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Chapter Text

It’s not until Minho sprints across the train station that he realizes something is wrong.

Hasn’t he done this before?

Not just hurrying to make a connection but hurrying to make this connection, the train replacing their planned ride from Sunderland to Manchester since heavy rain drowned England’s countryside. Running with his manager Gyeongshik, a One Fine Day producer, a writer, two assistants, and three cameramen chasing after him.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline thundering through his veins, but he swears they will arrive at the platform with four minutes to spare. And then they’ll learn the replacement train is also canceled, and they’ll have to take a packed train to a midway point. York, wasn’t it?

“Hyung,” he calls to Gyeongshik over his shoulder. “Didn’t this happen yesterday?”

“What?” Gyeongshik huffs, cheeks ruddy from the cold November air and their brisk sprint.

“This—the train trouble. This one will be canceled too.”

“Don’t curse us like that. And face forward! You’re going to run into someone.”

Minho faces forward and keeps running.

He’s definitely done this before.

Minho chalked it up to déjà vu in the morning. He was exhausted from rushing to fit his packed agenda and its necessary travel time into the short trip. He’s lived many days like that before—although, usually not in England with none of his members around. Minho figured the semi-familiarity and stress messed with his head.

But the train is canceled. They do take the packed line to York instead, transferring to another train there and then finally arriving at Manchester. Minho goes to the National Football Museum. They film outside the stadium, Old Trafford looking especially impressive in the early dark. In the opening 30 seconds of ManU vs. West Ham, Minho’s favorite van Persie scores the first and only goal of the match. The day before, Minho got so absorbed in the game that he forgot they were filming for a while. This day, he’s distracted for a different reason.

He’s definitely done this before.

By the time he finally lays down in bed, Minho is waiting for Infinite’s Woohyun to message him. He doesn’t remember the exact time, but it arrived not long after showering. Indeed, his bangs are still damp against his forehead when his phone lights up with a text.

Is Kibum really in England right now?

Like before, Minho hesitates with his answer. Not because the production is super secret or anything. It’s because Woohyun messaging him is weird in the first place. It’s because Woohyun usually says Kibumie, and the name on the screen looks too short without that extra affectionate syllable. It’s because he wonders what Kibum did to make Woohyun suspicious.

Minho has an idea.

All three of them are same-age friends, but Woohyun is more Kibum’s friend than Minho’s. Much more. Minho tries to mind his own business because Kibum always gets mad when he’s nosy, but he knows “friends” isn’t a complete description of what Kibum and Woohyun are to each other. The sanctity of the SHINee dorm has been violated enough times to make that clear, even if Kibum goes silent whenever one of the members teases him about it.

He also knows Woohyun isn’t the only person in that category. Woohyun is probably the one Kibum spends the most time with, but there has been a string of other guys here and there. The latest one, a model named Park Hyeongseop, seems to be the new favorite, given how often Kibum has squeezed him into his schedule lately. Probably more often than Woohyun.

Minho hasn’t properly met Hyeongseop yet, but he’s not a fan.

It’s the second time he’s received Woohyun’s message, but Minho still doesn’t know how to handle it. He decides to reply the same way as before.

Yeah, we both are.

Then and now, the truth feels like the best option. Minho can’t see the harm in confirming that Kibum didn’t lie about which country he’s currently in.

Woohyun’s reply is the same too.

And are you really with him right now?

Minho’s fingers—a little chilled despite the accommodation’s heater—hover over his phone’s keys. Water beads from his bangs and slips down his cheek. He stares at the message until its letters dissolve into pixels, wondering what Kibum did to make Woohyun anxious enough to check his alibi.

Last time, Minho lied. He messaged, “Yeah, we’re about to go to bed, early start tomorrow,” and that was where the conversation ended. Minho doesn’t like lying, but he figured it was better to stay on Kibum’s good side and help him maintain whatever story he fed Woohyun. He has no desire to involve himself in whatever messy drama is brewing, but sacrifices must be made for teammates.

But the short interaction left him with a tight chest and queasy stomach. It took him a long time to fall asleep last night. He kept turning the text exchanges over his mind, feeling sorry for Woohyun. He kept thinking about what Kibum might be doing (or who) to make him blow Woohyun off. He kept wondering why he felt so bad when it wasn’t his concern where Kibum went or who Kibum slept with or lied to as long as it didn’t affect SHINee.

He stayed up far too late.

If this strange repeat of a day is a do-over, this is the one spot where Minho thinks he really needs it.

No, he types. He’s in London, and I’m in Manchester.

It takes Woohyun a while to respond, so long that Minho wonders if he’s still there. He keeps waiting though, eyes burning as he stares at the bright phone screen in the dark hotel room. Everything else today went exactly like the day before, more or less. Minho needs to see what happens if he makes a change.

Finally, Woohyun’s response comes.

Thanks

That’s all. Minho waits for more. He considers sending a reply, asking Woohyun if he’s all right or something. But it seems weird to ask. It’s not his job to clean up Kibum’s messes. Minho and Woohyun aren’t nearly close enough for it anyway. Besides, he doesn’t really want to know if Woohyun is all right. He wants to know— He wants Kibum to—

What does Minho want?

He keeps waiting and wondering until, finally, he slips into sleep.

It’s not until Minho arrives at the train station that he realizes something is wrong.

Hasn’t he done this before? Exactly this? No, that’s crazy…

Minho’s strides falter, gaping at the far-too-familiar Newcastle Central Station around him. Gyeongshik glances away from his BlackBerry and frowns. “What’s up?”

“I’m having the weirdest déjà vu,” Minho explains. “I swear today already happened.” Twice, he doesn’t say. 

“You’re probably just tired. You can nap on the train. Give the cameramen a bit of a break.”

“I’m pretty sure the train we’re supposed to take will be canceled though. And then the train we wind up on will be standing room only.”

“Don’t curse us like that, kid,” Gyeongshik says. 

But just a few moments later, the producer’s assistant tells them their booked train is canceled. So, the déjà vu isn’t just a feeling—this really is the third time he’s done this.

He goes through the motions of their hectic commute, mind racing even faster than his feet as memories slide into place. This day happened once normally. And then it happened again exactly the same, except he tried to change the ending by exposing Kibum’s lie to Woohyun. Was that not the right thing to do? Is there something else he needs to fix to make things move forward? 

It’s madness that he’s even contemplating fixing this, whatever this is, but he doesn’t know how else to react.

“Are you feeling all right, Minho-ssi?” the nearest cameraman asks when they finally get on the packed train bound for York. This time, they boarded a little bit earlier. Their group is still scattered across the car, but they at least scored one empty seat. Minho insisted that the cameraman take it; he knows how heavy those cameras get. And he knows precisely how long of a day is ahead of them.

“Feeling great,” Minho says, schooling his expression into a small smile. He’d been running on autopilot, combining his familiarity with filming variety shows with his sharpening memories of the last two days. Still, he better stay engaged. In the present. Maybe he can figure out what’s wrong if he pays close attention.

But the problem is, it really is a fine day. Better than fine.

Despite the chaotic start with the trains and the uncomfortable Woohyun conversation at the end, everything else goes perfectly. Minho loves exploring the National Football Museum. He loves standing in Old Trafford and taking in the sights. The game, he already knows, will be one of the best experiences of his life. And he’s tried correcting the one thing he genuinely regretted—lying. There’s only one other thing he can think of that he wishes happened differently.

“Rio!” Minho screams as loud as he can. He leans over the stadium rails and hollers. “Rio, over here!”

Minho throws away all propriety. He ignores the fact that he’s being recorded. He ignores that his behavior reflects not only upon himself but his family, his group, his company, and possibly even his whole country. He yells and jumps and waves like the most frantic fans he’s ever seen at concerts until, miraculously, Rio Ferdinand spots him and jogs over.

“Yes?” Rio asks, close enough to be polite but keeping a cautious distance away. 

Minho’s mind goes blank. It really is Rio Ferdinand in the flesh. He looks exactly like he does on TV, except more somehow. Cooler. More powerful. Holy shit, Rio Ferdinand, standing just a few meters away. He’s a real person. Wow.

It’s not until the cameraman brushes against his side that Minho remembers his mission.

He holds out the Choco Pie. “For you,” he says, struggling to remember the other English he prepared in case this encounter happened. It all vanished in the face of Rio Ferdinand, so he improvises. “I am a fan. Korean fan. So. I brought it for you.”

Rio accepts the little package. “Thank you. What’s your name?” Minho tells him, and Rio says, “Thanks, Minho. Enjoy the game.”

“You too,” Minho says, and Rio jogs away. Did that sound dumb? Does “you too” make sense? Rio should enjoy the game, but maybe it would’ve been better to say, “Good luck” or—what does it matter! He talked to Rio!

Minho turns and grins at the cameraman. “I gave it to him! That was Rio!”

“I saw,” he says wryly, laughing. 

Minho doesn’t care if he looked ridiculous. He finds his seat and watches the match with his skin buzzing, unable to keep the grin off his face. It was such a small thing, but he is so, so happy. This must be it. Maybe the universe decided he deserved to have the absolute best trip possible after all his hard work. Or maybe the universe wanted him to understand how fans felt when they saw him. Whatever the reasoning is behind these repeating days, this must be the missing piece. Finally, he made the day perfect.

Minho goes to bed early that night, before Woohyun’s message arrives, glad to finally get to see what tomorrow will bring.

It’s not until Minho is eating breakfast that he realizes something is wrong.

He stares into his cereal bowl, the last several days—today—pouring into his head and spilling over like someone tried to dump a bucket into a teacup. 

“Hyung,” he says shakily. “I’ve repeated today three times.”

Or was it four times? Two? Everything blurs together, memories recorded over memories, a VHS tape that’s been reused too many times. 

“Yeah, it’s the third full day of filming,” Gyeongshik says. “We might do a little bit tomorrow too for the trip home.”

