Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

— 12:33 AM, Wednesday

The leather briefcase is heavy with clinking items clashing against its walls with every step Jisung takes.

In the enveloping darkness, a dazzling flash from a pair of headlights momentarily hinders his vision. Only then does he realize that it’s raining, cold droplets pitter-pattering as they repeatedly hit the ground, giving it a wet smell that lingers in the air. His vision is blurry, the half-moon lenses of his glasses impersonating a running track for the racing beads of water.

A sigh. Deep, tired, regretful— the car passes by, further drenching him from the waist down. That doesn't stop him. His legs keep on moving, despite screaming at him to slow down, to take a break, to stop. How could he? It’s late.

He should’ve arrived home more than half an hour ago, but given that he’s not yet used to living in a big city, he got lost.

One step, two, four, fifty more and he’s in front of the apartment complex building, heaving in short, quick huffs. He climbs up the flight of stairs that lead to the hefty glass doors, pulling the one on his right open.

Inside, the air is warm, and there’s a prominent smell of cleanliness. That would explain why the marbled floor is squeaky with his shoes scraping against it. Rain is rolling down off him, painting the pristine white dirty. He shivers, lavish clothes unbearably sticking to his skin.

Jisung makes it to the elevators. In between the two of them, there’s a paper framed on the wall, informing, ‘Elevators are out of use after midnight till 6 AM’.

Well.

The stairs are to his left. It’s a hassle to go up a hundred of them after having walked thousands of steps, but it’s not like he has a better choice.

Thankfully, it’s not long till he makes it to his floor. He enters a long, narrow hallway with doors on each side, and walks up to the one that should have 425 tagged on it.

Fishing for the keys in the inside chest pocket of his wet coat, he makes sure to be careful when he inserts it into the keyhole.

It doesn't fit. His eyebrows scrunch together.

He flips it around, tries again, tries three times more, and when it still doesn't work, he bangs his clenched fist against the hardwood, the soft pads of his glasses slipping lower down his nose. Ouch.

Behind the locked door, a voice sounds in the silence of the building. Frail, curious. “Appa?”

“Rieon?”

That’s when he finally lifts his head, coming face-first into the number on the door. 325.

Shit!

Like any other person would do after unintentionally attempting to break into someone’s house in the dead of night, Jisung flees the scene.

The silence is daunting, almost scolding. Instead of that, he focuses on the tremor in the light’s noise coming from the fluorescent tubes on the ceiling, a vibrating hum that floats through his head. A constant reminder.

It’s only three minutes after and he’s inside his actual apartment, soaking wet. His skin is itching all over. He doesn't know if the itch can be scratched. It’s all too much, suddenly.

He drops his satchel on the parquet, leaving it there beside his wet shoes. The coat is hung on the rack, adjacent to Rieon’s own significantly smaller jacket. He walks further inside, but not before locking the door two times.

Unsurprisingly, the entrance to Rieon’s room is open, a faint light coming from inside.

When he passes by it, there’s a voice. Familiar, disappointed. “Appa,”

Jisung feels his heart trying to break free from all the blood vessels in a futile endeavour to crawl up his throat and choke him until he’s devoid of guilt.

“Rieon,” he whispers. Walks until he’s by his son’s bed, looks down at him with apologetic eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“You promised, Appa,”

“I know,”

Rieon tries to hide his wobbling lip, but Jisung knows.

“Want me to stay with you?”

In response, he receives a mere nod.

“Okay. Let me just–” he hurries to the hallway, already unbuttoning his sopping shirt. “Change.”

There’s no time for a shower, his son as impatient as him, so he only brushes his teeth and slips into navy blue pyjamas after drying his prickly flesh off with a towel. The glasses are too foggy for him to see well. He wipes at them with the end of his shirt and puts them back on.

“You’re back,” Rieon says when Jisung strolls into his bedroom. Like he didn't believe he would be.

“Yes.” Jisung rounds the single bed and takes a seat next to his child, freshly nine. “I’m back.”

“Mm.”

“Sleep now, bumblebee,”

“Okay,” he mutters, stretching with the power of a yawn. “Will you stay?”

His thin fingers slide through the brown strands, stroking his hair. Jisung stares at him with a loving, sorry gaze, and doesn’t expect a forgiving one in return. “Yes. For as long as you need me to.”

“‘Night, Appa.”

He watches as Rieon’s eyes fall shut, eyelashes constantly caressing the chubby cheeks as he fights the urge to blink. He watches as Rieon inhales and exhales in a steady manner.

With each breath his boy takes, Jisung regrets. Regrets a lot, if not everything.

It’s easy to let his mind spiral. It’s always been. Maybe that’s what makes him unapproachable— being stuck in his head for too long. It’s a shame, really.

There was a time when he didn't know how his life could ever continue. That time was when Han Rieon was brought into this world by Yi Nari, a graceful lady just a month younger than Jisung. Nari is now a neurologist at the Asan Medical Centre, where she met her prospective spouse, and Jisung couldn't be happier for her.

Truth be told, Jisung and she were never meant to be. They never wanted to be.

As cruel as it might sound, Rieon was an accident.

They were young and stupid, nineteen and still discovering the blessings of the world, best friends and partying out late every Saturday.

It just happened.

Jisung was devastated because he knew his closest friend wanted to pursue a medical career. She had just been accepted into a high-end university; saying the pregnancy felt like the end of the world was an understatement.

Despite that, Nari decided to keep the baby. Jisung was there for her throughout those endless weeks. Held her hand when she was wailing on the hospital bed, fed her food when she was too exhausted to do it herself.

She gave birth to a healthy, plump boy on the 10th of April, the next year. Her mother came up with the name. She was more supportive than Jisung’s parents had been.

For the first year, Nari and Jisung moved together into Nari’s one-story house, but when Rieon was nearing eleven months, she had to leave for university. She started getting busy, frustrated, and stressed out, so ultimately, the final decision was for the father to raise his son on his own. He carried his name, after all.

He had rented a flat ten minutes away from his best friend’s house, and joined a Facebook club with tips on how to be a great parent created by single mothers. They were welcoming and helped the best they could.

At first, it was a hassle for Nari. She didn't visit them much. Though as she started getting used to her new life (Uni courses all day, gym at night, girl days out on the weekends), she started spending more time with her son, like she had on his first year on this planet.

Eight years later, she sees Rieon almost weekly, and sometimes, he even sleeps at her house.

A light snore manages to breach through Jisung’s thick skull, and another glance at the young boy confirms that he has fallen into a deep slumber.

Jisung sighs, this time affectionately. “Good night, my bumblebee.” He caresses Rieon’s cheek and silently gets up, closing the door behind him when he exits.

The floor creaks under his feet as he beelines for his own bedroom that is situated just down the hallway. His glasses get thrown on the nightstand, forgotten. He rubs his eyelids until the applied pressure makes it hurt.

Laying in bed at night unable to sleep is one of the difficulties he has to face every time. There are too many itches.

Life is still extremely hard for Jisung, but now he’s a composer at a big company and friends with two of the most loved music producers worldwide. Bang Chan and Seo Changbin.

Nari and him are still close. They love each other the same way they did when they were kids. Albeit time is a thief and they don’t see each other as much as they’d like to, at least Rieon gets to spend some time with his mother.

Jisung falls asleep thinking about Nari, and how happy she must be that she’s now engaged and having her wedding in summer. Not only, but she also became exactly who she wanted to be— a successful doctor.

