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The practice room empties swiftly, with the faint sound of rubber shoe’s soles echoing, the last remains of fatigue lingering in the air. The dancers bid each other a quick good-bye, between friendly hugs and breathless laughter.
The day is over, but Jinki can be seen barely moving, stuck to the sweet feeling that the cold floor must be giving to his blushing skin. His cheek resting on the polished parquet, chest rising up and down just quietly, without making any distinctive sound that could reach the other members' ears. Just existing, like a domesticated cat enjoying its strip of sun after a morning spent sprinting around.
With natural light spilling in, in a brief moment of unusual silence, Minho stares at him.
The sight isn't new — the background might have changed, less with the colourful cloudy walls of their debut years, more with the industrial greys of whatever style SM is privileging now to chase modernity. But Lee Jinki is a constant element gently resisting a storm erupting outside of their little bubble.
His immutability, somewhat, brings comfort in a period of their career where certainties are scarce, and for being a man with unwavering convictions, Minho does welcome Jinki’s quietude like a good omen. He envies it a little, even – if envy is the right word for what he’s feeling —, because for all the changes they’re exposed to, Jinki always seems to have a self-built anchor to hold onto.
Minho thinks he’s found his too, a harbour where to flee to in times of need, in flesh and bones. But, more often than not, he does wonder if his time is due — if he has to rely on something else now, that isn’t what his young self has always relied on.
Through messy comebacks, grief, and accidental intimacy.
The thought is a frightening one to have on a casual, sun-drenched afternoon of May. Worries he can’t dwell in, not with their busy agenda and a new single ready to be released. And it would be out of character for him, wouldn’t it — that Choi Minho is something different from the almightiness people know him for.
He’s not part of SHINee for being the introspective one, that is for sure.
Yet, he still gives himself a moment. Of contemplation, nothing else.
Jinki being the subject of his attention is a coincidence. Or perhaps not.
It’s just—
It’s starting to feel foreign, being able to spend time together like this after a while. Both having their own career, albums and tours on the opposite side of the world, and if he’s overthinking it now, so be it.
He wants it — to feel Jinki as something to discover all over again, and not just the fellow idol he grew up with.
There’s unknownness in his limbs stretched out on the floor, in the brownish hues of the hair once freshly styled, now falling damp on his forehead. Jinki expresses a new individuality, now that he has a company and a proper career on his own.
But the more Minho stares at him, the more he also recognises what his eyes have always been used to.
Jinki, his Jinki-hyung.
They bump into each other on the way back to the ground floor of SM’s building, the elevator too spacious to make it look like an accident, but Minho plays it off, as casually as his acting skills allow.
It’s nothing more than their shoulders brushing against one another, a fleeting touch Jinki doesn’t ponder about at all, whilst Minho replays it in his mind until he doesn’t, weirded out by the way his mind has been lingering on each of Jinki’s movements since their morning dance practice session.
Little gestures, mostly. How he flutters his lashes slower when he’s thinking, head tilted and a pout on his lips without realising. Or, the rare side-eyed looks he gives people when he’s feeling opinionated about something, but his politeness bars him from being too harsh.
Minho likes all sides of him. His silent, shier days, and the ones when his enthusiasm is contagious, a walking amulet of happy energy that Minho would carry around with him if he could — maybe in the pocket of his jacket, or rolled up under the sleeves of one of his Arsenal shirts.
He would fit in there, Jinki, for how tiny and adorable he is, wouldn’t he.
Minho is tempted to voice it, admitting it out loud, but for once he lets those thoughts simmer in his mind, not wanting to disrupt whatever serious task is taking all Jinki’s attention, a frown across his forehead, eyes glued on his phone.
The elevator is quiet, neither of them trying to fill the silence with small chats or pointless pleasantries. They've known each other for too long, too well, to feel awkwardness if nobody is talking.
And when Minho does speak, at last, is because he wants to — they're reaching their destination, and who knows when will be the next time they'll be alone.
