Chapter Text
Lee Minho does not remember a time before Han Jisung.
He remembers the ugly yellow slide at the neighborhood park. He remembers the way the summer air smelled like cut grass and a blend of sunscreen and sweat—sometimes like burnt rubber when the older kids skidded their bikes too fast on the pavement. He remembers a tiny, loud boy with skinny legs and too-big sneakers marching up to him and declaring, very seriously—
“You look lonely. I’ll be your friend.”
Minho had stared at him for a long, unimpressed five seconds.
“Didn’t ask.”
The boy smiled anyway.
“I’m Jisung.”
“Also didn’t ask.”
Jisung raised his eyebrows at that, studying him with exaggerated scrutiny.
“Huh. You’re grumpy.”
Minho didn’t bother responding.
“So what’s your name?”
He sighed, defeated by persistence. He wouldn’t even have left his room if his mother hadn’t forced him out to ‘go make some friends’.
“Minho.”
“What year were you born?”
“1998.”
“A-ha.” Jisung nodded like he’d just solved a complex equation. “Can I call you hyung, then?”
“No.”
“Cool! It’s nice to meet you, Minho-hyung,” Jisung beamed at him.
Minho frowned, already turning back toward the slide to signal that the conversation had ended.
It hadn’t.
Jisung plopped down beside him without invitation, knees knocking against Minho’s.
There was a brief, awkward silence. Most kids would have left by now. Most kids would have taken the hint.
Clearly, Jisung did not.
Instead, he squinted up at the sky like he was contemplating something profound. “Did you just move here? I’ve never seen you before.”
“Kind of.”
“Do you like it here?”
“Kind of.”
“I like it here.”
“Okay.”
Jisung grinned, completely unbothered. “You can sit with me again tomorrow.”
“I don’t need to sit with anyone.”
“That’s okay. I’ll still sit with you, hyung.”
Minho opened his mouth to argue again—and then didn’t.
Because Jisung was already talking about something else. About how awful the color of the slide was. About how the older kids were cheaters at tag. About how he once tried to ride his bike with no hands and crashed into a bush. About the local ice cream shop he would introduce Minho to.
He talked and talked and talked like they had known each other for years.
And Minho doesn’t remember why, but he stayed and listened to everything.
He just remembers that when Jisung laughed at his own jokes—loud and unrestrained, head thrown back—something in the heavy summer air felt lighter.
Minho didn’t laugh. But he didn’t leave either.
The next day, Jisung showed up with two melting popsicles.
“See?” he said triumphantly, handing one over. “Friends share.”
Minho accepted it.
And that was the beginning. Nothing dramatic or monumental. Just a boy who refused to go away and a boy who somehow decided to stay.
From that day on, wherever Minho was, there Jisung was too. He attached himself to the older boy like a particularly stubborn sticker that followed him everywhere.
To the convenience store.
To the library.
To the park.
To school.
Then home from school.
If Minho slowed down, Jisung matched his pace. If Minho sped up, Jisung ran to keep up. If Minho pretended not to notice him, Jisung talked enough for the both of them.
“Why are you stalking me?” Minho asked one afternoon, half-annoyed, half-resigned.
“I’m not stalking you, I’m hanging out with you,” Jisung explained patiently. “‘Cause we’re friends.”
“We’re not.”
“Yes, we are. You said we were friends.”
Minho stopped walking and looked at him, genuinely flabbergasted. “I literally never said that.”
Jisung tilted his head. “Didn’t you?”
“No.”
Jisung hummed thoughtfully, then grinned. “Well, you implied it.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“You never told me to go away.”
Minho opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again.
Jisung gasped dramatically. “See? You like me!”
Minho groaned and kept walking.
Jisung followed, victorious.
Jisung cried when he accidentally launched himself off the swing and scraped his knee.
Minho had stood there with his hands on his hips, watching as Jisung wailed like the world had ended.
“Hyung—hyung!—it’s bleeding,” Jisung shrieked, horrified.
“It’s a scratch,” Minho corrected.
“It’s blood!” Jisung insisted, as if he was about to lose his entire leg.
Minho rolled his eyes and crouched down anyway, pulling a crumpled pack of tissues from his pocket—the ones his mother always forced him to carry. He wiped the blood away carefully, much gentler than his tone would ever suggest.
