Chapter Text
Yeonjun and Beomgyu became neighbors when Yeonjun was eight. Beomgyu had just turned six-half his size, all wide eyes and boundless energy that exhausted Yeonjun from the moment they met.
From the very first day, Beomgyu knew Yeonjun didn’t like him. Not even a little. That was okay, though. Beomgyu knew he talked too much, his admiration for Yeonjun so overwhelming that he followed him everywhere, grinning even if he couldn’t tell whether Yeonjun was annoyed or maybe just playing with him.
But if Yeonjun hated Beomgyu, Beomgyu either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He decided almost immediately that Yeonjun was his friend—his only friend, as he liked to remind him. "You have me, and I have you," he’d say, as if that was all that mattered. It was them against the world.
Yeonjun, with his stuffy cloaks, quiet scowls, and the ability to make weird things happen all the time that made beomgyu scratch his head in confusion —because he's sure puppies can't fly... Yeonjun, who always smelled like freshly cut grass and home. Yeonjun, who scrunched his nose every time Beomgyu got too close but never actually told him to leave.
No matter how much Beomgyu annoyed him—and Beomgyu was an expert at being annoying—Yeonjun never yelled. He never hit him, even when Beomgyu was sure he wanted to. Instead, he’d huff, stomp his foot, or turn and walk away without another word. That was Yeonjun’s way.
And Beomgyu, of course, always followed.
"Hyung, wait!" he’d call, his little legs working double-time to match Yeonjun’s longer strides.
Yeonjun would turn, glare, and scrunch his nose in that familiar way, as if Beomgyu smelled awful. (He didn’t. He was sure of it. He took baths. Regularly.)
"Hyung, let’s play a game," Beomgyu would say, undeterred.
"No," Yeonjun would reply, voice sharp. "And don’t call me Hyung."
"Okay, Hyung," Beomgyu would beam, as if Yeonjun hadn’t said a thing.
And so it went. Beomgyu adored Yeonjun’s company, and Yeonjun... tolerated Beomgyu, at best.
---
On those rare occasions when Beomgyu and his mother were invited to Yeonjun’s house, Beomgyu couldn’t help but notice the differences between their mothers. They weren’t subtle differences either—they were glaring, undeniable, and impossible for Beomgyu to ignore.
Yeonjun’s mom hugged him. Properly hugged him. Her arms were warm and gentle, wrapping around him in a way that felt safe—like being bundled in a soft blanket on the coldest day. She didn’t wear a forced smile when she greeted them at the door, and didn’t hold tension in her jaw or sharpness in her eyes. There was no hesitation in her welcome.
And most striking of all—her hands didn’t hurt. She didn’t press her nails into Beomgyu’s palm or dig them into his back when she touched him. Beomgyu didn’t flinch when her hands rested on his shoulders. There was no sting, no unspoken warning hidden in her touch.
For a moment, Beomgyu forgot everything else. The room, Yeonjun, even his own mother’s presence faded into the background. All that remained was the warmth of the hug—the warmest, safest hug he’d ever known. He didn’t want to let go.
"Beomgyu-ah," his mother’s voice cut through the moment, sharp and cold. A deliberate clearing of her throat. A warning.
He startled, realizing he’d been holding on too long. But then he noticed something surprising—Yeonjun’s mom hadn’t let go either. Her embrace remained steady, unwavering.
Feeling a sudden rush of something he couldn’t name, Beomgyu hugged her tighter.
"Mom never breaks the hug first," Yeonjun said, his tone bored, like he’d explained it a hundred times before. "She says you never know how much the other person might need it."
Beomgyu’s heart squeezed. He glanced at Yeonjun, expecting the same bored expression, but there was something different in his eyes—a flicker of understanding, maybe. Beomgyu wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, but it made his chest ache all the same.
He didn’t want to let go. But this time, he did.
---
He made up for his disobedience later, of course. The punishment came swift and sharp—burning cigarette marks pressed into his legs, one by one, leaving small angry circles of pain that lingered long after. Dinner was withheld that night too, not that he had much of an appetite.
But even as Beomgyu lay curled on the cold floor of his little room, he found a strange sort of comfort in the memory of that hug. His arms wrapped tightly around himself, squeezing as if he could replicate the feeling. He let his hands move to his head, fingers threading through his hair in soft, slow strokes, mimicking the way he imagined a mother might soothe her child.
