JongIn wakes the next morning to the sound of a bright Seoul morning. Street vendors yelling distantly, buses sloshing over water-filled potholes, the chatter of students late for school. The sun hasn't risen yet, but there's the slight hue of sunshine on the horizon.

A slight breeze makes the curtains come alive in some sort of strange dance. A stack of textbooks on the far side of the room lay still, untouched since two years ago. The graduation photo sits on the desk by the door. There's a closet full of designer clothing, custom-made and tailored to perfection. A collection of watches from Switzerland. European shoes.

The desk that stands by JongIn's bed, has long been of his possession, but it merely stands as a piece of decoration rather than an object of function. The old desk is useful however, for one thing. It holds the alarm clock.

6:28, it reads. Little red lots and dashes make up the three little numbers. Insignificant and miniscule, unless one is running late, and the numbers don't seem to last as long as they should.

But JongIn doesn't see any of this. He doesn't see the way a drop of water condenses on his window sill in the early morning air. Or the way the faint sunlight makes little shadows on the ground. Or the cherry trees that line the streets outside, twenty two stories down, their buds beginning to blossom. Or even the way there's a stack of papers on his desk that has the word “Contract” printed cleanly on top.

Instead, he's racing out of his apartment, wearing some clothes he doesn't remember going to sleep in. His hair is untidy, sticking out in all the wrong directions. His arm is half asleep as he pushes the “down” button of the elevator. He sprints out of the place like the building is on fire.

He runs the fours miles to Hongdae. Running the twenty five minutes instead of the much faster five minute bus ride, because, he tells himself, he has time. Because he can't bear sitting still waiting. Because he needs to be moving to know he's going somewhere.

His unusual attire doesn't catch the attention of strangers hurrying by. He brushes pas the ocean of commuters bustling in the streets. Waves of them; mothers calling out to their young children to hold their hands, high school students chatting away obnoxiously, delivery mopeds zooming down the sidewalk much too fast.

JongIn's lungs are aching and burning for air after the second mile, but his head keeps screaming to run. Run faster, because he has to see. He has to know if his deal came through.

By the time he gets to his destination, the sun's already clear above the horizon. There's a faint, pinkish hue that matches the color of the cherry blossoms.

JongIn is sweating and panting heavily, but it doesn't stop him from racing up sixteen flights. Sixteen flights off earth and into the clear blue sky.

JongIn nearly collapses at the door marked 1802 painted in silver lettering. Hand painted. Some of the paint was beginning to peel.

There are little words etched into the walls of the room next door. Most in permanent marker, but others in paint. Names and dates written in different characters running up to the ceiling and along the wall. JongIn remembers how someone had told him a long time ago there was some sort of idol band that lived here, but JongIn didn't care much for them. Just groups of dancing monkeys that were too loud, too rude. It made him sick.

He rings the bell. Once at first, then three times in rapid succession. After that, the bell rings nonstop until it playing a loud, obnoxious song. Almost as fast as his heartbeat.

“Alright, alright, I'm coming,” a voice, muffled by the door, grumbles.

JongIn freezes, but his whole body is shaking uncontrollably. He stands back and waits anxiously. He bites his lip and unconsciously rocks back and forth on his heels.

The door opens.

A boy stands there, dressed in gray sweat pants, a blue Pororo hoodies much too big for him, and a pair of yellow socks.

JongIn's knees almost buckle from under him. But they hold. Barely. He has to grip the frame of the doorway to stand upright.

The boy, with dyed brown hair and eyes big and wide they look like they're about to pop out of his head, stares up at JongIn, who towers over him.

At once, JongIn's heart feels like its about to leap out of his chest and burst. Not a painful burst, but one of unbelievable joy and sheer disbelief and an overwhelming sense of relief.

JongIn pulls the wide-eyed boy into a bone-crushing hug without a word. He doesn't hear the small shriek-slash-gasp the boys chokes out when he does, but stands speechless. He isn't sure what there is to say.

He's not sure if there's anything he has to. Finally, pushing back tears and struggling to keep himself on his feet, and manages to say a single word. One that comes out in a hoarse and barely-heard whisper.

“Kyungsoo.”

---

JongIn hands the thick packet back to LuHan and pockets the vial he's given in return.

“Okay, I'm ready,” he says.
LuHan sets the packet back on his desk with a chuckle.
“Patience.” LuHan stands behind his desk and puts a hand over their contract. “I have to sign it too.”

For a second, the paper actually ignites into fire, creating a little red flame in the middle of the office.
JongIn leaps back in surprise, but LuHan stays as calm as ever. He takes his hand off the contract, and once he does, the fire goes out and all that's left of the fire is his name etched into the paper with the remains of the old flame.

He snaps his fingers, and the packet suddenly doubles. LuHan dusts one copy off and hands it to JongIn.
“A copy,” says LuHan. “For your own records.”

“I'm counting on you.” JongIn says, holding the paper carefully. “Six months back, okay?”

“Of course.” LuHan gets to his feet and shows JongIn out the door. Their footsteps echo in the empty hallway.

“If there are any problems,” LuHan extends his and JongIn shakes it for a second time, ignoring how LuHan's touch is searing his flesh.

“Or any questions,” LuHan nods at the business card JongIn has sticking out of his shirt pocket. “You know where to find me.”

JongIn nods.

LuHan has the same grin he had on his face when they sat down for drinks the second time.
“Nice doing business with you, my friend.”

---

JongIn doesn't know how much time passes. How long they stand there in an awkward embrace. Maybe they don't need to talk. Maybe they can just stay like this, feeling comforted by each others presence. Maybe everything will be alright. Maybe, but this isn't a fairytale.

The wide eyed boy squirms out of JongIn's grasp, and stares at him in shock.
“Who the hell are you?”