“No, not that.” Minho gathers his thoughts. “I mean, I literally keep repeating today over and over. The train will be canceled, but we’ll still make it to Manchester on time. ManU is going to win 1-0.”

Gyeongshik stares at him over the top of his giant black coffee. “Is this about a dream you had?”

“No. It really happened,” Minho insists, giving his words every granule of sincerity he has. “I’m serious, hyung. I’ve been time traveling.”

Gyeongshik’s expression pinches. Minho recognizes that look; he’s wondering whether he’ll need to report this conversation to the company.

“Are you feeling alright, kid?”

“Never mind,” Minho mumbles, returning to his cereal. “I’m fine.”

If no one else has noticed anything, maybe no one can realize it. It’s hard to believe he is the only one experiencing the loop, but it’s hard to believe he’s looping in the first place. He’s living it, and even he wonders whether he’s dreaming. Or losing his mind.

The more he dwells on it, the more that seems possible. Isn’t this entire situation impossible? What’s more likely: that he’s time traveling or having a mental breakdown?

No. Minho knows himself. Everything from his current surroundings to the memories leaking out his ears feels far too real to be fake. If Gyeongshik can’t believe him, he needs to talk to someone who will believe him even if it’s impossible.

Minho scraps his spoon along the bottom of the bowl. “Hyung, what time is it in Thailand?”

“Hello?” Jinki says. He sounds good. Relaxed. It’s been a week since they last spoke, Minho realizes. A week for Minho, anyway.

“Hey, hyung. Sorry, I don’t have a lot of time.” He’s locked himself in the York-bound train’s tiny water closet. It’s the only place he could find true privacy for a phone call, but he can’t hide long without staff trying to retrieve him. Besides, other passengers might need the toilet.

“That’s fine. What’s up?”

“I’m going to tell you something that sounds completely insane. But I need you to believe me anyway.”

“Okay.” It’s Jinki’s leader voice, his eldest-member voice, his I’ll-take-care-of-it voice. Minho doesn’t think he’s ever been so grateful to hear it. “Tell me.”

“This is the fourth time today has happened,” Minho says, the words rushing forth. “I mean that literally. I keep waking up to the same day, over and over. I don’t know why it’s happening or how or anything, and I’m going a bit insane. I tried to tell Gyeongshik hyung, but he doesn’t believe me, so I really, really need you to believe me.”

“O-kay,” Jinki says slowly. “I believe you.”

Minho sits straight, the toilet seat cover shifting beneath him. “You do?” He figured Jinki would listen, but he didn’t expect it to be so easy.

“This isn’t the sort of prank you’d pull. And I can hear you freaking out. Where are you?”

“Train restroom.”

“That’s right, you’re going to another football game today, aren’t you? The, uh, Rio one?”

“Yeah.” Minho rubs his temple, staring at his reflection in the small mirror. He looks washed out, but it’s probably just the terrible lighting. “I’ve seen the game three times. And it’s really cool, but I don’t want to see it again. I want to see tomorrow. But I don’t know what to do to make it stop.”

“Has every day been exactly the same?” Jinki asks.

“Yeah. Unless I do something to change things, it all plays out the same way.”

“What have you been trying to change?”

Minho recognizes what Jinki’s doing—the evenly paced questions, the steady tone. He’s trying to calm Minho down like he’s a spooked dog. Or, more realistically, he’s Kibum getting last-minute nerves backstage before a performance. He wonders if Jinki actually believes he’s time traveling, but then he decides it doesn’t matter. He’s just relieved someone is listening.

“I’ve been changing stuff that I thought maybe I was supposed to fix,” he explains. “Like, I wasn’t able to give Rio the Choco Pie at first, so I made it happen another day. And.” Minho hesitates, not wanting to spread Kibum’s business around unnecessarily. “And there was a conversation that I thought maybe could’ve gone better, so I tried fixing that. But none of it made any difference.”

Jinki hums. “Maybe you need to try something to make the day really different? Knock the day off course so you can get out of the loop.”

Minho considers that. “Like what?”

“You’ve basically been following the same schedule, right? What if instead of the football game, you went somewhere completely unrelated?”

It’s a dubious suggestion, but it’s not like Minho has any other bright ideas to work with. “Okay, I’ll give it a try.” Someone raps against the bathroom door, and Minho sighs. “I’ve got to go.”

“All right. I’ll look online on the hotel’s computer and see if I can find any other ideas that might help.”

Minho doubts the internet has anything useful to offer, but he’s touched that Jinki would bother on his vacation. “Thanks, hyung.”

“I guess if it doesn’t work, I won’t remember this conversation that next day. But you can always call anyway, okay? You’re not alone.”

When the train reaches York, Minho fakes intense stomach pain. Gyeongshik knows that usually Minho keeps working no matter how miserable he feels, so he is immediately concerned. He makes all the cameramen stop shooting and ignores the production staff when they make noise about keeping to the schedule.

Minho is grateful, even if he feels bad for lying.

He stays hunched on a bench at the train station long enough for them to miss the connecting train to Manchester, letting Gyeongshik rub his back and feed him ibuprofen. He does have a bit of a headache. Eventually, Minho unfurls and says he’s feeling well enough to walk.

“We should get you checked out at a hospital,” Gyeongshik says.

“I’m feeling better,” Minho insists. “I think it will pass. Maybe something I ate disagreed with me.”

To make the lie more believable, he locks himself into one of the station’s one-stall family restrooms alone and stays there for a bit. When he finally emerges, the One Fine Day staff have determined there is no way they will arrive in Manchester in time to visit the museum or go to the full game.

“We could catch some of the second half,” the writer suggests. “We’ll just say we arrived late and leave Minho-ssi’s health out of it.”

That sounds too similar, so Minho rejects the idea, claiming he feels too nauseous to get onto a train. “Could we maybe just walk around and get some fresh air? See York?”

So, their group begins a sedate stroll, wandering the streets near the station. Gyeongshik, the producer, the writer, and the assistants get on their various smart devices, struggling through the slow internet to search for nearby attractions that might be interesting to visit—or, rather, interesting to film. Minho feels bad for ruining the plans, but he ignores the guilty twinge. If Jinki’s idea doesn’t work, they won’t remember how much trouble Minho put them through when the false tomorrow arrives. If this idea does work, Minho will happily deal with the consequences.

York looks like a place out of time, like a setting in a British period film. Signs of modern life appear everywhere, but so much of the historic architecture has been preserved. The resulting aesthetic was an interesting mishmash of old and new that Jinki would probably enjoy.

They quickly decide to walk York’s historic City Walls to get an elevated view of their unexpected trip destination. Minho moves slowly, mindful that he’s meant to appear ill to Gyeongshik and the crew while also balancing the need to appear well on camera. Such multi-layered deception isn’t Minho’s strong suit, but it’s good acting practice.

“How do you feel about the change in plans?” the producer asks him. The writer has already scribbled out a loose outline in her notepad for the new “story” that will take place for this day’s footage. Rather than football fan Choi Minho, they are shooting a tale of forlorn but rolls-with-the-punches Choi Minho.

“It’s too bad I’m missing the ManU game since that was the trip highlight,” Minho says, phrasing his answer as if speaking utterly unprompted to the camera. “You never know what might happen when exploring the world. But that’s part of traveling’s charm. York is something brand new for me.”

He chatters more as they amble along the City Walls, pointing out various things that catch his eye. Even though Minho has no personal interest in York, it’s a relief to finally be seeing and doing something different after the last several days on repeat. He delights in the smallest things. Yellow flowers persevering despite the late November chill. Cathedral bells tolling at York Minster and ringing across the town to mark the hour. The sheer age of the walls they trod upon, some built by masons who surely died thousands of years ago. If this day does manage to move Minho forward, they will at least have plenty of footage despite missing the game.

Eventually, they leave the walls behind to get a late lunch at one of York’s many pubs. As if telepathically sensing that Minho is about to eat, Kibum calls then.

“I heard from Solji noona that Gyeongshik hyung said you are sick?” Kibum asks by way of greeting.

Minho stirs his spoon through the soup he ordered to keep up the illness pretense. He wonders whether to try telling Kibum what’s actually happening but decides not to overcomplicate things. Besides, Gyeongshik is on his other side and would overhear even if Minho whispered. The pub is noisy, but it’s not that noisy.

“Yeah, some sort of stomach thing, I think. I feel better now, but it was bad earlier.”

“What did you eat in the last 24 hours?” Kibum demands, and Minho obligingly tells him, making up half of it since he can’t actually recall what he ate “yesterday” in Sunderland now that it is so many days ago.

“It doesn’t sound like food poisoning. Maybe you picked up a bug,” Kibum suggests. “That happens a lot when traveling. Not to you, though.”

“Not usually,” Minho agrees. Among their group, it’s usually Taemin who can’t stomach the local food and Jonghyun who catches the local viruses.

“You really must be sick,” Kibum says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you see a doctor? Don’t worry about the schedule or whatever. ”

“I’m just tired.”

“Are you really sure? Don’t try to tough it out. It’ll be better to get checked out now than have an emergency on the long flight tomorrow.”

Minho knows that Kibum is aiming for a scolding tone, but he hears the underlying concern. Kibum fusses over people in two different ways: nagging or housekeeping. They’re not at the dorm, so he can’t cook Minho anything or wash his bedding, so he resorted to a phone call. It’s sweet.

Beside him, Gyeongshik catches his attention and raises a brow, gesturing at his mouth. Minho realizes he’s smiling.

“It’s Kibumie,” he mouths, and then finally tries some of his soup. It’s potato and leek soup, which the server recommended. The broth looked thin, but the flavor is richer than he expected. He slurps down another spoonful while Kibum talks through a worst-case scenario in which Minho suffers a ruptured appendix midair over Russia. Gyeongshik pushes the bread basket toward him, so Minho tears apart a roll and dips it in the soup.

