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Jaemin was a being of immense power, capable of leveling skyscrapers with a flick of his wrist and turning the most nefarious villains into literal dust bunnies. On paper, he was the most formidable entity in New York City.
In reality, he was wrapped in an oversized, fuzzy, mint-green sweater, three sizes too big, and a pair of equally voluminous grey sweatpants. His feet were shoved into fluffy bunny slippers that had seen better days. He was lying on his couch, which was covered in a mountain of throw pillows, watching a documentary about sloths. He felt a deep, spiritual kinship with them.
A distant explosion rattled his windows. He didn't even blink.
"Another one," he muttered, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth. Somewhere downtown, a giant, sentient garbage monster was probably terrorizing the Financial District. He could feel its oily, malevolent presence, a smudge on the city's psychic radar.
He also sensed at least three other heroes already on the scene. Iron Man, Spider-Man, and that new guy with the shiny suit. They had it covered.
"Let them have their glory," Jaemin thought, sinking deeper into the cushions. "Heroism is a nine-to-five job with terrible benefits and a 100% chance of getting your costume dirty. And don't even get me started on the costumes."
He shuddered, remembering the one time someone had tried to give him a "hero suit." It was red and blue and tighter than a python's hug. He'd taken one look at it and almost disintegrated the designer on the spot.
"Who the hell came up with spandex?" he muttered to his sloth documentary. "You know how much that hurts in the balls? It's like wearing a vice grip on your family jewels. And the chafing? Don't even get me started. I'd rather fight Thanos in my boxers and tank top. At least I'd be comfortable while getting my ass kicked."
This was Jaemin's life. He wasn't a hero. He wasn't a villain. He was a certified, card-carrying antihero, driven entirely by apathy and a deep-seated hatred for anything that required effort—or spandex. The heroes called him a dangerous, untapped resource. The villains called him a wildcard. The public, when they remembered him, called him 'The Lazy Disaster' or something equally unflattering. He didn't care. The only disaster he was interested in was the one involving his Netflix queue running out.
That was until Lee Haechan happened.
The first time was at a bodega. Jaemin was there for his third coffee of the day, a crucial component in his ‘Do Absolutely Nothing’ regimen. He was contemplating the existential crisis of a slightly overripe banana when a pair of thugs burst in, their leader a man with the personality of a brick and a gun almost as big.
Jaemin was about to sigh and simply disintegrate the gun with his mind when a blur of bright orange and sunshine moved past him.
“Excuse me! Sir!” a voice, clear and bright like a bell, chimed. “Please don’t do that! The shopkeeper is a lovely man who donates to the local animal shelter!”
Jaemin blinked. A young man, probably in his early twenties, with honey-brown skin and the biggest, roundest, most innocent eyes he’d ever seen, was standing between the thugs and the terrified shopkeeper. He was wearing a bright orange hoodie and had a smile on his face that was so earnest it was almost offensive.
“Get out of the way, kid!” the lead thug snarled.
“I can’t do that, sir. Violence is never the answer! How about I buy you a sandwich? The pastrami here is divine!” Haechan chirped, completely unphased.
The thug, predictably, didn’t want a sandwich. He lunged, and Haechan, with a yelp that sounded like a terrified puppy, tripped over a display of chips and fell right into Jaemin.
Jaemin, caught off guard, instinctively caught him. The world seemed to freeze. Haechan looked up at him, his pretty face flushed with exertion and panic, his eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears.
“Oh,” Haechan breathed, his gaze locking onto Jaemin’s. “An angel.”
Then he started crying.
Not angry, ugly crying. Pretty crying. Delicate, hiccupping sobs that made his shoulders shake. He was whimpering about how he’d almost died and how mean the man with the big gun was.
It was the most annoying sound Jaemin had ever heard. So ridiculously, pathetically annoying. It was so annoying, in fact, that without a second thought, he flicked his wrist. The thugs were suddenly encased in shimmering, purple energy and gently (and somewhat confusedly) deposited on the roof of the building across the street.
Haechan stopped crying instantly. The sheer, blinding joy that exploded across his face was like watching a thousand suns go supernova. He threw his arms around Jaemin’s neck, squeezing so tightly it was a miracle Jaemin didn’t pop like a balloon.
“You saved me! You’re my hero! My hero!” he squealed, and before Jaemin could protest, he planted a flurry of wet, enthusiastic kisses all over his cheek.
Jaemin stood frozen, his whole face tingling. The soft, brief pressure of Haechan’s lips had sent a shockwave through his system, a foreign and deeply unsettling feeling he had no name for.
“Don’t call me that,” Jaemin mumbled, peeling Haechan off him like a particularly sticky piece of candy. “It’s not… I’m not a hero.” He quickly used his power to teleport his coffee into his hand and fled.
It happened again. A week later, a building was on fire, and there was Haechan, trying to usher a family of terrified cats out of a dumpster in the back alley. A piece of debris was falling right towards him.
Jaemin, who had only been in the area because the pretzel stand on this block was the best in the city, appeared beside him, caught the debris, and tossed it aside.
Haechan’s face lit up. “My hero!” he cried, and before Jaemin could blink, he was being hugged and kissed again.
And again. A mugger. A runaway bus. A bunch of rogue drones. Every single time, Haechan was there, in the middle of it, trying to help, and Jaemin, who ‘just happened to be nearby’ (which was becoming suspiciously frequent), would save him.
