Fake Eyes Open

It's funny how the bigger their world grows, the brighter the lights shine upon them and the louder the crowd sings their songs back to them, the tighter, more suffocating their personal space can feel. It snaps like an elastic band sometimes, leaving a bloom of heart-coloured bruises around Jisung’s ribs.

These days, Jisung’s inner voice is quieter, kinder. He writes songs that speak to the hearts of people, the Jisung of now, and has packed arenas screaming his name, arms flung wide like some sweat-sticky, pigeon-toed boy group messiah, draped in white lights and wrapped in the thundering beat of the music.

And when the lights are out, with his face scrubbed clean of glitter and stardom, Jisung remembers to breathe and to talk to the people who love him. To say, ‘You did well today’ when wiping steam off the mirror after a shower.

Sleep comes easier; he closes his eyes and counts to one hundred and sleeps.

Sometimes, Jisung catches the other members smiling at him, in what they probably think is a covert manner. It happens randomly, it happens a lot―when Jisung lets out a particularly loud laugh or jokes around during an interview, or when he’s so hungry he stuffs his mouth with food that takes twenty minutes to chew. It reminds Jisung to watch his step, because he knows how easy it is to slip up and drown in your own mind.

Jisung thinks Minho knows, because of course he does. Minho has a way of making himself available, always close by but never overbearing. A quietly immovable presence, as though Minho’s eyes never lose sight of him.

The need to be closer, to touch, is not unfamiliar to Jisung. For him, it had started itching under his skin within an hour of meeting Minho. At lunch the next day, Minho sat down next to him and Jisung sat on his hands, just in case, and glared. Minho’s annoyingly pretty eyebrows knotted as he glared right back. God, his eyebrows were perfect.

Jisung had to look away, momentarily gripped by the delirious thought that he wanted to lick Minho’s eyebrows.

“What was that?” Felix asked later, face scrunched up in laughter. “Have love at first sight?”

Jisung shut him up with an elbow in his ribs.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t that.

By then, Jisung’s attraction to men wasn’t new. When he was sixteen, he cottoned on to the fact that he’d rather be kissing boys than girls. Jisung thinks he’d probably known for a while but refused to dwell too deeply on it. He was forced to when he developed a massive crush on a trainee with long eyelashes and long legs who always smirked at Jisung in the hallways and sometimes said ‘hi’.

Jisung allowed himself to want, and to feel shaken by it. He let his brain rattle around inside his skull for a couple of weeks as it conjured up apocalyptic scenarios, before he finally straightened his spine and drew in a deep breath, and admitted to Chan that he was probably gay.

It wasn’t the earth-shattering occasion everyone made it out to be.

“Okay,” Chan said, and offered him a biscuit from the tin on his desk. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Okay,” Jisung echoed. He took a biscuit and carefully held it in his palm, blinking down at the crumbs sticking to his skin. A place in his chest released, and he exhaled a long breath. “Okay.”

Chan smiled.

It emboldened Jisung enough to tell Felix too, later.

“Oh, same!” Felix said, high-fiving him.

Soon, most of the people closest to him knew, and Jisung felt both relieved and a little vulnerable, like a healing wound with the dressing removed. He held his breath and waited for weirdness and judging stares and whispers that stopped when he entered a room, but they never came.

It took some time and some shifting around to find the most comfortable position in his own skin. Sometimes Jisung thinks he’s still searching for it, and wonders if people like him ever feel truly settled.

He hopes so.

Sadly, the trainee left the company and went back home after tanking several monthly evaluations and getting too stressed to cope with the pressure. He and Jisung never had the chance to do more than hold hands, and at the time it felt like the end of the world, the kind of unmitigated despair which only a young heart can understand.

The night he found out, Jisung had dragged himself to Chan’s room to mope about it and demand to be coddled. Instead, he found Chan holding his phone with both hands and staring blindly down at it. His girlfriend of half a year, who had recently debuted with her group, had just broken up with Chan over text.

As he let Chan cuddle him in the narrow, creaky bed and pretended not to hear him sniffle into Jisung’s back, Jisung took care to rearrange the folders in his mind’s filing cabinet. This, he thought, was the way of the industry: an idol’s heart was but an empty vessel to be filled with the love of their fans.

He’d already known that, of course he had. In their world everything was temporary and fleeting: the spotlight, the fame, even the people. That kind of environment rarely produced enduring friendships and bonds of affection. Jisung considered himself lucky to have found a handful of like-minded, genuine people, but that seemed to be the exception, not the rule.

Stories ended, and you either left or got left behind—friends and family and lovers.

It’s probably a little fucked up, Jisung thinks now, having to teach yourself so early in life that the only way to avoid heartbreak and loss is to avoid having someone to lose.

Then Jisung met Lee Minho.

He met him, and he had to snap each of his shiny new rules like bones, rebroken and reset, to make room for a presence of such magnitude in his life.

It terrified Jisung out of his wits. He struggled against Minho’s gravitational pull, a ferocious back-and-forth that drew the barbed wire even tighter around Jisung, like a trapped animal. He would avoid Minho for days at a time and then wordlessly crawl into his bed to sleep curled against Minho’s back, and Minho would let him. At breakfast, he’d pretend not to see Minho and then all but collapse at his feet when Minho would seem scarcely to notice him at dinner.

Desperation is a wonderful thing, Jisung had thought before dropping to one knee and publicly asking Minho to take him as his soulmate.

Jisung remembers Minho blinking his long eyelashes at him, the others’ laughter and teasing; he remembers Minho’s flicker of a smile, sharp as a paper cut.

“Whatever you say, Jisung-ah,” he said, grazing his knuckles across Jisung’s cheek, and something in Jisung’s chest softened like sun-warmed honey.

In the years that followed, all of Jisung’s tiny quirks and harmless faults that were not for the world to see and know, kept finding their way into Minho’s pockets for safekeeping.

And in the truths mumbled in the darkness behind the stage, in the kisses dropped to Jisung’s shower-damp hair in the car on the way home, in Minho’s hand, strong and gentle as the person it belongs to, cupped around Jisung’s knee under the table, Jisung has found a pillar of permanence in a world of constant flux.

Sometimes, in the tight, breath-filled space under Minho’s sheets, with the gentle rustle of cotton on skin the only sound in the room and Jisung’s head on the pillows that smell like him too, he lets himself wonder. When Minho’s hand traces warm circles at the base of Jisung’s spine and Jisung’s eyes linger on his moonlight-silvered face, he can’t help but wonder.

Dating as an idol is a feat few have been able to accomplish.

Hooking up is doable with a touch of sneakiness, although for people like Jisung it requires forethought and effort that he simply doesn’t have the patience for. Perhaps a contributing factor towards his lack of motivation is how dull and unexciting Jisung’s sex life has been so far. He’s only been with three guys, and each time has been more disappointing than the last. So much so that it’s led Jisung to wonder whether he’s had the shittiest luck with partners, or if he’s simply bad at sex.

“Why don’t you fuck your soulmate to test that theory?” Changbin had suggested once, with a nasty crooked grin, while they were at the gym. He was monitoring Jisung who was doing dumbbell shoulder presses. “Someone has to sacrifice himself for science.”

“Or I can sacrifice you and feed your insides to my cats,” Minho said sweetly behind them, and Jisung nearly brained himself on a dumbbell.

Minho was looking straight into Changbin’s wary face with the sweet, close-lipped smile that promised calamity.

“I don’t sleep with my friends,” Jisung protested, in a piss-poor attempt to salvage the situation.

“They must be devastated,” Minho said, and Jisung laughed, dropping the dumbbells on the floor.

He nudged Minho with his shoulder, leaving a sweaty imprint on Minho’s cotton sleeve. “Plus, I’m not hyung’s type.”

At that, Minho seemed to choke on air, which Changbin apparently found hilarious. “You’re exactly my type, honey,” Minho managed finally, slapping Jisung’s ass with just enough force to sting. “Pretty and dumb.”

He just laughed at Jisung’s indignant gasp, his bright cackle of a laugh that never fails to make Jisung smile, too.

The thing is, when you live in such close proximity for so long, you are bound to see and hear things, and in rather intimate detail.

On a theoretical level, Jisung knows that Minho is exclusively into men. He’s also a very physical type of person.

In context and practice, Minho needs to dance until his feet are all blisters and his legs give in, and to fuck until, quote, ‘his muscles feel like they’re slipping off his bones,’ end of quote, or he gets cranky.

Being more adept than Jisung at networking, Minho manages to discreetly hook up fairly regularly. Jisung knows that there is no shortage of guys in the industry to come rushing over when Minho beckons.

Sometimes Minho comes over, after, to watch a movie in Jisung’s bed, to listen to music or to just be quiet with him. Usually, he smells like soap and fresh laundry as he nestles into Jisung’s side, eyelids weighted with sleep.

It’s not really anyone’s business that the odd night when Minho doesn’t smell like soap and fresh laundry, when the faint scent of sweat still clings to him layered with cologne and something warmer, earthy underneath, might be Jisung’s favourite.

Carefully, deliberately, Jisung never thinks about it much.

So when he wakes up in his hotel room in Osaka, for a moment Jisung is dazed by the shock of noises coming from the other side of the wall. It takes his sleep-addled brain a moment to comprehend, before a muffled groan and the steady thump-thump-thump of a headboard knocking against the wall hammer home the realisation.

“What the fuck,” he mutters, rubbing at his bleary eyes.

His first thought is that it must be Felix whom Jisung is rooming with, but when he peers in the darkness of their suite, he sees Felix sleeping soundly in his bed.

Silence for a second, and Jisung kicks off the bed sheets and stills in the dark, straining his ears. There’s nothing but the hum of the air-conditioning for a while, and then a bed creaks and someone giggles.

If it isn’t Felix, that leaves―

His train of thought is cut short by a sharp, cracking sound that can only be a slap, flesh hitting flesh.

“Oh god,” a high, desperate voice whines, so clearly that Jisung turns onto his side towards the wall and almost expects to come face-to-face with the voice’s owner.

The headboard slams against the wall harder, and Jisung almost wishes he didn’t know who the people staying in the room next door are.

“Oh god,” he agrees, for vastly different reasons, and buries his head under the pillow.

Frantically, his mind thinks up images to go with the sounds, and Jisung is powerless to stop it: the ridges and valleys of a muscled back, the strong thighs and lean hips maintaining this awe-inspiring rhythm.

“Don’t stop, ah, gonna—” the voice rambles, switching to Japanese halfway through. “Can I, please?”

“Aw, already?” Minho says in deceptively dulcet tones, and Jisung knows that voice—the saccharine, cheerfully sadistic little aw when Jisung loses at rock-paper-scissors and has to buy dinner, when Minho forces Jeongin to do aegyo for food, or the fifth time he asks someone to repeat a turn at practice.

It sounds the same now as Minho reduces some faceless stranger to helpless whimpers and cries.

Minho says something Jisung doesn’t catch, and the hot flush of shame in his stomach isn’t enough to stop Jisung from quietly pressing himself against the wall to listen; it’s cool against his flaming cheek.

“Well, go ahead then,” Minho says, a little bored, a tad mean. “If you really can’t hold off.”

The stranger hiccups a tearful-sounding ‘thank you’.

Jisung’s brain is liquified, it’s leaking out of his fucking ears. To his horror, his dick stirs in his pants.

He clenches his legs, feeling sweat trickle down the insides of his thighs. The sweet, fleeting pressure makes his breath catch in his throat.

“Oh, good boy,” Minho says before another slap rings out, and whoever it is that’s currently getting their brains fucked out in the other room—and making no secret about it—lets out a moan that Jisung’s never heard anyone make in real life before.

He wonders where Chan is since he’s supposed to be Minho’s roommate tonight, whether he’s been sexiled or if he has an even better seat to the action.

A needlepoint of irritation pricks under Jisung’s ribs at the thought, and it serves to sober him up. Grabbing his earphones, he stuffs them into his hot ears and blasts the first song from his playlist so loudly his puréed brain vibrates before Jisung manages to turn down the volume. His clothed cock, excruciatingly, stubbornly hard, rubs against the bunched-up sheets and Jisung sees stars.

Resolutely, he tucks it under the waistband of his pants to stop it from flapping about and then wraps both hands around his phone, clutching at it until it starts to slip from his sweaty palms.

Behind Jisung’s tightly shut eyelids, a smile shimmers over the soft pink of Minho’s mouth.

Brooding over his first coffee of the day, Jisung barely registers it when the door creaks open and Minho slips into the hotel suite. He pauses at the door and turns to wave at someone, and Jisung, perched on his tall stool at the tiny breakfast bar, finally sits up at attention.

He catches sight of a tall, broad-shouldered stranger limping down the hallway, who looks vaguely familiar; it’s probably one of the Japanese dancers. Jisung arches his neck to get another glimpse, and in the second before the door closes, he sees another figure in the hallway outside—a girl, hurrying after the maybe-possibly-dancer with a pair of red heels in her hand.

Running his tongue over his front teeth as though to get rid of an unpleasant taste, Jisung makes a face then takes a huge gulp of coffee, scalding his tongue. “Holy motherfucking Christ,” he says, like the refined man he is, and Minho lifts both eyebrows at his raised voice. “Are you screwing girls now?” Jisung blurts after a pause that manages, somewhat impressively, to make the moment even more bizarre.

“Yongbokkie still sleeping?” Minho asks instead of acknowledging Jisung’s question, which. Fair enough. When Jisung nods, he adds, “Did you leave me any coffee?

