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Nobody respects competitive bedmaking until you see a man assemble a king-sized duvet in seventy-seven seconds.
Jisung is that man. Was. Picture this, him at the IFCB Semis against some up and coming hotel management trainee. It wasn’t his fastest build and definitely not his cleanest, but somehow that's the one that went viral on YouTube with one million views, most of them his. He's not proud of the view count. Okay, maybe he is.
Right now he's crouched behind the competitor's curtain at the IFCB World Championships, doing his pre-match ritual, which is cracking every knuckle he owns and whispering affirmations into a test pillow.
You are fast. You are clean. Your corners are amazing. You will not think about him.
He thinks about him.
He always thinks about him. It's involuntary, like a sneeze, or a leg twitch. Somewhere on the other side of the venue, in the rival staging area, Lee Minho is doing whatever the hell Lee Minho does before a match. Probably nothing. Probably standing very still and looking like an assassin on a mission.
Probably not whispering into pillows like a freak.
"You good?" Felix slides down next to him, knees popping as he goes, holding two energy gels, looking like he's watched this exact meltdown forty times before.
"I'm incredible," Jisung says. "I'm a machine. I'm in my prime."
"You're literally quaking in your boots."
"This is prime Jisung."
Okay. For the uninitiated. Competitive bedcraft is a real sport. "Professional athlete" sounded cool right up until the follow-up question. And every single time without fail somebody would ask "What sport?" And Jisung would have to look another human being in the eye and answer "Bed." But its real, okay? It's governed by the International Federation of Competitive Bedcraft, the IFCB, an organization with a flag, a rulebook ten pages thick, and exactly one televised event per year that airs reruns at 2 a.m. on a channel that shows infomercials and supermegachurch sermons.
Athletes compete in timed builds. They're given a king-sized bare mattress, a set of standardized linens, and they make the bed. That's it. That's the whole sport. People train their entire lives for this.
It's judged on five pillars. Speed, obviously. Then sheet tension, measured by the drop test, where a judge bounces a regulation coin off the top sheet and reads the height like a hawk. Then hospital corners, scored on the crispness of the fold and the forty-five degree angle, no exceptions, a forty-four is amateurish at best. Then duvet symmetry. Then pillow architecture, which is its own dark art and which Jisung has placed top three worldwide for two consecutive seasons, thank you very much, it's on the website.
His signature move is the Han Flip, where he tosses the duvet into the air, lets it open mid-flight, and brings it down so it lands square on the mattress with zero adjustment needed. When he hits it, the crowd loses their minds. When he misses, the duvet lands like a soggy ravioli and he has to play it cool like it was supposed to happen that way.
It's high risk, high reward. It's beautiful. It's art.
Minho doesn't do art. Minho is precision personified. Where Jisung is chaotic flair, Minho makes a bed like a surgeon removing a burst appendix, no wasted motion, no soul, clinical, cleancleanclean, and a final pillow placement so exact you could use it to calibrate a laser.
He's never once attempted the Han Flip or any flip. He just destroys the field, accepts his medal with a nod, a polite smile, and leaves.
People have monikered him Lee Know, because when you watch him work you think, oh, he knows. He knows exactly what he's doing.
I know. You know. Lee Know.
Jisung hates him with a focused, sustaining hatred he's built an entire personality around.
~
It started at Nationals three years ago. The final came down to the two of them. Jisung built the bed of his life. Seventy-four seconds, corners like origami, a Han Flip so clean the duvet might as well have been laid by the hand of God. He stood back. He knew he had it. He could taste the trophy, which tastes like cheap brass and validation for his hard work and training.
Then Minho went, calm as a Sunday morning, and tied with him.
Tied. On every pillar. They went to the tiebreaker, which in bedcraft is the pillow placement, judged on center alignment down to the millimeter, and the head judge stared at both beds for ninety seconds, and then she pointed at Minho.
Zero point two centimeters to the left. Jisung lost by zero point two points on pillow placement.
