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everwhovian · 22 days ago

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Five times Jun-ho said "yes" to his hyung, and one time he didn't

(Based on this ask)

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

1. “You want to go on an adventure?”

It rained all day.

The kind of rain that made the sky look heavy and the windows weep. It pattered relentlessly against the glass, blurred the outside world, turned the street into a shimmering ribbon of grey. Inside, the apartment was warm but restless.

Jun-ho had been bouncing off the furniture for hours – one moment a race car, the next a superhero, then a roaring dinosaur whose tail had apparently grown long enough to knock over every cushion in sight.

He was four. Still soft around the edges, still prone to tangents mid-sentence and giggles that overtook his whole body. Still small enough to fit under In-ho’s arm when he needed holding, but loud enough to fill the whole apartment when he was bored.

And today, he was very bored.

In-ho leaned in the kitchen doorway, hands wrapped around a chipped mug, steam curling upward from black coffee that had long since gone cold – coffee he hadn’t had time to drink hot.

He just watched the chaos unfold – watched Jun-ho dart across the living room in socked feet, make engine noises with his mouth, crash his toy firetruck into a stack of books like it was a demolition derby.

“Careful,” In-ho said, half-hearted. “You’re gonna knock something over.”

Jun-ho ignored him. “Oh no!” he cried, flipping the firetruck and inspecting its tiny plastic passengers. “The building fell! But I saved everyone!”

There was no real reason to stop him. Not really. But In-ho was tired – bone-deep, underslept, full-time student and full-time older brother kind of tired. He’d studied until midnight the night before, finished a paper with one eye open, and now here he was, babysitting a fire-breathing four-year-old dragon on a stormy Saturday.

He loved Jun-ho. That wasn’t even a question. Sometimes, that love was sharp and bright and aching – sometimes it was a weight. Not a burden. Never a burden. Just something he carried every second, tucked into every choice he made. Every class he registered for. Every grocery list.

He took another sip of cold coffee, then glanced at the clock.

Three-oh-eight.

Still hours until bedtime.

He set the mug down with a quiet clink and stepped away from the doorway. Walked past the bathroom, past the creaky hallway light, and opened the closet. He dug until he found what he was looking for: an old cardboard box, one corner crushed from where someone had stacked textbooks on it. Two mismatched blankets were shoved behind it.

He brought them all back into the living room.

Jun-ho didn’t notice him at first. He was talking softly to himself now, something about lava and snacks and calling for backup. In-ho dropped the box with a theatrical thud. One of the blankets slipped off his shoulder and puddled on the floor.

Jun-ho looked up.

His eyes were wide, curious. “What’s that?”

In-ho crouched next to the box and tapped the side like it was more than cardboard. “You,” he said, lowering his voice, “want to go on an adventure?”

“An adventure?!” Jun-ho echoed.

In-ho nodded solemnly, crouching down beside the box. “I heard this thing turns into a spaceship if you believe hard enough.”

Jun-ho gasped. “Really?”

In-ho hummed. “Really. So… you want to go on an adventure?”

Jun-ho blinked, mouth slightly open, and then – “Yes!” he cried, scrambling off the couch so fast he almost tripped over his own feet. “Yes, yes, yes!”

And god, it was worth it. All of it. The sleep deprivation, the stretch marks of adulthood, the crushing fear he was going to mess this whole thing up – every bit of it was worth it to see that look on Jun-ho’s face.

He grinned, tossing the space-themed blanket over the box, then climbing halfway in and patting the floor. “Hop in, Captain.”

Jun-ho scrambled inside, folding his legs under him, immediately pressing buttons only he could see. “We need helmets,” he said, adjusting something over his ears. “And gloves. And seatbelts. And peanut butter crackers.”

“Obviously,” In-ho said, dragging the second blanket in behind him. He tucked it around Jun-ho’s legs, then around his own. The box shifted slightly under their weight, but held.

It smelled faintly of old books and dust and something warm. Jun-ho’s shampoo, maybe.

They sat close in the quiet. Outside, the rain whispered on.

In-ho exhaled slowly and let his shoulders fall.

