Chapter Text
Minho hyung is the only thing on Han’s useless little brain. Has been for months, as if Jisung’s mind was a suburban house and Minho sits in the rocking chair on the porch, cigar in hand as he looks over the neighbourhood. Minho is the main character, sitting in a melancholic silence with his earphones in on the bus, staring out of the windows of Han’s eyes at the rain.
(Han has been watching too many American films.)
Long legs stretch over Han’s lap, the weight on his thighs the only thing keeping Jisung from floating far, far away from Earth. The movie they’re playing on the TV doesn’t interest him at all currently. Minho seems to be paying attention to the old horror flick, even though they’ve already placed their bets on who dies first and who will be the final girl. Horror movies have become boring. Sundays are even more boring though, so they like to put one on anyway.
Minho doesn’t flinch over jumpscares anymore. He watches with the utmost apathy, dark eyes trained on the small screen, hands folded over his stomach. Like a model posing for a cover. Sharp jawline and flowing hair. Angles between his elbows calculated to drive Jisung crazy.
“You’re staring, Jisung-ah,” Comes from Minho’s mouth without so much as a glance towards him. He focuses on the bloody mess on screen, tries to pay attention, doesn’t let himself touch the thin calves in his lap.
Or at least he tells himself not to touch until Minho, in a rare yet familiar gesture, pulls Jisung down to wrap his arms around, until he’s laying half on top of the other man, half off to his side. His head is resting on the older’s chest, just high enough that he can hear the calm heartbeat. He wonders why it’s not thumping hard against the skin, like his own.
From then on, he can’t focus, not at all.
He barely notices when Chan comes out to the kitchen, but he hears the smile in his voice when he says “hi”.
The music restarts again.
It’s the millionth time that Minho and Han try to do the choreo again. He’s growing so tired of it all. His limbs feel heavy and fall against his sides lazily when he messes up that one particular step again. He runs his hand through the sweaty mop of hair on his head, wonders how it comes so easily to Minho, how his limbs obey him so neatly.
“Hannie, come on. You know this, you can do it,” Minho sounds a lot less encouraging than what Han needs right now. He’s exhausted and cranky and wants to curl up and cry himself to sleep. And he’s trying, he’s really trying, but either he doesn’t get the move right at all or it just looks so fucking weird that Minho will surely laugh at him.
It’s a hard night. And Minho, ever the caffeine-addict, is still bursting with spare energy that he spends on teaching Han. He really doesn’t mean to be ungrateful to his hyung but it feels like his legs are about to explode and he’s still not getting the move right. And Minho stays patient like a saint, almost uncharacteristically so – by now, he would have given up on anyone else but Jisung always gets special treatment from him. He’s eternally grateful for that right now.
“I’ll get it eventually,” Han shows a smile when he looks up at Minho, not a trace of his frustration when he takes a deep breath and shakes his shoulders. A small part of him is sure Minho senses it, though.
And when he fails again – messes up the footwork – he can’t help a groan. He grabs onto his hair again and focuses his energy on willing his tear ducts to just shut up. His body is a tense knot of burning muscles and shame and he can’t bring himself to look up at Minho, can’t take the disappointment of his hyung.
He takes a few deep breaths to ensure he won’t start panicking – that would be embarrassing. He’s so engrossed in keeping the rise of his chest regular he doesn’t notice Minho stalk over to him until long, strong arms wrap around him from the side, chest pressed against his trembling shoulder.
“Come on, Jisungie. You’ve come so far. We’re almost done with this part and then you can go to sleep,” Minho tells him. Han can’t think straight with how close Minho is, how small his heigh advantage makes Jisung feel. His heart is racing with something other than panic.
“I just don’t think I understand how you move like that,” He tells Minho, shaking his head. He doesn’t dare look up and make eye contact. He’s scared he might do something dumb.
“Oh, you could’ve told me.” Minho’s voice flows like honey. Or molasses. Or wine. Han doesn’t know which simile he likes most. There’s nothing like Minho’s navy blue-burgundy, thickly pouring voice. “I can show you.”
Han twitches his nose in confusion, his lips stay parted. He doesn’t know what Minho means but before he can ask, the music starts again, in half speed, and Minho’s hands are on his thighs.
“Legs spread first. It’s in the knees, but it’s a fluid motion,” He starts to explain, and Han’s breath is caught in his throat as Minho’s hands, from behind, slide from his thighs to his knees. Those wonderful, artistic, small hands. “You need to make sure your feet are loose and you can twist your ankles freely. It’s just as much the ankles as the knees,” Minho guides his knees and tights, helping his legs spread and close to the rhythm.
Han feels faint. The only reason he can pay attention is because he doesn’t want Minho to be disappointed if he still doesn’t get it. He needs Minho to be proud and pleased with him. He’s been trying all night. He ignores the fire pit of his stomach.
