Chapter 1: “Chicken has meat in it”
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Nerves” – DPR IAN
“I’m getting, getting little nervous (Nervous)
I’m getting, getting to the surface (Surface)
I'm getting, getting little nervous (Nervous)
I’m getting, getting to the surface (Surface)”
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Annoying.
Jisung hates when things don’t go the way he wants them to.
Especially when it’s the simple things that go wrong.
And why is it always the simple things that can’t go right? Always the things that are routine.
Always the same. Always simple.
When he wants them to stay that way, they change.
That’s annoying.
He always leaves his dorm at 7:55 to be at uni at exactly 08:15, so he can open his PC right when the professor walks in and take notes. It’s as simple as that.
When he leaves the dorm late by just one minute, he ends up walking in stressed and embarrassed instead of relaxed and ready at his desk.
And that is… annoying.
He hates feeling embarrassed or stressed.
He’s an overthinker, and those feelings make him overthink nonstop.
And that is… annoying.
He hates feeling annoyed.
He’s not a pessimist. Not at all.
Jisung loves to laugh. Loves to feel happy. He loves writing songs. Loves to be comfortable in his shoes. Loves his morning Red Bull that he takes at exactly 07:45. Loves to see the little orange cat on his way in the morning. He loves the simple things.
The simple things are always there.
They’re always comforting and present.
But these little, stupid, simple things are also the ones that, if they go wrong, cause a whole chain reaction of other things going wrong.
And that is so annoying.
When he woke up this morning, he already knew it was going to be one of those annoying days. He woke up on time — but then closed his eyes again.
Big mistake.
When he opened them again, it was already 07:45, which meant he didn’t have time to go to the store between his house and uni to buy the blue Red Bull.
Which meant he had to rush to class without any caffeine in his system.
Which meant he had to deal with the embarrassment of walking in at the same time as his professor. He didn’t even get to see the orange cat on his way there. Even the sky was grey, and the air smelled like rain.
And rain is really annoying.
He hates the rain. He knows that means something bad will happen.
When a simple thing like waking up on time doesn’t go as planned, the whole day is ruined.
The whole morning starts in an annoying way, which means it will just go on being annoying.
And now, the professor announces that the final project for the year 2025 at the Seoul Art Academy has been chosen. Each year they change the theme and structure for the students. This project works as their bachelor’s. Finishing it — along with the exams — means they get to graduate.
And Jisung has to graduate this year. He doesn’t want to study any longer because that would destroy the plan he made years ago.
And going against that plan would be… annoying.
Because that would mean pushing all his dreams further into the future, and he REALLY doesn’t want that.
No — he needs to graduate this year. Alongside his friends Changbin and Bang Chan.
So they can finally open their own production firm together, like they always planned.
The only problem? The project he has to complete to graduate this year is really, really, really annoying.
He hates group projects. Why does it have to be a group project?
All the projects from past years were solo. So why not this year too?
Not only is it a group project — they can’t even choose their partner.
And worst of all? It has to be a dance major.
They have to write, compose, and produce an entire performance of dance and song.
Jisung sighs.
Dance majors are annoying. Why? Because his ex was a dance major, and he was the most annoying person on earth.
Luckily, he graduated last year, so there’s no chance Jisung will be paired with him. He shivers just thinking about it.
But Jisung’s brain works in formulas. Formulas are easy to control. Especially when it’s formulas he himself comes up with.
One shitty and annoying dance-major man means that Jisung needs to keep his distance from all dance-major men.
It makes sense.
Because if a thought as simple as that doesn’t make sense, then nothing will ever make sense.
And that thought is making his head hurt.
He exhales.
Another annoying day begins.
--
“But what if we get paired together? Wouldn’t that be great?” Felix is trying to cheer up his roommate.
Jisung always forgets that his friend is a dance major too.
But Felix is different. Felix is an angel — God’s apology for all the other dance-major men.
With his blond-dyed hair, freckles, and angelic eyes, this sunshine of a guy couldn’t even hurt a mosquito.
Not even when it’s buzzing around his ear all night.
No, literally.
One time, he didn’t sleep the whole night because he felt bad for killing the insect that was terrorizing him, and Jisung wasn’t home to do the killing for him.
“The probability of you two getting paired together is really, really small, Felix. Don’t give him hopes.” Seungmin’s voice of reason cuts in.
Seungmin is always like that — calculating, grounded, precise. It actually fits his major perfectly. His major is Vocal Performance (Contemporary), and his sub-focus is Music Direction. That study path needs a lot more than just a good voice.
Lucky for Seungmin, he has both: an angelic tone and a sharp brain. And a pretty face on top of all that.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Jisung mumbles to the younger.
“But come onnnn, Jisung-ah! You can’t be mad at all of us just because of Hoon—”
Before Felix can finish the name, Jisung throws a pillow straight at him, followed by a death stare.
First rule in the dorm: no one is allowed to say that cursed name in this holy space. Just mentioning it might chase away all creative energy.
Seungmin giggles — at Felix, who got hit, and at Jisung, who’s fuming for, in his logical mind, absolutely no reason. He shakes his head and goes back to his phone. He’s a music major, but since he’s a year below Jisung, the project stress hasn’t reached him yet. His time will come next year.
“Why are you here in the first place, Seungmin? It’s not like you want to comfort me.” Jisung looks at him — sprawled out across the couch, shamelessly lying on his stomach, taking up all the space, playing a game. The only time he even reacts is when Felix gets hit by the pillow.
“I get happy seeing you suffer,” Seungmin says casually, eyes still on his phone. He grins. “And Jeongin’s still not back, so I’m bored alone in my dorm.”
“Is Jeongin-ah still at the acting camp?” Felix asks, curious. Seungmin nods.
While Felix starts talking about how fun it would be if the dance department also organized a camp, Jisung’s mind drifts away.
It happens sometimes — he sees something out of the corner of his eye, or hears a sound, and suddenly he can’t focus on the conversation anymore. His brain fixates on it, building melodies and words. If he doesn’t write them down, he feels like his head will explode. And now, the way the sunlight slips through the curtains — forming an orange beam that casts Felix’s shadow on the wall — sparks something. Words start forming in his head. He needs to write them down now. Felix notices Jisung’s stare at the shadow and the strange, focused face he’s making. Being the helpful friend he is, he jumps up to get Jisung’s laptop.
“NO! DON’T MOVE!” Jisung shouts, panicking. If Felix moves away from that exact spot, the shadow — and the melody it sparks — might disappear. Seungmin, now intrigued by the noise, finally looks up. Recognizing the familiar look on Jisung’s face, he reaches out lazily, grabs Jisung’s laptop from the table, tosses it toward him, and goes back to his game like nothing happened. Jisung mutters a quick thank you, opens his writing app, and starts typing furiously.
__
“Can I move now, Jisung-ah?” Felix whines.
Seungmin has long left, still giggling to himself about Felix’s misery. Every time Felix shifts, Jisung yells at him, and Seungmin laughs harder.
Eventually, he gets bored and leaves, leaving the two roommates to their chaos. Jisung loves his friends — and he loves how understanding they are about his little ticks. They all have them. Maybe it’s the creative gene in all of them that makes them act irrationally sometimes. Felix gets choreography ideas from watching leaves fall or water drops hit the ground.
Seungmin sometimes bursts into opera in the car or while shopping. No one bats an eye anymore.
They’ve gotten used to each other’s quirks.
“Yes, you can move now, Felix-ah.” Honestly, the sun set an hour ago, taking the colors and shadow with it. The melody is already finished.
Felix could’ve moved ages ago without ruining the creative flow — but Jisung didn’t tell him that.
Just to annoy him.
Felix deserves it anyway. He ate Jisung’s chicken yesterday, and Jisung has been waiting for payback.
“By the way,” Jisung says with a smirk, “was the chicken good yesterday?”
Felix, stretching his sore back, freezes. He looks up to see Jisung grinning mischievously. He didn’t realize Jisung had already noticed the missing chicken. He had planned to buy new before anyone found out. And suddenly it clicks.
“OMG! YOU MADE ME SIT HERE ON PURPOSE, YOU DEMON! YOU WITCH! YOU—”
Felix starts screaming and throwing baby punches while Jisung bursts out laughing.
Chicken or not.
He loves his friends.
__
The whole morning, the only topic anyone talks about in class is the upcoming announcement of the pairings.
“Did y’all sign up already? If you didn’t register in the system, you won’t get paired. And if you don’t get paired, you can’t take part in the project, which means waiting for another semester! You can write the exams, but without the project, no bachelor's degree!” Chan looks stressed, slipping into the mom role once again.
“We had to sign up?” Changbin yells, making Chan panic instantly. He starts rambling about possible ways to convince the professors to give Changbin another chance to sign up and still join the project.
Jisung and Changbin share a glance, pretending to listen seriously to Chan’s frantic planning until they can’t handle it anymore and burst into laughter.
Chan stares at them for a second, confused, then annoyed. He rolls his eyes and stares daggers at Changbin.
“Hyung, you’ve been reminding me every night for two weeks that I had to sign up. How could I forget? It was always, ‘Good night, Changbin, don’t forget to sign in,’ and, ‘Good morning, Changbin, did you sign in yet?’”
Jisung laughs harder. “I don’t even live with you guys, and he was spam-texting me about it,” he says between laughs.
Chan throws them an angry look before turning away in his chair and facing the front. “That’s the last time I care about you guys. The last time, I swear,” he mumbles, pouting.
Jisung and Changbin exchange another look while catching their breath.
After bumping fists, they both turn to face the teacher now entering the room, fully aware that Chan’s threat is as empty as all the others he’s ever made.
Chan is the oldest in all his friend groups — at least, the ones still at this school — and because of that, he naturally slips into the big-brother role. Sometimes, even the dad role. Chan knows everything about everyone but never repeats a word. He’s their trusted parent figure — the one who listens to their drunk cries and happy rambles. The one who hugs them when they need it most and dries their tears. The one they always want to share their good news with first. His friends are thankful for his patience and the softness he has for them.
Not only is he the perfect brother. Chan is talented at everything he does and is loved by teachers and students alike. Jisung just wishes he would take care of himself the same way he takes care of everyone else.
Jisung knows how much pressure Chan puts on himself. Even if he and the others try to take some of the pressure away from Chan, it never seems to go away fully.
He’s known Chan since his early childhood. He even came out to Chan before coming out to his parents. Chan has always been there for Jisung. In every memory, he is there.
Then Changbin came. Fifth grade. New kid from Daegu. He just fits. No awkward introductions, no slow start. It clicks immediately. Something that happens once in a lifetime. Rarely do you see a group of three click the way they do.
They share the same passion for sports and music.
And what makes the three of them even closer is that both Changbin and Jisung are struggling with their sexuality at the same time. Changbin figures out pretty quickly that he likes both men and women and accepts it easily. Jisung needs longer. To him, it felt like something in him wasn’t normal, something threatening the small, simple structure of his life. Something new to control.
And the fact that he can’t control it made him go crazy. He spiraled and is about to lose his mind due to depression.
Luckily, he has his friends to help him. And with them on his side, he accepts the fact that he likes men.
Chan always jokes around that now he feels left out, and Jisung and Changbin replied, suggesting he should just try to kiss boys, and he might join them.
Surprisingly, on a very drunken night, he did exactly that. But he regretted it pretty fast and went to look for a girl to go home with the same night. Not that this is something hard to find for the most adored Chan. Leaving Changbin and Jisung laughing and comforting the poor guy, drunk Chan used to be experimented on.
The next day, Chan felt so bad about what he did, he actually went to the dorm of the guy with gifts to apologize for his drunken behavior. Giving the man more hope than before in his crush on Chan. At first, they all felt bad for the guy until he turned into some sort of stalker. The whole story only ended when Seungmin went to the guy and told him to stop stalking them or he would punch him in the face with a baseball bat. They never saw him again.
But that’s how it is with the three of them.
When they are preparing for the entrance exam, all three of them make a promise. A pinky promise: They will get in together, graduate together, and start their own company — 3RACHA.
The “3” stands for the three friends, “RACHA” comes from Sriracha — symbolizing heat, intensity, and flavor they want their music to bring that same fiery energy.
They all take pinky promises very seriously since the seventh grade when they learned where they come from in the history class. Pinky promises come from Japan.
The word is “yubikiri” — 指切り — which literally means “finger cut-off.”
It started as a childhood oath to show that breaking a promise has real consequences. So, after that class they all interlinked their pinkies and said in their broken Japanese:
“Yubikiri genman, uso tsuitara hari senbon nomasu.” Which translates into: “Pinky swear. If I lie, I’ll swallow a thousand needles.”
For Jisung, this dream has to become real.
No matter what.
They all want that.
--
Bling.
An email comes in.
Or better: an Outlook email comes in.
Jisung hates Outlook. He only uses it for university mail.
So whenever that blue icon pops up, it can only mean one of two things — either a new assignment or a graded one.
And neither of those is the kind of email he wants to open on a Saturday morning.
He thinks about ignoring it until Monday. But then he remembers —
the pairings.
Just as the thought hits, a notification from his group chat with Changbin and Chan pops up.
“We’ve been paired!” Of course, Chan is fast.
With a small smile, amused by his friend’s excitement, Jisung exits the chat app and opens Outlook.
Dear Students,
We, the Dance Department and the Music Department, including the following majors:
1. Music Department
• Composition • Vocal Performance • Instrumental Studies • Music Production
2. Dance Department
• Modern Dance • Ballet • Street / Contemporary Dance …
share with you the pairing list for the project that will count as part of your bachelor’s degree.
Blah blah blah… Jisung skips the formalities and scrolls straight down to the shared document.
He opens the Excel file, eyes scanning quickly.
H for Han. J for Jisung.
There it is. His name. Next to it, the name of the person he’ll be paired with for the next month.
Lee Minho.
Jisung frowns. The name rings a bell — a very quiet one.
He can’t place a face to it. He’s not sure if he even knows who that is.
Still, that’s probably better than recognizing the name and knowing it belongs to someone awful… right?
He scrolls further, checking his friends’ names.
B for Bang Chan.
He pouts.
Of course, Bang Chan and Felix get paired together.
Before he can spiral into the thoughts of how unfair this is, he brings himself back to reality and looks up the next name.
S for Seo Changbin.
Next to him: Hwang Hyunjin.
Another name Jisung doesn’t recognize.
He sighs. He’ll have to interrogate his roommate about them later.
__
“You never listen to me!” Felix nags, poking at his noodles.
They sit at the dining table, surrounded by takeout boxes.
Neither of them can cook. On days when burnt toast or overcooked eggs aren’t an option, they take turns ordering food. Today’s pick — Chinese.
“I do listen!” Jisung protests through a mouthful of noodles. He really does.
It’s just that Felix’s stories have way too many names and way too many detours.
The man knows half the campus. No surprise, though.
Felix’s charm draws people in like light draws moths.
Jisung’s glad he lost the rock-paper-scissors match with Chan and Changbin. The loser had to room alone and get paired randomly by the university.
He has prayed nights in, nights out to all possible deities that he will get a good roommate. His prayers for a decent roommate were answered in the form of a blond angel.
Felix turned out better than decent.
The sad part of the story is that Jisung now has no idea which deity has answered his prayers.
“Lee Minho,” Felix says, leaning forward, “the really handsome, really talented guy I told you about! He’s the one who caught my hat mid-performance at the dance competition!”
The bell that is rung gets louder in Jisung’s head. Jisung remembers Felix’s story from that night, how Minho’s reflexes saved the performance, how he caught the flying hat and wore it like nothing happened. He was going on and on about how cool Minho’s Spiderman reflexes are, catching the hat that flew from Felix’s head in the middle of the dance and wearing it himself in seconds.
The audience didn't know that he wasn’t wearing it the whole time. He was that fast.
Felix wanted to show Jisung a picture of the handsome Minho back then, but Jisung’s then-boyfriend, who was also there in the room with them, heard everything and felt extra jealous that night, forbidding Jisung and Felix to talk about Minho again and saying that if Felix showed Jisung the picture, he would break up with him.
Just one of the many toxic threats that Jisung had to endure. Back then, he thought that this was love.
“Do you still have a picture?” he asks. Felix shakes his head. “No. It wasn’t backed up, and I broke my old phone.”-“What about Hyunjin?” Jisung asks. Felix lights up. “I love this man! He’s insanely talented and hilarious. Though at first, he can seem a bit… bitchy?”
The last part seems more as if he is the one asking Jisung about it.
“What do you mean by that, Felix-ah?” Jisung asks and tilts his head, surprised by the word his friend chose. Felix shrugs.
“You’ll see. All I can say is that the next couple of months are going to be fun,” he smiled sheepishly.
They finish their food, chatting about weekend plans and the project that starts tomorrow.
Hopefully, it won’t be as annoying as Jisung thinks it will be.
He really just wants to graduate.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Forever Only”– JAEHYUN
“The empty space you left behind
Fills me with deeper longing for you
Bit belated this irony
Heart is lost and lonely, lonely (I'll be forever lonely, yeah)
Leaving a pain that spreads
Goodbye, and a final kiss
Now I see you walking away
Be my forever only, only”
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This night, when lying in bed, he looks out of the window.
Whenever Jisung sees stars by looking out of the window, that means that he will have a good sleep and he will have a good next day. Another one of his mind ticks that gives him the feeling as if he has control over his life.
Without those little thought rules that he sets for himself, he cannot survive the spirals his brain buries him in. Seeing the orange cat on the way to the morning class means he will get good news that day.
Buying his favorite blue Red Bull on time means he will have a good day. And an even better day if the said Red Bull is on the left side of the fridge shelf. The left side cools the drinks better than the right side.
And if he sees stars while lying in bed after being done with his whole routine, that means he will have a good sleep and an amazing morning tomorrow.
Tonight, he is seeing stars.
So before closing his eyes, he decides that he won’t let a dance major man take away another semester of his.
He will make the best out of an annoying situation.
He will get a good grade.
And he will graduate.
He won’t let his world come crashing down on him.
Chapter 2: “In the orange cat we trust”
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Bad Cold” – DPR IAN
“The night is getting too old (Yeah)
My feelings on hold (Hold)
Never been so bold (Yeah)
We've been here before”
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Jisung balances his weight from one foot to the other. Looks around. Walks out of the room. Checks the number—again. He is kind of ashamed to admit that this was, in fact, not the first time he has checked it.
He’s been waiting for what feels like forever.
In reality, it has only been two minutes.
But that’s how he is. Anxious.
But if he must be honest, the way he imagined this to go was different. He imagined that Lee Minho would already be inside the room waiting for him when he arrived.
When he woke up this morning at exactly 07:00 am, he saw the Outlook notification on his phone.
(Email [email protected])
Hey, 08:20, Dance Room 379.
From the way the mail was written, Jisung assumed this guy would be early. He didn’t even bother to write a “hi” or “bye.”
Not that Jisung cares much for formalities, but… isn’t that weird? Someone you’ve never met emailing you like that? Especially through Outlook. Jisung only uses Outlook for formalities, but suddenly, here it is — this message. It wasn’t really formal. But was it rude? Jisung can’t tell.
Anxious, he keeps balancing his weight on his tippy toes, then back to flat feet.
Should he check the room number again? No. What if someone sees him checking it for the third time? That would be weird. They would think that Jisung is weird. Who walks multiple times to the door number to look at it in silence, walks back in the room, only to walk out again to do the same thing. But then again, who would even be watching him? And if someone was watching him for the last—what, four minutes?—they’d be the weird one.
He tries to keep his mind busy with his phone. But the only thing he can see is the digital clock. Taunting him.
Four minutes. He spent four minutes waiting.
He doesn’t like the number four.
He doesn’t like even numbers. They’re annoying.
Too many ways they can be divided, changed, messed with.
He likes uneven numbers.
The room Minho chose has three of them: 3, 7, and 9.
He likes that.
The numbers make sense to him in a stupid, quiet way he’d never admit out loud.
Three — balance. Beginning, middle, end.
Songs have it. Choreographies have it. Stories have it. Even people have it: past, present, future. And he heard that in Germany, there is this saying: all good things are three.
Seven — luck.
People say it’s a lucky number. Felix says seven feels like “things will work out eventually.”
Jisung doesn’t believe in luck, but he believes in effort…
And seven feels like effort is paying off. Seven is enough times to call something “often”. If you meet someone seven times, you've met them often. You made the effort to meet them seven times; you made the effort often. So the effort is paying off.
Nine — completeness. You spend nine months in your mother's womb.
This number feels like the last beat before a drop. Like the breath before a performance starts. Like a full circle, almost. The end of one cycle, the edge of the next.
But four?
Four is ugly.
It’s not three, it’s not five. It’s four.
More than three, less than five. Just wrong.
It is the literal reason Tetraphobia exists.
In Korea, four is unlucky — “sa” — the same sound as “death.”
Elevators skip it. Old buildings avoid it. People don’t say it out loud if they can help it.
Without realizing it, Jisung stands again in front of the door, checking the number for the third time in four minutes.
Yes. He’s at the right door.
“Have you been waiting long?”
The voice pulls him out of his staring contest with the door. Annoyed, ready to confront him about being late, he turns around to answer—and stops mid-turn.
Wow.
That is actually the most handsome guy he’s ever seen.
Annoyingly handsome.
So handsome Jisung could probably stare at him all day long and still not get bored. No, seriously, he should be in a museum somewhere.
His black hair falls lazily in soft bangs, barely covering big, deep eyes. He’s only a few centimeters taller than Jisung, but his build makes him seem larger.
Strong nose, sharp jawline, perfect symmetry.
Jisung has never seen a prettier man in his life.
Fast, he reminds himself that this man is, in fact, a dance major. And he promised himself — never trust dance majors.
Unless it’s Felix, of course.
Jisung shakes his head quickly. “No, I just arrived.”
Not a lie, but not the whole truth either.
Minho nods once, calm. Then, suddenly, he lifts his hand toward Jisung. “As you know, my name is Lee Minho. Nice to meet you.” Short, simple, no smile. No tone. Just words.
“Han Jisung,” Jisung mirrors, shaking his hand. Minho nods again.
“Should we?”
He asks but doesn’t wait for an answer — just turns and walks into the dance room.
Uhm, okay?
--
Hours pass.
They’re still trying to find a concept.
Frustrated, Jisung re-reads the task sheet for the tenth time.
The performance must be between 2–5 minutes long. A dance choreography must be created. It needs a visible and coherent theme. A song with lyrics and melody must be composed and sung. A demo must be sung by the graded students. The final song may be performed by someone else. The performance must be filmed and submitted to both departments by the communicated date. The performance will also be presented live on stage (students must organize stage setup, lighting, and mics). A written paper must be handed in by both partners. The project will receive one shared grade.
Jisung sighs and runs a hand through his hair. Honestly, he thought that finding the concept would take them ten minutes. He didn’t think that Minho would have strong opinions.
They’ve been sitting on the dance room floor for hours, trying to come up with anything. The first kind of, but not really, friendly tone in the beginning is gone. They went straight up into professionalism. They started directly brainstorming a concept, but couldn’t agree on one.
Should they dance first, then the song? Lyrics before melody? Should they both sing? Should they both dance?
So many questions, and not one clear answer. Both have ideas, but neither wants to compromise.
No smiles were exchanged during the whole process. Nothing. Jisung is kind of confused about it. He had a reason to hate the dance majors, and that was the reason he was not happy about the project. But why does Minho also seem like he could be doing better with his time? Don’t people try to beat the awkwardness by being friendlier? Why is Minho so not like others? Like at all. Jisung can’t read him, and he doesn’t like that at all!
Jisung throws a look at the source of his frustration.
Minho is lying flat on the ground, eyes closed, the task paper resting on his face.
Jisung could stomp on him right now and end his suffering.
Before he can even finish the murder thought, Minho sits up. “Let’s grab something to eat,” he says. It’s not a question.
Jisung wants to say no — just to be stubborn a little longer — but the noise his stomach makes at the word eat betrays him.
He gives up.
--
The cafeteria is full of students chattering away. Jisung hates crowds. Always has.
When they’d stopped outside the room earlier to decide where to eat, Minho had said pizza without hesitation.
Jisung had said he wanted something else.
What exactly? He didn’t know. Just… something else.
Maybe he was being petty. But whatever.
After a few minutes of standing there, neither of them willing to compromise, Minho simply started walking toward the cafeteria. He said they’d find something there they both liked — and if not, Jisung could just stay hungry.
So, with stubborn steps and a huff, Jisung followed him. He didn’t like how easily Minho took the lead.
Standing in line to pay for their food, Minho spotted pizza slices. Jisung settled for bibimbap.
As they paid, Jisung noticed a familiar mop of black hair a few tables away.
While Minho looked around for a free seat, Jisung walked off without a word toward the table he’d spotted.
Surprisingly, Minho followed.
“Changbin-Hyung!” Jisung grinned when his friend looked up and waved them over.
When they reached the table, Jisung noticed another guy sitting there — a beautiful man. Taller than both of them. His features were soft and angelic, almost like Felix, just colder — like the moon version of Felix, if that made sense.
“Jisung-ah! This is right here, my future boyfriend, Hyunjin! Isn’t he pretty?!” Changbin practically shouted.
Jisung stared at him, half shocked, half concerned. Future boyfriend?
Behind him, Minho burst out laughing.
The first time Jisung hears his laugh.
Hyunjin rolled his eyes, clearly not the first time he has been called that.
“Looks like you’re getting good care, Hyunjin,” Minho teased, sitting down next to him like it was routine.
“Hyuuuung,” Hyunjin groaned, turning to Minho, “the moment he entered the practice room, he swore he’d marry me. Is this assault?”
Minho laughed again — loud, genuine, the kind of laugh that made Jisung’s stomach twist with warmth for reasons he didn’t understand and didn’t want to think about.
Jisung, still standing there with his tray of food, looked like a grandma clutching her pearls at a scandal.
He seriously considered leaving all three of them behind and finding another table. Then, to make matters worse, Changbin stood up and bowed to Minho.
“Don’t worry, Hyung! I promise, because you’re Hyunjin's-Hyung, that I’ll take great care of him!”
Hyunjin groaned and hid his face between his hands in embarrassment. Minho laughed even harder.
“If that’s so, then I approve of this relationship!” Minho yelled back dramatically, grinning when Hyunjin smacked his arm. Changbin looked weirdly relieved, like a man who just got his future in-laws’ blessing after years of struggle.
Jisung could only stare.
Changbin’s lost it.
All of them have lost it.
Then Changbin finally noticed his friend still frozen beside him.
“Hyunjin, this right here is Jisung Han — the project partner of your friend, and my little brother!”
Too late to run now, Jisung thought, forcing an awkward smile and sitting down to eat.
The chaos had made him even hungrier.
He and Hyunjin ate quietly, while Minho and Changbin seemed to grow closer by the minute — laughing, teasing, filling the table with noise.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: "Know Me” – GEMINI
“I’m dancin' alone inside my head
Somebody save me
Do you know how I'm thinkin' now?”
----------------
After the lunch that, for Jisung’s liking, was dragged out quite a bit, they returned to the dance room.
They had exactly four weeks to finish their project and were excused from attending most of their classes. The classes are voluntary now. If you want and can go, you should probably go. If you want to work on the project, then good luck catching up on all of them by yourself before the exams start in eight weeks.
The thoughts about all of that made Jisung’s heart race, and his cold hands started sweating.
Some people were born with hands that are always warm. And some were born with hands that are always cold.
Jisung’s hands were always cold, no matter what. But he was one of the few lucky people who was born with cold and sweaty hands. Like, how is that even possible? Couldn’t his body pick one struggle? Why does he have to get both?
And not only that, but his cold, sweaty hands were the first sign that he noticed when he got stressed out and wanted to run away from his thoughts when they were about to consume him.
Like now.
He got stressed out quite easily. And the thoughts about the project and the exams were stressing him out a lot right now.
When he saw the stars last night, he’d promised himself that he’d have a good day. But now his day was not going well at all, and he was breaking his own rules, and when he broke his own rules, why have rules in the first place, why have a system, why not just go crazy and let this whole uncontrollable world eat him alive.
If he couldn’t even control something as small and simple as coming up with a concept for their project, or eating lunch in peace, how could he even think he was worth graduating? How dare he think that he was allowed to do that?
His heartbeat sped up.
The second sign.
A sign that showed him that his world was once again out of control.
His heart beat. Fast. The only beat he never knew how to work with. Or maybe that was just what he was telling himself. Maybe he had never known how to work with beats. Maybe he was not worth studying this major. He could not produce music. He was just lying to himself all this time. And he knew it now.
Seeing the stars last night and playing with the orange cat today in the morning did not hold him up from having a bad day.
Nothing would. Everything was thrown out of control. Nothing made sense anymore.
He felt his head get light. The room started to turn around. The third sign.
He could not do it anymore.
His breath got cut off in his chest. The fourth sign.
He was not worth doing it anymore.
He—
“Breathe in slowly for four seconds.”
A warm hand grabbed his. He felt it. Still couldn’t see it properly though. He wanted to say that he was fine. Smile at the person grabbing him.
Hated himself even more now that Minho had to see him like that.
“It is okay. That is normal. You’re normal. Hold your breath for eight seconds.”
He hated the number four.
And eight.
He hated even numbers.
They were so easy to fall out of the norm.
But even though he hated these numbers, he did as he was told.
“You’re doing great! Now breathe out for four seconds.”
Four again. He-
He didn’t really think anymore. He just breathed. Followed Minho's instructions. His thoughts were suddenly cut short when the older guy took his other hand also into his and sat in front of him.
Jisung didn’t even know when he himself sat down. His gaze started to come back, and the room stopped turning.
He looked at Minho, whose eyes were looking straight into his. His big catlike eyes.
How could human eyes sparkle that beautifully?
Jisung had never seen something like that. His eyes had depth to them. He got lost in the sea of darkness and didn’t know how to get out.
How does it feel to be alive again?
“Stop holding on with your dear breath.” Minho’s voice sounded soft and caring. Something he didn’t get to hear all morning. “Breathe out. You got this!”
He fished Jisung out of the sea he was drowning in. After he got thrown there by the storm of his thoughts.
Though the sea, that is, Minho’s eyes, was a much more comfortable place to be swimming in. Especially after the storm of thoughts that was throwing him left and right. The sea felt like a warm blanket. Hugging him from all sides. Showing him that everything would be all right. And he dared to believe it.
“You’re doing great!” Minho promised.
Jisung nodded.
Suddenly, the warm blanket disappeared the minute Minho let go of his hands. He didn’t even realize that his hands were still being held until it was gone.
He wanted his blanket back.
But with his consciousness, his ego also returned, or what was left of it, and he held himself back from asking Minho to hold his hands again.
The older guy stood up.
For a moment, Jisung panicked—he was leaving.
Is he going to leave me? Maybe I deserve that. He surely doesn’t want to work with someone as pathetic as me any—
Then a bottle of water appeared in front of him.
“Here. Drink!”
Minho didn’t leave him. He had just brought him water and sat down exactly like he was before. Taking his one hand between both of his. As if they belonged there. As if they always did that. As if his warm hands were made for Jisung’s cold hands.
“Don’t worry, Jisung-ahh, we got this,” he said softly. Smiling at Jisung. Not the way he smiled at Changbin earlier. But in a better way.
“We will finish the project. Even if it’s hard. We will do it well, and we will graduate with honors. I promise you that.”
Minho promised softly. Like he was reading Jisung’s thoughts.
Even though Jisung felt naked suddenly. His thoughts exposed. How did he know he was thinking that?
He tried to smile back at Minho and nodded weakly.
Maybe the stars were right. Maybe the cat was right.
His world still has its rules.
Chapter 3: “The rain incident”
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Calico”- DPR Ian
I've been lost in your gaze
Constant fogs in your way
The blue nights were heavenly
Just you and me with no certainty
You lit my cigarette up in the thunderstorm
Then you put me out like I'm nothing more
Why'd you think I was so into you? (Into you)
---------------
“It’s been four days, and we still don’t even have a concept!” Jisung moans dramatically, throwing himself face-first onto the couch. His voice comes out muffled through the pillow.
“It’s okay, don’t worry, Jisung-ah. You’ll find it. For Chan-hyung and me, coming up with the concept was also the hardest part,” Felix says, trying to comfort him while checking the delivery app.
They are waiting for tonight’s takeout — fried chicken and tteokbokki — to finally arrive so they can eat together for the first time in days. Between the classes they take, the extra classes for exam preparation, dance rooms, recording studios, and late-night brainstorming sessions, their schedules haven’t lined up at all. By the time they both come home, they’re exhausted. They just throw their bags down, shower, and pass out. But tonight both finished earlier than usual, so they promised to eat together again like they used to.
“Felix! You literally told me you came up with your concept in one day!” Jisung lifts his head, glaring at his roommate like he just committed a crime.
Felix laughs nervously. “Okay, but we got lucky!”
Lucky. Right.
Jisung knows from Chan and Felix that their project is going suspiciously well.
And he cannot help being jealous of it. They came up with a concept: “Nostalgia.”
What a good concept. The options and chances that come with this are endless.
And they’ve already started working on the beat and the instrumental foundation. Chan has practically moved into the studio, and Felix is crafting choreography that can flex with any tempo.
They’ve already decided to sing both the demo and the final version themselves and perform it live.
Everything just clicks for them.
He knows that even Changbin and Hyunjin are progressing.
Though that’s probably because Changbin is so whipped for Hyunjin that he lets him decide everything.
He’s basically Hyunjin’s personal manager at this point. But at least they’re moving forward.
On the other hand, Minho and Jisung can’t even agree on what they want to eat for lunch. One of them always has to be petty — and Jisung knows half the time it’s him. Still, Minho doesn’t make it easy.
Jisung knows that he kind of started this cold war, but Minho wasn’t directly fond of him either. Or that’s what he thinks. With Changbin, Minho already exchanged numbers and they text and talk like good old friends. Felix also only has good things to say about Minho. Turns out Minho and Hyunjin have been friends since high school, and currently they’re roommates too. And Hyunjin and Felix go way back — they danced in the same street crew when they were teenagers.
How small can the world be?
“Jisung-ah, did you think maybe you’re not getting anywhere because instead of working with each other, you two are working against each other?” Felix says, eyes innocent, but the question lands like a slap.
But still, Minho’s first concept idea was cats. Cats. Really?
Is he expecting them to walk on all fours on stage and have a meowing beat?
Whenever it’s about what they should eat or when to meet, Minho takes the lead naturally. Even when Jisung tries to resist just to be annoying, somehow, he ends up following.
But when it comes to creative work, Minho suddenly loses that confidence. And whenever Jisung proposes something, Minho tilts his head, that judgmental glint in his eyes, and Jisung immediately backtracks like a fool.
They’ve tried everything. A futuristic concept — rejected. Minho said his dance style was too grounded and sharp for that kind of theme. Then Jisung suggested Summer Breeze, a feel-good, upbeat song. Minho shot it down immediately. “Unoriginal. Boring.” Then Minho suggested meeting your lover after the war. Jisung shut that down. “What war? That’s too far-fetched.” He couldn’t imagine himself composing something sentimental while they pranced around in historical costumes.
Jisung’s composing style is emotional precision mixed with technical control.
He’s known around the academy for his fast flow, complex rhyme schemes, and sharp diction.
He loves pushing words to their rhythmic limits.
Minho’s dance style, on the other hand, is sharp control, theatrical storytelling, and emotional precision — every move calculated.
Jisung doesn’t exactly know what that looks like, but he can tell from the way Minho carries himself that it’s serious.
He sighs again and buries his face back into the pillow. “I just want to graduate.”
His voice comes out half whine, half plea.
Felix sits on the small bit of couch left and pats Jisung’s back like comforting a child.
“Don’t worry. You’ll come up with something soon. I’m sure tomorrow you’ll have it.”
Jisung grumbles something unintelligible.
He hopes Felix is right.
--
“No, no, no, no — I am not creating choreography for a concept called Beach Day! What am I? A teenage girl in L.A.? No!”
Minho throws his hands up dramatically, glaring at Jisung like he’s lost his mind.
“Oh please. Like your ideas are any better?!” Jisung fires back. “And I am not shaking my ass on stage in any way, shape, or form! Are you crazy?”
Minho tilts his head, pretending to think. Then, with a small grin:
“But you have the ass for it.”
Jisung stares at him, stunned. For a second, his brain short-circuits.
Did he just—?
Warmth rushes up to his ears, and he curses himself silently.
He’s not blushing. Absolutely not.
No way.
He lowers his gaze, pretending to check his laptop just so Minho won’t see his face. But the bigger smirk that is building on the older's face tells him it's too late to hide.
Jisung tries to remind himself:
It’s not flirting. It’s teasing. He’s just trying to annoy him — and it’s working. Jisung was always easy to annoy. All of his friends know this and take great advantage of that personality trait. Now even Minho is.
The room falls silent again. For a music project, it’s been painfully quiet lately. Even Jisung’s creative spark feels dead. He hasn’t written a single line in almost two weeks.
Minho lies back on the floor, one arm behind his head, eyes closed.
The sound of rain seeps in through the open window — steady, heavy, calming.
Outside, the world is gray and damp. Inside, the air is thick with unspoken tension. The fall days are getting more and more aggressive. The rain is falling more and the sun is setting earlier and earlier.
“Let’s go for a walk!” Minho suddenly jumps up, startling Jisung — who may or may not have been staring at him again.
“What? Where?”
“Outside, Jisung-ah. Where else?” Minho says casually, already pulling on his jacket.
“We’re not getting anywhere just sitting here. Or do you want to keep staring at me?”
Jisung feels the blood rushing back into his ears. “I wasn’t staring!” he shouts, way too defensive for comfort.
Minho just smirks and heads for the door.
Jisung sits frozen for a few seconds.
If he stays, it feels like he’s giving up.
If he goes, it feels like he’s giving in.
There’s no winning with Minho.
After a moment, he groans, shoves his laptop aside, and grabs his shoes.
Fine.
Maybe a walk will help.
Also, it’s unbearably hot inside.
That’s all. Definitely not because Minho asked.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Dancing in the rain” – Rad Museum
아침부터 너와 난 (Ooh-ooh)
비가 내리기 만을 (Ooh-ooh)
기다리며, oh ah (Ooh-ooh)
이런 날씨에 너와 (Ooh-ooh)
이렇게 행복할 수가 (Ooh-ooh)
Oh she's wet (Ooh-ooh)
푸른 담장
----------------
The air outside is cold and damp. The rain had stopped for the moment, but the air still smells like it — that heavy, metallic scent that always lingers afterward. Jisung hates that smell. It reminds him of wet clothes, dirty sneakers, and unwanted change. And his hair. God his hair looks like a wet puddle after the rain. He hates it.
They walk side by side in silence. The streets are almost empty.
It is already dark, but Jisung likes this time of year. He finds comfort in how quickly the sun disappears. When it gets dark early, you lose the sense of time. You can’t tell if it’s seven in the evening or two in the morning. For some reason, that makes him feel safe — when time has no meaning, he can move through the day however he wants. No pressure. No reminders that the world keeps moving while he’s still standing in the same place.
He never liked the sun. If he were an Anime villain, he most definitely would destroy the sun. The midday light, the orange glow before sunrise or sunset — all of it feels like a countdown. He hates being reminded of time because time is something he can’t control. But darkness? Darkness is consistent. It never rushes him. It just stays. You can’t get darker than dark. In his mind, that makes sense.
The city hums faintly around them. Streetlights buzz overhead, flickering in weak yellow halos. Somewhere in the distance, a car passes through a puddle, the splash echoing down the quiet street. Jisung shoves his hands deep into his pockets, shoulders tense.
Minho, on the other hand, walks loosely, calm, like his thoughts aren’t constantly trying to strangle him from the inside. Jisung can't help but be jealous.
And then — something cold touches Jisung’s hair.
No. No, no, no. What was that?
He blinks, trying to convince himself it was nothing, but then it happens again.
A raindrop. Definitely a raindrop.
“Oh, great,” he mutters.
Before he can say anything else, the drizzle turns into a downpour. Heavy, steady, and completely unforgiving.
He freezes and looks up.
Of course — no umbrella.
He quickly yanks the hood of his jacket over his head. The rain hits hard, sliding down his sleeves. Cold. He hates rain. He hates how it feels, how it sounds, how it clings to everything and ruins plans. He cannot say it enough — he hates the rain.
He turns toward Minho, ready to complain, maybe even drag him back to the dorm, but he stops. He stares at Minho.
Minho isn’t even trying to cover himself. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t rush for cover.
He just stands there in the middle of the sidewalk, hands buried in his jacket pockets, face tilted up to the sky.
The rain hits him in a steady rhythm, soaking through his black jacket, sliding over his forehead, running down his jaw and neck. Under the streetlights, the water turns silver, tracing slow lines over his skin. His hair clings to his forehead. His lips curve — not a full smile, just something quiet that looks like peace. The water drops from his jaw to his neck, glides over his Adam’s apple, and disappears under his collar.
Jisung watches, no, he stares, unable to look away. The silver rain on Minhos black hair, on his white, even, smooth skin, looks magical.
Each drop feels so loud.
Jisung should step back. He doesn't. He can't.
His chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with the cold.
Something inside him loosens and pulls at the same time, like his bones and his thoughts are moving in two different directions. For a second, something in his chest shifts.
His stomach turns, warm and unfamiliar.
The rain drowns out the city.
It’s just Minho and the sound of water.
He should be thinking about how cold it is, how his hoodie is drenched, how he has to wash his hair now, even though it isn’t his wash day. Or how his new shoes are completely ruined and will stink by morning.
But he isn’t thinking about any of that.
All he can think about is this.
Minho standing there, eyes closed, face turned up to the sky, like he belongs more to the rain than to the street.
The sound of the rain.
The faint orange light from the street lamps.
The way Minho looks, not fighting the storm, just standing there, letting it touch him.
He looks like he belongs in the middle of it.
Jisung can’t look away.
For a second, Jisung feels like he is the one who is outside of the world, watching something he was never meant to see.
His thoughts start spinning, melodies, words, half-formed lyrics. He can almost hear a rhythm underneath the rain, a slow heartbeat forming somewhere between their silence. The sound of drops hitting the pavement. The echo of breath. His fingers twitch, and his mind starts writing more and more. And all about Minho. Minho, Minho, Minho.
The beginning of something that isn’t a song yet, but wants to be. He doesn’t know if this is the start of a song or the start of a problem.
He only knows he wants this moment to last one beat longer.
When Minho moves, Jisung follows him without even thinking.
They walk a few meters until Minho sits on a bench under a flickering streetlight. The rain doesn’t slow down. It comes down harder, soaking through their clothes. Minho leans back against the cold metal, legs stretched, hands still in his pockets. His head tilted back again, eyes closed.
He breathes in deeply, the rain rolling down his face like it belongs there.
That’s it. Jisung knows it the second he sees him like that.
That is their concept.
Rain.
--
“The title should be Rainy Night or Rainy Weekdays or something like that.”
The words spill out of Jisung the moment they walk back into the room. They want to take their things to go home. But Jisung needs to say it. It just comes out like he’s been holding it in.
Minho turns to him, tilting his head slightly. Jisung braces himself for the usual judgmental stare, the teasing comment, the rejection that always follows his ideas.
But none of that comes.
Instead, Minho’s expression softens. His eyes are calm, his mouth barely lifting. He looks happy.
He nods.
“Rainy Night,” he repeats quietly. “Yeah.”
No teasing. No argument. Just agreement.
--
“Rainy Night?” Felix repeats later, raising an eyebrow. “That’s simple but deep. You can do a lot with that. I like it.”
Seungmin nods too, but then smirks. “Did you two just give up, look outside, and pick the first thing you saw?” he teases.
Jisung huffs, glaring at him. Of course, it wasn’t like that. But how is he supposed to explain it?
He couldn’t exactly say I looked at Minho standing in the rain, and he was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I needed to write a song about it.
...
Even if that was kind of what happened.
“Hyung, I’m happy you finally have a concept,” Jeongin says, smiling like the sweet menace he is. Jisung almost wants to frame the compliment; Jeongin doesn’t give them often.
“Did you decide on the rest yet?” Felix asks, and Jisung’s brief happiness vanishes.
Jisung groans. “No. We just agreed on the concept, packed up, and went home. He texted me that we’ll meet in the studio tomorrow at ten. That’s all.”
“It’s okay,” Felix says. “You’ll figure it out fast. I’m sure.”
Seungmin yawns loudly. “Can we eat now? I’m starving.”
They all laugh and start eating, talking about Jeongin’s acting camp and teasing each other until the night fades into quiet warmth.
Later, when Jisung lies in bed, he can still hear the rain outside.
The stars are hidden behind clouds; he can’t see them.
His hair is clean on the wrong day.
His shoes are stuffed with tissues, drying by the door.
All things that would make him go crazy normally.
Still, he feels… calm.
It’s raining.
He likes the rain.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: "Secret Secret” – STRAYKIDS
Shoulders slumping,
clothes getting wet,
even the loud music sounds so faint.
I want to let all my frustrating voice be washed away in this rain.
----------------
Even though Jisung didn’t expect it, Felix is right.
The moment they settle on the concept, everything else comes surprisingly easy.
They agree that both of them want to dance, that Minho will be the one to choreograph while Jisung composes the beat, and that they will write the lyrics together. They also agree on the genre — KR&B — and that they’ll ask for help with the stage setup later.
The only thing still open is who will sing the song in the end. They decide to wait until they have a finished track before making that decision.
Now, they work together in silence. Jisung knows he has to work fast — once he builds the main beat and rhythm, Minho can finally start on the full choreography. Both of them are aware of that.
Still, Minho spends his time experimenting with movements that, as he explains, “could fit with everything.”
Three weeks and two days left until the deadline. For the first time, Jisung actually believes they’ll finish on time.
Composing comes easily this time. And weirdly enough, Minho is kind of being… helpful?
Jisung hasn’t stood up once — every time he needs water or food, it just appears next to him. Not that Minho is doing it for him, of course. He says he’s getting some anyway. That’s all.
Still, it’s weirdly nice.
Even though Jisung would never admit that out loud.
He has been sitting on the couch for hours — so long that the muscles in his back have started to ache — and he doesn’t even notice until his phone starts ringing. The sound doesn’t fit with the track he’s working on, which is the only reason it registers.
He startles, grabs his phone, and picks up without checking who it is.
“Yeah?”
“Are you not coming home tonight?” Felix’s deep voice sounds a little annoyed, but mostly tired and worried. “Bang Chan was waiting here for you. I invited him so we could eat together. Well, we already ate, and he went home. I’ve been calling you for hours.”
Jisung frowns. “Wait—what time is it?”
“It’s two a.m., Jisung-ah.”
Two?
Jisung blinks and turns his phone away for a moment toward the digital clock. 02:07 a.m. Exactly.
He’s been here for sixteen hours.
“Sorry,” he says quickly, rubbing his eyes. “I didn’t even notice the time. I got really into it. But I’m almost done.”
Felix sighs through the phone. Jisung can imagine him lying in bed, hair messy, lights off, voice half buried under a blanket. He wouldn’t stay up this late for no reason, but Jisung knows the reason — his missing key. Lost months ago. Never reported. Too lazy to do so. Since Felix is always home first and awake late, it hasn’t been an issue. Until now.
“If you’re done in the next hour, I can wait for you,” Felix says. “But I don’t want to leave the door unlocked all night. You know what happened in the main road dorm.”
He knows. Everyone knows. The break-in had people double-checking locks for weeks.
He doesn’t want Felix to wait up, though. And honestly, he can’t promise he’ll finish soon.
Jisung chews the inside of his cheek.
“Don’t worry, Felix. I’ll just stay here tonight,” he says. “The couch is fine. I’ll come back in the morning when you’re awake.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I’m in the flow right now, I’d rather finish it tonight.”
A pause. Then Felix sighs again. “Okay. See you tomorrow today, Hyung.”
Jisung smiles faintly. Jisung is only one day older than Felix. And Felix only calls him Hyung when he wants Jisung to know that he’s here for him.
“Goodnight, Felix.”
When the call ends, silence fills the room again — that heavy, late-night kind of silence.
He stretches his arms above his head until his shoulders pop. A long yawn escapes him. The small lamp in the corner casts a weak, yellow light across the room. Everything else is dark.
He turns to glance behind him.
Did Minho leave already?
Probably.
Why would he stay?
He doesn’t owe Jisung a goodbye. He probably has better things to do than watch someone mix the same eight bars for hours straight.
Still, Jisung looks around — not because he expects anything, but because his brain won’t stop until he checks.
He grabs his phone, turns on the flashlight, and scans the room.
That’s when he sees him.
Minho isn’t gone. He’s lying on the small couch across the room — legs bent awkwardly to fit the short length. One arm is thrown over his face to block the light.
When the flashlight hits him, he mumbles something incoherent and shifts slightly, not waking up.
Jisung blinks.
He’s still here.
Why?
He doesn’t have to be. He could’ve just gone home hours ago. But he hasn’t.
And for some reason, that makes Jisung’s chest tighten in a way he can’t explain.
He hesitates for a moment before standing up quietly. He grabs his own jacket from the hanger and walks over, trying not to make a sound. He doesn’t even know why he’s doing this — maybe guilt, maybe gratitude, maybe just instinct or maybe something else he’s not able to face yet.
He drapes the jacket over Minho’s body carefully. It’s too big, but it covers him well enough.
For a few seconds, Jisung just stands there, staring without meaning to. His hair is a mess. His breathing is slow and steady. His usual sharpness is completely gone.
Jisung’s brain notes details automatically — how calm he looks, how still the room is, how loud his own heartbeat suddenly feels in his ears.
Before he realizes it, he reaches out to push away a stray strand of hair from Minho’s face. The tips of his fingers brush his skin — warm — and instantly, Jisung pulls back like he’s touched a live wire.
He turns fast, back to his side of the room, sitting down on the bigger couch. He shoves his headphones on again, opens his project file, and tries to act normal.
He doesn’t want to think about what he just did.
Or why he did it.
He presses play.
The beat fills the room again — soft, steady, rhythmic — the sound of a song still in progress.
And for some reason, it suddenly feels a little warmer than before.
--
When Jisung wakes up, it’s still dark outside, the kind of heavy early morning dark that feels half-asleep itself. He blinks slowly, trying to figure out where the jacket he is covered with came from.
Didn’t he cover Minho with it?
Jisung looks around.
Minho is gone.
Groaning, Jisung stretches his arms above his head and immediately regrets everything. His back cracks in multiple places, his neck feels stiff, and his legs are numb from being bent awkwardly all night.
Why did he think sleeping on the couch was a good idea again?
Oh, right, because he’s an idiot. And probably a workaholic.
He sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes with one hand and blindly reaching for his phone with the other. It should be somewhere next to him. He’s sure he had it beside him when he fell asleep.
After a minute of searching and not finding it, that familiar wave of panic starts to creep in — the kind that always hits when something small goes missing and his brain convinces him the world is ending.
“Where is it, where is it, where—”
He stands up, flicks the light on, and scans the room. There it is.
On the table. Plugged into the charger.
Minho.
Of course.
Not only has he covered him with his jacket, but he has also plugged in his phone.
Jisung feels something warm start to spread through his stomach again. That annoying feeling he doesn’t want to think about. The one that makes his chest feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine withdrawal.
He exhales through his nose, shaking his head as if that can get rid of the thought.
Grabbing his phone, he checks the time.
7:02 a.m.
He’s slept maybe two hours. Great.
He opens his messages and quickly texts Felix that he’s on his way home. His eyes feel heavy, but his brain is already jumping ahead to what needs to be done next — fix the reverb, polish the outro, send the demo.
Then he notices a new email.
03:00 a.m. — From: [email protected])
You were still drooling, so I’ll leave now. Let’s postpone our meeting. Since you probably finished the beat, send it to me and I’ll start drafting a choreo. We don’t need to meet today. Get your rest.
Jisung stares at the message for a moment, rereading the first line twice.
He should feel relieved.
He really should.
He should be happy that he doesn’t have to spend the day with the annoying dance major who probably thinks he’s perfect at everything. The one who dismisses half his ideas and rolls his eyes whenever Jisung says something too fast.
He should be thankful for the break.
But instead, he just feels… off.
Not disappointed.
Not exactly sad.
Just off.
He doesn’t know what to call that feeling. Maybe it’s just exhaustion. Or the fact that he’s running on two hours of sleep and too much instant ramen. That has to be it.
Pushing the thought away, he rubs the back of his neck and starts packing up his things. The lamp goes off. The computer shuts down. The silence feels strange now that Minho isn’t there.
He zips his bag closed and sighs. His whole body aches, but all he wants is to get home, take a shower, and finally sleep in his own bed.
Whatever that weird feeling is, he can deal with it later.
Right now, he just wants to rest.
--
Jisung wakes up on Friday afternoon with the kind of headache that sits behind your eyes. He hates himself. These days are out of control. The blinds are doing nothing. The sun is very rude. He wishes he could shut it down himself. If he were an anime villain, he would most definitely make the sun explode.
His back hurts from the studio couch he abandoned at sunrise, and his brain still feels half-submerged in the beat from last night. The beat followed him into his dreams, or what felt like dreams. He rolls over, grabs his laptop without thinking, and presses play on the session file before he empties his full bladder. Priorities.
The demo still holds.
He likes it.
He doesn’t often like his own work, but this — he can work with it.
It feels slower than his usual works, softer around the edges, but it moves like water. And that is the goal, isn’t it. He can hear the tiny flaws he wants to fix — of course, he does — but he can also hear Wednesday night inside it. The rain. The quiet. That weird peace he still refuses to name. Minho…
He bounces the file, titles it “RN_demo_v3,” because everything else offended him, attaches it, and types the shortest message possible.
Here’s the demo. Let me know if it works for you.
He hovers over the send button for a second, considers adding “no pressure,” or “ignore the rough mix,” or “don’t be annoying,” or even just a “:)),” deletes all of it, and hits send.
Then he puts the laptop down and stares at the ceiling like it has done something wrong.
The silence feels louder than usual.
Felix yells from the kitchen. “Hyung, are you alive?”
“Working,” Jisung croaks.
“Drink water.”
“Working.”
A cup appears next to his head anyway. He drinks it without arguing, which for him counts as a dramatic apology. Then he drags himself to the bathroom to get fresh and ready for the day.
He opens his class portal after breakfast/lunch and remembers every class he ignored all week. Great. Perfect. Exactly the kind of stress he hoped for today. He sets a timer for thirty minutes, opens the lecture slides, and starts basically copying the class into a notebook, telling himself he is summarizing it.
The afternoon blurs.
He alternates between class notes and micro-edits on the demo, toggling between tabs until the tabs start to look like the same tab. He fixes the reverb tail on the first chorus, adjusts the kick that keeps arguing with the bass, and then pretends to read two academic articles he will not, under any circumstances, cite.
Around nine, he realizes he forgot to check his phone.
Eagerly, he grabs it.
Minho replied at 9:13 p.m.
Got it. Working on something. I’ll send you a draft when I have it.
No emoji. A period. Just Minho.
Jisung stares at the message longer than necessary, then locks his phone and tells himself the small lift in his chest is just the satisfaction of progress, nothing else.
He shuts his laptop at two in the morning, brushes his teeth like a responsible adult, and falls asleep face-first on his pillow with the melody still looping behind his eyes.
--
Saturday morning arrives without permission. Too fast for his liking.
He eats ramen for breakfast because he hates himself a little.
He washes the pot immediately because he doesn’t hate himself that much.
Then he settles in to clean the arrangement, perfect the beat, and pretend he isn’t waiting for anything.
Which he obviously isn’t.
He is very busy.
Extremely occupied.
He has lectures to catch up on and a brain to quiet down, and this persistent ache in his shoulders that means he needs to stretch and won’t.
By afternoon, he’s written three lines of lyrics that don’t embarrass him and eleven that do. He leaves the embarrassing ones in the document anyway because deleting them will make him feel like he wasn’t productive at all.
He saves the file as “words_mess_107,” takes a break to stare out the window and breathe some fresh air, and immediately regrets staring out the window because his head goes empty and loud at the same time. Ignoring one’s own thoughts is really exhausting.
He starts counting till one hundred and seventy-seven, until his heart feels peaceful again.
He opens the class portal again. He answers two discussion questions with the intellectual depth of a teaspoon but submits them anyway.
At 6:42 p.m., a new email slides into his inbox.
From: Email [email protected]
Subject: choreo draft
No body text. Just a link.
He clicks it fast, then pretends he hasn’t.
The video opens to the studio he knows too well. Same scuffed floor, same crooked mirror, same humming fluorescent light that makes everyone look a little haunted.
Minho stands in the frame in a black long-sleeve and grey sweatpants, hair out of his eyes, no nonsense.
He presses play on Jisung’s demo off-camera. The beat fills the room in tinny speaker quality, and Minho moves.
It isn’t showy.
It is exact.
The first step hits the off-beat like an answer Jisung hadn’t realized he’d asked. Shoulders tighten where the snare whispers; wrists loosen where the vocal line curves. There is a small pause — one Jisung buried in the arrangement on purpose — that Minho catches with a breath and a turn that isn’t dramatic but still mesmerizes Jisung.
The second chorus opens his chest in the same way the harmony swells.
The ending cuts off like the rain has stopped mid-sentence.
Jisung watches it twice.
Then a third time.
Then he loses count.
He pauses on a frame that matches the downbeat exactly, and he hates how satisfying it is to see sound turn into a body like that.
He clicks reply, types “works,” and deletes it.
Types “good,” deletes that too.
Closes the laptop and decides to wash his hair.
Productive avoidance.
Saturday night, he studies on the floor because the desk feels too overwhelming.
He highlights three pages aggressively and absorbs none of it.
He writes a to-do list for Sunday that includes “eat,” because lately he needs to be told the basics.
He tries the lyrics again. One line about the way silence sits in a room after the rain feels right; he keeps it.
He goes to sleep before midnight on purpose, which for him counts as growth and getting his control back.
He is so tired that he doesn’t look for the stars.
--
Sunday morning, he wakes up weird. Not bad-weird. Just unfamiliar.
The apartment is quiet. Felix left early for practice.
Jisung makes eggs that are technically edible and stares at the empty chair across from him.
It’s not like he expects anyone there. He just notices the emptiness more than usual.
Weird.
He’s probably been alone with his laptop for way too long. Humans are social after all. He is also social. Sometimes. He likes being social. Lucky for him, he will meet his friends in the evening. Till then, he has a lot of studying to do. And that is good, because then he will not think about anyone.
Not that he misses anyone specifically. He absolutely does not miss seeing Minho’s head tilt or hearing him complain about “basic” concepts or watching him drink water like it is an Olympic sport.
Jisung shakes his head.
Why is he thinking about Minho?
He is busy. He has work. He is fine. He really is fine.
He spends the afternoon being productive. Cleaning the session file. He labels every track clearly because future-Jisung deserves better.
He reprints the schedule he never follows and sticks it to the wall with tape that doesn’t stick.
He answers a text from Seungmin that just says “study?” with “studying,” which is half true. And then he sits down and does some actual studying.
By early evening, he convinces himself he is a functional student again. That seems like enough.
Jisung is happy.
At seven, he meets Bang Chan and Changbin at the café near campus — the one with the too-loud espresso machine and the tables that wobble.
Chan has already claimed the corner booth and spread out enough notes to build a fort. That is their place. They really like it here.
It is far enough from the door so no one can hear what they are talking about, but not too far, so they can still see whoever comes in and gossip about them when gossiping is in place.
Changbin shows up five minutes late with two pastries and a face that says he has news before his mouth does.
They are supposed to catch up on coursework. They do, for about ten minutes.
Jisung pretends to read while Chan explains a concept that will never appear on an exam, and Changbin highlights an entire page in his music history book. If he keeps it going on like that, his highlighter pen will be finished before the exam week even starts.
Then the conversation drifts, like it always does.
Honestly, finally.
“So,” Changbin says, biting into his pastry, “Hyunjin answered one of my texts yesterday.”
Chan doesn’t look up. “And?”
“You guys work together. You should be texting a lot,” Jisung says, not understanding the big deal. And shoving the thought of Minho's text behind. Him and Minho don't text, like, not really.
“Yes, we do, and he never answers my texts if it’s not about work,” Changbin explains.
“And?” Chan asks again, still not looking up.
“And I think I’m in love,” Changbin announces, loud enough that the barista glances over.
Jisung snorts. “You said that in freshman year. And the second semester. And also two Tuesdays ago.”
“This is different.” Changbin wipes a crumb off the table with the seriousness of a surgeon. “He’s actually funny. And he is sooo pretty. And when he dances, I cannot look away. And he is annoying. And he bullies me in a way that makes my heart flutter.”
“So you like him because he insults you,” Chan says, finally looking up. “Healthy.”
“It’s banter,” Changbin argues. “I like the chase. And I’m going to win him over. Actually, correction: I’m already winning. the text he sent. He sent a heart.”
“A like your last message heart or a send in text heart-heart?” Jisung asks, because data matters.
“A heart-heart.”
Chan grimaces. “Dangerous.”
“It’s amazing,” Changbin corrects, then leans back, satisfied. “Anyway, how’s Rainy Night?”
Jisung picks at his cup lid. “Fine.”
He tells his friends how the week went by — leaving Wednesday night out of his retelling, but adding the details of Thursday night in, trying not to make them obvious, just so he can hear what his friends think.
“Minho’s choreo draft is good,” Chan says, which Jisung does not ask how he knows. “He showed me a clip. It fits the concept well.”
“I sent him the demo,” Jisung states the obvious, trying for neutral. “He sent back something that didn’t make me want to quit school, so there’s that.”
“So you admit he isn’t awful,” Changbin says, pouncing.
“I never said awful,” Jisung deflects. “I said annoying.”
Chan smiles like a patient kindergarten teacher. “He’s… Minho. He pretends he’s made of stone for the first week and then quietly brings you water and puts your phone on the charger and acts like it was purely logistical.”
Chan definitely caught the details of Jisung's story.
Of course he did.
Jisung looks away because that is uncomfortable for some reason. His ears start to get hot again. He takes a slow sip. “He did not bring me water.”
“Okay,” Chan says gently.
“He happened to have water.”
“Of course.”
“And he only plugged in my phone because the outlet was closer to him.”
Changbin nods solemnly. “Completely unrelated to you being asleep.”
Jisung kicks him under the table.
Changbin yelps, and Chan laughs into his sleeve.
Then, for a moment, they all go serious again.
“What if we meet this week and help each other with the project? All three groups. We can perform what we have till now and give each other real feedback?” Chan suggests.
Jisung and Changbin nod.
“Wednesday?” he asks.
“Wednesday,” Changbin echoes, taking his phone instantly and texting someone with an expression Jisung refuses to interpret. He is just waiting for an excuse to text Hyunjin again.
Jisung nods. “Wednesday.”
He also needs to inform Minho.
He tells himself he will do that tomorrow when they meet again.
They actually study after that — real studying, not the theatrical kind. Chan quizzes them like a dad who cares too much. Changbin realizes halfway through that he has been highlighting the wrong chapter the entire time and tries to style it out. Jisung answers questions correctly and feels a small, quiet relief settle in his chest. It isn’t rain-peace, but it’s stability, and he likes stability almost as much as he pretends he doesn’t.
When the café starts stacking chairs, Chan gathers his notes with the air of a man reassembling his dignity.
They step out into the night. It is not raining. The air smells clean anyway.
They say their goodbyes and start walking home.
Jisung walks home with his cold hands in his pockets, counting car plates because it calms him down. There is this one car that starts with uneven numbers, and he really likes it.
Three.
Seven.
One.
Nine.
He takes a mental note that whenever he sees a car plate like that, it means he will have an awesome day the next day.
At home, Felix is sprawled on the couch with a blanket and a face mask, watching something with too many episodes, probably.
“How was academic jail?” he asks the moment Jisung steps in.
“Survivable,” Jisung sighs, envious of how comfortable his friend looks. He sits down on the ground next to him.
“Eat,” Felix says, passing him a container without looking away from the screen.
Jisung eats at the table and lets his mind wander, exactly nowhere useful.
Later, he answers Minho’s email with a line that says “got it, tomorrow at 10?” because anything else feels like too much.
He showers, turns off the light, and lies in bed listening for rain that isn’t there.
He still feels weird.
As if something is missing today.
Or someone is missing…
No…
He doesn’t miss anyone.
He is just used to the studio’s hum and the way someone else breathing in the same room changes the silence. That is all.
He will see Minho on Wednesday.
He has classes to catch up on.
He has a demo that still needs a bridge.
He sets his alarm for 07:00 a.m. because he will get his life back on track and his sleep.
With an excited feeling for the next day.
He is just excited because his rule says he will have a good day tomorrow.
No other reason.
Chapter 4: “Rudely loving“
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: ALIEN-HAN
It's a lonely night, it's a quiet night
It's really dark, but with my low voice
I'm gonna make it happen, among those stars
I'm just lonely, somebody reach out and hold me
----------------
It’s 06:43, and Jisung is wide awake.
He’s staring at the clock on the wall.
He’s been weirdly giddy since he opened his eyes twenty minutes ago. For no reason. Absolutely no reason. Excited for today? Why? There’s nothing special about today. It’s Thursday. Just another day to be a student with back pain and too many deadlines. Just another day to work on their project.
He doesn’t want to understand why he’s excited. His body is probably just eager to work on the project.
That’s the official explanation.
That’s a lie, and he knows it. But whatever.
When the clock hits that satisfying 06:45, he sighs and gives up pretending he’ll sleep for fifteen more minutes. His body clearly decided that today is important for some reason, and his brain does not want to shut down.
He drags himself up, washes his face, brushes his teeth, and pulls on his gym clothes. The fabric is cold, and his reflection looks unimpressed. He hasn’t been to the gym in like forever, but if they’re dancing again, he needs his flexibility back.
He throws his towel and water bottle into his gym bag and glances over at Felix, who’s scrolling through his phone while eating cereal straight out of the box. Jisung shakes his head at this sight.
“You sure you don’t want to come with me and Binnie?” Jisung asks, slinging the bag over his shoulder.
Felix shakes his head. “Can’t. Meeting Chan later. We’re working on the bridge.”
Jisung nods. “Fine. Don’t die.”
“Same to you.”
With that, he leaves.
Outside, the morning air feels fresh in that annoying way that makes you wish you’d stayed in bed. He meets Changbin in front of the gym, and they head in together. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. The floor smells like rubber, comforting weirdly.
After a quick warm-up, they start with weights. Changbin spots him and corrects his form easily. Jisung’s always admired how dedicated Changbin is. The guy basically lives here when he’s not in the studio. It shows too—his body is…amazingly manly.
While Jisung lowers the barbell again, he hears a familiar voice from behind them.
“What’s up, brother-in-law?”
Jisung’s arms almost give out.
Minho.
Of course.
He places the weight back on the rack, before he kills himself with it, and sits up, towel dragging over his face. Changbin bursts out laughing and turns to Minho like they’ve been friends since birth.
Jisung follows him with his eyes.
And wow.
Jisung knew Minho was built. He’d seen it through shirts, through hoodies, through those stupid dance videos that lived rent-free in his head. But seeing it like this, in person, under these bright gym lights—it’s different. The tight, black compression shirt clings to every definition of his chest and shoulders. His hair’s messy, slightly damp, sticking to his forehead, and somehow that makes him look even more put-together. His eyes look sharper, brighter under the lights, and that smile—god, that smile—lights up his whole face.
Why does he never look at me like that?
…Wait.
Why did he just think that?
He blinks hard, trying to shake it off. Great. His brain’s malfunctioning again. He should focus on his breathing, on the weights, on literally anything else.
Minhi is annoying. Arrogant. Annoyingly arrogant.
Meanwhile, Changbin and Minho are chatting like best friends. They exchange a quick hug, laughing about something he doesn’t catch, and Jisung’s still wiping his face with the towel longer than necessary because apparently he’s forgotten how to act normally.
Then another voice cuts through the air.
“Hyung, you disappeared.”
Hyunjin.
Of course.
He steps out from behind Minho like he’s emerging from a commercial. Even in a hoodie, he looks beautiful, Jisung needs to admit. Changbin freezes for half a second, and then his grin returns full force.
“You look amazing!” Changbin blurts out.
Hyunjin rolls his eyes. “I know.”
The arrogance. The audacity. Jisung almost chokes on his water.
This was the reminder he needed. Dance majors are all the same. Arrogant.
Changbin doesn’t even seem discouraged; instead, he starts asking about Hyunjin’s workout plan, offering to spot him. And somehow—somehow—Hyunjin nods in agreement.
Jisung watches in disbelief as Changbin throws him an apologetic smile before following Hyunjin like a lovesick golden retriever.
And just like that, he’s alone.
With Minho.
Again.
Jisung’s pulse picks up. Probably from the workout.
Definitely from the workout. He wipes his face again and avoids eye contact.
Minho drops his bag beside the bench. “The song’s coming together nicely,” he says, stretching his arms like he didn’t just cause chaos. “Today, we should work on the lyrics, so I can match the choreography. Is that okay for you?”
Jisung nods a little too fast. “Yeah. That’s fine.”
They train side by side for a while, both focused on their own training, both silent.
When they both ended up in front of the same machine, Minho allowed Jisung to go first. And suddenly, Jisung feels a touch on his shoulder. And a hand at his elbow guiding him back into position. Minho just corrected his form. Jisung murmurs a fast thank you and keeps going.
But it wasn’t the last time Minho corrected his form. Each time, Jisung feels that jolt. The one that starts where the touch lands and spreads upward like heat trapped under his skin.
He hates that his body reacts like this. He hates that Minho doesn’t even seem to notice.
He hates that he’s now thinking about how Minho’s hands look instead of how heavy the dumbbell is.
At one point, Minho steps behind him to adjust his posture during squats.
“Keep your back straight,” he says, voice low, hand hovering at his waist but not quite touching. “Like that. Yeah.”
Jisung swallows hard. “I am straight,” he mutters under his breath, immediately regretting it when his ears start burning.
Minho snorts quietly but says nothing.
They finish the workout with light stretches. Minho drops to the floor, legs apart, folding forward effortlessly. Jisung tries to copy him but immediately regrets it when his hamstrings threaten to file for divorce.
Minho glances over, hiding a laugh. “You’re rusty.”
“I’m fine,” Jisung says through gritted teeth.
“Sure.”
Minho leans over and gently presses a hand between Jisung’s shoulder blades, pushing him lower. “Breathe,” he says.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Then don’t almost pull a muscle. I need you healthy.” Minho says near Jisung's ear, making him gulp. “Otherwise, we can’t finish the project together,” he adds.
Jisung doesn’t answer. He’s too busy pretending that the warmth of Minho’s hand doesn’t feel like it’s burning through the thin fabric of his shirt.
After another twenty minutes, they finally leave the gym. The air outside is cold against their sweaty skin. Jisung hates how awake he feels now. How light. How… fine.
Minho adjusts his bag over his shoulder. “Wanna head straight to the studio?”
“Yeah,” Jisung says, clearing his throat. “Might as well before I get lazy.”
They walk in silence. Their steps fall in rhythm — even that’s annoying. Jisung focuses on the sound of the city waking up, cars passing, and birds trying too hard to be poetic. Anything that isn’t Minho’s quiet breathing beside him.
At some point, he remembers something. “Oh, by the way. Chan and the others said we’re all meeting on Wednesday. To go through the demos, help each other fine-tune stuff.”
Minho nods. “Felix already told me.”
“Oh.”
Of course he did. Felix takes the initiative fast. Jisung doesn’t know why that answer makes something twist in his stomach. Mad? Jealous? Doesn't matter...
The studio is quiet when they arrive. The faint smell of coffee and dust lingers in the air. Minho drops his bag and starts stretching again while Jisung powers on his laptop.
They sit across from each other, headphones half-on, sharing the same space but not really looking at each other. Good, Jisung thinks, he doesn’t want to look at Minho’s annoying face any longer.
The only sound is the faint tapping of keys and the occasional pen scratching across paper.
Working with Minho like this is… strange. It’s comfortable in a way that shouldn’t be.
He’s calm. Focused. Efficient. And their Ideas bounce well off each other. He doesn’t talk unless it’s necessary. Doesn’t waste time on filler words.
Every once in a while, their eyes meet briefly, when Jisung hums a lyric and Minho tilts his head in thought, or when Minho suggests a rhythm change and Jisung actually agrees. They work for hours, barely noticing the time slip by.
Jisung starts piecing together words that fit the rain — the sound, the calm, the tension. He hums a few lines under his breath. Minho listens quietly, then adds: “Try using that echo you made in the first verse. It’ll tie it together.”
“Right,” Jisung says softly. “Yeah. That works.”
Their voices fill the small studio in low tones.
When they finally take a break, Jisung leans back, rubbing his eyes. His shoulders ache, but it’s the good kind. The kind that means progress. It feels good.
Minho’s sitting on the floor now, scrolling through his notes, hair falling into his eyes. Jisung doesn’t seem to be able to look away.
Minho looks up once, catches Jisung staring, and smiles faintly, not the big grin he gives everyone else, but a smaller one. Softer. It makes Jisung's stomach twitch again.
Jisung looks away fast, muttering something about water, and grabs his bottle just to have something to do.
He takes a long sip, pretending not to feel that same warmth blooming under his skin again.
Whatever this is, he tells himself, it’s probably just part of the process.
Just creative energy. Nothing more.
That’s what he keeps telling himself.
And yet — when he packs up later, when they both stand outside saying nothing for a moment too long — he realizes the excitement he felt at 06:43 wasn’t for the project.
Not really.
--
Tuesday started early and ended late. Jisung met Minho in the studio at nine. His energy drink was not cold, and there was no orange cat on his way to the studio. His head ached and his muscles ached, reminding him that the training yesterday was much needed and that he hadn’t visited the gym in way too long.
Minho sat directly on the ground instead of the couch.
No small talk. The day went by slowly.
Just the two of them hunched over the same page, trying to make a chorus that didn’t embarrass them.
By noon, they had a verse that lived on the edge of right. By two, it fell apart. By fou, they rebuilt it from a different angle. They kept going. He mumbled lines to each other; Minho nodded or tilted his head or said “again” in that calm voice that made Jisung want to throw something at him and try harder at the same time.
The problem wasn’t the beat. The beat carried. The problem was language. Anything too direct felt cheap. Anything too abstract felt fake. They circled for hours, collecting phrases, building little towers that collapsed whenever they tried to climb them.
Around seven, Minho sighed, “We can perform the beat and the choreography tomorrow,” he said, practical, thinking realistically. “The duet part of your section isn’t trained yet anyway. We’ll demo the dance I have, then revise together after feedback.”
Jisung nodded, even as something in his chest sagged. He hated being less finished than Chan and Felix. Hated the feeling of walking into a room with only half of what he promised himself he’d bring. He is happy for his friends. Kind of. But if he had someone who clicked with him better than Minho, he is sure he would be finished by now. He is not stupid and also talented; he knows that. And he hates having someone controlling everything he does. He hates group projects. He hates where they are now. He hates how helpful Minho was at times, so he doesn’t have the right to hate him fully. He hates how right he was with his verdict. He hates everything.
His head starts to turn.
But he also hated fake. If the words weren’t honest yet, forcing them would only make him hate the whole thing even more.
Trying to ignore the sweat that is making his hands damp. He stands up and excuses himself to the restroom to wash his face with cold water.
He does not have the time for a panic attack right now.
They stayed until the building’s lights clicked to night mode. Minho left with a small wave and the promise to refine the dance transitions. Jisung packed slowly, fighting the itch to start over completely. Throw everything away and delete it.
Instead, he goes home.
The apartment was too quiet. Felix had left early after they ate together to crash at Chan’s after a late mixing session.
Jisung showered and sat at his desk. He watched the timeline of his own song crawl by, and the pressure in his chest that he was able to ignore earlier came crashing down on him again, while his brain started its favorite game: What If You’re Behind Forever And Everyone Knows.
You are not done. They are. You don’t have lyrics. You barely have a chorus. What if your section never clicks? What if the beat only sounds good because it’s new? What if Wednesday ends with everyone saying “nice try” and patting your shoulder? What if—
He shut the laptop. Opened Minho’s choreo draft instead. Full screen. Play.
Minho moved like he was answering a question Jisung hadn’t asked out loud. The opening—clean, measured, resisting the impulse to show off—quietly matched the weight of the first verse. The way he leaned forward in the pre-chorus, the breath he took right before the drop—Jisung felt his shoulders loosen. The panic didn’t disappear; it just… sat down. He watched it again. And again.
By the fourth time through, the tapping in his ribs had turned into something else.
Something else he didn’t need to name, but it sure let him sleep.
--
Wednesday morning. Jisung is not feeling it.
They booked Studio C for all six of them. Minho arrived first—of course—stretching with headphones on. Jisung came in two minutes later, the stone in his stomach back where it was yesterday. Minho looked at Jisung, nodded at him. And that was that.
Chan and Felix rolled in with coffees for everyone. Changbin followed with two bags full of snacks as if he were sponsoring the event. Opening the door, even though his hands are full, for Hyunjin, who is walking behind him, to eat a small sandwich that Changbin probably bought him.
Jeongin slipped quietly with a notebook and a pen like a secret judge.
“Jeongin-ah, you made it,” Chan said, genuinely happy. “We need your eye for stage stuff.”
Jeongin smiled. “Happy to bully all of you equally.”
“We love democratic equality,” Seungmin’s voice sang from the door as he walked in, two clinking bags in his hands. “Also, I brought soju for after. Incentive to not cry during feedback.”
Literally nobody has really invited him, but when he knew that his roommate Jeongin was coming, nothing and nobody was able to hold him back from coming and being a menace.
“Put it in the corner before Jisung starts pre-gaming because of his anxiety,” Felix said, already dragging a speaker cable across the floor.
“I don’t pre-game,” Jisung lied.
They warmed up together, half-stretches, half-jokes, and everyone pretending not to measure themselves against everyone else.
Chan claps his hands, taking the lead. “Order: Binnie and Hyunjin, then Felix and me, then Minho and Jisung. The goal is that we watch each other, take notes, and help each other improve. We keep the feedback real, we keep it honest, we keep it loving but also a little rude.”
“Rudely loving,” Felix corrected.
“Lovingly rude,” Jeongin wrote down, deadpan.
Changbin and Hyunjin moved to the small stage in the dance room, their concept had the title “twighlight zone”. Seungmin, who is acting like a stagehand today, closed the lights.
The track hit—drums crisp, bass pulsing steady beneath it—and Changbin moved first, sharp and grounded, every beat landing like muscle memory. Hyunjin followed a second later, and the air between them shifted. The rhythm wasn’t just sound anymore; it was tension and pull. They mirrored, clashed, spun apart, and found each other again. It looked like two storms learning how to share the same sky. Not easy, not smooth—just real. By the time the chorus looped, their movements locked in, the clash had turned into sync, and everyone watching could feel that quiet snap of chemistry when the rhythm finally decides it belongs to both.
Jisung wanted to hate it on principle. Hyunjin had been… a Bitch. With his attitude and his dismissive jokes that landed too close to Changbin’s soft spots, it hurts Jisung to hear this about his Hyung. He just did not want to make Changbin feel bad and wanted to support him no matter what. He thought thatit'ss only a newly found obsession that will vanish soon. But on stage, it made sense. They made sense together.
He still narrowed his eyes a little. He still kept a ledger. But somewhere on the second chorus, he admitted, quietly, they might actually have a shot.
The way Hyunjin looks at Changin, when this one is not looking and when he thinks nobody will see it…
It was even softer than how Binnie looks at Hyunjin, if that's even possible.
The six clapped when the song ended.
Feedback circled—clean your ending, breathe here—and then Chan tapped the speaker. “Our turn.”
Chan and Felix didn’t just perform—they lived inside the song.
The nostalgia in their concept matched the choreography that Felix Buil,lt, and their voices harmonized perfectly in the background. The beat was slow, but at some points it was more upbeat than expected.
Felix moved like he was tracing something he’d already lost, his timing effortless, voice low and steady. Chan followed with that precision that never slipped, the kind that made you believe he’d bleed before missing a beat.
Together, they built a sound that felt complete, like the last page of a story they’d already read too many times. Their chorus didn’t ask for more work. It was already finished—annoyingly finished.
And perfect. Honestly, Jisung can't think of a reason why a professor would take any points away from them.
Jisung felt the little pinch of envy and let it be. He wasn’t jealous of them; he was jealous of the feeling. The lock. The click. The way a song looks when it stops being a project and becomes a place you can stand.
The clapping was louder than before.
“Still needs a final polish,” Chan said, casual, like he didn’t just create a song that would undeniably be able to hit the Billboard 200.
“‘Final polish,’ he says,” Jisung muttered to Changbin. “I hate him.”
“You love him,” Minho meddled in, not looking away from the speaker. Changbin giggled.
“Shut up.”
Then it was their turn.
They didn’t have lyrics ready to sing. They didn’t have Jisung’s full section trained. For a second, he tasted Tuesday night again, that hollow space where finished should be. He exhaled once through his nose, counted 3-7-9, and nodded at Minho.
“Playing the beat only,” Jisung said to the room, voice dropping in disappointment. “Choreo draft for the first half. We’re still writing.”
Felix gave him a thumbs-up. Chan smiled like he’d been here too many times to judge. Great, not only are they way ahead of him, but now they also pity him. Jeongin clicked his pen, ready. Jisung sat down away from his friends, near the stage. Can not handle their pity looks.
The intro swelled. Minho stepped forward.
And suddenly, Jisung forgot everything.
Not poetic forgetting. Literal forgetting. He forgot the list of things he was supposed to watch for—transitions, spacing, where a lyric could land better than a breath. He forgot that he’d been mad, earlier, about not having his own part to perform yet. He forgot that the lyrics weren’t done, that the chorus kept shape-shifting, that his notes app had a document called “why words are fake.”
Minho moved, and the room narrowed. His lines matched the beat like they’d grown up together. No excess, no fluff, no showboating— he controlled the music. He looked up during the pre-chorus, and Jisung felt the air crease. The drop hit; Minho didn’t hit back, he absorbed it and translated it, and made it visible. It was exactly the body Jisung had heard in the demo and hadn’t been able to admit he’d written toward.
“Hey,” a voice near his ear said softly, amused. Chan. “If you’re going to stare, blink sometimes.”
Jisung startled so hard he almost swore out loud. “I’m not staring.”
“Mmm.” Chan’s smile was wahalf-amuseded but still kind. “Studying, then.”
“Professional assessment.”
“Of course.”
Jisung forced his eyes to the speaker for three beats, failed, and looked back. Minho finished with a pose, Jisung hasn’t seen yet. What meant that he kept working on the dance.
The room stayed quiet for a second in a way that says everyone felt it and is deciding how honest to be.
Felix clapped first. “Beautiful.” Hyunjin joined in.
Jeongin nodded. “Transitions clean. Keep the second chorus smaller; it hits harder that way.”
Seungmin said nothing, but his mouth twitched like approval was trying to escape and he was wrestling it back down.
Jisung finally found his voice. “The way you hold the pre before the drop,” he said, too fast, “that’s where the line should resolve, not earlier. I’ll rewrite that phrase.”
Minho looked at him, something almost like relief flickering and disappearing. “Good. I thought so too.”
They all went into their couple of groups and ran it again. And again. Taking the feedback from each other and adjusting it. Jisung hummed nonsense syllables where words would be, finding vowels that didn’t fight the beat nor the movement, so they don’t have to change the dance too much. Minho adjusted three counts to make room for a future consonant. For the first time since Monday morning, Jisung felt something like alignment.
Break time looked like bodies strewn on the floor, shoes off, water bottles sweating. Changbin fed Hyunjin a cracker like a zookeeper trying not to lose a finger. Hyunjin took it without looking up from his phone. Seungmin, who had spent most of the rehearsal pretending not to watch, finally unpacked the clinking bags and lined up green bottles on the low table.
“Medically inadvisable, however artistically necessary,” he announced.
“Well,l it is very good for…motivation.” Chan chimed happily, surprising everyone. If someone was going to go against daytime drinking in a dance room, they thought it would be Chan for sure.
Felix giggled. “Doctor Min and Therapist Chan.”
They sat in a loose circle on the floor, backs against mirrors and walls, cheap paper cups in hand, and music that someone put on, playing loudly in the background. The first round went down with the relief of people who’d been holding their breath about different things for too long.
“To projects that don’t suck,” Chan said.
“To partners who bully us correctly,” Hyunjin added, side-eyeing Seungmin, who preened.
“To Jeongin’s notebook of destruction,” Felix said, pointing at the margin notes that had already rewritten two transitions and a lighting cue.
“To Minho’s spine,” Jisung said, wanting to annoy the elder, then realized that sounded weird. “I mean the way it… works. With the… okay, never mind.” Stupid.
“Your spine too,” Minho said, voice flat, eyes warm. The corner of his mouth tipped up. “Because it's straight, you know.”
“Shut up,” Jisung muttered, hiding a red face behind his cup.
The banter loosened into laughter. Changbin tried to explain the heart emoji taxonomy to Hyunjin like a scholar defending a thesis, while Hyunjin acted like he didn’t know what hearts are or that he can not remember ever sending one. Felix put on a German operetta track and dared Chan to sing the harmony just so he could laugh at his voice cracks.
Jeongin filmed seconds of chaos for a story and then deleted it because he was secretly soft like that, kept the video, however, in his camera roll. Seungmin told a story about a disastrous open mic in the bar he works at during the weekend that ended with someone pulling the fire alarm, so they had a reason to make the wannabe singer stop. The Culprit may or may not have been Seungmin himself.
At some point, Jisung leaned his head back against the mirror and listened without thinking. The beat that had crawled under his ribs on Tuesday wasn’t tapping anymore. It had settled. The lyrics weren’t done. His section wasn’t trained. They were behind in the way that matters until it suddenly doesn’t.
He looked over. Minho was staring at the ceiling, cup balanced on his knee, expression neutral and content. As if his body had finally returned to its regular settings after living at 120 percent for too long.
When Minho glanced sideways, Jisung looked away first.
Stupid.
He does not want to think about how his walls against the dancer are falling. Not here.
Not with friends yelling about emojis and Seungmin rationing soju like a pharmacist.
--
“That was good,” Chan said later, stacking cups, the unofficial signal that the night was ending. “We’re close.”
“Closer than we think,” Felix added. He was dancing happily, and maybe more than just tipsy, around the room. His blond hair flying around him.
“Don’t turn around too much, you will throw up, Felix,” Hyunjin warned, already pulling the blond dancer on his hoodie. Not a very smart idea as it turned out, he himself was drunker than he wanted to admit, and couldn’t take the weight of the younger one crashing his whole weight into him. They both fell on the ground, moaning and groaning.
“Too late,” Changbin said, shamelessly, laughing at them next to everybody else. Chan was the only one who went to help the hurting dance couple.
They cleaned up. They promised to send the files. And went out of the room.
Outside, the night air was cool but still kind. They split up and started walking. Felix, Minhi, Hyunj, and Jisung walked in the same direction.
Walking beside Minho, Jisung shoved his hands in his pockets and counted odd numbers of things he saw. Three trash cans. Seven red leaves. Nine yellow once.
He didn’t say anything about the way Minho’s performance had made the room disappear. He wanted to. Wanted to say how thankful he is that they are moving forward. Wanted to speak out and voice his happiness about the progress. But he couldn’t, saying nice words to Minho still felt like he wasbetraying his beliefs.
But for once, the not-yet felt like exactly the right place to be. And he knew that the only one to thank for this was the man walking calmly beside him.
Jisung woke up to the sound of his phone buzzing. At first, he thought it was the alarm. But when he looked at his phone, his eyes widened in horror. He can kiss the possibility of keeping his phone on loud mode goodbye.
Felix had made a group chat.
“Project Babies 🍼🎶”
Who even allowed him to name it that? The chat was already blowing up.
At 8:17 a.m. on a Thursday.
Jisung scrolled through it half-asleep.
Dad Channie Hyung: Everyone alive?
My Soul Twin: barely
(not saved) Hwang Hyunjin: delete the emojis!
Binnie Hyung: No pls dont 🍼🍼🍼
Innie: Are you rehearsing today or just suffering
My Soul Twin: Both!
My lovely Villain: report card for hangovers: Chan B+, expected you to be handling alcohol better, Binnie F, he started dancing to a K-pop girl group song in the middle of the street yesterday night, Jisung N/A (ghost), Minho,A+ , emotionally stable as always.
Innie: video attach. Don't let Seungmin make you think he didn't enjoy watching Changbin Hyung shaking his Ass. Watch him cheer Changbin on.
Binnie Hyung: The last time you got to see that for free! And Seungmin don't act like you didn't like getting a piece of that.
My lovely Villain: ew
Dad Channie Hyung: Jisung-ah, why are you only reading the messages without answering?You good?
Jisung: I’m reading this with one open eye. Stop talking so loudly!
He almost closed the phone, ignoring the laughing emojis, but then he realized.
Since they have a group chat, that means he has Minho's number, and Minho has his. Does that mean they need to write here on Kao now instead of mail? But does that mean that their relationship is progressing into something else than just University work Partners? Or do they still need to write an email? Is it weird if Jisung texts him on Eeemailow that he has his number? Everyone else was also writing on KakaoTalk instead of Email? But Minho never asked Jisung for his number, and Jisung did not feel the need to ask him either. Why should he? But why didn’t the older one ask him? Did he also hate Jisung? Not that Jisung cared for his opinion, of course.
Before he could spiral too much, another notification popped up.
(not saved) Lee Minho: Send me the latest project file when you’re awake. I saw that you changed some things yesterday. And drink water! See you later in the afternoon.
He stared at it longer than necessary.
Short. Straightforward.
But somehow it felt personal.
“drink water”
It made Jisung's stomach warm again.
Like something a boyfriend would text. Not that they were, of course. Not that Jisung wants to, of course. Never. Never again with a dance major. Never again. Not even close.
He dropped the phone on his chest and sighed.
Whatever. He’d send the file after breakfast.
By the afternoon, he is back in the studio with Minho.
Jisung still didn’t have the guts to thank him for yesterday. Or compliment him. The only thing he mustered was a comment about the rain finally stopping, earning him a tilted head from the dancer, since he was not used to a Jisung who provided small talk. And… That was it. Just a tilted head and a weird look. Jisung feels his ears heating up.
They got to work fast. Minho played the beat. Jisung mumbled lines under his breath.
They had both written something separately—a verse and a chorus each. But neither version felt right.
Minho’s words were too detached. Like, he didn’t really mean any of it.
On the other hand, Jisung’s too emotional. Minho said that they weren’t really good for the dance style and beat they had in mind.
They spent the whole afternoon mixing phrases, swapping half of the lines, trying to meet somewhere in the middle. But still nothing really.
Friday wasn’t much different. They met again after class. Wrote. Rewrote. Scratched out half the page. Listened to the same thirty seconds of melody on loop for two hours. Every time Jisung thought, This is it, Minho would tilt his head slightly.
That tilt was enough. He knew it wasn’t there yet.
And he hated that Minho was right. Every. Time.
By the end of Friday, they had something that sounded good—but not good enough. The structure was solid, the melody worked, the tone fit the rain concept, but it felt hollow.
Even Minho's poker face started to crumble, and disappointment was starting to be seen.
Like something was missing.
They both knew it, but neither said it out loud. Too exhausted.
Saturday came, and they didn’t meet. Both had piles of schoolwork waiting. He was sitting alone in the library. Jisung tried to focus, but every time he looked at his notes, all he saw was an unfinished lyric sheet in his head. He had two weeks left. Two weeks to finish the project. Two weeks to make sure he didn’t mess up his semester. Two weeks, and still no complete lyrics. No final choreography. No recording date. They needed a whole week for a beat, and a whole week for…nothing. They started the lyrics, they started the dance, but they have NOTHNÎNG to show up for.
The thoughts started circling again—like small, fast storms that wouldn’t stop forming.
He called Felix. His Twin picked up promptly.
“Bro, I think I’m going to combust.”
“Please don't, I just cleaned.”
“We have nothing done.”
“You have the beat, that is something.”- “But nothing that feels finished.”
Felix sighs, “Sungie, breathe. Show me your notes.”
Felix was the only person Jisung could panic-call like this without getting judged. He sent him the entire folder. Lyrics. Drafts. Unnamed demos. Everything.
Ten minutes later, Felix called.
“Okay,” Felix said, voice calm, “first, breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“You sound like you’re hyperventilating.”
“Felix!”
Felix ignored him. “So, I read through everything, and most of it’s just rough sketches. But one thing stood out. This file is called ‘NightDraft2.mp3’.”
Jisung froze. He knew that file. He hadn’t touched it since THE Wednesday night.
“It’s... different,” Felix went on. “It’s not just a demo. It’s almost a full song.”
Jisung rubbed his temple. “Yeah, I just wrote that after… Doesn’t matter. It wasn’t for the project.”
“It should be,” Felix said immediately, ignoring the fact that his roommate is trying to hide something from him. It is annoying, but he knows that Jisung will come to talk to him when he is ready. “This one’s real. You can feel it. It sounds like you wrote it about someone you actually—”
Felix paused. “—about a lover.”
Jisung’s brain shut down for three seconds straight.
He forced out a laugh. “A lover? That’s rich. I don’t even have time to love myself.”
“I’m serious, hyung. You should use it. It fits your project’s vibe perfectly. Just finish it properly.”
Felix’s voice was light, but Jisung could tell he meant it. And the worst part? He was right. The song did fit. Every lyric, every chord, every soft, hesitant beat.
Because he wrote it after watching Minho in the rain. Because it was about him.
And there was no way in hell he was going to tell Felix that. Just thinking about this fact makes Jisung want to throw up.
After they hung up, he sat at the desk. The room was quiet except for the hum of the computer. Nobody was in this little corner of the library, nor near it, since it was Saturday.
He opened the file on the laptop and the beat file on his phone.
The track started—simple piano chords layered with faint static, like distant rain.
Then he started singing the lyrics he had written, his voice soft, uncertain:
“I don’t want to get it until everything comes crashing down. You're the one I want when everything comes crashing down. I’m drenched, but I don’t want to run. The streetlight hums, and you’re the only one.”
He sighed. Felix was right again. He hated how often Felix was right. They matched perfectly.
He is a coward. He was secretly wishing they wouldn’t. But oh well…
He added a few more lines, adjusted the bridge, and closed the file. His hands hovered over the keyboard for a minute before he opened his chat with Minho.
Typing… deleting… typing again.
Then, finally, sending.
Jisung: Minho-ssi, this is something I wrote a while ago, but it might fit our theme. If you think it’s good, we can use it. If not, I’ll scrap it.
He attached the file with the lyrics and hit send before he could change his mind.
He stared at the message for a while. Read it again. Regretted sending it.
Wrote a second message saying ignore it if it’s weird and deleted it before sending.
Minutes passed.
No reply.
He packed his things and went home. The moment he entered through the door to the dormitory, he checked his phone again. Minho has seen the message. But no reply.
Maybe it was not good, and Minho is busy untilting his head at reading this bullshit.
He brushed his teeth.
Checked again.
Nothing.
He lay down. Closed his eyes.
Then, at 00:31, his phone buzzed.
(not saved) Lee Minho: Perfect. Let’s record it on Monday.
No emoji. No punctuation. No explanation. Just that.
And somehow, it made his chest feel light. He smiled to himself in the dark, pulling the blanket over his face like a kid hiding from something.
He didn’t know if Minho knew what the song was really about. He didn’t even know if he wanted him to know. All he knew was that, for the first time since this project started, the word perfect didn’t make him panic.
It made him want to see Minho again.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: Photobook-STRAYKIDS
I과거는 다시 돌아오지 않는 것을 나도 알아
잠시 널 두고 가야만 하는 것도 사실은 알아
----------------
The café is crowded again, filled with that Sunday noise of people pretending to study while doing anything but. Jisung sits at the corner table with his usual iced americano. Since this project started, it feels like he has had more caffeine than oxygen in his blood.
Across from him, Changbin is scrolling through his phone, grinning like an idiot, and Chan is trying to act like he wasn’t watching the grin with growing curiosity.
Chan and Jisung already knew that look. The look of a man about to drop a confession no one asked for. And that is exactly what he does.
“So, he texted me again,” Changbin says.
“Hyunjin?” Jisung asks, pretending to be surprised even though it was painfully obvious.
Changbin nods proudly. “Yeah. He said he was thinking about the project and that maybe we should meet to brainstorm some more things for the stage. And he added a heart. Again,” Changbin grins.
Chan leans back, unimpressed. “Okay, then he’s flirting.”
“I know!” Changbin’s grin turned ridiculous. “You think I’m imagining things, but he’s been acting differently lately. He was so cold. But now… I don’t know. There’s something there. Like…”
He trails off, searching for words.
“Like what?” Jisung asked, more curious now.
Changbin smiled softly. “Like warmth? Comfort? We can talk for hours. I can listen to him for hours. But when we are silent, it is never awkward. It is comfortable. Does that make sense?”
Jisung didn’t answer right away. He remembered how Hyunjin used to look at Changbin the first week of the project—sharp, distant, unimpressed. He rolled his eyes with each compliment Changbin gave him. He didn’t like it. Didn’t like the way Hyunjin’s gaze felt like a test, or how Changbin still smiled through it like he didn’t notice. Hyunjin was mean to his Hyung, and Jisung did not like him for this reason. And also because all dance major men are arrogant, toxic, abusive, toxic, hurtful, annoying, toxic, controlling, hate your friends, toxic men. The usual list.
But when they’d all performed together on Wednesday, he saw something else. Hyunjin’s movements were precise, almost painfully beautiful.
And when Changbin moved beside him, the sharpness in Hyunjin’s eyes melted into something else. Focus. Warmth. Something unspoken. Nobody looked at someone like that if they hated them.
Jisung sips his coffee slowly, hiding a smile. “Yeah. Maybe it does.”
Chan, meanwhile, is watching Changbin like an older brother watching a kid fall into the deep end of a pool. He sighed.
“You realize he’s going to destroy you, right?”
“Maybe,” Changbin laughed. “But what a way to go.”
Jisung shook his head, grinning. “You’re insane.”
“I’m in love.”
“That’s worse,” Chan muttered.
They all laugh, for a moment, everything felt light. A question burned on Jisung’s tongue.
“Hyung, how can you be like that?” Jisung looked at his Hyung with big eyes. Changbin frowns. “How can you be so…open about your feelings? You always directly admit it the moment you have the smallest crush on someone. You are never afraid to show your love or chase people you want. How do you do that? Aren’t you afraid?”
Changin looks puzzled. He did not expect this question from the younger person at all. Chan also looks surprised but stays quiet. Changbin thinks for a moment. He wants to answer the question honestly.
“I learned to accept that in the end of the day, not everyone I am attracted to will be attracted to me as well.” He said, “At the same time, I know who I am. I know where I came from, and I know what I deserve. When I want something, I go for it, because in the end, there are only two outcomes in sight. I get what I want and am happy, or I get rejected and can move on. And the faster I go for it, the smaller the feelings are. If I wait for a long time to shoot my shot, the pain in case of a rejection is worse.”
Jisung nodded.
“I know my self-worth, at the same time, I am not afraid to try. Also, now with Hyunjin, I love the chase, but I won't be chasing him forever without results. I am not going to disrespect myself for someone else.”
“But how do you know…? How?” Jisung struggled to find the right words.
“I think Jisung is asking, how do you know what you want?” Chan asks instead of Jisung, giving him a fond little smile. Jisung keeps his eyes down, but nods.
“Because I am honest to myself, Sungi.” Changbin explains. The tone wasn’t mean, but it still stung. Like he had looked into Jisung’s most secret place.
Changbin’s phone buzzed again. His face lit up.
“It’s him,” he said, voice suddenly overly happy. “He says he just got an idea for the choreography and needs to see me now.”
Jisung blinks. “Right now?”
“Yeah.”
“You realize it’s Sunday, right?” Chan said.
Changbin is already packing his bag. “Art doesn’t care about weekends.” He winks.
“Love doesn’t either, apparently.” Chan rolls his eyes. “You know that he only wants to see you run to him, right?”
“I know. Laugh all you want,” Changbin said, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, “but the more you laugh, the less food you get at my wedding.”
He turned to Jisung, eyes gleaming. “Believe me, Sungie. When you’re honest with yourself, you just know.”
Then he was gone—just like that. Leaving his coffee half-finished and the air heavier than before.
The walk home with Chan started quietly. They’d taken this route a hundred times before, but tonight the city felt different. The sky was dark, the air smelled faintly of rain again, and the streetlights buzzed like a heartbeat just above them.
Chan shoved his hands into his pockets. “You’re thinking too hard again.”
Jisung kicked at a rock. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
“I’m fine, hyung.”
“You’re not.”
He stopped walking, looking at Jisung seriously now. “You do this thing where you convince yourself you’re okay just because you’re functioning. But functioning isn’t the same as fine.”
Jisung stayed quiet. He hated it when Chan did this—when he saw through him like glass.
“I know how your brain works,” Chan went on softly. “You try to outthink your own feelings. You drown the quiet with work and music so you don’t have to sit with what’s there.”
“I’m just tired,” Jisung muttered.
Chan shook his head. “No. You’re scared.”
That made Jisung look up. “Of what?”
“Of being enough,” Chan said simply.
Jisung tried to laugh it off, but his chest felt tight. “You sound like a therapist.”
“I sound like someone who’s watched you for years,” Chan said. “I saw you destroy yourself trying to prove something no one asked for. And I know Hoonsook had a hand in that.”
The streetlight above them flickered once. Neither of them moved. Jisung’s body went cold at the name.
He did not want to remember the memories.
Since the day Chan saw the bruise—the small blue mark that said everything Jisung never did—and the breakup that followed right after, the older never really forgave himself for not seeing the signs earlier.
He and Changbin gave the ex more bruises that night than the one he’d given Jisung. But bruises fade. The emotional abuse didn’t.
Hoonsook only hit him once. Just once.
That’s what Jisung kept telling himself, as if saying “only” made it less real. But the rest of it—the silence, the control, the slow twisting of everything Jisung thought was love—stayed long after.
The way Hoonsook always knew how to make him doubt his own memory. How he’d say you’re too sensitive every time Jisung flinched. How he turned apologies into proof that Jisung was the problem.
It was never loud abuse. That’s what made it worse.
Chan, Felix, and Changbin tried to fill the cracks he left with care. They gave him all the love, the warmth, the gentleness they could. They watched him relearn how to eat, laugh, and talk without checking if he was allowed to. Slowly, he started to feel human again.
But something in him still stayed broken.
A part that didn’t trust calm silence anymore.
A part that thought peace was just the break before the next storm.
He didn’t know if that part could ever heal.
Jisung did not want to think further. He stared at the light. So bright. Why is it so bright?
By the way, how did the light know it had to light up? Like all the streetlights, they just started their shift together at the same time, the moment the sun went down. How did they know when to start? Is there someone who has to click on a button somewhere so he can light up the city-
Chan sighed, bringing Jisung back to reality, and ran a hand through his hair. “You know, I envy you sometimes.”
Jisung frowned. “Why?”
“Because you still care enough to feel. You still feel everything as if it is new. That’s rare. I don’t know why you want to hide those feelings away. Why can’t you give up the urge to have everything under control? As if, if you allowed yourself to feel for a moment, all control would go away. And you will break.”
The words hit harder than Jisung expected.
Jisung swallowed hard. “I don’t know how to stop feeling if I start it once.”
“Don’t,” Chan said. “You just have to stop punishing yourself for it. I promised you, and I am still keeping my promise, and Binnie too, something like what this asshole did to you, we will never let it happen again. Never!”
Jisung's eyes started to tear.
He stepped closer, his voice low but firm. “Listen to me, Jisung. You are not the person that this asshole made you think you are! You are much more. It is not your fault that you did not leave him. It happens to everyone. You are more, way more capable than you think. You deserve to be happy. Not the planned kind. The daily kind. You are a good person, Jisung. You are loved, and you deserve to be loved more. You deserve to love yourself. And I’m here for you. Always. Even when you’re too proud to admit you need someone. You can push everyone else away, but I’m not going anywhere. Got it?”
