Chapter Text
The first thing Mingyu noticed when he walked into his parents’ house was the familiar, unwelcome sound of Wonwoo’s voice.
It came from the living room, low and calm, threaded with that faint amusement that always made Mingyu irrationally annoyed. Not loud. Not attention-seeking. Just… present. Like he belonged there.
Mingyu paused in the entryway, keys still in his hand, jaw tightening before he could stop himself.
Of course he’s here.
Family get-togethers were always like this. No warning. No preparation. Just the inevitable collision of two people who had never learned how to exist in the same space without friction.
“Mingyu-ah!” his mother called out happily from the kitchen. “You’re home already?”
He forced his shoulders to relax, pasted on a smile, and stepped inside. “Traffic wasn’t bad,” he said, toeing off his shoes.
And then he saw him.
Wonwoo sat on the far end of the couch, legs crossed neatly, dark hair falling into his eyes as he listened to Mingyu’s father talk about something unimportant. He wore a black button-down, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his wrists, glasses perched low on his nose. He looked exactly like he always did. Composed. Polite. Untouchable.
He looked up at Mingyu.
For half a second, their eyes met.
The air between them tightened, sharp and familiar, like a wire pulled too taut.
Wonwoo gave him a brief nod. Not a smile. Not a greeting. Just acknowledgement.
Mingyu scoffed under his breath and looked away.
Twenty-five years old, CEO of one of the fastest-growing tech companies in the country, and still somehow reduced to a grumpy teenager every time Jeon Wonwoo was in the room.
Some things really never died.
They had known each other for as long as Mingyu could remember.
Their houses stood side by side, separated by a low fence that Mingyu used to climb over when he was little and fearless. Their parents had been friends before either of them was born, the kind of friends who shared groceries and gossip and childcare without ever keeping score.
Mingyu’s earliest memory of Wonwoo was not a fond one.
He was four, clutching a plastic dinosaur, sitting in the sandbox in Wonwoo’s backyard. Wonwoo had been five, already too serious for his age, building something intricate with toy blocks instead of playing properly.
“That’s wrong,” Wonwoo had said, peering over Mingyu’s shoulder.
Mingyu had frowned. “What is?”
“Dinosaurs don’t live in sandboxes,” Wonwoo replied matter-of-factly.
Mingyu had stared at him, then promptly thrown sand at his shoes.
Wonwoo had burst into tears.
Their parents had laughed it off. Boys will be boys, they’d said.
But that moment had set the tone for everything that came after.
They were too different. Always had been.
Mingyu was loud, emotional, expressive. He talked with his hands, laughed too hard, cared too much. Wonwoo was quiet, observant, sharp-edged in his intelligence, the kind of kid teachers praised and other kids didn’t quite know what to do with.
Mingyu thought Wonwoo was arrogant.
Wonwoo thought Mingyu was reckless.
And neither of them was entirely wrong.
By the time they were teenagers, the dislike had hardened into something more deliberate.
They fought over everything. Grades. Friends. Sports. Opinions. Space.
“You don’t have to talk all the time,” Wonwoo snapped once when Mingyu wouldn’t stop chattering during a group study session.
“At least I don’t act like I’m better than everyone else,” Mingyu shot back, face burning.
Wonwoo’s expression had gone cold then, something wounded flickering beneath it. “I never said I was.”
“You don’t have to,” Mingyu replied.
They stopped studying together after that.
Their parents tried to intervene, of course. Forced shared dinners. Forced apologies. Forced smiles. None of it stuck.
They tolerated each other when they had to. Avoided each other when they didn’t.
And yet, somehow, their lives kept overlapping.
Same schools. Same social circles. Same family friends. Even the same group of people later on, when thirteen of them gravitated toward each other in university and never quite let go after graduation.
The others loved to joke that Mingyu and Wonwoo were “like an old married couple.”
Mingyu hated that comparison.
Wonwoo never responded at all.
Now, years later, they sat at opposite ends of the same dining table, successful and polished and still very much at odds.
“So Wonwoo,” Mingyu’s mother said brightly, placing a bowl of rice down. “How’s the company doing?”
Wonwoo smiled politely. “It’s going well. Busy, but good.”
Mingyu resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
Of course it was going well. Wonwoo’s company had been making headlines for months now. Strategic acquisitions. Ruthless efficiency. A mind like a steel trap behind that calm exterior.
Mingyu’s company wasn’t doing badly either. He’d built it from the ground up, fought tooth and nail to get where he was. But the comparisons still grated.
“You must be exhausted,” Mingyu’s father added. “Running things at your age.”
Wonwoo inclined his head. “Mingyu manages just fine too.”
The comment landed like a challenge.
Mingyu looked up sharply. “I don’t need your validation.”
Wonwoo met his gaze evenly. “I wasn’t offering it.”
The table went quiet.
Mingyu's dad coughed into his fist. “So! Who wants more kimchi?”
The tension eased, but it didn’t disappear. It never did.
Later, Mingyu found himself on the balcony, breathing in cool night air, trying to shake off the irritation crawling under his skin. Footsteps sounded behind him.
“Figured you’d escape out here,” Wonwoo said.
Mingyu didn’t turn around. “Didn’t know I needed permission.”
“You don’t,” Wonwoo replied. “You never did.”
That stung more than Mingyu expected.
He finally faced him. “Why do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Act like you know me.”
Wonwoo’s gaze softened, just a fraction. “I do know you.”
Mingyu laughed bitterly. “No. You know the version of me you decided on when we were kids.”
“And you don’t do the same to me?” Wonwoo asked quietly.
They stared at each other, years of resentment and misunderstanding stretching between them like a fault line.
Neither of them crossed it.