For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Jiwoo just sat there, guitar resting across his lap, fingers ghosting over the frets but not pressing down. The early summer wind caught at his hair, pushing the hood back, revealing dark eyes ringed with exhaustion and the sharp edge of hurt that still hadn't dulled.
Minjun stepped closer, stopping just out of reach. He could smell the city on Jiwoo — cheap instant coffee, stale cigarette smoke, the faint metallic bite of rain that hadn't fallen yet.
He wanted to close the distance. But he didn't, not yet.
"Say something," Minjun breathed, voice almost lost to the dawn wind.
Jiwoo's gaze dropped to his own hands. He strummed a soft, dissonant chord — a note that felt like a question. Then he laughed under his breath, but it wasn't a warm laugh.
"You really did it?" Jiwoo asked, eyes flicking back up. "You broke the contract?"
Minjun nodded. "Tore it up in Seojin's face."
A ghost of a smile touched Jiwoo's mouth — and disappeared just as quick. "You're insane."
"I know." Minjun stepped forward until his toes bumped Jiwoo's scuffed sneakers. "I'd rather be insane with you than famous without you."
Jiwoo's fingers curled tighter around the guitar neck. "You think it's that easy, Rooftop Boy? Walk away from Starline and what? Busk on street corners for spare change? Write songs nobody hears?"
Minjun crouched down in front of him so they were eye level. "I don't care if it's ten people in an alley or a million in a stadium. I just want it to be us. Like it was."
Jiwoo shook his head. "It was never just us. You know that, right? We always needed the stage. The audience. The dream bigger than some rooftop."
Minjun's throat tightened. "Then we build it again. Our way. No Seojin. No Starline. No chains. Just you and me and the songs."
Jiwoo's jaw clenched. "And if nobody listens?"
"Then we sing louder." Minjun's voice cracked, but he forced a smile. "I'll sing till my voice breaks, and when it does, you'll fix it, because that's what we promised, remember?"
Jiwoo looked away, out at the edge of the city waking up below them — the hum of buses, the rising chorus of traffic and distant horns. His eyes glistened in the weak sunlight.
"You hurt me, Minjun," he whispered. "You didn't even say goodbye when you signed that deal. You just... left me behind like I didn't matter."
Minjun flinched like he'd been slapped. He reached for Jiwoo's hand, but Jiwoo didn't move to meet him. Still, he didn't pull away when Minjun's fingers closed gently over his.
"I know," Minjun said, voice shaking. "I messed up. I was so scared to lose it all that I didn't see I was throwing away the only thing that mattered. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
Jiwoo's grip trembled under his. The guitar slid down onto the rooftop with a soft clatter. Jiwoo let out a choked laugh that cracked in the middle.
"You're still an idiot, Rooftop Boy," Jiwoo murmured. "What if you ruin it again?"
Minjun swallowed the lump in his throat. "Then you drag me back up here and remind me why we started. Like you always do."
Jiwoo met his eyes finally — really looked at him, like he was trying to see if Minjun was still the same boy who used to promise him the stars while they froze under a leaking tin roof.
Then, with a soft exhale, Jiwoo leaned forward until his forehead bumped Minjun's. For a heartbeat, the city fell away. It was just the two of them, the rooftop, and the slow, steady promise in the sunrise behind their closed eyes.
"I hate you," Jiwoo whispered.
Minjun smiled through tears he didn't bother hiding. "Good. Stay and hate me forever."
Jiwoo snorted, shoving him back just enough to punch him lightly in the chest. "Only if you buy the coffee this time."
Minjun laughed, breathless, raw, new. "Deal."
Below them, Seoul pulsed like a promise — neon signs waiting to be written, crowds waiting to be found, songs waiting to be sung.
Together, they'd build it again. Even if it meant starting from zero. Even if the world tried to drown them out.
They still had their rooftop. And each other.