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Looking back, Jisung can’t point out a specific time where Minho and Jisung became Minho and Jisung. It was more of a slow growing of something deeper than a single, cataclysmic event – a secret unspoken, kept carefully close between them. Maybe they’d never been “just friends” in the first place.
When they’d first met, Jisung would have classified them as more like rivals, even one-sidedly. Minho appeared on that fateful fifth floor, looking so fucking unfairly handsome with his cat-like eyes and floppy hair, and Jisung had thought, ‘Who does this guy think he is?’
Up to that point, Jisung had been the hottest guy at the company by his own (maybe biased) standards, and then along came Lee Minho, taking the top spot with only a flutter of his disgustingly long eyelashes.
The only reason he’d eventually recognised his feelings as internalised homophobia was because he’d felt the exact same way about Hyunjin months earlier. The only difference was that his feelings for Minho continued to grow.
Just a few days after they met, Minho had insisted that Jisung drop the honorifics. Jisung, pleased to have been promoted amongst the members so early on, had done so immediately, only for Minho to then tell the others that Jisung had done so of his own volition. He’d been so embarrassed – completely, thoroughly humiliated by his taking Minho seriously, his inability to read a room failing him once again – until he realised that Minho was joking. Despite Minho’s tsundere exterior, he was rarely serious, and very adept at disarming Jisung’s fiery tendencies. He’d turned Jisung’s indignant squawking into peeling laughter in a matter of minutes, his embarrassment completely forgotten and replaced by an unprecedented fondness.
The tides turned again when they’d moved into the group dorm, and suddenly the innocent watching of some anime only the two of them were interested in had become regular makeout sessions in Minho’s bunk.
Jisung had been surprised at how casually they’d gone about it.
Over time, they’d just let it happen, the unfurling of something so tender and natural that neither one had put a name to it. More natural than walking, certainly more natural than dancing. They were fluent in kisses and touches like it was their first language. If Jisung wanted to get completely sappy, he’d say the two of them were fated.
Jisung had tried to label it. He’d thought, maybe, they’d been friends. After all, most of what they did together – going to plays, getting frozen yoghurt, visiting the aquarium – could be explained by friendship. Everything except for the kissing.
He used to think maybe it was a Gimpo thing. But he knew a guy from Gimpo once. They’d never made out. In fact, one time he beat up Jisung just for looking at him funny. So, probably not a regional quirk.
Then he’d thought that maybe Minho made out with all of his friends. But then he’d met a couple of them and quickly ruled that out. They didn’t seem like the kissing-friends type – but who knew. Maybe they were just really good at hiding it. From the outside though, it came across pretty platonic.
Jisung’s never really known what it’s like to be platonic with Minho. He’s glad he’s never had to. He likes things the way they are.
He likes that Minho hooks his pinky around his when they’re squished together in the company van, heading off to an early morning schedule.
He likes that Minho will come into his room with barely a knock to announce himself, flopping down with his full weight on Jisung and giggling when Jisung flails beneath him, secretly loving the heavy, comforting weight of Minho on top of him.
He likes that when he orders too many sweet treats, his eyes inevitably bigger than his stomach, he knows that Minho will always take some off his hands. Usually, they’ll even split them all so they both have a chance to try everything.
He likes that when he wants to watch a movie alone, Minho will offer his bunk, the curtain drawn to give Jisung precious privacy, checking in only occasionally to offer snacks or to see what part he’s up to.
Most of all, he likes that when they’re the only ones in the dorm, Minho takes Jisung’s face in his hands, tilts his chin up just a little, and he’ll kiss him so softly, so gently, a petal of a kiss that melts Jisung all the way down to his toes and makes him wonder how he got so lucky to meet his soulmate before he’d even turned eighteen.
He likes things the way they are. But it’s all changing anyway.
After three years of eight growing young men, plus a manager or two, all squeezed into fifteen-hundred square feet of barely tenantable housing, the group dorm’s lease is up.
Jisung really shouldn’t have been shocked. It had been written into their contracts and, in all honesty, it was never a particularly good dorm, or even a particularly okay dorm. The bathrooms have twin water rings on the ceilings. The bunk beds are wobbly. The particular smell of sweaty boy has seeped into the wallpaper. And it’s always been too small for them. Even when most of them were gangly teens, the dorm was snug at best. Now that they’re all adults or else pretty close to it, they’re practically on top of each other.
So in January, when the company had let them know the lease was coming to an end, one meeting had turned into two, had turned into voting, had turned into the decision: in six months time, Jisung, Chan, Changbin and Hyunjin will be moving into one dorm, and Minho, Jeongin, Felix and Seungmin will move into another. The reasoning behind the configuration was logical – 3racha should remain together since they had so many late night sessions anyway, and the fourth dorm mate was decided by the flip of a coin.
They had all agreed to this arrangement. Jisung had also agreed to it, eventually – after a few weeks of complaining without giving any real explanation. He couldn’t put up a good fight. Every reason to move was valid after all. He eventually felt bad enough for complaining so much that he just gave up, accepting that this was the way it would go.
Jisung had actually been coping pretty well given the circumstances until the box appeared in the living room.
It materialised a few days ago – a taped-together cardboard box left over from an air purifier labeled “junggo shop” in scrawled marker. It’s started to accrue quite the collection. So far there’s Hyunjin’s old flannel shirt that has always been just a little too roomy; a pair of chinos too short after Seungmin’s latest growth spurt and a denim jacket that doesn’t fit across Changbin’s shoulders anymore. Nothing worth keeping, just stuff they’ve been meaning to get rid of and now, they finally have a reason to.
At first, it really was just a box.
Until this morning.
While rushing to get ready for practice, the vans already downstairs with everyone piled inside, Jisung had been distracted – not by a YouTube reel, or even the frustration of his cowlick not staying down – but by a grey, pilled sleeve sticking out of the top of the box.
Minho’s old GAP hoodie. It was one Jisung had taken to stealing whenever he was curled up in Minho’s bed, too lazy to go get his own, too cosy to wriggle out from Minho’s arms. Minho had wrestled it over his head one winter’s day and laughed hysterically at the way Jisung’s head had popped through, hair mussed and lips pursed expectantly.
The hoodie wasn’t the kind one wore out of the house. The wrist cuffs were all stretched out. The logo had long faded to white. Obviously it wasn’t worth taking to the new dorm, but nonetheless, seeing the hoodie just lying there, abandoned, hurt.
Before he’d really thought it through, he’d snatched it out of the box and sprinted back to his bedroom to stuff it under his covers. He was only three minutes late to the vans. Chan’s glare was pervasive, but it was Minho’s pensive gaze that he couldn’t bear to meet.
“Hope it was important,” Minho said, a crooked tilt to his smile.
Jisung just shrugged. When Minho’s pinky creeped across the car seat to hook into Jisung’s, Jisung had gotten out his phone and shuffled across to lean his head against the cool glass.
Later, when Minho had sat next to him in the practice room, leg pressed into Jisung’s, and reached across to touch his hand, Jisung pretended not to notice, focusing on tightening his shoelaces.
Jisung didn’t speak to him until they were hours into practice when Minho had passed him a bottle of water and Jisung, breathless and sweaty, had thanked him before he could think.
