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At least a quarter of Minho’s problems would be solved if it was Halloween.
His scowl could be a mask instead of a point of contention, his dreary aura represented by the dull cold of late October. He could watch horror movie upon horror movie without anyone questioning why. Posting his reviews without commenters requesting Christmas classics.
Instead, he’s been forced into a false cheer. Pressured to put on a jolly facade at grocery stores and with friends. Minho had never been a Grinch before, but now even that feels too kind. His heart shriveled to nothing but a black speck, pumping just enough to get him through each tinsel-fueled day of December.
If the Grinch had been serious about hating Christmas, he would have killed Santa Claus. Minho thinks he’s one verse of jingle bells away from doing just that.
Minho throws his backpack and a bag of groceries into the passenger seat of his car — no one else to sit there — and prepares to take off on the solo Christmas trip of his nightmares. He checks the address to type into his GPS and lets out a deep sigh. If he dies, Minho has no one to blame but himself and his own negligence.
When he first booked the Airbnb, he didn’t pay very close attention to the address. It was a one-bedroom, with a decent-looking kitchen, open layout, and a jacuzzi tub. Minho had booked it the second he saw it. He wasn’t too worried about it getting reserved over the Christmas holiday, but he wasn’t taking any chances on losing the tub. He’s going to soak in that tub until he can no longer feel his skin. Crank the jets up so high that he bruises. He will die in there if he needs to.
Dying is feeling more like a possibility as the map starts his route.
In A Nightmare On Elm Street, Freddy Krueger declares that “every town has an Elm Street.” And while Minho knows that was a metaphor, he can’t help but notice the literal connotations.
There are a lot of trees that streets can be named after: Pine, Oak, Maple; all feeling soft and cozy, reminding Minho of walking through an orange forest or curling up beside a fireplace with a cup of cocoa in hand. Elm, not so much. In addition to the obvious ties to the horror classic, some species of elm are invasive, eating everything in their path. Suffocating every other tree that tries to grow. Maybe if Minho gets lucky, it will eat him too. Or he’ll be torn apart by Freddy’s claws after he falls asleep in the jacuzzi of his dreams.
A Nightmare On Elm Street (1984): Great kills, great movie. One of Minho’s favorites. 4/5 stars.
The house isn’t far, but it’s far enough for Minho to feel like he’s getting away. The sounds and lights of Christmas trail off behind him as he drives out of the city and to its rural exterior, allowing him to focus on his decisively not-cheery music. K-drama ballads, Sarah McLachlan, Celine Dion, and no sleigh bells or Mariah in sight. All he wants for Christmas is moping.
Just him, several drinks, and a jacuzzi tub. There’s no chimney at the house, he checked. And if Santa tries to walk through the front door, then maybe being on Elm Street is a blessing in disguise. Freddy vs. Santa, coming to cinemas near you! There have been worse ideas; Minho will record it in his mental list of film pitches.
Celine is just declaring that her heart will go on for the last time when Minho makes his final turn. The neighborhood is quiet, the homes spaced widely apart with long driveways. Gravel crunches under his tires as he pulls up to the correctly numbered house, shielded by a small grove of trees. Not elms, ironically.
The house is small and blue, snow covering the roof in white fluff, sparkling in the late afternoon sun. There’s a car in the driveway and light filters through the curtains. Minho frowns. The owners told him they’d be done getting everything set the day before he arrived, so who is here now?
It would be just his luck if the jacuzzi tub was under maintenance and now some repairman was bumping around. What if Minho is forced to soak jetless? What’s the point of sulking if he can’t do it luxuriously? What if he falls asleep in the tub, gets killed in his dream, and doesn’t even have the bubbles to cover his naked body? What could be worse than dying naked?
Maybe spending Christmas alone in a house that is not yours on an aptly named, and ominous street. That might be worse. Minho sighs and turns off the ignition. Another year, another lonely Christmas.
The break-up wasn’t unexpected, but it was poorly timed. Minho and Dohyun had been going out for nine months, far too long, and it became exceedingly clear to Minho with each passing day that this was not a match made in heaven. Dohyun was nice, but he was boring. He ate his chicken unseasoned, had a collection of polos in various shades of blue, and kept his apartment clean and beige. This would have all been fine with Minho if Dohyun didn’t also hate movies, and most of all, horror movies.
“I just don’t like them,” he shrugged when Minho asked, citing his profession very clearly. Minho knew that pressing further was worthless. Dohyun didn’t seem to have much reasoning behind anything.
But still, Minho was willing to stick it out, at least until after New Year's so he’d have someone to tote around to various parties and make polite discussion with on the things that seemed to excite Dohyun like taxes and the weather. They made it until December 16th, when after a thrilling meal of chicken (unseasoned), broccoli, and brown rice, Dohyun looked Minho dead in the eye and said, “I just don’t think this is very exciting.”
Minho couldn’t help but bark out a laugh. Dohyun frowned. It was the only time Minho saw him show any emotion besides contentment.
So Christmas alone it was for the ninth year of his adult life, which also happened to be the entirety of it. His mom stopped asking him if he was going to bring anyone home with him after year three.
Minho didn’t even have the option of spending it with his parents this year, after they booked some holiday cruise when they thought Minho would be otherwise occupied.
“We can cancel it, honey!” His mom said last night on the phone for the thirtieth time that week. “I hate to know you’re all alone on Christmas.”
“No, eomma, go have fun,” Minho told her. “It will actually be nice to have some time to myself.” Last night it was a lie; right now, Minho could not be happier with his decision.
He knew he had other options. Hyunjin and Jeongin offered for him to join their Christmas, but that would only involve Minho sitting awkwardly on their couch while they gazed lovingly into each other’s eyes, forgetting he’s even there. Changbin and Chan offered as well, but they would pose the opposite problem: doting on him like they were his pseudo-parents. He probably wouldn’t even be able to go to the bathroom without Chan asking if he needed help. They’d probably cut his meat into tiny, little bite-sized chunks for him, too. Actually, on second thought, maybe that would have been nice.
And finally, Seungmin and Felix threw their hat in the ring. Felix all smiles and Seungmin begrudgingly extending the invitation. Minho declined for no other reason than fearing if the food they’d serve him would be edible or not. He’ll admit that Seungmin did seem genuinely saddened by his refusal.
So, a mini vacation it was. Away from the city, away from the grocery stores playing Christmas jingles on the loudspeakers. Away from Jack Frost, Frosty, and Rudolph. No trees, no lights, no tinsel, and no Christmas cookies. He was going to extend December 24th to forty-eight hours, and go right to the 26th. This was the Christmas-free zone. Minho was going to order copious amounts of takeout, mindlessly watch some movie with a lot of blood, and then lay in the jacuzzi tub until he could no longer feel his skin over his bones.
That is, if it’s working.
A shadow passes by the window facing Minho. He sighs. Between Santa and Freddy, he’s kind of hoping for Freddy.
Minho approaches the door and opens his phone to find the code the owner had sent him earlier for the key box. He types in the numbers, opens the little door, and is completely unsurprised to see the key missing. He sighs again. Freddy it is then. He hasn’t even knocked, fist hovering over the wood panels, when the door is swinging open to reveal a man in a red cable knit sweater. The swell of Jingle Bell Rock pours out of the house behind him, and Minho thinks he can see tinsel in the corner of his eye. There’s no way Freddy is in that house. Minho is going to have to kill Santa personally after all.
“You don’t have my pizza,” the man says at the same time Minho says, “Are you going to kill me?”
The man blinks behind wire-framed glasses, and Minho is suddenly distracted by what he looks like. A sharp jaw and plump cheeks, a heart-shaped mouth and round eyes. Dark hair swooping over his forehead, and thick, dark eyebrows. Cute. Very cute. Obscenely attractive. Minho knows what this means.
Barbarian (2022): A young woman rents a house to find it already occupied by Bill Skarsgaard. An extremely tense first act is washed away by the latter two-thirds of the film featuring a giant, incestious monster attempting to adopt Justin Long as her child. Should have been a short film. Minho had a lot of angry horror buffs in his quote retweets for that review. Same old, same old; he doesn’t care. 2.5/5 stars.
Minho hopes that in this version, the hot man just kills him and they skip the whole monster-occupied basement. It dragged.
“Why would I have your pizza?” Minho asks, frowning.
The man pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Uh, because I ordered one? Why would I kill you?”
Minho resists the urge to say that’s what he ordered. “Because you’re in my Airbnb with no explanation?”
“No,” the man says, brows furrowing, “this is my Airbnb.”
Oh god, it really is like Barbarian. If Minho is going to live out a horror movie in real life, it could at least be one he likes more.
Minho pulls up his confirmation email on his phone and shows it to the man who frowns before doing the same. Yep, two identical bookings for the same house on the same dates. Just Minho’s luck; he wished for Halloween and got the worst iteration of it. Christmas magic was real, but it was also evil.
“What do we do now?” The man sighs, crease still cutting so deep in between his eyebrows that Minho is surprised he can’t see his skull.
Minho remembers the owners telling him that they would be at a remote location for the holidays, and wouldn’t be able to be contacted – part of the reason this was such a steal. They failed to mention the possibility of a roommate. They would not be receiving a glowing review from Minho, and if there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s use the written word like a knife.
If this was any other house at any other time, Minho would turn around wordlessly and head back to his car. Cut his losses and drive back into the candy cane-coated city. But he’s alone on Christmas and there is a jacuzzi that he’s been dreaming about for a week straight. This man doesn’t look like a killer, which makes it so much more likely that he is, but maybe that’s a risk Minho is willing to take. He’ll wear underwear in the tub so that he doesn’t have to die naked.
”I mean,” Minho shrugs, “I can sleep on the couch.”
The man’s eyes go wide. “You’re sure? That doesn’t make you uncomfortable?”
”I’m okay with it if you are,” Minho shrugs again. “It’s kind of too late to do anything about it.”
“I’m okay with it, but how do I know you aren’t planning to kill me ?” The man frowns, shielding himself slightly behind the door.
“That's the risk we both have to take.”
His eyes narrow, but he smiles. “Touche.” The man steps back and gestures for Minho to come in.
The second Minho steps in, he regrets his decision. The living room looks like an elf exploded in it; his tinsel intestines dangle from the walls, his jolly organs in the form of tree-shaped throw pillows litter the couch. A tree towers next to the stocking-lined electric fireplace, decked out in garland and colorful bulbs. The elf’s skin and eyes staring at him. A golden star sits at the top, twinkling in tune with Justin Bieber’s rendition of Drummer Boy that croons through a speaker of mysterious origin. If this version didn’t actually kind of slap, Minho would turn over the room to find the speaker and stomp it in with his boot-clad foot.
This was not what the pictures looked like. Minho had signed up for millennial beige decor and a jacuzzi tub. This is what he was actively working to avoid.