“Didn’t I tell you not to ride the swing standing up?”
Jisung just sniffled in response.
“Did I or did I not?”
“You did,” he hiccuped.
“You’re eleven now. You should know better.”
Jisung had finally stopped crying by then. He wanted to protest—wanted to say he was still a kid—but he had learned that being stubborn never worked well with Minho. So instead he just mumbled,
“Sorry, hyung.”
Minho sighed.
“And you can’t just cry for me when you get hurt, Jisung-ah. What happens when I’m not around?”
“That’s never going to happen.”
“Of course it is.”
“No, it’s not,” Jisung wiped at his face with the back of his hand, then suddenly brightened. “You’re stuck with me, hyung.”
He shoved his pinky forward expectantly.
Minho blinked at the tiny finger.
“What’s this for?”
“Promise me,” Jisung said, sudden seriousness settling over him. “Promise you won’t get another best friend. Promise you’re stuck with me forever.”
Minho’s expression didn’t change, but something warm and unfamiliar spread quietly through his chest. When he didn’t move, Jisung nudged his hand impatiently.
Minho sighed. “Forever is a long time,” he noted.
“Good,” Jisung said brightly. “No backsies, though.”
Minho rolled his eyes but hooked their pinkies together anyway, shaking his head like it was a burden.
It never once felt like one.
It wasn’t noticeable at first—the shift.
It happened in increments too small to name. So small that if you blinked, you’d miss it.
At fourteen, Jisung started borrowing Minho’s hoodies and not giving them back.
Not because he was cold. Not really. He just liked them.
“They smell like you,” Jisung said once, shrugging into the sleeves that swallowed his hands.
Minho had rolled his eyes, but he didn’t really mind.
In fact, he had to look away for a moment—because something about the sight of Jisung wrapped in his clothes, drowning in fabric that was a little too big, too obviously his, made Minho’s chest flutter in a way he didn’t fully understand.
It looked—right. Natural. The way things were supposed to be.
He refused to examine that thought too closely, though.
When Jisung turned fifteen, Minho started glaring at anyone who stood too close to him.
It wasn’t even a conscious choice. It just happened.
Like the time the new transfer kid, Hyunjin—tall, dramatic, too pretty for his own good—leaned down to whisper something in Jisung’s ear during lunch.
Jisung had burst into his animated laughter, head tipping back, eyes crinkling as he fell sideways into Hyunjin’s shoulder.
Minho felt something unexpectedly sharp and hot settle under his ribs. The intensity of it took him by genuine surprise.
Hyunjin’s hand lingered on Jisung’s thigh a second too long and Minho’s jaw tightened.
It wasn’t a big deal. It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.
It shouldn’t matter because it wasn’t his business.
Jisung was allowed to have other friends.
Jisung was allowed to laugh with other people.
So why did it feel like something integral to Minho’s being was being taken away from him?
“Hyung,” Felix whispered from across the table, nudging Changbin. “Look at Minho-hyung’s face.”
Changbin snickered under his breath. “You should tell Hyunjin to stop before he loses a limb.”
Minho hadn’t realized he was staring until Felix cleared his throat meaningfully.
He immediately forced himself to look away first and focused on his tray. On the condensation sliding down his drink. On literally anything but the way Hyunjin’s head was bent close—too close—to Jisung’s.
It’s nothing, he told himself. You’re overreacting. They’re just talking. Don’t be weird.
But the irritation didn’t fade. It only coiled tighter the longer Jisung’s attention wasn’t on him.
Later, when Hyunjin got up to grab some napkins, Minho didn’t hesitate. He stood, walked around the table, and slid into the empty seat beside Jisung without a single word.
Hyunjin returned and paused next to Minho.
“…Move?” Minho said flatly.
Hyunjin raised a brow. “Why?”
“Because I’m sitting here.”
“You weren’t five seconds ago.”
Minho stared at him.
Hyunjin smirked slowly. “Ooooh. Jealous?”
“Of you?” Minho scoffed.
The denial came a little too swiftly.
Jisung blinked between them, genuinely confused. “Why would he be jealous?”
Minho almost laughed.
Yes. Why would he be?
