Chapter Text
Arlington, Texas. July 1998
It’s sizzling hot outside and the glass of lemonade is already sweating when the waitress sets it on the counter in front of Minho. He thanks her with a polite nod and a mumble, not taking his eyes off the pocket map he bought at a gas station ten minutes ago and has since been analyzing like he might be able to rearrange the state lines through telekinesis, trying to understand what the fuck he was thinking when he accepted a ride to Arlington.
Sure, Minho has never been a straight A student and he knows the public education system in America is less than optimal, but he thought he knew more geography than this, or at least enough to tell west from north in a straight line. He presses a fingertip to the state border between Louisiana and Texas, as if poking it hard enough will make it shift, point him back toward the path he meant to take. He sighs, nibbling on the straw of his lemonade.
But Minho is quick to give himself some grace.
In his hurry to leave Louisiana before he could talk himself out of it, he hopped onto the first truck that made itself available and that was also driven by any guy who didn’t seem like a hacksaw killer, friendly enough and not too curious. The six hours of driving stretched over Bob Dylan songs that were sometimes interrupted by the two-way radio perched near the steering wheel, someone’s muffled voice mumbling something in a southern drawl Minho didn’t try to understand.
As he looked out the window, driving past oaks and pines and the occasional stray horse, Minho didn’t feel the sense of dread he’d expected to come attached to leaving the town he grew up in. Because as much as he needed out, he knows Jackson isn’t terrible, by any means. His hometown has huge tree tunnels Minho and his friends would ride their bikes under on weekends and it’s the kind of quiet people romanticize when they don’t grow up in it. Minho never found it hard to get a job, sometimes two, mostly flipping burgers or sitting behind a cash register.
But it feels like it’s always at least five years behind everywhere else and, at some point between the ages of 16 and 23, Minho started to feel like he’d seen the faces of each one of the 3,800 people in town at least two or three times. And when his friends started getting married to their high school sweethearts and the neighbor's kid started calling him “sir” and the mailman memorized his schedule, Minho began feeling like everyone around him agreed on a life he didn’t want to be a part of.
Because he didn’t want to live and die in the same spot on the map and settle for an industry job and go to antique car shows every weekend like his parents and their parents before them. He didn’t want his life mapped out before he hit 30, didn’t want to be another name people said with a shrug. “Minho? Yeah. He’s still around.”
The idea of leaving started growing on him in the sixth grade, when he started staying up over his bedtime to watch reruns of Cagney & Lacey and imagine what life would look like if he lived in New York instead. It looked huge and complicated and bustling, nothing like Jackson with its sleepy porches and creaky swings. On screen, everything moved fast, horns blaring, people shouting, steam rising from the sidewalks like the whole place was alive and breathing, moving with its people. Growing up in a town where everyone knew everyone’s every move, the idea of disappearing into a crowd at the time seemed as abstract to Minho as a convoluted magic trick.
Still, when he applied for a fellowship to the four-month educational program at Broadway Dance Center, he did it as a half-joke. He heard about it in a PBS special his dad had playing in the background one night over dinner, and something about it sunk in his brain and refused to leave until he was convinced to do something about it.
So he did something about it. Minho borrowed a camcorder from one of the other dancers in the studio where he voluntarily taught hip-hop classes for kids, cleared out a room, and spent his one day off that week recording and rerecording his original choreography until his legs gave out and his dance seemed acceptable to his own eyes. He barely remembers what he said in the mandatory 30 second introduction, just that his voice shook and that he didn’t look at the camera once. When he put the tape and his resume in the mailbox in a padded envelope addressed to somewhere in New York he’d only ever seen in his dreams, he thought that being rejected would haunt him less than never knowing.
The response came in the form of a professional-looking envelope with his name printed out in the front, over a month later, when Minho had all but forgotten about his outburst of unfulfillable hope. After he picked it up from the mailbox, he didn’t open it for over an hour. It laid on his bedside table, taunting him, Minho too scared to open it and find out the result either way.
Because it’s this impossible thing. The kind of dream that’s so big and unfeasible it should stay being just that—a dream. Because if it turns into something else, if it seeps into reality, it might become something too big to control, it might turn Minho into a different person.
But wasn’t that just what he wanted? To be someone else other than Minho, son of the town’s mechanic, who’s pretty good at math but average in everything else and never participated in P.E. classes in high school. Somewhere he isn’t the boy who used to work at Derry’s Fashion and once gave the mayor’s wife the wrong change and caused a ruckus.
To this day, Minho doesn’t know exactly what the letter said. As soon as the words “we’re glad to offer you a fellowship…” came into his field of vision, the sheet of paper went airplaning across his bedroom, his heart pivoting in his chest. He never read much further than the instructions on accepting the offer and securing his spot, terrified by the sudden proximity of his dream, that the words might rearrange themselves into a rejection if he reread them too many times.
When he told his family he was leaving, he didn’t have a plan besides getting to Broadway Dance Center. Minho stood in the kitchen with his hands in his pockets, staring at the peeling linoleum floor, and said he was going to New York to train to become a professional dancer. His mom didn’t say much, just looked at him over her glasses like she was waiting for the punchline. His dad folded the classifieds in half and asked what the plan was to do once he got there.
His parents aren’t against Minho dancing, exactly. It’s just that they never understood how dancing could be considered a real job or how someone could make money off of it. And, okay, Minho isn’t making any money out of it right now, since whatever little monetary compensation he does get from teaching weekend classes at the studio is a small, voluntary contribution from the studio’s owner, a sweet middle-aged woman who exclusively calls him honey and feels bad letting Minho work without earning anything from it, but doesn’t make enough profit from her business to pay him an actual salary.
But when Minho knocked on the door of the only dance studio in town offering to teach, he did it because it’s what he wanted to do, and if the only way he got to do it in somewhat of a professional level was by teaching children without getting any money for it, then so be it. And this thing that he’s doing, going to New York, making connections at BDC, is his first real shot at making a real living out of this instead of working a job he hates at a gas station or restaurant and only having weekends to dedicate to the one thing he truly wants. It’s his last ditch attempt to make his life something more than a succession of unfulfilled what-ifs.
Minho didn’t have an answer to his dad at the time and he still doesn’t. He doesn’t have a job lined up, no apartment, no cousin in Queens who owes him a favor. Just this bone-deep, soul-crushing need to be somewhere else, doing something else, maybe being someone else.
So he just said, “I don’t know, I’ll figure it out.”
His mom blinked, like she’d already done the math and found the outcome disappointing. His dad grunted, got up to pour himself another cup of coffee, and didn’t say anything else. Minho took that as his blessing.