And every single time, he got his reward: Haechan’s warm, tight hug, and the feeling of those soft, full lips peppering kisses across his cheeks. The ‘annoying’ whimpers turned into ‘endearing’ little sounds of relief.
It became… a thing. A Pavlovian response. A trigger. Jaemin would save him, and he would tense up in anticipation of the hug, his cheeks practically heating up before Haechan even touched him. He’d started to crave it, the feeling of being enveloped by Haechan’s sunshine.
He began to watch Haechan.
It wasn't stalking. It was… monitoring. For safety purposes, of course. He’d find himself perched on a rooftop, invisible to the naked eye, watching the pretty bear navigate his daily life. He’d watch Haechan coo at a pigeon on the street, giving it a piece of his croissant. He’d watch Haechan help an old lady with her groceries, his laugh echoing in the air. He’d watch Haechan talk to a wilting flower in a planter, whispering to it that it was a “good little plant” and that it should “try harder.”
It was the most ridiculous, heart-meltingly adorable thing Jaemin had ever seen. He was a princess. A literal, flesh-and-blood Disney princess.
Jaemin didn’t realize he was falling in love. He didn’t realize that the deep, primal anger he felt was because he cared. He didn’t realize that the urge to make Haechan smile was slowly overriding his dedication to apathy. He started picking up litter on his walks. He’d glare at a villain who was harassing a citizen, and the villain would be so unsettled by the usually-lazy powerhouse’s new, fiery gaze that they’d just run away. He’d actually help people now, not just Haechan. He’d do it in a flash, then go find his reward.
He and Haechan had become… friends. Haechan had decided that.
Haechan would show up at Jaemin’s apartment, unannounced, with ingredients to make Jaemin’s favorite foods. He’d nag him to shower, to put on something that “didn’t look like a quilt his grandmother made in the 70s,” and to get some fresh air. He’d drag Jaemin to the farmer’s market and make him carry all the heavy bags. And when Jaemin would grumble, Haechan would just poke his cheek and say, “You have super strength, silly! Stop complaining!”
Haechan was the only person in the world who wasn’t scared of him, who didn't care about his power. He scolded him when he made a snide remark about a crying child, and praised him when he used his powers to help a lost dog find its way home. He saw right through the apathetic, lazy facade, and it terrified Jaemin.
Then came the day that shattered his carefully constructed apathy.
A new villain, a massive, hulking brute made of living stone, had caused a building to collapse in the middle of the city. Jaemin was there in seconds, but he was too late. A piece of rubble had pinned Haechan against a wall. He was unconscious, a gash on his forehead, his pretty face pale and smeared with dirt.
A scream of pure, unadulterated rage tore from Jaemin’s throat. It wasn't a sound of a powerful being. It was a sound of a man whose heart was being ripped out. The ground trembled. A shockwave of pure energy erupted from him, pulverizing the stone villain into dust and sending debris flying for blocks.
He knelt beside Haechan, his hands shaking as he carefully lifted the rubble. He pulled Haechan into his arms, cradling him against his chest. Haechan’s head lolled back, a soft, pained whimper escaping his lips.
The sight of blood on his face, the feeling of his too-still body in his arms—it was like a bucket of ice water being thrown over him.
This is it. This is the feeling I’ve been avoiding. This is why I never let myself care.
He couldn’t breathe. The air was thick and suffocating. He felt his powers humming under his skin, desperate to heal, to fix, to do anything. He pressed a desperate kiss to Haechan’s forehead.
“Please,” he whispered, his voice cracking. It was the first time he’d ever begged for anything. “Please, Haechan. Please be okay. Wake up, pretty. Please.”
A moment later, Haechan’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked slowly, his gaze focusing on Jaemin’s tear-streaked face. His face scrunched up in confusion, then concern.
“Jaemin?” he croaked. “Why are you crying? Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”
A choked sob escaped Jaemin’s lips. He was crying. He hadn’t cried in years.
“Me?” he rasped, his voice thick. “I’m fine. You’re the one who got hurt. You’re bleeding. You scared me.”
Haechan’s face softened into a beautiful, sunny smile despite his pain. He reached a shaky hand up and wiped a tear from Jaemin’s cheek.
“Awww, my hero,” he cooed softly. “You were so worried about me.” And then, weakly but with immense determination, he leaned up and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to Jaemin’s lips. It was soft and tasted faintly of blood, but to Jaemin, it was the sweetest thing he’d ever experienced.
Jaemin froze, his heart stopping for a beat before restarting at double speed. He pulled back, his eyes wide. “What… what was that?”
Haechan chuckled, wincing a little. “I think I finally figured out where the ‘thank you’ kisses were supposed to go.”
A laugh, so full of relief and love it surprised even himself, bubbled out of Jaemin’s chest. He leaned his forehead against Haechan’s.
“You’re an idiot,” he whispered, his voice full of adoration. “A beautiful, reckless, sunshine idiot. I love you.”
A brilliant, triumphant smile lit up Haechan’s face. He was battered, bruised, and bleeding, but he looked like he’d just won the lottery.
“I know,” he said, with a smug little wink. “I could tell. You weren’t very subtle, Mr. ‘I-hate-everyone’.”
As the sounds of approaching ambulances and other heroes filled the air, Jaemin just pulled Haechan closer, holding him as if he were the most precious thing in the entire world.
He still wasn't a hero. But he was someone’s hero. And that was infinitely better. He was pretty sure his Netflix queue could wait. He had a much more interesting show to watch now.