WhIP

by footfungus

nederlands verhalen over mijn otp

273. Chapter 273

RE: Chapter 1: A Quiet Weight

Yu Hamin lingered outside the apartment door, his fingers brushing against the metal key dangling from his wrist. The coolness of the evening air clung to his skin, but he didn't move to unlock the door. Instead, he stared at the scratched paint of the wood, his chest tightening with the weight of his thoughts.

The scuffed knuckles on his right hand throbbed faintly. He flexed his fingers, tracing the swelling with his thumb. It wasn't like he wanted to get into fights. It wasn't even that he enjoyed them. But sometimes—sometimes—he couldn't just let things go.

Yejun hyung's going to be mad.

The thought made his stomach churn. It wasn't Yejun's anger that scared him. No, it was the disappointment that cut the deepest. The heavy and quiet kind that Yejun carried in his eyes whenever Hamin messed up.

Letting out a slow breath, Hamin finally slipped the key into the lock and turned it. The door creaked open, and the faint glow of the television cast long shadows across the apartment's cramped interior. The smell of instant ramen hung in the air—a familiar, almost comforting scent, but tonight it felt suffocating.

"You're late," came Yejun's voice from the couch. He didn't look up, his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled to his elbows. The television murmured in the background, but Yejun's eyes were distant, not focused on the screen. He shifted slightly, his gaze landing on Hamin as he stepped inside. His eyes darted briefly to the redness on Hamin's knuckles, and then up to the faint shadow of a bruise forming on his jaw.

"You've been fighting again, haven't you?" Yejun's voice was calm, almost too calm, but the weariness behind it hit harder than any shout.

Hamin froze for a moment, then shut the door behind him. "It's not…" he started, his voice faltering. "It's not what you think."

"What I think," Yejun interrupted, rising from the couch, "is that you promised me. No more fights." He gestured toward Hamin's scuffed shoes and the slight tear at the hem of his shirt. "Do you think I don't notice? Hamin, you said you were done with this."

Hamin clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. "I… I didn't mean for it to happen. It wasn't my fault."

"It never is," Yejun said softly, his voice laced with quiet frustration. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and for a fleeting moment, his shoulders sagged as though the weight of the world was pressing down on him.

His fingers lingered near his temple, massaging lightly before he dropped his hand back down. "You need to think before you act, Hamin. There are better ways to handle things."

"You don't get it," Hamin muttered, avoiding Yejun's gaze.

"Then help me understand," Yejun said, stepping closer. His voice was steady, but there was a softness to it that made Hamin's chest tighten. As he moved, Hamin noticed the faint unsteadiness in Yejun's steps. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but enough to make Hamin's brow furrow briefly. He dismissed it as exhaustion—Yejun always worked too hard.

The memory of the fight flashed in his mind, unbidden. The taunts had started off harmless, the usual jabs about his grades and how he acted like he was better than everyone else. But when they started badmouthing Yejun—Heard he didn't even go to college. What a loser. Pretending he's your dad? Trying to play house because your parents couldn't hack it? That's rich. A dropout acting like a dad for a kid nobody wanted. What a pathetic joke of a family—something inside Hamin snapped.

He didn't remember throwing the first punch, but he sure remembered the satisfaction of landing it. The way his knuckles connected, the brief sting of the impact, it had felt good—too good.

They didn't know anything. They didn't know how hard Yejun worked, how much he sacrificed. And they had no right to talk about things they didn't understand.

But what was the point of explaining? Yejun already carried so much. Hamin hated the idea of adding to his burden. Instead, he shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

"You can't keep doing this, Hamin. You can't solve everything with your fists," Yejun said, his voice dropping. He hesitated, his words faltering. "That's not how we…"

Yejun trailed off, his voice faltering as he avoided Hamin's gaze. The weight of something unsaid hung in the air, thick and suffocating. His shoulders tensed, his jaw tightening ever so slightly as if the words he stopped himself from saying hurt just as much to hold back.

Hamin's chest tightened as he watched his brother, the unspoken words louder than anything Yejun could have said. The quiet tension was too much. He felt his frustration bubbling beneath the surface, threatening to spill over as he clenched his fists at his sides. The room felt smaller, his brother's silence sharper. Finally, the words slipped out before he could stop them.

Hamin's gaze snapped up, his voice sharp. "That's how who does things? You? Me? Dad?"

Yejun froze, his eyes darkened. His jaw tightened, and for a long moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly but firmly, he replied, "Don't. Don't bring him into this."

Hamin opened his mouth to push further, the words bubbling up inside him, but he faltered. The way Yejun's eyes dimmed, his whole demeanor hardening at the mention of their father, made Hamin's chest ache. That shadow of pain—it was a wound Hamin hated himself for poking at.

The regret settled heavily as he lowered his gaze, his hands curling into fists. Why had he even brought it up?

Yejun's voice broke the silence, quieter now, stripped of its earlier sharpness. "Just go wash up. Dinner's ready."

Hamin's fists clenched, but he didn't argue. The last thing he wanted was to pile more stress onto Yejun. He knew how hard his brother worked to keep things together, juggling a demanding job while raising him.

Every sacrifice Yejun made weighed on Hamin, pushing him to work harder, to prove that it was all worth it. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was falling short. Seeing the disappointment on Yejun's face tonight cut deeper than any insult those kids had thrown at him.

Later, the two of them sat across from each other at the small kitchen table. The ramen was lukewarm, the noodles slightly overcooked, but Hamin didn't mind. The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the occasional clink of chopsticks against bowls.

Yejun glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You're so serious tonight. What happened to the kid who used to beg me for extra eggs in his ramen?"

Hamin's lips twitched, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "I grew up."

"Hmm," Yejun hummed, leaning back slightly. "You still look like a kid to me."

"Hyung," Hamin said, his tone a mix of exasperation and fondness. "Stop teasing me."

Yejun chuckled softly. "Fine, fine. But seriously, Hamin… try to stay out of trouble, okay? I'm not saying you have to let people walk all over you. Just… be careful."

Hamin nodded, but he didn't look up from his bowl. The weight of Yejun's words settled heavily on his chest. He wanted to promise he'd be better, that he'd make Yejun proud. But the words felt hollow in his throat.

That night, as Hamin lay in bed staring at the cracks in the ceiling, his thoughts churned relentlessly. He thought of Yejun's tired eyes, the way his voice softened when he spoke, as though he carried the world on his shoulders but didn't want anyone to notice. Hamin hated that he kept adding to that weight.

Does he resent me?

The thought gnawed at him, sharp and unforgiving. Hamin knew how much Yejun had given up for him—his dreams, his youth, his freedom. And for what? To raise a brother who couldn't seem to stay out of trouble?

Turning onto his side, Hamin clenched his fists. "I'll do better," he whispered into the darkness. "I promise."

But deep down, he wasn't sure if he believed it.

Hamin and Yejun hadn't always been alone. Hamin's mom had married Yejun's dad when Hamin was only a baby, and Yejun was 11. For a while, they'd been a family—dinners together, holidays filled with laughter. But their father had a dark side, a temper that was often directed at Yejun. Hamin, too young to understand or remember most of it, had been spared the worst of the abuse. But Yejun bore the brunt of it, shielding Hamin whenever he could.

Eventually, their father left, abandoning them all without a word. Their mom tried to hold things together, but when Yejun was 16 and Hamin just 6, she broke under the strain and left too. She'd said it was too much, that she couldn't handle the weight of raising them on her own. Yejun had been the one to step up, to take on the role of both brother and parent.

Yejun's own dreams had been the first casualty. He had wanted to be a singer, his voice rich and full of emotion. But with their mom gone, college and music school were out of the question. Instead, Yejun graduated high school and immediately started working. He never complained, but Hamin could see the way he'd buried that part of himself, his guitar gathering dust in the corner of their apartment.

RE: Chapter 1.5: Threads of Routine

The school bell rang sharply, echoing through the hallways as students shuffled to their next classes. Hamin sat at his desk, his notebook open but untouched. The teacher's voice droned in the background, but his focus was elsewhere. He glanced at the corner of his desk where faint etchings of names and doodles had worn into the wood, his mind drifting to Yejun.

Hamin had gotten a solid score on his latest history test—a quiet win. Yet, the achievement felt hollow. His classmates' chatter about weekend plans and upcoming events swirled around him, but he stayed silent. His days were a blur of classes, occasional congratulations from teachers on his grades, and the gnawing weight of expectations he carried on his own shoulders.

By the time lunch came around, Hamin found himself sitting alone under the large oak tree in the courtyard, a textbook open in front of him. His hand brushed against the pocket of his jacket where a half-empty pack of cigarettes rested. He hadn't meant to pick up the habit, but after a particularly bad day, a classmate had offered him one, and the quiet burn in his lungs felt like an escape.

His usual spot gave him a clear view of the school gates, where he sometimes imagined Yejun's familiar figure walking past. His stomach churned at the thought of the fights he'd been in recently.

The memory of angry fists and bruised ribs lingered, but worse was the fear of Yejun's disappointment if he ever found out. That fear only deepened whenever he lit up, the sharp scent clinging to his clothes a quiet betrayal. But it was easier than facing the storm in his head.

The following week, the school held its annual teacher-parent conference. Yejun had promised to take the morning off to meet Hamin's homeroom teacher, though Hamin dreaded it. As he sat outside the classroom, waiting for Yejun to arrive, the door creaked open, and his teacher stepped out.

"Hamin," she said, her voice low but firm. "Your brother does so much for you. You should know better than getting into fights."

The words hit harder than he expected. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but the lump in his throat made it impossible. She was right—he did know better. The shame gnawed at him as he looked down at his scuffed shoes, wishing the floor would swallow him whole.

Moments later, Yejun arrived, a polite smile on his face as he greeted the teacher and stepped inside the classroom. When they finished, Yejun stepped out and gestured for Hamin to follow him. The walk home started quietly, the tension from the teacher's words still fresh in Hamin's mind. Yejun, however, noticed his brother's silence, the way his shoulders sagged slightly and how he seemed lost in his thoughts.

Yejun, sensing the heaviness, suddenly stopped and turned to Hamin with a pout. "Ya, Hamin-ah, why so serious?" he said, clasping his hands under his chin and exaggerating an aegyo pose. He tilted his head, adding a playful, "You're ignoring your handsome hyung?"

Hamin blinked, momentarily startled out of his thoughts. A faint, reluctant smile tugged at his lips. "Hyung, stop. You're embarrassing yourself."

"What? This is my natural charm!" Yejun replied, striking another silly pose. His antics earned a quiet laugh from Hamin, the tension easing slightly as they continued walking.

As they reached a crossing, Yejun pressed the pedestrian button, and they waited for the light to change. He noticed how Hamin's gaze lingered on a taekwondo dojang across the street. The sound of practice kicks and distant shouts floated in the air, and Hamin's eyes flickered with something close to longing before he quickly looked away, his face tightening.

When they got home, dinner was quiet. Yejun noticed the way Hamin barely touched his food, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. Finally, Yejun broke the silence. "You were staring pretty hard at that dojang earlier. What's up with that?"

Hamin froze, his chopsticks pausing mid-air. "It's nothing," he said quickly, forcing a laugh. "Taekwondo's lame. I don't need it."

Yejun's eyes softened, but he didn't press further. He knew they couldn't afford it anyway. Still, his chest tightened with guilt at his brother's quick dismissal. Hamin deserved more than he could give, and knowing that stung more than he wanted to admit.

The sight of Hamin's longing gaze at the dojang sparked a memory Yejun had almost forgotten. Years ago, when Hamin was much smaller, they had been walking home from school. Hamin's tiny hand clutched Yejun's like a lifeline as they passed a toy store. A colorful robot stood proudly in the window display, and Yejun caught the way Hamin's eyes lit up before he quickly looked away, his grip tightening on Yejun's hand.

"Do you want that toy?" Yejun had asked, crouching slightly to meet his younger brother's gaze. Hamin's eyes widened as if he'd been caught red-handed, and he quickly shook his head. "No, Hyung. I don't need something so childish."

The words broke Yejun's heart. He ruffled Hamin's hair and smiled gently, though sadness lingered behind it. "I'm sorry, Hamin-ah. I promise to get you an even cooler present next Christmas."

But Hamin, noticing the sadness in Yejun's expression, shook his head fiercely and held onto his brother's hand even tighter. "No, Hyung. I don't need toys. I'm not a baby. I don't need anything as long as I have Hyung."

The memory made Yejun's chest ache, the echoes of Hamin's words cutting deeper than they had then. Even now, Hamin carried that same selflessness, but Yejun couldn't shake the guilt that he hadn't been able to give his brother more.

That night, Hamin lay in bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. His mind replayed the teacher's words over and over, mixing with his own doubts. He thought of their father, of the man who had brought chaos into their lives before disappearing. Hamin clenched his fists, the thought creeping in uninvited.

Do I remind Yejun of him?

He barely remembered Yejun's father, the man who had once been his stepfather. The memories were faint, blurry fragments of shouted words and the heavy silence that followed. But he knew the stories, the echoes of what Yejun had endured. He'd heard about the violence, the bursts of anger, and the damage it left behind. And now, every time Hamin threw a punch or lost his temper, the thought crept in like a shadow.

The fights, the anger, the recklessness—were they proof that he was following in the same footsteps, even if they weren't his own to begin with? His thoughts flickered to the taekwondo dojang.

Was his interest in it just another reflection of the fighting nature he feared? The precision, the kicks—it was all too close to the violence he hated. Would practicing taekwondo make him more like their father? Was he just some reflection of the man who had hurt Yejun so deeply?

The thought made Hamin's stomach twist. He felt uncomfortable in his own skin, his reflection in the window suddenly foreign. He hated the idea of being anything like Yejun's father, but what if Yejun saw him that way?

What if every fight, every bruise, reminded Yejun of a past he had tried so hard to leave behind? What if, every time Yejun looked at him, he saw a shadow of the man who had broken their family?

For the first time in weeks, tears welled in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Crying wouldn't change anything. Crying wouldn't make him better.

All he could do was try harder—to be better, to make Yejun proud. But deep down, he wasn't sure if he believed he could.

NEW Chapter 1.5: Shadows we Cast

The school bell rang sharply, reverberating through the hallways as students shuffled between classes. Hamin sat at his desk, staring blankly at his open notebook, the drone of the teacher's voice blending into the background. His fingers traced the faint etchings carved into the corner of the desk, his mind slipping to thoughts of Yejun—of all the weight he carried for the both of them.

Hamin had gotten a solid score on his latest history test—a quiet win. Yet, the achievement felt hollow. As the teacher handed back papers, his classmates exchanged grins and jokes, nudging each other over their grades. No one turned to him, and he preferred it that way. Blending into the background felt safer.

Attention only led to questions he didn't want to answer, judgments he didn't want to face. Their laughter felt distant, almost foreign, like he was watching a scene he didn't belong in. His days blurred together: silent mornings, occasional congratulations from teachers, and the gnawing weight of expectations he carried on his own shoulders.

By the time lunch came around, Hamin found himself sitting alone under the large oak tree in the courtyard, a textbook open in front of him. Nearby, a group of boys crowded around a bench, their conversation punctuated by bursts of laughter. Hamin's gaze flickered toward them for a moment before returning to the empty page in front of him. He didn't envy them—not their loud jokes, not their effortless camaraderie. But a small part of him couldn't help but wonder what it felt like to belong somewhere so easily.

His thoughts kept drifting to the teacher-parent conference scheduled for later that day, a shadow that loomed over his every moment. It wasn't his grades that worried him; those were stellar, as always. But the fights—the bruises, the scuffles he couldn't seem to avoid—would definitely come up. And after the argument with Yejun yesterday, he dreaded the disappointment that would inevitably follow.

Hamin's stomach churned at the thought of the conference. He could already picture the scene: his teacher's voice measured but firm as she laid out each incident, her gaze flicking between him and Yejun like she was judging them both.

The fights weren't just bursts of anger; they were marks of failure. His failures. Every bruise told a story he couldn't explain, not to his teacher and definitely not to Yejun. And yet, he knew he'd have to stand there, silent, as those stories unraveled in front of both of them.

What would Yejun say? Would he quietly absorb the teacher's words like he always did, his expression unreadable, or would this be the moment his patience broke? Hamin couldn't decide which was worse—the possibility of Yejun's silence stretching thin, heavy with unspoken words, or his voice cracking under the weight of frustration that Hamin knew he deserved.

Hamin's fingers clenched around the fabric of his sleeve. He hated the way it felt inevitable, like every bruise, every scuffle, had already written a script Yejun would have to recite.

And even worse, he hated himself for putting him in that position again.

It wasn't just the conference that haunted him. The memory of one fight, in particular, replayed on a loop—the taunts, the bruises, the way his fists had moved before his brain caught up. The teacher had seen the aftermath and probably pieced it all together. What if the school called someone higher up? What if they didn't believe his reasons? What if he dragged Yejun into something he couldn't fix?

No amount of stellar grades would erase the reality of what he was: a problem Yejun didn't need.

His hand brushed against the pocket of his jacket where a half-empty pack of cigarettes rested. He hadn't planned to start smoking; the pack had been handed to him by an upperclassman a week ago. Do Eunho—all sharp grins and a devil-may-care attitude—had offered it casually, like it was a shared secret. Hamin had always felt a mix of fascination and unease around Eunho. There was something magnetic about the older boy's confidence, the way he seemed to move through life unbothered by rules or expectations.

But that same recklessness made Hamin wary, as though getting too close might pull him into something he couldn't control. "Take one," Eunho had said, lighting his own with a practiced flick of his lighter. "It'll help with the stress."

Hamin had hesitated, but the smirk on Eunho's face dared him to try. The quiet burn had been an escape, fleeting but potent. Now, just knowing the pack was there felt like both a relief and a shameful reminder of how much he struggled to cope.

Lighting one would be easy, and this time, he didn't stop himself. His fingers trembled as he flicked the lighter, the small flame catching the end of the cigarette.

The first inhale burned, sharp and acrid, but it steadied him in a way he hated to admit. The smoke curled around him, thin and acrid, carrying a sharpness that felt like punishment. For a fleeting moment, the chaos in his head dulled, replaced by the bitter tang of something stolen.

But as the cigarette burned down, the lingering smell reminded him of their father—sharp, sour, and suffocating. He remembered the nights when that same smell would cling to the air of their small apartment, mingling with the tension that made every creak of the floor feel like a threat.

A memory flickered to life, unbidden: his father's shadow in the doorway, the slur of his words and the cold anger in his eyes. The way Yejun would step in front of him, his voice steady even as his hands trembled.

Hamin's chest tightened, the cigarette burning closer to his fingers. Was this who he was becoming? A faint echo of a man who had broken more than he'd ever built?

He crushed the cigarette underfoot, the weight of regret and a gnawing fear heavier than before.