And him? Nobody.

-`ᯓ★´-

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Jisung smiles. He dabs his hands on the kitchen towel and steps up to Rieon, messing up his bed head twofold.

Whining, the boy wiggles to get away. “Stop!”

“How’d you sleep?” he laughs, feeling the softness of his hair as he roughly dishevels it before stepping to the side.

“Okay,”

He beams at him again. Then, he goes back to the omelette on the electric stove, checking to see if it’s ready.

Rieon takes a seat at the maple table, drumming his fingers on the wood. Jisung has his back turned to him, all of his attention on the food he has to not ruin.

The kitchen smells like eggs even with the window open and the envigorating air making its way inside. Jisung, still in his thin sleepwear, feels the raw coldness picking at his skin.

It’s seven, and Rieon has school in about one hour.

“You didn't stay.”

Jisung pauses. He doesn't turn around— the unhappy look in Rieon’s eyes would be too much for his chest. It might crack open. “I’m sorry,”

“‘S okay, Appa.”

“Do you want toast, too?” he asks, placing the plate in front of the kid who’s impatiently swinging his feet under the table. “I think I do.”

“Yes.”

Not wasting any time, he lets his portion go cold as he cuts four slices of bread and crams some ham with cheese inside, making two chunks. He grabs the toaster from one of the drawers and lets the sandwiches get scorched until cheese is melting out of them.

“Here.”

“Thank you,” Rieon gives a small beam when he’s handed the toast, half of his omelette already eaten on the plate. “Yummy.”

“Eat well.”

The fork screeches against the ceramic. There are drops of water dripping from the tap. A bird just bumped into the now closed window. The kitchen still smells like eggs, and burnt toast.

His shoulders droop down as he chews on the food, thinking about the number of things he has to do today. He has to be at the company at nine o’clock. Meet up with Chan to work on a song. Grab lunch with Changbin. Go back home and cook something.

Quicker than ever, Rieon finishes his breakfast and stands up. He picks up the empty plate and discards it into the sink, leaving with no other words.

It’s weird. He’s been acting weird these past few days— Jisung isn't worrying too much, though.

He’s nine, and they just moved into a new place almost one month ago. It’s okay for him to be a bit disoriented. Things will be fine.

Jisung washes the dishes, scrubbing them clean with a yellow smiley sponge. It looks back at him with hollow eyes that mirror the feeling inhabited deep in his bleak heart. He squeezes it.

“Rieon!” he shouts once done, petting down his hands on his shirt, fingertips imprinting as wet spots on it. “Get dressed!”

There’s no answer, though he doesn't need one anyway.

He ignores the heavy feeling wrapping around each of his ribs and heads towards the bedroom to get dressed for work. He chooses a black buttoned shirt with some tight slacks, taking everything into the bathroom where he brushes his teeth.

The mirror smirks back at him, and he pats himself on the shoulder, content with his reflection.

“Appa, I’ll be late,” Rieon says from outside the bathroom.

“Coming!”

Jisung exits after one more minute of turning around and checking himself out, now facing a very restless young man.

“Ready to go, prince?” he asks, putting on a dark brown coat, subsequently handing Rieon his jacket.

“No,” Rieon fondles with the zipper until it’s all the way up, catching his father's eyes. “I miss Eomma. She has a nice car.”

That’s a slam to Jisung’s core. “Oh, baby,” he murmurs, dropping to his eye level to tie his shoelaces. “Maybe she can take you this weekend.”

Again, he receives nothing as a reply, so he simply unlocks the door. Both of them make their way out of the flat, Rieon waiting for his father as he fumbles with the key.

As embarrassing as people make it out to be, Jisung doesn't have a license, nor a car. They usually take the bus or the subway.

They bow their heads when they pass by an elderly neighbour when they walk towards the elevators.

“Eomma would have stayed,” he says once the automatic doors slide closed, trapping them inside the metallic stall.

“Do you–” Jisung turns to look at him, but he can’t catch his wavering eyes. “Do you want to live with her? Permanently?”

“No, Appa,”

“It’s your choice. You can if you want.”

“I don’t wanna,”

Jisung sighs, holding out his hand in the air between them. “Whatever you want, bumblebee.”

The chestnut-haired boy grasps his father’s fingers, humming a tune he learned in school the other week. They exit the tenement. Everything feels like an iced bucket of water outside.

“Can we get ice cream later?” Rieon invites. “In the park?”

“Sure,” Jisung doesn't promise. He initiates the two of them to walk on the main sidewalk, away from the traffic. Everyone is rushing to get to work or school.

A car honks as a fluffy, long-haired calico kitten runs from one side of the street to the other, making it safely. The boy gasps.

“Poor kitty,” Jisung mumbles under his breath. “Must’ve been scared.”

It’s almost eight now and the air is getting warmer and warmer. The bus station comes into view soon, the vehicle already waiting to be filled with passengers.

They hurry to get on it before it has the chance to drive away.

It’s full. Old people are occupying more than half of the seats, then a few youngsters the rest.

Jisung rises on his tiptoes to check if there’s at least one more empty chair, and he’s successful in finding one next to a girl who seems to be around his son’s age from this distance.

“Hurry there,” he points to the spot, following right after him.

Rieon grumbles as he plants himself next to the juvenile lady. Jisung lightly slaps him on the back of his head, mouthing a simple manners.

The girl, with long moonlight dark hair that appears to be blue in the subtlest bit when a ray of the sun lies on it, is happily kicking her feet as she watches the outside world.

Now that he can see her from up-close, Jisung realizes she might be younger than Rieon. They could still be friends. Rieon needs a friend.

He doesn't attempt to introduce the kids to each other. She seems content on her own with a glittery pink backpack strapped to her back, making her sit a bit further away from the seat. Rieon is grumbling to himself.

Ten minutes later, when Jisung’s legs are starting to ache from having to anchor his body so he wouldn't go scrambling every time the driver steps on the brake, the bus comes to a halt.

“C’mon,” he takes Rieon’s hand and leads him to the doors closest to their previous spot.

Once they’re back outside and about to walk towards the school, Jisung feels a tap on his lower back. He turns around.

“Sorry, my father told me to ask for help,” a little girl says, the same one from the bus, shyness seeping into her voice and making it quieter. “Can you help me?”

“Of course,” Jisung puts on a gentle smile, fully turning around to face her. “What happened?”

She’s as tall as Rieon. Her hair is half up, half down, tied with a butterfly-shaped hairclip. Her eyelashes are long and naturally curled, perfectly framing her big black eyes.

Another glance and Jisung realizes that her hair is, in fact, blue-ish. He can’t tell how.

“I’m a first-grader at this school,” she shows the emblem attached to her bag. “Help me get to it?”

Jisung squints his eyes (he forgot his glasses at home), trying to read the name. It seems familiar, and he finds out that she goes to the same one as Rieon. He lights up.

“My son goes there, too!”

A toothy grin. “Neat,”

He laughs. Neat.

“Appa, I’ll be late,” Rieon tugs at Jisung’s hand, trying to get him to move.

-`ᯓ★´-

— 12:59 AM, Saturday

‘Elevators are out of use after midnight till 6 AM’.

Jisung doesn't know why he expected the poster to change. It’s been here for longer than he has. He sighs and goes for the stairs, climbing them up with rushed steps. His hands tremble with exhaustion.

