Bittersweet October

by higayimdad

Summary:

Here lie Lee Minho's emotions, buried deep in a coffin nailed shut with steel. It's an unmarked grave, because Minho's much more comfortable pretending they don't even exist.

By his side is Jisung, who leans into him with laughter in his throat and mouth shaped into a hearty smile. They have been friends for a decade, are much more than that—at least they should be. Not many friends kiss when they are bored and look at each other like they do—

But who knows?

Such a bittersweet october, so much has time to happen in just a matter of weeks.

Notes:

• Translation into Русский available: Bittersweet October by lisafelix

this is my entry for the minsungseason2021 challenge :) inspired by autumn and this poem;

"Bittersweet October. The mellow, messy, leaf-kicking, perfect pause between the opposing miseries of summer and winter." by Carol Bishop Higgs, you will also see this poem paraphrased later in the au~

i also wanna thank lisa so much for putting so much effort into translating this!

ᗧ·····🍒······ᗣ

 

Have you heard of him? 

 

Lee Minho. Read—Coolest. Kid. On. The. Block. Read—A nine-year-old with the ugliest bowl cut ever imaginable, a stone-cold face, and a level of nonchalance that does not match his age. He rides on his skateboard carelessly without a helmet and scratched knees, he listens to music with a pair of decade-old headphones and his father’s old walkman in his pocket. Simply put—Coolest. Kid. On. The. Block. 

 

So, have you heard of him? 

 

Everyone else has, everyone knows his name and his face, everyone knows he has no friends—something that technically should make him a social reject; if it wasn’t for the fact that he seemingly has chosen by himself that he neither wants one nor needs one. The unattainability makes him crazy desired. Everyone wants to make the impossible possible. Befriend him. Alas, it’s impossible of course, because nine-year-old Minho is not shy in being cold and...well arrogant, he has no problem shooting down the boys his age who wish to be his friend and the girls his age who are seeking out someone to have their first crush on. 

 

He rides around the block on his old skateboard, he bathes in the attention others give him, and he doesn’t let anyone know how much he loves it. 

 

Han Jisung is a wide-eyed eight-year-old who lives two blocks away from Minho. He sees him every day, riding over the cracked asphalt with closed eyes. Out of everyone, no one wants to be his friend as badly as Jisung wants. 

 

One night Jisung finds himself sitting on the steps to his apartment building, left alone by his older brother—who was at that age in which he didn’t care too much if Jisung was trailing after him every living second or if he was lured into a white van with the promise of candy or a litter of puppies. 

 

He sits on the stairs, and he waits. 

 

He waits a little bit more. It’s late September, freezing cold and he shivers. But he stays, and he waits. 

 

Patiently, pathetically, a little bit of both.

 

It pays off in the end, luckily for Jisung. 

 

Jisung sees Lee Minho— sorry— coolest kid on the block, come riding over the pavement. Like he owned it. Like he was simply nice enough to let other people walk on it, even though he was the rightful king to rule over it. 

 

The wind caresses his hair and plays with the yellowing, withering leaves. As soon as Jisung sees him coming he shoots up to his feet and does what everyone who knows of him wants to do. 

 

Calls out his name. 

 

Minho stops, a few yards away from Jisung. He turns his head and looks at Jisung, at his chunky glasses hanging off the bridge of his nose, and the side-swept bangs. 

 

“Hi,” Jisung peeps out, realization hitting him, he doesn’t have much of a plan. He had not anticipated that Minho would stop for him, look at him, talk to him. Ah—not talk to him. Minho nods and remains silent. 

“Can I ride your skateboard?” He asks, because if anything, he knows he wants to do that. 

“Have you ever stood on one?” Minho shoots the question directly back to him, a little harsh. 

“Yes!” Jisung exclaims, which is a total lie, his only experience with them is copious amounts of daydreaming.

 

Miraculously, Minho steps off the board and kicks it in Jisung’s direction. He actually gave Jisung permission to ride it. 

 

Jisung’s legs wobbled, and the off-brand crocs on his feet were not the best choice for maximal support, especially not when it was the first time he actually ever touched a skateboard. Once both his feet were on the board, his balance wavered and stabilized, wavered and stabilized back and forth. 

 

But he stood there, frozen still. Shaky knees and feet grounding themselves on the griptape. Thank the gods for the flat surface under him, if Jisung started rolling away with no control over the board, it could have been the last thing he’d ever do in life. 

 

“Woah…” Jisung whispers. And well, it’s not the last thing he does in life, but it is indeed the last thing he does before he decides to test his luck and kick off on the skateboard. He goes a few yards, over the cracked asphalt—just like Minho. He laughs, childishly and excited, when his eyes scan up on Minho he imagines that the older boy almost looks proud. Driven by confidence, he attempts to speed up, kicking at the ground again. 

 

A little bit too suddenly, reality set in, Jisung did in fact have no idea what he was doing. And he didn’t understand why he thought so for some reason. 

 

His knees wobble a little bit again, and unfortunately, they do not stabilize. Jisung falls forward, he lets the palms of his hands take the fall, meeting cold hard asphalt. He sits back up on his knees, hissing at the pain that spreads quickly over his small hands. 

 

Minho watches him, and when he sees that his skateboard goes rolling away, he trudges after it to retrieve it. He doesn’t pay Jisung much attention. 

 

“So you don’t know how to ride then?” Minho asks, a smug smile spreads on his lips. 

“No…I wanted one for my birthday,” Jisung explains, “But my mom called them death machines,” 

“Clearly,” Minho answers, he gazes down at Jisung’s hands, but since they don’t seem to be bleeding, scratched at the very worst, he doesn’t bother asking if he’s fine. 

“Sorry,” Jisung says, suddenly embarrassed about lying to Minho's face, not to mention stumbling over and sending his skateboard flying in the process. 

 

After getting his skateboard, Minho steps up on it, circling Jisung a few times. He hums, as if carefully weighing options in his head. 

 

“Do you know how to read a clock?” Minho asks, coming to a slow stop. Confused—Jisung shakes his head. Because Jisung really doesn’t. 

“Okay, then—ask your mom to show you when it’s five in the afternoon. Then next Sunday, at five, you can meet me here,” He points to the ground below them. 

“Why?” 

“Teach you how to ride, dummy,” The smile that paints Minho's lips is childish and smug. 

 

He leaves, riding over the asphalt; leaving a metaphorical strike of lightning after him. Jisung stands there, in the middle of the sidewalk, astonished. 

 

He runs inside and tells his mom that he has made a friend, and demands that she teaches him how to read a clock. He leaves out the fact that Minho intends to teach him how to ride a skateboard, which is good, because she stays happier without that last sliver of information, that he has a new friend is really all she has to know. 

 

Jisung did the impossible. That’s right. Eight-year-old Jisung could from that moment be seen by Minho's side almost every day. For a split second Minho had opened up the inch thick door to his heart to let Jisung in, before slamming it shut again, and once he was allowed in, he was obviously not allowed to leave. Not that Jisung seemed to have that in mind, he spends his entire days admiring the older boy, whether it is his nonchalance or his charms, his looks and his talents. He looks up at him, riding around, and their relationship can almost be mistaken as a fan—idol one. But once a week on Sundays, at five in the afternoon, when almost no one sees them, Minho holds Jisung’s hands gently, and he teaches him how to keep his balance, how he steers and how to speed up without falling over. 

 

It’s not impossible for Minho to be compassionate and kind, even if his mean exterior sometimes makes it hard to believe. Of course, not everyone is Han Jisung, so not everyone gets to see that (much rarer) side of him. 

 

·····●····· ᗤ ᗣᗣᗣᗣ

 

“Breakfast,” 

 

Jisung huffs and turns around in bed, Minho is still sound asleep, so he waits patiently for the ten seconds it would take him to fall back asleep to pass. 

 

“—Breakfast,” His mom clears her throat, is a little bit more stern this time, followed by a series of knocks on his door, then the pulling at his handle. His door is locked, like it usually is when Minho stays the night uninvited. 

 

Groaning, Jisung calls out that he’ll be out soon, and though she remains quiet on the other side, he hears that she lingers for a few seconds before leaving. He cracks tired eyes open, the muted autumn sunlight spills in through his barely-but-almost closed blinds. 

 

Minho is by his side, eyes shut closed and snoring ever so lightly. His eyebrows are furrowed downwards, as if deeply troubled, even in neverending slumber, and every now and again his lips part—to take a deep breath. 

 

He’s completely unfazed by Jisung’s mom, as he always is. In fact, when Jisung nudges his shoulder to wake him up, he turns and lets his back face Jisung instead. “Minho,” Jisung whispers, and in return, he huffs and pulls Jisung’s covers tighter around him. 

 

“Stubborn fucking asshole,” 

 

Jisung slips out from under the covers, he takes the absolute first clothes he sees on his floor and gets dressed in them. It’s a pair of Minho’s joggers, and unsurprisingly probably one of Minho’s t-shirts, he doesn’t recognize it from his own closet at least. 

 

He stumbles on a bottle on the floor and swears, kicking it to the side. 

 

“Seriously,” Jisung shakes Minho, who swats at his hands, “You better be gone when I come back,” He doesn’t have time to argue with the older, even if he wants to a little. He likes when Minho jokingly mocks him and lingers on purpose before leaving in the morning. He loves to see that insufferable smug smile on his lips.  

 

“Fuck you,” Minho whispers, voice dark and groggy like it always is in the morning. Jisung can’t see his face, but he knows the smile is on there. 

 

He shuts the door behind him, and walks slowly into the kitchen. He mumbles good morning to both his mom and his brother, they answer him with differing levels of enthusiasm. 

 

At his spot by the dining table, Jisung’s mom has prepared toast for him, along with a glass of orange juice and coffee. She always does this on Sundays, some boring family tradition that has spanned for the almost two decades Jisung has been alive. Every Sunday, nine o'clock sharp. Jisung’s mom moves from the counter, where she is standing, to the table, she throws judging glances at his pants, specifically the large letters printed on his left leg. “Lee Minho,” 

 

“What are you doing today?” She asks, hugging the cup of coffee in her hand. It’s a futile attempt to make meaningful conversation with her son, but Jisung knows when he answers she will just roll her eyes and huff. 

“Um, probably hanging out with Minho later, won’t be home for dinner,” 

 

Boom, right on the money, she rolls her eyes and huffs. It’s actually her favorite activity, or something Jisung has accidentally pavloved her into doing. As soon as Minho’s name is mentioned, or implied, she huffs a little and shakes her head in disappointment. She doesn’t like him, obviously, but has learned that not much is possible to keep them apart, much to her own distraught. 

 

Jisung’s brother opens his mouth to say something, but instead a loud clank echoes from Jisung’s room. The three of them all turn their heads towards the sound, attempting to determine what it was. 

 

Kinda sounds like someone opening Jisung’s window to climb down the fire escape perfectly situated right outside, and then knocking over something that Jisung has standing on his windowsill. Doesn’t it? 

 

“What was that?” Jisung’s mom asks,

“Min—” Jisung’s brother begins. 

“—Cat!” Cough, “A cat has been hanging around the fire escape lately, climbing up and down all day,” He laughs a little, he feels the tips of his ears heat up with the lie, “I opened my window when you woke me up, it’s probably just the cat,” He waves his hand, and though his mom looks very concerned, he assures her it’s fine. 

 

Jisung’s brother—Jiwoon rolls his eyes too, there is truly something special about the relationship Jisung’s closest family has with Minho. Almost endearing how much they dislike him. Almost. 

 

While their mom looks away, Jiwoon leans in close, and mouths as dramatically as possible, so that Jisung understands him, “The walls are paper-thin,” 

“Shut up,” Jisung sneers back, and he kicks Jiwoon on the shin under the table. He yelps in response. 

 

Jisung sits through the rest of breakfast red and embarrassed, subject to his mom’s judging gaze and his brother’s teasing one. He’s trying to figure out if his mom knows he’s lying straight through his teeth. Or if she is somehow truly unaware of Minho’s presence or if she knows about how he climbs the fire escape late at night and sneaks into Jisung’s room, like they are a pair of tragic lovers. If she knows that Jisung really only locks his door when Minho spends the night—when he isn’t supposed to. Jisung is sure she has to know, there is no way she doesn't.  

 

Especially because Jiwoon is right, the walls are thin, and Minho has never been one to be quiet and calm. He has always been more like a thrashing storm. 

 

If she knows, her limit is yet to be pushed, she allows it all, even if Jisung knows she not so secretly disapproves of their friendship. 

 

The three of them sit through the rest of breakfast in unbreakable silence, it makes Jisung go insane. Hearing his brother scratch the plate with his fork while pushing pieces of fruit around, or when his mom smacks her lips after every sip of coffee. Just awkward chewing, weird stomach sounds, a plate, and a glass clinking. 

 

“Thank you for breakfast,” Jisung raises to his feet, unable to sit at the table for two more seconds, he’s done anyway, and it’s not like they are talking. 

“Always,” His mom mumbles, Jisung washes his plate in the sink, and then he places it to the side. On the way back to his room his mom tells him to stop locking his door, he hums a yes, a small little white lie to make her feel better. 

 

Jisung sighs when he closes the door behind him, an empty vase lies on his floor. It's been long since it contained either water or flowers, but he hasn’t been bothered to take it out of his room, he places it on his desk instead, pushing paper and pencils out of the way to fit it there. 

 

The window is cracked open, letting a careful breeze inside. Minho always does this, he leaves the window open—for easy access, so he can always slip in effortlessly. He gives himself an easy way inside in the middle of the night, for when Jisung is sound asleep, or for the middle of the day when the older friend finds himself bored and in need of attention and company. And god does Jisung let him do exactly what he pleases. 

 

That’s how Minho does things. No one owns him, he’s unstoppable, that sort of thing. He’s never been told what to do, he’s never played by the rules or been chained down. That’s the Minho way, nonchalant and arrogant—yet he makes it so...so—attractive and charming. Jisung teases him for it, always whispering that no one tells him no because of his pretty face. “They don’t have the guts to say no to you,”

 

The truth is that Jisung never has the guts to tell him no either. Naturally. 

 

Jisung should really close the window, put a little boundary between him and Minho, but he can’t get himself to do that, and it bothers him—honestly. 

 

He lies down in bed again, staring at the window frustrated. The wind grazes him, it smells like cold rain, it’s coming soon, he assumes. The trees started turning yellow and red weeks ago anyways, and it feels like it has been days since he last saw the sun. The dark and grey clouds are surely getting heavier and heavier each day, getting ready to drown them in rain. 

 

Nausea hits him like a train, consequences of his own actions, paired with being woken up so early and forcing breakfast down his throat even if his appetite wasn’t really there. “Ah, last night,” Jisung sits up and hangs over the side of his bed. searching his messy floor for the glass bottle he stumbled over just a half-hour ago. 

 

It seems Minho took it with him, because at least one of them has some foresight. And well, one of them (Read— Minho, ) suggested that the best way to punish the loser of each game of Mario Kart yesterday was with a burning shot of vodka. Clearly, that person is also responsible for making sure said empty bottle of vodka is gone in the morning (Read— Minho).   

 

Minho has no problem getting kicked out at nine in the morning, climbing down the fire escape with a heavy bag and a skateboard, even after drinking at least, at least, half the bottle. Jisung feels like he’s on the brink of death. 

 

Fucking Minho man—Jisung takes a deep breath and presses his face into his pillow. Imagines the sight of him outside on the fire escape yesterday, knocking on his window and singsonging “Oh my Juliet~”, smiling proudly when he finally got Jisung’s small nod of approval (not that it mattered, he would have slipped in nevertheless.) The Minho way. Jisung can’t believe he just lets Minho come lay in his bed, engulf him, wrap his arms around Jisung and drown in the pungent woody scent of weed latched onto his sweater or the citrusy cologne permanently stuck to his skin. 

 

Jisung turns around in bed and continues with his futile attempt to not think about Minho. 

 

It’s impossible, he’s on his mind every living second. It’s a little pathetic, but believe Jisung, if he could stop himself he would. He tries to shake the other one’s face out of his head but every time he attempts to, a new scene flashes behind his eyelids. Of Minho smoking on his fire escape, of his cheeky blush after a shot too many, the thick upper lip compared to his thin bottom one, looking the best when swollen and red. 

 

“Christ,” He grumbles, they are so soft. Unlike anything about Minho—his knuckles are forever bruised from endless hours in the boxing gym, his features have been sharp ever since he grew into them, and no one can help but shiver when falling under his intimidating ice-cold gaze. But his lips, Jisung imagines them on his own, so incredibly plush and soft. 

 

Every time Minho finds himself bored, he sighs and turns to Jisung, pulls the best pitiable face he’s able to, and then, after gaining Jisung’s approval, he leans in until their lips meet. 

 

Like friends do. 

 

At least that’s what Jisung tells himself to make himself feel better. So that he doesn’t feel as guilty about placing his heart raw and exposed in Minho’s hands until the older friend is satisfied, pulling away with glossy lips and a smug grin. 

 

“Fuckin—” Jisung sits up straight and throws the pillow under him at the wall opposite of his bed, it’s weak, and simply bounces off down on the floor, but it manages to hit the old skateboard hanging off the wall on two barely-hanging-in-there nails. Jisung holds his breath hoping they won’t give away under the already unstable weight, and send the skateboard to the floor. 

 

ᗧ·····●····· ᗣ

 

Minho turns ten barely a month after he meets Jisung for the first time. His parents gifts him a new skateboard, one just like he wanted. The wheels scream a neon blue, and the deck is decorated with his favorite cartoon characters, the griptape is new and untouched and when Minho drags his fingers across it it almost feels like they will bleed. 

 

He’s obsessed, and for days he can barely contain the shit-eating grin that is painted on his face. The confidence he exudes when he rides around the block or in the park is bigger than ever, and he can tell everyone is jealous of him. Jisung alike. 

 

With a new skateboard, he decides that his old one needs a new purpose—a new owner. 

 

“Do you want it?” Minho carries both of the skateboards under his arms, and Jisung laughs at him because he sees how much the older boy struggles. Then the question begins to settle inside Jisung. 

“Wha—”

“My old skateboard, I won’t use it anymore. Do you want it?” 

“My mom won’t allow it,” Jisung mumbles, because even if his initial reaction is to scream with happiness, he still remembers his mom’s worried look when he mentioned one for the first time before his eighth birthday. 

“I can talk to my mom, I’m sure she can convince your mom it’s safe enough,” 

 

Jisung’s an emotional child, the tiniest mishaps turn into disasters and the smallest little things can make him run miles from happiness. Even when Minho mumbles the sentence  like it’s nothing—especially nothing to care about (even if he does), Jisung throws himself at Minho, hangs around his neck and does his absolute best to hold back childish tears. Something he only succeeds in until he opens his mouth. 

 

“Do you really mean it?” He cries out, and Minho shrugs, saying yes. 

“It’s gonna make it a hundred times easier to teach you how to ride if you actually have your own skateboard,”

 

It takes a lot of convincing from Minho’s mom’s end, she promises Jisung’s mom that skateboarding isn’t as dangerous as she thinks it is, and even offers Jisung Minho’s old protective gear, knee- and elbow pads, and a helmet Minho can’t wear anymore. 

 

Though Jisung’s mom isn’t entirely on board, seeing as the skateboard is a gift, she reluctantly agrees. But every time Jisung leaves the apartment with it, she straps on safety gear on every inch of Jisung’s body, just in case. 

 

They don’t have a lot of time to ride on their skateboards before snow falls, but they make the most of it. Minho shows off his new skateboard disgustingly proudly, making a point out of showing all the tricks he knows too, childishly making fun of Jisung — but when needed he holds Jisung’s hand while they ride around the block, Jisung on Minho's old and used board—Jisung loves it so much, that even two years later, when he finally convinces his mom to get him one for his birthday, he also forces her to help him nail the old one to the wall. It’s been through a lot, and honestly, towards the end, it was sadly held up with more duct tape than actual skateboard. However, at that point, it’s memorabilia—such an important piece of his childhood he’s scared of ever letting go. 

 

·····●·····🍓·····ᗤ

 

“Jesus fucking christ,” Jiwoon kicks the door open, and Jisung blinks his eyes awake. “Have you considered answering your phone?” 

“Huh?” Jisung searches for his phone in his sheets, “What?” He repeats, and looks up at his brother confused. 

“Minho called me ‘cause you aren’t answering your phone. So, pick up. I don’t wanna get involved in your business,” 

 

Jisung sits up in bed, still in a hazed confusion, the clock on his phone says a quarter past three, in the afternoon? He swears it was just noon, he just laid down in bed to rest for a second. Ah, okay, yeah we all know that story. 

 

“He called you?” Jisung asks, dragging his hand across his face—eugh, he feels post-nap gross. Sweating yet also shivering, the pounding headache, and the lingering feeling of nausea that still washes over him when his movements are too sudden. 

“Yeah—” Jiwoon takes a deep whiff, “God and your room—it smells like—are you smoking in here?”   

“Minho...smokes, on the fire escape.” 

“It was him this morning then?”

“Don’t tell mom,” Jisung huffs and turns around in bed, he goes through his notifications, and lo and behold, a few missed calls from Minho and a handful of unanswered texts. 

