Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It starts with rain tapping the window like it remembers a song only they know. The dorm is quiet in the way morning sometimes is—shoe pile crooked by the door, a half-finished puzzle on the table, a plushie brigade occupying the couch like tiny, patient guards.

Yeonjun pads into the kitchen in sleep shorts and an oversized tee, hair doing an impression of an exploding dandelion. He yawns without sound, eyes searching the counter the way they always do after a long week, looking for a sign that today doesn’t require him to be the sun.

There’s a sign. Literally.

A pink sticky note is perched on top of the kettle:
Operation: No Plans Day.
—BG (your favorite nuisance)

Another sticky note points to the fridge:
Step 1: Sit. (Seriously. Don’t help. Your job is to look pretty and breathe.)

Yeonjun tries to suppress a smile and fails. He obeys, sliding onto the stool while Beomgyu—hoodie, bunny slippers, hair clipped back with a glittery tiger barrette someone lost months ago—flips pancake batter in a mixing bowl.

“You’re not allowed to be this cute before coffee,” Yeonjun says.

“Bold of you to assume you have rights,” Beomgyu answers, smoothing batter onto a hot pan with a star-shaped cookie cutter. “Today’s schedule is curated by an expert in Yeonjun Joy Sciences. First: breakfast. Later: recreational loafing.”

“Loafing?”

“It’s like resting but with vibes.”

Yeonjun props his cheek on his fist and watches his best friend hum off-key, stacking star pancakes like constellations on a plate. There’s syrup in a tiny pitcher, strawberries fanned out into a heart, and a heap of whipped cream that could count as its own cloud system.

“Wow.” Yeonjun’s voice goes soft without permission. “You did all this for me?”

Beomgyu slides the plate over and presses a clean fork into Yeonjun’s hand. “For us. But mainly for the part of you that thinks it needs permission to stop. Eat.”

They eat shoulder-to-shoulder at the counter while the rain works through its chorus and the kettle sighs. Beomgyu turns the radio to a low, old-school station that fuzzes in and out; it makes the kitchen feel like a memory.

When Yeonjun’s plate is mostly crumbs and syrup galaxies, Beomgyu produces Polaroid paper like a magician. “Step 2,” he declares. “Documentation. Your smile has been on backorder and I finally got the shipment.”

“Get out,” Yeonjun says, already laughing as he leans in. The first photo is blurry—Yeonjun mid-laugh, Beomgyu’s eyes crinkled, the star pancakes photobombing. The second catches Yeonjun pressing his cheek to Beomgyu’s temple, both of them soft around the edges.

They stick the photos up on the fridge with a magnet that says, You Did Great Today (even if you just breathed).

The rest of the morning spills gentle. They build a blanket fort in the living room with fairy lights and broom handles for bones, the couch turned sideways like a barricade. It looks ridiculous, which is perfect. Beomgyu crawls in with a guitar and a bag of candied gummies; Yeonjun brings a plushie shaped like a very round cat and declares it the mascot.

Inside the fort, the world shrinks to their knees knocking, snack wrappers crinkling, and the rain like a drum played by someone who’s kind. Beomgyu strums nonsense until a melody finds him. Yeonjun doesn’t realize he’s humming along until Beomgyu lifts his eyes and smiles in that specific way—like he’s denoting Yeonjun as the answer key.

“Play that again,” Yeonjun says.

Beomgyu plays it again. And again. On the third pass, Yeonjun finds the harmony without looking for it. Their voices braid; it feels like a promise they didn’t know they were making, and also like one they’ve been making for years.

“Okay,” Beomgyu says quietly, when the string’s last ring turns to air. “That can be Step 3: Make something that asks nothing of us.”

Yeonjun lies back and stares up at the fairy lights. “I forget what that feels like sometimes,” he admits. “To make something and not… hold my breath waiting to be told if it’s enough.”

“You are enough,” Beomgyu says, like he’s reminding the clock to keep time. “Even when the laundry’s not folded and the dance isn’t perfect and you put the cereal in the fridge again.”

“That was one time.”

“It was three.”

“It felt like one.”

Beomgyu’s grin turns quiet around the edges. He puts the guitar aside and nudges their ankles together. “Step 4: Let me be selfish and keep you to myself today. No message replies for a few hours. No worrying if people will like you. I like you. That’s the whole assignment.”

There’s a catch in Yeonjun’s chest he hadn’t noticed; when he breathes it loosens, a safe pop. “Okay,” he says, because this is the easiest homework he’s ever been given.

They nap with the fort creaking above them like a sleeping ship. When Yeonjun blinks awake, the rain is softer and Beomgyu is closer, his breath at Yeonjun’s collarbone, fingers curled in Yeonjun’s sleeve like a kid about to be left behind. Yeonjun doesn’t move right away. He just thinks: if peace had a shape, maybe it would look like this—a small space lit by warm lights with the person who knows how you take your tea and when you need to be handed a silly sticker for doing something brave like asking for a break.

Later, they migrate to the laundry room, ostensibly because Beomgyu says Step 5 is “turning the hamper into a myth,” which turns out to mean folding T-shirts into perfect squares while blasting a ridiculous playlist and awarding each other fake medals. The dryer hums. The air smells like citrus and clean cotton.

Yeonjun leans against the machine, crossing his ankles. “You make even chores feel like a music video.”

“That’s my brand,” Beomgyu says, pinning a sock to Yeonjun’s shirt as if it’s a medal of honor. It stays, ridiculous and perfect. “Also your shirt is now promoted to Admiral Sock.”

“Thank you, Admiral Sock accepts with humility.” Yeonjun watches the drum turn and then, like all the gentlest things do, the truth arrives without drama. “Gyu?”

“Mm?”

“I know you joke about being my favorite nuisance.” Yeonjun swallows, the words warm in his mouth. “But you’re just… my favorite.”

The dryer keeps tumbling, a steady applause. Beomgyu’s head tilts, hair falling over his eyes until he pushes it back. He steps closer until Yeonjun can count the gold flecks in his irises.

“Step 6,” Beomgyu says, softly enough that the laundry room leans in to hear. “Say the quiet thing out loud.”

Yeonjun lets the air go. “You’re my favorite,” he repeats. “Not just on easy days. On the days where I forget how to be a person before I’m a performer. On the days the mirror tries to bargain. On the days I want to leave my phone in the freezer and move to a small island with one bakery and no notifications. It’s you. I want you there. With me.”

Beomgyu’s smile breaks slow and bright, like morning finding a window. He reaches up and, with all the ceremony in the world, unpins the sock medal and replaces it with his hand, fingers settling at Yeonjun’s sternum.

“Good,” he says. “Because I’ve been yours for a while. Officially. Unofficially. In every silly way that counts.” A breath. “Can I—?”

Yeonjun leans forward before the rest of the question finishes. Their foreheads meet first, and there’s a soft click like something lining up—ah, there. The kiss is light, the kind you might give a secret to keep it gentle. It tastes like tea and the edges of laughter. It feels like stepping into a room that already knows your name.

When they part, Beomgyu is close enough that the dryer’s hum buzzes through both of them. “Step 7,” he whispers. “Decide if we tell the others by yelling ‘Plot twist!’ or by walking out holding hands and pretending nothing is different.”

“Plot twist,” Yeonjun says, eyes crinkling. “But we practice first.”

They practice walking back to the living room hand-in-hand and pretending nothing has changed. It’s impossible. Everything is brighter, somehow—the couch, the fairy lights, the way the rain has thinned to a mist that makes the window look like a watercolor. Beomgyu lifts their joined hands and spins Yeonjun once, a little dizzy ceremony. Yeonjun bows dramatically to the plushie brigade.

By the time the others straggle home from errands and the gym, the fort has acquired more pillows and their melody has a second verse. Taehyun pauses in the doorway, eyes going to the sock medal on the counter, then to their linked hands. He doesn’t say anything—just smirks like he knew this chapter was coming and opens the fridge.

“So,” Beomgyu says casually, “plot twist?”

Taehyun takes a swig of juice. “I mean,” he says, dry as toast, “yeah.”

Huening Kai pokes his head around Taehyun’s shoulder. “Did we already miss the celebratory pancakes?”

“You missed the first batch,” Yeonjun says. “But Admiral Sock authorizes a second.”

Kai cheers and disappears into the kitchen with a clatter. In the commotion, Beomgyu presses their shoulders together, small and certain. Yeonjun feels the shape of it, the word they haven’t said yet but don’t need to rush: something steady that wears its softness like armor.

Night comes easy. They put on an animated movie and fall into a pile on the floor, everyone stealing the best blanket at least once. Beomgyu ends up tucked against Yeonjun’s side, guitar propped nearby like another friend fading into the background. During the quiet stretch before the credits, Yeonjun hooks a finger around Beomgyu’s wrist and scribbles letters there with his thumb. Thank you.

Beomgyu scribbles back. Always.

Long after the others drift to their rooms, they crawl back into the fort. The lights glow low; the rain has become a hush. Beomgyu pulls a final sticky note from his hoodie pocket and sticks it on one of the makeshift beams overhead.

Step 8: Repeat when necessary. (It’s always necessary.)

Yeonjun laughs without sound and curls in, head on Beomgyu’s shoulder, hand fisted in his sleeve like some part of him is still surprised he gets to ask for this and receive it. Beomgyu squeezes once, a promise under the ribs.

“Hey,” he says into Yeonjun’s hair. “For the record?”

“Mm?”

“You’re my favorite, too.”

“Bold of you to assume I didn’t know.”

“It felt nice to say it.”

“It does.”

They fall asleep to the soft storm and the softer certainty that in a world that asks for so much light, they’ve found a way to glow without burning. In the morning, there will be new steps, and maybe more pancakes, and probably more silly magnets and a new verse to the song they wrote by accident. For now, there is this: a tiny universe of their own making. Quiet hours. Bright hearts.

And a sticky note on the kettle waiting to be written.

Chapter Text

The group chat is a tangle of gym selfies and grocery lists when a new message appears from Beomgyu, accompanied by an aggressive string of plant emojis.

BG: field trip. 20 minutes. wear shoes you can get dirt on
YJ: dirt??
BG: TRUST THE PROCESS 🌱

Yeonjun glances at the gray morning pressing against the windows. He’s been feeling like a half-charged phone all week—functional, but the brightness slider stuck in the middle no matter how often he swipes. A field trip sounds suspiciously like effort. But it’s Beomgyu: effort usually means chaos that somehow melts into exactly what Yeonjun needed.

Twenty minutes later, he’s in the entryway in a denim jacket and a cap pulled low. Beomgyu pops up beside him with a tote bag that says plants are friends and a grin like he’s smuggling sunshine.

“Ready?” Beomgyu asks.

“To join a cult?”

“Technically it’s a ‘houseplant community.’ We have stickers.”

They walk the few blocks to the plant shop. The bell above the door tinkles with the diligence of a polite fairy. Inside, the air is warm and damp, the kind of humid that turns your skin into a note the room writes on. A jungle has been condensed into a storefront: glossy Monstera leaves swallowing corners, strings of hearts drooping like punctuation, tiny trays of succulents with names like “jade” and “lithops” and “don’t overwater me or I perish dramatically.”

“Oh no,” Yeonjun says. “They’re cute.”

“I know,” Beomgyu says with the reverence of someone at a museum. “Prepare to meet our children.”

A kindly owner with silver hair and a cactus pin on their apron appears. “First time?” they ask.

“First time parenting,” Beomgyu says solemnly. “We want something forgiving and photogenic and emotionally supportive.”

“Then you’re looking for pothos,” the owner laughs, guiding them to a wall of cascades that look like green waterfalls. “Also—snake plants. They mind their business. A good quality in a roommate.”