The keys fall to the floor when he reaches for them, loud and unsettling in the quiet building. Everyone must be asleep. He knows Rieon isn't.

“Shit,” he mutters under his rapid breath. His back creaks when he straightens himself up. He reaches for the door handle, trying to get the key to fit inside. It doesn't.

It shouldn't be surprising to him to see the number 325 on the door again. It really shouldn't.

“Shit.” Jisung says again, turning on his heel and walking away.

Just as he rounds the corner to get to the stairs, he hears a door open. It closes after a few seconds, but Jisung is already running up the staircase.

When he enters his apartment, Rieon is in the kitchen holding his stuffed toy— a grey bunny— looking out the window from a chair he must’ve moved himself.

At the sight, Jisung gasps, the briefcase filled with music sheets and different types of pens dropping on the floor. “Rieon,”

The boy looks at his father, eyes filled with tears to the brim. Jisung hurries to engulf him in his arms, trembling hands cradling the back of his neck. He leans his chin on his head and stares at the street below them.

“What happened?” he whispers, rubbing at Rieon’s nape, trying to provide comfort. “What’s wrong?”

“I missed you,” Rieon sniffles, wiping at his face with his sleeve. It comes back snotty and wet.

Crack.

They hug for two more minutes, and only stop when the kid’s eyes run out of tears. Rieon pulls away and heads back to his room with no other words.

Jisung sits down on the chair, sweaty palms supporting his head. He scratches at his scalp until it hurts. Bites his lip until he tastes metal. Sways back and forth until he gets dizzy.

That lonely night, after a cold shower and relentless hours spent looking at the dark and boring ceiling of his bedroom, Jisung realizes that he has not only failed as a person, but also as a father.

-`ᯓ★´-

On the weekend, Jisung apologizes by taking Rieon out for a bonding time. They’re on the subway, heading towards the closest mall.

“I want to watch a movie at the cinema,” the boy had said months before.

It was hard to find time as an adult with a consuming job— composing songs is definitely harder than thirteen-year-old Jisung thought it would be. He managed, though. He had to.

So. Now they’re on their way to get new clothes and watch a movie. Or two. Or however many Rieon wants.

Gangnam district. Jisung hasn’t been here in so long, and Rieon has never.

The vehicle makes a sharp stop at Exit 6.

Rieon, who was trying to show his Superman strength by standing upright for the whole fast ride, is shoved off his feet and into the back of a stranger as the train halts.

From beside him, Jisung grabs his arm and yanks him back under his wing. “Careful,” he scolds, his tone holding no irritation. His glasses fall lower down his nose at the hullabaloo.

“Appa,” Rieon mumbles, wrapping his hands around his father’s left forearm just as the stranger looks over his shoulder to see what the sudden commotion is about.

“Sorry.” Jisung feels the need to apologize.

Not because it’s the right thing to do, but because the man standing before him is breathtaking.

His hair is a golden brown, like an autumn leaf dipped into saccharine honey. His eyes hold depth as profound as the dark colour of them.

“It’s alright.” he says, arranging his red tie. He’s wearing a suit, looking way too fancy to be taking the subway. His voice is just as sweet and entrancing as his face is.

Jisung’s mouth remains agape, words too scared to fall off the steep edge of his tongue.

Another man, about as tall as the enchanting one, takes him by the hand and says, “Seungminnie, let’s go.” and then he’s gone into the next carriage and Jisung has missed his exit because the doors close and the subway begins moving again.

“Appa, I told you we should leave,” Rieon pouts.

“It’s not the end of the world,” he sighs.

This ride feels shorter. Jisung can still see the man from earlier, from where he’s standing in the middle of the crowd. He quickly looks away when, whom he assumes must be his boyfriend, catches his gaze.

They disembark just to round the station in order to get on its other side and embark on the next ride back to Exit 6.

Rieon is huffing by the time they’re waiting for the underground tube to send a blast of wind so powerful it would completely mess up their hair. It’s Rieon’s favourite thing. It used to be Jisung’s too.

“Stay back here,” Jisung demands, holding tighter onto Rieon’s sweaty hand. “It’s dangerous.”

The ride back is not so crowded. He finally has time to enjoy his personal space, even if it’s for only a few minutes.

Thankfully, the sun came out of her hiding spot behind the grey-ish clouds while the two of them were underground. The air doesn't feel as cold as it did before.

“Are you happy?” Jisung asks because he feels like it.

“The happiest,” Rieon smiles, walking with his head up high. His cheeks puff out and can be seen even from the side. “With you, Appa.”

There’s a dumb smile on Jisung’s face— one he doesn’t want to hide. He’s happy, too, with him. This is his son. The same blood that pumps Jisung’s heart runs through Rieon’s veins.

“Let’s go crazy, bumblebee. Appa got his paycheck.”

Rieon raises his fist in the air. “Appa got his paycheck!”

It’s not until six o’clock that they’re heading back home, with Jisung carrying two shopping bags in each hand and Rieon a huge, white teddy bear. It’s almost as big as him, with glassy eyes and a soft tummy.

Jisung takes in a long breath, welcoming the crisp air into his lungs to serve its purpose, then letting it go with a deep exhale once it’s not needed anymore.

Sometimes, you have to let things go. Jisung had to let his youth go when he realized that his pull out game was, in fact, not all that great. He still feels incredibly bad for making Nari go through that at a fragile age, but Rieon is their blessing and he loves him and Nari loves him too.

Sometimes, Jisung wishes he could give his son the life he deserves.

To be woken up by music blasting from the TV in the living room. To eat a rich breakfast— flavoured yoghurt warmed up on the radiator, toasted bread with butter on it, an omelette with avocado and roasted flax seeds, vegetables with cream cheese. To listen to motivational podcasts while they, the three of them— a mother, a father and their child— participate in this mundane routine. He’s watched one too many movies, probably.

What his son gets instead are leftovers from days before (because Jisung is a horrible cook so they just eat whatever Jisung’s mother occasionally sends them), or simple dishes that they're both sick of.

And Jisung regrets. Regrets a lot, if not everything.

“Are you happy?” he asks again, for good measure. Rieon isn't at the age where he can fully grasp the meaning of happiness, and Jisung knows that it’s a visiting guest.

It’s maybe an aunt, like Auntie Hana, who stops by every once in a while to greet good morning and then leave, or seldom sip on a warm black coffee. It’s fun when she’s over, and when she’s not, it’s like she never was. He can't really explain it.

“The happiest.” a bleak smile into the teddy bear’s head, now named Nabi. He hopes his heir will still be the happiest two, five, ten years from now, when he’ll realize his childhood consisted of a family that never had the intention to be one.

“Appa is also happy, bumblebee.”

The subway’s last wagon appears to be emptier than usual, so they take a seat, Jisung keeping the bags on the floor secured between his legs.

A few more people and one minute later, the vehicle sets off. They’ll get down in a few exits and walk home. Jisung will spend the evening working on a song and Rieon will make a mess of his room with his new toys and clothes.

“Did you like the movie?” he asks, his free hand holding onto the metallic bar to his left. “I did.”

“Yes! It was so much fun!”

One corner of his mouth curls into a proud smile. The other one remains down to keep him anchored to the harsh reality.

“We can do this again whenever you want.”