“ Tsk, you really let him do whatever he wants,” Jiwoon sounds slightly disappointed, or annoyed, Jisung can’t really tell the difference. 

 

“You really let him do whatever he wants,” Jisung mocks his voice once his brother is out of the room, pfft. 

 

He’s bothered, a lot actually, and he wishes he could explain why. He knows, deep down, of course, but having someone mention it out loud. Bugs the hell out of Jisung. 

 

He really just lets Minho do whatever he wants on Minho’s own terms. Roping Jisung into kisses when he’s bored or convincing him that the best way to spice up their evenings together is by sweet liqueur or the weird weed he gets from one of his friends, and it’s not like Jisung dislikes any of it, he’s chronically in love with Minho’s lips and he never sleeps more like a baby than after that same weird weed.

 

After finally waking up properly, Jisung presses Minho’s contact name, and the older friend picks up after only two beeps. 

 

“Ah wow, princess finally decided to call huh?” 

“I was asleep, Minho, how was I supposed to know you were demanding my precious presence?” This is a slight lie, Jisung knows that Minho and he agreed on meeting up, it’s a little bit of payback. Minho is no stranger to promising to call at a certain time and then, after Jisung has been waiting for his phone to ring for hours, does Minho call and apologize for forgetting—and even though it’s rarer, it’s not impossible for Minho and Jisung to decide on a time to meet and Minho showing up thirty minutes late shrugging with a half-assed apology. As silence falls between them, Jisung wonders if Minho paces impatiently. waiting for him. or if he will beg Jisung to hurry. He’s ashamed that he wishes Minho was. Jisung wants him to bite his nails like he does when he’s nervous and he wants Minho to wait for him like Jisung does for him. 

“Park?” Minho finally asks, well, it’s not a question, it’s a confirmation and a demand. He could practically say ‘park, you will meet me there, now,’ and it would mean the same thing. He knows that Jisung will nod his head even if they can’t see each other, the younger will mumble ‘yes’ or ‘see you there’ because he is that predictable. 

“Sure,” Jisung coughs out, embarrassed, he can’t even pretend that he doesn’t want to see Minho, it’s only been a few hours but he misses him—Jisung absolutely hates how much he misses him. It’s pathetic. 

“See you then,” 

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a second,” 

“Hurry,” Minho whispers, and somewhere in the background, someone shouts his name. Jisung hates himself because the answer slips off his tongue before he has time to stop himself. 

“I will,” 

 

Like always, Minho calls for Jisung, and Jisung comes running, diligently.  

 

One of them hangs up, and Jisung would like to think that it’s him, but the static noise is there long before Jisung takes the phone away from his ear. 

 

Jisung stretches, and after grieving the warmth of his bed for yet another ten seconds he slowly slips out from under the covers. He picks a yellow hoodie from the floor, it’s his for sure, but Minho has crept into it—there are short black strands stuck to it, smoke has latched itself onto the fibers and it’s all Minho, you know? Jisung takes a deep breath because even if his relationship with Minho can be a bit odd and dysfunctional sometimes, god does he love this. 

 

His room is still chilly from the open window. The clouds outside threaten rain, they have for days now, casting the city under a monotone grey filter and with the air humid and smelling like autumn rain—Jisung can’t wait for the city to drown. 

 

He picks up his skateboard from the floor, stroking the griptape, it’s a strange feeling he has always liked, since he got to feel it for the first time. This skateboard is one of many he has bought with his own well-deserved money, little bit against his mom's wishes, but she couldn’t stop him the first time when he pulled out his own piggy bank and flashed a proud smile that he earned this, and she surely couldn’t stop him when he bought this board earlier this year. The deck is lilac, and Jisung has carefully painted small black flowers onto it, Minho thinks it’s boring—but Jisung is convinced it’s only because he’s used to seeing his own fever-dream-on-crack themed board. Full of shapes, colors, and characters, so many he can barely tell them apart. 

 

On his way out he calls out that he’s leaving, only his brother answers from his bedroom, with a loud grunt of confirmation. 

 

Somewhere deep in his imagination, on his way to the park, he imagines Minho pacing back and forth, like a maniac, just waiting for Jisung to arrive. Restless and helpless, unable to do a single thing without him. 

 

This is simply not the case. 

 

Of course. Because Minho isn’t like that, ever. 

 

Minho is flying when Jisung arrives at the edge of the park, he reaches his fingers towards the sky; he touches heaven. Jisung is impressed, as usual, as everyone else here is. Minho rides from one side of the bowl to the other, he dives and he levitates, riding on the high that he gets from everyone’s attention. Jisung can basically hear the small children wow when Minho makes the simplest tricks look professional, and tricks Jisung can’t even phantom look like a piece of cake. If Jisung knows Minho, he’s gonna ride away in a few minutes, nonchalantly yawning, even if he adores that everyone gawks at him like they want to be him—or even better, be with him. 

 

Just like when Jisung was a kid, he stops a bit away from Minho, crouching down on the pavement—watching him. It’s fun to observe him, because Jisung knows Minho like no one else does, he picks up on small quirks and movements that indicate either discomfort or relaxation, chewing at his bottom lip and staring at the ground or throwing his head back and chuckling. 

 

As predicted, eventually Minho grows tired, he leaves the bowl with a yawn and a smirk, and rides over to a few people Jisung recognizes—but has a hard time placing names on, especially from so far away. Their features are blurred and bland from where Jisung is sitting, he only knows who Minho is, naturally, Jisung would be able to draw his face from memory without missing a single detail; every mole, eyelash, and imperfection (not that he has any). 

 

Minho laughs; loud, like it has always been. One of them offers him a joint, neither one of them is discreet, and Jisung is unsure if it makes them cool or if it just makes them look brash. 

 

Jisung decides to wait a little bit more. 

 

Maybe Minho can feel that there are a pair of eyes boring into him, so he turns his head around and searches for the source. Searches for Jisung’s light brown irises, and at last, he finds them, his eyes locked with Jisung and for a full second, Minho’s usual icy eyes soften. He mumbles something to one of the friends he’s with, takes a slow drag, before finally stepping onto his board. Before Jisung has time to blink, Minho’s already in front of him. 

 

“Hey,” Minho greets him, “Sitting here like some stalker, am I hot?” 

“No, not at all,” Jisung responds, laughing, his eyes scanning over Minho’s face, and when he is finally up close he notices the small forming red bruise on his cheekbone. Jisung’s features twist, but before he can open his mouth to comment on it, Minho opens his. 

“Sorry for being harsh on the phone by the way,” He’s careful when he tucks a strand of Jisung’s washed-out blue hair behind his ear. “Are you okay?” 

“Are you? What happened to your face?” 

 

He traces the bruise, it’s a little swollen, but barely noticeable, Jisung only sees it because he knows what his face looks like completely untouched. 

 

“Changbin beat my ass, he has to be working out in secret. I never lose.” Minho leans in close and whispers it like it’s a secret. He’s smiling and snickers, which makes Jisung feel a bit better. Minho turns to the three other people, and yeah, now that the name has been mentioned—the one with a short figure and flat black hair hidden under a baseball cap—definitely Changbin. 

“ Not that I care, but you should be more careful,” Jisung steps onto his skateboard and kicks at the ground, leaving Minho in the dust. He looks back at the friend, and he’s grinning, hard, and then a second later he follows. 

 

Jisung flies past Changbin, and the other guy—it’s Chan, he realizes, but his hair is freshly dyed a crisp blond color and half his face is covered by a mask. It almost makes him unrecognizable. Wrapped around his arm is a girl Jisung doesn’t really recognize, he has seen her around here before, but never with them. She’s grinning, she’s smug, and so is Chan, but if Jisung has to be honest, he won’t be surprised if it’s someone else in her place next week.

 

It’s like the bowl opens up when Jisung comes riding, the few people around it step aside and watch when Jisung enters it, and for what feels like hours—Jisung and Minho take turns in it. 

 

Minho is significantly better, and even now, years after they met for the first time, Jisung can’t help but be in awe when he catches the fiery passion that lights up the usual black eyes. It’s fascinating, and Jisung can feel his stomach flip with the same excitement and admiration as when he was eight. 

 

And, just like when they were kids, when Jisung lands a trick Minho cheers him on and when he occasionally slips and hurls towards the ground, the latter rushes over to him and asks worried (even if he’d never admit it) if Jisung is okay, running his fingers over his cheeks and inspects his palms for punctured skin. A habit he has picked up over the year, but only towards Jisung.

 

Even if Jisung’s knees ache or if he’s wincing at the forming bruises on his skin, he promises he’s okay. 

 

Towards the evening the park clears, and does so quickly. Jisung swears that it goes from dozens of dozens of tweens and angsty teenagers playing around or escaping reality to barely a handful of bored-to-the-soul older teenagers, or young adults, Jisung isn’t sure. He’s surrounded by Minho and the others. 

 

It doesn’t take long either after that point for Changbin and the others to leave, Chan and the girl by his side first. They had been attached at the hip the entire time anyway, and Jisung is secretly relieved, he couldn’t really stand them right there in front of his eyes—giggling, touching, behaving like high schoolers in their first relationship. 

 

When the sun starts setting Changbin mumbles something about work or working out (Jisung isn’t listening), and after handing an old mint tin to Minho, he leaves with a wave and a nod. 

 

“Are you cold?” Minho struggles a little to get the tin open, it’s been a while since Changbin left, and he’s been fiddling with it since. He doesn’t look at Jisung when he asks the question, but he clearly already knows the answer. 

“Yeah, didn’t know it would get so chilly,” 

“Stupid, it’s October innit?” He mumbles with a thick pretend accent, the tin clicks when he finally gets it open, and Jisung can see that triumph flashes across his face. He takes out one of the three joints in it and places it between his lips. Then, after struggling some more, he slides his jacket off and wraps it around Jisung’s shoulders. “I always have to take care of you, are you a baby?” 

“You offer, I don’t ask, hmm?” Jisung threads it on over his hoodie, doesn’t admit that the jacket does warm him up, but he smiles and leans up against Minho and that’s definitely enough evidence for the older. Minho tsk’s at Jisung, but despite this, he wraps an arm around him, pulling him in so close they spend the rest of their time in the park sharing their body heat. 

 

Their laughter echoes between empty buildings, alongside the rumbling from the wheels of their boards against the asphalt. Jisung stretches his arm out towards Minho, leaving room for the other to do the same. He reads Jisung’s mind, and scoffs content to himself, but he can’t resist it either, he reaches out too. Their fingertips graze each other, and Minho takes the initiative to intertwine them properly, satisfying Jisung and his intentions, he turns his face back to the road and smiles to himself. 

 

Minho is a man that observes, as opposed to Jisung, who has a hard time keeping his thoughts inside his head. He gazes over Jisung’s side profile, studying how his nose slopes and how the lips pout from the side, he listens to his melodic chuckles or energized talking—five minutes into a tangent about which large cat would really win in a fight (tiger, Jisung argues, even if jaguars do have a good chance). Jisung doesn’t have an issue in commenting that he thinks Minho is hot, or even worse, and intimate , beautiful. Minho can’t do the same, as a man that observes, and that only, he can’t recall that he says what he thinks very often. 

 

He’s well aware of the many confusing feelings he has. Like, that he thinks that Jisung is beautiful too, and he loves the soft plush cheeks and light soft eyes, the contradicting lean and toned muscles, his— 

 

Minho takes a deep breath, looks away from Jisung with lips curling upwards in a small shameful smile. He wraps up the mess of feelings in a box he decides is better to open later—or never. 

 

For the rest of the evening, they explore the town they already know by heart, together. Riding through alleys and tagging their initials with drip stick markers on trash cans, or on walls around the harbor, or on the warehouses in the almost-but-not-really abandoned industry area. They skate down cases of stairs and scrape their knees and elbows bloody, in the privacy of each other, they allow themselves to fail in a way they don’t in the park—where most look at them with anticipation and expectations. 

 

“Look!” Jisung gasps softly, and points to the top of a building so big it almost swallows them whole. It’s a large owl, shiny brown feathers and bright yellow eyes glowing like two big moons. Jisung can’t decide if it’s wildly out of place or perfectly fitting, but it’s definitely an unusual sight. The screaming seagulls surrounding the harbors or the flocks of hungry pigeons are nothing out of the ordinary, but the owl, it’s, it’s weird? Jisung feels shivers run down his spine. 

“I thought owls were supposed to be like, mad rare?” Jisung asks Minho as if he’s supposed to know, when he turns his head to look back at the owl, it’s gone, like it was never there. Leaving a shadow where it previously sat. 

“I dunno, I’ve never seen one.” Minho says, like he doesn’t care. He’s fighting the wind trying to light the cigarette between his lips. 

“Neither have I,” He whispers in response. 

“Grandma always yapped about them being bad omens,” Minho takes a deep breath and exhales smoke, finally succeeding in lighting it. Once lit, he steps onto his board and kicks off, leaving Jisung behind. 

 

Jisung breathes a soft ‘hey’ and hurries after him, not intending to be left alone in the dark, especially not in some abandoned alleyway, who knows what kinda crazy types are hiding in the shadows (read—people like Minho and Jisung). 

 

He almost passes Minho, who rides with his eyes closed and with the cigarette resting between his lips, he’s feeling the wind, taking a deep breath of air. Is at peace .  

 

Minho opens his eyes, like he can feel that Jisung watches him, and for a full second Jisung swears that the usual pitch-black eyes glow a stark yellow, much like the owl. It’s terrifying, and Jisung holds his breath until the other blinks and turns his eyes back into their normal color. 

 

“Are you oka—” 

“You’re gorgeous,” Jisung cuts him off. Successfully throwing Minho off his balance. 

“Aug—what? Fuck off,” Minho tsk’s, mumbles angry curses to himself before speeding up. 

 

It’s unclear if he’s mad or not, probably not, but the comments always make him flustered, so he continues straight without responding to Jisung, tuning his voice into white noise in his ears. Minho doesn’t stop until they end up outside the pretty much the only round-the-clock diner that still allows them inside. 

 

That’s another thing, their reputation isn’t that great, no one is a big fan of their skateboards dirtying their booths nor their obnoxious loud voices (mostly Jisung to be fair). When they step inside and the bell above the door announces their arrival, the twenty-something-year-old girl behind the front counter groans out loud. Minho sends her flattery and compliments all through their stay, hoping she won't charge them extra for their large-sized milkshakes or for the toppings on their fries. 

“Try again tomorrow babe, maybe it will work next time,” 

“Definitely,” Minho pulls his smile into something flirtatious, and when Jisung sees he kicks him hard under the table. The elder responds with a yelp of pain and throws him a dirty look, like Jisung doesn’t understand that he’s doing them both a favor. 

 

“Oh my god, let's go I’m fucking spent,” Jisung whines behind Minho, pulling at the end of his jacket. Minho swats him off, and studies the receipt he got. 

“Aha! Look at this,” He pushes the receipt in Jisung’s face, “She took off like three dollars off our check, flirting does work,” 

“Wow, you amaze me,” 

“Yeah yeah yeah, let's go then,” Minho taps Jisung’s butt lightly and shoos him outside, “Can I crash at yours by the way?” 

“When are you not?” 

 

Minho shrugs, when is he not? His parents are used to Minho’s empty bed, or the lack of his presence at home. It’s not his fault, he likes spending time with Jisung, and he knows that his mom is far more strict when it comes to bedtimes and curfews, and well, she also does her best trying to limit the time Jisung spends with Minho. So—it’s too easy to climb Jisung’s fire escape in secret, spend the night, and be out before his mom has time to barge into his room in the morning. 

 

“Woah woah woah,” Minho stops them both outside the apartment entrance when Jisung takes out his keys, the entrance code doesn’t work this late at night. 

“Can I go main entrance today too?” 

“Yeah, mom should be dead asleep anyways,”

“So it’s totally okay that I don’t climb the fire escape today? ‘Cause I’ve gotten really good at it,” Minho flashes pearly whites and drags the sleeve of his sweatshirt up, flexing his biceps for Jisung. The latter stares for a few seconds, then he looks up at Minho when he feels the embarrassing heat spread over the tips of his ears and cheeks. 

“Just...just be quiet, okay?” 

“Quiet?!” Minho exclaims, loud enough to wake up the entire building. Jisung turns to him and pinches his lips, looking almost furious. “I’m not sure how to be quiet,” He says, lips puckered between Jisung’s fingers. 

 

Four flights later, Jisung is holding his apartment keys in one hand, and still firmly pinching Minho’s lips with his other. “Promise, promise to be quiet Minho,” The elder nods, and with the quiet confirmation, Jisung lets him go. 

 

They tiptoe to Jisung’s room, exaggerating their discretion. When Jisung passes his mom’s room he peeks inside, and she is asleep like he thought, he whispers to her—mostly as an excuse so she technically can’t claim he never told her. “Minho’s staying the night,” 

 

Minho went straight to Jisung’s room, and the latter finds him there, on his bed, playing with his lighter—attempting to light the joint between his lips, to no avail. He doesn’t even have time to utter the sentence “Do you have a lighter?” before Jisung sneers at him. 

 

“Not in my fucking room,” He snatches the joint from his lips, and ushers him towards the window instead, forcing him to climb outside, “You know you can’t do that, this is why I have a fire escape.” 

“So it’s not for me to climb up on?” 

“Things can have multiple purposes,” 

 

Once outside Jisung stands close to the window, the fire escape has always been shaky and in Jisung’s own opinion very unstable. Considering how afraid they both are of heights, he doesn’t understand how he stands being out here as much as he is. Minho leans on the railing and watches Jisung lighten the joint for him. 

 

“Give me,” He demands, and holds his hand out. Jisung takes a deep breath and blows the smoke on Minho. 

“You owe me,” 

“For what?” 

Jisung thinks a little, “Letting you crash here every day? Jiwoon makes fun of me all the time, it hurts,” He makes a heart with his hands, and breaks it. 

“I also pay for your food every time we’re out, and I let you smoke my weed, and I also—” 

“Point proven,” He sees Minho mouth the words ‘give me’ again, so he caves and hands it over.  

 

The element they are currently in seems to be one of Minho’s favorites, tranquil and calm. The cold night air is stroking their cheeks like it has embodied a pair of loving hands, the many sounds of the city surrounding them is entrancing and comforting—whether it’s the echoing honking from frustrated drivers, or the loud chattering coming from groups of friends walking with unsteady steps from the club. If Jisung really squeezes his eyes shut and concentrate he can almost pick up on the conversations; he wonders who Michelle is and if she really texted her ex back when she shouldn’t have, what grade whoever Alex is, is gonna get on the assignment they submitted three minutes before it was due, he finds it hilarious when someone goes on a long tangent on the pros and cons of adopting a cat (there are no cons). They should meet Minho, Jisung is sure they would come to many agreements. He opens his mouth to ask Minho if he also picked up on the same conversation, but stops in his tracks when he gazes over at the elder; he’s so at peace, it’s almost a rarity. 

 

Jisung knows the older friend has a hard time opening up, he squeezes his big feelings into boxes and coffins and nails them shut, buries them deep, and places marble gravestones above them. He lets them die—lets them kill him a little in the process. He always hopes that he can get through to Minho, afraid that all he will be one day is a graveyard, but it’s hard, coaxing his thoughts out of him is like trying to get a dog to spit something out after they have eaten something you dropped on the floor by accident. 

 

But it’s almost two am, Minho is in his element, and his breathing is even and calm, only wavering when he occasionally chokes on smoke, Jisung decides not to disturb it. He just takes the three steps that separate them, leans into Minho, and decides that nothing Jisung has to say can possibly compete with what they are feeling right now. 

 

God knows what that is, Jisung doesn’t allow himself to think about it for more than a split second, and for Minho, it’s buried six feet under somewhere in the graveyard of his heart. 

 

At some point, Jisung assumes, Minho stops smoking, putting the butt out on the railing and dropping it in the empty beer can ( also functioning ashtray) Jisung so ceremoniously has placed out for them, dangerously close to falling the four stories down to the ground. With his hands empty, he fills them some other way, wrapping them around Jisung. 

 

It feels like hours have gone by when they finally pull away from each other and crawl back into the warmth of Jisung’s room. They are quiet, only sharing knowing glances—communicating entirely through telepathy.  Jisung pulls the hoodie over his head, dropping it to the floor by his feet, exposing his bare chest—Minho follows him, stripping off both the t-shirt and the long sleeve he had been wearing underneath it. 

 

It’s very obvious when Jisung creeps closer to Minho how dilated his pupils are, how the growing blush has spread from the apples of his cheeks to his chest—he might be good at burying feelings, but his body is not. At least that’s what Jisung convinces himself when the other finally opens his mouth to whisper “I’m so bored,” like he always does. Always. Without exception. Like what they are about to do is only acceptable if Minho presents some half-assed excuse first. 

 

“Yeah?” Jisung breathes out, Minho’s hands land on his nape. 

“Yeah—you know how to cure boredom, right?” 

 

Jisung nods, he knows how Minho cures boredom. Jisung’s biggest flaw (slightly exaggerated) has always been that he gives in too easily when it comes to the other, he submits under the dark sharp eyes without question, does whatever he says without thinking twice of it. He lets the older one do what he wants if it means he gives small gestures of affection back. 

