Work Text:
Some people leave your life loudly, doors slammed shut. final words sharp enough to scar, others disappear quietly. So quietly, in fact, that years pass before you realize how much space they used to occupy inside you.
At twenty five, Jo thinks he has become good at carrying unfinished things. Half-unpacked suitcases, cold coffee abandoned beside work reports, messages replied to three days late. Old feelings folded carefully into smaller and smaller shapes until they become manageable enough to survive beside.
Most days, it works. Then his high school reunion invitation arrives and suddenly he is seventeen again. Not completely, just in fragments. Spring rain against school windows, shared earphones during long train rides home, Yuma asleep beside him in class with sunlight spilling across his face, wired earphones tangled around his wrist, tie loose, entire existence painfully familiar.
The confession after the cram school. The goodbye they both pretended wasn’t permanent. Funny how memory works like that. You can spend years becoming someone new only to have one familiar name unravel everything quietly from the inside.
Jo tells himself it doesn’t matter whether Yuma attends the reunion or not. He tells himself people grow up, move on, fall in love with other people and become strangers naturally. Still, on the car ride to the hotel ballroom, his heartbeat feels strangely uneven.
Outside the windows, the city glows softly beneath the remains of spring evening rain. Neon signs blur past like old memories refusing to stay buried properly. Somewhere ahead of him waits a room full of former classmates trying to rediscover younger versions of themselves for one night only.
And somewhere, maybe, Yuma exists within that future too. Jo hates how much the possibility alone affects him. Because the terrible thing about first love is that sometimes it never fully leaves. It simply waits, quietly, patiently. Like sunlight trapped inside an abandoned classroom long after school has ended.
The reunion banner hangs slightly crooked above the ballroom entrance. Gold letters peeling at the corners like even the decorations have grown older with them.
Inside, the hotel ballroom buzzes with overlapping conversations, bursts of laughter, old classmates rediscovering versions of themselves they buried years ago.
Someone is already tipsy enough to sing karaoke into a spoon microphone. Someone else is aggressively showing baby photos to unwilling victims. Jo stands near the drinks table, adjusting the sleeves of his black shirt as people recognize him one by one.
“Jo? Holy shit.”
“Dude, you haven’t changed at all.”
“Still handsome. Unfair.”
He laughs politely through all of it, easygoing as ever. Then the ballroom doors open again. And Jo forgets how to breathe for half a second. Yuma steps inside, dark coat, slightly longer hair, older. But still unmistakably Yuma. The noise around Jo dulls into something distant and underwater.
Yuma looks around the room slowly, scanning familiar faces until his gaze lands on Jo, he stops walking and their eyes meet across the crowd. For one suspended moment, neither of them moves. Several years disappear like smoke. Jo remembers late trains after cram school. Shared earphones, spring evenings under convenience store lights, Yuma half-asleep beside him during study sessions. That had always been what Yuma felt like to him: quiet and bright at the same time.
Yuma blinks first, like he’s waking from a dream. Jo smiles instinctively. The exact same smile from when they were seventeen. Yuma feels his heartbeat stumble painfully against his ribs.
“…Hi,” Jo says softly once Yuma finally approaches.
Yuma lets out a breathless laugh. “Hi.”
God. Years later, and Jo still sounds exactly the same.
A loud gasp erupts nearby. Harua points between them dramatically. “NO WAY.”
“Oh, this is insane,” Nicholas says immediately. “The first love reunion arc.”
“We were not dating,” Yuma says at once.
“That makes it worse,” Taki replies.
Yuma nearly chokes on his drink laughing. Jo’s ears begin turning red almost instantly. Unfortunately, Yuma notices. Well, Yuma always notices. Back in high school, everyone assumed they would end up together eventually. They spent too much time side by side, walking home together after class, late-night phone calls that stretched until 2 AM, studying in cafés until the employees practically kicked them out.
Jo carrying Yuma’s bag whenever he looked tired, Yuma saving a seat for Jo without thinking. There had been feelings, everyone knew it, especially them. But seventeen was an age made of hesitation: Jo loved quietly, Yuma loved fearfully, and graduation arrived before either of them learned how to say it aloud. After that came universities in different countries.
Messages at first, then delayed replies, then silence. The terrible thing about losing someone is how ordinary it feels while it’s happening. No dramatic ending. No final fight. Just conversations becoming shorter until they disappear completely. Until now.