“Hey, Choi Minho, are you listening to me?” 

“I’m listening, I’m listening.” The bread is really good, soft and buttery. “It’s not my appendix, okay? The pain wasn’t in that spot.”

“Where was the pain? How would you describe it?”

“Are you texting this to your mom?”

“If you’re too stubborn to go to the doctor, you might as well get a nurse consultation,” Kibum says primly.

“She must be asleep by now; don’t bother her. Seriously, I’m feeling better.” Then, before Kibum can keep pushing, he asks, “What are you doing tonight?”

“I’m going to the Winter Wonderland theme park.”

“What about after?”

Kibum pauses. “Is the signal weird on your end?”

It’s their way of checking whether a call is on speaker and being recorded. Minho turned his mic off before sitting down, and the three cameramen put their equipment down for lunch at Gyeongshik’s insistence. Minho’s ill act is paying off in more ways than he expected.

“No, everything’s fine here. What about you?”

“It’s fine.” Kibum pauses. “When we’re done filming for the day, I’m going out. I found a quiet spot, and noona approved it.”

Kibum keeps it vague; even with the assurance that it’s only Minho listening, he’s always careful. But Minho can read between the lines—especially because he knows later tonight Woohyun will message him worried about where Kibum is and who he is with. He dips his bread into the soup bowl again and asks casually, “Have you talked to Woohyun recently?”

“Not since we left.” Kibum’s tone sharpens. “What about him?”

Minho refused to stick his nose into this business before. If he’s following Jinki’s advice to derail the day, he might as well do a thorough job. “I think he might be feeling left out lately. You know, since you’ve been spending time with that new guy. Hyeongseop.”

“Did Woohyun say something to you?”

“No.” Not yet, Minho thinks. “I just figured since you’ve been busy with Hyeongseop, maybe you should give Woohyun a call tonight instead of going out.”

“I should give him a call,” Kibum repeats. “Tonight.”

“Yeah.”

“What is this really about?” Kibum demands.

“What do you mean?”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t care.”

“Clearly you do if you’re forcing yourself into my business. Business you don’t know anything about, I might add.”

That irritates Minho. Sure, he’s not part of Kibum’s clique, so it’s not really his business. Sure, he has no reason to care that Woohyun feels sore about getting replaced by Hyeopseop as the shiny new thing. He doesn’t even like Woohyun much, to be honest. But he can’t help but empathize with the guy. 

Minho feels stung too when Kibum blows him off to hang out with friends—when Kibum insists on emphasizing a difference between friends and members. Like Minho doesn’t belong in the first category. He feels stung when Kibum keeps secrets about the guys he sees like Minho isn’t trusted enough to hear about it. Like Minho can’t possibly understand.

“I’m just speaking as an unbiased third party,” Minho says. “If I was Woohyun, I’d be upset, that’s all.”

For a long time, Kibum doesn’t reply. Then, finally, he says, “You’re a real piece of work, Choi Minho,” and hangs up.

Shit. Minho stares at the silent phone. He figured Kibum would get annoyed at him for being nosy, but not like that. Should he call back and apologize? The thing is, Minho doesn’t feel sorry; he meant everything he said. If Kibum doesn’t like getting called out for juggling hook-ups like hot potatoes, then he should stop.

Being right isn’t worth making Kibum angry though. Minho hates it when Kibum’s mad at him. Bickering is nothing—that’s normal for them, even fun sometimes. But Kibum is his best friend, even if Minho isn’t his. He should apologize.

Minho calls. Kibum sends him to voicemail.

“Everything all right?” Gyeongshik checks when Minho sighs.

“It’s nothing.” If the day resets, Kibum won’t remember Minho pissing him off. If tomorrow comes, they’re on the same flight home together. Kibum will be trapped in the seat next to him and forced to listen to his apology.

They finish eating their lunch and resume filming in York until finally it’s time to retire to their impromptu accommodation. Despite the change in plans, the One Fine Day staff seem satisfied with the footage they shot. They are more concerned that Minho will feel disappointed about missing the game, but he assures them that he is fine. 

He stays up late. However, there’s no message from Woohyun that night.

Minho wakes back in Sunderland and immediately realizes something is wrong.

Chapter Text

After waking, Minho reaches for his phone.

Jonghyun answers on the third ring. “Minho-yah, good morning! It’s morning there, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Minho says, voice low. He closed his bedroom door, but the door isn’t thick, and the staff outside aren’t noisy enough to grant him much privacy. “Hyung, I need to ask you something. If you kept repeating the same day over and over, what would you do?”

“Repeating the same day?” Jonghyun echoes. Chatter bursts in the background, the syllables too scattered and too Japanese for Minho to make out. When the noise clears, Jonghyun asks, “Like that movie?”

“What movie?”

“I don’t know the title. But you mean, like, time travel?”

“Yes.”

“You called me first thing in the morning to ask about time travel? Is this for the show?”

“No, I’m alone right now. It’s complicated to explain. Just—what would you do?”

Jonghyun hums thoughtfully. Minho waits, pacing the narrow space around the room’s overlarge bed. He doesn’t need to convince Jonghyun about the loop; Minho’s certain now that what he’s experiencing is real, as crazy as it seems. But he needs Jonghyun’s opinion because he tried executing Jinki’s “knock the day off course” advice five times, and nothing has worked.

“Does the stuff that happens in one day not affect the other days?” Jonghyun asks. “Are there no consequences?”

“Everything resets,” Minho confirms.

“Then I’d go wild. Do everything I couldn’t usually do.”

Minho stops at the foot of the bed. “Like what? Break the law?”

Jonghyun laughs. “Not that wild. But definitely stuff I shouldn’t do. I’d eat, like, ten different desserts, ditch the staff, tell some people off online, and…I don’t know. Do whatever I feel like doing.”

Minho lacks a sweet tooth, and there’s nothing on the tip of his tongue that he wants to spill online. Ditching the staff sounds appealing though. He loves Gyeongshik, but the One Fine Day staff are acquaintances at best. Besides, even while implementing Jinki’s idea to derail the schedule, his days haven’t varied much because he either must feign illness or stubbornly refuse to obey.

Doing whatever he wants—not just what fits the show concept—will certainly change things.

So, when Gyeongshik knocks on his door and tells him they’re leaving in fifteen minutes, Minho says goodbye to Jonghyun and then investigates his bedroom window. He’s on the second floor, and the drop looks a little scary, but any injury will miraculously heal the next day. Probably. He lowers himself out the window, hanging by his fingers from the sill, and lets go.

The drop isn’t nearly as bad as it looked. He lands on both feet, only jolting his knees a bit. A quick glance around verifies that no one spotted him. Casually but quickly, he walks away, putting distance between himself and the lodging where the staff members wait.

When Gyeongshik’s fifteen-minute deadline arrives, he sends his manager a quick text.

Sorry, hyung, I just really need a break today. I’ll be safe.

He turns off his phone before Gyeongshik replies. And, just like that, Minho is all alone in a foreign city halfway across the globe from home.

Sunderland isn’t as big or busy as London, but it’s still easy to get lost in. Minho mixes with the people walking to work, the morning shoppers, the parents pushing babies in strollers. No one gives him a second look. He was already pretty anonymous in England; without a camera crew following him, he’s even more unremarkable.

All day, he wanders and enjoys the novelty of being just another face on the street. He buys something called a Cornish pastry from a food stall, hates it, and then tries his luck again with jellied eel that’s slightly more to his taste. He pops into any store that catches his eye and talks to the shopkeepers with his terrible (but improving) English.

One shopkeeper says that if he’s visiting Sunderland, he must visit the local lighthouse. Minho follows the directions scribbled on the back of a receipt until he arrives at the coast. He doesn’t get what’s so great about the red and white lighthouse. But as he watches the sun sink over the ocean, he considers what he actually wants to do if tomorrow doesn’t come.

Jonghyun was right. If nothing he does has lasting consequences, why not go wild?

After waking, Minho slips out of their lodging, hails a taxi, and rides to Newcastle International Airport. It’s not as large as Heathrow in London, but it boasts plenty of flights across Europe. He studies the departure board, talks to a helpful but bemused woman at the ticket counter, and secures a flight to Faro.

Minho has never been to Portugal, doesn’t know a single thing about the place except that they speak Portuguese and their team finished fourth at the 2006 World Cup. But he hopes it will be warmer and sunnier than the United Kingdom, and his hopes are met when he steps foot onto the new land.

He takes another taxi into the city proper, he and the driver muddling through each other’s accented English before settling on some church called Carmo as his destination. Minho thought he misunderstood the taxi driver, but they really do have a chapel made of human bones there. It’s creepy but strangely beautiful. Without thinking, he powers on his phone to take a picture and gets inundated with dozens of notifications.

Minho clears the missed calls and messages, ignoring his chest’s guilty pang. Gyeongshik must be torn between terror and fury—most of the notifications are him reaching out over and over. There are attempts from all the other managers too. And the members. And, horrifically, his family.

Minho pauses at the voicemail notification and text from his father’s cell, the four missed calls from his home’s landline. Those could be either his mother or Minseok or both. He removes the notifications before his guilt lures him into replying. What good would it do? He’s about to put his phone away when another call comes in.

It’s Kibum. Minho stares at the name as the phone vibrates against his palm, surprised. But he shouldn’t be. Every time he feigned extreme illness, Kibum called in the afternoon or evening to check in under the guise of nagging. Minho just didn’t expect to see him calling when—based on the notifications—he already called and texted earlier without results.

Maybe it’s Solji using Kibum’s phone to trick Minho. He answers anyway.

“Hello?”

“Are you all right?”

The voice is more urgent than he’s ever heard it, but it’s Kim Kibum, born 1991, hometown Daegu.

“I’m fine.” Some tourists eye Minho with annoyance; he shuffles to a vacant corner so they can gawk at the skulls and take photos uninterrupted. “I just needed a change of scenery.”

