet smell of coffee. Hyunjin leaned closer, plucking a berry before Seungmin could. “I weighed them, don’t worry.”
Seungmin loved mornings like these. They weren’t ‘dating’ mornings, they were just… Hyunjin mornings.
Seungmin shook his head, laughing softly.
“You make this very easy to get used to.”
Hyunjin passed him the toast. “Now eat. I got whole-grain, you always had it around the house growing up.”
Seungmin just laughed and picked up another bite. “Minho’s cooking is still better,” he said simply.
“Hey,” Hyunjin pouted. “My eggs are art. And does Minho weigh your berries for you?”
“Yes.” Seungmin laughed. “And he never forgets the strawberries.” He added, nodding towards his blackberries, raspberries, blueberries, and
… no strawberries.
“I didn’t forget.” Hyunjin’s pout deepened. “Jeongin ate them all while he was over for movies yesterday.”
Seungmin leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, melting the frown away. Not that it meant anything. It was purely to make Hyunjin stop frowning. “I like your cooking better than at Sunlit Brew, though.” He shrugged.
Hyunjin’s face brightened immediately. “I’ll be sure to tell Felix.”
“Worth it,” Seungmin said, finishing up his eggs.
Hyunjin shook his head, taking a sip of his coffee, already planning to brag that he was a better cook than Felix even though he owned a café.
•••
Said café always felt different after closing.
Without the hum of customers and the clatter of cups, the space softened — lights dimmed low, chairs dragged into uneven circles, the air warm with sugar and something savory that definitely wasn’t on the menu.
Jisung had arrived with two grocery bags like he was supplying a small village.
“I refuse to survive on cake again,” he announced, dropping them onto the counter.
From the kitchen came Felix’s unimpressed voice. “You survived just fine.”
“That was emotional survival, not nutritional.”
Now Minho occupied the kitchen like he owned it, sleeves rolled up, moving with easy confidence despite technically not working there. Felix hovered nearby, pretending to supervise but mostly sneaking bites and drifting back into the café every few minutes to report progress no one asked for.
The rest of them crowded around a pushed-together table, half-empty mugs scattered between phones and elbows.
Hyunjin sat sideways in his chair, one leg stretched under the table, shoulder pressed lightly against Seungmin’s. Neither of them acknowledged it. They never did.
Across from them, Changbin watched the kitchen doorway. “You know,” he said, “this is illegal. Felix runs a café and somehow Minho’s the one cooking dinner.”
Felix popped out at that exact moment. “He threatened to leave if I touched the stove.”
“I did not threaten,” Minho called from inside. “I stated a fact.”
“He banned me from seasoning,” Felix reported dramatically as he slid into a chair. “In my own establishment.”
“You over-season,” Minho called.
“I season with love!”
“You season with chaos.”
Laughter rolled around the table.
Chan leaned back in his chair, watching the kitchen fondly. “Honestly, this is the healthiest dynamic we’ve ever had.”
“That’s because food isn’t ready yet,” Jeongin said, sipping his drink. “Give it ten minutes.”
Across the table, Changbin nodded seriously. “Hunger reveals true character.”
Jisung pointed at him. “Exactly. Thank you. Finally someone understands me.”
Hyunjin smiled faintly but his attention kept drifting toward the kitchen doorway. Minho moved in and out of view, like he belonged everywhere except beside him.
He was focused entirely on cooking and shooing Felix away, who had just re-entered the kitchen.
Seungmin noticed immediately.
“You’re staring,” he murmured.
“I’m observing.”
“You’re pouting.”
Hyunjin scoffed but didn’t deny it. “He came to hang out and hasn’t sat down once.”
Seungmin glanced toward the kitchen. “He’s cooking for you.”
“That’s not the same as talking to me.”
Before Seungmin could continue, Jisung leaned forward with a grin that meant trouble.
“So,” he said, eyes flicking between them, “are you two ever going to admit you’re basically dating or should we keep pretending?”
Hyunjin blinked. Seungmin calmly took another sip of his drink. “We’re sitting next to each other,” he said. “That’s not a legal contract.”
Jeongin snorted into his cup.
Chan raised an eyebrow. “You do share desserts though. That’s serious.”
“False,” Hyunjin said quickly. “He shares desserts. I’m simply supportive.”
