Chapter Text
Mingi can feel the rumble of the train under his feet, the vibrations carrying up through the soles of his sneakers and into his legs. The metal floor trembles with every shift of the tracks, each sway rocking him slightly in his seat. He’s hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, music blasting in his ears at a volume that would make anyone else wince. But for him it’s not about the lyrics or the beat—it’s just static, background noise to keep the silence at bay. His real focus is the small pocketbook open in his hands, pages worn soft from overuse.
Black ink trails across the paper, some lines smeared from the side of his hand dragging over them. In the middle of the page sits a half-finished equation, dense and stubborn, the same one that’s been haunting him for years—through long nights, through shifts at work, through stolen moments like this one.
The train bustles and rattles on, each jolt making his notebook twitch in his grip. The car isn’t packed—not like rush hour—but a handful of passengers scatter the space. A man in a reflective vest snoozes with his head tipped against the window, grocery bags spilling at his feet. A woman carefully balances a modified milk crate on wheels, stuffed with produce, dragging it close whenever the train lurches. Mingi watches her for a moment, his mind idly cataloging how clever the setup is—cheaper than buying a proper cart, sturdy enough to do the job.
People in the city always find ways to make do, bending scraps and ideas into something useful.
With a small sigh, he snaps his pocketbook shut and stuffs it into the back pocket of his jeans. The edge sticks out awkwardly, but he doesn’t care. Leaning back in his seat, he feels the soft give of his backpack jammed between his spine and the chair. Nothing fragile in there anyway—just tools, spare pens, and whatever he couldn’t be bothered to leave at home.
The train screeches into its next stop, brakes squealing against the rails. The sudden jolt sends Mingi pitching sideways, catching himself against the pole beside his seat. The doors groan open, and a sharp draft cuts through the car, pulling in the chill of the evening air. Outside, the city hums—layers of sound rushing together: horns blaring in traffic, the low roar of engines, voices calling to one another. Beyond the platform rise towering buildings, their windows glowing like constellations in the dusk.
Mingi gets to his feet, slipping past the other riders and stepping out onto the concrete platform. The smell of food greets him immediately—grease and grilled meat from the vendors upstairs, roasted nuts, something fried and sweet. His music continues to hum in his ears, but it feels muted against the din of downtown.
He heads for the exit, sneakers clanging on the grated steps as he descends. Every footfall echoes against the hollow metal staircase, graffiti splashed in layers across the walls beside him. Names, warnings, crude drawings—some fresh and bright, others faded into near-illegibility. His hand skims along the railing as he reaches the bottom.
The final barrier is the heavy, barred exit gate. He presses a palm against the cold metal, pushing until it swings open with a reluctant groan. The design is deliberate—angled bars to keep anyone from sneaking through the wrong way.
A reminder that the city will let you out easy enough, but it’ll make sure you’ve paid to get in.
Mingi pushes through the station doors and steps out onto the street, the sudden rush of city air washing over him—exhaust fumes tangled with the faint sweetness of roasted nuts from a vendor cart nearby. The neon glow of a convenience store sign flickers in the corner of his vision, and the steady hum of traffic fills his ears beneath the muffled beat of his music. Tilting his head up, he squints at the street sign bolted high on the lamppost, letters worn from years of weather but still legible. The name matches what he remembers in his head, so he keeps forward, eyes settling on the intersection ahead.
The crossing signal glows a harsh red hand, commanding him to wait. Cars stream by lazily, headlights cutting through the dimming sky, each engine growl blending into a restless chorus. He digs into his pocket, tugging out his phone and flicking through songs with practiced swipes, his thumb hovering before finally choosing one that feels right. A little more bass, something steady to walk with. He tucks the device away again, his gaze shifting back to the light.
Mingi rocks on his heels, shifting his weight restlessly until the signal flips. The bright white figure of the walking man blinks to life, and Mingi trudges forward with the slow crowd spilling across the asphalt. He raises a finger, nudging his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as he goes, red sneakers scuffing against the painted crosswalk lines. A few people brush past him, moving the opposite direction, but he angles himself just enough to stay out of their path.
The sidewalk on the other side is no cleaner than the one he left behind—chewed gum flattened into pale blotches, cracks spreading like veins through the concrete, rusting grates rattling faintly beneath his steps. It’s the kind of city that swallows people whole, never bending or softening no matter how long you live in it. To the street, Mingi is nothing more than another body moving forward.
But then the restaurant comes into view. Tucked between taller buildings, it looks almost stubborn, a squat red structure whose paint has dulled to a tired brick shade. Once-bright gold lettering stretches across the awning, tarnished now to a burnished bronze, hinting at better days. The windows are streaked with dust, the door’s handle smoothed from countless hands, but there’s still a warmth to the place—something lived-in, familiar.
Mingi slows as he nears, pulling one earbud free and then the other before he tugs the glass door open. A faint chime above the frame jingles, brittle but cheerful. The air inside is warmer, carrying the mingled scents of fried food and something sweet baking in the back.
A hostess stands just beyond the podium, blonde hair tucked neatly behind her ear, her skin pale under the dim yellow lighting. She greets him with a practiced but genuine smile.
“For one?” she asks lightly.
“Two,” Mingi replies without hesitation, his voice easy. “I can get a table even if he’s not here yet, right?”
“Of course,” the hostess says with an easy smile, flipping open her book. Her pen scratches lightly as she jots something down, then she tucks it behind her ear and plucks two menus from the stack. With a practiced motion, she gestures. “Follow me.”
Mingi adjusts his backpack strap and falls into step behind her, quickening his pace when she moves with more confidence than he expected. The restaurant hums with low chatter, forks clinking against plates, a faint melody from an old speaker blending into the background noise. He passes booths lined with couples and families, their laughter mingling with the smells of soy sauce, fried rice, and something savory-sweet he can’t quite place.
