Archive of Our Own ^omega

Minho’s roommate knows that he should stay away for his own sanity when Jisung is here. 

Not that they’re always up to something. But he’d rather be safe than sorry. 

Tonight Jisung is kissing Minho’s forehead until it feels like the shape of his lips have been imprinted onto his skin, Minho laughs, holds onto Jisung’s cheeks and pushes him away. 

“Stop.” He swears, raising an eyebrow, Jisung whines—is relentless, Minho can’t say no. He leans in and connects them by the lips. Just to shut him up, Minho loves shutting Jisung up. 

A scream echoes from the TV, they turn their attention back to the screen, adjusts on the couch, straightening their posture. 

“Shit, who died?” Jisung asks, as if Minho would know—he dives into the bowl of popcorn with his hand, Minho shrugs, watches the rest of the massacre, cringes at the gore. There goes another three teenagers, slaughtered at the hand of an evil deity. Jisung huffs, curls closer to Minho, ten minutes later he’s sucking on the skin on Minho’s neck, while the antagonist is chipping away at the friend group on TV until one will remain, stepping into the daylight as the sole survivor. Minho couldn’t care less about the plot of the movie if he’s honest. He holds Jisung close instead and melts. 

🫧

They meet in a frat-bathroom, romantic right? Minho walks in on Jisung sucking face with someone else, well he doesn’t know who Jisung is, so he walks in on two guys sucking face—apologizes, a little bit more than tipsy, for disturbing them, and begins his walk back to the party. He hears them laughing from inside, before stumbling out of the bathroom. Shouting in Minho’s direction that he can use it now. 

Thank you strangers, Minho nods. Not so much thank you, strangers—Minho thinks, when he’s inside the bathroom. There’s a cup in the sink half full with a mysterious liquid that doesn’t seem quite just as liquidy as alcohol should be, as well as handprints on the mirror, gross. Minho cringes, tries to touch as few surfaces as possible, takes his piss, before he’s off again. He should probably find Seungmin, before they get too drunk and they have to fetch a taxi home. They really only worked around their budget to buy a months’ supply of booze, not so much for any late night taxi fees. Minho tuts, they really hike their prices when they know kids are out partying, it’s simply not fair.  

Forty-five minutes later, his journey to find Seungmin has been disturbed at least, like four times, once to join a game of beer pong, a losing one—which didn’t settle well at the pit of Minho’s stomach. Got caught in conversation with a few people he’s recognized from campus, shit—Minho sees himself like he’s having an out of body experience, is that a shot in his hand? Well, might as well, there are only so many Fridays in your life. Live fast and die young. You only live once, whatever it is the poets say. The liquor settles even worse than the beer. 

Minho isn’t made for this life anymore, there’s a reason he doesn’t want to touch frat houses with a ten foot pole, they’re gross, and everyone is sweaty and touchy—Jesus, why is there a hand on the small of his back just because someone is trying to pass him? 

He touches the bannister to the stairs, when he stumbles towards the hall, it’s sticky. Minho tries to contain his facial expression to the minimum, but it’s not going well. This is the grossest thing he’s ever experienced, he needs to cut his hand clean off—gross gross gross . Minho is totally derailed on his adventure, holding his hand in the air like he doesn’t know what to do with it. Adventure, journey, yeah. Fuck, it’s Seungmin, he was supposed to find Seungmin. 

With a sticky hand, he takes his phone from the back of his jeans, fully ready to tell Seungmin to find his way home on his own, because he is not doing this anymore. He stares at his phone, like he’s momentarily trying to figure out what to do, fingers hovering over his keypad, then he spots at the lone notification in grainy pixels. He clicks it. 

‘going 2 dis dudes place frm econ ;) txt me when ur home’ 

Oh, so it’s Minho who has to find his way home on his own. Perfect, Seungmin sent this twenty minutes ago—he’s mumbling his grievances and complaints all the way to the hall, where he swiftly takes a look at himself in a mirror—mentally giving himself a speech. You’re strong, you can do this, you will not throw up on the way home. 

Minho throws up about a hundred yards from the frat house and with two miles left until he’s home. The beer didn’t make an ideal environment in his stomach for the shot to thrive in, and that became utterly clear when Minho actually started walking. He thought that the fresh air would help, but well fifty yards in he started growing nauseous. Fifty yards later and he’s standing hunched over a bush of flowers throwing up. He’d kill a man for a bottle of water now. 

“God.” Minho sits down on the sidewalk, hanging with his head between his knees, he just needs to recharge—then he can get going. Two more miles, he thinks about bed, he’d kill a man to be in bed right now. You’re strong Minho, you can do this, you will not throw up on the way home, again. 

He feels better at least. 

“Yo,” Someone calls, “You okay dude?” He asks, crouching in front of Minho. 

Minho looks up, oh look—it’s an angel. Illuminated by yellow streetlights, strands of hair sticking in all directions, he’s smoking a cigarette, resting his head in his palm. 

“Yeah.” He answers, he spits on the ground between his feet. “Pretty sure I threw up on some roses.” Romantic right? This is how every love story begins. 

“Mind if I sit down?” 

“Yeah, go ahead.” Minho nods, someone to share his drunk misery with. 

It fluctuates how talkative he is, he’s reserved, he thinks—isn't exactly the type of guy to strike up conversation with people he doesn’t know. Not usually at least, he doesn’t usually throw up on roses either, to be fair. 

“Drinking isn’t even worth it, I mean it’s fun—for what, like an hour? Then you get sick, and then you throw up, and then you fall asleep, and wake up—hungover, like nine times outta ten. I’m useless when I’m hungover, I can’t even move, and I think, wow I’m never doing this again. And then I do it again.” 

The stranger snickers, something akin to been-there-done-that, something akin to been-there-done-that-will-do-it-again. 

He holds the pack of cigarettes out, offering one to Minho, Minho doesn’t smoke. It’s bad for you. But he still finds himself accepting one, and then his lighter. He doesn’t stop talking. 

“You know, I don’t smoke. They’re bad for you.” He reasons. Out loud this time. “They kill people, my grandma’s sister died from lung cancer, she smoked like a chimney. Until the day she died, so my grandma hated cigarettes. My mom smoked when she was a teen, and when grandma found out she nearly threw her out. So um, I don’t smoke, yeah it’s bad for you.” He inhales the smoke, lays thick over his tongue, it stings in his throat. If his mother knew he smoked, well he doesn’t, because this doesn't count, not that it matters, she’d probably threaten to write him out of the will as well. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Minho coughs, when he takes too deep of an inhale, but fixes his posture as fast as he can. 

“Wow.” The stranger mumbles. Like he admires Minho. “Thank you, I didn’t know.” 

“You’re welcome,” Minho nods, he doesn’t care that the stranger is obviously sarcastic. Minho looks at him, a little longer now. “Hey, aren’t you the guy that I walked in on in the bathroom?” 

“Huh.” He hums. “I might be. My name is Jisung.” 

“‘S Minho.” He responds. “I was looking for my roommate, we went to the frat together. He promised it’d be more fun than the bars around campus. Swore we needed to have some fun before the semester begins. But alas, he disappeared, and then I was taking shots, I don’t do shots, they make me throw up. And then I found out my roommate went home with a guy, so I was like fuck this, I’m going home. And then I threw up. And then I sat down.” He looks behind him, and cringes. “Shit I feel really bad about the flowers, do you think they’ll notice?” 

They’re quiet for a bit. Jisung laughs again. 

“Anyway. Where’s your date?” 

“Guy I was making out with?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Oh, he lives the other way. It’s my friend Felix, we just make out sometimes.” Jisung lights a second cigarette. 

“Why?” Minho huffs. “Sounds really stupid.” 

“Nah, it’s fun. Nothing serious.” 

“Yeah sure,” He laughs now, “It’s not serious, until it is, that’s how it always goes. Have you ever watched and or read romance ever? Boom, cue love triangle or just miserable and complicated feelings and God, the jealousy.” 

Jisung scoffs now, looks at Minho, intrigued. “It’s not always that serious, Mr. Minho. Sometimes people just want to have fun.”

Minho takes a final drag, stomps the cigarette out underneath his sneakers. It itches in him to have another one, Jisung must read his thoughts, he shakes the pack, and hands it back to Minho. 

“Fine.” He hums. “Don’t get me wrong, I can have fun.” 

“Yeah, ever make out with your friends?” Jisung inquires.  

“No, I value my dignity.” Minho says, and he does—most of the time. Unless he’s letting himself be dragged into rounds of beer pong, or throwing up on someone’s poor rose-bushes, or whatever else might come up that gives him reason to not value his dignity. 

“Harsh.” Jisung laughs. “I live like, a mile from here. Wanna walk together?” 

“I wanna go to bed.” Minho sighs. He doesn’t even feel drunk anymore, but the pavement looks soft.

“I have a bed.” 

Minho looks at him, this gorgeous stranger named Jisung. 

What’s the worst that could happen? 

🫧

“Did we have sex last night?” Minho asks, the second he wakes up.

“No.” 

“Oh thank God.” He sighs, turns his head to look at Jisung. He looks tired, and hungover, staring at his phone like he can’t even begin to move. It’s nice to see someone share his misery. Minho smacks his lips, he can taste the tobacco from last night. 

“Ouch.” 

“I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“Elaborate before you really hurt my self-esteem.” He laughs, Minho pinches his eyebrows together. 

“I don’t do drunken one-night stands very well.” He mumbles. “I like to be at peak-performance, can’t leave people I’m never gonna see again with a bad impression of me.” 

Nodding, Jisung accepts his explanation. 

Half an hour later, Minho is ready to walk the last mile home, hungover. He dreads it, but he can’t stay here forever, even if the bed is soft. Jisung doesn’t offer breakfast, or rather lunch—but he does walk with Minho to the hall. 

Minho takes a good look at the apartment now, in the daylight. 

“Nice place.” 

“Yeah.” Jisung hums, looking around. “My dad pays the rent to keep me from bringing up his mistresses during family dinners.” 

Looking at him while he’s forcing his feet back into his sneakers, Minho raises an eyebrow. 

“Kidding.” Jisung says, but he doesn’t sound particularly convincing. 

Before Minho leaves, Jisung holds out a piece of paper. 

“Here’s my number—in case you wanna show what you’re like at peak-performance, or whatever.” 

They see each other two days later. And then a few more times the coming weeks. 

What’s the worst that could happen? 

🫧

He’s an amazing kisser. Minho drowns when his lips meet Jisung. This forever. Please. Forever and forever. 

🫧

They’re kind of a thing. Not an official thing, they won’t go on Facebook and update their statuses to ‘In a relationship,’ ‘cause that is way too much. That will have their relatives calling, and their friends asking questions. 

Besides Jisung is honest with him, very very early on, that he doesn’t date and he doesn’t do relationships. Minho thinks it’s fair, they’re still in their twenties, Minho isn’t exactly begging for a ring. 

But they’re a thing, definitely. Enough of a thing for Seungmin to avoid the apartment when he knows Jisung will be over. Not because they always have sex, sometimes he’s just there, hanging out. They find a shared love for horror films and anime, so they do that. Put on a marathon and laze around on Minho’s couch until they’re too drowsy to do anything else. But Seungmin thinks they’re annoying, so he avoids them all together whenever he can. 

The fact that Jisung has even met Seungmin, that Seungmin knows his name, is proof enough in Minho’s book that they’re a thing. Because Jisung lives alone, in a nice and spacious apartment, yet, he still likes to come over to Minho’s place. A very big difference to the guy Minho saw a few months back, a friends-with-benefits thing, he didn’t even want to be seen with Minho if others were as much as in a twenty mile radius of them. Said it could give people the wrong idea. As if dating Minho is so terrible. 

Minho and Jisung are not dating, but they’re a thing, definitely, not that they’ve talked about it, and Minho is okay with that—even if it sometimes means that Jisung wakes him up by calling at 2 A.M. to ask if he can come over, or the other way around. So far, Minho has said yes, like nine times out of ten, he can’t really get himself to say no to Jisung. 

They’re definitely a thing, sort of, sort of not established, and there’s a mutual understanding between them that they’re exclusive. Minho thinks so, at least he made it very clear, about a month in, that he didn’t like the idea of Jisung making out with Felix at parties and then coming to Minho’s apartment to sleep the alcohol off and asking for goodnight-kisses. Jisung just nodded, like maybe the feelings were a bit foreign, but respected his wishes nevertheless.  

“Mmn.” Jisung hums. Hands on either side of his neck, Minho peppers kisses onto his cheeks. 

“What are you saying?” Minho laughs. 

“Nothing coherent.” 

Jisung makes himself comfortable in Minho’s lap, crossing his feet around Minho’s waist. It’s nice, Minho likes it when they share body heat, when they’re so close he doesn’t know where his body ends and Jisung’s begins. 

“You’re never coherent.” He says, “I’m concerned about how you’re getting a college degree.”

“What?” Jisung scoffs, “I’m like super smart.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, absolutely.” 

“Weren’t you counting your grade the other day to see if you could fail your exam and still keep your B?” 

“Yeah, B, that’s a good grade. And trying to figure that out shows I’m good at math, so...” He blows raspberries at Minho. 

“Sure. You’re super smart, baby.” 

Minho leans back, bringing Jisung with him. Spreads his hands out on Jisung’s back. He won’t argue with Jisung, he doesn’t care enough about Jisung’s grades to do so. He kinda wants to focus on making Jisung squirm instead. 

Opening his mouth to say something, Jisung is disturbed by the shrill ringing of his phone. Jisung rolls his eyes at first, ready to just reach over and turn the sound off, when he looks at the screen. Minho reads the contact, his mom. 

“Uh,” He bites his lip, and leans back, he takes his phone—answers before she’s sent to voicemail. “Hi mom.”

Jisung doesn’t seem to know where to look, not at Minho’s that's for sure, doesn’t seem to know where to put his hand either, ends up twirling Minho’s hoodie string around his finger. 

“No I don’t know where dad is.” He scoffs. “Why would I know that?” 

“You’re always in cahoots.” 

“No we’re not.”

“Well, you seem to know what your dad is up to before I do.” She huffs on the other line, Minho doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the speaker makes it hard for him not to. 

“ Well , why don’t you call your husband and ask where he is?”  

“Don’t act so smug, you don’t think I’ve tried that? Call him, ask where he is!” 

His mom hangs up before he has time to do so himself. Jisung mumbles, annoyed, sneers under his breath. Jisung continues to back away from Minho, little by little—he puts his phone back to his ear. 

“Yeah, dad?” He stands up from the bed, “Mom is calling me asking where you are.” 

He’s too far away now to know what Jisung’s dad is saying, but Jisung is clearly not very content about whatever answers he is receiving. “Oh, dinner? Yeah yeah, mom will love that answer. Can you just tell her you’re on the way home, or some—” He disappears out of the bedroom, muttering, turning quieter and quieter. Minho tries to act normal, but it’s weird. He stays in the bed, staring at the wall awkwardly, rolling his thumbs. Minho can hear Jisung talk, but he can distinguish what he’s saying. 

Jisung comes back, not more than two or three minutes later, he slumps down in bed, at the end of it, pressing his face to the duvet. 

“You weren’t joking when you said your dad pays for the apartment to keep you quiet?” Minho asks. 

Jisung shakes his head. “I don’t know why. My mom already knows about most of them.” He turns his head to vaguely look at Minho, he looks embarrassed. Most of them. There are more than one, it’s frequent. “She finds out. My dad tells her that it will never happen again—they go to marriage counseling, quit after a few months, and then my dad does it again.” 

“Sounds like they have an enchanting marriage.” 

“Yup.” Jisung blows hair out of his face. 

They’re quiet for a little bit, Minho sighs and crawls closer to Jisung. Kisses him on the cheek. 

“Wanna watch a movie?”

Jisung shakes his head. 

Minho thinks about something else they can do, Jisung isn’t exactly screaming horny or something—he wonders if they should just go to sleep. Or if he should just go home, maybe leaving Jisung alone is the best thing to do. 

“I need air.” Jisung whispers. “Take a walk around the block or something.” 

“Want me to tag along?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay.” Minho hums, standing up, he holds his hand out—coaxing Jisung to follow him. 

They get dressed for the weather, it’s still fairly warm outside, Minho likes fall—or the period before the weather changes completely, to grey clouds and ruthless rain. The post-summer, pre-fall weather. Clear skies, and fresh air, leaves turning yellow and orange, hissing on the branches when a breeze touches down on them, like a hand. Minho zips his jacket up, but it’s thin, he covers his neck with a scarf, not that he really needs it—but it looks nice. Jisung throws on a beanie, the same jacket that Minho has seen him wear for weeks, to be fair—he’s a fan of thick sweaters, wears them daily, so he should be fine. 

Outside they venture, walking to the very end of Jisung’s block—not talking, but not doing nothing either. Jisung turns his head to the sky and stares, Minho follows his gaze, finds there’s nothing there, but can’t tear his eyes away either. They dip into a convenience store on the corner of a building. Jisung buys cigarettes, and a new lighter. Minho doesn’t really understand why, he has lighters everywhere. He doesn’t go outside without at least two of them in his jacket, maybe one in his pants, his kitchen table at home is littered with them too—in every color imaginable, some are with actual motifs, then there are some older ones on his dresser—almost like they’re collectibles. 

Without thinking about where they are going, or maybe Jisung is, but Minho just follows along, they steer towards a park, Minho knows this one eventually leads back to the block adjacent to Jisung’s. 

“It’s nice.” Minho whispers, his fingers brush against Jisung’s, they haven’t really established if it’s okay to hold hands or not, if it’s normal, or if it crosses boundaries they don’t talk about. Sometimes they feel more like friends than they do a couple, Minho is a bit confused about that—they’ll hang around campus between lectures, go to cafés to study, lounge around their apartments doing nothing—like friends. But they also kiss each other goodnight and Jisung holds Minho close when they sleep, he kisses Minho’s forehead and plays with his hair, like couples do. Minho thinks; it’s been a while. 

(Of course, they’re not a couple. Just a thing.) 

“Hm?” Jisung looks at him, he struggles with the plastic around the pack of cigarettes, eventually comes out the victor, he plucks a cigarette, sticks it in his mouth. Tries the new lighter, clicks it a few times, checks it out in his hand. 