He’s wearing a ratty old t-shirt and a pair of grey sweats slung low on his hips, hair a mess and eyes red and puffy. He reaches behind Jisung for the coffee pot, practically caging him in against the counter, and snickers when Jisung flinches back and almost falls off the stool.

Minho hasn’t showered yet.

“Order your own coffee, why’re you raiding my room?” Jisung complains, holding his breath while Minho pours himself a cup. “Where’s hyung?”

Minho shrugs. “He was out with a friend last night.” He says the word pointedly, as though Jisung could somehow miss the implications otherwise.

A warm puff of breath feathers across Jisung’s cheek before Minho seemingly decides he doesn’t need to worry about his own balance if Jisung is right there, and he sags heavily against Jisung’s side. He gives a small, contented sigh then, and Jisung does his best to breathe shallowly.

Minho takes a sip of coffee over Jisung’s shoulder. The cup clinks when he sets it down on the counter. “You’re warm,” he says, snuggling closer.

With a sigh, Jisung wraps an arm around Minho’s waist. “You want my hoodie?” he asks gruffly, and Minho shakes his head.

“Why is your jaw clenched?” he says in Jisung’s ear.

“It’s not,” Jisung replies and unclenches his jaw.

“Hm.”

“I thought you weren’t into girls?” Jisung asks, because he doesn’t seem to know any other words right now.

“I’m not.” Minho lifts his dishevelled head and blinks slowly, looking politely confused. “Those two came as a set, s’all.”

Jisung considers it, eyes fixed on Minho only half-consciously as Minho steps back and leans his shoulder against the white wall.

He’s never got used to it, truthfully, the way looking at Minho up close sometimes feels like a kick in the gut. Even after all this time. With the gold of his cheek creased from the pillowcase and the sooty smudges of last night’s makeup still in the roots of his lashes, Minho is so beautiful it deprives Jisung of breath.

They’ve known each other for years, living and working and existing together in spaces far too tight to contain them. All eight of them have seen each other naked, they’ve taken care of sick groupmates and used the toilet while another member was showering to save time. They’ve all been caught with their hands down their own pants at some point. Jisung thinks he knows Minho inside-out, that he’s seen every inch of him by now.

Yet there’s something about this, about the remnants of desire on Minho’s breath and the looseness in his body that bespeaks long hours of dancing, or fucking.

There are traces of someone else’s kisses in the hollow of his throat, a faint mark where Minho’s collarbone meets his neck. Jisung wonders if it was the boy or the girl who did it.

The pang in his stomach, almost an ache, gives him pause.

Like a kaleidoscope, Minho’s facets have shifted to reveal an unfamiliar pattern. One he hasn’t shared with Jisung, yet some random stranger out there has seen. The knowledge catches in Jisung’s throat like a bone.

Minho wriggles his eyebrows; Jisung’s been staring too long.

“Where do you even find these people?” he asks and crosses his arms over his chest. Casual as a heart attack.

“They were friends of a friend.” Minho shrugs. In the warming morning light by the window, his eyes look almost catlike, unblinking and amused. “What, d’you want me to tell you all about it, honey?”

“I don’t feel like you need to, honestly.” Jisung tries for teasing, but it comes out too rough. He averts his eyes. “I heard enough last night.”

“What’s with the attitude?” Minho shakes off his hotel slipper and kicks at Jisung’s shin with the point of his toe. “I have offered to hook you up with someone, and you always refuse. Not my fault you aren’t getting any.”

“The desires of the flesh have no dominion over me,” Jisung tells the ceiling, and Minho snorts.

“I’ve been woken up too many times by you humping my leg in your sleep to believe that.”

Jisung sways and clutches his chest like he’s been shot. Fumbling, he sets his half-empty coffee cup on the counter with a loud clang. “Hyung,” he says, reproachfully.

“Oh, don’t be so uptight.” With the little smirk tucked into the corners of his kiss-bruised mouth, Minho looks like nothing but trouble. “Bodies are bodies.”

There’s a touch of wryness in his voice, something a little taunting, and Jisung squirms in his spot.

He had to take an ice-cold shower at three-fifteen in the morning to get the fucking boner from hell to go down. The memory suddenly makes him feel very naked and vulnerable in his thin pyjama pants.

Minho starts walking backwards to the door. “Let me know if you want a visual to go with the soundtrack next time,” he says, winking at Jisung. Minho can’t really wink, his face just scrunches up and he closes both eyes, but he’s cute when he finds himself funny.

Shaking his head, Jisung smiles.

He tries not to let it put in his head ideas that Jisung knows would fester and rot. He really does, but it’s. Well.

It’s Minho.

It’s Minho, and he’s the most complex, most precious corner of Jisung’s heart. So once the first tendrils of curiosity have unfurled in Jisung’s belly, he can’t pluck them out. Like thorny vines, they burst into growth, they produce leaves and flowers and fucking fruit.

To make matters worse, Jisung can’t help but compare what he had heard to his own handful of experiences.

The first one, Jeongsik, was a dancer. A little older than Jisung. He’d asked Jisung to sit on his cock and then couldn’t even be bothered to fuck him properly, just let Jisung do all the work. Jisung’s pretty sure he’d even caught the guy checking his watch at one point, shrugging when Jisung asked crossly if he had somewhere to be. He was pretty to look at, at least, and he fit nicely inside Jisung, so he just focused on making himself feel good and then showed Jeongsik the door as soon as they were done.

A month later, Jisung took Jeongsik’s teammate home and got fucked twice. Still chagrined by the memory of Jeongsik’s rudeness, Jisung let his teammate spend the night in his bed. He was a nice dude, perfectly sweet and attentive, and with great thighs to boot. Yet as Jisung stared at the near-stranger sleeping beside him, all he could think was: People write songs about this?

It had put him off sex for a time. Not a very long time, admittedly, because a few months ago Jisung tried his luck again. This time, with a model he’d met at a red-carpet event. That one had just flopped backwards dramatically on the bed, spread his legs wide open and told Jisung to do his worst, which wasn’t much.

Jisung frets the entire flight back home. His head is loud, too much going on. Too many eyes watching. He squeezes past Minho on the plane, pretending to be busy with his phone, and goes to sit behind Chan instead. He puts on his earphones and closes his eyes, and he doesn’t turn to look.

Sleep eludes him several nights in a row. Jisung feels weirdly unbalanced and fragile, like something in his world is slipping slightly off-centre.

As December rolls on, it gets progressively worse. He goes through the motions and accepts awards and pours his heart out on stage, but the thoughts linger on.

At practice, Jisung sits on the floor at Hyunjin’s feet with his back against the sofa, and he watches Minho move his body like poetry―the slow rolls of his hips and the way he watches himself in the mirrors. Then Minho watches Jisung watch him in the mirrors with a smile that’s too sweet to be genuine.

“Alright?” his reflection mouths and Jisung nods, automatically.

Head tipping back and hand dragging down his belly, Minho dances. He hits the beat, hard, then bends slightly beyond it with a raised arm, like he’s stretching the music. The soles of his sneakers squeak against the floor. He’s still watching himself through lowered lashes, licking his upper lip where Jisung can see pearls of sweat glistening.

Beneath Minho’s sweats, the strong muscles in his thighs bunch and release.

Bunch and release.

Jisung swallows dryly. He can’t look away.

Minho’s hand slips lower, fingers skimming the waist of his sweats, and Jisung hisses out a breath and draws his knees up to his chest.

Minho laughs at him in the mirror, and it makes Jisung lean his head against Hyunjin’s knee, whining like a sad cocker spaniel.

Above him, Hyunjin’s conversation with Felix lulls for a long beat, and Jisung doesn’t have to look up to know they’re exchanging looks over his head.

“There, there,” Felix says uncertainly and pats him on the shoulder.

“What’s wrong with him lately?” Hyunjin asks, poking Jisung’s cheek, repeatedly.

“Are you okay, Jisungie?” Felix ruffles his hair. “Would a kiss make you feel better?”

“I’m not in a kissing mood,” Jisung says petulantly. At Hyunjin’s gasped, ‘Someone call an ambulance!’ Jisung turns his head to bite his thigh. “Don’t worry, I hear help is on the way,” he assures Hyunjin, who screams like a tropical bird.

The inside of Jisung’s head feels prickly and itchy, and like his brain is trying to crawl out.

That’s his excuse, anyway, for traipsing over to the other dorm that afternoon with no clear goal in mind. Minho’s not there, but he finds Felix mid-video game on the sofa in the living room. He barely acknowledges Jisung when he walks in.

Marching over to him, Jisung shuts Felix’s laptop and then sits on it for good measure. When Felix turns a furious glare on him, Jisung takes a deep breath and asks, forestalling the tirade, “Putting stuff up your butt is supposed to feel great, isn’t it?”

Felix’s heart-shaped mouth falls open with a pop. “Is that a trick question?” he says finally, voice cracking with disuse.

“What kind of trick would that be, dude?” Jisung scoffs. “D’you expect me to pull a rabbit out of my ass?”

“When you say ‘rabbit’—”

”Hello,” Jisung interrupts, clicking his fingers in front of Felix’s face. “Focus. Butt stuff.”

“Butt stuff.” Felix giggles, shuffling closer to Jisung on the sofa. “But I thought… You’ve never?”

“No, I have.” Jisung scratches at the back of his neck, then the side of his jaw. Then he tucks his hands under his thighs. “The dick dancer and his teammate, remember?”

“Oh, right. Minho-hyung’s mates.” Felix snatches the laptop from under Jisung and sets it on the coffee table before he cuddles up against Jisung, blinking up at him. His eyes are bloodshot, like he’s the one who hasn’t slept for a week. “Hyung said both of them kept trying to trip each other and shit, after. You minx.” Felix extends his hand for a high-five and doesn’t put it down until Jisung slaps his palm against his with an eye roll. “You didn’t say much, back then. Was it bad?”

“It wasn’t bad, like. The second one was cute.” Jisung sighs. “I kinda feel bad for not remembering his name. Great thighs, though.”

Felix tries to mask his laughter with a cough and fails. “You do like your guys with thighs, huh?” he mutters, loud enough for Jisung to hear.

“What was that?” Jisung asks, leaning forward threateningly.

“Nothing, nothing.” Felix smiles, indulgent. “So, what’s the problem, exactly?”

Deflating, Jisung slumps back into the sofa and sits with his chin in his hand. “There’s no problem,” he says miserably and kicks a socked foot back and forth. “It was just. So-so.”

“The butt stuff?” There’s a glint of laughter in Felix’s eyes as he shoves his face into Jisung’s, staring at him from an inch away like a cat.

“All of it, but especially the butt stuff.” He lets Felix rub his cheek against his shoulder and pats the back of his head, smoothing his soft hair. “I mean, it was nice and all that, but... I wanted wow. You know?”

“Well, not everyone likes that. Maybe you don’t.” Felix squints up at him. “You tried doing it to yourself?”

Jisung takes a peek around to make sure nobody is within earshot. “What,” he mumbles, “sticking my fingers in there? Yeah, a few times, actually, but. Uh.” He taps his fingers on the armrest, cheeks heating. “I couldn’t, like. Figure out the angle.”

Felix’s face lights up in a way that immediately puts Jisung on high alert. “You need help?” he chirps. “Want me to stick my fingers up your ass, babe?”

“That’s not―”

“We can! Come on, we have the dorm to ourselves.” With a quick, impish grin, Felix is suddenly climbing into his lap. “Seungmin’s at the company, and Minho-hyung is―”

“Perplexed and vaguely aroused,” Minho says behind them.

When Jisung whips his head around in the direction of his voice, he finds Minho just standing there, hand frozen on the door handle.

Felix is a happy, wiggly weight on Jisung’s lap. “Hi, hyung,” he says, making no move to get off. He starts nibbling on Jisung’s earlobe instead. “How was your boxing lesson?”

“Hey,” Jisung says, carefully removing Felix’s mouth from himself and wiping his ear with his shoulder. “Did you knock out anyone?”

“I kicked Channie-hyung’s butt,” Minho replies after a very, very long moment. His hair is damp, starting to frizz. Minho shakes it out of his eyes. “He enjoyed it.” He lets go of the door handle and flexes his fingers, looking pensive. “Thought we had a rule about fucking in the common areas,” Minho says, eyes still locked on the two of them as he drops his bag by the door and toes off his shoes. ”I’m pretty sure it was on the agenda of the second group meeting.”

“I remember,” Felix confirms, settling more comfortably across Jisung’s lap. “It said: no fucking in the common areas.”

“That’s right,” Minho says, and smiles.

Jisung watches him as he approaches and puts both hands on the back of the sofa, leaning over them. The hair on the back of Jisung’s neck has begun to rise for some reason.

“No one’s fucking.“ He shoves Felix off his lap, and he topples over with a squeak.

“That doesn’t sound right,“ Felix chimes in, unhelpfully. He props himself up on an elbow and drapes his legs over Jisung’s thighs. “Surely, there are lots of people out there getting fucked right now.”

Minho’s lips thin into a line. “How about you take this to the bedroom?” He straightens up, face going blank. “You have a door that locks now, Yongbok-ah.”

Jisung groans a laugh. He kind of wants to fall through the floor and straight into Satan’s jacuzzi. “Honey,” he says, dropping his face in his hands, “it’s not what it looks like.”

Beside him, Felix convulses with laughter.

Minho doesn’t seem to think he’s all that funny, which hurts a little. Shooting Jisung a sidelong look, he storms down the hallway. A second later a door slams.