The corridor outside the classroom was unnervingly quiet as Hamin sat on the wooden bench, his back hunched and his hands shoved deep into his pockets. The last bell had rung a while ago, and most of the students had already gone home. He stared at the scratched floor tiles, trying to push the growing dread to the back of his mind. The teacher-parent conference was about to begin, and Yejun wasn't there yet.

The door creaked open, and his homeroom teacher, Ms. Kang, stepped out. Her expression softened when she saw him. "Hamin," she said, her voice low but firm. "You're waiting for your brother?"

He nodded without looking up.

Ms. Kang hesitated, then sat beside him, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "Hamin, you're one of the brightest students I've ever taught," she began gently. "But these fights… they're not just impulsive moments. They're leaving a mark on you, and not just physically. Have you talked to your brother about why they keep happening?""

Hamin's jaw tightened, his shoulders stiffening. He didn't answer.

Ms. Kang sighed softly, her gaze searching his face. "Yejun does so much for you," she said, her tone quieter now. "He's not just your brother; he's trying to be so much more. I hope you know how much he believes in you." Her words weren't harsh, but they carried a quiet weight that pressed down on his chest.

Her voice had been gentle, but all Hamin could hear was the implication: You're wasting what he's given you. It was the same quiet condemnation he felt every time he saw Yejun coming home late, exhausted but still smiling for him. The shadow of Ms. Kang's words grew heavier with each step, sinking into the hollow spaces he couldn't fill.

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway, and both of them turned. Yejun approached, his tie loosened but his face brightened by a warm, polite smile. "Good evening, Ms. Kang," he said, bowing slightly. His gaze shifted to Hamin, and his smile softened further. "There you are," he added, his voice light and encouraging.

"Shall we?" He nodded politely to Ms. Kang before looking at Hamin. "Ready?" he asked, his voice calm but distant.

Ms. Kang straightened and gave Hamin a thoughtful look. "Hamin, I think it's best if you wait out here for now," she said gently. "This conversation might be easier if we start with just your brother."

Hamin blinked, surprised, and glanced at Yejun, who nodded with a reassuring smile. "Don't worry," Yejun said lightly, ruffling Hamin's hair again. "I'll take care of it. Just wait for me here, okay?"

Reluctantly, Hamin nodded and sank back onto the bench as Ms. Kang gestured for Yejun to follow her inside. The door clicked shut, leaving him alone with his racing thoughts.

Hamin blinked, surprised, but nodded quickly. Relief and unease tangled in his chest as he sank back onto the bench. The door clicked shut behind Yejun, leaving him alone in the quiet corridor.

Inside the classroom, Yejun bowed slightly as he took the seat across from Ms. Kang. "Thank you for meeting with me," he said warmly. "I know Hamin's behavior has been difficult to handle."

Ms. Kang folded her hands and offered a measured smile. "Your brother is a bright student, Yejun. His grades are excellent, and he has so much potential. But the fights are troubling, and I've noticed they're escalating. Thankfully, nothing too serious has happened so far, but if things were to get out of hand, the consequences could be severe. Have you noticed anything at home?"

Yejun's smile softened, touched with worry. "He's been through a lot," he admitted, his tone thoughtful. "Sometimes I think he's angry at himself more than anything else," Yejun hesitated, a faint shadow crossing his face. "I worry he's holding onto too much—more than he'll let me see. I want to help him, but sometimes I wonder if I'm doing enough."

Ms. Kang nodded sympathetically. "It's clear he looks up to you. You've done so much for him, Yejun, but he may not always understand how to process that. Does he talk to you about these things?"

Yejun hesitated for a moment, his expression pensive. "Not always," he admitted. "But I try to make sure he knows I'm here for him. He's a good kid, Ms. Kang, even if it doesn't always show."

Ms. Kang's gaze softened. "You're a wonderful influence, Yejun. I think what he needs most is for you to keep reminding him of that—in words, in actions. It's clear he's fighting more than just the boys at school."

Yejun's shoulders relaxed slightly, and he offered a grateful smile. "Thank you, Ms. Kang. I'll keep trying.""

Ms. Kang's gaze was steady but kind. "I can see how much you care for him. He's lucky to have you, Yejun. But I think he needs to hear that from you, too."

Yejun's shoulders relaxed slightly, and he smiled. "I tell him every chance I get. Even if he pretends not to hear it."

Outside, Hamin sat stiffly on the bench, his eyes fixed on the scratched floor tiles. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but his imagination filled the silence with worst-case scenarios. Every minute felt like an hour, his chest tightening with each passing second.

The faint murmur of voices seeped through the door, indistinct but persistent. Each muffled word felt like a judgment, pressing harder against his ribs. He shifted on the bench, the cold metal biting into his palms as he gripped the edge tightly.

What were they talking about? Were they listing every fight, every failure? Was Yejun… disappointed? The thought clawed at him, and he clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. The waiting felt endless, and the quiet only made it worse.

What were they talking about? Were they listing every fight, every failure? Was Yejun… disappointed? The thought clawed at him, and he clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. The waiting felt endless, and the quiet only made it worse.

The sound of the door creaking open jolted Hamin out of his thoughts. Ms. Kang stepped out first, her gaze landing on him with a mixture of kindness and concern. "You have a lot of people rooting for you, Hamin," she said kindly, though her tone carried a quiet seriousness. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

Hamin nodded mutely, her words sitting heavily on his chest as Yejun emerged behind her, his usual warm smile firmly in place. "Thank you for everything, Ms. Kang," Yejun said with a polite bow, his sincerity evident.

Ms. Kang returned the gesture before glancing at Hamin one last time. "Goodnight, boys," she said, her voice lighter now, as though leaving them with a small measure of hope.

Yejun rested a hand on Hamin's shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. "Let's go home," he said, his tone warm and unhurried.

As they walked through the quiet streets, Yejun noticed the tension in Hamin's posture—the way his shoulders were drawn up, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He slowed his steps, letting the cool night air settle between them before breaking the silence. "You've been quiet," he said gently. "Is there something on your mind?"

Hamin hesitated, his gaze fixed on the pavement. After a moment, he glanced at Yejun and asked, "What did Ms. Kang say?" His voice was low, almost cautious.

Yejun's lips curved into a small smile. "She said you're a bright student," he began lightly, his tone warm but measured. "And that you've got a lot of potential. She's just worried about the fights."

Hamin's brows knit together, his head dipping further. "Is that all?" he murmured, his hands tightening into fists in his pockets.

Yejun's expression softened. "She thinks you're dealing with a lot," he said gently. "But you're not alone in this, Hamin. We're going to figure it out together."

Hamin stared at the pavement, the cool evening air brushing against his skin. Yejun's words settled over him, not erasing the tension but dulling its edges. He swallowed hard, his hands loosening slightly in his pockets.

The words hung in the air between them, grounding Hamin in a way he didn't expect. He swallowed hard and nodded, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction.

Yejun glanced sideways at Hamin, the corners of his lips twitching into a teasing grin. He slowed his steps slightly, leaning closer. "Hamin-ah," he said, his voice lilting with mock seriousness, "If you keep sulking like that, people will think I'm a terrible hyung."

Hamin blinked, startled, before a faint, reluctant smile tugged at his lips. "Hyung, stop," he mumbled, his cheeks tinged with warmth.

Yejun chuckled, ruffling Hamin's hair as they continued walking. "There's my brother," he said brightly. The playful moment lingered in the air, easing the weight on both their shoulders. The walk home felt a little lighter, the evening tempered by the steady presence of Yejun's warmth and humor.

As they approached a crossing, the blinking red hand of the pedestrian signal halted their steps. Yejun glanced to his left, only to notice Hamin's gaze lingering on a brightly lit taekwondo dojang across the street. The poster in the window featured a group of students mid-kick, their expressions focused and determined.

Hamin's eyes stayed fixed on the poster, his brow furrowing slightly before he quickly averted his gaze, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets. Yejun said nothing, filing the moment away as the light changed to green. He placed a hand lightly on Hamin's back, guiding him forward as they continued home.

The walk home ended quietly, the soft hum of streetlights fading as they stepped into the apartment. The faint smell of simmering broth filled the air as Yejun reheated leftovers, the quiet clinking of bowls and chopsticks filling the silence at the table

Over dinner, Yejun broke the companionable silence. "You seemed interested in that taekwondo studio earlier," he said casually, his eyes flicking up from his bowl to gauge Hamin's reaction.

Hamin stiffened slightly, his chopsticks pausing mid-air. "It's nothing," he said quickly, though the words came out uneven. Forcing a laugh, he added, "Taekwondo's… kind of lame."

Yejun tilted his head, his expression thoughtful but gentle. "You don't have to pretend with me," he said softly. "If it's something you're interested in, we can talk about it. Maybe even check it out."

Hamin's jaw tightened, and he shook his head. "It's not a big deal, Hyung. Really." He shoveled another bite of rice into his mouth, clearly eager to change the subject.

Yejun's eyes softened, but he didn't press further. He knew they couldn't afford it anyway. Still, his chest tightened with guilt at his brother's quick dismissal. Hamin deserved more than he could give, and knowing that stung more than he wanted to admit.

The sight of Hamin's longing gaze at the dojang stirred a memory Yejun hadn't thought of in years. When Hamin was much younger, they had walked past a toy store together, and his little brother's eyes had lingered on a colorful robot in the display. Yejun had crouched down, asking gently, "Do you want it?" Hamin had shaken his head fiercely, gripping Yejun's hand tighter. "I don't need anything as long as I have Hyung."

The memory pressed into him now, sharper than he liked, as he wondered how much his brother still buried to protect him. Yejun gave a small smile. "Alright," he said lightly, "but if you change your mind, let me know."

As the evening wore on and Hamin lay in bed staring at the cracks in the ceiling, the day's events churned relentlessly in his mind. He thought of the fights, the way his fists seemed to move before his brain caught up, and the taekwondo studio that had caught his attention without meaning to.

A sharp pang of shame twisted in his chest.

Do I remind Yejun of dad?

He barely remembered Yejun's father, the man who had once been his stepfather. The memories were faint, blurry fragments of shouted words and the heavy silence that followed. But he knew the stories, the echoes of what Yejun had endured. He'd heard about the violence, the bursts of anger, and the damage it left behind. And now, every time Hamin threw a punch or lost his temper, the thought crept in like a shadow.

Hamin swallowed hard, the lump in his throat heavy and unyielding. He hated the idea, hated himself for even wondering. But as the silence of the night settled around him, the thought refused to leave.

The fights, the anger, the recklessness—were they proof that he was following in the same footsteps, even if they weren't his own to begin with? His thoughts flickered to the taekwondo dojang.

Was his interest in it just another reflection of the fighting nature he feared? The precision, the kicks—it was all too close to the violence he hated. Would practicing taekwondo make him more like their father? Was he just some reflection of the man who had hurt Yejun so deeply?

The thought made Hamin's stomach twist. He felt uncomfortable in his own skin, his reflection in the window suddenly foreign. He hated the idea of being anything like Yejun's father, but what if Yejun saw him that way?

The shame pressed harder, suffocating, until he squeezed his eyes shut, willing sleep to take him and drown the thought in the darkness. He clenched his fists under the covers, his nails digging into his palms.

The weight of the blankets felt oppressive, the faint hum of passing cars outside offering no comfort. His thoughts churned on, heavy and relentless.

RE: Chapter 2: Between Laughter and Tomorrow

Yejun woke before dawn, the soft buzz of his alarm pulling him from a restless sleep. He blinked up at the cracked ceiling, the dim light from the streetlamp outside filtering through the curtains. For a moment, he stayed still, letting the familiar quiet of the apartment settle around him. The weight of the day ahead pressed heavily on his chest, but he pushed it aside as he always did. There were bills to pay, work to get to, and a younger brother who relied on him.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet hitting the cold floor. The apartment was small, the walls thin, but it was theirs. A glance toward Hamin's room showed the door slightly ajar, the faint sound of steady breathing confirming that his brother was still asleep. Yejun smiled faintly. At least Hamin could rest.

The kitchen was dimly lit as Yejun prepared breakfast, his movements quiet and methodical. He cracked eggs into a pan, their soft sizzle breaking the silence, and brewed a pot of coffee. The smell filled the apartment, warm and familiar. On the table, he set down two plates of fried eggs and toast, making sure to cut the crusts off Hamin's—a habit he never grew out of.

By the time Hamin shuffled into the kitchen, his hair sticking up at odd angles, Yejun was already sitting with his coffee.

"Morning," Yejun said, his voice soft but teasing. "You look like you fought your pillow all night."

Hamin grumbled something unintelligible, rubbing his eyes as he dropped into the chair opposite Yejun. He stared at the plate in front of him for a moment before muttering, "Thanks, hyung."

Yejun chuckled. "Eat up. You've got school."

They ate in companionable silence, the clink of utensils and the faint hum of the fridge filling the space. It was moments like these that Yejun treasured most—simple, quiet mornings that felt almost normal. But as he watched Hamin pick at his food, the faint bruise on his brother's jaw catching the light, Yejun's chest tightened.

When did he get so grown up?

It felt like only yesterday Hamin was a wide-eyed kid trailing after him, clutching his hand whenever they crossed the street. Now, he was taller, quieter, the softness of childhood giving way to sharper edges. But beneath it all, Yejun still saw glimpses of the boy he used to be. The way Hamin muttered thanks under his breath, the way he shuffled into the kitchen half-asleep, the way he still trusted Yejun to take care of everything.

"How's school?" Yejun asked, keeping his tone light.

Hamin shrugged. "Fine."

"Just fine?"

"It's school, hyung. What do you expect?"

Yejun raised an eyebrow but didn't push further. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his gaze thoughtful. "You know, you don't have to figure everything out on your own," he said quietly. "If something's bothering you, you can tell me."

Hamin looked up, his expression guarded. For a moment, it seemed like he might say something, but then he shook his head. "It's nothing. Really."

Yejun didn't believe him, but he let it go. "Alright," he said, standing to clear the table. "You'd better get going or you'll miss the bus."

Hamin rolled his eyes but stood, grabbing his bag from where it hung by the door. "See you later, hyung."

"Have a good day, Hamin," Yejun called after him, the door clicking shut behind his brother. The apartment fell silent again, the emptiness settling around Yejun like an old coat. He sighed, running a hand through his hair before grabbing his own bag. It was time to go.

The subway was crowded, the morning rush filling the air with the faint hum of conversations and the screech of wheels on tracks. Yejun stood near the door, one hand gripping the overhead bar as the train swayed. His thoughts drifted as he stared out the window at the blur of buildings rushing past.

He thought of the bills sitting on the counter, the way the rent notice seemed to glare at him every time he passed it. He thought of Hamin's bruises, the way his brother always tried to brush them off like they didn't matter. And he thought of the guitar gathering dust in the corner of their apartment, the one he hadn't touched in years.

Music had been his dream once. He could still remember the way it felt to lose himself in a song, his fingers moving effortlessly over the strings. But dreams didn't pay the bills. They didn't put food on the table or keep the lights on. So he'd packed them away, trading them for long shifts and sleepless nights. For Hamin.

The train jerked to a stop, pulling Yejun from his thoughts. He stepped off onto the platform, blending into the sea of commuters as he made his way to work. The day passed in a blur of paperwork and polite smiles, his focus always half elsewhere. The office was small and crammed with stacks of paper, the hum of old computers blending with the occasional ringing of phones. Yejun worked as a clerk, filing documents, updating spreadsheets, and running errands for his supervisor. It was monotonous work, but it was stable, and stability was what mattered most. By the time his shift ended, his back ached from hours of sitting, and his eyes burned from staring at the computer screen. Outside, the sky was painted with streaks of orange and pink, the fading light casting long shadows over the city.

On his way home, Yejun passed a street performer strumming a guitar, their voice carrying over the noise of the evening crowd. He paused for a moment, the melody stirring something deep within him. But he didn't stop. He couldn't. Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets and kept walking, the sound fading behind him.

When Yejun stepped into the apartment, he was met with the smell of something burning. He froze, his gaze snapping to the kitchen where Hamin stood over the stove, a pan in his hand and a sheepish expression on his face.

"I was trying to make dinner," Hamin said quickly, holding up the charred remains of what might have been an omelet.

Yejun's lips twitched, the tension of the day easing slightly. "Looks like dinner tried to make itself," he teased, stepping forward to take the pan. "Go sit down before you burn the place down."

Hamin huffed but obeyed, dropping into a chair as Yejun salvaged what he could. As Yejun turned back to the kitchen, he noticed how spotless everything was. The counter, which he'd left cluttered with dishes and an empty coffee mug in his rush that morning, was now wiped clean. The sink was empty, the dishes stacked neatly in the drying rack. Hamin had cleaned it all.

"You did all this?" Yejun asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Hamin shrugged, his cheeks tinting slightly. "You were in a hurry. Thought I'd help."

Yejun's chest tightened, a wave of warmth and guilt washing over him. He's grown into someone I can hardly recognize, yet I still see the little boy in him. "Thanks, Hamin," he said softly, his voice carrying more weight than the simple words should have.

In the end, they sat together at the table with a mishmash of reheated leftovers and slightly burnt toast. It wasn't much, but it was enough.

As they ate, Hamin glanced at Yejun, his expression hesitant. "Hyung," he started, then stopped, his gaze dropping to his plate.

"What is it?" Yejun asked, his tone gentle.

Hamin hesitated before shaking his head. "Nothing. Never mind."

Yejun frowned but didn't press. Instead, he reached over and ruffled Hamin's hair. "You worry too much," he said lightly. "Just focus on being a kid, okay? Leave the rest to me."

Hamin didn't respond, but the guilt in his eyes spoke volumes. Yejun pretended not to notice, keeping his smile in place as they finished their meal. For now, it was enough just to have this moment—simple, imperfect, and theirs.

NEW CHAPTER 2: A PLACE TO RETURN TO

Yejun woke before dawn, the soft buzz of his alarm pulling him from a restless sleep. He blinked up at the cracked ceiling, the dim light from the streetlamp outside filtering through the curtains. For a moment, he stayed still, letting the quiet of the apartment wrap around him. The weight of the day ahead pressed heavily on his chest, but he pushed it aside, as he always did. There was too much to do to dwell on it.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his feet met the cool floor. The apartment was small, the walls thin, but it was theirs. His gaze drifted toward Hamin's room. The door was slightly ajar, and the faint sound of steady breathing reassured him that his younger brother was still asleep. A faint smile touched Yejun's lips. At least Hamin could rest.

In the kitchen, Yejun moved with quiet precision. He cracked eggs into a pan, their soft sizzle breaking the silence, and brewed a pot of coffee. The warm aroma filled the air, mingling with the faint hum of the refrigerator. He set out two plates of fried eggs and toast, carefully cutting the crusts off Hamin's—a habit he hadn't outgrown.

By the time Hamin shuffled into the kitchen, his hair sticking up at odd angles, Yejun was already seated with his coffee.

"Morning," Yejun said, his voice soft but teasing. "You look like you fought your pillow all night."