“I dunno, the weather, walking, whatever.” 

“Yeah,” Jisung exhales, walks through the cloud of smoke. “Thanks for coming.” 

“Yeah,” Minho hums, he leans in close, to Jisung’s ear. “What was I supposed to do, go home? I’d much rather be with you.” He holds his hand out, Jisung stares at it a little. Picks another cigarette, and hands it to him. 

There’s the usual spiel, Jisung asks about why Minho smokes, Minho says he doesn’t, ‘cause they’re bad for you, Jisung tells him he’s an oxymoron—and then they smoke. Minho doesn’t smoke, well not really, just when he’s with Jisung, and if it has begun to itch to smoke when he’s alone too? Well, that’s nobody’s business. 

“I walk this route a lot, alone.” Jisung mumbles out loud—just because he knows Minho is listening, this could have just as well been an internal monologue. “For a while, when I moved in here, when we didn’t have to live in the dorms anymore. I walked it every night.” 

“Just thinking?” 

“Yup,” He nods, Minho braves himself and intertwines their free hands. Jisung doesn’t mention it. “Then for a while, I got really into working out—so I ran it, looped it a few times over until I couldn’t breathe. Then I stopped working out, ‘cause it was boring, and took so much energy.” 

“Working out tends to burn energy.” 

“Smart-ass.” 

Minho smiles, like it’s a compliment, he squeezes Jisung’s hand. 

“Anyway, you know that skateboard that’s collecting dust in my bedroom.” 

“Yeah, I trip on it all the time.” Minho tuts. There’s a bruise on his ankle that will never go away. 

“Well, my dad got me that when I was really into Tony Hawk, Jesus I was obsessed—but then I didn’t dare to use it because I was afraid of looking like a loser, so now it’s collecting dust.” 

Sometimes Minho has a hard time following Jisung’s thoughts, “So, what about your skateboard.” 

“Don’t you think I should learn, I’d look really hot as a skater, right? Maybe skate this route late at night instead. Hair flowing in the wind, free like a bird.” 

“You’ll break your face and turn ugly.” 

Jisung tuts now. Promptly ignores him. Then it’s quiet again. Jisung takes an MP3 player from his jacket, sticks one earpod into his ear, and one into Minho’s. Presses play on a playlist that Minho recognizes, it’s one of his favorites, for sure. Slow songs, with mellow piano, and husky singing. They light another cigarette each, they always do that, two cigarettes in a row. Minho doesn’t know why, he just follows Jisung. 

They walk, and walk, Minho looks at the treetops and the dark grass around them, it is nice. He’s glad Jisung asked him to come. This must mean something. 

Minho sticks the cigarette in his mouth, leaving the corner of his mouth open—carefully exhaling the smoke that gathers, just how he’s seen Jisung do it. He holds their intertwined hands up, sets his now free one on Jisung’s hip. He stays close, so as not to have the music ripped from his ears. Nodding at nothing, Minho tells Jisung to follow. 

Jisung scoffs, places his hand on Minho’s shoulder anyway, they spin in a few circles, slow like ballroom dancing, before Minho ashes the cigarette, leans in to kiss him. 

“Okay,” Jisung mumbles, leaving the kiss a peck, he doesn’t indulge. “Pipe down loverboy.” He looks up, untangles himself from Minho. “Let’s hurry back, I'm freezing.” 

A little disappointed maybe, that they didn’t have some life changing moment, like kissing in the rain or something; Minho nods. 

Minho trips on the skateboard in Jisung’s room when they get ready for bed, he tuts, and shoots a pointed look towards Jisung. 

“See, if I learned you wouldn’t be bothered by it on the floor anymore.” 

“Yeah, sure. It’d be in the hall instead or what?”  

🫧

Jisung brings Minho to a skate park, late at night, hoping that as few people as possible will be there so he doesn’t inevitably embarrass himself in front of an entire ensemble of kids and high schoolers. 

He stands on the skateboard proud, for about ten minutes, carefully kicking himself forward, then he tries to do a trick, and then eats asphalt. 

They walk together to a 24-hour pharmacy, Minho buys him band aids and alcohol wipes. Then he sits Jisung down on a bench, wipes blood from his eyebrow, and nose, and palms. He coos when Jisung winces. 

“It’s okay, you’re great at a lot of other things. You don’t have to be the Tony Hawk of skateboarding too.” Minho assures. 

“Tony Hawk is the Tony Hawk of skateboarding.” Jisung huffs. 

“You get what I mean you big baby.” Minho laughs. Jisung pouts like a sick child. Arms crossed over his chest. 

“Never tell anyone about this.” 

“Okay.” He kisses Jisung’s forehead. 

There’s about three grainy videos of Jisung on Minho’s phone though—one where he’s just testing the skateboard out, one where he’s kicking himself around, one where Jisung begins with saying ‘okay watch this baby!’ and it ends with Minho cursing and Jisung flat on the ground. Minho will savor them for himself, he’ll look at the videos when he misses Jisung, when he wants a good laugh—when he wants to remember that it was good. 

🫧

Rapid knocks on his door, Minho tells his parents he’ll be back in a second, if Seungmin was home he’d tell him to get it. He doesn’t really know what to expect, it’s too early for Halloween, it can’t be any kids—if it is, he’s afraid he has to disappoint them with walnuts from the kitchen or stray pennies from the bowl he and Seungmin keep in the hall. He hasn’t ordered anything either, so unless it’s a package for Seungmin—he doesn’t have a clue in the world what it could be. 

He doesn’t have half the mind to check the peephole, he’s tired—has spent the entire week on catching up on reading, and assignments, not so much on sleep—and while he does love his parents, that they’re taking time to drive down and visit him when he himself doesn’t have time to visit them, he would have loved to spend the weekend in bed. Minho’s brain is moving at a rapid speed, but his body moves to the hall, sluggish and lethargic. 

“Hey baby,” Jisung winks, when Minho opens the door, he’s leaning against the wall—headband with a bow nestled into his hair, a plastic rose between his teeth. “A bird whispered in my ear and told me it was your birthday.” He says, quietly, drops the rose to his hand, kisses him on the cheek. “Okay, it said on Facebook that it’s your birthday—why didn’t you tell me?” 

Minho accepts the kiss without further thought, “You never asked, we didn’t have any plans this weekend.” 

“You should have still told me,” Jisung pouts, “Unless you have anything to do, I was thinking we could put on a movie marathon,” He drags his finger down Minho’s chest, smiling to himself, “Maybe I’ll let you do all sorts of dirty things to me later.” He looks up at Minho, eyes big with want, leans in to kiss him. 

“My parents are here.” Minho says, cringes almost—he’s glad nevertheless that he says it immediately. Jisung jumps back, hand on Minho’s chest like he isn’t sure if he should run off or ask if Minho is joking. He’s glad he said it, because the very next second, his mom pops her head into the hall, asking who it is. 

He watches as Jisung rips the headband from his hair, hides it behind his back, with the rose. Mouth in a tight line, he looks embarrassed, like he should run off. 

“My friend is just—wishing me a happy birthday.” Minho says. Friend sounds wrong, but what else is he supposed to call him? He’s not his boyfriend is he? Even if Jisung is standing on his doorstep, what, offering up himself as some lame birthday gift. 

“Hello!” Jisung nods, sort-of-bows, waves, everything. Minho looks at him, astonished, has he never interacted with a human before? “Yeah! Minho’s birthday!” 

Minho’s mom walks into the hall, greets herself by name and shakes his hand, now Minho is embarrassed, she invites Jisung in, which he awkwardly accepts, kicking his shoes off. Then it’s Minho’s dad, introducing himself, with a firm handshake as well, Minho wants to melt through the floor. 

“Do you live in the building?” 

“Uh no,” Jisung whispers, doesn’t know what to do with his hands, Minho watches him from behind, clenching his things—knuckles turning white. “I was out for a walk, and I thought it would be nice to…wish him happy birthday in person.” Jisung nods. 

Nodding in agreement, Minho’s dad mumbles something; he’s not entirely sold on the internet yet, or the benefits of it—he used to curse Minho out in high school, for spending all his free time on MySpace or downloading music illegally, when Minho was yelling out in frustration when the phone disturbed his precious internet time, his dad would yell out equally as frustrated when he lifted the landline and was met with a screeching tone. Minho rolls his eyes. 

“We were just gonna cut up the cake,” Minho’s mom says, “Would you like to stay?” 

It looks like Jisung wants to say no, that he doesn’t want to intrude, it looks like he wanted be removed from this conversation the second he was thrown into it. Instead he looks at Minho, shrugs awkwardly. 

“If you have time?” Minho whispers. 

“Yeah, yeah—” Jisung nods. “I can stay for cake.” 

He runs to the bathroom first, trying to conceal his little gifts, comes back without them—Minho wonders briefly if he threw them into the trash, if he stashed them somewhere he can retrieve them later, if Minho will find them hidden underneath a pile of folded towels. 

It’s not awkward per se, but Jisung is quiet—he answers Minho’s parents questions when they ask, about his major—what his future plans are, if he’s from the area, how he knows Minho (he lies, and tells them they met in a study group). Other than that, he is quiet—like he is around people he doesn’t know, maybe. Listening dutifully to the conversation Minho and Minho’s parents uphold, he smiles when it’s appropriate, laughs when they do, and carefully folds his hands in his lap when he’s finished with the cake. He thanks them, profusely, maybe too much, when everyone is done and he’s getting ready to go. 

“Raincheck okay?” Minho mumbles, when Jisung is putting his shoes back on, “I’d love a movie marathon, I’d very much like the other things too.” He whispers, Jisung’s cheeks burn a bright red. He nods, but disappears out the door with a last ‘happy birthday’, as soon as he can . 

Minho’s mom says something about Jisung when Minho comes back, that he was sweet, Minho doesn’t catch it all—he doesn’t ask. 

At the end of the day, Minho’s phone lights up with an ‘I’m sorry’ text from Jisung. Minho doesn’t know what to respond with, so he waits until the morning. Calls Jisung instead, without much luck—he leaves a voicemail he isn’t sure Jisung will ever listen to, and emails him a link to a funny video in the evening. 

They don’t talk again until Monday. They never bring up Minho’s birthday. Go back to normal like there still isn’t a bow and a rose in Minho’s bathroom.

🫧

They’re in Jisung’s bed, giggling—sweaty, Jisung’s head on Minho’s shoulder, naked skin touching, feet playing with each other under the blankets.

“Wait, I swear it’s here somewhere.” Jisung mumbles, totally concentrated. He swipes past pictures of himself, a little wonky, some of him and Minho, equally as wonky. Short videos he’s filmed of his friends, a blurry picture from a party or two, close up shots of red solo cups and neon lights. Jisung hums like he’s getting close. 

They’re a little buzzed, Minho won’t lie—there are only so many Fridays in your life! They went out, well, he met with Jisung in the library, then he was surrounded by Jisung’s friends, Chan, Changbin, Felix—they came from nowhere, asked them to come along to a party—they agreed, because formalities or something. Had three drinks, kissed in the middle of the dancefloor, locked themselves in a bathroom, made out some more, and went home. Minho is happy he got to meet Jisung’s friends, finally, officially, even if Jisung looked a bit nervous when they approached them. Even though Jisung introduced Minho as his friend. Even though Minho still harbors a little resentment and jealousy towards Felix, because he knows what he and Jisung used to be up to. The guy is sweet, but feelings are complicated!  

Right, they were on the topic of parties. Jisung is looking for a row of photos of him passed out on a bench, clutching a bottle of Tito’s—Changbin posing in front of him, then Jisung thrown over his shoulder, still holding onto the liquor. The mental image of it is hilarious, Jisung swear that the actual pictures are even better. 

“Oh.” Minho doesn’t even notice the sound coming from his mouth, but it does, just a surprised little noise—Jisung’s thumb stops, from its wild swiping. 

“What?” 

“Go back, like two photos—” Minho mumbles, Jisung does. “That your parents?” He asks, pointing—if not, Jisung has doppelgängers out and about walking the earth. 

“Yeah.” Jisung huffs, “Christmas last year, my aunt wanted a picture of us. Demanded one.” 

They’re wearing ugly christmas sweaters, Jisung looks nothing short of miserable, his mom is forcing a smile, his dad looks…like a statue. Hand on Jisung’s shoulder, mustache neatly trimmed. Without it, they’d be identical. Height, eyes, nose. Everything. 

So Minho tells him that. 

“Wow, you and your dad are identical.” 

Jisung is quiet, looking up at Minho with—well, utter devastation soiling his expression, doesn’t answer, he continues swiping, biting the insides of his cheeks, stops moving his feet around. Thirty seconds later he shows Minho the pictures he was looking for. Minho laughs, Jisung chuckles, forced. 

Then he tells Minho he wants to sleep. 

Turns his back to him, leaves a few inches between them. Minho doesn’t follow him. He realizes five minutes later that what he said might’ve been a mistake. Not a dreadful one he thinks, not one that will stab for weeks, but—but a mistake nevertheless. 

In the morning, they wake up on opposite sides of the bed; but Jisung bounces back, he kisses Minho with morning breath, see just like that, Minho forgets the mistake he made. Just like that, Jisung has forgiven him. 

Jisung is a bit like a hot plate sometimes, Minho doesn’t know when he will burn himself, when he is supposed to switch hands, when it’s smart to set it down and wait. 

🫧

Minho is half-asleep in bed, left completely unmovable from Thanksgiving dinner, he genuinely doesn’t know what to do with himself, can’t talk, can’t think, can’t do anything. 

He turns on a movie on his laptop, thinking that it’s okay to fall asleep at ten P.M. especially when he’s on break, he deserves it. At the back of his mind, he thinks he should text Jisung goodnight. They haven’t talked since yesterday—in the morning, just a short conversation. Jisung didn’t sound particularly excited staying at home, Minho didn’t think of it then—he’s really good at coming up with things in hindsight. Yeah maybe he should text Jisung. 

The movie isn’t very good, Minho yawns, searches his sheets blindly for his phone, he closes his eyes for a second. 

And then it’s sometime after midnight, and Minho’s phone is ringing. It feels like a dream, Minho’s laptop has shut off, his lights are still on, but no—Minho was definitely asleep, now he’s awake, half-awake, half-asleep—he answers the call without thought. Mumbles a tired “hello”. 

“Minho.” Jisung whines. “I miss you.” 

“Jisungie.” Minho mumbles, he turns to his side, closes his eyes again. “I miss you too” 

“Why aren’t you here, can you come, I’ll pay the cab-fare.” He says, then he laughs. “Pfft, no, don’t come. You wouldn’t survive a day in this house.” 

“Yeah, it’s also, like a six-hour drive baby.” 

Humming, Jisung doesn’t seem to agree that that is the problem. 

“Are you drunk Jisung?” 

“Tipsy, maybe. Had one—” He hiccups. “Okay, had maybe two glasses of wine, and like—my aunt makes this mean cocktail thing every year for Thanksgiving, wait, maybe it's a punch, I think she made a punch, I had a bit of that too.” He says, Minho listens to him inhale and exhale smoke. “And then, I accidentally— accidentally, mentioned Ms. Lena in front of my mom, and then everyone got mad and I had like three or so more glasses of wine and escaped to our backyard. That was like two hours ago, then I started missing you, a lot.” 

“Who’s Ms. Lena?” Minho asks. 

“‘S my dad’s mistress. She works in an office on the East Coast. Every time she visits the head office here—well, let's just say my dad and her have private dinners.” 

“Jisung.” Minho opens his eyes now, he can hear that this makes Jisung sad, even if he tries to joke about it. At least that's what Minho thinks that he’s doing. 

“No, no—let me tell you a story.” 

Jisung is ten when he realizes he’s never heard his parents utter the words I love you , not to each other, never out loud, it’s as foreign as gibberish would be, in their house . He’s sitting at the back of class, first day of the semester—there’s a new kid in his class, his parents drop him off at the door, and they kiss his forehead and tell him that they love him—the kid doesn’t shy away from it, like some others their age do. He smiles and promises to do his best. Jisung immediately hates him. 

Jisung’s parents have never told Jisung that they love him, and Jisung has never said it either. He’s not sure he loves them, a ten-year-old has no idea what love entails. Not really. Or maybe that’s just unique to Jisung. 

Jisung is eleven, he peeps ‘I love you’, to his mom one night, when she is about to shut his door for the night, she doesn’t say anything back. 

Jisung is twelve when he meets Ms. Lena for the first time, he comes home from school, and meets her in the hall, she’s with his dad. Their clothes are askew, and her hair is a mess—she has her Mercedes parked in his mom’s spot in the driveway. She introduces herself, hurried, and nervous. 

“I’m Ms. Lena, I work, I work on the East Coast. Your father and I had some work to finish up here.” She tells him, boops him on the nose, and disappears. He hates that she does that, he rubs his nose as he watches her leave. 

“You will never tell your mother about this, do you hear that Jisung?” His dad tells him, ten minutes later, “What do you want? That new, the new gaming console, the one you wanted for Christmas, yeah? I’ll get you that, but then you have to be quiet about this, this will be our secret.” 

“The Playstation?” Jisung asks, but his entire soul is already stained with guilt. 

“Yes, I will buy you the Playstation.” 

Jisung’s dad does. 

Jisung finds a gold earring on the floor in the bathroom, he drops the cap to the toothpaste, reaches under the bathtub to grab it, and that’s where it is. His mom wears silver, exclusively, from necklaces to earrings to her wedding ring. He doesn’t know that it’s Ms. Lena’s, but it’s not his mom’s either. Jisung keeps his promise to his dad, what else is he supposed to do? He’s loyal to him. 

But he’s loyal to his mom too, even if she doesn’t love him, he knows enough to understand that she deserves to know. So he places the earring on his mom’s dresser, amongst her other jewelry. He isn’t telling her anything, but he can’t do it with the guilt anymore, it runs like ice through his veins. It keeps him up at night, he throws it up in the morning. 

Jisung sits on the couch in the living room, playing Mario on his new Playstation, when he hears his mom’s shouts. She screams herself bloody with rage.

“Who is she?!” 

