Work Text:
The morning sun slipped through the blinds in thin, golden stripes that landed perfectly across Lee Know’s cheek—and across the three small, warm shapes sprawled over his torso like living gifts. Soonie was draped with regal indifference, tail precisely aligned along Minho’s ribs. Doongie was a loaf with whiskers, purring so loudly it buzzed in Minho’s bones. Dori had chosen chaos, his paws splayed over Minho’s chin as if to weigh his face down with love.
From the doorway, Han watched the scene with the kind of soft smile he usually hid under a bad joke. He held one finger to his lips. “Shh,” he told the cats, as if any of them were the problem.
Minho cracked one eye. “I heard that,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
“You heard nothing,” Han said, tiptoeing in, his hands conspicuously empty. “Also—happy birthday.”
Dori chirped like he was taking credit.
Minho’s smile bloomed the rest of the way. “Thank you.” He tried to sit up, but Soonie gave a pointed look, and Minho obediently lay back down. “Permission from the monarchs?”
Han bowed to the feline council. “Your Majesty, Your Highnesses, I request brief access to your human.”
Soonie flicked a single magnanimous ear.
“Motion passes,” Minho translated solemnly, and let Han slide his arms under him. The cats reorganized themselves with offended dignity as Han helped Minho up and kissed his temple.
“Stay there,” Han said, grinning. “Birthday protocol.”
Minho arched an eyebrow. “Protocol?”
“Yep.” Han vanished and returned balancing a tray: seaweed soup steaming in a deep bowl, rice, and a plate of tiny heart-shaped fruit because Han always pretended not to be sentimental and then did things like this. Beside it, three smaller dishes waited—shredded chicken and a little warm broth, perfectly safe and vet-approved, because Han had done his research and then done it again.
“For them,” Han said, jerking his chin at the cats. “Only the best for the princes.”
Doongie lifted his head at the word “broth” like he understood every syllable.
Minho laughed, eyes crinkling. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Correct,” Han said cheerfully. He set the tray over Minho’s lap and the cat dishes on the floor. Soonie sniffed, considered the presentation, and then condescended to enjoy it. Doongie went all-in. Dori pretended not to care until everyone looked away, then devoured his portion in ten seconds and returned to sit like an angel at Minho’s knee.
They ate quietly in the contented, soft-cozy way that makes a house feel like a home. Minho kept glancing up at Han between bites as if to make sure he was really there. Han caught him every time.
“What?” Han asked, chuckling.
“Just… you,” Minho said lightly, but it wasn’t a light feeling at all. The gratitude sat warm in his chest. “Thank you for making the morning gentle.”
Han bumped his shoulder. “I planned a gentle day, too. And maybe a chaotic afternoon. Balance.”
“Balance,” Minho repeated, and reached down to stroke Dori’s head until the kitten melted into purrs.
After breakfast, Han ordered Minho to sit on the couch with a blanket and three furry paperweights while he disappeared again. The living room had been subtly transformed overnight: a string of soft fairy lights over the window, a modest pile of wrapped gifts—paper crinkled, since Doongie had claimed one corner—and a garland of tiny paw prints across the bookshelf. In the corner, a new cat tree climbed toward the window like a lighthouse, topped by a wide, sunny perch.
Han returned with a small envelope. “Phase one,” he announced, eyes sparkling. “A treasure hunt.”
Minho blinked. “A what—”
Dori leapt onto the couch and headbutted the envelope toward Minho like an accomplice.
“See?” Han said. “My inside man.”
Minho opened it. Inside was a Polaroid snapshot: Minho on the balcony last spring, a cat sprawled across his lap; Han had drawn little doodle-crowns over all four heads. On the back, a neat scrawl: Where the wind tastes like tea, look beneath what makes us bloom.
He looked up. “The balcony planters?”
“You are very good at this,” Han said gravely.
On the balcony, Minho found the next clue taped under the lip of a pot of hardy herbs. The cats followed, each in their own style: Soonie inspecting the perimeter as if the balcony were a brand-new kingdom, Doongie lumbering with purpose, Dori winding between Minho’s ankles, singing. The clue sent them to the kitchen (“Where we turn patience into dinner”), then to the practice corner where Minho kept a speaker and mirror (“Where you teach the air to listen”). Each note came with another Polaroid from a day Minho remembered not by date but by the way it had felt: Han asleep with Doongie on his stomach, Minho and Soonie sharing a sunbeam, Dori’s first clumsy leap captured mid-flight.
The final clue led back to the living room and the cat tree. Minho knelt, peering into the top cubby. Inside, an album waited—linen-bound, a little crooked, obviously handmade. Across the front, in Han’s messy block letters: THE THREE PRINCES & THEIR KING.