“What’s his problem?” Jisung mutters, staring at the empty hallway.

Felix shrugs, unperturbed. “Hey, you know who’s great with his hands and knows his way around butts?” he asks, looking sweet and innocent, and very much like something that should be carefully handled using full protective gear. “Minho-hyung!”

Jisung blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. “Oh,” he says, choking on air. “You two—?”

“No!” Felix recoils in shock, withdrawing his legs from Jisung’s lap, and scoots away from him to the far end of the sofa. “No, ’course not. You know me, no fucking within the group.” He shakes his head so vigorously, his cheeks wobble. “Unlike some people.”

“He’s―” Jisung feels a cramp in his stomach. He rubs his fingers over his lips. “Hyung’s fucking someone in the group?”

“I mean. Not anymore?” Felix sputters before letting out a loud, keening cry. He thumps his head against the back of the sofa in apparent frustration. “Fuck, why do people tell me things?”

Jisung sees his eyes dart around the room as if to find an escape route, and he knows Felix is going to make a dash for it before he even moves. Jisung grabs him around the middle and pins his arms to his sides, pushing Felix face-first onto the overstuffed sofa cushions.

Felix releases a demonic shriek, shrill and piercing.

“I’m making bibimbap,” Minho says from the kitchen, pitching his voice higher to be heard over the screams. Jisung hadn’t heard him come out of his room. “You two want some?”

Distracted, Jisung loosens his hold on Felix who immediately skitters away.

“I’ve got to run, actually,” he says, rushing past Minho and out the front door. “Later, hyung!”

“This isn’t over!” Jisung yells at the closed door, twisting around on the sofa.

Minho is staring at him, a stormy look crossing his face before he quickly conceals it. “What about you?” he says finally, tugging on the strings of his black Mahagrid hoodie. He looks tired and a little sad around the eyes. “Wanna stay for dinner?”

Someone in their group knows what Minho looks like when he comes, Jisung’s cursed brain supplies. The thought makes his entire being light up with futile anger.

Worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, Minho watches him from the kitchen.

“Sure,” Jisung says and turns his back to him. “Sounds good.”

Sometimes, you’ve just got no choice but to kill your best friend.

Jisung has worked through the options and unfortunately there is no other way. He loves Felix, he adores him, but Jisung is going to off the guy.

Last night, Jisung had tossed and turned until he was tangled in the sheets like a fly in a spiderweb, haunted by visions of Minho in various lewd positions with the other members. The image of someone on his knees for Minho had taken up particularly stubborn residence in Jisung’s mind, only the faces kept changing.

In the studio this morning, he was so useless that Chan asked him if he was going down with something. He offered to buy Jisung soup and called him ‘baby’, clearly in dad mode, but of course Jisung became fixated on the word. A plethora of scenarios began flooding his head, in which Chan used the same word under very different circumstances, shadowy images of kisses and caresses, and intimacy. Intimacy with Minho that Jisung has never experienced.

Will never experience.

Terrorised by his own vivid imagination, Jisung ran from the studio, tripping over a tangle of cables and nearly busting his head open. He’s pretty sure Chan is convinced―not for the first time―that Jisung is at death’s door.

He’s jealous, Jisung is beginning to realise with a heavy heart. Jealous that someone else knows things about Minho that Jisung doesn’t, things he can never fully understand. Someone in the group knows if Minho abandons himself to pleasure like he abandons himself to the beat when he dances, if he likes to cuddle and hold hands afterwards.

It makes him feel like a creep, because Minho’s already given him so much yet Jisung is still reaching out for more, for things that don‘t belong to him.

As he walks past Felix in the underground car park after the last schedule of the day, Jisung drags his thumb across his throat. Felix smiles at him and waves.

Startling the shit out of him, Minho pops up next to Jisung out of thin air and grabs him by the wrist. He yanks Jisung towards the cars that will take them home, steering him to the second car. Then he clambers in after Jisung, walking straight to the last row of seats. Minho tugs on the sleeve of Jisung’s puffer jacket to pull him down into the seat beside him and immediately drops his head onto Jisung’s shoulder.

Jisung sighs, putting his arm around him so Minho can lean on him more comfortably.

He watches as the others move around them, quiet and disinclined to talk. Tomorrow they’ll be dressed and made up to look like idols again, but right now they’re just hungry, tired guys with untied shoelaces and bags under their eyes.

Changbin has managed to obtain a slice of pizza from somewhere, which he’s cradling in his palms like one might hold an injured bird. Hyunjin is half-heartedly pushing his arm through his coat sleeve.

Chan is the last one to get in the car, dimples pressing into his cheeks when he notices Minho. “You sleeping over tonight, Minho-yah?”

His smile only widens when Minho grunts something unintelligible and vaguely threatening in response, endeared like Minho is a kitten rather than a full-grown man who’s looked mildly homicidal since he had to skip lunch.

Truthfully, Jisung understands.

Minho quiets down against him, a warm weight on Jisung’s chest. Jisung is silent too, careful not to jostle him. He watches Minho’s face, the long eyelashes fluttering against his cheek, the brake lights of the car in front glancing off the side of Minho’s face. There’s a trace of a pout on his lips.

Jisung’s heart gives a weird little kick.

They pull out of the car park and into the late-afternoon traffic. Outside the car windows, the sky looks red and swollen like a fresh bruise.

Minho makes a drowsy little sound and squirms, and Jisung holds him tighter against his chest.

Pliant in this sleep-softened state, Minho lets himself be moved. “My turn to choose dinner tonight,” he says, somewhere from the folds of Jisung’s jacket. His voice sounds as if it comes from inside an aquarium when he adds, “The chicken wings you ordered last time gave me heartburn.” At Jisung’s noise of protest, Minho shakes his head. “And the movie, too. The one you made me watch last week was ass.”

“Wasn’t.”

“Was.” Minho takes Jisung’s hand and threads their fingers together.

“Honey.” Jisung smiles, pulling his sleeve down over Minho’s cold fingers. “Wasn’t.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Hyunjin snaps, turning to look back at them. “Will you two shut up?”

“Such a senseless tragedy,” Minho says crisply, flashing Hyunjin a bone-chilling smile, “to lose someone so young. What a promising lad he was, our Hyunjin. A fine young fellow, wasn’t he?”

“Mm,“ Jisung agrees with a huff of laughter and draws Minho’s dishevelled head back against his chest.

From the seat in front, Hyunjin sighs aggressively.

Seungmin moves his stuff so Jisung can sit next to him in the cafeteria, but he keeps his nose buried in the obscure book about musical instruments of the middle ages he’s reading.

Not exactly the opening Jisung wants, and he’s sure it’s quite deliberate.

It’s cute, Jisung thinks with a smile, how Seungmin still hopes against hope for Jisung to pick up on and respond appropriately to social cues.

“Hey,” he says.

Seungmin takes a sip of tea from his disposable cup. Around them, the cafeteria hums, hushed conversations, clattering trays, and sliding chairs.

“Seungmin-ah,” Jisung tries again, scooting his chair closer.

“Why?” Seungmin says, and it can mean a million things. Why are you tormenting me with your presence? Why are you the way you are? Why are you wearing two different socks? even, which Jisung hadn’t noticed until he was already in the taxi on his way to the company this morning.

“Theoretically,” Jisung begins, choosing to ignore imaginary-Seungmin’s scathing and irrefutable criticism, “would you say it’s possible to platonically have sex with someone?”

Setting the teacup on the table, Seungmin turns to look at him with a sharp little crease between his eyebrows. He probably thinks Jisung is having a stroke or something, but he doesn’t seem particularly inclined to help. “Sure,” Seungmin says after a moment.

“Oh, good!” Jisung exclaims, a little shocked.

“Now, if I’ve assuaged your worries…” Seungmin glances pointedly at the book in his hand. “I want to finish the chapter on harps before I have to go back to the studio.”

Jisung rolls his eyes. “Rude.”

“It wasn’t as rude as what I was thinking.”

Despite himself, Jisung laughs.

Seungmin sighs and closes the book. “Does this have anything to do with Felix?”

“I don’t―“ Jisung pauses, bewildered, and Seungmin watches him silently, waiting with unexpected patience for an answer. “Huh?” is what Jisung comes up with.

“Have you two really embarked on a torrid love affair?” Seungmin asks with a straight face before breaking into a smirk. “Minho-hyung’s been asking us about it.”

“Oh my god, he’s lost his marbles,” Jisung says, awed. His stomach feels like it’s full of sparrows; he presses a hand to it then frowns. “Hyung’s the last one to be talking about fucking around with other members, though.”

Seungmin leans back in his chair and eyes him through his fringe of two-toned hair. “Why am I talking about this right now?”

Jisung makes a face. There really is no good way to ask your groupmate if he used to fuck your other groupmate, is there?

He can’t not ask, though. Even if Jisung has to go door-to-door, pestering everyone in the group about it while desperately trying to appear more harmlessly curious and less ready to burst into tears or rip someone’s throat out with his teeth, he needs to know.

As always too damn sharp for anyone’s good, Seungmin shoots up to his feet, expression stony. “That’s what I get for trying to be nice,” he says heavily, grabbing his phone from the table.

“Oh, is that what you were doing?” Jisung asks because he’s never been known for taking the safe route. “I didn’t realise.”

Seungmin stands by the table, studying Jisung in a disturbingly focused manner before the strain around his lips shifts into a smile that’s honestly not any less unnerving. “Changbin should be back at yours already,” he says, which is a weird as fuck non sequitur.

Wait.

Wait just a—

Seungmin smiles like a rottweiler, and Jisung’s stomach drops to his mismatched socks. “He would probably be a lot more helpful than me.”

“Changbin!” Jisung yells, kicking open the door to the dorm. It swings violently back towards him and nearly hits him in the face.

Hyunjin, who has his sketchbook open on the dining table, jumps and sends the ceramic cup that holds his pens and pencils careening to the floor. It shatters into pieces, its contents spilling out.

Speechless, Hyunjin stares at the mess, then at Jisung.

A pencil rolls by Jisung’s right foot.

He’ll apologise later.

“Changbin-ah!” Jisung shouts again, kicking off his shoes without bothering to untie them.

“Yah!” Changbin bellows angrily from his room.

“Oh, good. He’s home,” Jisung mutters, walking past an aggrieved-looking Hyunjin.

Changbin’s door is cracked open, as always, so he just goes straight in. In the fading afternoon light, the corners of the room are filled with shadows.

“What’s all this racket about?” Changbin asks from his bed, pausing whatever video he’s watching on his phone. His face glows blue from the light of the phone screen. He stares Jisung up and down with that annoying, all-seeing look of his. “Hm. Seungmin said you seemed off earlier.”

Jisung shifts from foot to foot, eyes on the discarded clothes left in a crumpled heap on the floor. “Seungmin said that?

“Sort of.” Changbin sits up and pats the bed beside him. “He said you were an even bigger pain in the ass than usual.” He smiles, crooked and pretty, and Jisung can absolutely see why Minho would lose his head over him.

Abruptly, he feels like punching a wall.

Or, maybe not a wall because he’d bust his knuckles all to hell, but punching something. A pillow, for sure. Or a plushie.

“You’re getting on my nerves,” Changbin tells him, interrupting Jisung’s internal breakdown. He grabs Jisung’s wrist and pulls him down next to him, and Jisung goes in a tangle of arms and legs. “Oof,” Changbin says, and removes Jisung’s right elbow from his mouth. “Is this about Yongbokkie sticking his fingers up your butt?”

Jisung presses his face against Changbin’s thigh. It’s warm and smells comfortingly of Changbin and fabric softener. “Can’t anyone in this group keep their mouth shut?” he says, muffled in Changbin’s sweats.

Changbin pats his head. “There’ve been no secrets between us since you and I helped Yongbok remove those anal beads that got stuck up there a couple of years ago.”

“Good times.” Jisung huffs a laugh, digging his chin into Changbin’s thigh until Changbin thwacks the back of his head. “So you aren’t hiding anything from me?” Jisung prods, ready to flatter, cajole, or threaten as necessary. “Are you sure?”

Looking unimpressed, Changbin locks his phone and sets it on the bedside table, which means Jisung has his full attention now. “What,” he says.

“I have a question for you.” Jisung lifts himself up on his elbows and squints up at Changbin in the dim light. “It’s a sex question.”

Surprise flares in Changbin’s eyes for a second before he strokes his chin and nods sagely. “Can’t say I didn’t see this coming. Sorry, man, but I’m not into you like that.” He pauses then reaches down to pat Jisung’s pecs through his shirt. “Actually, have you been hitting the gym on your own lately?” Changbin gives him an unabashed once-over. “Your chest looks good. Okay, fine, fine,” he says with a long sigh. “Perhaps I can be persuaded.”

Barking out a laugh, Jisung slides sideways into his lap. “I don’t wanna fuck you, man.”

“You don’t?” The corners of Changbin’s mouth turn down.

Jisung considers it, still perched on his thighs. “I mean, I would but―” He shakes his head to clear it. “Listen, that’s not what I wanted to talk about. I hear you and Minho-hyung used to bang.”

“Ah,” Changbin says, face closing off a little. He leaves it at that, leans back against the pillows and runs his hand up Jisung’s side as if soothing an upset horse.

“Ah?” Jisung echoes belligerently, tilting his head to look down at him. He can see up Changbin’s nostrils from here. Not his most flattering angle, but Minho had wanted Changbin enough to take him to bed, apparently, so. A point for Changbin’s nostrils, Jisung thinks begrudgingly. “Why wouldn’t you tell me? Was it just sex, or was it”―worse―”more?”