She’s always had trust issues, she asks Jisung’s dad every night at the dinner table what he’s done during the day, it doesn’t matter what he tells her, she looks at him, with complete suspicion. Jisung has no idea where it’s come from, he can’t remember if she was always like this, if it's just some inherent trait; or something she had adapted through the years. 

This confirms it all for her, that her mistrust has always been right on point, Jisung’s father is scum, dirt, she abhors him. 

“It only happened once!” Jisung’s dad says, “She’s the first, the only—it will never happen again.” 

Jisung secretly wishes that they will sit him down at the dinner table later in the evening and tell him about their divorce. The kid in the house next to him, his parents got a divorce a while ago, they talked about it by the swingset, his parents are happier now, he gets to celebrate two birthdays. Jisung wishes his parents were happy. He doesn’t care that much about two birthdays. 

So they go to marriage counseling instead, quit after two months, when it starts more fires than it can put out. But they don’t get a divorce. 

Jisung is thirteen, he envies kids at school with siblings, he’d kill for someone to know what it feels like. In this empty shell of a house. He needs someone to understand him. To care. To make the house feel like a home.

He wishes for a brother, like those guys that live in his neighborhood. Jisung stares at them, envious, even when they’re rolling around in a brawl, bruised and muddy, on their front lawn. Jisung envies them when they sit on the porch sharing fruit, laughing at something Jisung will never understand. Jisung wishes someone would love him enough to fight him in a brotherly embrace in the morning and peel an orange with him at dinner. Jisung wishes someone understood him. Cries himself to sleep praying to someone who might be listening.

Jisung is fourteen, he starts skipping school for attention, asks people outside convenience stores to buy him cigarettes, he smokes them, chokes, and waits to be caught. Oh, he’s begging for it, practically. See me! See me! I’m on my knees and hands! See me!

His dad brushes him off and tells him to quit being dramatic. His mom sticks her nose in the air and mumble about what a disappointment he is, how this isn’t what she raised him to be. They threaten to send him to boarding school if he continues skipping or causes trouble in school, they don’t care particularly much  about the cigarettes. Jisung is fourteen, he stops skipping, makes friends with the owner of the convenience store closest to home, she lets him buy cigarettes because he promises they are for his dad. 

Jisung’s parents are masters at the silent treatment, sometimes it feels like they go weeks without talking with each other. Maybe they do. Especially his mom, he doesn’t know how it doesn’t drive her insane to be quiet for so long. She will be mad, sometimes loudly, but often, seething by herself. He knows that he has upset her when she starts pretending like he doesn’t exist. Sometimes she walks around the house like she never got married and she never had a son. He can’t decide if he prefers it over them fighting, if he prefers it over the sneering and the passive aggressive remarks. 

There are more women through the years, by the time Jisung is fifteen, his dad becomes shameless and brazen; Jisung meets three of them in his own house—he stares at them as they all leave in a hurry. Jisung’s dad buys him a new phone and the latest MP3 player on the market, then a guitar, all for him to practice on; then his first nice watch—it’s silver, heavy on his wrist. His dad doesn’t have to say anything, but he buys his silence—and Jisung nods, says thank you, apathetic. Then he finds a bracelet that isn’t his moms, puts it in the bathroom where his mom will see it, he finds a thin shirt, that he has never seen his mom wear, and puts in the laundry basket—so that it makes it way into her laundry, so she can find it, find out. He smells a blanket in the living room, asks his mom if she got a new perfume. She smells it as well, and stomps away furious, when Jisung’s dad comes home they fight until dawn. 

“In our house?!” She screams. “In our bed!?” 

Then she ignores them both for a week. 

Jisung is sixteen when he realizes the reason his parents have never told him that they love him is because they don’t. Dawns on him on Christmas Eve, when he stares at the gifts underneath the tree, they write ‘To: Jisung, From: Mom and Dad’. There’s no love there, never has been. Jisung is sixteen when he realizes he doesn’t love them either. 

His mother has trust issues, but they’re warranted, clearly, and they grow into a monster the more the years go by, the more women there are. Then they start to bleed into their day to day life, she takes it out on Jisung too. Tells him he’s a liar, doesn’t trust a word that comes out of his mouth. She wants to see all his homework and all his report cards, what’s the point in a tutor if he doesn’t do well? She asks about his friends and if they don’t fit the standard she has made up, she dislikes them almost as much as she dislikes Jisung. When he’s five minutes late home from school or soccer practice she sits him down and doesn’t let him leave until she knows every step he’s taken during the day. She searches for mistakes, faults in the story, she needs a reason for her distaste. She knows her husband, and she knows her son. Identical, same scumbag blood. Like father, like son, she mumbles when she finds a trait in Jisung that has been passed down from his father. Figures why you are the way you are. 

“You look exactly like your father.” She mutters, fixes his tie, getting ready for dinner at his grandparents house. There’s nothing soft in her voice. She doesn’t just not love him, Jisung thinks that she might detest him. 

“Did you know?!” She screams at him, furious, just like she’s furious at his father, the second time Ms. Lena comes around, he’s seventeen. He hides his face under a pillow, when she stands in the threshold to his room, he’s never been more scared of her than he is now; “Answer me!” 

Jisung cries that he’s sorry. That he knew. 

His dad doesn’t look at him for weeks, like Jisung is at fault. He ignores Jisung like he ignores his wife every time he’s been caught red handed. Tsk, like mother, like son, he mutters, they blame everything on me—look how much I do for them, and look what they give me in return—all the blame! Jisung’s mom does all the same, she’s furious with them both—she cooks dinner for one, she doesn’t look their way, she doesn’t speak. In her mind, she never got married and she never had a son. 

They start to look for marriage counselors outside their area, thank God for confidentiality, Jisung is sure their previous ones would have a field day discussing the Han couple if not. They never make it past the three-month mark, with any counselor, but Jisung hopes every time they will come home with divorce papers nevertheless. 

There are more women, Jisung doesn’t care anymore. He looks at his dad when he comes home with his tie askew, he asks him what he’s been up to, doesn’t trust a word that comes out of his mouth. 

Jisung is eighteen and he has fucked up every relationship he’s ever been in, he breaks up with them because when he senses that they might tell him that they love him he knows he won’t be able to say it back, can’t even utter those three little fragile words. He never has. He hasn’t said it out loud since he was eleven. And he didn’t mean it, and he wasn’t loved back. How is he supposed to say it now? What if they become tangled and ugly inside his mouth? 

Jisung is nineteen and he fucks up more and more relationships, he doesn’t trust his friends when they say that they love him, and he hopes they stop saying it because they should know he can’t take it, he fucks over people, again and again, sometimes he’s relieved when they leave, some smug clinical satisfaction in being right that people don’t care about him, sometimes he cries himself to sleep because he knows that he is to blame, because it still hurts. 

He’s just like his father and he’s just like his mother; oh how tragic, this is the worst fate one could curse a child to. 

He’s twenty, Jisung is pretty sure he will never be capable of love. 

“You know,” Jisung whispers over the phone, “I was born, six months after my parents' wedding.” 

“Uh-huh?” 

“I was born six months after my parents' wedding. My parents met a year before I was born. Do the math yourself, okay. She was too far along, my dad’s parents were conservative, they couldn’t have a bastard child. I bet my dad put a ring on her finger the same day the test came back positive and he knew that it was his. Got hitched in a courthouse a week later, and then I was born.” He laughs, Minho listens to the click of his lighter. “Isn’t that crazy? In a matter of one year and because of one mistake, what, a faulty condom? It ruined three people's lives Minho! It ruined my mom’s, my dad’s, and mine. They were never supposed to be married. They were never supposed to have me. I was never supposed to be like this.” 

“Jisung.” 

“I didn’t mean to talk about Ms. Lena today, it just slipped out, okay—my mom looked at my dad like she wanted to beat him to death. My dad looked at me like he wanted to do the same. I didn’t mean to, believe me.” He’s hurried, and hiccups. He pauses, waiting for Minho to reply. 

“I believe you.” 

“Please stay on the phone with me a bit, okay?” Jisung sniffs. “How was your day?” 

Minho talks about the dinner, but not about how he helped his mom in the kitchen and how his dad made them all squish together for an annual photo. Minho talks about watching the parade on TV, he talks about the movie he was meaning to watch. How he fell asleep, Jisung laughs, says something about how cute Minho is when he sleeps. 

“I really miss you.” Jisung whispers again. Minho starts to wonder if the six-hour drive is worth it. “Can I see you when you come back?” 

“Of course.” 

“Thank you.” 

Jisung is twenty-one, he realizes he would probably love Minho if he was capable of doing so. 

If he knew a little bit more about love, he’d recognize that what he’s feeling is love , that it isn’t just a random buzzing under his skin, that the butterflies belong in his stomach, that he feels good when Minho smiles at him and kisses him on the cheek. 

🫧

They celebrate new years alone. Minho and Jisung. They were invited out, both by Minho's friends and Jisung’s, to events they heavily considered attending. There’s just something so incredibly freeing being by themselves, being inside and wearing sweatpants, with no one to bother them. Minho gets to bathe in Jisung’s presence, and Jisung can sit back and relax. 

Minho won’t lie, he’s a little surprised when Jisung opted out on partying to be with him, he’s a man who likes drinking if Minho has ever met one. Besides, isn’t it…sort of intimate celebrating the new year, all alone, but together? 

Maybe, Minho tries not to dwell on it too much. 

Jisung invites Minho to his place, he has set up the entire living room, with blankets, and scented candles that smell of cinnamon apples and thick vanilla. They make dinner together, something simple that doesn’t take too much time, Jisung is hanging off Minho's shoulder whining about being hungry ten minutes in. Minho laughs, calling him the most impatient man he’s ever met. 

“I’m not impatient, I’m just hungry.” Jisung huffs. “And you’re such a good cook.” 

“Thanks for buying groceries.” Minho looks at Jisung, he had filled his fridge in preparation—left them with three or four or ten different options for dinner. 

“Least I could do.” Jisung spins around, back to the fridge. “Did you see the champagne? It’s supposed to be sweet.” He takes it out, shows Minho. 

“Yeah?” 

“Mhm. I know you like them sweet, right?” 

“Have I ever told you I like sweet champagne?” Minho laughs, he turns the heat on the stove down. 

“First night we met, you don’t remember? You started ranking alcohol when we walked back here. Champagne, spot number seven, but I want them sweet!!” 

“Did I really do that?” Minho cringes. “God.” 

“It was cute.” Jisung promises, he kisses up and down Minho's cheeks. Moves to set the table for them. “You were very passionate about it.” He assures Minho. 

It’s easy again. Minho notes—that they have days when Jisung will be drawn away from him, when he doesn’t answer texts or calls or emails, when he tells Minho he’s too tired to see him. There are weeks when Jisung follows him around like a puppy dog, can’t be without him for even a second, when he laps up Minho's love like he’s insatiable. He’s unpredictable, Minho guesses—like the week after Thanksgiving, Jisung was hot and cold. 

They never talked about the phone call late at night, but Minho made sure to press a kiss on each of his cheeks once they saw each other. Minho made sure to hold his hand and squeeze it hard in reassurance, he didn’t ask how it was being home—Jisung probably would have shut off—he would have told Minho to forget all about it. 

Minho doesn’t want to forget, he’s solving the puzzle, one piece at a time, he’s working hard to understand Jisung. At encouraging Jisung to actually be honest. 

They sit down at the table, talk through dinner, and discuss their evening. Jisung has already prepared movies, he asks Minho if he wants to watch the ball drop—yes, Minho does. Okay, Jisung says, they will watch the ball drop. 

One of Jisung’s neighbors is having a party, they can hear the bass through the walls, Minho laughs, he cleans up after Jisung when they’re done eating. He ushers Jisung to put on the first movie. 

Minho is pretty sure he loves Jisung, they cuddle up on the couch when Jisung presses play, blankets and pillows, lit candles—oh, how could he not? Jisung is wonderful. Minho wonders sometimes how he doesn’t see it himself, because Minho knows—even if Jisung doesn’t tell him outright, about doubts and struggles and self-hate that is as obvious to Jisung as breathing is. But there is so much to Jisung, Minho doesn’t even know where to begin. He feels like sitting down at his desk and professing it in his diary, like a real teenager, is the only appropriate course of action. 

Smiling, breathing it in, Minho runs his hands through Jisung’s hair, warns him to not fall asleep. Jisung shakes his head, eyes still closing. “I won’t fall asleep, have some faith in me.” 

“I have so little faith in you.” Minho laughs, Jisung tuts. 

“I’m not an eighty-year old, Mr. Minho, I won’t fall asleep before midnight on New Years’” He opens his eyes again, does his best to crawl closer to Minho’s face, “I’m just very cozy.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Jisung nods, rubs his nose with Minho—opens his mouth, pressing his lips to Minho's. It’s nice, Minho thinks this might be one of his favorite feelings in the world, but he doesn’t want to lose touch of the plot, so he holds onto Jisung’s chin, and turns his face toward the TV. They both laugh, Jisung complains that Minho must hate him because he doesn’t let Jisung kiss him. 

Between the movies, they wander out on the sidewalk to smoke, two cigarettes in a row, Jisung stands, nearly chest to chest with Minho the entire time, leaning his forehead onto his shoulder whenever he doesn’t move to take a drag from his cigarette. They shiver, in the cold, fingertips turning stiff, noses red. 

During the second movie, Minho dozes off, it’s really not fair though—not when Jisung is draped over him like a blanket, when he taps his fingertip against Minho’s chest, like a melody is playing in Jisung’s head and he follows the rhythm of it. It’s hard not to, when Jisung moves to rest his face in the junction of Minho’s neck and shoulder, when he takes a large breath, when he kisses the skin, not to leave marks, not to claim him, just to kiss him. 

“Grandpa.” Jisung gently pats his cheek. “Stop sleeping, it’s barely eleven for God’s sake.” 

“Am not sleeping.” Minho mumbles, fighting heavy eyelids. “Have faith in me.” 

“You’re shameless, I have no faith in you.” He huffs, “Wake up. I’ll go sit in the loveseat, if you don’t.” 

“No—” Minho wraps his arms tighter around Jisung, he slides his hands under Jisung’s shirt, he’s burning hot like a fire, it feels great. Mm, Minho could die like this. 

“Let me go grandpa, I want to open the champagne.” 

“Stop calling me grandpa.” 

“Stop sleeping.” Jisung challenges. 

“Okay okay, I’m awake.” He widens his eyes. tries his best to shake himself conscious again. 

“Good,” Jisung sits up, he looks down between them. “You’re seriously sporting a semi?” 

“You kept rubbing up against me.” Minho mumbles, “Do something about it.” 

“Hmmn…maybe later, I’ve heard that next year will be a good year, like sex-wise, for you.”

Jisung giggles, getting up to get the champagne, Minho sits up, just to not fall back asleep. The movie is still on, clearly towards the end—the main characters are kissing in the rain—they will probably live happily ever after. 

“Here.” Jisung reaches over the back of the couch, giving him an empty glass. Then he walks around it, sitting down next to him. Not an inch of space between them, why would there be? Jisung sets his glass down, pops the champagne, he hurries to fill their glasses before it spills out of the bottle. 

“Mm.” Minho tastes it, it is sweet, not overly so, but there’s a nice aftertaste to it, “Yeah, this one is good.” He nods, Jisung looks proud that he made the right choice. 

Jisung leans into him, they talk through the credits of the movie, switch over to cable, to the ball drop, getting ready. Minho slips into the bathroom after he’s had two glasses, thirty minutes to midnight, Jisung starts counting down. 

When Minho is done, Jisung goes into the bathroom, winking. Minho huffs, takes his glass and sits down in Jisung’s loveseat, lounging back. He texts his mom, wishing her a happy new year, tells her to relay the message to whatever family member she and Minho’s dad is celebrating with. When it’s been five minutes, Minho is a little bit suspicious that Jisung is still in the bathroom, but doesn’t bother with asking what he’s doing—when it’s been fifteen, he shouts out, and asks if Jisung is okay—get’s a quiet, ‘yeah, I’ll be out in a minute.’ 

“Yah, the ball is dropping in five.” Minho knocks on the bathroom, it’s been over twenty minutes now, and a part of Minho is genuinely worried. 

“Yah,” The door swings open, “Are you like, obsessed with me?” Jisung has changed, to the hoodie he likes to sleep in, to shorts that are sinfully short, it’s crazy, Minho nips him in the butt on the way back to the living room. To be fair it’s right there, Jisung smacks Minho’s hand away, pouts when they make eye contact. 

“Did you drop a huge deuce or what?”

“No stop, I was just freshening up.” Jisung bats with his eyelashes. 

Minho drops down in the armchair again, Jisung pours them fresh glasses, sits down on the armrest, throwing his arm around Minho’s shoulder. 

They watch the TV, chuckle at the hosts’ lame jokes and watch the countdown intently. Minho strokes his hand over Jisung’s legs, they’re soft, he has a small tattoo above his knee, on the side. A wonky smiley, that Jisung said he did by himself—in high school. It’s ugly, but it’s nostalgic in some ways, a memory of his old, rebellious phase, so he can’t get himself to cover it up or get it removed. Minho likes it. It’s charming, not ugly. 

“Minute left now.” Jisung whispers, lips against Minho's hair. 

“Feel ready?” Minho asks. 

Jisung nods. He’s ready. Minho nods too, agrees. 

Their friends are out partying, probably getting blasted, they’re gonna invent a new type of hangover when they wake up tomorrow. Minho and Jisung could be doing that too, it’s what they usually do. Minho likes this better, somehow, being alone with Jisung. They haven’t known each other for that long, he’s aware of that, but— when you know you know. 

7-6-5-4-3–2–1…

“Happy new year, Jisung.” Minho looks at him 

“To 2011,” Jisung smiles, eyes closing. They clink their glasses, Jisung swallows down his champagne in one go, Minho takes a few sips before he sets the glass down. “Happy new year.” 

Jisung wraps his arms around Minho's neck, he kisses him. They start the year right, listen to the cheers from the TV, the explosions of fireworks outside, Jisung’s neighbor shouting from their apartment—Minho kisses back. He could seriously live in this feeling forever, he could die feeling like this—he’d be entirely content. 

