lawly

by footfungus

lawly

54. TWWC chapter 7

TWWC

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 though, 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 that? 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

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.

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Chapter 2: Shadows We Cast

Chapter Text

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.

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, 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.

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, her smile kind but firm. "Your brother is a bright student, Yejun. His grades are excellent, and his potential is undeniable. But the fights—those are troubling. I've noticed they're becoming more frequent. Nothing too serious has happened yet, thankfully, but if it continues, the consequences could be severe. Have you noticed any changes at home?"

Yejun's expression softened, worry flickering in his eyes. "He's been through a lot," he said after a pause, his tone thoughtful. "I think sometimes… he's angrier at himself than anyone else." His voice faltered for a moment as he looked away. "He holds so much in. More than he lets on. I try to help, but sometimes…" He exhaled softly. "I wonder if I'm doing enough."

Ms. Kang tilted her head slightly, her gaze steady. "It's clear he looks up to you. You've done so much for him, Yejun. But it's hard for kids to express that, especially when they're struggling. Does he ever talk to you about what he's feeling?"

Yejun hesitated, his fingers fidgeting with the strap of his bag. "Not often," he admitted. "But I make sure he knows I'm here for him. No matter what. He's a good kid, Ms. Kang. Even if it's hard to see sometimes."

Ms. Kang's eyes softened, her tone warm. "He's lucky to have you, Yejun. It's clear how much you care about him. But sometimes, hearing those words directly can make all the difference. Maybe more than you think."

Yejun let out a small chuckle, his shoulders relaxing. "I tell him all the time, even when he pretends not to listen. Especially then."

Outside, Hamin sat stiffly on the bench, his fists clenched against his knees. He stared at the scratched floor tiles, each mark on the surface blurring as his imagination filled the silence. He couldn't hear a word of their conversation, but every passing second tightened the knot in his chest. Each minute felt heavier than the last.

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.

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 hunched slightly, his hands buried deep in his pockets. He slowed his pace, letting the stillness of the night settle between them before speaking. "You've been pretty quiet," he said gently, his tone coaxing but patient. "What's on your mind?"

Hamin hesitated, his eyes glued to the cracks in the pavement. After a moment, he glanced sideways at Yejun. "What did Ms. Kang say?" His voice was low, uncertain.

Yejun tilted his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "She said you're a genius, obviously," he began, his tone teasing just enough to make Hamin glance up briefly. "And that you've got all this potential waiting to burst out—like one of those dramatic hero transformations in a comic."

Hamin snorted lightly but quickly dropped his gaze again. "Hyung…"

Yejun's smile softened. "She's just worried about the fights," he said, his voice turning serious but still kind. "And she's not wrong. We've got to stop that before things get worse. You're too smart and way too important to get tangled up in that stuff."

Hamin didn't respond, his hands tightening into fists in his pockets. Yejun reached over and gave his shoulder a light squeeze, breaking the silence. "Look, I know it's hard. But I need you to remember that I'm here for you, no matter what. Okay? If you need me—anytime—you just say the word."

The earnestness in Yejun's voice made Hamin glance at him, his expression unreadable at first. Then, with a quiet sigh, his shoulders loosened a little. "I'll try," he said softly.

Yejun grinned, relieved to see even the smallest crack in his brother's guarded demeanor. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a mock whisper. "But you know, if you keep walking around with that broody look on your face, people are going to think I'm a terrible hyung. Like I don't feed you or something."

Hamin blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "You already don't feed me," he mumbled, his voice laced with the barest hint of a laugh.

Yejun gasped theatrically, pressing a hand to his chest. "Ungrateful!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with mock indignation. "After all those ramen cups I've lovingly prepared for you?"

Hamin couldn't help it—he laughed, the sound quiet but real. Yejun's grin widened, and he reached over to ruffle Hamin's hair. "There it is," he said brightly. "My brother's world-famous smile. You should show it off more often. It suits you."

The playful banter lingered between them, lightening the weight in the air. As they continued walking, the tension that had clung to Hamin's frame slowly eased, replaced by a quiet comfort. The night felt just a little less heavy, warmed by Yejun's steady presence 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 night wore on and Hamin lay in bed staring at the cracks in the ceiling, the day's events replaying 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 ofdad?

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.

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Chapter 3: A Place To Return To

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter fornotes.)

Chapter Text

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.

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.

Notes:

A look into yejun's day to day :D Didn't proofread yet so there's probably a few mistakes here and there ;; either way, enjoy! lemme hear your thoughts :)

ps: have yall seen the new lore bits? they are killing me! there's so much new info, my brain is overheating ToT

Chapter Management

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Chapter 4: What We Don't Say

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter fornotes.)

Chapter Text

The classroom smelled like old paper and cheap floor polish, the air heavy with the stale warmth of a long day. The afternoon sun slanted through smudged windows, casting golden streaks across scratched desks and worn-out textbooks.

Students murmured to each other behind their textbooks, pens tapping idly against desks. A few were half-asleep, their heads propped on their hands, eyes glazed over with boredom. But beneath the normal classroom noise, there was another kind of whisper.

One meant for Hamin.

"Did you see his face yesterday?"

"I heard he snapped again."

"Not surprised. He's like some stray dog. Always picking fights."

The words weren't hushed enough. Deliberately loud, just enough for him to hear, just enough to bait him. A chuckle followed, then another. Hamin didn't have to look to know who it was—Minho, and the usual background noise that clung to him.

"Mad Dog?More like rabid dog."

Hamin's gaze stayed forward, his expression unreadable. He didn't flinch. Didn't react.

He just waited.

The more you reacted, the more they pushed. He had learned that much.

Instead, he leaned back in his seat, stretching out his legs like he had all the time in the world. His bruised knuckles rested against the desk, the fading marks a reminder of what had earned him that nickname in the first place.

Mad Dog.

It had started as a joke. A throwaway comment after one of his fights. But like all things ugly, it spread—passed between whispers in the halls, scrawled onto the edges of desks when they thought he wouldn't see. He wasn't sure if it was meant as an insult or some kind of twisted admiration. Maybe both.

It didn't matter.

The scrape of a chair leg cut through the air as Minho leaned forward. "You gonna bite this time?" he muttered, amusement laced in his voice. His tone was light, mocking.Testing.

Someone snickered.

Hamin's fingers curled under the desk, nails pressing into the wood.

Some people—like the guys behind him—thought it was funny. A wild animal let loose in a school uniform. Others weren't laughing.

Across the room, another student—a second-year whose name he didn't care to remember—sat stiffly in his chair, his shoulders tight, his gaze flicking toward Hamin before quickly darting away.Fear.

That reaction had become predictable.

The shift in weight. The way their hands clenched around pens. The slight flinch when he moved.

Like a pack of prey that had wandered too close to something with sharper teeth.

But the thing about fear was that it never stayed silent—it always morphed into something else. Either whispers, like the ones brushing against the stale air now, or violence, like the ones he was used to throwing himself into.

Hamin exhaled slowly, controlled. He wasn't going to snap.

But that didn't mean he couldn't shut them up.

His head turned slightly, just enough for them to see the shift in his eyes.

A slow, deliberate glance over his shoulder. Not rushed. Not aggressive. Just a look

The laughter cut off like a blade through rope.

A single glare. That's all it took.

Minho tensed for a fraction of a second before scoffing, leaning back in his chair. "Tch," he muttered, but his voice lacked the same confidence as before. The others fell silent, suddenly very interested in their textbooks.

Hamin turned back toward the front of the room. They always shut up when he looked at them like that—but the silence never lasted. It only fed the whispers, made them grow sharper when he wasn't around to stop them.

For a few moments, all he could hear was the slow ticking of the classroom clock.