 

But he never kisses Minho first, even if he fights back every urge to do so. No, if Minho gets high and finds himself bored and horny, Jisung won’t let himself give himself away until the other proves that he wants him, as if it will save him so dignity for the time being. 

 

So Jisung leans in, and nods, he knows for sure how to cure Minho’s boredom, but he won’t be the one to initiate it. 

 

Minho is the one, always, now is no exception. Jisung tiptoes slightly to reach better, even if their heights are nearly identical. Minho engulfs Jisung’s lips in a kiss that starts off soft and needy. Clay molded against each other or two puzzle pieces fitting in next to each other. All those clichés. A kiss that soon evolves into something hungry and desperate, Minho’s hands wander, through tangly hair and over Jisung’s lean torso, they hold on for dear life like Jisung is about to slip through his fingers. 

 

He’s passionate and excited, he chuckles in content when Jisung whines into his mouth, and even if Minho was the one that basically craved to have Jisung two minutes ago, he already has the upper hand, pulling Jisung in close, nipping at his skin, mumbling things to rile him up that he will later forget in the morning because nothing really matters. When they separate for air he looks down on Jisung with a smug smile, like he has won some sick bet, and Jisung wishes he could wipe it off his face, make fun of him because he can feel Minho’s excited heartbeat through his chest, or the very very particular pink shade of his blush, that he can only describe when he sees it—like now. But Jisung’s at a loss of words. 

 

Minho kisses whatever sentence he had on his mind away, feverishly. His hands leave Jisung for a brief second, to fumble with the button to his jeans, and then to push them down as far as he could without losing Jisung. Although it’s a clear struggle, with his hands back on the younger, he steps out of his pants and takes a few steps backward until his shins hit Jisung’s bed. 

 

He brings the other into his lap, his hands run over his back, tracing his boney spine with his finger, he kisses the small moon Jisung has tattooed on one shoulder, and the sun on his other—wonders if Jisung’s mom knows that he has them, if she knows that Minho was the one who coaxed him into it, helped him transfer Jisung’s lazy sketchbook doodles onto his skin, if she knows that Minho was later the one to dip a needle into ink with shaky hands and poked at his skin until shapes began to take form. He smirks, wonders if she knows what he’s doing to her son right now. 

 

Jisung hooks his arms around Minho’s shoulders, he giggles when the other buries his face in the crook of his neck. If it’s possible, he tries to get closer, because just as Minho is afraid that Jisung might slip through his fingers, Jisung feels the same. As if their time together is limited, and they are both doing their most to get just another second with each other. 

 

“Excited?” Minho whispers, he glances down between them, laughs at Jisung and brushes his hair out of the reddening face when they make eye contact again. “Are you a virgin, or what? You gonna cream your pants like some stupid horny sixteen-year-old?” Minho laughs in his face and studies how red his cheeks flare up. Jisung’s too embarrassed to answer, he kisses him instead. He has known long enough to know it’s the only way to shut him up. 

 

They roll over, Minho straddles Jisung, traps him under him. 

 

His fingers reach for the waistband of the sweatpants Jisung is wearing, hooking them under both the soft fabric and his underwear— 

 

—That’s when Jisung comes to his senses. Sobering up instantly. 

 

“Wait,” Minho stills, forehead bumping into Jisung’s, hand freezing where it is, “Um, Jiwoon has been dropping...not so subtle hints that- he can hear us, do- do you mind if we do this, when we are alone sometime,” 

“Oh, ‘course, whenever,” Minho places a small kiss at the corner of his mouth. 

 

Slowly but surely the magic declines, their kissing becomes lazier and sleepier, until they are barely holding onto each other. Jisung finally wipes the taste of weed and smoke off his tongue, at least attempts to. He breathes in Minho and it’s both strange and familiar, making him feel a bit uneasy. This is Minho, and has always been, Jisung doesn’t know if it’s good or not. 

 

“I’ll be back in a second,” Jisung slips away from Minho’s hold, away from secure arms and warm covers. 

“Finishing without me? Rude,” Minho mumbles, half asleep already. 

“Shut up,” 

 

Jisung doesn’t exactly time himself, but Minho reaches out an arm towards him when he comes back like it's been years since they last saw each other, it couldn't have been that long, “Mnm come back please, my head's spinning,” He says, eyes closed and eyebrows furrowed together. 

“You okay?” Jisung asks, crawling in between the wall and Minho, the latter attaches himself to Jisung as soon as he can, wrapping his arms around Jisung’s waist. 

“Fucked up weed,” 

 

Jisung chuckles a little, he threads through Minho’s hair, loses the internal struggle with himself, and leans down to kiss him lightly on the lips. Minho hums and kisses back, but just a little before pulling away. 

 

“Damn...you’re a good kisser, who taught you?”

 

ᗧ·····●·····🍋

 

“I asked Hannah to the dance,” Jisung blurts out, his face begins to heat up the second Minho turns to him with slight surprise painted on his face. 

“Cool, what’d she say?” Jisung presses his lips together at the question and mumbles quietly that she agreed to go with him. 

 

Silence fills between them, thick silence, Minho seems uninterested honestly, and when Jisung doesn’t follow up with anything else he shrugs and twists the cap open on his coke, chugs almost all of it. His face is still painted with a smug and content grin from beating Jisung’s ass in Ms. Pacman, Mortal Kombat, Dance Dance Revolution, and just about every other game they played. Like he’s replaying the sight of Jisung’s defeat over and over in his head. 

 

They sit on the curb outside the now-closed arcade, considering how much money the two of them spend in there each week you’d think the owner would spare them some consideration and let them stay just a few minutes past closing, but nuh-uh, ten PM sharp and the door was locked behind them. Minho was annoyed, even if he knows he clearly is in the wrong, and knows they do nothing to earn them any sort of special treatment; even if he wishes that was the case. They are both bored, and not interested in going back home, even if Jisung is nearing his curfew.

 

Minho neither asks anything more about the never-mentioned-before Hannah nor the infamous school dance, he has never been very interested in going, and as far as Jisung knows he doesn’t have a date to this one either, even if he has half his class lined up more than excited to bring him. 

 

For some godforsaken reason Minho has decided to go under silent oath or something, and it drives Jisung crazy, he chews at the inside of his mouth and feels himself sweat nervously. Minho doesn’t say a word, he just continues to pop jelly candy bought from the arcade into his mouth, exclusively picking out the lemon-flavored ones, for some reason. 

 

“You’ve kissed people before right?” Jisung asks, breaking the silence and honestly—making it more weird than comfortable. 

“Duh- yeah,” 

“And like completely hypothetically, of course, how would you go about kissing someone?” 

 

With eyebrows scrunched together, Minho turns to Jisung,

 

“What?” He tilts his head a little, studying Jisung’s reaction. “Have—have you never kissed anyone before?” 

 

The smile on Minho's face is both sinister, teasing, and pitiful. Jisung doesn’t have the confidence to tell him that, no, he hasn’t. But his embarrassed expression exposes him. 

 

“For real? Never, ever? Not even a light peck on the lips? You fucking just turned fifteen .” 

“Don’t- don’t age-shame me,” Jisung blurts frantically, “I just haven’t had the chance, shallow flirting, that I’m good at, have had plenty of practice, but- but- kissing?” 

“It’s just kissing,” 

“It’s not, what if Hannah wants to kiss me and I fuck up, I don’t wanna embarrass myself, I still have a reputation,”

“Reputation," Minho huffs, skeptical he even has one worth hurting. "It’s not that hard.” Minho shakes his head, studies one of the jellies before he swallows it. 

“Well then I’ll blame you when Hannah goes in to kiss me and I stick my tongue down her throat and accidentally choke her to death.” Jisung crosses his arms across his chest, like he’s actually made a point.

 

Sighing, Minho puts down his candy like he’s slightly bothered, and takes one last sip of his coke. 

 

“Do you wanna practice?” He asks, like it’s nothing, absolutely nothing. 

“Us? Here? Now? Together? Here?” Jisung stutters, and points at the ground where they are sitting, sure there aren’t many people out, and cars barely pass them at this time, but it’s still very much public and embarrassing. Then he points at the two of them, like that’s another thing that clearly baffles him. Minho shrugs again, like it’s nothing. Is it nothing? 

“Yeah, it will be quick, I’ll teach you some quick tips and tricks. Then I can...grade you? I’ll be brutally honest,” 

“I don’t doubt you will be,” Jisung grimaces at the thought of Minho making fun of him, which he surely will do. 

“So?” Minho deadpans. 

“Are you serious?” Jisung asks, because now he is, he’d never forgive Minho if he turned around and played some ruthless prank on him. 

“It’s not that big of a deal, just a practice kiss, you don’t even have to consider it your first one. Despite I’m fucking bored, making fun of you because you don’t know how to kiss sounds like it will be the most fun I can have right now,” Minho almost sounds bothered at the beginning of his sentence, and at the end, it’s like he has presented this idea just for his own gain. 

 

Okay, Jisung takes a deep breath and nods after a full minute of consideration. Sure. This could work, Minho would just kiss him, give him some advice, and then in a few weeks when the dance is actually around the corner he could kiss Hannah with confidence and boom, not destroy his reputation. Plus, like Minho says, he’s just bored and Jisung just needs advice, this won’t even affect their friendship. Just kiss and move on and they don’t even have to consider that it ever happened at all. Jisung is even sure that if he never brings it up again, Minho won’t either. 

 

After Minho has asked Jisung one last time if he’s really sure, they jump a little bit closer to each other, Jisung has barely recovered from turning bright red after asking how to kiss, and now that Minho cups his cheeks with his hands they burn fiery red all over again. 

 

Minho whispers to Jisung to relax, and he tries his hardest, waits patiently for the older to close the space between them. 

 

Minho is a self-proclaimed expert, and in Jisung’s own humble and absolutely not biased opinion, maybe he actually is one. The older friend tilts their heads so that he can deepen the kiss, he strokes Jisung’s cheeks with his thumbs and comments between breathing on how soft they are. It’s supposed to just be a quick kiss, so Jisung gets the gist of it, but they both search out for more without thinking of the many consequences this might have. Minho licks into Jisung’s mouth, and the latter barely understands what he’s doing when he does it, but he likes it, so he opens his mouth and welcomes Minho—instantly realizing how much he missed out not kissing people earlier. Or maybe it’s just not kissing Minho earlier. 

 

This is the kind of thing he will stay up thinking about for weeks, about the sugary explosion of lemon and coke on Minho’s tongue, that he can taste on himself when they finally part. He wonders if Minho’s eyelashes really tickled the skin on his cheeks or if it was all in his imagination. 

 

Though this is his first kiss, and the only one he has ever experienced, he is sure this will remain on top, even in five years when he has hopefully kissed more people. 

 

“Not so bad right?” Minho breathes, his hand moves away from Jisung’s face and lands on his nape, he nods, excited, and leans in for more, without having to ask—Minho gives it to him because at least he can be the slightest considerate. 

 

Jisung almost gets lost in his own imagination, forgetting this is all real, he is really draped over Minho on some trashy sidewalk with his arms wrapped around Minho’s neck. He forgets that he is basically begging for more with low whines and excited giggling—forgets it until Minho decides to give it to him. He lets his hand fall onto Jisung’s thigh, and even if a weirdly good feeling at the bottom of his stomach grows hungry for more—he pulls away, fast. It’s Minho, this is Minho, doing this, Jisung realizes it a little late, though his cheeks burn hot and red with embarrassment he lets go of his friend and attempts to play it cool. 

 

“Not— not so bad,” He comments, Minho leans back and nods, turning his face back to the street in front of them. He picks up his bag of candy from the ground and continues to search for the lemon-flavored pieces. 

“C+” He comments, almost offhandedly.  

“C+?” Jisung exclaims, concerned. 

 

The not so generous grading isn’t necessarily accurate, but it is an effective excuse for Minho to suggest that Jisung might just need a bit more practice. Read—practice with him. 

 

It hits Jisung a week later, that’s when he realizes that it’s almost the first time in his life he has heard Minho ask for something (or almost at least, he doesn’t do so explicitly). They’re once again wasting their Friday evening in the arcade, lingering around underneath the dull neon lights, Minho has just won a game of air hockey and plays with one of the discs when he brings it up. Discreetly and nonchalant. A question disguised as simply wanting to help out a friend. 

 

“If you’re really are scared you’re gonna fuck it up with that girl...if you want we could practice again,” He places the disc down on the air hockey table, fully intending to beat Jisung for an eight time.  

 

Jisung’s still trying to figure out if he really was that bad at kissing, or if it’s just Minho finally having to ask for something after spending years just getting, getting, getting everything he wants. The elder still puts emphasis on ‘If you’re scared, if you want,” like what is about to happen is all on Jisung. 

 

“I’m cool with it, so…?” 

 

Sure, if Minho is okay with it, Jisung wants it too. To get better at kissing, of course, sharpen his skills before he puts them to real use. After Minho has achieved yet another victory in air hockey, he leads them in secret into a probably-never-cleaned-before bathroom stall, where they spend the rest of the evening until the owner finally finds them and kicks them out, ten PM sharp. 

 

For four weeks they continue with that, in the arcade, or on the curbside outside. They kiss and it tastes like teenage angst, cigarette smoke, and lemon-flavored jelly. Jisung uses the excuse that the school dance creeps closer, and needs more practice, even if it means they have to do it in the empty classrooms when they get sent to detention together, or in Jisung’s room when his door is closed and locked for safety. And Minho agrees, of course, Jisung is still a novice, has a long way to go, so he’s more than happy to help, smiling or shrugging nonchalantly. Minho’s bored often anyway, and he jokes that the best way to cure it is kissing. 

 

At last, the school dance arrives, Jisung takes Hannah and surprisingly Minho is there too, with a friend from his grade. 

 

As expected Jisung slow dances with Hannah, the height of the evening, of course. His clammy hands are on her waist and his excited eyes search hers, when the moment is right he leans forward and kisses her, she kisses him back, but it’s short—the moment passes so quickly Jisung never actually processes it. It’s not bad per se, but it’s none of the explosions and fireworks he has gotten acquainted with Minho. He smacks his lips afterward, and instead of tasting lemon, it's a boring and bland residue from Hannah’s drugstore lipstick. 

 

It’s an accident, or maybe it’s not. But Minho and Jisung end up in an unlocked janitor’s closet. Maybe Jisung and Hannah weren’t the match he made them out to be in his head, and Minho admits to only coming because he’d be bored spending his friday evening alone. 

 

“You know how to cure boredom, right?” Minho laughs, and his hands are planted on the wall behind Jisung, one on each side of his body. 

 

Minho’s mom promises to pick them up, and while they wait, they spend their time exploring each other eagerly with hungry hands and lips. That's the height of the evening. When she finally calls Minho to tell them that she’s outside, Minho fixes his tie and pats Jisung's hair down. 

 

“A.” He mumbles. 

 

That’s most definitely a grade Jisung’s content with. 

 

Jisung and Hannah isn’t the talk of town directly after the dance, no, at the end of the night she has ended up with some senior prick. Instead, rumor has it that Minho and Jisung were seen slipping out of a janitor's closet with red bruised lips and clothes askew. 

 

ᗧ·····●·····ᗣ

 

Jisung’s maybe worst quality is that he for sure can sleep through an abundance of blaring alarms. 

 

Primarily because it’s something that has more than once made him late for school—having woken up hours late after snoozing unconsciously. Secondly, because Jiwoon hates Jisung for it, so much, because though Jisung doesn’t wake up from the alarms he set for himself, he surely wakes up Jiwoon, often resulting in the older brother kicking his door open or banging on the wall that separates their rooms to wake him up. 

 

The most absurd thing that Jisung has learned through all of this is that, despite his brain doing the most to stay asleep, the absolute easiest way to wake him up is to simply utter his name within earshot. It could be in an exhale, through a whisper, or more commonly in their household, screamed through curses.  

 

“Jiwoon did you hear if Jisung came home last night?” 

“No, but it’s his and Minho’s shoes in the hall,” 

 

It’s like something just clicks, Jisung opens his eyes, brain connecting his and Minho’s name coming out of his mom’s and brother's mouth. He’s been rocked awake by his subconscious, but he doesn’t have time to react; still coming to his senses when he hears that the door to his room opens. He’s facing the wall, staring at the off-white color. Minho’s pressed to his back and his arms are locked around Jisung’s waist, like they were when they fell asleep. He can hear Minho snore lightly into his ear, because god knows Minho can sleep through nearly everything, he’s even worse off than Jisung. 

 

Maybe if Jisung holds his breath and pretends to be fast asleep his mom will just close the door and leave them be—but he can feel her presence remain in the threshold, throwing daggers at them—or at the very least at Minho. A full minute must have time to pass, and nothing happens, Jisung’s heart is beating so fast it hurts his ribcage, Minho is sleeping, Jisung’s mom is frozen still, watching them. They are exposed, extremely so, the covers have fallen to the floor during the night, she can see everything. She can peel apart whatever is happening between him and Minho like their relationship is a layered onion she can examine. All by throwing a quick glance at their entangled bodies. 

 

After some deep consideration, Jisung sucks in a deep breath and turns his head. 

 

His mom stares down at him, like some ungodly immortal judge, about to condemn him to hell for all the sins he has committed. Her eyes scan over him, and then over Minho—his tousled black hair and the few love-bites near his neck. 

 

It’s a common, familiar reaction by now, she huffs, and slams the door shut behind her when she finally decides to leave, on her way she snarls that there is breakfast for him .  

 

Jisung groans. Minho stirs behind, chokes a little on his own spit and rolls onto his back—one arm still completely trapped under Jisung. “Hey,” Jisung sneers and smacks Minho’s shoulder; succeeding in waking him up after only one try.  

“What?” 

“You didn’t lock the fucking door yesterday,” 

“So what?” Minho tries to open his eyes, but the room is too bright, or he’s too tired—something. 

“Mom’s fucking pissed,” 

“Let her be, she’s pissed every time I step foot in here,” 

 

Jisung huffs too, runs in the family. He doesn't even know what to do, face her wrath or lock himself in here with Minho—forever, he can climb the fire escape shoe-less, Jisung couldn’t care less

 

The room falls into silence again, Jisung thinks that Minho has slipped into slumber again, maybe it’s for the best, for a solid second he wishes it’s the case—but then Minho’s stomach just has to let out a violent roar, and Minho strokes it with his hand. 

 

“Mmm...hungry,”  

 

Jisung considers smashing his head through the wall, suicide, committing a war crime, and going to prison, anything better than going out there, he doesn’t want to at all, Jisung’s mom resents Minho, Jisung resents Minho for making her resent him. Minho doesn’t care, because his relationship with Jisung is and remains unchanged, and he gets to piss off someone in the process, which he shamelessly loves to do. 

 

“—mom’s probably sitting at the dinner table, if she’s home right now she’s probably working from home today, you know— “ Jisung runs his mouth, digging through his dresser for a shirt that doesn’t reek of Minho. 

“—yeah yeah, don’t speak, don’t look at her, don’t breathe, it’s better for everyone,” Minho continues with the roll of his eyes, he buttons the jeans he wore yesterday, grabs a random t-shirt from Jisung’s dresser, it unintentionally happens to be one of his own.  

 

Minho really doesn’t care, but he knows that Jisung does, so he always agrees to whatever Jisung tells him to do in front of his mom, because despite what many say about him behind his back, he does harbor at least one ounce of respect. 

 

“Hey, chill, I can get out of here now, if you want me to.” Minho hums, and combs his hair down with one of Jisung’s brushes. 

“I- I don’t know,” Jisung chews at his nails, waiting for Minho to indicate that he’s done. He’s got that worried look on his face, not to mention the furrowed eyebrows, his eyes turn downwards—focus on random things in his room, like he’s trying to get a grip of life. Jisung mumbles again that he doesn’t know. 

“Okay, cool, you’ve gone into meltdown.”  Minho slaps a reassuring hand onto his shoulder, turns him around. “You can’t hole into here forever just ‘cause you’re scared of your mom,” 

 

Wrong, it’s exactly what Jisung wants to do, but the elder has already opened the door for them. He holds Jisung’s shoulder in a tight grip and uses it to his advantage, pushing Jisung forward. Out. 

 

Minho is surprised to see two plates on the dining table, along with two glasses, a pint of juice and the toaster plugged into the wall. He never gets used to the politeness under the thick blanket of displeasure, and judging from the look on her face it doesn’t seem like she’s a fan of herself being nice either, but rather is annoyed.  

 

“Good morning,” Jisung whispers, nudging Minho to do the same, foolishly thinking that maybe it will make his mom like him a bit more. Minho rolls his eyes and mumbles it too, the two of them watch her sneak a quick glance at them. 

“When did you come home last night?” 

“Uh—a bit after one maybe.” Jisung looks at Minho, and he nods in agreement. 

“I want you home by midnight, you know that,” 

“I’m eighteen mom,” 

 

The weird breakfast silence is disturbed after a while by Minho buttering a piece of toast, the sound of the knife scraping against the bread is ironically hilarious, it turns deafeningly loud for some reason, maybe Jisung would laugh if he was able to take a breath and relax. 

 

“What did you do to your hands?” She asks, looking over her screen, she speaks as if her tongue is laced with a little bit of distaste, but Jisung doesn’t miss out on the genuine concern. 

