Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s only been two days since Jisung came to Costa Rica, and he’s already found a new muse.

On his second day he wakes up at six in the morning, anxious to see if Costa Rica has something to offer him that can cure his inability to draw and paint again. He’s ready to go out by six thirty, and he descends the inn’s second floor with light footsteps.

The inn itself has a homey vibe, being a family business. On the first floor is a cozy little bar and diner area, which also serves breakfast for guests that pay for it. Cloth of different colors and patterns cover the tables, and fresh wildflowers sit in the middle of each. The wood of the bar shines under the first rays of sunlight.

Even in the early hour where no one but Jisung has come down yet, the place looks lively. The innkeeper’s smile is warm when Jisung asks for a meal. She’s Korean, too, having migrated to Costa Rica a decade and some years ago. Jisung likes to think she has a soft spot for him.

He doesn’t know what it is, but there’s something about this place that makes him feel at peace.

Before Costa Rica had been New York, and before that had been London. Before London was Paris, but Jisung didn’t enjoy that much either. None of those places really felt like something. He hopes Costa Rica is... different.

(It is.)

Golden skin, dark hair, dark eyes. Jisung almost doesn’t see him as he comes up to Jisung’s table with a tray perched precariously on one hand. Deft fingers arrange Jisung’s food neatly, and when Jisung looks up it’s to wine-dark eyes and a saccharine smile.

“Enjoy your meal, señor,” the man tells him. English, Jisung notes, but with an odd lilt that doesn’t sound exactly Spanish. Jisung watches him go with wide eyes.

He eats slowly as he catches glimpses of the pretty boy. Whenever he tilts his head the sunrise catches on the planes and curves of his face and Jisung, all of a sudden, feels something. An urge—like an itch he can’t scratch until something happens.

Almost on impulse, Jisung lifts the camera around his neck and angles it toward Pretty Boy. Jisung catches him outlined in gold against the sunrise filtering through the window. A lucky shot—especially for one taken so suddenly—and Jisung can’t believe how good it looks.

When he looks up, he meets the boy’s gaze from across the room. Pretty Boy gives him an amused little smile—like he’s the one that knows something Jisung doesn’t—and Jisung swallows.

He eats quietly before practically sprinting back up to the second floor and seating himself in front of his desk. He pulls out his camera and sets it to his right. Then he takes out his sketchbook, fingers trembling over the thick paper until Jisung forces himself to breathe.

For the first time in three months, Jisung’s pencil touches paper, and it doesn’t leave until something is finished.

-

Jisung hasn’t stepped out of the inn once. He’s ashamed of himself.

He’s only been coming to meals and trying to sneak photographs of Pretty Boy in between bites of food. Pretty Boy would give him that smile, and Jisung tries not to look at him or else he would choke on his food. Then he would try to eat faster so that he can sprint up and sketch the image while it’s still fresh in his mind.

To be honest, though, he hasn’t ever gotten Pretty Boy’s face right. From experience Jisung knows it’s because he hasn’t gotten the chance to look at him for long enough to really absorb his features. There’s only so much that blurry photographs could do for him, after all. The only clear picture he has is the first one that he took, but that one was from the side and it was a little dark.

He knows it’s wrong. He knows he shouldn’t be taking photos without permission. It’s why he deletes them when he wakes up at two in the morning for no reason in particular. If he decides to have Pretty Boy as his new muse, he figures he should at least do this right.

Jisung makes his way to breakfast a few hours later with hesitant footsteps. His camera is slung around his neck again, with his sketchbook tucked under one arm.

He’s not sure how he should go about this. How do you say, ”hey, I think you’re really pretty, so I drew you even though we don’t know each other at all but I’m guilty now so I’m asking for permission,” without sounding creepy? Jisung doesn’t know if Pretty Boy is okay with... modeling. Especially for someone he doesn’t know.

He meets Pretty Boy’s eyes. Pretty Boy gives him a secret wink and saunters off to serve a table as if it’s nothing. Jisung has to remind himself to breathe. He takes his own seat gingerly, afraid to do something and ruin it all.

His sketchbook is heavy in his hold. With tentative fingers, he flips it to the page where most of his Pretty Boy sketches are. He’s tempted to rip them out, in all honesty—they don’t look the way Jisung wants them to.

Jisung’s hand is hovering over his most accurate sketch when a honey-sweet voice hums over his hear.

“There are many more beautiful things in Cartago than me, señor.”

Jisung’s head whips back to see someone standing behind him, and it’s Pretty Boy—of course it’s Pretty Boy, eyes glinting like he knows all of Jisung’s secrets.

“What?” Jisung gulps. His pulse picks up when Pretty Boy sets the food down in front of him—there are two servings—and pulls out a chair to sit across Jisung.

“You aren’t very subtle,” Pretty Boy says. “I can see you with your camera.”

Jisung winces. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t mind. I‘ll forgive you if you tell me about yourself,” says Pretty Boy, slight fingers cutting up pieces of food on his and Jisung’s plates. Jisung isn’t sure how to take this—this and the secretive smile on Pretty Boy’s face.

“...I’m, um, Han Jisung.” Jisung rubs the back of his head. “I’m from Korea.”

“Like me, then, though I did come here much earlier.” Pretty Boy pauses. “Tell me, what brings you to Cartago?”

“Um, I wanted to... draw again...” Jisung says, instead of the real reason. It’s a half truth, at least. “I’m an artist. I came to find a muse.”

“Interesting,” says Pretty Boy, eyes crinkling. “I‘m happy you think I‘m art, but you shouldn’t waste your talents on me.”

“It’s not a waste—you’re gorgeous,” Jisung defends, flushing red immediately after he realizes what he just said. “I mean, uh, you... I...”

Pretty Boy laughs—a soft, tinkling thing, and it makes something twist in Jisung’s chest.

“Thank you, really, but I‘d love for you to take the time to appreciate the country instead of staying inside for days,” says Pretty Boy, putting his chin in his palm. Jisung winces, because that’s what he should be doing. It’s what he came to Costa Rica for in the first place.

(And it’s also why he came to New York. And to London, and to Paris. But none of those places had captivated him quite like this.)

“I’m not sure where to go,” Jisung says weakly. A flimsy excuse, and they both know it. Pretty Boy quirks a brow.

“Then, shall I take you?” Pretty Boy suggests. “I‘ll show you every beautiful place in Cartago.”

Jisung‘s lips part. “Really?”

“Of course.” Pretty Boy waves a hand. “On one condition.”

“What is it?”

“Stay with me,” says Pretty Boy, almost shyly. “Keep me company, and I will go anywhere with you.”

Pretty Boy looks away, roses blooming across his cheeks. He peeks at Jisung from under midnight lashes, and Jisung thinks he’s hallucinating, because that doesn’t sound like a real thing that someone like him would say to someone like Jisung. It’s like a sunflower nodding to a weed.

“I—“ Jisung starts. “Okay.”

Pretty Boy’s lips stretch, and his bright, sunny smile is almost blinding.

(But Jisung can’t seem to tear his eyes away.)

“Bring your camera,” he says, gathering the used plates onto a hand. “Meet me outside in twenty minutes.”

“Wait,” Jisung calls. Pretty Boy regards him with raised eyebrows. “What’s your name?”

“Ah.” Pretty Boy purses his lips, seemingly considering something. And then he smiles, warm and saccharine.

“Call me Minho,” he says, and Jisung doesn’t have the time to reply before he leaves.

Jisung watches him go with wide eyes. Blinks. He doesn’t know what just happened. He didn’t expect Minho to approach him so suddenly, and he especially didn’t expect Minho to keep him company. He gathers his things in a daze and walks slowly to the inn’s exterior.

The sky, blue and wide, is dotted with clouds today. Jisung hasn’t seen it in a while. It’ll be nice to go out for once. Looking at the busy street his fingers are already itching for his camera, tempted by the colorful buildings and the smiling locals. He wonders briefly why he ever decided to hole himself up—he wasn’t doing anything in the hours between his meals, and Cartago is clearly bustling with things to offer.

A hand taps him on the forearm, and Jisung blinks up at a smiling Minho. He has a basket in one hand, but Jisung can’t see what’s inside.

“What’s that?” he asks, tilting his head.

“A basket,” Minho says, quirking a brow. “Are there no baskets in Korea?”

Jisung pouts. “What is it for?”

“You will know soon,” Minho answers, eyes twinkling again. “We‘ll go to the forest today. Come.”

Then Minho takes off, and Jisung has to walk a little faster than usual to keep up. They weave through the cobbled side streets of Cartago, people smiling and waving at Minho as they pass by their carts, and Jisung, to be honest, is unsure of where they’re headed. At one point he has to keep a hand closed around Minho’s wrist so that they don’t lose each other, but Minho looks back, grins, and shakes him off only to lace their fingers together. His palm is warm against Jisung’s, and Jisung feels his cheeks heat up.

Eventually an alleyway parts into a dirt path, and it leads to a clearing surrounded by bushes of wildflowers and trees so green that Jisung can’t believe they’re real. The forest looks lush and alive.

Sunlight filters through the leaves and dots Minho’s face with gold. The breeze blows softly against their cheeks. Minho’s dark hair brushes against his temples and Jisung wonders how it would feel to run his fingers through the locks.

Dark eyes brighten when they land on a particularly old tree. “Come here,” Minho beckons.

Jisung follows him to the base of the trunk. Smooth pink petals scatter along the bottom, and Minho bends down to pick them up. His face is serene, small smile softening his features. Jisung’s fingers twitch, and before he knows it he’s snapping a picture of Minho’s fingers holding a petal up to his eyes for inspection, lips parted slightly, pretty and pink.

Minho blinks up at him and shakes his head, but the smile doesn’t fall off of his lips. He bends back down to the petals.

“...Sorry,” Jisung murmurs. “Was that not alright?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Minho raises a brow. “I don’t mind you taking photos.”

“Oh,” says Jisung, fiddling with his camera. He’s silent for a few seconds.

“Help me collect these,” Minho says after a while. “I don’t know what they are called, but they fall at this time every year—very pretty.”

“...What are they for?” Jisung asks, crouching down anyway. He gingerly takes the petals in his hands, trying not to crush them.

“Place them in here—“ Minho opens the basket and gestures to a glass jar inside. “They are for the basket.”

Jisung gives him a look, but Minho’s eyes still twinkle mischievously. He doesn’t look like he’s going to explain any further, so Jisung quietly drops petals into the jar for the next few minutes. When they finish picking everything up, Minho squints up at the sky. It’s bright.

He pulls a wide-brim hat out of the basket, and he places it gingerly on top of Jisung’s head. “It’s hot,” he explains, standing and dusting himself off. “Come, come, I’ll teach you how to climb a tree.”

Teach you, he says, but he’s already scaling the tree when Jisung looks up, jaw dropping. By the time Jisung has come to his senses, Minho is already kicking his feet as he leans back against a bough of leaves.

“The—the breeze is nice, Jisung, you should come up.”