It wasn’t the same, of course. It would never be the same. But for a fleeting moment, as he clutched himself and closed his eyes, he could almost believe he was safe again, held in warmth that wasn’t his own.
Almost.
---
Two years passed with Yeonjun tolerating Beomgyu’s whims and persistent company. By this time, Yeonjun had grown taller, stronger, and had made friends with even bigger boys who seemed to tower over Beomgyu’s meek, delicate form. They were the kind of boys who laughed too loud, shoved too hard, and could bend and break someone like Beomgyu with little effort.
Beomgyu didn’t like taking chances. He wasn’t stupid. So when Yeonjun began to drift away, laughing with his new friends and walking past Beomgyu without a second glance, Beomgyu didn’t fight to stop him. He just stood there, his lips pouted in silent protest, his sad eyes following Yeonjun’s retreating figure.
“Finally got rid of him, huh?” one of the big boys had teased Yeonjun, ruffling his hair like he was some kid brother. “Didn’t think you’d ever escape that little shadow.”
Beomgyu flinched at the words, but Yeonjun didn’t look back. He laughed along, brushing it off, and disappeared with his friends.
For Beomgyu, the ache of that moment didn’t fade easily. He didn’t understand much about faith or prayer—his mother had never taught him anything about religion—but that night, lying on his bed, he clasped his hands together like he’d seen people do in movies. His lips moved in quiet, broken whispers, asking for protection.
But not for himself.
“Please, if they’re going to hurt anyone, let it be me,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “Not him. Not Yeonjun.”
The words felt strange and clumsy in his mouth, but he kept repeating them, over and over, as if the more he said them, the more likely they were to come true.
By the next day, Beomgyu was back in his garden, playing with the beetles and the ants like he used to before Yeonjun moved in. It felt emptier now, though. The beetles didn’t feel as fascinating, the ants not as chatty. Still, it was safer to keep to himself than to linger near Yeonjun and his new friends. Beomgyu wasn’t sure if Yeonjun would protect him anymore.
But even as he crouched in the dirt, pretending to be absorbed in his tiny world, he still glanced at the street every now and then, hoping for a glimpse of Yeonjun.
Hoping he was okay.
---
One day, Beomgyu found himself alone at home. That wasn’t unusual, but even so, he knew better than to go inside the house. His mother’s rule was absolute: he was only allowed inside during mealtimes. No exceptions.
In the warmer months, that rule didn’t bother him much. Spring and summer were kind, the sun warm on his skin and the air alive with the buzzing of insects. He’d play with the beetles and chat with the ants, laughing as they scurried across his tiny hands. But now, winter had arrived, and with it came endless piles of snow that blanketed everything in sight.
He should be excited, shouldn’t he? As a young boy, there was nothing more thrilling than snow—rolling around in it, building snowmen, flinging snowballs into the air. He’d done all of that before, back when yeonjun still played with him. But today was different. Today, he couldn’t seem to move.
Beomgyu sat hunched on the cold stone doorstep, his usual perch. His body trembled uncontrollably, tiny shivers running up and down his frame as the icy wind cut through his thin shirt. His hands rubbed at his arms in a desperate attempt to warm himself, but it was no use. The cold had already seeped into his bones.
He sniffled, a quiet sound lost in the howling wind. Hugging himself tighter, he buried his face into his knees, trying to imagine he was somewhere else. Somewhere warm. He missed the aunts and the beetles, missed the soft hum of summer days when the garden was his safe haven.
Now, though, he was surrounded by nothing but snow. Beautiful, endless, and so, so cold. He wanted to play in it like he used to, to laugh and roll around until his cheeks turned red with joy. But he knew better. If he tried now, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t become a snowman.
He’d become a part of the snow itself.
---
He missed Yeonjun the most. The absence was a hollow ache that settled deep in his chest, growing heavier with each passing day. He hadn’t seen him in months now—not since the day Yeonjun had walked away with his new friends, laughing like Beomgyu didn’t exist. But even then, there had been a comfort in knowing Yeonjun was just next door, that he could catch glimpses of him on the street or hear his voice carried on the wind.
Now, even that was gone.
The longing had built up until one day it gave him enough courage to shuffle across the frozen yard, teeth chattering, and knock timidly on his neighbor’s door. His fingers trembled as he waited, the cold biting at his exposed skin.