“I box,” Minho swallows nothing, and clears his throat. 

“Ah yeah, you’re the one that put that fighting...mumbo-jumbo into Jisung a few years ago,” She closes her computer, and fiddles with the ear on her coffee cup. 

“Mom—”

“No you see why I didn’t want you to do that, see, he’s all messed up,” She motions at Minho’s hands, they are forever a little bruised and a little calloused, all three of them look down, and Minho carefully traces a few of the white scars on the back of his hand and over his knuckles. It’s almost like he grows self-conscious when she points them out. 

“He’s very careful, they wear gloves and mouthguards—” Jisung says, then he clenches his teeth and whispers, “And I would have been too you know,” 

“Do you still smoke?” She asks, directly at Minho. 

“Old habits die hard,” 

“Does your mother know?” 

“She...does, I don’t hide it, I’m an adult.” Minho answers, he can’t stop himself from sounding a little snarky. He throws a glance at Jisung, throwing him a little bit of shade. Jisung is still yet to admit he’s a real smoker (and has been since he was sixteen), afraid of her reaction. 

 

It’s rare that the three of them are forced into a close space like this, but every time Jisung's mom brings up the same things, through blatant words or vague implications—Minho’s a bad guy because...let’s see…

• He likes to fight, which is violent and dangerous. 
• He’s a skater, and single-handedly let Jisung onto the same dangerous path. 
• He smokes, reeks of it, besides, he is completely indifferent towards the bad habit. The very dangerous habit. 
• He and Jisung have been inseparable for years, and there’s nothing more dangerous that can happen to her son than being influenced by Minho. 

 

“After breakfast, I’d like to have a word with you Jisung,” She mumbles, taking her computer under the armpit and moving to her room, where she assumedly will continue with her work just as unfocused as here. 

“Yes,” He answers. 

 

As soon as she’s gone, Minho elbows Jisung in the ribs, the latter turning quiet and reserved. The elder is as concerned as he can be, apologizing for not locking Jisung’s door, for not keeping his mouth shut—  

 

“I just don’t get why she can’t just, tolerate you, she—she knows how much you mean to me and she can’t even be nice through one breakfast.” 

“I’m not doing great making myself likable either,” Minho responds. 

“No, but you are a juvenile prick, you aren’t likable,” Jisung scoffs and turns to Minho, “She’s my mom—a grown adult, there is no reason for her to dislike you this much. Plus,” Jisung looks erratic, “She has never hated a single one of Jiwoon’s girlfriends—or-or friends of course,” 

 

Minho opens his mouth to respond, mostly jokingly defending himself for being called a juvenile prick, but no words have the chance to leave his mouth.

 

“Mmm...because none of my friends or girlfriends have been insufferable,” Jiwoon slides through the kitchen and grabs a box of leftovers from the fridge, from the looks of it he’s on his way to work. Minho chuckles a little and swallows half his glass of juice. Jisung groans. 

“What the fuck dude?” Jisung throws his head to the side and stares at his brother. 

 

They bicker a lot, and Minho joins in. Jiwoon loves to claim that he hates Minho, but he has that glint in the eye that comes with teasing him and Jisung, whether it’s their odd relationship he’s, unfortunately, all too aware about (against his own wishes), or their just as odd quirks he has picked up in the years he has known Minho and the entire lifetime he has known Jisung for. Minho and Jiwoon were in the same class all through school, and back when they were children Jiwoon wasn’t any different from the kids his age, he always secretly wished to be his friend—Jisung loves to point out that Minho chose him—clearly he was the most loveable Han brother.   

 

“Running late for work, I know you guys can’t relate so have fun rotting away in your room,” Jiwoon gets dressed in the hallway and sticks his tongue out at them.

“Hate to watch you go but love to see you leave gorgeous,” Minho shouts after him. 

 

Both Jisung and Jiwoon groan in disgust before laughing, Minho can’t distinguish their almost identical laughter, which must be the only thing that's identical between them, except for their last name. 

 

Jiwoon is indistinguishable from their mom, face an exact copy with the big eyes and thin features. They have always had the special kind of bond that’s only possible between a mother and her firstborn, and even if Jisung doesn’t admit it, he wishes he knew what it felt like—instead he’s the odd one out, with a face he shares with an estranged father and a rocky personality neither one of them understands. 

 

After they are done eating Minho cleans up after them while Jisung takes the lecture, serving as a fat second breakfast just for him. His mom scolds him for not taking her rules seriously, that while he’s still technically an adult he’s living under her roof and yadi yadi yada. It makes sense, and Jisung does understand it all, the logic behind all the shit she spews, but Jisung still leaves her room angry. 

 

“A week. I’m grounded for a whole week, sometimes I swear she doesn’t even like me, it’s ridiculous.”  Jisung huffs, he does actually sound a little worried about it, but he laughs it off like it’s a joke.

“She does, she just doesn’t like me,” 

 

Minho’s sitting in Jisung’s bed, back pressed straight against the wall behind him, he squints at the computer sitting on Jisung’s desk, because though he rarely uses his glasses he surely does need them. His focus is one hundred percent on the game, but he manages to speak every now and again. Jisung hums at him, tilts his head as if to almost agree. 

 

“She used to like you,” He says instead, holding up his left hand to examine the messy nail polish, he blows on it, a futile attempt to make it dry faster. He crawls onto his stomach, doing his best not to smudge the lacquer all over his bedsheets or on his skin, but when he finally settles, he curses one single accidental fingerprint in it. 

“Yeah, I guess,” Minho answers, but he marinates the words a little, “But I think she always assumed I wasn’t good for you,” Minho ends the sentence with a grunt, giving the controller in his hand a slap because he lost the round he was playing. 

“Maybe…” 

“Maybe…?” 

“Just, maybe, in general.” Jisung doesn’t elaborate, but finishes the detail on his nails before turning his head to watch Minho play. 

 

 ᗤ···············ᗣ

 

Jisung’s mom didn’t always dislike Minho, in fact, for a long time she liked to have him around very much. Always happy to see the older friend at their apartment having dinner or playing games with Jisung, She wasn’t always a fan of his wild demeanor, that he liked to skateboard without protective gear and did what he wanted. But Jisung had never been happier than when he was with Minho, so of course, she grew fond of the boy too. 

 

Then, like it happens sometimes, Minho began to become orderless, he liked to doodle on stall walls with permanent markers, he asked for hall passes and disappeared for half of his classes, sometimes when he found himself bored he acted out, he got detention—skipped out on detention and ultimately gave himself even more detention. Life happens, Minho happens. 

 

Simply put, he wasn’t that good of an influence on Jisung, and it became evident when Jisung was once caught red-handed—or rather, ink-handed, or when the principal became used to seeing not only Minho in his office but Jisung by his side too. Jisung had never been that good of a student in the first place, but being friends with Minho certainly didn’t help him out.

 

To Jisung's mom, he was likable at first, tolerable later, and at some point, it had to continue in the cursed downwards spiral, right? 

 

Minho giggles, “What do you want me to do with it then? Eat it?” 

“Seriously, she’ll kill me, you, everyone, if she finds out you smoke, smoke weed,” Jisung grits this between his teeth, like a normal cigarette doesn’t rest between his index and middle finger. 

 

Minho and Jisung sit on his fire escape, huddling down not to be seen from the ground or from inside Jisung’s room. Minho is maybe three hits away from burning his fingertips, and when he suggests eating the bud, Jisung looks at him as if that's the only possible solution. 

 

“She’s not gonna find out,” Minho rolls his eyes and sticks it between his lips, inhaling once. “Is she even home?” He asks. 

“Uh, what’s the time?” 

“Um, like four,” He responds, and after looking at his phone, he confirms that it indeed is 4:06 PM. 

“Oh, she won’t be home for like another hour then,” Jisung relaxes against the brick behind him, and takes a deep breath. 

“See, nothing to worry about,” Minho turns to Jisung, nudges his shoulder a little—basically mouthing the words ‘told ya so,’ 

 

The sun is ruthless against their bare faces, it smells like spring, exhaust fumes, and smoke. They’re laughing quietly, afraid to catch the attention of Jiwoon, who’s sitting one room away, none the wiser about what they are doing. (Or maybe he knows, and just decides to ignore it for the sake of his own sanity).

 

“I’ve got one hit left, would my dear like to try?” 

 

Jisung stares at it with wide eyes, he’s not sure what to answer, the idea of it is tempting, but he’s a bit frightened that it might take him down a road he’s not ready to walk yet. 

 

“Is it good?” He asks. 

“Duh,” Minho answers, but he sees that Jisung is far from convinced. “Okay, you don’t have to smoke it, let’s just do this—” 

 

Minho adjusts, crossing his legs and turning his body to Jisung. “I’ll inhale it, you put your lips on mine, open your mouth, I’ll exhale and you just do whatchu do with a normal cig with the smoke,”  

“You want me to kiss you?” Jisung laughs, and puts his cigarette out on the railing. But he’s successfully intrigued. 

“I wouldn’t call it a kiss, it's called shotgunning, for your information.” Minho raises one brow and looks at Jisung.   

“Call it whatever you want...go, waste your last hit on me,” 

 

He smirks, watches as Minho squints with a devious smile on his lips, he brings the very last of his joint towards them, inhales as promised. Jisung watches the embers light up, and the ashes trickle down. When Minho’s done, he reaches his free hand out and places it on Jisung’s nape. He steers Jisung towards him and links their lips together, when he feels Jisung open his mouth he exhales a cloud of smoke. Jisung does what he’s told, he inhales it, holds it in his lungs for as long as he can, and exhales the excess through his nose.

 

Like Minho said, it’s not a kiss per se, so they don’t engage, they leave it as it is, pulling apart. Minho’s excited to see if anything happens, but thirty minutes later he’s still indifferent, in fact, he’s bored and tired, choosing to lie in Minho's lap while staring at the muted blue sky. It’s never bright blue anymore, not even in summer, just a boring blue-grey color. When he was a kid he thought he could reach through the clouds and touch heaven, now Jisung isn’t even sure paradise can coexist with such a monotone and boring reality. 

 

“Isn’t it crazy you’re graduating, in like, barely two months?” 

“It’s crazy I’m graduating, period,” Minho laughs, twirling a little bit of Jisung’s virgin hair around his finger, “Do you know how many absences I have?” 

“So many you can’t even count them?”

“So many...I can’t even count them,” 

“But, what will you do after, you haven’t talked about college or anything,” Jisung looks up at Minho through his eyelashes, they are curious and big. 

“Dad wants me to take over the shop one day, I’ll pick up a few shifts here and there and begin with that I guess,” 

“Fun,” 

“ Soooo fun,” Minho replies, in a nasal voice—exaggerated to sound sarcastic. 

 

Jisung hums and nods, he takes the cigarette pack from next to him, and fiddles with it until he successfully manages to pick out two, one for Minho and one for him. He’s courteous enough to light both of them, before handing the first one to the elder, who thanks him and smiles— they continue to exist in each other’s presence. Jisung on his back on the uneven metal, head resting peacefully in Minho’s lap. Minho’s patting his hair, occasionally moving the cigarette to his lips to rest it between them. Jisung’s not smoking his, he’s watching the ash build up, and then he watches it fall down on his t-shirt. 

 

“I’m bored,” Minho breathes. Jisung thinks he knows what it means, so he straightens his back and turns his head to look at him. 

 

The elder’s eyes are dark, his eyelids are heavy. Jisung likes that he follows him and his small movements closely. 

 

“Really?” 

 

Humming, Minho nods and closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again Jisung has inched closer. 

 

“What were you thinking of doing about that?” Jisung asks, he places a hand on Minho’s cheek. 

“Mmnn,” Minho is quick when he presses his lips against Jisung’s, it’s been months since they tried this for the first time, and Minho can’t help himself to seek out more, he keeps coming back for more, every time he’s bored he imagines Jisung’s heart-shaped smile and thin lips against his own.  

 

It’s even better getting it, he knows Jisung can’t get enough either, that’s why he pulls himself into Minho's lap and hooks his arms around his neck. Minho barely asks, but Jisung’s more than willing to give. 

 

“You’re getting so good,” Minho brushes Jisung’s hair out of his face. 

“Thank you,” Jisung adjusts, their chests pressed together, and their hands roam over and under clothes. Jisung grows tired of the bud in his hand, and goes to put it out when he gets the idea. 

 

He brings his cigarette to his lips and inhales like Minho did, before Jisung has time to press his lips against Minho’s, he hears his name being called out. 

 

It’s not Minho. 

 

“Han Jisung?!” The window flies open, and inside Jisung’s room, his mom stands, hunched over the window sill, looking down at them with a fire burning in her eyes. “What the hell is this?” 

He coughs, tries to waft away any smoke around him, as if he hasn’t already been caught red-handed, literally, he throws the cigarette instantly between the cracks of the fire escape, and when Minho sees Jisung’s mom, he does the same. 

“Mom—you’re home!” 

“Cigarettes?” 

 

The two of them shoot up to their feet, they straighten their backs as if that will give them any dignity back. 

 

“They're mine!” Minho exclaims, he knows very well that they share them, but he thinks that, since he is the one turning eighteen this year, and not Jisung, it will lessen the damage. 

“Oh really?” Jisung’s mom asks, face distorting, she reaches out for Minho’s ear, wild and angry like some crazy cliché, drags him towards the window to force him inside, Jisung follows closely behind, asking her to be gentle, trying to explain what is really going on—even if it’s blatantly clear. Jisung in Minho’s lap, kissing him, smoking, behaving nothing like the child Jisung’s mom thought she had. 

“Does your mother know? Does she? Even if-if-if she does, it doesn’t even matter to me, you bring these death sticks into my home, you force my boy to take them, you really are—”

“He doesn’t force me,” 

“You shut up!” She points at him, and tightens his hold on Minho’s ear, he yelps from the sharp pain, he can feel it spread all over his face, nose and eyes watering. 

 

She takes him all the way to their door, Jiwoon’s in the kitchen reading, involuntarily becoming a witness to whatever is going on.  

 

“You get home, you tell your mother exactly what you have been doing with my son, or God help me I will do it myself. Then, you never, ever, come back.” 

 

Minho’s close to tears when he finally gets his shoes on, and he leaves on her command. Frankly, doesn’t dare to disobey a single one of her words, when he comes home he indeed does tell his mom that he’s smoking. She's slightly disappointed but doesn’t seem to make a point for him to stop. Unsure how in the first place, she's used to Minho doing whatever he wants. 

 

Later in the evening, she calls Jisung’s mom, apologizing on his behalf, tries to smooth the incident over, and on Minho’s request, she asks her to have some consideration. That perhaps, after the two boys have gone through with their respective punishments, their friendship isn’t anything to hinder—and on Jiusng’s request, she reluctantly agrees for some reason. Maybe because she was Jisung’s age once too, maybe because she knows that there is nothing stopping them from being together anyways.  

 

Maybe she did like having Minho around once, but life happens, Minho happens, it really isn’t easy. 

 

ᗧ·····🍊·····ᗣ·····●

 

Me 08:52 PM

sorry i'm missing ur bday

 

Minho 😈🐰 09:04 PM

no biggie, we’ll celebrate when ur free

and when we are alone

mom and dad r going away on wednesday

 

Minho 😈🐰09:09 PM

is ur mom’s still mad at you ? ? 

 

Me 09:09 PM

ya kinda

grounded. one. week. 

just cuz i was home late once.

or whatever it now was

 

Me 09:10 PM

freedom tmrw at last 💪

come over then

i want rematch in mario kart

 

Minho 😈🐰 09:11 PM

bet

i’ll bring the good stuff. the russian stuff. 

 

Me 09:12 PM

you want me put under house arrest?

 

Minho 😈🐰 09:12 PM

yes.

i’ll come entertain you

wink wink

 

Minho 😈🐰 09:17 PM

btw.

changbin is holding halloween party next week

we r obviously invited 

saturday

i’ll get us some bomb weed 

 

Jisung stares at the message in the dark, face illuminated blue from his phone. He’ll definitely say yes, but Minho always acts a little... off at parties in particular. It’s not the weed, because  Jisung’s used to that. It’s not the alcohol, again, it’s nothing that’s unfamiliar in either their circle of friends, or even just between the two of them. Hell, he’s just been offered the r ussian stuff, also known as smuggle vodka. The cheapest you can get for the high percentage. 

 

He ponders a good answer, as if “sure” isn’t enough, the gears are running at full capacity, and while he thinks he watches the three dots appear and disappear a dozen times. 

 

“Jisung,” His mom knocks on the door and opens it, she looks a bit surprised that it’s open, but Jisung only locks it when Minho’s here, she should know that by now. 

“What?” He turns his head and looks at her, carefully placing his phone down on his bed. 

 

She allows herself in, stepping over the many obstacles scattered on Jisung's floor. Quietly she sits down in his bed, smoothing out the fabric of her long skirt. Jisung can tell she has lots of things on her mind, even if it doesn’t seem like she can get anything out. 

 

“Chill mom, I’m not mad or anything because I got grounded,” He huffs, placing his hand gently under his head. He's both lying and not. He's both mad and...not. The open door lets in a little light in his otherwise dark room. 

“That wasn’t what—” She mumbles, “I don’t know.”

 

The distance between them has grown miles just this past year, he loves his mom to death, but they have both felt the tension, and it’s only between them, growing like a cancerous tumor, eating away at their relationship. 

 

“Sometimes it feels like you’re slipping through my fingers, it was just yesterday you were stumbling over your own feet playing hide and seek, and now—”

“I’m not a kid anymore,” He continues to stare at the wall. 

“I know,” 

 

“Do you like me mom?” 

 

Her neck almost snaps when she turns his way, “Of course, what kind of question is that?” 

“Minho is my best friend mom, every time he’s around you stare at us like we are a disgrace, not just him, but me too. You’re wondering why I’m slipping through your fingers but can’t even see it’s because you’re pushing me away with every dagger you throw at Minho, it’s like you are doing it on purpose. Like you hate me for every second I spend with him,”

“He’s a storm Jisung,” She stumbles over her words like she’s trying to find the right ones, “I’m afraid he’ll leave you ripped apart,” 

“Well,” Jisung sucks in a breath and closes his eyes, “Let that be a mistake I’ll make then,” 

“It’s my job to protect you,” She says, and Jisung finally straightens his back, adjusting until his back pressed flat against the wall behind him.

“What? From making the same mistakes as you? I’m not you. I won’t get knocked up by some douchebag at seventeen and think that two kids will solve my relationship issues. Maybe I’m a carbon copy of him, and I know you hate me for it, and maybe I act like you did when you were my age, and I know you hate that even more, but please—” 

 

Surprises flash on her face, but she makes no effort to deny any of the claims he makes. Her record is far from clean, which is maybe why she’s so confident in trying to steer Jisung away from Minho. She doesn't see Jisung’s father in Jisung, she sees him Minho.  

 

“Do you know how hard he’s trying? All the time? Do you know what goes on inside his head?” Jisung asks her, as if he knows. 

“I don’t,” 

“That’s right, you don’t,” 

 

Jisung zips his mouth closed, he stares at his mom, in the dark her crows' feet deepen, and the concern on her face is mistaken as something else, he turns his head, and is met with a blank wall again. Jisung is still not sure what her intentions were, but she has surely not said whatever she intended to do. Instead she clears her throat and raises to her feet, almost defeated. On her way out she stops when Jisung opens his mouth one last time. 

 

“The difference between you and me mom, is that I love Minho even though I know he's far from fucking perfect, and the similarity between Minho and dad is not the one you want to think it is."

“I know that,” Her smile spells out pity, “I know that they aren't the same, I know we are not the same, I left your dad ‘cause the only people I cared about were you and Jiwoon, I’m afraid Minho could take you apart limb by limb and you’d still go back to him,” 

 

She whispers a goodnight. Leaves his room like it’s a solemn vacuum Jisung is stuck in. She has ruined his haven, flooded it with scenarios and thoughts he’d much rather ignore. 

 

The rain splatters against his window, he hadn’t even noticed it had started. 

 

Minho 😈 🐰 09:21 PM

did u like die or? 

 

Me 09:38 PM

sorry

yeah ofc i'm coming

what are we dressing as?

 

His mother is right, Jisung would let Minho pick him apart, eyelash by eyelash, limb by limb, heartstring by heartstring. He’d let Minho put him back together, and do it again, and again, and again, what else would Minho do if he found himself bored? Jisung is sure it will be a mistake he will regret, but he can’t stop himself. He thinks of Minho’s plush upper lip and his cheeky smile, the tattoos on his skin, and the rough hands, for Minho he’d let himself be picked apart until he’s nothing but raw emotions. 

 

ᗣ·············ᗧ

 

“Can you hear it?” 

 

Jisung closes his eyes and listens. 

 

There’s a specific sound to it, rubber wheels against old and cracked asphalt or against newly laid and velvety smooth cement. Listen. Really, there is a soft sound to it, if you hold your breath and close your eyes the vibrations will travel over your skin leaving goosebumps in its tracks. It’s different from, say bicycles, they are seemingly made to be soundless and discreet, and cars, their tires screech and burn, you can hear them from miles away along with the car roaring. 