He never knew someone could make him feel so complete. Jisung happily sits with him in the library, studying, he happily brings Minho coffee from the cafe not far from here because he knows Minho likes it, he remembers that Minho drunkenly ranked sweet champagnes on spot number seven of his favorite kinds of alcohol, and he dutifully went out of his way to find one that would hopefully suit his taste. 

Not to make Minho sound obsessed, but he sort of is, he thinks he loves Jisung. He could drop the big “I love you,” now, if he just braved himself for it. He won’t, wants to save it. But it’s definitely there, making a home out of Minho's heart. 

They just need to take the next step. 

“Jisungie.” He hums, Jisung nods back, licks into Minho's mouth. 

“Yeah.” 

“I’ve been thinking about us.” 

Jisung goes stiff in his arms, the gears are turning. 

“I mean—I think—“ Minho says. 

He’s promptly shut up with a kiss, Jisung hushes him. Then he holds his hand over Minho's mouth, leaning his forehead against Minho's. 

“Not now.” He whispers, gets up from the armchair, Jisung shakes his head, not now. “I got ready for you,” 

Removing his shirt, slipping his shorts down his thighs, Jisung settles back over his lap. Jisung kisses him again, Minho opens his mouth again. “Jisung.” He mumbles. 

“Please Minho, not now.” Jisung says, he holds his fingertips over Minho's plush lips, closes his eyes. 

Jisung rides Minho until he can’t even remember his own name, much less his intention to ask if Jisung would like to go on a date. Right there, on the loveseat, it’s just them, the fireworks, the new year. 

Right, a date, Minho remembers, at 3 A.M., when Jisung is fast asleep, he wants that. That’s what Minho was gonna ask, because they’ve never done that, not an official one. It’s always ‘let’s hang out,’ always ‘come over,’ when Minho wants something real. 

Maybe he’ll ask when they both wake up. 

🫧

The coming weeks are a long string of not now’s. 

It’s like Jisung has a sixth sense, like prey, on an open field or deep in the forest. Rustle of leaves, the crack of a stick, ready to run to safety at the very idea of a predator about to pounce. Minho just has to look at Jisung, and he knows, he knows Minho wants to talk about them. 

Jisung drops to his knees or he lunges forward to kiss Minho until they both lose their breath. He undresses in a second, tells Minho he can do whatever he wants. 

Anything and everything, and it works, Minho realizes, he loses track of what he wants to say, his focus switches, Minho forgets about it. 

It echoes in Minho’s ears, not now. Not now. Not now. Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after that. The next time they see each other. 

Suddenly it’s the end of January, Minho watches as Jisung jumps through hoops to avoid the topic. It’s frustrating, it is, they should be capable of having a mature conversation about this. 

Next time, Minho thinks, next time he won’t let himself be distracted. 

🫧

“Do you guys mind if Jisung comes by?” Minho asks, his fingers hover over his keypad, he stares at the conversation with Jisung. A ‘wyd?’, and ‘havnt seen u 4 days, imy’ from Jisung, and Minho’s very gracious response; ‘ studying @ library, wya?’ (Jisung is roaming around bored, like a ghoul stuck in a time loop, he asks if he can come hang out). 

Hyunjin looks up from his notebook, he shakes his head. “Jeongin?” 

“I don’t mind.” Jeongin shakes his head too, flips a page in his book, he folds the corner of the page over, marking it important for later. It’s interesting watching Hyunjin’s and Jeongin’s wildly different techniques, when studying. Hyunjin has an entire array of highlighters spread across the table, he does his best to keep his notes organized, Jeongin asked to borrow a pen because he doesn’t seem to own one. 

Nodding, Minho texts Jisung that he should come by then, but that Hyunjin and Jeongin are here. 

“How are you guys?” Hyunjin asks, he twirls a strand of Jeongin’s hair around his finger. 

“Uhh—” Minho groans, he stares at his phone, ready to jump back into his studying any minute now. “We are, definitely.” 

Hyunjin raises an eyebrow. “And that means?” 

“I mean, I like him, a lot. But every time I try to talk about it, put my feelings on the table, you know.” Minho tuts. “He does anything to avoid it, do you guys know how many times this month he’s sucked my dick just to make me shut the fuck up, before I even start talking?” 

“Gross.” Jeongin retches. Minho rolls his eyes, as if he hasn’t been forced to listen to story after story about Hyunjin and Jeongin’s sexcapades. 

“And you don’t like getting your dick sucked?” Hyunjin tilts his head to the side. 

“He’s the GOAT at blowjobs, but I don’t like that I can’t have an honest conversation with him about us .” Minho clarifies. 

Nodding like it’s fair, Hyunjin agrees. 

Not that there is an ‘us’, they’re just a thing, nothing more. Nothing more. It itches in Minho every time he thinks about it. 

“I think he might just need some time, I’m gonna try and talk to him this weekend, gonna wear like—underwear made out of steel.” Minho sighs, rubs his eyes, they made vague plans over the phone the other day, Minho said Seungmin was going away, if Jisung wanted to come over. 

Neither Hyunjin nor Jeongin make an effort to answer, they just nod, agree that that sounds logical. Minho hasn’t told them the extent of his thing with Jisung, probably because it’s still just a thing and nothing else. But they know a little, some details here and there of their non-existent relationship. And hey! Jisung has met all of Minho’s friends, and that has to count for something! 

Seungmin asked what they were , two or so months into them seeing each other, Minho said Jisung and he were friends, and a bit more than that, but that they weren’t in a relationship. Somewhere between, but not really dating or seeing each other either, because that was too official too. Now it’s been, what, five, six…months? Minho thinks. And it’s increasingly irritating and embarrassing when any one of his friends ask if they have finally made it official, because no. Still a thing, un-official of course, not dating, no relationship, just two guys who are friends and definitely more but the more is just a loose label that won’t actually be labeled. It frustrates Minho, because he likes Jisung so much, and it frustrates him because he wants so much and he wants Jisung. It frustrates him because his heart is on his sleeve, and he knows that Jisung can see it too. 

Hyunjin and Jeongin hang off of each other, they manage to study while talking quietly among themselves, Minho huffs, turn to his own shit—it feels like his eyes twitch just staring at his endless notes, he need to make them make sense—which proves to be a challenge. 

Fifteen minutes later, Jisung finds them, he’s a bit out of breath, like he’s been running, he sets down a coffee next to Minho, quietly greets him, then Hyunjin and Jeongin. Jisung sits down beside him, throws a book onto the table—but immediately pulls his phone out—he’s been obsessing over Tetris lately, Minho scoffs, watches as Jisung’s thumbs swipe over the small cracked screen. Last week he slept over at his place, woke up in the middle of the night and found Jisung next to him, eyes glued to his phone. These damn phones, Jisung has the new iPhone, a white one (cracked on both the front and back screen, alreadt), way too many games, that he keeps circulating between. This is what technology does to people. Maybe Minho’s dad is right about the negatives of it all. 

Eventually, Jisung throws his arm over the back of Minho’s chair, he runs his finger in a circle over the fabric of Minho’s shirt. A mindless motion, Minho wonders if he even knows that he does so. Not that he minds it, Minho finds it quite comfortable, quite domestic. 

“Hah, oh my God, babe.” Jeongin mumbles, quietly, still mindful they’re at the library, “We got the tickets.” He shows Hyunjin his phone; Hyunjin leans towards it—reads something. Hyunjin gasps, he breathes in so much air Minho is surprised there's oxygen left for the rest of them. Hyunjin throws his hands around Jeongin’s shoulder, kisses him square on the lips. 

“Tickets to what?” Minho asks, of course he’s curious, he’s been waiting for an out from studying—so he immediately drops his pen, and looks up at them. Besides, having said A, one must say B. 

“We tried to get tickets for the ballet for Valentines’, they were so hard to get. Literally, almost impossible. Jeongin had to sign up for like—a waitlist? I don’t even know, but he got them!” He takes Jeongin’s phone, shows them the email. “It’s going to be great, it’s an interpretation of Cinderella, with orchestra music. Everything! It’s going to be so romantic, ” 

Jeongin nods furiously. Hyunjin smiles, hugging him again. Jeongin kisses him on the crown of his head. 

“Holy shit that’s gay.” Jisung laughs, he hasn’t looked up from his phone yet, on level something-a million, probably. 

“Gayer than taking dick up your ass from the gayest guy I know?” Hyunjin snaps, cocking his head to the side. Jisung gets a game-over screen, swears under his breath. At least he looks at Hyunjin now. Minho thinks it’s funny watching them argue, that he’s getting dragged into this? Not super into that, but you lose some, you win some. 

“Going to the ballet on Valentines? Yeah—it’s gayer than taking dick up my ass. Besides, God put the G-spot up there for a reason,” He chuckles. “And, if you think Minho is the gayest guy you know, you should take a hard look in the mirror, honey .” Jisung points at Minho, just in case anyone in the library is confused about who, apparently, is the gayest guy on campus. 

“Oh really?” 

“Can we talk about something else?” Minho sighs. 

“Ballet—it’s like super-gay, come on.” Jisung sucks a breath of air in, like he hates to break it to everyone. He looks at Minho for support, receives none! 

They yap about it for a minute or two, argument escalating, their voices are getting louder, which is really unfortunate for everyone sitting close to them; Minho and Jeongin end up shushing them. 

“At least I have plans on Valentine's Day, what are you doing then?” Hyunjin tsk’s. And he means to jab at Jisung, but once again, Minho gets caught in the middle. 

“Well,” Jisung hisses. He makes eye contact with Minho. “I don’t even know what you’re supposed to do, I’ve never—I don’t celebrate it.” 

In reality, about four or five seconds pass between Jisung opening his mouth and finishing his sentence. 

In the space-time-continuum, where Minho and Jisung find themselves when they look at each other, lifetimes go by. 

This is it, Jisung realizes. 

Just one look from Minho, and everything crashes down on him. Minho is immediately upset— hurt —because when Jisung said that he doesn’t know what to do, that he has never celebrated it, he said it like he never plans to either, and it’s true in a sense. 

Valentine’s Day is for couples , that’s the whole point to it, luring people in relationships to waste money on expensive chocolates and cards. It’s bullshit. And because Jisung has never been in a successful relationship, especially not one that has survived until the fateful February 14th, he’s never celebrated it. Because Jisung believes deep down that he will never be in a successful relationship, he never plans on celebrating it either. 

This is it, Jisung realizes he can’t avoid Minho anymore, he’s done everything in his power to delay the inevitable, the part where Minho sits him down and fully demands something serious from him. The countdown to Valentine's Day has begun, which means the countdown to the end to Minho and Jisung as they know them, is beginning as well. Minho just doesn’t know it. 

It’s heartbreaking, Jisung knows it is. Minho will hurt, but it hurts for Jisung too—he enjoys Minho’s company, he cherishes it—he’s never felt what he feels now, but—it won’t work. Jisung knows it won’t. Minho will see everything ugly if he opens up every locked door inside Jisung’s chest, he’ll see what a truly terrible person Jisung is and he won’t want Jisung then. 

This is what Jisung does, he hurts people—he doesn’t always mean to, but he’s grown up in a house that has never heard the words ‘I love you’, he has a mother who hates his father and a father who hates his mother. He’s never been shown an example, a sample key—here, this is what it’s supposed to look like. So he hurts people, sometimes before they hurt him, sometimes as a precaution, sometimes he hurts people and doesn’t realize it until after. But the outcome is always the same, he fucks people over, he hurts and hurts and hurts. Jisung stands at the end of every relationship bloodied with a knife. 

Shit, Jisung has spent months stringing Minho along, it should have never gone this far. Minho has been begging Jisung, for something, anything, for weeks now. How could he ever do this to Minho?

Minho looks at Jisung, and his eyes are big, almost like he expects Jisung to grab his hand and say it proudly, ‘I’m going to be with Minho on Valentine’s Day’. Minho wants them to be a couple that blows money on expensive chocolates or cute cards. Minho’s heart breaks when Jisung says he hasn’t celebrated it, because he knows Jisung well enough to know that he won’t, not even for Minho. 

Jisung sees Hyunjin and Jeongin, and he hasn’t known them for long, but he can agree to the notion that they are among the most in love people he has ever met. They stare at each other like no one exists, they’re grossly in love and they’re grossly so in public. Sometimes Jisung looks at Minho, and Minho looks at Hyunjin and Jeongin, and it is like he’s on his knees begging with his eyes; ‘when is it my turn?’  

They exit the space-time-continuum they’re in. Minho turns his eyes away from Jisung, down to his pen, he picks it up and flips it between his fingers, he shakes his head, to himself, like nobody's watching. Jisung continues to look at Minho, he genuinely doesn’t hear if Hyunjin says anything else, probably a snarky comment, if anything. Jisung watches as Minho taps his pen against his paper, like he can make the words he’s written down make sense. 

Jisung thinks about Minho again. 

This is what he does, he fucks people over, he leaves a trail of broken feelings after him like they’re footprints in the snow. 

He should have never given his number to Minho, he cares enough about Minho to know he would have been better off if they never, ever got to know each other. 

🫧

“Can you shut the fuck up?” Seungmin sneers. 

Minho throws his hands up in the air, looking at Seungmin next to him; “I’m not saying shit?” 

“You’re doing…something. Sounds. Fuck, I don’t know what it is you’re doing, but it’s annoying.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Minho tuts, shakes his head. “I’m not doing anything.” 

Seungmin makes the volume on the TV louder, it looks like he’d like to go elsewhere, but can’t be bothered to move from the couch. 

“You’re doing something.” He mumbles. 

“I’m texting Jisung.” Minho mumbles back. He likes living with Seungmin, they’re compatible in some ways, he’s straightforward and direct with Minho, as Minho is with him. They’re good friends, they work well together, even if they would never admit it out loud. 

Minho throws a quick glance Seungmin’s way. 

He is not saying anything per se, but he talks a whole lot with his facial expression. 

“What? You like Jisung.” 

“Yeah like, he’s funny and friendly and stuff, it’s nice to be around him. But, you know.” He mutters. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Minho asks, he’s sending his fourth unanswered text in a row. It looks like Seungmin is about to be driven insane by the clicking of Minho’s phone keypad. 

“He’s…not a good guy. For you I mean.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Like you don’t know.” He says, like Minho cannot for the life of him be serious. “He refuses to admit that you’re dating even when you basically are.” Seungmin begins to count on his fingers. “He goes AWOL every now and again, and it makes you all pissy, he’s unpredictable, kind of an asshole, I mean—he’s stringing you along, has been doing it for months. That’s asshol ey. ”

“You’re not my mom, stop acting like it.” Minho slides further down the couch. Eyebrows pulling together. 

“I’m acting as your friend and the guy who has to live with you . You think I’m fucking stupid?”

Minho remains quiet. He shoves his phone in his pants. Sulks. 

“He’s coming over tomorrow?” 

“That was the plan. After you leave.” 

“But he’s not responding?” 

“No…but he will.” Minho whispers. “He bounces…he bounces back. We just, we just had a thing the other day. In the library with Hyunjin and Jeong-ah.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Minho nods. “Just, some bullshit about Valentine’s. He said he doesn’t celebrate.” 

“Well, Valentine’s are for couples.” 

“Ouch.” 

Seungmin finally gathers the energy to stand up. 

“Hope you talk to him when he comes over. Ask if he wants something serious.” He says, moving towards his room. “That’s what you want right? Something serious?”

Minho nods. Folds his arms over his chest, fixes his eyes on the TV. 

“Break up with him if he doesn’t.” 

“How am I supposed to break up with him, if we aren’t dating?” Minho laughs, dryly. 

Seungmin doesn’t say anything to that. He has already said what he wanted, has probably been sitting on it for weeks already. Minho appreciates the sentiment. 

🫧

Minho listens to the front door, it opens and it closes. He listens to Seungmin’s footsteps in the hall, how they move into his bedroom, he listens to the thump of Seungmin’s bag when it hits the floor.  

Minho stares at his wall, it’s an ugly wallpaper, with shapes and colors that don’t make sense. Their landlord was insistent that they weren’t allowed to change it when they moved in, so Minho accepted his fate. He follows the lines of a flower with his finger, if that’s what it is, it’s a really ugly flower if that is the case. 

Then his door opens, carefully, almost like Seungmin is afraid he’ll walk in on Minho and Jisung having sex. (Which has only happened once, but Seungmin claimed that he was so traumatized he should sue them.) 

“‘Sup. I’m home.” 

“Okay.” Minho nods. His lights are shut off, the air is stuffy inside, he can’t remember the last time he left bed. Yesterday maybe. 

“How’d it go with…with Jisung?” 

Laughing, like Minho wants to conceal how bad it hurts, he stops his finger on the wall, taps it a few times over. “Didn’t have to break up with him.”

“Yeah?” 

Minho turns his head, Seungmin is illuminated by the light in their living room. “He did it for me. Called the quits. Just like that, no warning, no we need to talk, no nothing . ” 

Maybe Seungmin just mutters a ‘what?’, like he couldn’t possibly expect this outcome even if he was the one to predict it, maybe he just sighs, Minho doesn’t know. But his bed dips when Seungmin sits down on the edge. 

“Need help hiding the body or…?” He mumbles, tries a joke. It doesn’t really land, but—Minho appreciates the effort.  “Seriously, I hope you kicked his ass .”

“If he was here, maybe I would’ve.” 

“Hm?” 

Minho digs in under his pillow. Takes his phone out, clicks around until he finds what he’s looking for. He shows Seungmin. 

“Please don’t look at what I sent him after. They’re really embarrassing. I seriously like, used up all my texts.” Minho laughs, before it bleeds into a sniff. He dries the corners of his eyes. “And I sent him like four voicemails. And they were so bad.” He laughs, again, or at least, tries to. “Like, just me yelling. And being pathetic.” 

Seungmin scowls. He’s half the man enough to not say ‘I told you so’, but he mumbles about what an asshole Jisung is, and in two weeks, when it doesn’t hurt as much, Seungmin might let it slip. ‘I knew it, I knew he would do this.’ 

Not today though, today he’s half the man, and a little bit more, to just put the phone down and carefully set his hand on Minho’s shoulder. Look at him with downturned eyes and nod. 

“I’m sorry.” He says. 

“It’s fine.” Minho mumbles, feels the tears again, but no way he’s crying in front of Seungmin. No way. He won’t do it. “Why are you apologizing?” 

