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If anyone were to ask Jisung when his deep-seated, everlasting hatred toward Lee Minho began, he probably wouldn't be able to give an exact answer. In his mind, the dislike had just always been there.
For as long as he could remember and for as long as Minho had been a part of his life, there had always been a clear animosity between them.
Maybe it started the very first time they met, maybe it was something that had grown and festered every day since, intensifying with each interaction and unnecessary confrontation, becoming more and more difficult to ignore as the months passed.
Maybe it was there from the moment he’d caught sight of Minho, pretty, polished and arrogant, with dark, cat-like eyes and a perpetual smirk on his lips, sauntering into Chan and Changbin's shared apartment or any of their dorm rooms like he owned the places and perfectly slotting himself in with the rest of the group, as if he'd always belonged there and wasn't a complete outsider.
Maybe it was there from the moment Minho had turned that piercing gaze on him and let it linger for just a little too long, just a little too hard, and Jisung's stupid, useless heart had stuttered and jumped uncomfortably beneath his ribs. Nothing more than a glitch, a hiccup - a mistake, brought on by his traitorous body not listening to his brain - but it had been enough to make Jisung bristle and tense, a flush of heat prickling across his skin.
Or maybe it started from the first time he’d heard Minho laugh, full-bodied and loud, Hyunjin tucked under his arm and Chan bent double with laughter beside them.
Maybe it started when he’d first witnessed the way Minho was with his friends, open and comfortable and easygoing in a way he never was around Jisung, even after months of knowing each other, as though there was something inherently wrong with Jisung's very existence. As if he wasn't worth Minho's full effort, and he probably wasn't, but the idea still irritated him, still stung like hell.
Maybe it was everything combined - the distasteful, holier-than-thou looks, the constant pushing and pulling and repeat, the way Minho made it a point to get under Jisung's skin at every given opportunity - and maybe it didn't matter, either way.
Whatever it was - whatever the initial spark that led to the burning hatred within him was -, it was there, strong and unignorable.
And, most certainly, equally reciprocated.
"Ugh, I hate him– He's such an asshole!" Jisung shoved a spoonful of cereal into his mouth with more force than necessary, tiny droplets of milk spilling down his chin at the ferocity with which he'd jammed the utensil in between his lips.
Chan sent him a look, quirking an eyebrow at him from across the kitchen table. "Huh?"
"Minho! Who else?" He clarified, speaking around the mush of breakfast in his mouth. He gestured wildly, nearly upsetting his bowl in his haste to get his point across. "Stupid, stuck-up, pretentious, arrogant piece of trash, Lee Minho."
Chan grimaced.
"Are you two seriously fighting again?" Seungmin piped up from beside him. The blond was sitting next to Jisung, his gaze fixed on the laptop screen in front of him as he typed away on his essay, but the exasperated tone of his voice was impossible to miss.
Chan opened his mouth to comment something, probably some well-intentioned advice on the matter or a lecture on why they needed to stop with the constant bickering and be nicer to each other - as if he could ever be nice to that smug prick - but Seungmin continued before the older man had the chance.
"Can you really not go a whole five minutes without starting an argument?" His roommate paused his typing and turned to look at Jisung. "You do realize how exhausting it is to be around you two, right?"
"Hey," Chan interjected, frowning at their friend. "That's a little harsh, Min. I don't think that's–"
"Don't. It's true and you know it." Seungmin stated, turning back around to save his work. "I'm not trying to be mean, I'm just being honest. You guys are going to end up killing each other one of these days."
"If only I could without getting arrested..." Jisung grumbled, sinking further down in his seat. He pushed his now empty bowl aside and folded his arms on the table, pouting out his lower lip and glaring daggers into the patterned wood.
"You guys need to figure this out, preferably soon." Seungmin insisted, sliding his laptop shut and shifting to push his chair out from the table. "Don't you think this... confrontational phase between you two has gone on long enough?"
Jisung didn't bother looking up as Seungmin rose from his seat and collected his things from the table, too busy sulkily picking at his fingernails to even offer a proper reply.
"At least consider being civil toward him for once?" Seungmin advised, not unkindly, but his words still struck a nerve and made Jisung bristle with irritation. "At this rate, Christmas is going to suck if you insist on going all 'Scrooge' on us."
"Rude." Jisung muttered into the safety of his forearms.
Seungmin sighed and dropped a hand down onto his shoulder. "No offense, Sung. Just... maybe try letting Minho catch a break every once in a while? The guy isn't so bad once you get to know him. Coming from me of all people, that's saying something."
Jisung remained tight-lipped, not bothering to dignify him with an actual response. Instead, his pout only worsened, a part of him knowing damn well that Seungmin was right - even if he didn't want to admit it out loud.
Out of everyone in their circle of friends, Seungmin had been the toughest and most unforgiving with Minho. He'd been the one to resist him the longest, to continue voicing his reservations against the other man long after the rest of them had given in and accepted him as one of their own.
However, much like the rest of them, Seungmin had eventually warmed up to Minho. Not immediately, but the more time they spent together, the more obvious it became that Seungmin's original distaste for him had slowly started to melt away.
At first, it was subtle. Some fleeting, almost non-existent and easily missed smiles, a few brief yet somewhat amicable conversations, some light-hearted jokes here and there - nothing major, nothing big - but Jisung had caught on to it anyway, and it had left a sour taste in his mouth.
Little by little, Seungmin's bitterness and hesitations had begun to crumble. Soon, he was spending more time with Minho, actively seeking him out for no good reason other than to be around him, and the pair of them began to fall into an easy friendship.
And so, one by one, Minho had worked his way through their group, winning over each and every one of them with his sweet smiles and gentle laughter and natural charisma.
All except Jisung.
And now, many months later, Minho was one of their inner circle. A fully integrated part of their little 'family', like he had been a part of them since day one and had never been absent from their lives.
Seungmin was the icing on the shit cake, really.
A final twist of the knife that stung just a little too much, a reminder that - despite all odds - Minho had succeeded in worming his way into their hearts, and was seemingly determined not to leave anytime soon. Another reminder that Jisung was the only one still holding his ground, the only one who still refused to give in and welcome Minho into the fold.
"I'm not saying you have to like him." Seungmin continued, more cautious than before, seeming to notice his inner turmoil. "But can you at least make an effort to tolerate him just this once? At least for the duration of the holidays? You can go back to fighting after - like - Christmas."
"Seungmin." Chan cut in again, warningly this time. He shook his head, lips pressed into a thin line. "What did I say about meddling?"
"What?" Seungmin shot him a - clearly feigned - innocent look. "I'm not meddling, I'm just voicing my opinion. Isn't that what you always advise us to do, hyungie?"
"Don't 'hyungie' me, mister. You know what I mean." Chan chided him, sighing. "This isn't something for you to involve yourself with."
"We just wanna have a pleasant holiday without the two of them constantly at each other's throats." Seungmin argued. "It's Minho's first Christmas with us. Is that really too much to ask for?"
"It's not that–"
"I'll think about it." Jisung abruptly interrupted Chan mid-sentence, straightening back up in his seat. He refused to meet the other male's gaze, instead staring fixedly at the wall a few inches to the side of Seungmin's head.
The idea of actually putting in the effort, of truly making an attempt at being civil was nauseating, but Seungmin was right. He would have to survive a few measly days of play-nicey, feign friendliness and hold his tongue, and then he could go back to being fully hostile come December 26th.
It couldn't be too hard, right?
"I'll think about it." He repeated, softer, his lips tugging down into a frown. "That's the most I'm willing to promise you."
Seungmin smiled, wide and so obnoxiously proud of himself, and dropped a hand on top of his head to affectionately ruffle his already messy bed-head. Jisung whined and swatted at his wrist, earning a small laugh from the blond.
"Good boy." Seungmin cooed, sing-song and teasing, leaving Jisung to sulk after him as he finally gathered the last of his belongings and headed for the door. "Crisis averted, problem solved! A real honor, let me tell you. I feel like the Switzerland to your and Minho's bullshit testosterone war."
"Don't pat yourself on the back too much." Jisung warned. He pointed an accusing finger at the taller man, watching him step into his shoes and sling his backpack on. "There's still a fifty percent chance that I'll change my mind and kill him before we get to the gift exchange."
"No murder in my house." Chan was quick to interject, sounding somewhere between tired and desperate.
"No promises!" Jisung flashed a toothy grin in his direction, feeling a little victorious when Chan's features pinched with something akin to grief. "If he crosses me, all bets are off."
"Jisung." The older deadpanned. "No."
"Jisung, yes."
"See you at home, future murderer! I won't bail you out, just so you know."
"Come on, is this seriously how you're choosing to behave?"
Hyunjin sounded exasperated, borderline disappointed as he watched Jisung pile another large shot of eggnog into his mouth, seemingly perfectly content on just sitting his ass on the worn-out sofa, bundled up in a blanket cocoon, and drowning his bitterness in excess, overly sweet alcohol.
"Wh't?" Jisung questioned, already halfway done with his hefty helping, gazing up at his best friend with wide, faux-innocent eyes. "Am I not allowed to drink?"
"You know that's not what I'm talking about." Hyunjin huffed, a frown between his pretty eyebrows, and gestured across the room to where Minho was engaged in conversation with Jeongin and Felix, oblivious to the two pairs of eyes trained on him. "Seungmin said you agreed to be civil with Minho."
Ah, so Seungmin had tattled on him. Curse that diabolical blond, backstabbing traitor.
Jisung couldn't say he was surprised. He knew he had doomed himself the moment he'd cracked under the pressure, agreeing to Seungmin's conditions, but he couldn't help feeling a little betrayed regardless.
"Technically I only said I'd think about it." He corrected, sniffing indignantly, and turned his nose up at the older male. "I never actually said I would."
"Jisung."
"Hyunjin."
"Stop being difficult." The taller man demanded, folding his arms across his chest. "I know you don't like the guy–"
"I hate the guy." Jisung corrected him, taking a generous gulp of his drink. He blinked rapidly and fought the urge to pull a face as the sugary substance burned down his throat. "With every fiber of my being."
"Okay, fine. With every fiber of your being, whatever. The point is," Hyunjin nudged his knee against Jisung's, trying to get his attention and refocus his gaze. "Seungmin asked you for one thing."
"So?"
"So, can't you try and swallow your pride for once?" Hyunjin pleaded, leaning down to level their gazes, a small pout on his lips and a slight whine in his tone as he batted his eyelashes. "Please? For me?"
Usually, a plea like that would be enough to crack Jisung's resolve, no questions asked - especially with such an effective weapon and with someone as ethereally beautiful as Hyunjin wielding it - but tonight was not that night.
Especially not when he had already received an ample slap in the face in the form of an earlier run-in with Minho, when the others had yet to arrive at Chan and Changbin's place.
Not when he was still bitter and burning with rage inside, stomach still twisting with anger after their unexpected and unwanted interaction.
Jisung had arrived a couple of hours ahead of the others, a large bag filled with too many to count colorfully wrapped gifts clutched in one hand, some holiday goodies and a sleeping bag in the other, and his trusty backpack slung over his shoulders - packed to the brim with most necessities: a toothbrush, enough changes of clothes to last him the few days he'd be spending with the others, his phone charger, toiletries, and his favorite blanket.
He was, to say the least, loaded down with items.
Which is why his mind had been so preoccupied with not accidentally dropping anything - or tripping over himself and toppling to the floor as he tried to keep a handle on the myriad of items in his hands -, keeping his gaze firmly locked with the hideous moquette below, that he hadn't realized there was anyone in the hallway leading to the front door.
That he hadn’t noticed the dark silhouette loitering at the end of the hall, directly beside the apartment, until it was too late.
Until he heard a startled grunt followed by the clanging and crashing of several objects hitting the floor and spilling in every direction, and his own, curse-laced scream as his feet slid across the tile and out from underneath him.
At that point, it took an embarrassing amount of fumbling and grasping, flailing and scrambling to hold onto something, anything as gravity swung its deadly fist at him, before he managed to gain control and catch himself in his clumsy descent, narrowly avoiding having his ass join the surrounding chaos.
Unfortunately, that something happened to be the muscular chest of the stranger who had found themselves in Jisung's path, and who was apparently far too shocked by Jisung's abrupt appearance to get out of the way.
Nevertheless, whoever the unfortunate soul was, they managed to stay upright in spite of the sudden, unwelcome deadweight in their arms, and successfully prevented Jisung from becoming an helpless splatter on the ground, simultaneously saving them both a trip to the emergency room.
A small shred of relief, a faint silver lining in an otherwise disaster of a situation.
They caught him, solid and immovable, and wrapped both arms securely around his waist to keep him from tumbling to the floor. It was awkward and unfamiliar, but comforting in a very strange way, like the person holding him knew exactly how to support him, just how to make him feel safe.
Heart hammering in shock against his rib cage, mind too hazy and dizzy to truly register what was happening, Jisung squeezed his eyes shut and reflexively clung onto the front of his savior's shirt, nearly taking the fabric with him in a deathly grip.
A pair of warm palms, soft and nimble fingers settled on his hips, more gentle and protective than intruding, and a calming, clean and crisp scent of fresh pine and mint invaded his senses. Jisung felt strangely familiar with the subtlety of it, like he recognized it from somewhere, some place deep in his subconscious.
And then, the stranger spoke.
"Well, well, well..." An all-too-familiar voice drawled after a beat of quiet between them, snapping Jisung back to reality and yanking him cruelly out of his stupor. "Fancy seeing you here, Jisungie."