 

But Jisung’s dirty and grey wheels sound like a careless whisper over the asphalt, or a tired and rough gust of wind playing with leaves on a tree. It’s a constant sough in his ear—like he has placed a seashell to it and listens diligently to the waves crash against a sandcovered shore.  

 

Minho’s favorite description is that it sounds like blood rushing through his veins, thinking about it, Jisung can almost feel the blood all through his toes and fingers, pump through his limbs and he can really hear it flow in his ears. Jisung doesn’t know why, but it’s the only description that has really etched itself into his brain. 

 

“I can,” Jisung responds. He looks over at Minho, his hair is freshly dyed a patchy ugly yellow, somehow he managed to convince his mom that since it’s a new school year, and he’s almost fifteen, Minho should be allowed to have the creative freedom to do whatever with his hair, and lo and behold, now he’s both the ugliest and coolest guy in his class, with the blond hair, two piercings each in his ears and studs on his leather jacket. 

 

Minho laughs and looks over at him, winks when they make eye contact. Jisung is still not old enough to pick up on Minho’s many flaws, he simply sees him as his idol, someone to look up to. Admiring his confidence and his radiance. 

 

Carefully Minho raises his arms towards his sky, grinning at the clouds covering it. Jisung copies him, giggling. 

“What are you reaching for?” He asks.

“Heaven,” 

“Really?” Jisung stretches his limbs a little bit further. Maybe he hopes he’ll be able to fish heaven down to them. To Minho. 

“Yeah,”

“I’ll take you there! I’ll bring heaven to you!” Jisung balls his hand into a determined fist. Minho drops his arms down to his side. It’s a promise. 

“Gladly,” 

 

They laugh, they listen to the sounds of the wheels to their skateboards grind against the ground, Jisung can’t help but feel like it’s the blood in his veins. He savors it and thinks of the excited feeling that’s jittering inside his bones. 

 

Jisung’s almost thirteen and Minho's counting down the days till he’s fifteen. They have their whole life in front of them, a million things to do, but at the top of Jisung’s list he mentally jots down; take Minho to heaven, which accidentally sounds a lot more murdery than what it’s supposed to. Jisung just hopes that one day he’ll be able to make Minho as happy as he makes him.

 

····🍈·····ᗤ

 

Jisung stares at his window in disbelief, a deep frown setting on his face. 

 

A week ago he sat beneath his windowsill watching the rain trickle down—after his short conversation with his mom he spent the rest of the evening upset, listening to sad guitar covers and moping until he couldn’t stand sitting with his own thoughts anymore. It was far too cliché, the last withering leaves rustling on the trees and the dark october weather, like some picturesque new york autumn. It’s definitely something Jisung has romanticized more in his memory than what it was in reality, but it’s the charm of remembering. He likes to think that the leaves were bright yellow, orange, and red, that grey clouds weren’t covering the sky at all times, but rather that the sun occasionally threw a golden glow over them, even if that was not the actual reality. 

 

He stands there and bites his tongue, watches as snow falls down on his fire escape.

 

Fucking. Snow. 

 

It’s never come this early before, Jisung just stares at it, dumbfounded, thinking about the winter shoes he’s yet to buy and the padded jacket he outgrew two years ago. Even worse, he realizes that his (and Minho’s) plans to skate to Changbin’s tonight are ruined. Skating drunk is one thing, as is skating in the snow—skating drunk and in the snow? That’s a mistake they won’t do for the fourth or fifth time.  

 

Speaking, thinking of the devil, he hears their doorbell ring, considering it is halloween night, it could be a group of obnoxious children dressed in costumes, but it’s starting to get late, so it’s more likely it’s an obnoxious Minho dressed in a costume. Jisung steps out of his room and sees his mom stand up from the couch to reach for the door. “I’ll, I’ll take it mom,” He yelps at her, reaching the door with a series of hurried skips.

 

“Sir, I’m looking for a Mr. Han Jisung, is that you?” 

“Maybe, why? Are you here to arrest me?” Jisung leans against the door frame and whispers. 

“Yeah,” 

 

Minho takes the ray-bans off and tips the ugly hat on his head, he’s wearing the worst pedo-style fake mustache Jisung has ever seen and the blue cop shirt he’s wearing looks so cheap it looks like he bought it at the dollar store, all he’s missing is a baton made out of plastic—oh no, it’s hanging off his waist, along with a pair of way-too-real looking handcuffs. 

 

“Uh, I just gotta pack my bag, then we can go,” Jisung looks around Minho, he’s not surprised to see that he didn’t bring his skateboard, they are both on the same wavelength it seems, just because they have to be.  

“Isn’t it fucked? Snowing?” Minho grumbles. Jisung nods and agrees, “When’s the last time it snowed this early on? Never. ” He continues on to complain about the weather, mostly about the, partially about the wind, surprisingly a little about the actual snow. 

“—Did you bring…?” Jisung interrupts Minho’s angry rant when they enter his room, his voice is quiet, aware that his mom is in the other room. 

“Everything you could ever wish for,” Minho smiles, from his backpack he retrieves a bottle of clear alcohol, the text is in a foreign language, assumedly russian. Then he shakes a small bag of weed around, along with the altoid mint tin, which Jisung thinks is his new favorite item. 

“Seems legit, vodka and drugs,” 

“ Everything you could possibly wish for.” 

“I guess,” One of the corners of Jisung’s mouth jerks up, he can’t help it. 

 

Jisung packs the last of his things, which consists of...well, two sweaters because one is definitely not enough, phone charger and...nothing else. Who can blame him? Minho brought all the fun stuff.

 

“Mom, we are going now,” He calls out, she turns her head tiredly from the cough, probably judging their costumes silently, Minho in his off-brand cop clothes and Jisung in the black and white turtleneck he shamelessly actually stole from her. He’s most definitely not dressed appropriately for the weather, the skinny black jeans are obviously (even from far) thin as paper, the orange jacket he wears to it is tacky, and the fact that he has pinned a piece of paper with a series of random numbers on it to resemble a prison jumpsuit is even tackier, he really only wears it because it needed to tie the thief costume together as best as he could with. 

 

“You’ll be home when?” 

Jisung jerks his head, tilts it to the side. “..Late? But I’ll sleep at home.” 

She nods with approval, it’s Saturday after all, and halloween, she can’t expect much else even if Jisung can tell that she fights back the urge to tell him to be home at midnight. She switches her gaze towards Minho, who makes eye contact with her. 

“And I’ll be out of your hair Mrs. H, no need to worry,” He gives her a polite smile, but nothing about him is that.

“Good,” She mutters.

 

Minho and Jisung leave, but as soon as the latter closes the door behind him, he looks up at Minho with giant doe-eyes, silently asking him, ‘ will you really not sleep here?’

 

The elder gives him a small smile in response, and wraps an arm around his shoulder, ‘ of course I will, haven’t gotten good at climbing that fire escape for nothing,” 

 

Outside the snow is as disappointing as the fact that it snows in October in the first place. It melts away almost instantly on the pavement, turns to slushy-ice-water piles, it lays like blankets over the few leaves that are left on the trees, it’s cold when it lands on Jisung’s cheeks. He regrets a little that they didn’t take their skateboards, this is nothing worse than riding in rain, which god knows they have done a million times, but when the thought passes him they have already walked three blocks, Jisung can’t for the life of him be bothered to go back and retrieve them. 

 

“Any fun gossip about the people coming to Changbin’s? Need me some leverage,” Jisung gives Minho a shit-eating grin, for some reason people have a tendency to tell Minho just about anything, maybe it’s because they think he doesn’t care enough to retain any of the information they tell him, or they forget that even though he’s quiet and disconnected from half of the conversations around him, his ears are perfectly fine. 

“Hm...heard Chan had a threesome last week,” 

“Not surprised,”

“Guy involved too,”

“Ooh, slightly surprised.”

“Oliver is cheating on his girlfriend,” 

“Sad,” Jisung frowns, already feeling some sense of second-hand guilt. 

“She knows, of course, she’s cheating too,” 

“Less sad,” 

“Jenni is allegedly in love with Felix,”

“That’s tough,” 

 

Minho does not disappoint, he entertains Jisung with gossip that could be mistaken as something taken right out of high school, Jisung repeats “no way,” fourteen times over, at a minimum, or he gasps in surprise. He only takes a break to finally admit, after walking for twenty minutes, that he’s tired and bored. 

 

Raising his eyebrows in surprise, Minho releases his hold on Jisung and looks at him. It only takes a few seconds before he comes to a full stop, and then it’s Jisung’s turn to look at him surprised. It takes a few seconds for Jisung to process what Minho is doing, turning his back to him and crouching down. Then he lets out a noise of excitement. 

 

“Piggyback ride?!” 

 

Jisung jumps onto his back, hooking his hands around Minho’s neck, the elder only needs slight adjustment to get a firm and secure grip of the underside of Jisung’s thighs, hauling the younger up on his back. 

 

“Lazy lazy boy,” He huffs, but Jisung doesn’t miss out on the smile Minho can’t suppress.

“Happy happy boy,” 

“Is that so?” 

“Mmn,” Jisung nuzzles his cheek to Minho’s shoulder, unable to explain his emotions in any other words. He’s just happy. The snow might have ruined the last few weeks of autumn for him, his legs might be tired from walking and he has his fair share of worries about going to such a large gathering of people, but god, he’s happy. Listening to Minho hum on a song he’s been singing for days on end, he doesn't even complain about having to carry Jisung around. 

 

He’s so relaxed he could fall asleep, he feels himself zone out—vision blurring. Only coming back to his senses when he finally recognizes the street he’s on. In the distance he sees the word “closed” glow a bright neon purple in the window to the infamous arcade. Jisung can’t begin to phantom how much money he must have spent in there, on tokens and overpriced pizza slices, Minho’s no different, he used to blow a third of his allowance on Dance Dance Revolution, a third on the fruit jelly candy he apparently could not find anywhere else, and the last on Ms. Pacman, fighting for his life to get that top spot. 

 

To this day Changbin still holds it, adorning the number one spot with his initials, it’s his biggest achievement, and has been since Minho and Jisung met him for the first time in this very arcade, Minho burning red with anger because someone beat him in the first time in history. Minho’s still convinced Changbin cheated in some way, because no way, Changbin could make that record when he was fourteen, and maintain it for five years that have passed since then.

 

The three of them started off sort of as rivals, or rather it was Changbin against Minho ( and Jisung) , what started off as passive-aggressive and secretive contests before they actually talked for the first time (i.e. Minho whispering to Jisung that he could easily beat his score in whatever game Changbin had just played,) to a full on almost fist fight after talking at a minimum of two times. “You can’t hit fucking play when I’m not ready,” Changbin screamed at Minho at the top of his lungs, voice cracking when angry, Minho screamed back that he didn’t, even if he, matter of fact, did. Shamelessly so too. 

 

They were kicked out approximately four minutes later, and banned from entering the arcade for a week, even Jisung who was very much not involved, merely a bystander punished by association. 

 

Jisung’s eyes caught onto something taped onto the front door. 

 

“Let me down,” He taps Minho’s shoulder feverently, the elder does, albeit confused. 

“Wh—” Minho watches as Jisung runs up to the door and reads the paper carefully,  he pulls at one of the tabs hanging off it, presumably a phone number of sorts. 

“They are looking for part-timers,” Jisung mumbles, staring at the number, he puts it in the front pocket of his jeans, hoping hungover-jisung tomorrow won’t just chuck them in the washing machine without taking it out. 

“You’re considering it?” 

“Mom thinks I’m restless,” He sighs and continues to walk, “I kind of am too.” 

“Aye, am I not entertaining enough for you?” Minho nudges his shoulder. 

 

You know what I mean, Jisung barely breathes the words, he’s not entirely sure he even said it out loud until Minho answers, that he does. 

 

Every city has this strange not-talked-about-but-obvious division, there’s the slums, you’ve got your occasional pizzeria that launders money or massage parlors that offer happy endings. You’ve got the hills, the apartment buildings with elevator entrances and lobbyists, bars that will only allow your entrance if you have a black credit card to show your worth. If you drive way past the heart of the city you’ve got your white picket fences, soccer moms and attorney dads, villas located in endless identical cul-de-sacs. Minho and Jisung live in the grey area, as Jisung likes to call it himself. Old, cheap, but charming apartment buildings. Your average public schools with overworked teachers and underachieving students, you’ve got cracked asphalt the city refuses to fix but at least they rebuilt that playground two blocks over to be more family-friendly. 

 

The arcade is dropped down in maybe the strangest part of their town, on the street next to it you have six bankrupt shops run out of business, a top of the line club, drug deals going down in the alleys and cop cars patrolling to catch said drug deals, and just ten minutes away you reach Changbin’s block. There they have ten-story buildings with high ceilings and windows from floor to ceiling, rents in the four-digits, old money and new businesses started by twenty-something-pricks coming straight out of college. 

 

They come around the corner, and the roaring laughter erupting from Changbin’s balcony can’t be ignored. 

 

The air is strange here, the nightlife is still alive, Jisung realizes when he and Minho stand in front of Changbin’s entrance waiting for him to buzz them in that it no longer snows, at least not here. Here autumn is still glowing like it should, like it will never end, golden and beautiful. In this rivel of space, autumn is like the perfect memory Jisung has of it. Perfect Bittersweet October, a promise of childish Halloween costumes and pumpkin carving, kicking at piles of colorful leaves, it’s the only month that allows Jisung a break from the opposing miseries of an exhausting summer and a freezing cold winter. 

 

Jisung throws a glance behind him, at the end of the street he sees the gloomy and grey road from where they came, such a strange difference. He ponders over it, until he’s shaken out of his trance by the buzzing of the door and by Minho’s hand on his wrist, dragging him inside. 

 

Changbin lives on the eight floor, top floor, like Minho and Jisung he still lives with his parents, who are dumb enough to leave his son alone on halloween in an unsupervized apartment. 

 

“Welcome friends!” Changbin swings the door open and smirks at them, he’s wearing a tuxedo that looks to be a little bit too expensive to wear at a party, along with it he adorns a pair of white gloves and white napkin hanging over one of his forearms. “—what’s up with the perv-stache,” He immediately questions. 

“Have you ever met a cop without a perv-stache?” Minho asks, unzipping his jacket to reveal the blue shirt and fake badge. 

“I hate it too, there’s no convincing him to take it off unfortunately.” Jisung sighs and steps inside. It’s stuffy, even for Changbin’s big apartment. He’s glad that he recognizes most people, many of few from his old high school class, actually almost all of them are people he knows since school, some exceptions here and there. He takes a deep breath and thinks to himself that this might be doable. 

 

He locks eyes with Felix in the distance, who drags a boy around after him. It seems Jisung and Minho are not the only one doing duo outfits. Felix has sprayed his hair bright green (hopefully it’s a spray and not permanent, it’s grotesque), painted his face a pale white and drawn on a sinful smirk with red lipstick, the boy getting dragged around has appropriately dressed as Harely Quinn, wearing an exact replica of her jacket and t-shirt—carrying around a bat behind him.  

 

“Jisung! Minho! Go mix drinks, you’re both behind,” Felix shakes a red solo cup around, somehow not spilling a drop, that’s it for their greeting, he disappears quickly, towards a living room full of people. 

“Minho, who’s the guy Felix is with? I don’t recognize him,” 

 

Minho tries to catch them before they are out of sight, he squints his eyes. “Dunno either,”

 

Before either one of them has time to ask, Changbin is coming up between them, throwing an arm each around them. “Felix has a new boy toy,” He smiles, and looks around the three of them, pushing their heads closer to whisper. “His name is Jeongin. Friends with Seungmin, you know him right Jisung? Felix invited them both, dunno where they met.” Jisung responds shortly that Seungmin was in their grade, Changbin nods and opens his mouth once again, “Listen, this did not come from me, but Chan’s been testing out some new waters lately, and he’s been dead set on getting Seungmin since that poor boy stepped inside, so—keep an eye on those two tonight,” 

 

Both Jisung and Minho respond with a no, they would much rather look away the second Chan’s flirting game succeeds, it’s a grossly known fact that he’s not one to act PDA. 

 

He disappears, leaving Minho and Jisung in the kitchen to mix their drinks, the two of them discuss the news Changbin dropped on them, Minho’s already planning a books worth of teasing for the very second he sees Chan, Jisung mentions that he’s surprised Seungmin is here in the first place, they had been in the same class their entire lives, and got along fairly well, but they were eons apart, in every shape and form. He’s even more surprised to know that there is a possibility something might happen with him and Chan, if Seungmin and Jisung are eons apart then he and Chan must be...at least two hundred eons apart. 

 

Minho’s cup is probably fifty percent vodka fifty percent orange juice, he writes his name on the cup with large letters, not that anyone would willingly drink the atrocity in it, Jisung goes lighter, he plans on spreading out his night, getting drunk slow—but maintaining it until whenever they decided to go home.   

 

Though Jisung would much rather stay by Minho’s side for the rest of the evening, they accidentally part after just a while, Minho’s more interested in smoking, and he’s more comfortable in the calm environment outside. Jisung gets roped onto the dance floor with Felix and Jeongin, he eventually runs into Seungmin, who’s lazily dressed as a pirate—they talk for a while, and it takes everything in Jisung not to ask about Chan, even if he wants to. 

 

Not so surprisingly Seungmin is only home for fall break, he’s in university, he says. Here to indulge in mistakes and have fun for a weekend before he buries himself in misery again, he asks what Jisung is doing, and sounds equally as not surprised when Jisung says he’s not doing anything. 

 

Jisung finds it funny how large Seungmin eyes become when Chan approaches them, with two glasses in hand (and not one of them are for Jisung), he leaves them be, he’d rather not be witness to whatever they are about to indulge in. Whether it’s mistakes or fun. 

 

“Aveda kadeva~” 

 

Jisung jerks his head, hand flinching up to touch his ear where the words had been whispered. He turns his head to see who the culprit is behind it, being met with a figure standing so close Jisung almost hits his face against his chest. His hair is momentarily hidden beneath a giant wizards hat, and his figure is unfortunately shapeless beneath the rather unsexy robe. He wears a dark lip gloss, and has shaded his eyes, elongated them with a sharp liner. He never misses, and Jisung can’t help but shamelessly ogle.  

 

“Hyunjin,” He says, faking a monotone and bored voice. Even if his smile jerks upwards. 

“Jisung, funny seeing you around,” 

“Is it really?” 

“Always,” Hyunjin throws a lazy arm around his shoulder, “You’re not here alone are you?” 

”Minho,”

“Naturally,” 

 

Though Jisung very much likes to pretend that he despises Hyunjin—he can’t help but admit to himself that he ends up having the most fun tonight with him, nothing ill-intended towards Felix or Seungmin, of course, but Hyunjin has a certain charm that Jisung can’t say no to. Whether he gets roped into a drinking game with actual strangers or when they are pressed up against a wall watching people embarrass themselves dancing. 

 

Jisung met Hyunjin a little over a year ago, he transferred to their class Jisung’s senior year. Their personalities clashed, yet mixed together well, the running rivalry that quickly blossomed kept them passionate. 

 

Shameless or not, Hyunjin drags Jisung into one of Changbin’s bathrooms, he sits them down on the floor—admits, green to his face, that he thinks he had too much to drink. Jisung laughs in his face, but he also holds his long black hair back when he begins to retch, he fetches four cups of water to him, and once the other is done, he offers him gum—not missing out on making fun of his breath. 

 

“This remind you of anything?” Hyunjin asks, his head resting against Jisung’s shoulder. 

Jisung looks around him, smiles to himself. “Like—Woo’s birthday party last year, the smell of throw up and beer is unmatched to this day,” 

“Remember what else happened at his party?” 

 

Chuckling, Jisung looks at him, sees the smug eyes follow his features around. 

 

“Yeah,” 

 

Their rivalry were at the very same time something much more than just that. What started as fiery debates in class ended up as sweaty and hot quickies in bathrooms at parties they incidentally met at. Tutoring sessions turned into a weekly excuse to fool around the library in secret, and then, around a year prior, after three months of getting to know each other, play-fighting and intense make out sessions, they finally sealed the deal. Right there, in their friends room a a party that wasn’t supposed to be about them. The unlocked door kept them on their toes, increasing the stakes of just getting it over with.  

 

Obviously, it wasn’t the most romantic thing they could have done, but it was fun, and afterward, Hyunjin admitted, cheeks pink and smile lopsided, that it was his first time.

 

Jisung smiled, lied through his teeth and said it was his too. There was no point in admitting that he had been practising with Minho, like he never told anyone that Minho was his first kiss. See, when he was fifteen he could pretend just how much he wanted to that Hannah had been his first real kiss, even if it was Minho who actually stole it. Then he was seventeen and well, his and Hyunjin’s business somehow became public knowledge, it became an almost endearing fact that they had taken each other’s virginities. Even if the truth lay somewhere else, Minho had taken his innocence long before. 

 

The romance was short lived, and Jisung blames Minho that it never moved forward past the point of meaningless hooking up. Which is okay, because Hyunjin understood quickly that something hindered them from catching real feelings, and the one standing between them like a brick wall was Minho. 

