Chapter Text
storm coming, good husband, bad omen
dragged my feet right down the aisle
at the house lonely, good money
i’d pay if you’d just know me
seemed like the right thing at the time
─── high infidelity, taylor swift
Minho is having a bad day and this banquet is making it exponentially worse.
He can think of at least fifteen better ways to waste his Sunday away, most of which would actually improve his well-being instead of dragging it down to the deepest pits of hell. A bath is the first thing that comes to mind. A long bath, with enough bubbles to spill out over the edge and make a mess on the floor; the bathroom lights dimmed; an overly sentimental playlist playing from his phone; a snack in his hand, maybe even a bottle of beer. That would be perfect.
But instead, Minho is stuck in the excessively large living room of Choi Kwan, making small talk with more or less influential people from the boards of at least ten different tech companies. He managed to escape the last conversation only because the daughter of the host found someone else to entertain her, and now he’s cooling down in one of the corners of the room, pretending to be interested in the pamphlet he picked up off one of the tables just so that he doesn’t have to talk to anyone else.
No matter how much he wants to, it’s still too early to leave. And he can’t even have one of those fancy, colorful drinks, because he has to drive. God, what a nightmare.
Minho lifts his head to check whether the coast is still clear, and it’s just in time to see Jeong Hyunwoo striding his way.
In that second, he decides it’s a perfect moment to run off to the bathroom and avoid yet another pointless discussion about investments that are never going to see the light of day.
Fuck this, he thinks, tossing the flyer onto the table. He spins on his heel and hurries away, disappearing between the gathered guests. Thankfully, he manages to make it out of the room without being pulled into a conversation by another vaguely familiar face that he won’t be able to put a name to.
He hates attending all these events, and even more so he hates that he’s expected to move through them like they’re his natural habitat. He’s been doing it since he turned eighteen. He’s almost ten years older now, and he’s yet to learn how to dominate the immense boredom and frustration that fills him each time he’s forced to take part in them.
Minho lets out a sigh and keeps making his way down the dim-lit hallway. He has attended enough events hosted by the Chois to know that there’s a safe haven just around the corner—a giant bathroom that’s perfect to hide in, even if only for a few minutes.
The classical music and the chatter from the living room drown out the sound of his footsteps—that’s probably why he doesn’t hear anyone coming from around the corner.
He feels the man crashing against him before he feels the wetness on his shirt, how it spreads downward and makes the fabric stick to his body.
Oh, fuck, he thinks, stumbling back, his mouth wide open in with shock and indignation. The front of his shirt is soaked with wine, the stain dark red and angry, consuming the expensive white fabric at a rapid pace. Oh my god.
As if this evening could not get any worse.
It’s probably not a good thing that the first thing he thinks of is that at least now he has an excuse to leave. He can’t just walk around with a stain like that, look like an unkempt fool in front of all these bigwigs.
“Oh my god,” the man echoes, as if reading his thoughts. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”
Minho looks up, and sees the sheer terror in his expression. How comically wide his eyes are, how his mouth is forming a perfect O shape. He’s pretty, too, even when he looks this ridiculously mortified, which is hardly fair, if someone asked Minho. Extremely pretty. Offensively pretty.
As soon as he thinks it, blood rushes to his cheeks. The deep shade of red that takes over his skin, from the tips of his ears to his chest, could rival the burgundy stain on his shirt. Which—the man almost drops his glass as he tries to rummage through the pockets of his slacks, most likely in search of tissues.
Minho takes a deep breath and says, “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”
The man keeps apologizing profusely, though. “I should’ve looked where I was going. I’m so sorry,” he repeats. His search ends up futile. No tissues. He looks back at Minho and his shoulders slump. “God, you can’t walk around in this,” he says under his breath. And then louder— “I’ll give you my shirt.”
“Huh?”
Minho almost laughs.
“I can give you my shirt,” the man repeats. “It’ll probably fit, and I can wear just the blazer, it’s fine.”
“You don’t have to,” Minho says, but as he pinches the front of his shirt between his fingers to pull it away from his skin, he realizes just how little he wants to drive home like this.
“I insist. I’ll pay for the shirt, too,” he says, though, frankly, money is the last of Minho’s problems right now. “I’m really sorry.”
Minho sighs. The man looks anxious, like he thinks Minho is going to murder him for a silly accident, so, wanting to avoid sending him into a spiral of worrying as to whom he might’ve showered in wine, he eventually relents.
“I’m Jisung, by the way,” the guy introduces himself, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck as they walk to the bathroom. “I should’ve started with that instead of pouring wine on you. Hah. Great first impression.”
Against himself, Minho grins. Having a drink spilled on his shirt during a banquet is low on the list of the worst things that happened to him, and anything is better than being out there in the living room, so it’s not like he’s going to start throwing a fit. And, well—Jisung’s emotionality is quite amusing.
“I’m Minho,” he says. “Contrary to what you might think, it’s very nice to meet you.”
Jisung hangs his head low, embarrassed, but his mouth twists up in a smile, anyway. Minho counts that as a personal win.
In the bathroom, one glance in the mirror tells him the situation is even worse than it was a minute ago. The shirt is completely ruined, and Minho sees no point in even trying to get the stain out. He unbuttons it and throws it into trash. It’s whatever. He has a million white shirts in the closet. He’ll live without this one.
Once Minho is standing in the middle of the room shirtless, using the wet tissues lying around to wipe his chest and stomach, Jisung wastes no time stripping his own shirt off for him. It’s pristine, probably from a luxury brand, and when Minho puts it on, it’s just tight enough around his shoulders that he has to leave the two top buttons undone.
Jisung slips into his blazer again then. It’s low-cut, so his chest—and his tattoo, god, his tattoo—is practically on full display, but it looks good on him even without anything underneath. Maybe because he’s not wearing anything underneath. Minho can’t decide.
He might not be looking for romance, but he appreciates eye candy as much as the next person, and Jisung is so obviously charming and handsome. He probably makes older ladies at fundraisers open their wallets. No harm in letting his eye linger.
Minho washes his hands and gives himself a once-over in the mirror, making sure he looks presentable enough to go back out into the wilderness, but his gaze slips to Jisung, standing behind him, staring at their reflection.
Minho turns around and raises an eyebrow.
“You should, uh, give me your number,” Jisung starts, pausing for a second and studying Minho’s face. He must find whatever he’s looking for in his expression because he continues, “So that I can pay for the shirt.”
His grin is playful enough to get the point across. They both know that it’s not what this is about—at least not only this. And Minho also knows that he shouldn’t. He knows that it’s a bad idea. Knows that he’s supposed to say, I’m married.
But he’s an idiot, so he doesn’t.
He just shakes his head with obvious amusement and says, “If you’re so insistent, I have no choice but to hold you to it.”
He asks Jisung for his phone and types his number in, debating whether he should add an emoticon for the ID before settling on just his name. Simple. Their fingers brush briefly as he hands the device back, and a snap of static electricity shoots through them. Jisung’s eyes widen again, so damn expressive and so damn pretty, before he twists his mouth in a grin.
And Minho knows the attraction is mutual.
The thought thrills and terrifies him at the same time.
“Are you going back to the party now?” Jisung asks once all is said and done, when they have no more reasons to stay locked in a bathroom together.
“I think I need another minute before I let these people make my head explode,” Minho says.
Jisung doesn’t manage to conceal his disappointment in time for him not to notice, but before Minho can think anything of it, he’s smiling again.
“See you there,” he says, taking the empty wine glass off the counter and tipping it in Minho’s direction cheekily. He unlocks the bathroom door and walks out, leaving Minho alone with his dangerous thoughts and a battered heart.
Minho takes his sweet time—scrolls through his phone, sends a crying cat sticker to Changbin (and gets left on read), and thinks about the shape of Jisung’s smile—and he feels less murderous by the time he makes his way back to the living room. Really, he has to purse his lips to stop himself from smiling. Which is ridiculous, he knows, especially that he’s been scowling and frowning all evening.
This time around, instead of venturing around the room alone, he locates Yeeun, elegant as she sips from her champagne glass, and joins her in the conversation with her best friend, Lee Yeoreum. Yeeun looks almost displeased at his arrival, like she wants him near just as little as he does her, but she’s subtle enough to not let it linger on her face for too long.
“Shin Ryujin was looking for you,” she says off-handedly. He might be imagining it, because there’s no way she would pay enough attention to him to take notice, but it looks like her gaze hangs on his shirt, white and simple, but still—different from the one he’d been wearing before.
“Oh? Did she tell you what she wanted?”
Yeeun shrugs. “It probably had something to do with the app, I don’t know. You should find her before we go home.”
“Alright,” Minho says. “Thank you.”
With a nod, Yeeun goes back to her conversation with Yeoreum, a small smile making its way to her crimson lips. As little as he wants to be with her, it’s better than throwing himself into conversations about work with people he barely tolerates on a good day. And, well, just standing there grants him a chance to look around without the immediate danger of being approached.
Minho tries to be inconspicuous as he sweeps his gaze over the room, but he’s not entirely sure how good at it he’s being. His eyes slide over more or less familiar faces, never lingering long enough to meet eyes. But—to his utmost surprise—when they finally land on the person he’s been really looking for, Jisung is already staring at him.
The corners of his mouth quirk up when their eyes meet, and then he’s ducking his head like he’s suddenly shy about the fact that he just got caught. Minho keeps staring, shameless and idiotic, and he’s rewarded for his stupidity when Jisung looks up at him again.
Hi, he seems to mouth all the way from across the room.
Minho schools his expression into something more neutral than the foolish excitement he feels, but he mouths back, Hi.
The world moves around them, the conversations go on against the backdrop of the Moonlight Sonata, and he’s still looking at Jisung, and Jisung isn’t looking away. At least until Hwang Yeji sashays in and steals his attention away, greeting him like an old friend.
Minho has to force himself to tear his gaze away then.
When he returns home that night, he thinks that he will never see Jisung again. He never has before, he doesn’t recall, so he must have been a plus-one at the banquet, a friend of a friend. Him proposing to repay for the ruined shirt must have been just a fib of politeness, too, especially considering that days pass and he doesn’t reach out. It was obviously a once-in-a-lifetime meeting, and outside the house of Choi Kwon, the world is so big that they will never cross paths again.
Minho also knows it’s for the better.
Although that doesn’t really hold him back from thinking about Jisung often enough for his face to never fade from his memory. It proves to be a liability, since Minho can’t concentrate on a single thing that following week. Work, books, movies, outings with friends—their brief encounter haunts everything he does, and it’s so… foolish. Minho knows that. He knows it’s wrong of him to even entertain the thought, and his brain keeps oscillating between this is bad this is bad and invasive memories of the way Jisung’s mouth took on the shape of a heart when he smiled.
But it’s nothing, in reality. Just something far enough out of reach to entertain his grim days. Something to dream about.
Naturally, he does not think he’s going to see Jisung in the convenience store while he’s grabbing a bottle of Gatorade after an evening at the gym. He thinks he’s hallucinating at first—he’s so exhausted after working out that his mind still feels a bit floaty, and he’s been thinking about Jisung so much that it wouldn’t even surprise him if he started seeing him in the faces of strangers on the street.
He would think he was slowly going insane, but it would not surprise him.
But it’s him in the dairy aisle, with a shopping basket in the crook of his elbow, wearing a hoodie, cargo pants, and sneakers with obnoxiously high platforms, looking like he’s debating between two kinds of yogurt, his eyebrows drawn together in a way that Minho finds offensively cute. (He needs help.)
His heart skips a beat in surprise, and before he can even give it a second thought, he’s strolling up to him and saying, “The audacity of showing your face around here when you still haven’t paid me for my shirt.”
Jisung startles. When his gaze flies away from the yogurt shelf and lands on Minho, though, the realization dawns on him and he breaks into a smile. It’s just contagious as Minho remembers it to be those two weeks ago, his voice still deep and sweet like honey when he says, “Oh, god, Minho!”
“Hm. So you remember my name, but you didn’t remember to call me about that shirt,” Minho teases. He doesn’t care about the damned shirt, and they both know it.
Jisung catches on the playful tone easily. “I was waiting,” he says. “Giving you time to forget me so that I can come back when you least expect me and sweep you off your feet.”
Minho feels his body temperature rise a few degrees. He needs to bite his tongue, be careful with what he’s saying, he knows, but it’s so—tempting. To just… He doesn’t know. Be himself?
“Should I go?” he asks. “Should I pretend I didn’t see you and wait for you to call?”
He takes a step back, but Jisung’s fingers curl around his wrist to stop him. The skin-on-skin contact is—once again—electrifying, except this time it’s not an accidental touch, Jisung is holding him and he’s not letting go even though Minho isn’t moving away anymore.
He doesn’t remember the last time someone touched him with purpose. To make him stay. Because they wanted to. Jisung’s touch lingers like he really wants to.
“No,” he says, eventually retracting his hand. “Since we’re meeting here, then it must be a sign.”
Minho snorts, amused, but the back of his neck feels the warmth of the shyness lying deep underneath. What is this guy’s business, sweet-talking him like that?
“You go shopping around here often?” he asks, because he’s not above being a fool, either.
The question makes Jisung laugh, too loud for the four walls of the convenience store, but the sound sends a chill down Minho’s spine. It’s melodic. He wants to hear it over and over again, that’s how much he likes it.
“I live nearby,” Jisung says. “Do you? Come here often?”
Minho shrugs. “I go to the gym a few blocks away. So I’m just curious if I’d be seeing more of you if I stopped by more frequently.”
Jisung tilts his head to the side and regards him for a moment. Says, “You don’t have to try to figure out where I do my groceries and jump through hoops to find a reason to see me. If you want to, just say it.”
And if Minho wasn’t sure before if Jisung was flirting with him, if he was interested, that definitely seals the deal.
Although he knows he shouldn’t, knows that instead there are a million things he should say— Why can’t he just fucking say it? —what leaves his mouth is a soft, “We should get dinner sometime.”
Jisung breaks into yet another one of his disarming smiles, and Minho knows right then and there that whatever this is, it will leave him in ruins.
✦
That evening with Jisung, time seems to slip through his fingers. They meet at one of the bars in Hongdae, and Minho’s initial plan is to have at least one drink to loosen up before Jisung comes, just in case things aren’t as easy and awkwardness-less as before. However, Jisung is already there when he arrives and, anyway, it quickly turns out he has nothing to worry about.
He and Jisung jump from one topic to another with ease, until every moment seems to blend into one. It’s one long never-ending conversation.
It’s mostly Minho who’s doing the questioning, and if he wasn’t two old-fashioneds in, he would probably see it for what it is: avoidance, of course, and not just the sincere want to get to know Jisung.
“You said you didn’t know where the good places around here were these days,” he points out, recalling their last conversation. “Are you not from Seoul? Did you live somewhere else before?”
“You really want to know all that boring stuff about me?” Jisung asks, swirling the ice around with the straw in his tall glass of mojito. He’s staring at Minho with his cheek propped up against his hand, fully-focused. His eyes are sparkling, and it doesn’t seem to just be the side-effect of alcohol.
“I want to know everything about you,” he says, and once the words leave his mouth, Minho is not surprised to find that he really means it.
Jisung’s eyes widen for a split-second, but then he’s laughing with ease, and Minho doesn’t even have the time to feel embarrassed about it.
“I lived here most of my life,” Jisung recounts, taking Minho’s interest for what it is. “But I spent two years in Toronto. I just moved back, so I’m still settling in.”
“Yeah? And what did you do in Toronto?”
“It’s quite a funny story, really. I went there to see my brother, but I ended up staying to learn management from him,” he says, and Minho can’t really be imagining the way he leans in closer when he speaks. “He’s overseeing the Canadian division of our family business.”
Minho hums. He has figured out that Jisung couldn’t have been just a plus-one to the banquet, that he had to be one of them.
“What branch are you in?” he asks.
“We’ve got a chain of hotels around the world,” Jisung says. He twirls his drink around in the glass again, dragging his eyes away from Minho. A nervous habit, perhaps. He doesn’t seem too eager to talk about this particular topic, so Minho doesn’t push.
There’s no reason to sour their evening when it has just started, and it’s so nice.
“Anyway,” Jisung carries on, “I’ve started missing home, my family, my friends, you know. So I decided to come back and maybe put what I’ve learned over those two years to use. I mean, I’m still only going to be, hm, interning for a while, but having a job of my own will be much more interesting than basically following my brother around.”
“It seems like a fulfilling job,” Minho says, smiling, and he means it. Beats sitting in front of a computer all day, getting premature back pains and stiff joints. “I’m not sure if I could deal with people so much, though.”
Jisung laughs. “That’s the part I dread the most,” he admits. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m quite shy.”
Minho drags his teeth over his bottom lip, biting back a smile. “Really? You seem pretty confident to me.”
For a moment, their eyes catch. Minho grins, feeling satisfaction bloom in his chest when Jisung’s nose scrunches and he ducks his head, but at the same time, his stomach twists. He’s the one getting too confident.
“And you? What do you do?” Jisung asks, taking a sip of his drink and running his thumb across his bottom lip to wipe away the residue. Minho’s focus involuntarily shifts there. To the pink plush of his mouth. He has a ring on that finger, a gold signet, probably a family heirloom, and Minho’s brain inevitably jumps to the band he should be wearing on his left hand, which he isn’t.
His gaze stays on Jisung’s mouth.
Jisung looks at him expectantly, and Minho clears his throat, pretending he hasn’t just gotten lost in space and time and momentary misery.
“I’m a security software engineer,” he says, leaving Jisung visibly surprised. “I’m also taking care of my family business.”
“A security software engineer,” Jisung echoes with a soft laugh that Minho wants to bottle up and take home with him. Like a normal person. “Alright, you win.”
“It’s really not as cool as it sounds,” Minho tells him, feeling his body temperature rise with the way Jisung is looking at him. “Nowadays I’m more oriented towards management, so I mostly oversee our projects and make sure everything is running smoothly.”
“I don’t know, I’m still impressed.” Jisung purses his mouth around the straw of his drink, and it’s obvious he’s trying to hide a smile. Paired-up with the look he sends Minho, it’s more flirty than if he just smirked at him out in the open. God. “So, what, are you responsible for the security of governmental institutions?”
Minho opens his mouth and then promptly closes it, if only to tease him. “That’s classified information.”
Jisung laughs again. “Seems like I need to get you another drink to loosen your tongue a little bit,” he says, raising an eyebrow, waiting for Minho to nod before flagging down the bartender.
They talk and talk and talk that night. About the music they listen to and the films they watch and about what they want to do one day. See the Snow Festival in Sapporo, hug a sequoia tree, dive in a coral reef. Except neither of them can swim.
“Yet,” Jisung says. “Neither of us can swim yet. We can learn.”
He tells Minho about all the places he’s been to already, the wonders of the world he’s seen, and Minho finds himself fantasizing about things he could say to impress him. To make his eyes glimmer the same way they do when he says, “I got a black belt in taekwondo.”
They finish their drinks and switch to non-alcoholics, because they can both feel the buzz in their heads but neither of them wants to go home. Their bodies seem drawn together by some kind of invisible magnet, knees touching as they keep turning on their bar stools, almost subconsciously, centimeter by centimeter, until they’re facing each other. Jisung leans in closer under the pretense of wanting to hear Minho better over the low hum of music and the other patrons’ conversations, but they both know it’s all just an excuse.
It’s almost funny how loose Minho’s tongue gets when he’s talking to Jisung, who’s virtually a stranger. He has never been much of a talker. He likes listening, asking questions, getting to know people. But Jisung is pulling words out of his mouth, and Minho wants to tell him everything.
He doesn’t, of course. His head might be spinning in confusion at the ease with which he and Jisung get along, but he still has inhibitions. This is not the time for fatal confessions.
Still, every time they have the choice to go their separate ways or continue the evening together, they choose the latter. They go from drinks to dinner to more drinks to a walk along the Han River. Minho forgets to even glance at his watch; all he cares about is staying here with Jisung to talk, to listen.
But even this is not enough. He wants to see Jisung again and again. For drinks and dinner and lunch and breakfast. Take him to a record store and watch him pick through all of his favorite albums, because that’s his favorite way to listen to music. Let him choose a movie in the cinema, a horror, definitely, because even though Jisung insists they don’t scare him, Minho can tell there’s something there. A chance to tease him, maybe; a chance to wrap an arm around his shoulders, if only Minho is shameless enough.
He wants to do a lot of things with Jisung, really. Minho likes him very much even though he shouldn’t be interested in someone this quickly. He shouldn’t be interested in Jisung at all.
The exit of the park they’ve gone on a walk to marks the unofficial end of their evening. Minho would carry on if he could, drag Jisung somewhere else, like to see the buskers or to book a noraebang room all for themselves and sing their tipsy hearts out, but he doesn’t want it to be too much too soon. He wants Jisung to want to see him again.
He doesn’t protest when Jisung turns to face him, his hands shoved into the pockets of his varsity jacket, and says, “I really had a good time today.”
Minho’s stomach ties itself into a nervous knot. “Me too,” he says, his voice so quiet the words almost get carried away by the wind. “If it wasn’t so late already…”
Jisung’s smile widens. He chews down on his bottom lip, biting it back, and lowers his gaze at the ground just for a second or two. “So,” he starts, “there’s a chance that you’ll say yes if I invite you over to my place next time?”
Minho gulps.
“We could watch a movie…” he trails off with a shrug, acting all nonchalant, but Minho sees the nervousness in his expression.
It makes him more enamoured than he’d like to admit.
He chases his own anxieties away and smiles to put Jisung at ease. “I think there’s a ninety-nine percent chance of me saying yes.”
Jisung lets out a breathy chuckle and tilts his head to the side, staring at Minho intently. “And what do I have to do to make it a hundred percent?”
“Hmm… add food to the mix?” Minho proposes, but in reality, he doesn’t care. There could even be no movie, just sitting in Jisung’s living room, and he would say yes.
“What kind of food?”
“I don’t know, surprise me,” Minho tells him, his mouth staying apart with the last syllable. He knows that flirting so openly is pushing a hard boundary, but he looks at Jisung, and he really, really can’t help himself.
Jisung takes him aback by jutting his bottom lip out in a pout. He’s cute. “I don’t want to accidentally send you to the hospital,” he says, sounding genuinely worried about that possibility. “You mentioned eating good sushi when you went to Japan,” he recalls. “How do you feel about that?”
Minho grins. “Are you going to fly to Japan and bring me sushi?”
Scoffing with faux annoyance, Jisung says, “You know what I mean!”
“I know,” Minho agrees, but he can’t not let out a giggle. It looks like Jisung is going to be a fairly easy person to tease and fluster. It’s going to be so much fun hanging out with him. “Sushi sounds perfect.”
Jisung’s expression softens. “Okay, then, I’ll find the best restaurant for you,” he says. “I’m free this weekend, but if you don’t have time now, we can always—”
“I have time,” Minho interrupts. He’ll make time. “Does Sunday work for you? Maybe… five o’clock?”
“Yeah, that works.”
He smiles. “Then we’re set,” he says. “Send me your address and I’ll be there. I hope my sushi will be waiting for me.”
Jisung laughs, nodding. He stares at Minho for another moment before taking a step back. “I should get going,” he says, and he sounds as unwilling as Minho feels. It’s scary, how fascinated they seem by each other; so much that they keep pushing the inevitable end to their night back in time, over and over, stealing just another minute. “Unless you need a ride home? We could share a cab.”
Minho wishes he could happily say yes and prolong their goodbyes once more, but he can already feel the guilty pressure in the back of his head, the beginning of a vengeful headache.
“No, I actually don’t live that far away from here, so I’m just gonna take a walk,” he lies, a smile that’s gentler than his self-deprecating thoughts curling on his mouth. “But I’ll see you soon, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Jisung agrees. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat and lingers there half-awkwardly. Minho decides that he would probably find something else to say, something more, but there’s someone coming in their direction, so he just bids Minho a goodbye and gets on his way.
Minho watches him walk away with an odd feeling nestled in his chest. When Jisung finally crosses the street and disappears around the corner of some building, he pulls out his phone and gets himself a cab back to the apartment.
Yeeun is sitting cross-legged on the couch when he walks in, reading something on her tablet. She lifts her gaze from the screen to size him up with her stare from behind the glasses perched on the bridge of her nose.
The few drinks he’s had slowly catch up to him and make his ears buzz pleasantly, and that’s probably why he sounds softer than usual when he says, “Hi.”
“Hi,” Yeeun echoes, still watching him, as if she can sense his unease, even stronger than it usually is around her. As if his guilt—perhaps unwarranted—is written all over his face.
It’s late, the clock on the oven in the kitchen reading a few minutes before midnight when he spares it a glance, and although they aren’t the type to give or demand explanations as to where and with who they’re going out, they usually tell each other if they’ll be getting home later than usual. It’s simple decency.
And today, Minho didn’t say he was going out because he thought that, although pleasant, the outing with Jisung would end with a few drinks at the bar. He certainly didn’t expect to spend the entire night in his company.
Minho’s skin prickles with the need to explain himself, even though he doesn’t owe it to her. He feels guilty. Not entirely about doing all of this behind Yeeun’s back, but rather about not being honest with Jisung, and being faced with her as a reminder.
“Sorry,” he says in the end. “Meeting with a friend ran late.”
Yeeun lets out a hum of acknowledgement, and finally seems to be satisfied with her study of him, because she turns back to her tablet. When her eyes are off him, though, Minho’s guilt doesn’t dissipate. He shuffles to his bedroom to grab his sleeping T-shirt and clean underwear, and avoids looking at her as he makes his way to the bathroom to take a shower.
The atmosphere between them stays tense, and by the time Sunday rolls around, Minho is just happy at the prospect of seeing Jisung again. Yeeun isn’t home, so he sends her a text, letting her know that he’s going out and he’s not sure when he’ll be back. He doesn’t let it rattle him that she leaves him on read but when he gets into his car, the insistent throbbing is back to tormenting the back of his skull.
It gets better when he finds himself face-to-face with Jisung again, though. And then, a different kind of nervousness settles inside his chest. His heart speeds up until it’s pounding in his ears the moment Jisung opens the front door for him.
“Hi,” they say at the same time, matching grins on their faces. And all Minho can think is, Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.
As he steps aside to let him in, Jisung’s eyes slide down to the orchid Minho is holding to his chest, an eyebrow raised in question.
Minho scrunches his nose, feeling uncharacteristically shy. He puts the flower down on the entryway table and busies himself with taking off his shoes and jacket, hoping Jisung can’t see it on his face.
“You said you were settling in, so I brought you a housewarming gift,” he explains.
“You have too much faith in me,” Jisung says, laughing, but he reaches out to take the plant and studies it with obvious delight. “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to keep this guy alive.”
Minho shrugs, but the look he sends Jisung is challenging. “You’ll have to try your best,” he says. “I’ll be checking in on how he’s doing.”
Jisung bites down on his tongue as it peeks from between his teeth, amused. “In that case,” he says, “I’ll take care of him as if he’s my own child.”
He seems almost satisfied at the implication in Minho’s words—that he will be around, texting or calling or dropping by under the guise of making sure Jisung hasn’t killed the plant. Like he wants it. Which, well, Minho isn’t shocked by, but it certainly takes a bit of the nervous edge off.
They share another smile, and then Jisung moves, gesturing for Minho to go ahead.
“The sushi was just delivered,” he says as they walk into his spacious living room, colorful and fun and decidedly not empty. He puts the orchid on the windowsill, and Minho sees his smile grow even more pleased as he takes the sight in. It remains bright when he turns back to Minho and asks, “Do you want to eat now?”
Minho smiles back. “Sure.”
“You can grab the remote, choose something to watch,” Jisung says, shrugging, already crossing the living room, on his way to what must be the kitchen. “I don’t have a preference.”
Minho lets out a hum of agreement, but he doesn’t rush to turn on the television. Instead, he moves to snoop around, just a little bit, to sate his own curiosity, to find out something about Jisung that Jisung might not find interesting enough to tell him himself.
He studies the bookcase, eyes sliding over titles, pleased to see many that he recognizes. Jisung is clearly more into records, though. They take up the bottom shelf, but it looks like they’ve made that place their home because they didn’t fit into the cabinet under the TV. Minho runs his fingers across the spines, even happier now, because their tastes match in the music department, too.
Jisung has a lot of knick-knacks: a moneybox in the shape of an English telephone booth, figures of Howl and Sophie, half-burnt candles, stray shells and seaglass. There are pictures framed on some of the shelves, and Minho wonders who these people are to him—the red-haired girl Jisung has an arm wrapped around that Minho recognizes as Hwang Yeji, the guys he’s lying on the grass with, the cat perched on his shoulder like a child.
He wants to know the story behind every single item, greedy and insatiable.
He makes his way over to the upright piano standing by the wall. It almost feels sacrilegious to touch its sleek, polished black surface, but Minho can’t quite help himself.
“Do you play?” he asks, letting his fingers skim along the wood, and then moving to the keys. He doesn’t press them, just feeling them under his fingertips. “The piano, I mean,” he clarifies when Jisung makes a confused noise from the kitchen. “Or is it just decoration?”
“I do play,” Jisung tells him, accompanied by the sound of crumpled paper, cupboards being opened and closed, ceramic against granite countertops. “I like my office job, but it does get boring. I need a creative outlet, so I play.”
“Hm. I don’t know if I can believe that,” Minho says, teasing. He can read Jisung’s affinity for art from every corner of the apartment. “You might have to play me something sometime to prove it.”
“Ah, you want me to play you the guitar, too?”
Minho physically feels his own eyes sparkle with interest. “You can do that too?” he asks, genuinely taken aback by how something so simple is capable of making Jisung even more attractive in his eyes. Minho is in big, tremendous trouble. “Is there anything you can’t do?”
“Hm.” Jisung pauses, pondering the question with seriousness. Minho can almost see the crease between his brows, the way he stops unpacking their food just to think it through. In the end, he confesses, “I can’t really handle heights.”
It drags a laugh out of Minho. “I can’t, either.”
Jisung chooses that moment to come back from the kitchen, entering the living room with a tray of take-out sushi in his hand, rainbow titanium chopsticks in the other.
“Looks like we match well,” he says, smiling. He glances at the television screen, still black, still turned-off, but he doesn’t say anything, even though clearly he can tell Minho has been snooping around. He seems more amused, if anything. “What do you want to drink? Coke, water, juice, wine?”
Minho moves away from the piano and takes a seat in front of the coffee table where Jisung has set down their sushi. It looks delicious. “Wine sounds good,” he says with a shrug. “Unless you don’t feel like it. I don’t want to drink alone.”
Jisung laughs. “I’ll go get it and you choose that movie, hm?”
Finally, Minho grabs the remote. Netflix opens automatically, so he logs into Jisung’s account and looks through his recently watched titles. The amount of romance reality shows makes him laugh. Jisung must be a big fan of watching other people fall in love—or hot people lounging on the beach and thirsting after one another.
He sees a few thrillers, even more horror movies, so he settles on one of the newer ones, a classic haunted house, a new family moving in. It will probably be awful, but they’re not here to watch it, not really.
He pauses it before it can even start, waiting for Jisung to come back, and listens in for the pop of the cork. Jisung reappears in the living room with the bottle unscrewed and two glasses in his hand, crossed between his fingers in a way that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. He sits down and starts pouring the wine between the two of them, looking so focused on the task that Minho doesn’t speak just in case he makes him spill it. It’s kind of cute.
As he hands Minho one of the glasses, Minho can’t help but joke, “Thank god I’m not wearing white today.”
Jisung groans. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
Minho laughs, taking a sip of his wine, letting it linger on his tongue for a moment, sour, slightly sweet, before he breaks into a satisfied smirk. “Never,” he says, making himself comfortable on the sofa, sinking into the pillow behind his back. Jisung’s eyes are still on him, and it makes a pleasant warmth spread through his chest. He feigns disinterest, tries so hard to conceal just how much he’s enjoying it, and points out, “The apartment looks lived-in for someone who is just settling in.”
When Jisung invited him over, he expected boxes lying around, bare walls, empty shelves, furniture still missing. Meanwhile, things already seem to be in their rightful place.
“That’s because unpacking everything is all I’ve been doing these days, really,” Jisung says, laughing. “And the rest of the place is a mess. I just shoved all the remaining boxes into the spare room so that you wouldn’t see it.”
“Kind of defeats the purpose if you tell me about it, doesn’t it?”
Jisung drags his teeth over his bottom lip. “I don’t know. Now that you’re here, I feel like you wouldn’t judge me for my mess.”
“You’re right,” Minho says, lips poised over the rim of his glass. “I wouldn’t. Mess makes it look more like home. I don’t like artificial cleanness.”
The kind of cleanness that haunts the apartment he shares with Yeeun. Not because either of them is insistent on making sure every surface is spotless. It’s just that they barely use the space they share. Minho sticks to his room, Yeeun sticks to hers. Even the kitchen serves for washing the dishes, not cooking. Not very often, at least.
“I’ll give you a proper tour when everything is in its place,” Jisung says, and he looks at Minho for confirmation, like he’s not sure whether Minho would want to come over again. Like Minho didn’t say that he’d check up on the damned orchid. Minho smiles in response, which Jisung clearly interprets the right way. “I’m still figuring out where to put things. It’s a big apartment, way too big for me, but it was standing empty after my brother left, so it felt logical to move in here instead of looking for a new place.”
“I like it,” Minho says, even though Jisung didn’t ask for his opinion. “I mean, you’ll fill the space with your things, and as long as you’re comfortable here, it’s home, right?”
Jisung hums, a soft smile curved across his mouth. And then—“Anyway, let’s eat. I’m getting hungry just looking at all these fish!”
The movie turns out to be just as bad and cliché as Minho thought it would be, but where he would have already turned it off if he was watching it alone, the commentary he exchanges with Jisung like a well-oiled machine makes the experience fun. The movie is bad, but the company is awesome.
And, well, the food is amazing, too. Minho wishes he could fit more into his stomach, but after what feels like his twentieth salmon hosomaki, he needs to put the chopsticks down and rest. Jisung eats another nigiri or two and joins him, boneless against the couch, a hand pressed against his belly.
The movie goes on, images flickering by on the giant television screen, but Minho finds it hard to pay attention when Jisung stretches and puts his arm on the backrest behind Minho, barely touching him, but in a purposeful way. Like he’s trying to gauge Minho’s reaction, give him space either to pull away or move closer.
Minho knows what he’s doing, and he hates how much he’s enjoying it, this cliché first-date move. He tips his head back, leaning into Jisung’s touch. It takes all of his might not to do more. The alarms sounding in his head are louder than the screams of the protagonist being murdered in the movie. Don’t do it, they blare. Don’t move.
And Minho knows, but he still wants. To turn his head to the side, press his mouth against the line of Jisung’s jaw, feel the shade of his stubble against his skin. To drag Jisung into his lap, slide his hands under the fabric of his striped long-sleeve T-shirt, touch the warmth of his lower back.
To risk everything just to find out just how fun danger can be.
But then, the familiar guilt settles in, and even though it feels like heaven to play with fire, when Jisung leans in to kiss him, Minho has no other choice but to pull away.
Jisung’s face flames instantly. “Sorry, hyung,” he says, brushing his knuckle against the tip of his nose, nervous, embarrassed. “I must’ve misread the situation. I thought you wanted this. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Minho says, his throat tightening around the words he needs to say. He wishes he didn’t have to, but he really, really likes Jisung. He can’t deceive him any longer. “I really want this. I do. It’s just—There’s something I need to tell you.”
Jisung’s momentary relief slips away, turning into confusion. He lets out a puzzled chuckle. “That sounds… serious.”
Minho swallows harshly over the lump in his throat. Even though he turns to face him, he can’t quite meet Jisung’s gaze when he says, “I have a wife.”
A beat of silence passes, and then, when the words finally register in his brain, Jisung is jerking away like he has just gotten burnt, jumping to his feet and away from Minho. So far away.
“Whoa, I—”
“It’s not like that,” Minho interrupts immediately, before Jisung can say anything else, accuse him of something that Minho isn’t.
But he has never explained it out loud. He has never talked it through with another person—not even any of his friends. He didn’t have to, because they just knew. And he didn’t want to, because it would entail facing their unwanted advice, pitiful propositions, and insurmountable sadness. It was better to say, It’s just what it is. It’s for the better. Let’s not talk about it.
And now he doesn’t know where to start.
Jisung’s face is harsh and stern, and it’s obvious that he doesn’t care where Minho starts, that he doesn’t care about anything else that might leave Minho’s mouth. He crosses his arms over his chest defensively, staring Minho down.
“I don’t care what it’s like,” he says, uncharacteristically cold. “You should go.”
Minho’s chest constricts, but it’s not like he was expecting anything else. He can’t be entirely heartbroken because he knew it was going to happen. Anticipating Jisung’s reaction takes away some of the sting.
It still hurts like hell, though.
“I will,” he promises, his eyes pleading. He doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t want to leave like this, not when Jisung thinks he’s the most disgusting person in the world. Minho needs to at least try. “But, please, just hear me out.”
Jisung shakes his head. “I don’t care if you’re bored of your marriage, or you’re insecure and you need validation—or—”
“It’s not real,” Minho cuts him off. Jisung’s mouth falls open in confusion, but before he can find his words, Minho continues, “Our parents arranged the marriage to make the merger of our companies more solid. My family was struggling, and it was the only way to keep the firm in our hands, so I agreed. We are not actually a couple. It’s all fake.”
Jisung looks at him like Minho has gone insane, which can’t be that far from the truth.
“What?” he asks, his voice small, equal amount shocked and disoriented.
Minho knows Jisung is well aware that when it comes to them, heirs to large conglomerates, arranged marriages of convenience aren’t uncommon. Sometimes they’re signed off even before the two people involved start attending elementary school. At least in this regard, Minho is lucky. He made the decision, even though it wasn’t really what he wanted.
He married someone he doesn’t love to save his parents from bankruptcy. Worse things happen.
They didn’t want to lose the firm, something that their family has been building from ground-up for generations. Their situation was so bad that even the marriage didn’t save them entirely—they had to make do with owning only fifty percent of the company, and that was already a generous offer on the Jangs’ part.
But it was better than nothing.
It was better than losing everything.
He tells Jisung that. Tells him everything, the words coming out of his mouth rushed, desperate. From the disbelief when they had told Minho the company was losing the totality of what they’d invested in it over the course of decades, to the desperate There must be something we can do, and the looks his parents had shared over the bills scattered across the kitchen table.
Minho offered his own money, but even if his parents had been willing to accept it, it still wouldn’t have been enough. The Jangs want to merge, his father had said one day. But the relief was crushed with a simple, There’s one condition.
Their marriage wasn’t grand. There was no beautiful white dress, a traditional ceremony, no gorgeous venue, or love-filled vows. They met in the City Hall and signed their lives off with a few strokes of a black pen. Just like that.
It didn’t echo through the community, either. It hit the news outlets, and people were speculating on the nature of it all online, connecting it to the plummeting stocks of Lee Electronics, but it was nothing like the other weddings, taking up the front pages, circulating through the entire country. It’s not a surprise that Jisung never heard of it, even though he was the heir to the Han family empire, if he’s been in Toronto all this time.
Once Minho finishes his story and closes his mouth, for a long, terrifying moment, the apartment remains shrouded in silence.
“Say something,” Minho begs, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze unwavering. He tries to swallow the lump in his throat, but it refuses to go away.
Jisung’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows like he’s dealing with the same problem. In the end, he whispers, “I don’t know what to say.”
Minho lets out a shuddering breath. “I just—I’ve never done this, if you’re wondering. I’ve never even thought of sleeping with someone after we got married,” he says. “But I don’t love her. Even if I wanted to, I could never be able to. Her, or any other woman.”
He thought that Jisung was in disbelief before, so he’s not sure what to make of the look on his face now. He’s staring at Minho like he cannot fathom the words leaving his mouth. Like, in his eyes, Minho has completely lost his mind.
“You’re gay?” he asks, sounding almost heartbroken. “And you still agreed to marry her?”
“It felt like I had no choice,” Minho whispers. “I just wanted to save my parents.”
He braces himself as Jisung takes a sharp breath, but it already feels like a losing game. Jisung’s expression remains guarded. More sympathetic than disgusted, but—still. Guarded.
“I’m sorry you have to go through this,” he says. “I really am. It’s horrible enough to be forced into a marriage you didn’t want, and to have to do it when there’s no chance of ever falling in love with that person sounds like an absolute nightmare. But it’s still—” He sighs. “I can’t be a homewrecker.”
“There’s no home for you to wreck,” Minho says under his breath, tearing his eyes away from Jisung because even though it’s all Minho’s fault, it hurts to even look at him.
He knows it’s over. He knows that at this point he has lost—beyond this obvious attraction—the first person who he felt comfortable around that wasn’t one of his friends of tens of years. This instantaneous, easy connection that he isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to replicate.
He knew this would happen, but a part of him was still foolish enough to hope.
He pushes himself off the couch. Jisung’s eyes follow his movements as he grabs the glass of wine and downs the remainder of it in one gulp, but he doesn’t say anything. That’s good. Minho thinks he would die if Jisung told him to get out again. He’ll do it. He just doesn’t want to hear it.
“Sorry for making things…” He makes a vague gesture between them, lost for words because there isn’t an expression capable of describing the absolute regret and shame he’s feeling. “I’m sorry.”
Jisung doesn’t say anything to that, and Minho can’t blame him, but it stings.
God, what’s wrong with him? He wants to hit something. He wants to hit himself. He should’ve told the truth the moment Jisung alluded to wanting his number back in that damned restroom. He should have shown him the gold band around his finger. Which—funnily enough—he isn’t wearing at the moment. He never wears it outside of formal events.
Minho turns to leave.
It pains him, but he understands where Jisung is coming from. He respects his decision, even though he wishes it was different. Still, he’s an idiot, so he hopes that this is not the end. That even though they can’t ever be anything more, Jisung will have it in him to forgive Minho enough to be his friend.
Because—Fuck. Minho wants him in his life like he has never wanted anything else. He wants to go out for dinner and learn what food is Jisung’s favorite, if he prefers salty or sweet, if he likes fruit because he looks like he does—like he really loves strawberries and honeydew. Minho wants to watch awful movies with him, lounging on this comfortable couch, and think of them fondly despite how bad they are, because Jisung will find a way to make him laugh until his stomach hurts, he’s sure. He wants to poke fun at him if he ends up killing the orchid, and praise him until his cheeks are red if he doesn’t. He wants to hear him play the piano and the guitar because he might have no proof of it, but he’s sure Jisung sounds better than Chopin, than Mozart, than anyone who has ever touched an instrument, really.
He wants so much, and all that desire is filling every crevice of his chest, pressing against his ribs from the inside, threatening to break every bone. It physically hurts him, which is ridiculous, because Minho has known this man for, what, three weeks? Four? Has seen him twice before tonight.
But that’s the point. He doesn’t know him, and he’s dying to.
And with how stupidly he has played this, he might never get a chance.
Minho makes it to the entryway, torn between dragging his feet and running off like the ground is burning beneath his feet, and starts putting on his shoes. He doesn’t even get one foot in before Jisung is cursing and calling out his name, saying, “Hyung, wait.”
Minho turns back around, his heart hammering in his chest even harder than before, to find him in the doorway already, expression clouded by a myriad of conflicting emotions.
Above all, Jisung looks like he wants to say something. He even opens his mouth to speak, but in the end, instead of saying anything at all, he steps closer, right into Minho’s space, and pulls him in by the front of his sweater, crashing their lips together.
Minho makes a noise of surprise against his mouth, but he’s starved, he’s greedy, and his body acts before he can think. His eyelids slip shut, his body melting against Jisung’s, and he kisses him back.
He’s sure Jisung can feel his pulse skyrocketing when his hand settles on the side of his neck, his thumb brushing against Minho’s jaw and coaxing him into tilting his head to the side to deepen the kiss.
Minho’s fingers dig into his hips, dragging him even closer, pulling him forward even though it makes him stumble. His back collides with the wall of the entryway, but even then, he doesn’t break the kiss. He licks into Jisung’s mouth with fervor, desperate, gasping when Jisung slots one of his legs between his, pressing his thigh against Minho’s crotch.
He’s afraid of the spell breaking, of Jisung coming to his senses, of pushing him away, so he kisses Jisung until his lungs are burning with the effort and he physically can’t anymore.
When he pulls away, he still doesn’t put much distance between them. Their noses are practically touching. He can feel Jisung’s heavy breath on his face, against his mouth. He could count his eyelashes if he was any more insane than this. If he was able to open his eyes and look at him, that is.
But he has to. It won’t go anywhere if he doesn’t make sure this is exactly what Jisung wants, that he knows exactly what he’s signing up for, and to be certain, he needs to see his face.
His eyes flutter open. And then, into the deafening silence of the apartment, he asks, “Are you sure?”
“No,” Jisung says, breathless. “But right now, I want this. I can regret it later.”
Minho swallows harshly. “I don’t want to do this if you’ll feel guilty,” he says, forcing his body to work along with his brain as he pulls away to give Jisung more space. “I don’t want you to regret.”
Jisung uses the grip he has on the side of his neck to pull him back in. “Then make sure I don’t,” he says, and before Minho can say anything else, he’s smashing their mouths together again.
And Minho might not be entirely convinced, but Jisung is eager to prove to him just how much he craves this—his touch. He lets go of Minho’s neck in favor of grabbing one of Minho’s hands from where it’s resting on his waist and bringing it down to the curve of his own ass.
Minho doesn’t need more encouragement.
His other hand joins the fun, and he uses the grip he has on Jisung to bring his hips forward, grinding against him, making him gasp into the kiss. It’s the sweetest sound, this small moan he lets out into the space between them, and Minho sinks his fingers into the flesh of his ass even deeper to pull it out of him again.
His head spins when this time around, Jisung moans louder. Like he knows that it’s exactly what Minho wants to hear.
“Bedroom?”
“Down the hallway,” Jisung gasps in between kisses. “Door’s open.”
Minho hums. He hikes Jisung’s thigh up, bending down just enough to make what he wants to do clear. Jisung understands him without words. He jumps, wrapping his legs around Minho’s hips, digging his fingers into the muscle of his shoulder in a way that sends a shiver running down his spine.
Minho feels his hard cock pressing against his stomach as he fixes his grip on Jisung, keeping one hand on his ass and wrapping the other arm around his waist to pull him even closer. His head spins. He pulls away from Jisung’s mouth to focus all of his energy on getting them to his bedroom without tripping over his feet, but that’s even worse, because the moment he does, Jisung starts trailing kisses across his cheek, his jaw, pressing his perfect lips into the skin of his neck, where his pulse is hammering—as if Minho’s heart has kickstarted itself back to life after a year of dormancy.
Minho locates the bedroom easily, nudging the door open further with his foot. In different circumstances, he would want to look around, study the decor and the trinkets and ask Jisung about every little thing he sees. Right now, his curiosity is quelled by the need to touch him.
He lies Jisung down on the bed, one knee braced against the mattress, but Jisung is holding onto him so tightly that there’s no way Minho would be able to let him go even if he wanted to. He’s dragged down by the back of his neck, Jisung’s fingers tangled in his hair.
He props his elbow up on the bed next to Jisung’s head and dips down to kiss him properly, slotting their mouths together, Jisung’s plump bottom lip caught between his. Despite the overwhelming sense of need and urgency, the kiss is slow. Gentle.
Jisung licks into his mouth, eager but unhurried in his exploration. He’s a good kisser. Minho could stay like this, nestled between his legs, their lips locked forever, and he would be satisfied. He would be happy.
But Jisung is good with his hands, too. While his fingers play with the overgrown hair at the back of Minho’s head, his other hand travels to his waist, teasing the hem of his pants. His thumb slips underneath the fabric as he caresses his lower back, and that touch alone—that barely existent skin-to-skin contact—is enough to light a fire in Minho’s chest.
He needs so much more.
“Jisung—” he whispers, unable to conjure any other words, unable to think anything other than I need you. I don’t know if I’ve ever needed anyone as much. I think this will ruin me, but I want it so bad. I want you, I want you, I want you. “Jisungie.”
“Hyung,” Jisung breathes out into his mouth. His hand grips Minho’s ass properly, dragging him forward, grinding up against him with a strangled moan. “The nightstand—”
Minho can’t help himself. He dips down to kiss him again, just one more time, before reluctantly pulling away and pushing himself up to his knees. He pulls open the drawer, eyes sliding over the tangled chargers and headphones in search of condoms and lube. Once he gets his hands on them, he turns back to Jisung, and his heart stops.