Jisung’s throat tightened. He nodded once, fast, as if he said anything, it’d spill out wrong.
Chan smiled faintly. “Good. Now stop walking like someone died. You’re not cursed.”
“That’s debatable,” Jisung muttered, earning a quiet laugh from him.
They kept walking. The silence now felt lighter, softer. Jisung looked up at the lamps above them, steady, humming, indifferent. He thought about how they just stayed there, lighting everything around them but never asking for light back. There was something almost comforting about that thought.
When they reached the next intersection, Chan clapped his shoulder. “Get some rest tonight. And eat something that’s not caffeine.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“I mean it. You look like you’ve been surviving on air and sugar.”
“Air’s cheap.”
Chan laughed again, shaking his head. “See you tomorrow, son.”
Jisung watched him go, the street suddenly quieter without him. He didn’t move for a while.
The lamps above him flickered again, catching his reflection in a puddle. He stared at it until he could barely tell where the light ended, and he began.
At home, he couldn’t sleep. He lay in bed, Chan’s words replaying in his mind like a song stuck on loop.
You’re scared of being enough.
I’m here for you.
You deserve to love yourself.
You deserve to be loved.
He turned on his phone just to distract himself, opened the browser, typed before thinking: “Who invented streetlights?”
He read through the articles that popped up, as if it mattered.
Pavel Yablochkov, 1878.
Then he clicks link after link: gas lamps, old cities, lamplighters walking through the dark to light every single flame before night fell. He imagined someone doing that, walking down empty streets just to make sure no one else tripped.
He wondered if that’s what Chan was doing for him. Lighting things he didn’t even realize were dark yet.
He sighed, scrolled again, half to learn, half to forget. How much energy does a streetlight use per hour? Why do some flicker more than others? What happens when one burns out?
The answers didn’t matter. He just needs noise up there, in his head.
Eventually, his eyes grow heavy. The phone dimmed, screen glowing faintly against the dark. Outside, the nearest streetlight buzzed softly.
He stared at it for a long time before closing his eyes.
He falls asleep with that hum still in his head—steady and quiet.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: DPRIAN-MR.INSANITY
Darling, darling, darling, darling
I shot myself in the foot again
(Oh-oh, oh-oh, oh-oh, oh-oh-oh)
Drumming, drumming, drumming, drumming
Rrrpa, fell through the roof again
What a day, what a day
----------------
Monday morning, they met in the recording room. They spent the first hours perfecting the lyrics till both of them nodded happily.
“This is it,” Jisung said, voice small.
Minho nodded once. “Let’s Record.”
They agreed that Jisung will sing the first intro and the rap in verse one, also the pre-chorus and the first chorus, they will each sing some lines from it. And Minho will then sing Verse two, the final Chorus, and the Outro.
Jisung was the first one to step into the booth. It only took him a few takes to be happy with the result. Minho was the one hitting the spacebar and correcting small things, but he left most of it to Jisung since he was the professional here.
After a small break, they switched roles.
Minho stepped into the booth. Headphones on. The red light blinked. Jisung hit spacebar.
Minho started low. Careful. Then he opened up.
Jisung knew the older person could sing. But, he did not expect to be hit with these vocals.
It quite literally took his breath away. An angel voice with an angel face.
On the first chorus, he looked up and found Jisung through the glass. The line about “streetlight hums” left his mouth and landed on Jisung’s chest like a hand. Something turned over in Jisung’s stomach. Again. The warm feeling.
This time, though, it did not stay in his stomach. The more he looked at the man in front of him, the bigger the feeling grew. Sneaked in under his skin. Making his hands get sweaty. The voice coming through his headphones, singing his lyrics, to his beat, made his heart disappear in it. He was mesmerized, to say the least.
Jisung forgot to breathe. Counted 3-7-9 to calm. Failed.
He doesn’t want to stop listening to Minho's voice ever again. He wants the voice to talk to him. For Minho to talk to him. To see him. To laugh with him. He never wants it to end.
The take ended. Minho lifted the headphones, mouth parted, waiting.
Jisung looked away.
His pulse was wrong. His throat was sand. Everything in him wanted to leave the room and never leave the room again.
“Again?” Minho asked, gently.
Jisung’s mouth moved before his brain caught it.
“I think Seungmin should sing it.”
Silence.
Minho blinked.
“What?” he asked, small.
Jisung kept going, because panic keeps going and he is feeling so many things at the same time he cant process any of it and he just doesn't want Minho to stop but he doesn't want him to look at him and he wants him to look at him and just hates Minho but he just realsied he never really hated him but he can not not not say that and: “I can’t. Your tone— it’s not right for the demo. I don’t think you have a good singing voice. It really does not fit the theme. Nor do I like the sound of it. It makes me cringe. It makes me cringe. I cannot take it seriously when you sing. I really don’t like it. It’s not fitting. Your voice is ugly. Seungmin’s color will sit better. And for the file that we need to hand over to be graded, we should record it separately. I can’t listen to you wreck the song again. I’ll— I’ll call him.”
He heard himself. Hated himself.
Minho stayed quiet. Seconds that honestly felt like hours went by. It was as if Minho was searching in Jisung’s eyes for something. Jisung looked away.
Then, suddenly, Minho smiled and nodded. It did not reach his eyes.
“Contact him,” he said.
Neutral.
Cold...
“I’ll come when he does.”
He took his water, his jacket, and turned to the door of the room.
Gracefully.
The door clicked shut behind him. Jisung stayed still, headphones on his neck, hearing his own breath in the cups.
He hated himself immediately.
He didn’t chase Minho.
He should have.
He didn’t.
Notes:
The song is not invented by me. I just basically copied some of my favorite songs and made them into one.
The songs I used were: DPR IAN – “Nerves”, Highvyn ft. Jey – “Symphony”, DEAN – “Die 4 You”, Rad Museum – “Dancing in the Rain”, Gemini – “Know Me”
“Rainy Weekdays”
(Written by Han Jisung for & Lee Minho)
Intro
Shall we ballet?
We are just dancing in the rain.
You talk slow, I can’t hear
Only dead ends to see
We are chasing loveVerse 1 (lazy rap)
Tried to start again, make sense of the mess
That you swear you’re not a part of
Your calm just makes me louder
I’m walking in circles too much
Talk too much
Spill what’s in my chest too much
You lead the way out
Same storm, two hearts, one shelter
And I hate that you still matter
Pre-Chorus
“You’re so selfish,”
Call it what you want
Trying to drown the parts you calm
I’m spiraling slowly
I’m doing fine, I’m doing fine, I’m doing fine
He is doing fineChorus
I don’t wanna go till everything comes crashing down
You’re the one I see when everything comes crashing down
I’m drenched, but I don’t wanna run
The streetlight hums—and you’re the only oneVerse 2
So many nights I could’ve held on
Still can’t believe I let you go
You just watched me fall apart into pieces
Ripped apart by the quiet we built
You’ll never know
How much I wished I’d never let you goChorus (final)
I don’t wanna go till everything comes crashing down
You’re the one I want when everything comes crashing down
I’m soaked, but I don’t wanna run
The streetlight hums—and you’re still the oneOutro
Shall we ballet?
Just dancing in the rain.
Only dead ends to see
You stand still, I fall apart again
Rainy weekdays—
We keep chasing love
Chapter 5: “379 - forgive me”
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “So Beautiful” – DPR IAN
"Let's take a trip down a dark place, baby
Look for me now, I'm not that crazy
Let's talk about what makes you happy
'Cause I know (I know)
I'm calling for you"
----------------
Seungmin came an hour after Jisung called him.
But since Jisung only called after two hours of spiraling, it had already been three hours since he’d last seen Minho.
When he texted the dancer that Seungmin was here, Minho only answered that they should work on Jisung’s part without him. He’d see with Seungmin later when to record his section. Until then, he’d finish the choreography alone and send the demo.
But the last line felt like a blade sliding right under Jisung’s ribs:
(not saved) Lee Minho: And since you don’t want to hear my voice anymore, let Changbin or Bang Chan edit the graded version with our vocals. Have a nice week.
Jisung exhaled, crushed.
He messed up.
He knew.
And he had to apologize. He knew that too.
He reread the project sheet again, just to feel like he was in control of something.
The performance must be between 2–5 minutes long.
Check. The beat is 3:09. With lyrics, maybe longer. Still under 5 minutes.
A dance choreography must be created.
Minho had the structure, was choreographing the rest. Two days max. Check.
It needs a visible and coherent theme.
Rainy nights, check.
A song with lyrics and melody must be composed and sung. A demo must be sung by the graded students.
The final song may be performed by someone else.
The pain in his chest tightened.
He and Seungmin would record his part. Seungmin would sing the demo. Minho would… do his alone.
Check, technically.
The performance must be filmed and submitted to both departments by the communicated date.
They planned to film two days before. Submit by midnight. Already agreed on it weeks ago. Check.
The performance will also be presented live on stage (students must organize stage setup, lighting, and mics).
…
A written paper must be handed in by both partners. The project will receive one shared grade.
Jisung had already started his paper, but after he finished recording the song, he would finish it. Check.
But maybe he could ask Minho if he wanted to write it with him?
So the papers matched, and they could bounce ideas off each other? So their thoughts aligned?
And maybe… also so he could apologize… maybe.
--
Seungmin did a great job. His voice was indeed very fitting. His voice was made for a melody like this one. Even the rap didn’t trip him up the way Jisung feared. Turns out the vocalist had some hidden talents.
He also sensed Jisung’s awful mood but didn’t ask. Also, didn't mention a word about Minho. Jisung was grateful for that silence—especially because his last message to Minho, asking if they could work together on the paper on Monday, had been left unseen until today.
The only thing Minho sent was a Thursday-morning message with the fully recorded choreography.
Danced with Felix.
With a note telling Jisung to learn it from Felix.
Today is Friday, and all his muscles are sore. And his head is hurting. He couldn’t sleep for a good amount of the night. He did as Minho said. He and Felix practiced the whole day yesterday.
They’d practice again today because Jisung still couldn’t get three steps right.
Felix, too, did not ask any questions about the weird situation between his friends. And when Jisung apologized for the inconvenience, he just shrugged his shoulders, saying that Chan and he were already done anyway, so it didn’t really bother him to help.
Jisung sat up in bed.
Maybe he wasn’t as nice as he thought he was...
--
“Here. Your finished demo,” Chan said, handing him a drive. “Edited it like you did Seungmin’s.”
“Thanks, hyung.”
Saturday café. Bright, chatty.
Changbin texted last-minute that he and Hyunjin had details to fix before the performance.
Everyone knew that wasn’t true. They’d already submitted their video and paper. Jeongin said their stage was ready. They just wanted to be together. Jisung told himself he was happy for them. He wanted to be.
“Jisung-ahh, did you hear me?” Chan’s voice brought the younger musician back to reality. Jisung had been sucking air through an empty straw; he just noticed.
“I am sorry, Hyung.”
Chan sighed. “Look, I did not want to get involved. Still don’t want to. I was waiting for you to come to me and tell me what’s wrong. But everyone till now has come to me and asked me what happened between you and Minho. It’s clear you two weren’t close. But the fact that you needed Seungmin to sing for you, Felix to teach you the dance, and me to edit your song is just… too much? It seems like you two don’t even want to be in the same room together anymore. I don't know what happened, but I can tell it is not easy for you. And I know, that you are not a bad person Jisung, doesn't matter what. ”
Jisung’s throat closed up.
How did Chan always know how to read him so easily?
“I know that you hate every man who reminds you of this bastard, Jisung. But to push Minho so far away… is that not a little…” Chan didn’t finish his sentence. But he didn’t need to; Jisung knew what he wanted to say.
Excessive. Stupid. Abnormal. Dump. Idiotic.
After some time, Jisung looked up and faced Chan.
“He doesn’t want to see me…” Jisung explained weakly.
“Why?”
“I fucked up, Hyung…”
The first tear fell into Jisung’s cup, where coffee used to be. He started to explain what he did, shamefully. With a hanging head. He had no right to feel that way after what he did to Minho, and he was still allowing himself to cry. He was not a nice person. Matter of fact, he was an asshole.
Silence filled the room after his explanation — or better, confession. Chan sighed again. The tenth time in a row. Jisung looked at him with his big brown eyes filled with tears.
“You need to apologize.” Chan finally broke the silence with the obvious.
“I know.” This time it was Jisung who sighed.
“You need to do that face to face.”
Jisung nodded. “I know.”
“I love you, bro, but that was very mean. I am disappointed.”
Ouch. That hurt. Worse than a mad Chan was a disappointed Chan. Jisung hated that. The tears started to run again.
“I know,” he said weakly.
“But I am more disappointed that you’re still not honest with yourself, Jisung. Have you taken a moment to think about why you acted the way you acted?”
Jisung froze.
He hadn’t allowed himself to think about it.
He couldn’t. He was just hating on himself for being an asshole. He tried to blame Minho at first. He was trying to gaslight himself into thinking that Minho’s voice was really not fitting. That the chemistry felt while they held eye contact through the glass of the recording booth was just him being disgusted with Minho. But when that didn’t work, he just started to hate himself.
But… thinking about the actual reason he acted the way he did…
No. He didn’t give himself the space to think about it.
So he just shrugged.
“I’m not telling you,” Chan said. “You need to figure it out yourself.”
--
Jisung was standing in front of the dance room, where he knew Minho would be in.
He didn’t know how he remembered that, but he did.
He once heard Minho and Hyunjin talking about their weekend plans, and Minho said something like, “Dancing like every Sunday morning.”
So he took a wild guess and came to the rooms, his feet leading him directly to this one. The one where he and Minho met for the first time to work on their project.
He liked its numbers. 379.
He waited there for 30 minutes before making out the black mop of hair he was expecting. His heart started to race. He knew he had to do it today. The last few nights, he couldn’t sleep.
When the elder spotted him, he tilted his head.
Minho’s face was unreadable. Something ached low in Jisung’s ribs. He told himself it was fatigue. He knew it wasn’t.
After some seconds of silence, Jisung looked at the ground, not able to hold Minho’s eyes, he started.
“I—”
Damn… he was indeed a coward.
Silence fell again.
Suddenly, he heard a sigh from the dancer. When he looked up, he saw Minho trying to walk past him into the room. It pushed a button in Jisung that he couldn’t reach with logic.
Before he could think, he reached out and grabbed Minho’s wrist and blurted, raw:
“I’m sorry.”
Minho stopped. Turned. Looked at the hand holding his wrist, and then at Jisung. His demeanor is still unreadable. He waited.
“I shouldn’t have said it like that,” Jisung forced out. Each word scraped.
“It wasn’t about your voice. I panicked. My head was… I don’t know. It came out wrong. I didn’t want you in the booth because I— I don’t know. Not because you’re bad. Because you’re—”
His throat closed.
He swallowed hard.
It hurt.
“Because I’m an idiot.”
A beat. Two.
Minho’s eyes flickered. Not anger. Not pity. Something else.
“Why can’t you be honest with yourself?”
Then he pulled his wrist free.
Walked into the studio.
Jisung stayed where he was, mouth open on a reply that wouldn’t come.
--
(Not saved) Lee Minho: I finished my paper. I guess you did too. Tomorrow we can work on the performance together with the others. I asked Jeongin and his friend for help on the stage and filming.
Jisung stared at the stars outside his window.
At least Minho accepted his apology?
Chapter 6: “Can’t ignore the chemicals.”
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “RUN” – HAN
"All the problems and a lot of things make me a fool
They made me a scaredy cat
The clock's ticking suffocates me
Through the door
I can see it, a place full of romance, and it's free
I can see it, and it's wide open
Let's be free, untie the arms and legs that were tied
Scream until my throat hurts
My imagination that I've always put to sleep
Change it into reality
The sighs I used to let out while staring endlessly
Yes, I havе made up my mind to escape from thе driving car
Let me be free, the shackles that hold me back
Let go of me now
I frowned when I stared at the stars in the night sky
The loud alarm is full of irritation, shall I throw them all now?
I'm just going to walk around, wherever it takes me, I don't want to care about the people watching me
I don't care where the destination is, but I'll run as hard as I can"
----------------
If Jisung was not nervous before, then he definitely is now.
Only 7 days left until the performance, and 5 days left to hand in the project. He cannot believe that in these days he will be finished with his bachelor's project.
7–5. At least it’s numbers that he likes, he thinks while staring at the stage in front of him.
Jeongin is really showing off his creativity and talent today. Minho has asked him for help since he knows more about stage coordination — technical sheets, lighting angles, mic stands, camera timing, and everything else. But it was not only Jeongin who turned up, he also took his friend with him. Taewon. Older than Jeongin, maybe Minho’s age. Slim build, quiet voice, confident smile. Others will say that he is handsome. Jisung doesn't think so.
He’s supposedly helping with lighting cues, but most of the time, he’s just leaning near Minho.
Jisung does not like Taewon.
Not because he always laughs a little louder when Minho says something funny, or because he leans in too much when he explains to Minho where the next dance step on the stage should be.
But just...because...just because... He is allowed to not like people, right?
“Hyung, what do you think about these colors for the light?” Jeongin shouts to Jisung, interrupting the way Jisung was shooting daggers at Taewon and Minho.
He smiles and nods to Jeongin, showing him his liking.
He needs to focus. Just a bit, and they will be finished with the project, and he never has to see Taewon ever again…
or Minho…
--
He couldn’t help but notice that throughout the last two days, he and Minho never ended up being alone. No matter what. They’re never alone now.
When everyone exits the room to go for a break, suddenly, Minho remembers that his water bottle is empty and also needs to be filled. When Minho arrives first, and Jisung second, suddenly Minho remembers that he forgot something at home. When they go for lunch, Minho always sits with other people.
Not that Jisung is noticing on purpose, but it is for sure harder to go away from someone and never meet them by coincidence than ending up alone with someone by coincidence, right? So Minho has to do it on purpose, right? Or is he overthinking again? And why does he care? He doesn’t. He apologized. Minho accepted. They’re back to being two students forced to work together. A little bit more than strangers, but not really.
When they rehearse the dance, Jeongin gives directions from the corner like a film director possessed; his usual cute smile disappears completely when he slips into his director role. And Jisung can't help but notice the spark in his eyes. He really loves what he is doing. “Right foot first, turn, grab, hold—yes, hold!”
That’s the part Jisung hates.
The “held” part.
It’s the brief moment in the choreography where they’re supposed to reach for each other, while Seungmin’s voice in the background sings the lines:
"So many nights I could’ve held on"
The song slows, their hands meet, one second of stillness before they break apart again when the lyric is at “Still can’t believe I let you go.”
It’s not romantic on paper.
But every time they do it, Jisung feels that one second stretches into something unbearable.
Minho’s hand is always warm.
And when he lets go, the absence burns hotter than the touch.
They run the choreography again. And again. Until Jeongin is satisfied with how it looks on camera and how the stage decoration looks around them. Taewon claps too hard.
“That was good,” Taewon says, eyes flicking to Minho. “You really know how to control a stage. You’ve got presence. It is incredible. You dance as if you control the music!”
Minho smiles politely. “Thanks.”
Jisung’s still catching his breath, towel over his shoulders. He keeps his eyes on the floor.
“Are you performing outside projects too?” Taewon continues, still standing too close.
Minho shrugs. “Not now. After this semester, maybe.”
“Then I should show you my friend’s showcase,” Taewon offers, grin widening. “You’d fit right in.”
“Maybe,” Minho says. And winks… easy, casual. His voice is a little too friendly.
Jisung throws his towel into his bag a little too hard. It lands wrong, spilling a few pens onto the floor.
Jeongin looks at him, confused. “You okay, hyung?”
“Fine,” Jisung says.
Too fast.
Too loud.
--
By the next morning, the exhaustion is real. They’ve been in the studio until midnight.
Jisung doesn’t even remember what silence sounds like.
He decides to take ten minutes alone before class — just him, his Red Bull, and the campus courtyard. It’s been a while since he did that. And maybe doing it now will give him a sense of normal again. Yesterday night he even saw the stars again. And on his way to the store, he saw the orange cat and played with it for a moment. Till this day, he has no idea if the cat is male or female. He only knows that seeing it makes his day better. When he arrived at the store, his favorite Red Bull was on the cold side of the freezer.
It couldn’t get any better, honestly. Jisung felt happy and in control. The first time in weeks.
It’s cold. Early. The sky is that washed-out gray that never promises anything. But he likes it. Likes how he can't see the sun. Couldn't get any better.
He sits on a bench, opens the can, and takes one sip. The familiar chemical sweetness hits. Comforting. He smiles happily.
Then the sound of laughter breaks it. He looks up.
Minho is across the courtyard. Taewon is beside him.
They’re both holding coffees, shoulders brushing, laughing about something Jisung can’t hear.
Minho’s wearing his black hoodie that matches his hair so well and makes his deep eyes seem even deeper and glow brighter. Taewon says something that makes Minho laugh again, bright and easy. His cheeks are flushed in a lovely pink shade. Taewon puts his arm around Minho’s shoulder. As if it belongs there. Minho lets him do it.
And something inside Jisung twists.
He looks down at his drink.
One small shake of his hand and it spills — bright blue liquid hitting the pavement, bleeding into the cracks between the tiles.
The color spreads fast, unnaturally bright against the gray.
He scrunches his face while looking at the spilled liquid. He does not like seeing the colors of the chemical, caffeinated drinks he takes. Now he must think about all the added substances that made these colors. And now he can’t drink it anymore. Of course, he knew that there were lots of chemicals and sugar in his drink. But he was ignoring it.
What do they say? Ignorance is bliss.
But seeing the color…
It’s not just blue — it’s artificial. Now he has to think about what’s inside.
And he hates that.
He cannot ignore it anymore. He cannot ignore something he sees with his own eyes. Because seeing it with his own eyes makes it real. He can’t unsee it. He can’t ignore what’s in front of him. It makes his brain go into a rabbit hole about his eating habits and makes him feel disgusted about the fact that he has been ignoring the nutritional value of the food he is eating and the drinks he has been consuming. When he sees something, he feels the consequences of it, and then he cannot ignore it anymore because his brain understands that it’s real.
His eyes go back to Minho.
To Taewon.
To the small distance between them.
The laugh.
The smile.
The way Minho leans in slightly when Taewon speaks.
That’s when the drop hits.
The realization.
He cannot ignore the feeling anymore. Because he spilled his drink as a consequence of the rage he is feeling, which is a consequence of him seeing Minho with someone else. And now his brain goes down a rabbit hole, categorizing this feeling as.... jealousy.
His fingers tighten around the can. Too tight.
The drink slips.
Another splash of artificial blue hits the ground.
He is supposed to be able to ignore his feelings. He’s supposed to be good at control.
He’s supposed to separate emotion from logic.
But now that he is seeing his spilled drink with the bluish color that cannot come from nature and has definitely more chemicals in it than his shampoo, he cannot ignore the fact that he is jealous anymore.
He’s jealous.
Pathetic.
What a way to ruin one of his favorite drinks.
--
He doesn’t see Minho again until later that day in rehearsal. Minho’s laughing with Jeongin about lighting adjustments. Taewon’s there again, clipboard in hand, leaning against the wall as he belongs.
Jisung keeps his distance.
He focuses on his lines, his cues, his mic checks. But when he entered the room with his mood, it was as if a dark cloud followed him in. Everybody seemed to notice it, but nobody asked him about it. Not even Jeongin.
Jeongin runs them through another full take.
Everything looks perfect. However, everything feels wrong.
In the break, Jisung observes how Taewon sprints up to Minho, bringing him a bottle of water and a towel.
Jeongin comes to Jisung. “You okay, Hyung?”
“Yeah,” Jisung mutters, clearing his throat. “Just tired.”
Jeongin doesn’t ask any further.
By the end of the day, Jisung starts cleaning cables just to stay busy.
He knows Minho’s still there, talking to Jeongin at the door.
He hears Jeongin laugh, then say, “You and Taewon seem close lately.”
Minho just hums in reply. “He’s nice.”
“It looks like he is too nice, Hyung,” Jeongin teases.
Minho chuckles. “Maybe.”
Jisung stops wrapping the cable. His hands are shaking.
When the door closes, the silence hits too hard.
He sits down on the floor.
He doesn’t cry.
He wants to.
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Hate to admit” – Bang Chan
"All night long
I can't stop thinkin' ‘bout you
Da-ra-da-ra-da
Just stay with me
I hate to admit it
I still miss you
How could I forget?
I hate to admit it
It's hard to understand
I might as well forget"
----------------
The door clicks shut behind him. And instantly — the sound of tiny paws.
“Hyung?”
He barely has time to answer before three small bodies sprint down the hallway like a welcoming committee and slam against his shins.
Soonie arrives first, orange fur glowing under the hallway light, practically throwing himself into Minho’s legs. Doongie launches onto his shoe with a full bite-force greeting. Dori sits in front of him like he’s the emperor of the house, tail swishing once in judgment.
Minho crouches down and scoops Soonie into his arms. The orange fluff presses his head into Minho’s chin like he hasn’t seen him in years, even though it’s been six hours at most.
“Yeah, I missed you too,” Minho whispers, rubbing behind Soonie’s ear until Doongie meows like he’s being neglected, and Dori flicks his tail at all of them.
He needs a moment.
Because today was…
He doesn’t even know what today was.
“Hyuuuung,” Hyunjin calls from the living room, voice muffled by a blanket and probably snacks. “You’re late, old man.”
Minho rolls his eyes and drops his bag by the wall. Soonie stays glued to him, purring. He drags his feet towards Hyunjin, cats following in formation.
Hyunjin lifts his head from the couch, hair falling into his face, eyes scanning Minho’s expression in one second — one single second — and already reading him like a book he’s read a hundred times.
“You look like someone slapped you,” Hyunjin says.
“I had to finish something,” Minho mumbles and walks into the living room with a cat still attached to him like he’s part of Minho’s outfit.
Minho sits next to him.
“So?” Hyunjin says, phone dropping onto his chest, “How was it today?”
Minho exhales slowly. His shoulders drop. “Taewon was flirting again.”
Hyunjin groans instantly, covering his face with the blanket.
“Please tell me you finally punched him.”
“No.”
“Kicked him?”
“No.”
“At least rolled your eyes so hard it hurt?”
“…maybe.”
Hyunjin dramatically falls back on the couch. “Oh my god, that man. Didn’t you tell him you’re not interested?”
“I did,” Minho mutters.
“Multiple times?”
“Yes.”
“With words, hyung?”
“Yes.”
“With your body?”
“Yes!”
Hyunjin throws his hands up. “Then why does he still try?”
Minho shrugs. He doesn’t know.
He truly doesn’t know.
“So what happened?” Hyunjin takes a candy into his mouth and chews on it a little bit. "Was his flirting the only reason for your overthinking mood, or did something else happen?"
Minho rubs a hand over his eyes. “Jisung saw it,” he sighs.
Everything in the room stops. Hyunjin’s breathing. The cats’ purring.
Even Minho’s thoughts feel too loud.
Hyunjin slowly sits up. “What do you mean… saw?”
“He walked in right when Taewon was leaning close to me. And he looked—” Minho searches for the word. “…different.”
Hyunjin waits.
“He looked jealous?” Minho finished. Unsure if what he saw in Jung's eyes was real.
Hyunjin’s mouth forms a little O.
Then slowly stretches into a smile. He seems interested. Too interested.
“Ohhhhh?” he says slowly.
Minho looks away, ears hot. “Don’t start,” he mutters.
“Me?” Hyunjin blinks innocently. “I’m not starting anything.”
“You’re absolutely starting.”
Hyunjin shrugs.
Minho sighs. Hard. “It doesn’t matter.”
Minho says it flatly, like it’s a known fact. Like gravity. Like the sun rising.
Like cats demanding food at 3AM.
Hyunjin turns his head. His expression changes — from teasing to something completely still. Minho tenses because he recognizes that look.
The look Hyunjin only uses when he’s about to say something so real, Minho rather fills his mouth with tissues instead.
“Hyung,” Hyunjin says quietly. Carefully. “Can I ask you something?”
Minho swallows. “What?”
Hyunjin studies him. For a long moment.
A long enough moment that Minho feels exposed, like Hyunjin is pulling thoughts straight from the back of his skull.
Then Hyunjin leans forward slightly. Voice softer. Lower. “Do you…”
A pause. A breath. “…still have a crush on him?”
Minho freezes.
Not the cute freeze.
Not the embarrassed one.
The real one.
The kind where the air stops and everything inside him goes tight, like someone pressed a cold hand directly against his heart.
Hyunjin continues, voice steady. “Even after everything he said that night?”
Minho doesn’t answer.
He can’t.
Because the truth hits him in the chest with the same force it did months ago.
Hyunjin watches him — not judging, not teasing — just waiting.
Minho looks down at Soonie, stroking behind her ear in slow circles.
He knew Jisung. Knew him years ago.
In the cafeteria, he saw him laughing so loudly his shoulders shook.
In the hallway, he heard him complaining to Changbin about some assignment. In the courtyard, he observed him lying on the grass, sunglasses on, drinking his stupid blue Red Bull at 7:45 like it was a religion.
Minho remembers thinking, That boy lights up everything around him.
Seeing him in school made Minho’s day better. And he was just collecting himself so he could go and ask the boy out.
But then Jisung started dating Woosook.
Everybody who studied dance knew this asshole. He was known for all the wrong things.
For his flirting.
For his reputation.
For his wandering eyes.
Minho hated seeing them date. Hated the way Jisung always waited for Woosook in front of the seniors' classrooms. Hated seeing him smile softly and not realizing Woosook didn’t deserve it.
He hated how, at Parties, he saw Woosook flirt with others. There was a picture circulating of Woosook kissing a girl while still dating Jisung. How he never took Jung's bag. Never opened a door for him.
Minho always thought, If he were mine, I’d treat him better.
I’d protect him. I’d make him feel safe.
He didn't feel bad admitting that he was happy when the two broke up.
And then a few weeks ago, the pairing email arrived. Blue Outlook icon. Shared document. Scrolling to the L’s.
Han Jisung — Lee Minho
His heart dropped. He smiled for the entire day. He checked the email five more times. Maybe this was fate. Maybe this time, he’d get close to him. That’s what he thought.
Back when he walked into the dance room for the first time and saw Jisung standing there — soft hoodie, sleepy eyes, a little anxious, a little lost — hands fidgeting.
Cute.
That's all he was able to think.
Cute in a way that made Minho’s stomach twist. He thought Jisung was the prettiest person he had ever seen up close.
But then Jisung shut down.
Hard.
Wall after wall, cold stare after cold answer, like Minho was the last person on earth he wanted to talk to.
Minho didn’t want to be too much, even though he didn’t understand why Jisung seemed to hate him.
He tried to be funny.
Tried to make Jisung open up.
Tried to tease him just enough so he would react in a normal way and not in that cold, distant “I don’t care if you exist” way.
But Jisung didn’t seem to like it at all.
Minho tried anyway. Because Jisung’s reactions —
the way he froze and blinked and sometimes almost tripped over his own thoughts, the way his face was red when Minho made a flirty joke.
Minho liked seeing that.
He liked throwing Jisung out of control.
It made him feel like maybe… maybe there was something behind those walls.
He had a little more hope the night when they walked in the rain.
That was the first time Jisung looked at him differently.
His eyes were so soft under the moonlight.
He seemed friendly.
Calm.
Like someone Minho could actually talk to without being pushed away every five seconds.
And the only thing Minho was able to think about that whole time was his urge to kiss him.
He hated that urge. He loved that urge.
It made him feel alive and stupid at the same time.
Even the nights that followed in the studio room where Jisung was working on the beat… God.
Minho wanted to be close to him.
Help him as much as he could.
Even if it was just by bringing him water or snacks he pretended were “extra” but were actually bought just for Jisung.
He noticed that the younger always seemed to forget to eat or drink when he worked.
He noticed the way Jisung played with his bottom lip when he was stuck on something.
The way he tapped his fingers on the table when he was thinking.
The way his eyebrows pulled together in concentration.
The way his whole face lit up when something clicked in his head.
The way he hummed quietly under his breath, completely unaware that Minho was even looking.
Minho loved watching him work.
He loved the way Jisung’s eyes lost focus on reality and focused only on the music.
He loved the seriousness, the frustration, the tiny smiles Jisung tried to hide when he was proud of a beat.
One night, Jisung fell asleep on the couch.
Just like that.
Minho just… stared.
For a long time.
Too long. Jisung looked so pretty without that defensive look in his eyes.
He put his jacket over him so he wouldn’t be cold.
He stood there watching him breathe.
He wanted to touch his hair.
He didn’t.
He wanted to kiss his cheek.
He didn’t.
But he thought about it.
He thought about it way too much.
And when he woke up, with Jisung’s jacket on him, his heart couldn’t stop beating. He really thought there was hope.
And then... that night.
When Jisung snapped and said his voice was ugly.
The one thing Minho never wanted anyone to say.
One thing he was always insecure about.
He came home shaking. Hyunjin had to hold him upright because Minho couldn’t breathe. He cried into Hyunjin’s chest until the sun came up. He didn’t even know he was crying that hard until he felt Hyunjin’s shirt get damp.
He promised that he would forget him... He will stop loving him.
But even then —
even then —
Minho couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Couldn’t stop worrying.
Couldn’t stop hoping that maybe Jisung didn’t mean it.
That maybe Jisung didn’t hate him as much as it felt like he did.
Minho’s throat tightens. And Hyunjin sees everything that goes on in his head.
He always does.
He leans closer and speaks softly.
“Hyung,” he repeats, “you still love him a little, don’t you?”
Minho’s fingers curl into Soonie’s fur.
He feels the purring under his palm.
The warmth. The only steady thing in this moment.
His voice breaks.
“…yeah.”
It’s barely a whisper. Barely a breath.
And Hyunjin places a hand on Minho’s arm. Not surprised. Not judging.
Just there.
Just there for him like he always is.
“Okay,” Hyunjin says quietly. “Then let’s figure out what you want to do with that.”
Minho closes his eyes. Because for the first time, he doesn’t know.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Close” – HAN
"Not used to it babe, whatever I try to say, what's wrong with me?
My heart's fluttering babe, even if I try my best to stay calm
My trembling voice, awkward gestures
I'm speaking loudly for no reason again, even when you speak to me"
----------------
The orange cat is there again.
On his way to the store, somewhere between the dormitory and the university, right beside the same cracked sidewalk tile he always steps over without thinking.
He kneels automatically, like his body decides, before his mind even wakes up enough to argue with it.
The cat walks over immediately, tail held high, orange fur glowing in the kind of cold, miserable morning light that makes everything else look dull and washed-out.
Except him.
The stupid cat somehow looks brighter today, even though Jisung feels like the air around him is heavier than it should be.
“Hey,” he whispers, voice rough in that way where he can hear the exhaustion even if he pretends he can’t feel it.
He didn’t sleep.
Or — he slept, technically, but not in the way that gives rest. More like his eyes closed because his body gave up for a moment, and then he woke up with his heart already racing.
The cat presses its head into his fingers with this ridiculous confidence.
Warm.
Soft.
And Jisung lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, the kind that feels like something inside him has been sewn too tightly for too long.
He used to think this cat was a sign.
A rule he made up because he needed something predictable, something that made sense.
One of his stupid little rules that kept his stupid little world from falling apart.
Orange cat = good day.
Cat = the universe doesn’t hate you today.
Cat = you’ll be okay.
But today…
Today, that rule feels cheap, like a trick he played on himself, and now he finally understands it never worked in the first place.
He pets the cat anyway. Because not petting him would make it worse, somehow. Because the cat doesn’t know Jisung is falling apart, and Jisung likes that. He likes being looked at without being analyzed.
He can almost hear everyone’s voices in his head.
Changbin said, “Believe me, Sungie. When you’re honest to yourself, you just know.”
Chan, when he told him about what he did to Minho: “But I am more disappointed that you’re still not honest with yourself, Jisung.”
When he apologized to Minho, all he said to him was, “Why can’t you be honest with yourself?”
He wanted to scream at all of them. He wanted them to shut up because he wasn’t ready.
He isn’t sure he’s ready now either. But he can’t deny it anymore.
Last night, thinking hurt too much, so he ran away from it the only way he knows how.
He opened his laptop.
He didn’t even know what he was trying to distract himself with.
Homework, maybe. Random songs.
Anything.
But the first thing he clicked was the video Minho had sent him — the one with their dance.
Minho, under the blue stage lights, moving like something pulled straight from a dream or a nightmare, he doesn’t even know which anymore.
His moves are mesmerizing. Sharp. Controlled.
Jisung watched it once.
Then again.
Then he typed Minho’s name into YouTube without meaning to.
Like his fingers decided while his brain was still trying to process how Minho looked in that one part of the choreo where he turns his head just slightly, and the light hits him just right.
Video after video played.
Minho dancing like the whole world narrowed down to his body, carving shapes into the air.
Minho focused and serious and beautiful in a way that made Jisung feel something unfamiliar in the back of his throat.
And then —
as if some switch flipped —
Every memory of Woosook crawled back in.
All of them. The ones he avoided. The ones he shoved somewhere deep because facing them felt like ripping his own ribs open.
He hated how easily the past still controlled him.
He hated that Woosook’s voice still echoed in the ugly places in his mind.
He hated that part of him still flinched when someone raised their voice too quickly or got too close.
Why does someone who hurt him so much still have this power over him?
Jisung doesn’t want that anymore.
He doesn’t want to feel afraid of himself.
He doesn’t want to let someone who never loved him properly shape how he reacts to someone who… who might actually be safe.
He wants to change.
For the first time, he actually wants to change instead of running away from everything.
So he opened another tab.
Typed “therapist,” “Seoul,” and “affordable near campus” because even if he doesn’t know what to say to a therapist, maybe they’ll know what to do with someone like him.
He searched for hours. Finding some. And in a splurge of a moment...He sent them emails. Where the bravery came from so suddenly?
He doesn't know.
All he knew was that he fell asleep with the laptop on his stomach.
Minho mid-turn on the screen.
Frozen in blue light.
And Jisung woke up with his whole body heavy, as regret pressed into his bones.
So now he’s here.
With the orange cat.
Pretending he isn’t falling apart.
He exhales shakily.
The cat blinks as if it understands his cry for help.
“Does it even matter?” Jisung whispers. Not knowing if it's to himself or the cat. “If I see you or not? If I pretend today is good or not?”
His throat tightens. “Or am I just lying to myself again?”
The cat meows.
Of course it does.
--
He arrives at the studio thirty minutes later.
Everything feels too bright, too sharp around the edges, like someone turned up reality’s exposure setting and forgot to turn it back down.
Minho is already there.
Stretching.
Focused.
Completely unaware that Jisung feels like his chest is full of gravel.
They’re alone today. It is the Weekend before the performance.
They planned to run everything once more — send the email, the paper, the demo track, everything — and then just rest?
Not that resting is something Jisung knows how to do anymore.
His stomach twists when Minho doesn’t look at him. And twists harder when Minho finally does.
“We need to send the video and the paper today,” Minho says calmly, like nothing happened yesterday, like Jisung didn’t spend the night unraveling in silence.
“Also, the demo track and the performance track. Let’s do this, then run it once or twice, and call it a day. Okay?”
“Okay,” Jisung manages.
They sit like always. Backs against the mirror. Task sheet between them, like a shield.
“Everything submitted?” Minho asks after some time.
“Yes.”
They go through the checklist. Every item is correct.
Everything is perfect.
Everything except them.
Minho stands. “Let’s run it.”
And they do. The music is quieter than usual. The room feels like it’s waiting for something.
Minho dances beautifully — his lines precise, his expression unreadable.
Professional. Distant.
Closed off in a way that Jisung feels in his stomach.
Jisung tries to stay on beat. His body does. His mind doesn’t.
Then comes the hold.
Their hands meet.
Warm.
Minho’s hands are always warm.
Real.
His fingers close around Minho’s without thinking.
One beat.
Two.
Three.
Minho begins to pull away — and something in Jisung’s chest reacts faster than his brain does, because before he can even think about what he’s doing, his fingers tighten around Minho’s.
Four.
Five.
Not a lot.
Enough for Minho to stop moving, enough to make the air between them feel different in a way that Jisung immediately regrets and wants to hold onto at the same time.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Minho tilts his head, only a little, just enough that Jisung can see the profile of his eyes, that calm, steady look Minho always has when he is trying very hard not to make assumptions, not to jump to conclusions, not to scare Jisung away.
And it isn’t anger.
It isn’t confusion either.
Nine.
It’s that look Minho gives him sometimes, that quiet, patient look that feels like a question he never says out loud, but Jisung feels anyway — are you finally going to tell me what’s going on in your head, or am I supposed to keep guessing forever?
Ten
And Jisung wants to.
God, he wants to say something.
He wants to explain the mess in his chest, the way his heart keeps lurching at things he tried so hard not to feel, the way yesterday and the day before and the whole stupid week have twisted him into someone he barely recognizes.
He wants to say anything — a sentence, a word, even a breath that means something.
But nothing comes out.
His throat closes like it’s protecting him from the wrong confession, and the moment drags too long, long enough for both of them to feel the truth: he isn’t ready. He might never be ready.
Eleven.
So Minho waits that extra second — that second that feels like a line being drawn gently instead of sharply — and then he slips his hand free, soft and careful, like he’s afraid of hurting him even while he’s letting go.
There’s no frustration.
No eye-roll.
No sigh.
Just movement.
Just distance.
Just Minho walking away and sitting with his back against the mirror as if this is the only way he can protect himself, too.
And Jisung stands there in the center of the room, staring at the spot where their hands were, feeling like he forgot the choreography of his entire life, not just the dance.
--
When he goes home, Felix and Chan are waiting, loud and bright and already halfway through celebrating the fact that he finished his project, and normally that would make something warm inside him flicker, but today it only makes his chest feel tighter because he can’t pretend with them the way he usually does.
Felix’s smile falters instantly, and Chan stops talking mid-sentence, and Jisung hates that they see him this clearly when he doesn’t even know how to see himself.
He mumbles something — he doesn’t even know what — and disappears into his room before they can ask questions he isn’t strong enough to answer.
He opens his laptop.
Clicks the demo file.
The one with their voices mixed together, the one he avoided listening to properly because he knew it would hurt in exactly this way.
His voice comes first, shaky in the beginning, steadying later, but he still hears every insecurity he tried to hide.
Then Minho’s harmony slides under it, and that’s where something shifts — because Minho’s voice is warm in a way Jisung wasn’t prepared for, in a way that makes his chest tighten like something inside him recognizes it before he does.
And then the chorus hits.
Minho alone.
Raw and soft and confident all at once, the kind of voice that makes everything sting more than it should, and Jisung has to sit down because his legs suddenly feel unstable, like the ground he’s been standing on for the last year is finally giving out.
Before he can overthink it, he drags the file into a new email.
Subject: ignore last email.
Body: we will perform with our demo.
He clicks send.
And then he just sits there, staring at the screen like he accidentally confessed something he never meant to say out loud, but sending it felt a little like telling the truth for the first time in a very, very long time.
That night, he lies down with the demo playing on loop through his phone speaker, the sound filling the room in a way that makes everything both easier and harder at the same time.
He doesn’t cry.
He just lets the music wash over him — Minho’s voice and his own weaving into each other, the kind of mix that sounds like a version of them they’re too scared to become, the kind of mix that feels like a secret between the two of them even though neither has said anything real yet.
And somewhere between one chorus and the next, Jisung realizes he’s finally being honest with himself, even if it’s only in the dark, even if it’s only in his own head.
For the first time since Woosook, since all the lies he swallowed and the shame he carried and the way he convinced himself he wasn’t allowed to feel anything at all — Jisung admits the truth.
He likes Minho.
He likes him too much.
And he has no idea what that means for him.
No idea how to survive it.
No idea what happens next.
He falls asleep like that, phone resting on his chest, the demo still looping softly, Minho’s voice sinking into the quiet of his room like a truth he can’t run from anymore.
Chapter 7: “Warm hands, cold hands”
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “In my Head” – Stray Kids
"Hey, you, lying in your bed
Staring at the ceiling, yeah, I thought that you were dead
What's going on in your head?
Yeah
Today, you think there'll be a change
Sorry, but no matter what, it's gonna be the same
I kinda feel bad, you okay?"
----------------
The weekend didn’t feel like a weekend at all.
It just dissolved, slipped through his fingers in that slow, heavy way time moves when you’re not participating in it.
Jisung stayed in his room almost the whole time, bed-rotting to the point where even Felix stopped knocking and just slid snacks and water bottles inside when Jisung left for the bathroom, without asking any questions. Jisung talked to him through the door—if you could call that talking. Mostly, it was just “yeah” or “I’m fine” or “later,” but Felix didn’t push, and Jisung was grateful and guilty about that at the same time.
The only productive thing he did was look up therapists again.
He actually picked one.
And actually sent an email.
It was one near campus, and a woman; her picture made him feel comfortable, call it naivety. He didn’t care. And she specialized in anxiety. The others that he had emailed before were always specialized in depression and, on the side, anxiety. And she had a lot of time slots open on her website, which was good, because Jisung didn’t know if, if he didn’t get an appointment in the next few days, he would still have the bravery to go after that.
Emailing her felt like a small, stupid step, but it felt like something—like maybe he wasn’t going to stay this version of himself forever. He kept refreshing his inbox even though he knew nobody answered on weekends. He’d probably get a reply on Monday or Tuesday. He wasn’t sure if he was terrified or relieved about that.
When Monday came, he woke up at 5:30 a.m. with the kind of determination that felt fake at first but solidified the longer he sat up in bed. He had napped enough during the weekend not to feel tired now. A pathetic attempt to “fix his life before the performance,” but he went with it because anything was better than lying there doing nothing.
He went down to the gym before anyone else was awake, stretched longer than he needed to, and forced himself to run even though his legs felt heavy and cold. In his ears, he had the demo—their demo—the one with Minho’s voice layered under his. He didn’t know why the version with Minho’s voice made him feel braver and more scared at the same time. He didn’t know why listening to it made something in him tighten and loosen all at once.
He didn’t tell anybody he had switched the performance track.
Not Felix.
Not Chan.
Definitely not Minho.
He couldn’t even say the sentence in his head without wanting to crawl out of his skin. He feared the reaction later. He hoped for one. Hoped that Minho would see and understand his apology. But he feared that it was already too late for that. Maybe Minho had already fallen in love with Taewon. The thought alone was enough to make Jisung want to kill someone. He couldn’t decide if it would be Taewon or himself for being so stupid.
Jisung arrived at the university. The floors had tape marks everywhere. He went backstage, and the rooms that used to look big looked overcrowded today. Everyone backstage looked half-awake and overstimulated. Everyone was preparing for the war that was coming.
And Jisung just stood there in the middle of it, holding onto himself, nearing a panic attack in a way that didn’t look obvious to the outside observer but felt obvious inside his chest.
3-7-9, he counted, trying to stop his heart from beating so fast. He felt his cold hands more than ever.
He couldn’t afford a panic attack. Not right now. Not today.
He was looking for Jeongin and Seungmin, weaving between groups of students who were half-stretching and half-panicking in the aisles, because Jeongin had promised to help with makeup, and Seungmin was supposed to run through vocal warm-ups with him in case the professors asked them to sing some verses before the stage call.
He also needed Minho, or at least he told himself that finding Minho was purely for warm-up reasons and not because his chest felt tight.
No. Jisung was a liar. To himself. But he didn’t want to be anymore. He had never been before his ex. He always did what felt right and said what he thought. When he was interested in someone, he always made the first step. When someone made him mad, he said it. He never shied away from his feelings.
So why did he change?
He had to be honest with himself.
Vanilla. He missed the woody vanilla scent. Missed the way Minho’s face always seemed uncaring and cold till he smiled. Till his lip corner on the right side turned into a smirk, which extended into a smile. He missed the way the light shone in his deep, dark eyes.
Jisung was in disbelief. How did one jealous incident make him realise all that? Make his walls fall?
But… if he really thought about it, it wasn’t the jealous incident that made him realise it. He had realized it long ago. His heart had known the moment he saw Minho for the first time in the dance room. He had known that this was the most handsome man he had ever laid eyes on.
He knew when he saw Minho dancing that nobody ever moved this beautifully. The moment he saw the drops of rain fall from his hair, he knew. He knew he only wanted to see Minho. Wanted to touch his skin. Wanted to kiss his pink, flushed lips. Wanted to feel his strong arms hugging him.
He wanted wanted wanted.
And instead of being honest with himself, he complicated things. He pushed Minho away. Called him annoying. Not only that. He screamed at Minho. Called his voice ugly. He was mean to him. He hurt his feelings. And then he had the audacity to be jealous when Minho was giggling at someone else’s jokes. As if he had the right to.
He needed to make it right.
If he ever wanted to feel normal again, he needed to make it right.
Their turn wasn’t until the afternoon, but the department required everyone to be in the aula to watch the earlier performances, something about respect and participation and “building community.” Jisung wasn’t really there mentally; his mind kept jumping ahead, looping back, circling things he didn’t want to look at directly.
When he finally spotted Changbin and Hyunjin near the aisle seats, he felt something loosen in him, like the sight of familiar people made him remember how to breathe. He walked over, smiling a little too widely. But he was genuinely happy. Even the sweat that was starting to build up in his hands had stopped.
Changbin grinned back immediately, that bright sunshine energy he carried with him everywhere, but Hyunjin… Hyunjin looked at him, which was already weird, strangely, today. Not rude. Not judgmental. Just—curious, maybe, like he was looking at something he had never seen before.
They’d never talked, the two of them. Hyunjin always floated in his own orbit of confidence and sharp lines and uninterested glances. Jisung had found him arrogant. He didn’t dislike him, exactly, anymore… but he wasn’t interested in forcing something that didn’t exist either.
But today Hyunjin looked at him, eyes skimming over him with a kind of brief calculation.
“You look different,” Hyunjin said suddenly, out of nowhere, like the thought had slipped out before he could decide whether it was rude or not.
Even Changbin blinked and turned toward him with a confused little noise. “How?” Changbin asked, eyebrows raised.
Hyunjin didn’t answer. He shrugged one shoulder, turned his attention to something in the opposite direction, and walked off as if he hadn’t just dropped a strange little comment between them like a stone.
Changbin laughed under his breath. “Don’t mind him, he’s been weird all morning, probably stressed out for the performance.”
Then he pulled Jisung into a tight hug with both arms, squeezing him, making him feel warm and comfortable. “Good luck today,” Changbin said into his shoulder.
Jisung hugged him back, a real hug. He really needed it. “Thanks. You too,” he said, even though through his lens, Changbin and Hyunjin didn’t need a lot of luck. Their performance was magical.
They talked for a few minutes, Changbin rambling about something that happened backstage with the lighting tech and Hyunjin, who came back not long after he had left, pretending not to listen from ten feet away, until Jisung finally spotted Seungmin’s brown curls somewhere near the makeup tables.
He excused himself and made his way over, weaving through dancers, costume racks, and cables taped to the floor.
When he reached them, Jeongin was already in the middle of doing Minho’s makeup—leaning close, eyes narrowed like a painter finishing a detail on a portrait.
Jisung froze for a second, watching the scene, something warm and uncomfortable curling in his stomach at the sight of Minho sitting still while Jeongin dabbed highlighter on his cheekbone.
He didn’t want to think about it too hard.
Not now.
Maybe with his new therapist?
“Hyung!” Seungmin called out the moment he noticed him. “We were looking for you. Come on, let’s start your vocal warm-up. And after Minho is finished with makeup, it’s your turn, okay?” Seungmin sounded kind of stressed, which was funny since he is not the one performing today.
Jisung nodded, stepping closer, still unable to stop himself from glancing at Minho— who was sitting perfectly still, his pretty deep eyes half-lidded, letting Jeongin brush powder over the bridge of his perfect nose.
And for a second—just a second— Minho’s gaze shifted up and met his, like he had felt Jisung looking before Jisung even realized he was doing it.
Jisung’s breath caught. He looked away too quickly.
“Let’s go,” Seungmin said, tapping his arm impatiently, dragging him out of the moment.
Jisung followed.
--
They sat in the sixth row together, Jisung and Minho, shoulder to shoulder but not touching, both wearing the same black t-shirts and black sweaters they’d agreed on earlier in the week. It was simple, comfortable, the kind of outfit that made everyone look neat and unified, but for some reason, Jisung couldn’t shake the stupid thought that black suited Minho better than it suited him.
Maybe it was the way the color framed Minho’s skin under the auditorium lighting, that soft, warm beige tone that looked almost golden when he wasn’t sweating from practice. Maybe it was the shape of Minho’s shoulders—broad but not bulky—or the way the shirt sat on his collarbones. Or maybe it was because Jisung didn’t want to admit to himself that he was looking at Minho too much today, noticing things he had avoided noticing for weeks.
And the scent—God, the scent.
He’d smelled it for a month, without acknowledging it, without letting it settle in his mind long enough to name it. But sitting next to him now, with the auditorium dim and the stage lights ahead, the scent felt impossible to ignore.
Vanilla. Warm vanilla, but not the cheap kind. Something softer, rounded, sweet in a way that didn’t feel sugary.
And under it, a hint of something woody—cedar maybe, or sandalwood—the kind of scent that clung to a person and made them feel like a memory even when they were still sitting right next to you.
Jisung tried not to breathe too deeply, but his body betrayed him. He breathed the scent in. Making it travel through his nostrils inside his brain and letting it live there. For the first time, he let himself enjoy it. Let himself feel that little warmth low in his stomach, the way the scent anchored him to something steady in the middle of his nerves.
Once in a while, when a performance wasn’t especially interesting or when the choreography lost his attention, his eyes drifted to Minho’s side profile—quickly, as if he were checking something behind him—but really he was just… admiring.
Minho looked unfairly good from the side. The straight, clean line of his nose. His jaw was sharp but not aggressive, more like something sculpted accidentally. The slight curve of his lower lip that made him look serious even when he was relaxed. The way he held his posture, long neck, shoulders back, dancing had trained his body to exist more elegantly even when sitting still. His lashes—thicker than they had any right to be on someone who didn’t even try. How many lashes did he have? Jisung wonders if it's an uneven number of lashes. Maybe a number that starts with 7? He has to fight the urge to google: "how many lashes do humans have".
Jisung had always known Minho was handsome—everyone knew that—but knowing something and letting yourself look were two different things, and this was the first time he allowed himself more than a glance. The first time, he watched without immediately forcing his eyes away.
And then Minho turned.
Looking right at him.
Right when Jisung was in the middle of getting lost in the angles of his face.
Their eyes locked for five full seconds.
It felt longer.
It felt like something was happening even though neither of them moved.
Then Minho broke eye contact with a tiny smirk that he didn’t hide fast enough.
“The performance is not here, Jisung-ah,” he whispered, voice low enough that only Jisung heard.
Jisung went red instantly.
His throat tightened, his ears burned, and he hated how obvious it felt in his skin, but he also couldn’t deny that hearing Minho whisper his name—whisper, not speak, not call, not mention—did something to him.
It felt like the first time Minho had ever said his name. It was embarrassing and soft in a way Jisung didn’t know how to handle.
He nodded too quickly and stared at the stage with a face so red he considered hiding under the seat.
--
Chan and Felix were next.
The moment the music started, Jisung forgot to breathe for a bit. Chan’s voice had that clean ache to it, the kind that made everything feel nostalgic even if you didn’t know what you were nostalgic for. And Felix—Felix moved like music wasn’t something you listened to but something that lived under his skin.
Jisung felt guilty. About the past weeks. About disappearing. About pushing Felix away when Felix had only ever been soft with him. He felt the guilt sit heavily in him, but in a warm way, as if recognizing it was already the start of fixing it.
He missed his twin.
He missed Chan.
He missed being part of something instead of hiding in his own thoughts.
He promised himself that after today, he would give Felix more attention again. And Changbin. And Chan. And the rest of them who kept loving him even when he didn’t know how to be present.
Chan and Felix finished with the highest grades so far. One professor even leaned forward and said something about their submission being “a model of punctual excellence,” and that they had submitted it only after two weeks, which sent a wave of claps and loud cheers through the room.
Some students looked jealous. Jisung didn’t feel jealousy at all. He felt proud. Overwhelmingly proud that his friends shone so brightly.
Then Changbin and Hyunjin.
And this performance looked different. It wasn’t even about the choreography—though that was sharp and clean and better than anything they’d done in rehearsal—it was something in the air between them. Jisung felt it immediately, the warmth, the connection, the easy gravity that had been building week after week.
He saw the way Hyunjin looked at Changbin like he wasn’t performing for the room but for him. He saw Changbin’s face soften slightly whenever he moved near Hyunjin. He saw it all come together on stage, and he knew—Changbin had won him over completely.
They also earned the highest grade.
Of course they did.
--
Then it was almost their turn.
Their names appeared on the backstage screen in the ten-minute bracket, and suddenly the hallway felt smaller, louder, more real.
They headed backstage.
Seungmin and Jeongin were already waiting with powder brushes and lint rollers, and too many instructions.
“Five minutes!” someone shouted.
Jisung felt his heart jump.
They stepped into the wings, the darkness swallowing them as the stage crew adjusted the lights and reset the floor.
“Ready?” Minho asked quietly, not looking at him, but Jisung heard the question in the steady tone.
“Yeah,” he said.
They walked onto the dark stage.
Found their marks.
Closed their eyes for one second.
And waited for the music.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “only one for me” – BTOB
"I'm on my way to you now
Much faster than the end of spring
I want to say something If I don't say it
I would regret it for the rest of my life"
----------------
The beat that he had danced to too many times these past weeks played, and Minho started to move effortlessly. His body was used to the moves by now. But then he heard something that made him almost lose his cool.
He heard Jisung’s voice. Not next to him. But through the big speakers.
Minho almost missed a step. Almost. He kept dancing because he had to, but the shock ran down his spine. And when the chorus came, and his harmony slid under Jisung’s vocals through the speakers, he couldn’t hide his smile anymore. He tried. He really tried. But it pushed through anyway, tugged at his mouth, pulled at his cheeks until he couldn’t fight it.
And then the part came—the part where they had to hold hands.
His body reacted before his mind did.
He reached out like always.
But this time, he looked at Jisung with a bright, real smile he didn’t plan.
Jisung had been nervous since the second the track started. His heart was somewhere near his throat, or maybe in the speakers with his voice—he didn’t know anymore. He didn’t know how Minho was going to react. He didn’t know if Minho would freeze, or stop, or just look annoyed, or disgusted, or walk off stage because he didn’t want Jisung’s voice anywhere near his performance.
He had no idea.
The only moment he was allowed to see Minho was during the “held on” part.
Their hands.
Their eyes.
One breath.
His hands were cold.
He was scared Minho would hesitate.
Or avoid it.
Or grip too lightly.
Or grip too tightly.
But Minho reached for him exactly like he always did—confident, steady, warm hands. Minho's hands are always warm.
Jisung swallowed hard.
He dared to look up.
And Minho-
was smiling.
Not a smirk.
Not one of his sarcastic smiles.
Not the little half-smiles he gave Changbin when he teased him.
A real smile.
A warm smile.
A soft smile that reached all the way up to his eyes.
Directed at him. Not at Chan, or Changbin, Hyunjin, or Taewon.
Only him.
And that was when Jisung noticed things he had somehow never seen before. Minho’s bunny teeth peeking through, the shape of his cheeks when he smiled, the plush curve of his lips. Little details he had never allowed himself to stare at before.
His heart skipped. Hard.
His stomach was warm. The warm blanket was back. And he allowed himself to feel the happiness that radiated from this feeling.
He smiled back, small at first, then a little bigger when Minho’s grip tightened a fraction of a second longer than usual.
It was stupid— but Minho couldn’t have been happier in that moment.
Really.
--
The next few moments went by Jisung like a dream.
When the music finished and everyone clapped, Minho took his hand, and they bowed together.
Minho’s hands are still warm, always warm. Jisung liked it.
Then the professors started talking about their performance as if they were in a talent survival show. And when they were graded with the highest score, he couldn’t really understand how to react.
A weight was lifted from his shoulders—he wouldn’t deny that. But at the same time, the weight that had lifted one minute earlier, when Minho smiled at him, felt weirdly heavier than this one.
Everything happened in a flash.
How he went backstage.
How Jeongin and Seungmin hugged him tightly, congratulating him.
How Minho only let go of his hand when Jeongin crushed them both, but grabbed it again right after.
How they sat back down in their seats, and how Jisung’s smile never faded.
The moment they sat, he turned to Minho—and Minho had already turned to him.
His smile was just as bright as Jisung’s.
They just looked at each other, happy, staring into each other’s eyes.
Then… out of nowhere… Minho reached for Jisung’s shoulder, very softly, like he was scared Jisung would run away if he moved any faster, and pulled him into a half-sided hug.
Jisung’s chin ended up in the crook of Minho’s neck.
Vanilla.
His head went dizzy in a good way.
All his thoughts disappeared.
All he could think about was the vanilla-woody smell.
He clung to Minho’s sweater and smiled against his bare skin, making Minho shiver under his breath.
His heart beat faster than the honestly lousy and cliché beat coming from the speakers in the background.
When they finally let go of each other, it was exactly when the performance onstage ended with applause, and the lights turned back on—exposing them awkwardly.
But the smile on both their faces didn’t die.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “AIRPLANE” – Stray Kids
I feel like flying whenever we meet
Every minute is precious
One minute, trying to save that one minute
I couldn't even tie my shoelace
Travel far, let's get on the airpane, airplane (Yeah-yeah)
----------------
“TO US AND OUR ABSOLUTELY FABULOUS GRADES.”
Felix yelled it like an anthem, and all seven cheered with him.
Glasses clinked, laughter spilled across the table, someone slapped someone’s shoulder too hard, and congratulatory words were passed around.
“I can’t believe all of you got those grades… that is crazy,” Jeongin said, his eyes squinting into tiny fox-slits as he grinned.
“I can,” Chan laughed, already halfway drunk on happiness alone. “We bled for this. And it was worth it!”
He lifted his glass. “And now it is damn time to party.” He finished his vodka in one go, making everyone cheer again. He didn’t look like it, but he was absolutely the drinker of the friend group.
“You were amazing, Jagiya.” Changbin bumped his glass against Hyunjin’s. “Jeongin did a great job with your makeup.”
The pet name froze the whole table. Seven pairs of eyes snapped toward them.
Hyunjin’s face went red instantly—neck, ears, everything. He pushed his long, dark hair back like that would hide the embarrassment.
“Changbin-Hyung,” he hissed, “you are so loud.”
“You said we could tell them tonight thoughhh…” Changbin pouted dramatically, giving Hyunjin the most pathetic puppy eyes, hiding his smile in his drink.
“Fine.” Hyunjin let out a long-suffering sigh.
He looked around the table, rolled his eyes so dramatically it could be heard, turned toward Changbin fully, cupped his cheeks, and kissed him.
It was a quick peck on the lips—fast enough that even Changbin blinked in surprise.
Everyone’s jaws dropped.
Then—
“That is my wife now,” Hyunjin said, it like he wasn’t blushing all the way down to his collarbones.
Silence.
“OH MY GOD CONGRATULATIONS YOU TWO—” Chan exploded first.
Felix screamed next—so loud several bar-goers turned—and then somehow jumped onto Hyunjin like a koala.
Everyone stood up to hug and congratulate them.
When it was Jisung’s turn, he hugged Changbin tightly. “I never doubted you, Hyung,” he said, smiling at him and pecking his red, full, smiling cheek.
He really hadn’t.
Changbin hugged him tightly too, unable to speak from how wide he was smiling.
Then Jisung turned to Hyunjin and—without thinking—hugged him too.
The two had never spoken more than three words together, and here they were.
Hugging.
When they pulled back and looked at each other, both of them just… burst out laughing.
“I didn’t like you,” Jisung said honestly. “Still not sure. But if you make my Hyung happy, I can survive it.”
“I hated you,” Hyunjin snorted. “But Hyung said I’m not allowed to, so I guess I need to like you now.”
Jisung laughed about the honesty, making Hyunjin laugh too.
He paused, glanced behind Jisung. “We still need to fight about something, though.”
Jisung followed his gaze to Minho, who was congratulating his new brother-in-law.
Jisung nodded. “Coffee?” he suggested. “So we can fight properly?”
Hyunjin blinked, surprised, then nodded. “You have my number.”
They all sat down again, and Seungmin slammed his hand on the table, palm up.
“I won the bet. Pay up.” He sang it triumphantly.
Chan, Felix, and Jeongin groaned like old men and each pulled out a 50,000-won bill, placing them into Seungmin’s greedy little palm. He pocketed the money happily.
“You guys bet on their relationship?” Minho laughed.
“Oh hell, yes we did!” Seungmin sang.
“Well, not exactly,” Chan added, looking apologetic at Changbin’s shocked expression. “We knew they'd end up together. We just bet on when.”
Changbin stared at him, betrayed. “Chan-hyung… I did not expect this behavior from you.” He shook his head in disbelief.
“That reminds me,” Seungmin said, reaching a hand toward Hyunjin’s very pretty—and very guilty-looking—face.
“I hoped you forgot,” Hyunjin muttered, already pulling out his wallet.
Changbin’s eyes widened. “WHAT? YOU TOO?”
“It’s a different bet…” Hyunjin mumbled, handing Seungmin a 10,000 and a 50,000-won note.
“What bet?” Changbin asked, while everyone looked between Seungmin and Hyunjin.
The younger shrugged. “It’s his relationship. He should answer.”
He tucked the money away with the rest of the bills he’d won tonight.
Everyone’s eyes went straight back to Hyunjin. Hyunjin groaned into his hands.
“He bet me fifteen thousand won that I would sleep with Changbin-Hyung before the year ends.”
Silence.
Then Changbin burst out laughing so loudly that the neighboring table jumped.
The rest followed.
“For the record,” Seungmin added, smiling, “Hyunjin said he’s not that easy and, I quote, ‘it’ll take at least six months before I let him in my pants.’”
Hyunjin wilted in his seat.
“Well, my wife,” Changbin smirked, flexing his biceps with zero shame, “who can blame you?”
The energy stayed high. The bar was warm and loud.
Later, when Felix shrieked, “THIS IS MY SONG,” everyone knew resistance was pointless. He dragged all of them onto the dance floor, and they let him.
The night felt perfect.
--
The mood was still too loud, too bright, too warm, and everyone was moving in every wrong direction possible on the dance floor, but then somehow—somewhere—Jisung and Minho ended up right in front of each other.
As if the whole crowd parted without asking them, or maybe Jisung moved without noticing, or maybe Minho did, he didn’t know. He couldn’t know.
Minho was just suddenly there.
They stopped. Just looked at each other.
The beat vibrating under their shoes, but none of that mattered because Minho’s eyes were right on his, and Jisung felt his stomach twist so sharply he had to swallow.
And for one stupid, dangerous second, he thought,
This is perfect.
Like, actually perfect.
Like something he didn’t deserve to feel.
He looked away first.
Obviously.
—
Going home was a mess.
Changbin and Chan had gotten way too drunk for their own good, Felix screaming at them to “WALK STRAIGHT YOU CLOWNS” while literally being the one stumbling into street signs.
So Felix took one of Chan’s arms, and Changbin took the other side, and together they looked like three bunnies trying to walk a straight line.
Since Chan was knocked out, it made Minho the leader of the night group by default.
And seeing him walk slightly ahead, hands in pockets, scanning the road like a parent counting children…
Jisung quietly thought Mom fit him more than Dad.
But he’d never say that out loud unless he wanted to die.
At the intersection, everybody split without ceremony: Chan, Changbin, adopting Felix went toward the dorm that the two shared.
Hyunjin had already texted Changbin to drink water, or he’d “suffer tomorrow,” and then went in his own direction, not telling anybody where he was going. Secretly, he was just leaving them so Minho and Jisung could spend time together.
Seungmin and Jeongin walked straight to their dorm without even turning around.
And Jisung…
Felix shoved his key into Jisung’s palm before disappearing down the other street, so Jisung ended up walking in the same direction as Minho.
Just them. Two idiots still a little tipsy.
And the sudden small awkwardness sobered Jisung up faster than anything, because suddenly the night was too quiet and the space between them too obvious, and he didn’t know what to do with his hands.
Minho broke the silence first.
“Thank you.”
Jisung blinked. “For what?”
“For being honest with yourself.”
Oh.
“Oh.”
Jisung felt his whole face warm up immediately, and he hoped it was the alcohol.
Minho’s eyes were on him again, soft in a way he couldn’t read, and Jisung stopped walking without realising, making Minho stop too.
The air was cold. His skin wasn’t.
“I… I apologize again,” he said quietly, voice cracking in the middle. “I hope you can accept it.”
Minho’s mouth twitched into something that wasn’t a smile but wasn’t not a smile.
“Changing the track and risking getting killed by Seungmin,” he said, “is the most romantic apology I’ve ever received. How can I not accept it?”
And Jisung’s face burned. No way that was the cheap alcohol anymore.
They started walking again, slower this time. Jisung didn’t know where to look, so he stared at the ground, then at the buildings, then at Minho’s shadow, and then—
Wait. Where had Minho said he lived again?
“Hold on,” Jisung said, stopping again. “You… you live here?”
Minho looked confused for a second, then nodded. “Yeah. There.”
He pointed to the small building they were passing.
Jisung’s brain stalled. This was the street he walked every single day. To the convenience store. To campus. Past the same fences. Past the same wall where—
Meow.
He heard it the moment he thought about it.
The orange cat appeared as if someone had cued her. Like she had been waiting for this scene to happen.
Minho crouched down immediately, cutting their eye contact.
“Soonie. What are you doing out at this time?” His voice softened into something Jisung almost didn’t recognize.
Jisung’s eyes widened. “Wait. Is this your cat?”
Minho nodded like it wasn’t the most insane thing Jisung had learned in months. He lifted Soonie into his arms, and she melted into his chest like she belonged there.
“You know her?” Minho asked, tilting his head.
“Well, not really,” Jisung said too quickly. “But… when I see her, I know my day gets better.” The words left his mouth, and only then did he realize how weird that sounded. He wanted to crawl into the pavement.
But Minho didn’t laugh at him. He chuckled, but it wasn’t mean. It was warm. “Yeah. This baby brightens everybody’s day, right?”
Jisung nodded because he suddenly forgot how to speak. He reached out and petted Soonie while she rested in Minho’s arms, and his fingers brushed Minho’s sleeve for half a second too long.
It was stupid. Small. Too much.
And the worst part?
He liked it.
-------
Minho-hyung: You want to study together? Nobody else seems to have survived last night
Jisung: Yes why not 😊 Ik right? Felix is not even home yet
Minho-hyung: Hyunjin is sleeping like a rock. Bit my finger when I went to wake him up.
Jisung chuckled at the visuals.
Jisung: You'd better leave him be, the exams are soon and you need all your fingers I guess
Minho-hyung: True. And I need a study buddy who motivates me. So, 5 p.m. in the university library?
Jisung: See you later!
His heart was beating fast when Jisung turned up next to the library entrance at 4:40 p.m. Way too early, but he was always an anxious appointment holder. That meant that when he had an appointment later than 12 p.m., he had no idea what to do with his day. It was basically just waiting for the appointment, getting ready for the appointment, going to the appointment and having the appointment, and then going home from the appointment.
And right now, he was waiting for Minho to arrive so they could start their appointment. He was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, playing with his jacket, when he finally saw the black-haired mop walking towards him.
Minho walked up the path with a backpack on one shoulder, headphones around his neck, hair pushed back like he hadn’t even tried, but it still looked stupidly good.
He raised a hand in greeting, small, almost shy, not the usual confident wave Minho gave people.
“Hey,” Minho said.
“Hi,” Jisung managed, but his voice cracked embarrassingly on the “i,” so he coughed to hide it.
Minho’s lips curled up into a smirk, but he tried to hide it, pretending he hadn’t noticed the slip-up.
“Have you been waiting for long?” Minho asked him.
Jisung decided on a white lie and just shook his head.
They walked inside together. The library was half-empty, with most students who were here being juniors, since most students from their year had had the same smart idea and gone out partying yesterday.
They found a table tucked in the back corner.
Minho sat across from him, unpacking his laptop and notes with way more care than needed.
Jisung took his own notebook out, but stopped when he noticed something.
Minho was looking at him.
“What?” Jisung whispered, because his stomach twisted again.
Minho shook his head once.
“Nothing. Just… glad you came.”
Jisung looked down at his notes so fast he nearly pulled a muscle.
“Yeah. Same.”
They worked in silence for a few minutes.
A comfortable silence. Too comfortable.
Dangerously comfortable.
Then Minho spoke again, voice low so people around wouldn’t hear.
“By the way,” he said, flipping a page that didn’t need flipping, “Soonie keeps sitting near the entrance today. I think she was waiting for you.”
Jisung looked up slowly.
“What? Why would she—”
Minho’s lips curled into that almost-smile again. Sheepishly this time. “That’s what you get for telling her she makes your day better.” A reminder of the embarrassing thing Jisung had said yesterday.
“Didn’t you say she makes everybody’s day better?” Jisung groaned and buried his face in his hands.
“Yes, but,” Minho’s ears started turning red, “I think you also make her day better.”
Jisung’s stomach twisted again. By the way Minho was looking at him and then looking away shyly, he had hopes that it was not only Soonie’s day that he made better. No matter how much the cat meant to him.
They worked in silence again.
Till Jisung remembered something, the email he had woken up to this morning. Because he had seen the mail and Minho’s message at the same time, he hadn’t really processed it till now, so now he felt the urge to say it.
“I have a therapist now,” he blurted out. Regretting it immediately, his whole face red, he added a “forget it” before hiding behind his History of Music book.
“That is amazing, Jisung!” Minho smiled at him brightly. He tilted his head. “I am proud of you. Not everyone is brave enough to take that step.”
Jisung’s cheeks were burning after the praise.
He hadn’t expected it. But he couldn’t deny how happy it made him.
He hummed, hiding more behind his book.
He was not a coward.
He was brave.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Sunshine” – Stray Kids
"This place is quiet without a sound ye ye ye
Quiet except for the sound of our breaths ye ye ye
Everything that hurts me is blown away and fade away ye
Should I fly to the sky
Where the clouds are swimming? Ye ye ye"
----------------
The next days… then weeks… blurred together in a way that felt different than the last month they had spent together. Just quietly, naturally, like something had shifted without being announced.
There were some awkward moments. Like when Jisung called Minho “Hyung” for the first time. It slipped out of his mouth so naturally, probably because he had him saved as that on his phone, but when Minho smiled at him fondly instead of answering his question, he noticed what he had just said, and they went quiet for a while. This word alone was announcing a way of closeness between them that had only just started to be built.
With the mental closeness came also the physical closeness. They started as innocent little accidental touches; every time they happened, Jisung's heart skipped a beat. And then he realised just how much Minho seems to be into skinship. something he wouldn't have guessed. Whenever Minho had the chance to, he put an arm around Jisung's shoulder. Not that Jisung hated it. Not at all.
And Jisung learned things about Minho he hadn’t known before. They actually had more in common than he thought.
They both liked the same anime. They both liked gaming (not as much as Felix, who lived on his PC like a cryptid), but enough to argue about characters and endings. They both loved the same music artists, the same sad playlist energy, the same dumb hype songs. And they both loved tteokbokki way too much for it to be healthy.
Then there were the smaller things, the details, the kind of things you only notice when your eyes stay on someone for too long without permission.
Like the day Jisung watched Minho write something, then switched the pen from his right hand to his left without thinking. And then keep writing with the same handwriting.
Jisung’s eyes widened before he could stop himself. “Wait—you write with both hands?” he asked, whispering like it was classified information.
Minho blinked. “Yeah?”
“So… you’re apolyexterious?”
“Apoly… apo—what did you say?” Minho squinted.
“A-p-o-l-y—whatever. That thing. You can use both hands.”
Minho snorted. “Ambidextrous, Jisung-ahh.”
“Yeah, that. Why didn’t you tell me?!” He looked with big eyes at the older one.
“You never asked,” Minho shrugged, switching the pen back to his right hand just to prove the point.
“Also, it’s not that deep.”
“You switched again!”
“Of course, now I am trying to flex, Jisung-ahh.”
It was deep to Jisung.
He didn’t know why.
It just was.
He also noticed how, whenever Minho was thinking deeply while studying, he started moving his body as if he was dancing—tiny movements, shoulders, wrists, neck, like music only he could hear.
How, when Minho smiled, the right side of his mouth moved first.
Always. Turning every smile into a smirk before it became a real one.
How, when he laughed, his syllables cut off the same way Changbin’s did—sharp, broken little bursts.
How he somehow always had cat food in his jacket pocket, like he never knew when Soonie or another random cat would appear.
Jisung learned all of this without meaning to.
It just happened.
He started calling them the Minhorisms.
And he was addicted to them.
As if Minho had become a collection of details he wanted to memorize.
--
One time they were out with Felix, walking down the main street toward a bubble tea place, when a girl approached them with way too much confidence.
“Hi—um, oppa… sorry, but… can I have your number?”
She talked to Minho.
Jisung blinked, and his stomach dropped in a way he pretended not to notice.
He didn’t know why it happened.
Oppa? Seriously? They were the same age, if not, she looked older. And who called a man they didn’t know oppa? Wasn’t that awkward? Like, who did she think she was?
Jisung had to bite his tongue not to say something out loud.
Minho looked surprised for half a second, then gave her a small, polite smile.
“Oh—I’m really flattered, but… I’m gay,” he said.
Gentle. Respectful. Zero awkwardness.
The girl still froze, processed the information, then nodded and walked away with a stiff little bow.
The second she was out of earshot, Felix let out a noise that sounded like a dying kettle.
“HYUNG?! You could’ve told me!” Felix slapped Minho’s arm dramatically. “I didn’t know that for sure! It’s not important per se, but I know so many great guys, I could’ve hooked you up!”
Minho frowned at him like Felix was the unhinged one here.
“But I did tell you. I literally told you I had a crush on a senior in primary school.”
Felix blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Brain empty.
“Okay, but what does that have to—”
“I went to an all-boys school,” Minho said flatly.
Felix stared at him. Then the realization hit him with physical force.
“Ohhh—OH. OH.”
He doubled over laughing, clutching his stomach. “Why didn’t you say it like that?!”
Minho rolled his eyes. “I literally did.”
Jisung tried not to react.
Tried not to let the warmth spread in his chest.
Tried not to follow the thought too far.
Because this shouldn’t have been a big deal.
It shouldn’t have made anything feel different.
It shouldn’t have mattered in any significant way.
But it did.
Just a little.
And he didn’t know why.
They were just friends.
Just friends.
Sure. He liked having Minho around. Too much, maybe. But he wasn’t allowed to feel more. Not this time. He already hurt Minho once. And almost lost him. Lost him when they were nothing but project partners. He can not tell him what he is feeling. Not with someone he could lose. So he told himself Minho was just a friend. Nothing more. He needed it to stay that way. Needed to have Minho around.
--
A lot has happened. A lot is changing. Jisung can't keep up with all the changes that are happening in his life. And Jisung didn’t plan on talking about therapy again.
Not so soon.
Not when the word still felt too big in his mouth, too loud in his head.
Still not quite normal yet.
But somehow, the next time he met Chan and Changbin—in the campus café that always smelled like old cinnamon and burnt espresso—the topic came up again, like it had been waiting in the air.
And what could he do?
These two were his therapists long before he paid someone to do the job they’d been doing for years.
So they had the right to know who replaced them now.
Chan sat across from him, elbows on the table, looking way too fatherly for someone who barely slept. Jisung knew that if there was someone more dedicated to his studies than himself, it was the hardworking Bang Chan.
Changbin sat next to him, already halfway through his second pastry, crumbs everywhere.
“So,” Chan said gently, “how did the appointment go? The first real one? Or is it already the second one?”
Jisung froze for half a second.
Then shrugged.
“It was… good,” he said. “We talked. About… stuff.”
His cheeks heated. Why. Why did they heat?
“She’s nice. I… I trust her.”
Chan nodded like he understood all the words Jisung didn’t say.
Changbin slowed his chewing, watching him with those soft eyes. “That’s important,” Changbin said around a mouthful of croissant. “Someone you feel safe with.”
Jisung nodded.
Chan reached across the table and squeezed his wrist. “I’m proud of you, you know,” he said softly. “Most people don’t take that step even when they know they should.”
For a moment, Jisung didn’t know what to do with his throat.
It felt too tight.
He nodded, staring at his cup. “I’m trying,” he murmured.
“We know,” Chan said. And Changbin added, “You’re doing well, Jisung-ah. Really.”
He didn’t expect how much that would mean to him.
When Hyunjin called, asking his boyfriend—or “wife”, like they called each other—where he was, Changbin sent him the café address.
It didn’t take long till Hyunjin arrived. Quiet, but with that elegance he always had. He sat down next to Changbin after greeting everyone and just let his head rest against Changbin’s shoulder like it was instinct.
Changbin glanced at him. “You okay?” Hyunjin hummed. “Long morning.”
He didn’t elaborate, but the way his fingers curled slightly into Changbin’s sleeve said enough.
Jisung couldn’t help but think their relationship moved fast—maybe too fast— But it was steady.
It had been maybe two months since they had known each other, and here they were, sitting, Hyunjin with his wife’s friends, cuddling and touching each other’s hands and thighs as if they had always done that.
Hyunjin leaned into Changbin like his body knew where to go first. Changbin adjusted his posture automatically so Hyunjin fit better against him.
It was warm to watch.
Warm and a little painful.
Hyunjin didn’t act like this with anyone else. Jisung knows that now. Because another change that was happening was the growing friendship with Hyunjin. He had never seen it coming. It felt nice that they were able to laugh about how they had hated each other at the beginning. And funny how they shared more of the same personality than they had expected. Jisung hadn’t liked Hyunjin at first, because he was a dance major and Jisung did not like the way he treated Changbin. And Hyunjin had been jealous, because the more Jisung looked annoyed at him, the more Hyunjin thought Jisung was into Changbin. They had laughed about it for a long time. Jisung liked muscular men, but Changbin was still not his type.
At all. When this misconception was cleared, they bonded.
Jisung remembered the coffee they had had alone a few days ago.
Hyunjin had picked the café—not the one everyone went to, but a quieter one further down the street, with plants in every corner and warm lighting that made it easier to breathe.
Hyunjin arrived first, sitting by the window, long hair tied back loosely, fingers tapping on his cup.
When Jisung sat down, Hyunjin didn’t waste a second.
“I’m not fully forgiving you,” he said immediately.
No greetings.
No preface.
If it were any other situation, Jisung would’ve laughed at the bluntness of it.
But it wasn’t funny.
Not when he had hurt Hyunjin’s best friend and roommate.
Jisung had expected the sting. He deserved it.
So he nodded, eyes dropping to his hands.
“I know,” he murmured. “You’re right. I… I hurt him. And I shouldn’t have. You don’t have to trust me.”
Hyunjin watched him for a moment, unreadable.
Jisung swallowed. “I’ll win your trust again,” he said quietly. “I want to. And I know I have to earn it. I also think… Minho forgave me too easily.”
Saying it out loud felt strange.
Hyunjin hummed, leaning back in his chair. “That’s because he’s a big softie, even if he doesn’t look like it,” he said. “But I’m not. So don’t expect the same from me.”
Jisung nodded again. He didn’t want it to be easy anyway.
And then, as if the air between them needed to shift into something more or less normal, getting-to-know-each-other topics, Hyunjin answered the question about his free time by listing his many hobbies and adding:
“I started therapy again.”
Jisung blinked. “Oh. Me too.”
Hyunjin’s eyebrows lifted. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Jisung said. “I, uh… not again, as in I have already done that… I had my first real session this week.”
“What’s the name?” Hyunjin asked, sipping his drink.
Jisung told him. Hyunjin froze.
Then looked up sharply.
“…you’re kidding.”
“What?”
“That’s my therapist.”
Jisung almost choked on his own tongue.
“YOU’RE lying—”
Hyunjin covered his face with his hands. “This is humiliating.”
Jisung laughed. “Why?”
“I told her about you when, you know, I first met you.”
“Did you? Oh my God. She probably thinks we hate each other.”
“We did,” Hyunjin said bluntly. Then paused. “Kind of.”
Jisung couldn’t help but laugh. He liked Hyunjin’s bluntness. He understood how he and Felix, and Minho were friends, and how he survived being with Changbin.
And suddenly, the conversation wasn’t about forgiveness anymore.
It was about fear.
Because the therapist they went to was specialized in anxiety, it was clear to both of them that they were visiting her for the same reason.
Jisung was amazed.
He could’ve never thought that Hyunjin was a person struggling with anxiety or insecurities.
And Hyunjin admitted he had assumed the same about him.
They both were amazing at faking confidence, how it turned out. They bonded over scheduling, missing appointments, trying to fix things you didn’t know how to fix. How draining it was to unpack the heavy things instead of ignoring them like normal.
They talked about the blue chair. The plant in the corner that looked half-dead every week.
How the therapist always used the same line: “What do you need right now?” And how both of them hated how fast it broke them open.
For the first time, Hyunjin didn’t talk like Minho’s protector. He talked like someone who understood the kind of tired Jisung carried. Someone who didn’t judge him for cracking open slowly.
Now, sitting in the campus café again, Hyunjin leaned into Changbin’s side—familiar, soft, safe—but every few minutes, he turned to Jisung to ask things only he would understand:
“Did you finish the breathing exercise?”
“Did you talk about that thing from Tuesday?”
“Did you sleep better after the session?”
Small questions. But important ones. Ones he didn’t ask anyone else.
And Jisung felt seen. Really seen. In a quiet, steady way, he didn’t expect from Hyunjin. Therapy talk had cracked something open between them.
They texted each other reminders about appointments. Shared breathing exercises. Sent memes about anxiety that only someone who lived with it would find funny.
He smiled back. A real one.
It didn’t erase the twist in his chest when he watched Hyunjin and Changbin—
How easy they made love look.
How honest they were with each other without fear.
How they didn’t hesitate to want and be wanted.
But it grounded him.
Because Hyunjin wasn’t his best friend, no. But he was someone Jisung trusted now. Someone who understood the ugly parts. Someone who told him the truth so Minho didn’t have to hurt doing it.
And watching Changbin and Hyunjin fit into each other so naturally, so openly—
It didn’t threaten him. It only made something inside him shift.
Like he was finally admitting something to himself, he wasn’t ready to say aloud: He wanted something too.
Something warm. Something steady. Something that scared him a little.
He just didn’t know how to let himself want it.
Not yet.
Not out loud.
“Where’s Minho?” Changbin asked casually, wiping crumbs off Hyunjin’s sweater.
Jisung didn’t look up fast enough.
Too slow.
Too obvious.
“He’s with Felix,” Chan answered before Jisung could. “They were filming something for class.”
“Oh, right,” Hyunjin nodded. “Felix said he cornered Minho into helping.”
Jisung hummed.
Like that sentence didn’t send a weird little spark down his spine.
But Chan noticed.
Of course, he noticed.
“Why,” Chan said slowly, “do you look like you know where Minho is exactly?”
“I don’t,” Jisung said too fast.
Too sharp.
Hyunjin just rolled his eyes at the obvious lie.
Changbin and Chan shared a look.
The one that said There it is.
“Don’t start!” Jisung warned them.
It made Hyunjin giggle for some reason he didn’t understand.
Little did he know that Minho had reacted the same way when Hyunjin had been annoying him some weeks ago.
“We’re not saying anything,” Changbin said, raising his hands in surrender. “We’re just… observing.”
“Observing what?” Jisung snapped.
Chan tilted his head. “You and Minho have been spending a lot of time together lately.”
“So what? We’re friends.”
He took a sip of his drink.
Missed his mouth a little.
Pretended he didn’t.
Changbin smirked. “Sure.”
“Friends,” Chan repeated, smiling too warmly.
“Friends,” Hyunjin mimicked Jisung’s voice.
Jisung glared. “We are.”
Nobody argued out loud anymore.
But their faces were arguing violently.
And he hated how hot his cheeks felt.
Because maybe he didn’t know what they were.
Not really.
Not anymore.
And maybe that scared him.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “LIMBO” – Lee Know
"I know it'll change with just one word
The words I couldn't tell you
Lock me in this dream, please don't let me go"
----------------
Three weeks left till the midterms and four weeks till the holidays.
The moment the libraries were filled with students at all hours of the day, Jisung knew it was getting serious.
The first week of December entered with the usual cold air and gloomy light.
Jisung really liked it.
He liked going out when it was dark and coming home when it was dark.
It made him feel like he actually used the whole day.
When he mentioned it to his therapist—thinking they were just having normal small talk—she dropped a bomb on him:
“He feels pressure to be productive every day and prefers leaving the house and returning when it’s dark because it feels like proof that he used his entire day. This helps him avoid the stress of daylight hours, noise, and expectations. It also hides the fear that he is not doing enough and shows a pattern commonly seen in people with high anxiety who use control to manage fear.”
Crazy how he couldn’t even say he liked the weather without being psychoanalyzed.
But that was what he was paying for, right?
His phone buzzed.
Minho-hyung: I sat next to a student today, guess what he did for work?
Jisung: what?
Minho-hyung: He sells feet pics on the internet
Jisung: HOW DID THIS TOPIC COME UP??? You cannot pay me enough to admit something like that to a random student on campus
Minho-hyung: I know him because he used to work at the same dance studio I work at on weekends. But he quit. So I asked if he got a better job, and…
Jisung: And? Is it a better job?
Minho-hyung: He spent two weeks in Europe… mid-season
Jisung: oh damn… maybe I should start doing that too
Minho-hyung: No
Jisung: U think I don’t have the feet for that, Hyung?
Minho-hyung: I just don’t like to share, Jisung-ah.
Jisung stared at the message.
Butterflies exploded in his twisting stomach.
His cheeks warmed instantly.
He read the message again.
And again.
And one more time, slower.
I just don’t like to share, Jisung-ah.
…
Oh.
Chapter 8: “Kissing of the wives”
Notes:
Congratulations to Stray Kids for winning Album of the Year today. I cried so much with them. Nobody deserves it more than them. They went through many difficulties this year and took so much hate. Bang Chan is the best leader no matter what any hater says. Without him, Stray Kids wouldn’t exist and the members wouldn’t be the same.
Seungmin showed his vocals again with that smile of his. DIVINE was a clear proof of his talent. Hyunjin worked hard and went through a lot, questioning his abilities even though he never had to from my point of view. He is talented in everything he does.
Changbin is talented, the strongest fourth-gen rapper together with Han. He is also much more than his physique. Han is the best all-rounder without question. Changbin said a while ago that if Felix gets better in Korean, he would have to quit rap, and that shows how talented Felix is.
I.N’s vocals get better every day and he looks incredible. Lee Know is the best right hand for Bang Chan and the best main dancer fourth-gen could have asked for. I hope he recovers soon.
I hope you enjoy this chapter, my love dovie. Leave me a kudos or a comment for motivation hihi <33
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Winterfall” – DPR IAN
“Now I get what you mean
When it hurts you
Now I get what you mean
When you want to feel
Oh, I get it
No, I get it
I get what you mean
When you wanna see something
You're the only one who made me feel like something
Feel like something”
----------------
Study season was soon to be over; however, the stress wasn’t going away yet, but weirdly, it felt lighter than the study seasons before this one. The entire campus moved like a single exhausted organism. Coffee cups everywhere. Laptops, iPads, and books open everywhere. And more often than not, you saw or heard someone cry. Jisung literally saw someone studying cards in the bathroom yesterday, and spotted a girl crying into her book in the middle of the cafeteria. Jisung actually liked the study season.
Not the stress — but the atmosphere.
He liked studying with his friends and loved the efficiency that came with being stressed out. Self-destructive? maybe. But at least he sleeps happily after studying himself to exhaustion.
And so much was happening and changing in his life right now, he really appreciated the stability that studying brought. Though all the things that were changing were positive changes, he still couldn’t get over the fact that he really started therapy. For something so big, it happened way too fast.
But then again, all of his great ideas that changed his life for the positive happened because of a decision that he took in the middle of the night.
What made him think that the bravery of starting therapy was going to be any different?
What surprises him more than therapy is how studying with Minho had become… normal.
It didn’t take them long for it to become so normal to the point that they had a whole routine now. To the point that they met daily next to Minho’s dormitory, said bye to Soonie together, and went to the store together. Jisung bought his energy drink — honestly, it was Minho who bought the last few drinks for him — Minho bought his coffee and pudding, and they walked together to the library or to campus.
Just… normal.
So normal that if you were a student on campus, walking to your class, you wouldn’t see Minho without Jisung nor Jisung without Minho. So normal that they texted daily.
And texting with Minho was all kinds of weird and funny.
Some texts made Jisung giggle, and some even made him blush. For example:
Minho-Hyung:
Library? Dance theory is killing me. I need something sweet.
Jisung:
I’ll bring you pudding in 10
Minho-Hyung:
Your sweet butt alone would've been enough, but I won’t say no to pudding
Or:
Jisung:
Chan-hyung wants us to analyze three songs. For fun. Save me.
Minho-Hyung:
Only if you let me touch ur butt once.
Or:
Minho-Hyung:
You disappeared for 10 minutes. Come back. I can’t focus without your pencil tapping and ur butt.
He didn’t know how to respond to that last one. Save to say that Minho has developed a crazy obsession with Jisung's butt. Not that Jisung was annoyed by it. Not at all.
Chan, Changbin, and Jisung had always had their weekly meet-ups outside of class and outside of the studio. It was Chan's Idea. This time in their favorite coffee place. This time was holy for them. It was their sacred time and sacred tradition in their sacred space. A tradition they had since their first year at the academy, and they never stopped, no matter how busy life got.
Until Hyunjin ruined everything.
The story goes like this:
During one of Jisung and Hyunjin’s therapy-coffee talks, Jisung had stupidly said something without thinking.
He said: “The last few days, I don’t seem to be able to concentrate like usual when Minho-Hyung is here. And the therapist said I would need to observe it more.”
When Hyunjin asked why he thought that was, Jisung said he didn’t know.
A lie.
Or at least half a lie.
He did know why.
Unfortunately.
Vanilla.
Woody, manly vanilla.
Jisung could not concentrate when Minho was next to him, because he got lost in this smell.
But not only that.
Whenever Minho made one of his stupid, flirty jokes, Jisung got thrown out of the orbit of logic.
Stomach twists, red cheeks, and a weak “Stop it, Hyung” were all that he could muster every time before turning back to his studies. Minho seemed to like his flustered reactions, because he, in fact, did not stop.
But there was much more.
The stupid warm hand when Minho passed him a highlighter.
He could not forget how it felt holding his own cold hand when they finished the performance.
The dumb half-smile that always started on the right side as a smirk and showed his bunny teeth when it got bigger. He didn’t want to sound dramatic, but every time he made Minho smirk, smile, or even laugh, he felt like he had fulfilled his duty on earth. The way Minho said “mm” under his breath when reading something, concentrated.
And how—
Whatever.
He wasn’t going to tell Hyunjin all of that.
But Hyunjin knew anyway. Or he knew something.
Because next Wednesday, when Jisung had a meeting planned with Changbin and Chan, he walked into the café and couldn’t believe his eyes.
Minho was sitting right there. Between Chan and Changbin.
Laptop open. Hair pushed back. His blue light filter glasses- which made him look absolutely like a snack in Jisung's eyes- were on.
Hyunjin was sipping iced coffee smugly.
“You invited Minho?!” Jisung whispered while scooching his chair near the table.
Hyunjin shrugged. “Exposure therapy.” Jisung wanted to strangle him.
It’s not like he didn’t already spend most of his free time with Minho anyway, but he did not expect to see him today.
Else he would’ve worn something better…
Minho turned, smiled that tiny not-smile smile, and said:
“Sit next to me?” Jisung sat. Instantly. He hated himself.
Felix was known for having emotional reactions.
Most of the time, it was just him cutely breaking out in tears when he was overwhelmed with joy or jumping around when excited.
But when he got mad, he got maaaad.
And when Chan sent the picture they took yesterday — when they were at the coffee together with Hyunjin and Minho — in the group chat, Felix was indeed, maaaad.
It caused a digital earthquake.
My Sunshine Twin: YOU ALL HUNG OUT WITHOUT ME
My Sunshine Twin: YOU EVEN HAD SNACKS WITHOUT ME
My Sunshine Twin: I ACCEPTED THAT JINNIE IS NEW IN THE GROUP BECAUSE HE IS DATING BINNIE
My Sunshine Twin: BUT NOBODY TOLD ME MINHO WAS THERE
My Sunshine Twin: THIS IS A HATE CRIME
My Sunshine Twin: HATE CRIME AGAINST BLONDS.
The whining continued for twenty-four messages.
He wouldn’t accept any explanations and only calmed down when Chan finally said, “Fine. Come next week.”
Jisung was happy that he wasn’t home with his roommate when he saw the pictures, or else he knew that he would be victim to his tantrum.
The next time they met, Felix came. And he brought bubble tea for everyone.
Now suddenly they weren’t meeting once a week. They were meeting twice.
First session in a café and the second in someone’s dorm or at the gym.
Most of the time they were studying in silence, but when they took a break, the giggles and laughs gave them more motivation for the next session.
Soon, Seungmin and Jeongin would walk by “coincidentally” and join too. And nobody complained.
Even their group chat, that Jisung hated in the beginning, became livelier to the point that they used it more than the 3RACHA chat.
Life became a cycle of studying, group chat messages, Minho’s cats — Jisung had the honor to get to know Dori and Doongie too — energy drinks, Hyunjin threatening to quit university every two days to become Changbin’s trophy wife and Jisung trying to bring him back to reality, and Felix and him eating instant noodles every night.
It weirdly worked.
The last Friday before exams felt like a collective inhale. Everyone was at the campus café and their usual table at the corner. Coffee cups everywhere, Pens and Laptops everywhere, jackets everywhere and the stress of the coming exam was so heavy on them that they have been quite for the last three hours. A record time. “So, holiday plans?” Chan asked, rubbing his eyes like a single dad who’d been awake since 1998.
“I’m going home for four days,” Changbin said. “My mom said if I don’t visit, she’ll disown me.”
“I’m visiting my parents too,” Hyunjin said, head leaning on Changbin’s shoulder. “Only two nights. Then I have work.”
Felix perked up. “Me too! I miss my sister.”
Jeongin stretched dramatically. “I’ll be with my parents for three days. Then filming for the acting project.”
Seungmin shrugged. “My family said they don’t miss me, but I’m coming anyway.” Everyone snorted.
“And you two?” Chan asked, looking at Jisung and Minho.
Minho sipped his drink. “Two days home. Then back for work.”
“Same here,” Jisung said quietly, his nose still in the book he is reading.
Chan nodded and then cleared his throat loudly, “So. New Year’s.”
Everyone looked up.
“I think we should spend it together,” Chan said. “All of us. None of us works those days. And if we stay on campus, we’ll sleep through it like losers.”
Felix gasped. “Oh my god, yes.” Hyunjin sat up. “Where?”
“We need an Airbnb,” Changbin said. “One that allows pets,” Jisung added enthusiastically, and everyone looked at Minho instinctively.
He raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Your cats,” Jeongin said. “You’re not ditching them.”
Minho rolled his eyes, but his ears turned red. “Fine. I’ll take them with me. I wouldn’t have left them anyway.” He paused. “What’s a good place?” he then asked. “Gangwon Province,” Seungmin suggested. “Lots of mountains. Snow. Close enough to Seoul.” - “They have big villas there,” Felix added. “With heated floors.” -“And fireplaces,” Hyunjin said. “I want a fireplace.”- “And a big kitchen,” Chan said. “I want to cook for you losers.”-“Me too!” Minho said. “And a big living room,” Changbin said. “For movie nights.”-“And thick walls,” Jeongin said. “In case Chan snores or…something else happens.” He threw a disgusted look at Hyunjin and Changbin. Changbin threw a napkin at him in response, and Hyunjin hit his arm at the same time. Jeongin only smiled sheepishly.
They spent the next hour scrolling through listings. Yelling. Laughing. Arguing over room assignments.
Hyunjin threatened to fight anyone who tried to separate him from Changbin, and Chan already started talking about budgeting. Jisung bookmarking ones with pretty photos and Minho quietly next to him, checking which ones allowed pets.
They finally found one.
A big house. Two floors. Near the mountains. Pet-friendly. And a pretty view. Three days. Two nights. The perfect escape.
Chan booked it using his parents’ discount code that they had gifted him, and everyone cheered. In the middle of all the noise, Jisung felt something warm bloom low in his chest.
The snow will fall soon. Time will move. Exams will come and go.
But for the first time in months, the future felt like something he might want.
Not alone.
But with them.
With all of them.
And maybe — maybe — with Minho just a little bit closer than the rest.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Time of our life” – DAY6
“A page of our beautiful youth
Let's write it together
I wanna fill it up
With memories with you
Don't worry about anything
Trust it all to me
So this moment right now
Can become a page
That we can read back again"
----------------
Chan, Changbin, and Jisung walked out of the exam hall first like three exhausted ghosts. Their faces pale and steps heavy. Nobody spoke at first.
Chan finally let out a long breath. “That… was criminal.” Changbin rubbed his temples. “I swear I heard someone crying in the back.”
Jisung still couldn’t get his fingers to stop shaking from writing. He exhaled slowly, the tension dropping out of his shoulders.
At least it was over.
The hallway felt too bright and too loud after the four-hour exam.
Jeongin and Seungmin were already leaning against the wall. Relaxed. Done an hour earlier because their exam was shorter.
“You guys look rough,” Jeongin said. Chan looked at him with dead eyes and just hummed. Five minutes later, Minho, Felix, and Hyunjin walked out of their own exam.
Felix spotted the group and raised both arms dramatically. “We are FREE!”
Hyunjin didn’t even make it that far. He just dropped his forehead onto Changbin’s shoulder with a groan. “I want alcohol,” he said. “Preferably now.” Hearing him groan, Chan clapped once. “Our place. Soju for you. Vodka for me. And we’re ordering pizza first, or one of you will end up in the ER.”
Felix gasped. “One incident and you never let it go—”
“Three,” Jeongin corrected. “Details!”
--
“Alright. Never Have I Ever. Let’s go. No lying, no crying, no running away halfway through.”
Seungmin raised a brow at him. “You’re the only one who runs away halfway through every time.” Felix ignored him and lifted his cup. “Never have I ever cried in the library bathroom.” Easy start.
Jisung drank first. Felix followed. Hyunjin drank without hesitation, and Chan—after a long, betrayed sigh—drank too. Seungmin watched all four of them like he was witnessing a tragedy. “Weak,” he said, "Crying is like shitting, you should only do it in the privacy of your own bathroom." Hyunjin leaned toward Jisung. "Second stall from the left?” Jisung nodded immediately, a small laugh escaping him. Felix dramatically fell onto Jisung’s shoulder. “It's the trauma stall.” Chan pressed his palms together. “We must place flowers there.” He mumbled.
“My turn!” Seungmin screamed, “Never have I ever gotten kicked out of a lecture for talking.” Felix drank instantly, and Jeongin drank too. Hyunjin drank slowly, looking around the room, like he was proud of his small crime. “What did you three even do?” Chan asked them.
Felix shrugged. “We exist loudly, and the professors don’t like that.”
Jeongin giggled “To that I have a question Yonboki-Hyung” he sang Felix’s Korean name sweetly “Never have I ever flirted with a professor for extra points.” Jeongin leaned forward, eyes fixed on Felix.
Felix froze. His soul left his body for a moment before he raised his cup, drank, and hid behind Jisung like that would erase the memory or all the eyes that were staring at him. “HE WAS FIFTY, AND I WAS PANICKING,” Felix cried.
Chan covered half his face. “Felix…” -“I WAS DESPERATE, OKAY?” Felix poured himself even more soju, and Chan quietly turned his face away to hide a smile while everyone else laughed. Little did Felix know that they had silently agreed on getting him to drink the most and lose at his own game tonight. Every question should make him drink. Chan kept going: “Never have I ever accidentally eaten someone’s lunch.” Felix drank. Slowly. Guiltily. “My defense,” Felix said, “it had no name on it.”