Hamin grumbled something unintelligible, rubbing his eyes as he dropped into the chair opposite Yejun. He stared at the plate in front of him for a moment before muttering, "Thanks, hyung."

Yejun chuckled. "Eat up. You've got school."

The two ate in companionable silence, the clink of utensils and the faint hum of the fridge filling the space. Yejun glanced at Hamin's face, his gaze lingering on the faint bruise along his brother's jaw. The sight tightened something in his chest, but he kept his expression neutral.

"You ready for today?" Yejun asked, his tone teasing. "Or are you planning to dodge all your classes and become a mysterious high school legend?"

Hamin rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "Not everyone can be as cool as you, hyung."

Yejun grinned, leaning forward conspiratorially. "You're right. It's a high bar. But you're getting there. Just a few more scowls, and you'll have the perfect broody aura."

Hamin snorted softly, shaking his head. "You're ridiculous."

"Ridiculously right," Yejun shot back, raising his coffee cup in mock toast.

The light banter hung between them, warming the space more than the breakfast ever could. Yejun let it linger before standing to clear the table. "Alright, you'd better get going before the bus leaves you behind. Can't let that broody reputation slip."

Hamin smirked faintly, pushing his chair back with a small scrape. "You're really full of yourself, hyung," he muttered, grabbing his bag from the back of the chair. "See you later."

"Have a good day, Hamin," Yejun called after him as the door clicked shut behind his brother. For a moment, the apartment was silent again, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator.

Yejun glanced at the time and sighed, running a hand through his hair. He had to leave soon too. His eyes drifted to the dishes on the table, the remnants of breakfast still scattered across it. The mess nagged at him, but he shook it off.

"I'll deal with it later," he muttered, though he knew the evening would bring its own exhaustion. Grabbing his bag, he slung it over his shoulder and stepped outside.

The morning air was crisp, biting lightly at his streets were just beginning to stir, the faint sound of distant traffic mingling with the rustle of leaves as Yejun made his way to the subway station.

The platform was already buzzing with early commuters, their faces a mix of exhaustion and routine. Yejun joined them, finding a spot near the edge where the faint rumble of the approaching train vibrated through the ground. When the subway screeched to a halt, he stepped inside and grabbed the overhead bar, steadying himself as the train lurched forward.

The carriage was crowded but quiet, save for the occasional rustle of newspapers and faint hum of headphones leaking music. Yejun stared at his reflection in the window opposite him, the blurred cityscape rushing by in the background. His own face stared back, faintly distorted by the grime on the glass. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered intermittently, casting uneven shadows that made his tired features look even more worn.

The faint smell of overheated brakes and crowded bodies clung to the air, mingling with the sharper scent of someone's freshly brewed coffee wafting from a thermos nearby.

The rhythmic sway of the train added a strange, almost hypnotic cadence to his thoughts. His grip on the overhead bar tightened as his mind wandered. He thought of the late nights spent studying when he was younger, the scratch of pencils on cheap notebooks and the hum of a flickering desk lamp keeping him company. He remembered the mornings when his father's shadow loomed over the apartment, every sound sharp and dangerous, each word a landmine waiting to be triggered.

And then, he thought of the guitar in the corner of their room, the one he hadn't touched in years. His chest tightened as he recalled his mother's voice, soft and encouraging, as she urged him to play another song. The memory of her laugh, light and musical, lingered like the final chord of a melody that had long since faded.

Music had been a dream once. A different life, almost. He could still feel the calluses on his fingertips from hours spent strumming, the ache in his wrists a small price to pay for the joy it brought him. But dreams didn't pay the bills. They didn't put food on the table or keep the lights on. So he'd packed them away, trading melodies for numbers, strings for spreadsheets. Hamin's well-being mattered more.

The train jerked abruptly, pulling him from his thoughts. The burden settled like an old, familiar ache in his chest, one he knew how to bear. Yejun blinked, the reflection in the window rippling as the subway screeched to a halt.

The mechanical hiss of the doors opening snapped him further into the present. He let out a soft breath, adjusting his grip on the overhead bar before stepping off the train and into the bustling flow of commuters.

The sharp click of shoes against the tiled platform echoed in his ears as another long day stretched ahead.

The office was a familiar hum of muted activity when Yejun arrived. Rows of desks crammed into the small space buzzed with the sounds of keyboards clacking, phones ringing, and the occasional rustle of papers. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a pale glow that seemed to sap the room of warmth, but Yejun barely noticed anymore.

He made his way to his desk, neatly tucked into the corner, and set down his bag. Despite the monotony of it all, Yejun wore his usual soft smile, offering a small wave to Hana as he passed her desk. She grinned back, her energy always a bright spot in the office. Yejun let that warmth carry him as he settled into his seat, pulling out a folder and beginning his tasks. His fingers moved methodically over the keyboard as he updated spreadsheets and cross-checked figures, humming softly to himself—a tune he couldn't quite remember the name of, but one that lifted his mood.

The hours dragged on, punctuated only by the occasional coffee break and brief conversations with coworkers. Most of the exchanges were polite but pleasant, a testament to the kindness of his colleagues. Hana, who worked two desks down, always made a point to ask if he'd had lunch, her gentle reminders carrying a warmth that cut through the monotony like a small beam of sunlight. Yejun didn't mind the rhythm of it all. It kept things steady, even if he chose to keep work and life carefully separated.

At lunch, he sat by the window in the breakroom, a simple sandwich in hand. Outside, the city moved with its usual rhythm, people bustling by with purpose. Yejun's gaze lingered on the street below, his thoughts wandering. He thought of Hamin, wondering how his day was going.

A faint sound brought him back—a coworker calling his name. "Yejun, the boss wants to see you."

He blinked, nodding as he set aside his lunch. "Thanks," he murmured, straightening his tie as he stood. The walk to the supervisor's office felt longer than usual, each step echoing faintly in the quiet hallway. When he entered, the stern but not unkind face of his boss greeted him, framed by a cluttered desk and a view of the city skyline.

"Yejun," the man began, gesturing for him to sit. "I've been reviewing your work. Consistent as always. But… you seem tired lately. Everything alright?"

Yejun hesitated, his hands resting on his knees. "Yes, sir. Just busy. Nothing I can't handle."

The supervisor studied him for a moment before nodding. "If you need a day off, let me know. You're a reliable worker, Yejun. I mean that sincerely. We're lucky to have you here, and I'd rather you stay steady than burn out."

"I appreciate it," Yejun replied, his voice steady but polite. The supervisor smiled faintly before nodding. "Good man," he said simply. The conversation shifted quickly back to work, and soon Yejun was dismissed with a stack of new assignments. As he walked back to his desk, he caught Hana's eye, and she mouthed, "Everything okay?"

Yejun nodded with a reassuring smile, lifting the stack of files slightly. "All good," he mouthed back. Hana gave him a thumbs-up before turning back to her screen, her gesture a small but appreciated reminder that the people around him cared.

The weight of the new assignments felt like another small stone added to the pile he carried. But he adjusted, as he always did. There wasn't room for anything else.

On his way home, Yejun passed a street performer strumming a guitar, their voice carrying over the noise of the evening crowd. The guitar's notes were soft, almost melancholy, blending with the distant hum of the bustling street. The performer's fingers moved deftly over the strings, their expression focused and serene, as if the music was all that mattered.

Yejun slowed his pace, the melody tugging at memories he didn't often let surface. His fingers twitched slightly, a ghost of the motion they once knew, tracing over invisible strings. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if Hamin would ever understand what he'd given up—or if it even mattered anymore. The thought hung in his chest, heavy and unwelcome.

The thoughts came and went like a passing breeze, and he shook them off, forcing himself to keep walking. Stopping meant acknowledging the dreams he'd packed away, dreams he couldn't afford to carry when there was so much else weighing him down.

He let the sound fade behind him, replaced by the rhythm of his own footsteps—a steady beat to the song of responsibility he'd been playing for years.

The faint glow of his apartment building came into view, and Yejun felt a small sense of relief at the familiar sight. His thoughts, however, were interrupted by a familiar voice behind him.

"Yejun! There you are," Noah called, his voice full of its usual teasing lilt. "I was literally two minutes from knocking on your door. Figured I'd catch you before you locked me out like last time."

Yejun turned, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "You'd survive two minutes on the doorstep, Noah. Or is the great artist afraid of the cold?"

"Afraid? Never. I just hate being ignored. You're lucky I'm generous enough to grace you with my presence." Noah quipped, falling into step beside him. "Rough day?"

"Just the usual," Yejun replied with a shrug.

"So, spreadsheets and soul-crushing monotony. Got it." Noah nudged Yejun's shoulder lightly. "You're too good for that place, you know."

"And yet, I'm still there," Yejun said dryly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He glanced sideways at Noah.

"What are you doing here anyway?"

"I was on my way to your place, obviously," Noah said. "It's been a while, and I figured it was time to make sure you and Hamin hadn't turned into total recluses."

"Right. Because showing up unannounced is the best way to do that," Yejun replied, his voice dry but not without humor.

"Exactly! I'm all about authenticity," Noah quipped, slinging an arm loosely over Yejun's shoulders. "Besides, I missed you guys. Someone's gotta make sure you're both still alive."

Yejun shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You could've at least texted."

"And ruin the element of surprise? Please. I'm practically family anyway, so technically, I don't even need an invite."

"Family doesn't need an invite," Yejun said with a teasing grin. "Though I'm starting to think I should start charging you rent."

"Go ahead," Noah shot back with a smirk. "But don't be surprised when I start charging you for my sparkling company. You'd go broke in a week."

Yejun rolled his eyes. "You're probably starving. Let's get inside before you collapse from all that sparkling."

"Lead the way, noble host," Noah declared dramatically, throwing an exaggerated bow as they reached the building's entrance. Yejun shook his head with a quiet laugh, pushing the door open.

As they stepped into the apartment, the smell of something burning hit them immediately. Yejun froze, his gaze snapping to the kitchen.

"Hamin," he called, his voice carrying equal parts concern and exasperation.

From the kitchen, Hamin's sheepish voice replied, "I'm fixing it!"

Yejun sighed, sharing an amused glance with Noah before walking toward the kitchen. Hamin stood over the stove, waving a towel at the faint smoke curling up from the pan. The charred remains of what might have been dinner sat in the middle of the counter.

"You call this fixing?" Yejun teased, stepping in to rescue the situation. "Go sit down before you burn the place down."

Hamin huffed but obeyed, muttering under his breath as he plopped onto the couch. Noah followed, flopping down beside him with a grin.

"You really went all out, huh?" Noah said, nudging Hamin playfully. "This looks like something I'd cook. Which, for the record, is not a compliment."

"Shut up," Hamin mumbled, though his lips twitched in a reluctant smile.

As Yejun salvaged what he could and set the table with reheated leftovers, he noticed the apartment was spotless. The mess he'd left behind that morning was gone, the counters wiped clean and the dishes neatly stacked. A quiet warmth spread through his chest. Hamin had done this.

"You cleaned up?" Yejun asked as they sat down to eat.

Hamin shrugged, his cheeks tinting slightly. "You were in a hurry. Thought I'd help."

Noah raised an eyebrow, leaning closer to Hamin with mock suspicion. "Who are you, and what have you done with the real Hamin?"

Hamin rolled his eyes, but his grin gave him away. "I can be helpful, you know."

The three of them settled into an easy rhythm over dinner, laughter and light teasing filling the small apartment. Yejun watched the scene unfold, the stress of the day melting away as he took it all in. This—these simple, imperfect moments—reminded him why it was all worth it. Were he given the choice to start over, he'd make the same sacrifices all over again. Every single one.

RE: Chapter 3: Between Shadows and Promises

Hamin sat slumped on the school steps, his bag resting on his lap. The faint hum of distant voices floated through the air, mixing with the occasional chirp of birds. He was supposed to be heading home, but something held him back. He stared at the ground, tracing invisible patterns with the toe of his shoe.

Today had been another long day. It wasn't the classes—those he could manage—but the way his classmates looked at him, whispered when they thought he couldn't hear. Mad Dog. That nickname had started spreading after his last fight, a sharp reminder of how easily he lost control. Some of them were scared of him. Others sneered, calling him a wannabe tough guy. Hamin didn't care what they thought—or at least, that's what he told himself. But their words still clung to him, heavy and biting.

The school doors swung open, and a group of students spilled out, laughing and chatting. Hamin waited until they passed before standing and slinging his bag over his shoulder. He took the longer route home, hoping the extra time would clear his head. On his walk, he caught a reflection of himself in a shop window, his bruised jaw faintly visible. The sight twisted his stomach. Do I remind him of Dad? The thought crept in, uninvited, sharp and cruel. He shook it off and kept walking.

Yejun's day had been no less draining. His shift at the office dragged on, the monotony broken only by the occasional errand or question from a coworker. His temples throbbed faintly, a dull ache that had become more frequent lately. He rubbed at them absentmindedly, his eyes scanning the rows of filing cabinets he'd been organizing all morning.

"Yejun, could you make a copy of this for me?" his supervisor called from across the room, holding up a stack of papers.

"Of course," Yejun replied, forcing a polite smile as he took the papers and headed to the copier. The machine's rhythmic whirring filled the silence, and he let his thoughts wander.

It wasn't the work itself that got to him—it was the constant, gnawing pressure. Every paycheck was accounted for before it even hit his account. Rent, groceries, school supplies for Hamin, the occasional doctor's visit when one of them got sick. There was no room for error, no margin for anything unexpected. He thought of the guitar sitting in the corner of their apartment, untouched for years. He'd traded those dreams for stability, but sometimes the loss of them felt like a quiet ache he couldn't ignore.

The copier beeped, pulling him back to the present. He gathered the papers and handed them back to his supervisor, his smile still firmly in place. By the time his shift ended, the dull ache in his head had grown sharper, but he ignored it. He always did.

When Yejun got home, the apartment was quiet. Hamin's shoes were by the door, but his brother was nowhere to be seen.

"Hamin?" Yejun called, setting down his bag. He peeked into the kitchen and saw a note stuck to the fridge: Went to the store. Be back soon.

Yejun sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. He grabbed a glass of water and sank onto the couch, letting his head fall back. The dull throb behind his eyes persisted, and he pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead, trying to will it away.

The sound of the door opening startled him, and he looked up to see Hamin stepping inside, a plastic bag in hand.

"Hey," Hamin said, his tone casual. "Got some stuff for dinner. Thought I'd cook tonight."

Yejun raised an eyebrow. "You? Cook again? Should I be worried?"

Hamin rolled his eyes but grinned. "I'll try not to burn the place down this time."

Yejun chuckled, the sound easing some of the weight in his chest. "Alright, chef. Let me know if you need help."

As Hamin moved around the kitchen, Yejun watched him with a quiet fondness. There was something reassuring about seeing his brother like this—focused, determined. Hamin had grown so much in the past few years, but Yejun couldn't shake the worry that still clung to him. The bruises, the fights, the way Hamin sometimes seemed lost in his own head. He wanted to protect him, to shield him from the world, but he also knew Hamin needed to find his own way.

Dinner was simple but surprisingly good. They ate together at the small table, the conversation light and easy. Yejun felt the tension of the day start to fade, replaced by a warmth that only moments like this could bring.

"Hyung," Hamin said suddenly, his tone more serious. He hesitated, his chopsticks hovering over his plate. "Have you ever thought about doing something else? Something you actually like?"

Yejun blinked, surprised by the question. "What do you mean?" Yejun asked, surprised.

"I mean, you've been working this job for so long. Don't you ever think about, like, going back to music? Or trying something different?"

"You could do something you love," Hamin continued. "It doesn't have to be forever, but it might make things easier for you."

Yejun's smile faltered slightly. He shook his head, smiling faintly. "That's a nice thought, but it's not realistic right now. We need stability."

Hamin hesitated, his brow furrowing. "Then how about I get a part-time job? It'd give you some breathing space."

Yejun's expression hardened slightly. "Hamin, no. Absolutely not. Your focus should be on your studies, not worrying about money. You have your whole life ahead of you."

Hamin looked down, his expression conflicted. "Still. You deserve to be happy too."

Yejun squeezed his hand before letting go. "I am happy. As long as you're okay, I'm okay."

The words left Yejun with an ache he couldn't quite name. Hamin, however, felt the words cut deeper than Yejun likely realized. He hated hearing them—hated the way they brushed off his attempts to help. The quiet dismissal stung more than he let on, leaving him wrestling with guilt and frustration even as he forced himself to focus on the simple, imperfect moment they shared.

Later that night, after Hamin had gone to bed, Yejun sat alone in the living room. The faint glow of the streetlamp outside cast long shadows across the walls. He rested his head in his hands, the dull throb behind his eyes returning with a vengeance.

He couldn't let Hamin see this—the cracks, the strain, the weight he carried. Hamin needed him to be strong, steady. But as the headache pulsed through his skull, Yejun couldn't help but wonder how much longer he could keep this up.

Just a little longer, he told himself. Hamin's almost grown. I can hold on until then. But another thought lingered, unspoken: maybe he couldn't. And if he couldn't, what would happen to Hamin?

But the truth lingered in the back of his mind, unspoken and undeniable. Time was running out, and Yejun could feel it slipping through his fingers.

The next morning, a Saturday, Yejun left for work early, hoping to avoid the headache that had plagued him the night before. Hamin woke to find the apartment spotless, a note left on the counter: Have a good day, don't skip breakfast. Love, Hyung.

Hamin smiled faintly as he read it, the guilt from their conversation still weighing on him. He sat at the kitchen table, staring at the untouched plate of toast and eggs Yejun had prepared. For a moment, he thought about the promise he'd made to himself—to do better, to make things easier for Yejun. He didn't know how yet, but he had to try.

Hamin's thoughts hadn't eased. Yejun's firm words about staying in school kept replaying in his mind, but they only fueled his frustration. Late Saturday afternoon, he sat at the kitchen table with his phone in hand, staring at the screen. He scrolled through his contacts until he landed on a familiar name: Noah Hyung.

Hamin hesitated. He called Noah often—Noah was like a second older brother to him—but this felt different. He didn't want to bother him, but if anyone could give him advice, it was Noah. Taking a deep breath, he tapped the call button.

"Yo, Hamin!" Noah's voice came through the speaker, bright and easy. "Long time no talk, kid. What's up?"

"Hi, Noah Hyung," Hamin said, his voice quieter. "Uh, are you busy? I just… needed to ask you something."

There was a pause, then Noah's tone softened. "For you? Never busy. What's on your mind?"

Hamin hesitated again, gripping the edge of the table. "It's about Hyung. Yejun. He's… he's working so hard, and I think it's too much for him. I want to help him. I was thinking—what if I got a part-time job? You know, just something small. But he can't know."

"Sounds like him," Noah replied with a wry chuckle. "Always trying to carry the world on his shoulders. And you want me to help you keep it a secret?"

"Exactly. I know he'd just say no if I told him. That's why I'm asking you, Hyung. Can you help me find something?"