“Jisung-ah.”

“Well?” Jisung runs a hand through his hair. It’s shaking so badly he almost takes out an eye. “Did you?”

“Yes,” Changbin says carefully, and holds his hands up like he expects Jisung to lash out, for whatever reason. “It was a long time ago. We were just fuck buddies for a few months, nothing serious.” He pats Jisung’s side again. “Hyung’s an easy guy to fall for, though,” Changbin admits, shrugging. “You should know.”

Something inside Jisung hurts, deep down in his chest.

He slides off Changbin to sit with his back to the wall and swallows with a click. “Why’d you―“ Jisung clears his throat. “Why’d you stop, then?”

“He was… emotionally unavailable.” With a sigh, Changbin fishes out a water bottle from his stash under the bed, takes a swig and then hands the bottle to Jisung. He drinks half of it in one go. “Not my story to tell, but Minho-hyung was upfront about it from the start. He has a ‘no strings attached’ policy.” Changbin rolls onto his side to look at Jisung, lips quirking up in a small smile. “A ’no questions asked’ policy, too.”

“But you’re―” Jisung grips the empty plastic bottle so hard it crunches loudly. Confusingly, thinking about Changbin suffering from unrequited love for Minho pains Jisung almost as much as the thought of them together. “Are you okay?”

“Sure. It was a long time ago,” Changbin says again. “I’ve been over it for years.” He tugs the crinkled water bottle from Jisung’s grip, tossing it carelessly over his shoulder, and reaches up to clasp a warm hand over the back of Jisung’s neck. His smile deepens. “Why the sudden interest? You’re not jealous, are you?”

“Why would I be jealous?” Jisung asks in a perfect falsetto. When Changbin lifts a mocking eyebrow at him, he sticks his tongue into his cheek and shakes his head. “It’s not like that,” Jisung says defensively. “You know hyung and I are not like that. It’s just. A bit annoying that no one told me.”

Changbin says nothing, just watches Jisung with his dark, serious eyes. His unstyled hair’s gone all curly and fluffy, making him look softer somehow.

“I’m just curious,” Jisung insists. He fidgets on the bed, pressing harder against the cool wall at his back. The words feel wrong in his mouth, like chewing on grains of sand. Like a lie. “Can’t a guy be curious about his friends’ sex lives?”

Changbin flicks his forehead with aggression that Jisung thinks is wholly unwarranted. “You deserved that,” Changbin informs him and smiles, an awful, knowing smile that makes Jisung instantly uneasy. “Is that what’s eating at you, that you’ve never had Minho-hyung like that? Being his self-proclaimed soulmate and favourite person in the world isn’t enough, is it? You want all of him to yourself.” Changbin tsks, wagging a finger at him. “Greedy, greedy Hannie.”

“I’m not,” Jisung protests in a whisper.

“Fine, you’re not.” With a snort, Changbin pushes himself to his feet and stretches his arms above his head. He picks up his wallet from the desk, yawning like a lion, then levels a withering gaze at Jisung. “Gonna let hyung buy you dinner, or are you not done lying to my face yet?”

Sighing, Jisung drags himself out of the bed.

Jisung tries to make peace with the knowledge and can’t.

He tries not to think about it and, as the week wears on, finds he can hardly think of anything else.

He stares at Minho’s hands as he grills meat for the two of them, the confident way Minho shifts the tongs into his left hand and turns the meat over without missing a beat.

They’re good hands―small, with neat fingernails and knuckles raw from boxing and dancing and living.

The wood-panelled booth is at the back of the restaurant, hidden by an ornate partition. Beyond it, the warm sounds of conversation and laughter filling the BBQ place are a pleasant backdrop to their comfortable silence.

It’s been a long day, they don’t need to be talking.

Sometimes being with Minho is just as good as being alone, only cosier somehow. Safer. Around him, Jisung can let his mind take a backseat for a little while. He can leave the helm in Minho’s capable hands for an evening and stop worrying about keeping track of hours and minutes and seconds, of each indivisible atom of time where Jisung needs to be alert and present. In control.

Minho’s strong hands with nimble fingers. The same hands that help the members up after a tumble at dance practice, that used to make packed lunches for Jeongin when he was tired and homesick and frustrated with school. The hands that patted the top of Chan’s weary head when their leader sat hunched over his laptop at night, bent but unbroken under the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Jisung’s favourite hands to hold.

Minho reaches over the table to feed him a lettuce wrap, and Jisung hums his thanks as he chews.

“You look like an animated corpse, honey,” Minho tells him, blowing on a piece of meat before he pops it in his mouth. “That’s okay,” he says around the food, “I’d still like you if you turned into a zombie and started rotting and falling apart.”

Jisung snorts. “You smooth talker, you.” He leans forward to pinch Minho’s cheek, which he allows with a grim set to his mouth. “No wonder you get all the guys.”

Minho rolls his eyes and shoves another wrap into Jisung’s mouth.

“Speaking of,” Jisung says after swallowing. He carefully sets his chopsticks on the edge of his plate. “You and Changbin used to fuck, huh?”

For a moment, Minho does nothing but stare at him from across the red-stained wooden table. Against the sallow wall lights, Minho’s face is all bones and angles. He seems to be searching Jisung’s expression for something he fails to find, because after a beat Minho shrugs and turns his attention back to the grill. “Yeah?” he says finally, not looking at him.

Jisung sees his jaw lock because he’s looking very closely. “Ah, nothing.” He shuffles in his chair. “It’s just. Lixie mentioned it.”

“’Course he did,” Minho says, clipped, and exhales a little puff of laughter. “Speaking of,” he continues, peering at Jisung through the steam of the grill, “since when are you and Yongbok a thing? You’ve been holding out on me.”

“We’re not.”

The tongs hit the plate with a clatter. “I thought we told each other everything.”

Jisung widens his eyes at him to say Obviously not, letting out a frustrated breath when Minho just gives him a blank look in response. “Hyung, come on now.”

Minho’s lips stretch in what looks nothing like a smile. Then he leans over the table to flick Jisung’s nipple through his shirt, the lunatic.

“No! Down, kitty!” Jisung scolds, pointing at him; Minho snaps his teeth at his finger. “Stop using violence to deflect.”

Sitting back in his chair, Minho slants him a wry glance. “I’m not.” He looks volatile, suddenly, in his pink mohair cardigan with the leftover gold flecks on his eyelids from the photoshoot earlier that day. “I just didn’t think you cared who I fucked.”

“Well, I didn’t know you’ve been fucking our friends, did I?” Jisung says sullenly.

The hurt clouding Minho’s face is not the gentle, quiet kind of sadness that can be remedied with takeout food and a night of cuddling. It’s a turbulent, dangerous thing, gathering like storm clouds in his eyes.

Jisung is shocked by a wave of wanting, so intense it sizzles through his bloodstream like alcohol.

“I never said I didn’t sleep with my friends, though,” Minho says. He watches as the waitress guides a large group to their table several booths over, and Jisung watches him. “Are you breaking your own rules now? I’ve gotta admit, I’m hurt.” He finally looks at Jisung fully. “I’d have thought I would be your first choice.”

Groaning, Jisung presses his fingers over his eyes. “Why are you so concerned about this?” he asks, which is probably the most hypocritical thing he’s ever heard himself say.

Minho laughs, a sharp, unpleasant sound, so he obviously agrees. He takes a sip of water, and when he puts the glass back on the table, the water splashes over his fingers.

There’s something vulnerable about the line of his shoulders, drawn taut, and Jisung feels a curious sensation in his stomach, like someone’s threaded a hook through his belly button and is tugging at him. He kind of wants to poke and prod at Minho to see where it hurts; he wants to kiss it better, maybe. But then Minho’s hand balls into a fist on the table until his knuckles crack.

His breath leaves him in a rush when Jisung reaches out to cover Minho’s hand with his, but he doesn’t pull it away. After a moment, Minho shifts their joined hands under the table. He strokes his thumb across Jisung’s palm, and Jisung’s heart does something terrible and achy in his chest.

Jisung is not proud of it but he might be avoiding Minho, a little bit. As much as you can avoid someone when you practically live in each other’s pockets.

Still, Jisung makes a valiant effort. He pretends he doesn’t notice Minho watching his every move, his eyes following Jisung from the side of the stage and from the far end of the table at lunch and from across the practice room.

On Thursday, Jisung decides to go home after practice and turn in, bailing on his and Minho’s traditional late-night junk food run at the convenience store.

Minho’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t say anything. His hand slips off Jisung’s shoulder. He shrugs, sitting back down on the practice room floor, and as Jisung walks away he feels like he’s left his heart right there, next to him.

He leaves Minho’s last two messages―a photo of Soonie and an impassioned rant about a pathetically thin sandwich―on read, which Jisung knows will send Minho into a blind rage, because nothing gets to him more than being ignored.

It’s just that, Jisung doesn’t have it in him to talk to Minho about food or anime or gossip right now, not when something that feels far too big for Jisung’s body is growing and slithering under his skin, stretching it every which way as if trying to split him open.

In the brief lull in schedule that follows, Minho lets Jisung get away with it for all of two days. Surprisingly patient, truthfully, for him.

When Jisung gets home from a food run with Changbin, flushed from the December wind whipping icily against his face, Minho’s waiting for him in his bed.

Jisung leans his back on the closed door and just looks at him for a second, the bag of food hanging from his hand. He’d been planning to eat in the solitude of his room while moping about missing Minho.

Lounging in dramatic near-darkness, with the only light a tepid glow from the bedside lamp, Minho crosses his arms over his chest. “Welcome home, honey,” he says in a creepy, whispery voice, and then turns the light so it shines directly into Jisung’s face.

Jisung laughs. God, he really has missed him.

He sets the food on his desk and raises a hand to shield his eyes. “Why’re you here?”

“Why have you been asking people about my stroke game?” Minho counters.

“I have not,” Jisung says warily as he pads over to the bed, “been doing that.”

“Might as well have.” Shrugging, Minho swivels the lamp away from him. He smirks, tipping his head back against the wall behind the bed. “If you wanted me to fuck you so badly, Jisung-ah, you should’ve just said.”

The floor tilts beneath Jisung’s feet. He sits on the edge of the bed beside Minho, a careful distance away. Minho shifts to make room for him, knees falling apart. The metal buttons of his jeans shine dully in the faint light.

Jisung swallows.

“You’re taking too long to deny,” Minho says, studying him like Jisung’s an incomprehensible abstract painting he can’t quite figure out.

“Yeah. That’s…” His brain screams at him to shut up. Jisung tucks his bottom lip behind his teeth, and Minho’s gaze flicks down at the movement. Jisung takes a deep breath, squeezes his eyes shut and blurts out, “I’ve been wondering about it.”

“About?”

“Getting fucked in the ass.” Jisung sighs, still keeping his eyes closed. “Specifically.”

“Wondering.” The bed dips when Minho moves closer. He clears his throat, a hand resting on Jisung’s knee. “You― Wait, you haven’t?”

“Oh, no, I have.” Jisung breathes out a laugh, stealing a glance at Minho. He’s blinking up at Jisung, looking puzzled and, a bit confusingly, kind of like he wants to eat him. “Jeongsik, remember?”

“Yes,” Minho says, and his face does something complicated, “I remember.”

“But it wasn’t, uh.” He grimaces, and a wrinkle creases Minho’s brow. “Anything to write home about,” Jisung settles on. “Honestly, the sex I’ve had hasn’t been that exciting. And then you went and fucked someone right next to me, basically, and it got me thinking. About you. In―” This is so going to go pear shaped, Jisung’s brain says, resigned. “In bed,” Jisung finishes, and for a moment it just hangs there, between them.

In the silence that follows, crackling like static electricity, he can practically see the wheels turning in Minho’s head.

“What?” Minho croaks, fingers tightening on Jisung’s knee. Slowly, he pushes himself up to a sitting position. “Hannie… what?”

Jisung feels vulnerable, suddenly, like his chest has been cracked open and his heart bared. The thing in him, though, the one that’s been keeping Jisung up at night and replaying in his mind the moans of the guy in Japan for weeks unsheathes its claws and makes a contented sound.

“I mean, I don’t have a lot to go on here,” he says, “but what if the people I’ve slept with were. I don’t know. Bad lays?” Jisung puts his hand over Minho’s on his knee. “What if I’m the one who’s bad at sex? Or worse, what if I’m mediocre?”

“Mm,” Minho says and blinks three times slowly, the judgy fucker.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m talking nonsense!” Jisung pouts, reaching to pick at the fraying denim over Minho’s thigh. “It’s a reasonable guess, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Minho says, in a tone that very much implies it isn’t. He’s smiling faintly but he looks a bit uncertain, a little shaken.

Jisung wants to hug him, to hold Minho in his arms for hours.

He also wants Minho to push his thighs open and bend him in half. Jisung is of two minds.

Flinching at his thoughts, he tugs at a thread on Minho’s jeans so hard it breaks.

“Are you going through an early quarter-life crisis?” Minho asks, watching Jisung frown at the thread in his hand. When he doesn’t get a reply, he digs his fingers into Jisung’s ribs and snorts at his shriek.

“Stop terrorising me,” Jisung pants, grabbing Minho’s hand in both of his. “I’m just sad and horny.”