“YOU DON’T EVEN LIVE WITH US,” Seungmin screamed at him. "YOU TOOK IT OUT OF OUR FRIDGE AND ATE IT AT OUR TABLE!"
Felix turned to him. “IT STILL HAD NO NAME ON IT!” Seungmin just answered by throwing a couch pillow at his friend. Chan choked on his drink from laughing. Jisung had tears in his eyes. If it keeps going like that, Felix will black out soon for real. It is crazy how much blackmail material they all had on him.
“Never have I ever fallen asleep in public while studying,” Changbin said, announcing his turn.
Jisung drank. Felix drank. Chan drank. Minho drank too while looking at Jisung, which made the younger one giggle at the memory. They both had to wake each other up multiple times already.
Felix pointed dramatically. “They’re doing that look thingy again.” Jisung fumbled for his cup. “I don't know what you mean.” Minho only hummed.
Jisung should not have been given a turn, not with his brain warm and his heart warmer. But the room felt gentle, soft around the edges, the kind of place where honesty slipped out too easily. He lifted his cup, eyes dropping for a moment, breath catching. “Never have I ever… liked someone at uni... this semester.” He said slowly. He felt like a teenage girl asking this but…who cares. Some years ago, he was still a teenager, so…
Everyone went silent. Then, Felix was the first one to drink. His eyes flickered toward Chan for the briefest second before darting away, cheeks flushed from alcohol. He was very drunk at this point probably thinking that nobody noticed. But they noticed. Jeongin bit down a grin and elbowed Seungmin lightly and Seungmin snorted, rolling his eyes, whispering a "I told you so" to his roommate.
Hyunjin raised his cup next and drank. Changbin followed him, obviously. Then Minho lifted his cup. He didn’t glance away, but looked Jisung straight in the eyes. He drank. Jisung’s stomach twisted painfully. His fingers tightened around his cup. He swallowed hard and drank too.
The air shifted, warm and terrifying.
Felix leaned closer to Jeongin and whispered, but he was too drunk to really whisper, so it was loud enough for everyone to hear, “This villa trip is going to be insane.”
Jeongin whispered back, “Shut up, they’ll hear us.”
Jisung blushed and looked away first, going for a piece of Pizza.
--
The game kept going even after the question that nearly shifted the universe. Nobody dared to point it out, but everyone felt it lingering in the air like heat rising from the floor. Felix leaned dramatically into Jeongin’s side, whining about being dizzy, while Jeongin tried to peel him off without actually pushing him away. Seungmin was still eating pizza. Hyunjin whispered something into Changbin’s ear, and the older one laughed softly, nudging him with his shoulder before reaching for the soju bottle.
At some point, the music changed to something faster, Felix stood up and started dancing, saying they had learned a choreography to that song. Minho stood up, and they started performing for their friend group. Felix’s drunk dance was making everyone laugh. Hyunjin stretched, got up, wandered over to where Chan had set his laptop on the counter, and Changbin followed him naturally, the two of them drifting out of the circle without even noticing they were doing it. They weren’t far—just near the kitchen island, half in the shadows from the way the lamp leaned in the corner. Changbin leaned down to say something into Hyunjin’s ear. Hyunjin tilted his head up. And then they kissed. Softly at first, like they’d intended it to be quick. But then Changbin’s hand slid around Hyunjin’s waist, pulling him closer and making the younger shiver under his touch. Hyunjin’s fingers curled in his shirt. And slowly they wandered under it. Eagerly tracing the muscles there. Changbin didn’t stop him, his hand squeezing a tuft on Hyunjin's neck, and his grip on the dancer's waist firmed. The kiss deepened, and they forgot anyone else existed. When a soft huh left Hyunjins mouth under the discovering hands of Changbin, he took the chance to turn his head and snake a tongue into Hyunjins mouth. They were living off the same shared breath, exploring the territory they already knew but seemed new to them, no matter how often they kissed. The only thoughts bouncing around in Hyunjin's head were about how Changbin tasted like soju and pizza. They were in their own world. Again. Hyunin sighed happily in the kiss, and Changbin smiled against his lips.
Jisung wasn’t even paying attention to them; he was cheering Felix and Minho on, until he heard a muffled “OW— what the hell!” and saw Jeongin stumbling backward, away from them. His eyes were big with horror. Hyunjin jerked away with a gasp and glared at him. Changbin nearly tripped over the table leg trying to steady both of them while laughing.
Jeongin pressed a hand to his chest, horrified. “I’m too young to witness that!” Felix cackled so hard he nearly toppled onto the floor.
“You act as you’ve never done it before.”
“I HAVEN’T,” Jeongin yelled, pointing accusingly. “Not with this level of hand placement!”
Changbin went pink. “We were just— It wasn’t—” Hyunjin crossed his arms. “You walked INTO me. You hit MY face. Apologize.”
“I hit your hair,” Jeongin corrected. “Which is basically a helmet.”
Hyunjin looked personally attacked. “It is NOT a helmet. It is styled.” Seungmin didn’t even look up from his pizza. “You deserve it for kissing in a high-traffic zone.”
Felix cooed at them, leaning forward to his elbows on knees. “Awww, you two are gong be like this on trip too.” he drunkenly slurred his words, the sentence collapsing halfway.
Hyunjin shot him a sharp look. “On the trip, nobody is allowed to walk anywhere without permission.” Changbin pulled him closer by the wrist. “Baby, that sounds like a threat.”-“It is,” Hyunjin said. But he softened when Changbin squeezed his hand and let himself fall against his shoulder again.
Felix melted at the sight, clutching Jisung's sleeve. “This is shooo CUTE.” Jisung looked down at where Felix clung to him. “You’re drunk.”
“Jisung-ah, can you kiss me? Pleaseeeee I also want a kissssshh.” Felix said, refusing to let go of Jisung and puckering his lips ready for a kiss. Jisung looked around the room for help, but everyone seemed to get back to their party business.
Someone put on another song, a louder one now, something with a beat, something that made Felix jump up and start dancing badly, forgetting the will to kiss Jisung. Jeongin followed him and started dancing too. “Come on, Seungmin, please.” Felix took the hands of the younger, making him stand up too. Chan tried to warn them, but Felix grabbed his hands and spun him in a tiny chaotic circle until Chan gave up trying to be responsible and laughed against his own will.
Jisung stayed where he was for a moment, knees pulled up, cheeks warm, watching the room breathe around him. Minho sat beside him, close enough that their arms brushed every time someone moved. Minho wasn’t saying much, but he had that quiet look he got when he was comfortable—shoulders loose, lips curved slightly, eyes soft. When he turned his head to look at Jisung, their eyes caught so easily it felt like muscle memory.
“You okay?” Minho asked, voice low, soft enough that it didn’t disturb the room.
Jisung nodded. “Yeah.” He didn’t trust more words than that.
Minho’s gaze lingered for a second too long, then drifted back to the chaos. “They’re going to destroy the villa.”
“Probably,” Jisung said.
Minho hummed, a quiet, warm sound. “I’m not complaining.”
The night stretched on in laughter and half-drunk complaints. Felix cried once because his bubble tea keychain broke; Jeongin fixed it with tape. Hyunjin fell asleep for ten minutes on Changbin’s shoulder and then jolted awake because Felix shouted “GROUP SELFIE” at full volume.
They stayed like that until the clock hit two.
Hyunjin and Changbin have already disappeared in the older's bedroom. And Felix was lying on the couch, fast asleep. Chan suggested that he sleeps there for the night, because he started to feel guilty about them, making him drink a lot during the game.
The walk back was slow. The street lights were dim. The winter air felt sharp and quiet around them.
Seungmin and Jeongin walked ahead, arguing over which idol had the best hairline. A very very random topic, but the fight left Minho and Jisung together again. The world around them felt different there—quieter, slower. The street narrowed just slightly, so their shoulders touched naturally, not by accident. Neither of them moved away.
For a few moments, they walked without speaking. Their steps fell in the same rhythm. The sound of laughter from ahead drifted back to them like echoes.
“I like nights like this,” Minho said eventually.
“Yeah,” Jisung whispered. His voice sounded unfamiliar to his own ears.
They kept walking until Minho slowed down a little, glancing toward his building entrance. The streetlight above them cast a faint halo over his hair.
“This is me,” he said.
Jisung nodded, not saying anything.
Minho looked at him—really looked at him.
“Text me when you get to your parents' home tomorrow,” he said.
“You too,” Jisung said dreamily.
Minho nodded once, and for a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something else. But he didn’t. He stepped back toward the door.
“Good night, Jisung-ah.”
Jisung felt his stomach twist in a way that wasn’t unpleasant. “Good night… Hyung.”
Minho slipped inside. The door clicked shut. Jisung stood there for a heartbeat longer, then turned and walked toward his own building. His steps felt lighter than they should have. His face too warm for how cold the night was.
Something had shifted. And he felt it. In every step. In every breath.
He felt it.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Your Dog Loves You” – Colde, Crush
“When I walk with you
I feel that you love me
When I match footsteps with you, yeah
The way I feel so happy
Is a fragrant scene
The waves crash lightly
I feel like something new
Whenever and wherever
I will always be next to you”
----------------
Minho slept in longer than he meant to; the scene of yesterday night kept him awake longer than expected. The butterflies in his stomach just didn’t want to die down. His crush on Jisung was only getting worse and worse. Or better? He still doesn’t know.
And Jisung’s question during the game — the one that landed straight in Minho’s chest — kept replaying in his head. His little sneaky looks that he gave Minho…all of that… He could still hear it. Still see the way Jisung’s fingers trembled when he raised his cup to his lips.
Minho sighed happily.
He really should ask Jisung on a date soon. He wanted to do it earlier, so many times, but Jisung was telling him about how much he had on his plate with the new therapy and the exams, so Minho gave him his time.
Honestly, Jisung’s therapy era was the best plot twist of the year. The younger one was calmer, softer, almost brighter these days. And Minho couldn’t be prouder.
Or happier.
He stretched, rubbed his eyes, and sat up slowly. The moment he moved, Soonie launched herself onto his stomach with a meow that sounded personally offended.
“Okay, okay,” Minho whispered, petting her head, “I’m awake.”
He grabbed his phone. Damn, it was already past noon. No wonder his stomach felt like a black hole.
He unlocked his phone and saw the name that was already playing in his head the whole time.
Jisung.
His heart jumped. His thumb hovered for a second before he opened it.
Little squirrel: im going home now hyung
Little squirrel: missed call
Little squirrel : train leaves in 20
Little squirrel : see you on new years trip :))
Minho stared at the screen longer than necessary. The double parentheses did something weird to his chest. He typed a reply, erased it, typed again, erased again.
Everything sounded either too empty or too much.
He finally sent:
Minho-Hyung: I am sorry, I just woke up Sungie, have a safe ride text me when u arrive!
He tossed his phone onto the blanket and stood up slowly. His room was messy—hoodie thrown on the chair, half-open backpack, charge cable hanging off the bed. He cleaned automatically, mind somewhere else. He didn’t hear the front door until it opened loudly and closed with a thud.
Hyunjin’s steps were unmistakable. “Are you alive?” Hyunjin called from the hallway.
“Barely,” Minho said, laughing.
Hyunjin walked in wearing Changbin’s hoodie – huge on his arms- and holding a convenience store bag like it was a luxury purse. His hair was tied back, a little messy, eyes soft in the way they always were when he had spent the night somewhere safe. The guy was truly in love; there was no saving him.
“You look like death,” Hyunjin said and dropped onto Minho’s bed uninvited. “And you look like Changbin,” Minho replied.
Hyunjin smiled smugly. “I know.” He giggled. He pulled out two drinks and threw one at Minho. “Here. I got you something so you don’t collapse.” Minho took it. “Thanks.”
“You want to hear the tea?” Hyunjin broke the silence after only a few seconds. Minho sat next to him immediately. “Spill!” He demanded, eyes curious. He may be in his twenties and a serious student, but who would say no to a tea session with his best friend? He might be whimsical, but he ain't a psycho.
“Felix wasn’t on the couch when I woke up today.” Minho frowned. “Okay… and?”- “He was sleeping in Chan’s room,” Hyunjin added with a big grin. Minho blinked fast. A habit he had had since his childhood. A habit that Jisung was catching, Minho noticed how he started doing it himself.
“Oh.”
Hyunjin giggled some more.
“Aren’t they just close friends?” he asked, genuinely unsure if he should indulge himself in this rumor or not. Hyunjin groaned. “You are so blind. They have been orbiting each other for WEEKS. Did you not see them yesterday?”
When Minho shook his head, Hyunjin rolled his eyes. “I swear you were too busy staring into Jisung’s soul to notice anything else.”
“Not true,” Minho argued. “I saw you and Changbin eating each other’s faces.”
“You’re just jealous I’m getting laid, and you’re still stuck in eye-fuck territory.”
Minho threw a pillow at him. Hyunjin dodged it easily, laughing so hard he fell back against the blanket. Both guys knew that Hyunjin had a point.
When he calmed down, he propped himself up on his elbow. “No, but seriously, hyung. When are you two going to go out for real? It is painfully obvious you like each other.”
Minho felt heat climb up his neck. “I’m still not sure how he feels. If we’re friends or… more. From his perspective. You know.”
Hyunjin sighed, softer this time. “It’s not my place to tell you everything… but you know he talks to me a lot about therapy, right?”
Minho nodded slowly. “He told me,” Hyunjin continued, “that half of the time he spends talking to his therapist… he ends up talking about you, Hyung.”
Minho’s chest tightened. Not in a bad way— in a way that made him feel happy and terrified all at once.
“He talks about me?” he whispered. Hyunjin nodded. “Way more than he thinks he does. Not only to his therapist. Changbin also noticed that Jisung mentions you all the time without that he himself seems to notice. It's kinda cute.”
Minho swallowed. Hard. Hyunjin gave him a small smile, softer than any teasing smile he’d used before. “He cares about you. A lot. Enough that he gets scared of messing things up. That’s why he holds back.”
Minho felt something warm spread through him, slow and dizzying. He didn’t smile, but his eyes softened in a way he couldn’t control. Hyunjin nudged him gently with his foot.
“You’re good for him. He was just stuck in a very, very abusive relationship for way too long. Changbin told me that Jisung really lost his spark and hasn’t been the same since. Only now, he is starting to come back.”
The sentence hit Minho harder than he expected. Minho already knew about the cheating, the lies, the manipulation, the way Jisung had been dragged through something he should’ve never experienced. Jisung had told him that part himself, piece by piece, always brushing it off like it wasn’t a big deal. Minho knew it was a big deal, but he also knew not to push for more. If Jisung was comfortable telling him, he would do so. But “lost his spark”? That was the part that twisted something in him. That was the part that lit a slow, uncontrolled fire behind his ribs.
He lowered his eyes, jaw tightening slightly. “He really said that?” Minho asked quietly, though his voice sounded different, almost distant.
“Yeah,” Hyunjin said gently. “It was bad, Hyung. Worse than you think. He trusted the wrong person at the worst time. He got hurt, and he didn’t even realize half of it until much later.”
Minho’s jaw tightened. The idea of someone taking Jisung’s softness — his anxious smiles, his quiet kindness, the way he apologized for everything even when he didn’t need to — and breaking it on purpose made something deep inside him twist in anger. He wanted to break that bastard's jaw.
He breathed in slowly, trying to keep his voice steady. “He didn’t deserve any of that.”
“No,” Hyunjin said softly. “He didn’t.”
Minho swallowed, his throat tight. “And he’s just now coming back?”
Hyunjin nodded. “And that’s because he finally feels safe. At therapy. With us. With you.”
Minho’s head lifted a little at that. “Me?”
Hyunjin rolled his eyes, but softly. “Yes, you. You were the first person he stopped avoiding, Changbin said that your fight really seemed to change something in him. Normally, he would’ve just pushed you away and closed the door forever, but for a weird reason, you are the first person he didn’t shut out after a fight. He had mood swings where you never knew who you would get: the old Jisung who loved his friends, or a Jisung who shuts the door and never comes out. But with you," Hyunjin looks Minho directly in the eyes. "You annoyed him, but you also calmed him down. He keeps saying he feels like he is more in the moment when he is with you, and less in his head.”
Minho didn’t answer at first. A rush of something warm and heavy hit him — protectiveness, maybe. Or the realization that he mattered to Jisung in a way he hadn’t understood fully until now.
He let out a slow breath. “Hyunjin,” he said quietly, “I’m really pissed.”
Hyunjin blinked. “At Jisung?”
“No,” Minho said, eyes dark in that steady, dangerous way he got when he was truly angry. “At the asshole who made him like that.”
Hyunjin nodded once. “Chand and Changbin were furious, too. They literally broke into his dorm and broke his nose. Apparently, the guy thought about suing them, if Seungmin didn’t counter back that Jisung could sue him for worse. Only then did he disappear from their lives.” Hyunjin sighed. “But honestly, anger doesn’t fix Jisung. Support does, Hyung.”
Minho sat back against the wall, shoulders stiff but voice calm. “I know, and that is why I’m not rushing him. I’m not pushing him. I’ll wait however long he needs.”
Hyunjin’s expression softened again. “That’s why I’m telling you this. You’re good for him because you don’t force him. He can breathe around you. That’s rare for him.”
“I’m not letting anyone dim him again,” Minho said under his breath.
It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.
Hyunjin smiled a little. “That’s more like you.” Minho didn’t smile back, but his eyes softened. He picked up his phone again, thumb hovering over Jisung’s name with a new kind of tenderness.
He typed a new message before he could overthink it.
And for once, he didn’t delete it.
Chapter 9: "The Bathroom Incident"
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “I like me better” – Lauv
“I like me better when I'm with you
I like me better when I'm with you
I knew from the first time
I'd stay for a long time 'cause
I like me better when
I like me better when I'm with you
I don't know what it is, but I got that feelin'
Wakin' up in this bed next to you, swear the room, yeah, it got no ceilin'
If we lay, let the day just pass us by
I might get to too much talkin'
I might have to tell you somethin”
----------------
The holidays passed faster than Jisung expected. Not because anything dramatic happened, the opposite is true, everything was pleasantly quiet — but because every day felt strangely warm. Like his life had finally taken a breath. He really did need this getaway more than he expected. He slept too much, ate too much, argued with his siblings, and let his mom fuss over him until he almost forgot what stress felt like. But even with all that noise around him, he kept catching himself thinking about Seoul.
Or rather, one person in Seoul.
Texting Minho hadn’t been part of the holiday plan, but it turned out to be the part he looked forward to the most. After waking up and before sleeping and whenever something in his life happened, the first thing he did was get the phone and text Minho about it.
It started simple. Minho sent a photo of the ocean in Gipo. Jisung sent a picture of his mom’s food. Minho sent a sleepy selfie with Soonie chewing his hoodie string. Jisung replied with a voice message of his entire family yelling at each other over the TV remote.
And then, slowly, things shifted. Their messages became warmer. A little reckless around the edges.
Minho-Hyung: u look cute in that hoodie
Jisung: Hyung it’s literally a hoodie
Minho-Hyung: i still think u look cute
Jisung: If you keep saying things like that Hyung, I will start thinking that you are flirting with me!
Minho-Hyung: Schrödingers Flirt
Jisung: What?
Minho-Hyung: It’s where I am both totally kidding and actually flirting with you, depending on whether or not you’re into it
Jisung had thrown his phone at the wall after that one and spent ten minutes face-down on his pillow.
So yes. The holidays were calm. But his feelings weren’t.
Which is exactly why the gift incident ruined his peace.
He had found Minho’s present by accident in a tiny boutique near the bus station. A silver bracelet — thin, clean lines, with three tiny charms that hung quietly from the chain: a moon, a raindrop, and a little book.
It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.
Moon for Minho.
The drop for THE night.
Book for their study sessions.
It felt too perfect. Too meaningful.
Too much like a confession.
He bought it anyway. Didn’t breathe. He swiped his card before he was able to realise what he had done.
Didn’t second-guess it until later — when the panic hit him so hard he nearly sat down on the sidewalk. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, and if it was a good idea, or if he was doing too much, or if it was too little, or if it was exactly enough.
He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t sleep.
In the night he called Felix. At 1 a.m.
Felix answered half asleep. “What?”
“I bought Minho a boyfriend gift,” Jisung whispered, pacing so hard his mother yelled at him from the hallway.
Silence.
Then Felix burst out laughing in a way that made Jisung pull the phone away from his ear.
“You WHAT?”
“It just happened! I didn’t MEAN to! It was pretty and small and—FELIX IT LOOKS LIKE I’M ASKING HIM TO DATE ME.”
Felix laughed even harder. It was almost cruel.
But then he took a breath and said, “Okay, okay. Don’t panic. I’ll fix it.”
“You can’t fix this—”
“Yes I can,” Felix said, already typing. “I will make it normal.”
And fifteen seconds later, he dropped the bomb in the groupchat:
My soul twin: we should all buy gifts for each other for the trip 🎁 it’s cute and group bonding and chan ure not allowed to say no
Hyunjin answered immediately:
Hyunjinnie dumplin: already bought one for bin so what are six more ig
Jeongin: im broke
My Soul twin: budget king, u can do it, im already proud of u
My lovely Villain: Dont forget how rich Changbins parents are!
Binnie Hyung: no gift for seungmin but otherwise im in
My lovely Villain: fine
Jisung melted into his mattress. “I love you,” he told Felix, voice dead serious.
“You should,” Felix said. “I just saved your image.”
After that, it felt easier to dive in. He found a vintage film camera for Jeongin in a flea market — scratched but beautiful and it was a Sony. A baseball bat for Seungmin, with his name engraved, because he mentioned wanting to play again and Felix will buy the balls and Chan said he will buy the gloves. A full color set for Hyunjin, because Changbin had already bought canvases and Jisung wanted them to match.
A training set for Chan, because his clothes looked like they were always one workout away from ripping. A rare, expensive Red Velvet vinyl for Changbin — an unbelievable find in a music shop that smelled like dust.
And Minho… Minho got the bracelet he couldn’t return. No matter how hard he tried, nothing else felt right.
--
The night before they left for the trip, he packed with Felix — which mostly meant Felix sitting on the floor eating chips while Jisung stress-organized every zipper in his bag.
“So,” Felix said, watching him with a knowing smirk, “did you two flirt over text again?”
“No,” Jisung muttered. Then, quieter, ears red, “Maybe.”
Felix clapped slowly like he was watching a nature documentary. “Adorable.”
Jisung nudged him with his knee. “Shut up. How were your holidays?” he changed the topic.
Felix stretched dramatically. “My mom kept feeding me until I couldn’t feel my legs. Minho ignored all my calls. Hyunjin sent me a picture of Changbin sleeping every morning. Our new life I guess.”
Jisung laughed. It felt good to laugh.
He missed Felix.
--
In the morning they zipped the last bag and left the dorm together, dragging their suitcases down the corridor. The cold air outside hit them instantly, biting but refreshing.
And when they turned the corner toward the station, they saw the group.
All together. Suitcases lined up in a messy row. Hyunjin wearing Changbin’s jacket again.
Chan holding two coffees. Jeongin complaining about the weight of his luggage and Seungmin staring at everyone like he regretted his life choices.
And Minho.
Turning first.
Finding Jisung immediately.
His smile softening at the edges.
Not wide. Not forced. It was just… Something warm. Something that reached Jisung before he even got close.
His stomach flipped. His chest pulled. Something inside him whispered: This trip is going to change everything.
And for the first time, Jisung wasn’t scared of that at all.
The actual travel wasn’t worth narrating. Not really. Chan spilled hot coffee on the platform and screamed, then acted like nothing happened trying not to make too many people throw them judgy looks, but it was already too late for that. A lot of people will look when eight chaotically loud young men are talking, or better, screaming together. Felix forgot his suitcase for solid ten minutes. He was lucky the train hadn’t moved yet, because of some complications. But a minute later, and he would’ve been without his belongings. Hyunjin nearly fought the ticket inspector over a misunderstanding. Jeongin slept the entire train ride with his mouth open and Seungmin drooled on his shoulder and denied it violently after waking up. Changbin tried to read a book, a new hobby to impress his lover, but fell asleep in thirty seconds.
And Minho… Minho sat next to Jisung, knees touching whenever the train took a turn, with a carrier on his lap. Inside: three little criminals.
Soonie. Dori. Doongie.
Every few minutes, one of them meowed, and Minho whispered something like: “It’s okay, baby.”
And Jisung’s heart twisted violently because Minho’s voice, apparently, and his cat-parent mode he has missed so much. They spent the ride, sharing air pods, listening to the same music from Minho’s playlist, and playing with the cats.
--
The Villa Was Almost Too Pretty. The moment they walked up the snowy driveway, everyone shut up. It was huge. Warm lights glowing from the windows. Wooden beams.
A porch covered in snow. Steam rising from the hot springs behind the house. Mountains framing the sky.
Felix nearly tripped into the snow. “ARE WE RICH?”
Chan blinked slowly. “My mom had a coupon.”
“Changbin,” Hyunjin said calmly, “take my picture.”
“We’re literally at the door,” Changbin sighed.
“Take. The. Picture.”
He took it. Of course he did.
Inside, it was even better — fireplace, blankets, wooden floors, two giant couches, windows that looked like movie scenes, and space.
So much space.
Except upstairs. Upstairs is where the trouble began. They have not talked about room assignments yet and they all just realized it now.
Chan clapped his hands like a kindergarten teacher. “Okay! There are four rooms—”
“We’re taking the big one,” Hyunjin announced, grabbing Changbin’s hand.
He didn’t wait. He didn’t negotiate. He just dragged Changbin down the hall like a determined toddler. Door slams.
Room number one claimed.
Chan blinked. “…So that one’s taken. That was fast.”
Felix stepped forward like fate itself was calling him. He saw his chance. He smiled sheepishly. “Well, since Chan and I were talking about organizing the kitchen and cooking-”
Chan sputtered. “We were NOT—”
But he couldn’t finish his sentence. Felix took his hand. Exchanged a knowing look and wink at Jisung, and walked proudly to room two.
Door closes.
That left two rooms.
The two Maknaes of the group just looked at each other silently and walked with their luggage to room number three.
“Wait hold on, where are you going?” Jisung asked, perplexed.
Seungmin crossed his arms. “Jeongin and I already share a dorm. And he doesn’t snore that much anymore. We’re sharing.”
“I don’t snore at all,” Jeongin argued.
“You do.”
“…shut up.”
Room three: gone.
Which only left—
Room four.
Jisung’s stomach did a full gymnastics routine. His face started to heat up. His ears are already red under his beanie.
He turned slowly.
Minho was already looking at him with the softest eyes.
“Guess it’s us,” Minho said quietly.
“Yeah,” Jisung said, voice embarrassingly small. “Us.”
Then the cats meowed loudly, like they were announcing their dominance over the situation.
The room wasn’t huge, but it was cozy.
Two beds and warm lights. A small desk between the beds.
A big window showing the snowy view. And Minho’s cat carrier on the floor. As soon as Minho opened it, chaos unfolded. Soonie strutted out like she owned the property. Dori ran under the bed.
“Yah—” Jisung started.
Minho laughed. The warm, soft tone Jisung missed so much. He could write a song about this tone alone…
“I want to sleep,” Minho said, sitting on his chosen bed. The one next to the wall.
“Who gave you the right to choose a bed without discussing it with me?” Jisung said accusatory but smiled at Minho.
“I know you like to look at the stars before sleeping, so you should take the one next to the window,” Minho explained seriously and softly.
Jisung’s heart flutters. Seems it will be doing this a lot. Oh.
“Oh.”
His chest tightened. He didn’t know what to say, till he saw a furry creature jump.
Doongie left the carrier finally and leapt onto Jisung’s mattress like it was his now.
“He likes you.” Minho laughed.
“He likes my bed,” Jisung muttered, but he didn’t move Doongie at all.
Minho watched him smiling, quiet, heartfelt. After a while of silence where both of them unpacked their things and organized them quietly, Minho finally broke it.
“So,” Minho said.
“So,” Jisung echoed.
They already texted each other everything over break. Every detail. Every meal.
Every stupid moment.
But still, they talked again. Because talking in person felt different. And because seeing Minho’s eyes shimmer and react to every word he says makes Jisung feel some kind of way.
“How was home?” Minho asked, even though he knew.
“Loud,” Jisung said. “My family is insane.” He laughed.
Minho smiled — that small one smile, the right-corner-first one. The smirk-to-smile one. Jisung missed seeing it. Missed seeing how his right lip corner goes up, makes his right cheek move, makes him smirk, and then his left side follows. Making his eyes sparkle after that.
“And you?”
“Quiet,” he said. “Too quiet. I missed noise.”
Jisung nodded. “But your cats are noise.”
“Yeah but…” Minho hesitated. Looked at the floor. Then at Jisung.
“I missed other noise.”
Jisung’s heart did something unforgivable.
He kicked his legs lightly off the bed like a kid trying to release static electricity from his bloodstream. He hopes he did not misunderstand Minho, and that Minho is saying what he thinks he is saying, Jisung wants him to say that he is missing him. That Minho missed Jisung. Because he can’t deny it, Jisung missed Minho too.
“Okay,” he whispered.
“Okay,” Minho echoed.
Silence settled again — but this time it wasn’t awkward.
It was… full.
Warm.
Domestic even.
Doongie climbed into Jisung’s lap. Soonie jumped on Minho’s bed and curled like the queen she is.
Dori peeked out from under the frame and blinked slowly at both of them.
Minho leaned back on his hands.
“So,” he said again, quietly, “I’m glad we’re sharing a room.”
Jisung’s entire soul somersaulted.
“I—yeah,” he croaked. “Me too.”
He didn’t say:
I think this trip is going to ruin me.
I think this room is going to destroy me.
I think I’m happy you wanted me here.
I think I won’t survive this emotionally.
But Minho’s eyes softened like he heard all of that anyway.
And Jisung didn’t mind.
Not even a little.
--
They didn’t have much time to sit in their room and just… exist? Because shortly after they exchanged small discussions and silence, Felix screamed from downstairs.
“EVERYONE COME DOWN. FOOD IS ALMOST READY!”
Minho sighed and Jisung laughed.
Chaos met them in the living room. The food was faaar from being “ready.” Jisung’s guess is that Felix just wanted them all to spend time together and that’s why he screamed.
Jisung started to feel bad for Chan who was in the open kitchen alone, sleeves rolled up like he is about to wrestle someone and not cook. Felix was no help just walking around the kitchen and eating anything that is in front of him. Chan was calm, until all of them arrived.
“Felix, stop eating the cheese! Hyunjin, that knife is not a toy! Oi Changbin, you cannot put crunched Ramyeon in everything—”
“I can and I will,” Changbin answered, pouring Ramyeon into a pot with a sauce like he was sprinkling holy water.
The air smelled like garlic, soy sauce, and something sweet. The windows fogged slightly from the heat. Snow outside, warmth inside. Jisung leaned against the counter, watching the chaos unfold.
“Hyunjin, cut the vegetables,” Chan commanded.
Hyunjin lifted the knife. “I’m an artist, not a chef.”
“You’re a chef today,” Changbin said, kissing his temple before stealing a carrot and leaving the kitchen before Chan can give him an order.
Felix shoved a mug of hot chocolate into Jisung’s hands. “Taste this and tell me if I put too much sugar.”
Jisung sipped. It was basically liquid sugar.
“It’s perfect,” he said, trying not to grimace.
Felix grinned. “I knew it.”
Minho started to feel bad for his only Hyung and went to the rescue. He was standing at the stove, stirring Tteokbokki with that calm focus he always had when cooking. His cats, who followed them from upstairs, sat near him like well-trained dogs, tails flicking, waiting for something to fall.
Jisung watched them. Watched Minho. Watched the way Minho’s wrist moved when he stirred, veins and tendons visible, eyes fixed, his shirt revealing more than it should whenever he bent over the top to taste…
His chest tightened again.
He swallowed dryly.
This was dangerous.
“Stop staring and start helping,” Seungmin said next to him, making him jump.
“I wasn’t staring,” Jisung lied. Seungmin just raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
They all eventually found jobs.
Jeongin set the table, Seungmin, more or less, helped him.
Hyunjin cut vegetables, Felix burned the first batch of garlic, apologized to it, then tried again.
And poor Chan moved around like a stressed mother of seven.
By the time they sat down, the table was full.
Tteokbokki, Kimchi jjigae, grilled meat and side dishes everywhere.
Hot chocolate and tea and water glasses too.
They ate like people who hadn’t seen real food in months. It was loud and chaotic, but it had some domesticity that made Jisung happy.
Minho, who is sitting next to him, filled and refilled his plate and glass every time it went empty, making Jisung flutter.
After the last one of them finished, the second war started: Who would wash the dishes…
“We cooked,” Chan said, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. Taking himself out of the equation completely.
“I supervised,” Felix added, which somehow, he thought counted. But nobody really wants him in the kitchen so they didn’t say anything.
In the end, it was Jisung cleaning the table, Jeongin and Seungmin doing dishes, Changbin drying while rapping nonsense lyrics, Felix DJing from the speaker, and Chan checking the Airbnb rules for the fifteenth time to make sure they weren’t breaking anything.
Minho and Jisung took care of the cats, refilling their bowls, setting up a blanket for them in the living room.
Doongie ended up in Jisung’s lap again.
Of course.
“You’re his favorite now,” Minho said.
Jisung laughed. “Ah baby, am I your favorite uncle now?” he asked Doongie, crawling the cat behind the ears, making it purr.
“No, you’re more of his favorite parent,” Minho said with blushed cheeks and a tilted head.
Jisung’s heart did that stupid thing again.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Star Lost” – Stray Kids
“I hope someday this emptiness is filled
Just tell me whеre you are, I'll be thеre shortly
I won't be as far away from you as you think
I imagine you in the night sky
You comforting me somewhere
Don't matter, even if I lose everything right now
I'd endure it by thinking of you
I'll go anywhere”
----------------
The kitchen finally calmed down.
Steam faded from the windows. The table was wiped clean. Everyone looked exhausted and slightly feral.
Chan clapped his hands once — loud, like a teacher trying to control a classroom of gremlins. Which was a fair comparison given that the tallest one is Hyunjin.
“Okay,” he said. “Before we all pass out, let’s do gift time. And before SOMEONE starts opening gifts the moment he sees his own name.”
His eyes locked directly onto Felix. Hinting at probably a situation that has happened in their room. Jisung can imagine what it was.
Felix didn’t even blink. He just raised both eyebrows and expression blank.
Then he exploded: “YES. PRESENTS!”
And that was that.
They migrated to the living room on the floor after they went to get the gifts.
Fireplace crackling, blankets thrown everywhere.
The cats already taking their positions — Soonie on the backrest like royalty, Dori hiding under the coffee table, Doongie sprawled in the middle of the floor like a rug someone forgot to move.
Everyone sat in a circle, the pile of gifts in the center.
It felt strangely like Christmas morning again — even though they only planned this two days ago and had all panic-shopped individually they each found seven gifts in a short amount of time.
“Who starts?” Jeongin asked, adjusting his hair for no reason.
“You,” Seungmin said immediately. “Youngest.”
Jeongin sighed dramatically, but he still reached for the first bag — the one with his name written by Jisung in slightly crooked handwriting.
Jisung held his breath. Because this one mattered.
He had found the camera by accident in a flea market tucked between a honey-stand and someone selling old K-drama DVDs.
The Sony body was scratched.
The leather strap worn.
But something about it screamed Jeongin — the kid who watched people like he was already editing a film in his head.
Jeongin opened the box slowly. His eyes widened.
“Oh.”
He lifted the camera like it might crumble if he held it too tightly.
“This is… wow,” he whispered. “Hyung…”
“It works,” Jisung said quickly. “The guy said he used it for street photography. And you… you see stories everywhere, so—”
Jeongin looked up.
His eyes were definitely glassy.
“I love it,” he said. “Really.”
Jisung exhaled. One down.
The rest of Jeongin’s gifts followed.
Chan handed over a neatly wrapped, book-shaped package.
Inside: a thick acting book with dog-eared recommendations already marked in sticky notes, and a professional-looking throat spray.
“It’s, uh, my favorite text on character work,” Chan said, suddenly shy. “And this is so your main-character throat survives.”
Jeongin huffed a tiny laugh. “Thank you, hyung.”
Changbin’s gift was next — a small box that turned out to be a portable ring light and a tiny tripod for his phone.
“For your self-tape auditions,” Changbin grinned. “Because the lighting in your dorm is a crime.”
“It really is,” Hyunjin added in the background.
Speaking of, Hyunjin’s present was a hair styling kit — good quality wax, a comb, and a small bottle of serum.
“Your hair is your brand,” Hyunjin said simply. “We need to protect it.”
Jeongin snorted but looked pleased.
Felix slid his gift over with a dramatic “tadaaa” — two rolls of 35mm film and a patterned camera strap.
“So you can actually use the camera and not just stare at it,” Felix said. “And this,” he pointed at the strap, “is so nobody steals it. It’s too pretty.”
Seungmin’s bag had a box of calming tea and a small notebook.
“For nerves,” he said. “And for lines. Or feelings. Or both.”
Jeongin flipped through the notebook, noticing the first page had a neat little note in Seungmin’s handwriting: “You’re going to be good at this.”
Last came Minho.
His gift was folded carefully — a dark, soft hoodie with the academy logo embroidered small on the chest, and on the inside of the cuff, in tiny letters: “Take a bow.”
“For late rehearsals,” Minho said. “And opening nights.”
Jeongin swallowed.
“This is…” He looked around the circle — camera, light, books, strap, tea, hoodie. All of it quietly screaming the same thing.
“We believe in you.”
He didn’t say it out loud.
He didn’t have to.
Everyone already knew.
“I really… love all of these,” he said instead, voice a bit tight.
And they moved on.
Seungmin’s turn is next. He opened the long box and froze. A big baseball glove he got from Chan. He thanked his older brother and opened the gift from Jisung next. A baseball bat. Wooden, beautiful, smooth.
His name engraved on the side.
And Seungmin smiled as he understood what was happening.
He smiled a bright and full and rare smile. He didn’t like his smile because kids in primary school used to bully him for it. But Jisung could never understand. Seungmin’s smile was so beautiful that he can confidently say that it’s one of the prettiest smiles he has ever seen in his life.
“You wanna play again, right?” Jisung said.
Seungmin nodded once, almost shy now.
Then came the rest of the gifts — one after the other, falling into place.
Felix handed him a heavy cylinder. When Seungmin opened it, baseballs rolled into his lap. “It’s a two in one gift! For your comeback in baseball and so you can have something to throw at us when we annoy you,” Felix said proudly.
Changbin shoved a helmet toward him — pink. “I picked the color because it matches your attitude,” Changbin said with zero shame. He can allow himself this. Changbin is Seungmin’s favorite victim to annoy. So from time to time Changbin needs to put him back in place.
Hyunjin flicked him a box. Batting gloves.
“Calluses aren’t aesthetic,” he announced, like that was a universal truth. “And I want to play with you! Like we did last time in the park. But now more professional!”
Seungmin’s eyes are now glassy.
Jeongin passed him the smallest box with dead seriousness. Inside: protective cups.
Nobody spoke for a full second.
“…thanks?” Seungmin said, face completely blank.
“It’s important,” Jeongin argued and Seungmin laughed.
Minho’s turn. He pushed a soft bundle into Seungmin’s hands. When he opened it he found a jersey — crisp white with blue stitching stating his name — and a pair of sunglasses tucked on top.
“For the drama,” Minho explained the sunglasses simply.
That was the moment Seungmin’s ears went red. Not pink. Not flushed.
Red-red. His eyes were teary and he didn’t say a thing but he didn’t need to.
Everyone smiled at him like proud parents.
Hyunjin tore open Changbin’s huge box like a five-year-old on sugar.
The moment the cardboard flaps fell open, he gasped so loudly the cats flinched.
A full set of canvases. Three different sizes. Pristine white.
And an easel — tall, wooden, beautiful — the kind you only see in real studios. Hyunjin was talking about it for months.
“OH. MY. GOD.” Hyunjin clutched his chest as if he was having a dramatic, slow-motion heart attack. “Artist rights! Finally!”
Changbin just smirked, pleased with himself and his eyes sparkly seeing his lover so happy.
“Keep going,” Chan said.
Hyunjin did. He opened Jisung’s gift next and when he peeled back the tissue paper, he froze.
It was the professional color set. High-quality pigments. Hyunjin has told Jisung about a painting he really wanted to create, so Jisung bought the colors that he would need for it.
“Jisung…” Hyunjin whispered, fingertips brushing the palette like he was scared he’d smudge it. “Do you know how expensive this is?”
Jisung shrugged, cheeks warm. “You deserve nice things. I want to thank you for giving us a second chance.”
Hyunjin blinked fast, like he wasn’t expecting that answer.
The others shoved their gifts toward him, one after another, and it turned into a little avalanche of art supplies. Chan handed him a sleek tin of sketch pencils, it was the heavy kind that cost too much for students, each arranged in perfect gradient order. Seungmin pushed a pack of pastel chalks at him, shrugging awkwardly. “You said you wanted to try mixed media.” Then Minho slid his gift over with one finger.
A wooden storage box, handcrafted, polished, several compartments.
“So you stop losing everything around the dorm,” Minho said. Tone flat but the meaning soft.
Jeongin held up his tiny box with both hands. Hyunjin opened it and instantly snorted — a paint water, custom-made pottery cup shaped like a cartoon ferret, with little paw prints around the rim.
“It reminded me of you,” Jeongin said. Jisung can see the resemblance.
Felix practically threw his gift at him — glitter pens. “JUST IN CASE!” he yelled from across the circle. Hyunjin laughed but pocketed them anyway.
Hyunjin stared at the pile in front of him. The canvases, the easel, the colors, the pencils, pastels, cat cup, glitter pens, organizer.
The kind of setup an artist dreams of.
His voice came out small, unexpectedly gentle.
“…Thank you.”
Changbin’s hand was instantly on the back of his neck, pulling him closer.
Hyunjin leaned in without hesitation, shoulder tucked into Changbin’s side like it belonged there.
Chan was next. And of course Felix was already vibrating, practically levitating, waiting for his turn to gift him first.
“HYUNG— OPEN MINE FIRST,” Felix demanded, shoving a lumpy, chaotic-looking bag into Chan’s hands like a toddler presenting a masterpiece.
Chan blinked. “…Okay?”
The moment he reached inside, ten protein bars tumbled out onto his lap.
Then five more. And there were even more. Then a few suspiciously rolled-up wrappers that Felix clearly didn’t mean to include.
“Oh. My. God,” Chan laughed.
Felix puffed his chest. “Variety pack! For bulking, studying, AND mental breakdowns!”
“Felix—” Chan choked on a laugh, holding up a bar labeled Chocolate Explosion: Extreme Edition. “Is this even legal?”
“Maybe!” Felix looked proud enough to explode.
Then Chan reached for the next gift — the one from Jisung — expecting something normal after the protein-bar avalanche.
He unwrapped the package slowly and black fabric peeked out.
And then the whole thing unfolded in his hands: A full athletic training set. Top and bottom. Black. Clean. Durable.
Exactly the style he always wore — just… not ripped, stained, or traumatized by sweat.
Chan blinked. “Hyung,” Jisung said, arms crossed, trying to look stern. “You’re not allowed to wear the same shirt three times a week anymore.”
Chan laughed, loud enough to wake the cats. “I make no promises,” he said, already tugging the jacket on over his sweater, sleeves bunching in the dumbest way.
“You look like a baked potato,” Hyunjin observed. “Shut up,” Chan said, smiling so wide his dimples showed. The other gifts came one by one, a warm blur around the edges: Hyunjin’s, a clean black sweatband with a tiny embroidered heart he made himself. Changbin’s, a portable massage gun. “Hyung, every time you stand up you make noises.” – “That’s because he is soooo old,” Seungmin added and everyone laughed.
Jeongin gifted him ankle weights. Heavy ones. Seungmin’s gift is a cream-colored planner with big letters on the cover: PLEASE REST SOMETIMES.
The entire room lost it again. Chan buried his face in his hands.
“This is an intervention,” he groaned. “Yes,” Seungmin said flatly.
Last was Minho’s. He simply nudged the box forward with his fingertips.
Chan opened it.
A sleek black tumbler. On the side, etched in silver: World’s Tiredest Dad.
Chan stared at it for a long second. Then huffed out a laugh that cracked in the middle.
His eyes definitely shined.
Felix pointed at him immediately. “YOU’RE CRYING.”
“No I’m not,” Chan snapped, blinking rapidly. “My eyes burn from—.”
“Sure,” Jeongin said and Chan flipped him off quietly.
Changbin’s turn. He grabbed the biggest flat package — Jisung’s — and tore the wrapping paper open with the same intensity he used for lifting weights.
The second the vinyl cover peeked out, he froze.
Then swore. Loudly. “FUCK,” Doongie started running away.
“What the— this is OUT OF PRINT.”
Jisung shrugged like he hadn’t hunted through three separate stores and survived a forty-minute lecture from the owner about “the golden era.”
“The store owner literally cried when he sold it,” Jisung said. “So you better appreciate it.” - “I’m going to marry you,” Changbin announced dramatically.
A pillow flew at his face immediately. Hyunjin’s voice followed: “Try again.”
Changbin only grinned, rubbing the spot where the pillow hit him.
He reached for the next gift — Hyunjin’s — and opened it carefully, almost nervously this time. Inside was a photo album. Handmade. Black cover, gold thread.
When he opened it, the first page had a picture of him and Hyunjin from the night they announced their relationship — Hyunjin kissing his cheek, Changbin mid-blush.
The next pages were filled with memories from the last months:
Selfies. Dance practice polaroids. Candid photos Chan took. Pictures of Changbin studying with his mouth open. A selfie of Hyunjin drawing, Changbin asleep beside him.
Changbin blinked slowly. “You made this?” he asked softly.
“Yeah,” Hyunjin said, pretending to look bored while his ears went bright red.
Changbin didn’t comment; he just touched the page with a tenderness nobody expected from someone with his biceps.
Felix shoved his next gift toward him. “OPEN MINE.”
Inside was ramen toppings in the shape of stars. Because of course it was. “For when you eat ramen alone,” Felix said cheerfully.
Chan handed over a box next, and there were new headphones.
“Because you keep stealing mine,” Chan said with a sigh that came from the soul.
Changbin hugged them to his chest like a five-year-old with a new toy.
Jeongin’s gift was a small stress ball shaped like a dumbbell.
Seungmin’s gift was a sealed envelope with printed sheet music inside — crisp, new, handwritten notes in the margins. “For your next song,” Seungmin said quietly, almost shy. Changbin’s eyes softened instantly, cradling it like it was delicate.
Minho’s gifts were always quiet and simple.
Meaningful without trying. Changbin opened the last box and pulled out a black hoodie. Soft material. Oversized. And along the sleeves — embroidered tiny cats.
Not just random cats. Soonie, Dori and Doongie.
Changbin’s jaw dropped. “You— embroidered these?”
“No,” Minho said, deadpan. “I made someone else do it. But it is to welcome you officially as my brother in law.”
Changbin snorted and then clutched the hoodie to his chest with both arms, swaying like a child hugging a plushie. “My wife is going to steal this,” he said. Hyunjin immediately protested. “I am NOT,” then he looked at the cats on the arm. “Oh, whatever, yes, I am stealing it. It looks so cute.”
Everyone laughed. And Changbin looked happier than Jisung had seen him in months.
Minho.
Jisung knows it’s Minho’s turn. His stomach twists. He didn’t dare to put his gift to Minho in the middle. It was still in his pocket. Felt heavier than before. Jisung wants to run away. His therapist would say that this is a sign of his avoidant attachment style that they have been working on. She would tell him that the gift feels heavy because it shows a closeness that deepens a relationship. And the level of closeness needed to deepen a relationship feels like too much, causing Jisung to feel shut down and overwhelmed. However, change is possible… And he wants to change.
“MINHO-HYUNG’S TURN!” Felix shouts.
All the noise dimmed in Jisung’s head. Because Minho was looking at him. Expecting him to start without saying a word. He swallowed. Reached into his pocket.
The box felt heavier than it had in the store. Heavier than it had in his suitcase.
Heavier than it had been in his hand five seconds ago.
“Uh,” he said, softly, nervous. “This is… yours.”
Their fingers brushed when he handed it over. A brush. But still. It felt like it was too long. Too warm. Too much… but also not enough. Minho noticed.
Of course he did. His eyes flickered, barely, but Jisung saw it.
He opened the lid slowly. Not dramatically — Minho wasn’t like that. He was just… careful. Maybe precise. Gentle, almost.
The box opened fully.
Silence fell so fast it felt like the whole room paused. The fire snapped in the background. Doongie shifted on the rug. And he heard a silent “Oh,” from someone. Doesn’t know who, though.
Minho didn’t move. He stared at the silver chain. Thin. Soft shine. Three tiny charms swaying in the firelight like they were breathing.
A moon. A raindrop. A book.
He touched the moon first. Lightly. Thumb brushing over it like he was afraid it might burn. Then the drop — slow, deliberate. Then the book.
“You… bought this?” Minho asked the obvious, voice lower than usual. Too low.
Jisung panicked instantly.
“No, Santa did,” he croaked, regretting the sentence mid-air as his face heated like a stove when nobody else laughed. Minho finally looked up.
And his eyes, warm, soft, open, punched every sensible thought out of Jisung’s head.
He started rambling before he could stop himself. “I, uh… the moon is… you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You like the night, and your… and I don’t know. It just felt like you.” Minho didn’t even blink.
“The drop is for that night,” Jisung went on, cheeks burning hotter. “I mean…The performance. Our performance. The whole— yeah.” He hoped Minho didn’t catch on to the that night comment that slipped out.
Nobody breathed. “And the book is… for our study sessions,” Jisung muttered, staring at the floor now. “Because I told you once that you read dance theory like it’s a romance novel and you found it funny or whatever.”
Silence stretched.
Then Minho’s lips curved — slow. Soft. Almost shy.
Like the smile was coming from somewhere deep he didn’t show often.
“I love it,” he said. Jisung’s breath caught. “You do?” he whispered.
“I do,” Minho said again, voice even softer. “It’s… very me.”
His eyes held Jisung’s a little too long. Jisung started getting lost in the deep, dark sea that is Minho.
“And very us.” That word hit Jisung like a physical thing.
Us.
His heart stuttered brutally. His brain short-circuited. He nodded, barely, terrified that if he moved more, he would explode.
“Let me put it on you!” Felix announced, launching himself forward like a missile and absolutely ruining the moment. Jisung thanked him quietly.
Minho laughed — a quiet, warm sound — and handed the bracelet over.
He lifted his wrist. Felix clasped the chain around it with dramatic concentration.
Silver against warm skin. Perfect fit.
Jisung had to look away because his chest was doing something messy and sharp and dangerous.
Something hopeful. Something terrifying. Something he wasn’t ready for. But he also was.
The Others started giving their gifts to Minho, but Jisung's head was still not really here. He stared at the items in front of Minho:
A navy scarf, thick, warm, expensive, from Chan. A beautiful, expensive watch from Changbin, with the comment that this is the wedding gift to his wife's family, Jisung getting jealous of his rich friend for the first time. Hyunjin gifted Minho three hair clips: one matte black, one silver, and one carefully crafted crescent moon covered in rhinestones. A box of imported gourmet cat treats from Felix. Slippers with little cats on them from Jeongin. And then Seungmin — calm, unreadable Seungmin — handed over a slim, soft-covered poetry book. Minimalist design. A tiny cat silhouette on the cover.
“I thought you’d like it,” Seungmin said simply. Minho didn’t speak. He just opened to a random page, read a single line, and something in his shoulders softened.
Really softened. Enough that Jisung felt it in his own chest.
Felix’s turn came, and it gave Jisung the time to control his breathing before his turn came. Jeongin shoved a bag with “FELIX 💫” written in three colors into his arms.
Felix blinked, cheeks already pink.
“Okay,” he mumbled, sitting up straighter.
The room shifted again. Softer. This one was important too. Felix was the glue of the group, and everybody knew it, even when he didn’t.
He opened Jeongin’s gift first.
Out came a round chicken plush. Big eyes. Slightly stupid expression. Tiny hands.
Felix stared at it for a second, then burst into giggles.
“It looks like you,” Jeongin said, completely serious.
“Are you calling me… cute?” Felix teased.
Jeongin’s ears went red. “Shut up and hug it.”
Felix did. Immediately. Squeezed it to his chest like it was already a comfort object.
Next was Seungmin. A folded piece of pastel-blue fabric. Felix opened it and exhaled.
A hoodie. Soft, oversized, exactly his style. On the sleeve, a tiny embroidered daisy.
“You always draw these,” Seungmin muttered, eyes on the floor. “So. Yeah.”
Felix’s fingers brushed over the flower. “You noticed,” he said quietly. “Obviously,” Seungmin answered, but there was a small smile there. Chan’s gift was a small wooden box. Inside: a mini candle, a bottle of lavender spray, a nice sleep mask, and tiny essential oil vials lined up like soldiers. “For when your brain won’t shut up at three a.m.,” Chan said. “And so you stop pretending baking at four is a sleep plan.”
Felix’s throat bobbed.
Changbin’s turn nearly killed him.
He dragged a huge bag closer and dumped it in Felix’s lap. When Felix opened it, his eyes got bigger and bigger.
Spatulas. Whisks. Piping bags. Tins. Measuring spoons in pastel colors.
And an apron on top, white with pink letters: “LEE FELIX’S LOVE LAB.”
Felix slapped a hand over his mouth. “Hyung…” he laughed, but it sounded wet at the edges. “I look like a real baker.”
“You are a real baker,” Changbin said. “Now you just have the uniform.”
“Ohhh my favorite brownie boy will be able to make me more brownies,” Minho said randomly, making everyone giggle.
Hyunjin’s present came in a flat frame. Felix unwrapped it and froze.
A painting. He knew the balcony. The dorm railing. The sky.
It was him. Sitting outside, head thrown back, laughing — a real laugh. Eyes half moons. Sunlight on his freckles.
“You… did this?” Felix whispered.
Hyunjin nodded, suddenly shy. “I took a picture of you and then painted it. You looked happy. Thought you should see it.”
Felix stared at the frame for a long second. “I really like it,” he said, voice small.
From Jisung, he got a box that was heavier than it looked.
Inside, a knitted mustard-yellow beanie and a Polaroid taped to the lid.
On the polaroid, Jisung is hugging Felix from behind, both of them laughing so hard the picture was slightly blurred.
“My aunt knitted it,” Jisung said, scratching his neck. “I told her it’s for someone who gets cold easily.” Felix swallowed.
“And this?” he asked, tapping the photo.
“That’s my favorite picture of us,” Jisung answered simply. “Now you have it too.”
Felix didn’t say anything for a few seconds. He just pressed his lips together and nodded.
Then he opened Minho’s. A small black box. Neatly wrapped, edges perfect.
Inside: a silver ring. Simple. Clean. On the inside, engraved in tiny letters: LIXIE.
Felix’s breath hitched.
“…Hyung,” he said, suddenly quiet.
“It won’t rust when you bake,” Minho said, like that was the most relevant thing. “And. It’s just… you.”
Felix slid the ring onto his finger immediately. It fit like it was made for him.
He lifted his hand, looked at it, then looked around at all of them.
“I love you guys,” he said. Not yelled. Not joked. Just… said it.
And everyone smiled back, as if they’d been waiting for him to realize.
Then, at some point, the pile in the middle got smaller and smaller until the name on the next gift was his.
“Jisung-ah, your turn,” Chan said.
He hadn’t thought about his own gifts that much. He’d been too busy panicking about Minho’s.
But suddenly seven pairs of eyes were on him, and his name was on wrapping paper, and he felt weirdly shy.
Felix threw his gift at him first, obviously. “Open mine, open mine,” Felix chanted.
The box rattled when Jisung shook it. Inside, he found three pairs of fluffy socks in neon colors that hurt the eyes, a tiny neko keychain, and a small handwritten coupon.
He read it out loud. “One free Felix hug. Redeem anytime.” There was even a badly drawn star in the corner.
Jisung snorted. “You’re insane.” Felix leaned over and booped his cheek. “And you like it.”
Next came Changbin. A plain-looking notebook, at first glance. But when Jisung opened it, he saw staff lines on every page, little printed prompts on some of them.
“When you get stuck,” Changbin said, nudging his knee. “Write it here instead of spiraling in your head.”
Jisung’s chest tightened in a way he hated and loved at the same time. Hyunjin slid a small pouch across the floor with his foot. Inside were a pair of custom earplugs and a black hairband with tiny cat ears on it. “The hairband, because your hair annoys m,e and this will at least make it cute.” Jisung stared at the cat ears. “I’m not wearing this outside.”- “We’ll see,” Hyunjin smirked.
Chan’s turn was simple. He handed over a soft, squishy package. A black beanie. Thick. Warm. No logo. And gloves. Perfectly Jisung. Jeongin’s gift was a box with a familiar logo — a card game brand. When Jisung opened it, he saw question cards with prompts and “deep talk” topics. “It’s one of those games that makes people talk,” Jeongin explained. “So you stop dodging conversations.” -“I don’t dodge conversations,” Jisung lied. Three people scoffed at the same time. Seungmin’s present was a neatly folded, gray checkered scarf. It was heavier than it looked. Warm.
Then Minho’s turn.
The box was small. Flat. Light. He opened it and blinked.
Guitar picks. Seven of them, in a small metal tin. And a silver chain. The picks all have a metal where he can “Sew” it to the chain so he can wear it around his neck.
Each one had a tiny symbol engraved. A moon. A cat paw. A small music note. A heart so small you’d miss it if you didn’t look twice. And…a raindrop. Jisung couldn’t believe his eyes.
“I thought you kept losing yours,” Minho said. “So. Now you have more. And they’re… you know. Yours.”
Jisung picked one up. The one with the raindrop. It sat between his fingers. He wanted to wear it later. When he was alone.
His throat felt tight again.
“Yeah,” he said, voice quieter than he intended. “They’re perfect.”
Minho held his gaze for a second longer than necessary.
And then the circle moved on with laughter and talk, as if something huge hadn’t just shifted in his ribcage.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Peaches” – KAI
“At the very moment, we drink up each other
Our fantasies become more infinite
Whisper in my ears so it's sweeter than a dream
I'm already addicted”
----------------
They didn’t pick a movie so much as they all yelled at random titles until Chan snapped and pressed play on the first thing Netflix suggested. A slice-of-life romance, Christmas themed. Snowy scenes and soft lighting, some whispered dialogue, and little kissing scenes.
Jisung is covered in a blanket on the couch, Felix sitting on the floor between his legs. Minho came to sit next to him on the couch, lifting the blanket to cover himself up, making the space between himself and Jisung get automatically smaller. The heat that is radiating from Minho’s body feels hotter on Jisung’s skin than the heat the blanket is providing. Suddenly, he is very aware of the nonexistent space between them. Jisung’s heart starts running a hundred miles a second. Or that is how it feels at least.
Felix stole Chan’s arm as a pillow, on the floor, and Chan covered both of them with a blanket. Soonie is sitting between them. Hyunjin curled into Changbin’s side, legs tangled on the couch.
Jeongin sat on the floor with Seungmin’s leg pressed against his back.
Halfway through the movie, Minho dozed off. Head tipping and breathing slowly. His shoulder brushes Jisung´s arm every few seconds, till it lands on Jisung’s shoulder. And Jisung stayed perfectly still, like moving would break something sacred.
At some point, Jisung too stopped watching the movie himself. He watched Minho’s hand loosen near his knee. The bracelet glinted against the firelight.
His bracelet, the one Jisung gifted him. It felt unreal. His chest was filled with happiness. Why did he hate himself so much to forbid himself some months ago this? How?
When the credits rolled, Felix sniffed loudly. “That was beautiful,” he said. “You cried four times,” Seungmin answered. “Because it was beautiful.”
Chan stretched his arms.
“Okay. Everyone shower and go to sleep. Tomorrow we have a long day ahead of us!”
One by one, they got up, rummaging for towels, arguing about shower order, stepping over sleeping cats. Minho turned to Jisung, half-smile still lingering. “You can go first,” he said.
“Nah,” Jisung replied, pretending to look at his phone. “You go. I take long.”
Minho shrugged and left the room to grab clothes and shower.
Jisung exhaled and stayed lying on the couch for a while. Scrolling mindlessly on his phone. Even though he LOVES his friends, and time with them is time he loves spending. He still, in the end of the day, needs his time alone to calm down from all the social energy.
His therapist explained to him that this was normal, actually — that a lot of people, even people without anxiety, need this kind of quiet after spending time with others. Some therapists even call it a “post-social crash,” that moment where a person’s whole body just wants to lie down, scroll through a phone without thinking, let the noise fade out, and just ignore the whole human population for some time. Settle into a kind of soft, harmless emotional flatness. Not happy, but also not sad.
For months and months, he thought this meant there was something wrong with him.
That he was negative. Depressed. That he was difficult. That whatever Woosook had done to him had left a kind of damage he would never be able to fix. He truly believed this version of himself — the one who shut down after socialising, the one who needed silence, the one who got tired from being around people he loved — was proof that he had been broken past the point of repair.
But hearing that it wasn’t any of that, that none of it meant he was ruined or unlovable, that it was simply the way his mind worked, a high sensory sensitivity, processing every tone and shift in the room, every expression, every emotion, deeper than most people noticed, made something inside him soften. Especially when the therapist explained why this wasn’t just normal but actually something that could help him.
People who feel things deeply and see every detail also hear things deeply. That sensitivity in everyday life can translate into precision in music production. He is good at catching details others overlook, recognising emotional texture in sounds, noticing tiny inconsistencies in a beat, and understanding the atmosphere of a song before it even exists. Also, he knows and understands his audience and knows what they want, and he can deliver it to them. That the same trait that makes social moments exhausting is the trait that lets him layer harmonies intuitively, pick the right reverb without overthinking, and sense when a track “feels wrong” before anyone else hears it.
The therapist told him that some musicians train for years to develop that level of emotional perception — and he already has it naturally.
And that talk…
It made him feel normal in a way he hadn’t felt in so long. Like he wasn’t strange.
Like he wasn’t difficult to love or like he wasn’t carrying a permanent mark from someone else’s mistakes.
Understanding that his brain just needed recovery time — and that this didn’t make him weak or broken, just human — made him happier than he expected. It made him feel like he could breathe in his own skin again. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel ashamed of how he was built.
Jisung sighs.
It was a long day, long night, long everything. When he felt ready, he went upstairs to Minho and his room. He lay on his bed, closed his eyes and waited until he heard the bathroom door open and close again. He opened his eyes half and watched how Minho, now in a baggy black tee and grey sweatpants, exited the bathroom and then the room. He didn’t seem to have seen Jisung lying in the dark on his bed. Jisung giggled. Minho was probably going downstairs to get him, and this was kind of funny for no smart reason.
Then he grabbed his own towel and slipped inside the bathroom. The bathroom was warm. Steam still hugging the mirror from Minho, who showered before. His smell still lingered in the room. Jisung couldn’t help himself. He closed his eyes for a minute, enjoying the woody vanilla musk in the room. He could never get used to his smell. It was way too good.
How can a person smell that good?
He let the water run hot. Too hot, let it hit his skin until the cold from outside dissolved. He took longer than he usually would. Because he knew what came next… Sleeping in the same room as Minho.
He stepped out, towel around his waist, he honestly forgot to take clothes in with him, hair dripping onto the tiles.
He opened the door while wiping his face—
And walked straight into Minho.
Minho froze.
Jisung froze harder.
They just stared into each other’s eyes.
The dark room was now very much illuminated. To Jisung’s horror. His full chest, abdomen, arms, and more than half of his legs on display for the older to see.
After what felt like forever of eye contact, Jisung gulped. Too loud. Breaking the silence.
And then Minho’s eyes — slow, deliberate — dragged down.
Painfully slow. Taking each detail in front of him in.
From Jisung’s wet brown hair. To his, in shock, parted flushed lips. To the drops sliding down his collarbones. To his chest. To the tattoos.
He forgot he had tattoos. Forgot the ink existed.
Forgot the meaning behind them because Minho was looking at him like—
Like he was a picture, Minho went into a museum to admire.
Jisung’s ears are bright red.
Other people would’ve screamed in shock. Turned around. Apologized. Anything.
But Minho… Minho just stared. Stared at his every detail. Making Jisung feel completely naked under his gaze.
“Hyung—” Jisung whispered, throat tight.
Minho blinked once. Not taking his eyes away from his chest tattoo for a second. There is a compass on his chest and something written in English.
“What does it mean?” he asked quietly. His voice soft, deeper than usual and too focused; it sent shivers down Jisung's spine.
His gaze lingered on the ink on Jisung’s left pec, then along the line under his chest, then to his side.
Jisung swallowed. “Oh. That one?” he said, touching it lightly. “It’s a quote from the movie Up, and it also says ‘Blessed’. It helped me through a bad year.”
Minho nodded — slow, almost reverent — eyes tracing the lettering. Jisung shivers under his gaze. His heart was fluttering and… the blood started travelling from his brain, down south.
He gulped again, scared Minho would notice his embarrassment.
“And the one on your side?” he asked.
Taking a step toward Jisung. As if in a trance. His eyes are down on his right side from under his armpit to where the towel on his hips starts.
Jisung’s heart stuttered.
“That’s…,” he said softly. “resplendent life.”
Minho looked up. Really looked.
“Okay,” he said. “What exactly does that mean?”
With his catlike eyes fixing Jisung’s big eyes, he takes a step more forward.
Something warm curled low in Jisung’s stomach. His whole body was now covered in goosebumps. And more blood decided to take the trip down south to his horror.
“Ehm…” he starts, “resplendent means… shining brilliantly.”
Minho’s eyes flickered again — down — back up — his hand twitched. His fingers lifted up to touch Jisung’s side.
Jisung swallowed in anticipation of the touch. Would it send hot shivers through his whole body like every touch did? Will it feel different now that he is basically half-naked?
But then Minho stepped aside so Jisung could pass. “Your hair is dripping,” Minho murmured as he walked by.
“Oh,” Jisung said brilliantly. “Yeah.”
Minho huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. The room felt… different when they both stepped aside.
Minho enters the bathroom, and Jisung now able to move his limbs, slowly moves to his closet.
After he saw the door of the bathroom closing. He plumped on the bed. Letting a breath out, he didn’t even realise he was holding.
What was that? What was that? Whatwasthatwhatwasthatwhatwasthat.
He put his head between his hands. Breathing in for four seconds. Holding it for eight. And breathing out for eight.
He tried it over and over again, his heart still not calming down.
Minho looked at him. Like Jisung was prey. Like Minho was hungry for him. Like he needed him. He admired his body. Jisung’s body. He admired him. He wanted to touch him. Touch his body.
And
Why is Jisung sad that he didn’t?
After he calmed his heart a little bit he stood up and actually looked at his clothes. Deciding for a black hoodie and some matching shorts.
When he wore his shorts he noticed to his horror that he was indeed already half hard…
Only from Minho’s gaze…
No, it was not because of Minho’s gaze. It was basically just because the last few days and weeks he was kind of cock-blocked.
He went from exam season, to his parents’ house to work and now he is here with all of his friends. He did not have a moment to himself where he could… relieve himself from all the stress he has felt.
So… this was normal… nothing special.
Nothing because of Minho. No.
When Minho turned back in the room, after finishing his night time routine the room went silent. Not awkward. Just a little bit… charged.
Doongie jumped onto Jisung’s bed like nothing was happening and Soonie curled on Minho’s pillow. Dori hid under the nightstand and judged both of them.
They finished getting ready in silence. It felt domestic. Almost too normal after what just has happened. Minho brushed his hair, the bracelet resting perfectly on his wrist. Jisung dried his hair while pretending not to stare every ten seconds.
Then the lights dimmed.
-- The room settled into a slow, steady quiet.
Only the soft heater hum and the cats’ tiny breaths filled the space.
--
Jisung lay on his back, staring at the faint moon reflection on the ceiling.
He tried to focus on something — anything — that wasn’t Minho. Tried to sleep. Ignore the vanilla scent in the room. Ignore his twitching dick.
Didn’t work.
Every time Minho shifted, the sheets rustled, and Jisung’s heartbeat jumped like he was being called by name.
He turned slightly, hugging his pillow to his chest.
Doongie climbed onto it and sat down like a heavy, furry paperweight.
Across the room, Minho exhaled softly through his nose. Not an annoyed sigh.
More like he was thinking about something.
A few seconds passed.
Then Minho spoke, quiet, low, the kind of voice people use when the room is dark and everything suddenly feels too honest in the late hour. “Are you still awake?” he asked.
Jisung froze. “…Yeah.”
Silence again.
It was charged.
“Can I ask you something?” Minho said.
Jisung swallowed. “You’re already asking.” he tried to humor.
He heard Minho shift. Sheets moving. A small breath.
He wasn’t sure, but it sounded like Minho might have turned toward him.
“That bracelet…” Minho said softly.
His voice dipped a little, like he was choosing each word carefully.
“Why did you pick that one?”
Jisung’s stomach flipped so hard it almost hurt.
“I told you,” he whispered into the dark. “It felt like you.”
“That’s not the whole answer.”
Jisung’s fingers curled into the pillowcase.
“I don’t know,” he muttered. “I saw it. And it just… I don’t know. Made sense.”
Another stretch of silence followed.
But it felt like Minho understood everything he didn’t say.
Then Minho whispered, “It made sense to me too.”
Jisung blinked. Heat crept up his neck.
Before he could respond, Minho moved again. This time the sheets sounded different. Like he turned fully in Jisung’s direction.
Jisung’s breath caught.
He didn’t dare look.
Didn’t dare breathe too loud.
“I didn’t know you had tattoos,” Minho said, voice low.
“Oh,” Jisung whispered. “Yeah.”
“They look good on you.”
Jisung’s heart slammed against his ribs. “Minho—”
“I mean it.”
A pause.
“They looked… beautiful.”
Jisung covered his face with both hands even though Minho couldn’t see him.
Beautiful?
He was going to die.
A heart attack.
Right here.
On this mattress.
He cleared his throat, trying to sound normal.
It failed.
“Thanks,” he said, voice embarrassingly small.
Minho hummed again.
Soft.
Pleased.
Another few seconds passed.
Then the bed springs creaked — sharper.
Jisung turned his head just an inch.
Minho wasn’t next to him, but he wasn’t far either.
He had shifted to face him fully, one arm under his pillow, hair falling slightly over his eyes.
Moonlight caught the edge of the bracelet on his wrist.
The bracelet Jisung bought him.
Minho looked peaceful, but his gaze was focused...on him.
“Can I ask you something else?” Minho whispered.
Jisung nodded, even though it was too dark for Minho to see.
“…Why were you nervous earlier?” Minho asked.
Jisung’s stomach flipped into the atmosphere.
“Earlier when?” he asked, stalling.
Minho’s voice dipped. “When you walked out of the bathroom.”
Jisung wanted to sink through the floor.
“I wasn’t nervous,” he lied.
Minho didn’t even pretend to believe him.
“You were,” he said quietly. “Your ears were red.”
Jisung groaned into his hands. “Hyung, please—”
“I’m not teasing you,” Minho added, softer. “I just… wondered.”
Jisung hesitated. Half a second too long. Half a breath too honest.
“…You looked at me,” Jisung whispered.
He didn’t mean to say it. But it slipped out, small and raw.
Minho didn’t respond right away. Not verbally.
But the air shifted between them.
Then Minho whispered, barely audible: “…I noticed things.”
Jisung’s breath stuttered. Oh, no.
“What… things?”
Minho didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he shifted again — so quietly that the pillow barely made a sound.
He didn’t move closer, but he didn’t move away either.
His voice came soft.
Careful.
Almost fragile.
“Your tattoos,” Minho said.
“The water on your skin.”
Another pause.
“And you looked… different.”
Jisung’s heart was beating so fast he thought Minho could hear it.
“Different how?” he whispered.
Minho hesitated.
Then he breathed out slowly, like admitting something to himself.
“…Attractive. Beautiful.”
Jisung’s inhale shook.
He didn’t know what to say.
Didn’t trust himself to speak.
Didn’t trust his voice not to crack.
So he did the safest thing possible.
He whispered, “Goodnight, Minho-Hyung.”
Minho’s voice came a moment later.
Gentle.
Warm.
“Goodnight, Jisung.”
But neither of them slept for a long time.
Chapter 10: "The sugar on the trees"
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Jasmine” – DPR LIVE
"I'll be getting it ready to fuse
Sitting on top of the world, just cue
Missing a puzzle, I swear it's you (You)
You know I can paint the world
Sitting there in black and gold
You're the perfect chemical
I gotta test, I gotta know
You know I'm no criminal
But I could take your heart and go
You're the perfect chemical
I gotta test, I gotta, gotta"
----------------
Jisung only woke up when Soonie was about to choke him to death. She decided to sit on his throat, making it very hard to breathe. The moment he woke up though he noticed the sun falling in the room, lighting everything up with that morning light.
He blinked against it, groggy, his body still heavy from the mess of sleep and aching muscles from yesterday’s sledding. His voice was gone, his mind cotton-soft, and for a second he didn’t remember where he was. Only the scent of pine from the wooden walls and the faint sound of someone laughing downstairs pulled him back.
And then he heard them. He heard his friends chatter and scream downstairs, wondering how all this noise wasn’t the reason for him waking up. Probably because he fell asleep at a very, very late hour.
They sounded too alive for the morning. Too loud. Too cheerful. A mess of voices mixing into something warm — it sounded like home. The kind of chaotic morning only this group produced.
Groaning, he turned around to steal a look at Minho, just to find his bed already organized and the older not in it. The sheets were smoothed out. Pillow fluffed. Like Minho had woken up, looked at the chaos Jisung had made on his side of the bed, and felt morally obligated to restore balance.
It was stupid how even that — a made bed — made Jisung’s chest tighten. Minho always cleaned up after him. Always left small traces of care behind. Or maybe Jisung was just at the point of delusion where he romanticized everything and anything the dancer did.
Jisung frowned. Why didn’t he wake him up? Stretching his dead limbs, he groaned and started standing up slowly, feeling like an old man.
After emptying his bladder, contemplating if he should… relieve himself in other ways or not — deciding that he was too hungry and he would just do it tonight in the shower — and freshening up, he made his way downstairs.
The hallway was cold against his bare ankles. The air smelled like wood and something buttery from the kitchen. The wooden steps creaked under his weight as the morning light pooled down the stairwell. Halfway down, he could already smell breakfast — eggs, toast, something slightly burnt. His stomach growled loud enough to embarrass him.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Chan greeted him first. Seungmin and Jeongin sat at the table, arguing over something as trivial as cutlery. Minho and Chan stood in the open kitchen, moving around each other with the quiet efficiency of a married couple.
He mumbled a tired “good morning” to everyone in the room and made his way to the couch where Felix was sitting, playing with his phone.
Minho stood in the kitchen next to Chan, making breakfast for the rest. His sleeves were rolled up, hair a little messy, a faint crease between his eyebrows as he focused on the pan.
“Minho-hyung, why didn’t you wake me up?” Jisung remembered to ask across the room.
The one asked turned around and looked at him for some time. His eyes dragged over Jisung’s sleep-swollen face, messy hair, oversized hoodie.
“I tried. You hit me in the face. I gave up,” he said dryly, turning back to the stove, making everyone else laugh.
Jisung definitely did that. His sleep-violence was legendary. The fact that Minho tried anyway made something warm crawl up his neck.
Jisung groaned and hid his face in Felix’s lap. The blond didn’t mind his best friend cuddling him and started playing with Jisung’s hair. Felix hummed something soft under his breath, fingers absentmindedly massaging Jisung’s scalp. Comfort without asking. Jisung melted a little. He loved cuddling with Felix.
Jisung closed his eyes to enjoy the moment. He could feel Felix’s warmth through the clothes, could hear the faint taps of his phone, could smell the sugary cocoa powder someone must’ve spilled earlier. Everything felt soft. He felt alive.
“Who will wake Changbin and Hyunjin up?” Chan asked after a while.
Jisung opened his eyes to say something but the others were faster.
“I helped set the table,” Seungmin screamed.
“I don’t want to be more traumatized, please!!” Jeongin added, shaking his head strongly.
That made everyone look at the Jisung-shaped pile on the couch.
They were already voting. Without consent.
Groaning and spitting out how he hated them all, the musician stood up and started walking to the room of the so-called married couple.
In front of the door, he knocked.
Once.
Twice.
Jisung frowned. As if the whole noise downstairs and the knocking did not wake them up. The door didn’t even creak. The silence inside was suspicious. Too quiet for those two.
He then started knocking crazily. “HYUNJIN HYUNG, BINNIE HYUNG, FOOD TIME!!”
He thought that for sure the mention of food would at least wake Changbin up. But nothing.
Not a groan. Not a “five more minutes.” Not even a death threat.
Confused, Jisung contemplated opening the door or not.
He was scared. He would admit that. Seeing his hyung and one of his closest friends during the act was not on his bucket list.
“Guys! I will come in now! Please wear some clothes,” he tried to humor, voice going higher from pure fear.
He opened the door very slowly. Eyes closed. Ready for the worst.
When he didn’t hear anything from inside the room, he opened his eyes slowly.
Staring into an… empty room?
To his surprise, the beds of the two were empty and there was no sign of them anywhere.
Confused, Jisung stepped out of the room and went back downstairs.
“Where are they?” Chan asked the moment he spotted Jisung alone.
“Well,” Jisung started, “I would also like to know.” He added with a confused look, hands lifted a little as if to say, Don’t look at me.
Chan frowned at him, like Jisung was not speaking the same language.
“What do you mean, Jisung-ah?”
Jisung slowly joined the others at the table, shrugging his shoulders.
“They’re not in their room,” he explained, confusing everyone else too.
“Chan-hyung, pleaseeee let’s eat without them. I am hungry,” Seungmin started pleading, knowing that the older would probably like to wait.
Minho and Chan, the only two standing in the kitchen, looked at each other as if they were communicating through eye contact alone. Leader brain and quiet caretaker brain linking up.
After some seconds, both of them sighed at the same time, making Felix giggle. Then they started bringing the dishes they had cooked to the table.
The rest cheered happily.
The food was amazing, and the atmosphere too. However, Jisung couldn’t ignore how Chan and Minho seemed distracted, both of them texting the two missing individuals every five minutes.
“Come on, hyungs, don’t worry about them. They probably went on a romantic walk in the snow or something like that,” Seungmin finally addressed the two worried parent figures in the room, deadpan as always.
Chan smiled. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
Minho blinked his fast blinks and put his phone down.
After they finished eating, they heard noise from the front door.
Changbin’s loud laugh was the first thing they decoded, making them all turn to face the direction of the door in anticipation.
Finally, after what felt like forever, Hyunjin and Changbin’s flushed faces appeared in front of them.
“Oh, good morning everyone,” Changbin chimed, taking his gloves off.
“What do you mean good morning?? Where were you guys?” Chan said, looking at him with a mix of mad and annoyed, but also a hidden amusement at the way they looked.
Changbin’s cheeks were flushed with a rose color. His grin reached both ears. He was dressed in his black winter jacket, black jeans, gloves and a beanie. His winter boots gifted him some extra inches. The snow melting on his shoulders meant they had been outside for a while. His nose was bright red, eyelashes a little wet from the cold.
Behind him was Hyunjin. Even though he was taller than Changbin, he looked like he was making himself smaller under the eyes of the group. His face was also flushed red. He too was wearing a black winter jacket that was left open, revealing a hoodie under it, but his jeans were dark blue. His hair was wind-mussed, the ends caught in dried snowflakes, lips a little swollen.
“Aww, were you guys worried about us?” Changbin provoked, taking his beanie off and shaking his hair out.
Minho huffed.
“I am sorry, we woke up early, saw the snow and the pretty mountains and went out for a walk. We even found a brunch place and went for breakfast there,” Changbin explained, not sounding sorry at all.
Hyunjin behind him was still quiet. Taking his gloves off, trying to hide from the eyes of the others. Trying not to make them notice his sin.
But Jisung noticed.
Noticed the disheveled clothes.
Noticed the stain on his black hoodie.
Noticed the way Hyunjin’s eyes kept unconsciously drifting to Changbin’s hand, like they wanted to reach for it again.
Yeah. They were doing something.
And he thanked God they didn’t do it at home where he could’ve walked in on them.
--
After breakfast and enough teasing to last a lifetime, they bundled up for the day trip Chan had planned, as if he was the mother of the group and they were seven toddlers.
Outside, the snow was fresh. Powdery. Thick.
It made everything look softer and prettier. Made the trees look like they were desserts dipped in sugar. The cold bit at their cheeks, turning noses pink and breaths visible.
“Okay, troops,” Chan announced, adjusting his scarf, “we’re hiking first, then sledding.”
“I thought we were going sledding first,” Jeongin muttered.
“And I thought you were going to be quiet today,” Seungmin answered without even looking at him.
Jisung rolled his eyes. Another — not even married — couple bickering all the time. With these two, you never know if you get the bestie duo or the we-hate-each-other duo. Each day it was different.
They started up the hill behind the villa — the trail padded with snow and lined with tall trees dipped in sugar.
The air was crisp, the cold biting their noses, making Felix whine dramatically every few seconds.
Hyunjin walked ahead with Changbin glued to his side, holding hands inside one glove like disgusting newlyweds.
Jisung gagged audibly. Hyunjin flipped him off with his free hand, making Jisung and Minho, who of course was walking beside him, laugh.
“They really are a married couple,” said Minho, shaking his head at the sight in front of them.
“That’s what I was thinking!” Jisung exclaimed, happy that someone understood his unspoken thoughts.
Minho hummed, looking Jisung in the eyes while both of them smiled fondly at each other. It was warm. So warm.
“And what are you guys then?” Seungmin asked from behind, making Felix and Jeongin laugh.
Minho rolled his eyes, smiled, turned to Seungmin and asked sweetly, “You want to die today?”
Seungmin swallowed dryly and walked to safety next to Chan. Jisung giggled. Wow, someone who could scare Seungmin. That was new.
They kept walking, talking and taking pictures along the way.
Chan was the one with the maps, of course. And therefore, the rest of them did not need to use their brains anymore. He stopped now and then to check the route like a responsible parent, while the others threw snow at each other in the background.
Their breath rose in little clouds. Felix took selfies every two minutes with everyone, except Jeongin, who kept dodging him like a cat avoiding a hug.
Halfway up, Jisung realized something was wrong.
Minho started slowing down. Walking slightly behind them. Jisung turned and waited. He frowned at the sight.
Minho kept looking at the slope.
And then at the drop beside it.
And then at his feet.
And then at the drop again.
He swallowed.
Jisung walked back to him. “…Hyung?”
Minho didn’t answer.
“Are you okay?” Jisung tried again.
Minho blinked at him.
Fast.
Too fast.
Oh.
“You’re scared of heights,” Jisung whispered, soft and gentle so nobody else could hear.
Minho looked away immediately, jaw clenched.
“I’m not scared,” he muttered.
“I just… don’t like the ground being far.”
Which was the same thing.
“Come here,” Jisung said, reaching without thinking.
His hand hovered near Minho’s wrist.
Minho hesitated, glanced around — nobody watching — and let Jisung pull his hand.
Their fingers intertwined. And even though they were wearing gloves, Jisung swore he could feel the body heat of Minho. And something even hotter inside his chest.
“You’re fine,” Jisung whispered. “I got you.”
Minho swallowed hard but squeezed back once.
That was enough.
They walked behind the others like that.
Hand in hand.
Nobody turned around and it felt like their own little world. Minho calmed down again.
The hike wasn’t long, but it felt like forever and not long enough at the same time.
When they reached the top, the view hit them — mountains layered like watercolor, snow glittering under the sun, the valley small beneath them.
“WOOOOOOO!” Felix screamed into the void.
Jeongin joined. Then Changbin.
Jisung laughed.
Minho stood close to him.
Close enough that their breaths made little clouds that mingled.
“It’s pretty,” Jisung said, voice low.
“Yeah,” Minho said, looking at him instead of the scenery. “It is.”
Jisung’s ears turned pink.
--
“No,” he said. Minho stared at the sled like it was a wild animal.
“Yes,” Jisung said.
“I’m not sitting on that.”
“You’re sitting on me,” Jisung said before his brain could stop him. Jisung froze when he realised how that sounded.
Minho froze too.
Then he pulled an eyebrow up, smirking at the younger at the same time.
“Aha,” he spotted. “I’d rather have you sitting on me the first time, Jisung-ah, but we can try to switch sometimes.”
Jisung’s face heated up. His eyes were shocked by the implication of what he had just heard. And even though he did not want to admit it, something in his pants twisted.
Felix screamed in excitement at something unrelated.
“I meant — LIKE — behind me,” Jisung panicked. “No. Like. You know. Holding me. So you don’t— you know—die.”
Minho stared at him for a second too long.
Then nodded once.
The smirk didn’t leave his flushed lips.
“Fine.”
Jisung sat first. The plastic of the sled was cold even through his snow pants. He wrapped his hands around the little handle, trying to remember how balance worked. He could do it, he wouldn’t get nervous around Minho’s closeness, he tried to hype himself up.
Minho climbed behind him — carefully — legs bracketing Jisung’s hips, body warm against his back. Jisung could feel the steady rise and fall of Minho’s chest, the weight of his hands hovering before settling low around Jisung’s waist.
Jisung forgot what air was. He couldn’t do it. He would get nervous around Minho’s closeness, he realized.
“Hold on,” Minho murmured next to his ear.
Oh, that was dangerous.
Minho wrapped his arms around him. Firm. Secure.
Close enough that Jisung could feel every inhale against him.
Close enough that Minho’s forehead brushed the back of his neck. Jisung swallowed dryly. He did not think that through.
The sled jerked forward.
Minho’s grip tightened instantly, face hidden in Jisung’s shoulder.
Jisung laughed, exhilarated. Minho swore in his ear, making him shiver. The mix of adrenaline of the sled and Minho being so close to his body, swearing in his ear, was too much and not enough. He felt his lower stomach tighten.
Felix screamed past them like a missile at the speed of trauma, making Jeongin, who was sitting in the front, flinch.
Seungmin and Hyunjin were yelling at each other on another sled, laughing like idiots, while the sled of Changbin and Bangchan looked dangerously fast.
They reached the bottom with snow in their boots and hearts beating too fast.
Minho stayed pressed against Jisung for a moment longer than necessary.
“…That was fun,” Minho whispered.
“You were holding me like I was your parachute,” Jisung teased.
“Well. Like a parachute, you are my safety,” Minho said quietly.
Jisung’s brain shut down for a full three seconds.
His heart felt like someone grabbed it with both hands and squeezed lightly, teasingly, just enough to shake every thought out of his skull.
Minho had said it so casually — like it wasn’t going to haunt him forever.
But before he could respond, Felix screamed again from the top of the hill. “ONE MORE TIME!!” Jeongin yelled that he’d rather die.
The chaos woke everyone up again.
Minho finally let go of Jisung. Slowly. Reluctantly. He showed very clearly that he did not want to let go.
His hands slipped from Jisung’s small waist like he was memorizing the shape of it.
And Jisung definitely wasn’t okay.
They ended up sledding five more times. Jisung lost count. Each time Minho climbed behind him a little faster. Held him a little tighter. Leaned in a little closer. Whispered more things in his ear. Breathed a little more on his neck. Making Jisung shiver and his whole body was plastered with goosebumps. He had to bite his lips multiple times so nothing embarrassing left them. And when it got too much, he just screamed, disguising it as the sled adrenaline.
By the last round, Minho didn’t even pretend to hide it — he pressed his chest fully against Jisung’s back, arms wrapped around him like a seatbelt and brushed his lips softly against his nape.
And every time the sled jerked forward, Minho’s breath hitched against Jisung’s neck, his lips inching closer and closer to it.
It was torture.
Beautiful, stupid torture.
--
By noon, they all collapsed in the snow at the bottom of the hill, red-cheeked, freezing, panting.
“Damn… should I do more cardio?” Felix wheezed, sprawled like a starfish.
“Yes,” Changbin said teasingly, which earned him a weak slap from the blond.
“This is death.” Hyunjin rolled dramatically onto his side, the snow wetting his hair. “If I die here, bury me under the biggest tree on top of the mountain, please.”
“Not happening,” Seungmin replied. “I am not hiking any more today. If you die we will just bury you here. Deal with it.”
“I will haunt you.”
Seungmin rolled his eyes. “I know you love me, but leave your afterlife haunting to your wife-man, please.”
Hyunjin pouted, making them laugh.
Jisung laughed until he felt lightheaded.
He felt good. Really good.
The joy lives in his ribs and shakes loose all the heaviness he forgot he was carrying.
Minho’s glove brushed his glove as they sat side by side in the snow.
Not holding.
Just… there.
Close enough to feel.
Minho’s eyes met his briefly — dark, unreadable, but softer than they were this morning.
Then he looked away first.
--
On the walk back toward the trail entrance, Chan suddenly pointed at something in the distance.
“Is that… a tent?”
It was. A little beige tent tucked between two pine trees, with smoke coming out the top like a tiny chimney. A hand-painted sign next to it read in wobbly hangul:
Grandma’s Snow Tea & Hot Cocoa — 3,000₩
Felix gasped. “WE HAVE TO GO.”
And they did.
Inside the tent was warm, dim, cozy — lanterns hanging low, blankets on the floor, a small pot bubbling over a tiny portable stove.
An old woman with white hair tied in a bun welcomed them with a smile that made everyone quiet and bow respectfully.
“You boys look cold,” she said. “Sit. Sit.”
They sat like obedient children.
She poured steaming hot chocolate into mismatched mugs, one by one. The mugs looked like they all had different stories — chipped edges, faded flowers, cartoon characters.
The smell hit immediately — rich, sweet, with a hint of cinnamon.
Hyunjin took one sip and moaned dramatically. “This is better than sex,” he whispered, so the poor grandma wouldn’t hear his dirty words.
Changbin glared. “Excuse me???”
Hyunjin smirked. “I said what I said.”
Jeongin burned his tongue instantly, crying loudly, and Seungmin called him stupid. But he still reached for the water to give him anyway, shoving the glass at him with a sigh.
Chan apologized to the grandma at least three times for the noise level. She just laughed and told him, “Boys should be loud while they’re young.”
But Jisung barely noticed any of it — because Minho was sitting right next to him, thigh pressed flush against his.
Their coats were thick, but the warmth still seeped through.
Minho held his mug with one hand, shoulders a little hunched. The steam curled up around his face and made his eyes look softer, his lashes damp.
He looked… peaceful.
Soft.
But not for long.
With his free hand, he sneaked it under the low table.
Jisung suddenly felt it creeping onto his leg.
At first it was playing next to his knee, fingers drumming like it was nothing. Jisung tried to act normal. Not looking at Minho. Tried not to make the others notice. His grip on his mug tightened.
And the hand slowly, slowly travelled up.
He put his drink down, scared he would spill it under the feeling of Minho’s wandering hand. He felt every touch. Every finger. Every pause.
Jisung shivered.
Oh, what he would give to just… lie down and enjoy Minho’s hands. All over him.
Jisung’s breath caught. His lungs forgot their job.
“You two look like a couple!” Jisung heard it from miles away, like underwater. Only when Minho took his hand off his leg did he realize the old woman was looking straight at them.
He blinked fast, his brain rebooting, until he realized that she was talking to him and Minho — not Changbin and Hyunjin like his foggy mind made him think first.
Minho froze for a second.
Then he rubbed the back of his neck shyly. His ears flushed bright red.
Seungmin was trying his best — or worst — to hide his giggles. He failed. Completely.
“Ehm, no, we are not,” Minho answered the cute grandma. His voice came out a little higher than usual.
“Ah, come on, son, these are new times, you do not have to hide it!” she said cutely, hitting Minho’s arm playfully with her small hand.
When Seungmin laughed out loud and Changbin said, “Yeee, Minho, you don’t have to hide it,” with the biggest grin, Minho just smiled at the grandma.
Ears red. Eyes a little soft.
Jisung’s heart clenched painfully because Minho looked hopeful in that moment.
And he couldn’t deny that under all the nervous energy, he too was feeling hopeful.
When the grandma hummed happily and walked away to get them more drinks, the rest laughed out loud. Felix teased them while Hyunjin smirked. Jeongin said something about “finally” under his breath.
Jisung nudged Minho’s knee gently.
Minho nudged back without looking at him.
It was enough.
--
By the time they left the tent, the sun had turned everything gold. The snow glittered as if someone had spilled small, shiny diamonds all over the ground. Their breaths formed tiny clouds as they walked, the air getting colder again.
Jisung and Minho walked side by side again. They were close enough that their arms brushed every few steps. Close enough that Minho’s shoulder bumped his softly whenever he slipped on ice. Close enough that Jisung felt every shift of Minho’s breath. They were quiet. The feeling of Minho’s hands on his thighs still hadn’t left. The joke of him riding Minho was still ringing in Jisung’s ears. And he had to fight every cell of his brain not to indulge in those fantasies. Not yet… the shower couldn’t come any closer.
“Thanks for earlier,” Minho said after a while, voice quiet, kidnapping Jisung away from his overpowering thoughts.
“For what?”
“For… staying with me.”
Jisung shrugged. “I wasn’t gonna leave you to die from fear.”
Minho snorted. “It’s not that bad.”
“Really? Pretty sure I saw you crying earlier,” Jisung teased.
Minho pushed his shoulder lightly.
But he was smiling.
--
They stumbled through the door in one big frozen pile of limbs. Snow everywhere. Shoes soaked. Jeans stiff.
“TAKE YOUR SHOES OFF BEFORE—” Chan started.
Too late.
Felix had already slipped on the wooden floor.
Jeongin started laughing and Seungmin called him an idiot. Looked like those two were friends again.
Changbin and Hyunjin both fell onto the couch.
It was chaos. Pure chaos.
They thawed in the living room while Chan said something about wet socks and pneumonia. Felix stuck his cold hands under Jisung’s sweater which resulted in violent screaming.
Minho walked past them, smacked Felix on the back of the head gently, and handed Jisung a blanket he took away from Hyunjin, who was lying on the couch, without saying a word.
Jisung tried not to melt.
Felix dragged him to the kitchen to talk about nonsense until their fingers warmed up around the mug of hot tea Felix made.
They talked about their day. Or better, Felix talked while Jisung was trying not to die from anticipation of the hot shower that was awaiting him and the activities he was planning on doing there. He can’t remember the last time he felt that horny. He was about to combust.
Minho watched from the kitchen counter, sipping water, eyes soft whenever they landed on Jisung. Then he disappeared upstairs.
Jisung didn’t notice immediately. Felix was telling him about a dream he had involving three angry ducks and a stolen muffin.
When he finally did notice, he counted fifteen minutes and then he stood up. “I’ll go shower,” he said too casually. Minho was probably done with his shower. And now, finally, he could have some alone time. With his hand, and the thoughts of Minho being pressed to him, whispering things in his ears, brushing his neck with his lips, about his hands on his thighs… he needed to go.
Felix looked up, suspicious. “Uh-huh.”
But didn’t comment.
Thank God.
Jisung opened the bedroom door—
And froze.
The reason for his half boner was on his bed. Half lying down. Only wearing grey sweatpants. Nothing else.
His hair was wet. Water droplets rolled from his jaw down his neck, disappearing beneath the waistband.
His skin still flushed from the hot shower.
Chest rising and falling slowly as he scrolled on his phone.
Jisung forgot every thought he ever had. He couldn’t breathe. That was torture. Too much torture. Was Minho doing this on purpose? If yes, then he had to be a sadist. Enjoying Jisung’s pain.
Minho looked up at him.
Slowly. Eyes dragging up from the floor to Jisung’s face like he was doing it on purpose.
Then — that smirk started to form. The dangerous one.
Oh, he knew exactly what he was doing.
“If you want to stare,” Minho said calmly, voice deep, “come closer. You’ll get a better view.”
Jisung’s soul left his body.
His ears burned. His cheeks burned. His existence burned. Oh, how he needed that shower right now.
He tried to say something coherent but failed miserably.
Minho put his phone down slowly. His eyes fixed on Jisung. Like a predator acknowledging prey.
When Jisung did not move a bit, Minho stood up. Walked toward him.
Slow, controlled steps. Like a cat.
Jisung’s back touched the door without realizing he’d stepped backwards. Minho was now a few inches in front of him. He was cornered. Behind him the door, in front of him Minho’s – God damn – broad shoulders.
Minho leaned in close.
Too close. So close that Jisung could count the droplets on his collarbone.
Close enough to smell the clean scent of soap on his skin.
“See?” Minho whispered, his lips brushing the air right next to Jisung’s cheek.
“You’re nervous again.”
Notes:
I like how I can make cliffhangers now, even though the chapter is finished. Spoiler alert, yes, whatever you're thinking rn will happen hihi.
Chapter 11: "Talk, Jisungie"
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Begging on my knees” – GOT7
“You push me when I come to you
You pull me when I'm tired
You're torturing me with hope and playing games
Got me beggin' on my knees
Be-be-beggin' on my knees
No matter how much I flounder
No matter how much I struggle"
----------------
Jisung swallows. Hard. He can’t answer. He can’t even breathe.
Minho’s eyes flick down to his lips, then back up. Slow. Lingering for a few milliseconds on Jisung’s pink lips. A hungry, dark look in his eyes.
“Why?” he asks softly.
Jisung’s breath stutters out of him. He opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Minho’s breath mixes with his own, making him dizzy. Head foggy. He tries again. “I… I don’t know,” he lies.
Minho’s smile grows in a dangerous way. With one hand, he cups Jisung’s left cheek. Fingers feather-light, touching his fair skin.
“Liar,” he whispers against his cheek, coming closer to it.
Jisung holds his breath completely. Minho’s lips brush against his cheek.
And then, he kisses it. Barely.
Before Jisung can react, Minho’s hands grip his waist.
And then — with one smooth pull — he lifts him.
Jisung lets out a startled sound as Minho tosses him onto the bed.
He lands on his back, breath knocked out of him for a second.
Then Minho climbs over him, knees on either side of his hips, palms planted beside Jisung’s shoulders. Their chests touch. Warm. Solid.
A fire spreads through every nerve and cell of Jisung. His brain shuts down. He can’t comprehend anything that is happening.
Minho leans down. His lips brush Jisung’s jaw this time.
Barely.
A ghost of a touch that makes Jisung tremble. A whimper nearly escapes his lips. He bites down on them fast.
“I can feel you shaking,” Minho murmurs into his ear.
Jisung’s entire body goes hot. He is shaking, but he doesn’t realize it until Minho says it. Shaking from need.
Minho shifts his knee — sliding slowly up between Jisung’s legs.
Jisung’s breath breaks. A small, helpless sound escapes him.
Minho doesn’t take his eyes off him for a second. And he freezes. Not in hesitation. But in satisfaction.
“Do you need help with that?” he whispers against Jisung’s jaw.
Another whimper leaves Jisung’s lips when Minho slides his knee painfully slow against his now completely hard length. He can’t hold it back anymore. His face burns so hot he thinks he might combust. He can’t speak. Can’t move.
He can only stare up at Minho. Wide-eyed. Helpless. Caught. Shaking. Needing. It’s all too much. And not enough. Not enough at all.
Minho watches him. Looks at him like he is trying to memorize every reaction.
He enjoys every second of watching Jisung fall apart slowly.
But then suddenly—
Suddenly, Minho pulls back completely.
His weight lifts off, and his warmth disappears.
The cold hits Jisung instantly.
He blinks, confused, breathless. A few seconds later, he musters the ability to talk again.
“W-What?” he whispers, sitting up slightly. He feels like he just dreamt everything. Like the scene that just happened was a fraction of his horny, cock-blocked fantasies.
His widened eyes search for Minho.
Minho sits back beside him, leaning on his palms casually like nothing had happened. He only lifts an eyebrow at Jisung’s question.
“If you want something,” he says calmly, without looking at him, “you need to communicate it clearly, Jisung-ah.”
Jisung’s heartbeat feels like it is punching his ribs. His mind is a mess — a storm of want and panic and humiliation and need. A lot of need. His cock is already leaking with need. Need for release. Need for this. Need for Minho.
He lies there beside Minho, both on their backs now, staring at the ceiling, trying to get oxygen into his lungs. Silence stretches. He doesn’t know what to do. What to say. What does he want? What was that? Is this okay? They’re friends? Oh, who is he kidding — he never has friendship feelings toward Minho. It was fake hate in the beginning. Fake hate, because he was projecting an ex-relationship onto Minho for the sole fact that he was afraid of his crush on the dancer. Yes, he admits it. He has a crush on this guy. A big fat crush. A big fat crush on the hot dude lying beside him on the bed. The hot dude who is lying half-naked beside him. Who nearly makes him cum by just… breathing and touching him softly.
Is it embarrassing that he is only now really admitting it to himself? Maybe. Did he realize it way before but decide to ignore it in fear of rejection? Definitely. But what Minho is doing right now… what he has been doing all day long… all week long… actually, all month long… does not look like rejection at all. Definitely not. And if Minho is just playing with him, then Jisung will kill him. It’s as simple as that. Even if Minho is only playing with his feelings, in his state right now, Jisung is more than willing to risk getting heartbroken if he can get what appears to be the best dick of his life tonight.
The silence is only cut by the videos Minho is watching, bored, on his phone.
Then—
“I want it.”
The words come out tiny. Bare. They even crack at the edges. They don’t sound at all as sure as Jisung feels. But Minho hears them.
Minho turns his head instantly. His eyes sharp and dark and focused only on him.
“What do you want, Jisung-ah?” His voice is low enough to tremble through Jisung’s stomach.
Jisung doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t think further.
He just whispers it. “I want you… hyung.”
Something changes in Minho’s face. Like a switch flips. Like restraint evaporates.
Like every quiet, simmering thing finally snaps free.
The phone is forgotten. The space between their bodies disappears.
Minho is on top of him again — faster this time.
Knees bracketing his hips, hands on either side of his shoulders, eyes locked to his like he owns him. He leans down, slow enough to give Jisung time to stop him.
Their noses brush.
“Are you sure?” Minho whispers, voice a low growl. “I don’t know if I can hold back after we start.”
Jisung doesn’t answer. He can’t. His brain is foggy again. But he is sure. So sure.
His hands reach up on instinct — fingers curling around the back of Minho’s neck.
And he pulls him down.
Their lips meet.
Minho’s eyes go wide in shock, and he freezes at first at the sudden loss of control and Jisung’s certainty.
They kiss. Soft at first. Barely there.
A tremble of breath. A brush of warmth. A question waiting to be answered. They test it out.
Then Minho kisses him properly, and Jisung’s world goes still.
His stomach flips, and his chest tightens. Everything inside him pulls toward Minho — instinctive, desperate, inevitable. He wants more. Wants to taste Minho more.
When Minho’s knee goes back between his legs, a soft moan leaves Jisung’s lips. He is too high to be ashamed anymore. Minho takes his chance and sneaks his tongue inside Jisung’s mouth. Sucking on the younger’s tongue. Biting his lower lip, making him moan, then apologizing by licking it, making him moan even more.
Minho tastes like winter. Like the hot chocolate they drank. And Jisung makes it his mission to suck the taste off his tongue.
Their noses bump.
Minho’s fingers curl in the sheets beside his head.
Jisung remembers he has hands and slides them into Minho’s damp hair.
Minho makes a sound — low, quiet, deep in his throat — when Jisung tugs lightly.
That sound shoots straight to his cock. Then he moves his hands down slowly. Touching and memorizing everything on the way. The soft skin of Minho’s neck. His heated cheeks. Down to his broad shoulders. Jisung touches them inch by inch, moaning when they don’t seem to end. Down to Minho’s chest. Damn. He enjoys touching his chest more than Minho enjoys being touched. On the way, he finds his nipples and flicks them, trying to get more of Minho’s beautiful noises out of him. His mission succeeds. Minho moans softly, making Jisung shiver as he drinks the sound up. Oh, he is addicted.