Jisung is leaning back on his elbows, already staring back at Minho. The oranges and pinks of the setting sun soften his features, making him glow. His mouth is raw, deep red, and there’s a mark blooming at the base of his throat that Minho doesn’t remember leaving there.
He looks beautiful.
And then he sits up, grabs the hem of his shirt, and looks Minho in the eye as he pulls it off over his head. Minho thinks he doesn’t want to see anyone else naked if they’re not Jisung.
Now, Minho knew he had a tattoo from that night back in the restroom, but he didn’t realize he had another one. A bigger one. Spanning out along his ribs, down to his hip, to his thigh. He touched it over his clothes, and he didn’t realize. He wants to press his fingers against the ink now, trace the letters, find out what they mean, why he chose them out of all possible designs in the universe.
“Take off your sweater,” Jisung says, the impatience in his voice betraying his attempt at appearing almost stoic. He sounds raw—from all the kissing, from the desire burrowed under his skin. “I want to see you.”
Minho can’t deny him—not this, not anything.
He tosses the lube and the condoms onto the mattress without much care, and reaches for the hem of his sweater. Underneath, he has another layer, and Jisung knew it from touching his back earlier, but he still groans, annoyed, when he sees the white tank top. It makes Minho smile. He probably shouldn’t find him as cute as he does at that moment.
“What a tease,” Jisung says, and he’s clearly impatient, but there’s a smirk curved across his mouth when he looks at Minho. It gets replaced with so much satisfaction when Minho takes the top off, too, letting it fall to the floor unceremoniously.
His gaze rakes over Minho’s body, and Minho tries not to grin smugly when Jisung’s mouth parts, when his tongue slides across his lips, hungry. He looks like he wants to touch every crevice of his body, map out the expanse of his skin with his hands, mouth, anything.
Funny, because that’s exactly how Minho feels about him. That’s why his movements are so—urgent. He wants to drag this out, make it last, but at the same time, he might die if he doesn’t touch Jisung already. He might fall apart at the seams under the pressure of his own desire.
Now that he’s shirtless, he sees no use in keeping his pants on. He starts unbuckling his belt, his eyes still fixed on Jisung—that’s why he notices right away how Jisung gulps, watching his hands move.
Minho drags his teeth over his bottom lip, unable to fight back a smirk. He’s not good at this—at putting on a show—but even though his hands tremble, he’s so eager to impress that he can’t quite help it; he unzips his pants and slides his hand down, between the denim and the fabric of his boxers.
Jisung draws in a shuddering breath when Minho cups his hard cock through his underwear.
He only lasts mere seconds. Then, he’s reaching out, grabbing the waistline of Minho’s pants, and dragging them down his thighs himself.
“Impatient much,” Minho comments, snarky and teasing, although it’s obvious, he’s sure, that he’s practically vibrating out of his skin.
He laughs when Jisung just rolls his eyes, cups both his cheeks in his hands, and drags him into a kiss. It’s much softer than their kisses from before, and so much sweeter, too. Minho gasps into it when Jisung’s fingers start playing with the waistband of his boxers, though, when one of his hands brushes against his cock.
It’s nothing more than a light touch, something that could be played off as a coincidence in any other context. But it’s so deliberate, a conscious choice to make Minho lose his mind, if the way Jisung grins is anything to go by.
“Take this off, too,” he murmurs against Minho’s lips before planting a kiss in the corner of his mouth. “I really am getting impatient.”
And what is Minho supposed to do? Say no to that pretty face, that deep voice, this gorgeous, beautiful human? He could never, even if he tried. So, he steps out of his pants and kicks off his boxers and pretends he’s not overwhelmed when Jisung drags him down onto the mattress, willing him even closer.
They’re still kissing when he helps Jisung out of his pants, a little clumsily, but successfully nonetheless. Then, he fingers him open in his lap, reveling in the soft moans and shaky breaths leaving his throat, in the way he whispers Minho’s name, his broken voice begging for more.
Jisung is perfect, and Minho wants to put the entire universe in his hands. It’s a scary thought to have right before they’re about to have sex, especially that they’ve only known each other for a handful of weeks, but Minho is helpless; this connection escapes his understanding.
“Hyung,” Jisung whimpers against his lips, his fingers digging into the muscle of Minho’s shoulder. That’s all he needs to say for Minho to finally have mercy on him.
His cock is trapped between their bodies, hard and twitching, so it’s maybe not really mercy when Minho pulls his fingers out and instead wraps them around Jisung’s dick. It makes him gasp and shudder, that’s how reactive he is.
Every little noise, every change in his expression—Jisung is driving Minho insane. It’s no wonder that he doesn’t tease him much longer; it’s no wonder he’s desperate to give Jisung whatever he needs.
The world fades away until all that’s left is this: a haze of limbs and skin, Jisung’s body, this bed. Minho keeps kissing him while he fucks him, nestled between his thighs, hands trying to touch everything all at once—his legs, his waist, his pecs, his neck.
The only thing that makes him feel less crazy about his own desperation is that Jisung is clinging to him just as needily.
Minho discovers a few awful things under Jisung’s caress.
That he spent this whole year thinking that he no longer needed to feel desired. That, in reality, he has been starving for his touch this entire time. That it had to be him, no one else, because when their eyes lock, Minho feels his heart grow two sizes too big for his body, straining against his ribcage like it’s trying to get out and fall into his waiting hands.
He discovers that having just this one night will never be enough.
The sex is toe-curlingly good, the kind of slightly clumsy and too eager that has the potential to become seamless with familiarity. Jisung meets his thrusts half-way, enthusiastic, lifting his hips, trying to fuck himself back against Minho’s cock. He’s not overly loud, but he’s responsive, gasping and whining and whispering the sweetest rendition of Minho’s name, and even the slightest noise is enough to make Minho’s heart beat faster.
He lets out a noise of surprise when Minho sneaks a hand between their bodies, wrapping his fingers around his hard cock, and moans, using the arm he has slung around Minho’s shoulders to drag him down, to kiss him senseless.
Minho can barely think. He can only feel. He kisses Jisung’s bruised mouth. He fucks into him slowly, stroking his cock in tandem with his own measured thrusts, a perfect rhythm that draws the sweetest sounds out of Jisung’s throat. He can’t bring himself to close his eyes, desperate to drink every expression that flickers across Jisung’s face. The pleasure that takes over his features when he brushes against his prostate, making his eyes roll back.
When he comes, it’s sudden. He clenches around Minho, his fingers sinking into the flesh of his back, pulling him closer—deeper, and a quiet moan in the shape of Minho’s name slips out of his mouth. That alone is enough to make Minho’s hips stutter. He only lasts another second or two, he’s not sure, and then he’s coming too, his vision blacking out.
He goes boneless momentarily and sinks, sitting back against his calves. It takes a while for him to come to his senses and feel like he can finally breathe again, but then he looks up, tearing his gaze away from where it’s been fixed on his cock, still buried deep inside Jisung, transfixed by the sight.
Their eyes lock, and for a moment, it’s like they’re waiting for the guilt to crawl into their chests, to coil around their spines like poison ivy. But it doesn’t.
If there was something Minho was hoping to get out of his system, he now knows it didn’t work.
Jisung must share the sentiment. His fingers ghost over the expanse of Minho’s stomach and his chest, to finally land on his shoulder. Then, he uses the grip he has on him and drags Minho down into a kiss, slow and sweet until Minho licks the sweat off Jisung’s cupid bow, making him laugh.
“Freak,” he says, but he still sounds incredibly fond and amused, so what does that say about him, really?
Minho just winks at him and dips down to steal another kiss from his perfect, bruised mouth. Then, he finally forces himself to get up and throw out the condom. Jisung hums affirmatively when he asks if he should just toss it into the bin next to the dresser, so that’s what he does. He also locates his boxers on the floor and pulls them back on, not wanting to parade with his dick out.
“Can you toss me my underwear?” Jisung asks, pushing himself up into a sitting position on the bed.
He looks tired. Not entirely wrecked, but close enough for Minho to feel it spark something deep within his chest. It takes him a moment to find Jisung’s boxers in the mess of the clothes, but when he does, he can’t quite help watching Jisung drag them back up his legs.
Somehow, Jisung manages to blush even harder when he catches Minho staring. It’s not like Minho can talk, really. He always blushes easily, but one glance down at his chest tells him he looks like he has spent at least eight hours out in the open sun. Fuck.
Jisung drags his attention away from his sun-burnt body when he clears his throat.
“Is it okay for you to… stay the night?”
Minho didn’t really consider what would happen after they’d have sex, but he finds that the question surprises him. A part of him did think that Jisung might want him out of his apartment right away. But the other part is pleased to find that he prefers for him to stay.
Minho knows he shouldn’t, but his heart trips into a quicker beat, practically begging him to do it. He’s not sure where they’re supposed to go from here, but Minho wants to prolong this night, bask in its glow for as long as he can.
Just in case.
He’s afraid that if he leaves, the spell will break, and Jisung will change his mind.
He’s afraid that Jisung will regret it. Tonight. Him. That Minho will walk out of here and never see him again because the weight of what they’ve done will become too heavy for him to bear. And it’s the last thing Minho wants—he likes Jisung so much already, even if he takes the amazing sex out of the equation. It would hurt like hell to lose him.
So, even though he shouldn’t sleep over at cute guys’ apartments when he’s got a wife waiting for him at home, he sends Jisung a smile and says, “I’ll stay, but you’re gonna have to get me a spare toothbrush.”
Jisung chuckles, his shoulders visibly losing their tension. “Of course,” he says, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to stand up. The way his arms flex as he pushes himself up makes Minho’s mouth water all over again. Jisung, completely oblivious to the thoughts running through his head, rolls his shoulders, stretching after lying down and getting fucked within an inch of his life, and says, “I’ll show you to the bathroom, come on.”
“Mhm. Thanks.” Minho swallows. “Could I just get myself a glass of water first?”
Ice-cold preferably. To quench his thirst. Ha.
“You can grab a bottle from the fridge or the bottom cabinet,” Jisung says. “First from the door.”
Minho lets out a hum of understanding and asks, “Do you want some?”
Jisung smiles, pleased at the simplest display of kindness. God, Minho wants to smother him with it.
Still wearing nothing more than his boxers, he follows Jisung out of the bedroom and watches him disappear in the room just across the hallway—the bathroom. Then, he finds his way back to the living room. His eyes immediately zero in on his phone, still lying on the coffee table, and he realizes that he would’ve forgotten it if he had left earlier instead of staying. Well, that wouldn’t have been easy to explain to people.
Either way, Minho grabs it and makes his way to the kitchen, flicking on the warm, overhead light even though the city lights spilling into the room through the huge window facing the doorway don’t let the kitchen disappear within the darkness. He wants to study it, though, wants to take it in the same way he has all the other rooms in the apartment.
To get to know Jisung just a little bit more.
The kitchen is small, but cozy, beige cabinets with dark, wooden countertops winding around one of the corners. There’s a table pushed-up against the opposite wall, two chairs standing at both ends, a vase with flowers that Minho isn’t familiar with set in the middle. It makes Minho smile, this cute little detail. Jisung clearly pays a lot of attention to soft decor like that—little trinkets here and there, something to add color and personality to his home.
There aren’t many appliances out, either because Jisung still hasn’t furnished this particular room, or he just doesn’t have—or want—many opportunities to cook. The contents of his fridge support Minho’s assumption. He studies them because he can’t quite help himself, alright. Mostly meat, some vegetables. And drinks—more drinks than food, really. He seems like a person who dines out or orders in, and Minho is a fool, so his immediate thought is, I could charm him by cooking.
He berates himself for it immediately, grabbing two bottles of water from the bottom shelf. He sets one on the counter next to the fridge and presses the other one to his forehead. It still feels like his body is on fire.
Then, he leans against the counter, letting the edge press against his lower back as he unscrews the top and takes a sip from the bottle, shuddering at the cold feeling against his teeth. Salvation, that’s what it feels like.
With the other hand, he unlocks his phone and does what needs to be done.
He texts Yeeun, because it’s only fair that she knows where he is. Hey, drinks are running late. I’m gonna stay over at my friend’s place tonight. Within a few seconds, she reacts to the message with a thumbs-up emoji.
Of course, she doesn’t care. Not only because Minho has actually done this before—had drinks and stayed over at Changbin’s or Seungmin’s—but also because she’s completely detached from what he gets up to in his free time.
Jisung is still in the bathroom when Minho finally joins him after depositing their water in the bedroom. They share a smile—or Minho smiles, and Jisung tries, but then toothpaste foam dribbles down his chin and he gets embarrassed while Minho laughs, oddly endeared rather than disgusted.
There’s a packaged pair of toothbrushes balanced on the sink, so Minho rips it open and takes out the pink one. What can he say? He likes cute things too.
He starts brushing his teeth, but he finds even that simple task challenging as Jisung makes it his mission to make him laugh by pulling weird faces in the mirror. Minho narrowly manages to avoid the toothpaste almost flying up to his nose. He perseveres, but Jisung barely holds on when Minho does the same.
He has to spit the foam out because he almost chokes on it. Once he stops coughing (Minho pats his back, of course, he’s not cruel), he kicks Minho’s butt with his knee, asking, “What are you, an elementary school student?”
Minho grins at him. “You started it! I was just playing along!”
For that alone, Jisung kicks him again. Minho is a little crazy about him, so he turns around, sticking his ass out to give him more access.
Jisung laughs all over again, saying, “Wow, you really are insane,” but he goes and smacks Minho’s ass with his palm, so he really shouldn’t be the one to talk.
Then, when they finally stop bickering like little kids, Jisung tells him to put the toothbrush in the holder next to his own. Of course, it doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but it makes something warm and pleasant spread through Minho’s chest all the same.
They get back in bed, slipping under the covers, choosing their sides seamlessly, like they are made for each other—Minho on the right, Jisung on the left. They’re lying on their backs, Jisung with an arm under his head. Minho tries not to look, because—fuck, his arms. And he says he doesn’t even go to the gym that often.
It’s like Jisung is an alien and he was sent to this planet with the sole purpose of ruining Minho’s life. Or making it bearable. The jury is still out on that one.
When his eyelids start to feel heavy, Minho finally turns his head to Jisung.
“I should probably warn you that I sleep-talk. And I might kick you,” he says. “My friends always say I should wear a straitjacket in my sleep. So, in advance, sorry.”
Jisung laughs. Instead of moving away for safety, Jisung rolls over onto his side and scoots closer. He throws an arm around Minho’s waist, slips his cold, cold feet between Minho’s, and then, blissfully oblivious to the effect it has on Minho’s heart, he says, “Don’t worry, hyung. I can be your straitjacket.”
Notes:
thank you so much for reading! kudos and comments are always appreciated, though i’m sorry if it takes me forever to reply ♡
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Chapter 2: fatal flaws
Chapter Text
this cage was once just fine
am i allowed to cry?
i dream of cracking locks
throwing my life to the wolves
or the ocean rocks
crashing into him tonight
he’s a paradox
i’m seeing visions, am i bad?
or mad? or wise?
─── guilty as sin, taylor swift
When Minho wakes up in the morning, it takes him a moment to realize where he is.
Contrary to what he promised before they fell asleep, Jisung isn’t holding him anymore. He’s turned away, still fast asleep, it seems. His bare back is on display, which throws a wrench into the well-oiled machine that is Minho’s morning routine. For a moment, he just lies there and stares.
Then, when he finally comes to his senses, he feels for his phone on the nightstand and barely stops himself from cursing out loud when he sees what time it is. He needs to get out of here if he wants to make it to the company with a few minutes to spare.
He disentangles himself from the sheets, trying to make as little noise as possible so as not to wake Jisung, but even when he trips over his own feet as he starts gathering his clothes off the floor, Jisung doesn’t wake. He really is a deep sleeper.
But even though it pains him to disturb that sweet, peaceful face, Minho can’t leave without a word, so he sinks into a crouch beside him and gently shakes him awake.
“Jisung,” he says. “Jisung-ah.”
Jisung murmurs something incomprehensible in response, so Minho tries again, and then finally, his eyes open. For a moment, he’s disoriented, and then his gaze focuses on Minho.
“Hi,” he says, his morning voice even deeper than usual. Then, like his mouth is working faster than his brain can stop him, he murmurs, “So last night wasn’t a dream.”
Minho chuckles, ducking his head to hide his smile. “No, it wasn’t,” he says. “But I need to run. I need to get to work.”
“Oh. Okay.” Jisung blinks, and Minho can’t really tell if he’s disappointed, but he chooses to selfishly assume he is. “What time is it?”
“Quarter to seven. Still early.” For him. Minho needs to get to his apartment, get ready, and then get to the company on time. “You can go back to sleep, yeah? You said you weren’t going in today.”
Jisung hums. He already sounds half-asleep again when he says, “Sorry I can’t make you breakfast.”
Minho chuckles. On a whim, he reaches out, brushing Jisung’s hair away from his face. “You’re sweet, but I’ll be fine, sleepyhead.” Next time is what he really wants to say. But he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself. “Should I lock the front door after I leave?”
“It locks automatically. Don’t worry about it.”
His eyes are already closed, his mouth pouted because he presses his face against the pillow, so his cheeks get all squished. How is this even legal? He should not be allowed to be so cute. It’s not right.
Minho wants to kiss his forehead goodbye, that’s how much this whole cuteness thing affects him. He doesn’t, of course. He doesn’t dare.
“Okay, so I’m gonna get going,” he says, pushing himself back up into a standing position. “I’ll… talk to you soon.”
Jisung just hums. Even with that response, it feels like he’s already asleep. Minho allows himself another moment of sweet indulgence of smiling down at him and then, finally, he forces himself to leave.
Yeeun is eating breakfast at the kitchen island when he gets back to the apartment. She seems ready to go to work, which only makes an odd kind of shame prickle the back of Minho’s neck. Crawling back home after what she thinks was a night full of drinking—on a Monday at that. The truth is much worse, he thinks.
“Hi,” he says.
Yeeun echoes his greeting with equal amounts of indifference. Then, she looks him up and down, taking in his current state: the clothes from yesterday, the hair he tried to make look presentable in the rearview mirror of the cab, how all over the place he seems, still reeling from what happened the night before. Remembering Jisung’s touch, his mouth, his voice.
Minho knows he doesn’t have to explain himself to her, but the words are on the tip of his tongue. He wants to repeat the excuse from yesterday, his message. He has never felt this kind of need to say something to her before, but that’s probably because he never lied like this. Or, rather, he never kept the truth away like this.
He doesn’t say anything, in the end. He manages to keep his mouth shut. He doesn’t even wait for the moment she turns her attention back to the omelette on her plate before he’s booking it to his own bedroom, desperate to shower and wash away the thoughts of Jisung before work.
He manages to stop thinking about him for the duration of his morning meeting. Once he’s settled in his office, left to review the pile of documents left for him on the desk, he finds himself returning to that heart-shaped smile and everything that happened the night before.
Above all, there’s an overdue conversation hanging over them that doesn’t allow Minho to focus on his work the way he should. He wishes he didn’t have to leave in such a rush this morning. He wishes he could’ve stayed to talk. To make sure that he and Jisung were still on the same page.
The regret grows stronger, even though he tries to convince himself that there is no reason to get all anxious about it. Jisung seemed content when he woke up with Minho right in his face. In fact, he looked disappointed that Minho had to leave. Granted, he was still half-asleep then, but Minho tries his best to remain positive.
When lunch hours roll around and Minho sends Jisung a noncommittal text about whether he’d like to grab something to eat, he receives no response. Still, he doesn’t let it rattle him. He doesn’t even think anything of it, despite his inner turmoil. Jisung is probably busy. Doing… something. He wasn’t supposed to go to work today, but that doesn’t mean he’s sitting on the couch mindlessly watching reruns of game shows on TV all day.
Either way, Minho eats lunch on his own, thinking—hoping—that Jisung will respond to his messages when he finds a moment to spare. Maybe they could grab dinner instead. Minho isn’t in the mood for drinks, not really, but he could do dinner.
Except—
That moment doesn’t come. Not today. Not the next day.
Minho is nothing if not stupid and persistent and sporting a truly embarrassing crush, so he caves and sends another message, asking how the orchid he got Jisung is doing, but that gets him nowhere as well. The messages sit unread in his phone, haunting him, making him feel like a complete idiot. Worst of all, making him feel disappointed.
There’s a lot Minho expected, really, including Jisung regretting spending the night with him, but the realization stings all the same.
Despite how good that night ended up being, it turns out that he fucked everything up after all. He should’ve told Jisung the truth at the very beginning and ask if there was a chance for them to at least be friends. Not let desire overpower his common sense and lead him down a path of lies straight to Jisung’s bed, successfully ruining any chance he had at keeping him in his life.
God, Minho is so stupid.
He’s just hoping that Jisung doesn’t feel bad, or guilty, or anything of that sort. He didn’t do anything wrong. Not only is Minho to blame for everything that happened that night, but it was also not cheating.
Minho isn’t a cheater. He isn’t like those people who wreck their families with dishonesty and lack of respect for the relationship they have built. Never in his life did Minho think of cheating. But that was back when he was happy. Seeing people he actually liked. People who liked him back. Getting infatuated and getting committed.
But there is nothing like that between him and Yeeun. There is no family, no attachment, no commitment, no relationship, really, if you take money out of the equation. They’re two strangers in a marriage arranged for financial gain. There is no love to betray.
So, neither of them did anything wrong. But if there was anyone to blame, it was Minho. He was the one who lied. And so, he embarrasses himself all over again and sends one last message to Jisung, just to make sure he’s not spiraling the way Minho is.
Hi, it says. Judging by the radio silence, I guess you must’ve changed your mind about that night. I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I don’t want you to feel guilty about anything that happened. I should’ve been honest with you from the start. I understand why you wouldn’t want to talk to me, but on the off-chance that you’d want to put it behind us and be friends, just let me know. I really enjoyed spending time with you. I think we have a good connection, and it would be a shame to let it go to waste. Either way, please, say something. Even if you’re going to tell me to fuck off.
That message is left without an answer, too. But it’s fine. Minho expected that much.
Still, he’s groggy and annoyed and upset when he comes home that afternoon. He doesn’t have the energy to fight, so when Yeeun complains about him not doing the laundry like he should have, he just grabs the bin and loads the washing machine without any snide remarks. He also loads the dishwasher and does the groceries and goes on a seven kilometers-long run and deep-cleans his bedroom—all because he needs to busy himself and stop his thoughts from continuously straying towards Jisung.
None of that really works, but at least at the end of the day he can bemoan his existence between fresh, expensive sheets.
He was scared that Jisung would regret sleeping with him, and he understands why Jisung would, but he still feels hurt. It fucking sucks. If Jisung hates him now and never wants to see him again, he should just say it to his face, though. Or even just send him a message. Anything would be better than radio silence.
It’s just unfair—especially after Minho reached out to him, asking if they could talk.
All Minho wants is some closure. The fact that he doesn’t get it leaves him suspended in a state of confusion. Somewhere between clearly, he’s never going to talk to me again and fuck, all I want is for him to talk to me again.
He can’t stop thinking about what happened. Where they would be right now if he had done something differently. If he was honest since the day they met. If he opened up about how much of a struggle this marriage is to him.
The truth is, he just can’t stop thinking about Jisung. At work and when he’s lying in bed and reading in the park and running on the treadmill until his legs are shaking. Day and night, all the time.
He knows it’s ridiculous. He practically doesn’t even know the guy. Two nights—that’s all the time they spent together. And yet, Minho has never felt so understood. He has never felt this insurmountable need to get to know another person—to find out what they like, what they hate, what makes them laugh out loud until their stomach hurts, what makes them want to cry their eyes out.
That night—it wasn’t just sex to him. He wishes it was, because maybe then he wouldn’t feel like such an idiot right now.
After he and Yeeun got married, he thought love and sex alike were off the table for him, and although he wondered what it would be like to tie the knot with someone he actually had deep feelings for, he accepted it. Maybe a little too easily.
It’s just that he never saw romantic relationships and sex as something given or indispensable in life. He has always been busy with work—first his university degree, then the company—and with his friendships. Anything else he could satisfy on his own. He never considered that, but maybe it did make him a little broken. What kind of healthy, young person thinks this way?
But now, he feels himself wanting. Not relationships or sex. Not something random. Not just anything.
He finds himself wanting Jisung.
That must make him even more broken. To have latched onto someone this easily, getting in over his head like this and imagining all these things that will likely never come true now that Jisung has—clearly—changed his mind.
He just feels stupid, because no matter how hard he tries and how much time passes him by, he can’t get Jisung out of his head.
Three nights later, he’s in the shower, and while he’s rinsing shampoo out of his hair, his fingers catch on a knot. He tugs at it, only to take in a sharp breath at the reminder of Jisung’s hands tangled in the dark strands, how he pulled, encouraged by Minho gasping into his ear.
Fuck.
Slowly, his other hand inches down, and down, until it’s wrapped around his cock. He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until his nails scrape against the tiles, trying to find something to hold onto while his body shudders. His knees buckle, and he has to lean back against the wall of the shower to hold himself up.
He promises himself that he will feel guilty about getting off to the memory of Jisung, who clearly wants nothing to do with him, later. After he stops feeling good.
✦
One of these days, Minho meets up with Seungmin for lunch.
Well, not exactly. Seungmin just comes to his office with take-out, and Minho might not want any company, but he’s not stupid enough to refuse free food that’s practically begging to be eaten. He’s also not in the mood to go out, so if Seungmin didn’t come, Minho would probably eat the stale pack of chips he has in the drawer of his desk and call it a day.
Actually, he’s so not in the mood that he doesn’t even tell Seungmin to knock it off when he tries to steal one of the dakgogi mandu remaining on his plastic tray. He barely even notices the greedy chopsticks, to be completely honest. He’s too busy staring out into the cityscape stretching out on the other side of the giant floor-to-ceiling windows lining up the wall of his office.
Seungmin pauses with the stolen dumpling between his chopsticks, gauging Minho’s reaction. Or, rather, the lack of it. His eyebrows shoot up and he asks, “What’s going on with you?”
Although it’s too late to pretend, Minho shoves a piece of his chicken cutlet into his mouth to buy himself time, and acts all nonchalant, like there’s absolutely nothing going on with him. And then, frowning in a way that definitely gives him away, he asks, “What are you talking about, Kim Seungmin?”
“Something’s off with you,” Seungmin says, squinting at him through his glasses, trying to read it off his face.
But, of course, he’s not going to take Minho’s generosity for granted—he shoves the entire dumpling into his mouth, eating it up as if Minho is going to pry his jaw open and take it away. Then, he unscrews the bottle of water sitting on the table and chugs down a few gulps.
While he eats, Minho still has the time to weigh his options. He can barely formulate a thought, though, so even that additional second doesn’t really do him any good.
Then, Seungmin finally demands, “Spill.”
Minho gives him a look, chewing through his food without hurry. He puts up an act of indifference, but if Seungmin were to hear his heartbeat right now, it would sound just like a sledgehammer.
He doesn’t know if he should say anything. There isn’t much to say, really—that’s why it’s so profoundly embarrassing.
Nobody in their right mind acts like this over a one-night-stand. Minho grimaces. It certainly didn’t feel like one when it happened.
That’s why he needs advice. And—Fuck, he needs to stop feeling so alone with what’s happening in his life. He’s been so closed-off since he and Yeeun got married—he hasn’t spoken about anything related to that marriage even to his closest friends. Out of shame, out of fear of not being understood, out of the foolish conviction that if he doesn’t speak about it, then it doesn’t exist.
Maybe that’s where all of this comes from. Overconsuming loneliness. But it has to be more. It can’t be just that. Because if it was nothing more than loneliness, he would’ve found himself in a random man’s bed a long time ago.
He really isn’t sure why he’s so drawn to Han Jisung.
Minho sighs, meeting Seungmin’s impatient gaze with his own. Even then, with his mouth already parted to speak, he tries to talk himself out of it. What can he say? He has never been a person who confides in others about his heart problems. Or any problems, really.
“You can’t tell anyone about this,” Minho says, even though he knows Seungmin isn’t one to blabber around. “Especially not Minjeong. She’s going to hate me forever if she finds out.”
Seungmin scoffs incredulously. “Please, there are maybe two things you could do to make Minjeong hate you: wake her up before 10 A.M. to go camping or cheat.”
Minho gives him a look.
Seungmin’s face blanches. “Oh, fuck.”
Minho isn’t in a committed relationship, so he’s not cheating per se. But he is going behind the back of the person he’s legally married to, and he knows that for some people, marriage is sacred even when it has nothing to do with love.
Seungmin isn’t one of those people. Still, he asks, “Who was it?”
“I’m not going to tell you,” Minho says. That’s the only thing that is going to stop Seungmin from doing something insane, like stalking Jisung on the internet or showing up at his workplace to stare at him from behind a giant potted plant. “Are you crazy?”
Seungmin doesn’t seem pleased with that, but he lets it go. Most likely only for now, but Minho will take what he can get.
“I can do without knowing his name, but if you’re dropping this kind of bomb on me, you have to tell me what the hell happened to make you do this.”
Minho sighs. “We met at the banquet last month,” he says, unsure why he wants to keep the details close to his chest. He just does. “And then we bumped into each other in the supermarket. Got dinner together. He invited me over to his apartment, and when I was there, he tried to kiss me, and I wanted to kiss him too.”
When he pauses, Seungmin exhales like he’s been holding his breath all this time. “So nothing happened?” he asks, unsure.
Minho grimaces. “I stopped him. I told him everything. About me and Yeeun. He wanted me to leave, but then—I was just about to, but he stopped me. And he kissed me,” he says. He takes a deep breath and over that one desperate breath, he adds, “And then we had sex.”
“Hyung,” Seungmin whispers.
But Minho doesn’t let him say anything else. “And he was fine with it, he even asked me to stay the night, but now he’s not responding to my texts, and I just don’t know what to do,” he says, frowning. “And it’s not like I thought about logistics or—or the future. We just—connected. It was fun, even before we slept together.”
“So, you like him?” Seungmin asks, and Minho pretends he doesn’t feel offended at the sheer disbelief in Seungmin’s voice. “It wasn’t just… I don’t know, one night to get the edge off?”
“Yeah,” Minho admits quietly. He really does like Jisung. That’s what it all comes down to, doesn’t it? “I mean, I’ve never thought of doing this before. Seeing someone. But with him—I really want to. Not even to just have sex. I want to hang out with him. Get to know him.”
The words are true, but the moment they’re out in the open, hanging in the space between him and Seungmin, Minho is surprised that they even left his mouth. He thought about it, sure, but it’s different. Pondering the idea and declaring it as true out loud for everyone to hear.
Seungmin seems taken aback, too. He definitely wasn’t expecting this level of honesty, for Minho to open up in front of him. They don’t usually do that, the two of them—it’s usually just jokes and feigned annoyance and Minho telling Seungmin that if he doesn’t leave his office right that moment, he’s going to cut his pay.
“Alright, well, this is a complicated situation, so I’m not going to judge,” Seungmin says. “You said that he asked you to stay, yeah? That everything was fine. So maybe not all is lost. You told him the truth, and he still went for it. I’m not surprised he’s having second thoughts, but I also wouldn’t go as far as to assume he regrets it and never wants to see you again. Maybe he just needs some time to think. He’ll call you in a few days and you’ll talk it through and you’ll figure out where to go from there.”
Minho exhales. The lump in his throat that feels a lot like his heart makes it exceptionally hard to breathe.
“I hope so,” he mumbles, more to himself than to Seungmin. “It’s just that we clicked. It was so fun to just hang out with him. So it’s fine if he doesn’t want it to be anything romantic. I would be fine with just being friends. I just don’t want to leave things like this.”
Seungmin cracks a smile. “This is the first time I’m ever seeing you like this. You got it bad, huh?”
Minho feels heat crawl up the back of his neck, but he feigns indifference. He rolls his eyes and grabs a rolled-up napkin, tossing it right in Seungmin’s face.
✦
Jisung doesn’t call, but he does text. Only a few hours after Minho’s conversation with Seungmin.
Minho is already in his car, ready to go home after work, when his phone lights up with the message. Hi, it says. Can you come over so that we can talk? He doesn’t even give it a second thought before he’s asking if Jisung is home now. When he receives an affirmative response, he turns the key in the ignition and drives to Jisung’s apartment complex.
He wants to talk to him already, but at the same time, he’s anxious to hear what Jisung has to say, so he’s dragging his feet. He tells himself that if Jisung wanted to never see him again, he would have probably said that over text and not bother inviting him over to talk. But he’s not sure.
Even though it certainly feels like things are over, Minho still wants to push back in time the definite conclusion. He doesn’t want it to end like this.
Minho stands in front of Jisung’s door for almost a minute before finally lifting his hand and ringing the doorbell. He’s still in his work clothes, and a part of him wishes he took the time to go home and change into something more comfortable. His shirt is beginning to feel tight around the collar. He undoes the top two buttons and tugs at the tie, loosening it, just as Jisung opens the door for him.
Minho’s breath catches in his throat.
For all the thinking he’s done, he doesn’t actually realize how much he has missed Jisung until he’s standing right in front of him.
“Hi,” Jisung says, his voice just as soft as it has been in Minho’s thoughts, although a little uncertain. “Come on in.”
He steps aside and waits for Minho to take off his shoes before leading him to the living room and offering him something to drink. Minho shakes his head. The anxious knot in his stomach doesn’t loosen with Jisung’s hospitality.
They sit down on the couch, a respectful distance between them. No knees touching, no breathing the same air. For the first time since they met, the silence between them is tense for all the wrong reasons.
“You haven’t been responding to my texts,” Minho starts off-handedly. He can’t handle it any longer. “I honestly thought I’d never hear from you again.”
“I’ve been busy,” Jisung says, but then he looks Minho in the eye and his shoulders immediately slump, his face falling. He lets out a sigh and admits, “Alright, that’s not entirely true. I just wanted some time to think.”
Minho wishes he would have just said that, but he can’t exactly blame him for distancing himself.
“I get that,” he says. “Although since I’m here, I assume you… made some kind of decision.”
Jisung’s throat bobs as he swallows harshly. He twists the ring perched on his middle finger in a display of nervousness. Stops when he realizes Minho is staring.
“I think so,” he says finally. “But it depends on what you’ll say.”
Minho’s heart trips into a quicker beat without his permission. It leaps against his ribcage with a painful kind of ferocity. A desperate kind of hope.
“Okay, well, let’s hear it,” he says, trying to appear nonchalant.
Jisung nods. He takes a deep breath, stealing another moment to gather his thoughts. Minho watches him closely, unable to tear his eyes away. Just in case this is the last time he’s seeing him.
“I thought that putting a pause on what happened between us was what I should do. Needed to do. To think without all these feelings getting in the way,” he says. “But I kept thinking about you, about how much fun it was to be around you. And I didn’t understand why I hated it so much—not being able to see you. I kept asking myself, Why do I even miss you? I barely know you. I don’t know you at all. But I just… really like being around you and getting to know you.”
Minho’s breath catches in his throat. To have his own thoughts about Jisung echoed back to him, mirrored by the object of those desires and imaginations feels like something taking deep root in his heart.
“I feel the same way about you,” he admits, unable to look Jisung in the eye as he does. The attraction is mutual, that has always been obvious, but to talk about emotions this openly still renders him shy. He brings a hand to his ear, tugging at the lobe when he feels it grow warm with shyness. Nervousness. His stomach flips. “I thought about you all week. Wanting to hang out with you. Talk to you.”
He looks up from his lap just in time to see Jisung’s expression soften. “Really?” he asks, as if it’s not obvious in Minho’s entire demeanor how much he’s dying to spend time with him. Any time. Every second. “Because—Because if it’s just sex you’re looking for, then I’m not interested. But if you feel like there could be something more here—”
“Yes,” Minho says immediately. He feels it in his chest. A want so vast and powerful it can’t fit behind his ribs. “Between Yeeun and I—it’s always been fake, but even then I never thought of being with someone. But with you—it feels like it could go somewhere. Like it could turn into a good thing.”
Jisung smiles, ducking his head bashfully. “Yeah,” he agrees, his voice soft like molten honey. “So if it really is like you’re saying—if you two are married just for the sake of a contract—I would really like to go out on a date with you.”
Minho’s heart soars, but he doesn’t let himself feel happy just yet. “I need you to understand that we wouldn’t be able to make it public,” he says. “We could hang out, but—not act like couples do. At least not here, in this city.”
“I figured,” Jisung says. “But I’m not out of the closet, only to my closest friends, so I wouldn’t have been able to do that regardless. It’s actually one of the reasons why I’m not immediately saying no.”
Obviously, Minho isn’t out, either. Only his friends know that he’s gay. And, well, the guys he’s been with over the course of his life.
He’s not sure what would’ve happened if he had opened up to his parents about his sexuality earlier. Maybe it would have changed nothing. Maybe he still would have ended up here. Married-off to a woman he doesn’t love, trying to hold onto the man he might.
Minho feels guilty about the relief that floods him. He knows just how difficult it is to hide. How much it costs to come clean about who you are. However, this means that Jisung won’t suddenly change his mind and demand for Minho to get divorced for him right away.
“It’s not just that,” he says. “I can’t—I can’t promise you anything. Not for a few years, at least. Not until this stops being new and I will be able to get away. Because I will. I’m not going to stay in this mess forever. I just— can’t for now.”
Minho knows what he sounds like. Like those men that tell their brand-new side chicks that they will leave their wives and kids for them. But this is nothing like that.
Minho has been thinking of the day he gets to walk away. When everything is established and the power over the firm is back in his hands. Then, he will leave.
“I understand that,” Jisung says. “We don’t have to make any declarations now, yeah? Let’s just spend some time together, and then we’ll see where that takes us.”
Slowly, he reaches out and rests his hand just above Minho’s knee. When his thumb moves, caressing his thigh over his slacks, they lock eyes and smile. Minho feels the weight he’s been carrying all this week off his shoulders.
Something is telling him that this is going to take them to beautiful places. Something is telling him that this is going to work out.
✦
That afternoon, Minho doesn’t stay long. He has to go back to the apartment and Jisung is going out with his friends, anyway, so even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to stay. Still, he leaves with the promise that they’ll see each other soon.
Although they agree to take things slow, it’s obvious that they’re both eager to spend as much time together as possible right off the bat. The next morning, Jisung sends Minho a text, asking if he wants to head out together during their lunch break, and it sails smoothly from then on.
They see each other… often.
They get coffee in the morning, walking around the park with fingers freezing from the ice rattling in the plastic cups, eat dinner in cozy restaurants tucked away from the rest of the world, and even go to the gym together, because that’s what bros do. They grab lunch together. They talk, talk, talk, never really stopping, moving from face-to-face conversations over text messages and phone calls, always finding a new topic to discuss from cover to cover.
It honestly surprises Minho. It’s never been easy for him to make friends, but with Jisung, everything is different.
It helps that they have a lot in common—makes it easier to plan things they could do. The coffee and hotpot outings are fun, but Minho finds himself browsing the internet in search of something less ordinary. One day, he comes across a drive-in theater event just on the outskirts of Seoul. This weekend, they’re having a marathon of horror movies, perfect to let them bond over their shared love for a little thrill.
Minho has never been to a cinema like that and neither has Jisung, but he’s enthusiastic the moment Minho tells him about it. It also just so happens that Yeeun is going out with her friends for the entire night, so he doesn’t even have to come up with an excuse as to where he’s going again.
From the very beginning, it looks like a perfect evening.
Minho can get ready in an empty apartment, playing sentimental music through the speakers while he parades around in his boxers, and then pick Jisung up like they’re a normal couple—two guys going on a date, nothing out of the ordinary.
Minho seems to have underestimated Jisung’s enthusiasm. He seems like he might pass out from excitement when he climbs into the passenger seat. Minho laughs, but he finds it incredibly endearing. He also makes it his mission to research more date ideas that go beyond romantic walks along the Han River.
“Ah, I didn’t even check what movies they’re playing,” Jisung says as he plugs his phone up to the aux cord, always the one responsible for their playlist during car rides.
“The titles looked good,” Minho says. “I saw one of them when it was first in the cinema. I enjoyed it.”
“Oh, which one?”
Minho grins. “You’ll have to guess by my reaction.”
He briefly tears his gaze away from the road ahead just to see Jisung roll his eyes with exaggerated annoyance. Another thing Minho has learned over these past few weeks is just how amusing it is to tease Jisung.
“You’re so annoying,” he says, but when Minho looks at him again, he’s smiling.
The drive-in theater proves to have been a really good idea. It’s fun, even more than Minho thought it would be, unsure whether everything would work and whether Jisung would like the real thing as much as he liked the idea. But—
“This is the best date I have ever been on,” Jisung says somewhere in the middle of the second movie of the evening. What makes it funny is that he says it just after the protagonist of the movie gets possessed by a demon.
“Yeah?” Minho asks, turning to look at him, knees pulled up to his chest in the passenger seat. They’ve reclined them as far as they go, so there’s enough space to stretch their legs, but he’s still curled-up like a shrimp. Cute.
Jisung hums, and then promptly shoves another sour cherry-shaped gummy into his mouth, grimacing at the taste. At first, Minho thought he wasn’t a fan of them and was eating them because he didn’t want Minho to feel bad for buying them for him, but it turns out Jisung just likes the burn on his tongue. Which, apparently, doesn’t extend to spicy food. He cannot handle spice.
“Duh,” Jisung scoffs, like it should be obvious. “Nobody has ever done anything like this for me. Nobody I ever dated would’ve enjoyed this the way you are.”
Minho draws his brows together. “Why?”
“For starters, no one I dated really liked horror movies,” Jisung says with a shrug. “Then there’s the part where you watch it cramped in a car parked in the middle of nowhere.”
Minho lifts one corner of his mouth. “No one saw the joyful possibilities of being locked in a confined space with you for long, long hours?”
Jisung laughs, tipping his head back against the headrest. He bites off the green part of one of the sour cherries next. “I guess not,” he says, looking at Minho with something that feels a lot like fondness. “Have you ever done this?”
“No. I was looking for something fun we could do and this popped up, and I thought it could be fun.”
Jisung looks pleased to hear that, and Minho wonders if it’s because he’s happy that Minho never took anyone else on a date like this before. That he’s special. He hopes that’s the case, because it’s the truth.
He opens a can of Sprite, but he’s not sure if he can drink it all without risking the need to go pee in the bushes, so he hands it over to Jisung so they can share. Then, Jisung turns the pack of gummies towards Minho, encouraging him to grab a cherry for himself, so he does. He grimaces when the wrapper rustles just as the radio crackles around the dialogue. They should probably pay more attention to that. Raising the volume would probably help, but this is good. Minho is more interested in what Jisung has to say than the movie, to be honest.
Most of their conversation revolves around what’s being projected onto the giant screen, though. They comment on the plot holes and the bad acting and flinch at the jumpscares and then laugh at one another, insisting they did not flinch.
Minho has to agree with Jisung—it’s the best date he has ever been on, and they still have one more movie to watch.
At one point, Jisung pretends to yawn so that he can swing his arm around Minho’s shoulders. He must like this move a lot, considering it’s the second time he’s trying it on Minho. This time around, though, Minho doesn’t move away. He scoots over closer, leaning into him as much as he can with the console getting in the way.
He tips his head back, brushing his nose against Jisung’s jaw. This time around, he’s the one who initiates the kiss. Jisung hums as he kisses him back, parting his mouth to let Minho deepen it. Warmth stirs in Minho’s abdomen when he realizes Jisung is smiling into it. Fuck, it’s just so hot. Jisung is so hot.
If they weren’t in public, Minho would do unthinkable things to this man. But since he doesn’t dare, he has to settle for imagining the way he would plant himself in Jisung’s lap and slip his hand into his pants, maybe tease him a little. Tease him a lot, probably.
His imagination proves itself to be nearly as dangerous as the real thing, though, and Minho has to pull away from the kiss. He can’t deny himself the comfort and pleasure of Jisung having an arm around him or having his own hand on Jisung’s thigh, but he decides it’s safer if he keeps his mouth to himself.
They leave the theater somewhere in the second half of the last movie to avoid having to wait for their turn when all the other cars start to pull out. It’s after midnight, nearing one o’clock, when they get to Jisung’s apartment. Minho is exhausted, but it’s that pleasant kind of exhaustion that creeps up on you slowly after a day well-spent.
Jisung leans over the console to kiss him, chaste and sweet. Or, sour, because he still tastes like Sprite and cherry sour jelly. Utterly intoxicating.
Like a teenager, Minho feels butterflies take flight in his stomach. He’s slowly getting used to the feeling of Jisung’s mouth against his, his hand pressed against the side of his neck.
“I’ll see you soon, yeah?” he asks, his lips brushing against Jisung’s, because even though they’ve parted, they still refuse to put any real distance between. He searches Jisung’s face for confirmation and finds it in the soft curve of his mouth, the glimmer in his eyes.
“Yeah.” Jisung smiles. “Thanks for tonight, hyung. I really had a lot of fun.”
“Me too,” Minho agrees. The movies were fine, but Jisung’s company made the night what it was: the best date of his life. Probably only until their next date, but it still counts. “We should do it again. I saw they have rom-com screenings, too. You’d like that, right?”
Jisung laughs. “I forgot you snooped through my Netflix,” he says, giving Minho’s shoulder a little fond slap. Then, his expression softens. “Let’s do that. But I want to take you somewhere next time.”
“Oh, really?” Minho murmurs, dragging his teeth over his bottom lip. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”
Jisung hums, leaning back into Minho’s space so that their mouths are almost touching again. It seems like he can’t get enough, either. “I’ll try my best to find something fun we could do,” he says.
He kisses Minho goodbye again, and then once more, because Minho can’t let him go without saying, “By the way, your ass looks really good in these pants,” and Jisung can’t let that comment go by unappreciated.
Minho smiles to himself all the way home. He even turns the volume up when he hears a love song play on the radio, and it’s an overly cheesy, bubblegum pop track. Apparently, that’s the kind of music you begin to like when you have an awful, embarrassing crush.
His mood dims the closer he gets to the street he lives on. Then, every step in the direction of that apartment is like slogging through knee-high mud. A slow, torturous death. But he unlocks the door and all the lights are out, two pairs of slippers still out in the entryway.
Yeeun isn’t there, and he knows he can preserve his happiness a little longer.
✦
Jisung is kind and caring and gentle and Minho can’t get him out of his head. They see each other all the time now, really, and if they can’t, they’re talking on the phone. Most often, Minho dodges lunch with Seungmin to see him (two blessings in one, huh). Because of that, and because he’s the sole person who knows about Jisung’s existence in Minho’s life, it’s only fair that Seungmin is aware things are actually working out between them.
“We’re going on dates,” Minho tells him one day. “Don’t ask anything else. I won’t say.”
Seungmin looks like he has two thousand questions, but the deadpan look on Minho’s face successfully dissuades him from actually voicing them out. All he says is, “I told you so,” and then marches away into the elevator, letting Minho get back to his office with his bag of take-out.
Today is one of those days when his and Jisung’s schedules don’t align. Earlier, Jisung sent him a crying hamster sticker, said he couldn’t get out of work. Minho didn’t even have the time to get all childishly sad about it because Jisung added, How about we meet up for a beer later? and so now Minho has something to look forward to at the end of the day.
Still, just like he has for the past few weeks, he wonders what Jisung is doing, how work is going for him. When he gets out of boring meetings, the first thing he wants to do is text him. Say, This and that person pissed me off. Or, These people don’t even know what they’re talking about. Or, most often, It was so boring. I wish you were here.
Aside from wondering what he’s up to, Minho can’t stop thinking about the last date they went on. Jisung gave him nothing but instructions where to drive. He seemed excited, but nervous, so Minho did something stupid and kissed him right there in the car to make him feel more at ease. He knew he was going to like whatever they would do, but he was still positively surprised by Jisung’s choice.
They ended up taking a private pottery class. It’s something new we can start together, Jisung said. That’s fun, right?
At first, they were both really frustrated because nothing was coming out right, but struggling together also ended up very amusing. Especially when their teacher kept poking fun at them. In the end, their mugs were a bit wonky, but they were both happy with how they turned out. They’re supposed to go back in for another class to actually paint them, and they agreed that Minho should make a mug for Jisung, and Jisung for Minho.
Romance is a beautiful thing.
So, Minho has been doodling in the corners of all his notepads all week to practice drawing the cute cats that he plans on filling the mug with.
He also can’t stop thinking about the way Jisung looked at him when he said, I don’t think I’ve ever had this much fun with someone before. He tilted his head, his gaze softened, and the corners of his mouth turned downward in that fond smile of his that Minho adores.