“Because you deserve better,” Seungmin whispers. “Because he won’t say it.” 

Seungmin shuts the door after him, says he’s going to the store to buy them dinner. When Minho hears the click of the lock he tries to suffocate himself with his pillow and he cries until his tears drown him.

🫧

It’s weird that they were just a thing. Because well, when people ask why he’s so sullen and down, he can’t say— ’oh I got broken up with’, because he was never in a relationship in the first place, he can’t rant, drunkenly at parties to girls he meet in the bathroom line how his ex-boyfriend is an asshole, because Jisung is just some guy . 

He can tell his friends, sure , say that he and Jisung aren’t seeing each other anymore, but it feels inherently wrong to be so broken and sad about a relationship ending when it was never a relationship. They know how much Jisung mattered to Minho—they know that, but hey—it was just a thing. Logically, he’ll get over it. 

He comes to refer to it as the Big Non-Breaking-Up Break Up. Uses it as an excuse day-in and day-out. 

(Sorry can’t hang out, still thinking about the Big Non-Breaking-Up Break Up. On an unrelated note, I hope Jisung is walking face-first into hell.)

When he goes home, over spring break, and he’s still not over it, he can’t tell his parents anything. ‘Remember that guy, you met, on my birthday? That was sweet and smiled and laughed at all your jokes. Well he broke my heart’ Because how does he tell them about the broken pieces of a relationship that never existed in the first place? How does he tell them about the boy that broke his heart when they never even knew that Minho gave him his heart to begin with?

Minho loved Jisung, he really did—fiercely, even if he never told him. Minho loved Jisung to a point of ruin that he never expected.

There’s a void now, an echo somewhere within him. Minho stares at his ugly wallpaper and takes a deep breath, his sheets are soiled in Jisung’s perfume. The bruise on his ankle that he got every time he stumbled over Jisung’s skateboard is disappearing, even when Minho continues to press on it, for weeks, just to feel the sting. Seungmin throws him glances when they, although rarely, sit at the table and eat breakfast together. He’s looking at Minho like he’s waiting for Minho to completely lose it, like he’s a ticking time-bomb. 

And he probably is. Minho allowed himself to cry, just the first few days right after the Big Non-Breaking-Up Break Up, always alone in his room, always in the quiet of night when not even God could see or hear and judge him for these big emotions. 

But then that sadness turned to rage that had him seething in silence, and then to grief that came in waves like a violent ocean, and then to a numbness that knows no equal.

Minho has never felt so much nothing in his life. Just a constant, grey film. He sits in class, watching, listening, thinking about all the voicemails he left Jisung, and wonders if he ever even listened to them. He thinks about the texts that went unanswered, the hot plate he never set down even when it was burning through his fingerprints. But he doesn’t feel anything, and it should be a relief, it just doesn’t feel like it. 

That’s why he’s a time-bomb. Any second now, and he’s going to feel everything. He’s going to blow, and take out everyone in a twenty-mile radius with him. 

Minho should be thankful, Seungmin tells him that. When they’re sitting on the couch watching the news one evening. Some sad, but feel-good segment that, a few months ago, would have had Minho cooing in secret, but is now nothing but background noise for Minho’s relentless thinking. 

“What?” Minho asks, voice croaking, because he hasn’t talked in hours. 

“You should be thankful. That he left when he did, he never deserved you.” 

Of course, what Seungmin means is that Minho should be thankful that it didn’t drag on further, that Minho and Jisung were not standing there a year later, and they were still just a thing, because it would’ve hurt more. Minho just doesn’t feel particularly thankful. 

“Fuck off.” He tells Seungmin, leaves to go to his bedroom. The next morning he apologizes, but Seungmin holds his hand up, says that all is cool, that half-smile on his lips. Because Minho is a ticking time-bomb and he happily puts out all and any fires before they ignite the fuse. 

Sometimes Minho smokes two cigarettes in a row, just because the stinging of the tobacco at the back of his throat reminds him of Jisung. When Hyunjin asks, curious, but with friendly disappointment, if smoking has really become his thing , Minho shakes his head. 

“Cigarettes are terrible for your health, why would I even smoke?” He mumbles, staring at Hyunjin, letting the smoke gather in his mouth and sing him happy songs about his tender time with Jisung before he blows it out. 

He goes out every Friday, pounds back shots and loses games of beer pong, he encourages his reflection to not throw up on the way home, and even if his stomach twists and turns, he doesn’t stop—because what if he sits down and Jisung shows up, like an angel illuminated by yellow streetlights and asks if he’s okay? 

Minho hurts, for months, beneath the nothingness, Minho rages, beneath the nothingness, Minho tries to think about coming out on the other side okay, beneath the nothingness—but God does it take time. 

Does Jisung ever think about Minho as much as Minho thinks about him? On one hand, Minho hopes he does, hopes he thrashes and screams and wails about how he lost Minho, on the other hand, Minho wouldn’t wish this fate on his worst enemy. How could he? 

🫧

“Son-of-a-bitch!” Minho sneers. Jeongin stares at him, scared and wide-eyed like a child. Hyunjin cringes. “That son-of-a-bitch.” Minho mumbles. Pacing in circles inside the small hallway. Where he has been shooed, like sheep herded by a border collie. 

“Calm down.” Seungmin sighs. 

“How the—” Minho says, words getting stuck in his throat, tears starting to bubble. “How the fuck, am I supposed to calm down?” 

Everyone stays quiet, arms crossing over their chests and eyes turning to the ground like they don’t know what to say. They’ve been lucky, for the past few weeks, not running into Jisung anywhere. It wasn’t so much a question of if, but when they would eventually do so. There are only so many bars and clubs close by, only so many frats that throw parties worth going to. They study at the same campus, different departments sure, but it’s a small world—and their university is small er. 

What is Minho even doing? He doesn’t even like frats. Why is he out partying, when he knows he will run into Jisung? 

“That son-of-a-bitch, is sitting on a couch in the living room, looking at me , while his hand is up another girl's shirt, and his lips are on hers.” Minho tries to not cry, and he doesn’t, but his eyes are glassy and his throat hurts from holding back so much. “Three months, and he’s already fucking other people, and I can’t even function.” He continues. Suddenly the nothing that has been plaguing him, is everything. Everything. Everything washes over Minho. “I know, I know we weren’t anything, but—we were something, and it’s like he never even cared, while he was everything to me. ” 

Jeongin wraps his arms around Minho, like a little brother embraces his big brother, when words can’t comfort. 

Minho cries, Hyunjin tells him they should head home, that it’s okay to stay in some Fridays’. “Let’s have a sleep-over, and watch horror movies. And pop popcorn.” He mumbles, Minho nods, tries to make out the half-smile on Hyunjin’s lips, the one he bears because the ticking time-bomb is exploding. 

“We can also sing karaoke, and play poker, you always get really excited about poker.” Jeongin suggests. “Come, let's go.” 

Minho wipes his tears, sniffs and pouts when Seungmin hands him his jacket. 

They only make it onto the porch, when Seungmin turns around and says he forgot something inside. 

Minho tries to hide away from the pitiful looks Hyunjin and Jeongin throw at him, this is why he never wanted to cry in front of them. It’s embarrassing. The enormity of his feelings embarrass him more than they should. 

Then comes the teetering of Seungmin’s footsteps, he bursts through the front door, grabbing a hold of Minho’s elbow, yelling at them all to run. They do. 

“What did you do?” Minho asks, lungs stinging, they don’t slow down for hundreds of yards. Breaths heaving. 

“I took like three cups of beer from the beer-pong table and poured it over Jisung.” Seungmin scoffs, settling his hands on his knees and bending over. “His friend, the buff one, squared up, he would’ve squashed me. We had to run.” 

“You’re insane.” Minho says. 

“You should’ve seen him. He got soaked from head to toe.” Seungmin laughs, as does Hyunjin and Jeongin. Maybe even the tiniest of smiles, spread onto Minho’s lips. 

Few hours later, when Minho is going to bed, he thanks Seungmin. 

“You know, it’ll be okay right?” Seungmin asks. 

“Yeah. Probably.” Minho nods. “I just wish…it would’ve ended up differently.” 

🫧

It’s weird moving on from a relationship that was never real. Minho still sees Jisung in every corner of the world.

He pretends it’s okay. Someday it’ll be okay. He still wishes it was different.

🫧

Jisung sits on the shitty leather couch in the frat, beer dripping down his face and clothes soaking it in like how cotton soaks up blood. The girl next to him sneers something, and walks away to wash away the beer that got on her pretty lacy camisole. He tries to apologize before she completely walks out of ear-shot, not that he thinks that she cares about it very much. 

“What the fuck was that about?” Changbin asks, he looks at Jisung. Jisung looks back at him, but doesn’t say anything. “Who was that?” 

“It’s nothing.” Jisung shakes his head, stands up. Feels how his shirt sticks to his skin, this will be hell to get out—it’s gonna dry to his skin before he knows it, leave him sticky, leave him smelling. His clothes are as good as gone, he’s not entirely convinced just one wash will help. The cuts on his face stings, the one above his eyebrow, the one that has his chin bruised and purple.  

Groaning, Jisung walks toward the kitchen, searching for paper towels to save him. The guys in the frat are all a mess, not so much… mad at him as they’re all shouting, asking who that was, where he went, and who’s gonna pay to have the couch cleaned (as if it’s worth saving). 

“What do you mean nothing?” Changbin huffs. “You just got doused in beer.” 

Felix stands in the kitchen, idly watching them, and has clearly been idly watching them. He hands Jisung a single napkin. Doesn’t look particularly sorry for him. 

“Yeah. Whatever.” Jisung dries his face, tries to swipe his hair out of the way, it feels gross under the touch of his fingers. 

Changbin looks at Felix for an answer, but he swirls the drink in his cup around, rolls his eyes. 

“Dude.” 

“‘S whatever. It was Seungmin.” 

“Who?” 

“Minho’s roommate.” Felix butts in. Jisung looks at him, complicated expression—not sure he loves that Felix is butting in. 

“Oh.” Changbin crosses his arms. 

Jisung feels the remorse creep in, the guilt, oh, yeah. So now it makes sense. So, Jisung deserved it in other words. 

He never shared the details of him and Minho not seeing each other anymore, not more than that— ’we’re not seeing each other anymore’, he told them, and that was that. 

But, Jisung has known Felix since they were freshmen, Changbin a little less than that, but plenty of time enough, they just have to put one and one together. If Jisung is getting beer poured over him at a party, he probably deserved it, if the one pouring it is an old flings friend, well, then he definitely deserved it. 

“I’m going home. If the guys start bitching about the couch, send the bill my way.” Jisung shrugs, he tries to dry himself off with another napkin, but it’s fruitless. He’s gonna have to walk home, wet, cold, and smelling like beer. Wonderful. 

Jisung takes his leave, holding his jacket awkwardly under his arm, not all too inclined to wear it. He takes his skateboard from the porch, where he has carelessly left it, walks down the path, searching around his pocket for his cigarettes. 

“Hey!” Felix shouts, coming running behind him, just when Jisung steps up on the skateboard. “Wait up for me.” 

“You coming with?” 

“Yeah. Why not.” Felix shrugs. 

“Chan? Changbin?” 

“Changbin was gonna find Chan, probably gonna go to a bar.” 

“Cool.” Jisung whispers, he lights his cigarette. 

“Ever gonna tell us whatever it was that happened?” Felix inquiries. 

“Nothing happened.” 

“Seems harsh to pour beer on you over nothing.” 

“What do you want me to say?” Jisung scoffs. 

“The truth?” 

“You’ve known me, for four years, yeah?” 

“Give or take.” Felix nods. 

“Take your guess.” Jisung whispers. “I fucked it up .” 

“I thought you guys were good together.” 

“We were.” Jisung thinks. Lifts his gaze to the sky, a deep turquoise, the moon somewhere where Jisung can’t find it. 

“So?” 

“So, what does it matter? You know me? I fuck shit up.” 

They walk in silence, Jisung smokes three cigarettes in a row before Felix finally grows sick of him, snatches the pack from his hand and puts it away. 

Jisung is telling the truth, he does this, no one is surprised. Felix didn’t bat an eye when Seungmin was standing before Jisung, pouring a triad of beer cups over him. 

“I love you, Jisung.” Felix says, even though he knows that Jisung hates hearing it, sometimes because he knows Jisung hates it. It’s defiance, telling Jisung even when he wants to shut it out. “So many people love you, and you are one of my best friends.” Felix turns to him, Jisung avoids his eyes. “But sometimes I grow so sick of your shit.” 

Jisung doesn’t say anything. 

“Why do you do this to yourself? Seriously?” 

“You know why I do this.” 

“Minho was honestly, one of the best guys you've ever— ever met. I saw the way you were around him. Such a beautiful version of yourself.” Felix mumbles. “Why did you have to go down that road?” 

“Because I was breaking his heart.” Jisung admits, and it makes him sick to admit. “And I didn’t wanna give him the chance to see this ugly, thing, that’s inside me.” 

“It’s not ugly.” 

“It’s ugly, and broken .” Jisung repeats. Pointing at himself. All of himself. This ugly, broken thing, that is Jisung’s entire being. “Everything. I don’t know how to do it. ”

Love people. 

Felix stares at him. He has known Jisung since they were freshmen. Dorm roomies, instant connection, best friends. He doesn’t know everything, because no one ever will. Nobody will ever understand, but he has tried. Felix knows that that broken, ugly thing, inside Jisung, as he so graciously calls it himself, is begging, begging for something. It’s begging for love. Begging to be loved back. And it is. So many people love Jisung, for his jokes and his humor and for his intelligence and his charm and the kindness he shows his friends, and everything else that cannot be mentioned. 

Felix met Jisung’s parents, one time, after Jisung’s dad got him the apartment. A lot of puzzle pieces fell into place that time. Jisung refused the idea that Felix would ever get to meet them again, just in case the last few pieces would make the puzzle whole. 

He has seen Jisung blow through relationships, and non-relationships, everything. He has watched Jisung keep his distance from romance because romance is a scary little thing, isn’t it? Felix watched the months Jisung spent with Minho, when Jisung was happy and fulfilled and a version of himself that Felix honestly, didn’t know existed. 

“I wish you would’ve given Minho the chance. I wish you would have given yourself the chance to at least try.” Felix says, he picks his pace up, Jisung follows on the skateboard mindlessly. “You do fuck shit up, but it’s like suicide, because you just jump and wait to meet concrete. Why not just try? What’s the worst thing that could happen? I mean, it’s better to try and then fuck shit up, than not try at all.” 

A million things run through Jisung’s mind. He tsk’s. 

“He could leave me.” Jisung says. He has already left Minho. 

In the distance, Jisung’s apartment building comes into view. Felix continues to walk, hurrying up. 

“So you leave him. And you’re left with some clinical satisfaction, when he turns bitter, and he detests you, and his friends pour beer over you, that you were right all along. That he probably never loved you, and probably never would have? You leave him, and you’re left with this big ocean of guilt, but still some smug clinical satisfaction , knowing that you saved him from a fate of loving you?” 

“Yeah.”

“But he loved you.” 

“I know.” Jisung nods. So Jisung never really ended up saving him from anything. 

Felix grabs Jisung’s hand, when they get to his building, when they’re walking up the stairs. Doesn’t say anything else, until hours later. He lets Jisung sit with it. 

“I love you.” Felix whispers. Brushing Jisung’s damp hair, it took two rounds of shampoo to get the beer out. Jisung had to scrub his skin raw, to get rid of the enormity of his feelings. “Do you know that?” He asks, and watches as goosebumps run over Jisung’s skin. Jisung just clears his throat. Gives him such a quick nod, that it almost goes unnoticed, there are stones weighing Jisung down because he doesn't want to admit it. 

“I wish it was different.” Jisung nods. “I wish I did it all differently.” 

“I know.” 

🫧

It’s weird moving on from someone who loved you so fiercely. Someone who you never accepted would do so. Jisung still sees Minho in every corner of the world.

He pretends it’s okay. Someday it’ll be okay. He still wishes it was different.

🫧

Minho is sitting on the porch of a house he’s never been to before, a bit far from home—his phone is dead, not that he had any minutes left. He was gonna call Seungmin, say that he was bored and wanted to go home. They have once again budgeted their monthly income around booze and not a taxi-ride home. To be fair, it’s fine now—with the heat of the summer, but it’s not awesome. You know, the walk. Minho has a habit of growing nauseous as soon as he starts walking. 

His beer has turned stale and lukewarm, he wasn’t all that inclined to party in the first place, but Seungmin insisted they celebrate the end of the semester. It was fun for an hour, but then he lost Seungmin somewhere, and ultimately decided that remaining in one place, is the best option. If he can’t find Seungmin, Seungmin will have to find him. 

A little bored, Minho gazes at the lawn to the front of the house, no one is here, which he finds surprising—well, fairly surprising, there’s a beer pong tournament going on in the backyard. 

Maybe it’s not surprising. Whatever—

So Minho sits here alone, watches the sun set, studies the little carbonation left in his cup, he watches the bubbles—he hears a bird in a tree closeby, searches for it with his eyes. Minho drinks his beer, mutters to himself, a little pissed that Seungmin clearly shows no care whether lives or dies, he sticks his hands into his thick jacket—finds the only thing that could ever keep him going right now. 

An unopened pack of Newports’, six bucks, the finest, Minho bites at the plastic when he can’t get it off within the first few seconds. It burns so good at the back of his throat when he lights one, the first in weeks. Minho closes his eyes and turns his head to the sky, takes a deep breath, soiled by smoke and boredom. 

Then he hears laughing, from the road, voices growing loud—slurred speech, that Minho recognizes. 

“No Jisung.” 

Minho cracks his eyes open, sees Jisung’s figure walk over the lawn in an unstable zig-zag motion, carrying his stupid skateboard under his arm, momentarily Minho thinks about the bruise that has finally disappeared. Jisung is followed by Felix, who walks just as unstable and difficult. 

“Minho, do my eyes deceive me, or is that you?” Jisung giggles, stumbling on the first step of stairs, he doesn’t fall, completely, but almost, he throws his skateboard onto the grass. 