Noah hummed thoughtfully. "Yejun's stubborn, that's for sure. But he means well, you know? He just doesn't want you to end up like him, giving up everything too soon."

"I get that," Hamin said quickly. "But doesn't he deserve a break? Doesn't he deserve… more?"

"Alright, kid," Noah said after a pause, his tone thoughtful. "But let's not jump into anything just yet. How about we meet up tomorrow and talk this through properly? There's more to this than just finding a job, and we need to figure out the best way forward."

Hamin nodded, even though Noah couldn't see him. "Yeah. Thanks, Hyung."

"Anytime," Noah said warmly. "And Hamin? Don't beat yourself up too much, okay? You're doing more for him than you think."

As the call ended, Hamin set his phone down and exhaled. A flicker of hope stirred within him. Maybe, just maybe, Noah could help him figure things out.

RE: Chapter 4: Quiet Plans and Hidden Burdens

Noah arrived right on time. Hamin spotted him from the window as he leaned against his old, slightly battered motorbike, waving casually. With his loose denim jacket and relaxed demeanor, Noah always seemed to bring a sense of ease wherever he went. Hamin quickly grabbed his bag and headed out.

"You ready?" Noah asked as Hamin approached. "I'm starving, so you're buying me lunch for dragging me into this, right?"

Hamin rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at his lips. "You're the one who said we needed to meet up."

"Details, details," Noah said with a grin, tossing Hamin a helmet. "Hop on. I know a good spot."

The small café Noah took him to was tucked into a quiet corner of the city, far from the usual bustle. It smelled like freshly brewed coffee and pastries, the warm atmosphere a stark contrast to the noise in Hamin's head.

They grabbed a corner table, and Noah leaned back in his chair, his usual easy smile softening slightly as he studied Hamin. "Alright, spill it. What's really going on?"

Hamin hesitated, tracing the rim of his cup with his finger. "It's like I said on the phone. Hyung's doing too much. He's working himself into the ground, and I hate it. I want to help, but he won't let me."

Noah's gaze didn't waver. "So you think sneaking behind his back is the answer?"

Hamin flinched slightly. "You make it sound worse than it is. It's not like I'm trying to betray him. I just… I don't want him to carry everything alone anymore. Even if he doesn't want my help."

Noah's smile faded into something more thoughtful. "I get it, kid. Really. But going behind his back? That's a dangerous line to walk. What if he finds out?"

"Then I'll deal with it," Hamin said firmly. "If he's mad, fine. But at least he'll know I'm serious about helping."

Noah didn't answer right away. He tapped his fingers on the table, his expression unreadable. A part of him felt sad—seeing Hamin so desperate to lighten Yejun's burdens reminded him of himself years ago. He thought of his grandmother, how she had worked tirelessly to support him, and how much he had hated watching her sacrifice so much for his sake. He couldn't stop her then, just like Hamin couldn't stop Yejun now, and that helplessness still stung.

"You know, Yejun would kill me if he found out I helped you go behind his back," Noah said, his tone half-joking but laced with caution. "And even if you managed to get a job, what are you planning to do with the money? What's your big idea, huh? Pay the bills without him noticing?"

Hamin faltered for a moment, then spoke with renewed determination. "I hadn't thought that far yet," he admitted quietly. "But I wasn't planning to sneak it into the bills or anything like that. I just… I wanted to show him I could do something. That I could help if he just let me."

Noah's lips quirked into a faint smile at Hamin's determination. "You're still a kid, you know. And I'm still not sure this is a good idea."

"Please, Noah Hyung," Hamin pressed, his voice softening. "I'm not asking to do anything crazy. Just something small. I want him to know he's not alone, even if I can't say it to his face."

Noah sighed, shaking his head. "You really are stubborn, aren't you? Must run in the family." He hesitated, his voice softening. "I get where you're coming from, Hamin. I hated seeing my grandmother work so hard for me, too. It's not easy feeling like you can't do anything to make it better." After a pause, he added, "Alright. I'll help. But we're going to do this smart, okay? No rushing into anything."

Hamin's face lit up. "Thank you, Hyung."

Noah leaned back in his chair, a teasing grin spreading across his face. "Don't get too excited. If this blows up in your face, I'm telling Yejun you blackmailed me."

Hamin nodded quickly. "Thank you, Hyung. Really."

Noah's smile returned, a little crooked but genuine. "Don't thank me yet. Now let's figure out what kind of job won't get you into too much trouble."

Meanwhile, Yejun's Saturday at work dragged on like a slow-moving storm. The headache from the night before had subsided, but a faint pressure lingered behind his eyes. He glanced at the clock on the wall for the third time in as many minutes, willing the hours to pass faster.

He thought about Hamin at home and the weight of their earlier conversation. Yejun had always known Hamin felt guilty about how much he gave up, but hearing it aloud still struck a nerve.

"You deserve to be happy too."

The words replayed in his mind like a song stuck on loop. Yejun rubbed his temple, pushing the thought away. Happiness was a luxury he couldn't afford to think about. Not now.

By late afternoon, Hamin and Noah had visited a small music venue where Noah often performed. The owner, a middle-aged man with a kind but sharp demeanor, had offered Hamin a trial position helping with stage setup and general maintenance. It wasn't glamorous, but it was something.

The next evening, Hamin arrived early for his first shift, nerves tightening his chest. The venue was quiet, the dim lights casting a warm glow over the empty stage. He followed the owner's instructions, unloading equipment from the back room and carefully arranging it near the stage. The speakers were heavier than he expected, the cables a tangled mess that seemed to mock his inexperience.

As he worked, Hamin couldn't help but think about Yejun. Every bead of sweat, every muscle ache felt like a silent rebellion against his brother's insistence that he couldn't handle this. The strain was nothing compared to the weight he'd carried seeing Yejun's exhaustion day after day.

By the time the first band started sound-checking, Hamin was covered in dust and more than a little tired. But when he stepped back to admire the setup, a small sense of pride settled in his chest. He had contributed, even if it was just a few cables and a stack of speakers.

Noah wandered over, balancing two cups of soda in one hand. "Not bad for your first day," he said, handing one to Hamin. "You didn't even trip over the wires."

Hamin managed a smile, taking a sip of the soda. "It's harder than it looks."

"Yeah, but it gets easier," Noah replied, leaning against the wall. His gaze softened slightly as he added, "You remind me of myself when I first started. All determination, no clue what I was doing."

Hamin laughed lightly, the sound easing some of the tension in his shoulders. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Hyung."

"Hey, you're doing good. Just don't overdo it," Noah said, ruffling Hamin's hair in a way that made him groan in mock annoyance.

As they left the venue later that night, Noah glanced over at Hamin, his expression thoughtful. "So, you think you can handle this every weekend?"

Hamin nodded firmly, his resolve evident. "Yeah. I need this, Hyung. It's not just about helping Yejun. I want to prove to myself I can do something worthwhile."

Noah let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "Alright, kid. You've got guts, I'll give you that. But listen, don't overdo it. You're not going to help anyone if you burn yourself out."

"I won't," Hamin promised, though his stomach twisted slightly at the thought of how much he had to juggle. "And don't worry. I'll figure out how to tell Yejun eventually."

Noah raised an eyebrow. "Eventually, huh? Just make sure it's not when he's got a frying pan in hand. I don't feel like being collateral damage."

Hamin chuckled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Noted. Thanks, Hyung."

As the sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, Hamin felt a small spark of hope ignite within him. It wasn't much, but it was a start. And for now, that was enough.

Still, as he walked home that evening, a complicated mix of emotions churned within him. He felt a pang of guilt for keeping this secret from Yejun, knowing how much his brother valued honesty between them. But alongside the guilt was a sense of satisfaction—for the first time, he was doing something to help. For once, he didn't feel like a burden. And that feeling, however fleeting, made it all worth it.

RE: Chapter 5: Frayed Edges

Chapter 5: Frayed Edges

Yejun sat at the kitchen table, the silence of the apartment settling heavily around him. The stack of bills in front of him blurred slightly as he rubbed at his temple, the familiar pressure creeping in again. His gaze drifted to the clock on the wall. Hamin usually returned home earlier than this, especially on weekends. Lately, his younger brother had been more distracted, disappearing for hours at a time, though his grades hadn't suffered.

If anything, they'd been stellar, which made Yejun hesitate to question him. But something felt...off. His morning shift had been longer than usual, the office unusually busy for a Sunday, and now the fatigue weighed on him like an old coat.

Across the table, his untouched cup of coffee had gone cold, the thin sheen of bitterness reflecting the overhead light. He thought of how diligently Hamin worked at his studies. That wasn't what worried him. It was the late nights and vague answers whenever Yejun asked where he'd been.

He glanced at the clock and frowned. Hamin was late. Again. Lately, his younger brother had been coming home later and later, offering vague excuses about studying with friends or school projects. Yejun wanted to believe him, but the tightness in Hamin's voice when he spoke made him doubt.

What are you hiding from me, Hamin?

The sound of the door unlocking broke the silence, and Yejun's gaze snapped up. Hamin stepped in, his hair slightly disheveled, his bag slung over one shoulder. He paused when he saw Yejun sitting at the table, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face before he plastered on a grin.

"Hey, Hyung," Hamin said, kicking off his shoes. "You're still up?"

Yejun gestured to the table. "We need to talk."

Hamin's smile faltered. "About what?"

"About where you've been spending so much time."

Hamin's shoulders stiffened slightly, but he kept his tone even as he hung up his bag. "I told you, Hyung. I've been studying. My grades are fine, aren't they?"

"With who?" Yejun pressed, his tone calm but firm. "You've been gone a lot lately, Hamin. Is there something else going on?"

Hamin's cheeks flushed slightly. "I told you, it's for school."

Yejun leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "And you can't study at home because…?" His voice was steady, but there was a hint of doubt behind his words, one he couldn't entirely hide.

Hamin opened his mouth, then closed it again, his hands fidgeting at his sides. He knew Yejun wasn't buying his story, and the guilt gnawed at him. Finally, he let out a small sigh, his voice softening. "Sometimes it's easier to focus somewhere else, away from distractions. That's all, Hyung."

Yejun studied him for a long moment, his gaze steady but unreadable. Then he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine. But if something's going on, you'll tell me. Right?"

Hamin nodded quickly, relief flickering across his face. "Of course."

But as he escaped to his room, closing the door behind him, a memory resurfaced, one he had tried to push aside many times before. It was late one night, years ago, when he was about ten and had accidentally walked into the living room to find nineteen-year-old Yejun sitting on the couch, head in his hands. At first, Hamin thought his brother was asleep, but then he noticed the slight trembling in Yejun's shoulders. It took him a moment to realize Yejun was crying.

Hamin froze, unsure of what to do. At that age, he didn't fully understand the gravity of their situation, but he could tell that Yejun's pain ran deep. On the table in front of Yejun were several opened envelopes and a piece of paper that looked like an acceptance letter. The words "Music Department" and "Congratulations" were bolded at the top. Hamin's chest tightened as he pieced it together—Yejun had applied to a music program, and he'd been accepted. But the bills stacked nearby told the rest of the story. There was no way Yejun could afford it.

Hamin didn't know how long he stood there, paralyzed, feeling both too young to help and too old to ignore it. He hated seeing Yejun like that, the brother who always smiled for him, now looking so broken. He hated seeing Yejun like that, hated knowing he was the reason his brother had given up so much. But more than that, he hated how small and helpless he felt in that moment, unable to comfort Yejun or change their situation.

That memory lingered now, clearer than ever, sharpening the guilt that had taken root in his chest. He remembered how useless he had felt then, standing frozen while Yejun silently broke apart. That feeling had stayed with him all these years, growing into a quiet determination.

Now, as he worked and scraped together his own effort, he felt like he was finally breaking free from that helplessness. He wasn't a little kid anymore, standing in the shadows. He was taking action, no matter how small, to shoulder even a fraction of the weight Yejun had carried alone for so long. He hated lying to his brother, but it felt like the only way to repay the sacrifices Yejun had made for him.

The next weekend, Hamin arrived at the music venue early for his next shift. The trial had gone well enough for the owner to keep him on, and Hamin felt a small sense of pride as he greeted the familiar faces backstage.

"Hey, kid," one of the crew members called, waving him over. "We've got a bigger setup today, so we'll need all hands on deck."

Hamin nodded, rolling up his sleeves. The work was tiring, but it was honest, and for the first time in a while, he felt like he was contributing. As he coiled cables and adjusted equipment, he thought about how Yejun always seemed to carry the weight of their lives alone. Maybe this is how he feels all the time, Hamin thought. The realization hit him harder than he expected.

During a short break, Noah found him sitting backstage, sipping on a bottle of water. "You're looking pretty beat," Noah said, sitting down next to him.

Hamin smiled faintly. "It's not so bad."

"You sure? You've got that look like you're about to pass out."

"I'm fine, Hyung," Hamin insisted, though the exhaustion tugging at his limbs told a different story.

Noah gave him a skeptical look but didn't push. Instead, he leaned back and crossed his arms. "You know, you don't have to take on the whole world, Hamin. You remind me of myself, back when I thought I had to solve everything on my own. It took me way too long to realize that sometimes, asking for help isn't weakness—it's just smart."

Hamin glanced at him, his expression conflicted. "That's what I'm trying to do, Hyung. I'm helping Yejun in the only way I can. I just don't want to feel like I'm standing by, doing nothing."

Noah's gaze softened. "Yeah, I get that. I hated watching my grandmother work herself to the bone for me. It's not easy feeling like you can't do enough. But don't lose yourself in the process, alright? Yejun doesn't need another reason to worry."

Hamin nodded slowly, his grip tightening on the water bottle. "I won't."

Noah smirked, leaning in slightly. "Good. Because if you pass out here, I'm not carrying you home. You're heavier than you look."

Hamin chuckled despite himself, the tension in his chest easing a little. "Thanks, Hyung. For everything."

That night, as Hamin walked home, his steps were slower than usual. The work had left him physically drained, but his mind raced. He thought about Yejun's words, the unspoken doubts in his brother's eyes. He thought about Noah's advice and the way his own guilt seemed to grow heavier with each passing day.

But despite it all, there was a spark of resolve burning in his chest. For the first time, he felt like he was stepping into Yejun's world—the world of sacrifices and quiet strength. It wasn't easy, but it was worth it. For Yejun, it was always worth it.

RE: Chapter 6: Fractured Facades

Hamin's head rested against his desk, the dull hum of the teacher's voice blending with the chatter of students around him. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, and the words on the page in front of him blurred. He'd stayed up late finishing a shift at the venue, then tried to cram for a test he hadn't had time to study for. Now, his body was demanding payment for his relentless schedule.

"Hamin," the teacher's voice snapped sharply. His head jerked up, and he blinked rapidly, realizing the entire class was staring at him. "I don't know what's been going on with you lately, but I suggest you pull yourself together. You're better than this."

A few snickers rippled through the room, but one of his classmates, Bamby, frowned from the next desk over. As the teacher returned to her lesson, Bamby leaned in and whispered, "You okay?"

Hamin nodded quickly, avoiding Minho's gaze. "Yeah. Just tired."

"You've been looking like a zombie all week," Bamby muttered. "If something's up, you can talk to me."

Hamin forced a small smile but didn't reply. The last thing he wanted was to unload his problems on anyone else.

That evening, Hamin arrived at the music venue for another shift. He was halfway through setting up a set of speakers when Noah appeared, his arms crossed and a frown etched onto his face.

"Hamin," he said, his tone unusually stern. "Did you even eat today?"

Hamin paused, his hands hovering over the cables. "I grabbed something earlier," he lied.

Noah's frown deepened. "Don't give me that. You're running on fumes, kid. If you keep this up, you're going to crash."

"I'm fine, Hyung," Hamin insisted, though his voice lacked conviction.

Noah sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I've been keeping quiet because I get it. You want to help Yejun. But pushing yourself like this? It's not worth it. And lying to him—it's going to blow up in your face sooner or later."

Hamin's jaw tightened. "I don't have a choice. Hyung does so much for me. This is the only way I can pay him back."

Noah's eyes softened slightly, but his voice remained firm. "If you don't come clean soon, I will. I can't keep lying to my best friend, Hamin. Not if it means watching you run yourself into the ground."

Hamin's stomach twisted, but he nodded reluctantly. "I'll figure it out. Just… not yet."

Noah didn't look convinced but let the matter drop for now. "Go grab something to eat before you pass out. That's not negotiable."

Back at home, Yejun sat at the kitchen table, flipping through a stack of bills. His brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of the numbers, the weight of their financial situation pressing down on him. As he moved the papers aside, a crumpled receipt fell out. He picked it up, his eyes narrowing as he read the name of the music venue printed at the top.

The sound of the front door opening made him tuck the receipt into his pocket. Hamin walked in, his movements sluggish but hurried.

"Hey, Hyung," he said, his voice tinged with forced cheer. "Sorry I'm late. Studying ran over again."

Yejun's eyes flicked over his brother, taking in the faint dust on his clothes and the exhaustion in his posture. He didn't say anything but nodded slowly. "You're working hard lately," he said, his tone even.

Hamin froze for a fraction of a second before replying, "Yeah. Finals and all that."

Yejun hummed in response, his mind already racing with questions he didn't voice. Instead, he stood and ruffled Hamin's hair gently. "Go shower and get some rest. You look dead on your feet."

Hamin's smile was small but genuine as he retreated to his room. Once the door clicked shut, Yejun pulled the receipt from his pocket, his frown deepening.

The next day at work, Yejun was speaking with a colleague in the break room when the man leaned against the counter with a grin. "I ran into your brother the other day," he said casually. "Saw him at that music venue downtown. Kid takes after you—hard worker, that one."

Yejun's blood ran cold, though he managed to keep his expression neutral. "Yeah," he said slowly. "He's… always been like that."

Inside, his mind raced, piecing everything together. The late nights, the exhaustion etched into Hamin's face, and the faint dust on his clothes he'd brushed off as nothing. The receipt from the venue wasn't just an anomaly—it was confirmation. Hamin had lied to him—about studying, about everything. The betrayal stung more than Yejun wanted to admit, but beyond the anger was a growing worry that twisted in his chest. He forced a tight smile and excused himself, retreating to his desk as questions swirled relentlessly in his mind.

At school, Hamin's exhaustion reached a tipping point. He fumbled with his notes during a presentation, dropping half of them on the floor. The class erupted in quiet laughter, but Bamby stepped in, his pink hair catching the light as he bent to pick up the scattered pages. He handed them back to Hamin with a faint scowl.

Bamby stepped in, his pink hair catching the light as he bent to pick up the scattered pages. He handed them back to Hamin with a faint scowl. "Seriously, man, you're falling apart."

Hamin gave a quick, embarrassed nod. "I'm fine, just tired."