Jisung blinks up at him, outlined by the soft rays of noontime sun. Jisung can’t see his face from how bright it is, but he still wants to capture it. “Don’t move,” he says, voice almost inaudible.

The click of the shutter is the only sound that accompanies the rustling of the leaves for the next few minutes. Then Jisung hears Minho calling his name, and he snaps out of his daze.

“Jisung, come up,” says Minho. “It‘s lonely up here.”

His pronunciation of Jisung’s name, now that Jisung pays attention to it, is terrible. But his voice is sweet—saccharine like his smile—and who is Jisung to say no to a voice like that?

Luckily, Jisung doesn’t need to be taught how to climb. He scales the branches with some effort, taking care not to damage his camera lens or drop his hat along the way. Then he’s facing Minho—that warm smile and those crescent eyes.

“You said you would teach me,” Jisung says, squinting.

“You don’t need to be taught,” Minho retorts, waving a hand. “You made it, didn’t you?”

Jisung pouts.

“You are so cute,” Minho laughs. “Like a squirrel.”

Jisung, maybe on impulse, hits him on the arm and pretends to scoff with his arms crossed. Minho doesn’t stop giggling, and hits him back on the knee.

“Ow!” Jisung yelps. “That hurt!”

“You shouldn’t have hit me first then,” Minho says, smirking mischievously. Jisung rubs his bare skin through the hole on his ripped jeans, but then slight fingers circle his wrist and pull his hand away.

Soft lips press lightly onto Jisung’s knee, and he freezes up. Jisung gapes. Minho winks at him when he looks up, not letting go of Jisung’s wrist.

“Wha... what was—why—what,” Jisung stammers. “What was that?”

“I kissed it better,” explains Minho, looking almost proud of himself.

“You—you can’t just do that!” Jisung squeaks, covering his knee with his free hand. “Unless... unless you...”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you’re...” Jisung’s voice quiets. “...interested in me?”

There’s a long pause before either of them say anything, and Jisung’s nerves grow more restless by the second. Eventually, a voice cuts through the silence.

Minho tilts his head. “I am.”

“I mean...” Jisung gulps. “Romantically! As, you know, a lover?”

“Why do you think I asked you to stay with me?” Minho says, leaning forward. “You’re very cute, Jisung. I want to be close to you.”

“...We just met,” Jisung interjects, because Minho is beautiful but beauty is dangerous and Jisung doesn’t want to get hurt again. “I’m sorry. I want to be close to you, too, but maybe as friends first?”

Minho’s eyes lose a little of their light, but he smiles again like nothing is wrong. He leans back. “...Okay,” he sighs. “But if I’m your friend first, can I make you fall for me afterward?”

Jisung doesn’t know what to say.

“If... if you can pull it off,” he answers, not really sure of himself. In different circumstances he would have said yes immediately, but he’s not sure his heart can take it right now. Minho hums, averting his eyes.

“In that case,” Minho says lowly, eyes glinting as he peers up at Jisung through his dark lashes. “Last one to the inn is ugly!”

Jisung screams.

Because Minho—beautiful, dangerous Minho—leaps out of the tree.

Jisung’s heart pounds in his ears and he almost doesn’t register Minho’s tinkling laughter when he untucks himself from a roll, leaning back on his hands and tilting his face toward the sky in mirth.

“You!” Jisung yells, pointing at Minho down below. “You idiot!”

“You should have seen your face!” Minho says, clutching his stomach. “You are so cute, Jisung!”

“I’m going to punch you!” Jisung says, already trying to descend. Minho’s laughter is cut short when Jisung looms over him, and he blinks up at Jisung with wide eyes. Then he bursts into laughter again, scrambling up to grab his basket, and suddenly he’s running and Jisung is running and they’re weaving through the streets of Cartago again, laughter high in the air and mirth filling their lungs.

Somehow, Jisung feels lighter.

(He does turn out to be the last one to the inn, and Minho laughs at him as he assaults Minho with light punches. But the way Minho looks at him doesn’t make him feel ugly at all.)

-

Jisung comes down early for breakfast the next day, camera already slung around his neck. But this time he leaves his sketchbook untouched.

He had tried, of course, to draw Minho again. He still can’t get his face right. It’s okay, though, because Jisung hasn’t been around for long. He still has time.

When he blinks himself into awareness, Minho is already settled at a table. Waiting. He has his chin in his palm and breakfast for two already sits in front of him. There aren’t any people out except for them yet, and Jisung snorts. The food smells rich and delicious, and Jisung’s stomach growls.

“This doesn’t feel like you’re trying to be my friend,” says Jisung. “This feels like you’re trying to seduce me with food.”

“What do you mean?” Minho asks innocently, fluttering his eyelashes. “This is a thing that friends do. I made breakfast for you—as a friend.”

Jisung bites back a snort. “Right,” he says instead, smile on his lips. He wordlessly takes a seat and doesn’t say anything when Minho pours something into his glass. Juice?

It’s sweet on Jisung’s lips, and he hums in appreciation.

“Where are we going today?” Jisung asks, because he assumes Minho is taking him somewhere, going by the basket at his feet.

“The river,” he replies. “Bring extra clothes.”

“Are we going to swim?” Jisung is little worried. His big camera won’t survive a dip, and he didn’t bring a GoPro.

“You don’t need to,” says Minho. “But I recommend it.”

Jisung shakes his head. “I’ll pass. I’ll still come with you, though.”

Shots of Minho in the water? Priceless. Jisung will shoot from a distance and pray nothing sprays onto his camera. Minho’s lips stretch into that secret smile again, the one that looks like he knows something Jisung doesn’t, but he doesn’t say anything until they both finish their meals and guests start filtering into the breakfast area.

“I‘ll meet you outside after the morning rush,” Minho tells him, sweeping their empty plates into his arms. “Are you sure you don’t want to swim?”

“I’m sure,” Jisung says. He pouts when Minho snorts. Minho gives him a little wave when they part.

Jisung doesn’t have to wait too long until Minho comes outside to meet him, backpack slung over one shoulder. Jisung has the basket from yesterday clutched in one hand, as per his instruction.

“Do we really need this, too?” Jisung asks, holding the basket up to Minho’s chest. Minho gives him a nod. “For more petals?”

“Yes,” Minho says. “They’re very important, Jisung.”

Jisung sighs. “For what?”

“For the basket.” Minho snickers. He dodges Jisung’s palm when it tries to swat at his arm. “You’ll find out soon, I promise.”

“But I want to find out now.”

“Just wait.”

Much of the walk to the river goes like this. Minho walks at a much more manageable pace this time, weaving through the crowd with ease. Jisung’s hand itches to hold Minho’s again, but he stops himself before he can try. They arrive in a clearing. Their feet have to walk a certain distance before Jisung can hear the telltale rush of a stream.

Minho pushes a small branch aside, and Jisung gasps when he sees it.

It’s a rush of water, clear and sparkling with the sunlight that bounces off of its surface. There are large rocks scattered throughout, and the bank is lined with smooth, dark pebbles.

“Ah!” Minho says under his breath, head turned toward a bush. It’s peppered with a bright, magenta-colored flower. Beneath its brambles, though, is where Minho’s gaze is locked. It’s a cluster of petals, delicate and colorful even after falling. Minho chews on a lip, seemingly considering something as he looks back and forth between the stream and the flowers.

“Jisung, you won’t swim, right?” he asks. “Can you do something for me?”

“What?” Jisung deadpans, because he already knows. Minho flutters his eyes at him, clasping his hands together.

“Please?” Minho croons, sliding up to Jisung.

Jisung turns away. Honestly he’s just teasing but then—

“Por favor, cosito,” Minho purrs, directly against Jisung’s ear. Jisung’s blood rushes to his face. He jerks, hitting Minho in the chest. “Ay! Jisung, you don’t have to hit so hard!”

“Aish! Stop that,” Jisung squeaks. “I’ll pick up the flowers, okay?”

Minho cheers. He presses a fleeting kiss to Jisung’s cheek, and Jisung’s palm flies up to cover it. He gapes.

“What?” Minho quirks a brow. “This is a thing, that friends do, here in Costa Rica.”

Jisung doesn’t have any evidence to either support or deny this claim, because before Minho he was all holed up in his room. He squints his eyes, pouting at Minho. But Minho only snickers, skipping off to the riverbank. Jisung averts his eyes before he can see Minho strip.

(He won’t admit it, but he liked the feeling of Minho’s soft lips on his warm skin.)

There aren’t many petals, so he does his work quickly. When he turns around, Minho watches him through wet eyelashes, submerged from the nose down. Jisung waddles to face him, but neither of them make any further movement.

Slowly, Jisung brings his eye to his camera’s viewfinder, tilting the lens toward Minho’s still form. The shutter clicks softly, and Minho tilts his head. The water ripples. Then Jisung gets an idea.

He waddles over to the basket, picking out two petals and making his way over to Minho, who watches him curiously. Jisung presses the petals against Minho’s cheeks. He giggles in delight at Minho’s raised eyebrows.

Jisung snaps a few more shots of Minho’s petal blush until Minho raises his head above the water. The petals fall and Jisung grabs a lucky shot of one ghosting over Minho’s lips.

“Why do you like to take pictures?” Minho asks, blowing the petal off of himself.

Jisung shrugs as he clicks through the photos, brightening at a particularly good shot. “I’m a photographer,” he explains, “and I guess I learned to love it along the way.”

“Really?” asks Minho. “What do you usually photograph?”

“Idols, usually,” Jisung says. “I work under an entertainment company owned by a friend.”

“A friend?” Minho’s voice takes on a curious lilt. “How old is he?”

“Mmm, twenty-one? Twenty-two in Korea,” Jisung murmurs. “It’s an inheritance. His dad is pretty sick, so he has to take care of the company now.”

“You look young, too,” Minho notes. “Did he... offer you work...”

“...Because I’m a friend?” finishes Jisung. Minho winces. “Kind of—you don’t have to sugarcoat it.”

“Ah,” says Minho.

“It’s okay, though, because I’m not that bad at it, and other companies have noticed so I get more work,” Jisung adds. Understatement of the century, but Minho doesn’t need to know that. Jisung is in high demand. High demand, and honestly, Minho should be glad that Jisung is taking his pictures for free. It’s true that Changbin only offered him a position at first because of friendship, but Jisung really is talented. He just... doesn’t like to brag about it.

Minho’s eyes glint, like he knows. “Not that bad, ah? Is that why you are thousands of miles away from South Korea, on vacation, on your own?”

“...Yes?”

“Not bad.”

Then Minho recedes into the stream, golden shoulders dipping into the water. When he emerges, it sends the riverwater lapping against the toes of Jisung’s shoes. His silhouette—lean, long, toned—stretches against the trees like a cat. Jisung watches him with awe.

Minho turns to look at him, and his face twists into a pout. “Must you sit there and watch my every move?”

There’s no real heat behind his words. They’re exasperated at most, and Minho’s frown eventually melts into a smile.

“The water feels nice, you know,” he says, splashing a hand against the stream. Droplets spray against Jisung, and he instinctively covers his camera. But Minho doesn’t say anything else, and simply leans back into the cool river.