Minho packed light. A travel backpack with enough changes of clothes to last him almost a month, a walkman and all the money he managed to save from all the jobs he had since he was 16, half cash, half in his credit card. It’s a pretty decent amount of money—enough to get him to New York and then a few more weeks until he finds a part-time job, he hopes, if his calculations are right, even after getting a little lost on the way there. Maybe just saying “outta here” when the driver asked him where he was headed wasn’t the best decision.
At least he’s… out of there. Technically.
Perpetually anxious even in the face of no plan, Minho has a month until the beginning of the course since he decided to arrive early in New York to get a job and hopefully settle well enough before classes start in late August. He heard from a friend about some options on affordable housing for people coming from out of town to study which he could try once he got there. There’s a piece of paper tucked in his notebook with the name and directions to a restaurant in Manhattan that’s always hiring waiters, according to his other friend who has a friend of a friend in New York.
It’s a brittle skeleton of a plan, Minho is agonizingly aware, but he knew that the second he started overthinking and worrying about having everything perfectly figured out would also mark the death of whatever scrap of courage he gathered to go through with this in the first place—so he’s fine with the skeleton. For now, anyway.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat, honey?” The waitress approaches him again, pouring coffee into the mug of the man sitting next to him at the counter. “We have a killing apple pie.”
Minho glances at the clock on the wall. Three-fifteen. Too late for lunch, too early for dinner, and far too hot for anything to settle in his stomach. Also, his wallet could use his restraint, especially with his accidental detour. “No, thanks,” he murmurs.
She nods and moves on. Minho swats away a fly that buzzes near his ear, nursing his lemonade and wishing he could afford a real drink right now.
The door swings open behind him, a gust of dry heat rushing in along with the jingle of the bell. Minho doesn’t look up right away. He hears footsteps, the scrape of boots on tile, and then a voice—easy, too bright for the weather, accent not from around here.
“Hey there! Any way I can get that last slice of pie and a Diet Coke?”
Minho glances over his shoulder as the waitress scrambles to get the order. The guy’s got a sunburn blooming across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, a backpack slung over his shoulder, sunglasses pushing his hair away from his face. He’s wearing a ratty Deftones shirt, washed-thin and clinging a little to his chest with sweat, and there’s a folded road atlas sticking out the side pocket of his cargo shorts. He’s smiling bright, like the day isn’t unbearable and heat isn’t liquifying Minho’s brain.
When Minho looks back down at his map, the voice comes again, closer, from his left side: “Mind if I sit here?”
Minho lifts his eyes at him again, dragging his lemonade closer to his chest. “Go ahead,” he mumbles.
As the guy slides into the seat, Minho catches the faint scent of sunscreen and fresh cologne, clean and a little dizzying. Their knees bump as he adjusts himself on the seat. He drops his backpack on the floor with a soft thud, tucking his sunglasses into the collar of his shirt, the frame clinking softly against the thin chain he has on, hanging low on his chest.
“Thanks, man,” he says, voice a little rough, slouching over the counter. He exhales dramatically. “Whew. I swear I’ve been driving past nothing but cows and mirages for the past three hours.” He tips his head, a grin tugging his mouth, eyes flicking up beneath his lashes. “I’m Jisung.”
“Minho.”
“Minho," Jisung repeats, slower, like he’s testing how it fits in his mouth. “Nice name.”
The waitress sets the pie and Diet Coke in front of Jisung and he thanks her with a smile that seems too bright for how sticky the air feels.
“You’re from around, Minho?” Jisung asks, dragging the syllables out, like he enjoys the excuse to say his name again.
Minho snorts, tearing his gaze back down to the map under his fingertips. “No,” he says. “I shouldn’t even be here right now, actually.”
“Oof,” Jisung winces sympathetically, peeling the edge of his shirt off his chest, revealing a quick glimpse of tanned skin and the curve of his collarbone before it settles again. “Got lost?”
Minho shrugs, fingers tracing a crease in the map. “Yeah. Took a ride the wrong way. Was supposed to be heading northeast from Louisiana… ended up here instead.”
Jisung whistles low, digging into his pie. “That’s a little bit of a detour.”
“Tell me about it,” Minho mutters. His arm sticks to the counter when he moves. “At least I hopped out before he drove me further south.”
“See? Always an upside.” Jisung smiles, swiping his tongue across the corner of his lips to catch a streak of cream. Minho follows the motion with his eyes, then watches his tongue disappear into his mouth again, quick. “What’s your plan up north, Minho?”
“New York,” Minho says, forcing his gaze upward again, past the smirk, until he lands back on Jisung’s glimmering eyes. Smoothly, he hopes.
“The city that never sleeps,” Jisung grins, bumping Minho’s shoulder with his own like they’ve known each other for longer than the space of a slice of pie. “Love it there,” he says, pushing his sleeves up past his biceps. His skin is tanned, the muscles in his arms shifting easily as he moves.
Minho tries not to let his eyes linger, but they do anyway. Jisung moves loose-limbed and unbothered, like he carries the momentum of a thousand miles behind him even as he sits perfectly still. His hair is a dark, messy mop, damp with sweat at the roots and sticking to his forehead. The sunburn across his face softens him, makes him look reckless and a little bit younger than he probably is. His skin glows with heat, golden and flushed like he belongs to the sun.
“Yeah?” Minho sips on his lemonade, mostly to avoid letting his eyes fixate where they want to. The glass feels cold against his palm, a poor distraction to the heat rising up the back of his neck. “I’ve never been.”
“Oh? It’s an adventure, then,” Jisung smiles, licking a smear of pie filling off his thumb with a wet pop.
“I guess.” Minho shrugs, kind of embarrassed about how childish his plan seems now that he’s said it out loud, the bravado he put up in front of his parents a little worn off by now. “What about you? What’s your plan?"
“I’m roadtripping through all fifty states.” Jisung sounds proud of himself as he cracks open his Diet Coke, the can hissing with carbonation. His lips wrap around the rim as he takes a sip, throat bobbing on a swallow. “I’m almost finished, actually.”
Minho shifts in his seat, suddenly interested. “Really?” he asks, leaning forward into Jisung despite himself. “Where have you been so far?”
This sets Jisung off on a ramble. He talks between bites of pie and sips of soda, rattling off places like he’s pulling names from a well-known memory: Acadia, Congaree, the salt flats in Utah that look like snow but crunch under your boots. He talks about getting caught in a storm in Arkansas, sleeping in his car on the edge of a sunflower field in Nebraska, a Fourth of July spent watching fireworks explode over the Mississippi River somewhere in Missouri.