“Really?” Rieon’s eyes light up, sparkles shining in them. Jisung knows that it’s just the reflection of the flickering lights.

“Really.”

“Thank you, Appa! You’re the best!”

Jisung pats him on the shoulder. Lets him rest his head against his arm. Clenches and unclenches his fist as the underground train stops and starts moving again. Rubs his soft cheek to wake him up once they're back to the Exit they began with.

“Mm?”

“We’ll be home,” he stands up, gripping the plastic handles of the bags firmer. “Soon.”

Rieon yawns, his throat closing up and creating a frog-like noise. He rubs his eyes and jumps off his seat, holding Nabi close to his chest. Jisung would hold his hand, but both of his are busy with what was once money.

They go up the stairs, leaving the metro station through a covered entrance. It’s not a long walk, and Jisung is thankful for that because despite it being so early, Rieon is sleepy and he keeps tripping over his feet and bumping into Jisung.

The cars that pass by are as slow as they are with how heavy the traffic is at this hour, and Jisung is really, really glad that he never cared enough to get a driving license or a car.

Well, he wouldn't have had the time for it anyway.

Moments later, after they round the huge park, they make it to the apartment building. Jisung lets out a sigh of relief. Rieon is too immersed in watching his feet move against the coloured pavement to notice they’ve already arrived.

In the elevator, Jisung leans against the wall, tiredly checking the numbers on the screen as they go up. A ding lets them know that they’re on floor four.

Once they’re in front of their little home, Jisung asks Rieon to unlock the door for him, and he gladly accepts.

They spend the next hour putting the new clothes into the washing machine and arranging the other belongings (toys and school materials) in Rieon’s room.

Jisung didn't buy much for himself. He likes spending money on the people he loves. Especially as an apology.

Just as they settle on the couch with two mugs of hot chocolate burning their fingertips, a phone starts ringing. There’s only one phone in the whole flat. Jisung grunts when he gets back up to head inside the hallway to get it.

Channie Hyung

He doesn't hesitate to answer, thumb swiping the greasy screen.

“Hello?”

“Good evening!” Chan says, a smile definitely adorning his face. “You know I hate to do this, but are you free right now?”

“Uh,” Jisung gulps, tapping his nails against the wall. “I’m with Rieon.”

“I need you here for an hour or two. I’m sorry.”

There’s nothing he can do about that. With a saddened sigh and a defeated furrow of his eyebrows, he says, “Be right there,” and thinks of what to tell his son.

But he already knows.

“You’re going?” Rieon asks, eyes big.

“I have to.”

“Okay, Appa.”

“Try to work on your homework, or if you don't want to do that, you can watch cartoons. I’ll be back home in a blink.” Jisung says, cupping his head to press a fat kiss on the top of it.

With no answer, Jisung puts his shoes and jacket on and leaves, locking the door twice behind him. He’s not worried about leaving him alone anymore. Rieon is very good. They also ate at the mall, so he doesn't have to tear the skin of his lips off at the thought of Rieon starving. The only thing he worries about is the cold chocolate milk he’ll have to throw out when he’s back.

He takes the bus this time, having to wait ten minutes at the station for it to show up. Another seven to stroll to the company and another four to get to the last floor where Chan’s room is. His studio.

Jisung knocks and he’s welcomed in by a beaming face and a shake of a hand. He bows, fixing his glasses once he’s standing straight again.

“You called, hyung?” he walks in, sitting down on the couch that faces Chan’s desk with a big TV above it.

“Indeed.” Chan sits down in his chair, rolling it around so he’s facing Jisung instead of the yellow wall. “One of the freshly debuted groups needs a new title track song. The other one wasn’t good enough, said their manager.”

“Oh,”

“Changbin and I already started working on it, but we decided to consult with you before making any definitive decisions.”

“Show me what we’re working with and I’ll be more than glad to help.”

An hour changes into two, and two into two and a half. Jisung’s vision is blurry by the time they wrap the evening up and part with a pat on the shoulders. His eyes hurt, driving him to take off his glasses. He forgot to bring his briefcase where the glasses case is.

The walk home is dreadfully long. There’s no bus available at this time. Jisung takes it as an opportunity to enjoy the air and the night and everything that life is. So beautiful, yet so tristful.

He thinks about other changes they might have to make to the song, how they have to compose three other ones by the end of the month.

Jisung loves his job, though sometimes he dreams about being on the stage and singing those songs to thousands of people. It’s a silly thought that latched onto his brain like a parasite, refused to leave.

Whatever. It’s too late for that now.

The royalties he gets from this are enough to have him live a relaxing life. He can give Rieon whatever he wants. Everything. Everything but a family, that is. What he needs the most is unachievable. Jisung hates himself for it.

Nari helps with money, too. She buys Rieon nice clothes and sends Jisung a monthly income for having agreed to take custody of him. Jisung rejected the offer at first, but when being a mere songwriter back then wasn't enough, he accepted with his tail between his legs.

It’s not midnight yet. Jisung chooses to climb the stairs anyway, because he's not quite ready to see the disappointment on Rieon’s face again.

His thoughts are meddling with his steps, tangled and uneasy. He feels anxious for a reason he doesn't know for now.

The multiple keys dingle as he pulls them out to unlock the door, but before the proper one even breaches the keyhole, the door opens.

He looks down, expecting Rieon to have opened the door for him, only to find thick thighs blanketed by some brown slacks similar to his. He startles.

“You—”

Jisung’s eyes rise at the hasty tone, making eye contact with what actually is the most beautiful human alive.

Pink lips curled at the top like a rabbit’s, sharp nose with a steep tip, high cheekbones with little strand spirals reaching them. Beautiful brown eyes stare back right into his. Long eyelashes become a protective curtain for them when he repeatedly blinks, as though to hide the obscurity in them. Jisung gets lost in trying to part them and sneak inside to find all the mysteries they hold and the ones they don't.

The fluorescent lights of the hallway are a contrast to the dark vestibule of the man’s apartment, casting gentle shadows across his features and presenting them to Jisung.

“Who are you and what do you think you’re doing?” the handsome stranger speaks, voice shrill and gentle at all the same, regardless of the awkward situation Jisung has found himself in.

“I, um,” he stumbles over his words, tongue forgetting its purpose. He instinctively looks down at what the other resident is holding in his hands, unable to read the label, though knowing that it’s some sort of cat food from the aspect of the package.

“You what?” Jisung’s neighbour from floor three crosses his arms. “I don't know who you think you are, but quit showing up. Isn't this the fifth time this month? Are you some kind of creep?”

Jisung feels his jaw go slack, mouth opening and closing, trying to find the right words to say. “No, that’s not– I’m–”

Just then, an even higher-pitched voice comes from somewhere inside the apartment, and immediately, a child comes into sight. “Appa, who is this?” the young girl’s hand tugs on her father’s hoodie.

“Go put your jacket on while I handle it,” he beams at her, and Jisung takes a step back. He should leave. Why the hell are his feet glued to the ground? Why the hell is he here? He lives on floor four, for god’s sake!

She nods frantically, flashing Jisung a shy smile before leaving. Now that he looks at her, he’s seen this face before. He can’t recall where, but he has. Once.

“Are you going to stand there and say nothing?”

“I’m not a creep.”

Great. Very convincing.

“Why do you keep setting foot in my apartment, then? What’s your problem? Are you the mailman?” the stranger checks him out from head to toe, gaze lingering on his torso. Rieon dropped pasta sauce on his shirt at lunch.

