Archive of Our Own ^beta

NOW Minho storms through the doors of the elementary school, tie still cinched around his neck. The front desk lady’s judgmental look makes his skin crawl, and he bites his tongue to keep from lashing out at her. He stops in front of a tiny body hunched in a chair outside the principal's office.

"You're in big trouble, kid."

Jeongin lifts his head and glares at his Appa. Minho sees his own rage reflected in his son's eyes. He's not surprised, but that doesn't make it any easier to deal with. 

Minho keeps his hands to himself as they enter Principal Hwang’s office. The man’s desk is suitably cheerful for an elementary school. A crooked purple pencil holder perches atop a light cream desk, nudging the glittering nameplate into stacks of papers. Shiny awards and sweetly sloppy children’s art adorn the walls. Minho wants to spit ash over all that color. 

Jeongin says nothing as he slumps into one of two plastic teal chairs, just crosses his arms tightly over his chest. He scoots down so his toes rest on the ground and his neck is scrunched, chin resting on his chest. Half of one raw fist peeks out from beneath a scraped elbow. His hair is mussed. 

Minho scowls at him. “Sit up straight,” he hisses, perching in the other chair. Jeongin huffs–Minho wants to smack him for it–but complies.

Principal Hwang watches the exchange with worried eyes. He laces his long fingers together on his desk and leans forward. Sympathy drips from his lips. "Thank you for coming, Lee-ssi. I know your family has recently suffered some upheaval." 

Minho swallows down a cruel laugh. God, he hates this man. As if not naming it makes it better. Upheaval. Yeah, that's one way to put it. 

Principal Hwang continues. "This is Jeongin's third fight this month." As if Minho doesn't already know. As if each phone call and visit isn't seared in embarrassment in his brain. He needs his youngest son to behave.  

"Yes, I'm sorry,” Minho grits out. “I'm taking away all his legos." Because what else is Minho supposed to do? Reward this bad behavior? Obviously not.

"What?!" It’s the first word Minho has heard from Jeongin all day. Of course it’s to complain about his rightful consequence. It’s crumpled paper thrown on the ever-present embers in Minho’s chest. It flares immediately into a ball of fire, scorching and destructive.

"That might not be the best approach, Lee-ssi," Principal Hwang says slowly. His eyes are disgustingly sincere beneath his wispy bangs as he leans forward. “Once again, let me suggest counseling–”

Minho bolts to his feet, gasoline poured on that ball of fire. How dare this man tell Minho what to do. How dare he call Minho in, complain about Jeongin's behavior, and then shoot down his parenting. Doesn't he know to never undermine the authority in a child's life?

And Minho is Jeongin’s only authority figure now. 

The words aren't clear in Minho’s head, just the feelings, so he says nothing as he grips Jeongin’s bony shoulder and tugs him out of the room without a backwards glance. He wants to snap that nameplate over his knee, wants to tear the framed diplomas from the walls and throw the clay cup full of pens so hard it shatters. 

But he's an adult, so he leaves the school without acting on a single impulse, ignoring Principal Hwang’s entreaties to return. The sun beats down on his neck as he strides angrily across the parking lot, his hold on Jeongin never loosening. Their navy blue sedan is hot and blinding when Minho wrenches open the back door, slamming it after Jeongin scampers inside. 

Minho gets behind the wheel. Jeongin is a silent, simmering presence in his car seat. The kid is nine years old, but still too light to not have a booster. His older brother is the same.

"So what was it this time?" Minho barks as he pulls into traffic. He's furious at this little troublemaker, furious at the principal, furious that he has to do this alone. 

Predictably, Jeongin says nothing. He never does. It makes Minho's job 100 times harder. Minho slams his hand against the steering wheel. "I can't help you if you won't talk to me," he grits out. He wants to help, but he doesn't have the gift of discernment. And Jeongin doesn't have the gift of clear explanations.

Minho's view of Jeongin is limited to the rearview mirror. The little boy simply traces his bare knee with one skinny finger. Behind them, a red minivan tailgates them. The driver’s sunglasses are vulgar and kitschy.

"Tell me, Innie. Why did you punch that boy?" Because Jeongin did throw the first punch. He always throws the first punch. "What did he say to you?"

"Nothing," Jeongin mumbles with a shrug. 

"Nothing?" Minho parrots, seizing on the single word like it's a piece of twine dangling above him on a cliff face. Flames of rage lick at his feet, but he tries his hardest to ignore them.

"They wouldn't play hide and seek with me."

A red light flashes in front of him, and Minho slams on the brakes. He’s braced for the jolt, but Jeongin isn’t, and his little chest hurtles into his seatbelt. A wheeze shoots past his lips.

 "What were they playing?"

"Tag."

"And they didn't change their mind when you said you wanted to play hide and seek?"

"Yeah."

Ridiculous. Stupid. Entitled. How is Minho supposed to deal with this? "Let me get this straight. Your classmates refused to do what you wanted them to do. So you punched them."

Jeongin doesn't answer, doubtless hearing Minho's imminent explosion in the way his voice gets louder, filling up the car like noxious gas.

The light turns green. Minho kicks the accelerator and the car lurches forward, pressing Jeongin back into his chair with implacable force. "You can't use violence to get what you want! We raised you better than that, Innie!"

He glances in the rearview mirror again. Jeongin's cheeks are wet. The sight doesn't cool Minho’s anger. The twine he grabbed hold of snaps, and now he's burning alive.

"No. You don't get to cry. You're not the victim here. You threw the punch. You're the problem."

The silent tears don’t stop, and flames consume Minho as he squeals the car into their driveway. “Stop crying!” His voice rips his throat raw as Jeongin rips off his seatbelt and flings himself out of the car with a little sob.

Minho throws the parking brake on, yanks the key out and jumps outside, tearing after his son with all the speed and righteous anger of an avenging angel. “Don’t run away from me!”

Jeongin falters in the doorway to the house, looking over his shoulder. Minho meets his eyes, and then Jeongin is scrambling to get inside and away from his Appa.

Minho sees red. He can’t let Jeongin disrespect him like this. He can’t have his authority undermined. It’s the only weapon in his parenting arsenal right now, and the only stable thing amidst upheaval.

So he races into the house and snags Jeongin by the neck of his T-shirt. Jeongin’s socked feet slip forward with momentum while Minho holds him still, and the child breaks his silence to scream, “No! No! No!”

Minho winces at the screech. He hates it. Hates tears and screaming and the constant mulish set of Jeongin’s jaw these past few months. He turns Jeongin around and claps a hand over his mouth. It’s wet and hot and gross. But Minho endures, because he has to teach this rebellious brat. No one else is going to do it.

“Be quiet, Innie!” he roars, and gets no pleasure from his son’s jerking shudder. “You have to stop hurting the other kids!” He should really lower his volume. He knows he should, but he can’t. It’s like his lungs are a furnace and his throat is the flue. Sparks and smoke surge up, because where else are they supposed to go when the fire rages endlessly hell-hot?  

He takes his hand away from Jeongin’s mouth. 

Jeongin looks up at him with red eyes and wet cheeks and trembling lips. “But they never do what I want,” he croaks.

More coal gets thrown into the furnace. Is this kid stupid? “You. Can’t. Control. People!” 

With every shouted word, Jeongin leans back a little more, his face gets a little redder, his eyes grow a little more mutinous. With every shouted word, something in Minho’s soul cracks a little more.

“Should I punch you, huh? So you know how it feels? So you won’t do it again?” Minho tightens one hand into a fist and raises it. Anything to get the lesson through Jeongin’s thick skull. If Minho has to sit in that holier-than-thou principal’s office again, he’s going to lose it.

Snot dripping from Jeongin’s nose, he sticks his jaw out. The poster child for rebellion. Minho’s authority is slipping away through the white-knuckled grip of his fist. He goes a little crazy. Brings his fist down.

At the last second, he opens his hand. A sharp thwack sounds through the house as Minho’s palm hits Jeongin’s thigh instead of his face.

“Go to your room,” Minho grits out, all smoke and no sparks. 

Jeongin runs as if the hounds of hell are on his heels. He falls once on his way, a loud crash of skinny limbs against a toy bin that Minho meant to give away last year, his boys having outgrown the singing farm animals and soft cars.

Jeongin’s door slams, and Minho stumbles over to their couch-less living room, head spinning. He steps on a Lego, but survives because he’s still wearing his shoes inside like a heathen. His whole body goes limp, dropping into a bean bag chair. He catches his head in his hands, elbows braced on knees, panting like he’s run a marathon.

He almost hit his kid. Really hit him. Hard knuckles heading toward sharp cheekbones with the intent to break. Minho’s horror is thick and suffocating, enough to get lodged in his throat and make him gag. Enough to smother the rageful furnace in his chest.

Years ago, before signing the adoption papers, Minho vowed to himself to never hit a child. After about a month of attempting to wrangle two three-year-olds, he laughed at his naivete and revised that vow to never do more than spank them. In practice, that meant never closing his fist and only using his palm. That way, he could feel the sting, too, and never go too far.

Minho presses his face into his open palms and squeezes, fingers digging into his scalp and cheeks. He has no furnace to keep him going now. No fuel to push him up off of this bean bag, to make dinner, to listen to Yongbok's chatter when he gets home from school.

Minho doesn’t cry. There’s no fuel for that, either.

***

THEN With snow and wind rattling the windows, four Bang-Lees turned indoors into a war zone. A nerf war zone. Chan was in the kitchen, using an open cupboard door as cover from Yongbok and Minho as they crouched behind the maroon couch in the living room, firing foam bullets at him. As Chan ducked behind the cupboard door again, Minho mouthed ‘go!’ to Jeongin.

“You’ll never see the sunrise, hyung!” Minho needled, sliding another nerf into his gun and firing. It pinged off the wooden door uselessly as Jeongin slid across the floor to fetch up against the kitchen island.

Yongbok giggled, catching Minho’s meaningful eye wiggle. “Yeah, Dad! It’s the end for you!”

“Not yet, it’s not!” Chan roared and rolled toward the living room. He winced coming up from the roll, just a few inches away from Jeongin.

“You’re not 20 anymore, hyung. Leave the ninja rolls in the past,” Minho said dryly, buying time for Jeongin who was covering his own mouth. If his red face and shaking shoulders were any indication, the 8-year-old was trying valiantly to keep his laughter from giving away his position. 

Minho shifted, and as his knee sank into a crack in the pleather couch cushion, he made yet another mental note to get rid of this 3-year-old couch. Then he continued stalling, meeting Chan’s grimace with a drawl, “If I have to hear you moan about twinges in your back, I’ll–”

"Gotcha!" Jeongin screeched, finally popping around the island to nail Chan in the thigh.

Chan’s eyes screwed up in mock pain as he clutched his leg and cried, "Ah! My legs's gone," tipping sideways dramatically. He’d let his brown hair have its natural frizz today, and it shuddered as he thunked to the ground.  He reached out both hands to Minho, eyes shining, plush lips parted and trembling. "Save me, babe!"

Minho cackled and shot Chan directly in the left nipple.

"Hey!" Betrayal painted every handsome corner of Chan’s face, and Minho tucked the image into his overstuffed mental folder titled simply “My Husband.” He’d bring it out when he needed a smile or a laugh.

"Now's your chance, boys!" Minho shouted, raising his gun to the sky like a pirate captain, grin wicked. 

Yongbok and Jeongin threw themselves onto Chan, squealing and laughing as he writhed back against the floor.

“Betrayed by my own kids,” Chan moaned. “I–oof–should have seen it–ow–coming.”

Minho stalked around the mass of knees and elbows until he stood by Chan's head. His husband's face was red, his brows furrowed as a child kneed him somewhere tender. His long fingers wrapped around Jeongin’s nerf gun, half-heartedly wrestling over it, while he tried to trap a laughing Yongbok between his thighs. 

Minho would gladly destroy the world for him.

"Ready to surrender?"

"Yeah,” he wheezed, shoving gently at Jeongin as Jeongin opened his mouth wide, gap-toothed and ready to deal damage. "I admit defeat."

“Hear that, boys? We win! Innie, stop trying to bite your dad. He’s already surrendered.” When Jeongin didn’t immediately comply, Minho hooked an arm around his middle and hauled him off. Yongbok sprang up and slapped his palm against Minho’s outstretched one.

“We beat Dad! All right!” His freckled face split near in half with the force of his smile. 

"You’re losing your touch, old man," Minho said smugly, setting Jeongin down.

"Old man! Old man!" Yongbok chanted gleefully. Jeongin elbowed him. 

"What?” Yongbok frowned, rubbing his side. “Appa said it."

Minho expected an outraged “Hey!” from Chan at the old man joke, but Chan just sat up with a groan, chest heaving, sweat glittering at his hairline. "I'm tired, boys. How about we watch a movie?" He massaged a thumb into his temple.

"Yeah!" Yongbok and Jeongin chorused.

“I want Moana!” said Yongbok.

“Well, I want Spiderman,” shot back Jeongin. 

“Go over there and talk about it,” Minho said, flapping his hands towards the other side of the house before their bickering soured his mood.

Chan was still sitting on the smooth hardwood floor, rubbing his head as sweat trickled down. 

“I didn’t know you were so out of shape, hyung.” Minho crossed his arms to tamp down the sudden squirming in his chest. “You used to keep up with them easily.” 

Chan didn’t rise to the bait, didn’t meet Minho’s banter with his own. “Must still be wiped out from my business trip.” He looked up, eyes wide and pathetic. "Help me up?"

