Archive of Our Own

Minho meets Seungmin all over again in a dive bar.

The beginning of November is cold, but inside it’s hot all over. He knows this bar, a decrepit place that he frequently visited during his trainee days before he was even legal. The bartenders are lenient and their customers are only ever regulars. He has not thought to come here ever since debut, but for some reason it’s the first place he thinks to go because staying in the dorms is far too strange, unfamiliar despite its familiarity, and most places he can think of, he knows at least one of the other members will be there, and he wants space to breathe, time alone. They’re so many like that, everywhere all at once, yet at the same time not enough.

He opens his lockscreen, as if to remind himself. It's none of his three cats and it's all seven members. The way they are posed in this picture, their first ever win, makes it seem like there is no space for anyone else to fit in, as if it's always just been them. Where is Seungmin, he had asked, the morning after his birthday. Jisung only looked at him strangely.

Who are you talking about? He said.

“Beer?” the bartender asks him. Minho nods, pocketing his phone. The bartender catches Minho’s gaze to the side. “Something you saw?”

“No,” Minho says. He wants to point out that there used to be a no smoking sign there, now replaced by a TV. When he looks around, there are one or two patrons with cigarettes on their tables. He wonders if these are the miniscule details that make this world, this life, different from his own, or if it's simply because of the passage of time. He hasn't been to this bar in years, after all. Maybe back there, the setup is just like this.

The TV is playing a rerun of a baseball match from the day before. Minho has never thought twice about baseball, so he doesn’t know if anything has changed the same way things have changed for him. Everything in his periphery is more or less the same, and he doesn’t know if it’s arrogant to presume the same can be said for anything else, but it feels that way.

The bartender slides the drink towards him. Minho gulps it down, parched. In the background, the TV volume has increased as the audience cheers. Someone in the group used to be a fan, he recalls, though the interest had never been contagious enough to hook Minho in.

He glances up. On the screen they’re introducing the Lotte Giants. And then the line-up reads, as a familiar face comes into view, Kim Seungmin. Minho stares.

It’s the bartender who breaks him out of his thoughts. “You a fan?”

“No,” Minho says again. He stares at his glass, wondering if it’s a trick of the light, the trick of his mind. But this beer is diluted. It's late afternoon. “One of them just looks like someone I know.”

There is a splattering number of Minho’s, and only one Seungmin. Minho figures this is true for every universe.

He goes to a baseball game. Because there’s nothing fundamentally ordinary about his life, because he is not just Lee Minho but he is Lee Know from Stray Kids, he gets special access to the front row of the stadium even though he bought like everyone else had, waiting in a queue to sit in some aisle under a general aisle, intending to blend into the background.

Someone throws, another catches, people run. It’s obviously a lot more complex than that, but Minho can think the sport is predictable because has no illusions about himself. He knows why he’s here.

The ball lands on Seungmin’s hands. The crowd cheers. If Minho blinks, he can pretend that Seungmin is being applauded under a concert stage light instead. It has been a week. A professional by default, he’s gotten used to a dance formation for seven, but whenever they line up together for events he always has to stop himself from unthinkingly leaving space for one more.

Lotte Giants win against one of the teams from Seoul. Minho can’t tell if Seungmin is an especially vital asset to this game based on his play, and for a moment he entertains the idea of asking the person next to him, someone who definitely understands the dynamics of the game and enjoys it far more. But it may be a ridiculous question to ask, the equivalent of asking someone about the impact Seungmin makes to Stray Kids, to which the answer would be—of course. But the thing is Seungmin is not in Stray Kids, and nothing has changed for them. Still the same amount of trophy wins, still the same title tracks and albums. The ways in which they’ve accommodated Seungmin's absence is so seamless it’s like he was never even there—because in this world, he had never been. He was out here instead.

So Minho finds that he better not ask, because he doesn’t really want to know. Doesn’t think he needs to.

He stands up while the teams are basking in the crowd’s reactions and congratulating themselves, eager to leave before he gets caught in the sea of people that will make an exit harder because they’re so many in number or because they’ll barricade him from recognition of who exactly he is. The commentators don’t seem anywhere close to finishing their spiels, and everyone around him, obvious Lotte Giants fans, are engrossed in their victory.

But suddenly everyone's eyes are on him. He glances back to the field. Someone is walking up to him, stopping right by the fence that blocks the spectator and player.

“Thought I’d say hi,” Seungmin greets. Minho is not used to this: a Seungmin under the public eye without any trace of makeup. He doesn't look like the way he does when he's normally bare-faced either. But Minho knows this is Seungmin. “Not that we’ve ever spoken, but I know you. Lee Know. I’m a fan. I think it’s your first time here, so I hope the game was worth your while.”

Minho doesn’t remember their first meeting. A product of the years, he knows, though some part of his mind betrays him, wonders if it’s some aftereffect of being displaced, so physically far from home that his memories have distorted as a result. Certainly, they met as trainees. Somewhere in the company building. Likely Chan had introduced them. They hadn’t debuted yet, so Seungmin called him by his actual name. Lee Minho. Minho-hyung.

Seungmin’s hand is outstretched. When Minho meets him halfway, what catches him off guard are not the unfamiliar callouses on Seungmin’s skin, but how foreign it feels to touch him, that even in his head, he knows him, his body thinks: this is a stranger.

“I won’t take offense if you aren’t, really,” Minho finds himself responding. “And it was. A good game, I mean.”

For a moment when Seungmin smiles it almost looks like he knows Minho is pulling his leg. Or maybe that’s the trick of the light, a flaw in Minho’s perception, too tinted with a memory that doesn’t really exist in his life.

“Thanks,” Seungmin says.

Minho meets Seungmin all over again like this.

On some days he wakes up with headaches, a slight disorientation as he reconciles with the world he has woken up to versus the world he actually comes from.

He has memories of this world like he lived it; they come as afterthoughts to his original memory, like a suggestion on the alternative to what happened in an event, but the thing is not much about this world is too different from his own. But because here Seungmin has never been part of Stray Kids, Felix rooms with Minho and Jisung. Minho naturally has more lines. Jisung, aside from his predebut stint as J.One, has never been a rapper, only a singer through and through.

“Do you ever miss it,” he finds himself asking once.

“Huh?”

Rapping, he thinks about saying. A unit with Changbin and Chan not because they’re producers, but because they were rappers too. But it’s a silly thing to ask, Minho realizes. It’s not like it’s something that even really matters. He doesn’t know why he cares so much about it, except when he listens to their songs he keeps on waiting for Seungmin’s voice, only to be greeted by Jisung’s instead. Sometimes it’s Jeongin or Chan taking the lyrics Minho’s memories map out as originally Seungmin’s. During the times he hears his own voice instead, he tries not to wince. It hurts because it sounds good too. It, objectively, works, and simply doesn’t, subjectively, for him, because Seungmin is not in it.

“Nothing,” Minho says.

Jisung stares at him. “Are you okay?” he asks. “Ever since your birthday, you've been kind of…”

“Kind of what?”

“Kind of—” But he doesn't finish the statement, and simply shakes his head. “Never mind,” he says. “Whatever it is, you'll tell me, right?”

But these people are just as lovely too. Still the people he knows. He doesn't know if the version of him in this world is the same, but it doesn't really matter.

“Yeah,” Minho agrees, after a beat. He tries not to linger why it had been on the top of his tongue to brush Jisung off instead, doesn't know actually, just at this moment, what is more true to him and what is true to the version of him that this Jisung knows. But then he remembers himself. “Of course.”

He wonders if Seungmin is the same.

Minho does not think himself as calculated, only purposeful. And even then—

“Oh, hello there,” Seungmin says, pleasantly surprised. He pauses, not out of suspicion, but like he’s really thinking about it. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

It’s a grocery store. A small, special one, but a grocery store nonetheless. For the most part the band’s groceries are delivered to their doorsteps, a perk of being well-taken care of, a result of their too busy schedule to allot time to bother making the travel, a downside of being too popular to get away with it often to begin with; but Minho finds that sometimes he wants an excuse to leave the dorms and feel like a normal person.