Jisung froze, blood turning to ice in his veins and the color draining from his face in an instant. He slowly lifted his head and met the gaze of the man holding him - the not-so-stranger, the unwanted intruder - and his lungs deflated as he took him in, his features bathed in the dim, artificial lighting overhead.
Minho.
In the next second, the breathy hum of a throaty chuckle ghosted against his skin, curling warm and satisfied over Jisung's cheek, and he couldn't stop the shudder that racked through his body at the sound, couldn't prevent the disgusted groan from slipping past his lips.
Forcing himself to detach and squirm out of Minho's grasp like he’d been burned, Jisung shoved at his shoulders and created some space between them, wanting nothing more than to put a solid, comfortable amount of room between their bodies, glaring up into Minho's eyes and cursing the smug little smirk playing on his lips.
"Of course it's you," Jisung muttered, huffing in annoyance, his nose wrinkling in distaste. "It's always fucking you, isn't it?"
Minho merely shrugged, still looking entirely too pleased with the situation, as his arms fell back to his sides. "What can I say? The universe seems to have a penchant for bringing us together, sweetheart."
"Don't call me that." Jisung hissed in response, backing up until his back pressed against the opposite wall, eyes sharp and cold as he followed Minho's every move, as he watched him bend down to pick up a few of the items that had fallen from Jisung's arms during the collision. "We're not friends, I'm not your sweetheart or your Jisungie. Don't talk to me like you know me."
Minho held his gaze for a moment, studying him, seemingly undeterred by his hostility, and the sight only served to further infuriate Jisung.
It was irritating how unaffected the older male always seemed to be by his harsh words, how he simply accepted Jisung's scathing attitude without so much as a flinch or a frown, instead maintaining a relaxed and friendly disposition, and his almost eerie patience only angered him.
It was maddening, how he was able to effortlessly endure Jisung's biting remarks and cutting glares, how he was able to take the blow of Jisung's disdain and seemingly brush it off.
Like he didn't even care, like he was untouched by the constant rage and hatred Jisung directed at him. Like Jisung was beneath him, like he wasn't worth the hassle. Unimportant, unworthy of his attention.
A few seconds of pure silence passed between them, an air of something heavy and unpleasant in the quiet hanging around them, an uncomfortable stiffness filling the small distance. A silence that spoke volumes and said more than either of them probably cared to hear.
In the end, Minho was the first to break eye contact. He turned his attention downwards and focused on gathering the last of Jisung's belongings scattered at their feet, taking special care to make sure he picked up everything before pushing himself to his full height and re-entering Jisung's line of sight.
He stared at him blankly, without any discernible expression whatsoever on his face, his eyes as dark and inaccessible as ever.
"I'm aware. You've made it abundantly clear how much you despise me." Minho eventually replied, his lips quirking into a tiny, knowing, humorless smile as he leaned forward and held the objects out towards him. A smile that only widened when Jisung snatched the items from his hands and clutched them close to his chest, still scowling. "I'd be concerned if you weren't acting hostile towards me."
Jisung's glare hardened, if possible, and his hands clenched tighter around his possessions. "So why don't you fuck off and leave me alone?" He snapped. "I don't wanna see your stupid, smug face every time I turn a corner."
Minho hummed in contemplation, the sound barely audible over the faint music filtering through the door behind him. He tilted his head, gaze boring into Jisung's, studying him closely, scrutinizing and unreadable.
"You know," He began, the words hanging in the air for what felt like forever, weighing down on Jisung like a cement brick. "It's not like I asked for your attention. In fact, I'm quite sure I've done nothing to warrant this level of consideration from you. So, in all fairness, I think the better question here is..." He paused, lips pulling down at the corners and a slight crease forming between his brows, and took a step closer, dipping his head just enough that his dark eyes were the only thing filling Jisung's vision.
Jisung watched with bated breath, far too shocked by the sudden movement to register anything beyond the unexpected invasion of his personal space.
"Why does it bother you so much? Why do you care so much about where I'm going or what I'm doing? About who I'm speaking to or who I don't want to speak to?" His voice was low, just barely above a whisper, but firm, heavy and saturated with curiosity.
"What's it to you if I sit somewhere that happens to be in your vicinity, or if I attend the same social gatherings as you, or if I show any interest in getting to know someone else? What gives you the right to get upset if someone wants to talk to me? You should ask yourself what that says about you, why my mere presence has so much power over you and your emotions."
And just like that, without saying another word, without leaving Jisung the opportunity to collect his racing thoughts and formulate a response, without giving him the chance to articulate the raging storm bubbling inside his head, Minho had straightened, flashed him one last irritating half-smile, and brushed past him.
The door to the apartment had clicked shut a moment later, and Jisung had been left to stand in the deserted hallway, arms full and heart heavy, feeling more dumbfounded and at a loss than he had in his entire life.
"Earth to Jisung. Are you even listening to me?"
Snapping out of his reverie with a start, head flicking up as his focus abruptly returned to Hyunjin, Jisung dazedly blinked at his friend and the expectant look on his face, and he felt a slow, deep heat begin to pool in his cheeks as his mind caught up to the present, to what had just occurred.
Had he really been that far gone? So absorbed in his thoughts and his bitter reminiscing that he'd tuned out everything around him?
Had he really just sat there staring into space for however long, pathetically thinking about Minho of all people?
Jisung's stomach turned and churned with something hot and unpleasant, mingling with the alcohol in his system in a toxic concoction of anger and humiliation, and he hunched in on himself, hoping the ground would miraculously decide to open and swallow him whole before Hyunjin had the chance to notice his pinkened cheeks and panic-stricken expression.
It felt like his body was fighting a battle inside, internally warring against itself, and he swallowed roughly past the thickness lodged in his throat, chest tightening with the need to hide. To get away.
"Jisung, are you–"
"I need another drink."
Without a second thought, without even daring to spare the taller male a passing glance, he spun on his heel and bolted back to the kitchen.
He could feel Hyunjin's worried stare following him the entire way, pricking his skin like needles and burrowing under his clothes, making him more and more on edge as the seconds ticked by, but he didn't look back. He couldn't look back.
Couldn't bear to see the concern shining so clearly in Hyunjin's eyes, couldn't risk catching a glimpse of the frown that would surely be staining his usually soft, smile-filled features.
As he reentered the kitchen, Jisung immediately bee-lined for the liquor, his only focus the promise of numbing his mind with alcohol, no matter how watered down with cream and sugar the mixture in his glass had been.
So focused was he on his mission, that he didn't register the movement to his left until the very last second, when an unexpected and very real body blocked his path. He yelped in surprise and barely had a chance to avoid colliding head-on with whoever it was, quickly stepping backwards to prevent another disastrous fall.
Jisung lifted his eyes to catch a glimpse of who he had almost carelessly plowed over, an apology already halfway out his mouth, but instantly deflated when the face of the obstacle in his path finally registered.
When his eyes landed on the last person he wanted to deal with - the very person who had driven him to this near-insanity and need for release in the form of an unhealthy amount of carbs and booze.
Minho was blocking his way, lips pressed into a firm line and eyes shining with something Jisung couldn't quite decipher - something that looked strangely akin to disappointment, maybe - and his presence alone had Jisung's mood souring and plummeting even further, had him on edge and frazzled beyond belief.
He scowled, his throat prickling with the threat of the emotion bubbling and swelling just below the surface of his skin, and gripped his empty cup tighter.
"What the fuck do you want?" He grumbled, irritation instantly flaring in his chest. "Move. You're in the way."
The older man sighed, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose in what Jisung assumed was frustration. His shoulders were raised a little higher than normal, like his level of stress was slowly building and causing a crack in his usual cool, relaxed demeanor, and there was a subtle tension in his jaw that hadn't been there before, not even during their earlier encounter.
And it should have made Jisung happy, should have made him ecstatic, seeing the usually put-together, overly-confident Minho falter and actually appear even remotely affected by his presence. It should have been great, should have made him thrilled and lit him up with the bliss of vindication.
But, somehow, the excitement never came.
"Just– come with me for a second." Minho must have seen something flash across Jisung's face because he was quick to continue, before the younger had the chance to open his mouth, let alone reject his request. "Please, Jisung. Just humor me for once."
Jisung knew that a single word shouldn't have held that much power, that all it should have prompted out of him was a single, resolute 'no'.
There was no reason for him to entertain Minho or agree to go anywhere with him, there was no reason for him to willingly subject himself to Minho's presence in any capacity, but in spite of the logical voice in his mind telling him to stick to his guns and resist, some strange part of him was willing to listen. The same part that had him willingly and stubbornly engaging in any and every unnecessary conversation with Minho, despite knowing it would end in disaster. The part of him that couldn't stand how Minho always managed to walk away triumphant, always won the final say.
The same part, the same satisfied itch deep within his bones that demanded he give Minho a taste of his own medicine, that craved to be chased, that yearned to win Minho's full and unwavering attention, to keep it trained solely on him and him alone, regardless of the reason or the consequences.
A tiny, but persistent voice in his mind whispered for him to follow, to play along, to see what would happen, and his traitorous body moved on instinct.
"Where are we going?" He murmured, as Minho wordlessly grabbed him by the wrist, calloused fingers firmly encircling his arm, and tugged him in the general direction of the bedrooms.
"Away from prying eyes. And ears."
At that, Jisung couldn't help but let his gaze stray to the living room and, especially, to the surprisingly quiet group of people who were not so inconspicuously eyeing - and eavesdropping on - their little chat, and the tip of his ears immediately grew warm at the realization, his nervousness skyrocketing.
He felt significantly more sober, more aware and alert, and could feel his uneasiness settle on his features and weigh his shoulders down.
The journey to the rooms only took a few seconds, but it felt like eternity with the way he could just feel the others excitedly leaning closer and nudging each other with their elbows as the pair walked past, Minho not breaking his stride in the slightest.
When they finally reached the corridor, they quickly ducked into the closest vacant bedroom - which happened to be Chan's - and Minho released his hold on Jisung, moving to shut and lock the door behind them.
Jisung stared, blinking dumbly at the sight, his brain taking its sweet time to process the action.
Minho spun to face him, nodding stiffly as he crossed his arms and leaned back against the door, effectively blocking off the exit.
Silently, Minho glanced up at the ceiling and took a deep, calming breath - like he was collecting himself - before meeting Jisung's confused, mildly uncomfortable gaze once more. "I'd rather not risk having an audience for this conversation."
"You're being awfully cryptic." Jisung murmured, biting the inside of his cheek and worrying it between his teeth.
Minho simply sighed again.
"Look, I'm just gonna get right to the point, okay?" Jisung watched as the man closed his eyes, inhaled sharply through his nose, and appeared to mentally prepare himself for whatever the conversation was to entail.
"We need to stop." Minho eventually spoke. Slowly, clearly, voice even and firm.
"Stop... what exactly?" Jisung questioned, brows pinched together and confusion marring his features.
"This, us... We can't do this anymore. This whole passive-aggressive back and forth, the bickering, the hostility. All the glaring and snipping and scowling and the fucking..." He paused, hands flying up to briefly bury his face in them. "... venom between us."
Jisung huffed a mirthless, bitter laugh, disbelief evident in his expression, and crossed his own arms protectively over his chest, fingers tightening their grip on his elbows. "Are you being serious right now? Do you have any idea how rich that is, coming from you?"
"I know, Jisung." Minho murmured, muffled from behind his palms. Only after a few moments did he drop his hands and pointedly locked gazes with Jisung, the smallest of frowns tugging at his lips as he continued. "Believe me, I'm just as surprised by this as you are."
"Then why? Why now?" Jisung scowled, tone hard, and Minho visibly bristled, the tension in his shoulders rising and jaw clenching at the accusatory edge.
"Because I'm tired, Jisung. I'm fucking exhausted." He hissed, straightening, and took a challenging step forward. "I'm so sick and done with constantly being on edge, trying to guess which direction you're gonna snap at me from next."
"I–"
"No." Minho cut in, sharp and quick, effectively shutting Jisung up with the forcefulness of his words. "I'm not finished."
He didn't wait for a response, instead barrelled onwards, no doubt fueled by his frustration and newfound momentum, taking another step towards Jisung as he continued. "You've driven me and everyone else crazy with your behavior. You're hostile, short-tempered, and act like the mere thought of our friends touching me or even speaking to me is the greatest offense in existence. At first, it was amusing, seeing how worked up you got at the littlest things. Almost cute, even."
A short pause, another step, and Minho was right in front of Jisung, uncomfortably close - almost chest to chest - and watching the younger closely for a reaction.
"But now... Now it's just grating. You have no right to dictate who they can and can't talk to, who they can and can't be friends with. I'm sick of watching everyone dance around your fragile little ego and desperately try to figure out how to disarm your ticking bomb whenever I enter a room. I'm tired of pretending like I don't notice how they shuffle away from me when they see you, like if they're closer to you then it won't hurt so much if you choose to explode on them too. Like I'm some kind of parasite and I'll somehow ruin their lives just by breathing the same air as them."
The longer Minho's rant went on, the further the severity of his statements buried itself under Jisung's skin and burrowed its way into his core, the worse the ball of hot, twisted emotion formed and swelled in his throat.
The deeper he dug his nails into the flesh of his arms, the deeper the shame and resentment sank into his being.
The thicker the tension grew in the air.
"That is why we need to stop, Jisung."
A pregnant, heavy pause. Both men were left stewing in the remnants of the words spoken, of the exasperation and the feelings laid bare. Each shift, each small breath echoed in the deafening silence, stretching on in an endless, empty chasm.