Minho’s laughter hitched into something else. He sat on the floor with the album and opened it. Inside, Han had arranged their life: photos, tiny snippets of Minho’s own captions from past posts, ticket stubs, a dried leaf from the park where they’d once sat too long because Dori was convinced he was a duck and wanted to supervise the pond. On some pages, Han had left notes: You talk to them like they’re people. They talk back. Every home you walk into becomes kinder.
Minho swallowed and closed the book with both hands, holding it to his chest. “Jisung,” he said, very softly.
Han sat down beside him, knees bumping, like he’d been waiting there all his life. “Happy birthday.”
Minho bumped their foreheads together. “You did all this for me.”
“For you and your three bosses,” Han corrected, glancing at the cats. “And there’s one more thing.”
“Phase…?”
“Two.5.” Han reached behind the couch and produced three little velvet pouches. Inside each was a new collar—simple, soft, beautifully stitched—with a tiny charm engraved on the bell plate. SOONIE with a crown; DOONGIE with a star; DORI with a comet. On the back of each charm, in smaller letters: “Return to Dad.”
Minho barked out a laugh. “Dad?”
Han shrugged, suddenly shy. “It… fits? I mean, you kind of are. And I—well. If it’s too—”
“It’s perfect,” Minho said, voice low and certain. He kissed him once, then again, longer. When they pulled apart, the cats blinked at them like an audience who’d already predicted the ending.
“Okay,” Han said huskily, rubbing the back of his neck. “Phase three: cake. But first, I have to show you the thing I built and tried not to post about because it would ruin the surprise.”
He pointed up. Minho followed his gaze and only then noticed the slender walkway perched just below the ceiling—a cat bridge, carefully sanded and stained, anchored at one end to a shelf near the window and at the other to a high wall perch by the bookcase.
“You did this?” Minho whispered.
“With a drill I was legally not qualified to operate,” Han confessed. “But I watched like sixteen tutorials and wore goggles and only panicked twice. Test run?”
He lifted Soonie gently to the starting shelf. Soonie sniffed the bridge with a scholar’s skepticism, then placed one paw, then the next. From the floor, Doongie watched with the solemn attention of a sports commentator. Dori tried to chase his own tail, forgot what he was doing, and then remembered again. By the time Soonie reached the other side and posed like a tiny lion in the sun, Minho’s eyes were bright.
“They have more space now,” Han said, hands in his pockets, suddenly small in the middle of his own living room. “More sky. Like you.”
Minho turned to him. “Like me?”
“You’re… steady,” Han said, searching for the right words. “You hold everything up without making noise about it. I think… you deserve more bright places to stand. And to rest.”
Something inside Minho unclenched, simple and quiet. He stepped forward and wrapped Han up, tucking his face into Han’s shoulder. Around them, the apartment hummed: the fairy lights, the soft city noise, the feline chorus of contentment. Han’s arms cinched tighter, like a promise.
“Okay,” Minho said, muffled against Han’s sweater. “Phase four?”
Han laughed into his hair. “Phase four is easy. We stay here. We let the day be soft. We watch the princes conquer their bridge kingdom. We eat cake. We open the presents that Doongie hasn’t sat on. And then—if you want—dinner somewhere quiet. Or here, with them. It’s your call, birthday boy.”
Minho leaned back just enough to see him. “Here,” he said immediately. “With you. With them.”
“Copy that.” Han pecked his nose. “Permission granted by the monarchs?”
As if on cue, Dori stretched down from the bridge and booped Han’s hair with a paw. Doongie, inspired, flopped dramatically at their feet. Soonie looked down from his sunlit throne and purred.
“Motion passes,” Minho translated again, smiling so fiercely it hurt.
Later, they did exactly what Han promised: they stayed. Minho cut a neat slice of cake; Han cut a chaotic one, and Dori tried to steal frosting and wore a dollop like a hat. They watched Soonie discover that bridges are perfect for thinking and that thinking looks a lot like napping. Doongie made biscuits on Han’s thigh until both men were pinned to the couch. The album lay open on the coffee table, catching little glints of light each time one of them turned a page to reread a note.
When evening fell, Han lit one small candle. Just one—the others could wait. He set it on the coffee table and pulled Minho close, their shoulders pressed like anchors.
“Make a wish,” Han said softly.
Minho glanced around: the cats nested in their chosen corners; the bridge slicing a new skyline into their living room; Han’s eyes, warm and sure, reflecting everything right back. He thought of how many birthdays were measured in noise and how grateful he was for the kind that could be measured in breath. In purrs. In the touch of a hand steadying a heart.
He closed his eyes and wished without words. When he opened them, Han was still there, exactly where Minho had left him, exactly where Minho wanted him to be.
“Happy birthday, Minho,” Han whispered.
“Home,” Minho said, because that was the only answer that felt true. He blew out the candle, and the tiny trail of smoke curled upward like a pawprint in the air, breaking into nothing, leaving only the glow they’d made together.