Archive of Our Own

As he moves into the new flat, Jungsu realises he should have done this ages ago. 

He’s twenty-one, and all this time he’s been living off his parents’ neck… or maybe they’ve been living off his, depending on how you look at it. Losing their support, both emotional and painfully financial, feels a bit daunting, but something inside him clicks into place. He’s ready. Ready to finally live on his own. 

The rent written into the contract, however, suggests that poor student Kim Jungsu isn’t ready for shit, because his income barely covers it. 

Would’ve been fairer if it were just a bit lower, right? 

The flat isn’t terrible, but it’s far from perfect either. The wallpaper has holes in places, exposing bare white walls underneath. The sofa, which doubles as his bed, is torn to hell because the previous tenants had a dog. There’s a worrying crack near the window where cold air seeps in, though the radiators seem to compensate for it. The bathroom door won’t close, but Jungsu’s not planning on bringing guests over, so no shame there. The mirror in that same bathroom is filthy, and his own tired face on its surface barely looks like his anymore. The thing should be cleaned, but right now, Jungsu just doesn’t have the energy to do it. 

The move has drained him completely. And he hasn’t even unpacked everything yet, as two stuffed bags still lie abandoned under the table. Thinking about them is the last thing he wants, but he reminds himself, like an annoying alarm clock: tomorrow, he’ll deal with it. 

Everything in the new flat feels wrong, unfamiliar, off, but he’s so exhausted he chooses to ignore it. 

Jungsu can ignore the badly placed corners he keeps slamming into. He can ignore the awful minty taste of the first toothpaste he grabbed at the shop. He can ignore the rollercoaster that is the water temperature, depending on the time. He can ignore the dirty mirror… 

But he can’t ignore what’s reflected in it. 

His own worn-out face doesn’t interest him. Instead, his gaze snags on another one, pale and peeking out from behind his shoulder. 

Jungsu chokes on the nasty toothpaste, coughing as a few white splatters hit the mirror. Foam smears across the lower half of his face, tightening the skin, but he doesn’t care. 

He spins around sharply, but – predictably enough – finds nothing except a purple towel hanging lonely on its hook. 

Maybe it’s just his imagination, but he’s pretty sure he hung it further to the left twenty minutes ago?

Is it? 

Yeah, probably just his imagination. 

His heart keeps hammering in his chest, way too fast, but he tries to ignore it, just like he ignores the bruises blooming from every corner he’s collided with today. 

It’s just his imagination that cold creeps along his spine.

It’s just his imagination that the folds of the shower curtain shift.

He’s tired, that’s all. His mind is messing with him.

He finishes brushing his teeth, splashes water on his face, slaps his cheeks with cold hands, mentally telling himself to get a grip and stop acting like a scared kid. Still, when he opens the door and steps into the dark corridor, caution clings to him: what if it wasn’t just his imagination? what if there really is someone else in the flat?

That ‘someone’ wouldn’t have slipped past him that fast… and they’d definitely have made noise in the process. But emotions shut down logic completely. Jungsu feels like he’s a child again, reading horror stories with his sister and then jumping at every little sound in the house. Only now there’s no sister to clutch in a trembling hug. He doesn’t read horror stories anymore either, but recently, Jiseok had been whispering about that woman who lived in some poor Japanese guy’s wardrobe for a year, while he couldn’t figure out where his food kept disappearing from the fridge. 

What if…? 

Jungsu cuts the thought off, squeezes his eyes shut, and bolts through the short corridor like a bullet. He bursts into the room and immediately slams the light switch. Two ceiling lamps flicker on – the third one’s dead, the landlord warned him about that. Maybe the bright light and his loud breathing will scare off whoever might be in here with him. Suddenly, he has the urge to scream nonsense at the top of his lungs. In a horror film, that strategy would get him killed in minutes. 

He swallows it down and slams the door shut behind him, cutting himself off from the pitch-black corridor. 

Maybe it’s just his imagination again, but all the cushions were definitely on the sofa when he left for the bathroom?

Jungsu picks up a small black-and-white cushion from the floor – the cheapest one he could find at IKEA – and tosses it back to its brothers. His gaze lingers briefly on his feet in stiff sheep’s wool slippers, and his imagination helpfully paints a vivid image of a hand suddenly grabbing him and dragging him under the sofa. Like in episode ten of that fucking Hannibal.  

Jungsu shakes his head. Seriously, how old is he? It’s just nonsense. There’s barely any space under the sofa anyway, no way anyone could fit there…

Not that he’s seriously thinking about it. 

Sigh.

Inhale, exhale.

Jungsu breathes deeply, calms himself down, tries to push the thoughts away. It’s just his imagination. He’s alone. He’s alone. 

Being alone isn’t something Jungsu particularly enjoys, but right now, it feels a hell of a lot safer than unwanted company. There is no company. He’s the only one here. He paid two months’ rent upfront for this place, didn’t he? 

He walks over to the windows to pull down the blinds, but freezes about a metre from the sill when he catches that pale silhouette behind him again. Jungsu swallows hard and squeezes his eyes shut until coloured spots dance across his vision. A chill slides down his spine, but he blames it on the crack in the wall. 

When he opens his eyes again, he doesn’t know what he expects – for the figure to be gone, or still there – but he’s incredibly relieved when the window shows only his own frightened face and two bright reflections of the lamps. 

He exhales, steadies himself, and pulls the blinds down, hiding the night outside, smeared with countless fingerprints on the glass. Seriously, the landlord couldn’t even be bothered to clean reflective surfaces before renting the place out? Still, Jungsu fell for the ‘walking distance to campus’ part. 

He’s graduating this year anyway, so that advantage will become useless in a few months. Unless he decides to ruin his life and apply for a master’s degree at the same uni. Yeah, no. Not happening. He’s not stepping on that rake twice. He’s already had his brain chewed out by tactless lecturers, broken equipment in classrooms, and a grumpy cloakroom lady. 

What matters is that the flat is almost in the city centre, not that it’s near that godforsaken university, right? 

Jungsu nervously switches off the light and, eyes squeezed shut, quickly climbs into his little den on the made-up sofa. The bed in his old room was way softer, way better, but he’s so exhausted he could fall asleep on a board of nails right now. Without opening his eyes, he stretches, trying to loosen his aching back, pulls the blanket closer, wraps himself up in it. 

Tomorrow’s a day off. Nowhere to go. Just unpack, clean that poor mirror and the windows, maybe buy a couple of things he forgot today… and yeah, he should probably study too. Jungsu lets out a heavy sigh, realising it’d be smart to set an alarm for early morning, but his phone is still lying on the table, and getting up and opening his eyes feels impossible. Laziness, hand in hand with that lingering, unpleasant fear, wins, and Jungsu decides to trust his internal clock instead. 

Jungsu really, really doesn’t want to crawl out from under the warm blanket and go anywhere, but aggressive beams of sunlight keep forcing their way into the room through the narrow gaps where the blinds don’t quite cover the windows. 

Feels like it’s nearly noon already. 

And he’s got a ton of things to do today.

But getting up…

He froze half to death last night and somehow still feels cold now, even though the radiators are working just fine. His shoulders are chilled, his chest too, for some reason. That’s new. Jungsu always sleeps topless. He does so in summer, autumn, spring, even winter, and his mum jokingly calls him a ‘hot young man’ because of it. 

With a reluctant groan, he finally throws off the blanket and sits up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. 

Maybe it’s just his imagination, but he didn’t put a second pillow next to him before going to bed?

Jungsu frowns, trying to recall last night, then shrugs it off. He was exhausted. Probably just spaced out and tossed two pillows down instead of one. 

The air in the flat, by the way, doesn’t feel as cold as it seemed to him. It’s actually pretty warm. So why the hell was he freezing…? 

Jungsu decides to leave that particular physics puzzle for another time. Instead, he grabs his phone from the table and heads to the bathroom. 

The screen tells him it is already close to eleven, which means some of his plans are definitely getting pushed to next weekend. 

He suddenly feels like making noise. Maybe it’s because of all the weird shit that happened yesterday, or maybe just because there’s no one around to tell him off anymore. He turns on the music on his phone, but keeps the volume low. The walls are paper-thin. Yesterday, he could even hear the neighbour coughing. 

His favourite song settles him a little, and when he steps into the bathroom, he doesn’t even question whether the towel had been hanging on the hook yesterday. Maybe he really did just toss it carelessly onto the washing machine in a panic.

Instead of those questions, which now feel kind of stupid, he hums along quietly and turns on the tap. Half the song drowns under the rush of water, but he’s heard it a thousand times, so his brain fills in the missing parts automatically. 

The mirror is still filthy, same as yesterday, but now Jungsu studies his reflection with more interest. Dark circles under his eyes… yeah, he should probably deal with those. Fuck. He can’t even sneak his sister’s eye patches anymore. 

Jungsu exhales in disappointment and wipes his face with the towel. It smells like home… and something else. Something odd. Maybe stuffing towels and all the bathroom stuff into that big bag his mum once used to bring home a new jacket wasn’t the best idea. But he didn’t really have a choice. And the smell isn’t exactly unpleasant. Faint. Floral, maybe? 

Since when does his mum’s jacket smell like flowers? 

His face turns slightly pink, a couple of damp strands sticking to it. His roots have grown out again. Probably time to redo the colour. Damn it, why does hair grow so fast when you don’t want it to? It’s too long. He doesn’t like it. Needs a cut. 

One song ends, another starts – something he added ages ago and never bothered to delete. He doesn’t even like this kind of music anymore; he doesn’t have the urge to sing along, the urge to move to it. He’s about to skip it, but the melody in the tiny bathroom changes on its own. 

What is this, the rise of the machines? 

Jungsu has always thought smart speakers were a waste of money, and he’s pretty damn sure technology isn’t advanced enough to read minds yet. And this is just a regular phone he bought over three years ago. 

He stops inspecting the dark dots on his nose and turns towards the washing machine, where he left his phone when he came in. Just in case it’s dying and trying to send some kind of SOS. 

Well, the phone isn’t dying, but Jungsu’s heart drops straight into his stomach when he sees a stranger sitting astride the damn washing machine. The face clicks faintly in his memory. Is that the one he saw yesterday in the filthy mirror and the smeared window? He didn’t have much time to look then or now. 

So what, he’s actually got some squatter living here? And the guy’s bold enough to show up like that? 

Irritation sparks up fast when Jungsu realises the person doesn’t look threatening at all as he’s sitting there with his eyes half-closed, gently nodding along to the song, which he apparently just changed himself. 

Jungsu grits his teeth, snatches the towel off his shoulder, and aims straight for the guy’s bare knees. 

The fabric hits the washing machine underneath instead. 

Jungsu feels the towel pass clean through the stranger’s legs, and then he notices they’re actually semi-transparent and flinches hard.

The stranger flinches too, eyes going wide, staring at him like a startled deer. 

Jungsu is the one who saw a ghost, but somehow, they both end up scared. 

Oh, for fuck’s sake. The landlord never mentioned that the flat was cursed. 

“Hey!” the ghost protests, frowning. “That hurts!” 

Jungsu’s mouth drops open.

If this had happened last night, he would’ve died on the spot, no question. But now the fear fades weirdly fast, replaced by complete confusion. Questions buzz in his head like a swarm of bees.

“Who are you?” he blurts out the first one.

“My name’s Seungmin,” the ghost replies, rubbing his knees. “Nice to meet you. But please don’t hit me again.”

Jungsu frowns and finally takes a proper look at the so-called Seungmin. Light, fluffy fringe falls over his furrowed brows, lips are pushed out in a sulky pout. A green ribbon is tied neatly around his neck, and just above the collar of his blue shirt, a wide cut stretches across his pale throat.

How the hell did Jungsu not notice that before?

A shiver runs through him at the thought of how that wound might have happened, and he drops his gaze back down to the legs that Seungmin clutches with his long fingers, decorated with a couple of rings. There are no bruises, no marks at all on those knees, yet he’s acting so convincingly hurt that Jungsu decides to go along with it.

“So you’re like…” Jungsu starts, swallowing. “A ghost?”

Seungmin stretches out his arm and wags his index finger right in front of Jungsu’s nose.

“Not a ghost, but an unembodied soul,” he corrects.

“But you’re kinda dead?”

“Kinda.”

Seungmin spreads his hands and snickers, while Jungsu rubs the bridge of his nose with a sigh. No one has ever taught him what to do when an ‘unembodied soul’ shows up in your flat. Maybe he should call the landlord? 

Seungmin stops laughing and props his hands on the edge of the washing machine.

“By the way, ‘Still Alive’ is ancient,” he says, looking straight at Jungsu with something like a challenge. 

“I know,” Jungsu waves him off. “I was gonna skip it.” 

He tosses his weapon, the purple terry towel, back over his shoulder and crosses his arms, pouting slightly as he gives the unexpected guest another once-over. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be, like, intangible?” he asks, right as the song hits its final high note, which Seungmin silently belts out, using his fist as a microphone. 

Jungsu doesn’t wait for him to finish pretending he’s some opera singer – though, who knows what he used to be when he was alive? – and reaches out, trying to touch his legs. Same result as with the towel: his fingers meet the washing machine’s control panel instead. Cold shoots through them, just like it did down his spine yesterday, and across his shoulders and chest last night.  

Jungsu jerks his hand back when Seungmin lets out a shriek like a pig being slaughtered.

Well. He is technically slaughtered. As for the pig part… Jungsu isn’t sure yet, but the scattered cushions come to his mind, so he makes a mental note with a pencil.

“I asked you not to do this again!” Seungmin whines, covering his knees again and looking at him with a mix of offence and pain.

“Sorry,” Jungsu blurts out immediately, not even questioning why he’s apologising. “But…” 

Seungmin sighs heavily, eyes closing as his brows knit together like he’s genuinely hurting. Jungsu checks on purpose: the knees are still pale, still spotless, no hint of bruise or redness in sight. 