Me either, Jisung said, and then he leaned over the console of Minho’s car to kiss him. You’re the most fun person to hang out with, hyung.
He looks at him like that too when their eyes meet across the bar that evening. Minho has been staring at the door for the past five minutes, so he catches the exact moment Jisung walks in. He slides his gaze over the place, taking in all the other patrons until he finally finds Minho, right there in the most secluded corner of the room. His whole face lights up.
It takes everything in Minho not to pull him into a kiss when he slides onto the stool on the other side of the high-top table.
Even though they’re keeping things between them a secret, they can still go out together. Of course they can. If they go to the cinema to see a dumb movie or to a bar to grab a beer, just like now, no one will bat an eye. People will think they’re best friends before it crosses their minds that the two of them might be a couple. They will assume they’re complaining about their workload or how their favorite sports team has been losing game after game before they assume Minho is telling Jisung that his jacket looks good on him.
They just can’t get overly touchy. Which is—Well, it’s hard when all Minho wants to do is tangle their legs under the table or press his nose against the column of Jisung’s neck and breathe him in because when he sat down at the table, Minho caught the smell of his perfume and now his brain is refusing to let go of it.
It’s safer to not touch at all.
He brings the Guinness bottle to his mouth, taking a swig, his attention entirely focused on Jisung, even though all he’s doing right now is eating fries. He likes staring at him—because he’s pretty, of course, but also because that lets him study all the emotions that pass through his face, and getting to know Jisung—shelving all of his mannerisms and habits in his memory—has been one of Minho’s favorite pastimes over these last few weeks.
They wind up in this bar often enough for Minho to know that Jisung loves their fries even without the noise he makes in the back of his throat every time he shoves one into his mouth, but each time he hears it—each time Jisung pauses whatever he’s been saying to actually eat instead of talking with his mouth full—the corners of his lips twitch upwards.
The Black Cat is Minho’s favorite bar because it’s tucked into a quiet corner of a cozy residential area and frequented by middle-aged women who gossip loudly enough to drown every other conversation and men who watch baseball games over beer, equally noisy and enthusiastic. It’s also Minho’s favorite because he can meet Jisung here without worrying about being seen by anyone they know.
They’re not hiding that they know each other—that would be ridiculous. But someone who knows Minho could easily pick apart the way he leans in when Jisung talks even though he can hear him just fine, how he drinks every word that comes out of his mouth with a kind of voracity he doesn’t extend to anything or anyone else.
Jisung is an expressive person. Both physically and verbally. He speaks his mind and he’s not afraid to disagree with Minho, even though it doesn’t happen often. He seems to enjoy their little opinionated squabbles just as much as Minho does, especially that they always end up just laughing and agreeing to disagree.
Minho won’t admit it, but sometimes he eggs him on just to see Jisung’s annoyed frown, his eyebrows pitch down in an almost cartoonish way.
The best thing about him is that he takes it all so seriously, but at the same time, he always wants to see the other side, Minho’s point, he wants to know why he thinks this way. It’s comfortable like this, knowing that they can bicker and at the end of the day Jisung will still loop an arm around Minho’s neck and pull him into a kiss that will take his breath away.
Not here, of course, but—usually.
Minho watches Jisung’s widening eyes as he explains that there are people who think volcano eruptions are actually just governmental nuclear tests, and his heart does a somersault in his chest.
“I watched a documentary on this, actually,” he says, his expression animated, slipping into a soft kind of annoyance, because Oh my god, have these people ever watched a volcano eruption livestream?
Minho is about to say that he believes the Earth is flat just to see his reaction.
“I mean, some of the eruptions are so powerful they can be heard on the other side of the world, but—even if you think about it from a different perspective—how would they test nuclear weapons with virtually no effect on nature or humans? It’s crazy.”
Minho hums along, his cheek cupped in his palm. He’s listening attentively—he could probably repeat every word back to Jisung if he just asked—but he has to admit that he’s also just staring. It’s not his fault that somehow Jisung manages to look even hotter when he goes on his nerdy rants.
He thinks, I want to take you to an aquarium and hear what you have to say about sharks. You probably think they’re misunderstood—gentle in reality, like underwater puppies. He thinks, What expression would you make when you see a pufferfish? You would probably puff out your cheeks the same way you do when you’re embarrassed.
Like right now, when he finishes his argument and realizes how intently Minho has been staring at him all this time, eyes fond, so undeniably fond. So fond that Minho can physically feel it, and for some reason, he doesn’t recoil, he doesn’t stop. He wants to look at Jisung like this, because it’s the first time that he does, all without thinking. No one has ever made him feel this way.
“So, what are you thinking?” Jisung asks, taking a swig of his beer, trying to draw Minho’s attention away from the shy blush across his cheeks.
Minho knew that from the first time they went out that Jisung gets flushed quickly when he drinks. One beer and his cheeks are pink. And these dimmed lights don’t do him justice.
“It does sound stupid,” Minho agrees. “Especially when the world is so fucked up that they don’t need volcanoes to test bombs. They can just drop them on people and see what that does without any consequences whatsoever.”
Jisung grimaces. “Yeah. That, too,” he says. A moment of silence passes between them, and then he adds, “You look tired. You sound it, too.”
“Yeah, work’s been annoying. Too many pointless meetings,” Minho says before reaching for his bottle and downing what’s left of his beer. He’s gonna need to go grab another bottle, but for now, he stays glued to his seat. “It’s that time of the year when everyone’s pitching ideas, and so I have to sit there and listen to all these presentations and look at these hopeful faces when I know, in the end, that none of them will get past the preliminary stage and I can’t even do anything about it because I’ll get outvoted anyway.”
Jisung juts his bottom lip out in a pout. “I’m sorry to hear that, hyung,” he says. It would sound disingenuous from anyone else, but Jisung really does look annoyed for him. “Is there any project in particular that you liked?”
There’s one Minho feels inclined towards. And not just because it’s for cats. Or, rather, for pet owners in general. It’s an alarm system that’s supposed to use advanced motion detection technology based on heat signature and movement patterns of small household animals to keep them safe inside.
“Wait, that actually sounds really cool,” Jisung says. “I can see why you like it.”
“Yeah, but the company has never done anything like this before, and I don’t think it’s gonna get the push it needs with the board,” Minho tells him, unable to stop himself from pouting petulantly. “It’s gonna get shelved forever.”
After he lets out a sigh and reassures that it’s really not that big of a deal, he unconsciously falls a bit silent, thoughts swimming away nowhere in particular. He just feels a little buzzed, that’s it.
Still, Jisung watches him for a moment and then asks, “Do you wanna go home?”
His fingers twitch where they’re resting on the tabletop, like he wants to reach out and hold Minho’s hand, but his eyes flicker across the bar and he just settles on pressing the pad of his pointer into the back of Minho’s hand.
It’s enough. Minho smiles. “No. This is the most relaxed I’ve been all week.”
“Yeah?” Jisung mirrors his smile, his cheeks getting red all over again. Minho likes it. Rendering this confident, self-assured man a flustered, blushing thing.
“Yeah,” he reaffirms softly. “I like when you talk about things. It surprises me how much you actually know. I mean, I could probably name-drop any topic and you’d be yapping on about it like an expert.”
Jisung laughs. “I don’t know about that. Don’t ask me about anything related to mechanics. Or cooking.” He props his chin up on his hand and blinks at Minho with those gorgeous brown eyes that make him want to fall to his knees. “Have I told you I cannot cook?”
“I figured out from the contents of your fridge that you don’t do it often.”
From the amusement on Jisung’s face, Minho deduces you don’t do it often should be substituted for you don’t do it at all.
“I mean, it’s not like I’m a total disaster,” Jisung says in his own defense. “I can put together a meal. I make really good waffles, actually! But I’m awful at following recipes. I just can’t do it. I get lost and half-way through I realize I forgot to buy something and now I’m stuck with oil sizzling on the pan and nothing to cook on it.” He lets out a tortured sigh, and smiles. “Do you still think I’m hot? Do you still like me?”
Minho laughs. He wouldn’t usually find incompetence cute, but if Jisung can throw together waffles then it can’t be that bad. Not everyone has to have the skills of a gourmet chef. As long as they can feed themselves just fine.
“Yeah,” he says, desperately trying to remind himself that he isn’t allowed to lean in across the table and kiss Jisung, no matter how soft and enticing his mouth looks. “You lucked out because I can cook and I like doing it too.”
He hasn’t been cooking a lot in the past year, since he has moved into the apartment he shares with Yeeun. Sometimes he does—he cooks a pot of soup or roasts meat on the weekend and tells her to eat up, too. No use cooking incredible meals just for one person.
It’s because he’s busy, sure, but it also comes with the odd feeling that the kitchen there isn’t really his. The same way the bathroom isn’t, or the living room. His bedroom is barely his, too. He doesn’t know how to get around comfortably. It’s just a space where he lives. Sleeps, breathes, rests between work. Tries to be out of as often and for as long as possible.
But now, he thinks about cooking in Jisung’s small but cozy kitchen, chopping vegetables and marinating meat and listening to the sizzle of oil on the pan, and he surprises himself with how much he wants that. And it’s silly, but that’s really what he thought about the first time he stepped foot in that room.
They’ve been dating for, what, three weeks, not even whole three weeks, and he’s already thinking about how domestic it would be to go grocery shopping together, cook for Jisung in his kitchen while Jisung sits on the counter, running his mouth about something incredibly cool. Letting him taste whatever is in the pot, asking, Do you think it needs more salt? and waiting for Jisung’s reaction.
“I lucked out, huh?” Jisung echoes, batting his long eyelashes at him. He looks like Bambi. “Does that mean you’ll cook for me?”
“Mhm. Maybe,” Minho says, feigning disinterest, pretending that he isn’t dreaming up romantic scenarios right this moment. “You’ll have to figure out a way to convince me.”
That makes Jisung laugh. “I’m sure I can think of something,” he says, as his foot inconspicuously touches Minho’s calf under the table, sliding up slowly, with purpose.
Minho’s brain almost melts and spills out through his ears. He practically jumps off his chair and says, “I’m gonna get us another beer,” before hurrying off in the direction of the bar. Jisung’s cheerful, self-satisfied laughter follows his every step.
Even though neither of them really wants to part ways, they still end up leaving the bar quite early. It’s not even half past nine yet when they step out into the cold, night air, but the place is far from the center, and they still need to get home.
Jisung gets them both a cab. He insists on paying since he was the one who wanted to go out (as if Minho didn’t) and he says, “I have a coupon in the app!” It makes Minho laugh, so he says yes.
Now, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket so that he doesn’t succumb to the urge of holding Jisung’s hand. He wants to hope they will be able to do this one day. Out in the open, for everyone to see. Minho waits for a better future. Because when you find someone you might love, it feels like hope.
He promises himself that he will give Jisung more than this—sneaking around in bars in secluded parts of the city, being careful not to touch each other for too long. When the world becomes a little less cruel, and when they’re both ready to face that it will always be.
Minho looks around, taking in the empty street around them. Not a single soul to bear witness when he asks, “Can I kiss you goodnight?”
Jisung melts. He does that thing—he tilts his head to the side, his eyebrows knit together, and the corners of his mouth turn downward even though he’s smiling. Without another word, he takes a step towards Minho and closes the gap between them.
Minho has to fight his own facial muscles to stop himself from smiling. Still, when they pull apart, he says, “Not what I meant. I wanted to kiss you, not the other way around. We’re re-doing it.”
Jisung laughs, smacking him on the shoulder for being such a fool, but he gives in, of course. And this time around, when their lips lock, Minho’s hands settle on his waist. They don’t allow themselves too much, but that kiss is enough to get Minho through the night.
They’re both grinning like fools, leaning back against the wall of the bar, waiting for their cabs to arrive. Jisung’s pulls up to the curb first.
He glances at his phone and says, “Yours is still two minutes out. Will you be okay?”
Minho laughs, but he finds the concern cute. “I’m a big boy.”
“Text me when you get home,” Jisung says, rolling his eyes, even though he’ll be able to follow Minho’s car in the app.
When he disappears inside the white Hyundai, Minho sees him lift his hand in a casual goodbye through the dimmed windowpane. He wishes their night didn’t have to end here, but a minute later, his own cab arrives, driving him down a different road.
The kitchen light is on when Minho pushes the front door open. He takes off his shoes, his jacket, slides his feet into the slippers waiting for him in the entryway. His movements are slow, almost lazy, like he’s bracing himself for something, pushing the inevitable back in time.
Once again, his instincts don’t betray him. Yeeun is sitting at the kitchen table, a pair of glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, her laptop in front of her. Minho can tell that she’s angry with him for some reason, because she actually looks at him when he walks in.
Instead of the usual, courteous Hi, what Minho hears is, “Where have you been?”
It makes no sense for her to be angry, not when she has never cared about where he was and she’s certainly not going to start now. He briefly wonders if, somehow, she has found out about him and Jisung. Heard something from a friend of a friend. About how cozy Minho seems with this guy. But aside from the risky kiss in front of the bar, they’ve been careful.
His rising anxiety, however, evaporates with her next words.
“Your parents came over, and you were unreachable,” she complains. Of course. Of course, it’s just that. “I called you. Your mom called you. And nothing.”
Minho didn’t look at his phone even once this evening, too interested in Jisung to let it steal even a second of his attention. He clears his throat.
“I got swarmed with work. I had to take care of it,” he says, pulling his phone out of his pocket to confirm that he’s got five missed calls from Yeeun and his mother. “I’m sorry. I had my phone on silent after a meeting, so I didn’t hear you call.”
He looks her in the eye to make sure she believes him, but—Both of them know he’s lying. That much is obvious. Fuck.
Minho runs an anxious hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he repeats uselessly. “What did they want?”
He’s going to have to call them himself. Explain himself. The thought alone sends a shiver down his spine. He’s too tired for this. He understands that she’s upset. But his parents really aren’t that bad. To her, at least. If she left him alone with her parents, he would seriously consider jumping out the first window he sees. But he’s had such a good day and now she’s ruining it.
Really, is it such a big deal?
“They asked me to speak in their name during a charity event,” she says. As their daughter-in-law. Their beloved daughter-in-law. All color drains from Minho’s face while Yeeun carries on, “They also want to eat dinner with my parents and us. This Friday. We could’ve pushed that back in time if only you’d picked up your damn phone.”
“I told you I was busy with work,” Minho says with equal amounts of annoyance in his tone. “I’m sorry. I guess we’ll have to do the dinner. At least that way we’ll have them off our backs for a while.”
That doesn’t seem to appease her.
“It’s easy for you to say,” she tells him, crossing her arms over her chest. “You didn’t have to sit here and make up excuses for where I was and listen to stories about how your peers are all pregnant and the clock is ticking, and then have to sign up for another one of these a few days later.”
Minho clenches his jaw. “I’m sorry,” he says, feeling something heavy coil in the pit of his stomach. He feels sick. “I know this is hard for you. What else do you want me to say?”
“Nothing. I want you to pick up your phone when I call.”
Then, she closes her laptop, puts it under her elbow, and strides out of the kitchen without another word. Minho feels a moment of petty vindication that he isn’t the one to run out on the argument this time, and then he’s immediately ashamed of himself.
✦
Although Minho knows it’s best to get it out of the way, he still dreads Friday.
He gathers small moments of happiness throughout the week to help him cope when he’s stuck at the dinner table, and it doesn’t even surprise him at this point that most of them feature Jisung in one way or another. The heart-shaped straws they got with their coffees during their lunch break on Tuesday and the cat they saw in the park on their walk; Jisung told him to just go ahead and ask the girl that had it on the leash if they could pet it, so he did. The girl was cool. She sized them up in her typically judgemental, teenage fashion and said, You can try, but I don’t know if she’s gonna let you. Thankfully, the cat deemed them worthy.
And then—ordering lunch for Jisung when he said he was too busy to go out and receiving a cute picture of him hugging the take-out bag, slumped across his desk.
The sunset he saw from his bedroom window in the most magical shades of orange and pink. The sandwich he ate for breakfast on Thursday. Hanging out with his old high school friends. The fact that the gym was empty when he came to work out in the evening.
All that, and it’s still not enough to break the fall of the experience.
Minho is exhausted even before he sits down at the table. Mentally, yes, but walking up the stairs to the private room reserved for the night leaves him tired physically, too, even though it’s just fifteen steps. He counts. He drags his feet. It does nothing.
Minho hates it when they’re all together. When it’s just his parents, it’s manageable. Annoying, and uncomfortable if Yeeun is around as well, because his mother is always staring, trying to read them, poking around. But there’s a sense of inferiority in them when they’re in the same room with the Jangs. As if the merger has taken away all of their self-worth.
Nobody seems to be happy.
Usually, Minho is able to put up a front and pretend. Participate in the conversation. Smile here and there. Make a joke, even. Tonight, his heart is not in it.
The truth is, he just wants to see Jisung.
They haven’t been able to see each other either on Wednesday or Thursday or even earlier today. They both have been busy with work, especially Jisung. And late-night calls aren’t ideal when all Minho really wants to do is sink into Jisung’s arms and watch a shitty movie on his couch, with shitty microwave popcorn and beer.
It’s all he thinks about, because for some reason, the dinner tonight is particularly awkward.
At least when it’s all business talk, Minho can somewhat contribute to the conversation. If not him, then it’s Yeeun. At least in that regard, everyone is happy. The companies are doing well—especially the Lee Electronics with the numbers they’re pulling after the merger. Clearly, it’s been beneficial to both firms. Too bad that the price they’re paying is their wrecked personal lives.
Up until that point, the conversation is tolerable. They’re already ordering dessert by the time that topic fizzles out, and Minho is foolish enough to think they might have managed to escape the uncomfortable questions he and Yeeun both dread. Usually, that’s reserved for the beginning of the feast. Goes well with entrées and all that. Or, if you’re Minho, it makes you lose your appetite.
Except as soon as he thinks it, allowing himself that brief moment of relief, Yeeun’s mother clears her throat. Clearly, she sees nothing better to entertain her while she waits for the waiter to bring them another bottle of wine to finish off the evening than to ask the two of them how they’re doing, which by now Minho knows is just a front for Are you making babies already?
Even though the marriage is nothing but a formality, their parents still harbor hope that something akin to affection will bloom between them. And if not affection, then desire. Anything that will give them heirs. How stable would the companies be, tied together with the force of one tiny fist.
But Minho doesn’t even have to glance at Yeeun to know that he isn’t capable of loving her.
They share a look, a silent conversation between two pairs of tired, apathetic eyes, and Yeeun turns to her mother, forcing the corners of her mouth upwards. She smiles in a way that only Minho seems to realize is uncomfortable.
His own parents exchange swift glances as if they’re thinking, Oh, just look at them. They make such a good couple. We will have a grandkid on the way in no time. It makes Minho sick to his stomach.
He thinks, Where is that damn waiter? He wishes they were already here—he wishes he could grab the bottle of wine they’re supposed to bring and down it. Get himself drunk and forget. But he’s driving tonight, so all he has ordered to drink tonight is iced-tea. He has to stop himself from reaching for it, from emptying it in quick gulps. Everyone would look at him, then. They would make even more odd, baseless assumptions.
“Work is keeping us busy, Mom,” Yeeun says diplomatically, keeping her cool even though Minho can see the way her fingers curl against the edge of her chair, long nails digging into the underside. “You know how it is.”
She’s much better at this than Minho is. All he wants is to grab the knife off the table and stab himself in the trachea. He’s pretty sure that if he opened his mouth right now, the only thing that would come out is a guttural scream.
“Ah, of course, that’s understandable,” her mother says, smiling, just barely. “Although that only makes me think. You should take a few days off and go somewhere, just the two of you. You deserve to get some rest and have fun.”
They should do that. Separately. Yeeun could take one of her friends, Minho could take Jisung, and they could pretend they’re together. Oh, how good would it be to have a confidant in her. But now, after a year, it feels like it’s too late for trauma bonding. Minho might live with her, but he doesn’t know her, and he’s not stupid enough to risk what he has now.
He clears his throat and says, “That sounds like a good idea, but maybe when work lets up a little. I wouldn’t want to leave the company when everyone is swarmed, and I’m sure Yeeun wouldn’t, either.”
Thankfully, the waiter brings out their dessert then, distracting everyone at the table, and so Minho can stuff his mouth full of tiramisù and avoid the conversation altogether. Then, Yeeun proceeds to ask his mother about the necklace she’s wearing, and steals the attention away from marriage and children and vacation.
What follows is an idle conversation. Their fathers talk about someone else’s business, and Minho is stuck in between, listening with one ear and the other, not caring about either of the topics. He just eats his damned cake and dreams about crawling into his bed. Calling Jisung.
Is it bad that he hasn’t seen him in person in three days and he’s already missing him so much? They’ve talked, for fuck’s sake. Just earlier today, Minho told him where he was going since Jisung wanted to know what plans he had for the evening. He wondered if Jisung would get weird about it. About the mention of Yeeun.
But instead, he sent a drooling hamster sticker and asked, Does this mean you’re all dressed-up? It loosened Minho’s tight-wound nerves. He sent him a picture of what he was wearing, a selfie in the mirror, and blushed furiously at the string of compliments he received. Jisung knew how to make a man feel confident. And he knew how to instantly make Minho feel better.
It was only because of him that he even managed to gather just enough will to come here.
Minho almost exhales with relief when all their plates are empty, but then the waiter brings the bill, and his stomach roils. He feels like he might vomit.
The Jangs, as good as they are, remain oblivious to the displeasure on Minho’s parents’ faces when they slip their card into the bill presenter and say not to worry.
They’re not bankrupt. They’re doing well. Sure, they’re not living as lavishly as they would three years ago, but they’re still—wealthy. Surely, the Jangs don’t mean anything by it, but Minho doesn’t miss the way his father clenches his jaw.
There it is again—that inferiority. That humiliation.
Still, they linger to talk a bit more while Minho and Yeeun excuse themselves and walk to his car in silence. That’s how things usually are between them: silent. Minho is so used to it, he disappears in his own thoughts the moment they’re left alone. That’s why it takes him off-guard when Yeeun suddenly breaks that silence.
“Can you drive me to Yeoreum’s place?” she asks as they’re fastening their seatbelts. “She lives in Seocho.”
Immediately, Minho thinks, I can go see Jisung. It should be concerning, the fact that Jisung is his first thought, but he’s tired and lonely and he can’t bring himself to care anymore.
“Sure,” he says with a shrug of indifference to hide the sheer relief he’s feeling. He turns the GPS on and hands it over so that she can type in the address. “Are you gonna come back late?”
Yeeun shakes her head. “I think I’ll just stay over. I don’t wanna take a cab at night.”
“I could come get you if you want,” he says, and he really means it. They might be forced to be married to each other and they clash more often than not, but her safety matters to him. He’s not an asshole.
“Thanks, but it’s fine,” Yeeun tells him. “I’ll be back before noon, though. Or later. Depends if we get early lunch.”
She mounts the GPS into the holder, and they fall silent all over again. At least here, in the car, they have the radio to keep them company. They’re not that far from Seocho and there isn’t much traffic, so not even ten minutes later, Minho is already dropping off in front of the apartment complex. They share a quick goodbye, Yeeun grabs her bag, and he waits until she’s inside the building before he drives off. He can’t help the solace that floods him when he finally finds himself on the familiar road leading to Jisung’s place.
Jisung is, unsurprisingly, surprised to see him.
“Hyung,” he says, and he sounds confused, but his face betrays him, because even before he finishes pronouncing the word, his mouth is already twisted in a smile. “What are you doing here?”
“Sorry to drop by without a warning,” Minho says, slipping inside when Jisung steps away to let him in. He takes off his jacket and exchanges his shoes for the house slippers Jisung keeps in the entryway. “After dinner Yeeun asked me to drive her to her friend’s place, and I missed you, so I took the chance hoping you’ll take me in.”
Jisung throws his arms around Minho’s neck. Out of habit, Minho’s hands come to rest on his waist.
He’s wearing glasses again. Gold, round-rimmed. The first time Minho saw him in them, he genuinely almost passed out. He’s a little more used to the sight, especially after so many late-night video calls when Jisung has already taken out his contacts and switched them out for a pair of glasses, but it still does something to him. Jisung looks hot in them. Like a hot nerd.
“I missed you too,” Jisung says, and it’s so obvious he’s pleased Minho isn’t holding his words back. He leans in to kiss him, just a soft peck. A greeting. “And you can come over anytime you want, you know that.”
Minho hums, looping his arms around Jisung’s waist to bring him closer. Their noses touch, and Minho fights the urge to nuzzle up against him like a cat.
When Jisung asks, “How did the dinner go?” Minho grimaces. That’s all he needs to do, really. Jisung understands. He brushes Minho’s hair away from his face, his touch gentle and soothing, and changes the topic. “Hm. What do you wanna do?”
“Nothing,” Minho murmurs, pressing his palm against Jisung’s lower back to pull him even closer. “Just wanna be with you like this.”
Jisung smiles. “Who would’ve thought you’d be so clingy. So cute.”
“I have many sides to me,” Minho says. He doesn’t fight it. There’s no use. He’s a grown man, and he’s damn cute. So what? As long as Jisung likes it, he can be anything.
“Come on. I’m gonna get you something to change into,” Jisung says. He pulls away and takes a good look at Minho. “Even though you really do look hot. Even better in person.”
“Hm. I was about to get upset because you didn’t compliment me when I walked in,” Minho lies, laughing. Even though it physically pains him, he lets go of Jisung to follow him further into the apartment.
“I was surprised that you were even here,” Jisung defends himself, glancing over his shoulder to send Minho one of his smiles. “I wasn’t focused on what you were wearing.”
The lights in the apartment are out except for the tall lamp standing in the corner of the living room that Jisung must’ve flicked on on his way to the front door, because when they walk past it on their way to his bedroom, he turns it off. There’s another light spilling out into the hallway, leading them inside.
“I was watching Love Exchange when you came,” Jisung says, nodding at the TV mounted on the wall. “We can watch something else, though?”
Minho doesn’t care about watching anything, really. All he wants is to lie in bed with Jisung and cuddle him. He wants to cuddle him so much, the need feels almost physical, something pulling him into Jisung’s arms. It must be this giant grey hoodie he’s wearing. He looks exceptionally soft in it.
“No,” he says. “Let’s watch it. But you have to catch me up to speed.”
“You want to?” Jisung raises his eyebrows, incredulous. “You know that’s a dating show, right?”
Minho rolls his eyes with feigned annoyance. “I might not be a fan, but I don’t mind watching it with you,” he says, satisfaction blooming in his chest because he knows that aside from being honest, he has said the right thing when Jisung makes one of his pleased expressions. That downward smile with the head tilt. Minho’s favorite. “Can I take a shower first, though?”
“Of course, you romantic fool,” Jisung says, swatting at his shoulder when Minho laughs. “Go ahead. I’ll bring you something to wear. T-shirt and boxers?”
“Yes, sir,” Minho says, tossing his phone onto the bed carelessly and turning on his heel to make his way across the hallway, to the bathroom.
There’s still condensation on the mirror from the shower Jisung must’ve taken earlier, the air inside still warm. Minho closes the door but leaves it unlocked, and Jisung slips inside a few moments later, when he’s already in the shower, to leave the clothes he picked out for him on top of the laundry bin.
A part of Minho wants to drag him under the water, press him against the tiles, kiss him senseless. The other part of him is so tired that he just wants to get out of here, curl up in bed with him, and turn his brain off.
He chooses the latter.
He’s so desperate to get back to Jisung, really, that the shower is quick. Usually, his thoughts escape him and he stands under the water for eternity. This time around, not even ten minutes later, he comes out smelling like Jisung, and that’s oddly comforting.
Fuck. He’s become such a sap, it’s getting a little embarrassing.
Once he’s done drying himself, he spreads the damp towel over the radiator to dry. Then, he grabs his pink toothbrush from the holder. Because it’s still there. Ha. And it’s a stupid thing to smile to himself over, since what reason would Jisung have to throw it out? But Minho has a boyfriend who wants him in his apartment enough to keep a spare toothbrush out for him and he’s giddy about it, sue him.
Minho has never had that in his life before.
He makes his way out of the bathroom, and finds Jisung on the bed, propped up against the pillows and the headboard, waiting for him. That show he was watching is paused on the television screen, but he doesn’t seem eager to get back to it. The entirety of his attention is on Minho.
“Feeling better?” he asks, a soft smile on his face.
Minho hums. He’s not sure how to tell Jisung he felt better the moment he saw his face and stepped over the threshold of this apartment without sounding clingy and obsessive and weird, so he doesn’t say it. He thinks Jisung might already be aware of it, though.
“Much better,” he says instead. And then, because he’s a master of subtly changing the topic—“So, what’s the show about?”
Jisung grins. He really looks so pleased that Minho wants to watch it with him, even though he probably knows that Minho won’t retain any of the information or have firm opinions on the contestants. He seems to be happy with just being able to tell him all about it, to have Minho with him while he watches it, to give his commentary to him instead of an empty room. And well, Minho might not really care about the show, but he cares about Jisung, and he loves listening to him talk, so it’s a situation where nobody loses.
Especially that Jisung knows exactly what he needs. He opens his arms, and Minho collapses into them face-first, seeking respite that he’s slowly learning he might never find anywhere else. He settles down in the space between Jisung’s bare legs, wrapping his arms around his torso, pressing his cheek against Jisung’s sternum, feeling his heart thrum inside his chest.
Jisung’s fingers tangle in his hair, pushing it out of his face, and Minho sighs with contentment. This is exactly what he’s needed—not just tonight, but this week in general. It’s been difficult to manage work and Yeeun and his parents and everything else without the additional help of Jisung’s presence.
He’s not sure how he used to do it without him.
“I’m on the second episode, so you didn’t miss much,” Jisung says. The low timbre of his voice reverberates through Minho where his cheek is pressed against his chest, and he hums in response. “I think it’s gonna be easier to explain who’s who as we watch. How about I just play it and then pause to explain?”
“That sounds good.”
Jisung doesn’t just pause the show. Without a word, he rewinds the entire episode to the beginning, even though he was nearing the end of it, judging by the timestamp. It’s cute. Makes Minho feel really, really wanted.
That sensation alone is making him desperate to actually pay attention to what’s happening on the television screen. Jisung explains everyone’s background, their love story, all those things. Minho tries to ask questions, even if they’re a little clumsy, just to show that he’s engaged.
Once the explanations stop, though, his mind starts to wander. It’s not Jisung’s fault. Not even the show’s, really. He’s just exhausted.
He glances at Jisung’s nightstand. A half-burnt candle that smells like gingerbread in the middle of spring; an almost empty bottle of Dior Sauvage; a handmade ceramic tray housing a few lipbalms, a vintage wristwatch, and AirPods in a case shaped like a flower; an orchid. The orchid. Blooming proudly in the softest shades of pink.
Nana, that’s what Jisung called it, after one of his favorite anime characters. Because he’s the kind of guy that names plants. Serenades them, too. Says it makes them grow stronger with such conviction that Minho has no choice but to believe it. He wouldn’t be able not to—Nana is growing beautifully, and it’s clearly because of Jisung’s presence. Minho would know something about that. He’s blooming because of him, too.
Who does he have here? The love of his life?
He tips his head back to look at him, unable to shake the thought off. It’s foolish of him, he knows. Presumptuous. Childishly hopeful. But he looks at Jisung and his heart soars, and he knows it’s only going to get harder to stop these kinds of dreams from flooding his mind.
Jisung’s fingers stop carding through his hair when he catches Minho staring, but then he resumes the caress. His mouth quirks up at the attention. “What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” Minho says. “Just… Can’t believe you’re here.”
“Here? In my own apartment?”
Minho almost smiles at his genuine confusion. Says, “Here. In my life.”
Jisung blinks. He seems taken aback by the sudden confession, and Minho’s ears flame, but he doesn’t back down.
“I didn’t realize it before. How much I needed this. To come home and have someone hold me and ask about my shitty day and be with me,” he says quietly. He’s not sure if Jisung can make out his words over the sound of the television. He’s mumbling, because he’s embarrassed. “I thought—I thought I was good at being alone.”
Jisung looks at him with his eyebrows pinched. With concern.
“Hyung,” he whispers, his hand moving across Minho’s back, soothing him, purging the negativity out of his body and soul with his touch anole. “I’m sorry. I don’t—I don’t really know how to go about this. I mean, I can imagine how isolating it must be to be married to someone you don’t love, but I guess I didn’t realize just how much.” He sighs softly. “It really scares me that you sacrificed so much. That you thought you’d be able to handle the loneliness. It’s not about me, but it… It really hurts me, hyung. It hurts me that you’ve been through so much, that it’s still happening. I care about you. I really do. So I just want you to know that you’re not alone. You don’t have to be good at being alone. You don’t have to feel all these things on your own, okay? I’m here. Let me be the person you lean on, okay?”
Minho swallows harshly, feeling his heart leap to his throat to choke him. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”
“The only thing that hurts me is you feeling alone, like you can’t talk to anyone about the things you go through,” Jisung insists, his tone certain, like he isn’t going to take any kind of disagreement from Minho. “I don’t mind talking about this. About her. It’s okay. I don’t want you to pretend you’re okay just because you don’t want to upset me by bringing up the fact that you’re married to her. Trust me, it’s not something that I can forget,” he says. Then, a little softer, and a lot more desperate: “I want you to talk to me, hyung.”
Minho exhales a shuddering breath. “I guess I’m still getting used to not feeling like a burden. You know—” he chuckles without an ounce of humor, “—after a year of this marriage and all the years before that.”
Jisung looks worried for him, and Minho isn’t sure what to do with that. He doesn’t want Jisung to be worried, but at the same time, it feels so good to know that someone cares.
“You’re never a burden to me,” Jisung says. “That’s how you feel about me, too, right? You listen to me when I complain about my day. You can’t always help, but you listen, and that makes me feel better. Less alone. I want to be like that for you.”
“I feel that way,” Minho agrees. “I always want to know how you are. What worries you. It feels so sad to admit it, though. That I never had someone like that. I mean, I do have friends, and I love my friends, but it’s just not the same.”
“I know what you mean,” Jisung says, his fingers slowly carding through Minho’s hair, brushing it away when a stray strand falls over his face. “And I’m also not saying you have to tell me every single little thing that has ever happened to you, even though you’re very welcome to do that. I don’t want it to be too much too fast, that’s what I mean. I just want you to know that you have me.”
The back of Minho’s throat burns.
He didn’t think this is where this evening would lead them, but he’s glad he can talk like this with Jisung. That they can have fun but they can also have deep conversations. Even though it embarrasses Minho to no end to open himself up like this. He knows he doesn’t have to filter his words with Jisung. He can just call it what it is.
“And you have me,” Minho says. “Well, what I’m trying to say is that I’m happy with you. You make me happy. I just didn’t realize how much I was missing before you.”
“You make me happy too,” Jisung says, cooing, tightening his hold around Minho, squeezing him. Minho lets out a groan of exasperation, but he feels his heart skip a beat, and hearing these words pleases him. “You don’t even know.”
Minho wants to hide.
He really didn’t realize how sad he was before he tasted happiness again. It’s depressing to think about, how he was going through life through the motions. Momentary happiness here and there, but otherwise—a bleak existence. A path paved for him by someone else. Living his life without control.
Now, he has something to look forward to.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “We’re missing out on the show because I decided it was time to get sentimental.”
Jisung scoffs softly. “I don’t care about the show,” he says. “All I care about is that you worry a bit less, yeah?”
He plants a kiss on the crown of Minho’s head, making him melt into a puddle of all things sweet and adorable in his arms.
“And, for the record,” Jisung adds, smiling down at him, “I’m glad you’re here, too.”
Minho inhales sharply, thinking, I want to be here forever.
He hasn’t been able to breathe around how much he wants Jisung to be a part of his future.
It’s a scary thought to have. It has only been two months since Jisung ruined his shirt with wine, after all. But Jisung is—
Special.
He’s special. He likes all the same things Minho likes and he’s a late sleeper and he gives the best hugs in the world and he has a desk job, but his fingers are calloused from playing the guitar because he loves music like it runs through his veins. He unwraps Minho’s plastic utensils and breaks apart his chopsticks even before he thinks of his own and takes care of him in those simple, tender ways that make Minho fall apart at the seams.
Minho adores him. Is that so bad?
They watch two episodes of the Love Exchange. There’s one pair of contestants that Jisung seems to be particularly fond of, so Minho pays the most attention to them. But soon enough, they both begin feeling drowsy, and Minho has to nudge Jisung awake, tell him to get under the covers instead of sleeping sitting upright against the headboard.
It’s the first time Minho gets to fall asleep beside him after that night. Wake up beside him. Make him breakfast, even if he’s going to have to rush out to make it back to the apartment before Yeeun comes back and realizes that he spent the night somewhere else.
It takes exceptionally a lot of effort to get out of bed that morning.
Minho never has a problem with the desire to laze around, snooze his alarms. He wakes up, he gets up. But that morning, he comes to with his arm slung across Jisung’s waist and his back pressed against his chest and their bare legs tangled together and his nose against the back of Jisung’s neck and he—lingers.
He stretches his arm behind himself blindly, feeling for the phone sitting on the nightstand. A few minutes past eight o’clock. That’s already much later than when he usually gets up. But it’s a Saturday, so he allows himself some sweet indulgence.
Jisung stirs like he can sense Minho is awake. He groans softly, lets the sound melt into a sigh of contentment, and rolls over onto his other side to face him. His eyes are still closed when he says, “Hi.”
Minho wouldn’t be able to not smile even if he tried. “Hey there. Slept well?”
“Mhm. Had a dream we were on Love Exchange,” Jisung mumbles.
“An impossible scenario,” Minho tells him, fighting the urge to bite his nose when Jisung scrunches his face. There’s something so cute about it. “We would have to break up first, and I fear that’s never happening.”
Jisung opens his eyes then, and for a moment, he just looks at Minho, pleased at the conviction. Then, slowly, he inches forward and, with his hand against Minho’s cheek, he joins their lips in a sweet but short kiss.
Minho is still smiling when they pull apart.
“I was thinking of making breakfast,” he says. “Are you in the mood for anything in particular?”
Jisung chuckles. “I don’t think there’s anything in my kitchen aside from a carton of eggs, a jar of kimchi, and a half-eaten loaf of bread. There’s no large selection, I think.”
“I can work with that,” Minho says. “I’m skilled in the kitchen, remember?”
“Maybe I’d remember if you cooked me that four-course dinner you promised.”
“Soon,” Minho promises, his smile widening at the exaggerated annoyance in Jisung’s tone.
At the mention of more food, Jisung’s stomach rumbles. He laughs, and then once again when Minho moves the hand he had on his hip to his abdomen, rubbing his belly like he’s a cat. Jisung’s eyes crinkle and shine, brighter than the rising sun.
“I need to feed the monster. So, what do you think about fried eggs with toasts on the side?”
Jisung’s stomach rumbles again. He looks down at his own body and asks, “Is that enough of an answer?”
“Yes.”
“Mhm. I’m gonna stay here for a bit more,” Jisung decides. “Like, five minutes.”
Minho laughs. “Okay, sleepyhead.”
Even knowing that he’s not leaving yet, getting out of bed is a tough feat. He untangles himself from the sheets and Jisung’s arms, watching him nuzzle against the pillow where his head used to lie. Then, reluctantly, he makes his way to the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, he’s in the kitchen, getting to work. He’s been here a few times already, but he’s not entirely familiar with where everything is. Still, he manages. He grabs eggs and bread and locates the pan stored in the oven.
At one point, definitely after much longer than five minutes, he finally hears Jisung’s quiet footsteps as he trots over from the bedroom to the bathroom. Then, the water running as he washes his face and brushes his teeth. The rumble of the washing machine as it kickstarts into action. The door creaking shut as Jisung leaves the bathroom. Then, his footfalls—approaching.
Minho is done cracking the eggs into the pan when he feels Jisung’s arms wrap around his waist from behind.
“I put your clothes from yesterday into the washing machine,” he says, pressing himself closer, until there’s no space left between their bodies. “You’re gonna have to wear something of mine.”
Minho chuckles. One corner of his mouth remains curled upwards in a pleased grin when he says, “How cunning of you.”
“I know, right?”
Jisung stays like that, with his chin resting against Minho’s shoulder, until it’s time to sit down and eat. He barely gives Minho enough space to plate their breakfast. Minho pretends to be annoyed, but he secretly loves it.
Then, they sit down at the small kitchen table, Jisung’s bare foot on top of Minho’s, and Jisung raves about those stupid eggs like they’re a gourmet meal. It makes Minho flush from head to toe. He’s always liked cooking for other people—after all, he knows he can get around the kitchen pretty well.
But it doesn’t come close to the satisfaction he feels at the sight of Jisung enjoying what he made. Even if it’s a little played-up.
He wants to do the dishes after they’re done eating, but Jisung tells him to not be silly. “Let’s go drink coffee on the balcony and watch the city sentimentally instead of wasting time before you have to go.”
Minho likes him so much, he can’t believe it.
They sit down in the puff chairs on the balcony, but not before Minho presses Jisung against the kitchen counter and kisses him until neither of them can breathe.
The morning air is cold against their bare shins, but they don’t mind. Jisung drags his knees to his chest like he usually does, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt onto his head. Minho watches him and feels warm inside.
“What are your plans for the day?” he asks.
Jisung hums thoughtfully. “Going shopping with Jeongin and then getting an early dinner together. And then, I don’t know, I’ll probably just continue watching Love Exchange. You?”
“Sounds fun,” Minho says. He likes Jeongin. Granted, they’ve never even met, but Jisung talks about him a lot and frequently posts pictures of the two of them together on his Instagram account. “I’m gonna catch up on some work, organize my schedule for the week. Go to the gym, grab dinner, go on a walk.”
“Organize your schedule,” Jisung repeats, taking a sip of his coffee. “Can you pencil me in for one of those afternoons?”
“Ah, I don’t know, I’m pretty busy,” Minho teases. “Is it anything important?”
“A matter of the utmost importance,” Jisung says seriously. “Penguin twins were born in the zoo and they’re finally letting people see them.”
Minho laughs. “Sounds like the most prestigious event of the year,” he says. “I’m sure it could be arranged.”
He needs to play it safe, so he leaves Jisung’s apartment before eleven, wearing his T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants instead of his clothes from the night before.
Trying to steal another minute and another second with him, Jisung walks him to the door and kisses him goodbye. Tells him he looks hot wearing his clothes.
“Don’t say these things to me when I’m leaving,” Minho warns, but there’s a soft smile playing on his mouth when he pulls Jisung in to kiss him again. He already wants to come back, and he hasn’t even left, and Jisung is making it so much harder to go.
Judging by the look on his face, that’s exactly the intention.
When Minho finally manages to force himself to leave, he stops by the supermarket to grab some groceries just in case Yeeun is already home and he’s going to need an excuse as to where he’s been.
Once again, his instincts don’t betray him. She is already home. Or, rather, she’s taking off her shoes in the hallway when Minho opens the front door.
He freezes for a moment, surprised to see her, still with Jisung at the forefront of his mind. And then—”I bought you ice-cream,” he says. “You like strawberry, right?”
Notes:
thank you so much for reading! kudos and comments are always appreciated, though i’m sorry if it takes me forever to reply ♡
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Chapter 3: stolen stares
Chapter Text
you know there’s many different ways
that you can kill the one you love
the slowest way is never loving them enough
─── high infidelity, taylor swift
Minho never thought that he would go on a date to the gym, but he finds that it’s one of the most convenient ways of sneaking out to see Jisung. It’s stupid, calling it sneaking out, especially when Yeeun doesn’t care where he is. He has spent the last year avoiding spending any time in the apartment at all. Solo trips, hiking, camping, three coffee runs per day, outings with friends that run late.
But, still, he’s trying to be careful.
He works out at least four times a week, so it’s a perfect opportunity to see Jisung outside of their lunch breaks and dates they go on to actually spend some romantic time together.
It’s not like Minho only goes to the gym to see Jisung, though. Sometimes, Jisung is just too lazy to join him. He says Minho is a cruel man, that he always pushes him past his limits. When he denies the invitation, Minho always whines over the phone or leaves his messages on read for a while, just to tease him.
But when Jisung comes along, it’s the most fun.
Minho is more motivated, too. He wants to impress his boyfriend, so what? He loves when Jisung ogles him, shameless eyes raking over his body—whether he’s naked or still wearing clothes.
He likes staring at Jisung, too. He’s not going to lie about that. Because the thing is, Jisung is athletic. He’s buff. He trains more than he lets on, and he gains muscle easily. He has good stamina, too, and Minho knew that even before they started going to the gym together.
But, god, he’s such a complainer. It’s incredible how much he whines.
And it’s incredible how much Minho loves it.
He usually plays the part of the trainer, saying, Hey, should we do this and that today? And Jisung will say, Whatever you want, hyung-ah, but every time Minho tells him they should push for more, do a few more reps, Jisung will whine, Ah, hyung, this is torture, you’re killing me, I hate you so much, how can you do this to me?
It’s honestly really adorable, which serves as a stark contrast to how hot Jisung is when he works out. Minho is warm-blooded, alright. He gets a little dizzy thinking about Jisung sweating and groaning, watching him lift weights or squat—god, when he squats.
Minho’s worst nightmare and most elaborate daydream all at once.
Sometimes, he can’t quite believe just how hot Jisung is. Sometimes, he wants to straddle his hips when Jisung is sitting on the bench and do unimaginable things to him in front of all these mirrors. Jisung always looks like he wants him to do the same thing, so it’s only the cameras that are stopping him.
Minho’s libido has never been like this before. He’s had a healthy sex drive his entire life. Sex has never been his number one need, though. But Jisung…
Jisung just gets him going.
Except they’re both busy, and there hasn’t been a chance for Minho to come over and stay long enough for them to really take their time with each other and have so much fun. They haven’t really had sex since that one time—their first time, which is quite impossible to forget, considering that’s where everything started—and it’s not like Minho is bursting at the seams with uncontrollable desire, but—
Fuck. He’s not sure how much longer handjobs and sucking each other off will suffice.
It’s late, past midnight. The last person who was using the gym left over half an hour ago, according to the time displayed on Minho’s smartwatch. Which means it’s just the two of them left. The two of them, the security guard at the entrance, and the guy at the front desk, who was already half-asleep when they came here over an hour ago.
They’re just finishing up—cooling down, stretching their aching muscles. Jisung has been complaining about being exhausted for a while now, so it’s no wonder he’s trying to get it out of the way as soon as possible, rushing through it.
So, Minho sits up and says, “You’re doing this wrong. Let me show you,” even though Jisung is stretching his hamstring just fine.
Jisung huffs, planting both of his feet on the mat, his knees bent. Minho nudges them apart, planting himself between them, and that’s all it takes.
Jisung looks at him like he can’t believe him. He’s not an idiot, of course. He knows exactly what this is. But Minho pretends he’s not doing anything, he’s just trying to help. He straightens Jisung’s left leg on the mat, grabs the other, and gently pushes the knee up.
Jisung’s eyes widen.
“Can you feel it?” Minho asks, voice quiet. He holds Jisung’s shin with one hand, uses the other to touch the underside of his thigh over the fabric of his shorts. He presses harder, pushing Jisung’s leg towards his chest. Not hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to have to lean into him. Hover over him. “Here.”
It’s risky. There are cameras everywhere. But Minho is just being a good friend. He’s just helping him. And in this position, all the cameras see is his back. They can’t see the hand that slowly inches up Jisung’s relaxed left thigh, how he presses his palm against his growing hard-on.
It’s funny how easy it is to rile Jisung up. Or it would be funny if Minho’s cock wasn’t also feeling the effects of this game in the confines of his shorts.
“Hyung—” Jisung says, breathless. And then, as if Minho can’t feel his dick twitch, he reminds him, “The other leg.”
Minho’s eyes sparkle. “Right,” he says, and lets go of Jisung’s knee, letting his foot fall to the floor. He takes a hold of the other leg, and this time as he pushes, he leans in so that his cock presses directly against Jisung’s. “Feel it?”
Jisung looks torn between wanting to kill him and wanting to devour him. His free knee presses against Minho’s side, trapping him between his legs. “I feel it, alright,” he says.
Minho smirks. He moves his hips just a little, just to brush his cock against Jisung’s, hear his breath hitch. He sees the fire in his eyes, the desire awakening as if under a spell, and it makes him burn inside.
“I think it’s enough for the day,” he says.