Minho huffed through the twinge of unease and reached down to haul Chan up off the floor. He braced his legs and yanked, knowing just how dense Chan was. But Chan all but flew into his arms. 

“Woah, babe,” Chan giggled, a little breathless, clutching at Minho’s shoulders. “Have you been working out?”

Minho blinked a rapid one-two-three. “Not really.” 

“Well,” Chan trailed a finger along Minho’s jaw, and Minho’s breath hitched. “It’s not like you need to, demon kitty.”

Minho rolled his eyes even as butterflies churned in his stomach. “Smooth talker,” he growled, then pressed his lips against Chan’s chuckling mouth. Chan's lips were a little chapped. Minho didn't care. He squeezed Chan’s waist tighter, licked into Chan’s mouth, and lost himself a little in the familiar way their bodies fit together.

Except… it wasn’t exactly familiar. Something about how his arms fit around Chan’s waist, how his thigh brushed against Chan’s, was different than usual. And something about that excuse of a business trip was odd, also. Chan had flown to Europe last week for a meeting with music industry big-wigs. It was a long flight, but he should have recovered by now.

A poisonous thought dropped like a seed into Minho’s mind. He pulled back to ask, “About your business trip. Have you shown me the pictures you took yet?”

Chan thumbed Minho’s earlobe and cast his eyes down, sheepish. “I forgot to take pictures, actually. Sorry, baby.”

“Mmm.” Minho sniffed, donning Chan’s favorite mask of disdain. “It’s fine. Not like I miss seeing plates of half-eaten food or poorly-lit shots of flowers.”

Chan’s whole face lit up, and he laughed before surging forward to kiss Minho again. It was lovely. It was normal. It wasn’t the antidote.

“The ocean is stupid! ” Jeongin’s scathing shout wedged itself between Minho and Chan, and Minho pulled back with an aggrieved sigh, resting his forehead on Chan’s. 

Chan chuckled, clearly reading Minho’s mind. “I’ll take care of them.”

“You better,” Minho grumbled. “Because if I do, there's gonna be some stinging butts by the end of it."

Chan placed one last peck onto Minho's cheek before sauntering over to the bickering boys. One hand came up to rub at his temple again. 

Minho watched his favorite butt sashay away, the joke Chan hadn’t made about stinging butts ringing loud in his ears.

Unease prickled Minho. Something was going on with Chan. 

***

Gentle meows wake Minho. He peels open his eyes and squints at his glasses on his bedside table. Another weekday. Work for him. School for the boys. He closes his eyes again as a wave of apathy settles against his sternum, weighing him down.

He needs some kind of fuel to get him up out of this big bed. Minho twitches his foot, realizing it’s hanging off the edge of the bed. He frowns, cranes his neck. There’s a whole expanse of untouched sheets to his left. A flare of heat burns off some of the apathetic weight as he realizes he naturally scooted to his side of the bed in his sleep. As if leaving room for Chan.

Minho lurches upright and glares at the empty side of the bed. He always goes to sleep right in the center of the mattress, starfishing because he doesn’t have to share anymore. And some futile subconscious hope made him tuck himself onto what used to be his side.

Minho whips the blankets off, enraged at his own body’s betrayal. He snatches up his glasses and sets them on his nose. The furnace in his chest is roaring merrily now, fueled up enough for him to start the day. 

The meowing continues, and he fumbles for his phone to turn off the alarm. Years ago, he chose a recording of hungry cats to wake him up to remind him of his highschool days. Those were good days. Not like now.

He prowls to the bathroom clad only in pajama bottoms, massaging a crick in his neck and scowling into the mirror as he brushes his teeth. His hair is huge, creases are pressed into one side of his face, and his eyes are a bit red. He spits. Smirks. Still better-looking than your morning face, Channie-hyung.

The clock in the living room shows he has to get the boys into the car in 45 minutes. If this morning is like the past dozen mornings, that 45 minutes is going to disappear like popsicles at the summer fair.

Minho opens Yongbok’s door first. He leans in and smiles despite himself. Yongbok is atop his blankets, sprawled sideways with his pillow beneath his knees and his chick plushie clutched in one hand. Minho pads over and rubs the little boy’s head. 

“Bokkie-boy. It’s time to wake up.”

Yongbok blinks his eyes open, then rubs at his face with the chick plushie. “Okay, Appa,” he croaks.

In a fit of fondness that has his anger-furnace sputtering, Minho swiftly presses his lips to Yongbok’s forehead. “There’s my good Haengbok. Get up. Get dressed. Pack your bag. See you in the kitchen.”

Yongbok nods along to each of the familiar instructions, sitting up with a mighty yawn as soon as Minho leaves the side of his bed.

Next is Jeongin. Minho opens Jeongin’s bedroom door–or, tries to. It gets stuck after opening a mere foot. There must be a truly spectacular mess on the floor. How many times has Minho told him to put his stuff away when he’s done? Didn’t they just clean Jeongin’s room yesterday?

Flames lick down into his arms, and Minho shoves the door hard enough to break something, a shout already building in his throat. “Jeongin–”

Jeongin’s bed is empty, and his floor is thoroughly hidden by action figures, plushies, books, and shoes. Minho huffs and restrains himself from slamming the door. It’s a near thing, and the pictures on the wall in the hall shake a bit anyway. 

Minho doesn’t look at them as he stomps into the kitchen where–sure enough–Jeongin is pouring himself a bowl of cereal. His hair is sticking up every which way, but he’s already wearing all his school clothes save for his shoes.

Huh. Maybe they’ll actually get out of here on time for once.

“Did you brush your teeth yet?”

Say ‘Good morning’ to him first. The thought comes in Chan’s voice, and it is extremely unwelcome. 

If you were here, you could say it to him. But you’re not. So shut up.

“I was going to after eating,” Jeongin mumbles, not meeting Minho’s eyes.

Something about this borderline mutiny sets Minho’s teeth on edge. He almost commands Jeongin to brush his teeth first, just out of spite, but holds his tongue. Yongbok is probably using the bathroom right now, and efficiency is the name of the game for mornings.

“That’s fine,” Minho says instead. 

Jeongin bobs his head and hunches lower over his cereal. He’s using a big spoon. The kind that’s meant to ladle soup. Anxiety tightens Minho’s shoulders as he watches the full-to-the-brim spoon lift from the cereal bowl towards Jeongin’s mouth. It’s gonna spill. It’s gonna make a huge mess. It’s gonna–

But Jeongin opens his mouth impossibly wide and the massive spoon disappears completely inside, coming out clean. Jeongin works his jaw, eyebrows drawn low as he concentrates on his cereal.

Minho lets out a huff and shakes his head before going to his own room to get dressed.

He opens his closet door. Shirts and blazers hang neatly across the whole rack. They cast a deep shadow into the back of the closet where a hulking form of maroon pleather lurks. 

Minho pauses at the open door. Stares at the half-seen lump and all the bits of stuffing bubbling out like pus from an infected wound. Then he snatches a crisp white button-down off a hanger and slams the door shut, rattling the photos on his nearby dresser. 

He comes out ten minutes later dressed for work. A glance at the clock tells him they have to leave in 15 minutes. Great. Enough time to feed Yongbok breakfast if he hasn’t had any.

“Okay, boys. How we doing? You ready to go yet?”

“I am,” drawls Jeongin from the living room, sunk into a bean bag. His thumbs fly over the Switch. His backpack rests by his feet. His hair is combed. 

Their living room contains an entertainment stand holding a TV and a video game console, two lamps, and five bean bag chairs. A corner of the maroon pleather couch peeks through the window from its place in the backyard. 

“Wow, Innie. You brushed your teeth? Packed your bag? Wearing clean underwear?”

“Yes, Appa.”

How refreshing that Jeongin chose not to be a problem child this morning. Which leaves…

“Appa!”

Minho whips around. A teary, snotty Yongbok stands in the center of the hall. His school clothes are obscured by the empty backpack he clutches to his chest. 

Minho breathes out slowly through his nose. He hates crying. He hates how it turns Yongbok into a useless mess. He hates how it sounds and how it looks. It’s annoying and pointless.

“What’s wrong, Bokkie?” he grits out.

“I can’t find my homework!” his freckled face wails. 

Minho closes his eyes against the noise. The angry flames surge up, tasting fuel. “Where have you looked?”

“I–I don’t kn-know.”

His jaw hurts. “You don’t know ?”

“Um. In my room?”

Jeongin pipes up. “If you haven’t found it, you should look more, hyung. Instead of crying and doing nothing.”

Minho sucks in a breath. The sentence that just came out of Jeongin’s mouth is one Minho has told both boys countless times. Hearing Jeongin say it, though, makes him inexplicably irritated.

“How about you help him, Innie?”

Yongbok doesn’t move. Just stands there and cries. Jeongin scowls at the Switch as he says, “It’s not my homework. Why should I help him?”

“Because that’s what families do,” snarls Minho. He glances at the clock. They have to leave in five minutes. “Bokkie, go look in your room again. Jeongin, check the kitchen table.” 

Yongbok takes a tiny step towards his room, watery eyes fixed on Minho. 

Minho jabs a finger down the hall. “Quit crying and go!”

Yongbok jumps a little, face contorting as his sobs intensify. Minho is about to tear his hair out. This kid is 10 years old. Shouldn't he have outgrown this by now?

Jeongin unearths himself from the depths of the bean bag and rolls his eyes. “Bokkie is such a waste of space.”

Yongbok’s snotty lips are parted in a continuous wail, now. The sound scrapes down Minho’s spine.

Minho rounds on Jeongin. One step brings him close enough to loom. “Jeongin, do not talk to your brother like that. Say sorry.”

Jeongin sends a flat stare towards Yongbok. “Sorry, hyung,” he says dully. Then he snorts. “Sorry you’re so stupid.”

Rage explodes through Minho. Before he knows it, he’s got Jeongin’s chin and shoulder in his too-strong grip. “What did I just say?”

“But he’s just standing there doing nothing,” Jeongin has the gall to say.

Will this kid never learn? Automatically, Minho turns him around and lands a swift smack to his butt. Then another for good measure. Yongbok’s hiccuping sobs grow impossibly louder, a maddening soundtrack to Minho’s attempt at discipline.

“Bokkie, I’m spanking him for being mean to you. Why are you crying more? ” Minho only realizes he’s yelling by the end because Jeongin winces. He hadn’t winced while getting spanked.

The clock says they need to leave five minutes ago.

Predictably, Yongbok doesn’t answer. He leans against the wall and slides to the floor. He holds his empty backpack in front of his knees like a shield, ducking his red and slimy face down behind it. His little shoulders shake and his hair shakes and Minho resists the urge to grip his arms and shake him silly. 

He bites the inside of his cheek and wishes he could tune everything out. You should be here, hyung, he thinks bitterly. You shouldn’t have left me to do this alone. Bastard.  

***

The kids were still at school, and Minho had had a terrible day at work. Stress wrapped its aching claws around his shoulders and stomach. So when he came home, saw Chan’s car in the driveway, and then heard his low, indistinct tones coming from the bedroom, excitement sparked along Minho’s skin. Time to work out some of stress in the way only Chan could help him with. 

Minho un-knotted his tie, slipped it off his neck and dropped it on the worn maroon couch (it’s really time to get rid of that thing) before stopping in front of the bedroom door. Listening to the periodic sounds of Chan talking through the bedroom door, Minho unbuttoned his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. Then, he exploded into the bedroom, smile full of mischief.

Chan was on the phone, sitting up in bed, blankets pulled up to his armpits, hoodie pulled up around his head. He was adorable. When he saw Minho, his soft brown eyes widened and he hastily took the phone from his ear, stabbing the End Call button.

Then Minho was on him. He pressed his hyung into the pillows, knees stradling Chan’s hips as heat pooled below his navel. It had been so long since they’d been intimate. Almost a month. Chan had either come home when Minho was already asleep, or vice versa. And the few times They’d gone to bed together, Minho had taken one look at the purple bags beneath Chan’s eyes and chosen to let him sleep.

But now. Now it was afternoon, and he was dying to spend quality time with his favorite person. 

Minho was going to make sure Chan knew his intentions from the get-go. He licked up Chan’s neck. “Who were you talking to,” he purred, sucking at Chan’s earlobe, tugging down the blanket with one hand. Chan was entirely too covered up for Minho’s liking.  

“Oh, um, nobody.” Chan wiggled, staying under the blankets. He captured Minho’s tugging hand in his own, drawing it to his lips.

“Nobody, huh?” Minho didn’t know what he was saying. All his attention was diverted to the desire curling in his belly, the memories of Chan’s hands ghosting across his skin. He wanted to feel them again. He caressed Chan’s face once before darting his hand beneath Chan’s hoodie to find–another hoodie. Chan’s breath hitched.

Minho snorted and shifted so he could kiss the tip of Chan’s nose. “Hyung, tell me why you’re wearing two hoodies under the blankets.” His searching fingers found only fabric, no skin. 

“No reason,” Chan said casually. Or tried to. 

Minho picked up on the tiny waver in Chan’s voice. It penetrated through his lust-haze like a police siren, stilling his playful tongue and fingers. 

That awful seed shot sickening poison through Minho’s veins, curdling unease into something more potent. Into horrified suspicion.

“You never get cold,” Minho said flatly.

Chan wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I wouldn’t say never .”