And the worst part. The part he will carry to his grave. After they announced it, Minho walked past him, leaned in close enough that Jisung could feel the words on his ear, and said, "On your left, Han."
That was it. That was the whole sentence. It didn't even make sense!
Then he took his trophy and left, and Jisung stood there in the confetti like an idiot, and something in his chest snapped clean in half and reformed itself into a single-minded obsession that has powered his entire athletic career since.
He's going to beat Lee Minho. He's going to beat him on the biggest stage in the sport. And then he's going to lean in and say something so devastating that Minho thinks about it every night for the rest of his life.
He hasn't worked out the line yet. He's been busy.
~
"He's going to win his bracket," Felix says, scrolling on his phone. "If you take yours, you meet in the final."
"I know. I've got this. I watched his last six matches, I've got him read to filth."
"That's not healthy, Sungie."
"Lix, this is competitive bed-making. There's nothing healthy about this."
Felix opens his mouth, closes it, and hands over an energy gel instead. Smart kid.
A voice over the PA calls Jisung's heat. He stands. His knees do a thing.
"Hey." Felix grabs his sleeve. "You're really good at this. Like, freakishly good. Go make a really good bed."
Which is the dumbest, most beautiful pre-match speech anyone has ever given, and Jisung loves him for it, and he walks out into the lights.
"I'm going to crush him so hard he's going to have nightmares about me until he's seventy."
The semifinal is not close.
He doesn't even need the Han Flip. He builds clean, builds fast, seventy-two seconds flat, and the coin off his top sheet bounces so high the judge has to track it with both eyes.
The crowd does the thing where they gasp and then cheer, his favorite two-part harmony in the world. He throws both arms up, points at the camera, mouths "Let's Go" with a level of intensity usually reserved for sporting events that actually matter to society. He's through to the final.
Across the venue, on the big screen, the other semifinal cuts in, and there he is. Of course he is. Lee Minho, mid-build, with an infuriatingly blank face like making a bed is something he does to fill the silence between more interesting thoughts. He tucks the final corner. He sets the pillow. He steps back exactly one pace and folds his hands.
Seventy seconds.
The number flashes up and the venue makes a noise Jisung feels in his molars.
Two seconds faster. He went two seconds faster than Jisung and he didn't even flip anything.
The inside of Jisung's skull turns briefly into a war room. Options get tabled. Most of them are crimes. One of them is just lying down on the venue floor and staying there until the building gets demolished, which at least has the advantage of being legal.
No. No. Focus.
Jisung wrenches his eyes off the screen. They've got the final tonight. Prime time, which for the IFCB means 11 p.m., but still. The biggest stage. Everything he's trained for. Everything he's bled fitted-sheet-corner blood for.
He's going to make the best bed of his life. And then, finally, he's going to make Lee Minho regret being born.
Kidz 🔥
Lixiebaby: Lee Know won his semis in 70 seconds
Chris: SEVENTY?!
Lixiebaby: Sungie is talking to his pillow again
Binnie: is he ok?
Lixiebaby: oh yeah he's just hyping himself, nth new
Yennie: tell him to lock tf in and stop being a fuckin weirdo
Hyune: oh he's so cooked
HanQuok: Im right here u know
Binnie: GET HIM BABYYYY
The final is staged in the center ring. One mattress for each of them, set side by side, lit like a boxing match. The linens come sealed in regulation packs. The clock looms over both beds, red and merciless. Four hundred people in the stands and a camera crew and a head judge who has been doing this for ten years and has gone dead-eyed from seeing every kind of corner a human can fold.
Jisung walks out to his side.
The lights are hot. His heart is doing a drum solo.
Minho's already there.
What Jisung hates most, the thing he will never admit out loud, not under torture, not to Felix, not to a priest, is that Lee Minho is, objectively, the most annoyingly beautiful man in competitive bedcraft, possibly in any sport that requires standing near a bed. Sharp nose. Eyes like a cat deciding whether you're worthy of their presence. He's in the black athletic fit that everyone wears yet somehow it looks like it was made for him personally.