Then, he pulls away and gets up, swiftly, as if nothing has been happening, while Jisung lies there on the mat for a moment longer, breathing heavily, probably cursing Minho’s name. But when Minho starts gathering their water bottles, he quickly gets to his feet.
They share one look, and it’s enough to send a shiver down Minho’s spine.
He double-checks that there’s no one inside the locker room before dragging Jisung into one of the showers. They lose their clothes on their way, careless, laughing into each other’s mouths as they attempt to kiss.
Jisung turns the shower on, but the water is cold, sobering. Still, it does nothing to quelch Minho’s desire. Clearly, it does nothing to Jisung’s, either, because he kisses Minho like he’s been starving for him his entire life.
“God, you’re infuriating,” he says against Minho’s mouth, refusing to waste time, precious time, sneaking one hand to Minho’s dick, making him moan out of sheer surprise.
All Minho can think is, Oh, this is so hot, as Jisung begins mouthing at his jaw. Minho tips his head back against the tiled wall of the shower to give him better access. He has to bite down on his lip to suppress the loud moan that threatens to rip out of his throat when Jisung swipes his thumb across the head of his cock.
“Jisung-ah,” he whispers, and it still sounds so loud, his voice echoing in the confines of the shower. Even the water isn’t able to drown it out. “Fuck.”
He can feel Jisung smirk against the side of his throat before he feels the hand around his cock tighten. Minho gasps, unsure at this point if the stars in his eyes come from the pleasure or the way the back of his head hits the shower wall.
He grips Jisung’s upper arm, his fingers sinking into the muscle, but when his other hand tries to blindly reach for Jisung’s cock, Jisung catches his wrist and tuts. Minho finds out why the moment Jisung starts lowering himself to his knees.
Minho lets out a shuddering breath with every kiss Jisung presses along his sternum and down to his stomach. His fingers move, tangling in Jisung’s hair, pushing it out of his face.
Jisung looks up at him, and Minho realizes then and there that this is payback for what he’s done earlier, back inside the gym. The punishment will be sweet, and he deserves it, he knows.
His vision swims when Jisung circles his fingers around the base of his cock, giving it a few languid strokes, like he has all the time in the world. Minho can barely think as Jisung’s mouth finally comes in contact with his dick, as he leans in to press a kiss against the tip, his tongue poking out, teasing the slit.
He knows exactly how to drive Minho crazy. Every single trick in the book, he’s got it covered.
Minho chokes on a moan when Jisung looks up, locking their eyes as he licks up along the underside of his cock. The sight alone makes his heart trip into a frantic beat, his dick leak precome at the perfect moment for Jisung’s tongue to swipe it away as he comes back up. His eyes are glimmering even in this shitty light—with mischief and desire alike.
He takes Minho into his mouth properly next, closing his perfect lips around the head and sucking hard. He hums, leaving Minho shuddering against the tile, and then moans when Minho’s hold on his hair tightens.
It takes so much effort for Minho to stay still—to keep his hips from rocking up. Jisung must be able to tell because he presses his palm against Minho’s thigh, keeping him in place. He doesn’t take him deep, but Minho doesn’t need it—not when Jisung hollows his cheeks around him, when he breathes out, Fuck, you’re so perfect, as if he’s deriving immense amounts of pleasure from all of this, too, and proceeds to mouth along the side of Minho’s cock.
His tongue swirls around the head once he comes back up, and then he does the same thing along the other side.
Minho groans softly to let him know just how much he likes it. Truth is, he likes it so much that his knees almost give out underneath him. His thighs were already burning before this, but holding himself up while Jisung is sucking him off proves to be much more difficult than forcing his body to complete another set of exercises.
Jisung’s pace is tortuous, but Minho’s orgasm builds up quickly. He’s desperate. He’s starved. And he has this beautiful man on his knees in front of him, looking like a dream as he sucks him off. In these challenging conditions, anyone would be holding onto their self-restraint with trembling hands.
“I’m gonna come,” Minho warns, his voice trembling, but all that does is make Jisung move faster. In the end, he sucks at the head of Minho’s cock until he comes in his mouth.
He’s not sure if Jisung swallows or spits it out for the shower to wash down the drain, because he tips his head back against the wall, closes his eyes, and for a moment, it feels like his soul has left his body.
When he comes to again, Jisung is grinning at him, that cunning devil. Water is dripping down his face, getting in his eyes, but he doesn’t seem to care. When Minho uses the remnants of his physical strength to pull him back up, Jisung seems to have just as many issues with keeping himself upright. His knees wobble. Still, he laughs as he falls against Minho, one arm sneaking around his neck to pull him into a wet, messy kiss.
“Look how long I can hold a squat,” he murmurs against his mouth. “Proud?”
“Mhm. You want a reward for it?” Minho asks, but his hand is already wrapping around Jisung’s hard cock. By touch alone, Minho can tell he isn’t going to last.
Jisung gasps into his mouth, slotting their lips together in another kiss. He moans into it, tries to kiss Minho, he really tries, but he can’t seem to do both things at once and he ends up pulling away. Minho laughs softly, all to himself, and presses his mouth against the corner of Jisung’s mouth—his cheek—the line of his jaw.
Jisung rests his forehead against Minho’s, whimpering quietly with every stroke, every twist of Minho’s wrist. His little sounds almost get drowned-out by the water cascading down their bodies and hitting the basin, but Minho is desperate to hear them, it’s all he wants to hear, so he turns his head just a little, allowing Jisung to moan directly against his ear.
He has barely done anything, and Jisung looks so fucked-out already. Minho could get hard again from the sight alone.
He moves his hand along the length of Jisung’s cock, swiping his thumb across the slit to make him gasp prettily. Jisung shudders, his hips kicking up so that he’s fucking into Minho’s loose fist.
When Jisung comes onto his fingers, he swoons against Minho, completely spent. Minho laughs, wrapping an arm around his torso to hold him up even though he’s barely standing himself.
“Everything alright?” he asks, pushing Jisung’s wet hair out of his face.
Jisung hums in response, finally blinking his eyes open to echo the question at him. “You?”
“Perfect,” Minho says, smiling, but it’s not entirely true. It would be perfect if he was already in bed, surrounded by comfortable sheets, and preferably with a cup of tea brewed and ready to drink waiting for him on the nightstand.
But Jisung is here, so it’s as close to perfect as it can get.
“We were supposed to shower,” Jisung mumbles. He’s probably going to fall asleep in the car, that’s how tired he sounds. Over an hour of working out in the middle of the night and an orgasm that has him boneless? It’s going to be the best sleep of his week, most likely. “We’re just wasting water.”
“Not wasting,” Minho says, pressing his mouth against the hinge of Jisung’s jaw. “Does this feel like a waste to you?”
Jisung huffs out a laugh. “Say that to the turtles.”
“The turtles are gonna forgive us,” Minho says, though Jisung’s Bambi eyes are almost enough to make him feel bad. Fuck, he’s really sorry to the turtles. He’ll make a donation. Two donations.
They don’t have any cosmetics in here, and neither of them seems willing to step out into the cold air of the locker room to get their things, but Minho can’t find it in himself to care. Water needs to suffice for now. He’ll just take a proper shower in the morning.
So they just stand there, rivulets of water descending their bodies, savoring the minutes they have left before they need to get out, get into the car, and part ways for the night.
Minho thinks about a future in which they get to go home together, sleeping in the same bed, Jisung’s cold feet pressed against his in search of warmth, and it feels like he’s dreaming.
✦
“I’m going to a friend’s party tonight,” Minho tells Yeeun when she comes home from work a few days later. He got back earlier than usual, so he made use of the time he had and cooked pasta. He watches her load some of it into a bowl. “I’ll be back late.”
She puts the pasta in the microwave to heat up, runs her fingers through her hair, and simply says, “Okay.”
The general consensus is that people usually bring their partners to parties, especially in their circles—but if Minho had to bring someone, he would want to bring Jisung, not Yeeun. Obviously, he can’t. So he goes alone.
It’s not really a party. More like a regular social gathering with a few too many people, but that’s because Bang Chan knows way too many people. He lives in Hannam-dong, close enough for Minho to go on foot instead of taking a cab. He hasn’t done his daily walk today, so it’s like killing two birds with one stone.
“Minho! It’s good to see you!” Chan exclaims when he opens the door for him. He seems even more enthusiastic than usual, though that’s probably because Minho wasn’t sure he was going to come. But Jisung had plans, and being out here with his friends seemed better than being stuck in that apartment. “Come on in!”
They exchange a few pleasantries while Minho takes off his shoes in the entryway, but the doorbell rings again, and Chan excuses himself to welcome another guest.
Minho doesn’t mind. He makes his way to the living room and tries to make himself feel at home. Instantly, he spots a few people he knows—he either gives them that smile of acknowledgement from across the room or comes up to say hi if he likes them particularly. Most of the time, as he ventures between the bodies standing and laughing and drinking, he searches for a familiar face. Anyone he likes enough for the conversation to move on from the weather and work to something normal.
In the end, he finds that person in Sana. She pushes a whiskey glass with a sparkling pink drink into his hand and says, “You’re gonna like this one more than me.”
It’s deceptively bitter when Minho tastes it, but Sana is right—he actually likes it. She tells him that she made it for this woman she likes, tried to impress her and all, but when she finished pouring it, the woman was already talking with some guy.
Minho frowns. “She doesn’t deserve you—or your drink,” he says, and then promptly downs the remainder of it in one gulp to show just how much he enjoys it.
Sana laughs. “I want to agree, but who am I kidding? I’m gonna end up crawling into her DMs begging to hang out, anyway.”
He can’t tell her that for obvious reasons, but he’s so glad that he’s past the moment of chasing and being chased. Being married to Yeeun halted all his attempts at looking for an actual partner, so he would’ve ended up all alone for universe knows how long if it weren’t for Jisung suddenly stumbling into his life and turning it upside-down.
It’s the most solid relationship he’s ever been in, and they’ve only been together for less than three months. He’s in so deep, he would start getting concerned if he couldn’t see that Jisung is thinking about all the same things he’s thinking of. Among them, of course, forever.
Sana leaves Minho when another one of her friends comes up to ask if she wants a smoke. She says, “You can come with us!” but Minho declines the offer in favor of getting something to drink.
To his utmost surprise, when he steps into the kitchen with the intention of looking through Chan’s cabinets to fix himself a good drink, he sees Jisung opening a bag of pretzels by the counter. Flesh and bones.
For a moment, Minho considers he’s only seeing things. But then Jisung’s gaze falls on him, drawn by the door opening in the corner of his eye, and his mouth falls open.
Minho must look as befuddled as he does.
“Hyung? What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” Minho echoes, narrowing his eyes as he steps closer, but he can already feel his facial muscles twitch. He can already feel himself smile.
“Chan hyung used to babysit me when I was a kid,” Jisung explains with a laugh, popping a pretzel into his mouth.
So Chan is their mutual friend. It shouldn’t be as surprising as it feels right now. They run in the same circles, after all. Someone was bound to know them both on a more intimate level than just their names.
Minho says, “We went to business school together.”
Jisung hums thoughtfully and muses, “Wow, now I wonder if we would’ve met if I hadn’t been in Canada all this time.”
The look in his eyes tells Minho that he wishes they had met sooner—had more time together. Maybe if they had, Minho would have never married Yeeun. He wouldn’t have been able to. Not if he knew Jisung, he’s sure.
He says, “Probably,” and opens the fridge in search of a bottle of Guinness. There’s a lot of different kinds of alcohol cooling inside, which is funny for Chan, who doesn’t even drink, and a lot of regular food, so it takes him a moment to find it. “Although I’m surprised he never mentioned you before.”
“Wait, now I’m offended,” Jisung says. “Why did he never talk about me? I should be his favorite person in the world considering I never said a thing when he was talking to girls when he should be watching me.”
He huffs, but the corners of his mouth twitch in his effort to suppress a smile.
Minho laughs. “To be fair, it doesn’t sound like he ever talked about me either,” he says, grabbing the bottle opener from one of the drawers and popping the crown cap. He tosses it back inside and pushes the drawer closed with his hip. Then, finally, he takes a swig out of the bottle.
“Hm. Now that I think of it he might’ve mentioned this weird guy who wore cat-patterned socks to class every day,” Jisung says, clicking his tongue in feigned pensiveness. He’s already grinning when he shoves another salted pretzel into his mouth.
Minho laughs, because Jisung is making it up, but he’s not really that far from the truth. He does have a lot of cat-patterned socks. If he remembers right, Chan even might’ve gotten him a pair once for his birthday.
He blinks, realizing that Jisung is just watching him with a smile on his face. His body temperature seems to rise a few degrees under that stare, so undeniably fond. He relaxes, his shoulders slumping, and for a moment, they just look at each other, silent, happy to be sharing this enclosed space, just the two of them.
Then, Minho leans in to kiss Jisung on the mouth. “Hi,” he says, like an idiot.
But Jisung is loving it. He smiles, his eyes glimmering in the shitty, dimmed lights of Chan’s kitchen, and echoes, “Hi.”
And just like that, Minho plasters himself to Jisung’s side for the night. They leave the kitchen at one point, of course, once Jisung has had enough of his pretzels. It would be rude to take them to the living room to eat all on his own, and he says he doesn’t want to share.
They stick together, not entirely avoiding other people, but not encouraging them to come up and say hi, either. As usual, when they’re together, Minho and Jisung remain in their own world. Sorry not sorry.
Now, they’re standing by the windows, looking out at the nighttime cityscape. Jisung is telling Minho about his day, and the conversation he had to have with a rude customer that demanded to speak to the manager after being refused compensation when his bed magically broke in the middle of the night.
“I went to check it out, and the first thing I saw was a pair of lacy panties on the ceiling lamp. You can imagine the look on his face when he realized where I was staring.”
Minho’s stomach hurts from how hard he’s laughing, bent in half. That’s why he doesn’t notice when Chan suddenly appears by their side, giving Jisung a pat on the back that sends him sputtering out his beer from surprise.
“Sorry, Jisung-ah,” he says with a hearty laugh, moving to rub Jisung between his shoulder blades the way Minho’s hands twitch to do. He grips his beer a little tighter, unsure how to proceed when Chan looks between the two of them, curious and surprised and oddly pleased all at once. “I didn’t know you guys knew each other.”
Minho and Jisung share a quick glance, a momentary silent conversation.
Then, Jisung says, “We go to the same gym. Hyung spotted me once and we started talking.”
“Huh. I should’ve thought to introduce you two before,” Chan says, smiling. “You do seem like you’d go pretty well together.”
Minho feels something warm spread through his chest. “Right?” he agrees. “Don’t we?”
And even though it’s absurd and terrible, Minho wants Chan to press the issue one more time, out loud, to say that the two of them look like like they go pretty well together even if he doesn’t mean it in a romantic way; to say that they look like they’re something even though he knows they aren’t allowed to look like anything.
Chan shakes his head, but it’s fond. “Are you guys having fun? Do you need anything?”
“Yes, we need for you to go enjoy yourself instead of making rounds trying to gauge if people are bored to death,” Minho tells him, a deadpan expression on his face. “I can entertain Jisungie all by myself, don’t worry.”
Chan laughs, oblivious to the undertone of Minho’s words. He must think they’re going to be such good friends, the two of them. He gives Minho a pat on the shoulder, too, tells them to come and find him if there’s something they need, and then he’s off to check up on someone else.
Once he’s gone, Jisung raises his eyebrows and asks, “And how do you plan on entertaining me exactly?”
Minho smirks. He brings his beer to his mouth to prolong answering, just to tease him. He takes a small sip and then, like an idiot, he finally says, “I’m gonna do a magic trick and make this beer disappear.”
Jisung rolls his eyes, slapping Minho on the shoulder for the awful, unfunny joke, but a snort still escapes him, so Minho counts that one as a win.
They’re not alone for too long. Jisung’s friend, Jeongin, finds them after they step out onto the emptied-out balcony some time later. He’s here with his girlfriend, Minju, who gives Jisung a scare by grabbing his waist from the back when he still can’t see her. He shrieks so loudly that half of Seoul hears it, that’s for certain. Then, when he realizes who it is, his expression softens, although he still threatens to kick her butt.
“Minju-yah, you little devil!” is what he says, so Minho easily connects the dots from there.
He isn’t sure how to go about the introductions at first. He and Jisung are supposed to be a secret, but Jeongin already knows, and he trusts that if Minju was going to tattle on about them, Jisung wouldn’t wrap an arm around his waist and say, “This is Minho, my boyfriend.”
It sends a shiver up his spine. He’s Jisung’s boyfriend. He knows he is. Has been for weeks. But hearing him say it out loud to another person is electrifying.
“Jisung talks about you all the time,” Jeongin says without an ounce of shame or consideration for Jisung’s dignity. He rolls his eyes to sell his annoyance, but his mouth is twisted in a smile anyway. “It’s good to actually meet you and make sure you’re real.”
“Oh.” Minho grins. “He does?”
Beside him, Jisung groans, hiding his face in his hands. “I don’t. He’s just trying to embarrass me.”
Minho tilts his head to the side to look at him, feigning hurt. “You don’t?”
Jisung relents easily. “Okay, I do,” he admits, which makes both Minju and Jeongin snicker. Minho just bites his lip, trying to conceal a smile. “Just—Not excessively. Not obsessively.”
“What a pity.” Minho sighs. “I need to do better.”
They talk for a while, getting to know each other, but even though Minho is enjoying the company more than he has enjoyed any other tonight, he gets cold out there on the balcony and he has to excuse himself way too soon. Even though Jisung does offer him his jacket like a gentleman.
All Minho does is give him a look and say, “You’ll be shivering like a wet kitten in five seconds, cowboy.”
Jisung juts his bottom lip out in a pout but he doesn’t argue. “I’ll find you later, baby.”
Minho hums, feeling his ears redden instantly. There’s something about Jisung calling him a petname—any kind of petname, really—that makes him want to throw himself down seven flights of stairs.
It seems that a lot more people that he knows have showed up while he was out on the balcony, because he barely steps inside the living room again before he’s dragged to the couch, where his acquaintances are having a loud university-reminiscence session, the topic of the minute being that one noraebang night at the orientation during their first year.
Even though he shouldn’t mix more than he already has, he accepts when Yena shoves a drink into his hand because she leans all the way across Sakura’s lap to hand it over to him, which is sweet.
“No, because I remember clearly—!” Jiwoong says, gesticulating so animatedly that his drink threatens to spill out of his glass. “All the girls on campus were obsessed with our Minho after he got up on that stage. Imagine this: a cute girl comes up to you and you think you’re gonna get asked out, but all she wants to know is if Lee Minho has a girlfriend because she saw you talking to him earlier.”
The company laughs, Sana even reaching out to pat him on the shoulder in an exaggerated gesture of compassion, and Minho hides his face in his elbow, embarrassed to have become the center of the attention over something so idiotic.
“But no,” Jiwoong carries on, “our Minho always turned every single one of them down, said he needed to focus on his studies, blah blah blah, breaking hearts left and right. He was so good at singing that people were passing it down, asking about him until we graduated.” He laughs, cooing later on: “Our legendary Minho.”
Minho just rolls his eyes.
Of course, everyone is laughing because they don’t know he was sneaking around with guys outside his social circles, guys who would be graduating and gone before he could really fall for them and consider coming out to be with them out in the open. Gone before anyone could guess that he was even with them in the first place.
They don’t know that he did some stupid things because of the secrecy, like getting involved with Minhyuk—the teaching assistant for one of his classes—after bumping into him in a bar and sticking around to talk. When he told Jisung about it, about his experience in general, Jisung was—rightfully—concerned, but he believed Minho when he said it was consensual, mutual, and fizzled out before it could hurt. Then, he proceeded to ask Minho for Minhyuk’s Instagram handle so that he could check out what was so worth risking getting flunked.
But Jisung saw him and his jaw dropped. Minho was surprised, too—he hadn’t seen that much of Minhyuk’s naked skin since he was a sophomore. He never really checked what happened to him after they called it quits at the end of the year, but it turned out that Minhyuk was more ripped than ever—and no longer pursuing teaching, clearly.
Wait, doesn’t he kinda look like me? Jisung asked, thumbs sliding across the screen of his phone to zoom in on one of Minhyuk’s clothed selfies.
Minho laughed. Maybe if I squint my left eye a little.
That sounds like fate, Jisung said, a teasing lilt to his voice as he poked Minho’s belly. Also, oh my god, eight years older? I didn’t know you were into DILFs.
I wasn’t. I’m not, Minho told him. But he knew what would work to make Jisung stop scrolling through Minhyuk’s gym pictures. What does he even matter? I’m only into you.
Jisung clicked his tongue like he knew exactly what Minho was trying to do, but he allowed Minho to pluck the phone out of his hands, allowed him to swing his leg over his thighs and plant himself in his lap. What followed was a very time-consuming display of confirmation that nobody that came before Jisung held any significance in Minho’s life.
There is no comparison, really.
Now, Minho feigns thoughtfulness and says, “Didn’t you actually get asked out once, thought it was a joke, and then run around begging that poor girl to give you another chance?”
He does it to take the spotlight off himself and it works like a charm.
Minho is really having fun. More fun than he expected when he accepted the invitation, and not just because Jisung ended up attending too. Yena is very enthusiastic about refilling his glass every time he empties it half-way through, so he starts sipping it slowly, nursing it, really.
He doesn’t want to get drunk, but the pleasant floatiness of his brain is inviting, so he ends up having more alcohol than he probably should. He gets easily distracted, too, his attention slipping away from his group of friends to all over the place.
He gets easily distracted and way too sentimental. He sees Minjeong sitting sideways in Seungmin’s lap, an arm around his neck as she leans in to whisper in his ear, tell him something that makes both of them laugh drunkenly, and he longs to be able to do this instead of gripping his glass tighter or shoving his hand into his pocket so that he doesn’t reach for Jisung.
He’s overcome with the want to get back to him. Find a quiet corner and just—talk to him. Wanting to be with Jisung, whether out in the open or somewhere private where no one can see them, is a constant, dull ache. It never leaves.
He looks back at the balcony, blinking a few times to adjust his vision. There are a few people smoking out there, but Jisung isn’t among them, and Minho isn’t sure where he’s gone. When he disappeared. He can’t locate Jeongin or Minju either, so he might’ve gone somewhere with them. He was supposed to find Minho, although he still hasn’t, but it’s fine, he can go wherever he wants.
Minho just wishes he could look across the room and find him, share an intimate smile or mouth something silly just for Jisung to decipher.
His companions are too drunk to notice when he slips away from the couch and makes his way to the kitchen. His gut is leading him right there—to the most quiet place in the entire apartment, maybe aside from the bedroom, with food on top of that.
He doesn’t get disappointed. Jisung is, once again, stealing snacks from Chan’s cupboard.
He laughs when Minho catches him red-handed, and it doesn’t deter him from ripping the package of gummy bears open. He closes one eye like that’s going to help him see better in the dimmed light and starts digging through the bag in search of his favorite flavor.
Minho watches him with a drunken little smile on his face, fond beyond what’s healthy for his heart, but he still gets caught off-guard when instead of popping the green bear into his own mouth, Jisung presses it against Minho’s lips.
His mouth parts, not exactly in surprise, considering they’ve been doing these things since the moment they met, really, and Jisung uses that moment to push the gummy bear against his teeth.
“Do I have to teach you how to eat?” he teases, already searching for another bear while Minho finally bites into the apple one. It’s his favorite. Jisung is his favorite. It’s sweet. He’s sweet.
“It feels like this is the only reason why you came here,” Minho teases, reaching out to wrap his arms around Jisung’s waist and pull him closer. It’s risky, doing this where anyone could walk in and see them, but he’s starved for Jisung’s touch and presence and he’s had enough to drink to stress about it a little less. Enough to be even more clingy than usual.
“Not the only reason why,” Jisung says. He lets go of the gummy bears, setting them down on the counter, all in favor of looping his arms around Minho’s neck. He tips his head back to look at him. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes glazed-over. He must’ve had a drink or two in the time they were apart, too. “I had a feeling I’d see a cute guy here tonight.”
Minho smiles, his fingertips brushing against the base of Jisung’s spine through his T-shirt. “And? Did you see any?”
“Mhm. Just one. I think I like him quite a lot.”
“Yeah?”
His chest feels warm. Of course, Minho knows Jisung is talking about him, but he kind of expects Jisung to tease him a bit, to turn it into a joke and talk about some other guy just so that Minho plays up his jealousy.
So it takes him a bit off-guard when Jisung says, “His name is Minho and he’s really, really cute.” And then, the nail in the coffin— “I like him the most out of everyone here. Everyone in general, too.”
He must really have drunk more than Minho thought.
“What a coincidence,” he says, his voice melting into something softer—sweeter, too. “I found this guy, Han Jisung, you might know him, I’m not sure—” Jisung lets out a hum then, playing along, acting like he recognizes the name from somewhere. “He’s got my brain turning into mush every time I see him.”
Jisung kisses him and it stops time. It’s chaste at first, just their mouths pressed together, their smiles meeting in the middle. But then Minho’s hand slips into the back pocket of his jeans, fingers digging into the flesh through the useless and annoying layer of denim, and Jisung gasps into his mouth.
Minho’s upper lip gets caught between his when he kisses him harder, tongue tracing the underside of his teeth. Minho uses the grip he has on his ass to drag him forward, their hips colliding, but Jisung makes a sound of half-hearted protest in the back of his throat.
“Not here,” he mumbles between kisses, like it’s hard for him to speak, his mind dazed with alcohol and Minho. It’s miraculous that he’s still able to think about this clearly, because the moment their lips touched, Minho has lost his sense of responsibility.
“Then let’s go upstairs,” he says, squeezing Jisung’s butt. Jisung smacks his shoulder for it, but it’s a half-assed attempt at acting like he isn’t enjoying it. “The bathroom. Meet me there in a minute.”
“We both had something to drink. I don’t wanna—”
“Just wanna kiss you for a little bit. Is that okay?”
Jisung’s uncertain expression eases into a smile. “Yeah.” He kisses Minho once again for a short moment before gently pushing him away. “Go.”
Minho takes one step backwards, still looking at him. He finds it hard to tear his eyes away from Jisung on a good day. Now, intoxicated just enough for his thoughts to swim, not seeing him even for a second feels like torture.
He stumbles out of the kitchen, though, because the prospect of kissing Jisung senseless where they’re safe from anyone seeing them is too enticing to pass up on. He manages to sneak past his university friends because they’re currently calling over some other poor soul to drink with them, and slowly climbs the stairs, his hand pressed against the wall for stability.
There’s not a single stray soul upstairs, no one puking their guts out in the bathroom, thankfully, and so Minho slips inside and locks the door without an issue. He’s not sure if a minute even passes before he’s hearing Jisung’s voice on the other side, his loud whisper of Hyung-ah, it’s me.
His heart is pounding as he opens the door and drags Jisung inside with an arm wrapped around his waist. Jisung lets out a noise of surprise, too loud for the fact that they’re trying to be sneaky, and then another when Minho kicks the door shut and presses him against it.
“Mhm. That was hot,” he murmurs against Minho’s mouth as Minho uses one hand to blindly turn the lock again. The other remains pressed against Jisung’s lower back, pulling him into an arch.
Minho smirks and finally— finally kisses him.
Jisung tastes like those stupid gummy bears and vodka and Sprite and the only guy Minho wants to kiss in his entire life. He melts against Minho with a quiet, pleasant sound, fingers tangling in his hair to drag him right where he wants him, which is always closer.
Minho’s entire body feels like it’s on fire, heart stumbling, sweat building on the arch of his brow. He can’t blame it on alcohol—at least not solely. When Jisung kisses him, Minho’s head always spins. His world always tilts on its axis. His brain always feels like it might spill out of his ears.
Their lips move together languidly, like they have all the time in the world, like they’re the only two people left here and there’s no party going on downstairs. They kiss just to kiss.
Minho tilts his head to the side, deepening the kiss all over again. The feeling of Jisung’s mouth against his is consuming, like fire crawling up his veins and setting him alight. He’s not sure how he’d gone his entire life without kissing Jisung.
When they break apart, Minho’s lungs burning with exertion, Jisung keeps pressing kisses against his swollen mouth, stealing his breath, but softly.
“You look so pretty,” he murmurs against Minho’s cheek. “Have I told you?”
Minho laughs. “Not tonight.”
“Well, you do. You always do.”
The temperature of Minho’s body seems to rise at least five more centimeters with the compliment whispered right onto his skin. How come he’s still alive? He’s not sure. His heart feels like it might beat out of his chest, this pathetic, juvenile thing.
“I guess I subconsciously knew that you’d be here, so I put in some effort,” he says breathlessly, even though he put on the first nice shirt he could get his hands on and a pair of flared pants he wears all the time.
He smiles when Jisung chuckles, plants an urgent kiss on his lips.
“That’s not what I meant,” Jisung says, shaking his head softly. “I meant, you look pretty after you’ve been kissed.”
Minho makes a noise of confusion, but then he pulls away just enough to be able to see Jisung’s face, his red mouth stretched in a lazy smile and the dazed look in his eyes, his pupils practically heart-shaped, and he understands.
“Yeah,” he agrees softly. “I know exactly what you’re talking about.”
Jisung drags his bottom lip between his teeth, and Minho can’t help but lean in to kiss him again.
It’s difficult to part ways, but they both know they can’t spend the rest of the night locked in the bathroom. Even though there’s another one downstairs that everyone at the party seems to be using, someone might still come up here and find them out. And that’s the last thing they need.
Jisung leaves first, sneaking out on his own so that no one sees them together, though Minho isn’t sure if anyone would even connect the dots just based on them making their way together downstairs. Everyone is just so drunk.
Still, Minho isn’t going to lose the game of chances.
He splashes his face with cold water after Jisung leaves, but that doesn’t seem to make him look less thoroughly kissed. His lips are swollen, bitten, red. It’s the only proof that Jisung was here at all, that Minho’s drunken mind didn’t just imagine it all, and he wishes he had more. He wishes he could tattoo Jisung’s touch on his skin. He wishes Jisung could mark him up, bite more than just the inner side of his thighs, so that Minho could leave a few top buttons of his shirt loose and let everyone see the bruises across his collarbones.
(He splashes his face again for that thought alone.)
But above everything, he wishes he could sit on the couch in the living room with his arm slung across Jisung’s shoulders, Jisung’s leg hooked over his, because any distance between their bodies is too far away.
He wishes they didn’t have to hide, succumb to the terrifying urgency and secrecy of every kiss, every touch. Every thought, really.
His throat feels tight with something akin to despair when he finally staggers out of the bathroom.
At the end of the night, he shoves a giggling Jisung into a cab and gets one for himself, because he’s too tired to walk back home. He stumbles through the doorway around two in the morning.
When his head hits the pillow, he almost cries wishing the other side of the bed wasn’t empty.
✦
As they often do, a few days later, Minho and Jisung align their breaks at work to grab lunch together at one of the barbecue restaurants somewhere half-way between their offices.
Minho is tasked with grilling the meat—just as usual. He likes doing it, that’s one thing. The other is that he needs something to do with his hands so that he doesn’t reach for Jisung’s.
It’s a sweet date, like it always is. At one point, Jisung snatches a piece of sizzling pork off the grill to make a lettuce wrap for him. He almost presses it against Minho’s mouth before remembering that, even though the restaurant isn’t busy, they’re still in public. His face instantly reddens when Minho takes the wrap from him himself, and he pushes his hair out of his face swiftly like all the blushing is because of the heat.
He makes the next wrap for himself, opting, of course, for something without too much gochujang. He’s still chewing through it when he offhandedly brings up the charity event happening tonight.
“You’re coming, right?” he asks. “I heard Yeeun-ssi is giving a speech.”
Minho’s shoulders tense up automatically. He pauses, tongs hovering over the grill, and drags his eyes away from Jisung. He’s avoiding his gaze, really.
“Hm. Yes, I guess she is,” he says finally. “She’s supposed to speak on behalf of our parents because of a donation.”
He doesn’t know why Jisung is bringing her up. He said before that he doesn’t mind talking about her or the marriage, that he doesn’t want Minho to shut him out in that regard, but every time either topic appears in the conversation, Minho can’t help but expect dark clouds and pouring rain.
But Jisung nudges his foot under the table where nobody can see, his mouth curled into a slight smile, and asks, “Are you going to stand up on the stage beside her, or am I going to be allowed to steal you for a moment?”
Jisung is—
—impossible.
His understanding knows no bounds, and Minho isn’t sure how he’s going to make all of this up to him. All this time, he’s been showing him the sort of kindness Minho doesn’t feel like he deserves, showering him with love and affection and sympathy that he can’t find anywhere else. Minho needs to do everything to make sure Jisung is happy. That he’s taken care of. That he feels like all of his efforts aren’t in vain. Like Minho is worth it.
“Trust me, I’m not going anywhere near that stage,” he says, relaxing when Jisung laughs. He flips the pieces of meat on the grill, checking if they’ve cooked the way Jisung likes them. Not yet. “Although I’m not sure if I should risk coming up to talk to you.”
Jisung raises an eyebrow. “Why? Because you’re afraid you won’t be able to resist me?”
Minho hums, pursing his mouth so that he doesn’t smile. “Because I’m afraid another one of my white shirts will be totally ruined,” he teases.
Jisung’s mouth falls open. For a moment, he looks like he’s going to take his chopsticks and shove them down Minho’s throat.
“How long are you going to hold it against me?” he asks. “I literally bought you another one!”
“And then you proceeded to rip it open when I wore it for the first time and half of the buttons fell out,” Minho deadpans, lowering his voice. “I’m starting to think you just have issues with white shirts.”
Jisung drags his teeth over his bottom lip, trying not to smile, but his mouth still twists into a smirk. “Yeah, when they’re getting in the way.”
Minho tsks, swatting at Jisung playfully, but he feels a little hot under the collar. Jisung’s ability to always say the right thing—whether they’re having a loaded conversation or simply flirting—somehow still surprises him.
When they part ways, Minho promises he’ll see him at the charity event. He’s thinking about trying to sneak out to kiss him in the bathroom or some other dark corner of the hotel where it’s taking place, but the prospect of someone walking in on them sends a chill of anxiety down his spine. The crowd will be much different to Chan’s party, and Minho has appearances to keep up. He needs to be by Yeeun’s side.
That doesn’t stop him from seeking Jisung among the vaguely familiar faces, though. For the first hour, he doesn’t see him at all; then, when he finally does, Jisung is in the middle of a conversation with his parents and some other woman, so Minho has to settle for discreetly watching his side-profile.
In the end, while Yeeun is off powdering her nose with Yeoreum, he spots Jisung alone by the refreshments table. This time around, he can’t quite help himself. He snatches two flutes of champagne off the tray of a waiter passing him by and strides towards him, his heart threatening to plunge right out of his chest.
It’s ridiculous. They have seen each other today—just hours before this—and he feels like he hasn’t seen him in ages. Or, rather, he’s happy to see him like he hasn’t seen him in ages.
Jisung has his back turned towards him, so he startles when Minho says, “Jisung-ah,” in lieu of a greeting.
“Hyung, hi,” he breathes out, his wide eyes softening, his mouth breaking into a smile. Then, he grins appreciatively when Minho presses the champagne glass into his hand. “I was starting to think you ditched the party. I haven’t seen you at all.”
“I wish,” Minho says. “I managed to escape only because Yeeun went to the restroom, so let’s look a little busy and hope no one comes up to us to talk.”
Jisung laughs. He lifts his hand like he wants to swat at Minho’s shoulder the way he always does, but he stops himself at the very last moment. He tries not to look devastated about the reminder that they can’t do even that little, but Minho sees the look in his eye, and his heart physically hurts.
“Hey,” he says, trying to distract him with something insignificant. “These muffins look great. Do you think I could sneak ten of them out of here somehow?”
Jisung cracks a smile then, even though it’s stupid—a bad attempt at drawing his attention away from the issue at hand. Says, “I don’t know about ten, but you could probably try. Most people here only care about the alcohol anyway.”
He glances around the room like he’s trying to gauge whether anyone is looking at them, but when Minho follows his example and sweeps his gaze over the room, everyone seems too busy chatting, making business talk, or deciding what auction to participate in. No one cares about the two of them talking—especially when they move away from the refreshments table and tuck themselves into one of the quieter corners of the room.
“You look pretty,” Minho says, giving Jisung what he hopes is a subtle once-over.
He’s wearing gray pinstripe slacks that hug his legs in all the wrong places and a vest to match over a white dress shirt. Minho has to direct his gaze to the painting hanging on the wall just so that he doesn’t start drooling. He can tell Jisung’s blushing without even looking, though.
“You too,” Jisung says. “Although I’m sad you didn’t trust me enough to wear white.”
Minho smiles. He didn’t bother to go all out tonight. Even though the prospect of Jisung’s presence sweetened the event, it still took a lot of Minho to actually force himself to come here. He grabbed the first black shirt and slacks he could find in his closet and topped that with a leather belt and some jewelry. Still, he knows Jisung means it, and that’s the only thing that matters.
“Think about it this way: if you do spill wine on me, the stain won’t show that much but we will still have an excuse to leave and lock ourselves up in the bathroom.”
Now, Jisung throws his head back laughing. “Don’t tempt me,” he says, wagging his finger at Minho, his smile so big it takes the shape of that pretty heart Minho likes so much.
He has to bring the champagne to his mouth to hide his smirk.
They only manage to talk for another few minutes before Minho sees Yeeun come back into the room. She’s immediately approached by one of the MCs of the event, which means she has to get up on stage and speak on behalf of their parents, presenting their grand joint donation to the auction.
Minho knows he has to go even though it’s the last thing he wants.
He turns back to Jisung to say as much, but Jisung is already looking at him, watching him watch her, his smile softer. He touches his elbow, gentle and encouraging.
“Go, hyung,” he says. “It’s fine. I’ll see you later. And if I don’t, I’ll call you.”
At least now Minho has something to look forward to. “Okay,” he says. “Have fun. Eat some of those muffins, hm?”
Jisung smiles. “I will. And I’ll try to survive tonight. You try, too.”
Minho lingers by his side for another moment, having trouble ungluing his feet from the floor. It’s always hard to leave Jisung—exceptionally so when he knows Jisung is right there on the other side of the room and he can’t talk to him as much as he’d like, can’t hold his hand, can’t even stare at him for too long.
When he finally starts making his way to the front of the room, his heart feels heavy like lead. Thankfully, he quickly realizes that he doesn’t have to be alone—Changbin is standing there, and when their eyes lock, he invites Minho over next to himself with a nod.
“Having fun?” he asks.
“Sure,” Minho says, rolling his eyes. “It’s thrilling, as always.”
Changbin lifts his eyebrows and grins. “Isn’t it? I’m actually enjoying myself quite a lot.”
“Hm. Did you bid on something already?”
Unfortunately for Minho, initially, he doesn’t recognize the look on Changbin’s face as the crazed thing that it is.
“Chaewon and I—we watched this movie last night,” Changbin starts, and Minho narrows his eyes at him, confused as to why he’s bringing this up right here right now. Sure, it’s unusual since Changbin doesn’t watch movies often since he falls asleep five minutes in, but. Still. Not really relevant, is it? “There was this scene on a yacht, kissing against the backdrop of the setting sun and all that. There was one auction for an evening on a yacht, so I thought of it when I saw it.” And then—“You know, it was really something else. The protagonists were from rival bands but they fell in love and started a secret relationship.”
Minho’s blood runs cold. He digs his nails into the palm of his hand, trying to tell himself that the pointed look on Changbin’s face and the allusive comment means nothing.
“It must suck to have to keep a relationship secret,” Changbin muses on. “I mean, I guess it’s kind of romantic, having something just between the two of you, but if I couldn’t hold Chaewon’s hand or kiss her during banquets—”
“—and in your office, and in restaurants, and at parties, and at—”
“Oh, be quiet.” Changbin rolls his eyes. “You know what I’m getting at.”
Minho relents, even though he knows he shouldn’t.
He and Jisung are trying to keep their relationship close to their chests, but they’re also not straying away from sharing this with people they can trust, Minho with much more reservations than Jisung, considering how protective he has always been of his personal life. Changbin would die for the secret, and Seungmin doesn’t even know who Minho is actually seeing.
And if that helps make the burden of secrecy feel a little lighter on their shoulders, then it’s worth the risk.
Minho asks, “How’d you know?”
“I saw you two talking, and I know that look, hyung. I didn’t think you had it in you, but I know it when I see it,” Changbin says, the lilt in his voice playful and teasing, like he knows Minho won’t get back at him for it, even though his eyes narrow dangerously. “I know how you act with your friends, and you looked more comfortable than that. Also, you keep staring at him. And when you’re not staring, he’s staring at you. Like teenagers in love.”
Minho feels heat rise to his face, but the words drag a laugh out of him. In love. Is that what they look like?
“We’re trying to keep it a secret,” he says, “but it’s so hard when I see him and all I want to do is be with him and talk to him and look at him. I don’t even know, it’s like something’s pulling me towards him at all times.”
He’s mumbling, trying desperately to be quiet, to remain unheard by all the people that surround them. He’s also not used to being candid about his feelings, about not filtering what he says to his friends, but these past few months, he’s been slowly learning how to dispose of the shame and discomfort that come with it.
Changbin is equally unused to Minho’s sincerity in that regard. He looks taken aback.
“I should probably be less surprised by how serious you sound about him,” he says, a small smile playing across his mouth. “I mean, if you’re going behind your wife’s back for him—because this entire year you’ve been committed despite how fake this entire marriage is—your feelings are anything but casual. In fact, it looks like when you really like someone, you don’t have a single casual bone in your body, because even now your eyes keep running back to him.”
He shakes his head, laughing, and Minho ducks his own, profoundly embarrassed. He can’t quite help it—Jisung is right there, looking beautiful as ever, born to be admired.
Minho doesn’t consider what they’re doing cheating, and he knows Changbin doesn’t, either, but anyone else would. That’s really what it is. Their marriage might not have an ounce of authenticity in it, but it surely seems so on paper. Legally, he and Yeeun are married. Legally, Minho is cheating.
One year ago, he never imagined he would do something like it. He thought he had been sentenced to loneliness for however long this marriage would last. He thought he would have to be forever faithful to something he’d been forced into. To be forever faithful out of a legal obligation.
Today, he’s months-deep into the most earnest and important relationship of his life, all in secret.
“It is serious,” he admits. “It’s only been three months, but I’m already so used to being with him, I care about him so much, I don’t want this to ever end. And that scares me.”
Changbin’s expression softens, eyes sympathetic. It’s not entirely pity that Minho sees in them, but something akin to it.
“Hyung, you can’t live like this. Even without him in the picture,” he says. “It’s not right. But especially not if you’re in love with him.”
Minho swallows harshly. The back of his throat feels raw all of a sudden. “I know,” is all he can muster.
“Are you going to tell her?”
He grimaces. “Not yet. But I’ll have to.”
He promised himself that he would. For Jisung more than for himself. But they’re tied together by a contract that Minho has to keep in mind before he does anything that might infringe it. He’s not sure how Yeeun might react, either. She’s not cruel, but at the same time, he doesn’t know her. He doesn’t know what she might do when she finds out. That’s the entire point, really.
Minho is married to a stranger.
“I want to be with him out in the open, but I don’t know when I’ll be able to get out of the arrangement,” he adds. “He says it’s fine if we keep it on the low because he’s still closeted in front of his family, but I don’t want to—I don’t want to force him into this for the rest of our lives.”
He feels breathless with the admission. The rest of our lives.
“I don’t think it’ll be that long, hyung,” Changbin says, patting his shoulder to comfort him. “I hope it won’t. You’ve been doing okay so far, yeah?”
Minho hums in affirmation. “He’s really good. Way too good to me. We get along better than I’ve ever gotten along with anyone. Seriously.”
“Good.” Changbin smiles. “You deserve that.”
Minho rolls his eyes to chase away the embarrassment that comes from receiving affection from a dear friend, but he’s pleased.
The auction itself starts soon after that. Minho isn’t interested in bidding, so he only stands next to Changbin while he fights some elderly couple for a weekend for two in some luxurious ski resort. He outbids them, vicious after losing the yacht in the silent auction. Then, a few other bids take place. Mostly for art and jewelry, some of them for trips.
Minho is disinterested. He finds his attention easily stolen away, eyes drawn towards Jisung like a magnet. He’s chatting with Hwang Yeji, so for a moment, Minho is allowed to just watch him exist. His animated expressions and sweet disposition and the way he knows just how to make a person laugh.
When Yeeun finally comes up on the stage as an interlude, Minho is still too caught-up in the way Jisung’s eyes sparkle across the room after yet another glass of champagne to even look at her. She speaks about the cause of the charity and the sapphire necklace the Lees have donated to the auction, but that’s about what Minho’s brain registers. He only starts clapping when everyone else does, and when he finally manages to tear his eyes away from Jisung, she’s already making her way off the stage, accepting someone else’s hand to help her down.
✦
Minho punches the code into Jisung’s door with practiced ease. 032514. The day his family adopted their childhood dog and the day of his birth. Jisung told him to remember it in case he gets too lazy to get up and open the door for him, which has quickly turned into an invitation to come over whenever he feels like it, even if Jisung isn’t home.
“Hey, it’s me,” Minho says as he walks in, closing the door behind himself and making sure the automatic lock is on.
Jisung calls back, “I’m in the kitchen!”
Minho hums. He sets the shopping bag down on the entryway table and proceeds to take off his sneakers, leaving them on his designated spot on the shelf. He hasn’t realized just how many designated things he has in Jisung’s apartment—a hook for his coat and a spare charger and space in the closet and a toothbrush and even fuzzy pink home slippers, which he steps into with joy every time even though Jisung bought them just to fuck with him a little.
The weather outside is nice, warm enough to go out in a flannel thrown over a T-shirt the way Minho has. He went to the supermarket to do groceries instead of opting for take-out because they have time tonight and he’s in the mood for cooking. He still has that four-course meal to make for Jisung, but this will have to suffice for now.
Jisung is sitting at the kitchen table in front of his laptop, knees drawn close to his chest. He looks up from the screen when Minho walks in, and his expression immediately softens. It steals the air out of Minho’s lungs, the way Jisung looks at him.
“You brought food?” Jisung asks, watching him put the grocery bag on the counter and begin to unpack the things he bought.
Minho hums. “I wanted to make an early dinner. Or late lunch, depending on when you get hungry,” he says. “Grilled beef short ribs. How’s that sound?”
Jisung throws his head back with an exaggerated moan. “You’re spoiling me.”
“More like, I have to take care of you.” Minho smiles even though he tries not to. “Who else will if I don’t?”
“Mhm. That’s right,” Jisung agrees with an enthusiastic nod. Then, he reaches out for Minho and urges him, “Come here, hyung-ah.”
Minho doesn’t hesitate. He abandons the groceries haphazardly unpacked on the counter, and takes Jisung’s hand, locking their fingers together as he lets himself be pulled closer. Then, finally, he dips down to kiss him.
Jisung’s mouth tastes like coffee even though he hasn’t got a single mug in his vicinity. It’s intoxicating.
Even just seeing him here, exactly like this, with his giant dark grey hoodie and his heart-shaped smile and his legs still bare well into the morning, makes Minho ache, a painful kind of warmth coursing through his entire system. He wants this to be the sight he comes back home to every day. Not the cold, empty apartment that looks like it was taken straight out of a catalogue even after a year of being lived in.
He wants this—Jisung—or nothing.
His chest fills up with that desperate need. A need that he knows Jisung shares with him even without having to voice it out loud. A need that can’t be fulfilled. Not now, maybe not even for years to follow.
Jisung deserves more than that. More than Minho can give him.
The harsh truth is, ever since he realized how inevitable it would be to fall for him—which was very early on into their relationship—Minho has been afraid that one day, Jisung will wake up and realize that Minho’s feelings, although they run deep, simply aren’t enough. That he will wake up and want more. And Minho—
Minho will let him go, then. There’s no question about that. He doesn’t have the right to beg Jisung to stay, to tell him not to leave. He could never tie him down and make him feel miserable, no matter how much it would hurt to not be with him anymore. With Jisung, who feels like home incarnated.
He’s catastrophizing, but he can’t just not.
Jisung is alright with how things are right now, but he might always change his mind. He might always decide to come out to his family and tire of keeping their relationship a secret. He might realize that to everyone else, Minho belongs to Yeeun. That she has to be the person he stands next to during functions and the person he lives with.
He might come to realize the full extent of this arrangement, how it’s taken all of Minho’s life except for this. Except for him.