“Scenery? Choi Minho, where in the world are you?”

“Portugal.”

“Portugal?!” Kibum shrieks. Minho cringes.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. Tell the others not to worry.”

“Are you being serious right now?”

“I really am in Portugal. I’ll send a photo.” Kibum would get a kick out of the hundreds of holy skulls glaring Minho down with their empty sockets. The bone chapel combined three of his favorite aesthetics: religious iconography, the macabre, and over-the-top design sensibilities.

“No, I mean, how are we supposed to not worry when you’ve clearly lost your mind?”

“You’ve never wanted to run away for a day?” Minho asks.

That gives Kibum pause. “Of course I have.”

“Well, I just took my chance.”

Somewhere across the sea, Kibum murmurs to someone at his side; Minho hears snatches of it across the phone line. “Is that Solji noona?” he asks.

“Yes. If I put her on, will she be able to convince you to get on a plane right now?”

“No.”

“Could I convince you?”

“Maybe,” Minho admits; they fought more than anyone else, so Kibum knows all the weak points in Minho’s armor that can be pried apart. “But you don’t need to. I’ll be back tomorrow anyway.”

“…Promise?”

“Yeah.”

The phone line buzzes between them, mixing in Minho’s ears with the muted footsteps of the tourists passing by. When Kibum asks, “You’re really all right?” his voice scratches with a vulnerable note that catches Minho off-guard.

“I wouldn’t just vanish, Kibum-ah. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

After waking, Minho returns to the airport. The departures board is the same, but he still takes his time reading. Mostly, he’s thinking about Gyeongshik and the One Fine Day staff back at their accommodation. They’re probably panicking right now. Combing the area to see if he’s nearby. Contacting the other managers to see if Minho’s been in touch with them or the members. Debating when they must report his disappearance to the company. To his parents.

He imagines Gyeongshik calling his mother to tell her he lost Minho in a foreign country on the other side of the world. Gyeongshik would take responsibility rather than letting some poor uninvolved employee back at SM make the call.

Minho’s mother would be distraught. And furious. She’d been against him joining SM, saying he was too young and it wasn’t a stable career. More than anything, she didn’t want him growing up too fast, especially out of her sight and under the care of the company rather than family.

By contrast, his father supported him from the beginning. However, even he would be worried sick once he hears about Minho’s disappearance.

Their panic will only last a day. In a way, it isn’t even real. Still, what Minho told Jonghyun wasn’t true; there are consequences. Today will happen tomorrow too, as if nothing happened, but Minho will remember this guilt.

But he finds the same ticketing lady from yesterday. He flies to Riga because Nancy says the city’s architecture looks “absolutely charming” after snowfall. More importantly, it’s a place he’d never visit for business or pleasure outside of extraordinary circumstances like these. Minho knows even less about Latvia than he does about Portugal. Nancy is right about the snowy city though.

Minho buys a warmer coat and walks the streets, breath puffing in front of him with each step. It’s still November, but white drifts are piled on the red buildings, transforming each block into Christmas card material. When he stops for lunch at a little café, the waitress who serves him his rye bread bowl of soup says they’ve had more snow than usual for this time of year.

The soup is pretty good, but Minho misses the sundae guk at his favorite restaurant near the dorm. He misses the jjigae his mother makes with whatever ingredients happened to be in the fridge, turning leftovers into something delicious like magic.

If he flew to Korea, crossing eight time zones and into a different calendar date, what would happen?

The waitress points him toward the Central Market—“the biggest in Europe!”—and he roams between locals doing their grocery shopping. After the temperature dips, he stumbles across a stall selling wool knitwear in a dazzling array of colors and patterns. He buys a brown scarf that matches his new coat. A pair of mittens catch his eye too, black with dozens of small white suns. Kibum would like them, so Minho adds the mittens to his purchase and packs them carefully in his pocket.

Kibum won’t receive the gift, but it eases his conscience somehow.

When he finally settles into a hotel for the night, Minho’s phone shows over two hundred missed notifications. He ignores them all except for the single message from Woohyun.

Is Kibum really in England right now?

To be honest, he doesn’t consider Woohyun to be a friend. But he always shows Woohyun his best manners, keenly aware of how rumors spread in their small industry. Besides, Woohyun is Kibum’s friend. Maybe his best friend, given how they’re always together. Maybe his boyfriend or something like it.

To be brutally honest, Woohyun annoys Minho.

He types back, Why do you want to know?

The response arrives quickly like Woohyun’s been staring at his phone waiting. He’s been ignoring me lately. A pause. Then: Ever since that Hyeongseop guy showed up.

Minho knows exactly how that feels; he remembers it from when Woohyun took over Kibum’s free time. Well, maybe not exactly. It’s not like Minho could claim to be Kibum’s best friend before Woohyun. Definitely not his boyfriend.

Not that he wants to be.

He glances at his coat hanging off the hotel’s chair, its pocket bulging with the mittens Kibum will never see.

Maybe you should ask Kibumie about that instead of going around his back.

Woohyun doesn’t respond.

After waking, Minho goes to the airport, talks to Nancy, and flies to Budapest. He’s getting good at purchasing plane tickets in English. His phone sits heavily in his pocket, but he keeps it powered off all day.

After waking, Minho tells Nancy to give him a ticket to Athens. No football teams are playing, but he tours the Athens Olympic Stadium, imagines running out onto the empty field, and then actually does it. He keeps his clothes on, but security still isn’t happy with him.

After waking, Minho allows Nancy to talk him into Rome. He takes a tour bus to Vatican City and tries calling Taemin. In typical Taemin fashion, he doesn’t answer. Talking isn’t the same over the phone, anyway.

After waking, Minho goes to the airport and tries to figure out a route to Taemin’s location. There’s a flight to Geneva, but it leaves too late in the afternoon for Minho to also travel to where Taemin is based that day. He returns to the accommodation and tells Gyeongshik he went for a walk and got lost. They missed the only possible train to Manchester, so they film a second day in Sunderland. Minho visits the lighthouse again.

After waking, Minho flies to Paris. He came last summer with the members, f(x), and their seniors as part of the SM Town tour, but they barely saw the city. He meanders through the streets near the concert venue, drifting in and out of shops and restaurants and museums like a living ghost.

After waking, Minho asks Nancy if she has ever traveled alone. She tells him a long story that Minho only understands a fraction of, and then she suggests he visit Iceland because it has “the best natural scenery in all of Europe.” Minho goes, and the landscapes really are jaw-dropping, but the vastness only makes him feel small.

After waking, Minho lies in bed. Gyeongshik knocks on his dorm with the fifteen-minute warning, and Minho decides he’ll follow the normal schedule. That evening, seated beside his manager in Old Trafford’s packed house, he asks, “Do you ever feel lonely even though other people are around?”

“What?” Gyeongshik asks, deep voice raised to carry over the crowd’s chanting.

“Do you ever feel lonely, hyung?” Minho repeats louder.

For a moment, Gyeongshik just stares. Minho nearly asks again when he leans over and says, “All the damn time. This job is isolating.”

“Oh.” It was more of a rhetorical question, but he feels stupid for not considering Gyeongshik’s perspective. Their lives are so entwined that it’s easy to forget he is anyone other than their manager. “Sorry, hyung.”

“It’s not your fault, kid. I wouldn’t still be doing this if I didn’t like it. But it’d be nice to see my family more.”

“You should go on your own vacation when we get home,” Minho says. He has to believe that at some point they will get past today and go home.

Gyeongshik laughs. Knowing their upcoming schedules in December, Minho supposes it is a laughable idea.

“I’ll tell the big boss that.” Gyeongshik squeezes Minho’s knee. “But worry about yourself, not me. How are you doing? You’ve been a bit quiet today.”

“I miss the members,” Minho says. It’s the simplest explanation. It’s also true.

“We’ll see if you still say that when we meet up with Kibumie and Solji tomorrow.”

After waking, Minho still misses the members. It occurs to him that if he can fly across Europe, he can ride across the United Kingdom. So, he slips out the window, finds the train station, and buys an express ticket to London. Luckily, the flooding that disrupted Minho’s original Manchester plans doesn’t seem to affect this route, although far too many people are packed onto the train.

He passes the ride by trying to remember Kibum’s itinerary for this day. On one of their phone calls, didn’t he say something about going to a winter theme park? But that schedule was for the evening; what came before? By now, Minho can’t tell whether he used to know and forgot or if Kibum never told him.

He’s still clueless after stepping off the train, so he bites the bullet and calls Kibum. The line connects on the first ring.

“Minho-yah?”

“Where are you?”

“Where am I?” Kibum repeats. “Where are you! Hyung said you disappeared. He’s freaking out. Noona is freaking out. I’m freaking out. Do you know how hard it is to film while freaking out?”

“I’m fine,” Minho says, attempting to project serenity through the phone. “I’m at Kings Cross. Where are you? I’ll come meet you.”

Kibum starts saying something, but he gets cut off. After some inaudible discussion, Solji comes onto the line.

“Choi Minho, don’t you dare move. I am coming to Kings Cross now, and if I don’t find you there, you will hear from your mother about it.”

Minho doesn’t move. Half an hour later, he spots Solji marching across the station. She’s a petite woman, but her strong strides make the crowd part around her. When she reaches him, she locks her hand around his wrist and starts dragging him behind her. With her free hand, she makes a call.

“I’ve got him, oppa.” A pause. “Oh, he absolutely will not be leaving my sight.” Another pause. “I’ll make sure there’s something left of him for you to lecture too. See you soon.”

She hangs up and says nothing else until they are in a taxi. After she tells the driver their destination (Minho listening carefully to memorize the English syllables), she turns to Minho and rips into him.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she begins, and then she doesn’t pause to take another breath until they’ve arrived at a street market. She pays and thanks the driver before turning to Minho again. “Don’t think this is over. We’ll be discussing this further later. Much further.”