Jisung suddenly feels something. His hands move, almost on their own, to stuff his camera back in its bag and take off his clothes and shoes. Minho blinks up at him with round eyes.

Tentative toes dip into the cool water, and before he knows it Jisung splashes into the river, eye to eye with Minho and his dark lashes and his dark eyes.

“The water does feel nice,” Jisung says, eyes averted. Then Minho laughs, nearly sinking into the water, and Jisung’s panicked hands shoot to his bare shoulders trying to keep him from drowning.

“I thought you weren’t going to swim,” says Minho, tilting his forehead toward Jisung’s. But then he pulls away, much too quickly, and Jisung holds back a sigh. He supposes it’s his fault for asking to be friends first.

Instead of replying, Jisung splashes him absently. Minho, affronted, splashes him back. Jisung tries to dodge, but is inevitably hit by the following spray. Panicking, Jisung kicks more water onto Minho’s face than he intends, and Minho gives him a vindictive smirk before dunking Jisung’s head under the water.

When Jisung comes back up, he splutters and eyes Minho with betrayal.

“I could have died,” Jisung says. He hesitates. “...No, actually, I am dying. You need to give me CPR.”

Minho raises a brow. “No.”

“But I’m dying.” Jisung pouts. “I’m going to die!”

“Then die.”

Jisung clutches his heart, half-sinking into the water as if shot. Minho giggles at him, and suddenly he doesn’t feel so hurt. Jisung lets himself float naturally onto his back, and Minho follows him.

They float around together for a while, pointing out clouds and describing their homes to each other. Jisung tells him about his gallery in Seoul, about Changbin and Bang Chan and the rest of his friends. Minho tells him about the nooks and crannies of Cartago, about the grandmas and aunties that give him snacks.

At the end of it Jisung’s fingers prune and his heart weighs heavy. He wonders if it’s regret in his ribcage, but then Jisung is effectively distracted when he realizes he didn’t bring a change of clothes.

But Minho, lips curling into a smile, tells Jisung he can have his. Jisung stammers and attempts multiple times to deny the offer, but Minho only scoffs and pulls his fresh cotton shirt over Jisung’s head.

Jisung doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to say anything. But the way Minho tries to hide that he’s shivering in his old shirt and wet towel warms Jisung even more than the clothes on his back, so much that he wants Minho to feel it, too, and Jisung inches closer to him with every step toward home.

By the time they arrive at the inn, Jisung is nestled into Minho’s side. And he doesn’t want to part. But he has to, eventually, and Minho reminds him by being the first to seperate.

-

Jisung realizes the shirt smells like Minho. He doesn’t notice it until three days later, after they’ve scaled a small hill and collected fallen petals from the tree at the top.

Minho had laid a blanket at the base of the tree before settling his basket over the surface. He sets aside the petal jars and pulls out tupperwares of food, which he places in between them. When he leans over Jisung, Jisung catches a whiff of him.

“...You smell like my shirt,” Jisung says, wrinkling his nose.

Minho raises a brow. “Your shirt? I think you mean my shirt.”

Jisung colors. Right. It was Minho’s shirt, but he hasn’t given it back yet. He might be wearing it to sleep. The key word here is might, because it’s not like there’s evidence of him actually doing that, ha ha. No way.

“It’s alright, Jisung, you can keep it,” says Minho, biting back a smile. “I don’t mind.”

Jisung huffs as he leans back on his hands, watching Minho’s hands flit about to arrange their lunch. It looks almost domestic.

“...Hey, can I call you hyung?” Jisung asks gingerly. Minho pauses to blink up at him.

“Hyung?”

“Uhh, big brother...?” Jisung tries to translate. “Don’t you speak Korean anymore?”

“Only a little, mamá only speaks Korean when she’s frustrated these days.” Minho shrugs. “I guess you can call me that if you want, but I like the way you say Minho.”

“Then how about... Minho-hyung,” Jisung tries. Minho blushes, and Jisung smiles in satisfaction. “Hehe, Minho-hyung, you’re turning pink!”

“Hush,” says Minho, sitting back when he finishes arranging the food. “Eat your lunch.”

Obediently, Jisung picks up some Costa Rican appetizer that he doesn’t know the name of. He moans when he bites into it, flavor filling his mouth.

“Hyung, are you going to take over the inn when you’re older?” Jisung asks. “Your food tastes amazing.”

Minho hums, chewing on his own food before swallowing. “Thank you, but no. I’m going to do something else.”

“What is it?”

“Dance,” Minho answers, smiling to himself. “I go to a performing arts school. I’m only here on break.”

“Ooh, you could be an idol,” Jisung murmurs, eyes turning round. “Can you sing?”

Minho snorts. “I’m not going to be an idol.”

“You didn’t answer!”

“Many ticos love to sing,” Minho says instead. “It’s only a matter of whether or not they’re good.”

“Are you good, then?” asks Jisung, leaning forward. “Can you sing for me?”

“Absolutely not,” answers Minho, taking another bite of his food. Jisung pouts at him.

“...How about dance?” says Jisung after a while. “Can you dance for me?”

“There’s no music,” Minho deadpans. “Stop asking me to perform, or I will throw my food at you.”

Jisung scrunches up his face. “You’re not doing a very good job at seducing me.”

“I thought you asked me to be your friend first.” Minho quirks a brow. “Rest assured, if I was trying to seduce you, you would know.”

“...What if I want to be seduced?”

“Do you?” Minho lowers his eyelashes. “Be careful what you wish for, cosito.”

Jisung gulps. “Maybe... maybe we should have lunch first...”

“That’s what I thought,” Minho says, smirking. Jisung doesn’t answer as he turns his cheek, blushing furiously at the ground. They’re silent for a while until Minho finishes his meal.

“To be honest, though... I think you’re amazing. You’re already working when you’re still so young but I’m still here, burdening my mother with my tuition.” Minho sighs. “I really admire you.”

Jisung feels his pride swell a little. “Um, thank you... but you’re pretty amazing yourself.”

“You’re only saying that because you think I’m pretty,” Minho scoffs, but his eyes are lit with amusement.

“That’s not true!” Jisung interjects. “I see the way you treat your mother—you’re so sweet when you help her out and you’re so good with the customers at the inn. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone handle impatient people so well!”

“What are you talking about? Everyone is like that here,” Minho says, but Jisung is convinced that he’s lying when Minho averts his gaze. “Just admit it—my pretty face is the only reason you’re still here.”

“No?” Jisung frowns. “It’s not. I’m still here because you’re fun and interesting.”

“That’s good, then.” Minho smiles. “I think you’re fun and interesting, too.”

“You’re really honest, too,” says Jisung. “I like that about you.”

“Honest? I just like to speak my mind.” Minho tilts his head. “But thank you, again. Ah, you make me blush.”

“...Does that mean you’ll sing for me, now?” Jisung asks, wiggling his eyebrows mischievously. The smile slips off of Minho’s face. Minho picks up a small fruit and throws it at Jisung’s shoulder.

“I take it back,” Minho says. “I don’t like you.”

“Boo, you meanie,” Jisung whines. “Why won’t you sing?”

“Because I’m shy.”

“That’s a first,” says Jisung under his breath, yelping when another fruit bounces off of his forehead. “Hey, that hurt!”

“Too bad,” says Minho. “Why do you want to hear me sing?”

“Because I want to know if you really are good at everything.”

“That is stupid. Of course I’m good at everything.” Minho quirks a brow, and Jisung tosses the fruit back at him. He misses.

“You have no proof. You have to prove it.” Jisung pouts. “Pleeeeease?”

Minho shoots him a blank look. Then his eyes light up. “I’ll only sing for you if you show me your sketchbook.”

“...Oh. Never mind, then.” Jisung blanches. “I, uh—I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Minho cocks his head. “I know you draw me. That’s not an issue.”

Jisung knows it’s not. Minho has seen them before, after all. But it’s not the sketches of Minho that make him worry. There’s something else in there—someone, and it isn’t Minho. But Jisung isn’t sure if he’s ready to face him again.

“I’ll cry,” Jisung blurts. “If you make me look at it again, I’ll cry.”

“Cry?” A crease forms between Minho’s brows. “Why?”

“Because I’m not ready,” Jisung says, already beginning to stack the tupperwares together in his panic. “We should go home, hyung.”

Worry twists the corners of Minho’s mouth into a frown, but Jisung refuses to look him in the eye. They clean up quietly. A weird tension fills the air and guilt claws at Jisung’s ribcage. He made this awkward. He can’t believe he made this awkward.

All of a sudden, Minho steps over the distance between them and settles himself next to Jisung. Out of nowhere, a finger pokes at Jisung’s side. He shrieks.

“Min—Minho-hyung!” Jisung squeaks. “Don’t do that, I’m ticklish—!”

Minho grins. Then he’s jabbing his fingers into Jisung’s sides, and Jisung jolts. Involuntary giggles tear out of his throat and he tries to kick Minho off, but Minho is too strong. Desperately, he reaches up to prod at Minho’s neck, and satisfaction fills him as Minho squeals.

“Oh, you’ve done it now—!”

Jisung jerks as Minho tries to pin him down. A deceivingly strong hand grips his wrists, and Minho grins evilly down at him. His other hand immediately starts poking and prodding at Jisung’s stomach, and Jisung starts guffawing against his will. Tears bead at the corners of his eyes. He twists his body and successfully nudges Minho off of him, but then Minho grabs onto his leg when he tries to scamper away.

“Oh no,” Jisung breathes when Minho locks onto Jisung’s leg with his thighs. “Oh, no, no—!”

Swiftly, Minho pulls off Jisung’s shoe and tugs his sock off so fast that Jisung almost doesn’t realize it. Minho’s deft fingers immediately brush over the pad of Jisung’s foot. Jisung screams, squirming and hitting Minho in the leg.

“Nooo!” he cries. “Stop it, hyung, stop!”

Jisung’s stomach hurts from laughing so much and his voice warbles from the tears. It’s what makes Minho release him with wide eyes.

“Cosito? Are you okay—“

Jisung tugs him down and Minho lands painfully on his torso with an oof. But Jisung ignores his aching ribs and jabs his fingers into Minho’s neck, eliciting a sharp squeal from the back of Minho’s throat. Then Minho jerks, falling off of Jisung, but his hands dart out to grab onto Jisung to prevent himself from rolling down the hill.

But it doesn’t work.

They both roll down the hill.

Jisung is sure that their screams can be heard from a mile away, but they don’t let go of each other and no one comes to find them. They bump into a tree at the base of the hill and they both groan when the impact forces them apart. They clutch themselves in pain.

Minho looks at Jisung. Jisung looks at Minho.

His eyes are bright—incredibly bright, no matter how squinted they are from pain. He still looks beautiful even with the twigs and grass in his hair, and Jisung can’t believe that Minho even exists. Then something bubbles from Jisung’s throat.

Giggles.

Jisung’s eyes light up, watching Minho’s eyes widen at him. His laughter is high and sweet. Then Minho joins him, and their giggles melt into guffaws.