He looks over. He finds Jisung's eyes across the ring, and one corner of his mouth tips up. Not a smile. Adjacent to a smile. A smile's deadbeat cousin once removed.
"Han," he says.
"Lee," Jisung says, with all the venom he practiced in the mirror.
"You look nervous."
"I'm focused."
"On me?"
"On the bed."
"Mm." Minho turns back to his mattress and rolls his shoulders, loose, unbothered, and Jisung wants to scream. He's getting in your head. He's been in your head for three years. He has a whole apartment up there and doesn't even pay rent.
The head judge raises her hand. Everything goes quiet.
"Athletes," she says. "On my mark."
Jisung's hands settle over his sealed linen pack. The whole world narrows to the mattress in front of him. He can do this. He was born for this. Seventy-two in the semis, and that was him coasting. He's got more. He's got a Han Flip in the tank that'll bring the house down. He just has to be clean. He just has to be perfect. He just has to not—
"Start!"
—think about him.
He rips the pack. Fitted sheet, snap, corner, corner, the mattress lift and tuck, his hands moving on pure muscle memory, faster than thought, and beside him he can feel Minho doing the same, a blur in his peripheral vision, two machines firing at once. Top sheet, billow, lay, and now the corners, the corners are everything, forty-five degrees, fold and tuck and smooth, and his are immaculate, his are art-gallery corners. Hyunjin would be so proud.
He's tied with Minho. He knows it in his body. He can feel the man matching him beat for beat, and the crowd knows it too, they've gone dead silent, four hundred people holding one breath.
Duvet.
This is the moment. He could play it safe, lay it clean, settle for a tie and fight it out in the pillow tiebreaker.
Or.
He could flip.
Do it, you coward. Do it. Win this on your terms. Bring the house down. Make him watch.
Jisung grabs the duvet, and he flips. It goes up. It opens mid-air, a perfect bloom of white, and for one suspended second it hangs over his mattress like a held breath, and four hundred people gasp, and time slows down, and it is the most beautiful thing he has ever done, and it is going to land perfect—
His foot slips on a loose corner of the floor mat.
He goes down. The duvet comes down. They arrive at the bed together, Jisung first, flat on his back across his own immaculate fitted sheet, the duvet settling over him like a shroud, Jisung dead on the field doing what he loved.
The buzzer screams. There's a silence in the venue that has its own gravity.
Jisung lies there. Under the duvet. On the bed. In front of four hundred people and a camera crew and the head judge with the dead eyes. He can feel his own pulse in his ears.
"Han Jisung," the PA crackles, slow and strained, like he's reading a sentence he never trained for, "has, uh. Has occupied his bed before the conclusion of judging. Which is. A disqualification. Under section nine, article four. The 'do not lie in the bed' rule."
The crowd loses it. Not in the good way. Four hundred people howling at the man who flipped a duvet and ate it on the world stage.
Jisung does not move. He considers staying under the duvet forever. It's nice under here. Warm. Private. No Lee Minho under here.
~
He's still under it, technically, when they clear the venue. The crowd files out. The crew breaks down the rig around him. Someone asks if he's okay and Felix, bless him, runs interference, says he's processing, give him space, he'll be out later, and eventually it's just the slow hum of the building emptying, the big lights cutting one bank at a time, and Jisung alone on his disqualified bed in the dark, staring up at the rafters through a thin layer of regulation duvet.
The biggest stage of his life. And he lost not to Lee Minho's surgical precision but to gravity, and a floor mat, and his own beautiful, fatal need to put on a show.
"Are you dead under there?"
Jisung's whole body goes rigid.
He knows that voice. He's heard it in his nightmares. He's heard it say "On your left, Han" roughly four thousand times.
He yanks the duvet down off his face.