They wander, fingertips brushing soil bags, noses bumping close to maranta leaves that fold like praying hands at night. Yeonjun’s shoulders start to drop in increments, like someone is loosening the screws.

“Look,” Beomgyu says, crouching to peer at a shelf of succulents the size of thumbprints. “These are so small. It’s disrespectful.”

Yeonjun kneels beside him. “This one is rounder than my future.”

“We adopt them,” Beomgyu decides. “All of them.”

“Gyu.”

“Okay, like… some of them.”

In the end, “some” becomes an eclectic family: one pothos for the living room, a snake plant for the hallway (“Guard snake,” Beomgyu whispers, brandishing it like a sword), two baby succulents for the kitchen sill, and a trailing string-of-pearls for Yeonjun’s bedroom because the owner says it “thrives with gentle attention,” and Yeonjun flushes like he’s been complimented.

Back at the dorm, they spread newspaper across the dining table and set to work with tiny scoops and the good playlist. Soil gets on the table, then their hands, then somehow Yeonjun’s cheek. Beomgyu pauses, thumb hovering, and wipes it away with a soft focus that makes Yeonjun a little dizzy.

“War paint,” Yeonjun says, to say something.

“Gardener stripes,” Beomgyu corrects. “Very fierce.”

They repot with exaggerated care. Beomgyu names the pothos Meteor (“because it’ll trail like a comet tail”), the snake plant Bodyguard (“Sir Bodyguard to strangers”), and the succulents Bean and Even Smaller Bean. When Beomgyu gets to Yeonjun’s string-of-pearls, he holds it up with two hands like a ceremonial offering.

“This one is yours,” he says. “What shall you call it, Supreme Window Overlord?”

Yeonjun looks at the little green beads cascading like a necklace and thinks about the way certain things grow without obvious fanfare—quietly, insistently, because that’s what they were built to do.

“Marbles,” he decides. “Because they look like the ones I lost in elementary school.”

“You were a child with marbles? Of course you were.” Beomgyu’s smile is equal parts tease and fondness. “Hello, Marbles.”

They set the little forest along the windows, nudging each pot to a spot that feels like a home. The sky has split open to a gentle noon; light spills across leaves and skims over their wrists. Yeonjun takes a breath that feels like he’s drinking something cold.

“Okay,” Beomgyu says, clapping his hands once. “You can’t have a plant day without plant snacks.”

“Plant snacks?”

“Citrus counts. Also, cookies are universal.”

They migrate to the kitchen. Beomgyu pulls out lemons with theatrical flourish; Yeonjun lines up ingredients like soldiers. There’s a moment where Yeonjun is whisking, hair curling damply at his temples, and Beomgyu leans on the counter just to watch him, chin in hand, grin lazy and bright.

“What?” Yeonjun says without looking up, insofar as you can hear someone smiling and decide to poke it.

“Just thinking how your face looks when you relax,” Beomgyu says, like it’s a grocery list item, nothing to be shy about. “It uncurls. It’s my favorite.”

The whisk slows. Yeonjun feels the comment nest behind his ribs like a bird settling. It’s always like this with Beomgyu—compliments slid across the counter like a plate of cut fruit, no fanfare, no heavy question mark to carry. He can accept them without worrying he owes something back. He can just be.

They pop lemon crinkle cookies into the oven and press their palms to the door’s glass to watch them spread. The kitchen fills with sunlight-on-sugar smell. Between batches, Beomgyu pulls out a Polaroid and snaps Yeonjun mid-laugh, a streak of flour on his cheek. Yeonjun retaliates with a shot of Beomgyu holding a lemon half to each eye, pretending to be a citrus monster.

They stick the photos to the fridge beneath the magnet that says You Did Great Today (even if you just breathed), inheriting last week’s proof and adding to it. The magnet looks a little smug now, which feels right.

Cookies cool on the rack. They carry a plate to the windowsill forest like ambassadors. Beomgyu takes a bite and hums. “We should sing to them.”

“The plants?”

“It’s science. They like music.”

“Is it science if your source is a drama you watched at 2 a.m.?”

“Absolutely.”

Beomgyu fetches his guitar. They settle on the rug with their backs to the couch, knees bumping. The first chords come easy—something soft with a steady climb. Yeonjun finds the harmony without trying. When the chorus lands, it feels like it was waiting for them under the soil.

“For Meteor and Bodyguard and Bean and Even Smaller Bean and Marbles,” Beomgyu declares at the end, then gentler, “And for us.”

Yeonjun glances sideways. Beomgyu is looking at the plants, but the line hangs in the air like a sign placed carefully at the edge of a path: this way, if you want it.

Outside, the sun teases the clouds apart. A stripe of bright hits the windowsill and threads through the hung pearls, dropping tiny circles of light onto Yeonjun’s forearm like stamped coins. He turns his wrist to catch them and thinks about growth, how sometimes you don’t feel taller until you measure against a doorframe and realize the pencil mark has moved.

“Gyu?” he says. The word is a pebble rolled between fingers. “Do you think… we’re good at taking care of things?”

“Like what?” Beomgyu asks, voice easy.

“Like… plants. Each other. Ourselves.”

Beomgyu plucks a single string, lets it ring. “I think we try. And when we forget how, we remind each other. That counts.”

“It does,” Yeonjun says. He picks up a cookie, breaks it in half, offers the larger piece to Beomgyu. “We’re going to remember to water them, right?”

“Absolutely. I set phone reminders labeled ‘hydrate ur children.’”

Yeonjun laughs. The sound sounds lighter, like the room has fewer corners. He tips his head until it finds Beomgyu’s shoulder, lazy and sure. Beomgyu nudges their hands together on the rug, fingers intertwining like something they’ve been rehearsing. It’s not new; it is. The kind of new that feels like discovering a hidden pocket in a jacket you’ve worn for years.

They sit like that until the light turns buttery and the plants cast shadows shaped like promises. At some point, Taehyun shuffles past, eyes flicking from the cookies to their hands to the labeled pots.

“Bean?” he reads, tone neutral in that way he thinks is a disguise. “Even Smaller Bean?”

“It’s about scale,” Beomgyu explains gravely. “Also, we’re artists.”

Taehyun nods, steals a cookie, and disappears the way he came. The quiet returns, warm as a blanket that remembers your shape.

“Hey,” Beomgyu says after a while. He shifts just enough that Yeonjun’s cheek can feel him smile. “I wrote something.”

He pulls a sticky note from his hoodie pocket—of course he did—and sticks it to the windowsill between Meteor and Marbles. The handwriting is neat, the words simple:

Grow at your own pace. We’ll clap for every leaf.

Yeonjun watches his own reflection in the glass soften. He picks up the pen and adds underneath:

Even on weeks when we feel like dirt. (Dirt is important.)

Beomgyu snorts, delighted. “Poet.”

“Gardener,” Yeonjun counters.

He moves his thumb along Beomgyu’s knuckles, a slow line. He could say more—the way he feels here, like every part of him has been given a small chair to sit on and a cup of tea, and no one is asking him to perform tricks. He could say the word that sits behind the door of his teeth. Maybe later. Maybe after they make dinner and water the plants and send a picture of Bean to the chat with a ridiculous caption. Maybe they’re already saying it with cookies and soil and a sticky note between two small greens.

When the sun dips and the room shifts toward evening, they light a string of fairy lights above the window, turning the glass into a soft mirror of two heads tipped close and a fringe of leaves. Beomgyu’s head rests against Yeonjun’s again, like a magnet finding its place.

“Welcome home, Marbles,” Yeonjun murmurs.

“Welcome home, us,” Beomgyu says, quiet as roots.

They don’t take a Polaroid this time. They just sit with the proof growing inches from their hands—a tiny forest, a silly set of names, a note promising applause for ordinary miracles. Tomorrow, there will be schedules and practice and group chats buzzing like beehives. Tonight, there is this: lemon sugar on their tongues, soil still under their nails, light on leaves, and the warm fact of a shoulder that belongs beneath your cheek when your brightness slider won’t budge.

The magnet on the fridge is right; they did great today, even if they just breathed. And the windowsill, patient and green, agrees.

Chapter Text

The power goes out right when Yeonjun is trying to get the kettle to boil like a good drama lead with Very Serious Tea.

He stares at the dead stove. Somewhere in the building, a chorus of surprised “hey!”s floats through the walls like startled pigeons. Then: quiet. No fan hum. No refrigerator growl. Just the soft shuffle of rain against the window and the shivery silence that arrives when electricity slips away.

“Gyu?” he calls, half laugh, half question.

From the bedroom: a thunk, a muffled “ow,” then Beomgyu emerges with a flashlight pinched between his teeth, a shoebox in his arms, and the solemn purpose of someone about to host a science fair.

He spits the flashlight into his hand. “Fear not,” he says, sweeping a bow. “I have trained my entire life for this.”

“Your entire life?” Yeonjun leans against the counter, amused. “You were born for power outages?”

“I was born for ambiance,” Beomgyu corrects. He thumps the shoebox onto the table like a magician about to reveal a dove. “And for moments when the world tells us to slow down.”

Inside the box: a tangle of tea lights, a cheap star projector with chipped paint, and a sheet of glow-in-the-dark stickers—moons, stars, and a random dinosaur.

“Where did you even get these?”

“Preparedness,” Beomgyu says, already unscrewing the projector’s battery cover. “Also the craft store last week when you said, and I quote, ‘I wish I could sleep under the sky without freezing my kneecaps off.’”

Yeonjun feels his ears warm. He doesn’t remember saying it out loud—only thinking it in a passing sigh when rehearsal had left his bones feeling like empty glitter jars. But Beomgyu tends to collect Yeonjun’s passing sighs the way some people collect ticket stubs.

The tea lights glow one by one, little moons lined along the coffee table. Beomgyu clicks the projector on. A soft field of stars blooms across the ceiling, catching on corners and shimmering across the framed photos on the wall. The room exhales.

“Oh,” Yeonjun says, all the ache in his shoulders dissolving into the vowel. “You did it. You brought the sky inside.”

“Beginner’s galaxy,” Beomgyu says. “You get the deluxe model after your next nap.”

They build a nest out of every blanket in the house. Beomgyu tosses a quilt; Yeonjun catches it and spreads it like a cape. A candle flickers. The projector turns lazily, sprinkling constellations over their faces as if it’s choosing them on purpose.

Somewhere down the hall, a neighbor laughs. Rain fingers the window glass. The city, for once, feels like it took a breath and decided to keep it.

“Come here,” Beomgyu says, patting the spot beside him on the floor. “Planetarium seating is limited.”

Yeonjun sinks down, bumping shoulders. They lay back until the stars gather above them, until the ceiling becomes an invitation instead of a blank. The projector hum becomes a metronome. Yeonjun’s heartbeat gradually syncs with the small sound.

“What are you thinking?” Beomgyu asks, voice already settling into the hush the lights have made.

Yeonjun hesitates. The answer has been sitting with him for days, wearing different hats to avoid being recognized. “I’m excited,” he says, honest first. “For the stages. For the song. But also—” He swallows. “Sometimes it feels like… like I’m running on a moving sidewalk? And if I stop, it’ll throw me backward.”

Beomgyu hums. Not a fix, not an interruption. A place to set the worry down. “Can I show you a trick?” he asks.

“Yes,” Yeonjun says, because that is the easiest word in the world when Beomgyu asks it.

“Okay.” Beomgyu raises his hand toward the ceiling and traces a constellation on the plaster. “This one’s new,” he says gravely. “The Great Potato.”

Yeonjun snorts. “That’s not a constellation.”