He was just—protective.
That’s all.
Jisung had always been unusually warm, trusting, a little reckless because of it. Someone had to look out for him.
That was his role.
Hyunjin held Minho’s gaze for a beat longer than necessary, something knowing flickering there.
Then he smiled and cheerfully moved to sit next to Changbin.
Felix snorted into his drink.
Jisung, oblivious, leaned into Minho’s side like he always did—shoulder knocking against his arm, thigh pressing briefly to his—and Minho felt his equilibrium returned. The sharp heat in his chest dissolved instantly, replaced by something steadier.
The calm felt like danger in a different way, but Minho was too content to think too much about it then. And Jisung didn’t even notice anyway.
He never noticed what he did to Minho.
There had been a time—when they were fifteen and seventeen—when Minho had sworn he would finally learn how to say no to Jisung.
The opportunity to test that determination presented itself one afternoon.
Minho had dance practice that evening—important one for the evaluation week. His instructor had already warned them that anyone who did not perform well would be benched for the summer performance.
Jisung knew that.
Jisung also knew that Minho had been stressed about it all week.
Which was why it made absolutely no sense that Jisung chose that exact afternoon to announce—
“I signed us up.”
Minho didn’t look up from tying his shoelaces. “Signed us up for what.”
“The duet stage for the school festival.”
Silence.
Minho blinked slowly. “You did what.”
Jisung rocked back on his heels, grin bright and unapologetic. “It’ll be fun.”
“It’s next week.”
“Exactly.”
“I have evaluations.”
“You always have evaluations.”
Minho stood up, staring at him. “I’m not doing it.”
Jisung blinked.
Minho crossed his arms. “I’m serious.”
Jisung tilted his head slightly down and looked up at Minho through his lashes—damn it, his pretty, long lashes.
It was a subtle movement. But Minho knew what it was. He knew every micro-expression on Jisung’s face, had them all embarrassingly catalogued in his head.
This was the one that meant: Are you really going to say no to me?
“You said,” Jisung began carefully, “that we should try new things this year.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“You said we’d do something together for the festival this time.”
“I said maybe.”
Jisung stepped closer.
Minho held his ground. I will not fold, I will not fold, I will not–
“You promised,” Jisung said softly.
He definitely did not, and yet Minho’s stomach dropped like he’d just been caught breaking an oath.
“Don’t do that,” Minho muttered, already feeling his resolve thinning.
Jisung’s grin faltered. The teasing curve of his mouth eased into something gentler, almost vulnerable.
“I just thought…,” he hesitated. “It’d be our last chance before you graduate.”
There it was. The real reason.
Minho felt it hit somewhere in his guts. He hated the thought of leaving, of not having Jisung by his side.
Jisung ducked his head slightly, voice dropping even further. “You’re gonna be way too busy next year and… I don’t know. I just want to make a fun memory before you leave.”
Minho exhaled slowly.
This was unfair. He knew it was unfair.
He had every reason to say no. Every logical argument lined up neatly in his head.
He needed practice. He needed focus. He needed—
Jisung reached out and tugged lightly at the sleeve of Minho’s hoodie.
“You’ll do it with me, right?”
Minho stared at that hand. At the way Jisung was trying to look casual about it. At the way his eyes betrayed him anyway.
Minho had never been able to stand that look. The one that trusted him without hesitation.
He lasted five whole seconds.
“…What song?” Minho asked through gritted teeth.
Jisung’s face lit up so brightly it physically hurt to look at.
“I knew it!” he yelled, launching himself forward and nearly knocking Minho off balance. “I knew you’d say yes!”
“I didn’t say yes.”
“You’re asking about the song.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It so is!”
Minho sighed.
He could feel himself folding. Again.
He always folded.
Jisung bounced excitedly. “We’ll practice after your evaluations. I’ll work around your schedule and make it simple. I promise, hyung, I promise!”
Minho only let out another defeated sigh as he zipped Jisung’s jacket up before they stepped out, fingers lingering for a second to adjust the collar until he was satisfied Jisung wouldn’t catch a cold.
Jisung kept rambling the entire time—about song choices, about whether coordinated outfits were cringe or iconic, about how neon had personally betrayed him last time.