Seungmin’s expressiveness is disarming. If Minho didn’t know any better, he would have thought Seungmin was like this with all strangers, but isn’t that they are now? Even if, deep down, that isn’t really true. Not somewhere else. Not to Minho.

“What brings you here?” Seungmin asks, breaking through his spiraling thoughts.

“Am I not allowed to be here?”

“I never said that.” Seungmin shakes his head. “It's just, it's my first time seeing you here, even though I'm here often. Usually, I'm the only one here. And this isn't exactly an easy place to find.”

Minho knows this. He knows this very well.

“Ramyeon and produce are obscenely cheap here,” he answers, crouching down to grab a pack. He eyes the basket hooked under Seungmin’s arm. Seungmin has the exact same flavor. “Why are you here?”

Seungmin pauses—Minho cannot tell if it's because it did not occur to Seungmin that Minho would ask, or if it's because no one had ever tried to. Or Seungmin doesn't know either; maybe he doesn't know what had brought him here, why it caught his eye, why he decided to return, over and over.

“If you’re referring to how I know it, I found that someone mentioned it online,” says Seungmin. “My team likes the stuff here too, but they’re too lazy to make the trip here, so I get it for them.”

“I see,” Minho says. This is not a place the group knows, as far as he is concerned. But somewhere else, somewhere far more familiar, he let someone know. Offhandedly, just a passing mention, one that never amounted to anything yet he had still done it. “Well, I’ll be off now.”

Seungmin smiles like there’s something amusing about the sparse things Minho has said in their barely conversation, like there’s something he understands that Minho does not, because Minho doesn’t think anything he’s said so far is worth the bat of an eye, nothing to warrant this sort of reaction, open in a way that he thinks is undeserved. “I’ll see you.”

Later, Minho remembers that once upon a time, someone had said, take me there, one time. I want to know what makes a place so nice that someone like you would always want to come back to it.

He turns around, sees the faint shape of Seungmin through the shop windows. He wants to go back inside, but he doesn’t know what that would accomplish. What exactly could he say. Or do.

It happened because he had made a wish. A wish that, if you asked him, he would argue he didn’t mean, that it had been in the heat of the moment, a splintering second of spite and frustration that had boiled over and blown into this concentrated whisper in his mind when he blew the candle, when he looked at the night sky, when a streak of light stained the darkness and the stars twinkled at him knowingly, almost ominously. It was not a defense when he said it was just a short-lived thought and want, because it was the truth, at least just for that moment. But truths have a way of creeping in and making themselves known in ways that you could not bear and could never be ready to acknowledge. Minho would know. It’s how he had gotten into this situation in the first place.

As if their run-in had struck a cord in the universe, in this one, they find each other again. And again. Not always in person. Usually in the quaint shop that usually only occupies the both of them, condensed to a surreal, liminal space where they are two comfortable strangers. On occasion, on TV, reruns of the games, interviews. Minho doesn’t consider himself a television person, but every time someone’s streaming the sports channel, he finds himself zeroing in rather than zoning out. It doesn’t occur to him how much the world cares about the sport until he sees it all the time. It doesn’t occur to him that the Lotte Giants are anything worthwhile until he notices the frequency of their appearances on the screen. But maybe they had never actually been that big, in truth, in his world. Maybe it’s just the case here, because Seungmin is there.

It’s coincidental, suddenly seeing Seungmin everywhere. Or maybe consequential. A reminder of what he had done.

“Their coffee isn’t actually that good,” begins Seungmin. “That’s how I know you’ve never been here before.”

Minho grimaces. “You could’ve told me that before I bought this.” He scowls at the coffee in his hand he had gulped down.

“You’re the one who ambushed me while I was lining up.”

They’re by the alfresco seats of the shop. It's not Minho’s usual style; he feels more like he's lingering outside rather than actually sitting down and deciding to stay. But inside the seats are all full, and though they are recognized, their patrons must be used to seeing celebrities around the corner, because they give Seungmin and Minho only a curious glance before going about their own business. Given that Seungmin seems to frequent this place, maybe that's his influence. “Why were you lining up for shit coffee?”

“The barista is always nice to me.” Seungmin shrugs. “Not the fake nice, but the real nice. The sort of nice that happens between strangers, not because they know you. Because you're strangers, I suppose.”

It's a rare instance where they encounter one another and they're not in the small grocery store. Seungmin is right in that Minho has never been here before. It's not even his neighborhood.

None of what he says makes particular sense, Minho thinks. “Explains a lot,” he says anyway.

“What do you mean?”

“It explains you. And us.”

“We’re not strangers,” Seungmin says, and there's a solemnity to his tone that has Minho pausing, struck with a moment of possibility that not all is what it seems, that maybe his punishment is mitigated, that his mistakes are not truly all-ending— “I'm a big fan, you know.”

“Right,” Minho says, feeling a dryness in his mouth.

He wants to pretend this is organic, but it’s difficult to kid himself. Circling from different groups, originating from different careers, they have next to no reason to intersect and interact. Public figures are a dime and a dozen, and the industry of sports feels so far from music that Minho realizes he’s spoken to more politicians than athletes. Yet they are here, having found each other anyway. Minho thinks himself subtle, at the very least, if only because he never outright admits it internally. A post making its way into his algorithm about the ongoing sports season. A billboard about a familiar baseball team endorsing a clothing line. An innocuous post telling netizens about a cafe Seungmin recommended, one that just happens to be in an area Minho had been wanting to explore one time.

And then—a month later, a group fan call scheduled. Fans fortunate enough to get limited slots to speak with the members clamor for their attention, and Minho does not think much of it past what they all know it to be; a means to engage with them different from one-sided Bubble messages, messy livestreams, exhaustive meet and greets. Then, by chance, during the first call he has with a fan, she says, “Kim Seungmin of Lotte Giants also wanted to be part. Oppa, you're so famous you even have other famous people gushing over you.”

The fact that they know each other has reached the radar of fans ever since their too-public first encounter during the Lotte Giants game. It is not surprising that fans have mentioned it; in fact, he actually partially wondered why it had not come up sooner.

He finds the clip online. Seungmin, making a throwaway comment about how he was unlucky and couldn't secure the lottery ticket for the Stray Kids fan call, because he's a fan, always has been, a kind of bit Minho has gotten sort of used to when Seungmin wants to make any remark about the group. He knows what this really is, and he thinks—unlike him, Seungmin is a little more shameless, a little more honest. In this way, he’s always been better than Minho. In this way, Minho knows that Seungmin is still the same.

“Hey,” Minho says, the next time they see each other. “There are easier ways to tell me that you want my company that don't involve pretending to be my fan.”

“Who says I'm pretending?” Seungmin responds airily, and he's not denying anything Minho has said.

“Whatever,” he says. “Give me your phone.”

If Minho didn't know any better, he would've thought them as two strangers exchanging numbers, two strangers charmed by one another into something more. But Minho does know better. And that is far more complicated.

Work goes well, like it always does. The way they maintain the quality of their music, the consistent adoration of the public, is completely unaltered by the gravity of Minho’s actions, and in the throws of their success and the knowledge that there are six other people basking in it, it’s too easy for Minho to brush the depth of his guilt aside.

As they’re working on the mixtape and distributing tracks, Minho is given Cinema. It is a solo song. Minho says, “I don’t want it.”

Chan gives him a strange look. “It’s not good enough?”

“It’s…” He falters. He remembers the MV, when it had come up, all of a sudden, of all things to abruptly recall, more than the process of recording it, the discussion of the lyrics, the actual experience of filming. He remembers watching the video reflected in Seungmin’s eyes as he carefully monitored the final footage, this strange sense of possession that had bubbled inside of him before dispersing once Seungmin blinked, and the recording ended.

“Minho?” Chan prompts. “You don’t like the lyrics?”