The hostess leads him to a small table tucked against the side wall, intimate but not too hidden. A table for two. The chairs sit directly across from each other, legs polished from years of scraping across the floor. She places the menus down with a small nod, then disappears back toward the entrance.
“Thank you,” Mingi murmurs, voice almost swallowed by the room’s noise. He slides his backpack carefully off his shoulders, resting it on the floor by his feet before scooting his chair in. His earbuds end up cradled in his lap, the wires coiling like restless fingers, while he flips open the menu.
He doesn’t need to study it—he’s been here before, knows the dishes by heart—but his eyes still skim the list, skittering from one option to the next. It’s something to look at, something to keep his hands busy. Still, his gaze drifts upward, landing on the empty chair across from him. The sight lingers, pressing at his chest, before he forces himself to look back down at the glossy page.
A long sigh slips out, quiet but heavy, as if the menu might somehow hold answers that aren’t there. His thumb traces the edge of the laminated sheet, the words blurring in his head.
The waiter arrives, interrupting the spiral, his presence bright and practiced.
“Good evening,” he says warmly as he sets down two glasses of water, the ice clinking as it settles. Two glasses, because the table is for two.
Mingi straightens a little, giving his order in one smooth go—his drink and his dish—without needing to check the menu again. His eyes flick once more to the chair across from him as he speaks, like he’s reminding the universe that someone else is supposed to fill that space. The waiter just nods, pen scratching against his pad, before retreating back toward the kitchen.
The silence settles in again, wrapping around Mingi like a too-tight coat. He slips his phone out of his pocket, thumbs moving automatically as he taps out a message.
[Mingi] Waiting for you.
He stares at the screen for a beat longer than he should, the glow of the text reflecting faintly in his glasses before he sets the phone down beside his glass of water.
Mingi picks up the glass, condensation slick against his fingers, and takes a slow sip. The water is cold, almost sharp, and it clears the taste of the city air from his mouth. He sets the glass back down with a muted clink, then leans forward to tug his pocketbook free from his back pocket. The little book is soft at the corners, bent from years of use, its cover worn like a favorite jacket. He flips it open, eyes landing on the half-finished equation sprawled across the page. Black ink smudges trail along the margins, some of them fingerprints from the last time he had been scribbling too fast to care about neatness.
There’s a brief pause before doubt sets in. He knows he’s not supposed to have this with him—not technically. Taking work home is one thing, but carrying around a pocket-sized book of company problems? That’s a risk. If someone stole it or if he misplaced it, his last name and phone number scrawled on the inside cover might not save him. Someone could scan the pages, throw it all online, and undo years of work in seconds.
But then again, if he never cracks the thing, he’s screwed anyway. The equation has been the office’s wall for months now. Everyone’s tried, everyone’s failed—including him. It gnaws at him, restless and mocking.
With a quiet sigh, he leans down and unzips the pocket of his backpack, fingers finding the familiar weight of his pen. He rolls it between his fingers once, twice, then presses the tip to a clean page, starting fresh from the top. Numbers spill out quickly, the rhythm of calculation grounding him. For a few minutes, it feels like progress—lines of symbols and steps stacking together, pointing toward something.
And then—nothing. The thread snaps. Another dead end.
His pen hovers over the page as if sheer willpower might push the problem further, but the ink only pools in a tiny dot where he stalls. He presses his lips together, frustration simmering under his skin, before setting the pen down with a small click. The answer is always there, just beyond reach, like a shadow that disappears when he turns his head.
Mingi’s gaze drifts upward, drawn unavoidably to the empty chair across from him. A little sigh escapes before he can stop it. He picks up his phone from beside the water glass and flips it over. Still nothing. No reply. His thumbs move anyway.
[Mingi] You can at least tell me how late you’re going to be.
The screen glows back at him, silent, and he exhales through his nose as he sets it down again. The wallpaper greets him—two photobooth frames of him and Yunho squeezed into the booth’s tiny space, pulling ridiculous faces. Yunho’s smile is wide and mischievous in the shot, Mingi’s own expression caught mid-laugh. Cropped tight so the strip fits perfectly as a background, the image almost aches with how alive it feels compared to the quiet table now.
He shakes his head, forcing his eyes away, and flips his pocketbook open again. The pen slides back into his hand, numbers and symbols spilling across the page in a stubborn attempt to pull him out of waiting. The restaurant’s noise hums around him, but all he really hears is the faint tap of his pen and the silent stretch of time.
Waiting for Yunho.
Always waiting.
Mingi keeps scribbling, trying the equation again and again, his pen tapping out new starts and new angles. Each line feels promising until it isn’t. Every time, the numbers crawl to a halt, leading him back to the same dead wall. His frustration grows heavy in his chest, a pressure that builds with every unfinished step. He wonders—not for the first time—if this thing is even solvable, or if the whole office is chasing after a mirage. A piece of technology that looks brilliant on paper but maybe, in practice, is nothing more than fantasy.
His thoughts scatter when the waiter returns, balancing a tray. Mingi hurriedly scoops his pocketbook off the table, pressing it closed with one hand before sliding it back into his pocket. The waiter sets down the steaming bowl of ramen, broth still bubbling faintly, and a tall glass of strawberry lemonade, pale pink with condensation trailing down the sides. The scent of seasoned broth curls upward, carrying the warmth of garlic and miso.
“Thanks,” Mingi murmurs, his voice quiet, almost automatic. He tucks the pen away and shoves his pocketbook deep into his jeans, telling himself he’ll work on it later. The equation isn’t going anywhere.
Maybe Yunho could help him—if he even shows up.