Minho is standing at the foot of the bed, hands in the pockets of his warm-up jacket, backlit by the one bank of lights still on. He's got a gold medal around his neck because of course he won, he won by default the second Jisung hit the mattress, he didn't even have to finish strong, the universe just handed it to him.
"Come to gloat," Jisung says. He means it to come out cutting. It comes out muffled, because he's still mostly horizontal and his dignity is somewhere under the bed.
"Came to see if the body was still warm." Minho tilts his head. "You fell."
"I fell."
"We had a tie." Minho says it slowly, like he's still working it out, like the sheer audacity of it requires a recount. "You'd have made me earn it." A beat. "And then you fucking fell."
"It would've been incredible," Jisung says, and sits up, the duvet pooling in his lap, and he's aware that he is having this conversation while sitting in the bed that disqualified him. "If I'd landed it, it would've been the greatest moment in the history of this sport, and you know it, and that's what's killing you. You'd have lost to the most beautiful bed ever made on live television and you'd have had to live with it."
"I didn't lose, though."
"You almost lost."
"I won." Minho takes a step closer, around the side of the bed. The medal swings. "I've always won."
And there it is. The old wound, cracked right open. Jisung is on his feet before he decides to be, standing on the mattress, which puts him taller than Minho for once in his life, towering over him on a battlefield of his own ruined linens.
"By zero point two," he says. "Three years ago. You beat me by zero point two points on an off-centered pillow and you've been coasting on it ever since, and you have the nerve, the actual nerve, to stand there with that face—"
"What's wrong with my face?"
"—doing the thing it does—" Jisung gestures violently at the entire situation of Minho's face. "—and acting like you're better than me, when we both know if I'd landed that flip you'd be the one lying in a bed right now contemplating early retirement."
Minho looks up at him. The not-smile is back. Worse than ever.
"You think about me a lot," he says.
"I think about beating you."
"Of course you do."
"To strategize—"
"You watch my matches."
"How do you know I watch your—" Jisung stops. His brain catches up to his mouth, which never happens, it's usually the other way around. "Did you talk to Felix?"
"Felix talks to Seungmin." Minho's voice has dropped, gone into a register Jisung has never heard from him, one that does something deeply inconvenient to the back of his neck. "Seungmin talks to me. I know all about your spreadsheet, Han."
Jisung's brain, ever helpful, offers a single instruction in block capitals: LEAVE. NOW. FOREVER.
"That's—" Jisung's mouth is dry. "That's espionage. That's a violation. I'm reporting you to the IFCB ethics board."
"Mmhm." Minho is very close now. He's looking up at Jisung with those cat eyes and they are not blank, that's the horrible thing Jisung is only now noticing, they have never once been blank, he's just been too busy hating the man to read them. "Want to know what I think about?"
Jisung does not say anything. His heart has relocated to his throat. The venue is very dark and very empty and very quiet and they are the only two people in it and he is standing on a bed in front of the man he has spent three years hating with everything he has, and the hating feels suddenly, alarmingly, like it has been standing in front of something else the whole time, blocking the view.
"You," Minho says.
It lands flat, almost bored, and it takes Jisung a full second to register that it wasn't an insult because no.
"What?"
Absolutely not.
No because if yes, then—
Okay first of all.
First of all.
What the fuck?
Minho's face doesn't change.
"You."
"No, I heard the word." Jisung points at him. "I know the word. It's a very common word. Top ten word, probably."
"Every match," He pauses and sighs. He looks deeply annoyed to be saying any of it. "you come in and give me the evilest death stare your round boba eyes can muster, and I think about it for weeks after like an idiot." A breath. "I didn't come back here to gloat. I came back because you were lying under that duvet and I couldn't make myself walk out of the building."
Jisung kisses him.
He acts before he can deliberate —no, spiral— on it. Three years of tension finally finding the one crack in the dam, and he drops to his knees on the mattress and grabs Minho by the collar of that stupid perfect jacket and hauls him in, and Minho makes a sound against his mouth like the breath got knocked out of him, like he wasn't ready either, like for once in his life Lee Minho did not know.