“Supportive eating,” Changbin corrected.
Felix reappeared just in time to add, “You also wait for each other before leaving. That’s couple behavior.”
Seungmin finally glanced sideways at Hyunjin, amused but unreadable. “Tragic how observant everyone suddenly is.”
Hyunjin shrugged, shoulders brushing his again. “People project.”
“People have eyes,” Jisung said.
“You’re one to talk.” Hyunjin murmured. “When are you and my brother getting married? Twelve years of relationship and still no ring on your finger.”
Jisung just shrugged. “He’ll get me a ring when it becomes legal. You and Seungmin though, you need to admit it to yourselves first.”
The accusation lingered without confirmation or denial — like always.
Conversation drifted again, easy and overlapping. Chan started telling a story about a studio mishap, Changbin interrupting every few seconds to correct details, while Jeongin argued about whether instant noodles counted as real cooking.
Seungmin laughed along, but quieter now. At some point his smile faded into something softer, distant — gaze lingering on nothing in particular.
Hyunjin noticed the shift the way he always did.
“You okay?” he asked under the noise.
Seungmin blinked, refocusing. “Hm? Yeah. Just tired.”
It wasn’t unusual. Long workdays, long weeks. Still, Seungmin had a history of depression. Hyunjin watched him a moment longer before nodding.
Seungmin reached into his bag, pulling out his insulin pen with practiced ease. The movement was casual, almost absentminded — routine woven into conversation.
Hyunjin immediately shifted his chair closer, angling his body slightly so Seungmin’s stomach wasn’t directly exposed to everyone. It looked unconscious, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
Seungmin noticed anyway, a small smile tugged at his mouth.
“Subtle,” he murmured.
“I have no idea what you mean,” Hyunjin replied, not looking at him.
The others barely paused — used to this by now. Chan continued his story, Felix arguing loudly from halfway between kitchen and table, Jisung and Jeongin laughing too hard at something Changbin said.
Seungmin prepared the injection, movements precise but slower than usual tonight.
Hyunjin held out a napkin before he even asked.
Their fingers brushed briefly as Seungmin took it.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
Hyunjin nodded, eyes flicking over him once, checking without making it obvious.
The moment passed as quickly as it came.
From the kitchen, Minho shouted, “If someone doesn’t set the table, I’m cancelling dinner.”
“I volunteer Hyunjin,” Jeongin said immediately.
“Traitor,” Hyunjin muttered, but he stood anyway.
Just as he pushed his chair back, a phone began vibrating loudly against the table.
Everyone looked down.
Minho’s phone lit up beside Jisung’s elbow.
Hyunjin’s expression shifted when he saw the contact name.
Mom.
“That’s… new,” he murmured.
They didn’t say it out loud often, but calls from her were rare. Careful. Fragile things.
The kitchen door swung open as Minho stepped out, drying his hands on a towel.
“Why is everyone staring at my phone like it owes you money—”
He followed their gaze.
The ringing continued.
Something unreadable crossed his face before he picked it up.
“I’ll take this,” he said quietly, already stepping toward the hallway.
The café felt smaller after he disappeared.
Hyunjin watched the doorway, earlier irritation gone, replaced by uncertainty.
Beside him, Seungmin nudged their shoulders together — gentle, grounding, wordless.
Hyunjin didn’t move away.
Across the room, Felix lowered the music just a little without anyone asking.
The café stayed quiet in the way spaces only did when everyone was pretending not to wait.
Someone shuffled plates. Felix clinked silverware together louder than necessary. Chan’s voice softened mid-story, fading into background noise.
Hyunjin stared at the hallway.
Mom.
The word felt unfamiliar in his head.
His thumb traced circles against his mug, warmth long gone.
Voices blurred.
Light softened.
And suddenly—
the smell of coffee vanished.
He was seven again.
Rain tapped softly against the windows, steady and rhythmic.
The lights were off except for the kitchen.
Hyunjin sat by the counter, swinging his legs while Minho was doing homework he clearly wasn’t focused on.
Their mother stood at the stove, humming quietly under her breath.
It was one of the good evenings.
You could always tell by the way she moved — shoulders relaxed, voice light, like she wasn’t listening for footsteps outside the door.