“You know what’s crazy?” Nicholas had said earlier during the reunion dinner, already halfway drunk. “You two acted like divorced people before you even dated.”
“Can you stop talking?” Yuma had replied immediately.
But the truth lingered anyway. Because Jo and Yuma had never been simple.
“Oh my god,” Harua says suddenly as old photos begin appearing on the projector screen. “LOOK.”
A collective scream erupts around the room. It’s a photo from the school festival. Yuma asleep against Jo’s shoulder, Jo looking at Yuma instead of the camera.
“Jesus Christ,” Maki wheezes. “You two were basically married.”
“NO,” Nicholas says for what is probably the fifth time that night, pointing accusingly between Jo and Yuma across the reunion table. “Because I need everyone here to understand this properly.”
Yuma already knows where this is going. Which means it is absolutely going to be humiliating.
“Nicholas,” he warns.
But Nicholas ignores him completely.
“You two,” he says dramatically, “were literally divorced before dating.”
The entire table erupts. Maki nearly falls out of his chair laughing, Taki smacks the table like he’s witnessing live comedy. Even Jo lowers his head into his hands, shoulders shaking.
“We never dated,” Yuma says weakly.
“That’s the CRAZY part,” Nicholas replies instantly. “You confessed. TWICE.”
“I confessed once,” Jo corrects between laughter.
“You kissed twice,” Nicholas shoots back.
“You saw that?” Jo freezes for a second, looking caught off guard.
Yuma makes a noise of genuine suffering.
“And then,” Nicholas continues, standing now because apparently public humiliation requires full theatrical performance, “you both proceeded to act like widowers for the next decade.”
“I’m leaving,” Yuma mutters.
“No, sit down,” Harua wheezes. “This is the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
Nicholas points at Jo. “This man used to stare at Yuma like he was the final scene of a romance movie.” Then he points at Yuma. “And THIS one used to look at Jo like he was standing in the rain waiting for a ship captain to return from war.”
The table explodes again. Jo laughs so hard he has to wipe tears from his eyes. Yuma genuinely considers evaporating into dust.
“We were seventeen,” Yuma argues helplessly.
“Exactly!” Nicholas says. “And somehow you still had the emotional energy of a divorced couple paying taxes together.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
Jo finally looks up, still laughing softly. “To be fair…”
Yuma narrows his eyes immediately. “Don’t you dare.”
Jo smiles anyway.
“You did almost cry when I confessed.”
“YOU confessed after I almost slipped and died.”
“There was moss.”
“I know there was moss!”
“You made a really weird sound.”
Maki slams both hands on the table. “THE LORE.”
Nicholas clutches his chest dramatically. “Spring rain confession. Near-death experience. Two unresolved kisses. Years apart. Reunion while both single.” He points upward like he’s addressing the heavens themselves. “This is not a relationship. This is a Korean indie soundtrack.”
Yuma hides his face behind his hands while everyone laughs again. Beside him, Jo leans slightly closer. Still smiling, still warm and when Yuma peeks through his fingers, he catches Jo looking at him the exact same way he did years ago. Like no amount of time had managed to change it.
Later that night, the reunion spills outside after midnight. Some people head to karaoke for a second round. Others stumble toward taxis while yelling promises to “meet again soon” that may or may not happen.
Jo and Yuma somehow end up walking side by side along the riverside nearby. The city glows quietly around them. For a while, they just walk. Comfortable silence settling between them again with surprising ease. Like muscle memory.
“I dated someone in university,” Yuma says eventually.
Jo nods lightly. “Me too, someone older.”
“How’d it end?”
Jo exhales through a small laugh. “Not bad.”
“Same.”
They glance at each other at the same time and laugh softly. Older now. Wiser, maybe. More tired definitely.
“I think,” Yuma says carefully, “I kept comparing people to someone without realizing it.”
Jo’s steps slow slightly. The cold night air brushes against his face.
“And?” he asks quietly.
Yuma looks ahead at the river lights.
“And nobody ever felt the same.”
Jo says nothing for several seconds. Then: “I used to search your name sometimes.”
Yuma turns immediately. “What?”
“Online,” Jo admits with an embarrassed smile. “Just to see how you were doing.”
Something painfully warm twists inside Yuma’s chest. Because he did the same thing. Every few months. Like reopening a door he never fully closed.