The thought is sour, and Mingi shifts in his seat, grabbing his fork before changing his mind and reaching for his chopsticks instead. He knows he shouldn’t be mad. Yunho’s job keeps him longer than it should, tethered to deadlines that don’t respect clocks. He’s supposed to work nine to five, like Mingi does, but the reality is always closer to nine to whenever they let him go.
Maybe it’s because his shots are too good—people love his photography. Yunho knows how to fly a drone better than anyone, weaving it through impossible angles, capturing the city from above and between glass and steel.
There’s no way Yunho is dangling from rooftops or pressing his face to strangers’ windows. Mingi tells himself that firmly. Still, he hopes Yunho doesn’t push too hard, doesn’t risk another fine for flying a drone where it’s not supposed to go.
He pokes his chopsticks into the ramen, swirling noodles through the broth before bringing a bite to his mouth. The food is hot, comforting, but it doesn’t quite land right with the knot in his stomach. He chews slowly, his eyes straying across the table almost against his will.
The empty chair stares back at him. Empty space, an untouched glass of water, the place where Yunho is supposed to be. Where his boyfriend should be.
Supposed to be—those words echo, heavy as bricks. They’ve been lingering too much lately. Supposed to be here. Supposed to be on time. Supposed to be with him. Supposed to be.
Mingi swallows, the taste of broth and disappointment mixing together, and goes back for another bite, though it feels like eating around a hollow ache.
Mingi is halfway through the bowl, lips tingling from the heat of the broth, when sudden movement across the table makes him blink. He hadn’t even heard the chair scrape against the floor, hadn’t noticed the figure approaching until Yunho was suddenly there, dropping into the seat like he’d been pulled in by gravity.
“I’m sorry—work ran late and I submitted a photo and it was a whole thing—” Yunho blurts, words tumbling out in a rush. His dark hair clings damply to his forehead, strands curling from sweat, and Mingi notices immediately that it isn’t raining outside. Yunho’s cheeks are flushed pink, his breathing quick enough that his chest rises and falls beneath the loose hoodie. He looks like he either ran the last few blocks or had been pushing himself too hard somewhere else.
“You ordered already? What did you get?”
“Spicy ramen.” Mingi blinks at him, gaze dragging over Yunho’s pale skin, the shadows under his eyes, the way his hoodie hangs loose around the collar from being tugged at too many times.
“I’ll get that, yeah? It’s probably good.” Yunho’s voice drops into something more certain, though his body gives him away. He fiddles with the sleeve of his hoodie, biting at his lip before glancing up with those sharp, bright eyes that always seem too present. He shifts in his chair, rocking side to side like he can’t quite settle. “You look nice.”
“I’m wearing a hoodie and jeans.”
“I still think you look nice.” Yunho shrugs quickly, his shoulders rising and falling like he’s trying to laugh it off. His smile tilts, small but sincere, and there’s a faint pink still clinging to the tips of his ears. “Pretty.”
Mingi exhales a quiet huff, shaking his head as he turns back to his ramen, pretending his food requires all his focus.
“Just order your food.”
Yunho leans forward a little, glancing at the drinks instead.
“Can I have some of your lemonade?” His hand drifts toward the glass, stopping just short, his fingertips pressing against the table as though waiting for permission.
“Sure.” Mingi’s answer is soft, and he watches as Yunho pulls the glass closer, lips wrapping around the straw. The older man takes a few quick sips, the movement of his throat catching Mingi’s eye more than he’d like.
“You okay?” Mingi asks, voice careful.
“Fine,” Yunho replies between sips, the straw still balanced at the corner of his mouth as he speaks. His eyes lift to Mingi’s, wide and open, a little guilty. “I’m sorry I’m late. I hurried here as fast as I could.”
Mingi frowns before he can stop himself, the weight of it tugging down his face, but he forces his lips upward, trying to soften it into something resembling a smile. It feels awkward on his mouth, not quite convincing, but it’s the best he can manage.
“I know,” he says finally, nodding with a sigh that slips out before he can catch it. “You always rush.”
“I’m sorry, Mingi.” Yunho straightens a little, pulling his elbows onto the table, his forearms folding together as if to close the gap between them. His voice is low, steady, but his body betrays him—his fingers tap once against his sleeve before curling into his hoodie fabric. “I really did have to finish up something for the newspaper. I don’t want to be late. You know that, don’t you?”
Mingi lifts his gaze and finds Yunho’s eyes waiting for him, soft and wide, dark with guilt despite the lingering flush on his cheeks and the way sweat still clings to his hairline. There’s no mistaking the regret etched there, but Mingi’s chest tightens all the same. For just a flicker, his mind drifts to the worst possibilities—excuses, lies, the empty chair across from him becoming a permanent fixture. He swallows them back down and nods anyway.
“I know,” he repeats, his tone heavier this time. He knows Yunho works hard. He knows Yunho tries. He knows, and yet. He pushes at the bridge of his glasses with his knuckle, buying a moment before admitting softly, “I just wish one time, one date, you’d be on time.”
“I’m sorry,” Yunho answers immediately, almost stumbling over the words in his rush to get them out. He always is. “Next time—next time I will be on time. I’ll get off of work and come straight to you.”
Mingi’s lips press together. He notes the phrasing, the lack of promise, the way it sounds just like every time before. The words hang between them, and he just studies Yunho’s hopeful expression—eyes too bright, too determined, carrying all the weight of intentions that never seem to stick. Mingi isn’t sure what to do with that hope anymore.
The moment breaks when the waiter returns, slipping neatly into the silence. Mingi ducks his head, focusing on the glossy surface of his broth, lifting his chopsticks to stir at the noodles as Yunho quickly places his order. It gives him something to do besides think. Out of the corner of his eye, his gaze drifts to the lemonade glass. The drink sits low now, less than half remaining, condensation pooling at its base. Yunho’s straw, Yunho’s sips. Yunho always takes.