“In the past ten winters, I’ve seen you wear a heavy coat precisely twice. In the house, you either have a blanket in your lap or a single hoodie on. Never both.”

Chan chuckled weakly. “You know me so well, Minho.” Why was there defeat in his tone?

Minho narrowed his eyes as his stomach roiled. “What are you hiding from me?”

Because something was off, off, off. Had been for months. Abruptly ended phone calls, a distinct decrease in libido, guilty looks thrown to Minho.

“I’m not hiding–”

Lies. Chan was lying to him and Minho was done . He slid off Chan’s lap. Spat out the fear that had been simmering for over a month. “Are you cheating on me?”

Chan’s eyes nearly fell out of his head. “What?! No! Why would you–”

Minho kept his dead-eyed stare on Chan. “Who was on the phone, hyung? Just now?” 

“I don’t–”

“Why won’t you show me your skin? Have some hickies I didn’t put there?” Minho’s tone was scathing, his fingers digging into his own thighs. His heart was preparing to break, so he had to shore it up. Emergency measures taken.

“Minho,” Chan gasped. Impossibly, tears gathered in his eyes. “Baby, I wouldn’t. I didn’t.”

Minho’s heart trembled, but he stayed firm. Forced himself to be offended at those tears. How dare Chan try to emotionally manipulate him. He never had before, but there was always a first. Minho had his guard up. “Something’s been going on with you lately.” His voice was dead, dead, dead. “I need you to tell me what.”

Chan took a deep breath. “Okay,” he whispered. 

Minho focused every molecule of his being on Chan, waiting to hear the words that would kill him or not. Chan looked…small. Only his pale hands and face showed in stark relief against the black of his clothes and their bedding. His face especially was swallowed up in all the black softness, smooshed against the pillows from Minho’s amorous attack. His skin pulled tight over his skull, and Minho found not a lick of color in his cheeks or lips. 

“I–” Chan’s pale face spasmed. His lips pressed together in a thin line. He lurched out of bed, and Minho’s first instinct was to aid him, but his steadying arm on Chan’s elbow was knocked away with such force that Minho fell back on the blankets. Chan stumbled to the bathroom, wool socks pounding quietly against the carpet.

Minho lay stunned, exactly where Chan had pushed him. Retching sounds came from the bathroom. 

Hair stood up straight on Minho’s arms, their rising unfettered by sleeves. Chan heaved again, and Minho’s stomach went cold. A painful, living cold so much worse than death. 

***

“All right!” Jeongin punches the air as he leaps out of the car, taking off as soon as his sneakers hit the ground. “Race you to the big slide, Bokkie!” 

“No fair! You’ve got a head start,” whines Yongbok, struggling with his remote control robot toy. It's an advanced thing, meant to teach children how to code. Colored light bulbs crown its square gray head, and a 6 by 6 input pad of buttons covers the thing's back. Minho spent way too much money on it for Yongbok's 10th birthday last month.

"Bokkie, are you sure you want to take Cody The Robot to the playground? He can stay safe in the car."

"Don’t worry, Appa," Bokkie replies as his shoes hit the gravel of the parking lot, shutting the car door behind him. "I'll be careful. I'll make sure he doesn’t get broken." 

Minho flattens his lips, looking out towards the playground. It's chaotic, filled by dozens of people who don't care about Cody The Robot’s safety. Children hang off the monkey bars and jungle gym. All four slides have lines five children deep. Adults have colonized all available benches, while others sit on the grass beneath trees, and others venture into the wood-chipped danger zone to help smaller children play. 

Jeongin is scaling a ladder. He slips between a small girl and her larger friend to jump onto the fireman pole and slide down. The white of his teeth is visible from the parking lot. The sight softens Minho.

He sets a palm on top of Yongbok’s head, gently tilting his face up. He locks eyes with the little boy. "Are you going to cry if Cody The Robot gets broken?"

Yongbok scoffs, rolling his eyes like Minho has seen in his own mirror a thousand times. “Like I’d cry over that.”

Minho swallows his tongue. The great Forgotten Homework Meltdown was just last week. Months ago, Yongbok burst into tears over a melted pokemon figurine forgotten in the oven (that had been a bitch to clean). Minho never knows what will make Yongbok break down.  

“Go play, then. We can stay for two hours. Then it’s dinnertime.”

“Okay, Appa!” Yongbok chirps, running off. The sun glints off the toy's plastic hand sticking out from between Yongbok's arms. Minho’s fond smile morphs into curiosity when Yongbok stops half-way to the playground and runs back to him.

“What’s up, Bokkie?”

Little arms wrap around Minho’s waist. Yongbok presses his cheek into his ribs. “Love you, Appa.” Then he’s off and running again.

Minho blinks rapidly against the stinging in his throat. 

When he woke up this morning, Minho had a vague plan of lounging around the house playing video games and watching TV with the boys. Anything that meant he could stay shirtless and lazy all day. But the boys asked if they could go to The Big Slide Park. In a fit of generosity, Minho agreed. 

Yongbok’s wide eyes and Innie’s delighted squeal were simultaneously adorable and tragic. 

When was the last time he said “yes” to his children? Parenting, by necessity, meant saying “no” a lot. Can I eat ice cream for dinner? No. I wanna jump off the roof! No. What’s this red thing on the stove? No!!

It had been an especially rough few weeks in the rough months since the upheaval. And while lazing around in nothing but his gym shorts sounded nice, that glimpse of happiness on his children’s faces felt like a cool breeze on overheated skin.

So when Yongbok also asked if he could bring Cody the Robot to the park, Minho said yes and basked in his pure, sunshine smile. Even though most toys brought on outings over the past six years ended up lost, dirty, or broken, Minho reasoned that Yongbok was older now, more responsible. Minho shouldn’t deny him things now just because Yongbok had been scatter-brained in the past. He should give him chances. Like Chan would do.

The early autumn sun is warm on Minho’s T-shirt-clad shoulders as he saunters towards the madness of the playground. Their outing bag–a purple canvas tote filled with water, snacks, sunscreen, and a suspense novel–bumps against his hip as he scouts the busy place for an available spot. The closer he gets, the less he can hear himself think over the squeals and laughter of children. It makes him a bit anxious, all that high-pitched noise, but as long as he keeps to the edge, it’ll be fine.

He settles down on the grass facing The Big Slide and eagerly pulls out his book from the bag. He’s at the part where the quirky detective has found a mysterious rose-etched pen lying beneath the victim’s bed.

“Appa! Appa!” He looks up reluctantly. Yongbok and Jeongin are in line for The Big Slide, waving madly at him with bright grins. Minho waves back, shutting his book on his finger despite the itch to read. If he takes his eyes from the boys before they’ve gone down the slide, they’ll just whine at him. This is him saving himself future irritation. 

Jeongin screams when he goes down the slide, arms and hair flying up. Yongbok follows too closely behind with his toy held on his lap like a baby. He crashes into Jeongin before the younger boy can get out of the way. They both tumble to the ground.

Minho rises to his knees, ready to intervene in a fight, but both boys just laugh and spring to their feet. Yongbok pushes a button on Cody and the colorful lights twinkle as they should.

“Did you see, Appa?” calls Jeongin. His eyes sparkle, there’s a leaf in his hair, and his smile is more carefree than it’s been for months. 

This is why he said yes. This is how he wants Jeongin to be. How could he have ever been irritated at this joyful child?

A gentle warmth takes up residence in his chest. It is far more nurturing than the hot rage that usually lives there. “I saw!” Minho says, that warmth leaking into his voice and smile. 

They run off, and Minho follows them with his eyes for a few moments, smiling to himself. Jeongin claims the only empty swing and starts pumping his legs. Yongbok clambers onto the bridge of the jungle gym and sets Cody down, claps as it walks and flashes its lights. 

Minho eventually goes back to his book and quickly becomes immersed, flipping pages hungrily. The quirky detective ran into an old flame, who happens to have a ring with a rose on it. The old flame of course doesn’t give up her secrets easily, though, and instructs the quirky detective to take her out on a date. Minho suspects this will be a trap. But just as the two characters are about to board a boat, he hears a familiar wail.

He jerks his head up, searching for Yongbok’s yellow shirt as hot fear-anger curdles in his gut. It’s scary how instant that feeling is, how it consumes the peaceful warmth instantly– a snake swallowing the sun whole.

There. Crouched on the ground beneath the monkey bars, Yongbok holds Cody The Robot's head in one hand and the body in the other. His face is red, contorted into an open-mouthed cry.

Behind him, Jeongin's face is scrunched into a scowl as he faces off against an apologetic-looking kid twice his weight. Jeongin shoves the kid hard, leaning his whole body into the movement. The kid goes stumbling back, bumping against the monkey bar frame, eyes and mouth wide and scared.

Minho bolts to his feet. What a fool he was, saying yes to Yongbok. He knew this stupid toy would get broken. Knew Yongbok would ruin this fun outing with his tears. Jeongin getting rough with another kid isn't surprising either. God, he can't take these kids anywhere. 

"Innie! Stop!" he roars. Half the heads on the playground turn to him, and each gaze feels like an insect crawling up his neck. He tries to ignore them as he stalks across the length of the playground. He fails.

He's smarter than this. Had years of managing little humans taught him nothing? He should have said no to the toy. It would have stopped this unhappy situation. Idiot. He was an idiot. And for what? So his boys could have some fleeting happiness? So they could have their half hour of fun canceled out by this moment?

Minho reaches the scene at the monkey bars. He grabs Jeongin’s arm and yanks him away from the other kid. "No pushing," he snarls.

"But she broke Bokkie's toy!" Jeongin's eyes are dark and stormy, his jaw jutting mulishly. He tries to jerk out of Minho's hold. Minho’s fingers are iron.

"I'm sorry! It was an accident," says the girl, rubbing her back. Her lower lip trembles.

"It's o-ok-k-kay," Yongbok hiccups loudly, tears and snot painting his face.

"What's going on here?" A woman's belligerent tone pierces the chaos beneath the monkey bars. She stands in front of the girl, ball cap shading her narrowed eyes. 

It's so noisy. Minho's head is reeling and his chest burns with fury hotter than the flush on his neck. He is mortified . 

"I'm sorry." Minho bends at the waist, shoving Jeongin down by the back of his head. "My son was out of line."

The mother's combative stance dissolves in an instant. She rushes forward, hands extended as if to push them up out of their bows. "Oh, no need for that! Please, it's okay." 

Minho breaks his bow stiffly, jaw tight. Jeongin follows, crossing his arms and kicking at the ground.

The mother relaxes. "It's fine, really. Kids are still learning how to behave, after all. This girl should have been more careful."

"I said sorry," the kid says miserably. "Sorry about your robot," she calls. 

Yongbok swipes his entire arm across his eyes and nods. At least he's quiet now. His arm glistens wetly.

The insects on his neck are in Minho’s hair now. A swarm of a thousand little legs. No matter how understanding this mother is, Minho needs to escape. He inclines his head to her, robotic. "Thanks."

Yongbok is still on the ground, wood chips clinging to his shorts and socks. His chest hitches every few seconds as he tries to end his sobbing.

"Let's go, boys," Minho says. He is in control. Of himself, of his children. He will not fly off the handle.

Jeongin is outraged. "You said we had two hours!"

The mother and daughter are still right there. The entire park is full of people watching them. Watching Jeongin be disobedient. Minho's head feels dangerously close to exploding.

"I know I did, but now we need to go." Minho’s tone is scary-sweet. He gives a tight smile to the mother, who is already walking away. To give him privacy? To gossip about him? To tell everyone to stay away from that Jeongin kid because he’s a violent child who will surely grow up to be a jailbird?

"But you said–"

Minho crouches down swiftly. Nose to nose with his son, he quietly growls. "If you argue with me one more time I will spank you so hard when we get home that you'll wish you didn't have a butt. Now. We are leaving. Get into the car." He holds Jeongin’s mutinous gaze another beat, holding his own limbs from the violence they itch for.

Jeongin drops his eyes and starts silently trudging for the parking lot. 

"Come on, Bokkie," Minho grits out. He left his bag and book on the grass. He has to walk across this godforsaken playground again to collect them. 

Yongbok gets to his feet, sniffling every other step. The toy's parts dangle from his hands, and Minho keeps all the useless "I-told-you-so"s locked behind his teeth where they corrode the soft flesh of his mouth.

***

Minho wrestled Chan to their doctor, who took some tests, furrowed his brow, and sent them to a specialist. 

“I’ll make a call to get her to see you today,” the doctor said, eyes kind behind his glasses.

Snakes writhed in Minho’s belly. Efficiency in the medical industry? That couldn’t be good.

Minutes later, Chan cracked a humorless laugh as he slumped against the leather passenger seat in their sedan.

“What?” Minho asked sharply, looking over his shoulder as he backed them out of their parking space.

“Doctor Park Guektae. Hongjoong also said I should go to her. ” He turned heavy eyes to Minho. “He’s the one I’ve been calling. Secretly.”

Minho bared his teeth at nothing, smoothly turning onto the street. Hongjoong was a nurse, their only friend in the medical field. 

“How long ago did he tell you?”

“About a month.”

A month. A month ago, Yongbok had performed in the school play. Chan had winced when he stood up from those hard metal folding chairs in the audience to clap. A month ago, Chan had started keeping his clothes on around Minho. A month ago, Minho had caught Chan hastily hanging up the phone, clocked his fake smile.