Tick.

Tick.

The rumors would keep spreading. The stares would keep lingering. The cycle would keep turning.

The final bell rang, snapping the moment in half.

The room erupted into motion—desks scraping, voices rising, bodies moving toward the door in a wave of restless energy. Hamin didn't rush. He never did. He slung his bag over his shoulder, taking his time, letting them go ahead. Let them whisper. Let them avoid his gaze. Let them fear him or hate him—it didn't make a difference.

He stepped outside into the crisp afternoon air.

The whispers followed.

They always did.

The dull hum of the office surrounded Yejun—keyboards clicking, the faint whir of the air conditioning, the distant murmur of phones ringing. Conversations ebbed and flowed around him, but Yejun barely registered any of it.

The numbers on his screen blurred for a second before snapping back into focus. The headache was still there.

It had been for weeks now, a dull, rhythmic throbbing that settled behind his temples, never quite leaving. Some days, it was manageable—just a faint pressure, a whisper of discomfort. Other days, like today, it sat heavier, a quiet pounding against the back of his skull that no amount of coffee could fix.

He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. It's fine.

He still had reports to finish, emails to send. There was no time to stop, no reason to. The headache wasn't important.

Hamin was.

Yejun's fingers twitched slightly on the keyboard. That was why he kept going. Why he worked late, why he ignored the exhaustion gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. Because if he didn't, who would?

Hamin deserved stability. He deserved a future where he didn't have to worry about things like rent or bills or whether there would be enough at the end of the month.

Yejun would make sure of that.

He reached for his coffee, barely thinking as he took a sip—only to grimace when the cold bitterness settled on his tongue.

Right. That was from this morning.

A soft voice broke through his thoughts.

"Here."

He looked up just as Hana set a small carton of milk bread beside his keyboard. She didn't say anything right away, just lingered for a moment, as if debating whether to say more.

"You should eat," she said gently.

Yejun blinked, then let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. "You always bring extras."

Hana offered a light smile. "And you never bring anything."

He picked up the milk bread, turning it absently in his fingers. "I'll eat in a bit."

"You say that, but I bet you haven't had anything since this morning." Her voice was soft, no scolding, just quiet concern.

"I had coffee."

Hana sighed. "Yejun."

She didn't push further, didn't tell him he needed to take care of himself. But the way she looked at him, like she knew exactly what he was doing to himself, made his chest tighten. He turned back to his screen, offering a small smile, the kind he'd perfected long ago—the kind that made people stop worrying, even when they shouldn't.

"I'm fine, Hana. Really."

She studied him for a second longer before nodding. "Just… don't overwork yourself, okay?"

And then she was gone, retreating back to her desk without another word.

Yejun exhaled, fingers tightening slightly around the milk bread. He wasn't overworking himself. He was just doing what needed to be done.

For Hamin.

The headache pulsed again, deep and insistent.

He ignored it.

He always did.

The last hour of his shift stretched on, minutes ticking by at an agonizingly slow pace. Yejun kept his focus on the numbers in front of him, forcing himself to push through the fatigue settling deep in his bones. The headache had dulled into something more manageable, a steady throb instead of sharp pulses. It was easier to ignore when he had things to do.

When the final task was done, he clicked out of his spreadsheet, stretched his fingers, and let out a slow breath.

Time to go home.

He stood too quickly.

The moment his weight shifted, the world tilted—just for a second, just long enough for his vision to blur at the edges. He stilled, fingers gripping the edge of his desk as he blinked hard, grounding himself. The office around him remained unchanged—papers stacked neatly, computers humming, the soft murmur of coworkers packing up for the day. Like nothing had happened.

Yejun exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if that could shake off the heaviness pressing at his skull.

His hand slipped into his pocket, fingers instinctively curling around the small white bottle of painkillers. He twisted the cap open, tilted it—

Empty.

A slow sigh left him.

Of course.

He tapped the bottle absently against his palm before slipping it back into his pocket. It wasn't like the headache would kill him. He'd dealt with worse.

Bag slung over his shoulder, he made his way toward the exit. The air outside was crisp, the streets alive with the rush of people heading home, cars honking, neon signs flickering to life. Yejun stepped onto the sidewalk, falling into the rhythm of the city around him.

One foot in front of the other.

As always.

The apartment was silent when Yejun stepped inside. No faint clatter of utensils from the kitchen, no low hum of the television playing some show neither of them were really watching—just stillness.

The kind of silence that felt too big for the small space.

He exhaled as he toed off his shoes. Even that felt like an effort. The weight of the day hadn't left him. If anything, it had settled deeper, threading through his bones, making every step feel heavier than the last.

"Hamin?" he called, voice cutting through the quiet.

No answer.

His brow furrowed as he stepped further inside. The small shoe rack by the door was empty—Hamin's shoes missing. His bag, too.

A note was stuck to the fridge, nestled among old drawings a younger Hamin had made for Yejun along with a few pictures. The crayon strokes were faded now, edges curling at the corners, but they had never been taken down. The faded crayon strokes, wobbly letters spelling out "Happy Father's Day" and "Happy Mother's Day" in uneven handwriting—it was funny, in a bittersweet back then, Hamin had given him roles no one had taught him how to fill.

On the note, in very Hamin fashion, he had drawn a small cat doodle. The cat was lopsided, its tiny whiskers uneven, drawn in the same careless way Hamin did everything—half effort, full heart.

Yejun smiled at that despite the fatigue as he pulled it free, his eyes tracing over the messy scrawl.

Went to the store. Be back soon.

He let out a slow breath, setting the note down before pressing his fingers against his temple. The headache hadn't faded. It had settled behind his eyes, a dull, persistent weight that refused to be ignored. Dragging himself toward the couch, he sank into the cushions with a quiet groan. His limbs felt heavy, exhaustion pulling at him from all sides, sinking into his skin like second nature.

He should eat. Drink some water. Do something to shake the lingering haze in his head.

Instead, he let his head fall back against the cushions, eyes slipping shut.

Just for a moment.

The sound of the door unlocking cut through the stillness. A second later, the door swung open, bringing with it the faint rustle of plastic bags and the cool air from outside.

Yejun's eyes cracked open.

Footsteps shuffled inside, followed by the soft thud of bags being set down. The scent of crisp night air clung to the room for a fleeting second before vanishing, replaced by something familiar—Hamin's presence, filling the space with its usual energy, though tonight, it felt a little… off.

"You're awake?" Hamin's voice was casual, but Yejun caught the slight pause in it.

Yejun blinked against the dim light, rubbing his temple as he slowly sat up. "Barely." His voice was rougher than he intended, weighed down by the fatigue that hadn't quite let go. Hamin toed off his shoes and wandered into the kitchen, stuffing groceries into the fridge with little care for organization. The bags rustled as he moved, his movements brisk but not as careless as usual.

Yejun studied him for a moment, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his usual sharp energy seemed muted. "You got a lot," Yejun said, nodding toward the groceries.

"Yeah, figured we should eat something that's not ramen for once." Hamin shrugged, though his voice lacked its usual bite. Yejun hummed in response, watching as Hamin set a carton of eggs down with a little too much force. Something was on his mind.

"Long day?" Yejun asked, stretching his arms over his head.

Hamin muttered, not looking at him. "Same as always." He glanced at Yejun then, eyes narrowing slightly. "You look more exhausted than usual." Yejun waved a dismissive hand. "Just a long day."

Hamin didn't press, but the concern lingered in his expression before he turned back to unpacking the a second, he stood still, fingers resting against the countertop. Like he wanted to say something.

Neither of them said anything about the rough day they had. Instead, they did what they always did—tried to be there for each other in their own way.