The kiss deepens. Hungry. Messy. Needy.
Minho’s mouth moves like he has been waiting for this, and Jisung matches him.
When Minho finally pulls back, breath shaky, he presses his forehead against Jisung’s.
“Jisung…” he whispers. Jisung swallows his name. Eyes lost in Minho’s. The dark, deep black sea he loves to drown in.
And then—
A knock on the door.
“HYUNGS? MOVIE NIGHT!” Felix yells.
They freeze.
Minho still on top of him. Jisung still breathless, dazed, lips swollen, eyes wide.
Felix knocks again. “HELLO?? Minho-hyuuuung??”
Minho smirks. He leans down just enough for his lips to brush Jisung’s jaw.
“This isn’t over.”
Minho rolls off him smoothly, grabs a shirt, and stands up like nothing happened.
“Stop screaming,” he says as he exits the room, oversized shirt on.
“Where is Jisung-ah?” Felix asks when the door opens.
“He’s in the bathroom. He’ll come shortly after,” Jisung hears Minho lie, followed by footsteps going downstairs.
Jisung… cannot move. His soul has left his body.
He has to go downstairs pretending they weren’t seconds away from eating each other. Pretending the mess in his pants does not exist.
After a few minutes of trying to catch his breath, he looks down at himself. His dick is throbbing in his pants, and it hurts.
Jisung sighs. He cannot go down like that. He needs release. And he needs it now.
With shaky legs, he enters the bathroom. Minho’s smell lingers everywhere. He wants to close the door, but suddenly a hand stops him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Minho asks, voice deep.
“I—wanted to shower,” Jisung says, face flushing again. Didn’t Minho go downstairs? Why is he upstairs again?
“Oh no, no, sweet Jisung-ah. You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. So you will not help yourself today. You will have to wait, my baby.”
The sweet nickname mixed with Minho’s dark undertone sends shivers through Jisung’s body.
Minho takes his hand without waiting for a reply and leads him downstairs again.
--
Minho takes his hand without waiting for a reply and pulls him downstairs with him.
The living room is dim now, only the warm light from a floor lamp and the glow of the TV lighting the space. Felix has already set up blankets and pillows everywhere, a nest of fabric spread over the floor. The others are sitting and munching on popcorn and other snacks.
“Movie night!” he announces as he spots Jisung. “I picked something good. No complaints.”
Jeongin groans. “That means it’s a horror movie.”
“It’s not horror, it’s thriller,” Felix argues.
“That is the same thing,” Seungmin says.
Chan just sighs and grabs the remote like a tired dad, then plops next to Hyunjin and Changbin on the couch.
Jisung lets himself be dragged into the blanket pile between Felix and Minho.
Minho sits close enough that their shoulders touch. Their thighs brush.
It feels intentional. And considering the leaking pain between his legs, it feels like a problem.
He tries to focus on the opening scene of the movie. Some dramatic music. A girl. City lights. He can’t follow anything that is happening.
All he can think about is Minho’s breath in his ear earlier. Minho’s body over his. Minho’s mouth on his. Tongue on his. His naked chest. His noises. His eyes that were devouring him whole. His own body still buzzing, restless, oversensitive under his clothes. No matter how he shifts, he doesn’t feel comfortable. And whenever he tries to change his position, Felix throws him weird looks.
Minho shifts beside him, and their knees press closer together.
Jisung’s breath hitches.
He hopes nobody hears that.
“You okay?” Felix whispers on his other side, eyes still on the screen.
“Yeah,” Jisung whispers back, maybe too quickly. “Just tired.”
Tired is the opposite of what he feels. Every nerve is awake. His skin feels too tight. Too hot. He feels every touch ten times more than a normal person.
On screen, someone is yelling. A car is exploding. He has no idea why.
Seungmin throws popcorn at Hyunjin for talking. Changbin laughs so loud the couch shakes. And Chan complains about the plot twist even though nobody understands the plot yet.
It is normal. Their normal chaos.
But Jisung feels like he is slightly out of his body, watching himself sit there while his mind stays upstairs on that bed.
He feels high. High on the need.
Minho’s hand rests on the blanket between them, pinky just barely brushing against Jisung’s.
The touch is so small it could be accidental.
He knows it isn’t.
Jisung swallows and stares at the TV without seeing it. His whole focus narrows down to that one point of contact. That tiny piece of skin.
Then Minho moves his hand half a centimeter closer. His fingers brush more of Jisung’s thigh. Stay there.
He has to bite his lips.
Jisung dares a quick look to the side.
Minho isn’t looking at him. His gaze is on the screen, jaw relaxed, face neutral.
But his ears are slightly pink.
Jisung turns his head back quickly.
He doesn’t hear half the movie.
He hears Minho breathing.
He hears the small sounds whenever Minho shifts.
He feels the heat from Minho’s body at his side.
He feels every finger on his leg.
His own body won’t calm down. His chest feels tight, his thoughts running in circles.
At some point Felix leans into him, placing his head on Jisung’s shoulder with a content sigh. Jisung automatically wraps one arm around him.
Under the blanket, Minho’s fingers move from his leg, searching for his hand, and his fingers curl around Jisung’s.
Just that.
Nothing more.
It is still enough to make Jisung’s heart hammer so loudly he is scared someone will comment on it.
“Should we watch a second movie?” Chan asks when the credits finally roll after what feels like forever.
“No,” Seungmin, Jeongin, and Hyunjin say at the same time.
“I’m dead,” Felix adds.
Changbin stretches with a groan. “My back is dead.”
“You’re just old,” Jeongin tells him, and Seungmin giggles. Ah, so a shared enemy is what they need to be lovey-dovey again.
They start arguing about that comment, then about who will clean up the popcorn.
The group slowly dissolves, some going to the kitchen, some scrolling on their phones.
Jisung stays sitting for a moment, waiting for his heartbeat to calm down.
It doesn’t.
Then Minho stands up and looks at him. Just one look. Steady. Asking without words.
Jisung stands up too.
“I’m going to bed,” he says, to nobody in particular.
“Same,” Minho adds, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“Good night,” Chan says distractedly from the kitchen.
Felix squints at Jisung with a suspicious little look but lets it go. “Night.”
They go upstairs one after the other, steps soft on the wooden stairs.
The house feels quieter now.
Jisung’s heart is about to combust from anticipation.
He knows what is coming.
And… it can’t come any faster if you ask him.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Heaven” – Taemin
"I'll take you to heaven
You'll feel it, heaven
Baby oh, baby oh
You can show me how you feel
Heaven
I bet you like that
I bet you like that
I bet you like
Irresistible
In a hell of a world
I am transparent, clearly
I'll cover for you, dear
Give me a little hand to save you"
----------------
Inside the room, Minho closes the door behind them. Painfully slow.
The click of it makes something in Jisung’s chest jump.
For a moment neither of them speaks. The room is only lit by the small bedside lamp, soft and warm. Minho’s bed is still messy from earlier. The air smells like Minho’s shampoo and fabric softener.
Jisung stands near his bed, fingers twisting in the hem of his hoodie. He can feel Minho’s eyes on him.
“So,” Jisung starts, his voice smaller than he wants it to be. “About… earlier.”
Minho steps closer. Not too fast. Not cornering him this time. Just closing the distance until they are standing in front of each other, a small space between them.
“You regretting it?” Minho asks. His voice is calm, but there is something careful in his eyes now. Something that makes Jisung’s chest ache.
“No,” Jisung answers immediately. Then he realizes how fast that came out. “I mean. No. I don’t.”
Minho’s shoulders relax a little at that. “Good,” he says quietly. “Because I don’t either.”
Silence stretches for a beat. A softer silence now. Less sharp.
It’s now or never, Jisung thinks.
He licks his lips. “I just… I don’t want you to think I only want us to play around. Or that this is a joke to me. Or that I’ll freak out and pretend nothing happened tomorrow.” He tries to add humor at the end.
Minho studies him for a moment, eyes on his face like he is reading a text he doesn’t want to misunderstand.
“I don’t think you’re playing,” he says. “But I need to know where your head is, Jisung-ah. I want to know if you are ready. If this isn’t too much for you.”
Jisung’s throat feels tight. “My head is… very messed up. But I know one thing,” he answers honestly.
“What?”
“I want you,” he says, forcing himself not to look away. “Not just for this. Not just because I’m… so far gone it’s embarrassing.” He mumbles. He feels his heart in his ears. In his stomach. Everywhere.
Jisung knows he has to be honest. He owes it to Minho. Owes it to himself.
His therapist told him the more he is honest with himself, the happier he is. And Jisung deserves to be happy. He admits he didn’t believe that for some time.
But now, with his friends — his old and new friends — and with Minho, with how Minho has treated him the last weeks, with how he looks at him, how he flirts with him… he knows.
He deserves to be happy. And Jisung wants to be happy. Wants to make Minho happy.
They deserve to be happy together.
He inhales strongly. Inhaling for four seconds. Eight seconds keeping the breath in. Exhaling for eight—
“I… like you. I’ve liked you for a long time,” he whispers, looking Minho in the eyes. “I’ve just been stupid about it,” he adds quietly.
Minho’s expression changes slowly. The change starts in his eyes, softer, full of care, looking at Jisung like he could break. And then the change pulls at his mouth.
“I know,” he says.
Jisung blinks. “You know?”
Minho huffs a small laugh. “You are not subtle, Jisung. I was just waiting for you to know it yourself.”
He takes another step closer. Now their chests almost touch. He lifts a hand, resting it lightly against Jisung’s jaw.
“I like you too,” Minho says simply, smiling.
Jisung’s heart skips a beat. He smiles at Minho. He takes a tiny step forward. Their noses brush softly. They smile. Minho’s hair tickles Jisung’s forehead. And he couldn’t be happier.
“I don’t want this to be something we pretend never happened tomorrow. I don’t want to hurt you. And I don’t want you to feel like I’m using you.”
“You’re not,” Jisung says fast. “If anything, I’m scared I’ll mess it up. Like I always do.”
Minho shakes his head. “You’re not allowed to say ‘always’ about yourself anymore. Not with me.”
His thumb brushes Jisung’s cheekbone gently.
“Listen. If we do this… if we go further… I need to know you feel safe with me. That you can tell me to stop at any second. That you will tell me. And I need to know you’re not doing it because you’re scared I’ll pull away otherwise. We only do this if you really want it. And if you’re not ready tonight, we do it another time. I am not going anywhere, Jisung-ah.”
Jisung swallows again, but this time it is less from panic and more from the weight of what Minho is giving him. Tears find their way to his eyes.
Minho is the first one to ever ask him for consent. And he does it in a way that makes Jisung’s heart flutter.
And he realizes he trusts Minho. He trusts that Minho won’t use him just because he is “his” now, not like his ex.
And he realizes he wants to be Minho’s. He wants to belong to Minho.
“I trust you,” he says. The words surprise him with how true they feel coming out. “I trust you not to push me into something I don’t want. And I trust myself to tell you if something feels wrong.”
Minho searches his eyes like he is double-checking every syllable.
“Okay,” he says. “Then I’ll ask clearly.”
His hand slides to the back of Jisung’s neck, warm and steady.
“Do you want to keep going tonight? Or do you want to stop here and just… sleep next to me?”
The offer makes Jisung’s chest ache. The fact that both options are real.
The fact that he just knows Minho won’t be mad if he chooses to sleep.
His heart feels warm. The tears are about to spill from happiness.
“I want…” Jisung starts, then stops.
His brain tries to run through every possible consequence — waking up tomorrow, going back to Seoul, this turning messy.
But he doesn’t see it.
For the first time in a long time, his overthinking mind does not see a bad outcome.
Whenever he thinks about Minho, he only sees himself smiling.
He just needs a talk with Minho. Needs an honest, long talk.
Even though he is sure of tonight, he needs to ask Minho how he feels a thousand times. Needs reassurance. And he knows Minho won’t be annoyed.
“Don’t overthink,” Minho murmurs.
“For right now,” Jisung says, breathing out slowly, “I want to keep going. With you. And I want you to promise me we’ll talk tomorrow too. I need to have a heartfelt talk.”
Minho’s mouth twitches into a small, soft smile.
“I promise,” he says. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Even if you try to run away and hide in the bathroom.” He adds the humor softly.
“I would do that,” Jisung admits, laughing quietly. The tears start running.
“I know,” Minho says. “That’s why I said it.”
They both laugh quietly.
Minho kisses the tears on his cheeks away. Softly.
Making Jisung’s heart flutter even more.
The tension shifts into something warmer. Steady.
They just smile at each other for a while.
“Last time I’ll ask,” Minho says, eyes dark and serious now. “Are you sure, Jisung-ah?”
“Yes,” Jisung answers. No hesitation this time. “I’m sure.”
“Okay,” Minho whispers against his lips.
“You are so beautiful Jisung-ah,” he whisperes as if in trance. His hands moved, like the night before, stayed next to Jisung’s tattoo. But today, Minho touched it. Touched every letter of his Tattoo. From under his armpit, Jisung giggled from the tickels he felt and made himself fall on the bed again, and slowly Minho moved his hands to where the tattoo under his waistband kept going. “Can I?” he asked Jisung, both hands on the waistband of his pants now.
Jisung nodded weakly, holding his hips up to help Minho. And with one swift motion, his pants were gone, exposing his black boxers. The cold air on his naked legs made his body shiver.
Minho finished touching the last letter of his tattoo, and then, he bended over, kissing Jisung’s lips. But before Jisung can kiss back, Minho moved his lips to Jisung’s cheeks, his jaw, small kisses covering all of his face. Then slowly, torturessly slow, he moved to Jisungs neck. Leaving wet kisses on the way. Then Mimho suddenly bites hard, then he licks his bite mark and sucks on it. Marking Jisung. A small moan leaving the youngers lips. Jisung closed his eyes and bit his lips in shame. Trying to keep more obsene noises from leaving. Minho moves his hand from Jisung’s side up slowly to the back of his neck, dragging his lips up until they press into the patch of skin under his ear. “Let me hear you, baby.” He purrs.
When Jisung doesn’t let go of his own lip, Minho changes stragedy. He moves his lips from Jisungs ear, to his lips. A curious index finger pulls up from the side of Jisung’s chin, hooking in past his mouth to part his lips. It’s barely a kiss when Minho presses his hot, open mouth against Jisung’s, letting the tip of his tongue leisurely dance against the edges there. Jisung yelps into the heat when Minho suddenly bites down on his bottom lip, pulling away with dark eyes and an even darker smirk. “I said I want to hear you Jisungie.” He whispers, voice dark and deep. When Jisung closes his eyes again Minho sighs.
Then he grinds down once, hard, rolling his hips slowly so every single nerve can feel the hard press of Minho’s bulge even through their layers and layers of clothing.
It’s too much and not enough, the surprise flaring up Jisung’s body in squeezed eyes a wrecked moan. When he pathetically moves his hips, trying to chase the feeling by recreating the motion again, Minho pulls away.
Jisung opens his eyes, confused. Brain lagging. Foggy.
Minho is looking at him, smirking, elbows next to Jisung's head, his voice comes out husky and raw. “Hear that?” he asks.
Jisung blinks. He doesn’t understand what Minho is saying. Brain lagging. But Minho doesn’t wait; he presses back down, grinding again, rolling his hips directly over Jisung’s.
The whines and whimpers leave Jisung’s lips before he can comprehend them. And this makes Minho go rougher, hips more frantic. Smirk still on his lips.
“This sound,” he pants out, eyes not leaving Jisung’s now open eyes, unblinking. “So-“ another grind, hard, making Jisung whimper, “-fucking-“another moan leaving Jisung’s lips. “-beautiful.”
Jisung closes his eyes. “Hyung,” he moans.
“What Jisungie?” Minho pants, still grinding hard on the younger one. Making him unable to talk. “What do you want?”
Jisung’s whole body is heated. His cock is leaking pre-cum in an embarrassing amount. This is all too much. And not enough. Not enough at all. He needs more. More friction. More kisses. More moremoremoremoremore. “More,” he moans between the grinds. Opens his eyes slowly. Minho is smirking again. “More what baby?” He asks. ¨
Jisung can't think. Can't. All he knows is that he needs more. “Please,” he whimpers when Minho stops moving. “Please,” he begs with a small voice, “More Hyung.”
“So Pretty begging Jisungie.” Minho sighs against his lips, before kissing him again. Hard and messy this time. Teeth clinging, lips crashing, biting on Jisung’s lips. Licking everywhere.
It feels torturous; his cock is aching raw and rubbed in his briefs, uncomfortably slicking the fabric against his head with bead after bead of pre-cum. Jisung hazily wonders how much more he can take.
When Minho takes his attention away from his lips to cover his neck again with kisses, licks, and bites, Jisung’s vision blurs. He can’t hear his own moans anymore. Minho found his sensitive nipples. He takes the right one in his mouth, sucking on it. Jisung screams when he feels the bite. “So sensitive,” Minho purrs playing with his left nipple with his hand, while sucking harder on the right one. Jisung’s dick is hurting.
“Please, fuck, hyung, I just want’, just wan’..” he slurs.
He looks beyond the blurred figure of his spent eyes and heavy lashes at Minho as he readjusts himself, pushing back up to seat himself properly on Jisung’s crotch. He ‘moves around’ a bit to get himself comfortable. Jisung whimpers brokenly in the back of his throat.
The look Minho gives him is innocent, despite the light bend he still has to make to ensure his grip on Jisung’s wrists never wanes. “Sorry, didn’t hear you. You want what, exactly?”
A long, painful sigh escapes Jisung’s lips whenever Minho moves a little on his dick.
He closes his eyes. The smirk Minho is giving him is way too sexy for his horny head. “Hyung,” he starts, Minho waiting for his answer. “I-I want you to fuck me. Please, Hyung.” He whimpers. “It hurts.”
“Really?” Minho asks, voice ironically sweet. “What do you want Hyung to do for you, Jisugie?”
Jisung opens his eyes, glaring at Minho, who obviously is enjoying this way too much. “You want to sit on Hyung's dick? Like you suggested in the morning?” Minho purrs. Jisung feels the heat creeping up his neck. “Or do you want Hyung to take you like this?” Minho keeps asking, stalling.
Jisung doesn’t know what to say. Can’t think. What does Minho want to hear? He needs him. Now. Or else he will combust. He needs to feed him whatever answer Minho wants to hear, to get what he wants.
“I want Hyung inside of me.” He whimpers. “I don’t care how. I want you now, Minho Hyung.”
Minho nods happily. Pleased with the answer. He bends down and kisses Jisung's lips softly.
Then he looks at him, dark lips brushing against each other. “Will you be good for Huyng Jisungie?” he purrs.
A moan leaves Jisung at the sound of his words. And with a foggy mind, he nods. “Speak Jisungie,” Minho orders him, biting his neck as punishment. Jisung yelps.
“Y-yes. I’ll be good for Hyung.” He whimpers. Minho kisses Jisung happily. Satisfied with the answer he got. And then, without a warning, Minho takes Jisung by the waist and turns him around. His leaking dick touches the sheets first, making Jisung yelp in surprise.
Minho, now with a full view of Jisung’s back and ass, slaps Jisung’s ass once, making the younger one scream in surprise.
“Hips up,” he orders. Jisung can hear the smirk in his voice. And without thinking, he follows the order, lifting his hips up. Minho starts kissing his back from his nape down to where his waistband is, and then, painfully slow, he takes Jung's boxers off. Leaving wet kisses and bites whenever the skin reveals itself.
“So beautiful.” Minho murmurs when Jisung lies there naked. And then nothing. Jisung doesn’t feel anything at all for some seconds. He’s only given a second of worry and confusion before they clap over his asscheeks, letting out a broken moan when they squeeze tight, forced into Minho’s erection.
“Hyung,” Jisung moans, nose digging harder into the sheets. “Oh my god, oh my god — hyung, Minho hyung,” he whimpers.
“Fuck, I could listen to that all day,” Minho mutters. And then Minho pulls Jisung by the hips, forcing him to be on his elbows. His entire ass is exposed to the older.
If Jisung was embarrassed before, he’s absolutely mortified now. That’s what he’d tell anyone, anyway. MInho, on the other hand, seems to be enjoying every second of this. Never leaving Jisung out of his sight. “Fuck, look at you,” Minho utters, digging his nails around his handful. “My fingers sink right in.”
Oh my god. Jisung is not making it out of this day alive. “Fuck,” Jisung whines.
“Lift your hips,” Minho orders, “Gonna be good for me, right?”
Jisung follows. His mind was too far gone to resist or form one coherent thought. A part of him wonders what power trip Minho must be feeling, having the boy pining for him laid bare and bent over, presented.
Minho sighs out, like he’s the one getting touched, and the h-hah.. that escapes Jisung is a few decibels higher than he thought he could produce.
“You’re so perfect like this,” Minho coos, digging his nails all along the swell of everything that could fit in his hands. “And you have the cutest fucking ass. “
“I want— fuck, Minho,” Jisung pants. “Please—”
He interrupts himself on a gasp when he feels Minho spread his cheeks apart. Oh, he can’t anymore. Can’t.
“What do you want Jisungie?” Minho asks sweetly.
“I need you Hyung. Ahh hmmpf” Jisung can’t finish his sentence before feeling a kiss on his entrance. His knees shake when his foggy brain understood where this was going.
The room is silent except for Jisung's ragged breathing and the wet, obscene sound of Minho's mouth against him. The younger boy trembles, his elbows threatening to give out.
"Shh, I've got you," Minho murmurs against his skin, the vibration sending a violent shiver up Jisung's spine. "You said you needed me."
Minho's tongue presses flat and firm, licking a slow, broad stripe from his perineum up to the tight furl of his hole. He does it again, and again, each pass more deliberate, more invasive than the last.
"You taste fucking divine," Minho groans, his voice muffled against Jisung's flesh. "All sweet and desperate for me."
He doesn't just kiss; he feasts. His tongue becomes a relentless, pointed instrument, circling the clenched ring of muscle before spearing inward with shallow, teasing thrusts. One of his hands snakes around Jisung's hip, fingers finding his neglected, leaking cock and giving it a rough, twisting stroke that makes Jisung cry out.
"Louder," Minho commands, pulling his mouth away just long enough to growl the word before diving back in, his nose buried against him. His tongue pushes deeper, fucking into him with wet, sloppy sounds. Jisung's whole body is taut, a bowstring about to snap, his moans dissolving into a continuous, high-pitched whine. The dual sensation—the filthy, intimate penetration of Minho's tongue and the rough friction on his cock—is too much, building a pressure in his gut that feels dangerously close to breaking.
“Hyung,” He presses between moans, “I am-“ before he can finish his sentence, Minho stops. Leaving him painfully empty. And cold. Jisung whimpers in confusion.
“Well I can’t let you come yet Sungie.” Minho says sweetly, slaping his ass, making him yelp and moan. The sharp sting of the slap blooms across his skin, a bright, shocking counterpoint to the sudden emptiness. Minho's hand soothes the spot immediately, rubbing in slow, possessive circles.
"Not yet, baby," Minho purrs, his voice thick with arousal and control. "You don't get to come from my mouth alone. Not when I haven't been inside you yet."
Minho shifts, the bed dipping as he moves. The distinct, terrifyingly intimate sound of a cap clicking open cuts through the heavy air. A cold, slick droplet lands directly on Jisung's quivering entrance, making him jolt.
"Look at you," Minho whispers, using his thumb to spread the cool lube, circling the tight muscle, pressing just enough to make Jisung gasp and push back instinctively. "Clenching for me already. So fucking eager."
He leans over Jisung's back, his chest pressing against the younger's spine, his lips against his ear. His voice drops to a gravelly, dark whisper.
"You were about to say you were close, weren't you? Was my tongue enough to make my good boy fall apart? That's cute. But I want to feel you come around my cock, Jisungie. I want to fuck you through it until you're sobbing. Can you give me that?"
Jisung whimpers. And to add to his shame, he just realized that Minho was still painfully fully clothed. He was about to come from him eating his ass out while fully clothed. The realization hits Jisung like a physical blow, a fresh wave of humiliation heating his skin. Minho feels the full-body shudder and lets out a low, dark chuckle right against his ear.
"That's right," Minho breathes, his clothed erection grinding deliberately against Jisung's bare ass. The rough texture of denim is a cruel tease. "You were about to come just from my mouth while I'm dressed. You're that easy for me, aren't you?"
Minho's slicked fingers return, not one, but two this time, pressing firmly against his entrance. He doesn't push in yet, just applies that maddening, promising pressure.
"Look at the state of you. Completely naked, bent over, dripping for me. And I haven't even taken my jeans off." He punctuates the sentence by biting down on the juncture of Jisung's neck and shoulder, a sharp, claiming pain. "You love it, though. You love feeling so fucking exposed and used."
Finally, he breaches him, sinking both fingers into the knuckle in one smooth, brutal thrust. Jisung's back arches, a choked scream tearing from his throat. Minho crooks his fingers, searching, and when he finds that sweet spot, he rubs it relentlessly.
"Tell me you love it, Jisung. Tell me how much you need your hyung's cock while he's still dressed. Beg for it."
Jisung whimpers. His entrance getting used to the sudden intruders. Not able to talk yet. Minho doesn’t seem to like the word lack. With one motion he takes his fingers out.The sudden, brutal emptiness is worse than the initial penetration. Jisung's body clenches around nothing, a pathetic, involuntary sob wrenching from his chest.
"Words, Jisungie," Minho says, his voice dangerously calm. The sound of his belt buckle clinking is stark and menacing in the quiet room. "I don't like the silence."
He doesn't give Jisung time to recover. The cold, hard press of Minho's belt buckle replaces his fingers, a metallic circle grinding against his oversensitive, slick hole. It's a degrading, shocking sensation.
"You have a mouth. Use it." Minho grinds the buckle in a slow circle, the pressure maddening. "Or I'll find other ways to fill the quiet. And you won't like them nearly as much as my cock." He leans his full weight forward, the denim of his jeans rough against Jisung's tender skin, his voice a venomous whisper.
"Beg. Now."
Jisung can’t take it anymore. “Pleaseplaseplaseplaseplase Hyung.”
The desperate, slurred plea seems to ignite something in Minho. A low, predatory growl rumbles in his chest.
"Good boy."
In one fluid, powerful motion, the metallic pressure is gone. His fingers back where they were. Entering Jisung slow. Making hin gasp for ear, For need. Minho starts scissoring Jisungs hole open. Slowly. Then Minho shifts.
The sound of a zipper is followed by the rustle of denim being shoved down just enough.
"But 'please' isn't specific enough, baby. Tell me exactly what you want."
When he realized that Minho is underessing himself, Jisung couldn’t help but turn around. And Minho let him. Let him enjoy the show. The view was more than he could’ve ever asked for. He dragged his view from Minhos strong big thights to his boxers. And the outline of what he was seeing was making him collect water inside his mouth nearly drooling. The thick, heavy line of his erection strains against the dark fabric of his boxers, a prominent, leaking outline that makes Jisung's mouth go dry. Minho watches him look, a smug, dark satisfaction on his face.
"See something you like, Sungie?" Minho's voice is a husky taunt. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and pulls them down, freeing himself. His cock springs free, fully hard, flushed and glistening at the tip. He gives himself a slow, lazy stroke, his eyes locked on Jisung's awestruck face.
"All this," Minho says, his grip tightening on his length, "is for you. But you have to ask for it properly. You have to tell your hyung what you want to do with it."
He stands up from the bed. Walking toward where Jisung is, now sitting. He leans forward, bracing one hand on Jisung's head, bringing his cock to brush against Jisung's parted, panting lips. The salty, musky scent is overwhelming. Jisung is nearly drooling
"Or maybe you want it here first? Hmm? You looked so hungry."
The hot, blunt head of Minho's cock replaces the cold buckle, pressing insistently against Jisung's mouth. He doesn't push in. Waits for Jisung’s consent.
“Pleaseplease Hyung,” Jisung is able to bring out. “Can I please suck you? Please use me to get off.” he asks. His big doll eyes moving from Minho’s dick searching his eyes.
Minho's smirk softens into something dangerously tender, his thumb stroking Jisung's cheek. The head of his cock rests heavily on Jisung's lower lip.
"Since you asked so nicely."
He doesn't wait for more. He pushes forward, just an inch, the thick crown slipping past Jisung's lips to rest on his tongue. A guttural groan tears from Minho's throat. He fists his hand tighter in Jisung's hair, not to force, but to hold, to anchor himself.
"Fuck, your mouth... so warm," he breathes, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary jerk. "Open wider for me, baby. Take more."
Jisung does as he was ordered. He guides himself deeper, slowly, letting Jisung feel every inch, the velvety head hitting the back of his throat. Minho's other hand comes up to cradle Jisung's jaw, his thumb stroking the stretched skin.
"That's it. Just like that. Look at you... taking me so good." His voice is ragged, his composure cracking with each shallow thrust into the wet, willing heat. "Suck me, Jisungie. Show Hyung how much you want this."
Jisung’s tounge rolls around the length. Licking it whenever he can. His eyes still locked with Minho’s, making the older moan.
The visual is utterly debauched. Jisung on the bed, eyes wide and glistening, locked on Minho's as he worships his cock. Minho's head falls back, a string of curses falling from his lips as Jisung's tongue swirls around the sensitive underside, lapping at the bead of pre-come that wells up.
"Fuck, just like that... you’re perfect," Minho groans, his hips beginning to move in earnest, shallow, controlled thrusts that push deeper into that tight, wet heat. "You have no idea what you do to me."
He pulls almost all the way out, the slick sound obscene, before sliding back in, this time hitting the back of Jisung's throat. Jisung gags, tears springing to his eyes, but he relaxes his jaw, taking him deeper. The submission, the trust, makes Minho see stars.
"Take it all," he rasps, his control fraying. His thrusts become less rhythmic, more desperate. But then with ine motion he takes it all away. Pulls out from Jisung’s mouth.
The sudden loss of heat makes Jisung whimper, but it's cut short as Minho manhandles him backwards onto the mattress, following him down in a fluid, predatory motion. Their mouths crash together in a searing, messy kiss. Jisung can taste himself—salty, musky, intimate—on Minho's tongue.
"Need to be inside you," Minho pants against his lips, his voice wrecked. "Now."
“I need you Hyung please. I am ready.” Jisung whimpers. Tears in his eyes.
Minho lets his eyes drag on Jisungs whole body. Then he, finally, takes his own shirt off. Showing the marks Jisung has left earlier on his body.
“I don’t have condoms with me Sungie,” –“I am clean Hyung. I got tested not long ago, can show you the papers.” Jisung interrupted him. Minho giggled. “And lube?” He asks again. “My bag, don’t ask,” Jisung sighs. Fast Minho moves to Jisung’s bed where his bag was sitting and just opened it all and put it upside down, making everything inside fall. His impatients making Jisung giggle. Happy that he is not the only affected one.
Then Minho returns with the lube. Lubing one of his fingers.
“No Hyung please! I am ready! I can’t wait anymore!”
Minho freezes, the bottle of lube clutched in his hand, his chest heaving. He looks at Jisung—spread out beneath him, flushed, tear-streaked, and begging with a raw desperation that mirrors his own. A dark, possessive thrill shoots through him.
"You're sure?" Minho's voice is a gravelly rasp, his control hanging by a thread. "It's gonna hurt, baby. I'm not gonna be gentle."
“I don’t want you to be gentle Hyung.” –“You sure?” Minho asks again. The voice of reason still loud in his head. The last thing he want’s is to hurt Jisung or does something in a way he doesn’t like.
He doesn't wait for a verbal answer. Jisung's pleading eyes are answer enough. Minho lubes his own dick and Jisungs hole instead of his fingers and then he tosses the lube aside, the bottle clattering to the floor. He lines himself up, the thick, leaking head pressing against Jisung's entrance, which is still slick from his mouth and the earlier attention.
"Look at me," Minho commands, his gaze locking with Jisung's. "You look at me the whole time."
And then he pushes in. Not slowly, not with careful preparation, but with one long, relentless, burning thrust that buries him completely inside Jisung's tight, clutching heat. Jisung's back arches off the bed, a scream tearing from his throat, his eyes blowing wide with a shock of pain and overwhelming fullness. Minho holds himself there, buried to the hilt, his own body trembling with the effort of staying still, sweat beading on his brow.
"Fuck... you're so tight," he grunts, his voice shaking. "Taking me so well. All of me." He leans down, capturing Jisung's sob with a brutal, consuming kiss. "Now you're really mine."
He sets a punishing pace, the slap of skin on skin filling the room, mingling with their gasps and groans. Minho's mouth is everywhere—sucking bruises into Jisung's throat, biting his shoulder, stealing his breath with searing, open-mouthed kisses. It's overwhelming, all-consuming, and Jisung can do nothing but cling to him, his nails digging into Minho's sweat-slicked back, his legs locked around his waist, taking every inch, every thrust, completely owned.
Jisung is completely unraveling. The initial sharp burn has melted into a deep, throbbing fullness that borders on agony and ecstasy in equal, overwhelming measure. Every nerve ending is on fire, singing with the brutal, perfect friction of Minho moving inside him. His mind is a white-noise static of pure sensation—the weight of Minho's body pinning him down, the scrape of teeth on his skin, the possessive grip on his hips, the hot, ragged pants against his neck.
He feels happy. Shattered. Remade. The pleasure is a live wire, sparking directly from that spot Minho keeps hammering into, radiating out in dizzying waves that make his toes curl and his back arch. His own neglected cock aches, a tight, leaking pressure against his stomach, but it's a distant concern. The real focus, the only thing that exists, is the devastating stretch and the raw, carnal need to be filled even more.
The world narrows to the brutal, perfect rhythm of Minho's hips, to the searing stretch and the deep, grinding friction that hits a spot inside Jisung that makes his vision whiten. Every thrust is a claim, a punishment, a reward. Minho's mouth never leaves his skin, a continuous assault of bites and licks and whispered filth.
"Feel that?" Minho grunts, his voice raw against Jisung's ear as he angles his hips, driving in even deeper, hitting that sweet spot with unerring accuracy. "That's where I live now, Jisungie. Right here."
Tears stream freely down his temples, mingling with sweat. They're not just tears of overstimulation or pain, but of a profound, shocking surrender. He's giving Minho everything—his body, his control, his trust—and it feels more right than anything ever has. His whimpers and sobs are prayers, each ragged thrust an answer. He's clinging to Minho not just for physical support, but as an anchor in the storm of sensation, terrified and exhilarated by the sheer force of being taken so completely. He's feeling everything, too much, and he never wants it to stop.
Jisung can only sob, his body convulsing around the invading thickness, his own cock trapped between their sweat-slicked stomachs, leaking and neglected. The pleasure is a coiled, white-hot wire, pulled tighter with every snap of Minho's pelvis.
The sensation is beyond anything Jisung has ever known. It’s not just a spot being hit—it’s being obliterated. With every deep, grinding thrust, Minho’s cockhead rams directly into that bundle of nerves, sending violent, electric shocks of pleasure through his entire lower body. It’s so intense it borders on painful, a searing, white-hot brand of ecstasy that makes his muscles seize and his breath stutter in his chest.
It feels like Minho isn't just fucking him, but rearranging him from the inside out. The deep, internal pressure is overwhelming, a fullness so profound it feels like his organs are being pushed aside, making room for Minho, claiming space inside him that wasn't his before. There's a heavy, aching pressure low in his gut with every inward stroke, a visceral sensation of being occupied in the most primal way.
Each impact steals his breath, punches a broken, sobbing moan from his throat. His vision swims, the room blurring at the edges. It’s a raw, animal feeling in the best possible way—stretched, filled, and fucked so deeply he can feel it in his bones. The pleasure is a tidal wave, building and building with no release in sight, threatening to drown him completely in the sheer, devastating rightness of it. At this moment, he wouldn't have it any other way.
"You're gonna come," Minho snarls, his pace becoming erratic, brutal, his own release coiling tight. "You're gonna come all over yourself just from my cock fucking you. And then I'm gonna fill you up. Gonna pump you so full you feel me for days."
He seals the promise with a vicious bite to Jisung's collarbone, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, a frantic race toward the edge. The room is filled with the sounds of their bodies—skin slapping, bed creaking, ragged breaths, and the wet, obscene sounds of their joining.
Minho bends more down to capture Jisung’s lips in his own. Hot, wet messy. A last thrust against Jisung's sweet spot, making him scream in joy. The world shatters. That final, brutal thrust against his sweet spot is the detonation. A raw, guttural scream is torn from Jisung's throat, swallowed entirely by Minho's hungry mouth as he kisses him through the convulsions. His body bows off the bed, back arching violently as his cock spasms untouched, painting hot, thick stripes of come across his own stomach and chest in pulsing waves. The orgasm is seismic, wracking through him with a force that whites out his vision, leaving him trembling and sobbing into the kiss.
Feeling Jisung clamp down around him in the throes of his climax is Minho's own undoing. With a ragged, broken groan against Jisung's lips, he buries himself to the hilt one last time and lets go. His release is scalding, a deep, pumping flood that fills Jisung to overflowing. Jisung can feel every hot, pulsing jet, the intimate warmth spreading deep inside him, marking him, claiming him in the most primal way possible.
Minho collapses on top of him, their sweat-slicked bodies heaving in unison, the air thick with the scent of sex and salt. He peppers Jisung's jaw, his throat, his tear-streaked cheeks with soft, breathless kisses, his hips giving tiny, involuntary twitches as he empties himself completely.
"Fuck," Minho breathes, the word a reverent puff of air against Jisung's skin. "Look at you... ruined. Mine." He nuzzles into the crook of Jisung's neck, his weight a comforting, possessive anchor. "All mine."
After some minutes lying like this. Bodies heavy. Minho moves.
“You okay?” Minho asked quietly, voice still rough from everything. He traced his thumb under Jisung’s eye, wiping the dampness there like it was instinct.
Jisung nodded, breath shaky. “Yeah. I’m… s’good goooood.”
Minho giggles. After a while, he shifted like he was about to get up.
Jisung’s hand shot out, grabbing his wrist.
“What are you doing?” he whispered, still breathless.
Minho blinked down at him. “Getting something to clean you up.”
Jisung shook his head fast. “Don’t go.”
A small smile tugged at Minho’s lips. Soft. Understanding. A little smug.
“I’m not going far,” he murmured, brushing his fingers through Jisung’s hair. “Two seconds.”
Jisung still didn’t let go.
Minho leaned down and kissed him once — slow, warm — before gently prying Jisung’s fingers off his wrist.
He disappeared into the bathroom only long enough to run warm water over a towel. The sound of the tap barely lasted a moment, and then he was back, stepping into the soft dimness of the room again.
He sat beside Jisung on the bed and held up the towel with a little tilt of his head.
“You really think I’d leave you like that?” he said, voice low, teasing but tender.
Jisung’s chest tightened.
Minho cleaned him with slow, careful touches. When he finished, he tossed the towel aside and lay back down immediately, pulling Jisung into his chest without hesitation.
Their legs tangle, their breaths heaving at the same time. Jisung sighs in comfort. Minho kissed his forehead, barely a brush of lips. “Come here,” he whispered, as if Jisung hadn’t already melted into him. Eyes closed, ready to sleep for the next ten days.
Jisung’s hand slid across Minho’s chest, feeling the warmth there, the steady heartbeat under his palm. His brain fog finally started clearing, letting reality settle in.
That’s when the thought hit him.
He snorted. Then giggled. Then had to bury his face into Minho’s shoulder because he couldn’t stop.
Minho lifted an eyebrow. “What?”
Jisung tried to speak but dissolved into another breathless laugh. “Do you… do you think they heard us?”
Minho stared at him for one quiet beat.
Then he laughed — a low, beautiful sound vibrating right against Jisung’s chest — before hiding his face in Jisung’s neck like he was the embarrassed one.
“Oh,” Minho said. “They definitely heard us.”
Jisung groaned into his hands. Minho kissed his cheek. “Problem for tomorrow,” he whispered.
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Love me like that” – Sam Kim
"I burned myself down to the ground
Oh, can I ask of you to treat me soft and tender?
Love me hard and true, hmm
Keep my heart from building walls
So high, you can't get through
Treat me soft and tender"
"You see the world in colors
I view it black and white
Paint me a picture
Out of the lines that I live in all"
----------------
Jisung woke up first.
His body felt pleasantly heavy. Warm. His muscles ached in ways he was already expecting after last night. A slow, satisfied ache that made heat bloom in his cheeks the moment he remembered why it was there.
Minho’s arm was draped over his waist, firm and protective. His warm hand rested low, fingers curled slightly against Jisung’s stomach. His chest rose and fell against Jisung’s back, steady, soothing. It made Jisung feel anchored to the earth. A feeling he couldn’t even name. Maybe he could write a song about it.
For a moment, Jisung didn’t move. He just lay there. Staring at the ceiling.
Taking in Minho’s smell. Warm skin. Faint body soap. The woody vanilla musk of his perfume. And underneath it all, something undeniably Minho that made Jisung’s heartbeat stumble. Feeling the gentle drag of Minho’s breath against his shoulder. Feeling the soreness in his thighs and ass and the dull throb in his neck where Minho had kissed and bitten him too hard.
Trying to process the events of last night without spontaneously combusting.
He failed.
Heat crawled up his face, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling like an idiot. He still smiled anyway. Smiled like an idiot.
An idiot in love.
Yes, that’s what he was now.
He was an idiot in love.
Then Minho shifted behind him, the arm around his waist pulling him closer. His nose nudged into the space between Jisung’s shoulder blades, breathing him in like he belonged there.
And he did.
Minho belonged to Jisung now. Like Jisung belonged to Minho.
They still hadn’t had the talk yet. But Minho had promised him they would talk today. So they would. Jisung trusted him. If Minho said they would talk, then they would talk. Because Minho was not Woosook. Minho was Minho. Minho, who had asked him for consent last night. Every step. Every time. Minho, who had checked on him constantly. Minho, who had made sure every touch was wanted. Minho, who had held him like he was precious and fragile in the best way. And then fucked him like there was no tomorrow.
Minho wanted Jisung to feel well and taken care of. He had made him feel good. So good. Too good. So good that Jisung knew he would think about this night for the rest of his life. So good that he would probably get addicted to it. It would haunt him in the best way. With the ache of finally understanding intimacy.
Woosook had never made him feel good. Not once. After every time they had sex, Jisung had felt dirty. Nasty. Like he was no good. Like he was only there to be used so Woosook could get off.
When he was with Woosook, Jisung never understood why people called sex “making love.” There had been no love in the way Woosook looked at him. Nothing. Just power. Just pressure. Just that quiet dread of going through something he didn’t want, with someone who made him feel smaller when it ended.
With Minho… last night felt like the first time his body and heart were in the same place.
Minho really was fixing something he did not break.
“Stop thinking,” Minho mumbled, voice rough with sleep.
Jisung almost squeaked. Minho’s morning voice should be illegal.
“I’m not,” Jisung lied instantly, voice cracking.
Minho hummed. A low, sleepy sound. “You’re thinking loud.”
“Sorry.”
Minho didn’t loosen his hold. If anything, he pulled him even closer, chest flush against Jisung’s back, legs tucking around his like they were made to fit.
“Don’t be,” Minho whispered softly. Too softly for someone who had rearranged his insides hours ago. It was so gentle that it made Jisung want to hide under the blanket, bury his face in Minho’s chest, and stay there until… forever sounded about right.
“What are you thinking about anyway, jagiya?” Minho asked, the nickname falling out of his mouth like it was the most natural thing in the world as he stretched behind him.
Jagiya.
Jisung felt his soul leave his body.
Oh, he was finished.
He turned around slowly, almost shy, until he was facing Minho. The older’s hair was a mess, sticking up in soft angles in all the places Jisung had definitely gripped last night. His lips were still a little swollen. His eyes were only half open, lashes heavy, a faint pillow crease on his cheek. He looked unfairly beautiful. So beautiful it punched Jisung right in the lungs.
“Last night,” Jisung admitted with a tiny giggle he couldn’t hold in.
Minho opened his eyes fully at that. Slow. Lazy. Warm. Jisung swore he nearly died on the spot.
This man was beautiful no matter what.
But in the morning?
With sunlight touching his skin and dried kisses still lingering on both of them?
It was criminal.
Minho’s lips curved lazily on the right side. “Mm. Me too.” He smirked and slid his hand up Jisung’s back, fingertips tracing slow paths over the marks he had left.
His eyes softened even further, drifting over Jisung’s face like he was memorizing it. Like he needed to confirm that Jisung was actually here in his arms, that last night hadn’t been just a dream.
Jisung’s throat tightened a little. Minho blinked slowly, pupils warm, expression so openly fond that Jisung’s chest squeezed.
“You okay?” Minho asked, brushing a thumb across Jisung’s cheekbone. “You still feel comfortable with everything? Don’t regret anything?”
Jisung nodded. “Yeah. Just… happy.”
Minho’s breath hitched. Just slightly. Then he leaned in and brushed his lips against Jisung’s forehead. Soft. Warm. A morning kiss.
Yes. Jisung decided he would need more of those.
“Good,” Minho whispered against his skin. “Me too.”
Minho’s arm was still around him, lying possessively across his waist. His palm rested low on Jisung’s stomach, thumb brushing sleep-warm skin in small, unconscious circles.
For a moment, Jisung didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Just existed in the feeling.
But then the question he had been holding for hours pushed up his throat. If he didn’t ask, his brain would eat him alive.
“Hyung,” he asked quietly. Minho hummed in answer, eyes closed. “What are we?” he added, voice small, scared.
Minho opened his eyes at once.
“Jisung-ah,” he started, voice and gaze soft. “I wanted to ask you this again when we are on an official, beautiful date, because you deserve it. But…” He lifted Jisung’s hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles. “Will you be mine?”
Jisung’s eyes stung immediately. A big grin formed on his lips before he could stop it. He had never heard the question like that, and it made something inside him light up.
He scooted closer to Minho until their noses brushed. He placed a small peck on his lips. “Of course, Hyung,” he whispered.
Minho mirrored his smile and kissed him back. They stayed like that for a while. Just lying there. Disappearing in each other’s eyes. Smiling and kissing softly, lazily, like they finally had time.
When they finally forced themselves to get up, Minho sat up first, and then Jisung saw everything.
From this angle, with Minho’s back turned, the damage was obvious.
Red trails lined his arms. Not deep. Not harsh. But unmistakable. His back, too, was marked. His chest was as scratched up as Jisung’s own. Minho looked wrecked and beautiful.
Jisung felt his face burn. “I… did that?” he whispered, mortified and secretly something else entirely.
“You did more than that,” Minho giggled.
Jisung threw a pillow at him and hissed when his own muscles protested. “Ow. Okay. Karma.”
Minho immediately looked at him. “Does it hurt?” he asked, worry in his voice, and that small undertone of pride he couldn’t hide.
“I’m fine,” Jisung said. Then winced. “Mostly.”
Minho brushed his thumb over his cheek, gentle. “Shower with me.”
“Huh?”
“You can barely walk, jagiya. I’m not letting you slip and die.”
Jisung opened his mouth to protest, but he didn’t get the chance.
Minho moved before he could think. An arm slid under Jisung’s knees, the other braced his back, and suddenly Jisung was lifted clean off the bed in a full princess carry.
Jisung yelped, hands flying to Minho’s shoulders. “Hyung—!”
Minho didn’t even flinch. He just adjusted his grip, steady and confident, looking down at him with that maddeningly calm expression.
“See?” he murmured. “Told you.”
As if carrying a naked Jisung around like this was the most natural thing in the world.
Steam filled the small bathroom, fogging the mirror. Warm water ran down Jisung’s shoulders, soothing some of the soreness in his muscles. He let out a soft breath.
Minho stood behind him, hands steady on Jisung’s hips as if he were afraid he might topple forward.
“Lean back,” Minho murmured.
Jisung did.
Minho guided him gently under the stream of water. Careful. Patient. No rush. No teasing. Just quiet care. Jisung felt safe in a way he hadn’t felt in years.
Minho washed his arms first. Slow strokes. Then his shoulders. His back. His hair.
Jisung’s eyes fluttered shut. He felt held and he felt treasured. He also felt so secure.
“You okay?” Minho asked softly.
“Mhm.”
Minho kissed the side of his wet temple. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
“It’s not,” Jisung whispered. “It’s… perfect.” He sighed happily.
When Minho finished, he pulled him gently into his chest, letting the warm water run over both of them. Their foreheads touched. Fingers intertwined.
They stayed like that until the steam started fading.
--
They dressed slowly.
Painfully slowly in Jisung’s case.
He moved like a ninety-year-old man with arthritis, groaning every time he bent, turned, or even breathed too deeply.
Minho didn’t even try to hide his smile.
Every time Jisung winced, he appeared beside him like a ghost. Steadying him. Fixing his hoodie. Helping him with socks. Kissing the top of his hair.
When they were finally both dressed, Minho leaned against the dresser, arms crossed, eyes running shamelessly over Jisung’s entire body.
“You ready?” he asked, smirk lazy.
Jisung felt heat crawl up his neck again.
Ready?
No.
He was not emotionally stable enough to face six people who had definitely heard him making porn-level noises last night. They had been so wrapped up in the moment that they didn’t even try to be quiet. Jisung had only remembered that they all slept on the same floor after the deed was done.
He groaned into his hands. “Hyung, can’t we just, I don’t know, stay in here forever maybe?” he asked, dead serious.
“Look, maybe they didn’t hear anything.”
Jisung glared at him.
Minho continued, completely straight-faced, “And even if they did, we can just say you were watching something.”
Jisung swung the towel in his hand at him. “Why me?!”
“Because out of the two of us, you give stronger pervert vibes, Sungie.”
Minho ducked just in time, cackling while Jisung halfheartedly tried to beat him with the towel.
Giggling, he opened the door to reality. Slowly, they started walking down together. Jisung clung to the back of Minho’s hoodie like a child being dragged to the dentist.
They were expecting the chaos of breakfast. Or noise. Or something. But weirdly enough, they heard nothing.
When they reached the bottom step, both of them froze.
The sight that met them made Jisung genuinely unsure if he should laugh or cry.
The entire living room was a battlefield of defeated soldiers. All six of their friends were passed out on the floor. Wrapped in blankets. Lying over each other like puppies. Limbs everywhere. Every single one of them is wearing headphones.
Felix was curled up on one end of the couch with a pillow over his face. Jeongin was sprawled on the carpet like a crime scene outline. Seungmin was wedged between Changbin and Hyunjin, mouth open, blanket half on the floor. Chan was upright in an armchair but slumped like God had personally unplugged him.
Jisung’s soul left his body.
“Oh my God,” he whispered.
Minho stared, lips parted in disbelief.
“Well,” Minho murmured, “that answers the question of whether they heard us.”
Before Jisung could decide whether to faint or run, Soonie started walking on Seungmin’s face.
Seungmin stirred.
He blinked.
Sat up.
Looked left. Right. Then directly at Jisung and Minho.
A few seconds passed. His brain came fully online.
He screamed.
“ARE YOU TWO INSANE?!”
His voice shot through the room like a bomb. Everyone jolted awake at once, even though they were wearing headphones. All three cats scattered in panic. Only Dori found his dad’s legs and clung there.
Hyunjin shot up violently, hair sticking in every direction. Felix yelled “WHAT?!” in English, pure panic in his voice. Chan grabbed a cushion like it was a weapon.
Then six sets of furious, traumatized eyes locked onto Minho and Jisung at the foot of the stairs.
Hyunjin was the first to speak.
“YOU GUYS ARE PERVERTS— YOU PUT US THROUGH A LIVE CONCERT.”
Changbin picked up a throw pillow and launched it at Minho. “HYUNG. WE HAD TO SLEEP WITH HEADPHONES. MY EARS ARE SWEATING.”
Chan threw the cushion he was holding at Jisung and rubbed his face. “I am too old for this. I should not be hearing my children have sex.”
Jeongin pointed accusingly. “JISUNG-HYUNG, I THOUGHT YOU WERE DYING. I HEARD THINGS THAT WILL TRAUMATIZE ME FOREVER.”
Felix stood up too. “You— YOU!!” He pointed directly at Jisung. “I DIDN’T SLEEP BECAUSE OF YOU TWO.”
Minho stepped forward, completely unfazed.
“Good morning, guys,” he said calmly.
The yelling increased. Cushions flew. A blanket was thrown. Someone’s slipper hit Minho’s shin. Felix started lecturing Jisung about “basic manners.” Hyunjin yelled that they had traumatized the “youth” (Jeongin). Changbin yelled about his noise-canceling headphones having “limits.”
Jisung wanted to melt into the floor and die.
Then Jeongin shouted over everyone. “SO WHAT ARE YOU EVEN?!”
The room fell silent.
Minho didn’t hesitate.
He reached over, took Jisung’s hand, and laced their fingers together. Firm. Proud. Unshakable.
“We’re together,” Minho said simply.
The room exploded again.
“FINALLY!”
“OH MY GOD.”
“OUR BABY IS DATING.”
“ABOUT TIME.”
“You still owe us for the trauma.”
They were hugged left and right. Congratulations and death threats were handed out in equal measure.
Somewhere in the chaos, Changbin yelled, “PAY UP,” and Seungmin handed him a folded 10,000₩ bill with dead eyes.
“You bet on us?!” Jisung shrieked.
“Of course we did,” Hyunjin said. “We’re not blind.”
Then Chan clapped his hands, trying to get control back like a kindergarten teacher.
“Yesterday night we already voted on the punishment,” he declared. “We are all going out to eat, and then we’ll go ice skating, while you two clean the mess here. We need to check out at six, so you two have enough time to finish.”
He smiled in a way that was not comforting.
“Yes,” Felix added dramatically, “because we deserve happiness after what we have suffered.”
“And,” Seungmin continued mercilessly, “don’t forget to clean all the bathrooms and all our rooms.”
Jisung’s jaw dropped. “What—?!”
“You kept us awake,” Seungmin said. “Actions. Consequences.”
Minho just smirked and squeezed his hand. “Fair,” he said.
Jisung stared at him, betrayed. “HOW IS THAT FAIR?!”
Minho leaned down, lips brushing his ear. “Because we made the actions, jagiya.”
Jisung nearly died on the spot.
--
The moment the door closed behind their six loud, vengeful friends, the villa fell silent.
Jisung stood in the middle of the living room, looking like someone who had just been sentenced for crimes he absolutely committed.
Minho stretched his arms lazily, cracked his neck, and smirked. “Well,” he said, “time to repent.” He walked off to feed the cats like this was just another Tuesday.
“I hate you,” Jisung muttered.
After the three cats walked to their respective bowls and started eating, Minho came back over and kissed him. Hands on his hips. A soft kiss that made Jisung forget his own name for a second.
“You don’t,” Minho murmured against his lips.
Blushing and pretending to be annoyed, Jisung pushed him away weakly. “We have to clean. Before they come back and make fun of us forever.”
Minho clapped his hands once. “Then let’s clean.”
Except Minho did not just clean.
He put music on.
He danced around the living room. Took his hoodie off, saying it was too hot now, leaving him in sweatpants. He sang along to the songs, picked up blankets, dusted shelves, vacuumed—
And every five minutes, he would walk past Jisung, slap his ass or grab his waist, pull him close, and kiss him breathless. Whisper something in his ear. Then go back to folding towels like nothing had happened.
Jisung was ready to throw himself out the window. He hated how flustered it made him. He also hated how much he liked it.
“Hyung, stop,” he whined, voice high and broken.
“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” Minho said, kissing his cheek again on purpose.
At some point they ended up wiping the same table. Their hands brushed. Then stayed. Then curled together. Their lips found each other again.
Jisung did not know how he had survived life without this.
When they finally finished cleaning, the living room looked brand new.
Jisung collapsed onto the couch dramatically. “I’m dead.” His body ached more than before.
Minho joined him, sat beside him, and pulled him into his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You did well,” he said softly, brushing sweaty hair off Jisung’s forehead. “Let me cook for you, before we go to the rooms.”
Jisung blinked at him with big, hopeful eyes. “Cook for me?” His stomach growled in agreement.
“Yes.” Minho kissed his temple and stood up. “You need to eat something real after last night.”
Jisung turned red instantly. “STOP MENTIONING IT.”
Minho tied an apron over his half-naked body and Jisung sat on the counter like a child watching a cooking show.
Minho cooked with quiet confidence, sleeves pushed up, muscles flexing every time he chopped or stirred. The domesticity of it all. The way he looked in an apron and sweatpants. The way his hair was messy, lips were still swollen from all their kissing. It nearly killed Jisung and something twisted in his pants again.
Damn, he had the hottest boyfriend ever.
He couldn’t believe Minho was really his now. That he had allowed himself to have a boyfriend again. A dance major boyfriend. Hot, understanding, able to pull him out of his head dance major boyfriend. A cute cat dad. Someone who could calm him during panic attacks. Patient. Funny. A bit weird. Smart. Beautiful voice. Beautiful deep eyes. Smelling like vanilla and sandalwood. Can cook. Good in bed. Gave him the best dicking of his life—
Wow. Jisung was whipped. He sighed lovesickly, watching his perfect boyfriend cook for him, wearing only an apron. This can count as porn.
Minho plated the food. Simple rice, eggs, and kimchi. Then he placed the plate in front of Jisung and sat next to him, watching him with quiet patience as he took the first bite.
“You didn’t have to do this,” Jisung mumbled, cheeks full of food.
Minho turned and gave him that soft look. The one that melted him every time. “I wanted to,” he said. “I want to take care of you.”
Jisung’s chest tightened painfully.
He swallowed and his eyes widened. “Hyung… this is really good.”
Minho smiled proudly. “Eat. You will need your strength if we wanna redo yesterday.”
Jisung nearly choked. “Hyung—”
Minho kissed his cheek again.
After cleaning each room, each bathroom, and kissing some more, they finally dropped tired on the couch in the living room. Cuddling under a blanket with the cats and watching the movie Up.
Somewhere in the middle of the movie, the front door opened, and all six walked in holding takeout bags and iced coffees.
“Please don’t be naked under the blankets,” Jeongin said as soon as he saw them.
Minho just wrapped an arm tighter around Jisung and pulled him closer, completely unbothered.
“It’s clean,” he said simply, ignoring Jeongin.
Jisung hid his face in Minho’s shoulder. Minho kissed the top of his head proudly.
“I am happy for you guys,” Hyunjin said, standing next to the couch. “But I do miss the time without the PDA.”
“Hear who is talking,” Seungmin scoffed from the kitchen, earning himself a death stare from Hyunjin. Hyunjin bent over, picked Soonie up from Jisung’s lap and walked away saying, “Come here, baby, you deserve a trauma-free life.”
“Hyung, can you scoot a bit? I also want to cuddle Sungie,” Felix said, now standing where Hyunjin had been. He looked down at them, blocking their view of the TV.
Minho ignored him completely. Closed his eyes and buried his face in Jisung’s hair, making the younger giggle.
“Minho-hyung,” Felix whined, “don’t act like you can’t share now.”
“Can’t,” Minho said. “He’s mine.”
--
The travel back to Seoul was as uneventful as the journey to the villa.
The only exception was that Minho, who sat next to Jisung again, kept lifting his hand to kiss his knuckles from time to time. Because now he was allowed to.
With a shared AirPod, his head on Minho’s shoulder, Minho’s arm around him and his own hand resting on Minho’s thigh, Jisung slept through most of the train ride.
In Seoul, Minho was the one taking Jisung’s luggage out of the train.
“You’re enjoying the princess treatment, Sungie?” Chan asked from behind, having watched the whole thing.
“Hell yeah,” Jisung grinned. “I can get used to that forever.”
“Good,” Chan smiled fondly at him as they exited the station, Minho in front of them with both suitcases in his hands and the cat carrier on his back. He had never looked better. “Because I don’t think he’s going anywhere any time soon.”
“I don’t want him to go, Hyung,” Jisung whispered.
He stopped walking and grabbed Chan by the wrist, pulling him to a halt as well. Chan frowned, curious.
Time to say what had been sitting in his chest for a long time.
“I know you told me to give him a chance. You were right. And honestly… without the talk we had before the performance, I would’ve never looked for a therapist. I would’ve never been honest with myself. I am so thankful that I have you, Hyung. You never shy away from telling me when I’m stupid or helping me out. Thank you so much.”
He finished his little speech breathless.
Chan just looked at him. Eyes are growing a little red. A soft smile on his lips.
He stayed quiet for a moment. Then he pulled Jisung into a tight hug.
“All I want is for you to be happy, Sungie.”
Outside the station, the others were waiting for them. Probably waiting for their leader to tell them what was next.
“So,” Chan clapped, voice a little husky. He coughed. "These were amazing holidays. Thank you all for the memories. Jeongin, please send the pictures as fast as possible. Seungmin, send us the vlogs, please. Thank you for the amazing gifts. And… yeah. Get your rest these four days before uni starts and see you all, latest, on campus. Love you guys.”
The group cheered and threw the words back at him and at each other.
They were already splitting up at the station because they were each calling separate taxis. They all technically lived close to one another, but by car, it meant different routes, and it was easier this way.
Minho walked up to Jisung and handed him his suitcase.
“Take care, princess,” he whispered, leaving a quick peck on his lips. “Text me when you’re home.”
Jisung’s heart tightened. He was not ready to say bye to his boyfriend for the day yet.
“Do you really need to work tonight?” he asked with a pout.
Minho giggled, cupping his cheek and kissing him again. “Sadly, yes. How else am I supposed to provide for my princess’s expensive lifestyle?” he joked.
Jisung blushed and pouted harder at the same time.
Then he sighed in defeat and nodded. “But please text me whenever you can, Hyung.”
“Of course, jagiya. Otherwise, I won’t be able to survive.”
In the taxi — they had picked the driver who looked the least like a serial killer — Felix and Jisung sat in the back seat.
The moment both doors closed and the address was given, Felix turned to him with a huge grin.
Jisung frowned, already suspicious.
He didn’t get the chance to ask anything because Felix smacked his arm. Hard.
“Ouch!” Jisung yelped. “What is that for?!”
“This, my so-called best friend,” Felix started, mischief in his eyes, “is for the fact that you did not tell me anything. You rat.”
Jisung scoffed. “You’re the one to talk. I know for a fact you didn’t choose the room with Chan just randomly. You wanted Minho and me to share one.”
He pointed a finger at him accusingly, watching Felix turn red in the neck and face.
Guilty, Felix swallowed. “Fair,” he said after a moment of silence. “I have to tell you so much.” His eyes were sparkling. “But you too. I want to know how and when you two got together. I also want to know the details of the sounds I heard. I’ve been asking myself what made you scream like that.” He said that in English, thankfully, voice honey-sweet and innocent while looking way too pleased.
This time, it was Jisung’s turn to turn red and hit his best friend.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this (to understand Felix's feelings): “I wish you loved me” –Tynisha Keli
"How can someone make me so sad
But still, I only want them to stay? (Want you to stay)
I wanna say "I love you" so bad
But I don't wanna scare you away (Ooh, woah)
Please, I wish that you'll understand that I wanna be
More than just your friend
I wish you loved me"
----------------
Back at the dorm, they took turns washing the travel sweat away. Jisung and Minho had a short phone call where Minho told him until when he would work tonight, and that they would see each other tomorrow.
Then Jisung and Felix ended up in the living area. On the couch. Cuddling under blankets. A lot of snacks were on the table in front of them instead of a real dinner. A lot of tea to share.
Jisung sighed. He had missed this.
“I missed you, Sungie,” Felix said, like he had read his mind.
“I missed you too, Bookie,” Jisung replied, using his Korean nickname.
“So.” Felix turned onto his side to face him, a cheese puff in his mouth. “Tell me e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g,” he said, exaggerating every syllable.
Jisung giggled and turned as well, facing him, already missing Minho’s warmth and now soaking up Felix’s.
So he told him.
Everything.
He told Felix how it started. How the tension had been there for weeks. How Minho had teased him and taken care of him at the same time. How he had slowly realized that the “hate” he thought he felt had never really been hate at all. It had been fear. Projection. A crush he refused to name.
He told him about Woosook. How that relationship had messed up his view of intimacy. How sex always left him feeling dirty and wrong and small. How he never understood why people called it “making love.”
Then he told him about last night.
How Minho had kissed him. How Minho had stopped and talked to him. Asked what he wanted. Asked if he was sure. Asked again. And again. Every time they crossed a new line.
How Minho kept checking, “Are you okay?”
“Still good?”
“Do you want to continue?”
How he never did anything without Jisung’s clear yes.
How he held him afterwards and didn’t let go. How he had cleaned him gently. How he had helped him to the bathroom, then brought him back to bed like he was something important to protect, not just a body to use.
He told him how they had showered together that morning. How Minho had washed his hair. His shoulders. His back. How he had let Jisung lean on him whenever the soreness flared up. How he had kept saying “tell me if it’s too much” and meaning it.
He told him that the sex itself had been good. Amazing even. No, it was the best he ever had. But what meant the most to him wasn’t that.
It was the consent.
The softness.
The care.
The way Minho had looked at him was like he was something beautiful. The way he had kissed every mark he left was as if apologizing and worshipping at the same time.
He told Felix how Minho had asked him that morning what they were. How he had asked him to be his. How they had agreed, they were together now. Officially. No more dancing around it.
How Minho had then cooked for him. Put an apron on. Made him rice, eggs, kimchi. Watched him eat with that soft, proud look. Told him he wanted to take care of him. Kissed him every few minutes like he couldn’t help it.
How Jisung had realized somewhere in that kitchen that he was completely, hopelessly gone for him.
By the time he finished, Felix was staring at him with big watery eyes, a pillow clutched to his chest.
“Okay,” Felix whispered. “I take back the rat comment. That’s… that’s really… wow.”
Jisung smiled shyly and took a sip of tea, trying to calm down his own racing heart. Talking about it made it feel even more real.
Felix took a breath. “My turn.”
Jisung blinked. “Your turn!”
Felix nodded. “We’re doing honesty today, right?”
Jisung hummed and pulled the blanket up to his chin. “Okay. Shoot.”
Felix stared at the ceiling for a second, then turned back to him. His voice dropped a little.
“I like Chan.”
Jisung’s brain glitched. “Chan-hyung?”
Felix nodded. “Yeah.”
“For how long?” Jisung asked, eyes wide.
“A while,” Felix admitted. “Like… longer than I wanted to admit.”
Jisung stayed quiet, giving him space to talk.
“I always thought he was straight,” Felix said. “Completely. Until the project.”
“The project?” Jisung repeated.
“Yeah. When we were working on the song together.” Felix played with a loose thread on the blanket. “One night, he told me he was confused. About… everything. About who he liked. About someone from his past. And when we were writing the lyrics, the pronouns weren’t ‘her.’”
Jisung frowned, trying to remember. “‘Them,’ right?”
Felix nodded. “Yeah. It wasn’t about a girl. The song… is about a guy from his past.”
Jisung’s eyes widened. He did not know that.
“He never told me who,” Felix continued. “But something changed after that. I thought… maybe I have a chance.”
He gave a small, embarrassed laugh.
“After our exams, when I slept over at his place… that night, I went to his room,” Felix said. “We cuddled. The whole night. He held me. Properly. And he didn’t push me away or make it weird afterwards. It felt like… something.”
Jisung listened closely, head tilted.
“But we never talked about it,” Felix said. “So on this trip I wanted us to finally talk. I tried to, I don’t know, encourage him. Let him know I was okay with whatever he felt.”
Jisung remembered little moments. Felix clinging to Chan’s arm. Leaning into him. That weird look on Chan’s face at times.
“Did it work?” Jisung asked.
Felix’s cheeks turned pink.
“We kissed,” he admitted. “Last night. Before you two started your… earthquake.”
Jisung covered his face with both hands and groaned. “Oh my God.”
Felix laughed weakly. “I was so happy. But then today, during ice skating… he pulled away. He was distant. Like he regretted it. Like I had done something wrong.”
His voice cracked a little at the end.
“I don’t know what to do, Sungie,” he whispered. “I don’t want to push him. But I also… I really like him. And now I’m scared I ruined it.”
Jisung’s heart softened. He shifted closer and wrapped his arms around Felix, pulling him into a tight hug.
“You didn’t ruin anything,” he said quietly. “Chan-hyung is just… Chan. He thinks too much and feels too much at the same time. You know him.”
Felix nodded against his shoulder.
“We’ll figure it out together,” Jisung promised. “You and me. If I can get my life together with Minho, you can get yours with Chan.”
Felix let out a tiny laugh at that.
“I am really happy for you, Sungie,” he said after a moment. “Like… genuinely happy. You deserve someone who treats you like this.”
Jisung smiled into his hair. “You do too, Bookie.”
Felix pulled back and poked his chest. “Then you better help me with Chan.”
“Obviously,” Jisung said. “Step one: we make him suffer.”
Felix grinned, eyes lighting up again. “Now that’s the Sungie I know.”
They settled back into the couch. The movie played softly in the background. Outside, the city moved on. Inside, it felt like something had shifted.
Jisung had a boyfriend.
Felix had a maybe.
Chapter 13: "Lilies and hydrangeas"
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “perfect man” – SHINHWA
“I'll only know you even if my breath runs out
'Cause you are thе one
I'll never havе another ordeal where you didn't exist to me
So that you can rest in my arms now”
----------------
“How do I look?” Jisung asked, exiting his the bar and stepping into the living room where Felix was waiting for him.
When Minho told him yesterday that they would see each other, he did not expect him to take him to a fancy sushi restaurant and call it their first date. But he did.
This morning Jisung woke up to a text:
Minho-Hyung: Wear something nice. I’ll pick you up at 5 p.m. First date.
At first Minho didn’t want to tell him where they were going. But Jisung, the overthinker he is, needed to prepare himself mentally. He didn’t stop spam-texting and calling Minho until the older sighed in defeat and answered his question. He only gave in because he knew Jisung would overthink the whole day otherwise and he wanted him to enjoy it.
“Boaa, Jisungie… if Minho wasn’t already whipped for you, he will be after seeing you like that,” Felix said, eyes wide.
He looked at his best friend from head to toe, admiring the outfit he chose with Jisung.
A pretty, elegant white blouse. A black leather belt. Black jeans that Felix had to admit, made his butt and legs look really good. Black leather shoes.
Hair styled back, neat and clean, making him look older, sharper, put together.
The outfit itself wasn’t dramatic. But it made Jisung look confident. Pretty. Date-ready.
The special part was the accessories. A vintage watch around his wrist. Two tiny silver earrings in one ear. And, most important, one of the guitar picks Minho had gifted him, hanging on a chain around his neck.
He chose the one with the little moon on it for tonight.
“You sure, Lixie?” Jisung asked, unsure. “Is it too much? Not enough?”
He checked himself again in the mirror near the bathroom, tugging at his shirt.
“Why are you acting like Minho-hyung didn’t see you in all types of outfits already?” Felix asked with a tilted head. “And also without any, if I can remind you.”
He giggled.
Jisung blushed and glared at him. It was just 4 p.m.
Yes, he got ready a whole hour earlier than he needed to. But he was like that. Anxious.
With a deep sigh, hating his anxious nature and overthinking brain, he slumped onto the bed next to Felix.
“And now I have to wait for an hour, damn,” he said, annoyed at himself. “Why can’t I be normal?”
“Ah, that’s okay, Sungie. We can start a movie until Minho-hyung arrives,” Felix said, trying to comfort him.
Jisung nodded and exhaled slowly.
They chose a movie and pressed play. The opening credits had barely started when the doorbell rang.
They both froze and looked at each other.
“Who can that be?” Felix asked.
Jisung shrugged, stood up, and walked to the door.
He opened it.
And froze.
For a second, he thought he was hallucinating.
Minho was standing there. Hair styled back neatly. Elegant dress shirt. Dark blazer. Suit pants that fit him way too well. A bouquet of flowers in his hand. Lilies and hydrangeas. Jisung’s favorite.
He was smiling softly. Fondly. Like he had all the time in the world for him.
“What are you doing here?” Jisung blurted, a grin already tugging at his lips.
Minho frowned playfully. “We have a date. Or did you dress up this beautifully for someone else, sir?” His smile widened. “Are you cheating on me?” His voice was dripping sarcasm.
“No, but I mean—” Jisung glanced at the watch on his wrist. It was 4:05 p.m. Still fifty-five minutes before the time Minho had told him. “What are you doing here already?” he asked, still smiling, unable to take his eyes off him.
Minho lifted his flower hand slightly. On his wrist, he was wearing the bracelet Jisung gifted him. “Well,” he said, “I figured my anxious boyfriend would be ready at least an hour before our date, so I told him a wrong time on purpose.”
With his free hand, Minho cupped Jisung’s cheek and placed a small, loving kiss there. Jisung’s cheeks burned at the action and at the word “boyfriend”.
Wow.
How can someone be this thoughtful.
Jisung never told Minho that he always got ready too early because of anxiety. He didn’t want to burden him. But Minho had read him anyway. Adjusted for him without making him feel stupid.
His chest felt so warm it was about to combust.
“Y’all are so sweet,” Felix yelled from the living room, making it very clear that he had heard and watched everything. “I don’t know if I envy you or if I want to throw up.”
Jisung turned around and glared at him.
“Hey, Lixie,” Minho greeted. Then, with a sheepish smile, he added, “I heard Chan was trying to reach you?”
Felix scoffed. “I’m ignoring him on purpose.”
His voice sounded deeper than usual.
Minho tilted his head slightly and looked at Jisung, silently asking for context. Jisung giggled and mouthed, later.
“Here. For you,” Minho finally said, handing him the flowers. “Maybe leave them here so they don’t get in your way tonight.”
Jisung nodded happily, took the bouquet and brought it to his nose. The lilies smelled so good. He already imagined how their scent would fill his room later.
With flushed cheeks, he reached for the back of Minho’s neck and pulled him closer for a proper kiss.
Minho was a little surprised at first, then smiled into the kiss and kissed him back, soft and sure.
“Okay, now I really want to throw up,” Felix groaned, interrupting them.
Jisung let go of Minho’s neck and rolled his eyes. “I’ll put them in a vase and come,” he told Minho, turning to go back inside.
But Felix, who had finally stood up, rushed over and took the bouquet from his hands.
“You go. I’ll put them in a vase in your room,” he said, smiling at his best friend.
They hugged each other tight. Then Jisung slipped his shoes on and stepped into the hallway next to Minho.
“BRING HIM HOME BY ELEVEN OR HE WON’T ENTER,” Felix shouted after them, half joking, half serious.
“Yes, Miss Lee,” Minho called back.
Jisung, whose hand he was now holding, giggled like a school kid all the way down the hallway.
—
Minho had asked Changbin for his car for tonight. The fact that he had even thought of that made Jisung’s heart flutter again. He could have taken the subway. A taxi. Anything. But he made the effort to borrow a car just to make the night feel more special.
Oh, how whipped he was for this man.
The drive was comfortable. They listened to their favorite songs. Took turns queuing them. Sang along loudly to some parts, laughed when they messed up the lyrics, and talked about small things in between red lights.
The bigger conversations could wait for dinner.
“Woooow, Hyung,” Jisung said when they pulled up near the restaurant. His eyes were wide. “This looks amazing.”
“You didn’t even see it from the inside yet, Jisung-ah,” Minho laughed.
He parked. They got out. Minho came around the car and automatically reached for his hand. Their fingers slipped together. Minho’s warm hand in Jisung’s cold.
Inside, the restaurant felt soft and warm.
They were led to a round table with a red tablecloth and a candle in the middle. Menus placed on each side. The air smelled clean and like flowers, soy sauce, fresh rice and fish.
Colors everywhere were red, white, and gold. Couples filled most of the tables, talking quietly, leaning close. Only one big group sat at a long table in the back, laughing loudly, looked like a birthday party.
They ordered their drinks and some sushi sets. When the waiter left them alone again, Minho leaned his elbows on the table and smirked.
“So,” he said. “What’s the tea between Felix and Chan?”
Jisung snorted. “I didn’t take you for a gossipy guy, mister,” he giggled, taking a sip of his water.
“Well, these are the kinds of things two people find out about each other when they start dating,” Minho said, laughing. He winked at him.
Jisung’s stomach flipped.
“Listen to this,” he started, leaning in a bit.
He told Minho everything Felix had told him last night. He had asked Felix before if he was allowed to talk about it and got full permission. Felix had said the others would find out sooner or later anyway, since he himself “couldn’t shut up” about things. At least he was self-aware, Jisung thought.
He talked about Felix’s long-standing crush on Chan. How he always thought Chan was straight. How that changed during the project when Chan admitted he was confused and that the song they wrote was not about a “her”, but a “them”.
He told him about the night Felix slept in Chan’s room after the exams. How they cuddled all night. How nothing was said afterwards. How Felix went into the trip hoping they would talk and define things.
Then he told him about the kiss.
And about the text.
“Yesterday night, after Felix told me everything, Chan sent him a long message,” Jisung continued. “He wrote that the kiss was a mistake in the moment. That he was sorry. That he didn’t want to give Felix false hopes.”
Minho’s eyes widened. “Oh shit. That doesn’t sound good. Poor Felix.”
Jisung nodded, playing with the edge of his napkin. “Felix replied that he thinks it’s better if they keep some distance until Chan figures himself out. He told him that he’s sure the kiss wasn’t a mistake. That he was honest about his feelings. And that he wishes Chan would be honest with himself too.”
A tiny smile tugged at Minho’s lips. “You seem proud. Let me guess… you wrote the text with him, didn’t you?”
Jisung blushed on the spot. “It’s a good text, though,” he whined.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t, Sungie,” Minho giggled, raising his brows. “I’m just worried about them. Hyunjin also told me about the night Felix slept in Chan’s room.”
“Oh, so Hyunjin-hyung also knows? That means Changbin probably knows too,” Jisung laughed.
Gossip moved fast in their group.
“Yeah, probably,” Minho said. He paused, thinking. “I didn’t take Chan for someone who is confused about his feelings. He always seems like he has everything under control.”
“He isn’t confused, Hyung,” Jisung said quietly. “Chan always puts everyone else before himself. He probably thinks that the safest option is to not try at all. That way he can’t hurt Felix.”
Minho frowned deeper. So Jisung told him about the time Chan kissed a guy in the past and regretted it after not feeling anything.
The waiter arrived with their sushi. They thanked him and, the moment he left, slipped right back into conversation.
They ate slowly. Talked about Felix and Chan. About their trip, about how good they both looked. At some point, Minho wiped a grain of rice from the corner of Jisung’s mouth with his thumb and Jisung almost dropped his chopsticks, neck flushed pink.
After they ate and Jisung finished taking at least a thousand pictures “for memories and for Felix”, Minho asked, “How are you doing with work, by the way? Now that we survived exam season.”
Jisung blinked. “Work?” He did not think about work for a long time.
“Yeah. You said you sometimes work at the library,” Minho said. “Still doing that?”
“Ah,” Jisung nodded, then shook his head. “Yes. I mean… usually. The money is actually better than I expected, to be honest. But during exam season I didn’t work at all. I was dying already. And over the holidays it was closed for renovation.”
Minho nodded, listening carefully.
“And…” Jisung hesitated for a second, then continued. “I talked to Changbin about it. His dad works with music producers, you know. He said he would ask around for some part-time work for us. Me, Changbin and Chan. Maybe studio assistant stuff. Or editing. Or helping around with sessions.”
Minho’s brows rose. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Jisung said. “I’m not sure we’ll end up in the same place. Probably not. But still. It’s… something. Another option. I’m just waiting for the answer now. I’m really grateful he even asked.”
Minho smiled and reached across the table, brushing his fingers over the back of Jisung’s hand. “Of course they asked. You’re insanely talented, Sungie. Anyone would be lucky to have you in their studio.”
Heat rushed straight to his ears. “Hyung…”
“I’m serious,” Minho said. “Library job is good. But the music thing? That is literally your future.”
“That’s right,” Jisung murmured, barely audible.
Minho’s smile turned soft.
They drifted into other topics. Classes. Professors they hated. Professors they respected. Their schedules for next semester. Minho’s rehearsals and work in the dance studio. Jisung’s production assignments.
The conversation never felt forced. It just… flowed.
Every now and then, Minho would lift Jisung’s hand and press a kiss to his knuckles without breaking eye contact.
Jisung still felt like his heart was not built for this.
—
After dinner, Minho paid. Jisung tried to protest once, weakly. Minho shut it down with a look and the sentence, “You can pay when you invite me next time.” That sentence alone had Jisung kicking his feet under the table.
They left the restaurant and the air outside felt cooler. Calm. The sky was slowly turning darker, city lights flickering on one by one.
“Want to walk a bit?” Minho asked.
“Yeah,” Jisung answered immediately. Not ready for the night to end.
There was a small park nearby. Not big. But quiet enough. They walked hand in hand through the paths, passing families, couples, people walking dogs.
They stopped sometimes to look at a small fountain. At the way the light hit the water. They took some pictures together. Some selfies. Minho took a few of Jisung alone. Jisung took some of Minho.
Minho kissed him on a bench in the middle of the park. Softly at first. Then again, deepening it when Jisung slid a hand to his jaw.
They talked about nothing and everything. About childhood memories. About the first time they met and how much they misread each other. Minho finally confessed that he liked Jisung for a while. Soemthing the younger did not expect at all, and it made his heart flutter so much.
They talked about the villa trip and how it somehow became the turning point for half the friend group’s love life.
Time slipped by easily.
At some point, they headed back to the car.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Access” – Jackson Wang
“Let it slip
Lеt it slip
Let it slip
I'll be your magic man, you know
Baby
Keep me up all night, wе misbehavin'
I just wanna uh, uh, uh"
----------------
Jisung’s whole body felt light and warm. His chest felt full. Minho looked very, very good in his suit. The jawline. The hands on the steering wheel. The veins on his forearms. The bracelet on his wrist. The way he focused when he drove.
It was becoming a problem.
They drove into the city again. Night deeper now. Buildings lined with light.
Jisung watched him for a while. Then he crossed his legs. Uncrossed them. Shifted in his seat.
Minho eyed him briefly. “You okay?” he asked.
“Mhmm,” Jisung hummed.
He wasn’t.
He reached out and laid his hand on Minho’s thigh. Harmless at first. Just resting there. The warmth of Minho’s body seeped through the fabric.
Minho glanced at him again, suspicious now. “Sungie.”
“Yes, Hyung?” he asked, all innocent eyes.
He let his thumb stroke small circles over Minho’s leg.
Minho inhaled slowly. His fingers tightened just a bit on the wheel.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish while I’m driving,” he said, voice lower.
“I’m not doing anything,” Jisung said. He squeezed slightly.
Minho’s jaw clenched.
The city lights streak by the windows, painting Minho's sharp profile in flashes of neon and shadow. The atmosphere in the car is thick, charged, a stark contrast to the quiet hum of the engine. Jisung's hand is a brand of heat through the fine wool of Minho's suit pants.
"You're doing plenty," Minho mutters, his jaw tight. He adjusts his grip on the steering wheel, the leather creaking under his fingers. The muscle under Jisung's palm tenses, a coiled spring. Jisung's thumb continues its lazy, maddening circles, drifting just a fraction higher with each pass. He can feel the firm line of Minho's quadricep, the heat building beneath his touch.
"You're driving just fine, Hyung," Jisung murmurs, his voice a soft, teasing lilt. He lets his fingers trail inward, skating dangerously close to the inseam of Minho's trousers. "I'm just... keeping you company."
Minho's breath hitches, just barely audible over the road noise. His knuckles are white on the wheel. He flicks the turn signal, changing lanes with a sharp, precise movement, his eyes fixed on the road ahead with an almost painful intensity.
"Jisung," he warns, the name a low growl. "I swear to god, if you don't stop..."
"What?" Jisung asks, all feigned innocence, his fingers now applying a gentle, persistent pressure right against the growing hardness he can feel beneath the fabric. "If I don't stop... what will you do, Hyung?"
His question was met with silence. Minho swallowing dryly, trying to focus on the road.
At the next red light, Jisung leaned closer. “You look really hot in that suit,” he whispered. His breath brushed Minho’s ear. “Just thought you should know.”
He pressed a quick kiss under his ear.
Minho’s hand shot out to grab his wrist. “Jisung-ah,” he warned.
The light turned green. Minho had to let go to drive. Jisung sat back, smug, and dragged his hand a little higher on Minho’s thigh. Not inappropriate. But close enough to be distracting.
“Okay. That’s it,” Minho muttered under his breath.
Jisung choked on a laugh. “What?”
“You’ll see,” Minho said.
Minho doesn't say another word. His expression is a mask of focused intensity, but a new, predatory energy thrums in the silence between them. He drives with a newfound purpose, his turns sharper, his acceleration more aggressive, weaving through the late-night traffic with a singular goal. This intensity making Jisung even hornier for no good reason.
He takes a sudden, hard right into a narrow, dimly lit alleyway between two tall office buildings, the car's tires bumping over the uneven pavement. He drives to the very end, where the alley dead-ends into a brick wall shrouded in shadow, far from the main street's lights and eyes.
The engine cuts off, plunging them into a sudden, heavy quiet. The only sounds are their breathing and the distant hum of the city.
Minho unfastens his seatbelt with a sharp click. Then, in one fluid, decisive motion, he reaches over, grabs Jisung by the back of the neck, and pulls him into a searing, punishing kiss. It's all teeth and possession, a raw reclaiming of control.
When he breaks the kiss, his eyes are dark pools of pure want in the gloom. "You wanted to play games," he breathes, his voice a rough, dangerous whisper. "Now you get to finish what you started."
His free hand finds Jisung's, still on his thigh, and guides it firmly, insistently, to the prominent bulge straining against his suit pants. "Right here. Right now.”
Jisung giggled. Happy and proud with what he had accomplished. He kissed Minho again deeply. Minho’s controlling side, that seems to come out whenever he is horny, is one of the many traits Jisung loves about Minho.
He climbed into Minho’s lap, the place too small and too uncomfortable for both of their bodies, but while they were kissing, Minho pulled the seat back, giving Jisung a little bit more space for his wandering hands. The confined space of the driver's seat becomes a world of its own, filled with the scent of Minho's vanilla, their shared heat, and the heady promise of what's to come. Jisung settles heavily in Minho's lap, his own arousal a hard, insistent pressure against Minho's stomach. The steering wheel digs into his back, but he doesn't care.
Jisung's hands are everywhere—tugging at Minho’s clothes, sliding under his suit jacket to feel the hard planes of his chest through the crisp dress shirt, mapping the tension in his shoulders. He grinds down slowly, deliberately, feeling the thick ridge of Minho's cock trapped beneath layers of fabric, a delicious friction even through the barriers.
"Like this, Hyung?" Jisung murmurs against his lips, his voice dripping with faux sweetness as he palms Minho through his pants, squeezing the hard length. "Is this how you wanted me to finish it?"
Minho's answer is a low groan. He lets his head fall back against the headrest, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as Jisung works him over. But his hands are far from idle. One comes up to fist in Jisung's hair, holding him in place for another deep, claiming kiss. The other slides down Jisung's back, over the curve of his ass, gripping him hard through his jeans and guiding the rhythm of his grinding hips.
"Less talking," Minho rasps when he breaks the kiss, his breath hot and ragged. "More doing. Get it out." His command is clear, his hips lifting off the seat to meet Jisung's downward grind, seeking more pressure, more friction. The car rocks gently with their movements, a quiet, rhythmic creak joining their labored breathing in the dark alley.
Jisung followes what he was ordered with a satisfyed grin. Jisung’s fingers work with frantic, eager precision at Minho’s belt buckle, the metallic clink loud in the quiet car. He gets the button of his trousers undone, the zipper dragged down with a harsh, urgent rasp. He doesn’t bother with finesse, just shoves the fabric and his briefs out of the way, freeing Minho’s cock into the cool air of the car. It’s thick and heavy in his hand, already leaking at the tip.
He spits into his palm, not breaking eye contact with Minho’s dark, hungry gaze, and wraps his slicked fingers around the heated length. He starts a slow, tight stroke, his thumb swiping over the slick head with every upstroke, spreading the precome.
"Like this?" Jisung whispers, his own breathing growing shallow as he watches Minho’s face contort with pleasure. He leans in, his lips brushing Minho’s ear as his hand works faster, twisting on the upstroke. "You feel so good in my hand, Hyung. So hard for me. Just from a little teasing in the car."
Minho’s grip in his hair tightens, a sharp, delicious pain. His other hand claws at Jisung’s hip, his own thrusts becoming shallow, desperate pushes into the tight circle of Jisung’s fist. The car fills with the wet, rhythmic sound of Jisung’s hand working him over, Minho’s choked-off grunts, and Jisung’s own soft, encouraging whispers.
"Faster," Minho grits out, his voice strained. "Don’t you dare stop."
Jisung was not thinking about stopping. He loved the view in front of him. Loved how Minho was losing control because of him. Loved making Minho feel good. After this whole date, Minho deserved more than that. Jisung’s pace becomes relentless, his wrist a blur of motion. He uses his whole body, the leverage of his position in Minho’s lap to drive his strokes deeper, harder. He watches, mesmerized, as Minho completely unravels—his head thrown back, throat working as he swallows back groans, the cords of his neck standing out in stark relief. The controlled, sharp-suited man from the restaurant is gone, replaced by this raw, panting man of need, and Jisung feels a surge of possessive pride.
He ducks his head, sealing his mouth over the head of Minho’s cock, swallowing him down in one smooth, practiced motion. The taste of salt and skin floods his senses. He hollows his cheeks, applying suction, his tongue working flat against the sensitive underside as his hand continues to pump the base.
Minho’s reaction is immediate and violent. A ragged, shattered cry tears from his throat, his hips bucking up off the seat uncontrollably. His hands fly to Jisung’s head, not to push him away, but to hold him there, fingers tangling in his hair with a desperate, almost painful intensity.
"Jisung—fuck—ah, god—" Minho’s words dissolve into a stream of broken, guttural sounds. His thighs tremble violently on either side of Jisung. The warning is a hoarse, strained gasp. "I’m—I’m gonna—"
Jisung just hums in response, the vibration traveling straight up Minho’s spine. He takes him deeper, until his nose is buried in the coarse hair at the base, and sucks harder, his hand working in tight, twisting sync with his mouth. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t give an inch, drinking down every choked-off moan and the first hot, bitter pulse of Minho’s release.
And then Minho comes. Releasing himself fully in Jisun’s mouth. Jisung hums satisfied and swallows it all. After Minho's body stopped twitching he looked up, eyes locking, Minhos fluid on his lip and smiled at the older happily. Minho groaned.
"You’re going to be the death of me Jagiya." He pulled him up for a kiss. "But were not done for the night, if you want to keep going."
Minho mumbled when Jisung went back to his seat adjusting his clothes. Jisung looked at him, eyes big and hopeful. The look in his eyes made Minho laugh. He started the car again. He changed directions. Jisung recognized the route immediately.
“Are we… going to your place?” he asked.
“Yes,” Minho said, no hesitation.
“Is Hyunjin home?” Jisung added, suddenly shy.
“He said he’s sleeping at a friend’s tonight,” Minho replied. “So it’s just us. And the kids.”
The kids. The cats.
Jisung’s heart jumped and sank at the same time.
They arrived at Minho’s dorm. Went up. The cats were already at the door when they entered, meowing and circling their legs. Jisung bent down to greet them. “Hi, babies…”
The familiar, comforting scent of Minho's apartment—clean linen, vanilla, coffee, and cat—washes over them as they step inside. The overhead light is off, only the soft glow from a floor lamp in the living room illuminating the space. Soonie, Doongie, and Dori weave figure-eights around their ankles, their purrs a soft rumble in the quiet.
Minho toes off his shoes and shrugs out of his suit jacket, tossing it carelessly over the back of the couch. He looks more relaxed now, but the heat in his eyes hasn't dimmed; it's just banked, simmering. He reaches out, his thumb gently wiping the last trace of himself from the corner of Jisung's mouth.
"Make yourself at home," Minho says, his voice a low, intimate rumble. He nods toward the hallway. "I'm just going to check their food and water. Won't be a minute."
He disappears into the kitchen, the soft clink of ceramic bowls following. Jisung stands in the middle of the living room, his heart hammering against his ribs. The domesticity of it all—the cats, the quiet apartment, the simple act of Minho caring for his pets—is somehow more intimate, more nerve-wracking, than the frantic passion in the car. This feels real. Permanent.
He hears the faucet run, then stop. Minho's footsteps are soft as he pads back into the living room. He doesn't stop walking until he's right in front of Jisung. He doesn't say a word, just cups Jisung's face in his hands, his thumbs stroking over his cheekbones, and kisses him. It's deep, slow, and unbearably tender—a stark, beautiful contrast to everything that came before.
When he pulls back, his eyes are soft. "My room," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. Kissing Jisung again. They somehow made it to Minho’s room. Jisung barely remembered walking there. They closed the door fast.
Dori sat on the dresser. Doongie curled on Minho’s bed for two seconds and then jumped off when they stumbled forward. Soonie just blinked and left like he had seen this too many times in his past life.
Minho pressed Jisung against the door and kissed him again. Deeper. Their mouths moved together, all the softness from earlier turning into something hungrier.
Jisung’s hands went to his hair, fingers tugging lightly. Minho made a low sound that went straight to Jisung’s stomach.
Minho took off his blazer and threw it somewhere. His fingers slid under the hem of Jisung’s blouse, touching warm skin. Jisung shivered.
“Still okay?” Minho asked against his lips.
“Yes,” Jisung breathed. “Please.”
Minho’s hands are everywhere at once, mapping the skin of Jisung’s back, his sides, his stomach as he rucks the soft fabric of Jisung’s blouse up and over his head. It joins the blazer in the shadows. The cool air of the room kisses Jisung’s heated skin, raising goosebumps, but Minho’s mouth is there a second later, hot and demanding as it trails down his throat, over his collarbone.
He sinks to his knees right there, his back against the bedroom door, his hands sliding down to the waistband of Jisung’s jeans. He looks up, his eyes dark and unwavering, as he pops the button and drags the zipper down with a slow, deliberate rasp. The sound is obscenely loud in the quiet room.
“You said please,” Minho murmurs, his breath fanning over the straining bulge in Jisung’s briefs. He nuzzles against it, inhaling deeply. “So pretty when you beg.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply. He hooks his fingers into the waistbands of both jeans and briefs and pulls them down in one firm motion, freeing Jisung’s cock. It springs up, flushed and leaking, and Minho doesn’t hesitate. He leans forward and takes the entire length into his mouth in one smooth, deep swallow, his tongue pressing flat against the throbbing vein on the underside.
Jisung’s head thuds back against the door with a choked cry, his fingers flying into Minho’s hair. The wet heat is overwhelming, perfect, and Minho is merciless. He sets a brutal, rhythmic pace, his head bobbing, his throat working around Jisung with practiced ease. One of his hands comes up to cradle Jisung’s balls, rolling them gently, while the other reaches behind.
"Hyung," Jisung says between groans and moans, "Please, I want you to fuck me."
Minho pulls off with a wet, obscene pop, his lips swollen and glistening. He looks up, his gaze burning with a feral intensity. He doesn't speak. He just surges to his feet, his own need a palpable force in the room. He grabs Jisung by the hips and spins him around, pressing his chest flush against the cool wood of the door.
"Hands on the door," Minho commands, his voice rough with desire as he kicks Jisung's discarded jeans and briefs fully out of the way. He steps back for just a moment, the sound of a drawer opening and closing filling the tense silence.
Then he's back, his body a solid, heated line against Jisung's back. Jisung hears the cap of the lube click open, feels the cool, slick drizzle between his cheeks. Minho's fingers, slippery and insistent, find his entrance, circling, pressing, and then one slides inside in a slow, burning stretch.
Jisung gasps, his forehead pressing against the door, his fingers splaying against the wood. "Minho—"
"Shh," Minho breathes against the shell of his ear, his voice a dark, soothing rumble as he works a second finger in alongside the first, scissoring him open with careful, deliberate strokes. "I've got you. Just relax for me, baby. Let me feel you open up."
He crooks his fingers, searching, and when he finds that sweet, electric spot inside Jisung, he presses against it relentlessly. Jisung cries out, his body bowing, a white-hot bolt of pleasure shooting up his spine. He's trembling, dripping, completely at Minho's mercy against the door.
"Please," Jisung begs again, his voice broken. "Now, Hyung, please, I need you—"
Minho lifted him by the thighs, muscle memory from last time kicking in, and carried him to the bed. They landed with a soft thump. The cats discreetly left the room, their tiny brains deciding they saw enough. Minho settles Jisung onto the center of the bed, his body caging him in. The soft cotton sheets are cool against Jisung's feverish skin. Minho kneels between his spread thighs, his own cock, thick and flushed, jutting out from his open trousers. He slicks himself with more lube, the sound wet and urgent in the quiet room, his eyes never leaving Jisung's.
He leans down, bracing himself on one forearm beside Jisung's head, his other hand guiding the blunt, slick head of his cock to Jisung's stretched, quivering entrance. He pauses there, just pressing, letting Jisung feel the immense, promising pressure.
"Look at me," Minho breathes, his voice thick with barely restrained need. "I want to see you when I take you."
As Jisung's eyes flutter open, locking onto his, Minho pushes forward. It's a slow, inexorable invasion, a breathtaking stretch that steals the air from Jisung's lungs. Minho watches every micro-expression of pleasure and overwhelm cross Jisung's face as he sinks deeper, inch by torturously perfect inch, until he's fully sheathed, their bodies joined completely.
A ragged groan tears from Minho's throat. He's buried to the hilt, surrounded by tight, clenching heat. He stays there for a long moment, letting them both adjust, his forehead dropping to rest against Jisung's, their panting breaths mingling.
"Fuck," Minho whispers, awed and wrecked. "You feel... god, Jisung, you feel like heaven." Then he pulls back, almost all the way out, before driving back in with a deep, rolling thrust that punches a sharp, blissful cry from Jisung's lips. He sets a relentless, deep rhythm, each stroke hitting that perfect spot inside Jisung with precision.
Minho’s thrusts are deep, powerful, and perfectly measured, each one driving Jisung higher. But every few strokes, he’ll slow, his rhythm turning to a slow, grinding roll of his hips that makes Jisung whimper, and he’ll brush the sweat-damp hair from Jisung’s forehead.
“You good?” he’ll murmur, his voice a gravelly caress against Jisung’s lips before capturing them in a searing kiss.
He shifts, hooking Jisung’s legs over his shoulders, bending him nearly in half, and the new angle is devastating. Jisung sobs, his hands scrabbling at the sheets. Minho drives into him even deeper, his pace becoming punishing.
“Comfortable?” Minho grunts, his own breath coming in ragged gasps, his muscles corded with strain as he holds the demanding position. He leans down, his mouth latching onto Jisung’s neck, sucking a bruise into the tender skin there as his hips never stop their relentless piston.
Jisung can only nod, tears of overwhelming sensation leaking from the corners of his eyes. He’s so full, so perfectly wrecked, every nerve ending screaming with pleasure.
Minho feels him tightening, trembling on the edge. He slows again, just for a moment, his thrusts becoming shallow, teasing nudges against Jisung’s prostate. He looks down, his gaze burning with a fierce, protective heat.
“Tell me,” he demands, his voice rough but impossibly tender. “Tell me if anything hurts. Tell me when you’re close.”
The juxtaposition of his raw, dominant possession and this tender, unwavering care shatters Jisung completely. “N-nothing hurts,” he chokes out, his voice wrecked. “You’re perfect. I’m so close, Hyung, please—”
That broken plea is all the permission Minho needs. A guttural sound rips from his chest, a mix of triumph and raw need. He releases Jisung's legs, letting them fall to wrap around his waist instead, and changes his angle one last time, driving into him with a deep, focused precision that has Jisung seeing stars.
"Then come for me," Minho growls, his voice dark and commanding. He reaches between them, his slick hand wrapping around Jisung's neglected, weeping cock. He strokes him in time with his thrusts, his grip firm and perfect. "Let me feel you come all over yourself, baby. Show me."
The dual stimulation is too much. Jisung's back arches off the bed, a silent scream on his lips as his orgasm detonates through him. Thick, hot stripes of release paint his stomach and chest in erratic pulses, his entire body convulsing around Minho, milking him with intense, rhythmic clenches.
The feeling of Jisung tightening around him, hot and impossibly tight, is Minho's undoing. With a final, ragged shout of Jisung's name, he buries himself to the hilt and lets go. His own release floods into Jisung, wave after hot, pulsing wave, his hips stuttering through the last few, shallow thrusts as he empties himself completely in Jisung.
He collapses forward, catching most of his weight on his forearms on either side of Jisung's head. They're both panting, slick with sweat and come, utterly spent. Minho's forehead rests against Jisung's shoulder, his breaths coming in deep, shuddering gusts. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the damp skin beneath his lips.
For a long moment, there is only the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city outside. Then, Minho shifts, carefully withdrawing, a soft, wet sound in the quiet room. He rolls to the side, pulling Jisung with him before he can feel the loss, tucking him firmly against his chest. His arms wrap around Jisung, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head, fingers gently carding through his damp hair.
He doesn't speak. He just holds him, their hearts hammering against each other's ribs, slowly settling into a synchronized rhythm. The room smells of sex and sweat and them, a heady, intimate perfume. Minho's lips find Jisung's temple, pressing a kiss there that's more tender than anything that came before.
After a few minutes, he shifts again, reaching for the napkins next to bed, cleaning Jisung and himself. Then get comfortable next to Jisung again. Reaching for the blanket tangled at the foot of the bed. He pulls it up over them both, tucking it around Jisung's shoulders. One of his hands slides down, his palm coming to rest flat and warm on the small of Jisung's back, a grounding, possessive weight.
"Okay?" he murmurs finally, his voice a low, sleep-rough rumble against Jisung's hair. It's the same question, but now it means everything. “More than okay.” Jisung hums. “Feel sooo good Hyung.”
Minho giggles softly. It was Different from the first time, but just as careful.
Eventually, everything blurred into warmth and breath and the feeling of being held.
—
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Glimpse of us” – Joji
“Cause sometimes, I look in her eyes
And that's where I find a glimpse of us
And I try to fall for her touch
But I'm thinkin' of the way it was
Said I'm fine and said I moved on
I'm only here”
----------------
For the first time, Jisung woke up in Minho’s bed when it wasn’t a trip or a shared house.
He blinked at the ceiling, disoriented for a second, then looked to his side. The other side of the bed was empty, but still warm.
He could hear voices in the distance. Soft. One deeper. One higher.
And the clinking of plates.
After wearing some clothes he found folded om the bed, Minho has prepared them he figured, he went out of the room following the smell of food and coffee to the kitchen.
Hyunjin and Minho were there. Minho stood at the stove, pan in hand. Hyunjin sat at the table, hair tied up messily, wearing an oversized shirt and sweatpants. All three cats hovered between Minho and their food bowls.
“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Hyunjin said when he saw him. He smirked. “Or should I say… loud beauty.”
Jisung’s face went red immediately. “Hyung,” he groaned.
Minho turned around, smile softening when he saw him. “Morning, jagiya,” he said. “Sit.”
There was already a plate set for him. Toast. Eggs. Some cut fruit. A small bowl of kimchi. A mug of tea next to it.
“You made breakfast?” Jisung asked, still half stunned.
“I’m not going to let my boyfriend starve after a date and a sleepover,” Minho said like it was obvious.
Hyunjin snorted. “He was up early, cleaning the living room and then cooking. Very scary.”
Minho ignored him and placed the pan back on the stove.
They ate together. Hyunjin complained about having to sleep at a friend’s because “someone” texted him last minute that he should not come home, and Changbin was working. Minho argued that he told him because he was being considerate and Hyunjin should be grateful. Jisung hid behind his mug and tried not to die.
They shifted to talking about uni after a while.
“Classes start next week,” Hyunjin said, staring at his phone. “I checked again. 9 a.m. Monday. Kill me.”
“Rehearsals start again for me on Tuesday,” Minho added. “I’ll probably be at the studio until late most days.”