“It is tonight.” Beomgyu connects a crooked line of stars with his finger. “The Great Potato reminds us that even legendary heroes are allowed to be starchy and lie very still.”

“Oh my God.”

“And that—” Beomgyu slides his fingers until their hands find each other and lace easily, like they practiced in another life. “—if the sidewalk throws you, I will catch you before you even notice your shoelaces came undone.”

Yeonjun closes his eyes. The ceiling still glows behind his lids. “You always know how to say things like that.”

“I had a very strict teacher,” Beomgyu says. “He made me take Advanced Yeonjun.”

“What’s the homework?”

“Eat three meals and hand me your phone when the doom scroll begins.”

Yeonjun laughs, soft and surrendering. “I forgot to eat lunch.”

“I know.” Beomgyu squeezes his hand. “Which is why your post-blackout dinner will be the finest instant ramyeon, cooked by candlelight like the gourmet raccoons we are.”

“Gourmet raccoons,” Yeonjun repeats, delighted. “I’m saving that for the group chat.”

They don’t get up right away. They lie there, the sky turning gently above them, and let all the silent things say their piece. Eventually Beomgyu reaches for the sticker sheet and peels off a tiny star.

“Pick a spot,” he says. “Anywhere.”

Yeonjun considers. He crawls onto the couch and stretches as far as he can, pressing the star right above the doorway where they always toss their keys. “Here,” he says, jumping down. “We see it every time we leave.”

Beomgyu adds a moon over the sink, a secret wink for boring chores. Yeonjun puts a cluster by the bookshelf so the spines glow like city windows. They end up with one stubborn dinosaur whose glow has clearly retired.

“What do we do with him?” Yeonjun lifts the wan little T-rex.

“Obviously he goes here.” Beomgyu sticks it to the microwave. “Guardian of midnight snacks.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love me,” Beomgyu says easily, the way he says You left your socks on my bed or You stole my hoodie again. Not a demand. A truth they stand in every day.

“I do,” Yeonjun answers, because it’s a joy to say it and not make a big deal of it. The room warms another degree.

The water comes back as quietly as it left: a refrigerator hum, the air handler’s shy start, a hallway light blinking awake. The rest of the building notices with a scattered whoop. Yeonjun and Beomgyu grin at each other like two kids caught in a fort after the lights-out bell.

“Chef?” Beomgyu prompts.

“Chef,” Yeonjun agrees.

They move around each other in the kitchen like they’ve been practicing for a small, domestic duet. Candle flames make the metal pots look like they’re blushing. Yeonjun snaps the ramyeon bricks in half with exaggerated focus; Beomgyu handles the egg like it’s a rare jewel. Steam curls up, scented with comfort.

“Chopsticks?” Beomgyu says.

“Two sets,” Yeonjun says, already retrieving them. He pauses, then adds a third pair to the counter.

Beomgyu raises a brow. “Expecting a ghost?”

“Expecting Hyuka’s ‘I heard boiling’ radar,” Yeonjun says, and—like he’d been hiding behind the wall waiting for a cue—Huening Kai’s head appears in the doorway.

“Did someone say ramyeon?”

“Sit,” Beomgyu says, without missing a beat. “You’re just in time for the Great Potato festival.”

Kai blinks. “Is that a new unit?”

“A celestial one,” Yeonjun supplies, as Beomgyu taps a sticker onto Kai’s forehead. Kai giggles like his inner child has been waiting all day for this exact nonsense.

They eat together, knees knocking under the table, the candles low and the star projector still spinning faintly in the living room. Taehyun pokes his head in once, takes in the glow, the bowls, the dinosaur on the microwave, and just nods like, Yes, correct, goes to refill his water, and ghosts back out.

Eventually, Kai drifts away to call a friend, promising to return the bowl “once it stops smelling like happiness.” The apartment quiets again. Beomgyu leans his chin on his palm and watches Yeonjun finish the broth.

“What?” Yeonjun asks, self-conscious and fond at once.

“Just thinking.” Beomgyu’s voice is warm. “I like your face when you’re not working.”

Yeonjun’s laugh is small. It lands and stays. “I like yours when you’re making up constellations.”

“There are more where that came from,” Beomgyu says. He reaches across the table, and Yeonjun meets him halfway, fingers sliding together over a tiny puddle of candlelight.

“Teach me?” Yeonjun asks. “The names?”

Beomgyu squeezes. “Anytime.”

They rinse the bowls, letting the moon over the sink watch approvingly, then pad back to the nest. The projector has slowed like it, too, is getting sleepy. Yeonjun curls onto his side and tugs Beomgyu close until their foreheads rest together, the simplest geometry of comfort.

“Tomorrow is loud,” Yeonjun says into the small space between them. “But tonight is… this.”

“Tonight is this,” Beomgyu echoes. “And tomorrow has hand squeezes in the wings. And stickers in your pocket. And a Great Potato waiting on the ceiling when you come home.”

Yeonjun smiles so wide it tips into a yawn. Beomgyu laughs and cards his fingers through Yeonjun’s hair, brushing away the day with every pass. The rain has softened to a hush; the city has found its heartbeat again. The tiny stars hold their posts.

“Hey,” Beomgyu murmurs, just before sleep arrives with its gentle coat. “For the record?”

“Mm?”

“You don’t have to shine to be seen.”

Yeonjun’s reply is a nod, and then the quiet sound his whole body makes when it believes you: something like a sigh, something like a door opening.

Later, when the projector finally clicks off, the stickers keep the sky lit just enough to guide any sleep-blurred wandering. The moon over the sink glows faintly. The dinosaur on the microwave stands guard. Above the door, the little star they placed together flickers soft and sure—their own lighthouse, tiny and true.

And on the coffee table, a new box waits: more stickers, another battery pack, and a note in Beomgyu’s scrawled handwriting.

For next time the world slows us down.
Or for when we need to slow it down ourselves.

Chapter Text

The note on Yeonjun’s pillow reads: MISSION: SILENT SATURDAY.
Under it, a doodle of a megaphone with a big red X, and a smaller doodle of Beomgyu in a cape.

Yeonjun’s laugh comes out as air. The doctor had tapped his throat yesterday and said, “Two days. No singing, no whispering, no nothing.” He’d nodded obediently, but this morning there’s a knot of worry where sound should be. The world is loud. Yeonjun is supposed to meet it with brightness. What is he without a voice?

He pads into the kitchen. Beomgyu is already there in a sunflower apron, a marker tucked behind one ear, a mini whiteboard propped like a menu.

WELCOME TO QUIET DAY.
House Rules:
1. No talking.
2. Yes laughing.
3. Point at things with dramatic flair.
4. Reward yourself with stickers.

Next to the board: a basket labeled “CONVERSATION TOOLS.” Inside—sticky notes, pens, a deck of “yes/no/maybe later” cards, and a little bell that looks like it came off a bicycle.

Beomgyu points at the bell and shakes his head with mock sternness. He flips the whiteboard.

BELL = EMERGENCIES ONLY (example: cat is on fire).

Yeonjun snorts, shoulders loosening. Beomgyu beams and slides him a mug with REST STAR painted on it, steam curling like a soft scarf. On a plate: a slice of toast cut into a wonky heart. He taps the pen against his chin, scrawls:

Breakfast of Champions (who are also Silent).

Yeonjun scribbles back on a sticky note: Champion feels small today.

Beomgyu reads, nods solemnly, then sticks a holographic star on Yeonjun’s shirt. He writes on the board: Small is allowed. You can be pocket-sized and still be brave.

They eat. It tastes like being understood.

The day arranges itself like dominoes. Beomgyu’s whiteboard becomes a little lighthouse they carry from room to room. OUTING #1: Plant Shop. He hands Yeonjun a canvas tote that says Photosynthesis Club, and they head into the late morning, the city softened by a gentle breeze.

The plant shop bells jingle them in. The air smells damp and green, like the inside of a rain cloud. Yeonjun’s hand hovers over succulents shaped like starbursts and little ferns unfurling like shy dancers. He points dramatically; Beomgyu claps as if they’ve discovered a new species.

At a shelf of pothos vines, Yeonjun finds a plant with one leaf shaped like an accidental heart. He looks at Beomgyu. Beomgyu looks at him. They don’t say anything. A sticky note appears on the pot.

Name: Captain Chlorophyll. Adoption: Approved.

The cashier grins when Beomgyu pays and mouths, Couples discount? Beomgyu reddens, scribbles on the board WE ARE A DUO and adds, smaller, …of excellence. Yeonjun bumps his shoulder, a wordless yes.

They walk home with the tote between them, fingertips brushing the canvas handles, a private metronome. Back in the kitchen, the whiteboard flips to SOUP LAB and Beomgyu raids the fridge with scientist gravitas. Yeonjun chops soft tofu into cubes so perfect even Taehyun would nod. Beomgyu slides seaweed into the pot like tucking a blanket. Steam blooms, fogging the window into watercolor.

On a sticky note, Yeonjun writes: It smells like when the world is kind.
Beomgyu sticks it to the cabinet like a mantra.

Lunch is quiet spoons and a playlist of instrumental piano that sounds like windows settling in the afternoon. Beomgyu tucks a blanket around Yeonjun’s shoulders, then tucks himself under the same blanket, because sharing warmth is an efficient system. They scroll photos on their phones, pausing to show a ridiculous dog in shoes, a sunbeam catching dust like glitter, a blurry old selfie where their hair looks like rival storms. Every time Yeonjun’s instincts reach for sound, Beomgyu’s hand is there first, palm up, and Yeonjun writes instead, little sentences that feel like stretching a cramped muscle.

I like your storms.
Thanks. They learned from yours.
Is it scary? To be quiet?
Less scary when you’re here.

Afternoon takes them to the balcony. Beomgyu strings a set of fairy lights around the railing, the cheap kind that make everything look like a memory already. Captain Chlorophyll gets a seat of honor on the little table. The sky is a soft sweater. Down the block, someone plays a radio just loud enough to turn the street into a movie.

Beomgyu appears with a jar—wide, clean, a ribbon tied around its neck. He’s labeled it with his particular chaotic penmanship: WISHES & THINGS WE Can’t Say Yet.

He sets paper and pens between them and writes the first slip. Folds it twice. Drops it in the jar with ceremonial seriousness. Yeonjun hesitates, then writes:

Thank you for hearing me when I can’t speak.

He folds it smaller than necessary and feeds it to the glass.

They fill the jar slowly:
I want us to keep finding new tiny holidays.
Please remind me that rest counts as practice.
Your laugh makes my ribs feel like wind chimes.
I love how you remember the small things I forget.
I love— Yeonjun stops, breath catching. He puts the unfinished slip in his pocket like a future.

Time becomes a warm thing that curls at their feet. Beomgyu dozes first, cheek against Yeonjun’s shoulder, hair smelling faintly like the strawberry shampoo Yeonjun teased him about buying. Yeonjun watches the lights blink on in the building across the way—little constellations of strangers settling in for dinner, a cat in a window, someone watering plants with one knee up on the chair. The world hums. Yeonjun lets it.

When Beomgyu wakes, the sun has tipped. He yawns like a kitten and writes, Snack raid? Yeonjun nods vigorously, because some languages are universal. They forage for tangerines, crackers, chocolate chips. Back on the balcony, they feed each other pieces like a game, taking turns awarding stickers. By the end, Yeonjun’s cheek has a star and Beomgyu’s forehead has a tiny smiling pineapple.

Evening draws the others like moths—Kai peeks out to ask if anyone wants to rank his sock puppets (“Later,” Beomgyu mouths, making Kai snort), Taehyun delivers a dignified thumbs-up at Captain Chlorophyll, and then vanishes to practice scales. The apartment settles again, a gentle heartbeat around them.