“Yes, noona,” Minho says, attempting to sound contrite. If this day was real, he’d deserve whatever punishment the staff decided on. And he really does feel bad about worrying everyone and ruining the production schedule, even if all the trouble will be erased once the non-tomorrow arrives. But all he can focus on is scanning the people at the market, searching for the face he came to see.

He spots Kibum standing near a coffee stall, his bangs freshly dyed hot pink and wearing those massive black glasses he likes. Kibum is talking to the camera, clutching a paper cup and a plastic bag filled with something green. As Minho approaches, he glances over, and their eyes connect.

Minho has known Kibum for over five years, living and working together for most of that time. It’s easy to read the rapid succession of emotions in his gaze: relief, delight, annoyance.

Kibum looks away first, telling the cameramen, “Sorry, I just need to—yeah.” Then he ducks out of frame, closes the remaining gap between them, and punches Minho’s arm, the plastic bag rustling.

“You ass,” he hisses, mindful of the One Fine Day production staff spying with keen eyes and pricked ears. “What are you doing here?”

Minho tried crafting a convincing excuse on the train, but his imagination failed him. It won’t matter anyway once the day resets. So, he goes with the most basic truth.

“I just missed you.”

Whatever Kibum expected, it wasn’t that. His mouth widens with surprise before flattening into a thin line—embarrassed and pleased but trying not to let either reaction show. Minho soaks it all in; he loves surprising him.

Kibum punches him again, but there’s no punishment behind it. “You were going to see me tomorrow. Really, what happened? You don’t do stuff like this.”

“I’ll tell you later,” Minho says. Behind Kibum, Solji is on the phone again, likely telling everyone they didn’t lose Choi Minho in a foreign country after all. Meanwhile, the producer, writer, and other staff have their heads together, discussing how to handle this new development.

“Tell me now,” Kibum demands.

“I really did miss you.”

“The hell you did,” Kibum says, but the producer is already coming over.

“Kibum-ssi, we’re going to finish this shoot as planned. Minho-ssi, you need to stay off-camera for now. Since it sounds like there was going to be travel trouble for your destination today, we’ll have you return to London a day sooner than planned.”

“Yes, PD-nim.”

Kibum gives Minho one final suspicious glance before getting back into position and smoothing his face. Minho has gotten used to being scrutinized out of necessity. Still, it fascinates him how Kibum shifts so easily under the len’s gaze, dialing up aspects of his personality and dailing others down. More boyish arrogance, less brooding. More playful charm, less fussing. More sparkling Key, less stressed-out Kim Kibum.

When the shoot wraps up, they leave the street market and return to the hostel where Kibum is staying. The place looks nice enough, but it baffles Minho that Kibum—who complains frequently and vigorously about dorm life—would book a bed at any location where he must share a bathroom. He points this out, but Kibum sniffs.

“I wanted to experience real solo travel and talk to other tourists.”

Minho, who is sick of solo travel and has talked to plenty of other tourists now, asks, “Have you actually been speaking with the people here?”

“Of course,” Kibum says, affronted, but he does the face-turning-away, hands-in-pocket thing that means he’s exaggerating, if not outright lying.

The production staff whisks Kibum away to film cutaway interviews before the next schedule. Solji takes Minho to her room to continue the lecture. She puts Gyeongshik on speakerphone, and they deliver a duet scolding to defeat all other scoldings Minho has ever received. His actions were selfish and inconsiderate towards all the staff and the other members. How were they supposed to ever trust Minho again after this? His disappearance could damage SM’s relationship with MBC. And so on. Gyeongshik and Minho’s OFD crew are en route to London, so he’s instructed to prepare an epic apology to deliver upon their arrival.

When the dual lecture ends, Minho asks Solji if his parents know he ran away.

“No,” Solji says, her sharp tone finally softening. “Oppa was preparing to call them when I told him you’d shown up.”

“Okay, good.”

Solji rubs her temples, sitting beside him on the bottom of the bunk bed. “You realize that you scared a lot of people, right? We’re not just upset because you disobeyed and messed up the plans. We were worried that someone would hurt you. Or that you’d hurt yourself.”

“I know. I’m sorry, noona.”

Solji studies him and then lays her small hand on his shoulder. “Did someone from the crew do something or say something that made you feel unsafe, or…”

She trails off, but Minho knows what she didn’t say. He’s heard stories about the inappropriate, terrible things some staff do to female idols. Male idols too. Minho flushes. “No.”

“If Gyeongshik did something, you can tell me.”

“No! Hyung is great,” Minho says quickly. “It wasn’t anything like that. I just…I’ve been stressed out, and I made a bad decision.”

Thankfully, Solji drops the matter. She works on her laptop while Minho drafts his apologies by hand, only leaving him alone to briefly check on Kibum filming with the staff downstairs. When they finish everything that can be done at the hostel, Solji leaves to accompany Kibum off-site to a tea shop, warning Minho that Gyeongshik and the other staff will be arriving soon and he better say put.

Minho stays put. Once the entourage arrives, he apologizes to his manager, the OFD crew, and the SM staff back home who were also troubled. Gyeongshik seems immensely relieved and immensely disappointed, but it all gets put aside as they figure out how to salvage Minho’s “final” day of filming.

The writer decides to leverage the train cancellation excuse for missing Minho’s football plans in Manchester and coming to London instead. Some B-rool travel footage was captured during their sudden ride down south; Minho’s absence in it will be explained by saying the trains were too crowded to film safely. That only leaves determining the plans for the second half of the day.

Minho barely pays attention to the discussion, too busy considering what things he could do on another today in London without the crew tailing him. When they ask if there’s anything he wants to do that evening, he draws a blank.

“Uh. Could we just follow along with Kibum’s plans? At the winter park thing?”

The producer’s assistant seems relieved about not having to plan and seek permission to film at a new site. Once they get the all-clear from Kibum’s team, they head out to meet him at the park entrance.

It’s not late, but it’s already dark out. Minho has been here for weeks now, and he still can’t believe how quickly the sun vanishes over the horizon. He feels like he wasted too much of this today since he spent most of it on the train and then being punished in Solji’s room.

Kibum gives him a sour face upon arrival that’s only half-fake. “You just couldn’t stay away one more day, huh?” he asks for the camera’s benefit.

“We might as well have done this trip together.”

“Ew. No way.”

For all his protests, Kibum appears glad for the company. Theme parks aren’t really meant for visiting alone, although Winter Wonderland is more of a festival than a theme park. They stroll by shops and stalls selling snacks, souvenirs, and such, Kibum pointing out everything that catches his eye. Minho laughs when Kibum gets startled by a moving puppet in a toy shop window. He clutches Minho’s arm instinctively and doesn’t seem to notice he’s still holding on as they walk away. Kibum doesn’t let go until he spots a candy stall, lured off by the prospect of sugar.

Minho doesn’t buy anything since he’s not overly fond of sweets. Kibum gleefully purchases a long strip of sour gummy candy—then promptly complains it’s too tough.

“It’s been sitting out in freezing weather, what did you expect?” Minho asks.

“It’s not just from the cold! Here, you try it.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Just open up.” Kibum holds out the gummy, his teeth marks visible on the end. Minho really did miss Kibum because he leans in and takes a bite more to satisfy him than for the camera. He has to gnaw the end off, nearly yanking the candy from Kibum’s hand.

“See! I told you!”

Minho works his jaw to unstick his teeth. “It will be softer once it warms up,” he insists.

He’s still licking the sour candy out of his molars when they stop to watch a woman attempting a rope ladder challenge. The ladder is anchored on the ground and the booth’s top for a decent incline, but the actual difficulty comes from how easily it flips. Midway up, the woman gets dumped on her ass.

“You should do it,” Kibum says, already pushing Minho forward.

“You just want to see me fall.”

“Obviously! Come on, it’ll be fun.”

The crew secures permission to film closely, and the cameramen quickly find the best positions. Minho gets into his own position at the starting point, stripping off his gloves.

“Ooh!” Kibum crows. “You’re serious! Let’s see you fall.”

Minho tosses the gloves to him and gets a good grip. “I’m not going to fall.”

The booth operator rings a bell, and Minho climbs. It’s not hard, especially compared to some of the Dream Team obstacle courses he’s done. He’s prepared when the ladder twists and flips him upside down, pinning the bottom rung between his shoes and hanging tight with his bare hands. Blood rushes to his head, but he hears Kibum laughing. Minho smiles in his direction and lets go to wave cheekily.

“Go, go!” Kibum urges, shaking his gloves like little pom-poms. “You’re not done yet.”

Minho finishes the climb upside down, hauling himself upright to ring the bell at the top. It chimes merrily, mixing with the cheers from the crowd that gathered to watch. Minho drops to his feet and bows, incapable of keeping the stupid grin off his face. Among the stuffed animal prizes, he selects a giant, puffy poodle and presents it to Kibum.

“How am I supposed to fit this in my suitcase?”

“That’s your problem, not mine,” Minho says, tugging his gloves back on.

“Actually, I bought an extra suitcase because I’ve been shopping so much,” Kibum confesses. “But I don’t know if it will fit there either.”

Regardless, he declines to exchange the poodle for a smaller plush, only releasing it to Solji’s custody when they ride a roller coaster. The poodle does accompany them in the Ferris wheel car, squished between Minho and Kibum while three cameramen squeeze into the opposite bench.

“When was the last time you rode a Ferris wheel?” Kibum asks.

Minho thinks. He has a vague notion that he rode one while filming something else, but the last time he really remembers is—

“High school, I guess? Before we debuted,” he says. He doesn’t say With my last girlfriend, but Kibum picks it up anyway.

“Wow, I’m honored then,” Kibum says, playfully sarcastic. There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes that makes Minho nervous. Kibum bumps their shoulders together. “Isn’t this kind of like a date?”