And Minho just listens. Tries not to look too long at the curve of Jisung’s lip when he smiles at something he’s just remembered or to show how small he suddenly feels, like someone just cracked open a snow globe and showed him a whole world outside the glass.
In all his 23 years of life, the furthest Minho has gone was Florida once, when he was seventeen and his aunt still owned that place in Daytona Beach. It was humid and overbuilt and majorly underwhelming, but he remembers his first time seeing the ocean anyway, remembers thinking how big it was, how loud.
But what Jisung is telling him is different. He speaks about the world like it’s a place you can hold in your hands, like it belongs to anyone bold enough to ask for it. So Minho folds his arms on the counter, the paper map crinkling beneath his elbow, and watches Jisung wave his fork around as he speaks, eyes bright. And doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t even try. All he can think about is how much Jisung has seen and how much he wants to see all of it too.
“Anyway,” Jisung laughs sheepishly when he realizes how long he’s been talking. He scratches the back of his neck then props his chin on his palm. “After Texas, I’ve got five states left to go. Then I’m done.”
“Wow,” Minho laughs, a little bit astonished. “You did all of this by yourself?”
“I’ve had company here and there.” Jisung shrugs, ring clinking against his Coke can as his nails carve absentminded doodles on the condensation. “I gave out rides, stuck together with some people I met at my stops… mostly alone, though.” He leans forward slightly, just enough so Minho can smell the concoction of sunscreen and cologne again. His eyes glint in the sunlight filtering through the window, steady on Minho’s. “But I’m always open to good company.”
Minho wonders if he’s imagining the lilt to Jisung’s voice, if the heat is melting away at his judgement or if Jisung really is looking at him a little too long over the rim of his soda. He props his chin on his fist, feigning ease. “What makes someone good company on the road, anyway?”
Jisung hums, thinking. “Not minding silence, not freaking out when things don’t go exactly to plan,” he starts, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. “Good music taste, definitely. Can’t ride with someone who’s listening to Nickelback the entire time.”
Minho laughs. “Oh, for sure. I’m more of a Nirvana guy myself.”
Jisung’s grin widens, his elbow brushing against Minho’s where they’re both leaning on the counter now, his skin warm and damp from heat. “See? I think we’re already hitting it off, Minho.”
The corners of Minho’s mouth tug upward despite himself and he tries to hide it by sipping the last of his lemonade. The ice has melted, diluting the drink into something warm and watery, but he finishes it just to avoid Jisung’s gaze. “Guess we are.”
Jisung leans back on his seat, stretching his arms up over his head. His shirt rides up to reveal a flash of skin and a tattoo, dark ink running down the side of his golden torso. Minho swallows, flicking his gaze back to the counter.
“So,” Jisung says, propping his elbow back on the counter. “New York, huh?”
Minho nods, mouth pulling into a half pout. “That was the plan, anyway,” he mutters. “I’ll probably just crash at the motel nearby and go back to hitchhiking tomorrow. The right direction this time.”
Jisung hums, tapping his fork against his now-empty plate. “Well, I’m going through Oklahoma and Kansas before I head west toward California. Not exactly a straight shot to New York, but it gets you closer than… here.”
Minho glances at him, unsure. “You’re offering me a ride?”
Jisung grins, shrugs like it’s nothing. “If you don’t mind adding an extra week or two to your trip up there. I’ve got room. As long as you don’t ask me to play Nickelback.”
Minho huffs a laugh, but his fingers still tighten slightly around the edge of his map. He studies Jisung’s face, open, easy, sun-warmed. And he wonders. Though his plan isn’t rock solid, it definitely doesn’t include yet another detour. It would be reckless. But then again, so is heading to New York with nothing but hope and a couple thousand dollars.
“Promise I’m not an axe murderer.” Jisung crosses his heart with two fingers.
“That’s exactly what an axe murderer would say.” Minho squints at him.
Jisung laughs, head tipping back. “True,” he accepts. “But who’s to say you’re not the axe murderer here? Aren’t we both putting our ass on the line?”
Minho shakes his head, trying not to smile, his finger playing with the edge of his map. “You’re really bad at reassuring people, you know that?”
Jisung shrugs. “Hey: free ride, decent music, great itineraries, my car’s got AC.” He ticks an imaginary list off with his fingers, then leans a little, voice dropping like he’s telling a secret. “And I’ll even let you pick the gas station snacks. Just don’t ask for boiled eggs. That’s where I draw the line.”
Minho bites the inside of his cheek, quickly weighing the pros and cons.
Pros: free ride; getting out of Texas; Jisung is distracting enough to make the miles less unbearable. Cons: he could still be an axe murderer despite the charm; even worse: he could be annoying; Minho might regret this the moment they’re past the city limits.
Minho’s fingers drum once against the counter, restless. Jisung is still watching him, head tilted, lip caught between his teeth like he’s biting back a smile. Or waiting.
“What do you say, Minho?” Jisung asks like he already knows the answer and is just eager to watch Minho’s mouth shape around the words. “Are you down for a little western adventure before heading to the big apple?”
Minho looks down at his crumpled map, then out the diner window, onto the road where heat is still rising in lazy waves off the asphalt. He’s already off course, already behind schedule anyway. Still, it’d be stupid. Careless. And probably the most fun he’d be having in forever. A story to tell. He glances back at Jisung, at the curve of his grin and the easy slouch of his shoulders.
He nods once, firmly. “Okay. Kansas,” Minho mutters, folding his map in half. “But I’m picking the music.”
Jisung’s grin spreads wider. “Deal,” he says, reaching for his backpack and throwing enough money on the counter to cover both of their bills. “Let’s get out of here before you change your mind.”
Minho slides off his stool and follows him outside, pulse thudding somewhere stupid in his throat.
It’s over an hour and a half later when they cross the state line into Oklahoma. WELCOME TO THACKERVILLE. POPULATION: 290, the road sign reads as sand lifts off the road when Jisung drives by it.
Minho squints at the horizon, where the heat shimmer turns the road into a mirage. “You think anyone ever actually counted all 290?”
Jisung snorts. “Maybe once. Now they just push it up or down whenever someone dies or gives birth.”
The jeep hums beneath them as the CD on the radio transitions from Gutless to Miss World—Hole’s Live Through This was Minho’s album of choice for their trip after they listened through the entirety of Sonic Youth’s Dirty by Jisung’s request. Jisung has an impressive assortment of CDs and cassettes crammed in his glove compartment, ranging from Blink 182 to The Beatles to Nina Simone and… the soundtrack of The Muppet Christmas Carol, for some reason.