Jisung nodded, chewing slowly. “We got our timetables yesterday,” he said. “Chan sent them in the group chat too. I have composition on Monday and Wednesday. Production on Tuesday. Two theory classes. And one seminar I already regret signing up for.”
“Can we skip the first week together?” Hyunjin asked, half-joking. “As a bonding exercise?”
“No,” Minho and Jisung said at the same time.
Hyunjin rolled his eyes. “Traitors.”
They laughed. But in the back of Jisung’s mind, something tugged.
Chan.
Felix.
He checked his phone when they were done eating. Felix had sent him a meme. And then:
Sunshine Twin: Check the group chat.
Sunshine Twin: Chan cancelled on our group coffee tomorrow.
Sunshine Twin: Said he has to “stay late at the studio”.
Sunshine Twin: Starting early with the distancing, I guess.
Jisung’s fingers tightened around his phone.
--
Later that day, when he went back to his dorm and lay alone in his bed, he kept thinking about it. Chan wasn’t scared of being gay. He was scared of being wrong again.
He was scared of hurting Felix. So he tried to hurt himself instead, not realizing that this too was hurting Felix.
And when classes started the next week, Jisung began to see it clearly. The whole group did. News traveled fast and even the last two who had known nothing about it before, Seungmin and Jeongin, now knew that something had happened. They didn’t know what exactly but were still worried.
Chan tried to be the same in front of everyone. Laughing. Leading. Carrying. Helping.
But something in his eyes looked tired.
He kept his distance from Felix just a little too much. Not enough for strangers to notice. But enough for anyone who knew them. Even Seungmin had asked Jisung if the two had fought.
Chan sat one seat too far. Left one minute too early. Changed the topic whenever love or dating were mentioned in the group.
One afternoon, it was just the three going home from the the gym. Changbin, Chan, and Jisung.
Changbin and Jisung looked at each other and nodded.
Now or never.
“Hyung, are you okay?” Jisung asked.
Chan gave him that soft, tired smile.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I know you guys know. But there is nothing you can do for me. I have to figure things out alone…” He sighed, exhausted.
Silence settled between them.
Then Chan added, “Felix deserves someone sure of himself. Someone who won’t confuse him. I don’t want to mess him up.”
“You’re not messing him up,” Jisung tried.
Chan shook his head. “Last time I thought I was sure, I hurt someone. I can’t do that again.”
“But Hyung, are you talking about the club thing? That wasn’t very serious and you know it,” Changbin said, trying carefully.
Chan stopped walking.
“No. Actually, there was someone else in my past.” He swallowed. “But I really don’t want to talk about it, guys. I’m sorry.”
Changbin and Jisung exchanged shocked looks. They had known Chan for years.
How did they miss this part of his life? Jisung knew about the song, Felix has told him. But he didn’t realise how serious it was. He thought that Chan only had had a crush on someone or something like that?
Chan he kept his distance for the next weeks. Felix pretended to be okay.
And Jisung, sitting between his happy new relationship and his two hurting friends, could only watch and wonder how to fix something he didn’t break.
Chapter 14: "Just date already"
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “What2do” – Dean, Crush, Jeff
“Tell me what to do, I don't know what to do
Your love is just a memory
Baby it's your last time, to give your best try
And to give your heart to me
it feels like you don't know me
As your lover, as your homie, getting no love
It seems like over to us
You been gone too long
Only memory of you is this song
But I still wonder if you
Are thinking of me too"
----------------
That night, the dorm smells like instant noodles again. The familiar scent mixes with the soft crackling of the kettle. Classes have started, exams are coming. And the two twenty-somethings only cook real food when life forces them to. The usual scene.
Jisung sits cross-legged on the floor, ripping the seasoning packet open with his teeth while Felix stirs the pot with chopsticks that have seen way too much. They got them from a Chinese restaurant once. Took four or five pairs home.
“You know,” Felix says, tossing the noodles into the boiling water, “we eat this like… at least four times a week. We should qualify for some kind of sponsorship.”
“Or a ramen brand deal,” Jisung says. “Our faces on the package. Tragic student edition. We’re handsome, I think they will sell out.”
Felix snorts. “I even know what to name it: depression and MSG.”
Jisung laughs and puts two bowls on the low table in front of the TV. The room is dim, just the yellow light above the stove and the tiny lamp on the shelf. Someone upstairs is blasting music. A car honks outside. The campus never really sleeps. It just changes noise throughout the day.
He doesn’t realize how much he needed this. Just home and Felix. The small, messy dorm that smells like cheap soap, instant coffee, and their shampoo. It is always so fascinating for him to see the difference between his and Felix’s dorm and Hyunjin and Minho’s dorm.
When they finally sit down with steaming bowls, Felix slurps loudly on purpose.
“Okay. Spill.” He points his chopsticks at Jisung. “You’ve been smiling since you walked in here. It’s suspicious.”
Jisung doesn’t even try to hide it. His grin spreads uncontrollably, cheeks dimpling, eyes turning into little crescents.
“Ahhh bro… Minho is amazing.” He sighs. Like the idiot in love he is.
Felix’s eyebrows shoot up so fast it almost looks painful. “Reallyyy?” he asks, sarcastically.
“Yeah.” Jisung pokes at his noodles, cheeks warming too fast, ignoring the sarcasm in his best friend’s voice. “Mondays and Wednesdays, we walk to class together. Like… he waits for me in front of the dorm. With Red Bull.”
“With Red Bull?” Felix repeats. “This man’s got game.” His voice still full of sarcasm.
“And last Thursday he finished late at the studio, and I brought him pudding,” Jisung goes on. “You know, his favorite. The caramel one he eats in exactly three bites.”
Felix smiles at that, shaking his head. There is no saving Jisung anymore.
“And then I sleep at his place on Tuesdays. And Fridays. And oh my god…”
He looks away, face going red from the memory alone. His chopsticks slow down. He stirs the noodles that don’t need more stirring.
“And… it’s amazing. Being intimate with Minho is amazing.”
Felix snorts so hard he almost inhales a noodle. “Intimate is not the word I would have chosen for the noises I heard through the wall on the trip.”
“Felix,” Jisung hisses, kicking him under the table.
“What?” Felix widens his eyes. “I’m just a victim in this. I didn’t ask for a live concert.”
“Shut up.”
But he’s smiling. He can’t help it. He’s smiling because the last few weeks he has felt so warm and happy. His body has stopped bracing for impact and he has stopped asking himself when the moment will come where everything comes crashing down.
“It’s just… easy with him,” Jisung says quietly after a moment. “We have this little routine now. Walks in the morning. Friday sleepovers. Buying food for the cats. Cooking together. It feels like we’re a real couple, you know?”
Felix laughs softly.
“And I think…” Jisung bites his lip. His heart thuds in his chest like it’s trying to jump out and do a little dance. “I think I’m really happy. Like… the happiest I’ve ever been.”
He says it with a low voice. Like a secret he’s scared to say out loud because somehow saying it will jinx it.
Felix’s smile falters just slightly. Barely there. Just a small drag at the corners, a tiny tremor. But Jisung sees it. He always sees it with Felix. He can read his face like subtitles.
A tiredness behind his eyes. A weight that hasn’t left in weeks.
“And Chan…,” Jisung adds slowly, because ignoring the elephant in the room never works with them. “He cancelled today in the group chat, too.”
“Yeah,” Felix says. He slurps again, eyes glued to his bowl so he doesn’t have to look anywhere else. “I haven’t seen him properly in weeks.”
His voice is light. His eyes are not. There it is. The crack in the armour.
Jisung reaches across the table and squeezes his wrist. Felix’s skin is warm under his fingers. Familiar.
“Lixie…”
Felix forces a smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes at all.
“Anyway.” He shrugs like he can just throw the feeling off. “Enough about Chan. Want to hear something funny? A junior dance major asked me out.”
Jisung blinks. “Wait, what? Who?”
“A guy I already know from taekwondo.” Felix twirls his chopsticks between his fingers. “Kota Miura. Black belt. Pretty. Annoyingly polite. I think he’s Japanese. He said he liked my energy. Which is hilarious, because I maybe spoke like three words with him.”
Jisung stares at him.
“What did you tell him?”
“I said I’d think about it.”
“And?” Jisung asks.
Felix looks down at his bowl. The noodles have gone soft already. He pushes them around like he’s drawing circles.
“I don’t want to wait forever for someone who doesn’t want me.” He sighs.
The silence that follows hits harder than any punch. Something inside Jisung flinches.
He thinks of Chan’s tired eyes these days in class. The way he sits one seat too far away now. The way Felix laughs louder when Chan is around, like he’s trying to prove something. The way the 3RACHA chat has become quiet because it’s only Changbin and Jisung who text each other.
He thinks of Chan’s text after the kiss. “It was a mistake.” He thinks of Felix reading it and crying.
Jisung takes a slow breath.
“Then go,” he says softly. “Go on that date, Lixie.”
Felix swallows. His throat bobs.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “Maybe I should.”
But his eyes say something else.
Jisung sees that too.
He doesn’t know how to fix it. So he just squeezes Felix’s wrist again, so hard Felix hisses and tells him to stop being weird.
They finish their noodles. The room goes quiet again.
For one of them, life is starting to feel soft. For the other, it hurts to breathe right now.
—
The next day, campus buzzes with students heading home from class when Changbin corners Jisung under the big oak tree near the arts building. They don’t have the same classes today, so Jisung is happy to see him. Bags bump against legs. People shout across the lawn. Someone’s speaker is playing music too loudly.
Changbin doesn’t care about any of that.
“You told Felix to go out with that Kota guy?” he demands, not even saying hi first.
Jisung almost chokes on his sip of Red Bull. He knew Felix wanted everyone to know, just to bring the news to Chan, but he didn’t think Felix would be that fast.
“Yes? Good morning to you, too. Why are you mad?”
“Because Chan likes Felix,” Changbin explodes. His voice carries. A few heads turn. “And Felix likes Chan too, and you… you just push him into another guy’s arms?”
Jisung scoffs, defensive heat rising in his chest.
“What is Felix supposed to do, Bin? Sit around for months waiting for Chan to decide if he even wants him?”
“He does want him!”
“Well, he sure doesn’t act like it!” Jisung shoots back.
They’re both raising their voices now.
Perfect. A public meltdown. Exactly what he needs.
A group of freshmen nearby slows down to watch.
Changbin steps closer, eyes blazing.
“You don’t get it, Jisung.”
“No, you don’t,” Jisung snaps. “Felix is hurting too. You think he enjoys waiting? You think he likes being ignored? He deserves something good for once.”
“And you think some random junior is ‘something good’?”
“At least he actually wants him!”
Changbin’s jaw clenches. For a second, it looks like he might really say something he can’t take back.
They might go on for a while if a familiar soft voice doesn’t cut through the tension.
“Hey.”
Minho.
He walks up with his drink in one hand and his bag slung over his shoulder, eyes flicking between them like he’s choosing which child to scold first. His hair is pushed back, forehead out. He looks too good. Like always.
“What’s happening?” he asks.
Changbin throws his hands up dramatically. “Your boyfriend is being stupid. He pushed Felix into another guy’s arms.”
“I’m not stupid,” Jisung shoots back.
Minho presses his lips together to keep a laugh in. His eyes are warm, though.
“Bin…” he says calmly. “You know Felix. He’s not going to wait forever. And he shouldn’t.”
Changbin opens his mouth to argue again, but nothing comes out this time. Because Minho is right. And that annoys him.
Minho turns to Jisung next, expression softening in that way that always makes Jisung’s stomach flip.
“Come here.”
He reaches out and laces their fingers. Jisung follows. He feels Changbin’s eyes on his back, and guilt flickers, but he keeps walking.
Minho tugs him away from the crowd first, then all the way off campus without really asking, and before Jisung realizes it, they are at the bus stop, then in the bus, and then in front of Minho’s dorm building.
The walk from the station to the building is quiet. Too quiet.
Jisung keeps throwing nervous looks at him.
Why is Minho this silent? Why is his jaw that tight? Is he angry? Disappointed? Regretting the dates? Regretting him? His brain goes from zero to disaster in two seconds.
When they arrive, they take off their shoes, and the cats pad over. Dori sniffs his laces.
“Hi,” Jisung whispers, bending down to scratch behind the cats’ ears.
They set their bags down and sit in the living room. The quiet stretches. Only Dori’s little bell and the hum of the fridge in the kitchen make noise.
Minho watches him for a second. He still doesn’t say one word, nor does he kiss him hello yet. Jisung feels like crying.
Then Minho asks quietly, “Baby. Answer honestly. If I had gone on a date with that guy who flirted with me. Taewon. Back when you were in Chan’s place, still trying to figure out what you feel. How would you have felt?”
Jisung freezes. His stomach drops like he has missed a step. He doesn’t even need to imagine it. His body already knows. Just the thought makes his chest tight and his throat feel weird. He hates even hearing the name of this guy. Taewon. Ew.
“I… would’ve hated it,” he admits. His voice comes out small.
Minho’s eyes soften. He reaches out and brushes his thumb over Jisung’s cheek, slow.
“Exactly,” he says.
Guilt hits Jisung like a punch. Full force with no warning, straight to the ribs.
He isn’t wrong for wanting Felix to move on. He knows that. Felix is not a statue. He’s not a backup plan for Chan.
But he hasn’t thought about how it would feel for Chan to sit there and watch Felix give a chance to someone else while he is trying to figure out what is going on inside his head. To watch Felix laugh at someone else’s jokes. To watch Felix text someone else goodnight.
He stares at his hands for a few moments, fingers twisting in the hem of his hoodie.
“I just wanted him to stop hurting,” he whispers.
“I know,” Minho says, stretching his arms, letting Jisung in, and kissing him on top of his head. “Of course you did. You always want to fix everything.”
“I don’t fix anything a lot of the time,” Jisung mutters.
Minho huffs a soft laugh. Then his voice goes gentle again.
“You can’t fix one person by breaking another,” he says. “That’s just moving the pain around.”
Jisung leans back against Minho's chest. He closes his eyes.
The thought sits in his chest like a stone for the rest of the day.
—
So the next day, he goes to Changbin the moment he sees him in class. The lecture hall is still half empty. Chan hasn’t arrived yet.
Jisung drops into the seat next to Changbin.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
Changbin looks at him, still a little guarded, pen in hand, notebook open but empty.
“You were right to be upset,” Jisung continues. “I just… didn’t think about Chan’s side. I only saw Felix hurting.”
Changbin stares at him for a second. Then his shoulders loosen. Some of the anger leaves his face and is replaced by the usual worried-older-brother look he has when it comes to their group.
“Okay,” he says. “Fine. Apology accepted.”
He nudges Jisung’s shoulder with his own.
“Still love you, idiot.”
Jisung huffs out a breath that is almost a laugh.
“Love you too,” he says, bumping him back.
They sit in silence for a moment. The professor walks in, drops his bag on the table, and plugs in his laptop. The projector makes that loud click sound.
Then Changbin says what they’re both already thinking.
“We need to fix them.”
Jisung looks straight ahead at the board. Then at Chan’s empty seat.
“Yeah,” he says. “But to do that… we need to know what actually happened in Chan’s past.”
Changbin’s eyes sharpen. He taps his pen against the table.
“How? He’s not spending any time with us outside of class anymore.”
He thinks for a second. Then his eyes light up a little.
“So we trick him into meeting us?” he whispers.
Jisung smirks. “We tell him we want to write a new song together. He never says no to that.”
Changbin’s mouth falls open in fake offence, then he grins.
“Let’s do it.”
—
Chan arrives at Jisung and Changbin’s small studio corner in the music building later that day, looking exhausted but trying very hard to look normal. Cap pulled low. Hoodie. Sweatpants. A to-go cup of coffee in his hand.
“You guys said you had a new track idea?” he asks, setting his backpack on the floor with a soft thump.
The tiny room smells like old cables, coffee, and the cheap air freshener someone hung near the door months ago. A laptop sits on the desk, the familiar audio program open. Speakers. A worn sofa under the window. This room has seen all of them cry at least once.
Jisung and Changbin exchange a quick glance when Chan finally sits down near them. They know they have to start talking to him now before he changes the subject.
Showtime.
“Hyung…” Changbin begins, voice softer than usual. “We didn’t invite you to work on a song.”
Chan blinks. His grip on the coffee cup tightens.
Jisung nods. “We need to talk. And you need to talk. Because everyone can see it. Even the blind.”
Chan’s shoulders tense. He sets his coffee down on the desk.
“See what?” he asks, even though his eyes say he already knows.
“That you like Felix,” Changbin says softly. “And we know that you know that he is now going on a date with someone else.”
Chan freezes.
The air in the room goes thick.
His eyes move between them, then drop to the floor. His jaw clenches. He stands up again. For a second, Jisung thinks he will turn around and walk out.
Instead, his knees give a little and he sits down on the small sofa, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped so tight his knuckles go white. He stares at the floor.
Silence.
“I already told you that there was someone,” Chan says finally. His voice is so low they have to lean in to hear. “It was long ago.”
Jisung and Changbin stay quiet. They don’t interrupt. They are scared that one word will make Chan stop talking.
“Bambam,” Chan continues after a moment. “You remember him.”
They both nod slowly.
Older guy at their school. Loud and funny. He and Chan were sewn at the hip for a long time. But then he vanished suddenly. No explanation. One day he just wasn’t there. And Chan never told them the reason. Until now.
Chan swallows hard.
“We were really close,” he says. “He… he understood me. Same music taste. Same stress. Same expectations. All of it. We stayed out late. He was the person I went to a studio with for the first time. We talked about everything. Shared playlists. He was the first person I was able to be weak with.”
His lips twitch in a sad half-smile for a second, then fall again.
“One night he kissed me.”
Jisung holds his breath. He didn’t expect this at all. Bambam and Chan? Everything starts to click.
“I kissed him back,” Chan admits. His hand goes up to his neck, fingers pressing into the skin there. “Just for a moment… and then I panicked.”
He lets out a dry laugh that isn’t really a laugh.
“And then I did the worst thing I’ve ever done.”
“What did you say to him?” Jisung asks, gentle.
Chan’s eyes shine with shame when he looks up.
“I told him it was a mistake,” he says. The words sound like they still taste bitter. “I told him I didn’t feel anything. I told him I wasn’t like that.” His voice cracks on the last part.
“He looked so hurt,” Chan whispers. “And instead of fixing it, I avoided him. For weeks. I left his messages on read. I hid in the studio. I changed my schedule. When he tried to talk, I ran. Literally. I pretended to be busy. I pretended nothing happened… I even started dating a girl just… just to… I don’t know.”
Changbin’s chest tightens. He remembers that time. Chan more tense than usual. Bambam not showing up to school anymore. Nobody understood why. They didn’t ask enough. They were kids, living in their own bubble.
“And when we finally talked again,” Chan goes on, “I said things just to protect myself. That I liked him as a friend only.”
He shakes his head at himself.
“You didn’t mean to hurt him,” Jisung whispers quietly.
“But I did,” Chan answers immediately. “He stopped coming. Then he transferred. I don’t even know. One day, he just… wasn’t in school anymore. He blocked my number. I never got to apologize.”
A long silence settles over the room.
Only the faint buzz of the computer and the distant sound of someone practicing drums down the hall fill it.
Chan’s shoulders curl inwards like he’s trying to make himself smaller.
“I made him feel like he was wrong for wanting me,” he says. “Like he was… wrong. Like he was dirty. And I am terrified of ever doing that to Felix. He deserves someone sure. Someone brave. I am neither.”
Jisung’s throat burns.
“Hyung…” he says softly. “Hurting Bambam was wrong. Avoiding him was wrong.”
Chan nods, eyes glassy, jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumps.
“But you’re not doing better now,” Jisung continues. The words feel heavy in his mouth, but he says them anyway. “You’re just hurting Felix slowly instead of all at once.”
Changbin leans forward, forearms on his knees, voice steady.
“You don’t need to promise Felix a whole future with marriage right now,” he says. “You don’t need to show up with a ring and a marching band. You just need to stop lying about the present. Stop pretending you don’t feel anything.”
Chan swallows hard.
“I don’t know if I can,” he says. “What if I mess it up again? What if I think I’m sure and then suddenly I’m not? What if I hurt him like I hurt Bambam? I swear, I’d rather cut my own heart out than see that look on his face.”
“See, that already shows how much you care for him,” Jisung says, quieter now. “Felix isn’t asking you to be perfect. He just wants you to stop running.”
He thinks of Felix at the table that night. Twisting his chopsticks. Saying he doesn’t want to wait forever for someone who doesn’t want him.
“Right now you’re hurting him anyway,” Jisung adds. “You’re just doing it with silence instead of words.”
Chan closes his eyes for a moment. His shoulders rise and fall in a shaky breath.
Slowly, he nods.
Not fixed. Not suddenly brave. But willing.
Which is enough for now.
“How do I apologize?” he asks. The question comes out small. Like he’s a kid again.
Jisung and Changbin look at each other.
“Tell him the truth,” Changbin says. “Tell him you were scared. Tell him you hurt someone before because you ran away. Tell him you don’t want to repeat that. Tell him you want one date.”
“And if he says no?” Chan asks quietly.
“Then you respect it,” Jisung says. “You leave him alone. You don’t push. But at least you didn’t run away this time.”
Chan exhales. It comes out shaky, as if something heavy finally cracks open inside his chest.
“Okay,” he whispers. “I’ll try.”
Try.
The first real step he has taken in months.
He picks up his phone with trembling fingers. The screen lights up. Felix’s chat sits on top of the list. Jisung realizes that Chan has pinned it there.
Jisung watches him type something. Stop. Delete. Type again. Delete again. His thumbs move fast, then slower, then stop.
“Hyung,” Changbin says quietly. “It doesn’t have to be perfect.”
Chan nods once. Then he starts one more time.
His thumbs move more slowly now, then his jaw sets, and he hits send. His shoulders drop, and he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
“What did you write?” Jisung asks carefully.
Chan stares at the screen, eyes shining.
“That I’m sorry,” he says. “That I lied when I called it a mistake. That I wanted the kiss too. That I miss him and that I want to explain everything to him. And that if he never wants to see me again, I’ll respect it. But if he can give me one hour, I want to try to do this the right way.”
Jisung’s throat tightens again.
“Good,” he says. “That’s good.”
They sit there in silence, three boys in a too-small studio corner, watching the phone like it’s a bomb.
Ten minutes pass. No answer yet.
Chan stands up. His legs look a little weak.
“I’m gonna… go for a walk,” he says.
He slips his cap back on and leaves the room. The door closes softly behind him.
Jisung and Changbin stay seated, both staring at the door even after it shuts.
“Do you think he’ll answer?” Changbin asks eventually.
“I think,” Jisung says slowly, “that Felix has been waiting for this message since the night of the kiss.”
His own phone buzzes in his pocket at that exact moment. New message.
He pulls it out.
My Sunshine Twin: He just texted me.
Another message comes in.
My Sunshine Twin: I want to go, but at the same time, I don’t know if I should go.
Jisung stares at the words. His stomach twists. He sits there between his full heart with Minho and his friends’ broken ones, feeling pulled in two directions at once.
He thinks of Felix’s eyes last night. He thinks of Chan’s shaking hands right now, somewhere outside, walking circles around campus.
He types back.
Jisung: Lixie. Whatever you decide, I’m with you. But if you want the truth from him, this is your chance.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
And then, somewhere outside, Chan’s phone buzzes with a reply.
Somewhere completely else, Kota goes to sleep, probably having no idea he has walked right into an emotional war, his first year in uni.
In three different places now, three different hearts beat too fast.
Try.
The first real step.
And Jisung can only hope it will be enough to stop them all from breaking more than they already have.
—
Chan talks with Felix. And he tells them about it.
In the morning, it is Chan who texts them. The first message in the 3RACHA chat in weeks. And of course, they agree to meet him. Chan is always there for them. Always. He never leaves them alone with their struggles or thoughts. Now it is Changbin’s and Jisung’s turn to return the favour.
They meet at their coffee spot. Near campus. Just the three of them. Like the good old times. Not that the new times are not good, don’t get him wrong, but the three of them share a bond they only have together. It’s like the three musketeers. And they’re a group of eight, of course, there are sub-groups in this big group. Like Seungmin and Jeongin, who share a bond nobody understands. Or Minho and Hyunjin. Or Hyunjin and Seungmin. Or Felix and Jisung. Jisung and Hyunjin. Chan and Jeongin. All of these examples just to say that them meeting only the three of them does not mean that they trust the others any less or that they don’t all belong to the same friend group. There are just things you share with some and not with others until you feel comfortable. And that’s completely normal.
Chan actually sits there waiting for them to arrive when they enter the tiny café near campus, hands wrapped around a mug that has long gone cold. He looks exhausted. They sit down, in silence first. And then, something in Chan breaks open, and he just starts talking.
About himself.
About his fear.
About Felix.
Jisung has never seen him like this. They always joke around about Chan being their dad. But when a shake is heard in the way he is speaking, Jisung swears it hurts him exactly the same way it hurt when he saw his mom cry for the first time as a child.
The way Chan stares at the table instead of at him. The way his thumb keeps circling the rim of the cup, like he needs something to hold on to while his words keep slipping.
“I have never been in a real relationship,” Chan says. “Like… real real. Labels. Commitments. Meeting the parents. All that.” They nod. They know that.
“I was always busy,” Chan continues. “Producing music. School. Then work and more work. For a long time I needed to help provide for my family when my dad was in the hospital. Hookups were easier. No expectations. No one to disappoint.”
He swallows. Jisung watches his throat move.
“And now it’s Felix,” Chan says, voice softening. “And he’s… he’s not someone I can risk hurting like that. Not someone I can just… try with and see what happens. If I screw up, I screw up big.”
He laughs a humourless laugh.
“I don’t know if I can handle a relationship where I don’t end up hurting the other person,” he admits. “I really don’t know if I can ‘do love right.’ Every time I think about it, my chest goes tight and all I can see is me ruining it. All my past hookups went the same way. In the end they always asked the question ‘what are we’ and I had to be honest, always ending up hurting them and myself.”
Silence spreads across them. Chan seems to be all over the place with his thoughts, but at the same time they understand what he is saying and where he is coming from.
“What is different about Felix?” Jisung asks quietly.
Chan’s eyes go shiny.
“I want to try,” he says. “I want to. Sometimes I look at him and I feel… everything. And then I remember Bambam’s face and my brain just screams at me to stop before I start.”
He squeezes his own hands.
“I don’t want to be the reason Felix looks at himself and thinks something is wrong with him,” Chan whispers. “Not again. Not ever.”
Jisung feels his own throat burn.
“So what do you want to do?” Changbin asks.
Chan stares at the table for a long time. “I want to go slow. I want to be honest with him. That I am scared. That I’m not used to this. That I don’t know how to be a boyfriend, but I want to try. I just… I can’t promise him I won’t freak out sometimes.”
Jisung nods. “Did you tell him that?”
Chan lets out a breath.
“Yes,” he says. “And he listened. And then he looked me straight in the eyes and said: ‘We can go slow. But I’m not waiting around forever. While you figure yourself out, I’ll still live my life.’”
He presses a hand to his chest then, like the sentence still sits there.
“He’s right,” Chan adds. “He doesn’t owe me anything. I have no right to ask him to wait.”
—
Now, a day later, sitting on the bed in his best friend’s room, Jisung can still hear that line in Felix’s voice. Even though he wasn’t there, he can imagine it. How Felix is tired but still honest. And Chan, who always thinks the whole world deserves better than him, probably just nodded.
“Are you going to just sit there and stare into nothing or are you going to tell me if this shirt looks okay?” Felix’s voice cuts through his thoughts.
Jisung blinks.
Felix is standing in front of the full-length mirror, shirt half-buttoned, hair still damp from the shower. The dorm room is chaos. Clothes on the bed. Two different pairs of shoes on the floor. A hair straightener on a chair, burning hot. A towel hanging from the closet door. Felix’s open wardrobe looks like it has been robbed.
“You look fine,” Jisung says.
Felix turns immediately. “Fine? FINE?” he repeats, offended. “I am going on a date, Han Jisung. With a pretty taekwondo boy. I cannot just look fine.”
Jisung sighs and drags himself up from the bed.
“You look good,” he corrects. “Like… very dateable. Happy now?”
Felix squints at him. “Try again, sir.”
“You look hot,” Jisung says, hands up. “There. You’re hot. You’re beautiful. Your hair is perfect. Your shirt is sexy. Your jawline could cut glass. Kota will fall on his knees the moment he sees you.”
Felix finally smiles, the corner of his mouth twitching up.
“Better,” he says. He turns back to the mirror and adjusts the collar. It is a simple white shirt, tucked into black slacks. Clean, neat, slightly oversized. It makes him look like he has his life together.
It’s a lie, but a pretty one.
“Are you nervous?” Jisung asks, leaning on the doorframe of Felix’s room.
“A bit,” Felix admits. “I haven’t been on a real date in… ever?”
“That’s not true,” Jisung says. “You have been on almost-dates with your professor.” He giggles.
Felix rolls his eyes at him through the reflection.
“Don’t start,” he says. “You know what I mean.”
Jisung raises his hands in surrender.
He watches Felix put on a small silver necklace, then some rings. His hands shake a little when he tries to fasten the chain. Jisung steps in without a word and does it for him.
Felix goes quiet.
“Do you… think I’m doing something wrong?” he asks suddenly. His voice has lost the joking tone.
“By going on the date?” Jisung asks back.
Felix nods, eyes fixed on the mirror.
“No,” Jisung says. “You’re doing something for yourself. You told him you’d live your life. And you are.”
Felix’s shoulders relax a little. Just a little.
“I know,” he says. “I just… it feels weird. Like my heart is somewhere else and my body is going on this… side quest.”
Jisung snorts. “Side quest for free food and compliments. Could be worse.”
Felix laughs.
“True,” he says. “Okay. I’m leaving before I talk myself out of it.”
He grabs his black coat, checks his phone for the time, and slips into his shoes. At the door, he turns back around.
“You’ll be here when I come back?” he asks.
“Obviously,” Jisung says. “I need the full report.”
Felix smiles at him. A soft, grateful smile that makes his freckles stand out more.
“Okay,” he says. “Don’t eat all the snacks without me.”
Then he leaves. The door clicks shut and the room falls quiet.
Jisung stares at the door for a few seconds.
Guilt slides into his stomach. Slow and heavy. He told Felix to go. Told him that it is not a mistake. So why does he feel guilty now? Chan was in the wrong, wasn’t he? Is there a right or wrong in this situation? Because it sure doesn’t feel like it. Chan says he will try. Try to figure out what is happening with him and at the same time he will give Felix his space. He knows that Felix is going on the date tonight. And he says as long as Felix is happy, he is too. But he says that with the saddest smile Jisung has ever seen on a person. Of course Chan only wants Felix to be happy. They all want that. But it doesn’t mean that Chan has to be sad, does it? Why can’t Chan just go bomb the date and ask Felix out? When Jisung suggested that earlier, half joking half not, Chan said that if Kota can make Felix happy, who is he to take that away from him? Felix is old and smart enough to know what he wants. Jisung sighs. He knows Chan is right. But it all feels so, so wrong.
He grabs his phone and opens Minho’s chat instead of spiralling.
Jisung: Felix just left for the date. I feel weird.
Minho-Hyung: Want me to pick you up? We can cuddle these feelings away.
He stares at the message for a second. A smile tugs at his lips despite everything.
Jisung: No, it’s okay. I’ll wait for him. Just wanted to cry or scream around.
Minho-Hyung: Scream away, jagiya.
Also I’ll be done at the studio in an hour. Call me if you need.
Jisung: Will do, thank you Hyung
Jisung locks his phone.
He sits on the couch and pulls his knees up, hugging them loosely. The room feels too big suddenly. Felix’s perfume lingers in the air. A jacket hangs over his chair. Half-read manga on the desk. Jisung sighs.
He wonders where Chan is right now.
—
Chan is at the studio.
Where else would he go when he needs to not feel anything?
The gym is already closed, so here he is.
The small recording room is lit only by the soft blue LED strip under the desk and the light from the computer screen. The audio project in front of him has at least sixty tracks. Drums, synths, bass, vocals, ad-libs, harmonies. Layers over layers over layers.
It still sounds empty.
He presses play. Stops. Adjusts something. Presses play again.
The beat fills the room. His head bobs automatically. His fingers tap the space bar. His eyes don’t really see the screen anymore.
He checks the time.
19:34.
Felix’s date has started thirty-four minutes ago.
Stop it, he tells himself. Focus.
He drags an EQ onto the vocal. Tweaks a frequency. Listens again. Adjusts the reverb. Nothing sits right. Some months ago he was here with Felix. Working on their project.
He thinks of Felix laughing.
Felix sitting in a café with someone else. Felix’s hair tucked behind his ear by someone else’s hand. Felix’s eyes shining across a table that isn’t this desk. Felix walking next to someone else on the street, talking with his hands, telling stories with his whole body.
Chan’s chest hurts.
He presses play again. The track sounds colder now. He tries to focus on making the track livelier.
He thinks about their conversation.
About Felix sitting there, curled into his oversized hoodie, hands wrapped around his drink.
“I’m glad you told me,” Felix had said, after Chan spilled everything about Bambam, about fear, about not knowing how to be good.
Chan had stared at his fingers. “I’m sorry it took me this long.”
Felix had shrugged.
“We can go slow,” he had said. “If you really want to try, we can go slow. No pressure. Just… see where it goes.”
Chan’s heart had almost exploded from relief.
But then Felix had added, “But I’m not waiting around forever. While you figure yourself out, I’ll still live my life. If I go on dates with other people, that’s not me trying to hurt you. That’s me not putting my life on pause because of you.”
It had stung. Not because it was unfair. Because it wasn’t. He knew it.
“I know I don’t owe you waiting,” Felix had said gently. “I just owe you honesty. And you owe me the same.”
Now Kota exists.
Chan checks the time again.
19:41.
He presses play. Stops. Tries to work on the snare. Fails.
He drops his forehead to the desk for a second, breathing out.
“I hope he is happy,” he mumbles into the wood. His chest clenches around the words.
He means it. But he also hates every second of it.
—
Felix comes back home three hours later.
Jisung hears the key in the lock and sits up too fast on the couch, almost dropping his phone on his face. The door opens and Felix steps inside. The hallway light paints his silhouette in soft yellow.
Jisung squints. “How was it?” he asks immediately.
Felix takes off his shoes first. Slowly. Then his coat. He hangs it up. He walks into the living room without saying anything.
Jisung’s heart starts to pound.
“Lix?” he says.
Felix drops down next to him on the couch with a long, dramatic sigh.
“There was no kiss,” he announces.
“Oh,” Jisung says. “That bad?”
Felix shakes his head. “No. That’s the problem.”
He pulls his legs up and sits cross-legged, facing Jisung. His shirt is slightly wrinkled now. A bit of his eyeliner has smudged under one eye. He looks tired.
“Kota is…” Felix starts. Then he stops and searches for the words. “He’s attractive. And nice. And funny. Like… actually funny. He is so kind. A talented musician. He trains kids at his father’s taekwondo studio after classes. He pays for their snacks sometimes, such a sweetheart. He’s soft with the kids. Respectful with the staff in the studio. He asked me about my dancing and my future plans.”
He ticks those points off with his fingers.
“He took me to that little ramen place near the station,” he continues. “The one that looks ugly from outside but is actually really good. He remembered I said I like their spicy broth. He listened a lot. He told me about his parents, about how he moved here from Japan. He was… really sweet.”
Jisung nods. “Sounds nice.”
“It was nice,” Felix says. “That’s the thing. It was nice. I laughed. I was relaxed.”
Felix stops talking.
“But…” Jisung says.
Felix sighs.
“But something was missing,” he finishes. “There was no… spark? No… click. I looked at him and I thought, ‘you’re great,’ but my chest stayed quiet. My brain kept comparing him to someone else and it made me feel like an asshole.”
Jisung leans his head against the back of the couch.
“Did you tell him?” he asks.
Felix nods. “Not like that obviously. I just… I was honest. I told him that I had feelings for somebody else. That I thought I was more ready to date than I actually am. And that I didn’t want to use him as a distraction or a rebound.”
“And?” Jisung asks.
“Kota said he appreciated my honesty,” Felix says. His eyes soften at the memory. “He said he liked me and would be happy if we went on a second date, but he doesn’t want to pressure me. He told me to text him if I ever feel like grabbing coffee again. As friends or more. My choice.”
“That’s… mature,” Jisung says.
Felix nods. “Yeah. It made me like him more. But still not in the way I… should, I guess.”
“You don’t ‘should’ anything,” Jisung says. “You feel what you feel.”
Felix slumps against the couch.
“So now I don’t know what to do,” he admits. “I don’t want to lead him on. I also don’t want to close a door if maybe, in the future, my heart catches up. But right now… it’s not there. Am I an asshole?”
Jisung watches him.
“You’re doing this right, Lix,” he says. “You’re honest. That’s already more than half the world does.”
Felix gives a small smile.
“You think Chan will be upset?” he asks after a moment. “If I tell him about the date?”
“He already knows you went,” Jisung says before he can stop himself.
Felix raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Jisung chews the inside of his cheek.
“He… told me about your talk,” he says. “About how you decided to go slow. And that you said you’d still live your life. And he knew about the date tonight. Jeongin knew and he told Chan. He didn’t know yet what has happened between you two. I think… Chan is trying his best not to stand in your way.”
Felix hums. “Good,” he says quietly. “Because I am tired of… everything. He should get his shit together fast and tell me how he feels.” His words sound like he is joking but his voice is sad.
Jisung’s chest hurts at that. He reaches out and pulls Felix into a side hug. Felix lets himself fall into him, head on his shoulder, legs pressed against his thigh.
“Instant noodles?” Jisung asks after a while, voice muffled in Felix’s hair.
Felix snorts a laugh. “Again?”
—
A few days later, they are at the coffee shop near campus. But this time it isn’t 3RACHA. It is the whole group. Minho is missing sadly, shitty work, and Chan cancelled again.
Hyunjin stirs his iced americano and Changbin is scrolling through pictures on his phone. Felix is picking whipped cream off his drink and eating it with the small spoon. Jeongin and Seungmin are actually studying. Weirdos. Jisung is leaning back, legs stretched out under the table.
“Okay, but you have to admit,” Hyunjin says, picking up the conversation where they left it some minutes ago, “Kota’s arms are insane.”
Felix chokes on his drink.
“When did you even see his arms?” he asks, eyes wide.
“Instagram,” Hyunjin says. “I had to control who you’re going out with.”
“Creepy stalker,” Changbin adds.
“Says the man who zooms in on my abs whenever I send him a selfie,” Hyunjin shoots back.
“Fair,” Changbin mutters, taking Hyunjin in a headlock. “Whose arms are insane now?” He laughs while Hyunjin is trying not to choke.
“Let me go, this is assault,” Hyunjin cries out.
“Oh, don’t act like you don’t love it, jagiya.” Changbin scoffs but frees him.
After getting his normal face colour back and after the others stop laughing, Hyunjin coughs.
“So?” Hyunjin turns back to Felix. “On a scale from one to ten, how was the date?”
Felix thinks for a moment, spoon between his lips. Then he shrugs.
“Like… a seven?” he says. “He was sweet. Funny. Attractive. But it wasn’t… all that.”
“Not ‘all that’ how?” Jeongin asks, now looking up from his studies. This seems to be more interesting for him.
Felix makes a face, searching for the words.
“I don’t know,” he says. “It felt like I was on a date with the idea of a boyfriend. Not with someone my heart actually reached for. It’s not his fault at all. It’s my… broken brain.”
“Your brain is not broken,” Hyunjin says immediately.
“Your heart is just picky,” Seungmin adds.
“Picky and dramatic,” Changbin adds.
Felix snorts. “Thank you guys, I guess.”
“So will you go on a second date?” Changbin asks.
Felix stirs his drink, the ice clinking softly.
“I told him I’m not sure,” he says. “He said he’d be happy if we did. But I don’t want to give him half of me. That’s not fair.”
Jisung nods slowly. “You don’t have to decide now.”
They move on to other topics after that. Exams. A professor that hates them. Hyunjin’s new choreography.
None of them notices Chan standing at the bar, waiting for his order.
He wanted to stop by and say hi before heading to the library, eyes still heavy from another late night of overthinking. He just wanted to make himself known to the group, but then he hears Felix say, “It wasn’t all that.”
His whole body stills.
He doesn’t turn around. He kind of goes into hiding at the bar. He just listens to the next couple of lines and then stops, because he knows it is about the date.
His fingers tighten around his phone.
Not all that.
It shouldn’t make anything inside him feel lighter. But... It does anyway.
He feels his shoulders drop a fraction. The sharpness in his chest dulls. He presses his lips together and looks down at his shoes so nobody will see anything on his face.
The barista calls his order. He walks over, grabs his drink, and inhales once.
Felix is not gone yet, a small part of him whispers. You still have a chance to do better.
He leaves without saying hello.
Chapter 15: "CASE 143"
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Fall in love again” – P1Harmony
"Take a chance, baby, let's take a chance
Yeah, I know he did you wrong but we're not all bad
Don't hold back, baby, don't hold back
And I promise you can fall in love again"
----------------
“Okay,” Jisung’s therapist says, pushing her glasses up her nose. “You said there was something you didn’t tell me last time.”
He sits on the chair in front of her, legs bouncing.
The office is warm. Minimalistic. One plant that looks alive against all odds. Neutral-colored walls. A box of tissues on the side table, posing a treat. Sadly, he already knows way too well how these tissues smell and feel against his nose and eyes. Honestly, they're excellent and smell nice. He always forgets to ask her where she buys them from.
He twists his hands together.
“There is,” he says. Then he looks around again.
She waits.
“Something’s been going on with Minho,” he starts. His chest tightens just from saying his name. “Nothing bad. Good. Very good. Too good.”
A small smile tugs at her lips. “Too good?”
Jisung exhales.
“I’m… happy,” he admits. “Like, actually happy. He treats me well. He’s patient. He doesn’t make me feel dirty or disgusting. He respects my boundaries. He shows up. Every time. Even when I’m not asking, or I don’t know how to ask. He is the perfect boyfriend. I dare even say that I see a future with him.”
He swallows.
“And?” she asks softly.
“And my feelings are getting… big,” he says. He gestures with his hands, like his heart is swelling. “Every day I feel more. And every day I get more scared.”
“Scared of what?” she asks.
He stares at the carpet.
“Of saying it,” he whispers.
“‘It’?” she repeats.
“‘I love you,’” he forces himself to say. The words feel huge in his mouth. “I… feel it. I know I do. But every time it even gets close to coming out, my whole body goes into panic mode. Like I’m about to step into traffic.”
His therapist nods slowly.
“Have you told him?”
“No,” Jisung says. “I haven’t even told you. I was afraid if I say it, something bad will happen. Like last time.”
Images flash in his mind.
Woosook’s face.
How love turned into control, manipulation, and blackmail.
His therapist pulls him back with her voice.
“Okay. So you feel it. You think it. But you don’t say it. What do you think will happen if you say it out loud to him?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “My brain doesn’t show me scenes. It just screams ‘danger.’”
“And what does your brain tell you will happen if you never say it?”
He frowns.
“He’ll think I don’t feel it,” he says slowly. “He’ll think I don’t love him back. He’ll get hurt. Or he’ll leave. Or he’ll hold back his own feelings.”
“So either way, you’re scared of pain,” she summarizes. “Pain for you. Or and Pain for him.”
He nods.
“You’re trying to control the outcome by delaying the words,” she says. “But the feeling is already there. You’re not protecting yourself from the feeling. You’re only protecting yourself from the moment of vulnerability.”
He stares at her.
“So I’m… what? Cowardly?”
“No,” she says immediately. “You learned early that love has consequences. Your brain is responding to old danger, not current danger. Back then, your love was used against you. Now you’re in a different relationship. But your body doesn’t know that yet.”
He blinks away the sting in his eyes. The tissue box is starting to look comforting once again.
“Your slowness is not a flaw,” she continues. “It is a protective pattern you created to survive past hurt. It kept you alive. It helped you. But now you’re in a safer relationship, so the pattern may be outdated. It’s okay to question it.”
He breathes shakily.
“You’re not wrong for being scared,” she adds. “You’re human.”
“So what do I do?” he whispers.
“We don’t force you to say it. We make the words less dangerous first. We bring them closer slowly, until your nervous system realizes nothing catastrophic happens when they exist.”
She picks up her pen.
“These are your exercises.”
He groans internally. Like he doesn't have enough homework to do, now he has homework from therapy, too.
“First: say the sentence silently in your head. When you see him. When he does something kind. Just think, ‘I love you,’ without moving your lips.”
He nods.
“Second: say it in the mirror when you’re alone. Look at your own face and say, ‘I love Minho.’ Notice what happens in your body.”
“That sounds embarrassing.”
She smiles. “It usually is. But it will help.”
“Third: say it while imagining his face or looking at a picture of him. Fourth: write a text or a song where you say it. Don’t send it to him. Just let your fingers write the words.”
His pulse spikes.
“Fifth: Say it out loud in a low voice to yourself when you’re alone. Sixth: say, ‘I love him, and saying it feels scary.’ Let both truths exist.”
He sits there, overwhelmed.
“So you want me to torture myself and act crazy?” he tries to humor.
She laughs softly. “I want you to make friends with your own feelings.”
He huffs out a breath. “Fine. I’ll… try.”
“That’s all I ask.”
He leaves the office feeling like his skin has been peeled back. Every sound is too loud. Every color is too bright. His thoughts are, once again, too loud.
Walking to campus, he puts his hands in his pockets and watches his shoes. He thinks of Minho’s laugh. His warm hand in his. His stupid forehead kisses. His calming, deep, dark eyes.
I love you, he thinks quietly.
His heart jumps like a firecracker.
But he doesn’t die. The street doesn’t explode, and the sky doesn’t fall.
Okay.
Step one.
—
Hyunjin is waiting for him near the main gate, scarf wrapped high around his face, eyes peeking out like a suspicious cat. The wind tugs at his hair.
“You look like you’ve been run over by a therapy truck,” Hyunjin laughs when he sees him.
“I have,” Jisung says. “It backed up and ran me over twice.”
They walk to a quieter bench near the art building, away from the groups of students. The cold makes their ears red. Their breath fogs in the air.
“So?” Hyunjin asks, sitting down. “What did you talk about?”
Jisung hesitates.
“Something that’s been going on in my head for a while,” he says.
Hyunjin turns fully toward him, attention sharp.
“Okay,” he says. “Shoot.”
Jisung takes a breath.
“I’m happy with Minho,” he starts. “Like… stupidly happy. He’s… perfect for me. Like I know nobody is perfect but Minho… he is perfect in a weird way. In a ‘he actually fits my weird shape’ way.”
Hyunjin smiles softly. “I can see that.”
“But,” Jisung continues. “I’m… terrified.”
“Of what?” Hyunjin frowns.
“Of saying ‘I love you,’” Jisung admits. The words feel just as big as in therapy. “I feel it. I know I do. Every time I see him or he does something small, my whole chest screams it. But the moment it gets close to my mouth, it’s like someone slams a door shut in my throat.”
Hyunjin watches him carefully.
“Have you told him that?” he asks.
“No,” Jisung says. “I couldn’t even tell my therapist until today. I feel like… if I say it and things go wrong afterward, it will be my fault. Like last time. I said it to the wrong person and it cost me everything.”
Hyunjin is quiet for a moment.
“You know Changbin said it first between us, right?” he says then.
Jisung blinks. “He did?”
Hyunjin nods.
“He said it so early,” he says. “Like. Criminally early. We were lying there one night, not even official yet, and he just looked at me and said: ‘I think I’m in love with you.’”
“How did you react?” Jisung asks.
“I froze,” Hyunjin admits. “My brain just… shut down. I cared so much about him already. I felt something. But the words ‘I love you’ felt like… like too much. Like a point of no return. So I hugged him. I kissed him. I did everything except say it back.”
He huffs.
“For months,” he adds. “I couldn’t say it. Not because I didn’t feel it. Because I was scared. Of making it real. Of losing him. Of… all the things that came with it. So I thought there was something wrong with me. That I was broken. That he deserved someone who could just say it easily. Like in the dramas, you know.”
“And?” Jisung asks.
“And he waited,” Hyunjin says. “He didn’t push me. He didn’t guilt-trip me. He just kept loving me loudly and let me love him quietly. But I could see that sometimes, after a while, it started to hurt him.”
He looks at his hands, fiddling with his rings.
“Some of us love slowly,” he says. “That doesn’t make it less real. Your pace is valid. You’re not behind. You’re just… wired differently.”
Jisung feels his throat tighten.
“How did you finally say it?” he asks. “How did you do it?”
Hyunjin smiles at the memory, eyes going a bit glassy.
“After the trip, actually. It was after a fight,” he says. “Not a huge one. Just… miscommunication. I thought he didn’t care about something, because he didn’t ask about it as much as I thought he should; I don’t even remember what exactly it was about. A painting I was working on, I guess. And he thought I didn’t trust him enough to share it. We ended up both crying like idiots on the bed.”
He laughs softly.
“He was apologizing for things that weren’t even his fault,” Hyunjin continues. “Saying he would try harder. That he wanted to be better for me. It was so dramatic. And something in me just… broke. In a good way. I realized that I had been holding the words hostage like they were some kind of reward. When in reality, he had already earned them ten times.”
He wipes at his eye, annoyed at himself for tearing up.
“I was shaking,” he says. “I could barely breathe. But I forced myself to say it. I grabbed his face, and I said, ‘I love you, you idiot.’”
He laughs again, shaky.
“He started crying harder,” he says. “Like ugly crying. Then I cried harder. We probably scared the neighbors. But after that… it felt like something in my chest finally clicked into place. It didn’t ruin anything. It didn’t curse us. It just… made us more us.”
Jisung’s eyes are wet now.
“That sounds… nice,” he says quietly.
“It was,” Hyunjin says. “Terrifying. And nice. Both.”
He looks at Jisung.
“Your love doesn’t become valid when you say it,” he says. “It’s valid now. The words are just a bridge you cross together. When you’re ready.”
Jisung nods, jaw tight.
“It just feels like the moment I say it, something bad will happen,” he admits. “Like the universe is going to notice I’m happy and take it away. And I think he knows something, because he did not say it to me yet either.”
Hyunjin hums.
“Then maybe practice in small ways first,” he says. “You don’t have to jump straight into telling Minho.”
Jisung lets out a shaky breath.
“I’ll try,” he says.
—
He does.
Or at least he tries to try.
The days that follow turn into a ridiculous montage of Jisung almost saying “I love you” and then swallowing it back like a pill that gets stuck halfway down.
Minho shows up at their dorm one afternoon, holding a plastic bag.
“What’s that?” Jisung asks.
Minho pulls out a Red Bull. The exact flavor and size Jisung likes. The blue one. It is ice cold. Colder than it would’ve been straight from the store. Minho must have put it in the fridge, cooling it before he brought it over.
“You said you have to study late,” Minho says, shrugging. “Thought you might need this.”
Jisung’s heart does a weird flip.
I love you, he thinks.
He almost says it out loud. His lips part. Then his throat closes up, and what comes out is, “You’re going to give me a heart attack with all this sugar.”
Minho just laughs and flicks his forehead.
Another day, Minho picks him up from campus in the rain, holding a spare umbrella.
“You’ll get sick,” he scolds. He knows Jisung didn’t bring an umbrella with him. So he comes.
Jisung wants to lean into his chest and say it. Wants to let it out right there, in the stupid puddle, under the cheap umbrella.
Instead, he says, “You know you’re enabling me, right?”
Minho just rolls his eyes and tucks Jisung’s scarf tighter around his neck.
At cafés, Minho always sits on the side that allows him to eat with the hand furthest from Jisung so their shoulders can touch. Using his ambidexterity just to be closer to Jisung.
He always orders extra food “just in case” Jisung wants to try what he ordered, even when Jisung says he doesn’t.
At home, Minho cooks too much dinner on purpose and packs the leftovers in containers, handing them to Jisung.
“For you and Felix,” he says. “So you two don’t starve.”
Every time, Jisung’s chest clenches. Every time, the words push up like a wave.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
Every time, they crash against his teeth and stay inside.
He even planned a whole event around it once.
Valentine’s Day.
He booked a table at Minho’s favorite small restaurant. The one with the warm lighting and the quiet music. He bought movie tickets for the film Minho has been wanting to see, but didn’t have time to. He imagines walking along the Han River afterward, city lights reflecting on the water. The moon above them. The cliché of it should have made him cringe. Instead, it made him hopeful. I can do it when the mood is right, he thought.
He rehearses the sentence in his head a hundred times.
“I love you, Hyung.”
“I’m in love with you.”
“You’re it for me.”
On the actual day, everything goes perfectly.
Minho looks beautiful in his black shirt and simple necklace. They laugh during dinner, and they hold hands in the dark cinema. Minho rests his head on his shoulder during the movie. His scent makes Jisung all dizzy, in the best way possible. They walk by the river, fingers intertwined, cold air biting their cheeks, hearts too full.
The moment comes.
He turns to Minho, opens his mouth—
And panic slams into him like a truck.
His palms get sweaty. His heart races too fast. His throat closes up. His brain screams abort abort abort. 3-5-7-9, he counts in his head.
“Are you cold?” Minho asks, concerned.
“No, I’m good,” Jisung lies and smiles at Minho.
He chickens out.
He hates himself for it all night.
Later, lying in bed alone, he stares at the ceiling and whispers into the dark, “I love you, Hyung.”
No one hears it.
Except maybe the cracked paint above him.
—
“I tried,” he whines. “I did the things you said. I thought it in my head. I said it to the mirror twice. I wrote it in a text and erased it. I whispered it when I was alone. I even planned this big date and still… nothing came out when it was time. I even wrote a song about it, damn it.”
His therapist listens.
“And?” she asks. “What did you notice?”
“That my chest is stupid and dramatic, and I am an idiot,” he says. “That my brain likes to threaten me. That I am terrified for no good reason. And that I also really, really want to say it.”
She nods.
“You’re trying to control the outcome by delaying the words,” she repeats. “But the feeling is already there. You love him. That is the reality. Saying it or not saying it won’t change that reality.”
Damn. He stares at his shoes.
“Then why does it feel like saying it is still… dangerous?” he asks.
“Because your body remembers what happened last time you loved someone,” she says calmly. “Last time, love was followed by betrayal and pain. Your brain made a connection: ‘If I say I love you, bad things follow.’ That connection was logical back then. But now you are with someone who has consistently shown you care, safety, and respect. Your brain has not fully updated yet.”
She leans forward a bit.
“You’re not protecting yourself from the feeling,” she says. “You’re protecting yourself from the moment of vulnerability where you stand there with your heart in your hands and wait for the reaction. That is scary. It always will be. For everyone. Even for people without your history.”
He swallows.
“So what? I just jump?” he asks.
“No,” she says. “You decide. And when you decide, you do it knowing fear will be there too. Fear does not have to leave for you to act. You just let it sit in the backseat while you drive.”
He snorts at that.
“You’re not wrong for being scared,” she repeats. “You’re human. And your slowness is not something you have to fix to be worthy of love.”
He lets that sink in.
“So if I never say it?” he asks.
“Then your relationship will miss a piece of you. You can either have an intimate relationship or be safe. Take your pick,” she says honestly. “Words matter. But it does not make the love you already feel less real. It just stays more alone inside your chest.”
He nods slowly.
He doesn’t want that.
He wants his love to live outside his ribcage, too. He wants to give it all to Minho.
“So we keep practicing,” she says. “And maybe one day, it will slip out when you’re not trying so hard to control it.”
—
“I think I love her,” Jeongin grins.
Jisung freezes. Why do the words fall so easily from Jeongin’s mouth? That’s unfair.
The whole group is sitting at the café near campus. Chan is missing. But surprisingly, Felix is also missing. Jisung is worried that the thing between them will keep them away from the group even more, both haven't answered any of his texts for the whole day.
“You just got together, Jeongin-ah,” Minho snorts, shaking his head at the youngest member of the friend group.
“Why does that matter, Hyung?” Jeongin asks, grinning. “She’s amazing! I had a crush on her for a long time. And now, she’s dating me, of course, I love her.” He explains, his hand gestures all over the place. He is practically vibrating.
Across the table, Seungmin lifts his cup of iced americano and takes a slow sip.
“Yeah,” he says dryly. “Nothing says ‘stable decision-making’ like falling in love in two business days.”
Jeongin rolls his eyes. “You’re just bitter.”
“I’m realistic,” Seungmin corrects. “What’s her name again? Jiaho? Jiwoo? Jisomething?”
“Jihye,” Jeongin corrects, smiling at the name alone.
“Right.” Seungmin nods. “Jihye. The girl who called Chan-hyung ‘uncle’ at the convenience store when you introduced them to each other.”
Hyunjin snorts into his latte and Changbin coughs to hide a laugh.
“Hyung,” Jeongin frowns. “She was nervous.”
“She is weird, Jeongin,” Seungmin replies. “She said ‘excuse me’ when she bumped into the fridge in the dorm because she was looking at her phone.”
“That just means she’s polite,” Jeongin shoots back immediately. “And she’s shy. You don’t need to roast her every time I mention her.”
Jisung’s eyes flick between them. The tone is familiar. This is how they always bicker. But something in Seungmin’s face looks off today. His mouth is twisted in that usual unimpressed line, but his eyes don’t have their usual spark. He stares at the straw in his drink a little too long.
“I’m just saying,” Seungmin adds, voice flat. “Maybe get to know her favourite colour before you start dropping the l-word.”
Jeongin bristles. “I do know her favourite colour.”
“Of course you do,” Seungmin mutters. “It’s probably pink.”
“It’s black,” Jeongin snaps. “She’s not like other girls. And you don’t have to like her. I like her. That’s enough.”
He shifts closer to the centre of the table, physically putting space between himself and his roommate.
Minho watches the exchange quietly. His thumb taps his cup.
Hyunjin tries to lighten the mood.
“Anyway,” he jumps in. “Where are you taking her on your next date?”
Jeongin’s whole mood flips back on like a switch.
“There’s this arcade near the station,” he says. “She said she wants to see me ‘in my natural habitat.’”
“Losing at games?” Changbin asks, laughing.
“Winning,” Jeongin argues. “Just for that, I’m sending you a video when I beat her.”
“You’re not supposed to beat her,” Jisung says. “You’re supposed to let her win a little.”
Jeongin gasps as if he has just been told murder is legal. “Why would I do that?”
Seungmin snorts under his breath. “Of course.” He rolls his eyes a little too strongly.
Jeongin throws him a look and then deliberately turns his back a little, talking only to the others about Jihye’s acting skills, her laugh, the way she ties her hair. Every time Seungmin tries to cut in with a comment, Jeongin shuts him down before the sentence finishes.
“She’s really important to you, huh?” Changbin smiles.
“Yeah,” Jeongin says simply. “She is.”
Seungmin goes quiet after that.
He stirs his drink long after the ice has melted, eyes fixed on some point on the table.
No one says anything, but the air shifts.
Chan is missing. Felix is missing.
And now, even the people sitting at the table together look like they are in different places.
—
Later that evening, Jisung and Minho are watching a movie on Minho’s bed. The evening is comfortable. They eat and kiss a lot, and now they are snuggling with the cats. Hyunjin is at Changbin’s dorm because Chan is not home yet.
Jisung is munching on some chips when Minho leans in closer.
“Did you notice Seungmin?” he asks quietly.
Jisung looks up at him. “What about him?”
“He was off,” Minho says. “More… sharp than usual. And not in the funny way.”
Jisung replays the scene in his head. The sarcasm. The way Seungmin looked at the table. The way Jeongin blocked him out.
“Yeah,” he admits. “He didn’t look happy.”
Minho hums.
“Just… keep an eye on him, okay?” he says. “He doesn’t talk about stuff until it explodes.”
Jisung nods.
“Okay,” he says. “I will.”
—
Felix drops onto Jisung’s bed like he has fallen out of the sky.
“I’m doomed,” he announces, face-first into the blanket. Jisung looks up from his laptop.
“Hi,” he says. “What did you doom yourself with this time? Another late fee from the library? A contract you did not read through? Taxes?”
Felix rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling.
“Chan asked me on a date,” he says.
Jisung’s brain short-circuits for a moment. Then he starts screaming.
“He what? When? How? WHAT?”
Felix sits up, cross-legged, hair a bit messy, eyes wide and bright in a way Jisung has not seen in weeks.
“He texted me yesterday morning,” Felix says. “The super serious ‘we-need-to-talk’ kind of message. We met when you guys went to the coffee shop. We just walked around campus.” He pauses.
Jisung winces a little, impatient.
“And then?” he asks.
“And then he repeated what he already told me last week. He said he was scared,” Felix continues. “Scared of hurting me. Scared of messing it up. Scared of his own feelings. But he also said he didn’t want to run away anymore. That he wants to try. Slowly. If I let him.”
He picks at a loose thread on the blanket.
“So I told him we can go slow,” Felix says. “But I also told him that I’ll still date other people if I want to. Till we are official.”
Jisung feels pride swell in his chest.
“And he agreed?” he asks.
Felix nods.
“He said he doesn’t have the right to ask me not to,” he says. “So… we’re going on a date. Saturday.”
He smiles, small but real. Jisung grins back.
“Lixie,” he says. “That’s… huge. Are you happy?”
Felix nods slowly.
“Yeah,” he says. “I am. Kind of terrified. But happy.”
He hesitates.
“I’m still texting Kota, though,” he adds. “We’re supposed to grab coffee next week. I told him I’m… figuring something out with someone, but that I’m still open to see where things go.”
Jisung blinks.
“That’s… good,” he says.
Felix shrugs.
“I don’t want to do what people did to me,” he says. “If I see Kota again, it’ll be with everything on the table. No lies. No ‘you’re the only one’ bullshit when my heart is still very much stuck on someone else.”
He sighs and rubs his face.
“I feel like a walking gay soap opera,” he groans.
Jisung laughs.
“You kind of are,” he says. “But, like, a premium one. The two guys fighting for you are both handsome, smart, and hot.”
Felix throws a pillow at him.
“Shut up,” he says. “You’re the one in a lovey-dovey cliché drama with a dance major who cooks for you.”
“Touché,” Jisung sighs.
He lets his head fall back against the wall.
“You know,” he adds quietly. “Whatever happens. With Chan. With Kota. You don’t need to prove any of them anything. You don’t need to apologize, nor do you need to settle down. They're the ones fighting for you. Please don't forget that. ”
Felix looks at him.
“Yeah,” he says. “You are right.”
He flops back down on the bed.
“Anyway, I need help picking an outfit that says ‘I’m still mad at you but also maybe in love with you.’”
Jisung snorts.
“Yeah, okay,” he says. “Sit up, Romeo.”
—
A few days later, Jisung walks across campus with Hyunjin and Changbin, the three of them sharing a bag of chips because none of them has eaten a real meal yet. School is getting hard again, even though it is just the beginning of March. The cold weather is still very much there.
“By the way,” Changbin says, stuffing a handful into his mouth. “You’re not going to believe who I saw at the gym this morning.”
“Jeongin?” Hyunjin guesses. “He basically lives there now. He’s trying to impress Jihye with his biceps.”
“No,” Changbin says. “The other piece of the puzzle. Seungmin.”
Both Jisung and Hyunjin stop walking.
“What?” Jisung asks.
“Liar,” Hyunjin says. “Seungmin hates the gym. He calls it ‘capitalist torture.’”
Changbin holds up a hand.
“I swear,” he says. “He was there. On the treadmill. Looking like someone had a gun to his head. I thought it was a hallucination at first.”
“What the hell?” Jisung frowns. “Did you talk to him?”
“Yeah,” Changbin says. “I asked him what he was doing there and he said, and I quote, ‘Trying to build disgusting muscles like you.’ He was being sacrastic, but I didn't want to impose more than that.”
Hyunjin blinks.
“That is… concerning,” he says.
Changbin nods.
“It gets worse,” he says. “After the workout, he asked if he could sleep over at our place tonight.”
“Your and Chan-hyung’s dorm?” Jisung asks.
“Yeah,” Changbin says. “He texted Chan, too. Chan asked if it was okay with me. I said of course. But Chan also said he wants to talk to him. See what’s going on.”
They walk in silence for a few seconds.
“Jeongin’s new relationship?” Hyunjin asks quietly.
“Maybe,” Changbin says. “Maybe something else too. I don’t know. He just… looked tired. Not the usual tired. He looked like he didn’t sleep in days.”
Jisung chews on that.
First Chan. Now Seungmin.
Their group is slowly turning into a field of quiet fires. Everyone burning for something and pretending they are fine.
“Chan will get it out of him,” Hyunjin says. “He’s annoyingly good at making people talk when they don’t want to.”
“True,” Changbin says.
He shoves more chips into his mouth.
“We’re all so messed up,” he mumbles.
“Speak for yourself,” Hyunjin says. “I’m thriving.”
“You cried because a pen broke yesterday,” Changbin replies.
“You have no idea how much these pens cost,” Hyunjin argues.
“You are dating a rich guy,” Changbin argues, pointing at himself.
“I had a special relationship with the pen, I can’t just buy a new one.”
Jisung lets their bickering fade into the background for a moment.
His thoughts drift back to Minho. To the words still stuck in his throat. The way his therapist said, maybe one day, it will slip out when he is not trying so hard to control it.
He wonders when that day will come.
—
It happens on a Friday.
Not on a special day. Not on an anniversary. Not at the river under the moon. Not even on a dinner date.
On a random, quiet Friday morning in Minho’s apartment.
Jisung wakes up to the smell of fried rice and eggs.
He blinks his eyes open slowly. The room is filled with soft daylight. The blanket is warm. The spot next to him is empty but still smells like Minho. A scene he is getting used to now. Minho always wakes up first.
He stretches and winces a little at the soreness in his muscles from the night before. His body feels used in the best way possible, and his heart feels soft.
He looks around for his clothes, finds his boxers and grabs Minho’s hoodie from the chair, and pulls them on, then pads barefoot down the hallway.
He stops at the entrance of the living room.
The scene in front of him is so domestic it almost hurts.
Minho stands in the small open kitchen, topless, hair a complete mess, sticking up in all directions. Soonie is perched on his shoulder like a furry parrot, watching the pan. Doongie sits on the counter, tail flicking, and Dori is circling Minho’s ankles, meowing for scraps.
Minho is stirring fried rice in the pan with one hand, holding a piece of toast in the other, chewing. His cheeks are puffed out. He has a smear of jelly near the corner of his mouth. The light from the window makes the small mole on his neck stand out more.
He looks over his shoulder when he hears Jisung’s footsteps.
His face lights up instantly.
“Mornin’, jagiya,” he mumbles around the bite, words slightly unclear.
He tilts his head in that soft, questioning way he always does when he is checking if Jisung has slept well, if he is okay.
Jisung can’t speak.
It hits him then.
Love is not the river or the restaurant or the big speeches in his head. It isn’t even the love song he is working on for Minho. It isn’t him trying to force it after sex. It isn’t the pretty gifts Minho gives him.
Wait. No, it is all of that. But love is also more than that.
Love is this.
Minho’s messy hair. The cats playing around Minho. The burnt toast Jisung knows he is eating so Jisung doesn’t end up with it. It is the casual “jagiya” with a mouth full of food. The fact that Minho wakes up first just to cook for him. It is the way Minho’s whole expression softens just because he walks into the room.
Love is Minho. Anything with Minho. Anything from Minho. Just Minho. Jisung loves Minho.
“I love you, Hyung,” Jisung says.
The words slip out before his brain can build a fence around them and overthink them.
The apartment goes quiet.
Even the pan seems to stop sizzling for a second.
They are staring into each other’s eyes. Nothing else exists.
Minho freezes.
He puts the toast down slowly, turns off the stove without looking away from Jisung, and turns his whole body around, making Soonie drop off his shoulder with a meow.
“Say that again,” he says softly, afraid that talking loudly will scare Jisung off.
Jisung’s heart jumps into his throat.
Now the panic comes. However, it is too late and useless.
His palms go sweaty. His knees feel a bit weak. But the words are already free. There is no point stuffing them back in.
He swallows.
“I love you,” he repeats, voice quieter. “I… I’m in love with you, Minho. I loved you for so long.”
His chest feels like it might break open. He wants to run. But he stays.
Minho just stares at him for a moment.
Then his whole face cracks into the softest, warmest smile Jisung has ever seen on him. His eyes go shiny. His shoulders drop like he has been carrying this moment too.
He walks toward Jisung slowly.
When he reaches him, he cups Jisung’s face in both hands, thumbs brushing his cheeks. He leans in, forehead touching Jisung’s.
“I love you too, Sungie,” he says. “So much.”
Jisung’s breath leaves his lungs in one rush. His eyes burn. A sob leaves his lips.
He laughs and cries at the same time, hands gripping Minho’s wrists like he needs to hold on to something solid.
Fear is still there. The old ghosts from his past are still there, but Minho’s arms are around him. The cats are meowing. The rice is probably burning a little bit, but most importantly, the world does not explode.
His love is finally outside his chest. It travels to Minho. It is known now. For everyone, not only himself. It is free.
“I love you,” he repeats. The words fall more easily and easily the more he says them. The love just as strong, leaving his chest.
And Minho catches it. Catches his love in the kiss he places on his forehead and on his lips. Catches his love in the way he is looking at him with tears in his eyes. Catches his love in the way he is holding his waist. In the way he says the words back. With as much strength and will as Jisung.
With as much love. As much respect.
As much… everything.
They love eachother.
Chapter 16: "A big one"
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “the way things go” – beabadoobee
"There's so much left to say
I guess I'm just the bigger guy
And there's too much on my mind
That I don't even want to try
Guess it's not far from the ordinary
They do say love is blind
But I guess that's the way things go
----------------
“Guys, now please help me out here!” Felix whines.
The group, consisting of Hyunjin, Minho and Jisung, is sitting on the floor of their living room.
“Just wear anything,” Minho throws back, annoyed at all the whining and tired of complimenting Felix’s tenth outfit change.
“Anything?” Felix screams from his room. “ANYTHING?”
Hyunjin sighs. Even he is getting sick of this theatre. They watch Felix change into an outfit, they compliment it, but apparently they don’t compliment it enough, so they have to watch him disappear into his room for a while, only for him to come out with an outfit that’s slightly different than the first.
“Come on, Felix,” Jisung tries, but not enough to move his head from Minho’s chest, “you look perfect in everything.”
A scoff from Felix’s room is the answer to his attempt.
Well, at least he tried.
With a shrug, he turns his attention back to the TV and to Minho’s hand that is feeding him popcorn. Hyunjin is spread out on the couch. Seungmin should’ve been here some time ago, but he still hasn’t arrived yet. Probably running away from this exact drama that they now have to suffer.
“What do you think now?” Felix comes out of the room, for what seems to be the hundredth time.
All eyes shoot back to him.
He’s wearing light blue jeans that are wide at the bottom but still show off what they need to show off. On top, he wears a tight white shirt with a V line and an open blouse, giving the outfit some elegance. He wears rings on both hands and two dangly earrings.
“This one is my favorite, Bookie,” Hyunjin exclaims after scanning him from top to bottom.
“Mine too,” Minho adds, without taking his eyes off the screen, making Jisung giggle.
“No, really, Felix, you look amazing. Chan will regret not asking you out months ago after seeing you like this. He’ll be watching you instead of the movie, I promise,” he says, smiling.
Felix does, in fact, look good. But it also doesn’t really matter. Because they all know that Chan wants Felix. It’s just taking him a stupid amount of time to do it right.
Felix sighs. “I hope you’re right.”
Then he looks at his phone. “Shit, it’s already fifteen minutes past six. I’m late.” He cries out as he exits through the door. “You all better be here when I come back!” he screams back at them.
They laugh.
“Finally, some peace and quiet,” Minho mumbles, placing a kiss on top of Jisung’s head.
“Not for long, Changbin just arrived downstairs,” Hyunjin laughs, standing up to greet his man-wife downstairs for a private moment.
Minutes after the announcement, Changbin walks into the room, Hyunjin after him. Both look worried now. Jisung, who picks up on that, looks up first.
“Hey, guys?” Jisung asks, confused.
Minho, now taking his eyes off the screen, also frowns at their faces.
“What happened?” he asks.
With a sigh, Changbin puts down his bag and greets them first. Hyunjin slumps down on one of the chairs and looks at his lover, expecting him to share the news with the others.
“Seungmin and Jeongin fought,” he says finally. “A bad fight. And… he moved his stuff into Chan’s and my dorm today. Officially.”
Oh.
Jisung did not expect that at all.
“What? Why?” someone asks.
Jisung’s head buzzes. He can’t focus on who is saying what. All he can think about is poor Seungmin. How did he miss out on his friend’s problems? How did everything explode so fast without him noticing? Was he so deep in his bubble that he was starting to be a bad friend?
Changbin shifts his weight from one foot to the other, jaw clenched like he doesn’t even know where to begin.
Hyunjin sighs and rubs his forehead.
“It’s about Jihye,” he finally answers.
Minho frowns. “What did she do now?”
Now? How much did Jisung miss? What happened before?
Changbin sits down on the couch, elbows on his knees.
“It started yesterday. Jeongin brought her to the apartment again and Seungmin told him, after she left—for maybe the tenth time—that she gives him a bad feeling. That she’s rude to everyone else.”
Jisung can practically see Seungmin, arms crossed, face flat and unimpressed.
But why did he say that? But still – why? What did the girl do?
“I’m sorry, guys,” he says hesitantly. “I think I missed a few chapters. Who is this girl actually, and why does Seungmin think that she’s rude?”
Hyunjin snorts, bitter.
“You want the short version or the dissertation?” he asks.
“Start safe,” Minho says, pushing his hair back. “Short version. He told me the long version, and it took him five hours.”
Hyunjin rolls his eyes dramatically.
“Fine. Short version is: she’s weird. And not in a quirky way. There is something seriously wrong with her. Like, for real.”
Jisung frowns. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“For example, I stalked her Instagram, you know,” Hyunjin starts.
Minho groans. “Of course you did.”
Hyunjin ignores him.
“She already posted all the gifts Jeongin bought her. The necklace. The flowers. The cute jacket I thought he bought for himself and was thinking about stealing, you know, the leather one—”
“Hyunjin!” Jisung groans at the way the dancer trails off so easily.
Hyunjin gets serious again.
“But the captions…” He pauses, typing into an imaginary phone. “‘When a man tries too hard…’” he says in a high-pitched voice. “‘Obsessed much?’”
“What?” Jisung blinks. “She makes it look like some random guy is spoiling her? Not her boyfriend?”
“Exactly,” Hyunjin says. “Not one tag. Not one mention of Jeongin. Nothing.”
Changbin scoffs. “And the way she acted when we met her? Oh my god.”
“When did you meet her?” Jisung asks, feeling more and more out of the loop.
“At their dorm,” Hyunjin answers. “A few weeks ago. Jeongin brought her in, excited to introduce her to us.”
Changbin continues, “She didn’t greet us. Didn’t look up. Didn’t shake hands. She sat on the couch and scrolled on her phone for forty minutes straight.”
Hyunjin lifts a finger. “And when Jeongin introduced me as ‘Hyunjin-hyung,’ she said—” he mimics her bored voice “‘Oh. Hi.’ Without even looking up.”
“She didn’t make eye contact with either of us,” Changbin adds. “We tried talking to her. Asked about her major. Her hobbies. Her day. Nothing. One-word answers. Smiling only when Jeongin looked at her.”
“So she’s rude?” Jisung summarizes.
“A bitch,” Hyunjin scoffs, earning a slap from Changbin. “What? Bitch or rude, it’s the same. Potato, potato.”
“I know we don’t like her, still doesn’t give you the right to call a woman the B-word, babe,” Changbin lectures, and Minho hums in agreement.
Hyunjin apologizes fast.
“And Jeongin is… what? Blind?” Jisung asks.
“No,” Changbin sighs. “Whipped. He’s so into her he can’t see anything else.”
“And Seungmin hates seeing him like that,” Hyunjin finishes quietly. “Hates it. You know how protective he is.”
Jisung nods slowly.
Seungmin never wastes words.
If he says something is wrong, he means it.
“And when Seungmin pointed it out—again—Jeongin snapped. He blew up,” Changbin says. “Told him he’s jealous because he’s single. Said he’s tired of Seungmin calling his girlfriend ‘shitty’ every chance he gets and acting like the moral police.”
Changbin shakes his head, eyes flashing with anger.
“He told him that if all he’s going to do is insult his girlfriend, then maybe he doesn’t need him as a friend at all.”
“Damn…” Jisung whispers.
Jisung lets out a shocked, low scream. Minho’s expression darkens. “Ouch.”
How could someone say that to Seungmin?
“And now,” Changbin finishes, shoulders slumping, “Seungmin moved into our dorm. Officially. He said he’ll look for a new place soon. And that Jeongin clearly doesn’t need him anymore.”
The room goes silent.
“Fucking hell,” Minho mutters.
Jisung leans back into Minho’s chest, feeling the weight of it all settle over them.
Their group is cracking in every direction at once.
--
The door bursts open.
“I’M HOME!” Felix announces dramatically, kicking off his shoes with enthusiasm.
The three on the floor — Minho, Jisung, and Changbin — jerk their heads toward him like startled pets. Hyunjin is still the only one on the couch and he doesn’t flinch a bit.
Felix stands there in the doorway of the living room, breathing hard, cheeks flushed from the cold outside, rings glinting under the warm light. His blouse is slightly wrinkled from being tucked into his jacket. His earrings swing when he moves.
“Well?” Jisung asks instantly, sitting up from where he’s been lying on Minho’s chest.
“Tell us everything. Did you and dad kiss? Did you kiss him? Did you—”
Felix lifts a finger to shut him up.
“Let me breathe first,” he says dramatically, throwing himself onto the couch and landing half on Hyunjin’s leg. Hyunjin lets out a dying noise. “And stop calling him dad, that makes me feel like a pervert.”
“Bookie,” Hyunjin groans, “you’re crushing my thigh.”
“Your thigh is greedy. Taking the whole couch, it will live,” Felix deadpans, waving him off.
Minho chuckles. “So… it went well?”
Felix pauses.
Then he breaks into a soft, shy smile.
“He was perfect,” Felix admits, cheeks warming. “Really cute. We got over the awkwardness fast. When he said he didn’t know how to be a boyfriend, that was a lie, guys. This man was born to be a husband, I’m telling you that.”
“Chan and not being awkward, I need to see that,” Hyunjin mutters.
Felix smacks his knee.
“We went for ramen first, since the first movie was sold out,” Felix continues. “He paid. Honestly, I didn’t even try to fight him on that.”
“Chan, the gentleman. Like always,” Minho nods approvingly.
“Yeah,” Felix says, twirling a ring on his finger. “It was… so nice.”
Jisung smiles, bright and genuine. Felix and Chan both deserve that, after everything that has happened.
“It is so weird hearing about Hyung’s dating life from our other friend, isn’t it?” Changbin asks quietly, looking at Jisung. “It feels like… seeing your parents date?”
Jisung snorts. “Now you know how I feel when Hyunjin talks about you.”
“You talk about me?” Changbin asks his man-wife, acting shocked. Instead of an answer, he just earns himself a smack on the biceps and a very dramatic eye roll.
The two go out of their 24h-lovey-dovey phase into their married era pretty fast. Jisung is asking himself if he and Minho will also have a new phase soon. But now that they’ve started to say I love you, they’ve been more lovey-dovey than ever. And he loves it.
“And?” Minho asks, leaning forward. “Are you guys going to stop being weird now? You have a second date planned?”
Felix hesitates.
And he doesn’t smile this time.
“Maybe,” he says quietly. He bites his lip. “We decided that we’re not going to be telling you guys anything anymore, till everything is clear for the both of us first. Chan said he doesn’t want to destroy the friend group.”
“Awwww,” Jisung coos, making Felix smack him with a cushion.
“I swear to God,” Felix warns, “one more noise out of you and I’m unplugging your microphone next karaoke night.”
Jisung gasps. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“He would,” Minho says, without looking up from feeding popcorn into Jisung’s mouth.
“But honestly, Lixie, I think that’s a good idea. You two should be more honest and clear with each other from now on, and we shouldn’t influence your thoughts and progress. But just know, we wish you both all the best,” Minho says, smiling at Felix fondly.
Changbin, next to him and Hyunjin, whose legs are still being assaulted by Felix, both hum in agreement.
But then, Jisung sighs. The heaviness from before still doesn’t disappear and the thoughts from earlier start creeping in again.
Felix looks over at Jisung’s sigh, confused, then looks around. He notices.
The room is quiet now. Too quiet.
A weird atmosphere is in the air.
He didn’t notice it when he stepped in, too high on the dopamine of the date. But now…
His gaze moves slowly across Minho… Hyunjin… Changbin… back to Jisung.
They aren’t smiling anymore. Their bodies are too still. Hyunjin is chewing his lip.
Changbin’s shoulders are tense.
“Okay…” Felix says slowly. “What happened while I was gone?”
Jisung sits up fully now, all cuddling forgotten.
Felix’s stomach tightens.
He can sense something is horribly wrong.
Changbin exhales deeply, bracing himself.
“It’s Seungmin,” he says finally. “He and Jeongin had a fight. A big one.”
Felix’s face falls instantly.
“What? Why?” he asks, voice cracking. “What happened?”
Changbin rubs the back of his neck, exhausted.
“Jeongin brought Jihye over again some days ago,” he starts, recounting the whole story of how the girl disrespected them all and how Seungmin spoke to Jeongin about it.
“Oh no,” Felix whispers.
“And this time Jeongin snapped,” Hyunjin adds quietly.
“He accused Seungmin of being jealous. That he should stop trying to ruin things. And then… he told him he didn’t need him as a friend if all he was going to do is complain about his girlfriend.”
Felix’s breath leaves his lungs.
“And now?” Felix asks, voice small.
Changbin runs a tired hand over his face.
“He moved his things into our dorm officially,” he says. “He said he’d look for a new place soon.”
Felix stares at them, heart sinking.
“Jeongin threw him out?” he whispers.
“No,” Changbin says. “Seungmin left before it could get worse.”
The room goes silent.
Felix looks around, eyes shiny with worry, and for a moment, the whole date vanishes from his mind.
“Is he okay?” Felix asks softly.
Hyunjin shakes his head.
“No,” he says quietly. “Not even a little.”
--
Everyone slowly gets ready to go home after that. The living room feels strange now. Quiet and heavy. Nobody really knows what to say anymore.
Hyunjin and Minho are the first to stand up. Minho stretches his back with a small groan, Hyunjin grabs his phone and jacket from the table. They both say their goodbyes, kiss their partners, and leave together, heading back to their own dorm.
Changbin checks the time and sighs.
“I should go back too. Chan and Seungmin are probably still awake,” he says, grabbing his bag.
Felix walks him to the door and hugs him tightly.
“Text us if there’s any update about Seungmin, okay?” he says.
“Yeah,” Changbin nods, his voice low. “I will.”
Then it is only Felix and Jisung left in their shared dorm.
They clean up the empty bowls and the popcorn on the floor in silence. The show on the TV keeps playing, but nobody is watching. When they finish, Felix yawns and rubs his eyes.
“I’m going to shower and then sleep,” he says. “Today was… a lot.”
Jisung nods. “Yeah. Night, Lix.”
Felix walks over, leaving a small kiss on Jisung’s cheek.
“Night,” Felix answers, disappearing into his room.
The apartment feels too big after that. Too quiet.
Jisung sits down on his bed with his phone in his hand, screen lighting up his face in the dark. He stares at Seungmin’s chat for a while without typing anything. He now notices when the last time he and Seungmin texted privately was. Shocking, honestly.
Jisung can’t help but feel a wave of guilt wash over him. He really was too involved in his own head and his relationship with Minho to see the suffering of one of his closest friends. Shame on him, honestly.
He wants to text Seungmin.
He doesn’t want to pressure him.
But he also doesn’t want him to feel alone.
Finally, he starts writing.
Jisung: Min, I heard what happened. I’m here for you, okay? You don’t have to answer now. Just… whenever you’re ready to talk, I’m here.
He reads it twice and then presses send.
The message stays unread.
Jisung puts the phone on his nightstand, lies down and pulls the blanket over himself. He turns from one side to the other. Closes his eyes. Opens them again.
The room feels too warm and too cold at the same time. His head is full. Seungmin leaving the dorm. Jeongin basically ending the friendship.
He asks himself how Jeongin is feeling right now. Does he feel guilty? Is he also too involved in his new relationship and head to see his Seungmin hurting? Is he really so in love with this girl? Did they maybe all just read her wrong and she is something special?
Maybe Hyunjin and Changbin are just too biased and she isn’t all bad.
Maybe Seungmin is too harsh.
Or maybe Jeongin has lost his mind.
But even if she is amazing, it does not really excuse the way Jeongin screamed at Seungmin, does it? How will he react if one of his friends says stuff like this about Minho? But he can't really compare the situations. And also, who is that mean to Seungmin? How can they, best friends for years, act like that toward each other? How can a girl they’ve known for like a month ruin their friendship? And how did Jisung miss all that. How? Why did—
At some point, his eyes finally fall shut and his head stops buzzing.
He doesn’t know how much time has passed when his ringtone cuts through the silence. His heart jumps. He sits up fast and grabs the phone.
Seungmin.
He wipes his face with his hand and picks up.
“Hello?” His voice comes out rough.
There is breathing on the other end. Uneven. A little shaky.
“Ji…” Seungmin says quietly. “Can you meet me?”
He sounds out of breath. Like he has walked fast. Or run. Or cried.
“Yeah. Of course. Where are you?” Jisung asks immediately, already climbing out of bed.
“Outside. Near your building,” Seungmin answers.
“I’m coming,” Jisung says without thinking twice.
He ends the call, grabs the first jacket from his chair and shoves his feet into his shoes. He doesn’t even check his face. He just takes his keys and slips out, careful not to make too much noise so Felix can keep sleeping.
Outside, the air is cold enough to sting a little. Seungmin stands near the street lamp, hood up, hands in his pockets. His shoulders are tense, his eyes on the ground.
Jisung walks up to him slowly.
“Hey,” he says softly.
Seungmin only nods. He doesn’t look at him. He just starts walking, and Jisung follows. They walk side by side down the empty street. Past the small convenience store. Past the bus stop. Their steps are the only sound.
No one says anything at first.
After a few minutes, Seungmin stops near a quiet corner. His breathing gets heavier. His hands are shaking slightly.
Then he breaks.
A sob escapes him, sudden and loud in the quiet night. He presses his lips together like he wants to hold it back, but it doesn’t work. The tears come anyway.
Jisung freezes for a second. He has never seen Seungmin like this. Not once. Not in all these years. Seungmin never cries in front of them. Never.
“Min…” he whispers.
Seungmin wipes his face with his sleeves, but more tears follow.
“Jeongin is right,” he says, voice breaking. “I’m jealous.”
Jisung frowns, confused.
“Jealous? You mean… because he has a girlfriend? I didn’t know you wanted that too. I didn’t know you wanted to date someone, but I’m sure you will fi—”
“No,” Seungmin interrupts him, shaking his head. “I don’t want a girlfriend.”
He takes a shaky breath.
“I want Jeongin.”
The words hang between them. Jisung’s eyes widen in shock.
Oh.
“I want him,” Seungmin repeats, quieter. “I’ve liked him for a long time. I don’t even remember when it started. I kept it to myself, I tried to ignore it, I tried to be happy for him. Tried not to ruin our friendship. Jisung, I am in love with my best friend.”
He sobs.
“I promised myself I would never say it out loud. But now I have to watch him with her every day in our dorm, and I swear, I swear, Jisung, I swear if she was anybody else I might’ve kept quiet but she, she…”
He sobs again, can’t finish his sentence. With shaky breath, he starts a new one instead.
“And it feels like someone is pushing me out of my own life. But I don’t have the right to tell him what to do with whom. Maybe she’s not bad and I am just projecting because I love him. Maybe I want him to be single for selfish reasons. I never thought I’d ever have a chance with him, but maybe in my head I wanted to believe that?”
His voice cracks on the last word. He looks tired. So tired.
Jisung’s chest hurts.
“Min…” he says again when Seungmin doesn’t add anything anymore. He doesn’t know what else to say. His own thoughts are running too fast. He never even considered that Seungmin might like Jeongin like that. It suddenly makes too much sense now, looking back at it, and hurts at the same time.
Without thinking, he steps closer and wraps his arms around him. Seungmin leans into the hug immediately, his hands clutching the back of Jisung’s jacket. His shoulders shake as he cries into his shoulder.
They stay like that for a while in the middle of the sidewalk, just holding on.
When the cold starts to creep into their hands, they move to a nearby bench and sit down. Seungmin sniffs and looks away, embarrassed, but Jisung doesn’t let go of his arm.
“You don’t have to handle this alone,” Jisung says quietly. “You should tell Hyunjin. And Chan. They care about you. They’ll understand. You don’t always have to keep quiet and pretend everything is fine. You don’t have to keep everything inside all the time.”
Seungmin stares at the ground. Then he nods slowly.
“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe I should tell them. I’m just… scared. I don’t want it to change everything.”
Jisung sighs. “It already changed,” he answers honestly. “At least this way, you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”
Seungmin lets out a long breath.
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay. I’ll tell them. Not now. But soon.”
They sit there a bit longer, not saying much. Just breathing. Jisung keeps his shoulder pressed against Seungmin’s, a quiet reminder that he is still there.
When the night starts to creep to an ungodly hour, Seungmin starts to yawn. He probably hasn’t tasted real sleep for some days now.
Jisung stands up.
“Come on,” he says gently. “I’ll walk you back to Chan and Changbin’s place.”
Seungmin nods. They walk together to Chan and Changbin’s dorm. When they reach the door, Jisung waits until Seungmin actually rings the bell.
It doesn’t take long for Chan to open, hair messy, eyes worried. He pulls Seungmin inside right away, one hand on his back. Changbin appears behind him, already asking if everything is okay.
Jisung gives Seungmin a small wave. Seungmin mouths a “thank you” before the door closes.
Only then does Jisung turn around and walk back to his own dorm. By the time he reaches his room, his body feels heavy. He drops his jacket on the chair, falls into bed, and closes his eyes. Sleep takes him quickly.
--
When he wakes up in the morning, light is already peeking through the curtains. His phone buzzes on the nightstand. He grabs it and sees a new email notification.
He opens it and blinks at the words.
We are pleased to inform you…
His eyes move fast over the lines.
He got the job at the idol company. Music production section. Official confirmation.
For a second, he just stares at the screen, waiting for it to disappear, thinking he is dreaming. But it doesn’t. His lips slowly form a smile.
Felix is still asleep in the other room, so Jisung holds his excitement in for now. He gets ready for uni, washes his face, gets dressed, and checks the email again just to be sure.
When he steps outside, Minho is already waiting near the entrance of the building, hands in his pockets.
“You look weirdly awake,” Minho says, raising a brow and bending to give him a good morning kiss. Jisung kisses back.
“I have news,” Jisung says, unable to hide the grin now. “I got the job, hyung!” He jumps a little up and down.
Minho’s eyes widen. Then he smiles, big and sincere. He pulls Jisung into a quick hug.
“Of course you did,” he says. “They would be stupid not to take you.”
Jisung laughs, the tightness in his chest finally easing a bit.
Chapter 17: "So many love stories"
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Pretty boy” – The Neighbourhood"
«Even if my heart stops beating
You're the only thing I need, ooh, with me
Even if the Earth starts shaking
You're the only thing worth taking, ooh, with me
Even if the sky's on fire
Got you here, it's alright, ooh, with me
And if it's all over
I'm taking this moment, ooh, with me
Yeah
Pretty boy, you did this with me, boy”
----------------
Chan was already waiting in front of the cinema when Felix arrived. He stood there in his black jacket, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the crowd. He didn’t see Felix at first. And that’s good. He needs a moment. They were going out on their third date now, and he still feels nervous. And it’s not like Felix at all to feel nervous. He doesn’t like that. Is this what introverts feel like? Not cool. Really not cool.
Felix took a small breath. He didn’t know why his heart felt like this. Fast. Nervous. Stupid.
He walked up to Chan slowly.
Chan turned his head, saw him, and smiled right away.
“There you are,” he said. His voice was warm and relaxed.
Felix nodded and tried not to stare too much. “Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t want to rush,” he joked lightly.
Chan laughed. The sound made Felix’s stomach feel strange.
“Movie isn’t sold out this time,” Chan said jokingly. “Good sign.”
Felix nodded. “Nice.”
Chan bought the tickets before Felix could even argue. Not that he was planning to. Maybe a little bit to not seem like a jerk, but in all honesty he enjoyed getting spoiled by the older. And he knew, Chan liked to take care of him. So…win-win.
Inside the cinema, it was dim and quiet. They found their seats and Chan handed him the popcorn without asking. He even sneaked in a bag of Felix’s favorite chips. It was the little things, Felix thought. The little things that made him feel warm and hopeful.
Halfway through the movie, their arms touched. Barely. Just a little. Chan didn’t pull away and Felix didn’t either. Felix wanted to hold him, wanted him to put an arm around his shoulders, but he knew Chan needed time. And he himself also did. But…Everyone knew…After three dates…ISn’t it a rule?
Felix shook the thoughts away and tried to focus on the screen again.
He kept watching the screen, but he could feel the contact the whole time.
When the movie ended, the crowd pushed out into the cold air. Chan stepped closer to him, “Hungry?” he asked. Felix nodded. “Always.”
Chan took him to a small café nearby. Warm lights, soft music, tables close enough that their knees touched under the table. Felix didn’t know if Chan noticed. He didn’t know if he should move. It’s embarrassing to admit, but since the night where they spend it cuddling in the dorm, he is touch starved. But only touch starved for chan. It’s not like Felix didn’t had his share of fun before. He was handsome, pretty even, and he takes a pride of how his body looks like and how he styles himself. So he had is fair share of admirers. And he did not ghost all of them of course not. But Chan…Was different. The last time he had had these strong feelings for someone it was maybe when he was a teenager. He really loves Chan. Loves the way he takes care of everyone, loves the way he always plans his whole day ahead. Loves how passionate he is about everything. His work. His school. His hobbies. His dancing, singing, composing and everything. Loves how neat he is. How he talks about his dog back home. How…everything.
Chan was talked about school, about his assignments. About his playlist that wasn’t finished yet. Felix listened. He liked listening to Chan when he relaxed like this. Felix told him about his week and Chan listened too.
When they left the café, the streets were almost empty. Felix wrapped his scarf tighter. Chan noticed and stepped closer again, shoulder brushing his. Trying to push some of his body warmth to Felix.
“Today was nice,” Chan said.
“Yeah,” Felix agreed. His voice was quieter than before. He feels weird today. Not in a bad way. But his whole deminer is calm. Way calmer than normally. But he is happy. Actually he feels so happy. His cheecks hurt from how much he smiled. But, all he feels is calmness. It’s weird.
They walked until they reached the point where they usually split ways. Felix slowed down. Chan slowed down too.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Chan looked at him. He looked him in the eyes. Deep. And Felix was getting lost in Chan’s eyes. The streetlamp above them casts a soft, honeyed glow, painting Chan’s features in warm light and deep shadow. The usual bustling energy of the city seems to have hushed, leaving them in a quiet pocket of the night. Felix can feel the warmth of Chan’s body, so close, and the calm inside him isn’t stillness—it’s a deep, resonant hum, like a plucked string
“Can I—” he started, then stopped. Chan doesn’t finish his question with words. Instead, he leans in, his movement slow and deliberate, giving Felix every chance to pull away. Felix’s breath caught for a moment. “Yeah,” he said before he could think. Felix’s eyes flutter shut a heartbeat before Chan’s lips meet his.
It’s not a hungry kiss. It’s soft, a tentative press, a question made flesh. Chan’s lips are warm and surprisingly gentle. He tastes like the iced coffee they shared hours ago and something uniquely, essentially Chan. One of Chan’s hands comes up, his fingers lightly brushing Felix’s jaw, his thumb stroking his cheekbone with a reverence that makes Felix’s heart stutter in his chest.
The kiss deepens, just a fraction. Chan’s other hand finds Felix’s hip, not pulling him closer, just resting there, a steady anchor. It’s a kiss that holds the entire quiet, happy day inside it—the laughter, the shared silences, the calm. It feels like a beginning, and a homecoming, all at once.
When Chan finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead against Felix’s. His eyes are dark, searching Felix’s face, his breath a soft ghost against Felix’s lips.
“Was that okay?” Chan whispers, his voice hushed, almost awed. The pad of his thumb continues its gentle, sweeping path over Felix’s cheek, catching the faint, happy tear that escaped without Felix even noticing.
The smile that spreads across Felix's lips is slow, radiant, and utterly unguarded. It lights up his entire face, making his eyes crinkle at the corners. In the golden lamplight, he looks ethereal, and Chan's breath hitches just looking at him.
"Yeah," Felix breathes out, the word barely more than a sigh of contentment. "More than okay."
He doesn't pull away. Instead, he leans forward again, closing the small distance Chan had created. This time, he initiates the kiss. It's still soft, but there's a new confidence in it, a quiet surety as he slots his lips more firmly against Chan's. One of his hands comes up to rest on Chan's chest, feeling the rapid, steady beat of his heart beneath his palm.
Chan responds instantly, a low, pleased hum vibrating in his throat. His hand on Felix's jaw slides back to cradle the nape of his neck, his fingers tangling gently in the soft hair there. The kiss deepens, turning sweeter, lingering. It's a conversation without words, a silent affirmation of everything they haven't said yet.
When they finally part a second time, both are smiling, their breaths mingling in the cool night air. Felix lets his forehead rest against Chan's shoulder for a moment, inhaling his familiar, comforting scent, now mixed with the new, thrilling intimacy of the kiss.
"Today was really nice," Felix murmurs into the fabric of Chan's jacket, his voice muffled but brimming with happiness. They stayed like this for a while.
“Goodnight, Lix,” Chan whispered.
“Goodnight,” Felix answered. His cheeks were warm.
They didn’t say anything else.
Felix walked home with a feeling he couldn’t name. He didn’t text anyone about it. He didn’t tell anyone.
It felt like something that belonged only to them for now.
Only them.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “traitor” – Olivia Rodrigo
Now you bring her around just to shut me down
Show her off like she's a new trophy
And I know if you were true, there's no damn way that you
Could fall in love with somebody that quickly
And ain't it funny? All the twisted games
All the questions you used to avoid
Ain't it funny? Remember I brought her up
And you told me I was paranoid?
----------------
Their weekly meet-up was supposed to feel normal again. Everyone was there this time. Even Chan. Jisung was looking forward for this, the moment Felix told him that Chan will be joining them today. He was feeling so giddy when he walked between Changbin and Chan from class to the coffee. Feeling some normality in their little family again. It had been weeks since they all sat together like this. Same round table. Same loud playlist in the background. Same waiter who always remembers Minho’s order — and Jisung still gives her dirty looks when she turns around, knowing Minho doesn’t care about her at all but still wanting to be dramatic.
It felt familiar. Safe.
Almost…
The only thing that wasn’t normal was the air between Seungmin and Jeongin.
They didn’t look at each other. Didn’t speak to each other. Didn’t even sit close.
Jeongin sat between Hyunjin and Changbin, laughing at something Changbin said. Seungmin sat next to Jisung, eyes glued to his phone even though he wasn’t typing anything.
Jisung watched both of them quietly. It was uncomfortable, he can’t deny that. But at least they both came.
Everyone tried to push through it. Minho cracked jokes, Felix teased Chan about something and Chan pretended to be annoyed but kept smiling.
Slowly the table warmed up. For a moment it almost felt like before.
Until Jeongin suddenly said, “Oh, by the way, I invited Jihye. She’s on her way.”
The warm, familiar buzz of the cafe instantly flatlines. The laughter from Changbin's joke dies in his throat. Felix's teasing smile freezes on his face. Minho's eyes, which had been lazily tracking their usual waitress, snap to Jeongin with a sharp, assessing focus. Chan's polite smile remains, but it becomes fixed, a mask. Jisung feels the shift like a physical chill. He watches Seungmin's thumb stop its mindless scrolling. The screen of his phone goes dark, but he doesn't move to turn it back on. His knuckles are white where he grips the device.
A heavy, awkward silence descends, broken only by the overly cheerful pop song blaring from the speakers.
Jeongin, sensing the sudden tension but misreading its source, offers a nervous, placating smile. "She was just finishing up a study group nearby, so I thought... you know. It's been a while since she hung out with everyone and some still didn’t get to know her."
Chan is the first to reboot the social software, clearing his throat. His voice is carefully neutral, the one he uses for difficult studio clients. "Oh. Nice. We haven't seen her in a while." The statement hangs in the air, utterly devoid of its intended warmth.
Under the table, Felix's foot finds Jisung's ankle, a silent tap of solidarity. Jisung doesn't look away from Seungmin, who has become a statue of forced indifference beside him.
A few agonizing minutes later, the bell above the cafe door jingles. Jihye walks in, her entrance seeming to suck the remaining warmth from the room. Her smile is tight, her gaze sweeping over the group without truly seeing them. She makes a beeline for Jeongin.
"Hi," she says to the table, her voice cool. She leans down and places a perfunctory kiss on his cheek, a possessive stamp. The contrast is jarring. To the table, her voice had been flat, disinterested. But the moment she focuses on Jeongin, it shifts into a high, sugary pitch—an exaggerated aegyo that feels performative and cloying. She bats her eyelashes, pouting slightly as she drapes herself over his shoulder.
“Innie~,” she coos, the nickname stretching out. “You didn’t save me a bite of your cake? You’re so mean.” She pokes his cheek, her finger lingering.
Jeongin flushes, a mix of embarrassment and a strained desire to please. He offers her a hesitant smile. “I—I can order you one?”
“No, it’s okay,” she sighs dramatically, still using that childlike tone. She rests her chin on his shoulder, her eyes scanning the table now with a detached curiosity, as if observing mildly interesting insects. “I just wanted a taste of yours.”
Across the table, Seungmin’s jaw tightens visibly. He looks down at his lap, his fingers curling into fists on his knees. The display isn’t cute or affectionate to him; it feels like a territorial claim, a performance designed to remind everyone—especially him—of her place.
Minho takes a long, slow sip of his drink, his expression unreadable, but the slight narrowing of his eyes speaks volumes. Felix looks down, suddenly very interested in stirring his already-melted iced coffee. The forced aegyo hangs in the air, thick and uncomfortable, highlighting the stark divide between the couple’s bubble and the rest of the table’s strained silence.
Jisung watched her carefully. He didn’t want to judge right away.
He wanted to understand what Hyunjin and Changbin meant.
He wanted to see it with his own eyes. Maybe she was just misunderstood.
Chan tried first.
“So, Jihye, how’s your semester going?” he asked, voice soft and friendy.
Jihye finally pulls her attention from Jeongin, but her body remains angled toward him, one arm draped over the back of his chair. She looks at Chan as if he's a mildly inconvenient pop-up ad.
"It's manageable," she says, her voice dropping back into its flat, impersonal register. The aegyo is gone, switched off like a light. "Lots of readings. But it's fine."
She offers no reciprocal question. No "how about you?" or "how's the music going?" Her gaze is already drifting back to Jeongin, her fingers beginning to play with the hair at the nape of his neck. It's a gesture that could be intimate, but here, it feels like marking her property.
Chan nods, his friendly smile becoming strained at the edges. He's a master of social lubrication, but even he's finding no traction. "That's... good to hear," he finishes lamely.
Hyunjin, watching this exchange, meets Jisung's eyes across the table. He gives a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head. See? the gesture says. This is what we meant.
Jisung sees it now. It's not just rudeness. It's a complete dismissal of their world. Jeongin is the only person in the room she acknowledges as real, but also only because she needs something. The rest of them—Chan's kindness, Hyunjin's attempts, their shared history—are just background noise to be ignored. And Jeongin, sweet, conflict-averse Jeongin, just sits there, letting it happen, a tense smile on his face as her fingers thread through his hair.