Hitching a leg over Jisung’s hip to wiggle closer, Minho laughs, his sweet, tinkling laughter. He doesn’t pull his hand out of Jisung’s. “Poor thing,” he says with the fakest pout Jisung has seen, mocking yet not unkind, and Jisung’s blood rushes through his head and roars in his ears.

“Listen, I’ve figured it all out. I need a baseline for comparison,” he blurts, only half-believing the words coming out of his own mouth. He presses his thumb into the palm of Minho’s hand. “If I do it with someone who’s good at it, I’ll know for sure.”

“Good at... butt sex.” Minho makes a soft, amused noise and stares down at their hands, entwined together. “Specifically.”

Nodding, Jisung tightens his hold on him, fingers rubbing a repetitive circular pattern around the base of Minho’s thumb. Are you trying to seduce him with an inept hand massage? Jisung’s brain asks icily. “Yeah,” Jisung says, to both of them.

Minho’s eyes glint up at him, catching the light like faceted glass. Staring at him as if Jisung’s lost his mind.

He probably has, but now that the words are out there, Jisung isn’t going to take them back. He closes his eyes and thinks of Minho above him, Minho inside him. The weight of him, the warmth of him. His mouth on Jisung’s skin, arms tight around him.

All of Minho, just for him.

Jisung wants it so much, suddenly, that he’s almost dizzy, so much that it aches deep within him.

Minho sighs, pressing his face into Jisung’s shoulder. “Jisung-ah, you know it’s okay to like what you like, right? There’s no right or wrong here.” The words are half-lost into the sleeve of Jisung’s t-shirt, but he squeezes Jisung’s hand and Jisung’s chest warms. “You don’t need to force yourself to enjoy something you don’t,” Minho adds, and rubs his cheek against Jisung’s arm like he’s scent-marking him.

“I know that,” Jisung says, charmed. He tucks Minho’s hair behind his ear and smiles. “I do want it, though. I just think I can do it better.”

“Please spell this out for me.” Minho pulls back a little. His voice is doing that thing where it’s on the edge of shaking, and Jisung knows Minho’s exercising restraint because Chan had told him once that random outbursts of screaming your lungs out weren’t entirely socially acceptable. “’Cause it really sounds like you want me to fuck you.”

“Yeah?” Jisung presses his lips together. “I should probably start smaller, though.”

Minho breaks into a grin, eyebrows flying up. “You’ve come to the wrong place, then.”

“Shut up.” Jisung giggles, swatting at his shoulder. “You’re so full of yourself, wow!”

“Sounds like you wanna be full of me too.” Minho laughs, falling back on the bed when Jisung pelts him with the pillow.

“I meant,” he says, dropping the pillow to lean over Minho with his hands on either side of his head, “I want to try sucking your dick first. If that’s okay.”

Minho blinks. Then blinks again, a shiver going through his body.

Jisung nudges his chin with his nose. “Have you short-circuited, honey?”

“You want to suck my dick,” Minho says, and exhales a little laugh. He looks stunned, flushed down to his neck, but not opposed.

Taking the opportunity, Jisung slides off the bed, so quickly his knees hit the carpet with a dull thud. He curses under his breath and leans against Minho’s thigh. “Hyung?”

“Yes?” Minho says, faintly, and stares down at him. His eyes look huge and dark in the half-light, fringed by long lashes.

“Hyungie.” Jisung rests his cheek against the rough denim of his jeans. He licks his lips. “Can I?”

Minho closes his eyes. For a brief, panic-filled moment, Jisung’s sure he’s going to say no and leave Jisung to wither away in mortification and despair, but Minho’s hand reaches down to touch his cheek. It’s trembling slightly.

He runs his thumb over Jisung’s cheekbone and then rests it on Jisung’s bottom lip, pressing gently at the centre. He still doesn’t open his eyes.

Jisung feels his body pulse, coiling with want.

“You’re not allowed to be weird about this tomorrow,” is what Minho says, finally, and his hand falls heavily onto Jisung’s shoulder. It curls around his upper arm, and Minho sits up, dropping both feet on the floor. He cages Jisung between his legs. “Understand?”

It sounds very much like a yes.

Everything inside Jisung seems to ignite.

With a quick nod, he puts his hands on Minho’s thighs. The warmth of him, his familiar scent, the nearness of him makes something inside Jisung melt and drip inside his ribcage like candle wax.

Minho nods back at him, and Jisung sees his lashes flutter when Jisung reaches for the buttons of his jeans. He watches as Jisung undoes them, watches Jisung realise as he pushes the jeans down over Minho’s hips that Minho’s not wearing underwear. Minho smirks a little at the soft sound that slips out of Jisung’s mouth. Shit, he definitely wasn’t exaggerating before.

Minho takes himself in hand, wraps his fingers around his cock and gives it a slow tug. He looks down at Jisung with hooded eyes as he does, and Jisung pops a boner so fast it leaves him light-headed.

Swallowing back a whimper, he sways forward and falls face-first into Minho’s lap. No longer concerned with modesty, or dignity, Jisung rubs his cheek against Minho’s cock. It’s silky and warm and smells overwhelmingly of Minho. Jisung inhales in a rush and trails clumsy, wet kisses along the length of it and over Minho’s fingers.

Minho lets go of himself to stroke Jisung’s hair instead. His touch is stiff, though, and when Jisung glances at him through his lashes, Minho’s worrying his bottom lip between his teeth as though he’s holding himself back from something.

And Jisung, he wants it. Whatever it is that Minho won’t allow himself to have, Jisung wants it so badly it makes his hands shake and fumble; it makes him feel like a boat cut adrift.

He’s nuzzling his face against Minho’s dick like a fucking cat, Jisung realises with a slightly unhinged chuckle. Minho’s hard as a rock already, so he seems to be getting off on it at least. He brushes his fingers through Jisung’s hair, humming when Jisung flicks the tip of his tongue against the head.

Intently, Minho stares down at him, his eyes glazed over. Backlit by the bedside lamp, he’s almost heartbreakingly beautiful, and Jisung doesn’t know what to do with that.

He wants to crawl into Minho’s lap and kiss him. Wants Minho to come on his face.

When he stills, Minho tugs lightly at his hair. “Alright?”

“Alright.” Jisung presses a kiss to the skin at the hem of Minho’s t-shirt and closes his eyes to centre himself. “I want you to come on my face.”

“Fuck off, Jesus Christ,” Minho says, dropping his head back when Jisung giggles into his skin. He curses at the ceiling, which Jisung finds even funnier, but then Minho looks back into his eyes and wraps his free hand around himself again, pressing his thumb into the slit, and Jisung’s laughter freezes on his lips. “Open,” Minho says, spreading his legs a little more.

Jisung does, so quickly he almost unhinges his jaw. He sticks his tongue out too, cheeks burning at the shamelessness of it, lowers his head to drag his tongue up the length of Minho’s cock, over his fingers, to the bead of moisture at the tip. It tastes like Minho, like salt and skin and Minho, and Jisung wants to get closer and lick him from head to toe. To fill his senses with Minho until nothing else remains.

He knocks Minho’s hand away and curls his own fingers around him, rubbing the head against his lips.

“Hm,” Minho says, slightly reproving, but he leans back on his arms and lets Jisung do what he wants.

And he wants so much.

It’s Minho, his fevered brain reminds him: Minho taking a stuttered breath above him, the heat of him in the palm of Jisung’s hand. It’s Minho, and desire thickens Jisung’s blood like sugar syrup.

Holding Minho’s cock loosely, he moves his other hand higher on Minho’s thigh and dips his head to mouth at his balls, frantic with the need to follow Minho’s scent where it gets even stronger, darker somehow. “Is it…” He sneaks a glance up at Minho, who’s looking at Jisung with his mouth open, eyes a little wild. “Can I lick your balls? Or is that, like, bad blowjob etiquette?”

Minho laughs then, a sudden crack of laughter. Seungmin always says it makes Minho sound like an old movie villain. It does, kinda; Jisung thinks it’s cute.

“Yeah, Jisung-ah,” Minho says, a little raspy, and gathers Jisung’s hair back in one hand to keep it out of his face, “you can lick my fucking balls if you want to.”

Flashing him a quick smile, Jisung dives back down. He tongues at the papery skin there, flattens his tongue against the seam until everything is slick with spit and Minho’s thigh is twitching under Jisung’s fingers. Minho lets out an incredulous sort of groan, pulling on Jisung’s hair until Jisung turns his head to gasp into Minho’s skin.

“Aren’t you supposed to be instructing me, or something?” he asks, trying to catch his breath. “I’ve only done this once before, you know.”

“No.” Minho smiles, tight-lipped, and brushes a knuckle against Jisung’s cheek. “You wanted to suck hyung’s dick to prove a point? Figure it out, then.”

Jisung pulls back, piqued by the words yet, curiously, they do nothing to quell the need burning inside him. If anything, Minho’s taunt only makes the flames leap higher.

He twists his hand around Minho’s cock and lets it slip along the opening of his mouth. He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing, and his knees are starting to throb from kneeling on the carpet, but if there’s one thing that drives Jisung up the wall, it’s not being good at something. So, by damn, he will figure it out or choke to death trying.

Minho is smirking down at him like he knows, the fucker.

Trying to recall what he’d liked done to him when receiving blowjobs, Jisung steadies himself with his hand on Minho’s leg and rests the head of his cock against his bottom lip for a second before taking it into his mouth.

Minho makes a deep sound and tightens his hand in Jisung’s hair, but Jisung doesn’t look at him. He’s mesmerised by his exploration, by the noises it elicits from Minho and the way his breathing’s gone shallow and quick. He takes his time to figure out how to keep his teeth out of the way, to get used to the taste of him and the weight of Minho’s cock on his tongue before he finally starts to sink down―carefully, because Jisung does have a gag reflex, sadly, and throwing up all over Minho’s cock would be decidedly unsexy.

“You make the cutest faces when you’re concentrating really hard,” Minho murmurs, smiling at the glare Jisung shoots him. “You’re doing good, honey,” he adds, softer.

The smile drops off his face when Jisung starts sucking, cheeks sinking in with the effort.

“Ah,” Minho breathes, and the softness of his inner thigh quivers again beneath Jisung’s fingers. “Shit.” His hips jerk and then still, and when Jisung looks up at him, he sees Minho’s face is strained with the effort not to move, not to fuck up into Jisung’s throat.

Something about it, about the way Minho’s whole body seems to be held within the iron grip on his self-control, is really doing it for Jisung.

Shifting forward, he takes a little more. He tries to relax his throat, gagging a few times while Minho quietly tells him to breathe through his nose, thumb stroking down Jisung’s jaw until he finally hits the back of his throat.

Minho sighs then. “Yeah, just like that,” he says, which goes straight to Jisung’s cock. He feels his entire body spasm and abruptly pulls off, coughing and gasping for air. Minho blinks down at him. “Huh,” he says.

“Um,” Jisung pants, lifting a hand to his hair where Minho’s fingers are still tightly clenched. Minho eases his hold but doesn’t let go. Doesn’t let Jisung avert his face. “Yeah,” Jisung admits, wiping a trickle of spit off his chin with the back of his hand, “I might be into that sort of thing. A bit.”

“A bit,” Minho echoes.

“Can you, like…” Jisung lets out an embarrassed groan and presses his forehead to Minho’s knee. “Hold me down, maybe? It’s okay if I choke a little.” The tips of his ears feel very hot. “Wanna try to push past my gag reflex.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Minho says, sounding so distressed that Jisung finds it hard not to laugh. Minho pets the back of his head, though, tenderly, and Jisung’s chest warms. “Sure,” Minho adds, and when Jisung peeks up at him, his lips are curled into a small, fond smile, “I’ll help you choke on my dick, you little freak.”

Jisung laughs, leaning into the gentle fingers scratching against his scalp. “The best hyung,” he gushes, and Minho laughs too, a soundless little huff of laughter.

“Wanna try again?” he asks, fingers moving up behind Jisung’s ear. “Just tap me if you wanna stop.”

“Okay.” Jisung nods slowly.

Wetting his lips, he leans back down, wraps his hand around the base of Minho’s cock and takes him back into his mouth. He hasn’t softened at all during the exchange. If anything, their conversation seems to have made Minho impossibly harder.

Opening wide, Jisung pushes himself all the way down on him. He gags again, tries to pull away but this time Minho keeps his head steady.

“Don’t tense up,” he tells him, hand gentle but firm against the back of Jisung’s head, and Jisung tries to breathe through it, clamps his eyes shut as they begin to water. “Look at me,” Minho says, and Jisung raises his damp eyes to his. Minho blinks as though surprised by his quick compliance. “You look so fucking hot right now, Jisung-ah. Prettiest boy. Can you try to take a little more?”

Despite the assertive tone, Minho’s eyes on him are soft and his touch reverent. So Jisung does as he’s told, inhales slowly through his nose and pushes down, taking Minho deep, deeper until Jisung’s lips meet his fingers. The sound Minho makes then, a tight little ah, will play in Jisung’s head on a fucking loop until the day he dies.

“There’s my good boy,” Minho says, and it sends a pulse of want through Jisung’s body so hard it feels violent, almost, like turbulence on a plane jolting him around and turning him inside out.

Jisung moans around him, and Minho touches his face again, brushes the tears from Jisung’s cheek and the drool pooling at the corner of his mouth, and murmurs, “That’s it, baby. Just stay there for a second, yeah?”

Baby, Jisung thinks.

Babybabybaby.

He gasps, which makes him choke again.