“Where to?” he asked.

“To space,” Jun-ho declared. “And then to… a candy planet.”

“Candy planet?” In-ho raised an eyebrow. “You sure that’s safe?”

Jun-ho nodded. “I have laser eyes.”

“Good. I was hoping one of us did.”

He reached out and pressed the ignition button. “Buckle up. Liftoff in five… four…”

Jun-ho started counting with him. “Three… two…”

“One!”

They made the rocket noises together – loud, messy, unapologetic. In-ho shook the box a little for effect. Jun-ho shrieked with laughter, arms outstretched as if the whole thing was already flying.

And maybe it was. Maybe in Jun-ho’s eyes, they were already halfway to the stars.

They flew through donut rings. Past sleepy moon whales. They danced through comets, fought bubblegum pirates, picked up a crew of jellybean aliens.

It was ridiculous. It was everything.

Eventually, Jun-ho started to yawn between commands. He leaned against In-ho’s side, a little lump of heat and weight, murmuring something about gravity before his words began to slur.

In-ho looked down at him, this tiny life curled against his ribs, and wondered – again – if he’d ever be enough. Enough for the role he’d stepped into, something more than just a brother…

He wasn’t sure. But he stayed still. Kept the blanket tucked. Kept the box from creaking too much when he shifted.

Outside, the rain kept on.

Inside the cardboard-spaceship, they drifted.

Not far. But far enough.

And for now, that was adventure enough.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

2. “Wanna sneak out and get snacks?”

It was already dark outside.

The kind of dark that made the windows reflect the inside like a mirror, so Jun-ho could see himself on the floor, hunched over his homework, pencil smudges on his fingers and his tongue poking out in concentration.

The numbers on the page didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Math never did when he was tired. But the floor was warm, and the lamplight was soft, and In-ho had just come home, which meant everything felt a little lighter.

He had heard the door open twenty minutes ago. Hadn’t even looked up from his homework – he didn’t have to. In-ho’s footsteps were always easy to recognize. Confident but tired. The sound of keys hitting the counter. The soft sigh as he peeled off his coat.

Jun-ho liked it best when his hyung was home.

Now In-ho was behind him somewhere, still in his work clothes, probably sorting through papers or texting someone about something serious. Grown-up stuff. Jun-ho didn’t mind the quiet. He liked knowing In-ho was there, close enough to hear the scratch of his pencil on the paper.

He was trying to write a number nine when In-ho’s shadow moved. Then a low voice, close to his ear: “Wanna sneak out and get snacks?”

Jun-ho blinked and looked up.

In-ho was crouched beside him, the sleeves of his work shirt rolled up, his tie loose around his neck. He had a grin on his face like he’d just thought of something brilliant. The kind of grin that always meant fun. Or trouble. Or both.

“Now?” Jun-ho whispered.

In-ho nodded. “Top secret mission. The stars are out. The store’s calling our names.”

Jun-ho looked toward the window. It was definitely night. He wasn’t supposed to be out after dark. He knew the rules. Stay inside once the sun goes down. Don’t go anywhere without permission. Especially not without a grown-up, especially-especially not to the convenience store. No exceptions.

But then again, In-ho was a grown-up. Kind of. He was in his twenties and could drive a car and had his own bank card, which definitely counted.

So this was different.

This wasn’t sneaking out by himself. This was In-ho, back from work, leaning down like he had a secret to share and choosing him to share it with.

And he was smiling like Jun-ho was the only person in the world who could come with him.

“Okay,” Jun-ho whispered, excitement bubbling up like a soda can that had been shaken. “Yes!”

He forgot about the homework immediately.

In-ho held out his hand like it was part of the mission. Jun-ho took it, scrambling up from the floor. His socks slipped on the tile as they moved fast and quiet through the apartment. In-ho handed him a jacket, ruffling Jun-ho’s hair before slipping on his own sneakers, and then slipped on his own hoodie, pulling the hood low like they were going incognito.

“Mission starts now,” In-ho said, cracking the front door open. The hallway beyond was dim and quiet. It felt like stepping into another world.