“You disappeared,” Jo says softly.
“You disappeared too.”
“Fair point.”
They laugh again, gentler this time. The kind of laughter shared between people who already know each other’s silences. Ahead of them, the riverside trees sway softly under the wind. Above them, stars barely peek through the city haze.
Yuma suddenly remembers a night from high school and suddenly they are no longer seventeen-year-olds trapped inside their own hesitation. They are adults now: older hearts, bruised hearts, but still here. Still somehow finding each other again after years of becoming strangers.
Jo looks at him carefully. “So what happens now?”
Yuma feels warmth bloom slowly in his chest. Not the frantic kind of first love, something steadier, softer. Like coming home late at night and seeing the light still on for you. He smiles. The real kind this time.
“I don’t know,” Yuma says. “Maybe we stop wasting time.”
Jo laughs quietly at that. Then, after a small moment of hesitation, he reaches for Yuma’s hand, and Yuma lets him. They keep walking for another minute before Jo glances sideways.
“Are you hungry?”
Yuma snorts softly. “It’s one in the morning.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“…A little.”
Jo brightens immediately in a way that feels unfairly familiar.
“Come eat with me.”
“You make it sound like we’re seventeen again.”
“Maybe we are spiritually.”
Yuma laughs under his breath. “What, instant ramen at a convenience store?”
“Upgrade,” Jo says proudly. “I actually drove here.”
Yuma stops walking. “You have a car?”
Jo looks offended. “I’m twenty five.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
Jo grins. “Yes, I have a car.”
For some reason, that information changes the atmosphere entirely. Not in a dramatic way. Just enough to make Yuma suddenly aware that Jo is no longer the boy riding his bicycle beside Yuma on the way to cram school. This is Jo now: older, srable, standing beside him under city lights with car keys loosely spinning around his fingers. Dangerous, honestly.
“Well?” Jo asks. “Food?”
Yuma pretends to think about it for exactly two seconds before grabbing Jo’s hand properly this time.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
Jo blinks as Yuma starts confidently leading them down the sidewalk.
“You know where my car is?” he asks.
“No.”
“Then where are we going?”
“Forward.”
Jo laughs so suddenly he almost stumbles. Yuma keeps walking anyway, fingers intertwined with Jo’s like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like those years never happened. The cold wind brushes against their coats while distant traffic hums around them. Behind them, the river glitters black and silver beneath the city lights.
“So this is your plan?” Jo asks. “Kidnap me into the night?”
“You followed willingly.”
“True.”
Yuma squints ahead dramatically at the parking area across the street like he’s deciphering ancient prophecy.
“Is it over there?”
“Nope.”
“Damn.”
Jo squeezes his hand lightly.
“Turn right up ahead.”
Something about hearing that nearly destroys Yuma instantly. Because suddenly he’s seventeen again, walking home after evening classes while Jo gives lazy directions beside him despite Yuma already memorizing the route by heart just to stay together longer. Yuma looks away quickly before the nostalgia can swallow him whole.
“You know,” he mutters, “it’s actually really annoying that you still sound the same.”
Jo smiles. “You too.”
Eventually they find the car after three wrong turns and one argument where Yuma insists Jo parked “where no normal person would park.”
“It should be around here somewhere,” Jo says, slowing down.
“You forgot where you parked?”
“I remembered the general area.”
“That’s still bad.”
They stand near the sidewalk while Yuma squints suspiciously at a row of parked cars. Across the street, half-hidden behind a large tree, Jo’s car sits almost completely blocked from view.
A few seconds pass, then Jo points suddenly. “Wait. There.”
Yuma follows his gaze and immediately groans. “Oh, come on.”
“In my defense,” Jo says through laughter, “the tree is covering it.”
“And we walked here from the opposite direction!”
“Exactly.”
Yuma stares at him. “You’re lucky I’m fond of you.”
Jo’s smile turns soft at that. “Yeah?”
Inside the car, warmth slowly fogs the windows while Jo drives them through the sleeping city. Music plays quietly from the speakers. Old songs. Familiar ones. Yuma recognizes one immediately and groans.
“No way.”
Jo looks far too pleased with himself. “You remember this?”
“You played this song every single day for three months.”
“It was a good song.”
“It was one song.”
Jo laughs again, soft and bright enough to fill the entire car. Yuma clicks his tongue and leans back against the seat like he’s already tired of the song playing through the speakers.