How could he have thought Chan was cheating on him? How had he not seen the signs for what they were? Helped instead of suspected. Comforted instead of critiqued. God, he disgusted himself.

Minho stewed for the remainder of the drive to the specialist, who operated out of the hospital. After a long wait, they were ushered in. More tests. More snakes in Minho’s belly. More waiting. At some point, Minho’s hand found Chan’s. Or maybe they’d had their fingers intertwined for hours.

Minho's knee was bouncing, his shoulders up around his ears. He was sick of medical rooms and fluorescent lights, sick of doctors with their vague non-answers. He was ready to go to the comfort of his home and wrap Chan up in his arms.

The doctor entered their little room. Chan and Minho looked up from where they sat side by side in two hard-backed chairs. Dr. Park's gray hair was pulled into a severe bun. “Bang Chan-ssi,” she said, face perfectly blank. “We need to keep you overnight. Please come with me.”

“Why does he need to stay?” Minho glared down at the woman. Down? When had he stood up?

“Minho–”

“You’ve done a thousand tests on him already,” Minho growled over Chan’s soft voice, fingers tightening around Chan’s own bony grip. “Let him rest at home.”

Dr. Park met Minho’s murderous gaze evenly, as unmoving as a frozen cliff. “We need to do a few more to confirm our diagnosis.”

“And what diagnosis would that be?” Minho spat. He was sick of this. Sick of not knowing. So sick of these snakes in his belly that he lit a fire to burn them out. Rage was a much more comfortable companion.

“I am not going to tell you until I’m absolutely sure.”

“That’s fucking rich,” Minho snarled, throat sore. Chan squeezed his hand in caution. It was a weak squeeze. Minho’s sore throat just hurt more.

“This is your one and only warning, Lee Minho.” Dr, Park was icy. “One more trace of hostility, and you will be banned from the hospital.”

“Babe, calm down. I need– stay with me. Please.”

Minho took a deep breath, tamped the fire. Chan needed him. He wasn’t going to leave him alone in this godforsaken place. He could play nice. He would play nice.

His head bobbed in a jerky bow. “My apologies. It won’t happen again.”

Her eyes softened. “Thank you. I know this is a stressful time. Now, if you’re ready, please follow me.”

Minho walked through long white halls that smelled of nothing, pushing Chan in the wheelchair the doctor insisted on. 

“C’mon,” he’d pleaded with a weak laugh. “My legs work fine. It’s not like I’m dying.”

Minho sent him his most fatal glare, his stomach clenching at the meaningful look the doctor and nurse sent each other. “Jagiya. Shut up.”

Chan shut up.

In the new hospital room–outfitted with a bed, a chair, and wheeled stands–the nurse gave Chan a hospital gown to change into. She left with a little bow.

Chan locked eyes with Minho, knuckles growing white where he gripped the flimsy gown. His face held an expression that made fear shiver up Minho’s spine.

"What is it, hyung?" His mouth felt like sandpaper, suddenly.

"I--I--"Chan broke eye contact, shame rolling off him. "I'd rather you not see me."

Minho's heart broke clean in two. And from that break, smokey indignation rose, curling onto his tongue. "Well that's just too bad. I'm your husband. I'm the only one who gets to see."

Chan's full mouth twitched into a sad smile. He took a deep breath and held it, seeming to gather his courage. Then he undressed, and Minho finally saw why Chan had been covering himself in layers, hiding away from Minho's eyes.

Minho stayed quiet and neutral-faced as Chan pulled off his long-sleeved shirt. Chan kept stealing glances at him. Only when Chan turned to lay the shirt on the chair, revealing the cutting ridges of his ribs and spine did Minho's face spasm.

Minho had felt the changes in Chan's body over the past few months. But feeling a little less solidity between his arms and seeing the way Chan's skin hung off his bones, huge purplish splotches stark against his pale skin was entirely different.

By the time Chan turned back around after shucking off his jeans, Minho had schooled an unimpressed expression onto his face. All the agony and sorrow was securely locked away from the surface.

"I don't know why you were so secretive, hyung," he drawled. "You’re still you." He kept his tone dismissive because Chan liked that. In reality, he knew Chan was allergic to making him worry or asking for help. Minho wanted to strangle him for it, but that would be overkill. This…ailment or whatever was doing enough damage.

Chan's anxious eyebrows and trembling eyes disappeared as his lids closed. He chuckled weakly and shook his head, tilting his face up. "Ah, my demon kitty. I can always count on you." 

That vulnerable expanse of Chan's throat. The aching love in his voice. It was the last straw. 

Minho surged forward and wrapped Chan in his arms, capturing his lips in a fierce kiss. There were no words. No words that could possibly convey everything he needed Chan to know. The strength of his love, the depth of his fear, the permanence of his loyalty.

Chan squeaked and leaned into Minho, snuggling closer.

Beneath his palms, goosebumps prickled along Chan's bare back. Such a visceral reminder–cold and clammy skin that reminded him of dead chickens–dragged him back the edge he'd been on all day. 

Minho pulled away and attempted to shove him into the gown more than a little frantically. "Okay," he croaked. "Into bed and under the covers, you." 

Chan complied, and when he was situated, Minho sat by the bed on the little brown stool and called Jisung. 

Jisung’s deep voice was cheerful. “Hey, hyung. What’s going on?” Mario-Kart trash talk filled the background.

“I need you to stay with the boys for the rest of the night. Chan and I can’t make it back for a while. Is that okay?” Minho’s stomach was tight, tight, tight.

“Yeah, of course. I’ve got nothing going on tomorrow. Is everything all right?”

Minho looked at Chan, who met his gaze steadily. He covered Minho's hand with his own and nodded, face solemn. 

Minho swallowed. “Yes, everything’s all right,” he clipped, back straight, toes curled in his shoes. “Thanks, Jisung-ah.”

“No problem. Now I think I need to intervene before Yongbok breaks Jeongin’s controller.”

Minho couldn’t muster up a laugh. “Yep. Bye.” He hung up. Rested his head briefly on Chan's shoulder and held his hand through more needles, more vials.

Hours passed. Afternoon faded into night. Chan dozed. Minho did not. He focused on keeping the simmering panic in him from growing too large. He patrolled the bubbling lake inside him, ice cubes in a sack over his shoulder. He threw one in every time a thought cranked up the heat. 

More tests are never good. What if it’s heart disease? 

Ice cube. Plop. No, he’s losing weight. It’s probably just an ulcer. Ulcers are treatable.

What if they can’t diagnose anything? What if he just mysteriously wastes away?!

Ice cube. Plop. Dr Park sounded like she had a guess already.

And so on and so on. Until a trio of doctors drew back the pathetic privacy curtain and stepped into the little space. 

Three. Why are there three? The simmering panic bubbled more violently. Dr. Park stood front and center with two taller doctors flanking her.

What is it? Tell me. Tell us. Tellustellustellus.

Minho was practically vibrating as he stood. He kept himself in check, wary of his warning, but his face must have been threatening enough, must have telegraphed his mental scream.

Dr. Park stared straight into his eyes for a long moment, before shifting her focus to Chan. She opened her mouth. Said the words. “It’s cancer. You have a month to live.” 

Minho’s head swam. Chan’s hand clenched painfully around his own, the only part of his body he could feel right now. Only the bed’s sturdy frame against his thighs kept him upright.  

“Babe, you alright?” Chan asked him, voice tired but still resonant. And Minho turned to him with wide, crazy eyes. He wanted to rip his own chest open, tear out his heart and fling it at the doctors. Cover their horribly sympathetic expressions with his lifeblood. He wanted to laugh hysterically and scold Chan for his absolute nerve in asking him if he was alright when Chan was the one dying.

Instead, he clenched every muscle in his body as Chan said, “Thank you, Dr. Park. Please give us a few moments.”

“Wait,” he said breathlessly, and the doctors halted their exit. “Wait. A-a month? What about treatment? Chemo and-and surgery and stuff.” He gaped at the doctors, scowling. “You can’t just announce that he’s going to die and not try to do anything about it.”

Everyone in the room winced. Why? And why was his throat all scratchy all the sudden?

“Please don’t scream, jagiya,” Chan said softly, trembling. Minho whirled to him. 

“If–If–” Minho felt like he’d been sprinting for the past hour, aching lungs and trembling legs. “Why can’t–” Nothing felt right on his tongue. He didn’t even know what he wanted to ask. His mind and heart was just one endless, enraged NO.

“I’m sorry. The cancer has likely been metastasizing for about three years. If we’d gotten to you two or even one year ago, things would be different.” Dr. Park gave a little bow that Minho didn’t see. “We’ll leave now.”

The hospital room was eerily silent but for the buzzing of the lights overhead. Minho stared at Chan, horror doubtless bubbling to his face now that they no longer had an audience. Three years. This thing had been growing inside Chan for three fucking years . He wanted to go back in time and punch himself in the face. He should have noticed. There’d been time for him to notice but–but–

Chan tugged Minho down into a desperate hug. The cold plastic of an IV tube brushed against Minho’s neck. Minho wanted to lash out, scold Chan for not taking his pain seriously, not going to the doctor the instant he felt off. Wanted to spew the filthiest curses at Chan, his traitorous body, fate, God, and the universe. 

But he didn’t do any of that. Because Chan started sobbing, digging his fingers weakly into Minho’s wide shoulders as Minho hugged him back. 

"I thought it was just normal aches and twinges," Chan gasped through his sobs. His tears cascaded over Minho’s neck, hot and sticky, wetting the collar of his shirt. "Getting older, you know? And then…when it got worse…I was just scared. I didn't want to find out. Because what if it was cancer? " 

His laughing wail bordered on hysterical, searing Minho's skin through his damp shirt. Minho squeezed Chan tighter, silently nuzzling the crown of his head.

Chan slipped down in Minho's hold and rubbed his forehead against Minho's chest.

"I'm going to miss our boys growing up. I'm never going to meet who they fall in love with. Never going to cheer for Bokkie on stage or Innie on the field. Never going to watch them do so many precious, ordinary things. And you." Chan peeled his tear-stained face away from Minho's chest to look him in the eye. 

 "I wanted to grow old with you. I wanted to hear you tease me until my hearing left me. I wanted to bother you in the kitchen and the bedroom and the backyard. I wanted–"

The words stopped falling from Chan's lips as abruptly as if they'd been killed. Utter despair painted Chan's features as he searched Minho's face, and Minho's own helplessness enraged him. He'd always been bad at comforting people–everyone except Chan, who had always derived strange pleasure from Minho's rough affection.

But Minho couldn't muster up a bizarre joke or a dismissive huff right now. Not with his clothes and skin bearing the evidence of Chan's agony. Not when this catastrophe bled to his own insides, too violent for his own tears to escape.

Their future had been stolen. Chan lamented it, but Minho was furious. 

Lip caught between his teeth, Minho swiped the back of his hands across Chan's face. His husband's whole body shuddered with muted sobs. He smoothed his bangs up, pressing so tightly the skin of Chan's forehead pulled taut. 

What could he say? Chan was going to leave them, go to whatever afterlife awaited humans. And Minho would be left behind. 

What was left in the face of such upheaval?

"I love you," whispered Minho, voice shaking, still gripping Chan's hair. 

Chan's full lips trembled. "I love you, too." He pressed a chaste kiss to Minho’s lips. It was cold and slick and tacky, and Minho wanted to murder the very keeper of time so it would never end.

Then Minho held his dying husband, each shudder an earthquake passing from Chan's frail body into Minho's perversely healthy one. Each sniffle feeding Minho's rage.

Eventually Chan's shudders faded, his meager energy spent, and he fell into the unrestful sleep of the ill.

In a red-tinged daze, Minho tucked Chan’s hand beneath his hospital blanket, rose, and walked to the parking lot. He blinked. He was in his car, cruising down the empty highway. Blink. He was at home, icy knob in hand. Blink, he was inside, seeing Jisung lounging on the maroon couch, tapping away on his phone. 

He craned his head back when Minho shut the door, beanie almost falling off. 

“Hey. How’d it go?”

Minho swallowed. He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t give any more fuel to this hot, tight ball in his chest. It already threatened to eat him from the inside.

“Fine. The kids in bed?”

“ ‘Course. It’s, like, almost midnight. What kind of uncle do you think I am?”

Jisung’s lame joke was delightfully and disgustingly ordinary. Perfectly on-brand.

“Thanks for that. I know it was last minute.” 

Jisung frowned, swung his legs off the couch. Minho’s eyes bored holes into it.

“Seriously, hyung. What’s going on?”

Minho pressed his lips together and shook his head, staring at those damn cracked couch cushions. He should have replaced the whole thing months ago. 

“Hyung. Come o–”

“Not. Tonight,” Minho ground out. He strode forward and dug his fingers into the cushion Jisung sat on, ripping it up and away. He held it aloft like people in ancient times did with the heads of their enemies.

Jisung sprang to his feet, mouth agape. “ Hyung.”

“You can go home now, Jisungie,” Minho growled. He stalked over to the kitchen, holding the maroon pleather with aching knuckles. “Bye.”

“Hyung, are you–”

Minho whipped around, eyes aflame in his bloodless face. “ Bye, Han Jisung.”

Minho tracked Jisung’s exit–his raised hands and hurried shoe-donning; his bitten lip and his lingering glance over his shoulder–until the door shut behind him. Then he strode towards the knife block, plucked out his third-favorite blade, and stalked to his and Chan’s bedroom.