They crept down the stairs. Jun-ho’s heart pounded. It felt like a spy movie. Every sound was louder in the silence – he creak of the railing, the soft squeak of their sneakers.

Outside, the air was chilly but fresh. The streetlights buzzed, casting pools of gold on the pavement. Jun-ho stayed close to In-ho’s side, and In-ho didn’t let go of his hand.

It was past bedtime. It was way past bedtime. He should’ve been brushing his teeth and putting on pajamas. But instead, he was walking to the convenience store under the stars like it was the most normal thing in the world.

The walk to the store felt like something sacred. Like a rule broken with permission.

The store was still open, buzzing with fluorescent light and the soft hum of coolers. It felt alive inside – colorful snacks lining the shelves, blinking signs, soft music in the background. In-ho let Jun-ho choose anything. No bargaining. No grown-up vetoes.

Jun-ho picked a chocolate milk and a bag of shrimp chips. In-ho got cup ramen and something fizzy to drink.

“Movie night?” Jun-ho asked as they checked out.

In-ho winked. “Obviously.”

They walked back in comfortable silence, the plastic bag swinging between them. Their footsteps echoed down the empty sidewalk. Jun-ho stared up at the stars and wondered how many people got to sneak out at night with their favorite person in the world.

At home, they didn’t bother turning on all the lights. Just the lamp by the couch and the TV. They curled up in a blanket nest, snacks between them, the smell of ramen filling the air. The math book stayed on the floor, forgotten. They watched a movie Jun-ho didn’t fully understand, but he laughed when In-ho laughed, and that was enough.

By the time the credits rolled, Jun-ho was half-asleep, chocolate milk abandoned on the coffee table.

He felt In-ho shift, pulling the blanket higher around them both.

Jun-ho didn’t open his eyes, but he smiled.

Being six was hard sometimes. The world was full of rules and math problems and grown-ups who didn’t always listen. But nights like this? Sneaking out with cold fingers and warm snacks and someone who looked at him like he was worth the adventure?

Nights like this made it all feel easy.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

3. “Hold my hand, okay?”

The city was loud in the way Jun-ho hadn’t remembered.

He’d been here before – plenty of times – but something about being ten made everything feel different. It made Jun-ho’s shoulders tense without him realizing it.

They were heading to a bookstore a few blocks from In-ho’s precinct. A reward, apparently, for ‘not giving the school nurse another migraine’ this week. Jun-ho had insisted he could get there by himself – he knew the way, had memorized every turn – but In-ho still showed up outside the school gate, all calm and professional in his black coat, looking like he hadn’t just finished a full shift.

Jun-ho hadn’t said anything about it. Just stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and walked a little faster than usual, as if that proved something.

Now they moved together through the city’s afternoon bustle. The sidewalks were full of people – office workers on late lunch breaks, parents with strollers, students in uniforms making their way home. The sun hung above the buildings, too bright to look at but not quite warm, casting sharp shadows across the pavement.

The noise wasn’t unbearable, but it pressed in from all sides. Car horns, conversations, the rhythmic click of bicycle gears, a bus exhaling at a stop.

Jun-ho kept his arms folded and his chin up, doing his best not to look impressed by anything. Not the street artist sketching faces in charcoal. Not the smell of freshly fried mandu drifting from a food stall. Not even the tiny puppy sleeping in someone’s bike basket.

He was not a baby anymore. He was basically in fifth grade.

He was ten now. Old enough to cross the street alone. Old enough to buy a book with his own pocket money. Old enough, Jun-ho thought, to not need to be walked to the bookstore.

In-ho didn’t say much as they walked. He just kept a steady pace, eyes flicking to the traffic lights, occasionally reaching out to stop Jun-ho when a cyclist zipped too close to the curb. Jun-ho could feel his brother’s hand hover near his shoulder – never touching, just there. Like muscle memory.

They stopped at a busy crosswalk just as the light switched to red.

People were already gathering at the curb, waiting to cross. Jun-ho inched forward a little, squinting at the traffic. The cars didn’t slow much – just blurred past in a rush of motion and sun-glinting metal.

He shifted on the balls of his feet.