Taken a decent amount of the drink. Taken pieces of his evenings. Taken little parts of Mingi he isn’t sure he’ll get back.
“How was work?” Yunho asks after the waiter leaves, his tone laced with hope again. His hands shift under the table, restless in his lap, like he’s bracing himself for Mingi’s answer.
The two of them sit across from each other, the steam from their bowls curling lazily between them. Mingi finishes first, which says something, because he always eats slow, savoring each bite. He sets his chopsticks down neatly across the rim of the bowl and leans forward a little, trying to explain the formula he’s been working on. His hands move in small, precise gestures, as if sketching the math in the air will help Yunho follow. But Yunho only tilts his head, brow creased, lips parted like he’s listening hard but still not catching on. Mingi sighs, soft and resigned, giving up the attempt since Yunho has never been good at math, or even numbers.
And Yunho—predictably, naturally—is quick to nod, eyes bright with conviction. You will. You’re good at that. You always figure it out. He’s good at encouragement, too good sometimes, and Mingi feels a warmth creep into his chest that has nothing to do with the broth.
Mingi orders another lemonade while Yunho digs into his own ramen, eating with quick, eager bites. Without hesitation, Yunho reaches for Mingi’s glass again, sipping at it like it’s his by right. He doesn’t even ask. Mingi doesn’t mind—he never does. He only watches the way the straw shifts between Yunho’s lips, the condensation dripping down the glass, the way it feels strangely intimate for something so ordinary.
Yunho eats fast, almost too fast, and Mingi wonders fleetingly if it burns going down, if it catches in his throat the way it would for him. But Yunho shows no sign of discomfort, just determination to clear the bowl. When they’re both finished, they pay at the counter. Mingi double-checks—phone, pocketbook, backpack—before he stands, the careful routine of someone who can’t afford to leave things behind. Yunho hoists his own bag onto his shoulder, and for a moment Mingi notices the little detail that makes him pause.
The guitar keychains. Different brands of backpacks, different colors, but the same dangling symbol. Mingi’s black, Yunho’s white, both with a silver star catching the light. He knows it’s a small thing, but seeing it tugs at something deep inside him. Proof. A reminder. That Yunho is his—his best friend, his oldest friend.
His.
They push open the door and step outside. The evening air is sharper now, crisp with the promise of winter. The chill pricks at Mingi’s skin, his breath fogging faintly as he looks up at the sky. The leaves lining the street are halfway to autumn, red creeping into the edges of green, though most still cling stubbornly to the branches.
“Mingi,” Yunho’s voice pulls him back, sudden and soft with excitement. “Can I take a photo of you?”
He’s already shifting his bag around, tugging the strap forward to dig inside. A smile tugs at his lips, warm and boyish. Mingi blinks, caught off guard, his brows knitting together.
“Why?” he asks, bemused, watching as Yunho produces his camera and slips the strap over his neck with practiced ease.
“Just ’cause.” Yunho grins as he lifts the camera, his eyes disappearing into crescents, both rows of teeth showing because he can’t help his excitement.
Mingi tries to hold his expression neutral, tries to glare for effect, but the corner of his mouth betrays him, twitching upward despite himself.
“You’re dumb,” he mutters, the words softened by the smile he can’t quite hide.
Yunho chuckles softly as the camera fires off another string of rapid clicks, each shutter sounding like it’s catching pieces of Mingi he didn’t mean to show—the tug of his lips, the faint blush across his cheeks.
“You’re cute,” Yunho says it so easily, like breathing, and Mingi rolls his eyes, leaning forward with his hands outstretched, palms blocking the lens.
“Don’t smudge it,” Yunho warns, trying to angle the camera away, laughing when Mingi keeps reaching.
“I’m not even touching it,” Mingi huffs, his glasses sliding slightly down his nose with the motion. Yunho finally lowers the camera, smile still lingering as though Mingi’s annoyance is just another photo worth capturing. “Can I have a kiss, or are you going to keep being mean?”
Mingi teases, eyes crinkling, his voice half playful, half hopeful.
“When am I ever mean?” Yunho counters, though his tone doesn’t hold much bite. He leans in, brushing his lips against Yunho’s in a brief kiss that feels almost too quick—but leaves him smiling anyway. He bumps Yunho’s shoulder as he pulls back, stumbling a little in step to fall into place beside him.
Yunho slings his camera back around his neck, letting it swing against his chest as they walk, his backpack bouncing lightly against his shoulders. The evening air is biting, nipping at Mingi’s skin where it slips through the folds of his hoodie and denim jacket. Yunho only has on a sweater, and Mingi almost wants to scold him for not dressing warmer. The thought lingers on his tongue, but before he can say anything Yunho switches the camera into one hand, his other slipping into Mingi’s without hesitation.
“Your hands are cold,” Mingi murmurs, surprised by the chill of Yunho’s fingers.
“Sorry,” Yunho says automatically, ducking his head a little, but he doesn’t let go. He squeezes Mingi’s hand instead, grounding them both against the cold. His thumb brushes once across Mingi’s knuckles, a nervous, unconscious motion. “And I’m sorry for being so late.”
“I know,” Mingi says quietly. Because he does know. He knows Yunho means it every time. That he wants to be on time, wants to keep every promise, but life drags him away more often than not. The words are familiar now, rehearsed almost, but they don’t sting as much when Yunho’s hand is warm around his own.
They trail through downtown, weaving past storefronts lit with neon and glass towers catching the last traces of dusk. The noise of traffic and laughter and the distant hum of the city surrounds them, but it feels muffled somehow, dulled by the simple rhythm of their steps falling in sync.