 

Hyunjin leans forward until their lips kiss, he tests his waters, it occurs to Jisung that it’s been long since he last kissed someone else but Minho—somewhere around his graduation party, when he met that—well, he can’t remember her name. The feeling at the bottom of his stomach is lingering, and he tries his best to swallow it down, it’d be so much better if he could just ignore it. Jisung thinks it’s fine, he kisses Hyunjin back because there’s nothing about it he doesn’t like. 

 

It doesn’t occur to him that Hyunjin can taste the uncertainty on his tongue. 

“You’re tense,” He mumbles, Jisung hums and nods a little. “Are you not enjoying it?” 

“I am,”

 

Sceptical, Hyunjin pulls away, he sighs when he leans his head back on Jisung’s shoulder. 

“It’s Minho right?” 

Jisung swallows, there it is, the emotions he’s trying to suffocate. “Yeah,” 

“Like usual,” 

 

The both of them laugh, albeit a bit bitterly. 

 

Even now, it’s Minho who puts distance between them. 

 

“I should probably find him, make sure he isn’t dead.” 

“He’s a big boy, he’ll survive,” Hyunjin mutters, his finger draws circles on Jisung’s thigh, it’s inviting, and Jisung surely has a hard time saying no, but he shakes his head after a few seconds, places a gentle kiss to Hyunjin’s cheek. 

“Sorry,” 

“It’s okay, of course,” 

 

They part outside the bathroom, the line of four people all glare at them, judging every step they take, rumor has it the second bathroom is occupied by someone yakking up every single content of their stomach too. Jisung and Hyunjin surely doesn’t make themselves look good holding up the only other one, especially not when they have been in there for nearly half an hour. 

 

“Sungie,” 

 

It rings like a bell, clear and loud, Minho’s voice, he’s found his way inside. Spread out on Changbin’s lounge couch, tapping the space between his legs, for Jisung to come sit, the rest of the couch is occupied—

 

Jisung nods farewell to Hyunjin, who looks at him with a little pity, silently wishing him good luck in figuring it out. Whatever it now is.  Then he turns his gaze back to Minho, and maneuvers between the people sat on the floor to reach him. He looks at the very much non-existent space for him to sit, grimaces at Minho when he motions for Jisung to sit down in his lap.  

 

“Where have you’ve been?” He asks Jisung, waiting for him to get comfortable. 

“Here and there,” 

“Aha, really?” Minho leans in towards Jisung, uses a determined finger to angle Jisung’s face to his. “I can smell Hyunjin’s perfume from miles, did you…?”

“Did I what ?”  Jisung waits patiently for Minho to answer, he wants to hear the jealousy in his voice, wants desperately for Minho to reek of it. If it’s even possible, his pride is not to joke about.

“Come on, dude,”

 

Jisung and Minho both turn their heads back to the room, already forgotten that they are surrounded by a dozen people, one of whom is Changbin, who’s the owner of the repulsed voice. He’s grimacing at them, and Jisung begins to notice that they are subject to everyone’s gaze. He peeps out a meek sorry—Minho says nothing, smirks a little to himself from behind the cup. He swallows, Jisung can hear him, imagines the adams apple bob up and down, then the elder whispers, only for him.

“You’re mine for tonight, don’t go around kissing anyone else.”

 

He’s Minho’s for tonight, tomorrow, next week, forever. He’s in so deep, drowning in whatever ocean Minho is.

 

At first Jisung mistakes that the circle is in some kind of drinking game, a bottle is empty and forgotten in the center, he huffs to himself, Minho’s really has the nerve—Jisung can bet his left foot that the other one’s lips have been on more than a handful of people already tonight, yet he’s here demanding that Jisung saves himself for him. The nerve, the nonchalance, the—

 

“Oh, you’re a couple,” One of Changbin’s friends points at Jisung and Minho, they both widen their eyes in confusion, waiting for him to elaborate, he can’t just end it at that, right? “Couple outfit! Police and prisoner!”

“Ah—” Jisung laughs, glances back at Minho, who’s chuckling too.

“Took ya a minute,” Minho says, pointing his finger at the guy, like he’s really figured something out. Everyone laughs, both at Changbin’s friend, and the couple, he clearly doesn’t know Minho and Jisung, they come in pairs. One’s here, the other always in tow. If Minho’s dressed as a police officer, he’s for sure caught Jisung, dressed as a prisoner.

 

Going all out, Minho pulls the nastiest smile when he takes out the pair of handcuffs he’s been carrying around the entire evening, he stares at Jisung’s wrist, eyes saying a million words. Jisung raises his eyebrows, ‘you gotta be fucking kidding me’ he barely has time to think, before Minho encircles his arms around Jisung, locks one side of it onto Jisung’s left wrist, searches his eyes for permission to do the same with his other hand. Jisung doesn’t even know if he answers, but something about him has to say yes, whether it’s his wide eyes, the creeping blush or hard to ignore arousal—Minho smiles and secures the other.

 

There he is, trapped or not, metaphorically or not, in Minho’s lap. The entire world is staring, everyone ignores them, each and everyone looked at them surprised before their gazes averted, just another one of Minho’s and Jisung’s antics.

 

Time flies, Jisung thinks, he gets bored and the next time he looks down in his cup it’s empty, he pleads Minho. “Can I just have the rest of yours? Do you really want me to leave and mix a new one?” The elder caves, even if he rolls his eyes so hard they almost get stuck, ‘fine’ he mumbles. He’s still dizzy from the weed anyway, and he’s sure Jisung would scold him if he knew how many drinks he had had up to this point anyways.

 

Jisung drinks, much slower this time, he forgot before asking about the drink, how Minho actually takes them, it tastes like straight gasoline, with a subtle aftertaste of orange, it’s barely there sure, but it’s there. He hears the other from behind him laugh every time he gags a little, or when he begins to hiccup.

 

Jisung adjusts further, melts into Minho, the other relaxes too, locking his arms tightly around Jisung’s waist, whispers quiet compliments about it, he likes to see the younger blush, so he makes his voice louder, until whatever conversation everyone else is having is interrupted by him.

 

“He’s sexy right?” Minho asks, loud, he wants everyone to yell yes. No one does, if they do, Minho will sneer at them, jokingly or not, that it doesn’t matter what they think, but everyone hums, can’t figure out if it’s embarrassing or funny. Minho and Jisung’s antics. The only one who dares to open his mouth is Changbin, who leans back and tilts his head.

“So sexy,”

"You think?” Minho looks at him, his hands’ trail around Jisung, they play with the hem of his shirt.

“Hella se—”

“What did Jisung get you for your birthday?”

Changbin think’s a little but ends up scoffing. “Uhh, nothing,” He never had a party, and gifts had never been a thing between them. 

“Jisung, tell them what you gave me?”

 

Again, Minho does it again, he asks a question that isn’t a question, it’s a demand.

 

“The best blowjob of his life,” Jisung’s cheeks burn hot, but the embarrassment is instantly forgotten when half the room groans in disgust while the other laughs with him. At least he hopes that it’s with and not at.

“Try that,” Minho jiggles his eyebrows, like it’s a gift no one could ever beat. “And he didn’t even reveal the best—”

“Shut up!” Jisung turns around, brings handcuffed hands up to Minho’s face, planting them on top of his mouth, not everything is for everyone to hear. Some secrets are best kept between them.

 

Around them, whatever conversation had been going on between everyone continued, they paid Minho and Jisung no mind, like they could sense what was about to happen from miles away, like a neon sign hung above their signs. “R RATED. NO KIDS ALLOWED!” And for everyone’s mental stability, they chose to ignore it all, blissfully pretending neither Minho or Jisung was in the room. 

 

“Not to shit on Changbin…” Minho whispers, and Jisung knows what’s to come, “This party is kinda boring right?”

 

Jisung does what he’s not supposed to do, does what he has kept himself from doing since the day Minho suggested kissing in the first place. He loses control of his urges and lunges forward, gripping at Minho’s collar, he kisses him, simple as that. Hungry and desperate, like always, because Jisung knows how to cure whatever fake-boredom Minho makes up, but for the first time, probably ever, he doesn’t wait for Minho to drag out closing the space between them. He does it himself, and tomorrow he’ll realize it’s the first piece of dominoes that puts their friendship at stake, but tonight he indulges and doesn’t think twice of it. 

 

When Minho brushes Jisung’s hair out of his face he can feel the bruised knuckles against his cheek, they have never been soft. When they separate for air for a second Minho’s eyes are pitch-black, or stark-yellow, Jisung isn’t sure, but he knows there's not a hint of softness in them. Minho kisses him with a passion Jisung is genuinely not sure he has ever tasted before, but it’s there, under the vodka, the weed, the chips Minho must have gotten his hands on when the munchies hit. God knows the kiss is soft.

 

Hands travel, definitely not for the public eye, but they forget they aren’t alone, and Minho isn’t afraid to squeeze at jeans-clad thighs or at soft skin.

 

They leave, clumsily, claiming they need air—Minho fumbles with the keys to the handcuffs because even if it’s hot, he can’t put them to use like that. Jisung’s mind clears enough for him to take a hasty detour to the kitchen, "sweater” he mumbles, “I need my sweater outside, ‘s cold,”

 

Outside Minho lights a cigarette, Jisung hangs by his side, stealing a smoke whenever he feels like it. They’re both red to their faces, but it’s not embarrassment, nor is it inherently arousal, somewhere buried deep is an emotion neither one of them have dared to bring up, and the lingering feeling of it makes them both turn red. When the cigarette is put out and they attach themselves to each other again, Minho buries his deeper, while it floats closer to the surface for Jisung.

 

In between kisses Jisung finally asks, troubled yet curious. “You never kiss me when you’re sober. Why?”

 

It’s awfully close to breaking surface tension, but it’s not quite there yet. Soon, give Jisung either five minutes or five hours.

 

“What?” Minho chuckles, like he heard the question wrong. He takes a step back, searches Jisung’s eyes with his. One pair is soft and light, the other is dark with desire. There’s no need for a guessing game to know which belongs to who. 

“You don’t kiss me when you’re sober?”

“I’m sure I do,”

“No,” Jisung’s voice is for once on the nonchalant side, he knows that he’s right, obviously, and Minho knows it too, even if he refuses to admit it to Jisung's face. The elder rolls his eyes, like it's just whatever, like there was no point in Jisung bringing it up. He doesn’t intend to show it, but when he leans in to kiss again he’s bothered. “Just fucking remind me when I’m sober then,” He mumbles against Jisung’s lips. For a moment Jisung considers answering, but when he opens his mouth Minho licks inside. Eats every word up like he hasn’t had food in days. 

 

There’s nothing left to say between them, some emotions float to the surface, some emotions get nailed into a coffin and buried six feet under. Both are equally as obvious—but hell—good luck bringing them up again. 

 

Jisung kisses feverishly, he tries to get closer even if it’s physically impossible. Jisung just can’t resist, he gives in and he lets Minho do whatever he wants because he can’t stop himself. He knows deep down that this is the only way he can have Minho. Stoned, gone, in denial. It’s not enough, it’s never been enough, it will never be— 

—But Jisung still settles. For tonight, or forever, only the future can tell.

 

One hand slides underneath Jisung’s pants, even if it’s fighting his skintight belt and even tighter pants, Jisung exhales and takes a deep breath.

“Come, I wanna go home, now,”

 

They are both wearing jackets and they both have their phones, there are a million things forgotten upstairs, goodbye’s to the host and backpacks to mention a few. But they don’t care, Minho’s hand is wrapped around Jisung’s wrist, if it took them thirty minutes to walk to Changbin, the devil should know that they probably cut half that time on their way back home to Jisung. They are in the end just foolish boys, thinking with their dicks and swallowing down their hearts.

 

One of them stumbles up four flights of stairs and struggles with putting his key in the lock, but alas, he manages to open up and come inside. When he opens his bedroom door the other is already inside, ripping off a pervy fake mustache and unbuttoning an ugly copshirt, he has never climbed that fire escape this fast ever, 

 

The window is ajar, was ajar, like it’s meant to be—how else would Minho come in and leave unnoticed?  

 

They fumble and kiss and a million things happen at once. Jisung just knows he’s gonna hear about it from his brother in the morning, whether it’s their loud voices and strained breathing echoing between the walls. If Minho isn’t gone early enough he’s sure he’s in for the lecture of the month from his mom, but the devil on his shoulder whispers nonsense in one ear, and Minho’s in the other telling him sins. 

 

So he doesn’t care, emotions break surface tension and he places his heart raw and full of love confessions between them—he gasps Minho’s name at the height of the evening and Minho whispers Jisung’s back to him. The entire world hears them, but Jisung hopes in the morning that no one listened. 

 

Minho doesn’t end up falling asleep, he’s too sober, too awake. Has been for hours, much longer than he’d like to admit. Jisung’s quiet and his breathing is only strained for a moment before it calms, at one point even, his heartbeat was so slow the elder was sure Jisung had died. At some point, in between dark night and loomy dawn, Jisung opens tired eyes, who could have known he had been awake the entire time too, playing scenarios in his head and fantasizing about a reality in which what he’s about to say won’t be a mistake. 

 

“Minho…I’m sorry,” Jisung whisper-whines, it’s hoarse and tired. “I’m fucked,” Though he begins to speak, it’s not at all how he wanted to say it, nonetheless, now that the words begin to spill, he can’t—won’t stop himself until it is out in the open.  

“Why?” He responds, attempts to sound not even the least worried, even if something eats away at him. 

“I was never supposed to catch feelings,”

 

Oh. 

 

Minho takes a deep breath. He doesn’t answer him, because he’s too sober, too awake, his head is throbbing and something is trying to crawl its way out of a grave. 

 

Instead, he waits patiently for Jisung to fall asleep, which he does after yet a long while trying to fight it. But Minho notices, his breathing nearly ceases, and despite claiming he absolutely doesn’t, small snores escape his barely open mouth. And once the younger one has fallen into a deep slumber, Minho crawls out of bed. He climbs a fire escape he’s so used to he knows it like the back of his hand. 

 

The city is weird and foggy in the morning, the snow has come and gone in only hours, once again revealing the brown leaves on the ground and the stray colorful ones still on the trees, aha, autumn is not yet over, not yet. Not. Yet. 

 

Minho wanders, he goes looking for a shovel, not yet decided if he needs to dig a deeper grave or if it’s finally time to face his fears. 

 

 

ᗧ·····●·····ᗣᗣᗣᗣ

 

Jisung honestly can’t tell if it’s seven AM or two PM when he wakes up, he smells coffee and french toast and both of it makes him sick to his stomach, but the bottomless pit roars for food. Breakfast he thinks, it’s Sunday, it’s tradition, but his mom is yet to burst through the door, which means it’s not nine. He’s fine, Minho’s fine too, but he has to remember to kick him up before—

 

—Minho’s gone. The window is shut. There’s not a physical trace of him ever being in the room. Just the lingering presence of his body in the sheets and the smell of cologne latched onto Jisung’s skin, he’s here, definitely, plastered all over the walls and in the air.

 

But the bed is cold, he has taken his things and left.

 

Jisung’s stomach twists in a different, much more uncomfortable fashion than normally. Not nauseous, or hungover—it’s strange and Jisung can’t put his finger on it. But it feels ominous and wrong, he shakes his head and reaches out for his phone, hoping to see that the elder has at least left him a text, a goodbye, something.

 

Nope, not even an ugly picture of Jisung sleeping with his mouth open drooling, which he has received on more than one occasion. Or a selfie from the fire escape with Minho posing the best he can to fit both him and an unknowing Jisung into it.

 

Nothing.

 

It’s not nine, and Jisung is afraid if he doesn’t reach the bathroom soon he’ll be retching out the window, so he rises from the bed quickly. He finds discarded clothes from yesterday by his feet, wincing at the sight…the trail from the door, where Jisung first dropped his jacket, to the edge of his mattress, where he finds one of his socks.

 

He hurries in grabbing clothes to slip on, and sneaks out of his room hurrying to the bathroom unnoticed, hoping that if he empties his stomach the nasty feeling will follow—

—it doesn’t.

 

“Oh, you’re awake?” Jisung’s mom catches his figure tip-toeing out of the bathroom. He adjusts the hoodie he’s wearing, dragging it up towards his chin.

“Yeah,” In turn Jisung glances down on the table, he sees her put three french toasts on a plate, the coffee is brewing, he sees that she’s surprised; which he to be fair, also would be if he was her. Instead of escaping back into his room, he walks over to her, taking out three mugs from the cabinet.

“Did…you have fun last night?” She asks, threading the conversation carefully.

“Yup, met Seungmin and Hyunjin and stuff.”

“Your Hyunjin?” She says, looking down at the table, 'your' as in, the one that used to be here before, the one Jisung spent a suspicious amount of time with before, she says your because she knows that they were close in the way normal boys aren’t. Hyunjin is one of the few of Jisung’s friends she actually likes, among Felix and—well the list isn’t very long. Something Hyunjin takes great pride in, that he’s on Jisung’s mom’s good side. 

 

“Mhmm, and yes he’s fine and no he's not doing anything special and I did not ask about his parents.”

 

She smiles, and closes her mouth, Jisung shoots her a small smile too. The clock strikes nine and she goes to Jiwoon’s room to wake him.

 

While she’s gone Jisung glances at his phone, bothered, he chews on the inside of his cheek and decides to send Minho a message, just to check on him.

 

Me 09:00 AM

when did u leave?

 

After breakfast the message is still only delivered, Jisung thinks that if Minho wandered off in the early morning he’s probably asleep now, and will be until much later. It’s fine. It’s still fine. There’s no need for him to worry in other words, even if his gut feeling is telling him otherwise.

 

His mom tells him to clean his room, she snorts disapprovingly at the mess on his floor and the dishes on his desk, he’s too hungover to fight her.

 

At noon he sends Minho another text, he’s starting to feel bad, because he starts to remember small embarrassing details from yesterday, triggered by a picture Felix sent of Jisung and Minho. He’s handcuffed and flushed red, and he's ashamed on behalf of Minho because of the godawful mustache and the shameless hand under Jisung’s shirt.

 

Me 12:54 PM

i feel like dying did felix send you that photo too ahah 

who let us do that

??? 

 

Ten minutes later it begins to roll in. Memories and feelings, and worst of all, confessions. 

 

Jisung said it yesterday like it was nothing, of course, he barely remembers it now, he was two feet into the grave and so tired he had been half asleep when it slipped out all spent and emotional.

 

“I was never supposed to catch feelings.”

 

Me 01:13 PM

hey call me when u wake up pls

 

Jisung freaks out, abandons his cleaning project for later. When he opens up his and Minho’s conversation half an hour later he sees it, the looming, childish, ‘read’.

 

He’s been left on read.

 

Me 02:01 PM

ffuck you come on

 

Minho 😈🐰 02:10 PM

call you later, working out.

 

Huffing Jisung closes the app, without answering, working out? Does he not remember what Jisung said, or does he do what he does best, is he elbow deep in digging yet another grave? Is it so hard to take a step to the side and just call Jisung back? It’s not like Minho to be like this, yet at the same time, it’s exactly like him.

 

Not even Jisung’s confession will be on his terms, it will be on fucking Minho’s.

 

Patiently and pathetically Jisung waits, he waits for an hour, then two. His phone reminds him to charge it and he realizes that his backpack is still at Changbin’s, along with his charger. Frustrated, he calls Changbin, who just tells him that he gave the backpack to Minho. Jisung’s grows impatient and annoyed, he waits ten minutes, sends yet another message asking for his backpack, and then after Jisung has forced dinner into a nauseous stomach, and has been left on read for a second time, he tells Minho to stick it where the sun don’t shine, to grow up and talk to him, “at the very least give me my fucking backpack.” He types out again before swallowing down another wave of frustration.

 

Jisung can probably count on one hand how many times he’s been this angry at Minho, it’s really not a lot, considering how clashing their personalities sometimes can be. Considering Minho is Minho. 

 

He hates that he loves Minho so much. He hates himself so much that he takes it, that even if Minho is the one with the issues, Jisung’s the one getting punished, he’s the one falling asleep with anxiety he hasn’t felt since high school midterms and an upset stomach, eating him away from the inside. “Fuck Minho, fuck Minho, I hate him, he can drown, die, disappear,”

 

He’s so troubled he nearly creeps under the covers and cries, but he bites his tongue, does his best keeping the tears in—and at some point, he falls asleep. He has a nightmare for the first time since he was a kid, he wakes up tens of times in the middle of the night, and in the morning, Minho is just as radio silent as he was yesterday. 

 

It’s like the throbbing headache won’t go away, Jisung wakes up and he feels groggy and disorganized, the apartment is quiet—when he glances at the time he assumes, without leaving his room that his mom is working in the office today, and Jiwoon either has school or work, one of them, Jisung never learns his schedule. 

 

Loneliness washes over him, he’s sitting at his table staring down at the bowl of cereal he made, eyes trained on every small bubble in the milk and how the cereal bobs up and down when he stirs it slowly with his spoon. 

 

Jisung feels like throwing up again, he replays the memory from the night two days ago again, “I was never supposed to catch feelings,” and when he feels his lungs grow heavy he does it again, “I was never supposed to catch feelings,” he hears his own tired voice mumble over and over, head on Minho’s chest. “I was never supposed to catch feelings,” he said, and Minho went rigid under him, and like some coward, he carefully slipped out from Jisung’s room like all he was a one night stand or someone awkward he dated who told him “I love you” on their third date. Not his best friend, not someone he’s known for a decade, not someone he should have been honest with then and there. 

