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Minho is warming up his left hand, running some chromatic exercises over the neck of his well-loved black-and-white Squier, when Jisung clears his throat from across the studio. It’s contrived, calculated. An excuse for a quick exchange. Jisung’s methods are not necessarily discreet, and Minho pretends to be annoyed by it, a staged scowl forming on his face. He wonders if Jisung will fall for it.
Jisung doesn’t even seem to notice.
“Hyung,” he says absently. His acoustic guitar is hanging unevenly on his lap, and his eyes are fixed on the flashing screen of his phone. “What do you think about fanservice?”
Minho frowns—this time genuinely—and he cocks his head, trying to make sense of the question.
“What about it?”
He doesn’t get a reply, not immediately, so he stares—investigates.
Jisung’s feet feather-tap the floor, keeping a steady rhythm. Waves ripple through his limbs and his body follows the cadence, muscles tensing one beat at a time. His head bobs softly, up and down and up again, and his fringe swings with each motion.
Music consumes him, takes control of his whole body. Minho loves to watch him like this.
Still, the expression on Jisung’s face is layered. There’s pure, unfiltered enthusiasm in a way that is entirely Jisung, but there’s also intrigue—a faint arch to his eyebrows, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. Like he’s tempted. Daring.
It’s cute—and dangerously attractive. Minho refuses to admit just how much.
Not looking up, Jisung simply removes an earbud from his ear and holds it out, silently asking Minho to join him. Minho ceremonially slaps the E string of his bass one more time to announce his defeat. He leaves his instrument behind, strolling to his roommate-turned-lover and taking the offer.
“Do you know much about visual kei?” Jisung asks as Minho approaches and takes the earbud from his hand. Putting his guitar aside, he gestures for Minho to sit beside him, and Minho does. Their thighs touch, and the vibration of Jisung’s body now runs through Minho’s own without asking for permission. It’s distracting yet electrifying, and he edges closer, resting his chin on Jisung’s shoulder, craving more.
Blood rushes to Jisung’s cheeks, tinting them pink, but Minho doesn’t mention it. Doesn’t need to. It’s all still very new to them.
“I know enough,” Minho replies as he turns his attention to the video in question. It’s old—at least by 30 years. Front and center is the vocalist, an androgynous guy with luscious hair and a form-fitting outfit framing his lean body. The other band members sport equally impressive hairdos and outfits, and there’s enough leather on screen to reupholster a few sofas. The song itself sounds familiar, maybe from a playlist he’s played before. But he doesn’t recognize that particular performance, nor could he identify the band by name.
Jisung pauses the video and looks at him, eager to share something. By the looks of it, a stupid idea. Minho lets him.
“So you know how sometimes they add fanservice to performances?”
Minho hums. “What do you mean?”
Jisung grins, smug as ever, and takes the cue to rewind the video about thirty seconds. Just enough for the scene to shift into something quite interesting—the main guitarist dropping to his knees before the vocalist, who grabs him by the hair and shoves his face side to side in a choreographed motion that sends the crowd roaring in high-pitched voices.
It’s cheap, but quite effective. Minho chortles at the move, but doesn’t think much of it.
“Seems like they got what they wanted out of it,” he comments as he takes off his earbud, giving it back to Jisung.
“Is that all you have to say?” Jisung teases as he abandons his phone on his lap, almost pouting at Minho’s apparent lack of interest.
Minho knows he’s far from hearing the end of it, so he indulges. “Go on. Spit it out.”
“First, promise you won’t punch me,” Jisung requests.
Minho rolls his eyes theatrically and concedes. “Promise.”
Jisung’s lips then curve into a devilish smirk, and his eyes alight with expectation as he leans closer—a bit too close, Minho notes, breath hitching a little as their foreheads touch.
“What if we add something like that to our next gig?” Jisung proposes.
“Are you out of your mind?” Minho retorts, playfully shoving Jisung’s head away. Flustered, he fights the laugh bubbling in his chest, and he once again wonders just how Jisung’s mind works. How he comes up with these ideas.
“Think about it. We don’t have many fans—this could be our breakthrough move!” Jisung insists, breaking into laughter himself.
“We don’t have many fans because we’re casuals, Jisung-ah,” Minho explains. “Because, instead of rehearsing like professionals, we’re discussing your sexual fantasies.”
Jisung prods Minho’s leg with his foot, playful. “Hey—how did you know?” he teases.
“It’s plastered all over your face,” Minho needles. “Give up. I’m not giving you a blowjob in front of a crowd. I’d rather program an entire operating system from scratch for free on a Sunday before doing that.”
“It’s not even a real blowjob—” Jisung pleads, but the door opens to reveal Changbin, who seems to only pick up the last few words.
“Please don’t tell me I walked into something I’d rather not see,” he says, mouth gaping open as color leaves his face.
“Changbin-hyung!” Jisung calls, and motions for Changbin to get closer. “Take a look at this. Tell me if it isn’t a great idea.”
Changbin does so reluctantly, and concern is written across his face as Jisung replays the same ten-second clip for all of them to watch.
“Over my dead body,” he lets out, and Jisung scowls, taking offense.
“Why? You don’t even have to do anything.”
“I have to watch, Jisung-ah—I don’t need a mental image of whatever you two do in bed. Not more than what I’m already fed every day.”
“Party pooper,” Minho quips as he rises to meet his bass, secretly relieved.
Changbin turns to him instead, accusatory. “Don’t tell me you’re agreeing with this?”
Minho wants to say ‘no’ and move on—it’s late and they should start the rehearsal they rented the studio for—but there’s something about Changbin’s tangible discomfort that is too enticing. He doesn’t let the opportunity to play around with it go away.
“Nope—never. But if you want a private show, we could arrange that.”
Changbin flips him off in response and mouths a rich selection of curses that Minho is more than pleased with.