He tries to mimic the movement Minho instructs him to do, more confident now that he feels the movement of his burning legs. His hyung stops the music. “Do you wanna try again?” He’s so close to his neck and his ear that he feels the air he breathes out vibrate on his skin. His heart thumps like a rabbit in danger.
He can only swallow and nod.
He expects Minho to pull back and let him do his thing but instead the music starts in normal speed and Minho’s hands are still on his hips – holding on tight and maintaining eye contact through the mirror with that cold look of his and Han feels like he might explode.
He dances the part that they practised more correctly this time and his ass rubs against Minho just slightly. Minho doesn’t even flinch.
Han can’t sleep that night.
He lies in bed, staring at the bottom of the bunk bed above him, where Changbin sleeps. Minho is at the forefront of his mind again, as always, except tonight it’s worse, so much worse. It’s not like this is the first time Minho has touched him, but it felt oddly intimate, with how he kept his hands on Han’s hips and how he stared at him through the mirror, the eye contact just as searing as the physical contact. How he breathed straight into Han’s neck. It’s embarrassing and pathetic, honestly, how Jisung can’t stop thinking about it, but it’s the truth; he keeps imagining what could have happened if he turned his head to the side to look at Minho, or if he reached back to cup Minho’s cheek or his shoulder, or if he just pressed back into him a little more -
He buries his head into the pillows under himself with a quiet groan. Stop thinking about him like that. He’s your best friend.
They finally perform somewhere in Seoul. Han couldn’t tell you where, or what they’re performing for, only that he’s on stage with adrenaline wrecking through his body and moving his limbs for him. They’re doing the choreo they’ve been practising for in the past few weeks, the one Minho helped him with.
He manages to get through the move that caused him so much trouble with ease. He doesn’t even notice he did it until Minho slaps and grabs his ass and shoots him a proud grin.
Han messes up a few times after that, unable to get his mind off of Minho’s small hand on his ass.
“Hannie, look what I got,” Minho sings in that pretty pretty pretty voice and Han would never be able to resist looking at him (not like he’s been secretly watching him out of the corner of his eye for half a year at this point), how he summons a clear bottle from his backpack, skinny fingers twisting on the cap.
“Water? You got us water?” Han asks, in that special loving tone that he preserves only for Minho. Not that Minho notices. He never notices. He lives in Jisung’s mind without knowing.
He shakes his head with a coy little smile, one that immediately lets Jisung know that mischief is afoot. Realisation hits quickly.
“Not water. Got it,” He says, and with a grin, settles on the floor next to Minho, sitting back on his knees. Minho takes a swig first, a sharp grimace pulling at his facial features – even though all of them know Minho is a seasoned drinker, he confided in Jisung and Jisung only that he prefers fruity drinks over strong ones and stopped masking his disdain over a burning spirit.
He hands the bottle to Han and he swallows down a mouthful – it’s immediately followed by a cough.
“Shit, that’s strong, what’s in there?”
“Water, Han Jisung,” Minho says, and takes another sip before twisting the cap back on and placing it down between the two of them. “Water with a V. Think Russian.”
Han nods and yet he keeps grimacing. The bitter taste doesn’t leave his mouth.
“You got any actual water, hyung?”
“Hannie can’t handle some of this?” Minho smirks, and Han pushes on his arm a bit.
“I just want a chaser, that’s all. I thought you would always look after us, hyung,” Han teases, and Minho rolls his eyes.
“Stop that, I’m not your dad. If you want to be looked after, ask Chan,” Minho says, and yet he pulls out another bottle – again with clear liquid – and chucks it at Han.
He unscrews the top and takes a swig – this is indeed water. Minho is a caring man, no matter what he tries to pretend. Han is thankful.
They continue to take shots together, making a game out of it – every time they mess up a choreography, they have to take a shot. Minho got a handicap of one extra shot before they start for obvious reasons.
Minho makes a surprising amount of mistakes. Han watches him go from his usual collected and calm exterior (his long legs, his skinny hands, all working together, all obeying the mastermind of Minho’s body, producing movement that all rushes straight to Jisung’s heart) to a giggling wreck who messes up the choreo too often to take a shot every time he does so (yet still dances so good, so fucking impressive, so goddamn gorgeous). Not that he could – their bottles are empty, both of them, and Jisung himself is a dizzy little mess, currently collapsed into a fit of laughs on the floor next to Minho.
“It would be so funny if you just -” Han makes a gesture with both of his hands, stretched forward, twisting them downward, “in one of our actual choreographies,” He can barely say the end of the sentence with how much he’s laughing. It’s not funny, not even relatively, yet Minho laughs along, surprisingly – the alcohol probably made him more lenient. His head struggles to make space for another mental image of Minho laughing.