Minho lets him pull off, eyes dark and fixed as he watches Jisung suck in a wet breath. “Had enough already?” he asks in a light, deliberately disinterested voice.

Jisung is undone; he’s fully dressed but feeling naked before Minho’s gaze. He’s hard and leaking in his pants, he’s shimmering with want, a luminous, formless mass of desire and need.

With one hand in Jisung’s hair, Minho keeps him still as he wraps the other around himself and taps his cock against Jisung’s cheek. Jisung tilts his head back obediently, his mouth falling open wider so Minho can guide himself back inside.

Minho waits for Jisung’s nod before he rocks his hips forward to fuck shallowly into his mouth. “Gotta be careful with your throat,” he says under his breath, equal parts sincere and teasing, and Jisung squeezes his eyes shut and thinks he likes this, god he likes it so much—the guiding hand in his hair, the soreness in his jaw, not quite an ache, Minho being the pain in the ass that he is.

Shuffling forward on his knees, Jisung starts sinking down onto his cock again and he doesn’t stop until his nose is pressed against Minho’s skin, throat fluttering around him.

A stunned breath escapes Minho, then he makes that sweet little ‘ah’ sound again. Jisung gags and shakes, fingers twisting in the denim of Minho’s jeans piled around his ankles, and he stays there.

He’s so hard in his sweats it’s starting to hurt.

Jisung realises he’s whining low in his throat only when Minho combs his fingers through his hair and shushes him, saying, “You’re being so good for me, baby. Just―“ A moan shudders through Minho’s body when he fucks into his mouth again. “Just a little longer.”

With a jerky nod, Jisung balls his hands into fists on his own thighs and lets Minho use his mouth. He holds his breath until his ears start to ring. His eyes are blurry with tears, nose running, and Jisung wants more, tries to get closer still.

Minho is red-cheeked and breathtaking above him, knocked slightly off balance because of Jisung, because of Jisung’s mouth on him, so Jisung will stay where he is and gag on his cock until he passes out if he has to.

That doesn’t prove necessary, because Minho pulls Jisung back by the hair and starts fisting his cock, hard and fast. “Keep your tongue out,” he breathes, and Jisung lowers his lashes and sticks out his tongue and fucking burns, a flush of mingled shame and pleasure so tightly interwoven that he can’t tease the strands apart.

Minho’s grip in his hair loosens until it’s a caress. He draws one quick breath, sharp and desperate, and then he’s coming across Jisung’s cheek and his open, gasping mouth, and over his outstretched tongue.

The noises, the rapid slap of Minho’s hand on his cock, his strangled little moans and the way his pleasure-hazy eyes never leave Jisung’s while he shakes through his orgasm, it’s almost too much. Jisung feels like he’s about to come in his pants, untouched.

With a dazed whimper, Jisung sags against Minho’s legs, and Minho pulls him closer until Jisung’s wet cheek is pressed against his thigh. He swipes his fingers through the mess that is Jisung’s face, gentling him down, and murmurs, “Oh, my good boy,” far too sweetly for someone who’s just fucked Jisung’s face.

Jisung’s eyes flutter open again when Minho places a finger under his chin to tip his head back. Something in his expression, cracked wide open and strangely delicate, makes Jisung’s heart bang against his ribcage.

“Did you fucking lie to me,” Minho says, “that you’d only done this once before?”

Sniffling, Jisung laughs. “Second time sucking cock,” he confirms, and his voice sounds a little hoarse. That’s a problem for the Jisung of tomorrow, he decides. “I’m a blowjob prodigy, aren’t I?” He grins up at Minho. “Admit it.”

Minho wipes at Jisung’s cheek with his sleeve. Jisung’s pretty sure there are streaks of drool and tears and come and snot crisscrossing his face, and his lips are stinging, undoubtedly bruised and swollen, yet Minho looks tender. Looks fond. Looks―

Scrambling backwards, Jisung stands up on rubbery legs and takes a couple of steps back, and Minho’s face shutters, going blank.

“You don’t want me to―”

“No, no, you don’t have to!” Alarmed at the hysterical edge he hears in his own voice, Jisung takes a second to smooth down his hair and readjust his clothes. He feels his cheeks flush again when Minho looks pointedly at the bulge in his sweats. “That wasn’t about me,” Jisung mumbles. ”I was just—testing a theory. You can go if you want to.”

It’s silent in the room. Outside the window, it’s already completely dark. The night sky is painted with twinkling lights, golds and greens and reds.

“Well,” Minho says finally, standing up too, “the theory has been thoroughly tested.”

He pulls up his jeans, wiping his hand carelessly on them, and does up the buttons with unsteady hands. Pausing beside Jisung, Minho hesitates for a beat before leaning in to kiss Jisung’s forehead.

Jisung closes his eyes.

“I’m not letting you throw me out.” Minho sounds detached. Closed off. It makes an empty space expand in Jisung’s chest, right between his lungs. “I’m not a one-night stand, honey. Besides―“ He takes a breath then lets it out through his nose. “Besides, that was kinda intense. I wanna keep an eye on you for a bit.”

“I’m fine,” Jisung says, wrapping his arms around himself. He’s still so hard it hurts.

“Okay. Do it for me, then.” Minho puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans. A muscle ticks under his eye. “Jisung-ah. You’re being a dick. Let’s just clean you up and get you to bed.”

Jisung sighs. Of course there would be no running, no hiding and no escape when he fucks around with Minho, of all people.

Oh, god. He just fucked around with Minho.

Exhaling a ragged breath, Jisung rubs at his eyes with his fingers. “I’m sorry, hyung,” he says, pitifully.

“Stop panicking.” Minho grabs the back of his neck and pulls Jisung’s head down onto his shoulder. “Shower then bed?” he says, lips against Jisung’s temple.

Jisung nods and circles his arms around Minho’s waist, and he holds on.

Later, when Minho wraps himself around Jisung under the sheets, Jisung’s back to his chest, and he buries his face in the hair at Jisung’s neck, Jisung wonders if Minho needs the comfort just as much.

He might have fucked up.

Silently, Jisung sits at the dining table and follows Minho with his eyes while he moves about softly, making them both breakfast. He’s wearing one of Jisung’s t-shirts over his borrowed briefs, uncharacteristically quiet and subdued as he seems to wait for Jisung to say something.

A beam of dust-speckled sunlight filters through the kitchen blinds, warming the side of Minho’s face. It gilds the bow of Minho’s upper lip, and Jisung can’t look away.

Hyunjin hurries past them on his way out the door, head down. He doesn’t seem to notice them, so Jisung is sure he will be interrogated about this later.

There’s no noise from Chan’s room yet. He’d planned to stay up late last night to finish the song he’s been working on, probably went to bed at 5 a.m. again so he’ll be asleep for another couple of hours, if not longer.

Minho moves the pan with fried eggs from the heat with a loud clang, though, so. Maybe not.

“Thanks for breakfast,” Jisung says, poking at his kimchi bokkeumbap with his chopsticks.

“Sure,” Minho tells the coffee machine before scowling at it. It makes him look like an angry cat, with his wild hair and wrinkled nose.

“You’re weird,” Jisung says, adding when Minho opens his mouth, “weirder than usual.”

“I’m weird?” Minho slants him a look over his shoulder. “You promised me something last night, and then you sucked my soul out through my dick and tried to run on three fucking legs.”

The beat of silence thickens the air in the kitchen. Neither of them seems to be breathing.

“Sucked your soul out through your dick, huh?” Jisung says finally, smirking a bit.

A smile flickers in and out of existence over Minho’s mouth. He cocks an eyebrow at Jisung. “You’ve got a praise kink a mile wide, haven’t you?”

“Oh, shut up.” Jisung crams his mouth full and chews, and Minho watches him with soft eyes. Jisung swallows and says, because he’s never met an awkward moment that couldn’t be made awkwarder: “We can’t just pretend like last night never happened, though. It did change things. You’re staring at me like you want to kiss me right now.”

Minho looks like he’s been slapped. A furious blush streaks across his cheeks and down his neck.

Jisung’s about to apologise when Minho shrugs, stuffs a whole egg in his mouth and says, barely able to get the word out, “So?”

“What?”

“So what, Jisung-ah?” Minho says, leaning against the kitchen cabinets. “Fine, things have changed, whatever. Who says that’s a bad thing? We can do whatever the hell we want. You wanna fuck?” He’s still chewing on his egg aggressively. “We can fuck until our cocks fall off.”

Jisung snorts out a startled laugh. “Whatever we want?” Pausing to check for any sign of Minho-typical fuckery, Jisung asks, “What if I wanna sail round the world together? We can bring the cats.”

“Let’s do it,” Minho says, and puts his hands on his hips.

Shaking his head with a smile, Jisung pushes his chair back and moves to stand beside Minho. “Sorry,” he says, bending to tuck his head under Minho’s chin; Minho stiffens against him. “Are you mad?” Jisung pouts. “Hyung-ah.”

“Stop.”

“I don’t want to fuck things up between us.” He finds Minho’s hand and threads his fingers through his. “I can’t lose my soulmate.”

After a moment, Minho sighs, squeezing his hand. “You won’t.”

Changbin emerges from his bedroom just then, giving the two of them a look Jisung doesn’t appreciate. He steals a bite of Jisung’s breakfast, eyeing them up and down.

Discreetly, Jisung flips him off behind Minho’s back. Changbin grins.

It’s 8:30 a.m. on a rare day off, but Changbin is clearly a dangerous maniac because he hoists his gym bag over his shoulder. He starts walking backwards to the door, wolf-whistling right before it closes behind him.

Minho stares after him, and his face tells Jisung nothing. He’s still holding Jisung’s hand, but Jisung can’t help but notice the careful distance Minho keeps between them.

It settles like a burr under Jisung’s skin, makes him want to get a reaction out of Minho even more.

When Jisung turns into a dead weight against him, Minho catches him easily with an arm around his waist and lets Jisung hang off him like a wet towel. His hand slides lower until it rests on the swell of Jisung’s ass, rubbing it absently.

The muscles in Minho’s arm shift beneath his skin when he adjusts his hold on Jisung, pulling him even closer. One pretty hand with its raw, scraped knuckles reaches up to take Jisung’s again, and suddenly Jisung can’t think of anything but the press of Minho’s palm against his. He wants Minho’s fingers inside of him, wants his touch, his mouth, him.

Jisung wants him so much it makes his knees wobble.

His thoughts must show on his face because when he looks up, Jisung sees something snap behind Minho’s eyes. Then Jisung’s lifted clear off the floor and carried towards his bedroom.

Minho drops him on the bed, and Jisung bounces once, giggling as he grasps the front of Minho’s t-shirt and pulls him down against him. Minho goes easily, crawling on top of him. He slides a thigh between Jisung’s legs and leans in to set his sharp teeth into Jisung’s collarbone.

The air whooshes out of Jisung’s lungs like a punctured balloon. This is going to be a bitch to explain to the stylists, but he tangles his fingers in Minho’s hair to keep him there and tilts his head back to give him better access.

Jisung feels like his blood is burning. Minho nips at his jaw and tenses the muscles in his thigh where it’s pressed up between Jisung’s legs, and Jisung arches his back, giving into a groan.

He’s never wanted Minho more, Jisung thinks as his hands inch up the back of Minho’s t-shirt, his own t-shirt, to the smooth, warm skin above the waist of the briefs.

Never wanted anyone more.

Sitting up on his elbows, Minho stares down at him. With the curtains wide open, the room is awash in sunlight. It catches on the tips of Minho’s eyelashes, his eyes bright with something Jisung can’t quite put his finger on.

“I’d ask you to promise not to make things weird again,” Minho says, sweeping his thumb back and forth across Jisung’s cheek, “but that would be a useless request.”

Jisung doesn’t bother denying it. “Fuck me anyway,” he says instead, and Minho bites his neck again, presses a hand to Jisung’s chest and yanks at his shirt until Jisung sits up and tears it off himself.

Throwing it aside, he watches Minho kneel on the mattress over him, grabs Minho’s hips with his hands and tugs his underwear down while Minho discards his own shirt. He’s hard already, the tip of his cock wet, and Jisung doesn’t hesitate, reaches for him while Minho struggles to rid Jisung of his pyjama pants.

Minho makes a faint noise when Jisung twists his hand around him, looks up at him with parted lips and then his hands are on Jisung again, pushing him back on the bed.

Dipping his head, he presses his lips in the centre of Jisung’s chest. He stays there for a moment, lashes trembling against his cheeks. Jisung feels like the room is spinning around him.

He drags his eyes down Minho’s body, stretched out on top of him, across the breadth of his shoulders and the muscles flexing in his back.

Then Minho turns his head, kissing a line across Jisung’s chest before he flicks his tongue over his nipple. His teeth catch on it and Jisung feels Minho’s smile against his skin at the little gasp that escapes him.

Hands clumsy with want, he tugs Minho back up into his arms and locks his thighs around him. Minho’s hands are warm on his face, and he’s staring down at him like he’s seeing Jisung for the first time. He’s beautiful, Jisung thinks dazedly, with the sunlight golden at his back, with his pink mouth and the skin stretched tightly over Minho’s cheekbones. Something shifts behind his eyes that makes Jisung’s stomach turn to water.

Minho kisses the side of his face, moves his mouth lower to the hinge of Jisung’s jaw as he thrusts a hand under Jisung’s pillow. After a moment, he pulls back with a half-full bottle of lube, laughing at Jisung’s mortified grimace.

“I found it last night,” Minho says, lips twitching into a grin. “What do you get up to when you’re holed here all alone, hm?”