“Hyung,” he prefaces, a wariness in his voice that he himself can't explain, manifested as soon as the other hums back, still tapping frantically on his phone. “Let’s hang out and eat together.”
From where they're standing, with his shoulders hunched and facing his smartphone, Jinki looks even shorter. Just those few inches of difference that Minho has never really considered until now. It's a detail of such little importance, yet he can't help but think about it. Nothing profound or complex, just a passing thought about Jinki’s build, the width of his shoulders, the smaller size of his hands compared to Minho’s, and how nice it is seeing him wrapped in his usual cardigans or jackets.
“Didn't we schedule something next week?” Jinki says, chin tilted up, just slightly, enough to search for Minho’s gaze, unsurprised in finding him already staring.
“Ah, yes—” Minho plays with the rings around his fingers, twisting and turning the metal despite the reddish trace they'll leave on his skin.
It's stupid, really, being that nervous over an ordinary lunch. It means nothing, compared to all the things they've done together. Or perhaps, the problem lies there — that they have history together, if so can it be called. Years spent dancing around each other, living in the same dorm, joking about their cohabitation and whatnot. Minho gave it a name years ago, but promised himself he’s taking the secret to the grave, if that means not making things awkward for Jinki or the group.
So much for a man who’s made honesty and openness his life motto.
“I meant, we should eat lunch together now.” He clears up any unsaid doubts, even if the puzzlement on Jinki’s face doesn’t disappear. It spreads further, somehow, when Minho adds, “us two.”
Jinki doesn’t stutter, doesn’t say no yet, because he’s too kind, too gentle to even turn Minho down straight away, but it’s obvious in the little smile he makes. The all-encompassing courteousness typical of Onew, SHINee’s eldest and leader. The one he reserves to strangers and people watching him through a screen. It's not fake, but it's an embellished version of himself. “Should we?”
“If you want to.” Minho adjusts the cap he's wearing over his head, the same nervousness he felt the first time he realised he might have feelings for his hyung running over him all over again.
Jinki pouts before speaking, in the way he does when he genuinely feels mortified for something and his face is quicker to reveal what he's about to say. Cheeks pink, whispering, “I'd love to.” But. “I have a meeting. For a photoshoot. You know the—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Something about the album Minho has heard him talking about. Can't be an excuse. It isn't, as a matter of fact. It doesn’t make Minho feel better about it, but that's what he gets with falling for a fellow, busy artist, instead of the ideal, natural-beauty girl people would expect him to settle down with. Not for lack of trying — but it turned out Choi Minho does know the taste of failure, a bittersweet one manifested as moon-shaped eyes and bunny-toothed grins.
Can't rule your heart, they say.
“I mean it,” Jinki insists, not offended, but there’s a certain hint of urgency in his voice — like he wouldn't forgive himself, if Minho were to think he doesn’t want them to spend time together beyond work.
“I know, hyung,” Minho replies back, soft, softer than his usual tone. Any presumptions that might have sneaked in his brain disappear as quickly, feeling bad, even, for assuming Jinki would find excuses to avoid him. “I'm just tired, I think. Don't mind me.”
To that, the elevator doors open, the gleaming lights and music teasers of SM's main hall revealing themselves to their eyes.
“Take care and don't overwork yourself, eh.”
Minho is the first to leave, the air out of the elevator being a gust of relief and freshness he didn’t know he needed. The intensity of surviving a rejection - no matter how small - wears off, and the clarity that comes later puts everything in perspective. It's not that serious. Of course Jinki is busy. They'll always have next week, and the next one, and the next—
He's being pulled in the elevator again, just one step back, tugged in by the warmth of a touch he knows well, but missed so much that he forgot how pleasant it is. Jinki’s hand slips in his, natural as natural the gesture has been many times before. Their fingers intertwine, pinkie with pinkie, and so on, till Jinki's thumb brushes against Minho’s skin. With clear intent — along Minho’s veins and back inside his palm.
It's intimate, the sort of affection artists would compose songs about.