“Oh, so you’re talking to me now?”
Embarrassingly, he had spluttered on the water a bit.
“Ah–” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to formulate some kind of an excuse, but was only able to come up with a meek, “I dunno what you mean.”
“Okay, Jisung-ah,” Minho had said, smirking.
He’d ruffled his hair, which led to Jisung complaining loudly about it ruining his hair style, which led to Minho arguing back that if Jisung didn’t want his hair ruffled, he shouldn’t look so much like a country mouse. It was almost normal. The day moved on, and still the hoodie overstayed its welcome in the back of his mind, like a silent parasite.
He wishes the box could just be a box. But it’s not. It’s a horrible, awful reminder that in six months’ time, he won’t be living with Minho anymore.
🌸
“Jisung, pass the ssamjang!”
Seungmin doesn’t say it loudly but Jisung’s nerves are totally fried and he flinches anyway. It takes a minute to register what’s even being asked. When the words finally click into place, he fumbles the little bowl over. Seungmin nods his thanks, taking it and spooning out a dollop. He swirls a chunk of steak around his plate and takes a huge bite.
Jisung’s stomach turns at the sight. His plate has been bare nearly the whole time they’ve been sat there, only a smear of gochujang as evidence of the couple tteok he forced down in a facade of normal. He’s spent the dinner watching the other members become lax with satiated hunger and shared bottles of soju, and the food slowly dwindling.
Normally, group dinners are one of the things Jisung looks forward to the most. They used to have them maybe once or twice a month, though lately it’s become several times a week. Now that the move is actually happening, Chan mandated dinners as part of their schedule. The food is delicious thanks to their more domestically skilled members but tonight, it’s like sawdust in his mouth.
He didn’t touch the hoodie when they got home. It’s still sitting in his bed, waiting. No one else noticed he took it. Changbin even added some gym shorts and a couple of t-shirts to the pile.
Jisung had been hoping that a nice dinner with his favourite people would finally help him shake the awfulness of the day. Of course, that was wishful thinking. The moving had been brought up first thing by Chan, who had gotten an exciting update from the company that their leases have been secured for the second half of the year.
“It’s gonna be great,” Chan said, “I can’t wait to have a shower with a working induction fan. Can’t come soon enough.”
He’d gone on to say that apparently they’re also way roomier than the current dorm, and more modern. They’ll only be two to a bathroom and the windows are north-facing, apparently the superior of directions. Best of all, the dorms will even be a convenient five minute walk from each other.
Jisung doesn’t say anything. He looks down at the table instead, concentrating on lining up his chopsticks in the middle of his plate, shuffling them up a millimetre and then back down again. They never quite align.
He thinks: five minutes isn’t five seconds. Five minutes is an eternity to see Minho.
Despite his best efforts, tears start to well.
“Hey.”
Minho’s looking at him, expression soft, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth.
Jisung smiles back, a little wobbly but hopefully passable. “Hey.”
He realises that Minho’s holding out a ssam in silent question. He would usually melt at the sight of Minho wanting to care for Jisung in one of his love languages, but he’s never wanted food less, even served by Minho. His stomach feels like it’s stuffed with rocks.
Not trusting his voice, he shakes his head.
Minho’s gaze flicks down at Jisung’s empty plate. “You’ve barely eaten.”
“Not hungry.”
But Minho doesn’t take no for an answer. He nudges him again. “I made the sauce. Ssamjang, sesame oil, sugar and a bit of garlic. Try.”
He waves it under Jisung’s nose, and, damn, it does actually smell really good. He leans over, taking the whole bite in one go, lips brushing Minho’s fingers. As predicted, it’s delicious.
“Thanks, hyung,” he says around his food, covering his mouth with one hand. His eyes water again. This time it’s from just the right amount of spice. His tongue burns a bit.
Minho nods. Then he does something that has Jisung’s chest hammering – he reaches out and wipes a bit of sauce from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. He stares at Jisung as he sucks it clean in one swipe, like it’s a completely casual and normal and friendly thing to do.
Jisung is frozen. He can’t do anything but gawk, cheeks aflame, lips tingling from where Minho touched them.
Minho just smirks and, like he hasn’t just actively tortured him, he picks his chopsticks up in pursuit of the pickled cabbage.
Jisung is furious at how easily Minho dragged him out of his spiralling thoughts. What a jerk. What a hot, confusing, considerate jerk.
Minho’s other hand is still curled around his leg, fingertips pressing lightly but possessively into the underside of his thigh. No one’s noticed. Or, if they have, no one’s said anything. Minho’s hand has been a comforting, warm weight on his thigh the whole dinner. It hasn’t been mentioned once. Apparently to the others, this is normal – just Minho and Jisung being Minho and Jisung. Whatever that is.
From across the table, he notices Felix watching them, one eyebrow quirked, looking straight at his neck, which is probably traitorously fuchsia.
“You alright, Jisungie? You’re looking a bit pink,” Felix says, teasingly.
“Too much soju,” Jisung replies, feigning nonchalance.
Luckily, Felix is torn away by Chan calling his name across the table, something about a new Genshin update only the two of them would understand. Jisung’s soju glass, sitting upside down and bone dry between them, goes ignored.
Jisung stuffs a ssam into his mouth, hoping the grilled pork will help numb his pain. By the time he’s able to find the thread of conversation again, it’s charged ahead without him. Seungmin and Changbin are locked into a typical round of bickering that has Changbin raging and Seungmin grinning from ear to ear
“I want a bite,” Seungmin says. He snaps at Changbin’s plate with his chopsticks, just missing as Changbin snatches it away.
“What are you doing right now.” It’s not a question. “Get your own.”
“Don’t hog it.”
Changbin yelps as Seungmin goes for it again. Jeongin claps and cheers, slumped in his chair, eyes barely open.
“There’s more jorim down there,” Changbin says, jerking his chin. “Go on. Leave me alone.”
“But yours looks better.”
“You’re just giving him what he wants, Changbin-ah,” Minho says. “Don’t encourage it.”
Changbin ends the argument with Seungmin’s head locked under his bicep, and Seungmin looking thoroughly pleased with himself.
“Bin, let him go,” Chan says and Changbin lets him go, begrudgingly. He’s started filling everyone’s glasses to the brim with much-needed water, likely having noticed the way Jeongin has begun to sway back and forth in his seat, smiling placidly. “No horseplay. I don’t want him all bruised up for Kingdom.”
Jisung’s stomach twists. Right. The reason their schedule is about to get busy – the reality show the company had signed them up to without much collaborative discussion, more of a requirement than a negotiation. It’s set to take up two and a half months of their precious six left in the group dorm, and likely much of their sleep, too.
“Shit, that’s soon, huh?” Hyunjin says. “Just a few more days? I’m not prepared.”
“Neither,” Felix says. “But we’ll get there. And then it’ll be over before we know it. We’re already over halfway through spring.”
Jeongin has perked up a bit, water drained, piling an obscene amount of meat onto a lettuce leaf. He uses both hands to stuff the enormous ssam into his mouth, quite impressively.
“Glad we went to see the blossoms,” Changbin says. “I don’t think we’ll get to see sunlight for a while.”