Night folds itself over the city. The doctor’s warning hour arrives—Yeonjun promised to try no words until bedtime. He keeps his promise. When Beomgyu brings the jar inside, he adds two more slips without showing them, eyes mischievous and soft.

In their room, Beomgyu lights a small candle shaped like a cloud and sets it on the dresser. Everything is amber. Yeonjun sits on the bed and tugs Beomgyu down beside him, their knees touching, the usual restless edges smoothed by the day’s hush.

Beomgyu taps his own throat, then Yeonjun’s, question in his brows. How is it?

Yeonjun thinks: tender, better, still a little scared. He writes: So much better. You helped.

Beomgyu holds up a finger—wait—and pulls a final item from his hoodie pocket: two smooth stones, each painted with a small symbol. One has a tiny sun; the other, a moon. He puts the sun in Yeonjun’s palm. He takes the moon for himself.

When it’s loud: he writes on the whiteboard, hold the sun. When it’s quiet, I’ll hold the moon. Between us, 24 hours of light.

Yeonjun’s throat prickles in the way it does before tears. He presses the sun-stone tight and, because touch is an alphabet too, leans in. The kiss is gentle, a thank-you note in the shape of a moment. No urgency. No performance. Just the warm fact of it, like finding the light switch in a familiar dark.

Beomgyu’s smile is new and known all at once. He boops Yeonjun’s nose with the marker cap and writes, Goodnight, Rest Star.

Yeonjun lies back, tucks the sun-stone under his palm, and closes his eyes. The day carries him until the edges blur. He thinks about the wish in his pocket, the one he didn’t put in the jar. He thinks about how some sentences are meant to be said, out loud, once, so they can echo somewhere nice and safe.

Just before sleep, he tests his voice—barely, very carefully—letting one soft thread unfurl in the dark.

“Love you,” Yeonjun whispers, the words small and perfect and easier than breathing.

Beomgyu’s hand finds his with impossible accuracy. He squeezes once, a promise, and whispers back, warm as a blanket pulled to the chin.

“Love you more.”

The cloud candle gutters out; the fairy lights keep watch. Captain Chlorophyll leans toward the window as if listening. On the dresser, the wish jar gleams faintly, holding all their unsaid things like treasures, patient and sure.

In the morning, there will be tea and stickers and the inevitable chaos of group chats and schedules. There will also be the sun-stone in Yeonjun’s pocket, the moon-stone in Beomgyu’s, and a whiteboard waiting to announce the next tiny holiday.

For tonight, there is this: a day without words that still says everything.

Chapter Text

The challenge begins with a sentence stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a croissant.

Today’s Quest: make something that can fly.

Yeonjun squints at the crooked handwriting. “You’ve been watching DIY videos again.”

Beomgyu peeks around the hallway with a roll of washi tape in one hand and chopsticks in the other. “Incorrect. I have been studying the ancient art of aeronautical romance.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.” Beomgyu wiggles the chopsticks. “We’re making a kite.”

“From… our kitchen drawer?”

“From the heart,” Beomgyu says, already dragging a tote onto the table. Inside: an old poster tube, string, tissue paper, scissors, glue, a handful of ribbon, and a packet of glitter stars that looks suspiciously like Huening Kai’s.

Fifteen minutes later, Taehyun wanders in, eyes the chaos, and silently leaves a small bottle of wood glue on the counter like an offering. From the hall, his voice floats back: “Please don’t glue your fingers together.”

“No promises,” Beomgyu chirps.

They spread the poster on the table—a retired tour teaser with one corner bent. “It’s poetic,” Yeonjun decides. “Letting an old version of us become a bird.”

“Exactly,” Beomgyu says, softening. He lays the chopsticks in a cross, tapes them, and reinforces the center with a neat band of ribbon. Yeonjun measures string with the intense focus of someone defusing a glitter bomb. They work in the companionable quiet of people who pop in and out of each other’s rhythms all day long.

While the paper dries, Beomgyu uncaps a marker. “Now the important part: the tail.”

“Streamers?”

“Affirmation streamers,” he corrects. He slides a ribbon toward Yeonjun and grins. “Write ten nice things about yourself.”

Yeonjun blinks. “Ten?”

“Fine, five. And five about me.”

“That’s cheating.”

“It’s collaboration.” Beomgyu nudges his knee. “Put compliments in the wind. Let them come back on your hair when you run.”

The line knocks something loose in Yeonjun’s chest. He tries to joke—“Very Pinterest of you”—but the marker is already in his hand, the ribbon already warm under his fingers.

He writes. I am patient with new steps. I make people laugh when they need to breathe. I’m allowed to rest. My hands are good at fixing tiny things. I love big on purpose.

He adds five for Beomgyu, each more specific than the last. He remembers everyone’s snack preferences. He turns chores into music videos. He makes ugly days less ugly. He keeps every silly promise. He is gentle with my edges.

Beomgyu reads upside down and pretends to wipe dust from his eye. “Okay, now you’re just showing off.”

“Your turn,” Yeonjun says, pointing to a fresh ribbon.

They end up with four streamers: two about themselves, two about each other. Beomgyu doodles stars between lines; Yeonjun adds little arrows like he’s annotating hope. When they glue the tail to the poster’s bottom edge, the kite doesn’t look perfect. It looks loved.

“Wind check?” Beomgyu asks.

“Rooftop,” Yeonjun says, already pocketing a roll of tape like it’s a talisman.

The afternoon has put on its best blue. From the roof, the city feels like a friendly machine—old bricks and new glass, laundry lines and air-conditioner hums, a thousand tiny stories airing out in the sun. Huening Kai is already up there, blowing bubble galaxies into the light.

“Are we summoning aliens?” he asks, delighted, when he sees the kite.

“Just sending sky mail,” Beomgyu answers. “If you see a cloud, tell it we come in compliments.”

Kai beams. “Permission to chase after it like a golden retriever if it lands?”

“Permission granted.”

They choose the corner where the roof is open to the wind. Taehyun appears like a helpful ghost holding a little roll of medical tape. “For your fingers,” he says, “so you don’t blister.”

“I knew you loved us,” Yeonjun teases.

“I love functional hands,” Taehyun replies, which, from him, is basically poetry. He lingers long enough to tie a proper bowline knot at the end of their string, then retreats with the dignity of a sea captain leaving a dock.

Yeonjun takes the frame while Beomgyu measures out the line. The first try nosedives. “Rude,” Beomgyu mutters as it somersaults toward the HVAC unit. Kai sprints, catches it, and holds it triumphantly like a rescued chicken.

“Again,” Yeonjun says, laughing. He backs up, the streamers fluttering. “On three.”

“On… two,” Beomgyu says, because he likes the small chaos of beginning a beat early.

They run. The kite lifts. It skates a foot off the ground, stutters, and then—against every humble chopstick and glue-stick expectation—it goes up. The paper belly catches. The tail sings. The string shows the line between gravity and glee, and the kite decides: sky.

“Oh,” Yeonjun says, the word coming out like a child’s first look at fireworks.

Beomgyu doesn’t answer. He’s grinning, eyes wide, fist steady around the line. The compliments flutter down the ribbon, and it feels for a second like the city itself is reading them aloud: You’re allowed to rest. You are gentle with my edges.

“Here,” Beomgyu says, and passes Yeonjun the reel.

The pull surprises him—a firm, friendly tug, as if the kite is reminding him it exists. Yeonjun steadies his arm, shoulder loose, stance finding the sweet spot between holding on and letting go. The line hums. The paper bird tilts, corrects, climbs. He laughs, bright and ugly-happy, the kind that scares off all the small, fussy thoughts.

“You’re doing it,” Beomgyu says, like anyone in earshot could miss it, but the way he says it makes the fact bigger, rounder, framed in gold.

They take turns. Kite flying is mostly gentle adjustments and listening. When the wind falls off, they jog to keep it aloft; when it gusts, they feed out more line and trust. A neighbor on the next building cheers. A passing stranger on the street points up and smiles without knowing why.

Kai lies on the warm concrete and narrates like a sportscaster. “And in a stunning strategic move, Pilot Choi executes the ‘compliment corkscrew’—”

“Trademarked,” Beomgyu calls back.

The ribbon tails flash another line as the kite turns. I love big on purpose.

Beomgyu bumps Yeonjun’s shoulder with his own. “That one’s my favorite.”

“Mine too,” Yeonjun says, surprised to hear himself mean it without flinching.

They stay until the shadow of the stairwell lengthens across their bit of roof. Finally, the wind says enough, in that patient way weather has, and the kite dips. Yeonjun jogs it in while Beomgyu reels, hands practiced now. They catch the crossbar together, forearms pressed, breath quick and easy.

“Sky mail delivered,” Beomgyu declares, a little breathless.

“What did it say?”

Beomgyu taps the ribbon. “Everything we needed to hear.”

They sit with their backs to the low wall, the kite in their laps like a sleepy pet. Kai passes around a bag of gummies, and Taehyun reappears with a sensible bottle of water that tastes like victory. For a long minute, they chew and watch the city read itself into evening.

When Kai runs downstairs to answer a call and Taehyun disappears to buy rice for dinner, the roof feels like it belongs to two people and a paper bird. A gentle breeze lifts Beomgyu’s hair. He’s close enough that Yeonjun could count the freckles that only show up in summer, could read the little fold at the corner of his mouth that appears when he’s built something with his hands.

“Hey,” Yeonjun says, very softly.

“Mm?”

“Thank you for today.” He nudges the frame of the kite with his toe. “For making an old poster into something that wanted the sky. For… putting our good parts where we could see them. It’s easier to believe them when they’re flying.”

Beomgyu’s smile is quiet and huge. “My favorite hobby is reminding you what you are.”

“And what am I?”

“Ridiculous,” Beomgyu says, then gentles it. “Brave. Kind. Mine.”

There’s no rush in the kiss—just the warm, clean click of something landing where it was meant to. The city hums below; the kite tail rustles against their shins. When they part, Yeonjun leans his forehead to Beomgyu’s and laughs, because of course this is where the sky mail was going.

They pack up slowly, careful with the edges. Before they go, Yeonjun takes the marker from his pocket and adds one more line to the lowest streamer.

New tradition: Clear day = rooftop kite.

Beomgyu adds a second line under it in smaller script. If it rains, we fly it in the hallway and pretend very hard.

“Taehyun will hate that,” Yeonjun says, delighted.

“We’ll invite him to be the wind,” Beomgyu counters, even more delighted.

Downstairs, they prop the kite on the wall by the shoe rack like art. Kai sticks a star sticker on the crossbeam. Taehyun glances at the ribbon, reads a line, and hides a smile in his water bottle.

Dinner is simple: rice, eggs, a pan of quickly sautéed greens that Beomgyu insists on calling “sky spinach.” They eat at the table with their chins in their hands, ankles hooking under the chairs, every few bites glancing at the hall like their new bird might decide to flap away by itself.

Later, when the apartment softens and the group drifts toward their rooms, Yeonjun and Beomgyu stop by the kite one more time. Yeonjun runs a thumb over the words, then adds a tiny arrow next to I love big on purpose and writes, smaller: me too.

Beomgyu threads their fingers together. “Next clear day?”

“Next clear day,” Yeonjun echoes.

In their room, Beomgyu tucks a coil of string into Yeonjun’s nightstand. “Emergency sky mail,” he says. “For any day the ground feels pushy.”

Yeonjun kisses his cheek. “My favorite pilot,” he says.

“Co-pilot,” Beomgyu corrects, already climbing into bed. “We’re a ‘we’ now. It’s in the rules.”