Minho hummed at the right moments, pretending he wasn’t smiling.
He briefly thought about how his mom teased him for never saying no to Jisung. How a girl from his class once laughed and asked whether he ever got tired of “babysitting” (she had stopped talking to him altogether after he politely turned down her invitation for a date).
But that was the thing.
Jisung never schemed. He didn’t manipulate him. He didn’t even demand. Not really—though he sure acted like it.
He just asked, and trusted that Minho would always choose him.
And Minho, every single time, did. Like it was the only logical conclusion of things.
The duet ended up being the highlight of the festival.
They won.
Jisung cried afterward, clutching the trophy like it was something sacred.
“See?” he said, grinning through ridiculous happy tears. “You would’ve regretted it if you said no, hyung.”
Minho watched him, chest chock-full with fondness.
He realized then—not for the first time—that it had never really been about the festival.
It had simply been about Jisung asking.
And Minho wanting to be the only person who always said yes to him.
By sixteen, it was painfully clear that things were different.
Jisung had grown into himself in a way Minho hadn’t prepared for. His steps were still clumsy, his energy still explosive, but there was something enchanting now. Something more irresistible.
People noticed him.
Minho noticed that people noticed him. He tried to not let it bother him—then failed gloriously.
It was in the way some classmates lingered too long after group projects—Minho always waiting patiently on the side. In the way boys in Minho’s year suddenly found excuses to sit near Jisung during assemblies like it was a competitive sport. In the way chocolate flooded Jisung’s desk both on Valentine’s and White Day.
Minho told himself it was normal.
Jisung was bright and very likeable. Jisung was talented. Jisung was—
Jisung.
Of course people would look. That didn’t mean Minho had to care.
“—and Minho-hyung’s basically my boyfriend anyway,” Jisung declared to the entire group mid-conversation.
Minho choked so violently on his soda that Changbin had to thump his back twice.
“Breathe, Romeo,” Changbin muttered flatly.
Minho shot him a glare through watering eyes.
“You’re insane,” Minho rasped once oxygen returned to him, his nose burning.
“But you are,” Jisung insisted easily, slinging an arm around Minho’s shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You carry my bag. You walk me home. You buy me food and feed me. That’s boyfriend behavior.”
“That’s basic decency.”
Felix wheezed. “Basic decency, my ass. No friend needs to be doing all that.”
Changbin nodded solemnly. “I’ve known him for years. He’s never once fed me.”
“Didn’t I just cook for you two days ago?” Minho shot back.
“Oh. My bad. Let me clarify. You have never once hand-fed me,” Changbin deadpanned.
Minho felt heat crawl up his neck.
“That was once.”
“Definitely wasn’t,” Felix corrected happily.
Jisung grinned, leaning more of his weight into Minho’s side. “He blew on it too. Said it was too hot.”
The table erupted into laughter.
Minho wanted the ground to open and swallow him whole.
“Shut up. It was too hot,” he defended weakly.
Hyunjin, who had by then become a permanent fixture in their friend group, leaned his chin into his palm, eyes glittering with mischief. He loved chaos too much for his own good.
“Sungie,” he sighed dramatically, “it pains me to see you jilted like this. Tragic, truly. But, hey, I can introduce you to other people!” his eyes flicked to Minho for a second. “Do you know Ha-eun? She’s really sweet and— Oh, wait! What about Mingi-hyung from dance club? Tall, broad shoulders, surprisingly soft-spoken. I think he’s hot. And quite interested in you.”
Jisung broke into giggles. “Song Min-gi? Damn. I wouldn’t mind.”
Minho went very still.
Hyunjin perked up immediately. “Should I give him your number? Or do you want to text him right now? I’m sure he’d—”
“Hwang Hyunjin.”
Minho said his full name like a warning shot. The table quieted just a little.
Hyunjin blinked at him innocently. “What?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t give Jisung’s number to anyone.”
Hyunjin tilted his head. “Why? He’s single. Jisung’s single, is he not?”
Minho’s jaw tightened.
“He’s not—” The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Everyone leaned forward with delight.
“He’s not what?” Felix asked gleefully.
Minho recalibrated. “He’s not interested.”
Jisung turned slowly to look at him.