“Did you order a drink for me?"
Jeongin, looking slightly flustered, nods. "Yeah, I got you the—"
"Actually," Jihye interrupts, not even looking at him, "I'll just have a black coffee. No cream, no sugar." She says it like it's a moral stance.
No please, no thank you. Nothing.
Across the table, Seungmin finally looks up from his phone. His gaze is flat, unreadable, fixed on the point where Jihye's fingers are wrapped around Jeongin's arm. He doesn't say a word. He just watches. The air around him feels several degrees colder.
Jisung sees it all. He sees the way Jeongin subtly tries to lean away from her grip, the way Changbin's jaw tightens, the way Hyunjin looks down at his lap, his playful energy completely gone.
Jeongin just nodded, a placating smile on his face. "Yeah, sure, no problem. I will go order it now."
Hyunjin, ever the peacemaker, tried again. He leaned forward, his voice warm. "You got a new jacket, right? I saw it on your Instagram last week, the cream-colored one. It looked really nice."
Jihye’s eyes flick toward Hyunjin for a fraction of a second, her expression one of mild annoyance at the interruption. She doesn’t stop playing with Jeongin’s hair.
“It’s not new,” she says, her tone implying Hyunjin has made a foolish error. She doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t thank him for the compliment.
Jeongin arrived right that instance, saying that the order will be brought to them soon.
The tension at the table is now a living thing, thick and suffocating. Jeongin returns to his seat, looking like he's just run a gauntlet. Hyunjin leans back, the warmth draining from his face, replaced by a look of resigned hurt. He’d tried. He’d genuinely tried to include her, to bridge the gap. Her dismissal wasn’t just cold; it was a clear boundary drawn in the sand.
He places a hand gently on Jihye's arm, a silent plea for... something. Calm? Cooperation? She ignores it, her attention now on her phone screen, a small, private smirk playing on her lips.
Jisung watches Seungmin. The flat, unreadable gaze hasn't wavered. It's as if Seungmin is dissecting the scene from a great distance, cataloging every slight, every possessive touch, every flicker of discomfort on Jeongin's face. There's no anger in his expression, just a deep, weary sadness and a chilling clarity.
Chan, ever the leader, tries one last time to steer the ship. He clears his throat, forcing a tone of casual interest. "So, Jihye, are you involved in any clubs or projects this semester? Outside of your major, I mean."
Jihye looks up, her sigh audible. It's the sigh of someone enduring a great inconvenience. "Not really," she states, her eyes already drifting back to her phone. "I don't have time for filler activities."
The finality in her voice is a door slamming shut. Filler activities. The words hang in the air, implicitly dismissing everything this table represents—their music, their banter, their friendship. Felix flinches as if struck. Changbin looks like he's biting his tongue hard enough to draw blood.
Jeongin opens his mouth, perhaps to defend his friends, to explain, but one look at Jihye's impassive profile and the words die. He deflates, sinking lower in his chair. The message is received, loud and clear: This is my world. You are a guest in it. Your friends are not welcome here.
The waiter arrives with the drinks, she doesn’t even thank the waiter.
She simply turns her head back to Jeongin, her voice slipping back into that cloying, sugary register. “Innie, did you see the message I sent you? About the party Friday? You’re coming, right? I already told everyone you’d be my date.”
The whiplash is audibly jarring. The table falls into a stiff silence.
Jeongin, looking increasingly trapped, nods quickly. “Yeah, yeah, of course I am.”
Minho sets his glass down with a deliberate clink. The sound is sharp in the quiet. He doesn’t say a word, but his posture is rigid, his gaze fixed on Jihye with a cold, analytical intensity that is far more intimidating than any outburst.
Hyunjin leaned back in his chair as if physically pushed. The friendly light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a quiet hurt. Minho's eyebrows shot up, a silent, eloquent commentary. Felix worried the inside of his cheek raw. Changbin suddenly found the grain of the wooden table fascinating.
The understanding settled over Jisung like a cold weight. This wasn't social anxiety. This wasn't a bad day. This was a deliberate, quiet dismantling. She was erasing them from the room, one dismissive gesture at a time. And the worst part was watching Jeongin—sweet, kind Jeongin—watch her, his expression pinched with concern that she might be having a bad time. He was so busy trying to placate her invisible discomfort that he was blind to the palpable misery she was radiating onto all his friends.
The scrape of Seungmin’s chair against the floor is shockingly loud in the strained quiet. He doesn’t offer an excuse, just a terse, “Bathroom,” before turning and walking away, his shoulders rigid. The movement is so abrupt it finally pulls Jihye’s attention from her phone. She watches him go with a slight, disdainful arch of her brow, as if his departure is a minor breach of etiquette.
Jisung is on his feet a heartbeat later. “Gonna grab some air,” he announces, his voice tight. He doesn’t wait for a response. His eyes lock with Hyunjin’s across the table, a silent, urgent command in them: Now.
Hyunjin understands instantly. He pushes his chair back, the legs squeaking. “Uh, yeah. Me too. Be right back.” His smile is a brittle, transparent lie. He doesn’t look at anyone as he follows
The cold night air was a balm after the stifling atmosphere of the cafe. The three of them walked in a loose formation, the sounds of the city a distant backdrop to the heavy silence between them. Seungmin’s shoulders were hunched, his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. Hyunjin kept glancing at him, his expression soft with worry. Jisung walked slightly behind, giving them space but staying close.
Jisung reached out, his fingers gently brushing Seungmin’s elbow. “You can talk,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying clearly in the quiet street. “We’re here.”
Seungmin stopped walking so abruptly that Hyunjin took two more steps before realizing. He turned, his face open and patient. Seungmin stood under a flickering streetlamp, his head bowed. When he finally looked up, his eyes were glistening with unshed tears, his face etched with a pain he’d carried alone for too long.
“It’s just too much,” he confessed, the words tumbling out in a shaky rush. “I can’t watch them together. I can’t watch her treat him like a… like an accessory. I can’t pretend it doesn’t tear me apart every time I see him look at her like she’s the sun, when she’s just… draining his light.”
Hyunjin closed the distance between them in one swift stride. He didn’t ask for permission. He simply wrapped his arms around Seungmin, pulling him into a fierce, encompassing hug. It was the kind of hug that held broken pieces together. “Min… what’s really going on?” Hyunjin asked again, his voice muffled against Seungmin’s shoulder.
Seungmin’s breath hitched. He clung to Hyunjin’s jacket, his knuckles white. The confession, when it
Seungmin’s gaze flickered between Hyunjin’s earnest, worried face and Jisung’s steady, understanding one. The streetlamp painted his features in stark relief, highlighting the dark circles under his eyes, the tense line of his jaw. He looked utterly exhausted, worn thin from the weight of a secret he’d been carrying alone.
He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. The words came out quiet, raw, and devastatingly simple.
“I’m in love with him,” Seungmin whispered, the admission seeming to cost him every ounce of his strength. His voice broke on the last word. “I’m in love with Jeongin. And it fucking hurts.”
There was no grand revelation in Hyunjin’s expression, only a deep, aching sadness. He’d suspected, perhaps. He’d seen the lingering looks, the quiet withdrawals whenever Jeongin mentioned Jihye. He just hadn’t known the depth of it.
Without a word, Hyunjin stepped forward and pulled Seungmin into another hug, this one even tighter, more protective. He cradled the back of Seungmin’s head, his own eyes squeezing shut. “Oh, Min,” he breathed out, his voice thick with emotion. “You should’ve told us. You should’ve told *me*. You don’t get to drown in this by yourself. Not ever.”
Jisung moved then, placing a firm, warm hand on Seungmin’s back, right between his shoulder blades. A solid, grounding pressure. He didn’t speak. He just let his presence say what words couldn’t.
Seungmin shuddered, a full-body tremor, and finally, the dam broke. A choked, silent sob escaped him, his face buried in the crook of Hyunjins neck.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Nectar” – BM (Kard)
"Make a man turn into a beggar
Give me one taste of your nectar
Yeah-eh-eh-eh-eh
Take you down, down, make it spread wide
Give me one taste of your nectar
Wanna show you something different
If you let me, yeah
See it in eyes, she with it
Jiggy, we can get lost in the city
She ain't like 'em other lil biddies
She the one, not one of too many"
----------------
Jisung was dead tired when he reached Minho’s apartment.
Completely drained.
His shoulders hurt. His feet hurt. Even his brain felt heavy. The familiar hallway of Minho's dorm building felt longer than usual. Jisung's footsteps were heavy, each one echoing his exhaustion. He knocked once and let himself in. The apartment was quiet. Unusually so.
He shuffled inside, dropping his bag by the door with a thud. The living room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the television where some nature documentary played on mute. “Minho?” his voice came out quiet.
Minho was curled on the couch, a blanket over his legs, a bowl of half-eaten popcorn beside him. He looked up as Jisung entered, his sharp features softening slightly.
"Long day?" Minho's voice was a low murmur, devoid of its usual teasing edge. It was just... quiet. Concerned.
Jisung just nodded, too tired for words. He toed off his shoes and practically collapsed onto the couch next to Minho, his body sinking into the cushions with a weary sigh. He let his head fall onto Minho's shoulder, closing his eyes. The familiar scent of Minho's laundry detergent and vanilla scent was an immediate, grounding comfort.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't awkward; it was a shared, exhausted understanding. The chaos of the cafe, the tension with Jihye, the worry for Seungmin and Jeongin... it all felt miles away here, in this quiet, private space. It was just them. And for the first time in days, with Hyunjin not filling the air with his vibrant energy, the simplicity of it was a profound relief.
“You look destroyed.”
“I am destroyed,” Jisung said, kicking off his shoes and dropping his bag on the floor. “Completely. Fully. Emotionally, physically, spiritually.”
Minho held back a smile. “Come here.”
Minho shifted, opening his arm in a clear invitation. Jisung didn't hesitate. He shuffled closer, letting himself be pulled against Minho's side, his head finding its familiar spot in the crook of Minho's neck. Minho's arm settled around his shoulders, warm and solid. The blanket was tugged to cover them both.)
Minho's fingers began to card slowly through Jisung's hair, his touch gentle, methodical. "Tell me," he murmured, his voice a soft vibration against Jisung's temple. "The destruction report. Start with the physical. We'll work our way to the spiritual carnage."
Jisung let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension in his shoulders beginning to unknot under Minho's touch. "My feet feel like they've been used as punching bags. My back is one giant knot. And my brain... my brain is just static. Loud, angry static."
Minho hummed, his fingers tracing soothing circles on Jisung's scalp.
“I made like twenty coffees,” Jisung said. “Twenty. For people who don’t even drink them afterward. And I ran between three different floors. And I carried equipment. And I had to copy papers twice because the machine ate the first set. And I met an idol by accident, and I bowed too low, and I think I hit my head on the wall.”
Minho snorted. “Of course you did.”
“I’m not even joking,” Jisung said, pulling back. “He looked at me like I was a baby deer learning how to walk.”
Minho put a hand on his cheek. “At least you didn’t spill anything.”
“Oh I spilled,” Jisung answered. “Not on a person. But on myself. Twice.”
Minho laughed properly now, the sound filling the whole room.
Jisung let his eyes close for a second. He was so tired he could fall asleep standing.
(Minho's laughter faded into a soft, fond sigh. He cupped Jisung's face in both hands, his thumbs brushing over the dark circles under his eyes. The touch was infinitely tender.)
"Come on," Minho said, his voice dropping to a whisper. He shifted, gently maneuvering Jisung until he was lying flat on the couch, his head resting in Minho's lap. The position was intimate, practiced. Minho's hands returned to Jisung's hair, his fingers working with a new purpose, seeking out the tension in his scalp and temples.
"Close your eyes," Minho instructed softly. "The spiritual carnage can wait. Right now, we're dealing with the physical."
Jisung didn't need to be told twice. He let his eyes drift shut, a low hum of contentment escaping him as Minho's skilled fingers began to knead the tight muscles at the base of his skull. The pressure was perfect—firm enough to work the knots, gentle enough to be pure relief.
Minho worked in silence for a while, his focus entirely on the man in his lap.
After a few minutes, Minho's voice broke the quiet, softer than before. "The idol... was it anyone we know?"
Jisung, half-asleep already, mumbled into the fabric of Minho's sweatpants. "Dunno. Pretty. Tall. Smelled expensive. I was too busy being a human disaster to ask for an autograph."
Minho chuckled, the sound a warm rumble Jisung could feel. "My disaster," he corrected, his fingers tracing the shell of Jisung's ear. "All mine. Now, sleep. I've got you."
The smell of fresch cooked food made Jisung wakes up two hours later. Groaning he looked at the clock. It was only 7pm.
Jisung stirred, blinking slowly as consciousness returned. The soft, savory aroma of garlic and ginger filled the air, mingling with the comforting scent of simmering broth. He was still lying on the couch, a soft throw blanket now tucked carefully around him. The television was off, and the only light came from the warm glow of the kitchen.
He pushed himself up on his elbows, his body feeling significantly less like a sack of broken bricks. From his vantage point, he could see Minho moving around the small kitchen. His back was to Jisung, his shoulders relaxed as he stirred something in a pot on the stove. The domesticity of the scene was so starkly different from the cold, performative tension of the cafe that it made Jisung's chest ache with a sudden, overwhelming fondness.
"Hey," Jisung croaked out, his voice rough with sleep. He cleared his throat. "You cooked?"
Minho glanced over his shoulder, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. It was a softer expression than Jisung usually saw on him. "I reheated. The jjigae of yesterday. It just needed to boil." He turned back to the stove, giving the pot another stir. "You were dead to the world. Snoring like a little tractor."
Jisung flopped back onto the cushions, a grin spreading across his face despite his grogginess. "I do not snore."
"You do. It's cute. In a deeply obnoxious way." Minho ladled the steaming stew into two bowls. "Get up. Food's ready. You need actual fuel, not just caffeine."
Jisung dragged himself upright, the blanket pooling around his waist. The exhaustion was still there, a deep-seated weariness, but it was now cushioned by warmth and care. The hollow, angry static in his brain had quieted. They ate happily, the cats meowing from their own bowls in the kitchen.
After they ate, Jisung changed into some of Minho’s clothes and they cuddled on the couch again. Clad in Minho's soft, oversized sweatpants and a faded band t-shirt that smelled distinctly of him, Jisung felt a layer of the day finally slough away. The dishes were done, the cats were curled in a purring pile on the armchair, and the apartment was once again bathed in the soft glow of the television, this time playing a low-volume variety show.
Jisung shifted on the couch, his body moving on autopilot toward the source of warmth and stability. He tucked himself against Minho's side, his head finding its home on Minho's shoulder. Minho didn't stiffen or pull away. Instead, he simply adjusted, his arm coming up to wrap around Jisung, his hand resting comfortably on Jisung's far hip. It was a seamless, practiced fit.
For a long time, they just existed in the quiet. Minho's thumb began to trace slow, absent circles on Jisung's hipbone through the thin fabric of the sweatpants. The touch was grounding, a silent anchor.
"It's not just about Jeongin shutting down," Minho said finally, his voice a low rumble Jisung could feel. "It's about us shutting up. We're all tiptoeing around it, trying to be 'supportive' by not saying anything. That's not support. That's enabling."
Jisung nodded against his shoulder, the truth of the words settling heavily. "So what's the plan, General Lee? An intervention?"
"Something like that." Minho's fingers stilled for a moment, then resumed their gentle motion. "But not an ambush. Not with everyone. That would just make him defensive. He needs to hear it from someone he trusts won't judge him. Someone who gets it. Maybe Chan? I don't know. Maybe Hyunjin. "
They fell into silence again. For a time they just watched the movie. Enjoying each others company. Until Minho’s tracing fingers started to feel like a problem.
Jisung tilted his head back to look up at Minho, eyes meeting Minho’s.
They kissed. Slow at first. Jisung’s tiredness made everything feel warmer, closer.
Minho’s hand moved to Jisung’s jaw, steadying him gently.
They kissed again. Longer this time.
Minho shifted, guiding Jisung onto his lap. Jisung’s arms wrapped loosely around his neck, his forehead resting against Minho’s for a moment.
“You’re exhausted,” Minho whispered.
“Yeah,” Jisung breathed. “But I still want you.”
Minho's apartment is quiet now, the only sounds are their soft breaths and the distant hum of the city outside. Jisung is settled in Minho's lap, his weight a comfortable anchor. Minho's hands slide up from Jisung's waist to cradle his face, his thumbs stroking over the tired lines under his eyes.
Minho leans in, capturing Jisung's lips in a deeper, more purposeful kiss. It's not frantic; it's a slow, deliberate claiming. One of his hands slides down to the small of Jisung's back, pressing him closer, while the other tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck. He tastes like the tea he was drinking earlier, warm and faintly sweet. He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips along Jisung's jaw, down the column of his throat, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin there, feeling the pulse jump beneath his mouth.
Jisung sighs happily in the kiss. But he wants more fast. With all the stress going on in their friend group and all the changes, Hyunjin not being able to sleep as much at Changbin because of Seungmin there and therefore Minho and Jisung never being alone, they dont had the tiome for this for like at least... oh my god it has been two weeks. The longest they ever spent without sex.
The realization hits Jisung like a physical need, a sharp, desperate ache cutting through the fog of his exhaustion. Two weeks. It feels like a lifetime. He groans into Minho's mouth, the sound raw and needy, his hands fisting in the soft fabric of Minho's hoodie.
“Fuck Minho,” He groans when the kiss breaks for a moment. “Two weeks! It has been two week!”
The soft glow of the television paints their tangled forms in shifting light. Minho feels the subtle shift in Jisung’s body, the sigh turning into a needy squirm in his lap.
“Two weeks,” Minho murmurs against the damp skin of Jisung’s throat, his voice a low, rough vibration. “Fuck, I know. I’ve been counting the hours, baby.” His hand slips from Jisung’s hair, sliding down his back to grip the curve of his ass through his sweatpants, pulling him down harder against the growing hardness in his own lap. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me. Every damn day. Watching you, wanting you, having to keep my hands to myself.”
Minho grinds up against him, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips that makes his intention brutally clear. His other hand fists in the fabric of Jisung’s shirt, tugging it up impatiently to get to warm skin.
“I’m not gonna be gentle tonight,” he breathes into Jisung’s ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. “Not after waiting so long. You’re tired? Good. Just lie back and let me take care of you. Let me fuck you until you forget your own name, until all you can remember is how my cock feels splitting you open.”
“Yes Please,” Jisung whines. “I don’t want you to be gentle.”
The movie is forgotten, a silent backdrop as Minho stands, lifting Jisung with him effortlessly. He carries him the short distance to the plush rug before the couch, lowering him down with a controlled urgency that’s all heat and possession.
“That’s my good boy,” Minho growls, his voice thick with want. He kneels over Jisung, hands working fast to push the soft sweatpants and underwear down his thighs. “Tell me you need it. Tell me how much you missed my cock.”
He leans down, capturing Jisung’s mouth in a searing, open-mouthed kiss, all tongue and teeth. His own pants are already undone, the fabric rough against Jisung’s bare skin as he grinds down, the hard line of his erection a blatant promise against Jisung’s hip.
The sound Jisung makes is punched out of him—a choked-off cry that's equal parts shock and overwhelming relief. It's too much, it's not enough, it's exactly what he begged for. Minho pulls back from the kiss, breathing heavily. He shifts his weight, his gaze locked on Jisung’s flushed face.
“You want it rough,” he says, his voice a low, controlled thrum. He spits onto his fingers, the act deliberate, before bringing his hand down between Jisung’s spread thighs. “Gotta open you up first.”
His index finger circles Jisung’s tight entrance, applying a firm, insistent pressure. He watches Jisung’s face intently as he slowly pushes the first digit in, past the initial resistance, burying it to the knuckle in the hot, clenching heat.
“There we go,” Minho murmurs, crooking his finger, searching. “Just like that. Let me in, Jisungie.” He begins a slow, steady rhythm, in and out, working him open with a focused patience that contrasts sharply with the hunger in his eyes. After a moment, he adds a second finger, stretching him wider, the slick sounds filling the space between their ragged breaths.
Jisung’s head falls back against the rug, a broken sob catching in his throat as Minho’s fingers sink into him. It’s not just the physical stretch—it’s the devastating familiarity, the relief so profound it borders on pain.
Every slow, deliberate thrust of Minho’s fingers is unknotting two weeks of coiled-up tension. He’d missed this—missed the specific way Minho’s calloused fingertips brushed against that secret, electric spot inside him, missed the possessive weight of his body, missed the low, filthy things he’d growl into his skin, missed this side of Minho that only comes out when they’re alone and horny. A contrast to his nonchalant personality. The sterile loneliness of his own bed, the cold showers, the frustrated tension that had nothing to do with their friends’ drama and everything to do with the absence of this—it all melts away under Minho’s touch.
It’s the intimacy he’s craved, more than just the friction. It’s the way Minho watches him, eyes drinking in every twitch and gasp, like he’s memorizing the map of his pleasure all over again. It’s the safety of being utterly vulnerable and completely desired in the same breath. The two weeks felt like a drought, and now, with Minho’s fingers working him open, it’s a flood—a warm, overwhelming rush of belonging and raw, aching need that makes his eyes sting.
“Minho…” he chokes out, his hips pushing down onto the invading fingers, seeking more, deeper. “Please… it’s been too long. I need… I need you.” The words are a raw confession, stripped bare of any pretense. He doesn’t just want to be fucked; he wants to be reclaimed. He want’s Minho to mark him again. To be his again.
Minho’s breath hitches at the raw plea. He scissors his fingers, stretching Jisung wider, feeling the tight ring of muscle flutter and give way around him. A third finger joins, his movements becoming smoother, deeper, more possessive.
“I know, baby. I know,” Minho murmurs, his voice gravelly with emotion. He leans down, sealing his mouth over Jisung’s in a kiss that’s less about passion and more about a profound, wordless understanding. It’s wet and deep, a sharing of breath. “You have me. You always have me.”
He withdraws his fingers slowly, the loss making Jisung whimper. Minho shifts, the fabrik of his pants harsh against Jisung’s inner thighs as he aligns himself. The broad, slick head of his cock presses where his fingers had been, a blunt, insistent pressure.
“This is yours,” Minho breathes against his lips, not pushing in yet, just letting him feel the threat and the promise of it. “All of it. Every fucking inch. I’m gonna fill you up so deep you’ll feel me for days. Gonna mark you from the inside out, Jisungie. So you never forget who you belong to.”
He finally, slowly, begins to push inside, the stretch breathtaking, a burning fullness that feels like coming home. He sinks in with a relentless, controlled glide, his eyes locked on Jisung’s, watching every flicker of sensation cross his face until their hips are flush, fully joined.
A ragged, punched-out moan tears from Jisung’s throat, his back arching off the rug as Minho bottoms out. The feeling is overwhelming—a perfect, searing fullness that erases every second of the empty two weeks. His nails dig into Minho’s shoulders, anchoring himself to the reality of this, to him.
Minho doesn’t move. He stays buried to the hilt, his body trembling with the effort of holding still, letting Jisung adjust, letting them both feel the profound, shuddering connection. He drops his forehead to Jisung’s, their breaths mingling in hot, ragged pants.
“God… you feel… fucking perfect,” Minho grunts, the words strained. “So tight and hot around me. Like you were made for me.” He rolls his hips in a tiny, circular grind, not pulling out, just working himself deeper into that clenching heat, hitting a spot that makes Jisung’s eyes roll back.
Finally, he draws back, a slow, torturous withdrawal that has Jisung crying out at the loss, before driving back in with a sharp, powerful thrust that steals the air from both their lungs. He sets a deep, punishing rhythm from the start—no gentle warm-up, just the raw, needy reclamation they both craved.
Jisung’s hands scramble against Minho’s chest, pushing weakly as another deep thrust rocks through him. His voice is a wrecked, breathless thing.
“Wait… Min, stop. I want… I want on top. I want to ride you.”
Minho stills instantly, his hips locking, buried deep. Concern flashes across his lust-darkened features. He braces himself above Jisung, searching his face.
“Baby, you’re dead on your feet,” he argues, his voice rough but gentle. “You can barely keep your eyes open. Let me do the work. Just let me take care of you.”
But Jisung is already shaking his head, a stubborn, desperate light in his eyes. He wraps his legs tighter around Minho’s waist, using the leverage to try and roll them. “Don’t care. I don’t fucking care how tired I am. I need to feel you… I need to move. Please. Let me have you like this.”
The plea is raw, edged with a frantic need for control, for active reconnection. Minho sees it, the hunger outweighing the exhaustion. He relents with a soft, surrendering groan, carefully helping to guide Jisung as they shift positions on the rug.
Minho settles back against the foot of the couch, the rug soft beneath him. He guides Jisung, hands firm on his hips, as he lowers himself onto Minho’s waiting, rigid length. The slide is exquisite, a slow, breathtaking sheathing that makes Minho’s head fall back with a guttural groan.
And then Jisung moves.
The sight is utterly devastating. Bathed in the flickering blue light from the forgotten TV, Jisung is a vision of exhausted, desperate beauty. His head is thrown back, the long line of his throat exposed and working as he swallows moans. Sweat glistens on his collarbones and chest. His movements are clumsy at first, uncoordinated with fatigue, but they are his—a raw, determined claiming.
Every slow, grinding rise and fall of Jisung’s hips punches the air from Minho’s lungs. It’s not just the mind-blowing physical sensation of being enveloped in that tight, slick heat, controlled by Jisung’s rhythm. It’s the look on his face—a mix of profound concentration and utter abandon. It’s the way his tired muscles tremble with the effort, but he doesn’t stop. He’s giving everything, taking what he needs, and offering himself completely in return.
A wave of emotion, fierce and tender and so fucking overwhelming, crashes over Minho. It’s more than lust, though that is a white-hot wire in his gut. It’s awe. It’s a deep, humbling recognition of the trust being laid bare here. Jisung, in his most vulnerable state, is choosing him. Fighting through exhaustion to connect with him.
“Fuck… Jisung,” Minho breathes, his voice thick. His hands slide from Jisung’s hips up his sides, mapping.
Minho’s hands slide up to cradle Jisung’s face, thumbs brushing over his damp cheekbones. His voice drops, losing its rough edge, becoming something unbearably soft and raw in the dim light.
“I missed you so much, Sungie. Every fucking second,” he whispers, his eyes searching Jisung’s. “You have no idea. And I… god, I love you. Look at you. You’re so fucking beautiful like this. Perfect.”
The effect is instantaneous. Jisung’s rhythm stutters, a sharp, broken cry ripping from his throat. His hips jerk erratically, his entire body shuddering as if the words were a physical touch more intimate than any thrust. A fresh wave of tears, this time from sheer emotional overload, spills from his squeezed-shut eyes.
Minho sees it—the way Jisung’s body sings for the praise, how it unravels him faster and more completely than any physical touch alone. A slow, knowing smirk curls his lips. He’s found a new lever, a direct line to his core.
“That’s it,” Minho coaxes, his voice a low, deliberate purr. He guides Jisung’s hips with a firmer grip, setting a deeper, more resonant pace. “Taking me so well, baby. My perfect boy. My gorgeous, desperate boy. You feel so good wrapped around me. Made for me, weren’t you?”
Each filthy, adoring word is a deliberate stroke, a psychological caress that makes Jisung clench around him tighter, his moans climbing higher and more frantic. Minho drinks in the reaction, his own pleasure building not just from the physical friction, but from the power of watching Jisung come completely undone by the sheer force of his affection and desire.
Jisung’s world narrows to the searing stretch of Minho inside him and the honeyed, gravelly praise pouring from his lips. Each word lands like a brand, searing through the fog of exhaustion and straight into his soul. He’s always liked being told he did well, but this… this is different.
It’s not just “good job.” It’s “my perfect boy.” It’s the possessiveness in the endearments, the raw admiration in Minho’s gaze—it unspools something deep and desperate in Jisung’s chest. A dizzying warmth floods him, headier than any alcohol, making his thoughts swim and his skin feel too sensitive. The praise doesn’t just stroke his ego; it validates him. It tells him that in this messy, tired, needy state, he is still wanted. He is still cherished.
And Minho… Minho is a fucking virtuoso with it now. He times the words with his thrusts, with the roll of his hips, weaving a tapestry of pleasure that’s physical and psychological. He’s not just saying it; he’s worshiping him with his voice, and Jisung is a willing, wrecked altar.
“Min… Minho, please,” Jisung sobs, his movements becoming a frantic, chasing rhythm, driven by the need to earn more of those devastating words. “Don’t stop saying it… I need it, I need—”
He’s babbling, completely gone, drunk on the sensation and the affirmation. He feels beautiful. He feels loved. And the combination is hurtling him toward the edge faster than he’s ever experienced.
Minho doesn’t stop. He seizes Jisung’s hips, his grip turning bruising as he takes over the rhythm, driving up into him with sharp, punishing thrusts that slam directly into that sweet, electric spot inside Jisung with unerring accuracy. The force of it steals Jisung’s breath, turning his cries into sharp, punched-out gasps.
And still, the words come, a filthy, tender counterpoint to the brutal pace. “That’s it, my love. My beautiful, perfect Jisungie. Taking me so deep, so good for me.” Each praise is punctuated by another devastating roll of his hips.
Then, in a gesture of heartbreaking tenderness amidst the rough fucking, Minho brings one of Jisung’s trembling hands to his lips. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to his knuckles, then to his palm, his eyes holding Jisung’s captive. The contrast is maddening—the searing, rough penetration below, and the gentle, worshipful kisses on his hand above.
“You’re everything,” Minho breathes against his damp skin before sucking two of Jisung’s fingers into his mouth, his tongue swirling around them. The dual sensations—the relentless pounding on his prostate and the intimate, sucking heat on his fingers—short-circuit Jisung’s brain. He’s split open, completely overwhelmed, teetering on a precipice of pure, screaming ecstasy built equally from rough possession and devastating sweetness.
With a guttural growl, Minho flips them in one fluid, powerful motion. Jisung’s back hits the rug, the air rushing from his lungs, and before he can even process it, Minho is over him again, sinking back into that deep, familiar heat. But this time, one of Minho’s hands comes up, not to cradle, but to settle firmly around the column of Jisung’s throat.
The pressure is perfect—not cutting off air, but applying a steady, claiming weight that pins Jisung in place, that makes every frantic heartbeat thunder in his ears. Minho’s thrusts become slower, deeper, more deliberate, each one grinding directly into Jisung’s core.
“My sweet boy,” Minho murmurs, his voice a dark, velvety rumble. His thumb strokes the frantic pulse under Jisung’s jaw. “My good, perfect thing. Look at you. So pretty falling apart just for me.”
And something in Jisung… breaks. Or maybe it unlocks.
The world tilts, softens at the edges. The sharp sensations—the stretch, the grind, the pressure on his throat—meld into a single, overwhelming wave of pure sensation. His thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm. There’s no more fear, no more exhaustion, no more coherent want. There is only Minho’s voice, an anchor in the haze, and the profound, all-encompassing feeling of being cherished in his absolute surrender.
A dizzying, floaty warmth envelops him. He’s weightless, even as Minho’s body presses him into the floor. His eyes lose focus, gazing up at Minho’s face through a blissful, tear-blurred haze.
Jisung’s moans have morphed into a continuous, breathless stream of sound, high and keening. His body is pliant, moving only with the force of Minho’s thrusts, his eyes glassy and unfocused, seeing nothing and everything. He’s floating, untethered, in a sea of pure, submissive bliss.
Minho feels the profound shift, the complete surrender in the body beneath him. A flicker of concern cuts through his own haze of lust. He loosens his grip on Jisung’s throat slightly, his thrusts faltering.
“Sungie? Baby, you with me? Is this okay?” His voice is rough with worry, searching Jisung’s faraway expression.
The response isn’t words, not at first. It’s a low, needy whine at the loss of pressure, the slight withdrawal. Then, Jisung’s hands, which had fallen limp to the rug, rise to claw weakly at Minho’s forearm, not to pull him away, but to hold him there.
“Harder,” Jisung slurs, the word thick and dripping with desperate need. “Please… Min… harder. Don’t stop.”
The plea, so raw and trusting from this utterly vulnerable place, ignites something fiercely protective in Minho. Any lingering worry evaporates, replaced by a surge of possessive heat. He tightens his grip again, his thrusts regaining their deep, punishing rhythm.
“That’s it,” Minho groans, watching, mesmerized, as Jisung sinks even deeper into that beautiful, floaty state. The sight—his lover so completely gone, so utterly given over to him—is the most potent aphrodisiac he’s ever known. His own pleasure coils tighter, sharper, fueled by the breathtaking trust and the visceral proof of the power he holds.
Minho leans down, his lips brushing the shell of Jisung’s ear, his voice a dark, whisper that seems to vibrate through Jisung’s very bones. “That’s my good boy. My perfect, pretty thing. All mine. I love you so much. My pretty Sungie. You feel so good, Sungie… so perfect for me.”
As he whispers, he increases the pressure on Jisung’s throat just a fraction more, a dominant, grounding force that anchors Jisung even deeper in his dizzying subspace. Then, Minho’s mouth leaves his ear and descends, teeth scraping over the sweat-slick skin of Jisung’s shoulder.
His teeth sink in with a deliberate hard pressure, marking the junction of neck and shoulder. It’s a sharp, bright burst of pain that melts instantly into a searing brand of pleasure.
The effect on Jisung is cataclysmic. A ragged, broken scream tears from his throat, his back arching off the rug. A fresh, copious stream of pre-come leaks from his untouched cock, painting his stomach. His entire body convulses in a violent, continuous shudder, his moans dissolving into helpless, overwhelmed sobs. He is completely, utterly wrecked, shaking apart under the dual assault of exquisite praise and brutal, marking possession.
The sight, the sounds, the feel of Jisung coming so completely undone under his hands and mouth… it unravels Minho’s last shred of control. A raw groan rips from his chest. The tight, fluttering clenches around his cock, triggered by Jisung’s extreme state, are too much. He’s hurtling toward his own end, driven wild by the absolute power and beauty of the man breaking beneath him.
The world narrows to a single, white-hot point. Minho feels the telltale, frantic fluttering deep inside Jisung, the way his body seizes up, trembling on the very brink. He drives in one last, devastating thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and brings his lips back to Jisung’s ear, his voice shattered with emotion.
“I love you, Sungie,” he gasps, the words a raw, final confession. And as he says it, his teeth find the same tender, marked spot on Jisung’s shoulder and sink in once more—a claiming, a promise, a punctuation mark.
It’s the trigger.
Jisung shatters. A silent, breathless scream opens his mouth as his orgasm detonates, ripping through him with blinding, convulsive force. His release spills hot and endless between them, his body bowing off the floor as wave after wave of pure, submissive ecstasy crashes over him.
The feeling of Jisung pulsing and milking him around his cock, combined with the visceral proof of his love marking Jisung’s skin, is Minho’s undoing. With a choked, guttural roar, he follows him over. His own release is a deep, wrenching surge, flooding into Jisung’s depths as he grinds his hips deep, riding out the intense, soul-deep climax, his teeth still gently locked in Jisung’s shoulder, anchoring them together in the freefall.
The aftershocks tremble through them both, a slow, receding tide of sensation. Minho’s body goes slack, his weight a comforting heaviness on Jisung for a long moment before he carefully, reluctantly, pulls out. He collapses onto his side, breathing ragged, and immediately turns to gather Jisung close.
But Jisung doesn’t curl into him. He lies boneless, eyes still wide and unseeing, fixed on some point on the ceiling. His breathing is shallow, his body occasionally giving a faint, involuntary twitch. The profound, floaty detachment hasn’t left him.
“Sungie?” Minho’s voice is soft, but a thread of panic tightens it. He brushes damp hair from Jisung’s forehead. “Hey. Look at me, baby.”
There’s no response. Just those blank, beautiful eyes. For a heart-stopping second, fear claws at Minho’s throat. Did he go too far? Did he hurt him?
Then, the memory surfaces—something he’d read once, a passing comment in a forum about aftercare for intense scenes. Subspace. Sugar helps.
He moves quickly, but gently. Wrapping a soft blanket around Jisung’s trembling form, he pads to the kitchen. He returns with a bottle of water and a bar of dark chocolate, the kind Jisung loves. Sitting beside him, Minho breaks off a small piece.
“Come back to me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice infinitely tender. He brings the chocolate to Jisung’s lips, tracing them with it. “Just a little taste. For me.”
He coaxes a sip of water next, cradling Jisung’s head. Slowly, with each tender prompt, the faraway haze in Jisung’s eyes begins to clear, like fog burning off under the sun.
Minho stays patient, methodical. He continues to offer small pieces of chocolate, letting the rich sweetness dissolve on Jisung’s tongue. He holds the water bottle, guiding sips between the chocolate, his other hand never leaving Jisung’s skin—stroking his hair, rubbing slow, warm circles on his arm under the blanket. He murmurs soft, grounding words that have nothing to do with sex and everything to do with care.
“You’re safe. You’re here with me. You did so amazingly well. Just rest now. I’ve got you.”
Gradually, the vacant stare softens. Jisung’s eyelids flutter. A slow, deep breath fills his lungs, and this time it sounds conscious. His gaze shifts, searching, and finally lands on Minho’s face. Recognition dawns, followed by a wave of profound, weary contentment.
Minho watches, his heart swelling, as a small, dazed smile touches Jisung’s swollen lips. Jisung’s hand, which had been limp, lifts shakily to wrap around Minho’s wrist, not to move it, but to hold on.
“Min…” Jisung’s voice is a hoarse, wrecked whisper, but it’s his voice again. He blinks slowly, the last of the fog clearing to reveal pure, awestruck wonder. “Whoa.”
He takes another shuddering breath, his fingers tightening their grip on Minho’s wrist. “That was… I’ve never… I don’t even have words.” A soft, incredulous laugh escapes him, and he nuzzles weakly into Minho’s palm still cupping his cheek. “I feel… amazing. Like I’m made of warm light. And you. Mostly you.”
He looks up at Minho, his eyes shining with unshed tears and absolute trust.
A breathless, relieved giggle bursts from Minho’s lips, the sound pure and light, washing away the last remnants of his panic. He leans his forehead against Jisung’s, his eyes closing for a moment. “You scared me for a second there, baby.”
He tilts his head and captures Jisung’s lips in a soft, lingering kiss. It’s not hungry or demanding; it’s a seal, a reaffirmation, a gentle tether connecting them back to solid ground. He tastes of chocolate and shared warmth.
When they part, Jisung’s cheeks flush a delicate pink. He bites his lip, his eyes dropping to where his fingers are tracing patterns on Minho’s chest. The shyness is new, adorable, and incredibly telling.
“Min?” he starts, his voice barely above a whisper. “That… the bite. The way it felt when it hurt, just for a second, before it felt… incredible.” He takes a shaky breath, gathering courage. “Could we… maybe… learn about that? More of that? The pain part, I mean. If you want to.”
He finally looks up, his expression a vulnerable mix of curiosity, desire, and a hint of apprehension. “I want to try it. With you.”
Minho is quiet for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. His fingers continue their gentle stroking through Jisung’s hair as he processes. He thinks of the fierce, protective surge he felt, the raw pleasure of having Jisung so completely surrendered and trusting. He thinks of the satisfaction of marking him, of the control. He liked it. He liked it a lot.
He meets Jisung’s hopeful, nervous gaze, his own eyes serious but warm. “Okay,” he says, the word firm with decision. “We can explore that. But we do it right. We research, we talk. A lot. We learn about safety, about signals, about aftercare for that kind of play. We go slow. Okay?” He leans in, pressing another soft kiss to Jisung’s forehead. “Your trust is the most precious thing I have. I won’t gamble with it.”
The radiant, relieved smile that breaks across Jisung’s face is worth everything. He snuggles closer, tucking his head under Minho’s chin, his voice gaining strength as he tries to articulate the whirlwind inside him.
“It was like… the pain was a key,” he murmurs. “Everything was already so much—the pressure, your voice, the feeling of you everywhere—I was already floating away. Then the bite… it was sharp and bright, and for a second it was all I could feel. It pulled all my scattered pieces into one spot. And then it just… melted. It turned into this deep, hot buzz that went right to my core and made everything else a thousand times more intense. It didn’t hurt anymore; it just mattered. It made me feel…whoa. In the best way.”
Minho listens, utterly captivated, his heart swelling. When Jisung finishes, he’s quiet again, gathering his own feelings into words.
Minho takes a deep breath, his arms tightening just a little around Jisung, holding him in the safe cocoon of their aftermath.
“For me,” he starts, his voice low and a little awed, “it was like… seeing the most beautiful, private part of you. You giving me that. Your complete surrender. It made me feel… powerful, but not in a bad way. In a way that made me want to be worthy of it. To take care of it. When you asked for harder, when you took the bite… fuck, Sungie.”
He shifts to look down into Jisung’s eyes, his expression raw and open. “It was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. It felt like I was unlocking something, for both of us. And hearing you come apart because of what I was doing… because I was making you feel that good, that safe to let go… it’s the best feeling in the world. It’s love and lust and this fierce… protectiveness, all twisted together until I can’t tell them apart.”
He brushes his thumb over Jisung’s kiss-swollen lips. “So yeah. We’ll learn. Together. Because I want that with you. All of it. The right way.”
Jisung’s eyes well up with tears again, but this time they’re pure, unadulterated happiness. He lets out a soft, watery laugh, pressing his face into Minho’s neck.
“He… he never let me talk. About anything I liked. It was just… what he wanted. Always.” The words are a quiet confession, a ghost finally laid to rest in the warm safety between them. He pulls back, looking at Minho with so much love it’s almost overwhelming. “This… you… it’s everything. Every single part of me feels full. Seen. I’m so… thankful. I love you so much, Minho.”
The words hit Minho like a physical blow, but a gentle one. He freezes for a second, his breath catching in his chest. Jisung had always been so closed off about his past. Minho knew everything from the others. To hear him speak it aloud, to give voice to that old hurt here, now, in the vulnerable afterglow of their own passion… it’s a trust deeper than any physical surrender.
Inside Minho’s head, a storm of emotions swirls—fierce, protective anger. Oh, how he hates this Woosook. He is so lucky that he already graduated. Otherwise Minho would’ve paid him a visit. With Seungmins bat probably.
He pulls Jisung back into his arms, holding him tighter than before, as if he could shield him from every past hurt through sheer will. He presses his lips to Jisung’s hair, his voice thick with emotion when he finally speaks.
“Thank you,” he whispers, the words rough with feeling. “For telling me. For trusting me with that.” He leans back just enough to cradle Jisung’s face in his hands, his thumbs stroking away the happy tears. “You are everything, Jisung. Every single part of you. And I love you. More than anything.”
They stay wrapped up for another long moment, basking in the profound intimacy. Eventually, the real world—the sticky drying mess on their skin, the cool air—begins to seep back in. With shared, tired smiles, they slowly untangle and sit up. Their clothes are scattered and ruined, a testament to their passion. They pull on what they can—Minho’s boxers, Jisung’s discarded t-shirt—moving slowly, bodies humming with pleasant exhaustion.
Standing together, they look down at the plush rug. The evidence of their shared climax is a stark, intimate stain in the center.
Minho slings an arm around Jisung’s shoulders, pulling him close and pressing a kiss to his temple. “Go get in the shower, baby. Start getting warm. I’ll take care of this.”
He gives Jisung a gentle nudge toward the bathroom, his gaze already assessing the best way to tackle the cleanup, a quiet, domestic contentment settling over the lingering heat of their earlier intensity.
The warm spray of the shower washes away the physical remnants of their night, but the emotional closeness only deepens. Wrapped in soft towels and then clean, worn sleep clothes, they move through the tidied room in a quiet, synchronized dance. When they finally settle into bed, the sheets cool and fresh, Jisung can’t seem to stop touching him.
He turns in Minho’s arms, his face illuminated by the faint moonlight filtering through the blinds. A soft, giddy smile plays on his lips. Without a word, he leans in and begins to pepper Minho’s face with a shower of tiny, feather-light kisses. Each one lands like a whispered secret—on his forehead, the bridge of his nose, each eyelid, the high curve of his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth. They’re not passionate or hungry; they’re pure, unadulterated affection, a physical manifestation of the happy, fulfilled buzz humming under his skin.
Minho lets out a quiet, contented laugh, his hands coming up to cradle Jisung’s head, his fingers threading through the damp strands of his hair. He doesn’t try to redirect or deepen the kisses; he simply receives them, each one a gift that settles deep in his soul.
Finally spent, Jisung nestles his head into the perfect hollow between Minho’s shoulder and chest, his body going lax with a deep, satisfied sigh. His breathing slows, synchronizing with the steady rise and fall of Minho’s chest. In the hazy space between wakefulness and sleep, a single, clear thought repeats, a soothing mantra: I love him. I love him so much.
Now, tonight, here, he really understood why people called Sex "making love."
It’s not a new realization, but tonight, after the vulnerability and the trust and the shared, explorative heat, it feels deeper, more permanent, etched into his very bones. Held and cherished, he drifts into the deepest sleep.
Notes:
So we have now multiple stories going on at the same time. But from Hyunjin and Changbin we don't have a chapter sloly fro them yet. Tell me if you want that :))
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Hold me” – Hojean
“Baby you're just my type
You don't wanna go nowhere but my arms tonight (Me)
So baby let's take a drive
We can do some one-on-one riding for life (Hold me, hold me)”
----------------
Felix isn’t nervous. He repeats it like a mantra: It's just Chan. It's just Chan.
Yet his stomach performs a traitorous somersault the moment he sees Chan propped against the lamppost. Chan spots him, and his expression transforms—a smile that belongs exclusively to Felix blooms. Felix has cataloged this smile, compared it to the ones Chan gives the others when they were at the coffee shop. This one is softer, its edges reserved for him alone.
Maybe it's a trick of his own longing, a selfish wish for distinction. But here, now, under the park lights, the evidence is irrefutable. Chan is here, smiling. The smile is different. The only person he is smiling at is Felix. His... what? His "boy-we-were-friends-but-now-we-are-dating-and-we-kissed-once-friend" This lable is good fro Felix's head. It will have to suffice.
"Hey! You made it!" Chan calls, pushing himself upright.
"Did you think I'd chicken out?" Felix retorts, a laugh bubbling up as he falls into step beside him.
"For the rollercoaster? Possibly. Your texts last night were practically green."
"I was not that bad!"
"You used the cold sweat emoji. Twice," Chan teases, his laughter rich and warm.
Felix shoves at his shoulder, but Chan only laughs harder, his arm coming to rest around Felix's shoulders, guiding him toward the serpentine track. "Just breathe. It's a blast. You'll see."
"My goal is survival. Enjoyment is a secondary."
The line moves swiftly. Chan stands a breath behind him, his chest nearly touching Felix's back, his voice a low vibration that Felix feels in his ear as he talks about his week. Felix nods along, but most of his focus is on the frantic drum solo his heart is performing against his ribs.
Then they are being ushered into the hard plastic seats. After Chan pays for them, the safety bar clamps down with a heavy thunk. Felix grips it, his knuckles turning white.
Chan nudges his foot. "Breathe, Lix."
"I am breathing!" Felix insists, the words a thin airless whisper.
"Funny, doesn't sound like it."
The car jolts, then begins its agonizing, click-clack ascent. Felix shuts his eyes tight, the world dissolving into darkness and the scent of old grease.
"Open your eyes!" Chan yells over the wind and the mechanical grind. "You have to see this!"
"NO!"
The peak. A terrifying, heart-stopping pause. A long pause. An endless pause. When will this fucking thing move? Why is Chan laughing, how could he. WHY ARE THEY STILL NOT MOVING, IS IT BROK—
Then the drop.
Felix's scream is ripped from his lungs, pure and startled. Right beside him, Chan is whooping, a wild, joyful sound. Halfway down the first plunge, Felix's eyes open. Not less terrified than before. Suddenly he feels Chan’s hands on his. Holding him and grounding him with some bravery he is missing.
The world falls away in a dizzying rush as the coaster car crests the first hill. The park sprawls out beneath them, a blur of color and sound, and then there is nothing but the stomach-dropping plunge. A scream is ripped from Felix's throat, but it isn't one of pure terror—it is a wild, exhilarating release. Beside him, Chan is whooping, his arm braced against the safety bar, his other hand finding Felix's where it is clamped in a death grip.
The ride is a whirlwind of g-forces, sharp turns, and breathless laughter. When the car finally rattles to a stop back at the platform, Felix is trembling, but a huge, giddy grin is plastered across his face. His hair is a windswept mess.
"See?" Chan says, his own breathing slightly ragged, his eyes bright with adrenaline and something softer. "Fun."
"That was... insane," Felix gasps, fumbling with the safety bar. His hands are still shaking. "I think I left my stomach back on that first loop."
Chan helps him out of the seat, his hand lingering on Felix's elbow to steady him as they step onto the platform. Felix's legs feel like jelly, but the buzzing energy coursing through him is electric. He looks up at Chan, the late afternoon sun catching in his eyes.
"Okay," Felix admits, a little breathless. "Maybe it was a little fun."
Chan's smile softens, that private, different smile returning full force. "Just a little?" He reaches out, his fingers gently brushing a stray strand of hair from Felix's forehead. The touch is fleeting, but it sends a fresh wave of warmth through Felix, different from the ride's adrenaline—deeper, more intimate.
"Come on," Chan says, his hand dropping to the small of Felix's back to guide him through the exiting crowd.
Chan's hand is a warm, steady pressure against the thin fabric of Felix's t-shirt. It isn't possessive or demanding, just a gentle guide through the jostling crowd of laughing, chattering people. Felix feels hyper-aware of that single point of contact, the simple touch sending a quiet thrill through him that rivals the roller coaster's drop.
They weave through the throng, the scent of popcorn and cotton candy thick in the air. Chan steers them toward a quieter pathway lined with string lights just beginning to glow in the deepening twilight. The frantic energy of the ride slowly ebbs, replaced by a comfortable, buzzing quiet between them.
"So," Chan says, his voice low and warm. "Survived the coaster. Earned your treat. What's your victory feast? Dipped cone? Churro? Something disgustingly sugary and covered in sprinkles?"
Felix bumps his shoulder against Chan's, a playful grin tugging at his lips. "Don't judge my recovery process. I require maximum sugar. It's medicinal. You know, for the shock. Plus, I was brave. I deserve this."
"Ah, of course," Chan nods, his smile evident in his tone. "Very brave. The scream was particularly... heartfelt. A real performance."
"Yah!" Felix laughs, shoving him lightly, but he doesn't move away from the hand still resting on his back. If anything, he leans into it a little. "I was expressing myself! It's called emotional release!"
"Right, right," Chan nods, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Very healthy." He pauses in front of a brightly lit ice cream stand. "Alright, hero. Pick your weapon."
Felix studies the menu with exaggerated seriousness, his earlier nervousness completely forgotten, melted away by adrenaline and Chan's easy presence. He finally points. "That one. The triple chocolate monstrosity with the cookie pieces. And extra whipped cream."
Chan shakes his head but buys it anyway. They sit down with their ice creams.
The air is crisp, a sharp contrast to the sweet, melting ice cream. Felix takes a too-big bite of his triple chocolate monstrosity, the cold instantly making his teeth ache. A smear of chocolate and a dollop of whipped cream end up on the corner of his mouth.
Before Felix can even process it, Chan leans in. There is no hesitation, no awkwardness. His thumb gently brushes the spot, but then he closes the small distance, his tongue swiping slowly, deliberately, across the sensitive skin at the corner of Felix's lips.
The world stops.
The sounds of the park—the distant shrieks from rides, the carnival music—fade into a dull hum. All Felix can hear is the frantic pounding of his own heart and the soft, wet sound of the lick. All he can feel is the shocking heat of Chan's tongue against his chilled skin, a contrast so intense it steals his breath.
Chan pulls back just an inch, his dark eyes holding Felix's captive. His gaze is heavy-lidded, intense, and completely unapologetic. A faint, smug smile plays on his own lips, now glistening slightly. He doesn't say a word. He doesn't need to. The act is a statement—bold, intimate, and dripping with a possessiveness that makes Felix's knees feel weak.
Felix just stares, his ice cream forgotten, his mouth slightly agape where Chan has just cleaned it. A hot flush spreads from his cheeks down his neck. The simple, casual gesture feels more charged, more intimate, than their first kiss after the coffee shop.
"Wasteful," Chan finally murmurs, his voice a low, rough scrape that vibrates right through Felix's core. His eyes drop to Felix's lips again, then back up to meet his stunned gaze. "You had something... right there."
Felix’s mind is a whirlwind—the shock of the lick, the intensity in Chan’s eyes, the sudden, desperate need for clarity. He doesn’t trust his voice, so he just nods, a small, jerky motion. Chan seems to take that as acceptance, turning his attention back to his own ice cream with a casualness that feels like a physical blow.
But as Chan starts to pull away, Felix’s hand shoots out, fingers curling into the soft fabric of Chan’s jacket. He doesn’t tug hard, but the intent is clear. Stop. Don’t walk away from this.
Chan goes still, his eyes snapping back to Felix’s. There is a question there, but also a flicker of something hot and expectant.
Felix doesn’t give him time to speak. He closes the distance himself, his free hand coming up to cradle the side of Chan’s face. This kiss isn’t like the first—that had been a surprise. This is deliberate. This is an answer. Felix pours every bit of his confusion, his longing, and the weeks of silent yearning into it. His lips are cold from the ice cream but quickly warm against Chan’s, parting with a soft sigh that is more plea than breath.
Chan responds instantly, a low groan vibrating into Felix’s mouth. His own ice cream cone is forgotten, dropped heedlessly nearby as his arms come around Felix, pulling him flush against his body right there on the pathway. The kiss deepens, turning hungry and searching, all pretense of casualness gone.
When they finally break apart, both are breathing heavily, foreheads resting together. The world comes rushing back—the lights, the music, the distant chatter—but it feels muffled, secondary.
Felix’s heart is hammering against his ribs. Still pressed close, the warmth of Chan's body seeping through their clothes, Felix can feel the frantic beat of his own heart echoing between them. Chan's arms are a solid band around his waist, holding him there in the bubble of intimacy they've created on the bustling pathway.
Felix swallows, his mouth still tasting of chocolate and Chan. The courage that has propelled him into the kiss is ebbing, replaced by a nervous, fluttering anxiety. He can feel the words bubbling up, the need to confess, to define this thing that is making his chest ache.
"Chan," he starts, his voice barely above a whisper, rough from the kiss. He pulls back just enough to see Chan's face. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, his lips kiss-swollen. He looks utterly wrecked, and it sends another jolt of desperate affection through Felix.
“I... there's something I need to tell you," Felix manages, his fingers nervously tracing the seam of Chan's jacket collar. "About... about the other guy. The one I was seeing."
He watches Chan's expression carefully. The soft, post-kiss haze doesn't vanish, but it shifts, sharpening into something more alert, more guarded. A tiny muscle ticks in Chan's jaw.
Felix takes a shaky breath. "I ended it. A few days ago." The admission hangs in the air between them, heavy and significant. "I couldn't... it wasn't fair to him. Or to me. Because all I could think about was..."
He trails off, his gaze dropping to Chan's lips for a second before forcing himself to meet his eyes again. The unspoken words—because all I could think about was you—are screaming in the silence.
He braces himself, the question he's been turning over in his mind for days finally finding its voice, quiet and vulnerable. "So I need to know... what is this? With us? How much longer do I need to wait for you to decide if you want this or not? I don’t want to stress you, but I also have to be fair to myself and my own feelings. I was always clear that I liked you. A lot. And now, with the kissing...”
Chan’s arms tighten around him almost reflexively, a possessive, grounding squeeze. The guarded look in his eyes melts away, replaced by a raw, pained honesty. He lets out a long, slow breath, his forehead coming to rest against Felix’s again, as if he needs the contact to say what comes next.
“You haven’t been waiting alone, Lix,” Chan murmurs, his voice thick. “I’ve been… stuck. In my own head. Scared of moving too fast and wrecking this. Scared of what it meant that I couldn’t stop thinking about you either.”
He pulls back just enough to cup Felix’s face, his thumbs stroking over his cheeks. His gaze is unwavering, intense. “The other guy… fuck, Felix. Knowing you were with someone else was like a constant ache. But I didn’t have the right to say anything. Not until I was sure I could give you everything.”
A shaky, relieved laugh escapes him. “You ended it.” He says the word with a kind of reverent wonder.
Chan’s expression softens, the last of the uncertainty burning away, leaving only a warm, certain resolve. “So, to answer your question… this,” he says, gesturing between them with a slight tilt of his head, “is me deciding. Right now. I want this. I want you. Exclusively. Desperately. No more waiting. No more dates with other people. Just you and me, figuring this out together.”
He searches Felix’s face, his own vulnerability laid bare. “Is that… is that what you want too? For real?”
The admission hangs in the air, more vulnerable than any kiss. Chan’s hands are still cradling Felix’s face, but his thumbs have stilled, his gaze earnest and a little fearful. The confident, leading Chan is gone, replaced by a man laying his deepest insecurities bare on a chilly park pathway.
“I’m not… I’m not sure I know how to be everything you might need,” Chan continues, the words spilling out in a quiet rush. “My life is… it’s music, it’s the guys, it’s chaos. I get obsessed. I forget to eat. I get quiet for days. I’m not the easiest person.” He swallows hard, his eyes searching Felix’s. “The thought of disappointing you… of not being enough for someone as bright as you… it terrified me. So I kept a distance. I told myself it was to protect you, but it was to protect me, too.”
He takes a deep, steadying breath, his grip on Felix’s face firming with newfound resolve. “But I’m done running. Seeing you here… I can’t hide behind being scared anymore. I want to be the man you deserve. I don’t have all the answers, and I might fuck it up sometimes, but I promise you, Felix, I will try. Every single day, I will try for you.”
His voice drops to a whisper, fierce and sincere. “Give me the chance to be your boyfriend. Let me prove it to you. To us.”
A single tear escapes, tracing a warm path down Felix’s chilled cheek, followed quickly by another. They aren’t tears of sadness, but of a profound, overwhelming relief that cracks open the careful shell of anxiety he has been carrying for weeks. A soft, choked sob escapes his lips as he looks at Chan—seeing not just the confident man, but the beautifully uncertain man offering his whole, flawed self.
“That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” Felix whispers, his voice thick with emotion. He brings his own hands up to cover Chan’s where they hold his face, his touch gentle. “Just you. Trying. I don’t need you to be perfect, Chan. I just need you to be here. With me.”
He leans forward, closing the small distance until their foreheads touch once more, a sacred space in the middle of the swirling crowd. “We’ll figure the hard parts out together. The quiet days, the chaos… all of it. As long as we’re doing it together.”
Felix finally lets a wobbly, radiant smile break through the tears. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to Chan’s lips—a seal on the promise. It is sweet, tender, and holds the weight of a new beginning.
Pulling back just enough to see Chan’s face clearly, Felix uses his thumbs to wipe away his own stray tears, then gently brushes them against Chan’s cheeks as well, a quiet, intimate gesture. He doesn’t let go of Chan’s hands, lacing their fingers together between them. The dropped ice cream, the noise of the park, it all fades into insignificance. Here, in this moment, with their joined hands and shared breath, it is just the two of them, choosing each other, imperfections and all.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Runaway” – Aurora
“But I kept runnin' for a soft place to fall
And I kept runnin' for a soft place to fall
And I kept runnin' for a soft place to fall
And I kept runnin' for a soft place to fall”
--------------------
Seungmin doesn’t want to be on this side of campus today. It is the side where the acting majors and the music majors share some rooms.
He is only here because one of the rooms here has the free equipment he needs to finish his project. Otherwise, he would’ve just used some from his campus, but all the rooms are already reserved and, in the middle of the shit storm that has been his life the past few days, he forgot to reserve a room for himself. So now he has to suffer the consequences of his actions. Or better, lack thereof.
He has planned everything. Quick sneaking in. Quick recording. Head down.
No running into anyone.
Especially not him. Or her.
Seungmin keeps his head down, the strap of his equipment bag digging into his shoulder. The hallway is too bright, the laughter from the open practice rooms too loud. Every sound grates on his nerves. He just needs to get to room 307B.
In the good old times, the old times being maybe two weeks ago, he always chose to record on this side of campus so he and Jeongin could spend the lunchtime together, or could walk home together. But now, it is her he is spending lunch with. It’s her he is going home with after that. It’s her.
He doesn’t want to think about her anymore. He doesn’t want to think about Jeongin choosing her.
His chest hurts every time he pictures them together.
Stop thinking. Stop thinking.
It is hard, though, to stop thinking when everything in this building reminds him of Jeongin. Even this stupid wall reminds him of his best friend.
The ghost of a memory flickers—Jeongin leaning against this very wall, shoving a bag of chips at him, complaining about a vocal coach. Seungmin shakes his head, the motion sharp, trying to dislodge the image.
STOP THINKING.
He pushes open the back door to the smaller studio hallway. It is always quiet here.
Just a few extra rooms, some storage, some unused equipment. Most of the people in his major don’t know about these extra recording rooms. They’re not even listed on the university’s reservation site. He also only found out about them when he and Jeongin were looking around the university for the first time as freshmen. So when he opens the door, he isn’t expecting to see anyone.
He isn’t expecting voices.
Not laughing.
Not whispering.
Not… that.
He turns the corner—and freezes. He can’t believe what he is seeing. His heart drops and blood rushes into his ears. He can’t hear anything anymore. Adrenaline starts rushing through his veins. And he starts to break into a sweat.
She is there.
Jihye.
Jihye is pressed against the wall behind a stack of folded acoustic panels.
Someone is kissing her neck. Not Jeongin.
Another student.
Music major. Seungmin knows him. He is in the same year as him. They exchanged pleasantries and small talk at a party once.
Her hands are in his hair.
His hands are on her waist.
Seungmin stares, unable to move. The sight hits him like a physical blow, driving the air from his lungs. The sterile white light of the hallway seems to pulse, narrowing his vision to a tunnel focused on the two figures pressed against the far wall of the storage alcove.
She doesn’t see him. It is too dark. Neither of them sees him.
His heart drops more.
Fast.
Painful.
No. No no no. This isn’t real. I’m imagining it. She wouldn’t—
But she is. She’s doing it. Right now. Right in front of me.
He backs up so fast he hits the metal edge of a stand.
Jihye has one leg hooked around his hip, her head thrown back against the concrete wall, a soft, breathy moan escaping her lips as the guy mouths at her neck.
They are a tangle of limbs and muted sounds—the wet slide of a kiss, the rustle of fabric, a low, masculine groan. It is raw, intimate, and utterly damning.
Seungmin’s bag slips from his nerveless fingers a second time, this time with a louder clatter as it hits the tile. The sound slices through the humid air of the alcove.
His breath starts shaking.
His palms get cold.
fuck. fuck fuckfuckfuckfuck.
What do I do.
What do I do.
Jihye’s eyes fly open. They lock directly onto Seungmin’s. For a split second, there is only shock—wide, deer-in-headlights panic. Then her expression contorts. The pleasure melts away, replaced by a venomous, defensive rage. She shoves the music student off her with a force that surprises him, stumbling slightly as she straightens her skirt.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she spits, her voice a harsh whisper that echoes in the quiet hall. Her face is flushed, but now with anger, not passion. “Spying on people, you creep?”
The music student just straightens his jacket, looking more annoyed than embarrassed, his gaze assessing Seungmin with cold disinterest.
Seungmin feels his throat close.
His stomach twists so hard he has to lean against the wall for a second.
He forces himself to move.
He walks out.
Then faster.
Then almost running through the hallway, then outside into the cold air.
If I tell Jeongin, he will think I’m jealous.
He will think I made it up.
He will think I want to ruin his relationship.
He will look at me like I’m disgusting again.
He won’t believe me. He never believes me when it’s about her.
He can’t breathe properly.
His hands are shaking.
His eyes are burning.
Why me.
Why did I have to see that?
Why does it hurt even though I already knew she was wrong for him?
Why can’t I just stop caring?
He sits on a bench and pulls out his phone.
He hesitates.
He doesn’t want to ruin anything.
He doesn’t want to be the reason Jeongin suffers.
But he also can’t sit with this alone.
He types with trembling fingers.
Seungmin: I need you. Please answer when you can.
He wipes his face quickly even though no one is there.
Then he sends a second message.
Something happened. I don’t know what to do.
He stares at the screen, waiting for the typing bubble.
It doesn’t come.
He presses the phone to his forehead and shuts his eyes.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Moral of the story” – Ashe
“Some mistakes get made
That's alright, that's okay
You can think that you’re in love
When you're really just in pain
Some mistakes get made
That's alright, that's okay I
n the end, it's better for me That's the moral of the story, babe”
--------------------
Jisung pushes open the door of the building and steps outside, stretching his neck.
His workday is finally over. And with that, the first week of work. He is working only twice a week, till he gets his degree. After that he has to go through another round of interviews to secure himself an internship here. He is exhausted again, but less scared than the first day.
His phone buzzes as he walks down the steps.
Excited that it could be Minho, he fishes his phone out. He is already thinking about calling his man, to tell him everything of today till he arrives at his apartment where he can tell him everything once again. Between kisses and touches. But when he looks at his phone, it isn’t Minho who has texted.
Two messages from Seungmin.
He reads them while walking toward the bus stop.
Jisung frowns immediately.
I need you.
Something happened.
He types a reply but doesn’t send it yet. He wants to call instead.
Before he can press the call button, a voice comes from his right.
“Look who came crawling back.”
Jisung stops walking.
His heart drops.
His eyes widen.
He knows this voice.
Knows it too well.
He lifts his head slowly.
Woosook stands there with his hands in his pockets, staring at him.
Chapter 19: "A fight and a fight back"
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Medicine” – Daughter
"Pick it up, pick it all up
And start again
You've got a second chance,
you could go home
Escape it all, it's just irrelevant"
----------------
The first sign was always his hands. Cold and clammy, a slick, unpleasant dampness that had nothing to do with the weather. It was the physical proof of his stress, the body's desperate signal to flee. To run away. Away from the situation, from his own spiraling thoughts, from reality itself. Away from him.
It had been so long. So long since the last time he felt this fear. Months, maybe. He’d almost forgotten the particular, sickening feel of that cold sweat on his palms. He forgot how much sweat they were able to produce. He forgot that he hated his cold hands.
And now he remembers it all.
Then, the second sign: his heartbeat, a frantic, hammering rhythm against his ribs. A brutal reminder that his carefully constructed world was wobbling, tilting violently off its axis. He forgot all the exercises he had learned in therapy. All the ways Minho told him he can breath.
He tried to remember. His life was good. It was nice. Amazing even. He was happy. He was happy. He was happy. Happy. Happy.
So why didn't he feel it? Why was the old, familiar terror clawing its way back up his throat? Why why why whywhywhywhy?
His pulse thundered in his ears. His eyes, wide and unblinking, were locked on that smile. A nasty, dirty curl of lips that sent a violent shiver down his spine.
Nausea, sharp and acidic, rose in his gut.
The room began a slow, sickening spin. The third sign. Dizziness. No no no nonoononono. Why why why.
Why is he here?
“What, you didn’t miss me, Jisung-ah?”
The voice sliced through the noise in his head. His breath hitched, seized in his chest—the fourth sign.
A strangled feeling of suffocation. No. I can’t. I can’t fall apart here. Not in front of him. Not here.
I can’t can’t can’t cantcantcantcant. NO
Seungmin.
The thought was a lifeline. Seungmin needed him. Seungmin was crying somewhere. Alone. Seungmin. His friend. Who always was here for him. Seungmin. Seungmin needs him. Needs him. Him. Jisung. Seungmin needs Jisung.
He had to move. Now.
More voices blurred around him. More shadows of people. “Who’s this, Woosook?” someone asked, a distant echo.
Jisung didn’t see them.
His vision was blurred.
He turned around.
Moved.
Run.
--
On the nearly empty bus, Jisung’s body vibrated with a violent, post-adrenaline tremor. He stared blankly out the window, the city lights smearing into meaningless streaks of color.
The words echoed in his skull on a vicious loop: Just an old sex doll of mine.
He felt filthy, hollowed out. He fumbled his phone out, his cold, sweaty fingers slipping on the screen, and hit Seungmin’s contact. He needed to hear a safe voice, a tether to the present, even if the reason was selfish.
The call connected after two rings. “Jisung,” Seungmin’s voice was thin, strained, cracking on the second syllable. “Please come to the campus. I need to talk to you.”
The sound of his friend’s distress cut through Jisung’s own panic, sharpening his focus into a single, desperate point. “I am on my way,” Jisung managed, his own voice a husky, shaky ruin. He swallowed hard, forcing the next words out. “But please. Call Hyunjin too. I- I am not doing so fine myself. We need him.”
A soft, understanding hum came through the line before it went dead. Jisung clutched the phone to his chest, his mind a white-noise roar.
Don’t think. Just move. Get to Seungmin. Be there for him. Focus.
Focus. Focus. Focus.
He was so lost in the frantic, circular command that he missed his stop entirely. “Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, lurching to his feet. He stabbed at the ‘stop’ button for the next station, his heart hammering a fresh rhythm of failure. Luckily, it wasn’t far from the university grounds.
Stumbling off the bus, he walked on unsteady legs toward the campus entrance, his surroundings a blur. His body operated on a strange, numb autopilot.
The campus quad was quiet in the late afternoon, the shadows long. Jisung’s frantic scan landed on a familiar figure hunched on a bench under a skeletal tree. Seungmin. Hyunjin was already there, perched on the edge of the bench, his school bag dumped on the ground, a hand resting on Seungmin’s back.
Jisung’s legs carried him forward, the last of his energy focused on reaching them. He sank onto the bench on Seungmin’s other side, his own panic momentarily eclipsed by the sight of his friend’s ashen face.
For a moment, there was only the sound of Seungmin’s ragged breathing. Hyunjin met Jisung’s eyes, his own wide with worry. Then, Seungmin spoke, his voice a fragile, broken thing.
“I… I went to the back studios in the campus Actors and musicians share. The ones by the storage lockers. The ones no one knows about.” He swallowed, his throat clicking. “I just wanted to work in quiet. I didn’t want to… to see anyone. Especially not him. Or… her. I promise! I wasn’t there to cause any problems! I promise!” He sobbed the last words. Jisung’s heart hurt. Nobody was thinking that.
He took a shuddering breath, his fingers twisting together in his lap. “I heard voices. I turned… and she was there. Jihye.” The name was a poison on his tongue. “She was pressed against the wall. And it wasn’t Jeongin with her.”
He looked up, his eyes glassy with unshed tears and shock. “She was making out…someone else.”
Seungmin’s voice hitched, the memory playing out behind his eyes with brutal clarity. He stared at the ground between his feet, his shoulders trembling.
“My heart just…. Like it fell out of my chest. It was so fast, and it hurt.” His words were a shaky whisper. “I thought... I’m imagining it.”
He flinched, as if reliving the moment he stumbled back and hit the metal stand. “She had her leg…around him. And she was… moaning.” He squeezed his eyes shut, the sound haunting him. “It was all these sounds. Kissing…groaning. It was so... So ugly.”
A ragged breath tore from him. “My bag fell. And then… she saw me.” He opened his eyes, looking at Jisung and Hyunjin with a shattered expression. “She called me a creep. Like I was the one doing something wrong.”
He wrapped his arms tightly around himself. “The guy with her just… looked at me.. I couldn’t breathe. I just… I turned and walked. Then I ran.”
His gaze became distant, terrified. “If I tell Jeongin… he’ll think I’m jealous. He’ll think I made it up to ruin things. He never believes me when it’s about her.”
The raw, broken confession hung in the air for a heavy moment. Then, a choked sob ripped from Seungmin’s throat. He crumpled forward, his face burying in his hands as the tears he’d been holding back finally broke free. They weren’t quiet tears; they were ragged, painful gasps that shook his entire frame, the sound of betrayal and heartbreak and helpless fury all tearing out of him at once.
Jisung and Hyunjin sat frozen for a moment, stunned by the visceral pain radiating from their friend. Trying to process what they just heard. Thousands of thoughts flew in Jisung’s mind. He didn’t know what to think. Each word Seungmin confessed made things worse and worse.
Jisung moved first, wrapping an arm tightly around Seungmin’s trembling shoulders, pulling him close. He didn’t offer empty platitudes. Didn’t know what he possibly can say in this moment. He just held on, his own face pale, his mind reeling from the dual shocks of his own encounter and now this.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice thick. “Let it out. We’re here. We’ve got you.”
Hyunjin, on Seungmin’s other side, placed a steadying hand on his back, rubbing slow, firm circles. His own expression was a mask of grim concern, his mind racing ahead. As Seungmin’s sobs began to subside into shaky, hiccupping breaths, Hyunjin caught Jisung’s eye over Seungmin’s bowed head.
His voice was low, urgent, but calm. “We need to call Jeongin. Now! Before she can spin this into something else. Before she gets to him first.”
Jisung was happy that someone was thinking straight. Jisung nodded, the logic cutting through his own fog of distress. It was the only move.
“He’s working today,” Jisung said, his voice still unsteady. “At the convenience.”
Hyunjin nodded, his thumb already hovering over Jeongin’s contact. The screen glowed in the dimming light. He took a steadying breath, his other hand still resting on Seungmin’s back, a point of grounding contact.
The phone rang once, twice. On the third ring, it connected. The familiar, slightly tinny sound of a convenience store’s background noise filtered through—the beep of a scanner, the hum of fluorescent lights.
“Hyung?” Jeongin’s voice came through, cheerful but with the slightly distracted tone of someone on shift. “What’s up? If you’re asking for a discount on ramyeon, the answer is still no.” He joked.
Hyunjin forced his voice into a semblance of normalcy, but it was tighter than usual, devoid of its usual playful edge. “Hey, Innie. No, it’s not about ramyeon.” He paused, choosing his words with extreme care. “Listen, are you almost done with your shift? We… we need to talk. It’s important.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end, the store noises suddenly sounding very loud. “Talk?” Jeongin’s voice lost its lightness. “What’s wrong? Is someone hurt?”
“No one’s hurt,” Hyunjin said quickly, firmly. “Not like that. But it’s… it’s serious, Innie. We need to see you. Can you meet us after work? Somewhere quiet.”
Another pause. They could almost hear the confusion and dawning worry on the other end of the line. “Yeah… yeah, my shift ends in about forty minutes. I can meet you. Where?”
“The park near the city library,” Hyunjin said, picking a neutral, public place far from the music department and university.
“Ah and Jeongin, could you please shut your phone down?” Hyunjin added with anxiety in his voice. “I promise I will explain everything later!”
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: "Please don't" - K.Will
"Please don’t, please don’t leave
Don’t know why Don’t know why
It’s not even raining but outside the window
You grow white and farther apart
Letting you go
is not as easy as it sounds
I turn away, not being able to see you leave me
Tears eventually drop and I need to wipe them away now
I don’t know whether I should use
the handkerchief you gave me or throw it away
Why won’t this trembling go away?"
---------------
The park by the city library was stark and quiet in the evening chill. Jeongin arrived, still in his work apron, his face a mix of confusion and growing anxiety.
His eyes immediately found Seungmin, red-eyed and withdrawn between Jisung and Hyunjin, and his expression hardened into defensive wariness.
“What’s going on?” Jeongin asked, his voice flat. He didn’t move closer.
Hyunjin took a step forward. “Innie, we need to talk. All of us.”
Jeongin’s gaze flicked back to Seungmin. “I don’t want to talk if he’s here,” he stated, the accusation clear. “If this is about… whatever issue you have with Jihye, I don’t want to hear it.”
“It’s not an issue, it’s a fact!” Seungmin burst out, his voice cracking. The dam broke. Silence spread around the. Suddenly it seemed like no one else but those two exsited. Hyunjin and Jisung in the background forgotten. They only saw each other. But there was no friendliness between them. Just cold air coming from Jeongin and broken, hurt one coming from Seungmin’s side. Then Seungmin swallowed dryly. Taking a stepforward towards Jeongin. Thinking about how he can formulate his thoughts. Choosing to just be straight forward.
“I saw her, Jeongin!” He started. “In the back of the music building! She was with some guy from the music department! She was, and he was— they were—making out…”
Jeongin recoiled as if struck. “Shut up. Don’t you dare.”
He took a step closer, eyes blazing now, fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white.
“You are not doing this again,” he snapped. “You are not talking shit about her again in front of everyone and expecting me to just stand here.”
Seungmin didn’t give up. He too took a steo forward. His voice sounding more confident now. A mad tone was to be heard from his voice.
“He had dark hair, gelled back. He was wearing a maroon crewneck,” Seungmin pressed on, the details spilling out in a desperate, painful torrent. “She was moaning, Jeongin.”
Jeongin stood perfectly still, his face draining of color. The specific description landed like a physical blow. The fight seemed to drain out of him, replaced by a terrifying, blank stillness. He knew the maroon crewneck.
“Stop it,” Jeongin shouted, voice louder this time, sharp in the quiet park. “You’re obsessed! You have been obsessed with her from the start!”
He jabbed a finger in Seungmin’s direction. “You never gave her a chance. Never. From day one it was ‘she’s rude’, ‘she’s wrong for you’, ‘she’s this, she’s that’. You think I don’t see it? You think I’m stupid?”
Anger filled the void fast. His voice dropped to a low, trembling accusation. “You know what? Maybe you didn’t want me to date her because you’re the one who’s in love with her.”
The words hit the group like a physical slap.
Jeongin’s chest heaved. “Yeah. That makes sense, doesn’t it? All that weird tension. All the complaining. All the whispering to the others behind my back. You want her, don’t you? You are in love with her. You always wanted her. That’s why you hate her. Because she chose me.”
Jeongin was shaking from anger. And Seungmin was flabbergasted. He did not know what to say. Even Jisung and Hyunjin looked at each other overwhelmed.
“You think I don’t see the way you look at her?” Jeongin continued, voice breaking. “And you are always there. Always hovering. You act like you’re protecting me, but maybe you’re just jealous I got the girl first.”
The silence in the park was absolute, broken only by the distant hum of traffic.
Seungmin’s face crumpled. The accusation was so wrong it physically hurt. After a moment he finally found his voice again.
“Jealous of… her?” he whispered, horrified. “Innie—no. God, no.”
Jisung and Hyunjin knew what was about to happen. Hyunjin tried to stop Seungmin by putting his hand on his shoulder. But Seungmin and Jeongin were in trance.
Then, the real truth slipped out—quiet, raw, devastating.
“I’m in love with you.”
The words were a whisper, but they detonated like a bomb between them.
Jeongin froze. His breath caught. His eyes widened in raw shock.
“What?” he choked out. “You… what?”
Seungmin’s voice was barely a sound. “I’m in love with you, Jeongin.”
Jeongin staggered backward, like the ground had tilted beneath him. “No. No. No.” His hands flew to his head. “You can’t— you can’t say that. You can’t—”
Jisung stepped forward instinctively, but Jeongin held up a trembling hand. “No. Don’t.”
His chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths. “You’re telling me she cheated, and then you… you say you love me? How am I supposed to believe anything? How am I supposed to know you didn’t just say all that to get her out of the picture?”
Jisung’s voice cracked finally. “Innie, no one would lie about something like that.”
“I don’t know that!” Jeongin shouted, voice breaking completely. “Not right now. Not after that.”
Then, without another word, he turned and walked away—broken, overwhelmed, drowning.
There was nothing more to do. The truth had been delivered, and it had been a weapon that shattered the recipient.
For a while they were just standing there, watching the spot where Jeongin had been some moments ago.
Hyunjin lets out a long, shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “Come on,” he says softly, turning back to Seungmin, who looks utterly broken. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.”
They take Seungmin to Chan and Changbin’s dorm.
Hyunjin stays in the dorm, his voice low and steady as he explains the fractured, ugly situation to their older friends, who listen with growing horror and protective fury.
Jisung offers a weak, reassuring squeeze to Seungmin’s shoulder before slipping out, the weight of the day crashing down on him fully.
On his way out his phone buzzes in his pocket.
Minho-Hyung flashes on the screen. Jisung stares at it, his thumb hovering over the answer button.
The name is a warmth he doesn’t deserve, a comfort he is terrified to taint with the cold dread still coiled in his gut from Woosook’s words, from Seungmin’s shattered sobs, from the hollow look in Jeongin’s eyes as he walked away.
He watches the call go to voicemail. The screen goes dark, reflecting his own exhausted, haunted face back at him. He can’t. He can’t hear Minho’s voice, so normal and caring, and pretend everything is okay. He can’t lie to him. And he can’t tell him the truth — not about Woosook.
That shame is his alone to carry, a poison he refuses to let spread.
He shoves the phone deep into his pocket and starts walking, his direction aimless..
He ignores the follow-up texts, the concerned ‘Jisung-ah, where are you?’
He let Hyunjin, Chan and Changbin assume his bleak mood, his silence, is all about the fallout between Seungmin and Jeongin.
It’s a convenient, half-true shield.
But the other half of the truth festers.
Woosook. In his workplace.
Woosook with an Idol-trainee badge.
Woosook’s casual dismissal — Just an old sex doll of mine — plays on a loop in his mind, a sickening mantra.
The fear that he is letting that man control his life again, that he is hiding and hurting because of him, becomes a fire in his chest, burning away the numbness.
He can’t even think about happier things right now. Whenever he want’s to shake the thoughts of Woosook away, his friends come to mind.
Jisung keeps replaying the moment Jeongin walked away — the disbelief, the betrayal, the way he couldn’t even look at Seungmin without flinching.
It wasn’t a breakup. It wasn’t a fight. It was worse. It was all that and so much more.
It was silence, a silence full of a thousand imagined accusations. And knowing Seungmin is sitting somewhere blaming himself only makes the guilt in Jisung’s stomach twist harder.
Every time he thinks of Jeongin’s face — pale, trembling, eyes darting between them like he was drowning — Jisung’s chest tightens.
They didn’t get to explain. They didn’t get to comfort him. They didn’t get to hold him up before he fell apart. He just walked away carrying a truth heavy enough to crush him. And they let him go.
The guilt claws at him. The helplessness does too. He should have run after him. He should have grabbed him, shaken him, told him they aren’t trying to hurt him. That Seungmin isn’t the enemy. That none of this is happening the way Jeongin thinks it is. But instead, Jisung froze. He froze while Jeongin broke.
Now the memory sits heavy in his chest, a sharp ache that joins the older, darker wound Woosook left in him. A double weight. A double failure. Seungmin crying. Jeongin walking away. Woosook’s words. Minho’s missed call. It all folds together into a suffocating tension behind his ribs.
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Control” – Zoe Wees
"Early in the mornin'
I still get a little bit nervous
Fightin' my anxiety constantly,
I try to control it
Even when I know it's been forever,
I can still feel the spin Hurts when
I remember, and I never wanna feel it again
[Pre-Chorus]
Don't know if you get it
'cause I can't express how thankful I am
That you were always with me when it hurts,
I know that you'd understand
[Chorus]
I don't wanna lose control
Nothin' I can do anymore
Tryin' every day when
I hold my breath Spinnin' out in space pressin' on my chest
I don't wanna lose control"
----------------
Saturday passed in a blur of silent, suffocating stillness within the walls of his shared apartment.
Felix was out, and the emptiness was a relief and a curse. Jisung paced, he tried to watch something, he stared at the ceiling.
Every quiet moment was filled with the echo of Woosook’s voice and the image of Seungmin’s tear-streaked face. Every time he blinked, something inside his ribs seemed to twist. His limbs felt heavy, as if someone had poured sand into his bones. His skin buzzed with leftover terror while his brain flickered between panic and numbness like a faulty light switch.
Nothing grounded him. Not the couch. Not the silence. Not his own breathing. He felt too big for his own body and also too small, shrinking into himself until the apartment felt like it was swallowing him whole.
His phone felt like a lead weight.
Finally, in the late afternoon, he picked it up. He scrolled past the unread messages from the others, his finger trembling slightly as he tapped Minho’s name. It rang twice before connecting.
“Jisung-ah?” Minho’s voice was warm, but there was a thread of concern woven through it. “I was so worried. Are you okay?”
Jisung closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool glass of the window. “Hyung,” he started, his voice rough from disuse. He forced the words out, sticking to the safe, half-true script. “I’m… I’m sorry. It’s just… everything with Seungmin and Jeongin. It’s… a lot. I know Hyunjin told you what happened. I’m really overwhelmed. I am so so so sorry I didn’t come yesterday. Really. I am sorry. And I am sorry because I don’t think I can make it over tonight. I just need to… be still for a bit.”
There was a split second of silence where Jisung imagined Minho’s face — how his eyes would soften, how his mouth would pull into that small, worried pout. The thought hurt. It hurt because he wanted it so badly and because he didn’t think he deserved it. Because he couldn’t let Minho see the filth of what happened, the old fear that curled behind his ribs like something alive.
There was a pause on the other end. A soft, disappointed sigh. “I was looking forward to seeing you,” Minho said, his tone gentle but undeniably sad. “But I understand. It’s a horrible situation. You need to take care of yourself.”
Minho sighed again.
“I’m working a long shift today anyway,” Minho continued, the sound of the studio noise faint in the background. “It’s probably for the best. But… Let’s promise for tomorrow, okay? Sunday. Come over. We’ll order terrible food and not talk about any of it if you don’t want to!”
Jisung agreed.
The moment the call ended, the room felt colder. A pressure settled behind his eyes — not crying, not yet, but the prelude to it. He set the phone down carefully, like it might shatter if he touched it wrong.
Maybe he would shatter with it. He wasn’t sure.
He crawled into bed fully dressed and lay there, staring at the wall.
Minutes blurred. Hours blurred.
He didn’t cry.
Crying would require choosing a feeling, and right now he didn’t have that kind of control.
He only had the noise in his head and the way his heart spiked in his chest whenever he accidentally remembered Woosook’s face.
--
Sunday evening found Jisung standing outside Minho’s apartment door, his heart a steady, determined drumbeat in his chest.
The weekend’s solitude had been a crucible.
The fear and shame had burned, but what was left wasn’t a need to confess. It was a cold, clear decision; Woosook’s ghost would not steal his present.
He would not let that man’s shadow darken the one good, pure thing he had built for himself.
He would deal with the poison alone, in therapy, in his own mind.
He is stronger now.
He has his friends, he has therapy, he has Minho.
Woosook destroyed him once too many times. He won’t let him do that again. He would not dump its ugliness on Minho’s doorstep.
He repeated the thought like a mantra — I choose my life, not my trauma — something he had learnd in therapy, until his hand stopped shaking enough to ring.
The door opened, and Minho was there, looking relieved and soft in his home clothes. “You came,” he said, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. He stepped forward, not to hug him, but to usher him in with a gentle hand on his back. “I was worried you’d cancel again.”
“I promised,” Jisung said, his voice firmer than he’d expected. He managed a small, tired smile in return.
He stepped inside, letting the warmth and the faint smell of Minho’s fabric softener wrap around him. It felt like sanctuary. His mood already getting better.
Happiness coming back to him.
They ordered fried chicken. They ate on the floor in front of the TV, a silly variety show playing on low volume. Jisung let himself lean into Minho’s side, absorbing the solid, quiet comfort of his presence.
He talked about Seungmin, about how worried they all were, about Hyunjin’s steady handling of it all. He kept his voice even. And he did not mention the other face he’d seen, the other chill that had settled in his bones.
When Minho’s fingers brushed through his hair, gentle and questioning, Jisung didn’t flinch. He leaned into the touch. Minho’s hand settled more firmly in Jisung’s hair, his thumb stroking slow, soothing circles at his temple. The contact was a grounding wire, tethering Jisung to the here and now—the warmth of the apartment, the greasy comfort of the food, the absurd laughter from the TV.
The silent scream of memory began to recede, muffled by the simple, physical reality of Minho beside him.
“There is something you’re not telling me,” Minho murmured, his voice a low rumble close to Jisung’s ear. “And it’s not about Seungmin. I can feel it.”
Jisung closed his eyes, letting the truth of that settle in his chest. He was holding his breath.
He had been since Friday.
He exhaled slowly, deliberately, his body relaxing further against Minho’s side.
“You’re right,” he admitted, the words barely a whisper. “But it’s not important. Really not. I’m trying… I’m trying to let it go. I will tell my therapist about it.”
“Okay,” Minho said, his fingers never stopping their gentle motion. “If you want to talk to me I am here. You know that. If not. Then this is also okay. I am proud for you. Always. And don’t worry about me, just be here for tonight, that’s enough.”
Jisung couldn’t describe the war, feeling he felt from the words of Minho. “I love you Hyung.” He murmured.
And Jisung was here. In his happy place. He let the show’s nonsense wash over him. He laughed, a real, if quiet, laugh at a particularly stupid skit. He felt the tension in his shoulders begin to unknot, not because the problems were solved, but because in this space, for these hours, he was allowed to simply exist without the weight of them crushing him.
He was safe. Woosook was a ghost, and ghosts held no power in the light of Minho’s quiet, steadfast presence.
Even the silence between them felt warm, not threatening. Every time Minho shifted, every time their arms brushed, something in Jisung’s chest eased, like a tightened string loosening half a millimeter at a time. He didn’t feel whole yet — but he felt held and safe. And for tonight, that was enough.
Later, as they cleaned up the containers, their shoulders brushing in the small kitchen, Jisung felt a surge of something fierce and protective. He wouldn’t let the ghost win. He had work tomorrow. He would go.
He wasn’t healed. Not even close. But he wasn’t broken beyond repair, either.
And if Woosook tried to haunt him again — he would fight.
He will survive.
He will not let the past steal Minho’s warm hands or his soft voice or this fragile, forming happiness.
Not again.
Never again.
--
Monday morning, Jisung dressed with a determined focus.
He will win. Won’t let anybody control him.
He looked at himself in the mirror, squared his shoulders.
He would not be stolen from.
He repeated it to himself, a mantra, an armor he was trying to force onto trembling hands.
If he said it enough, maybe it would become true. Maybe his reflection would stop looking like someone who barely survived the week. Maybe he could pretend he wasn’t still carrying Friday on his skin like an invisible bruise.
The day started well, he even was able to help his boss with a tune he was fighting with and earned himself a compliment.
For a brief moment, he felt proud of himself. It loosened something tight in his chest. He held onto it, desperate for the feeling to stay.
On his break, tucked into a quiet corner of the staff lounge, he called Minho.
“Jisung-ah. To what do I owe this midday interruption?” Minho’s voice was a low, playful purr. “Miss me already?” Minho’s voice was a warm tease through the phone.
“Maybe,” Jisung said, a real smile touching his lips.
They flirted, light and easy, a world away from the weekend’s darkness.
“I was just thinking about you, actually.”
“Oh? That seems dangerous.”
“Very,” Minho agreed, his voice dropping into that intimate register that made Jisung’s stomach flip. “I was reading. About some things. Things I think you might like. Considering our last discussion. You know.”
Jisung’s breath hitched slightly. “What kind of things?”
“I was reading. About aftercare. And about… going further.”
They’d talked about this after the last time, when Jisung had floated in that blissful, wordless space. “Further?”
“Yeah. That place you went… that subspace. I want to take you there again. But deeper. I’ve been reading about how to build it, how to hold you there safely.” Minho’s tone was focused, almost scholarly, but laced with heat. “And about mixing in other sensations. A little sting, a little burn… to make the float even sweeter. To make you really feel how much you’re mine when you’re like that.”
Jisung’s grip tightened on the phone. The clinical terms were somehow more intense than crude ones. “You can take me there again by… hurting me?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“Not hurt,” Minho corrected, firm and gentle. “I want to play with your pain threshold. I want to see how it makes you fly. I want to watch you surrender to it and know I’m the one guiding you through it. I’ve been researching protocols, baby. Safe words, signals, aftercare routines. I have a whole list. Red for stop, yellow for slow down, green for more. We’ll talk about it all before we even touch. I won’t do anything you don’t explicitly agree to. It’s about me giving you a space where you can let everything else go. Where the only thing that exists is my voice, my hands, and what they make you feel.”
Jisung felt a dizzying rush of trust and desire. Minho wasn’t just talking about kink; he was talking about building a fortress for Jisung’s mind.
A safe room. A place where the world couldn’t claw at him.
“You’ve… you’ve really thought about this.”
“Of course I have. Since the last time. Since I saw how beautiful you looked, completely gone in the best way. I want to give you that again. But I want to do it right. I want to be worthy of that trust.” Minho paused, and his next words were a low, velvet promise. “So, promise me you’ll come over tonight. Let me take care of you.”
Jisung closed his eyes, the last of his weekend anxieties melting under the heat of Minho’s careful, deliberate passion.
His shoulders dropped for the first time all day. Someone wanted him. Someone wanted him with intention. With care. With effort.
“I promise,” he breathed out. “I’ll be there.”
“Good. Now go finish your day. I’ll be waiting.”
Jisung walked out of the staff lounge, the ghost of a smile still playing on his lips. The lingering warmth from Minho’s voice was a tangible thing, a protective bubble around him. He felt buoyant, almost giddy with the promise of the evening.
For a moment, he let himself imagine it—Minho’s hands grounding him. Minho’s voice guiding him. A night where he wasn’t afraid. Where he can enjoy Minho, and make Minho enjoy him. To the fullest. Where they give everything to each other.
The hallway was busy with the post-lunch hum of activity. Up ahead, a small, polished group of young men waiting for their manager—obviously idol trainees—were clustered together. Jisung’s path took him right past them.
As he neared the group, he offered a polite, slight bow of his head, a professional courtesy. His mind was a million miles away, already in Minho’s apartment. He didn’t scan their faces; he just saw a blur of guys.
But from within that blur, one pair of eyes snapped to him with laser focus.
Woosook.
Standing slightly apart at the edge of the group, his own trainee badge clipped to his lapel. His expression, previously blank, shifted. The cold, calculating recognition was instantaneous. He watched Jisung bow, watched him walk past, that familiar, fragile frame moving with a confidence, Woosook had never seen in him before.
Jisung, sensing nothing, turned the corner towards the quieter hall leading to his department. The moment he was out of the main thoroughfare, the footsteps started—quick, deliberate, closing the distance. Jisung’s heart gave a single, hard thump of unease. He sped up.
He never made it to the next junction.
A hand, brutal and final, clamped onto his shoulder from behind and wrenched him sideways.
The force was so sudden it ripped the breath from his lungs. His stomach lurched, his vision tipping violently as the world slid off its axis. For a split second, his mind couldn’t even form fear—only a blank, animal shock.
The bubble popped.
It burst so violently that Jisung could almost hear it—an internal shatter, a sudden coldness rushing into the space Minho’s warmth had held only moments before. The air thickened, grew sharp, slicing at the fragile peace he had managed to build for himself that morning.
The world tilted. He was propelled off-balance through an open doorway into a dim, unused meeting room. The door slammed shut behind them with a heavy, echoing thud, cutting off all sound from the hallway. The sound of the door locking them in ricocheted through him like a gunshot. A trap snapping shut.
Every instinct screamed wrong, wrong, wrong, but his body lagged behind his terror, frozen in that old, horrible familiarity.
The air in the room was stale and cold, smelling of dust and old electronics. Jisung stumbled, catching himself on the edge of a large conference table. Before he could right himself, he was spun around. Woosook stood between him and the door, his face a chilling mask of calm malice. The polite trainee facade was completely gone, replaced by the predator Jisung remembered.
The sight of him—real, close, unmasked—hit Jisung like a physical blow. The months between then and now collapsed in an instant.
Every bruise, every whispered threat, every moment of powerless dread slammed back into him at once, flooding his bloodstream with paralysis.
“Jisung-ah,” Woosook said, his voice a low, conversational sneer. He took a step forward, forcing Jisung back against the table. “This time you can’t run away Jisung-ah baby.”
The word baby slithered over Jisung’s skin like something rotten. His breath stuttered, coming in shallow, disjointed pulls. His brain screamed at him to move, to run, to scream—but his legs felt carved from stone.
Jisung’s breath came in short, sharp pants. The happy buzz from his call was gone, replaced by a ringing terror so deep it felt like his bones were vibrating.
He couldn’t speak.
He could only stare, frozen, as Woosook closed the final step.
It felt like being pushed underwater—everything muffled, heavy, slow.
He was drowning in a body that would not obey him. His fingers curled uselessly at his sides. His knees threatened to buckle. A single thought pulsed helplessly through the fog: not again, not again, please not again.
Woosook reached out with a slow, deliberate hand. He smoothed the lapel of Jisung’s suit jacket, a grotesque parody of a tender gesture.
“This is nice. You clean up well for them. But I know what’s underneath the clothes.”
The touch made Jisung’s skin crawl. His stomach turned violently, bile rising up his throat. His mind recoiled, screaming at him to get away, to scrub the contact off his body, but he couldn’t move.
His hand suddenly fisted in the fabric, yanking Jisung forward so their faces were inches apart.
“Did you tell anyone about me? About our little relationship? Did you ruin my new start here?” Woosook’s eyes were black pits. “You’re going to be quiet. You’re going to be so, so quiet. Or I will remind you, in front of all your new colleagues, exactly what you are.”
Jisung’s stomach dropped so violently he thought he might vomit. The threat wasn’t vague—it was a chain tightening around his neck. Shame, old and suffocating, ignited in his chest, choking him. He shook his head—not a denial, just a tremor of instinctual fear. He tried to speak but nothing came out.
His fingers dug into the flesh of Jisung’s jaw, forcing his head back against the metal shelving. The smell of him—cheap cologne and something sour underneath—flooded Jisung’s senses, triggering a nausea so profound his vision swam.His eyes watered. Panic clawed up his throat, hot and acidic.
The smell…it yanked him backwards in time with brutal clarity. Room’s. Locked doors. Whispered commands.
His chest constricted brutally, as if invisible hands were crushing his ribs inward.
“Look at you,” Woosook hissed, his breath hot against Jisung’s cheek. “All grown up. In a nice suit. Playing office worker.” His grip on Jisung’s shirt tightened, twisting the fabric. “Did you think you could just walk away? Did you think that your two friends playing fight with me would stop me? That I won’t take my revenge?”
Each word was a needle, deliberately, sadistically placed. Jisung’s lungs refused to work.
His heartbeat pounded so loudly it drowned out everything else. His knees buckled slightly, his body instinctively trying to collapse to the floor—to make himself small, invisible, unthreatening. Old survival instincts, clawing their way out.
Jisung couldn’t speak. His throat had closed up, a vise of pure terror. He tried to twist away, but Woosook’s hold was iron.
“You were mine. You were always mine. My little doll. You think your friends, your uni, or your job changes that?”
The word mine detonated inside him like a grenade.
His vision blurred. His ears rang. The room seemed to tilt, expand, contract. He felt himself slipping—out of the present, into memories he had fought so long to bury.
Minho’s voice evaporated from his mind. His friends’ faces vanished.
There was only Woosook, and the old, terrible truth: once, he had been helpless under him.
Woosook leaned in closer, his lips almost touching Jisung’s ear. “I own every fucking memory in this pretty head. You’re just a thing I used.”
The words sliced him open. His breath hitched into a silent sob he couldn’t contain. His hands trembled uncontrollably at his sides. Every part of him wanted to disappear—curl into a shadow, vanish, be nothing. Anything but here. Anything but this.
With a brutal jerk, he slammed Jisung’s head back against the shelf. A sharp, white pain exploded behind Jisung’s eyes.
A spark of light burst behind his eyelids. His knees buckled fully. His mouth opened in a voiceless cry. The room blurred into streaks of grey and fluorescent white. His ears buzzed like static. He didn’t know which way was up.
Before he could even cry out, Woosook’s other hand came up, holding his face. And then…
He spat, a thick, wet glob landing directly on Jisung’s cheek, sliding slowly down towards his jaw.Time stopped.
The spit was warm. Heavy.
It crawled down his face like poison.
Humiliation detonated in his chest so violently it stole his oxygen. It dripped, cold and vile, down his skin. The split shattered something.
He felt filthy. A shame so old and so deep surged up and swallowed him whole.
But the sensation, instead of freezing him further, ignited a fuse.
A raw, guttural scream tore from Jisung’s throat—not of fear, but of feral rage.
Something snapped.
Something that refused to be a victim here again.
Something that remembered Minho’s voice, gentle and grounding.
Something that remembered he had people who loved him.
Something that remembered he was not Woosook’s anymore.
Adrenaline burned through the paralysis.
The scream shocked even him—loud, wild, ripped from a place deeper than words. For the first time, Woosook’s eyes widened. Just slightly. But enough.
He didn’t think. His body moved.
He brought his knee up hard, connecting with Woosook’s thigh. It wasn’t a perfect hit, but it was enough to make the grip on his jaw loosen in shock.
“Get the fuck off me!” Jisung roared, the words ripping out of him. He swung his fist wildly, catching Woosook on the side of the neck. It was clumsy, fueled by panic and fury, but it was a hit.
The impact stung his knuckles. For a heartbeat, triumph flared—tiny, trembling, but real.
He had hit back.
He had fought.
Even as fear surged violently through him, he felt something like himself claw upward through the terror.
Woosook snarled, more surprised than hurt, his hand flying up to the spot. That split second of distraction was all Jisung needed. He wrenched himself free, the fabric of his shirt tearing loudly.
He didn’t look back.
He flung the supply room door open and ran.
His feet slapped against the floor. His breaths were broken, ragged, sounding like sobs. His vision tunneled so sharply the walls blurred away. His own heartbeat was deafening, a frantic drum. He didn’t think he had ever run faster. He didn’t think he had ever been more terrified.
His vision tunneled to the glowing red sign at the end of the hall: the restroom.
He crashed through the door, stumbling into the largest stall. He locked it, his hands shaking so violently he could barely slide the bolt.
His breath was a desperate gasp—wet, wheezing, tearing at his lungs.
His throat burned.
His hands were numb.
He couldn’t swallow.
He couldn’t think.
Panic surged like electrical fire under his skin.
Then it hit him.
The world tilted on its axis.
The air vanished from his lungs.
He clawed at his collar, gasping, but no sound came out.
His heart was a frantic, trapped bird slamming against his ribs.
Black spots danced at the edges of his vision, swallowing the sterile white tiles.
The last thing he felt was the cold porcelain against his cheek as his legs gave way, and then there was nothing.
A final thought flickered—Minho’s voice saying I’ll be waiting—
and then darkness swallowed him whole.
Chapter 20: "The door"
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Zombie” – Day6
“Breathin', but I've been dyin' inside
Nothin' new and nothin' feels right
Déjà vu, so I close my eyes
Let the demon sing me a lullaby
Today's a present that I don't want
So I'm wonderin' in this world"
----------------
Changbin’s car that Minho was driving screeched to a halt in the office parking lot. He didn’t remember the drive.
The coworker’s voice on the phone—"He’s just sitting here, he won’t talk, he won’t move"—played on a loop in his head. He took the stairs two at a time, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs.
His palms were sweating so badly the railing slipped under his fingers. Every step felt like running toward a nightmare he already knew he wasn't prepared for. His body moved faster than his mind could process; terror pushed him forward like a physical shove.
He burst into the small, first-floor break room.
The scene was unnervingly quiet. Jisung was sitting upright in a plastic chair, his back rigid against the seat. His eyes were open, fixed on a point on the scuffed linoleum floor. They were utterly vacant, glassy with a shock so deep it had swallowed him whole. His suit jacket was gone, his shirt torn at the collar, and there was a faint, dried smear on his cheek.
A young man Minho didn’t recognize—the coworker—stood a few feet away, looking helpless and terrified.
The sight hit Minho like a punch to the sternum.
Jisung looked like a photograph of himself—present but not alive, not breathing in any way that mattered.
Minho felt his throat close around a sound he refused to let escape. If he crumbled now, Jisung had no one.
“Jisung-ah,” Minho said, his voice softer than he thought possible.
No reaction. Not a flicker.
Not even a blink. Not even the smallest tightening of his fingers. It was like speaking to someone underwater—where sound could never reach.
Minho knelt slowly in front of him, blocking his view of the floor. He didn’t touch him. “Baby. It’s me. It’s Minho.”