Seungmin reaches a hand towards Jungsu’s face, and Jungsu watches, a bit dazed, as it slowly gains definition, darkening, becoming more solid. A cool brush grazes his nose, and along with it comes a faint floral scent. The same smell as the towel. 

“There,” Seungmin says, giving his hand a small shake. “You can touch it. Though back in my day, people used to kiss my hands.” 

Jungsu frowns, but he still takes the outstretched hand into his palms. This time, his fingers don’t pass through Seungmin. This time, he actually feels the other’s hand, almost like a living person’s – only it feels like that person has been lying in a snowdrift for a full day.

Jungsu’s exaggerating, of course. Seungmin is cold, but not that cold. Though the silver ring on his finger is noticeably warmer than the skin itself, which seems to absorb heat the same way living flesh does.

Reluctantly, Jungsu tears his gaze away from the hand that still looks faintly unnatural, tinged with a violet hue, but he doesn’t let go. He looks up at Seungmin’s face, the corners of the ghost’s lips lifted ever so slightly in a satisfied smile, his eyes half-lidded, and somehow he looks more real and more tangible. 

Jungsu notices a tiny mole above his eye that had been hidden before. 

“How long have you been dead?” he asks. 

Seungmin opens his eyes and immediately looks up at the ceiling, thoughtful. 

“About two hundred years,” he says. “I don’t remember exactly.” 

“Two hundred?” Jungsu raises his brows, sceptical. “And in all that time, your soul hasn’t found a new body? Mate, I think you’re not getting reincarnated. They scammed you.” 

Seungmin pouts again, offended. 

“You don’t get it! A soul this beautiful needs an equally beautiful body,” he mutters. “It just hasn’t been born yet.” 

“Yeah, sure,” Jungsu snorts, obviously not believing a word of it. 

Seungmin’s mouth drops open in outrage at the sheer audacity, and he tries to yank his hand free.

Jungsu lets go and studies him again.

To be fair, Seungmin isn’t lying about the beauty part. Jungsu finds the fox-like eyes, long lashes, the smooth line of his nose, and thin lips attractive, but he keeps that to himself. The only thing that isn’t quite pretty is the cut across his throat, deep, brownish-red, and still unhealed. 

Without thinking, Jungsu reaches for his own neck, brushing his fingertips over it. Paired with the slight tilt of his head, it comes out like a silent question. Seungmin mirrors the gesture, and his expression dims the moment his hand meets the wound, which looks like it might start bleeding again if touched too carelessly. 

“The reason I don’t like trusting people,” he says quietly. “Also, the reason I died. Though the first one matters more, I guess.” 

“That’s…” Jungsu begins, but his throat tightens, and it’s getting hard to talk. He really should build some tolerance to blood, flesh, all that stuff. Listening to Jiseok ramble about the beauty of the human inner world isn’t the same as actually seeing it. Sitting through his friend’s chatter is way easier. 

“It was someone who was supposed to protect me and someone I trusted.” Seungmin forces a sad smile. “Why the hell am I even telling you this? What if you do the same thing?” 

“How do you even kill someone already dead?” Jungsu mutters under his breath, eyes dropping, almost ashamed. 

“Well, I can still feel pain, as you’ve seen,” Seungmin says with a faint smirk. “Getting your throat slit hurts, sure. But looking into the eyes of someone who swore loyalty to you while you choke on your own blood… that hurts more.” His voice drops, his lips tremble, and he presses them together hard, as if trying to hide that moment of weakness. 

Jungsu wants to pull him into a tight hug, but Seungmin dissolves right in front of him, leaving nothing but a bare wall.

Seungmin doesn’t show up for the rest of the day. There’s no blurry shape of him in the mirror while Jungsu scrubs it like his life depends on it, trying to get rid of dried toothpaste and God knows what else. The window, in daylight, reflects nothing at all, just the rooftops of neighbouring buildings and the tip of his own nose.

Seungmin doesn’t appear. Doesn’t touch Jungsu’s things, doesn’t touch him either. Jungsu has no idea why. Is it because of their conversation that ended on such a depressing note? Or is it because he hit his head on the water heater, and Seungmin doesn’t exist at all? Jungsu leans towards the second option, even though his head doesn’t hurt and he doesn’t remember regaining consciousness in the tiny bathtub.

There can’t be a ghost in his flat, right?

Ghosts don’t exist, right?

They were scary when he was a kid, sure, but now he’s twenty-one, and the only thing truly terrifying is the upcoming utility bills. By evening, almost every light in the flat is on, so his fear is fully justified. The number is definitely going to be huge, and paying that much will hurt like hell.

Seungmin vanishes as if he were never there, so all his ‘crimes’ get reassigned. The scattered cushions, the towel knocked off the hook, the deathly chill, probably even the smudged mirrors and windows – all of it, Jungsu blames on himself, a lazy landlord who couldn’t be bothered to tidy up, plus that cursed crack in the wall. The fact that the cold reaches his back even in the kitchen, he writes off as a stronger wind outside. 

It distracts him a bit during the day, unnerves him a bit in the evening, but somehow, Jungsu manages to get through most of his to-do list. Finally, everything is unpacked, the sports bags shoved tightly into the bottom drawer of the hallway cabinet. Cleaned and filled with his stuff, the flat feels less repulsive now, though this box with peeling wallpaper still lacks life. Jungsu doesn’t dare stick photos on the walls like he did in his old room. Maybe he’ll buy a corkboard with his next scholarship payment. 

All in all, he’s pretty satisfied with what he’s done. There’s room for improvement, but the main goal is achieved. It’s not as scary or lifeless anymore. He can even brag to his parents about it, which he does, snapping a few photos of the tiny rooms, switching off the lights (without fear now, worth noting!), and climbing under the blanket. His phone glows in his hand, the brightness making his eyes sting, leaving pale spots floating in his vision. He sends the photos to his mum, though waiting for a reply is pointless. It’s late. She’s definitely asleep. 

Jungsu scrolls through the messages piling up over the day. There’s a dozen funny duck pictures from Jiseok (Jungsu smiles softly and makes a mental note to create a massive comparison collage of Jiseok and those birds for his next birthday), his classmates’ celebration over the cancellation of tomorrow’s first lecture (Jungsu celebrates too and resets his alarm later), some chaotic mess in the work chat (he frowns, tries to make sense of it, then gives up and promises himself he’ll deal with it in the morning). 

Time slips away with his phone. It’s a stupid habit, a proper addiction. He’s exhausted, barely keeping his eyes open, but social media somehow wins over sleep. Only when he notices ‘01:27’ in the top corner does it really hit him. His eyes are burning shut. His body is cold again, that damn crack in the wall. Fatigue drags him down into the soft dip of the sofa.

Jungsu turns off the screen, shoves the phone under his pillow, and rolls onto his side, pulling the blanket up higher. His eyes ache to the point of tears, and he feels like he’ll pass out in seconds. But something won’t let him. Maybe it’s his aching back. Maybe it’s all the new information crowding his head. Maybe it’s that lingering chill. Maybe it’s the faint rustling that might not even be real. Or all of it together. He tosses and turns, stuck somewhere between sleep and reality, unable to fully drift into sweet dreams of hot sand in Busan. 

His head throbs…

With effort, Jungsu forces his eyes open, thinking he should get up and take a painkiller so he can actually sleep, but the thought dies instantly as he sees someone he can’t quite make out in the darkness of the room. Someone lying right in front of him. Someone who definitely shouldn’t be here.

His brain helpfully throws up the memory of this morning, but Jungsu pushes it away as hard as he can. There is no Seungmin.

If there is no Seungmin, then who the hell is lying next to him right now?

This time, Jungsu doesn’t have his trusty weapon in the form of a terry towel, and the danger is way too close, so his body locks up. His breathing slows, and he desperately plays dead, hoping whoever this is won’t notice he’s there. And the longer he lies like this, holding his breath and staring into the darkness, the more terrifying the presence beside him becomes.

Someone lets out a pained groan and shifts. Jungsu isn’t entirely sure, but it feels like they’re now facing him.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” comes a drowsy, slightly annoyed voice. Jungsu recognises it, for better or worse. It sounds way too much like the one he heard this morning. 

“Seungmin?” he voices his thought, finally inhaling.

“What?”

The question hangs there, and Jungsu has no idea how to answer it.

The faint red glow from the switch nearby and the blinking light from his charging laptop suddenly become enough. The darkness softens, and he can actually make out something resembling Seungmin’s face.

His breathing steadies, little by little. Still, relaxing feels like a bad idea. He’s completely defenceless, submerged in darkness, which, to be honest, has always scared the shit out of him.

And really, what guarantees does he have that Seungmin means no harm? This is a fucking ghost. There are entire libraries of horror stories about them. Jungsu could easily end up as another post online if Seungmin decides to sit on his chest and choke him out as revenge for what humans did to him.

All of that could happen, the scenarios flash through his mind, each one worse than the last. They’re terrifying, but his heart decides, on its own, that there’s nothing to be afraid of. It beats steadily, calmly. His hands are cold, sure, but not with that awful, paralysing chill that usually means panic. It’s more like he’s holding a cold drink.

“What are you doing here?” slips out before he can stop it.

“Trying to sleep,” Seungmin replies without hesitation.

It feels like he moves a little closer as the cold of his body becomes more noticeable, and the faint floral scent intensifies.

Do all dead people smell like that?

“No, not all,” Seungmin mumbles sleepily. “Depends on how the…” He trails off into a wide, unrestrained yawn. “…body was buried.”

Jungsu exhales sharply, mouth dropping at the answer to a question he never said out loud.

Shit, maybe he’s dreaming? No… If he were dreaming, he wouldn’t realise it, right?

He discreetly pinches the inside of his forearm, and the pain feels real enough to dismiss that theory.

“You can read minds too?” he asks, sighing.

“You said it out loud,” Seungmin points out with a chuckle. “And admit it, I’m not the worst kind. I smell nice. Some of them stink of rot from three kilometres away. Those are truly bad roommates. Though it’s not their fault, they weren’t buried properly.” He yawns again and edges closer. “Or cremated.” 

“And they…?”

“The cremated ones smell like fried chicken.”

“Ugh,” Jungsu says flatly, grimacing. “I’m never eating that again.”

“Sorry,” Seungmin laughs. “But it’s true.”

The conversation fades, finished with the low rumble of Jungsu’s stomach in the quiet night. He \curses himself for thinking about the leftover chicken in the fridge. It’s the last thing he wants right now, but apparently the first thing his stomach cares about. Maybe it’s a good thing Seungmin can’t read minds after all.

Jungsu’s eyes adjust to the dark, and now he can clearly see – or maybe just convincingly imagine – the tip of Seungmin’s nose mere centimetres from his own face, and those half-lidded, fox-like eyes.

Seungmin rubs his cheek against the pillow like a tiny kitten.

So Jungsu really didn’t put two pillows there last night, and that was the ghost living here? Which means… yesterday, Seungmin was sleeping right here, next to him, too?

A shiver crawls down Jungsu’s spine at that conclusion, because he hadn’t noticed a thing.

“Jungsu-ya?” Seungmin murmurs, his voice soft and plaintive.

Jungsu doesn’t even question how he knows his name anymore. Everything feels too much like a dream for that to matter. There are plenty of explanations anyway. He could’ve seen it in the contract, heard it when Jungsu’s sister called, read it on a notebook… hell, maybe in his vision it just floats above Jungsu’s head like in a video game. Any option works, so instead of asking, Jungsu just hums in response.

“I’m cold,” Seungmin admits quietly.

Jungsu hums again, questioning.

Ghosts feel cold? Aren’t they the embodiment of it? Does that even make sense? And what exactly does Seungmin want from him?

“Can you… hug me?”

Jungsu frowns, but lifts the edge of the blanket in a silent invitation. Seungmin slips under it, and instantly, it gets really cold here. Jungsu fights the urge to pull away, to retreat and keep the warmth to himself, because supposedly, Seungmin might warm up if he gets enough heat.

Jungsu places a hand on his waist, and Seungmin abandons his own pillow completely and presses his cheek against Jungsu’s bare, slightly chilled chest. This is way too strange, way too intimate, but Jungsu pushes the thought away, reminding himself that Seungmin isn’t alive, and he’s still wearing a shirt and a jacket, which somehow makes the whole thing a bit more decent. 

Seungmin’s fingers curl into his back, leaving icy traces that fade after a moment. In Jungsu’s arms, he gradually grows warmer, almost like a living person, and honestly, he’s not a bad substitute for the giant teddy bear Jungsu’s sister dragged home from a date, the one he’d been eyeing but wasn’t allowed to take.

He doesn’t even remember the painkiller he meant to get up for.

In the morning, Seungmin isn’t beside him, and for a sinful moment, Jungsu thinks he imagined the whole thing yet again. But then he spots the small IKEA pillow nearby, the one he definitely didn’t leave there last night and the one that should’ve been somewhere by his feet. 

Seungmin is nowhere to be found.

Not that Jungsu is actively searching for him; the ghost just doesn’t show up in front of his eyes, and the flat is tiny, so the conclusion is obvious. Still, Jungsu feels just a little abandoned because of this, like after a one-night drunken hookup, even though nothing like that happened. What did happen last night means a lot more to him than some drunken hookup, so honestly, he’s justified in being offended. 

Seungmin is gone, his chilling presence imperceptible, and this time, Jungsu genuinely doesn’t understand what he did wrong and why the ghost is avoiding him. They didn’t even talk about his death in detail, so it’s not like he upset him with that. He didn’t refuse the hug and shared his blanket. He’s a fucking hero, for God’s sake, and deserves at least a thank you.