“Thank you,” Jinki whispers, raising his fist with a grin spread on his lips. “Fighting!”
Minho ponders about the possibilities of a portable sun in miniature. A pocket-sized star, if you will. If it doesn’t exist, it's only because the studies haven't encountered Lee Jinki yet.
The lunch never happens. It's no one's fault, Minho thinks.
They take turns to decline each other’s invitations while always trying to be polite about it. Weeks turning into months, one congratulation bouquet after another. It's Minho’s new YouTube channel first, and then Jinki’s uncertain audition for an indie movie next, and then SMTown, Jinki’s comeback, and lastly, Minho’s solo con once again.
They parade themselves around as SHINee's Onew and Minho, but they're on TV programs less as a group, and more as detached, self-surviving elements part of a bigger reality.
Like planets being born in the same system, just inevitably satellites on their own.
Minho has changed the colour of his hair four, or five times since the last day they've spent together. It's a first for them, if he doesn't count the various hiatuses in between their career, and their enlistment.
He rocked a short and blond haircut in spring, and goes back to black and dark brown hues next, matching the more melancholic colours of autumn in Seoul. It's an odd measurement of time, but whenever he catches himself thinking what Jinki is doing, what colour he, too, has picked for his hair, Minho opens Instagram and sighs.
It's not very Minho of him, perhaps, but many things aren't, and the iconic whisper of SHINee's back feels more like an eerie mirage nowadays.
It takes each of his senior and dongsaeng group to release new songs, to make him realise his yearning runs deeper, at an underskin level that he in vain tries to satisfy with late-at-night marathons and wallowing in cups full of chocolate cereals in the mornings, but nothing fed him completely.
It's layered, the pining gnawing at his stomach.
He misses SHINee, and misses being part of it with Jinki.
Then, he misses Jinki outside of it as well; a whole, different surface of want that would make sense if they were something, but they're not — aren't they?
And when he thinks he's found a reply, a good reason to cut off the lingering feelings and move on, Jinki does or says something in that manner of his — subtle reminders that he's human too, having his own battles to fight against, and that maybe he thinks about Minho as much as Minho does on the other side of the world. They’re just too caught up in their adulthood to slow down.
It's an innocuous photo, this one time.
Jinki is on tour in Europe, a tight schedule of city after city, fans in raptures because it’s a special occasion, after so many years of activity, and having Onew all for themselves must feel exciting for old and new jjingus alike. Jinki shows appreciation in the ways he knows — experiencing the culture, navigating through their social differences, and laughing about his mistakes, when he’s too goofy and doesn’t understand some reference or jokes his fans make.
His Instagram profile is just a small glimpse into that. His official page diligently posting something of each country he visits, while his personal one is less active, less calculated about it.
It's food and selfies taken without the artificiality of make-up and stage lights. It's Jinki in his bare form, a less filtered side of him Minho has always seen, but for the first time, looking and rationalising it makes his affection for Jinki even more undeniable. Something stronger than pride for an older brother, or admiration for a successful friend. It's love, perhaps in its most banal form — butterflies in his stomach and all that implies.
Minho stares at the last picture he’s just updated, something around four in the afternoon, if the maths on the different time zones doesn’t fail him.
Jinki’s sitting in one of those old-fashioned pubs London has, with wooden booths and pictures of vintage posters on the wall that turn even the most anonymous place into something a little scenic. The perfect spot for a cuppa, and memories to immortalise on camera.
He's let his hair grow a little since the last time they've met. Auburn, like the wilted leaves found scattered all over Seoul during the season.
Minho notices the rest only later on. The small details all around: a turned-on TV blurred but still with much to tell. He'd recognised that exact emerald shade of green everywhere, with silhouettes of men wearing a red and white shirt running up and down a football pitch. A Premier League match.
And then, the man himself, Jinki, with a scarf cascading over his shoulders, same red-white colour pattern, a blinding smile while he wraps his hands around a hot cup of tea.