Nothing. Jisung’s breathing was shallow but even, as if he’d forgotten how to do anything else.
Minho’s stomach turned violently. This was absence. Jisung wasn’t here. Not really.
Minho looked up at the coworker. “What happened?”
“I-I found him in the main hall bathroom. On the floor. He was coming around, but he… he hasn’t said a word. He just let me lead him here. I called his emergency contact right away.”
Minho gave a tight, grateful nod. “Thank you. I’ve got him now.” The dismissal was clear. The coworker, looking relieved, slipped out.
His hands shook. He hid them behind his thighs. Jisung did not need to see Minho break.
“Okay,” Minho whispered, more to himself than to Jisung.
“Okay.” He knew better than to push. He recognized the stillness—born from trauma deep enough to freeze a person from the inside out. He had seen this look in others. On Hyunjin.
Slowly, carefully, he reached out. He didn’t try to make Jisung look at him. Instead, his hands went to Jisung’s. They were ice-cold and limp in his lap.
Minho wrapped his own warm hands around them, rubbing gently, trying to coax some life back into them.
Jisung’s fingers didn’t curl back. They didn’t twitch. They felt like someone else’s hands entirely.
Minho bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.
“I’m going to take you home,” Minho said, his voice a low, steady murmur. “We’re just going to stand up, and walk to the car. Can you do that with me?”
There was no verbal response, but after a long moment, as Minho applied gentle upward pressure on his hands, Jisung’s body obeyed. He stood, his movements stiff and automatic, like a marionette. He didn’t look at Minho, his gaze still fixed.
Every step was mechanical. Wrong. Wrong in a way that made Minho’s vision blur with fear.
Minho kept one arm firmly around his waist, guiding him out of the break room, through the now-empty lobby, and into the passenger seat of his car.
He buckled the seatbelt around him, his fingers brushing the dried residue on Jisung’s cheek.
A cold fury began to crystallize in Minho’s gut, when he realized what this could be. The smear made his jaw clench so hard his teeth ached. Someone had touched him. Hurt him. Terrified him. Minho wanted to destroy something.
But Jisung needed calm. He needed softness. He needed Minho to be a harbor.
He shoved the anger down. For now.
Now was not the time.
The drive to the apartment was silent. Jisung stared out the window, seeing nothing.
Once inside, the silence was heavier here, saturated with a shared history that made Jisung’s current state even more jarring. Minho led him gently down the hall.
The familiarity made it hurt more. This was home. This was supposed to be where Jisung was safe. But Jisung looked like someone who had nowhere left in the world to run.
Minho led him to Jisung’s bedroom.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, hmm?” Minho suggested softly, his hand a steady presence on Jisung’s back.
For the first time since the break room, Jisung reacted. He flinched, a full-body shudder, and took a small, stumbling step away from Minho’s touch.
It was terror. Pure, reflexive terror. Terror that didn’t differentiate friend from foe. Terror that came from remembering other hands. Hands that hurt.
Minho’s heart cracked. He pulled his hand back instantly.
He whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Though he didn’t know what he was apologizing for. For touching him? For not being there? For not protecting him? For the world being cruel?
Jisung didn’t answer. He didn’t look at him. His eyes, still hollow, darted towards the bathroom door.
He moved on his own then, walking with a stiff, determined gait. He entered the bathroom and closed the door. The click of the lock was deafening in the quiet apartment.
Minho flinched at the sound.
Locked doors meant safety.
Locked doors also meant danger.
He pressed his forehead to the wall and breathed through the panic clawing at his chest.
He heard the shower start. He waited, leaning against the wall, listening for any sound—a sob, a crash, anything. There was only the steady drum of water.
He slid down the wall until he sat on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, fingers tangled in his hair. He prayed—silently, desperately—that the water was washing washing the work day away. That Jisung only saw something weird. That his boss screamed at him. That a coworker said something mean. He prayed that the shower was, not washing wounds. Was not washing blood away. Or worse. The touch of someone else. The forces lips of someone else on his body.
He hated that he didn’t know.
Twenty minutes later, the water stopped.
The door unlocked and opened.
Jisung emerged, dressed in soft sweats, his hair damp and dark.
He smelled of soap, but his skin was pale, his eyes red-rimmed but dry.
He walked past Minho as if he were a piece of furniture, went straight into his bedroom, and closed the door.
A moment later, Minho heard the definitive, metallic snick of the interior lock turning.
It felt like a knife sliding between Minho’s ribs. A cold fist closed around Minho’s heart.
He leaned forward, pressing both palms flat against the floor, grounding himself before he shattered completely.
He approached the door, pressing his palm against the cool wood.
“Jisung-ah? Please. Let me in. Let me see you.”
Silence.
Then, so quiet Minho almost missed it, Jisung’s voice, flat and exhausted, filtered through the door. “Go away, Minho.”
Two words. Barely words. More like exhaled defeat.
Minho closed his eyes.
He didn’t allow himself to cry. Not here. Not where Jisung might hear it and feel guilty for breaking him.
Two words. They held no anger, no plea.
Just a final, desolate command. Tthe sound of someone building a wall, brick by brick. From the inside. Putting Minho on the outside. Away. Far away.
Minho’s hand fell from the door. He stood there for a long moment, his own breath feeling too loud in the silent hallway.
His mind run a thousand thoughts a second.
Arguing would be violence.
Pushing would be a betrayal.
He had to honor this, even if it shattered him.
"Okay," he whispered to the sealed door. "I won’t come in. But I'm right outside."
He meant it. Even if he sat there until morning. Or the next day. Or the next.
He didn't leave the apartment. He retreated to the living room, sinking onto the couch.
He texted Felix a simple, urgent message: Come home. Now. It's Jisung.
His fingers shook so badly he had to retype it twice. He didn’t trust himself to add anything else—he feared that if he did, the dam would break and he’d fall apart.
When Felix arrived, bursting through the door with his usual sunny energy that immediately died upon seeing Minho’s face, the story came out in terse, clipped sentences.
"He collapsed at work. Someone found him. He won't talk. He won't let me in. He's locked in his room."
Felix’s eyes went glassy, panic tightening his throat. His hands fluttered uselessly before he forced them still. He went straight to Jisung’s door, knocking gently. "Sungie? It's Lixie. Can you open up? We're worried."
No sound. No movement.
Felix’s voice wavered. This was Jisung. Their Jisung. And the silence felt like a betrayal of everything he knew about him.
Felix tried the handle. It was locked. He looked back at Minho, his eyes wide.
"He never locks this."
"I know," Minho said, his voice rough.
He looked exhausted. He felt exhausted. Prayed that everything was a nightmare.
They took turns sitting outside the door, speaking softly, offering water, food, their presence. The only answer was a profound, unsettling silence.
A silence so heavy it felt alive. A silence that pressed against their ribs and made it hard to breathe. Every minute felt like a failure. Every hour felt like abandonment.
As night fell, they made a nest of blankets and pillows in the living room. Minho refused to leave.
Felix cried once, silently, turned away from Minho so he wouldn’t see. Minho’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. They were both barely holding it together.
Minho lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, every sense straining for a sound from down the hall. Every creak of the building made his heart race. Every continued silence made his stomach drop.
The only thing he heard was the soft, rhythmic sound of Felix’s breathing from his own bedroom down the hall.
Felix had finally relented and gone to bed after midnight, exhaustion winning out, but Minho knew he wouldn’t truly sleep. The worry was a living thing in the apartment.
Minho remained on the couch. The silence from Jisung’s room was absolute. He strained his ears, listening for the rustle of sheets, a sigh, anything to indicate Jisung was just sleeping. But there was nothing. Just the oppressive quiet and the low hum of the refrigerator.
He would’ve given anything to hear Jisung sob. Anything to know he was still feeling something. Anything but this chilling, heavy nothing.
His mind replayed the scene in the break room—the dried smear on Jisung’s cheek, the torn shirt, the utter vacancy in his eyes. The cold fury he’d suppressed earlier began to simmer again, a dark, protective rage looking for a target.
He imagined finding the person who did this. Doesn’t matter what this was. He imagined dragging him by the collar down a hallway and beating him until his knuckles split. He imagined it and felt nothing but the smallest flicker of satisfaction.
But he stayed still. There was no target here. Just a locked door and a man he loved who had retreated somewhere he couldn’t follow.
And the helplessness was suffocating. Minho felt like he was drowning in air.
Hours ticked by. The streetlights cast long, distorted shadows across the living room floor. Minho didn’t sleep. He just stared at the strip of light under Jisung’s door, willing it to change, for the lock to click, for any sign that the fortress walls were coming down.
His eyes burned from dryness. His back ached. But he didn’t move. Hope kept him pinned in place.
Just before dawn, when the sky was a bruised gray, the light under the door finally vanished. A soft click echoed in the pre-dawn stillness.
Minho inhaled sharply, like someone had punched him and revived him at the same time. His hands trembled. He whispered, “Please…” even though he didn’t know what he was begging for.
And then, an other click. A metallic click.
Minho was on his feet instantly, his body stiff from hours of stillness. He moved silently to the door, his heart hammering against his ribs. He just waited, listening.
His pulse roared in his ears.
He heard it then—the faintest, most broken sound. A choked, ragged inhale, followed by a wet, shuddering exhale that was unmistakably the beginning of a sob being violently swallowed back down. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated anguish, finally breaching the dam. Minho’s vision blurred. His knees weakened. He was wrong; this was worse than the silence. This was the sound of someone breaking.
He couldn’t let him break alone.
Minho’s hand hovered over the doorknob. It was unlocked now. An invitation, or a surrender, he doesn’t know. He turned it slowly and pushed the door open just enough to slip inside.
The room was dark, the curtains drawn. Jisung was a curled shape under the blankets on his bed, facing the wall. His shoulders were trembling with the force of the silent cries he was trying to stifle into his pillow.
Everything inside him folding in on itself.
Minho closed the door softly behind him, shutting out the world. He didn’t turn on a light. He just crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. He didn’t pull Jisung into his arms. He didn’t say a word. He simply laid his hand, warm and solid, on the center of Jisung’s shaking back, a steady anchor in the dark.
Jisung’s trembling shifted—not stopping, not easing, but changing, as if his body recognized the presence beside him.
Recognized safety.
Minho bowed his head.
He whispered, barely audible, “I’ve got you, baby. I’m right here.”
--
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Nerves” – DPR IAN
“And I'm sorry
I was hurting too much to know
That you were standing right there
And I'm sorry
I'll sing this song to you
To tell you I really cared
And I'm sorry
When I left you all alone
Girl, I know that wasn't fair
'Cause I loved you"
----------------
Thursday. The light through the curtains was the same dull gray it had been since Monday. Time had dissolved into a thick, suffocating syrup. The incident was a black hole in his mind, and he was in its event horizon, unable to escape its pull.
He hadn’t left his room.
The empty bowls Minho left by the door piled up and were changed into other bowls, mostly untouched. The water he forced down tasted like ash. He hadn’t showered since that first night; the smell of his own fear-sweat was a constant, cloying presence. Leaving the room only to go to the bathroom.
His thighs were a mess of old, fading bruises and fresh, angry scratches from his own restless, panicked nails during the attacks that came in relentless waves.
Each one felt like dying, a crushing weight on his chest, the world dissolving into static while his heart tried to batter its way out of his ribs.
He was falling back into the hole, the same one he’d clawed his way out of months ago, and this time, he had no strength left to fight.
He was just… waiting to hit the bottom.
Minho was a ghost on the other side of the door. He came every day, his footsteps soft, his voice a low, steady murmur offering food, company, silence. He slept here. Jisung knew that.
Felix’s cheerful optimism had wilted into worried whispers. When Minho was not talking to the door, it was Felix. Jisung heard Felix’s cries. Even if the other tried to hide them.
Chan had come too, his leader-voice gentle but firm.
Changbin, uncharacteristically quiet, had just sat with his back against the door for hours.
Jisung loved them.
And their love felt like a weight he was too broken to carry.
Then, Hyunjin.
He came over already the last days but he never talked to Jisung through the door. But Today something changed.
BAM. BAM. BAM.
It wasn’t a knock.
BAM. BAM. BAM.
It was a declaration of war.
BAM. BAM. BAM.
Hyunjin’s knocks seemed…mad?
“Han Jisung, open this fucking door. Right now.”
Jisung flinched, curling tighter into himself on the bed.
The others had respected the barrier.
Since the first night, nobody entered the room and nobody knocked.
Hyunjin did not respect it.
BAM. BAM. BAM.
The pounding was relentless, shaking the frame.
“I’m not leaving! You can sit in there and rot for all I care, but I’m sitting out here until you let me in! You think I don’t know what silence like that means?”
Hyunjin’s voice was raw, stripped of its usual melodic grace. It was pure, stubborn, furious concern.
The pounding stopped, replaced by the sound of a body sliding down the door to sit against it. “Fine. We’ll do it this way. I’ve got all day.”
And he truly did.
Because he stayed.
And he started talking. A lot.
Through the door, for hours.
Not dramatic speeches about how everything will be okay. About how they are here. About how he is not a burden. It was just — just Hyunjin being Hyunjin.
Rambling, complaining, scoffing at the situation, filling the silence. Not giving Jisung’s head the room to think.
“You’re stressing everyone out, you know that?”
“Felix cried yesterday. Cried so loudly. At some point I had to close my ears.”
“Minho hasn’t slept home since Monday, and he looks like death. If he gets sick from worrying about you, I swear to god—”
“You know that Changbin and I didn’t had sex in weeks because of all of you? I hate you guys!”
“And Chan keeps asking me if we should call your mom. Your mom, Jisung. Don’t make me deal with that woman.”
Sometimes he knocked again. Sometimes he kicked the bottom of the door. Sometimes he talked so close to the door Jisung could picture the soft crease between his brows.
Five hours.
Hyunjin didn’t leave.
Didn’t budge.
Eventually—
finally—
something inside Jisung gave up before Hyunjin did.
Exhaustion, deeper than the panic, finally won. With trembling hands, Jisung pushed himself off the bed. He shuffled to the door, his legs weak. He turned the lock. The click was deafening.
He didn’t open it. He just stepped back.
The door swung open slowly. Hyunjin stood there, his face pale, dark circles under his blazing eyes. He looked Jisung up and down—the greasy hair, the hollow cheeks, the haunted eyes—and his expression didn’t soften with pity. It hardened with resolve.
Without a word, Hyunjin stepped in, closed the door, and locked it again from the inside. He didn’t try to hug him. He just pointed to the bed. “Sit.”
Jisung obeyed, the last of his resistance gone. Hyunjin pulled the desk chair over and sat facing him, close but not touching. He just… looked at him. His gaze was a scalpel, dissecting the shame, and then Hyunjin let out a shaky breath, rubbed his face with both hands, and dropped his elbows to his knees.
His voice, when it came…It was tired. Hurt. Human.
“Sungie… what are you doing?”
Not accusation. Not anger. Just heartbreak wrapped in frustration.
“You scared the shit out of us.”
His voice cracked on the last word, barely noticeable but enough to make Jisung’s throat tighten.
“Do you get that?”
A breath.
A swallow.
“We’re not mad. We’re just… terrified. Because you shut everyone out and we don’t know why.”
Jisung’s eyes filled, his shoulders curling inwards.
Hyunjin shook his head, leaning forward slightly. He gestured weakly at him.
“I just need to know you’re still with us.”
Jisung opened his mouth, then closed it, the words trapped behind fear.
Hyunjin exhaled through his nose.
“Listen. Felix can’t sleep. Changbin’s angry-quiet, he hasn’t been tot he gym in days. Minho... Fuck Jisung he didn’t even feed his cats the last days. Chan’s pretending he’s fine, which means he’s absolutely not fine, between you, Seungmin, Jeongin and Felix, he is a mess.”
His voice softened at the edges.
“They love you so much it hurts to watch them.”
Jisung’s first tear fell. Silent. Heavy.
Hyunjin saw it and something inside him loosened.
He scooted his chair closer — not touching him, but close enough that Jisung could feel warmth again.
“Sung… no one’s asking you to be okay. Not today. Not tomorrow.”
A slow breath.
“Just don’t shut us out. That’s all. That’s all I’m asking.”
Jisung’s hands trembled in his lap.
Hyunjin watched the movement, then looked back up at him, eyes steady.
“If you really want to talk to someone about it… I can sit here. For as long as you need.
If not… then just breathe with me for a minute.”
And that— that simple, quiet offer— was what broke Jisung’s silence.
Jisung’s hands trembled in his lap.
Hyunjin watched, but didn’t rush him. He just sat there, breathing slow on purpose, trying to anchor the air in the room back into something livable.
For a long time, the only sound was the faint hum of the fridge down the hall and Jisung’s uneven breaths.
“Talk if you can. Don’t force it. Just… try.”
Jisung’s throat bobbed with a swallow. Another.
He wiped at his face with the heel of his hand, as if embarrassed for crying, even though embarrassment was pointless here.
And then— a whisper.
“I… tried.”
Hyunjin leaned in just a little, eyes gentle.
“Tried what?”
Jisung squeezed his eyes shut, like the answer hurt just to think about.
“To be normal. To pretend everything’s fine.”
His voice cracked.
“I tried so hard, Hyunjin.”
Hyunjin nodded. Not pitying. Just listening.
Jisung sucked in a shaky breath.
“And then he showed up.”
Hyunjin’s whole body went still. He didn’t ask who. He didn’t have to.
Jisung’s next breath stuttered out of him, sharp and broken.
“I thought I was past it,” he whispered. “I thought I was stronger now. I thought— I thought he couldn’t touch me anymore.”
Hyunjin’s jaw clenched, but he stayed silent, letting Jisung guide this.
Jisung’s voice got smaller.
“But he did. He— he hurt me. At work. And it was like everything came back. All of it. And my body just… shut down.”
A tear slipped down his chin.
“I hate that I froze. I hate that I still react like that. I hate that he gets to live in my head for free. I hate that someone had to find me on the floor like that. I hate—”
He broke. Collapsed forward, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face as quiet, shattering sobs tore through him. Sobs. Shaking his whole body.
Hyunjin didn’t touch him right away. He let Jisung cry, let the horrible, suffocating silence of the last days break open at its own pace.
After a minute— when Jisung’s gasps started turning into those awful half-breaths that don’t quite make it into the lungs— Hyunjin reached out and touched his wrist.
Just a touch.
It made Jisung choke on his breath, startled, but he didn’t pull away.
Hyunjin’s voice was low, steady, full of a gentleness he almost never showed.
“You didn’t freeze. Your body protected you. That’s not the same thing.”
Jisung shook his head violently. “No— it’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. He spit on me Hyunin. He pushed me. He hurt me. He hit me. He said things to me. And I— I couldn’t— I should’ve—”
Hyunjin cut him off, firm. “Don’t finish that sentence.” His heart racing with the shock of the confession. Trying to not let it show how much it pained him. Not now.
Jisung blinked, tears streaking down his face.
Hyunjin leaned forward, eyes fierce.
“You didn’t fail, you got away, you ran. And honestly that’s strength.”
Jisung’s mouth trembled, the guilt and shame pushing against the reassurance like something feral.
Hyunjin exhaled and softened again.
“And Sungie… even if you had frozen the whole time? Even if you never moved and stayed there? That’s still not weakness. That’s trauma. He is the asshole here. He is weak for doing that to you. Not the other way around.”
Jisung swallowed again, struggling to breathe evenly.
Hyunjin continued, quieter, “We don’t love you because you’re strong. We love you because you’re you. And you get to break sometimes. You get to fall apart and we won’t leave you alone. Never.”
He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible smile.
“You don’t disappear from us just because you’re hurting. We’re not going anywhere.”
Jisung’s breath hitched hard.
They stayed there in silence. Both processing what was said right now. Hyunjin trying to dim his anger towards Woosook to be here for Jisung.
Then, in a voice so quiet it was almost inaudible. “…Minho?”
Hyunjin’s expression softened instantly.
“He’s been outside this room every day, Sungie.” A beat.
“He’s going to lose his mind when he hears you talk.”
Jisung let out a weak laugh that dissolved halfway into another sob.
Hyunjin reached out again—slow enough to give Jisung time to flinch if he needed to—and placed a hand on the back of Jisung’s head, fingers threading gently through his hair.
“Let me call him,” Hyunjin murmured.
“You don’t have to explain. Just… let him in.”
Jisung nodded. Weakly.
And that—for Hyunjin—was the permission he’d been waiting for.
He squeezed the back of Jisung’s neck softly, reassuringly.
“Good. I’ll get him.”
He stood, walked to the door… paused with his hand on the knob…
And looked back.
“And Sungie?”
Jisung lifted his eyes, watery and exhausted.
Hyunjin smiled faintly.
“I’m proud of you. For opening the door. And for talking. You did great. I am proud so proud of you.”
Jisung broke again— but this time the tears were softer, looser and less suffocating.
Hyunjin stepped out to get Minho.
--
Minho entered the room quietly, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t flood the silence with questions or panic.
He just walked to the bed, sat slowly at the edge, and reached a careful hand toward Jisung’s shoulder.
Jisung tensed—but he didn’t pull away.
That tiny allowance nearly broke Minho in half.
“I’m here,” Minho whispered, voice trembling just barely.
“I’m right here, baby.”
Jisung curled tighter, breath shuddering through his clenched teeth. Minho swallowed, fighting the urge to drag him into his arms. He touched only the blanket, smoothing it gently.
“I am sorry.” Jisung said. Crying it out. Hearing his voice made Minho’s heart skip a beat. “No. Don’t apologize Jisung-ah. Never.”
Minho controlled his voice, he himself being near to tears.
“Can you sit up for me?” he asked quietly.
No pressure but an invitation.
Jisung didn’t reply, but after a few long seconds, he shifted. Slow. Weak.
Minho helped without touching skin—hands on fabric only—lifting him with soft, guiding pressure until Jisung sat slumped against the headboard.
He looked ruined. His eyes swollen, hair matted, skin pale and blotchy.
Minho kept his voice low, warm, steady.
“You need a shower. Let me help, okay?”
Jisung’s lower lip trembled. He nodded.
And that was enough.
Minho stood and held out his hand—not touching Jisung directly, offering it like a railing on a staircase. A support he could grab or ignore.
Jisung reached out. Barely. His fingers curled around Minho’s.
Minho nearly choked.
He helped Jisung stand—slow, so slow—and walked him to the bathroom. Jisung moved like a ghost, eyes unfocused, body limp. Minho adjusted the water, testing it with his wrist, making sure it was warm, not hot. He guided Jisung inside.
“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right here.”
Jisung nodded once—small, shaky—and stepped under the water.
Minho waited.
Not leaving.
Not turning away.
Just keeping watch through the open crack of the door.
After a few minutes, he saw Jisung struggling. Hands weak. His movements disjointed.
Minho stepped inside fully, rolled up his sleeves, and said softly:
“Let me do it, Sungie. Let me take care of you.”
He washed Jisung’s hair gently, fingers massaging slow circles into his scalp. Jisung’s eyes fluttered—tired, overwhelmed—but he leaned into the touch. Minho washed his face with cupped hands, careful around the bruises and the reddened skin.
He dried him with a soft towel, dressing him in clean clothes, lifting limbs when needed, handling him like he was made of something fragile and precious.
Back in the bedroom, Minho guided him into bed and tucked the blanket around him.
“You need to eat,” Minho murmured. “Just a little.”
Jisung shook his head weakly.
Minho didn’t push. He stepped out, brought back warm broth he had left in the kitchen, and sat on the bed.
“One spoon,” Minho said gently. “For me.”
After a moment, Jisung parted his lips.
One spoon.
Then another.
Then three more.
Minho brushed a damp strand of hair from Jisung’s forehead.
“Good job,” he whispered.
“You’re doing so well.”
When the bowl was half-finished, Jisung’s eyelids began to droop. He fought it—barely—but Minho shook his head.
“Sleep,” he whispered. “I’m not leaving.”
He stayed on the edge of the bed until Jisung’s breathing turned soft and even.
Only then did Minho stand, brushing a thumb over Jisung’s cheek one last time before stepping out.
--
The bedroom door clicked shut.
Hyunjin was already waiting in the hallway.
He was bracing himself against the wall, fingers gripping the plaster so hard his knuckles were white.
Minho stepped out and Hyunjin’s heart dropped.
“Out?” Hyunjin whispered.
Minho nodded once, barely moving. “Finally.”
Hyunjin sucked in a shaky breath—Then he jerked his chin toward the living room.
Inside, the entire air in the apartment was thick and wrong.
Chan was pacing so fast he was leaving grooves in the floor.
Felix sat on the very edge of the couch, knees pulled to his chest, eyes huge and wet.
Changbin stood by the window, shoulders trembling, jaw locked so tightly he was biting into his own tongue without noticing.
They all looked up at once when Hyunjin entered. And something in him cracked.
“Okay,” he started, voice breaking on the word. “He talked.”
The room didn’t breathe. Felix’s voice came out on a sob.
“What… what did he say?”
Hyunjin swallowed hard, throat working visibly.
“He..he… he gave a name.”
The silence pulsed.
“It was Woosook.”
The world stopped.
Felix’s face crumpled as if someone had slapped him. Chan’s pacing halted instantly—like someone had unplugged him. Changbin froze, his chest rising in one monstrous inhale like he was about to scream. Hyunjin continued—because he had to, because they deserved the truth, and because hiding it would make him explode.
“At work. He saw him at work. Woosook is an Idol trainee there. Woosook grabbed him. Cornered him. Put hands on him. And then—”
Hyunjin’s jaw trembled. His voice dropped to a ragged whisper.
“He hit him. And he spit on him.”
Felix made a wounded, animal sound and covered his mouth with both hands.
Chan’s fists curled so tightly his nails split skin. Minho’s breath left him in one sharp, broken exhale.
Changbin?
Changbin detonated.
“HE SPIT ON HIM?!” The roar shook the room—literally. A picture frame rattled on the wall.
He was already moving. Fast and violent.
He grabbed his keys off the table, nearly knocking the lamp over.
Minho didn’t shout. Didn’t rage. He just moved with him, no sound—and that was somehow worse.
He grabbed his jacket with shaking hands and headed straight for the door.
Hyunjin lunged forward, slamming both palms against Minho’s chest.
“MINHO, CHANGBIN—STOP!”
“Move,” Minho said, voice low and terrifying. “Hyunjin, move.”
“I’m going to his house,” Changbin yelled from behind them. “I know where the asshole lives. I’ll drag him out onto the fucking street—”
Chan grabbed Changbin’s hoodie and physically yanked him backward.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Chan barked, voice trembling with contained fury.
“HE LAID HANDS ON JISUNG!” Changbin screamed, spit flying. “HE HURT HIM! HE SPIT ON HIM LIKE— LIKE—”
He choked on the words. Felix flinched so hard his shoulders hit the couch.
Minho shoved Hyunjin once—hard—but not enough to break free. His voice cracked open.
“I’ll kill him.”
“NO.” Hyunjin shouted back, louder than he meant to, fear sharpening the word.
He grabbed Minho by the front of his jacket. “NO ONE is killing anyone tonight.”
“Hyunjin,” Minho warned, voice brittle and dangerous, “let. me. go.”
“NO!” Hyunjin screamed, eyes wet. “NO. LISTEN TO ME. THINK. THINK, MINHO.”
Chan stepped forward then—leader mode activated, heavier than any of them had ever heard him. “EVERYONE. STOP.”
The command sliced the air clean.
The room held its breath.
Chan looked at each of them, eyes blazing.
“If we go there now,” he said, voice soft and deadly, “We ruin Jisung’s life.”
Minho blinked, breath catching.
Changbin froze mid-lunge.
Felix hiccupped through his tears.
Chan continued, slow and surgical.
“If we beat Woosook up, or threaten him, or go to his house—Jisung loses his job. His reputation. His safety. We go to jail. He watches us get arrested and blames himself.”
Minho’s face cracked, grief and rage fighting each other.
“But he—,” Minho whispered.
“I know,” Chan said softly, fiercely. “And we’re going to make sure he pays. But not by throwing our lives away.”
Hyunjin dragged a shaky hand down his face.
“The building has cameras. Everywhere. Hallways. Corners. Entrances. Everything. Right?”
He looked directly at Chan.
“Every entertainment building records everything. Right?”
Chan nodded grimly.
Felix’s voice trembled. “So… they saw it? All of it?”
Hyunjin nodded once, slowly.
Felix gasped, covering his mouth again.
Changbin whispered, with a venom that could corrode metal, “Good.”
Chan’s brain was already five steps ahead.
“Changbin’s dad knows the director there. He knows JYP. We get the footage. We copy it. We take it straight to JYP himself. And the police. Assault on company property. He’ll be fired before we finish the report. And the police will handle the rest. If not, we make it public. Destroy him like this.”
Minho’s shaking slowed. Not because he calmed down—but because the rage focused, crystallized.
“So the plan,” he said through clenched teeth, “is to get the footage. Prove it. And ruin him.”
Hyunjin nodded. “We’re not letting Jisung’s pain get swallowed. We’re not letting this go. We take that footage. We use it. And we make sure Woosook never gets anywhere near him again.”
Felix wiped his cheeks, voice tiny but fierce. “And we stay tonight. All of us. Jisung shouldn’t be alone.”
Changbin nodded immediately.
Chan’s eyes softened.
Minho exhaled a ragged breath and sank onto the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
Hyunjin clapped his hands once, decisive.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said, voice steeled, “we march into that company. Together. We get the footage. We get him reported. We end this.”
Minho lifted his head, eyes red, jaw set.
“For him,” he said hoarsely.
“For him,” the others echoed.
Chapter 21: "The Boogeyman is gone"
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Wish you back” – Han Stray Kids
"I'll wish you back
Sometimes I'm gonna get hurt (Woah-oh-oh-oh)
But I'll call you until you come back (Woah-oh-oh-oh)
Let's go back to those times, our day, day (Woah-oh-oh-oh)
To how it was, turn everything back, back, back (Woah-oh-oh-oh)
If anything can come back just by missing it, I don't know
It's not easy to explain how I feel
I sit in a room all day long and turn off the light
Don't bother asking if I'm okay
This feeling won't go away by such words
Watering a withered flower won't make it bloom again"
----------------
Friday morning light, pale and hesitant, slants through the half-closed blinds, painting the quiet dorm room in alternating bars of dusty gold and deep shadow. The air hangs thick.
Felix is a carved sentinel of watchfulness at Jisung's bedside, his posture rigid, his eyes fixed on the slow, steady rise and fall of the blankets. His own breath seems to sync with it, a silent, desperate prayer in rhythm.
Now, in the morning's stillness, the dorm was quiet once more after the explosion of last night.
The others were gone.
Minho, Chan, Changbin, and Hyunjin had left on their grim mission to retrieve the CCTV tape, guided by Changbin's father and fueled by a simmering, barely-contained fury.
That left only two.
Jisung and Felix.
In the dim bedroom, the pale blue light from Felix's idle laptop screen painted shifting shadows across his face. He hadn't typed a word for hours. His entire world had narrowed to the bed, to the rhythm of Jisung's breathing.
He was sitting on the floor, blanket-wrapped, his hand periodically lifting to touch the edge of Jisung's comforter—a confirmation of life. Jisung’s breathing was steady but fraught. Jisung's body fought an inner war with tiny, involuntary tremors like a shoulder seizing or a leg tensing. Minutes flew by.
Then Jisung moved again and Felix basically flew to sit on the mattress's edge. Scared that it’s another panic attack.
"Sungie?"
Jisung stirred. His eyes opened and they found Felix's, bleary but present. His eyes are, for the first time, focused.
"Lix." The name was a raw, whispered exhale.
The sound of his voice, however rough, sent a wave of fragile relief through Felix that threatened to overflow. His eyes teared just by hearing the voice of his best friend calling him by name.
Felix stays perched on the edge of the mattress and he watches the subtle shift in Jisung's expression, the slight easing of the tension that had held his face like a mask for days. The room is silent except for their breathing.
"You slept a little," Felix said, the words fragile as they left his lips.
Jisung's eyes opened and closed slowly, the movement itself seeming to require immense effort.
"Yeah," he breathed out, the sound barely more than air. "A little."
A shuddering sigh escaped Felix, a release of tension he'd carried in his lungs for hours.
"Water?" Felix murmured, the offer soft.
A pause and then slow nod from Jisung.
This was a decision. The first conscious choice Felix had witnessed him take in what felt like an age.
Felix moved quickly, grabbing the bottle, his hands fumbling slightly with the cap before he got it open. He held it close. "Take small sips," he instructed, his voice low.
With a visible struggle, Jisung shifted upward. Felix's hand was there instantly, a firm support against the trembling line of his spine, pretending not to feel the fine tremors running through him.
Jisung's lips touched the rim. He took a sip. Then another. It wasn't much, but it was something.
"Good," Felix whispered, the word breaking in the middle. "That's really good."
Jisung sank back into the pillows, his body going limp with a profound exhaustion that now seemed more like weariness than terror. His eyelids fluttered, heavy but no longer screwed shut in fear.
Felix didn't retreat. He remained there, he was a silent anchor, his presence a steady hum in the quiet room.
“Can I stay here?” Felix's next question felt both necessary and terrifying. "On the bed?"
The response was immediate, a soft, desperate plea. "Please. The floor... it's too far."
The words carved a hollow ache in Felix's chest. He moved with deliberate slowness, telegraphing his every motion as he lay down beside him, leaving a careful space between them.
It was Jisung who bridged it. A slight, intentional shift, closing the distance by a mere inch. A silent request that Felix understood. He moved closer, his body aligning to offer a line of warmth. His hand sought Jisung's under the covers, and fragile fingers curled around his, holding on like a lifeline.
"Are the others... gone?" Jisung's question was a fragile thread in the quiet.
"Yeah," Felix answered, his voice steady. "They left a while ago."
Jisung tensed at that, not hard, but Felix noticed.
"They're just getting the tape with Bin's dad," Felix rushed to add, his thumb stroking the back of Jisung's hand. "That's all. They're being smart about it."
The tension seeped away, leaving behind a weary trust. Jisung gave a slow nod.
"You don't have to say anything," Felix whispered, the burn of tears behind his eyes.
A shaky exhale escaped Jisung. "You've been here... the whole time."
"Where else would I be?" The answer was simple, absolute.
The quiet hum of the dorm's heater fills the space. Jisung's head is a heavy, trusting weight against Felix's shoulder, his breathing finally deepening into something resembling true sleep. Felix doesn't move, his hand a constant, warm pressure between Jisung's shoulder blades, mapping the slow rise and fall.
Jisung's eyes shut tight, and Felix's thumb moved in a slow, rhythmic arc over Jisung's knuckles.
"You were so quiet," Felix murmured, the memory raw. "You wouldn't let anyone in. I thought... I thought you were slipping away again. I was scared that it will be as bad as last time Sungie. But You spoke already. After only three days. I’m so proud."
Guilt, stark and immediate, flooded Jisung's expression. "I'm sorry," he breathed. "I didn't mean to scare you all."
"Stop," Felix said, his voice firm but gentle. "You don't apologize for being hurt. You don't owe anyone being ‘okay.'"
"I didn't want you to see me broken again," Jisung admitted, his gaze falling to their joined hands.
"But we wanted to see you," Felix insisted, the words soft but unshakable. "We needed to. Because we love you. Every single one of us. If we don’t see each other happy, sad, broken and crazy, are we even friends then?"
It was that last sentence that did it. It triggered a release—a small, surrendering sigh Jisung had fortified for days finally crumbled. His shoulder leaned heavily into Felix's side, his grip tightening. Felix shifted, guiding until Jisung's head found the hollow of his shoulder.
Felix settled his palm firmly between Jisung's shoulder blades, a grounding anchor.
"You're not alone, Sungie," he whispered into the quiet. "Not now. Not ever.”
The scene holds, frozen in the quiet dorm room. Felix remains perfectly still, feeling the gradual slackening of Jisung's muscles as sleep finally, truly claims him. The blue light from the laptop has dimmed to a soft glow. Time seems to stretch, punctuated only by their shared breath.
His own eyes grow heavy, but he fights the pull, his vigil unbroken. The promise hangs in the air, a fragile thing warming the space between them: You're not alone.
Outside, the city moves on. Inside, in this small room, two hearts beat in a fragile, mending rhythm.
He whispered one more time, so quietly the air barely carried it “I love you, Sungie. We all do. Don’t disappear from us again.”
--
The drive to the company was eerily silent. It was creepy.
Changbin’s dad—usually warm, occasionally gruff but always grounding—kept his eyes fixed on the road, jaw tight. He had seen the boys furious before, upset before, hurt before. But…
He had never seen them like this.
Minho sat in the passenger seat, spine rigid, hands balled into fists so tight his nails cut half-moon marks into his palms and one of the marks was bleeding. Minho didn’t notice.
He wasn’t speaking. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He was about to break at any moment.
Hyunjin and Chan shared the back seat with Changbin. No one leaned back. No one relaxed. They sat forward, elbows on knees, tense as drawn wires. A position that seemd awkward for anybody else.
The building loomed ahead—tall, polished glass, clean lines—so ironic in its sterile professionalism.
A place that had become a nightmare for Jisung.
Changbin’s dad pulled into the underground parking lot.
“Remember,” he warned, voice low, “my friend is risking his job for this. You say nothing unless spoken to. You don’t touch anything. And you don’t look angry. If anybody asks: We are here for a tour.”
A beat.
He looked at Minho through the rearview mirror even though he was right next to him.
“You don’t explode in there. Understood?”
Minho didn’t answer. Chan answered for him, a hand briefly grounding on Minho’s shoulder.
“He understands. We all do.”
Minho jerked slightly at the touch—on the edge, trembling with contained violence—but didn’t pull away. He nodded.
They stepped out of the car. The fluorescent lights flickered ominously overhead.
The friend—Mr. Park—met them at the elevator. He was older, sharp-eyed and clearly stressed.
“You boys are lucky you know Mr. Seo,” he muttered, scanning the parking lot nervously. “If my manager comes down here, we’re all in big trouble.”
“We won’t cause you trouble,” Chan promised.
Mr. Park looked at them—at Minho’s dead-eyed fury, Changbin’s vibrating barely-contained rage, Hyunjin’s icy stare, Chan’s leader-focus—and gave a short, resigned nod.
“Come with me.”
They moved down a back hallway few people ever used. Down another flight of stairs. Through a door that required a keycard and then a code.
The deeper they went, the colder the air felt.
Finally, they arrived at a reinforced metal door with a sign:
RESTRICTED ACCESS — SECURITY ROOM
Mr. Park typed a code. The lock buzzed. “Inside. Make it fast.”
The door swung open and they sneaked in.
The room glowed with blue screens—rows of monitors stacked like a wall of eyes. Every hallway, every stairwell, every storage room. They see everything.
Hyunjin’s breath caught, “Holy shit…”
Mr. Park motioned them to a console.
“This system stores all footage for 60 days. What time?”
Changbin stepped forward.
“Friday. Around… lunch break.”
Minho’s voice cut through like a blade. “Exactly 1:12 p.m.”
Everyone turned around. Minho hadn’t spoken in hours. His voice was quiet, but steady.
He didn’t sleep a second last night. He remembered every second Jisung described. Went to their last call and learned the time by heart. Calculated everything in his head. He had replayed it in his mind until the time seared into him like a scar.
Mr. Park clicked through feeds, timestamps rolling in the corner.
Stairwell. Break room.
Hyunjin pressed closer, breath sharp. “There. That hallway. Zoom in.”
Mr. Park rewound.
Paused.
Clicked forward.
The boys tensed as the image sharpened— Jisung walking down the hallway.
Then—
From the corner of the frame, Woosook appeared.
He was visible. His face visible. He appeared fast.
He was smiling.
Chan’s jaw clenched so violently his teeth creaked.
Mr. Park clicked forward.
Woosook grabbed Jisung’s shoulder, yanked him violently sideways—
Out of the main hall—
Into the meeting room.
“Inside camera,” Changbin said through gritted teeth.
Mr. Park switched feeds.
The meeting room flickered into view.
They saw everything. Two cameras were in the room. Catching everything.
Woosook’s hand fisting in Jisung’s shirt.
The shove against the metal shelving.
Jisung’s head hitting the surface.
Woosook leaning close—
Spitting.
The spit landing on Jisung’s cheek.
Minho’s breath fractured.
A sharp inhale. Like he’d been stabbed.
Hyunjin covered his mouth, shaking.
Changbin’s fists slammed against the console hard enough to rattle the monitors. “FUCKING—”
Chan grabbed him, holding him back, whispering through clenched teeth, “Don’t lose it. Not here.”
Finally—
Jisung’s wild, terrified escape.
The way he stumbled out, collapsing against the wall before disappearing toward the restrooms.
“That’s enough,” Mr. Park murmured, voice tight with something like pity.
But the boys couldn’t look away.
Especially Minho.
He stared at the screen even though it was ripping him apart cell by cell.
His voice, when it finally came, was broken.
“That’s-,” Minho said. “That’s… that’s what he did to him.”
Silence.
And then Minho’s knees gave out.
He didn’t fall completely—Chan and Changbin caught him before he hit the ground—but he sank, shaking violently, hands covering his mouth as a sound broke from him that none of them had ever heard.
A sob.
Raw.
Painful.
Torn from somewhere deep.
Changbin’s arms wrapped around him immediately, pulling him into a crushing, desperate hold.
“We have it,” Changbin whispered fiercely, voice cracking. “We saw it. We saw it. We have it. He’s not getting away.”
Minho pressed his forehead into Changbin’s shoulder, shaking with silent sobs, sobs that ripped through his chest in waves.
Hyunjin turned away, wiping tears that fell too fast to hide. Chan’s eyes were glassy, jaw trembling as he forced himself to stay strong.
Mr. Park cleared his throat gently.
“I’ll transfer the file now. But you boys need to go. If anyone sees you here—”
Chan nodded. “We’re gone the second we get the copy. We need three copies in three different USB’s.”
Mr. Park inserted the first USB and the footage began transferring.
The boys stood in a tight group behind him—four shadows cast by the cold blue glow of screens, united in fury, grief, and a single shared mission.
When the file finished copying, Mr. Park handed all the USB’s to Minho.
Minho looked at it like it. A weird feeling over him. From the one side he wanted to destroy it. As if destroying it will earse it ever happening. Will erase Jisung’s pain. From the other hand he wanted to use it to destroy this bastard. He swallowed his anger down. His tears dried on his face.
“This ends today,” Minho whispered, voice rough.
The war had officially begun.
--
After managing a few sips of porridge Felix made, Jisung was sitting at the kitchen table. He was outside his room for the first time again. He sat small, slumped forward, curled over the bowl like he was trying to hide inside himself. But he was eating. Tiny bites.
Felix hovered beside him like a mother bird, pretending to tidy counters while keeping a constant, anxious eye on him.
His own chest felt too tight. Every clink of Jisung’s spoon made Felix pause mid-movement, terrified the trembling would return.
“Good job, Sungie,” Felix whispered when Jisung took another slow spoonful.
Jisung’s hand trembled. “It’s… I am trying.”
“I know,” Felix said softly. “You’re doing so well.”
Suddenly the door opened.
Both of them froze.
Footsteps. Slow. Hesitant.
Felix’s heart stopped. Jisung’s shoulders visibly flinched, as if the sound itself was a threat.
Then—
“...Sung?”
Seungmin’s voice.
Jisung stiffened instantly, spoon dropping back into the bowl with a clink. His breath hitched.
Felix touched his arm gently.
“You’re okay,” Felix murmured. “It’s just Min.” He prayed Jisung would believe him. He prayed he wasn’t lying.
Seungmin appeared in the doorway to the kitchen.
He stopped dead in his track.
His eyes landed on Jisung—pale skin, hollow eyes, trembling hands, collarbone visible where the sweater slid.
And something inside Seungmin broke clean in half.
His face crumpled in real time. A sound, small and wounded, escaped him before he could swallow it down.
“Oh my God…” Seungmin whispered.
He moved slowly, not wanting to spook him.
His hands hovered uselessly in front of him, as if he wanted to touch, to comfort, but didn’t dare without permission.
Jisung looked down at the table, shame rising like heat under his skin.
Felix squeezed his shoulder once—an anchor—then stood.
“I’ll… give you guys a minute,” Felix murmured before disappearing down the hall.
He lingered just out of sight, heart lodged in his throat, listening for any sign that Jisung was spiraling.
Now it was just the two of them.
A heavy silence.
Seungmin pulled out the chair across from Jisung and sat down, elbows on the table, hands clasped tightly.
His leg bounced under the table. His breathing was uneven, shallow, like he was fighting off a panic attack himself.
His voice was gentle, but shaking.
“You’re eating,” he whispered. “That’s really good.”
Jisung nodded weakly. “Felix made me.” He smiled.
Seungmin gave a tearful almost-smile. “Of course he did.”
Another quiet stretch.
Then—unexpectedly, violently— Seungmin’s eyes filled and spilled over.
He covered his mouth, trembling. “God—I’m sorry— I’m so sorry—”
He tried to stop crying, wiping his face furiously with the sleeve of his hoodie.
But the tears only came harder. His shoulders shook. His breaths stuttered. The guilt was crushing him.
“I shouldn’t— I shouldn’t be crying— not in front of you— you had it so much worse— I’m sorry, Hyung, I’m sorry—”
Jisung’s eyes widened.
Then he stood up. Slowly. Legs unsteady.
He walked around the table.
Seungmin looked up through tears, confused.
Jisung reached out, cupping Seungmin’s wet cheek with a trembling hand.
His thumb brushed away a tear, and another tear immediately took its place. Jisung’s own face twisted in compassion so raw it hurt.
And for the first time in days— Jisung cried not from fear, but from seeing someone he loved break for him.
Seungmin grabbed him, arms wrapping around his waist, pulling him down onto his lap like he was terrified Jisung might slip away.
The hug was desperate. Clinging. Almost painful. Jisung clutched back just as hard, burying his face in Seungmin’s shoulder.
“I should’ve been there!” Seungmin sobbed. “I should’ve checked on you— you were going through hell— and I was so wrapped in my own mess— I’m so sorry—”
Jisung clutched the back of his hoodie, sinking into him, forehead pressed to his shoulder.
“You were hurting too,” Jisung choked. “You’re allowed to hurt, Min. You’re allowed. I’m always here for you. Always.”
Seungmin cried harder.
His entire body shook with it, chest heaving, hands gripping fistfuls of Jisung’s sweater like he needed proof Jisung was real, alive, here.
“And I’m here for you,” he whispered fiercely. “I swear— I swear I won’t disappear again. I’ll be here every second you need me.”
Jisung sobbed at that. A quiet, broken sound. He leaned his whole weight into Seungmin, and Seungmin held him like he was something precious, something that had been lost and found again. They stayed like this for a while. Crying into each other’s arms. Not saying anything.
Then
The door opened again.
Softer this time, almost hesitant.
Jisung felt it before he heard it—the subtle shift in the air, the way Seungmin’s grip tightened for half a second before freezing completely.
“…Innie?”
Jisung turned around. Jeongin stood in the doorway.
He looked wrecked.
Eyes red and swollen. Hair unstyled. Hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands. He had clearly been crying already—maybe for hours, maybe for days—and seeing them like this broke whatever fragile composure he had left.
For a second, none of them moved.
Jisung was still half-curled in Seungmin’s lap. Seungmin’s arms were still locked around him. Both of them were crying openly now, faces blotchy, breaths uneven.
Jeongin swallowed.
“I—” His voice cracked immediately.
Jeongin stepped inside and shut the door behind him. The click sounded final.
“I’m sorry,” Jeongin said suddenly, words spilling out too fast. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been a horrible friend. I didn’t see it. I didn’t see you.” His eyes finally met Jisung’s and shattered. “I should’ve noticed. I should’ve checked. I should’ve—”
He didn’t finish.
He crossed the kitchen in three unsteady steps and dropped down beside them, arms wrapping around both of them at once, clumsy and desperate.
The three of them collapsed. It wasn’t graceful nor cute.
It was the ugly crying you wouldn’t want anybody to see.
Suddenly they all realized how they must look like.
Seungmin made a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh as Jeongin buried his face into his shoulder. Jisung’s breath hitched hard, then broke completely, laughter bubbling out through tears he hadn’t realized were still trapped inside him.
“I missed you,” Jeongin cried into them. “I missed you both so much. I was so stupid.”
“We were all stupid,” Seungmin choked.
Jisung shook his head weakly, tears still streaming. “No. We were just… hurting. All of us.”
That did it.
Jeongin cried harder, face pressed into Jisung’s chest now, shoulders shaking violently. Seungmin clung to both of them, rocking slightly like he was trying to soothe all three of their broken nervous systems at once.
“I thought I lost you,” Jeongin whispered, voice wrecked. “I thought… I thought I was going to walk in and you wouldn’t even recognize me.”
Jisung laughed again. “I don’t suffer from amnesia Innie. Im just traumatized.”
His laughter and joke surprised all of them.
It came out hoarse and wet and completely unguarded—but it was real.
“I’m right here,” Jisung added through tears. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The three of them stayed like that—collapsed on the kitchen floor, arms tangled, crying openly, apologizing over and over for things that didn’t need apologies anymore.
“I’m sorry I didn’t notice,” Jeongin whispered again.
“I’m sorry I didn’t ask,” Seungmin added.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” Jisung said softly.
“Stop apologizing,” Jeongin sobbed. “You are not allowed to do that.”
The kitchen floor creaked and they all looked up.
Felix stood there, frozen.
He took in the scene in one glance—the pile of limbs, the red eyes, the tear-soaked hoodies,—and promptly lost it.
“Oh my God,” Felix said, voice wobbling from laughter. “You guys look terrible.”
Jisung snorted. An actual snort.
Felix slapped a hand over his mouth, laughing and crying at the same time. “Wait—was that a laugh? Was that a laugh?”
Jisung laughed again. Louder this time.
Felix crossed the room in two steps and dropped down with them, arms wrapping around all three without asking.
“Group hug,” he declared through tears. “Now I look as stupid as you guys.”
Seungmin choked out a laugh too, shaking his head. “We do look insane.”
Jeongin sniffed loudly. “I hate us.”
Felix huffed. “Liar.”
The four of them cried together.
And laughed.
And cried again.
Felix’s laugh was bright and wet and contagious. Jeongin laughed into his sleeve and Seungmin hid his face against Felix’s shoulder. Jisung laughed until his chest hurt and his stomach cramped and tears streamed freely down his face—not from fear this time, not from the memory, but from relief.
For the first time since it happened, the sound of laughter filled the room.
Life.
Felix squeezed Jisung tighter. “There you are,” he whispered, voice breaking. “We missed you.”
Jisung closed his eyes, laughter fading into a shaky, contented breath.
“I’m here,” he said again.
--
The JYP building was colder than it had any right to be.
Not just the air-conditioning but the atmosphere. Sterile. Polished. A place built to absorb damage and bury it quietly. A building only allowed to be known for it’s accomplishments.
It still felt unreal that they were here for the reason they were here for.
Changbin replayed the chain of events in his head for the hundredth time. His father’s voice, unusually tight. Call after call. A friend of a friend. A favor owed to a favor owed to “You can go today”. They ended up with someone high enough to open a door that was never meant to open for people like them. And definitely not for accusations or for this.
An “urgent internal review.” Is what the secretary outside was told the meeting was about. So when she saw the three young guys she frowned confused. Dialed the call anyways. Then someone else came to show them the way.
Top floor. Glass walls.
Park Jin-young, or better known as, JYP himself sat at the head of the table, hands folded, expression unreadable. He looked older up close. But also sharper than the funny online persona he presented.
Across from him sat Woosook’s manager.
Perfect suit. Perfect posture. He looks annyed. Very annoyed. Like he had better things to do than meet three young students suddenly in the middle of the day. He was a man who had already decided this was a nuisance. His irritation showed in the tight set of his mouth, the way his foot tapped once, then stopped when they stepped in, controlled.
Minho sat rigidly, spine straight but locked, as if moving an inch would shatter something inside him. His hands were clasped together so tightly the knuckles had gone pale. Chan sat beside him, still as stone, shoulders squared, jaw clenched so hard it ached. Changbin couldn’t stop his knee from bouncing. The energy had nowhere else to go.
Hyunjin’s chair was empty.
That, was intentional.
Felix wasn’t here either.
Felix was with Jisung.
Hyunjin was outside the building.
Somewhere safe. With two USB drives and two laptops. Ready.
Waiting.
Chan stood up after the secretary that showed them the way has left. And without asking permission he plugged the USB into the screen that was already ready for them.
The lights dimmed automatically.
The screen flickered.
A hallway appeared.
Jisung walked into frame.
Minho’s breath caught so sharply it hurt.
Then Woosook entered the frame.
The temperature in the room dropped.
Woosook didn’t hesitate.
Minho jerked forward instinctively, a strangled sound tearing out of his chest before Chan’s hand clamped down hard on his arm, grounding him by force.
They watched.
Every second stretched.
Woosook grabbed Jisung’s shoulder.
Hard.
Yanked him back.
Jisung stumbled, hit the shelving. His hands came up, instinctive, defensive.
The spit was unmistakable.
A wet, degrading arc caught clearly on camera.
Felix’s sob echoed in Minho’s head like a scream.
Silence. The two men did not comment.
Changbin slammed his hand on the table so hard the surface rattled.
“LOOK AT HIM,” he shouted, voice cracking. “LOOK AT WHAT HE DID.”
The manager’s face went gray and JYP leaned forward slowly, eyes narrowing, jaw tightening.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then the manager stood abruptly, chair scraping loudly against the floor.
“This footage is internal,” he snapped, breath tight. “You had no authorization to—”
He reached for the laptop.
Deleted the file.
The screen went black.
“There,” he said, exhaling sharply, as if he’d just put out a fire. “This was a misunderstanding. It’s handled. This does not leave this room.”
Changbin laughed.
It wasn’t humor..
“You think that was the only copy?” he said softly.
The manager froze mid-breath.
Changbin leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes burning. “You really think we walked into this building with one file? With one chance?”
The man swallowed. Hard.
JYP’s gaze snapped to Changbin. “What does that mean?”
Chan stood.
“Our friends are outside,” he said calmly. “They have multiple backups. Cloud, Physical drives. And we even printed some pictures. If the police are not called within five minutes, he uploads the footage publicly.”
The manager sputtered. “You can’t—do you understand the fallout—This shows-”
“It shows the truth,” Minho said.
Everyone turned to him. His voice was quiet and controlled. But his hands were shaking openly now.
“He assaulted someone on company property,” Minho continued, eyes locked on the manager. “He humiliated him. He triggered a collapse that could have killed him even. If you erase this, if you protect him—then you’re part of it and the whole company deserves to go down.”
JYP closed his eyes.
Just for a moment.
Then he opened them.
“Call the police,” he said.
The manager stared at him, stunned. “Sir—”
“Now,” JYP repeated, voice sharp as glass.
Changbin leaned back, chest heaving, hands shaking now that the adrenaline had nowhere to go. Chan finally exhaled, long and slow, like he’d been underwater for days. Minho dropped his gaze to the table, shoulders caving inward as the rage drained, leaving exhaustion and grief behind.
Somewhere outside the building, Hyunjin was sitting in the car.
Phone in hand and finger hovering.
Waiting for the signal he wouldn’t need to get.
For the first time since that hallway. Since the spit. Since Jisung’s collapse—
The power had shifted.
--
The call ended but the room did not relax.
If anything, the air grew heavier. Then suddenly someone new entered the room after knocking softly. He didn’t greet the guys, just handed JYP a folder and exited the room fast.
JYP leaned back in his chair slowly, fingers steepled, eyes moving from face to face. He didn’t look angry, he looked calculating.
“This will proceed as a criminal matter,” he said evenly. “The police will handle the assault.”
Changbin’s jaw tightened. “Good.”
“But,” JYP continued, and the word landed like a warning, “this footage does not leave this building.”
Chan stiffened understanding what this meant. “You said—”
“I said the police would be called,” JYP interrupted, calm but firm. “Not that this becomes public property.”
He reached to the folder and slid a thin folder across the table.
The manager picked it up immediately, relief flickering through his features as he pushed it toward them.
“A non-disclosure agreement,” the manager said briskly, as if reading a grocery list. “All copies of the footage remain confidential. Any breach results in financial penalties.”
Chan opened the folder.
His breath caught in shock when he read through it.
Numbers stared back at him. Impossible numbers. Life-ending numbers.
Felix would’ve laughed hysterically if he were here.
Changbin swore under his breath. “You’re blackmailing us.”
JYP’s gaze hardened. “I’m containing damage. There is a difference.”
Minho’s chair scraped softly as he leaned forward. “If we sign this,” he said slowly, voice tight, “what happens to him?”
The manager hesitated.
JYP answered instead. “He is removed from company premises immediately. His contract is suspended, pending investigation. The police process takes precedence.”
“That’s not what he asked,” Chan said quietly.
Minho’s eyes burned. “If he gets out by any chance,” he pressed, “does he still have a career?”
Silence.
Too long.
JYP exhaled through his nose. “That depends on the outcome of the investigation.”
Changbin laughed again, sharp and humorless. “So if he walks, you just… bury it and take him back?”
“This industry survives by burying things,” the manager snapped before catching himself.
JYP shot him a look.
Chan closed the folder slowly.
“We’re not doing this for you,” he said. “We’re doing it for Jisung.”
JYP nodded once. “I assumed as much.”
Minho’s hands trembled as he placed them flat on the table. “Then Jisung keeps his job.”
That made the manager blink.
“He was the victim,” Minho continued, voice shaking now. “He doesn’t get quietly pushed out to ‘avoid discomfort.’ He keeps his position. His record stays clean. He doesn’t get punished for surviving.”
JYP studied him for a long moment.
Then he nodded. “Agreed. I will add this.”
The manager slid the pen across the table.
No one reached for it. Not immediately.
This wasn’t justice, it was containment, it was compromise.
Minho picked up the pen first, his hand shook as he signed.
Changbin followed, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
Chan signed last, shoulders heavy.
When the papers were collected, no one felt relief.
Only a bitter, metallic aftertaste.
JYP stood. “The police will arrive shortly.”
As they rose from their chairs, Changbin muttered, low and venomous, “If he ever comes near him again—contract or not—”
JYP met his gaze. “Then this building won’t protect him.”
They walked out without another word.
--
The apartment was warm. They were all on the couch.
It was not neat nor was it comfortable. Even tough none of them was really tall, the couch felt too small for all four of them.
Jisung sat curled in the corner, knees pulled to his chest, Felix half-lying beside him with one arm wrapped around his shoulders, the other absentmindedly rubbing slow circles into his sleeve. Seungmin sat on the floor with his back against the couch, one hand resting on Jisung’s shin like he needed the physical proof that he was real. Jeongin was wedged between them all, legs tangled, shoulder pressed into Felix’s side, his head tipped back against the couch cushion.
Some stupid variety show played on the TV. They laughed at the wrong moments and definitely missed punchlines.
Jisung was breathing normaly. His body still small, still guarded, but he was present. He had eaten. He had cried. He had laughed.
Felix felt like this was a miracle. He didn’t say it out loud, scared he will jinx it.
Suddenly, in the middle of them laughing because of a stupid joke, the phone buzzed.
Chan.
Felix carefully shifted, easing Jisung back against the couch cushion before answering and standing, moving a few steps toward the kitchen but not far. He didn’t want to break the line of sight. Didn’t want to leave them.
“Chan-Hyung?” he said quietly.
Chan’s voice came through, tight and vibrating with something barely contained.
“It’s done,” he said.
Felix’s breath caught. “Done… how done?”
A pause. Then, quieter, heavier. “The police are here.”
Felix pressed his free hand to his mouth.
“They called them. We had to sign things. NDAs. It’s not really clean,” Chan continued, frustration bleeding through. “But he’s being arrested. Right now, we’re outside the building.”
Felix’s knees went weak.
“He’s in cuffs,” Chan added. “We’re watching it happen. Finally, Bookie. Finally.”
Felix leaned against the counter, swallowing hard. “Jisung—” he started, then stopped himself. “Does… does he keep his job?”
“Yes,” Chan said immediately. “The police told us that since the report came directly from JYP Entertainment and the assault is clearly documented on camera, the prosecutor’s office is expected to proceed based on the footage. There’s no need to retraumatize him unless the court explicitly requests it.”
Felix closed his eyes.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
“And,” Chan continued, voice roughening, “we’ll be home soon. We just… needed to see it.”
Felix nodded even though Chan couldn’t see him. “Okay. Okay. Be safe. We’re here.”
When he hung up, he stayed there for a second longer than necessary, breathing through the tightness in his chest.
Then he turned back.
All three of them were staring at him.
Jisung’s eyes were wide, searching. “Felix?”
Felix crossed the room in two steps and sat back down, immediately pulling Jisung into his chest again, one hand cradling the back of his head.
“They did it,” Felix said softly. “The police are there. He’s being arrested.”
Jisung didn’t react right away.
Then his breath hitched.
A sharp, disbelieving inhale, like his body didn’t know what to do with the information.
Seungmin’s face crumpled. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Jisung’s knee, hands gripping his pants like he needed to anchor both of them.
Jeongin covered his mouth, eyes shining. “He can’t hurt you anymore Hyung,” he whispered. “He can’t.”
Jisung finally broke.
It wasn’t loud it was the kind of crying that came from deep inside, the kind that shook without warning, his face pressed into Felix’s shoulder as everything he’d been holding back finally gave way.
Felix held him tighter, rocking slightly, murmuring nonsense, promises, grounding words.
“I’ve got you. We’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re here.”
Seungmin was crying too now shaking, one arm wrapping around Jisung’s legs, the other gripping Felix’s sleeve.
Jeongin leaned in, folding over all of them, his arms awkward but he didn’t care, his own tears dropping onto Jisung’s hair.
They were a mess.
A pile of limbs and tears and quiet, broken sounds.
And then—through the sobbing—Jisung let out a sound that startled all of them.
A laugh.
Thin. Shaky. Disbelieving.
It slipped out between tears like his body didn’t know which emotion to choose.
Felix pulled back just enough to look at him. “Sungie?”
Jisung wiped his face with his sleeve, eyes red, voice wrecked. “I—I think… this is the first time I’m not scared of what happens next.”
--
They come back quietly.
The sound of keys, shoes by the door, familiar footsteps moving through the apartment, afraid to disturb something fragile.
Jisung looks up first and Minho freezes for half a second when their eyes meet.
Chan gives a small nod from the doorway. Changbin’s jaw is tight, eyes still burning with the leftover fury. Hyunjin looks wrecked. No one says anything. But honestly…They don’t need to.
Felix stands and pulls them in with a soft, wordless gesture.
“Movie?” he asks lightly, like this is just another night.
Everyone agrees immediately. They all were eight grown ass men who were emotionally drowned right now. A movie is the best option they have. They pile onto the couch again. More bodies and less space. Chan sits on the floor. Changbin leans back against the couch, Hyunjin beside him. Felix curls back in his place like he never left. Minho hesitates for a breath before sitting close enough that Jisung can feel his warmth but without being touched.
A movie starts. Something dumb. No one really follows the plot.
Someone hands Jisung a blanket and he cuddels himself in it. Enjoying the presence of his friends around him. His chosen family. It felt good.
Normal. Almost.
Time passes strangely. Scenes blur together and the movie ends without anyone realizing when or what exactly happened.
One by one, they start to peel away, every one of them hugging Jisung good bye.
Chan stretches and announces he’s dead on his feet and Changbin follows him out, clapping Minho on the shoulder hard enough to mean something. Hyunjin pauses at the doorway, looks at Jisung for a long second, then nods once and leaves.
Seungmin and Jeongin linger, both clearly reluctant, until Felix shoos them gently.
“Tomorrow,” Felix says. “We’ll all talk tomorrow.”
The door closes and silence settles again.
But it’s different now, comfortable and not scary. Even though Jisung misses the noise of his friends right away, the silence does not scare him.
Felix yawns hugely, rubbing his eyes. “I’m crashing. Sungie, you okay?”
Jisung nods. “Yeah.”
Felix hesitates, then bends down and presses a kiss into Jisung’s hair. “I’m right here if you need me.”
“I know,” Jisung says, and means it.
Felix disappears into his room.
That leaves two. Jisung and Minho.
They sit on opposite ends of the couch, the space between them heavy and electric with everything they haven’t said. It was…awkward. A feeling that they haven’t felt between them since the time before the performance.
Minho stares at his hands and Jisung stares at the floor.
Minutes pass.
Jisung’s chest tightens once again, not panic, just the pain of unfinished words.
He moves first.
He reaches out.
His fingers curl into Minho’s sleeve.
Minho’s breath catches sharply. He did not expect Jisung to make the first move.
He looks up.
Jisung doesn’t say anything. He just leans forward, rests his forehead against Minho’s shoulder, arms wrapping around him in a hug that is tentative but real.
For a second, Minho is completely still.
Then he breaks.
A sob tears out of him—raw and ugly. He folds over Jisung, arms locking around him like he’s afraid he’ll disappear if he loosens his grip.
“I’m sorry,” Minho chokes. “I’m so fucking sorry. I should’ve protected you. I should’ve been there. I should’ve—”
Jisung’s own tears spill over.
“You did,” he whispers, voice shaking. “You came. You stayed and you didn’t leave. I wouldn’t have survived this if it was not for you.”
Minho shakes his head violently. “You shouldn’t have gone through that. Not alone.”
Jisung hesitates, then asks quietly, vulnerably, “Can you… stay with me tonight? Cuddle. I don’t want to be alone when I sleep tonight.”
Minho’s face tightens with fear.
“Jisung,” he says carefully, “I don’t want to rush you. I don’t want to do something that hurts your healing.”
Jisung shakes his head. “You don’t hurt me. You’re my safe space. I feel good when you’re close. Please.”
The word lands heavy.
Please.
Minho exhales, long and shaky, then nods.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Okay. I’m here.”
They move to the bedroom together. Slow and gentle.
Minho lies down first, giving Jisung control. Jisung curls into his chest immediately, fitting there like he always has. Minho’s arms come around him, solid and warm, one hand resting protectively between his shoulder blades.
The lights go out. The room is quiet.
Jisung waits for it.
The racing thoughts. The spike of terror. The drop into panic.
But it doesn’t come.
Minho’s breathing is steady beneath his ear. His heartbeat is calm and strong.
Jisung lets himself sink into it.
For the first night in a week, there are no nightmares.
No panic attack and no shadow lurking at the edge of sleep.
The boogeyman is gone.
And Jisung sleeps.
--
They leave the building together.
Close enough to feel the tension stretch between them with every step.
The night air is cool. The pavement still warm from the day. Their footsteps echo too loudly in the quiet, an awkward rhythm that refuses to sync. Seungmin keeps his hands in his pockets, shoulders drawn in. He feels damn uncomfortable and he knows the younger also feels that way.
Jeongin walks with his head down, jaw tight, phone heavy in his hand like it’s still burning him.
They make it halfway down the block before Jeongin stops.
Seungmin takes two more steps before he realizes and turns back. Jeongin doesn’t look at him at first.
“You were right,” he says.
The words land bluntly. No preamble. No softening.
Seungmin’s breath catches. “About… what?”
Jeongin laughs once, it sounds nothing like humor. “About her. And…About everything.”
He finally looks up. His eyes are red. Theyre not crying now. He is past that stage. His eyes are raw in a different way.
“I went through her phone,” Jeongin continues to explain. His fingers curl into his sleeve. “There were texts. Old ones and very recent ones. There were pictures, voice notes. Stuff to people she told me were ‘just friends.’ And yes, it was more than one guy.”
Seungmin feels his chest cave inward.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I didn’t—”
“I know,” Jeongin cuts in, quick but not angry.
Silence swells again. Seungmin studies the younger carefully. “Are you… okay?”
Jeongin snorts. “No.”
Well, at least it’s honest.
“It hurts,” Jeongin says, voice quieter now. “But weirdly…. not the way I thought it would.” He rubs at his chest like he is feeling physical pain. “The betrayal hurts more than losing her. It’s weird. I cried more about the fact that I got cheated on than about the fact that it’s over. Like…I cried for myself. I cried because of the cheating. I keep thinking—what did I miss? Was I not enough? Was I stupid?”
Seungmin’s throat tightens. “You’re not stupid and you are enough.”
“I know that logically,” Jeongin says. “But my brain won’t shut up.” He exhales, shaky. “Still… when I think about her being gone? I don’t miss her. I miss the idea of having someone. I miss not being alone. I don’t think I ever really will miss her.”
The admission hangs heavy between them.
Jeongin looks at Seungmin then, he takes a step forward and looks him deep in the eyes.
“But,” he says. “I miss you,”
Seungmin’s heart stutters painfully. “Innie…”
“I’m not saying I’m okay or I am over everything,” Jeongin rushes on. “I’m not. I’m a mess. I need time. To figure out my breakup. To understand… whatever you were trying to tell me before. Your feelings. And to apologize for my part in hurting you.” His voice drops.
“But I miss my best friend. I miss coming home and knowing you’re there.”
The word home twists something deep in Seungmin.
“I want you to come back,” Jeongin finishes.
Seungmin swallows hard.
“I miss you too,” he admits. “Every day.” His voice wobbles, but he holds it together. “But I was really hurt, Innie. You didn’t trust me. You chose her over me without even listening.”
Jeongin nods immediately. “I know. And I hate myself for that.”
Seungmin hesitates, then says the truth. “If we do this—living together again and being friends—it has to be slow. I need time to trust you again. We can’t just reset and forget everything.”
“I don’t want to reset,” Jeongin says softly. “I want to rebuild our relationship. Even if it’s awkward or even if it takes forever.”
They stand there, both breathing like they’ve just run a marathon.
“So,” Jeongin says carefully. “Friends?”
Seungmin lets out a shaky breath that almost becomes a laugh. “Friends. For now.”
Jeongin nods. “For now.”
Neither moves.
Then, tentatively, Jeongin opens his arms.
Seungmin steps into them.
The hug is different from before. Less instinctive and more fragile. But it’s real.
They cling to each other for a long while. Breathing each other in.
“We’ll figure it out,” Jeongin murmurs.
Seungmin closes his eyes. “Yeah. We will.”
They turn toward home together.
--
From across the street. From behind tinted glass. They watched it happen.
Police lights washed the front of the building in red and blue, flashing against marble and glass. Woosook was led out through the main entrance, not rushed, he was wearing a mask and a hoodie. But it was clearly him.
In handcuffs.
They sat there in silence. No one spoke. Minho’s jaw was clenched so hard it hurt. Chan’s arms were folded tight across his chest like he was holding himself together. Changbin stared without blinking and Hyunjin didn’t look away even when Woosook disappeared.
It didn’t feel like victory. They felt weird. They felt hatred. And neither of them trusted the justice system enough to be happy about the arrest right now.
But at least it felt like something poisonous finally leaving the air.
They drove away before the police car’s doors closed. They didn’t watch him get driven off because what mattered had already happened.
What they didn’t know—what none of them could have known—was that they weren’t the only ones watching.
A trainee stood near the lobby, half-hidden behind a column. Her hands were shaking. Her heart was racing. She had seen the cuffs. She realized who the person, getting arrested, was and she lifted her phone. She filmed. Zoom in to his face.
She hated Woosook. He was the reason her best friend quit the survival show. She quit months before debuting. Months before she reached her dream of being an idol. Months before the world could have had the chance to hear her angelic voice. Why? Because of this bastard. He had raped her. Stole her dream, her dignity and her voice from her. And what did the police do? Nothing.
They did nothing when her friend starved herself in the hospital. They did nothing when she started to hurt herself with scissors and knives. They did nothing when she jumped form the roof of her home.
So it was her turn to do something. To expose him. To post this video with her friends suicide note. It was her turn to destroy this man. Once and for all.
Later she posted it. She posted the video zooming in Woosooks face. She posted the pictures of her best friend. The video of the assault. The suicide note with the doctors’ notes. Once again she thanked all deities that she never signed any NDA. Because JYP forgot about her. The whole family of the victim signed. But she slipped away. Nobody knew that she was in possession of all these information’s, waiting for the perfect moment to destroy this guy. And today was the moment she was waiting for.
The video spread. Fast and relentless in one night.
By the time JYP released their statement—carefully worded and legally scrubbed, announcing that the company itself had contacted authorities after receiving credible evidence of Woosook hurting an employee, the shit storm went bigger. Now the world knows that not only did he rape a trainee pushing her to her death, but also he assaulted an employee. The damage was already irreversible.
The statement didn’t save Woosook. It buried him. Now even the company was against him to save their own image.
The narrative was now company-confirmed. And police-confirmed. The story was public.
His future was gone.
And with it,
He was gone.
And this time, he wasn’t coming back.
Chapter 22: "Allowed to want"
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “want so BAD” – Han & Lee Know (minsung anthem)
"Let's get it started, getting anxious, can't think straight
I'll give you an armful of cosmos flowers
Love you, I wanna place myself in a spot next to you
I'll hug you, don't know if it was the wind
Or the feeling of affection that stirred the air, it goes high above the sky into the universe
I'll hold you tight and say I've always been waiting for this moment
If I hold it any longer, I might just blow up
Pink chroma key background, the surrounding scenes
Pink chroma key background, the surrounding scenes
Love is so intuitive everything changes
The start of a typical romance, though I know it all, I deeply
Fall into you and get my hopes up again, ah-ah, ah-ah"
----------------
Minho always woke up before Jisung. That was one constant that never changed and probably never would.
He always woke up first. Showered. Prepared breakfast for the two of them after feeding the cats. Jisung would wake later, stepping into the bathroom that smelled of woody vanilla and Minho’s aftershave. After that, Jisung would always wander into the kitchen to find Minho either playing with the cats or finishing breakfast.
But some things had changed.
For example, Minho used to walk around topless. Most mornings, his shirt had come off during activities the night before, and after his shower, he never bothered to put one on. He knew Jisung enjoyed the view over breakfast. The broad shoulders. The biceps. The trained chest. The lean muscles beneath the pale scar.
These days, Minho stayed clothed.
The good-morning kisses had changed, too. They used to be long, lingering kisses. Tongues fighting. Hands wandering. Now they were small pecks to the forehead.
Another small change was the food. Minho used to cook whatever Jisung craved. These days, he cooked whatever trauma therapists recommended on his blogs. He spent nights researching meals with titles like “Nutrition for PTSD” or “Best Food and Dietary Strategies for PTSD Recovery.” Breakfast had become very green and very fishy lately.
Not that Jisung complained. Minho could cook a stone, and he would eat it, thanking him for it. The man had talent with cooking the same way he had talent with everything else.
It wasn’t the meals that hurt.
It was the way Minho looked at him afterward.
Sometimes, when Jisung was eating, Minho’s eyes would fill with tears for no obvious reason. When Jisung sat quietly on his phone for too long, Minho would ask a thousand questions. Was he okay. Did he need anything. Was he sure.
Whenever Minho brushed Jisung’s hand by accident, he apologized profusely.
Jisung knew Minho meant well. He knew his boyfriend was doing everything he could to make sure he didn’t hurt or trigger his trauma.
But he wished Minho would loosen up. Just a little.
Jisung sighed loudly.
Making Hyunjin next to him frown. “You still mad that I am dragging you to therapy again?” he asked.
“No no I was never mad Jinnie.” Jisung explained fast “I was just scared that she will be mad at me for not turning up the last two weeks.”
Hyunjin laughed.
“First of all, if I got a longer lunch break because someone canceled, I wouldn’t be mad either. Second, I already told her a bit. She’s happy you’re coming. You know her. She’s an angel.”
Jisung hummed.
He planned to unload everything about Minho onto that angel. They had time. They had enough time. Thanks to Hyunjin, already telling her a bit, she called Jisung and suggested their session today to be more than just an hour. And he happily agreed. The fucking asshole was the one paying anyways. Courts order. So, who cares how long it will take.
“I will wait outside.” Hyunjin smiled at him, taking place at the lobby of the therapist like they always done. Jisung’s appointments were always the once before Hyunjins. So they waited for eachothers therapy session to be over to have post.therpay sessions together. Their therapist told them acrually that this is a good way for them to heal and to bond.
With a see you later, Jisung entered the office after knocking twoce.
The therapist’s office smells faintly of tea and paper.
Jisung sits on the couch with his legs tucked under him, shoulders slightly hunched forward, like he’s trying to take up less space than the room allows. His fingers worry the seam of his sleeve without him noticing at first. When he does notice, he doesn’t stop. He lets himself have it.
She doesn’t rush him.
She never does.
“So,” she says gently, settling into her chair across from him. No clipboard. No pen. Just her, hands folded loosely in her lap. “You’ve had a very full two weeks.”
A quiet, almost disbelieving huff escapes him. Not quite a laugh but also kind of a laugh.
“That’s… one way to say it.”
She doesn’t push. Lets the silence stretch. Lets it become his choice.
Jisung stares at the carpet. The same spot he always stares at. There’s a tiny darker thread woven into it, slightly off from the rest. He’s counted it before. Today he doesn’t.
“I didn’t come,” he says finally. His voice sounds far away, even to himself. “I knew I should. I just… couldn’t.”
His fingers tighten around the fabric.
“Every time I thought about sitting here,” he continues, quieter now, “and talking about it… my chest got tight. Like if I said it out loud, it would all become real again.”
She nods once. Not surprised.
“Avoidance after trauma is very common,” she says.
“I know,” he mutters immediately. Too fast. Too sharp. “Which somehow made me feel even more stupid.”
Her voice softens. “That feeling isn’t stupidity. It’s shame.”
The word lands heavier than he expects. Oh, they started right away with the therapy truck huh.
He swallows.
“But you’re here today,” she adds. “That matters.”
He exhales slowly. “Hyunjin dragged me.”
A small smile curves her mouth. “Support still counts.”
Something in his shoulders eases. Just a fraction. The room settles again. Quieter now. Less sharp around the edges.
She watches him — not his words, not his posture, but his breathing. Short. High. Controlled, he’s holding himself together by force.
“Before we talk about what happened,” she says gently, “I want to check something.”
His fingers curl tighter into his sleeves.
“Are you here right now,” she asks, “or do you feel far away?”
He thinks about it.
“…Both.”
She nods. “Okay. Then we slow down.”
She doesn’t say his name yet. She doesn’t say the man’s name. She doesn’t say spit. She doesn’t say assault.
“Put your feet flat on the floor for me,” she says instead.
He does it automatically, like muscle memory.
“Good. Now look around the room and name five things you can see.”
His eyes flicker. The bookshelf. The plant. The window. The clock. The corner of the rug.
“Four things you can feel.”
“The couch,” he says quietly. “My jeans. The air. My ring.”
She nods. “Three things you can hear.”
The heater humming.
A car passing outside.
Her breathing.
Something inside him loosens. Just a little.
“Two things you can smell.”
“Tea,” he says. “And… paper.”
“And one thing you can taste.”
He hesitates, then: “Mint. From gum.”
She waits. Lets the moment settle until his breathing evens out, no longer clawing its way through his chest.
“This isn’t avoidance,” she explains calmly. “This is teaching your nervous system that you’re not there anymore.”
His eyes sting.
They sit in silence for a moment longer, breathing together until the room feels solid again.
Just here.
“You saw him again,” she says at last.
The words drop into the space between them like weight.
“Yes.”
“And something happened that crossed your body’s line of safety.”
A pause.
“…Yes.”
She watches his hands begin to tremble, small, involuntary.
“I want you to know something,” she says steadily, grounding her voice before going any further. “Your reaction afterward tells me this wasn’t just a memory. Your body experienced it as present danger.”
His jaw tightens. “I froze.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t correct him too quickly.
“Freezing is a survival response,” she says. “Not a failure. Your nervous system chose the option that once kept you alive.”
His eyes snap up, sharp with frustration. “It didn’t keep me safe.”
“It kept you alive,” she corrects gently. “And you got away.”
The distinction hangs there. Jisung nods slowly. Silence stretches between them. Thick. But survivable.
“Can we talk about the moment after,” she asks, “not the details of what he did, but what your body did?”
Jisung hesitates. Then nods.
“I couldn’t move,” he says. “I couldn’t talk. Everything felt… slow. Like I was underwater.”
She nods once. “That’s dissociation. Also a normal response.”
“I passed out.”
“Yes,” she says softly. “Your system overloaded.”
Shame creeps in before he can stop it. It crawls up his spine, settles tight in his throat — familiar, insidious.
She notices immediately.
“I want to be very clear,” she says. “Nothing about that response means you wanted it. Or allowed it. Or failed to stop it.”
His breath shudders, involuntary.
“Now,” she continues, “I’m going to ask you something important. You can say no.”
He nods.
“Do you want to name the most disturbing part of the experience,” she asks carefully, “or would you rather work on grounding first?”
He closes his eyes.
“The spit,” he whispers.
The room stills.
She doesn’t react. Doesn’t soften her face. Doesn’t rush to reframe it.
“Okay,” she says. “That makes sense.”
He opens his eyes, startled. “It does?”
“Yes,” she says. “Spitting is degradation. It attacks identity, not just the body.”
Something in his chest caves inward.
“It made me feel—” He stops. Swallows hard. “Dirty. Small. Like I wasn’t human.”
She leans forward just slightly. “That reaction is about meaning,” she says. “Not weakness.”
She lets that sit before continuing.
“Before we touch that memory any further,” she adds, “I want to help your body learn that it ended.”
She lifts her hand gently. “Look at me.”
He does.
“Tell me the date.”
“…Wednesday.”
“Where are you?”
“My therapist’s office.”
“How old are you?”
“…Twenty-three.”
She nods. “Good. Your body needs reminders that you are not the person you were back then.”
His breathing deepens. Slow. Reluctant. But real.
“When you think of the spit,” she continues, “where do you feel it in your body?”
“My face,” he says immediately. “My chest. My stomach.”
“On a scale from zero to ten?”
“…Eight.”
She nods. “We’re not pushing it lower today. We’re just making sure you don’t drown in it.”
She places her own hand over her chest. “Breathe with me.”
They do.
Once.
Then again.
His hands stop shaking.
“Now tell me,” she says, “what your body wanted to do in that moment but couldn’t.”
“Scream. Hit him. Run.”
“And later,” she says gently, “you did run.”
“Yes.”
“And you did scream. And you did hit him.”
His eyes widen just a fraction.
“That matters,” she says. “Your system completed part of the response.”
A tear slips down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away.
“This week,” she continues, “we stabilize. We don’t process everything yet.”
He nods.
“You are not broken,” she adds. “You are injured. And injuries heal under the right conditions.”
His shoulders finally slump — not collapsing, but letting go.
“…Okay,” he whispers.
She watches him for a moment longer.
“And one more thing,” she says gently. “The fact that your old control patterns tried to return — the rules, the rituals — doesn’t mean you’re back where you started.”
He looks at her. In shock. He didn’t tell her about the patterns coming back. How did she-
He swallows. “I thought I was past that.”
“You are,” she replies. “But being ‘past it’ doesn’t mean it never gets activated again. It means you recognize it faster. And you don’t let it take over your life.”
He considers that. Maybe she was right.
“I didn’t build my day around them this time,” he says slowly. “I noticed them… and then I just felt tired.”
“That’s an important difference,” she says. “Before, the rules ran you. Now, they showed up, and you didn’t obey them.”
His chest tightens. “It still scared me.”
“Of course it did,” she says gently. “Because this time the trigger wasn’t abstract. It wasn’t a memory.”
She lets the word land.
“It was him.”
Jisung’s jaw clenches.
“When your body saw him,” she continues, “it didn’t just remember the abuse. It remembered how helpless you once felt. And it reached for the same tools.”
He nods. “Control.”
“Yes,” she says. “But something else happened too.”
He looks up.
“You didn’t push Minho away,” she says. “In the past, when your body felt threatened, closeness felt dangerous.”
His fingers curl slightly. “I hated him back then. For no reason.”
“For a reason,” she corrects gently. “Your nervous system associated his profession, his body, his proximity with danger.”
He exhales.
“But now,” she continues, “you went toward him.”
Jisung’s eyes burn.
“I needed him,” he admits. “I still do.”
“That tells me the work we’ve done mattered,” she says. “Your sense of safety didn’t collapse back into isolation. It shifted toward connection.”
He blinks.
“That’s progress,” she says. “Even if it didn’t feel like it.”
Something in his chest loosens — just a little.
And that —
that is where the work actually begins.
--
The break is supposed to be five minutes. For the first time he has a break. But it’s also the first time that his session is going to be over an hour long.
Jisung opens the office door and immediately goes to Hyunjin in the waiting area, he was stretched across two chairs like he owns the place, legs crossed, Minho’s blue filter glasses, he stole, slipping down his nose as he pretends to read the same page he’s been pretending to read for the last half hour.
Jisung stops right in front of him.
Stares.
Hyunjin doesn’t look up.
Jisung clears his throat. Loudly.
Nothing.
Jisung leans over and snaps the book shut.
Hyunjin yelps. “HEY—”
“You’ve been on the same page since I went in,” Jisung says, deadpan. “Either you’re illiterate or deeply committed to that one paragraph.”
Hyunjin squints at the cover, then sighs dramatically. “It’s symbolic reading.”
“Of course it is.”
Hyunjin finally looks at him properly then. His expression shifts, softening.
“You look… better,” he says quietly.
Jisung shrugs. “Don’t get excited. I cried. A lot.”
Hyunjin smiles, relieved. “Good. Means you wont punch the couch again.”
“Maybe I will. Just for fun.”
Hyunjin snorts, then scoots over so Jisung can drop into the chair beside him. Their shoulders bump. Easy and familiar. Why can’t Minho just be like that again?
For a moment, they just sit there.
Then Jisung tilts his head. “So. What are you talking about today?”
Hyunjin blinks. “Me?”
“Yeah,” Jisung says. “You know what I talk about today and I noticed that you’ve been weird all week. What’s rattling around up there. What fancy holds thee now.” Jisung humours in his shakes pear voice.
Hyunjin scoffs.
He opens his mouth then.
Closes it again.
Then exhales through his nose, long and slow.
“…Changbin.”
That surprises Jisung enough that he turns fully toward him. “Oh.”
Hyunjin huffs a laugh. “That reaction says everything.”
“No I just didn’t expect you guys…Are you guys—” Jisung hesitates. “Are you having problems?”
“No,” Hyunjin says immediately. Too fast. Then he winces. “I mean— not like that. Not fighting. Not anything dramatic. He is perfect. ”
He leans back, staring up at the ceiling.
“But remember what I said to you,” he adds quietly, “when you wouldn’t open the door?”
Jisung nods slowly. Then shakes his head frowning.
“You said a lot of things Jinnie. I don’t know which were true and which weren’t.”
“I only shared one thing about Binnie and me.” He murmurs. Face red.
It hit Jisung.
Oh.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” Hyunjin swallows.
He taps the spine of the book against his knee, restless.
“We haven’t been intimate in weeks,” he admits. “At first it was normal stuff. Uni stress. Bin’s new work. My art thing. Then Seungmin stayed over and I couldn’t come by anymore. And Minho and you used our dorm. Then your stuff happened.” His voice drops. “And suddenly a month passed.”
Jisung watches him carefully. “And now?”
“And now I’m telling myself it’s fine,” Hyunjin says. “That it doesn’t mean anything. That I’m being dramatic. That I should be patient. That this happens in all relationships.”
He laughs again, but it’s hollow. “But I catch myself thinking stupid things. Like— is he not attracted to me anymore. Did I do something wrong. Am I asking for too much.”
“That doesn’t sound stupid,” Jisung says gently.
Hyunjin looks at him, surprised. “It does in my head.”
Jisung shifts closer. “You’re allowed to miss being wanted. You’re allowed to want closeness without it meaning your relationship is broken.”
Hyunjin’s shoulders sag a little, like something heavy finally got named.
“I hate that it makes me insecure,” he admits. “I don’t want to be that guy.”
“You’re not,” Jisung says. “You’re just human. And you’re honest enough to talk about it.”
Hyunjin studies him for a moment, then smiles, small and genuine.
“You know,” he says, “it’s deeply ironic that you’re the one comforting me right now.”
Jisung shrugs. “I contain multitudes.”
Hyunjin chuckles, then sobers again. “I just… want to talk to him. Without making him feel pressured. Without turning it into a thing.”
“That’s exactly what you should tell the therapist,” Jisung says. “And then Changbin. Eventually.”
Hyunjin nods slowly. “Yeah.”
The door opens down the hall.
Five minutes are up.
Jisung stands, “Wish me luck.”
Hyunjin looks up at him. “You’re good at that.”
Jisung pauses, then reaches down and squeezes Jisung’s shoulder. Firm. Warm.
“So are you,” he says.
Hyunjin smiles at him “I’m glad you’re here.”
--
Jisung goes back inside.
The door clicks shut behind him. The room is the same—tea, paper, neutral calm—but something in him has shifted. The edges feel closer now. The talk with Hyunjin motivated him even more to open up. He knows what he want’s to talk about now an the topic has weight.
The therapist looks up and gives him a small nod.
“Welcome back,” she says simply. “How are you feeling right now.”
“Tired,” Jisung answers honestly. Then, after a beat, “And nervous.”
“About.”
He doesn’t pretend not to know. He want’s to talk about it as fast as possible. “Minho.”
She doesn’t react. Just waits for him to continue.
Jisung sits the same way as before, but his posture is different now. Less curled. More braced.
“I think,” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “I think the hardest part of all of this isn’t what happened. What happened happened and I cant change it anymore and I know that now. But it’s what came after.”
She tilts her head slightly. “Tell me.”
“It’s so hard right now. He looks at me like I’m… breakable,” Jisung says quietly. “Like if he touches me wrong, I’ll shatter. More often than not I catch him with tears in his eyes while looking at me.”
“And how does that feel.”
“Safe,” he admits immediately. Then his voice drops. “And lonely.”
That gets her full attention.
“Both can be true,” she says.
Jisung nods. “I know he’s terrified of hurting me. I see it. Every time he asks if I’m okay. Every time he apologizes for nothing. Like…He apologizes for touching me accidentally. As if we were never intimate together. Every time he stops himself halfway through a touch.”
He rubs his palms together, restless. “Sometimes it feels like he’s more scared of my trauma than I am.”
She lets that land.
“Do you feel controlled,” she asks gently, “or cared for.”
Jisung thinks. Really thinks. He knows what being controlled in a relationship feels like. This is different.
“…Cared for,” he says. “Too much.”
She gives a small, knowing smile. “Overprotection can feel like love and loss of agency at the same time.”
“Yes,” Jisung breathes, relieved at the word. “Agency. That’s it.”
He swallows. “I don’t want him to stop caring. I love him for caring but… I just want him to trust me again.”
“Trust you with what.”
“With myself,” Jisung says without thinking. The words honest and raw. “With my body. With my ‘no.’ And my ‘yes.’ I never had to tell him no before because he never hurt a boundary and I love whatever he does, but I know I am able to do so.”
She leans back slightly. “Do you trust yourself?”
The question catches him off guard.
“I—” He frowns. “I think so. More than before.”
Then he thinks deeper about it. “Actually I trust myself because I am with Minho!”
“Can you elaborate?” she asks.
“When we got together, the first night we kissed and were intimate,” he blushed. Hesitating till he sees her comforting nod to finish his sentenece, “Even then, Minho asked me like a thousand times if I was okay. If I really wanted it. If I was happy. The whole talk before he even kissed me was about consent. I remember it making me so happy.”
She listens carefully. This time, she doesn’t answer immediately.
“That distinction matters,” she says finally. “A lot.”
Jisung looks up.
“You’re describing a relationship where consent was already well-established,” she continues. “Where your body has always been respected. That tells me something very important.”
“What,” Jisung asks quietly.
“That this isn’t about you needing to be protected from him,” she says. “It’s about him being afraid of failing you.”
Jisung’s chest tightens. He didn’t think about it that way yet.
“You’re not asking him to take a risk with your safety,” she adds. “You’re asking him to trust your voice.”
That lands hard. It makes so much sense.
She leans forward slightly, grounding but not invasive.
“When someone experiences trauma, especially relational or bodily trauma, their partner often becomes hypervigilant. They start monitoring instead of listening and protecting instead of collaborating.”
Jisung nods slowly. “That’s what it feels like.”
“But here’s the key,” she says gently. “You already know your ‘no’ matters. And you trust yourself to say it. That means your nervous system is not asking for withdrawal. It’s asking for participation.”
Participation.
Not passivity. Not being handled. She is right.
“I don’t want to be watched,” Jisung whispers. “I want to be chosen with.”
Her expression softens. “That’s a very healthy want.”
She pauses, then asks, “When Minho hesitates, what story do you tell yourself about why.”
Jisung swallows. “That I’m fragile. That I’m… too much.”
She shakes her head immediately. “That story belongs to trauma, not truth.” Then, carefully, “What if his hesitation isn’t about you being breakable—but about him being terrified of becoming someone who hurts you?”
Jisung’s breath stutters.
“That fear can freeze intimacy,” she continues. “Not because desire is gone. But because responsibility feels overwhelming.”
Silence. Jisung is processing her words. Minho is not only afraid of hurting him, he is afraid of becoming someone who hurt the person he loves. Two sides of the same coin. But he neither of them flipped the coin to see the other side.
“So what do I do,” Jisung asks, voice thin. “I don’t want to push him.”
“You don’t push,” she says. “You invite.”
She lets that settle.
“You don’t need to convince him you’re okay,” she continues. “You need to remind him that consent still lives between you. That your ‘yes’ is as meaningful as your ‘no.’ That your wants are as important as your fears.”
She gives him language now, very deliberately.
“You might say:
‘I know you’re scared of hurting me. But I need you to trust that I can tell you when something is too much. When you hesitate, it makes me feel like I’ve lost my place in our relationship.’”
Jisung closes his eyes briefly. The words feel terrifying. But right.
“This is not about rushing intimacy,” she adds. “It’s about restoring equality.”
Equality.
Not caretaker and patient. Not a protector and a glass figure.
But two people choosing each other again.
“You didn’t lose your agency in what happened,” she says firmly. “It was taken from you for a moment. And now you’re reclaiming it.”
Jisung nods. His throat burns.
“That urge you feel—to be close, to be wanted, to be touched safely—is not a setback,” she finishes. “It’s your nervous system remembering who it is with.”
Silence follows. But it’s not heavy. It’s solid.
But then Jisung remembers something.
“How long am I supposed to wait before… before it’s okay to be intimate again?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her brows knit, not in disapproval, but in careful attention.
“What does ‘okay’ mean to you,” she asks gently. “Physically? Emotionally? Morally? Socially?”
Jisung exhales, frustrated with himself. “That’s the problem. I don’t know.”
He rubs his palms against his jeans, grounding, restless.
“I wasn’t… raped,” he says slowly, the word heavy but precise. “Not like that. But something happened. Something crossed a line. And the first days after, I couldn’t stand being touched at all. My body just… panicked.”
He pauses. Breath trembles.
“But now,” he continues, quieter, almost embarrassed, “I don’t feel like that anymore. I want him. I feel ready again. My body feels ready and I even miss it.”
He finally looks up at her, eyes raw.
“And that scares me,” he admits. “Because it feels like if I want intimacy again so soon, then maybe what happened wasn’t ‘that bad.’ Like I’m minimizing it. Like I’m… invalidating my own trauma.”
His voice cracks.
“I don’t want to turn this into something smaller than it was,” he whispers. “But I also don’t want to punish myself by pretending I don’t want him when I do.”
A beat.
“And asking for intimacy feels like I’m doing something wrong,” he finishes. “Like I’m breaking some rule I don’t know how to name.”
She doesn’t rush to answer.
When she speaks, her voice is calm, grounded, deliberate.
“There is no waiting period you’re supposed to follow,” she says first. “There’s no rulebook for this.”
Jisung’s breath catches.
“Readiness for intimacy doesn’t measure the seriousness of what happened to you,” she continues. “Those two things are not connected.”
She leans forward slightly.
“What happened to you mattered because it violated your sense of safety and control. That doesn’t disappear just because your body starts to want closeness with the person you love again.”
He swallows.
“Desire returning is not a sign that you’re minimizing your trauma,” she says gently. “It’s often a sign that your nervous system is coming out of survival mode.”
She lets that settle.
“After trauma, many people believe they have to stay distant or numb to ‘honor’ what happened. But healing isn’t about staying hurt. It’s about regaining choice.”
Choice.
“That includes the choice to want,” she adds. “And the choice to stop, change your mind, or say no at any point.”
Jisung’s eyes sting.
“You’re not betraying your past self by wanting intimacy now,” she says. “You’re listening to your present self.”
A pause.
“What matters isn’t when you’re intimate,” she continues. “What matters is how.”
She speaks slowly, making sure each word lands.
“Do you feel safe? Do you feel in control? Do you trust that you can stop if your body changes its mind?”
Jisung nods, almost imperceptibly.
“Then intimacy can be part of healing,” she says. “Not because it proves you’re ‘okay,’ but because it lets you experience touch without fear again.”
She meets his eyes.
“And one more important thing,” she adds. “You are allowed to want intimacy even if parts of you are still hurting. Healing isn’t linear. Wanting closeness and needing protection can exist at the same time.”
Silence fills the room.
She finishes softly, “You don’t need permission from trauma to live. You just need consent — from yourself.”
Jisung exhales.
For the first time, the problem doesn’t feel like him.
It feels like something they can face together.
--
“Let’s go study outside,” Jisung says one afternoon, like it’s nothing, like it’s normal.
He has broken his head thinking of ways to explain it to Minho. That he knows what he wants and what he doesn’t. That he feels safe with him. That his yes means as much as his no. But every sentence he tries in his mind sounds like it might bruise Minho’s already overworked heart. So he tries it this way instead. Simple. Practical. A door he can open without slamming anything behind it.
Minho freezes. Just for a second. His eyes flick over Jisung’s face, careful, searching, like he’s reading for cracks in glass.
“Only if you want to,” Minho says. Then, quieter, “You sure you want this?”
“I do,” Jisung answers immediately. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”
Minho nods, but he still looks scared. He tries to hide it by moving around the apartment.
The next Monday, Minho picks him up anyway. A Red Bull for Jisung and a pudding for himself in hand. He stands there in the hallway with his keys, shoulders tense, mouth set in that careful line that has become his default lately.
On their way to campus, Jisung reaches for Minho’s hand.
Minho hesitates.
A long time.
He tilts his head in that questioning way. His thumb twitches like he wants to touch but doesn’t trust the movement. Jisung feels the pause like a sting, not because it hurts him, but because it tells him how afraid Minho still is.
So Jisung stops walking.
Minho stops too, immediately, he’s trained himself to halt the moment Jisung shifts.
“I want you to hold my hand,” Jisung says. Clear and steady. No softness that could be misread as uncertainty.
Minho blinks. Swallows. “Are you scared?” he asks, and the question is raw. Almost pathetic in the way love can make you.
Jisung frowns, then his expression breaks into something gentler. “No, baby.” He squeezes his fingers once, a small invitation. “I just want to enjoy my boyfriend’s hand. I missed holding it.”
Minho’s ears start to color red, and Jisung enjoys it. It felt right. It felt normal.
Minho’s eyes go glossy for a second, like he’s fighting an emotion he doesn’t want to dump onto Jisung.
Then he reaches out.
Warm fingers close around Jisung’s cold ones. Careful at first. Then firmer, like he remembers that he’s allowed to want this too.
Jisung sighs when he feels it. The warmth. The weight. The simple fact of being held again.
This feels right.
They sit on campus under the same trees they used to sit under before everything went wrong. Jisung spreads his notes out and Minho his book. They study. They talk. Their knees touch, and this time Minho doesn’t pull away. He flinches, just barely, then forces himself to stay. Jisung notices. But he doesn’t comment. He just keeps his knee there.
They restart their routine.
Mondays and Wednesdays mornings become theirs again. Going to campus together. Saying bye to Soonie together. Stopping at the same convenience store together. Buying Red Bull and pudding, together.
On a Wednesday, when Minho is working at the dance studio again, Jisung decides to surprise him. Like the old times.
When he turns up, he greets the girl at the counter.
“Jisoo-noona, long time no see.”
She looks up, surprised. “Ah, Jisung-ah. How have you been? I heard you were sick for some time.”
“Yes, yes,” Jisung says with a soft smile, waving it off the way people do when they don’t want pity. “But I’m starting to feel better. Thank you for asking.”
He rubs his thumb over the paper wrapping in his hand, suddenly aware of how fast his heart is beating.
“You know where my boyfriend is?” he asks.
She points toward the dance room.
Minho is in there teaching a class of small kids. Jisung watches through the small window in the door. He missed Minho’s dancing. Every time he sees him move, something in his chest resets and he fell in love with him over and over again.
Minho counts out loud, claps the beat, laughs when a kid spins the wrong way. He corrects them gently. Patient, warm, focused. He looks so alive.
Jisung’s throat tightens.
He loves this man. He loves how he moves like he controls the music. How soft he is wit the kids. How this job made him smile showing his rabbit teeth. How the kids made him smirk from the right side. It was so bad once that Jisung wrote three songs just about Minho’s dancing. None of them finished, he remembers that now, and it makes him ache. He tells himself he’ll finish them after he catches up on the uni material he missed during those trauma-packed days. He wants to finish the songs and perform them to the man they’re about.
When the kids start to file out, Jisung slips in.
Minho turns and freezes.
“Jisung-ah,” he says, voice cracking on the name.
Jisung steps closer and pushes the flowers into his boyfriend’s hands before Minho can think too hard. “Hey, jagiya.”
Minho stares at the bouquet, then at Jisung, then at himself, as if he can’t figure out what version of reality he is standing in.
Jisung lets himself look at him properly. The sweat at Minho’s hairline. The loose shirt clinging to his back. The way his chest rises too fast.
“You look hot,” Jisung says.
Minho’s mouth opens. Closes. His ears go red again.
“I wanted to invite you on a date,” Jisung continues. He doesn’t give Minho space to talk himself out of happiness. “Let’s go eat.”
Minho nods automatically, still stunned.
Then he catches himself, panic returning like a reflex. “You sure? You sure you can be out? You sure you okay? I don’t want to—”
Jisung grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him in.
He kisses him.
Not a peck. Not a forehead kiss. A real kiss. The first real one in weeks. Finally.
Minho goes still for half a second, like his body is checking if it’s allowed. Then he melts into it with a small sound that makes Jisung’s stomach twist. Relief. Want. Love. All tangled.
When they part, Jisung stays close, breathing the same air.
“When I ask for something, Minho-Hyung,” he says, short-breathed, voice low, “that means I want it.”
Minho’s eyes shine. He blinks hard. His grip tightens on the flowers like he needs something solid.
“Okay,” Minho whispers. “Okay.”
--
On Thursdays and Fridays, Jisung sleeps over.
Minho still asks too many questions. Everytime Jisung comes near him, I triggers a train of questions that cant be stopped.
“You okay?”
“Is this okay?”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“You sure?”
“You promise?”
At first, it irritates Jisung. Then it just makes him sad. Because he knows where it comes from. Fear. Guilt. He is scared of becoming someone who hurts Jisung.
Jisung understands that now.
So one night, when Minho asks again, Jisung takes his hands and holds them still.
“I need you to trust me,” Jisung says. His voice doesn’t shake. He makes sure of it. “Not that I’m okay all the time. But that I’ll tell you when I’m not.”
Minho’s hands curl into the fabric of his sleeves on instinct, like he wants to disappear inside himself. Then Jisung pulls them back out and threads their fingers together.
“I’m ready,” Jisung continues. “Ive been ready. Fuck Hyung. And if I change my mind, I’ll say so. I need you to believe me when I say yes.”
Minho looks like someone punched the air out of him.
He doesn’t answer right away.
His jaw works. His throat bobs. His eyes search Jisung’s face again, but this time it isn’t only fear. There is longing in it too. There is hope. There is the part of him that wants to come home.
Then he nods. Slow. Careful. Like he’s relearning something he already knew.
“Okay,” he whispers again.
In the soft glow of Minho's bedroom, the only light comes from the streetlamp outside, casting long shadows across the tangled sheets. The air is thick with unspoken words and the lingering scent of shared dinner.
