here comes trouble.

he didn't tell anyone. not in words, at least. but the legacy corridors have long been known to carry whispers of rumours—all of which he hasn't confirmed nor denied. not that anyone has asked him directly. but people have eyes, just as they have ears. it doesn't take but a glimpse to see how enamoured rowon is with another.

his ... friendships, if they can even be called that, have taken a hit since then. those he once dotted on as cute and affectionate have turned into snarky little fiends with bites that actually hurt. or they go completely silent, cutting him off and disappearing from his contacts as if they never existed.

rowon wonders if he has a type.

He doesn’t look at him, not once. His focus stays on the script he’s arranging, each page squared away with a precision that speaks more of avoidance than care. “If you honestly think that’s what I meant, then maybe you never knew me at all.”

“it has,” rowon replies, still quipped despite his best efforts to keep a calm demeanour. he knows minkyu’s trying, and he knows the tone that’s slipping through would only discourage him—“if you’re trying a recipe for the first time, it’s better to cook on low. it’ll take longer, and it might not taste as good, but it’s better than setting your kitchen on fire. … next time, give me a call. i’m a few blocks over. we can make it together.”

he lets out a short sigh then, willing his jaw to relax. it’s nothing, he tells himself. it’s just a small flame that’s now contained.

but still,

“you scared me.” rowon motions at the window overlooking the sidewalk he was just on. “it looked worse from out there. thought you’d slept through it.” as if minkyu goes to bed by eight. in rowon’s defense, a panicked mind isn’t exactly logical.

The moment feels strange, surreal even. Rowon, here, in his apartment, is an unexpected twist in the rhythm of his evening. The scent of Japanese food curls through the air, gently overtaking the bitter trace of the burned attempt that still lingers, making it easier, if only for a moment, to forget the tension knotting between them.

“Sounds good to me.” he says eventually, his stomach offering a low growl in agreement, betraying his pride with its eager hunger.

In a motion driven half by manners and half by the need to look anywhere but at Rowon, Minkyu turns to the fridge. The cool air greets him as he retrieves two bottles of soda, setting them neatly on the counter of the overly sleek, overly pristine kitchen that’s never truly felt like his.

clean cut to the moment they were both sharing an uncomfortable table, too tiny for their legs, so much their knees kept bumping against the other.

Yoojin remained stoic, wondering how minkyu managed to convince him to leave the company and go eat with him. well, yoojin didn't eat, he just stared at the other man, finding it weird that nothing seemed to bother him.

"how do you do it?", he finally asked, more out of curiosity than actual interest in the other man. it was just unnerving how he seemed to be nonchalant, or ignore everything that happened between them, that yoojin felt like grabbing him by the shoulders and giving him a shake.

no, he wasn't overreacting (in his opinion).

It’s always the same chorus with Yoojin: why this, why that, why anything at all. The endless questioning, the gnawing negativity, it begins to grate at the edges of Minkyu’s patience, no matter how convincingly he pretends everything is perfectly fine. He lives by the creed that ignorance is bliss and, evidently, Yoojin has never come across such a concept in his life.

Minkyu shrugs. Again. It feels like the hundredth time today, a reflex more than a response now as he continues to enjoy his food rather than feed into Yoojin’s heavy mood.

“You’re being so freaking annoying about this. Geez.” he says at last, the words falling from his lips without venom, just plain truth wrapped in mild exasperation. The statement is punctuated by a slow sip of mango juice, as if to sweeten the bitter edge of confrontation.

“What do you even gain from clinging to all this negativity? From interrogating the past ... or me?” Minkyu’s eyes narrow, not in anger but in genuine curiosity. “Isn’t it exhausting? Doesn’t it drain you?” He leans back a little, head tilted, voice still casual but sharp beneath its calm surface. “Have you ever tried, I don’t know ... just getting over it, maybe?”

clean cut to the moment they were both sharing an uncomfortable table, too tiny for their legs, so much their knees kept bumping against the other.

Yoojin remained stoic, wondering how minkyu managed to convince him to leave the company and go eat with him. well, yoojin didn't eat, he just stared at the other man, finding it weird that nothing seemed to bother him.

"how do you do it?", he finally asked, more out of curiosity than actual interest in the other man. it was just unnerving how he seemed to be nonchalant, or ignore everything that happened between them, that yoojin felt like grabbing him by the shoulders and giving him a shake.

no, he wasn't overreacting (in his opinion).