That’s why Minho is afraid that Jisung is going to regret saying yes that night. He doesn’t know if his heart would be able to take it. He doesn’t know if he could ever function the same way after. It feels dramatic, but what he feels for Jisung can’t be measured. It’s integrated into the best parts of him.
Minho would fall apart if Jisung were to walk away.
And if Minho lost him not even because of something he did wrong directly, if he lost him because of what is essentially a job, Minho would never forgive himself. He would never forgive his parents, and the Jangs, and everyone involved in this damned marriage.
Jisung pulls away and asks, “What’s up with that sour face?”
Minho swallows, cursing himself out for spiraling right here, right now. He tries to force the corners of his mouth back up, but he just looks like he’s having a toothache, he’s sure. He finds it exceptionally hard to put up a false pretense in front of Jisung.
So he says, “I’m just thinking. Worrying, really.”
Jisung frowns. He straightens one of his legs, lowering it to the ground, and then hooks his ankle over the leg of the next chair over to pull it out, encouraging Minho to take a seat and talk to him.
“What about? he asks. He’s still holding Minho’s hand, their palms pressed together, fingers intertwined. “Work?”
Minho shakes his head. It hurts that he’s getting all anxious about things that don’t even seem to cross Jisung’s mind. It makes him feel ashamed.
“Us,” he says finally. He has to look away, fix his gaze on the tiled kitchen floor so that he doesn’t vomit at the look on Jisung’s face. Taken aback. Confused. Pained.
“Well, okay, what—what about us?”
Jisung sounds small, and Minho hates himself for making him feel like this. His chest hurts, a stabbing pain between his ribs. Self-inflicted. All his fault. But he can’t just end the conversation here, say it’s nothing, it’s just his thoughts, because Jisung will worry himself to death over it.
“Do you ever regret getting together with me?” he asks, unsure where he’s finding the courage to speak this question out loud. It’s just the need for reassurance, both for him and Jisung, that propels him forward, it seems.
He looks back at Jisung just in time to watch his frown deepen.
“No,” Jisung says firmly. “Why would I regret it?”
Minho shrugs. “Because this is… not right. Dating me while I’m married to someone else. Even though it doesn’t mean anything, it’s still a weird situation to be caught in the middle of,” he says. “It’s difficult for me, so I can’t even imagine how hard it is for you.”
Jisung squeezes his hand—once, twice. “It’s not ideal, but it’s what I want,” he says. “You told me exactly what to expect right at the beginning, and I’m here, aren’t I?”
He sounds almost desperate to make Minho see.
“Yes, you are. I don’t doubt your feelings for me. Never. I just worry that even though it’s enough today, it might not be enough tomorrow. You might change your mind. You might want more,” Minho says, pushing through even though his voice is breaking. “I don’t want to be tying you down if you can be with someone who will treat you the way you deserve. Love you out in the open.”
Jisung lets out a shuddering breath and looks away, and Minho knows that he has hurt him without meaning to.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but what we have is not that different from any other relationship I’ve been in,” Jisung says, his jaw clenched. Not out of anger. More like he’s trying to hold in his emotions. His hurt. Minho’s heart sinks. “I’d say that this is better than any other relationship I’ve been in. I can see how much effort you put into it, into being with me, into making me happy. We go on dates. We see each other almost every day. We call and text and you come over and you stay the night and you tell me I look beautiful and you always make sure I eat. My best friend knows about you. I don’t need the entire world to know for it to mean something.”
And then, sounding impossibly desperate—
“It’s good with you,” he says. “Why would I want anyone else?”
Guilt grips Minho’s heart like a fist that means to deal the final blow. He should have kept his mouth shut. But the words and anxieties are out in the open now, and he can’t take any of it back.
“I don’t want you to be with anyone else, either. I think—I think it would kill me to see you with someone else,” Minho says. “All of this is more than enough for me. But I care about you. I want you to be happy. That’s why I’m so scared.”
Jisung’s expression softens. He brings Minho’s hand to his mouth and presses a gentle, barely-there kiss to his knuckles. “I understand why you’d be scared about it, but I don’t want you to be. I don’t want you to wait around for the day I’m going to leave. Because I don’t plan on doing that,” he says firmly. “This is how things are. I don’t like it, but it’s not the end of the world.”
“I’m sorry,” Minho says earnestly.
Jisung sighs. “I know you are, baby. But none of this is your fault.”
It kind of is. Minho could have not dragged Jisung into this whole mess. He could have suffered all on his own the way he was meant to since the very beginning. But he was infatuated and desperate to get to know Jisung and that made him selfish.
“Is there anything I can do to drive these thoughts out of your head?” Jisung asks. His sweet, wonderful Jisung.
Minho chews the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t think that’s going to fix everything, but he asks, “Just tell me you’re sure that this is what you want.”
Jisung smiles. He brings a hand to the side of Minho’s face, cradling his cheek like he’s the most precious thing he has ever laid his eyes on. “I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life. I’ve never been happier, either,” he says. “You make me happy. I could never, ever give this up.”
Minho’s heart jumps, and then finally— finally— settles into a tranquil beat. His shoulders slump with the next sigh he takes.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I got worked-up over nothing.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for. I get it,” Jisung says, ever so understanding. His thumb slides across Minho’s cheekbone, his fingers thrumming against the back of his neck. “I don’t mind telling you how good you are to me. Especially not if it can ease your mind.”
“Okay, then, next time I’ll just come and ask you to tell me how amazing I am.” Minho huffs out a laugh.
Jisung tilts his head to the side, staring. He sounds serious when he says, “Yes, you should actually do that, jagi.”
Minho’s ears take on a deep shade of burgundy. He feels like he’s burning, even more so when Jisung notices his furious blush and pinches his earlobe with sweet, fond laughter.
“I’m yours, and you’re mine,” he says. “I don’t care if only a handful of people know. I wouldn’t care if no one knew.”
Minho swallows. “I just wish things were different. I wish we could pack our bags right this moment and run away somewhere no one knows who we are and be together and walk down the street holding hands and be certain that no one will hurl a snide remark at us.”
“I want that too. You know that,” Jisung says. “But we can’t.”
“I know,” Minho breathes out. But he offers no apology for what he said. It’s what a deep, selfish part of him wants: he wants to steal Jisung away and make him his. Truly his. And he wants Jisung to know that this is exactly what he longs for, even if he can’t give it to him. Not yet. “But one day, yeah?”
“One day,” Jisung whispers back. It feels like a secret. He closes the distance between them, punctuating his words with a sweet kiss. And because he knows exactly how to make Minho laugh, he adds, “We should role-play and pretend we don’t know each other so that I can hit on you, a hot divorcé, in a bar.”
Minho shakes his head, but he’s grinning from ear to ear. “You’re impossible.”
“But you love it,” Jisung sing-songs, sticking his tongue out at him like a little kid.
His heart soars, and he thinks, You have no idea. “I really do, jagiya.”
Jisung’s eyes widen, and for a moment Minho isn’t sure if it’s because of the things he’s reading between the lines or—
“Jagiya,” he echoes, cheeks turning red. “I like when you call me that.”
“I can see,” Minho laughs.
He’s still laughing when Jisung maneuvers him into another kiss, his palm warm against the side of Minho’s neck as he pulls him closer, undoubtedly feeling the skittering of his pulse. Minho licks across his own mouth when they part, savoring the taste of Jisung for another moment.
“I need to start marinating the meat,” he says finally.
Jisung grins. “Yeah, go do that, I haven’t had breakfast, so I’m starving,” he says, batting his eyelashes because he knows that after hearing this, Minho will fix him something quick to eat. He’s manipulative like that. He knows all of Minho’s tender spots. “And, by the way, what time do you have to be back at the apartment? I was thinking we could watch a movie if you can stay until the evening or go grab some dessert after this.”
“Actually…” Minho starts, his smile growing, “Yeeun is on a girls’ trip this weekend, so I’m all yours.”
Jisung’s eyes shimmer. “Really?”
It does something to Minho’s heart, the fact that Jisung sounds this excited at the prospect of spending the entire weekend with him. Two days, and he’s smiling like it’s the best news he’s gotten this entire year. He’s so precious.
“Mhm. Would you like to go out for dinner, then?”
“No, actually,” Jisung says, his eyes on Minho’s mouth. “I’d like to stay in.”
Minho laughs. “Oh, I get it now,” he says teasingly, but he can’t say he doesn’t share the enthusiasm. He’s been dying to get his hands on Jisung for so long. “You’re not gonna let me out of bed, am I right?”
Jisung feigns innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, oh my, you’re so dirty-minded,” he says, shaking his head. “No shame, truly.”
“Well.” Minho shrugs. “Look at yourself, jagiya.”
Jisung’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. He holds his breath, and then—”Go away unless you want me to suck your dick right here and now.”
Laughing out loud, Minho says, “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
But as much as he’d like that (fuck, he really would like that), he has things to do and a hungry boyfriend to feed—so that he has a lot of strength for later. Ha. He steals a long, languid kiss from Jisung before he gets up, though, and tries really hard not to let his thoughts stray into dangerous territories when Jisung’s fingers start playing with his hair.
It’s easy for Minho to push his anxieties away when he can spend time in Jisung’s company.
He prepares the meat and chops vegetables while Jisung talks about this event they’re hosting at the hotel, humming along in understanding and asking questions when necessary, but otherwise just content to enjoy the sound of his voice as he speaks.
At some point, Jisung plasters himself to Minho’s back, starved for affection, and hooks his chin over his shoulder, peering into the bowl where Minho is currently adding spices.
“I’m almost done,” Minho tells him, melting when Jisung’s palm slides under the fabric of his T-shirt, a warm hand roaming across his stomach. He leans back against his chest, seeking his touch. Maybe he’s the starved one.
“Good,” Jisung says. “Do you wanna watch something and cuddle?”
Minho hums. “Should we continue Weak Hero?”
“Okay,” Jisung says, pressing his smile against the side of Minho’s face. “I’ll go put it on, then.”
It’s embarrassing how quickly Minho misses him the moment he steps away and disappears in the living room. He wants him near at all times—both his body and his mind need him. He’s happy when he finishes washing his hands and he can finally join Jisung on the couch, fitting himself into the space between him and the back of the sofa like it was made for him.
He throws one thigh over Jisung’s hips and rests his head on his shoulder, sighing with contentment. This is all he needs in life, really. A cute guy to hug, a nice show to watch, and delicious food to eat.
They watch two episodes, and then Minho has to unpeel himself from Jisung to actually start putting their early dinner together. He’s fairly certain that a few minutes after he leaves, Jisung falls asleep on the couch, because if he wasn’t asleep, he would appear in the kitchen to bother him.
He’s right. When their ribs are grilled and the sides are gone, Minho goes to get him and finds Jisung with his cheek squished against the cushion, eyes closed and mouth pouted in a way that makes him look irresistibly adorable.
Minho sinks into a crouch and nudges him awake. “Hey, sleepyhead, you up for some ribs?”
Jisung groans as he tries to return to the world of the living, but food is the only thing he likes even more than sleeping, so the moment he registers the mouth-watering smell of beef in the air, he wastes no time getting up.
“Wow, this looks so delicious,” he says as they sit down at the kitchen table. “Thank you, hyung-ah. You’re the best.”
Minho scrunches his nose in embarrassment, but he’s happy to be appreciated. “Mhm. I hope it tastes good too, it’s my first time making this marinade. Wanted to try something different.”
After he says that, Jisung makes it his personal mission to show him just how good the food tastes. He moans around it, that’s how much he likes it. Even when Minho laughs and tells him to cut it, when he says Jisung should just shut up and eat, he continues raving about the taste, pressing his palm against his heart and gasping at every bite.
He’s sweet like that.
Once Jisung finishes his second serving and both of their plates are clean, they return to the couch, continuing their marathon of Weak Hero Class. They might not be doing anything exciting, lounging around all day, but it’s exactly what Minho needs. To unwind in Jisung’s arms. Let the worry seep out of him all on its own, slow and steady.
Jisung has other plans. He’s clearly insistent on speeding up the process and driving the annoying, insecure thoughts out of Minho’s head himself.
“Let me take care of you, jagiya,” he says, moving to bracket Minho’s hips between his knees and planting himself in his lap. “Let me show you how happy I am to be yours.”
Minho’s heart soars as Jisung presses his hand against his chest, feeling the muscle jump and constrict under his palm.
“Fuck,” he breathes out. “You can’t say stuff like that.”
Jisung smirks, leaning in closer to hover above him. “Why not?” He shifts in Minho’s lap, pressing his ass against the growing bulge in his pants. “I can feel that you like it.”
Minho chokes out a laugh, because he can’t exactly deny it. Cunning little devil.
Instead of attempting to defend himself, he reaches out and drags Jisung down into a kiss by the back of his head. His other hand travels to Jisung’s ass, encouraging him into a slow grind until they’re gasping into each other’s mouths rather than kissing.
Minho melts under Jisung’s expert touch. He unbuttons his jeans with one hand to palm him through his boxers, teasing the head of his cock and his nipple at the same time. Minho tosses his head back against the cushion with a groan, letting go without a fight. His hips jerk upwards, but instead of pinning him down, Jisung grinds against him.
It’s so hot to watch, Minho strains his neck to see it. Jisung’s hands all over him, his hips moving with the same kind of desperation Minho feels pooling in his abdomen, rising in his chest. His mouth has fallen open and he can only gasp now, can only say, Fuck, Jisungie, and struggle to catch his breath.
He almost cries when Jisung takes his hands away. The noise that rips out of his throat embarrasses him to the core, and it’s only because of Jisung’s satisfied, smarmy little grin that he doesn’t hide his face in his palms.
Jisung shifts, lying down, his elbows digging into the sofa on both sides of Minho’s head, and slots their legs together so that he can move against him with his whole weight, making the friction that much sweeter. Minho gasps, hands moving to Jisung’s ass, gripping the flesh through his pants, mourning he still has them on but simultaneously being too caught-up in the way Jisung grinds against him to ask him to strip.
He’s panting against Jisung’s neck, breathing harder with every passing second, mouthing against his skin, holding onto the last bits of sanity trying to keep himself from sinking his teeth into the side of Jisung’s throat.
“Fuck, baby,” Jisung groans right against his ear. He takes the lobe into his mouth, biting it gently, all to make Minho keen higher. When Minho does, he lets out an almost delirious laugh and adds, “God, you sound so good like this.”
Minho ruts up against him, encouraged by the praise, desperate to make Jisung feel as good as he does. Jisung’s cock twitches where it’s pressed against his hip, impatient, and Minho bends his knee just enough for Jisung to grind against his thigh the next time he moves.
“Oh, hyung—”
He lets out another broken moan when Minho’s fingers dig into the flesh of his ass and haphazardly, desperately presses their slick mouths together in a messy, barely-there kiss.
It’s too much and still not enough. Minho feels like his brain is spilling out of his ears. Jisung moves against him like he’s fucking him, and the friction feels so good it almost hurts.
The wet, stained fabric of Minho’s boxers sticks against his skin in the most uncomfortable way possible, but he refuses to stop even for a moment, even if those few seconds could help them both get rid of the layers between them. He just feels so good, he doesn’t want this to ever end.
Minho moans. He needs Jisung inside right now.
“Hyung-ah,” Jisung breathes out. “I don’t wanna come in my pants. Let’s get up.” Minho protests loudly, without an ounce of shame, keeping a tight grip on Jisung’s hips to keep him from moving away, but it only serves to make Jisung laugh. He says, “Come on, baby. Let’s go. I wanna touch you properly.”
Minho wants that. But he also wants to stay here, on this couch, where he already feels so good.
“I want you right here,” he murmurs, grinding up against Jisung, who’s holding himself together surprisingly well. It makes embarrassment lick up against Minho’s neck, to be this needy, this desperate.
“We’re not young enough to risk blowing out our backs by having sex bent over the couch,” Jisung says, laughing against Minho’s cheek. “Come on.”
Jisung kisses him, and it’s almost like his mind blacks out. Not a single thought. It’s a distraction, Minho knows that the moment their lips touch, but he’s powerless to fight against it, so before he even knows it, Jisung is moving away—rolling off the sofa and crashing onto the floor.
Minho huffs in utmost disbelief, pushing himself up onto his elbows to look at him. “You’re telling me we can’t have sex on the couch because our backs will hurt but you’re just fine throwing yourself against the floor?”
“Precisely.”
Jisung grins up at him, and unfortunately for Minho, the sight alone makes his heart skip a beat and his mouth stretch in a fond smile.
He lets himself be led to the bedroom once Jisung manages to haul himself up from the floor, their fingers intertwined as if they can’t handle even that short, fifteen-steps long walk without getting their hands all over each other. Then, Minho allows Jisung to push him down onto the mattress, to find his home in his lap again.
Minho’s hands wander across the toned expanse of Jisung’s back as their lips lock, the bare skin feeling like fire beneath his palms. He almost rips the shirt off his shoulders in his haste to see him, to trace the tattoos with his fingertips, to swipe his thumbs across his nipples. Jisung is so beautiful. He always takes Minho’s breath away.
They take their tweet time knowing they have the entire night just for themselves. Jisung fucks Minho open with his fingers on his unreasonably expensive sheets with the ease of someone who knows Minho’s body better than he knows himself.
They keep the curtains open and the lights off, and Jisung says the sight of Minho’s skin covered in the pinks and oranges of the setting sun is driving him insane.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says when Minho arches up against him with a sharp inhale. It embarrasses Minho, to be looked at this shamelessly, to be admired, to be told you’re beautiful and know that it’s sincere. “I can’t believe I didn’t just dream you up.”
Minho’s breath hitches in his throat. “Jisung—”
“I know,” he laughs, pressing his forehead against Minho’s. “Too sappy.”
Minho drags him into a kiss, moaning when Jisung’s fingers brush against his prostate again. His cock is already leaking onto his stomach, furiously red, painfully hard, begging to be touched. But Jisung doesn’t give in, even though he keeps looking, glancing between their bodies, licking his mouth like he wants nothing more than to taste him on his tongue.
He’s a generous lover, but he’s good at driving Minho up the wall with his ministrations, too. He’s lucky Minho loves it, the tension in every nerve ending in his body as he waits for Jisung’s next move, the delayed gratification of his touch.
When Jisung finally fucks him, it’s slow and precise. His cock reaches all the deepest places within Minho, brushing against his sweet spots with every thrust. He seems more focused on Minho’s pleasure than his own, grinning like the devil every time a breathless moan leaves Minho’s throat. It’s making Minho feel like the most important person on the planet.
Like this, Minho can forget about everything else. His worries from before, his work, Yeeun—everything. He can just be with Jisung. Feel him. Touch him. Hear him. Taste him. Within the four walls of this bedroom, the only thing that exists is the two of them.
Minho squeezes his thighs where they’re wrapped around Jisung’s hips, digging his heels into his back to drag him closer, always closer. Jisung pulls back, only leaving the head of his cock inside, and bottoms out again, fucking the air right out of Minho’s lungs. Minho tosses his head back against the pillow. It’s so hard to breathe, so hard to do anything other than moan and whimper profanities in the shape of Jisung’s name.
“You feel so good, hyung-ah,” Jisung whispers, slowing down to grind against Minho, going for slower and deeper thrusts that make the heat in Minho’s abdomen intensify within seconds. Then, Jisung is leaning in and mouthing at his ear, whispering more and more praise like it’s the only thing he knows how to say. “So beautiful, and all mine.”
He’s careful not to bite down too hard or press his nails too deep into his skin when Minho wants nothing more than for Jisung to leave a trace of himself behind. A scratch. A mark. Anything. Minho doesn’t have any issues with remembering the way Jisung touches him—his memory never fails him in that regard—but it’s satisfying to see physical evidence. To remind him that he didn’t just dream Jisung up.
Minho comes undone with Jisung’s name on the tip of his tongue, the only thing he can conjure as mind-numbing pleasure courses through his veins.
It doesn’t take long for Jisung to follow him over the edge. He fucks into Minho at the same slow, controlled pace, burying his face in Minho’s neck when he comes. His orgasm makes Minho shudder. He can feel Jisung’s chest heaving against him, the rabbit-quick pace of his heart.
Jisung somehow finds the strength to push himself up and capture Minho’s mouth in a breathless kiss. It’s the easiest thing for Minho to slide his fingers into his hair and keep him there, up in his face, until his body stops feeling like it’s on fire.
It’s a while before either of them can get up and trust their aching legs to get them to the bathroom without falling. Minho is even more reluctant to peel himself off the sheets because Jisung sprawls himself across his chest, cheek pressed where Minho’s heart is refusing to calm down. But there, in the bathroom, they slip into the warm bubbles and Jisung settles between his legs, his back against Minho’s chest, so the ache doesn’t last long.
“This is so romantic,” Jisung says, his voice rough around the edges. “A bubble bath in the candlelight after making love with you. I don’t think I’ve ever done anything like this with someone before.”
Minho narrows his eyes at him. “You better not have,” he warns. “I don’t want to be romanced with recycled moves.”
Jisung laughs. “Never,” he promises. “Only the best for Minho-ring.”
He tips his head back onto Minho’s shoulder to kiss him. It’s short and sweet like chocolate. Minho smiles, and then presses his mouth against Jisung’s cheek when they pull apart. The kiss conveys all the things he doesn’t feel brave enough to say.
Jisung smiles like he can hear them all the same.
“We should make a bucket list of all the most romantic things couples can do,” he muses, moving his hand to rest it on Minho’s forearm draped over his stomach.
“Hm. Like what?”
“I don’t know. Like, writing each other disgustingly sappy love letters or slow-dancing in the kitchen.”
Jisung laughs at his own suggestions, and Minho genuinely surprises himself with how much he would like to do that. Even write Jisung a love letter. He isn’t good with words and being overly honest embarrasses him, but there is a lot of good that Jisung has brought into his life. He has a lot to say to him, and maybe pouring it onto a piece of paper would be easier than saying it to his face.
“It sounds silly, doesn’t it?” Jisung asks.
Minho makes a noise of protest in the back of his throat and leans in to press his cheek against Jisung’s. “I think it sounds cute. And I like doing cute things with you.”
“Gay,” Jisung says, poking Minho’s thigh underwater.
“One-thousand percent.”
Minho proceeds to nip at Jisung’s cheek with his front teeth, making him laugh and squirm away. He holds him close with the arm slung around his waist, though, so Jisung has nowhere to go. He settles back against Minho’s chest after calling him a freak.
Minho loves it.
They sit in the bath until the water gets cold.
“Ugh. My fingertips are wrinkly and weird,” Minho says, watching his hands with a grimace of disgust. “Let’s get out quickly.”
Jisung laughs, but he braces against the edges of the tub and pushes himself up into a standing position, giving Minho a front-row seat to his round butt.
Minho swipes his tongue across his mouth, staring shamelessly, watching the water rivulet down the expanse of his soft skin. Before he gets up too, he reaches out and smacks Jisung’s bare, wet ass.
Jisung whips around with a scandalized gasp and wide eyes. Then, he whines, “That hurt.”
Minho coos, reaching out to rub it. Without any ulterior motives, of course. “Sorry, jagiya.”
Jisung gives him a look, but instead of entertaining Minho’s antics, he throws a towel right in his face.
After they pat themselves dry, drain the tub, and blow out all the candles, they make their way back to Jisung’s bedroom to get dressed in clean underwear. Jisung also grabs an oversize T-shirt to sleep in because he gets cold at night, and it just so happens that out of all the clothes he could choose, it belongs to Minho.
The sight is nearly enough to bring Minho to his knees. Seeing Jisung in his clothes is another kind of adrenaline rush.
Minho goes to grab them a bottle of water from the fridge, and when he returns, Jisung is already under the covers. He opens his arms and says, “Come here,” as if Minho needs an invitation. It’s kind of adorable.
Jisung scrolls a bit through his phone while Minho watches along, cheek pressed against his shoulder, but soon enough, his grip begins to falter. It isn’t long before his eyelids fall shut and he falls asleep.
Smiling to himself and trying hard not to laugh so as not to wake him, Minho pries his phone out of his limp hands and plugs it into the charger for the night. Then, even though he knows they’ll separate in their sleep, he cuddles up to Jisung, seeking warmth and safety.
As usual, he’s the first to wake up in the morning, but the sight that greets him—Jisung’s bare back—keeps him between the sheets. It’s funny—Jisung, perpetually cold, must have lost the T-shirt he’d fallen asleep in sometime during the night.
Minho spends a long moment of serenity just watching him breathe. Then, unable to help himself, he reaches out, beginning to trace shapes into the planes of Jisung’s back. Jisung shivers, but he doesn’t wake. He lets Minho touch him, draw stars and hearts and his own name into his skin.
Once Minho’s imaginary canvas is full—and his finger cramps up—he slides his arm back under the covers and drapes it across Jisung’s waist, pulling him closer until he can bury his nose in his hair. He has come to associate the smell that clings to Jisung’s skin—his shampoo, his body wash, his perfume—with his safest place. It sounds funny even in his head. Barely over four months, and he’s putting his entire heart in this man’s hands. But Jisung feels like a safe haven. Like a place where Minho can let go of his inhibitions and let down his defences in.
Jisung groans softly, a sign that he’s slowly waking up. He rolls over onto his other side in Minho’s hold, turning towards him with a smile on his face and his eyes still closed.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice raspy with hours of sleep.
Minho wishes he could wake up like this every day.
“Good morning,” he echoes, reaching out to brush Jisung’s unruly hair out of his face. He leans into the touch, preening like a cat. “How’d you sleep?”
“Mhm. Great, actually,” Jisung murmurs, nuzzling his cheek against the pillow, and it sounds like a part of him wants to go back to sleep. “I had a dream we were on a beach, sun shining, water crystal-clear, and I thought about wanting a mojito and a cat-waiter brought it to me in that exact second. A cat waiter.”
Minho laughs. “How did he bring it? In his mouth?”
Jisung shakes his head. “He had a tray on his back. He worked so hard to keep it straight and not spill anything, I gave him a huge tip.”
Minho leans in to press their mouths together in a kiss. “So generous,” he says right against his lips. He wishes he could see the cat-waiter. “Is that why you’re naked? Because you were on the beach?”
“Wait—” Jisung’s eyes fly open. “I’m naked?” He lifts the corner of the duvet to check for himself, and seems genuinely surprised to find himself shirtless. “Wow, I guess it was so hot I felt it here too.”
“Good thing you didn’t go swimming and dive off the bed head-first,” Minho teases.
Jisung clicks his tongue, but he’s smiling, too. “I wanna go to the beach now. Somewhere where it really gets hot.”
Minho hums. He would love nothing more than to pack a suitcase and take Jisung away for vacation somewhere far away from here. For a week or two. Maybe even longer. But they both have their own responsibilities that don’t always align. And, most importantly, Minho can’t disappear without Yeeun for too long.
The dream is nice, though. Minho files that as something for after. After the divorce.
“We’ll go,” Minho says, a small smile playing on his mouth. “Wherever you want.”
Jisung scrunches his nose. Laughs. “My heart fluttered,” he says. “I hate when you say things like that.”
“Factually untrue,” Minho argues, and then leans in to kiss him all over again, hand cradling the side of Jisung’s face. Jisung smiles into it, because of course he does, and throws his leg over Minho’s hip, pulling him even closer.
When they finally manage to drag themselves out of bed, Jisung proposes that instead of bothering to make breakfast, they should just go out for something sweet. “From that café on the corner. The one that sells those incredible smoothies.”
“Dotori Garden,” Minho supplies, smiling. “You literally live here and you can’t remember?”
Jisung rolls his eyes. “What do I need the name for? I just know where it is, and I know I like it.”
They wash up and get dressed quickly, because their stomachs begin growling too loudly to ignore. Minho grabs one of Jisung’s hoodies from the closet and puts his snapback on since his hair refuses to cooperate with him for some reason. Before they leave, Jisung grabs the hat by the visor and lifts it up, out of the way, so that he can kiss him.
Minho’s knees almost give out beneath him.
In the early hours of the morning, the café is bustling with people coming and going, but, by a stroke of luck, they manage to get their usual table—in the corner, but still by the window. Jisung gets a pain au chocolat, Minho a croissant, and they both go for their usual iced americano to drink. They’re both still half-asleep so the conversation is dulled; they focus on their pastries and an occasional, “Look!” when someone passes the café by with a cat or a dog on the leash.
After they’re done eating, instead of going back to Jisung’s apartment right away, they detour to a park nearby, shoulders bumping with every other step as they stroll. It’s the most they can allow themselves in public.
“I don’t know if I told you,” Jisung starts, “but Jeongin and Minju want to go on a double-date with us. I think you really charmed them.”
“I did?” Minho laughs, the back of his neck feeling warm.
Jisung hums, looking incredibly pleased with the fact. “Is that something you’d like to do? I mean, we don’t have to. But if you’re there, they’ll be interested in getting to know you better, which means they won’t be glued together and I won’t feel like a third-wheel.”
Minho grins and nudges him in the side. “Anything for you, jagiya,” he teases, and then—“They seem like really fun people. I mean, you’re friends with them, so they have to be fun. We should hang out soon.”
“Yeah?” Jisung asks, giving Minho that doe-eyes look that makes his knees weak. “I love them. It would mean the world to me if you guys were getting along.”
“I’m sure we will,” Minho says. He wraps an arm around Jisung’s shoulders to pull him in closer, and then remembers where they are and lets go, heart hammering in his chest. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a friendly gesture. He clears his throat and pretends it doesn’t hurt. “We’ll think of something and go.”
Jisung smiles, and Minho forgets everything else. This is the only thing that matters.
When they loop around the park and finally return to the apartment, neither of them is in a mood for anything in particular, so they settle down on the couch in the living room and rest. Without any surprises, Jisung falls asleep with his head in Minho’s lap half-way into the movie they’ve put on. Minho doesn’t want to continue without him, so he switches to the next episode of Bleach since that’s something they can rewatch together.
With his fingers carding through Jisung’s hair and Jisung’s cheek squished against his thigh, he can only think about how lucky he is to have him. Someone he can do fun things he never thought he would with, and someone he can stay home lazing around all day with. Jisung really cares about him, and he lets it show: he sends Minho food to work when they can’t go out, texts him goodnight every night, notices every little shift in Minho’s demeanor and knows exactly what to say to make all the bad feelings go away. And now, there’s a picture of them two framed on the shelf that wasn’t here just a few weeks ago. There’s another one on Jisung’s nightstand, next to the orchid Minho gave him all those months ago, in a red frame, because Jisung really likes red.
Minho really, really can’t imagine his life without Jisung.
It feels like he was always meant to find him. That their paths were always meant to cross. Sooner or later, Jisung was always going to end up in his arms. He was always going to turn Minho’s head. In this life, and in another.
It’s a freeing realization to come to. They’re meant to be. No one has ever made Minho feel this way—no one has ever understood him like Jisung does. It was always going to be him.
He stares down at Jisung’s serene expression and lets out a soft sigh. To think that this is what life could look like every day if only Minho hadn’t gotten married last year. He daydreams like this often now. Every day. Every breathing minute.
He wants this to be his life. Waking up and falling asleep beside Jisung, dropping him off at work with a kiss and coming back home, to their shared living space, knowing he’ll be right here—
It feels so perfect, this weekend, that it physically hurts him when he has to go.
They get to eat dinner together, at least. Minho throws together some pasta that Jisung—obviously—raves about for at least an hour, and then they return to Dotori Garden for mango and banana smoothies.
Minho goes back to the apartment he shares with Yeeun with the spicy citrus scent of Jisung’s perfume clinging to his skin and the phantom touch of his fingers under the fabric of his hoodie. Jisung’s hoodie. He keeps one hand on his thigh as he drives, right over the spot where he knows Jisung sank his teeth the night before.
The smile stays with him a little longer this time, after he leaves Jisung’s place. It does. But when Minho walks into his bedroom, dropping his bag on the bed with a sigh, he realizes it has already left him, and he only knows one way to bring it back.
He takes his phone out, opening Kakao Talk and pulling up his most recent conversation. He writes, Just got home, and has to wait approximately ten seconds to receive a happy, jumping cat sticker in response. Then, Jisung texts, Sorry I know you said I should save the leftovers for when I’m too lazy to make dinner but those noodles were calling my name and I’m heating them up right now.
There it is. That smile.
I knew this would happen, he writes back, but even through the text, even with the eye-roll emoji, his words sound fond rather than frustrated.
Jisung says, I guess it means you’ll have to come back soon to cook for me, and attached another hamster sticker. This time around, it has hearts instead of eyes.
Minho scoffs, but he’s still grinning from ear to ear. You should start paying me.
I’m sure we can find some appropriate form of payment, Jisung says. Then, he sends a picture of himself, mouth stuffed full of noodles. Minho shouldn’t find that as cute as he does. How about this?
Send me ten more and I’ll consider, Minho writes back.
He lies down on his bed sideways, resting his phone on his sternum, and stares at the ceiling. He’s still smiling, but as seconds tick by, his expression bitters.
Jisung makes him so happy. In different circumstances, he would be able to brag about how cute he is, flaunt his happiness for everyone to see. Well, maybe not really. He’s always been a private person. He likes keeping his things off the internet, he likes keeping things close to his heart. But he just wishes he could share this with someone.
Right now, it feels like he can’t talk to anyone about it—about his own happiness. Even though Seungmin and Changbin know, Minho doesn’t want to put this secret on their shoulders and force them to carry it. It’s one thing to be aware that Minho is sneaking around with someone behind his wife’s back—a completely different thing to continuously find out more.
Even surrounded by friends who love him, Minho feels alone.
✦
Minho has never been a phone call person. Or, rather, he has never been a long phone call person. You call someone, say what you need to say, and hang up. That’s what it has always been.
Except with Jisung, they can spend hours just talking about everything and nothing, or hours sitting in silence, keeping each other company as they work.
Those conversations make up for the days when they’re too swamped to see each other in person, or do anything more than grab coffee together during the lunch hours. They talk about what their day has been like, who annoyed them, all the fun things.
Today, though, Jisung calls him right after work because they haven’t been able to go out at all. Minho has been on edge from exhaustion and the lack of him, so seeing his caller ID is the best part of his entire day.
Minho swipes his thumb across the screen to accept the call and says, “Jagiya,” in lieu of a greeting.
“Hi, baby, did you get home alright?”
“Mhm. Just got in,” Minho says, lifting his shoulder to awkwardly keep his phone to his ear while he unpacks his bag. Laptop. Documents he has to look over before next week. Half-empty bottle of water. Unopened pack of gum. “You?”
“Yep. Making coffee right now,” Jisung says. Minho can hear the whirring of his fancy machine in the background if he tries hard enough. “About to go take a shower once it’s ready.”
Minho can’t help that his first thought is just how much he’d like to take a shower with him. He juts his bottom lip out, irreparably lovesick.
“Tempting,” he says teasingly.
His shoulder cramps up, so Minho puts Jisung on speaker while he’s changing out of his slacks and white shirt into something more comfortable. Sweatpants, a loose T-shirt that might or might not belong to Jisung.
Jisung laughs at the other end of the line. “Should I wait for you?”
Minho sighs inaudibly. “I’d love to come over, but I’m having my mandatory weekly dinner with Yeeun tonight,” he says. Grimaces.
“Hm,” is all Jisung says for a moment, floorboards creaking in the distance as he walks through his apartment. Minho imagines him sprawled across the sofa in the living room now, flipping through channels lazily. “Are you going out?”
“Yeah. But she’s choosing the restaurant this time, so I don’t know where we’re going yet.”
Minho bites the inside of his cheek.
At this point, they’ve had countless conversations about this—the marriage, Yeeun—and Minho knows Jisung isn’t like that, but a part of him, that hidden, terrified part of him, still expects Jisung to get jealous. Insecure. Minho has to ditch him to spend time with his pseudo-wife. That would make anyone angry, right?
But Jisung is kind. What he says is, “I hope you’ll enjoy the food, at least. Maybe call me before you go to bed?”
Minho can hear the hope in his voice, the contentment, because he already knows that Minho will call. Not even a sliver of insecurity. He knows that the person Minho would rather spend the evening with is him.
Every time, his ease takes a bit of weight off Minho’s shoulders. Perhaps soon, he will stop worrying altogether.
“I’ll call,” he promises. “Make sure to actually be awake for it, hm?”
Jisung scoffs. “Rude. Now I don’t want to talk to you at all.”
“It’s not my fault you keep falling asleep every time you lie down,” Minho teases. “You’re like a cat.”
“You’re trying to make fun of me, but this is actually the best compliment coming from you,” Jisung says, laughing. Minho pauses, his mouth falling open in surprise because—yes, actually. It is. His silence is enough of an answer. “Ah, did you get flustered, hyung?”
Minho scrunches his nose. “Goodbye, Jisung.”
He can still hear Jisung’s laughter when he ends the call.
Yeeun comes home from work an hour later. Minho is drinking coffee at the kitchen table, then, scrolling through Musinsa in search of something new to wear, eyes lingering on things that come in two.
“I made a reservation at a sushi place in Sinsa-dong,” Yeeun says. “Be ready in an hour?”
“Alright,” Minho tells her.
That’s the extent of their conversation. They always have and always will operate on the rule of the bare minimum. They make time for each other once every two weeks. One could assume they have gotten closer over those months, and although the outings were an attempt at that, they haven’t changed much between them.
Yeeun doesn’t put much effort into it. But neither does Minho, so, in some strange way, it works.
The one thing they always excel at is finding good restaurants to eat in. Tonight, too—they both like sushi, so it’s a bull’s-eye. The conversation is stilted, but at least they’re making an attempt. That should count for something.
How was work today? Have you read this new book? It looks like it might rain all weekend, doesn’t it? I’m usually more of a salmon person, but this tastes amazing too.
Minho isn’t sure how many more of these he has in him, though. It has always been hard for him to feign not being tired or bored or wishing he was anywhere else, but lately—since Jisung came into his life—his willingness to pretend has worn thin.
It feels like such a waste of time—both for him and for Yeeun.
On days like this, especially lately, he wonders if Yeeun wants out of his marriage just as much as him. She never protests, she does what is asked of her, but she certainly doesn’t look happy. Minho recognizes his fault in it, too, but there’s nothing he can do to help her. He’s miserable too.
He wants her to be the one to ask for a divorce. It has to be her. Because then, the blame won’t fall on Minho and his parents. The future of their company won’t be in danger. That’s the only reason why Minho is doing this, so he can’t risk it.
He’s more at ease when they get back inside his car and the radio kills the silence that has settled between them after they ate, which neither of them seems keen to break. It takes them less than half an hour to get back to their apartment, but even that is too much time spent together. Yeeun disappears in her bedroom after a curt goodnight, and Minho heads to the bathroom for a quick shower. Then, he burrows himself under the covers of his bed. Finally, comfortable and certain no one else will hear him, he can dial Jisung’s number.
It’s still early enough for Jisung to be awake. He picks up the call within seconds with the sweetest Minho-ring on his tongue. The sound of his voice lights up Minho’s world. After an entire evening of pretense and rigidity, he finally feels like he can breathe.
“How was dinner?” Jisung asks. “What did you guys eat?”
“We ended up having sushi, so it was good,” Minho says. “The restaurant was really cozy, and their sashimi selection was crazy. I should probably take you there sometime.”
That’s really all he could think about, sat across from Yeeun. How much he’d like to know if Jisung would like it. Knowing that he definitely would.
“Ah, you wanna take me to some place you already went to with someone else?” Jisung teases at the other end of the line. “Lee Minho, you’re a shameless, shameless man.”
Minho cracks a smile. “Every time I go somewhere, it’s just to try out if the place is worth your presence, jagi.”
“Whoa, I was kidding, but now my heart fluttered.” Jisung laughs, and Minho can’t see him but he knows that he’s pressing his palm against his chest now. “You flirt. You’re gonna kill me one day.”
Minho chuckles, thumbing at the hem of his blanket. “It just comes out naturally like that.”
“Even worse,” Jisung huffs. “But I’m really glad that the dinner went alright.”
“Yeah, well, we talked a bit, but we mostly just ate, so it wasn’t ideal, but it wasn’t all that bad, either.”
He can hear Jisung’s smile in his voice when he says, “That’s a relief. You always sound so stressed-out about these things, it makes me worry about you.”
“Sorry,” Minho says, feeling himself deflate. He knows it’s normal to feel worried for the people you care about, but he hates that he’s the reason behind Jisung’s nerves. It shouldn’t be like that. “These dinners are fine. It’s worse if we have to meet our parents.”
“I can imagine,” Jisung tells him. “Either way, it’s over now and you can enjoy some time with me. That’s gotta be nice, right?”
“Yeah,” Minho laughs. “The highlight of my day.”
And he’s not even lying.
He tells Jisung about this concert he and his high school friends have bought tickets to. They’ve all been listening to this band for ages and now they’re having a reunion tour with a stop in Seoul, so they decided to go.
Jisung asks him about the band, whines and complains about how Minho has been hiding it from him, how could he, when they share playlists and songs and favorite artists? It’s quite cute, and Minho promises he’ll curate a perfect mixtape of his favorite songs from the band just for him. That seems to appease Jisung, finally, and he demands to know more about his high school friends.
So, Minho talks and talks until he hears a snore at the other end of the line.
It’s late, at that point. He’s not surprised at all that Jisung has fallen asleep, and he can’t even blame him for dozing off while he was telling him about Seongjo and Jihwan. They’re pretty boring, these guys. Minho would fall asleep, too.
He smiles to himself. For a moment, he just listens to the sound of Jisung’s peaceful breathing.
“Sweet dreams, jagi,” he whispers. Then, he ends the call.
✦
For their next date, they drive out of the city in semblance of normalcy other couples get to enjoy. They don’t go far—just to Chuncheon, an hour away from Seoul, maybe half an hour more if there’s a lot of traffic.
Funny, because with Jisung, Minho always wishes for traffic. To spend more time with him, whether he dozes off in the passenger seat or sings along to the songs on the radio. Somehow, when Jisung is in the car, rolling through the streets at a snail’s pace doesn’t bother him at all.
Today, the weather is nice enough for them to enjoy another thing off their romantic bucket list—a picnic in the park. They went all out—Jisung found a wicker basket somewhere in the depth of his closet (Minho thinks he actually went and bought it, but Jisung argues he didn’t, so), and they stopped at a convenience store to fill it with snacks, fruit, and alcohol-free beer.
They spread a blanket in the shade of a giant tree. A mongolian oak, Jisung supplies easily, because he’s a nerd like that. “It must be almost two hundred years old,” he says. “Look at how wide the trunk is.”
When he tries to wrap his arms around it, Minho pulls out his phone to snap a few pictures. Jisung realizes, of course, and presses his cheek against the bark, really hugging it now. He seems incredibly pleased when Minho laughs, absolutely endeared.
Here, where nobody knows them, in this secluded place in a deserted park, they can lie down close together. Jisung can rest his head on Minho’s shoulder and his palm on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under his touch. Minho can wrap an arm around him and hold him close.
Every now and then, he presses a gummy bear against his mouth. Green, pink, red, yellow. Jisung doesn’t like the orange and the white ones, so Minho takes them instead. He tells Minho about that time when he was a kid and his mom forbade him from taking vitamin gummies because he ate the whole jar all at once and then spent two days throwing up.
“I have a lot of stories like that from my childhood,” he says. “It comes along with having an older brother that goads you and teases you into doing stupid things, I think. Like, have I ever told you I almost got eaten by a crocodile once?”
Minho gawks at him. “Excuse me?”
“Well, yeah. Everyone always laughs about it, but it was honestly so scary, I don’t know how my child self got over it without fifteen therapy sessions,” Jisung says, lifting his head off Minho’s chest and propping himself up on his elbow to look at him before launching into the story.
To be fair, when Jisung tipped overboard and fell into a river with a crocodile chilling a few meters away, he was pulled out pretty quickly—and, well, he’s lying right here beside him, flesh and blood, unharmed—but the story still makes Minho’s stomach pitch with anxiety.
Jisung huffs in surprise when Minho wraps an arm around him, yanking him back against his side. Where he belongs.
“I didn’t think you’d get so worried, hyung-ah,” he laughs softly, tipping his head back to look at Minho, their noses just millimeters away from touching. “It was ages ago. I’m safe and sound, see?”
“Yeah, well, but what if you’d gotten eaten by a crocodile? What would the world be without you? I’m getting sad just thinking about it.”
Jisung laughs, but in the spot where their chests meet, Minho can physically feel his heart kick into higher gear. It starts beating so fast that for a moment he thinks it might jump right out of Jisung’s ribcage.
“Lee Minho,” he says solemnly.
“Hm?”
“I’m going to kiss you right now.”
He reaches for the bucket hat discarded on the blanket beside them and puts it over their faces so that no one can see when he leans in to close the gap between them. Minho laughs at the innovative hiding spot, and so Jisung captures his smile in a kiss. It’s so sweet, Minho feels it stick to his teeth, like cheap candy or caramel.
“I wasn’t even trying to be romantic,” Minho murmurs, his eyes still closed, his lips brushing against Jisung’s with every word he speaks. “Don’t think it’s just flirting.”
Jisung kisses him again. “I know. Your sincerity still baffles me sometimes.”
“I’m trying to be honest and open. I’m really—” Minho sighs. When he finally blinks his eyes open, he finds Jisung already looking at him with those beautiful eyes of his that make Minho want to strip himself bare, rip his chest open and let him see what he’s made of. “I’m tired of bottling things up.”
“You can tell me anything,” Jisung says, his thumb caressing Minho’s bare arm. “You know that, right?”
Minho cracks a smile. “I kind of figured that one out when I told you I was married and you still agreed to go out with me.”
“What can I say? I knew it would be worth it.” Jisung grins at him, his eyes turning into crescents. He seems so satisfied with himself while Minho is burning from the inside out, blushing furiously under the spell of his words. “And, anyway, honesty is sexy.”
“Hm, is it?” Minho murmurs, one corner of his mouth lifted.
Jisung hums. “I like knowing what you think. I like not having to stress about what’s on your mind. I like trusting that you’ll tell me what I need to know.”
“That’s true,” Minho agrees. He finally lifts the bucket hat off their faces. It’s getting hard to breathe and there’s no one around, anyway. No footsteps, no dogs barking. Just the two of them and this giant mongolian oak. “That’s why I need to confess that a while ago, when I ran down the block to buy us cake and told you they were out of strawberry cheesecake, in reality there was one last slice left but when I asked for it, a kid behind me in the line started crying about it, so I let her have it.”
He thinks Jisung is going to laugh, but instead, his eyebrows pinch and his mouth turns downward into that soft smile of his.
He sighs and says, “Just when I thought I couldn’t adore you more.”
“What? If I knew this would score me brownie points, I would’ve told you right away,” Minho grins, reaching out to pop a raspberry into his mouth. “You were in a bad mood that day and I didn’t want to make it worse by saying I let some kid steal your favorite treat from you.”
Jisung laughs. “You’re so sweet, Minho-ring.” His fingers ghost along Minho’s bicep as he moves his hand up and down, back and forth. “I wonder what you were like as a child. Would you cry over cheesecake like that?”
“Over pudding, maybe,” Minho muses. “I was pretty tame, especially for an only-child. At least that’s what everyone says. I spent a lot of time with my grandparents. They lived in a small town, so most of my adventures happened there.”
Jisung regards him with a warm gaze and a teasing smile. “Any wild animal encounters?”
“Hm. I got chased by a big dog once, though it wasn’t even trying to bite me. It just chased after me to play because I was carrying a ball and I got scared so I started running,” Minho recounts, laughing. “The wildest animals I saw were the foxes wandering into their backyard.”
“That sounds like a fun childhood,” Jisung says. “Did you visit them a lot, then? Because you’ve always lived here, in the city, right?”
“Mhm. Almost every summer. My paternal grandparents died when I was a little baby so they were all I had,” Minho explains with a lot of nostalgia in his voice. He has always felt weird about that. Being unable to miss them beyond what-could-have-beens. “My parents would drop me off and come by every weekend and every time they asked if I wanted to go back to Seoul, I’d beg them not to take me. We’d do gardening, chop wood, and go hiking. It was a dreamhouse.”
His parents sold the property when things got tough. So there goes the dream.
Still, Jisung coos. “Makes sense why you love being out and about now.” He smiles, a hint of sadness in it, like he understands what Minho’s words imply. “I would’ve loved to meet them.”
Minho smiles. “They would’ve loved you. I know.”