Hamin shut the fridge door and turned toward the stove. "I'll make us dinner." Yejun smirked, raising an eyebrow. "You? Cook again? Should I be worried?" Hamin rolled his eyes and grinned, already pulling out a pan. "I'll try not to burn the kitchen down." 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 little 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.

The soft sizzle of oil filled the kitchen, the scent of garlic and soy sauce slowly warming the apartment. Hamin stood at the stove, sleeves pushed up, stirring a pan with more confidence than last time. Yejun, sitting at the table, watched with mild amusement. "You're getting awfully comfortable in that spot." Hamin smirked, not looking back. "I learn from my mistakes."

"I seem to recall your last mistake nearly setting off the smoke alarm."

"That was one time."

Yejun chuckled, shaking his head. He could already feel the tension of the day unwinding, the quiet routine of home settling over him.

A few minutes later, Hamin set down two bowls of stir-fried rice and some side dishes, sliding into the seat across from Yejun. Yejun picked up his chopsticks, inspecting the food with a teasing grin. "Looks edible."

"Eat it before I change my mind," Hamin muttered, already digging into his own bowl.

The first bite was surprisingly good. The rice was slightly over-seasoned, but it had flavor, and more importantly, it tasted like effort. They ate in comfortable silence for a while, the occasional clink of chopsticks against bowls filling the space. Then, without looking up, Hamin spoke. "Hyung."

Yejun glanced up mid-bite. "Hm?"

Hamin hesitated, poking at his rice. "Have you ever thought about doing something else? Something you actually like?"

Yejun blinked. He wasn't expecting that. He swallowed his bite, setting his chopsticks down. "What do you mean?"

"You know," Hamin shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Your job. You've been working there for so long. Don't you ever think about… doing something different?" Yejun exhaled through his nose, leaning back slightly. "That's a nice thought, but life doesn't work like that."

"But you could," Hamin pressed. "You could at least try." Yejun smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "And what would we do in the meantime? Bills don't take breaks." Hamin shifted in his seat, suddenly more focused on his food. This wasn't the real question.

Yejun already knew where this was going.

Hamin took a breath before saying, "Then… what if I got a part-time job?" The words had barely left his mouth before Yejun shook his head. "No." Hamin frowned. "You didn't even think about it."

"Because there's nothing to think about," Yejun said simply, picking up his chopsticks again. "You need to focus on school, not money."

"But—"

"Hamin." Yejun's voice was firm but not unkind. "You don't have to worry about this. That's my job. Hamin clenched his jaw, frustration bubbling under the surface. "You work so hard, hyung. Maybe if I helped out, you'd have some breathing space."

"You're supposed to study," Yejun countered. "Graduate, get into a good university, and have the choices I never had."

Hamin's chopsticks stilled against his bowl. "What if I don't want that?"

The words hung between them for a moment, heavier than either of them expected. Yejun's expression didn't change, but the warmth in his eyes dimmed just slightly. "You don't have to want it," he said quietly. "You just have to have the option." Hamin looked away, his fingers tightening around his chopsticks.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

Then Yejun sighed, picking up another bite of rice like they hadn't just veered into dangerous territory. "Eat your food before it gets cold." Hamin didn't argue. He just nodded, shoving a bite into his mouth.

He focused on his food, but his mind was elsewhere. He knew Yejun wasn't changing his mind tonight. Maybe not ever. Yejun chewed slowly, staring at his bowl as if the conversation hadn't rattled something in him, too.

The air between them felt heavier than before. But for tonight, neither of them pushed it further.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting soft golden streaks across the room. Hamin stirred under the warmth of his blanket, blinking blearily at the ceiling.

Saturday.

No school today.

He stretched, glancing at the clock, then sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The apartment was spotless. The dishes from last night were gone, the counter wiped clean. Yejun had already left for work, but not before making sure everything was in order—like always.

Hamin shuffled into the kitchen, yawning as he opened the fridge. As expected, there was a small plate left for him, a note resting beside it.

Have a good day Hamin-ah~ Don't skip breakfast! Love, Hyung.

Hamin stared at the words for a long moment.

His fingers brushed over the note, then over the old, slightly crumpled drawings on the fridge—Father's Day, Mother's Day.

The memory slipped in like an old song—faint, familiar, bittersweet.

It was Mother's Day. Or maybe Father's Day. Hamin couldn't quite remember now—back then, the difference hadn't mattered much to him. The classroom had been filled with the scratchy sound of crayons against paper, laughter bubbling between desks as kids proudly showed off their drawings.

Most of them were the same—stick figures with smiling parents, brightly colored hearts, and wobbly "I love you" scrawled at the top.

Hamin had stared at his blank sheet for a long time.

Who was he supposed to draw?

His classmates had chattered around him, effortlessly filling their pages. Someone beside him had drawn a mom with long hair, holding hands with a dad in a suit. Another kid had scribbled out a family picnic scene, the colors bright and happy.

But Hamin… he had Yejun.

So, carefully, he picked up a blue crayon and began to draw. He made Yejun taller than everyone else—because to him, Yejun was taller than everyone else. Bigger, stronger, like those superheroes he used to watch on TV. He gave him a messy scribble of blue hair and the warmest smile he could manage with thick, clumsy crayon strokes.

It wasn't perfect. But it was them.

Then, just as he finished, a kid from across the table peered over and snickered.

"Why are you drawing your brother? That's weird." Hamin's grip tightened around his crayon. "You're supposed to draw your mom or dad," the kid added with a sneer. "Or do you not have any?"

Something hot and sharp flared in Hamin's chest. The next thing he knew, the crayon snapped in his fingers.

The scuffle had been quick, messy. A shove, a tangle of arms, the sharp sound of chairs scraping against the floor. A teacher had pulled them apart before it got worse, but by the time Yejun arrived to pick him up, Hamin's nose was red, his eyes still wet, his hair a ruffled mess from where small hands had grabbed at him.

Yejun had crouched in front of him, brows furrowed, concern laced in his voice.

"Hamin-ah, what happened?"

Hamin sniffled but shoved the drawing into Yejun's hands instead of answering. For a long moment, Yejun just stared at it. His fingers traced over the uneven lines, the clumsy strokes of color. Then, he smiled. It was small, barely there. But his eyes softened in that way they only did when he was trying not to look sad.

"You drew me?"

"…Yeah," Hamin muttered, kicking at the floor. "Everyone else was drawing their parents, but I—" He stopped, shaking his head. His voice came out quieter when he spoke again. "I didn't know who else to draw."

Yejun's smile didn't waver. He reached out, ruffling Hamin's hair, just like he always did.

"Then I guess that makes me the luckiest hyung in the world," he said, his voice warm. "Because I have the best little brother."

And just like that, the fight, the teasing, the embarrassment—all of it mattered a little less.

Hamin's fingers lingered over the faded drawing on the fridge, the edges curling slightly with time. He had been a kid back then, too young to understand what Yejun had given up to take care of him. Too young to see the exhaustion behind his smiles.

Now, he knew better.

And Yejun still hadn't stopped taking care of him. Hamin clenched his jaw, a flicker of determination settling in his chest. He wasn't a kid anymore. It was time he found a way to take care of Yejun, too.

Even now, even after shutting him down last night, Yejun still did this. Still made breakfast. Still cleaned up after him. Still left him a note like nothing had happened.

Hamin swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. The guilt from their conversation still sat heavy in his chest.

He sat at the table, staring at the untouched plate of toast and eggs. He had promised himself he'd do better. That he'd make things easier for Yejun. But how? Yejun's firm words replayed in his head. "You need to focus on school, not money."

But how could he, when Yejun was working himself into exhaustion? When he came home looking like he was carrying the weight of the entire world? He hadn't given up on the idea.