 

Minho 😈🐰 10:18 AM

open

 

Jisung hears his phone ding, and it’s like an atom bomb has been dropped on his head, he turns the screen towards him and reads Minho’s short message. He shoots from the table and immediately goes for his window, it’s been shut since Minho left, but when Jisung opens the door to his room he sees that the fire escape is empty. He turns to his door instead, running towards it. 

 

Before he opens the door he takes two deep breaths, afraid Minho will be able to spot his desperation from miles away. 

 

There he is, Minho. 

 

As a ten-year-old, he was the coolest kid on the block, despite his bowl cut and the nonchalant exterior. Now he’s twenty, he has grown a foot and his nonchalance has shot through the roof, despite being a prick and an idiot he’s the one Jisung has fallen in love with.  

 

He stands there, phone in one hand and backpack in the other, he holds it up awkwardly when the door swings open. His face is covered with a mask and a pair of sunglasses, god he’s such a prick, Jisung hates that he loves him. 

 

“Here, your backpack,” He says. 

 

“What the fuck Minho?” Jisung asks, merely in a breath. He takes the backpack from his hand, but it’s the least of his worries, who gives a fuck about a backpack. Jisung reaches for the sunglasses, beneath them rests a blue bruise, Minho lets him pull down the mask too—exposing the lip split in the middle and the bruised nose. “What the fuck Minho?” 

 

“I was working out with Changbin,” He replies, like it answers each and every one of Jisung’s questions, in reality, it’s really just the answer to like, half a question.

 

It looks like he’s almost ready to leave again, he cautiously looks around the apartment when he finally takes a step inside, Jisung mentions in a mumble that he’s alone. 

 

“Can we talk? Like—” Jisung begins, he watches as Minho shifts his weight from one foot to the other, he looks at the ceiling instead of on the other. 

 

He reaches out again, his fingers graze Minho’s chin, feeling the slight stubble on his chin. He angles it around, at last forcing the elder to look him in the eyes. 

 

The whites of his eyes are…not that, they are bloodshot and wide, Jisung notices the sheen of sweat near his hairline and the chewed lips. 

 

“You’re fucking high,” 

“What about it?” Minho rolls his eyes and grabs Jisung’s wrist, “What’s so wrong about that?” 

“I just wanna…one, one conversation with you, when I know that you’re in there too,” He taps Minho’s forehead with his finger, feels the bite in his voice. 

“I don’t,” Minho confesses, and Jisung senses it’s the most honest he’s been in a long while. 

“I don’t wanna have this conversation at all Jisungie,” 

“We have to have it,” Jisung sighs, like it’s obvious. There are no other options here. “I know I crossed a line Minho, I’m fucking aware, I shouldn’t have said what I did, when I did, before considering you, but—”

“I don’t  wanna talk about this Jisung, please,” 

“Why? Because you can’t face me confronting you?” His eyes look crazy, with a smile that looks nothing but happy—almost astonished. 

 

Minho hasn’t even taken his jacket off, he barely remembered to close the door behind him. Jisung’s still dressed in sweatpants and a shirt, hair tousled and askew. The younger paces, and Minho follows, even if he doesn’t want to have the conversation they are already in the middle of. 

 

“We—have been perfectly fine for years, so fucked to just drop that like nothing? Why couldn’t you just- just?” Minho stutters, dancing around words that will make the reality of them settle faster. 

“Just what? Ignore my feelings like you do? All that ignorance is bliss bullshit?” 

“Don’t fucking—tell me what I feel,” 

“I’m not, I’m just saying that for being my friend you’re awfully eager to have me to yourself, “ One of Jisung’s eyebrows shoots up, “It’s all the jealousy and—wrapping me around your finger, you act like I’m yours? You say that I’m yours, how can you blame me for wanting that then?”   

“Fu…I don’t know Jisung, I don’t know what you want me to even say?” 

“Go,” Jisung gives Minho’s shoulder a light push, not enough to move him an inch. “Go, I don’t want you here,” 

 

They stand there, dumbfounded; a little bit plain dumb too. 

 

It’s not easy, or maybe it is. Jisung stands there with bloody hands and a fragile heart, Minho’s holding a shovel and neither one of them knows if he has just dug a grave or if he’s ready to bring feelings back from the dead. 

 

“Go,” Jisung repeats, Minho backs away from him, shaking his head like he’s fucking ridiculous. 

 

Suddenly Minho’s at the door, he stares at Jisung with sharp dark eyes, he’s so far from the Minho Jisung hopes he knows, the frown painting his lips is hideous, Jisung feels sick looking at his bruised face and he can’t even phantom what goes on inside his head. 

 

“I gave you my fucking everything ,” Jisung sneers, he feels tears poke at his eyelids, so he closes his eyes, hopes they disappear, “I gave you my first kiss, my innocence, I graffitied bathrooms in school and spent half my time there in detention with you, you looked cool when you smoked so I smoked with you, I practiced kissing with you and you asked me if I wanted to go the whole way with you, and it was my first time, so I did. When you’re high and bored you want to make out and when you’re sober you pretend like it doesn’t even happen, and I shouldn’t allow it, but I just give it to you because I fucking like you and I want you to feel the same. I have given you everything I possibly can, you can’t even be honest. So go, and don’t—” Jisung pushes him over the threshold, and for the first time in his life, Minho takes it. “—don’t fucking talk to me until you’re ready to actually talk ,” 

 

He closes the door, he listens to Minho curse behind it, Jisung listens to his disappearing footsteps, and then he’s gone. 

 

Jisung slides down the door, lowers his head between his knees, and cries because he has nothing left to say—heart emptied and exhausted. He cries because Minho said nothing, and the graveyard of emotions he knows exist lies untouched.

 

ᗣ

 

Minho stares at Changbin initials at the top, god he fucking hates them. S.C.B. Fucking Changbin. Ruined his whole life, first he took his high score on Ms. Pacman when he was just some fourteen-year-old loser (who he, even though it doesn’t sound like it when he’s mad, loves very much), then Changbin held one of the best Halloween parties Minho’s ever been too, which ended up with Jisung whispering “I was never supposed to catch feelings,”

 

And then, at last, when Minho turned to Changbin and asked what he was supposed to do, he answered with a shrug, between sparring, “Be honest dude, you like him—you tell him you do, if you don’t—tell him, he deserves to know,” 

 

The scoreboard flashes again. 

SCB—–59 730

LMH—–43 839

SCB—–43 390

SCB—–41 922

LMH—–36 804

 

One day he’ll beat Changbin, for sure, even if the arcade game itself has one foot in the grave and Minho grows angrier and angrier every time he plays it, one more hit to the side of it might just be what takes it out. Minho hasn’t gotten close to beating him for ages anymore. The truth is simple, he’ll die before that day comes. 

 

Stupid ass ghost comes around a corner and he dies, the score flashes and it’s nowhere near the 59k he needs to beat Changbin. He gives the machine a slap, rattles the whole thing. 

 

“Minho,” The owner comes around the corner, he has to be tired of seeing Minho’s face here, and he looks surprised every time he notices that Jisung isn’t by his side. The owner whistles and motions to the door with his head. “Beat it,” 

“Your stupid fucking game is broken,” 

“Just ‘cause you’re not winning doesn’t mean it’s broken,” He reminds Minho, with a content grin, the middle-aged man seems to enjoy seeing Minho so upset. 

“Well—it is,” 

“See you next week?”

“If I don’t kill myself first,”

“Don’t, it will be unfortunate for my business,” The owner slaps his protruding stomach and laughs at himself, Minho mocks his laugh, watches him lock the arcade, and walk towards his car, Minho bets he personally paid for it. 

 

Changbin’s stupid voice echoes in his head, you like him—you tell him you do. Each syllable comes with every step he takes. God he hates his voice, he hates Jisung a little bit too—even if he likes him too much to truly hate him. 

 

Most of all he hates himself, more than he hates that Changbin beat him in an arcade game five years ago, more than he hated his year eight biology teacher, more than anything in the entire world actually, believe it or not. 

 

All anyone has ever asked of him is to be honest, just be honest Minho, what are you thinking about? Be honest. How are you really? Be honest. Do you like me? Be honest. And of course Minho can’t blame anyone, especially not Jisung, the very least he expects from someone he trusts is honesty. 

 

Minho can’t even do that. This is why he hates himself. 

 

He kicks a trashcan over, it rattles and rolls a few yards, Minho’s furious; he bites his lip when he lifts it up again and walks around the alley picking up the trash again, when the tears come he’ll blame it on the bleeding lip and not on the writhing pain inside his chest. 

 

Minho sinks to the ground, he fumbles with a cigarette because he likes to focus on the smoke dancing around in the sky and how it tastes hitting his lungs. He tries his best to light it even when the wind puts the fire out every time he sees the ghost of sparks coming from his lighter. “Fuck!” He yells, sending the lighter flying into the air, bouncing against brick on the building opposite of him before it hits the ground. He hates it all, takes out the entire pack of cigarettes from his pocket, he picks out one at a time, crumbles them up until they are nothing but trash—a pile of tobacco and paper on the ground.  

 

“I was never supposed to catch feelings,”

 

Neither was Minho. 

 

He clenches his fists, they are already numb and stiff, the temperature has started dropping below zero, especially late at night. He should go home, seek comfort from his mom or dad, creep under his covers, and get a full night of sleep for once. He should relax, have his cats cuddle up against his body and he should allow himself some peace. 

 

But he can’t. It feels impossible, illegal even. He thinks of how upset Jisung was, how upset he probably is. He thinks about how he’s the reason behind it, and when he does—it’s not right for him to be okay, he doesn’t deserve peace. 

 

Instead of going home, he marches in a totally different direction than the one his apartment is in, he doesn’t look for directions or signs because he has no idea where he is going, more or less. He takes a detour into the first convenience store he sees that’s still open. 

 

“Camel, and, I need a lighter too,” He coughs, walking directly to the counter. The lady behind it looks at him from behind glasses, she raises her brows like she’s a bit suspicious of him. She turns around and points at the wall of cigarettes behind her, pointing out that there are at least six different kinds of camel. “Blue, Camel Blue,” 

She nods at last, and places it on the counter, along with a nice magenta lighter. “7 dollars,” 

“Uh—do you like have some stationary? And a pen?” 

“Just one piece of paper?

 

Minho nods in response, sure, one paper, one chance, one shot. 

 

She sighs, like she’s already tired of his presence. Next to her she has a notebook, Minho spots random notes and lists, hastily put down, she flips to the back, rips out a page, and gives him a ballpoint pen from a drawer behind her.  

 

Minho thanks her, gives her a ten and just tells her to keep the change. Decides to get out of her hair without causing any other problems. 

 

Then he continues, a new destination in mind, he guesses, but just as directionless. 

 

Once in ninth grade, after a row of disturbances and issues and probably two weeks of detention straight, he was forced to the school counselor, a futile attempt that she hopefully would be able to lure out whatever was going on from him. That maybe he’d crack under her, that a waterfall of emotions would pour out of him. 

 

She didn’t, because even back then Minho had convinced himself that he was better off not sharing what he felt, the doors to his heart had been closed off for a long time, and the graveyard just kept on growing. 

 

They didn’t get anywhere, Minho refused to speak, so all they did was hold meaningless and dry conversations (How’s school you think? —Shit .) But one thing she achieved, which he regrets not telling her, was that during their fifth (and last) appointment, she explained that when he experienced that things become overwhelming—whether it was schoolwork or feelings, he should give writing them down a shot. Try journaling, she said, or writing them like letters, putting them in envelopes, and instead of posting—set them on fire. “Whatever works for you Minho, if you refuse to say what you think about out loud, give your heart the slightest relief at least—you’ll feel better,” 

 

For years now Minho has been writing in secret, he bought a diary initially, intending to write every day, but the plan fell short, instead, he wrote when he felt that the lump in his throat wouldn’t go away or when he did something stupid and felt guilt twist in his stomach like a sharp knife. Sometimes he wrote pages after pages at once, sometimes he barely had enough to put down two sentences. His emotions had never been so raw as they were on paper, well thought out and elaborate, you’d almost think he knew how to deal with them properly.

 

Afraid, he never showed anyone, he ripped the pages out of notebooks or folded them into small squares and to this day they are hidden in an old shoebox, pushed under his bed, where not even the dust bunnies can find them, there he never has to think of them unless he wants to. 

 

No one knows about them but him, not even Jisung, which is ridiculous, because he knows everything about him. Well, he knows everything about him but two things, the shoebox and his feelings. Which incidentally just goes hand in hand sometimes. This time specifically. 

 

Minho sits down by the harbor, it’s scary and dark at night, but he likes it. He tries again to light a cigarette, and this time he succeeds, the victory tastes better than the cigarettes themselves. 

 

“Jisung;” He writes on top, he laughs out loud to himself, he’s fucking ridiculous. 

 

His heart races just thinking of the younger friend, seeing his face in front of him, displeased, angry, hurt—is this it? Did Minho ruin it for good? Is he even redeemable at this point? Will Jisung ever forgive him? 

 

Or was it the last time Minho saw him? Close to tears, screaming at him, feelings pouring out of him like he couldn’t stop himself. 

 

Minho wouldn’t be surprised, he scoffs to himself, god, if he was in Jisung’s shoes he would have knocked his own teeth in by now. “ Jisung”, he sighs, no apology is good enough. 

 

Mindlessly draws a small head on the corner of the paper. He makes the mouth in the shape of a small heart and the eyes into happy crescent moons. Jisung, Jisung, Jisung . He draws the cheeks full, three lines to symbolize blush—

 

He begins to write a letter, he’s got one paper, one chance, one shot. And it’s all he will allow himself. 

 

It’s cold and dark by the harbor, autumn has been really harsh lately, it’s on its final days—can’t be long until the plants are dead and Christmas is around the corner, but not yet. Minho still has time. 

 

“Autumn is such a beautiful season, don’t you think?” Jisung and Minho sit huddled close together on his fire escape. “Nothing can top it, watching the trees go from bright green to crimson red, the gradients of colors and being able to go outside in thick sweaters, you know? I don’t fuck with tea but god you will catch me with a cup right when September comes along,” Jisung leans back and smiles, he’s happy. 

“It’s just a season,” Minho laughs, putting heavy emphasis on the ‘just’. 

“It’s not, it’s really not,” 

It’s not. Minho feels it too, for some reason it’s now. Maybe it’s because he hears small leaves crunch under his weight when he adjusts his position sitting on the ground, or it’s because he can smell the rain that’s yet to come today, it smells like—autumn? The trees are more or less bare now, but he remembers seeing the colors, and he digs deep into his memory to search for one where Jisung just talks, talks and talks about what he loves, ‘autumn this time please’, Minho tries to tell his brain. “I wanna hear why Jisung loves autumn,”

 

ᗧ

 

Sleepless. 

 

Jisung is sleepless, he tosses and turns. Furious. 

 

The podcast he turns on is over in the fastest hour of his life, the dream would have been for him to be fast asleep long before that—but lo and behold, here he lies, restless and wide awake. 

 

It’s Minho, it’s Minho’s fault. His ghost remains in Jisung’s bed, pressed against the bedsheets. The t-shirt he’s wearing reeks of him, whether it’s the stupid citrus cologne he has worn for years or the smoke, so deeply etched into the fibers there’s no getting rid of them, ever. 

 

Okay, Jisung takes a deep breath, strips the t-shirt, he’ll survive without it, or literally any t-shirt in his closet. It’s fine. 

 

Try again. 

 

Sleep. 

 

“Hahah,” Minho giggles into Jisung’s hair, “Shut the fuck up,” 

Jisung turns to him dead serious. Now in hindsight, he can’t really remember what they argued about—it could have been an unfair match in Mario Kart or just one of those arguments they never settled on (pineapple on pizza is a favorite, Jisung says yes, Minho says it’s a disgrace towards cooks around the world). 

“No,” Minho repeats, he tries to move his arm, but it’s trapped under Jisung, who uses his chest as a personal body pillow. 

“Yes,” Jisung says, widening his eyes, hoping that it will make Minho fall for him. 

 

“Sleep,” Jisung mutters to himself, but every time he attempts too he’s there, knocking on his brain like it’s his window. 

 

His sheets are really drenched in Minho , when he tries to ignore it it’s like it intensifies. Like the very idea of wanting to forget him just triggers memory after memory. Jisung pulls the sheets down a little, away from his face—and it has the complete opposite effect! The small movement just causes the smallest waft of air to hit his face. Again. Minho, Minho, Minho.  

 

Jisung holds back tears, he glances to his bedside table, sees the bright red digits from the clock on it. 

 

It bursts open, like a dam, he’s not ashamed of it—but god knows he’s tired of crying. 

 

“Stupid. Fucking—” Jisung drags himself out of bed with tears rolling down his cheeks, bringing his duvet with him, he rips the cover off it, then he goes for his pillows. stripping them off their pillowcases, he throws the pillows across the room and they land in a pile below the skateboard hanging off his wall. 

 

He goes, dragging covers and sheets under his arms, marching towards the bathroom. It’s small, like if-he-was-claustrophobic-he’d-kill-himself small, Jisung can’t phantom how they have a place for it all, the washer and dryer the least. Stuffed in there from floor to ceiling, stacked on top of each other to save space.

 

“Get off, ” He sneers at the sheets, as if they will actually hear him. Off with him, away, wash him away. 

 

“Jisung?” 

“Mo-mom?” 

 

Jisung looks up from the floor, where he has somehow ended up, he’s caught in the middle of throwing his sheets into the washing machine. As soon as he sees her he dries his cheeks with the sleeves of his shirt, pretending like nothing is out of the ordinary. 

 

“What are you doing?” She asks, rubbing her tired eyes, the bright lights from the bathroom hurt looking at. 

“My sheets,” He whispers, afraid if he raises his voice she’ll hear what’s wrong. He can imagine her saying I told you so, because here he is, exactly what she said would happen—happened. Trashed, just the aftermath of a raging storm. “Smell so much like Minho mom,”   

 

Her smile is neither complacent nor sad, it’s bittersweet, she’s been in his shoes before, at his age. Madly in love—

 

“Tell me,” 

 

So Jisung does. 

 

Somehow he misses Minho more when his sheets smell like laundry detergent and when his mom has ten more reasons to hate him. 

 

He wants him here, poking fun at him, laughing, stroking his hair—irritating his mom and knocking on the video like Minho is Romeo and Jisung is Juliet, caught in a tragic love story.

 

ᗣᗣᗣ·····●·····

 

“Oh—you’re home,” Minho’s dad lets out a noise of surprise when he passes his room. 

 

It’s been a long time since he spent this much time here. A week straight almost, sulking in bed—pitying himself, grieving, something his parents don't know about because he doesn’t dare tell them. Or they do, they are just choosing to ignore it. 

 

“Uh, yeah,” 

”Is…?” His dad lingers on the threshold, looking at his son. “Is Jisung okay?” 

“Fine, I guess,” Minho is playing with the hem of his shirt, it’s stained blue from when Jisung showed up a few months ago at his door, at the crack of dawn with bright blue dye, hair newly bleached. “Wanna help me do something stupid?” 

“Haven’t seen him around lately,” He says, which simultaneously means that he’s surprised Minho has been spending so much time at home and not with Jisung. 

“Yeah,” 

 

Minho's dad recognized the deep frown on his face, it means he’s uncomfortable, he doesn’t like this conversation. 

 

The fear of confrontation must run in the family, because even if he should—Minho’s dad refrains from asking what’s wrong. 

 

“You’re gonna be home all day?” His dad takes a quick glance at his wristwatch, judges him a little, silently, for still being in bed in the late afternoon. 

Minho remains quiet, for some reason, with no intentions of telling his dad what he planned for the day—it’s barely planned in the first place, on top of that he hasn’t let his parents in on what happened with him and Jisung. They are clueless, well almost, they can sense something has happened, but they don’t ask and Minho doesn’t tell. If he were to start explaining now, everything that’s going on, it would take a week straight to unfold it all. 

 

“Eating dinner with us?” 

 

Minho shakes his head. 

 

“Okay,” He mumbles, leaving Minho's door ajar when he leaves. 

 

Minho watches his dad disappear, he waits until the footsteps are faint and he can hear him speak to his mom in the kitchen. 

 

He turns around to his stomach, slides a hand underneath his pillow to pull out the folded-up piece of paper. 

 

At this point, he has reread it so many times he can see the words behind his eyelids when he closes them. The “Jisung,” at the top, doodled maple leaves here, and there. The stickman on a skateboard on the bottom left. Minho traces the letters and the drawings with his finger. 

 

“give your heart the slightest relief at least—you’ll feel better,” Minho sighs, tilting his head, reading it over one more time. 

 

One more time, Minho reads it out loud this time—or almost, his lips move at least, but there are barely any sounds leaving his mouth. Just every other syllable makes it out, or he puts extra weight on Jisung’s name. 

 

Restricting himself to one sheet of paper was not so ingenious, like writing it in the dark at night wasn’t either. Or writing in ballpoint, unable to erase. It’s accidentally misspelled words crossed out, and sentences so tightly squeezed together they look like snakes. Written front and back. He can barely read it himself, he wonders if Jisung will be able to. 