“You still listen to this? Seriously? Your taste never evolved.”
But the moment the familiar chorus slips into the air, something tight twists quietly inside his chest. For years, this stupid song has followed him like a ghost. Convenience store speakers at midnight. Random playlists in cafés. Someone humming it under their breath on the train, and every single time, without fail, it drags Jo back into his head so vividly it hurts.
There were nights Yuma ended up crying alone in his apartment because of it. Embarrassing, pathetic little moments he would rather die than admit out loud. Just one verse and suddenly he’s seventeen again, sitting behind Jo on a bike with summer wind in his face and his entire future still intact.
So naturally, he rolls his eyes instead. “Change it,” Yuma mutters, pretending to stare out the window. “I’m bored already.”
Jo only grins wider, completely unconvinced.
Later, Jo drives them to a small hidden restaurant tucked deep inside a narrow side street, almost easy to miss between old buildings and quiet alleyways. Warm yellow light spills softly through fogged windows while the faint smell of grilled food drifts into the cold night air.
Yuma looks around as they sit down. “You know places like this now?”
Jo looks weirdly proud of himself. “I’m an adult with secrets.”
Yuma laughs quietly while they order two plates of yakisoba and one fried mandu to share. The restaurant is warm. Filled with the soft clatter of dishes and old music humming low through hidden speakers. Somewhere between stealing bites from each other’s plates, the years between them begin feeling smaller and smaller.
Yuma is halfway through talking when Jo suddenly lifts a mandu toward him with his chopsticks.
“Open.”
Yuma blinks slowly. “Are you serious?”
“Yes,” Jo glances around the nearly empty restaurant. “There are four people here and one of them is passed out drunk.”
Yuma follows his gaze toward the old man dozing near the counter and immediately loses the argument. With a deeply offended sigh, he leans forward and takes the bite anyway. Jo smiles instantly afterward, far too pleased with himself.
“What?” Yuma asks suspiciously.
“Nothing.”
“That face means something.”
Jo rests his chin against his hand beneath the warm hanging lights. “You’re still cute when you get all flustered.”
Yuma nearly chokes on the mandu.
By the time they leave the restaurant, the sky has deepened into that strange hour where the city feels half-asleep. The streets are quieter now. Traffic lights changing for nobody. Convenience store signs humming softly in the dark like tiny artificial moons. Yuma walks beside Jo with his hands tucked into his coat pockets while Jo carries two canned coffees they absolutely did not need after eating.
“You still do that,” Yuma says suddenly.
Jo glances over. “Do what?”
“Buy drinks before realizing you’re already full.”
Jo looks genuinely surprised. “You remember that?”
“You used to complain about it every single time.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It’s unfortunately real.”
Jo laughs under his breath. The sound settles warmly inside Yuma’s chest. When they reach the car again, neither of them makes any move to leave immediately. Jo leans against the driver’s side door for a moment, looking at him carefully beneath the streetlights. The teasing atmosphere from earlier softens into something quieter. More dangerous.
“So,” Jo says eventually.
Yuma already knows that tone. His heartbeat immediately betrays him.
“So,” he echoes.
Jo rubs the back of his neck once before speaking again.
“What are we doing?”
The question hangs gently between them. No jokes this time. No friends screaming in the background. Just the two of them standing in the cold night air with years sitting silently between their shoulders. Yuma looks down briefly at the coffee can in his hands.
“I don’t know,” he admits honestly.
Jo nods once. Patient.
“But,” Yuma continues, quieter now, “I know I don’t really want to lose you again.”
Something shifts in Jo’s expression then. Small, but enough for Yuma to notice. Relief maybe. Or something even softer than that.
“Good,” Jo says.
Yuma looks back up.
“Because I don’t think I can spend another few years pretending I’m normal about you.”
Yuma laughs helplessly at that. “Normal about me?”
“You have no idea how embarrassing this has been for me internally.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“It’s accurate.”
The corner of Yuma’s mouth lifts. Then Jo says, trying and failing to sound casual, “My apartment’s actually pretty close from here.”
Yuma narrows his eyes immediately. “Jo.”
“What?”
“That was suspiciously smooth.”
“I’m just saying,” Jo replies innocently, unlocking the car, “it’s late, we’re both tired, and continuing this conversation somewhere warmer sounds practical.”