Then his hands come up into Jisung's hair and he kisses back like he's got three years of his own to settle, and the gold medal presses cold between them, and Jisung thinks, dimly, somewhere under the roar,
oh.
oh,
this. It was this the whole time.
Minho gets a knee up on the mattress and Jisung pulls him down, and they go over together onto the disqualified bed, the duvet that ended his career bunching under them, and it should be funny, it's a little funny, Jisung laughs into the kiss and Minho bites his lip for it, not gently.
"You ruined my corners," Jisung breathes, when they break for air. Minho's hovering over him, hair a mess for the first time in recorded history, and the sight is so good Jisung's brain stutters.
"I'm about to ruin a lot more than your corners," Minho says, and then has the audacity to physically cringe at his own line, and that, somehow, is the hottest thing that's happened yet: Minho caught being a mere mortal.
"That was awful."
"Shut up, Han."
"Make me, Min—"
Minho makes him.
He kisses down Jisung's throat, unhurried, like he's got all the time in the empty venue, like there's no clock for once, and Jisung's hands scrabble at the zipper of the jacket and shove it off his shoulders, and underneath there's just heat and lean muscle, all of it earned building things at speed. Jisung gets a hand flat on his stomach and feels his clothed erection jump.
"You're eager," Jisung says, throwing it back at him, grinning, breathless.
Minho's hand slides down between them and presses, and the rest of Jisung's cockiness dissolves into a whimper Jisung didn't authorize his body to make, and he watches Minho's face do something smug and wrecked at once.
"Say something else," Minho murmurs against his jaw. "Go on. You're so good at running your pretty little mouth." He drawls, his hands now cupping Jisung's jaw.
He isn't, suddenly. Han Jisung, professional word-vomiter, runs completely empty, because Minho's fingers are prodding his lips open and Jisung takes them, swirls his tongue against them and Minho is a goner. He kisses Jisung square on the lips one more time and gets his shirt up and off and his mouth is moving down his chest, over the tattoos there, pausing, learning them, and his hands are everywhere and they are not surgical anymore, not precise, they're greedy, and every clever thing Jisung had stockpiled for this man over three years evaporates and leaves behind one word on a loop. Minho, Minho, Minho.
Minho gets the rest of their clothes off between kisses that keep derailing them, and the regulation top sheet is a disaster now, the hospital corners blown out, the duvet kicked half off the bed, years of combined competitive bedmaking pedigree actively undone by the two of them, and Jisung cannot bring himself to care. He pulls Minho down by the back of the neck. Skin to skin the man runs hot, hotter than Jisung expected, and he arches up into it greedy for more.
"I hate you," Jisung gasps, as Minho's hand wraps around his length, slow, deliberate, that infuriating precision finally pointed somewhere Jisung desperately wants it. Minho runs a thumb on his slicked slit and Jisung hisses.
"I know," Minho says, against his mouth, and there's something soft under the smug now, something that's been there all along. "I know, baby. I've got you."
The baby undoes him. He'd be embarrassed about how fast it undoes him if he had any blood left in his brain to manage embarrassment.
Minho kisses two of his own fingers, filthy and unhurried, gets them slick, and Jisung watches him do it and briefly forgets the English language. There's no bag in here, no bottle, nothing in the gutted venue but the two of them and a wrecked bed, so Minho works with what he's got, spit-slick and patient, and presses one finger into him slow enough that Jisung's whole body lights up with it.
"Breathe," he murmurs, when Jisung's breath snags. He drops his mouth to Jisung's hip, the inside of his thigh, anywhere he can reach, gentling him through it, and doesn't push for more until Jisung is rocking down onto the one finger, asking without words for the next.