He just needed advice.

Hamin reached for his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he landed on Noah Hyung.

He hesitated.

Noah was like an older brother to him, but this felt… different. Like something he should figure out himself. But still, his fingers hovered over the screen. If anyone could help him, it was Noah.

Taking a deep breath, he tapped the call button. The dial tone rang once. Twice. Then—

"Yo, Hamin! Long time no talk, kid. What's up?"

Hamin let out a breath, gripping the edge of the table. "Hi, Noah Hyung. 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, then finally admitted, "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." Noah hummed thoughtfully. "Sounds like him. Always trying to carry the world on his shoulders."

"Exactly," Hamin muttered. "He'd just say no if I told him. That's why I'm asking you, Hyung. Can you help me find something?" Noah was silent for a moment before letting out a thoughtful sigh. "Yejun's stubborn, that's for sure," he said at last. "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?"

Noah chuckled, but there was something softer underneath. "Alright, kid. But let's not jump into anything just yet. How about we meet up 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?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't beat yourself up too much, okay? You're doing more for him than you think."

The call ended, leaving only the soft hum of the apartment around him.

Hamin set his phone down, exhaling slowly.

Noah would help him figure things out.

Yejun had spent his whole life looking out for him, carrying burdens he never asked for. But Hamin wasn't a kid anymore.

Hope stirred within him, but it wasn't enough. This time, he'd find a way to help—no matter what it took.

Notes:

aaa finally the next chapter is out! apologies for any errs, it's 2 am here :') not my favorite chapter to write but i hope it's enjoyable! i am late but, how is everyone surving the cb :OOO i love it so much! the boys are so talented ;;; got my albums on monday and pulled a lot of yejun pcs 3 sadly no Ye-line unit pc but i got madhyungzzz AAAAA MADNESSS

rambling aside, let me hear your thoughts! happy reading 3

also yes, mad dog is a nod to no home TvT if you haven't read it yet, please do! if you're reading this you probably like angst, no home will tear your heart and stomp on it :')

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Chapter 5: A Weight of His Own

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter fornotes.)

Chapter Text

Noah was usually late.

Hamin had learned that after years of knowing him—he'd show up ten, fifteen minutes late, acting like it was part of his charm.

But today, he was on time.

Hamin spotted him from the window, leaning casually against his old, slightly battered motorbike, one foot resting on the ground, the other lazily perched on the pedal. His leather jacket hung loose over his frame, and he tapped his fingers idly against the handlebars, completely at ease, like he had nowhere to be, nothing to worry about.

There was something about Noah that always felt untouched by the weight of the world—like it had never, and could never, rattle him. No matter what was going on, he had that same air of effortless freedom, like he could pack up and disappear into the night without a second thought.

Unshaken. Reliable.

The kind of person who seemed like he could take anything life threw at him and just laugh it off.

As usual, his blonde hair was slightly tousled, like he hadn't bothered to fix it after taking off his helmet. The contrast between him and Hamin was striking—light against dark.

Hamin absently ran a hand through his flat black hair, already mussed from sleep, and rubbed the tension from his brow before stepping outside.

As he stepped outside, Noah tossed him a helmet without even looking up.

"You're late," Noah said immediately, smirking.

Hamin blinked. "I'm literally on time."

"Yeah, but I was here first," Noah shrugged. "Which makes you late."

Hamin rolled his eyes but smirked. "You're never on time."

"Exactly," Noah said, strapping on his helmet. "So if I'm here first, that means I care. Gross, huh?"

Then, with a grin, he added, "You ready? And by 'ready,' I mean you're buying me lunch for dragging me into this mess, right?"

Hamin rolled his eyes again, but the teasing tugged at the corner of his lips. "You're the one who said we needed to meet up."

"Yeah, yeah. Details." Noah swung a leg over his bike, the sleek black leather creasing at his elbows as he strapped on his helmet. "Hop on. I know a good spot."

As Hamin climbed onto the back of the bike, he tightened his grip slightly on Noah's jacket. He'd ridden with Noah plenty of times before, but something about today felt heavier—like once they got to wherever they were going, he wouldn't be able to turn back.

The engine rumbled to life beneath them, the familiar scent of leather and faint cologne mixing with the crisp autumn air.

Then, with a smooth rev, they took off.

The café Noah took him to was small but lively, wedged between old brick buildings, the kind of place that smelled like freshly brewed coffee, melted butter, and just a hint of cinnamon lingering in the air.

The door chimed softly as they stepped inside, a wave of warmth wrapping around them, chasing away the lingering chill from outside. The air felt thick with the scent of roasted espresso beans, blending with the faint sweetness of something fresh out of the oven. A low murmur of voices hummed beneath the gentle clinking of ceramic cups. The warmth inside was a stark contrast to the crisp air outside, and for a moment, Hamin let himself sink into the familiar coziness.

Noah, as always, moved like he belonged everywhere. He strode up to the counter without hesitation, scanning the menu for all of two seconds before ordering.

"One iced Americano," he said smoothly, then, without missing a beat—"And a warm choccy for the kid."

Hamin, who had been idly scanning the pastry case, jerked his head toward him.

"What? I can drink coffee, you know," he said, furrowing his brows.

Noah snorted, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah. No caffeine for you, kiddo."

Hamin scoffed, crossing his arms. "I'm not a kid."

"Sure you aren't," Noah mused, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "But you're still getting chocolate milk."

The barista handed over their drinks, and Hamin grabbed his cup, the warmth seeping into his fingers instantly. He took a hesitant sip—thick, rich, slightly too sweet—but undeniably good.

Noah caught the way his expression shifted—just slightly, just enough to tell that he didn't hate it.

"Good, huh?" Noah smirked, sipping his Americano, the sharp bitterness barely making him flinch.

Hamin rolled his eyes, blowing lightly on the steam curling up from his drink. "It's fine."

"Yeah, sure," Noah said, a knowing glint in his eye.

Hamin muttered something under his breath about condescending blondes, but when he took another sip, he didn't complain.

The café was cozy, filled with the quiet clatter of cups against saucers, soft jazz playing from a speaker in the corner. The wooden seats were slightly worn, the tables etched with faint carvings from past customers—names, dates, little doodles that had been scratched into the surface over time.

Noah settled into the booth first, stretching his legs out comfortably. The leather of his jacket creaked softly as he leaned back, effortlessly at ease.

As Hamin slid into the seat across from him, Noah chuckled softly to himself.

Hamin could act as grown-up as he wanted, but to Noah, he was still that baby-faced kid he met years ago—the kid who, whether he realized it or not, had become one of the most important parts of Yejun's life.

Noah leaned back in his seat, one arm draped over the booth, his iced Americano resting loosely in his other hand. His usual easy smile softened slightly as he studied Hamin, blue eyes sharp but not unkind.

"Alright," he said, taking a sip of his drink. "Spill it. What's really going on?"

Hamin hesitated, fingertips tracing the rim of his cup, his shoulders drawn slightly inward.

"It's like I said on the phone," he muttered. "Yejun 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 didn't react right away. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, swirling the ice in his drink. His gaze didn't waver, but the teasing edge had dulled, replaced by something steadier, heavier.

"So you think sneaking behind his back is the answer?"

Hamin flinched slightly, gripping his cup a little tighter.

"You make it sound worse than it is," he muttered. "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 smirk lingered for a second before it eased into something quieter, his expression shifting to something more knowing, more careful. A flicker of concern passed through his eyes, like he was measuring his words before speaking.

"I get it, kid. Really." He tapped his fingers idly against the table. "But going behind his back? That's a dangerous line to walk. What if he finds out?"