Yeonjun turns off the lamp. Through the door, the hallway night-light makes the kite’s paper belly glow the faintest bit, like it’s holding a tiny moon. He falls asleep with the shape of a line in his palm, the memory of the pull on his shoulder, and the easy certainty that tomorrow will bring more wind somewhere—on the roof or in the hallway, real or pretend—and that, together, they’ll listen for it.

And when it comes, they’ll run. They’ll let go and hold on, exactly as needed. They’ll read what they already knew, written on a ribbon, fluttering back down to them from a friendly sky.

Chapter Text

The dorm smells like pine needles and sesame oil long before noon. Someone (Soobin, obviously) woke up early to soak glass noodles for japchae; someone else (definitely Huening Kai) taped paper moons and tiny paper rabbits to the cupboards. Taehyun peers into the fridge like a strict restaurant inspector and declares, “We are at maximum egg capacity.”

Beomgyu pads out in socks with little rabbits on the ankles and a neatly folded hanbok draped over his arms. “Emergency question,” he announces. “What color says ‘harvest prince’ without upstaging the actual moon?”

Yeonjun looks up from rinsing mugwort-scented dough, hair tucked under a bandana, cheeks already dusted in rice flour. “You’d upstage the moon in pajama pants,” he says, soft smile betraying him. “Wear the jade one.”

Beomgyu brightens, then squints. “Will you help tie the ribbons later?”

“Obviously,” Yeonjun says, like it was always the plan.

They spend the late morning in a kitchen symphony—oil hissing, knives tapping, laughter bubbling over the radio. Yeonjun kneads rice flour with warm water until the dough blushes pastel: white, pink with omija, green with mugwort. He breaks off pieces and presses them into little thumb-sized moons, tucking sesame-honey filling inside and pinching them shut. He teaches Kai the perfect pinch; Kai declares himself a prodigy and immediately makes one shaped like a star.

From the stovetop, Soobin flips jeon with the concentration of a scientist. “Rotational symmetry,” Taehyun observes, deadpan, handing him a plate already lined with paper towels.

“You made a spreadsheet for the banchan, didn’t you?” Beomgyu says, leaning on his elbow to watch.

Taehyun sips sikhye and sets the glass down exactly on a coaster. “Two sheets, actually.”

They stack the finished songpyeon in a bamboo steamer on a bed of pine needles. When the steam rises, the whole room smells like sweet forests. Yeonjun lifts the lid for a peek, and the sugar-sesame aroma breaks something soft open in the middle of everyone’s chest—home, in a scent.

“First batch is for the offering table,” Soobin reminds, voice gentle. He clears the coffee table and lays a simple spread: apples with their brightest sides facing forward, the first slice of jeon, a small bowl of rice, a few still-steaming songpyeon. They set framed photos of their families alongside handwritten notes—love you, miss you, eat well—and bow, a quiet moment that turns the noisy room reverent.

Kai hums a folk melody under his breath. Yeonjun squeezes Beomgyu’s fingers once before they separate. They don’t talk about it, but the squeeze says what they all feel: We’re together; they’re with us; the moon is a good witness.

By late afternoon, the living room is a festival. Hanbok swish and gleam—Soobin a deep navy with understated embroidery, Taehyun in elegant charcoal that somehow looks couture, Kai in cheerful gold, Beomgyu in the chosen jade, and Yeonjun in soft cream with pale blue accents that make him glow like moonwater. Cameras click. Texts fly to family chats. Comments ping back: Handsome! Eat lots! Don’t let Beomgyu burn the jeon again!

“I burned it one time,” Beomgyu protests.

“Three,” Taehyun and Soobin say together.

They play yut-nori on a blanket laid across the floor, the wooden sticks clacking like familiar luck. Kai narrates like a sportscaster, Taehyun calculates probabilities with unnecessary seriousness, and Soobin pretends not to care while telegraphing his every joy with his dimples. Yeonjun and Beomgyu form a team: Team Moon Rabbits. They lose their first two rounds and laugh through both, plotting silent revenge with eyebrow language.

When the sun tips and the apartment turns the color of warm tea, Soobin carries out the platters and announces dinner like a ceremony: japchae glistening with sesame seeds, crisp jeon, grilled mushrooms, piles of kimchi, pickled radish, bowls of rice, and the glossy, pine-sweet songpyeon. They sit shoulder-to-shoulder, hands bumping as they pass plates, the table so full it looks like abundance decided to spend the night.

“To family,” Soobin says, lifting his glass of sikhye.

“To found family too,” Yeonjun adds.

“To extra songpyeon for the Maknae,” Kai says, already reaching.

They eat and trade stories: Soobin’s memories of Chuseok road trips, Kai’s grand plan for lanterns, Taehyun’s meticulous explanation for why his yut throw was absolutely not luck, Beomgyu’s insistence that he saw a rabbit in the moon once that winked at him. Yeonjun listens, an ache of gratitude lodged under his ribs in the best way. He nudges a perfect half-moon songpyeon toward Beomgyu and says, “First bite?”

“Couple’s superstition,” Beomgyu replies, leaning in. They take the bite together, laughing when the sweet sesame threatens to escape. It tastes like tradition and something bright and private layered inside it.

After dishes (a group effort with a dishwashing playlist and one broken chopstick memorialized on the fridge), Beomgyu emerges with a bundle of paper and thin wire. “Lantern time,” he declares. “To lure the moon into giving us secret wishes.”

Taehyun helps bend the frames; Kai paints rabbits and waves with fierce concentration. Yeonjun, sleeves pushed to his elbows, draws little constellations—stars for each member, connected with thin lines. On his lantern’s base, he writes: health, rest, good stages, more laughter than we know what to do with. Beomgyu adds, in tiny script: and courage for whatever good thing finds us next.

They climb to the rooftop where the city opens itself like a quiet map. The harvest moon lifts, round and bright enough to make the edges of their hanbok glow. Lanterns, lit with safe LED candles, blush to life in their hands. The breeze is gentle. Somewhere, distant music leans against the night.

“Hold on tight,” Soobin says, but he’s smiling, and they all know they’re allowed to let go.

They lower the lanterns onto the rooftop ledge and watch them sway, little moons greeting the big one. Kai spins in a slow circle and hums Ganggangsullae under his breath until they all join, hands linked, a loose ring turning, laughter caught and released like soft birds. When they settle, breathless and giddy, Yeonjun unfolds the ribbon on Beomgyu’s jeogori and reties it properly, fingers sure from so many costumes and so much care.

“You look like you belong in a folktale,” he says without thinking.

Beomgyu leans closer so the moon paints a stripe across his cheek. “Then write me into yours,” he whispers back, easy as breathing.

They drift to the far edge of the roof for a quieter view. Below, the city hums; above, the moon is a patient coin. Beomgyu leans into Yeonjun’s side, and Yeonjun opens the space for him like he always does. For a minute they say nothing. All the good words they could pick would feel like interrupting something older, steadier, handed down.

“Thank you,” Yeonjun says finally, voice a hush meant for just this distance. “For today. For… all the little traditions you’re brave enough to start.”

Beomgyu hums, nose brushing Yeonjun’s shoulder. “Thank you for keeping them.”

In the shared quiet, a breeze picks up. One of their lanterns bobs, caught for a heartbeat against the line of the moon. It looks like a promise being acknowledged.

Soobin calls them over for a group photo before the wind gets ideas. They crowd together—hanbok sleeves overlapping, cheeks pressed, Kai insisting on rabbit ears behind Taehyun’s head. The timer flashes. The photo catches something true: five people lit from the inside out, the moon large and generous behind them, a paper rabbit taped to Kai’s forehead without his knowledge.

“Caption?” Soobin asks, studying the shot.

“Harvested a good day,” Taehyun suggests.

“Moon says we did great,” Kai chirps.

Beomgyu glances at Yeonjun, and they speak together without planning it. “Together,” they say. It’s simple. It’s enough.

Back downstairs, the apartment is twilight-cozy again. They change into sweats, fold hanbok with careful hands, portion leftovers into labeled containers (Taehyun’s doing), and put the offering table food into a separate box to share with a neighbor. Music plays low. The moon finds their windows and rests there.

Later, on the couch under a blanket that pretends to be big enough for two, Beomgyu tips his head onto Yeonjun’s shoulder. “If we could keep one new tradition from today,” he murmurs, “which one would you pick?”

Yeonjun considers the scent of pine needles still clinging to the steamer, the clack of yut sticks, the candlelit lanterns bobbing like tame stars, the way the group laugh braided and held. He threads their fingers together. “The part where we make a tiny offering table even when we can’t be with our families,” he says. “And… the part where we check the moon to see if it’s watching.”

Beomgyu smiles against his shoulder. “The moon is nosy. She’s definitely watching.”

“And the songpyeon,” Yeonjun adds. “We keep the songpyeon.”

“Obviously,” Beomgyu says, mock-serious.

Soobin wanders through with a folded blanket for Kai, who fell asleep mid-drama; Taehyun dims the lights with the tyranny of a responsible adult; someone’s phone pings softly with a family selfie from far away. Yeonjun squeezes Beomgyu’s hand and lets his eyes fall half-closed, the day settling around them like the last piece of a puzzle.

“Happy Chuseok,” he says.

“Happy Chuseok,” Beomgyu echoes, and it lands somewhere deep, where holidays turn into habits and habits turn into home.

Outside, the moon keeps its patient watch. Inside, five people lean into the good weight of a day well-spent: pine-sweet, lantern-bright, ribbon-tied. In the morning there will be reheated jeon and too much fruit and the gentle flutter of texts, but for now there is this—the quiet promise that they will keep making a table for each other, any day they can, and that the sky will always be big enough to bless it.

Chapter Text

The map appears on the fridge while Yeonjun is still deciding between iced coffee and responsibility.

It’s drawn in Beomgyu’s chaotic marker style—streets more like noodles than lines, a cartoon of their apartment building with a smiley face, and a big star labeled START: put on comfy shoes, bring curiosity. Three tiny X’s mark the neighborhood: a Little Free Library by the bakery, another near the bus stop, and one tucked behind a small park.

Yeonjun squints, amused. “So we’re pirates now.”

From the hallway, Beomgyu leans in with a tote bag and a grin. “Book pirates,” he corrects. “Highly literate. Unarmed except for snacks. I already packed the emergency lemon loaf.”

“I accept these terms,” Yeonjun says, and grabs his sunnies like armor.

Outside, the noon sun is bright but not bossy. They walk in that easy rhythm that always finds them, a shared metronome of shoulder bumps and half-finished jokes.

Stop One is a painted box by the bakery, ringed with marigolds. Inside: mysteries with cracked spines, a children’s book about a mouse detective, a travel guide from 2012 that swears a coffee shop still exists where a gym obviously does. In the corner sits a small paper envelope with a familiar star drawn on it.

Yeonjun snags it. Inside: an origami fox bookmark and a note.

CLUE 1: Find the bus stop with the plant that looks like a punk haircut. Also buy a pastry if your heart tells you to. (It’s telling you to.) —BG

“You planted the clue,” Yeonjun says, mock-accusatory, already peeking toward the bakery window.

“Allegedly,” Beomgyu says, innocent as a cat wearing crumbs. “What would a responsible treasure hunter do right now, do you think?”

“Croissant,” Yeonjun says, decisive. Two minutes later, they’re munching flaky proof that some quests require butter.

At the bus stop, a pot of ornamental grass is holding its own wind concert, each blade a rock star. Another Little Free Library perches nearby, roof painted with a galaxy. Yeonjun opens the door and laughs—taped inside is a photo booth strip of him and Beomgyu from months ago, all skewed crowns and candy-sticky smiles. A new envelope waits behind a paperback romance.