Minho is sure that Dohyun’s apartment looks like that right now. White walls and whiter furnishings, the only pops of color coming in various shades of brown. It was so fake cozy that it was uncomfortable, Minho feeling more claustrophobic with the more space that existed. He never imagined he would miss it, but the tree hanging over him makes him crave the wheat-colored decor like he never has before. Maybe he and Dohyun were more compatible than he originally thought.
“I’m Jisung, by the way,” the man says over Busta Rhymes spitting about eggnog. He steps into the kitchen side of the open floor plan, where Minho can see a mess of mixing bowls and various baking ingredients. He throws a green apron around his neck and ties it around his waist. There’s a gingerbread man dancing on the front pocket, holding a candy cane in each hand.
“Minho,” Minho responds, still gawking at the tree. It’s at least eight feet tall. How the fuck did it even get through the door? “Did you do this?” He asks Jisung in a way that sounds more accusatory than necessary, but the venom involuntarily drips off of Minho’s tongue like snowfall.
“Yeah,” Jisung smiles proudly, either purposefully ignoring, or oblivious to Minho’s tone. “If I’m going to spend Christmas alone, it should still feel like Christmas, right?” He pours flour into a measuring cup, more of it landing on the counter than in the cup.
The universe must be playing some sadistic, cruel joke. Minho doesn’t even have a response. Someone might be getting murdered tonight, and it’s going to be Jisung’s Christmas spirit at the hands of Minho’s sanity.
“Why are you alone?” Minho asks, pinching the artificial pine between his finger and thumb. He’s not much for small talk.
“You’re getting right into it," Jisung laughs. He dumps the flour in a mixing bowl decorated with images of candy canes. It whirls up in a puff of powdery smoke around his face, making him cough. “My family opted for a Christmas cruise this year.” He smiles slightly through his fit, banging a fist against his chest. “But I couldn’t bear to part with the snow.”
The odd coincidence strikes Minho, but he chooses to ignore it. No Christmas magic, or whatever. “No girlfriend?” Minho questions teasingly. If he’s going to get murdered by the hot guy, he might as well test his chances before the killing blow.
Jisung looks taken aback, attempting to crack an egg against the bowl. The yolk runs out onto the counter. Jisung doesn’t bother to clean it up before he grabs another egg. “No.” He makes eye contact with Minho and raises an eyebrow. “Or boyfriend. So a lonely Christmas it is. I decided to make a writing retreat out of it.”
Minho’s interest piques. “You’re a writer?” He turns a pink bulb in his hand, watching his reflection morph in the shiny glass. If this was a horror movie, he would see the killer or the ghost in the corner, turn quick enough to drop and shatter the ornament on the ground, only to see nothing behind him. He keeps looking forward.
Jisung nods, but doesn’t get into it further.
Minho hums in an equally wordy response and wanders into the kitchen, seating himself at the breakfast nook kiddie corner to Jisung. The air smells sweet but charred. Minho scrunches his nose. “What are you making?”
“Cookies,” Jisung pours sugar into the same measuring cup, giving a quick glance to the measurement line, shrugging and dropping it in his bowl. “What about you? What do you do?”
“I’m a critic.”
“Isn’t everybody?”
“Ha ha,” Minho punctuates. “I write movie reviews.”
Jisung finally pauses what he’s doing and looks up, whisk mid-motion and his glasses sliding down his nose. He is so extremely cute. Minho’s chances of survival dwindle by the second.
“That’s cool,” he says and goes back to whisking. Minho purses his lips. This is the part of the movie where the supporting lead would ask Minho more questions. How old he is, where he’s from, his favorite movie and his most hated. Instead, he keeps throwing stuff into the bowl, softly humming along to the Sabrina Carpenter Christmas album that has taken over from Justin. Maybe Jisung isn’t much for small talk either.
A cough tickles the back of Minho’s throat and he gets up to search the cupboards for a glass. Midway through his journey he passes a pile of cookies that were hidden from his line of view, his body stopping him before his mind can even process it.
“Can I have one of these?” He asks, cookie already poised to enter his mouth before he gets an answer. Maybe, a little boundary-less, but he’s hungry. He’ll die with his belly full of cookies. None left for Santa, that greedy fucker.
“No!” Jisung whips around, a knife gripped in his hand. Why the fuck does he have a knife? Before Minho can even react he bites down, nearly chipping his tooth on the hockey puck disguised as a cookie.
“What the fuck?” Minho cries, pulling the offensive item out of his mouth. His teeth didn’t even leave a dent, but he can feel vibrations ring through his jaw and up into his brain. Jisung stands in front of him, knife still gripped in his hand, red sweater pushed up to his elbows, a crazy look in his eyes.
Minho sighs.
Friday the 13th (1980): Teenagers at a summer camp all have sex and get brutally murdered via butcher knife by a grieving middle-aged woman in a red sweater. It’s a classic. Good twist villain with some outrageous sequels. 3/5 stars.
Jisung seems to realize how this looks pretty quickly. “Shit.” He looks at the knife. “I’m not trying to kill you, I swear.”
“Well, you almost did with that cookie,” Minho retorts and crosses his arm.
“I tried to tell you not to eat it!” Jisung defends, waving his knife-brandishing hand again.
Minho flinches and lets out a wince. “Would you please put the knife down?”
“Oh, shit, sorry,” Jisung says, putting the knife down in favor of running a hand through his hair. “My first batch didn’t turn out so well.”
“And how about this batch?”
“More or less the same.”
Minho barks a laugh and retreats back to the breakfast nook, his quest for water long forgotten, and his mouth significantly drier.
“I’m normal, I promise,” Jisung declares, muffling his words when he puts his face in his hands.
The top of Minho’s tailbone digs into the wood of the nook as wedges himself into the farthest corner. A cute writer alone on Christmas. Too cute to be true. Too nervous to not be secretly plotting something heinous and evil. Minho didn’t used to be so cynical, but maybe Dohyun had sucked some fun out of him. And maybe a love of horror had struck some sort of subconscious caution into every interaction he had. He should have picked up the knife.
“What do you write?” Minho asks, narrowing his eyes.
Jisung blinks at him a few times, a look of defeat deflating his features. He resembles a kicked puppy. Or maybe with his round cheeks, more of a squirrel on the side of the road. “Horror novels,” Jisung squeaks quietly.
In most people, this would spark fear, confirm a bias that they have already developed in this strange, and frankly, scary situation. But Minho just feels himself perk up, his body edging back towards the far end of the nook. Something defrosting. No sense of caution after all.
“No way,” he says slowly, a theory forming in his brain. “Jisung. Han Jisung?”
A grin splits across Jisung’s face, his eyes lighting up like the string lights on the Christmas tree that looms ominously over Minho. “The one and only.”
Minho had been reading Jisung’s books for years. Fucked up shit about cannibals and necromancy and things that go bump in the night. But all his books were deeply human at their core, spouting an obvious literary excellence in the young author’s toolbox. He’s never seen his face though. The back flap of his books and his website remain picture-less. Maybe Jisung is worried his youthful and cute appearance would be a detriment.
The nerves in Minho’s belly flip flop into excitement. He doesn’t know Jisung, but he knows his words, and when you spend your whole life dedicated to curating them, can it really be that different? Minho hopes not. He wants to pick Jisung’s brain on trends and metaphors and cliches. Find the hidden meanings in each of his stories, ask about suspected Easter eggs and thematic throughlines.
“Holy shit,” Minho says, unable to hide the giddy lilt to his voice. He gets up and goes back into the living room, rummages through his backpack that he threw onto the couch and pulls out his copy of Jisung’s newest novel and a nearly dead pen. He hadn’t even read the description, making a trip to the bookstore the second he knew it came out and bringing it straight to the cash register. He thinks it's about vampires. Maybe werewolves. Who cares?
He turns to face Jisung and holds the book up proudly. The author smiles even wider, genuine surprise in his eyes.
“Do you think,” Minho starts shyly, slowly approaching Jisung. “You could sign this for me?”
“Hell yeah,” Jisung grins, wiping his hands off on his apron. The gingerbread man now appears like he just did a line of coke.
Jisung takes the pen and shakes it a few times, laying out the book on a clean section of the counter and running his thumb along the crease to keep it open. “To Minho?” He clarifies, pen hanging over the page.
Minho nods, crossing his arms behind his back. That’s stupid, he must look stupid. He crosses them over his chest instead and rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Lee Minho.”
Jisung pauses, pen dangling like a sentence without punctuation. He straightens from his crouch and raises an eyebrow at Minho. He can see his own cogs turning, a sense of familiarity catching in his face. “Lee Minho. As in the Lee Minho who writes for Mise-en-scène ?”
The film review website and blog that Minho writes for has gained a bit of a cult following, a good bit of which can be attributed to Minho’s viral — albeit, divisive — reviews. He was known for his sharp tongue and honest ratings, refusing to take a lick of cash from any studio that offered. Is he pretentious? Absolutely, but it’s a right that he’s earned.
He’s both horrified and thrilled to learn that Jisung knows who he is. Will he fall into the camp of people who agree with him? Or the people who stalk his every move on Twitter and quote retweet him to hell and back? There doesn’t seem to be much of an in-between. Minho is guaranteed to die if Jisung is one of his haters — and he’s read about all the creative ways he knows how to kill a person. Now that the scope of ways to be murdered has widened, Minho is kind of hoping for demonic possession. Maybe a stake through his shriveling heart.
“Man, your review of Tarot made me laugh my ass off. I went to see it just to see if it was actually that bad.”
Tarot (2024): It was awful. 0.5/5 stars.
A grin creeps across Minho’s face, relief coming with It. “What did you think?”
“It was somehow worse than I imagined,” Jisung laughs, scrawling his name across Minho’s book, a little heart underneath it. “I almost sent you a DM just to tell you I agreed.”
Minho cocks his head. How different would things be if Jisung had messaged him? Maybe they would be together on purpose, cozying up beside a fireplace, waiting for Santa to come down the chimney, a plate of soft cookies between them. Or maybe Last Christmas is getting to Minho’s head. “Why didn’t you?”
Jisung blows on the drying ink and closes the book, a shy smile on his lips. Cheeks tinted pink like the cold had come in, but Minho couldn’t feel warmer. “I saw your profile picture and chickened out.”
This is the part of the movie where the main character foolishly starts to trust someone as the viewer groans in frustration from their couch. A few compliments and a manufactured sense of familiarity, and Minho is starting to get how that happens. Jisung hands him back the book. Minho cracks open the spine and traces his finger over the drying pen, smudging it slightly on accident. The heart is bleeding. It feels right.
“So,” Jisung starts, suddenly appearing a lot more lively. “What are you doing spending Christmas alone? Film retreat?”
Minho leans over the counter and plucks a chocolate chip from the bag in front of him, popping it into his mouth. “Would you believe me if I said my parents were also on a cruise?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, that’s the truth.”
