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Seven years ago, Jongdae made a terrible mistake.

Seven years ago, Jongdae sat on his couch, trembling, his glasses askew on his face. He holds a lighter in one hand, flicking it on and off, chewing on his brittle bottom lip. He thought of calling his girlfriend once or twice to give him some sort of moral support—but he was afraid that if he accidentally slipped out that he started the fire in Parks Corporations, everything he had would slip away from his grasp.

That bastard Chanyeol.

Baekhyun had called him two hours ago, voice shaky and teary, saying something about how he and Chanyeol were divorcing. Breaking his heart one too many times. Jongdae was already iffy with the company’s prince; he had never liked Park Chanyeol at first glance, but Jongdae hadn’t had a reason to actually take actions against him. Now, he had a completely valid excuse.

Nobody hurts his Baekhyun. Nobody.

Though now, with the fire continuing to spread to an extent that it was actually just half a mile away from Jongdae’s own house made him think a little bit.

Was that really necessary?

Jongdae had only intended a bit of a scare. He snuck into the main headquarters of the Corporations and set the most obscure of places aflame, escaping with nobody noticing his presence. Though he had never actually considered the fact that the building was generation old and the fire burst with life and spread across the city, and it was beginning to creep towards resident areas. There’s no casualties reported in the media yet, due to the community’s excellent drill for such situations, but Jongdae was beginning to feel a little shaky all the same.

He hasn’t heard from Baekhyun either. He paced up and down his own house, calling him twelve dozen times—but the lack of reply was really chipping something off of Jongdae’s soul.

Jongdae jumped when a series of furious banging sounded on his door, along with desperate shrieks, and it didn’t stop to pause. Jongdae dropped the lighter and rushed to the door, unsure of what he was anticipating for—and he almost dies at the sight, choking and spluttering, all breath knocked out from his lungs.

“J-Jongdae—“ Baekhyun breathed out, his voice raspy, his form trembling, “Jongdae—my baby… my baby, look at my baby… h-he… he—“

Jongdae’s eyes slowly travelled down to the child Baekhyun was holding—the small infant was beyond recognizable, red and burnt and charred in many places, morbid beyond description. The flesh bled onto Baekhyun’s trembling hands, and the child was too still—Minhyun blinked, breaths coming up in uneven gasps, but the fact that it wasn’t even responding to pain was saying something about the severity of his burns. Jongdae remembers a delightful, bubbly child, giggling at colorful lights and cheeks plump with glee, but now it was just—just a bunch of flesh barely roped together, and raw, smelling close to death…

“Oh my god,” was all Jongdae could say, breathless. He leans on the doorframe, bile coming up to his throat, his hands shaking more than it was before, “Oh my god. Oh my god.”

“My… my baby… he’s going to be okay, right?” Baekhyun said slowly, his voice somewhat distorted and unstable, like he didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Jongdae stays rooted to the spot, suddenly unable to form any sort of speech, staring at the child in Baekhyun’s arms like it was unreal.

“Right, Jongdae? He’s going to be okay, right? Right?” Baekhyun says again, choking on his own voice, recoiling with every syllable he spoke. Jongdae didn’t dare answering—he looked at the floor, wishing that his glasses were dirty enough so his vision would blur everything. He wanted to unsee it. He didn’t want to believe that what he was seeing was real.

He was the true cause of his friend’s misery.

“Come in. I’ll call for help,” Jongdae murmurs softly, surprising himself by his stable voice. Baekhyun walks in, Jongdae noticing that he only had one shoe on and his other foot was bleeding profusely. Jongdae picked up his phone and dialed for an ambulance, looking at Baekhyun’s figure that hobbled to take a seat on the couch.

Jongdae hadn’t noticed it before, but Baekhyun’s back was completely burnt, from shoulder to waist. The skin had melted into his flesh and was raw, some of the hairs on the back of his head burnt and singed, but Baekhyun didn’t seem to notice that he had been a victim of casualty, too. In fact, he showed no signs of being in pain whatsoever, and only paid attention to the welfare of his son, gently rocking back and forth, cooing at his baby.