Seungmin seizes his chance to sneak a cube of jorim.
“Yeah, that was nice,” Felix says.
“Wait,” Jisung says. “You all saw the cherry blossoms? When?”
The table falls silent.
Chan looks confused. “On Tuesday. Yangjaecheon. We asked if you wanted to come, remember?”
Jisung’s cheeks flare. Oh. Tuesday. The group had planned to go to together, a final hurrah while they were still living nearby and their schedule was relatively clear. Jisung was ready to go, jacket on, bag slung across his torso and packed with snacks, when Minho made eyes at him across the room.
So, while the members headed out for a wholesome evening picnic, Jisung and Minho stayed behind, indulging in chocolate cake, bubble tea and an uninterrupted makeout session that left Minho red-mouthed and Jisung light-headed.
“Oh,” he says. “I thought they weren’t coming out until mid-April. During our filming break.”
Chan shrugs. “Joys of global warming. They came out early this year. Don’t think about it too hard, Ji. Trust me. I’ve already had a mild crisis over it.”
Too late. Jisung can already feel the worry rise up from his stomach into his throat. “Maybe they’ll still be there next week,” he says, and tries not to cringe at how whiny he sounds.
Chan and Hyunjin share a familiar, knowing look. Jisung hates that look.
“Sure,” Chan says. He comes around to refill his water glass. He can feel Chan looking at him now, which just makes everything feel a hundred times more intense. Jisung tries and fails to avoid his gaze.
“You alright, Ji?”
All eyes swing towards him. Great. On literally any other occasion Jisung would be lapping up the attention, but right now he’d much rather be deep under the crust of the earth.
He clears his throat before speaking, but it comes out as a squeak anyway, “Fine. I’m good.”
“Are you crying about missing the cherry blossoms?” Changbin giggles in his high-pitched, maddening way.
Jisung knows, deep down in his currently-absent rational brain, that this is just Changbin’s way of trying to lighten the mood, but he’s too wound up to volley back properly. He snaps, “So what if I am?”
“Awh, Ji.” Felix comes around the table to sling an arm around his neck, dragging him off his seat to hug him close. “Argh! You’re so cute.”
“I’m not cute,” Jisung says, squirming free from his grip.
“The cutest,” Seungmin says.
“Stop!”
“Okay, okay, back off. Let’s all give Hannie a break,” Chan says. “He’s clearly upset.”
Embarrassment crawls up the back of his neck. This is exactly what he wanted to avoid. “I’m not upset,” he mutters. “I… I have a headache.”
Felix frowns. “You okay?” He starts massaging Jisung’s shoulders, hands inevitably creeping down to squeeze his biceps. “Yeah, you feel tense.”
Before the biting starts, Jisung swats his hands away. “’m fine.”
Then Jeongin – incredible, sweet, kind Jeongin – disrupts the conversation.
“Bin-ah,” he calls, too loud for being under a metre away from him. “Watch it. I think there’s a seagull around.”
Changbin does a double-take. Seungmin has his chopsticks halfway to his mouth. Changbin’s plate is beneath him, significantly emptier than it had been two minutes ago. “Hey–!”
The chaos ramps up again, and Chan has to rush over to pry the two apart.
“You alright?” Minho murmurs.
Jisung just nods, quickly, not trusting his voice and unable to meet Minho’s eyes. Under the table, Minho’s hand returns to his thigh, his thumb running across his knee over and over, the touch both helping to ground him and making his skin crawl with self-disgust.
He doesn’t deserve comfort. He doesn’t want sympathy. He’s being so immature. They all must think he’s such a baby – complaining about the dorm arrangements and now crying over not getting to see some flowers. Why would Minho ever like someone so childish? The cruel thought comes suddenly, leaving his chest tight, but it feels both true and absolutely awful.
The worst part is, he doesn’t really care about the flowers. He just wishes he'd had the chance to see them with Minho before everything changes forever.
🌸
They all go to bed not long after that, exhausted from their gruelling practice and knowing they’ll have to do it all again tomorrow. Jisung manages to miss the bedtime rush by offering to wash the dishes. Washing dishes for eight people is one of the least rewarding tasks, but Jisung cannot stomach even the idea of being locked in a bathroom with anyone else right now. He’s one ‘are you okay?’ away from blubbering.
Only Changbin raises an eyebrow at the uncharacteristically generous offer, but he must feel a bit sorry for Jisung so he doesn’t press it – just gives him a light, brotherly punch on the shoulder.
After the others are safely in their rooms, Minho comes into the kitchen, fresh-faced, hair slightly damp and in a clean tee and sleep pants, to tell Jisung good night.
“Good night, Hannie.”
At the sound of his voice, Jisung’s heart gives a gentle tug. “Night, hyung.”
He doesn’t look up, afraid the eye contact will tip him over the edge. He focuses his full concentration on the dishes. There’s a dried bit of gochujang, now more brown-red than red-brown, that he’s been carefully picking at with a scourer for four minutes. As he scrubs, he notices that Minho hasn’t moved. He can see him from the corner of his eye, leaned up against the doorway, watching quietly. The remnants finally lift free, and Jisung gives it one last rinse before putting it in the drying rack. He peels off his dishwashing gloves and hangs them over the tap.
“Hey.”
Minho’s voice is suddenly much closer. Jisung whirls around. Minho’s right next to him, his back to the living space, face drawn in concern. He’s got those unfairly gorgeous eyes fixed on Jisung, a little tired the way they always are after a full day of practice, but mostly concerned.
“You okay?”
The lump in his throat, which he spent so long box-breathing away, makes a re-appearance. “Yeah. All good.”
“You’ve been quiet all day.”
Guilt clenches his stomach. He crosses his arms in a tight lock across his chest, head resolutely down. By coincidence, they’re wearing the matching fluffy socks Minho got them. Minho’s make him look like he has cat paws. Jisung’s make him look part-tyrannosaurus. He’s always getting Jisung random gifts like that. Once Jisung had returned from a session at the studio to find an acorn on his bed with no explanation. He kept it, hidden at the bottom of his sock drawer.
Minho tries to catch Jisung’s eye, ducking low. Jisung hides under his fringe.
“I feel like I’ve barely seen you,” Minho says. “What’s wrong?”
He shrugs.
Minho hums. “Well, that’s helpful.”
Jisung huffs a laugh. It’s mostly to satisfy Minho, but it’s not enough to throw him off course.
“You’re really sad about missing the cherry blossoms this year, huh?”
God. He must think Jisung’s being ridiculous – but it’s a less complicated explanation than anything actually on Jisung’s mind.
“They’re just… I dunno. Special, I guess.”
“If they’re so special we should have gone on Tuesday.”
Jisung’s ears burn. “We were busy.”
“We were,” Minho concedes with a smirk, soft around the edges. “But if you really wanted to see them, we could have made time. You’ve just never mentioned them before.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.”
He’s suddenly very aware that their hands are sitting next to each other on the bench, close, almost touching, the air buzzing between them. Minho notices too. He stretches out a finger to tap one of Jisung’s knuckles, sending a zip of electricity through his arm.
“There’s always next year,” he says.
Cold flushes through his nerves. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Next year.”