Minho swears he senses the cameramen’s attention increasing, intently capturing footage that would be destined for the final cut—if today didn’t reset. Kibum’s gaze sharpens too. This kind of fanservice unnerves Minho, and Kibum knows it. It feels…risky. It feels like exposing something private, even though it’s just a silly work thing.

He deflects. “It feels too quiet without the members around.”

Mercifully, Kibum drops it. “Yeah.” He pats the stuffed poodle absent-mindedly, looking at the city lights below. “I didn’t think I’d miss them, but I kinda do. Just a little. Onew hyung would’ve liked the farmer’s market this morning. Jonghyun hyung would’ve had fun at the musical with me. Taemin—actually, he would’ve been a brat the whole time.”

“Taemin could’ve come with me to the QPR game yesterday. I met Park Jisung. We high-fived.”

Even football-illiterate Kibum understands this. “You high-fived Park Jisung?!”

It’s weird, talking like they’re alone while three strangers sit barely a meter away. Especially when there are so many other things Minho wants to tell Kibum about. It’s not until they leave the park, eat dinner, and finish filming that Minho finally gets Kibum alone.

Kibum’s room is a tight squeeze like Solji’s, outfitted with a bunk bed and little else. The hostel is full, so Gyoengshik and Minho’s OFD production team leave to find lodging elsewhere. But Minho gets the unused bunk above Kibum’s. He’s lying up there, watching Kibum press the poodle into his extra briefcase, when Kibum says, “It’s later. So, what really happened? Solji said stress made you crazy, but you seem fine.”

“I’ve been time traveling.”

Kibum cranes his neck to narrow his eyes at Minho. “So, you’re from the future,” he says, plainly just humoring him.

“No, repeating the same day. I’ve repeated today…I’ve lost cost how many times. More than ten, less than twenty.”

“Like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.”

“Like what?”

Kibum tsks. “I forgot you live under a rock.” He returns to his packing, shoving his walking sneakers into the suitcase with more force than necessary. “Seriously? You run away, and you don’t even have a good excuse? The company is gonna eviscerate all of us when we come home. None of us will get solo travel ever again until we’re thirty.”

Minho sits up, although all he can see is the top of Kibum’s bent head. “I can prove it’s real. That football game I was supposed to go? ManU won 1-0, van Persie scored in the first thirty seconds.”

“You could’ve looked that up on your phone earlier.”

“You’re going to a gay bar later tonight.”

That makes Kibum go still. Minho forges onward. “Woohyun contacts you at some point and gets suspicious.”

“Now you’re just guessing.”

Minho studies the stiff line of Kibum’s shoulders. “I’m right though, aren’t I?”

Finally, Kibum looks up, frowning. “I was supposed to go out tonight. Noona said I could this morning if the filming went well today. But after your stunt, I’m on lockdown too. She thinks I need to keep an eye on you.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Minho isn’t actually sorry. “But do you believe me?”

“Hell no. You’re just guessing.”

Despite the firm words, Minho spots the wavering signals: Kibum’s hands fiddling with the clothes in his bag, the tiny furrow in his brow. He presses his advantage.

“I’ll prove it to you when we talk again. Tell me something I definitely don’t know and could never guess.”

Kibum grumbles about not playing games with Minho, but Minho keeps insisting, digging his fingertips into Kibum’s armor until finally he cracks.

“Fine! Fine. Let me think of something.”

“What was the name of the first person you kissed?”

“What?! Why do you wanna know?”

“It’s just something I don’t know.”

“Well, I’m not telling you that.” Kibum focuses on his suitcase again, turning his back to Minho. But his burning pink ears are visible even from the top bunk.

Now Minho is actually curious. He leans over the edge, trying to peer around Kibum’s shoulders to get a better look at him. Kibum maintains his privacy, but he’s not usually shy about these things.

“Is it really that embarrassing? Was it someone weird?”

“Buzz off, Choi Minho.”

“Have you been saving your first kiss this entire time? You’ve fucked, but you haven’t kissed?”

“No!” Kibum snaps. “Just—ugh. Okay. It was Jonghyun hyung.”

Oh. Minho doesn’t really understand why, but his cheeks begin to burn too. That wasn’t who he expected. He knew Jonghyun also liked guys, and he’s certainly good first-kiss material. Jonghyun is indisputably one of the most charismatic and attractive guys from their trainee cohort. But knowing he and Kibum kissed (if not more) feels…strange.

Kibum glances up to check his reaction and scowls. “Hey, you don’t get to be freaked about this. You’re the one who wanted to know.”

“I’m not freaked! It’s fine. You and hyung are fine.”

“Don’t be an awkward straight ally about this either.”

“I’m not,” Minho insists.

“Whatever.” Kibum rises, putting himself on Minho’s level. He studies him for a moment and then turns to put on his shoes. “I’m brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed. Don’t run away again while I’m out.”

Alone, Minho lays back on the mattress and stares at the ceiling, listening to the hostel’s muted noise around him. He thinks about Jonghyun, already in tomorrow thanks to time zones. Jonghyun who, given the chance, would do everything he couldn’t usually do.

Minho has been exploring sites all over Europe that he usually wouldn’t be able to see. Minho has been breaking rules and expectations he usually wouldn’t dare to defy. Parts of it have been exhilarating, and parts of it have torn Minho up. But it hasn’t been enough. He knows in his gut that when he wakes, he’ll be in Sunderland again.

Maybe nothing will ever be enough to free Minho.

When Kibum returns from the bathroom, skin still shiny with night-time moisturizer, he senses the downturn in Minho’s mood immediately. He stops at the head of the bunk bed, peering at Minho through the wood railing.

“Are you ready to talk about whatever’s wrong now?”

Minho sighs. “Let’s talk tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Minho takes the train to London. After getting off at Kings Cross, he hails a taxi and tells the driver the name of the market that Solji directed them to the previous day. He arrives earlier than before, but it’s easy to find Kibum and his pink bangs among the stalls and locals.

Minho watches Kibum from a distance. He keeps his hood over his head and hides behind a booth selling honey in huge glass jars. The saleswoman chats him up, giving him samples of honey varieties that Minho can’t pronounce. He accepts each tiny plastic spoon and lets the sweetness linger in his mouth while spying on the shoot.

Kibum is at a vegetable stall trying something green and leafy, whatever plant he had in that plastic bag when Minho met him last time. That means next he will move to the coffee stall where Minho found him before—and Minho knows Kibum’s morning habits as well as he knows his own.

Sure enough, when the cameramen lower their lenses for a short break, Kibum leans over to whisper to Solji. She nods and gestures to a narrow alley nearby. Minho watches a moment longer to make sure she won’t follow Kibum as he separates from the group, but she is deep in a conversation with the OFD producer. After thanking the honey woman, Minho ducks behind the strip of buildings and slips into the same alley.

Kibum has already lit his pre-coffee cigarette when Minho approaches, its tiny orange point glowing against London’s gray morning. He’s slumped against the wall like a houseplant that hasn’t been watered. Since he’s facing the front of the alley, he doesn’t see Minho coming from behind until Minho whispers, “Kibum-ah.”

Kibum spins. He starts to say something, lips spread wide, but Minho darts forward to cover his mouth with his palm.

“Shh, don’t let them find us!”

Kibum jerks away, but he keeps his voice down. “What the hell are you doing here? Hyung said you went missing! How did you—”

“We don’t have time! Noona will fetch you soon. Come with me.”

“Where? What’s going on?”

“Would you just trust me?”

Emotions play across Kibum’s face—lingering surprise, increasing confusion, and deep concern penetrating it all.

Minho takes the hand that isn’t holding the cigarette. “It’ll be fine,” he promises Kibum. “But we need to go now!”

He tugs, and Kibum doesn’t resist. Minho pulls him down the alley, escaping behind the buildings. When they lose their cover, Minho breaks into a run and Kibum trails after him, hand still in his.

“Where are we going?” he asks. “Is this for the show?”

“It’s not for the show.” Minho doesn’t actually know the answer to the first question.

They make it three blocks before Kibum digs his heels in, halting them at a busy intersection.

“You need to give me answers,” he says, withdrawing his hand from Minho’s. At some point, he must have dropped his barely smoked cigarette, but he’s still clinging to his vegetable bag. “You already got us all in trouble by running off. And now you’re kidnapping me too?”

“Is it kidnapping if you come willingly?”

“Choi Minho.”

“Okay, hold on. Let’s just duck inside somewhere.”

Minho glances around, searching for a shop they can loiter in. The staff must have realized Kibum is missing by now, so they shouldn’t just stand out in plain view. Sure enough, Kibum’s phone starts ringing.

“Don’t answer,” Minho tells him.

“Why not?” Kibum demands, but Minho is already tugging him into a clothing boutique. It appears to mostly cater to older women, the sort of cuts and fabrics that his mother prefers, but the shopkeeper just glances up from her novel and doesn’t seem inclined to hurry them out.

“They won’t look for us here. Now listen.”

Kibum crosses his arms. “I’ve been listening, you just haven’t been talking. You’ve got one minute before I call noona back and tell her you’ve lost your mind.”

“I’ve been time traveling. I keep repeating the same day over and over.” Kibum opens his mouth, so Minho pushes onward before he interrupts. “I can prove it. Yesterday—but not yesterday—I came to see you, and I asked you to tell me something I don’t know. You told me that Jonghyungie was the first person you kissed.”

Kibum closes his mouth.

His phone rings again, loud even stuffed in his jeans pocket. The shopkeeper shoots them an irritated look over her hardback, and Minho smiles and bows his head apologetically. He pushes Kibum farther away from the front counter until they are half-concealed behind racks of blazers.

“Message noona that you’re all right and then turn off your phone. Otherwise, people will just keep calling.”