Minho was staring, eyes burning a path across Jisung's face, tracing his features - taking in the subtle tension coiled in his jaw, the downward curve of his lips, the conflicted maelstrom behind his glassy eyes.
One second. Two.
There were only inches between them and, if Jisung were to turn his head, their noses would bump.
Just a little further and their chests would touch.
Two breaths. One in, one out.
He could feel Minho's on his skin, a ghost-like trail that had the hair on the back of his neck standing and goosebumps prickling up his spine.
He hated it. Hated the way his entire body couldn't stand being so close to him, couldn't stand even being in his presence. He hated every single second of it.
"What do you want me to say?" Jisung whispered, the taste of metal potent on his tongue from where he'd bitten and punctured through the flesh of his inner cheek.
"What am I supposed to do, huh?" He kept going, unable to fully push past the pressure building in his throat, to speak any louder than a barely audible rasp. "Do you think I want to be this way? Do you think I enjoy feeling like this, hating you so much it hurts? You think I wanted this for myself, this poison inside me?"
He couldn't help the way his voice cracked at every few words, the way his vision blurred as he blinked hard and rapid, determined to not give in. He couldn't help how his nails were digging so deeply into his own skin that it was a wonder he wasn't drawing blood.
He was losing control, could feel the flood gates begin to open as the first pinpricks of moisture gathered at the corners of his eyes, and he'd be damned if he let them fall. Not here, not now.
"I hate this, so much– I hate that you make me act this way, and I hate that you bring out the worst in me." He hissed, finally letting his eyes land on Minho's, glaring at him through the watery sheen.
His composure was rapidly deteriorating, his willpower crumbling like a house of cards, and, as more words began to escape without restraint, he could only stand there, helpless, and watch as a stunned furrow slowly formed between Minho's eyebrows.
"You think I like feeling this way?" Jisung laughed, humorless, bitter. "Do you– do you have any idea what you do to me?"
A slight tremor was steadily making its way through his hands and all the way up his arms and shoulders, his entire frame shaking with a combination of so many different emotions he couldn't even distinguish them anymore. Couldn't differentiate anger from fear, sadness from hatred, self-pity from anxiety. It all burned and swirled beneath his skin, itched and prickled and tore at his insides until he was left raw and exposed, on the brink of bursting at the seams.
Minho was only watching him silently, a quiet intensity in his gaze that made Jisung want to crawl out of his skin and slip free of its hold. Made him desperate to run away, made him want to scream.
Strangely, that was what pushed him over the edge, the one thing that finally forced the first wave of tears to spill from his eyes and trail down his cheeks in burning streaks.
The fact that Minho wasn't saying anything, wasn't reacting, wasn't yelling or screaming or telling him how much of an inconvenience and nuisance he was. Wasn't trying to fight back.
He just stood there, unmoving, and looked at him like he was something fragile.
That was what had him crumbling, breaking down and losing the last bits of his composure.
"Fuck you, Lee Minho. Fuck you." He spat, and quickly swiped at his eyes in an attempt to brush away the evidence of his breakdown, only to grit his teeth and scowl at the man in front of him in resentment, not caring how the droplets continued to gather at his lash line and cascade down his face unhindered.
Then, in an instant, it was like something snapped within Minho, like a switch had flipped, and suddenly he was moving again. He lifted one hand, slow and tentative, to hover over the side of Jisung's face, still looking. So clearly unsure. "Jisung–"
"Don't fucking touch me." He immediately snapped, jerking away from the other and stepping back, away from Minho and his outstretched palm, away from the comfort and pity he so desperately didn't want.
And as the tears continued to pour, hot and relentless, as Jisung turned his face away from the man, pressed one clenched fist against his mouth to muffle the pitiful sound he knew would have passed his lips had he not held it in, Jisung did the one thing he'd never imagined doing, the one thing he swore he'd never do.
He conceded.
"Fine." Jisung spat, wiping the back of his hand roughly against his wet cheek and stubbornly staring at the wall to the left of the door, anywhere, anything but at Minho, desperately clinging to what little shreds of his pride and dignity remained.
"You want us to stop? Then fine, let's stop. No more arguing, no more fighting. We won't interact, we'll keep out of each other's way." His voice was shaky, embarrassingly weak, and he curled in on himself in an attempt to get away from Minho's unwavering presence, the disappointment and concern in his expression.
He tried to ignore the way his chest ached, the way the knot in his throat kept swelling and making it hard to breathe.
"Just please– just leave now. Leave me alone."
It was silent for a few long seconds, nothing but the echoes of Jisung's shallow breaths and the low hum of the music and chatter from the living room filling the space.
Then, a short sigh, almost mournful, and the faint scuff of shoes against the carpet as Minho moved.
"I'll let Lix know you're in here."
The click of the lock as it was disengaged was deafening, and the barely audible creak of the door as it was opened sounded like the rumbles of thunder.
One heartbeat, two.
The gentle thud of the door closing felt like a death toll.
Needless to say, the days leading up to Christmas were awkward.
Jisung hadn't spoken to anyone about what went down, about his outburst and Minho's words. He was embarrassed and humiliated by the mere memory of that night, by how vulnerable he'd acted and the pathetic, childish state he'd allowed himself to be found in.
Felix had come to him quickly after Minho had left the bedroom to join the rest of the group again and informed him of Jisung's state. His friend had been nothing but a bundle of worry and reassurance, a comforting warmth and familiar embrace in his distress, had patiently held him as he cried himself hoarse, whispering comforting words into his ear and smoothing a gentle hand across his back.
But, most importantly, he hadn't pried. He hadn't tried to force him to explain or push for information, just sat in the darkness and waited with him until his eyes finally dried. And when Jisung had ultimately stopped hiccupping, had pulled himself together enough to start stuttering through an explanation, Felix had shushed him quietly, pressed a quick, lingering kiss to his forehead and pulled him back into his chest.
It had felt like a blessing, not having to deal with the consequences at least for a while, not having to relive the memory again and again to try and make sense of it all. To have his friend just know and understand.
Unfortunately, he couldn't hide in Chan's bedroom for the rest of eternity and they had eventually returned to the others, greeted with varying levels of confusion and concern, but the questions had been mercifully kept at bay - courtesy of a few warning looks from Felix, Jisung could only assume.
Minho, for his part, had kept to his wordless promise.
As the days went by, they never interacted. It was as if they had somehow fallen into twin roles of invisible people, where everyone else was acutely aware of them, but the two men never spoke and always kept a careful, conscious distance. Like they'd suddenly developed a habit of turning in the opposite direction at every shift of movement, at every little cough, of averting their gaze everytime their paths would as much as begin to cross.
It was like there was an invisible wall between them, a barrier of glass that allowed them to see and hear the other, but they were always just slightly, deliberately out of reach, always on different sides.
No more heated arguments, no more scowls and snide comments. No more petty glares and bitter insults.
Jisung knew he should have been relieved. Wanted to be relieved.
Yet, something felt missing. Empty, as if a vital piece of a puzzle had been taken away, and Jisung could do nothing but watch in frustration as he kept picking at the jagged pieces that remained and try to make the picture whole again.
Of course, Felix and Hyunjin had been there, a comforting presence when they were both present, always hovering by his side. Always quick to make sure Jisung wasn't left alone in a room with Minho, quick to ease the tension before it even had the chance to fester.
He was grateful for their effort, appreciated their consideration and care, but sometimes it felt stifling, suffocating. Like he couldn't breathe properly without having someone close by.
Like he was some kind of bacteria, leaching and stealing away all of their independence and turning them into mere extensions of himself.
The knowledge of that, of how he was affecting their behavior, was the primary reason he was hesitant to divulge any details of the night of his breakdown, why he didn't want his friends to change how they were around him just because he couldn't keep a grip on his own emotions and didn't want to admit the reasoning behind it all.
Even if, in the deepest corners of his heart and mind, he knew they wouldn't judge or ridicule him for it, that they were far more compassionate and understanding than he would ever deserve.
Still, Jisung kept his mouth shut and endured, continued to wear his mask and hide away the cracks as they deepened.
Christmas Eve came with a biting, chill wind and the gentle falling of snowflakes, painting the streets in a soft, white and glistening layer as the moonlight illuminated the ground.
As per everlasting tradition, the seven - now begrudgingly eight - men were gathered around the small coffee table, in various states of relaxation on the carpet or sofa, sipping hot chocolate in the middle of the day and watching old, Christmas-themed movies while a poorly decorated, plastic pine tree stood proud and tall in the corner by the television.
Jisung and Chan had volunteered themselves to do some last minute shopping that day, waking up at the ass crack of morning to run around the still open markets and stores, stocking up on as much food, alcohol and decorations as they could manage with their meager wallets and limited carrying abilities.
Before they had left the house, Jisung had caught sight of someone, whose eyes had been tracking his movements since he and Chan had, as quietly as possible, tiptoed past the various sleeping bags and items of furniture to start their morning routines - which, at 7am, had mainly consisted of sluggish shuffles around the house while attempting to put together an appropriate outfit for the cold awaiting for them outside.
Their gazes had met, a quick flicker of a stare that felt heavy with something he couldn't quite define. A mix of apprehension and sorrow, regret and empathy, with a pinch of the same hesitation Jisung could see in his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Jisung hadn't lingered.
He had ignored the pang of hurt in his chest at the way Minho had averted his eyes just a few seconds after, rolled on his other side and buried his head in his pillow to go back to sleep.
Jisung had ignored it, stuffed his feet into his boots and trudged after a confused and concerned Chan without a second glance.
Once the duo had returned to the house, a few hours later, they had been greeted with the clamor of voices and laughter echoing from the kitchen, and the mouth-watering smell of food and freshly baked desserts wafting into the hallway as they shucked off their shoes and jackets.
Felix, Jeongin and Seungmin were all gathered around the counter, already clad in festive sweaters and antler headbands, chatting excitedly over the festive background music and, as Jisung peered around the corner, he saw them busying themselves with decorating the seemingly endless amount of gingerbread men and brownies that were spread across the entire surface.
It was... cozy. Comfortable and homey, the kind of atmosphere that made warmth seep into his bones, that had him immediately slipping into his role and greeting them with a bright smile and big, loving bear hugs.
Had him closing his eyes and melting into the embrace of the familiar arms of his friends.
They'd spent a few hours getting everything ready, working together and chatting aimlessly about this and that, but, every so often, Jisung would feel his mind wandering. Felt his attention linger a moment too long on someone a few meters away, just in the other room, on his booming laughter and the softness of his voice as he joked and conversed with Changbin and Hyunjin.
Someone was always there, just on the edge of his vision, always lingering within earshot, and his presence was so simultaneously overwhelming and muted that Jisung felt like he was trapped somewhere between blindness and hyper awareness.
However, the worst thing about it was that, no matter what his brain kept screaming at him, Jisung knew that none of this was Minho's fault.
Ever since their 'talk', the man had been nothing but respectful of his space, had kept a conscious distance and refrained from speaking to him directly unless absolutely necessary, had never initiated physical contact of any kind.
For all intents and purposes, he had stuck to the deal they made and did as wordlessly promised, was the perfect picture of restraint and non-confrontation.
And still, for some incomprehensible reason, a part of Jisung missed him.
Missed the petty remarks and sarcastic jabs, the bickering and the quips. The hostility, the feuds that had always been a constant he'd learned to adjust to, something he could handle and respond to accordingly. Like some kind of game.
They were Minho and Jisung, the bane of each other's existence.
Two sides of the same coin, two ends of a magnet that were destined to never align properly. Two individuals who always had the uncanny ability of bringing out the very worst in the other and simultaneously pushing their buttons just the right amount, even if they both always refused to admit it.
If their interactions could be considered anything, it would have been an unhealthy and unorthodox version of companionship, but it was better than this. It was better than this void, this silence.
This, what they were doing right now, was torture.
"Sung? You're spacing out... are you okay?" Felix whispered quietly as he scooted closer and bumped their shoulders together. They'd settled on the sofa, side by side and with their legs intertwined under a fluffy blanket, sharing a bowl of caramel popcorn and a bag of chocolates, and watching the old, animated movie that Hyunjin and Changbin had insisted everyone watch because... traditions, or some shit.
But, not for the first time that day, Jisung couldn't find the strength to focus, his attention every so often straying to the back of a certain someone's head a few seats away, to the curve of broad shoulders and the outline of an annoyingly pretty side profile.
"M' fine." Jisung sighed, allowing himself a small, grateful smile when he felt a familiar set of arms wind themselves around his waist, as Felix rested his chin on his shoulder and held him close.
The blond was silent for a beat too long before he responded, soft enough to not alert the other six guys scattered around the room, his fingers absentmindedly stroking circles against the material of Jisung's shirt.
"I know you don't want to talk about it, so I won't force you to tell me anything," He started, shifting slightly until he could reach out and carefully thread their fingers together. "But... I think you two would be great for each other if you could get past whatever is preventing you from letting him in."
There was a heavy weight in his words, a knowing tone and the faintest trace of pleading in his expression, as Felix tilted his face to catch his gaze, a tiny, encouraging smile playing on his lips.
Jisung could only swallow dryly, his throat tight around the sense of foreboding blooming in his chest and lungs, climbing up his neck. After a moment of hesitation, he dropped his gaze to stare down at their linked hands settled over the covers, and willed his breathing to steady.
"I don't think he'd want anything to do with me even if that were a possibility."