“So, Minho,” Jisung says after a moment. Something about the way he keeps repeating Minho’s name feels a little bit unnerving. It’s the way he says it, dragging out the syllables just a little too purposefully, like he’s rolling it between his teeth. Like he enjoys the sound of it. “Where are you from, exactly?”
“Jackson,” Minho answers.
“I love Mississippi,” Jisung chirps.
“Oh, no,” Minho chuckles, shaking his head. “Jackson, Louisiana. Small town near Baton Rouge.”
“Louisiana, huh?” Jisung hums. “Wet,” he says, lips curling slightly.
Minho swallows. The word stays suspended in the air like a soap bubble for a second too long. “I guess,” he shrugs. They do get a lot of rainy days. “What about you?”
“San Francisco,” Jisung says. The sun is still high even though it’s almost six by now, reflecting off the rim of his sunglasses and catching on his tanned skin and his hair, making it look almost copper at the ends.
“Sunny,” Minho says, because it’s the only word that comes to mind.
“Sure is.” Jisung taps lazily on the steering wheel. His grin doesn’t fade. “You don’t sound like a small town.”
Minho looks over again. “What do you mean?”
Jisung shrugs. “You’re a cool guy. Just expected something cooler.”
Minho scoffs. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Oh, you could never disappoint me, Minho,” Jisung says, almost amused.
There’s cool air blowing from the AC steady on Minho’s face, but he still feels his skin burn. When he doesn’t answer, there’s a stretch of silence where the only sound is the consistent hum of tires on pavement and Courtney Love’s drawly voice coming from the radio, volume tuned low.
“And you’re heading back to California after you’re done with your trip?” Minho asks before the quiet settles.
Jisung nods, one hand lazily draped over the wheel, the other one tapping his thigh in the rhythm of the song. Minho tries not to notice how the tendons in his arms shift whenever he moves or how his thighs spread out over the seat. “Eventually. Gotta get my life together at some point.”
“How long’ve you been gone?” Minho asks.
Jisung hums pensively. “Ten months, give or take.”
Minho thinks about what he was doing ten months ago. Working the graveyard shift at a gas station, eating dinner in front of the TV, circling apartment listings he couldn’t afford. He was sleeping in the same twin bed, in the same room, in the same house he hadn’t meant to stay in for as long as he did.
“What’s there to do in Oklahoma, anyway?” Minho asks, picking the booklet out of the CD case in his hands and flipping through the lyrics just to have something to stare at that isn’t Jisung. Not because he doesn’t want to look at him, but because ogling a stranger isn’t in his book of good social practices.
Jisung laughs. “I’m still trying to figure it out. But my first order of business is Chickasaw,” he says. “Apparently there’s three lakes that are ice cold year-round. Sounds like a good idea to not die of heatstroke.”
Minho huffs a small laugh through his nose, glancing out the window at the scorched horizon. The heat seems to cast everything on the roadside in a warm yellow film like they’re stuck inside a western movie. “Can’t argue with that.”
“There’s also some hiking trails, waterfalls. You know, the works,” Jisung says, flicking his turn signal to change lanes even though the highway is empty. “Figured I’d stay a night or two if it’s not too crowded.”
“Sounds nice,” Minho says. Though the idea of adding a week or two to his already-loose itinerary to New York hadn’t struck him as brilliant at first, Jisung does a good job of convincing him, even if he isn’t trying to. Maybe it’s the heat melting his resolve.
Jisung is still drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the song. “There’s this little roadside inn a few miles from the park entrance. Kind of dated, but it’s cheap, and the AC works.”
Minho glances at him. “That’s where we’re stopping for the night?”
“If you’re in, yeah,” Jisung says.
Minho nods, humming in agreement. He shifts in his seat, glancing at Jisung’s side profile just because there’s nothing else to look at in this middle of nowhere stretch of road other than the endless highway, the flat sky that hovers overhead like a stretched piece of blue construction paper, cloudless, the same horizon stretching forever. He notices the curve of his jaw, the way his sunglasses sit low on the bridge of his nose. His skin glows warm and golden, the afternoon sun tracing the line of his neck where his shirt collar hangs just a little loose, stretched out from being worn too much. His sunglasses reflect the infinite road ahead, long lashes flicking behind them every time he blinks.
“So.” Jisung cuts straight through Minho’s noticing, shooting him a glance. “What’s your plan in New York, anyway?”
Minho blinks hard, wrenching his eyes back to the booklet in his hands like it suddenly demands his full attention. “I– uh,” he stutters, his skin prickling at being caught red-handed staring shamelessly. “I got a fellowship to study for four months at Broadway Dance Center,” Minho says.
“Broadway? Isn’t that a huge deal?” Jisung asks, eyes going a little wide.
“Kinda,” Minho shrugs, trying not to sound overly proud of himself. “Doesn’t necessarily mean I’m gonna be in Broadway plays or anything, but it’s a good starting point.”
“That’s so dope,” Jisung says. “So I take it that you’re a pretty good dancer?”
Minho scratches the back of his neck, shrugging again. Handling compliments well has never been part of his skillset. “I guess,” he says. “I mean, good enough to get in.”
“You got any cool tricks?”
Minho cocks an eyebrow. “Tricks?”
“Yeah, I don’t know.” Jisung adjusts himself on his seat. “Can you do that spinny thing where you turn a million times and don’t fall over?”
“A pirouette?”
“Sure, that.” Jisung nods, glancing over at him. “Or, like, a backflip or something?”
Minho laughs despite himself. “Not really a backflip guy,” he says. “I do more contemporary stuff. Hip-hop, freestyle, some ballet… depends on the mood.”
Jisung hums, eyes back on the road, then throws it out like it’s nothing: “You must be pretty flexible, then?”
Minho blinks. “What?”
Jisung just shrugs, like the question wasn’t meant to do what it did to Minho’s brain. “I mean, it’s important, right? For dance?”
Minho turns his face toward the window so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash, wishing Jisung keeps his eyes on the road long enough his flush will fade into something manageable. “I guess,” he says, voice squeaky. He stills himself with a deep breath. This is ridiculous. “I mean, I’m not circus-level or anything. Just… normal flexible.”
“Mhm,” Jisung says, and Minho can hear the ghost of a grin floating in the air. “Can you do the splits?”
Minho coughs. The warmth on his ears travels downward, flaring his cheeks.
“I mean… yeah? Kinda.”
“Kinda?” Jisung cocks an eyebrow. Minho chooses to stare at himself through the door mirror, his reflection fogged and overshadowed by the blaring sun and still embarrassingly flushed.
“I can, but I don’t go around doing it for fun or anything.” Minho sinks into his seat like he can fold into himself a million times and disappear.