Yeonjun’s mother answered with her usual warm smile, but it only made Beomgyu’s stomach twist tighter. “Ah, Beomgyu,” she said kindly, bending down a little to meet his eyes. “What brings you here, sweetheart?”
He swallowed hard, twisting the hem of his thin shirt. “Where’s Yeonjun-hyung?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “I haven’t seen him.”
Her expression softened, but there was something in her eyes—a hesitation that made Beomgyu’s heart sink. “Oh, honey,” she said gently, “Yeonjun’s gone somewhere far to study. A special school, you see. He won’t be back for a while.”
The words echoed in his ears, louder than they should have been. Far. A special school. Not coming back soon. Beomgyu nodded stiffly, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from crying. “Okay,” he mumbled, stepping back. “Thank you.”
She called after him, offering cookies or tea, but he shook his head and ran back to his doorstep. He didn’t want cookies. He wanted Yeonjun.
Now, he knew he was truly alone.
Even so, Beomgyu still prayed for his friend’s safety every night. It didn’t matter that his earlier fears had come true. The big guys had turned their attention to him once Yeonjun left, circling him like vultures. They never hit him—though Beomgyu was sure they could, easily. They were stronger, bigger, and scarier than anything he’d ever faced.
Instead, they mocked him.
They called him names, laughed at his too-small clothes and the way his voice wavered when he tried to defend himself. They threw his books into puddles and tossed his lunchbox over fences, making a game of his misery.
The words hurt more than fists ever could. They stuck to him, carved into his mind, and repeated themselves over and over when he lay awake at night.
But Beomgyu couldn’t tell his mother. She’d only get angry, call him weak, and punish him for bothering her. So he endured it alone, biting his lip to hold back tears as the bullies jeered and taunted him.
Every night, he prayed. Not for himself, though.
“Please let Hyung be okay,” he whispered into the darkness, clasping his hands tightly together. “Please don’t let anyone hurt him.”
Even if Yeonjun never came back, even if Beomgyu had to face everything alone, he prayed that his friend was safe.
---
It had been a year since Yeonjun left, and Beomgyu had almost convinced himself that he’d never see him again. But then, there he was—standing just a few feet away, looking completely different yet so unmistakably him.
Beomgyu froze for a moment, his heart thundering in his chest. He blinked hard, wondering if he was imagining things. But no, it was real. That tall, red-haired boy with a confident stance and a cool smile on his face was his Yeonjun. Since when could people change their hair color? That was so cool! His baby fat was gone, replaced with sharp cheekbones and a strong, muscular frame. He looked so grown-up, like someone out of a movie or a comic book.
Beomgyu’s body moved before his brain could catch up. He bolted toward Yeonjun, his feet slipping slightly on the ground as he ran. “Yeonjun-hyung!” he shouted, his voice cracking with excitement. The world seemed to blur around him, his focus only on the boy he’d missed so much.
When he reached him, Beomgyu threw his arms around Yeonjun in a tight hug, squeezing like he’d never let go. “Hyung…” His voice wavered, and tears threatened to spill over. “I missed you so much…”
But before he could finish, he was shoved back—hard.
The force sent him stumbling, and he landed on his backside with a sharp thud. His hand scraped against the rough ground, the sting immediate, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his chest.
Beomgyu looked up in confusion, clutching his scratched hand, only to find Yeonjun staring down at him with an expression that made him flinch. The warm smile he’d seen moments ago was gone, replaced by something cold and unfamiliar. Yeonjun’s lips were pressed into a thin line, his eyebrows furrowed as if Beomgyu was nothing more than an annoyance.
Beomgyu winced under the weight of that look, shrinking in on himself. He’d been so excited, so happy to see Yeonjun again after so long, but now it felt like he’d ruined everything.
“I—” Beomgyu started, his voice trembling, but he couldn’t finish. He just sat there, clutching his hand, unsure of what he’d done wrong.
Yeonjun didn’t seem to notice—or care. He brushed past him, his broad shoulders blocking out the sunlight as he walked away without a word.
Beomgyu swallowed hard, blinking back tears as he watched Yeonjun go. For a moment, it felt like the world had stopped again, but this time, it wasn’t out of awe. It was something heavier, colder, and it settled deep in Beomgyu’s chest.
His Hyung had changed.
And Beomgyu wasn’t sure if he was part of Yeonjun’s new, cooler world anymore.