He never came out to his grandparents, but while aunties in the town tried to set Minho up with their granddaughters, his grandma always used to say, Oh, our Minho has no interest in these things. You should see him, he spends most of his time over books. Which, well, it wasn’t even true.
She just always sounded like she knew.
And Minho knows that if he brought Jisung to meet them, they would genuinely obsess over him. He’s got that charm about him, this easy way in which he wraps people around his finger.
Minho would know.
They have to get on their way soon after the sun sets. They’ve managed to eat and drink everything they brought, so it’s only the question of packing up the trash before they go. Minho stuffs every wrapper and bottle and plastic box into the wicker basket, trying to remember if he saw a dumpster anywhere near the parking lot.
He gets distracted easily, though. When Jisung bends over to grab the edge of the blanket to fold it back up, Minho uses that fate-given opportunity to smack his ass.
Jisung gasps, throwing him that signature scandalized look over his shoulder.
Minho just shrugs innocently.
“What? It’s not my fault you’re so hot,” he says, resting the basket in the crook of his elbow. Personally, he thinks Jisung’s ass is the eighth world wonder. If it was socially acceptable, he’d walk around with the shape of his butt tattooed on his forehead.
“But it’s your fault you can’t keep your hands to yourself, you perv,” Jisung chastises, rolling his eyes pointedly as he stands back up.
Minho giggles, slipping his hand into the back pocket of Jisung’s jeans, cupping his ass through the fabric and cursing the layer separating them out in his head. “That’s true,” he says. “I can’t.”
There aren’t any people around, so he allows himself to keep it there. Jisung gives him a look, but the blush across his cheeks and this pleased little smile he’s trying to suppress tell Minho all he needs to know.
Miraculously, things for once work out in Minho’s favor, the park is practically deserted, and they make it to the parking lot without him having to take a step to the side and pretend he and Jisung are just friends. He has to get out his car keys, though, so he squeezes Jisung’s butt once and then retreats his hand.
Jisung lets out a sigh—either of disappointment in Minho’s sticky hands or in the fact that he has to move away. Minho would guess it’s the latter, but he’s pretty sure Jisung would try to argue differently just to spite him.
When they arrive in Seoul and Minho turns the car into the road that leads them to Jisung’s street, his stomach twists. The knot doesn’t let up when they get to the parking lot in front of his apartment building, when Minho kills the engine to buy them some time. He knows he won’t be able to go upstairs with Jisung and spend the night.
A soft sigh slips out of his mouth as he turns to face him. “I had fun today.”
Jisung tilts his head to the side, watching him with a smile. “Try to look less pained if you want me to believe that,” he says.
Minho opens his mouth to complain, but Jisung cuts him off by pressing his palm against his jaw and dragging him into a kiss. Tender, with an aftertaste of cherries.
“You’ll see me for lunch on Monday, yeah?” he says. “Don’t pout.”
Minho rolls his eyes, but he can’t quite hold back his smile. His mind has already been on Monday. He’s planning to take Jisung to a bunny café, even though he’s pretty sure most people there will be aged below eighteen. Or twelve.
He leans back in to kiss Jisung again, a chaste little thing to sweeten the impending goodbye. “You had fun too, right?” he whispers against his mouth, just to be sure.
Jisung laughs. “Of course I did,” he says, swiping his thumb across Minho’s cheek. “I always have fun with you. And there was food, so, hell yeah, I had fun.”
The corners of Minho’s mouth upturn in a smile. “We should do this again soon. Go somewhere where no one knows us and just. Exist.”
“I’d like that. Do you think you could disappear for longer than one afternoon?” Jisung asks, his voice soft, careful. “We could rent a cabin in the mountains or a house by the sea. Something private.”
“I could figure something out,” Minho says. They’ve been breaching this idea for a while now, so he has considered his options. Now, he’s practically melting inside at the thought of taking Jisung somewhere far away from here, just the two of them, and being with him for two days—or more. He would do anything for it. “Let’s do it.”
Jisung smiles, satisfied. And then—“You should get back,” he says, pulling away—slowly, as if trying not to startle Minho. He’s so careful around him, as if he can read the anxiety off his face no matter how hard Minho tries to conceal it. But that’s just how things are: he hates being apart from Jisung; he hates how it makes him feel. “Let me know when you get home safe.”
Minho just hums and lets him grab the door handle even though his entire system is telling him no, to stop him, to keep him here, for another second, another minute, forever. He’s desperate, and it’s pathetic, but he doesn’t care.
“I’ll text you,” he says, because he knows there’s nothing more he can do tonight. He has to go back home. To her. “Goodnight, jagiya.”
Jisung offers him one last smile, one last goodnight, hyung before pushing the door open and climbing out of the car, the empty wicker basket in his hand. When he slams the door shut behind himself, he closes Minho in silence that rings in his ears like the aftermath of getting punched in the head.
The overhead light fades out and Minho lingers, watching Jisung slowly make his way down to the front door of his apartment building.
Minho doesn’t want to miss a single second of Jisung, even as he’s walking away.
His heart stutters in his chest when Jisung pauses, his hand on the handle of the front door, and turns around. He can’t possibly lock eyes with Minho from this distance, but his gaze still seems to pierce right through to his soul. He smiles, gentle and sweet, and lifts his hand, wiggling his fingers in a goodbye.
Minho’s breath hitches in his throat. He feels something press against his ribs from the inside of his chest.
He knows it’s love, but at that moment, it’s simpler to pretend he doesn’t.
✦
Minho knows by now that it’s impossible for him and Yeeun to weasel out of family dinners with their parents, but on a day like this, with dark clouds looming ominously over their heads and raindrops crashing against the window panes, he longs more than ever to get in his car, drive to Jisung’s apartment, and burrow under a blanket with his head on Jisung’s chest.
But, of course, he can’t.
This dinner has been set in stone for over a week. Maybe we could just stay in for once instead of always going out? his mother asked. He had to give up a musical date with Jisung for it, and so his mood is even worse than it usually would be.
It’s just his parents tonight, thank the universe. They’re already here—his father watching the afternoon news, his mother fussing around the dinner table—but Yeeun is running late. She had work to finish and then she got stuck in the traffic jam, made worse by the awful weather. Minho feels a little guilty, but he’s glad she’s not here yet. There’s still time before she comes home and everything starts all over again. The questions, the looks, the scrutiny.
Minho has escaped to the kitchen with an excuse of making everyone tea to text Jisung, who sent him a picture of a cat he saw coming out of a restaurant with his friends. He couldn’t respond right away because at that exact moment, his parents rang the intercom, and now there are three more messages waiting for him when he unlocks his phone.
- JISUNG
- you left me and my cute kitty friend on read? rude
- you should be ashamed of yourself
Today
The last message is a cute sticker of an annoyed penguin. Minho smiles to himself at the sight of it, imagining Jisung huffing and puffing at his phone. I had to let my parents in, he types out.
- JISUNG
- hm i don’t know if i can believe you
- i think you were just jealous that i saw a cute cat
- MINHO
- i was jealous, sure
- but jealous that the cat saw you
Today
The flirting is terrible. It’s so bad. But Minho still has to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing as he writes the messages, and then even more so when he sees the three dots appear at the bottom of the screen.
Jisung writes.
And—stops. For a long moment. Minho can barely restrain himself, he’s such an idiot. He brings a finger to his mouth, sinking his teeth into the knuckle to hold back his growing amusement, and waits. It’s funny—he knows that Jisung must be really flustered to quite literally not know how to respond.
Then, finally, the three dots return and the message reads: I really hate you sometimes, you know?
Minho snorts. He wants to tease him a little more, ask if he’s blushing (he definitely is), if it made his heart flutter (it definitely did). But just as he starts typing, his mouth still curved into a silly, fond grin, his mother walks into the kitchen, and catches him in the act.
“Is that Yeeun?” she asks, nodding at his phone. “Is the traffic finally letting up?”
Minho’s face sours instantly. Of course, Yeeun is the only person he should laugh with over the phone like this. The only person who should make his face feel like it might split in two with how hard he’s smiling. He hides his disdain behind a nonchalant expression and his mother is too busy washing her hands to notice.
He hums, and that’s the extent of his answer. He doesn’t know what traffic’s like right now. The last message he received from Yeeun had been before his parents even arrived. It was curt and straight to the point. The streets are jammed, so I’ll be late. You can go ahead and start without me if I take too long. Sorry. Nothing to giggle about, certainly.
Still, his mother doesn’t let Minho’s silence discourage her.
“You seem happier these days,” she says out of the blue, shaking water off her hands over the sink and reaching for a towel to dry them properly. Minho’s blood runs cold when she looks at him. “Things with Yeeun are going well, no?”
Minho swallows hard.
He knows exactly what she wants to hear. It’s the same thing as always, the thing that he can’t even think about without his gut twisting uncomfortably—in regret, in pain, in shame. Like he’s betraying someone by even letting this thought cross his mind—by letting people think about it too. It feels like he’s betraying Jisung.
You’re going to be a grandma! is all his mother is waiting for. Yeeun and I fell in love and we’re expecting a child so you never have to worry about the company ever again.
But that’s never going to happen. Because Minho is gay, and even though at one point he was desperate and lonely enough to think about trying, it’s not something he can sacrifice—not without feeling like a gum stuck to the bottom of someone’s dirty boot.
Yeeun would rather die than touch him in a way other than fleeting or necessary to keep up appearances, let alone have sex with him, he thinks, and it’s the one thing they agree on without a word.
He has to remind himself to unclench his jaw.
“It’s fine,” he says, firm and stand-offish. A part of him thinks his mother doesn’t deserve this, his frigidity, but the other part of him screams that he doesn’t deserve this and yet he’s been forced to deal with it all on his own for so long. “No miracles there, Mom.”
Her shoulders deflate, and he almost— almost— feels guilty. And then his phone lights up with another one of Jisung’s messages, and instead, he feels angry.
✦
“I’m sorry I have to cancel like this,” Jisung says at the other end of the line, exhaustion audible in his voice. “There’s an emergency with one of the guests, and it’s a celebrity, so you know how that goes. I’ll tell you all about it later, hm? If I make it out alive.”
It’s stupid. Jisung has just told Minho that he can’t make it to their lunch, and Minho is smiling like a fool because it’s hard for him not to when he hears the sound of Jisung’s voice.
Still, he teases, “Hm. I don’t know if I’ll wanna talk to you later. I was really looking forward to seeing you pay for my giant sashimi order.”
“Come on, jagiya,” Jisung says, dragging out the last syllable. “I’ll make it up to you.”
Minho presses his mouth together into a thin line before he can break into a stupid, stupid grin. He glances around his office as if someone could be inside to catch him in the act, but—of course—it’s empty. He turns back to the view of the Seoul skyline and finds, easily, the giant sign leading him to Oasis. Jisung’s workplace. Jisung’s legacy.
“And how do you plan on doing that?” he asks, purposefully cornering him into the same old dirty joke they tell each other every week just because he knows Jisung will laugh. And if he laughs, then he’ll lose that tension in his shoulders that Minho can tell he’s carrying even without seeing him in person.
He knows him too well.
Jisung’s laughter is loud in his ear, and yet Minho still presses the phone harder against his cheek, as if that’s going to fix the fact that Jisung isn’t beside him right now. Minho doesn’t care. He wants him nearer, to get as close to him as possible. Have the sound of his voice reverberate through his bones.
“I’m sure I can find a way,” Jisung says, a smile still audible in his voice. “I’m a very creative person, you see.”
“Alright. I’ll look forward to it, then.” Minho lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Whatever it is, it better make up for the fact that I’ll be stuck eating convenience-store ramyeon in my office all alone.”
Jisung laughs again, and Minho can only think about the trouble he’s in as his heart crashes against his ribcage, pulse skyrocketing. He fails to recall ever feeling this way about a person.
“Pull up one of my pictures on your phone to keep you company,” Jisung proposes.
Before Minho can respond, there’s noise at the other end of the line, the sound of loud, frantic knocking. Probably someone trying to get back to Jisung and drag him out of his office.
The suspicions are confirmed when Jisung lets out a tired sigh. Minho wishes he could be there beside him right now. Massage his shoulders and kiss him good luck before he has to face the world of entitled whiny celebrities.
“I have to go now,” Jisung says. “But come over tonight, hm?”
The I miss you is left unsaid, but not unheard.
Work isn’t letting up for either of them, so it’s been a few days since they could go out properly. That’s just how things are, unfortunately. They have to settle on joint work-outs quick lunches and late-night phone calls as if they live ten thousand kilometers away from each other and not in the same city. In the same district.
The promise of a getaway has never sounded so sweet.
“I will,” Minho says. “Wear something nice.”
Jisung sighs. “What’s the point? You’re just going to take it off.”
Minho cackles and hangs up on him.
He imagines Jisung shaking his head and returning to his duties with a smile on his face, which has been the entire point. Anxiety was radiating off him even over the call. Minho understands: it’s nerve-racking to deal with problematic clients in this line of work; the fact that they’re a celebrity cranks the difficulty level to maximum.
The lunch slugs by, boring in its loneliness. Minho ends up leaving his office, after all. He buys a bagel and coffee and sits on a park bench until it’s time to return. His secretary walks into his office to leave a stack of papers on his desk even before he sits down in his chair. The day picks up pace after that. There’s a meeting of the board around three o’clock and then his father brings an old friend (an investor) in to meet Minho.
By the time he’s clocking out, he’s dead on his feet.
He wants to leave his things and change out of his work clothes, so he drives to the apartment first. Yeeun isn’t home yet, so he writes her a note and leaves it on the kitchen counter. Going out for drinks with the guys. I’ll be back in the morning. It’s easier like this, in a one-way conversation, scribbling to her and not having to worry about a response. She wouldn’t ask questions, he knows, but lying like this still sends a shiver of guilt down his spine.
Then, Minho sends Jisung a message. On my way, it says. I’ll pick up dinner. Jisung responds a second later, telling him that he’s leaving work right now, so he’ll probably get there first.
Minho orders their take-out from a family-owned Chinese restaurant that he really likes. He knows he could take Jisung to a fancy, five-star restaurant and treat him to an expensive meal they’ve never had before in their lives, but that doesn’t even feel like them. Neither he nor Jisung are like that. They prefer quiet and comfortable and fulfilling.
They also prefer staying home to going out, especially because they can lounge on the couch and cuddle right after eating instead of being overly conscious of their physical proximity in public.
He doesn’t have to wait long to pick up their order, but—still—Jisung’s car is in the parking lot when he arrives at the apartment complex.
“Jagiya,” Minho calls out when he walks through the front door, just so that Jisung knows it’s him and not an axe murderer.
“I’m in the bedroom,” Jisung calls back.
Minho hums in acknowledgement and starts taking off his shoes, switching them out for his slippers. He leaves their food on the kitchen counter before making his way to the bedroom, where Jisung is half-naked, changing out of his work clothes.
He must’ve gotten in maybe two minutes ago because the white dress shirt is hanging open around his shoulders, his legs still bare as he looks through the closet to find something comfortable to wear.
Minho’s stomach swoops pleasantly at the sight. He’s overcome with the urge to press his face against Jisung’s bare chest, touch his soft, warm skin.
Jisung smiles when he walks in. He gives Minho a second to toss his tote bag onto the bed before tugging him closer by the wrist and pulling him into a sweet, tender kiss. He hums into it and says, “Hi, jagi.”
Minho kisses him again, just because he can. His hands sneak under the fabric of Jisung’s shirt, finding their home on his waist, warm skin against warm skin, as Jisung loops his arms around his neck.
“Hey.”
“Did you survive lunch today?” Jisung asks, one corner of his mouth tilted upwards, clearly finding amusement in teasing the life out of Minho.
Minho pinches his side in retaliation, but he’s too soft, Jisung doesn’t even flinch. “I had so much fun,” he says. “Thank god you cancelled, you boring gremlin.”
Jisung laughs. “Sorry about that, hyung. Unfortunately, acting industry divas don’t understand the notion of lunch breaks.”
“How did that go?”
Jisung shakes his head. “I’ll tell you later. I’m still tired just thinking about it,” he says. “Did you actually end up eating instant ramyeon, though?”
“I’m considering lying just to make you feel bad—” Minho trails off, grinning when Jisung laughs, “—but I actually went out and ate a really, really good bagel. And we can eat dinner together, so I’m happy.”
He really is. It doesn’t take a lot these days.
“Hm, what did you bring?”
“You’ll have to see,” Minho says, rubbing his thumbs into the tenderness of Jisung’s abdomen. He might die if he doesn’t press his mouth against it tonight. “Are you hungry now?”
“Hell, yeah. But I kind of need to drink coffee first. Do you want some?”
Minho purses his mouth in thought. “I’ll take tea. I’ve had three coffees today. One more and you’ll have to call an ambulance for me.”
Jisung clicks his tongue. His hand slides from Minho’s left shoulder to his chest, settling right over his heart. “You have to be kinder to this guy here, Minho-ring,” he says. “I need him to be healthy, okay?”
As adorable as he finds it, Minho arches an eyebrow and asks, “And how many coffees have you had today?”
Jisung retreats his hands and takes a step back, escaping the reversed interrogation. “I feel like that’s beside the point,” he says, and then laughs when Minho gives him a look.
They eat on the living room floor, food spread across the coffee table. There’s an episode of Resident Playbook playing on the TV as Jisung tells Minho about the actor that stayed in their hotel because his apartment flooded. He expected preferential treatment because of his status as a national B-lister and Jisung was the one who had to deal with his ridiculous demands.
He gets so into the story that Minho has to physically remind him to actually start eating by putting a dumpling against his mouth. Jisung’s eyes widen—and then soften with fondness when their gazes lock.
When he starts chewing, Minho says, “I understand being stressed because of personal tragedies, but did he really expect an upgrade just because he was a lead in a popular movie two years ago? Maybe if he wasn’t acting like a prick.”
Jisung seems just as pleased about Minho’s interest as he is about being fed, and he almost melts when Minho gives him another dumpling to eat.
It’s almost an hour later that they move on from ranting to actually watching what’s happening on the television screen. They have to lie down after eating so much, and Minho uses that as an excuse to press himself up against Jisung’s side, arms wrapped around his waist, holding him close. He’s more focused on Jisung than Resident Playbook, really. The drama is interesting, but it pales in comparison with him, as does everything.
Minho is used to the sight of him. Or, at least, he should be. But Jisung captivates him—every time Minho sees him, he’s entranced by the long eyelashes that cast a gentle shadow across his cheeks; by the heart-shaped curve of his pink mouth; by those big brown eyes that seem to pierce right through to the soul, kind and full of emotion.
Jisung is beautiful, and Minho is only human. He has an affinity for beautiful things. If he could, he would stare at him day and night, and even then he’s certain boredom wouldn’t even cross his mind.
He finds something new to adore about him every day: the mole on his collarbone that peeks from beneath the collar of his T-shirt, the wildness of his hair when he wakes up in the morning, his crooked pinky finger, or how his Adam’s apple looks like a heart if Minho stares at his throat a little too long.
Jisung smells like coffee and fresh laundry and a little bit like Minho’s perfume from how much time they spend together and how many clothes he has stolen from him, practically making that rich vanilla scent his own.
Minho presses his nose against the side of Jisung’s neck and feels almost drunk breathing him in. His mind floats pleasantly, distant from all the worries of daily life. Jisung gives him that sensation—that nothing in the world can touch him. It’s unlike anything else, this kind of safety and security.
It’s love, Minho knows.
He feels it deep in his bones, like something innate. A knowledge that he was always meant to end up here—in this apartment on the south side of the river, with a million knick-knacks and picture frames and mugs they made in their pottery class; in this place that feels like home. In Jisung’s arms.
His nose drags against the hinge of Jisung’s jaw, and finally, Jisung trains his neck to look at him, eyes narrowed into a squint.
“What’s up?” he asks, his voice rasp from lack of use.
Minho feels the sound vibrate through him where they lie connected, a comforting sort of energy spreading all over his system. It reminds him of how people say that a cat’s purring will heal you. He smiles.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just looking at you.”
Jisung winks, and Minho feels jealous because somehow it always comes out right for him. When Minho tries, he ends up just blinking half of the time.
“I’m pretty after a whole day of dealing with annoying people at work, aren’t I?” Jisung asks, his tone amused.
It’s obvious he expects Minho to smirk, poke fun at him, turn it into a joke. But even though Jisung looks tired, Minho still thinks it’s true.
“Mhm. You’re always pretty,” he says.
Jisung huffs out a laugh, but it’s obvious he recognizes Minho’s sincerity. Heat rises to his cheeks, reddening them,and he scrunches his nose, rendered shy by one simple honest compliment.
“Ah, hyung, you’re so annoying,” he complains, but he’s trying hard not to smile as he leans in to peck Minho on the lips.
He pulls back and turns away, facing the television again, before Minho can even enjoy the kiss properly. Hmph. He tries not to pout too much about it—he’s a grown man, after all—but Jisung’s mouth twitches, and it’s clear as day he’s trying to tease.
Minho waits until he doesn’t expect it to strike back, that’s just what he’s like. He can’t quite help himself.
He presses his mouth against Jisung’s neck, not really kissing, just touching, as his hand slides the fabric of his loose T-shirt, settling on his stomach first before finding its home in the dip of his waist.
Jisung makes a noise of surprise in the back of his throat and his hand comes up to the back of Minho’s head, fingers tangling themselves into his hair easily. Otherwise, he doesn’t react. He only glances at Minho briefly, a sly smile curled on his mouth, before his eyes return to the television screen.
Now, this is definitely on purpose.
Rude, Minho thinks, and this time around, he actually kisses his skin.
“Needy,” Jisung says with a soft chuckle, but his body betrays him and he tilts his head back to give Minho better access all the same.
Minho is vindictive. He leaves Jisung’s accusation without a comment and proceeds to drag his teeth against the column of his neck.
Jisung’s grip on his hair tightens. He’s so sensitive there, at the base of his throat, the junction of his neck and shoulder. He shakes at the slightest brush every single time, melting under Minho’s touch, his hands and his mouth that know his body like no one else has ever known it.
He starts breathing heavily when Minho begins peppering wet kisses down his neck, sinking his teeth into the skin; not hard enough to bruise, but enough to be felt. While one of his hands remains glued to Jisung’s waist, the other slowly finds its way to Jisung’s thigh, fingers sinking into the flesh.
Jisung, for all his nonchalance, is easy to rile up. Not even a second later, he’s grabbing Minho’s hand and pressing his palm against the growing bulge in his sweatpants.
Minho laughs against his skin. “And you’re calling me needy.”
“Because you are,” Jisung says, already breathless. “And it’s my favorite thing in the world.”
Minho grins. He could tease Jisung a bit more, but—just like Jisung says—he’s needy. So he presses the heel of his palm against Jisung’s hardening cock, a shudder of excitement running down his spine.
All this from just a few kisses. Jisung must either be really touch-starved (impossible, it has only been a few days since Minho spread him open on this very couch and ate him out until he couldn’t form a coherent thought), or he must be obsessed with Minho (a scientifically-proven fact).
He gasps when Minho squeezes him through his pants and tips his head back against the sofa’s armrest, exposing more of his long neck, giving Minho more room to kiss.
He drags his teeth over Jisung’s earlobe teasingly, relishing the sigh of pleasure that leaves Jisung’s mouth, and then kisses his jaw, long, wet, tender.
Minho could spend his entire life like this, his lips pressed to Jisung’s skin, their limbs tangled together, no space between their bodies, none at all.
Jisung turns towards him and finally locks their lips together, kissing Minho deep, like a man starved. He gasps against his mouth when Minho presses his palm harder against his cock, a soft little sound that makes blood rush to Minho’s head with nauseating velocity.
And then—
“Hyung—” Jisung rasps out. “I need you.”
Swallowing up the groan crawling up his throat, Minho licks across the seam of Jisung’s mouth before catching his lower lip in a messy kiss.
“You got me,” he says, stealing another kiss before forcing his body to move, to pull away even though all he wants is to stay close right here, like this.
Minho swings his leg over Jisung’s hips, planting his foot on the floor, and fights the way his knees buckle at the sight of him. Eyes glazed-over, mouth slick and red, cheeks flushed.
Jisung pushes himself up onto his elbows, and it takes a lot of Minho not to dive right back in, planting himself in his lap and forgoing any remainder of common sense.
“Come on,” he says, though, grabbing the remote to shut the television off. The need to make love to Jisung on a proper bed wins over the mind-numbing desire that screams, Right here, right now. Comfort over everything else. Even though just a few weeks ago he was so horny that he was willing to risk a back injury right here, on this very couch.
He reaches out to help Jisung up.
The bedroom is dark when they stumble inside, lips locked, hands all over each other. Minho leads Jisung towards the bed, pushing him to sit down on the edge of the mattress.
Jisung protests when Minho makes the effort to separate from him to flick the nightstand lamp on.
“I just wanna see you,” he says, and then kisses him again, diverting Jisung’s attention before he can think of calling him cheesy or romantic.
Despite the mutual desperation, there’s no sense of urgency when he finally plants himself in Jisung’s lap, knees digging into the sheets, and pushes him back to lie down on the mattress. He grins into the kiss when he feels the throbbing hard-on beneath him and grinds his hips down, swallowing up the gasp Jisung lets out against his mouth.
Jisung’s hands move up Minho’s thighs, fingers sinking into the muscle of his ass, only to never stop and follow the trail up to his hips. Minho sighs when Jisung sneaks under the fabric of his T-shirt, palms pressing against the iron-hot skin and pulling him even closer.
Minho feels him everywhere.
Jisung is the force pushing him forward and the one holding him back and he’s in Minho’s veins and his mind and his heart. It’s a dizzying sensation—overwhelming and confusing. He doesn’t know what to focus on, so he takes everything all at once. He kisses Jisung with fervor and rolls his hips against the bulge in his pants, hands buried in his hair, gripping at his shoulders, searching for purchase—anything to keep the world from spinning around him.
Without warning, Jisung presses his palm against Minho’s spine and rolls them over, nestling himself between his thighs. So much for stopping the dizziness.
Minho winds up with his back against the mattress, his overgrown hair a halo around his head. “That was hot,” he murmurs, feeling for Jisung’s upper arm, groping his bicep with shameless abandon. “You need to do that more often.”
His words make Jisung laugh. The sound tastes sweet on Minho’s tongue when he lets himself be pulled down into another sloppy kiss. Like caramel or cotton candy.
“I’ll do it anytime you want,” Jisung says. His mouth presses against Minho’s jaw, then, finally, his neck. Jisung kisses the spot where his blood rushes through his carotid, where he can almost taste the rabbit-quick pace of his heart. “I’ll do anything you want.”
He doesn’t need Minho to tell him what that is.
He comes back up to capture his mouth in another kiss that leaves Minho senseless all over again. His hands skim down to grasp the hem of his T-shirt, dragging it up and off his body, and that’s the only moment that he allows himself to pull away from Minho’s lips.
Minho’s pants land on the floor next, followed by his boxers. Jisung strips him down with ease, hands touching every inch of Minho’s skin, now bare and flushed, all for him. He marks every centimeter of his descent down to Minho’s hips with a kiss. It’s a slow journey. Jisung takes his sweet time taking him apart.
He doesn’t miss the chance to leave lovebites on his thighs, kissing and sinking his teeth into the muscle like a man starved. Minho tosses his head back against the mattress, moans his name, thinking, Yes, fuck, mark me up. I want to see this tomorrow. I want to have proof that you’re real. That you’re mine.
Stars dance across his eyelids when Jisung takes him into his mouth. His cock is flushed and painfully hard, throbbing against Jisung’s tongue as he sucks on the head. Fuck, that tongue. He certainly knows how to use it. It gives Minho whiplash, the sinful things it can do and the sweet, gentle words it can produce.
It’s almost embarrassing how quickly he comes.
He tastes himself in Jisung’s mouth when he pulls him back up with a vice grip on his shoulder, catching his bottom lip in a messy, wet kiss.
“Want you to fuck me tonight,” Jisung says into the barely existent space between them. His voice sounds rough, and it’s the hottest thing in the world.
“Anything you want,” Minho whispers, echoing Jisung’s words from before and grinning when he chuckles, clearly recognizing them. “I’ll do anything you want.”
Fingering Jisung is one of his favorite things to do. Jisung is sensitive, and Minho knows he could come from this alone, so he always gets to push his limits. Just a little. With the gorgeous, unholy sounds he makes, it doesn’t take long for Minho to recover from his orgasm, either. His cock is hard all over again before Jisung can even begin moaning about how he needs him now.
And then, Minho fucks him, slow and tender, makes love to him, really, drinking up every little noise that escapes Jisung’s mouth, his hips cradled between Jisung’s thighs.
“You feel so good like this,” Jisung whispers with the next thrust, his fingers digging harder into Minho’s side. He’s trying to pull him closer, even though this is as close as they can get.
But Minho understands. If he could, he would crawl into Jisung’s chest and curl up like a cat inside, close to his heart to bask in its warmth. Feel at home there.
Jisung clenches around him and Minho’s world collapses again. He can only press his mouth against his cheek with how dizzy he feels, bury his face in him, kiss his feverish skin.
“God, Jisung-ah—”
He takes one of Jisung’s hands, the one that isn’t dragging him back in every time his hips pull away, and interlocks their fingers, pinning his hand down on the left side of Jisung’s head.
I love you, he thinks, the back of his eyes prickling with emotion. He feels overwhelmed all of a sudden, inhibitions long gone, and he almost—he almost says it.
And then Jisung tangles his fingers in his hair, drags him back into a kiss, and Minho forgets everything else but the taste of his mouth. He hopes Jisung can feel it in the passion he kisses him with.
If the way Jisung squeezes his hand is anything to go by, he does.
✦
Minho discovers just how easily he gets jealous when he’s forced to watch Jisung laugh with someone else at a banquet.
Alright—he has to admit it has happened before. This ugly feeling coiling in his abdomen. But usually, they’re together then. A woman will smirk at Jisung when they’re in a bar and he will be too busy paying attention to Minho to notice, but Minho will notice. Someone else will buy him a drink. Another person will straight-up ignore the fact that he’s with someone and ask for his number right there on the street.
Sure, it happens to Minho, too. But none of these things matter, in the moment. They laugh it off, joke about having competition and all, but when they’re alone, they will kiss for a moment longer than usual.
It’s not a big deal, Minho tells himself. Jisung is his. His to love, his to adore, his to care for. He knows that. They both know that.
But the woman making flirtatious eyes at him and touching his arm as they talk doesn’t know it.
Jisung is giving her all his attention because he’s kind like that, but when her hand brushes against his shoulder again, he blinks at it, confused and thrown-off.
Now, Minho is just annoyed.
Who does she think she is, touching him like that? Beyond the nauseating jealousy, Minho feels sick at the sight of someone invading Jisung’s private space this way.
He wants to stalk up to them and drag Jisung home because he’s Minho’s. He wants to kiss him in front of all these people so that they know that this smart, handsome, charming man is his.
He downs the remainder of the mojito he’s been drinking and sets the empty glass down on the bar counter. He has enough self-control to actually look and make sure Yeeun is still talking to Yeoreum and her other friends—only then does he push himself off the bar and stride in Jisung’s direction.
Jisung notices him, of course, and his eyes widen when he realizes Minho is walking his way. The corner of his mouth quirks up, and something inside Minho warms pleasantly at the notion that it’s so easy to steal his attention away.
Take that, he thinks, like a child. Like a damned teenager in love.
But he doesn’t stop walking when he gets to Jisung. Instead, Minho strides past him, brushing his hand against Jisung’s to get him to follow. Then, he makes his way out of the spacious living room, down the dark hallway where he imagines a bathroom has to be. He knows there’s two upstairs, but that would put them out in the open for everyone to see, so this has to do.
He locates a bathroom just around the corner, thankfully. It’s empty, but he doesn’t go in. He waits for the footsteps. And he hears them almost right away—quiet, drowned-out by the chatter from the living room, but still footsteps Minho would recognize anywhere.
When their eyes lock, they share a smile, but Minho doesn’t waste time—he grabs Jisung’s hand and drags him inside the bathroom without a word of explanation. It’s not needed.
He locks the door behind them, breathing out a sigh of something akin to relief once they’re finally away from the rest of the world. The bathroom is small, but it has a window that lets in enough moonlight for them to abandon the idea of flicking on the light. It’s atmospheric.
Jisung’s eyes are dazed—surprised—but he grins wide when Minho looks at him.
“Well,” he starts, “that seems a little desperate. What’s up with you, jagiya?”
The knot in Minho’s stomach unwinds as if under a spell of the familiar fondness in Jisung’s voice. He could say the truth, ask who that woman was, and Jisung wouldn’t be put-off or judge. He doesn’t think it matters now, though, because all it took was a brush of hands and Jisung left her within seconds. Left her to sneak into this bathroom. Left her for him.
Which is, well, a given, considering they’re in a committed relationship and all, but it still makes pleasant warmth spread through his chest.
“Nothing,” Minho says, even though he can already tell that Jisung isn’t going to believe him. “Just wanted to be with you.”
That’s also just the truth. Not the entire truth, but truth nonetheless.
Jisung raises an incredulous eyebrow, of course. “Were you jealous?” he asks, his voice barely over a whisper. His eyes sparkle with glee even though his next words are: “You don’t have any reason to be.”
“I know,” Minho says, and he realizes he’s relenting easily, but there’s no use hiding this from Jisung, lying to him over something so stupid. Jisung will be able to tell, anyway. That’s just how it is between them. “I just hated the way she touched you,” he admits. “I hated that I couldn’t do the same. That I can’t go out there and stand next to you and laugh at what you say for more than five minutes. That I can’t—” He sighs with exasperation. “That no one can know you’re mine.”
Jisung’s expression softens. “But I am. I am yours,” he says. He reaches out, cradling the side of Minho’s face. “That means something, right?”
Minho exhales. “It means everything,” he says. “I just—I wish I could scream it from the rooftops. That’s how I feel. You’re mine and I am yours and I want everybody to know.”
Jisung’s thumb caresses the tender skin of Minho’s cheek. “You’re so sweet,” he says, sounding almost pained. “I wish things were different, but we have to settle for now. It’s only temporary, though. It’s just temporary, jagiya.”
Minho nods, his hands coming up to rest on Jisung’s waist.
“It just really…” He swallows harshly. “It just hurts. I wish we could be like everyone else. I’m sorry that I can’t give you that.”
Jisung blinks, and Minho hates himself for doing this to him. Ruining the mood. Making him tear up.
“Hyung-ah, you’re giving me everything I need and more than that,” he whispers, the corner of his mouth wobbling as he smiles. “I don’t want you to ever doubt that, alright?”
Minho nods, but his throat still feels tight. Like his heart is lodged up there, desperate to leap out of his body and finally be seen even if it causes inexplicable horror, all that blood and viscera and the deepest part of him.
“It’s just—I want to be with you, out in the open. I want to touch you and not have to overthink how someone else is going to take it,” he says, the desperation gnawing at his chest. He knows that even if he wasn’t married, it still wouldn’t be possible, but he wants it so bad. “I—”
I love you, he thinks, but he chokes on it.
“I miss you even when you’re standing next to me,” he says instead, feeling himself burn from the inside. Not the time and place. “And when you’re across the room—”
“Sorry,” Jisung says, even though none of this is his fault. “I don’t really know her well. We had a class together in university and she came up to say hi. I thought she was just a touchy person, and then she just grabbed my bicep and I was like, Well, let’s not do that, but that still didn’t stop her.”
Minho frowns, something tightening in his jaw. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Jisung says dismissively, throwing his arms loosely around Minho’s neck to pull him closer. “My knight in shining armor got me out of there before I was forced to tell her to keep her damn hands to herself.”
“Mhm. Too bad. You would’ve been able to tell her that you have a very possessive, very jealous boyfriend who feels very strongly about other people touching your biceps.”
Jisung laughs. “I wish,” he says. And despite the slightly sad note to his words, he’s still smiling.
In his thoughts, Minho promises, One day. And he seals it with a kiss.
Jisung parts his mouth easily, kissing him back like it’s already muscle memory, which, well, after almost half a year of being together, it might as well be.
Still, the kiss is short. Too short. But Minho’s hand strays from Jisung’s hip to the curve of his ass and Jisung, ever so responsible, pulls away.
“We shouldn’t do it here,” he whispers into the space between them.
And he’s right. Someone could see them coming out of here. But his face is so close, and although he’s tasted them a thousand times, he tasted them one second ago, Minho still wonders what Jisung’s lips taste like.
“Yeah,” Minho breathes out. “We really shouldn’t.”
And then they meet halfway all the same.
Jisung’s lips are eager and soft. Plush, pliant as Minho coaxes his mouth open with his tongue. He gives in with a soft exhale, letting Minho taste the champagne he’s been drinking, the strawberries dipped in chocolate he’s been eating.
Minho tilts his head, nose dragging along Jisung’s cheek as he kisses him, hands trying to pull him closer, touch him everywhere.
He wishes they were somewhere else now—he wishes they were at home, where he could drag Jisung to bed and make love to him until he couldn’t breathe anymore. But he’s pressing him against the bathroom counter in this giant mansion that feels like a prison instead.
Minho bites his tongue and sucks it into his mouth, humming with satisfaction when Jisung’s fingers slide into his hair to pull at the strands, to tilt his head again, to coax him right where he wants him.
The way Jisung kisses makes Minho’s world come crashing down. The ground feels unsteady under his feet, and Minho falls against him every time.
It’s delirious.
A familiar heat licks up Minho’s spine and he knows—he knows he needs to pull away. Jisung is clearly having the same thoughts because before Minho can force his body to actually follow his mind, Jisung is groaning and bracing his hands against Minho’s shoulders, slowly pushing him away.
“Fuck,” he says, his breath ragged and desperate. “We need to—”
He trails off like he can’t even bring himself to say the word stop. He runs a hand through his hair, messing the careful styling up, and licks across his mouth as if savoring the taste of Minho’s lips. It takes all of Minho’s self-control not to kiss him senseless all over again.
“Do I look fucked out?” Jisung asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
He looks so serious about it too, but all Minho can do is just laugh.
“You’re glowing,” he says, not exaggerating in the slightest. His heart jumps happily when Jisung gives him an annoyed look, though. A feigned annoyed look, which only makes Minho want to laugh harder. “You look fine. Your mouth’s a little swollen, but just put on some lip balm and it’ll look alright.”
Jisung pouts. “I don’t have lip balm on me.”
Minho rolls his eyes half-heartedly and digs through the inner pocket of his jacket to hand Jisung over his blackberry lip balm. It’s tinted, so it’ll mask Jisung’s kissed-out mouth at least a little.
He watches him apply it in the mirror and then fights the urge to kiss it all off. There’s something about Jisung wearing his lip balm that makes his stomach flip. His.
Minho needs professional mental help.
“I have to go before I feel like ripping your clothes off,” Jisung says, pressing the lip balm back into Minho’s hand.
Minho fakes a scandalized gasp. “Are you trying to say you don’t feel like it already?”
Jisung rolls his eyes. He refuses to entertain Minho’s provocation.
But when he turns to leave, Minho grabs his tie and pulls him in for one last kiss, butterflies taking flight in his stomach.
“God, I hate you,” is the last thing Jisung murmurs before decisively pushing Minho away, leaving him laughing to himself in the empty bathroom.
Minho locks the door behind him, sticking around for a moment longer. He looks at his own reflection in the mirror, unable to suppress a silly, happy grin.
His mouth is red, but it doesn’t look as bad as Jisung’s. He’s sure it will go down once he splashes his face with cold water.
But then he reaches out to open the tap and sees the gold wedding band wrapped around his finger. The back of his head starts pulsating with a dull ache of exhaustion.
He steals another minute all on his own, because when he goes back out there, he’s going to spend the rest of the evening by Yeeun’s side.
all these people think love is for show,
but i would die for you in secret
─── peace, taylor swift
Notes:
thank you so much for reading! kudos and comments are always appreciated, though i’m sorry if it takes me forever to reply ♡
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Chapter Text
do you really want to know where i was april 29th?
do i really have to chart the constellations in his eyes?
do i really have to tell you how he brought me back to life?
─── high infidelity, taylor swift
Work takes up a majority of Minho’s time in the following weeks. Most days, he’s so tired that he can barely fight the urge to fall face-first into his bed and get fifty-seven hours of uninterrupted sleep.
But work doesn’t end when he leaves the building of Lee Electronics. He barely even manages to step over the threshold of his apartment and he’s reminded of fundraisers and business meetings and dinners with Yeeun and their parents. He takes one button-up off, puts another one on, and rushes out to continue playing the role of a perfect son and a perfect husband.
With little time to spare, he takes all of Jisung he can get. Late-night phone calls, even though he has to be quiet in case Yeeun paddles out of her room and hears him, by chance. Lunch break dates—short, but sweet nonetheless. Evenings at the cinema or drinks at that bar Minho likes which Jisung says he likes now, too.
(Their soap always smells nice, he said once.
Minho grabbed his hands and brought them to his face, pressing his nose against them and making Jisung laugh. He breathed in deep and agreed, Yeah, smells nice.)
Sometimes, Minho even gets to stay over for the night and say stupid things in his sleep for Jisung to make fun of while they eat breakfast in the morning.
The thought of being with him is what gets Minho through those awful, exhausting days. The promise of this: sitting on Jisung’s couch wearing his clothes, legs crossed, all comfortable, listening to him humming in the kitchen as he makes them coffee.
Minho’s shoulders lost the tension he’d been carrying around for the past two days the moment he stepped foot inside the building, and when Jisung kissed him in greeting, it felt like all the problems in the world evaporated.
He’s magic, this guy.
Minho isn’t sure what he would do without him. Honestly, he would probably come back to the apartment every day and cry into his pillow. Which is what he’d been doing before they met. Ha.
When Jisung returns to the living room holding two tall glasses of iced americano—with heart-shaped straws, because he knows that’s what Minho likes—Minho feels encouraged to resume recounting the events of tonight.
“It wasn’t really that bad, I’m just being dramatic,” he says, although the pit in his stomach tells a different story. “It just feels like such a waste of time. Our parents should just start meeting without us, considering they always talk business and when they do ask us things, it’s always about whether we’re getting along well.”
He feels more comfortable talking about these things to Jisung now—the marriage he’s stuck in and everything about it. That’s what things are like, and Minho wants this relationship to be honest. He wants them to be able to tell each other anything, no filter. Jisung has been so good to him, so kind and compassionate—Minho doesn’t feel like he has to dance around it.
Jisung understands what he means by getting along well. He pulls a face of disgust as he sets the coffee down on the table, but then his eyes lock with Minho’s and he cracks up.
He obviously immediately feels bad about it and stops himself, but the knot in Minho’s stomach loosens at the sound of his laughter.
“I'm sorry, I really shouldn’t laugh, but, oh my god, is everyone blind?” Jisung asks, his eyebrows drawn together in a mixture of anger and disbelief. “It’s already such a weird and invasive thing to ask people who are an actual couple, so it’s even worse for you two.” He rests one knee on the couch next to Minho and then plops down as close to him as physically possible, their thighs pressed against one another. His mouth is jutted out in a pout. “I'm sorry you have to listen to that, hyung.”
“No, you’re right. And you should laugh. If we don’t laugh, then I’ll just feel sad and upset,” Minho says. “Like, I’m sorry, I love my parents more than anything, but are they stupid? They should know me.” His throat burns, but he refuses to cry. “That’s not how I would act with someone I actually love. Or even like, for fuck’s sake.”
He takes a sharp intake of air, and Jisung’s is right there, wrapping an arm around him, an anchor.
“I’m sorry, jagiya,” he says. He rests his chin on Minho’s shoulder and presses a gentle kiss against his cheek. “I believe that one day all of this will go away and they will see how loved you are. I hope that’s all that will matter to them.”
Minho’s heart begins to race.
It’s indirect, but his mind zeroes in on the confession. It’s still the l-word. Minho is loved. He’s loved by Jisung.
He shouldn’t be so taken off-guard by it, he supposes. Six months is a long time—enough time to trip over your feet and fall deep in love with someone. But this is all so tender, so delicate. Minho worries for the right time to say it. He wants there to be no obstacles when he does.
He tips his head to the side, resting his temple against Jisung’s forehead. “Me too,” he admits quietly, longing.
Because it might be too early, but sometimes, you just know. And if there’s anyone Minho wants to spend the rest of his life with, it’s Jisung.
He can’t imagine staying married to Yeeun for another year, two, five, ten. He won’t. He doesn’t know how, but he will get out of it before the year ends—that’s the deadline he gives himself.
“Either way,” he says after a moment of silence, taking hold of Jisung’s hand where it’s resting on his thigh, “what I was getting at is that instead of going to these boring dinners that have no point, I’d rather spend time with you.”
He doesn’t miss the blush that spreads across Jisung’s cheeks even though it’s something so obvious. Jisung plays it off, feigning nonchalance, but when he pulls away, he only makes it worse. Minho grins.
“That’s great you know,” Jisung says, putting on a casual tone. “Especially since I was going to ask if you wanted to spend the weekend in the mountains with me.”
His expression softens, and he doesn’t look unsure, but he’s not entirely confident, either.
Minho encourages him. “In the mountains?”
Jisung hums. “I found this really good listing, and it freed up for next week. It’s a cozy cabin in the woods. Nothing huge, but really, really pretty,” he says, reaching for his phone. “Here, have a look.”
He pulls the listing up on the app and hands the device over, looking at Minho expectantly as he scrolls. It’s not that far away, over an hour and a half of a drive, which Minho doesn’t mind since he’s going to have Jisung in the car with him, anyway.
“Hm, a hot tub? Wow,” he says, clicking his tongue. He doesn’t have to see any pictures to know what his answer is going to be, but if he was hesitating, the hot tub would’ve sealed the deal.
Jisung grins. “I know, right?”
Minho hands him his phone back. “You should book it before someone snatches it up.”
Even though Jisung has lost his uncertainty somewhere between showing Minho the listing and Minho realizing there’s a hot tub there, Jisung’s eyes still sparkle with something akin to delighted disbelief.
“Really?” he asks.
As if Minho could ever deny him anything. Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t yet realize the extent of the power he holds over him, though.
Minho smiles. “Of course.”
He might have to ask someone to cover for him, just in case, but it’s not like it would be abnormal for him to go on a trip all alone. It wouldn’t be the first time he packed a duffel bag and sought being far away from everything else.
One of the good things about being married to Yeeun is that she doesn’t care where he is as long as he lets her know he isn’t going to be around and makes it to all the events they need to attend together.
Jisung breaks into a wide smile, heart-shaped and brighter than the sun. He grabs Minho’s face and kisses him square on the mouth with a loud, obnoxious mwah! that makes Minho laugh.
He feels so giddy with him, he wants to giggle. Giggle, for fuck’s sake. All the time. Gladly, too.
While Jisung books their little retreat, practically bouncing in his seat from excitement, Minho reaches for his iced americano and wraps his mouth around the heart-shaped straw to hide the enormous smile pulling at his lips.
“It says here that we can get there Friday night or Saturday morning. Which one works for you?”
“Friday night?” Minho asks. “I could come pick you up after work. We could stop by some restaurant to have dinner and go on our way, hm?”
Jisung smiles. “Sounds perfect,” he says. After a moment, he’s already tilting the phone towards Minho to show him the confirmation email. Once that is out of the way, he twists his body so that he can kick his legs up into Minho’s lap, curling up against his side, the way both of them feel most comfortable. “I can’t wait to have you all to myself for two whole days.”
Minho shares the sentiment. The promise of spending the weekend all alone with him feels like a beacon of hope in the darkness of daily anxieties and despair. Still, Minho wouldn’t feel like himself if he didn’t tease Jisung at least a little.
“And what will we be doing two whole days in a cabin in the woods?” he asks with a sly little smirk. “Should I pack some clothes with me, or will clothes not be necessary?”
Jisung hums thoughtfully. “You might wanna grab at least a pair of underwear so that you don’t scare off the bears.”
“Nothing else?”
“Mhm. Nothing,” Jisung tells him with serious conviction. “And if you feel like getting dressed at some point, you can always steal my clothes.”
Minho drags his teeth over his bottom lip, but it does nothing to stop him from smiling. “It does sound very tempting, though I feel like that will still end up with me being stripped naked.”
Jisung laughs. “One-hundred percent,” he says. “You have no idea how hot you look wearing my clothes.”
Minho slips one hand under the fabric of Jisung’s T-shirt— his T-shirt—just to feel the warm skin of his back. And then he says, “Oh, trust me, jagi, I know.”