It was said lowly, even less than a feeble whisper, as if speaking the words out loud would cause the sky to crumble and the earth to split in half. But, the longer Jisung's admission hung heavy in the air between them, the more he began to wonder whether the trembling in his fingers came from the uncertainty and dread pooling in the pit of his stomach or the sheer terror of knowing that he might have just laid out his biggest and most fragile secret out in the open for Felix to see, judge, and analyze.
Still, when Felix lightly squeezed his hand and buried his face in Jisung's neck, nuzzling him gently with the tip of his nose, the brunette felt himself exhale, felt his tense muscles spontaneously going lax and limp with the familiar affection.
"You'd be surprised." Felix muttered softly against the skin, a quick puff of air that made the hair on the back of his neck stand.
Jisung frowned, his lips pursing in confusion as he watched the way Felix's thumb absently rubbed back and forth over the back of his own.
"What do you mean?"
Jisung's voice was small, weak, and Felix's answer made him freeze and his mind grind to a hasty halt.
"Jisung… he has barely spent five minutes with his eyes off you since that night."
The words hung heavily in the minimal space between them, the deafening cackles of their friends echoing through the room and bouncing off the walls, ringing loudly in Jisung's ears.
He didn't dare glance up, terrified to let his gaze stray to the man a few meters away from them, to catch any hint of confirmation or denial of the statement. Terrified to see the truth behind Felix's words.
But, the blond was not done.
"Sung, you're one of the most important people in my life, and I hate seeing you like this. I hate that you're hurting and there is nothing I can do about it. Please, just..." Felix paused, shifting again until they were staring at each other head on, until he could cup his face with both hands and smooth his thumbs over his cheekbones.
"Just... talk to him? Try and make the best out of this? It's Christmas, a time for miracles and second chances. And I know you don't want to hear this right now, but this is what best friends are for, right? For speaking truths we are too scared or hesitant to admit ourselves."
It took a few moments of Felix staring at him expectantly, patiently waiting for a response, before Jisung could bring himself to speak, his throat bobbing nervously around the words stuck in his chest.
"Felix..." He trailed off, trying to ignore the burning heat in his cheeks, and the way his hands had suddenly turned clammy and sweaty over the blanket.
"What if–" He breathed deeply, licked his lips. "What if I fuck everything up again?"
Jisung watched with wide eyes and bated breath as Felix smiled, soft and small, before leaning forward and pressing their foreheads together, his hold on Jisung's cheeks tightening ever so slightly, pushing his lips out into a pout.
"Well... what's life without a bit of risk? Plus," Felix grinned, waggled his eyebrows as he added, "I might have a little plan for you... consider it an early Christmas present?"
He wanted to ask for details, wanted to demand every little piece of information regarding Felix's mysterious plan, but Jisung's brain positively short-circuited when the blond leaned impossibly closer, bringing his mouth to the shell of Jisung's ear and whispering in the most devious tone he could muster.
"Also... you do realize he's been staring at us this entire time, right?"
Jisung had never cursed his body's inability to keep a blush at bay more than he did at that very moment, his cheeks flaring up with such intensity that he was surprised smoke didn't start coming out of his ears, his mind turning to absolute mush and his eyes growing as round as saucers as he attempted to comprehend the words he'd just heard.
A part of him was tempted to whip around and seek out the one responsible for the fire spreading across his entire body, but the bigger, rational part knew it would only result in a more mortifying and humiliating experience, and so, Jisung held firm, his lips pressed in a tight, thin line as his brows drew together, and he forced himself to stay focused on Felix.
He could do it. He could be strong, he could be brave.
He could endure anything and everything that Felix wanted to throw his way, even if he already felt like passing out at the mere idea of the unknown that was coming for him.
And, after all, Jisung had never been one to shy away from challenges.
So, he nodded.
Jisung didn't know what he had expected, really.
If he'd learned anything from the past five or so years, it was that his friends were all some degree of insane, and would go to the most ridiculous and absurd lengths to get what they wanted, even if said thing was none of their business and they had no reason to get involved.
Still, despite all of that, he'd let his guard down.
He'd been lulled into a false sense of security by the promise of a fool-proof plan, by the prospect of getting to spend the rest of the evening curled up against Felix's side, eating sweets and watching stupid movies as the Christmas lights twinkled around the house and their friends chattered aimlessly in the background.
Had fully believed it, until Felix had sprung his trap.
It had started out innocently enough, the blond asking Jisung to grab some drinks from the kitchen while everyone else was too busy arguing with each other over what movie to watch next.
And Jisung, ever the trusting, doting and loving friend, had agreed.
Maybe his friends had made a pact or something, or maybe their shared intelligence had brought them together to a point where they thought the same things and acted accordingly.
Or, most possibly, they had all experienced the same epiphany and reached a unanimous decision simultaneously.
Because, no sooner had Jisung walked into the kitchen - empty, save for himself -, did he immediately stop in his tracks, eyes zeroing in on the green leaves hanging from the low ceiling. The same ones that had completely eluded his gaze when he and Chan had returned from their shopping trip, the same ones he had failed to see while preparing food and drinks for their movie night.
A mistletoe.
Had it been last year, Jisung wouldn't have had any qualms about standing right under it. Hell, he'd have jumped on the first opportunity that crossed his path just to keep up with the tradition they'd been following for so many years now, would have happily kissed the shit out of the first available person in need of a festive and friendly smooch.
Last year, it would have been harmless fun, an amusing story to reminisce on and tease their friends over.
Last year, he wouldn't have been suffering from the emotional rollercoaster that was Minho, wouldn't even have had the chance to consider the implications of such an innocent looking decoration.
Last year–
"Jisung? Is everything alright?"
Startled out of his thoughts, Jisung spun around on his heels, almost giving himself whiplash as he turned his attention to the source of the noise.
And, in a matter of seconds, he wished he could bolt right out of the front door and sprint his way back to the safety of his dorm on the other end of the city, snow and frost be damned.
Because there was no mistaking the sweet, honey-dripping voice, the way it traveled straight to his bones and nestled in the depths of his chest.
No mistaking the curve of a defined chest or the concerned, furrowed brows, or the pretty eyes scanning his face with something akin to alarm.
Certainly no mistaking the man currently approaching him as if he were a small, skittish animal, his steps small and measured, the kind you would use to approach a wounded beast.
Minho.
Oh god, Minho was here.
Minho was there, under the damn mistletoe.
"Jisung, hey," The older man called out gently, finally stopping a mere two feet away from the frozen, dumbstruck man. "You look like you've just seen a ghost... do you need me to call someone?"
The question was nothing but sincere, full of genuine worry and, along with the small smile and soft stare that accompanied it, it made something unknown, something deep within his chest twist and flutter.
Jisung couldn't speak, couldn't bring himself to form any sort of response, and his stupid, useless mouth was just gaping at Minho like a fish out of water, as his brain yelled and screamed at him to find a way to exit the situation, to scramble out of it in one piece before everything spiraled out of control.
His traitorous, untrustworthy body, apparently, seemed to have different plans.
Because the logical next step in this scenario should have been a hasty retreat, a hurried exit and a non-committal explanation of some sort, anything that would allow them to return to their newfound arrangement of keeping an acceptable distance between each other.
Instead, Jisung found himself rooted to the spot, his feet refusing to cooperate and move him out of the danger zone, his legs wobbling like jello with every miniscule shift and breath he took.
Instead, his gaze only shifted upwards, unsubtly locking with the greenery hanging from above.
A couple of silent, teeming seconds ticked by, before his ears caught on a sharp intake of breath, the smallest yet unmistakable hiss cutting through the deafening silence of the room like a serrated blade.
"Oh."
Only then did Jisung find the strength to force his eyes back to the man in front of him, bracing himself for the anger, the disgust and contempt he was sure would come flying his way once the reality of their predicament sank in.
Once again, Jisung was surprised by how wrong he was.
Where he'd expected rage and fury, he found a mixture of emotions swirling within the confines of gentle, chocolate eyes, not even remotely resembling any of the feelings he'd pictured.
A hint of surprise, the slightest trace of alarm, a small flare of uncertainty.
A glimmer of wonder, a smudge of hesitation, a dash of fear.
But, never once did the hatred, the derision or the revulsion that he'd been dreading set foot, never once did he see any of the feelings that he was used to being on the receiving end of whenever he and Minho were in the same room together.
What came next, in the form of a shaky exhale, was a soft, whispered rendition of Jisung's name, the faintest hint of pink dusting a beautiful set of high cheekbones and ears, and caught him entirely by surprise.
"Can I touch you?"
Minho's voice was breathy, quiet, as he inched closer, his words tiptoeing the fine line between a request and a plea, as if he feared the tiniest movement or sound would spook Jisung into fleeing.
The memory they brought forth was unexpected, a flash of the night when Jisung had bared his soul to him, had cried till he'd had no more tears left to shed as the harsh and painful truth of the words leaving his lips had crushed the remains of his dignity and pride, and he'd done his best to salvage the shards, futile though his attempts were.
The night when Jisung had snapped, barked at Minho not to touch him, not to pity him.
Had anything changed since then?
Jisung honestly wasn't sure.
He wasn't sure of anything anymore.
Jisung wasn't sure of the strange fluttering in his stomach that he'd only ever associated with the man in front of him. Jisung wasn't sure what to make of the intense burning of his cheeks, or the trembling in his hands, wasn't sure if he was just hallucinating the strange sparkle in Minho's irises, wasn't sure if Minho was going to hurt him again, or if he could trust him.
Most of all, Jisung wasn't sure what prompted his answer, what convinced him that it wouldn't turn into a repeat of their last exchange, what pushed the single word past his lips.
"Okay."
Minho's eyebrows shot up, his lips parting around a word that would not leave his mouth, his eyes widening by the tiniest fraction, and his fists, curled tightly by his sides, relaxing minutely.
It felt like Jisung was agreeing to much more than just a simple touch.
The realization should have scared him, should have set off a million red flags screaming at him that nothing good could possibly come out of it, should have allowed him to regain at least a few shreds of common sense and self preservation.
And yet, as his gaze followed the slow and calculated movements, the tiny steps forward that Minho took, every inch he crossed carefully counted and measured, and the way he gingerly raised a hand, giving Jisung ample time to see it coming, to stop him if he so desired, Jisung realized that not for a second did he regret his decision.
Warm fingers made contact with his cheekbone, a gentle, feather-light brush against his skin, so faint and barely-there that Jisung would have thought he'd imagined it, had it not been for the warm, fuzzy feeling that engulfed his entire body, washing over him in waves and putting his frayed nerves at ease.
Slowly, torturously slow, Minho's fingertips traced the outline of his face, before traveling downwards, leaving a blazing trail in their wake.
At a pace that threatened to drive Jisung insane, Minho drew soft, unknown patterns on his cheeks, his jaw, slowly descending down to his neck.
He touched him with care, with tenderness, like he was afraid Jisung would break under the tiniest pressure, like he was sculpting the most delicate artwork in the world.
The fleeting touches were devastating, sending sparks all over his skin and reigniting a fire inside him, a passion he'd thought long dead. A passion he thought, until a mere week ago, could only be fed and nurtured by hate, envy and spite.
Jisung couldn't tear his eyes away, his heartbeat and breathing stuttering to a stop the moment Minho's fingers halted their wandering, splaying instead on the side of his neck, his thumb daring to trace the line of his jaw, up to his chin and further upwards, lingering below his bottom lip.
He was positive that his heart would leap out of his chest any second, that it would give out on him and he'd topple to the floor in a bloody, crumpled heap.
Jisung could practically taste Minho's breath, a mere inch away from his lips, could feel the warmth of his body seeping into his bones, could smell the sweet, sugary scent of peppermint and chocolate clinging to his mouth.
They were close. So, so close.
Jisung could count the lashes adorning Minho's eyelids, could see every speck of color in his irises and the small acne scar hidden under his right eye.
If he moved his head by just the smallest fraction, the tip of his nose would meet Minho's.
"Jisung."
He couldn't help the shiver that rolled down his spine, the soft gasp that left his lips as his name, dripped in honey and silk, tumbled out of Minho's mouth in a way that shouldn't have felt so different from any other time, any other circumstance he'd ever heard it, but somehow did.
"Is this okay?"
Jisung couldn't keep the air in his lungs, didn't know how to, was having difficulty simply remembering the mechanics of breathing altogether.
Could only manage a jerky, imperceptible nod.
Sending Jisung's senses into haywire, Minho took a last step forward, closing the minuscule distance between their bodies, slotting their feet together, thighs touching, hips brushing.
"Close your eyes, please."
Jisung had never experienced a single iota of a more potent, stronger desire to do something in his life.
Had never wished so hard to fold to a command so lightly uttered, to close his eyes just for the simple, blissful pleasure of having the rest of his five senses utterly and solely occupied with one and only one thing.
A single person.
And Jisung, so far gone and enthralled, did just that.
Minho's voice was like a siren's song, calling out to him with a hypnotic lilt, and he, a sailor with no will, no ability to resist, obeyed the simple request like it was his only purpose in life.
The moment he let his eyelids flutter shut, a set of plush, heated, supple lips found his.
The kiss was a whisper, shy and unsure, timid and exploratory, a caress at best. Intoxicating, in a way that only kissing Minho - his arch nemesis - could be. The same Minho he'd sworn to despise and spend the rest of his miserable life hating, till the day he died.
The same Minho who seemed to be attempting the impossible with a single, feather-light kiss.
The very same Minho who was snaking an arm around Jisung's waist, holding him closer, gentle as a lamb, as he tilted his head, pressing their closed mouths harder together.