Jisung blushes. “I will not be shamed in my own home,” he says, and Minho snorts and presses another kiss to his hot cheek, barely a brush of his mouth, but it feels like Jisung’s chest collapses in on itself.

“Spread your legs, honey,” Minho tells him, moving to kneel between Jisung’s thighs.

Dropping his head back on the pillow, Jisung does as he’s told. “Why is that hot?” he muses.

Minho rubs some of the lube between his fingers. “’Cause you like it when I tell you what to do,” he says, putting his hand between Jisung’s legs.

Jisung watches the sunrays sliding around the ceiling. “Huh.”

“Huh.” Minho smiles down at him. “We can do that, if you want,” he says, voice warm, and rubs a finger against Jisung’s hole. “Anything you want.”

“Oh, would you―” Jisung closes his eyes, his mind trying to split in half so it can consider all the implications at once. His calves tense when Minho eases the finger in slowly. It doesn’t feel like much, not yet, but he likes the idea that it’s inside of him. That it’s Minho inside of him. “Can we?” Jisung breathes before he can stop himself. “Just for a― ah, for a little while?”

“Anything you want,” Minho repeats, face sweet and open. “Well, nothing too intense until we’ve discussed it.” He bends and kisses the inside of Jisung’s knee, eyes sparkling up at him. “Besides, I didn’t bring my whip with me.”

Jisung’s laugh turns into a groan when Minho pulls his finger back a little and then pushes it back in. “What’s there to discuss?” he rasps, clutching onto Minho’s bicep. “Gonna give me a safe word or something? Ooh, how about ‘cheese’?”

“Sure,” Minho says with a smile. “But just so you know, safe word or not, if I hear ‘no’ or ‘stop’, I’m stopping.” He presses his thumb behind Jisung’s balls. “You and I need to have a good, long talk first.”

“Shit.” Jisung lifts his arms above his head and grabs the pillow. “Don’t stop,” he mumbles.

“Keep that leg up,” Minho says, adding when Jisung immediately hooks an arm under one knee to pull his leg up, “Good.”

Jisung’s cock twitches against his stomach.

Minho snickers at him, but Jisung doesn’t have time to complain because then Minho tucks another finger inside him and this time, it definitely feels like something.

“Uh,” Jisung says, hand clenching on his knee.

Minho leans over him with his free hand flat against Jisung’s chest. He keeps circling his fingers inside of him unhurriedly. “Yes?” he asks politely, as if they are discussing the weather.

“Feels weird,” Jisung mutters, pushing back into Minho’s hand hesitantly.

It doesn’t hurt, truthfully, but it feels like it should. The sensation always gives him pause. It does feel weird, too full—too stretched—a pressure inside of him that’s not quite pain and never spills over the edge to become pleasure either.

Minho’s hand stops moving. “Well, you’ve got a couple of fingers up your ass,” he says seriously. “It’s bound to feel a little strange at first.”

Rubbing a palm over his face, Jisung laughs. He can’t help it, he laughs and Minho starts laughing with him, but he also reaches down to rub at Jisung’s belly and says in a quiet voice, “Alright?”

“Yeah,” Jisung pants. He sucks a breath in through his teeth and closes his eyes, then nods. “Keep going.”

One hand stays on Jisung’s stomach, a warm, comforting weight. The other twists between his legs, startling a soft, punched-out noise out of him.

Minho withdraws his fingers for a second to shove a pillow under Jisung’s ass, and then he presses his fingers into Jisung again, deeper than before.

Digging his fingers into his thigh, Jisung forces himself to relax, to breathe through the reflexive clenching of his body. Distracted by the seemingly random rhythm of Minho’s hand, he almost misses the moment Minho slides a third finger inside him.

Then Minho hooks his fingers up, and Jisung swears blindly, bucking his hips against Minho’s hand. “Oh, fuck.” He drapes an arm over his face. “Oh,” Jisung says again, feeling shy all of a sudden.

“Oh?” Minho repeats, and Jisung can hear the smile in his voice.

“Oh.”

Minho presses harder until Jisung sees white dots. “Did hyung find your spot?”

“Why’d you have to say it like that?” Jisung whines, fisting a hand in his own hair. “You’re so annoying.”

“Big words for someone who just clenched so hard on my fingers he almost broke them,” Minho says, and Jisung shivers and does it again, helplessly, feeling himself flutter around Minho’s fingers. “Bear down on me, baby. Come on, you can do better than that.” Minho sighs like he’s disappointed, and it sets Jisung on fire.

He throws his head back, open mouthed and panting as Minho’s hand on his stomach holds him in place while the other one fucks him open.

“So pretty,” Minho murmurs then asks, voice turning saccharine, “How are we doing with your baseline theory so far?”

“No, yeah, I’ve definitely been sleeping with the wrong people.” Jisung wheezes a laugh then lets go of his leg and sags against the mattress in a sweaty heap. “Don’t be mean,” he grumbles when Minho’s shoulders shake with laughter above him.

“You like that, too,” Minho tells him.

With his free hand, he gives Jisung’s cock a swift stroke, just one, and then keeps his fingers curled loosely around it as he leans down to bite Jisung’s nipple. He glances up at Jisung through his lashes, hair a mess and eyes dark, and pulls his nipple between his teeth until Jisung gasps.

Suddenly, Jisung feels very, very close. “Hyung,” he says, slightly panicked, straining to fuck up into Minho’s fist. “I think I’m gonna―”

“No, you’re not,” Minho says against his chest. He lets go of Jisung’s cock, ignoring Jisung’s needy little whine. His bottom lip brushes over Jisung’s wet nipple and abruptly, he feels like crying. “Stop fucking yourself on my fingers, honey.”

Jisung stills. He hadn’t even realised he was moving, his body seeming to have a will of its own. “Why,” he says peevishly, kicking at Minho’s thigh when Minho sits back on his heels and pulls out his fingers.

“You’ll take what I give you.” Minho slaps his hip lightly and gives Jisung a smile that makes him want to snap his legs closed. “Now be polite and say ‘Thank you, hyung, for fingering me.’”

“I―” Jisung blinks at him, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Are you serious?”

Shrugging, Minho leans back against the wall, not touching him anymore. He’d look unaffected, almost, if it weren’t for his dick swaying heavily between his legs. Jisung can’t take his eyes off it.

“You’re, like, one step away from asking me to call you ‘daddy’.” He’s going for joking but too worked up and breathless to get there.

Minho looks terribly amused. “Nah. I don’t think you’d hate that, though.”

Jisung muffles a scandalised giggle with both hands. “Thank you, hyung,” he says behind his fingers, and hooks a leg around Minho’s to drag him closer, “for fingering me.”

“You’re welcome,” Minho says and moves back between Jisung’s thighs, warm and heavy on top of him. He braces himself with a hand beside Jisung’s head, rewards him with a kiss to his burning cheek, and Jisung’s stomach does a weird swooping thing.

“You ready to get fucked?” Minho asks and Jisung hides his face in the crook of Minho’s neck, pausing to think. Minho waits, brushes Jisung’s hair back from his face and kisses him again, his forehead, his eyebrow, his closed eyes.

Jisung feels like a Christmas bauble full of glitter and light. “Yeah,” he says, and smiles.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

His enthusiasm is a bit dampened when Minho rolls to the edge of the bed to reach into his bag on the floor. He fishes out a condom and Jisung huffs in indignation.

“Why do you have a whole box of condoms in your bag?” he mutters crossly and shifts his eyes away, staring up at the ceiling.

“Because it wouldn’t fit in my pocket?” Minho says slowly, like he thinks Jisung is a little strange.

“Seriously, don’t bother.” He hears the rip of a condom wrapper and sighs. “You know we don’t need to.”

“You’ll thank me later when you’re not shitting come.”

It’s so crass that Jisung squeaks and then feels himself flush. Minho laughs, cooing into his face.

Jisung watches him as Minho rolls the condom on, the morning shadows weaving feathery patterns across his face. Jisung knows it better than the back of his own hand, he’s looked at that face almost every day for years, but his heart still trips over a beat.

Then Minho pours lube directly over his hole, chuckling when Jisung jerks and sucks in a breath. “Cold?” Minho pouts, faux sympathetic. “Sorry,” he says, completely unrepentant.

Before Jisung can say anything, Minho pushes his thighs open and rubs the head of his cock along the cleft of Jisung’s ass. Jisung exhales roughly, trying to prop up on his elbows to see. Minho’s gripping the base of his cock, staring so intently down at where he’s nudging against Jisung that Jisung wants to hide and preen all at once.

Finally, finally Minho presses into him, stretching him impossibly wide, and Jisung thinks, more. Thinks, deeper. He opens his legs wider, hips hitching up as he tries to relax into it and let Minho in. Body giving way to him, taking it.

Taking him.

He wraps his legs around Minho’s waist and Minho leans against him, forehead tipping against Jisung’s, and he sinks inside him until there’s nowhere left to go. Minho lets out a breath like a sigh, then, presses his lips to the corner of Jisung’s mouth, and Jisung feels like there are roses blooming in his chest.

He thinks, just for a few hours.

Just for today.

He lets the words fade from his mind when Minho draws his hips back and then slowly eases back into him. With a strangled little ‘hah’, Jisung collapses back against the bed.

Full, he feels so full. His body, his heart. The stretch and the twinge, that pressure inside of him starts to melt into a slow-spreading warmth, and Jisung digs his nails into Minho’s shoulders and tries to pull him in deeper.

“Fuck,” he breathes, giving into the weight of his eyelids, and Minho braces a hand on his chest and fucks into him.

Jisung only realises that he’s shivering uncontrollably when Minho presses his cheek against Jisung’s and starts murmuring soothing words in his ear. Jisung can’t focus on what he’s saying, though, can’t think beyond Minho’s breath on his skin, his scent all around him, clean like soap and something darker, sweeter underneath.

Dimly, Jisung thinks it should be embarrassing to be seen like this, shaking and whining and falling apart. It’s Minho, though, and nothing is embarrassing between them. It’s Minho, his hands on Jisung’s body, his thighs pressed to the backs of Jisung’s.

The way Minho touches him is possessive, sure. It gives him a head rush, makes him feel split open and reformed, used and ruined.

He feels worshipped, on fire, breaths sticking in his throat. An oversensitive mess for Minho to handle with his strong, pretty hands.

Jisung’s brain is gone. Minho holds his hips so he can thrust deeper, and Jisung crosses his ankles at the small of Minho’s back and thinks he wants to crawl inside Minho too. Wants to count his bones until there’s nothing about him Jisung doesn’t know, to curl up in his chest and pillow his head on Minho’s heart so that every time he breathes, he’ll feel Jisung there.

Minho slams into him harder, fucking bruises into Jisung’s hips. Distantly, he hears the loud slapping noises their bodies are making in the silence of his bedroom, and it makes him burn with equal parts shame and brazen, fierce joy.

“You look so good like this,” Minho murmurs, pushing up to his knees. He curls one hand around the back of Jisung’s head. “So sweet with a cock inside you, all needy and desperate.”

“Whoa, honey.” Jisung manages a choked laugh, reaching down between them to palm his cock. “Never would’ve pegged you for a talker.”

Minho slaps his hand away, none too gently. “You come when I say,” he says through gritted teeth, and Jisung fucking sobs, hands fisting in the sheets.

He’s so close now that it feels like he really is about to split open with it, like his skin is too tight to hold it all in.

Sweat beads at Minho’s forehead, hair sticking to it, and he’s flushed down to his chest. There’s an odd kind of violence about the way he’s looking at Jisung now, like Minho’s a guitar string pulled too tight, a strum away from snapping.

Jisung wants him so badly he feels sick with it. Has he always wanted Minho like this?

Minho moves his arms under Jisung’s legs, nearly folding him in half as he leans forward to bite Jisung’s collarbone, Jisung’s heels digging into his back. Minho twists a hand in the back of Jisung’s hair, tensing up before his whole body shudders as he comes inside Jisung, with a groan of his name.

Mindless with need now, Jisung arches his back on a whine, thighs trembling over Minho’s arms. “Please, fuck,” he babbles, “let me, oh my god―”

Minho stills on top of him, fever-bright eyes trained on Jisung as he squirms and whimpers under him. His thumb presses into the throb of Jisung’s pulse in his neck. A drop of sweat settles on the bow of Minho’s upper lip for a second before it drops into the corner of Jisung’s mouth.

Closing his eyes, Jisung licks his lips and for a brief, insane moment wants to say ‘thank you’ again.

Then finally, mercifully, Minho reaches down to wrap his hand around Jisung’s cock. “Go on, baby,” he whispers, breath tickling Jisung’s cheek. “You’ve been so good.”

Jisung’s orgasm breaks over him like a thunderstorm, sudden and violent. Shaking with it, he spills over Minho’s hand, so hot it feels like it burns him from the inside out. Nails deep in Minho’s arms, Jisung moans into the sweaty skin of Minho’s neck.

When Minho pulls out, after what seems like forever, Jisung clenches around nothing and gasps. Open and empty, it’s almost jarring to be alone in his body again. To know that he’ll never have Minho like this again.

Before his thoughts can spiral down that dangerous path, Minho reaches up to close the curtains and then gathers Jisung into his arms. Pulling the duvet over both of them, Minho holds him tight as Jisung floats back down, cards his fingers through Jisung’s hair and kisses the back of his neck and the curve of his shoulder. Lets Jisung feel loved and delicate a little longer.