“And no girlfriend?” Jisung tries, mouth curling.
Minho leans further across the counter, his stomach nearly laying on it. “Never had one. Not my preference.”
“Boyfriend?” Jisung leans with him.
“Freshly dumped.”
“Pity,” Jisung hums, the word contradicted by the noticeable joy on his face. He’s either a flirt or is really eager to stab Minho. He’ll take both. “Guess you're stuck with me to celebrate.”
“I was actually hoping to not celebrate at all,” Minho admits. He pushes himself away from the counter and opts to lean against the fridge, arms crossed over his chest. “You’ve interrupted my anti-Christmas.”
Jisung stands and takes a step backwards, effectively widening the distance between him and Minho. He looks down at his apron, over at the tree, noticeably pauses as he seems to register Mariah crooning from the speaker. “Santa Claus won’t make me happy with a toy on Christmas day,” she sings. Those words have never felt more true.
“Well,” Jisung says. “This is embarrassing.”
“It’s not you, it’s me,” Minho shrugs.
“No, I meant this is embarrassing for you .” Jisung cocks an eyebrow and resumes his whisking.
“Excuse me,” Minho snorts. “Have you seen what you’re wearing?”
“Yeah, and I look adorable.”
There’s no use in Minho refuting that. It’s glaringly obvious that Jisung is aware of his power and how to use it for evil. Minho decides he likes him regardless of whether or not he kills him. And honestly, if he does try to kill him, he admires the gumption.
“Not an ounce of love for Christmas?” Jisung tries.
“Not a lick.”
Jisung keeps whisking. Minho is confused as to how a whisk could possibly be needed for cookie dough. But looking at the first batch, and now knowing that Jisung’s expertise is certainly not baking, it’s starting to make sense. Santa may die, but not at Minho’s hand. Jaw shattered by misleading cookies.
“Have you seen A Christmas Carol?” Jisung asks after a beat, setting his whisk down once more. He leans over the counter again and steeples his fingers, pointing them at Minho. “You know, with the muppets?”
“Yeah,” Minho laughs. “And all the other ones.”
“Those aren’t important,” Jisung insists. “You’re Scrooge, and I’m all the muppets.”
The Muppet Christmas Carol (1992): It’s the muppets on Christmas. The muppet-ism of it all outweighs Minho’s current disdain for the Christmas-ness of it. What more do you need? 5/5 stars.
Minho pictures Jisung as a little, felt puppet. He thinks he would be red and fuzzy, like Animal but more restrained. Would his skin be as soft to touch? The horny thought surprises Minho and he shoves it down. Muppets should not have led him there. “I’m not sure I’m following.”
“I’m going to awaken your Christmas spirit,” Jisung grins, an assured cockiness to his expression. Minho would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t find it attractive. He finds Jisung attractive in general. Ridiculously so. Enough to get stabbed over it.
While reading his books, Minho had always assumed that Jisung would be a burly man, bearded and solemn. He pictured a middle-aged recluse hunched over a desk lit only by candlelight, wind pressing against the old hinges of a secluded log cabin as he strung together sentences of blood and gore.
In reality, Han Jisung is a twenty-something in ripped jeans, hair carefully styled and swooping across his eyes, brushing the trendy frames of his glasses. He looks like someone Minho would have run into at the college library, maybe seen playing guitar in the quiet corner of a coffee shop. Certainly not a prolific horror writer.
But here he is, shaking his butt to Christmas jingles while giving Minho a shining smile, wearing a stupid apron and maybe making Minho believe in Christmas again just a little bit.
Minho has always really, really liked the muppets.
“And how do you plan to do that?” Minho pries.
Jisung reaches into one of the plethora of bags he has on the counter and unravels a second apron. It’s red with an almost insultingly bad depiction of Rudolph on it. Jisung presses a button somewhere and the nose lights up. He grins. “This.”
“Why do you have two?” Minho laughs, but takes the apron without complaint, looping it around his neck and tying the waist. He can’t help but notice how tightly it cinches around Jisung’s. How easy it would be to grab in both hands. No. Horny thoughts always lead to death in horror movies. He isn’t yet completely convinced this isn’t one.
Jisung grins. “I like having options.”
There’s a thought that pokes in the back of Minho’s brain, not horny, but mushy. Maybe hoping that he’s an option. And he doesn’t mean for murder.
“You’re oddly cheery for someone who writes about people literally getting their hearts eaten,” Minho comments. It was his favorite of Jisung’s novels: a zombie epidemic that specifically targeted lovers, turning love into an illness.
“I like to maintain a good work-life balance.” Jisung starts pushing things around, creating an opening large enough for him and Minho to stand side by side. “Now how much do you know about making cookies?”
“A thing or two,” Minho says, taking a glance into the bowl that Jisung had been mixing for far too long. The consistency appeared soupy and chunky all at once, dripping off the whisk as Minho pulls it from the mixture. “Enough to know you have to throw this out.”
Jisung sighs and picks up the bowl, taking it to the trash and unceremoniously dumping it out. “Phase one of Lee Minho’s Christmas Carol,” Jisung says, bringing the bowl back to the counter. He gestures to his plate of rock-hard cookies. “Helping me correct Christmas past.”
“Mmm that seems like it’s more for you than me,” Minho raises an eyebrow.
“This can be a mutually beneficial experiment. Now,” Jisung claps his hands. “Let’s get started.”
He presents Minho with the recipe for sugar cookies he had been following, panicking when he opens his phone to Minho’s twitter profile. This is either all a beautiful coincidence or a carefully constructed plan, the twist ending ready to gut-punch Minho and skin him alive. The risk feels more worth it the closer he gets to Jisung when he leans in to look at the recipe. He smells like woodsy vanilla, sharp and sweet.
“Why do you have chocolate chips?” Minho questions when he lays out the ingredients in a way that is easier to visualize.
“I just like them,” Jisung smiles and pops one in his mouth.
Call Minho a hypocrite, but maybe Christmas is the best holiday ever.
They get to work mixing, pouring, and measuring. Jisung is a dutiful assistant, carefully doing what Minho asks. Minho can slowly feel himself getting a bit brighter, his heart growing from a single shard to something more substantial. It flickers with every giggle he eases out of Jisung with a stupid joke, every glance that gets caught, every time their arms brush as they’re working.
“How many movies do you think you’ve seen?” Jisung asks once the cookies are in the oven. He leans against the counter, flour covering more of his apron. The aroma of warm sugar starts to waft through the kitchen, bundling Minho in something cozy. Dohyun’s apartment never felt like this. It was always cold, smelling of artificial fresh linens.
“At least three,” Minho jokes from beside him, smiling at the chuckle it pulls from Jisung.
“Thank God The Muppet Christmas Carol is one of them, otherwise I don’t know if this would work.”
Minho wants to maybe ask what ‘this’ is, but it feels too cliche. Too certain of a romcom in the making when his mind still can’t help but edge on the side of mild cynicism.
The little egg-shaped timer is ticking, counting down the seconds to the cookies being done and who knows what else. Jisung stands with his arms crossed, his feet kicking lightly at nothing in front of him. His shoulders are broad, his arms strong, but his face is soft. He simultaneously appears like someone who has lived a thousand lives and someone who is just starting to figure everything out.
“How old are you anyway?” Minho blurts out. He cringes at himself, hoping he doesn’t sound condescending.
Jisung looks up in surprise. “Twenty-five.” He brings a finger to tap on his forehead and smirks. “Fully developed and everything.”
Minho laughs through his nose. “Impressive career for someone so young. Have you always wanted to be a writer?”
“Yeah,” Jisung nods firmly and then shrugs. “I never really wanted to do anything else. I like stories, and I like being the one to tell them.”
Does he like the one he’s telling right now? Of him and Minho standing next to each other in the fading daylight of a kitchen that isn’t theirs. Christmas in practice, and not so much in spirit, but maybe a new kind of magic brewing underneath it all.
“And I can say the same about you,” Jisung continues, bumping his shoulder into Minho’s. It feels comfortable. Like the first act is closing up and they’re about to get to the gooey center of the second. “You can’t be much older than me, and you’ve built a review empire.”
“Empire is a strong word,” Minho laughs. “And I’m twenty-seven.”
Jisung’s face lights up. “Since we’re holed up here together, can I call you hyung?”
Minho’s mouth gapes a little. He only has a handful of close friends, and even fewer who are younger than him. But the word slides off of Jisung's tongue and it feels right. It’s comfortable. Almost weirdly so. Minho still can’t decide if it’s prophetic or ominous. “Hyung is good,” Minho squeaks.
“Sounds good,” Jisung smirks. Bumps his shoulder into Minho again. Minho is strong but he feels like he’s going to topple over like a deflating Christmas decoration. “Hyung.”
The timer goes off and Minho jumps, putting the distance back between him and Jisung. “I’ve got It,” he grumbles, and starts searching through drawers for an oven mitt, trying to shield his growing blush.
The cookies look perfect: golden and brown on the edges, and smell even better.
“I think my work as the muppet of Christmas past is done,” Jisung says from behind Minho. His voice is dangerously close to his ear. Close enough that if Minho turned his head, he might catch his lips on accident. Or a knife in his abdomen. Both feel equally perilous.
Or maybe Jisung would be extra creative and push him into the oven. Minho has always been a big fan of cannibalism as a metaphor. What would the metaphor be here? Loneliness? Desire? Something else entirely? Or maybe it would just be for the shock factor. A new twist on Hansel and Gretel; the Grinch being pushed into the oven. Another one Minho will add to his film pitch list.
“That will depend on how they taste,” Minho responds, his face burning from the heat of the oven and the blood in his veins. He doesn’t turn his head, instead planning on if he’s pushed in, how he’ll drag Jisung with him.
Despite Minho’s protest that the frosting will just melt, Jisung insists on doing it right now anyway. His tongue pokes out in concentration as he swirls the tube of icing around, making a pretty convincing wreath.
“There,” Jisung says proudly when he’s done. He slides the cookie over to Minho and puts his hands on his hips. “You first, hyung.”
The word isn’t jarring in its use, but rather how comfortable it feels to Minho. Like they’ve known each other for years. And maybe it’s because through their writing, they have.
It’s a bit too coincidental, him and Jisung being here together. Jisung alone, but not lonely, and Minho still trying to figure out how to separate the two. Foils. Like someone wrote them to be in this scene together, casted the perfect actors for the roles. He waits for the director to walk on set, someone to yell cut.
But this is real, and with every second that passes, Minho can’t help but feel like he knows Jisung. A natural order between them striking a perfect balance like it had been practiced. Rehearsed. A synergy flowing, perfect chemistry. Bound to go down in history as one of best sets of scene partners; right up there with Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire.
Minho has witnessed entire lifetimes over the course of two hours. Graduations, weddings, births, and funerals. He’s felt every feeling in the range of human emotion. Experienced every type of whiplash without ever leaving his seat, and is then able to articulate all those feelings for other people to digest.