As Jongdae called for medical help, he observes Baekhyun from afar, his friend whispering and murmuring softly to the small child, kissing the unburnt part of the baby’s face. Baekhyun tickled the boy’s nose and giggled, playing with his son as if he wasn’t dying at all, and Jongdae felt the guilt slam onto his body in all directions, unrelenting and unforgiving.

“Shall we go to the sandpit today? Hm? Maybe Daddy will take you to the toy store next. We’ll buy you cars. You like cars, don’t you? Remember the yellow digger Daddy bought you? We can buy another one and we’ll go to the sandpit and play, would you like that?”

Baekhyun chuckles again, even though the baby doesn’t respond and lies still in his arms like a limp doll. Baekhyun still rocked him back and forth gently, grinning from ear to ear even though the tears were evident on his ashen face, whispering to his child.

“Daddy loves you, poppet. Remember that, hm?” he says softly, pressing another kiss to his cheek, and his smile doesn’t disappear despite the fact that he’s starting to choke and splutter on his own voice, the tears getting heavier and heavier.

“Daddy loves you so much.”

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Present-day Park Chanyeol the Seventh stood behind the windows of the porch, watching the six-year-old boy wheeling a digger on the marble floor, his school uniform trailing on the floor. Haechan—Minhyun—sat rather patiently, driving the toy vehicle up and down the steps, seemingly content with himself. Baekhyun had left the office to rest in his bedroom, previously kissing his son goodbye before disappearing, tired and exhausted. The chauffeur waits for them in the field, but Minhyun had begged for some more time to play with his toys.

Chanyeol opens the glass door and stood behind Minhyun, who doesn’t seem to notice him and carried on playing. Chanyeol wondered how much and how little the child knew, gazing at the boy with crestfallen eyes, sighing.

“H… Haechan?” Chanyeol says aloud, calling him. His breath hitches when Minhyun’s head perked up, looking around to see who the recipient was—then he looked at Chanyeol behind him, frowning, before shrugging and continuing to play.

It seems that Minhyun doesn’t respond to his original name, mistaking Chanyeol for calling someone else. So he doesn’t know—he truly assumed Baekhyun as his birth father, and has lately accepted Chanyeol for his other parent, too.

Ignorance is bliss.

Yet, despite what Baekhyun had told him, his fondness for the child had stayed the same; unchanged. He still felt adoration for the little boy—almost like a parental connection. Though the news of the real Minhyun dying disheartened him, it was as Baekhyun said: it was as if he was their own.

Chanyeol sat down next to the boy, his hair and then, a little hesitantly, kissing his forehead. Minhyun leans onto Chanyeol’s large frame and trekked the toy vehicle on his legs, riding it up to his knees, murmuring soft noises for the digger.

“Minhyun?”

The boy perks up to the name he has been taught to answer.

“Hm?”

“If… If, say, your Daddy and I—weren’t really your real parents… but we still took care of you like parents anyhow, how would you feel?”

Minhyun looked at him, brows scrunched with thought, before shrugging and continuing to drive the car on Chanyeol’s legs.

“Who cares? What matters is the—umm, the inside. The feeling thingy. It doesn’t matter if you’re not really really my real parents.”

“Even if—say, your real, actual parent, takes care of you sometimes but doesn’t really act like your parent?”

“Yup. Mr. Kim in—in, in my class, s-says that you choose your family. And your family can be your real family, but sometimes you choose your family. What matters is in the inside.”

Minhyun pressed the toy digger onto Chanyeol’s chest, right above where his heart was. Chanyeol felt a smile creep on his lips and he ruffles the little boy’s hair, softening his hard face a little before he prompts his son to get his bag and go to school.

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“Baekhyun, I was thinking… You know, with the—the, uhh, the current situ