They drift in and out of sleep. In the darkened silence of Jisung’s room, a needle of sunlight slips through the curtains and creeps down Minho’s arm where it’s slung over Jisung’s chest. It silvers Minho’s fingertips where they’re pressed into Jisung’s damp shoulder.

Gently, Minho’s breath moves Jisung’s hair, lips brushing over the blood-hot shell of his ear.

Jisung’s heart stutters, trembling on the verge of something unimaginable. “Stay,” he whispers, threading his fingers through Minho’s.

The last thing he remembers before sleep pulls him under is Minho’s hand clenching around his.

They don’t talk about it.

At night, instead of sleeping, Jisung thinks of Minho. Thinks about his hands, and the way they had cradled Jisung’s face as though to make sure Minho wasn’t imagining him. The way he’d kissed the edge of his mouth and held Jisung against his chest.

Thinks about that bright, brilliant thing, like flecks of sunlight in Minho’s eyes, when he gazed down at Jisung while he was deep inside of him. Wonders if it’s been there all this time, glinting behind the small, private smile he sometimes glimpses on Minho’s face before he tucks it into Jisung’s shoulder, right there for the world to see. Yet Jisung hadn’t noticed.

They don’t talk about it.

The others catch on quickly. In such close quarters, it’s hard to hide anything. Chan keeps shooting him looks that threaten endless understanding, loving support, and other dire consequences if Jisung doesn’t get himself together.

As they get ready to go out on stage for the last year-end festival before the new year, Chan stands beside Jisung to watch as Minho drags Hyunjin behind the clothing racks, twisting Hyunjin’s arm behind his back.

“He’s gonna ruin Hyunjin’s makeup,” Chan says worriedly, because Chan is above all a practical man.

Jisung shrugs. “He probably deserved it.”

Chan makes a fair enough face before he turns to Jisung, and his eyes go wide with something like surprise. “You look tired, Jisung-ah. You sleeping enough?”

“Who is?” Jisung claps him on the back of Chan’s sparkly, embellished jacket. “’Tis the season, you know.”

Humming in agreement, Chan pats him on the shoulder in return. “Take care of yourself, though, yeah? Time off soon.”

Jisung nods, and then he steps out on stage and does what he loves. As the crowd screams and cheers and sings with them, he lets it refill him with all the sweetness and warmth he’s been missing lately.

From across the stage, Minho catches his gaze. The lights glitter around him like stars.

Minho’s mouth is rose-shaped, like he’s fighting a reluctant smile, and Jisung’s heart feels like it’s singing too.

Minho calls at 3 a.m. two nights later. Jisung’s just showered and changed into his pyjamas, after he had spent four hours trying and failing to work on a song. Mostly, he’d just stared miserably at the solitary potted cactus on their windowsill. The succulent looked sadder than Jisung felt.

It’s Chan’s, and he’s named it Basil for reasons known only to him. For someone who’s an excellent leader and a responsible father of seven, Chan is doing a spectacularly bad job of taking care of himself and Basil. The cactus is only alive because Hyunjin is a gentle Victorian poet under all that hair and attitude, and he waters Basil and talks to it in the mornings.

Minho asks if he can come over, and from the way he slurs his words together, voice dipping and suddenly soaring, Jisung realises that he’s more than a little drunk.

When he lets himself into Jisung’s bedroom twenty minutes later, Minho’s normally graceful movements are clumsy and slow, overly cautious like some people get when they’re completely plastered.

Wordlessly, Jisung lifts up the duvet and lets Minho slide under it. Minho flops on the bed with his face in the pillow, half on top of Jisung. His arm is thrown over Jisung’s middle, and his fingers are freezing cold against the sliver of skin above the waist of Jisung’s pants. Jisung hisses, flinching away, but Minho’s arm tightens around him.

“Hey,” he says, and gropes around in the darkness until he finds Jisung’s face. He pats his cheek then scoots closer, nudging Jisung’s neck with his icy nose before he presses it against the hollow of his throat. “Han-ah. Honey.” Minho giggles then adds, so quietly Jisung can barely hear him, “Missed you.”

He shivers, once, and settles against Jisung’s chest. He smells like soju and rain, and Jisung holds onto a breath and cards his numb fingers through the tangles of Minho’s hair, and he aches in his chest.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and Minho makes a small, hurt sound.

“Fuck you,” he mumbles, lips moving against Jisung’s skin.

Jisung frowns. “How much have you had to drink?”

Minho sighs, snuggling closer. “All of it,” he says with a hiccupping laugh. His breath is hot on Jisung’s ear. “I drank everything.”

“Nice.” Jisung snorts. He reaches to click the bedside lamp on, and Minho lets out an unhappy grumble and bites his shoulder. “Go wash up,” Jisung says implacably. “And drink some water. Come on, baby,” he adds, softer, the pet name slipping out before he can stop it. He rubs a soothing circle between Minho’s shoulder blades. “You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

After a moment, Minho groans and sits up. “I’m using your toothbrush,“ he says darkly, then immediately ruins it by rubbing at his bloodshot eyes with his knuckles like a sleepy toddler.

Jisung’s heart turns inside out. “Okay,” he says, smiling a little when Minho blinks big, tragic eyes at him.

Still grousing under his breath, Minho climbs out of the bed and, dragging his feet on the carpet, heads for the bathroom. He starts stripping before he even reaches the door, leaving a trail of clothes on the floor.

“Do you need―” Jisung starts, and Minho says, “No,” and pushes the bathroom door shut with his foot.

Jisung slumps back against the pillow and watches the firework patterns the bedside lamp casts on the wall.

When Minho returns, he’s damp-haired, naked and seemingly completely unbothered by both his nudity and Jisung’s gawking. He turns the light off, slips back under the duvet and curls up on his side, facing away.

He smells like Hyunjin’s lavender shower gel.

Jisung closes his eyes and counts to one hundred, and then again.

“Sorry,” Minho whispers after a while. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“’Course you should have.” Jisung rolls over and hugs him, hand moving under the duvet to rub Minho’s stomach. Minho doesn’t pull away, so Jisung presses his mouth to his bare shoulder and says, smiling, “Otherwise you’d have done something stupid, like bashing your head on the pavement and dying just to spite me.” He pokes a finger into Minho’s stomach. “And they’d have made me tell your cats.”

Minho laughs, quiet and mean. “Can’t live without me, can you?” he sneers, and Jisung tries to answer but the breath catches in his throat.

“Don’t,” he chokes out after a too-long beat, and finds Minho’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “Losing you is. It’s the worst thing I can think of.”

“Having no one to lose would be worse,” Minho says, cleaving Jisung’s world in two before his breathing evens out and his head lolls back against Jisung’s shoulder.

He starts snoring, a little bit.

Jisung holds onto his hand even after Minho’s fingers loosen in his, and watches the city lights from outside slide along the wall.

The sleepless shadows under Minho’s eyes are dark and purplish, stark in the morning light. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, pulling the duvet up to his chin. It’s not a question but Minho says it like one―gently, like it’s something fragile he’s balanced on the tip of his tongue.

He closes his eyes when Jisung turns on his side to look at him fully, lashes dark on his cheeks.

Jisung shifts closer to him, places a hand in the curve of Minho’s waist. “Sorry,” he mutters, voice thick with sleep.

A beat passes. Minho opens his eyes and looks at him, saying nothing. The moment feels delicate somehow, easily breakable in the pale, early light.

Then Minho sighs, and there’s something about the line of his mouth, turned down at the corners, the hard angle of his jaw as Minho’s fingers clasp tightly around the edge of the pillow and then release it again.

Steeling himself. Forcing himself to let go.

The ache in Jisung’s chest is dull, like pressing on a fading bruise. Familiar, almost sweet. And oh, he thinks, perhaps this is what heartbreak feels like.

He wonders how that happened, when, and how Jisung managed to miss it.

Minho spasms away from him towards the edge of the bed, bare chest heaving. He averts his face and opens his mouth to speak, to say something they might never be able to take back.

“Wait,” Jisung says abruptly, and Minho’s surprised eyes bounce up to his. Jisung props himself up on an elbow, breath shivering in his throat. “Just. Wait,” he whispers, fingers numb as they inch across the sheets, fitting clumsily between Minho’s on the pillow.

Minho bites his bottom lip as he gazes at him, and Jisung stares.

He stares.

For all they’ve done together, the friendship and laughter and growth, taking over the world shoulder to shoulder, Jisung taking Minho so deep inside of him it had danced on the edge of pain, Jisung has never kissed him.

He looks at Minho’s mouth, his pink mouth with the soft, pouty swell of the upper lip. A generous mouth made for laughter, for singing and loving. Made to whisper sweetness into Jisung’s ear in the darkest hours before dawn, when it feels like Minho’s the only real thing in the world.

Jisung had waited his whole life for the fireworks and earthquakes, for a love that shifts the world on its axis and rips open the sky like lightning; he’d waited with a hardened heart and a wary mind.

The slant of sunlight slipping through the window is soft on Minho’s tired face, his hair haloed in gold and wisps of his breath warm on Jisung’s cheek.

Sometimes, it seems, love comes unannounced. Instead of making a grand entrance with cymbals and horns, it walks in quietly on bare feet. Gentle like a lover watching over your sleep. Familiar, like the embrace that holds you together on the hardest nights.

It’s probably been there so long, the burning candle inside Jisung’s chest, that he just hadn’t known to look for it. Hadn’t recognised it for what it was.

“Hyung,” he says, voice rough, and Minho stares at Jisung as though afraid to believe his eyes, his pretty, wide eyes, brimming with stars.

Minho lifts his hand and Jisung sees it shake before he cups it around Jisung’s cheek. Holding his gaze, Minho leans over the pillow, closer until he nudges his nose against Jisung’s.

With a shuddering gasp, Jisung presses their foreheads together. He feels the brush of Minho’s eyelashes against his cheek. Rapid like bird wings.

Slowly, Minho drags his thumb across Jisung’s bottom lip, tugs it down gently, and it feels like swaying on the edge of a vertical drop. Like the helpless, dizzying moments before taking a leap in the dark when you don’t know whether you’re going to fall or fly.

“I have morning breath,” Jisung mumbles, suave as ever, and Minho huffs a small laugh, says, “Yeah, you do,” and kisses him.

He’s warm all over: his bare skin, and his lips on Jisung’s, the trembling hand on Jisung’s face and the inside of Minho’s soft mouth.

Heart smacking against the roof of his mouth, Jisung hooks an arm around his neck and slides his hips against Minho’s. He pulls Minho closer, closer under the sweat-damp sheets, and he leaps.

Minho strokes the hair back from his forehead, licking his mouth open with a shivery sigh. It tastes sweet, like shared smiles and their pinkies linked between them on a quiet car ride home. It bubbles up in Jisung’s chest like happiness, so much of it that he finds himself almost laughing.

“Fuck,” Minho says, thumb pressing against the hinge of Jisung’s jaw. His breath is coming out in sharp little bursts, his cheeks red and eyes heavy-lidded. “God,” Minho whispers and kisses him again.

Jisung kisses back, groaning quietly as their tongues meet, and runs his palm along Minho’s ribs. Lets his fingertips dance over them and inhales the scent of him, of stale sleep and Minho, then pulls back to say, “I’m probably in love with you,” because of course he is.

Of course he is.

Minho goes still against him. Jisung sees him visibly swallow, his throat moving.

“You’d better be sure, Jisung-ah.” Minho’s voice cracks. He’s holding himself like a drawn bow, tense and quivering. Ready to let the arrow fly. “Please,” Minho breathes, clenching a fist in Jisung’s hair so tightly his scalp prickles, “be really fucking sure about this.”

Jisung’s mouth tastes like tears. “I am,” he says, and even though it wrenches painfully at his hair, he leans in to press the tip of his nose against Minho’s cheek. “I’m so fucking sure,” Jisung promises, with a sound that’s half laugh and half sob.

This time when Minho rolls him back against the mattress, pushes between his legs and kisses him, it’s messy and deep. He kisses like he wants to sink into Jisung, a feral thing with sharp teeth who slides both hands up Jisung’s t-shirt, bites Jisung’s lip and then licks at the tender spot.

Oh, Jisung thinks, head spinning: there they are, the fireworks.

“Way, way ahead of you,” Minho says against his mouth, and he’s obviously trying for a joke but when Jisung brings his hands up to his shoulders, Minho sags on top of him and hides his face in Jisung’s hair.

“I’m here now,” Jisung says, and Minho’s next breath comes out shredded and raw, as though he’s plucked something sharp and rusty from his skin.

Jisung knows they’ll need to talk about it, the years’ worth of unspoken truths and ungiven promises, to discover the little cuts and bruises, the invisible hurts Minho’s kept hidden, and make them all better.

For now, he lets himself be held, wraps his arms around Minho and holds him tightly in return.

Stories end and people leave. And maybe that’s the point, Jisung thinks, cheek pressed to the top of Minho’s head. After all, if you have nothing to lose, what do you have?

The sounds of the day beginning are a faint, background murmur, the world waking up outside. Cars pass by on the street below, somewhere in the dorm a shower starts and in the next room, Hyunjin’s alarm goes off.

Minho’s hand is on Jisung’s chest, right over his heart. Jisung imagines his heart straining towards it, towards Minho’s touch, and thinks he can almost feel his pulse throbbing in his neck and wrists.

They’ll need to get up soon, get dressed and begin their day. Warm beneath the duvet, they stay as they are a while longer. Tangled up in each other, breathing together.

Finally close enough.