Yu Hamin lingered outside the apartment door, his fingers brushing against the metal key dangling from his wrist. The coolness of the evening air clung to his skin, but he didn't move to unlock the door. Instead, he stared at the scratched paint of the wood, his chest tightening with the weight of his thoughts.
The scuffed knuckles on his right hand throbbed faintly. He flexed his fingers, tracing the swelling with his thumb. It wasn't like he wanted to get into fights. It wasn't even that he enjoyed them. But sometimes—sometimes—he couldn't just let things go.
Yejun hyung's going to be mad.
The thought made his stomach churn. It wasn't Yejun's anger that scared him. No, it was the disappointment that cut the deepest. The heavy and quiet kind that Yejun carried in his eyes whenever Hamin messed up.
Letting out a slow breath, Hamin finally slipped the key into the lock and turned it. The door creaked open, and the faint glow of the television cast long shadows across the apartment's cramped interior. The smell of instant ramen hung in the air—a familiar, almost comforting scent, but tonight it felt suffocating.
"You're late," came Yejun's voice from the couch. He didn't look up, his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled to his elbows. The television murmured in the background, but Yejun's eyes were distant, not focused on the screen. He shifted slightly, his gaze landing on Hamin as he stepped inside. His eyes darted briefly to the redness on Hamin's knuckles, and then up to the faint shadow of a bruise forming on his jaw.
"You've been fighting again, haven't you?" Yejun's voice was calm, almost too calm, but the weariness behind it hit harder than any shout.
Hamin froze for a moment, then shut the door behind him. "It's not…" he started, his voice faltering. "It's not what you think."
"What I think," Yejun interrupted, rising from the couch, "is that you promised me. No more fights." He gestured toward Hamin's scuffed shoes and the slight tear at the hem of his shirt. "Do you think I don't notice? Hamin, you said you were done with this."
Hamin clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. "I… I didn't mean for it to happen. It wasn't my fault."
"It never is," Yejun said softly, his voice laced with quiet frustration. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and for a fleeting moment, his shoulders sagged as though the weight of the world was pressing down on him.
His fingers lingered near his temple, massaging lightly before he dropped his hand back down. "You need to think before you act, Hamin. There are better ways to handle things."
"You don't get it," Hamin muttered, avoiding Yejun's gaze.
"Then help me understand," Yejun said, stepping closer. His voice was steady, but there was a softness to it that made Hamin's chest tighten. As he moved, Hamin noticed the faint unsteadiness in Yejun's steps. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but enough to make Hamin's brow furrow briefly. He dismissed it as exhaustion—Yejun always worked too hard.
The memory of the fight flashed in his mind, unbidden. The taunts had started off harmless, the usual jabs about his grades and how he acted like he was better than everyone else. But when they started badmouthing Yejun—Heard he didn't even go to college. What a loser. Pretending he's your dad? Trying to play house because your parents couldn't hack it? That's rich. A dropout acting like a dad for a kid nobody wanted. What a pathetic joke of a family—something inside Hamin snapped.
He didn't remember throwing the first punch, but he sure remembered the satisfaction of landing it. The way his knuckles connected, the brief sting of the impact, it had felt good—too good.
They didn't know anything. They didn't know how hard Yejun worked, how much he sacrificed. And they had no right to talk about things they didn't understand.
But what was the point of explaining? Yejun already carried so much. Hamin hated the idea of adding to his burden. Instead, he shook his head. "It doesn't matter."
"You can't keep doing this, Hamin. You can't solve everything with your fists," Yejun said, his voice dropping. He hesitated, his words faltering. "That's not how we…"
Yejun trailed off, his voice faltering as he avoided Hamin's gaze. The weight of something unsaid hung in the air, thick and suffocating. His shoulders tensed, his jaw tightening ever so slightly as if the words he stopped himself from saying hurt just as much to hold back.
Hamin's chest tightened as he watched his brother, the unspoken words louder than anything Yejun could have said. The quiet tension was too much. He felt his frustration bubbling beneath the surface, threatening to spill over as he clenched his fists at his sides. The room felt smaller, his brother's silence sharper. Finally, the words slipped out before he could stop them.
Hamin's gaze snapped up, his voice sharp. "That's how who does things? You? Me?Dad?"
Yejun froze, his eyes darkened. His jaw tightened, and for a long moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly but firmly, he replied, "Don't. Don't bring him into this."
Hamin opened his mouth to push further, the words bubbling up inside him, but he faltered. The way Yejun's eyes dimmed, his whole demeanor hardening at the mention of their father, made Hamin's chest ache. That shadow of pain—it was a wound Hamin hated himself for poking at.
The regret settled heavily as he lowered his gaze, his hands curling into fists. Why had he even brought it up?
Yejun's voice broke the silence, quieter now, stripped of its earlier sharpness. "Just go wash up. Dinner's ready."