“We’re neighbours,” Jisung attempts.

“Right. Neighbours.”

“I’m above you,” he says, and the man quirks an eyebrow. “I mean– your apartment. I live above.”

“Then what are you doing on this floor?”

“I’m so sorry. I'll, uh, go now.”

An inhale coming from the other. He doesn't appear to be as mad as he seemed to be at first. Still, there’s doubt in his piercing stare. “Get some sleep.”

Jisung’s silly heart speeds up. He gives an embarrassed nod, feeling all of the sudden blood rush to his face. He turns around and walks away, shame settling deep in his chest.

Distantly, he manages to hear that childish voice again, and he speeds up towards the staircase leading to his actual floor.

It’s almost ten o’clock when he passes by the threshold of his front door, letting the keys dangle from it after shutting it locked for the night. He organizes his shoes on the rack and hangs up his black puffer jacket. Jisung runs a heavy hand through his dark brown hair, messing it further. He fucked up.

Work has tired him to the core. He loves what he does, of course, but it’s exhausting when it’s paired with taking care of his son on his own.

His feet slip inside his fuzzy slippers with pandas on them, dragging him towards Rieon’s room. The door is open, and dim light illuminates it with all its power. Jisung is ashamed.

“Hey,” he whispers, dropping to his knees beside the low bed with red sheets. “Is everything okay?”

“Feel sick,” he mumbles back, eyes closed.

Now Jisung is the one feeling ill, stomach uncomfortably turning. He checks the boy’s forehead with the back of his rough hand, and it feels a bit hotter than what he would call normal. Fear runs down his spine as he caresses Rieon’s skin with his thumb.

“What’s wrong? What do you feel?”

“My tummy hurts. Feel tired, Appa.”

“I’m so sorry, baby. I’ll go make you some tea. Where does it hurt?”

Rieon stays still for a few seconds to think, then reaches his hand lower on the right side of his stomach, pressing down on it. “Here.”

“Okay,” Jisung sighs. Rieon is pointing to his appendix, he knows that much. “Is it bad?”

“A four out of ten,” he says, distant eyes catching Jisung’s.

“Alright.”

Jisung straightens himself, glancing one more time at his son before hurriedly leaving the bedroom. He heads to the kitchen, where he takes a kettle and boils water. Rieon’s favourite mug is one that represents a reindeer (he got it for Christmas from Nari), so Jisung pours the hot liquid into it and hangs a tea bag. Chamomile tea.

When it cools down a little, he incorporates the honey he fetched from his parents and mixes it with a teaspoon.

He makes his way back to Rieon, placing the warm mug on the nightstand that matches its colour. “I have to go take a shower. Shout if you need me, okay?”

“I will,” he gives a simple smile. “Can I watch cartoons?”

“Of course. Drink your tea, yeah? Don’t let it go cold,” he makes him promise, and Rieon nods his head.

The shower does little to help his mind. As he scrubs his body with soap, the man who lives just below him snakes into his mind. The way he looked leery yet gentle. The way he handled the situation with ease, as if Jisung wasn't a complete stranger who kept turning up at his home. He didn't accuse him of anything. He didn't call the police on him. Hell, he didn't even look that upset.

Once the water turns cold, he presses down on the tap and exits the shower. He wraps a big towel around himself, wiping his skin dry. The stranger stubbornly remains settled inside his mind.

God, he really embarrassed himself.

There are more important things Jisung should be worrying about. He feels guilt lurching inside his veins when his son’s face appears in his mind.

Once he’s done brushing his teeth and changing into pyjamas, the stranger is still running through his head. Even after he drops on the couch next to Rieon and watches Scooby Doo with him. And especially when he tucks him into bed and returns to his own, now all isolated with his thoughts.

His hazy eyes are on the ceiling, fixing on the static figures floating around.

A singular tear falls from the corner of his left eye, rolling down the side of his cheek and getting lost in the strands of his hair.

He’s going to talk to Nari tomorrow. She’ll know what to do with Rieon’s sickness. Jisung wishes he, too, knew. Maybe he wouldn't regret everything if he knew.

Once his eyes are closed, his hot neighbour reverts into his brain, and Jisung dreams about him.

The night is restless. He turns and moves and tosses until light seeps through the curtains.

It’s almost seven now. He’s given up on sleep, so Jisung gets out of bed, stretching his limbs until they pop. He opens the window and leaves his room with a bundle of clothes in his hands, making his way to the bathroom to freshen up.

Rieon is still asleep when he passes by his room wearing long shorts and a tank top. He’s going to eat breakfast later with him, so he only chugs down a glass of water before putting on his shoes and stepping outside of his apartment. He walks down the stairs and to the park, that being his warm-up.

Outside, the air is fresh, chilly in the slightest bit. The sun is shining brightly, the chirping of birds growing louder and louder as he approaches his destination.

When Rieon was younger, Jisung used to go on a lot of walks and runs alone. It was something he enjoyed doing to keep his mind clear.

He hums a song that he single-handedly wrote for a boy group, legs picking up the pace into a lazy jog. His breathing picks up to help his heart regulate its pulse, hands closing into tight fists.

This park has a lot of paths. Some have more flowery scenery than others, which only have big trees blocking out the sun. Jisung loves flowers and the sun, so he chooses one that goes East.

There are only a few elderly people enjoying a simple breakfast on the benches, gossiping about their past and whatnot. He passes by them in a hurry. He doesn't quite know what he’s in such a hurry for.

Jisung runs and runs until his lungs beg for a pause. He slows down after ten minutes of nonstop jogging, beads of sweat clinging to his neck. It’s gotten warmer since he left the apartment, bees flying through the air, attentively looking out to not hit any obstacles.

A white bench stands lonely under a tree, and he decides to chaperone it during his short break.

The phone he bought back in September last year is back at home, which leaves Jisung to figure out all the colours of the family of flowers that live right in front of him. A bunch of pink and red tulips that lean towards the sun. He copies them.

His eyes close, inviting the rays to kiss his honey skin. He could fall asleep like this. He actually could.

Unfortunately, he cannot, so he forces his eyelids open and tries to ignore the burn of having to re-adjust to the radiant light.

As he gets up, he shakes his legs, beginning to walk again until he rounds a curb, now on another path, until he’s dashing in a race with a squirrel jumping from tree to tree.

This trail leads to a playground, next to it being the stalls of some seniors selling homemade snacks and beverages. He sometimes stops to buy something for Rieon.

A man wearing a similar outfit to his is waiting in the three-person line. His face isn’t visible from this angle. Jisung ogles at the broad back and huge thighs, merely stopping when he physically can’t turn his head back once he has passed fully by him.

The walk home is boring and feels shorter than usual.

He takes the elevator, making sure he presses the fourth button, and when he’s in front of his door, he checks twice if it’s 425. It is. Only then does he unlock the door and head inside.

Rieon must still be sleeping. The grey clock on the wall says that it’s eight, and then eight past half when he walks out of the bathroom, freshly showered in sweat-free house clothes. His stomach grumbles, demanding to be filled, and Jisung sighs.

Maybe he should cook something light for Rieon. He settles on rice with boiled eggs and fish cakes he had bought from the supermarket two days prior.

By the time his son is awake, the breakfast is done and ready to be served. It’s not much, but he’s trying, and that’s important too.