Minho blinks. The lyrics are different, but only slight; he can pick out a few lines and then some on what would make it flow better, closer to how it originally sounds. Still, it doesn’t change the fact that even if he can make alternations, he’s not responsible for creating its foundation. The song itself is another matter; it sounds exactly the same, except it’s just not composed by Seungmin. “I just feel like it’s a lot. Just for me.”

Chan blinks, uncomprehending. Minho himself doesn’t understand his own reasoning, only his aversion, which he cannot put into words. He could request to have someone do it instead. He could request to work on it with someone else. He does neither. He cannot find the words. He has no illusions as to why; he doesn’t want to sing this song, but he also can’t let it go. For some reason, that feels so much worse.

“Whatever you want to change,” Chan begins. “You can. Make it more your style. Make it sound like it’s your song as much as you want. Just—look over Jisung’s demo, okay?”

On a particularly dark night he had gone to the studio and rifled through 3RACHA’s entire discography, finding no trace of a track that could’ve been for Seungmin. He thought it made sense. Seungmin was never the type of person you gave songs to; he was the type of person you made songs for.

He goes home and creeps to his room. He doesn’t normally do this; more often than not he avoids the dorms, not really because it’s crowded because it occupies three rather than two, not because Felix is unwelcome, but his presence is a reminder that his home is not truly home, not a safe place where he can let down his guard and pretend things are fine. Things are not as they should be. Felix and Jisung are the same but also—different. Closer than Minho ever remembered to be, though perhaps that’s a result of his purposeful absence at the dorms. The others are also not wholly the same, if he dwells on it. Little things that normally wouldn’t bother Minho, because people inevitably change, are never static, if not for the fact that he knows it’s only because of him.

In his room, he loops Cinema as if he hadn’t heard it countless times before. He remembers the line distribution, where Seungmin would end and Minho would begin, and he can’t fathom the idea of this song being wholly his own instead, taking parts that should belong to Seungmin, that can only ever belong to him.

Later when he returns to the bar, they’re playing a replay of a Lotte Giants game. Minho stares, like he always does, but for once he’s not trying to be subtle about it. So of course someone catches on, though he doesn’t seem to recognize Minho in particular.

“He’s sort of handsome,” the patron seated beside him comments. “They say he has a lovely voice too. In another life, he could’ve been an idol.”

Earlier Minho’s hand hovered over the paper where Chan had handed him the lyrics, highlighting the lines that he knows should be changed, that he recalls where Seungmin’s ideas had come to life. He thinks about the impact of changing it. That he has to, because there is no way for this song to exist except in the exact way he remembers it to be, but there will always be a limitation to it. They had written this together. As much as Chan says to do whatever he will to make himself comfortable with the track, as much as Chan says this is his song, it isn’t, really. It was theirs, even if the composition and lyrics credit are given to someone else. It was theirs, even if no one would ever know or believe it but him, because it’s true.

If only you knew, Minho thinks resignedly.

They text because they have each other's numbers now. It's the natural progression of things, but it doesn't fail to startle Minho anyway every time he reaches for his phone to respond to something Seungmin has said and realize that there is a history that can be traced on his screen. He and Seungmin have never been the texting type. They would respond to the group chats when necessary, when expected, but their own relationship had been reserved for face-to-face conversations. In this way, there is no record of their relationship anywhere except in their mind, solely existent in the moment and nowhere else.

Though inevitable, Minho anticipates it to feel strange. Different the way everything else has been different, and thus bearable for as long as he doesn't linger on it.

김승민 (KSM): How do you feel about poetry readings?

When Seungmin texts it’s always apropos of nothing. Objectively, this makes sense. This is how most people converse. Unless asked, Minho never knows what exactly goes on in Seungmin’s life to give him time to respond, to make him want to spark conversation, to let him think of Minho enough to say something. And most of the time, Minho doesn’t.

이민호 (LMH): Pretentious

김승민 (KSM): But you're an idol who sings and raps

김승민 (KSM): Technically rapping is a form of poetry

이민호 (LMH): I've always been more of a dancer

In truth he does like the act of writing lyrics, and in that sense, writing poetry. He wonders if Seungmin knows that. He wonders if Seungmin has figured out that Minho is contrarian by default, for all he feels relatively subdued for the most part when they meet in-person. He wonders if Seungmin can tell, if some subconscious part of him knows that Minho is holding something back. It’s a silly thought. There’s no reason why he would be able to know. This is not the Seungmin who Minho trades barbs with. Not the Seungmin who Minho never had to wonder about what he was up to because he was always around, an arm’s reach away.

김승민 (KSM): Yes, yes, Lee Know, main dancer of Stray Kids. Best in the industry

Minho’s hand twitches, torn between berating Seungmin for exaggerating and goading him into praising him some more. He does neither, which is fine; three dots float on screen, meaning Seungmin has more to say. Minho has not yet gotten used to the way Seungmin talks about Stray Kids, like it’s apart from him, something that belongs to Minho and everyone else but him. He’s gotten better used to the pretense Seungmin puts of knowing them, not as an all-knowing member, but as a starry-eyed enthusiast.

김승민 (KSM): Still. You should go with me to one. Maybe you'll change your mind

He doesn’t know if Seungmin has always been this—audacious, if that’s the right word. It seems too much to say it’s bravery, when maybe it’s only that way to Minho, who has always, deep down, felt nothing short of terrified. For some reason, it’s hard to recall; he had never stopped to think about it.

이민호 (LMH): Sounds sketchy

김승민 (KSM): It's not like other poetry readings. They do them all in English

이민호 (LMH): That's fucked up

김승민 (KSM): I think they began as a program to practice speaking, then it grew into a thing of its own. It’s helpful whenever I visit America or some other country. Improves my English

이민호 (LMH): But you don't need that. You already know English

He says it without thinking, belatedly realizing the way in which he slipped when Seungmin doesn’t reply two seconds after.

김승민 (KSM): How do you know that?

이민호 (LMH): I just do

이민호 (LMH): You look like someone who would know it

김승민 (KSM): I see

If this were a conversation they were having in-person, the way Minho is used to knowing Seungmin, speaking to him, the silence would terrify Minho, making him feel like he has slipped up—the exact way he feels now, tense all over, but at least the tangible presence of Seungmin would remind Minho that he is here. Through a screen, the silence feels deafening. So much uncertainty. Unless he asks, he doesn’t know. And Minho doesn’t.

김승민 (KSM): So what do you think? Why don't we go to improve your English?

The text startles a surprised laugh out of him. He’s the only one awake in the van, and the sudden sound he makes causes a member or two to stir, though it’s not enough to rouse them. At that moment, he had almost forgotten that he wasn’t alone. Almost forgotten that he wasn’t actually with Seungmin, having this conversation beside him.

이민호 (LMH): Fuck you

김승민 (KSM): ;)

Perhaps what is strangest is this: how easy it is to feel like nothing has actually changed, even if it is all different.

He carries a loss only he knows and feels. He expects this fact to fracture his reality, especially with the way memories of what he remembers from where he actually comes from and what this world tells him he allegedly lived constantly overlap. It doesn’t. He deals with it all a lot better than he thinks he ought to. He doesn’t go crazy. He copes. He pretends. And because the grief is his alone, pretending is easy. There’s no one to call him out on the oddness of his behavior, no one to notice the inconsistencies of this world they live in compared to the world that should be.

In the first few months he spent a lot of time considering what he could do to go back. But figuring out how to go back meant trying to figure out how he got here, and though he understood the what of his actions, he did not know the why of the outcome, so he could never truly know what he needed to know. After that, he did not attempt to find much; science had never made much sense to him to begin with, and even science could only barely theorize the predicament Minho was in. If he wasn’t so stubborn, he’d be able to completely convince himself that his actual life had been an incredibly vivid dream, not worth pursuing, not worth believing.

To an extent he looked at the impossibility of his situation as a genuine consequence. Something he could not hope to rectify, only live with at its full brunt. He had fucked up. He had to live with it. There was no penance, no rewinds. Punished for his ingratitude. Tormented by his impulsivity, too far brought along by the power of his irrational emotions that had led him here.