And then, like it was nothing at all, In-ho reached out his hand.

“Hold my hand, okay?” he said, voice low. Matter-of-fact. A reflex he hadn’t grown out of.

Jun-ho blinked at it. “I’m not a baby,” he said, not with anger, also a reflex. The words came out too fast, too practiced.

“I know,” In-ho said. Still offering. Still steady.

Jun-ho hesitated.

He could refuse. He could shove his hands deeper in his jacket and cross without help, just to prove he could. But something about the moment – the crowd pressing in, the afternoon sun bouncing off car hoods, the way In-ho didn’t insist – made that feel less important than it had a second ago.

So he reached out.

Slipped his fingers into In-ho’s, eyes on the far side of the street.

The warmth was instant. Familiar. Not too tight. Not pulling. Just there.

The walk signal blinked green.

They crossed with the rest of the crowd, their footsteps in sync, cars inching forward behind them as the light turned yellow. In-ho didn’t speak. Didn’t glance down. But he didn’t let go either.

And Jun-ho didn’t try to pull away.

He squeezed, just once, barely noticeable.

“Yes,” he said quietly, not sure if In-ho even heard it.

When they reached the other side, In-ho let go.

Jun-ho didn’t look up, but he stayed close. He kept walking beside his brother, their shadows stretched out side-by-side on the pavement, like they were still holding on.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

4. “Can you promise me you’ll never take stuff like that?”

The apartment was quiet when In-ho got home.

Too quiet.

He stepped inside and locked the door behind him, toeing off his shoes, eyes scanning the space. Jun-ho’s backpack was slumped against the wall. His sneakers were crooked by the entryway. Everything looked normal – but it didn’t feel normal.

In-ho shrugged off his coat, hung it by the door, and walked toward the kitchen. He heard the faint scrape of a chair shift before he even turned the corner.

Jun-ho was sitting at the table, hunched over in his hoodie, fingers pulling at the edge of his sleeve. The overhead light buzzed softly above him, casting a pool of warm yellow around his frame. The rest of the kitchen sat in dim quiet.

He didn’t look up.

Thirteen now. Somewhere between boy and teenager, all sharp elbows and awkward limbs, moods quieter. But this wasn’t a “just tired” kind of quiet. This was the kind In-ho recognized. He’d seen it on people’s faces after arrests, in holding cells, in the backseat of patrol cars. A silence built on something heavy.

Jun-ho’s foot bounced rhythmically beneath the chair. He kept tugging on his sleeve, twisting the fabric around his fingers, then letting it go. Again. And again.

In-ho didn’t say anything. Just walked over, pulled out the chair across from him, and sat down with a quiet exhale.

Jun-ho didn’t acknowledge him. Just kept his eyes fixed on a spot on the table and rubbed the sleeve between his fingers like it might unravel something.

In-ho watched him for a moment, studying the tension wound tight in his shoulders.

“What happened?” he asked, voice gentle.

Jun-ho didn’t look up. “Nothing.”

“Junho-yah,” In-ho said, voice low. Not pushing. Just asking again.

Jun-ho hesitated. Then gave a tiny shrug, still not meeting his eyes. “It’s dumb.”

“Still want to hear it.”

Jun-ho took a breath. Let it out slowly. Then finally said, “Someone in my class got taken away today.”

In-ho blinked. “Taken away?”

“They had… something in their bag.” Jun-ho’s voice was small. “Drugs.”

The word landed heavy in the space between them. Jun-ho twisted his sleeve tighter.

In-ho exhaled through his nose, leaning back slightly in the chair. He wasn’t surprised – not really. Thirteen was young, but not too young. He’d seen worse. He’d arrested kids younger than Jun-ho before, though he’d never said that out loud. He didn’t want that knowledge to live in Jun-ho’s head.

“They made all of us empty our bags,” Jun-ho said. “Everyone was staring. It was weird. And then they just… took him. Out of class.”

The overhead light buzzed again, like it was reminding them it was the only thing holding back the dark.

In-ho rubbed his thumb over the edge of the table. “You okay?”