Hamin lifted his gaze then, dark eyes burning with quiet resolve, his jaw set like he was bracing himself for a fight. "Then I'll deal with it." His voice was firm, more certain than he felt. "If he's mad, fine. But at least he'll know I'm serious about helping."

Noah exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around his cup before relaxing again.

Instead, he let out a slow breath, his gaze flickering to the window for a second before he leaned back. His fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against his cup, his expression unreadable.

A part of him felt...sad.

Seeing Hamin like this—so desperate to lighten Yejun's burdens, so determined to step into a fight he didn't fully understand—it reminded him too much of himself, years ago.

Noah had been in this exact spot before.

He thought of his grandmother, how she had worked tirelessly to support him. The way she came home late, too exhausted to eat. The way he used to lie awake at night, listening to her shuffle around in the dark, moving like a ghost through their tiny house.

And he had hated it.

He hated watching her sacrifice so much for his sake. He hated that there was nothing he could do to stop it.

So he had done the only thing he could think of.

Noah let out a slow breath, shaking his head as he sat up straighter, his fingers drumming lightly against the table. "Damn. You sound like me when I was younger. Stubborn as hell, convinced you can fix everything yourself."

He grinned slightly, but there was something distant in his expression, something that dulled the usual sharp amusement in his voice.

Hamin frowned. "What?"

Noah rubbed the back of his neck, his lazy grin fading into something almost nostalgic, like a memory had briefly pulled him somewhere else before he refocused on Hamin.

"My grandmother raised me," he said. "Worked herself to the bone for me. Some nights, she'd come home so tired she couldn't even eat." He shook his head slightly. "I used to lie awake at night listening to her footsteps, too tired to even sit down for dinner. And I hated that I couldn't do anything."

Hamin stayed quiet, listening.

"So I got a job," Noah continued. "Didn't tell her. Thought I was helping. And when she found out?" He let out a quiet, almost breathy laugh, shaking his head. "She was pissed. Told me it wasn't my job to take care of her."

Hamin swallowed, he could hear the weight of Noah's words, the years of frustration and helplessness buried beneath his usual easygoing demeanor. He clenched his hands slightly, as if grasping onto the helplessness that came with watching someone he loved struggle. "But you still did it," he said, voice quieter now, more thoughtful.

"Yeah," Noah admitted, voice lighter but distant. "Because sometimes, even if they don't want the help, you gotta do something anyway." His lips quirked up slightly, but his voice was softer now. "Just sucks when the people you love are too damn stubborn to accept it."

The café felt quieter now, like the rest of the world had blurred around them.

Noah sighed, rubbing his temple, his expression caught between reluctant understanding and lingering hesitation before finally breaking the silence.

"You know, Yejun would kill me if he found out I helped you go behind his back," he said, his tone half-joking but laced with caution.

Noah arched an eyebrow, stirring the ice in his Americano with his straw before fixing Hamin with an expectant look. "And even if you managed to get a job, what's the plan? What are you planning to do with the money? Pay the bills without Yejun noticing?"

Hamin faltered, his grip tightening around his cup, as if holding onto something solid would steady him against the growing doubt creeping into his chest. He swallowed, then lifted his chin slightly, his voice quieter but steadier. "I… I haven't figured that part out yet."

"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 expression shifted, the teasing edge softening into something quieter. For a moment, his usual grin faded, replaced by something knowing—something that carried both care and a hint of worry. "You're still a kid, you know," he said, his voice lighter but firm. "And I'm still not sure this is a good idea."

"Please, Noah Hyung," Hamin pressed, his voice carrying both desperation and determination. His fingers curled around his cup, knuckles faintly white. "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 dragged a hand through his hair, staring at him for a long moment before shaking his head.

"You really are stubborn, aren't you? Must run in the family."

There was a flicker of something unreadable in his expression—a mix of amusement, concern, and something quieter, something Hamin couldn't quite name.

Noah exhaled slowly, then gave him a lopsided smirk. "Alright, kid. I'll help. But we're gonna do this smart. No rushing into the first job that takes you, and if things start to go south, you tell me immediately."

Hamin felt something unclench in his chest, his grip on his cup loosening. "Really?"

"Yeah, yeah." Noah waved him off, but there was something softer about the way he said it. "Just remember, if this blows up in your face, I'm telling Yejun you blackmailed me."

Hamin huffed out a small laugh, the tension that had been pressing on his shoulders finally lifting, even if just a little.

"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."

Noah stretched his arms over his head, taking another sip of his coffee like this wasn't a big deal at all. But Hamin knew better.

Then, after a beat, he added, "I might know a place."

Hamin straightened. "Where?"

Noah tapped his fingers against his cup. "The venue I'm performing at. They're always looking for extra hands—stage setup, sound checks, maybe even running small errands. It's nothing glamorous, but it pays."

Hamin didn't even hesitate. "I'll take it."

Noah raised an eyebrow. "You didn't even ask how much it pays."

"I don't care," Hamin said immediately. "I just need to do something."

Noah smirked, shaking his head as he stood. "Well, aren't you just a shining example of responsibility?"

He ruffled Hamin's hair before the younger could swat him away.

"I'll talk to the guy, see if he's willing to give you a shot." He stretched lazily, rolling his shoulders. "No promises, though—he's picky. And you? Not exactly prime employee material."

Hamin scoffed. "Gee, thanks for the confidence boost."

Noah chuckled, throwing his jacket over his shoulder. "Hey, I'm just saying—try not to embarrass me, alright? I've got a reputation to maintain."

Noah chuckled, throwing his jacket over his shoulder. "Hey, I'm just saying—try not to embarrass me, alright? I've got a reputation to maintain."

Hamin rolled his eyes, but a quiet sense of relief settled in his chest. It was happening. Maybe he didn't have the job yet, but this was the first real step toward something different—toward proving he could stand on his own.

As he followed Noah out of the café, the evening air hit his skin, crisp and cool. The city lights flickered to life around them, neon signs humming, cars rolling lazily past. He let out a slow breath, watching it curl into the night like smoke.

He'd spent so long just waiting. Waiting for things to get better. Waiting to feel like he wasn't just a burden Yejun had to carry.

Hamin felt like he had spent years standing at the edge of a deep pool, afraid to step in. Now, finally, he was jumping—whether he could swim or not didn't matter anymore.

He was finally going to be carrying his own weight—instead of letting Yejun carry it for him.

Notes:

updateeeee! rejoice! this was so tough to write huhuhu, my least favorite chapter so far :') noah's characterisation was killing me but i hope everyone enjoys it! (i'll probably rewrite this chapter sometime in th future lmaoo for now i'll leave it as is since we need it to progress the story :c)

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Chapter 6: A Step Into The Fire

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter fornotes.)

Chapter Text

The low hum of a shower, the soft clinking of dishes—sounds of a morning Yejun had lived countless times. Hamin lay still, listening, his stomach twisting with a strange mix of guilt and resolve. The familiar routine, the quiet sigh before Yejun left, felt heavier today. He clenched his jaw, pushing away the nagging voice in his head telling him to say something, to stop hiding. Instead, he waited. Only when the front door clicked shut did he finally get up.

He stepped out into the world between night and day, the air cool against his skin, his breath visible in the early light. The streets were still hushed, like the world hadn't fully woken up yet, like it was holding its breath for something. Hamin's footsteps echoed against the empty sidewalks as he made his way to the venue, his fingers tucked deep into his sleeves for warmth. There was no turning back now. His first shift. His first step toward something bigger. Toward standing on his own.

The metal door of the venue loomed ahead, rusted at the edges, the faint smell of stale beer and dust seeping through the cracks. Hamin swallowed hard, pushing through the door and into the dimly lit space. The venue felt alive in its own way, even in the quiet of the morning—a place that had witnessed countless performances, countless lives, all coming together under the haze of lights and music. It was messy. It was loud. But it was also exactly what Hamin had been searching for. Something of his own.