“Earth to hyung,” Hyunjin cuts in. “What are you staring at?”

It’s seven chairs that have been laid out behind the long table onstage. Seven chairs because they’re seven members. Minho knows this, but he can’t help himself; he still keeps on expecting someone to bring in that extra chair. Though their seats are spread out to maximize the table’s space neatly, Minho thinks it ought to be a little more cramped, just to accommodate one more, a part of him inevitably expecting to be told by the staff to cram himself beside the others. Of course, that doesn’t happen. They sit down without preamble. Their first fan event in what they all agree to be ages, but they still know the exact way this will go and it’s going to go along without a hitch.

“Nothing,” Minho says. “Just slept like shit last night. I’m a bit,” He doesn’t finish, electing to vaguely wave his hand in response.

Hyunjin nods like he understands. “Maybe you need to invest in soundproof walls. Or, you know, you can just tell Yongbok and Jisung to ease up.”

“What are you talking about?”

The doors swing open and the noise that spills out drowns any chance of further conversation. Stray Kids is going to sing and talk about the new mixtape they’re working on, a standard fansign, similar to any other. The members had been careful to not really mention the mixtape around him, aware that he’s not the happiest with it even after the song had been molded in accordance with his directions and decision, as reflective as it could be to the original sound that plays in Minho’s mind. He’s not going to perform it. Really, even after it’s produced and released, he doesn’t know what he wants to do with it. He can’t imagine singing it live. Can’t imagine singing it onstage alone.

Fans clamor to get in, excited for the chance to see them. There are familiar faces and new ones, mostly women, but he can see the shape of different frames, the rarer stroke of male fans. They come bearing gifts of different sorts, armed with conversations they can cram into a few minutes, hoping to leave an impression on them with something charming or memorable. For the most part, concerts aside, Minho likes fansigns best. They remember most of their fans, especially the regular ones, and the male ones, because they’re so rare, tend to stand out. He expects this fansign to go normally, successfully but unremarkably.

Except—there’s something skittish about the fans. They’re here for them, the group, but their attention is also split elsewhere and they do a poor job of hiding it. The members exchange glances, not sure what it could be, but they let the queue start, beginning conversation with the fans who come to stand before them and pushing aside whatever it is that is causing a stir, confident that it isn’t clearly concerning enough for the staff to tell them anything else. Minho thinks he should ask, but he gets distracted by something the fan whose album he’s signing for asks. Oppa, you seem so low energy these days. Are things alright?

There are a lot of questions like that. It takes Minho a while to realize that he’s the only one who really gets them. He needs to get a grip, he thinks. He’s been overly complacent, a bit too aloof of his own image that isn’t characteristic of him. Even if he doesn’t feel like it is, even if no one in the group calls him out on it, it’s bad if it bleeds into his work, worse if complete strangers recognize that something has happened, or Minho has changed. I hope whatever’s weighing you down will pass, someone tells him. I hope things will be alright. At some point the sentiments blur together.

A new row of fans walk up to the stage. The first male one, it occurs to him, and he presumes that’s why the people around them begin muttering, even though it shouldn’t be a shock. Minho doesn’t understand until the figure moves closer, and eventually pulls down the mask he wears. Whenever people tell him of hope, he thinks of it like a flame—a beacon of light that can be easily snuffed out, burning and fragile, too sacred to touch.

Without even realizing it, Minho is the first to speak. “So you're the one who’s been hogging all the attention.”

“I would never dare,” Seungmin replies, handing over his album.

“I thought I told you that you didn’t have to do this just to talk.”

“Who says I’m here just to talk to you?” Seungmin muses. “I’m here to talk to all of you. I’m here for me. This is a fansign, after all, isn’t it? For the fans.”

It dawns on Minho that Seungmin is being genuine, that he always meant it when he said he was a fan, but Minho couldn’t quite believe it until this moment, holding the album Seungmin has bought to support and see them in his own hands. They are enveloped in distant chatter that feels inquisitive and prodding; it’s public knowledge that Minho and Seungmin know each other, but this is something else. Not some kind of outing that can be photographed by the press. This is something more intimate, a space between the group and their supporters; it’s the kind of thing that would normally make headlines with accusations of Seungmin, a celebrity, intruding here, but that’s not what will happen. Seungmin belongs here, just not the way Minho expects him to be. Part of the latter, not the former.

“Is this your first fansign?” Minho finds himself asking.

“It is, actually,” Seungmin admits. “Being a pro doesn’t really get me any favors, especially when it comes to you guys.” He waves the album that Minho has returned to him. “I was lucky, this time around.”

They don’t touch. Minho is not the type of person eager to hold hands with fans, male or female, particular about his personal space in ways the fans have caught and respect. But when Seungmin moves away Minho finds himself leaning forward, hands twitching, desiring to reach for him. It’s disorienting to see him here, knowing it should be but feeling like it shouldn’t. As if pieces have fallen into place, but they’re not pieces he recognizes.

When Seungmin moves to the next member, it’s even further proof that he’s honest about what he’s saying, that he’s not solely here for Minho, because they personally know each other, because they are what can be construed as friends, even without being idols together. Minho doesn’t recognize this—Seungmin as a fan—any more than he recognizes Seungmin as a professional athlete, but he carries it well, nonetheless, talking about something nearly inane but interesting with Jeongin as he waits for his album to be signed. And why shouldn’t he? Seungmin is all these things, it’s all he knows himself as. It’s all everyone else knows him to be. It’s just Minho, the outlier. The one who looks twice when no one else even bats an eye.

Later, when it inevitably comes up online, causing netizen chatter, Minho ignores it. The members are not the same. One time after he leaves the shower stalls, Changbin’s in the changing room, watching something on his phone—Seungmin, in an interview. Minho hip checks Changbin in annoyance, knowing exactly what he’s doing, but Changbin only responds by increasing the volume. Minho rummages through his locker, shoving his old gym clothes in his duffel. The interviewer is surprised when Seungmin admits he’s been a fan for a long time. Do you have a favorite member? He asks.

Of course, Seungmin says. It’s Lee Know.

In truth, what messes Minho up the most about all this was that it’s not always grief. It isn’t always terrible. For the most part, it isn’t at all. It’s too easy to live in ignorance, as if nothing is amiss, so long as he chooses not to care. But at the end of the day, he will still remember where he is and why. He can never not care. Maybe that’s the real punishment.

It occurs to Minho, perhaps an incredibly belated revelation, that Seungmin must like him.

There’s a near permanent lilt to his voice when he talks to Minho, clearly thrilled to be in his presence, to capture his attention. Whenever Seungmin and Minho meet, Seungmin is all soft edges of barely hidden fondness that contrast with his sharp, serious attitude on the field. The behavior is stark and the only reason Minho doesn’t think about it when he would for anyone else because that’s how Seungmin had been with him even before, outside of this world, this life, pushy and playful, and that in itself might be the problem, that Minho’s default is to brush it aside when he should know better.

Minho never agrees to go with Seungmin on his eclectic interest in English poetry readings, but that doesn’t seem to deter Seungmin. After inviting him to a game that Minho ends up not being able to attend, Seungmin convinces him to come to the afterparty. The afterparty is in a three-story bar, divided between those who want to dance and those who want to lounge. When Minho meets Seungmin, he has an empty drink in his hand. “C’mon,” he says, dragging Minho into the dancefloor without waiting for Minho’s response. He beams when Minho doesn’t only not protest despite the crowd of sweaty bodies around them, but he begins to move to the body, feeling the rhythm from the music the DJ plays on his set. It’s good music. Despite the loud thrum of the music, Minho can hear Seungmin say, bemused, “At least you’re not one of those dancers who hate dancing.”

“What kind of dancer would I be if I did?”

Seungmin shrugs. “When your job is something you love, eventually it becomes something you hate.”