Minho gives it to him. Two now, wet again from his own mouth, deeper, crooking just so until he finds the spot that wipes every clever thought clean out of Jisung's head. Jisung's back leaves the mattress. He makes a sound he will deny under oath.
"There you go," Minho says, low and ragged, watching him. He works him open slow and thorough, three fingers and more spit and a patience that's almost worse than rushing, until Jisung is loose and shaking and entirely past pride, fucking himself down onto Minho's hand.
"Minho, come on, I'm ready, I swear to god if you make me wait—"
"You're always in such a hurry." But his voice is shot, and the hand gripping Jisung's thigh isn't steady, and the control is theater now. They both know it.
When Minho finally moves into him, slow and careful and watching Jisung's face the whole time with those cat eyes gone dark and intent, Jisung's hands fly up to grab his shoulders and hold on. It's a lot. It's everything. Minho stills, gives him a second, drops his forehead to Jisung's and breathes with him, and Jisung gets one hand into his hair and pulls him into a kiss that's more breath than kiss.
"Okay?" Minho asks. Barely a sound.
"Move," Jisung says and Minho groans, bites his shoulder, and moves.
And then it isn't careful anymore. Minho sets a rhythm with the same relentless control he brings to everything, every drive of his hips finding the exact angle that turns Jisung's spine to water, and Jisung unravels under him immediately, loud and shameless, hands raking down his back, ankles locked at the small of it.
"That’s it, baby," Minho breathes against his jaw. "All that mouth on you, and look at you now. Can't even put a sentence together."
"Shut—" Jisung gets out, and Minho rolls his hips and the rest of it dies in his throat.
"That's what I thought." A hand spreads warm over his stomach, holding him down, holding him there. "So desperate for it. You came in here tonight wanting to ruin me, and you're the one coming apart on my—"
"Minho." It comes out a whine, humiliating, and Jisung is so far past caring he can't even see caring from here. "Minho, p-please. Harder. Come on."
"Yeah?" Something in Minho's voice frays, the deadpan finally splitting down the middle. "Ask me nicely."
And the part Jisung will take to his grave before he ever tells Felix is that he does. "Please," he says, "please, Minho, harder, I need it, I need you, hyung, please," and it works, because Minho makes a broken sound and gives it to him, harder, deeper, the bed shrieking under them in protest.
"Good." Minho's pace turns brutal, and the single word lands somewhere under Jisung's ribs and detonates. "God, you're so good, you take it so well. Knew you would. Knew you'd be perfect for me." The careful surface is gone now, all of it, he's babbling it into Jisung's throat between thrusts, good and perfect and mine, and Jisung gives it right back, please and yes and there and Minho, until neither of them is saying anything that holds shape.
The ruined bed howls under them. The medal's somewhere on the floor. The last bank of lights hums overhead, and Jisung, somewhere near the white-hot end of it, with Minho's fist in his hair and Minho's voice gone to pieces against his throat telling him how good he is, how perfect, how long he's wanted this, has the dizzy thought that this is the best thing he's ever made on this mattress and there's no judge alive who could score it.
"Come on, little baby." Minho's hand works him in time now, ruthless. "You've been so good for me. Let me see it. Come."
He does. He comes with Minho's name in his mouth, and the fact of it, that Minho told him to and he just obeyed, is going to live in his head until the day he dies. Minho follows him over a few thrusts later, shaking apart with a groan Jisung is going to think about for the rest of his natural life.
~
For a while, neither of them says anything.
That should be the first sign something is deeply wrong, because Jisung has never let a silence survive longer than four seconds in his life. But he's wrung out and boneless and Minho's heartbeat is going steady under his ear, and the venue is dark and enormous and empty around them, and for once his brain hands him nothing to fill the space with. So he doesn't. He lets the quiet sit. He lets Minho's hand move slow through his hair, like the clock that's ruled both their lives doesn't reach in here.
The bed is destroyed. The fitted sheet has surrendered two corners. The duvet is a casualty on the floor near the medal. By every standard of the sport they've both given their whole lives to, it is the worst bed either of them has ever made, and Jisung has never been prouder of a single thing.