“Oh?” he said lightly. “I’m not?”
Minho opened his mouth. Closed it again.
Hyunjin grinned like he’d just found buried treasure.
“Don’t be greedy, hyung,” he drawled lazily. “Just because Sungie’s not your boyfriend doesn’t mean he can’t be someone else’s boyfriend.”
Something sharp flashed across Minho’s face—so quick it would’ve been missed if they didn’t know him so well.
But they did.
Jisung, however, just laughed.
Then he leaned in, resting his head against Minho’s shoulder again. All familiarity and affection.
“Don’t tease my boyfriend too much, Jinnie,” he said with a grin. “He gets jealous easily.”
Minho’s entire body went rigid.
“I’m not jealous,” he said stiffly.
“You basically just said Jisung shouldn’t be interested in anyone else,” Felix pointed out helpfully.
“That’s because he’s not.”
“Oh my god,” Changbin muttered tiredly. “You’re unbelievable, hyung.”
Jisung tilted his face up to look at Minho, eyes bright and teasing—but there was something else there too. Something searching.
“You don’t want me to date Mingi-hyung?” he asked softly.
Minho didn’t hesitate.
“No.” The answer came fast and certain. “And don’t call him that. You barely know him.”
Silence fell again.
Hyunjin shook his head.
Felix’s mouth slowly fell open.
Changbin watched them with resignation.
Jisung’s smile only softened. “See?” he said quietly. “Boyfriend behavior.”
The night before Minho left for university, it rained.
Of course it did.
They’re on the rooftop of Jisung’s building even though it was freezing because they’d always gone there when they needed some alone time.
Funny, that.
Alone.
Alone had never meant solitude for either of them. It had always meant alone together. Just the two of them. Him and his Jisungie.
Wait, no. Not his Jisungie.
Just Jisung.
And Jisung was unusually quiet tonight.
He only ever went this still when he was arranging his thoughts, testing words in his head before speaking them aloud.
Minho braced himself.
“You’re really leaving,” Jisung said eventually, staring at the view of other rooftops around them.
“I’ll only be a few hours away.”
“That’s far.”
Minho almost said, You’ll be fine. But he didn’t.
Because the truth was, he’s not sure he would be. If either of them would be.
They had never gone more than a week without seeing each other. Never chosen separate paths. Never stood on the edge of something this permanent and uncertain.
But life was always bound to happen.
Jisung’s voice was quieter when he said, “You’re not going to forget me, right?”
Minho huffed. “You’re impossible to forget, Han Jisung.”
“Promise?”
Minho turned to look at him fully now. Jisung’s eyes were wide, earnest, and Minho felt an unexpected tension coil low in his chest.
“I promise.”
Jisung nodded once. Like he was filing it away for another day.
There was a long silence after that. Rain pattered softly against the canopy. Somewhere below, a car passed the quiet street.
Then—
“Minho-hyung.”
The way he said it was different and Minho felt it immediately.
“Mm?”
Jisung swallowed.
“I love you.”
The words didn’t come wrapped in humor or bravado. There was no performance in them, no safety net of a joke. They landed between them bare and earnest, carrying more weight than Minho knew what to do with and he felt his heart stumble.
Because of course he loved Jisung. That had never been the question. But the way Jisung was looking at him right now—open, vulnerable, almost in surrender—made something dangerous bloom behind his ribs.
This wasn’t the careless love you Jisung tossed at him after winning pointless arguments or getting his way again. This felt like something being handed over carefully, with both palms open.
Could Jisung possibly—? No. That would be insane. That was his own delusional selfishness talking.
Minho’s mind scrambled and quickly latched onto the nearest, safest explanation it could find.
This was a farewell. Of course. Sure, it felt a bit dramatic. But Jisung had always been dramatic.
He was just saying goodbye.
Not forever—but in the way you do when something is about to change. When one of you is stepping into a new chapter and you’re both pretending it won’t pull you apart. It was a promise wrapped in fear. A plea for reassurance. Don’t forget me when you leave.
And Minho, who had been spending weeks pretending he wasn’t terrified of exactly that, let himself believe it.
Because the alternative interpretation was too fanciful. Too hopeful. Too capable of shattering everything they’d built together for more than half their lives. If he mistook this—if he reached for something that wasn’t being offered—he could shatter the one thing they’d always had.