Minho doesn’t really have anything to say to that, more preoccupied with the newfound realization that Seungmin likes dancing, swaying without care for how he looks, low effort and silly, even though Minho never pegged him to be the type. Minho doesn't know if this is one of those things that make him different from the Seungmin Minho knows, or Minho just never had the chance to find out. This sort of thing has never really been Stray Kids’ scene. For the most part, Minho considers this to be a luxury, something he only does with his non-group, non-idol friends. Seungmin falls into this category now.

They leave about five songs later, after the DJ begins a new mix with tracks they don’t recognize. Seungmin takes the lead, letting them make a detour for the bar to retrieve two bottles of soju before they make their way up the narrow staircase. Minho doesn’t think of himself as old, but this makes him feel especially young in a way he can’t describe, in a way he never felt like he was allowed.

They enter a room filled with a different crowd listening to different music—a live R&B cover band, with a modest audience spread out across chairs and the floor, drinking and chatting. Minho expects them to linger here, but Seungmin walks past them after nodding to a few people who notice them pass by. They walk past the band to slide the door open, leading to a spacious balcony that is unoccupied. Conveniently, there are two chairs and a table with a half-finished pack of cigarettes and a lighter. The music from inside is a fainter backdrop than the traffic going on below them. The air is awfully damp, as if it had just rained, even if the skies had been clear today.

“Wow,” Minho begins. “I thought the poetry reading was a lot, but this is too much. Are we sure you’re a baseball player and not some pompous literature student?”

“What, you don’t think I’m allowed to have some hobbies? I do have a personality outside of my job.” Seungmin pushes aside the cigarettes to set down their drinks, twisting open the caps for the both of them. “If it helps, it usually isn’t like this. Tonight was just different, because I was in charge of planning it, and I wanted it to be a little special.”

They don’t regularly drink, as a group. Minho looks at the ease in which Seungmin chugs his beer and realizes he’ll never know if Seungmin has always had this sort of thing in him or if it’s just a product of his environment, being part of a team that often partakes in these sorts of things. Minho doesn’t really understand how it works. He always understood afterparties to occur in celebration of something, but he doesn’t know what is there to celebrate. “I thought the Lotte Giants didn’t win.”

“We didn’t. We rarely win. We’re good but not that good. We barely even qualify half the time.”

If Seungmin hadn’t told him, there’s no way Minho would’ve known. Seungmin is good on the field though, even if his team isn’t the best of the best. Minho knows this for certain even if he’s undeniably biased and lacks reference, because that’s what everyone else agrees on too, even if their opinions on Lotte Giants vary. “So what makes tonight special?”

“Well, you’re here,” Seungmin says, matter of fact, like it’s a casual fact that should be glossed over and has no weight to it. “Anyway, I’m glad you came. I still think you would’ve enjoyed the poetry reading.”

Minho takes a gulp of the alcohol. He highly doubts that, he wants to say, but he can’t stop thinking about what Seungmin said before that. “Seungmin.”

“‘So I would have had him leave, so I would have had her stand and grieve,’” Seungmin says, reciting something he seems to know from memory. “So he would have left as the soul leaves the body torn and bruised, as the mind deserts the body it has used.’”

Minho finds himself looking through the bottleneck, searching for the bottom. “My English isn’t that good.”

“It’s my favorite poem,” Seungmin says. “La Figlia che Piange.”

“That’s not English.”

“It isn’t,” Seungmin agrees.

“I’m not like you,” Minho says, “I’m a lot more boring.”

Seungmin taps the bottom of Minho’s bottle, forcing Minho to lower it. They are much closer than Minho initially realized. “You’re the most interesting person I’ve met, actually,” Seungmin tells him, and the words tickle Minho’s cheeks.

Minho’s eyes meet Seungmin’s. There’s that strange curling feeling in his stomach, he thinks, the kind he only gets when he looks into Seungmin’s eyes. There’s that something he cannot put into words—that makes Seungmin so hard to ignore, that makes Minho unable to comprehend doing so. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” Seungmin says, honest, but he must think Minho doesn’t believe him, because he leans forward and presses his lips against Minho’s, as if trying to prove something. He doesn’t taste of alcohol, only something lightly peachy. In no world have they ever been like this, but Minho can’t help but find this familiar, the way their mouths slot together. It’s a short kiss, one that passes faster than he thinks he could respond to, but when it finally ends, Seungmin looks slightly surprised himself. “Guess that wasn’t as unrequited as I thought it was,” he says. “I didn’t think you were going to let me do that.”

Seungmin smiles toothily, realizing before Minho does of his own bodily reactions; that he’s visibly flushed, the tips of his ears red, that he had leaned forward in that moment, reciprocating Seungmin’s affections. Seungmin kissed me, he thinks, with no shortage of dread. I kissed him. This is not how things are supposed to go. This was how we ended up here in the first place.

It happened because he made a wish. It happened because one night, a night a bit too similar, partially parallel, to that moment they shared on the bar balcony, Seungmin told Minho that he was in love with him.

Rather than a balcony, it was on the rooftop of Minho and Jisung’s dorm building. Minho didn’t normally go here, but on that day, because it was his birthday, Jisung had asked the landlord to let them rent out the rooftop to give them a private space to celebrate, something different than celebrating in a restaurant or in their living rooms. It was supposed to be a surprise, but Minho had climbed to the rooftop of his own volition, no prompting needed, and found the decor they definitely bought last minute and portable furniture he didn’t even know they owned and food that was definitely outside of their dietary list all prepared. No one was there but him. Out of courtesy he texted the members to let them know he knew about their plan, but would still play along by pretending to not know any better to not make the surprise aspect go in vain. He decided to wait by the fire escape stairs, where he was carefully out of sight if anyone wanted to find him.

Regardless, someone dropped down the stairs beside him a few minutes later. “I think it’s a bit too early to have an existential crisis, hyung,” Seungmin started.

Minho did not acknowledge him. As far as birthdays went, this was relatively uneventful, in all the good ways and bad. They had a schedule for the majority of the day, and if not for the greetings he’d been given and the anticipation of a party later in the evening, he would have thought there was nothing remarkable about today. He was not here for any particular reason, though he wondered to himself why he did not come here more frequently. It was a beautiful view of the city. Even if he wasn’t really the type, it was an ideal place to introspect, to have a conversation. “Fuck off. Shouldn’t you be with the others?”

“I’m returning the favor,” Seungmin replied. Minho did not understand what he was talking about until Seungmin clarified, “You ambushed me on my birthday too, remember?”

“That wasn’t an ambush,” Minho said, though he had, according to Changbin, arguably cornered Seungmin at the beginning of his day. Despite the jokes about private time from the others, Minho had only wanted to get Seungmin alone to give his present. He did not want to give it in front of the others, though it was nothing particularly private or embarrassing, and it wasn't as if they never gave each other gifts. It was rare, however, and typically done in pair or group fashion. This one had been by Minho alone, and he hadn’t even planned on giving Seungmin anything until he saw it and was overcome with an urgent need to buy it, simply to see how Seungmin would react. “That implies I attacked you, when I was in fact being very generous.”

Seungmin was wearing the gift now, the Lotte Giants cap with his name embroidered at the side, which Minho didn’t know to be purposeful or not. It looked very nice on him, but it was slightly askew, not fitted right, and Minho found himself absentmindedly reaching over to adjust the cap and smoothen his hair. Seungmin poked his tongue out when Minho’s hand nearly grazed his cheek in an attempt to tease Minho, but Minho only rolled his eyes, unbothered. “The most generous hyung,” Seungmin intoned solemnly. “In any case, I’m just here to keep you company. Wouldn’t want you to be alone on your birthday.”

It was not the first time Minho had seen him wear it, though he brought it out quite infrequently. Minho remembered Seungmin’s reaction when Minho had given it, the way his lips parted in surprise and then his cheeks turned red in flattery. Hyung, I—you, do you… he began then, and Minho did not know why, but he thought Seungmin was going to ask something, confess something. But instead, the only thing Seungmin could respond, clenching the cap tightly in his hands, like he couldn’t believe it was real and didn’t want to let it go, was, thank you.