On a normal day, Kibum balks at being told what to do by people his age, especially by Minho. Today is not a normal day though, so he pulls out his phone, sends off a quick text, and presses the power button. It falls silent mid-ring.

“Jonghyun could’ve told you that we kissed,” Kibum says.

“He could’ve, but would he? And I bet you didn’t tell him it was your first time, did you?”

“No,” Kibum admits. “But maybe he figured it out by himself. And maybe he didn’t mean to tell you, but it slipped out.”

“Why would I lie? Why would I run off if I wasn’t time traveling?”

Kibum assesses him for a moment, eyes dark, and then turns his gaze to the rows of blazers. He flicks through the hangers without seeming to actually see any of the clothing.

“Time travel,” he mutters. “What the hell?”

Something wound tight inside Minho’s chest loosens. Kibum believes him. It changes nothing, but it matters. “I know.”

“How does it work?”

Minho explains what he knows, although it isn’t much. Kibum thinks for a bit, still rifling through the clothing rack, before saying, “There must be something you need to do better or a lesson you have to learn. That’s how it always works in the movies.”

“This isn’t a movie.”

“Do you have any better ideas?”

Minho doesn’t.

Kibum reaches the back of the rack, which seems to contain the largest sizes. He selects a blazer so bright red that it burns the eyes, holds it up, and then holds it against Minho’s torso. Nodding, he says, “Take this.”

Minho takes it. He’s accompanied Kibum on enough shopping trips to know that his input is not desired unless explicitly requested.

“What do you think I need to do then? Or learn?”

“Did you mess something up during the original day?” Kibum asks.

“Not really? There was one thing, but I already tried fixing that, and it didn’t change anything.”

“What was it?”

Minho debates whether to reveal Woohyun’s message. Kibum got pissed the one day that he broached the topic, so he decides to stay vague. “There was a conversation I wasn’t happy with. I tried responding in different ways or even ignoring it, but I keep repeating the day anyway. I doubt it’s the problem.”

“And you can’t think of anything else?”

“I’m telling you, I’ve already been trying for weeks. I’ve done everything I can think of.”

“But you haven’t done everything I can think of,” Kibum says. He pulls a purple blazer covered in loud yellow flowers off the rack, eyes it, and then tosses it over his arm. “You can tell me what you remember about the original day over lunch. Let’s buy these and go.”

Minho glances down at the blazer he’s holding. It’s the same vibrant red as gochujang. “These stand out way too much.”

“Exactly. Noona knows what I’m wearing, and she probably has a good idea of what you packed too. Wearing something totally different will throw her off if she’s scanning crowds for us.”

Kibum takes the red blazer and heads for the front counter. He greets the shopkeeper warmly in English, chats about the book she’s reading, and then gets to work haggling the total price of their blazers down.

When the shopkeeper counts out their change, Minho asks her, “Can you recommend a good lunch restaurant nearby?”

“There’s a Chinese takeaway near here that is tasty and cheap. I usually get my lunch there.” She passes the bills and coins to Kibum and then nods her head toward the left. “It’s on the corner that way.”

“All right, thank you.”

Minho makes for the door, but Kibum takes his arm and guides them both to a mirror propped against the shop’s back wall. “You really aren’t bullshitting me,” he says as he removes the red blazer from the paper bag the shopkeeper gave them.

“What do you mean?”

“Your English has gotten a lot better. Now put this on.”

Minho takes the blazer, letting it hang limply from his hand. “London is so big that we’ll probably never run into Solji noona anyway.”

“Just wear it. Unless you’d rather have this one,” Kibum says, shaking the purple floral monstrosity.

They both exchange their outermost layer for the blazers, folding their normal coats into the paper bag. Minho hopes that the red eyesore won’t fit him, but Kibum has a good sense for these things. The blazer settles over his frame perfectly despite being a women's cut. Kibum also had the good sense to pick out thick wool-blends so they won’t suffer too much from the cold without their winter coats.

All in all, Minho supposes it could be worse. Even if he does look like walking gochujang.

But Kibum studies their appearances in the mirror, frowning. He rifles through the pocket of his jeans and produces a beanie, which he pulls over his dyed bangs. Then he frowns at Minho’s reflection, reaches up, and dishevels Minho’s hair in a messy style that exposes his forehead. 

His fingertips are warm against Minho’s cool skin.

“There,” Kibum says, and he draws his hand away. “Let’s go.” 

“It does sound like a pretty normal day,” Kibum admits. “Except for the time travel.”

They found the Chinese restaurant, a small shop that wasn’t really meant for dining in but did have a table to accommodate them and their humble lunch. Minho doesn’t want to risk using their credit cards too much while still in London, uncertain how quickly the transaction might show up and allow the staff to find them. They don’t have much cash between the two of them after purchasing the blazers, so they bickered about menus and finally settled on the sweet and sour pork lunch special. The owner gave them a bonus egg roll and an extra-large serving of fried rice. It’s hot and filling and that’s all Minho can ask for in the damp, miserable weather.

He seizes the last piece of pork with his chopsticks before Kibum can snag it. “Maybe I’m forgetting something,” he says. “I can’t really remember the original day that well anymore. The memory is fuzzy, like…”

“Like a VHS tape that’s been recorded over?”

“Yeah.”

“Hm.” Kibum chews the final piece of broccoli slowly. A bud of sweet and sour sauce swells on the end of his chopsticks, threatening to fall and stain his jeans. “Well, we don’t have much to work with, but there must be something you were wrong about or something you didn’t realize or…I don’t know. In Groundhog Day, Bill Murray is an asshole at first. When he stops being an asshole and confesses his feelings to the female lead, he gets free from the time loop.”

“I’m not an asshole though. And there’s no female lead here.”

“You’re an asshole sometimes. And maybe you need to confess to a female lead back home.”

Carefully, Minho takes Kibum’s wrist and moves it so the saucy chopsticks hover over the table instead of his clothing. “There’s no female lead back home either.”

Kibum’s gaze flicks down to their hands, the sweet and sour sauce ready to fall. He slips out from under Minho’s touch and lays the chopsticks down on a napkin. “What about that makeup girl you met while filming?”

“Jihye? I haven’t talked to her in months.” It surprises Minho a little that Kibum doesn’t know this—but then again, Kibum has been so busy with his clique, his friends. 

Maybe he is more stung than he is surprised.

The food has vanished, but Minho’s stomach still gnaws at him. They leave the restaurant, hunching their shoulders up against a gust of cold wind. When the wind subsides, Kibum reaches into his pocket and pulls out the plastic bag from the market. The leaves inside look a little crumbled.

“Want some? It’s sorrel. It’s really good and tangy.”

Minho accepts a leaf and folds it into his mouth. The fresh lemony taste cuts through the lingering oily flavors from lunch perfectly. He holds out his palm for more, still chewing, and Kibum laughs and gives him a handful.

They wander London for hours, window shopping and visiting free tourist spots and just sitting on a park bench to watch people walk by. Kibum tells him about every time travel story he knows, which is more than Minho expected. He knows Kibum likes science fiction and fantasy stuff, but he doesn’t talk about it much at the dorm. He tends to hold anything he really loves close to his chest.

“I can understand never seeing Groundhog Day since it’s older and foreign. And Star Trek and Back to the Future are even older. But Rooftop Prince, Queen and I, and Faith are all Korean and aired this year!”

“I have seen Back to the Future,” Minho protests. “I just saw it once when I was a kid, so I don’t remember it well. I don’t rewatch stuff like you do.”

“And how did you miss The Girl Who Leapt Through Time? You watch more anime than I do.”

“I don’t watch that much anime though.”

Kibum sniffs, his runny nose rasping. The sun has gone down, early as ever, and the temperature is dropping. They’ll have to find somewhere indoors to hang out soon. “Time travel is totally wasted on you. If I was time traveling, I would’ve done something much more exciting than take the train to London.”

Kibum rubs his gloved hands together briskly. Minho thinks of the black-and-white mittens he bought in Riga, destined to never be gifted.

“I’ve been to other places. And there isn’t much you can do in just one day anyway.”

“One day is plenty of time,” Kibum retorted. “You’re just unimaginative.”

“Well, we still have tonight. What do you want to do?”

Kibum considers it for a while, staring across the street at the people hurrying through the cold evening. Some are dressed like they just finished working late—men with their neckties hanging loose, women wearing sneakers and carrying heels in their hand. Others are laughing and balancing food containers as they amble, leaving from a dinner out. The streetlamps are on and casting long shadows. 

Then Kibum turns and studies Minho. He stares for so long that Minho asks, “What?”

“There’s a place I want to go. I’ll need to check a map, but I think it’s just a few blocks from here. It should be opening soon.”

“Let’s go then.”

“It’s a gay club.”

“Okay? And?”

Kibum frowns at him. “You’re not surprised.”

Minho rolls his eyes. “I know you go clubbing when you can. And I know you’re gay.”

“I know you know I’m gay,” Kibum grumbles, lowering his voice even though there’s no one around to overhear. Certainly no one who speaks Korean. “It’s just—you’re coming with?”

“Yeah? Unless you don’t want me to.”

Kibum’s dark eyes flick over Minho for a moment. Then he turns away. “You can come. I suppose.”

They sit for a while longer as Kibum consults a slow-loading map on his phone, cursing the shitty connection all the while. Then they start walking, stopping only to pop into a subway station and use its restroom to trade their ugly blazers for their original coats. Kibum fusses in front of a mirror for a bit and then they head above ground again to finish their short journey.

The club looks small and unassuming from the outside, just another business in what seems to be a thriving nightlife district. Since it’s still early for clubbing, they don’t even have to wait in a line. It’s much bigger and brighter on the inside though, music blasting and people dancing and grinding already. There’s a DJ working the table behind massive speakers, a long bar with bartenders hustling back and forth. It’s a young, lively crowd, almost entirely men which Minho expected, but—

“Is this the quiet spot noona approved?” Minho asks. He has to shout to be heard.