He starts to move away, trying to put some distance between them so he can catch his breath, but Minho gets hold of his wrist. His grip is soft, warm, fingers barely reaching all the way around his forearm.
Jisung freezes.
“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?” Minho whispers. “You don’t have to carry everything on your own.”
He watches Jisung with a kind of intensity that makes his skin prickle. He looks really worried, Jisung realises with a sinking feeling of guilt. He doesn’t want to worry him, but he doesn’t want to dump his shit on him either.
“I know, hyung.” He forces a smile. “I’m okay. Promise. Just tired.”
Lying. Lying through his teeth to Minho. It feels awful.
Minho’s frown doesn’t let up. He’s about to say something when a shuffling sound makes them jump apart, and Chan wanders in, a sleep mask across his forehead. He looks a little bewildered to see the two of them crammed into the tiny kitchen. Jisung’s neck is burning hot. Chan, bless him, just pretends he didn’t see anything. He presses his lips together in a flat half-smile, and awkwardly slips past to fill up a glass of water.
Jisung and Minho stay quiet as they wait for Chan’s glass to fill. A million years pass. The tap finally turns off with a squeak and Chan slips out again. There’s the creaking sound of the lounge room cot’s springs, then the apartment falls silent again.
They stand in the kitchen, opposite one another, neither one of them willing to be the first to speak. Jisung simply doesn’t know what to say. His brain is both full of thought and completely empty of sense, like a hive full of bees with no where to go.
The sudden warmth of Minho’s lips fades from his forehead before Jisung can even register it.
“Sleep well, jagiya.”
Barely ten minutes later, teeth haphazardly brushed and face scrubbed, Jisung is just crossing the living room when he hears a rough voice whisper at him.
“Hey, Jisung.”
It’s Chan. He can just make out the fuzzy outline of him in the dark. He’s taken to sleeping out here lately, his guilt at keeping Felix and Changbin up with his snoring winning against the unergonomic setup of the cot. His back is a worthy sacrifice for the others’ comfort apparently. Typical Chan.
“You okay?”
Ugh. “Yeah,” he says. “Headache’s better. Thanks.”
“Not the headache,” Chan murmurs. “You’ve been off lately.”
“No I haven’t.”
“You have.” Chan sits up, supported on his forearms. “Ever since we decided on the new dorms.”
“I don’t care about that.”
“Oh, really?” Even in the dark, Jisung can tell exactly the look he’s shooting at him right now.
“Stop psycho-analysing me.”
“Can’t help it when you’re moping around like a squirrel without a nut.”
Chan seems pleased with himself for that one, and Jisung wishes he could see his massive eye roll.
“Go to sleep, Chan.”
He turns away, resolutely done with this conversation. Chan is not.
“For what it’s worth,” Chan says this softly, words measured, “I’m really sorry you won’t get to live with Minho.”
He freezes. Embarrassment bubbles up in his chest. Of course Chan knows. He’s creepily intuitive like that. It still catches him off-guard – Chan can read him better than anyone else, even himself.
He doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he just says everything that pops into his head, ending up with a jumble of, “What– no– that’s not– ngh.”
“I can talk to Hyunjin,” Chan says. “Maybe someone will swap.”
“No,” he says, the word instant. His cheeks feel volcanic. This whole thing is humiliating. If Jisung felt like a child before, he feels like a total baby now. “No. Please don’t. I’m fine. I don’t– it’s not a big deal.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Chan agrees. “But if you needed–”
“I don’t,” Jisung says, and it comes out louder than intended. He’s starting to get worked up again. “Just drop it, hyung. Please. Just drop it.” His voice cracks.
Chan’s silent, which somehow makes it all so much worse. He can hear his heart thumping in his ears.
“Good night,” Jisung says.
“Ji–”
He leaves the room before Chan has a chance to say anything else that’ll fuck with his mind any further.
Jeongin’s already in bed, lights out, back turned, blankets pulled up to his ears and peacefully, obliviously asleep. Heavy breaths are Jisung’s soundtrack as he gets undressed. He sees his phone on the nightstand light up with a couple texts. Chan. Probably apologising for pushing.
Deep (deep) down, he does appreciate Chan. As someone with a tendency to close up under pressure, like a mollusk, or more specifically like a bivalve, he needs someone who will help pry him open and confront whatever needs confronting. But he hates that Chan clocked him. He hates that Chan saw him and thought – Jisung needs my help. Jisung is struggling.
Before today, he was fine. He was sorting it out, being responsible for his feelings like a real adult. He’d had his period of anxiety and now that was over. It didn’t need to be rehashed. He would not be known as the anxious one. He wants the members to know this, wants this to be true, an undisputed fact that Jisung is okay and coping and dealing just like anyone else.
He was actually, totally fine – and then, the box. That fucking box, reminding him that what he has with Minho, the one precious, reliable thing in his unpredictable life, is under threat.
He lies back and stares at the ceiling. His mind races. His ribs feel like a nightclub with his heart raving inside violently enough to make him vaguely nauseous.
Thoughts arrive unbidden, a tangle that loops over and over, tightening his throat and stinging the backs of his eyes. Then the question – the one he stopped asking himself years ago when it became too complicated, and too risky, to unpack.
What even are they?
He turns to his side, punching the pillow into shape under his head, and curling up in that one position he thinks of as the “ammonite”, tightly wound and protective. It usually helps squish all the yucky thoughts out of him, but the barrage keeps coming anyway.
Once they move, will Minho still want him the same way? What happens when Jisung isn’t down the hall anymore? Is what they have so good because it’s unspoken? Is all this – them – because it’s convenient? What if Jisung asks Minho what they are, and it’s just awful and Minho hates him and everything is ruined?
He vaguely registers that he’s being ridiculous, Minho would never hate him, but it does nothing to stop the ache in his throat. The reality is that he can ask himself these questions all he wants, has done for months, ever since the move was decided – it changes nothing. He doesn’t know. He won’t know until he asks Minho. And that terrifies him.
Burying himself further under the blankets, his legs brush up against a lump of material coiled at the foot of his bed. He reaches down to investigate, freezing as soon as he makes contact.
Minho’s hoodie. He’d forgotten he’d stuffed it into his bed and now here it is, at exactly the worst time.
He threads it up between the sheets so he can feel out all the details – the uneven drawstring, the overstretched neck, the roomy front pocket.
He stuffs his nose into the collar. It still smells like him. A little sweaty. Woody. Softly sweet. Completely Minho.
He takes a deep breath in. And then another. It catches.
He thinks about what Minho said – that Jisung can talk to him about anything. Jisung really does believe that’s true. Minho is the one person he knows he can go to with the most embarrassing problems or confide his inner-most vulnerabilities without ever worrying about being judged. He can tell Minho things that Jisung can’t even forgive himself for, and Minho will treat him just the same. Not as someone immature, or something broken, just as Jisung.
He can tell Minho anything. Anything. Just not this.
The cruellest part of this whole situation, the thing that makes it so fucking unfair, is that even if Jisung finally musters up the courage to talk to Minho, it won’t matter.
They won’t be living together anymore. They won’t be down the hall from one another. Jisung can’t just steal his hoodies from his room whenever he wants. He can’t visit without explanation. No more Minho gatecrashing his bed. No more snacks and movies in Minho’s bunk. No more sleepovers. Just neighbours. Coworkers.