He flung the couch cushion on the floor, arm muscles twinging. Dropped one knee to it, pinning it in place as he raised the knife over his head. Then he stabbed down with all the strength he possessed. The pleather parted with a quiet pip, the steel blade scratching against the stuffing. Minho felt that tiny friction in his teeth like nails on a chalkboard. He did it again. And again. And again.

Lips lifted in a snarl, sweat dripping down his forehead, a guttural scream ripped through his throat as he murdered the couch cushion like he couldn’t murder the disease. Like the disease was murdering Chan.

He stabbed the kitchen knife that had made so many family dinners into the pleather and stuffing until his shoulder burned and the cushion lay across his and Chan’s floor like a carcass, intestines scattered and ready for dogs to fight over.

Then he switched hands and stabbed some more.

***

“Jisung-ah, are you free tonight?”

“I mean, I had some very important plans with my TV that I’d rather not cancel.”

“Great. I need you to babysit. I’m going out.”

The pause on the other end of the line is loud. Minho pinches the bridge of his nose, foot tapping.

“Going out? It’s the first time, right? Since–”

“Yes, it’ll be the first time. Can you watch the boys or what?”

That horrible pause again. Then: “Sure, hyung. I’d love to hang out with your boys. Just, don’t you want some company? I could come with you, instead. Call San and Wooyoung to babysit.”

The offer sends a wave of panic crashing over him. “No,” he croaks. He wants to be by himself. Well, no. He wants to escape the reminders of his daily failures. For a few hours, he’d like to be someone other than Lee Minho, shitty father and widow. Jisung hovering by his elbow, making him drink water and looking at him with his sweet doe eyes doesn’t fit that plan.

So Jisung comes over and presents store-bought brownies to Yongbok and Jeongin. He gives Minho a meaningful look before the boys drag him over to the bean bags that fill the space the couch used to be and push a controller into his hands.

“What’s in your ear, Appa?” Yongbok asks. Minho self-consciously touches the dangling silver earring. Yongbok’s sweet question fans the smoldering embers of Minho’s rage. Sure, Minho hasn’t worn earrings for a year, but he wore them all the time before then. Yongbok’s seen them before. What a thoughtless question.

But Jisung is looking at him knowingly, so Minho just says, “Be good for Uncle Jisung. I’ll see you tomorrow,” and jets out the door.

He walks a block to get to a main road and hails a cab. One comes instantly, and he lets the satisfaction soothe the flames in his chest. Of course a cab notices him. He’s in a loose burgundy silk shirt that flatters his shoulders, unbuttoned enough to show a triangle of chest. Tight black pants hug his butt and thighs, and he’s got sparkling eyeshadow to go with the silver earring. 

He hasn’t bothered to dress up for a long time, and it's nice to know he’s still got it. No–he doesn’t still got it. Tonight is about pretending. He’s going back in time, being the Minho he was in college. Unburdened by responsibilities, untangled in relationships. Free and fun and in control.

Neon club lights glint off his pointy shoes as he exits the cab. They play over his hair and glint off his earring as he enters. It’s too early for there to be a line out the door. He’ll stay until it's so packed he can’t so much as think without accidentally grabbing someone else’s thoughts.

A bar fills one side of the club, while the opposite side features a raised stage where a woman with dreadlocks is DJ-ing. Dozens of bodies are already on the dance floor, bathed in pulsing red lights, bouncing in time to the beat.

Minho ignores the bar and heads straight into the mass of dancers. He wiggles his way to the center, letting the music guide his body in a way he hasn’t for a year. It’s wonderfully freeing, and Minho closes his eyes for the rest of the song, moving without thinking. Maybe this can be enough. Maybe this is all he needs tonight.

He blinks his eyes open as the DJ smoothly blends the end of the song into a frenetic dubstep number. A broad back is in front of him. Suddenly he knows that dancing alone is not enough. It’s not anywhere close. His body craves something else tonight. He slips his hands over those shoulders, pressing in to feel the warm firmness. Oh, yes.

The man turns around with a tiny smirk. 

Minho gazes into his eyes, licks his lips. 

The man looks Minho up and down very slowly, cocks his head to one side, and says “Hey, gorgeous.”

Thank God this guy can take a hint.

“I’m Seo Changbin,” the man shouts over the music.

Minho cackles. “I didn’t ask!” It’s a mean thing to say, but Minho doesn’t care. Mean is his brand. In college, he was snarky and dismissive, and it made everyone fall over themselves to be with him. It was only with a select few that he found pleasure in being sweet.

Tonight is not about sweetness.

The music speeds up, heading close to a drop, and the crowd yells when it finally comes. Minho puts one hand on Changbin’s meaty shoulder, other fist raised to the sky as they jump and dance. 

Changbin slips an arm around Minho’s waist, and Minho nearly passes out. It’s been so long since—nope. He’s 19 years old and dances close with someone new every weekend.

The dubstep song ends, and a filthy beat replaces it. More bodies flood the dance floor, and Minho turns around and presses himself right up against Changbin, grinding back against him. In the dim, flashing lights of the club, Changbin’s hands almost look familiar where they clutch the silk of Minho’s shirt, nails dimpling the skin on either side of Minho’s belly button.

A shiver runs through Minho, and something tightens his throat. Is this what arousal usually feels like? It must be, because Minho is hooking his arm through Changbin’s and pushing his way off the dance floor. It must be, because he’s tossing Changbin’s dense, hot body against a wall and mashing their lips together.

Changbin’s tongue is, indeed, very distracting. It slides along Minho’s bottom lip, pushes into his mouth. Thick arms come around Minho, and Minho grips his muscled back with two desperate hands. Almost without his instruction, one leg comes up and hooks around Changbin’s thigh.

It’s great. It’s warm and solid and for once Minho feels grounded. He can’t think, he can only feel as the club’s bass beats his thoughts into dust and Changbin’s touch sweeps them away.

“Hey,” Minho says shakily, sliding his lips to Changbin’s ear. He feels crazed like he usually doesn’t. Frantic, desperate. “You wanna get out of here?”

Changbin’s hands slide down Minho’s silky back to squeeze his butt. “Whatever you want, baby.”

Minho freezes. Changbin’s mouthing at Minho’s neck. But Minho doesn’t feel the hot press of lips and tongue in a crowded club. He only hears those words bouncing backwards through time. 

“Whatever you want, baby.” Said through a dimpled smile as he hands over a pudding cup. “Whatever you want, baby.” Laughed out as Minho tugs his hand through the amusement park. “Whatever you want, baby.” Breathed against his lips as they shed clothes like autumn leaves.

Minho shoves himself away, gripping Changbin’s shoulder and jaw with claw-like fingers. He pushes until his arms are straight and people bump into his back.

“What are you doing?” A worried frown accompanies Changbin’s confused tone.

Something cold and heavy is tied around Minho’s neck, dragging down, down, down. Choking and drowning him like a rock in the arctic sea. He’s going to throw up. He’s going to rip this nice stranger’s face off. He’s not going to cry, that’s for damn sure.

The club and the lights and the strangers are suddenly unbearable. The shoulder and jaw in his grip are alien, unfamiliar. The shoulder is round and strong, but not like he wants. The jaw is sharp and warm, but not like he remembers. The lips are plush, but not what he’s used to. 

Minho doesn’t want something new, a distraction.

Minho wants the familiar.

He wants Chan.

Without another word, Minho bolts. His lips are wet and his hands are warm and he shoulders aside all the other club-goers. Profanities ping off him as he keeps knocking people aside until he bursts out of the club doors, nearly hurtling onto the street.

A cab picks him up quickly, once again. The clock on the dashboard shows it’s not even midnight yet. So much for partying like a teenager. So much for running away. So much for forgetting who he really is. God, he’s awful.

“Where to?” asks the cabbie.

“Hell,” whispers Minho. Because that’s where he belongs. He tried to replace him with another short, hot, broad-shouldered man. As if that’s all Chan was. A body that Minho liked. A body that self-sabatoged and took his lover to the grave.

He squeezes his eyes and lips shut. Nausea roils in his gut. He disgusts himself.

“The only hell I know is my mother-in-law's house. Wanna go there?”

Minho lifts his head, stunned. The cabbie cranes around, square jaw and bleached bangs gilded red in the neon lights. The ID dangling from the mirror reads Kim Seungmin. 

“I swear, if you are looking for torment, she’ll deliver.”

A laugh explodes from Minho like a surprise bullet, loud and short and fatal. 

Kim Seungmin grins, a narrow rectangle of straight teeth. His eyes flick up, and he must see something behind him–other cars no doubt–that has him turning to the front and easing the cab away from the curb.

“You don’t look like a guy destined for hell, though,” Seungmin says. “Sure I can’t take you somewhere nicer?”

Minho collapses into the seat, staring at the fuzzy ceiling. He doesn’t share. That’s not who he is or wants to be. But…he’ll never see this Kim Seungmin again, and they are literally trapped together for now.

“I’m a single dad. My husband…passed away six months ago.”

“My condolences.”

“I’m a shitty dad without him. Our kids… my kids? They get into trouble a lot. They didn’t used to, but now one is always fighting and the other is always crying and I don’t know what to do. So you know what I do?”

Seungmin seems to sense this is a rhetorical question.

“I blow up at them. I spank them and yell at them and hide myself away whenever possible because they just… I just…” Minho can’t finish that thought. Doesn’t even know what it is. “So yeah, I’m going to hell.”

“Our kids,” Seungmin says.

“Huh?”

“If you and your late husband raised them together, then you can definitely say ‘our kids.’” Seungmin puts a blinker on and changes lanes.

Minho just feels worse. “You’re right. They are ours, and I am letting him down with how I’m treating them. And I let him down tonight.” Minho’s voice is so quiet by the end, he’s surprised Seungmin hears him.

“Nah. You didn’t let him down tonight. Because you were out trying to enjoy yourself?”

“No, it’s–”

“Was your late husband a possessive asshole?”

Rage sparks in Minho, and he sits up. “No!”

Seungmin nods wisely, unaware he’s one wrong word away from having his tonsils ripped out. “Then I’m sure he’d be fine with you having a night on the town, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

It’s not. That’s not what Minho is worried about at all. “You don’t know what you're talking about, Kim Seungmin.”

“No?”

“No.” He goes hard again, flames burning through disgust and exhaustion and bone-deep pain. “So how about you just shut up and take me here.” He gives Seungmin his home address.

***

Three voices sang, “Happy Birthday, dear Innie! Happy Birthday to you!” 

Jeongin grinned so wide his teeth glinted in the firelight made from the nine candles speckling his creamy blue cake. With a mighty inhale, he puffed his cheeks and blew them all out in one fell swoop.

Sunk into bean bags and perched on kitchen chairs, Minho, Chan, and Yongbok clapped, cheering. Minho had shoved the cushionless maroon outside before Chan returned home. He had a cut down his arm and a deflected question from Chan to show for it. 

“Now I’m as old as you, hyung!” Jeongin crowed, pointing a triumphant finger at Yongbok. 

Yongbok leapt up from his bean bag. “I know! It’s great!” His little hands seized his brother’s finger as he bounced up and down. “Being nine is awesome.”

Jeongin bounced along with him. Minho eyed the cake on the short table. It rattled in time with the boys’ bouncing.  

Chan slid his hand into Minho’s, casting him a look so soft it put pillows to shame. Minho rubbed his thumb over Chan’s wrist.

“Okay, should we eat this cake?” Chan rasped. He cleared his throat and continued in a smoother tone. “Or just look at it?”

“Eat! Eat,” the little sugar fiends chanted.

Chan shifted to get up, and Minho pressed a palm to his collarbone. His terribly prominent collarbone. “I’ll do it, jagiya. Relax.”

“But, I want–”

“Stay. There.” Minho fixed Chan with a glower, and Chan–ridiculous man–bloomed like he was a flower and Minho’s stormy face was the sun. Still glowering, Minho pressed quick kisses to the dimples on either side of Chan’s smile.

Minho cut the cake, placed the pieces on four paper plates, and settled on the floor next to Chan. Gentle fingers caressed the back of his neck as sugar burst onto his tongue. It was bliss.

“Dad, watch this!” Jeongin said, setting his empty bowl down. Of course he’d scarfed his whole cake in 0.5 seconds. Minho had long since given up trying to make Jeongin eat slower.

“Show me, Innie.” 

Jeongin got to his feet and did a cartwheel, flying feet coming within a centimeter of the lamp. 

Minho sucked in a breath, ready to scold him, but Chan beat him to it.

“That was amazing, Innie! When did you learn to do that?” 

There was something off about Chan’s voice. Minho looked up. His lungs stuttered at the sheen of tears in Chan’s eyes. Chan’s smile was still broad, though, and Minho’s heart ached. He curled his free hand around Chan’s calf and rested his head on his thigh.

“I’ve been working on it for a while. But now I’m good. Want to see again?” Jeongin could have been made of starlight, he shone so brightly. 

Minho bit back his admonition. So what if the lamp got broken? Jeongin and Chan needed every precious moment.

“Of course I want to see it again!” Chan exclaimed.

“I can cartwheel, too!” Yongbok piped up, icing smeared across his cheek. He abandoned his half-eaten cake to leap to his feet.

As the boys cartwheeled, somersaulted, and otherwise turned the living room into an acrobatics stage, Chan’s hand on Minho’s neck grew tighter and tighter. Minho knew what that meant. So he rose, slipped behind Chan and crossed his arms over Chan’s shoulders and chest, hugging him from behind. He nuzzled Chan’s cold ear, caressed his trembling chin. 