When their laughter dies down Jisung feels spent, but for some reason, messy and gross from rolling down a hill, he thinks he can spend a long time like this, looking into Minho’s eyes as they crinkle into crescents.

(Maybe even forever.)

His voice is honey-sweet when he whispers Jisung’s name.

“I am glad I met you, Jisung,” he says, and Jisung feels the same.

-

Two nights later, Jisung lies awake in his bed. It’s three in the morning.

For the past two days, the air has felt different around him and Minho. Charged, somehow. Minho’s movements have started to seem more careful—more thought out. He doesn’t lean in so much and his words don’t bite so hard. It’s a little stressful. He is the tiniest bit nicer, but it’s such a fractional margin that Jisung isn’t sure if anything is actually different. It’s driving him crazy.

Especially since whenever Jisung snaps a photo of him in whatever beautiful place Minho takes them, Minho looks stiff. But it’s gone when Jisung’s eye is off of the viewfinder. When Jisung asks him if he wants Jisung to stop, he only smiles and says no. He even encourages Jisung to take more. Jisung doesn’t know what to think.

Feeling restless, Jisung kicks off his blanket. He hops out of his bed and tugs a jacket on. He blindly grabs for his sketchbook without much effort—it’s still on the desk where he left it several days ago—and puts his phone into his pocket. He quietly opens his door and makes his way gingerly to the diner.

Jisung isn’t expecting anyone to be there. He only wanted to draw somewhere different, because that usually helps when his thoughts are in a buzz. But Minho is seated at one of the tables, the light of a candle bathing his features in soft shades of orange and gold. His eyelashes are long and thick against his cheeks.

“Minho-hyung?” whispers Jisung, eyes going round. Minho opens his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“Ah,” Minho breathes. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Minho covers something with his arms. Jisung grins when he realizes what it is, tiptoeing up to Minho’s side. “Are you drawing, hyung?”

“Maybe I am,” Minho murmurs, curling further into himself. “I’m only trying to distract myself. That’s all.”

Jisung takes a seat next to him and leans curiously over his arms. “Can I see? I wanna see.”

“No,” Minho says. “I’m not as good as you.”

“I thought you were good at everything,” Jisung teases. “Come on, hyung, I promise I won’t make fun of you.”

They hold eye contact for a while until Jisung holds out his little finger. “Pinky promise?”

“...Alright,” Minho sighs, curling his own pinky around Jisung’s. Jisung grins and directs his gaze to the paper that Minho uncovers.

It’s a doodle of a cat sleeping in a tree. It’s a little wonky, with one ear larger than the other, but it’s actually not that bad. It’s kind of adorable.

“This is cute, hyung,” Jisung says. “You really are good at everything.”

“Of course,” says Minho, but Jisung is sure that if the candlelight wasn’t already coloring his cheeks, Minho would be blushing.

“When did you start?” asks Jisung, blinking curiously up at Minho.

“Not long ago,” Minho admits. “You... seemed to enjoy it a lot. So I tried it.”

Jisung’s chest feels funny. “Really, hyung?”

“Yes...?”

“That’s so cute,” Jisung gushes, clutching his heart. “You’re so cute. Oh no, my heart—“

“Oh, hush.” Minho rolls his eyes, but his lips are quirked upward. “What about you? Why are you awake?”

“Couldn’t sleep either.” Jisung shrugs. “I was gonna draw, too, actually.”

Minho stills. His eyes are cast downward. Right, there was that... thing... that happened. Jisung sighs.

Maybe it’s time.

“Hyung, I...” Jisung pauses. “You can see them, if you want.”

“What?”

“My—my sketches,” Jisung manages. He exhales, bringing his sketchbook up onto the table. “I think... I’m ready for you to see them.”

“I’ve already seen your sketches of me,” Minho says carefully. “It’s alright.”

“No, I...” Jisung breathes. “I meant my old ones. Not of you. I want you to... to...”

“To what, Jisung?” Minho quirks up his lips.

“I want you to understand,” says Jisung, passing the sketchbook to Minho. “Please.”

Gingerly, Minho lays a tentative hand on Jisung’s sketchbook. He glances at Jisung, who nods, before carefully flipping it open. The first several pages are of relatively normal things—anatomy studies, lighting practice, animal doodles—but then Minho reaches the middle, and a soft gasp escapes his lips.

Because on that page begins a series of sketches—all of the same boy, ethereal and beautiful and porcelain in his candid posture. Yang Jeongin, every feature lined with grace. In every sketch he poses daintily, like a doll—like he’ll break if he takes a step too large, but Jisung knows the truth.

This is the boy that broke his heart.

“...Who is this?” Minho whispers, eyes not leaving the paper. “He’s beautiful.”

“His name is Jeongin,” says Jisung, absently watching Minho flip through the pages. “He was my muse.”

“Was?”

“Was,” Jisung repeats. “He‘s a sweet boy.”

“Did... did something go wrong?” Minho asks, eyebrows furrowing.

Jisung runs a hand through his hair. “Kind of.”

“What happened with him?”

“A lot of things. I met him a year ago,” says Jisung. “One of my friends—his vocal teacher—introduced him to me.”

Minho nods, prompting Jisung to continue.

“I couldn’t stop staring at him, then I told him he was beautiful and that I wanted to draw him,” Jisung says, cringing a little at the memory. “He called me a weirdo, but he agreed to be my figure drawing model.”

“Ouch.” Minho winces. Ouch indeed.

“We spent so much time with each other, and I got to know him more every day,” Jisung recalls. “He’d come into my studio on his own sometimes, and he’d see me with eyebags from staying up all night trying to edit photos for Changbin and he’d tell me I looked ugly and then he’d force me to sleep.”

Minho wrinkles his nose.

“He was... kind, in his own way,” says Jisung. “He’d take care of me sometimes, and I would feel so ashamed because he’s younger but he was the one who’d remind me to rest.”

“...He sounds interesting,” Minho says, and Jisung smiles bitterly.

“He was,” Jisung sighs. “I...”

“Did he make you happy?”

Jisung blinks. “I... I guess? But...”

“But what?”

Jisung purses his lips. Thinking about it makes something claw at his chest—something cold. His chest suddenly feels hollow.

“...but It wasn’t his fault,” Jisung murmurs. “It was never his fault.”

“What wasn’t, cosito?” Minho asks, coming closer to try and hear Jisung better. “What happened?”

“I... I fell—I fell in love with him,” Jisung admits. “But he... Jeongin didn’t feel the same. He—he couldn’t. Not for anyone.”

“Oh, no,” Minho murmurs. A palm lands on Jisung’s shoulder. It rubs soft circles into his skin. “Jisung...”

“I couldn’t—I couldn’t draw anymore, after I conf—after I confe—after I told him how I felt, because it hurt to hold the pencil when he wasn’t the one in front of me.” Jisung swallows. He leans into Minho’s touch. “It was torture. I couldn’t make anything anymore, and my—my photography was getting worse. It’s why I left Korea—I was... trying to run away.”

“Oh, cosito,” Minho sighs, chewing on a lip. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault,” says Jisung. “I... I actually have to thank you.”

Minho tilts his head. “What for?”

“You gave me art,” Jisung laughs. “It’s not perfect. But you taught—you taught my hands how to create again and I’m... I’m so grateful, hyung.”

They both pause, breaths held captive in their lungs. Then Minho speaks.

“...May I hold you?”

“Hold me,” Jisung says. “Please.”

Minho inhales, and his chair scrapes against the floorboards when he scoots closer to Jisung. Warm hands circle Jisung’s torso, and he shivers as he curls into Minho’s embrace. They breathe each other’s air. Silence fills the room for a long time. Then Minho’s breath hitches, and a soft voice starts crooning into Jisung’s ear.

”...Arrorró mi niño,” Minho sings. ”Arrorró mi sol...”

Low and sweet—a voice like honey and wine. Jisung looks up at Minho and he doesn’t blink, unable to tear his gaze away even as Minho ducks his head.

”Arrorró pedazo... de mi corazón,” Minho finishes, letting his eyes fall shut. Jisung marvels at him.

(Maybe Minho really is an angel. Maybe he really is a gift. Maybe this really is a glimpse of heaven, and Jisung really is blessed.)

“...Your voice is beautiful,” Jisung breathes. “I... Thank you.”

“No need to thank me,” says Minho. “I only kept my promise.”

“Promise?”

Minho quirks his lips. “I said I would sing for you if you showed me your sketchbook.”

“Oh,” Jisung says. He rests his cheek upon Minho’s chest and he closes his eyes. “Can you sing more...? Please?”

“Of course, cosito,” Minho whispers into Jisung’s hair. ”Este niño lindo... ya quiere dormir...”

Honey fills Jisung’s mind and it weighs heavy on his eyelids. He feels gentle fingers carding through his hair and he sighs. Minho’s sweet voice and soft hands lull him to sleep, and he takes comfort in Minho’s warmth until morning.

When they wake up, they both have aching limbs and sore muscles. But their smiles are bright and soft, especially when their eyes meet, and Jisung doesn’t hesitate before planting a soft peck on Minho’s cheek.

Minho’s hand flies up to cover the spot where Jisung’s lips landed, and he blinks at Jisung with wide eyes.

“What?” Jisung giggles, deja vú washing over him. “This is a thing that friends do, here in Costa Rica.”

“Using my words against me, I see,” Minho says, shaking his head—but there’s a smile on his face. “Get up, help mamá and I with breakfast.”

Jisung perks up. Something prickles across his skin. Grinning, he hops to his feet and bounds after Minho and into the kitchen.

Somehow, this feels... like home.

(...And maybe—maybe it really is.)

-

The next several days Jisung spends helping around the inn and going on walks with Minho through the forest. Every time they do, Minho brings his basket with them and stops at every flowering bush to collect its fallen petals. Jisung stops asking what they’re for, because Minho only gives him that secret smile, and Jisung doesn’t gain any more enlightenment than he already has. But it’s okay, because Minho would kiss him on the cheek afterward, and Jisung’s heart would flutter.

(Even if he doesn’t really know what they’re doing, or what their relationship is at this point.)

Today, though, Minho doesn’t bring his basket. Jisung raises his eyebrows at him when they meet outside the inn, but Minho—yet again—gives him a secret smile instead of an answer. They walk quietly, hands brushing against each other every now and then. Along the way Jisung twists their pinkies together, and Minho’s smile grows by a fraction.

Minho hums when they reach their destination. They stand in front of a towering cathedral, worn and pale in its age. Its spires reach into the sky as if yearning, and when Jisung looks at Minho he feels as if the spires are him and Minho is the sky, vast and beautiful and unreachable.

When Jisung is tugged inside, he feels his jaw fall open in wonder. The ceiling is tall—taller than he expected it to be, and a towering pane of stained glass is set into the farthest wall. Jisung doesn’t see anyone inside.

Minho guides Jisung to one of the pews in the front row. Gingerly, Jisung takes a seat as if the pew would break if he sat down too hard, and Minho snorts at him before taking his own seat.