Friends.
The word blooms in his chest and the tears threatening all night finally spill down his cheeks. It’s awful. This whole thing is just awful. Nothing has ever felt worse. A sob rips through him in a loud gasp. He slaps a hand over his mouth, trying to stifle the next one, but it’s too late. Jeongin’s lamp clicks on, blinding.
“Everything okay?”
Jisung wipes his face clean on the collar of his t-shirt with a snuffle. “Yeah,” he chokes out. “All good. Night.”
A pause.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Just a cough. Sorry.” Please don’t ask again. Please don’t come over here. He waits, breath held.
“Okay. Night, hyung.”
The lamp turns off.
He falls asleep, face half-smothered into the hood of Minho’s jumper, heart aching for more than just empty fabric.
🌸
“Jagi.”
Jisung jerks awake. At first, he doesn’t know what’s woken him up, groggy enough to believe that the voice is part of his dreams, his stress manifesting in the twilight of his consciousness. His eyes droop shut again. He rolls over, curling into a ball under his quilt and shoving his head under the pillow with a moan.
“Jagiya,” the voice whispers again. “Wake up.”
A gentle squeeze to his calf drags him more firmly awake. His eyes take a minute to adjust. The room is still as dark as it was when he fell asleep. He can’t really make anything out. He blinks hard. And then has to blink again.
Minho is crouched beside his bed. He’s fully dressed in a grey tracksuit and a black puffer vest. Jisung squints at him, the image completely confusing. Is he dreaming right now? Is Minho his sleep paralysis demon?
“Wah–?”
A finger presses to his lips, shushing him. Across the room, Jeongin is still sound asleep, his breath slow and steady.
“Get dressed,” Minho whispers. “We’re going out.”
Minho leaves before Jisung can make sense of the situation in his sleep-addled brain. He flicks on his phone briefly, cringing at the sudden full brightness. It’s the middle of the night, just a few hours after they went to bed. His head pounds from his post-crying hangover, eyes still a bit swollen.
He only has a t-shirt and sweatpants on. He gropes around on the floor until he finds a hoodie that feels passably clean. His hair is probably a disaster, but he can’t find anything to hide it under, so he smooths it out as best he can. He adds some oversized glasses to counter-balance his probable puffiness. His breath is predictably stale too. A mint from his bedside table popped under his tongue helps a bit. Some cologne wouldn’t go astray.
He’s just dabbing it behind his ears when a shadow appears at his door, making him jump. Minho motions to hurry up, and he scrambles out, swiping a lip balm as he does.
It’s brighter in the lounge room. Moonlight slips out from behind their poorly hung kitchen curtain.
A loud snore rips through the air and Jisung clings onto Minho’s arm, eyes wide.
Chan is asleep on the cot, eye mask firmly in place, mouth hanging open and an arm thrown above his head. Jisung can’t make himself move until he feels Minho slip a hand into his palm and squeeze, forcing him back into motion.
As Jisung makes a move toward the pile of shoes, Minho tugs him back. He already has two pairs of sneakers wedged under his arm. They manage to pry open the front door without much noise, slipping into the hallway where Minho plonks their shoes down. They don’t speak as they lace up, and continue their silence as they take the stairs down to the street.
The night air is cool and fresh on Jisung’s face. It smells strongly of petrichor. The footpath is glistening, pools of water like mirrored portals adorning the pavement. It’s so peaceful. So pretty. He can’t remember the last time he was allowed outside without some sort of security or a camera on him. It feels weird, maybe a little vulnerable even, but then Minho sighs a breath beside him and it doesn’t feel so bad.
His peace is suddenly disrupted by a fat raindrop splashing down in the middle of his nose. Rain passes through the beams of the streetlights above them, like visual static. He shields his head, pouting, as the rain dampens his hair, wishing he’d had the sense to bring an umbrella.
On cue, Minho produces one from behind his back, large and sturdy, and pops it open. He holds out an arm in silent invitation. Just as Jisung gets close enough Minho pulls him in by the waist, so they’re shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, body warmth fusing. The umbrella cuts them off from the world, the rain landing in heavy taps over their heads.
Pinned against Minho’s side, hand resting against his chest, Jisung feels like the romantic lead in an anime, and Minho is the mysteriously handsome stranger sweeping him away from the horrors of his world.
Minho’s face is breathtaking half-hidden in shadow – jaw especially sharp, cheekbones angular. His skin is bare, lips a bit chapped, acne scars pocking his cheeks and somehow these imperfections just make him even more beautiful.
Minho smiles down at him. His front teeth catch on his bottom lip in the adorably goofy way that makes Jisung’s knees go wobbly. “Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” Jisung says back with a dazed smile, voice still sleep-rough. “Are you kidnapping me?”
Minho shrugs. “If you want me to.” Jisung would literally like nothing more than for Minho to take him far, far away from here – but then Minho frowns. “Is that my old hoodie?”
Oh. Shit. His stomach knots. Blood rushes up Jisung’s neck, flooding his cheeks.
“Fuck. Um, yes? Sorry, that’s so– ugh, I’m so embarrassed. I saw it in the box in the lounge and well, yeah, I should have asked but you were throwing it away–”
“It’s fine, Sung-ah.” Minho smiles at him, looking down fondly with those sparkling, heart-melting eyes. He gives Jisung’s side a squeeze. “I like seeing you in my clothes.”
That doesn’t help Jisung’s blush. His face feels ready to burst.
“Just ask me next time. I would have given you one without a hole under the arm.”
“What?”
Jisung checks and sure enough, there’s a cool breeze through a moth-eaten patch right at the seam. Minho pokes a finger into it, finding his target in Jisung’s armpit. Jisung jolts back with a laugh, but Minho keeps him fixed against his side so he can’t worm free.
Some students walk past, slightly tipsy from a night out, clinging on to one another to stay vertical. Minho and Jisung move apart automatically. Jisung feels very visible standing on the street like this. Even the middle of the night can’t afford them every freedom. The students pass by without glancing at them, heading toward the GS25.
“Oh.” Minho fishes around in his pockets, pulling out two black face-masks. “I thought these might help.”
Jisung shoots him a crooked grin. “You think of everything, don’t you?”
“One of my best qualities.”
They both loop their masks over their ears, and Jisung has to suppress his disappointment at Minho’s cute mouth being concealed. Though he’ll miss seeing his teeth catch on his smile, the mask does highlight how pretty his eyes are, perpetually starry and full of warmth that makes Jisung’s insides feel like dribbly honey. Minho doesn’t pull him back in again, but he keeps his hand on Jisung’s lower back as he guides him down the street, which is its own kind of dreamy.
There are barely any cars on the road this time of night. The buses have stopped running, too, leaving the streets uncharacteristically quiet. An echo punctuates their footsteps. Apart from the students earlier, Minho and Jisung are the only people around. Still, Jisung feels tense. Every time their hips bump together he flits away, only to drift back into close proximity by both the drizzling rain and Minho’s hand guiding him. As they go, Minho whispers quiet commentary to Jisung.
“There’s a cat in the window.”
“Look how bad that guy parked.”
Jisung has no clue where they’re going, and doesn’t want to ask, happy to be led by Minho. He only vaguely registers that they’re heading downhill, cutting through tight streets and jogging across pedestrian crossings. There’s the faint sound of rainwater trickling off rooftops.
After about ten minutes of walking, Minho starts to slow his pace. He sticks out a hand to test for rain and then, satisfied, folds up the umbrella, letting it dangle from his wrist by its strap. They stop by some concrete stairs descending into a faint hue of hazy, warm light.
Jisung’s stomach tugs. He recognises this place. Yangjaecheon.
He looks up at Minho in shock.
“What…?” The words fade. Jisung swallows, his throat tight, thankful for the mask concealing his astonishment, even if it fogs his glasses a bit.
Minho’s eyes are twinkly with mischief, obviously incredibly pleased with himself for pulling off the surprise. “You seemed upset that you didn’t get to see them.”
His knees are wobbly. For a second he’s worried he might faint. His heart swells twenty times its size, pressing against his ribs, as if desperate to escape his chest and leap at Minho.
“That’s so…” Romantic. It’s so unbelievably, impossibly romantic. “… Nice.”
“I am, on occasion.”
Minho tweaks Jisung’s nose over the mask.
They carefully make their way down. The stairs are slick with rain. Jisung slips a bit a couple steps down, and luckily Minho catches him by the elbow. It leaves Jisung’s heart pounding. For the rest of the descent, Minho has his arm securely around his waist, taking half his weight. With anyone else, Jisung would gripe at them for babying him, but with Minho, he loves the coddling.
The final landing clears into a wide footpath by the stream. The ground is shiny, reflecting the warm glow of the paper lanterns hanging between the trees. At first, Jisung is surprised to see how empty the area is, even past midnight, but once the trees come into view, it makes sense. Most of the trees are bare, fallen petals stomped down to mush under visitors’ shoes. It’s still beautiful – the stubborn remains are clumped in clouds of blushing blossoms on overhanging branches. Wind whispers over the path, sending petals cascading through the air like snowflakes.
Minho makes a sound. Jisung turns to meet it, and a surprised laugh escapes him.
Minho’s wincing, eyes reduced to an uncomfortable squint. Petals have stuck to his hair, shoulders, chest, even his neck. It’s clearly uncomfortable but Minho is the cutest when he’s grumpy. Jisung picks them off him, trying to muffle his giggles. His scalp tingles as Minho returns the favour, brushing away petals until they fall to his shoulders.
They only come across a few sleepless couples lost in each other’s gazes. They duck their heads whenever they cross paths with someone, but no one gives them any trouble. Everyone seems happy to keep to themselves, enjoying the quiet night air and the remaining blossoms, completely uninterested in the two awkward young men in masks. For a minute, Jisung can kid himself that they’re just like any other couple.
A little down the path, Minho stops. He’s spotted something to their left – a perfect, round blossom lying on the ground. He picks it up carefully, the stem broken off, and hands it to Jisung without a word. Jisung’s heart flutters. He makes plans to press it when he gets home, however you do that. He’ll look up a tutorial. Or Hyunjin might know how.
They walk until they find a tree still in full bloom and try taking photos. They compare their efforts. It turns out they’re both equally terrible at anything aesthetic-looking. The blossoms come up frustratingly blurry in the dim light, though Jisung manages to capture a few passable close-ups in portrait mode.
Minho raises his phone to an acceptable angle above their heads and starts thumbing the shutter. Jisung groans and covers his eyes, burying his head into Minho’s shoulder, but eventually concedes, unable to contain the smile overtaking his face. Their selfies are taken more successfully, masks pulled down around their chins, cold cheeks pressed together, switching through a rolodex of goofy faces. They must take about a hundred selfies, and even when Minho lowers the phone, they stay pressed together, bodies shivering from the fresh air, neither one eager to break apart.
The photoshoot continues. Minho directs Jisung through some increasingly involved poses. Jisung follows directions until he catches himself crouching on the ground doing a dab and finally realises Minho is messing with him. He sulks until Minho promises to take some nice pictures. When he gets his phone back, he’s surprised at what he finds – he looks like a real idol, vaguely mysterious under the mask but still handsome, looking pensively up at the moon. Minho swipes back through them to point out one where Jisung is standing by a low-hanging branch, inspecting a flower close-up and caught completely off guard.
“That one’s my favourite,” Minho says, and, while Jisung is fighting down his blush, he sends it to himself.
In most of the photos Jisung captures of Minho, he’s bent over and clutching his sides, laughing at how Jisung slid over a pulpy heap of fallen blossoms and wheeled his arms backward like a cartoon character, thankfully managing to not fall on his ass and completely humiliate himself. He gets his comeuppance shortly after, when, in the middle of his laughing fit, Minho actually does slip over. He ends up with a damp bum and raw palms, which Jisung inspects and, concluding they’re more a wound of pride than anything, presses cryptic kisses to them when he’s sure they’re alone. Probably not the most hygienic, but Minho’s pout slowly melting away makes it worth it.
The further they move from the entrance, the quieter it gets, until they’re the only ones around. They find a secluded bench right under a tree, its limbs creating a low arch over the top, like an awning. The branches have saved the bench from being completely soaked, and they squash together on the drier end, legs pressed together.
The moon is big tonight. Not quite full, but enough to make the stream twinkle. The branches above them slice through the night sky, blossoms and stars nestled next to one another like freckles over skin.
He feels Minho’s warm fingers lace his own, and he squeezes tight.
Jisung didn’t realise how much he missed the stars since moving to Seoul, but rare clear nights like these help him remember how big the universe is – the thought is oddly comforting, despite being just a little horrifying. He wonders how many versions of them are out there in their own galaxy and if they’re holding hands too.
He turns to Minho to ask him what he thinks, and his heart leaps when he finds Minho staring back.
Minho unhooks the mask from his ears, revealing that gentle, crooked smile and the tiny mole at the tip of his nose. Slowly, he reaches over and takes off Jisung’s mask one loop at a time, his touch sending prickles over his skin. Then he leans forward and brushes his lips over Jisung’s, so lightly it tickles. Jisung tilts up his chin to meet the kiss, sealing their lips together with a sigh. Minho’s mouth is warm and wet and cosy, his top lip pillowy, sliding perfectly against Jisung’s full bottom lip. He pulls him closer by the back of his neck, breathing in deep, and Minho’s tongue slides over Jisung’s.
Even though it’s the middle of the night, surprisingly Jisung doesn’t feel tired at all. He feels sappy. He feels like the luckiest person in the world. If he could, he’d let Minho absorb him whole. He thinks that might be ideal. That way, they could be together forever and ever.
Minho pulls back before Jisung is ready, and he whimpers. Another kiss, this time on his forehead, helps a bit.
“There,” Minho whispers. He looks down at Jisung, eyes heavy-lidded, gaze warm. “Now you’ve seen the cherry blossoms. All better?”
The question catches him off guard. Suddenly his chest is too tight for his lungs. The feelings flood in all at once.
No. Not all better. All bad. All terrible.
His face crumples. His eyes sting. Salty tears stream down his face in an unstoppable waterfall, punctuated by a harsh, stuttering sob. He presses his sleeve to his mouth with both hands, trying to smother his crying but it’s too late, it’s loose, he can’t stop it.
“Whoa, whoa, hey, what.” Minho pulls Jisung close, winding his arms tightly around his shoulders, squeezing and rocking. He tries to wipe away Jisung’s tears with his thumbs, but they fall too fast to catch. “Jisung, jagi, please. What’s the matter?”
The words stick in his chest. Between hitching breaths, he forces out a pathetic, “When– when we– are you gonna–?”
He’s barely legible, and now he’s crying from embarrassment. He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say. His breaths still aren’t coming right, stuttering and painful and hard to get through between his sobs. The ground feels like it’s a hundred kilometres beneath him, like he’s floating above his own body.
“Hang on. Just take a breath.” Minho brushes a hand over his temple, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear before he starts stroking his head in long, caressing movements.
It works a bit. Jisung attempts a deep breath. It stutters halfway through but then his lungs open up, air finally reaching him. The blubbering eventually dwindles into pathetic sniffling, and soon the tears stop flowing. His eyes feel swollen and wet. He tightens his grip on Minho’s arm, afraid to let go.
“That’s better, that’s good,” Minho says. “Talk to me, Ji.”
Jisung could almost laugh. If only it were that simple. “It’s just–” A leftover, reflexive sob cuts him off. He pauses to further compose himself before trying again, “It’s just been so nice in the group dorm.”
“You’ll miss the members,” Minho fills in.
“Well.” Jisung considers this. “Yeah. But…”
Of course he’ll miss Jeongin snoring in the same room, and he’ll weirdly miss the smell of Felix burning something with too much butter in it. And he might even miss Seungmin correcting his English. Okay, maybe not so much that last one.
Of course he’ll miss his maknae line. But most of all he’ll miss Minho.
“I just – what am I gonna do when I don’t get to see you every day?”
Minho squeezes Jisung’s arm, huffing a laugh. “You’ll see me every day at work, silly.”
Jisung wipes his nose on his sleeve. It comes away glistening. Gross. “You know what I mean.”
Surprisingly, Minho nods slowly. “Is this why you’ve been so quiet lately? Because we won’t live together anymore?”
Jisung buries his face into Minho’s chest and nods, only vaguely self-conscious at the way his still-leaking face dampens his sweatshirt. Minho is silent. He feels tense under Jisung’s hand, his heartbeat thrumming beneath his fingertips. After a long quiet moment, Jisung takes a peek.
Minho isn’t looking at him – he’s looking up at the sky, blinking thoroughly. When he shifts his gaze down again, Jisung can see that his lashes are wet. Jisung’s chest tightens. He’s rarely seen Minho cry, maybe once or twice, and it’s not something he’s ever wanted to see again. To be the cause of it is beyond painful.
“Minho-hyung…”
“Jagi.” Minho cuts him off. A single tear crawls down his cheek, dripping from his chin into his lap, leaving his eyes shining. His voice is rough. “I’ve been so worried about you.”
“I’m sorry,” he blurts. “I’m really, really sorry.”
“No.” Minho lifts one hand from Jisung’s back to swipe at his eyes. When he looks back, his face is full of regret, a look so unlike Minho who always seems so sure of himself that it makes Jisung nauseous with guilt. He continues, voice strained, “I’m sorry. I want to be the person you can talk to about anything.”
Jisung’s already shaking his head before he even finishes his sentence. “Hyung, I know that I can talk to you about everything. Anything. It’s not you. I just– it’s so stupid. I’m being ridiculous. Of course we’ll see each other. This is… it’s just… hard to explain.” He bites his lip. How does he even explain something he doesn’t fully understand himself?
Minho is still looking at him, so beautiful and caring and lovely and handsome and perfect – simultaneously his prince charming and his best friend, an ideal so impossible it’s hard to believe he’s real. Minho is like a dream he doesn’t want to wake up from but his alarm is slipping into his consciousness anyway, dragging him into reality.
God. Jisung can’t look at him right now. He glues his eyes to his shoes. There are crushed petals stuck all over the toes.
Past the ache in his throat, he mumbles, “It’ll be different. What if– what if you forget about me?”
He grips him tightly, almost bruising. “Hannie,” he whispers. “I could never, ever forget about you. You’re all I think about.”
Warmth unspools in Jisung’s stomach, his limbs like sugar in a mug of hot tea. “You’re all I think about, too, hyung,” he says.
His knee bounces uncontrollably, like a grasshopper, so hard his hands jostle in his lap.
“When we move, and you’re not just gonna be down the hall anymore…” Jisung sucks in a breath. “Are we… gonna keep kissing?”
There’s a pause. “I hope so.”
“Do you kiss any of the other members?”
He startles at Minho’s sudden, violent snort.
“Don’t laugh at me!”
“Sorry, I’m sorry, Ji,” he says, laughter dimming. “I just– no. God, no. Jesus Christ, absolutely not. We’re just friends.”
His eyes go hot again, against his will. “Aren’t we friends?”
“Well,” Minho says, “we are. But we’re… different.”
“Different?”
“Mm. Different. I don’t… do that with anyone else. Just you.”
Just me.
It unlocks something in his chest. All the time they’ve spent together – in claustrophobic karaoke booths, necks pink from too many beers and voices warbling; the back of movie theatres, both slumped in their seats and peeking through gaps in their fingers in anticipation of a jump scare, laughing at how they shriek every time; in their bunks, legs tangled together, tracing each other’s faces until they learn each other by heart – he hasn’t been imagining it.
His palms are sweaty despite the chill of the spring air. A hand touches his. He looks up, vision blurry, the moon glowing from its hung-up place in the sky, petals tumbling through the air behind Minho, some dusting his hair.
Minho is quiet. He's watching him so patiently, eyes full of warmth and care, and he realises what should have been obvious from the start:
It’s just Minho.
Minho who’s seen him at his best, rapping hundreds of words in quick succession into a microphone to thousands of people. Minho who’s seen him at his worst, snapping at his friends like a cornered stray animal for no good reason other than to just be a prick.
Just Minho. His safe place.
The surge of confidence he’s been needing for months, years, finally, finally, finds him. Distantly, he hears himself ask, “What are we?”
For a long, agonising moment, Minho is quiet. Jisung waits, heart beating hard in his ears.
A full minute passes, and just when Jisung thinks Minho won’t say anything at all, his lungs clenching, heart hammering in anticipation of being completely shattered, Minho looks up at the moon, deep in thought. The cool white glow touches the tip of his nose, underscoring his cheekbones. Then he smiles softly. Something appears to have dawned on him.
“Let’s see.” He holds up a fist. Sticks out a thumb. “For one, we’re two members of a k-pop group called Stray Kids.”
It’s surprising enough for a snort to erupt and Jisung gives Minho a light shove, rolling his eyes. He lets Minho continue, watching him count off on delicate fingers.
“We’re dorm mates. Best friends. Soul mates, probably.”
When he’s down to the last finger, the pinky, he hesitates. Slowly lowering his hand, he turns to Jisung. He’s nervous, gaze flicking across Jisung’s face, blinking throughly.
“And… if it’s okay with you, Jisung-ah, I’d really like us to be boyfriends.”