Minho had felt nervous then. He shrugged. You don’t have to react like that, he found himself saying. I know I don’t really do this sort of thing, but it can’t be that big of a deal.

I guess so, Seungmin said. But it came from you, so—it kind of is.

Something familiar but unacknowledged crawled into Minho’s chest and settled itself there. If you wanted me to buy you more presents, you could just say, Minho said, feeling both awkward and slightly irked by it. I’m a good hyung too.

I know, Seungmin replied, smoothening out the creases he had made on Minho’s present. Would you believe me if I said you’re my favorite?

No.

Seungmin only laughed.

“Given how much the lot of us are always together, I’d say that would actually be a luxury,” Minho commented. But despite his words, he did not protest when Seungmin knocked their shoulders together and rested his weight on him. “You’re annoying, y’know. I know you’re here because you’re after something. Out with it.”

Seungmin blinked guilelessly. “What makes you think I’m after something?”

“I just do,” Minho said. “I know you. You’ve been—” Not hyper, not fussy, but. “Jittery. Though I don’t know why. Nothing’s happened, nothing’s going on today.”

“Well, it is your birthday.”

“Keep on acting this way and I’ll smack you so hard you’ll fall off the building.”

“No you won’t,” Seungmin said, not smugly, but something close. “You’re always nicer than you pretend to be. To me, especially.”

Minho shifted. “Well, that's what I get for lumping myself with you for years in this group,” he said. “You wore me down.”

Seungmin hummed. “I've been trying to read more poetry to get inspiration to write lyrics. I need the crutch, I'm not like the rest of you where I can just think of a good line out of the blue.”

“I'd say Jisung would argue that he draws from life, not out of nowhere.”

Seungmin waved a hand. “Same thing, when it comes to him.”

Minho could not contest that. “And?”

“It's mostly boring,” Seungmin admitted. “But I've read a few good ones. In English. If I read Korean poetry and get inspired there I might get accused of copying.”

“What a stupid thing to get worked up over.”

“We do what we can to keep up,” Seungmin reasoned. “‘I should find some way incomparably light and deft, some way we both should understand, simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.’”

“So this is why you cornered me? To tell me about pretentious poetry you've been reading? I bet you only know one English poem.”

“Believe it or not, the title isn't even in English,” Seungmin said. “The poem is about love, in case you were wondering.”

Mainly Minho was wondering about the group. Distantly he heard noise coming from above, the members likely gradually filing in, doing last minute preparations. He wondered when they would call for him. He wondered why Seungmin didn't join them, and was here instead. “I wasn’t,” he said, glancing at him wryly, and pausing when he noticed Seungmin’s eyes not meeting his gaze, looking elsewhere. “Seungmin.”

Minho did not know what his tone conveyed, did not know what he was really thinking when he said Seungmin’s name, because in truth he wasn’t thinking of much, the way it always was around Seungmin—where he never really let himself linger on the idea of them, on anything between or about them. But to Seungmin, it must have sounded like permission, because a beat later, so fast before Minho could even say anything else, Seungmin closed the distance between them and kissed him, short and purposefully.

It was only for a split second. Minho did not move, even when Seungmin pulled away.

“Seungmin,” he said again, with a more notable edge in his voice. “Why did you do that?”

“Because I’m in love with you.”

Immediately, Minho said, “No, you’re not.”

Seungmin recoiled, startled by the suddenness in which Minho had said the words. “What?”

The hurt in his voice was palpable, so much so that a part of Minho wanted to reel back. But he had no reason to. It wasn’t like he was wrong. “You’re not in love with me.”

Snappingly, demandingly— “Where did you get that idea?”

Purposefully, this time, it was Minho who avoided Seungmin’s gaze. “You’re not in love with me,” he repeated. “You just think you are, because we’re in the same group. We’re always around each other. If we weren’t, it would be different. You would have—this never would have happened.”

The fuse had fizzled out. Seungmin’s voice had grown quiet, small. “Do you really think that lowly about me?”

No, Minho thought, unbidden. It wasn't that at all. But he could not bring himself to say it, and it must've shown on his face, because he saw from his periphery how Seungmin turned his head away too, the bravery that had let him say the words dissipating.

“I wonder,” Seungmin began. “I wish I knew what to do to make you believe me.”

But Minho did believe him, was the thing. He did not doubt that Seungmin loved him. It was just that Minho believed that Seungmin’s love was misguided.

They were interrupted by the shrill ring of Minho’s phone. It was Chan’s name that flashed on the screen, a signal that it was time and they were being called up for his birthday surprise. “We should go,” he only said.

When the celebration was underway, it was as if nothing had happened, as if nothing had monumental shifted between them. In some way, maybe nothing had. But now when Seungmin looked at him Minho looked back and recognized what exactly Seungmin was thinking, feeling, and to an extent, he always knew, but it was one thing to pretend and another to acknowledge it existed, and now it was out there in the open between them, causing a chasm that Minho could see growing until it swallowed them whole.

How cruel, Minho thought, as Jeongin lit the candle for the birthday cake, for Seungmin to do this. To admit his affection, because in admitting it they had to think about why, and the why was always the worst part.

After all, if Seungmin loved him because of proximity, it meant that was why Minho loved him too. And that was the worst thing of all. Because it meant it wasn’t really real.

“Make a wish,” Hyunjin urged him. A streak of light momentarily graced the night sky, so quick it almost wasn't even there. Minho closed his eyes, thinking—thinking only of Seungmin, at the end, and blew the candles. The fire, close to his face, was just as warm as Seungmin’s lips.

He had made a wish. What exactly he wished for, he no longer remembered, truthfully. For that moment to have never happened. For Seungmin to leave him alone.

Whatever he had wished for, he knew, when he woke up the next day and found himself in a place not so unlike his own, that it had come true. The only thing he knew for certain was that whatever he wished for, it was not for Seungmin to love him. Yet here they were anyway.

This time, in the wake of Seungmin’s confession, Minho said nothing. His arsenal of reasons meant nothing here. They were not in the same group, not put together by any stretch of circumstance. Seungmin had no reason to be here, except he was. He had no reason to be in love with Minho, and yet he kept on brushing his hand over Minho’s shoulders when they were out and crowding him in the kitchen island of his apartment to kiss him senseless. And Minho let him. He said nothing, but every moment Seungmin reached for him Minho not only met him halfway but always made sure to slot their fingers together. When Seungmin pinned him to the wall, Minho gripped him by the collar of his shirt and kissed him back.

When Cinema officially came out, they listened to it together. They listened to the mixtape in full, and Seungmin’s only interest in Cinema had been that it came from Minho, nothing else. “So you are a lyricist," he says, teasingly accusing, even though Minho thinks, I’m not, because these are your words.

Minho says nothing. Seungmin hums, murmurs, when you cannot find your way, I’ll be waiting.

The thoughts that normally eat him up are soothed by the new dynamic of their relationship, a little too pleasant that it feels like a gracious offer for a chance to forget the way things actually should be in lieu of the way things are now; waking up in Seungmin’s bedsheets, seeing Seungmin’s name flash on his screen when it’s downtime at work. Privacy to themselves given that their jobs involve being in constant proximity with others should be difficult, but they make it work almost seamlessly, as if things had naturally fallen into place the moment they kissed.

And that's what trips Minho up; the reality that this is easy. Simpler than it ought to be. Simpler than he deserves.

“Hyung,” Seungmin says thoughtfully, staring at the box in his hands like he doesn’t know what to make about it. Minho would think his reaction strange, as if he hadn’t ever seen this before even though this isn’t the first time he’s cooked Seungmin food—except it is, technically. Minho has made food for Seungmin, but never for this one. And even then, Minho nearly thinks of them as one and the same, only altered by circumstance. “Were these from my fridge?”

“Yes,” Minho answers, “So you can guess just how difficult this was to make, given how much you don’t have. I thought you said you cooked?”

“I haven’t really had the time lately,” Seungmin admits. “Someone’s been keeping me occupied during all my downtime.”

“I’d be careful about mocking the person feeding you,” Minho warns. “I could’ve put poison in that. Or a laxative.”

