「 I Wish You Were Mine ┊ MarkHyuck 」 ✓

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The night Minhyung's death was confirmed, Donghyuck didn't sleep — at least not the way sleep usually claimed him.

He collapsed. His body shut down after hours of sobbing, his lungs torn raw from begging the universe to undo what it had done. His hands trembled even as he clutched the stuffed toy Minhyung once won him at a carnival — its seams loose, its fur worn, the button eyes dull but permanent. It smelled faintly of dust and fabric softener, nothing like Minhyung, and yet Donghyuck held it as though life itself clung to it.

Silence wrapped the room in a coffin-like weight. The clock ticked somewhere far away, cruel in its indifference. Outside, the city breathed, but inside his chest, there was no air.

And then, without his permission, sleep dragged him under.

He opened his eyes to sunlight.

A playground stretched before him, painted in pastels, almost glowing. The slide shimmered, the swings swayed gently though no wind stirred. Children's laughter echoed, but it was distant, blurred, like the ghost of a memory he had once overheard.

Then he saw him.

Minhyung.

But not the man who had carried his grief to the airport, not the boy who kissed him with trembling desperation. This was Minhyung at eight years old, hair sticking to his forehead, scuffed shoes slapping against the sand. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright, his grin unstoppable.

"Donghyuck!"

The name cracked the air open, raw and new.

Donghyuck froze. His chest seized as though someone had ripped it open with bare hands. His throat closed. The sight was unbearable. Impossible. Salvation and punishment at once.

Minhyung threw himself at him, arms small but strong, hugging his waist like the world would end if he let go.

"I missed you," he said, his voice muffled against Donghyuck's shirt. "You didn't come to the rooftop yesterday."

Donghyuck's vision blurred. He bent down, trembling hands stroking that familiar hair.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, but the apology shattered, jagged in his throat. "God, I'm so sorry."

Minhyung pulled back, blinking up at him with wide eyes. "Why are you crying? Did someone hurt you?"

"You did," Donghyuck almost said. But he bit it back, because this Minhyung — this boy — knew nothing of loss, of wreckage, of ashes. This boy only knew laughter and promise.

Instead, Donghyuck forced a smile that cracked like old glass. "No. I just missed you too."

And for a moment, the sun seemed warmer.

The dream shifted.

Now they were teenagers, the rooftop their kingdom. The air smelled of asphalt, guitar strings, and faint tobacco. The city lights stretched endlessly beneath them, constellations made of human persistence.

Minhyung sat cross-legged, strumming his guitar, humming a tune that hadn't yet found lyrics. His hair was longer, his face sharper, but the way his eyes softened when they met Donghyuck's hadn't changed.

Donghyuck sat beside him, knees pulled to his chest, listening. The silence between chords was heavier than any song.

Finally, Minhyung spoke. His voice was low, almost swallowed by the wind.

"Do you ever think... maybe this is it? You and me. Forever."

Donghyuck's breath hitched. His heart slammed against his ribs. Words clawed at his throat, desperate to escape — yes, yes, God, yes.