“No. It’s me.” Minho whispers. He thinks he has moved on, a few months ago he would’ve beat Jisung to the ground, or he would have burst into tears, maybe a combination of the two. Now he just swallows and hopes that he sounds normal. 

“Jisung, stop, leave him alone.” Felix mumbles, hiccuping. 

“Hey, Minho, can we talk?” 

“Jisung—” 

“It’s okay.” Minho leans his chin in his palm, looks between them. Both equally drunk, Felix looks surprised, and concerned. Holds his hands up, continues on his way up the stairs to the door. A ‘whatever’ a ‘Do whatever you want’ “If you see Seungmin inside, Felix, would you mind telling him that I’m here waiting on him?” 

Felix nods, the door clicks when he closes it behind him. 

It’s silent. But the kind of silence that isn’t deathly silent. It’s silent, but the silence is cut by a grasshopper squeaking and the bird in the tree, by the noise from the backyard. 

Jisung doesn’t say anything, he just, half lays down on the steps, stares at Minho’s cigarettes. Minho shakes his pack, tsk’s, and holds it out, assuming that Jisung has a lighter himself. Jisung’s hair is dyed blond now, it wasn’t the last time Minho saw him. It’s a little yellow, his roots are growing out already, it sticks in all kinds of directions, like no amount of gel in the world could ever help him. He still wears the same jacket, the one he seems to wear year round, no matter the weather or temperature. 

“Smoking is really bad for you, you know?” Jisung whispers, his speech is slurred, he strings together the words like they don’t belong in the same sentence. “It like, kills people. Or whatever.” 

“Thanks, I didn’t know.” Minho nods. 

“Um, me and Felix, we like went bar hopping. But we heard this is where shit happens tonight, so we walked, um, like all the way from 4th avenue, and—” 

“Jisung,” Minho says, glances at him. “I don’t really care.” He says, and tries to not care. 

“Ouch.” 

It’s silent for a while again. The same non-silence silent. Minho wonders if it’s unhealthy of him to want to strangle a grasshopper. It doesn’t seem healthy. It doesn’t scream sane and gathered. 

Minho glances at Jisung, eyes glossy with alcohol, out of it. Studies him. 

“What happened to you?” Minho asks, looks at his face. Because he still cares. Fresh cuts to healing ones to red and angry scars. To his hands, just the same, then to his knees—peeking out from his shorts, purple and bruised to no end. 

“What?” Jisung asks, puts the cigarette out against the wood, Minho hands him another. 

“You look beat up.” 

“Yeah—um, this guy, was pissed off that he kept stumbling over my skateboard when I had it in my bedroom, so to give it some purpose, I started to learn how to use it. Like really learn.” Jisung shrugs. Whatever. “But, I’m not that good. Keep falling on my face, tripping over curbs—tried to skate down a set of stairs and almost broke my shoulder.” 

Minho doesn’t say anything. He stomps his cigarette out, sips on his beer, still just as stale and lukewarm. He wants to say that he doesn’t care, but he does. The tiniest bit. For a while—well for weeks, he looked at those videos of Jisung on his phone, then the endless photos; until he proclaimed they simply took up too much space. 

(He misses the memories of Jisung sometimes, even if he doesn’t care to admit it.)

“Minho…?” Jisung whispers, crawls a little closer. “I miss you.” 

It lights a fuse, something angry and red blossoms within Minho. 

“Fuck off.” He whispers, so—so quiet, the sound of the grasshopper almost overpowers him. 

“I think about kissing you, every day.” Jisung continues. “I’ve missed you so much.” 

“You broke up with me over text.” Minho mutters, looking at Jisung, pupils shrinking, like he’s staring at a fire. He picks at the skin around his cuticles. “I loved you. Did you know that?” 

“I know.” Jisung nods, he closes his eyes. So out of it, Minho isn’t convinced that Jisung even knows where he is. “I know you did.” 

“And you still did it.” Minho sneers. “ Fuck off.” 

Jisung reaches out with his hand. Minho stands up. 

“Saying goodbye to you, Jisung, tore me into pieces. I was unrecognizable and disgusting, I felt pathetic, and broken. So much, it took weeks until I could look at myself in the mirror and not cringe.” 

“Minho—” 

“And I didn’t even say goodbye to you. You didn’t even let me say goodbye. It was just like that—” Minho snaps with his fingers. ‘Hey, I think we should stop seeing each other. Sorry.’

Minho moves to leave, Seungmin can find his own fucking way home. 

Jisung mumbles something, Minho can see in his periphery how he stumbles, on the steps, almost falls trying to follow Minho. Fuck off. Minho doesn’t care, he’s past it. 

“Minho—please—” 

He shakes his head, won’t give Jisung the satisfaction of apologizing just to make himself feel better, he doesn’t even care whether Jisung lives or dies. 

Well, the latter is a lie, but sometimes Minho lies to himself to make himself feel better. It’s human nature. 

He’s trying so hard to be past it, it’s been four months and twelve days and nine hours, or something. Not that he’s counting. That’s a lie too. Minho hasn’t been moving on as well as he is supposed to. He smiles now, in public, he flirts with other people, but turn down their advances when they ask to take him home. He has absolutely moved on, the bruise on his ankle is gone—see, his sheets don't smell like Jisung anymore—see. 

“I’m sorry.” Jisung whispers, dejected, he weighs on his feet, a bit away from Minho. 

“Fuck you.” 

“I would have loved you back.” Jisung raises his voice. Minho snaps his head in Jisung’s direction. Sees him stand like a child, hands intertwined, feet pointing inward, head downturned. “I know you loved me. I’m sorry. I would love you back if I could.” 

“This is the last time I'm crying over you.” Minho sniffs, and points at Jisung. “I hope you’re not so drunk you’ll forget this conversation tomorrow. I hope you sit with it, like I’ve been sitting with my grief.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“No!” Minho grits through his teeth. “I’m not accepting a drunk man's apology. I’m not accepting an apology from someone, who still won’t love me back.” He cries, a little, just a few tears rolling down his cheeks that he pretends aren’t there. 

Minho walks away, with half his dignity intact. 

A hundred yards later, Seungmin catches up to him, completely out of breath. He doesn’t mention that he saw Jisung, sitting in a pile of himself, on the porch bawling, on the way. He asks if Minho is okay. 

‘Of course,’ Minho says, his tears have dried. He lies, just a white little lie, so he doesn’t have to bear any more pitiful looks. 

🫧

“You son-of-a-bitch bastard!” 

Shouts loud as thunder, fingers digging into his scalp, like knives. A mother and a father and a son. 

“Never speak to us like that!” 

🫧

Total peace and serenity. The sun is bright, but hidden behind modest clouds that let the beams shine down on Minho every now and again. The breeze outside is gentle, like a mother’s hand on her child's cheek at bedtime. 

Minho buys a coffee in the morning, and the balance of the flavors leaves Minho feeling pleasant all over. Full-body-orgasm, that’s how good it is, which he will tell Seungmin when he gets home, and then he will laugh because Seungmin will retch at his poor choice of words. 

He sits in the library for a few hours, he has his two last semesters ahead of him, and he needs to be on top of his game . The last few months of his last semester didn’t have anyone cheering, performance-wise, Minho was a wreck academically. Well all of Minho was a wreck, so he is half-excused. 

But this, this will be his year. That’s what Minho decides at least, when he sits down at a quiet table, enjoying the occasional beams of sun coming through the window behind him, and his coffee, and the book in his hand. 

Total peace and serenity, Minho takes a deep breath outside. The air is still fresh and the weather is still cool. Total peace and serenity, he decides to walk home, because life is so good he doesn’t want the day to end. He closes his eyes, occasionally, which might make him look insane, as he passes people on the street, but Minho couldn’t care less what anyone thinks of him. 

Total peace and serenity, Minho fishes his keys out of his bag and opens the door, he thinks nothing of the extra pair of shoes in the hall, or the sound of two voices coming from inside the apartment. He’s busy humming a melody to a song that hasn’t left him for months.

“Minho.” Seungmin clears his throat, when it’s evident that Minho hasn’t even noticed him. 

Minho jerks his head up, plops his bag to the floor, sliding his jacket off. 

“Yeah?” 

Total peace and serenity, until it isn’t peaceful anymore. The bruise that isn’t there anymore starts to sting, right there on Minho’s ankle, like he’s pressing the pad of his thumb to it with such force it could break all the bones in his foot. 

Felix. He has a new haircut, and wild red streaks running through his blond hair. He sits on the couch, in the living room, next to Seungmin. He tries to smile at Minho, like a peace offering—that he’s here not to cause pain. But Minho is already hurting. 

“What are you doing here?” Minho huffs, eyebrows drawing together, nose scrunching like he’s smelling something sour. 

“Um, I was hoping that I could talk to you?” He mutters, unsure, not much confidence surrounding him. 

“And why would I want to speak to you?” 

“It’s about Jisung. Sort of.” 

“You’re here acting as a messenger for Jisung?” Minho looks Felix dead in the eyes, then to Seungmin. “Have you been gossiping with Felix about me and Jisung?” He asks. 

“No—” Seungmin shakes his head, calm. “But, I think you should, hear him out.” He says, standing up from the couch, leaving to go to his room to give them privacy. 

Traitor. Seungmin of all people, betraying him. Minho won’t forget this. 

Of course, if Seungmin, of all people, thinks Minho should hear Felix out, it is for a reason. But Minho’s mind has been suddenly clouded with annoyance and a hurt that knows no equal. 

“I’m not here to send a message from Jisung to you, I’m here to talk to you about Jisung. As his friend.” 

Minho isn’t particularly convinced that he will like this. His morning was good, and the sun was shining behind modest clouds. He was having a good day. 

He can’t run, because he knows that will be embarrassing on his part, he won’t blow up in rage, because that would just be pathetic, it wouldn’t be him. 

So he stands his ground, crosses his arms over his chest. Motions with his hand, lazily, for Felix to continue. 

“God—” Felix buries his face in his hands. “I don’t even know where to begin.” 

Minho says nothing. Felix can start wherever he wants to, Minho isn’t convinced he will like it anyway. 

“Okay, I know that Jisung fucked it up. Let’s just start there.” He whispers. Laughs almost. “He knows he fucked up. Everyone that knows Jisung, and knew you, everyone who saw you two together, knows that Jisung fucked it up.” 

“I don’t care what you think.” Minho mutters. But he cares a little, feels some smug satisfaction in knowing that he wasn’t crazy for being so broken up about their thing ending. 

“I understand. Just hear me out.” 

“I’m hearing you out.” Minho snaps. 

Felix takes a deep breath. 

“I really don’t think that what Jisung did to you was okay, I never did. I’ve never thought so. I’ve always told him, whenever he fucks shit up, that one day, or the other, it will come bite him in the ass. That karma will catch up to him. And he looks at me, every time—says that he knows. But he’s a guy who fucks shit up- ” 

“Why are you friends with him, then?”

“Why did you love him?” Felix counters, blink of a second, like he had it locked and loaded. 

Because he’s lovable, and kind, he’s charming like no other. He’s funny, and adventurous, smart and quick-witted. He’s a wonderful friend, a wonderful lover, so so lovable, has so much love to give—even if he doesn’t even know it himself. 

“I’m sorry, Minho.” Felix tilts his head a little, his eyes are glossy. “I’m sorry for what he did to you. I know he hurt you, but I know, that he deep down, never meant to do so. Not intentionally. That doesn’t make it okay, and I know that. Trust that I do.” 

Minho nods, sniffs. He used to be a guy that never cried, it feels like a trait he’s lost. 

“He wants you back. He doesn’t dare to tell us anymore, because he knows what he did was wrong. He knows that everyone who knows him, will look at him, with a little pity, because most people don’t get second chances—and he will take that, as his sign, that he will never deserve one.” 

“And you want me to give him a second chance, Felix?” 

Felix nods, timidly, almost. 

“And you think he deserves a second chance?” Minho tilts his head back, stares at Felix. 

“I do.” Felix nods. “He’s trying to be better. He really is. So fucking hard. Going to therapy and shit. Breaking free from old habits, unlearning behaviors, he’s really trying to become better.” He says. 

“Does he know that you’re here?” 

“No.” 

“Why would I give him a second chance?” 

“Because he wants to love you.” 

It’s quiet for a little bit. 

“Jisung isn’t capable of love.” Minho whispers. 

Now it’s Felix who sours. 

“He is. I know he is.” Felix mumbles. He stands up. “You don’t have to give him a second chance. I would understand if you didn’t, everyone would, and you have reason to not. He fucks shit up, he has fucked shit up. He’s jumped from fifty story buildings headfirst into concrete, his entire life, because he’s terrified. But he is capable of love.” He balls his hands into fists, so much so his knuckles turn white. “Never tell him he isn’t capable of love.” 

Minho watches as Felix walks past him. 

“He knows where to find me. I won’t go to him.” 

“I never expected you to.” 

Minho nods. 

“I won’t tell him I talked to you, we can keep this between us. If he comes to you, I just ask you to, have an open heart, and hear him out. He’s had a…difficult summer, it might take some time. Don’t expect him on your doorstep tomorrow.” 

“And what do I do, if he fucks it up again?” 

“I don’t know. Kill him.” Felix laughs dryly, he bends down to untie his shoes. It might be a joke, but one that Minho doesn’t understand. 

Minho still nods. Nods again, and again. 

Peace and serenity, Minho walks to his room when Felix has gone. He sits down in bed and stares at his ugly wallpaper. Takes a few deep breaths, tries to think about what he should have for dinner—instead of thinking about Jisung. 

🫧

Jisung’s father screams. Something incoherent, something that doesn’t even form words once it leaves his mouth.

“Why are you so fucking loyal to him? He’s a cheater mom, a loveless, ugly, fucking cheater.” Jisung screams back. This house has never known peace. “But you blame me, for what dad does to you. You detest me so much, because I’m his son. And you—” He tries to look at his dad. “You’re just pissed, because you knocked her up and you had to marry her. You detest me, because all you got was this good-for-nothing son.”

Jisung’s father releases the grip he has in Jisung’s hair, he pushes Jisung away. 

“You ruined my life! You ruined my life!” Jisung screams. And he knows that he ruined theirs. Mutual destruction.

“We’ve done everything we’ve had to do for you! A house over your head, food on the table, a top-notch-education.” His father grits. Yes yes. Everything, a meal in his stomach every day, tutors and the newest video games and an apartment to keep him quiet. Everything, everything, everything but nothing.

His mother is silent, it was always her greatest weapon. She stares at Jisung, like she might still gouge the eyes from his head. He feels her silence is enough to make him gouge them out himself. 

“What about love? Huh? Are you capable of that, even? Or is this thing that is me, so ugly and broken you forgot how to love it?” 

Even his father quiets down. Seething in his rage, red to the face, mustache flaring with his breaths. 

Jisung breathes like he has been running a marathon. He seethes, like his father, red to the face. 

It’s his mother who breaks the silence. 

“You ungrateful child. How could you ever say that?” She sneers, so her teeth bare. 

“Then tell me! Tell me you love me!” Jisung gasps, he holds his chest, like his heart will burst out of his body. “Tell me you love me, and I’ll believe you!” 

And it’s silent. Deathly silent. So silent it’s a vacuum. Nothing. 

“Fuck off! The both of you!” Jisung grabs his bag from the floor and flees to the door. He huffs, pulls his shoes on, tears stuck in his throat, his heart, ugly and broken. 

“Don’t dare come back until you learn how to respect us.” His father says, when he sees Jisung reach for the door. 

“Then I guess I won’t see you again.” Jisung says, tears rolling down his cheeks. It’s silent and it burns. 

He walks onto the porch. This shell of a house that’s never been a home. The early summer air is humid and uncomfortable. Jisung is already sweating through his clothes, his throat hurts, from the screaming, his scalp tingles, and he can still feel his father’s fingers digging into it. Fuck, Jisung dries the tears off his cheeks with the back of his hands. Gets ready to leave. Forever for all he cares. 

Then he turns around, rips the door open before he slams it shut again. 

“And get a fucking divorce!” 

🫧

“They really don’t love me.” Jisung whispers, sitting curled into a ball on the floor. Grabbing his hair, shoulders shaking and breathing shallow, all cried out. A hand lands on his back, running in circles, trying to soothe him. Three pairs of eyes, in the room, switching between each other—terrified, and concerned. 

“It’s okay.” Felix whispers. He leans down, until his forehead meets the crown of Jisung’s head. “It’s okay.” He mumbles. “Come, didn’t you hear Chan? Chan promised that he would get us dinner. You need food. When was the last time you ate?” 

“I don’t know.” Jisung shakes his head. 

“What do you want buddy?” Chan says, that grumble in his voice, carrying confidence, authority. 

Jisung looks up at them, surrounding him, he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. Can’t. 

“It’s okay.” Felix repeats. “ We love you.” 

🫧

Felix came to see Minho right at the beginning of the semester, and Minho doesn’t wait for Jisung, but he waits for something. Maybe a final nail in the coffin, just so Minho knows it is over. 

Somehow, Jisung just never seems to leave Minho's periphery, always there. A shadow of the months they spent together. Maybe if he just saw Jisung one last time, on equal ground, it would be better, so that if they part, they can do so—amicably. 

And if they don’t part? 

Well, Minho doesn’t know. And it’s driving him insane. He blows right through September, without a word from Jisung, and drives Minho crazy. Because Felix was in his apartment, and he said that Jisung wanted a second chance—so where is he? When is Minho gonna see him? Minho won’t go to him, he won’t, but he wants to. However pathetic it might sound. 

“Are you gonna?” Seungmin asks, getting comfortable on the couch.  Out of nowhere. Basically. They talk about it sometimes. Minho is sure Seungmin is just thinking out loud now. 

“Gonna what?” Minho still asks back. 

“Give him a second chance…?” 

“Give who a second chance?” Hyunjin asks, coming back to the living room with a sixpack of beer, Jeongin follows him like a tail does a dog. Smiling. 

“Jisung.” Minho sighs. 

“What? Is Jisung still a topic of conversation?” Hyunjin huffs. Sticks his nose in the air. Minho laughs, a little dry. 

“His friend, you know, Felix, came to see me a while ago. Said I should talk to Jisung.” 

“Will you?” 

“I won’t go to him…” Minho mutters. 

“And if he comes to you?” 