Jisung feels as if he’s intruding into something that he’s not supposed to. Something personal. Something divine. Especially since Minho closes his eyes beside him soon after, lips moving silently in prayer.

He looks absolutely ethereal. Minho’s skin glows in the multicolored caress of the light bleeding through the church’s stained glass. Reds and blues and golds stain Minho’s skin as if he were a painting instead of a person, and Jisung’s hands itch. He wishes fleetingly that he could have brought his camera with him today—Minho told him not to, but this is an image he wants to preserve.

“...How are you feeling, Jisung?” Minho murmurs, seemingly finished with his prayer. His eyes flutter open, but their gazes don’t meet. “Be honest.”

Jisung squirms. “Honestly...? I feel like I’m intruding.”

“How come?”

“I dunno.” Jisung shrugs. “Am I welcome here?”

“Everyone is welcome in the house of God,” Minho says, eyes alight. Warmth blooms across Jisung’s chest. Beautiful, he thinks.

“...Even if I don’t believe in Him?”

“Even if you don’t believe in Him,” Minho affirms. “Prayer can be comforting, you know? And anyone is welcome to pray.”

“What are you praying for?” Jisung asks, watching Minho’s smile widen. Divine.

He looks like he belongs here, bathing in the light bleeding through the windows of the house of God, if not among the clouds in His triumphant palace. An angel, surely, sent to earth to make Jisung feel whole again.

Minho redirects his gaze, lips curling into that secret smile. “...There are some things in life that require a special kind of strength, and sometimes you can’t get that strength on your own.”

“Some things?” Jisung tilts his head, leaning closer. “Like what?”

“Like this,” says Minho, and all of a sudden there are lips pressing against Jisung’s forehead, soft and warm and light. Jisung’s chest fills with fondness, and he feels roses bloom across his cheeks. Minho cups his face, smiling and pressing their foreheads together after they part.

“Minho-hyung...?” comes Jisung’s voice, small and unsure.

“I want you, Jisung,” Minho sighs against his skin, voice slightly shaking. He closes his eyes. “I’ve told you this. You know I want you.”

Jisung’s breath hitches. Minho opens his eyes then, wine-dark and wanting. “Do you... want me, too?”

“Hyung... I,” Jisung starts. “I’ve wanted you since you sang to me.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you held me, hyung,” Jisung chokes out. “You held me, and you made me feel safe.”

“...I see,” Minho says, thumbs brushing over Jisung’s soft cheeks. “Will you wait for me, then?”

“Wait...?” Jisung blinks up at him. Minho shuts his eyes as he nuzzles their noses together. “What do you mean, wait?”

“I want your heart to be ready before I take it from you,” Minho says, fingers carding through Jisung’s hair. “Then I can give you mine in peace.”

Minho leans back, smile warm as he gazes at Jisung. “Is that okay, cosito?”

Jisung doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t like waiting, in all honesty.

But for Minho?

Maybe Jisung really will do anything.

“Okay,” Jisung breathes, shutting his eyes. “Okay.”

Their arms curl around each other and they hold each other for a while. Minho is warmth and comfort and softness and Jisung feels safe in his arms. But then a soft voice cuts through the silence.

”Disculpame, Mateo...”

When Jisung looks up, he doesn’t recognize the woman smiling sheepishly at them. But Minho seems to know her, giving her his own sheepish smile as he rubs the back of his head. They speak in lilting Spanish, and Jisung smiles to himself even if he doesn’t know what they’re saying.

“Jisung, we have to go,” says Minho, standing up and dusting himself off. He extends a hand toward Jisung. “Come. We will get lunch.”

His accent sounds thicker than usual, Jisung notes with delight. He follows Minho obediently, linking their pinkies together as Minho waves goodbye to the woman that interrupted them.

“What did she say?” Jisung asks, tilting his head in curiosity as they walk out of the church doors. Minho smiles at him before answering.

“Not much, only that we weren’t supposed to...” Minho pauses, cheeks coloring. “Do that... in there...”

Jisung’s heart sinks. “Was she angry?”

“No, no, she thought—she thought we were very cute,” Minho stammers. “She was—ah, she was watching us for a while because she didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Then why did we have to leave?”

“It’s just that we... aren’t supposed to show public affection in church.” Minho stops. “And I wanted to do this—“

Jisung’s heart skips a beat as Minho leans closer. His soft lips land on the corner of Jisung’s mouth, and Jisung has to stop himself from melting into a puddle right then and there. We almost kissed, he thinks to himself. We almost kissed!!!

“Hyung,” Jisung squeaks. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Then be killed.” Minho smirks, tugging him along. “Because I will definitely do this again.”

Jisung smacks him as he squirms, and Minho scowls at him as he threateningly hovers his fingers over Jisung’s sides. But then Jisung tackles his neck first, and Minho shouts as he tries to get away. Giggles bubble up from Jisung’s throat as he runs after Minho’s fleeting form. Their hands seperate, and they run through Cartago chasing after each other in mirth.

People watch them, sure, but Jisung doesn’t care. Their laughter mingles in the air as they weave through Cartago, and Jisung feels too happy to notice anyone staring.

Because Minho is there.

And Minho wants him.

Minho’s laughter rings pleasantly in Jisung’s ears, and Jisung marvels at how good he had to have been in his past life to be rewarded with something like this—ethereal and beautiful and wonderful. And Jisung thinks, I can’t believe he wants me, and Jisung—

Jisung can’t wait to be ready.

-

Eleven days in Cartago later, Jisung finds out that Minho isn’t good at everything.

He’s terrible at keeping his anger in check.

They‘re having dinner with Minho’s mother late at night—late enough that there are no other patrons to serve, and Jisung is only awake because Minho’s arm is curled around his side, tickling lightly at his ribcage every now and then.

Conversation is a little tricky, because Minho’s mother—Minso—isn’t as good at English as Minho. She has to speak to Jisung in Korean, and Minho, in turn, isn’t as good at Korean as his mother. They both speak fluent Spanish, of course, but Jisung can’t speak that at all.

So whenever Minso says something to Jisung, Jisung has to translate it to English for Minho. And whenever Minso says something to her son, Minho has to translate it to English for Jisung. It’s a bit of a mess, to be honest, but they get by peacefully until Minso starts mentioning work.

“Jisungie, you’re already working, right?” she asks when they finish eating. “How old are you again?”

“I’m twenty-one,” Jisung says, smiling at her shyly. He repeats it to Minho when he raises his eyebrows, and Minho smiles at him proudly. But then it drops, because Minso says something to Minho in Spanish and Jisung can feel the words’ bite even without understanding.

“That’s so young,” Minso sighs, glancing wistfully at Minho. “And you’re already independent?”

Jisung looks up at Minho, trying to get a feel for what they were saying before, but Minho only smiles at him without it reaching his eyes. Minho nudges him in encouragement.

“Yes, I make enough money,” Jisung answers, rubbing a comforting circle into Minho’s thigh. “It’s steady income, thanks to my friend.”

Minso professes her confusion, and Jisung explains that Changbin was the one who hired him and gave him exposure in the first place. Minso is delighted when Jisung tells her that other companies hire him, too.

“Wow, Jisungie,” she coos. “You’ll definitely be able to support Minnie-yah, then!”

Jisung colors, but he feels pride swell in his chest at Minso’s approval. Minho eyes him, but Jisung shakes his head, refusing to translate in his embarrassment. Minso, knowingly, giggles at Jisung before explaining to Minho in Spanish. When Jisung looks up, Minho’s face is red, too, and Jisung buries his face in his hands.

Then Minso says something—more severely this time, and Jisung feels Minso stiffen. He peers through his fingers, and he sees Minho’s lips pursed tightly. Minho inhales, breath shaking, and says something to Minso in an eerily calm voice.

Minso retorts, sounding frustrated, and Minho spits out his reply. Minso lays a hand over her heart, chattering angrily at Minho. Jisung winces when Minho shoots out of his seat.

Jisung wishes they wouldn’t do this in front of him.

Minho says one final thing before he stomps off somewhere without looking back, and Minso puts her head in her hands. Jisung doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“...Jisung, I’m sorry you had to see that,” Minso sighs after a while, sounding very tired. “Can you please... follow him? His room is down the hallway next to the kitchen.”

Gulping, Jisung nods. He rises from his seat slowly. He hadn’t been expecting this at all. From what he’s seen, Minho and his mother have always been very close. He makes his way gingerly down the hall, and knocks softly on Minho’s door.

”Déjame en paz, mamá,” comes Minho’s muffled voice. Jisung furrows his brows.

“It’s me,” he says. “Your mother is back at the table.”

Minho is silent for a few minutes, but Jisung doesn’t leave. Then, softly, Minho says, “come in,” and Jisung breathes a sigh of relief. When he enters, Minho lies on his bed with his hands tucked behind his head and his eyes closed. Around the room are old posters and stickers peeling with age. The lights are off. Jisung takes a seat at the edge of Minho’s bed.

“Do you want to tell me what happened there?” he asks, voice low and quiet. When he looks back, Minho is peering up at him seemingly contemplating something. Then Jisung feels Minho’s arms circle his waist as he sits up only to lie back down, dragging Jisung to the bed with an oof.

Jisung’s heart skips a beat. This is the first time they’ve ever cuddled in bed. Minho tucks his face into the crook of Jisung’s neck and Jisung sighs. He wishes they were cuddling in a more pleasant context.

“Minho-hyung,” Jisung prompts when Minho doesn’t say anything. “Hyung, come on, your mom is probably worried.”

“...When isn’t she?” Minho murmurs bitterly. “She never trusts me enough to not worry.”

“Hyung,” says Jisung in a warning tone. “Can you please tell me what happened so that we can fix it?”

“It’s a secret—“ Minho tries to say, but Jisung huffs in frustration and turns to face him. Minho blinks at him.

“You and your secrets,” Jisung says, crease forming between his eyebrows. “Hyung, I swear, you frustrate me so much sometimes. Why can’t you just tell me?”

Minho bites guiltily at his lip. He sighs. “I’m... I’m sorry, cosito. I’m just... scared.”

“Scared of what, hyung?”

“What if you think badly of me?”

“If I thought badly of you, I wouldn’t be here,” Jisung says, refusing to break eye contact. He brushes his thumb over Minho’s cheek. “I could never think badly of you, hyung. Nothing you say can change that.”

Minho sighs, bumping their foreheads together. He leans back, giving Jisung a small smile. “I feel the same.”

“So tell me, then,” Jisung prompts. Minho chews on his lip, hesitant.

“...Well,” he begins. “I’ve told you that I study dance, right?”

Jisung nods, urging him to continue.

“My mother has always been supportive, but...” Minho sighs. “She has never believed that my dreams are a viable career option.”

“How come?”

“She thinks it will be hard for me to find work, and she constantly tells me that I will always be welcome to take over the inn,” Minho says. “But I... don’t want that. I want to dance—I want to choreograph, Jisung, and I want to spend my life doing what I love. But it’s hard when your own mother doesn’t think you can.”

“Have you... talked to her about it?” Jisung asks. “Like, really talked?”