“If you make me enough of these lunches with those, I’ll just develop immunity,” Seungmin replies factually. His watch beeps and he pulls a face. “It’s Coach now, that's my cue, I guess.” He strides to the door, slipping the container inside his duffel, before he pauses, glancing back at Minho. “Sure you can’t still be here when I get back?”

Minho shakes his head. “Radio show.”

Seungmin nods. “I’ll tune in.”

“You'll be too tired to listen to that.”

“You should wake me up by calling before you're on,” Seungmin decides. “Do you think that's romantic? Me waking up to the sound of your voice.”

“Don't be gross,” Minho tells him. “Go before your coach decides to call you.”

He doesn’t call before he has to enter the studio, but before he leaves the apartment he rummages through Seungmin’s cupboards and manages to find enough decent ingredients to make a good coffee. Real coffee, Minho had written in the note he attached to the mug. None of that overpriced watered down stuff from the coffee shop we always go to. We should just make our own, it would sell better.

During the quick break in between the radio interview Minho just gets two messages.

김승민 (KSM): Implying we should be business partners before asking me to be your boyfriend is crazy stuff, hyung

He must’ve seen the read receipt immediately, because it’s followed by:

김승민 (KSM): But before you ask

김승민 (KSM): The answer is yes

이민호 (LMH): Didn’t ask

김승민 (KSM): I think we’d be a great unit, don’t you think?

More than you’d know, Minho can’t help but think, bittersweet.

Minho knows dates. He's gone on a few. Though difficult given his status, it's almost inevitable given his social circles, but he never had a partner. Never let himself commit. But at the same time, he thinks he's always sort of known romance too, and could never actualize it when it was easy to deny that it was just that. But he has always loved Seungmin, and without the pretense of a need to always be together, he knows just how much he just wants them to be.

It's why a part of him, almost cruelly, entirely selfishly, thinks that this is better. And he wonders if his own ugly selfishness can descend to new lows if he can let go of his guilt, of his grief for what used to be his world, his life, when this is just as pleasant. Almost better, because with Seungmin he is completely sure. It's not as if life is worse here. Not as if Stray Kids is doing badly, it's not as if Seungmin isn't happy. It feels too easy, as if the only thing making this difficult is Minho's own stubbornness.

The seasons come and go without Minho realizing it. Seungmin's birthday happens in what feels like a blink, a day spent mostly with his team and an evening spent with family, and where Minho gets to have all of him is after everything, lying in bed, watching a series Seungmin is hellbent on finishing even though Minho doesn't know a thing about it. When October rolls around, a few days before Minho’s own birthday, Minho invites Seungmin over to his parents’ house for no other reason than for him to meet Soonie, Doongie, Dori.

“You know,” Seungmin begins, hovering his finger over Soonie’s nose to let him sniff him. “You could’ve never been anything but a three-cat person to me.”

“Ha,” Minho says, because it’s funny even though this is Seungmin’s first time meeting them and he can’t know any better.

“Where are your parents?” Seungmin says.

“Vacation,” he answers. “They won’t be back until next week.”

“Aw,” says Seungmin. “I would’ve liked to meet them.”

His parents liked Seungmin enough, the way they liked the other members. Almost unremarkably so, except for the purposeful pause they would make before responding to a comment or complaint Minho made every time it was about Seungmin, as if they saw something they knew Minho knew but didn’t want to acknowledge. And of course, when they know him. When they knew him, in another life.

“As my boyfriend?” Minho asks.

“As Seungmin,” replies Seungmin. “As someone you love, I guess.”

“I don’t remember ever saying that.”

“I’m pretty sure when I bent you over, you—”

“Don’t listen to him,” Minho says, kneeling to cup Soonie’s ears. “He’s one of those people who like to spread false information.”

Seungmin ends up not meeting Minho’s parents, but he does get to meet the members—different from before, when he was in the fanmeet. At the time he was there as a fan, a sincere one who spoke to them like they were people he idolized and not people who were his equals. A day after introducing the cats, Minho gets Seungmin a front row ticket to the Stray Kids concert and invites him backstage just because he can, just because he wants a bit more time with him.

He’s polite and flustered, after knocking on the dressing room door and Chan lets him in. The guys are amused and rib at Minho a little, trusting Seungmin but not knowing him. To them, he is an outsider. A welcome outsider, certainly, but an outsider still. They know him but they don’t know him, and they’re not that deeply interested in doing so. What reason do they have to, past how Minho cares for him? And for all Seungmin likes them, Stray Kids is just a band to him. There is distance, the kind that Seungmin doesn’t want to cross unless he has to, unless Minho asks him to. It shouldn’t surprise him, but the sight of Seungmin in the dressing room with them, right where he should belong and yet doesn’t, disorients Minho.

Minho sneaks them to the stage at Seungmin’s request. Normally this sort of thing isn’t allowed when things need to be cleaned up and it’s unfair to make the cleanup crew wait, but because the concert had gone so well the group had pitched in to treat their production staff and the employees of the venue to takeout dinner and they’re all huddled backstage, enjoying it before heading off to work. It means they have a short window of time for privacy, but it’s worth it, Minho thinks, seeing the way Seungmin cautiously roams around, as if he almost can’t believe it, as if he hasn’t been on a stage this big with Minho countless times.

He watches from the stage wings as Seungmin comes to the edge of the center and stays there, staring directly at the sea of empty seats before him in what feels like contemplative silence. Minho wonders what he’s feeling, if he feels anything, being here. Minho himself feels strange, a contrarian mix of feeling vulnerable for letting Seungmin into a space that’s technically Minho’s own and feeling angry at the thought that he now distinguishes the two like separate worlds, where Seungmin exists and where Stray Kids does, when they’ve always meant to be together, and that they’re separate now because of his own doing.

About half of the lights are still on, the confetti strewn around on the floor. If Seungmin had makeup on, if his clothes were more fanciful, decorative, similarly designed to Minho’s, it would be as if—

“If,” he starts, the words spilling out before he can think about it, “In another life, if you could envision doing something else, do you ever think it would be something like this? Music?”

“Why do you say that?”

Minho shrugs. “They say you have a lovely voice.”

“I don’t know,” Seungmin admits, and there’s something about the way he says it—without bemusement, without need to flirt or add something sappy like what he does know is that he would be by Minho’s side, without a clue of an answer, without a possibility to find out. “I wouldn’t know. I didn’t live that life, after all. I live in this one.”

“Do you like what you do?” Minho asks, suddenly startled by the fact that he never thought to ask it before. He just—presumed, maybe, that Seungmin did. “You look like you do.”

Seungmin pauses. “I like it enough,” he settles on. “I don’t love it though. It’s a career, and I’m good at it, and I got the chance to prove just how good I am at it, so here I am.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No. It just is what it is,” Seungmin replies. “I don’t know what the answer would be, when that’s not what happened.”

But it did happen. And that—this very moment, this very truth that Seungmin has unknowingly laid out, is exactly what breaks Minho. He can’t be here. He likes it here, but it’s not right. This is not his life, this is not his Seungmin. And if Minho pretends that it is, or that it doesn’t matter, it means that Seungmin would have never gotten to live the life that’s actually his own and not this product of Minho’s illmade wish.

Once, about this time last year, he accused Seungmin of only loving him because of circumstance. And even if Minho doesn’t know how to get out of here, how to reverse it, if he chooses to let it go and let this world be the way it is, embrace it as his own—it would mean that he’s just as bad. It would mean he doesn’t truly love Seungmin.

“You’re right,” Minho agrees quietly.

Seungmin sits down, letting his head dangle over the edge. “What do you want to do on your birthday?”

“Whatever you want,” Minho says, walking towards him. “Believe it or not, I’ve never been a fan of those things.”

Despite how there’s enough space, Seungmin scoots to let Minho sit beside him. “That’s great,” Seungmin says. “It means you have low standards.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Well, my building has a nice rooftop,” considers Seungmin. “We can probably have a picnic there and watch the stars. I’ll bake you a cake during that morning, so make sure to be busy until then. But if it goes badly, I’ll buy from that cake shop we were curious about when we passed by.”