“I don’t know.” Minho shakes his head. He thinks about the conversation he and Seungmin had, a few months ago, right before Minho and Jisung stopped seeing each other. “Do you think I should?” He looks at Seungmin. Wise old man, snarky, but honest, and kind at times. He still doesn’t know how to properly thank him, for taking care of Minho in his own weird ways, when it all went down the drain. So he asks if Seungmin thinks that he should give Jisung that precious second chance, like he has the final say in this. 

“Hard to say.” Seungmin shrugs, accepts a beer, and cracks it open. “Guess it depends on what he says.” 

“If he ever says something.” Minho huffs. A month give or take, since Felix saw him, and it’s like Jisung has disappeared from this plane of existence, entirely. 

‘Don’t expect him on your doorstep tomorrow.’ 

Well, Minho is waiting, but he won’t forever. 

🫧

Minho has to all but wait, about six or seven meek hours after the conversation with his friends. The Friday evening turns into the early Saturday morning, and after a, in Minho’s opinion, rather boring movie marathon (the trio, promptly went against Minho’s wishes of watching horror), they’re all asleep. Rather unceremoniously, legs stretched out wide, blankets falling to the floor, beer cans littering Minho’s and Seungmin’s coffee-table. 

And Minho’s phone rings, he feels it, somewhere buried in his pants, vibrating, disturbing his slumber. Once he manages to fish it up, he looks to his side, sees the domino of Jeongin, Hyunjin and Seungmin, all still asleep next to him, heads resting on each others shoulders. 

Still groggy, it takes a second, he sees Jisung’s name on the contact for a flash of a second, before it goes away. Minho clears his throat, straightens his back, after a little bit, he gets the notification that he has a new voicemail. 

Minho doesn’t know what to say or do or react, so he just, sits there and stares at his phone—until a second call comes in. This time, he hits Jeongin, repeatedly, until he wakes up with an angry “what?”. 

“Jisung is calling.” Minho whisper-screams. 

“Okay?” Jeongin huffs, turns to lay his head back on Hyunjin’s shoulder, he reaches for the blanket, before he turns his head so fast in Minho’s direction it cracks. “What?” 

“Jisung is calling me.” Minho repeats, this time louder. Seungmin twists in his place, cracks his eyes open. 

By the time Jeongin is yelling at Minho to answer, that one goes to voicemail too. 

When you speak of the devil, he comes knocking. 

🫧

“Hi. It’s Jisung. I don’t know if you like, blocked my number…” It’s quiet for a few seconds. “Now that I think of it, I don’t think I would’ve been able to call you if my number was blocked. Is this Minho by the way? It’s gonna be really embarrassing if it’s not Minho, because he changed his number or something. OK, I’m gonna assume it’s you Minho.” 

Minho stares at the ugly wallpaper next to his bed, follows a flower with the tip of his finger, listening to Jisung’s low, scratchy voice. 

“I was, well, I was calling to ask if you maybe wanted to see me. It feels less intruding to call, than like, barge into your apartment, and I don’t know when you’re gonna be home and not, and all that. You know.” Jisung clears his throat. “So like, if you do, we—we can do something low-stakes, maybe—maybe just a walk? I think better when I walk.” 

The call cuts off, Minho presses play on the next voicemail. 

“Sorry, I clicked end call. I think you’re asleep, and sorry I’m calling so late, I’m taking a walk, hah, you know.” He hums, sounds so nervous. “On Friday? Is that okay with you? Around 8 maybe? I’ll wait for you, if you wanna see me. I’ll wait by that statue, that statue-fountain, you know, the one a few blocks over from your apartment. I’ll see you there, if you wanna see me—” 

The call cuts off again. Minho stares at his wallpaper for a while. 

Then, he flips around in bed, turns his phone to his face again, so he can look at it. Presses play—

Hi. It’s Jisung. I don’t know if you like, blocked m—

🫧

Everyone asks, Hyunjin and Jeongin and Seungmin. They ask about the voicemails, they ask what Jisung said. 

Minho doesn’t say. Not really. 

“He said he wanted to meet up.” 

“Will you?” 

Minho said that he didn’t know. and he doesn’t. Not really. It’s conflicting, his entire being feels like it’s at war. A push and pull of emotions, not sure what to do with himself. He mulls it over, more than he has about any decision in his life. Because it feels like a life-and-death situation, something that will—it will decide everything for him. His entire future. 

It’s Friday, at 7:30, and tomorrow it will be Saturday. And maybe his life will be different tomorrow. Minho sits in his room, stares at the outfit he has picked out, at the shoes he has carefully set down at the end of his bed. He shakes his head, Minho spreads his fingers out flat on his knees, before balling them up to fists, he closes his eyes, tilts his head to the ceiling—and thinks. 

“Please—” He whispers, to nothing and no one. Just a sign. Something. That he’s doing the right thing. 

Minho stands up at 7:40 and gets dressed, he picks his shoes from the floor and brings them to the hall quietly. He doesn’t want to speak to Seungmin, so he avoids making noises, in case Seungmin hears him, and asks where he is going. 

At 7:50, he is finished tying his shoes, he looks at his reflection in the mirror next to the door. Moves a strand of hair with his finger, because it’s not sitting right. He encourages his reflection, like he sometimes does, zips his jacket all the way, even if it’s still nice and warm out. He pats his pockets, checks that everything is where it should be. Keys and cigarettes and a lighter and his small iPod and his headphones and his phone. 

Minho takes a deep breath, and by 7:52 he’s out the door. He still searches for a sign, something that might tell him that he isn’t making a mistake. 

It’s peaceful and serene, the walk. The sun is setting, the air is a little humid—a bird somewhere in a tree chirps happily, singing an evening-song. Minho sticks a cigarette in his mouth, but doesn’t care to light it—busy staring at his shoes. They’re new, and white, like how new shoes are white—so white they’re almost not white. Makes it hard to look at them, Minho stops, steps on his own toes, scruffs them against the pavement, because he doesn’t actually like this super-pristine look. 

Minho walks and walks, and by 7:59, he’s standing by the side of the fountain, the statue—he leans against the side of it. Still staring at his shoes. 

Then a flame, in front of his face, lighting his cigarette. 

“You looked like you needed some fire.” Jisung whispers. “You didn’t see me, when you came walking. I waved at you.” 

Minho looks up through his eyelashes. 

Jisung looks different. 

His hair was jet black when they met, a year ago. Minho always thought it fit him, it looked untouched in some ways, even though he knew from pictures that it had been many different colors over the years. An old sign of childhood rebellion, like Jisung used to say. Last time they saw each other, back in June, it was blond. A trashy, yellow blond, that still looked gorgeous on Jisung, even though Minho never dared to admit it. 

It’s a dusty brunette now, not very dark. Minho suspects he may have just thrown a drug-store box dye over his old bleached hair, something that didn’t stick amazingly—but it still looks good. It’s longer, tufts of hair curling at the ends, bangs falling in his face, effortlessly pretty. 

Jisung’s eyes are soft when they look at Minho, albeit a little downturned, a little dull. Like he hasn’t been sleeping well. His face is clear of the scratches and cuts, the ones he had the last time Minho saw him—evidence that, well, Jisung might just not be the next Tony Hawk, and that maybe he has realized this now. And what does it matter, he’s so good at so many other things. 

But this isn’t why Jisung looks different, he just does. It’s something unexplainable, something about his demeanor or aura, the way his fingers shake a little when he puts the lighter back in his pocket. 

“Thanks.” Minho mumbles. 

“I’m glad you came, I didn’t know if you would.” 

Minho nods. He didn’t know he would either. He pushes off the statue, nods in some unintelligible direction, as if explaining that Jisung wanted to take a walk, so they should walk. 

Jisung takes out his own cigarette, and Minho is quicker than him to pull out his own lighter. Jisung whispers a ‘thank you’. 

Minho still stands his ground, a refusal to speak before Jisung. 

They walk instead, at a low pace, in whatever direction that feels right. Jisung swings a little when he walks. When they have finished smoking their first cigarette, they light another one each. Two cigarettes in a row, a habit. They walk and walk, a right and a left and then lefts, until they’re walking in circles. 

“Um, I know Felix talked to you.” Jisung says. 

“He told you?” Minho thinks back at their conversation, a half promise to not say anything.  

“Not really, but he’s a shitty liar, it slipped out.” 

“Did he say what we talked about?” 

Jisung shakes his head. “But if I had to guess, it was something about how pathetic I have been lately, and how pathetic I was when we were— together.” 

Minho scoffs. “No. Not really.” He looks ahead. “He did say I could kill you though.” 

“Is that why you’re here?” 

“To kill you?” Minho asks. But shakes his head before Jisung has time to answer. “No, I would’ve just broken into your apartment, and killed you in your sleep, if that was my intention.” 

“Well, that would have been unfortunate for whoever lives in my apartment now.” 

Minho looks at him curious. 

“Kinda been couch-surfing lately.” Jisung shrugs, looks at the sky, turning a deeper blue, the more they walk. “You know I was never particularly good at keeping quiet about the mistresses.” 

“Oh.” 

“It’s whatever. I’m about to get a new apartment.” 

It’s quiet, for a bit. Minho opens his heart, he can tell Jisung is preparing himself for the inevitable. The reason they are here 

“I’m sorry.” Jisung says, so so quiet. When Minho looks at him, his eyes are shut. “I know I didn’t do a particularly good job apologizing, last time.” 

“No.” Minho agrees, tone flat. He had nightmares about their last meeting. Metaphorically, and literally. 

“And I’m sorry about the way I handled it last time. And I’m sorry about the way…I broke up with you.” Jisung continues. “I couldn’t face you back then. It was cowardly, you don’t have to tell me, believe me. I was afraid, and I was selfish. I just put myself before anything, convinced myself—that if I just texted you, we didn’t have to fight, and I wouldn’t hurt you more.” 

“Because you cared about me?” 

“Yeah, I just…did it, in a fucked up way. I don’t know why I thought you’d perceive it that way.” Jisung laughs, at himself. “I assume you didn’t?” 

“No. I was honestly…homicidal.” 

Jisung nods. Like that is the fairest reaction. It probably is.

“I’m sorry I told you I wouldn’t date you, and I’m sorry I then started dating you. That’s basically what we did right? We were dating?” Jisung cringes. “Not officially, I never would have admitted to it, if you really confronted me about it. I mean, when I understood you actually wanted to talk about it, or establish something, or ask for my honesty, I cowered away.” 

Minho looks ahead. He continues to keep his heart open, but wonders where Jisung will go with this.

“I broke off our thing, because I knew you wanted to tell me that you loved me.” Jisung sniffs, he stuffs his hands in his pocket. “For a while, I refused to believe that you did. I mean, why would you? You spent time around me, you knew…you knew, to some pretty big extent, what kind of guy I was, so there was no chance in hell, you could. But you kept on showing me that you did, in your own ways, without saying it. I could feel it, in every little thing you did, just brushing my hair in the morning because you knew I liked it, or the way you’d strip your hoodie and give it to me, before even I knew I was freezing, and you’d send me links to all these videos you found adorable and that you thought I would find adorable. The way you’d wrap your arms around me when we laid in bed and you squeezed and squeezed and squeezed —” Jisung stops for a breath. “You loved me so much. And I was terrified, that one puzzle piece, after the other, would fit into place—and you’d find out about everything.”

“Find out everything about what?” 

“Well, me. That one piece after the other, would make the puzzle whole, and you’d know me.” 

“Can’t really love people, if you don’t know them.” Minho whispers. 

“No.” 

Jisung seems a little out of breath, like he’s starting to panic. He stares at the ground, keeps his gaze away from Minho. Minho puts his hand on Jisung’s shoulder, very carefully, Jisung flinches at his touch—but doesn’t say anything. They find a little bench to sit down on—Minho let's Jisung calm down. 

“I want you to know me.” Jisung whispers. “Deep down, I wanted you to know me back then too, but yeah—I was afraid.” 

“Are you still afraid?” Minho asks. 

“Deathly.” 

Minho crosses his legs, lays his hands in his lap. Thinks. 

“Last time. You said you would love me if you could.” Minho hums. He thinks about Felix, and his anger, when Minho claimed Jisung couldn’t. Minho wants to believe, so much, that Jisung can. “Do you remember that?” 

“Yeah.” Jisung nods. 

“I know you loved me. I’m sorry. I would love you back if I could.”

“Y’know, it really hurt. You knew I loved you, and you knew you didn’t.” Minho looks at the street, it’s strange how little they have actually looked at each other. Both way too afraid to make eye contact. “After you texted me, to tell me that we should stop seeing each other. I still had this small, little belief, deep inside me, that you were in love with me. That you loved me. But that it still ended like it did, just because life is funny like that, or because of some other god-forsaken reason. Then that night, when you were drunk, and yeah, a little fucking pathetic trying to apologize, you just admitted to not loving me, and that part, that little part of my that still held onto that belief, died .” 

Jisung sighs, looks down in his own lap, he twiddles with his fingers. 

“So. Why am I here?” Minho asks. 

“I wanted to apologize.” Jisung says. 

“And you did.” 

Jisung nods. “Because, I want to be better, and do better, and—and I, I haven’t stopped thinking about you, since—since February.” 

“Can you love me Jisung?”

Opening his mouth to say something, Jisung finally turns to Minho, and Minho looks back at him. Jisung’s eyes are a lovely shade of brown, they twinkle still, as if in sunlight. Jisung doesn’t say anything, but he nods. 

Minho shakes his head. 

“I want to hear you say it. I don’t think I’ll believe you, if you don’t.” 

Instead of saying it, immediately, Jisung nods like he understands. 

“You know my parents.” Jisung leans back, sags. Minho thinks back at the conversation they had, over the phone, on Thanksgiving. The little pieces of information that slipped, drunk on wine and whatever else it was. An unbelievably unhappy marriage, the little mistake that was Jisung being born, cheating, and dysfunction riddling their family, that Jisung didn’t even have to mention for Minho to understand.  

“I don’t love my parents, I really don’t.” Jisung thinks. “It’s mutual. They don’t love me either. I’ve known that for a very long time.” Minho listens attentively, eyebrows scrunching together, while Jisung talks. 

Ten years old. Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen—

“But I always hoped I was wrong, that maybe they loved me. You know. They are my parents after all. I thought all parents had to love their kids. Maybe they didn’t like me, but still loved me. In some way.” There it is again. The dullness. An acceptance that Jisung still has a hard time accepting. “They don’t. I don’t think I will ever be convinced they do. Because parents who love their kids, don’t treat them, the way my parents treat me.” 

Minho wishes he understood Jisung. He probably never will, not fully. 

“One of my earliest memories is that my mom wouldn’t speak to me for a week, and she didn’t speak to me, because I got chocolate ice cream on her dress, and I obviously should have understood that she cared for it. And she did that all the time, you know, sometimes I don’t even know what I did to make her mad, but I knew she was, because she didn’t speak to me. Sometimes, she was furious at me, and my dad at the same time, and the entire house would be quiet.” He laughs, almost, like the memory is fond to him—but Minho understands it’s much more likely that he’s still coping. 

“And you know about my dad, he’s ugly, and mean, and a cheater, doesn’t love anything or anyone but himself.” Jisung mutters. “I don’t think he was ever meant for marriage, but of course, a marriage still can’t stop him from seeing other women, duh.” Jisung searches Minho’s eyes, maybe he’s waiting for Minho to laugh along with him. “And he’s not just ugly, and mean, and a cheater, he’s a piece of shit father, on top of that too—I mean, who bribes a twelve-year-old to keep quiet about your mistress? Tells me that I’m a traitor and a disappointment, and all of that, because I don’t play by his rules, and I tell my mom about his latest.” Minho shakes his head, Jisung has this perplexed facial expression, and continues. “What kind of dad grabs his child by the scruff when he’s mad at him, who yells so loud the house shakes and what kinda of dad digs his fingers into my scalp, so I feel it for days?” Jisung reaches with his hand out, like a claw. Minho doesn’t flinch, because no, he has never experienced that. Jisung nods. “My dad.”  

Minho is disturbed though, to say the least. 

“This summer, I got into it with my parents. I was just over, to grab some stuff and show my face and do my duty as their son, have dinner, and then get out of their hair. And um—um my dad said something about going out, or having to stay late at the office, and just, I spoke without thinking. Made a crass joke, under my breath, asked what her name was, and my mom—who of course, after many years of being married to my dad, has developed super-hearing to sniff out the lies—” 

“Who? Who’s name?” 

“It escalated, the entire thing. Escalated like it never has before, I don’t even know why. But we fought for—what felt like hours. All three of us. I’m honestly surprised we didn’t get the cops called on us.” Jisung looks at him, eyes wide. “I begged them to tell me that they loved me at the end of it. Honestly, if they did, I think I may have forgiven them for everything, all of it. But they couldn’t. Because they don’t. And they never have.” 

Minho swallows nothing. 

“I know it’s cheap Minho, to say it’s my parents fault that I thought I couldn’t love. And I mean—it’s not all their fault. Some people have worse parents than I do, and they don’t turn out like me. I—no one ever told me they loved me, not for real, until I met Felix. And I could barely believe my ears, when I heard him say it for the first time. I almost—I seriously almost stopped being friends with him, because he kept saying it, over and over again, but he prevailed, said I had to know that he loved me, because we were best friends—and he did. Loved me, even if I sometimes pretended he didn’t, because it was less scary.” He takes a deep breath, “What I mean to say is just…it’s hard to see the signs, it’s hard to know what love really is, when you spend most of your life devoid of it. And it’s hard to believe it, when people tell you, because it’s so foreign, it’s hard to convince yourself that you deserve it.” 

“I didn’t know.” Minho whispers. 

“How could you? I never told you.” Jisung tilts his head. “Because, just as terrified I was of you knowing me, and loving me, I was terrified you would know me, and hate me. That you would find out about this thing that is my heart, and think it was broken and ugly, and incapable of love.”

Minho shakes his head. 

“It’s not.” Jisung agrees. He points to his chest. “I’m unlearning that it’s not.” 

Minho nods. He’s happy to hear. But he hasn’t answered Minho's question. (Of course, if you go looking for answers, you will get them.)

“I can love you Minho.” Jisung says, “I’m sure of it. I never…felt so much, as I felt when I was with you.” 