CLUE 2: Three pages are missing from this city’s summer. Let’s cut new ones. Go where the park bench looks at the pond like it’s in love.

“What does that even mean?” Yeonjun asks, delighted.

“It means,” Beomgyu says, “you know exactly which bench I mean.”

He does. The small park two blocks over has one bench with a slightly crooked back that gazes at the water like a daydreamer. Dragonflies draw cursive on the air. A family tosses crumbs to ducks who pretend to be shy about it. Near the hydrangeas: a third Little Free Library, this one painted like a cottage with a tiny red door.

Yeonjun opens it to find a neatly wrapped brown-paper package tied with twine. A sticker on top says, OPEN ME UNDER A TREE.

“Dramatic,” Yeonjun says. His grin gives him away.

Beomgyu sweeps an arm. “Behold, a tree.”

They pick the one with the best dappled shade and sit cross-legged on the grass. Yeonjun unties the twine and finds two gently used paperbacks: one poetry collection with sea-colored edges and one novel about found family in a city that never sleeps. Between the pages: more fox bookmarks, a packet of flower seeds labeled zinnias for your window, and a final note in Beomgyu’s slightly tidy, slightly chaotic script.

Your mission: trade annotations with me. Let’s underline the lines that feel like the inside of our rib cages. Bonus: leave a kind sentence in any book we return to the little library later, for a stranger to find.

Yeonjun looks up. The sunlight puts freckles in Beomgyu’s eyes. “You made us a book date.”

“We are now an officially chartered two-person book club,” Beomgyu says, dropping a banana into Yeonjun’s lap like a ceremonial gavel. “Rule one: snacks enhance all literature.”

“Rule two,” Yeonjun says, flipping open the poetry. “No pretending you didn’t cry at the good lines.”

Beomgyu cracks the novel and slides closer until their shoulders touch. The city becomes a gentle soundtrack—bike bell, leaf hush, a kid arguing with a dog about sticks. Yeonjun underlines a line that says, You don’t have to be loud to be seen, and writes in the margin: this is you on quiet mornings. Beomgyu circles a paragraph about home being a moving target and adds: ours keeps finding us anyway.

“Hydration?” Beomgyu asks eventually, producing two little bottles like a magician who specializes in sensible tricks. “Snack reacquisition?”

“Both,” Yeonjun says, and they demolish the emergency lemon loaf with the reverence such things deserve.

They take a Polaroid—two faces, paperbacks, crumbs—and tuck it into the poetry as a future surprise. Yeonjun presses one of the fox bookmarks into the found-family novel and writes on the inside cover: if you needed this today, me too. you’re not reading alone. —Y

Beomgyu watches, expression soft the way it gets when he’s decided something. “Hey,” he says, quiet enough that only the tree and the ducks hear. “Thank you for letting my silly map be a day.”

“Silly maps are my genre,” Yeonjun says. He taps the unopened seed packet. “Window zinnias are going to take me out emotionally when they bloom, by the way.”

“Good,” Beomgyu says, grinning. “I plan to cry about them on purpose.”

They linger, trading pages and the occasional shoulder bump, until the sun slides down a notch and the breeze tucks itself in. Eventually, they walk back the way they came, returning one book to the cottage library with their little messages left behind. Beomgyu props the door gently, like he’s tucking the books into bed.

At the bakery corner, Huening Kai appears as if summoned by narrative law, holding an iced drink and wearing the innocent look of someone who is absolutely in on a secret. “Did you find the foxes?” he asks around a straw.

“Which foxes?” Yeonjun says too fast, and Kai just grins.

“Taehyun said I wasn’t allowed to ‘orchestrate,’ but I lightly assisted. Enjoy your… very normal day.” He winks and heads off in the direction of bubble tea, humming a victory theme.

Back home, they spread their treasures on the coffee table: the remaining book, the foxes, the map with a coffee stain that looks like a comet, the seed packet. Taehyun pauses on his way to the kitchen, takes in the parade, and says, “If dirt ends up near the sink, label it,” which is his way of saying he’s happy they had a day.

“So,” Beomgyu says, slouching into the couch until his head finds Yeonjun’s shoulder. “New tradition?”

Yeonjun twirls the twine once around his finger like a ring. “Yes. Little libraries. Big feelings.”

“Plant the zinnias tomorrow?”

“First thing,” Yeonjun says. He tucks the packet into the corner of their window like it will catch morning faster there. Then he opens the poetry again, flips to a page he dog-eared, and slides the book into Beomgyu’s hands.

“Read me your favorite line,” he says.

Beomgyu clears his throat even though he doesn’t need to and reads, voice soft enough to leave room around the words: “We were a pair of small lighthouses, trading light back and forth across the same harbor.”

Yeonjun’s laugh is all chest, no defense. “Cheater,” he says. “That one’s mine too.”

“So we’re co-authors now,” Beomgyu answers, pleased.

They end the day the way all good treasure hunts should end: with takeout containers balanced on a stack of library finds, their feet under the same blanket, a promise in the form of a cheap terracotta pot sitting on the windowsill waiting for soil. On the fridge, the map gets a new sticker that says COMPLETED, plus another star over a blank patch of street.

“What’s that for?” Yeonjun asks around a mouthful of dumpling.

“Next time,” Beomgyu says, wiggling his eyebrows. “Kite shop, then riverside.”

“Are we forming an adventures department?”

“We’ve already got a tote bag,” Beomgyu points out. “We’re practically a nonprofit.”

Yeonjun leans over and kisses him, quick and sure, a punctuation mark at the end of a very good sentence. “Thank you, cartographer.”

“Thank you, co-pilot,” Beomgyu says, already reaching for a pen to jot a new clue on a sticky note. He sticks it to the corner of the map, where the paper is wrinkled from someone’s enthusiastic fridge-opening.

NEXT QUEST: plant the zinnias. water the adventure. leave one more kind sentence for a stranger.

“Deal,” Yeonjun says. “And buy another lemon loaf.”

“Vital clause,” Beomgyu agrees.

The evening slips into quiet. Outside, the streetlights make their slow constellations. Inside, two people who keep finding the softest routes through the same city tuck themselves into the same couch, a little brighter than they were at breakfast. Somewhere, a stranger will open a book and find a fox holding their place and a sentence like a hand offered—proof that somewhere nearby, the map keeps leading back to kindness.

Chapter Text

The text arrives with a photo of puddles swallowing a banner that used to say STREET FESTIVAL THIS WAY.

rained out Beomgyu writes. Plan B?
we make our own Yeonjun fires back.

Twenty minutes later, the dorm door opens on a miracle of chaos.

“Welcome to the First Annual Hallway Carnival,” Beomgyu announces, wearing a red ribbon tied like a sash and holding a roll of orange tickets. Behind him, the hall is a parade of improvised booths: ring toss made of water bottles and chopsticks, a fishing game with paper fish and a magnet, a “snack stall” (air fryer + skewers), and a “Fortune & Calligraphy” table with brush pens and cardstock. At the far end, someone’s taped up kraft paper for a Wish Tree, branches sketched in black marker, blank ribbons waiting.

“You made all this?” Yeonjun laughs, stepping out of his shoes.

“Incorrect,” Beomgyu says, pressing five tickets into his palm. “I made the nonsense. The magic is a team effort.”

As if on cue, Soobin sticks his head out of the kitchen, apron on. “Safety note: no running with skewers.” He adds, softer, “The tteok-kkochi smells amazing.”

Taehyun approaches with a clipboard that absolutely did not exist ten minutes ago. “Inspection,” he says, deadpan, checking off boxes. “Ring toss: structurally sound. Goldfish game: adorable and non-wet. Snack stall: reasonably fire-safe. Photo booth: excessive but allowed.”

“That’s not excessive,” Huening Kai pipes up from behind the curtain of a sheet taped between two chairs. He pops out holding the instant camera and two headbands—one with bunny ears, one with a tiny top hat. “It’s cinematic.”

Beomgyu turns back to Yeonjun, the ribbon-sash slipping a little. “Buy a wristband?”

Yeonjun grins and holds up his palm with the tickets like a high-roller. “I’m here to win the grand prize.”

“Bold,” Beomgyu says, tying a woven thread around Yeonjun’s wrist with careful fingers. “Beat the ring toss first, hotshot.”

Round one is humbling. The chopstick “rings” fly everywhere except where they should. Kai provides commentary like a sports event (“Choi Yeonjun attempts the signature Moon Loop—oooh, denied by gravity!”), and Taehyun silently hands Yeonjun a smaller, lighter ring with the tiniest smirk. On the fifth try, the ring settles over a water bottle neck with a satisfying clack.

“Winner!” Beomgyu crows, punching a ticket with a star hole punch. “Prize counter’s at the end.”

“Bribery?” Yeonjun asks, eyeing the paper fish pond.

“Art,” Beomgyu says, sitting cross-legged to reset the fish. Each paper fish has a paperclip nose and a hand-drawn expression that looks suspiciously like members of the group. Yeonjun aims the rod and scoops a fish with a tiny dimple.

“Suspicious,” Soobin mutters from the snack stall, but his dimples say he’s pleased.

They wander, earn tickets, and share a skewer of tteok-kkochi that’s exactly the right kind of sticky. Yeonjun paints calligraphy on a card—행복, happiness—then, because some words work better as a promise, he writes a smaller one under it: rest. Beomgyu tries to draw a dragon and ends up with a lizard wearing a crown. “New mascot,” he declares. “Prince Sizzle.”

At the photo booth, Kai smacks the camera like a jukebox and it whirs obediently to life. Beomgyu fits the tiny top hat onto Yeonjun’s head and puts the bunny ears on himself. They take three pictures: one normal (if you squint), one mid-laugh, one where Yeonjun leans in at the last second and Beomgyu’s smile turns unexpectedly soft. Kai flaps them to dry like a proud mother goose.

“Next year,” Taehyun says, peering at the inspection clipboard, “we add a raffle.”

“Next year,” Yeonjun echoes, and the words land somewhere good.

By late afternoon the hallway smells like sesame and sugar, and the prize counter (a shoebox with glitter tape) looks official. Yeonjun steps up, tickets fanned out like cards. Beomgyu straightens behind the box with all the ceremony of a shopkeeper who deals in rare artifacts.

“Our catalog today includes: sticker sheets, a keychain shaped like a very offended cat, a coupon for ‘one (1) nap supervised by a responsible adult,’ and—” he produces a folded card with mock gravitas “—the grand prize.”

“What is it?” Yeonjun asks, even though he thinks he knows.

Beomgyu flips the card open. One Dance Request, Anytime, Anywhere it says in looping marker.

“Sold,” Yeonjun says, handing over the whole pile of tickets.

From the kitchen, Soobin claps quietly like a proud dad. Taehyun marks something on the clipboard that definitely reads romance: compliant.

They save the wish tree for last. The paper branches look lonely. Kai gives them each a pen and a ribbon, then wanders off to heckle Taehyun at the ring toss. Yeonjun leans against the wall and thinks. Rain knits softly at the windows. The hallway hums with all the nice sounds—someone laughing, the kettle clicking off, chopsticks tapping a bowl.

Beomgyu ties his ribbon first. Yeonjun peeks and reads, More little traditions. He swallows and writes his own: Health, rest, a stage we love together. Then, on a smaller ribbon, he prints without thinking too hard: Let good things keep finding us.

They step back. The tree looks less like a drawing and more like a real thing—tall, a little unruly, holding more secrets than it can say out loud.

“Last stop,” Beomgyu says. “Redeem your prize?”

“Right now?” Yeonjun asks, pulse skipping.

“Anytime, anywhere,” Beomgyu reminds, and that’s the rule.