Somewhere in the background, Minho catches a glimpse of autographed photos of footballers. Not random ones — Thierry Henry, Ian Wright, Declan Rice, and on. Arsenal's entire story framed in a collage on a brick wall.
A football pub.
Jinki doesn’t even like football.
In point of fact, he wouldn't be able to discern one club from another, past the obvious difference of kits’ colours. Wouldn’t know anything of the plight of gooners in recent years, the frustration of Manchester United supporters, or bittersweet happiness of Liverpool’s ones.
Before his eyes, it's a sport like any other. A long history to ignore, no sense of entertainment behind the legends of golden boots and their quasi-mythical athletes.
‘Am I doing it right?? (•¯ ∀ ¯•)’ — the post reads, a caption that feels very tongue-in-cheek, the kind of rhetorical question that would be written just to catch the attention of someone. Minho is sure he is that someone, but voicing it out loud seems sillier than how it sounds in the closed insanity of his mind.
He groans loudly, glad that the only reply he receives back is the blinking lights of a sleepless Seoul out of his window and the placid silence of his living room.
Sobriety brings wisdom, they say, and he can't help but throw a look at the untouched cans of beer on his coffee table. His stomach is full, but seems to reject alcohol. He has to go through it with the lucidity of water and energy drinks, thinking and dissecting the post for the umpteenth time, as though he'll reach a different conclusion, at some point of the night.
Truth is, he's too grown up to find excuses about his lack of action. He knows he could always text Jinki, being smooth about it as well, but the mismatched gap between theory and reality hinder his courage.
He guesses even the mightiest men have something to be cowardly about.
He settles with something in between, fingers hovering over his keyboard as he punches in a quirky comment with their fans in mind, more than Jinki himself. Quite the opposite, he tries to not mull over all the unsaid implications of that one single post: if Jinki really decided to take a photo there on purpose. If he uploaded it holding the hope that Minho would see it and think about him back.
And Minho does, of course.
How can he not.
Because there’s only so much he can do, plastered on his sofa on an uneventful midnight spent alone. Picturing Jinki wearing Arsenal merch isn't healthy, but comes naturally, and Minho doesn't hesitate in entertaining his imagination, for once.
It's chaste, mind filled with daily scenes of what their life would look like, if there were to find commitment to one another, sharing a life under the same roof again. It's a dance they're already familiar with. Using the same kitchen, the same bathroom. Knocking at each other’s door to make sure everything is fine. Going back to that routine would take Minho nothing — his brain already built for it, used to the company of the other more than his absence.
His shirts would be a little loose on Jinki, probably. Just enough to fall softly on his shoulders, and fabric running longer past his waist. Minho would let him wear one, if asked. The image of Jinki wandering around the house, dressing comfortably, vivid in his mind even when tiredness makes his eyes tremble.
If he falls asleep dreaming of Jinki in a Bukayo Saka’s shirt, no one has to know.
If they meet, when they meet, it's often with the others. Just because, or better, to discuss SHINee's affairs for the next few months. Talks, big talks about an impossible world tour, which translates in potential months spent abroad or back and forth from Korea to whatever destination, at such a strict pace, it'd be impossible for them to not spend even more time together.
It's all hypothetical, after SM has laid down a plan of a possible tournée for them, and Minho doesn't hide his enthusiasm when they reach the end of the day, all four sitting at the same table for their ritualistic members-bonding dinner.
It's in an izakaya that offers quality service at a moderate price. The kind of affordable place celebrities wouldn't normally frequent, but it's cozy — feels like home, with its tiny tables, a proper level of privacy, and the on-going chattering and laughter in the background that remind Minho of an actual living place, and not one of those fancy restaurants where a dish presentation matters more than the food itself.
The sitting arrangement is casual, as expected, but Minho bites the insides of his cheek hard, when it's Jinki’s turn to sit down, and the easiness with which he slips in the booth and perches himself side by side with Minho makes things complicated.