Jun-ho’s foot was still bouncing beneath the table, his knee jiggling like it had nowhere else to put the fear. Another shrug. Then: “I don’t know.”

That answer wasn’t good enough. Not this time.

In-ho leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers laced. “Some of the people I’ve arrested never come back from it,” he said. “Not really. Not fully.”

Jun-ho finally looked up.

“I’ve seen kids like you – good kids – get curious. Get pressured. Think it’s not a big deal. And then it gets worse. Fast.”

Jun-ho swallowed. His face was pale in the kitchen light, like he was absorbing every word and didn’t know where to put it. His eyes were wide now, all the attitude from earlier gone. Just the kid underneath, scared in that quiet way he didn’t want to admit out loud.

In-ho stayed still, gaze steady, eyes locked on his brother’s.

“Can you promise me you’ll never touch that shit?”

The words were sharp in his mouth. Not because he was angry – but because In-ho was scared. It was simple fear, barely disguised as calm. It was ‘please stay safe’ in a sentence.

Because he loved this kid more than he knew how to say. Because the world was a mess and getting messier, and he couldn’t protect Jun-ho from all of it.

But maybe – just maybe – he could protect him from this.

Jun-ho swallowed, throat bobbing. Then he nodded slowly.

“Yes,” Jun-ho said quietly, barely louder than a whisper.

In-ho reached across the table and wrapped his hand around Jun-ho’s wrist – not tightly. Just there. Steady.

“Good,” he said. “That’s all I need.”

And after a beat – just long enough to breathe – In-ho stood. Came around the table.

He didn’t ask.

He just bent slightly and wrapped his arms around Jun-ho’s shoulders, tugging him forward into his chest.

Jun-ho went easily.

His arms slipped around In-ho’s middle, his face pressed into the front of his brother’s shirt. He was taller now, but still fit perfectly there – still slotted into the place he’d always belonged.

Neither of them said anything. The kitchen stayed quiet except for the soft sound of the fridge humming and the overhead light buzzing above them.

In-ho closed his eyes and held him tighter.

It didn’t fix the world. It didn’t erase what Jun-ho had seen or the fear In-ho carried every day.

But it was something.

And right now, that was enough.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

5. “You feel like a drive?”

Jun-ho hadn’t said much all week.

Not because something terrible had happened. Not really. Just… stupid stuff. Embarrassing stuff. The kind of thing you don’t want to admit happened, even to yourself.

He’d asked a girl out.

She’d said no.

Not in a mean way. She hadn’t laughed. She hadn’t told anyone, at least not that he knew of. But it was still enough to make him want to crawl into his hoodie and stay there until next year.

So yeah, he’d been moody. A little quiet. A little less present at the dinner table. He hadn’t told In-ho, obviously. He would never tell In-ho. He could already imagine the teasing – even if it was gentle, even if it was kind. The idea of hearing “You asked someone out?” in that tone made Jun-ho want to jump out the window.

So he stayed quiet.

It was easier to disappear into school and his phone and his room and pretend nothing had happened. If he didn’t say it out loud, maybe it would stop taking up so much space in his head.

Now it was Saturday. The light through the window was warm and yellow, stretching across the floor in long lines. Jun-ho stood in the kitchen, back against the fridge, arms folded across his chest. His hood was up. His eyes were fixed on the middle distance.

In-ho was across the room, tossing his keys from one hand to the other. He glanced over once, then again. Didn’t ask what’s wrong or what happened. Didn’t even try.

Just said, casually, “You feel like a drive?”

Jun-ho blinked.

He looked at his brother. In-ho wasn’t smirking or pushing. He just offered.

Because In-ho never let him touch the car. Not when he first got his permit. Not when he passed his driving test. Not even last month, when Jun-ho had asked with a full tank of confidence and his best ‘I’m basically an adult now’ face. The answer had always been a flat “no.”

Jun-ho cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said – too fast.

So when In-ho jangled the keys and tossed them over –

Jun-ho caught them on reflex, eyes going wide.

“Really?” he asked, barely hiding the shock in his voice.

“Drive’s yours,” In-ho said, already pulling on his jacket.