He keeps giggling as he lays his head on Minho’s chest, face buried into the soft clothing. The contact is a bit too much of a burn for his already way too warm forehead but he wants to be even closer. It’s hard to explain why.
Minho’s hand finds its way into Han’s hair. It rests there for a few moments while they catch their breaths until Minho starts to pet and play with the dishevelled locks.
It makes him melt. It turns him into putty against Minho and he even lets out an uncharacteristic happy little noise and buries his nose further into Minho. He hugs onto the elder’s chest, aching to be close, closer.
“Hannie,” Minho sings, in the way only he can, in the way that makes Han’s stomach do stupid things.
“Hyung,” Han returns, his hand grabbing onto a bit of Minho’s shirt, bunching it into a little ball in his fist. He doesn’t want to let go.
“Your hair’s soft but you need to dye your roots,” He says, and Han can’t hold his laugh.
“It’s okay to compliment people sometimes without criticising them in the same sentence,” He returns. He slaps Minho’s thigh a little to get his point across.
“I can do that if there’s something that can’t be criticised,” Minho gently pulls on Han’s hair. Han pretends it doesn’t affect him.
“Oh yeah? Is there something like that on me?”
“Yeah. Like, you’re very handsome.” Minho says this so nonchalantly, so coldly, and still, Han’s heart beats faster. So fast he’s scared it will pop right out of his chest.
He has to brush it off, and he has to brush it off quickly, so he says, trying to make it sound as joking as possible, “It’s fine, you can just say I’m in love with you.”
He expects a hit to his shoulder but he hears Minho laugh. He turns around so he’s laying on his back, head rested on Minho’s lap as the elder sits up. “That’s why your head is so heavy – you’re so full of yourself.”
“Confidence is charming,” Han grins at Minho, and then tries to act cool and natural when Minho returns his smile.
God, even his teeth are perfect.
“Keep telling yourself that,” It’s after a small break that Minho says this. Han winks up at him and sits up, too.
“I will, thank you very much.” He’s sitting with a hand behind himself holding most of his weight, their heads close to each other. Han’s breathing speeds up just so, the way it did the other day when they were practising the choreo. Minho puckers his lips for Han – just the way he always does when they are close, just as a joke – and Han’s head spins, his hear thumps, and he’s definitely not thinking straight in this moment. He tries so hard to hold himself back from just grabbing Minho’s face and kissing him with all he has, the way he’s wanted to for so long.
Instead, he playfully puckers up as well and closes his eyes for added effect. A game of gay chicken. He thinks Minho will push him away the way he usually does when they both don’t back down, but a second later he feels something on his lips.
He opens his eyes immediately as a reflex and sure enough – Minho is right in front of his nose. Kissing him.
His eyes go wide before they close again and he realises that Minho isn’t just giving him a peck on the lips, he’s actually kissing him, holy shit, and his lips are soft and well hydrated and his mouth tastes of bitter alcohol and mint and Han can’t even form a thought coherent enough to describe how he feels, how his stomach is burning up, how his limbs are on fire, especially when Minho places a hand on his cheek and leans against him even more, his chest touching against Jisung when he arches his back just so, especially when he can wrap a tentative arm around Minho’s slender neck – how is this even happening, and why is Minho such a fantastic kisser, the way his lips move against his own -
The door opens.
Both Han and Minho immediately pull away, ceasing all physical contact. They turn their attention to the open door – sure enough, Felix is standing, doe eyed, deer caught in headlights, staring at the two of them on the floor. Han feels like he’d been caught with a dead body.
And Felix isn’t moving. It’s just the three of them, two staring at one, all silent, only the ticking of the clock on the wall making any noise.
It’s obvious. It’s painfully obvious. There is no denying what happened.
It’s Minho who eventually clears his throat and collects his calm. “Hey,” He greets Felix, “You’re here… late.” He doesn’t mention the kiss. He tries to pretend it didn’t happen.
“I, uh…” Felix is at a serious loss for words apparently, with his jaw still hanging open, “I couldn’t sleep and thought I’d practice… I think I’ll just go and look for Chan,” He stammers out and turns on his heel before hurrying away. Han cradles his head in his hand and drags it down his face.
He looks up at Minho expectantly. He’s so unsure, so terrified. He feels like he might throw up and he’s not sure if it’s from the alcohol.
And all Minho does is stand up and pick up his phone and backpack from the ground.
“Let’s go home, Jisung.”
When they’re back at the dorm, Han tucks into bed. He doesn’t sleep again. Minho isn’t leaving his mind. He doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know what to think, he can only think of goddamn Minho hyung and his goddamn soft lips.