Though a small doubt creeps in right when cheap shampoo gets into his eyes, forcing them shut with a sting. 

What if Seungmin is just embarrassed about asking? 

Jungsu doesn’t come up with any better explanations, so now he’s mentally drafting a plan to convince Seungmin that there’s nothing shameful about what he asked for. At what point did he start trying to win over a fucking ghost and get his attention… that thought doesn’t even cross his mind.

Well, it’s probably better to be on good terms with the supernatural thing living in your flat? Just in case…

Jungsu rinses the conditioner out of his hair, turns off the water, and hangs the showerhead back in place. With a sharp motion, he yanks the curtain open, slicking his wet fringe back at the same time, and reaches for the towel only to freeze when he finally manages to open his eyes.

Seungmin.

He’s sitting on the washing machine again, swinging his legs, staring straight at Jungsu’s face without blinking.

And thank God it’s his face.

Jungsu flushes and yanks the poor shower curtain back, hiding himself from those curious eyes. He counts to three in his head and realises their acquaintance is moving way too fast if, on day two, Seungmin is already seeing him wet and naked. Though… he probably saw him like before. Yeah, obviously, that sneaky bastard must’ve seen everything and just kept quiet about it.

Jungsu squeezes his eyes shut, trying to ignore the heat in his cheeks.

Okay, Seungmin is not alive, but that does not give him the right to break every possible boundary. Jungsu has spent years building those rules with people around him. Seungmin can’t just barge into his bathroom because he’s a fucking ghost. He’s still a person. There have to be some standards of decency, right? 

The curtain twitches again, and Jungsu flinches with it, expecting Seungmin to keep staring shamelessly. But it stays almost fully closed, and only a hand holding a towel appears from behind it. Jungsu grabs it immediately and wraps it around himself.

“I’ll go, sorry,” comes a quiet voice, genuinely apologetic, then a soft click of the door.

Jungsu finally breathes properly again, though he still steps out of the shower cautiously, poking his head out first to check if the coast is clear. It is, and he tries not to think about the fact that, technically, Seungmin could still be in the bathroom, just invisible again.

For some reason, Jungsu trusts him. Maybe because there’s no chill lingering in the steamy room.

He finds Seungmin in the kitchen, curled up into a small ball, looking so guilty that even the prodigal son would be jealous.

So he really did leave. Good. Thanks for that, at least. Though maybe he could’ve just not barged into an occupied bathroom in the first place. 

Wait. Do ghosts even need the toilet? 

Jungsu sighs heavily and rubs the bridge of his nose.

He’s not angry. Honestly. Getting mad at your ghost roommate is stupid. Who knows what he might do? And getting mad at your ghost roommate when he looks like he’s about to be sentenced to death any second… yeah, that’s just impossible. 

What was Seungmin expecting anyway? That Jungsu would come out of the shower in a wetsuit? 

A quiet snort escapes him. 

“Ghosts make good voyeurs, huh?” he says, walking over to the fridge. Without his mum’s notes and his sister’s handmade magnets, it looks way too empty and lonely, but Jungsu tries to convince himself he prefers it this way. Minimalism is nice, right? 

“What?” Seungmin asks, confused.

“Never mind,” Jungsu waves it off and pulls the fridge door open.

He scans the contents critically: there’s leftover chicken from yesterday, barely enough for one person, some vegetables in the bottom drawer, and that’s it, end of the grand culinary tour. 

“Do you need to eat?” he asks, grabbing his future breakfast and shutting the door in one smooth motion. Seems like if Seungmin says ‘yes’, Jungsu might not survive the shock. His empty fridge definitely won’t. His wallet neither. No one warned him that renting a place in the city centre comes with a freeloading ghost! They live here together, don’t they? Why can’t they split the rent? Let Seungmin work remotely or something, earn money. It’s not like he has anything else to do all day… although, yeah, he probably doesn’t have an ID or employment record. 

“It’s not necessarily,” Seungmin replies, pulling Jungsu out of his fantasy about a rich life.

Jungsu puts the chicken into the microwave, grabs a chopping board, frowning.

“You’re skinny as hell, you need to eat,” he mutters, sounding exactly like his mum when he was sixteen.

“It won’t change anything,” Seungmin sighs. “I’ll stay the way I was when I died.”

“You’re living my dream, mate,” Jungsu snorts, fishing out the only knife from the drawer. “Eat whatever you want and never gain weight… God. If only that didn’t require dying.”

Seungmin falls silent, and Jungsu does too, focusing entirely on not slicing his own fingers along with the vegetables.

The microwave beeps, and the food’s finally ready to be devoured. Jungsu sets two small plates on the table, casually placing them closer to the centre rather than right in front of himself, and glances at Seungmin, who is still sitting curled up in the corner.

He only lifts his wary gaze when Jungsu places disposable wooden chopsticks beside him.

“So where do you get your energy from if you don’t eat?” Jungsu asks before digging in.

Seungmin looks at the paper-wrapped chopsticks they got with yesterday’s chicken, then back at Jungsu, who is calmly chewing a tomato.

“I don’t think you’ll like the answer,” he sighs, not touching the utensils, hands resting on his knees under the table.

“There’s a lot of shit I don’t like,” Jungsu says stubbornly. “Like that old geezer who teaches our distribution computing class. Still, I’m not complaining.”

He finishes his sentence, but Seungmin stays quiet, chewing on his own lips.

“Or what, do you ghosts need sweets and cognac?” Jungsu adds, fixing him with a heavy look. “Because I definitely can’t afford that.”

Seungmin stubbornly avoids his eyes.

“From tomorrow, this house is going healthy!” Jungsu declares proudly, then mutters under his breath, “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

In the end, Seungmin doesn’t touch the food, and that could be taken as a silent refusal, but Jungsu still leaves half the portion for him and puts it in the fridge, saying that if he gets hungry, he can eat it. As if Seungmin is a little kid and Jungsu is his mum heading off to work. Though honestly, the ghost in his flat feels more like a cat: always trailing after you, acting unpredictable, needing food left out before you go, and potentially watching you have sex with your girlfriend.

Well. Jungsu really hopes they don’t get to that last part.  

When he heads back into the room to get dressed and pack for uni, Seungmin stays in the kitchen. Jungsu glances at the time and immediately starts rushing, pulling on clothes at speed, tossing everything he needs into his backpack, including the laptop that’s been charging all night, much to his back’s future regret. 

Still, before leaving, he peeks into the kitchen again. Seungmin looks like a statue now, frozen in place with a gloomy expression. Then again, who knows? Maybe it’s the anniversary of his death or something, and he’s obligated to sulk all day? Though he did say he doesn’t even remember when he died… 

“Cold?” Jungsu asks quickly. He doesn’t wait for an answer because Seungmin is moving in slow motion today, and if Jungsu is more than five minutes late, he’ll be stuck waiting outside the lecture hall – that senile old bastard doesn’t let late students in and has zero sympathy. “There are socks in the bottom drawer if you want. Left the blanket on the sofa.”

“Clothes don’t warm me,” Seungmin says quietly, but nods anyway. “Thanks.”

“Okay, I’m off, bye!” Jungsu throws over his shoulder as he retreats into the hallway, quickly putting his shoes on. “Don’t get bored!”

The front door slams shut.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Jungsu snaps when the lecture hall door (kind of unsurprisingly) refuses to budge and turns out to be locked from the inside. He can’t hear the voice of that senile bastard he swears he’s going to kill one day, which means the class is already writing the test, and Jungsu is losing his last chance to get extra points. 

He grabs his phone and checks the time. He’s late by one minute. Just one. And now he wants to smash his head against the nearest wall. 

First time this has ever happened, first time he’s stuck in this stupid situation, which, again, makes sense, because he got a bit lost in the maze of courtyards before finding the right way. He wouldn’t have been late if he’d left a little earlier, but there’s no way he can blame Seungmin for this. Taking care of him has suddenly settled on Jungsu’s shoulders like some weird responsibility.  

Even though Seungmin never asked for it, he didn’t ask for food, didn’t ask for warm clothes, so he wouldn’t freeze in a flat that isn’t even cold to begin with. He wouldn’t have asked anyway, Jungsu thinks. Look at him today, barely speaks. 

Jungsu sighs and runs his hand helplessly over the locked door, as if that might somehow soften it and let him in. Muffled noises drift from inside, voices discussing the five-minute test, but he doesn’t even try the handle again. There’s no point. It won’t open.  

He turns to leave this academic hellhole where his classmates are currently suffering, but almost immediately bumps into Jiseok, who is strolling along peacefully with a large cup of coffee in hand. Jungsu’s lips twitch into a smile as, for once, his friend’s lack of punctuality brings him something other than stress from trying to write a test for both of them and one hour-long boredom that follows it. 

Jiseok probably accepted the fact that he’ll always be late to Professor Kang’s classes the day he was born. The rare times he actually arrives on time, only to ignore the lecture and finish assignments, complete his PE course online, plug his ears and watch YouTube, or just play Minecraft, are exceptions rather than any real attempt at being a diligent student. And somehow, despite all that, he still gets good grades and hasn’t lost his scholarship once in four years. Pure magic. 

“What an unexpected and delightful encounter,” Jiseok says, raising his brows and spreading his arms. 

Jungsu clicks his tongue in mock annoyance, though his frustration about being late has already faded. 

Jiseok pulls off his headphones and takes a sip of what Jungsu is one hundred and one per cent sure is something ridiculously sweet from the café across the road. He closes his eyes in satisfaction, licks his lips, then finally steps away from the door. 

Jungsu trails after him, drops his backpack onto a small, slightly stiff sofa, then collapses onto it himself with a relieved sigh. Jiseok sits opposite, places his paper cup on the table, and, oddly enough, doesn’t rush to pull out his battered laptop. Instead, he leans back, laces his fingers together, and looks at Jungsu with a conspiratorial grin. That smile sets off immediate alarm bells. 

“Well? Go on,” Jiseok says, still grinning, just like a therapist ready to hear all his complaints. Jungsu really hopes he’s not about to get diagnosed with something. 

He sighs deeply, rubs the bridge of his nose, and runs through everything that’s happened over the past couple of days. 

“I think there’s a ghost in my flat,” he concludes, lowering his head, fully aware of what’s coming. 

“Ghosts don’t exist, sweetheart. You’re imagining things,” Jiseok replies calmly. 

“I know that!” Jungsu groans, ruffling the hair at the back of his head. He looks up at his friend, who seems completely unfazed, lounging there and sipping his sugary poison. “At first, I thought someone was living in the storage loft. Remember that story you told me?” 

“Mm-hmm,” Jiseok hums, nodding slowly. “And what made you change your mind, my dear friend?” 

Jungsu rolls his eyes for a second at the overly dramatic tone Jiseok always uses when he’s clearly taking the piss. 

“I… met him?” Jungsu says uncertainly, then exhales tiredly, pressing his palms to his face, ready to scream at how insane this sounds. “Before you ask, I decided he’s a ghost, not a real person, because he’s, like, intangible. Sometimes.” 

Jiseok arches a brow sceptically but says nothing.

“He said his name is Seungmin and that–”

Jiseok snorts, not even trying to hide it, cutting him off completely.

“Is this some kind of metaphor?” he asks, accusing. “If you like Seungmin, just say it. In this gay hellhole we call a uni, everyone will get it. Though…” His mouth suddenly forms a near-perfect ‘O’, and he quickly covers it with his hand. His eyes gleam with exaggerated horror. “I heard through the grapevine that he and Jooyeon finally got together. Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” 

“Jiseokie…” Jungsu groans, burying his face in his hands. “I’m glad you’re up to date on all the gossip and that those two idiots finally stopped ignoring the obvious, but I don’t give a shit about that Seungmin. I’ve got a different one at home. And no, it’s not a metaphor. It’s a fucking ghost.” 

“Ah-h,” Jiseok says, nodding in understanding. “Alright. Well, that’s a relief. Your ass is safe if Jooyeon ever finds out… Wait, hang on. Start over. Where the hell did you get a ghost from?” 

Jungsu shoots him a deadly look.

“How should I know? You know how it goes… cursed flat, built on bones, whatever. They could’ve at least given me a discount for that.”

“Bullshit,” Jiseok says, shaking his head.

“Yeah. Bullshit,” Jungsu echoes. “Just like my whole life.”

When Jungsu gets home, the entryway is already dark, the bulb dead. He flicks the switches, and nothing changes. Honestly, he’s starting to suspect the rent was not exactly proportional to the quality of the place.

In the darkness, the key misses the lock on the first try, but it gets there eventually, and that alone brings Jungsu relief, along with his aching shoulders finally freed from the weight of his backpack. He forces himself to carry the grocery bag into the kitchen, though he doesn’t unpack it. He will later, definitely, otherwise it will all turn into something inedible. Such a waste of money is simply not an option. 

Jungsu heads back into the hallway, scoops up the discarded backpack, and only then does something feel off. Like something is missing. His mind jumps straight to Seungmin, and then he tries, very hard, to remind himself that for all their similarities, a house ghost is not a cat and is under no obligation to greet him at the door. Probably. Jungsu has no idea how any of this works, and every new moment with Seungmin just proves that everything he’s learned from paranormal films has nothing to do with reality, or at least not with his particular situation. 

Two ceiling lights come on with a click. The third, lazy bastard, still refuses to work. Not that Jungsu actually tries to fix it. He’s just hoping for higher powers or a house spirit. Considering Seungmin exists, maybe that hope isn’t entirely pointless. 

Jungsu tosses the backpack blindly under the table and lets out a short yawn. His slightly teary eyes blink open again, finally able to make sense of something in the bright yellow light. He sees Seungmin curled up on the part of the sofa usually occupied by the small cushions at night (except for one of them now). The neatly folded blanket lies exactly where Jungsu left it before going out, but apparently Seungmin got cold anyway, because instead of the usual dark blue blazer, his body is wrapped in a lilac hoodie. Jungsu’s hoodie, to be exact. Seungmin must have pulled it from the wardrobe and thrown it on in an attempt to warm up. 