So why do these few hours of real life feel like he’s done all that and more? The rush of the final car chase in an action film. The heart race of the killer stalking the final girl, still nervous despite knowing she’s going to get away. The moment where your breath catches before the two romantic leads finally give in to everything that had been building, and meet in a passionate kiss.
The Grinch when his heart starts to grow.
Minho sinks his teeth into the cookie, frosting already dripping off the sides just as he predicted, and lets the warmth burn away all his thoughts.
“Mmmmm,” he moans involuntarily, the cookie melting on his tongue. He’s outdone himself. “Really good,” he says through his bite, words muffled around the frosting.
He expects Jisung to reach for one, but he just keeps smiling at him until he’s finished chewing, feeling like he’s swallowing more than just the sweetness.
“So?” Jisung asks. Minho narrowly resists the urge to stumble backward when Jisung reaches a hand towards him, hesitating before he brushes what Minho knows to be an imaginary crumb off the corner of his mouth. Smooth.
“I told you, they’re really good—”
“Not the cookies,” Jisung stops him. “Your Christmas spirit.”
Jolliness still feels like a far cry from how Minho currently feels. But there’s a jingling in his stomach, a sign that if he were to laugh, his ‘ha’s might turn into ‘ho’s.
His mouth is dry when he tries to speak. He really needed that damn water, but Han Jisung is getting in the way. In the way of Minho’s plans, in the way of his bad mood, in the way of his loneliness. In the way of the kitchen window, backlighting him and tracing him in a wintery blue, the shadows of flurries on his honey-colored skin.
“It’s snowing,” Minho says simply. Jisung’s head whips around to check the window and then whips right back, somehow thirty watts brighter than he was before. Minho thinks he probably lit up the Christmas tree by simply shoving the plug into his skin. His own organic electricity enough to short a fuse.
“It’s time,” Jisung declares. He throws off his apron and runs to pull his coat off the hook, throwing on a scarf, and tugging a pair of mittens over his fingers.
“Time for what?” Minho asks, but doesn’t question. He simply follows along with Jisung’s lead. Stupid. This is how people die. He could be bringing Minho outside to hit him with a shovel and let him freeze to death. Or feed him through a woodchipper a la Fargo . Minho spent so many months risk-free, uncomfortably comfortable, that there’s something kind of beautiful about the prospect of danger. An adrenaline junky for possible disaster.
“Christmas Present,” Jisung sing-songs and swings open the door. Snow flutters in and dusts the top of his hat, presses to his cheek before it melts immediately in his warmth. “My muppet duties are far from over.”
Act II is upon them. Minho hopes there’s a long way to go before someone calls cut.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
It’s a light snow. The kind that melts the second it touches the pavement, and does nothing to add to the inches already on the ground. But it's pretty, Minho supposes. If his heart was a little bigger and his scowl a little more ironed out, he might even call it magical.
Jisung doesn’t seem to have any qualms with this descriptor. He hangs under the evening sky like a fallen star. Sticks out his tongue in an attempt to catch the droplets in his mouth, grinning as they melt on his skin.
“Come on,” Jisung laughs when he sees Minho still hanging in the doorway. He grabs him by the wrist and pulls him outside, the frigid temperature immediately itching in Minho’s nose. His heart starts to pump faster in order to create more heat. Or it’s activating its fight or flight response to whatever nightmare is about to occur. Or Minho’s character has developed a bit of a crush in less than a day, none of it needing to be edited down because it's just that good.
Before his body can properly react to Jisung’s touch, it’s gone. Jisung throws himself back into the snow and waves his limbs, creating a snow angel. It’s an appropriate activity for him. Minho thinks he would feel like a fraud.
“Come on, hyung,” Jisung pouts. His eyes narrow when Minho continues to hang over him, not moving. “I know you know I know exactly how long to leave you out here in order to freeze to death.”
There might be something deeply wrong with Minho with how he finds it almost attractive. But he’ll pretend that it’s because he believes it's a legitimate threat that he decides to collapse into the snow.
The ice burns the back of his neck, sinking under his neckline and the cuffs of his jacket. It’s cold, but soft, and he can see how victims of hypothermia let it take them like a warm embrace.
He lets himself flail, giggling like a little kid. The cold underneath him, and the last tendrils of warmth from a setting sun above him. And the heat of Jisung’s stare beside him.
“Do you wanna build a snowman?” Jisung grins.
Frozen (2013): Two sisters torn apart and then brought together through familial trauma and an annoying snowman. 3/5 stars. An extra half-star because Elsa is definitely a lesbian.
And Minho is definitely gay. So unbelievably gay as this cute man smiles at him, cheeks rosy and nose pink from the cold. Almost gay enough to love Christmas. Almost.
Minho laughs. “Weren’t you just threatening me, like, a minute ago?”
Jisung’s smile gets more dangerous, curling in an almost Grinch-like fashion. But in this story, he is definitely Cindy Lou Who. Or maybe the dog. Something more cheerful; it had been a long time since Minho saw the Grinch.
“I can do that again if you want,” his voice is sly. Minho feels the cadence of it in his gut. He thinks he has to separate Jisung from the story altogether, unless the Grinch had a love interest he’s forgetting about.
And he can separate snowmen from Christmas, too. Minho can maintain his Christmas-free zone. Even as he can feel his heart start to press against his ribcage, spilling through his bones and into his eyes, clouding his vision.
He smiles and he feels like it’s his first real one in a long while. Neon bright instead of beige. “We can build a snowman.”
They abandon their angels. When Minho looks down at them, their wings are touching. morphing into one blob of an entity. Biblically accurate, maybe. Cute either way.
Jisung may have been a hopeless cause when it came to baking, but snowman making is his bread and butter. He remains deeply concentrated as he rolls around a snowball to create their base, until it’s nearly big enough to reach the height of his waist.
Minho works diligently beside him, rolling snow back and forth, albeit with much less intention.
“How’s this?” Minho calls, presenting his work for the middle section once he’s finished. It’s misshapen, a bit lumpy, a few pebbles embedded into the frosty skin, but he thinks Jisung will appreciate the charm.
Jisung turns from where he was seated on his knees, drawing what appears to be a pair of pants on the body by cutting his finger into the snow. His cheeks look pinker by the second. He’s wearing a hat with ear flaps that bounce as he whirls his head, a scarf bunched around his chin. Almost elf-like. It’s hard to believe that Minho has read words he wrote about people being skinned alive. Duality is the secret of man, or something like that.
His mittened hands look like paws as he takes Minho’s offering, turning it over in his hands and inspecting each nook and cranny. Minho expects him to tell him to try again. Not perfect enough or clean enough or simple enough. Too bright when the request was dim.
“This is perfect,” Jisung smiles, standing up fully to stack it onto their friend in the making. It looks ridiculous. Far too small and inconsistently shaped in comparison to Jisung’s nearly perfect sphere, but Jisung shows no complaints. He just brushes away a few stray pebbles and gets to work sticking on rock buttons. “Can you work on the head?” he adds over his shoulder.
For a moment, Minho just stands there. For the past nine months, his life had been a series of casual pleasantries. Shades of beige and brown, soft lighting, and chicken without taste. Sex without feeling, kisses that were a reaction more than a desire. Going through the motions because he was more scared of being lonely than he was eager for love.
Twice bitten and once shy. How much Minho did he let Dohyun dilute without realizing it? When did Minho start hating Christmas for what he didn’t have instead of what he did?
Minho is fun. Silly. Sometimes wild. Laughs at the incorrect times and makes misshapen things. He likes good movies, and bad ones too, because art is art, and there is at least some value in all of it. He cries at romantic comedies and children’s films. He loves spicy food and pudding. How could he forget that? When did he start to expect scoffs instead of endearments?
He has a theory. Minho sinks his hands into the snow and pulls out a handful, shaping it in his hands. It can’t really be called a snowball, just as mishmashed as his snowman, but it will serve the same purpose. He draws back his arm, aims at the back of Jisung’s cute little head, and fires.
There’s a split second between Minho’s decision and the snow splattering on Jisung’s back. He holds his breath as he waits for Jisung to turn, an angry scowl on his face and a sharp choice of words poised on his tongue. Maybe this is what will get Minho killed. He should have checked to see if there is a woodchipper anywhere on the property before he made his plan of attack. He doesn’t even have his keys.
But when Jisung faces him, there is no anger on his face. His eyebrows are raised, lips parted slightly, before they split like cracked ice. “What was that for?” he calls through a bout of laughter.
“Just felt like it,” Minho grins back. He feels like being silly. He knows that, with a little prodding, Jisung with his aprons and lopsided snowman and terrible Christmas playlist will feel like being silly too.
The theory is proven when Jisung picks up a clump of snow and hurls it back, running toward Minho with a wild look in his eyes. He can kill him, Minho doesn’t care. All he wanted for Christmas was for it to not be. He let his boring, asshole, ex-boyfriend dim his lights. Unplug them from the wall and chop off all his branches. He crunched every ornament under his heel and topped it off with the worst holiday meal of all time. At least Felix and Seungmin would have made something creative. At least Jisung’s cookies had character.
Christmas present is upon him. His muppet is doing a great job. His heart is growing and flickering, the batteries getting juiced up again.
Jisung’s throw misses spectacularly, but he’s determined to succeed, picking up more snow before it has even hit the ground. Minho dodges and leaps, giggling as Jisung chases after him, his own laughter jingling in the air.
On his third try, he finally hits Minho right on the head. Minho whips around in feigned shock, his lungs aching from how much he was moving.
“Gotcha,” Jisung wheezes, bending over and resting his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. “Do you do cardio, or something?”
Minho answers by taking advantage of his moment of weakness. He rushes at Jisung, feeling like maybe he was the villain all along as he pulls the back of Jisung’s collar and pours snow directly down his back.
“Ahhh!” Jisung yelps, shooting up and reaching behind him like there’s a spider crawling down his spine.
Minho cackles maniacally, cold on the outside but warm within. Heating up so hot he thinks he might just boil over.
“This is war,” Jisung declares, inching towards Minho with snow gripped in his hand. His glasses have slid down his nose, his narrowed eyes fully peeking over the rims. Minho has no plan of attack. He just keeps stepping backward, ready to respond to Jisung’s strike.
The more he steps back, the smaller his strides get. He wants to close the distance. He wants Jisung to reach him. Even if it comes at the expense of ice down his spine.
Another step and he can almost feel Jisung’s warmth. Are his strides getting longer? One more and he could reach out and touch him. Another and Minho’s foot is crunching down and getting caught in an icy grip. He tries to pull it free, but only succeeds in losing his balance, feeling himself toppling backward, arms flailing. He reaches out to find purchase on something, anything, and his hands wrap around the soft knit of Jisung’s scarf.