“You’re telling me you have this superpower and don’t use it to win bar bets or impress strangers at gas stations?”
Minho laughs, strangled. Jesus. “It’s not that impressive.”
“Flexibility is a pretty solid life skill,” Jisung says. Then, lower, like he’s thinking out loud: “Bet it comes in handy.”
There’s a record scratch in Minho’s brain. His entire chest floods red hot like he’s suffering from heartburn. “What for?”
Jisung shrugs. “I dunno.” he smoothes the steering wheel with his fingers and Minho tries not to follow the motion with his eyes. It’s a losing game to play with himself, not noticing everything Jisung does. “Yoga, martial arts, washing your own back. You know, that kinda stuff.”
“Oh.” Minho nods, halfheartedly. “Yeah. That kinda stuff,” he mutters.
He knows, of course, Jisung doesn’t mean anything by it. Probably. That he’s at best completely oblivious to his own words and their implications, at worst getting a kick out of watching Minho squirm in his passenger seat now that he’s caught him staring. But Minho is weak, easily suggestible and possibly suffering from heatstroke and Jisung’s words settle somewhere in his gut they absolutely shouldn’t. Not if he’s trying to make it to Kansas unscathed, anyway.
“How many days do you think it’ll take us to get to Kansas?” Minho asks, fiddling with the CD case again, his throat tight as if he’s trying to swallow down every one of his inflamed thoughts, keep them hidden in his stomach.
Jisung interrupts his humming in the rhythm of the song to bite the inside of his cheek and do some mental math. “Depends on how long you can handle me for.”
Not long at all, Minho’s mind immediately provides. “What’s the fastest you can get me there?”
He watches as Jisung’s mouth forms into a shit-eating grin. “Can’t handle me for very long, huh?”
Minho stills himself with a deep breath. “I need to be in New York in three weeks, tops.”
“I’ll make sure you get there before then, Minho. It’ll be a week, two at most, then you can head to New York and become a Broadway dancer and do the splits at will.” Jisung glances at him with the same easy grin, the same glint in his eye, and a portion of Minho’s brain turns into a puddle. Maybe from the heat, more likely from Jisung. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of you.”
God. Does he hear himself? Minho doubts it.
He sinks into his seat again, crossing his arms over his chest in a poor attempt to protect his stuttering heart and resting his head against the window. The sun-warmed glass vibrates against his temple, shooting a humming thrum through his skull, almost calming.
He’d fall asleep if Jisung didn’t feel uncomfortably lodged between his teeth.
By the time they pull into the gravel lot of the inn, the sun is dragging its heels just above the horizon, casting everything in shades of amber and rust. The neon sign buzzes faintly to life, half the letters flickering, the other half dim with age.
The check-in is easy. They each get a room, side by side, keys handed over by a disinterested clerk who barely looks up from the cars and big boobs on his magazine.
They settle in quickly after that, doors creaking open on two nearly identical rooms. Brown carpet, floral bedspreads, a rickety desk lamp near the bed. It smells faintly like lemon cleaner and mildew and the walls are thin enough Minho can hear a couple arguing two rooms over even with his door closed, but it’s cool inside and there’s a wall, however flimsy, between Minho and Jisung, and that’s enough for now.
Minho drops his bag on the floor and presses his palm flat against the AC unit’s vent, sighing in relief at the cold influx of air. He makes it quick work to change out of his jeans and into a pair of shorts. Before he can change out of his sweaty shirt as well, a knock comes at his door, quick and rhythmic.
He opens it to find Jisung leaning against the frame, already barefoot and changed into a tanktop, hair a little mussed from the wind outside. “There’s a vending machine in the lobby,” he announces. “Thought I’d grab something to drink. You want anything?”
Minho hesitates a beat too long, eyes flicking to Jisung’s collarbone where it peeks out from his top. He can make out the edges of a tattoo on his chest and he’s suddenly curious about how many tattoos Jisung has. Where they are. “Uh, yeah,” he clears his throat. “Just… get me whatever you’re having.”
Jisung grins, tapping his shoulder, the heat of his hand seeping through the fabric of Minho’s shirt. “Smart man. Be right back.”
Minho leans in the doorway after he leaves, watching him disappear down the hallway, his shoulder tingling in the shape of Jisung’s hand. He throws his head back against the doorframe, groaning. Maybe hitching a ride across two states with a stranger was a bad idea, afterall.
He shouldn’t be reading into any of it, he knows. Jisung is being kind. Casual, friendly. Maybe a little flirty, but that might very well just be his personality—comfortable in his own skin, quick-witted, unaware of what he’s doing to people like Minho who can’t help but wonder.
And what he’s wondering is if Jisung likes men at all.
Because if he doesn’t, then Minho is just a little overheated, really overtired, projecting his sexual frustration onto the first potentially fuckable person he’s met in what feels like forever. And if he does… well, that’s a whole other problem. One Minho doesn’t want to unpack right now.
And still, his thoughts keep drifting back to Jisung’s mouth. The way he talks like nothing is a matter of concern, the way he looks at him sometimes, like he’s trying to crack Minho in half with his eyes, poke and prod at his most sensitive parts.
Maybe it’s the heat and touch deprivation making Minho hallucinate. It has to be.
When he hears the soft patter of bare feet on the carpet of the hallway and sees Jisung reappear, drinks in hand, his blood pumps harder again. Not toward his brain, unfortunately.
“Mission accomplished,” Jisung says, tossing one of the cans to Minho without breaking stride, marching straight into his room like it’s unclaimed territory.
Minho catches the can, condensation startling his hand, contrasting against the heat gathering in his palms. He looks up, watches Jisung collapse onto his bed in a loose sprawl, tilting his head back to take a swig from his own can, throat moving as he swallows. Minho looks away fast, not fast enough.
He closes the door behind him and leans against it, sipping from his own drink just to do something with his hands. “Beer,” he says as the liquid travels sharp and bitter down his throat. “Weird choice.”
“It’s the only thing they had.” Jisung is now half-lounging on his bed, propped up on his elbows, looking up at him through his lashes. “Didn’t even have water.”
Minho scans the room for somewhere to sit, somewhere as far away from Jisung and his dissecting eyes as possible. In this dingy roadside inn in the middle of nowhere, Oklahoma, he has few options, and none of them are good. He could choose between perching himself uncomfortably on the window ledge or leaning against the wobbly dresser that doubles as a rack for the tiny TV the motel offers as an entertainment option—check front desk for cable alternatives, a note taped to the left bottom corner of the screen reads in a garish mix of fonts and flashy colors. The last, probably worst possibility, is joining Jisung on the bed.