Avoidance had always been the softer road, the one he knew how to walk without stumbling. He had never been one to linger in the heavy spaces of thought, preferring instead the lighter things: food, laughter, the comfort of now.

And truthfully, that incident, whatever weight Yoojin gave it, had not seemed so terrible to him. Certainly not enough to carry like an anchor.

“You think too much, Yoojin-ah,” Minkyu said, voice light, nearly teasing, as he picked up a bite of food with his chopsticks. That signature grin, boyish, unrepentant, full of easy charm, found its way to his lips as he lifted the food toward Yoojin’s mouth.

But he didn’t wait. He knew Yoojin would hesitate, would protest or overthink. So with a quiet hum, he gently pushed the bite between Yoojin’s lips himself.

unfortunately for him, rowon doesn’t like leaving things unresolved. at least, not when he’s partially at fault. or perhaps he does care to be on minkyu’s good side.

he reaches over to take the script from minkyu, tossing it across the table so it’s out of reach. it does not nothing to close the distance between them, but it takes out the false sense of security.

He doesn't meet Rowon's gaze, not directly. Instead, his eyes settle on the fabric of his shirt, the swirl of its pattern suddenly more comforting than any human expression. And for a while, he says nothing. He thinks about how to respond without sounding pathetic, or strange, or worse: transparent.

"I don’t know," he finally says, and his voice is stripped bare. No performance. No flares of sarcasm or exaggerated charm. Just quiet truth, delivered without embellishment.

"I simply don’t know how to act around you anymore, so I’ve kept it professional." A pause stretches between them like a taut thread, fraying at the edges.

hyoseop usually wouldn’t be the type to go strawberry picking, but today he’s looked quite forward to it, excited, spent too much time simply thinking about today. he finds it weird, why he’s so excited about it, looking forward to something he usually wouldn’t do. the truth is, it’s not really the strawberry picking he’s been looking forward to, it’s more likely the person he’s going strawberry picking with that has made him this excited.

hyoseop has spent quite a lot of time wondering why he’s so excited, sure minkyu is a good friend, but hyoseop usually isn’t this excited to meet with a friend. minkyu is fun to hang out with, he likes their friendships, though lately the simple thought of minkyu has made his heart beat a little faster, something he also can’t figure out why is happening. 

hyoseop actually cared for what he wore today, usually it would always be a white t-shirt with some sweatpants, today he’s digged through his closet to find an outfit, landed on grey jeans, a pink t-shirt and a cap, he’s of course also done his make up, again, can’t figure out why he wanted to dress up. “you look good minkyu” he says with a smile as he looks at the other, “so good that actually” he pulls his phone out of his pocket “pose! i wanna take a picture of you”.

Because anything more would mean unraveling a tangle of thoughts he’d spent years carefully keeping at bay, too many questions, too much feeling, too much of everything. Still, the excitement buzzed softly beneath his skin, impossible to ignore. He smiled a little too wide at Hyoseop’s compliment, warmth blooming in his chest.

"You really think so? The pink shirt to match the strawberries isn’t too much?" he asked, striking a playful pose for the picture, peace sign by his cheek, the other hand perched jauntily on his hip.

Ah, yes, his habits.

"Well, I am eating slightly healthier thanks to having groupmates who are willing to cook." Still chomping his way through too many bags of potato chips, though. He had a stash hidden underneath his bed and reached for a bite every time the stress was high and he couldn't use his usual methods to deal with his problems. "Haven't been smoking because I told Haemin I'd quit. It's been surprisingly easy, actually. Guess I never needed cigarettes that much in the first place."

But those weren't really the habit they were getting at, eh?

"Yeah, no, I am dying. I can't screw fellow TZers and they are all that I have access to, honestly. It was super hard in the beginning because I am not meant to live like a monk."

Actually.

“I’m still single,” he said, voice light, though there was something resolute behind the words. “As if someone like me could ever get anyone to genuinely like me.” And he didn’t say it out of pity, nor from a place of self-loathing. It wasn’t a veiled request for comfort or kindness either. He spoke it like a truth long settled into his bones, the product of countless quiet disappointments tucked beneath a well-worn smile.