Kibum ignores him at first, busy chatting with the guy running the coat check. When the coat guy has to help another customer, Kibum finally deigns to answer.

“How do you know about that?”

“You told me. Not today, but another today.”

“Oh. No, this isn’t that place. This is the place I would’ve gone to if there was no chance it’d ruin me. No photos going viral, no stories leaked to the press. No consequences, right?”

Despite the flashing lights, Kibum holds his gaze. This is his last test, Minho realizes. If Minho was bullshitting him about the time travel thing, he would never let Kibum cross the dance floor and risk being exposed. He’d never go inside him. 

Part of him is wounded that Kibum still holds some doubt. The other part of him swells with pride at the trust Kibum is granting him.

“No consequences,” Minho promises.

Kibum takes to the dance floor like he’s a club regular. 

Minho has known that Kibum is a good dancer for as long as he has known him, but this is different. Rather than the choreography that Kibum excels at memorizing, this is a mindless, joyful groove. Rocking to the beat of the EDM blasting through the club. Tossing his head back to shout along with the chorus. Leaning into the guys who come near, coaxing them forward with flirtatious fingers.

Minho sticks to the bar. He seized one of the few stools when someone left, and he’s reluctant to give it up. Besides, he’s not really into clubbing. Between the two of them, they have enough cash left for two drinks, which Kibum magnanimously allowed Minho full use of. 

He’s still nursing his first drink when the bartender catches Minho’s attention.

“Crush, boyfriend, or ex?”

“What?”

The bartender nods in Kibum’s direction. “I saw you two come in together. Why are you sitting here staring at him instead of dancing?”

“He is a friend,” Minho says. “I am…” He pauses, struggling to find not just an answer but English words for it. “We are traveling together.”

The bartender is older than most of the crowd, maybe mid-thirties. Minho has a hard time guessing ages with white people, but his skin is smooth except for some crow’s feet and smile lines, and his hair still dark except for a few streaks of silver that catch the club’s blinking lights. He’s a handsome guy—all the bartenders are attractive, but this one has asymmetrical eyes that remind Minho of Gong Yoo.

“Traveling, huh?” white Gong Yoo says. “Where from?”

“South Korea.”  

“Long way from home.”

Minho nods. The distance was exciting when this trip began. But now, after however many days have slipped by, Minho misses the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of Seoul. At this point, he would give anything to lay down in his own bed, rest his head against his own pillow, and fall asleep looking at the familiar ceiling.

Someone calls the bartender away, so Minho returns to sipping his drink and people watching. He doesn’t watch Kibum this time, not wanting to be accused of staring again, so he allows his gaze to drift over the crowd. 

It’s mostly guys in their twenties, but even within that small demographic there is a lot more variety than Minho expected. Light-skinned guys, dark-skinned guys. Tall guys, short guys. Big guys, slim guys. Muscular guys, reedy guys. Pierced and tattooed guys, clean-cut guys. Long-haired guys, buzz cut guys. Whatever you are looking for, you can find it here, so long as what you’re looking for is male.

A lot of them look like the kind of guys that Minho would play football with.

Someone touches his elbow, and Minho turns around.

It’s Kibum, face sweaty and eyes bright. “I’ll be back in, like, half an hour.”

“What?”

“Half an hour,” Kibum repeats. He points his thumb over his shoulder. “If I’m not back by then, then this guy has murdered me, so you should come to the bathroom to avenge me.”

The guy is lanky and sweet-faced. When Minho makes eye contact, he offers a tiny wave. Confused, Minho waves back.

“But what—”

“Half an hour, Choi Minho!”

Kibum spins and leaves, taking his possible murderer by the wrist. They disappear into the crowd, cutting across the dance floor to take the shortest route to the bathrooms in the back. 

A moment too late, it clicks.

Minho finishes his first drink and orders his second. He doesn’t think about Kibum in the bathroom. But he does turn his phone on to check the time, swiping away all the notifications that crowd the screen.

It’s strange. He’s lived through so many versions of this day, doing everything from riding trains and exploring museums to running across the football pitch at a premier league game. But he doesn’t remember the minutes ever moving this slowly.

Kibum returns with four minutes to spare. He’s alone. His lips are red.

“Can I finish that?” Kibum asks, flicking his fingers toward Minho’s glass. Minho passes his cocktail over, and Kibum swallows it down in two quick gulps and frowns.

“That’s really sweet.”

“The bartender recommended it.”

The collar of Kibum’s shirt is stretched out. There’s a dark spot blooming at the base of his neck.

“He probably thought you needed something sweet because your expression is so sour. What’s got you all pissed?”

Minho forces his gaze up. But his eyes land on Kibum’s swollen mouth, so he just looks away instead. “I’m not pissed.”

“Right.” Kibum crosses his arms. “I wouldn’t have let you come along if I knew you were going to spend the whole time judging me for having fun.”

“I’m not judging you.” 

It’s hard for Minho to keep his voice even. The music and crowd noise bounces off the club’s walls, forcing them to shout to be heard. It’s like his body has a Pavlovian reaction to the sight of Kibum’s pissed face and his own raised voice, summoning anger where before he only felt weary and out of sorts.

“Don’t lie. I know your judgemental expression. I really thought you’d finally outgrown your homophobic era, but–”

“I don’t care that you’re gay,” Minho interrupts. “I care that you’ll just go off with whatever random guy—”

“Oh, please—”

“And mess around when you know that Woohyun is head over heels for you. You just keep stringing him along, giving him whatever little bits you feel like giving, and then turn around and get cozy with that model Park Hyeongseop or a stranger you met five minutes ago.”

“Woohyun isn’t my boyfriend. I don’t owe him—”

“He’s your best friend! How can you treat your best friend like that? He’s nothing but loyal to you, but you’re so fucking cold!”

Kibum is red all over, nostrils flaring. For a moment, he only breathes, chest heaving. When he opens his mouth, nothing comes out.

A new voice cuts in. “Hey.”

Minho and Kibum both turn to the bar. White Gong Yoo considers both of them, jaw set. “You two need to either cool it or take it outside. I’ll call the bouncer over if I need to.”

Minho doesn’t fully understand, but Kibum huffs and stalks away, weaving through the crowd like a furious snake. Minho drops his money on the bar and hurries to follow him. Kibum makes for the club’s exit with his head down, bypassing the coat check. Minho hesitates, but he decides they didn’t leave behind anything that important.

When the club’s doors open for Minho and London’s cold air hits his cheeks, he regrets that choice. Minho looks both ways and spots Kibum’s familiar back heading for an intersection.

“Kibum-ah!” he calls. 

Kibum stops under a streetlamp. When Minho catches up to him, he’s scowling, the light overheard casting strange shadows over his features.

“What? Can’t you mind your own damn business? I’m such an awful person, so why do you even care?”

“I never said that,” Minho protests.

Kibum scoffs and jams his fingers against the crosswalk button. “Yeah, okay. You just think I’m a bitch and a slut.”

Minho definitely never said that. Well. The second might’ve been implied, but he hadn’t meant it like that. “Would you listen? Remember when I said that on the original day, there was a conversation that didn’t go well?”

“I really don’t give a fuck about your stupid time travel problems right now.”

“It was Woohyun.”

Across the street, the pedestrian light turns on. Kibum doesn’t move, doesn’t even notice. He stands frozen, still scowling at Minho.

“He messaged me asking if it was true that you are in England. When I said yes, he asked if it was true that you were with me at that moment. And the first time, I lied and said that you were, and I hated that.”

“You don’t even like Woohyun,” Kibum says flatly. Behind him, the crosswalk countdown begins.

“I felt sorry for him. Lately, you keep blowing him off, just like you always…”

“Just like I always what?” When Minho doesn’t answer, Kibum presses, “What, Choi Minho? What is this really about?”

“You always blow me off.”

“I see you practically every minute of every day.”

“That’s work. You never want to hang out anymore because you spend all your free time with your gay friends.”

“So I’m not allowed to have a life?”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I just wish—you keep cutting me out and talking down to me and acting like I’m so different and I could never get you like Woohyun does or Hyeongseop or some stranger at a club!”

The countdown finishes. Neither of them have taken a single step. Kibum stares at Minho, his brows furrowed.

The light cast by the streetlamp begins to shimmer, and a light rain drizzles down on them. Minho glances up, and a drop lands in his eye. He rubs it away. He really should have grabbed their stuff from the coat check. It’s too damn cold to be standing on a street corner in only jeans and sweaters. Now, they’re getting wet too.

This is stupid. Why are they even fighting? This day started out fine, so why did Minho have to open his mouth and ruin it? 

There’s no sense in having it out with Kibum when he’s just going to forget it all in a few hours.

Kibum still hasn’t said anything. The silence is becoming unnerving. 

“Forget it.” Minho dries his face with his sleeve, although it’s pointless since the rain is only getting harder. “Let’s go back and get our coats. I’m freezing. And we need to figure out where to sleep. This late, we can probably get away with using a card for a hotel.”

“I know what your problem is,” Kibum says.

“What?”

“The time travel. What you need do better. Or learn, I guess. I figured it out. Maybe.”

Minho waits, but Kibum doesn’t continue. The defiance and anger have vacated Kibum’s features, leaving behind something that’s too uncertain to be surprise and too surprised to be uncertain. Minho thought he knew every face that Kibum makes, but he doesn’t recognize this one.

“Are you going to tell me or not?”

Slowly, Kibum shakes his head. “I think you need to solve it yourself. If I tell you, it probably won’t work. It’s never that easy in the movies.”

“This isn’t a movie,” Minho reminds him.

Kibum just shrugs and runs his hands over his wet face, pushing his pink bangs back.

“Let’s go,” he says, and he starts walking in the direction of the club like it was his idea. Like they weren’t at each other’s throats a minute ago. Like he’s already forgiven him.

All Minho can do is follow him through the dark.