"You're asking me if this is okay," Jisung whispers, his lips brushing the shell of Minho's ear as he guides their joined hands to rest over his own racing heart. "Feel that? That's for you. Every beat is a 'yes.'"
He shifts, pressing Minho back into the mattress, his body a warm, solid weight. He doesn't kiss him yet, just lets the heat of their closeness speak. His free hand comes up to cradle Minho's jaw, thumb stroking over the tense muscle there.
"I'm not made of glass, Hyung. I won't break if you touch me. But slowly I am starting to believe that I'll break if you don't." Jisung's voice drops, rough with need. "Stop asking. Start taking please. I gave you permission. I'm begging you to use it. And I promise you that I will tell you whenever I don’t want something."
He finally closes the distance, capturing Minho's mouth in a kiss that's all heat and promise. It's deeper than the one in the studio, hungry and wet, his tongue tracing the seam of Minho's lips until they part for him. He grinds down slowly, letting Minho feel the hard line of his arousal through their clothes, a physical, undeniable answer to every one of those anxious questions.
“And Hyung,” Jisung says, now looking down on Minho. “I promise you that I wont let you become someone who can hurt me! I will always be vocal about what I want and don’t want. Always give you my permission openly.”
Minho’s body goes still above him, the frantic energy of the kiss settling into a heavy, charged silence. The words hang in the air, a tangible promise that seems to finally shatter the last of Minho’s fragile restraint. A shudder runs through him, and when he pulls back to look at Jisung, his eyes are glistening, raw with a vulnerability that’s been locked away for weeks.
“You… you promise?” Minho’s voice is wrecked, a hoarse whisper. “You’ll tell me? You’ll stop me if I…”
Jisung reaches up, his thumb catching a tear that escapes Minho’s eye. His smirk softens into something infinitely tender, yet no less fierce.
“I swear on everything, Hyung. My mouth will say ‘yes’ or it will say no. Or ‘red.’ Or whatever. There is no in-between with you. You have to trust my voice the way I completely trust you with my body.”
Something fractures in Minho’s expression. The fear doesn’t vanish, but it’s suddenly overshadowed by a wave of desperate, aching want. A low sound escapes him, half-sob, half-sigh, and he crashes their mouths together again.
This kiss is different—it’s Minho initiating, Minho claiming, Minho pouring weeks of pent-up longing and relief into the slide of his tongue against Jisung’s. When he breaks for air, he’s breathing hard, his lips swollen.
“Happy,” Minho gasps against his mouth, the word warm and damp. “I’m so fucking happy to hear you say that.”
His hands, which had been gripping Jisung’s shoulders, slide down, one cupping the back of his thigh to hike his leg around Minho’s waist. The grind of their hips becomes intentional, a slow, deep roll that makes Jisung arch off the bed with a sharp moan, and the kiss deepens, turning frantic and wet. Minho’s hands, finally freed from their paralysis, come up to grip Jisung’s hips, pulling him down harder against his own desperate friction. The room fills with the sound of ragged breaths and the soft rustle of fabric.
Jisung’s head falls back, exposing the line of his throat. A breathy laugh escapes him, tinged with arousal. “You… you told me weeks ago,” he manages between ragged breaths, his fingers digging into Minho’s back. “You’ve been learning. About pain and pleasure.” He grinds up to meet Minho’s next roll, a deliberate, filthy slide. “You said you wanted to take me to the subspace again… didn’t you, Hyung?”
The question hangs, not as a challenge, but as a wicked invitation. Minho’s hips stutter to a halt, his entire body tensing. He looks up at Jisung, his gaze molten, pupils swallowing the warm brown of his irises. The last vestige of hesitation burns away, replaced by a dark, focused intensity.
“Yeah,” Minho breathes, the word a vow. His hand leaves Jisung’s thigh and comes up to wrap gently, yet firmly, around his throat. Not squeezing, just holding. A claiming weight. “I did. From the last time we did it. I’ve been thinking about nothing else. How quiet you get. How soft and far away your eyes go.” He leans down, his lips brushing Jisung’s ear. “I want to put you so deep under you forget your own name. I want to hear you come apart on my fingers, on my tongue, on my cock, until ‘Minho-hyung’ is the only prayer you remember.”
With one swift motion he turns them around. He releases Jisung’s throat, his hand smoothing down his chest, over his stomach, to the waistband of his sweats. His fingers hook there, not pushing yet, just resting. A promise of what’s to come.
“Do you trust me to take you there?”
Jisung’s breath hitches, the air punched from his lungs by the raw, unfiltered desire in Minho’s words. The possessive weight of his hand, the dark promise in his eyes—it’s everything he’s been craving. A full-body shiver wracks him, starting from where Minho’s fingers rest at his waistband and radiating outwards.
“Yes,” Jisung gasps, the word leaving him in a rush, no hesitation, no second thought. His own hands come up to frame Minho’s face, pulling him down for a searing, open-mouthed kiss that tastes like salt and promise. “Fuck, yes, Hyung. Do it. Take me there. I’m yours.”
He breaks the kiss, panting, his eyes blown black with need. He guides Minho’s hand, the one at his waistband, pushing it down insistently beneath the fabric. The first brush of Minho’s fingers against his bare, heated skin draws a sharp, broken moan from Jisung’s throat.
“No more questions,” Jisung whispers, his voice trembling not with fear, but with anticipation. “Just… show me what you learned. I trust you. I trust my voice. Now… trust your hands.”
Minho’s expression shifts, a sharp, predatory focus settling over his features. The last thread of doubt is gone, replaced by a calm, terrifying certainty. He doesn’t rush. He lets his fingers explore first, tracing the line of Jisung’s hip bone, the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, mapping the territory with a deliberate, almost clinical touch that makes Jisung squirm.
“You asked for this,” Minho murmurs, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble. He finally wraps his hand around Jisung’s length, already hard and leaking, and gives one slow, torturous stroke from root to tip. Jisung cries out, back bowing off the bed.
Minho watches his face, cataloging every fluttering eyelid, every bitten lip. He leans down, his breath hot against Jisung’s ear.
“The first rule,” Minho says, his grip tightening just a fraction—not enough to hurt, but enough to make Jisung’s breath stutter. “You don’t come until I say. You can beg. You can scream. But you hold it. Understand?”
He doesn’t wait for a verbal answer. His other hand comes up, fingers pressing against Jisung’s parted lips. Jisung’s tongue darts out instinctively, tasting salt, and Minho pushes two fingers into his mouth.
“Suck. Get them wet for me. This is where we start.”
Jisung’s eyes flutter shut, a low groan vibrating around the fingers in his mouth. He obeys without hesitation, his tongue swirling, sucking diligently, coating Minho’s digits with slick saliva. The submission is heady, a direct path to the quiet, floating place he craves. He can feel his own pulse pounding in his cock, still held in that firm, unforgiving grip.
Minho pulls his fingers free with a soft, wet pop. He brings them down, tracing a slick path over Jisung’s perineum, making him jolt. “Good,” Minho praises, the word a dark caress. “So good for me.”
He doesn’t breach him yet. Instead, he uses the wetness to circle the tight, clenched ring of muscle, applying a teasing, relentless pressure. Jisung’s hips jerk, a helpless little thrust into Minho’s stationary fist.
“Please…” Jisung whimpers, the word already slurred, his mind beginning to haze at the edges. “Hyung, please…”
“Please what?” Minho asks, his voice calm, almost conversational, as his finger continues its maddening circles. “Use your words, Jisung-ah. I need to hear what you want.”
“Inside,” Jisung gasps, his hands fisting in the sheets. “Your fingers… inside me. Now.”
Minho’s lips curl into a faint, approving smile. “Since you asked so nicely.”
Without further preamble, he presses the tip of one slick finger inside. It’s a slow, inexorable invasion, stretching the tight heat. Jisung’s entire body seizes, a sharp, punched-out gasp tearing from his throat. His head thrashes against the pillow.
“Breathe,” Minho commands, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of sensation. He works the finger in to the knuckle, then stills, letting Jisung adjust. His thumb rubs soothing circles on Jisung’s hip. “Just breathe through it. That’s it. Take it.”
He begins a slow, shallow rhythm, curling his finger just so on each retreat. Jisung’s moans turn long and ragged, his body slowly opening, welcoming the intrusion. The initial burn melts into a deep, throbbing fullness.
“There,” Minho murmurs, watching Jisung’s face intently. He adds a second finger alongside the first, the stretch more intense, breathtaking. Jisung cries out, back arching. “That’s the edge, baby. Right there. The sweet spot between pain and pleasure.” He scissors his fingers gently, stretching him wider. “You’re taking it so well. So perfect for me.”
He leans down, capturing Jisung’s mouth in a searing, possessive kiss, swallowing his whimpers. His fingers continue their relentless, rhythmic work, scissoring, curling, searching until—
Jisung screams into the kiss, his body bowing violently. Minho’s fingers have found his prostate, a direct, electric shock of pure pleasure. Minho breaks the kiss, panting.
“Found it,” he growls, his own control fraying at the edges. He presses against that bundle of nerves again.
Minho watches, utterly transfixed, as pleasure shatters across Jisung’s face. But beneath the physical intensity, something far deeper is healing in the space between them. For Minho, every gasp, every trusting arch of Jisung’s body is a balm on his own guilt. He isn’t seeing a victim anymore; he’s seeing his Jisung—vibrant, responsive, and whole, reclaiming his own desire with a ferocity that steals Minho’s breath. The fear that he’d break him evaporates, replaced by a profound, soaring gratitude. Jisung wasn’t just surviving this intimacy; he was reveling in it, demanding it, and that was the greatest gift Minho could have ever received.
For Jisung, the weight of Minho’s hands, the confident command in his voice, the lack of hesitant, pitying touches—it’s liberation. Minho isn’t treating him like glass about to fracture. He’s treating him like fire to be stoked, a puzzle of pleasure to be solved. The trauma, for this suspended moment, isn’t a shadow between them; it’s a conquered territory they’re moving beyond, together. The pain of the past is being overwritten, note by note, by the sharp, sweet symphony of Minho’s touch. His happiness is a sharp, bright thing in his chest, knowing he can still make Minho’s eyes darken with want, that he can still fall apart in his arms and be put back together, stronger.
Minho presses against that bundle of nerves again, a relentless, perfect pressure. “This is mine,” he rasps, his voice thick with emotion. “This sound you make. This look in your eyes. All of it.” He curls his fingers deep, and Jisung sobs, tears of joy and desire.
Minho slowly withdraws his fingers, the loss making Jisung whimper. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to Jisung’s trembling stomach before standing up. He walks to a drawer, his movements purposeful, and returns with a small, elegant box. Jisung watches, chest heaving, his body humming with unmet need.
“We’re going deeper,” Minho states, his voice calm but edged with a dark, thrilling promise. He opens the box, revealing a few pillar candles in rich, deep colors and a small bottle of oil. “We need new words. ‘Yes’ and ‘no’ aren’t enough for where I want to take you.” He sits on the edge of the bed, capturing Jisung’s gaze. “Green means go, more, perfect. Orange means slow down, check in, but I’m okay. Red means stop everything immediately. No questions. Do you understand?”
Jisung nods, his throat dry. The protocol feels safe, a latticework of trust they’re building together. Minho lights one of the candles, a deep burgundy, and holds it up. The flame dances in his dark eyes.
“The wax,” Minho explains, tilting the candle slightly, letting a single drop fall onto his own forearm. He doesn’t flinch. “It will burn, a sharp, bright pain that melts into a warm, spreading glow. It will mix with the pleasure. And I will bite you,” he continues, leaning close, his teeth grazing Jisung’s earlobe, making him shudder. “I will mark this perfect skin. And you will not come. You will hold onto that edge for me, through all of it, until I decide you can fall.”
He leans back, his expression utterly serious. “What is your color, Jisung-ah?”
Jisung’s breath hitches. The fear is a thin, bright thread, but it’s woven through with a desperate, aching want. He looks from the flame to Minho’s intense, loving eyes—eyes that see him, all of him, and aren’t afraid.
“Green,” Jisung whispers, the word solid and sure. “It’s green, Hyung.”
A slow, devastatingly tender smile spreads across Minho’s face. He leans in, kissing Jisung softly. “My brave, beautiful boy.”
He doesn’t start on his arm. He starts on the inside of Jisung’s thigh, high up near his hip. The first drop of hot wax lands. Jisung’s whole body jolts, a sharp gasp tearing from him. It’s a searing pinpoint of pain, intense and shocking. But as it cools and hardens, Minho’s lips are there, kissing the spot, his tongue soothing the sting. The contrast is dizzying. The next drops come in a slow, deliberate pattern down his thigh. Each one is a jolt of lightning, followed by the soft, grounding rain of Minho’s mouth. Jisung’s cries morph from pained yelps to long, shuddering moans. The pain isn’t separate from the pleasure anymore; it’s the same river, flowing through him, washing everything else away.
Minho watches him slip away, his eyes growing hazy and distant, his breathing evening out into deep, slow waves. Subspace. He’s there. Minho’s heart swells. He blows out the candle.
“What is your color?” He asks.
“G-Green.” Jisung moans out.
Minho reaches back into the box. Next comes a small, sleek violet wand. He doesn’t explain it with words. He turns it on, a low buzz filling the room, and touches the electrode to a patch of un-waxed skin on Jisung’s stomach. A violent, buzzing static crackle erupts over his nerves, a sensation completely alien and overwhelmingly intense. Jisung arches off the bed with a choked-off scream, his hands flying up only for Minho to catch one wrist, pinning it gently but firmly to the mattress.
“Shhh, ride it,” Minho coaxes, his voice a hypnotic murmur. He drags the buzzing tip in a slow, torturous line up Jisung’s sternum. Every nerve ending feels like it’s been lit up from the inside, a live wire of sensation that’s neither purely pain nor purely pleasure, but something transcendent and terrifyingly good. Jisung’s mind whites out. Thoughts are impossible. There is only the buzz, the heat of Minho’s body beside him, and the anchoring pressure on his wrist.
Minho switches it off, placing the wand aside. Jisung floats, boneless and pliant, his eyes seeing nothing and everything. Minho runs a reverent hand through his damp hair.
“So deep,” Minho whispers, awed. He retrieves one last thing from the box: a set of sleek, silver nipple clamps connected by a delicate chain. He attaches them with swift, precise movements. The initial bite of pressure makes Jisung gasp, a sharp, sweet pull that grounds him back into his body just a little. Every slight movement Minho makes sends a delicious tug through his chest.
“What color are you?” Minho asks again. To be sure. “G-g-green.”
Minho finally, finally sheds his own clothes, his arousal evident. He slicks himself up, his eyes never leaving Jisung’s blissed-out face. He hooks his hands under Jisung’s knees, pushing them back towards his chest, exposing him completely.
“Look at me,” Minho commands, his voice rough. Jisung’s hazy eyes slowly focus on his. “You’re going to take me now. And you’re still not going to come. Not until I’m buried so deep inside you that you forget your own name. Do you understand?”
Jisung can only manage a weak, desperate nod, his mouth forming a silent plea. The need is a physical ache, a hollow void that only Minho can fill. He’s so open, so ready, his body thrumming with the echoes of pain and the desperate craving for completion.
Minho lines himself up, the broad head of his cock pressing against Jisung’s stretched, fluttering entrance. He doesn’t push in. He just holds there, letting Jisung feel the immense pressure, the promise of being split open.
“Color, Jisung-ah,” Minho breathes, his own control hanging by a thread.
“Green,” Jisung sobs, the word ripped from the very core of him. “Green, green, please, Hyung, please—”
Minho sheathes himself in one long, relentless thrust.
The world dissolves.
Jisung’s scream is silent, his mouth open in a perfect ‘O’ of overwhelming sensation. He is full, so impossibly full, stretched to his absolute limit. The pain of the intrusion is sharp and bright, but it’s instantly, irrevocably fused with the most profound pleasure he’s ever known. Minho is everywhere—inside him, around him, his scent, his heat, his low, guttural groan vibrating through both their bodies.
Minho stills, buried to the hilt, his forehead dropping to Jisung’s shoulder. He’s shaking with the effort of holding back. “Fuck,” he grits out. “You feel… you feel like heaven made just for me.”
He begins to move.
It’s not a gentle rhythm. It’s claiming, punishing, reverent. Each deep, driving stroke brushes ruthlessly over Jisung’ prostate. Minho’s rhythm never falters, even as he enforces the brutal denial. The agony of being stopped right at the precipice mixes with the overwhelming fullness, creating a feedback loop of sensation that threatens to short-circuit Jisung’s mind. And then Minho’s mouth finds the juncture of his neck and shoulder.
He doesn’t just kiss it. He bites.
It’s a deep, claiming sink of teeth that makes Jisung shriek, his body bowing off the bed. The sharp, clean pain is a lightning strike, grounding him violently in the moment. Minho sucks at the mark, worrying the skin with his teeth before releasing it, leaving a throbbing, perfect imprint. He doesn’t pause. He moves to Jisung’s collarbone, biting again, then the swell of his pectoral, each bite a possessive brand, a punctuation mark to his relentless thrusts.
“Mine,” Minho snarls against his skin after a particularly deep bite on his nipple, just above the clamp. “Every mark. Every sound. Mine.”
Jisung is lost in a sea of sensation—the deep, splitting fullness, the sharp flares of pain from the bites, the sweet ache of the clamps, the unbearable pressure in his own cock where Minho’s hand still grips him like a vise. He’s sobbing openly, tears streaking his temples, completely at the mercy of the man worshiping and ruining his body.
Minho slows his thrusts to a deep, grinding roll, keeping Jisung impaled as he reaches once more for the box beside the bed. He pulls out a final item: a sleek, black silicone cock ring. Jisung watches through a haze of tears, understanding dawning. A fresh wave of desperate, submissive want crashes over him.
“This,” Minho says, his voice thick with lust, “is for you. To keep you right here, on this beautiful, desperate edge where I want you.” He releases his grip on Jisung’s cock, which is flushed an angry red and leaking steadily. The sudden absence of pressure is its own kind of torment. With practiced ease, Minho rolls the tight ring down the length of him, sealing it firmly at the base.
The effect is instantaneous and devastating.
Every pulse of blood, every twitch of need is now trapped, contained, the pressure building to an excruciating new level. Jisung lets out a guttural, broken sound. He feels impossibly full in every way—filled by Minho, bound by the ring, marked by his teeth, owned completely.
“There,” Minho purrs, leaning down to lick a stripe over a fresh bite mark on Jisung’s shoulder. “Now you really can’t come. Not until I say. Not until I’ve taken everything I need from you.”
He begins to move again, his thrusts regaining their punishing, deep cadence. Each one now sends a concentrated bolt of trapped, frantic pleasure straight to the ring, making Jisung jerk and keen. The bites come more frequently—on his hips, his inner thighs, the tender skin of his stomach. Each one is a sharp, bright star of pain in the dark, pleasurable universe Minho is building inside him. Jisung’s world has narrowed to this: the slam of Minho’s body into his, the bite of teeth, the cruel, wonderful constriction at his base, and Minho’s heavy, possessive gaze locked on his.
Minho’s own control is fraying. His movements become more erratic, his breaths coming in ragged pants against Jisung’s sweat-slicked skin. “You’re so perfect like this,” he grunts, sinking his teeth into the muscle of Jisung pectoral once more, a deep, savoring bite that draws a ragged scream from Jisung’s throat. “Taking everything I give you. My good boy. My perfect, ruined boy.”
The praise, filthy and tender, wraps around Jisung’s soul just as tightly as the cock ring binds his body. He is floating in subspace, a place of pure sensation and surrender, yet hyper-aware of every detail: the sting of each new bite mark blooming on his skin, the heavy drag of Minho inside him, the maddening, throbbing pressure in his own trapped cock. He’s a live wire of denied orgasm, strung taut and vibrating.
Minho’s thrusts become frantic, losing their measured rhythm. He’s chasing his own peak now, pistoning into Jisung with a raw, desperate hunger. He bites Jisung’s lower lip, not hard enough to break the skin but with enough force to claim his mouth, swallowing his choked-off cries.
“I’m close,” Minho gasps, the words hot against Jisung’s mouth. “You feel too good. I’m gonna fill you up. And then…” He grinds deep, hilting himself, his body trembling with the effort of holding back for just a moment longer. His eyes blaze into Jisung’s. “Then you’re going to come for me. You’re going to scream my name when I let you.”
He reaches down, his fingers finding the buckle of the cock ring. He doesn’t remove it yet. He just holds it, his other hand fisting in Jisung’s hair, keeping his head tilted back, forcing him to hold eye contact. “What’s your color, Jisung-ah? Tell me now.”
Minho’s question hangs in the air, thick with tension and promise. Jisung’s eyes, glazed and full of tears, swim as they focus on Minho’s intense gaze. His voice, when it comes, is a shattered, breathless whisper, raw with honesty from the depths of his subspace.
“Green… so green,” Jisung sobs, a fresh tear tracing a path through the sweat on his temple. “Hyung, I’m… I’m so gone. I don’t know where I end and you start. It’s… it’s so much. The bites, the ring, you inside me… I love it. I love it so much it scares me. I need it. I need you.”
The confession, so vulnerable and fervent, seems to unlock something even deeper in Minho. His stern expression melts into one of awe-struck, possessive adoration.
“That’s it,” he breathes, his voice dropping to a reverent, husky tone laced with praise. “That’s my perfect boy. Telling me exactly what you need. So honest for me. So good for me.” He punctuates each sweet, praising word with a sharp, claiming bite—on the curve of his jaw, the shell of his ear, the sensitive tendon of his neck.
He begins to move again, his thrusts deep and rolling, perfectly angled, each one a deliberate gift of pleasure. The words pour from him, a continuous, loving stream against Jisung’s skin.
“You take my pain so beautifully. You turn it into something so perfect. My brave, stunning Jisung-ah. My heart. You feel like heaven.” Bite “Every sound you make is a song for me.” Bite. “I love the way you fall apart on my cock. I love the marks I put on you.” Bite
Bite, deeper this time, on the swell of his shoulder, sucking a dark bruise into existence. The thrusts become more urgent, more possessive, driving the praise and the pain and the pleasure deeper with every syllable.
“I love you,” Minho gasps, the words raw and true, torn from a place beyond the game, beyond the scene. “I love you so fucking much. You are everything. My sanity and my madness. My perfect, perfect boy.”
The “I love yous,” mixed with the filthy praise and the animalistic claiming, shatter the last of Jisung’s defenses. He cries freely, overwhelmed by the emotional and physical onslaught. The cock ring is a distant, persistent ache, but it’s secondary now to the feeling of being so utterly seen, cherished, and devoured.
“Hyung… Minho… love you, love you, love—” Jisung chants between sobs, his body convulsing around Minho’s, his hips meeting every thrust in a desperate, clumsy rhythm of his own.
Minho’s movements become erratic, his own climax coiling tight. He releases the buckle of the cock ring, but doesn’t remove it yet. He simply holds it, his forehead pressed to Jisung’s, their panting breaths mingling. “Now, baby,” he whispers, his voice trembling with love and lust. “Come for me. Come with me. Let go.”
With a final, searing bite on Jisung’s lower lip and one last, deep, grounding thrust, Minho releases the ring.
The sudden, explosive release of pressure is cataclysmic.
Jisung’s world whites out. A broken, screaming sob is torn from his throat as his orgasm detonates, violent and endless, ripping through him with the force of a dam breaking. It’s not just a physical release; it’s an expulsion of every pent-up emotion—the fear, the longing, the submission, the overwhelming love. He arches off the bed, his body a taut bowstring, as stripes of hot release paint his stomach and chest in erratic bursts.
He is only dimly aware of Minho’s own climax—a guttural, possessive roar against his skin, the hot, pulsing flood deep inside him that seems to go on forever, mingling with the intense, internal spasms of his own pleasure. Minho’s thrusts stutter into a final, deep grind, burying himself as deeply as possible as he rides out his own release.
For long moments, there is only the sound of their ragged, heaving breaths and the wet, intimate sounds of their joined bodies. The air is thick with the scent of sex, sweat, and spent passion.
Minho, trembling with aftershocks, carefully collapses most of his weight beside Jisung, not wanting to crush him. He gathers Jisung’s boneless, trembling form against his chest, his arms wrapping around him in a tight, protective embrace. He presses soft, apologetic kisses over the fiercest bite marks—the one on his shoulder, his collarbone, his lip.
“Shhh, my love. I’ve got you. I’m here,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse but infinitely tender. His hands stroke up and down Jisung’s spine, soothing the tremors. “You were so good. So perfect. You did so well, Jisung-ah.”
Minho carefully, slowly, pulls out, a soft, shared gasp escaping them both at the sensation. He reaches for the soft, damp cloth he’d left in the warm water earlier, his movements gentle and focused. He cleans Jisung with a tenderness that contrasts starkly with the earlier ferocity, wiping away the evidence of their passion from his stomach and chest with slow, reverent strokes.
He then attends to the nipple clamps, his touch feather-light as he unbuckles them, massaging the tender, reddened flesh underneath to soothe the ache. Finally, he carefully removes the now-limp cock ring, discarding it to the side.
Once Jisung is clean, Minho pulls the rumpled sheets and duvet up over them both, creating a warm, soft cocoon. He gathers Jisung back into his arms, tucking the younger man’s head under his chin, his legs tangling with his. The room is quiet, save for their slowing breaths and the distant hum of the city at night.
He continues to stroke Jisung’s hair, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on his back over the new constellation of bite marks. He places a final, lingering kiss on his forehead.
“Stay right here,” Minho whispers, his voice a low, contented rumble in his chest. “Don’t even think about moving. You’re home.”
Time passes in a soft, hazy blur. Minho holds him until the violent shivers subside into occasional tremors, until Jisung’s breathing evens out against his neck. He doesn’t rush. He just holds, and breathes with him, grounding them both.
After a long while, Minho shifts, pressing one more kiss to his temple. “Stay put for ten seconds, love. I’m getting supplies.”
True to his word, he’s back in moments, the bed dipping as he returns. He has a large bottle of water with a straw, a small bowl of salted crackers, and the softest, heaviest weighted blanket from the closet.
“Small sips first,” Minho murmurs, holding the straw to Jisung’s lips. The cool water is a benediction on his raw throat. He guides Jisung through a few sips, then offers a cracker. The salty, simple taste is grounding, helping to steady his system. Minho watches him intently, his eyes soft.
Once Jisung has had a little of both, Minho drapes the weighted blanket over him, tucking it around his shoulders. The deep, comforting pressure is instant, a safe, solid hug that seems to sink into his very bones.
“Good. That’s so good,” Minho praises softly. He runs a hand over the blanket, smoothing it. “Now, let’s get you clean. A quick shower, just to wash off the sweat. I’ll do all the work. You just float.”
Minho scoops Jisung up, blanket and all, carrying him the short distance to the ensuite bathroom. The lights are dimmed. The shower is already running, steam beginning to fog the glass. He sets Jisung down on the closed toilet lid, wrapped in the blanket, and tests the water temperature with his hand.
He then gently helps Jisung out of the blanket and guides his unsteady legs into the warm spray. Minho steps in behind him, pulling the glass door shut. The steam envelops them, warm and soothing.
True to his word, Minho does all the work. He guides Jisung under the water, letting it cascade over his head and shoulders. He reaches for a bottle of Jisung’s favorite sandalwood body wash, pouring a generous amount into his palms.
His hands are infinitely gentle as they glide over Jisung’s skin, lathering the soap. He washes every inch, his touch firm enough to be cleansing but soft enough to be a caress. He pays special, careful attention to the bite marks, washing over them with a tenderness that feels like an apology and a reaffirmation all at once. His hands slide over Jisung’s back, his stomach, his thighs, rinsing away all traces of their scene.
“Lean back for me, baby,” Minho whispers, his voice soft in the humid air. He guides Jisung’s head back under the spray, thoroughly wetting his hair. He pumps a dollop of Jisung’s citrus-scented shampoo into his hand.
His fingers begin to massage Jisung’s scalp, working the shampoo into a rich lather. The pressure is perfect—firm, circular motions that ease the last of the tension from Jisung’s body. Minho’s thumbs press into the base of his skull, eliciting a soft, involuntary sigh of pure relief from Jisung. He takes his time, washing every strand, his fingers carding through the suds with a rhythmic, hypnotic care. It’s an act of worship.
He rinses the shampoo out with the same patience, using his hand to shield Jisung’s eyes from the water. He follows with conditioner.
Minho’s fingers are still working the conditioner through the ends of his hair, a slow, soothing rhythm, when Jisung’s voice, small and a bit rough but clear, cuts through the sound of the water.
“Hyung?” Jisung murmurs, leaning his head back against Minho’s shoulder.
“Hmm?” Minho hums, his hands never stopping their gentle ministrations.
“That was… fuck.” Jisung lets out a shaky breath, a little laugh mixed with a sigh. “I know I say this every time. I know it’s, like, my thing. But I mean it. Every single time. That was… the best. The best ever. My brain is just… static and bliss. I feel like I got rebooted.”
He turns his head slightly, nuzzling into the side of Minho’s neck. “And I know I’ll say it again next time. And it’ll be true again. Because it just… it keeps getting better. With you. It just does.”
Minho’s hands still for a moment. He presses a long, soft kiss to Jisung’s wet temple, his heart feeling too big for his chest. He resumes rinsing the conditioner, his touch somehow even more tender.
“I know you mean it every time,” Minho says, his voice thick with emotion. “Because I feel it too. Every time. It’s deeper. It’s more. You give me more of yourself every time, and it’s the greatest gift.” He turns Jisung gently under the spray to rinse his back. “And your orgasms are my favorite thing in the world to witness. Every single one is a masterpiece.”
The shower is turned off. Minho wraps Jisung in a large, fluffy towel, drying him with the same meticulous care he washed him with. He dries himself quickly before leading Jisung back to the bedroom. The weighted blanket is waiting, and Minho pulls back the fresh sheets, guiding Jisung into bed before climbing in beside him. He pulls the blanket over them both and gathers Jisung close, their bodies fitting together perfectly in the dark.
For a while, they just breathe together in the quiet. The city’s distant hum is a soft lullaby. Jisung’s fingers trace idle patterns on Minho’s chest.
“Hyung?” Jisung’s voice is quiet, but clear in the stillness.
“I’m listening, love.”
Jisung takes a deep breath, the words he’s been holding finally finding their way out. “That guy… the asshole…Woosook. What he did. It wasn’t just the hitting, and the spit. It was… the way he looked at me and talked about me. Like I was nothing. Less than nothing. Something to be used and thrown away. And that day… when he spit on me.” Jisung’s voice hitches, but he pushes on. “It felt like he was erasing me again. Like he was saying I wasn’t even worth the ground he walked on. That’s why I shut down. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t eat. I just… disappeared for a while.”
Minho’s arms tighten around him, a silent anchor. He doesn’t interrupt, just lets the words flow. His own heart skipped a beat. That’s the first time Jisung tells him directly about what happened, even though he already knows everything. The first time Jisung tells him about Woosook in general.
“Therapy… it’s helping. A lot. And knowing he’s in prison, that he can’t hurt anyone else… that helps too. I feel grounded now. With you, especially. But I was so scared. Scared that if I… if we had sex, if I enjoyed it, that-“
Minho’s hand finds Jisung’s, lacing their fingers together tightly. He waits, giving him all the time he needs.
“I was scared,” Jisung continues, his voice a fragile whisper against Minho’s skin, “that if I enjoyed it, if I wanted it… that it meant what he did didn’t matter. That I was… minimizing it. Letting him win by just moving on. My therapist, she helped me see it’s not like that. That taking my pleasure back, on my terms, with someone I trust… that’s the opposite of minimizing. That’s reclaiming. It’s mine again.”
He shifts to look up at Minho, his eyes glistening in the dim light. “And I know you were scared too. I could feel it. You were so careful. You didn’t want to initiate anything, didn’t want to push, because you were terrified of hurting me. Of being like him even for a second.”
A tear escapes, tracing a path down his temple into his hairline. “Minho-yah. You have to trust me. Trust that I will tell you. If I want something, if I don’t want something, if I need to stop… I will say it. I promise. And you have to trust yourself. Trust that you are nothing like him. That you could never, ever be. You love me. You cherish me. What we do together… it comes from that. It’s safe because it’s with you. You don’t have to be afraid of hurting me, because I trust you with every broken piece of me. You’re the one putting them back together.”
Minho’s breath catches. He pulls Jisung impossibly closer, burying his face in his damp hair. His own tears dampen the strands.
They hold each other through the storm of tears, the confession hanging in the air between them, raw and real. The silence that follows is not empty, but filled with the profound understanding that only comes from sharing a deep, painful truth.
“I’m so sorry,” Jisung whispers after a while, his voice thick. “For shutting down. For shutting you out. I know it hurt you. I could see it in your eyes every day, and it killed me. I was drowning and I couldn’t… I couldn’t reach for the hand you were holding out. Thank you. Thank you for staying. For not giving up on me even when I was just… gone.”
Minho’s chest heaves with a shuddering breath. “Don’t you ever apologize for that. Don’t. You were surviving the only way you knew how.” He pulls back just enough to cup Jisung’s face, his thumbs wiping away the tears. “But you’re right. It did hurt. It scared me more than anything ever has. Seeing you like a ghost. And I was so… so fucking mad at myself. I promised myself, Jisung-ah. Months ago, when we were just friends and I heard about the bruises you tried to hide, I swore to myself I would never let that bastard touch you again. And he did. He hurt you right in front of me, and I couldn’t stop it fast enough.”
His own tears fall freely now, his voice breaking. “I knew from the moment I saw you that it was him. I thought about it. Every night while you weren’t eating, while you weren’t talking. I thought about marching to his house and… ending him. The only thing that stopped me was knowing you’d be alone. That you’d need me here.”
Jisung shakes his head, pressing their foreheads together, sharing the same breath, the same salt of their tears.
“I’m so grateful things turned out the way they did,” he whispers fervently. “Because of you, I still have my job. My friends. My life. Because of you and the others, he’s in prison. You didn’t fail, Minho. You saved me. You’re still saving me, every single day.”
He takes a shaky breath, his hands coming up to frame Minho’s face. “I’m not… I’m not a hundred percent yet. I might not be for a long time. But I’m trying. I’m giving it my absolute best, every day, because I want to be here. Before you I didn’t had the motivation. The will. I only thought about therapy when I hurt you in the studio. And now, I want to be a good boyfriend for you. I want to be happy with you. So I will give my best to survive. Every single day.”
Minho lets out a sound that’s half sob, half laugh, and pulls Jisung into a crushing embrace. “You are. God, Sungie, you are. You don’t have to be a hundred percent. You just have to be you. I will love you at ten percent, at fifty, at a hundred. I will love you through all of it. Always.”
They cling to each other, crying until there are no tears left, until the emotional purge leaves them both hollowed out but clean, lighter.
After a long, quiet moment, Jisung nuzzles into his neck. “Maybe… maybe we could go? To therapy? Together, I mean. Just a few sessions. To work on… this. On the communication around it. So you know I’m really okay, and I know you’re really okay.”
Minho doesn’t hesitate. He presses a firm, loving kiss to Jisung’s lips. “Yes. Anything. We’ll do it together.”
Exhaustion, emotional and physical, finally settles over them like a second, softer blanket. The tears have dried, leaving their skin cool and their hearts tender but strangely peaceful. Minho shifts them gently, arranging the pillows and pulling the weighted blanket up to their chins. He keeps Jisung wrapped securely in his arms, their legs tangled together.
In the profound quiet, Jisung’s breathing slowly deepens, syncing with Minho’s. The last of the tension melts from his body, leaving him boneless and safe. Minho watches his eyelids grow heavy, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks.
“Sleep, my love,” Minho murmurs, his voice a low, soothing rumble in the dark. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
Jisung makes a soft, contented sound, nuzzling closer. “Love you, Hyung,” he slurs, already halfway to dreams.
“I love you more, Jisung-ah,” Minho whispers back, pressing one final, lingering kiss to his forehead.
Minho stays awake a little longer, just watching him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest. The fear, the anger, the helplessness of the past weeks finally begin to recede, replaced by a fierce, protective warmth and a hard-won hope. He knows the road isn’t over. There will be bad days. But they will face them together. With that final, grounding thought, Minho allows his own eyes to close, holding his whole world safely against his heart as they both drift into a deep, healing, and happy sleep.
And the next morning, Minho wakes up before Jisung. And he prepares breakfast. Topless. Some things will never change. And Jisung never wants them to change.
Chapter 23: "Hyung is dating Hyung"
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “Half Moon” – DEAN
"Nothing's really different
It's the same air, it's the same bed
Looking at the same ceiling
So why do I feel so empty for no reason at all?
I've been spacing out for a few hours, yeah
They say the moon rises even on nights without you
But I can't see it, it's overshadowed by the thought of you, yeah
Just like how you can't make a decision when your mind is confused
I can't do this, because you're the only one for me
I keep going back to those times
On the place where you were, I can see the night sky
That half moon looks just like me right now"
----------------
There are some things Hyunjin didn’t tell Jisung.
Like how the "few weeks" of no sex had quietly bled into over a month. And how it wasn't really about the sex, not at its core. It was about the foundation of their relationship shifting beneath his feet, and him feeling utterly unbalanced.
For so long, their dance had a clear rhythm: Changbin, relentless and warm in his pursuit; Hyunjin, the beautiful, elusive prize who would eventually melt, granting Changbin everything with a breathless surrender. No really, he gave Changbin everything. Emotionally and physically.
But the whole dynamic just was like that. It was a game they both loved, a dynamic that crackled with certainty. From the moment Changbin stepped in the danceroom and saw Hyunjin for the first time, the first thing he ever said to him was “I swear I will marry you,”. But these days… Changbin wasn't chasing. He was just… gone. Absorbed into a vortex of other people's crises. Far away from Hyunjin.
Hyunjin loved him for it. Loved how caring he is. Loved how much he loved. God, he loved him. He loved the boundless, fierce way Changbin cared. It was the most beautiful thing about him. Honestly. . But it was also kind of fucking hard. Because Changbin did not only love Hyunjin and care for Hyunjin like that. This care wasn't a private stream for Hyunjin alone; it was a river that flooded out to everyone.
When Seungmin and Jeongin had their blow-out fight, it wasn't Seungmin who ended up on the dorm couch, like everyone thought. No, Changbin had given Seungmin his own room, his own bed, and taken the couch himself. A beautiful, selfless gesture. It also meant another night of Hyunjin alone in his bed, missing the weight of Changbin's arm thrown over his waist. It meant no more intimacy for Hyunjin and Changbin. No more cuddles or good night kisses.
Not only that, but he also went out with Jeongin every other night. At first, Jeongin didn’t even let him in. And instead of giving up, Changbin slept outside of his dorm door. In the cold hallway on the floor. Just so Jeongin doesn’t feel alone and cut out from their friend group.
When Chan was wrestling with the ghosts of his past and his sexuality, it was Changbin behind the wheel, driving him in the dead of the night, for hours just to give their friend a moving, anonymous space to breathe a little.
At the same time, he was the one with the daily check-in calls to Felix, the steady voice asking him how he is dealing with everything.
He’d even used his own family connections—wielding what he self-deprecatingly called his "nepo-baby privileges"—to secure crucial opportunities for Jisung and Chan.
And when things went…how they went with Jisung’s situation, Changbin internalized the blame entirely. He felt like it was his fault for getting Jisung this job without checking all the workers in the JYP building. He stopped sleeping. He picked at his food. He carried that guilt like a stone in his chest, and told no one. Hyunjin knew.
Hyunjin saw it all. He collected these sacrifices like bruises, each one a testament to Changbin’s beautiful, exhausting heart. He was so proud, and so in love with this amazing man and he was, so… lonely.
And now, Mr. Seo, Changbin’s dad entered a battle field fighting against JYP-Entertainment in front of the court because a video was posted of another scandal Woosook was involved in. And JYP-Entertainment sued Changbin’s dad for posting it even though he didn’t.
They sued him because Mr. Seo knew the dad of the woman and Changbin was vocal about her sucide being mysterious and out of character . He knew her from childhood. But he didn’t know that it has anything to do with woosook. And his dad definitely didn’t post the video. So he sued them back for defemation and wrongful lawsuit. But this is a striggle the Seo’s are fighting alone. Hyunjin had to promise to never tell the friend. But now here they are.
The dynamic had inverted. Now, Hyunjin was the one waiting, hoping for a glance, a touch, a moment that belonged just to them. And the silence between them wasn’t peaceful; it was filled with the echoes of everyone else’s needs being met.
Hyunjin is sleeping at a friend’s house because Minho wanted the dorm for him and Jisung. And Changbin is at his parents’ house helping out. While everyone thought Hyunjin was sleeping at Changbins.
He turned his face fully into the foreign pillow, the fabric growing damp. He missed the chase. He missed being the priority. He missed his boyfriend.
The dam broke not with a sob, but with a choked, silent gasp for air. Hyunjin pushed himself up, sitting on the edge of the unfamiliar bed, his head in his hands. The tears came freely now, hot and shameful. It wasn't just missing sex. It was missing the look in Changbin's eyes when he'd finally catch him—that mix of triumph and worship. It was missing the stupid, private jokes whispered in the dark. It was missing the feeling of being first in someone's world.
His own need felt ugly in the face of Changbin's saintly sacrifices. How could he complain about a lack of cuddles when Changbin was sleeping on a hallway floor for Jeongin? How could he ache for intimacy when Changbin's father was fighting a multi-billion won corporation? The guilt twisted with the loneliness, a vicious knot in his stomach.
He reached for his phone, his thumb hovering over Changbin's name in his favorites. The promise of silence warred with a desperate, clawing need for connection. He didn't type a message. Instead, he opened their photo album, scrolling back through months—pictures of Changbin looking at him, smiles that were for Hyunjin alone, sleepy selfies in their shared bed. The evidence of what they were, what they had been.
A fresh wave of pain hit him, sharper than before. It was the fear that this wasn't just a difficult phase. What if this was the new rhythm? What if Changbin's beautiful, expansive heart had finally found its true calling in being everyone's rock, and there was simply no room left for Hyunjin.
--
Some days later, the universe offered a small, fragile piece of normalcy. All eight of them were packed around their usual table at the coffee shop, the air thick with the scent of espresso and whatever new drink Minho decided to try.
They were discussing, or better, debating, once again.
“Dance majors destroy their bodies,” Minho insisted, leaning back in his chair with dramatic confidence. “You guys just stand there and sing.”
Jeongin scoffed loudly, nearly sloshing his drink. “Just stand there? Have you ever tried singing properly for three hours straight? Vocal cords are muscles too, you know.” Jeongin, the only acting major, was defending the musicians, specifically the vocalists.
“Barely,” Minho shot back.
Chan laughed under his breath, stirring his coffee. Changbin was already gearing up to escalate the debate, hands flying, while Hyunjin had a straw pinched between his fingers, clearly ready to weaponize it if Chan opened his mouth one more time about composition majors suffering the most.
In the middle of their chaos Chan stood up. Hyunjin was ready to throw the straw at him. But instead, Felix also stood up. That stopped everything.
The scraping of chairs echoed too loudly. Conversations at nearby tables blurred into background noise. Chan and Felix glanced at each other, both grinning in that unmistakable, barely-contained way—like kids who had been keeping a secret for too long and were seconds away from bursting.
Chan cleared his throat, suddenly nervous. “Okay, um—” He gestured vaguely at the table. “Since we all survived the last few weeks…”
That alone made the air shift. Everyone stilled, instinctively bracing, old tension flickering in their spines.
Felix didn’t wait.
“WE’RE FINALLY OFFICIAL!” he yelled, voice cracking slightly with excitement and zero restraint.
The words detonated.
The others looked at them smiled, and went back to their debate as if nothing has happened, Minho already reopening his mouth to argue his point, Changbin picking up right where he left off mid-sentence. Felix’s mouth open in shock at the disrespect and lack of reaction, his head swiveling from face to face as if he’d missed something crucial.
“Guys?” HE whinned mad, hands flailing in disbelief.
“Do we need to act surprised or something?” Seungmin asked, completely deadpan, sipping his drink like this was the most expected development of the year.
Felix stared at him, scandalized. “YES? You’re supposed to act surprised. Happy. Shocked. Something.”
Changbin finally looked up, squinting at them. “Felix,” he said slowly, like he was choosing his words carefully, “you two were painfully obvious.”
Chan blinked. “We were?”
Minho laughed,. “You didn’t even try to hide it.”
Jeongin nodded. “Yeah. We didn’t even make bets about it.”
Felix frowned. “Why not?”
“Because it didn’t make sense,” Hyunjin said, already grinning. “We all thought the same thing. Betting would’ve been pointless.”
Chan’s ears turned red. “You all knew?”
“Hyung,” Changbin said, incredulous, “Half of the things in your room are Felix’s belongings that he “forgot in school and you took it for him””
“And you literally wear Chan’s hoodies every other,” Minho added.
Felix whipped around, eyes wide, pointing at Jisung. “You didn’t know, right?”
Jisung looked up from his drink, completely calm.
“Chan was your background picture on every electronic you own,” he said flatly. “Phone. Laptop. Tablet. Even your old MP3 player. I hoped you were together. Otherwise I would’ve been scared to death for Hyung.”
Felix’s jaw dropped. “YOU KNEW?”
Jisung shrugged.
Hyunjin lost it. He leaned back in his chair, laughing so hard he had to grab the table to stay upright.
“Oh my God,” Chan muttered, covering his face.
Felix groaned dramatically, collapsing back into his chair. “I thought we were being subtle.”
“You held hands under the table,” Seungmin said. “At group dinners. What is subtle about this?”
There was a beat. Chan and Felix looking lost at eachother.
Then Changbin stood up and pulled Felix into a rough hug. “Congrats, idiots.”
Jeongin followed, smiling as he leaned over the table. “Really. We’re happy for you.”
Seungmin lifted his cup in a small salute. “About time.”
Hyunjin grinned at them both, eyes soft despite the teasing. “Took you long enough.”
Chan finally looked up, smiling shy but genuine. Felix’s grin returned, brighter now. And they all laughed.
In the aftermath, Jeongin, ever the agent of playful chaos, grinned. "You know what this means, right? The couple shuffle is complete. You can finally optimize." He grabbed a napkin, pretending it was a blueprint.
"Hyunjin and Minho live together. Hyunjin is dating Changbin-Hyung. Minho-Hyung is dating Jisung-Hyung, who lives with Felix-Hyung, who is dating Chan-Hyung, who lives with Changbin-Hyung, who is dating Hyunjin. It's a perfect circle."
Laughter erupted, but it was a productive, giddy kind. They leaned in, a tangle of arms and voices, mapping out a real schedule on a proper notepad. It was ridiculous and practical all at once. After a spirited debate, a solution emerged: Thursdays and Fridays, Minho and Jisung would claim Minho's dorm they already had their routine. So the others agreed on also swapping these days.
Which meant, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Hyunjin and Changbin would have two guaranteed, uninterrupted nights to themselves in Changbin's room. A designated space for "them" in the middle of the whirlwind.
A fragile, hopeful warmth bloomed in Hyunjin's chest. His gaze, almost against his will, sought out Changbin across the table. And there it was—Changbin was already looking back at him. Not at the napkin map, not at Chan and Felix who were glowing with new-couple radiance, but directly at Hyunjin.
Changbin’s eyes held a complexity that stole Hyunjin’s breath. There was the familiar, warm affection, yes. But beneath it, swimming in those dark depths, was a profound exhaustion, a deep-seated worry that hadn’t been there before. And something else… a sharp, focused intensity. It wasn’t the diffuse, caring look he gave everyone. This was a laser point, directed at Hyunjin.
Hyunjin’s heart hammered against his ribs. The hope in his chest twisted, becoming something more urgent, more desperate. Did Changbin miss him too? Or was he just looking at another person on his long list of people to care for?
Changbin didn’t smile. He just held the look for a beat longer, then gave the smallest, almost imperceptible nod. It was a promise. A confirmation. Before Hyunjin could even process it, Changbin’s attention was pulled away by Seungmin asking a question about the exercise in the book, his public mask of easygoing concern sliding back into place.
But the look was branded onto Hyunjin’s soul. He spent the rest of the meeting in a daze, the voices around him fading to a buzz. All he could think about was Thursday. The silent room. The closed door. And the terrifying, exhilarating question of what would happen when they were finally, truly, alone.
--
The two days until Thursday stretched before Hyunjin like a vast, arid desert. Every minute in his own dorm with Minho felt charged with a secret anticipation. He caught himself staring at the clock, his mind perpetually in Changbin's room—imagining the quiet, the dim light from the streetlamp outside his window, the particular dip in the mattress on Changbin's side of the bed.
He was a bundle of raw nerves. Part of him was terrified. What if the dynamic was broken beyond repair? What if the silence between them had grown too thick? What if Changbin was so drained from being everyone's pillar that he had nothing left to give, and their two nights would be spent with Changbin asleep by 8 PM, back turned?
But that look… that look in the coffee shop fed a different, wilder hope. It hinted at a hunger that matched his own, a need that had been buried under duty and guilt.
Thursday evening finally bled into the dorm. Minho, with a knowing, almost sympathetic smirk that Hyunjin chose to ignore, looked at him while he packed a small bag and left with a quiet. "Have fun, don't do anything I wouldn't do." Minho screamed after him but the door already clicked shut.
--
Hyunjin stood in front of the dorm of his boyfriend. Suddenly paralyzed. He had dreamed of this for weeks. Now that it was here, he didn't know what to do. Should he go to Changbin's room? Wait here? Text him? It was weird. So weird. And the fact that it was weird, was weird by itself because it was never weird with Changbin. They were never weird. They were always just Hyunjin and Changbin. Changbin and Hyunjin. Always lovey dovey. Always bickering. Never weird.
He knocked once.
Never weird.
The soft click of the lock was the only sound in the heavy quiet of the dorm. Hyunjin froze, his breath catching in his throat. The door swung open slowly.
Changbin stood in the doorway, backlit by the dim hallway light. The moment Hyunjin saw him, he started panicking. For no good reason.
Weird weird weird.
Changbin didn't say hello. He didn't smile. He just let Hyunjin step inside, letting the door fall shut behind him with a final, quiet thud that seemed to seal them in. Alone. In the dorm. Alone with Changbin. His boyfriend. Why is it so weird? The air in the room changed, growing thick and charged.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other across the space. The cheerful map-making from the coffee shop felt like a distant memory. This was the raw, unmediated truth of their time separated from eachother. All the time they spent apart. All the times Changbin cancelled last minute and Hyunjin acted like he is okay with it. All the responsibilities Changbin was carrying and Hyunjin tried to be strong for him. Standing for him. Alone.
They just looked at each other. Hyunjin should be happy. Happy to finally have his boyfriend alone for himself. Or mad. Mad that he cancelles so often on him. He should be screaming. Hitting him. Or sad. Sad that they didn’t see each other. He should be crying. But Hyunjin was silent. He felt…empty?
"I'm sorry," Changbin said finally, his voice a low, rough scrape.
Hyunjin's carefully constructed composure, his quiet acceptance, shattered at those two words. The empty feeling was gone. Instead, he felt everything at the same time. He was mad, sad, happy, he felt everything at the same time. A small, wounded sound escaped him before he could stop it.
Changbin was across the room in three swift strides. He stopped just inches away, his hands coming up to frame Hyunjin's face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had begun to fall without Hyunjin even realizing he was crying. His touch was firm, almost desperate.
“I am sorry!” He repeated.
His thumbs continued their gentle, insistent sweep over Hyunjin's cheekbones, wiping away the evidence of a loneliness he'd caused. His own eyes were glistening, the weight of the past month clear in their depths.
"It felt like every time I solved one problem, two more caught fire," Changbin continued, his forehead leaning forward until it rested against Hyunjin's. The contact was electric. "I felt like I have to solve the problems of our hurting friends because… I felt so… responsible. And the one thing I wanted, felt like the one thing I didn't deserve to have. This is not an excuse."
He pulled back just enough to look into Hyunjin's eyes again, his own blazing with a painful sincerity. "I missed you until it felt like a sickness. I'd lie on that fucking couch and all I could think about was the way you smell. The way you look like right before you fall asleep. I'd be driving Chan around and wish it was you in the passenger seat, just so I could hold your hand. I missed our little banters Jinnie. I missed everything. And I know it’s my fault that we had to miss all of this. I know. And I am sorry."
His hands slid from Hyunjin's face, down his arms, coming to rest at his waist, pulling him closer until their bodies were aligned. There was no space left for doubt, no room for the ghosts of other people.
"You have no idea," Changbin breathed out, the words trembling slightly, "how fucking hard it's been to stay away from you?"
The confession hit Hyunjin like a physical blow, stealing the air from his lungs. Changbin wasn't indifferent. He still wanted him. He missed him too. He wasn’t away because of Hyunjin. He wanted to be with Hyunjin. He wasn't losing feelings.
Hyunjin couldn’t talk. All he could do was cry. Cry the sadness, madness and happiness away. With each tear that fell, he felt…more.
"I'm so tired of being strong for everyone else," Changbin whispered, his hair’s breadth from Hyunjin’s lips. "I just want to be weak with you. I want to see you every day. I want to hold you every day. I only want you." The raw need in his voice, the vulnerability he was offering.
Hyunjin didn't answer with words. The dam holding back weeks of longing finally burst. He surged forward, closing the minuscule distance between their lips in a kiss that was less an act of passion and more a scream of his desperation.
The kiss was messy, fueled by tears, salt and the shared sorrow. Hyunjin's hands fisted in the fabric of Changbin's jacket, pulling him impossibly closer, as if he could fuse them together through sheer force of will. Changbin responded with a guttural sound, his arms wrapping around Hyunjin's waist, lifting him slightly off the ground to deepen the kiss, to erase any last shred of distance.
This wasn't the playful, teasing intimacy they were used to. This was…different. A silent screaming match of lips and tongue and teeth, where every nip, every gasp, every shuddering breath spoke volumes.
When they finally broke apart for air, foreheads resting together, both were breathing raggedly. Hyunjin's vision was blurred, his entire body humming.
"Bedroom," Hyunjin rasped, the command leaving no room for argument. "Now."
Changbin didn't say anything. Keeping one arm firmly around Hyunjin, he began walking them backward, guiding them through the familiar path to his room. The journey was a clumsy, connected stumble, their mouths finding each other again in the dark hallway, kisses landing on lips, jaws, throats—any patch of skin they could reach.
Changbin shouldered his bedroom door open, and they spilled inside. He kicked it shut with his foot. In the familiar darkness, lit only by the city glow through the blinds, he finally stopped moving them. He looked at Hyunjin, his chest heaving.
"Tell me what you need," Changbin said, his voice raw. "Anything.”
Hyunjin’s answer was a raw, unfiltered truth, torn from the deepest, most neglected part of his heart.
“I need to not feel like I’m last on the list, not anymore,” Hyunjin gasped out, the words ragged. “And tonight, I need you to forget everyone else exists. Just for tonight. I need… I need you to ruin me. I need to feel it for days. I need to remember what it’s like to be yours again.”
The plea hung in the dark air between them, vulnerable and demanding all at once.
A shudder ran through Changbin’s frame. The last vestiges of his careful control, the persona of the responsible Hyung, shattered. His eyes darkened, the exhaustion morphing into something predatory, singularly focused.
“Okay,” he breathed, the word a low promise. “Okay. But, we talk after that?”
Hyunjin nodded. “After. Right now, I don’t want to talk.”
“Okay,” Changbin repeated.
In one fluid, powerful motion, he spun Hyunjin around and pushed him face-first against the nearest wall. The cool surface was a shock against Hyunjin’s feverish skin. Changbin’s body pressed against his back, hard and unyielding, pinning him in place.
“You want to be mine?” Changbin’s voice was a hot whisper against the shell of Hyunjin’s ear, his breath sending shivers down his spine. One hand splayed possessively across Hyunjin’s stomach, holding him flush to the wall, while the other came up to tangle roughly in his hair, tilting his head to the side. “Then you get all of me. Especially, the part that’s been going insane wanting you.”
He didn’t kiss him. Instead, he dragged his teeth down the exposed column of Hyunjin’s throat, a sharp, claiming bite that made Hyunjin cry out, his knees buckling. Changbin held him upright, his body a solid, unbreakable cage. The bite on his neck throbbed, a perfect, painful brand.
"Tell me you want it," Changbin growled, his voice thick with a need that mirrored Hyunjin's own desperation. His hand on Hyunjin's stomach slid lower, palming him roughly through his jeans, finding him already hard and straining. A low, approving hum vibrated against Hyunjin's back. "Tell me you want me to take you apart against this wall."
"Yes," Hyunjin choked out, pushing his hips back into that demanding touch. "God, yes, Binnie. Please."
That was all the permission Changbin needed. His hands were suddenly everywhere, frantic and efficient. He spun Hyunjin back around, his mouth crashing down on his again in a searing kiss as his fingers worked open the button and zipper of Hyunjin's jeans, shoving them and his boxers down his thighs in one rough motion. The cool air was a shock, followed immediately by the scorching heat of Changbin's hand wrapping around his length, stroking him with a firm, knowing grip that had Hyunjin seeing stars.
"Fuck," Hyunjin gasped into his mouth, his head falling back against the wall. "Don't stop."
"I'm not planning on it," Changbin muttered, his own breathing ragged. He broke the kiss, dropping to his knees right there on the floor. The sight alone—Changbin on his knees before him, eyes blazing up at him in the dim light—was almost enough to push Hyunjin over the edge.
Changbin didn't tease. He took him into his mouth in one deep, wet slide, his tongue flattening against the sensitive underside. Hyunjin cried out, his hands flying to tangle in Changbin's hair, not to guide, just to hold on as his world narrowed the searing heat, the overwhelming suction, the obscene, wet sounds filling the quiet room. Changbin worked him with a fervent, almost punishing intensity, as if trying to make up for every lost second with his mouth alone.
Hyunjin’s hips jerked involuntarily, a broken litany of curses and Changbin’s name falling from his lips. The coil of pleasure in his gut wound tighter and tighter, a white-hot wire about to snap. He was so close, teetering on the edge after weeks of nothing but his own hand and hollow memories.
“B-Binnie, I’m gonna—” he warned, his voice strangled, fingers tightening in Changbin’s hair. But Changbin didn’t pull away. He looked up, his eyes meeting Hyunjin’s, dark and challenging, and took him even deeper, swallowing around him. The visual, the sensation—it was too much. Hyunjin’s back arched off the wall as he came with a shattered cry, his release pulsing down Changbin’s throat.
Changbin took it all, swallowing every drop before slowly, deliberately, pulling off. He stayed on his knees for a moment, catching his breath, watching Hyunjin slump bonelessly against the wall, chest heaving. Then he surged to his feet, his own need painfully evident in the tight strain of his jeans.
He didn’t give Hyunjin a moment to recover. He grabbed him by the hips and hauled him the few steps to the bed, pushing him down onto his back. Hyunjin went willingly, his body pliant and buzzing with aftershocks.
Changbin stripped his own clothes off with frantic haste, his eyes never leaving Hyunjin’s prone form. When he was finally naked, he crawled over him, caging him in. He reached for the lube in his nightstand drawer, his movements hurried.
“Look at me” He fumbled with the cap, his hands uncharacteristically clumsy. The urgency was a living thing between them. He slicked his fingers, his gaze locked on Hyunjin's flushed face.
"Look at me," Changbin repeated, his voice a gravelly command. He didn't wait for compliance. He pressed a slick finger against Hyunjin's entrance, circling slowly, watching his every reaction. "I need to see you."
Hyunjin's eyes, glazed with pleasure, focused on Changbin's. He nodded, a small, breathless movement. "I'm here."
That was all Changbin needed. He pushed his finger inside, a slow, deliberate invasion that made Hyunjin gasp and arch off the mattress. It had been too long. The stretch burned, a delicious, familiar ache. Changbin worked him open with a focused intensity, adding a second finger, scissoring them, searching for that spot he knew so well.
When he brushed against it, Hyunjin jolted, a sharp cry tearing from his throat. "There! Fuck, right there, don't stop—"
A dark, possessive smile touched Changbin's lips. He crooked his fingers, rubbing that bundle of nerves relentlessly, watching Hyunjin unravel beneath him. Hyunjin's legs fell open wider, his heels digging into the mattress, his entire body trembling with the renewed onslaught of sensation so soon after his climax.
"Please," Hyunjin begged, tears of overwhelming pleasure gathering in the corners of his eyes. "Binnie, please, I need you. I need to feel you. All of you."
Changbin withdrew his fingers. He positioned himself, the blunt, slick head of his cock pressing against Hyunjin's stretched, quivering entrance. He leaned down, capturing Hyunjin's lips in a searing, open kiss, swallowing his next breathless plea. Then, with his eyes locked on Hyunjin's, he pushed inside.
It was a slow, inexorable invasion, filling him completely, stretching him to a perfect, burning fullness that stole the air from Hyunjin's lungs. Changbin didn't move, buried to the hilt, his body trembling with the effort of his restraint. A low, guttural groan was torn from his chest.
"Fuck," he breathed against Hyunjin's lips. "You feel... God, you feel…ahh."
He began to move then, not with the frantic pace of before, but with deep, punishingly slow thrusts that dragged against every sensitive nerve inside Hyunjin. Each stroke was a deliberate claim, a physical rewriting of the past empty weeks. Hyunjin wrapped his legs around Changbin's waist, pulling him deeper, meeting each thrust with a ragged gasp.
The room filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, of labored breathing, of Hyunjin's broken moans and Changbin's low, possessive growls. Changbin shifted his angle slightly, and on the next thrust, he hit Hyunjin's prostate dead-on.
Hyunjin screamed, his back bowing off the bed. "Yes! Right there, oh god, right there, don't you dare stop!"
Changbin's control snapped. He drove into him faster, harder, his hips pistoning in a relentless, brutal rhythm that had the bedframe slamming against the wall. He was chasing his own release now, but he was taking Hyunjin with him, every thrust aimed perfectly to wring another shattered sound from his lips.
"Come for me, Jinnie," Changbin grunted, his voice strained. "Let me feel it. Let me see it."
The command, raw and desperate, was the final trigger. The coil that had been tightening deep in Hyunjin’s gut since Changbin first touched him against the wall snapped.
A white-hot wave of pleasure, more intense than the first, crashed over him. He came with a broken, sobbing cry, his release striping his stomach and chest as his body clenched violently around Changbin’s length. The sensation was overwhelming, a blinding, all-consuming ecstasy that ripped through every nerve.
The tight, rhythmic clenching of Hyunjin’s body was Changbin’s undoing. With a final, ragged groan that was half Hyunjin’s name, half a curse, Changbin buried himself to the hilt and followed him over the edge. He pulsed deep inside, his own release hot and endless, filling Hyunjin as he shuddered through the climax, his entire weight collapsing on top of him.
For long minutes, the only sounds in the room were their harsh, gasping breaths, slowly evening out. Changbin’s face was buried in the crook of Hyunjin’s neck, his body heavy and warm and utterly spent. Hyunjin’s arms came up to wrap around him, holding him close, his fingers tracing idle, shaky patterns on his sweat-slicked back.
Slowly, carefully, Changbin softened and slipped out. He rolled to the side, pulling Hyunjin with him, tucking him against his chest. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his damp temple.
Neither of them spoke. Words felt too fragile, too small for the cataclysm that had just passed between them. The silence was thick, but it wasn’t empty. The silence stretched, a comfortable, heavy blanket woven from shared exhaustion and the profound intimacy of the moment. Hyunjin could feel the steady, strong beat of Changbin's heart against his own racing one, slowly syncing into a calmer rhythm.
He nuzzled closer, inhaling the familiar scent of Changbin's skin, now mixed with sweat and sex. It was the most comforting smell in the world. The frantic, desperate energy had bled away, leaving behind a deep, bone-melting satisfaction and a vulnerability that was both terrifying and precious.
Changbin’s hand came up, his fingers gently carding through Hyunjin’s sweat-damp hair. The touch was so tender, so at odds with the raw possession of minutes before, that it made Hyunjin’s throat tighten.
“I’m sorry,” Changbin whispered into the quiet dark, his voice hoarse. “For making you feel like you were…last. For… for everything.”
Hyunjin shook his head slightly where it rested on Changbin’s chest. “Don’t,” he murmured. “I know you did what you had to do and I know you had a lot on your plate. And tonight is…”
He felt Changbin press another kiss to the top of his head. “It’s a start,” Changbin conceded, his arms tightening around him. “But it’s not everything. We’re talking tomorrow. I promise. You’re too important, I can’t afford losing you.”
This was a promise, and for the first time in weeks, Hyunjin believed it.
“Okay,” Hyunjin whispered, his eyelids growing heavy. The emotional and physical toll of the day—the sadness, the heartache, the cathartic, world-shaking sex—was pulling him under. “Tomorrow.”
As he drifted off, safe in the circle of Changbin’s arms, the last thing he felt was Changbin’s lips against his forehead and the softest, most final whisper.
"Sleep, Jinnie. I love you."
And for the first time in a long time, Hyunjin knew it was true. He surrendered to the pull of sleep, the lingering aches in his body a sweet reminder, a promise etched into his very skin. The storm had passed.
--
The morning light filtered through the blinds, painting stripes of gold across the tangled sheets and across Changbin's sleeping face. Hyunjin woke first, his body sore in the best possible way. He lay still, just watching him, tracing the lines of his features with his eyes—the strong brow, the soft curve of his lips parted in sleep. He drew him so often, however none of his drawings, none of the pictures he took of Changbin, nothing came close to the way Changbin looked like in real life. He was perfect. The anxiety that usually greeted Hyunjin at dawn in the last few days was absent, replaced by a quiet, steady warmth.
He shifted slightly, and Changbin’s eyes fluttered open. For a moment, there was a flicker of wariness. Then his gaze focused on Hyunjin, and it softened, melting into something so open and fond it made Hyunjin’s heart ache.
“Morning,” Changbin rasped, his voice sleep-rough. He didn’t ask if Hyunjin was okay. He could see it. Instead, he leaned in and captured Hyunjin’s lips in a slow, deep, unhurried kiss. It tasted of sleep and the sex of the night before.
When they finally broke apart, Changbin rested his forehead against Hyunjin’s. “So,” he said, a small, tentative smile playing on his lips. “Talk?”
Hyunjin smiled back, a smile that felt foreign on his face. Foreign but good not weird. “Yeah,” he said. “Talk.”
Hyunjin stared at the ceiling for a long moment before he spoke again.
“When you were…helping everyone out,” he said quietly, “you were… not really here… it messed with my head.”
Changbin didn’t interrupt. His fingers kept moving in slow, grounding circles on Hyunjin’s arm.
“It felt like I was not on your mind,” Hyunjin continued, voice steady but thin, “It felt like you were here, when we were with the others, but it did not feel like you. Like… when we were out with the others, I was able to see you, laugh with you, touch you—and still feel completely alone.”
Changbin’s jaw tightened.
“I started wondering if I was imagining things,” Hyunjin said. “If I was being dramatic. If I was asking for too much. I knew you were having troubles, I knew everyone needed you, I knew what was happening at your house, I knew how crazy you were going because of Jisung. I knew all of that. I felt like I needed to be strong for you. At the same time…I wanted more from you. Wanted your time. Your attention. I felt like I was asking for too much.”
He swallowed.
“I’d lie awake after texting you goodnight and feel like a ghost. Like I was invisible in your world.”
Changbin closed his eyes briefly. After a while, he spoke.
“I thought I was protecting you,” he said again, slower this time. “From the stress. From the mess. From my own fucking head. I thought if I just handled it all, you wouldn’t have to carry it and worry.”
Hyunjin turned his head to look at him.
“But you didn’t let me choose,” Hyunjin said. “You decided for me.”
Changbin flinched.
“It felt like a dismissal,” Hyunjin went on, quieter now. “Like you didn’t think I was strong enough to stand next to you while things were…hard.”
“That’s not—” Changbin stopped himself. Took a breath. “That’s not what I believe.”
“But that’s what it felt like,” Hyunjin said, not accusing. Just honest.
Silence stretched.
Changbin pulled him closer, forehead resting against Hyunjin’s temple.
“You’re the strongest person I know,” Changbin said fiercely. “And I hate that I made you feel small. That was my pride and my bullshit idea that love means carrying everything alone.”
Hyunjin’s eyes burned.
“I don’t need you to be strong for everyone,” he whispered. “I need you to be here with me and we can be weak together. I want to be the person who listens to you in the end of the day, after you listened to everyone. I want to be the person that you can rely on when everyone else relayed on you.”
Changbin nodded, once.
“I don’t know how to rely on people,” he admitted. “I never learned how to do it without feeling like I’m failing. But I want to. For you. I need to.”
That was the moment Hyunjin finally broke again.
Not loud, just quiet tears soaking into Changbin’s shoulder as Changbin held him, breathing him through it.
They talked like that for a long time.
About the nights Changbin cancelled last minute. About Hyunjin pretending it didn’t hurt and lying to their friends whenever they asked him where he was spending his nights, to cover for Changbin. About Changbin sleeping on couches and floors, missing Hyunjin’s warmth. And about Hyunjin lying awake feeling selfish for missing Changbin’s touch.
At some point, the tears turned into weak laughter.
“At least you didn’t forget my birthday,” Hyunjin muttered, remembering that Changbin had told him he planned something for next week, for his birthday, a while ago.
Changbin huffed. “I would’ve deserved jail time.”
--
After finally standing up slowly and showering together, they ordered food. They were lying again when the food arrived, so they ate it half-lying in bed, Changbin feeding Hyunjin, because the younger swore that he is too tired to move his arms.
The world stayed far away.
When the containers were empty and the light outside had shifted, Changbin sat up a little, expression serious again—but calmer.
“I have an idea,” he said.
Hyunjin squinted at him. “Oh, oh.”
Changbin smiled faintly. “A rule. For us.”
Hyunjin raised an eyebrow. “Should I be scared?”
“Only if you’re scared to be loved rotten,” Changbin said. “Because the rule is basically no more silence.”
He brushed his thumb over Hyunjin’s knuckles.
“If something feels off. If you feel anxious. If you start pulling away or I do, you tell me. Immediately. You don’t care about how I would feel. Okay?”
Hyunjin nodded slowly.
“And I don’t get to play martyr,” Changbin continued. “I don’t shut you out when things get heavy. I let you stand with me. Even when it scares me.”
Hyunjin exhaled, something easing in his chest.
“So we’re annoying each other on purpose now,” he said.
Changbin snorted. “Exactly.”
Hyunjin leaned into him, forehead against Changbin’s chest.
“I would love that.” Hyunjin sighed.
“I love you.” Changbin replied, smiling.
“Hmm,” Hyunjin hummed. They stayed like that for some time. Just enjoying each other's spaces that they have missed the past few weeks.
Hyunjin then started to feel the tingling in his skin again, so he started looking up at his boyfriend.
“Ready for round three?”
Hyunjin’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze locking onto Changbin’s. The air between them thickened, charged with the remnants of their earlier intimacy and the promise of more. Hyunjin’s lips curved into a sly smile, his voice dropping to a husky whisper.
Changbin’s breath hitched, his body already responding to the shift in tone. He reached out to pull Hyunjin closer, but Hyunjin caught his wrist, pinning it gently but firmly against the mattress. The younger man’s expression turned playful yet commanding, his eyes narrowing with feigned sternness.
“No,” Hyunjin said, his voice firm. “This time it's a punishment. You’ve been a bad wife, Changbin. Ignoring your boyfriend like that? Making me chase after your attention?” He pouted and leaned in, his lips brushing Changbin’s ear. “Now, you’re going to make it up to me. You only do as I say. And you don’t get to cum until I do. Twice.”
Changbin swallowed hard, his cock twitching against Hyunjin’s thigh at the words. The idea of Hyunjin directing him, even as he fucked into that tight heat, sent a thrill through him. “Jinnie…” he murmured, half-protest, half-plea.
Hyunjin silenced him with a finger to his lips. “Shh. First, get me ready. Use your mouth.” He released Changbin’s wrist and rolled onto his back, spreading his legs invitingly. His own arousal was evident, his dick half-hard and leaking in his boxers, but he made no move to touch it. This time, it was him in control.
Changbin hesitated for only a second before sliding down the bed, positioning himself between Hyunjin’s thighs. He gripped Hyunjin’s hips, pulling his boxers down and him closer, and dipped his head. His tongue flicked out, lapping at the sensitive skin of Hyunjin’s inner thigh before moving higher. He licked a slow stripe along the underside of Hyunjin’s balls, then took one into his mouth, sucking gently.
Hyunjin gasped, his fingers threading into Changbin’s hair. “Good… just like that. Don’t rush. Tease me.” He guided Changbin’s head lower, pressing his face against his entrance. “Lick my hole, Hyung. Get it wet for your cock.”
Changbin obeyed, his tongue circling Hyunjin’s rim before pushing inside. He ate him out with deliberate strokes, thrusting his tongue in and out, tasting the faint saltiness as Hyunjin’s body relaxed under him. Hyunjin moaned, his hips bucking slightly, but he kept his grip firm, controlling the pace. “Deeper… yeah, fuck me with your tongue.”
After minutes of this, Hyunjin’s breath came faster, his cock now fully hard and dripping pre-cum onto his abs. “Enough,” he panted, tugging Changbin up. “Now, fingers. Two at once. Stretch me.”
Changbin sat back on his heels, his own erection throbbing painfully, but he reached for the lube on the nightstand anyway. He slicked his fingers generously and pressed two against Hyunjin’s entrance, pushing in slowly. Hyunjin arched, a whine escaping his lips as Changbin scissored them, curling to brush that spot inside.
“Faster,” Hyunjin demanded, his voice breathy but authoritative. “Make me feel it. This is for every text you ignored, every night you did not call me.” He rocked back onto Changbin’s fingers, fucking himself on them while staring into his eyes. “Add a third. I want to feel full before you fuck me.” He moaned out. Head in space, seeing stars. He loved taking control, and with what he is saying, he is transforming a bad memory into a pleasure in his head.
Changbin added the third finger, thrusting them in and out, his free hand stroking his own cock to relieve some pressure. Eyes focused on Hyunjin. Not able to say anything. He was enjoying the younger's dominant approach a little more than he expected.
Hyunjin watched, smirking. “Don’t touch yourself. Hands on me only. You don’t get relief yet.”
When Hyunjin was panting and clenching around his fingers, slick and open, he finally nodded. “Now, Hyung. Fuck me. But slow.”
Changbin withdrew his fingers and positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging Hyunjin’s hole. He pushed in inch by inch, groaning at the tight, wet heat enveloping him. Hyunjin’s walls fluttered around him, pulling him deeper.
“Stop,” Hyunjin ordered once Changbin was fully seated. He wrapped his long legs around Changbin’s waist, locking him in place. “Don’t move. Let me feel you inside me. Think about how you made me wait.” Minutes ticked by, Hyunjin grinding subtly, teasing them both, until sweat beaded on Changbin’s forehead.
“Please, Jinnie,” Changbin begged, his voice rough.
Hyunjin’s smile was wicked. “Pull out halfway, then thrust back in. Hard. But only when I say.” He waited, drawing out the tension, before whispering, “Now.”
Changbin snapped his hips forward, burying himself deep. Hyunjin cried out, his nails digging into Changbin’s back. “Again. Deeper this time.” Changbin complied, pounding into him with controlled force, each thrust dictated by Hyunjin’s commands—faster, slower, angle your hips up.
Hyunjin’s hand finally wrapped around his own cock, stroking in time with Changbin’s movements. “Don’t stop. Fuck me like you mean it. This is your apology.” His body tensed, breaths ragged. “I’m close… keep going, Hyung. Make me cum on your cock.”
Changbin thrust harder, the slap of skin echoing in the room, his control fraying as Hyunjin’s commands pushed him to the edge. Hyunjin came first, just as ordered, spilling over his hand with a broken moan, his hole clenching rhythmically around Changbin.
But Hyunjin wasn’t done. “Again,” he gasped, still riding the aftershocks. “Don’t you dare cum. Build me up again.” He directed Changbin to flip them slightly, so Hyunjin could ride him from above while still bottoming—controlling the depth and speed by bracing his hands on Changbin’s chest.
Changbin gripped Hyunjin’s thighs, thrusting up as Hyunjin bounced, his cock hitting that perfect spot over and over. “You’re so tight… fuck, Jinnie,” Changbin groaned, but he held back, teeth gritted.
Hyunjin leaned down, capturing Changbin’s lips in a messy kiss. “Good boy. Almost there… yes, right there.” He came a second time, harder, cum splattering between them as he shuddered.
Only then did Hyunjin collapse forward, whispering, “Now, Hyung. Fill me up. Cum inside.”
Changbin lost it, hips snapping erratically as he flooded Hyunjin’s ass with hot spurts, groaning into his neck. They stayed locked together, breathing heavy, until Hyunjin chuckled softly.
“Punishment over,” he murmured, kissing Changbin’s jaw. “I love you too.”
Chapter Text
Recommendation to listen to while reading this: “I'll be there” – D.O
“I'll be there, I'll be there
Sending a late greeting
I'll calmly ask you
How was your day?
I'll be there, I'll be there
My small gift to you
Is a tomorrow
I still be there
On this night when even the stars fall asleep
I'll leave the moonlight on for you
Tossing and turning all night, you seek a crooked sleep
So you don't get lost in the twilight of the night
Words like "It'll be okay" can come a little later
I know that sometimes, all we need is warmth
So I'll just hold you tight—without a word”
----------------
The first day back felt heavier than Jisung expected. He doesn’t know what he has expected. Maybe some looks or gossip in the break room but…there was nothing.
The building looked the same. The floors smelled the same. The elevators still took too long. People still nodded at him like they always had. No whispers. No stares. Just…nothing.
Normal.
When he had arrived in the morning, Minho had walked him to the entrance.
“You don’t have to wait,” Jisung said softly.
“I know,” Minho replied. Then, after a beat, “I want to.”
So that was a difference. No matter what happens, Jisung knows that his safety anchor was waiting for him outside.
Inside, Jisung worked well, his manager didn’t say anything about him disappearing for the last two weeks. JYP made sure of that. It’s crazy actually how well things like that were able to stay hidden from gossip.
But Jisung didn’t care, as long as everyone treated him the same way as before and he can impress them with his talent, he didn’t care how JYP hid the assault.
Jisung was also proud of himself. His hands didn’t shake, his head stayed clear. When someone raised their voice down the hall, his body still tensed, but it passed. And what he was most proud of was the fact that when he had to walk through that corridor, his heart picked up—but it didn’t spiral.
By the time his shift ended, the relief settled quietly and solid in his chest.
Minho was waiting outside.
Jisung smiled and couldn’t help himself but to run the few last steps and kiss Minho on the cheek. It was quick but Minho blushed never the less.
“We are in front of your work Jagiya,” he whispered while opening Changbin’s car door.
“I don’t care. I just love you so much Minho-Hyung.” Jisung grinned widley. He added a thank you and entered the passanger seat, enjoying the princess treatment he was, once again, receiving. He really had the best man ever, he thought while watching Minho cross the car to walk to the drivers seat.
“So, I guess everything went well?” His Hyung asked while putting his seatbelt on.
“More than well!” Jisung started. “Mr. Lee-Sunbanim, had a problem with a track and I was able to help him. And in the break room he said that I can be sure that I will get the internship after graduation.” He told happily.
Minho listened to his work stories of the day while starting to drive. Eyes on the street, driving with one hand, but asking questions and humming in the right places. Jisung couldn’t help but notice how hot Minho looked like driving with one hand. The vein in his arm popping. In his black T shirt. With the V-line- damn this man is hot.
“You’re so hot, Minho-Hyung,” Jisung sighed.
Minho giggled, but his ears blushed. “I guess the day was really that good huh?”
Jisung hummed. Not taking his eyes away from his lover.
“And you? What did you do the whole time?” He asked Minho.
“I was studying in the car,” Minho answered truthfully.
Jisung hums and watches Minho for a few seconds longer, chest warm and tight all at once. It hits him suddenly, painfully clear, the way it sometimes does.
It’s funny because he always thought that having feelings for someone means being overly excited when seeing them. Suffering from butterfly explosions and a tight chest. But for him, he felt at peace whenever he looked at Minho. Of course, there were the moments, especially when they're intimate, where the butterflies and the excitement and adrenaline do not leave him, but most of the time, like right now, he just feels…peaceful. Like he was at home. And these are the moments when it hits him all over again: He loves Minho.
He is painfully in love with Minho. No, wait, he is safely in love with Minho. So safe that he can let himself fall, whenever and wherever and he knows Minho will be there to catch him no matter what. He is in love with Minho. With the way Minho talks so softly and sweetly. He is in love with the way Minho smirk-smiles. He is in love with the way Minho tilts his head when he tells him a story. He is in love with the way Minho talks with his kids. In love with the weird ticks of Minho’s. In love with the way Minho takes care of their friends. He is in love with the way Minho takes care of him. In love with the way Minho waited without being asked. In love with the way he listened like nothing Jisung said was small. In love with the fact that he didn’t try to fix him, but loved him the way he is and helping him to love himself as well.
“Minho-hyung,” Jisung says softly, the smile fading into something more serious.
Minho glances at him. “Yeah?”
“Thank you,” Jisung says. For a moment, the word feels too small. “For today. For waiting. For… everything.”
Minho’s grip on the steering wheel tightens just a little. He doesn’t joke this time.
“You don’t have to thank me,” he says quietly. “I want to be here.”
Jisung swallows. He turns toward the window so Minho doesn’t see his eyes shine.
“Hyung,” he whispers again, not facing him. Minho hums again. “I love you so much.”
A comfortable silence spread across them. Jisung can feel Minho looking at him, and when he talks, he can hear Minho’s soft smile.
“I love you too Jagiya.”
A small tear leaves Jisung’s eyes for no good reason. He smiles happily at the outside world.
A few minutes pass. The city slides by. Familiar streets—but not the right ones.
Jisung frowns slightly and looks up again.
“Hyung,” he says, confused. “We’re not going to the dorms?”
Minho nods, already anticipating it. “Not yet.”
He signals at the next intersection.
“I thought we could eat first,” Minho explains. “Somewhere warm.”
Then, after a beat, more casual, “And I have to stop by the studio. I forgot my bag there yesterday when I was working late.”
Oh.
Jisung’s heart does something stupid again. Of course Minho planned food. Of course he noticed Jisung hadn’t eaten properly yet. And of course he didn’t frame it as concern.
“Oh,” Jisung says, smiling. “Okay.”
He reaches over without thinking, resting his hand on Minho’s arm. He just needs to feel as close to him as possible or else his love will eat him form inside out and he will combust. Minho lets him. Doesn’t flinch, just keeps driving.
Jisung leans back, watching the road ahead, feeling impossibly full.
He thinks, with quiet certainty, that this—this ease, this care, this love—is what the love in the movies should actually look like. This feels way better than the loud explosive, dramatic love.
They end up at the little imbiss Minho knows—it’s the one wedged between a flower shop and a phone repair place, windows fogged from steam, the smell of broth clinging to the air like a promise. If you don’t know it, you will just pass by it, ignorant and missing out on the best taste there is.
It’s warm inside. And surprisingly loud, but in a comforting way. Metal spoons clink against bowls. Someone laughs too loud at the counter with the grandma behind it.
They order soup and rice without looking at the menu, beef for both of them. This is real food.
Jisung wraps his hands around the bowl when it’s set in front of him, breathing in. The broth is rich, salty, and familiar. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the first spoonful hits his tongue.
Minho watches him eat for a second too long.
“What,” Jisung says around a mouthful, smiling.
“Nothing,” Minho replies, but his mouth quirks. “Just…you’re so cute.”
Jisung blushes and hides behind the next spoon, making Minho smile fondly. They fall into an easy rhythm after that. Eating. Talking. Existing.
Minho tells him about his studies—about how theory is getting harder now, how his professor ripped apart his last choreography but then told him, quietly, that he was improving, confusing Minho. He talks about a new dance he’s been working on for a class, it was something sharper, and heavier. He was not really used to it.
“I hate it,” Minho admits, stirring his rice absently. “Which probably means it’s okay.”
Jisung laughs. “You always say that you hate them, and then you end up with the best grade.”
“But I really do hate them, everyone else is just too stupid. And you’re exactly the same by the way!”
There’s a pause. Minho glances at him, eyes softer now, thoughtful.
“Hey,” he says. “Do you think… you’d let me choreograph to one of your songs again?”
Jisung blinks. “Again?”
“It helped last time,” Minho says simply. “Helped me… understand you on a deeper level. Being in your head like that. Translating your words into movement.”
Something warm spreads through Jisung’s chest. “Yeah,” he says. “Of course. Anytime you want.”
Minho nods, satisfied, like he’s been holding that question in for a while.
--
The building is quieter this time of day. Evening light slants through the glass doors. The Noona at reception looks up and smiles immediately when she sees Minho.
“Minho-ya,” she says. “You forgot something again, didn’t you?”
Minho winces. “Bag.”
She laughs, already standing. “Of course.”
Then she notices Jisung and her smile shifts into something warmer.
“Sungie,” she says, genuinely pleased. “You’re back.”
Jisung nods, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I brought you pudding.”
Her eyes light up immediately. “What an angel, bringing me pudding.”
He pulls one out of his bag and hands it to her. When him and Minho started dating, this became also part of their weekly routine. Whenever Minho was working late, Jisung came over bringing him pudding. And most of the time Jisoo was the one working with Minho, so Jisung started counting her in. He really likes Jisoo she’s a sweetheart and always telling him about the studio gossip that Minho doesn’t seem to care for. But Jisung does, and it’s mean that Minho always starts telling him something but never finishes the story because “he didn’t pay attention” or “he didn’t ask”. But Jisoo always pays attention and she always asks.
“You spoil me,” she says, mock-seriously while opening the lid of the chocolate pudding, “I am sure I gained weight because of you.”
“That’s not true Noona.” Jisung laughs “And even if, didn’t you say you lost weight in the winter and need to gain it back before you go to Europe this summer?” Jisung said, leaning on the reception desk.
“Ah, you’re right. I need to get myself a hot foreign boyfriend and I heard they like girls who have a little bit more on their bones.” She giggled, taking the next spoon full in her mouth. Then she clicks her tongue and points at Minho. “See? He remembers better than you.”
“Hey!” Minho exclaimed, “I am the one who paid for the pudding!”
Jisung turned to him with big eyes. Doesn’t saying this break the princess treatment rule or something?
“Who cares? This is your job Minho-ya!” Jisoo says protecting the younger. Jisung nods enthusiastically.
Minho groans. “Traitors. Both of you.”
They giggle at Minho’s annoyed look. The moment feels easy, Jisung hadn’t realized how much he needed that until it settles into his chest like a deep breath. Work is nice, but having to pay attention to everything you say there is not. And with people he like, he can just say whatever is on his mind.
Then the door to one of the practice rooms opens. The sound cuts through the space—soft music stopping, shoes against the floor.
The man who steps out is tall. Taller than Jisung. Lean. Ballet posture carved into his body so deeply he doesn’t even think about it anymore. His black hair pulled back neatly. He was handsome.
Jisoo waved Jisung to come even closer, she lowers her voice slightly, nodding down the hallway to where he is coming from. “New ballet teacher. Started this week. He’s very… enthusiastic. You need to pay attention.”
Jisung barely has time to register what she said and what she means before the man steps closer to them. Or better…closer to Minho.
“Oh,” he says, smiling, at Minho. “You’re here again.”
Minho nods politely. “Forgot my bag.”
“You know, I saw you teach yesterday. Your technique is amazing,” He says, stepping closer towards Minho. “No wonder your body looks this good!”
Oh.
Jisung notices the hand before he registers the intention behind it.
The ballet teacher reaches out and grips Minho’s forearm, fingers settling just below the sleeve of his shirt, thumb pressing lightly as if testing familiarity. It is brief, but it is deliberate, clearly crossing a line.
Minho reacts immediately. His arm pulls back on reflex and his shoulders tightening as he steps half a pace away. His face stays polite, but the shift in his posture is clear.
“I should really-,” Minho says, already turning slightly toward the desk.
Jisung feels the surge hit him hard and fast. His chest tightens, his thoughts narrowing to one sharp point, his ears start to feel hotter. He does not hesitate.
He steps forward and places himself directly beside Minho. His fingers slide into Minho’s hand and lace with his, his other hand reaches to where the ugly man has just touches his boyfriend’s biceps. He leans up and presses a kiss to Minho’s cheek, slow with closed eyes.
“Hyung,” Jisung says then with the cutest voice he can muster, eyes bigger than Bambi’s. “Are you finished? I’m tired. I want to go homeee.” He emphasizes the word home, and he keeps his gaze on Minho. He does not acknowledge the ballet teacher at all.
Minho stills for a moment, then his body relaxes. He turns his head slightly toward Jisung, his mouth lifting into a small smile. His hand tightens around Jisung’s.
“Yeah,” Minho says. “Just grabbing my bag.”
He then let’s go for a second to get his bag that’s hiding behind the desk.
The ballet teacher shifts uncomfortably. His eyes flick between them, realization settling in late.
“Oh,” he says. “I didn’t know.”
Jisoo looks up from the desk, unimpressed. “He has a boyfriend.”
The ballet teacher clears his throat, nodding once. “I see. Sorry about that.”
He steps away quickly and disappears back into the practice rooms without another word.
Minho returns with his bag slung over his shoulder. He glances down at Jisung, amusement clear in his eyes.
“You didn’t have to do all that,” he says quietly.
“Oh no he did have to do that! The man touched you!” Jisoo exclaims. “And oh god Jisung I loved that, that was like a drama. Crazy.” She moves her hands around in excitement. Jisung flushes completely red now, still mad, but also kind of shy.
He looks for Minho’s hand again. They say bye to Jisoo and walk out together, hands still linked, Jisung’s shoulder pressed lightly against Minho’s side. The tension drains from his body only once the door closes behind them.
In the car, Minho giggles. It slips out before he can stop it, he’s still replaying the scene in his head.
Jisung turns toward him immediately. “Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing at you,” Minho says, still smiling. “I just—” He shakes his head. “You were intense.”
Jisung crosses his arms, cheeks still warm. “He touched you.”
Minho glances at him. “I noticed.” He humored.
“And I didn’t like it,” Jisung says, voice firmer now. “So, I did something about it.”
Minho waits a beat, starting the car, before asking, “Why?” He tilts his head.
Jisung frowns slightly, like the question itself annoys him. “Because I got jealous.”
Minho nods slowly, fingers tapping the steering wheel. “Okay. Why did you get jealous?”
Jisung exhales, frustrated, but he answers. “Because you’re mine.”
Minho turns his head then, really looking at him. “Why am I yours?”
Jisung hesitates for half a second, then drops his gaze to Minho’s arm, to the exact spot where the ballet teacher’s hand had been.
“Because I know you,” he says quietly. “Because you let me see you when you’re tired and annoying and insecure. Because you are amazing. Because you complete me. You come pick me up even when you don’t have to. You listen to my songs like they’re important. You’re careful with me, even when I tell you that you don’t need to be. And I want to make you happy.”
He swallows. “Because I chose you. And you chose me. And I don’t like it when someone else forgets that.”
Minho doesn’t answer right away. He pulls into a parking spot instead, turns the engine off, and finally looks at Jisung fully.
“If you want the world to know,” Minho says evenly, “you can mark me tonight.”
They don’t talk much after that.
When they reach Jisung’s dorm, Jisung checks instinctively, scanning the hallway, peeking into the shared space. He relaxes when he sees it’s empty.
“No Felix,” he says, turning back.
Minho’s eyes darken slightly. “Good.”
The door barely clicks shut before Jisung is against him, hands grabbing Minho’s shirt, mouth crashing into his. It’s not gentle. It’s needy and territorial and full of everything he didn’t say in the car, the way the guy touched Minho still replaying in his mind.
Minho kisses him back immediately, laughing into it when Jisung pushes him backward toward the wall.
“You’re still mad,” Minho murmurs against his lips.
“Yes,” Jisung answers, kissing him again. “And you like it.”
“I really do,” Minho admits.
Jisung’s mouth trails down Minho’s jaw, his neck, stopping suddenly. He presses his lips right against the spot on Minho’s arm where the other man touched him earlier, biting and kissing down hard enough to leave a mark.
Minho hisses, then laughs. “Is that necessary?”
“Yes,” Jisung says, completely serious. “That spot was contaminated.”
Minho laughs harder now, hands sliding to Jisung’s waist. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re mine,” Jisung repeats, voice low.
Minho giggles again, clearly liking this side of Jisung.
“You think you can just smile like that after someone else touched you?” Jisung growls, mouth crashing onto Minho’s in a bruising kiss. His tongue forces entry, teeth nipping at Minho’s lip hard enough to draw a sharp inhale.
Minho’s hands come up to grip Jisung’s shoulders, but Jisung doesn’t let him take over—not yet. He’s still mad, still possessive, and he pushes Minho toward the bed, stripping shirts off in frantic pulls.
Minho hits the mattress first, propped on his elbows, watching Jisung with hooded eyes as Jisung takes off his shirt. “Come here,” Minho murmurs, but Jisung shakes his head, climbing on top, kissing Minho from his jaw down to his collarbone. “Mine,” Jisung mutters against the skin, nipping sharply before making Minho sit and dropping to his knees. He unbuckles Minho’s belt with frantic hands, shoving pants and underwear down in one go. Minho’s cock springs free, thick and leaking at the tip, and Jisung doesn’t hesitate—he wraps his lips around the head, sucking hard while his hand strokes the base.
Minho pulls a hand in Jising’s hair a whine escaping him as Jisung takes him deeper, tongue swirling along the underside. Jisung bobs his head, hollowing his cheeks, tasting the salt of pre-cum as Minho’s hips twitch forward. “Fuck, Jisung—yes, just like that.” Minho’s voice breaks, affectionate even in his desperation, one hand bracing against the wall while the other guides Jisung’s rhythm.
But Jisung pulls off with a wet pop, standing up to strip himself bare. He then pushes Minho on the bed wrapping his hand around both their lenghts, stroking firmly while leaning down to suck marks into Minho’s neck—dark bruises to match the ones he imagines on himself. They both groan in sync.
Minho’s hips bucking up, ready to turn them around, but Jisung pins his thighs down with his knees. “No. I’m taking you. I want to ride you.”
He spits into his palm, slicking Minho’s cock before positioning himself. The head nudges against his entrance, and Jisung sinks down slowly at first, the stretch burning as he takes inch after inch. Minho’s hands fly to Jisung’s hips, fingers digging in, but Jisung slaps them away. “Hands off. Watch me fuck myself on you.”
Jisung rolls his hips once seated, grinding down hard, then lifts up to slam back, setting a punishing rhythm. His ass clenches around Minho’s length with every bounce, the slap of skin echoing as he rides aggressively, chasing his own pleasure while claiming control. Minho’s head falls back, moans spilling out, his cock throbbing inside Jisung’s tight heat. “Fuck, Jisung—slow down—”
“No,” Jisung pants, leaning forward to bite Minho’s collarbone, drawing a hiss. He speeds up, one hand bracing on Minho’s chest, nails scraping red lines, the other jerking his own cock in rough twists. The anger still fuels him, Minho’s his, no one else’s. Pressure builds fast, Jisung’s hole fluttering as he nears the edge.
Minho’s restraint snaps; he grabs Jisung’s waist despite the warning, thrusting up to meet him, driving deeper. Jisung cries out, the added force pushing him over—cum erupting from his cock in thick streams across Minho’s stomach. His body tightens, milking Minho until Minho follows, groaning as he pumps hot seed deep inside, filling Jisung to the brim.
Jisung collapses forward, both breathing ragged, but the fire in his eyes hasn’t fully died. They stay there laying for a while, enjoying the aftershock of their orgasm. The air smelling like sex. But the tension wasn’t completely gone yet.
After a while Minho flips them, pinning Jisung beneath him with a wicked grin. “My turn now, baby. You took what you wanted, now lay there and enjoy.”
Jisung’s post-orgasm haze clears just enough for defiance to flicker. Minho’s already moving, he turns Jisung around, and spreads Jisung’s cheeks, admiring the cum leaking from his stretched hole, then delivers a sharp slap to one globe—hard enough to sting, leaving a red handprint.
Jisung yelps, arching, but Minho soothes it with a lick, tongue dipping in to taste his own release mixed with Jisung’s essence. “Such a greedy hole,” Minho murmurs, slipping two fingers inside to crook against that spot, making Jisung whine and push back. But then he adds a third, thrusting roughly while his free hand trails nails down Jisung’s back, scratching lightly at first, then harder, drawing thin lines of pain that bloom into heat.
“Minho—ah!” Jisung’s voice breaks as Minho pinches a nipple, twisting until tears prick his eyes, pleasure spiking alongside the ache. Minho’s mouth follows, sucking the abused bud while his fingers pump faster, alternating between gentle strokes and brutal curls that make Jisung’s vision blur.
“You like that? The hurt making it better?” Minho whispers, withdrawing his hand to replace it with his cock—still, slick from before. He thrusts in without warning, bottoming out in one go, and Jisung screams into the pillow, the fullness overwhelming. Minho sets a merciless pace, hips snapping forward while one hand wraps around Jisung’s throat, squeezing just enough to restrict air, heightening every sensation.
Jisung’s mind fractures under the onslaught—pain from the slaps, the scratches, the tight grip blending with the relentless drag of Minho’s cock against his walls, hitting his prostate over and over. He floats, body going limp as subspace pulls him under, moans turning to soft, needy whimpers. “Yours... please...”
Minho senses it, easing the pressure on his throat to kiss his neck instead, but keeps fucking deep, one hand now stroking Jisung’s spent cock back to hardness with feather-light touches that contrast the rough thrusts. “That’s it, let go for me. I’ve got you.” He bites Jisung’s shoulder—not too hard, just enough to ground him—then reaches around to rub circles over Jisung’s nerves at the base, pushing him toward another peak.
Jisung shudders, coming dry this time, body convulsing as waves crash through him, ass clamping down. Minho grunts, burying himself deep to release again, flooding Jisung with more cum until it drips out around his shaft. He stays connected, rolling them to the side, arms wrapping tight as Jisung drifts in the haze.
“Mine,” Minho breathes into his hair, pressing soft kisses along his jaw. “Always mine.”
Jisung hums faintly, nuzzling closer, safe in the afterglow.
—
Studying became normal again. Going out early to harbor the best places at the library and coming home late just to study some more in their dorms. Whenever Jisung had the chance to go to the library first, he reserved a place for Minho, and the other way around. And at home they spread their books across the floor of Minho’s dorm, hushing the cats away whenever they decided to climb on them. Their notes everywhere. Highlighters uncapped. And Mino’s coffee going cold on the desk.
Minho quizzed him and Jisung argued with the answers just to be able to talk to Minho some more. They fell into rhythm so easily it almost scared Jisung. Being with Minho became normal. Not being with him, was the abnormal. It was to the point that whenever Minho walks behind him and does not slap his butt, he felt insulted. To the point that waking up without a good morning text, was an impossible thought. To the point that his fridge was full of pudding and Minho’s was full of Red Bull. To the point that Minho bought his favorite toothpaste. To the point where even the cats acted up when Jisung was not here, missing their dad.
A life without Minho was impossible to think about now. And that’s kind of scary, since graduation is only a few months away, and a lot will change then. Both of them will start their internships, Minho at the Studio as a teacher and in the office, and Jisung at JYP Entertainment.
How much can they see each other then? Jisung no longer wants to go a day without Minho.
This night was quieter than usual. The thoughts in Jung's head did not leave him alone.
They brushed their teeth side by side. Changed and crawled into bed together. Clinging to one another.
When the lights go off, and they kiss each other good night, the thoughts are still present. Did not leave him for a bit. Keeping him wide awake and depressed at the possible idea of having to live without seeing Minho daily.
Minho also doesn’t sleep. Not because he is overthinking like Jisung, but because he has a feeling. Just that feeling he has learned to trust. The feeling that was connected to Jisung knowing when the younger was overthinking. Jisung’s body is tense against his, breathing shallow, too controlled. He was wide awake and Minho knew it.
Minho shifts carefully, one hand sliding to Jisung’s back, warm and grounding.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”
Jisung doesn’t answer right away. He stares at the wall, eyes open, thoughts loud. Minho’s thumb starts slow circles between his shoulder blades, ready to ride out a panic attack if it comes.
“I’m not spiraling,” Jisung says quietly, like he already knows what Minho is afraid of. “I promise, I am not having an attack.”
Minho stills just a little. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” Jisung says. “I’m just… thinking.”
Minho exhales, relief mixing with concern. “About what.”
Jisung turns his head so he can look at him.
“About graduation. About work. About time. About us.” His voice is steady and honest, but mixed with a sadness only Minho knows how to read.
Minho doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t rush him either. He just keeps his hand there and listens.
“I don’t like the idea of going days without you,” Jisung continues. “I don’t like imagining us getting busy and tired and only seeing each other through messages. I know that sounds dramatic, but it sits wrong in my chest. I don’t know.”
Minho nods once. “It doesn’t sound dramatic.”
Jisung blinks. “It doesn’t?”
“No,” Minho says. “It sounds like you care.”
Jisung swallows. “I do.”
There is a short pause. Minho looks at the ceiling, then back at Jisung, like he is deciding something.
“Okay,” Minho says.
Jisung frowns slightly. “Okay what.”
Minho shifts onto his side so they face each other properly. Their eyes getting used to the darkness now.
“There’s a small apartment near the JYP building,” Minho says, casually. “Three bedrooms. Nothing fancy. They allow pets and I checked the commute. With the car it’s ten minutes to the studio. Less if traffic behaves. And my parents wanted to gift me a car as a graduation gift so that’s perfect.”
Jisung just stares at him.
“I already sent a mail asking for an appointment to visit it,” Minho adds.
Silence.
Jisung’s brain takes a second too long to catch up. “I don’t understand.”
Minho winces. “I wanted to ask you to move in with me.”
Jisung’s breath hitches. “You… WHAT?”
Minho nods. “I had a whole plan. I already have the dinner reservation and everything. Wanted to be smooth about it.”
Jisung’s eyebrows pull together. “You what?” He whispers, still in disbelief.
Minho sighs. “Yeah. But now you’re awake and thinking yourself into exhaustion and I don’t want you lying here wondering if we’ll drift apart when I already made sure we don’t have to.”
Jisung’s chest feels too full.
“So,” Minho continues, quieter now, “I guess I ruined the surprise.”
Jisung looks at him for a long second. Then his face breaks open into the biggest smile.
“You did,” Jisung says, voice shaky. “Completely.”
Minho starts to apologize with a sarcastic voice but Jisung doesn’t let him talk any more.
He lunges forward and kisses Minho’s cheek. Then his jaw. Then his nose. Then his other cheek. Fast, messy, everywhere. His hands grab Minho’s face like he needs to check he is real. They both giggle into the kisses.
“Okay,” Jisung says between kisses. “Okay. Yes. Absolutely yes. A thousand times yes. Oh god.”
Minho laughs, startled, trying to catch his breath. “You’re sure?”
“Yes,” Jisung says immediately. Then he pauses, presses his forehead to Minho’s. “But can you… ask me again. Properly. Like you planned to.”
Minho smiles, soft and fond. “I can do that.”
“Good,” Jisung says. “Because I want to say yes again. Make it a whole thing.”
Minho pulls him back into his chest, arms wrapping around him fully.
“Sleep now,” Minho murmurs.
Jisung nods, already relaxing, his body finally letting go.
“Okay,” he whispers, smiling into Minho’s shirt.
After a while Minho notices that Jisung is still not asleep.
“You still overthimkinh?” He asks worried. Maybe it was too much and too early.
“No,” Jisung answers, Minho can hear the smile from his answer. “Now I am too excited to fall asleep.” He says truthfully already sounding giddy.
Minho laughs and smaks his butt.
They spend an other hour just talking and imagining how their future home will be like together, before they fall asleep. Both having the same dream.
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