It's the hyper-awareness that hits him — the slow, but inevitable realisation dawning on Minho, that Jinki is real, and not just the man he sees in his Instagram feed and in his dreams too frequently to simply be an oniric coincidence.
If he gazes at him all evening, he, at least, attempts to be elusive in doing so. Never persisting to the point of becoming obvious. A subtle glance here, a quick look there, appreciating the little peculiarities of his face, of his speech pattern, that makes Jinki so alluring to him.
Minho wouldn’t know where to start, really. If what he likes the most about Jinki is his breathy laughs, shoulder shaking and head tilted back whenever Taemin or Kibum say something funny. The slope of his nose, the moles scattered all across his cheeks, or that look he’s giving him just now — all wrapped up in his oversized clothes, sheepish almost, like he can read exactly what Minho has been thinking all night and the sudden attention is a more than valid reason to shy away.
Meanwhile, Minho wonders if he does it on purpose. Making himself small, in one way or another, whether it’s by being swallowed by knitted jumpers too large for him, or by simply curling up on his seat. Far enough for him to have his own space, but nearer than before — inch by inch, getting closer to Minho whilst the others were busy with their food.
Their elbows brush against each other once or twice while they eat. Minho, mostly, because Jinki’s plate has been empty for a while now, and he’s oddly transfixed on one of the many paper lanterns hovering upon their table, its soft light bathing him in scarlet red.
Minho notices it — a couple of minutes, or an eternity later, hard to tell —, but when he finally does, reaching Jinki’s hand and squeezing it in his under the table is instinctive. A pavlovian response, even, as though the only logical thing left to do when they’re close is seeking for physical contact. A silent reassurance, that is alright if Jinki wants to go home. The others would understand as well. Free time is a luxury in an idol’s life, and even small breaks are very much needed.
It must be one of those days, Minho thinks.
“Hey,” he whispers, caressing Jinki’s hand in between the spot where the back and the palm end and begin, skin wrinkling a little under his touch. He knows Taemin and Kibum are looking, holding themselves back from cracking a joke at Minho’s expense. “Are you tired?”
The rest of the question is implied. Minho would leave without hesitation, giving him a ride home if needed. Even tucking him to bed and proposing to fall asleep side by side, if only he were bold enough.
Jinki replies quietly, taking his time as he shakes his head and the bangs framing his face falls back against his cheeks. “I’m still hungry.”
Kibum snorts, followed by a Taemin who sighs – in relief, more than anything else, and the shadow of worry in his eyes he attempted to hide before, now is completely gone.
“Yeah?” Minho remembers there’s still skewered chicken forgotten on the side of his plate. He pushes it towards Jinki with his free hand, not expecting anything back from it. It’s nice, though, the surprise taking him as the hold of their hands tightened, from Jinki’s side, this time. The gesture would be insignificant to most, but Minho revelishes in it — along with the warmth Jinki exudes by simply being there, blinking at him as if they’ve just secretly confessed something to each other.
“You don’t have to.” Jinki says, despite his stomach claiming the opposite. The low rumbling coming from his belly loud enough for Minho to hear.
“‘s fine, hyung. You’re going to stay tiny if you don’t eat well.” Minho bites his tongue one second later, as soon as his brain finds connection to his mouth and realises what he’s just said. “Not that I mind— I mean—eat, I can order something else.”
Minho can only hope the paper lanterns will hide his flushed ears, and the other customers’ chattering the sudden rush of his heartbeat.
The day replays before his eyes like an odd déjà-vu without a clear beginning nor end. It's the same sweltering morning, the same routine, the same laughter breaching through the formality of practicing before a concert or a comeback, until the choreographies are impeccably ingrained in their minds. It's the sweat that makes the shirt stick to Minho's back, and the cap he throws away because it's too hot now, and any layer of clothes is nothing but a burden in this unexpectedly warm morning.
The work day is over, but Jinki is motionless on the floor, suffering from the weather with more decorum than Minho. He's quieter, almost invisible, if it weren't for his head of blond hair spread on the floor, glimmering in gold under the light peeking from the window.