Jun-ho stood frozen for half a second, still holding the keys like they might disappear.

Then he moved.

Out the door. Down the apartment stairs. Into the driver’s seat. The keys felt heavy in his palm. Kind of like a challenge. Kind of like a gift.

He adjusted the seat and mirrors while In-ho slid into the passenger side, buckled up, and leaned back like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Jun-ho turned the key.

The engine started, low and steady.

They pulled away from the lot, tires humming over the pavement. The road ahead was quiet – residential streets between clusters of apartments and small corner shops. The kind of stretch where you could mess up a little and not hit anything.

He kept both hands on the wheel. His back was stiff, eyes flicking from mirror to mirror like he was trying to ace a test.

In-ho let him drive in silence for a minute.

Then, gently, “You’re sitting too straight.”

“I’m focused.”

“You look like you’re bracing for impact.”

“I’m fine.”

In-ho chuckled under his breath. “Relax your shoulders.”

Jun-ho let them drop, slightly.

“Ease into your turns. Don’t yank it like you’re in a chase scene.”

“I know,” Jun-ho muttered, even though he’d almost done exactly that.

“You’re doing good,” In-ho said. Quietly. Not like a compliment. Just a truth.

Jun-ho didn’t answer, but his grip on the wheel loosened a little.

They passed quiet rows of low-rise apartments, a few villas, and the occasional convenience store with bright banners flapping in the wind. The sun followed them through the windshield, painting warm light across the dashboard. A scooter zipped by, and a few kids were kicking a ball near the park. Somewhere nearby, someone was roasting sweet potatoes on a street cart.

Jun-ho rolled down the window a little. Just enough to let the wind in.

He still didn’t want to talk. Not about the girl. Not about school. But this – this was okay. The steady hum of the engine. The quiet coaching. The weight of the keys still in his pocket.

In-ho adjusted the A/C vent, leaning back in his seat like he didn’t care whether they ended up at the river or just circled the neighborhood twice.

“Next weekend,” he said casually, “we’ll try the expressway.”

Jun-ho glanced over, one eyebrow lifting. “Seriously?”

In-ho shrugged, gaze fixed on the road ahead. “If you don’t kill me today.”

Jun-ho smirked, eyes flicking back to the street. “No promises.”

There was a beat of silence, just the wind through the cracked window and the quiet click of the turn signal.

“Also if you promise not to merge like an idiot,” In-ho added, adjusting his seatbelt like he might need it more than usual.

Jun-ho scoffed, throwing him a side-eye. “I’ve seen how you merge.”

In-ho turned toward him, raising an eyebrow. “Watch it, rookie.”

Jun-ho snorted – and the laugh that slipped out caught him by surprise. It wasn’t loud, wasn’t dramatic. Just real. A little breath of something lighter breaking through the cloud he’d been stuck in all week.

And In-ho didn’t say anything about it. He just smiled, subtle and satisfied, and looked out the window again like nothing had changed.

But Jun-ho knew better.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

+1. “Come on. Make this easy.”

The ocean crashed below him, wild and endless, the wind lashing at his jacket and biting into his skin like it wanted to peel him apart.

Jun-ho didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

Not with the world tilting beneath his feet. Not with the man across from him lowering the gun and raising a hand that haunted every memory he had.

The Front Man had removed his mask.

And behind it was In-ho.

His brother.

His hyung.

It didn’t register at first. His brain refused it. It tried to flatten the truth into something more acceptable. A trick. A mask under a mask. A glitch in his mind brought on by the cold and the shock and the weight of everything he’d just discovered.

But it wasn’t.

It was In-ho. Older. Hardened. Dressed in black and blood and secrets.

Jun-ho stumbled back a step, the edge of the cliff crumbling beneath his heel. The rocks gave way to air, and for a moment he thought – this is it. This is how it ends. Not in a blaze of justice. Not in some final burst of truth. Just… a fall.

But he didn’t fall.

He found his balance. Barely.

And In-ho stepped forward.

Not threatening. Not reaching for the weapon again. Just… reaching.

His hand was open, palm up, like it had been so many times before.