Bamby frowned, crossing his arms and leaning slightly toward Hamin. Despite being shorter, his intensity was hard to ignore. "You sure? You look like you haven't slept in days. Or eaten. Don't tell me you're one of those coffee-diet people now."

Hamin managed a weak chuckle, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm fine. Really."

Bamby's frown deepened as he gave Hamin a once-over. "If you keel over, I'm not carrying you to the nurse. Just saying." He paused, his voice softening slightly. "But seriously, if something's going on, don't keep it to yourself, alright?"

Hamin forced a small smile but didn't reply. The concern in Bamby's voice lingered in his mind as they returned to the classroom.

That evening, as Hamin walked to the venue for another shift, Noah's words lingered in his mind. The guilt was growing harder to ignore, but so was his determination. He had to keep going—for Yejun, for their future. Even if it meant breaking himself in the process.

During setup, Hamin's exhaustion finally caught up with him. He was helping lift a heavy speaker when his grip slipped, the bulky equipment tilting dangerously toward him. Before he could react, Noah lunged forward, shoving him out of the way. The speaker crashed down, clipping Noah's shoulder as he twisted to avoid the brunt of the impact.

"Noah Hyung!" Hamin scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding as he knelt beside Noah. "Are you okay?"

Noah winced, rubbing his shoulder but managing a strained grin. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little dinged up."

"I'm so sorry," Hamin stammered, his voice shaking. "I wasn't paying attention—"

"Hamin," Noah cut him off, his tone firm despite the pain. "This is exactly what I was talking about. You're pushing yourself too hard, and now you're putting yourself—and others—in danger. This has to stop."

Hamin's eyes burned with unshed tears as guilt twisted in his chest. "I'm sorry," he whispered again, his voice barely audible.

Noah sighed, softening slightly as he placed a hand on Hamin's shoulder. "I know you're trying to help, kid. But if you keep this up, you're going to get yourself seriously hurt. Or worse. You need to talk to Yejun. No more excuses. Until you do, you're not working here anymore. I can't let you keep risking yourself like this."

Hamin opened his mouth to protest, but Noah fixed him with a stern look that stopped him cold. "I mean it, Hamin. No more hiding. No more pushing yourself to the brink. You have to let Yejun in on this, or I'm done covering for you."

Later that evening, Noah pulled up in front of the apartment Hamin shared with Yejun. As they sat in the car, Noah sighed, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "Hamin," he began, his tone softer than usual. "You need to come clean to Yejun. I'm serious. He's going to find out, and it's better if it comes from you."

Hamin shifted uncomfortably, staring at his hands. "I will," he murmured. "Just… not yet." He glanced up at the dimly lit windows of the apartment and felt his stomach churn. He wasn't ready to face his brother.

Noah shook his head. "You've been saying 'not yet' for weeks. You don't get how much this is going to hurt him if he hears it from someone else. He's your brother, Hamin. He deserves better than that. Don't let him down like this."

Hamin swallowed hard but didn't reply. Noah sighed again and ruffled his hair lightly. "You're a good kid, Hamin. Don't make this harder than it needs to be. You've got a chance to fix this—don't waste it."

As Hamin stepped out of the car, his stomach churned. He walked into the venue, the weight of Noah's words pressing down on him.

When Hamin got home that night, the apartment was unusually quiet. The usual hum of the television was absent, and the air felt heavier than usual. Yejun sat at the dinner table, his hands folded in front of him, his posture rigid, and his expression unreadable. The single overhead light above the table cast long shadows across his face, making his eyes seem darker.

"Hey, Hyung," Hamin said carefully, his voice quieter than usual. The stillness of the room made his steps feel louder as he set his bag down and moved toward the table. His stomach twisted at the sight of Yejun's expression. "Everything okay?"

Yejun looked up slowly, his gaze meeting Hamin's with an intensity that made him hesitate. "Sit down," he said evenly, his tone calm but leaving no room for argument.

Hamin froze mid-step, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure Yejun could hear it. He tried to speak, the words catching in his throat. "Hyung, I—"

"Don't," Yejun interrupted, his voice steady but laced with something Hamin couldn't place—disappointment, anger, or maybe both. "I know."

The words hung heavy in the air, and Hamin felt the weight of them settle over him like a crushing wave.

RE: Chapter 7: Truth Unveiled

Chapter 7: Truth Unveiled

The silence in the apartment was suffocating as Hamin sat across from Yejun at the dinner table. Yejun's steady, piercing gaze pinned him in place, and the words Hamin had been rehearsing scattered like leaves in the wind. He felt small under his brother's scrutiny, the weight of his secret now a leaden knot in his stomach.

"Hyung, I—" Hamin began, his voice trembling.

"I said I know," Yejun interrupted, his tone sharp and controlled, but the anger beneath it was unmistakable. "How long?"

Hamin flinched. "A few weeks," he admitted, barely above a whisper.

Yejun's jaw tightened as he leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table. "And in all that time, you didn't think to tell me? You just lied? Coming home late, pretending it was school? Do you know how worried I've been?"

Hamin winced at the rising volume of Yejun's voice. "I was trying to help! You do everything for me, Hyung. I thought… if I could earn some money, maybe I could make things a little easier for you."

Yejun laughed, but it was hollow, bitter. "Help me? By running yourself into the ground? By lying to my face every night? Do you think that's what I wanted from you?"

Hamin's stomach twisted. "I didn't know what else to do!" he snapped back, his voice cracking under the strain. "You work so hard, and I just sit here, doing nothing while you sacrifice everything for me. I wanted to make it up to you!"

"And lying was the way to do that?" Yejun shot back, standing abruptly. His chair scraped against the floor, the sound cutting through the tension like a knife. "Do you have any idea what it's like to watch you come home every night looking like you're about to collapse? Do you know how helpless that made me feel? Like I was failing you? Like I couldn't even protect you from yourself?"

Hamin opened his mouth to argue, but the image of Yejun stumbling into the apartment night after night, his shoulders sagging and his face pale with exhaustion, flashed in his mind. He remembered the quiet sighs Yejun tried to muffle as he sat at the table late into the night, the dark circles under his eyes growing deeper by the day. Hamin hated those moments—hated the helplessness they made him feel. And now Yejun had the audacity to act like only he was allowed to sacrifice?

The irony made Hamin's anger spike, his frustration boiling over. He thought about all the times Yejun came home late, his body drained of energy but his mouth full of reassurances. It felt hypocritical, infuriating even. "That's rich, coming from you," he snapped, his voice sharp and trembling with emotion. "You work yourself into exhaustion every single day, and I'm supposed to sit here and do nothing? Watch you break yourself for me like it's fine?"

Yejun exhaled sharply, his expression hardening. "This isn't about me, Hamin. Don't twist it. We're talking about your choices, not mine."

Yejun's eyes narrowed, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Did Noah know about this? Did he help you hide it?"

Hamin hesitated, his throat tightening. "Hyung, it's not his fault—"

"Did he know?" Yejun demanded, his eyes narrowing.

"Yes, but—"

Yejun's hand pressed firmly onto the table, his knuckles whitening as he exhaled sharply. "You dragged Noah into this? And he hid it from me? He knows how much I worry about you, Hamin. What were you both thinking?"

Hamin's chest ached as he scrambled to defend Noah. "Hyung, he told me to come clean. He didn't want me to keep it a secret, but I begged him not to say anything. Don't blame him."

Yejun shook his head, his hands trembling as he dragged them through his hair. "This is unbelievable. Do you know how reckless this was? Do you even understand what you've been doing to yourself? To me?"

"I just wanted to help," Hamin whispered, his voice breaking. "Why is it okay for you to sacrifice everything but not me? Why can't I do something for you for once?" Why do I have to feel so useless?

Yejun's face softened for a moment, but his voice remained firm. "Because it's not your job to carry this weight, Hamin. You're supposed to focus on school, on your future. That's what I've been fighting for. Don't you see that?"

Hamin dropped his gaze, his hands clenching into fists on his lap. The suffocating feeling in his chest grew stronger, twisting into something darker.

Yejun took a deep breath, his anger giving way to exhaustion. He pressed a hand to his temple, wincing slightly as a faint throb pulsed behind his eyes. "You're quitting the job. That's not up for debate."

Hamin looked up, his eyes wide with desperation. "Hyung, please—"

"No," Yejun said firmly, cutting him off. "You're done, Hamin. And no more lies. Do you understand me?"

Hamin's lips trembled as he nodded, his voice cracking. "Okay."

Yejun stepped away from the table, rubbing his face with a heavy sigh. His voice softened, though the exhaustion was evident. "I love you, Hamin. And I'm proud of how much you care, of how much you want to help. But the way you went about this… it hurt, Hamin. It hurt more than you realize. This can't happen again."

Hamin swallowed hard and managed a shaky, "I know." The words felt hollow, a small crack in the storm of anger and frustration swirling within him. They settled somewhere deep, not as a point of acceptance, but as fuel for the darker thoughts already festering.

Yejun sighed again, his hand dragging through his hair as his shoulders sagged under the weight of everything unsaid. The exhaustion in his eyes mirrored the weariness in his voice. "Good," he said quietly, his words steady but tinged with fatigue. "Let's both get some sleep, hmm?"

He placed a hand on Hamin's shoulder, the touch lingering just long enough to feel both grounding and heavy. Then, without another word, he turned and walked toward his room, his steps slower than usual, his back slightly hunched. The door clicked shut softly behind him, leaving Hamin alone with the suffocating silence, his anger and guilt spiraling in the stillness of the apartment.

The silence didn't soothe him—it was a cruel reminder of every failure, every mistake that defined him. No matter how hard he tried, it never seemed to be enough. The echoes of their argument lingered, each word carving deeper into the fragile pieces of his resolve.

He thought about Yejun's weary face, the tremble in his brother's hand as he pressed it to his temple. Hamin hated that he'd made it worse. Hated how everything he did seemed to backfire. The anger inside him churned, coiling tighter with every breath, but there was no target. Not really.

Maybe I'm just meant to fail. Maybe I'll never be enough.

The thought came unbidden, sharp and unforgiving. It hung in the air, mingling with the suffocating silence that wrapped around him like a vice. Hamin clenched his fists tighter, the sting of his nails digging into his palms barely registering.

The silence pressed harder, louder than his thoughts, louder than the ache in his chest.

RE: Chapter 8: Fractured Patterns

The alarm buzzed sharply, breaking the stillness of the morning. Hamin groaned, pressing his face deeper into the pillow before forcing himself to sit up. His body ached, and his mind was heavy with the residue of the argument the night before. But he knew how things worked between them—this was the pattern. They wouldn't talk about it, not really. Instead, they'd try to slip back into the fragile rhythm of their normal routine.

When Hamin shuffled into the kitchen, Yejun was already standing by the stove. The smell of eggs and rice filled the air, a comforting reminder of the mornings they had always shared. Yejun glanced over his shoulder, offering a faint smile that didn't quite reach his tired eyes.

"Morning," Yejun said, his tone light but forced.

"Morning," Hamin replied, his voice subdued. He sat at the table, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve as Yejun set a plate in front of him. The usual eggs and rice, neatly prepared. It was such a simple gesture, but it made Hamin's chest tighten.

"Eat up," Yejun said as he took a seat across from him, his movements deliberate but slow. "You need energy for school."

Hamin nodded and picked up his chopsticks. He forced himself to take a few bites, though his appetite had vanished. The silence stretched between them, not tense, but laden with the things neither of them was ready to say.

"So," Yejun began, breaking the quiet. "I called the venue. Told them you won't be coming back. It's for the better, Hamin."

Hamin's chopsticks froze. He forced himself to look up, his expression carefully neutral. "You didn't have to do that."

"Yes, I did," Yejun said firmly, though his voice held no anger. "It's done, Hamin. Let's not drag this out."

Hamin wanted to argue, to push back, but the exhaustion etched into Yejun's face stopped him. He nodded instead, swallowing the bitterness rising in his throat. "Okay." He forced himself to take another bite of rice, telling himself that if Yejun could keep going, so could he.

Yejun's expression softened slightly. "We'll figure things out," he said, his voice quieter now. "But I need you to focus on school. That's the most important thing."

"I will," Hamin murmured, though the words felt hollow. He pushed his food around on the plate, wishing he could will away the weight in his chest.

Yejun, sensing the lingering heaviness, leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms with a mock-serious expression. "You know, if you don't finish your eggs, they might revolt." He raised his hands in exaggerated claws, wiggling his fingers. "You'll wake up and find them plotting against you."

Hamin blinked, startled, before a small laugh escaped him. It wasn't much, but it was enough to ease some of the tension. Yejun smiled faintly, his own shoulders relaxing slightly.

"There it is," Yejun said softly. "Finish up, alright? We'll be fine." He glanced at the clock on the wall and his eyes widened slightly. "Ah, I'm going to be late at this rate!"

Yejun quickly scarfed down the rest of his food and stood, grabbing his bag from the counter. As he headed toward the door, he paused and turned back to Hamin, his expression softening. "Hey," he called out, his voice warm, "I love you, Hamin. Do good today, alright?"

The smile that followed was so sweet and genuine that it seemed to melt away the lingering tension in the room. Hamin looked down at his plate, his cheeks warming, but managed his usual retort. "Yeah, yeah. I know."

Yejun tilted his head, cupping a hand to his ear with a playful grin. "What's that? I didn't catch that."

Hamin smirked and shot back, "I thought you were getting late?"

"Ah, you're right!" Yejun exclaimed, throwing up his hands in mock exasperation. "See you later, Hamin!"

"Bye, Hyung," Hamin said, his voice lighter than it had been all morning.

Yejun waved as he slipped out the door, leaving behind a small sense of peace that lingered long after he was gone.

Hamin left the apartment soon after, heading to the bus stop. The morning air was crisp, a faint breeze brushing against his face as he trudged along. His thoughts swirled relentlessly, circling back to the argument and Yejun's decision to end his part-time job. He knew it was done, that there was no changing Yejun's mind, but the ache in his chest refused to subside.

I'll help him some other way, he told himself, clenching his fists in his jacket pockets. There has to be something I can do. But the bitterness lingered, heavy and suffocating, a constant reminder of his helplessness.

At the bus stop, Hamin leaned against the metal pole, his gaze distant as he stared down the street. The sound of footsteps pulled him out of his thoughts, and he glanced up to see Bamby approaching, his bright pink hair standing out against the dull morning sky.

"Well, don't you look cheerful," Bamby said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He stopped next to Hamin, crossing his arms and smirking up at him. "What's the deal? Another bad hair day, or are you just brooding for fun now?"

Hamin raised an eyebrow, his tone flat. "Morning."

Bamby's smirk softened slightly, and he fished something out of his pocket. "Here," he said, tossing a piece of candy into Hamin's hand. "Sugar fixes everything. Not that you'd appreciate it, moody."

Hamin stared at the candy for a moment before tucking it into his pocket. Hamin glanced at the candy and pocketed it with a noncommittal nod. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Bamby replied, his tone nonchalant but his eyes flickering with a hint of concern. He leaned against the pole beside Hamin, his shorter stature making the contrast between them almost comical. "You know, I didn't have to stop and save your miserable morning. But here I am, being generous. Really, you should be grateful."

Hamin chuckled, the sound faint but genuine. "Yeah, yeah. You're a saint."

The bus pulled up moments later, and Bamby nudged Hamin with his elbow. "Come on, mopey. Let's get moving."

As they boarded the bus, Bamby plopped into a seat and gestured for Hamin to sit next to him. Hamin hesitated but eventually sat down, keeping his gaze forward.

"You know," Bamby began, popping a piece of candy into his own mouth, "you're kind of rude. Is this how you treat your elders?"

Hamin turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "Elders?"

Bamby grinned. "Yeah. I'm older than you, you know."

Hamin's lips quirked slightly, his tone dry. "Could've fooled me with that sweet tooth and your height."

Bamby gasped mockingly, clutching his chest. "Wow. Rude. Now I'm offended."

Hamin huffed a faint laugh, shaking his head. "Aren't you supposed to be the mature one, then?"

"Mature?" Bamby repeated with a smirk. "Not when it's more fun this way."

Some of the tension in Hamin's chest eased, though the ache lingered. As they stepped off the bus and began the short walk to school, the sound of a motorbike rumbling behind them drew their attention.

"Ya chae, Bamby!" a voice called out, teasing and full of energy. "Did ya replace me?"

Bamby groaned audibly, rolling his eyes as Eunho pulled up beside them on his motorbike, grinning broadly. "Here comes the biggest pain in my ass," Bamby muttered, crossing his arms.

"Don't be like that," Eunho said, laughing as he killed the engine and hopped off the bike. "I thought we were close."

"Close to what? Me throwing you off that thing?" Bamby shot back, his tone dripping with mock annoyance.

Hamin watched the exchange, his brow furrowing slightly as he recognized Eunho. It took a moment to place him, but then it clicked—the upperclassman who had offered him a cigarette a few weeks back. Eunho's eyes flicked to Hamin, his grin widening.

"Hey, I know you," Eunho said, pointing at Hamin. "Didn't expect to see you here."

Bamby looked between them, his expression curious. "Oh? You two know each other?"

Hamin shrugged, his tone neutral. "Not really."

"We met briefly," Eunho added, a teasing lilt to his voice. "Your classmate here's got potential, Bamby."

"Potential for what?" Bamby quipped, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Don't tell me you were corrupting him, Eunho."

Eunho threw up his hands in mock surrender. "I'd never!"

Hamin shook his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips despite himself. "Right. I'll just pretend I didn't see the smokes."

Bamby groaned again, this time louder. "You're both insufferable. Let's go before I lose my last shred of patience."

As they continued walking, Eunho fell into step beside them, the banter between him and Bamby flowing easily. Hamin stayed quiet for the most part, but the dynamic between the two was oddly comforting, even if he wasn't sure why.

At work, Yejun rubbed his temples as he sat in the breakroom, a half-eaten sandwich sitting forgotten on the table. The events of the past few days swirled in his mind—Hamin's secret job, Noah's role in keeping it from him, and his own growing exhaustion. The sound of the breakroom door opening snapped him out of his thoughts.

Noah stepped in, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jacket, a sheepish grin on his face. "Hey," he said, his tone light but laced with guilt.

Yejun glanced up, his expression tired but no longer as sharp as it had been the day before. "Hey."

Noah pulled out the chair across from Yejun and sat down, fidgeting slightly. "Look, I know you're still not thrilled with me," Noah started, leaning on the back of a chair with a slight wince. "But before you say anything, I come bearing good vibes and coffee. Peace offering?"

Yejun exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. Yejun sighed, shaking his head. "I wasn't thrilled, Noah. You're my best friend. You knew how much I've been worrying about Hamin." His voice softened slightly. "I just didn't expect you to go along with it."

"I didn't want to," Noah said, his tone more serious now. "But the kid's stubborn. You know how he is. He was terrified of disappointing you."

Yejun's gaze softened slightly, but the tension in his shoulders didn't ease. "Disappoint me? Noah, do you know how much worse it feels to realize I missed all the signs? That someone else had to tell me?"