Minho averts his gaze. “I... generally avoid that.”

“You should talk to her,” says Jisung. “Your mother loves you so much, and she just wants you to be happy in the end, and maybe she thinks you’ll be happier where she thinks you’ll have stable income. You have to let her know she’s wrong, hyung.”

“I know, it just...” Minho squeezes his eyes shut. “It just hurts.”

“I know it hurts,” Jisung says, squeezing Minho’s shoulder. “But it’ll be better for the both of you if you do talk.”

“...You’re right,” says Minho. “But it’s... it’s hard. I don’t know how to face her after my outburst. Will you... will you come with me?”

“As long as you promise to go through with it.”

“I... alright,” Minho sighs. “Okay.”

“Good,” says Jisung, letting their foreheads touch again. “We’ll talk to her in the morning, okay?”

“Okay,” Minho murmurs. They’re silent for a while until Minho asks him a question. “Why does she call you Jisungie?”

Terrible pronunciation, Jisung thinks, but his heart swells with fondness. “It’s the same reason why your mom calls you Minnie-yah. It’s a diminutive. My friends call me Jisungie, too, sometimes, or Sungie, for short.”

“I see.” Minho hums. “Can I call you that, too?”

Jisung’s heart flutters. “You don’t have to ask. You can call me Jisung-ah, too, if you want.”

“Jisungie. Jisung-ah,” Minho tries. His eyes light up. “Jisungie-yah.”

Minho looks proud of himself. Jisung makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat and buries his face in Minho’s chest.

“Jisungie?” Minho calls. “Mi cosito?”

“You—You’re too cute, hyung.”

Minho wrinkles his nose when Jisung pulls back. “I’m not too cute, I am the correct amount of cute. You’re the one who’s too cute.”

“Hyung,” Jisung whines. Minho kisses his forehead, making him squirm even more.

“Hush, cosito,” whispers Minho against his skin. ”Ve a dormir.”

“I don’t want to sleep yet,” Jisung says. Minho peers at him in interest.

“You understood...?”

“I—just the one word,” Jisung stammers. “Dormir. I remember it from the song—I asked your mother what it was you sang for me, and she told me what it meant...”

“Ay, Jisung,” Minho breathes, smiling softly at him. His eyes are so warm—so fond, and Jisung’s heart hurts. ”Mi cariño. Precioso mío.”

Jisung gulps. “What does that mean?”

“My darling,” says Minho, pressing a kiss against Jisung’s cheek. “My precious.”

”Mi tesoro.” Another kiss. ”Mi sol.”

Jisung squirms. “Hyuuuuung—!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Minho sighs, murmuring against Jisung’s forehead. “You are just... so precious.”

“Hyung, stop it, my face is too hot,” Jisung mumbles. Minho ends his suffering after nuzzling their noses together, and they stay silent for a few minutes. “Hey, hyung, why did the lady at the church call you Mateo?”

Minho hums, not opening his eyes. “It’s just my Spanish name.”

“Oh,” Jisung says. “Do any of your friends call you Minho?”

“Just you,” Minho admits. “I’m called Mateo, usually, unless it’s mamá, then it’s Minnie-yah.”

Jisung blinks. “Then why did you ask me to call you Minho?”

“I like the idea of having a name that only you call me by,” says Minho, as if it’s nothing. As if he was just telling Jisung his favorite color. Jisung’s chest aches. “That’s just the way I feel about you, cosito.”

“And... and what does cosito mean?”

“Little thing.” Minho smiles, pulling back to look at him. “My sweet little thing.”

Jisung’s heart hurts. He buries his face in Minho’s chest again. Jisung wraps an arm around Minho’s torso, bringing him close.

”I really like you,” Jisung says in Korean, nuzzling his face into Minho. “I really, really, really like you...”

“What does that mean?” Minho asks, stroking Jisung’s hair. Jisung inhales Minho’s scent.

“It means I’m sleepy,” says Jisung, because even though he thinks he’s ready to give himself to Minho, he doesn’t think that Minho believes it yet.

But he will in time. Jisung will make sure of it.

(They go to sleep nestled into each other’s arms, and Jisung wakes up feeling the most relaxed he’s ever been.)

Jisung holds Minho’s hand when they talk to Minso in the morning, and he feels his heart soften when Minso hugs her son tight and starts blubbering in near-incoherent Korean about how she’ll always support him.

Not for the first time, Jisung feels like he’s home.

-

Jisung’s life is perfect. Really perfect. He lives out the next few days as if dreaming—dreaming a sweet, domestic dream where he cooks and cleans with Minho, and bakes and sweeps and does the laundry and all the things anyone would do at home.

(And maybe—maybe he really is home.)

He lets himself believe it for a little while. He lets himself think that he can stay. That he will never leave. He ignores the dread blooming in his chest whenever he looks at the calendar and counts the days he’s spent tucked into this little pocket of Costa Rica, because here is Minho, and Minho feels like home.

Home.

Jisung gulps.

He lies awake in his duvet, Minho sleeping soundly beside him. They had taken to sleeping in each other’s beds at some point, only holding each other close and nothing else. It’s been nothing but bliss, for a long time, but then it happens.

Jisung should have known.

It had to happen eventually.

Changbin calls him at three in the morning with little regard for the fact that Jisung is supposed to be asleep. The last time they had talked was back when Jisung was in France. That was months ago, and Jisung only picks up the call because of this. He’s missed Changbin, truth be told. But it’s not comfort that fills him when he hears Changbin’s voice.

It’s dread.

“Jisungie, you have to come home,” Changbin says without a hello. “ONEUS needs to debut soon, and my directors don’t want anyone but you to shoot them.”

“Wh—“ Jisung’s breath stutters. “Hyung, what?”

“Remember that they didn’t know about your little escapade,” Changbin reminds him. “They were growing suspicious because the other groups’ pictures didn’t have your touch, and it was fine for a while, but... this is ONEUS’s debut, and they’ve noticed that it’s definitely not you who’s been shooting my idols lately.”

Shit.

“Sungie, if you don’t come back soon they’ll force me to lay you off,” Changbin warns. “I just came back from a meeting. They’re not very happy about you leaving on a three-month vacation without notice on company cash.”

”Company cash?” Jisung’s jaw drops. “Hyung, this is—this is my money. That you paid me. Not—not them...”

“Jisung, the company’s money is my money.” Changbin sighs on the other line. “Please, just. You have to come back. I don’t want to fire you.”

Dread fills Jisung’s chest. He paces around the room, hands running through his hair in his frustration. “But—but hyung...”

“What is it?”

“I—“ Jisung’s breath hitches. “I don’t... want to come back yet...”

Changbin pauses. Sighs. “I know it’s hard for you, but it’s been three and a half months. You have to bear with it—it’s not like Jeongin hates you, or anything.”

“You don’t understand, hyung—“

“I do, okay?” Changbin insists. “How do you think I felt watching Hyunjin sleep around to try and fill the hole in his heart when I was right there?”

“That’s—that’s different,” Jisung mumbles. “And you have Felix now...”

“I know, and I love him. But I learned something from Hyunjinnie,” Changbin says. “You can’t force someone to love you, and running is never the solution. Come back, Jisung. You’ll get over Jeongin, I promise.”

Jisung throws his hands up into the air, feeling a knot form in his throat. “That’s not—Jeongin isn’t the reason why I don’t want to come back.”

“Then what is?”

Jisung eyes Minho, snoring lightly in the moonlight. He remembers crinkling eyes and tinkling laughter, and eskimo kisses shared fleetingly inside a church. Colors bloom against his memory—sunlight painting stained glass onto golden skin.

“I... I found something here,” Jisung chokes out. “I don’t want to leave it yet.”

“...Oh, no,” Changbin groans. “Oh, no, Jisung...”

“Hyung, please, I—“

“No, you have to come back. Immediately,” Changbin stresses. “You have to leave, Jisung, before you get attached.”

Jisung gulps. It’s too late for that now.

“...You already are, aren’t you,” Changbin deadpans. Then he releases a long, deep sigh, and Jisung can see him pinch the bridge of his nose even from thousands of miles away. “This is going to hurt, but...”

“Whatever pretty, young thing that you’ve found there, leave them,” Changbin says, almost hesitantly. “They... they aren’t Jeongin, and they never will be. Leave now before you accidentally hurt them.”

“...You have three days,” adds Changbin, and the phone call ends with a beep.

Jisung is... speechless.

Betrayed.

He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants to destroy everything around him and break the glass of his windows and tear his bedsheets apart, but... Minho is sleeping. Jisung doesn’t want to wake him.

So instead, Jisung muffles his screams with a pillow and lets himself sob softly into his knees. He lets the moonlight wash over him and doesn’t raise his head until he hears Minho shift, sitting up to blink blearily at Jisung.

”Mi corazón?” he rasps, squinting. “Are you crying? Is everything alright?”

Jisung’s mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, not knowing what to say. He doesn’t want Minho to know that he has to go. He doesn’t want to go at all. “I had a nightmare,” he says instead, unmoving as Minho creeps closer.

“Oh, Jisung,” Minho croons, encasing Jisung in his arms. “It’s okay, cariño, I’m here.”

Involuntarily, Jisung lets out a sob. He hugs Minho tight when Minho rocks them back and forth. “Minho-hyung, please don’t let me go.”

“I won’t,” says Minho, running his fingers through Jisung’s hair. “I’ll never let you go, cosito.”

“Please,” Jisung begs. “Please...”

Minho hushes him, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. Jisung wishes—no, he needs for Minho’s words to ring true. He needs him to take his hand and ask him to stay. He can’t go back—not without Minho.

But at the same time, he knows he could never take Minho with him—not when he’s still studying. Not when he’s still chasing his dreams. Jisung could never.

A honey-sweet voice fills Jisung’s ears, and he realizes fleetingly that Minho’s started to sing. It’s the same lullaby that he sang to Jisung in the candlelight after Jisung bared to him his heart, and Jisung feels raw in the same way that he did that night. He lets Minho rock him to sleep, desperate for the comforting darkness of slumber to overcome him.

In the morning Jisung wakes up with puffy eyes. Minho is already awake, brushing a thumb over Jisung’s cheek and staring at him like he hung the stars. Jisung feels adored, and his heart, too, adores, even as it clenches in realization that it will have to let this adoration go.

“Today you’ll find out why we have been collecting petals,” Minho discloses, and Jisung is effectively distracted. “But not until noon.”

“Why?” Jisung asks, willing last night’s frustration away. He forces himself to pout. “I want to know now.”

“You’ve endured for this long.” Minho smiles. “Why not a little longer?”

Jisung sighs, giving up. He stretches his limbs, trying to cuddle back into Minho and pouting when Minho swats him away to get up and crack his limbs.

“What are we doing today, hyung?” Jisung asks, following after Minho into the bathroom. He watches from the doorframe as Minho washes his face.

“Chores, mostly,” Minho says. “In the morning. But at noon I‘ll take you to the rooftop.”

“Rooftop?” Jisung is even more confused. “Why?”