It’s big enough—a decent double bed, comfortable for two adults who don’t mind being a little close together. Minho minds, though. Jisung, on the other hand, wouldn’t give it a second thought, he figures. He seems like the type to never be fazed, ever, by anything. But Minho feels ants crawl under his skin at the mere thought of Jisung’s body heat seeping into his.
Like he can read his thoughts, Jisung says, “There’s plenty of room on the bed, you know. You can sit down, if you want.”
Minho almost scoffs at that. Jisung offering for Minho to sit on his own bed, in his own room. For a bleep, Minho wonders what it must feel like to be this comfortable in your own skin, to never second-guess anything you say. A blessing and a curse, he figures.
Still, with a dull ache thrumming through his body from being crammed inside moving, overheated metal boxes for most of the day, Minho finds himself agreeing to Jisung’s suggestion. He walks toward the bed like he’s trying to go unnoticed, lowers himself onto the mattress like he’s surrendering to a well-known trap.
“Relax.” Comes Jisung’s voice from behind his back. Minho turns his head to look at him, eyebrows pulling together, an unintentional scowl. Jisung pats the mattress as if to prove it won’t bite. Minho doesn’t buy it. “Lie down, it’s fine.”
Minho sighs. His shoulderblades feel tight with how much tension he’s been hoarding all day—first from leaving the only town he’s ever really known, then from getting lost and being forced to interpret a map like it’s an oracle. And now, from being pried open and put on display for all of Jisung and his maddening ease. Like he knows something Minho should know, but doesn’t.
Minho lets himself fall back onto the bed with an ungraceful groan. The way the mattress dips under his weight makes his shoulder brush Jisung’s over his shirt, and it burns. It’s like the sheets are already warmed by the heat radiating in steady waves off Jisung’s skin, and that burns too. Minho rests his beer can on his thigh like that’ll cool his body down, but the second cold metal comes in contact with overheated skin, he hisses through his teeth, a wet ring of condensation stamped over the spot it touched.
The ceiling is splotched with grey and brown stains, and Minho keeps his eyes trained on them, counting as if they’re stars. In his periphery, he can feel more than he can see Jisung’s eyes glued to him, round and insistent, like they’re willing Minho to look back.
“So, Minho,” Jisung says, voice hoarse. “Be honest. You regret saying yes to my ride yet?”
Minho glances at him then, extremities tingling like his body is waking up from general anesthesia too early. He should regret it, maybe, because staring at Jisung makes his lungs feel full and tight like he’s holding his breath even when he isn’t.
He shakes his head. “Not yet.”
Being exasperated by beautiful men has never been much of a liability to Minho, really. No matter how warm and uncomfortably fuzzy it makes him feel inside.
He watches Jisung’s smile spread, lazy and self-satisfied like the cat that ate the canary. “Good,” he murmurs. “I’d hate to think I kidnapped you out of Texas for nothing.”
Minho hums, turning his face back to stare at the ceiling before his embarrassment burns right through his skin, red-hot. “Still not ruling out axe murderer, though.”
Jisung laughs. “Fair,” he says. Minho still feels his eyes pinned on the side of his face. “You’re still here, though.”
Minho circles the ring-pull of his can with his finger, biting on his lower lip. He shrugs. “Guess I’m not as smart as I look,” he says, because wanting to follow a pretty boy across two states to see where it leads him isn’t as good an excuse as it seemed at the diner anymore.
“I don’t know about that. I think you’re plenty smart.” Jisung’s voice sounds lower here, in the quiet, gravelly, thickened with sweetener. “Maybe just curious.”
Minho swallows. “Well, you know what they say,” he mutters, daring himself, childishly, to challenge Jisung’s eyes on their staring. Proving to Jisung, maybe to himself, that he can be bold too. “Curiosity killed the cat, or whatever.”
“But satisfaction brought it back, isn’t that how it goes?” Jisung smirks. Like this, face to face, his breath smells of minty toothpaste and cheap beer, a concoction Minho wants a taste of.
Minho digs his teeth down onto his lip harder still, until he tastes iron and feels the sting of skin threatening to break. “I guess.”
Jisung’s elbow nudges his softly, a tiny electric zip that almost makes Minho lose his one-way dare of not glancing away. “What kinda satisfaction are you looking for, Minho?”
Minho’s eyes sting with the urge to settle on something that doesn’t make his skin burn. “What kinda satisfaction can you get in Oklahoma?”
A non-answer, the best he can give with the way his brain feels like half-dissolved powdered gelatine in his skull.
If the smile that stretches wider in his lips is any indication, Jisung is pleased enough. A pathetic portion of Minho’s brain urges him to beam right back. It’s Jisung who looks away this time, talking to the ceiling when he speaks next. “Guess we’re about to find out together.”
Minho chuckles. The can in his hand is sweaty with condensation, slipping from his grip. Tiny droplets run down its length to seep through the fabric of his shorts, settling over his skin.
“What made you even want to go on a road trip across every state, anyway?” Minho asks. “Why not just go places you know there’s something good?”
It’s intriguing to Minho, the concept of not having a plan for something as major as roundtripping the country by yourself. He goes one day without a plan and ends up five hundred miles west from the direction he meant to go, lying on a mattress that smells like mothballs next to a guy that’s so painfully his type it makes his head throb when he looks at him too long.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Jisung dismisses him. “Besides, there’s something good to be found everywhere if you look hard enough,” he says, and Minho cocks an eyebrow.
“Even in Sulphur, Oklahoma?”
Jisung grins. “Especially in Sulphur, Oklahoma,” he decides. “This is the New York of the southwest, you’ll see.”
Minho laughs. “I don’t know about that.”
Jisung laughs too, and Minho likes his laugh so much. It’s hearty and full, like it’s born somewhere deep in his gut and pushed out by joy taking up space in his belly. He finds himself wishing to make Jisung laugh again and again, to watch his face melt around his toothy smile.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Jisung asks, eyes gleaming warm in the last rays of sunlight sifting through the dirt spots on the windowpane, shimmering deep orange.
Minho doesn’t know why he would. They’ve known each other for less than five hours, Jisung knows close to nothing about him other than the fact that he has a sense of direction that cannot be trusted. But he’s offering him a secret and Minho wants to hear it. “Yeah.”
“I don’t really know why I’m doing this,” Jisung says. “Before I left, my mom asked me what I was trying to get out of it.”
“And what’d you tell her?”
“That I didn’t know.” Jisung shrugs. “I think maybe she’s waiting for me to go back with a full report of my impressions or a revelation. Whenever we talk on the phone, she asks me if I found it yet.”
“Found what?” Minho asks.