Noah ran a hand through his hair, his expression pained. "I get it, Yejun. I do. But you've been so caught up in trying to handle everything on your own. Hamin sees that. He sees how tired you are, how much you've given up for him. That's why he did it. He wanted to help."

Yejun shook his head, his hands clenching into fists on the table. "And look where that got him. Exhausted, lying to me, risking his health. I'm supposed to protect him, Noah. If I can't do that, then what's the point?"

Noah's voice softened. "You're not superhuman, Yejun. You can't carry everything alone. And maybe Hamin needs to hear that from you. He needs to know you're not invincible, that you're human too."

The words hung in the air, the weight of them sinking in. Yejun's shoulders slumped slightly as he rubbed his temples again. "I just want him to be okay," he murmured. "I just want him to have a chance at something better."

"I know," Noah said gently. "And he knows that too. But you've got to let him in, Yejun. Otherwise, this cycle is never going to end."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Yejun leaned back slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite the exhaustion on his face. He reached for the coffee Noah had brought, the gesture subtle but clear—a sign of forgiveness. "I still don't know how you managed to get in here," he said, tilting his head curiously. "I told Hana not to let you in."

Noah's grin widened, and he leaned forward on the table, resting his chin on his hands. "Ah, Hana… she's a sweetheart. All it took was a bit of charm. I mean, who could say no to my pretty face?"

Yejun let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "You're unbelievable."

"I try," Noah said with mock humility, taking a sip of his coffee. His gaze lingered on Yejun for a moment, and his playful demeanor softened. "You've been rubbing your head the whole time we've been talking. You okay?"

Yejun waved Noah off with a tired smile, leaning back in his chair. "I'm fine," he said, though the words lacked conviction.

Noah raised an eyebrow, tapping the side of his coffee cup. "You're about as fine as this vending machine coffee is gourmet. Seriously, Yejun, take a day off once in a while."

"Coming from you?" Yejun countered, his voice lighter now. "Last I checked, you're the one who stayed up all night writing songs and then complained about having no voice the next day."

"Touché," Noah said, grinning. He leaned back, crossing his arms. "But we're not talking about me, are we, Your Majesty of Deflection?"

Yejun let out a small laugh despite himself, shaking his head. "You're impossible."

"And you're predictable," Noah teased, standing up and stretching dramatically. "I mean, if I didn't come check on you, who else would make sure you're still alive? Hana? She's sweet, but she's got a business to run."

Yejun rolled his eyes, though a faint smile lingered. "Thanks for the coffee, Noah. And for being a pain."

"Anytime, Your Highness." Noah saluted playfully, heading for the door. As he reached it, he turned back, his tone softening. "Seriously, though. Take care of yourself, Yejun. And remember what I said—Hamin looks up to you, but he doesn't need you to be invincible. Just be his brother."

The door closed behind him, leaving Yejun alone in the quiet breakroom. He stared at the coffee in his hands, the faint warmth grounding him. For a moment, he allowed himself to close his eyes, leaning back in his chair as the weight of the morning settled over him.

RE: Chapter 9:

Yejun stared at the screen above the subway doors, the muted hum of the train fading into the background. A brightly lit commercial played, showing students bustling through a school hallway. The scene shifted abruptly—a lone student surrounded by others, his head bowed as their laughter echoed ominously. The words "Bullying doesn't always look the same" flashed on the screen, accompanied by somber music.

Yejun frowned, his chest tightening. Does Hamin have friends? Is he okay at school? The questions spiraled quickly, each one heavier than the last. Yejun's mind flashed back to a recent evening when Hamin had come home, brushing off his brother's casual questions with vague answers. He'd looked tired but guarded, as if something was weighing on him. Yejun hadn't pressed at the time, but now the memory sat uneasily alongside his growing doubts.

I've always done my best to shield him from everything life threw at us. Yejun gripped the handle above his seat tighter. But what if he's struggling now, and I've been too focused on work to notice? What if he doesn't feel he can talk to me? He thought of how little Hamin shared about his daily life. It wasn't out of defiance—Hamin was independent, self-contained. But lately, that quietness had begun to feel like distance, and the thought made Yejun's chest ache.

Maybe he doesn't have friends because he's too busy carrying things on his own. Maybe that's my fault. The guilt gnawed at him, a familiar companion whenever he thought about the balance he tried so hard to maintain between providing for Hamin and being there for him. He pressed his lips into a tight line. No. If there's anything wrong, I'll figure it out. That's my job. That's what I promised him.

By the time Yejun reached the small café he frequented with Noah, the worry had settled into a constant buzz at the back of his mind. Noah was already there, lounging in his usual seat with a cold drink in hand and his phone in the other.

"You're late," Noah said without looking up, taking a long sip of his drink.

Yejun slid into the seat across from him, his thoughts still tangled. "Does Hamin have friends?" he blurted out.

Noah choked mid-sip, coughing as he set his drink down with a loud clink. "What?" he sputtered, his voice rasping. "That's how you start a conversation? Couldn't ease into it with a 'hello' first?"

Yejun leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "I'm serious. I've never met any of his friends. What if he doesn't have anyone? What if he's being ostracized or something?"

Noah raised an eyebrow, fighting back a grin. "Okay, first of all, who says 'ostracized'? Are you secretly a professor? Second, Hamin? He's got more charm in his pinky than most people have in their whole body. He probably has a fan club."

"Of course he's charming. He's my brother," Yejun replied, though the humor faded quickly. "But… what if he doesn't tell me because he's embarrassed? What if I'm missing something?"

Noah nodded slowly, leaning back. "Fair point. But instead of spiraling about it here, why don't you just ask him? Casually. Like a normal human."

Yejun raised an eyebrow. "Casually?"

"Yeah, breezy. Like, 'Hey, Hamin, what's up? Got any cool friends?'" Noah gestured dramatically, his grin widening. "Smooth. Effortless."

"Right. Because I'm known for being effortless," Yejun deadpanned.

"Exactly!" Noah exclaimed, pointing at him. "Glad you're catching on."

Later that evening, Yejun leaned against the kitchen counter, watching Hamin finish the last of his dinner. The hum of the refrigerator filled the quiet, but Yejun's mind was elsewhere. After a moment, he set down his glass of water and cleared his throat, catching Hamin's attention.

"You know, Hamin," Yejun began, his tone casual but with an edge of curiosity, "I was thinking… you should bring your friends over sometime. It'd be nice to meet them."

Hamin paused mid-bite, his chopsticks frozen in the air. "What?"

"Your friends," Yejun repeated, his smile widening mischievously as he rested his chin in his hands, batting his eyelashes. "Hyung wants to meet them! It'll be fun!"

Hamin stared at him, his mind scrambling. "Uh… friends?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly.

"Yes, friends," Yejun said, nodding earnestly. "You do have friends, right?"

Hamin blinked rapidly, his mind scrambling for a response. Friends? Why is he asking about friends? The thought alone sent his stomach twisting. "Of course I do!" he said hastily, his voice a pitch higher than usual. "Why wouldn't I?"

Yejun raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "I don't know. You've never mentioned any of them. What are their names?"

Hamin hesitated. "Uh… sure. There's… Eunho? And Bamby. Yeah, Bamby. He's great. You'd love him. Super… pink."

As the words left his mouth, his thoughts raced. Eunho? The guy who gave me a cigarette that one time? That's my most memorable interaction with him. He tried not to wince. And Bamby? Loud, dramatic Bamby? Calling him a friend might be a stretch.

"Pink?" Yejun asked, his other eyebrow lifting.

"Yeah," Hamin said, laughing nervously. "He's really… memorable."

Yejun chuckled, holding up a hand. "Alright, alright, relax. Invite them over tomorrow! I'd like to meet them."

"Tomorrow?" Hamin asked, his voice cracking again. "Uh… yeah! Sure. I'll do that."

"Good." Yejun patted him on the shoulder as he stood. "It'd be nice to see you hanging out with people your age."

As Yejun walked out of the kitchen, Hamin slumped lower in his chair, groaning softly. "What am I supposed to do now?" he muttered to himself.

At school the next day, Hamin sat at his desk, the weight of Yejun's request bearing down on him. He couldn't shake the awkward predicament he'd gotten himself into. Across the room, Bamby's bright pink hair stood out like a neon sign as he leaned lazily against a row of lockers, spinning his phone in one hand.

Bamby caught sight of Hamin's slumped posture and sauntered over, his trademark smirk firmly in place. "What's with the gloom and doom, Hamin?" Bamby asked, mock-frowning as he leaned closer. "Forget how to smile, or is this just your new aesthetic?"

Hamin exhaled slowly, deciding to rip the bandage off. Hamin stared at him for a moment before blurting, "I need a favor."

Bamby's expression immediately turned curious, a slow grin spreading across his face. "This sounds interesting. Go on."

"Can you come over to my place today and… act like my friend?" Hamin blurted out, avoiding Bamby's gaze as his hands fidgeted nervously at his sides. The words tumbled out faster than he could stop them, leaving him wincing at his own awkwardness.

He paused mid-laugh, raising an eyebrow. "Wait, you're serious?"

Hamin sighed, his face growing warmer. "I'm not. My brother wants to meet my friends, and, well… you're one of the only people I talk to."

Bamby tilted his head, his smirk softening into something more curious. "So, you want me to show up at your place and act like your bestie?" He crossed his arms, leaning against the lockers. "What's the catch?"

"No catch," Hamin muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just don't embarrass me."

Bamby's grin returned, wider than ever. "Oh, I make no promises there. But fine. I'll do it. Big favor, though—you owe me. Huge."

Before Hamin could respond, Eunho's voice rang out as he joined them. "What's going on here?"

"Hamin wants me to pretend to be his friend," Bamby said dramatically, throwing an arm over Hamin's shoulder. "Apparently, I'm the best candidate for the job. And guess what?" He turned to Eunho with a sly grin. "You're in too."

Eunho barked a laugh, clapping Hamin on the back. "Oh, you wound me, Hamin," Eunho said, leaning in with a mock-dramatic hand over his chest. "I thought we were friends."

Hamin groaned again, covering his face with his hands. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah, yeah," Eunho said, still grinning. "I'm in. Not like I've got better plans."

Bamby smirked. "See? This is already shaping up to be fun."

Hamin sighed, rubbing his temples. "I hate both of you."

"No, you don't," Bamby said with a wide grin, giving Hamin a playful shove. "You're just embarrassed. It's cute."

Hamin groaned, his cheeks tinting red. "I'm not embarrassed," he mumbled, though the heat rising to his face said otherwise.

"Sure, keep telling yourself that," Eunho teased. "Anyway, see you two after school," he added, flashing a grin before heading off to his own class.

At school the next day, Hamin sat at his desk, the weight of Yejun's request bearing down on him. He couldn't shake the awkward predicament he'd gotten himself into. Across the room, Bamby's bright pink hair stood out like a neon sign as he leaned lazily against a row of lockers, spinning his phone in one hand.

Bamby caught sight of Hamin's slumped posture and sauntered over, his trademark smirk firmly in place. "What's with the gloom and doom, Hamin?" Bamby asked, mock-frowning as he leaned closer. "Forget how to smile, or is this just your new aesthetic?"

Hamin exhaled slowly, deciding to rip the bandage off. Hamin stared at him for a moment before blurting, "I need a favor."

Bamby's expression immediately turned curious, a slow grin spreading across his face. "This sounds interesting. Go on."

"Can you come over to my place today and… act like my friend?" Hamin blurted out, avoiding Bamby's gaze as his hands fidgeted nervously at his sides. The words tumbled out faster than he could stop them, leaving him wincing at his own awkwardness.

Bamby's laugh echoed through the hallway. He paused mid-laugh, raising an eyebrow. "Wait, you're serious?"

Hamin sighed, his face growing warmer. "My brother wants to meet my friends, and, well… you're one of the only people I talk to."

Bamby tilted his head, his smirk softening into something more curious. "So, you want me to show up at your place and act like your bestie?" He crossed his arms, leaning against the lockers. "What's the catch?"

"No catch," Hamin muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just don't embarrass me."

Bamby's grin returned, wider than ever. "Oh, I make no promises there. But fine. I'll do it. Big favor, though—you owe me. Huge."

Before Hamin could respond, Eunho's voice rang out as he joined them. "What's going on here?"

"Hamin wants me to pretend to be his friend," Bamby said dramatically, throwing an arm over Hamin's shoulder. "Apparently, I'm the best candidate for the job. And guess what?" He turned to Eunho with a sly grin. "You're in too."

Eunho barked a laugh, clapping Hamin on the back. "Oh, you wound me, Hamin," Eunho said, leaning in with a mock-dramatic hand over his chest. "I thought we were friends."

Hamin groaned again, covering his face with his hands. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah, yeah," Eunho said, still grinning. "I'm in. Not like I've got better plans."

Bamby smirked. "See? This is already shaping up to be fun."

Hamin sighed, rubbing his temples. "I hate both of you."

"No, you don't," Bamby said with a wide grin, giving Hamin a playful shove. "You're just embarrassed. It's cute."

Hamin groaned, his cheeks tinting red. "I'm not embarrassed," he mumbled, though the heat rising to his face said otherwise.

"Sure, keep telling yourself that," Eunho teased. "Anyway, see you two after school," he added, flashing a grin before heading off to his own class.

After school, Noah waited just outside the school gates, his motorcycle parked conspicuously to the side. His sunglasses reflected the late afternoon sun, and his posture exuded the casual confidence that came naturally to him. He was there to check on Hamin after the whole part-time job debacle, wanting to make sure he was doing okay.

Eunho, leaving the building with his bag slung over one shoulder, caught sight of Noah almost immediately. His eyes widened at the sight of the sleek motorcycle and the casual confidence Noah exuded. The way Noah leaned against the bike, sunglasses in place and arms crossed, was effortlessly cool, like something out of a movie. "Damn," Eunho muttered to himself, a grin spreading across his face. "This guy's got style." His eyes lit up at the sleek motorcycle and the effortless cool of the man leaning against it. Without hesitation, Eunho strode over, a wide grin spreading across his face.

"Yo, Hyung-nim!" Eunho called out, clearly impressed. "That's a nice ride you've got there."

Noah raised an eyebrow, lowering his sunglasses slightly to get a better look at the boy approaching him. "Hyung-nim?" he repeated, amusement lacing his tone. "Well, this is new."

"You're obviously a rider. And a cool one at that," Eunho continued, unabashed. "I've got my own bike. Not as slick as yours, but it gets me around. What's your top speed on this baby?"

Noah chuckled, a warm sound that carried a hint of indulgence. He pushed his sunglasses back up, the smirk on his face softening into something friendlier. "Top speed? Fast enough. You ride too, huh? Let me guess—you're one of those speed demons who think traffic laws are suggestions."

Eunho laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guilty as charged. So, what brings you here? You picking someone up?"

Before Noah could respond, Bamby and Hamin stepped out of the gates together. Bamby threw an arm around Hamin's shoulders, flashing a grin. "Relax, Hamin. Your brother's gonna love us. We're irresistible," he said dramatically.

Hamin's eyes darted to the motorcycle and then to the familiar figure leaning against it. His stomach dropped. "What's Noah Hyung doing here?" he muttered under his breath.

Bamby followed his gaze, tilting his head. "Hyung? That's your brother?" he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. "Wow, he's way cooler than you made him sound. I mean, look at that bike… and the shades! Your brother's got some serious style." µ

Hamin sighed. "He's not my brother. He's like one."

At that moment, Noah spotted them and waved, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Yo, Hamin! Over here!"

Bamby's grin widened as they walked over. "Alright, Hamin. Spill. Why didn't you tell us your 'like-a-brother' was this cool?"

Hamin rolled his eyes but couldn't hide the slight smile tugging at his lips. "Because he's not."

When they reached Noah and Eunho, Hamin gestured between them. "Noah Hyung, these are my friends, Eunho and Bamby. We were heading back to my place because Yejun hyung wanted to meet them."

Noah's gaze flicked between the two boys, his smirk growing. "So these are Hamin's friends, huh? Nice to meet you guys."

Eunho grinned. "Hyung-nim, the pleasure's ours. You've got a cool vibe."

Bamby chimed in with a dramatic bow. "We'll do our best to live up to the honor of meeting Hamin's brother."

Noah chuckled, ruffling Hamin's hair. "You've got quite the entourage, Hamin. Let's head out. I'll tag along." Hamin's stomach churned slightly at the thought of Noah joining them. While he trusted Noah, the added presence made him feel like his friends would see through the cracks of his carefully constructed facade. Still, there was a faint sense of relief that Noah would be there, a grounding presence in an otherwise nerve-wracking situation.

As the group set off together, Hamin's earlier anxiety began to fade, replaced by a tentative sense of ease. It felt like things might actually work out.

RE: Chapter 10: Dinner with the Entourage

The apartment was filled with the savory aroma of Yejun's cooking by the time the group arrived. Hamin hesitated at the door, casting a quick glance at Noah, who had stepped in beside him, effortlessly charming both Bamby and Eunho on the walk over.

"Relax, Hamin. You've got this," Noah said, giving him a quick pat on the back.

"Easy for you to say," Hamin muttered under his breath before reluctantly opening the door. "Hyung, we're here!" he called out.

Yejun appeared almost immediately, wearing a bright smile and an apron dusted with flour. His eyes swept over the trio of unfamiliar faces before settling on Noah. "Noah, you too?" Yejun said, his smile widening. "This is a surprise."

Noah shrugged, stepping forward. "Figured I'd tag along, the more the merrier!"

Yejun chuckled and turned to Bamby and Eunho. "So, you must be Hamin's friends. Come in, make yourselves at home," Yejun said, stepping aside to let them through. As the group piled into the small apartment, he glanced around at the cozy yet crowded space and grinned. "Looks like we're pushing the limits of this place tonight. Hope nobody's claustrophobic."

Bamby stepped forward first, his trademark charm fully engaged. "It's an honor to meet the famous Yejun Hyung," he said, bowing dramatically. "Hamin's told us so much about you."

Yejun raised an eyebrow, glancing at Hamin. "Has he now?"

"Not really," Bamby added with a grin. "But from what little he did say, I can tell you're the responsible one."

Eunho snorted, leaning against the wall. "It's nice to meet you, Hyung-nim. Your cooking smells amazing, by the way. Cozy place too," Eunho added with a grin, his tone warm. "It's got charm."

"Thank you," Yejun said, clearly amused. "Take a seat at the table—everything's already set up."

The group moved to the dinner table, filling the small space with a warm buzz of conversation as they settled into their seats.

The dinner table quickly filled with the sound of casual conversation. Noah and Eunho fell into an easy discussion about motorcycles, with Eunho hanging on Noah's every word, while Bamby, seated next to Yejun, asked playful questions about Hamin's childhood.