Jisung never wanted it to end.
He had no idea what might happen once they parted, had no clue if the spell would shatter and Minho's rational thoughts and sanity would return, had no understanding of where they stood now.
Yet, with the taste of his mouth, of candy canes and dark chocolate on Jisung's tongue, Minho made it easy for him to forget everything.
Made it too simple for him to lose himself to the kiss, to drown in the way Minho's hand tightened on his waist, the way the other, the one that had previously lingered on Jisung's cheek for the entire duration, carefully cupped his jaw and angled it upwards.
And, when a gentle tongue swiped across his lower lip, the searing, languid kisses were no longer enough.
Jisung's own hands, which had been hanging uselessly by his sides for the past few minutes, finally saw fit to move, one gripping a firm bicep, the other reaching behind Minho's head and burying itself in silky, soft strands, fisting the locks and pulling the older man even closer.
When the tip of a soft muscle brushed against the seam of his lips, the unspoken question and silent request for permission more than clear, Jisung eagerly granted it.
Soft, wet velvet dipped into his mouth, stroked along the line of his teeth, slipped and slid over the smooth roof of his mouth, tasting him, mapping him, claiming and being claimed all at the same time.
Minho's kiss was slow, deliciously lazy and unhurried, hot and heavy in a way that Jisung could previously only associate with heated makeout sessions, not with a mistletoe kiss that, under different circumstances, should have remained chaste and innocent.
Minho's breath, when Jisung tasted it on his tongue, was a symphony with the most alluring, complex melody Jisung had ever heard, one that did not allow him to separate the instruments or delineate each thread, that was just as unique and impossible to fully understand as Minho himself.
And Jisung, not for a second, grew tired of listening to it.
A faint moan escaped him, and Jisung delighted in the way Minho swallowed it, eagerly chased after it with his mouth, as if he couldn't bear the thought of letting a single note be lost in the space between them.
There was not a hint of the disdain, the distaste and contempt they'd been sharing since the day they'd met. There were no clashing tongues or crashing teeth, no ugly bites or forced hunger.
The kiss was sensual, hungry, but it was also filled with a type of tenderness Jisung hadn't received in the longest time. It held within it the rawest of fear and want, uncertainty and excitement, admiration and apprehension, concern and hope.
It held a world of apologies, a million regrets, and, all the same, offered the chance to forgive.
Breathy moans, heavy pants and the subtle snap of lips echoed around the room as they continued to kiss, to let their mouths and hands roam, to revel and indulge.
Had the entire place fallen down around them, Jisung doubted they would have noticed, so engrossed and intoxicated by the mere feeling of one another.
Jisung clutched at Minho's shoulders, reveling in the feeling of the strong muscles beneath his palms, aching to dive under the soft material of his sweater, to reveal the sun kissed skin underneath, map the tight expanse of his toned chest and feel the thrumming of his heart under his fingertips.
Minho's hands were restless, determined, no longer as hesitant and trembling. They ran down his body, massaged his sides and squeezed at his back, brought him flush against Minho's front and danced over the swell of his ass.
When they finally broke apart, only because oxygen seemed like something their brains couldn't afford to live without anymore, the string of saliva connecting their lips snapped and stuck to Jisung's chin.
Jisung cracked his eyes open and the hazy smile Minho shot him was a wink of light in a stormy sea, a glimpse of sunshine through the foggy clouds. The tip of a tongue darted out, swiping over Jisung's swollen, tainted lips, and he followed it shamelessly, almost whining when it disappeared.
"Minho hyung..."
Something flashed in Minho's eyes, a shift in the thick, hot umber of his irises, an emotion he couldn't pinpoint, but one that sent his heartbeat into overdrive.
"Say that again." Minho didn't pose it like a command, didn't raise his voice to a demand, merely a soft wish, a quiet prayer.
"Hyung."
The effect the one, single word had on Minho was instantaneous. The smile that spread across his lips lit up the entire room, broad and toothy, only further highlighted by the bloom of red across the tip of his nose, the blush high on his cheeks.
"Again. Say it again, please."
Jisung stared at him, feeling his face split in two under the intensity of his own grin.
"Minho hyung." He could've sworn Minho preened at the acknowledgement, at the nickname rolling off his tongue easily and swiftly, like he'd been saying it for years. Like it wasn't the first time he'd referred to him that way.
"Should we get back to the others?"
That night, when the eight of them finally gathered in the living room, a plethora of random snacks and mismatched, oversized blankets and pillows scattered all over the floor, Minho's and Jisung's sleeping bags ended up much closer than any of the previous nights - serving more as a makeshift double mattress than for their actual purpose.
The movie playing on the flat screen in front of them was lost on Jisung, his attention too focused on the body pressed against his side to really pay attention to the plot of the sappy, dull Hallmark romance sob story the older guys had picked.
At some point, Minho's hand had sneaked under his sleep jumper, tracing the smooth expanse of his tummy with the softest of touches, drawing nonsensical patterns on his skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.
Surrounded by this warmth and comfort, Minho's head seemed to fit perfectly over his shoulder, his body wrapping securely around every curve of his own, molding around him and blending into the contours of his figure.
He could feel the weight of multiple stares, so dearly obvious no matter how furtive the others tried to be, no matter how obscured by darkness they were.
At that moment, Jisung found that he could not bring himself to care. Not even the slightest bit.
He did not care about the hundreds of questions the inquisitive eyes were bound to shoot him the next morning, the hundreds of different scenarios and theories his friends were no doubt plotting in their heads.
And, when he felt Minho press a faint, barely-there kiss to the exposed column of his neck, right over his pulse point, Jisung simply succumbed to the urge, the one he'd had for the entire duration of the movie, and settled a steadying hand in silky strands, scratched at his nape and tugged him closer.
Obedient and compliant, Minho lifted his head and looked at him with owlish, sleepy eyes. They were hooded, almost cat-like, shining a bright golden in the low light of the room, and a halo of dark, fluffy hair framed his face.
He was undeniably, breathtakingly handsome. Pretty, so very pretty, in a way Jisung had never allowed himself to fully notice or accept.
Jisung leaned forward and kissed him on the nose, light, butterfly pecks scattered over the bridge, the tip and the bow of his lips, relishing the happy little sigh that fell from Minho's mouth, the way his long lashes fluttered shut and his eyes scrunched close.
He was the idyllic picture of endearing.
Unfortunately, their small, hidden moment was short-lived. Shattered by a loud shuffle to the side, a pillow flying across the room and hitting him square in the face.
Startled and undeniably disgruntled by the rude interruption, Jisung detached his lips from Minho's hot skin and turned his head, his attention stolen away and their intimate bubble ruined.
"I can't believe I'm saying this, but you guys are even more insufferable now than when you were actively ripping each other to shreds. Please, spare our eyes for five fucking minutes."
Seungmin's exasperated - though only mildly scolding - complaint was met with a myriad of snickers and chuckles, ranging from Chan's barely concealed guffaws and Changbin's wheezing laughter, to Hyunjin's obnoxious cackling and Felix's giddy, poorly suppressed giggles.
Jisung rolled his eyes. Next to him, Minho merely buried his head in the crook of his neck, seemingly unbothered by the rude, unwanted interruption.
"Shut up, Seungminnie. Don't hate just 'cus you have zero game." Minho's voice was muffled by Jisung's skin, the words slurred and barely intelligible, but the mischief and defiance were more than clear, none of his wit and general snark missing from his tone.
Fuck, why was it so hot when it wasn't directed at him?
"Oh, so that's how it's gonna be, is it?"
Seungmin's response was just as petulant, sending the group into yet another round of raucous jeers.
After that, for the rest of the night, conversation flowed easily, seamlessly, jokes and meaningless chatters filling the room.
It was familiar. It was good and Jisung felt more at home than he had in a long, long time.
Except, something very new was also added to the mix, a brand new variable that would no doubt change the dynamic and the way things would work going forward.
And, as his fingers went back to playing with Minho's messy locks, tangled in the strands, scratching and tugging lightly at the scalp until the older man was but a content, purring mess, Jisung could not find a speck of worry in his mind, his thoughts, his heart.
"Jisung?"
At the sound of his name, Jisung tore his attention away from the screen yet again, surprised at the hesitant, almost fretful tinge to Minho's voice.
Turning his head, Jisung took in the sharp edges of his handsome profile, his downturned eyes, the fiddling of his fingers where they were resting on his chest.
He sounded small, and Jisung's heart squeezed at the sudden change in demeanor.
"Mhm?"
Minho's lips parted, a breath ghosting past his mouth as he seemed to contemplate his words. There was a pause before his head tilted upwards and his gaze found his own once again.
"Please don't regret this."
The sheer vulnerability behind his voice had Jisung reaching out without hesitation, threading his fingers through Minho's shaky ones, entwining them together until there was no place left in between, no space for emptiness or for the anxiety to fester.
Jisung knew they would have to talk about it, knew they would have to discuss it seriously and have their biases and preconceptions put to rest, would have to lay their cards out and make sense of the stupid one-upping battle the two of them had been doing for the past year.
Jisung knew he'd have to break his pride and ask for forgiveness, just like Minho would need to do the same. They would have to dig deep and accept, come to terms with the fact that some of their actions had been unwarranted and uncalled for.
Most of all, they would have to build a bridge. Not merely over a small ditch or a river, but above a wide, abyssal chasm of bad blood, mistakes and harsh words, of mistrust and misunderstanding, of prejudice and stubbornness.
"I won't, hyung. I promise."
But, at that moment, watching Minho's tension wash away and his expression relax and morph into the most beautiful grin, one that showed his bunny teeth and a faint blush high on his cheeks, Jisung knew it would be worth it.
Knew that the view and the expanse of land waiting on the other side, were so vastly, hopelessly endearing that he would risk tumbling down into the endless depths below.
And there was no way he was backing out of this battle.
Lazy mornings were, in Jisung's humble opinion, the best type of mornings.
Especially when said lazy mornings also included the sight of a gorgeous, bare-faced and sleeping beauty gracing his temporary bed, a ruffled nest of hair, squishy cheeks and a soft, extremely inviting mouth within reach.
Especially when they began with the absence of blaring alarms, replaced instead with delightful, semiconscious dreams of endless, closed-mouthed kisses, the kind that were slow and thorough and unhurried, the kind that could last for hours and would never once bore him, the kind that made him forget about bad morning breath and drool stains.
Lazy mornings definitely held a special spot in his heart, especially if they followed hours filled with late night whispers and hushed conversations, the kind that soothed and assured, the kind that painted the future a vivid, rainbow gradient of promises and opportunities, the kind that wrapped him in silk and warm arms and whispered hope in his ear.
Jisung let his eyes roam freely, taking in the soft slope of Minho's nose, the curve of his long lashes, the sharp edge of his jaw and the shape of his pouty lips. He traced every line of the older man's face, reveled in the way the faint winter sun streaming through the gaps of the drawn curtains illuminated his dips and contours, cast a tender glow on silky strands of midnight, bathed him in gentle, golden hues.
Minho's breath was deep, steady, his chest rising and falling underneath the covers, and his lax body was a comfortable weight on his chest. Their legs were tangled together, Minho's thigh in a firm hold between his, and his palm rested flat in the dip of Jisung'a slender waist.
Everyone else, judging by the house's state of absolute and unusual silence, was still blissfully asleep, and their little bubble of peacefulness, of warmth and quiet, felt like it could have stretched on forever. Like nothing and no one could disrupt it.
Like, surrounded by Minho's scent and touch, Jisung could let himself hide from the outside world, if just for a little while.
"Stop staring, it's creepy."
Minho's voice, a mere rasp of a whisper, broke him out of his trance, his hands stilling where they'd moved to comb through the older man's hair.
"Yeah?" Jisung quipped without a pause, a teasing lilt to his own quiet tone, but a smile was already blooming over his lips, bringing a glimmer to his sleep-heavy eyes. "What will you do about it, hm? Kick me out of my own sleeping bag?"
Minho's form, slumped heavily against him, shook a little as a soft, muffled snicker tumbled out of his lips, and Jisung's fingers resumed their earlier action, running and carding through Minho's bangs, brushing them to the side and exposing his forehead.
"Hm... that seems like so much work." With those words, his sleepy head lifted from its perch on Jisung's chest, and he planted his chin directly over the younger's heart, his gaze hooded and bleary, but no less piercing and captivating.
A single, small hand reached up, and Jisung watched as, in a torturously slow pace, Minho's delicate fingers made their way across the column of his neck, danced over his Adam's apple and finally, curled around the back of his head, weaving themselves in tufts of dark hair. "Besides... I wouldn't get to do this, if I did."
Before Jisung could even begin to inquire what exactly 'this' was, a pair of warm, sinfully soft lips were pressed to his, their pressure firm, demanding, and a flick of tongue dampened his bottom lip.
Jisung melted into it without hesitation, his mouth opening pliantly under Minho's ministrations, his own tongue coming out to greet the one invading his space.
The kiss was deep and unhurried, the slide of their lips slow, and Minho's hand left a burning path as it wandered down his side, slipped beneath the hem of his jumper and settled over his heated skin. It felt hot enough to scorch him from the inside, turn his already thin layers of self-control to ash.
Teeth caught at his bottom lip and tugged, sucked gently before letting go with a pop, and Jisung let a low, barely-there whimper escape him, unable to stop himself, not with Minho's scent enveloping him like a cloud, his mouth addictive like the sweetest of nectar, his body heavy and secure above him.
He knew they were playing with fire, that any of the others could potentially wake up at any moment, could hear or see them, that he should put a stop to it while he still had some control left in him.