So Yeonjun tucks the card in his pocket and takes Beomgyu’s hand instead. “Anywhere,” he says, “is here.”

They move the shoebox counter aside and clear a little square of floor. Kai senses romance in the air and, bless him, turns down the commentary and turns up a soft instrumental on his phone. Taehyun pretends to check the thermostat and quietly gives them space. Soobin, drying a bowl, watches with a fondness that could light a room.

“Close your eyes,” Yeonjun says. Beomgyu does, trusting, the ribbon sash slipping again. Yeonjun ties it properly, fingers certain from a hundred costume changes and a thousand small acts of care. He slides one arm around Beomgyu’s waist, takes his hand with the other, and sways them into a box step that’s mostly muscle memory and partly heart.

Beomgyu follows like he’s always known the steps because, of course, he has. They turn in their tiny square: a two-person carousel, the kind you can carry in a pocket. The hallway becomes a lantern; the rain becomes applause. When the song dips, Yeonjun spins Beomgyu out and back, laughing at the way the ribbon sash flares and then settles.

“Grand prize redeemed,” Beomgyu says, a little breathless.

“Unlimited redemptions,” Yeonjun counters. “Fine print.”

They end up on the floor with their backs against the wall, watching the wish ribbons sway when the air conditioner kicks on. Kai returns to show off a sticker pyramid. Taehyun loosens enough to attempt a ring toss behind his back (he lands it). Soobin calls, “Last skewers!” and nobody pretends to be full.

Later, when the booths are dismantled and the sheet is folded and the shoebox has been repurposed to store brush pens, Yeonjun and Beomgyu carry the kraft paper wish tree into their room and tape it to the inside of the closet door.

“Why here?” Beomgyu asks, toothbrush in his mouth.

“So it’s something we see every day without the pressure to post it,” Yeonjun says, and Beomgyu makes a noise that translates to that’s perfect.

Before lights out, Yeonjun pulls the prize card from his pocket and sticks it to the mirror with a star sticker. Beomgyu studies their reflection, then leans in to kiss him—quick and certain, the way you seal an envelope.

“Next time it rains?” Beomgyu says.

“We add a cotton-candy machine to the fire-safety plan,” Yeonjun answers.

“Taehyun will have a stroke.”

“He can inspect it.”

They laugh into the dark. The apartment clicks softer as everyone settles. In the hallway, a stray paper ring has escaped under the shoe rack; in the kitchen, two leftover skewers wait for morning; on the closet door, wishes keep their quiet watch.

And somewhere in the fine print of a ticket redeemed and a dance traded for a rainy afternoon, a rule appears they both agree to without saying it aloud: when the world cancels the big plans, they will build small ones that fit in the spaces they share. It turns out the good kind of festival is not on a calendar; it’s something you carry, and pull out, and tie a ribbon on whenever you need to feel the lights turning on again.

Chapter Text

The rain had made the whole city smell like wet sidewalks and stories. Beomgyu stuck his head into the kitchen, hair clipped back, tote bag already slung over one shoulder.

“Emergency plan,” he announced. “We go love some animals.”

Yeonjun looked up from the kettle. “Shelter?”

Beomgyu flashed his phone: a post from the neighborhood rescue—short on hands, long on laundry and socializing time. “They need towels and people who can speak fluent pspsps.”

“Say less,” Yeonjun said, already opening the linen closet.

Twenty minutes later, the five of them had formed the world’s gentlest heist team: Soobin with a stack of old towels, Taehyun labeling donation bags like a quartermaster, Kai loading a box of toys that squeaked in thirteen keys, Yeonjun in a hoodie with paw prints already on it somehow, and Beomgyu in a sweatshirt that read Ask me about my cat voice.

The shelter looked exactly how hope usually does—tiny lobby, homemade flyers, a bulletin board full of “Gotcha Day” photos. A volunteer met them with a clipboard and a grateful smile.

“Thank you, thank you,” she said, taking the bag of towels like it was treasure. “We’ve got kittens that need playtime, nervous pups who need sitting company, and a mountain of laundry that thinks it’s Everest.”

Soobin took the laundry like a knight accepting a quest. Taehyun gravitated toward the supply closet, already making an inventory in his head. Kai signed up for “photo helper,” eyes sparkling at the Polaroid possibilities. Yeonjun and Beomgyu exchanged a look that translated to divide and conquer and followed the volunteer down the hall.

The kitten room was a tumble of soft chaos—three fuzzballs pouncing on the same feather, a calico determined to fit into a shoe box half her size, a black cat blinking like it had seen everything and judged none of it. Beomgyu sank to the floor with the reverence of someone entering a tiny cathedral.

“Hi,” he whispered, holding out a hand. “Who wants a résumé-building cuddle?”

A cream-colored puffball ran in a zigzag and flopped in his lap like a fainting starlet. “This is Mochi,” the volunteer laughed. “His special skill is being shaped like a cloud.”

Across the hall, the puppy room had a different soundtrack—high whines, nails tap-dancing on tile, the hopeful weight of eyes. Yeonjun crouched, palm out, letting a sleepy brown pup nose his fingers.

“Hey, Bori,” the volunteer said. “He’s shy around new people but a sap for gentle voices.”

Yeonjun sat down on the floor and made himself small. “Same,” he told Bori. “We can be brave together.”

They got to work the way you do with small lives: slowly, with snacks.

Kai, moving between rooms like a cheerful news crew, set up a “photo corner” with a soft blanket and paper stars taped to the wall. “Look here, Mochi,” he coaxed, voice sugar-sweet. “Show your best loaf.” Beomgyu posed the tiny cloud with a felt mouse and whispered ridiculous compliments. The camera clicked; Mochi preened.

“Adoption blurbs!” Beomgyu announced, scooting to the side to scribble on index cards. “We’re writing them like dating profiles.”

He read one aloud: “MOCHI (4 mo.)—interests include: humming, crinkle balls, and turning into a croissant at 2 p.m. Seeking: a lap with good snacks and low tax.”

“Approved,” Kai said, already adding a doodle.

Meanwhile, Yeonjun coaxed Bori toward the camera in slow inches. He let the pup sniff his sleeve, his wrist, the cuff of his jeans. “No rush,” he murmured, low and sure. “We can just sit.”

After a while, Bori pressed a warm shoulder into his thigh and sighed like someone who finally stopped bracing. The click of the camera caught a shot of a not-quite-smile on a puppy face, ears a little crooked, safety found in the angle of a knee.

“Perfect,” Kai said softly, and Yeonjun felt it—how ordinary kindness glows.

By early afternoon, Soobin had conquered Mount Laundry and invented a folding system the shelter asked to keep. Taehyun had labeled every shelf in the supply closet (“Syringes—sterile,” “Blankets—smol,” “Treats—fish, do not mistake for human snacks”), then quietly fixed a wobbly table. The place breathed easier.

That’s when Yeonjun noticed the gray.

Not the weather—this was a particular gray, a small shadow tucked behind the scratching post near the window in the kitten room. Just eyes and the tiniest triangle nose, watching the world from two safe paw-lengths away.

Yeonjun settled on the floor again, a little distance away, and didn’t look directly. “Hey, little moon,” he whispered, sliding a feather toy across the space between them like an absentminded breeze. After a beat, Beomgyu joined him, sitting so their knees made a quiet gate.

They waited. Rain freckled the window. In the other corner, Mochi snored into Beomgyu’s sleeve. The gray shadow didn’t move; the eyes were all calculation.

“Name?” Beomgyu asked the volunteer in a hush.

“No name yet,” she said. “She came in yesterday. Scared, but curious.”

Beomgyu thought, then smiled. “Mandu,” he decided. “A dumpling who will eventually be round with love.”

Yeonjun laughed, the sound the size of a teacup. “Hi, Mandu.”

He didn’t push it. He let the room be small and kind. He hummed a nothing tune. Beomgyu matched it under his breath, soft harmony. And after a long, long minute, a single gray paw reached out and tapped the feather like a cautious yes.

“Oh,” Beomgyu whispered, eyes going wide and tender.

They stayed until Mandu’s whiskers stopped quivering and her spine stopped reading the air for danger. Until she sniffed Yeonjun’s knee like it might be a planet she could survive on. Until she let Beomgyu’s knuckles scritch her chin for exactly three seconds and then hid again, as if to say, Enough for now. See? Trust can be a door you open half an inch at a time.

At the photo corner, Kai looked up from editing a shot of Bori and mouthed, you got her. Yeonjun shook his head. She got us.

Time folded the way it does when you’re useful. They rotated through jobs—brushes, bowls, a hundred little tidies. Soobin sang nonsense in the laundry room; Taehyun learned exactly how many treats qualified as “just enough for confidence, not enough for chaos.” Kai added hand-drawn stars to Mochi’s profile and a small crown next to Mandu’s new name.

Three families came through in the afternoon. A college student fell in love with the black cat who judged nothing. A man whose apartment had grown too quiet since his partner moved out sat with Bori for a while, hand on warm fur, and told him all the boring things they could do together—morning walks, late-night dishes, quiet TV. Bori’s ears eased.

And a mom and her kid in dinosaur rain boots stopped short at the sight of Mandu’s careful face peeking out, soft as a fog.

“She’s shy,” Yeonjun said, letting the kid hold the feather toy. “But she’s brave in tiny steps.”

“Same,” the kid said solemnly, and set the feather down. “It’s okay to be a little scared,” he told Mandu. “We can practice.”

The mom and the volunteer went over the forms at the desk. “We can put a hold,” the volunteer said, “do a home visit Monday, finalize after.”

Beomgyu and Yeonjun looked at each other, the same idea landing in both chests. He nudged Yeonjun. Yeonjun nodded. They turned back to the desk.

“Can we… sponsor her adoption fee?” Yeonjun asked, a little breathless, as if he might scare the wish.

The volunteer blinked and broke into a smile. “You can.”

They did, easy as exhaling. Beomgyu tucked a small toy—a fabric dumpling—into the adoption kit and wrote a note on the back of Mandu’s profile: she likes humming and the number three. rub chin: one, two, three. bravery grows best when it’s measured. —Y & B

By closing time, the bulletin board had three new Polaroids pinned—Mochi in full loaf, Bori with his beginner-smile, Mandu peeking with the dinosaur boots visible at the edge of the frame. The shelter felt like a tiny ship patched and brightened, ready to float a few more hearts toward home.

Back at the dorm, they dumped the tote bags by the door and collapsed with that special tired you get from doing small, good work. Taehyun ordered takeout with the precision of a surgeon; Soobin tucked a blanket over Kai, who’d fallen asleep mid-scroll with a photo of Mochi open on his phone.

Yeonjun set the sponsored receipt and a copy of Mandu’s profile on the coffee table like a souvenir. Beomgyu curled into his side, chin on Yeonjun’s shoulder.

“Your humming was illegal,” he said into Yeonjun’s hoodie. “Instant kitten trust.”

“You named her Mandu,” Yeonjun answered. “You invented a better world for a second and then she tried it on.”

Beomgyu’s smile brushed his jaw. “We make a good team.”

“Monthly?” Yeonjun asked. “First Saturday? Towels, toys, and treats, then burgers, always.”

“Put it on the calendar,” Taehyun called from the kitchen, because of course he’d been listening. “And label the bin ‘Shelter Stuff.’”

“Already did,” Soobin added, holding up a freshly labeled storage box.

Yeonjun laughed, warm and wrecked in the best way. His phone buzzed—a message from the shelter: a photo of Mandu in a small carrier, dinosaur boots visible again, a caption: hold placed. home visit Monday. thank you. There was a second photo too—Bori on a blanket in a new living room, a TV glowing, a pair of slippers on the floor beside him.