Jisung yelps in surprise as Minho’s momentum pulls him down, crashing right into their snowman and effectively blowing him to bits.
There had been a murder after all. No woodchipper required.
Snow envelopes Minho in an icy cyclone, sitting right in the middle of the snowman’s guts. Jisung lands on top of him with an ‘oof,’ sounding choked due to him literally getting pulled down by his neck.
His face hovers directly above Minho; pink and bright. His surprise quickly fades to amusement and he breaks out into laughter, lifting a hand to brush snow from Minho’s hair.
“We killed him,” Minho says quietly. Jisung’s eyes are brown and soft, like melted chocolate. The only neutral shade Minho has ever found exciting.
“A worthy sacrifice,” Jisung says, mittened hand lingering at Minho’s cheekbone.
If Jisung were to kiss Minho right now, he would be all in on Christmas. He would apply to be a mall Santa. He would drink nothing but hot chocolate and eat nothing but candy canes for the rest of his life. He would listen to Christmas carols all year long, and give five stars to every shitty Christmas movie on the Hallmark Channel.
His heart would grow, expand, and explode. He’d personally hand back all the cheer he had stomped on tenfold. He would never celebrate Halloween ever again.
“Uh, hi,” someone clears their throat from above them.
Jisung rolls off of Minho in a panic, rising to his feet and holding up his fists as if he poses any real threat. Minho snorts and pushes himself up by the elbows.
There’s a guy standing in the yard, noticeably shivering with three pizza boxes in his hands. “Anyone order a pizza?” he asks tentatively.
“Yeah, like,” Jisung frowns and checks a watch he isn’t wearing. “Four hours ago.”
“Yeah, about that,” the guy sighs. “I drove into a snowbank. So, these are cold, but they’re free.”
Jisung takes the pizzas and his frown deepens. “But I only ordered one.”
“You’re getting everyone’s order because I’m going home,” the guy grumbles, hugging himself to keep warm. “Merry Christmas, or whatever.”
Jisung watches as the car drives away, the sound of something that should probably not be dragging clanging on the pavement, and Minho watches Jisung. He’s covered in snow, a slight shiver to his stance, his glasses stained with water droplets like a windshield in a rainstorm. His scarf has been torn nearly free from his neck, his jacket halfway unzipped.
He’s anything but put together and he doesn’t give a shit about it. When he turns to Minho, his smile could light a city block on Christmas Eve. It’s lighting this one right now.
“Hungry?” He asks, shifting the pizzas to slide under one arm and reaching his free hand out to Minho.
“Starving,” Minho smiles back and takes his hand. He is starving, in more ways than one. He craves something new, hungry for a change in atmosphere, famished for biting into life and something exciting exploding over his tongue. He thinks Jisung could be the flavor he’s chasing. He thinks maybe Jisung would like his taste too.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
“Who the fuck orders anchovies and olives ,” Jisung laments when he opens the final box. They had been blessed with Jisung’s pepperoni, someone’s cheese, and whatever the fuck that combo was.
Minho pulls two plates down from the cupboard and hands one to Jisung, plucking an olive from the Frankenstein pizza and popping it in his mouth. “Just take it off,” he shrugs.
“It’s been tainted,” Jisung scrunches his nose and pushes the offending box aside, opting to take three pepperoni slices. “It’s ruining Christmas Present.”
“You’re a great muppet, don’t worry.”
“You’re speaking right to my heart, hyung.” Jisung’s cheeks are still flushed from the cold, and Minho has to physically restrain himself from pinching one. He wonders if his skin is as soft as it looks, if Jisung’s lips taste as sweet as he speaks. He’d let him plunge the knife just to feel him. Minho is weak. Not exactly final girl material.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” Jisung suggests backpedaling to the living room. The tree looks pretty in the fading sunlight, the branches starting to look less prickly, the decorations less gaudy and more wholesome.
The days have been getting shorter, colder, and drearier, but here is this source of brightness. Twinkling in the twilight haze, shorting fuses, sparkling. A literal light in the dark, showing Minho the way through his beige past and unseasoned meals. At least anchovies and olives are an interesting palate, but he much prefers the taste of pepperoni.
“Sure,” Minho shrugs, following Jisung to the couch, pizza in hand. He smiles when Jisung sits right next to him, despite the available space.
“We can even watch a horror movie,” Jisung says, navigating to Netflix. “Muppet duties on hold.”
Minho loves blood and guts. The heart race of waiting for the kill, hoping it will somehow turn out different than how you know it’s going to. He loves a haunting, watching things go bump in the night, evil incarnate walking about.
But right now, he wants to feel warm and fuzzy. PG for thematic elements and nothing else.
“I have a different idea, if that’s okay.” He takes the remote and clicks around, finding what he’s looking for. “How’s this?”
“Perfect,” Jisung smiles, and sinks further into the couch, his shoulder nudging into Minho’s.
It’s a Wonderful Life (1946): Lauded as one of the greatest films ever made, and for good reason. Yesterday, Minho would have rated it low out of spite, and then wait for the anonymous messages to roll in just to laugh at something . Today, he feels more like himself. Wrapping an old scarf around his neck and remembering his own scent. The muppets had a point; it’s the season of the heart. 5/5 stars.
“You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down,” George Bailey says on screen. Minho can feel the tears stinging at the back of his eyes, and Jisung’s gaze on him.
“You’re supposed to watch the movie, not me,” Minho jokes through a sniffle, swallowing to keep it inside.
“I just can’t believe I’m watching a movie with the Lee Minho,” Jisung says, resting his elbow on the top of the couch and turning to face Minho. He misses the warmth of his body pressed against him already. “It’s like watching Da Vinci paint the Mona Lisa.”
Minho laughs and wipes at his eye, pretending he’s wiping away dust and not a tear. Jisung doesn’t need to know how well his plan has worked yet. “Maybe I can watch you write sometime,” Minho poses. A promise for the future, of their movie continuing once the third act closes up and the credits roll. Not a sequel, but just the knowledge that the story is continuing without fear of it being ruined.
Jisung blinks a few times before he smiles; it’s heart-shaped and full. “I would like that.”
Maybe Minho could lasso the moon for Jisung. Or maybe the sun would be more fitting. Whatever he prefers.
“Hyung, can I ask you something?” Jisung says after a moment. Minho doesn’t mind that he’s interrupting the movie. He’s seen it a thousand times, and is personally more invested in how the one he’s living in is going to end.
Minho shifts his weight to turn to Jisung, feeling something akin to a magnetic pull between them. “What’s up?”
“Do you still like movies?”
Minho barks a laugh in surprise, waiting for the punchline that doesn’t seem to be coming. He narrows his eyes and furrows his brow. “Wait, are you serious?”
Jisung nods and lets out a sigh, his eyes shifting from Minho to the screen and back again. “It’s just that … I know that you’re known for your funny reviews, and I like those a lot! But the reason I became a fan of your writing is for the reviews of things that you loved.” He pauses and plays with a loose thread on the couch cushion. Shrugs. “I don’t know, it just felt like I knew you in a way, through your writing. I liked finding out what you liked and didn’t, what kinds of things pulled your focus. It made me feel like I knew what mattered to you without even knowing you. And maybe this is just some weird parasocial thing I have going on, but your writing reminded me of me, and why I love writing.” He smirks and shifts his focus to Minho, sitting slack-faced. “I think that’s why I was scared to DM you, I didn’t know how to convey that. Plus you’re, like, ridiculously hot, it’s kind of intimidating.”
A fiery blush heats under Minho’s skin, feeling it up to his ears. “And now we’re here,” he says quietly, not sure of what else to say.
“And now we’re here,” Jisung grins and pokes Minho’s arm. “And you’re my hyung, so I can say this. Your reviews over the last few months have been… different.” He puts up his hands in defense before Minho can protest. “Not bad, but different. It just hasn’t felt like you love movies in the same way that made me love your writing. I could be completely off base here, and an asshole, and overstepping, so please tell me if I am. But I was just… worried about you?” Jisung cradles his face in his hands, muffling his words. “I probably sound like a complete weirdo.”
Minho’s heart thunders in his chest, finally growing back to its full size. He thinks back to the films he reviewed this year; to negative adjectives and bitter conclusions. Not a compliment sandwich in sight. Fully reviewing only the bad ones — and not the good bad, the bad bad — and leaving the good ones as single sentences in his Letterboxd account. Just out of spite, just so all his negative thoughts and feelings would have a place to go that wasn’t his personal life. But it came at the cost of tearing the fun out of it, of tearing down the one thing Minho loved most in the world because he couldn’t spare the energy to tear down his own love life.
He wishes he could go back and be the one to break up with Dohyun. To blow it all up in an explosion of color. To release every feeling he felt like he wasn’t allowed to feel because it was too much of a spike in the routine he had gotten used to, but didn’t care for.
“No, Jisung,” Minho says gently, running his hand down the other’s forearm. Jisung peeks up from his hands, face red. “You’re right. I let something get in the way of it, and I didn’t even realize it. Thank you for worrying about me,” he smirks, “even if it is a little parasocial of you.”
Jisung groans and squeezes his eyes shut. Minho thinks about getting brave. Bold. Then he remembers he always has been, and reaches for Jisung’s hand, tangling his fingers into his. Jisung looks at their threaded fingers, his doe eyes wide like saucers. “And I feel the same,” Minho smiles. “I felt like I already knew you before I met you, because of your books.”
“I didn’t know cannibalism and necromancy would work out this well for me,” Jisung laughs, tightening his grip in Minho’s.
Cannibalism as a metaphor for desire. Want. Feelings so gentle, you let them consume you in a warm embrace. A metaphor for eating your problems. Necromancy as a metaphor for resurrecting better things to take their place.
Maybe it’s all a little fast. Maybe the feelings Minho feels creep up on him so suddenly are the side effect of a nasty past relationship and a craving for something new. Maybe Hallmark movies have some merit, and real life can feel like them sometimes, too. Or maybe it’s Christmas magic after all, and Minho was always supposed to be here. With someone he knew, but didn’t. Someone he wanted to. Someone he thinks he wants to know all of.
Or at least try. What’s life without risks? Stab or get stabbed. Kiss or get kissed.
Minho leans in closer. Bolder. Tilting his head and noticing how perfectly Jisung’s lips would slot into his; bottom lip plump and pink. His heart rate quickens as he finally concludes that this isn’t a romantic comedy, it’s his life. No metaphors, only words and actions. No director to call cut or script writer to change the content of the scene, it’s all in their hands.
Jisung smells like warm vanilla sugar as Minho gets closer, closing his eyes, feeling the way Jisung is leaning towards him too, waiting to meet in the middle.
And then there’s a hand on his chest, pushing him back. Minho frowns and opens his eyes. Maybe he grossly misread all of this. Maybe he was doomed to a life of beige misery. Maybe Jisung had a knife in his pocket all this time.