Hamin's fists clenched, but he didn't argue. The last thing he wanted was to pile more stress onto Yejun. He knew how hard his brother worked to keep things together, juggling a demanding job while raising him.
Every sacrifice Yejun made weighed on Hamin, pushing him to work harder, to prove that it was all worth it. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was falling short. Seeing the disappointment on Yejun's face tonight cut
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 CastChapter 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 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 churned relentlessly in his mind. He thought of the fights, the way his fists seemed to move before his brain caught up, and the taekwondo studio that had caught his attention without meaning to.
A sharp pang of shame twisted in his chest.
Do I remind Yejun 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 ToNotes:
(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.
The thoughts came and went like a passing breeze, and he shook them off, forcing himself to keep walking. Stopping meant acknowledging the dreams he'd packed away, dreams he couldn't afford to carry when there was so much else weighing him down.
He let the sound fade behind him, replaced by the rhythm of his own footsteps—a steady beat to the song of responsibility he'd been playing for years.
The faint glow of his apartment building came into view, and Yejun felt a small sense of relief at the familiar sight. His thoughts, however, were interrupted by a familiar voice behind him.
"Yejun! There you are," Noah called, his voice full of its usual teasing lilt. "I was literally two minutes from knocking on your door. Figured I'd catch you before you locked me out like last time."
Yejun turned, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "You'd survive two minutes on the doorstep, Noah. Or is the great artist afraid of the cold?"
"Afraid? Never. I just hate being ignored. You're lucky I'm generous enough to grace you with my presence." Noah quipped, falling into step beside him. "Rough day?"
"Just the usual," Yejun replied with a shrug.
"So, spreadsheets and soul-crushing monotony. Got it." Noah nudged Yejun's shoulder lightly. "You're too good for that place, you know."
"And yet, I'm still there," Yejun said dryly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He glanced sideways at Noah.
"What are you doing here anyway?"
"I was on my way to your place, obviously," Noah said. "It's been a while, and I figured it was time to make sure you and Hamin hadn't turned into total recluses."
"Right. Because showing up unannounced is the best way to do that," Yejun replied, his voice dry but not without humor.
"Exactly! I'm all about authenticity," Noah quipped, slinging an arm loosely over Yejun's shoulders. "Besides, I missed you guys. Someone's gotta make sure you're both still alive."
Yejun shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You could've at least texted."
"And ruin the element of surprise? Please. I'm practically family anyway, so technically, I don't even need an invite."
"Family doesn't need an invite," Yejun said with a teasing grin. "Though I'm starting to think I should start charging you rent."
"Go ahead," Noah shot back with a smirk. "But don't be surprised when I start charging you for my sparkling company. You'd go broke in a week."
Yejun rolled his eyes. "You're probably starving. Let's get inside before you collapse from all that sparkling."
"Lead the way, noble host," Noah declared dramatically, throwing an exaggerated bow as they reached the building's entrance. Yejun shook his head with a quiet laugh, pushing the door open.
As they stepped into the apartment, the smell of something burning hit them immediately. Yejun froze, his gaze snapping to the kitchen.
"Hamin," he called, his voice carrying equal parts concern and exasperation.
From the kitchen, Hamin's sheepish voice replied, "I'm fixing it!"
Yejun sighed, sharing an amused glance with Noah before walking toward the kitchen. Hamin stood over the stove, waving a towel at the faint smoke curling up from the pan. The charred remains of what might have been dinner sat in the middle of the counter.
"You call this fixing?" Yejun teased, stepping in to rescue the situation. "Go sit down before you burn the place down."
Hamin huffed but obeyed, muttering under his breath as he plopped onto the couch. Noah followed, flopping down beside him with a grin.
"You really went all out, huh?" Noah said, nudging Hamin playfully. "This looks like something I'd cook. Which, for the record, is not a compliment."
"Shut up," Hamin mumbled, though his lips twitched in a reluctant smile.
As Yejun salvaged what he could and set the table with reheated leftovers, he noticed the apartment was spotless. The mess he'd left behind that morning was gone, the counters wiped clean and the dishes neatly stacked. A quiet warmth spread through his chest. Hamin had done this.
"You cleaned up?" Yejun asked as they sat down to eat.
Hamin shrugged, his cheeks tinting slightly. "You were in a hurry. Thought I'd help."
Noah raised an eyebrow, leaning closer to Hamin with mock suspicion. "Who are you, and what have you done with the real Hamin?"
Hamin rolled his eyes, but his grin gave him away. "I can be helpful, you know."
The three of them settled into an easy rhythm over dinner, laughter and light teasing filling the small apartment. Yejun watched the scene unfold, the stress of the day melting away as he took it all in. This—these simple, imperfect moments—reminded him why it was all worth it. Were he given the choice to start over, he'd make the same sacrifices all over again. Every single one.