By the time they near the lake, the air sharpens, wind sweeping harder off the water. It bites against their cheeks and noses, tugging at Yunho’s hair and making Mingi’s eyes water. Yunho shifts closer, shoulders brushing as their hands stay twined, neither one willing to let go despite the chill.
They get closer to the lakefront and Mingi feels Yunho tug his hand, steering him off toward the wrong street. Mingi stops, giving him a look, and Yunho blinks back with that earnest, boyish confusion that almost makes Mingi laugh.
“This way,” Mingi says gently, tugging him back in the opposite direction. His voice is patient, though his brows knit slightly. “Maybe you’re thinking of the coffee stand—but even that’s this way.”
“Oh,” Yunho says, lighthearted as ever, adjusting course without resistance. He falls into step beside Mingi again like nothing happened, brushing their shoulders together with an easy grin. “Right.”
Mingi shakes his head but smiles anyway, lips twitching despite himself. He tugs Yunho’s hand once more before letting go, guiding him along the sidewalk that hugs the lake. The water reflects patches of neon from signs behind them, the colors stretching and breaking with every ripple, and the faint smell of damp leaves and city air clings to the breeze.
“Let me take more photos,” Yunho insists suddenly, gently slipping his hand out of Mingi’s. His voice is casual, but his eyes brighten with that particular spark he gets when he’s about to focus on something else entirely.
Mingi stifles a sigh, folding his arms for warmth as Yunho pulls his camera up again. He doesn’t protest, though. He just lingers a little too close, watching Yunho tilt his lens toward the lake, toward the open sky that’s deepening into shades of navy and slate.
“What was your paper even about?” Mingi asks, stepping closer so that their sleeves brush as if he’s trying to peer through the lens too. In truth, Mingi doesn’t care about the frame Yunho’s looking at. He just wants to be near him, even if Yunho’s mind is elsewhere.
“Something about the Polish festival that was here last week,” Yunho replies, his finger clicking the shutter a few times. He shifts the angle slightly, eyes narrowing with focus. Then, without warning, he swivels the camera toward Mingi. The wind ruffles his dark hair into his eyes, and Mingi stiffens under the weight of the lens. “I included your opinion that the wristband system was dumb.”
“Because it was.” Mingi answers without hesitation, rolling his eyes at the memory. The whole system had been a mess—lining up at a separate booth just to flash their IDs and get branded with neon green wristbands like they were kids sneaking into a club. “Too many steps for no reason. Just slows everything down.”
Yunho laughs softly, snapping another picture of the lake before dropping the camera slightly.
“Why’d they make you stay late?”
“For uh…” Yunho draws out the sound, shifting his weight and adjusting his grip on the camera strap. His tone turns evasive, almost sheepish, like he’s reaching for words that don’t quite fit.
Mingi’s frown deepens, his stomach tugging with quiet irritation. He notices Yunho hasn’t clicked the shutter in over a minute—camera lifted but idle, lens hovering in his direction like a shield.
“I had to help someone below me,” Yunho finally says, his words tumbling out too casual. He clears his throat. “They started a column, you know, about youth and stuff.”
“Youth and stuff?” Mingi repeats flatly, one eyebrow arching. The skepticism is clear in his voice as he watches Yunho fumble for a smile.
Yunho drops the camera against his chest with a soft thud and finally meets his gaze, his grin easy and familiar despite the flush lingering on his cheeks.
“We know a lot about youth, you know?”
“Are you calling us old?” Mingi shoots back, but his lips curve with the smallest smirk, like he can’t quite hold his annoyance against Yunho.
“Mingi.” Yunho says his name like it’s enough, soft and scolding at once, and Mingi exhales through his nose, the tension loosening just a little.
“If anything it’s calling yourself old—you are older.” Mingi murmurs, lips twitching into a smirk as Yunho narrows his eyes. Yunho’s hand shoots out to smack his shoulder, but Mingi dodges, stumbling back with a laugh. Yunho doesn’t let up, lunging toward him with playful persistence, and Mingi takes off around the edge of the lake, sneakers pounding against the pavement as his laughter spills out into the cold evening air.
“You suck!” Yunho huffs, but he’s laughing too, his voice carrying over the rippling water. He slows just enough to lift his camera again, the lens clicking rapidly as he captures Mingi mid-run—cheeks flushed pink from the cold, hair sticking to his forehead, his grin stretched wide.
In defiance, Mingi slows his pace, stepping closer until he’s directly in front of Yunho. He sticks out his tongue, widens his eyes in an exaggerated expression, and leans in toward the lens to fill the shot. Yunho snorts but doesn’t back down. This time, he’s quicker—lowering the camera with one hand and swatting Mingi’s arm with the other.
“You feel better?” Mingi deadpans, though there’s a smile tugging at his lips.
“I do.” Yunho replies cockily, that grin of his lingering as he tucks his camera strap more securely across his chest. “Now, are we buying hot chocolate, or is that off the table because you’re mad?”
“You’re the one who started it.” Mingi mutters, feigning irritation. Yunho just shrugs, casual as ever, then lands a quick smack against Mingi’s shoulder before darting a few steps ahead.
Groaning loudly for dramatic effect, Mingi trails after him, slower now, letting Yunho get a few paces ahead while he lifts his camera again. The evening light is fading, streaks of orange and pale lavender reflecting on the lake’s surface. Mingi breathes in the sharp cold air, the sound of the water lapping against the concrete mixing with the chatter of people walking further down the path. His red sneakers scuff softly against the gray pavement as he watches Yunho crouch slightly to frame a shot of a building silhouetted against the sky.
When Yunho’s busy adjusting his angle, Mingi comes up behind him, leaning in close enough for his breath to brush Yunho’s ear. He presses a quick kiss against Yunho’s cheek, warm against the cold air.
Yunho startles, then softens, lowering the camera just enough to smile. He leans forward, lips meeting Mingi’s in a kiss that lingers—slower, deeper, carrying more weight than the playful pecks before.
“Wooyoung invited us over for dinner,” Mingi murmurs, arms wrapping easily around Yunho’s waist, pulling him close enough to feel the warmth seeping through layers of fabric.
“Of course I want to come.” Yunho’s voice is quiet, tender, his gaze lifting to meet Mingi’s. “Are they all going to be there?”
“They live there,” Mingi chuckles, nose brushing against Yunho’s temple. “Wooyoung just tried a new recipe and wants as much feedback as possible.”
“And we’re sure it’s not like last Halloween?” Yunho raises a brow skeptically, his mouth curving into a half-smile at the memory. The infamous mayo-filled donuts, disguised with perfect icing decorations, still haunt him.
“Don’t think so.” Mingi grins, leaning down for one more quick kiss. “You want hot chocolate for the train ride?”
Soon they’re at the small stand, waiting in line behind people bundled in heavier coats and gloves. Neither of them had thought to bring gloves, so they tuck their hands deep into hoodie pockets and lean into each other for warmth, shoulders brushing. The sweet smell of cocoa drifts from the stall, steam curling in the air, promising comfort against the cold.
They take their drinks to go, styrofoam cups warming their palms as they walk toward the station. Their conversation drifts between work—Yunho venting about office deadlines, Mingi rambling about something funny he’d read online—and the excitement of a new video game release. Their voices rise and fall with the hum of the city around them, settling into the easy rhythm of simply catching up.
On the train, they squeeze side by side into a seat, legs pressed together in a way that’s too close for strangers but just right for them. Yunho tilts his head until it brushes Mingi’s shoulder, sipping slowly from his hot chocolate. The train is loud—metal wheels grinding, conversations buzzing, an occasional burst of laughter from across the car—so instead of talking, Mingi pulls out his phone and offers one earbud. They share it without hesitation, the cord tangling slightly between them as music hums low, filling the quiet they carve out together.
Mingi leans back against the seat, warmth from the drink and Yunho’s presence cutting through the cold that lingers on his skin. Yunho taps his fingers against Mingi’s knee in rhythm with the music, and Mingi thinks there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
They take the train back toward their apartment, or at least as close as the line will carry them. The car shudders as it pulls into the station, brakes screeching against the tracks, metal groaning under the strain. The sound echoes, bouncing off the tiled walls, and when the doors open, a cold gust of evening air slips in. They step out together, the city already dipped in twilight, the sky a heavy gray tinged with stubborn streaks of fading blue.
Their hot chocolates are long gone, cups still faintly warm when they toss them into the trash by the exit. Without even thinking about it, their hands find each other’s again, fingers slotting together as if pulled by gravity. It isn’t for warmth anymore—it’s just need, just the comfort of closeness. The kind of touch that says I want you near, always.
Their apartment isn’t far from the station, maybe ten minutes if they walk straight, but neither of them seems in a rush. They slow their pace, feet scuffing the uneven sidewalk, shoulders brushing. At one point, Mingi stumbles over a crack in the pavement and Yunho catches his elbow, steadying him, laughing quietly. Mingi wonders if they’re dragging their feet on purpose, stretching out the walk just to be alone together for a little longer.
For a fleeting moment, Mingi considers pulling out his phone and canceling dinner. Wooyoung would understand—probably complain dramatically first, but understand. Because the truth is, he doesn’t want to share Yunho tonight. Not when their schedules so often tear them apart. They technically work the same hours, but Yunho almost always leaves earlier and comes home later, tied up in whatever deadlines keep him away. When he finally walks through the door at night, his hair is mussed, his shirt clinging with sweat, his face lined with exhaustion. Sometimes Mingi hates how far away he feels even when he’s right there, how little of him Mingi actually gets.
But he has to believe. He has to trust. His best friend, his boyfriend—Yunho wouldn’t hurt him, wouldn’t betray the faith Mingi keeps trying to hold. So he tells himself, think the best. Always think the best.
The building looms ahead, their old brick apartment complex that looks like it’s been standing a hundred years too long. The façade is cracked and tired, vines climbing stubbornly up the walls, their brittle leaves rustling in the night air. A metal fire escape clings to the back like an afterthought, rust spotted and crooked. Inside, the stairwell smells faintly of dust and damp wood, every step up the stairs creaking under their weight.
“Oh, shoot.” Yunho mutters suddenly, patting down his jeans until he pulls his phone from his pocket. His face changes in an instant—panic, urgency—eyes darting to the screen. “I—I have to go, Mingi. Something at work came up.”
“What?” Mingi stops mid-step, furrowing his brows. The words land sharp in his chest. “We just—Yunho, we haven’t even said hi.”
“I know, I know—” Yunho steps close, his hand warm as it cups Mingi’s cheek. He leans in, kisses him quickly, almost too quickly, like an apology crammed into too little time. “I love you. Say hi for me, okay? And save me leftovers!”
“Yunho.” Mingi’s voice cracks around the name, but Yunho is already pulling back, already slipping out of reach.
“I love you! I’ll make it up to you!” Yunho calls over his shoulder as he takes the stairs two at a time, his backpack bouncing against him, the sound of his footsteps echoing down into the dark.
And then he’s gone.
Mingi stands frozen in the stairwell, the empty hallway pressing in on him. He feels the ghost of Yunho’s kiss lingering on his lips, but it isn’t enough—it never is. The frustration, the ache, coils in his chest until it feels heavy, like his ribcage can barely contain it.
“Love you too,” he whispers finally, to no one at all. His voice echoes dully against the peeling plaster walls. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets, shoulders sinking, and forces himself up the rest of the stairs alone.
Mingi reaches their apartment and stops in front of the familiar door, the faded brass numbers barely clinging to the wood. He stares at them for a long moment, shoulders heavy, wondering if it’s even worth walking inside tonight. Part of him wants to turn back, retreat to his own bed, and let the silence swallow him whole. His friends would understand. They’ve known him and Yunho long enough, lived side by side for years. They know how Yunho is always rushing—always chasing something just out of reach, too restless to stop and see what he already holds in his hands.
With a slow breath, Mingi raises his knuckles and raps gently on the door. He rocks back on his heels as he waits, shifting his weight like a kid caught between running away and stepping forward. The sound of footsteps approaches, and when the door swings open, it’s Yeosang who greets him.
“You look cold.” Yeosang’s smile is soft, his voice light as he steps aside, making space for him. Mingi manages a faint curve of his lips, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“We were at the lake,” he murmurs as he steps inside, the warmth of the apartment washing over him in contrast to the sharp chill outside. His fingers tingle as the heat starts to seep back into them. “Yunho had to go back to work—seemed like an emergency or something.”
“That’s fine.” Yeosang’s tone is cheerier than Mingi feels, a small brightness meant to ease him in. “Wooyoung made enough for leftovers.”
“Right,” Mingi mumbles, still caught in the fog of Yunho’s absence. He toes off his red sneakers, leaving them neatly by the door, and shrugs his backpack off his shoulders. It thuds softly onto the floor as he peels out of his jean jacket, hanging it on the rack by the wall with a kind of mechanical motion.
“Mingi—” a familiar, teasing voice cuts through the apartment, “you want a Jell-O shot?”
Wooyoung leans halfway into view from the kitchen, mischief already written on his face, a tray of brightly colored shots in his hands.
“Wooyoung, he came over for dinner.” San’s voice follows, sharp with exasperation, and Mingi glances over to see him crossing his arms from the couch, eyes narrowed in judgment.
Wooyoung only grins wider, unfazed.
“Sure.” Mingi relents, padding forward into the small kitchen, the warmth and faint smell of garlic and butter drawing him in. He leans over the counter to eye the tray of jewel-toned shots glistening under the overhead light. “You make all this for dinner?”
“Uh, yes,” Wooyoung says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, chin tilting up proudly. “I have to give time for the steak to rest.”
“You made steak?” Mingi arches a brow, reaching out to pluck a blue Jell-O shot from the tray, his fingers brushing condensation from the plastic.
“Yeosang, you want one?” Wooyoung calls out, and as if summoned, Yeosang appears at Mingi’s elbow like a moth drawn to light. His sharp eyes scan the tray with laser precision, considering his choices as if the flavors matter more than life or death.
“Okay, ready,” Wooyoung grins mischievously, raising his own shot. “One—two—three!”
Mingi squeezes the flimsy plastic cup, tipping the cool, wobbly mass into his mouth. He winces at the immediate hit of alcohol, the blue raspberry little more than an afterthought. A faint sweetness barely covers the sting, and he swallows hard, lips twitching into the smallest smile despite himself. He sets the empty container down on the counter with a soft clack.
“You’ve got to learn proper measurements,” Mingi mutters, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I cook, I know proper measurements,” Wooyoung snaps back, narrowing his eyes with mock offense.
“He just chooses to add way too much,” Yeosang huffs in quiet betrayal, already finishing his own shot and neatly tucking the plastic back onto the tray.
“Hey, Spider-Man’s on the news!” San’s voice calls from the living room, loud enough to cut through the kitchen chatter. The TV volume rises faintly with his words, filling the apartment with the hum of city reporters.
Wooyoung sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes as he takes the tray back toward the fridge.
“He’s obsessed.”
Mingi, curious, pads into their living room, socked feet brushing over the worn rug as he angles toward the glow of the TV. His eyes catch the bold headline first: “Spider-Man Saves 13 Hostages in Armored Bank Robbery.”
The footage is grainy but dramatic—helicopters circling overhead, spotlights sweeping across the front of the bank. The robbers are shown first, webbed up against the stone facade like grotesque ornaments. Their masks are tugged off by police, their limbs struggling uselessly against the sticky white bonds that gleam under the floodlights. Hostages are rushed out the doors, faces pale and frantic. For the briefest second, a blur of red and blue dashes across the screen—the suit, unmistakable—and then he’s gone.
The camera loses him before it can even focus.
“San, will you turn that off and help me cut the steak?” Wooyoung calls from the kitchen, his voice carrying over the sizzle of a pan.
“Coming, babe,” San replies immediately, obedient in a way that makes Mingi smile faintly. He tosses the remote onto the coffee table without a second thought, leaving the news to play.
Mingi lingers, arms folding loosely across his chest as his eyes stay fixed on the broadcast. The robbers writhe against their restraints, a few cops tugging at the strands with batons but failing to break even a single one. What is that web made out of? Mingi wonders, mind already half-slipping into equations and tensile strength calculations.
Some kind of polymer? Bioengineered protein? And how does it dissolve on its own, timed so conveniently? It’s not just chemistry—it’s design, intentional and efficient. A mystery wrapped in silk.
“Mingi, how much steak do you want?” Wooyoung calls again, snapping him out of his thoughts.
Mingi blinks and finally pulls his gaze from the screen, padding back into the kitchen. He leans over the counter, eyes flicking toward Wooyoung’s careful plating.
“That’s good,” he nods, pointing to the generous slice.
But his mind still itches, questions tugging at him. He glances at San, who is wielding a knife with all the confidence of someone who shouldn’t be trusted with one.