But his smile is warm as ever, eyes crinkling. “One second,” Jisung says, standing and rushing to the door. He haphazardly throws on his jacket and shoves his hands into his gloves before dashing outside.
He peeks around the frame less than a second later, pointing a finger in Minho’s direction and raising his eyebrows. “I’ll be right back, don’t move.”
Minho sits there grinning like an idiot. Jisung isn’t coming back with a knife or an axe or a fire poker. Maybe a boombox, or cards declaring his crush. Or the moon, lasso tied around the middle. Minho thinks Jisung could talk the moon out of the sky, just like he talked his way into Minho’s heart in just a few short hours; not small, but broken. Healing.
When Jisung comes back a few minutes later, Minho hears him before he sees him. He bumps into the door with an almost concerning crash before it creeks open and his head pops back in.
There’s snow in his hair, pink on his cheeks from the cold and maybe something else. “Oh good, you’re still here,” he lets out a huff of air.
“Where would I go?” Minho laughs.
“I don’t know,” Jisung grins. “Thought you maybe saw your opportunity to get away.”
Minho has no desire to run in any direction except towards Jisung, close the distance and finally get his credit-rolling kiss.
Jisung tosses his mittens to the ground and turns back outside, grunting as he seemingly heaves something into the living room. Once he’s made his way fully inside, and the door closes behind him, Minho stands to see what all the ruckus is about. Too much strain to be a boombox, but maybe it could be the moon.
“Uh, Jisung,” Minho starts when he sees Jisung standing proudly with a large branch from a pine in his hands. Needles rain down around him like rain, the scent sickly strong. “What the hell is that?”
Jisung grunts and raises the branch above his head, the uneven weight distribution causing his arms to shake slightly, but he remains steady, a sly look in his eye. “Christmas Future,” he declares. “I don’t have mistletoe, so I’m improvising. This is the smallest branch I could find.”
Minho laughs and inches toward Jisung, ducking the twigs and wrapping his own hands around the branch. It prickles his skin, and he may bleed, but if this is the only wound he suffers, then that’s okay. Minho will help him carry the weight.
“I’ve never kissed a muppet before,” Minho smirks, walking his hands closer to Jisung until they’re only a hair apart.
“A manly muppet, or a muppet of a man?”
The Muppets (2011): Muppets will now forever remind Minho of Jisung. 10/5 stars.
“I’m not picky.” Minho closes his eyes and dares to be bold. He kisses Jisung full force.
It’s a bit awkward with both of them having both hands above their head, balancing the weight of Jisung’s stupid joke, but Minho wouldn’t have it any other way. His lips are just as soft as he imagined, fitting into his perfectly like they were written to be that way. Like divine intervention designed them to be slotted into each other.
Jisung attempts to deepen the kiss, but only succeeds in causing part of the branch to fall down onto Minho’s head, making him yelp and pull away involuntarily.
“This is stupid,” Jisung says and drops the branch to the ground. Between that and the kitchen, they’re bound to leave a mess. They’ll have to pay a fee. Worth it.
When Jisung kisses him this time, he wraps his hands around Minho’s waist in a vice grip. Minho winds his arms around Jisung’s neck, pulling him as close as he possibly can. If this was a movie, there would be fireworks behind them. A perfectly bubbly pop song playing over the scene as the camera zooms out, masking them in a heart. If this was a movie, it would be Minho’s favorite, critically acclaimed or not.
It’s cold in here from Jisung leaving the door open to bring the stupid branch inside, and Minho needs warmth. Preferably in the form of something going inside of something else.
“Have you seen the bedroom yet?” Minho says against Jisung’s lips.
“Yes,” he breathes out, nipping Minho’s bottom lip in a way that makes him whimper. “Want a tour?”
“Please.”
They stumble blindly, Minho having no idea where he’s going, and Jisung just barely. They bump into walls and trip over the carpet, giggling and bruising. Santa is not in this house, and neither is Freddy Krueger. Instead, Minho walked in on Christmas personified, the angel on the top of the tree. He tastes like cookies and pizza and snowflakes. All Minho wants for Christmas is this man in bed and then more. Not just his Christmas Future, but his future, period.
Somewhere along the way, Jisung loses his jacket and his sweater, Minho abandoning his sweatshirt in the hallway. A trail of clothes like rose petals on Valentine’s Day. Minho wants Jisung then, too. He wants every holiday with him, parties or not.
By the time they get to the door, Minho has already undone Jisung’s jeans. He fumbles for the knob and totters backwards, Jisung’s pants pool around his feet and cause him to topple both of them right into the bed.
A fluffy surface embraces them, feeling like marshmallows under Minho’s body. Jisung is solid on top of him, his shoulders broad and arms strong.
“So this is the bedroom,” Jisung giggles down at Minho, his glasses crooked on his nose. Minho takes them off, setting them aside on the nightstand. Jisung smiles in thanks, kicking his legs behind him to rid himself of his pants.
Minho doesn’t take his eyes off of him. “Beautiful.”
“You didn’t even look,” Jisung pouts.
“I wasn’t talking about the bedroom.”
Jisung devours him. Full-on cannibalism, eating Minho alive and savoring every taste. He runs his tongue along the seam of his lips before plunging it inside, tangling into Minho’s mouth and licking his teeth. Wet and messy. Passionate. A metaphor somewhere, but Minho is too high on life and much too horny to care.
He’s already filling out his pants when Jisung unties the drawstring and forces them down Minho’s thighs. His cock strains almost painfully under his boxers, searching for the friction of Jisung’s body on top of him.
Jisung’s mouth moves from Minho’s mouth to his jaw, trailing down his neck, trekking further as he shimmies down his body. He throws his head back when Jisung kisses him at the sternum, tracing his lips over to bite lightly at Minho’s nipple.
“Fuck,” Minho moans, arching his back. He looks down at Jisung immediately, feeling embarrassed, but Jisung just raises his eyebrows at him before doing it again, using his hand to play with Minho’s other nipple.
“Sensitive, huh, hyung?” Jisung says almost condescendingly and it shoots right to Minho’s cock, twitching in interest. Jisung smirks when he feels it press into his stomach, lightly drifting his hand further down until he wraps his fingers around Minho’s clothed dick and squeezes.
“Fuck, Jisung, touch me,” Minho whines. It hasn’t been that long since he’s had sex, but it’s been ages since it’s been exciting. With someone he’s actually compatible with. It feels like Jisung can already figure out his every tick, sense how everything will make Minho feel before he does it, and knows how to draw out his most pathetic responses.
Every touch is jewel-toned and neon. Pulsing behind Minho’s eyes like he stared at the sun for too long. He’ll keep looking right into it.
Jisung slinks down fully, sliding off the bed and resting his knees on the floor. He grips Minho behind his knees and pulls him down so his cock is inches from Jisung’s face, begging to be released.
“Can I suck you off?” Jisung says more to Minho’s cock than his face.
Minho is much too turned on to be offended. He pushes himself up to rest on his elbows, not wanting to miss the view. “Please.”
Jisung tugs off Minho’s boxers and cool air hits his dick in a way that makes him gasp, the sensation quickly overtaken by Jisung taking it into his hand. “So pretty,” he says almost dreamily, stroking Minho slowly. “I can’t wait to taste you.”
“Then do it,” Minho hisses as Jisung presses his thumb into the slit. Precum slides down his shaft, making the glide of Jisung’s hand easier.
“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Jisung says cockily and brings his lips to Minho’s tip, kissing it far too softly for the look in his eyes. “You can pull my hair,” Jisung says, looking up at Minho with a dark expression. “I like it.”
“You want me dead,” Minho whines, bringing one hand to Jisung’s hair, threading the thick locks into his fingers.
“Just a little,” Jisung grins, and takes Minho down to the hilt.
“Shit!” Minho cries and collapses onto the bed. His grip on Jisung’s hair tightens, causing the other to moan around his cock. The vibrations shoot up into Minho’s belly, a coil tightening in him like a spring.
Jisung lifts his head and bobs shallowly before going all the way down again, his nose pressed into the hair on Minho’s pelvis. He swallows around him and Minho feels like he’s ascending into space. Like the best acid trip of his life, colors exploding behind his eyelids. He’s so happy their movie is rated NC-17.
Minho dares to lift his head and make eye contact with Jisung. His eyes are hooded, pretty lips stretched around Minho as he swallows him. Jisung pulls up so only Minho’s tip remains in his mouth, sucking on it hard and stroking the rest of his length with long fingers before sinking all the way back down. His eyes never leave Minho’s; dark and teasing
A choked moan punches out of Minho’s throat, allowing himself to fall backwards again and try to stop himself from coming in three seconds flat.
“Jisung, if you don’t stop, I’m going to come,” Minho groans, hands fisted into the comforter. He keeps staring at the ceiling. If he looks down at Jisung again, he knows he will shoot his load down his throat. He wants this to last.
A lewd pop echoes through the room as Jisung pulls off of him, Minho immediately missing the soft velvet of his mouth. He raises his body again to finally look at him. He’s resting against Minho’s thigh, his plump cheek pillowing against the muscle. His lips are pouty and red, spit dribbling at the corners. Far too cute for the position he’s in.
“Is that a problem?” he asks innocently.
“Wanna come with—” Jisung inside of him? Him inside of Jisung? He can’t decide. It feels like every possibility will make him come in under a minute.
“I can go either way,” Jisung shrugs like he’s reading Minho’s mind. He gives another tug to Minho’s dick, causing him to hiss.
“Me too,” Minho sighs.
“You’re actually perfect,” Jisung grins. “How did Santa know I wanted a hot vers with the best thighs I’ve ever seen.”
“He’s very knowledgeable,” Minho says lamely, still a bit dazed from Jisung sucking his soul through his dick.
Jisung laughs and stands, slipping his thumbs underneath the waistband of his boxers and pushing them down his legs. This is the first time Minho has seen Jisung fully and he has to stifle a moan at the sight of him. Strong shoulders taper down into a toned, but soft stomach, and slim waist. His cock stands pink and curved, the tip dripping with precum just from sucking Minho off.
Minho doesn’t know how Jisung managed to hide those tits under his sweater, but they feel like they’re staring right at him, firm and defined. But the thing Minho can’t look away from is the stark black markings that litter Jisung.
The word ‘Blessed’ curves over his right pec, a compass beside it and words Minho can’t quite make out underneath. And on the left side of his body, trailing from under his armpit to just below the dip of his hip, are flowers swirling in an inky garden. Daisies, Minho recognizes.
“You can’t be real,” Minho says out loud on accident.
Jisung giggles and pinches his own arm. “Definitely real.”
Minho is so into him it almost hurts.
He scrambles off the bed and to Jisung, cupping his jaw in his hands and kissing him deeply. Jisung moans against his lips in surprise, but takes it in stride, his hands wandering down Minho’s back to his ass, squeezing his skin in his palms.