“So that you know what the petals are for.”

Jisung scratches his head. He has no idea what the heck Minho is planning. Is he going to shower Jisung in petals? Is he going to take him on a romantic lunch date, surrounded by flower petals? How would that even work? Wouldn’t the wind blow the petals away?

“Don’t worry so much about it. It’s nothing bad,” Minho says before kissing Jisung on the forehead. “Now move out of the way, I need to get my clothes.”

Absently, Jisung shifts out of Minho’s path. He squirms in his anticipation, taking a seat on the bed as he waits for Minho to finish showering. Minho gestures to the bathroom when he comes out, telling Jisung to clean himself up. Minho doesn’t let him help in the kitchen if he isn’t squeaky clean. Minso is the same way. So Jisung obeys, gathering his things and walking into the bathroom.

He supposes it’s a good thing that Minho started talking about the petals early in the morning, because he forgets about Changbin calling him the night before. When he comes out freshly changed, Minho smiles at him and tugs him downstairs.

They make breakfast for the patrons. At this point, Minso has stopped charging him and he eats with them afterward like he’s one of them—staff instead of a guest, or maybe even family. Minso likes to spoil him, too, always giving him the biggest portions, which makes Jisung blush and Minho whine at his mother in embarrassed Spanish.

Then they sweep around the diner, pausing in the middle to have an impromptu waltz. Minso finds them entangled on the floor when she hears them trip and crash onto a table, and Jisung feels himself color. But then Minso pulls him up and tells him to dance with her instead of Minho—Because I’m better at it, she tells Jisung—and Jisung finds himself laughing as he and Minso waltz around the empty diner to the sound of Minho complaining about his mother stealing his man.

(Mi amor, Minho calls him specifically, and Jisung almost collapses.)

By noon, Jisung is exhausted, and he almost doesn’t remember the petals. He only remembers because Minho pulls him up excitedly after lunch, bounding upstairs and into a room that Jisung has never visited. It’s dusty inside, and Jisung wrinkles his nose.

“What are you doing?” Jisung asks, eyeing Minho as he grins at window. Minho pushes it open. There’s a branch that grows right against the edge. Minho doesn’t answer him. Instead, Minho clambers out of the window and onto the branch.

Minho lets out what seems like a delighted laugh, but Jisung knows that it’s out of nervousness. He’d eventually found out that Minho is actually afraid of heights, and that he’d only leaped out of that tree when they first met because he wanted to impress Jisung. Cute, but incredibly stupid.

I fell out of a tree, once, Minho told him. I’ve been afraid of heights ever since.

Inspiring, how far Minho was willing to go to be a hoe. And that includes now.

Minho disappears above the window, and Jisung curiously walks toward it to peer at Minho’s lithe form.

He’s settled on one of the higher branches now, grinning nervously down at Jisung. Jisung shakes his head, climbing out of the window himself to follow Minho. Eventually Minho beckons him toward one of the thicker branches that lead to the inn’s roof, and Minho helps him settle onto it.

Jisung blinks. There are no petals in sight.

“Just watch,” says Minho, settling himself next to Jisung. “Eyes on Irazú, cosito, you don’t want to miss it—“

Minho points to the volcano in the distance, but nothing happens for a while. When Jisung looks below them, he sees clusters of people stationed along the streets. There are cameras in their hands, and some of them are stood in front of large black machines that look like cannons. There’s even more on top of a few buildings several roofs away. Locals spill out of their homes as Cartago is set abuzz. Jisung is even more confused.

“Jisungie, look—!” Minho paps Jisung’s cheeks, redirecting Jisung’s gaze to the volcano. Jisung pouts, and then his jaw drops.

The volcano erupts.

But it’s not lava that explodes out of its crater.

Millions of flower petals fly into the air, and Jisung watches in wonder as the wind blows them every which way. Then he hears people chattering, and suddenly there are petals painting the sky in red and pink and gold as the cannon-like machines from earlier shoot them like fireworks into the streets and into the sky.

The petals flutter slowly to the ground like rain set to slow motion, and Jisung blinks up around him in wonder. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but it’s beautiful, it feels like magic, and Jisung is completely enchanted.

And then he looks at Minho, and suddenly his heart hurts.

Because Minho isn’t looking anywhere but him, and he looks at Jisung like he’s the beautiful, magical thing—like Minho is the one that’s completely enchanted. And Jisung feels it again. His heart adoring as it, too, is adored.

Minho’s eyes crinkle into crescents as he laughs and catches flower petals in his hands. He releases them over Jisung’s head, and Jisung doesn’t know what to do. His heart aches. It aches and it hurts and it swells in his chest, and his chest tightens because Minho looks absolutely ethereal, and the word comes to him in a rush—

Art, he thinks. Minho is art, silhouette graceful against the warm hues of the petals falling from the sky. They catch in his hair and dot him with color as he plays with them in his fingers, and Jisung can’t believe it—

He’s found art. He’s found it in this immigrant boy—in this beautiful, wonderful, frustrating immigrant boy called Minho and Mateo and Minnie-yah, and—

“Jagiya,” Jisung calls him, shaking hands settling over Minho’s shoulders. “Oh, jagiya...”

“What is it, cosito?” Minho laughs, tilting his head at Jisung. “I can’t understand you.”

“I think... I think I’m ready, hyung,” Jisung chokes out. “I—I think I’ve been ready for a long time...”

“Ready?” Minho asks.

“Ready to give you my heart,” Jisung says, cringing at the cheesy line. But it’s what Minho said, and Jisung wants him to remember. “And maybe... have yours...”

“Ah, but mi sol,” Minho sighs, cupping Jisung’s cheek and pressing their foreheads together. “You already have it. I don’t know why I ever pretended otherwise.”

And Minho kisses him.

Jisung feels himself tremble, because Minho’s lips are soft and warm and everything that Jisung ever imagined them to be, and maybe even more. He feels the petals brush against their skin as they fall and for a second Jisung feels like he’s one of them—falling, falling, falling, fluttering against the wind and landing softly on the ground.

(Falling.)

They part, and Jisung is unable to open his eyes for a long time. When he opens them, Minho smiles at him with warm eyes. Jisung feels soft. Achingly soft.

(...Fallen?)

“Be mine, corazón,” Minho whispers. “Be mine, and I will be yours.”

”Of course,” Jisung answers, even though it hurts. “I’m yours, hyung.”

“And I am yours,” says Minho, nuzzling their noses together. Jisung feels his eyes sting and he starts to blink. ”Amor? Are you crying?”

“No,” Jisung warbles.

“Don’t lie to me,” says Minho, pulling back and wiping Jisung’s tears away. “It’s okay, cariño, I’m here.”

Jisung doesn’t know what to tell him. Jisung doesn’t know how to tell him—that he wants to be with Minho desperately, that he wants to stay, that he wants to stay so bad but he can’t, because Jisung has to leave, even if he doesn’t want to.

So instead Jisung sobs into Minho, leaning into his touch and whimpering when Minho tries to kiss his tears away. Petals stick to his tear-stained cheeks and Minho wipes those off, too, and Jisung lets himself believe that everything is fine. He lets himself pretend. He gives Minho a false smile, burying his face in Minho’s chest when Minho frowns in suspicion.

They hold each other again, and in Minho’s arms, at least, Jisung feels like everything is alright.

-

Jisung lets himself believe it for the entirety of the next day even as Changbin’s deadline draws nearer. He settles into bed with Minho that night feeling far too exhausted than he should be.

He sleeps quietly for a while, content in Minho’s embrace. Then his ringtone rouses him, and he almost doesn’t pick up. But Minho wakes, too, mumbling at him to take the call.

With shaking fingers, Jisung reaches out to answer. He knows it’s Changbin even without looking at the caller ID.

“Have you packed?”

“...It’s two in the morning, hyung.”

Changbin grunts. “That doesn’t answer my question. Have you packed or not.”

“...I haven’t,” Jisung admits, glancing nervously at Minho blinking sleepily at Jisung. “I... I’ll pack in the morning.”

“Jisung. Pick up the pace,” says Changbin. “I’m scared for you, okay? The directors want you here by tomorrow, and I can only distract them for so long.”

Jisung winces. No matter how hurt he still is from Changbin calling Minho a pretty, young thing like that’s all he is, he has to acknowledge that Changbin is only looking after him. His heart sinks. He has to go back.

“...I haven’t booked a ticket,” Jisung murmurs, dejected. “Help?”

Changbin sighs. “You’re such a mess. I’ll send a jet to San José in the afternoon.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry.”

“No,” Changbin says. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“You know why,” Changbin tells him, and Jisung does. But it would’ve been nice to hear it from Changbin himself. “I’ll... see you soon, Jisungie. Goodbye.”

“Bye,” Jisung says softly. The phone beeps.

Minho shifts beside him, and Jisung’s head hurts. Minho blinks at Jisung with round eyes, sensing his frustration and pulling Jisung further into his arms to stroke at his hair.

“What’s wrong, amor?” Minho croons. “Who was that?”

“...Chang—it was... It was Changbin-hyung,” Jisung says, breath stuttering. “Minho-hyung, I...”

Minho’s hand stills.

“I... I have to...” Jisung whimpers. “I can’t do this, I—I’m so sorry, I...”

“Take your time, cosito,” Minho says. He presses a kiss against Jisung’s hair. Tears prickle against Jisung’s eyes, but he blinks them back, forcing himself not to cry, because it feels like crying is all he’s been doing lately, and he’s just too tired now.

He has to be strong. Or else he’ll fall apart.

Jisung blinks up at Minho’s worried face, especially ethereal and beautiful in the soft light of the moon filtering through Jisung’s window. Minho cups his cheek, brushing a thumb against it. It makes Jisung ache. Wanting.

“...I have to leave,” Jisung chokes out. “I... need to go back to Korea.”

Minho’s face changes slowly. Jisung watches the light go out from his eyes and reaches out to hold him.

“Oh,” Minho says. Jisung takes comfort in the fact that he looks just as pained as Jisung feels. “I... know that.”

They both know that. But Jisung isn’t sure if either of them have actually accepted that fact as real.

“Tomorrow,” says Jisung. “I have to leave tomorrow at noon.”

“That’s... so soon,” Minho whispers. His eyes shine, and Jisung feels his chest ache for the umpteenth time. But this time it feels even tighter, and it’s almost unbearable. So Jisung reaches out.

He kisses Minho. They part once, only to come together again. Their lips meet and part and meld together like this for a few minutes more, and then Jisung hears a sniffle. It’s not him, he realizes and he looks up to see Minho with wet eyes.

It’s the first time he’s ever seen Minho cry.

And it hurts.

“I’m so sorry, jagiya,” Jisung whispers. “I’m so, so sorry—“

“It’s not your fault,” says Minho. “It—it was going to happen eventually. We just... didn’t want it to be true.”

“I still don’t want it to be true,” Jisung says, voice cracking. He moves closer to Minho. “I want to stay here, with you, jagiya—“

“Believe me, cosito, there is nothing that I want more than you.” Minho strokes his hair. “But I can’t take you from the world like that. I can’t be that selfish.”