Jun-ho couldn’t breathe.

His lungs stuttered against the wind, and his heart pounded so hard it drowned out the roar of the sea. His eyes stung, but he didn’t blink. Couldn’t risk losing sight of him.

In-ho didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

Jun-ho knew what he was saying. ‘Come here. It’s okay. Just take my hand. I’ll fix this.’

But it wasn’t okay.

Because Jun-ho had come looking for his missing brother and found something else. Something twisted and worn and wrong. And the file he’d found – the name on the page, the year marked next to it – had changed everything.

Hwang In-ho. Winner.

He’d played in the games. He’d won them. And now he ran them.

Jun-ho’s stomach turned. He wanted to scream. Wanted to break something. Wanted to go back to the moment he decided to play the games and rip that decision out of time.

But he couldn’t.

And now In-ho was standing there, silent and steady, offering his hand like they were back in some safer year. Like they were kids again, crossing a busy street. Like none of this had ever happened.

Then – his voice. Low, quiet, but clear above the wind: “Come on. Make this easy.”

Jun-ho froze.

The way In-ho said it wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even cold. It was tired. Heavy. Like he wanted this to be over before it broke them both in half. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d pictured having to say it.

His hand stayed outstretched, steady in the space between them.

And Jun-ho?

His chest ached with something he couldn’t name.

Because a part of him wanted to take that hand.

The same part that used to fall asleep against In-ho’s side during movies. The part that followed him into law enforcement. That listened to his advice. That borrowed his hoodies and his toothpaste and his worldview.

He had always looked up to him.

Even when he stopped admitting it out loud.

He still did.

But this – this moment, this choice – was something else.

Because now Jun-ho was the one standing at the edge, and the person on the other side was someone who had helped kill hundreds of people. Innocent people. Desperate people. People whose only mistake had been having no one left to turn to.

And if Jun-ho took that hand, it meant letting them go. All of them. It meant walking away from the reason he was here at all.

In-ho’s hand didn’t waver. His expression didn’t change. But there was something in his eyes. Something that looked like pleading, if you knew where to look.

Jun-ho looked.

He wanted to find the right thing to say. Something that could cut through the years and the silence and the awful thing that stood between them now. Something that could explain why he couldn’t do this. Why he couldn’t go with him.

But no words came.

So instead, he shook his head.

It was small. Barely there.

But it was enough.

“No,” he said, and it broke on the way out. His voice wasn’t strong. It cracked, halfway to falling apart. Tears stung his eyes.

But he meant it.

He didn’t take the hand.

His foot shifted closer to the cliff’s edge. Loose stones tumbled into the air, vanishing into the waves far below. He didn’t move back.

He couldn’t.

In-ho’s face changed – only a little. Not a flinch. Not regret. Just… the smallest twitch in his jaw. Like the part of him that remembered who Jun-ho used to be was fighting the part that ran this nightmare now.

Jun-ho wanted to scream. Wanted to ask how it had come to this. How his brother – the man who taught him how to tie his shoes and ride a bike and fill out a report – could become the face of something so cruel.

But he already knew the answer.

He’d seen it in the files.

He’d seen it in In-ho’s eyes.

So he held his ground.

Even as the wind tried to push him over. Even as his chest ached and his hands shook and the tears blurred everything into colorless light.

He held on.

He didn’t run.

He didn’t surrender.

He said no.

And this time, it was to the person he loved most.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then In-ho’s hand dropped – slowly, carefully, like the weight of it had suddenly become too much. The open palm that had once meant safety, warmth, home, lowered back to his side.

His fingers twitched.

And then, just as quietly, he lifted the gun.

No warning. No words.

Just the clean, practiced motion of a man who had stopped asking questions a long time ago.

Jun-ho’s breath caught.

But he didn’t step back.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

He just looked his brother in the eye – heart pounding, tears streaking down his face – and waited.

#what remains asks #hwang brothers #hwang in ho #hwang jun ho #hwang junho #hwang inho #inho and junho #hwang bros #in ho and jun ho #squid game fanfic #squid game #five plus one #5 + 1 fic #kid!jun ho shenanigans

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