“All right, hyung?” he asked quietly.

Chan sniffed, and matched his volume. “I’m just–so glad I’m here for this.” Lamplight, soft and yellow, shone on a single tear as it traveled down Chan’s cheek. Minho swiped it away and hugged him tighter.

“Me, too,” he whispered.

Chan grasped Minho’s arms, eyes never leaving Jeongin and Yongbok even as he kept his voice quiet. “They’re just so alive. Bright and young and–”

“Did you see that, Dad? Appa?” Yongbok squealed excitedly from the floor.

“Sure did, Bokkie!” Minho answered with a smile while his heart ached. 

The acrobatics show lasted until bedtime. After the boys had slipped on their pajamas and brushed their teeth, they crawled onto Chan’s and Minho’s laps to get kisses and hugs from each parent. Minho got a wiggly Jeongin first, then swapped with Chan to pepper Yongbok’s face with kisses.

“Good night, Bokkie. I love you.”

“Night, Appa. Love you, too.” Yongbok giggled and scampered away to his bedroom.

“Love you. Good night,” murmured Jeongin, face buried in Chan’s shoulder. His soft hair tickled Chan’s lips as he kissed the crown of his head. Minho almost couldn’t see Jeongin with how tightly Chan had him wrapped up.

“I love you, too, Innie. So much. Good night, my sweet little fox.”

Minho sat on the floor with an empty lap as Chan rocked Jeongin gently. Jeongin’s arms still looked skinny looped around Chan’s now-bony shoulders. Chan’s neck was bared to the soft yellow light, bent to press his cheek against Jeongin.

Minho beat down the prickle behind his eyes. This was a moment to be savored and enjoyed, not grieved over.

For once, Minho didn’t rush them. He had always been strict about bedtime, craving an hour with no children before his own body shut down. Chan had always been more lax, seizing opportunities to make memories as they came.

Chan and Minho had always filled each other’s weak spots in parenting. Adopting two toddlers simultaneously had been like jumping into the ocean mid-storm, confident you could swim after knowing nothing but a community pool. And yet, Chan and Minho had swum. Through potty training and first days of school and long summers and childish heartbreaks and bedtime negotiations and sudden food allergies, Chan and Minho stayed unified by love for two adorable rascals.

The thought of raising two boys on his own terrified Minho. It was a terror equal to his rage at Chan being taken from him.

Eventually, Jeongin wiggled his way out of Chan’s hold. Said one more, “Goodnight, Dad and Appa,” and skipped off to bed.

As soon as the distant door shut, Chan turned to Minho. For the first time in weeks, he had color in his cheeks. Hair tousled, eyes shining, shirt rumpled from Jeongin’s little hands. Minho thought he would die from how beautiful he was. 

“Sweetheart, there’s something that’s been on my mind,” Chan said.

Minho nodded and scooted closer to Chan’s chair. “Tell me.”

Chan took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice did not shake. “When I’m gone, the boys are probably going to be a handful.”

Minho kept the icy panic off his face. He snorted. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Chan’s smile was weak. “No, I mean–they are going to act out. Break stuff, be mouthy, kick and punch and fight, probably.” He placed his hands on Minho’s shoulders and slid up until his palms gently cupped Minho’s cheeks. “When that happens,” he said, searching Minho’s face, “I need you to be gentle with them. They won’t need discipline. They’ll need love.”

Chan knew him too well, the bastard. Because Minho’s terror at raising children alone was not for himself, but for Jeongin and Yongbok. It would be so, so easy to hurt those two shining stars. He didn’t want to, but he feared the damage he would do without Chan to nudge him towards something softer.

So here was Chan, trying to nudge him towards something softer.

Minho didn’t know what his face was doing, but Chan’s eyebrows ticked up in the middle, and his mouth softened like countertop butter. “Oh, baby,” he whispered, and tugged Minho into the cradle of his arms.

Minho went, settling on Chan’s lap and pressing his nose into Chan’s neck. He didn’t think how weak Chan was, how his weight could be hurting him right now. He just curled up and accepted his comfort.

“I’m not as good as you are,” Minho croaked. I should be the one dying, not you. How many times had Chan stepped in when Minho was about to spank the living daylights out of a mouthy Jeongin? How many times had he cleaned up vomit and urine when Minho had been ready to crawl out of his skin? And now… Minho would have to do it all himself. “You’re more patient with them. More thoughtful. More attentive. I can’t–”

“Remember when I was trying to help Bokkie with his homework? It was just first grade, but he would not understand?” Chan chuckled weakly, rubbing Minho’s back. “I was about to pull my hair out. And his. And you just waltzed in, kicked me out, and helped him.”

Minho pulled back to face Chan. Ran a tongue over his lip. “Yes, but–”

“All those times you’ve tossed them up onto the bed. You say ‘last throw’ and they say ‘one more!’ and it ends up being another half an hour.” Chan’s eyes sparkled. “You have plenty of patience, sweetheart.”  

Heat filled Minho’s cheeks. His hands spasmed on Chan’s shoulders. He stayed silent.

A lazy smile graced Chan’s tired face, and Minho’s idiotic heart flip-flopped, because he was still the most handsome man in the world to Minho. “You are wonderful, Lee Minho. You are strong and loving and more stubborn than anyone has a right to be. You can do this.” 

Minho wasn’t sure if he believed him. 

“Remember when you couldn’t beat that dart game and win me the wolf plushie?”

Minho snorted automatically. “I think you mean–”

“So you researched it for a week, practiced at home non-stop, and kept throwing darts until you did beat it?”

Minho nodded, a lump in his throat. Chan rubbed one dry thumb across Minho’s sticky cheek. “That’s the kind of determination that made me fall in love with you, Minho-ya. I know you’ll still have it when I’m gone. Use it to love our children fiercely. For me. For you. For them.”

***

“Innie! What the hell are you doing?” Minho shrieks. He steps into his youngest son’s bedroom to see if the missing Switch was there among the mess. What he finds is Jeongin double-fisting markers and drawing on the walls while Yongbok watches wide-eyed from his little brother’s bed. The window into the backyard frames Yongbok’s head.

 Minho has a clear view of the maroon pleather couch crouched in the grass and covered by leaf litter. From this angle, it surrounds Yongbok's head like the jaws of a bear trap.

Jeongin shrugs, not meeting Minho’s eyes. He stretches up on his tip-toes to swipe the markers higher up on the wall.

The insolence. The preschooler behavior. It’s more fuel for Minho’s fire.

“Stop it!” He darts forward and grabs Jeongin’s fists, yanking him away from the wall. He can’t even look at Jeongin right now, eyes captured by the marker scribbled all over two bedroom walls. It’s not even artistic. It’s not…anything.

The last time Jeongin drew on the walls, he was four years old. Back then, Minho had sighed, sternly told Jeongin once again that markers were for paper, and scrubbed it off. Chan had quietly made every marker disappear from the house. 

And now Minho is holding a nine-year-old boy who can read, multiply, and do flips on the trampoline a thousand times without barfing the same way he’d hold a tantruming 3-year-old: arms up while his little feet stay planted on the ground, prying markers from stubborn fingers as a young face tilts up.

Something about this whole thing tickles his brain.

“And you! Why didn’t you stop him, Bokkie?” Minho snaps, still trying to peel Jeongin’s color-stained fingers off the markers. Jeongin isn’t struggling, kicking, or flailing. He simply squeezes the markers as tightly as possible.

“I don’t kn-know,” Yongbok says miserably. Minho doesn’t even have to look at him to know he’s begun crying. The thickening of his voice tells it well enough. Great. Just great.

“Jeongin, let go,” Minho says through gritted teeth. “Just let go! I can’t believe you did this. You’re not a baby anymore. What were you thinking?”

“I want Dad.”

Minho freezes, index finger still hooked beneath Jeongin’s thumb. He turns his gaze slowly from the purple-orange-blue stained fingers to Jeongin’s face. 

“I want Dad, Appa.” Jeongin’s brows are drawn low over his eyes, mouth down-turned and trembling.  

Minho’s throat dries up like a desert at noon. Behind him, Yongbok’s sniffling get louder. 

As Minho watches, Jeongin’s squinting eyes glisten at the corners. His brows are strong and stubborn, but not strong enough. Tiny red veins bloom in the whites of his eyes. His pupils look distorted, wavering and oblong through the thickening tears. Then they spill over.

“I want Daddy!” he sobs, fists still tight over the markers.

Yongbok wordlessly flops off the bed and slams into Minho’s side, wrapping his arms around his waist. 

Minho is still frozen, still gripping Jeongin by the fists while a wet patch grows under Yongbok’s face. His angry furnace sputters, the tears dampening the flames instead of fueling them for once.

Because he’s just like his boys.

He, too, wants Chan. He, too, wants to wail and cry.

Deep, deep within his heart, beyond the fiery gates, a lake sloshes. It’s uncomfortable. Damp and heavy and cold and suffocating. He hates it. He hates it just as much as he hates that Chan was taken from him. 

Minho loosens his grip on Jeongin, gently trailing down one arm until he’s got him around the shoulders. The other he wraps around Yongbok as best he can. Chan’s voice whispers to him about love over discipline. About violence and grief.

He sinks to his knees, taking his boys down with him. Their sobs get caught in the stuffed animals, pillows, blankets, and toys strewn about Jeongin’s room. “Me, too, babies,” Minho whispers. He squeezes them tight to him as the lake in his heart sloshes up his throat. “I want Daddy, too.” 

Then he’s sobbing along with Jeongin and Yongbok. Chest shuddering irregularly, tears pouring hot and sticky down his nose, lips pressed together.

Yongbok’s tiny hands start patting Minho, like you’d pat a fussing baby. Minho thinks his heart might burst. He doesn’t deserve stewardship over such a sweet soul.

Jeongin pauses his crying, looking wonderingly at Minho. “Appa? Are you okay?” 

Minho shakes his head. “No, Innie. I’m not okay. I’m sad. I miss Dad, just like you. And I–I’m sorry I’ve been so rough on you.”

“I never told him goodbye,” croaks Jeongin, fresh tears spilling from his eyes. “I never hu-hugged him.”

Minho swallows and tugs Jeongin closer to his chest. “It’s okay, Innie.”

“Wha-what if he-he hates me?” Jeongin hiccups, grabbing two handfuls of Minho’s shirt. The markers dig into their legs as they kneel.

Thick-voiced, Minho says, “He doesn’t hate you, Innie. He could never. No way.”

Now Yongbok’s little hands are patting Jeongin’s back. The two are clinging to either side of Minho, Yongbok half leaning on Jeongin. Minho cards his fingers through Jeongin’s hair when his sobs intensify.

“Daddy loves you, Innie. He loves all of us.”  

They weep together. They weep as a family.

Minho feels lighter and aches more than he has in months.

***

Machines beeped around Chan, a dissonant symphony of death underscoring the terrible melody of his labored breathing. Minho bit his lip as he stared at Chan, gray face somehow exhausted even in sleep. Cancer had robbed him of all extra flesh, and his face was all big lips, big nose, and eyebrows now, cheeks reduced to twin hollow shadows. He couldn’t even dimple anymore.

The doctors said this was the end. Minho’s neck was stiff; he’d been sitting by Chan’s bedside in this hellish hospital room, hands wrapped loosely around Chan’s. His eyes were red, though he’d stopped weeping a little while ago. Jisung was bringing the kids over soon. He couldn’t let them see him cry.

Chan stirred, and Minho’s fingers automatically sprang to his forehead. He brushed the papery skin there as Chan blinked his eyes open. They weren’t the puffy monstrosities he’d woken up to for the past 15 years. How Minho missed that ugly sight.

“Hi, hyung,” Minho cooed, giving a soft smile. “Nice to see you.”

Chan parted his lips, a dry rasp coming out. His throat bobbed.

Quickly, Minho grabbed the water from the side table and fit the straw between Chan’s lips. 

After a few swallows, Chan pushed the straw out of his mouth with his tongue. Then he quirked one eyebrow and said, “‘Nice to see you?’ Who are you and what have you done with my demon kitty?”

Minho snorted and rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ve been here for so long waiting for you to wake up my butt is numb. How dare you sleep so long.”

Chan’s chuckle was weak and warm, sending little sparks shooting through Minho’s veins. “Ah, that’s better. God, I love you.”

Minho grinned impishly even as his heart clenched painfully. “You already have the evidence of my love.” He stood from the chair just enough to slap his butt. “Can’t feel a thing.”

Chan laughed again, reaching a hand out with a glint in his eye. “Better let me check. Make sure everything is all right.”

His arm trembled a little, and Minho was quick to shove his butt into Chan’s shaking palm. “So? What do you think?” He felt Chan’s weak finger strokes just fine.

Before Chan could answer, there was a sharp rap on the door. It slid open immediately, followed by a heart-shaped smile and round cheeks. “I’ve got two little gremlins who miss their dad!” Jisung raised an eyebrow as he registered the sight before him.

Minho hastily replaced his butt with his palm, lacing his and Chan’s fingers together. He kept his smile pleasant even as he winced inside at Jisung’s words. They are going to be missing their dad for a long time.  

“Daddy! Look what I made for you in art class!” Yongbok bounded into the room and straight to Chan’s side.