At one point, Yejun turned to Hamin with a playful twinkle in his eye. He clasped his hands together, tilting his head with an exaggerated grin that practically sparkled with charm. "Hamin-ah, you didn't tell me your friends were this entertaining. Are you trying to hide how cool your hyung really is?"

Eunho choked on his water, laughing. "Wow, Hyung-nim, that's some serious charm right there. Hamin, you should learn a thing or two from your brother."

Bamby nodded dramatically. "It's true. Your hyung is a national treasure."

Yejun laughed, brushing off the compliment with a playful wave of his hand. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Bamby. But if I'm such a treasure, you might have to fight Hamin for the title of my favorite."

The room settled into a comfortable rhythm, with everyone exchanging warm smiles and lighthearted banter.

"Was Hamin always this serious?" Bamby asked, leaning forward conspiratorially.

Yejun smirked, glancing at his brother. "Serious? Not at all." Yejun pushed back his chair slightly and stood, striking a mock-heroic pose with one hand extended dramatically forward. "When he was little, he'd run around like this, shouting, 'Hyung, I'll save you!'"

Hamin groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Hyung, don't." He peeked through his fingers, his ears turning red as he tried to sink lower into his chair. "Why are you like this?" he muttered, his voice muffled but unmistakably flustered.

Bamby gasped dramatically. "A superhero? Hamin, I didn't know you had such a valiant streak."

"Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up," Hamin muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched in a reluctant smile.

Throughout dinner, the mood was warm and comforting. Plates of food were passed around, laughter bubbling up between bites, and the conversation flowed easily.

Between bites, Yejun leaned forward, his curiosity getting the better of him. "So, how did you three meet?" he asked, his gaze flicking between Bamby and Eunho.

Hamin froze mid-bite, his mind racing for an acceptable answer. What do I even say? That Bamby wouldn't leave me alone and Eunho handed me a cigarette? Yeah, that'll go over great. "Oh, you know... just school stuff," he mumbled, hoping to deflect.

Bamby, of course, wasn't going to let it slide. "School stuff? Hyung, I sassed my way into talking to Hamin. He was brooding in a corner, and I decided he needed someone fabulous to balance him out."

Yejun chuckled, glancing at Hamin. "That sounds about right."

Eunho leaned back, his grin widening. "And me? Well, let's just say Hamin and I had a... transactional beginning."

Noah, who had been quietly observing, raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Transactional? Now this, I've got to hear. What exactly did you give him, Eunho?"

Hamin's eyes widened. "Eunho!"

"What? It's true," Eunho replied innocently, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I gave you something, and we became friends."

"A pencil," Hamin said quickly, his voice louder than necessary. "He lent me a pencil during class. That's it."

Eunho smirked but didn't argue, clearly enjoying Hamin's panic. Meanwhile, Bamby burst into laughter, nearly knocking over his water glass. "A pencil? That's the best you've got, Hamin?"

Yejun shook his head, smiling. "Well, however it happened, I'm glad you're all here. You're good for him." Yejun watched the group with quiet satisfaction, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Yejun's gaze shifted to Eunho and Bamby, his curiosity piqued. "So," he began, his tone casual but friendly, "how long have you been putting up with Hamin?"

Eunho hesitated for a moment before responding. "Not long, honestly. But he's a good guy. Keeps things interesting."

Bamby nodded enthusiastically. "Interesting is one word for it. I'd say entertainingly grumpy."

Noah laughed, raising his glass of water. "To Hamin, the most entertainingly grumpy of us all."

"Hyung!" Hamin protested, though his face was warm with embarrassment.

"To Hamin," Bamby echoed with a grin, clinking his glass against Eunho's.

As the meal went on, Hamin found himself relaxing, the earlier tension melting away in the glow of shared laughter. Even Yejun seemed to let his usual worries take a backseat, leaning back in his chair with an easy smile.

After dinner, Yejun and Noah stood side by side in the kitchen, washing dishes while the others lingered in the living room.

"You've got a good group there," Yejun said quietly, his voice low enough to keep the conversation private. He scrubbed at a stubborn spot on a plate, his brows furrowed slightly as though deep in thought.

Noah glanced over, catching the pensive look on Yejun's face. A knowing smile spread across his lips as he dried a clean plate. "They're not bad. A little loud, maybe. But I think they're good for him."

Yejun nodded, his gaze drifting to the living room where Hamin was laughing at something Bamby said. The sound of his brother's unguarded laughter felt almost foreign, but comforting at the same time. "It's nice to see him like this," Yejun murmured. "He's… he's been through a lot. I just want him to have moments like these."

"Yeah," Noah agreed, placing a glass onto the drying rack with deliberate care. "He's got more people looking out for him than you think, Yejun. That includes me."

Yejun shot him a grateful smile, the kind that didn't need words but carried the weight of unspoken appreciation. "Thanks, Noah. For everything."

"Noah shrugged lightly, his tone casual but sincere. "Anytime. You're family to me, Yejun. That makes him family too."

As the clatter of dishes softened, Yejun's lips quirked into a small smile. "Family, huh?" He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "If this is family, I guess I'll have to get used to a little chaos."

"Hey," Noah teased, clapping a hand on Yejun's shoulder. "Chaos keeps it interesting. Besides, I think you secretly like it."

Yejun rolled his eyes but didn't disagree, the faint smile lingering as they finished up.

Later that evening, as the group said their goodbyes, Yejun stood by the door, his arms crossed and a soft smile playing on his lips. The apartment felt quieter now, the warmth of the evening still lingering as he watched Hamin walk the group out to the street.

"See? Your brother likes us," Bamby said, bumping Hamin's shoulder as they lingered by the streetlights, the cool night air wrapping around them.

"He didn't say that," Hamin replied, though the faint smile on his face betrayed him.

Eunho grinned, climbing onto his own bike. "He didn't have to. We're irresistible."

Noah laughed as he swung a leg over his motorcycle. "Take it easy, Hamin. And keep these two out of trouble."

He turned toward Yejun, placing a hand over his chest dramatically. "And Yejun, thanks for the hospitality. Truly, this evening has been a culinary revelation."

Yejun rolled his eyes, crossing his arms with a mock-serious expression. "Just drive safely, Noah. Don't add to the chaos out there."

Hamin rolled his eyes but waved as Noah sped off into the night, Eunho following close behind on his bike with a dramatic rev of the engine. Bamby, who was perched behind Eunho on the bike, adjusted his grip nervously. "Can you not make me crack my head open?" he quipped, frowning.

"Hold on properly, then," Eunho shot back with a teasing grin. "Unless you want this ride to get more exciting."

"Ugh, disgusting," Bamby muttered, reluctantly wrapping his arms around Eunho. "I swear, if I die, I'm haunting you."

Hamin couldn't help but laugh at their bickering. "Drive safe, you two," Yejun called out from the doorway, his tone light but earnest.

"Thanks for dinner, Hyung!" Bamby called out dramatically, waving one hand as they sped off into the night.

When Hamin turned back to the apartment, he found Yejun waiting by the doorway, his expression soft.

"What?" Hamin asked, feeling self-conscious under his brother's gaze.

Yejun shook his head with a small laugh. "Nothing. It's just… nice to see you happy."

Hamin's smile turned mischievous, and he crossed his arms, leaning slightly against the doorframe. "What's this, Hyung? Are you getting all sentimental on me?"

Yejun's grin widened as he reached out, grabbing Hamin in a playful headlock. "And what if I am, huh?" he teased, ruffling Hamin's hair.

"Hyung, let go!" Hamin laughed, squirming to break free, though his laughter echoed warmly in the quiet night.

The two finally stepped back inside, still grinning, the door closing behind them with a sense of calm that felt like a promise of better days ahead.

RE: Chapter 11: Echoes and Recollections

Yejun found it while organizing the top shelf of their shared closet—a small scarf, worn but still vibrant, tucked away in an old shoebox. He froze, holding the fabric in his hands as memories flooded back. The soft wool still carried faint traces of the countryside winters, of that one Christmas spent comforting Noah.

"What's that?" Hamin's voice broke his thoughts. He was leaning against the doorway, an eyebrow raised.

"This?" Yejun turned, holding up the scarf with a wistful smile. "Do you remember this? From when we spent Christmas with Noah after his grandmother passed away?"

Hamin's expression shifted, his usual guarded demeanor softening. "Oh yeah. You made me wear it all week. Said it'd keep me from catching a cold."

"Which it did," Yejun replied, draping the scarf over his neck with mock seriousness. "Hyung always knows best."

Hamin snorted, stepping further into the room. "Yeah, yeah. You were bossy even back then."

Yejun chuckled, but his gaze lingered on the scarf. "That was a tough Christmas," he murmured. "For Noah. For all of us."

Flashback to Christmas in the Countryside

Eighteen-year-old Yejun stood by the window, watching the snow fall over the quiet countryside. The warmth of Noah's grandmother's house felt hollow without her presence. Noah sat silently by the fireplace, his normally sharp features softened by grief.

"Hyung," eight-year-old Hamin tugged at Yejun's sleeve, holding a plate of cookies they'd baked earlier. "Should we give these to Noah hyung?"

Yejun looked down at his little brother, his chest tightening at Hamin's worried expression. "Yeah," he said softly, ruffling Hamin's hair. "Let's cheer him up."

As they approached, Noah looked up, his tired eyes softening when he saw Hamin. The younger boy offered the plate shyly. "I helped bake these," he said. "They're a little burnt, but they're still good."

Noah's lips quirked into a faint smile. "Thanks, kid."

Yejun sat down beside him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You're not alone, Noah," he said quietly. "We're here. For as long as you need."

For the rest of the evening, they sat together by the fire, sharing stories and laughter. It wasn't much, but it was enough to make the empty house feel a little fuller.

Back to Present

"You really looked up to Noah back then," Hamin said, snapping Yejun out of his thoughts.

Yejun nodded, folding the scarf neatly. "He was family. Still is. Back then, I was figuring things out too. I just didn't want him to feel as alone as I did when I was younger."

Hamin frowned slightly. "You've never really talked about your childhood. Before me, I mean."

Yejun hesitated, then sat down on the edge of the bed. "Not much to tell. My dad moved us to the countryside after my mom passed. I think he wanted to start fresh, but… it wasn't the fresh start he thought it'd be."

Hamin sat beside him, waiting silently. Yejun took a deep breath, the weight of old memories settling over him.

Flashback to Yejun's Childhood

Nine-year-old Yejun trudged through the muddy paths of the countryside, his schoolbag bouncing against his back. The move from Seoul had been jarring, the bustling city replaced by rolling hills and quiet roads. His father had thrown himself into work, leaving Yejun to navigate this unfamiliar world alone.

It was Noah's grandmother who first noticed him sitting alone by the school gates. "You look like you could use some company," she said warmly, holding out a piece of candy. "Come on, let's get you home."

Over time, her house became Yejun's sanctuary. Noah, though initially skeptical, grew to accept him, and their friendship blossomed. For a while, it felt like things might be okay. But Yejun's father's temper loomed like a storm cloud, unpredictable and sharp.

One evening, after a particularly harsh argument, Yejun found himself knocking on Noah's door. Noah's grandmother opened it, her eyes widening at the sight of Yejun's tear-streaked face and bruised arm.

"Come in," she said softly, pulling him into a hug. "You're always welcome here."

Back to Present

"Dad wasn't exactly a role model," Yejun said, his voice quieter now. "Noah and his grandmother were my safe space. When I moved back to Seoul, it felt like leaving part of myself behind."

Hamin studied his brother, his chest tightening. "Hyung… why didn't you tell me?"

Yejun smiled faintly, resting a hand on Hamin's shoulder. "Because it's the past. And because I didn't want you to feel like you had to carry it too."

Hamin hesitated, then nodded, a quiet resolve settling in his chest. "Well, I'm here now. Just so you know."

Yejun's smile widened, his usual playful spark returning. "Does that mean you'll clean the closet for me?"

"Don't push it," Hamin muttered, but his grin betrayed him.

The two laughed, the weight of their shared past easing just a little as they folded the scarf together and put it back in its box.

RE: Chapter 12: The Countryside Struggles

Yejun's story began in Seoul, where the bright city lights once seemed endless and full of promise. He remembered the hum of traffic, the vibrant signs, and the warmth of his mother's laughter as they strolled through bustling streets. But that life had shattered when his mother passed away unexpectedly. His father, overwhelmed by grief and financial troubles, lost his job soon after. The city that had once held their happiest moments now felt suffocating, so they packed their belongings and moved to a quiet countryside town in search of a fresh start.

The train pulled away from the station, leaving behind the noise and bustle of Seoul. Nine-year-old Yejun sat by the window, his forehead pressed against the cool glass as the scenery changed from sprawling cityscapes to rolling hills and endless fields. His father sat beside him, silent, his hands clasped tightly together on his lap. There was a tension in the air, one that Yejun didn't quite understand but could feel nonetheless.

"It'll be better here," his father said eventually, his voice clipped and uncertain. "A fresh start."

Yejun didn't respond. He kept his eyes on the window, watching the city disappear behind him. The promise of a fresh start felt hollow, the words as gray as the overcast sky outside.

The first days in the countryside were difficult for Yejun. He missed the rhythm of the city and the noise that made him feel alive. The new town was eerily quiet, with rolling hills, narrow dirt paths, and old stone houses that looked like they hadn't changed in decades.

The countryside was quieter than anything Yejun had ever experienced. The narrow dirt paths and old stone houses were a stark contrast to the vibrancy of Seoul. The air was fresher, but it felt heavy, too, as though the silence carried its own weight.

Their new home was small and worn, with creaky floors and a single electric heater that groaned when turned on. Yejun's father quickly threw himself into odd jobs around the village, leaving Yejun to navigate his new surroundings alone. At school, the other kids eyed him warily. To them, he was the city boy—spoiled, out of place, and full of himself.

Among the first people Yejun encountered was Noah, a boy his age with a sharp tongue and a perpetual scowl.

The first time Yejun saw Noah, it was during recess. Noah was leaning against a tree, his arms crossed as he watched a group of boys play soccer. There was something confident, almost defiant, about the way he stood. But when their eyes met, Noah's expression hardened, and he turned away.

"You won't last here," Noah said later that day, his voice sharp and dismissive. "City kids never do."

Yejun didn't reply. Instead, he focused on picking up his books, which had been scattered across the dirt after another run-in with his classmates. He brushed the dust off the covers, his jaw tight but his eyes dry.

Noah walked away without another word, but there was a flicker of something in his expression—curiosity, perhaps, or maybe even pity.

Noah had grown up in the town, his life shaped by its slow pace and its simple, practical people. Noah lived with his grandmother, who had raised him after his teenage parents abandoned their responsibilities.

His grandmother, a strong-willed yet gentle woman, had shaped Noah into someone capable and self-reliant. Still, he carried the quiet pain of abandonment deep inside.

To him, Yejun seemed like every city kid he'd ever met—spoiled, out of place, and full of themselves. Noah went out of his way to avoid Yejun, certain the newcomer wouldn't last long in the countryside.

The other kids at school were even less welcoming. They teased Yejun relentlessly, calling him a snobby city brat who didn't belong. Yejun wasn't good at ignoring them, and worse, he had a habit of jumping in whenever he saw someone else being picked on.

He hated bullies and couldn't stand by, even if it meant getting himself hurt.

More often than not, Yejun ended up with bruises and scrapes, as he wasn't much of a fighter. But there was a quiet, almost desperate determination behind his actions, as though standing up for others was his way of fighting something deeper within himself. His persistence, though reckless, was unshakable.

Noah often found himself stepping in to help. He was a natural athlete and far more skilled in fights than Yejun, but even he couldn't understand why Yejun kept putting himself in harm's way for others. Noah started off intervening out of annoyance, but over time, it became something more.

Watching Yejun throw himself into fights despite his obvious disadvantage began to chip away at Noah's initial impressions. There was no arrogance in Yejun's actions, just a fierce kindness and stubbornness that Noah couldn't help but respect.

Rainy afternoons were common during that season, and one particular stormy evening brought a turning point. Noah was returning home when he spotted Yejun kneeling on the wet ground by an old shed near the outskirts of town. Curious despite himself, Noah edged closer and saw what Yejun was doing.

Yejun was carefully tending to a group of stray cats huddled together under the shelter of the shed's overhang. His hands moved gently as he placed scraps of food in front of them, murmuring soft reassurances to the frightened animals. The rain dripped from the edge of the roof, soaking Yejun's clothes, but he didn't seem to care. One particularly timid kitten peeked out, its eyes wide, and Yejun coaxed it forward with infinite patience.

Noah watched in silence, surprised. He'd spent years caring for these cats himself, leaving food for them when he could, but he had never seen anyone else bother. The city kid, who he thought would look down on a place like this and its scrappy creatures, was crouched there like he belonged, his face soft with genuine kindness.

"You know they'll just run off again," Noah said eventually, his voice breaking the rhythm of the rain.

Yejun startled slightly but didn't rise. He glanced over his shoulder, his expression calm. "Maybe. But they're hungry now. Someone has to take care of them."

Noah didn't know how to respond. He stepped closer, the rain slicking his hair to his forehead, and crouched beside Yejun. "You've been feeding them?"

"Just when I can." Yejun smiled faintly, scratching behind the ear of one braver cat that had come closer. "They remind me of home. My mom and I used to feed strays back in Seoul."

Something shifted in Noah then. The image of Yejun's soaked figure, his quiet determination to help creatures no one else cared about, stayed with him long after the rain had stopped. Yejun wasn't snobby or spoiled—he was someone who cared, someone who had lost just as much as anyone else.

Despite Noah's softened perspective, the rest of the school wasn't as kind. Yejun's habit of standing up for others, even when he was outnumbered, often left him bruised and scraped. He wasn't much of a fighter, but he couldn't stand by and watch others be bullied.

One day, Yejun stepped between a group of boys and a smaller classmate. "Leave him alone," he said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands.

The boys laughed, their leader shoving Yejun back. "What're you gonna do about it, city boy?"

Before Yejun could respond, Noah appeared, his expression dark. "He's gonna stand there while I deal with you idiots," Noah said, his tone low and dangerous.

The fight was quick, and the bullies scattered. Yejun stared at Noah, a mix of gratitude and embarrassment coloring his face. "Thanks," he mumbled.

Noah shrugged, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip. "Don't mention it. But seriously, you need to learn how to duck."

Yejun couldn't help but laugh, the tension easing just a little.

Over time, Yejun and Noah's interactions grew less antagonistic and more familiar. They began walking home together, shared the occasional lunch, and found themselves working on school projects as an unlikely team. Noah's grandmother noticed the change almost immediately and seemed to take a particular liking to Yejun, often calling him over for dinner with a warm smile.

"That boy carries a lot on his shoulders," she remarked to Noah one evening as they washed dishes side by side. Her voice was soft but knowing, each word carrying weight. "He's been through more than he lets on. Be good to him, Noah. He might need someone who understands."