Jungsu doesn’t really mind in principle, but then his gaze drops to the still bare knees sticking out from under the shorts, to the bluish heels, and many questions start forming.

Seungmin stirs, lifts his head, and looks at Jungsu with sleepy eyes.

Jungsu finally unfreezes and steps further into the room, stopping right in front of him.

“I told you where the socks are,” he mutters. “You could at least have covered up. Why are you freezing? Your legs are practically blue.”

“That’s just the sofa showing through,” Seungmin mumbles weakly and lets his head drop back onto the soft upholstery. “And I think I told you that stuff like that doesn’t really warm me.” 

“And this?” Jungsu raises an eyebrow and nods at his hoodie.

“This helps a bit,” Seungmin admits, eyes half-lidded. “Your blanket’s new, and the socks are all washed.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Jungsu asks, frowning.

“New things don’t have time to absorb a person’s energy yet, and washing… well, it washes everything out. Kinda obvious when you think about it.”

“So,” Jungsu starts, thoughtfully pressing his fingers to his chin, “the only things that can warm you are smelly clothes. Did I get that right?”

Seungmin lets out a quiet snicker.

“Yeah,” he says. “Something like that. You can also do it.”

“Me?”

“Yes!” Seungmin suddenly exclaims, louder than before, visibly perking up as he sits up fully and tucks his legs beneath him. “You came back, and it got warmer straight away!” He beams, wide and sincere, little wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes.

Jungsu forgets what he was about to say and just smiles lazily in return. 

“You don’t mind, right?” Seungmin asks, suddenly alert. “Not everyone likes wearing stuff after a dead person and all that…” 

“Got experience with that?” Jungsu says, barely holding back a grin. The image pops into his head: someone grimacing while sniffing clothes that now carry a suspicious floral note. Is his hoodie going to smell like Seungmin now? And the towel… 

“No.” Seungmin shakes his head. “Just heard a woman talking about second-hand shops once. She was terrified of them, wouldn’t let her kids go near them. Very devout type… like she didn’t go to church every Sunday, where there was a piece of cloth with Christ’s face on it. And what’s the difference, really?” He smiles crookedly. “Her son used to live here, Gunil, I think his name was. One day, he dragged in this massive pile of clothes, and every single piece smelled of holy oil. Fresh corpse scent of a clergyman. He never wore his own clothes again after that, just those, and he cried. A lot. Felt bad for him, sure, but nothing bad actually happened because he wore clothes from a corpse, right? After a month, you couldn’t even tell those things had belonged to someone else.” 

Jungsu listens with his mouth slightly open. His brain, fried after classes, is clearly not ready for this flood of information. Like… What? Who? Is Seungmin talking about the previous tenant? The one with the dog that tore up the sofa? Holy oil? A clergyman? A corpse? He exhales, rubs the bridge of his nose, and shakes his head. The story sort of pieces itself together in his mind, but he doesn’t like it much. 

“I think he wanted to feel his presence nearby by wearing his clothes,” Seungmin continues. “Self-convincing works pretty well. Only his dead guy wasn’t here. No one was, except me. Should’ve been looking in a church, not here.” 

Jungsu nods slowly. The questions don’t decrease, and a chill still prickles somewhere under his ribs after that story.

“Why are you here, then?” he asks hesitantly.

“Well, it’s quite nice here,” Seungmin replies evasively. “And you’re here, too.”

“But you were here before me,” Jungsu insists, planting his hands on his hips. “Are you tied to this flat? Like… did you die here?” 

“Be honest, does this place look like it’s two hundred years old?” Seungmin shoots him a disapproving look. “Logically, I can’t be tied to this flat. The building went up, what, ten years ago? If you’re curious, I can go out into the hallway just fine. I can visit your neighbours, so if anyone gives you trouble, let me know. I can even walk down the street, just not too far.” 

“How far?” Jungsu asks, genuinely interested.

Seungmin takes a deep breath, gathering himself.

“Okay, listen,” he begins, holding his hands out with fingers spread as if presenting the answer on a tray. “There used to be a palace here. I think the area I can move around in is limited to its grounds. Haven’t exactly measured it with a ruler, though. No idea why it works like that because…” He presses his lips together, grimacing. “The palace burned down a couple of days after I died, so I don’t see why it still gets to limit me. But that’s the explanation I came up with.” 

Seungmin doesn’t look too happy that they’re digging into this again. Jungsu hopes he won’t vanish or start hiding in corners for the next twenty-four hours because of this conversation.

Fuck.

Why does he even care? Seungmin shouldn’t be here in the first place. He doesn’t pay rent, he’s just a cheeky parasite. On top of that, he’s a freaking ghost who, by all the rules of the genre, should be terrifying. And yet, for some reason, Jungsu doesn’t want him to go back to wherever he came from. 

The only scary thing about Seungmin is how easily he can get hurt. Jungsu’s afraid of upsetting him with a careless word, but is it even possible not to come back to this topic every time they talk? Seungmin has gone through death. That’s probably the most unusual thing about him. That’s what sets him apart. Of course, it shapes his behaviour, his personality. Of course, Jungsu wants to dig into the root of it, to understand him better. 

Damn it, why does he even want to understand Seungmin? 

Jungsu swallows and drops his gaze from Seungmin’s eyes lower, to the ugly reddish-brown stripe across his neck. It’s still disturbingly strange to look at.

“Hey, does that…” he traces an invisible line beneath his own jaw with a finger, “hurt at all? Maybe it needs treating or something? A bandage, maybe…”

“Oh, come on, how old do you think it is? My heart hurts more,” Seungmin sighs. “Although… I think I’m starting to forget him,” he adds, uncertain.

Jungsu frowns.

Him? Forget whom?

“Alright. I offered, that’s what matters.” 

Seungmin gives a faint smile, and that seems to be the end of it. 

Jungsu opens the wardrobe doors, pointedly ignores the chaos that’s settled inside after someone’s grabby little hands, and doesn’t even try to fix it. Cleaning can wait for the weekend; for now, this will do. Besides, who’s to say Seungmin won’t be rummaging through it again tomorrow? 

To his own surprise, Jungsu doesn’t bother kicking Seungmin out of the room to change in peace and privacy. Well, it’s not exactly the same as that bathroom situation this morning, right? This still falls within acceptable limits. Even if when he shuts the wardrobe and turns around, he catches Seungmin staring at him without blinking. 

Jungsu doesn’t dwell on it. Whatever. Let him stare. Let him not even try to hide it. After all, with those wide eyes and slightly parted lips, Seungmin looks kind of ridiculous.

Wait, what?

Jungsu, utterly lacking enthusiasm (since his enthusiasm died this morning somewhere outside the lecture hall), heads into the bathroom, washes his hands, and slaps his damp palms against his cheeks. That helps. A cool shiver runs over his skin, fresh and sharp. 

In the kitchen, he realises Seungmin hasn’t touched the remains of breakfast all day. Fine. If he says food isn’t necessary for him, then Jungsu won’t push it. Still, he eyes Seungmin with a slight squint when the other appears in the doorway and quietly takes a seat at the table. The hoodie looks huge on him, his knees painfully bony, and he himself is pale as… oh. Right. 

“Want some?” Jungsu asks shortly, going back to unpacking the groceries.

“I… no,” Seungmin replies softly. “I can’t taste anything anyway.”

“You can’t?” Jungsu echoes with a smirk. “Perfect. Then I should take you to sample my sister’s cooking experiments. You’ll sit there smiling and telling her everything’s amazing. You’ll become her best friend, and she’ll absolutely adore you.” 

Jungsu keeps talking, as if now more for himself than for Seungmin. He jumps to reminders about work and uni assignments, then apparently starts practising a new English module, and eventually drops words altogether, humming something under his breath to the rhythm of a knife tapping against the chopping board. 

He sets a plate of salad on the table. This time, there are utensils only for him, but Seungmin looks up at him with such a painfully puppy-like expression that Jungsu starts doubting himself. Did he hear that right? Did Seungmin really say he wouldn’t eat? 

With a sigh, Jungsu sits down, brushing off the doubt and starting on his food. It feels a bit awkward as Seungmin’s not eating, just watching him. Like he forgot his wallet at home and can’t buy anything in the cafeteria, honestly. 

“I’m actually surprised I wasn’t poisoned,” Seungmin says quietly, almost absentmindedly, watching the pieces of vegetables disappear into Jungsu’s mouth. “I mean, that would’ve been way easier than…” he starts to explain, then trails off. “Sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” Jungsu replies after swallowing. “I only ever hear about murders over lunch anyway,” he jokes, recalling all of Jiseok’s stories packed with an unacceptable amount of blood and guts for mealtime conversation. “I’m no expert, but poisoning feels like one of the most cowardly ways to kill someone. Think about it. No physical effort, just get the victim to drink or eat the poison. If they’re close, it’s ridiculously easy. In your case… either they weren’t smart enough to make something that would definitely kill you, or they wanted you to know exactly who did it.”

“He,” Seungmin corrects hoarsely. “It’s a he.” He raises his hands to his face, hiding his cheeks behind them. “That sounds about right… Showing his face, his real attitude towards me, making sure it hurt, because I…” Seungmin swallows a thick lump stuck in his throat. “You know, it’s actually a bit scary that you know things like this.” 

“That’s all thanks to Jiseok,” Jungsu waves it off. “And a little bit to Hannibal. Behavioural analysis is pretty cool. Shame I don’t need it for work or uni. We could dig into it more if you want to figure out why he did it.” 

Seungmin shakes his head. “I’m just wondering if everything we had before that was fake. People don’t slit your throat out of love, right?”

“Well, if there’s obsession and heavy jealousy involved, anything’s possible.”

Seungmin frowns, chews on his lip, and fixes his gaze on the coffee beans printed on the plastic tablecloth. While he sinks into thought, the plate ends up empty, and Jungsu’s hands are already wrapped around a mug of strong tea. He takes a first sip and moves back into the room. Seungmin trails after him soundlessly, yet somehow Jungsu still feels him there. 

The evening slips by in work.

The tea is gone after the first round of fixes. After the second, his back starts to ache, and Jungsu shifts from the table to the sofa, trying to ignore how aggressively the laptop is roasting his knees.

A bit later, Seungmin slumps against his shoulder, slightly cool but not as cold as at night, and peers at the screen, instinctively crossing himself. Looking at the sheer number of hacks his not-so-brilliant colleagues have slapped across the project, Jungsu feels like crossing himself, too.

By the time his eyes start to stick shut, not everything is fixed, but he decides it’s enough for today. The laptop lid snaps shut, and Seungmin, who must have warmed up and dozed off, flinches at the sudden sound. His eyes open for just a second, then close again, unable to fight off the sweet pull of sleep. 

Jungsu carefully slips out from under him, leaves the overheated and overworked laptop on the table. He washes up and brushes his teeth on autopilot as that same stray thought flickers again, how the hell does hygiene even work for ghosts? He’ll have to ask. Otherwise, it’s going to keep bothering him. 

When he returns to the room, Seungmin is sleeping peacefully on the sofa. Waking him feels wrong, almost like committing a crime against the state. Jungsu doesn’t dare pull out the large, comfortable pillow from the storage compartment. Instead, he takes the folded blanket, shakes it out, and drapes it over Seungmin. He grabs two small cushions, carefully slides one under Seungmin’s head, and places the other beside him. He tugs at the hem of his loose home T-shirt, then decides not to take it off tonight. It shouldn’t get too hot.

Jungsu switches off the light and tries to keep quiet as he lies down beside him, slipping under the blanket. Still, Seungmin shifts, and before long Jungsu feels him press closer. His body carries a faint chill, most noticeable in the fingers resting against Jungsu’s shoulder blades and the cool breath brushing his cheeks.  

“You feel so much like him,” Seungmin says suddenly, his voice drowsy, words melting into something soft and warm. “Like his soul’s been reborn.” 

“Who are you talking about?”

“You’re just as kind, caring, always ready to screw yourself over just so I’m alright,” he goes on, ignoring the question.

Jungsu suddenly feels Seungmin’s fingers brush his cheekbone and reluctantly opens his eyes. Shit, he forgot to close the curtains, but because of that, he can actually see Seungmin more clearly now. The moonlight still isn’t enough to make things sharp, so he can’t quite read the expression on Seungmin’s face. 

“I just hope it doesn’t end the same way,” Seungmin sighs, something heavy in his voice.

“How?”

“Like this,” Seungmin replies, a faint smile audible in his tone, as he traces the tip of his finger along Jungsu’s neck.

Jungsu swallows, his saliva suddenly thick and unpleasant.

He reminds Seungmin of his killer?

It’s still unsettling enough to look at the slit throat, but imagining himself as the one who did it makes his stomach turn.

To take a knife, a hwandao, or whatever the hell it was. To cut through skin and artery, make him choke on his own blood. To look, at the end, into the glazing eyes of someone he once loved. To let out a quiet scoff at his desperate, utterly useless attempts to piece himself back together, clutching at the open wound, staining his hands crimson. And just let him die. 

Jungsu shudders. Listening in detail about intestines spilling out, watching The Texas Chainsaw Massacre without gagging on the sickly sweet soda Jiseok brought over for a sleepover, that’s easy. But imagining Seungmin’s life slipping away slowly, painfully… that’s something else entirely. Imagining himself as the executioner, forcing him through agony when he should have protected that fragile life like the apple of his eye. 

What could have driven him to do that?

What kind of monster does that make him?

“His name was Han Hyeongjun,” Seungmin says, pulling Jungsu out of the spiral of questions he’s probably asking himself, too. “As long as I can remember, he was always by my side. He was supposed to be there. It’s just… at some point, he stopped being only a servant and a guard to me. I… I took my mother’s death badly, and he didn’t just stand there like some cold soldier, you know? After that, he promised to protect me not because he’d sworn an oath or because it was written in a contract, but because we pinky-swore. He said it was some Japanese custom and that I could cut his finger off if he broke his promise. Fuck, he…” Seungmin draws in a shaky breath. “…cutting off his arm up to the elbow wouldn’t be enough for how badly he lied to me.” 

He’s breathing hard, but there’s no real anger in it. Should it even be there?

Jungsu finds Seungmin’s hand in the dark and takes it in his own. He doesn’t know what to say. All he can do is show he’s here, that Seungmin isn’t alone in the night.

Seungmin squeezes his fingers tightly in return.

“After all these years, I should’ve forgotten his name,” he says quietly. “But maybe he’s the reason I’m still here? Though… I don’t know. I don’t want revenge. I don’t want to cut off his finger. I just want to understand why he did it, and whether he was sincere with me all that time. But even if I find him, would he even answer me? How would I even find him on such a tiny patch of land? It’s all so stupid…” 

“Maybe I could find him?” Jungsu offers, with sudden determination in his voice, unconsciously pulling their joined hands closer. The sofa creaks, the blanket slips off his shoulder. Seungmin’s frosty breath feels even sharper now. 

“Jungsu-ya, it’s been ages, you should get it!” Seungmin protests. “Either he’s wandering like I am, and then I’ve got no idea where the hell to even call out to him. Or he’s been reborn and living in a physical body now, which means he has a different life, a different name, a different face, a different personality, and he definitely doesn’t remember me. There’s no point looking for him, you know that.” 

“But if he’s your unfinished business, don’t you want to settle it and finally rest…?” Jungsu whispers, uncertain.

“I don’t know. It would all start over. I’d forget everything that’s happened to me, and maybe I’d live a happier life. Yeah, I want to feel alive again, but…”

He trails off, and Jungsu immediately prompts, “But?”

“I already feel more alive than I did before,” Seungmin finally says. Jungsu thinks he’s smiling. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome…?”

Seungmin just lets out a quiet laugh.

For some reason, his hand doesn’t feel cold anymore. It feels warm, grounding, alive.

Jungsu catches himself thinking he’s getting used to everything way too fast. When he first moved in, he expected his life to flip completely, a long, painful adjustment period ahead. There are no parents nearby, no sister, no one constantly around like before. The financial safety net is still there, sure, and he can ask for help any time, but… 

Getting used to suddenly living apart from his family, to the fact that his only flatmate is now a dead boy named Seungmin, happens disturbingly quickly. It becomes completely normal to share a flat with a ghost, to sleep in the same bed with him, curled up together even, and to just… take care of him like he’s someone close, even though he’s a freaking supernatural entity, and they’ve known each other for, what, a couple of days. 

That’s probably not how it’s supposed to be.

Or is it?

Maybe ghosts have their own kind of charm, and Seungmin has used it on him?

God, what kind of nonsense is that…

Jungsu shakes his head, pushing away the tangled mess of thoughts in his mind. That’s not what he should be thinking about in class, not at all… Then what should he be thinking about? These distribution networks have lodged themselves so deeply in his throat that he doesn’t want to hear another word about them. 

Jiseok, as usual, is absent, even though this is the last class of the day and he was there for the previous one. He’d looked hyped, restless, couldn’t sit still, and bolted the second they were dismissed, so honestly, nothing surprising about him skipping now. 

Still, feels like a fucking letdown. Where the hell did he disappear to when he’s actually needed? Leaving Jungsu alone with an information security lecture without explaining shit… that’s straight-up betrayal. 

Professor Im lets them go ten miserable minutes late, trying to cram twenty-five slides into the students’ already empty heads. Jungsu counts, because he has zero desire to actually process any of it. His brain is done. Completely. Time to shut down. 

He inhales the slightly cool evening air the moment the glass doors of the university slide shut behind him. And immediately chokes on it, like always, forgetting there’s no designated smoking area, so everyone just ruins their lungs right by the main entrance (in the courtyard too, though Jungsu barely ever goes there, just watches the clouds of smoke from the window during English practice classes). 

He grimaces, waving a hand in front of his face, trying to push away the stench that makes him want to cough his lungs out. He still hasn’t got used to it, even though he should have by now. Most of his classmates, and let’s be honest, even some professors, deal with stress like this. And Jiseok always smells like his dad’s old scarf, soaked through with cigarette smoke. 

“Hey, Jungsu-hyung,” comes a miserable voice from behind, and Jungsu turns, covering his nose with his hand.

“Speak of the devil,” he says, looking Jiseok over. The guy is sitting slumped against the wall, finishing a cigarette and clutching a bouquet of white flowers wrapped in kraft paper in the other hand. Looks, to put it mildly, like shit. Not the bouquet, but Jiseok himself. The flowers look perfectly fine. Jungsu just doesn’t quite get where they came from or why. 

He doesn’t bother torturing himself with theories for long and asks, “What happened?”

Jiseok stubs the cigarette out right on the concrete steps and pushes himself to his feet with some effort, brushing off his trousers. The butt goes into the bin, then he holds the bouquet out in front of him, turns it in his hand, gives it one last look from all sides, and hesitates, bringing it towards the rubbish bin. 

“Oi, what are you doing?” Jungsu snaps, grabbing his wrist and stopping him from that pointless waste. “They’re still fresh.”

“Yeah, but I don’t need them anymore,” Jiseok replies quietly. “You can have them, if you want.”

He presses the rustling bouquet against Jungsu’s chest. From the outside, it probably looks awful and wrong, but Jungsu takes the flowers anyway, still not understanding a thing. 

“Let’s go to a bar? There’s one on the corner,” Jiseok suggests weakly, gesturing down the street. 

It’s a Tuesday evening. You’d think it wouldn’t be busy, but Jungsu has fallen for that trap before and ended up buried in an impenetrable crowd of drunk students in the middle of the week. So Tuesday means nothing, and the idea of dragging a completely wasted Jiseok home doesn’t appeal in the slightest. 

“Let’s go to my place. You can grab some beer or whatever you fancy. We’ll watch volleyball.”

Jiseok makes a face.

“Why are you such a hermit?” he sighs. “Fine. But no volleyball, please.”

Jiseok starts moving forward slowly, and Jungsu just frowns.

What does he mean, no volleyball?

Jiseok looks like the mere idea might make him throw up, which is insane considering he’s spent the last six months watching more volleyball matches than kitten videos in his entire life. And he’s watched a lot of kitten videos.

Jungsu quickly catches up before Jiseok instinctively heads towards the metro and drifts off route, and slings an arm around his shoulders. Jiseok sways slightly from the movement, looking even smaller than usual, hunched in on himself. 

“Do you remember Hyeongjun?” he suddenly asks when they finally pass through the university gates.

Jungsu frowns, repeating the name to himself a few times.

Hyeongjun?

Hyeong… jun…?

Jiseok doesn’t give him time to think, apparently taking the silence as a yes.

“He came today. The flowers were for him,” he says shortly.

Right.

Hyeongjun. The one Jiseok’s been talking to online since the start of the term. Not the one from Seungmin’s bloody story he shared yesterday.

Or… could it be?

“What’s his surname?”

Jiseok shoots him a hurt look from under his brows.

“Does it matter?” he says, voice cracking. “I’ve got no idea.”

Jungsu mentally smacks himself. Judging by the way Jiseok looks, this Hyeongjun didn’t do anything good either, so asking about him was a pretty stupid move. It’s just that, for a second, Jungsu thought… 

But what if it really is the same Hyeongjun? 

Even so, his priority right now is Jiseok, but he has no clue how to support him, how to cheer him up. He can’t just feed him empty platitudes, can’t give advice when he doesn’t even know the full story. And prying information out of him just to say everything will be fine feels wrong. If Jiseok doesn’t want to talk, why force it? 

So they stay quiet. Jungsu can’t find any comforting words, but he genuinely feels for Jiseok, who looks like he’s just been beaten by five people at once. The only thing he can do is hold the shop door open, quickly fish out his ID because Jiseok seems mentally kilometres away, pay, and carry two bottles home in his backpack, bottles that Jiseok will definitely finish on his own, no doubt about it. 

The battered lift doors clang open, letting them into the tiny cabin. Jungsu presses twelve and feels a sudden, bone-deep chill when the doors slide shut again.

Jiseok leans against him like he’s already had a few drinks, but the closeness does nothing to shake the sharp spike of anxiety rising inside him.

The lift creaks as it slowly climbs, and Jungsu tightens his grip on the bouquet, the paper rustling in his hands.

The question surfaces again in his head, if the Hyeongjun who broke Jiseok is the same Hyeongjun who broke Seungmin… then what the hell is Jungsu supposed to do?

Shit, Seungmin!

The thought hits Jungsu straight in the chest; that’s why he suddenly feels so uneasy.

Jiseok is surely not going to judge the mess or the bathroom door that won’t close properly; that’s not even worth worrying about. Jiseok himself… is a bit worrying, yeah, but Jungsu trusts that by tomorrow he’ll be back to normal. 

Seungmin, though… Jungsu didn’t warn him they’d have a guest. Was he supposed to? Seungmin doesn’t pay rent, and technically, he’s not even alive… but he does live here, in a way. What if he really hates Jiseok and suddenly turns into one of those terrifying spirits from horror films? That could happen, right? A sweet boy with a sad story turning into a monster overnight?

Is it even right, dragging Jiseok home like this without saying anything? And how exactly was Jungsu meant to warn Seungmin? He doesn’t have a phone. Probably. Hell, he isn’t even supposed to be here; this is Jungsu’s flat! At least for the next two months, he’s already paid for.

Jungsu sighs and shakes his head.

“I told you I’ve got a ghost at home, right?” he asks timidly just as the lift spits them out.

He heads for the door, turning the keys in his hand. He can’t see it, thankfully, but he still feels Jiseok rolling his eyes behind him.

“Jungsu-ya, unless I’ve had a drink, I’m not buying that crap, so don’t even try.”

Jungsu presses his lips together. Fair enough. He wouldn’t believe it either if it hadn’t happened to him. And people say the same thing on those paranormal TV shows! 

He turns the key cautiously and pushes the handle.

The hallway is empty.

Then again, Seungmin has never greeted him like a loyal puppy.

Jungsu steps inside first, tossing the poor bouquet onto the cabinet. Jiseok shuts the door behind them as Jungsu slips out of his shoes and looks around carefully, but it’s pointless. The only thing there is the slightly crumpled lilac hoodie lying on the sofa.

“Seungmin-ah?” he calls, raising his voice a little.

No answer follows, except for Jiseok’s one.

“See? No Seungmins here,” he says with a grimace.

Right. If there’s no Seungmin, then who the hell has Jungsu been seeing these past few days? It’s not like the move hit him that hard. He’s not at an age where he invents imaginary friends.

Jungsu plants his hands on his hips, annoyed, but doesn’t voice any of it. Fine, let Jiseok think he’s losing it. By the fourth year of uni, that’s basically a common condition anyway.

Jiseok passes out halfway through the second bottle, leaving it unfinished and abandoning the most ridiculously soppy drama he’d insisted on watching. Jungsu thought he’d hold out longer. Last time, he drank way more and still managed to get back to the dorm. Now he’s drooling into the pillow, fast asleep. 

Maybe it’s whatever pushed him to drink in the first place. He didn’t really explain anything; Jungsu only got it that Hyeongjun didn’t accept the bouquet along with his feelings. Well… things are clearly pretty shit for Jiseok right now, but Jungsu hopes it’ll sort itself out soon. If not with Hyeongjun, then with someone else.

Hyeongjun…

Jungsu shuts the laptop, cutting off a particularly dramatic scene. He perks up, listening as something rustles in the hallway, followed by faint footsteps. If that’s Seungmin finally deciding to show himself only after Jiseok’s passed out, then that’s honestly a bit of a dick move, leaving Jungsu without a witness.

That’s definitely Seungmin.

He walks into the room, twirling one of the flowers from Jiseok’s bouquet in his hand. He lifts it to his nose, closes his eyes, and inhales the sweet scent.

“Are these yours or his?” he asks, nodding towards Jiseok sprawled on the sofa.

“They were his. Now they’re mine.”

“Are you… dating?” Seungmin ventures, hesitant.

“What?” Jungsu grimaces. “No.”

“Then why the flowers?” Seungmin turns the stem between his fingers again. “You do know white chrysanthemums are funeral flowers, right?” 

“Fuck knows what’s going on in his head.” Jungsu rubs his forehead. “He wanted to give them to some guy, I think, but it didn’t work out. So now…” He nudges Jiseok’s heel, predictably getting no response. “…he got drunk and cried his heart out.” 

“You don’t give flowers like that for something happy. No wonder the guy turned him down.”

“Maybe white means something special for them. Who knows?” Jungsu shrugs. “By the way, that guy…”

He cuts himself off right at the most interesting part and opens the laptop again. Seungmin comes closer, tries to squeeze in beside him, but there’s barely any space left because Jiseok’s body is taking up most of the sofa, so he ends up leaning almost his full weight onto Jungsu. 

Through Jiseok’s profile, Jungsu finds Hyeongjun’s in seconds, but it’s useless as there’s absolutely zero new information. Jungsu was hoping for at least one photo to show Seungmin, but the profile is completely empty. Still, he’s not about to give up, so he opens the attachments in his chat with Jiseok. The guy definitely would’ve sent a picture of his crush, that’s just how he is. 

Among blurry lecture notes and a flood of pictures of chicks, kittens, and other tiny creatures, photos occasionally pop up, but none of them is the right one. It’s a pain, but Jungsu keeps scrolling stubbornly. 

He goes back as far as December of the last year, when Seungmin’s hand settles over his and stops him.

Did he find it?

Seungmin points at the screen, and Jungsu follows, opening the indicated photo. But… That’s definitely not Hyeongjun. 

“Is that you?” Seungmin asks quietly.

Jungsu hums in confirmation. It is him in the photo, though it wasn’t taken by Jiseok but by his blackmailing little sister right before New Year’s. Even though he looks annoyed in the picture, now he remembers that holiday with a smile.

“Cute. You look like a kitten.”

Jungsu puffs his cheeks, pokes Seungmin in the ribs while he laughs, and tries to ignore the blush spreading helplessly across his face.

Why did this photo catch Seungmin’s attention anyway? There were loads of others before it, and you can barely even make him out properly here from a distance. Maybe it’s the hanbok? Something familiar, something that feels like home… He didn’t die in clothes like this, right? If he says he’s been dead for two hundred years, then Bermuda shorts are definitely out of the question.

“By the way, where are your clothes?” Jungsu asks before he can stop himself.

“If you can see me naked, I’ve got bad news. That’s not how it’s supposed to work, and you should probably see a therapist.” Seungmin muffles a laugh against his shoulder. “Don’t you think it’s nice, though?” He tugs at the edges of his shorts, admiring them fondly, then runs his hand along the ruffles of his shirt. “Ultramarine used to be one of the most expensive pigments, you know. Only the rich wore colours like this. It doesn’t really matter now, but I like to think that…”

He trails off, a sly smile curling on his lips.

He likes to think what? That he’s alive? That he’s rich? That he still has power? That he can still influence people’s lives? Well, he definitely has some kind of influence on Jungsu’s…

With a sigh, Jungsu closes the photo and keeps searching.

After several long, tedious minutes, he finally finds something and lights up. It’s not a photo, though, but a screenshot from a video call. In the corner, there’s Jiseok’s happy face, but most of the screen is taken up by Hyeongjun himself and his acoustic guitar. 

“This is the guy,” Jungsu says. “His name’s Hyeongjun, I thought that…”

Seungmin stares at the screen, leaning in so close his nose nearly touches it. Then he looks at Jungsu, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, unable to say anything.

“Is it him?” Jungsu asks awkwardly.

“Yes.”

For some reason, that’s not the answer Jungsu wanted to hear. He meant to help, sure, but like this? This easily? How many Hyeongjuns are there in the country? Too many to count. And Seungmin said himself he’d probably have a different name now, a different face… It feels like Jungsu just found a needle in a haystack on his first try, simply because he decided someone with the same name might be the one Seungmin is looking for. 

And if he contacts this Hyeongjun, then Seungmin’s unfinished business will be resolved, and he’ll… disappear? 

Jungsu clenches his jaw. The thought of losing Seungmin doesn’t please him in the slightest, even though, technically, he should be happy about getting rid of the ghost living in his flat and finally going back to a normal life without any paranormal bullshit.

But as cliché as it sounds, he’s grown attached.

Getting attached quickly and deeply is very much his thing, but he hates that about himself. He tries to build boundaries, keeps his distance from people who’ll never return his feelings, avoids pointless, painful attachments. And with Seungmin… he just had to step over all of that. They live under the same roof, after all. 

And Seungmin is… lovely. Not lovely as in handsome, though it would be a lie to say he isn’t. Lovely as in easy to be around, someone who reaches back when you reach out.

Seungmin is one big mystery that Jungsu has been slowly, steadily unravelling. His past, his death, his very nature… all questions he wouldn’t mind finding answers to. But he could live without them, too.

If Seungmin were an ordinary, living guy, he’d still have a whole wardrobe full of skeletons that have nothing to do with his past life, and Jungsu wouldn’t mind getting to know him anyway, getting closer…

He doesn’t mind now, either.

Seungmin barged into his life suddenly and shamelessly, but Jungsu has already adjusted, and losing him would hurt. Not that much, obviously. He’s not planning to mourn for long, but a drop of sadness would still slide down his throat.

Maybe it was a mistake to even consider that Jiseok’s Hyeongjun could be the same person keeping Seungmin here. Because of that stupid thought, he might end up alone in this flat. Drunk Jiseok doesn’t count. He’s got a dorm room, and he’ll go back there tomorrow.

Isn’t an empty flat and independent life exactly what Jungsu wanted?

“Listen,” Seungmin starts carefully. “He can’t have the same name and the same face as two hundred years ago. That’s too much of a coincidence. Something’s off. I… I…” He breaks off, covering his face with his hands. “He might remember, but… that’s weird.”

“He lives in another city, but I could message him,” Jungsu offers, then adds uncertainly, “if you want me to.”

“That’s way too weird and way too suspicious!” Seungmin exclaims. “What if he hurts me again? Let’s just… stay away from him, okay?” he says more quietly, though Jiseok doesn’t stir at all. “I don’t want to know. I… I don’t know what happens after, and I don’t want it, whatever it is. I like it here, now. I don’t want to leave and leave you, alright?” 

“Leave me?”

Seungmin sighs tiredly, closes his eyes, and shakes his head as if trying to shake off all the resurfacing memories.

“Close it. I can’t look at him anymore.”

Jungsu shuts the laptop almost on autopilot, but his thoughts keep looping, I don’t want to leave you, I don’t want to leave you.

Seungmin doesn’t want to leave him.

Jungsu doesn’t want to lose Seungmin.

Their wishes… are pretty similar.

It takes some effort for Jungsu to shove Jiseok closer to the back of the sofa, because if he sleeps on the edge, he’ll definitely fall off in the middle of the night with a massive crash. He won’t wake up, but Jungsu will.

There’s barely enough space left for one person, and Jungsu tries to squeeze in, pulling the blanket over both of them.

Seungmin sits at their feet, and Jungsu feels a small stab of guilt.

It’s not entirely clear whether ghosts need sleep. On one hand, it seems logical that they wouldn’t have physical needs. On the other, Seungmin slept next to him at night and even dozed off during the day yesterday while Jungsu was at uni.

Jungsu would like to give him a proper place to rest tonight as well, but the flat clearly isn’t meant for guests. There’s just nowhere for a third person to sleep.

He apologised, but Seungmin said it was fine and settled there, at their feet, watching quietly.

When the lights go out, Jungsu can still feel his gaze.

Back when he was a kid, he often felt like someone was watching him in the dark. Now he knows for a fact that someone is there, and that someone is called Seungmin.

Jungsu lies there for a long time, eyes closed, trying to fall asleep, until suddenly he feels weight on his thighs. At first, he thinks Jiseok has thrown a leg over him, like an absolute menace, and he tries to shove it off, but then that familiar chill brushes his face.

Jungsu forces his eyes open, trying to make out the face hovering above him in the darkness.

A face? Above him? Is Seungmin sitting on him?

Cold fingers touch his cheek, gentle, almost careful, tracing along the line of his face.

Even when Seungmin leans in close, nose brushing against suddenly oversensitive skin, Jungsu still can’t see his face properly.

Seungmin’s lips taste like Halls lozenges, icy but sweet. The kiss is soft, delicate, like the touch of a white chrysanthemum petal, but Jungsu is suffocating as if he’s having an allergic reaction.

Seungmin is kissing him, and Jungsu’s breathing falters, his lips starting to go numb.

Seungmin is kissing him.

Seungmin is kissing him?

The air in his lungs suddenly turns thick, like liquid.

Jungsu chokes on it.

He wants to push Seungmin away, because he’s sure he’s the cause of this. But his arms and legs won’t listen, growing heavy, sinking deeper into the mattress. He can’t even move his fingertips, and pain starts spreading through his body, echoing in his ears with a dull roar.

That’s scary.

His heart is pounding wildly. Tears gather at the corners of his eyes and slide down his temples, leaving hot trails. He lets out a weak whimper, trying to show that something is wrong, but Seungmin doesn’t react, only pressing closer. 

His throat tightens, from the inside with panic, from the outside with fingers pressing right against his Adam’s apple.

Something slick, writhing, fills his mouth, but that’s definitely not a tongue. There’s more of it now, a thin stream forcing its way down his throat, blocking his breathing completely. Jungsu feels it crawling deeper inside, while at the same time spilling out over his lips, smearing sticky slime across his mouth, cheeks, and chin.

It’s fucking worms.

He’s like a rotten apple, crawling with them. They burrow into his skin, chew through flesh, and he can’t do anything about it.

Flies start buzzing in his ears, loud and disgusting.

Jungsu inhales sharply and jerks upright in bed.

He’s breathing hard, confused, touching his face.

There’s nothing there.

It’s just a dream.

“What happened?” a whisper comes from beside him.

The sofa creaks.

Seungmin carefully reaches for Jungsu’s hand, but Jungsu jerks away fast and sharp, like he’s touched a scorching pan. Fear clings to his lungs again, sticky and suffocating, and he scrambles back, crumpling the sheet under him and accidentally knocking a pillow onto the floor.

“What happened?” Seungmin repeats, but this time he doesn’t try to touch him.

Jungsu keeps clutching at his face, drags a palm down his throat, gulps air greedily, trying to breathe, trying to force oxygen into a brain that’s spiralling.

Okay.

Easy. Calm down, Jungsu. Just breathe.

“Jungsu-ya, can I help? Want me to get you some water?” Seungmin asks carefully. That concern in his voice pulls Jungsu back to reality. He tries to convince himself Seungmin wouldn’t hurt him, but his hands still tremble faintly, and that cold knot of fear is still lodged somewhere deep in his chest.

Jungsu shakes his head, wraps his arms around his knees, presses his nose into them, breathing in deep.

Beside him, Jiseok shifts and throws an arm over him, cheek pressing against his thigh. He starts snoring softly, and Jungsu hears it clearly even through the loud pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears.

He fumbles for his phone in the folds of the bedding. The screen lights up, searing his eyes. The numbers blur; he squints until they finally settle into something readable.

04:44.

There’s just over an hour left to sleep. His eyes ache, lids heavy, his whole body sore and practically begging him to lie back down, but he can’t make himself do it.

He sets the phone on his knees, and now it glows like a tiny night lamp, dimly lighting the room, enough to make out Seungmin sitting at the other end of the sofa, his expression tight with worry.

“Hypothetically,” Jungsu starts in a hoarse whisper, “is it… dangerous for a living person to kiss a ghost?”

Seungmin tilts his head.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Probably not? Why?”

“You don’t… have anything in there, do you?” Jungsu traces a circle around his own mouth. “Worms, larvae, anything like that?”

“Bleh.” Seungmin’s face twists in disgust. “Where the hell would those come from?”

Jungsu shrugs.

“If you want, you can check,” Seungmin offers readily. “But I’m pretty sure my mouth is clean.” 

Jungsu wants to believe him, but the nasty aftertaste of the nightmare won’t let go. He shrugs Jiseok’s arm off, grabs his phone, crawls closer, and grips Seungmin’s chin between two fingers. He switches on the flashlight and points it straight at Seungmin’s face, and Seungmin squeezes his eyes shut at the brightness but obediently parts his lips. 

Jungsu inspects thoroughly, turning his face this way and that, practically poking the phone at his teeth like some dodgy underground dentist. Nothing. Just a pink tongue, two neat rows of teeth (Jungsu feels a flicker of envy), and that’s it. 

Well… and lips full of colour, glistening under the harsh light. Jungsu’s gaze lingers on them, and slowly, experimentally, he runs his thumb just below their outline.

Seungmin lets out a short, soft sound before closing his mouth and swallowing audibly.

Jungsu lifts his eyes but doesn’t pull his hand away, still tracing slow, absent-minded strokes beneath his lower lip.

Seungmin drops his gaze, a little embarrassed, and lightly brushes Jungsu’s hand with the very tips of his fingers.

Maybe Jungsu’s imagining it, but Seungmin’s cheeks flush. He tilts his head down on purpose, just so the messy fringe falls like a curtain between them, hiding him.

“Did I pass the inspection?” Seungmin asks quietly.

The flashlight paints a blurred circle across the ceiling.

Jungsu’s fingers still hold his chin, nudging it up slightly. With his other hand, he gently brushes the hair out of Seungmin’s eyes, finally clearing the view. There are no more barriers.

This is the first time Jungsu has looked at him like this, properly and for longer than a second. Usually, he just gets too awkward. With friends, he stares at their hands. In class, he studies slides, peeling walls, anything but the professor’s face. On the metro, he either shuts his eyes or fixates on the ceiling so he doesn’t accidentally meet anyone’s gaze. So yeah. This is definitely the first time he meets Seungmin’s.

Up until now, Jungsu has only known one thing for sure: Seungmin has eyes. Maybe at the very start, he noticed that sly, fox-like shape, but nothing more. He didn’t even know their colour, and it never kept him up at night. He could’ve gone his whole life without knowing, but now he keeps staring, taking in every square millimetre in front of him.

Seungmin’s eyes are dark, the iris almost blending into the pupils, elongated and almost cat-like.

They’re beautiful.

What the hell is that feeling?

“So… why did you suddenly think I’ve got worms in my mouth?”

Jungsu exhales, squeezes his eyes shut, finally lets go, then slaps his own cheeks, which have suddenly gone burning hot.

“Just a nightmare,” he mutters. “Forget it.”

Seungmin nods softly.

“Sorry if I did something bad in it,” he says, barely audible. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He holds out his hand, pinky extended, and Jungsu hesitates, then mirrors him, hooking their little fingers together in a silent promise.

“What time is it?”

Jiseok’s voice cuts in like chalk screeching across a board. Jungsu turns to the barely-alive body beside him, and when he looks back to grab his phone and answer the question, Seungmin is already nowhere to be seen.

04:56.

Jungsu has never thought of himself as a homebody, never imagined he’d be this desperate to get back to his flat as quickly as possible. Classes have long since become something to escape from at the earliest opportunity, sure, but you can always escape to a coworking space or the nearest café, not just home. Because home usually means shouting, sniffles, irritated huffs, all of it piling into a headache that gnaws at the back of his skull.

He loves his family, he really does, but sometimes they get on his nerves so badly he feels like his teeth might just crumble to dust in his mouth.

Now, though, when he gets back, there won’t be his dad dozing in the living room or his mum and sister arguing in the kitchen. Now he’ll only find Seungmin, who didn’t show himself in the morning, probably spooked by Jiseok and his hangover.

That’s… interesting.

Jungsu had been half-expecting that if Seungmin didn’t like Jiseok, he would suddenly sprout razor-sharp teeth, stretch his mouth wide in something grotesque, and bite poor Jiseokie’s head clean off. Instead, Seungmin just… prefers not to appear when Jiseok is conscious, even if that consciousness is heavily blurred by alcohol.

So Seungmin shows himself… only to Jungsu?

He rolls that thought around in his head like a little metal ball in a children’s maze toy.

It’s warm.

He likes it.

Is that normal? Hell if he knows. He just enjoys thinking that Seungmin feels safe enough not to hide from him most of the time. Now he’s sure of it: Seungmin can control it. And if he chooses to be visible around Jungsu, then he really is comfortable with him. 

The flat door finally opens and lets him in. Of course, Seungmin isn’t waiting in the hallway again, and Jungsu doesn’t quite get where that expectation keeps coming from. Does he want Seungmin to be waiting for him? Does he want to know that Seungmin is glad to see him? Does he want to understand that he makes Seungmin feel the same things Seungmin makes him feel?

What the hell does all of that even mean?

He finds Seungmin on the sofa, curled up with a pillow. Maybe he does need sleep after all, and guilt pricks at Jungsu again for the fact that there’s simply no way to fit three people in this flat and that, technically, he’s robbed Seungmin of rest tonight by dragging Jiseok home. But he couldn’t just leave Jiseok either. What kind of friend would that make him?

Seungmin shifts, lets out a soft hum, nudges his nose into the pillow, eyes half-opening.

“It’s finally warm,” he murmurs instead of greeting him. “Hope you don’t mind. I got so cold, and you didn’t take it away…”

“It’s fine,” Jungsu replies, flicking the light switch uncertainly. Seungmin squints in a way that’s almost funny, adjusting to the brightness. “So it started stinking, did it?”

Seungmin giggles and rubs his cheek against it, bunching the pillowcase.

“Stink means something unpleasant, right?” he asks. “This one smells nice. Maybe because of your nightmare…”

Jungsu frowns.

“Strong emotions keep warmth really well. I… miss that, actually,” Seungmin admits quietly. “Sorry, I shouldn’t say that. You felt awful, and I was really worried, but your fear soaked into the pillow so much it still hasn’t cooled down.”

Jungsu’s brow tightens further until the crease starts to hurt.

“So that nightmare… was because of you?” he asks bluntly.

“No,” Seungmin answers faintly, hiding his face in the pillow. “I hope not. I didn’t do anything on purpose, and I don’t even know if I can influence that. But… if I could choose, I’d rather you felt something else.”

“Like what?”

“Something good. Happiness, joy, fun…” he lists, burrowing deeper into the pillow, voice growing more muffled with each word. “…Love,” he finishes, so quietly Jungsu barely catches it.

Love?

That only makes things worse. Who exactly would Seungmin want Jungsu to feel love for? For Seungmin? Is that why, in the nightmare, he kissed him? Is it possible that he really is connected to it somehow?

The thought of kissing Seungmin doesn’t disgust Jungsu until the worms are involved.

Earlier this morning, Jungsu made sure that there shouldn’t be any of those.

And maybe what he needs is just a little more control over the situation. Ideally, all of it.

What the hell is he even thinking?

Jungsu gives up, doesn’t respond even with a nod, and walks deeper into the room. He opens the wardrobe, still in chaos, and changes mechanically, not thinking about anything at all. Somewhere behind him, there’s a faint rustle, but he ignores that too. 

It’s only been five days, assuming he hasn’t lost track, five days since he moved in. Five days, and Seungmin already feels familiar and close. He really does get attached way too fast.

“Jungsu-ya,” Seungmin calls softly. From his lips, still heavy with sleep, Jungsu’s name sounds strangely nice. “This is the first time since I died that someone’s treated me like this,” he admits. “Thank you. For everything you do for me.”

Jungsu mumbles something vague, shuts the wardrobe, and turns to face him. Now Seungmin is sitting with his legs tucked in, still hugging the pillow, arms crossed tightly over it. Half his face is hidden behind the corner of the light pillowcase.

“I want to repay you,” Seungmin says, meeting his eyes. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Hm, I don’t even know,” Jungsu replies with a faint smile. “Did they teach Prince Minnie how to cook?”

Seungmin just blinks at him, still staring.

“Yeah, thought so,” Jungsu chuckles. “Well, you’ve got all the time in the world to learn. Just don’t burn my kitchen down, okay? Otherwise, I’ll have all the time in the world to pay off the debt.”

Seungmin’s brows draw together, and he hugs the pillow tighter.

“Will you help me?” he asks, hopeful.

“Yeah. Right now. Come on.”

Jungsu nods toward the door and holds out his hand. Seungmin grabs it like it’s his last lifeline and gets up, finally leaving the poor pillow alone.

Each time, he feels less cold.

They head for the kitchen, but the first door they go through is the bathroom. Everything should be clean and proper. That’s what his mum taught him, so there’s no way he’s letting Seungmin anywhere near cooking with dirty hands. 

He turns on the tap and thoroughly soaps up his hands, the skin already burning slightly from the grime of the day.

“First rule of cooking: disinfection,” he says clearly, catching Seungmin’s gaze in the mirror.

He leaves the water running when he finishes the ritual, one that clearly doesn’t make sense to Seungmin. Turning around, he tries to step toward the towel hanging on the hook, but ends up crowding Seungmin against the washing machine, pressing him back against it.

Warm droplets are about to fall from his hands, so Seungmin’s confused look doesn’t stop him, and Jungsu reaches for the towel, brushing the tip of Seungmin’s ear lightly with the inside of his forearm. Seungmin stares at him like a startled deer in headlights, eyes wide, while Jungsu finally dries his hands.

“Wash your hands,” Jungsu orders, tossing the towel over his shoulder and stepping aside to clear the shortest path to the sink.

“Huh?” Seungmin responds blankly. A few seconds pass, along with a frankly ridiculous amount of running water, before realisation flickers in his cat-like eyes. “Right,” he blurts, hurrying over. 

Jungsu watches him closely, squinting a little, as if he’s dealing with a child rather than a fully grown man. A very grown man, if you count from the year he was born.

Actually…

“Do you remember your birthday?” Jungsu asks, not letting his guard down. Seungmin’s face twists in confusion as he squeezes liquid soap onto his hands and slowly works it into foam. The question only deepens the crease between his brows.

“No one’s congratulated me in ages, so I stopped needing to remember,” he says, bringing his hands under the stream and flinching all over when the water hits. “Is it always this hot?” he whines, but keeps rinsing obediently.

“I swear I set it to warm,” Jungsu mutters. “But yeah, the water supply loves a surprise attack. Blame the system, not me.”

He hands Seungmin the towel as soon as his hands are free from the water jail. Only then does he notice the soaked edges of his jacket. He can imagine exactly how unpleasant that must feel.

Without explaining, Jungsu hooks the towel back over his shoulder and tugs at the damp fabric. Seungmin yields easily as the jacket gets slipped off and hung over the heated rail alongside the towel. Jungsu rolls up his sleeves next.

“Is that even comfortable to wear?” he asks casually.

Seungmin hums a quiet “Mm.”

“Alright then,” Jungsu sighs and heads out of the bathroom.

Judging by how washing hands went, the kitchen should be an absolute disaster waiting to happen. But strangely, Jungsu isn’t worried. If anything, he’s curious.

“So,” he begins brightly, “today we’re making ramen. My mum’s recipe.”

Seungmin trails after him like a shadow while Jungsu grabs the unpacked grocery bag. After a moment’s thought, he sets down two packs of instant noodles instead of one. Right in the centre, he places two tomatoes, bright and almost smug under Seungmin’s mildly offended stare. A bunch of spring onions, a few garlic cloves, and a couple of eggs join them, while everything else gets shoved into the fridge. 

Jungsu rinses his hands again, then pulls a cutting board off the hook and takes out a knife that cost way more than he ever expected to spend on something that cuts things.

“First, we chop the tomatoes,” he says, like he’s hosting some early-morning family cooking show. He snaps off the green tops without ceremony, pins one tomato down, as if it might try to make a run for it. “Watch closely. You’re doing the second one.”

The knife moves easily in his hands, slicing the tomato into chunky pieces – nothing complicated, nothing worth overexplaining. He grabs a deep bowl from the cupboard above and dumps the pieces in. Then he turns, presses the knife into Seungmin’s hand, and Seungmin eyes the blade like it might bite him. It’s still slightly wet with tomato juice, and he swallows audibly, grips the handle tighter, and steps up to the board, placing the next tomato down like a sacrificial offering. 

Jungsu really hopes he doesn’t slice a finger open, but trusting someone who’s cooking for the first time… Yeah, not happening. He steps closer, chest to Seungmin’s back, watching over his shoulder, guiding his hands with his own.

“Here, like this,” he murmurs, and Seungmin trembles, but makes the first cut.

It takes way too long to butcher one poor tomato, but Jungsu doesn’t rush him. Seungmin is clearly terrified, yet stubbornly trying to make each piece neat, like he’s following an invisible ruler. That effort hits something soft in Jungsu’s chest, and it feels only fair to reward it. 

“Good job,” he says right by his ear, ruffling his hair. “Now we slice the onions.”

He doesn’t bother changing their position, just places the green stalks in front of Seungmin. At this point, it’s less Seungmin cutting and more Jungsu using Seungmin’s hands to do it, because the only instruction that comes to mind is “Careful, your fingers.”

Garlic meets the same fate.

“Good boy,” Jungsu purrs, pleased. “You’re doing great.”

“Really?” Seungmin asks quietly.

“Really, really,” Jungsu assures him, gently taking the knife away. Chopping is officially done. Seungmin seems to sag with universal relief, shoulders loosening now that the blade isn’t hovering near him anymore. “I once asked Jiseok to fry an omelette. Ended up doing first aid and cooking it myself.” 

Jungsu snorts under his breath, rinses the knife on autopilot, dries it, shoves it back into the drawer, and pulls out another bowl.

Seungmin leans on the table, staring intently at the chopped onions and garlic.

Jungsu slides the board aside and places the empty bowl in front of him, catching his attention. He picks up one of the eggs and stands beside Seungmin, their shoulders brushing. 

“Speaking of omelettes,” he grins. “Watch my hands. You’ll have to copy the trick.”

With a practised motion, he cracks the egg against the rim. The shell splits cleanly, contents dropping into the bowl. The second egg gets ceremoniously handed to Seungmin, and Seungmin turns it over in his fingers before hesitantly bringing it to the bowl. The shell doesn’t break on the first try, he’s way too gentle, and when it finally does, bits of shell fall in. Jungsu fishes them out with a resigned sigh, then adds a pinch of salt.  

He pulls the bowl closer and whisks the eggs with metal chopsticks until smooth. Then he sets a pan on the stove, casually explaining how to turn it on, even though he’s pretty sure none of it will stick. A splash of oil hits the heated surface, followed by the eggs. Jungsu stirs constantly while they cook, catching, out of the corner of his eye, Seungmin hovering nearby, gripping the table again. 

When the onions and garlic hit the hot pan instead of the eggs, Seungmin flinches at every aggressive sizzle. Tomatoes go in next, then a mug of water, noodles with seasoning and dried veg… Finally, Jungsu adds the omelette back in, gives everything one last stir, and turns the stove off.

“Do-one,” he sings out, setting the pan of noodles right in the middle of the table.

Jungsu remembers perfectly well what Seungmin said about food, about taste, about not even needing to eat… and still, he can’t stop himself. He pushes the same paper-wrapped pack of wooden chopsticks towards him, the one left over from Saturday.

Seungmin looks at the utensils, sealed, then just as sealed at Jungsu, who’s already sitting down.

“You want me to…?” he asks, unsure, stepping closer and shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. 

“Yes,” Jungsu says firmly, tapping the empty chair beside him. “Come on. Let’s eat. First dish by Prince Minnie.” 

“I’m not a prince,” Seungmin mutters under his breath, but he sits anyway, staring intently at the steaming pan like it might answer him.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jungsu replies, suddenly jumping up to grab two plates from the cupboard above the sink. “Just think of it as a cute nickname.”

“A cute nickname?” Seungmin echoes, watching with interest as the ramen gets divided between the plates.

“Yeah. Like ‘baby’, ‘kitten’, ‘sweetheart’… You know?” 

Seungmin gives a small nod and carefully frees the chopsticks from their paper prison just as Jungsu finally shuts up and digs into his own portion. He hums in satisfaction when the heat hits his tongue.

“Tastes good!” he blurts after swallowing. “You did great!”

“You did basically everything…” Seungmin protests quietly. Still, he follows suit and takes a mouthful. Jungsu watches closely as his expression shifts and Seungmin squeezes his eyes shut, brows knitting together, then coughs lightly.

Jungsu smirks, tilting his head. “You said you couldn’t taste anything, didn’t you?”

“I thought so,” Seungmin replies, not quite closing his mouth. “You’ve put too many emotions into this. I’m going to melt.”