“How do you feel now?”

“The same,” Rieon sighs, fork scraping against the plate as he drags it aimlessly, barely touching the food.

Jisung frowns. “I cooked this for you, I’d appreciate it if you ate it,” he tries to resonate with a smile, enunciating his sentence with a mmm.

“My tummy hurts.”

He places the fork down on the table, his eyebrows scrunching together. “I’ll call your eomma, then.”

“Eomma is busy.”

“Never too busy for you.”

Weekends are leisure days for Nari, especially Sundays. She's usually out of Seoul, visiting the mountains and admiring nature with her fiancé.

“Eat your breakfast, Rieon.” Jisung points to his food. “I want to see it licked clean, alright?”

“Okay, promise.”

A promise is a promise, Rieon starts taking bigger bites. His eyes light up when he realizes that the food is good.

He nods in response, picking up his fork too. He only eats half of his portion, leaving the rest for later in the fridge, and washes Rieon’s empty plate.

“Can you bring my phone?” he calls loudly when he’s done, patting his hands dry on the kitchen towel. He hears footsteps fastly drawing near. The boy walks inside with Jisung’s phone, handing it to him with a smile. “Thank you, bumblebee.”

“Can I say hi to Eomma?”

“Of course you can.”

The phone rings for maybe fifteen seconds before Nari picks up with a groggy voice Jisung knows all too well. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Doctor,” Jisung smiles dumbfoundedly, having missed his best friend.

“Eomma! Eomma, it’s me, Rieon-ie!” Rieon takes the phone out of Jisung’s hand, shouting into the speaker. Nari laughs on the other side of the screen, her voice cheerful.

“Hi, baby,” she says, and Jisung lets him hold the phone. “How is my perfect son? Are you being good? Is Appa treating you well?”

“Yes! Appa and I went shopping yesterday!”

Nari hums. “How was it? What’d you get? Nice clothes?”

“Mhm! I had so much fun,” he bobs his head. Jisung watches with a genuine smile, hand running through the child’s hair until it’s tangled. “I miss you.”

“Oh, I miss you too, bumblebee. So much.”

Jisung lets his son talk to his mother for five more minutes. They catch up on the last week, Rieon mostly talking about school and his friends while Nari remains silent and listens. When he’s out of breath and jumping on the balls of his feet, now bored, Jisung sends him off to the living room to play so he can talk with her instead.

“Hey,” he says, phone against his ear. He walks towards the window and opens it, looking outside at the passing cars below him. “Don’t freak out.”

“Do I have a reason to?” Nari gasps, noises shuffling as if she’s moving. “What happened?”

“Rieon had a slight fever last night, and he told me his appendix hurt.”

“Oh no,”

“Yeah. He said it was a four out of ten, so I’m not very worried about it, but I don't want to risk it. Is there any way we could get him a checkup?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she sighs. “If the pain goes up to seven or the symptoms worsen, call me. Keep him on a light diet for the time being, too.”

“Ah, Nari,” Jisung raises his hand to his face, thumb and index finger massaging his eyebrows. “Would you be able to take care of him this week, maybe?”

“I’d love to,”

“Thank you. I’ll go see if he wants to spend this week with you.”

A loud laugh, lively and young— one that takes the both of them back to high school. Jisung couldn't ask for a better best friend.

“Ring me.”

“Will do, doc.”

He ends the call before she does, setting the phone down on the table. He closes the window and listens to hear where Rieon might be.

Jisung finds him in their living room— a big space with a black couch, a smart TV, and shelves with books and framed photos. The carpet is grey and it covers most of the parquet. Rieon is on his tummy, colouring on a book he got yesterday from the mall. His head raises at his father’s presence.

“What’s up?” Jisung asks, sitting on the couch. He grabs the remote and switches the channel to the news.

“I miss Mikan,” he decides, holding up the open book to Jisung. On the coloured page, there’s a brown cat playing with a yarn ball.

“Mm, do you?”

“Yes,”

“You did a great job colouring that. I’m proud of you,” he points two finger guns at him and a wonky wink. Jisung still doesn't know how to be a father. “I have good news.”

“Are we getting a cat?” Rieon asks, attention fully on the older.

In return, Jisung grins. “No, Rieon-ie, you know I’m allergic.” he takes a look at the television presenter who’s currently reporting a theft at a grocery store. “But you will be seeing a cat this week.”

“I will?”

“Mikan,”

“Really?!” he scrambles off the floor, jumping straight onto Jisung, forearms wrapping around his neck. He’s a bit heavy, and Jisung tries not to let it show by repeatedly rubbing his back, curled lips never quivering.

“If you wanna, you can stay for the whole week at your mum’s house.”

“I wanna!”

Jisung tightens the hug, resting Rieon’s head in the cleft of his shoulder. His thumb runs up and down his nape in calming motions, feeling the boy’s body go limp in his hold.

Despite the circumstances, there’s so much love Jisung has built over the years for his son. Like a tiny snowball pushed downhill an abrupt slope, accumulating more and more snow ‘till it becomes a huge white glacial mass.

Nine whole hard yet beautiful years spent with an angel of a kid— he’s utterly glad to have been blessed with him. You can't change your written destiny.

“Pack your bags, then,” he speaks quietly into his ear. “Your notebooks and school supplies.”

“Can we watch a movie and eat popcorn afterwards?” Rieon moves from his previous spot, his bottom lip pulling down into a pout. He looks so much like eight-year-old Nari.

“You know that there’s no need to ask for that.” Jisung pecks his forehead. “Go while I call your mother.”

They don’t end up watching a movie, because Rieon opts for cartoons instead. The two of them watch Tom and Jerry, Pororo, and Tayo the Little Bus even after the sun goes down, and then it’s time for Rieon to leave.

Stronger and more muscular, Jisung carries his school bag down, holding his hand inside the elevator and up to the front glass doors.

Nari’s car, a black Kia SUV, is parked in front of the building. The woman walks out of it, putting on the brightest smile she can muster at the sight of her son.

Rieon pulls away from Jisung’s hand, running to hug his mother. They don’t part for one minute, and when they do, it’s to say goodbye.

“Take this, it’s everything he needs for school,” Jisung says, nodding towards the bag as he hands it to Nari. “Call me if he– or you– need anything.”

“Will do,” she smiles, rushing the boy to get inside the car. She fastens his seatbelt for him and throws the bag on the seat next to his. “Go inside, Jisung. It’s chilly.”

“Alright.”

Jisung walks up to the open door of the car, pressing one last kiss to Rieon’s cheek. “Goodnight, bumblebee. See you soon.”

Once he’s in bed and surrounded by crippling loneliness, Jisung lets out an audible sob fall from his mouth.

-`ᯓ★´-

The week goes by fast. He skips the morning run on Tuesday and today, deciding that he’s way too tired to get out of bed.

Today is Friday, and because he’s supposed to be at work in five hours, Jisung deems that he has enough time to bake something. It’s time he learned how to make simple desserts— it can’t be that hard, can it?

Jisung takes the needed ingredients for his planned pastry and looks up a video tutorial on YouTube. He scrolls until he finds one with a lot of likes, checks the comments, and only starts watching it when he’s satisfied with the feedback. A woman is talking over as she shows the recipe elements, presenting them one by one. He’s relieved to find out that he doesn't need to go grab groceries.

He puts up his phone on the counter, resting it against an upside-down glass, and gets to work.