Inside, the air was thick with the remnants of last night's crowd, lingering in the corners like an afterthought. The creaking floorboards groaned under his sneakers as he stepped further in, his breath steadying. The owner, a broad-shouldered man with tired eyes, barely glanced up from the clipboard in his hands.

"You're early. Means you've got energy. Good," the man said gruffly, jerking his chin toward a pile of cases. "Start unloading those. Stack 'em by the stage."

Hamin nodded, feeling the pulse of the moment sink into his chest. This was it. His hands, though raw from the weight of the first case, gripped the equipment firmly. There was no going back.

The first case was heavier than expected, its weight pressing into his arms. He adjusted his grip and hoisted it forward, his muscles straining. Another case. Then another. The strain built slowly, creeping into his shoulders, coiling in his lower back. His breath hitched, but he kept moving.

He crouched to adjust a stubborn cable, dust rising in a thin cloud around him. The coarse particles clung to his hoodie, settling in his hair. He wiped his forearm across his brow, only for more dust to smear across his skin. His hands were raw from gripping metal stands, his fingertips stinging from coiling wires over and over again.

By the third hour, sweat had begun to soak through the back of his shirt, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to his skin. The salty tang of it stung his lips when he licked them, his breath warm and heavy in the stale air. A dull ache set into his bones, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. This wasn't just about work—it was about knowing. About feeling, if only for a few hours, what Yejun had carried for years.

Even when his arms shook, even when his breath came ragged, he kept going. He thought of Yejun, of all the times he had come home late, exhausted but never complaining. The weight Yejun carried, the quiet sacrifices, they weren't just stories—Hamin could feel them now, pressing into his own muscles, burning in his own lungs. It made him grit his teeth, made him push himself harder. If Yejun had done this for years, then Hamin could at least survive a single shift.

He paused for a moment, letting the heaviness of it settle in his chest. His legs wobbled beneath him, but there was something almost exhilarating about it. It hurt, sure. But in some strange way, the exhaustion felt good. It made him feel like he was finally contributing, finally pulling his weight.

By the time the shift ended, the venue felt like it was closing in around Hamin. The air was thick with the smell of dust, sweat, and stale equipment, each breath a reminder of his physical limit. His arms burned with the strain of hours of lifting, his back ached, and his legs felt like they might buckle beneath him at any moment.

He stood in the middle of the room, his chest heaving as he caught his breath, the pounding in his ears almost drowning out the sound of his own pulse. The work had been grueling, the weight of each case and speaker pressing into his body like the burdens Yejun had carried for years. Hamin had felt it in his muscles, in the way his bones ached, in the way sweat trickled down his spine, each drop a reminder that he was here now. He wasn't just watching anymore—he was part of it. He was doing it.

His limbs shook from exhaustion, but there was something else there, a spark beneath the surface that he hadn't expected. The ache in his shoulders, the sore grip of his hands, the blisters forming on his palms—they felt like triumphs. This wasn't just pain; it was the price of doing something that mattered.

He wiped his face with his sleeve, but it did little to ease the sweat that had soaked through his hoodie. He took one more breath, steadying himself, then looked at the work he'd finished—the cables coiled neatly, the stage set up for the night's performance. It wasn't perfect. The floor was still dusty, the crates still had a few labels half-torn, the air still held the weight of the last night's crowd—but he had done it. There was no immediate relief, just the knowledge that, for once, he had created something with his own two hands.

A soft thunk broke his reverie. A can of soda rolled across the floor toward him, the condensation trailing behind it like a pale shadow. Hamin blinked in surprise and looked up, catching the familiar figure of Noah standing above him, arms crossed, his grin sharp as ever.

"You look like death," Noah remarked, his voice carrying an easy humor that somehow made the weight of Hamin's exhaustion feel lighter. "Guess that means you worked hard."

Hamin chuckled through the tightness in his chest. He grabbed the can, feeling the cool metal against his palm, a stark contrast to the heat still clinging to his skin. He popped the tab and took a long sip, the carbonation biting at his throat but grounding him in the moment. The fizz, the coldness—it was a reprieve, a reminder that he was still alive, still capable of taking something for himself.

Noah dropped to the ground beside him, stretching out his legs with that casual grace only he could pull off. "So, was it everything you dreamed of? Feel like a contributing member of society now?"

Hamin wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, rolling his sore shoulders with a wince. The ache was there, but so was something else—a quiet pride. "It's harder than it looks," he admitted, his voice rough, but there was a small grin tugging at his lips. "But I don't regret it. I'm glad I'm finally doing this."

Noah snorted, nudging Hamin's shoulder with his own. "Think you can handle more shifts, then? Or is today gonna be the tragic tale of how Hamin's short-lived career ended after a single day of hard labor?"

Hamin scoffed but straightened up a little, trying to ignore the way his body protested. "Of course I can handle it. I'm not some weak kid. I'll get used to it."

Noah studied him for a long second, then chuckled, ruffling Hamin's already messy hair. "Yeah, alright, kid. Just don't overdo it." His voice softened ever so slightly, and for the first time, Hamin saw the sincerity that always seemed to lurk behind Noah's jokes. "You're not going to help anyone if you burn yourself out."

Hamin huffed, tipping the soda can back for another sip. The weight of his exhaustion pressed down on him, but Noah's words had hit something deeper. He hesitated for a moment, his body aching and ready to collapse, but forced a smirk anyway. "I won't burn myself out."

Noah gave him a flat look, unconvinced. "Yeah, you better not."

The space between them grew quiet, filled with the sound of distant footsteps and the hum of the venue settling down. Hamin let the coolness of the soda spread through his chest, the tingling sensation sharp and grounding. The exhaustion had moved from his body to his mind, but it felt more like a quiet surrender now—like he had finally come to terms with the weight he had carried all day. His body had given up its protest. The ache in his bones wasn't as suffocating anymore, but there was something quietly satisfying in it. He had earned it.

"And don't worry—I'll let Yejun know. Eventually," Hamin said, setting the can down beside him and rolling it between his hands as if weighing his next words.

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 laughed softly, shaking his head. "No promises. But don't worry, I'll time it right. Maybe when he's eating, so he can't yell at me with a mouthful of food."

Noah snorted, stretching his arms behind his head. "I'll believe it when I see it."

They sat in a brief, companionable silence, the dim lights of the venue casting long shadows around them. Hamin let his head tip back against the edge of the stage, closing his eyes for a brief moment. The hum of the venue, the distant chatter, the clinking of equipment—everything blended together into a quiet hum of life. It was overwhelming, but it wasn't suffocating anymore. For the first time in a long while, Hamin felt like he had a place in all of it.

Noah gave him a sidelong glance, his casual smirk softening into something more thoughtful. "C'mon, kid. You should head home before you pass out on the floor."

Hamin let out a slow breath, nodding as he hauled himself to his feet. His limbs protested, the ache more pronounced now that he wasn't actively moving. Noah walked him to the door, giving him a lazy wave as Hamin stepped outside into the cooling evening air.

The sun hung high, casting the city in vibrant light, its warmth pressing against his skin as Hamin walked home. His muscles ached, and sweat trickled down his neck, but there was a sense of lightness that came with each step. He had done something today—something real. Something he could call his own. The exhaustion still clung to him, but it was the kind of tiredness that felt earned. He was finally standing on his own.

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.

Yet, for the first time, the guilt didn't crush him. It lingered, yes, but it didn't drown out everything else. The quiet pride that hummed in his chest—the feeling that he had done something, for himself, and not just for his brother—was louder. It was a small spark, but it was enough to keep him moving forward.

And maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to carry him through the next step.

Notes:

this was an absolute nightmare to work on, i scrapped chapter 6 at least three times :')) it doesn't help that i've been super sick the last week huhuhu i'm much better now, just have to deal with a very persistent cough ToT i have written some angsty drabbles but they don't fit in the the timeline for the story 3 i'll either make a twwc drabble book or perhaps i'll drop the drabbles as extra chapters once the story is finished! anyhoww, i'll try to get the next chapter out sooner! happy reading 33

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Chapter 7: No Room to Fall

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter fornotes.)

Chapter Text

The low hum of a shower, the soft clinking of dishes—sounds of a morning Yejun had lived countless times. But today, the silence of the apartment felt different. He sat at the kitchen table, the stack of bills in front of him blurring slightly as he rubbed at his temple. The familiar pressure creeping in again.

Yejun's gaze drifted to the clock on the wall. Hamin was late.

Again.

It had been happening more often recently. His younger brother, usually so punctual, was coming home later and later, offering vague excuses about studying or school projects. Hamin 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.

The apartment was quiet, save for the low tick of the clock and the faint noise of the shower. Yejun couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to relax after a shift. The office had been unusually busy that morning, and now, in the early afternoon, fatigue was weighing on him like an old coat. He glanced at his coffee, now cold, its bitterness lingering in his mouth.

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.

Yejun had tried to ignore it. He didn't want to push too hard—after all, Hamin was still getting good grades, staying focused in school. But the concern was creeping in, like a shadow in the corner of his mind.

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 front door unlocking snapped him out of his thoughts. Yejun's gaze lifted, his breath catching just slightly. Hamin stepped inside, his hair slightly mussed, his bag slung over one shoulder. He froze for a brief moment when he saw Yejun sitting at the table, his eyes flicking with something Yejun couldn't quite read. But then the mask slipped into place, and Hamin flashed him a grin.

"Hey, Hyung," Hamin said, his tone light, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You're still up?"

Yejun raised an eyebrow, taking in Hamin's tired posture, the way his shoulders slumped as he kicked off his shoes. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms but keeping his voice casual. "You look like you've been run over by a truck, kid. Burning the candle at both ends?"

Hamin smiled faintly, shrugging it off. "Just school stuff. You know, finals and all that."

Yejun studied him for a moment, his gaze sharp, though his tone stayed easy. "Right. Finals. But you've been looking pretty wiped out lately. Been staying up late?"

Hamin's smile faltered just for a second, but he quickly masked it. "Yeah, studying, you know. You're always telling me to stay on top of my grades."

He knew that would shut Yejun up.Grades, the one thing Yejun always emphasized, the thing he'd never question. But even as the words left his mouth, a sliver of guilt scraped at his chest. He wasn't being honest. He wasn't evenclose.

The words hung in the air, too rehearsed, and for a brief moment, Hamin could feel the sting of dishonesty. His chest tightened, and the guilt clawed at him for making his brother think he was exhausted from schoolwork. Yejun didn't know about the late nights at the venue—the long, gruelling hours spent trying to fill a gap that Hamin couldn't even explain.

But there was no going back now.

Yejun didn't say anything for a moment, his gaze lingering on Hamin. "I know. But you're looking more like a zombie than a student these days. You sure you're alright?"

Hamin nodded quickly, his words coming out a little too fast. "I'm fine, really. Just need to focus, that's all."

Yejun watched him for a long moment, his gaze softening despite the flicker of concern in his chest. He sighed, shaking his head with a half-smile. 'Alright, but you know... I'm here if you need to talk, right?' He let the words hang in the air, not wanting to say more, but hoping Hamin understood.

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

Yejun leaned back, his lips pressing into a thin line as he studied his younger brother. The words were there, just on the edge of his tongue, but he kept them to himself. He didn't want to be the older brother who smothered Hamin, but something about all this—about Hamin's exhaustion, the constant late nights, the evasiveness—didn't sit right with him.

As Hamin retreated to his room, closing the door softly behind him, the silence that followed felt heavier than it had before. Yejun's mind kept drifting back to his brother's quick answers, the way he avoided eye contact. He had tried to give him space, but now, the distance felt more like a wall between them.

The door clicked shut behind Hamin as he retreated to his room, the faint echo of his footsteps lost in the quiet apartment. He leaned against the door for a moment, eyes closed, letting the guilt roll over him like a wave. It was a familiar feeling, one that always seemed to follow him whenever he lied to Yejun. The weight of the lie felt heavier this time, pressing down on his chest, suffocating him in a way he hadn't expected.

He dropped his bag on the floor and collapsed onto his bed, letting the exhaustion of the day sweep over him. His body screamed for rest, but his mind wouldn't let him. The image of Yejun's face lingered—his unspoken worry, the quiet kindness that Hamin wasn't worthy of.

As he lay there, trying to breathe through it, a memory resurfaced, one he had tried to bury countless times before.

The memory came flooding back like it always did when things got tough. It was a late night long ago when he was still just a kid, no older than ten. He'd stumbled out of his room, looking for a glass of water, and found Yejun sitting alone in the living room. His brother, usually so strong, so composed, was hunched over, his head in his hands.

At first, Hamin thought Yejun was asleep, but then he noticed the slight trembling of his shoulders, the soft, almost imperceptible sniffles that echoed in the room.

It took a moment for the realization to hit: Yejun was crying.

Hamin froze in the doorway, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn't know what to do, he'd never seen Yejun like that before. At that age, he didn't fully understand the gravity of their situation, the weight that hung over them. But he understood something else. He could feel the pain radiating from his brother, sharp and heavy, and it pulled at him in ways he couldn't explain.

He watched as Yejun tried to stifle his tears, wiping his face in a hurry, trying to keep the pain from overflowing. But it was there—raw and exposed.

The scene before him hit him with the force of a thunderclap—Yejun, the one who always smiled for him, who always took care of him, was now broken in a way that Hamin couldn't comprehend.

On the coffee table in front of Yejun were several opened envelopes, their edges crumpled as though they had been held too many times, read over and over, but one among them stood out.

It was an acceptance letter—for a music program. The words "Music Department" were bolded at the top, followed by "Congratulations." The excitement should have been palpable, but the quiet sadness in Yejun's eyes spoke volumes.

Yejun had been accepted into the program. It was the opportunity Yejun had wanted for years and now he had a chance—a real chance—but he couldn't take it. Not with the bills piled up, not with the financial burden of their family looming over them.

Not with Hamin around.

The truth hit Hamin like a punch to the gut. His brother had sacrificed his dream so that Hamin wouldn't have to worry about their financial situation. Yejun had given up something that had mattered to him, something he had worked so hard for, just to make sure Hamin didn't have to carry the burden alone.

Yejun had let go of his future for him.

Hamin's breath caught in his throat. He didn't know how long he had been standing there, frozen in place, unable to move. He wanted to go to Yejun, to comfort him, but at the same time, he felt too small, too stupid, to understand the weight of it all. He was just a kid—he wasn't supposed to see his brother like this. Yejun was the one who always took care of things.

So Hamin just stood there, paralyzed, feeling too young to help, but too old to pretend he didn't understand. He hated seeing Yejun like that—the brother who always smiled for him, always carried the weight for both of them, now looking so small and alone.

The pain in Yejun's eyes struck Hamin harder than anything. He hated it, hated knowing he was the reason his brother had given up so much. But what stung most was how useless he felt. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say to comfort Yejun or change anything.

Hamin's throat tightened, and he buried his face in his pillow, forcing back the tears that threatened to rise. He hated that memory. Watching his brother crumble, was something that had stayed with him over the years. The helplessness of not knowing how to make things better, of not knowing how to ease his brother's pain, had eaten at him. And the worst part was theguilt. Guilt for not being able to help, guilt for not realizing the weight of it all sooner.