“You mean spices?”

Seungmin slowly sets the chopsticks aside and presses his palms to his forehead, leaning over the plate. His shoulders start to shake, and Jungsu hears a quiet sniffle.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Is it that spicy? Want some water?” he fires off immediately, reaching for his shoulder.

Seungmin lifts damp eyes to him and shakes his head.

“No. It’s just… hot,” he says softly.

“Well, yeah. Just came off the stove. Did you burn your tongue?”

“You don’t get it.”

Jungsu freezes, unsure what to do, as Seungmin sniffles again and the first tear slides down his cheek. All he manages is to drop his chopsticks onto the table with a clatter.

“Water, maybe?” he tries again, more carefully.

Seungmin shakes his head, stands up, and for a second, Jungsu panics, thinking he’s about to disappear again for a day or even longer. Instead, Seungmin sinks to the floor at his feet. 

“Thank you,” he rasps, pressing his slightly cool forehead against Jungsu’s bare thigh.

Jungsu stares, completely lost, and just ends up stroking the top of his head when Seungmin nudges his damp nose against his knees.

The food cools on the table, untouched, as they stay like that in silence. Only the fridge hums, and Seungmin’s occasional sniffles break the quiet.

“Min-ah, what’s going on?” Jungsu asks weakly. The lump in Seungmin’s throat somehow sits in his own as well. Speaking feels hard in every possible way. 

“You’re so kind,” Seungmin whispers, barely audible. “Jungsu-ya, please don’t leave me. I really like you…”

He doesn’t lift his head. Jungsu can’t see his eyes, only feel the wetness burning against his skin. There’s no time to think about how a cold ghost has hot tears. What sticks instead is the desperation in those words. That “I really like you” sounds too raw. Like a prayer thrown straight at the heavens. Something in Jungsu’s chest answers it, low and heavy. 

No. No, no, this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. 

Jungsu exhales tiredly, forcing a faint, sad smile, threading his fingers into Seungmin’s slightly coarse hair, brushing his thumb over the trembling, pale neck.

“I like you too, Min-ah. But stop sitting on the floor. Let’s finish eating and go to bed, yeah?”

Seungmin shakes his head, sniffling again, lowering himself even further. Now his forehead presses not to Jungsu’s thigh, but straight against the rough sheepskin slippers.

“What are you doing?” Jungsu asks under his breath.

Seungmin only sniffles in response. His palms rest on the floor on either side of his head, trembling, fingers scraping faintly against the smooth surface. He sways a little, bowing his head several times like he’s actually praying, but never answers.

Awkwardness floods Jungsu’s body, thick and suffocating, when Seungmin presses his lips to his feet next. He’s just humiliating himself right there in front of him, and it feels completely wrong. Especially when, in life, he had clearly been someone important. Maybe not a prince, but close enough. 

“Seungmin,” Jungsu calls, voice cracking, but Seungmin doesn’t respond, repeating the same strange, embarrassing gesture. “Seungmin!”

Finally, Seungmin looks up at him with tearful eyes and stops kissing the filthy slippers, but he doesn’t get up. So Jungsu pulls him up instead, practically forcing him onto his lap. He wraps an arm around his waist, and Seungmin hesitates before placing his hands on Jungsu’s shoulders, fingers gripping the thin fabric of his T-shirt. 

There are still tears in his eyes, his pink lips slightly parted, struggling to pull air in and out.

Jungsu doesn’t understand what exactly he’s feeling, but something inside him eases, even though physically, Seungmin’s weight presses him harder into the stiff chair. Not that he’s heavy. Quite the opposite. For his build, he feels light. About the same as Jiseok, probably. Jungsu could easily pick him up.

“What was that?” he asks.

“I… I…” Seungmin stumbles over the words, swallowing hard, squeezing his eyes shut. The frightened look disappears behind reddened lids. Almost without thinking, Jungsu places a hand on his warm cheek. Wait, why is it warm? He strokes it gently, trying to calm him, but Seungmin’s lashes only tremble more. “I was just trying to show respect and gratitude.”

“Idiot,” Jungsu says firmly, pressing his lips together as Seungmin opens his eyes and looks at him cautiously. “Pick a safer way to show your… respect.”

Jungsu looks away, unable to hold that wide, feline gaze, but doesn’t pull his hand from the damp cheek. Inevitably, his eyes catch their faint reflection in the wardrobe mirror in the hallway. It’s too far away to see anything clearly, but not that he tries in the first place.

“I don’t know what’s acceptable for you,” Seungmin says quietly. There’s not a trace of confidence in his voice as he shifts on Jungsu’s lap, fingers digging harder into his shoulders.

Jungsu sighs heavily.

“We’ve known each other for less than a week. In that time, you’ve seen me naked, we’ve slept in the same bed, you’ve worn my clothes, I tried to introduce you to my friend, I shared my mum’s recipe with you. A very secret one, by the way! For fuck’s sake, you just kissed my feet! You’re sitting on my lap right now! And you suddenly think there’s still something left that’s unacceptable for me?”

He pauses, catching his breath, genuinely confused by how worked up he’s gotten. He didn’t mean to lecture Seungmin, didn’t mean to snap at him, and now there’s a faint regret creeping in.

“Sorry,” Seungmin whispers, almost inaudible. His hands slide down, no longer resting on Jungsu’s shoulders. He tries to slip off his lap, but Jungsu doesn’t let him, tightening his grip around his waist.

“I didn’t ask for an apology,” Jungsu frowns. “I said you’ve already crossed pretty much all my boundaries, and for some fucking reason, I keep letting you do it.”

Jungsu finally dares to look at Seungmin, but now Seungmin isn’t looking back, his gaze fixed on the creases of Jungsu’s home T-shirt. Jungsu slides his hand under his chin and lifts his head, forcing their eyes to meet. Seungmin gives in hesitantly, almost fearfully, yet the moment their gazes lock, he doesn’t try to look away again. 

“Idiot,” Jungsu repeats, softer this time, warmth flickering in his chest, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Do whatever you want, just don’t humiliate yourself in front of me. What did I even do? Hung the stars in the sky, or just tried to feed you?” He lets out a small, crooked laugh. “Even if you’re dead, you’re still a person,” he adds, gently booping the tip of Seungmin’s nose with his finger. “Have some dignity, for God’s sake.” 

Seungmin nods uncertainly and bites his lower lip. He reaches for the hand resting beneath his chin and slowly moves it away, holding Jungsu’s palm in his own, studying it as though it carries something extraordinary, as if there might be a dozen precious rings or intricate scars telling a story. There’s nothing unusual about Jungsu’s small palm, of course. He doesn’t wear jewellery, and unlike Jiseok, he knows how to handle a knife. Still, he doesn’t pull away. He lets Seungmin stare at it with quiet, wordless awe. 

Jungsu has no idea how much time passes. It feels like an eternity, and for once, he doesn’t want to break it. He does absolutely nothing, just watches Seungmin’s face, one arm still loosely around his waist. It should be unbearably boring, but he doesn’t try to escape it the way he would from a dragging lecture.

Seungmin leans in and gently presses his lips to the back of Jungsu’s hand. How long he stays there, breathing in the scent of his skin in uneven pulls, Jungsu can’t tell. It feels like the same eternity, one that makes his heart stop dead for a moment.

Seungmin pulls away with a soft, quiet mwah and lifts his gaze, startled and embarrassed all at once. It looks like a faint blush spreads across his cheeks. It can’t be the kitchen cabinets showing through, can it? They’re not red or even pink. They’re a dusty violet, definitely not capable of casting that colour beneath his cheekbones. 

Besides, Seungmin feels more real now than ever before. He’s warmer than during their first meeting, warmer than every other time Jungsu has touched him. It’s as if he can now give warmth, not just take it. Like a living person. His skin no longer looks so pale, his pupils seem to widen and settle into a more human shape. The weight on Jungsu’s thighs becomes clearer, more tangible.

Seungmin is gaining form, shape… Whatever you’d call it. 

Jungsu holds his breath.

He takes Seungmin’s hand, now holding it in his own, lightly squeezing his fingers just below the knuckles. A faceted ring glints on his index finger, but Jungsu pays it no mind. He lifts the hand to his lips and presses a kiss to it, mirroring Seungmin exactly. He inhales just as deeply, but the floral scent that has followed Seungmin since the very beginning is now barely there.

Seungmin exhales sharply when Jungsu lets go.

Jungsu brushes his messy fringe aside, fingertips grazing his forehead.

“Let’s get back to the food. It’s gone cold.”

Seungmin shakes his head and wraps his arms around Jungsu’s neck, pressing himself close, breathing in sharply near his ear. Jungsu lets out a surprised little noise and hesitantly places a hand on his back, stroking it carefully, holding him in place.

“Thank you,” Seungmin whispers, burying his nose into skin that instantly prickles with goosebumps. 

Jungsu frowns slightly, sliding one hand higher, threading his fingers through ash-coloured strands, brushing against his head and ear. A smile tugs at his lips when he notices that the ghostly pallor has softened into a shy pink.

“You’re welcome, Seungmin-ah,” he murmurs, a quiet laugh slipping through. “You’re welcome.”

Seungmin shifts, resting his cheek on Jungsu’s shoulder, eyes closing peacefully. His lashes are still damp, clumped into little dark triangles, trembling against the sharp line of his eye socket, but gradually they calm, the tremor fading.

“You’re warm,” Jungsu says, wiping away the glossy trail of tears.

“One bite of your noodles is enough to keep me warm till the end… till the end.”

Seungmin smiles without opening his eyes. Jungsu doesn’t know what ordinary ramen truly means for him, but clearly, it’s more than just food to fill an empty stomach.

“Maybe I didn’t take on a new form all this time just so I could meet you?” Seungmin murmurs, lightly rubbing against his shoulder. “Maybe I don’t actually need to find Han Hyeongjun to get my revenge? Maybe I just needed to find… love?”

He falls silent on that last word, startled by it himself, turning his head away, hiding his even redder cheeks. His breathing turns uneven, like a rabbit trembling before a predator, brushing against Jungsu’s neck and chest in shaky bursts.

Jungsu freezes too, trying to process it.

Love?

Does this trembling feel like love?

Do the cooling bowls of noodles feel like love?

Does that stupid childish pinky promise feel like love?

Do all those boundaries, shattered by a single person, feel like love?

Does that honest frustration at not being able to drown Seungmin in care feel like love?

Does that nightmare that wakes him at five in the morning feel like love?

Is anything he’s feeling right now love?

“Maybe,” he finally says, pressing a brief kiss to the crown of Seungmin’s head.

Seungmin lifts his head, his hands sliding weakly down Jungsu’s neck and settling on his shoulders. His eyes are wide, frightened, almost entirely swallowed by black, bottomless pupils. His brows twist, folding his forehead, his lips part slightly, caught between shock and the desperate need to speak.

Jungsu leans closer, warm breath brushing his face, stopping mere millimetres from his lips. All he has to do is purse them just a little, and they’ll meet in a soft, barely-there kiss.

He hesitates, and in the end, instead of his mouth, he presses his lips to the hollow of Seungmin’s cheek. He squeezes his eyes shut, as if trying to press the gesture deeper into his skin, to make sure he feels it, understands it. 

“Hey, hey, Jungsu-ah, that’s hot!” Seungmin laughs, turning his head, hunching his shoulders, trying to hide, to escape the insistent touch. 

Jungsu pulls back, watching a bright reddish mark bloom where he kissed him, as if painted there with lipstick. He blinks a few times, then frowns, trying to understand where the mark came from.

“Did I do that?” he asks quietly.

“Seems like it,” Seungmin giggles, burrowing back into the curve of his neck like it’s a safe little den. “Just… less passion, maybe. But it doesn’t hurt, if you’re worried.”

Jungsu exhales slowly, leaning his head back against the wall. His hands keep stroking Seungmin on their own. He’s not even telling them to, but he’s not stopping them either.

“You’re hot,” Seungmin murmurs.

“Hot, huh?” Jungsu echoes, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Do you even know what that means?”

“When someone’s hot, it means there are a lot of feelings in them,” Seungmin explains shyly. “It can be unpleasant if the feelings are bad. But it can also be… like with you.”

“God, you innocent thing,” Jungsu chuckles. “So that’s how it works?”

“Yeah…” Seungmin nods faintly. “Please hug me more often.”

“I promise,” he whispers. “I promise, Seungmin-ah.”

Seungmin lifts himself again and holds out his trembling pinky. For him, that kind of promise clearly means far more than any legal contract ever could. For Jungsu, a twenty-one-year-old, it’s nothing but childish nonsense, and yet he pours all the sincerity and resolve he has into it, hooking their fingers together as if breaking that promise would mean public execution.

Seungmin smiles brightly, glowing like a disco ball at a graduation party, and leans in closer, returning the kiss to his cheek. Jungsu even feels as though his skin burns under those lips, threatening to leave the same red mark.

And even if it does, there isn’t a trace of pain in it.

Jungsu cups Seungmin’s face, trapping it between his fingers, and finally dares. He leans forward and presses his lips to Seungmin’s, giving him a careful kiss.

It lasts no more than a couple of seconds, but those seconds feel so heavy with meaning that Jungsu forgets how to breathe.

He’s a little afraid – not of that disgusting, slimy nightmare coming true, but that for Seungmin, raised in an old Confucian society, this might be too much.

Seungmin is too soft, too gentle, like translucent petals of white chrysanthemums. He trembles, blushes, hides his embarrassment in the curves of Jungsu’s body, in the folds of fabric. He doesn’t look like the monsters people draw in thrillers and horror films. He looks like an ordinary person who’s missed love.

As Jungsu runs his hand over the sharp line of his shoulder blades through the thick fabric of his shirt, he thinks that he’s going to keep his promise.