"We're getting banned," Minho says eventually. His voice comes out low and rough and warm, and Jisung wants to bottle it.
"Because I got disqualified?"
"Because we got jizz all over the regulation sheets, idiot."
Jisung laughs into his chest, helpless with it, and feels Minho's own laugh move through the both of them. He decides on the spot that this is the new goal. Forget the title. Make Lee Minho laugh like that on purpose, as often as he can, for as long as he's allowed to.
He props his chin on Minho's sternum so he can look at him. Hair a disaster, mouth soft, eyes half open and on Jisung with no edge left in them. Three years of armor, gone, melted off the both of them and pooled on the floor with everything else.
"Can I ask you something stupid."
"You're going to regardless."
"'On your left.'" He keeps his eyes on Minho's face. "I've turned that sentence over so many times, and I never once got it. What did it actually mean?"
Minho's thumb goes still against his jaw.
"Your pillow," he says. "It was off center zero point two to the left. That was the only reason I won that night."
Jisung's brain stalls out.
"So when you leaned in and said—"
"I told you exactly where you lost it. Yeah." And then something almost shy crosses his face, which on Lee Minho is about as common as snow in July. "It was petty. I know. You spent the whole competition looking at me like you wanted me in the ground, and I figured that it was the last time you'd look at all. I didn't want it to be."
It takes a second. Then it hits him all at once, square in the chest.
"You ragebaited me on purpose," Jisung says slowly. "so I wouldn't stop thinking about you!"
"It sounds deranged when you say it out loud."
"It is deranged. You could have just asked me to dinner."
"I didn't know how to do that." Minho's hand comes to rest at the back of his neck, warm and certain, and the deflection finally goes out of his voice. "I knew how to win and I knew how to get under your skin, and that was my whole bit." A pause. "That was the best part of every year. You glaring at me from across that floor. I'm not proud of how I got it, but I'd do it again."
And Jisung, who walked into this building tonight planning to make Lee Minho regret being born, lies on the wreck of his own career and understands, three years too late, that he's been wanted the whole time. Stubbornly. Sideways. By the single most emotionally backwards man in the sport, who could not, for the life of him, find one normal way to say so.
He has a line for this. Of course he does. He's kept one loaded for three years, polished to a killing point, built to gut this exact man. He reaches for it now.
It's gone. Every clever thing he owns, gone. What's underneath is smaller, and harder to say.
"I didn't want to stop looking at you either," he says. "I just thought it was the hate fueling me." He huffs. "Turns out I'm an idiot."
"My idiot, now." Minho tips his chin up and kisses him slow, and for the first time since that off-centered pillow, there's nothing competitive in it, no timer running anywhere in Jisung's head, just the bed and the two of them — equally as ruined.
When they break apart, Jisung settles back against his chest. Minho's hand finds his hair again.
"Will you teach me how to do the Han Flip?"
~
Kidz 🔥
HanQuok: hypothetical q
Yennie: no
HanQuok: i havent even asked yet
Yennie: ik u
HanQuok: if two rivals
HanQuok: theoretically
HanQuok: kissed after worlds
Binnie: OH MY GOD
Lixiebaby: FINALLY
HanQuok: nobody said it was me
Irino was added to the chat
Irino: it was him
HanQuok: traitor
Chris: congratulations to the happy couple
Chris: how long have u two been in love
HanQuok: LOVE???
Irino: three years
HanQuok: THREE YEARS???
Irino: :)
HanQuok: YOU NEVER SAID THAT PART
Lixiebaby: im crying
Mongmong was added to the chat
Mongmong: congrats
Hyune: ?? he doesnt even go here
Mongmong: did @lixiebaby tell y’all about "lee minho downfall masterplan v7"
Binnie: v7???
Hyune: I thought his name was Lee Know
HanQuok: focus on the relationship pls