At that moment, Hamin had hated Yejun's sacrifice, but most of all, he hated himself—that he couldn't change anything. He couldn't stop Yejun from carrying the weight of their world alone, and that thought—the helplessness of it—had never really left him.

The memory lingered, always lurking just beneath the surface, sharpening the guilt that had taken root in his chest. It became a catalyst for his resolve. He couldn't just sit by anymore, couldn't keep being the one who didn't understand.

He wasn't that little boy anymore. He wasn't standing in the shadows, feeling helpless. Now, he was taking action—however 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.

Hamin arrived at the venue right on time, the buzz of the crew getting everything ready filling the air. The evening droned with the usual energy of the venue, the low hum of equipment being tested and the crew rushing around to prepare for the night's show. The air smelled faintly metal, and sweat—the unmistakable scent of hard work.

Hamin was in the thick of it, coiling cables, adjusting speakers, and checking equipment, his movements slow and deliberate, though his exhaustion was evident. He hadn't gotten much sleep the night before—another shift that stretched too long, another school project that needed finishing.

The weight of it all sat on his shoulders, but he kept moving, one task after another. He didn't want to admit he was struggling, so he buried it under the routine, pretending like he had it under control. His hands were slick with sweat, his muscles aching from hours of lifting and twisting wires.

A loud crash echoed from across the room as another crew member dropped a set of equipment. Hamin winced, the sudden noise jarring his already fragile concentration. His head throbbed, and a sharp pain shot down his spine as he tried to stand upright. He swayed, catching himself on a nearby speaker just before he stumbled.

During a short break, Noah spotted Hamin sitting backstage, leaning against a stack of equipment, the bottle of water in his hands almost looking like a lifeline. His shoulders were slumped, and his eyes were half-closed, like he was barely keeping it together.

"You're looking pretty beat, kid." Noah said, raising an eyebrow as he plopped down next to him, looking over at Hamin's exhausted face.

Hamin flashed a faint smile but didn't meet Noah's gaze. "It's not so bad."

Noah chuckled softly, but it wasn't a joke. He studied him for a moment, then shook his head. "You sure? You've got that look—like you're about to collapse at any moment."

"I'm fine, Hyung." Hamin's voice lacked conviction, though. He tried to sit up straighter, but the weight of exhaustion tugged at his limbs, refusing to let him pretend he was okay.

Noah leaned back, crossing his arms. His gaze softened, but the edge of concern was still there. "You know, you don't have to take on the whole world, Hamin." His voice was casual, but there was an underlying seriousness. "It took me way too long to realize sometimes, asking for help isn't weakness. It's just smart."

Hamin glanced at him, conflicted. He wanted to brush it off, but something in Noah's tone made him pause. "That's what I'm trying to do, Hyung." His eyes dropped to the bottle in his hands. "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 watched him for a long moment, his usual easy smirk slipping just slightly as he softened. "I get it," he said quietly, almost like he wasn't talking to a kid anymore. "It's not easy feeling like you can't do enough." He leaned in slightly, his tone firmer now. "But don't lose yourself in the process, alright? Yejun doesn't need another reason to worry about you."

Hamin nodded slowly, gripping the water bottle a little tighter. He had heard those words before, but they always seemed to sting a little harder each time. "I won't."

Noah gave him a small, almost approving smile, and then the usual playful glint returned to his eyes. "Good." He leaned in a bit, looking like he was about to say something more serious, but then grinned. "Because if you pass out here, I'm not carrying you home. You're heavier than you look."

Hamin raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint appearing in his tired eyes. He straightened up, dusting his hands off dramatically. "You work out so much, and that's all you've got?" He gave a short laugh. "Those muscles really are purely for fashion, huh?"

Noah's eyes widened in mock offense, a smirk playing on his lips. "Oh, you punk." He shook his head, moving toward Hamin with the intent to playfully mess with him. "Since when did you grow so shameless?"

Before Hamin could respond, Noah's arm shot out, locking Hamin into a headlock with a grin. "You think you can talk that much smack and get away with it?" Noah teased, his grip not too tight but enough to make Hamin struggle a little. "You've got no idea what you're messing with, kid."

Hamin struggled half-heartedly, trying to squirm free, but Noah's grip was too tight. He laughed in spite of himself. "You're lucky I'm too tired to fight back, Hyung."

Noah laughed and ruffled Hamin's hair, finally letting go. "You're lucky I like you, kid." He gave him a quick, playful shove. "But next time you talk like that, I'll make sure you don't get away so easy."

Hamin chuckled, finally managing to wriggle free. He gave Noah a playful shove, his exhaustion still heavy but his spirit lifted by the brief moment of camaraderie. "Thanks for the rest, Hyung. I think I'll survive a little longer now."

Noah gave him a lazy salute. "Good. You're welcome, punk."

Hamin's steps slowed as he walked through the dimly lit streets. The usual rhythm of his walk felt off, like he was moving through thick water, each step requiring more effort than the last. The weight of the night's work, the hours spent running on fumes, felt like a stone lodged in his chest, suffocating his breath.

His mind wandered—sluggish and disjointed—as he walked home, his feet barely grazing the ground. Noah's words echoed in his head, softer now, but still firm: "Asking for help isn't weakness—it's smart." But what did he know? Hamin was stubborn, and there was nothing wrong with pushing through. After all, that's what Yejun had done for years.

It wasn't that bad.

The weight was nothing. Compared to what Yejun carried, this was just a drop in the ocean. Yejun had been carrying the weight of their world on his shoulders, and now, for once, Hamin was stepping into his shoes. He wasn't going to let his brother down. Not now. Not ever.

The unseen weight of his brother's sacrifices hung around Hamin's neck like an anchor, pulling him forward with an intensity he couldn't shake. Each step he took felt heavy with the knowledge of Yejun's quiet strength, of all the things Yejun had done without a single word of complaint. Hamin wasn't going to fail him—not when his brother had sacrificed so much.

But as Hamin walked, the weight began to settle in his bones, like the heaviness of a storm cloud building overhead. He didn't care that he was running on empty; he didn't care that his muscles screamed for rest. The thought of Yejun's sacrifices spurred him forward. He was finally stepping into the world Yejun had lived in—a world where every breath was a sacrifice, where the quiet strength to carry on was all you had.

But beneath the surface of his determination, a subtle twinge of doubt crept in, a faint whisper he couldn't quite ignore. Noah's voice lingered in his mind: "You're gonna burn out."

The doubt was a shadow, trailing after him like a dark cloud on a bright day. Yet, Hamin pressed forward, convinced that he was doing the right thing. His pace quickened, and he almost felt invincible as he continued down the street, ignoring the ache in his chest, the exhaustion clouding his thoughts. Yejun had done it, so he could too.

The weight of his brother's sacrifices was invisible, but it was there, a constant presence that fuelled Hamin's every movement. He refused to admit that the fatigue was beginning to eat away at him, eating him from the inside out. His chest tightened, but he pushed it aside, telling himself that if he just kept going, he could make it.

Every step was a reminder that he was following in his brother's footsteps. Yejun had lived this life—the one where you keep moving forward, no matter how heavy the load became, no matter how much it hurt. This was his turn. Hamin was finally stepping into Yejun's world, and no matter the cost, he wasn't going to stop. Not now. Not ever.

Still, a small voice whispered, a quiet, gnawing reminder that this was all going to come crashing down. Hamin pushed it aside. He would handle it, just like Yejun had. This wasn't the time to question. It wasn't the time to doubt. He would carry it. He would carry it all.

For Yejun, it was always all worth it.