“Show me, Bokkie!” Chan’s eyes were only for Yongbok as the little boy dropped his backpack to the ground and started rummaging through it. But Chan’s hand squeezed Minho’s, a feather-light press of fingers that had Minho’s throat threatening to close up. 

“We did stencils, and I tried to think of what you’d like to see. So I did a kangaroo!” He pulled out a slightly crumpled paper from his backpack with a wide smile. As his eyes roved over it, his smile dimmed. “I don’t think it turned out very well, though,” he mumbled.

“I’ll be the judge of that!” 

How much energy had Chan used to sound so chipper just now? How many drops of energy were left? Would he die a few minutes earlier now? Had he just spent minutes of his life on Yongbok?

Yongbok placed the drawing into Chan’s lap, huddling close and hooking his arm through Chan’s, uncaring of the cold IV line now trapped between their bare arms. “Is it…okay?”

“This is more than okay, Bokkie. This is an excellent kangaroo.”

The kangaroo looked like a rabbit with a big tummy, red on a field of green.

“I don’t know. Maybe I should have done a tree” Yongbok chewed his lip, and Minho patted his head. He huffed. “Sorry, Dad. I wanted to make something you’d like. But this is bad.” He reached for the painting.

Chan snatched it out of his reach. “Hey! Don’t steal my kangaroo! My Bokkie gave it to me!” He pouted ridiculously. 

Yongbok giggled. “You’re silly, Dad.” 

“If you wanted to make something I like, then you’ve succeeded. I love it!” Chan hooked a flesh-and-bones arm around Yongbok’s neck to tug him down for a kiss on the cheek. Yongbok giggled and kissed him back. 

I should be the one who leaves, Minho thought, not for the first time. His heart was so full of tender despair at the sight before him he couldn’t believe he was still alive. How could he ever fill the hole Chan was making in their children’s lives? Chan was pure kindness, sunshine, and silliness. He knew exactly which buttons to push to make Yongbok and Jeongin smile. 

How could grouchy, sarcastic Minho ever hope to take Chan’s place?

A shuffle by the door tore Minho’s eyes away from the hospital bed. Jeongin hadn’t moved from the doorway, clinging to Jisung’s jacket as Jisung tried to usher him forward. Jisung looked up at Minho, pleading. 

A curl of dread slithered into Minho’s gut. “Innie, do you want to come see Daddy?” Minho asked. 

Jeongin said nothing, shrinking further behind Jisung. 

“Come on, Innie,” Yongbok said impatiently. 

“Talk nicely to your brother.” Chan and Minho said the oft-repeated phrase in sync. Minho met Chan’s bittersweet glance with his own before he walked over to Jeongin, who stared at his shoes.

“What’s the matter, Innie?” Minho said softly, crouching down. His knees popped. 

Then his heart broke as Jeongin whispered: “Daddy looks scary, Appa.”

Minho pressed his lips together. Jeongin wasn’t afraid of Chan. He was afraid of death. And Chan was clearly surrounded by death, by tubes and wires, by beeping monitors and impersonal white blankets. Minho understood Jeongin, because it was still strange for him, an adult, to hug a man who has always been thick and warm and firm, and find only brittle bones and cool, loose skin.

However, this might be the last time Jeongin ever saw Chan alive. 

“How about Appa holds your hand, hmm?”

Jeongin shook his head and hid behind Jisung again.

“Innie, there’s nothing to be scared of. Come on. It’s fine.”

Every passing second that Jeongin didn’t move ate Minho’s patience like locusts ate grain. He would not allow Jeongin to make a choice he’d regret for the rest of his life.

“Jeongin,” he said sharply. “Come here right now.”

“Babe, it’s fine.” Chan’s weak voice floated across the room. Minho whipped his head around and narrowed his eyes to keep them from tearing up. There was hidden sorrow behind Chan’s reassuring smile, obvious to Minho.

It most definitely was not fine.

“I love you, Innie,” Chan called, his voice entirely unlike himself. Jeongin shrunk down even more.

Something ugly and desperate bloomed in Minho, growing like thorned vines, faster than weeds. He snatched up Jeongin’s little wrist and hauled him away from Jisung and towards Chan’s hospital bed. 

“No!” Jeongin wailed, pulling with all his strength against Minho, digging his heels into the shiny linoleum. But Minho kept pulling and pulling and yanking and dragging. 50-pound Jeongin didn’t stand a chance against him.

Jisung said, “Hyung, should you–” and Chan said, “Just let him be, babe,” and Yongbok was sniffling and Minho knew he was not handling this well, but he also knew that Jeongin would regret missing this moment for his whole life. So what was Minho supposed to do ? 

Everything was wrong and every choice brought pain, so he was going to do this and deal with the aftermath of scaring Jeongin instead of the aftermath of Jeongin’s regret ten or twenty years down the line.

“I don’t want to!” Jeongin screeched. The air in Chan’s room was sour, now. An overripe plum left too long on the tree, skin pulled taut and bursting with the overflowing fear and sorrow within. 

Minho was making it worse. Jeongin was making it worse. Why couldn’t the kid just listen?  

Minho made the mistake of looking back at Chan. He might as well have walked in front of a train.

Chan held a tearful Yongbok. His wide hands pet the little boy’s back as his exhausted eyes tracked Minho. Blue veins traced paths across his heavy eyelids and forehead, down his cheeks and to the drooping corners of his mouth. 

Chan looked at Minho like Minho was breaking his heart.

Minho released his grip on Jeongin in a microsecond. With nothing to pull against, Jeongin fell backwards with a thump, eyes red and shining. He sent a glare full of betrayal at Minho before scrambling up and dashing out the door. 

Jeongin’s rapid footsteps echoed down the hall. Jisung hovered awkwardly in the doorway for a moment, then said, “I’ll just watch Innie, okay?”

“Thanks, Jisung-ah,” Chan said tiredly. Minho couldn’t look at him. He stared resolutely at his worn tennis shoes, burning up as Jisung’s light steps followed Jeongin’s.

“Why did Innie do that?” Yongbok sniffled.

A rustle of fabric. A squeak of the damned hospital bed. Minho still wasn’t looking.

“He’s just scared, Bokkie. He’s scared of what’s happening to me. Make sure you’re gentle with him, okay? Be a good hyung.”

The sound of snot. “I will. Dad, are you scared to…die?”

“No, Bokkie. I’m not scared to die.”

“...I am. About you.”

Another fabric rustle. “Oh, don’t be, little one. There’s no need to be scared. You know why?”

“Why?”

“I’m not really going to be gone. I’ll still be around. Maybe in heaven. Maybe right next to you. You can still talk to me whenever you want, and I’ll be able to hear you.”

Minho clenched his jaw, glaring at the impersonal white linoleum floor. Here was the core of Chan’s infuriating peace with his death. And, truly, Minho believed the same thing. He believed in an afterlife where Chan’s soul or spirit or essence would have some sort of existence. He believed that when he died, he would see Chan again.

This belief didn’t make him less furious that Chan was dying. It didn’t bring him comfort. It didn’t soothe his heart. 

But if this was the only comfort he could offer his frightened children, he’d talk about heaven all day long.

He lifted his head and walked back to Chan and Yongbok. He thumbed away a tear on Yongbok’s freckled nose. “Does that make you feel a little better, Bokkie?”

Yongbok nodded, rubbing his cheek on Chan’s shoulder. “A little. I’m still sad, though.”

“I’m sad, too,” Chan said, meeting Minho’s eyes. There were eons in that gaze. How cruel, that they’d have to wait to spend them together. 

“I love you so much, Bokkie,” Chan whispered, chapped lips rubbing lightly against Yongbok’s temple as he held Minho’s gaze. “I love Appa. I love Innie. That’s not ever going to change. Not in a million years.”

***

Minho strides through the elementary school doors, tie loosened and stomach roiling. He ignores the front desk lady’s judgmental look, focused on the knobby-kneed figure a few paces away. In the hallway outside the principal’s office, Jeongin’s hunched shoulders greet him as usual. 

Minho takes a deep breath. Holds out a hand. “Shall we see what the principal has to say?”

Jeongin lifts his head and scowls at his Appa. Minho looks past Jeongin’s angry eyes and sees fatigue, confusion, and sorrow swirling in their depths. He’s not surprised, but he wants to kick himself for not seeing it before.

Mistrust slowing his every movement, Jeongin slides his hand into Minho’s. The father and son enter Principal Hwang’s office like that, large palm warming a smaller one. The pencil holder is still purple and leaning. The desk is still a light cream, and the nameplate still glitters. Minho might get himself a glittery nameplate for his desk at work.

Jeongin says nothing as he slumps into one of two plastic teal chairs, and his fingers cling tighter to Minho’s. He scoots down so his toes rest on the ground and his neck is scrunched, chin resting on his chest. The hand not gripping Minho’s is red and raw around the knuckles. His hair is mussed.

“Is your neck comfortable like that, Innie?” Minho asks, squeezing his son’s hand gently. Jeongin shrugs, and Minho decides to leave him alone. He turns to the principal instead.

Principal Hwang watches the exchange with his eyebrows halfway up his forehead. He sits back, brushing his bangs out of his face with his long fingers. “Thank you for coming, Lee-ssi. I know we both hoped last time would be the last time. ”

Minho’s chuckle is a pained, true thing. God, he really doesn’t want to be here. But maybe this time can really be the last time.

Principal Hwang continues. “This is Jeongin’s fourth fight this school year.” As if Minho doesn’t already know. As if each phone call isn’t seared into his brain, each memory tinged with gray shame for how he handled himself. How could he have been so hard-hearted, punishing a grieving Jeongin instead of helping him? 

“Yes, I’m aware,” Minho says calmly. His free hand grips his thigh tightly. “I’d like to take him out of school for a few days.” He’d thought about this on the way over. Wanted to be proactive, for once, instead of reactive. "Yongbok, too. Though, he can finish out the week."

“What?” Jeongin’s confused pout is soft. It’s gentle rain on the sprout stubbornly growing in the scorched earth of Minho’s heart. The sprout unfurles a new leaf.

Minho ruffles his hair. “I think we need some family time. You coming to school just to punch your classmates isn’t good for anyone, Innie.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that, Lee-ssi,” Principal Hwang says warmly. Has Minho ever seen such a sincere smile on the man’s face? “I think that would be very good for Jeongin. Plus,” he chuckles awkwardly, “after this many infractions, we have to suspend him for a total of five school days.”

Minho nods through the stiffness in his neck. Jeongin is a grieving child who has lashed out inappropriately. For the safety of the other children, his own sweet fox has to be suspended. Jeongin will be suspended, and during that time, Minho will labor with his whole heart and mind to heal his little boy’s wounds.

“Once again, I’d like to suggest counseling–”

“Yes,” Minho interrupts, snatching the proffered card from Principal Hwang. “Yes, thank you. I’ve been meaning to look into grief counselors.” It’s not a lie: as of two days ago, Minho had thought of therapy for his boys. And probably for himself, if he’s being honest.

He’s not ready to be quite that honest, though. Not yet.

Minho stands up. He wants to get out of here, wants to start enjoying his time with Jeongin. “If that’s all, Principal Hwang, we’ll be going now.” He looks down at Innie and squeezes his hand. “We have some important things to do together.”

Principal Hwang stands as well, hip cocked as his gaze flits between Minho and Jeongin. “Yes, that’s all. Thank you for taking such an interest in your son’s education and welfare, Lee-ssi.” His eyes grow solemn. “We in the education system try our best, but no one impacts children more than their own caregivers. You are his single most powerful ally.”

Minho has to close his eyes; Hwang’s words are a sledgehammer. Yes, he has the most influence in Jeongin’s life. And that influence has been damaging of late. Not any more, though. He resolves to support, nurture, and love Jeongin like he’s two people. 

He thinks he can do it.

They leave the office, the school, and walk towards their car. Halfway across the parking lot, Jeongin tugs his hand out of Minho’s hold. Minho obliges by loosening his fingers.

A chilly breeze chases them into their sedan, and Minho starts it quickly. He waits for Jeongin to buckle himself in before he starts to move. “Do you want to talk to me?” He glances into the rearview mirror as he asks, tone light.

Jeongin shrugs, head turned to look out the window.

That’s fine. Then he kicks himself for not asking the right question. His little sprout trembles on his deep inhale before he says, “You could say what you were feeling when you started punching.”

Jeongin stays silent, his brows dropping low as usual. 

Minho drives through town steadily, humming a little to himself. Chan might know what to say in this situation. More likely, he’d know how to be a little goofy and smile just right to change the air in the car to a warm, safe place for sharing. And then he’d be patient. Let Jeongin come to him. 

Minho isn’t sure how to be goofy right now, not when his own soul is still so sore. So he settles on staying quiet and patient all the way to the grocery store.

“What are we doing here?” Jeongin asks, perking up in his seat a little.

“I don’t know, Innie. What do we usually do at the grocery store?” The cutting remark comes out like a sing-song taunt. It’s the kind of treatment Chan adores, Minho’s brand of humor. He forgets his sons don’t always pick up on it.

Has he already ruined it? What happened to his resolve of not 20 minutes ago to be a better parent? To be kinder, more loving? Chan’s not here, so he has to be sweet. He wants to be sweet, dammit.

But Jeongin just hops out of the car, seemingly unbothered by Minho’s remark. “Dinner ingredients? What are we having?”

Minho wants to flop onto the hood of the car, he’s so relieved. Instead, he turns toward the store, Jeongin falling into step beside him. “I thought you could choose. What do you want for dinner?”