Yet, his mind was blank, his limbs useless jelly, his focus zeroed in on the rough scratch of Minho's fingertips against the bare skin of his stomach, the wet, desperate slides of their tongues as they tangled and danced, the way Minho's thigh, firm and so perfectly taut, shifted impossibly closer to his groin, applying the most delicious pressure to his awakening erection.
"Minho," He mumbled, half-breathless and dazed when they finally broke apart, panting and flushed. "Hyung... we have to stop."
The only answer he received was a hum, Minho's lips detaching from his own only to find his jawline, trailing open-mouthed kisses down the column of his neck, under his ear and onto his collarbones, nipping and sucking lightly at the unmarred flesh.
Under the covers, Jisung's legs squeezed together, trapping Minho's leg in between his own in a futile, mindless attempt at relieving the constant, insistent sparks that were shooting up his spine, turning his brain to mush and his bones to custard.
It seemed to have quite the opposite effect, as his next words tumbled out of his mouth, much breathier and way more affected than he'd intended. "Hyung–" He panted, gulped, a faint, airy whine lodged in his throat. "They might wake up, hyungie, please–"
Above him, Minho's mouth stilled, a breath fanning over the skin of his chest, but the hand that was rubbing circles into the flesh of his stomach did not falter, nails digging into the skin in a way that had Jisung clenching his jaw to hold in a moan.
"Jisung."
Jisung blinked blearily, the word sounding more like a command than a name in the way it was uttered, and his body shivered involuntarily, cock twitching where it was pinned between his thighs and the weight of Minho's leg.
"Do you trust me?"
Minho had slowly risen from his resting position atop him, but his hand remained a heavy, constant presence on him, thumb tracing the slightly raised contours of his hip bone in a way that had Jisung subconsciously angling them upwards, pushing his lower half even further into Minho's warm, pleasant grasp and bulk.
Lost in the feeling, it took a few seconds for the implication of the question to register in his brain, for the full gravity of the question to sink in. For the implications of Minho's words to hit him.
Could he trust him? Could he really trust him, after their history of fighting tooth and nail, of clashing at the smallest of triggers, of antagonizing each other for practically everything?
Could he trust him with this? With his pleasure, his most vulnerable self, his being and his body, to touch, caress and play, to bring him to the apex, to wring out every ounce of coherency and reason from him and reduce him to a needy, wanton pile of putty, only to guide him back from the brink and tuck him into his side, safe and sound?
Could he trust him not to let him fall? Not to watch as he crashed and burned, and not to take pleasure in his suffering? Could he trust him not to turn his back and leave, to disappear once they were done?
Could he trust him not to hurt him?
"Yes."
The answer was out of his mouth before the fear, the insecurity and doubt, could claw their way back inside him, the single syllable followed by a whispered mantra of the same damned word, again and again until he feared he might choke on them, until they were ingrained in every fiber of his being, every crevice of his mind.
Until Minho's mouth descended upon his once more in a kiss seeping with relief, laced with thankfulness, passionate and all-consuming. Until their lips were red and swollen, until his ears were ringing and his breaths were coming in ragged pants, their chests rising and falling at the same rhythm.
Until the fear was hidden away, forgotten in the back of his brain. Until there was nothing left, nothing but the two of them in their own little, cocooned corner of warmth and intimacy.
"Chan has lube and condoms in his room." Minho's whisper was hot against his lips, his breath fanning over his mouth and his hand finally leaving its place on his waist, traveling downwards until it came to rest over his crotch, gently palming the obvious bulge hidden under the multiple layers of fabric.
A moan slipped past his lips, high and airy, and his eyes snapped open in alarm at the unexpected sensation, the way too loud cry echoing in the quiet of the room.
Someone stirred somewhere to their right, and Jisung froze like a deer in headlights, eyes round and filled with panic.
A beat of silence passed, then another and another, until any sound apart from their own rustling died down, and the room was once again submerged in absolute stillness.
"Come."
Still shell-shocked, it took a moment for the word to register, and when it did, Jisung let himself be tugged to his feet, keeping his voice low as he hissed out a strained, frantic whisper. "Minho, no, we can't just–"
His sentence fell short, interrupted by the look on the older man's face, alit with mischievousness and a fierce fire, a roguish glint adorning his eyes. The corners of his mouth quirked up, a sly grin taking over his features, and Jisung's jaw promptly snapped shut.
"I'm sure he won't mind if we borrow some."
Walking to Chan's bedroom, with Minho in tow, felt like maneuvering through a minefield - if a minefield consisted of an assortment of blankets and pillows, discarded socks, rumpled snack wrappers, and a bunch of unconscious, snoring bodies.
On one hand, Minho, following closely behind him, seemed unfazed, moving with stealth, grace and silence as he zig-zagged around the obstacle-littered floor, deft fingers keeping a hold on the hem of Jisung's sweatshirt, as though afraid to lose him in the cramped, semi-dark space.
On the other hand, Jisung did not share the same level of expertise as Minho, and the fear of accidentally stepping on something - or worse, someone - and waking everyone up was so great that his steps were awkward and uneven and, in his efforts to stay as silent as possible, he was stiff as a board, shoulders almost touching his ears.
It was nerve-wracking, to say the least, and Jisung could feel his heart thumping in his ribcage like a wild animal, his pulse quick and unsteady, but Minho's presence behind him, the warmth of his fingers seeping through the thin material of his top and the gentle tug on his clothes, were enough to ground him and keep him from panicking.
The moment they made it inside the bedroom, Jisung closed the door behind them with a muted sigh of relief, twisting the lock to ensure no one would disturb them.
Seconds later, the feeling of warm lips descending on his neck, right over his nape, a little shy of his hairline, had him jump in surprise and fail to suppress the squeak that tumbled out of his mouth, and Minho's arms swiftly circled his waist as the man himself plastered his chest to Jisung's back.
"You're too easy to startle, Jisung," Minho mused, lips hovering just a hair's breadth away from his ear. "So cute."
As Minho spoke, his hands pressed flat against the skin of his stomach, traveled south, slipping under the fabric of his shirt and rucking it up, grazing over the contours of his torso.
The sudden, albeit long-awaited contact of skin to skin had Jisung's eyelids fluttering, a shudder coursing through him, from the tips of his toes to the ends of his fingertips.
"Hyung..." He called out breathlessly, mouth dry and mind going haywire with Minho's mouth now pressing hot, wet kisses to the shell of his ear, fingers trailing over his hip bones and tracing the line of his underwear.
Jisung was on fire, goosebumps breaking out over his skin, and he desperately craved more of the scorching touch, more of the sweet torment and the sinful rush Minho was inflicting on his flesh, and when Minho's index finger slowly dipped beneath the hem of his briefs, a sharp intake of breath left his parted lips, instantly followed by a whimpered, "Please..."
"Look at you, so polite," Minho mused, languidly licking a stripe up the slope of his neck, only stopping to suck a mark right underneath the jut of his jaw, nibbling and tonguing at the skin until it turned red and tender.
"Where was this polite, well-mannered boy all this time? All those times you argued with me, all those tantrums, the curses, the pouty frowns, the insults..."
Jisung couldn't see Minho's face, but he could hear the smirk in his tone, the subtle annoyance tinged with lingering amusement, and the slow, agonizing drag of Minho's hands running over his stomach and hips was not making things any easier for him, his resolve hanging by a thread - especially with the way Minho's teasing words were coiling in the pit of his stomach and every drawn-out touch was warming him to the core.
"Hyung, I'm sor–" His apology was cut short by Minho's fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his briefs, callused skin and warm digits wrapping around him, tight and perfect, and Jisung's arm shot out, elbow hitting the door with a dull thud as it searched for support.
"Shh... no need to apologize." Came the gentle, honey-like whisper, the soft rumble almost a purr, and the hand that wasn't wrapped around his length traveled upwards, coming to rest flat between his pecs. "You can make it up to me, hm?"
Jisung's heart was threatening to rip through his ribcage, the beat frenzied and earsplitting, so loud he was sure Minho could feel and hear it where his chest was molded to Jisung's back.
Incoherently, his head nodded on instinct, a quick 'yes' on the tip of his tongue - eager to please, desperate to be good -, yet it was left unsaid, morphing into a choked gasp when Minho all but wrenched his pants and underwear down, letting them fall to the floor in a pool of fabric and cotton, baring him to the cold air of the room.
He couldn't see it, but he could sense the unapologetic stare on him, all of him, piercing and rapt, taking in every inch of naked flesh, every scar and mole, every crease and dimple and divot. It was as reverent as it was predatory, as maddening as it was heavenly, and Jisung knew in his heart, that if he turned around then, he would find himself caged between a hungry beast and the hard surface of the door, the image itself a strong contender to what was currently pumping blood and need right to his cock.
Minho made the decision for him.
With a final squeeze to his now leaking cock, the warmth of Minho's body was gone in a heartbeat, the heat and comfort of his presence replaced with cold nothingness, and Jisung could only stand there, shivering and throbbing, with his forehead pressed to the wooden surface of the door and his ass out on display.
Heavy footfalls echoed all around the room, and Jisung followed their path with his ears, straining to locate their source.
The sound of rummaging, shuffling, of drawers being pulled open and shut, accompanied the footsteps for a few minutes, and Jisung had half a mind to turn around and help, when he heard the unmistakable crinkle of plastic.
"Jisung, look at me."
When he peered over his shoulder, Jisung felt as if the wind was punched right out of lungs.
Minho, shirtless, sat on the edge of Chan's bed, thighs gently spread, a clear bottle in one hand and a condom packet in the other. His eyes were heavily lidded, ablaze with dark desire, and the sight had an array of fireworks exploding in his gut, short-circuiting his senses and kicking his whole body into overdrive.
Minho's tongue poked out, dragging over the seam of his lips.
Jisung felt like a tamed animal, eyes blinking rapidly and breath hitching at the clear order. Like a bewitched serpent, his body pivoted, turning until he was facing the man before him and his back was pressing flat to the door.
Like a moth drawn to a flame, his limbs drew him closer to the bed, toward the light, shedding any remaining layers of clothing that stood in his way in single-minded need, in unstoppable one-track focus.
Once he found himself in the warm cradle of Minho's legs, the soles of his feet firmly planted on the smooth, soft carpet and his hips a mere couple of inches from Minho's face, Jisung stopped.
"Do you trust me?" The question was asked once more, and at that moment, Jisung understood that it was not a test. It was a simple reminder, a gentle, grounding inquiry, and his answer came out much clearer, much more certain than the first time.
"Yes."
The moment the affirmation left him, Minho freed his hands of the items he was holding and reached out, fingers closing around the jut of his hips, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the skin there, as the man himself leaned forward, slowly, carefully, until Jisung's cock was just shy of brushing his nose.
The air was thick with anticipation, laden with unspoken words, and Jisung could see the subtle shifts of Minho's jaw as he swallowed, the faint bob of his Adam's apple as he gulped down air in quick, stuttering breaths.
Their eyes met, and Minho's lips finally found his skin.
Burying his face in the softness and warmth of his abdomen, Minho nosed along the ridges of his lower belly and hips, littering them with kisses, dragging the wet flat of his tongue across the defined dips and curves.
Slowly, torturously so, his mouth moved lower and lower, each touch bringing him a fraction of an inch closer to what Jisung was craving the most, but just far enough that it was driving him mad with desperation, with the overwhelming urge to just reach out and sink his hands into Minho's hair, grip it tight, and push his head down to where he needed him most.
A frustrated sound rumbled at the back of his throat, and his nails dug crescent moons into the meat of his palms to quell the itch, and the sight had Minho pausing to shoot a sly, playful grin in his direction, teeth lightly scraping along the sensitive flesh right above his crotch, hovering tantalizingly close to the base of his cock.
"Patience." Was the murmured whisper that left the man's mouth, warm and decadent, a direct contrast with his teasing touches, and Minho's warm exhale hit his cock, the barest hint of hot air on skin, but still enough to make him shudder with the effort of remaining still and upright.
After what seemed like an eternity, Minho's hands slipped away from his hips and to the front of his own sleep pants, tugging at the drawstrings with slow, calculated movements. With each little pull and push, his clothes were tugged a fraction lower, exposing more and more skin, until they were hanging around his upper thighs, revealing Minho's dick laying hard and heavy between his legs.
The tip was glistening with a pearlescent bead of pre-cum, and the length was full, beautifully flushed in a deep, mottled red, the girth accentuated by the thick, protruding veins running along it, and Jisung found himself unconsciously licking his lips at the sight.
The urge to take him into his mouth and lick him clean, to suck him until he was leaking on his tongue was so strong, his jaw started to ache with the effort of keeping himself from falling to his knees, from closing the distance between them and letting his instincts take over.
Minho's voice, breathy and laced with want, broke him out of his reverie. "Eyes on me."
Jisung snapped his gaze upwards, locking his stare with the mirroring heat in Minho's eyes, and a beat of silence passed before Minho leaned in once more, nosing along his length with a slow drag and a fleeting brush of his lips, attention still trained on Jisung's face.
As a drop of liquid pooled at his slit, Minho's tongue poked out, sweeping up the pearly bead and dragging along the head with a wet slide, collecting every last bit of his pre-cum with a low hum, as though relishing the taste of it.
"I want you to get on the bed for me, Jisung-ah."
His voice was almost hypnotizing, lilting and soothing, and Jisung obeyed in a heartbeat, stumbling out of the space between Minho's legs and moving to the foot of the bed, hoisting himself up and crawling over the mattress, until he was kneeling right in the center of it, eyes wide and waiting for his next instructions.