A hint of black can be glimpsed on his growing roots.
Minho doesn't remember which colour their hair was the last time they met.
But he would say it’s been too long, several seasons gone, even, if someone were to ask him.
The rest of the crew is busy, packing up and drinking the last drops of water before leaving. But Minho can hear it, sense it — Jinki's breath just barely glazing over the natural sounds of the room. In between one good-bye and another, his lips apart, and the softest sighs Minho has ever heard reaches his ears. It sounds close to the days when he used to nap on their cramped sofa back in the dorm, gently snorting, or the very first time they’ve slept together, Minho basking in the afterglow of the morning after, with Jinki asleep under a mountain of blankets.
The memory, years later, is like warm honey coiled at the pit of his stomach, the fuzziness that comes with it still fresh, vivid as vivid cuddling with Jinki has felt back then.
Keeping in tune with the here and now becomes an almost impossible task, but Minho’s worries call him back to present Jinki. To his hyung, the trembling of lids, unsure if he’s able to fall asleep on the floor, of all places, or if his is a simple act of calm meditation.
As Minho walks up to him, standing at the centre of the room, he casts a shadow over Jinki. Darkness floods upon him, waking him up from his apparent slumber.
“Hey.”
Even with tired, puffy eyes, Jinki smiles by reflex. A little grin softening while he stretches his arms and legs out, making it hard to not fall for the repetitive, cliché comparisons all over again. He does look like a cat disrupted from his morning nap. Minho would laugh at it, but the only giggle left in him gets stuck in his throat, unable to escape.
Jinki’s t-shirt has riled up a little as he propped himself up on his elbows. It’s a mere inch of bare skin, his navel peeking above the waistline of his trousers. Nothing new that Minho hasn’t seen already. Still, he diverts his eyes, coughing his chuckle out when Jinki’s words render him speechless more than any of his involuntary gestures.
“Picking me up for our date?”
Minho blinks, a lone drop of sweat annoyingly running down his temples. “Date?”
“You once said we should have lunch together,” Jinki states, tidying himself up. He tucks his t-shirt inside his pants, hand digging in and in until he’s sure he feels properly covered. His hair is still a hay-yellow nest. Minho would do something about it — tucking a couple of unruly tufts behind Jinki’s ears, or anything — if he could. Or better, if he allowed himself to act normal again around the other.
“That was months ago, hyung.”
“Oh,” Jinki’s voice is soft, alarmingly so, the kind of tentativeness he’s always used to navigate through their relationship in the past. Like they’re not meant to be. Like he’s not allowed to take what Minho is giving him — whatever it is. To prove it further then, “the invitation isn’t valid anymore?”
“No, I— of course it is.” Minho plumps down on the floor, cross-legged, despite craving to speak face to face with Jinki, resting by his side. The floor still feels cool, nice against his flushed skin, as he slides his open palms over it.
“But,” Jinki says, breathing quietly, but it’s even more obvious to Minho’s eyes now, up close. The brief pause he takes, the expectation filling his chest until he can’t but exhale. “It’s alright if you’re busy today, I was the one flaking on you the first time, after all.”
“You didn’t. It’s just—” Minho pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed in an attempt to chase away the similarity of memories of the past — of all the times they spent tiptoeing around each other’s feelings, losing chances that would’ve made things clearer between them. “I didn't mean it as a date. That changes everything, hyung.”
Jinki scrunches his nose, not hiding a certain confusion on his face. “Does it?”
“It’s not like we can go to the ahjumma’s fried chicken restaurant around the corner.” Minho mumbles, more to himself than a still baffled Jinki.
“Why not,” Jinki stares at him with his back straightened up now, his previous sleepiness completely forgotten. The contrast is comical, though. The sprightliness in his eyes, compared to his hair, still dishevelled. “Yonja-ssi, she probably thinks we’re already dating anyway.”