“San, why would a bank robbery be on the news? I mean, I get it’s Spider-Man, but hasn’t he stopped plenty of things like that before?”
“Do not egg him on with his obsession,” Wooyoung groans, already rolling his eyes as he sets down the serving fork.
“Because it’s a really fancy bank,” San answers with a grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he slides another cut of meat onto the plate. “They’ve got a whole underground vault and lockboxes—like, rich people’s secrets kind of vault. Plus, the robbers tried using an armored truck. Makes it dramatic. Makes it newsworthy.”
“I just don’t see why it’s so newsworthy,” Mingi murmurs as he grabs his plate from Wooyoung, his brows slightly furrowed as if he’s still half-distracted by the news clip playing behind him.
“Don’t rile him up,” Wooyoung scolds under his breath, sliding a steak knife onto the plate like he already knows where this is going.
“Spiderman is literally a real-life superhero, Mingi,” San huffs, his hands spread wide as he gestures, shoulders lifting dramatically. “He helps people around the neighborhood and I read he’s even stopped to play basketball with kids at the park.” San’s voice rises with conviction, his eyes locking onto Mingi’s like he’s daring him to argue. “He is a great representation of what our community should strive to be like.”
Yeosang, who’s been quietly arranging his silverware with neat precision, lets a smile curve onto his lips.
“We get it, San. You love Spiderman.” His tone is calm, teasing without being sharp.
“I don’t love him.” San huffs again, but the defensive note in his voice makes Yeosang’s smile widen.
“I beg to differ.” Mingi blinks, completely straight-faced, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s holding back a laugh.
“You were the one asking questions,” San fires back, his frown deepening as he crosses his arms.
“Yes, yes, you love Spiderman about as much as me, we know.” Wooyoung shakes his head with exaggerated exasperation, leaning against the counter. He waves his fork for emphasis. “Can we eat the steak or are we going to keep talking about the guy who shoots webs for a living?”
“You don’t know his day job,” San shoots back, eyes narrowing, his voice almost triumphant like he’s scored a point.
“Neither do you,” Wooyoung retorts smoothly, arching a brow and stabbing a piece of steak for emphasis.
“I’ll be at the table,” Mingi deadpans, already walking away, plate in hand. He’s not smiling, but the amusement flickering in his eyes betrays him.
Mingi moves toward the table, sliding into the chair and taking in the meal Wooyoung had spent so much time preparing. The aroma of seared steak, garlic, and melted butter hits him first, warm and comforting, tugging at the corner of his stomach. The steam rising from the plates mingles with the faint scent of the apartment, a mix of laundry detergent and the faint mustiness of old bricks and wood. He can’t help but reach into his pocket, pulling out his phone almost reflexively, scanning for a message from Yunho.
Nothing. Just the same lock screen—the photo of him and Yunho in the photobooth strip, both faces scrunched up in silly poses. Mingi’s thumb lingers over it, tracing the edges of Yunho’s cheek in the image as if it could somehow pull him closer.
“So, where is Yunho?” Wooyoung’s voice cuts through Mingi’s quiet reverie as he slides into the chair across from him. His tone is light, teasing, but there’s a glint of curiosity in his eyes. “Surrounded by papers and an angry boss, I assume?”
“Something like that,” Mingi murmurs, placing his phone on the table in front of him so he can sneak glances at it every few seconds, hoping for some notification, some sign that Yunho hasn’t forgotten about him.
Yeosang lifts a tray with another round of colorful Jell-O shots.
“Want another one?” he asks, though his attention is split when the TV in the corner of the room suddenly catches their eyes.
The news anchor’s voice is crisp, echoing off the walls.
“Where did Spider-Man come from? And how long until he is seen again?”
Mingi’s fork hovers mid-air for a moment as he listens, eyebrows knitting together in a faint frown.
“San! Turn off your Spider-Man fan radio,” Wooyoung calls, swatting at the remote like it’s a small but persistent annoyance.
Mingi lets out a soft sigh, his eyes flicking between the TV, the plate in front of him, and his silent phone. Even surrounded by friends, the space feels a little hollow without Yunho here. Yet the smell of steak, the warmth of the apartment, and Wooyoung’s playful persistence keep him tethered to the moment, if only just enough.
“You could at least tell him to bring home a cake,” Wooyoung murmurs, leaning back in his chair and nudging his fork against the edge of his plate. San emerges from the kitchen, rubbing his hands on a dish towel before flicking the remote to silence the TV, leaving Spider-Man frozen mid-leap on the screen. The faint hum of the news anchor’s voice disappears, but the image lingers in Mingi’s mind.
He opens his mouth to say something, to tell Wooyoung that Yunho probably won’t make it back in time—he’s always rushing, flustered, disappearing into work until the last possible second, never home when Mingi wants him to be. But instead he swallows it down, letting the words dissolve. He can feel the familiar ache of waiting settle in his chest.
“When you come over to our place, we’ll get a cake,” Mingi says instead, forcing a small, polite smile to keep the mood from sinking. The words taste hollow, but he threads them with hope anyway, like a lifeline to the warmth around him.
“Just don’t get San talking about Spider-Man again,” Wooyoung warns with mock exasperation, shaking his head. “You don’t want to offend his idol.”
“I can hear you!” San calls from the kitchen, voice rising in playful indignation. Wooyoung and Yeosang chuckle softly at the exchange, the sound warm and familiar, and Mingi can’t help but smile too.
He lets the moment settle—the chatter, the laughter, the clink of plates and silverware—and for a heartbeat, he almost forgets that Yunho isn’t here, though he can still feel the space Yunho usually occupies, the weight of his absence lingering like a shadow in the apartment.