“God only knows,” Jisung murmurs. “Spiritual enlightenment? My one true calling? The world’s best gas station churro?”
Minho smiles. “Dreaming big.”
“Always,” Jisung chuckles. “Or maybe love? Isn’t that a reason why people go driving all around the country making stupid decisions?”
Minho tilts his head. “Love?”
“Yeah.” Jisung uses his hand to muffle a yawn, starting to sound sleepy. “It’s gotta be out there somewhere, right?”
“So you’re a romantic?”
Jisung hums, eyes half-lidded. “I’m a realist with bad impulse control.”
Minho snorts. “What’s the difference?”
Jisung shrugs, defeated. “And you’re not?” he asks. “A romantic, I mean.”
“I dunno. I don’t really think about love that much,” Minho mutters. “There’s your answer, I guess.”
Growing up, love was a prickly thing to Minho, a sea urchin between his ribs. His parents never got divorced, but he often wished they would. As much as they avoided fighting in front of him, Minho never witnessed them doing much of anything else married couples should do, either. An only child, he’d often be caught in the middle of their grievances of one another. After school, perched restlessly on the edge of a kitchen chair, stealing glances at the come-and-go of other kids playing catch through the window, he’d fall victim to his mother’s rambling complaints of his father. In return, his father would take him fishing over entire weekends and transform their small getaways into long winded monologues advising Minho to never get married, no matter how head over heels he thought he was—it ruins love, he’d say.
As Minho grew older and more aware of the fact that his notion of love didn’t fit his parents’, things got worse. When his friends from school started having their first kiss, finding sweethearts to slip secret love notes to in the middle of class, Minho began feeling like he was lagging behind.
The problem wasn’t figuring himself out—he understood what he was from a very early age, even if he didn’t have a name for it at the time. As a young child, he’d find himself skipping ahead to Prince Philip’s scenes whenever he watched Sleeping Beauty. When his mother started allowing him to go to the video store on his own, ten dollar bill tucked safely in his pocket, he’d rent the Star Wars trilogy every other week and rewind the cassettes to the point of wear and tear every single time Luke was on screen, searing his image on his retinas, hoping he’d dream of him at night.
His problem started when he realized that other people didn’t find that normal, even if it was the only thing Minho knew how to be. That when he watched Star Wars with his friends, they’d drool over Princess Leia instead, hanging posters of her on their walls to stare at before going to sleep, hoping she’d grace their dreams the way Minho did Luke. That when his mother would talk of Minho getting married one day, she’d talk about a her like it was the only possible way things could go. And Minho has always been good at picking up context clues.
Little by little, then, without needing to be told, Minho began sneaking around.
He had his first kiss at sixteen, hiding from downpour and prying eyes under the bleachers of his high school and rushed by the possibility of being caught. The upperclassman Minho chose to do it with, a senior to Minho’s sophomore, was the most nervous of the pair, shooting worried glances over his shoulder when he thought Minho wasn’t paying attention. It was awkward, messy and a little gross the way first kisses tend to be, heavy drops of rain crackling against the metal seats over their heads, deafening. But Minho remembers it mostly as the first time he felt a sense of self-determination, the first thing he felt belonged to himself.
Minho never told his parents—about Luke Skywalker, about the kiss, about thinking he could only ever love another man—and he isn’t sure he ever will. Not because he feels shame, because he doesn’t, and not because he’s scared, because he isn’t, but because it feels pointless. It felt pointless, anyway, living in Jackson. Because love the way he envisioned it seemed like an impossible thing to want around there.
Now that he comes to think of it, fleeing to New York might be his own way of looking for love, too.
Next to him, Jisung groans, stretching his arms over his head. “Jesus, this mattress sucks,” he complains, his hand finding the arch of his back as he grimaces. “Mine’s way comfier.”
Deliriously, Minho’s brain transforms that into an invitation. His eyes snap back to Jisung’s face. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.” Jisung nods, supporting himself on his elbows, chugging the last of his beer with his head thrown back. Minho watches his throat move like he’s in a trance. “Speaking of, I think I’m heading back to my room now. Long day tomorrow.”
Minho hopes his face doesn’t betray his disappointment. “Okay, yeah. Sure.”
He watches Jisung sit upright, muscle shifting easily under honeyed skin, and his mouth waters. Instead of moving to get up immediately, though, Jisung looks back over his shoulder, eyes flicking down at Minho, and somehow he knows he’s about to do something Minho won’t stop thinking about for hours.
And Jisung does.
He leans over Minho’s body, one hand digging into the mattress next to Minho’s head, supporting his weight, caging him in. The thin chain around his neck stretches low, dangling right above Minho’s nose like the promise of a treat to a drooling dog, close enough he could catch it between his teeth.
Then, like it happens in slow motion, Jisung’s fingers find his chin, tilting Minho’s face up just slightly between his thumb and forefinger, skin on burning skin. Easy, practiced, like he’s done it before, like he’s done it a million times. Minho wishes he’d do it a million times more, even if he can feel himself flushing red all over.
Jisung’s eyes lock on Minho’s, then trail down down down to his mouth before traveling up again. “Try not to miss me too much,” he says, soft, teasing, mindnumbing. His thumb drags just below Minho’s bottom lip, the pad rough against his chin. Minho wishes he’d press it down on his tongue.
Minho’s vision blurs and he sinks deeper into the mattress with the way his entire body tenses up. He means to say something clever back, maybe to scoff or roll his eyes like this doesn’t have any effect on him or just to tell Jisung to fuck off like he probably deserves.
Instead, what leaves his mouth is, “I’ll do my best.”
Pathetically honest, achingly humiliating.
And then Jisung is gone. Just like that. Up and off the bed, smiling like it’s nothing, like he didn’t just ruin Minho’s evening, maybe his entire life. He pauses at the doorway, throwing one last look over his shoulder with that maddening little grin, winking. “Goodnight, Minho.”
When the door clicks shut behind his back, Minho is left alone in deafening silence, hearing only the tiny pops of his beer sizzling, forgotten and lukewarm, fizzling out of taste.
Immediately, Minho bolts into the bathroom and under the cold shower. The water is freezing and it prickles against his skin like a million tiny needles, but he doesn’t adjust the temperature. Minho feels both like a dog who did something wrong and its owner at the same time. Like he’s on time out for wanting too much too fast.
He presses his forehead against the cold tile wall like it can make the room stop spinning or suck all thoughts about Jisung out of his brain. He groans, the sound echoing off the bathroom walls as the water tries and fails to wash Jisung’s touch off his skin. He rubs his face raw, feels it burn in the spots Jisung’s fingers dug into the flesh.