Jeongin eyes him suspiciously as the fresh outside air is replaced with the supermarket scents of musty cardboard and lysol. “You want me to choose? Aren’t I in trouble?”

Minho wiggles his hand side to side. “Kinda? Not really. You know it's wrong to hurt people, right?”

Jeongin nods slowly, eyes sliding off Minho and landing on a display of cookies.

Minho senses Jeongin’s attention is almost lost, so he skips to the end of his half-baked lecture. “Great. That’s all I need you to learn. So if you’ve got it, let’s move on to nicer things.” 

Jeongin blinks like he’s coming out of a trance. “What do you mean, Appa?”

Minho sighs. Why don’t the parenting books ever tell you that all your fancy explaining goes right over the kids’ heads? 

He ruffles his kid’s dirt-caked hair and chuckles. “Never mind. What do you want for dinner?”

“Sushi!”

So they get ingredients for sushi. Minho tells Jeongin to pick out a dessert. When Jeongin places a box of cookies in the wagon, Minho urges him to choose a second dessert, too. Jeongin gleefully grabs a tub of berry ice cream, eyes shining. 

Minho melts faster than the ice cream under that innocent happiness.

They check out, go pick up Yongbok, and all go home. They make sushi, getting sticky rice all over the kitchen floor and Yongbok’s shirt. After eating, Minho lets the boys stuff themselves with limitless cookies and ice cream. There might be tummy-aches later, but Minho will just hug them through it.

The boys take all the bean bag chairs out of the living room while Minho puts on some music. They dance.

Yongbok feels the beat, bouncing his little body rhythmically. But Minho hesitates to call whatever Jeongin's doing dancing. He moves like his body is remote-controlled, a different remote for each limb, and each remote is being gnawed on by a teething puppy. 

"Having fun, Innie?" he asks warily, tucking his hands into his pockets where they can't correct Jeongin’s movements into something prettier.

"Yeah!" Jeongin's smile is wide and blinding, the only still thing on his flailing body.

Well. That's that, then. Does the dancer in Minho wish both his sons are skillful dancers? Absolutely. But the parent in him decides that making happy memories as a family is the most important. 

When Minho turns off the music and announces bedtime, the boys do their routine willingly. It's the smoothest bedtime has gone for months.

It’s true for Minho, as well. For once, he doesn’t lie awake in the middle of the bed for hours, stewing in his own bitterness and fury. He doesn’t bring out one of the battered couch cushions from its grave in his closet to abuse it with feet and fists. He slips onto his side of the bed, closes his eyes, and sends a little prayer to Chan. I love you, hyung. I love our boys. Goodnight.

Sleep comes swift and sweet.

The next morning, Minho shuffles around the house, getting ready to take Yongbok to school. 

"Appa!"

Minho turns slowly from where he'd been pouring milk for Jeongin. A teary, snotty Yongbok stands in the center of the hall. His school clothes are obscured by the empty backpack he clutches to his chest. 

Minho breathes out slowly through his nose. Crying is still annoying. He still wishes Yongbok would have some composure, but he has a plan this time.

He walks over to his distressed child and kneels in front of him. “What’s wrong, Bokkie?” 

“I can’t find my homework!” his freckled face wails. 

From the kitchen, Jeongin pipes up. “ Again ? Jeez, hyung. You are such a mess.”

Minho closes his eyes, centering himself, only to open them a second later. "Eat your cereal and be quiet please, Innie."

And that's all. He ignores the instigator behind him to focus on the child who actually needs his help.

He slowly raises a hand and smooths Yongbok’s hair away from his sticky face. "Ignore Innie. You are just fine, Bokkie. I will help you find your homework. But first, can you blow out some air with me to try and calm down?" Minho rounds his lips into an O and blows a steady stream of air. Yongbok tries to copy him, flecks of spit and snot flying on his stuttery breath.

Address the emotions and put yourself on your kid's side before solving the problem. Or, to be catchy about it: Soothe, ally, solve. That's his plan, developed after searching through parenting books and digging through his memories of Chan dealing with tearful little boys. 

"Good, Bokkie. Again." They blow out air together for a whole minute until Yongbok's chest stops hitching with sobs. Minho rubs his back the whole time.

He glances at the clock. They need to leave in three minutes. 

Yongbok follows Minho’s gaze. His lip starts to wobble again. "I'm gonna be late!"

"That's okay." Minho gathers Yongbok into a gentle hug. "It's okay if we're late. I'll sign a note and you won't get in trouble. It's okay, Bokkie-boy. You'll be fine."

By the time Yongbok calms down and Minho tears apart the house looking for the single page of elusive math homework (finally discovered beneath Jeongin’s bed of all places) school has already started. Minho calmly drives a nervous Yongbok to school, arriving 48 minutes late. He kisses his forehead, escorts him inside, and glares at the front desk lady until she smiles and assures Yongbok that he's just fine.

Yongbok flashes his sunshine smile at his Appa before literally skipping into the depths of the school.

And Minho realizes, as he buckles his seat belt, that he, too, is just fine. His little sprout's leaves broaden, cooly shading the scorched soil they rose from.

***

Jisung had taken Jeongin and Yongbok to his house for a sleepover. Minho struggled to stay awake in the chair next to Chan's bed, their fingers tangled together.

"Minho-ya?"

Chan's whisper blasted through Minho's nervous system. He was alert in an instant.

"Jagiya, I didn't know you were awake."

It was close to midnight, a single light in the very corner of the room gently alleviating the darkness. It was enough for Minho to see as Chan’s lips stretched into a self-conscious smile. "I was hoping– could you– I–"

"Spit it out, hyung," said Minho crossly. He was rewarded by a light chuckle from the love of his life.

"Okay. Will you climb up here and hold me?"

Minho had always believed actions spoke louder than words. He tenderly slipped his arms beneath Chan’s shoulders and thighs and lifted him easily. Mindful of the tubes and wires, Minho settled himself atop the hospital bed, and Chan atop his lap.

Chan heaved a sigh and snuggled weakly into Minho’s chest right over his heart. He stilled, but his head subtly bounced in a steady rhythm. Minho's heart was physically pushing Chan with every contraction.

Fury slowly heated Minho’s chest. How dare he be so alive right now. How dare his heart flaunt its strength like that when it was impossible to transfer that strength to Chan.

"Can I kiss you, jagiya?"

"Please," Chan breathed, tipping his face up and parting his lips.

Minho bent his neck, first brushing his mouth over Chan's dry skin. He pressed a little closer, surrounding Chan’s chapped lips with his own plush ones. He curled a hand around Chan’s hip and ran his tongue gently along the seam of his husband's lips. He didn't taste like himself, and Minho incinerated his grief with a volcano's worth of rage at the disease. 

"This is where I want to be," Chan murmured against his lips. Minho strained to hear him over the quiet whirring of the machines surrounding the bed. "Your arms are home, baby."

Minho brought those arms more securely around Chan’s emaciated form, handling him like he was the most precious glassware. He wanted to take a cleaver to cancer and murder it to a pulp. He wanted to strangle it to death with his bare hands. 

He kept all that violence away from his gentle arms and hands and lips as he held Chan softly, pressing tender kisses to his paper-thin skin.

Let Chan’s last hours at home be peaceful.

***

Yeji jumps out of her truck, slamming the door behind her. “Minho-oppa! Long time, no see,” she cries with a crescent-eyed smile, throwing her arms out wide.

“Thanks for coming, Yeji-ah.” He hugs her briefly. The last time he saw her was at the funeral, a sunny, blue-skied day where everyone’s black clothes reminded him of Chan.

Behind her eyes, he sees all the tender, sincere words she’s considering offering to him. He heads her off before she can voice them. 

“It’s in the backyard.”

She nods brightly and follows him, that incipient tenderness getting tucked away. Soggy autumn leaves squelch beneath their shoes as they traipse around the house beneath the noon-day sun. Jeongin is back at school, and Minho took today off specifically for this. He’s just glad Yeji is free, otherwise he’d have had to rent a truck.

He stops in front of the couch, silent as the embers in his chest flare to life for the first time in weeks. Familiar heat scalds him, grief whipping it into a firestorm. He clenches his jaw.

This couch has lain exposed through a icy winter, wet spring and a baking summer. Its two absent seating cushions mean the thin fabric stretched over the springs is now gray and sagging. The springs poke through the tattered fabric like bones through grave dirt. The back and arms were once maroon, but have been sun-bleached to a watery pink, like blood in the water. It’s pleather skin is cracked and flaking like a corpse left out in the desert. Autumn leaves strive to cover it up, to spare Minho’s eyes from its hideous form, but fail.

It hurts to look at this couch. 

Yeji whistles. “Yeah, I can see why you want to take it to the dump. Here, I’ll get this end.” She strides to one side of the couch and crouches down, hooking her hands beneath it and looking at Minho expectantly.

Minho shakes himself a little and mirrors her on the other side. The grit and dirt of almost a year scrape against his bare palms, and he grits his teeth against the shudder in his neck as he flexes his thighs to lift the couch with Yeji.

They waddle through the backyard, to the driveway, and heave it into the bed of Yeji’s truck. The slam of the tailgate shutting is a deliciously final sound. The firestorm slows down. He can glimpse his little sprout, clinging for dear life amid the flying sparks.

“OK, let’s go,” Yeji says.

Minho’s dry throat renders his voice a quiet rasp. “Actually. There’s a bit more.” He spins shakily and trudges through his house to his bedroom. His knees feel weak, and his hands are trembling as he reaches for his closet door.

It creaks as he eases it open.

Still and silent, the cushions remain in the shadows at the back. Both arms extended, Minho sinks his fingers into the cold pleather and drags them out. They don’t come easily, sticking and catching on the floor of the closet, so Minho has to yank them. 

They tumble out of the closet and out of his nerveless fingers, landing with a heavy, soft whump onto his shoes. He stares, frozen. Their weight presses onto his toes, their wounds weeping stuffing where he stabbed them all those months ago. His heart is beating a mile a minute, lungs sucking in air like it's a finite resource, eyelids blinking rapidly to soothe his itchy eyes. 

He forces himself to move. Forces himself to stack the two cushions on top of each other. Forces himself to hug them to his chest, to intimately feel the damage he wrought. They are much lighter than Chan was, at the end, and yet so much heavier.

He steps into the chilly sunlight. Yeji, leaning against her shiny white truck, looks up from her phone when he appears.

“Need help with those?”

Does he need help? Perhaps. But this is his burden to bear. He created it. He’s been carrying it. And now he will rid himself of it. 

Mutely, Minho walks to the bed of the truck and throws the cushions in. He turns to Yeji. “Now let’s go.”

Yeji drives. She asks him how things are going, and he tells her about the gummy-bear concoction he let the boys make yesterday. About Yongbok’s recent obsession with pancake art videos and how Jeongin still can’t dance. He doesn’t tell her that he cries more days than not for just a few minutes at a time. He doesn’t tell her how those tears make him feel lighter, freer. He doesn’t tell her how, when he can’t sleep, he sometimes stares at Chan’s pillow and concentrates on his memories so hard he can almost see him lying there, smiling or pouting or snoring.

They roll into the dump. Yeji pays the small fee for entering, and Minho silently slips twice as much money into her glovebox when her back is turned. She winds her way through the trash heaps and backs closer to the designated furniture-dumping area.

As soon as Minho opens his door, the stench shoots into his nose and curdles his gut. He glances at Yeji, who has pressed her lips tightly together. She meets his eyes and nods once, resolute. He mimics her, and together they climb into the back of the truck.

Minho digs his fingers into one slashed cushion, bunches his muscles, and flings it with all his strength out and away. It soars in an arc, spinning through the air before falling among the moldering armchairs, mattresses, and futons.

Minho can’t see it any more.

Yeji has the other cushion in her grip, and Minho stops her throw with a firm hand on her arm. “Sorry. I’d like to.”

For an instant, she looks at him like he’s insane. But only for an instant. Her features soften, her eyes far too knowing as she hands him the cushion.

Minho nods his thanks, grabbing the cracked maroon pleather, squeezing it with the entirety of his being. It’s the last time he’ll feel this. 

Arms over his head, he hurls it with a year’s worth of grief and pain and anger. An unconscious bellow rips from him as he watches that piece of the past go hurtling out of sight.

He drops his hands to his knees, panting. A small hand pats his back. “Let’s finish it, shall we?”

Yeji’s right. Minho straightens up, and together, they push the rest of the couch off the truck. The graveyard earth welcomes it with a flurry of dust and buzzing flies.

Minho stands tall in the bed of the truck. One hand comes up to rest over his heart. The bright autumn sun seeps through his chilled skin, and the little sprout shoots up, filling him with beautiful living vitality. 

He’s so happy he could cry. Instead, he throws his head back and whoops, lifting his open palms to the sky. Silky pure notes pour from his throat, soothing its ragged edges like a balm. A gust of wind chills the corner of his eyes, but he’s smiling. 

He can’t wait to hug his boys when they get home. 

***

Chan died in his sleep at 1:43 a.m. three weeks after Jeongin’s birthday, cradled in Minho’s arms. Minho wept silently and fiercely, clutching Chan's empty body until the hospital staff coaxed him out of the bed. 

He didn’t cry at the funeral, two days later. Yongbok and Jeongin did, and Minho held them both close, heedless of their snot and tears and saliva soiling his crisp suit. He tilted his face to the sky and thought in furious despair:

How can we survive without you, hyung?