“Taste this,” she said, holding up a spoon toward Hyunjin.
He leaned forward immediately, blowing on it dramatically before trying it.
Too hot.
He winced.
Minho snorted. “You never learn.”
“It’s good!” Hyunjin insisted anyway.
Their mother laughed softly — the sound warm enough to fill the whole room.
She reached over, brushing Hyunjin’s hair back from his eyes. “You always say that.”
“Because everything you make is good.”
Minho rolled his eyes but smiled faintly.
The kitchen smelled like garlic and soy sauce, something simmering slowly — comfort made into food.
Outside, thunder rumbled faintly.
Their mother lowered her voice. “We’ll eat early tonight,” she said gently. “Just us.”
Just us.
The words felt special. Safe.
Hyunjin didn’t fully understand why back then, only that those nights felt lighter, like breathing was easier.
She set three bowls on the table instead of four.
Minho noticed. He always noticed.
He glanced up at their mom, Hyunjin hadn’t noticed then. No one said anything.
Instead, their mom sat between them while they ate, nudging vegetables onto Hyunjin’s spoon, reminding Minho to slow down, smiling like nothing in the world could reach them here.
For a little while, it couldn’t.
Hyunjin remembered thinking that if they stayed quiet enough, maybe it could last.
“Hyunjin.”
The café snapped back into focus.
Minho stood beside the table.
Reality rushed in all at once.
The present snapped back into place.
No one had noticed him return yet — or maybe they had and didn’t know what to say.
His expression was controlled too tightly, jaw set, eyes sharper than before.
Hyunjin blinked, disoriented. “Why did mom call?”
Minho didn’t answer immediately.
He looked at Hyunjin like he was trying to rearrange words into something harmless, and he was failing.
Jisung stood slowly beside him. “Minho…?”
Minho exhaled through his nose, fingers tightening slightly on his phone.
“Dad died.”
The sentence landed flat. Heavy. Unreal.
No one spoke.
Hyunjin waited for something to happen inside his chest.
Shock. Grief. Relief.
Nothing came.
“…What?” he said finally.
“Yesterday morning,” Minho continued, voice steady in the way that meant it wasn’t. “Apparently a heart attack caused by some genetic heart illness. They didn’t even know he had it.”
He laughed once — short, humorless.
“Figures.”
Felix slowly set down the plate he’d been holding.
Chan’s posture straightened, attention fully focused now.
“Why does it matter?” Hyunjin asked, the question leaving him before he could stop it.
Minho’s mouth tightened.
“Because,” he said, “we apparently need to get tested. Same condition. Runs in families.”
The words felt clinical. Detached.
Like he was discussing paperwork.
Hyunjin stared at him. “Are you… okay?”
Minho’s expression flickered — not sadness.
Anger.
“I’m fine,” he said quickly. “I’m not sad. Before anyone starts saying it — this isn’t a loss.”
Silence pressed around the table.
“He died,” Minho continued, sharper now. “That’s it. People die.”
Jisung gently touched his arm, grounding more than comforting.
Minho didn’t pull away.
Hyunjin watched him carefully, confusion threading through the numbness.
“You don’t have to—” Hyunjin began.
“I know,” Minho cut in, softer but firm. “I know what I feel.”
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“We have to go home.”
The words settled differently than the news itself.
Home.
Hyunjin’s stomach tightened for the first time that night.
Beside him, Seungmin’s shoulder pressed lightly into his again — steady, warm, anchoring.
Hyunjin didn’t realize he’d leaned closer until their arms fully touched.
Across the table, no one rushed to speak.
Felix turned the music off completely.
For once, even Changbin had nothing to say.
Minho looked at Hyunjin again — older brother first, everything else second.
“I’ll go with you,” Seungmin said gently, before Hyunjin could respond.
Hyunjin glanced at him, startled.
Seungmin only shrugged slightly, taking Hyunjin’s hand in his own under the table “Someone has to make sure you eat.”
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t a declaration.
But Hyunjin felt something small loosen in his chest anyway.
Minho nodded once, grateful in a way he didn’t verbalize.
“Yeah,” Hyunjin said quietly. “Okay.”
Minho clapped his hands together once. “So,” he started. “Let’s eat.”
Outside, the city continued like nothing had changed.
Inside the café, everything had.