"On your hands and knees. And close your eyes, Jisung. Don't look until I tell you to."
Jisung felt his face flush crimson, but nonetheless he let his eyelids fall shut, adjusting his body and shifting into the position Minho wanted, elbows and knees resting on the soft covers.
A couple of moments later, the dip of the mattress indicated Minho's presence, and a warm hand found the curve of his hip. "Open a little wider." Came the quiet whisper, and Jisung shuffled a fraction, opening his thighs more and canting his hips, the tip of his cock brushing over the cotton sheets beneath him, his lower body exposed and open for whatever Minho had in mind.
Once again, contrary to any of Jisung's expectations, Minho chose to surprise him.
In the span of a few, measly seconds, Jisung could hear and feel Minho moving behind him, under him, taking hold of his hips and guiding him, molding him to the perfect shape, the perfect image that Minho desired, until a gasp was punched out of his chest at the feeling of a wet, warm tongue trailing the entire length of his pulsing, twitching cock.
"You can look now."
And Jisung did, almost ripping his eyelids open at the permission.
The image greeting his eyes had him reeling, mouth gaping in pure astonishment and thrill, eyes blinking rapidly in his desperate attempt to fully process and understand the scene unfolding right before his eyes.
As beautiful and annoyingly mesmerizing as always, Minho, watching like a hawk from underneath his hips, had positioned Jisung to hover directly above his head, legs straddling the sides of Minho's face and knees sinking into the mattress, the angle giving him the perfect view of everything Jisung had to offer - his flushed, hard dick mere inches from his lips, the firm, round swell of his ass on display and his whole body bare for Minho's eyes, vulnerable and willing, waiting, needing, for him to do something.
"You look so pretty like this, Jisung. All hard and heavy." The older man breathed, warm puffs of air hitting his cock, the heat searing through his flesh and making him ache. "Just for me."
Minho's hands were back on his hips, softly massaging his sides, the pressure light but wonderfully grounding.
"Now... will you be a good boy and fuck my mouth?"
With a sharp exhale, Jisung reached for the headboard with trembling fingers, finding the cool, smooth wood of the frame and gripping it for support, eyes locking with the dark ones watching him with a loaded look - lust, reverence and challenge all wrapped into a single gaze.
A shaky, hesitant nod was all he could muster.
The first slide of his length against Minho's lips had him seeing stars, the wet drag of spit and skin shooting straight to the pit of his stomach. Minho's eyes never left him, heavy-lidded and ablaze with heat, a perfect depiction of his surrender.
At the second drag, the tip of his cock slipped in, sinking past the soft, pillowy mouth in a slow push, a strained whine crawling its way out of Jisung's throat at the sinful image of Minho's plump lips, obscenely stretched around the head and, in contrast, so prettily shiny with spit.
Not one to be deterred by a meager couple of inches, Minho flattened his tongue and relaxed his jaw, releasing a contented sigh as he urged Jisung to go deeper, tightening his hold on Jisung's waist, pulling him forward until his nose was almost touching Jisung's belly and the head of his cock was nudging the back of his throat.
At the wet, silky warmth enveloping him, at the perfect slide and tightness surrounding his dick, Jisung couldn't stop himself. He shifted forward and slowly rocked his hips, feeding him the rest of his cock till Minho was full, lightly choking and stuffed and beautiful, cheeks hollowed and flushed the same shade as his neck, the bulge of Jisung's length perfectly outlined beneath his skin.
Jisung's head dropped between his shoulders, the image almost enough to send him spiraling over the edge, but a warning squeeze around his middle pulled him out of it, his eyes refocusing on the deep, dark gaze still fixed on him.
Watch me.
The message was crystal clear, the meaning of it rooted within every one of Minho's features, within the sharp curve of his brows, the dark, ravenous glint of his irises and the agonizingly tight suction he had on Jisung's cock, urging him to move, to let himself go.
So Jisung did.
His body moved on autopilot, arms tensing, muscles shifting, and Jisung rolled his hips in shallow, tentative thrusts, carefully building his rhythm and never letting his attention stray from the gorgeous vision splayed on the sheets below him.
Slowly, with each shift and press and pull of his cock past Minho's lips, he grew bolder and more confident, pushing in deep enough that Minho's nose brushed against his lower abdomen with each lunge and withdrawing far enough that the very tip of him slipped free almost every time, before slamming back in with a quick snap of his hips and watching in awe as tears began forming at the corner of Minho's eyes at the rough pace, at the constant drag and friction against his throat.
Minho took everything without a complaint, letting his mouth fall pliant and slack, letting his head fall at the best angle, and moving to lock one of his arms around the backs of his thighs to aid him, to tug him closer, to take and give, just as much as Jisung was doing.
It was as surreal as it was intoxicating, and Jisung could feel the tight coil of heat unfurling in the pit of his stomach with every minute that passed, every single one of Minho's muffled moans and groans pushing him closer to the edge, closer to oblivion and further thickening the fog of arousal clouding his senses.
He was close, so painfully, deliciously close, and he could tell Minho knew it too, by the way he was peering up at him from beneath his tear-stained lashes, the way he was positively slobbering over the length in his mouth, and it took everything Jisung had, every ounce of strength and self control he had left not to grab the sides of Minho's head, dig his thumbs in the softness of his cheeks and piston into the slick heat until he was coming down his throat, choking him and painting his insides white.
What came instead was something Jisung was wholly unprepared for, despite the warning, despite the lingering memory of the bottle and the condom in Minho's hands.
What came next was the detached, almost filtered sound of a bottle being uncapped, and Jisung would have missed it entirely if not for the way he had been so honed in on everything Minho was doing, on every sound and muffled moan, no matter how faint.
As the noise reached his ears, Jisung faltered in his movements, hips stuttering, and the question he was about to ask dying in his throat at the feeling of slick, wet fingers trailing down the curve of his ass, where they dipped in between the plump swells, circling and ghosting along his hole.
The touch was purposely light, barely there, but it still had a low moan vibrating in his chest and his body struggling to decide whether to push back and seek the unexpected spark of pleasure or impale itself deeper into the suction of Minho's throat.
And Minho, never one to back down from a challenge, never one to do what Jisung would expect, made the decision for him.
With a determined sparkle in his eyes, Minho drew his lips tighter around the base of Jisung's cock, relaxing his throat and burying his nose in the dark, trimmed hair at the very bottom, holding him there, deep, until black and grey spots began dancing in Jisung's vision.
Only then did he eventually set a steady pace, bobbing his head back and forth, lips dragging along the girthy shaft, as the pad of a finger slowly breached through his tight rim and dipped inside his entrance, which had Jisung spasming and choking on a scream, a litany of curses and praises alike dripping from his mouth like a holy prayer.
Whatever energy he had left was used to prevent his arms from giving out and letting him fall, his hands gripping the headboard so tight he could feel his palms twitching, the skin reddening under the effort.
It was beginning to get difficult to think or even breathe, and his vision was swimming at the edges, but Minho's eyes were still there, still watching him with a knowing, permanently satisfied glint, despite the dick splitting his jaw in two.
Jisung felt himself being torn apart from the inside out, his body trapped between the wet, tight heat of Minho's throat and the slow drag of a finger curling against his walls, pushing and pressing and opening him up with every thrust, preparing him for the two more Minho was so close to adding.
He could feel them prodding at his rim, testing the give of the muscles, pushing the tip in before suddenly withdrawing, almost as if they were taunting him, mocking him for the pitiful noises he was making, for the way he was desperately trying to fuck himself on Minho's fingers and mouth simultaneously, chasing both sensations.
By the time the digits finally sank in, stretching and scissoring him open, Jisung was past any comprehensible words, his vocabulary reduced to a plethora of incoherent moans, hitching breaths, and hoarse, desperate cries.
His eyelids kept fluttering, a traitorous tear or two escaping to trail down his cheeks as he fought to keep them from falling shut, to prevent himself from giving in to the overwhelming urge to squeeze his eyes tightly and let himself be taken over by the wave of oversensitivity thrumming through his veins.
But Minho told him to watch, Minho wanted him to see, so Jisung clung to the headboard and bit his lip till he tasted blood, battling against the dizzying spell of whatever kind of sadistic magic Minho was weaving and forcing his eyes to stay open, to watch the wet trail of saliva dripping from the corners of Minho's mouth and down his jaw, the constant rise and fall of his surely abused lungs and the flush reaching past the slope of his throat, all the way down to his upper chest.
Minho was beautiful, covered in sweat, adorned with tears and a whole mouth full of cock, with swollen, red lips and an obscene bulge in his throat to boot.
Without a shadow of a doubt, Minho was the most gorgeous he'd ever been, and Jisung wanted to burn the image of him into his mind to preserve the breathtaking sight.
By the fourth and final finger, Jisung was teetering on the very edge of losing himself, the heat in the pit of his stomach scorching his insides like a wildfire, his throat sore and dry, and his legs trembling from the strain of remaining upright under such intense, prolonged torture.
He was ready, more than ready, and the pain of it was pushing him to an inescapable brink.
"Please. Please, hyungie, just fuck me– I can't take anymore. Please, oh my god, Minho hyung– Please- I–"
His brain, fuzzy and clogged with the fog of arousal, could barely manage more than such a feeble string of pleas, bitten off with sobs and shaky inhales.
However, no matter how strained with overuse and nearing a point of true pain, his voice seemed to be all the push Minho needed.
As quickly as he had managed to wind Jisung up, he was lowering him down, gently slipping his fingers free from where they had been buried in his ass and lessening the suction around his cock, freeing the pulsing length from his mouth inch by painful inch, until the very tip of it popped free and was simply, gently resting against Minho's bottom lip.
Even then, Minho's tongue still poked out, the greedy muscle collecting every last drop and lap and catching it for Minho to lick back into his mouth, swallowing around it with a pleased hum.
Jisung watched the scene unfold with eyes wide and unseeing, his chest heaving with each breath he took, each gulp of much needed air he forced himself to take.
Under him, still laid on the bed, eyes hooded and lips swollen and blood-red, laid the unrepentant devil himself.
Minho grinned, despite the state of him, despite his clearly sore throat and jaw, despite the tears and spit drying on his cheeks.
Slowly and steadily, with an impressive amount of grace given his position and exhaustion, Minho pushed himself up, one hand falling to the mattress to support his weight and the other coming to rest on the side of Jisung's hip, in a surprisingly tender hold meant to calm and soothe and never let him go.
Jisung, still dazed, let himself be handled like a lifeless puppet. He let Minho push him down on the mattress, flipping their positions with an ease that made his limbs wobbly and weak. He let himself be manhandled, lifted and placed exactly the way the older man wanted, pliant and boneless in his hold.
His arms automatically moved, weakly wrapping themselves around Minho's neck, hands closing to fists and fingers trembling as he grabbed onto Minho's sweat-slicked skin, as he clutched onto his hair and tugged him closer, hiding in the warmth that was the inviting stretch of Minho's throat.
"Hyung... hyung, please." He rasped out, voice broken and beyond recognition. "F-fuck me. Hyung, want you. Want you in me."
Minho hushed him, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head and another to his temple, trailing soft, barely-there pecks down his cheeks and along his jaw, leaving a gentle, fleeting one at the corner of his mouth, before pulling back.
When he spoke for the first time since his glorious torture had begun, the raspiness, the overuse and abuse of his throat was more than prominent in his tone, the deeper, rawer quality of it, causing Jisung to swallow back a fresh moan.
"Shh, Sung-ah. Hyung is gonna fuck you, gonna take care of you, hm? Make it feel so good, so perfect for you."
Jisung whined, but didn't protest further, allowing himself to fall back onto the sheets and watching with bated breath as Minho reached for the condom that had been long abandoned on the mattress, swiftly rolling the rubber over his already leaking and heavy length before once again settling between his parted thighs.
The other's mouth was back on him in an instant, Minho littering his face with infinite kisses, feather-light touches that made his skin thrum with sensitivity and anticipation alike.
Warm, still wet fingers found their way back to his sides, trailing from the dip of his waist to the swell of his hips, mapping a path down to Jisung's knees, hooking underneath them and lifting the quivering, sensitive legs up and wrapping them around his middle.
At the silent but obvious command, Jisung tightened the grip, locking his feet behind the older's back and shamelessly exposing himself and his stretched, thoroughly worked out hole, uncaring of the way his everything was bared and achingly vulnerable.
What more could it hurt, if he entrusted him with just that little bit more?
"Hyung... will you– will you call me Jisungie again?"
He barely recognized his own voice, at that point. Scratchy and broken and so fucking small, in a way it never was during any other situation and a reflection of the undeniable truth of their reality.
Him and Minho weren't opposites in the sense Jisung had stupidly convinced himself they were, they weren't antithesis of each other, two rivaling forces incapable of existing together, so much so that their worlds could never align, as he had once foolishly claimed.
Right then, lying amidst disarrayed sheets, as heat and skin and want clung to their forms like a second skin, they were two parts of a whole, unapologetically fitting, perfectly matching.
And if the way Minho's face, slowly melting into a real, genuine smile instead of a taunting smirk, was any indication, maybe the other had reached the same conclusion, somewhere down the line. Maybe they were two ends of the same threadbare rope, both fraying and worn and so close to snapping, but weaving together again at the very end.
Maybe they were the missing links in each other's pictures, the two final pieces to a puzzle they had spent so unnecessarily long looking for.
"Jisungie."
