Jongin’s tuxedo is tailor-made to fit his frame perfectly. He gives himself a once-over in the full-length mirror, readjusting the rose corsage in his pocket and fiddling with his personalized cufflinks. Finally satisfied with his appearance, he runs a hand through his brunette hair before stepping out of the hotel bathroom. 

The wedding is in full swing, the immodest ballroom hosting an army of busy waiters marching in and out of the kitchen doors, guests chatting amiably with one another, conversations flowing naturally as they wait for the ceremony to begin. Luxurious (and ridiculously huge, Jongin notes) Swarovski chandeliers hang from the high ceiling, chiffon and gold accents draping the walls, and a multitude of flower bouquets emphasizing the opulent affair. 

Jongin rejoins his table, which is still empty except for two middle-aged women, gushing about who knows what. He crosses his leg over the other, bringing a glass of water to his lips, trying to remember what convinced him to attend the wedding. 

He had come home one evening after work, exhausted and prepared to pass out on his couch, but the lavish, gold engraving printed on one of the envelopes in that morning’s pile of mail on his dining table had caught his eye.

He picked it up, wondering if the postman had mixed up his address with someone else in the apartment building. Living in sizable and luxurious apartment units boasting impressive views of the city skyline such as his, he had no difficulty understanding that his neighbours might frequently receive posh snail mail as such. 

But upon closer inspection, the envelope was addressed to the one and only Kim Jongin. 

Jongin sets his glass on his table, wiping his palms on his Bottega Veneta trousers. When did his palms ever get sweaty?

‘Kim Jongin,’ a voice calls out from behind him, a voice so familiar, yet not familiar at all. ‘You got my invitation.’

Jongin turns around to face direction of the voice, matching it to a face he hasn’t seen in years. 

‘Luhan,’ Jongin says, the name feeling foreign on his tongue. 

Luhan smirks. ‘It’s Dr. Luhan now, actually,’ correcting Jongin. 

Luhan’s hair is no longer black, but a refreshing shade of ash blonde that, despite how strange and new it looked to Jongin, complemented Luhan’s ivory skin well. Luhan looked radiant.

Jongin towered over him now, standing several inches taller as he rises to his full height, automatically extending a hand to Luhan. Luhan looks at Jongin’s hand incredulously before slapping it away and pulling in the taller man for a bone-crushing hug. Some things never change. ‘I’ve missed you, Jongin,’ he mumbles into Jongin’s shoulder, ‘Thank you for coming to my mother’s wedding.’ 

Jongin steps back, holding Luhan at arm’s length, appraising him in his immaculate suit. ‘You look great, hyung.’

‘As do you,’ Luhan says, returning the compliment genuinely. He ushers Jongin back to his seat and takes the one next to him. 

Jongin leans back, still unable to fathom the entire situation. The two men hadn’t spoken in years, but any unease he felt moments before had dissolved without a trace. 

‘Oh–' Jongin exlaims, self-assured composure faltering. He pulls out the old cassette tape from his jacket and slides it across the table to Luhan. ‘I just remembered– I mean, I found it lying around the house the other day– It would be a nice sentiment to have it returned to its original owner, I think. The time felt right.’ 

Luhan beams, mouth open in awe as he reaches over to pick the cassette tape up, opening it to find the same mixtape in it. ‘You kept it?’ he asks, disbelieving. ‘I can’t believe it’s still in functioning condition.’

‘It’s not a big deal,’ Jongin says, not wanting Luhan to get too excited over it, ‘I… got it fixed.’ That’s the furthest he’s admitting to for now, not wanting Luhan to know that he had to send it in for servicing frequently just to keep it running all these years. 

‘Thank you, Jongin,’ Luhan says, grateful. He held the device in his hands tenderly, reminiscing everything the two had been through when they were younger. ‘I’ll pass it to my mother for you.’

‘So, your mother…’ Jongin begins, wondering where to start. There was so much he wanted to share, so many years they let pass by them. But he wanted to catch up on what he had missed in Luhan’s life first. He isn’t sure what to feel, but he decides to deal with the perplexing emotions later. Above all, Jongin wants to get to know his best friend again. 

‘She found someone,’ Luhan starts, a contented smile spreading across his face, absentmindedly playing with the tablecloth. He looks so happy, Jongin observes. ‘He’s great for her– no, perfect, really. He takes good care of her, y’know?’ 

‘I’m happy for them,’ Jongin says, returning the blonde haired man a peaceful smile.

‘Back then, I didn’t believe him,’ Luhan says, looking up at Jongin, eyes glittering, ‘But someone really wise once told me that true love blooms in its own time.’