 

“I’m going out,” Minho mumbles while he leaves his room, the note has been folded up again and put in his pocket, he’s still putting on socks when he comes into his parents' view. 

“In that?” His mom questions, and you would too if you saw him. Ruined, stained t-shirt, sweatpants hanging off his hips that are at least half a decade old. His black hair is tousled, unbrushed. 

 

Minho rolls his eyes at her, sure, over the backrest on the couch he has thrown one of his sweatshirts, it’s probably intended to go in the wash, but he threads it over his head and looks at her. Gesturing at himself like—”Is this acceptable?” 

 

“Are you going to Jisung’s?” 

Nodding, Minho crouches down to tie his shoes, it’s like he can see his parents look at each other by the table, concerned or curious, it’s one of them. 

“Tell his mom we said hi,” 

“Sure,” He whispers, if she doesn’t take a kitchen knife and takes him out first, which is honestly possible. It’s been almost two weeks since Halloween, two weeks since he saw Jisung, and if his gut feeling isn’t wrong he suspects Jisung hasn’t been as secretive as Minho has been about what happened between them. 

 

He takes his skateboard, his heart has been racing for hours now, but it intensifies as soon as he steps outside. The rain is light, but it’s there, the darkness is already creeping in—something Minho never gets used to. The street that separates his apartment and Jisung’s is so straight he can practically see the other apartment complex from here. 

 

He climbs the fire escape to Jisung’s apartment like he’s used to doing, it’s a little slippery, and the metal is cold—he’s still terrified of the height, which is why he counts to ten and trusts his instincts. On ten he’s there, outside of Jisung’s window, which is closed. Gazing inside, it’s dark and vacant, but the door is open and the rest of the apartment is lit. Minho looks down at his phone and considers calling Jisung, but his finger pulls towards another name instead. 

 

“The fuck?” 

“Is Jisung home?” 

“No-no?” 

 

Jiwoon’s confused voice echoes over the phone, and at the same time Minho sees him pass Jisung's room, they make awkward eye contact for three solid seconds, in which Jiwoon has time to go through the five stages of grief. Except the last stage isn’t acceptable, it’s confusion. 

 

“The fuck?” He whispers over the phone, he looks around to see if their mom is there, she’s not—Minho assumes, he asks again what Minho’s doing here while he closes Jisung’s door to make sure no one sees Minho. Read—their mom, most of all. 

“Wanna talk to Jisung,” 

“He’s not home, don’t know when he’s coming either,” Jiwoon huffs, and after Minho has whispered “okay” the line stays quiet and awkward. “Do you want me to call when he comes home? Or tell him to call you?” 

“No, no don’t,” Minho almost sounds concerned, he holds his hand up in front of him as if to say stop, but realizes that Jiwoon can’t even see him anymore. He shakes his head, just says goodbye, and hangs up. 

 

Carefully he climbs the way down again. 

 

Patiently, and pathetically he sits down on the steps to Jisung’s apartment entrance, where he waits. 

 

He waits. 

 

And he waits. 

 

A little bit more, even, waits like he’s eight years old waiting for someone with big wide eyes. Like he has a big brother who doesn’t care if he’s trailing after him or is lured into a white van with the promise of candy or a litter of puppies. 

 

Once Minho asked if Jisung could hear it, the sound of skateboard wheels on asphalt. It’s perfect when it’s newly laid and untouched, it’s almost like velvet, smooth and soft. In Minho and Jisung’s neighborhood, it probably hasn’t been reimbursed since the day it was laid, so when someone comes riding over the cracks and the bumps Minho can hear it long before they come into view. 

 

“Jisung,” Minho shouts, forcing his knees to straighten, they wobble, feel like noodles. The name sounds odd coming from his mouth, but he feels the relieving sensation run through his veins. 

 

Jisung stops a few yards from the entrance, his hair is wet—caught in the rain earlier, he wears a hoodie Minho gifted him a few months ago, it was his at first, but he liked to see Jisung drown in it, so he gave it to him. He still does—drown in it. 

 

“I wanna talk, talk, talk to you like,” Minho tries to explain, he fumbles over the words like he’s never spoken before. He watches the younger walk up to the entrance, making space for him to punch the code in. 

“Okay,” Jisung breathes, tired, holding the door open for them. 

“Inside?”  

 “What? Are you scared of mom?” 

“Scared shitless,” Minho tries to joke, he doesn’t see Jisung’s face, but he hopes that the corners of his mouth jerked just a little at least.  

 

Minho actually is, when Jisung opens their door and steps inside he follows timidly, deathly afraid to see his mom in there. The list is long, you know, many valid reasons for her to dislike Minho, but hurting Jisung in the way he did, gotta top that list by far. He’d hunt him down too. 

 

“Mom, I’m home,” 

“Okay—oh,” She stops, frozen, staring at Minho next to Jisung in the hall. They kick their shoes off and drop their skateboards to the floor, Minho keeps his eyes on Jisung’s mom while he takes his jacket off, scared like he’s prey in their household. 

“Uh, I’m gonna talk with Minho a bit,”

 

She nods, but she judges, quiet—loud. Her eyes could practically burn holes through the wood his door is made out of. The lock echoes after them. 

 

Jisung plays with a pencil on his desk, Minho rests against his windowsill, though he wears a t-shirt and a sweater he feels the icy glass press against his back. 

 

“Hah, you’re gonna have to apologize to Jiwoon from me, I called him, ‘cause your window was closed, and you weren’t home,” 

 

Minho expects the tiniest of reaction from Jisung, but there is none, he waits, like he’s done his entire life. For Minho. “Don’t talk to me until you’re ready to talk,”  He said, and now he runs with the silent treatment until the elder, well, does that. 

 

“I waited, almost froze my ass off, I think I sat there for like—”

“I waited too,” Jisung blurts, his breathing heavy, like he’s out of breath. “For you to call, or come back, or just anything that suggested you thought of me, cared,” 

“Of course I do,” Minho scoffs, “‘Course I think of you, care, all that stupid stuff,”

 

Jisung frowns and scoffs, taps his desk with his pointer finger impatiently on the desk. It feels like the entire room suffers an earthquake. 

 

“I think...you occupy my brain every breathing second, and unfortunately for your mom, I am very much alive, which also means I can’t stop thinking about you,”

 

Carefully Jisung glances at his bed, nods to himself, Minho doesn’t miss out on his gentle movements. 

 

“Uh, I think my parents were onto something when they sent me to that counselor when I was like fifteen, you probably don’t know, I was scared of telling you,” Minho laughs at himself, “And it didn’t really matter, ‘cause I stopped going after like a month,”

“What’s that got to do with, us?” 

“I haven’t really...grown up in the most expressional home, my parents are kinda timid and quiet you know?” 

 

Agreeing with him, Jisung nods, comparing Minho to his parents, you wouldn’t even believe he was related to them, his wild nature is one of a kind in their family, a mischievous little devil, headstrong and...so nonchalant and confident. His parents probably expected someone more like them, quiet and reserved, calm and obedient. Saying they were scared of Minho is wrong, but they were never very assertive with him, just letting him do whatever he wanted because they thought he’d be happier that way. And they didn’t know what to do, parenthood is like that sometimes, you don’t know what to do, so you do nothing, and hope it will work out. 

 

Which it does. Or not. 

 

“Uh—” Minho looks at the ceiling, takes a deep breath. He keeps his eyes on the cracking paint when he continues to talk with a quivering bottom lip. “I don’t really, do, emotions, so being friends with you, who is only emotions it feels, is…” 

“Are you crying?” Jisung asks, surprised and suddenly. He’s not standing by his desk anymore, he has taken a few steps towards Minho. “You’re crying,” 

 

Minho is. He stares at the ceiling and you’d think the dark room would hide the small tears that run down his cheeks, he blinks frequently, hoping they will disappear. He does this when he cries, pretends like nothing happens at all, his eyes lock on something random hoping the focus will distract him. He clenches his entire jaw—from miles you can hear his teeth grinding. 

 

“Shut up, I’m trying—” He tries to grit out, and it doesn’t help that Jisung quietly steps towards him. Minho dries off his cheeks and averts his gaze to Jisung. The other is close now, barely a foot of distance between them. Minho gives up, he lowers his head, and Jisung is just close enough for him to rest it comfortably on his shoulder. “I’m just trying Jisung, so hard,” 

“I know you are,” Jisung whispers, his fingers begin to play with the hair in his nape, he twirls the black strands carefully. “I know you’re trying hard, but you can’t blame me—”

 “I’m not, I’m not blaming you,” Minho breathes, “I’m blaming me, I’m blaming my parents, fucking Changbin—” Jisung chuckles confused because he doesn’t understand where Changbin came from, “I’ll blame every single soul in the universe before I blame you, you were just—honest, and I was not.” 

 

Their hands travel, Minho locks his around Jisung’s neck, while Jisung’s run through his hair—over his back. 

 

Using their closeness to his advantage, Minho drags Jisung closer, like the two weeks were two years and Jisung’s a drug and he’s in withdrawal. He has missed his presence so much it’s like his entire body and mind just craves for it. 

 

“Smile for me please,” Minho mumbles into the junction between Jisung’s neck and shoulder. 

“Why would you say that so pervy,” 

“Smile,” Minho pleads, he raises his head to look at the younger; his hands move to his face, pulling at his cheeks to mimic one.

“Why?” Jisung asks, but his mouth is already pulled into an innocent smile. 

“‘Cause it’s a heart,” He says, he’s gentle when he cups Jisung’s face, stroking the soft skin, his eyes study how Jisung’s eyelashes curl in the ends and how his eyes soften just looking at him. “Your mouth is a little heart, when you smile,” He drags his thumb over Jisung’s lips. 

“Minho,” Jisung whispers.

 

Minho lunges forward in response, presses a quick kiss to his lips. 

 

Jisung pulls away, quick, his fingers dig into Minho’s chin, he angles it down, to look him in the eyes. “Are you high?” Minho shakes his head. “You‘re not?” 

“No,” 

 

Surprised, almost, Jisung releases a breath. He relaxes against Minho, feels his entire body go lax, like the revelation was all he needed to have some peace. 

 

“I’m sorry I made you think I didn’t want you unless I was smoking, or drinking. I did, all the time, I just never had the confidence to take unless I had that added bravery—from the weed, or the alcohol.” 

“Who would think you needed bravery?” 

“Crazy right?” 

“Do you—do you want me?” Jisung asks, his head pressed against Minho's cheek, he whispers into his ear. Breathless and needy. 

“I do,” Minho answers, hands trailing down to his hips. 

“I—I want you to apologize Minho, I want you to mean it.” 

“I’m sorry Jisungie,” 

 

Light like a feather, Minho presses a kiss to Jisung's cheek, mumbles another apology against his skin.

 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t honest, I’m sorry I hurt you,” Minho gulps down remaining guilt, he’s not used to apologizing—which is such an asshole thing to think about. That Minho isn’t a guy that says he’s sorry. Once again, Minho thinks about how if he was literally anyone else, he would have kicked the shit out of him by this point, it’s a miracle Jisung hasn’t yet, it’s a blessing Minho at least got his boxing in his side—otherwise Jisung maybe would have given it a shot. 

 

It’s a wonder Jisung likes Minho so much, that their friendship has stretched for an entire decade, that their love for each other, unsaid or not, is still this persistent. Like every time Minho opens his mouth Jisung wants to slap him and give him a kiss. 

 

“Mom said I’m would be, and I quote, “fucking stupid” if I accepted your apology,” He talks against Minho's lips, they don’t kiss, not really. 

“Did she really think I would apologize?”

“No, but I did,”

 

They both giggle a little, at the confession. He’s fucking stupid, for sure. But everyone who would ever willingly fall in love with Minho is, he’s a storm, an addicting one too. He’s the kind of guy that doesn’t apologize, that could take someone apart limb by limb and still come climbing through their window to do it again. 

 

“Can you say it—can you say that you…” Jisung begins, he trails off when Minho presses a warm hand to his cheek and kisses a trail from his lips to his jawline. He continues down his throat, nipping at the sensitive skin, responds to his question, fanning hot breath against the reddening mark. 

“Can I do what?”

“Tell me what you feel?” 

 

Minho stops. Pushes himself away from the windowsill.

 

“I…can’t,” He begins, Jisung's gaze lands on the floor, disappointed and hurt. “Not in the way you want me to, I can feel my stomach twist, just, thinking about it, dancing around the implication makes my entire body tremble,” Minho studies the way Jisung reacts, realizing as the words leave his mouth that the younger loses hope just as fast as he gained it, minutes ago. 

“But it’s not because…I don’t feel it, ” Minho coughs out, struggling to pick out the folded-up note from his pocket. “Don’t read it now, I’ll kill myself from embarrassment, but I’ve always had a way with words better when in writing, just take it and read, whenever.” 

 

A new hopeful glance travels to Jisung’s face, who accepts it with wide eyes, he can already read bits and pieces, and see some of the silly drawings. A stupid stickman on a skateboard and a maple leaf. The corner of his mouth jerks upwards, Minho's relieved seeing it. 

 

A knock on the door interrupts their intense staring contest, Jisung averts his face away from Minho's dark irises, pitch-black and reflective in the dark room. 

 

“Yeah?” He calls out.

“Mom wants to know if you want food,” Jiwoon’s voice rumbles to the door, Jisung turns to Minho to seek an answer, as if he isn’t sure what to respond. The elder tilts his head, weighing millions of options in his head. 

“I’d love to annoy the guys over at the diner though,” Minho whispers, he’s standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, Jisung an inch away from him, nodding. 

“No, it’s fine,” He responds, and he hears Jiwoon’s footsteps disappear without saying anything else. “Is it your treat?” Jisung leans in and asks in a whisper too, a smile painting his face. 

“Will you let me crash?” 

 

Hah, when are you not? 

 

When is he not? 

 

It doesn’t take many minutes for Minho and Jisung to stumble into the hall, sharing childish glances and huffing out low waves of laughter, Jisung’s mom and Jiwoon are sitting in the kitchen while she makes a small dinner for them. Jiwoon looks like he can’t decide between; I hate the sight of you together or it’s kind of relieving seeing you side by side again, his mother has her usual mix of displeasure and loath on her face, intensified or not by the recent events between them. If Jisung thought a simple polite “good morning,” coming from Minho would help her relationship with her, now he’ll have to show up at their doorstep every day with a dozen roses and the most courteous smile he could ever pull—fake or not to patch it up. 

 

“We will be back by midnight,” Jisung promises, he lays extra weight on ‘ we’, and though his mom huffs and rolls her eyes, she pays them no mind in forbidding them from either going out or keeping Minho away from staying the night, maybe she has learned by now that the fire escape is surprisingly easy to climb. 

 

Jisung brings the small folded-up note, he takes it out of his pocket when Minho uses the bathroom—eyes it when the elder tries to flirt a few bucks off their bill at the end of the meal, it itches in him to fold it open and read the confession out loud. He’d love for the entire world to hear, not only does he want the entire world to know that Minho belongs to him; he wants everyone to know that Minho considers Jisung his. That their bond is unbroken and everlasting. 

 

Minho spends a few minutes on the fire escape when they eventually end up home again, managing to come home just a moment before the time has time to strike midnight. Jisung goes between his bedroom and the bathroom, when Minho throws a glance over his shoulder he sees him making the bed for them, struggling with putting the duvet in the cover, he scoffs to himself, but the black eyes soften in secret and the smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. He considers going inside to help, but the sight is entertaining, and he has half a cigarette left to smoke, so he turns his attention back to it, dreaming away staring down on the ground. It’s only four flights, but his height freight settles in, and suddenly it feels like a million feet drop, he can barely see the browning leaves gathered in piles on the ground or the wet asphalt, caught in yet another shower of rain. 

 

“Hey!” Jisung exclaims, Minho turns to him startled, eyes wide in surprise. The younger one hangs out the window, throwing him a dumbfounded look. “Come in, it’s so cold~”

“Smoking,” Minho whines, holding out a cigarette that is almost burning down to the filter. Jisung frowns, and the pitiful face is more than enough to convince Minho otherwise.  

“You’re so insufferable;” Minho mumbles, he steps close enough to leave a peck on Jisung’s lips, pulling away before the latter in question has time to beg for more. 

“Am not,” Jisung huffs, “I beg to differ actually,” He trails for his bed and hears Minho’s soft feet behind him, socks against the wooden floor. “I think you like me a lot,”

 

There is a comfortable silence falling between them, Minho refrains from answering the other, but he nods to himself, and even if the younger doesn’t see him—he trusts, blindly, that the other does that—like him. Minho changes out of the sweater he’s wearing, and the falling-apart-thread-by-thread t-shirt underneath it, borrows a shirt from Jisung’s closet that is either his or Jisung’s, the line of ownership has been blurred for a long time now. As with most of their things. 

 

Under the sheets their bodies tangle, Jisung breathes in deep, admits in a flurry that it’s unreal how much he missed him, “It’s sick really, I felt like I could cry every day, ‘cause you weren’t here,” And with the familiar small lump of guilt in his throat, Minho apologizes into Jisung’s hair, drawing a line over his back with a finger, tracing his spine. “I’m sorry,” 

 

“Hey, can you tell me something?” Minho breathes, the words dancing around in the air before reaching Jisung, he’s half asleep already, spent from the day. But he nods, and lays a hand over the one locked around his waist. 

“Sure,” 

“When did you know that um—you liked me, more than just, like?” 

 

Surprised at the weird wording, Jisung chuckles, but he knows what he means. 

 

“So the first time—”

“First time?” Minho exclaims, he lifts his head a little to look at Jisung. 

“Quiet, the first time, it was October,” 

 

As an eight-year-old, watching with big eyes as Minho rode around on his skateboard nonchalantly, when he was ten and spent every day of summer vacation trying to beat Minho at Street Fighter, under neon lights in the arcade, when he was thirteen and promised to make Minho as happy as he makes him one day, when they kissed for the first time when Minho held his hand when they rode on their boards because he knew Jisung liked it. 

 

Every single day since he met Minho. He thinks that’s how long he has liked him, he knew it from the second Minho promised to teach him how to ride a skateboard, more when the elder turned desperate for the first time, had to make up excuses to ask Jisung for kisses, the most when he whispered that he wanted Jisung to be his. As the night turned the last day of a long and bittersweet october into something entirely new. 

 

The short story lulls Minho to sleep, Jisung both takes offense (how could he fall asleep while I pour my heart out?) and can’t help but coo, at Minho’s puffed cheeks and furrowed brows, a small cut remains on above his lip that is yet to heal, and the hands around his waist are locked tight, Minho’s never been soft—a storm, sharp and destructive is more like him. But Jisung knows, behind those black eyes rest a pair that soften when they look at Jisung, the harsh voice turns velvety and quiet as if not to disturb anyone when they are by themselves, the cracked hands could take out anyone, even Changbin (even if he apparently has worked out in secret) but the right element for them will always be to play with Jisung’s hair when he’s are bored, thread with Jisung’s own hand when it’s empty and alone. 

 

Jisung’s not alone, he knows Minho has feelings buried deep, so he grabs a shovel, makes sure Minho is really asleep and then he reaches down from his bed, for the jeans and a folded-up piece of paper. Decides it’s long overdue to go digging. 

 

····●····· ᗤ

 

“You asshole,” Jisung cries, slapping Minho’s shoulder to wake him up.

“Huh,” He blinks tired eyes open, the room is as dark as it was when he fell asleep. Still in the middle of the night. 

“You really like me?” Jisung asks, tears streaming down his cheeks like a stupid little child, he’s flailing a note around, tries to sit up to stop the sobbing to choke him. Minho’s ears turn red underneath the black hair, “I told you not to read it around me! It’s embarrassing,”

“You like me so-so-so much,” 

 

They both start gasping for air, Jisung because he’s crying, and Minho because tries to hide his embarrassment with loud laughter, “Stop crying, you big baby!” He screams, and Jisung bites his lip to stop, eyes big looking down on Minho. He sniffs, dries his face with the back of his hand. 

 

“Shut up! Shut up!!” 

 

Jiwoon bangs on the wall that separates their two rooms, Minho laughs even harder and tries to ignore that his raw feelings have been exposed, even if that was the intention the entire time. 

 

Stroking Jisung’s back, Minho tries to calm him down, hushing him and reminding him that if they continue, his mom won’t be the only one to hate Minho. 

 

“You like me,” Jisung sniffs, face pressed straight to Minho’s chest, getting stained in tears and snot and everything sweet and disgusting. 

“Obviously,” 

 

Outside it has begun snowing, this time there is no doubt it will settle into deep blankets. Autumn is over, but not before the first coffin in the graveyard of Minho’s heart has been ripped open, a sign that more are to follow. 

 

Notes:

i wrote about ~8k of this back in like JULY but decided at the end of sept/beginning of october that I wanted to rewrite what I had, and just go from there.

have been months since I last wrote minsung, and put this much effort into a fic, and it's been a lot, as i am still very much in my seemingly neverending writers block, PHEW, the number of times i have considered hitting delete. BUT now im here, perfectly fitting for autumn, a nice little end to this bittersweet october.

hope you like this one, and if you do, kudos/comments are always much appreciated!!
lmk what you thought of it <33

c u next time