It doesn’t do the trick. When Minho steps out of the shower, he’s more restless than before, tension knotting tighter at the pit of his stomach. Back in the room, lying on the bed, his eyes stay wide open, fixated on the splotchy ceiling while the TV hums with a rerun of the latest episode of Friends.
And Minho tries to go to sleep. He really does, especially because he’s been awake for way too long and will probably have an early morning tomorrow and all of this is probably at least partially caused by sleep deprivation. But there's the image of Jisung on the other side of the wall flashing behind his eyelids and there’s his cock twitching in his underwear and there’s cold sweat gathering at his palms, sticky.
It all makes falling asleep a little harder.
It’s so ridiculous. Minho isn’t usually like this, acting like a pre-pubescent teen just over anything someone attractive does. He’s not that desperate. Or at least he didn’t think he was. Maybe he’s been neglecting the sexual aspect of his life for a little longer than he initially thought—funnily enough, there aren’t many cute guys to fuck in Jackson, Louisiana, population 3,800, more churches than schools.
So, inevitably and without permission, his mind wanders. To Jisung’s arms. Tan and toned. The way his sleeves stretched tight around his biceps during the entire car ride. He could probably lift Minho up easily if he tried. Pin him up against a wall or press him down onto a mattress without breaking a sweat. Minho’s pulse jumps in his throat and he presses a hand over it, like that’ll somehow make it slow down. He feels his blood pump in his veins through the tips of his fingers, rushing rampant.
Minho’s hand slides down to his chest, presses over his heart, thudding furiously. And his mind drifts to Jisung’s tongue. Jisung licking the cream off the corner of his mouth at the diner. Minho shuts his eyes like that’ll help, but it only sharpens the memory. Jisung’s tongue flicking out, pink and wet. Quick. It really shouldn’t make his stomach flip like it does right now. It shouldn't make him think about what Jisung's mouth tastes like. How his tongue must feel over sweat-slicked skin.
He groans, low in his throat, squeezing his eyes shut until there’s TV static glitching behind his eyelids, his hand sliding down to the bottom of his stomach where a pool of heat and tension seems about to overflow, his skin hot to the touch. And then his mind is on Jisung’s fingers, wrapped around the beer can, then around his chin, digging into the flesh of his cheek for just a second. The way Jisung had sucked the pie filling from the tip of his thumb at the diner, the wet pop from his mouth when he was finished. What his fingers would feel like touching him elsewhere. Working him open, gripping his flesh, bending him over, stuffed in his mouth.
Much like his mind, Minho’s hand wanders lower. The tips of his fingers brush against the band of his sweatpants and he hisses like he’s touching barbed wire. He knows he shouldn’t do this. It’s fucking ridiculous. A little pathetic at best, completely inappropriate at worst.
None of that awareness stops his hand from slipping under the waistband of his boxers.
Minho groans again, softer this time, when he wraps his hand around his cock, painfully hard and wet and colored an angry red like he’s already touched himself. Like Jisung has touched him. He fists the sheets with his other hand as his grip tightens, like that might ground him somehow. Like anything about this is grounded in reality.
His hips jerk up into his hand, stuttering and slow, and his moan is bitten down behind his clenched teeth. Minho strokes himself once, twice, trying to think of anything that’s not Jisung’s thighs sprawled over this bed he’s on right now. Anything that’s not the way his fingers wrapped around Minho’s face, the pad of his thumb brushing over his chin, when he said try not to miss me too much with that cocky grin, leaning over him, eclipsing his field of vision like he was the only thing that existed for those few seconds.
It doesn’t work. Minho whines, broken and high, pressing a thumb over the slit of his cock and fucking harder into his own fist imagining it’s Jisung’s instead, calloused and just a little bigger than his own, a little leaner. The wet squelch of friction sends his brain buzzing at the thought of Jisung kneeling between his legs, one hand on his thigh, the other around his cock, his mouth open, tongue shining in the low light, waiting. He thinks about spilling his sounds onto Jisung’s mouth, making him swallow them, drink everything up.
At the same time he twists his wrist, spreading more pre-cum over himself to make the glide of his hand smoother, Minho thinks he shouldn’t be doing this. Paying only half attention to his own protests, to the fact that this is completely wrong, his hips kick up like they have a mind of their own.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway bleeds into the room and Minho freezes, mind reeling back to reality in slow, buffering bursts of sense cutting through the foggy haze like a hot knife through butter. The bed creaks under him as if it’s complaining, and Minho’s mind rushes back to the time he arrived, to hearing that couple fighting two rooms over. To coming to the conclusion that the walls here are paper-thin. His stomach twists into a million knots.
Because Jisung is sleeping in the next room over, the headboard for each of their beds pressed up against different sides of the same thin wall. Minho goes still, listening for any sign that Jisung might be awake. That he might have heard.
The thought should mortify him. And it does, kind of. But also…
It also stirs him a little further. His cock kicks, still hard in his grip, demanding attention.
Minho bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, hips jerking up again, slower this time. There’s a sick kind of thrill curling in his chest now—a twisted and reckless part of him wants Jisung to hear. Wants him to lie awake and wonder and think about Minho, flushed and panting and needing. Wants him to feel as desperate and pathetic as Minho does. Wants him to press his ear onto the wall, eager to hear. Wants him to knock on his door and do something about it.
He groans again, low and poorly muffled by the hand he slaps over his mouth, as his other hand moves faster, more desperate as he pictures Jisung on the other side of the wall, shirtless, maybe shifting in bed, restless, maybe listening. Maybe hard, maybe touching himself too, maybe biting back his own sounds, failing to keep himself quiet. He’d whimper, Minho thinks. He’d whine and writhe and fall apart and pick himself back together afterward.
That mental image is enough to send stars bursting in Minho’s vision, his orgasm washing over him fast and sudden and completely mindnumbing. His back arches clean off the mattress and he bites back a high-pitched moan as he comes all over his fingers and stomach, sticky and warm, his heart slamming against his chest like it might punch its way out.
“Fuck,” he pants, chest heaving, damp hair sticking to his face, feeling boneless and spent like he just got his soul sucked out of him. His thighs shake and his mouth is dry and it feels like he’s just sprinted through a fever dream.
He throws an arm over his eyes and pants his breathing pattern back to normal. His stomach twists with embarrassment, guilt, something akin to regret. But mostly disbelief.
He lies awake, staring at the ceiling, his come drying sticky and uncomfortable over his belly, feeling like the laughing track coming from the TV is aimed at him. At him and his pathetic thoughts of being fucked into a motel mattress by a guy he met less than 24 hours ago.
It takes him hours to finally fall asleep.