Minho’s focus turns to the tattoo on Jisung’s chest. He pokes his finger into the skin, pulling it along each line of the compass, and every letter of the word, and then to the quote underneath. “Imagine all the wonderful things that will never happen if you do not let them,” it says.
“Is this from Up?” Minho asks, giggling.
“Don’t laugh at me,” Jisung groans, resting his forehead against Minho’s.
“I’m not,” Minho says sincerely. “It’s a great movie. I love it.” The movie and the quote. And maybe in time, the body they are attached to. The future is bright as Christmas lights.
Minho reaches between them and places his hand on Jisung’s stomach, just above where needs him most, pulling away and raising his eyebrows in question.
“Yes,” Jisung breathes, “touch me, hyung.”
He presses his forehead to Minho’s shoulder, and Minho starts to stroke him, Jisung’s hands still kneading into the meat of Minho’s ass.
Jisung’s cock is thick, heavy in Minho’s hands, pulsing under his fingers. Minho can’t help but stare at the way it glides through his hand, wet and messy.
“If I had a ribbon, I would tie it around your dick and put you under the tree,” Minho says. He decided to turn off his filter. Fuck it.
It works on Jisung, who lifts his head to give him a confused look before tilting his head back in laughter. “I like you so much,” he smiles.
“The feeling is mutual,” Minho grins, kissing Jisung’s teeth more than his lips.
Little mewls spill from Jisung’s mouth as Minho strokes him, his deep voice coming out in whiny huffs. “Okay, but how are we doing this?” He asks once his moans get more staccato. “Should we flip a coin?”
Minho thinks he’s joking at first, but one look shows he’s deadly serious. What the hell, sure.
“Works for me,” Minho shrugs.
Jisung turns around, presumably to look for his wallet or search through his bag, and Minho comes face to face with the best ass he’s ever seen. Round and perky. Minho could probably bounce the coin off of it. It’s taunting him, his eyes bulging out of his sockets.
“I want to top,” he blurts out.
Jisung looks back over his shoulder, eyebrows raised, before his gaze shifts down to his own backside. “Ass man?”
And a tit man, if he’s honest. Maybe just a Jisung man, but Minho nods vigorously in response.
“Can I ride you?” Jisung questions, turning away again and squatting down to open up his bag. Minho stares unashamedly at the way his skin jiggles as he rummages for who knows what.
“But then I can’t see it,” Minho whines, sticking out his bottom lip in a pout.
“Just trust me,” Jisung rises and turns with what looks like a small bottle of lube and his wallet in his hands, pulling a condom out of the bill fold.
“You carry a condom in your wallet?” Minho snickers. “And lube?”
“Are you complaining?” Jisung takes a step forward so he’s right in Minho’s face, holding the foil packet in front of his eyes. “Do you wanna fuck me or not?” He raises an eyebrow, lips tilting in a knowing smirk. “And I actually have two.”
This is going to be a perfect night. “Is this a good time to tell you that you succeeded in your mission?” Minho asks, taking the condom. “I love Christmas.”
“My plan was foolproof,” Jisung grins.
“It helps that you’re really hot and I’m already a fan.”
“All part of my plan.”
If this was premeditated, Minho is okay with that. Maybe Jisung had plotted to kill him, hacked a few systems and got Minho here at this Airbnb on Christmas eve. Maybe he actually loved Tarot and wanted to take his revenge.
No. Minho doesn't think so. Just some crazy coincidences and a little Christmas magic. A book in Minho’s bag and a tab pulled up on Jisung’s phone, the universe finding a way to bring them together.
The next kiss is tender, sweet. Minho backtracks back onto the bed, adjusting himself against the headboard as Jisung finds his way into his lap, grinding against his cock as soon as they make contact.
“Need you,” Jisung moans, needy and deep. He takes Minho’s hand and drizzles lube onto his fingers, guiding it back to his ass as he continues to grind down. “Please.”
Much like Jisung, Minho doesn’t need to be asked twice. He pulls his ass apart, moaning loudly as Jisung grinds into him just right. And yeah, he’ll need a round two if the movement of Jisung’s hips is any indication of what he can do.
Minho brushes a finger over Jisung’s hole, easing the tip in slowly. Jisung’s movements halt as he hisses, leaning forward into Minho.
“Sorry,” he pants, “just been a while.”
“Since you bottomed?” Minho asks, rubbing soothing circles into the small of Jisung’s back and sliding his finger up to the first knuckle. Jisung is tight and warm. Minho can’t imagine what he’s going to feel like around his cock.
“Since I’ve had sex,” Jisung clarifies. He rolls his hips back slightly, encouraging Minho to push his finger all the way in.
“Too lost in your novels?” Minho teases, slowly fucking his finger in and out.
Jisung moans, adjusting to the feeling. His grip on Minho’s shoulders tightens. “Haven’t met anyone I wanted to have sex with.”
“What makes me so special?” Minho prods a second finger against Jisung’s rim, pushing it in slightly when Jisung nods in assurance, eyes screwed up tight.
“You gave Howl’s Moving Castle five stars.”
The laugh that bubbles out of Minho’s throat comes right from his belly, high-pitched and gleeful, like a demonic Christmas decoration. “You’d be crazy not to.”
Jisung smiles and leans down to kiss him, moaning as the shift in angle pushes Minho’s fingers in deeper. He starts to scissor them lightly, stretching Jisung’s hole.
“This is why we’re going to work,” Jisung murmurs into Minho’s neck.
Hot breath fans against Minho’s neck as he continues to stretch Jisung, working up to three fingers. He presses against Jisung’s walls until he finds the spot that causes him to cry out, his hands digging into Minho’s chest in pleasure. Jisung starts to fuck back onto Minho’s hand, rubbing his stomach over Minho’s aching cock, and giving him the exact friction he needs.
Jisung’s movements become more erratic, his moans louder. “I’m ready,” he says eventually, and Minho pulls his fingers out of him, Jisung whining at the loss.
Minho feels around beside him for the condom, ripping it open and rolling it down his length all in one, quick motion. He has never needed anyone this badly. He doesn’t know if it’s possible for him to ever need anyone this badly ever again.
Once the credits roll, it can be assumed that the happy couple runs off into the sunset. Endgame, they call it in fandom culture. Minho thinks he could have that with Jisung. He doesn’t think he’s getting ahead of himself, sometimes things just feel right.
Like when Jisung looks down at him, tender and kind. Tracing Minho’s face from his temple to his jaw. Kissing him slowly like he’s something precious. “Beautiful,” he whispers when their lips part. Minho feels like glass. Like one more touch and he’ll shatter in a sparkling flurry. He doesn’t know how he’ll survive being inside of Jisung while he looks at him like that.
He tries to prepare himself, but instead of Jisung lining himself up over Minho like he expects, he swings his legs around. Nearly kicking Minho right in the nose, until he’s seated with his (perfect) ass facing Minho. Minho starts to understand what he meant by “trust me.”
“Oh fuck,” Minho moans in realization, both hands immediately reaching for Jisung’s ass to pull him apart. His hole is pink and slick with lube, fluttering when Jisung reaches behind himself to take Minho’s cock in his hand.
“Does this work for you?” He smiles knowingly over his shoulder. Jisung is so hot, and he knows he’s hot, which only serves to make him hotter. And he’s smart, funny, and outrageously talented. Charming to an obscene degree. The perfect combination for a TV serial killer. Minho would be killed first, no question. The audience unable to fathom how he could be so stupid.
He gets it. But the cycle of Han Jisung is anything but violent, and Minho never wants to get out.
“Yes,” Minho squeaks, and Jisung chuckles.
Jisung raises his hips slightly and guides Minho’s cock to his rim, rubbing it over his hole a few times before it catches, the head popping in slowly.
He didn’t stab Minho. He didn’t beat him with a club or a baseball bat. Didn’t take an axe to his arm, or a chainsaw to his abdomen. He didn’t blow him up in a ball of fiery flames or shove his still-warm body into a wood chipper, but Jisung sinks down onto Minho in one motion and he kills him.
“Fuck, oh my god,” Minho cries out, watching the way the fat of Jisung’s ass pools against his hips. He’s so tight despite the prep, gripping around Minho’s cock like a vice, but soft and warm. He grinds his hips back slowly, Minho’s eyes rolling into his head at the sensual motion. So far back that he can see the back of his brain, and the only thing there is Jisung, Jisung, Jisung.
Porn (roughly 1908-present): Not this. 0/5 stars.
“Hyung, feels so good,” Jisung groans deeply, shifting from grinding to picking his hips up a little and dropping back down.
“Are you trying to kill me?” Minho chokes out. His hands fly to Jisung's waist, gripping it as the other starts to fuck down onto him harder and faster. Setting a ruthless pace from the beginning.
“That’s been the plan all along,” Jisung smirks over his shoulder. He closes his eyes and tilts his head up, exposing the veins of his neck. Minho can’t decide if he should focus on his face or the way he envelopes his cock, ass swallowing him completely with every drop of his hips.
The obscene sound of skin slamming against skin and the squelch of lube pours into Minho’s ears, creating harmony with both his and Jisung’s moans. They’re both loud to his delight, happy that he can hang on to every sound Jisung makes even through his own.
The flowers on Jisung’s side contract with his movements, buds closing and blooming over and over again. If Minho could, he would pluck them off his skin and arrange them into a Jisung-shaped bouquet; probably smelling of sugar and pine.
“Minho,” Jisung groans, pausing his movements in favor of grinding into him again. His tight heat pulls deliciously on Minho’s cock, his whole body feeling like it's contracting. “You fill me up so good. So perfect.”
Jisung keeps slamming his hips down, his ass bouncing against Minho’s hips and stomach. He’ll need him to sit on his face someday. He’ll need to have Jisung in every position under the sun, and have Jisung bend him in every way that a body can bend. But at this moment, he needs something else.
“Wanna— wanna see you,” Minho whines. As much as the view of Jisung’s ass is driving him insane, he wants to watch the way his face screws up in pleasure, wants to catch all his moans in his mouth and see if they taste as sweet as they sound.
It’s almost like relief when Jisung lifts off of him. Allowing Minho a moment of reprieve until Jisung flips around to face him, and he realizes the relief will be short-lived. Jisung’s thighs wobble slightly, spent from the effort of fucking himself onto Minho, but he shows no interest in giving up the upper hand, lining himself up again and slamming down onto Minho’s cock twice as hard.
They moan in unison, Jisung immediately slumping forward and resting his hands on Minho’s chest, rolling his thumbs over his nipples.
Jisung is beautiful. Like this, and always. Sweat drips down his hairline and above his lip, where the slightest shadow of stubble can be made out. Minho imagines waking up beside him, curled into each other, kissing his prickly cheek as he gets up to make coffee. He pictures an apartment bursting with color, books and DVDs lining shelves in a rainbow display. He can smell cookies baking in the oven, the first failed attempts in the garbage. He imagines the moon hanging from their ceiling like a chandelier, a token of this first night they shared together.