He could lose him.
The thought alone made it hard to breathe.
So Minho swallowed down the ache, swallowed down the want, and chose the version of reality that felt survivable.
He forced his voice steady.
“I love you too, dummy,” he managed quietly. And it rang true.
Relief washed across Jisung’s face so visibly as he breathed out, shoulders relaxing, like he’d just survived something enormous.
“Okay,” Jisung whispered.
Minho frowned faintly. “Okay?”
Jisung hesitated again. Then, softly:
“So… we’re not going to see other people, right?”
Minho’s heart skipped—and then he forced it back into rhythm.
Other people. As in new friends. New priorities. A new life without him.
Jisung was scared of being left behind. That was all this was.
Minho laughed lightly. “Obviously not. You know how I am. And who else would put up with you?”
He meant it as a joke, but Jisung didn’t laugh. Instead, he smiled—small, shy, almost disbelieving. Like he’d just been handed something precious and was afraid to hold it too tightly in case it disappeared.
“Good,” he said.
And somehow, Minho—who had always noticed every minute pull of Jisung’s muscles, the slightest shift in his tone, the different degrees of lift in his eyebrows—didn’t notice all the cues.
Didn’t notice the way Jisung was looking at him.
Didn’t notice how he stepped closer with deliberate caution this time, like he was afraid one wrong move might set off a landmine.
He only noticed when Jisung’s fingers curled into the front of his shirt, the grip unusually tentative.
“You know I’ve liked you for a really long time, right, hyung?” Jisung said, his voice barely audible under the steady fall of rain.
Minho’s lungs forgot their job for a second.
Goddamnit. Why was Jisung so hell-bent on giving him a heart attack just before he’s leaving? As if leaving wasn’t difficult enough in the first place.
Jisung’s eyes didn’t leave his face. There was no teasing curve to his mouth, no familiar grin ready to undo the seriousness of the moment.
“Since middle school, I think,” he continued, swallowing. “Maybe earlier. I just… didn’t know how to say it.”
Minho’s heart began to pound so loudly he was sure Jisung could hear it.
“You’re my favorite person, hyung,” Jisung whispered. “I don’t want anyone else.”
Minho’s heart soared—and sank at the same time.
Because Jisung said things like this all the time. Because Jisung was affectionate—clingy, even. Because Jisung had always loved him loudly.
It didn’t mean what Minho wanted it to mean.
But Jisung was here. And he was so close. And Minho could step forward, close the distance.
He could press his mouth to Jisung’s and find out, finally, if the spark he’d been swallowing all these years was real.
The thought flashed so vividly it scared him.
Jisung’s gaze flickered down to Minho’s lips for the briefest second.
Then back up.
Waiting.
The space between them felt electric as Minho’s hands hovered uncertainly at Jisung’s waist.
He told himself: He’s your best friend. He just likes saying these things. Don’t be stupid. Don’t fuck things up.
So instead of leaning in, instead of risking everything that made up the fabric of his life, Minho pulled Jisung into his arms.
A safe and familiar choice.
Jisung froze for half a second—just long enough that Minho almost pulled back—before melting into him, arms wrapping tight around Minho’s middle.
Minho buried his face in Jisung’s hair so Jisung wouldn’t see the way his eyes were burning.
“Call me every night,” Jisung mumbled.
“I will.”
“Come visit anytime you can.”
“I will.”
“And when I come to university in two years,” Jisung continued, squeezing him tighter, “we’ll get a place together.”
Minho hummed. “Okay.”
Jisung tilted his face up again, just slightly. Close enough that their noses almost brushed.
And for one suspended, breathless moment—Minho almost kissed him. Almost.
But fear won.
So he rested his chin on top of Jisung’s head instead.
Jisung waited just a fraction longer. Then he smiled softly to himself.
Hyung wants to take things slow, he decided. Of course he does.
Minho had always been cautious. The responsible adult. The thoughtful one. The kind of person who wouldn’t rush something important.
That was fine.
They had time.
They had forever sprawled ahead of them.
Minho, meanwhile, held him tighter and tried very hard not to think about what Jisung’s mouth might taste like.