Noah didn't respond right away, but as he glanced toward the living room where Yejun was laughing softly at something on TV, her words settled deep in his mind. That quiet moment etched itself into his thoughts, shaping the way he saw Yejun from then on.

RE: Chapter 13: The Start of a Friendship

The days in the countryside turned into weeks, and the tentative connection between Noah and Yejun slowly solidified into something resembling friendship. It was an unspoken agreement, built on shared silences and mutual understanding. They didn't need words to fill the gaps—their companionship grew naturally, like the stray kittens that began to trust Yejun after weeks of patience.

Noah was the first to discover Yejun's passion for music. It happened by accident one afternoon when Noah wandered into an empty classroom after school. Yejun was sitting near the window, a battered acoustic guitar resting on his lap. His fingers moved deftly over the strings, coaxing a soft, melancholic tune from the instrument. He didn't notice Noah at first, too engrossed in the rhythm and melody.

"You didn't say you could do that," Noah said, his voice breaking the quiet.

Yejun startled, his hands stilling on the guitar. "Do what?"

"Play like that," Noah replied, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. "It's... good. Really good."

Yejun's cheeks flushed faintly, and he looked down at the guitar. "It's just something I used to do with my mom. She loved music."

"Where'd you get it?" Noah asked, nodding toward the guitar.

Yejun's hands stilled briefly before resuming their task. "My mom gave it to me for my tenth birthday. She saved up for months." He smiled faintly, though his eyes were tinged with sadness. "It's the last thing she ever gave me."

Noah's chest tightened. "You've taken good care of it."

"It's all I have left of her," Yejun said quietly, his voice barely audible.

Noah didn't respond right away. His posture softened. "You miss her a lot, huh?"

"Don't you miss your parents?" Yejun asked, his voice tentative. Noah blinked, caught off guard by the question. He lowered himself onto the bench beside Yejun and looked up at the sky thoughtfully. "Not really," he said after a pause. "I never knew them. It's just been me and my grandma for as long as I can remember."

Yejun nodded, his fingers brushing over the strings absentmindedly. "Mom always said music could make things feel lighter, even when they're heavy. It was her way of escaping, I guess."

"Does it work for you?" Noah asked, stepping closer.

Yejun's lips quirked into a small smile. "Sometimes."

Noah sat down in the desk across from Yejun, resting his chin on his hand. "Play something else."

Yejun hesitated but eventually nodded. He began to play a soft tune, his eyes closing as the music filled the room. Noah listened in silence, the melody weaving through the still air and settling around them like a warm blanket.

Music became their shared language. On rainy days, they'd sit under the shed by the schoolyard, Yejun strumming his guitar while Noah leaned against the wall, listening with a faint smile. Sometimes Noah would hum along, his deep voice blending with the notes in a way that surprised them both.

"You should sing more," Yejun said one day, his tone teasing.

"Not happening," Noah replied, though his grin betrayed his amusement. "You're the musician. I'm just the audience."

Yejun laughed softly, the sound genuine and unguarded. It was a rare moment of levity, one that felt like a reprieve from the weight they both carried.

It wasn't until their friendship deepened that Noah began to notice something unsettling. There were days when Yejun came to school with bruises that didn't add up.

Their shape, their placement—the way Yejun winced when he thought no one was looking—these weren't from a scuffle between kids. Noah's gut told him they came from something far worse.

Though Yejun never said a word, the signs were there in his father's stern silence and the tension that clung to him like a shadow.

Noah didn't confront Yejun about it. He wasn't sure how to, and he didn't want to push Yejun away when their friendship had only just begun to feel solid. But sometimes, late at night when the house was quiet, he found himself thinking about his own parents—their absence, the questions they left unanswered.

He couldn't help but wonder if Yejun's pain felt like his own, a hollow ache that never really went away. That thought made him watch even more closely, stepping in whenever he could to make things easier for Yejun.

Whether it was sharing his lunch, covering for him during schoolyard drama, or simply walking home with him in silence, Noah made sure Yejun knew he wasn't alone.

RE: Chapter 14: The Breaking Point

Yejun hadn't shown up at school for nearly a week. Noah couldn't shake the uneasy feeling in his chest as he walked toward Yejun's house, replaying the bruises he'd seen and the silences that spoke louder than words.

When Yejun opened the door, his face was pale, a fresh bruise darkening his cheek. Noah's jaw tightened, but he forced himself to keep his tone light. "Hey, you alive? Thought you were skipping out on school forever."

Yejun tried to laugh it off, his hand brushing over the bruise like it didn't matter. "Just wasn't feeling great. I'll be back tomorrow."

Noah wasn't convinced. "Yejun," he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "What's really going on? Don't tell me it's just a cold."

Yejun stiffened but didn't answer. Noah's gaze flicked to the small house, the bottles lined up neatly on the kitchen counter, the faint scent of alcohol in the air. It clicked, and his chest tightened. "Is it your dad?"

Yejun's head snapped up, his expression a mix of shock and defiance. "What? No. He's... he's just stressed. It's nothing."

"It's not nothing," Noah pressed, his voice low but firm. "You don't have to cover for him."

"I'm not covering for him!" Yejun's voice rose, his fists clenched at his sides. "He's my dad. He's all I have left. He's just—he's trying his best. You don't get it!"

Noah fell silent, the raw pain in Yejun's voice cutting through him. He wanted to argue, to tell Yejun that this wasn't okay, that he didn't deserve this. But he saw the desperation in Yejun's eyes—the longing for things to go back to how they used to be, for the father who had once been his protector to return. And Noah understood that Yejun wasn't ready to let go of that hope.

Yejun felt embarrassed and defensive, his emotions bubbling over in a moment of frustration. "You don't get it," he blurted out, his voice sharp. "You wouldn't understand—you don't even have a dad!"

The words hung in the air like a slap. Noah's expression darkened, his jaw tightening. "Wow," he said, his voice cold. "Thanks for that, Yejun."

"I didn't mean—" Yejun started, but Noah cut him off.

"Yeah, you did," Noah snapped, stepping back toward the door. "And you're right. I don't have a dad. But at least I don't make excuses for someone who hurts me."

Before Yejun could respond, Noah was gone, the door shutting firmly behind him.

At school, Noah avoided him completely, his usual teasing and casual banter replaced by a stony silence. Yejun was utterly alone again, and he regretted his words deeply. He replayed the moment over and over, wishing he could take it back, but he didn't know how to fix what he'd broken.

They didn't speak for days, the rift between them a painful reminder of Yejun's impulsive mistake. He missed Noah's presence more than he expected, the quiet support and camaraderie that had become a lifeline for him.

It was a loneliness that cut deeper than the isolation he'd felt before.

Yejun's father wasn't just an abusive drunk. The anger would explode in unpredictable ways—a smashed glass, a shove too hard, or words that cut deeper than bruises ever could.

But there were always moments afterward, the ones that hurt even more. His father would sit on the edge of the couch, head in his hands, his voice cracking as he apologized. The words, slurred and broken, were filled with something Yejun so desperately wanted to believe.

"I'm sorry," his father would mutter, his hands trembling. "I don't mean it. You know I love you, right?" And every time, Yejun would nod, swallowing the ache in his throat, and forgive him. Because despite it all, he was still his dad.

He was the man who had once carried him on his shoulders, who had sung to him off-key when his mother couldn't stop laughing. Yejun clung to those fragments of the past, willing them to piece his father back together.

But it never lasted. The next day, or the next week, the anger would return, just as sharp and just as destructive. Yejun told himself it was temporary, that things would get better, that his father was trying. But the cycle always repeated—violence, remorse, forgiveness, and back again.

And each time, Yejun clung harder to the hope that this time would be different, even as the bruises told a story of their own.

One day, Yejun showed up at school with his head shaved, a busted lip, and a bruised eye. Noah noticed him from across the yard, his stomach twisting at how thin Yejun looked, how beaten down he seemed. Despite his lingering anger, Noah's feet carried him toward his friend. "What happened?" he asked, his voice softer than he intended.

Yejun glanced up, the faintest flicker of relief in his eyes. "You're finally talking to me?" he said, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Had I known I had to shave my head to get you to talk to me, I would've done it sooner." His voice wavered slightly, betraying the weight he was trying to hide.

Noah didn't laugh. "Yejun," he pressed. "What happened?"

Yejun hesitated, his hand brushing over his shaved scalp. "I… "I couldn't stand looking at myself in the mirror," he admitted, his voice cracking. His mind flashed to the reflection—his father's sharp features staring back at him, the same piercing eyes that once held warmth but now only held fury.

He remembered one night when his father's rage had erupted over something trivial, the sound of a bottle smashing against the wall, the venom in his words. Yejun had locked himself in the bathroom, trembling as he stared at his reflection under the flickering light, the realization sinking in: he looked just like the man who made him feel so small.

He remembered how his father's shadow had loomed in the doorway just the night before, his voice cold and cutting as he called Yejun useless for dropping a glass. The sharp sound of it shattering against the tile still echoed in his mind, a cruel reminder of his father's unpredictable rage.

His father's voice echoed in his head, low and bitter, calling him useless, calling him weak. "Every time I looked in the mirror, it was like he was there, staring back at me, daring me to be better, knowing I couldn't. I hated it. I hated him." I hated me.

Noah's chest tightened. He stayed quiet, unable to find the words to comfort Yejun.

Yejun swallowed hard. "He broke my guitar," he murmured, his words trembling. "It was the only thing I had left from Seoul. My mom gave it to me for my birthday. She saved up for months, and I remember her smiling so much when I opened the case. She said I'd make beautiful music with it."

His voice cracked, and he looked away. "Now it's gone. Like her."" He looked down, his fingers curling into fists. "I hate it. I hate the color of my hair. I hate my eyes, my nose—everything. Because they look just like…" He trailed off, unable to say the words, but the pain in his voice cut deep.

Noah stepped closer, his voice steady. "You're not him," Noah said firmly, his voice steady. "No matter what he says or does, you're not him."

Yejun looked at Noah, his expression wavering between despair and gratitude. "How do you know?"

"Because I see you," Noah replied, his voice unwavering. "You're kind. You're strong. And you're nothing like him."

"You're not him, Yejun," Noah repeated, his voice firm yet filled with quiet urgency. "You couldn't be him even if you tried. Your eyes? They're yours—kind and open. I remember the first time I saw you feeding those stray cats in the rain. You didn't even think about it. That's who you are. And your face?" Noah paused, his gaze steady. "It's yours, Yejun. Not his. It'll never be his."

Yejun's lips trembled, and for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to cry openly. Noah, without hesitation, closed the distance and wrapped an arm around Yejun's shoulders, steadying him.

Noah's voice steadied, his fists tightening as he held back the frustration burning within him. "You're better than him, Yejun. You'll never be him—not now, not ever."

Yejun sobbed into the crook of Noah's arm, his bottled-up pain spilling out in waves. Noah held firm, his grip reassuring and strong. The weight of unspoken emotions seemed to lift slightly with every shaky breath Yejun took.

After his sobs quieted, Yejun wiped at his face, the weight of guilt creeping in. He hesitated, then glanced at Noah. "Noah," he said quietly, his gaze fixed on the ground, "about what I said before… about you not having a dad."

He faltered, his voice breaking slightly as he struggled to find the right words. "It was awful. I… I had no right to say that. I don't know why I said it, but I know it hurt you, and… I'm sorry." His shoulders sagged as the weight of his guilt hung heavily in the silence that followed.

"You were a jerk," Noah said with a faint grin. "But I'll let it go if you promise me one thing."

Yejun blinked, caught off guard. "What's that?"

"Don't keep this stuff bottled up next time," Noah said, leaning back with an easy smile. "Talk to me. That's what I'm here for."

Yejun hesitated, then nodded, a small smile breaking through. "Promise. If anything's ever wrong, you'll be the first to know."

Noah laughed, throwing his arms behind his head in mock satisfaction. "Good. But I still think you owe me ice cream for a proper apology."

Yejun raised an eyebrow, his laughter spilling out. "Ice cream? You're really milking this, aren't you?"

"Damn right I am," Noah said with a smirk. "And I'm not letting it go until I've got a cone in my hand."

Yejun's grin softened, his voice quieter. "Alright. I'll make it up to you, Noah. For real."

RE: Chapter 15: Healing Through Music

The countryside seemed quieter in the aftermath of Yejun's breaking point. The days bled into one another, marked by the usual rhythm of school, chores, and evenings spent with Noah. Yet, something had shifted. The weight on Yejun's shoulders felt lighter, as though the fractures in his guitar had mended something deeper within him.

The sky was streaked with pale clouds when, Noah walked into their usual spot by the old shed, carrying a small toolbox. Yejun looked up from where he sat, his fingers absently strumming the battered guitar. The sound was faint and uneven, but it still held a melody.

"What's that for?" Yejun asked, nodding toward the box.

Noah grinned. "This thing looks like it's holding on by a thread. Figured we'd make it better. You know, stronger."

Yejun blinked, surprised. "You know how to fix guitars?"

"Nope," Noah admitted, setting the toolbox down. "But I'm a quick learner. Besides, you deserve something that doesn't fall apart the moment you play it."

Together, they worked on the guitar, their laughter breaking through the quiet of the afternoon. It was a clumsy process, filled with trial and error, but each adjustment brought a spark of hope. By the time they finished, the guitar wasn't perfect, but it was theirs.

"Try it," Noah said, handing it back to Yejun.

Yejun hesitated, his fingers hovering over the strings. Then, with a deep breath, he began to play. The notes weren't flawless, but they carried a warmth that felt like home. Noah leaned back against the shed, a satisfied grin on his face.

"Not bad," Noah said, closing his eyes as the melody filled the air. "Not bad at all."

"It's not perfect," Yejun said, strumming a few notes.

"Neither are we," Noah replied with a grin. "But we make it work."

The two of them laughed, the sound breaking through the heaviness that had settled over Yejun's life. For the first time in a long while, he felt a flicker of hope.

From that day forward, Yejun played every chance he got. The music became more than just a hobby; it was a sanctuary. He poured his emotions into every note, the guitar speaking for him when words felt too heavy.

At school, Noah noticed the change. Yejun's steps were lighter, his smiles less guarded. Even when the other kids whispered or teased, he didn't flinch. The music had given him back a part of himself he thought he'd lost.

Rain drummed softly against the windows as they sat in Noah's living room, Yejun began to hum a tune. Noah, stretched out on the couch, tapped his fingers against the armrest in rhythm.

"You should write something," Noah said, his tone casual. "You're always playing other people's stuff. Make it yours."

Yejun smiled faintly, a thought forming in his mind. "If I write something, you'll sing it," he said, half-teasing but with a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

Noah snorted. "Not happening."

Yejun leaned forward, his grin widening. "Come on. Your voice would make it perfect. Think about it."

Noah shook his head, though his smile softened. "We'll see. Don't hold your breath."

Yejun paused, his fingers hovering over the strings, his grin faintly widening. "I wouldn't even know where to start, but I'd make you sing it."

"Start with what you know," Noah replied, his voice steady. "Play what you feel. It doesn't have to be perfect."

Yejun considered his words, then nodded. That night, he stayed up late, scribbling down fragments of lyrics and melodies, his heart guiding his hands. The next morning, he had the beginnings of a song.

A week later, Yejun led Noah to the shed, his guitar slung over his shoulder. Noah raised an eyebrow, curious but amused.

"What's this about?" Noah asked.

"Just sit," Yejun said, gesturing to a makeshift bench. "You'll see."

As Noah settled in, Yejun took a deep breath and began to play. The song was raw and unpolished, but it carried a depth that made Noah sit up straighter. The lyrics spoke of loss and resilience, of finding light in the darkness. It was Yejun's story, told through chords and verses.

When the last note faded, Noah clapped slowly, a wide grin on his face. "That," he said, "was incredible."

Yejun's cheeks flushed, but he smiled. "It still needs work."

"Maybe," Noah said, standing. "But it's yours. And it's perfect."

As the seasons changed, Yejun's music became a constant presence in their lives. He played for Noah's grandmother, who clapped along to his cheerful tunes, and even for a few classmates who couldn't hide their admiration.

The guitar, once broken and scarred, had become a symbol of Yejun's journey. It reminded him that even in the face of pain, there was room for healing, for growth.

As twilight settled over the countryside, Yejun packed up his guitar, Noah leaned against the doorway, watching him.

"You know," Noah said, his voice thoughtful, "you could do this for real. Music. It's who you are."

Yejun paused, his hands stilling on the guitar case. "Maybe one day," he said softly. "But for now, I'm just glad I have it."

Noah nodded, a small smile on his face. "One day, then."

As they walked home under the fading light, Yejun felt a quiet contentment settle over him. The weight of his past hadn't disappeared, but it no longer felt insurmountable. With his music and Noah by his side, he knew he could face whatever came next.

Despite the newfound peace in his life, there were nights when it was so bad at home that Yejun would show up at Noah's door, bruised and dirty, wearing clothes that had seen better days. Noah's grandmother, sharp-eyed and kind-hearted, never asked too many questions, but she always had a warm meal ready for him and a spare blanket laid out on the couch.

Once, Yejun had quietly whispered a heartfelt thank you to her after dinner, his voice barely audible. She smiled and patted his shoulder, saying, "You're always welcome here, Yejun. Just remember, this is a place where you don't have to feel alone." Her words stayed with him, offering a rare comfort he hadn't felt in a long time.

She'd even tried speaking to Yejun's father once, but her attempts were met with cold indifference. "Mind your business," he had growled before slamming the door. But that didn't deter her. His father didn't seem to care much whether Yejun stayed at their house, so she made it a point to care twice as much.

She made sure Yejun ate well when he was there, slipped clean clothes into his bag, and always let him know he was welcome. It was a quiet kind of care, but one that made all the difference to Yejun.

The setting sun bathed the schoolyard in hues of orange and pink as the two sat on the steps of the school's entrance. The day had been long, filled with challenges and small victories, but in that moment, everything felt still.

"Do you think we'll ever leave this place?" Yejun asked, his voice quiet.

Noah leaned back, his hands braced against the cool stone. "Maybe. But even if we do, some parts of it will stick with us."

Yejun nodded, his gaze distant. "I don't know what I'd do without this." He gestured to his guitar. "Without music."

"You won't have to find out," Noah said firmly. "You'll always have it. And if you ever forget, I'll remind you."

Yejun smiled, the sincerity in Noah's words settling over him like a warm embrace. "Thanks, Noah."

"Don't mention it," Noah replied, a grin tugging at his lips. "You're stuck with me, remember?"

As they sat together, the quiet promise between them grew stronger, a bond forged not just by shared struggles but by the understanding that they would always look out for each other, no matter where life took them.

As the stars began to dot the sky, Yejun rested his chin on his knees, the quiet hum of their bond filling the space between them. He didn't say it out loud, but deep down, he knew this: whatever pain or weight he carried, he'd never carry it alone again. Not with Noah at his side.

And yet, life had a way of shifting even the most steadfast promises.

RE: Chapter 16: