Burn Down the City

by adisadastra

Summary:

Sometimes he thinks that Minho is right there with him, both of them teetering on the edge of the precipice like acrobats on the tips of their toes. From time to time, for short, precious moments, Jisung entertains the idea that Minho may feel the same way about him, and he lets himself breathe with it, hope with it, burn with it.

Notes:

This is the first fic I’ve written in years, I don’t know what this is or how we got here. Also I have no idea what I’m talking about at any given moment, so suspend disbelief and all that.

Original characters’ names were just picked at random.

Title from “Put It on Me” by Matt Maeson

The sun is setting over Seoul, red and gold spilling into Minho’s dark bedroom through the crack in the curtains. The lofi mix Jisung’s put on a while ago is still playing, quietly thumping through the speakers like a heartbeat in the otherwise silent room.

Jisung’s back is starting to go a little numb where he’s sprawled out on the bed, half into Minho’s lap. That is through no fault of said lap though; it’s a very comfortable lap, sturdy thighs and all. Objectively speaking. It just means it’s been at least an hour since he has last moved.

He rolls over onto his right side, cheek almost pressing against Minho’s belly. His hoodie is soft and worn and smells like Minho’s woody, pleasantly peppery perfume. Smells familiar and comforting, like home. Jisung inhales deeply, inching closer.

Minho’s hand stills in his hair, no longer petting.

“Stop sniffing me,” he says, but he sounds distracted, like his mind is elsewhere.

“No,” Jisung mumbles, sniffing loudly a few times, just to be weird. Minho doesn’t reply.

Irked, Jisung squints up at him. Minho’s typing on his phone with his free hand, the long silver earring in his left ear swinging gently as he tilts his head in thought. The light of the phone’s display casts a bluish tint over his face, the slight frown between his eyebrows, his sharp cheekbones, sharp nose, sharper eyes. His hair, a dark purple at the moment, is sticking up in every direction. He’s never looked more beautiful.

Jisung had thought the same while looking at Minho’s puffy face and red-rimmed, half-closed eyes over breakfast this morning, however, so he might not be the most unbiased of observers.

“Pay attention to me,” he whines, pulling on the front of Minho’s hoodie. “What’re you doing?”

Minho pretends not to hear him for a few long moments, probably because he knows exactly how much being ignored drives him crazy. It’s not until Jisung starts chanting a string of ‘hyungiehyungiehyungie’ in an increasingly high-pitched, little kid voice that Minho exhales a gruff laugh and finally looks down at him. His fingers resume their petting, scratching lightly at Jisung’s scalp.

“I spoil you,” Minho muses, the corner of his petal-pink mouth kicking up.

“As you should,” Jisung purrs.

When the playlist comes to an end, it’s completely dark outside. The phone, still clutched in Minho’s right hand, lights up with a new message.

Minho lets his head fall back to the wall behind the bed, eyes closing. He doesn’t look at his phone.

Jisung does, snorting as he sees the text preview.

“Did someone just send you an actual eggplant emoji?” he laughs, twisting his head to look up at Minho. “People really do that, what the fuck?”

His heart is clenching in his chest like a fist, the ache a familiar, almost comfortable presence by now.

It’s okay. He’s fine.

Minho wiggles his eyebrows at him, seemingly without much enthusiasm; the phone keeps vibrating in his hand. Jisung wants to crawl out of his skin.

“Did you know that eggplants are technically berries,” he blurts out, and okay, what the fuck, brain?

Looking painfully endeared by Jisung’s randomness, Minho shakes his head at him.

“Are they?” he hums, scratching behind Jisung’s ear like he’s one of Minho’s precious cats. Jisung feels itchy all over, feels like there’s a scream tickling at the back of his throat.

Abruptly, he pushes himself up to a sitting position.

“Well, don’t let me keep you from a dick appointment,” he says, voice steady. The smile he gives Minho is faint but sincere. Minho is the best person he knows, and he deserves all the love and all the dick he wants.

“I can stay,” Minho offers, forehead scrunching up.

“Nah, go have fun.” Jisung hops off the bed. “And text me when you get back, yeah?“

It will probably be late but he won’t be able to sleep anyway.

With a quiet groan, he rolls his stiff shoulders and stretches his arms above his head. Minho’s dark, feline eyes zero in on the sliver of skin visible below the hem of Jisung’s shirt with unerring precision. The grin he flashes him is a little dirty, all unabashed appreciation, and Jisung allows himself to return it and to feel smug for a moment, before remembering that someone else will get to kiss that little smirk off Minho’s face later. The ache behind his breastbone returns.

“I’m gonna stop by the studio to see what the guys are up to,” he says, hurriedly gathering his stuff so he can leave.

“Okay, Hannie,” Minho says. He sounds a little subdued, but Jisung doesn’t have it in him to try and puzzle out why right now. “Go write us a platinum song.”

Jisung touches his temple in a mock salute, and right before the door closes behind him, he sees Minho smile to himself.

It’s okay. He’s fine.

 

Jisung used to tell everyone who would listen how he had known Minho was his soulmate within the first week of meeting him as a trainee. He would make it sound teasing, a joke almost. He’d shove himself daringly into Minho’s everyday life and his personal space and his bunk bed at night, and pretend it was by choice; that he hadn’t been sucked into orbiting Minho like a helpless satellite.

Minho had sashayed around with the loose, natural grace of someone who knew his body and knew how to use it, looking like a perfect, photoshopped magazine cover at six in the morning. He danced like he was born for it, laughed like an absolute psychopath and was seemingly equally unbothered by compliments and criticism.

Beyond his prickly personality and the disconcertingly casual way he’d throw around blood-curdling threats, however, Minho had taken to looking after their little ragtag team of misfits in his quiet, almost reluctant way. He’d stayed up late to make dinner for Chan who had a late-night recording session, and hung around until their leader had finished eating, all the while bemoaning his lost beauty sleep. He’d gone out to the supermarket to get jellies for Jeongin who had mentioned in passing that he was craving them, and then proceeded to throw the bag at Jeongin’s stunned face. He’d let Hyunjin cry on his shoulder after being scolded by their vocal coach, even though Minho had looked like a disgruntled cat being cuddled against his will, and then treated Hyunjin to ice cream on their way home.

Jisung never even stood a chance.

“Hyung and I are one,” Jisung would say laughingly, and Minho would glower at him. He’d then squeeze his hand under the table though, thumb caressing Jisung’s knuckles even as he told him off.

He’d held Jisung in his arms, strong and safe, when Jisung was breaking down and coming apart at the seams in a bathroom that smelled like bleach somewhere in Atlanta, Georgia, because the world was suddenly too big and too loud for him, and Jisung was no longer sure where he fit in it. Minho had knelt with him on the tiled floor, held him close, eased him down, keeping the pieces together and counting Jisung’s breaths out loud for him.

And when they were in London and Minho’s parents had called to tell him that one of his beloved cats was sick and had to be taken to the vet, Jisung was the only one who had dared to approach and comfort him. Stuck waiting helplessly for news on the other side of the world, Minho had raged for a while before locking himself into his and Felix’s shared hotel room.

Completely at a loss, the others had gathered in the hallway outside, whispering urgently to each other as they discussed what to do. Then Jisung had, with fearlessness that would become the stuff of legend, let himself into the room, crawled into Minho’s bed and wrapped his whole body around him like a human shield. Minho had threatened to kick him in the face and cursed him in increasingly vicious ways, before suddenly breaking into strangled sobs. It was the first time Jisung saw him cry.

They stayed there the whole night, clutching at each other, with Minho’s head on his chest. And underneath Jisung’s t-shirt, wet with Minho’s tears, his heart had started to beat in a different rhythm. Something new had taken shape inside of Jisung that night, unspoken; blazing with protectiveness, heavy with longing, lodged deep into his muscles and bones; soft like a new love song coming together before him.

When the morning thankfully brought news that the cat would be fine, Minho’s smile which he had turned on Jisung had almost brought him to his knees.

He’s been there since, constantly on the verge of crashing down and tumbling into love, ready to burn with it like a sparkler, burn into nothing if that’s what it takes.

The threat of taking Minho down with him has been the only thing holding him back.

 

“Do you think we’ll ever get to fall in love and get married and all that?” Felix had asked once, late at night, with the city lights flashing through the windows of the car that was taking them home after a show. “Like normal people?”

Jisung saw Chan’s smile in the rear-view mirror.

“We are normal people, Lix,” he murmured in English. “There will be a time for that, one day.”

In the backseat, Minho’s hand had found Jisung’s, and it felt significant somehow. Like a promise.

Sometimes he thinks that Minho is right there with him, both of them teetering on the edge of the precipice like acrobats on the tips of their toes. From time to time, for short, precious moments, Jisung entertains the idea that Minho may feel the same way about him, and he lets himself breathe with it, hope with it, burn with it.

And then he reminds himself that, even if their relationship somehow managed not to destroy the group, their friendships and their careers, what sort of future would be there for them? Hiding, sneaking around and lying to the press, to their families, to the entire world; faking relationships with women or pretending to be single, denying and denouncing each other until they completely poison what used to be between them, until it falls away and they fall apart?

There’s no happy ending for them in this story, he fears.

Over the years, Jisung has learned to take a breath and take a step back, to let what he feels simmer in subliminal spaces and fragmented moments only; in his and Minho’s shared heartbeats when they fall asleep together at night, their shared looks in dark hallways after a show, their shared smiles over coffee at the crack of dawn, when the world is peacefully silent and still.

And it’s almost enough.

 

Jisung is about to wrap up the live when the door to the small company office cracks open and Minho steps inside. He’s wearing an old, faded Valentino t-shirt and slippers, hair still wet from a shower and swept back off his forehead, somehow managing to look runway ready. His movements when he saunters in are loose and relaxed, a hand in the pocket of his sweatpants, and Jisung knows he’s spent the entire morning in the dance room. The smile he gives Jisung is tired but happy, an affectionate little thing that makes warmth spill inside Jisung’s chest.

Then Minho’s grin turns mischievous. He raises his eyebrows coquettishly and Jisung realises he’s been staring at Minho with a, possibly extremely dopey, smile on his face. Jisung curses internally and looks sharply down at the influx of comments from viewers. They are speculating whether Minho was the one who just walked in, based on Jisung’s apparently ’whipped’ expression. He can’t even fault them, because, well. That’s exactly what Jisung is, totally whipped for this man.

“Guys, my manager just stopped by to tell me it’s time to go,” Jisung says, pretending that he hasn’t seen the comments.

Minho stands on the other side of the desk, smothering a laugh, and it takes everything in Jisung not to glare at him.

He wraps up quickly and turns off the live, and Minho starts laughing as soon as he does. He shakes his phone in Jisung’s face, where he’s apparently been reading the comments too.

“I’m sorry if my beauty is too distracting, Hannie,” he says snootily. “It’s not easy for me either.”

“I can imagine.” Jisung snorts, pushing his chair back to stand up. “Everywhere you go, people must start fainting and crying. A whole mess.”

“Your ugly mug can’t relate.”

“Baby,” Jisung says, walking over to Minho, “you say the sweetest things.”

Minho huffs out a laugh, slinging an arm around Jisung’s shoulders. Wordlessly, Jisung tucks his face into his neck and Minho lets him.

“Good day?” Jisung asks, muffled.

Minho hums, patting the back of Jisung’s head. “I feel like I have a much better idea of where I want to go with that move sequence I’ve been working on. I’ll show you guys once I figure it out.”

Jisung hums back, nods. They stay like that for a few long moments, the silence comfortable. The quiet, metallic ticking of the clock on the wall is the only sound in the room. Minho is warm against him; the ends of his hair tickle Jisung’s nose but he doesn’t really mind. He locks his arms around Minho’s waist and sighs into his skin, blissful.

“You smell like a strawberry sundae,” Jisung murmurs, inhales the scent of Minho’s favourite vanilla and strawberries shower gel, then smacks his lips obnoxiously right into Minho’s ear.

Rolling his eyes, Minho pushes his head away.

“Does it make you want to eat me?” he asks, smirking, then continues as though he hasn’t just fried Jisung’s brain, “I’ve brought actual food, it’s outside. I got you a cheesecake as well.”

Jisung gasps. “I love you, hyung. This is why you’re my favourite!”

“I know,” Minho replies smugly.

Sometimes, Jisung wonders how much Minho does know, how much his dark, perceptive eyes see and how often he pretends like he hasn’t. It’s thoughts like these that keep Jisung up at night, eyes squeezed shut and heart thumping in his ears, counting away the sleepless seconds.

 

They had almost kissed once, about half a year ago.

It was three in the morning, two weeks before their album release, and Minho was still at the company building, not answering his phone. He apparently had an idea for a choreo but couldn’t get it to look exactly like he imagined. So Jisung sneaked out of the dorm and went to see him, with a contraband bottle of vodka in his bag. It was a really bad idea, honestly, because they had an early start tomorrow, but Jisung knew that this was Minho trying to release some stress. He also knew how Minho got when things weren’t going his way; he could become downright self-destructive, ready to battle the entire universe until he either won or ran himself into the ground trying. Jisung just didn’t have the time to plan a more elaborate plot to distract him, so vodka it was.

The two of them had ended up on the floor of the practice room, backs against the couch, taking shots out of a plastic cup.

“Can’t get this fucking turn to look right,” Minho grumbled, returning the cup to Jisung.

He was sweaty, lips pursed unhappily, and his voice had that whiny, almost childish tone that meant he was too far gone to keep his walls up. Vulnerable like he only was in these rare moments late at night, tired and tipsy, and with only Jisung around to witness it.

“Looked alright to me,” Jisung said.

It looked more than alright, with Minho’s powerful dancer’s body hitting every beat and making it look easy. It looked gorgeous to Jisung, he could sit and watch for hours, but he knew that Minho would not be satisfied until he got the choreography to look exactly like he had seen it in his head. There was nothing Jisung could say that would convince Minho to be less harsh on himself.

They had that in common.

Minho made a tch sound in response and Jisung snickered.

“You’ll get it right,” he said instead.

“Always do,” Minho replied, with the deliberate cockiness that usually meant he was feeling insecure.

Grabbing him around the waist, Jisung pulled him into a tight embrace, ignoring Minho’s indignant yelp. Ninety percent of the time, such a move would cost him his balls, but Jisung was reasonably confident in his knowledge of Minho’s moods now to take his chance.

Sure enough, Minho heaved a sigh but did quiet down quickly, with his back against Jisung’s chest.

Face pressing into Minho’s hair, Jisung murmured again, “You’ll get it right, baby.”

It wasn’t anything new between them, the pet names, but there in the dimly lit practice room, with the half-empty bottle of vodka between them and Minho’s heartbeat thundering against the palm of Jisung’s hand, it sounded different; the weight of the word rested on his tongue like a confession rather than a joke.

“Of course I will,” Minho replied, voice suddenly small.

“That’s the spirit.” Jisung patted his chest encouragingly and Minho let out a giggle. Oh, he was more gone that Jisung had thought.

“Thank you, darling,” Minho said agreeably, body going lax in Jisung’s arms.

Jisung bit down on a smile. “My pleasure, sweet cheeks.”

“Call me that again and die.”

Jisung breathed a laugh into Minho’s hair, leaning his forehead against the back of his head.

“You want to see that turn again?” Minho asked after a while. “Tell me what I’m missing?”

“You can get Hyunjin and Felix here tomorrow and do your secret danceracha magic together,” Jisung replied honestly. “It’s late, you’re crashing, hyung. Let me take you home.”

Fingers tangling with Jisung’s on top of his chest, Minho giggled again. “I was gonna say, ‘Buy me a drink first,’ but I guess the vodka counts.”

Suddenly, Minho turned his head and the tip of his nose brushed against Jisung’s. His eyes dropped to Jisung’s mouth, his lips parting, and Jisung’s stomach clenched so hard it made him lightheaded.

“Whoa there.” He struggled to put some distance between them, but Minho reached up and cupped the back of his neck. Freezing in place, Jisung stared as Minho’s hazy eyes blinked sleepily up at him.

“Say it again,” Minho whispered.

“Baby,” Jisung said hoarsely, helplessly, and Minho’s eyes fluttered closed. He made a deep, satisfied sound low in his throat, pulling Jisung gently down to him, and Jisung felt like his skin was stretched too tightly over his bones.

Their lips were almost touching, just a hair’s breadth away. A tiny flinch, the barest of movements, and they’d be kissing.

But Minho was drunk and sad and tired, and tomorrow he would be back to himself and either cheerfully choose to forget this, or awkwardly sit Jisung down and let him down easy. And Jisung’s heart would split clean in two and never, ever mend itself, because he was so in love he didn’t know how to be anything else.

So instead of kissing Minho to within an inch of his life, Jisung grasped his chin and held him in place.

“Hyung,” he said, voice wrecked. “Let’s get you home so you can get some sleep.”

He could feel Minho’s body going rigid, eyes huge and unblinking for a long moment before he let go of Jisung as though he’d been burned. He ducked his head, arms wrapping around himself.

“Oh,” Minho said, nodding slowly. “I– Okay, yeah, let me just–”

Then he was staggering up to his feet, ignoring Jisung’s attempts to help, more graceful in his drunk clumsiness than most people were sober.

He threw Jisung a shaky smile over his shoulder. “Let’s go home, yeah?”

In the morning, Minho was his usual energetic, brazen self. He showed no sign of the late night he’d had or the half bottle of vodka they had shared. Within an hour, he nailed the move he had been struggling with and gave Jisung a happy wink on his way to the showers later.

They never mentioned that night again.

 

“Fuck.” He rips out another page of the notebook, balls it up in his fist and sends it into the bin, where it joins the dozen others before it. “Fuck!”

Chan shifts on the couch in the back of the studio, where he’s bent over his laptop, holding his headphones over one ear. He glances at Jisung from the corner of his eye, right eyebrow giving a concerned little twitch. He probably thinks he’s being subtle.

From across the desk, Changbin groans.

“Fuck’s sake, man, just go home,” he says. “Take a bubble bath, jerk off, I don’t care. Can’t even hear my own thoughts with you whining the entire time.”

Subtlety is not something Changbin normally concerns himself with.

Jisung scoffs, “Fuck you too.”

“I’m still your hyung, bitch.”

“Fuck you too, hyung,” Jisung amends.

Changbin’s lips twitch with what Jisung knows is suppressed laughter.

“Alright,” Chan says with finality. He takes off the headphones.

“Uh oh,” Changbin chirps gleefully.

“What are we dealing with here, Hannie?” Chan asks patiently.

“Nothing, I’m fine.”

Chan’s right eyebrow looks sceptical.

“I’m fine,” Jisung insists.

Chan sighs.

“Why don’t we all call it a day, it’s late anyway. Let’s go home and order some food, yeah?” he suggests. “I’ll ask Minho to get the kids. It’s been a while since we’ve had dinner together.”

“He’s not home,” Jisung mumbles under his breath. He’s already dreading what’s coming.

“Huh?”

“Hyung is not home,” he repeats.

“Oh,” Chan says after a moment.

Changbin snorts so loudly his sinuses probably burst. Good for him, Jisung thinks viciously.

“Which one was it this time?” Changbin asks. “The dancer? He seems to be his favourite lately.”

“Changbin,” Chan says. It’s as good as a reprimand, and Changbin rolls his eyes but keeps his mouth shut.

It’s been happening for a few months now.

Discreet hook-ups, especially with other people from the industry, are not at all out of the ordinary; most members do it from time to time, some more frequently than others. Jisung himself has done it enough to know the drill by now, although it has been a while for him. They’ve all been busy and stressed, and the thing with Minho has been messing with his head ever since the almost-kiss, so Jisung hasn’t felt like hitting up people for sex.

Minho had never been obvious about it, before. At least, Jisung had never seen or heard anything about Minho’s sex life, and he had liked it that way. A few months ago, however, it was like Minho suddenly woke up one day with his libido going haywire. His phone was blowing up all the time, he was going out whenever they had a free evening, sometimes even coming home at dawn with messed up hair and puffy lips.

Their managers haven’t done much, other than warn him to be smart about it, and he is, really. It’s not like Minho is parading his hook-ups for everyone to see, but he also never does anything to hide from the members where he’s been and what, or whom, he’s been doing. He’s as unapologetic and nonchalant about it as he is about pretty much everything else in his life.
Jisung doubts anyone else can take one look at Minho and immediately tell what he’s been up to, but Jisung can. Oh god, can he.

He inhales deeply, then exhales.

It’s okay. He’s fine.

“Jisung-ah,” Chan says. There’s pity in the tight line of his mouth, in his patient eyes, and suddenly fire is coursing through Jisung’s veins.

“Binnie,” he says, looking up at him.

“Hm?” Changbin’s face shows nothing but curiosity, bless his heart.

“That girl, the stylist you told me about.” Jisung runs a hand through his dry, damaged hair, which was recently dyed dark again. Once, twice, three times. “Said she asked you to give me her number?”

Changbin grins slowly, a crooked little smirk. He nods.

“Oh dear,” Chan says, like a distraught elderly lady.

Jisung snickers. Then Changbin quietly repeats to himself, ‘oh dear,’ and they’re both cracking up, laughing so loudly that Chan startles.

 

Leaning his head back against the leather seat, Jisung lets the car engine’s quiet rumble soothe his restless mind. He pulls a bottle of water out of his bag, drinks deeply; breathes.

It’s 2:30 a.m. but Seoul isn’t asleep. Its bright lights and neon signs flash through the windows, blue and yellow and purple, sliced through by brake lights in the traffic ahead. It all swirls together in a blinding cacophony of searing light, throbbing behind his eyes like a migraine.

He rubs at his temples, breathes, in and out.

The driver keeps his mouth shut. His eyes meet Jisung’s in the rear-view mirror for a second, then return to the road.

He’s not judging you, Jisung’s brain promises.

His heart doesn’t slow down.

Jisung yanks his hoodie over his head, the thin t-shirt underneath damp with sweat, and presses his forehead against the cold window. Breathes.

The girl was nice. Eunbi. Apparently, she and Changbin have some sort of friends with benefits thing going on, casual enough for Changbin to be setting her up with other people. ‘I’ll make sure to thank him when I see him,’ she had said, eyes sparkling playfully.

Jisung can see why Changbin likes her. She was laid-back, had a loud laugh, curvy hips and strong thighs. Good with her mouth.

It kind of makes him feel like an asshole to think of her that way, but they both knew why they were there, no expectations and no hard feelings. Jisung made her come twice, once on his tongue and again on his cock. He was so deep in his own head at that point that he was nowhere near close to coming and was ready to just keep going. Eunbi had laughed, shaking her head and pushing him away, and offered to blow him instead. She had sucked a bruise into the inside of his thigh afterwards.

“Wouldn’t mind doing this again, if you want,” she said later, as she walked him to the door.

Jisung just gave her a friendly wink. As nice as she is, he’s not up for a repeat performance.

His chest feels tight.

Some indie rock is playing through the speakers, so he tries to match his breathing to the slow-rolling beats.

His phone lights up with a message.

I’m home, Minho says.

Jisung drops the phone on the backseat and closes his eyes.

Ok, he sends back after a bit.

It’s 2:36 a.m. when Minho texts again.

Oh. Changbin tells me you’re out. Hope you’re having fun, darling.

A pause, then Minho sends him a wink.

Jisung makes a strangled noise, almost but not quite a laugh.

“You okay?” the driver, Minjun, asks.

“Sure.” Jisung gives him a smile that he hopes doesn’t look completely deranged. Minjun nods, looking unconvinced.

He’s not judging you, Jisung’s brain tries again.

Fuck you, you useless motherfucking piece of shit, Jisung says back, then quickly apologises because his therapist says he shouldn’t be harsh on himself. He shouldn’t talk to himself in a way he wouldn’t talk to any of the people he loves, she always tells him.

It’s 2:45 a.m.

Night, hyung, Jisung texts.

 

He can feel Minho’s eyes on him the entire morning. It’s putting him on edge.

Around eleven they take a short break from practice. Jisung wipes his sweaty face with the edge of his t-shirt and sits on the floor to catch his breath.

“Soo,” Changbin says, sidling up to him. He grins, nudging Jisung in an incredibly obvious way, a sharp elbow to his ribs. Changbin shakes his phone at him. “I just learned way more about you than I ever wanted to know. Colour me impressed and disgusted.”

Laughing, Jisung leans back against the wall. ”We’re not doing this, man.”

Hyunjin sprawls out over Jisung’s legs and asks loudly, “Doing what?”

Jisung glares at Changbin in warning. If this were Minho, people would be wetting themselves already, but Jisung’s not as good at looking quietly homicidal.

Changbin grins his impish little grin.

“Jisungie is a sex demon, apparently,” he says.

Sliding himself across the floor, Jisung screeches like a barn owl and grabs at Changbin to make him stop talking. Changbin yells back in his face.

Hyunjin gasps in delight, reaching over for a high five. Jisung groans, letting go of Changbin to slap his palm against Hyunjin’s, harder than strictly necessary.

On the other side of the room, Minho throws his empty water bottle into the bin with such force that the bin topples over with a loud metallic clatter.

Chan’s forehead scrunches up. Felix breaks the sudden silence with a giggle.

“Sorry,” Minho says, in the sugar-sweet tone of impending doom.

“Who was the unlucky person?” Seungmin asks from the couch, where he’s attempting to braid Jeongin’s hair.

Jisung knows Seungmin doesn’t care in the slightest about his hook-ups, or about sex in general, so he’s confused as to why he’s encouraging this conversation.

“My friend with benefits, Eunbi,” Changbin supplies.

“The stylist?” Seungmin checks, casting a wryly amused glance in Minho’s direction for whatever reason.

“Did everyone get laid last night except me?” Hyunjin whines. “Felix said that Minho-hyung came home limping. Animals, all of you.”

Jisung feels like he’s going to be sick.

“I’m too young for this conversation,” Jeongin complains suddenly, successfully putting a stop to it.

“Oh no,” Hyunjin says, immediately contrite. “We’ve upset the baby. We’re the worst hyungs, corrupting the young and pure!”

Seungmin snorts.

Clambering on top of Jeongin, who takes it stoically, Hyunjin tries to smack a kiss to his cheek.

Jisung arches an eyebrow at the maknae; Jeongin smirks at him. Jisung’s sure he’ll come back to collect with interest for this.

A few minutes later, Minho corners him in the bathroom just as Jisung’s finishing up washing his hands. Their eyes meet in the mirror. Sure enough, there is a barely noticeable limp in Minho’s step.

It was probably a bit irresponsible of Minho to go and get fucked to within an inch of his life when he knew they have a busy day today, Jisung thinks as he dries his hands, but throughout the years, Minho has proven himself to be a true professional, unrelenting in his ruthless perfectionism. He goes just as hard when practicing and performing while sleep deprived, running a fever, or with various sprained or broken limbs. Getting railed would be the last thing he’d let affect his dancing.

Propping his hips against the counter next to Jisung, Minho looks him up and down. His eyes are half-lidded and predatory in a way that makes Jisung feel simultaneously uncomfortable and hot all over. He’s not proud of it but it is what it is.

“Soo,” Minho drawls.

Jisung snorts, turning around to face him. “Nope.”

Minho laughs his unhinged laughter, then he’s reaching out and his fingers are inching up Jisung’s thigh and under the leg of his shorts.

Jisung is so stunned he can only blink at him.

“What the fuck,” he whispers.

Under the harsh fluorescent light, Minho’s face looks pale and drawn, almost eerie. His mouth twists into a smile that’s anything but sweet.

“Got a little something here,” he murmurs, fingers pressing into the bruise on Jisung’s thigh. “Your little stylist is a wild thing, huh?”

Jisung looks down at Minho’s hand on him. The bruise has turned a deep purplish red. He can feel himself blushing furiously.

“Aww,” Minho says with no feeling whatsoever, tilting his head to the side. “Is Jisungie embarrassed?”

“What the fuck,” Jisung says again to no one in particular. He is so turned on and so, so confused that he feels dizzy with it.

Minho hums, thumb pressing harder on the bruise, and Jisung maybe moans, just a little bit. He’s definitely getting hard in his shorts, oh god, and he’s completely helpless to stop it.

Their faces are so close that he can feel Minho’s unsteady breaths on his skin. Minho chews on his bottom lip, looking torn between punching Jisung in the face and dropping to his knees for him right here, in this fucking white bathroom with white fluorescent lights. Head spinning, Jisung grabs onto the front of Minho’s t-shirt and pushes him back against the counter. With a small sound of surprise, Minho lets himself be moved, wrapping his arms around Jisung’s neck to steady himself. His legs fall open to allow Jisung’s thigh to slot between them, and Jisung’s nerve endings spark like live wires. He leans in, muttering a curse into the warmth of Minho’s neck, and Minho’s head drops back against the mirror with a shuddering exhale.

A throat clears behind them.

Jisung startles so badly he nearly smashes his head into Minho’s face. Thankfully Minho’s quick reflexes save him, and he manages to pull back in time. His hands remain on Jisung’s shoulders.

“We are ready to continue,” Chan says, face unreadable.

“We’re not,” Minho spits, giving him a nasty look. Chan holds his gaze.

Jisung can’t decide if he feels like laughing or crying.

After a moment Minho sneers and pushes away from Jisung, poised as ever. He walks past Chan without saying a word, then pauses by the door and turns to look back at Jisung through his eyelashes. Slowly, Minho licks his red lips before walking out, hips swinging.

Chan lets out a squeak, staring after him. The tips of his ears are a startling shade of red. Chan doesn’t even swing that way, but that’s just Minho’s power, Jisung supposes.

The thought makes him let out a gruff laugh, and he runs a shaking hand through his hair.

“Damn,” Chan says.

“Uh-huh,” Jisung agrees. He looks down ruefully at his still-hard dick.

“I’ll…give you a minute,” Chan decides quickly, then nearly breaks into a run in his haste to get away from him.

Jisung doesn’t blame him.

 

With a sigh, Jisung leans despondently over his laptop on the desk. Heavy raindrops drum against the window and blur the street outside, busy with the evening crowd.

He’d stopped by the studio, but Chan was working on something there, and Jisung hadn’t wanted to distract him with his inability to write anything of worth and his sad existence in general, so he decided to use an empty office instead.

Someone drops into the chair next to his, and Jeongin’s grinning face blocks the view.

Jisung rolls his eyes, smacking him lightly upside the head.

“Rude.” Jeongin pouts. “And after I selflessly threw the bloodhounds off your trail and got slobbered on for my sacrifice.”

“Selflessly,” Jisung snorts. “Last time you did me a favour I was stuck buying you lunch for a week. What do you want this time?”

Jeongin snickers, clearly satisfied with himself. “I’ll let you know when I think of something.”

It’s absurdly endearing. When did you grow up so much, Jisung wants to ask, but he also doesn’t want to sound like a drunk aunt at a family gathering, so he just pats Jeongin’s head and makes a kissy face at him.

“Changbin-hyung says you can’t write,” Jeongin informs him.

“Ouch.” Jisung slumps back in his chair like he’s been shot. “Well, tell him I said he’s short.”

“I mean, true, but that’s not the point.”

“What is the point?” Jisung asks him. “What are you even doing here so late?”

“I was looking for you, actually.” Jeongin swivels in his chair. “Minho-hyung tried cooking dinner tonight but he burned everything, so we had to air out the apartment.” He smiles wryly. “Hyung was cursing me and Felix and Seungmin the whole time. Then he gave us money to buy ourselves food and threw us out of the dorm.”

Jisung blinks, absorbing the information; it seems like a non sequitur.

“Huh,” he says finally. “So what did you need me for?”

Jeongin sighs.

“Figure it out, hyung,” he says, standing up. His hand lands heavily on Jisung’s shoulder.

“Ow,” Jisung says indignantly.

“Figure it out,” Jeongin repeats. Then his face splits into a sunny grin, as if nothing’s happened. “I’m going to order bulgogi, you want some?”

Feeling strangely untethered, Jisung rubs absently at his shoulder and nods.

 

He takes some of the bulgogi home with him and lets himself into Minho’s dorm. The others are still gone, the apartment almost unnaturally quiet. He can’t smell any traces of smoke, with all the windows wide open and letting in crisp winter air.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Minho is staring with glassy eyes at the window curtains that blow in the wind.

“Hyung?” Jisung calls tentatively.

Minho blinks rapidly a few times, his version of being startled.

“Hannie?” He lifts his head to look at him, mouth curling into a small smile. “What’re you doing here?”

“Thought you might be hungry, what with your dinner plans… going up in flames.” He snickers, putting the takeout box on the counter.

Minho rolls his eyes so hard that Jisung worries he’ll sprain something.

“That was terrible,” Minho says.

“Bet you’re laughing on the inside.”

“Not yet but I definitely will be when I beat you up with that takeout box.”

Jisung laughs, shaking his head as he goes to close the windows.

“Shit, it’s freezing in here.”

‘’Haven’t noticed,” Minho says glumly.

“You good?” Jisung asks, walking over to him.

Minho shrugs, then wraps his fingers around Jisung’s wrist and pulls him down into his lap unceremoniously.

“What–” Jisung sputters, scrambling to wrap his legs around Minho’s waist.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you much lately.” Minho’s icy hands slide up the back of Jisung’s shirt and he yelps; Minho chuckles.

“We saw each other very up close this morning,” Jisung blurts out, squirming on top of him.

“Mmm,” is all Minho says. He nudges his nose along Jisung’s jaw before pulling back to ask, “How come you’ve never mentioned that stylist?”

“Fuck, not this again.” He throws his head back, groaning.

“I just don’t want you to feel like you can’t talk to me about these things!” Minho exclaims, and he sounds genuinely hurt, like Jisung has betrayed their friendship somehow by not keeping Minho updated on where his dick’s been. “I was the last to know about that actor you were seeing last year, and I’m supposed to be your soulmate or whatever,” Minho adds, and Jisung gapes at him because he had honestly forgotten about that guy, but not Minho, apparently.

“I wasn’t seeing him, we literally hooked up like, four times,” he says, bewildered. When he tries to stand up, Minho’s arms tighten around him and Jisung huffs in exasperation. “Why do you care who I fuck? Should I start asking about your hook-ups?”

Minho pouts. “You could.”

There’s literally nothing Jisung wants to do less, so he just sighs, clasping his hands behind Minho’s neck.

“So that Eunbi girl,” Minho says after a beat, blinking up at Jisung, “it was just a hook-up?”

“Uh, yeah?” Jisung snorts. “Did you think we eloped or something?”

Minho pinches his nipple through the shirt and twists it cruelly. Jisung shrieks.

“You fucking maniac!”

“Treat your elders with respect,” Minho advises serenely.

“That will bruise, what the fuck!” He slaps at Minho’s shoulder none too gently, then rubs over his abused nipple.

“Well, it seems like you’re okay with marks. We’re learning so much today, aren’t we?”

The smile on Minho’s face is downright nasty, and Jisung has absolutely had enough of his tantrums today. He yanks on his hair, hard, and Minho lets out a gasp.

“You gotta earn that,” Jisung spits. “I’ll let you leave as many marks as you want, once you’ve sucked my soul right out of me like she did.”

He doesn’t even know what he’s saying, and Eunbi was good, sure, but nowhere near good enough to merit the shit he’s spewing out right now.

Minho’s eyes flash with anger, though, with pain, and what looks like an almost violent longing, and the thrill of it coils into Jisung’s belly like a tightly wound spring. It ties him up in knots, licks at his insides like tendrils of fear, sets him on fire like sparks of lust. He suddenly feels out of control, out of his mind, and when Minho’s thighs tense beneath him and he stands up with Jisung clinging to him, the spring snaps inside of him like a whiplash.

He curses, wrapping himself tighter around Minho as he carries him to his bedroom. His poor, horny brain nearly short-circuits as he’s dumped onto the bed.

Minho clicks the bedside lamp on. Backlit by the warm yellow light like a masterpiece in its gilded frame, he takes off his shirt and lets it drop on the floor. Then he’s crawling over the bed towards Jisung on his hands and knees like a big, feral cat, and Jisung is not at all ashamed to admit that he straight up whimpers.

This same, recurring dream has been haunting his sleep for years, and because the universe hates him, his mouth is informing Minho of the fact without consulting his brain.

Burying his face into Jisung’s neck, Minho chuckles.

“Darling,” he says, “you only had to ask.”

Then Minho’s hands are cradling his face and Jisung is grabbing onto Minho’s hips, gasping as their lips slide together. It’s effortless, smooth, as if they’ve done this a million times before. They’ve always known their way around each other’s bodies, slotting together and fitting perfectly in all the ways that matter.

Jisung doesn’t want to think anymore, doesn’t want to wonder about the consequences or fear what the future holds for them. For a little while, just for tonight, he wants the world to shrink down to the size of this room, contained into their shared breaths, into the warmth of their bodies moving together and their hands scrambling to find each other. Just him and Minho; just them.

Minho makes a low sound in the back of his throat, a honeyed little hum, and Jisung opens up for him with readiness, with need unlike anything he’s ever felt before. He lets Minho press his body between Jisung’s legs and his tongue into Jisung’s mouth, and it feels so good it’s almost an ache. The burn of it seeps into his bloodstream and spreads, red-hot, under his skin.

The sounds of their kissing are loud, almost filthy in the silence of the room, and it makes Jisung start pulling at his own clothes, suddenly desperate to feel Minho’s hands on him, Minho’s skin on his skin.

Minho helps him get rid of his shirt with gentle hands.

“You sure?” he murmurs.

“Yeah.” Jisung nods, thumb stroking Minho’s cheek. “Yes.”

“Yes what?” Minho asks with a small smirk, like the colossal dick he is. “What do you want?”

Jisung whines, “Hyung, come on.”

“Tell me.” Minho props himself up on his elbow over him, eyelashes casting deep shadows across his face. “My hand? My mouth? Ask for it.”

Pausing, Jisung blinks up at him.

“Are you trying to make me beg?” he snorts, tugging at Minho’s hair. “’Cause I will, I’ll beg until you get sick of hearing my voice.”

“Not likely.” Minho presses his lips to Jisung’s chest, over his wildly beating heart, then murmurs, “There’s nothing I wouldn’t give you, you know that, right? Like… I would literally kill a man for you, I’m not even fucking joking.”

Jisung chokes on a surprised laugh, wrapping his arms around Minho.

“Don’t kill anyone.” He tilts his head back so Minho can bite at his collarbones. “You bloodthirsty little monster,” Jisung murmurs affectionately, carding his fingers through Minho’s hair.

“So?” Minho says petulantly, pulling back to look at him. He licks his lips, swollen and wet, and Jisung feels a little faint.

“Mouth,” he croaks out, “please.”

“You want my mouth, darling?” Minho’s grin is sharp and dirty, and Jisung can only nod jerkily. “Good boy.”

“Oh my fucking god,” Jisung says intelligently, squeezing his eyes shut.

He can hear Minho laughing at him but before he can complain, Jisung’s sweatpants are pushed down to thighs and Minho’s hot mouth slides over him. Jisung thinks he probably blacks out a bit but that’s fine.

Tightening his lips around him, Minho swallows him down until Jisung is hitting the back of his throat. He stays there for a beat, letting out a low, satisfied purr that Jisung feels in his bones.

The sight of Minho’s lips stretched around him, eyelashes fluttering as he takes Jisung in deeper, nearly unravels him. He grits his teeth, tangles a hand in Minho’s hair and thinks every heartbreak he’s ever suffered, every tear he’s shed have been a small price to pay for this moment.

Some head, a voice in his head says that sounds suspiciously like Changbin, and Jisung exhales a faint laugh. It turns into a gasp as Minho’s throat ripples around the head of his cock.

“This is gonna be over in, like, twenty seconds,” Jisung manages to say, and he can feel the vibration of Minho’s chuckle around him.

Minho pulls off, sucking in a breath.

“You can come in my mouth,” he tells him, voice rough.

“Shit,” Jisung gasps, a shiver running down’s spine.

Minho smirks at him knowingly, then he’s leaning in to take him back into his mouth, sucking until his cheeks hollow. Jisung sees him shove a hand down his own pants, and the sight has Jisung’s hips bucking so hard Minho gags.

With a curse, Jisung tries to draw back but Minho’s free hand grabs at his thigh, fingers digging into Jisung’s skin to hold him in place. His eyes flick up to him expectantly, glassy with wetness, and Jisung feels himself coming undone.

“Yeah, like that, baby,” he rambles as he thrusts into his mouth again, and Minho takes it, relaxing his throat for him. “Fuck, you’re so good.”

Minho moans around him, the muscles in his shoulder flexing as he strokes himself faster, and Jisung’s done for. Fisting his hand in Minho’s hair, he comes down his throat with a groan and a muttered curse, and stars bursting behind his eyelids.

Letting his cock slip out from between his lips, Minho turns his face into Jisung’s thigh. It takes Jisung’s sluggish brain a moment to understand, but then Minho’s sinking his teeth into his skin, right over the bruise there. Jisung winces but lets him, his whole body tender with oversensitivity. He holds still, petting the hair on the nape of Minho’s neck softly as Minho trembles though his orgasm with a sharp exhale.

Minho presses a kiss to the inside of Jisung’s thigh afterwards, where the skin smarts with the fresh bruise, and Jisung silently brushes his knuckles across his cheek.

 

After a quick clean up, Minho wordlessly shoves his face into the pillow and drifts off to sleep. His hand is wrapped around Jisung’s, fingers intertwined loosely.

Jisung doesn’t sleep. Back against the wall, he watches the shadows crawl across the ceiling. He wants to go home, hide under the covers in his own bed and think until his ears bleed, but it feels like a betrayal somehow, to sneak out and leave Minho alone right now.

He needs space though, to make sense of everything that’s happened.

An hour passes; Minho doesn’t move, chest rising and falling steadily.

It feels like there is no air in the room. Jisung’s knee starts bouncing, fingers drumming against the headboard, and in his sleep, Minho’s face scrunches up in annoyance.

Grabbing his phone from the bedside table, Jisung sends Minho a message to tell him that he needs to go home and he’ll see him tomorrow. With a small smile, he adds a bunch of hearts. After pressing a careful kiss to Minho’s forehead, Jisung slips out of the bed as quietly as possible.

The dorm is quiet and still, but the living room light is on. Jisung stops in his tracks, blood going cold. He’s seriously considering just making a run for it, when Seungmin’s head pops over the back of the couch.

“Hey,” Jisung says, after a beat of awkward silence.

Seungmin lifts an eyebrow at him, then sighs like a martyr and points to the spot next to him on the couch.

“Um.” Jisung shifts from foot to foot. “Thanks but I gotta–”

“Han Jisung,” is all Seungmin says. His tone does not invite further questioning, so Jisung walks over to sit down next to him, grumbling under his breath. Seungmin’s eyes follow him.

“You’re freaking me out, dude,” Jisung says with a nervous chuckle.

Humming, Seungmin tilts his head at him.

“You and hyung, huh,” he says finally.

“What–” Jisung clears his throat. “What do you mean?”

“The bedroom door was wide open,” Seungmin says. “Dude.”

His entire being radiates disappointment in a way that’s uniquely Seungmin. Jisung feels compelled to apologise for letting him down, somehow.

Puffing out his cheeks, he gives Seungmin a sheepish smile instead. “I didn’t hear you come home.”

“Well, you were a bit busy.”

Jisung makes a face.

Seungmin folds his arms across his chest and says, “Listen, I don’t know which one of you dumbasses needs the shovel talk more, so I’ve decided to give it to both of you.”

“The shovel…” Jisung trails off, frowning. “Why?”

“Do try to keep up,” Seungmin says, and Jisung can’t help it; he laughs.

“Wow, you’re such a dick.”

“Thanks.” Seungmin‘s mouth presses into a line. “Just try not to break each other’s heart, okay? Hyung may seems like, and don’t ever tell him I said this, but he seems like this larger-than-life guy who can’t be hurt by anything, but we both know that’s not true.” He jabs a finger into Jisung’s chest. “So get your shit together and talk about it like grown-ups. Don’t make the rest of us pick up the pieces. Again.”

Jisung stares at him. Seungmin holds his gaze with a defiant tilt of his chin.

“Wait,” Jisung says, rubbing at his neck with a shaking hand. “What do you mean, again?”

Seungmin sighs. “Figure it out, Jisungie.”

 

Minho finds him at the gym the next morning. He looks beautiful, with the winter sun in his messy hair and a tentative smile on his face. He’s brought him ice coffee, which Jisung takes with a grateful nod.

“Okay?” Minho asks, and the single word contains a hundred questions, a tangle of feelings. He turns his phone between his fingers, again and again, fixing his gaze somewhere over Jisung’s shoulder. “No regrets?”

He’s obviously aiming for casual but doesn’t quite get there. Jisung’s stomach twists painfully.

“No,” he murmurs. Shaking his head, he reaches for Minho’s hand. “None at all, hyung, promise.”

The relief on Minho’s face makes him feel even guiltier.

It’s the silence that tips him off. Jisung looks over his shoulder and there they are, Chan, Changbin and Felix, all staring at them with shit-eating grins.

Changbin wolf whistles. Jisung flips him off.

Minho snorts. “Want to bet that Seungmin told them?”

“Did he tell you that he…saw? Us.” Jisung fidgets, scratching at his ear. Minho looks at him fondly.

“I heard you last night.” He shrugs. “He gave me almost the same talk this morning. A little lighter on the condescension, maybe.”

“Funny,” Jisung says in a monotone.

“Don’t tell Seungmin I said this,” Minho sighs as if the words physically pain him, “but he’s right. Let’s talk about this. About us.”

“We will.” Jisung laces their fingers together, nods. “Absolutely. I just need a little time to put my thoughts in order. I’m not going to avoid you or like, be weird about it, I just need to sort myself out a bit.”

Minho’s eyes soften. “Okay, Jisung-ah. Thank you for telling me.”

“Ah, young love,” Felix’s deep voice rumbles behind them, in his fakest French accent.

Minho lets out a light, tinkling laugh, and Jisung beams at him. It probably makes him look exactly like the fool in love that he is.

 

Jisung does take the time to think about it; it’s the only thing on his mind for the next few days. He has internal conversations with imaginary Minho when he’s in the shower, obsesses over it while staring at the stubbornly blank pages of his notebook, and plays out different scenarios in his head at night instead of sleeping.

As promised, Minho gives him space. Miraculously, the other members do as well. At least no one’s cornered him with questions and suggestions yet, and Jisung appreciates the lack of people breathing down his neck.

“Minho-hyung threatened to skin us alive with a cheese grater if we harassed you,” Felix tells him cheerfully when Jisung mentions it.

They are playing some new game that Felix has been into recently, but Jisung’s mind is not into it, so he keeps losing disastrously.

“Ah.” The thought makes something warm and fuzzy unfurl in his chest. It’s probably a little concerning that Minho’s violent threats have him swooning.

“Yeah.” Felix pauses the game and turns to him. “You’re sick of thinking, aren’t you?”

“Oh my god, I’m driving myself crazy,” Jisung admits, suddenly lightheaded with relief.

Felix laughs. “Thought so.”

Jisung sprawls out on the floor, and Felix stretches out next to him. He bumps his shoulder against Jisung’s.

“Talk to me, man,” he says in English.

Sighing, Jisung stares up at the ceiling.

“I just don’t see a way for this to end happily, Lixie,” he says dejectedly. “I love him, you all know I do. The ajumma from the restaurant down the street probably knows. And at this point I’m pretty sure he has some... non-platonic feelings for me, too.” Felix wiggles his eyebrows at him, and Jisung groans, kicking him in the shin. “The point is, how do I jump headfirst into this, how do I let hyung do it, when I know it could ruin both us and the group?”

Felix makes a thoughtful noise.

“You don’t let Lee Minho do anything, Jisungie, so don’t try to take the choice away from him for his own good, or whatever. Hyung will not appreciate it, I promise you.” He turns his bright, Disney princess eyes to Jisung. “Also, if people only let themselves fall in love and be together when there was a guaranteed happy ending, humanity would probably be extinct.”

“Well, fuck.” Jisung chuckles, reaching out to pat Felix’s head. “That was deep, bro.”

“I’m a very deep person,” Felix agrees. “Now spill, is hyung really a beast in bed?”

“Felix!” Jisung barks out a scandalised laugh. “What the hell?”

“What, I’m just curious!” Felix giggles, shrugging. “He hooked up with a friend of mine a few months ago, and the guy wouldn’t shut up about hyung afterwards. I swear, he was ready to start a religion dedicated to him or something.”

“Oh,” Jisung says, crossing his arms. “Well, you should tell your friend to shut his mouth and stop spreading shit like this about hyung, or I’ll shut it for him permanently.”

“He’s not, man, relax.” Felix shakes his head, looking awed. “You’re both possessive lunatics, this is going to be so messy. I can’t wait.”

Hyunjin suddenly sticks his head into the doorway.

“Did someone say messy?” he asks, face lighting up when he sees the two of them. “Are we having an intervention? I told you, if we team up, Lee Know-ssi doesn’t stand a chance. Probably.”

“We are not,” Felix says, smiling up at him. ”We’re being supportive and encouraging Jisungie to get with the love of his life.”

“Pfft, boring.” Hyunjin walks in, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. Crossing his ankles, he gracefully folds himself down onto the floor next to them. Damned dancers. “But also, yeah, you should do that. We are all tired of watching the two of you pine after each other.”

“No one’s pining,” Jisung protests, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Hyung is pining,” Hyunjin says. “He tried so hard to get over you after you rejected him, we thought he was going to fuck himself into an early grave.”

The silence that follows that statement is deafening. Jisung can hear his own breathing get shallower.

“Hyunjin,” Felix says reproachfully.

“What,” Jisung says. Asks. Objects.

Felix smiles apologetically. “It’s not really our–”

“No, fuck that,” Hyunjin interrupts. He’s fixing his hair in Felix’s full-length mirror, looking entirely unconcerned by the fact that Jisung’s world is lying in shambles all around them. “You know hyung would rather die than say anything about it, and Jisung’s obviously dumb enough not to figure it out for months.”

“What,” Jisung says again.

Sighing, Felix pushes himself up to a sitting position. Jisung stays where he is; his head is spinning, and he’s sure he’s going to be sick.

“Hyung told Seungmin that he tried to kiss you, about six months ago. And that you rejected him,” Felix says glumly.

“So he assumed that you didn’t feel that way about him,” Hyunjin adds, giving Jisung a hostile look, “and attempted to move on by fucking it out of his system. With, like, half the industry.”

“We don’t support slut-shaming in this household,” Changbin says disapprovingly from the hallway.

“I would never!” Hyunjin gasps in offense, pressing a hand to his chest. “I wish it were me, to be honest.”

“You can do it, Jinnie,” Felix reassures him. “You just have to believe in yourself.”

Then the two of them are hugging and rolling around on the floor, and Changbin’s trying to climb over them to get in on the lovefest, while Jisung is probably, most likely, dying.

“I’m most likely dying,” he tells them, spread eagle on the floor. “Tell Minho-hyung I loved him.”

“Tell him yourself, coward,” Changbin replies from where he’s sitting on top of Hyunjin.

Hyunjin wails pitifully. Jisung is inclined to agree with the sentiment.

 

Chan catches up to him while they’re getting ready for SBS Gayo Daejeon. Jisung is strumming on his guitar and writing fragmented, half-formed lyrics on his phone while he waits to be called for hair and makeup. His gaze keeps straying across the room to Minho, who is playing around with Jeongin and, not at all alarmingly, a resistance band. The two are giggling and chasing each other like kids.

Jisung smiles.

Aside from his little soul-searching exercise, they’ve all been so busy lately that he’s barely had the chance to exchange more than a couple of sentences with Minho.

Perching on the arm of Jisung’s chair, Chan peeks down at his messy notes.

“You manage to write anything?” he asks in a carefully neutral voice.

He has that face on, though, the one that says, ‘I am going to have a deep heartfelt conversation with you whether you like it or not,’ so Jisung’s reaction is visceral and immediate; he plucks the guitar strings harder and caterwauls in a grotesque parody of singing.

Chan winces.

Hyunjin looks up from his phone and joins in, howling like a sad dog. Next to him, Seungmin claps his hands over his ears.

“Oh dear,” Jisung says in English, nailing Chan’s accent, in his humble opinion.

In the makeup chair, Changbin snorts.

Heaving a sigh, Chan places his hand Jisung’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” he says quietly, for his ears only. Chan’s eyes are kind and earnest, and they see entirely too much. Jisung groans. “I just wanted you to know that I’m here for you.”

Jisung leans the guitar against his chair and rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms.

“You should be scolding me,” he mutters. “Telling me to think about the group and our careers.”

“I mean, I could,” Chan says easily, “but I’m sure you’ve done that already. I think what you need, instead, is your best friend to tell you to stop denying yourself happiness.” He pats his shoulder. When he continues, his voice sounds strained, “I should have done that a long time ago. It’s something I will always regret.”

Jisung looks up at him, stunned. “Channie, don’t say that.”

Shaking his head, Chan gives him a small, sad smile. “I’ve watched both of you make yourselves miserable for years and I let it happen. I actually thought it might be for the best, for your own good. That’s bullshit. Let me be sorry for it.”

“It’s not your fault.” Jisung’s voice falters. He clears his throat, then slaps Chan’s hand on his shoulder with a chuckle. “I know your shoulders are wide, man, but stop trying to carry the weight of the world on them.”

Chan laughs.

“Well for what it’s worth, you have my blessing as a leader or whatever. I’ll tell Minho the same thing. I’m sure he’ll love that.” Chan gives an awkward little laugh. ”And as your friend, Jisungie, I’m telling you to let yourself be happy for once, you stubborn, dramatic ass.”

To Jisung’s horror, his eyes start prickling. He nods jerkily, swallowing around the lump in his throat, and Chan nods back. His eyes are suspiciously shiny too.

“Hey.”

Jisung glances up to see Minho standing over them, hands on his hips.

“I’m not harassing him,” Chan says quickly, sniffling a little as he jumps to his feet. Minho’s eyes follow him, eerily unblinking. Jisung is reminded of the video of Dori stalking a wind-up mouse toy that Minho sent him last month.

Chan just shakes his head before walking away. Jisung huffs out a laugh.

“You okay, darling?” Minho murmurs. He reaches out, thumb sweeping gently under Jisung’s eye.

“Yeah.” Jisung turns his cheek into Minho’s palm, eyes slipping shut. He is a little shaken from the conversation with Chan, but there’s lightness in his chest that hadn’t been there before. He thinks he hadn’t fully realised how much he’d been weighed down by the fear of letting down Chan. “Missed you,” he admits.

“Want to get lunch tomorrow?” Minho asks, stroking the hair out of Jisung’s face. “Just the two of us?”

He nods quickly, and Minho’s smile lights up the room.

 

They celebrate the successful night in the private room of a nearby upscale restaurant, just the eight of them with their team in the next room over. Everyone is in high spirits, eating and laughing and clinking their glasses as they make increasingly absurd toasts. Jisung hasn’t felt so good in a long time.

Minho’s sitting on his left, smiley and relaxed. His right hand had dropped under the table to rest on Jisung’s thigh as soon as they sat down and it’s still there, the heat of it both comforting and mildly maddening. He keeps feeding Jisung with his own chopsticks and looking at him through his eyelashes like some sort of mythical man-eating temptress, and Jisung doesn’t think he can be blamed for losing track of the conversations around him every five minutes.

The others apparently feel unusually gracious tonight because they have yet to comment on it, though Jisung does notice the surreptitious fond smiles sent their way.

Hyunjin shows them photos of his latest painting and gets praised so aggressively he starts giggling, flushed with happiness. Then someone asks Seungmin about the new solo track he’s working on, and suddenly everyone is offering help, suggestions and compliments, so loudly that Seungmin buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Shyly, Chan admits that he’s been talking to a girl he really likes but doesn’t want to put a label on it just yet. He’s blushing like a flustered teenager, which he naturally catches a few elbows to the ribs for. Minho reaches over the table to ruffle his hair insolently, with a sunny ‘Good for you, Channie-hyung’.

Unfortunately, that does draw the attention to them, and then there are six pairs of eyes trained on them.

“Speaking of lovebirds,” Changbin says. “Have you two sorted yourselves out yet?”

“Sure,” Jisung scoffs, “in between preparing the year-end performances and hyung’s, like, eighty-six special stages, we popped off to Zanzibar for a quick honeymoon.”

Minho pats his leg under the table, lips twitching.

“Well, you managed to find the time to fuck, so,” Hyunjin chimes in helpfully.

Minho’s hand on the table closes around one of his chopsticks; he spins it between his fingers, giving Hyunjin a smile that makes him squeak and take cover behind Chan. Staring intently at Minho and Jisung, Felix opens his mouth to add something, and Jisung’s abruptly had enough.

“You know what?” He pushes his chair back and stands up. “We haven’t but we should. Like, right now.”

“Should what?” Chan asks.

“Fuck,” Jisung says, loudly.

The silence is so profound that Minho’s sudden snort sounds like a gunshot. He blinks up at Jisung, biting his lip as though he’s holding back a laugh, and Jisung grabs his hand and pulls on it.

“Yes, hyung, let’s go! There’s no one home, we can fuck on the couch. Or on the kitchen counter!”

“Ew,” Jeongin says, with a feeling.

The others explode into loud guffaws. Minho’s giggling too as he leaps to his feet enthusiastically.

“Please don’t fuck on the kitchen counter,” Chan says, looking like he’s regretting quite a few of his life choices.

As Minho tugs him towards the exit, Jisung gives them his most obnoxious wink over his shoulder. “Feel free to sleep over at my place tonight, guys.”

“Happy for you!” Changbin yells after them.

“Can I switch dorms?” Seungmin asks. “I’ve seen enough of them to last a lifetime.”

 

In the car, they sit apart from each other in the backseat, but their hands find each other again between them. Jisung’s thumb runs over Minho’s knuckles, shooting the driver a cautious glance. It’s the same guy who had picked him up from Eunbi’s place a couple of weeks ago. He’s listening to a different indie rock band, something darker with smooth, sensual beats. Jisung likes it.

“Minjun-hyung, could you turn that up, please?”

The driver does, then gives him a thumbs-up. Minho looks like he wants to ask, but Jisung just shakes his head at him, smiling.

“What I said back there,” he starts, laughing a little, “I just wanted to get them off our back so we can talk. Don’t feel like, pressured or anything.”

Resting his head against the seat, Minho turns to Jisung. The city lights dance over his heartbreakingly perfect face, red and green and blue reflections sparkling in his eyes.

“Got my hopes up for nothing, you tease,” he deadpans.

Jisung snorts. “Just say the fucking word, hyung, I’ll rock your world.”

“Tch.” Minho rolls his eyes.

“I’ve done a lot of thinking, you know,” Jisung tells him. His eyes dart towards the driver, who’s studiously ignoring them.

“I’m sure.”

“You making fun of me?” he pouts.

Minho squeezes his fingers. “Never.”

“Hey, did Channie talk to you? He said he would.”

“Every single one of them tried talking to me,” Minho says, expression darkening. ”Some of them twice.”

“Sounds horrid,” Jisung says in a faux sympathetic tone. “People caring and being there for you is the worst.”

“Funny, Jisung-ah,” Minho says dryly. “Bet watching you try to remove my boot from your ass would be funnier, though.”

“I love it when you get kinky, baby.”

The car comes to a stop in their building’s car park. After saying their goodbyes to the driver, they stay mostly silent while they let themselves into Minho’s dorm.

“Felix made cookies last night, want some?” Minho asks, as they wash their hands side by side at the kitchen sink.

In the dimly lit living room, with the plate of cookies between them on the couch, they just look at each other for a beat. Enjoying the quiet domesticity of the moment, Jisung presses his socked foot against Minho’s ankle, and Minho smiles at him.

“Yes, by the way,” Minho tells him. “Channie-hyung said I can take you to prom as long as I return you by eleven with your virtue intact. I told him that ship has sailed, burned and sunk.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jisung laughs, and Minho smirks, kicking his foot lightly.

“To be honest, I’ve never really cared about his or anyone else’s opinion on this. I have mad respect for Channie-hyung, and I appreciate everything he does for all of us, but this–“ He gestures between them. “This is between you and me.”

“What a speech, hyung.” Jisung props his chin on the back of the couch, smiling at him. “I feel thoroughly romanced.”

He’s not even joking, is the thing, his insides feel all mushy and warm.

Chuckling, Minho sets the plate on the coffee table.

“The thing is…” Jisung bites his lip thoughtfully. “I’ve been struggling with this love song for ages, and I just can’t figure out how to make it end happily.”

“Mm,” Minho says. He leans back in the couch. “Is it so important, the ending?”

“What?”

“Does it matter how it ends?”

“Of course it does!” Jisung scrunches up his forehead, bewildered.

Minho nods slowly, crosses his legs. “Is the ending more important than the rest of the song?”

Jisung opens his mouth, then closes it.

“You might never write your best song, because you’re too worried about the last verse,” Minho says. With one leg swinging back and forth, he looks the picture of carefree ease. There’s tension in the set of his shoulders and the line of his jaw, though, that speaks of the storm that’s probably raging inside.

“That’s...” Jisung rubs at the hollow of his throat; he feels like he’s missed a step in a dream. “I never thought of it that way.”

Minho watches him, running his fingers over one of the throw pillows on the couch.

“You’d always let me get so close to you, closer than anyone else, and then you’d pull back and push me away. Nearly drove me mad,” Minho murmurs, apparently done with the song metaphor. He tugs at the pillow's fringe. “That night in the practice room I told myself, I would just try once because I had to know for sure. Just once, and if you told me to back off, I wouldn’t ever bother you with my feelings again.”

Jisung’s heart is torn apart, bloody and full of glass shards and unshed tears. He aches with regret, feels dizzy with helplessness. Blinking rapidly, he sucks in a laboured breath and then can’t expel it, oh god, it gets stuck in his lungs. His pulse is roaring in his ears. Slapping his hand against his chest, Jisung folds into himself on the couch. He wants to cry, wants to reach out and touch Minho, and he also never wants anyone to look at him ever again.

Then Minho’s fingers curl around the back of his neck, cold and gentle.

“Breathe, Jisung-ah,” he says, voice scratchy.

Shivering, Jisung nods – once, twice, three times.

“Breathe with me, darling.” Minho draws him into his arms, and Jisung is so grateful, so guilty and so, so tired of being like this. “It’s okay. You’re fine.”

‘It’s okay,’ Jisung’s therapist repeats in his mind. ‘You’re fine.’

He grasps Minho’s shoulders and shoves his face in his neck. Engulfed by a familiar woody, peppery perfume, he breathes, choking on air and shaking with it as if he’s been under water for too long. Minho holds him, rocks him carefully in his arms, quiet and steady.

“That one almost got me,” Jisung croaks out.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Minho asks, tucking a strand of hair behind Jisung’s ear. It’s only then that Jisung notices his hand is shaking.

He nods again.

“What you said...” Jisung pauses, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“We don’t need to talk about this right now.”

“No, I want to.” He burrows deeper into Minho’s arms and Minho shifts to kiss his temple. Jisung hides a smile into Minho’s chest, his breathing easing a little more.

“I thought that was you rejecting me,” Minho says quietly against his skin, “when I tried to kiss you and you practically ran from me like your ass was on fire.”

“My heart was on fire,” Jisung mumbles. Minho snorts. “So you were trying to get over me, huh?” Minho shrugs, then nods. “Did you?” Jisung asks, fingers gripping Minho’s t-shirt so hard, he can hear seams ripping.

With a sigh, Minho throws his head back. “I Instagram stalked Changbin’s friend with benefits for an entire week, what the fuck do you think?”

“You didn’t!” Jisung laughs when Minho pointedly remains silent. “I thought you’d gone batshit, honestly. It was kinda hot.” He peeks up at Minho, who arches a very judgy eyebrow at him; his cheeks are a little pink, though. It’s adorable, he’s so adorable Jisung wants to smother him with kisses. “For the record, hyung, that was not me rejecting you, back then. I was just scared. I’m sorry for hurting you.” He makes a face, tapping Minho’s collarbone with the tip of his finger. “Also seeing you with all those other people hurt like a bitch.”

Minho’s arms tighten around him. Low and fierce, like a promise, he says, “No more other people.”

Something inside Jisung uncoils; his heart gives a hesitant, hopeful thump.

“No more other people,” he agrees, leans his forehead against Minho’s jaw, and the shuddering breath that whooshes out of Minho almost sounds like a sob.

 

They talk on and off for a couple of hours, with some anime muted on Minho’s TV and the light flickering over their faces. Quietly, they share thoughts and feelings, apologise and reassure each other, exchange hope for hope and secret for secret.

Freshly showered and cuddled together in Minho’s bed later, they fall asleep with their hands clasped together on the pillow between them.

When Jisung wakes up, the room is still dark and quiet, their breathing the only sound he can hear. Everything smells like vanilla and strawberries, warm, safe. Like home.

In the inky darkness, the city lights filter in through the half-drawn curtains, their pale reflections glittering like gemstones in Minho’s wide-open eyes.

“Christ,” Jisung grumbles, pushing his face back into the pillow. “That’s just creepy, hyung,”

Minho chuckles at him. “Sorry.”

“Why are you awake?” Jisung asks, muffled.

“Just felt like watching you a little longer.” His voice is deep, throaty like it gets when he’s completely exhausted.

“Not getting any less creepy.” Jisung cracks open one eye. “I’ll still be here tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be here tomorrow,” Jisung says again. He pushes himself up on his elbow and leans in, lips pressing sweetly against Minho’s soft mouth. “I promise.”

After a moment, Minho nods, melting into it. He makes that sound again, the honeyed little hum Jisung’s been dreaming about for the past two weeks, and then they’re really kissing, hard and deep. He presses Minho’s back into the mattress and licks into his mouth, and Minho’s legs wrap around his waist. His mouth is hot and pliant under Jisung’s, fingers digging into the muscles of his back, and Jisung feels like the room is spinning around them. There’s only darkness and sweetness, and Minho’s tongue curling against his own.

“Want you so bad,” he murmurs into the kiss, and Minho nods and holds onto him tighter.

“You have me,” Minho says. His sharp teeth gleam in the dark when he smiles.

With the window cracked open, the smell of winter and noises of night Seoul trickling in, with their clothes lying about on the floor, Jisung watches, unable to take his eyes off him. Leaning back against the wall, Minho opens himself up. He presses two slicked up fingers into himself straight away. Kneeling between his spread legs, Jisung trails his fingertips up and down Minho’s ribs, thumb circling one nipple, and Minho’s eyes flutter closed. Jisung scatters kisses down his neck, across his chest, gaze straying down again and again to where Minho’s fingers are sliding in and out of him.

Minho’s lips find his again, parting on a sigh that he breathes into Jisung’s mouth.

“My pretty hyung,” Jisung whispers. He runs his tongue along Minho’s bottom lip, and Minho lets out a strangled moan. “Prettiest person I’ve ever seen, always have been.”

Grabbing Jisung’s hand, Minho pushes it down so he can feel where Minho is pressing back into himself with three fingers now.

“Fuck,” Jisung rasps out, dizzy with want. He’s so hard he thinks he’s going to black out.

His finger slides through the mess of raspberry flavoured lube between Minho’s legs and dips inside alongside Minho’s. The sound Minho makes is high and breathless, unlike anything Jisung’s ever heard from him before. Minho’s hips jerk forward, and his cock is hard and leaking as he presses it against Jisung’s arm.

“Fuck me now,” Minho demands, and Jisung nods, kissing him again.

“Wanna ride me?”

Minho scoffs, “I’m going to break you.”

“Baby, I’m so okay with that,” Jisung assures him.

Minho’s laugh turns to a gasp when he pulls his fingers out. He pushes Jisung’s shoulder until he’s sprawled out on his back.

“I’m going to ride you so hard you’ll forget you’ve ever been inside anyone else,” Minho promises, threatens, looking a little deranged and a lot determined as he straddles Jisung’s thighs.

Staring up at him in awe, Jisung huffs out a stunned laugh.

“No one else,” he agrees, hands cupping his ass and squeezing.

With a pleased little smile, Minho reaches over to the bedside table and takes out a condom, which he throws at Jisung’s face. Jisung rolls his eyes and tsks at him.

While Jisung rolls the condom on, Minho wiggles impatiently on top of him.

“I’ve missed you,” he tells Jisung’s dick, then glances up at his face, eyes a little glazed. “I like your dick. It’s bigger than I thought it would be.”

Jisung drops his head back onto the bed, laughing helplessly.

“It’s all yours.” Minho doesn’t reply, too busy wrapping his wet fingers around said dick like he’s mesmerised. Jisung allows himself to feel smug. He sits up and pulls Minho into his lap. “Hop on, baby,” he tells him with a smirk, slapping his thigh.

Lightning fast, Minho fists his hand in Jisung’s hair and pulls. Jisung yelps.

“I don’t hop, darling,” Minho sneers, even as he lifts himself up on his knees over Jisung. “Now be a good boy and I’ll let you come after I’m done.”

“You mean fucker,” Jisung hisses, grabbing onto Minho’s hips roughly and pushing into him. Minho moans in his ear, sliding down a little more before he pauses. He lets his head fall forward onto Jisung’s shoulder.

Gentling his touch, Jisung rubs at the small of his back and kisses his neck as he waits. He tries to stay still, but Minho is clenching around him, hot and tight, and Jisung’s hips twitch forward. Minho curses under his breath, then relaxes his fingers in Jisung’s hair. Rolling his hips in tight little circles, he starts sinking down again. With his chest heaving and his glorious thighs spread wide, bruised-red lips parted and wet, he’s so breath-taking it hits Jisung like a kick to the stomach.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he murmurs. “Taking me so well.”

“Shut the fuck up and move,” Minho says, eyes wild. There’s a bead of sweat rolling down his cheekbone, strands of hair sticking to his forehead. His teeth sink into his lip as he bottoms out.

Jisung lets out an amused breath, planting his feet on the bed for leverage as he grinds into him.

“You feel so good, baby,” he tells him, because it’s the truth, and because he finds the annoyed look Minho gives him endearing.

“Harder,” Minho commands, groaning long and low when Jisung’s hips buck up in several hard, fast thrusts, skin slapping against skin in the silence of the room. His body suddenly goes lax in Jisung’s lap, and Jisung holds him close while he shivers, licking the sweat from Minho’s throat and running his palms up and down his back until Minho starts to move again.

“We’re doing this, like, six thousand times,” Jisung mumbles into his shoulder.

Minho breathes out a laugh, wrapping his arms around Jisung’s neck.

“That’s going to take a lifetime, Hannie,” he tells him, lifting himself up and dropping back down, easy and graceful, like he’s dancing.

Thrusting up to meet him halfway, breathing going erratic, Jisung manages to say, “Sounds good to me.”

When he looks up, Minho is smiling at him as the lights from outside dance over his skin like fireflies. He looks like a man in love, and Jisung feels himself unravelling. He pulls Minho closer, pressing kisses anywhere he can reach before Minho’s lips find his again.

“Make me come,” he pants against Jisung’s mouth, so Jisung wraps a hand around Minho’s cock and slams into him harder, hips losing rhythm and eyes losing focus.

With a choked off gasp in the shared air between them, Minho arches against him and comes over Jisung’s fingers, hot and sudden. Trembling with the effort to hold off his own orgasm, Jisung fucks him through it until Minho lets out a long, contented sigh and goes heavy and pliant in his arms.

“Go on, darling,” Minho murmurs drowsily, lips against Jisung’s cheek and arms holding onto him tightly as Jisung presses in deep and finally lets go.

As he does, he allows himself to breathe with it, hope with it, burn with it.

 

It’s two in the morning and the alley they’re going down is more or less deserted. It’s snowing, ragged silver-tipped snowflakes that twirl around the streetlights. They prickle on his cheeks and sparkle like crystals in Minho’s hair.

January has arrived, and the world is once again brand new, a blank canvas full of promise and possibilities. Minho’s hand in his feels small and cold, fragile somehow, for the first time since Jisung’s known him. Minho keeps sneaking glances at him out of the corner of his eye, and Jisung uses their joined hands to pull him closer. Minho goes easily, shoulders brushing as they walk.

“Hyung,” Jisung says, breath wafting like smoke in the cold air. “I was always so afraid. Afraid of not being good enough, afraid of wanting you too much, of losing you. Afraid that if I let this thing between us catch fire, I would burn into nothing.”

He stops walking, and Minho bumps into him, clumsy with surprise.

“What are you saying?” Minho asks, eyes huge and heavy with hopes that Jisung vows to keep safe.

“I’m tired of being afraid. Let it catch fire, I’d burn this whole fucking city down for you if that’s what it takes,” Jisung says, laughing with the truth of it. “I’m saying that I love you.”

It feels like his heart has split open, all the things he’s never been able to say bubbling up and overflowing through the cracks. Jisung lets them spill out into this narrow grey alley, with the snow crunching crisply under their boots.

Minho lets out a sharp breath, fingers gripping Jisung’s so hard it feels like they would break. There are snowflakes in his eyelashes and his nose is a bright red from the cold.

“God, I’m so in love you,” Jisung says again, grinning so widely his cheeks hurt.

“What's wrong with you?” Minho hisses suddenly, swatting at Jisung’s shoulder. “Why would you tell me this when we’re out in public? What am I supposed to do, shake your hand about it?” He actually stomps his foot.

Jisung leans against the wall behind him, and the stone is icy and wet but he barely notices. He draws Minho closer, thighs almost touching.

“Tell me.”

Minho humphs.

“Come on, hyungie.”

Minho turns his face away, pouting.

“Please tell me you love me?” Jisung pouts back, giving him his best puppy eyes, complete with fluttering lashes. “This is getting kind of embarrassing.”

“Of course I love you, you nitwit,” Minho says peevishly. He intertwines his fingers with Jisung’s and starts to pull him towards the street. “Let’s go home, move it. We’re watching vomit-inducing romantic comedies and making disgustingly sweet love until you throw your back out.”

Jisung drops his head back, laughing. His heart thrums with an unfamiliar beat, a new song forming in its core like a pearl. It fills the empty spaces inside of him with a warm glow.

He can’t wait to go to the studio tomorrow and put it all into words and notes. He thinks it’ll be the best song he’ll ever write.

The snow in Minho’s hair melts at the tips of Jisung’s fingers as he gently brushes it away. Minho smiles his slow-blooming, soft smile, his eyes spilling stars.

“Baby,” Jisung whispers, “you say the sweetest things.”