Swallowing a stone. Minho clears his throat, is sure they’ve been sitting enough now, so he stands up. It feels like there are ants in his pants, he needs to shake it off. So he takes a few steps, and looks over his shoulder quickly to see if Jisung is following. He is. 

“Good feelings?” Minho asks. He felt a lot too. Most of it was good. A 10:1 ratio of good things. 

“Yes.” Jisung picks his pace up, so he can walk comfortably next to Minho. Wraps his arm around Minho's elbow. “Minho…I’m serious.” 

“I don’t doubt that you are.” Minho mumbles. “But you hurt me, Jisung.” He looks ahead, at the horizon. 

“I know I did. I’m sorry I did. I’m sorry you met that version of me, if I could turn back I’d do it differently.” Jisung whispers. “If I got another chance I’d do it differently this time.” 

A second chance. 

Do people deserve second chances? How much can a guy change in a year? In a few months? How different can Jisung be now, from when he sat on a porch, drunk and rambling about how he couldn’t love Minho? Is Minho any different? From the guy he was, when he met Jisung, sitting on the sidewalk, drunk, after throwing up over roses? Does it matter if Minho is?

Minho wants to believe. But it’s terrifying, laying yourself bare. Putting yourself in the line of fire again.

Yet, Minho steps out from his comfort zone, where he has grieved and he has intellectualized his feelings, where he has tried to remove Jisung from his entire self, to apparently, no avail. 

“Okay.” Minho says. 

“Okay?” Jisung looks at him, eyes growing ten times their size. A smile pulls at the corner of his lips. 

“If I give you a second chance, we will start fresh.  If I give you a second chance, I need you to be…one hundred percent serious about this. We will go on dates, and get to know each other, like normal people do.” 

“Okay. Yes. I am. I am serious.” 

“I will not kiss you until the third date. That’s my rule. It’s always been my rule.” 

“Okay.” Jisung nods. It wasn’t a rule when they first met, or maybe it was—maybe Minho just disregarded it—Jisung was very charming and they were not particularly conventional. But now they’re cleaning off the slate, beginning anew.

“And if we end up falling in love, we have to be on the same page. I want to be equals in whatever possible fucking relationship we get into. I don’t want a push and pull of will-he-won’t-he. I want to be able to talk to you, and be open. I don’t want to wonder, if you holding my hand means something or if it’s just a mindless act because you don’t know what else to do with your own hand.” Minho is aware that he’s jumping ahead of himself, talking about being in a relationship already, talking like he has already imagined a future with Jisung—and he looks at Jisung, just for a split second, and it doesn’t seem to bother him at all. Like he’s right there with Minho. 

“Okay.” A small smile pulls on Jisung’s lips. It’s spreading, from ear to ear.

“And if you hurt me again.” Minho sighs. “I’m so fucking serious, I know people who have already offered to assist in your murder.” 

“Seungmin?” Jisung laughs. “That little twink? What can he do?” 

“Dispose of your body in more creative ways than you can ever imagine.” Minho smiles, a small, timid smile, it teases. He looks at Jisung. “And he’s taller than you, you twink.” 

They stop. On the sidewalk. Minho turns to Jisung. 

“You’re seriously going to have to gain back the trust of my friends.” Minho whispers. “They liked you, quite a lot when we were… not dating. Then they disliked you a lot, when you broke up with me.” Minho takes a deep breath, “So they’re very wary. It will certainly take longer for them to forgive you than for me.” 

“I understand that.” Jisung nods. Then he stops, right in his tracks. “And you? You have forgiven me? You’re really giving me a second chance?” 

“Ask me out. If you wanna date me, you can ask me out. And I will forgive you.” Minho nods. Tries to act all calm and normal like his heart isn’t about to explode out of his chest and hands are sweating oceans. 

“Now-now?” 

“Yes.” Minho isn’t that much taller than Jisung, an inch, maybe, but Jisung is wearing especially flat shoes today, and Minho's new ones have some height to them. It feels weird, to see Jisung look up at him. 

Jisung lifts his hand to his mouth, clears his throat. Thinking, obviously. Opens his mouth as if to say something. Then he shakes his head, to himself. 

He brings his hands out, to grab at Minho's shoulder, gently directing him closer to the wall of the building next to them. He takes a cigarette out of his own jacket, Newport’s, Jisung’s favorite, and gives it to Minho. 

“Put this in your mouth.” Jisung says. And it doesn’t sound very much like the ‘hey can I take you on a date?’ Minho expected. 

“What?” 

“Just do it. But don’t light it.” Jisung insists. 

Minho thinks if he was crazy enough to even see Jisung today, he can be crazy enough to just go along with whatever skit Jisung is thinking of. He nods, and places the cigarette between his lips. 

Content, Jisung smiles, and turns around, takes a few steps—this is it, Minho gets a pang of fear that he has been played once again. Argh! This is what beautiful men do to you! They string you along and play you! 

But then, Jisung turns his head in Minho's direction, raises his eyebrows, dramatically. Carefully walks toward him. 

“Hey, you need a light?” He asks. 

Minho nods. Absent-mindedly, he sucks in when Jisung holds the flame out in front of it. “Smoking is really bad for you, it kills people.” Minho whispers, he digs into his jacket for his pack, and offers one to Jisung. 

“Yeah, I know.” Jisung nods, accepts it. Lights it. “I saw you from across the street, you’re really handsome. Like from a romance novel. What’s your name?” 

Start fresh, clean slate. 

“You don’t have to humor me.” Minho mumbles, but he laughs, a little, it’s a little airy. 

“I’m not, I’m trying.” Jisung huffs. “Play along.” 

Minho looks at the ground, and his feet, blinding white shoes. Nods. 

“Thanks, I’m Minho, you?”

“Jisung.” Jisung says. “You wouldn’t mind having coffee with me, some day?” Jisung asks, staring at Minho, with the biggest eyes he’s ever had. A lovely shade of brown that matches his hair. The cigarette is between his fingers, burning. 

“I could go for a coffee.” Minho nods, a pleasant feeling settling in his stomach. A little nervous, what he is getting himself into. Happy, Jisung smiles, he stuffs his hands in his pockets. 

It’s quiet between them. For a little while, while they smoke the cigarettes to the filters, backs leaning against the wall behind them. When they’re finished, Minho closes his eyes, and feels how Jisung, light like a feather, as if he is still deathly afraid, gently grabs Minho's hand. 

“Thank you.” He whispers. “It will be different this time. I promise.” 

Minho squeezes back, and sighs. A big breath he has been holding. 

🫧

On their first date, they go for coffee. 

They talk about hobbies and interests. Find a shared one of horror movies and anime. Promise each other to have a marathon some time. Jisung asks how Minho likes his coffee, if he likes it with a sweet dessert to the side or just as it is. They talk a little bit more, then some more after that, talk until, they are sure the baristas are growing sick of their presence in the café. 

Minho likes it, enjoys his company. It’s strange, going on a date with him, when he already knows the shapes and mounds of Jisung’s body, how his lips taste, who Jisung already is, but it’s still a strange good. 

“Thank you for today,” Minho smiles. “Let me know when you get home.” He kisses him on the cheek, a light peck to signal his goodbye. Jisung stands there, on the sidewalk, cheesing. Waves at him goodbye. 

🫧

For their second date, Jisung invites him out for dinner. Jisung is dressed, to the nines! Clean ironed shirt, tailored black slacks. Minho giggles at the sight of him, when he meets Jisung outside the restaurant—weighing on his feet, back and forth, holding a bouquet of flowers. 

“I’m sorry, is it over the top?” Jisung asks, a little embarrassed, when he sees how surprised Minho is at the sight of them. 

“No, it’s really good. Keep it up.” Minho laughs. “I really like it.” 

“Great.” Jisung nods. He orders the house-wine for them, and smiles at Minho, enamored, all through dinner.  They talk about future plans and ideas, dreams they’ve had since childhood. About objects on their hypothetical bucket-lists, like parachuting off a plane or hiking a mountain.  

Minho walks Jisung home, well Minho walks Jisung back to Changbin’s apartment after. Jisung says he’s moving in two weeks, no more infuriating back pain from crashing on varying levels of uncomfortable couches. They hold hands the entire way. 

🫧

After their second date, Minho tells his friends that he’s seeing Jisung again. They’re wary, rightfully so. But Minho pushes that he knows what he is doing, that they’re taking it slow. He tells them he will re-introduce Jisung to them, when it feels appropriate to do so. He tells them they can all assist in his murder if he happens to hurt Minho again.  

“Questions?” Minho asks. 

Hyunjin opens his mouth to say something. Minho interrupts him. 

“No? I didn't think so. Thank you. Meeting adjourned.” 

🫧

On the third (official) date, Jisung invites Minho over to his new apartment. They have hung out a few times in between, but not on serious enough occasions that Minho would claim them as dates. Ten minutes between a class, a half hour in the library before a lecture, just to drop off a coffee to one another, before being on their merry little way. So, this is the third official date, in Minho’s books. 

The apartment is a studio, closer to Minho than the previous one. It’s minimalistically furnished, leaving it a little bleak, but he’s sure it may just be a result of not having the energy or money to actually buy that much furniture. Jisung says it’s weird, it feels like he’s moving from home for the first time even though he hasn’t lived with his parents for years. Minho says it’s very nice. That it will be a home before he knows it. 

It has big, sun-comprehending windows, letting natural light in. Jisung has hung his old skateboard to the wall, taped a note to it, “To Tony Hawk, who I will never be!”. At least Minho won’t trip on it. His bedsheets are new, Minho has never seen them before. He has pictures of him and his friends stuck to the fridge and one, very promising plant standing where it can get enough sun. A home, already, maybe. 

Jisung has managed to fit an impossibly small couch in the studio, opposite of his bed and the TV. They leave a good amount of modest space between them, through a marathon of an anime they know they both love. 

Well, until half-way through, when Minho allows himself to melt into Jisung’s side. Jisung stiffens for a second, before he softens up. Melts right into Minho as well. Leans his cheek against the top of Minho’s head, searching for his hand to hold. This time they don’t talk as much, find the comfortable silence, much nicer. 

Minho is pretty sure he can hear Jisung’s heartbeat. Da-DUM, da-DUM, da-DUM, melodic and beautiful. It speeds up when Minho snuggles closer. 

“Can I walk you home maybe?” Jisung asks, when Minho yawns, when the sky outside has turned dark. 

“Yeah. Of course.” Minho nods, he stretches, tries to not laugh when Jisung’s eyes stick to the little sliver of skin between the hem of his shirt and waistline of his pants, when he does. (As if Jisung has never seen it before). 

On their walk, holding hands, Jisung’s headphones shared between them, mellow music playing, they’re smoking, Jisung asks: 

“Do you think we should quit smoking?” 

“I don’t smoke.” Minho huffs. Then he blows out smoke. 

“Oh yeah? You’re a chimney .” Jisung laughs. 

Minho shrugs. Jisung asks again, teasing smile: “Does your parents know?” 

“No, they’d write me out of the will.” 

“Exactly, and it’s really bad for us. We should quit. I will, if you do.” 

“Haven’t you been smoking since you were like, fourteen?” 

“Like a chimney.” Jisung nods. 

“You’ll become like really cranky if you try.”

“We can be cranky together.” 

They stand outside Minho’s entrance, Jisung links their pinkies, they promise to quit smoking. Be cranky, buy a years’ worth of gum and get through it together. 

“Goodnight, Jisungie.” Minho whispers, but he hasn’t let go of Jisung’s hand.

“Goodnight, Mr. Minho.” Jisung leans closer, almost bumps their chests together. 

Minho squints his eyes. 

“Come on, do it.” He tries. 

“What do you want me to do?” Jisung asks in a whisper. 

“Kiss me, I know you want to. I know I want to.” 

“Can I?” 

“Yeah.” Minho nods. “Kiss me like you mean it.” 

Jisung connects them by the lips. Kisses Minho like he is Jisung’s entire world. 

🫧

Minho and Jisung get caught in the rain after a trip to the cinema, Minho takes the opportunity to kiss him, when they’re both soaked. Standing under a streetlight, bodies illuminated yellow in the late evening. Jisung has never looked more beautiful. 

Jisung cradles Minho’s cheeks in his hands, deepens the kiss. 

When they separate for air, Jisung whispers;  

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?” 

“What?” 

“What?” Jisung opens his eyes. Like he didn’t even think of it when he said it. 

“What did you say?” Minho giggles. 

“Do—do you want to be my, uh, my boyfriend?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Me too.” 

“You asked. I hope so.” 

Tsk-ing, Jisung shakes his head, wraps his hands around Minho’s neck and presses his cheek to Minho’s shoulder. 

“That was scary.” Jisung admits. 

“But you still did it.” 

“I did.” 

Minho places a featherlike kiss on Jisung's temple. They’re both cold and wet, and will surely get sick, but what doesn’t one do for romance? 

This is how every love story begins, doesn’t it? A kiss in the rain. Minho has always dreamed of things like this. Jisung knows that, maybe it’s why he took the chance to do it today, then. 

🫧

Squealing, Jisung slams his laptop shut, in a mixture of nervosity and excitement and fear. Minho laughs, as if he can’t feel his palms sweating. He does the same, just presses enter and closes his laptop. This will have relatives calling and friends asking questions. 

Their walls light up with new statuses. 

Jisung Han

December 4, 2011

♡

In a relationship with Minho Lee

December 4, 2011

🫧

Seungmin knows to stay away from the apartment when Minho and Jisung have date-nights, not that they are always up to something, but Seungmin swears that he will do anything to avoid their crazed sex-noises, if they happen to be up to something. 

“Freaks! Stop doing it in the common area!” Seungmin yells at them one night. And they’re not even doing anything. Much less it. Well, they’re making out, and if Seungmin came home an half hour late, it might’ve been a different story, but that’s not the case now . 

Tonight, though, they have made their way into Minho’s bedroom after having spent the last hour and forty two minutes watching a—and not to sound like they’re exaggerating, horrible movie. Minho was appalled at the acting, convinced he could have done a better job if they threw him in front of the cameras, no script and no preparation. It was still fun, like it was so horrible, it was good. 

“Mhmn.” Minho carefully moves a little bit of Jisung’s hair out of his way, presses a kiss behind his ear. Jisung laughs, rubs at the spot, turns his head to look at Minho, like what he just did was scandalous. 

“What?” Jisung questions. 

Minho gasps, exasperated. Sitting down on his knees on the bed, hands on his thighs. Jisung laughs again, turns fully, nuzzling into Minho’s pillows.

“What?” He repeats. 

“I can’t kiss you?” Minho asks. 

Jisung opens his arms. “You can kiss me. All you want.” He whispers. Minho accepts the invitation that is Jisung’s open arms. “But you know my neck is ticklish.” 

Minho rests his cheek on Jisung’s chest, still sulking. 

“Here I come, with the sweetest of gestures—” He holds his finger up, carefully gesticulating while he speaks “Delicately moving your hair, kissing you, on that spot of your neck—where it’s so intimate, where only I can see the bruise if I leave one.” He huffs. 

“You’re so…dramatic.” Jisung smiles. Swallows down something. But he tilts his head to the side. “Go ahead.” 

Minho surges forward, holds onto Jisung’s jaw with his fingers, he peppers dozens of kisses all the way from just below Jisung’s ear, down his neck. Jisung giggles, and when Minho is done, Jisung attempts to hide the blush that spreads over his skin, with his hands. 

“I’m dramatic?” Minho defends. 

“You so are.” Jisung nods. He stretches over Minho, to reach for the lamp beside his bed. He turns it off. “I like that about you.” 

“Yeah?” Minho closes his eyes, presses close. They’re lying eye to eye, staring at each other in the dark—breaths wafting in their faces. Minho pecks Jisung on the lips, he locks his hands around Jisung’s neck. “What else do you like about me?” 

Jisung opens his mouth—

🫧

“I love you.” 

“You do?” Jisung asks. Eyes wide, like he has a hard time believing it, but chooses to do so anyway. They’re sitting on Jisung’s couch. Watching some boring news segment, waiting for Minho’s parents to call and say that they’re outside. Jisung is sitting on the armrest, for some reason, Minho has his arm around his waist. He switches his gaze between the TV and the late winter sky outside, a little grey and a little blue. 

“Yeah.” Minho nods. That’s obvious isn’t it? Minho has loved Jisung for a very long time. But they’ve been taking it slow, he’s trying to not scare Jisung away. 

Jisung is about to spend a week with Minho, and his parents, in Minho’s hometown. It’s the first time Jisung is meeting them, officially, as his boyfriend , so he’s nervous. But if they’re taking this step, Minho just thinks it’s appropriate to finally tell Jisung that he loves him. 

Jisung clears his throat. Drops his hands to his lap. Is quiet for what feels like hours. 

“I—I do love you too.” He whispers. Clears his throat again. He has practiced the words, for a very long time now, too. In his head, to his reflection in the bathroom-mirror. He managed to tell Felix, that he loved him, a while back. He was a little tipsy, but it was genuine nevertheless. Five years of friendship, give or take, and they both cried a little bit, sitting on the floor of a frat-bathroom, because— I love you Felix—I love you too Jisung— both, hysterical. He knew, when he told Felix, that it would only be a matter of time before he gathered the courage to really tell Minho too. 

“You do?” Minho asks, just to be sure. 

“Yeah.” 

🫧

There’s nothing ugly, or broken inside of Jisung, just love. At the center of everything, there is love. Jisung has watched the love inside him grow, like how daffodils bloom in spring. Harsh winters, the fruit of spring. Jisung gets it now. The pain transforms, he prevails, harsh winters, the fruit of spring, harsh winters, the fruit of spring. 

Jisung never thought he was capable of it. The entire love thing. A concept so foreign to him, for such a big part of his life, it was as unrealistic as leprechauns waiting at the end of the rainbow. 

But, hah! Here he stands! 

He never thought he’d be so happy being proven wrong. 

Minho leans close, kisses up and down Jisung’s neck, he holds his close, he squeezes and teases and they laugh so loud they don’t even hear the TV in the background. Roll around in bed, just the two of them, Jisung tells Minho he loves him, and then Minho tells him—

A love story like no other. Hah! Who could have known?