And it could have sounded mocking, it could have been a teasing note thrown in an acid tone, it could have parroted the way the older man had said it so many times before, in such different contests and with such a venomous intent to hurt hidden within, to the point where Jisung had hated hearing his own name leaving Minho's mouth.
It could have, but it wasn't.
The softness, the breathy way it left Minho's lips, combined with the reverent, tender look on his face, the sweetness of his eyes that seemed to shine from within – all of it punched a hole in Jisung's heart, a thousand needles sinking in his chest cavity and tugging at the strings of his heart and lungs until something clicked into place inside him.
"Minho..."
Whatever else he had wanted to say, the sudden lump in his throat prevented him from uttering anything else. His voice cracked, but Minho seemed to understand anyway, nodding as he lowered his forehead and touched it to Jisung's.
"I know, sweetheart... I know, Jisungie. Let hyung take care of you now."
One last kiss was pressed to the spot between his brows, before Minho was finally reaching down, taking hold of his cock with one hand and guiding it to Jisung's waiting entrance.
He didn't push forward immediately, though. Instead, he rocked his hips experimentally, rubbing the head along the puffy rim and letting Jisung grow accustomed to the feeling, to the blunt pressure suddenly prodding at his insides.
A few moments later, he felt the tip slowly beginning to sink in and had to make a conscious effort not to tense up and relax his inner muscles as best as he could.
It wasn't the first time he had done this, wasn't even the first time he'd bottomed, far from it – but the knowledge that it was Minho on top of him, with his weight, heat, and scent seeping into Jisung's pores and settling in his bones, that it was Minho's cock steadily breaching the tight ring of his hole, stretching him open and pushing past the final barrier, somehow made all the difference.
It was Minho who was holding him together, so mindfully and delicately, as he pushed his cock deep into him inch by agonizing inch, and Minho's steadying breath that mirrored his own when he bottomed out and allowed Jisung to adjust around his girth, unmoving save for the reassuring strokes of his palms up and down Jisung's ribcage, and Minho's low, hushed words of praises and endearment filling his ears with filth and butterflies.
Jisung felt alive under Minho. At once a corpse that had risen from the grave, and a flower that had finally reached sunlight.
It was as frightening as it was exhilarating, and after a year of hating the man, of seeing himself as his antipode, as better than him, this strange longing and affection made him ache from the sheer magnitude of it, like it was expanding his core and taking up space in a way his very being couldn't contain.
And such feeling only deepened when Minho, finally buried to the hilt, gently lowered himself on his elbows, his body fully enveloping Jisung's smaller frame, warm and solid and caging him in with a sort of possessive, protective tenderness the younger could never have envisioned coming from his rival.
But then again, Minho was a walking contradiction, a secret woven into an enigma.
This moment, this version of themselves was the closest they had ever truly gotten, and the most precious Minho had ever made him feel.
A perfect combination.
Carefully, keeping himself as much in contact with Jisung's body as physically possible, Minho eventually began to move.
With a surprising amount of self control, Minho rocked his hips in a lazy, unhurried rhythm, setting a pace that allowed Jisung to savor the feeling, to learn the shape of Minho's cock, and familiarize himself with the slow drag of it against his walls, to adjust to the pleasant fullness and stretch of his rim.
And Jisung opened up beautifully around him.
He seemed to thrive under the kind, gentle touches and the soft words whispered in his ear like they were meant to be sealed, hidden away just for him, to relish in late at night in the safety of his most vulnerable, lonely moments.
One of his hands rose up to rake through the damp locks of Minho's hair, while the other clung to the firm line of his back, digits skimming over the expanse of heated skin, feeling the ridges of solid muscle shift with every thrust. Jisung revelled in the way they rippled like water under his fingertips, sculpted and lean in a way that had the younger falling deeper and deeper under a spell that screamed of danger and addiction alike.
When a particularly well-angled push dragged the fat head of Minho's cock across his prostate, pressing and lighting up each and every nerve ending inside him all the way to his brain, Jisung's nails dug into the delicate flesh, his eyes opening wide and his sight blinded with flashes of white, as waves of electric heat flooded his senses and washed over his entire body in shuddering, mind-numbing currents.
The moan that escaped him, deafening and unabashed, seemed to spur Minho on. A soft, husky huff of a chuckle resounded in his ears, before the thrusts came quicker and more eager, with a much deeper intent behind each roll of his hips.
From slow and deliberate and mindful of his every reaction, every intake of breath and clench around him, it was like a switch had been flipped, and Minho was snapping his hips forward, plowing into Jisung with vigor, burying himself deeper each time until he was driving his cock against Jisung's prostate with deadly precision, again and again and again.
One of his hands suddenly moved, crawling down Jisung's flank and burrowing under his back to angle and arch his spine and keep him flush against Minho's front as the tempo of the older's movements remained relentless, the sound of skin slapping against skin bouncing off the walls and filling the room with the filthiest melody, broken only by the loudest, most unabashed moans Jisung had ever heard tumble from his own lips.
Jisung, by that point, was nothing but a pile of goo under him, mind empty and body tingling, every bit of him so raw, so exposed and bared, and yet so utterly protected in the older's hold.
The tears that gathered at the corners of his eyes were unexpected, spilling so quickly and freely that, at first, Jisung didn't realize he was crying at all. Not until the drops slid down his temples, absorbed by the pillow under him, did he register the dam that had, at some point, burst open, or the added wetness that had steadily made itself known across his already flushed, sweaty face.
Even with his blurred vision, it was hard to miss the look in Minho's eyes as he witnessed the scene before him, growing darker and deeper with something so fierce and yet so vulnerable, something that held the shape of fear and possessiveness and longing all meshed into a sea of shimmering ink.
And then, without missing a single beat, Minho's mouth and tongue were on him, catching every last salty drop, tracing the path of his cheeks as he swallowed the emotions Jisung was pouring into him, as though he was tasting the realest part of him, and basking in his own glory for having the privilege of witnessing such display.
Between wet kisses and parted lips, between damp laps and grazing teeth, between heavy breaths and low growls, they spoke no words. Minho was adamant in making sure he didn't miss a single tear, and Jisung didn't have enough strength to form any coherent sentence, too high on endorphins and Minho's presence alone to manage even a single coherent thought.
His sole focus, his entire world at that very moment, was the person above him, on him, in him. He was drunk on Minho, and so utterly lost to him that he barely registered the sudden shift in their positions, until the older was hitching his knees up, spreading him impossibly wide and folding Jisung in half as he fucked into him with the same unrelenting pace, the same bruising force, the same all-consuming hunger.
With his legs forced up and out of the way, he was completely exposed and splayed open under the older's eyes, unable to hide from the way his cock leaked onto his own stomach, the tip red and swollen and drooling with pre-come, or how his hole clenched around Minho's length, pink and stretched and wet with lube, loud with the obscene sounds of squelching and flesh slapping together.
And all the while, as Jisung continued to weep openly under him, Minho only held him closer and closer, tangling and fusing them into one being, kissing, tasting and nipping at Jisung's slick skin, until the ghost of his mouth was imprinted on every patch of Jisung's skin.
Nothing purely Jisung was left, and yet nothing had ever felt so right.
It was with that thought in mind that the familiar knot in the pit of his stomach came undone, breaking through the last of Jisung's feeble barriers and tearing its way up his throat, out of his mouth in the form of a broken scream, a sound so pitiful in its freedom and so blatantly owned.
Because, right then, it was Minho he was screaming for. It was Minho who owned him wholly and entirely.
Pleasure rushed through his veins like lava through the molten crust of earth, sudden and overwhelming in its power and intensity, and then he was coming, cock untouched and spurting thick, warm ribbons onto his already dirty, sticky skin.
Minho followed almost immediately after, burying his face in the dip of Jisung's neck as his hips stuttered to a halt, his cock twitching and pulsing as it filled the condom with his release.
Together they rode their shared high, sinking into a trance where the outside world no longer mattered and the only thing that defined their reality were the rapid beating of their hearts, the synchronized rattling of their lungs, and the firm hold of their embrace.
Over the thumping of his ears, Jisung could make out a muffled voice, warm and liquid and so achingly precious, sweet words of praise and gratification humming in the distance, and fingers tenderly brushing his sweat-soaked hair aside to press a lingering kiss to the side of his head.
Hours, months, years might have passed before they finally came back to their senses, before their heartbeats slowed down to regain a modicum of steadiness, and their breathing became less labored.
Sore and spent and oversensitive, Jisung couldn't tell how long it took before Minho eventually willed himself to pull out, carefully navigating their entwined bodies and mindfully disentangling their limbs to rid himself of the condom and grab some wet tissues from the bedside table to clean up the mess they had made, before his hold on Jisung returned again, a touch less suffocating but no less secure.
Driven by a desperate need for closeness and comfort, Jisung instantly curled into his arms, hiding his face in the older's chest and pressing as much of his body against the other as he possibly could, the warmth emanating from him both a balm for his wounds and a reminder of the fact that Minho was there, he was real, and he wasn't leaving.
Not anymore.
A soft laugh rumbled in Minho's chest, reverberating through Jisung's own frame in pleasant, soothing vibrations, before he felt his head being tipped up by a gentle finger under his chin, his lips immediately covered by another pair that tasted of salt and sex and something so unmistakably Minho, as he had learned in the span of the past few hours.
"So shy now... where's the little vixen that screamed and cried so sweetly under me just minutes ago, hm?"
JIsung knew that the teasing wasn't anything new between them, that a day where one of them didn't provoke the other couldn't possibly pass by, but for the first time, Jisung didn't feel the bile rising in the back of his throat, didn't feel the familiar spike of annoyance at being poked and taunted.
Instead, he merely hummed against Minho's mouth, lips stretched into a secretive, coy little smile, "He'll come back once he's well rested. Someone wore him out real good, after all."
Amusement colored Minho's features as his lips split into a pleased smirk, the finger under Jisung's chin trailing up to nudge at his reddened, puffy lower lip, "Is that so? That's a shame, you know..." his lids lowered, a dark glint flashing behind his damp fringe, "I was kind of looking forward to playing with him some more."
Despite himself, Jisung's breath hitched at the promise. At the sudden, dizzying thought of a second, third, fourth round with Minho, hours and days and months and years stretching before him, and endless possibility of it happening again and again, endlessly. Of coming home to that look, to these hands, this same safety, to every single piece of Minho that he had seen, touched, breathed, for as long as they allowed themselves to fall.
Strangely, even with the knowledge that it hadn't been so easy, that getting to that point had been riddled with pain and bitterness and months' worth of mutual hatred and misunderstandings, that night felt like the most important gift Jisung could have gotten. Even more than his favorite desserts, or brand new recording equipment – seeing Minho lying there, like he belonged, curled into him so intimately and naturally, it was a feeling beyond measure.
Like the sun itself had descended down onto Chan's bed, in flesh and blood and bone.
This time, when his fingers buried into the sleek, chocolate strands, not a single ounce of fear or doubt tainted his mind or weighed down his heart.
"Minho hyung, I–"
"Ehm... guys, I'd hate to interrupt whatever the fuck is going on here but we waited as much as we could and, uh... you do know that we heard everything, right?"
Some distance away, behind the door that wasn't so much of a barrier anymore, a lone voice rang in their ears like a gong, belonging to none other than the owner of the room they had positively defiled, so obviously tired and stricken by grief and misery.
It was quickly joined by another group of loud, ranging from enthusiastic to horrified voices, all piling over each other and creating a cacophony of noise and sound that seemed to go on and on for hours, without the faintest sign of stopping any time soon.
Until, at the very end, a distinct voice cut through the rest, so uniquely smooth. delicate and amused, and yet so unapologetically evil.
"Well, at least they're finally done with their foreplay and won't make our lives a living hell anymore."
Seungmin. Curse that diabolical, blond, backstabbing traitor.
The sigh that followed was heavy with the weight of the world and Chan, ever the saint and the martyr, seemed to be the first to recover enough to call out to them again, albeit with a touch of resignation and exhaustion that was, honestly, entirely warranted.
"Anyway... we were going to get some breakfast going and open up the presents, if you want to join us? But please, for the love of God, please, please at least make sure to shower and air the room out a bit, before you come out... And throw the dirty sheets away."
A beat of silence.
"Or burn them. Seriously, you can burn them, I won't mind."
What followed, as expected, was a series of gags, giggles and barfing sounds, mixing in with muffled exclamations, and Jisung couldn't help the mortifying heat that rushed to his face at the thought of what they must have all witnessed and heard from outside. His friends, his family, who probably had never ever, ever pictured such a scenario happening to them, let alone who the two culprits would be.
But, through it all, one thought remained.
Jisung's gaze wandered back to Minho, a sense of peace so unusual, so weird encompassing his heart as soon as their eyes locked. Looking at Minho, he found the same traces of mirrored contentment, of not so secret embarrassment and the smile he received in return was the only confirmation Jisung needed, the only encouragement he craved to brave through the chaos that awaited them just a few feet away.
"Merry Christmas, Jisungie."
Maybe that Christmas morning hadn't started out the way Jisung had imagined, and he still had no idea where Minho and him stood now, but the warm press of Minho's lips on his forehead, the promise of a bright new beginning and the certainty that the night would end with Minho still by his side, was the best gift he could have ever hoped to receive.
Maybe they weren't perfect. Maybe their story was marred with bumps and bruises, and maybe it would be difficult and painful.
But the mere fact that there was a story, a chance for them to write their own sequel, was worth everything to Jisung.
"Merry Christmas, Minho hyung."