✦
The drive up to the cabin ends up taking them a little over two hours— after they stop at a burger place to wolf down beef and fries and recuperate—which feels like four after the long day at work they’ve had. But at least Jisung entertains Minho as he drives, talking to him about everything that comes to his mind—a story about Jeongin getting nicked by a crab somehow ventures so far away from him that he ends up telling Minho about the one time he fell asleep for so long his brother called a locksmith to his apartment—but then he gets tired of talking and ends up pulling words out of Minho’s mouth instead. Silly stories. Random little facts. All against the backdrop of a playlist carefully curated specifically for this trip.
It’s wonderful even before they even find their way to the cabin, that’s what Minho thinks. He’s been looking forward to this little retreat all week, telling himself, Just make it to Friday. At least on Friday afternoon you’ll already be on your way. Friday, Friday, Friday.
He told Yeeun he was going fishing so that he wouldn’t have to ask Changbin or Seungmin to cover for him. He usually rents rods and nets and anything he might need, so he didn’t even have to waste space in the trunk to keep up pretenses.
All that—the sneaking around and lying and this awful week he’s been having—pays off. The first thing that comes to Minho’s mind when he steps out of the car is it was worth it.
He saw the cabin in the pictures, of course, but it looks even better in real life, bathed in the setting sun. It’s made of dark logs, fitting perfectly where it’s nestled into a secluded part of the woods. There’s a little porch at the front, two rocking chairs and a few plants to greet them. The second-story window looks out at the driveway, and Minho smiles when he sees the fairy lights strung across it inside. Jisung is going to love that.
He climbs out of the car even before Minho can kill the engine. His excitement is sweet, and it lights the fuse of Minho’s own.
It doesn’t stop him from running to the front door and getting their bags out of the trunk, though. He leaves Minho with the food while he hauls everything else to the porch, that gentleman. The hours they’ve spent together at the gym have been paying off, clearly.
Minho locks the car and makes his way over while Jisung gets the key out of the lockbox with a noise of victory. He sends Minho a smile over his shoulder as he unlocks the door, and then he pushes it open to let him in first.
“What a gentleman,” Minho muses, echoing his own thoughts from just a few moments ago with a silly little grin. He fixes his grip on the bags he’s holding just so that he can slap him on the ass as he walks past.
“Not very gentlemanly,” Jisung comments, following him inside.
Minho just says, “I was just making sure your butt was feeling okay after sitting for so long,” with the most innocent little face he can muster. Then, when Jisung lets out a sigh of exaggerated annoyance, he smiles from ear to ear.
The first thing they do is, of course, look around.
The interior has also been kept in the atmosphere of wooden warmth. There’s a certain rustic charm to it—something cozy about the exposed logs and the deep reds and browns of the decor. The rooms are small—there’s a kitchen downstairs that opens to the living room where eighty percent of the space is taken up by the giant brown sectional. Minho mourns the stone fireplace they won’t be able to light at the heart of summer, and immediately thinks that if everything goes right, they should come back here in winter and burrow in the woods for a week—or longer.
Jisung strides towards the glass doors that look out onto the terrace and twists the lock, sliding them open without preamble. He steps out onto the wooden deck and immediately zeroes in on what’s undeniably the highlight of their retreat.
“Oh, sweet hot tub, I’ve been thinking about you all week,” he says, running his hand along the vinyl cover.
Minho laughs, but he can’t say it was different in his case. His thoughts might have featured Jisung as the front and center, but the hot tub was definitely very involved in the fantasy.
He moves to lean against the wooden railing of the terrace and breathes in the smell of wet soil and pine trees. It was raining all night, and despite the sun that’s been shining today, the storm lingers in the air.
Jisung catches him looking around at the thick woods and mountains that surround them and says, morbidly, “Someone could kill us here and no one would ever know.”
It makes Minho laugh. “I think they’d trace your credit card here if you disappeared,” he says. “But what about me? No one knows where I’ve gone.”
Jisung wraps an arm around his waist and kisses his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. “I’ll make sure to stay close to you then so that they discover our bodies together.”
Minho grins at him. “How romantic,” he says. “Exactly what I would’ve said to you.”
“I know. You’re a weirdo.” Jisung laughs. His expression is so soft and fond that Minho can’t even begin to pretend he feels offended. And then Jisung adds, “And I love that about you,” and Minho just about—dies.
His feelings race, heart thundering in his chest, while Jisung doesn’t seem to register what he said. The word love slipped off his tongue like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like it’s something his mind has associated with Minho long enough for it to come naturally.
Minho feels his ears heat up, shyness creeping up on him even though they’ve been dating for long enough that these things shouldn’t render him so bashful anymore.
“Should we check out the bedroom?” he asks, just to divert attention, to make Jisung focus on anything other than him, because if Jisung even looks at him, he’ll see that Minho is blushing like an absolute fool and tease the life out of him because of it.
Jisung takes the bait. “Of course the bedroom is what interests you the most,” he says with a half-hearted huff, heading back inside the cabin.
Minho follows him, locking the terrace doors just in case someone is actually lurking in the woods to murder them. Then, they grab their bags and take the stairs to the loft—a bedroom that takes up half of the floorplan and an ensuite bathroom, modest but comfortable.
He was right. The first thing Jisung does when they walk in is notice the fairy lights strung across the window. He says that they’re so romantic and that the two of them are definitely making use of them later, and then gives Minho an awful wink.
“Yah, Han Jisung, are you threatening to tie me up?” Minho jokes, because he just can’t quite help himself. He loves the smarmy little smirk Jisung regards him with later.
“You know how they say, don’t threaten me with a good time?” Jisung asks, eyebrows raised confidently. “That’s you, hyung.”
Minho can’t say he’s ever tried that, but—well, he also can’t say Jisung is wrong. He would let him do anything he wanted, he thinks. Anything he asked for.
Also, something is telling Minho that if he said being tied-up with fairy lights turned him on, Jisung would be ready to pay any additional property damage fees to get them off the window and around him.
Jisung climbs onto the queen-sized mattress and lies down. “Oh, it’s so comfortable,” he says immediately, looking like he might start doing snow angels in the sheets any second. Sheet angels. He reaches his spread-out arms towards Minho. “Come here.”
“I can’t.” Minho laughs. “If I do, we won’t get up for the rest of the weekend.”
Jisung pouts, but even then, Minho refuses to give in. He knows exactly all the games Jisung plays, and he knows himself, too. One second too long staring at that pretty face and he would fall right into the trap.
He snaps a picture of Jisung sprawled on the mattress, and then another when Jisung poses for him, propping his cheek up on his hand. He doesn’t allow himself anything more than that before making his way back downstairs to unpack their food.
He spent the evening after work yesterday making kimchi fried rice—enough to last them a week, he thinks now as he regards the tupperware—and they stopped by a convenience store on their way here to stock up on everything else: ramyeon, eggs, water, soda, beer, some fruit to snack on. They don’t need much—it’s just two days. Well, two days and tonight.
Motivated by the lack of Minho, Jisung gets out of bed soon after. He takes one of the cans of Sprite from the fridge and pops it open, handing it over for Minho to have a sip first before he does. It’s sweet.
“We should go figure out the hot tub,” he says. “I mean, since you’re supposed to be fishing and all, we should at least be in the water.”
Minho laughs, but the logic is hard to argue with.
It’s not very difficult to get the hot tub going, considering the owner of the cabin left them instructions and all that, so they set it up and head upstairs to change into their swimming shorts. Before they get in, though, they decide to toss strawberries, raspberries, and blueberries onto a plate and grab a beer each.
Then, finally, they lower themselves into the hot tub, and— fuck, if this is not exactly what Minho needed. Jisung lets out a hum of contentment, tipping his head back, eyes closed, letting Minho stare at the column of his neck, the prominent shape of his Adam’s apple that looks an awful lot like a heart.
He can’t believe he’s here, in this quiet corner of the world that has easily turned into a paradise on Earth, with his beautiful man who cares about him enough to forgive.
When the sun goes down, the automatic garden lights flick on, casting a golden glow over the premises. It makes the place even more atmospheric. The only thing that doesn’t let Minho think they’re separated from the rest of the world entirely is the distant sound of dogs barking that reaches them from the town.
Jisung’s eyes are still closed when he says, “I think I’m gonna die if our house doesn’t have a hot tub,” and he sounds so faraway, like his thoughts are elsewhere. That’s probably why his eyelids shoot open the moment the words leave his mouth and he realizes what he implied.
He doesn’t look scared, or like he regrets it. More flustered about the fact that he let this thought out.
Minho smiles, something warm spreading through his chest with every rapid crash of his heart against his ribcage. Blood is rushing to his cheeks. He wants to laugh thinking about how Jisung is imagining their future like this. So… stable. So certain.
Our house.
“Yeah? What else should it have?” he prompts, because he’s not sure what would come out of his mouth if only he let his tongue loose. Run away with me. I would marry you right here, right now. I think you’re my forever. That’s insane, even in his own thoughts.
Jisung grins at him, pleased that Minho shares the sentiment. The dream. “For starters, a garden with one of those wooden swings so that we can spend our evenings there, looking at our cats running around and climbing the trees.”
His eyes gleam as he speaks, as if all the stars in the sky have fallen to reside in his irises.
“I like that idea,” Minho says, his foot nudging Jisung’s calf underwater. “I like the cats.”
“Of course you like the cats,” Jisung laughs. “I also want a balcony in our bedroom. I have a very vivid image of waking up in the middle of the night and seeing you standing there, watching the moon, all thoughtful and so handsome, and dragging you back to bed. Saying, Come back, jagiya, it’s so cold without you.”
Minho shakes his head, but he’s still smiling. “Are you writing a book, by chance?”
Jisung dismisses the little quip by moving on. “I also want a big walk-in closet. Twice the size of our bedroom.”
“Mhm. Of course you want a huge closet,” Minho says, rolling his eyes fondly. “You’re a shopaholic.”
“A fashionista,” Jisung corrects, as if there’s a difference. “And I want a big, fancy kitchen so that you can cook anything you want anytime you want.”
“How selfless of you, jagi,” Minho says flatly.
Jisung grins. “Right?”
He doesn’t seem to have any more ideas—at least for now—so they fall silent. Still, Minho can tell Jisung is thinking about something, most likely something brought on by their pondering about the future.
He doesn’t pry, though. He gives him time, because if there’s anything he knows, it’s that Jisung is incapable of keeping things from him. He doesn’t have to wait long, either—he barely starts thinking about how the air is getting colder around them, and Jisung opens his mouth again.
“I know it’s very early, but it’s something I’m curious about, and, well, I think it’s an important thing to know, since we’re dating to get somewhere, right?”
Minho hums in response, feeling like he has an idea of where this is going.
“How do you feel about having kids?” Jisung asks.
He was right.
Minho considers picking his words out carefully since he isn’t sure about Jisung’s stance on things, but in the end, he opts for the simple truth.
“To be honest, I don’t want them,” he admits, watching Jisung’s face for reactions. However, his expression remains the same—curious, open, attentive. So Minho continues, “I mean, I like children, you know how cute I find those videos of babies with cats, but I don’t see myself raising a child. I would rather be the fun uncle to my friends’ kids. Take them out for ice-cream and to the zoo and give them pocket money. But my own… That feels like a lot.”
Jisung smiles, and it eases Minho’s mind. He’s not getting up and walking away, so it can’t be that bad.
“I’ve never felt strongly about them, either, and I think I share your point of view,” he says, and it’s like a weight coming off Minho’s shoulders. People break up over less. Of course he was anxious. “I could do adoption, I think that would be a good thing to do, to give a home to someone that needs it, but at the same time, it’s not a desperate need that I have. And, like you said, I like being an uncle, because then you can spoil them rotten and you don’t have to do any of that difficult stuff.”
“Hm. Do your friends already have kids?” Minho asks.
“My cousins do. And I love them so much,” Jisung tells him, smiling at the thought alone. “They’re just four, five years old, so they’re super small. It fucks with my mind a little. They’re so tiny and fragile and they don’t know anything about how things work. I don’t—I don’t know how parents do it. How do you protect them from all the bad in the world?”
“Yeah,” Minho agrees softly. “It’s really scary. And you’re the parent. You’re at risk of being the one who hurts them the most.”
He thinks about his own parents. They live their lives trying to do good by him. Giving him everything they can. And yet, without meaning to, they’ve pushed Minho into a loveless marriage and almost two years of misery.
Jisung tilts his head to the side as he looks at him, like he knows exactly this is where Minho’s mind has ventured.
“What I’m trying to say is that it doesn’t matter to me, having kids or not, because when I imagine my future, I like imagining you beside me,” he says, his voice soft and reassuring. “That’s all that really matters.”
Minho blushes. This is better—or worse, depending on how you look at it—than hearing Jisung tell him, I love you.
He doesn’t even think about it before he’s getting up and crossing the tub to sit beside Jisung. He wraps an arm around his shoulders and melts when Jisung does the same to his waist.
“That’s all that really matters to me, too,” Minho admits. “But if you change your mind and you feel like that’s something you’d like to consider, just talk to me, hm?”
Jisung says, “Same goes for you,” and kisses Minho, slow and deep. When he pulls away, he rests his head against his shoulder. “How fun it is to have these conversations with you like we’ve been dating for a million centuries and not half a year.”
“It does feel like I’ve known you forever,” Minho says, cheesy and saccharine-sweet but not insincere, laughing when Jisung groans from embarrassment. “And, well, like you said, it’s good to have these conversations so we know where we’re standing instead of waking up six years in and realizing we’ve been in different places all this time.”
“You’re so smart, jagi,” Jisung murmurs. “I like it about you so much.”
Minho is glad Jisung can’t see the full-body flush he’s sporting. He’s glad that he can blame the high temperature of his body on the hot tub. The stars have aligned to help him keep up the appearances of a collected grown man.
He finds it hard to stop smiling for the rest of the night.
Something about this place—the cozy cabin and the solitude and the distinctive, earthy smell of the woods in the air—does wonders for his exhaustion and anxieties. Jisung is doing wonders for him.
They get out of the tub when their skin gets so wrinkled they seem to have lost the sense of touch in their fingertips. The night has fallen by then, too, and it’s much colder than when they were slipping into the water.
They grab their towels and dry their feet to avoid making a mess, but instead of drying themselves on the terrace, they run back into the cabin and then upstairs to change into dry clothes.
Jisung disappears in the bathroom, and as he walks away, his stomach rumbles. It’s loud enough for Minho to hear, but all Jisung does is pat his own stomach like he’s soothing a fussy cat. It makes Minho smile.
He pads down the stairs, to the kitchen, without a word. He locates a pot in one of the cupboards, filling it with water, and puts it on the stove. Even though the kitchen is unfamiliar, the process is muscle memory.
Minho grabs the mildest ramyeon from their little stash and rips the package open, but leaves it on the counter like this until the water comes to a boil. He hears the toilet flush upstairs, and then quiet footsteps, one of the stairs creaking under Jisung’s feet just as he puts the noodles in the pot, glancing at his phone to note the time.
Jisung wraps his arms around him from behind before he can turn around. The press of warmth against his back is no longer new, not half a year into their relationship, but the way his heart skips a beat at the touch has stayed the same all this time.
Jisung’s chin digs into the muscle of his shoulder as he tries to peek at the stove. “What are you doing?” he asks, voice soft.
He already sounds like he’s about to fall asleep, but that doesn’t surprise Minho. All day of work, a two-hour drive, almost two hours in the hot tub.
“I heard your stomach rumble,” Minho says, leaning back against Jisung’s chest, stretching his arm back to pat his butt.
Jisung laughs right into his ear, sending a pleasant shiver running down his spine. “I was going to make something myself.”
“Well, I wanted to make something for you.”
“Mhm. Thank you. You’re so good to me, jagiya,” he murmurs.
“The best, right?” Minho prompts, and he’s already preening even before Jisung echoes his words and presses his mouth against the hinge of his jaw.
“The absolute best.”
Minho doesn’t let Jisung take over the cooking. He tells him to sit his cute ass down as he drains the noodles, adds the sauce and the powdered cheese, and stirs it all together.
Jisung’s eyes glimmer when he sets the pot in front of him. “Thank you, hyung-ah,” he says for the fifth time, like it’s something more than instant ramyeon that took five minutes to make.
Out of habit, Minho hooks his ankle around Jisung’s under the table, holding him close while watching him eat. He’s not hungry, still feeling full after the giant burgers they had on their way here, but when Jisung picks some of the noodles up on his chopsticks, blows on them to make sure they’re not too hot, and wordlessly puts them close to Minho’s mouth, he eats them up with gratitude.
“Mhm, it came out tasty,” he says, swiping his tongue across his mouth.
Jisung nods, already picking up more noodles to stuff his mouth full. “It tastes even better than usual, probably because you made it,” he says, and even though Minho gives him a look that’s supposed to say, Stop buttering me up, you fool, he speaks with a lot of conviction. “There’s just something about food that someone else makes for you. It just tastes better. There’s science behind this, I’m sure.”
“Yeah, it’s called getting fed without any labor on your part,” Minho says, laughing. But he knows what Jisung means. It’s like when your mom makes you a sandwich and it’s just ham and cheese, but if you made it yourself, it wouldn’t taste as good.
He likes cooking for Jisung, be it a four-course meal or store-bought ramyeon. He just likes doing things for him in general.
He accepts two more bites, but after that he tells Jisung to just eat up because if he gets hungry in the middle of the night, Minho isn’t getting up to make him anything no matter how lazy he gets and how much he begs.
Jisung narrows his eyes at him, but he complies without complaints.
They’re too tired for anything other than going straight to bed that night, and so the romantic fairy lights don’t even get plugged in. However, Minho still lies down with contentment painted across his face.
Falling asleep next to Jisung is a luxury he never takes for granted.
The exhaustion keeps them in between the sheets until the late morning, which is unusual for Minho, who gets up before seven even on his days off. Even though they go on a walk to the forest after breakfast, Saturday proves itself to be a day of domestic laziness. There isn’t much to do here, really—they’re in the middle of nowhere. But it’s nice to just be alone. Kiss whenever they want. Hold each other all the time. Their bodies might as well be glued together.
They grill meat for dinner. Well, Minho grills. Jisung just pretends to be helpful, and then abandons the pretense altogether, only asking Is it cooked yet? every five seconds. He’s lucky Minho adores him so much. Anyone else would have gotten stabbed with a skewer by now.
Then, they lie down on the couch in the living room to rest and digest while watching a movie neither of them cares about. Minho’s head is in Jisung’s lap, and he almost dozes off because Jisung doesn’t stop playing with his hair.
In the evening, they get the hot tub started again, of course. If it wasn’t unhealthy and borderline dangerous, they wouldn’t leave the water at all, Minho thinks.
He doesn’t remember the last time he was so relaxed, and although he’s not sure if that’s the hot tub or just Jisung, he’s now constantly thinking about a future in which he owns a hot tub. Well, it’s less about the tub itself and more about the house. His and Jisung’s.
His heart trips over itself pleasantly.
The reality hurts now, but it won’t hurt forever. Minho won’t let it.
He has already showered and he’s lying on top of the sheets, scrolling through his phone, when Jisung slinks out of the bathroom with nothing but a tower wrapped around his hips. The sight of his bare skin should be something Minho is used to after so many months, but it’s not. He inhales sharply as his heart begins to race.
A reaction is clearly what Jisung is striving for. He cocks his hip to the side, leaning against the doorframe, and stretches his arm up above his head. A smirk is curved across his mouth, but something more like amusement shines in his big, brown eyes.
“Hey there, handsome,” he says, making Minho laugh. He’s such a loser, and Minho loves that about him. “How would you feel if I told you that I’m all yours tonight?”
Minho can’t suppress his stupid grin, but—sue him, his boyfriend is so hot Minho could devour him, body and soul. “I would probably pass out,” he says. Not that far off from the truth.
“No passing out allowed,” Jisung tells him, clicking his tongue, and somehow, that’s even hotter. The heat that coils in Minho’s abdomen begins feeling like lead. “But I love your enthusiasm.”
He loses the towel even before he makes it to the bed. Minho holds his breath when Jisung tucks his thumbs under the fabric and lets it fall to the floor. He still has a hard time accepting that Jisung is this beautiful. That he’s real. That Minho hasn’t dreamed him up in the face of his misery and loneliness.
But Jisung exists, flesh and bones, and within seconds, Minho can feel it under his own hands. He doesn’t even have to beg him to come closer for Jisung to climb onto the mattress and make himself comfortable in his lap.
“You’re so beautiful,” Minho whispers, tilting his head back so that he can kiss Jisung easily. His arms wrap around Jisung’s torso, holding him in a loose embrace. He can feel him trying not to smile against his mouth.
“God, I can’t even keep a straight face when you say things like that,” Jisung complains, his exaggerated annoyance making him even more adorable.
Minho grins. “You’re so beautiful. You’re so beautiful. You’re so beautiful,” he echoes, pressing kisses to the corner of Jisung’s mouth, his cheek, his jaw, his entire face, until Jisung is laughing and capturing his lips in a deep kiss to keep him quiet.
Soon enough, Jisung is fumbling around for lube, his mouth still clinging to Minho’s, trembling fingers snatching it off the bedside table. He presses it against Minho’s sternum, impatient and determined at once.
Minho doesn’t want to deny him any longer. He needs him, too. More than Jisung could ever know.
He pours lube onto his fingers and sneaks a hand behind Jisung, watching his expression almost without blinking. Jisung’s eyes light up when the pad of his finger finally presses against his rim.
They share a smile, something just for the two of them, and Minho pushes in easily.
Jisung is still open from the shower, wet and slick and ready, so he doesn’t waste a lot of time before adding a second finger and scissoring them. He’s an expert at anything Jisung-related by now, he likes to think. He knows every hitch of his breath and that when he bites down on his lip, he wants more, and he can tell that it feels best when he brushes against his prostate, because Jisung melts against Minho’s shoulder, breath hot and heavy against the side of his neck.
“Hyung,” he moans. “Don’t tease me too much.”
“I’m not trying to tease you, jagi.”
He’s trying to prolong the moment, though, that he can’t deny. They just don’t get to do this nearly often enough. It’s hard to have a lot of sex when you live separately and when you do stay over for the night, most of the time you’re too exhausted for anything other than kissing lazily before you go to bed.
Minho can live without it, he has always done alright without it, but he can't quite live without Jisung, he thinks, and then there's this—his thighs and his hands and his arms and his ass and his cock.
Minho never knows what to focus on, what to choose. He wants everything all at once. That’s why he likes it when Jisung has his mind made up on something, when he tells Minho what he wants.
Tonight, he pushes Minho down to lie on the mattress and brackets his hips with his knees, lining himself up above his hard cock before sinking down on him with a broken moan. He goes slowly, feeling every single inch, and when he bottoms out, their thighs glued together, Minho’s eyes roll back into his skull.
The pleasure coils in his abdomen, heavy and all-consuming. His fingers sink into the flesh of Jisung’s ass, seeking an anchor, anything to keep his sanity from slipping away from him.
“Shit,” Jisung breathes out, clenching around Minho and throwing his head back because it just feels too good.
Minho watches him, entranced by his flushed cheeks and the drop of sweat cascading down his temple and the focused pinch of his eyebrows. His mouth, parted around a gasp as he rolls his hips, tentative at first. He’s beautiful beyond human understanding.
He laughs when Minho says as much, saying, “You’re such a sap, hyung,” and shaking his head like he can’t believe him. But he blushes even harder, and it’s obvious he can read the sincerity of his words.
He plants a hand against Minho’s chest, off-center, right over his furious, throbbing heart, and holds onto him for purchase. His breath catches in his throat when he pushes himself up so that the tip of Minho’s is all that’s left inside him, and then drops down. He takes Minho so deep, takes all of him. His cock bounces with every move, slapping against Minho’s stomach obscenely, already wet with precome.
The pleasure is mind-numbing.
Minho groans. His hands run up and down Jisung’s thighs, mapping out the tightening muscles, feeling them move under his touch. They start to tremble with effort the longer Jisung rides him, but even then he doesn’t lose his fervor. He rolls his hips, grinding down and driving Minho insane every time he moves.
“Fuck,” is all Minho can conjure up when his brain feels like it’s spilling out through his ears. “Fuck, feels good.”
“Yeah,” Jisung agrees, a wicked little smirk curled on his mouth.
He unglues his hand from Minho’s chest, bracing himself against the mattress instead, and leans in. The necklace he rarely ever takes off swings with the movement, and the star-shaped pendant bumps against Minho’s nose.
A laugh escapes Minho’s throat while Jisung grins down at him bashfully. He looks like he’s about to apologize, that sweet soul, maybe even turn the necklace around so that it’s resting against his spine and not getting in the way, but Minho is faster.
He takes the daisy between his teeth, pulling at it gently, careful not to break it. He’s got a sick mind. He looks Jisung dead in the eye as he sticks out his tongue and lets the pendant rest there. It’s erotic and obscene, and if the look on Jisung’s face is anything to go by, it’s driving him crazy.
“Fuck,” he breathes out, clenching around Minho’s cock. “Jesus Christ. You’re so fucking hot, Minho.”
He would probably stare at him longer if he wasn’t overpowered by the need to kiss him. He dives down, and Minho meets him half-way, straining his neck, tongue darting out to lick into his mouth. He swallows up every one of Jisung’s little noises, the gasps and moans and the whispered rendition of his name, greedy and starved, brought to the brink of insanity by the way Jisung feels around him.
At one point, the shared heat of their bodies pressed together becomes too much and Jisung sits back against his calves, once again sinking down on Minho’s cock as deep as it gets. The wet, filthy noise of skin slapping against skin echoes in the room, mixed with the sound of their desperate, ragged breathing.
When he starts moaning and the movement of his hips grows erratic, Minho spits into his hand and brings it between them, wrapping his slick fingers around Jisung’s cock.
Jisung’s jaw drops open.
That sight is all it takes for him to come with a sharp groan, making a mess of Minho’s fingers and his stomach. He clenches around Minho’s cock almost like he can’t control it, and then his muscles give out underneath him and he collapses against Minho’s chest, struggling to catch his breath.
With a soothing hand pressed between Jisung’s shoulder blades, Minho moves to pull out.
Jisung stops him.
“Keep going,” he breathes out against the shell of his ear. “Wanna feel you.”
Minho doesn’t need any more encouragement. He curses, shifts to plant his feet on the mattress, and thrusts up, arms wrapped around Jisung’s torso. He fucks him through the aftershocks, prolonging his orgasm, while Jisung moans against his neck, tongue darting out to lick at his pulse, to taste his skin.
Minho’s head spins.
As the pressure in his abdomen quickly becomes unbearable, he buries himself as deep as he can and comes into the condom with a whimper.
He’s breathing heavily, chest rising and lifting Jisung, practically a dead weight on top of him, along. For a moment, his hand runs up and down Jisung’s spine, caressing him as they lie together wordlessly, holding each other. Then, once he feels less like he might be having a heart attack, Minho presses a kiss to the side of Jisung’s face.
Jisung makes the effort to lift his head to look at him, his eyes glazed-over, mouth twisted in a smile.
“Hey,” Minho says dumbly.
Jisung laughs. “Hey,” he echoes, bringing a hand to the side of Minho’s face and angling him just right for a kiss. It tastes like sweat. When they pull away, he looks down on Minho and brushes his hair away from his forehead. Fond. He looks so fond. “You good?”
Minho nods. For some reason, that’s the extent of what he’s capable of doing at that moment. His throat is parched from all the gasping. He’s doomed to one-word enunciations. “You?”
“I’m sure my legs are gonna be killing me tomorrow, but—” Jisung grins. His expression softens when Minho pats his butt affectionately, and for a moment, he just looks down at him with a smile. “I’m happy we came here.”
“Me too,” Minho murmurs, straining his neck to plant a kiss on Jisung’s mouth. “We need to do this again soon.”
His mind is still a little hazy, but he comes back to his senses when Jisung rolls off of him and falls against the mattress with a deep sigh. He needs to be responsible, and—most of all—he needs to move before the cum dries and begins to disgust him viscerally.
Minho forces himself off the bed and pads over to the bathroom to toss the condom into trash, wash his hands and the cum off his stomach.
Jisung is sprawled on his back when he returns with wet wipes, hands resting under his head. He sends Minho a wink when their eyes meet, making something soft and warm and gooey spread through his chest.
Fuck.
“Roll over, mister,” he says, climbing onto the bed when Jisung does. He smacks his butt when Jisung shakes it for him, that little devil. He can’t quite help himself.
A surprised moan slips out of Jisung’s mouth before he breaks into bright laughter.
“I just gave you a brain-melting orgasm, and this is how you’re treating me?” he asks, throwing him a scandalized look over his shoulder.
“You provoked me,” Minho says, but he makes sure to rub the spot he slapped until the sting goes away.
As always, he’s gentle as he cleans Jisung up, wiping the lube residue off his butt. He wipes his stomach, too, even though Jisung could do it himself. Somehow, this moment always feels more intimate than sex itself.
Minho loves taking care of him like this.
When he gets up to throw the used wet wipes into trash, Jisung bats his eyelashes at him and asks, “Toss me some underwear?”
Minho sighs, feigning exasperation, but he pads over to Jisung’s bag and digs out a pair of black boxers. He tosses them in his face, just because he can, and watches Jisung struggle to pull them up his legs without getting off the bed.
Then, he sprawls himself on top of the sheets again, spreading his arms open in invitation. Minho still needs to put on his underwear, though. He was too busy watching Jisung to think about his own naked ass. He leans down over his own bag and rummages through it, throwing aside a pair of shorts and a T-shirt that he isn’t sure why he even bothered to pack.
Once that is out of the way and there is no risk of his butt getting cold at night, Minho returns to bed.
He can’t quite ignore Jisung’s half-hard dick straining against his underwear, though. Is it because of that ass slap? Or because Minho bent over right in his face? Hm.
Minho’s own dick twitches with interest.
“Are you hard again?” he asks, even though he can see it with his own two eyes. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, all of a sudden. Desperate. Hungry. “Do you want me to suck you off? You could come again for me, I know you could.”
Jisung lets out a breathless laugh. “I’m good, jagi. I think that would genuinely kill me, and I want to actually enjoy our last day here instead of sleeping until two in the afternoon,” he says, reaching out to grab Minho by the hand and drag him onto the mattress. Once Minho has lain down, he rolls onto his side and presses his face to Minho’s shoulder. “But tomorrow, wake me up with a blow-job.”
The way his mouth moves against Minho’s skin feels like a thousand kisses.
Minho laughs. “You got it, Jisung-ah.”
He wraps an arm around Jisung and drifts off before he knows it even though it’s usually hard for him to fall asleep on his back. Clearly, it doesn’t matter and he’s fine doing it when he’s holding Jisung.
Jisung is still snoring softly when he wakes up, and so Minho gets to enjoy the sight of his serene face first thing in the morning, which doesn’t happen often. They separated during the night as they usually do, and Jisung is now lying on his stomach, hand curled under his chin, face squished against the pillow.
Minho lets him sleep, though at one point he slinks out from between the sheets to wash his face, brush his teeth, and have some water. Jisung hasn’t even moved an inch when he returns to lie awake beside him, scrolling through his phone.
And then, the moment the clock strikes eight in the morning, Minho tosses his phone aside, grabs Jisung’s shoulder, and unceremoniously flips him onto his back.
Jisung makes a noise of surprise and utter confusion, his eyes still half-closed even though he tries so hard to blink them open. But when Minho snatches the blanket away and finds his home between his legs, he immediately wakes up and realizes what’s happening.
“Am I still dreaming?” he murmurs, his deep morning voice still rough with sleep. He’s driving Minho insane.
“Depends. Do you want me to continue?”
“Hell, yeah,” Jisung says, reaching out to tangle his fingers in Minho’s hair.
“Well, then,” Minho grins up at him like the devil. “Good morning, jagiya.”
Once Jisung’s boxers are out of the way (he almost kneels Minho in the eye in his haste to get them off), Minho doesn’t waste time spitting on his hand and wrapping his fingers around Jisung’s cock. He looks up at him from beneath his eyelashes, unable to stop himself from grinning at the blissed-out look on Jisung’s face.
It doesn’t take much to make Jisung hard.
He’s barely even touched him, and Jisung’s head is already thrown back against the pillow, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. He looks beautiful like this—relaxed, his hair a total mess, pillow marks on his face.
Minho gives his cock a few languid strokes before finally licking a long, slow stripe along the length. When he reaches the head, he closes his mouth around it, dipping his tongue into the slit, and then sucks hard.
Jisung gasps, and the sound goes straight to Minho’s cock. He can’t help but shift his weight against the mattress, humming around Jisung’s dick as he feels himself get hard in his underwear.
His hand continues working at the base as he swirls his tongue around the head, sucking Jisung off the way he knows Jisung likes it. Wet, messy, slow, controlled. Drool is running down the corner of his mouth, but he can’t bring himself to care.
He takes him deeper, hollowing his cheeks as he slowly bobs his head up and down. The hinge of his jaw aches when his mouth is full like that. He can never get any lower, but Jisung doesn’t seem to mind. He lets out a breathless moan, thighs tightening around Minho’s head, and whispers, “God, you’re so fucking hot.”
Minho squeezes his eyes shut at the compliment, hips grinding down against the mattress. His body moves on its own accord, desperate to chase the sensation. He just can’t stop himself. He sucks Jisung off diligently, and then, when he needs a moment to breathe, he keeps him close, dragging the tip of his cock back and forth across his lips.
Jisung moans, his fingers tightening in Minho’s hair, and he sounds so beautiful, Minho could listen to him all day long. It’s a sign that he’s doing something right. And all Minho wants is to make Jisung feel good.
“I’m close,” he pants, and it’s obvious he’s fighting the urge to thrust into Minho’s mouth. “Hyung, fuck. I’m—”
That’s all the warning Minho gets before Jisung comes down his throat, crying out softly from the intensity of his orgasm. Minho moans around the tip of his cock, swallowing every drop of his cum until there’s nothing left to give. He’s gotten used to it and now it just tastes like nothing, but in that particular moment, there’s something so arousing about it.
Minho pulls off and rests his cheek against the inside of Jisung’s thigh, breathing heavily. He can’t take the pressure anymore. He shoves his hand between himself and the bed with urgency, giving one last desperate grind of his hips against his palm before he’s coming, too.
His heart is still pounding in his chest, mind spinning, floating, when Jisung pushes his hair out of his sweaty forehead. His touch is gentle, and Minho tips his head back to look up at him, pressing his mouth against Jisung’s inner thigh as their eyes meet.
“Do you want me to—”
Minho flushes, blinking up at Jisung, his eyes glazed-over. “No need. I—Uh—”
The front of his boxers is wet with cum and he might die if he doesn’t get out of them soon.
Jisung’s eyes widen at the realization. But instead of laughing—and it’s not like Minho even thought he would, but still, it’s a little embarrassing—he grabs Minho’s shoulder, drags him up until Minho is hovering over him, and kisses him hard.
“Fuck. That’s so hot. You’re so hot, hyung.”
The natural consequence of Jisung getting an orgasm right after waking up is that he wants to keep lounging in bed until it takes the edge off. However, this time around, he surprises Minho completely—all it takes is ten minutes and he’s already pulling away from his side and getting up.
“Huh?”
Jisung laughs at his confused face. “You sit back and relax. I’ll make breakfast today, hyung,” he explains, dragging his boxers back up his legs.
He looks like he really, really wants to do it, so Minho lets him. That doesn’t mean he stays in bed—he gets dressed, throwing on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, and heads downstairs. He wants to sneak a look at what Jisung could possibly be cooking with the few ingredients they have on hand, but he’s shooed out of the kitchen before he can even glimpse the counter.
“I just wanted coffee,” he lies, grumbling, as he unlocks the terrace door and steps out into the morning sun.
Jisung, of course, sees right through him. He rolls his eyes and says, “I’ll bring it over in a minute.”
With no other choice, Minho sits down in one of the chairs around the round terrace table and relaxes. The birds chirp all around the cabin, and he wishes, in that moment, that he could name the species from the sound alone.
Jisung probably could. He watches too many nature documentaries to count. Minho has to ask him about it later.
Just as he thinks it, Jisung steps out onto the terrace with a mug. He sets the coffee down in front of Minho, sweetening it with a kiss to the crown of his head.
Minho tips his head back against Jisung’s chest to look at him and smiles.
“What are we eating?” he can’t help but ask.
The curiosity is eating him alive, because Jisung doesn’t really cook. Sure, he can throw together a simple meal, but he loathes every minute of it. What’s the point of cooking if I’m not even hungry anymore when it’s done? is what he always says.
The fact that he’s willing to do it for Minho out of his own volition is a bigger, more romantic declaration of love than shoving a bouquet of one hundred roses in his face.
“Jeez, you really are impatient,” Jisung says, shaking his head. “Just wait and see. I have to run.”
The next time he comes back, it’s with two plates of scrambled eggs and a shy, almost vulnerable smile. Minho’s heart stutters in his chest, and he wonders, once again, whatever he has done to deserve this man.
“Oh, wow, this looks delicious,” he says when Jisung puts the plate in front of him with a cute ta-da! He leans in to smell it and hums in appreciation.
“I hope it tastes delicious too,” Jisung says, as if it’s possible for him to ever do anything without excelling. He studies Minho’s face for reactions the second Minho begins eating, and it’s sweet, how much he cares whether Minho likes it or not.
Truth be told, Minho would pretend to love it even if Jisung added too much salt or left it on the stove to char. But he doesn’t even have to—the eggs are perfect, exactly the way he likes them. When he tells Jisung as much, raving about how good of a cook he is, he breaks into a smile that could light up the entire country.
“From now on, you’re on breakfast duty,” he says, just to tease him.
Jisung shakes his head in protest, but he’s still beaming, clearly satisfied with himself. “This is just for special occasions,” he argues. “I can’t let you get used to my cooking because then you won’t pamper me like this anymore.”
Minho laughs. “I will always pamper you,” he promises, pretty sure hearts are shooting out of his eyes as he watches Jisung steal his coffee and hide his smile behind the rim of the mug. He loves this guy so much.
The weather is nice—warm, but with a slight breeze that allows Minho to convince Jisung to go on a walk with him before he can melt into the chair and whine about how much he hates being alive in this hell.
This time around, though, Minho can’t exactly blame him. The heat is manageable in the heart of the cool forest, but by the time they’re back to the cabin around noon, the air is hot and heavy, and within five minutes, sweat is running down the back of Minho’s neck.
“We should’ve bought ice-cream,” Jisung whines. He doesn’t like it when Minho reminds him that they did buy ice-cream but they got them out of the cooler when they stopped at a gas station and ate them all up.
They lose their appetite for lunch because of the unbearable heat, so they decide to stop somewhere on their way home to grab dinner. Minho silently likes this plan more, because it means he will get to steal a few more moments with Jisung before he has to return to the gloom of his apartment.
They spend the rest of the afternoon in the hot tub.
“We have to enjoy it to the fullest since it’s already paid for,” Jisung says solemnly. He puts on sunglasses and submerges himself up to his chin.
Around six in the afternoon, they have to clean up and start getting ready to go.
Minho wishes he could feel less sad about it, but his heart is in his stomach while he watches Jisung load their bags into the trunk of his car. He can’t help it. Two days of unmade beds, ramyeon and eggs for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and pure domestic bliss. Of course he’s sad.
It’s a taste of the future—that’s what Minho tells himself so that he doesn’t miss it too much when it ends. In the grand scheme of things, those two days aren’t much. And yet, when Minho wakes up in his bed on Monday morning, all alone and without Jisung’s eyes to blink back at him, he finds it hard to return to work.
All he can think of is Jisung, Jisung, Jisung. Which certainly isn’t a new revelation, but it tugs at his heartstrings differently. Even his friends notice there’s something up with him when they go out for drinks and noraebang. Oddly enough, instead of telling him that he looks like a mess, Changbin pokes fun at him and says, You’re finally getting that newlywed glow.
Minho smacks him on the back of the head for implying those things in front of the rest of the guys, but that doesn’t dim Changbin’s happy little grin.
On Thursday, Jisung gets whisked away for a conference all the way down in Busan, and Minho bemoans that the next time they will see each other will be on Sunday evening, at a fundraiser instead of a cozy, private setting.
He never thought himself to be a clingy, needy person, but Jisung brings it out in him. Minho wants to be with him, and if he can’t, then he wants to know what Jisung is up to, if he’s doing alright, if his stomach ache has subsided, if he saw a stray cat on the street.
Everything Jisung does is interesting to him, and he thinks about him every waking minute.
He supposes that’s what life is like when you’re in love.
When he gets back from work, Yeeun is home, so Minho makes sure the door to his bedroom is closed and plays music through the speakers to drown out any noise that might escape the four walls of his safe haven. He exchanges a pair of slacks and a white shirt for sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, lies down on the bed, and dials Jisung’s number.
Just tapping his name in the contact list soothes Minho’s mood. But then Jisung picks up the call, says, “Jagiya, hey, I’ve been waiting,” and the sound of his voice sends a shiver running down Minho’s spine.
For the duration of that call, everything in the world feels right.
✦
Even though Minho is looking forward to seeing Jisung on Sunday, the last thing he wants is to go to that damned fundraiser. Even on a good day, it’s the worst place to be, and on the morning of, Minho wakes up with a migraine that no pill can kill.
He spends the entire day in bed, earplugs in to drown out the slightest noise and curtains drawn shut to keep out the light. He doesn’t even have it in him to trot to the kitchen and make himself some tea. Fuck, he doesn’t even have it in him to roll onto his side despite knowing that he’ll be more comfortable if he does.
He starts his days bright and early. He goes out for a run—or a walk if he feels particularly lazy—especially on the weekends. It’s unusual for him to stay in bed for so long—until three o’clock in the afternoon—so it doesn’t surprise him when he hears a faint knock against the door.
Minho’s throat is parched, so he sounds like he’s giving his last breath when he says, “Come in.”
Yeeun sticks her head inside the bedroom, blinking in surprise at the darkness that shrouds it. “Sorry, I’m just checking in,” she says. “I didn’t see you come out all day and I was starting to wonder if you snuck out at dawn and didn’t tell me or something happened. Are you okay?”
Minho swallows, heart skipping an anxious beat at the mention of sneaking out. Not today.
“I just have a migraine, don’t worry.”
Yeeun lets out a hum of understanding. “Well, I’m gonna order something to eat before the fundraiser. I’m thinking about that Italian restaurant in Myeongdong. Do you want anything?”
Minho doesn’t have much appetite, but he’s going to have to force himself to eat something so that he can take more painkillers, so he tells her, “Just double whatever you order. Thank you.”
Yeeun nods. She moves to leave, and then hesitates, lingering in the doorway. “Do you… Do you need anything?”
Minho shakes his head, and then curses himself out because moving only makes it all hurt worse. His skull feels as if it’s being split in two with a sledgehammer. He’s grateful for Yeeun’s concern, but he’s also relieved when she leaves, closing the door behind herself and letting him wallow all on his own.
The point is, he does not want to go to the fundraiser. But, like with a lot of things in his life, he has no choice. So he sucks it up until six-thirty, swallowing what feels like fifteen pills, hoping to will the migraine away, and then, when it’s still persistent under his skull and he has no more time to kill, he crawls out of bed and gets ready.
Minho spends the first hour after his arrival at the hotel’s conference room greeting people he doesn’t like and scanning the crowd for a familiar face he can’t see. Everyone seems to enjoy chatting with Minho, because he listens more than he talks.
Time drags by like molasses, and then finally— finally— Yeeun spots one of her friends and leaves him alone. Minho can slink away into one of the corners of the room. He thinks he will enjoy a moment by himself at last, but he can’t be upset when his plans fall through.
Jisung finds him not even a minute later. He takes notice of Minho’s poor mood before Minho can even open his mouth and let him know he’s not feeling well.
His eyebrows pinch together, mouth twisting in a worried pout. “Are you okay?” he asks, but it looks like he already knows—like he wants to reach out and hold him because he knows how much Minho needs it right now.
Minho’s shoulders slump with relief at the sound of his voice, pleasant among the chatter and a myriad of different noises worsening his headache. He wishes he had the ability to slip into Jisung’s mind, read his thoughts as easily as Jisung seems to read his.
“Migraine,” he says simply. “I’m exhausted.”
“Hm. I thought you were just that unhappy to see me,” Jisung says, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards, turning into a real smile when Minho snorts. It’s a bad joke, but—still. What a thoughtful thing it is, for someone to try to make Minho laugh.
Minho wishes he could do more. That he could do what he always does when Minho has a headache. Cradle his head in his lap and massage his temples. Kiss his forehead and, like the sweetest creature in this world, say, To chase the pain away. He says that’s what his mom always used to do for him.
“The only reason why I’m even here is to see you,” Minho says. But it’s not the entire truth, and they both know it. Minho has to be here. He would be here regardless of Jisung. His presence serves as motivation to look less miserable, though.
He tries to smile, and for the first time that evening, it doesn’t feel like a grimace. Call that the power of Jisung’s presence. And his cute face. He looks really pretty tonight—his hair is styled into a comma, falling neatly against his forehead, and he’s wearing a bit of eyeshadow, something glittery that makes his eyes shine even more than usual. Instead of going for a white button-up, he has opted for a black short-sleeve turtleneck tucked into a pair of wide-leg pants to match. And around his neck, there’s a necklace with a purple heart-shaped pendant.
A few days ago, when they were talking about the fundraiser, he told Minho, Wear that purple satin shirt of yours. Minho assumed Jisung just wanted to see it on him again since he had almost bitten off his own tongue the last time Minho wore it. But now, he realizes that’s not the case.
He wanted them to match.
It’s subtle, but it takes Minho’s breath away.
“You’ll be able to go home soon, yeah?” Jisung says. “Just hold on a little longer.”
And Minho thinks, No, I won’t be able to. I’ll have to go to the apartment, not home.
But he forces the corners of his mouth to upturn in a smile, because his petulant desires aren’t worth making Jisung sad.
It’s easier to handle the fundraiser because Jisung doesn’t leave his side. He even steps closer, so their fingers are almost brushing as they talk. He leans in like he doesn’t want to miss a word Minho is saying even though it’s nothing of substance. Just that a baby giraffe was born at the zoo and Minho wants to see it. When Jisung hears about it, he wants to see it even more.
They switch topics seamlessly when someone approaches them, casual and almost practiced, going on about security and business and profit. Minho hopes it’s not obvious that his eyes linger on Jisung’s lips every time he speaks, though. He wants nothing more than to grab his hand and take him away from here, and he’s afraid that no matter how hard he tries, it’s not something he can just hide.
Changbin comes up to say hi—clearly, he’s too nosy to be able to help himself.
Minho told Jisung two of his friends knew about them, but he didn’t say which ones, so when Changbin asks, “What’s up, lovebirds?” Jisung chokes on his drink.
Minho glares Changbin down. “You could’ve killed him.”
“I’m—I’m fine!” Jisung says, breaking into a bashful smile. “Sorry. I’m Jisung. But you probably know that. Oh, sorry, I’m nervous.”
Changbin grins. Glances at Minho as he says, “I like him. He’s cute.”
“You don’t have to tell me that,” Minho says. If they were anywhere else, he would send Jisung a bad wink or reach for him and wrap an arm around his waist. But a smirk is all he can do. “Don’t worry about Changbin. He’s harmless. You’ll get along well, I’m sure.”
“We definitely need to get together,” Changbin says. “I don’t know why hyung is keeping you under wraps like that. From me of all people. I’m offended.”
“I can’t let you tell him unfunny stories about me,” Minho explains, and it’s a half-truth. He genuinely thinks Changbin and Jisung would become easy friends—and then Changbin would get an infinite amount of blackmail and teasing material. “I need to remain cool in his eyes at least for a few more months.”
“Too late for that,” Jisung says. “You’re already a big, soft loser to me.”
Minho’s jaw drops in exaggerated shock while Changbin cackles beside him.
“Anyway—” he starts, trying to draw everyone’s attention away from his apparent big, soft loser behavior, “where did you lose Chaewon?”
“She’s talking to my mom. It’s like I wasn’t even there, so I went to get a drink and then I saw you,” Changbin explains. He gives Minho a once-over. “You were looking a little pale, hyung. Everything alright?”
Minho dismisses the worry immediately, but he can’t say he doesn’t appreciate the concern. “Just having a migraine,” he says. “But I’m flattered you came all the way here to check up on me, Changbin-ah.”
He catches Jisung’s eye as they get lost in a little friendly bickering match. He’s smiling watching the two of them, and Minho doesn’t really understand why until Jisung tells him.