“Look,” Yeonjun breathed, showing Beomgyu. The good ache in his chest got bigger.

Beomgyu reached for the stack of Polaroids on the table—the ones Kai had printed from his camera before he face-planted into the cushion. He stuck three to the fridge with star magnets and wrote above them in chunky marker: Happy Tails (today). Underneath, he added: Mandu, Bori, Mochi.

They stood there a minute, shoulder to shoulder, watching a fridge that now told the story of a day. Rain tapped the window like it remembered them. The city sighed into evening.

“Hey,” Beomgyu said, poking Yeonjun’s side. “For the record?”

“Mm?”

“You’re very good at letting small, scared things set the pace.”

Yeonjun leaned his head briefly against Beomgyu’s. “So are you,” he said. “Even when the small, scared thing is me.”

Beomgyu’s laugh was quiet and certain. He held up the last Polaroid from the stack—one Kai had snapped without warning: Yeonjun cross-legged on the kitten room floor, Beomgyu beside him, two heads bent to make the world small enough for a gray dumpling to consider joining.

“Frame it?” Beomgyu asked.

“Yeah,” Yeonjun said. “Let’s keep it where we can see it on the loud days.”

They found a frame that used to hold a pressed leaf from some other soft afternoon and slid the photo in. On the back, Beomgyu wrote the only caption that made sense: Paws for a moment. Then, smaller: We’re safe here.

The rain kept time on the glass. The takeout arrived. Kai woke up to declare himself Mochi’s godparent. Taehyun found space on the shelf for the new labeled bin. Soobin set his phone alarm for the first Saturday of next month and didn’t mention it, which meant it would happen, because that’s how groups like theirs move—little agreements that add up to a life.

Later, in the blue-quiet before sleep, Yeonjun thumbed the corner of the frame on the nightstand and thought about how trust is not a grand gesture but a hundred tiny ones. A feather sliding closer. A hand offered, still. A hum in a room that smells like soap and kibble. A name that says: you can be small and still be held.

“Night, Mandu,” he murmured to the dark, and felt Beomgyu smile against his shoulder.

Chapter Text

The community center smells like wet clay and optimism.

“Welcome to Beginner Wheel,” the instructor says, sliding a bat onto a wheel with the confidence of someone who has saved many lopsided bowls. “We’re not chasing perfection today. We’re chasing useful and loved.”

Beomgyu leans over and whispers, “You’re about to be so powerful,” like Yeonjun isn’t already doing a slow blink at the rows of wheels.

“I’m going to make a mug with a fox handle,” Yeonjun whispers back, serious. “For morning tea.”

“Ambition?” Beomgyu tuts approvingly. “We reward that with snacks later.”

They tie aprons. Yeonjun tucks his hair into a bandana. Beomgyu clips his fringe back with a glittery barrette shaped like a tiny lightning bolt. On the next wheels over, Soobin and Taehyun settle in like honor students; Huening Kai is here for “hand building” and the chance to make a dinosaur spoon rest.

The instructor pats a gray brick onto the bat with a solid thump. “Clay’s like a person,” she says. “If you try to boss it, it will fight you. If you listen, it’ll meet you halfway.”

“Relatable,” Taehyun murmurs, deadpan.

“Spoken like a clay whisperer,” Beomgyu tells him.

They wet their hands. The center hums with wheel motors and cautious enthusiasm. Yeonjun’s heel of palm presses the wobbling mass toward the middle, coaxing it into something that spins without threatening to fly. Water slicks his wrists; the clay cools his nerves. For a moment the world is a circle and a breath.

“Nice,” the instructor says, hands hovering near his. “Gentle pressure. Think ‘stay with me’ not ‘do as I say.’”

Yeonjun laughs under his breath. He thinks he knows something about both.

Beomgyu, at the next wheel, is narrating his process for no one in particular. “And here we have the rare… beautiful cylinder?—no, that is a marshmallow. An elegant marshmallow.”

“Make two,” Kai calls from the table where he’s making a family of tiny saucer-eyed cats. “One can be their house.”

Soobin, already suspiciously good, pretends he’s struggling and then looks up guiltily when his bowl sits there being perfect. “Beginner’s luck,” he says. Taehyun glances, hums, and deliberately makes his rim imperfect with a small dent, like he’s allergic to symmetry.

“Statement,” Taehyun says when they stare.

Yeonjun eases his thumbs into the mound’s top and feels the slow miracle: clay yielding, a hole opening, the walls rising as his hands move. The wheel is their heartbeat. The cylinder catches his wobble and keeps it. He breathes. It breathes back.

“Handle,” he says, mostly to hear himself believe it.

“Break time first,” the instructor orders cheerfully. “Stretch hands, drink water, complain about your art to someone who understands.”

They rinse. Beomgyu takes Yeonjun’s wrists in the sink and washes off the clay like he’s polishing river stones. “Your concentrating face is illegal,” he says, which makes Soobin snort into his paper cup.

A folding table near the windows has a sign: Write a Postcard—Send a Small Sunshine. A stack of pastel cards sits beside a tin of pens. The community center collects notes for seniors and patients at the clinic next door.

“Crafts for kindness,” Beomgyu says, brightening. “My brand.”

They sit shoulder to shoulder and write between sips of water.

Dear Neighbor, Yeonjun prints carefully on blue paper. Today I learned that wobbly is also beautiful. If your day feels wobbly, you’re doing art. You’re allowed to rest. He draws a tiny fox with a mug.

Beomgyu writes on yellow: I hope something warm finds your hands and you don’t have to chase it. He adds a doodle of Kai’s spoon-rest dinosaur breathing hearts.

Kai holds up his actual dinosaur spoon rest for inspection. It is a perfect disaster. “He’s called Bronto-Spoon,” he says. “He judges no spills.”

Back at the wheels, Yeonjun pulls the walls up a little taller. The clay resists, then obliges. He steadies his breath. A tremor in his shoulder shows up in the rim. He grimaces.

“Pause,” Beomgyu says softly.

“I want it smooth,” Yeonjun admits, that old itch for clean lines scratching at him.

Beomgyu wets his finger and touches the wobble like you would a scrape on a knee. “What if we… keep the little heartbeat?” he says. “So you can feel the day later, in your hand.”

It lands somewhere kind. “Okay,” Yeonjun says, and lets the rim be itself. There’s a relief in it like unclenching without realizing you were clenched.

Handle time. Yeonjun rolls a coil, flattens it, pinches a gentle arc. With a grin, he shapes the end into a fox tail—curling up and around so the tip kisses the mug’s body. He adds two tiny nicks for “fur,” thumbprints so soft they leave a pattern. Beomgyu watches like the last part of a movie he doesn’t want to end.

“Fox mug,” he declares. “I’m going to make… a thunder mug?”

“You’re going to make a handle you can actually drink from,” Taehyun says, passing him a proper slip brush like a math teacher who, despite everything, loves your ridiculousness.

They attach handles. Soobin helps anchor one that threatens to droop; Kai volunteers to make “companion saucers” that somehow look like smiling pancakes. The instructor stamps little numbers on their bats for pickup day and gives them a quick tour of the glaze shelf—celadon, honey brown, midnight, a rogue jar labeled surprise.

“Do not trust ‘surprise,’” Taehyun says instantly.

“Do absolutely trust ‘surprise,’” Beomgyu says at the same time.

They compromise: Yeonjun picks celadon for the body and a thin ribbon of “surprise” where the tail meets the mug. Beomgyu chooses midnight with a dab of honey at the lip, because he likes to pretend he’s complicated when he’s actually obvious.

When the instructor wheels their pieces toward the drying shelf, everyone applauds as if sending children off to school. Their hands are drying in interesting patterns. There is clay on Kai’s cheek like blush.

They wash up and step outside into a city that has decided to quit raining out of respect for people who tried new things. The five of them walk to the corner café with their sleeves pushed up and that satisfying tired that comes from using your hands. They order far too much toast and an unfair number of pastries, because creation demands fuel.

“Bookmark your favorite part?” Beomgyu asks, tapping the table.

“The fox tail,” Yeonjun says. “And the wobble.”

“There it is,” Beomgyu says, pleased beyond reason.

Two weeks later, a text from the community center arrives with a photo of finished work and seventeen exclamation points from Huening Kai. They hustle over like kids on report card day.

The shelf of glazed pieces is a small choir. Soobin’s bowl is unfairly beautiful; Taehyun’s dented rim looks intentional and expensive. Kai’s dinosaur spoon rest survived and is somehow more charming for its glaze-splotches. Beomgyu’s mug gleams like night with a line of honey sunrise at the lip. And Yeonjun’s: celadon soft as new leaves, the fox tail a streak of warm surprise where the glaze broke over texture, tiny thumbprints visible like a signature only he and his favorite person know to look for.

“Oh,” he says, the sound round with the feeling.

“Look,” Beomgyu murmurs. He slides his fingers under Yeonjun’s and helps him lift the mug. The rim’s gentle heartbeat fits Yeonjun’s mouth just so. The handle rests exactly where his fingers like to be. The tail is an invitation instead of a flourish.

“You did that,” Beomgyu says. Pride, plain and bright.

“We did that,” Yeonjun corrects, because the day lives in the piece and so does the kindness that steadied it.

They buy a bag of tea from the center’s tiny gift shelf—proceeds go to the senior program whose postcards they wrote—and head home carrying their mugs with the reverence they deserve.

In the kitchen, Soobin boils water like he’s leading a ceremony. Taehyun produces a tin of butter cookies from nowhere. Kai sets Bronto-Spoon by the stove like a guard. Yeonjun rinses his mug and, without thinking too hard, makes the first pour.

They sit at the table with their new work in their hands. The tea is an herb blend that smells like citrus rain. Yeonjun brings the fox mug to his lips and feels it: the wobble, the steady. A day you can hold.

“Toast,” Beomgyu says, raising his midnight-and-honey. “To useful and loved.”

“To surprise where you least expect it,” Taehyun adds, one eyebrow daring gravity.

“To Bronto-Spoon’s noble service,” Kai declares, saluting.

“To our hands,” Soobin finishes softly, “and how gentle they’re learning to be.”

They sip. Someone puts on a playlist that sounds like sunlight and piano. Outside, the sky cleans itself to blue. On the fridge, the postcard they wrote has a sibling; a neighbor sent one back, all wobbly loops: Your sunshine found me. There’s a little fox drawn in the corner.

Beomgyu nudges Yeonjun’s foot under the table and tips his head toward the fox handle. “That detail?”

“Mm?”

“Keep doing that,” he says. “In everything.”

“Adding tails?”

“Leaving fingerprints that say ‘I was here; I was kind to myself about it.’”

Yeonjun laughs, low and easy. He looks at the mug, then at Beomgyu, then at their friends arguing gently about whether honey should be stirred clockwise or counterclockwise for optimal sweetness. He tucks the moment away like a glaze over a thumbprint.

Later, when the day stretches and errands scatter them, Yeonjun rinses the mug and sets it to dry. The fox tail catches the light, a little streak of gold where the surprise turned out soft. He writes a tiny note on a sticky and tapes it inside the cabinet door where the mugs sleep.

Wobbly is also beautiful.
Warm things remember.

He closes the door. In his pocket is a second sticky, folded small, which he presses into Beomgyu’s hand as he passes him in the hall.

Beomgyu unfolds it. Dance request: kitchen, tonight, while the tea steeps.

“Anytime, anywhere,” Beomgyu says automatically, already smiling.

So in the soft space before evening, they sway on tile, mugs cooling on the counter, fox tail catching the last of the sun. The kitchen hums its small, good song. It’s not perfect. That’s exactly why it keeps them warm.