Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Crying had never been an extraordinary aspect of Jisung's life; it was merely an integral part of existence. From the moment he entered the world, he cried, his lungs aflame as they acclimated to the contours of air. He wept when he stumbled and scraped his knees, the sharp sting of pain blooming swiftly, while Minho, two years his senior, grasped his hand and reassured him that it would pass. Tears accompanied him through small failures and fears, spilling forth during nights that felt overwhelmingly vast for a child’s heart to bear. 

As he matured, the reasons for his tears evolved alongside him. He cried when he received a D in science—the subject he cherished most—his frustration laden with humiliation until Minho sat beside him, engaging in late-night study sessions. He shed tears when his parents divorced, the family home fracturing into silent halves. He mourned deeply when his grandmother passed away, grief enveloping him slowly, settling into corners of his being he never knew existed. None of these moments felt unusual; crying arrived as it should, always prompted by a cause, always accompanied by someone who cared—until Minho departed.

When they turned nineteen, Minho left for the United States to pursue a degree in biology, and Jisung cried as he always had. Yet this time, his tears did not cease when the door closed behind Minho. They did not wane with the passage of time or the increase in distance; instead, they hollowed him out from within. Eventually, one day, the tears stopped altogether. After Minho's departure, Jisung ceased to cry. Instead, he found himself smiling. He smiled when his sister-in-law welcomed a new baby into the world. He smiled upon acquiring his first colony of bees. He smiled as he signed a mortgage and purchased a house in the village of his childhood. He smiled late into the night, singing alongside Chan and Changbin after the bar doors had closed, feeling vibrant and alive, teetering on the edge of happiness. 

Smiling became a more effortless endeavor than crying had ever been. It was ironic, then, that when Minho returned years later, Jisung found himself unable to muster a smile at all.

Chapter Text

As Changbin turned the sign to "Closed," the bar was enveloped in the invigorating scents of citrus cleaner mingling with the warmth of aged wood—an aromatic farewell that signified a day well spent.

Jisung sat comfortably on a stool by the counter, his jacket draped casually over the backrest, fingers lightly cradling a glass that had long since lost its allure. He wore a relaxed smile, watching Changbin diligently wipe down the counter while Chan animatedly recounted his struggles with a stubborn engine that had commandeered half his afternoon. 

Their conversation flowed effortlessly, a soothing current of familiarity and camaraderie.

"You should have seen it," Chan remarked, rolling his shoulders in exasperation. "It wouldn’t start, wouldn’t stall—just sat there, as if taunting me to give up."

Changbin chuckled, "Sounds just like you."

Jisung's laughter rang out, soft and genuine, a melody of joy that escaped him effortlessly. "Did it win?"

"Not a chance," Chan replied, pointing a finger at him playfully. "But I did contemplate walking away—just once."

"You always say that," Changbin interjected. "You never truly mean it."

Jisung nodded, his smile unwavering. He preferred listening to talking, relishing the way their voices filled the space around him, anchoring him in a comforting reality. They exchanged thoughts about the little things—customers, the weather, and the peculiar way the village seemed to shrink each year while remaining unchanged.

Changbin mentioned an exciting new shipment on the horizon, while Chan mused about expanding the garage and possibly bringing someone new on board. Their curiosity piqued about the bees, as it always did.

"They're quiet," Jisung replied. "Which is good. They’re thriving this year."

Changbin raised an eyebrow, teasingly. "Like Chan, you always say that."

"And it’s always true," Jisung affirmed, his grin broadening at their familiar banter.

Time slipped away unnoticed, the clock ticking past midnight before anyone realized it.

Jisung stretched, arms reaching high above his head. "I should head back. Early morning awaits."

Chan groaned, "Your bees don’t even know what time it is."

"They do," Jisung replied with an easy confidence. "They just like to pretend otherwise."

Changbin tossed him his jacket. "Same time tomorrow?"

Jisung caught it effortlessly. "Always."

Stepping outside, the cool, crisp air embraced him, filling his lungs with a refreshing calm. The village lay in tranquil stillness, streetlights humming softly, windows cloaked in darkness. He strolled the well-worn path home, hands nestled in his pockets, his footsteps creating a gentle echo against the pavement.

As he approached his house, he slowed his pace, captivated by the cosmos flowers flourishing along the fence. Their pale pinks and whites cascaded beautifully, delicate yet resilient. Without thinking, he reached out, letting his fingers brush against their petals, careful not to disturb their sturdy stems.

They had thrived remarkably this year.

He lingered a moment longer than necessary, allowing the quiet to envelop him. The familiar ache settled in, a dull presence he had learned to carry without naming it.

Inside, the house welcomed him with a soothing stillness, the kind earned over years of routine and intention. The air carried a faint, clean warmth, soap and wood and something herbal that clung to the walls like memory. He washed his hands, changed into soft clothes worn thin in familiar places, and moved through the rooms with practiced grace, as if the house had learned his steps as well as he had learned its corners.

The windows were left slightly ajar, just enough for the evening breeze to slip in and stir the green curtains. They swayed gently, casting slow-moving shadows across soft beige walls. The light here never felt harsh. It was filtered, considerate, as though the house itself knew how to be gentle.

In the kitchen, everything had a place. Clean counters. Jars neatly labeled. Appliances chosen for usefulness rather than display. A calendar was pinned beside the fridge, pages filled with neat handwriting, tomorrow planned down to the hour. It spoke of discipline, of someone who learned to rely on structure because chaos had once been too loud.

The walls were lined with photo frames, arranged carefully but not rigidly. Friends caught mid-laughter. Family gathered around tables and holidays. Shots of his apiary, golden hives gleaming in the sun, bees frozen in purposeful flight. Proof of patience. Of long days and careful work. Of something fragile kept alive through consistency and care.
In the far corner of the hallway sat one frame he never touched. He never dusted it, never moved it, never really looked at it. In the photo, he was smiling a smile that no longer belonged to him, soft and unguarded, reserved once for someone who had taken that version of him with them when they left. The glass reflected just enough light to make it easy to pretend it wasn’t there.

The living room was simple but warm. A fluffy couch, slightly indented where he always sat, draped with a blanket folded more out of habit than necessity. A low table bore faint scratches from use, not neglect. Books rested in small stacks rather than shelves, as if he liked having them close, within reach of quiet moments.

He had once thought about getting cats. The idea lingered sometimes, a passing daydream of warmth and soft weight and companionship. But allergies and practicality won out, as they often did. His kitchen was too orderly for fur. His life too controlled for unpredictability. Still, the thought returned now and then, like a door he never opened but liked knowing existed.

Every room told the same story. He had built this life deliberately. Brick by brick, habit by habit. He had achieved stability, comfort, success measured in quiet evenings and well-tended things. This house was proof that he had survived, that he had grown, that he could stand on his own.

Everything was precisely where it belonged.

In the bedroom, he placed his phone on the nightstand, screen facing down—a small yet significant shift. 

He hadn’t always done this. For a long time, he had kept it face up, charger plugged in, volume turned high. He would awaken at the slightest vibration, reaching for it in a half-daze, heart racing. Weeks melted into months, his hope gradually thinning until checking became a reflex he could no longer afford.

Turning it face down had been a simple act, a decision made without fanfare.

Jisung lay back, staring at the ceiling until his breathing steadied. Outside, the cosmos flowers swayed gently in the darkness, their petals catching the faintest glimmers of light.

Sleep came slowly, but it did come, wrapping him in a comforting embrace.