“I really like seeing you interact with people,” he says when they’re alone again. “Does that sound weird?”
“Hm, I don’t really—Whoa.”
Minho’s head spins so suddenly and violently that even as his hand shoots out to hold onto the wall, he feels like he’s already plummeting to the floor.
“Hyung—” Jisung breathes out, his eyes wide with worry. His fingers press against Minho’s elbow, careful and steadying.
Minho doubts he knows how much he needs that touch right now.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he rushes to say. He knows it’s too late for that, but he doesn’t want Jisung to worry about him. “It’s nothing. Just a moment of weakness.”
He tries to joke, but his chest is tight and he still feels like he’s about to faint.
Jisung presses his lips into a thin line. He doesn’t take Minho’s shit, obviously. “You should go home, hyung. You should tell Yeeun-ssi that you’re not feeling well.”
Minho relents, but only because Jisung is looking at him like he’s ready to drag him there himself, and Minho would rather avoid that happening. Too much attention. So he forces his feet to carry him away from Jisung and towards Yeeun.
She doesn’t even let him open his mouth before she’s saying, “Oh, it’s good you’re here, I’ve been looking for you. They’re asking us for pictures.”
And so, Minho has no choice. He clenches his jaw until his teeth hurt, but he follows her all the same. They join the people Minho knows but doesn’t particularly care about, posing like the married couple that they are. Embraced, with fake smiles practiced in the mirror.
Minho glances at his own hand on her waist, his golden ring catching the light. He can already tell it’s going to shine in this picture, and the thought alone makes him feel even more sick than he already is.
Worst of all, he catches Jisung’s eye from across the room.
Something inside him breaks.
All he can think about at that moment is that he wishes it was him. And even though Jisung understands the peculiarity of their situation, he still looks sad, like he’s thinking the same thing. Or maybe it’s just worry.
Either way, he doesn’t know what to do with all that pain any more than Jisung does. His heart just hurts, and once the pain turns physical, it becomes unbearable. How much longer are they supposed to go on like this?
Minho wants this night to end. So the moment all the pictures are taken and they can disperse, he pulls out his phone and orders a ride home through an app with trembling fingers.
Yeeun doesn’t miss what he’s doing. “You’re already getting a cab?” she asks, confused.
“Yeah.” Minho slides his palm across his face. The lights are making his headache worse. “You don’t have to—”
“I don’t want to leave,” she interrupts, stealing the words from him. You don’t have to come with me. “I’m tired of leaving before it’s time.”
Minho draws his brows together in a frown. “Before what time?”
“Before I want to go,” Yeeun says, crossing her arms over her chest. She looks around like she’s afraid someone will hear them.
Minho is too tired to keep up appearances. “Then stay,” he says. “I’m not asking you to go. I just feel like garbage, Yeeun. I’m tired. I want to go. But you have fun. You don’t need me for that.”
She opens her mouth, but she seems lost for words and so she closes it again. “They’re going to be mad that we’re not here together,” she says in the end.
“I know,” Minho tells her. “And I’ll deal with it later. I’ll deal with them.”
Yeeun sighs, but she doesn’t say anything to that. She just lets him go without another word.
Minho can’t see Jisung anywhere now, no matter how hard he looks, so when he leaves the conference room, he takes the stairs all the way down to the lobby, finds a quiet corner to sit in, and sends him a message. Can I go to your place? You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to. I just don’t want to go to the apartment.
All Jisung does is ask, Where are you?
Minho doesn’t even have to wait two minutes for him to come out of one of the elevators. He looks like he wants to hold Minho’s face in his hands and it’s taking a lot of effort for him not to.
“Why would you think I wouldn’t come with you?” he asks, pouting. He doesn’t wait for an answer, though. He just holds out a hand and helps Minho up to his feet. “Come on, you big baby. Let’s go home.”
Minho is tired, dizzy, and his head hurts. He needs respite, so he rests his temple on Jisung’s shoulder in the back of the cab. At that moment, he can’t care less about what the driver might think.
When they step over the threshold of Jisung’s apartment, the anxiety gripping at Minho’s chest slowly undoes itself. Jisung finally hugs him, there in the privacy of home. Minho doesn’t even get to take off his shoes.
He makes himself small in the embrace, and Jisung cradles the back of his head with his hand, pulling him closer. He holds Minho close to his heart, like he’s something precious that he never wants to lose.
I love you, Minho thinks, desperate fingers digging into the muscle of Jisung’s back, needing him closer. I love you more than anything.
“My big baby,” Jisung coos, laughing.
Minho doesn’t even have it in him to glare. He would, but he would have to pull away for that and he just—can’t. He’s not sure how long they stand there, in the entryway, before Jisung withdraws.
“Go hop in the shower,” he says. “That will make you feel better.”
But he ends up stepping in there with Minho. He flicks on the light above the mirror instead of the main lamp, leaving the bathroom in a dim light. Easier on Minho’s eyes. He even unbuttons Minho’s shirt for him. Minho tries, but his hands are still trembling, and when Jisung notices he’s getting annoyed, he says, “Let me,” in that soft voice of his and steps in to help.
He’s an angel, that’s what Minho thinks.
For fuck’s sake, he even massages Minho’s shoulders when they finally get into the shower. He tells him to turn around, pours shower gel into his palm, and rubs it into his skin, unwinding every knot of exhaustion pulling Minho taut and tense.
Minho feels his eyes burn with emotion. It’s nothing out of the ordinary for them, but to feel like shit and have someone tell you Let go, I’ll take care of you without saying anything at all is making him want to cry like a child.
This migraine is awful. Minho hates being sick.
Still, he can’t imagine not doing the same for Jisung. He even jokes that touching Jisung’s chest is making him feel so much better, because he knows a little quip like that will ease his mind.
“I’ll go get you some painkillers,” Jisung says when they’re both dry and their teeth are brushed.
Minho hums in acknowledgement and pads down to the bedroom, where he opens the closet and steals one of Jisung’s sleeping T-shirts. He would usually sleep in nothing but underwear, but he needs all the comfort he can get.
Jisung walks in with a bottle of pills and a glass of water, which he sets down on the nightstand. He climbs onto the mattress and waits for Minho to down a painkiller before opening his arms and letting Minho fall into them, boneless.
It’s nice to be taken care of, but guilt gnaws at Minho all the same.
He tucks his nose into the crook of Jisung’s neck and takes a deep, stabilizing breath. “I’m sorry you have to see me with her, Jisungie,” he says. “You deserve so much better.”
He can feel Jisung’s pulse skitter.
“Don’t say that,” Jisung whispers. He sounds like he’s in pain. “You’re good for me. You treat me well. You take care of me. I don’t care about anything else.”
Jisung’s repeated reassurances go in one ear and out the other, even though Minho tries to believe him. It’s not like Jisung has ever given him a reason to doubt him—Minho blames himself for not being able to give him more. For making him wait.
Minho stays the night even though he shouldn’t, and in the morning, he goes straight to work with a residue of his headache.
Jisung goes out of his way to make him feel better. He gets out of bed even before Minho does, a mug of herbal tea ready for when he crawls out from between the sheets. He kisses the crown of his head as Minho forces a slice of buttered toast down his throat and irons a shirt out for him while he eats.
And while Minho is practically cracking his skull open at work, Jisung sends him flowers. His secretary walks in with them—a bouquet of white roses and purple asters—and takes him completely off-guard.
“What is that?” he asks.
“These just got delivered for you, bujangnim,” she says, smiling from ear to ear. “Those clients must really love you.”
Minho doesn’t know which client could send him flowers, but then he takes the card, opens it, and everything falls into place.
I hope this makes your day a little bit brighter. —HJS
“Yeah,” he tells her, unable to hold back his smile. His first since Jisung checked in with him earlier, reminding him to eat something good for lunch. “I guess so.”
Once his secretary leaves, Minho grabs his phone, snaps a few pictures of the bouquet sitting on his desk, and texts Jisung. They really have made my day brighter. Thank you. You’re way too cute. Jisung responds with a sticker of a winking hamster and says, I’m glad you’re happy.
He keeps getting distracted by the bouquet. Keeps glancing at it every minute. Leaning in to smell it.
Nobody has ever sent him flowers, and it feels nicer than he ever imagined it to. Minho has to fight the urge to take them with him at the end of the day so that they would brighten his mood at the apartment, too.
He doesn’t tell Yeeun where he’s been all night when he comes back in the evening. She looks at him like she doesn’t even want to know.
✦
During one of their usual dinners, this time around only with his parents, his mother asks, “Aegi-yah, since when are you friends with the Hans’ youngest son?”
The question comes out of the blue. Minho’s hand freezes, chopsticks half-way to his mouth, and for a moment, he’s lost for words. His blood runs cold.
His mother carries on. “I saw you talk to him a few times and I didn’t know you were close.”
Minho tries to keep his cool. He buys himself time chewing through a particularly meaty bite of beef, and then swallows harshly. “We go to the same gym,” he says, schooling his voice into nonchalance as he opts for their usual, easiest explanation. They didn’t go to school together, and they had never spoken before Jisung left for Canada. “He’s also friends with Bang Chan.”
Minho knew it was a risk to spend so much time with Jisung during the fundraiser, but at that moment, it didn’t matter. He needed him.
Now, he casts a glance towards Yeeun, but her face is impassive. She’s listening, of course, but she doesn’t seem to react at all to the mention of Jisung’s name. It can always be a trick, though. They might have spent over a year sharing the same four walls, but Minho still doesn’t quite know how to read her.
Well, what does he expect? They might live in the same apartment, go out once every two weeks, spend every business event together, but he still doesn’t know her. She likes Italian food, reads a lot of books, and listens to Taylor Swift. But what does any of it mean? It holds no significance. He doesn’t know what she’s like when she’s angry and what cheers her up when she’s sad.
A part of Minho will always resent her, even though he pushed the blame off of her early on. But it had been a lonely year, an exceptionally lonely year. Minho resented everything. Things were broken, and he had to live with the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to fix them. He was stuck. With her.
Until Jisung.
He gave Minho hope. A future. Another month without him, and Minho would’ve turned into a shell of himself. Cold, crabby, and miserable. He would grow to despise Yeeun even though the point was that he had once thought he could learn to love her.
There’s no future to this arrangement. He knew this the moment he laid his eyes on Jisung. But he feels it now more than ever, at this restaurant table. He’s not going to last much longer.
“That’s good,” his father says, ripping out of his thoughts. “The Hans have the most prosperous hotels in East Asia. Maybe you can get him to hire us to update their security systems.”
Minho’s face blanches. All he wants to say is that this is a part of his life that business won’t touch. That Jisung is an amazing guy, fun and charming and sweet and kind and beautiful, and he’s the person Minho loves the most under the sun, the only person who seems to understand him, no wonders needed, no questions asked, no demands for anything in return.
With him, the relationship is not a transaction.
But once again, Minho is reminded that to families like his own, money is everything, and they’re not much without it. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to fight with that.
✦
It doesn’t happen often, but every time Yeeun tells Minho that she’s going out and planning on crashing at her friend’s place instead of coming back to the apartment in the dead of night, he doesn’t even hesitate. He always texts Jisung, asking if he has time for him tonight, and Jisung tells him to just stop asking stupid questions and come over.
He’s always welcome.
This time around, Jisung is still at work when Minho lets himself into his apartment. He’s in a good mood despite the perpetual exhaustion weighing heavy on his shoulders, all because he can spend the night with Jisung again.
He moves around the place with ease, changing out of his work clothes, stealing one of Jisung’s ridiculously giant T-shirts and a pair of shorts, and makes himself tea in the mug Jisung made for him all those months ago when they signed up for a pottery class. His favorite.
He’s not sure what time Jisung is going to get home. He’s been working longer hours these days. There’s an important art exhibition happening in Seoul and all of the most important guests are staying at their hotel. He’s busy, and he’s been pouting and whining about it, because sometimes, they can’t go out for lunch or to the gym when the workload gets too much.
Minho secretly hates it, but at the same time, he understands.
He decides to order food while he waits. Worst case scenario, he will have to heat it up later. Best case scenario, the front door will open in a few minutes and he will be so happy to have such a thoughtful boyfriend. Ha.
Minho makes himself comfortable on the couch, a mystery book in his hands to make the time pass by quicker.
Jisung still isn’t back by the time their food gets delivered, and Minho’s check-up message stays unanswered, so he’s probably going to take even longer. Minho sighs and eats on his own.
Around 7:30, his phone lights up with a message from Jisung. I’m sorry, we’re still not done :( Might be another hour or two. Wanna make sure everything is perfect for the auction.
Minho juts his bottom lip out in a pout, but at the end of the day, there’s nothing he can do. I was getting worried, he writes back. Just come home safely. I’ll be here.
Jisung sends him a cute penguin sticker in response, so he’s absolved of all blame.
Unfortunately, Minho’s exhaustion gets the better of him. After nine, he takes a shower and moves to the bed to continue reading, but he falls asleep before he even gets through the next twenty pages.
The next thing he’s conscious of is the front door opening and slipping back shut. He hears Jisung take his shoes off in the entryway and then move through the apartment in an almost perfect silence. He flicks off the light in the kitchen that Minho left on for him and then finally makes his way to the bedroom.
Minho pushes himself up to sit against the headboard when he walks inside and turns on the bedside lamp before he can startle Jisung into a heart attack. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Jisung echoes, loosening his tie and taking it off in one swift motion. “Did I wake you?”
“No,” Minho lies, even though he doesn’t have to. It shows in his face that he was just asleep, he’s sure. Jisung gives him a look of disbelief, and at this point, Minho is unable to hold back a smile.
Jisung comes closer to the bed. “Sorry,” he says, tone soft, the way it always is when he speaks to him. He braces his hand against the headboard and leans down, pressing his mouth against Minho’s. “We had more work to do than we expected. I didn’t mean to come home so late.”
Home. Minho’s heart soars.
“It’s fine, jagi,” he says, punctuating his words with a yawn. He probably looks like shit right now, pillow marks and all, but Jisung looks at him fondly. Something like that can really make a person’s self-esteem skyrocket. “There’s food in the fridge if you’re hungry. Take-out, so don’t get too excited.”
Jisung laughs. “I ate, but thank you for thinking about it,” he says, as if Minho could ever stop thinking about him even for a moment. Factually impossible. Minho tried. “Let me just take a shower and I’ll be right back with you.”
He begins to move away, but Minho makes a noise of protest and grabs his wrist to stop him in his tracks.
“In the morning,” he says. “You can shower in the morning.”
It never takes long for Minho to convince him, but this time around, Jisung gives in exceptionally easily.
“Okay, you big baby, but you have no right to complain that I smell like shitty coffee and sweat,” he warns. He’s clearly trying his best to keep the fondness out of his voice, but it’s no use.
Minho knows him.
He drags him onto the bed by the hand, making him fall against the mattress beside him, and wastes no time pressing his nose against the column of Jisung’s neck. “Mhm. But you smell so good.”
Jisung laughs. “Let’s say I believe you,” he says. Then—“Just let me get out of these clothes, jagi, don’t make me sleep in slacks.
Minho lets out a tortured sigh. He reaches down and unbuttons Jisung’s pants, but before he begins taking them off, he slides his hand under the fabric to squeeze his ass. A dreamy smile makes its way to his face.
Jisung doesn’t even say anything. He just shakes his head in feigned annoyance and fights his own facial muscles to keep the corners of his mouth from turning up. He’s used to it.
Minho finally drags the pants down and Jisung lifts his hips to help him before kicking them off to the floor. They got that part down, too. It’s muscle memory, at this point. It’s the same with Jisung’s shirt—Minho unbuttons it, but he’s lying on his side, so he does it with only one hand. Now that’s a new addition. He can tell by the look on Jisung’s face that he finds it hot. He needs to try that again on a day when they actually have enough energy to have sex after.
His hands roam across Jisung’s shoulders and chest too. Because—why not? His boyfriend is hot and willing, and Minho needs something nice to dream of at night.
“You’re half-asleep and you’re still groping me,” Jisung says, chuckling. He kisses the corner of Minho’s mouth. “Silly.”
“Missed you,” Minho tells him, as if that explains it.
The words that remain on the tip of his tongue are shaped a little differently, though. He knows what he feels. Why can’t he just say it?
Jisung smiles. “I missed you too. I’ll have a few days off when this is over, and if you want, we can go on another trip. I’ll make it up to you.”
Minho hums, his eyes closing already. Jisung’s voice is like a lullaby to him. He could probably doze off to him reading the back of a drain cleaner bottle out loud. “Okay, jagiya,” he murmurs. “Now sleep. You gotta be tired.”
“Clearly, I’m not the only one.”
If Minho wasn’t already half-asleep, he would roll his eyes. But he finds enough consciousness in himself to roll over onto his other side. He doesn’t even have to say a word; Jisung knows what to do. He wraps an arm around Minho’s waist and presses himself against his back, tangling their legs together under the covers.
It’s easy, being together like that.
Minho can barely recall what life was like before he met Jisung. The only words that come to his mind are sad, lonely, hopeless. Today, he’s so happy that he’s scared to ever lose this. The late-night hugs. Falling asleep together. Waking up tangled in these sheets and wishing that he could have this every morning.
Jisung. He’s terrified of ever losing Jisung.
He makes contentment bloom in Minho’s soul. He makes him hope that this will one day change; that Minho will be able to get free and be with him, out in the open, for everyone to know, closets and arranged marriages be damned.
Because meeting Jisung felt like hope. Getting to know him felt like hope. Falling in love with him felt like hope.
And now, instead of taking what life throws at him passively, Minho has something to fight for.
Jisung has dismantled him, and Minho never knew he could feel that much.
Warm lips press a single kiss on his nape, arms tighten around him, and Minho is fast asleep.
✦
For some reason, Jisung is freaked-out about watching a horror movie in a drive-in cinema lying in the trunk of the car instead of locked safely inside, the way they’ve done it until now.
“Someone could kill us like this,” he says as he follows Minho out of the car when he clambers out of the driver’s seat.
This time around, Minho has brought pillows and a blanket because he saw some woman on YouTube shorts doing that. It looked romantic, and Minho wants romance for Jisung, so—
“I’ll protect you, jagiya,” he says, batting his eyelashes at Jisung as he opens the trunk of the car.
He has already folded the backseats so there’s more space, and now he needs to enlist Jisung’s help to actually make it comfortable.
“Oh, did you bring a knife as well, by chance?” Jisung asks, cocking his head to the side.
Minho gives him a look. “Come on. We had fun when we went to the cabin and sat outside in the middle of the night, and we were actually close to the woods. With owls hooting and branches breaking and probably a hungry bear watching us from between the trees,” he points out. “And you didn’t mind it then.”
He likes thinking about their weekend at the cabin. It’s a precious memory to Minho, one he grounds himself with when the nights grow too dark and silent, when the space next to him on his bed becomes too empty, when Jisung’s absence makes his heart ache.
“I minded it,” Jisung insists. “It’s just that I could’ve always run into the house and locked myself in, and here, we’re out in the open. In the trunk of the car! Might as well just leave the keys in the engine and let someone kidnap us.”
Minho laughs. He unrolls the futon and nods at Jisung to help him fit it into the trunk, which he does with minimal grumbling. “If someone kills us,” he says, fluffing up one of the pillows, “at least we’ll die together. Watching a horror movie. Doing what we love.”
Jisung gives him a look, but the corner of his mouth twitches. Ha. “How romantic.”
“I know, right?” Minho grins.
In the end, just like he predicted, Jisung forgets about any and all serial killers when the movie actually starts. He’s pressed against Minho’s side, safe and secure and not overly conscious of what they’re doing. The parking lot isn’t full of cars and people are too busy watching the projection and it’s dark, so they can cuddle and Minho can stare at Jisung all he wants without anyone thinking, Huh. This is strange.
The movie is pretty scary. About children getting possessed by demons. Minho doesn’t usually get spooked by these things, but there’s something about being in this parking lot in a secluded part of the city in the middle of the night with all these strangers.
Fuck, he thinks at one point. Maybe Jisung was right.
But despite the goosebumps, he feels like it’s over way too soon, as every single one of their dates is. Time simply doesn’t move the same way when they’re together.
Minho drops Jisung off at his apartment building with a goodnight kiss, aching all over to go inside with him. But he can’t. Not this time around. Then, he drives himself home, dragging his feet up the stairs if only to prolong the inevitable return.
He’s just getting his daily steps in. Ha.
The overhead kitchen light is on when he finally makes his way inside the apartment, the golden hue softly spilling out into the hallway. For a moment, Minho thinks Yeeun has just left it on for him the way she does sometimes, but then he hears her shuffling around.
It’s late. After midnight. She’s usually in bed by now, especially in the middle of the week when she’s got work to get up for in the morning. But today, she’s making tea when Minho makes his way into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water.
“Hey,” he says. It’s the most he can muster tonight.
“Hi,” she says. Her eyes slide over his figure. She doesn’t ask where he’s been, but the question is written all over her face.
Even though it makes a chill spread through his bones, Minho says nothing. He doesn’t have the energy to lie. Not again.
✦
The next time Minho crawls back inside the apartment in the middle of the night, Yeeun doesn’t ignore it the way she always does. The way Minho has gotten used to.
The lights are out and the entire place is silent, so he tries to be quiet, shuffling around in his socks instead of putting on slippers, trying to be quiet.
Yeeun is sitting on the couch in the living room, right there, shrouded in darkness. Minho startles when she gets up, arms crossed over her chest, and stares him down.
Minho’s heart rate skyrockets with just that one look.
He already knows. He got too careless. Too comfortable. Too sloppy.
But before he can even begin to say anything at all, Yeeun asks, point-blank, “Do you really think I don’t know what you’re doing?”
“I’m sorry?” he says. It rips out of him. He doesn’t even mean to play dumb. He’s just surprised. Taken off-guard. How could she know?
Yeeun draws her brows together. “I know we’re not actually married, but I think you should have enough decency and respect not to sneak around behind my back like you think I’m too stupid to notice.”
Minho flushes in shame. “Yeeun—”
“Am I wrong?” she interrupts, and her voice is sharp like the edge of the finest knife, but she’s not screaming. “Did you not just come back from a night with Han Jisung?”
Minho’s breath hitches. She knows. She knows beyond suspicion. She knows it’s Jisung.
And for the first time, Minho is scared. He can handle shame. He can handle rage. He can handle screaming matches and shattered plates and looks of disdain. But he’s terrified for Jisung. That fear swirls together with the entire myriad of emotions filling his chest, and he feels so overwhelmed, so confused, that he can’t properly formulate what he wants to say.
“Please, leave him out of this.”
It’s all that comes out of his mouth.
Somehow, that simple please is what makes her mouth part in astonishment. She looks at him like she’s surprised that he isn’t even trying to save himself and deny what they both know to be the truth. She looks at him like she’s surprised by how deep his feelings for Jisung actually run.
“How can I leave him out of this when it’s him you’ve been screwing our arrangement up for? You should’ve thought about that before you walked out on your part of the deal.”
Minho scoffs, but it’s not anger rising in him. It’s despair. “How can you expect me not to? How can you expect me not to seek happiness somewhere else when all this does is make me miserable?” he asks, voice breaking. “I had to sacrifice everything I had for this godforsaken marriage. Every part of me. Everything!”
“Well, you’re not the only one!” Yeeun shouts back, an unfamiliar fire in her eyes, a stark contrast to the usual impassiveness, that wherever the wind takes me look he has gotten used to. “Do you think I’m happy? Do you think I jumped with joy when they told me they were basically selling me off to some guy I didn’t even know, telling me to build an empire, telling me to have his child? Telling me that’s all I’m good for, that I’m nothing more than my womb?”
“Then why the fuck would you agree to this?” Minho asks, flinching at the shrill of his own voice.
But he can’t understand it. Her family hadn’t been struggling when they reached out with the offer. This was basically charity for her.
“I had no choice,” she says, her voice breaking and slipping into a whisper. She sounds like she might burst into tears and cry, but she levels herself with a sharp breath. “Imagine this, Minho. Your parents get sent a picture of you kissing your friend goodnight after a date. They get asked for two hundred million won or else the pictures will get sent to the press and the company’s image will be tainted forever. And instead of caressing you, instead of telling you they love you, they will never let anything happen to you—that instead of being parents, they decide to marry you off to fix you.”
Minho’s heart sinks. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. He doesn’t know what to say. Because he’s not stupid—he can read between the lines. He can recognize her fear and the secrecy and the desperate need to still be loved, despite it all.
She stares at him, and the first tears come spilling down her cheeks. “Do you understand now?”
Minho rubs his palm across his face. He wants to ask, Why didn’t you just tell me? But it’s stupid. He knows exactly why she didn’t tell him. It’s the same reason why he hadn’t said anything, either. Coming out to someone you care about is difficult enough. Letting a stranger in on that part of you, a stranger that has all the means to ruin your life with that secret, is another level of terrifying.
“Even though it almost killed me, I told her we could only be friends,” she carries on. “I gave her up to make my parents happy, to make them love me. And all this time, you’ve been going behind my back and risking it all.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, his throat feeling tight with sorrow and anxiety. He can barely speak. “I was too afraid of what you’d do if you found out. At the beginning, that marriage was the only thing keeping my family afloat. I was desperate to help my parents, I was ready to do anything for them. So I thought I could somehow live with it. I thought that I could learn how to. But all that did was make me feel dead inside.”
“I never wanted to be something you had to learn to live with,” Yeeun says. “I wanted things to at least be normal between us. But I didn’t know your intentions, and that was terrifying.”
“I should’ve told you right away that I didn’t expect anything from you. I would never—” Minho cuts himself off with a sharp inhale. He wishes he had told her, I will never hurt you.
It’s cruel, what their parents have done to them. What they have condemned them to. A loveless arrangement with a stranger, almost two years of loneliness and anguish. No chance for anything to bloom.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says. “It’s my fault. I was a coward. I was too scared to be honest with my parents and too scared to let our family's entire legacy go to hell. Even after, when I started falling in love with Jisung—the least I owed you was honesty. So I'm sorry.”
There’s nothing but truth between them, though, and it’s never been this way before. It’s always been lies and dodges and words left unsaid. Minho guesses he never made things any easier. He buried his verity deep within, and when they fought, it always felt like a game he was trying to win.
This time, he’s giving up.
“We should’ve been honest with each other from the start,” Yeeun says, her voice quiet. “Maybe that way, all of this could’ve been avoided. But, well, that’s over now.”
Minho’s heart plummets to his stomach.
“Yeeun,” he says. “What are you going to do?”
She runs an anxious hand through her hair and sighs. “I don’t know. But I’m not going to live like this, Minho. I refuse.”
“Whatever you do—” he says desperately, “please keep Jisung’s name out of it. Please. I don’t know how you found out about us, but I’m begging you to forget about it. I can deal with it. But he—” His voice breaks. He whispers the next words. “It’s not his fault. He didn’t do anything wrong.”
He would die if anything were to happen to Jisung because of him.
Yeeun’s expression softens. “This is exactly how I found out about you,” she says. “I thought something was going on because you just seemed so different out of the blue. Less… miserable. And then I walked into a coffee shop once and you two were inside. You were so absorbed with him, you didn’t even see me walk in. The world could be ending right then and there and you wouldn’t even notice. I’d never seen you laugh like that. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together.”
Minho lowers his gaze, feeling the heat creep up the back of his neck. He’s embarrassed—ashamed—but he also can’t help the pleasant tug at his heartstrings brought by the knowledge that his love for Jisung runs so deep he can’t hide it no matter how hard he tries.
“We were trying to be careful,” he says. “Not just because we’re in the closet. I didn’t want to hurt you or cause you problems. I hope you know that.”
“I know,” Yeeun says. “But seeing you with him made me scared that someone else could see it, too. That they’d find out, and then it wouldn’t be so easy to sweep under the rug. It would bring us all down. It’s just safer for everyone involved to stop. This is clearly not going to work out the way our parents want it to. This marriage has done nothing except make us both miserable, and I can’t—I can’t let my life look like this. And, clearly, you don’t want yours to be like that either.”
Minho gives her an incredulous look.
“So, what, you think that after all of this, we can just tell them we want a divorce and they’re going to let us?”
“I want to make them see that we did what they wanted. We gave it a try. But it didn’t work. So they have to focus on the companies and leave us alone,” Yeeun says. And then: “And I’m going to file for divorce either way.”
Minho’s jaw drops. “But—What about your parents?” he asks. “Won’t they be furious?”
Furious is a light way to put it, he thinks, considering they forced her into a marriage just because they were afraid their company’s image would be ruined by the mere existence of their lesbian daughter.
“They will be,” Yeeun says, and even though she’s trying to appear collected and assured, it’s obvious how scared she is. “That’s why I’m gonna have to tell them when your parents are there, too. They won’t blow up in front of them. They’re too proud for that. And it’ll at least buy me enough time to figure out whether they’ll come to their senses or I should start getting ready to be cut off. But I’m going to fight them for it. Even if it means I’ll have to choose myself over them.”
Minho’s face blanches. When it comes to their arrangement, Yeeun’s family holds most of the power. But within her own household, she’s just as helpless as Minho has been feeling this entire time. Probably even more.
“I know we’re not friends,” he starts, “but, whatever happens, you can count on me.”
Yeeun takes a deep stabilizing breath. “Thank you,” she says. “Although I hope I won’t need your help.”
She starts walking away, then, dodging the coffee table that stands in her way and moving towards her bedroom, leaving Minho there all alone. He has no choice but to drag himself to his room. He doesn’t even realize how much his hands are shaking until he reaches for the door handle. He looks down at his own fingers with confusion as the anxiety washes over him, leaving his breath shallow and his head spinning.
Now that he’s not speaking, now that he’s alone, all his emotions catch up to him at once.
The edge of the bed—that’s how far he makes it before his legs give out underneath him. He’s—
—terrified.
His stomach swoops, and it’s the same feeling of dread when the mattress dips beneath his weight as if he was tripping and falling off the edge of a skyscraper. Too late to latch onto anything for purchase. Too late to do anything at all. He can only fall with the conscience that when he hits the ground, he will make a mess.
Despite Yeeun’s firm intentions to divorce him, Minho can’t help but feel scared. It surely can’t be that easy—their parents have had high hopes for their marriage to work out. They won’t give up just because he and Yeeun say it’s over. He wants to feel relieved, but he can’t.
He grabs his phone because he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He feels—like garbage. Plain and simple. And usually, in that situation, he wouldn’t hesitate to call Jisung. Listen to his voice, ask for his advice, unload all the terrible thoughts hatching in his brain.
Even now, out of habit, his thumb hovers over Jisung’s name in his contacts list.
He can’t bring himself to call him, though.
He can’t. He can’t worry him. He can’t. Not when getting up and getting into his car and being with him to soothe him is out of the question. Even if he could do it, Minho isn’t in the shape to console him, either.
He’s scared.
So instead of calling, he stares at the screen until it dims, and then locks.
Jisung is probably getting ready for bed right now. If Minho tells him that Yeeun has somehow figured them out, he will only spend the night worrying himself to oblivion. There’s no use. Not when Minho doesn’t even know what’s going to happen next. He doesn’t want to give him false hope, and even more so, he doesn’t want Jisung to fear for him.
He will talk to Jisung the moment he actually knows what to say.
He lies down in bed, but he’s powerless to calm down his anxious, racing heart. He can’t fall asleep when he feels like the ground is falling underneath him. He tosses and turns, trying to distract himself with all sorts of things: music, books, funny videos, sudoku. But his thoughts are scattered, and he can’t focus.
He exhausts himself into dozing off around dawn, somehow, but even then his sleep is shallow. When he wakes up, it’s to the sound of the front door being locked. For a moment, he remains in that pleasant haze that tells him it was all just a wicked, bad dream.
The fantasy shatters when he gets a message from Yeeun.
Come to my parents’ house at 11.
His phone slips out of his palm, bounces off the mattress, and clatters against the floor. Shit, he thinks, hands shaking as he reaches out to pick it up. He can’t help the fear clawing up at his throat.
It’s going to be alright. That’s what Minho keeps telling himself, with no other choice but to put his entire life in her hands, trying to talk himself down from a full-fledged breakdown.
He has to fix it. He doesn’t know how, but he needs to fix it.
It’s barely past eight, so Minho spends hours worrying himself into nausea. He can’t keep food down even when he forces himself to eat a slice of bread, and ends up vomiting the scarce contents of his stomach. It’s only there, on the bathroom floor, doubled over the toilet, he allows himself to cry. The sob rips out of him before he can swallow it down—and once it’s out there, echoing off the tiled walls, there is nothing Minho can do to stop it.
Jisung doesn’t send him any funny animal videos, so he must still be asleep. Good. Minho is going to protect him from all of this for as long as he can, and he’s scared that if Jisung asked him a simple how are you? Minho would break and tell him everything.
He leaves the apartment at 10:30. At first, he’s not sure if he’s in a good condition to sit behind the wheel, but then he realizes it will do him good to have to focus on something by force. He drives to the Jangs’ gated-community villa with his heart in his throat.
His mother-in-law opens the door for him, looking happier than ever.
“Minho-yah, what is this about? Our Yeeunie told us she needed to talk to us all together,” she says. There’s a glint in her eyes, a curve to her mouth that Minho knows all too well. “She’s not here yet, though.”
His stomach ties itself into a tight knot. For a moment, he thinks he might vomit all over again, right into the petunias growing by the door. It’s a miracle he manages to calm his nervous system long enough to make it to the bathroom.
There, he splashes his face with ice-cold water. It doesn’t necessarily help, but it doesn’t make things worse, either. Minho feels more awake when he walks into the living room, where everyone is already gathered, waiting for him.
Yeeun stands up from the armchair when their eyes meet. She doesn’t beat around the bush or waste anyone’s time. She just says, “I want a divorce.”
And hell breaks lose. Her mother gasps, pressing a palm against her chest like she might keel over from a heart attack. Her father immediately jumps in to protest, face contorted in fury. Everyone just ends up speaking over each other and yet still in odd unison.
“It’s my decision,” Yeeun reaffirms, her voice stern and louder than anyone else in the room. Her father lets out an indignant grunt, and she stares him right in the eye as she reaffirms, “It’s my decision, and it’s final.”
“But—”
Minho’s father levels him with an unreadable stare. “Did you know about this?”
Minho hides his shaking hands behind his back, schools his expression into feigned confidence, and says, “Yes. I agree with her.”
“But—I don’t—I don’t understand,” his mother-in-law tries, and Minho has to clench his jaw to not say a word too much. “You were getting along so well.”
“We weren’t,” Yeeun says, blunt in her exasperation. “We were tolerating each other. We were bad friends at best. It was all just pretense to make you happy, and it’s sickening that it was a poor act and it fooled you anyway.”
Minho’s mother makes a pained noise from the sofa. Any other time, he would be by her side already, his heart split in two. But he can’t feel anything other than relief now, because all those words he’s been dying to say to them all are finally out in the open. And he didn’t have to be the one to speak them and deal with their anger and disappointment.
“Minho kept his end of the deal. I came to him with this decision, and he agreed, but it’s still mine. Mine alone,” Yeeun says, glancing at him briefly. Her words are enough to make the knot in his abdomen unwind. Not disappear—but loosen. “Neither of us wants to be together. An heir was never going to happen, anyway. But you already knew that.”
She looks at her parents as she says this, and for the first time today, her voice wobbles. It hurts, and the anger in her father’s expression must only make it worse. At least her mother bows her head, almost like she’s ashamed.
“There’s no reason to keep this farce up any longer,” Yeeun carries on. “We can’t make each other happy, and it’s ridiculous that we’ve let this go on for so long, really.”
“Yeeun,” her father says, and it sounds like a warning. “You can’t do this.”
But she doesn’t back down.
“Yes, I can. I’m doing it. I already talked to a lawyer, so whether you like it or not, this marriage is over,” she says. “I love our company, and I love you. But I can’t waste my life away to make you happy. I think I owe it to myself to live my truth, even if that makes you feel ashamed.”
“Baby—” her mother starts, but when she tries to get out of her chair, her husband puts a hand on her forearm to stop her. She gives him a furious look, but she sits back down.
“The companies are doing well together, whether we’re married or not,” Minho says, because he sees the look on Yeeun’s face, her eyes trained on her mother. “It’s better if we just put all our focus into the business. And when the time comes, Yeeun and I can still lead together. No marriage needed.”
Yeeun nods. Her mouth parts, but she doesn’t seem like she can get a word out. Her shoulders slump and finally, she just says, “I’m sorry I couldn’t do it.”
She grabs her handbag and spins on her heel, marching out. Minho follows her out without as much as a thought, leaving the room behind in shambles as everyone talks over one another, their mothers calling out after them.
Minho doesn’t stop, and Yeeun doesn’t, either.
She pauses on the porch, wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand, and takes a deep breath. “Fuck. That was the first time I’ve ever spoken to them like that.”
Minho hesitates, but then his hand comes up to rest between her shoulder blades in a gesture he hopes is at least a little bit comforting. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think all is lost,” he says quietly. “Your mom—maybe she just needs time.”
“Yeah, time away from my father,” Yeeun says, letting out a humorless chuckle. “But at least this is over. Whatever happens next, it will still be better than being married to you.” She looks at him and raises an eyebrow. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Minho says, cracking a smile. “I hope things work out for you, though. And if you need anything, just let me know, okay? I’m serious.”
Yeeun nods. For a moment, they just look at each other, both of them probably thinking the same thing. It’s over.
Finally, Yeeun gives him a tired but genuine smile. “Go let him know,” she says. “We’ll talk about this later. Tomorrow, or on Monday, if you’re still in honeymoon bliss.”
Minho barks out an awkward, embarrassed laugh, and fights the urge to hide his flushed face in his hands. “Thank you,” he says. “I owe you my life.”
“This is freedom for me, too,” she reminds him. “I’m doing this for both of us.”
Still, Minho thinks, watching her make her way down the driveway and get into her car. She doesn’t realize what she’s done for him. He’s not exaggerating in the slightest. It feels like he’s been given back the control over his life after spending the last two years locked-up in a dungeon.
And he knows exactly what to do with that freedom now.
He can barely hold himself together as he drives to Jisung’s apartment. He debates whether not to call him right away, but he quickly decides against it—he wants to see Jisung’s face when he breaks the news.
He almost runs a red light in his haste to get to him.
And when he finally kills the engine in the parking lot of Jisung’s apartment building, he has to sit there for two more minutes to calm down. His breath is ragged and his heart is thrashing in his ribcage with enough force to make it physically painful.
Minho’s entire system is on edge.
He takes the elevator up, counting the floors, begging for all the residents to steer clear of it now. For once, his prayers are answered. The doors open on Jisung’s floor, and he stumbles out like he’s drunk, legs made of cotton.
Fuck.
His hands are shaking when he rings the doorbell, and he’s really not sure how he managed to drive here without killing himself or anyone else. The universe is watching over him today, it seems.
Jisung opens the door. Gorgeous, beautiful Jisung. His eyebrows are drawn together in confusion, probably at the sight of Minho on his doorstep.
“Hyung?” he asks. “Why aren’t you just coming in?”
And Minho really tries to hold it in for another moment. He even manages to step inside the apartment and close the door behind himself. But the second he opens his mouth, the words come out flying.
“I’m getting divorced.”
It’s stronger than him.
Jisung blinks. Confused. Taken off-guard. Unsure whether Minho hasn’t gone completely insane, probably. He asks, “What?”
“Yeeun wants a divorce,” Minho says breathlessly. He can’t believe he’s saying these words out loud. He can’t believe they’re true. “It’s over.”
Jisung raises his hands, palms towards Minho. “Wait a second, because I cannot be hearing you right.”
Minho laughs. “You are. I’m getting divorced, jagiya,” he says, and even before he manages to pronounce the last syllable, Jisung is leaping forward and gathering him in his arms.
“Oh my god,” he says, right against Minho’s ear. The proximity must be why he hears the wobble in his voice. The emotion. He also feels Jisung’s racing heart in his own chest. “Hyung, I can’t believe this is real.”
Me either, Minho wants to say, but his throat feels tight and he can’t get another word out. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until they pull apart and Jisung cradles his face in his hands; until Jisung’s brows knit together with equal amounts of worry and love and his thumbs swipe away the tears cascading down Minho’s cheeks.
And because he knows that the easiest way to make Minho feel better is to make him laugh, he says, “Hyung-ah, is it too soon to ask for your hand in marriage?”
Minho snorts, laughing as more tears spill out, but something greedy spreads through his chest. “You’re not even letting the divorce marinate.”
“I’ve waited enough!” Jisung laughs. “Let’s get on a plane to Vegas right now.”
Minho has waited enough as well. That’s what he thinks as he leans in and kisses Jisung. He has waited enough to do this without anything else getting in the way. But they’re both trying hard not to smile, so it’s really, really impossible to do anything other than just grin against each other’s mouths.
Minho rests his forehead against Jisung’s when they pull apart, not willing to separate from him even for one centimeter. “It’s still going to take at least a month to finalize.”
His eyes are closed, but he can tell Jisung is smiling when he says, “Alright, but after that, we can go to Vegas, right?”
Minho grins. “Come on. Let’s sit down and I’ll tell you everything.”
He grabs Jisung’s hand as he pulls away from him, exchanging one form of physical contact for another. It’s not his fault he’s so desperate.
“Let’s go to the kitchen, then,” Jisung says, taking a step backwards and leading him down the hallway. “I’ll make tea.”
He looks like he needs to be doing something with his hands, so Minho takes a seat at the table and watches him move around the kitchen. He fills the electric kettle with water and pushes the button to turn it on. Then, he opens the top cabinet to grab mugs.
It’s a wrong moment for Minho to say, “So, Yeeun found out about us.”
Jisung whips around to face him so quickly the mugs almost fly out of his hands like cannonballs. His eyes are wide, terrified. “What?” he asks. “Why wouldn’t you lead with that?”
“Because I wanted to tell you the most important thing first before freaking you out the way I know this would,” Minho says, giving him a look. “But, yeah, she knows. She told me it was because I look at you like you put all the stars in the sky or something of that sort.”
“Really?” Jisung grins.
“Not in so many words, but yes,” Minho says, deciding to keep the entire truth to himself. Jisung doesn’t need to start getting anxious over the way they act in public. Not any more than he already does. “Basically, yesterday, she was waiting for me to come back to the apartment and confronted me about it. About us. And today, she gathered us all at her parents’ house, and said that whether our parents wanted it or not, we were getting divorced.”
He doesn’t want to tell him about Yeeun being a lesbian, either. Not at least until he makes sure she’s alright with Jisung knowing that about her.
Jisung sighs. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you,” Minho says, and even though he did it for Jisung, he knows it was unfair. He spent the whole night tossing and turning, restless, anxious, terrified out of his mind. He didn’t want Jisung to go through the same thing. “I was going to fix it, and I wanted to have it fixed before I talked to you.”
“You can’t do that. You can’t keep me out like that,” Jisung argues. The disappointment in his voice makes Minho’s skin crawl. “We’re in this together, aren’t we? You have to let me in.”
“I’m sorry,” Minho says sincerely. But because he doesn’t want Jisung to be mad at him, he musters his best sad kitten eyes. He can see him crumble within seconds. “I just didn’t want you to be here worrying about it all alone. I wanted to be with you when I told you.”
Jisung runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. “Alright. I’ll forgive you because I’m happy, but this better be the last time.”
“I swear,” Minho says, but he already knows it’s a promise he might break if only to spare Jisung the anxiety. Sometimes it’s better to take care of problems quietly and make sure the person you love won’t get hurt in the crossfire.
“How did your parents react?”
“I think they were too shocked to even begin getting angry. They were convinced we were madly in love, so to have her jump out with divorce all of a sudden…” Minho trails off, watching Jisung pour boiling water into their mugs. “I’m just really thankful that she made sure her parents wouldn’t blame it on me and my family.”
“We should buy her flowers or—or fund her a weekend in a spa, I don’t know,” Jisung says, making Minho smile. They really should. “But what will that mean for you guys, though? For the company?”
Minho shrugs. “The merger was lucrative, so I doubt we’re at risk,” he says. “They’ll have to rework the shares, I’m sure, and figure out how to move forward when there’s no joint Jang-Lee baby in the future to secure power over both companies.” He shudders just thinking about it. “I don’t know. Don’t worry about it, though. It’s their problem. They were the ones who agreed on a merger that hinged upon something so fickle.”
“You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can help you with, right, hyung?” Jisung asks, desperation bleeding through his words. “Please.”
Minho’s heart finally settles. He doesn’t even want to think about where he’d be without Jisung right now. If he didn’t have him to turn to.
He hums, pensive, and wonders whether he’s not about to ask for too much. He doesn’t think so, but he still hesitates as Jisung carries their mugs over from the kitchen counter.
“Actually, you know, I kind of need a place to live. Just for a while. I don’t think Yeeun will kick me out, but I’d rather get out of her hair while I’m looking for—”
“Of course you’re moving in with me,” Jisung interrupts, punctuating his words with a scoff of disbelief that this is even a question Minho is daring to ask. “Forever if you want. Or as long as it takes for you to find a new apartment, if that’s what you’d like to do.”
Minho feels his shoulders lose the last of tension.
When Jisung tries to sit down on the chair beside him, Minho takes his hand and drags him into his own lap instead. Jisung goes easily, already used to being pulled close, always closer. He wraps an arm around Minho’s shoulders like he shares the sentiment.
Minho knows he does.
“I’m not sure what I want to do,” he admits to Jisung. “For now, though, living with you feels perfect.”
Jisung smiles. “Like I said, you can stay as long as you want. You already spend most of your time here, anyway.”
He can’t even refute that. This apartment, with all its nooks and trinkets and Jisung, has become his safe haven. His home. He’s got a feeling that if he carries his belongings in, he might never leave.
Maybe it’s for the better.
He sees reading in bed and waffles on a Sunday and laughing at nothing and Jisung’s mouth on his. Every day. They’re going to have to stay careful, of course. Him getting a divorce doesn’t change the fact that society isn’t as accepting as they would both like it to be. It’s a shift for the better, and it lets them be together without the dread of Minho being married to someone else hanging over them. For now, that’s enough.
What the future holds, Minho doesn’t know.
But he loves this. He loves the thought of having Jisung close at all times, of coming home to him. Of leaving the apartment with a goodbye kiss and a see you later, see you at home, I’ll pick up dinner tonight, I’ll be waiting for you right here.
He loves the thought of the lines between yours and mine blending into ours.
“I love you so much,” he whispers, the words flying out of his mouth before he can even hesitate. Although it’s not like he wants to. This is the perfect moment to finally be honest.
Jisung’s initial surprise melts into something soft. Fond. He breaks into a smile, grabs the side of Minho’s face, and kisses him square on the mouth. “I love you, too,” he says, and it tastes sweet, like honey and raspberries and chocolate. “I’ve been waiting months to hear you say it.”
Months.
Minho’s heartbeat jumps into higher gear.
“Nobody was stopping you from saying it first,” he says, poking Jisung in the side to make him laugh.
“What was I supposed to do?” Jisung asks. “Say it to you on your third date and watch you trip over yourself while you’re running away?”
Minho’s jaw drops theatrically. “Third date?!” he echoes in disbelief.
“Alright. That’s an exaggeration.” Jisung laughs, but the pink color of his cheeks tells Minho it can’t be that far off from the truth. “I got into this knowing that I would fall in love with you, but I never imagined just how quickly. How much.”
His words are a mirror image of Minho’s own thoughts.
“I knew from the first time I saw you,” he says. “I knew that you were going to change everything.”
“Change everything,” Jisung repeats, laughing. “I didn’t even do anything.”
“Yes, you did,” Minho insists. “You loved me. Before either of us really knew that you did. And by doing that, you gave me the space I needed to be myself. To remember that no matter what happens and how bad things get, there’s always something that can make me happy.”
Jisung pouts. His eyes remind Minho of molten sugar, softened by the warmth of his laughter from a moment ago. He cradles the side of Minho’s face in his hand and says, “I hope you know I feel the same way about you. I’ve never felt this comfortable—this loved—in my entire life. And I want to be here for you. I always am.”
Now, Minho thinks, with Jisung in his lap, that home is where love is. Not four walls of an apartment, his name signed on the lease, but where his heart resides. And his heart has chosen Jisung’s hands as its safe place. Who is Minho to argue?
This is the first time he has ever wanted to belong to someone, and he’s hoping this feeling will last forever. Scratch that. He knows this feeling will last forever.
now, pretty baby, i’m running back home to you
fresh out the slammer, i know who my first call will be to
─── fresh out the slammer, taylor swift
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