To him, it doesn’t seem to be that hard. He follows the instructions vigorously. Makes sure he’s got the measurements right, just like the professional baker currently explaining that to get the perfect result, you need to let the batter rest inside the fridge for a few hours.

That’s fine. He can get ready for work while waiting.

Showering is his favourite thing to do. He likes the way the constant droplets of water run down his body. The way it makes his shoulders relax.

However, it also makes him miserable. It’s the only time he lets his mind run free, lets the thoughts roam through his head at whatever speed they want.

His thoughts are either a) about the regrets, b) about how he’s a horrible father, or c) about how he hasn’t been touched slash in a relationship in literal years.

In his whole twenty-eight years of living as Han Jisung, he’s had maybe two relationships in which one couldn’t be considered serious because he was in kindergarten, and the other was with a guy who only wanted to check if he was gay (he was not) (Jisung was about seventeen years old during that time). He’s gone out with some strangers these past years, trying to find someone to fill the hole in his heart, but none of them felt right.

So, he’s actually never felt this peculiar thing called romance.

To open your eyes in the morning and have the love of your life already staring at you. To kiss them, feel every texture and fissure of their lips. To eat a cold breakfast in the morning and a warm dinner at night. To go on fun dates and continue them back at home. To love and to be loved.

It’s not a need he has, Jisung swears to himself with his eyelids down while he lathers his hair with citrus shampoo. It’s simply a human want.

The suds manage to get into his eyes when he opens them for one second to reach for the chocolate-aromatized soap. He groans, immediately splashing his face with water.

Exterior to the shower, the air is cold and unwelcoming. Jisung shivers and wraps himself in a black towel, quickly drying off his body, then throwing on some underwear, cargos, and a grey hoodie.

Even though he's supposed to wait at least forty more minutes, he takes out the bowl from the fridge and gets back to watching the video. It says that he needs to prepare the pan— which should have seashell-like shapes— so he grabs the oil and a basting brush, pretending he’s a painter painting the most ethereal piece of art.

Aaand

there goes his milestone of two days.

His hot neighbour manages to wriggle through his brain crevices again. The synapses of his nerve cells reunite, creating an image that could not be painted even by the world’s greatest artist.

Damn himself and his loneliness.

“Dude, you need to get laid.”

Changbin, tipsy and tired, had said a few weeks ago, when Jisung was freshly moved in and celebrating it with his two guy friends.

That’s not what he needs, he thinks. Wholeheartedly believes it.

Jisung isn't the type to do one-night stands. He doesn't want to get fucked by someone whose face would remain a disintegrating memory of what was once a good ephemeral time, or to fuck someone who would be gone the next morning.

Yeah, definitely not what he needs.

What he does need to do now, though, is pay attention to the dessert he’s making instead of getting distracted by each and every thought.

It’s not that hard.

Madeleines are special because their crumb brings delicacy with a sweet taste that contrasts with the additional flavour of choice.

Ever since he was a kid, even younger than Rieon is, Jisung has always liked mandarines. They’re juicy and nectariferous and Jisung’s favourite fruit.

It was his fifth Christmas when he first got his mouth on a Madeleine. The aroma of orange, yet not quite, exploded on his taste buds, and he’s never been the same.

He still remembers the saccharine feeling, how the airy batter melted on his tongue— Jisung doesn't know the feeling of falling in love, but he’s sure that Madeleines come close to that.

The pan goes inside the already preheated oven after everything’s done. He takes the mandarine he had skinned alive earlier (to use its zest for flavour) and fully peels it, eating the half-moon pieces of fruit inside.

Just as expected, it’s sweet and juicy. Exactly what he needs on a hot day like this one.

Oh, Jisung loves mandarines.

“Eomma, I think I messed up.”

It’s late at night. The window in his bedroom is open, letting the bustle of this part of the city inside. Jisung looks out, admires the moon and the stars and the trees and everything that he will never be.

“What is it that you messed up, honey?” his mother—his blood, his genes— speaks quietly into the phone, dodging the possibility of waking her husband up. He’s a hardworking man, after all. Always been.

My life

, he wants to say. “The Madeleines,” he says.

Something wet runs down from his nose and settles in the hollow of his cupid bow. He sniffles, but the emotions within him have been long set ablaze, and they’ve just now found the perfect time to whirl and swirl.

A fat, salty blob falls from one of his eyes. It leaves a teary trail that is almost immediately dried by the cold wind blatantly hitting his face.

“They’re flat like the envelope of money grandma gave me for my birthday.” Jisung cackles despite the sob that punches out of him. “Tasteless, even.”

“Ha,” the joke isn't funny, yet she laughs. Lively and bright. The moon at midnight in the middle of the forest. “Are they edible, at least?”

“Yes,”

“Then you didn’t mess up.”

Jisung wishes things were as simple as that. Maybe the Madeleines aren't abominable, but they’re still plain. Maybe Rieon loves him for who he is, but Jisung is still a terrible father.

His mother is all too sweet and understanding, though.

She’s not like a mandarine. She’s like burnt sugar with ravaged molecules making it sickeningly sweet. The glacé always finds a way to crystallize. Some would think that is its purpose. Jisung knows better.

“It’s late,” he whispers into the night, not waiting for a response. “I’ll drop by on Sunday, Eomma.”

There’s a big smile that Jisung can hear in her voice.“Of course, honey. I’ll make you the best Madeleines.”

“Mandarine?”

“Mandarine.”

The call ends, Jisung’s pain remains. He lets the tears fall until his eyes go arid. The night doesn't answer, even though it tries to.

In the morning, the weather outside appears to be warmer. He, however, ditches running again and decides to clean the apartment. There are still some boxes sitting around that he hasn't unpacked— maybe they can help make living here less unbearable.

His bedroom is a mixture of lacklustre white and black, empty furniture, and a hopeless smell.

Some changes must be made, is what Jisung decides.

After eating a quick piece of bread with some cheese cream on it, he gets to work. He takes the boxes from under his queen-sized bed, vertically slicing the duct tape to open a distinct small one. He takes a peek inside of it before retrieving the items one by one.

Old photos of his childhood, of Nari, of newborn Rieon. He swipes his thumb over a particular picture that was taken at the hospital right after his son was born.

He looked so fragile in his mother’s hold, with his father by the side smiling at the camera. Jisung remembers that day as if it were yesterday. He was nineteen and in his first year of college, gulping the first bite of the adult lifestyle.

Jisung regrets, but he scans each photo with so much love in his heart that it’s threatening to explode and paint his chest cavity red.

The photos go inside an envelope that he puts into the first drawer of the nightstand. He’ll read them like a bedtime story whenever sleep refuses to come.

Next, in the second box, he comes across a Supreme T-shirt that he used to wear weekly in high school. It smells stale, not having seen the light of day for years. This box must be filled with things he never got to unpack in his old home, too.

Old notebooks, a collection of seashells from when he was twelve and in Jeju, a piece of a broken receipt from when he had bought two kilograms of oranges thinking they were mandarines. That reminds him of the time when he had tried to help his mother make cookie batter and dropped a glass of salt instead of sugar in it.

One more box. Jisung finds Christmas decorations and remembers why he doesn't celebrate it anymore.

They’re red and white, like blood in snow. A dreadful reminder that even though the fireplace is burning wood, there’s still coldness outside. Would the blood be thick and warm enough to melt the snow? Or would it seep into its core and become one with it?