Because this will be the first of many. It’s a wonderful life, indeed. He forgot what it felt like to be excited about it.
Jisung kisses Minho like he has something to prove; deep and soft. But nothing needs to be proven that hasn’t already been felt. Minho kisses him back with everything he has to let him know that. The smile against his lips tells him that he does.
“Minho,” Jisung pants, rocking his hips back, his pace slowing. “Hyung.”
He can taste his own name on Jisung’s tongue. It’s never been sweeter. The notes never so right. Fully seasoned.
Minho bends his knees and plants his feet on the bed, gripping Jisung’s hips and using the leverage to meet his every thrust.
“Fuck!” Jisung cries out at the change in angle, Minho now hitting his prostate dead on. He buries his face into the junction of Minho’s shoulder, a string of expletives seeping into his skin.
Minho picks up his pace and Jisung matches him, their skin slapping together on every thrust. The coil in Minho’s belly tightens even more, a few more winds from snapping completely.
“‘M not gonna last,” Minho slurs, licking over the salty skin of Jisung’s neck.
“‘S okay,” Jisung whispers into his ear. Saccharine. Deadly. A killer. He pinches Minho’s nipples. Hard. “Come for me, hyungie.”
Minho’s hips buck up and he’s coming into the condom with a cry. Colors splatter his vision, his whole body feeling like it just got electrocuted by every volt of electricity on that Christmas tree. On the comedown, all he can do is lie there, spent and sensitive, as Jisung continues to use him.
“So good,” Jisung moans, sitting up and anchoring his hands on Minho’s shins behind him. “You look so pretty when you come.”
“Want to see you too,” Minho whimpers, the overstimulation rocking through his body, but in the best way. He takes Jisung’s cock in his hand, smearing precum over his shaft, and starts to jerk him off in time with his thrusts.
“Oh, fuck,” Jisung huffs after just a few strokes, voice pinched. His abdomen contracts as he slams down on Minho one, two, three more times until he’s releasing into Minho’s hand and all over his stomach and chest. Warm ropes painting Minho’s body. He clenches around Minho tight enough that he might just be ready to go again immediately, stars blossoming behind his eyes.
When his cock is drained, Jisung slumps forward onto Minho in a sweaty heap, his breathing heavy, the ink on his body pulsing like it’s alive.
“Christmas Future was my favorite,” Minho breathes, his voice cracking. Jisung lifts his head and laughs, rolling over to his side and off of Minho’s softening dick.
“Better than the cookies?” Jisung pouts.
“I like these cookies.” Minho gropes Jisung’s tit. Dick really almost ready to go again when the skin bounces under his touch.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Jisung giggles.
“Too tired to make sense,” Minho yawns, nuzzling his face into Jisung’s shoulder and closing his eyes. “Your ass killed me.”
“Don’t fall asleep yet, hyung.” Jisung pokes his cheek. “We should get cleaned up first.”
Minho’s eyes go wide, an adrenaline rush pulsing through his veins. He shoots up in the bed. He has his own mission to accomplish. “Did you know this place has a jacuzzi tub?”
Jisung grins slowly, each tooth appearing one by one to have its time to shine. Minho thinks that Jisung smiles like how he writes; like he wants you to know the meaning behind every word without giving it all away. Knowing him at his core as well as you know the language of words, or bodies.
This smile feels devious. “Please give me the tour.”
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
When Minho pictured dying in the jacuzzi tub, he was preferably clothed at the waist, covered in bubbles, warm, and with Freddy Krueger-style finger slashes down his torso, guts spilling out and painting the water pearlescent pink.
This is much, much better.
He’s not even really in the tub, knees resting on the seat, bent over the side, as Jisung has three fingers and his tongue in his ass.
At least when round two is over, clean-up will be easy.
“Jisung,” Minho whines after a hard suck to his rim. He hasn’t been eaten out often, but he thinks Jisung will condition him to want it every day, especially with the sounds he’s releasing making it seem like it’s just as exciting for him as it is for Minho.
“Mmhmm,” Jisung hums against him, pushing his fingers up into Minho’s prostate and causing a garbled cry.
“Cock. Now. Ready,” are the words he manages, but it's enough.
Minho had hoped that Jisung’s sore ass and jellied legs would grant him some mercy, but his wishes were in vain. He should have known. Jisung hasn’t shown him mercy once all day.
Jisung presses in slowly, his cock feeling like it’s splitting Minho in half, but in the most pleasurable way. He gives a little pat to Minho’s ass, and Minho whimpers, which Jisung thankfully doesn’t seem to notice. That can be stowed away for a later date. Along with face-sitting and the several other colorful thoughts on Minho’s mind
As soon as he gets verbal confirmation from Minho that he can move, Jisung is setting a brutal pace. He slams into Minho, dragging his knees and stomach across the tile, pushing his lower back down to create the perfect arch.
“Holy shit, fuck,” Minho moans, dropping his head against his forearms, but it’s quickly being lifted up again when Jisung winds his hands into Minho’s hair. Maybe it was a bad idea to tell him he likes having his hair pulled, too.
“Fuck, you’re so pretty like this too, hyung,” Jisung huffs, words getting lost in his moans. Jisung’s free hand makes its way to Minho’s ass, pulling his cheek aside. Minho blushes at how Jisung must be watching himself sink in and out of him, but it also makes him impossibly harder, his cock weeping as it hangs untouched.
“Jisungie,” Minho pants, noticing the way the other’s hips stutter at the name. He smirks to himself. “Touch me.”
The world slows when Jisung abruptly stops his movements, Minho pushing his hips back to keep chasing the feeling. “Can you come like this, hyung?” Jisung asks. His voice is sweet, genuine, laced in need.
“Y-yeah,” Minho pants, and pushes his hips back harder and faster. “Just don’t stop.”
Jisung shifts his weight, and then he’s reaching Minho’s prostate dead on. Fucking him hard and fast by meeting Minho’s movements until Minho is coming all over the tiles, completely untouched.
His body shakes. He can’t remember the last time he had a prostate orgasm, and it’s racking through every nerve. He’s going to need a vacation after his vacation. Between Jisung’s ass and his dick, Minho is exhausted.
It isn’t long after that Jisung’s hips start stuttering. “Close,” he breathes.
“On me,” Minho requests. They’re already in the bathtub, might as well live his fantasies to the fullest. “Finish on me.”
Jisung moans and pulls out of Minho, ripping off the condom and stroking himself to completion, moaning Minho’s name as he coats the back of his thighs and ass.
As soon as they’ve caught their breath, Minho is re-running the bath water, turning on the jets, and sinking back into the oasis. His muscles need this. He might have to sleep here if dying is no longer an option.
“I love Christmas,” Jisung says, smiling dumbly at Minho from across the tub. He sinks deep into the water, his nose and eyes peeking over the surface. He looks fucked out, delirious. Minho knows he must not fare much better.
“Me too,” Minho admits with a grin, scooping up some bubbles and swiping them across Jisung’s chin.
“Ho, ho, ho,” Jisung bellows, exaggerating a gruff voice. “And what do you want for Christmas, young man?”
Minho slides across the tub to sit next to Jisung, laying his head on his shoulder. “A date with this guy I like would be nice.”
Jisung looks down at him, his gaze soft, and brushes the bubbles from his face. He leans down to meet Minho, their noses brushing against each other. “Wish granted.”
Minho has a new favorite movie.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
After their second bath, Jisung stays in the bathroom, citing his skincare regimen as a necessity to his bedtime routine. Minho is excited to learn all of Jisung’s little quirks, and is eager to show his off after so many months of keeping them buried.
He’s just nestled into bed, cracking open Jisung’s new book and smiling at the signature. He can have Jisung sign all his books now. He’ll request a heart in every one.
The first page has barely been digested (literally. This is about cannibalistic vampires) when Minho’s phone starts buzzing.
He frowns at the called ID, picking up immediately. “Eomma?” he questions.
“Minho!” His mom shouts on the other line. There are traffic sounds, the rush of wind behind her. “Our cruise got cancelled. Something about bad weather.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” His frown deepens. “I know you were really looking forward to it.”
“It is what it is,” his mom sighs. “But on the bright side, we can spend Christmas together now! I hate to know my baby is all alone.”
Minho’s frown flips, a smile spreading over his features like butter on a warm roll. He has a lot to tell her.
The door opens and Jisung strides into the room. His skin is dewy and his hair awry, glasses low on his nose. Minho can’t believe he ever expected him to look like anyone else. He is so wonderfully Jisung. Exactly how Minho thought we would be. The person he got to know through his stories, and now is helping to write their own.
“I’m not alone, eomma.” Minho smiles at Jisung who slides into bed next to him, fitting naturally under the curve of Minho’s arm. “I met someone.”
There’s a long pause. “Lee Minho, what are you talking about? What do you mean you met some—”
“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow, eomma. Promise.” He hangs up and sets his phone aside, much preferring to use his hands to wrap around Jisung and squeeze him to his chest.
It’s funny how what started as mild fear turned into the safest Minho has ever felt. It’s funny how taking a risk somehow worked out. It’s funny how any of this is real.
But Minho won’t question it. He’ll bask in it. In both the man in his arms, and the fact that he feels like himself again. Not realizing what he had lost until he found it again; in cookie dough, buried at the center of the snowman, and under a pine branch disguised as mistletoe.
“Do you want to make pancakes with me tomorrow?” Jisung asks with a yawn, his body shifting more into Minho’s every nook.
“I’d love to.” And the tomorrow after and after and after.
Minho falls asleep to the thought of endless tomorrows. Not always pancakes, but always Jisung. Always Minho. Always bright.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
Morning brings more snowfall. So much that — from the way Minho can see it piling outside the bedroom window — there is absolutely no way that Minho or Jisung is getting out of the driveway. Stuck a little longer. Bummer.
Jisung stirs in Minho’s arms, his back nuzzling into his chest. It was the best night of sleep Minho had in a long time. If Santa ate their cookies, or if reindeer sauntered on the rooftop, he was oblivious to it. Too wrapped up in his sugar-scented dreams.
Dreams that carried over to reality. Minho kisses the back of Jisung’s neck, inhaling all that he is. He stirs again and blinks to wakefulness, his eyes heavy with sleep when he looks up at Minho.
His lips crack into a smile, like his dream is reality, too. “Merry Christmas, hyung.”
Minho smiles. It is one. “Merry Christmas, Jisung.”
Some movies are perfect. The director nailing every shot, the actors delivering their lines with perfect cadence, the editors putting together the best possible cut of the story. They bring people to tears. Elicit anger, joy, and pain. An art form raw in all its convictions. But no matter how perfect some movies may be, they just can never replicate perfect moments of life.
Minho is living in a perfect moment right now. 5/5 stars.