“But I told myself: no more meaningless flings,” he added, reaching for another taco, this time bringing it to his own lips. The spice and warmth of the food grounded him, made the admission feel less heavy than it might have otherwise.

“what is your signature scent?” the questionnaire the workers had given him and minkyu was staring him square in the eye.

way to catch him off guard — jino had been picking up the dropper in each of the glass bottles laid out in front of them, suddenly startled out of his own mindless fumblings. he had half the mind of bailing — ready to escape for an easy cope out at the front of the store with the brand’s own conceptualized signature scents. things like smells, colognes, and the like had never been a strong suit for him. he had always thought that, at the end of the day, as long as he smelled clean that that would be it. now, as he reads the labels on each of the bottles before them, he feels himself start to sink a little deeper into confusion.

at the end of the day, his real motive had been to buy something that reminded him of minseo but doubling the fun by dragging minkyu alongside him — the internet-approved romeo and his flair for  romance was only an added bonus!

what had started as some casual perfume-shopping had turned into a whole workshop, now seated side by side with the different blends of scents in front of them, jino had begun to doubt his mission: him a perfumist? who would have thought.

Minkyu, on the other hand, has no particular someone in mind. But he’s here, fully present, heart warm for the quiet spark of love blooming in his friend. Still, the haze of reverie slips away the moment the words reach him, pulling him gently back to earth.

“Nope, never. First time experience.” he replies with a soft chuckle, reaching for one of the small glass vials lined up before him. He gives it a tentative sniff, only to immediately recoil, nose wrinkling in displeasure as his expression morphs into mild horror.

“That sea-flower thing is definitely not mine,” he declares, setting it down with theatrical care. A laugh escapes him as he continues browsing.

when dom bought tickets to this rock concert, he didn’t think it was the equivalent to selling his soul to the devil.

they’d gotten there early ( at his insistence ) and found themselves close to the front. “see,” he’d told minkyu then. “if we came any later, we wouldn’t be anywhere near the stage.” … yeah, that came to bite him in the ass when the band started playing.

it was LOUD. capital L-O-U-D. LOUD. and if he wasn’t going to go deaf, he was certainly going in other ways because, at one point, the crowd began to move a lot. the people around them were jumping up and down and bumping into him, which made him bump into minkyu and—

“hey, watch it!”

for some reason, that made things worse. people were shoving at one another, running into each other, running in circles as if they’d lost their damn minds. was this some sort of demon summoning ritual???

Work had weighed heavily on his shoulders for what felt like forever, days blending into each other in a rhythm that allowed little space for joy. But here, now, at this concert surrounded by strangers who didn’t care who he was or what title he carried, he felt untethered.

So when Dom started whining, dramatic as ever, as if joy itself were a crime, Minkyu couldn’t help the laugh that erupted from him. A loud, full-bodied sound..

“The only illegal thing here is you not joining in!” he shouted gleefully, already grabbing Dom’s hand, pulling him with a grin toward the rush of moving bodies.

It already took her everything to not shut herself back into her studio, much less get drawn into conversation all while the world around her crashed and burned. Unfortunately, Minkyu seemed intent on not getting the memo, flocking around her, blabbering about the rundown on the historical background of some meme he was trying to show her.

And true to Minkyu’s nature, the dismay registered instantly, painting itself across his face like a dramatic canvas: eyes wide, brows arched high, lips parted in sheer disbelief. It was theatrical, yes, but every bit of it was real. “What do you mean, OK?” he echoed, voice sharpening, disbelief curdling into frustration.

His gaze followed her as she turned away, retreating back into whatever task she had deemed more important than the moment they were in. The blatant dismissal lit something under his skin. Still, he didn’t back down. If anything, he leaned into the storm building in his chest, his voice rising just enough to ensure it reached her.

“Could you, just for once, stop pretending you're made of gold while the rest of us are dirt beneath your feet?” His tone was clipped, but not cruel. Honest. Raw. “It’s exhausting, the way you look down on everyone. It’s ugly, the way you treat people who just ... ” He cut himself off for a moment, jaw tightening, eyes narrowing as the weight of his words settled between them.

She glances over at him, squinting, opens her mouth, then closes it, retuning to her book. She glances at him again, squints at him again, opens her mouth again, then closes it again. And again. And again. Finally: “Can I borrow your head?”