“I see,” replies Minho blandly. “I have a schedule during the day anyway, so it should be fine.”

“Perfect.” Seungmin nods. “What would you wish for?”

“I don’t think that’s the sort of thing you’re supposed to say.”

“Then don’t tell me,” Seungmin says smoothly. “But would you know? What to wish for?”

“Who knows.”

Seungmin hums. “You don’t think it’s stupid? Knowing that it won’t come true?”

Minho almost says yes, but the thing is—his wish did come true. And it dawns on him; it did come true, once. Who’s to say it can’t come true again? It’s the first spark of a hopeful thought, yet Minho is just as startled to realize how equally terrifying it is, the possibility of it.

He realizes that Seungmin is still waiting for him to answer. “It’s not stupid,” he says. “Some can’t, but others… maybe they could.”

“I guess if everyone’s wish came true, it would be the only thing people look forward to when their birthday comes.”

“Aside from being with people they care about, maybe,” Minho says. “Would that be the worst thing?”

“No,” Seungmin says, “I mean, I wouldn’t hold it against you, so long as your wish is about me.”

Minho stares at him, but Seungmin’s expression has gone from pondering to something almost carefree. “Not that you’d ever know.”

“Not that I’d ever know,” Seungmin agrees, leaning on Minho’s shoulder and looping his arm around Minho’s. “And I don’t really need to. Whatever your wish, it wouldn’t be about me anyway. It’s about you.”

“You just said to make a wish about you.”

“And it would still be about you, in the end,” Seungmin replies. “What you wish for, who you wish for—says more about you than anything else.”

“What do you think I would say?”

“Hopefully something about how much you love me,” he says. “But I don’t know if I really need a wish for that, to know.”

Seungmin is better than him, in that regard. Maybe in every one, when Minho thinks about it. “How do you do it?”

He’s playing with Minho’s hands now. “Do what?”

“Be sure about what you feel.”

“I just am,” says Seungmin. He does not seem to think much of Minho’s questions, why he feels the need to ask this sort of thing, because he is lost. “But I don’t think it matters how sure I am about what I feel. I think it matters more if you’re sure of it.”

“I see,” Minho says again, before pausing. “I would know, by the way. What I would wish for.”

“Okay.” Seungmin nods. “If it ever is a 50/50, I feel like you’d be on the lucky side.”

Minho closes his eyes, just for a moment. It’s almost funny. “You’re just biased to me.”

“Definitely,” Seungmin agrees. “You’re my favorite, after all.”

“Make a wish,” someone says. It takes a moment for Minho to realize that it’s Hyunjin.

He blinks. There is a lit candle before him. A cake that says happy birthday. Several people—seven people—stand around him, anticipating.

It is the night of his birthday. Hyunjin tells him to make a wish. The memories rush back—not only the record of what had transpired for the past year, but also what had happened minutes ago. Everything had changed, after this moment. But right now, he realizes, nothing yet has.

Minho blows the candle. Everyone cheers. They slice the cake for each of them to get a piece and the conversation progresses like he remembers it does from memory, mundane and unaltered despite how Minho is nearly shell-shocked at the realization of what has just happened, what has just been given to him. A wish. A reversal. A shot.

When they part ways it's half an hour before midnight. Minho offers to be the one to clean up, and though Jisung wants to join him, Minho waves him off. He wants a little more time to enjoy the night, he reasons.

But when the rest filter out, he grabs Seungmin’s arm. Seungmin startles and glances back.

“Hey,” Minho says, breathless. “Can we talk?”

Seungmin nods, even if he looks doubtful. Minho is almost struck by how young he looks, which is both a thought that makes sense given everything that happened and is completely irrational given what technically didn’t.

The first thing Seungmin does is ghost his fingers along the soda cans, pondering, before he grabs one of the half-finished soju bottles instead. Minho should be disgusted. Instead he’s unsurprised, although a bit amused, despite everything. “You didn’t make a wish.”

Rather than the picnic table bench, Minho watches Seungmin sit down on the picnic blanket. “What?”

“You blew your candle too fast,” Seungmin points out. “Too fast to have thought and made a wish.”

Minho pauses. “I don’t need that sort of crap in my life.”

“Good for you then,” Seungmin says, pulling his knees to his chest. “Guess I gotta wait ‘till next year to wish we never had that conversation.”

Though Minho knows he deserves it, he still winces. “I’m sorry,” he says, only for Seungmin to reply with a shrug. “But that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Seungmin stares down at his bottle. “If it’s a continuation of your lecture, I think I got the message.”

“It’s not,” Minho says. Seungmin turns to look at him, at that. “I’m sorry I said that. I was wrong. I know you—you have feelings for me. It's dumb to say it’s bullshit just because we have Stray Kids. It doesn't mean what you feel for me is worth anything less. It just… is. I don't think that lowly of you. I was just scared, but because I was scared, I hurt you, and—that's the last thing I want to do.”

Seungmin says nothing for a few moments. “Because?”

“Because?”

“Why is hurting me the last thing you want to do?” Seungmin asks. “Because you're my hyung? Because we’re in the same group?”

It was only a few hours ago that Seungmin said—I wish I knew what to do to make you believe me. Minho knows Seungmin still means it, but with their conversation now he can feel the way the tides have turned. Seungmin has always proved to Minho that he loved him. It may have taken a lot for Minho to realize it, but it doesn't make it any less true. So it's his turn now. “Because I love you too,” he tells him. “And if you don't believe me, it's okay. But if you'll let me prove it to you, I will. I’ll take you to my favorite grocery. I’ll memorize those stupid pretentious poems you’ll like. I’ll—”

“Kiss me, hyung,” Seungmin interrupts him. “Just fucking kiss me.”

Every time they had kissed they had been so close. It was as if those few seconds before it happened Seungmin already knew exactly what was going to happen and how to let it happen, naturally so, because he had been the one to make the first move. But now there is a gap of distance between them that Minho closes in a few strides, before he kneels, cups Seungmin’s face, and leans down.

Seungmin’s lips part slightly in surprise before he grabs Minho’s shoulders. Refusing to part, Minho ends up pushing him down, at the last minute making sure to move his hand to cradle Seungmin before his head hits the floor. Seungmin lets out a soft sound, and Minho moves away ever so slightly before chasing Seungmin again, kissing with him almost languidly, unlike every other time Seungmin had done it, quickly, as if to prove a point, because despite what he had said, the truth is Minho has nothing to prove. Seungmin loves him that much.

At some point they pull away, in part to seek air, in part because Minho wants to look at him. Seungmin must feel the exact same, because he stares at Minho as he wipes his mouth in bewilderment, as if a part of him still can’t believe this is happening. “Is that why you didn’t make a wish?”

“What?”

“Is that why you didn’t make a wish, so you could make mine come true instead?”

“I’ll punch you for that,” Minho deadpans, but Seungmin only grins, and the shock has faded in lieu of something more familiar, a bit sleazy for his comment, plenty reassured for how the atmosphere has settled, how while things are now different, it—it isn’t a bad change. Far from it. “The only thing I could wish for is to be sure about how I feel. But I don’t need a wish to know that. The me part doesn’t matter here. It’s you—you knowing it, more than anything.”

“Sounds poetic,” Seungmin muses. “Did you quote that from somewhere?"

“You’re the one with poems about love.”

“I don’t think there are many words for this though,” Seungmin says, reaching over to brush a finger over Minho’s cheek. “But maybe I can write a song about it.”

“Okay,” Minho says, trying his best not to chase after Seungmin’s touch as his hand drops to the floor. “Let’s make it together.”

“Alright,” Seungmin agrees softly. “Maybe after you kiss me again though.”

“Demanding,” Minho says, almost in reprimand, but he’s already moving regardless. “Good thing you’re my favorite too.”

He can feel the curve of Seungmin’s smile against his lips. It’s as if they’ve met all over again.