He’s kissing Minho before he can formulate words, his launch forward slamming Minho back against the bench. Jisung’s nose mashes into Minho’s cheek, their teeth clash a little, the handle of the umbrella digs into his stomach, but it doesn’t matter, nothing else matters, Jisung just wants to be kissing him, on top of him, with him.
Minho’s arm comes up, wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer so Jisung is half draped in his lap, chests pressed together, Jisung’s thoughts full of nothing except wanting to be closer to Minho. He cups Minho’s face in his palms and they kiss for what seems like both forever and a blink, only the two of them stuck in this moment together.
When Minho finally pulls back, his breath is heavy, lips puffy, grin wide and wild. “So, is that a yes?”
“Yes,” Jisung gasps. “Yes, yes, yes. Please, please be my boyfriend, Minho-hyung.”
They kiss again, this time softer, gentler – Jisung biting down on Minho’s lower lip just enough to make him whimper, and he climbs more intentionally onto his lap, comforted by the overhanging tree blocking them from anyone passing by. He kisses Minho’s cheeks, his temples, his eyelids and Minho’s hands are tight around his hips, pinning him in place. Jisung only breaks apart when his leg starts cramping, sliding off his lap but still caught in Minho’s eyes, dazed, a little in shock and completely head over heels.
In the worst timing, the drizzle starts up again. Rain pinpricks his cheeks. Minho opens the umbrella, blocking out not only the rain, but the world. Underneath, it’s just them, the bench and the distant thumping of raindrops. Their own little haven.
Minho threads a hand into his hair, letting it fall back in a dreamy swoop across his forehead. “Fuck,” he says, “Can you imagine if we’d just spoken about this weeks ago?”
“But if we’d just spoken to each other, we never would have seen the cherry blossoms.” Jisung wiggles his eyebrows and squirms away half-heartedly as Minho digs at his ribs. “We’re so stupid.”
Minho nods. “Pabos." He gives a little breathless laugh. “I was so nervous to ask you. I really wanted to – but you were already so stressed, I didn’t want to put any more pressure on you. I should have just said something anyway.”
“I should have talked to you,” Jisung counteracts. “I shouldn’t have just kept it to myself. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“It’s alright, I understand,” Minho says. “Next time just come to me, yeah?”
“I don’t want you to have to look after me all the time. I can handle it. Well. Usually.”
“I know you can. But I want to look after you." He smiles. "You're easy to look after.”
It’s just about the nicest thing anyone has ever said to him. He steels himself against the urge to become a complete emotional wreck.
“I’ll look after you too, hyung,” he says, only a little wobbly. “I promise.”
Minho’s expression turns pensive. He lifts Jisung’s chin, their faces close enough for their breath to ghost over each other’s cheeks.
“It won’t be so bad,” Minho whispers. “Promise. You can come visit any time. We can have sleepovers. I’ll be over there so much you’ll get sick of me.”
Jisung's throat feels tight again. He shakes his head. “I could never, ever be sick of you, hyung.”
He doesn’t realise his nose is cold until Minho presses his lips against it, the kiss chaste but affectionate.
“Let’s talk about this more when it’s not four in the morning and you’re not all snotty, okay?”
Jisung jerks back, pulling his sleeve up to wipe over his face. “I’m so gross. I’m so sorry. I’m disgusting, don’t look at me.”
“I’m just teasing. You’re not disgusting, Ji. You were upset.”
Tears brim all over again, but this time his heart is warm. Peeking up from his hands, he gives Minho a trembly smile. “Still. I’m sorry for crying so much.”
A soft hand closes over his, gently prying them away from his eyes. Minho shakes his head. “Please don’t ever apologise for crying. It’s one of my favourite things about you. I love that you feel so deeply. It’s part of what makes you so special.”
His heart swells so much it feels like it’s going to burst out of his ribs. He wants to kiss Minho more, wants to wrap himself around him like a snake, talk until the sun rises, but suddenly the wind picks up into a gale, turning the rain from a charming drizzle to inescapable, grey sheets. Jisung yelps, squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught.
“Come on,” Minho shouts. “Let’s go home.”
They run together, hand in hand, uncontrollable laughter peeling out of them. Minho slips on the steps up to the main road, and Jisung clutches onto him to keep him from being swept away in the storm. They sprint through the streets, puddles soaking their socks. Their wild running isn’t enough to keep the rain off. By the time they make it under the awning of their building, their shoes are squelching, teeth chattering, clothes completely soaked to their skin. They squeeze water from their jackets and their hair before heading up. The umbrella is left by the door to dry.
Chan is still asleep in the lounge so they make sure to be quiet, tiptoeing across the floorboards until they’re safely in the bathroom. They lock the door behind them and each grab a towel from the linen cupboard.
When Jisung turns around, he squeaks, affronted by a fluffy towel being thrown over his head. Minho starts scrubbing at his hair. He returns the favour, blindly flinging his own towel over Minho, patting his head until it’s semi-dry. Minho slips out briefly to grab them some fresh clothes, coming back with a pair of Jisung’s track pants and–
“You can keep this one,” Minho says, waving the hoodie at Jisung. It’s a dark, charcoal grey, with a double-zip. They’re usually the same size, though Minho’s shoulders are a little wider right now due to Jisung’s current gym-eschewal phase. It’s roomy enough that the sleeves hang over his hands, the hood flopping over.
Hyunjin and Seungmin are heavy sleepers and luckily share a bunk bed, so their snores are undisturbed as they climb into Minho’s bunk and draw the makeshift curtain closed. Jisung slides under the covers first, and Minho follows, lying on his side and propping his head up on his hand. The bunk would be a little too cosy for anyone else to share, but it’s the perfect fit for them. They’re squashed close enough together to feel each other’s breath on their faces and for their feet, icy from the rain, to bump against shins. Minho wedges Jisung’s legs between his own and Jisung throws his arm over Minho’s shoulder, dragging him into another indulgent kiss. They try to keep it quiet, mapping out each other’s faces with their lips, shivering as they drag fingertips up their sides, but a few dazed giggles slip out anyway.
Minho breaks the kiss first, panting, to press his forehead against Jisung’s. “One day we’ll live together again, Sung-ah. I promise.”
“We will,” Jisung whispers back. “We’ll have a two-story house. In the suburbs. Completely our own. With a pink door.”
“We can have five cats. All named after Ghibli characters.”
“And reptiles. At least three. Probably more.”
Jisung feels Minho smile against him. “Deal.”
He drags a thumb over Minho’s cheek, tracing it over the sweet puffy triangle that is his upper lip. Minho takes his hand and kisses his palm, burying his face inside it.
Jisung doesn’t even realise that his eyes are closed until he feels feather-light kisses press to his eyelids. The sun is just starting to rise, casting soft orange light across the sheets. They stay like that, holding each other tight, happy to cuddle up close in the sanctuary of Minho’s haphazardly-rigged refuge and ignore the sunrise. They don’t care that they have practice in a few hours. The moment is too perfect to leave behind just yet.
When they wake up just a few short hours later, the rain-damp GAP hoodie finds its way back into the box. This time, Jisung won’t miss it. With Minho, he’ll never be without his home.