“Practical,” Yuma repeats flatly.
“Yes.”
“You’re twenty five and still terrible at hiding things.”
Jo grins. “Is it working?”
Unfortunately, yes.
Yuma sighs dramatically before climbing into the passenger seat. “Drive, loser.”
Jo’s smile after that is almost unbearably fond, and the apartment turns out to be only fifteen minutes away.
“See?” Jo says while parking. “Close.”
“You absolutely chose the restaurant based on distance.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Criminal behavior.”
Inside, Jo’s apartment feels exactly like him somehow. Warm lighting. Several sketches scattered carelessly near the couch, a hoodie abandoned over the chair like it lost a fight, there’s even an old vinyl player near the window. Yuma turns slowly, taking everything in.
“You live like this?”
Jo closes the door behind them. “Rude.”
“It’s very…” Yuma gestures vaguely. “You.”
Jo laughs softly. “That might be the nicest insult anyone’s ever given me.”
For a while they just exist there together. Shoes kicked off near the entrance. Music playing quietly somewhere in the background while Jo makes tea neither of them really drinks. It feels strangely domestic.
At some point Yuma ends up standing near the kitchen counter while Jo talks about something Yuma stops fully hearing halfway through because Jo is smiling again. That same smile. Still capable of ruining him completely after all this time.
“…and Maki still insists that haircut looked good on him when—” Jo pauses mid-sentence. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Yuma exhales slowly through his nose.
“This is gonna ruin my life a little,” he says honestly.
Jo blinks. “What is?”
“You still being you.”
The room goes quiet. Jo looks at him for a long second before stepping closer. Not rushed, not uncertain either, just careful.
“Yuma,” he says softly.
And maybe it’s the hour. Maybe it’s the years they lost. Maybe it’s the fact that they’re finally standing here with nothing left unsaid between them. Whatever it is, Yuma reaches first. Jo kisses him like someone rediscovering something precious he thought he lost forever. Warm hands against Yuma’s waist. Yuma pulling him closer by the shirt.
The kiss turns breathless embarrassingly fast, years of unresolved affection collapsing in on itself all at once like stars finally giving up and exploding. Somewhere between laughing into another kiss and nearly stumbling into the couch, Yuma realizes this feels less like starting something new and more like finally continuing something that had been waiting for them the entire time.
The next morning, sunlight spills lazily through the apartment windows. Yuma wakes up shirtless tangled halfway around Jo with his face pressed against Jo’s shoulder. For a few seconds he just lies there listening to Jo breathe. Then: “You know something funny?”
Jo makes a sleepy noise. “Hm?”
Yuma smiles against the pillow. “I actually live in this building too.”
Silence. Jo opens one eye slowly. “What?”
“Same building,” Yuma repeats, clearly delighted now. “Different floor.”
Jo stares at him in complete disbelief. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Yuma shrugs lazily. “I dunno.”
“That’s insane.”
“I just wanted to go home with you.”
Jo looks at him for another second before dropping his face dramatically into the pillow.
“You’re actually unbelievable.”
Yuma starts laughing immediately. Jo does too after a moment, sleepy and helpless and bright in the morning light. Then Jo lifts his head again.
“Well,” he says casually, “you should just move in with me then.”
Yuma snorts. “We kissed like twelve hours ago.”
“And?”
“And that’s crazy.”
“And I’m pretty sure we did more than just kiss.” Jo hums thoughtfully at that.
“Fair point.”
Yuma laughs so hard he nearly falls off the bed while Jo immediately reaches over to pull him back against him again, smiling into Yuma’s hair like he already knows the answer might eventually become yes.
“You were so beautiful back then. And even now, it feels like nothing about you has changed. Honestly, you’ve only gotten even prettier,” Jo says softly.
Yuma lets out a quiet laugh, ducking his head slightly as warmth creeps across his face. “You still flirt like we’re seventeen,” he mutters.
Jo smiles from where he’s lying beside him, fingers lazily brushing against Yuma’s wrist beneath the blankets. “And you still get all flustered when I do it.”
Yuma rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too. Jo watches him for another second before pulling him closer without a word, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And somewhere between the years they lost and the years still waiting ahead of them, Jo realizes maybe some people are never truly meant to disappear from your life.
Maybe some loves simply pause: quietly, patiently, until one ordinary night beneath sleeping stars, they find their way back to each other again.