“Have fun!”

 

Minho nods in gratitude, leaves the ticket on the counter then moves away to walk past the grand makeshift entrance and join the existing crowd. 

 

The streets are lined with people and booths alike. Above his head are strings of faintly glowing lanterns, casting soft red lights across the site and illuminating the slowly darkening sky. Music from the live performances dance along the breeze, making the scene even more lively with the talented dancers on stage. Nobody can look away. The hype is like no other, but Minho expects nothing less.

 

This is, after all, the Hanabi Taikai.

 

That’s right. That’s the word that is written all over the place, some with grandeur on the banner decorating the entrance then more on the ticket he’d gotten from Jinki as part of his recovery kit. He’d come all the way from Korea just for this event, and… well, it’s not looking so bad. Everything is warm and welcoming, almost therapeutic, even. 

 

Except the fact that he would’ve been grateful if Jinki had told him more in depth about this cultural occasion.

 

“Ah, so embarrassing…” Minho lets out a sigh and pinches his temple. He’s clad only in a black shirt and a pair of jeans, casual at best, while everyone else is wearing yukata of various colours and patterns. The contrast is so alienating that he knows his wish to go unnoticed and undisturbed that day is already in vain.

 

“MMA fighter… eh… souka?” 

 

“…South Korea…”

 

“Choi…—forced… retire…”

 

Minho moves in the opposite direction and rubs at his ear irritatingly. ing annoying. Good thing he doesn’t understand Japanese fully - it’s easier to dismiss people’s comments and criticisms when you don’t understand the entirety of their sentences, anyway.

 

Still, it’s annoying, and he’s putting all the blame on Jinki (again) for his innate inability to blend in with the crowd.

 

However, the suffering doesn’t last long. The more people flood in, the less people seem to recognise him. Minho stays off the radar for quite some time as he peacefully lines up for some snacks before a crashing noise from behind catches him off guard, making him crane his head around to find the source of the sound.

 

It happens to be a little boy, all misty-eyed and trembling as he tries to push himself up from the asphalt. Standing a few feet away from him are a group of kids who seem to be slightly older than this unlucky one on his knees, unapologetic as they laugh in mockery.

 

“Ha! Ha! Yuki, weakling, blwek!”   

 

The boy flinches and rubs his eyes with his knuckles, so close to tears already. 

 

“Yuki, what are you doing? Get up!”  

 

Minho’s threadbare patience thins rapidly.

 

“Yuki, Yuki, Yuki, loser!” 

 

So close to snapping…

 

“Oi, Yuki! Crybaby!” 

 

Ah, it.

 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Minho snaps in English as he leans down to help the boy up and dust off the dirt from his hands. His intrusion seems to startle the kids, especially when his dragon tattoo peeks from under his shirt sleeve whenever he moves, but does he give a ? No. Then he mutters in Korean, “Goddamn brats.” 

 

His words make the Yuki boy widen his eyes, but he says nothing as he gets his palms cleaned before resorting to hide behind Minho’s legs when the man stands up again, seeking refuge there.

 

“Etto, you shouldn’t bully people—ah, , I can’t speak Japanese,” Minho groans then holds his own nape in great frustration. “Just get lost, all of you.” He swats his hand at the kids, making it damn clear he’s trying to shoo them away. “Leave this boy alone. Scram before I change my mind, you little s.”

 

Surprisingly, the message seems to come across because the kids do run away, scooching by the standing adults and leaving Minho with the Yuki boy clinging to his right leg. Once he’s convinced that they’re no longer snooping around, he pokes at the boy’s head to gain his attention.

 

“You okay?” Minho asks, fighting every urge to stab himself on the chest with a triangle from how lame and cringeworthy his Japanese sounds.

 

The boy doesn’t react the same way, though. He keeps quiet for a while before he looks down. “I’m okay, thank you… ahjussi.” 

 

Minho blinks.

 

Wait, what? 

 

“What?” He tilts his head. “You’re Korean?”

 

The small head shakes a little, faltering. “…nandemonai…”

 

“You know what, never mind.” Minho waves a hand vaguely. He has got no time to humour kids when he’s supposed to be relaxing here. “I know you understand what I’m saying anyway, so listen up. Don’t let others bully you. If you can’t fight them physically, at least fight them verbally. Otherwise, you’d be their victim forever.”

 

He doesn’t know if his words make it through the boy’s skull since he doesn’t respond at all. The pudgy hands are too busy fixing his silk yukata. No thoughts, head empty. Minho sighs resignedly.

 

“I suppose you’re not here alone, so go and run while the kids aren’t near,” he adds before turning around to resume his path along the busy street. 

 

…so he thought of doing until a small hand grips at the hem of his shirt, halting his movement at once. Minho blinks in confusion.

 

“A—ano…” The boy mumbles then pauses. He doesn’t say more.

 

“I can’t speak Japanese and I’m not good with kids, so you should go back.”

 

He tries to move, but the grip tightens on his shirt. 

 

“I’m serious, boy.” Minho speaks down at him and grunts. “Leave.”

 

The boy opens his mouth promptly to speak, stubborn and fearful. His train of thoughts stops when he hears a familiar voice from afar, yelling out what Minho assumes to really be his name. 

 

He doesn’t even realise someone is running towards them. 

 

“Yuki!”

 

The boy’s eyes immediately water, his hand letting go of Minho’s hem in an instant as he’s taken into a pair of longer yet slender arms. His words dampen into the man’s yukata. “Papa…!”

 

Oh.  

 

“Oh my God, here you are! Where did you go?” The man asks, his voice expressing great relief and deep care for the little body in his embrace. “You have no idea how frantic I’ve been while trying to find you.” After some time, he pulls back to inspect the boy thoroughly. That’s when he notices his hands, scrapped and red. “Heavens… just what happened to you?”

 

“N-nothing, Papa,” he answers with a shake of his head. Minho would’ve snorted and interfered to say he’s lying, and that he was bullied to tears earlier, but he didn't.

 

Because he doesn’t freakin’ understand Japanese. 

 

“Fine then, I’m just happy that I found you again. No more straying from me while I buy us food, you hear?”

 

“Mmm…”

 

Then the man’s gaze slides up to meet Minho’s, turning his full attention towards him. “Are you the one who looked after him?” He asks politely, still in Japanese. How foolish.

 

Minho stays quiet, uncertain of himself while blinking confusedly.

 

“Papa, he doesn’t understand Japanese,” Yuki mutters. “And he’s Korean.”

 

“Eh, hontou?” The man widens his eyes then stands up, hand already holding Yuki’s smaller one warmly before he smiles. This time, he speaks in Korean. “I’m sorry. Are you the one who looked after Yuki when he was all alone?”

 

Same question, different reaction.

 

Knowing he’s being addressed (properly), Minho straightens up and clears his throat. He has never seen such round, brown eyes before, especially now when they’re completely filled with gratitude as they look into his own dark orbs. He hums. “Found him on the ground.”

 

The man’s face blanches with alarm.

 

“He didn’t get hurt.” Minho adds quickly to clarify. “He just fell…” One glance at the boy and he knows he ought to keep the bully scene a secret from this stranger. So troublesome. He focuses on the man’s face again afterwards and continues, “…from playing with friends. Or something, I guess.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

“Hmm.”

 

The man looks down at the boy and huffs an unbeli