Jisung shakes his head and gets off the floor, holding a few framed pictures of him and his brother when they were five and eight years old, setting them on the chest facing his bed.

The books he never got to finish go on the shelves garnishing the living room, and the scented candles find home on every piece of furniture in his apartment.

At some point, bored and annoyed, Jisung turns the TV on and raises the volume to fifty, his favourite song playing. He walks back into the hallway, through a small opening in the lounge, and up to the last door, singing to himself in a quiet voice.

Looking into his room from where he's standing against the doorframe, Jisung realizes that nothing has changed. It still looks as empty as it did when he had bought the flat, even with new silk black bed sheets and a grey rug he dragged from the hallway.

Everything is too minimalistic. Too blank. There’s something missing, and Jisung knows that Rieon would only fill half of the jar called emptiness. There’s something more, out of reach.

It won’t help; he’s aware. Regardless, Jisung uses all of his force to change his bed’s direction so that it faces the wide windows instead of a white wall. He manages to do it after five minutes of moving from corner to corner and pushing until his back starts sweating and the skin of his palmar pads starts stinging.

He tries to move the closet, too, but it doesn't budge, no matter how hard he tries. Sometimes things just don't work, and that’s okay.

With a sigh, he turns around and looks at the boxes dispersed in a corner, left with a few insignificant things inside of them that Jisung doesn't have the heart to throw out. He moves everything in one box— the biggest one— slides that one from where he got it, then moves the empty ones by the front door to remember to throw them away later.

He pays attention to the parquet, shiny with both the reflection of the lights and traces of food particles. The wooden furnishings seem to be a bit dirtier than usual. A lot of dust has built up since the last time he had thoroughly cleaned. He needs a feather duster and especially a vacuum. Jisung thinks that the loud noise will be a great assassin of thoughts.

It takes him way too long to brush off everything that has accumulated, and once he’s finally done, his arm aches.

Anyhow, he still has to vacuum, so Jisung starts with the kitchen, where tiny pieces of bread are scattered under the table. He moves all the chairs away, one by one, with his left hand, the yellow machine sucking in everything standing in its sight. Jisung wonders if a black hole is technically a vacuum.

Humans are scraps. They’re like the crumbs of food fallen on the floor, little and insignificant when they’re face to face with something greater than them. They shrink and shrivel.

When Jisung finishes the first room, the vacuum cleaner stops all of a sudden. The high volume of the TV scares a gasp out of him, his hand instinctively planting on his chest. His pulse is fast.

Although he loves rock songs and particularly this band (that his father had met once during his rockstar days), Jisung finds the remote and turns down the sound until it’s loud enough that he hears the lyrics, yet quiet enough that he doesn't get too overwhelmed by the melody.

When he looks over at the device to see why it decided to stop, he finds that he might have accidentally unplugged it when he yanked at the handle.

Sighing, Jisung goes back into the hallway where the outlet is. As he’s about to plug it back in, he hears commotion outside the front door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

A shiver turns his blood blue. He looks at the source of the noise, at the Hoover, and back at the door. He wonders if this little thing could suck in a whole person. Maybe— he had seen something like that in an anime like that a long, long time ago. The fleeting thought fills his heart with nostalgia, his blood turning to its normal colour again.

Knock knock!

“Coming!” he shouts, regrets it immediately when he realizes that it could be a serial killer looking for a perfectly working liver.

Nonetheless, Jisung pulls the door open after unlocking it. His eyes widen, and he shuts it back closed on pure instinct, running a hand through his sweaty hair, chest shaking.

“Wait! Hello?” the man— his hot neighbour— says in a muffled, uncertain tone, and Jisung opens the door once he considers that he doesn’t look as miserable.

“Hi,” his voice breaks in two, each half taking a path. Up, and down. “Again.”

“Could you keep it down, please? It’s–” he politely mutters, eyes dropping to his forearm. He checks his wrist, where an expensive black watch is wrapped around it. “It’s almost nine in the morning, and my daughter is sleeping.”

“Oh my god,”

The taller stands before him, a gentle curl twitching in the corner of his lips. He watches Jisung with a curious gaze, eyebrow pitched.

“I am so sorry. I didn't realize that– I thought– it didn't cross my mind. I am genuinely sorry.”

The smile he receives is intoxicating.

Jisung’s mouth goes slack. He stares at him, feels the way his own heart betrays him by speeding up. His body trembles, because it’s cold outside his apartment, and his back is wet and his yellow T-shirt is sticking to his skin and he’s all red now.

This is the point where Jisung should close the door and never look back. Probably move out of the country or die a painful death.

Instead, due to his very enthusiastic mouth and too-slow brain, he asks, “Would you like to come in for coffee?”

What kind of person just invites a stranger into their home? After being caught (unintentionally, really!) breaking into theirs?

“Ah, I’d love to,” is the reply that comes after fifteen more awkward seconds. “But I have some work to do.”

“Sorry,” Jisung lets out a very ashamed laugh, scratching at the back of his neck, fingertips coming back moist. “Can I make it up to you with something sweet?”

He nods, bangs falling onto his forehead and covering it. “I like sweets.”

“Good! Wait here one second,”

Embarrassed out of his mind, Jisung walks into the kitchen where the Madeleines are on a white porcelain plate. He searches for a small container and finds one that was once full of Lee Felix’s brownies. That’s Chan’s lovely boyfriend.

As quickly as he can, he drops a few pieces of the cake into the container, closing it afterwards. He hurries back, tripping over one of the boxes from earlier and almost falling face-flat in front of the man.

“Careful,” Jisung hears him say. Sees his hands flailing out in reflex to help him— they never make contact with his skin, and Jisung detests that.

“My bad,” he bites the inside of his cheek, stepping up to the front door, which is now wide open. “Here.” Jisung hands him the container with not very appetising Madeleines. The handsome guy kindly thanks him anyway.

“Madeleines?” he asks as he takes the receptacle and safely holds it in his hands, glancing back at Jisung after he’s taken a good look at its contents.

“My favourites.”

“I like them too. Especially with tangerines.”

“I think mandarines are better,” Jisung challenges with a cocked brow.

“Sure.” a shrug.

Maybe he’s imagining things, but there’s a flush covering the other male’s neck and ears. Jisung would like to believe that he’s flustered as well, that it’s not just himself who’s freaking out.

“I hope you’ll like my mandarine Madeleines.”

“I have a feeling that I will.”

For the rest of the day, Jisung replays their conversation over and over again. He thinks of what he should have said while he vacuums Rieon’s bedroom, cringes at the way he almost fell as he cleans the shower cabin, giggles when he thinks about how his neighbour is probably enjoying his snack as he takes a bite out of a Madeleine-wannabe-cake.

But then he remembers. The fact that he is a father didn't settle in his brain before. Now it seems to be riveted to it.

He’s thinking too far, alright. An ethereal being like him must not be single. Jisung kind of wants to die when he thinks about it for too long.

(Yes, he’s dramatic like that. It’s not a bad thing as long as he doesn't make it into one.)

(The bad thing is that he doesn't even know his name, yet Jisung is already obsessed with the idea of this man.)

On Sunday after Jisung is back from his parents’ house, Rieon comes back in the evening, and Jisung gives him three Madeleines to munch on, because his kid likes them just as much as he does.