Everyone does, Minho thinks. But opting for silence comes easier. The last thing he wants now is having a conversation about labelling their relationship and whatnot. They survived worse, have been for years, and if they hold each other’s hands, exchange knowing glances, with the same sense of novelty and affection of their youth, there must be a reason.
“Sometimes you make things look so easy, hyung.” Minho sighs, not in surrender, more as a matter-of-fact consideration that dies there as quickly as he’s said it. “On others, you’re so stubborn and I love that about you but— can I treat you for once?”
Jinki seems to ponder, focused on a vague point of the room beyond Minho’s shoulders.
“I don’t think we’ve ever had an actual date since…”
Since their not-so-little affair started. It has always been about that something else — working to make SHINee last beyond debut, touring, dating other people on and off with the foolish idea they weren’t going to circle back to their routine. Enlisting, and hiding for their career’s sake, and whatever other excuse, valid or less, found to not fall into a resemblance of a proper relationship.
“I liked the Maldives,” Jinki rebuttals, a grimace showing a deeper, untold displeasure.
Minho groans, fighting back the urge to lift the other and just take him around — to places that they're not dictated to visit due to their work or any other professional circumstance. Somewhere they can experience as in bare Minho and Jinki, no attachment to a million-selling group or followed by cameras.
In explaining this, Jinki falls silent, staring at him as though those words are coming out of a mouth he doesn’t know, Minho a mere reflection of someone who isn't the same man he's shared so much with, but uncannily similar.
Minho speaks about ideas that have popped up in his mind for years — weekends abroad, dinners in restaurants his friends have suggested and always joked about; something along the lines of tasting the right food with the right person, and other proposals that sound foolish, now that they've been said out loud.
Jinki doesn’t utter a word for a while, listening with an unreadable expression on his face. Features soft but attentive, as if an uncompelling need to interrupt Minho is harbouring inside him, but out of respect — or hesitation —, he holds himself back.
Until he says, “You've already got me years ago, Minho-ya.”
“I know,” Minho says, with more conviction, more boldness than the incertitude he's felt in the past over their reciprocal feelings. “Is it that strange, letting me take care of you?”
To that, Jinki hunches his shoulders, chin resting over his knees. He looks small once again, perhaps in Minho’s mind even smaller than how he actually is. It’s the guarded overthinking, that Minho can see and wishes could hear as well, that makes Jinki unexpectedly vulnerable. So long is his silence, Minho almost feels bad to have planted doubts in his head, in a time when going out for lunch without questioning would’ve been easier.
“Not strange,” Jinki says, at some point. “I need to get used to—”
He gestures at something — a vague concept, that could be read as accepting he can be at the receiving end of Minho’s affection, that he can be selfish about it, for once. That there’s no need to prove himself, with or without his flaws.
Similar to composing a song together. They’re just writing bit by bit in a chaotical order, and Minho thinks that’s okay — moving forward is what matters the most, in the end.
“What?”
Jinki speaks in between one bite and another, cheeks full, occupied with food as though it’s been ages since the last time he ate. It could be, for how he nibbles at the chicken wing in his hand, his bunny teeth working through layers of well-seasoned skin, meat, till it’s nothing but bones and an empty plate.
His fingers are greasy, and there’s a hint of sauce on the corner of his lips. Such an unflattering view, Minho feels a wave of nostalgia crushing against his ribs — of days of their youth, people joking about Jinki’s obsession over chicken. It’s nice, seeing how some things never change, no matter what.
“Nothing,” he giggles, quietening the many thoughts he would say out loud. They’re heavy, too romantic, to let them linger in a place like a cheap corner restaurant. “It’s what you said after practice; does Yonja-ssi really think we’re dating?”
Jinki smiles, eyes crinkling with mirth, until they’re not. “...are we not?”
When they leave, the ahjumma has to stand on her tiptoes to slap Minho on the back of his head, a light reminder, a not-so-quiet way to call him stupid. He can’t argue against it — he might be, indeed, a little dense when it’s about Jinki.