Jisung sobs. Minho is right—of course he’s right. He can’t take Jisung from the world, and Jisung can’t do that to him either.

They have to part.

But Jisung wants to leave a piece of him here, aside from the heart that he leaves in Minho’s hands. If he can’t have Minho, he wants Minho to have him.

Jisung sits up, chewing his lip. Minho watches him with wide eyes as he moves to straddle Minho.

“Ji—... Jisung, what are you doing?” Minho stammers, blinking owlishly at Jisung.

“If you won’t... take me... from the world, will you at least take part of me?” Jisung asks, leaning down to whisper in Minho’s ear. “I—I want to give myself to you, hyung. But if you don’t want it, I won’t force you.”

“I—I want it, of course I want it, cosito, but...” Minho brushes Jisung’s cheek. “Is this not too soon? Are you sure?”

“I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” Jisung murmurs. “I want to feel you in my veins before I leave.”

Before I never see you again, Jisung thinks but doesn’t say, but they both know it, because Jisung blew most of his life savings on his trot around the world, and won’t be able to afford another for a long time; and because Minho doesn’t have a phone, or an e-mail, or any social media at all; and because all Jisung would have left of him when he leaves is photographs and memories and, if Minho agrees now, the feeling of him burning against Jisung’s skin. Because they have no way to ever see each other’s smiles or hear each other’s voices again, after this, and it will hurt them both when the home they find in each other is torn painfully away from them.

“...Okay,” Minho says finally, staring unblinkingly at Jisung as if afraid to lose the image of Jisung in his mind. “Okay.”

They melt into each other that night, whimpering into each other’s embraces from both pleasure and pain as they drink each other in. Jisung aches with the knowledge that this will be the first and last time he ever tastes Minho on his lips. When it’s over they collapse into each other, exhausted. They sleep with empty dreams.

In the morning Minho helps him pack in haste. Their eyes don’t meet. They walk downstairs together, arms uselessly curled around each other in tight grips even as they struggle to carry Jisung’s luggage.

When Minso sees them, Jisung can see her heart break in her eyes. Jisung hugs her tight and kisses her on the cheek as he would his own mother before walking out of the inn with Minho in tow. Jisung gives him one last tight embrace before kissing him softly on the forehead.

“Amor,” Minho chokes out. “Don’t forget me, okay?”

“I don’t think I can,” says Jisung, because it’s true. “I never will, hyung.”

“Remember, okay?” Minho sucks in a breath. “If the world allowed us to meet here, it will allow us to meet again. Remember this.”

“Okay,” Jisung says. He doesn’t believe it, but he wants to. “I’ll miss you so much.”

“And I will miss you, too.” Minho kisses his cheek. “Wait for me, okay? We’ll meet again.”

“I’ll wait for you forever,” Jisung breathes, trying not to cry again. Minho gives him a pained smile and Jisung turns away, not wanting to see it. Then Jisung is off to ride the bus, and he watches Minho’s silhouette shrink through the window.

Jisung’s chest feels hollow all the way to Korea.

When he arrives at Seoul, the first thing he does is develop the photos he took of Minho. All fifty-two of them, and he pastes them into an empty album that he finds around his apartment. Then he sits down in front of a canvas, and he paints and he paints until the image of Minho’s crescent smile showered in flower petals stares back at him.

(Jisung laughs, bitter.)

(Nothing’s changed, it seems. It still doesn’t feel like Minho.)

(And it never will.)

(Because what, really, is a face without a heart?)

(What is Minho’s crescent smile, if there is no laughter bubbling between its lips? What is Minho’s golden skin, if there is no pulse thrumming under its surface?)

(Nothing.)

Then the Sony ad campaign that made the flower petals erupt from Mount Irazú comes out, and Jisung watches blankly as he sees moonlight in his own eyes through the screen of his old laptop.

Moonlight, Jisung thinks, because Minho sitting across him was the sun feeding him warmth and Jisung was just the moon bathing in his benevolent glow.

They both have petals in their hair as they cup each others’ cheeks. Jisung doesn’t even flinch when the footage cuts before the camera can catch their lips pressing against each other.

But it doesn’t matter anymore. None of it does, because now there’s a space in Jisung’s ribcage that he can’t seem to fill.

Hollow.

Jisung’s chest stays hollow.

-

Two years pass.

But that’s okay. Everything is okay.

Jisung has learned how to smile again. It never reaches his eyes and it hurts to look at himself in the mirror, but Jisung has learned to smile again. Whenever Changbin looks at him there is guilt in his gaze and it hurts to look at him, too, but Jisung can’t do anything about it. Even though none of this was ever Changbin’s fault. Even though Changbin never did anything wrong.

Jisung pretends to be fine. He gets by. His photography improves, almost impossibly, from his trip around the world and the desire to keep his job. He thinks fleetingly that if he runs himself ragged, maybe he’ll get paid enough so that he can go back to Costa Rica and see Minho’s bright smile and hear Minho’s honey-sweet voice and feel Minho’s warm skin beneath his fingertips in the same way that he did in his last night in Cartago.

Sometimes when Jisung closes his eyes he can still see himself in its winding streets. Sometimes he even lets himself rewatch the Sony ad campaign so that he can let himself relive the moment that Minho admits Jisung has his heart, even if only for a minute.

It’s painful. But it lets him see Minho in motion, at least, even if it’s not in real life. And Jisung is content with this for a while. He functions, even if his friends think he doesn’t. Jisung eats his meals and gets enough sleep and there’s really nothing they can hold against him. Usually.

Then Changbin calls him one afternoon, voice frantic through the speakers of Jisung’s phone.

It’s two o’clock, but Jisung still hasn’t gotten up. Today he doesn’t have any shoots to attend to, for once, nor any photos to edit.

(Okay, maybe there’s one more stack of photos to edit, but those aren’t due in a while. Let Jisung live.)

“Jisungie, you have to come to the company,” Changbin stresses, sounding like he’s trying to be quiet. “It’s important.”

“What? Why?” Jisung squints. “‘M still sleepy. Can’t this wait?”

“No,” Changbin insists. “You have to come now, trust me.”

“Why,” Jisung whines, burying himself further into his sheets. Changbin exhales sharply on the other end.

“I don’t want to spoil it for you, but I will tell you this,” Changbin sighs. “Today we’re looking at applicants for choreography. I think you’ll want to see them.”

“Changbinnie-hyung, how many times have I told you that I’m not interested in anyone other than—“

”Jisung,” Changbin groans, and Jisung pauses. Then his jaw falls open. “I know.”

“...Oh my god,” Jisung says after a while, realization washing over him. “Oh my god, hyung, no, you can’t mean... oh my god, oh my god, no, no, hyung, you can’t be serious—“

“I’m serious,” Changbin huffs. “Now come over. Quickly, before they dismiss the applicants.”

Jisung tosses his phone somewhere down on the bed, and he scrambles up to get dressed. He doesn’t even care about what he pulls onto his body—he’s gone to shoots in pajamas before—and he rushes out of his apartment in a sprint.

He hopes he’s right. Oh god, Jisung needs to be right. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he isn’t.

It’s only ten minutes later that Jisung makes it to the entertainment company, breath exhausted from his lungs and his calves burning with strain. He ran all the way, because he’s stupid and eager like that.

Jisung heaves himself up the stairs and rushes through the halls on shaking legs. Conference Room Three, he thinks to himself as his eyes skim over the labels on the doors. It’s where Changbin and his board usually review applicants. Or at least Jisung thinks it is. He prays and prays that he remembers that number correctly.

(He doesn’t.)

When Jisung opens the door to the conference room, it’s bare and empty and no one is inside and Jisung lets out a frustrated yell. Then he turns around, crease between his eyebrows and lips pursed tight. He scurries out, contemplating on shoving every conference room open until he finds the right one.

But he doesn’t have to.

Because when Jisung turns, he sees someone exit the door at the end of the hallway. Someone familiar. Extremely familiar.

Jisung wants to cry.

He’s still as beautiful as the day Jisung first saw him.

“...Minho-hyung,” Jisung chokes out. “Minho-hyung!”

A dark head of hair perks up. Wine-dark eyes shine with recognition at Jisung’s haggard form. Jisung knows those eyes. He knows them so well—those dark, dark eyes and those pitch-black locks and those pink lips and that golden-brown skin.

It’s Minho. Really Minho.

“Jisung,” Minho calls softly, taking long strides in a rush to reach out and wrap Jisung in his arms. ”Jisung, it’s really you!”

Minho squeezes him, planting a kiss onto Jisung’s hair. He pulls back, blinking at Jisung as if struck, and he kisses both of Jisung’s cheeks. Jisung feels tears prickle at his eyes because he—he can’t believe it. He can’t believe Minho is really here.

He can’t believe he’s home.

“I—I waited for you, hyung,” warbles Jisung. “I waited so long.”

“What did I tell you, cosito?” Minho laughs, eyes watering. “I said the world would let us meet again.”

And it did. And Jisung still can’t believe it. He sobs, overwhelmed, and curls his arms around Minho’s neck. “I missed you, hyung, I missed you—missed you so much—“

“Shh,” Minho coos. “I can’t understand you, corazón, you’re speaking too fast.”

It’s only then that Jisung realizes they’re speaking Korean, Minho’s accent forming oddly around some words as he switches back and forth from Spanish pet names to conversing in Korean.

“You’re... you’re speaking Korean,” Jisung murmurs, marvelling at Minho’s proud smile.

“Well, I’m in Korea, aren’t I?” Minho presses their foreheads together. “Of course I’d speak Korean.”

“I don’t... I don’t understand...” Jisung blinks at him—drinks in his wine-dark eyes. “How... why...”

“I had to work in Costa Rica for a bit after I graduated,” Minho says. “But as soon as I could afford it, I came here to look for work, and—and to look for you.”

“And you found me,” Jisung laughs, voice cracking. “Please don’t tell me I’m dreaming.”

“You’re not dreaming,” comes a voice, but it’s not Minho‘s honey-sweetness. It’s Changbin. “You’re in my hallway, showing very public displays of affection. Get a room, you idiots.”

Jisung grins at Changbin, and for the first time in two years Changbin sees Jisung’s smile reach his eyes and for the first time in two years there isn’t any guilt in Changbin’s gaze when he looks at Jisung. Changbin scoffs, but there’s a smile on his face.

For the first time in two years, warmth blooms across Jisung’s chest.

“Thank you,” Jisung says, seperating from Minho to hug Changbin briefly. “Thank you so much.”

Changbin only smiles. “Why are you thanking me for kicking you out of the hallway? Go find an empty conference room. Or, better yet, go home.”

Jisung beams at him. Then he laces his fingers with Minho’s, and he beams at Minho, too. Minho looks like he’s going to cry. Jisung kisses his tears away when he does.

“Jisung, you have ten seconds to leave before I call Chan-hyung to make him fawn over you,” Changbin threatens, and Jisung cringes.

“Oh, no,” Jisung says, but he’s grinning. “Gotta blast!”

Tugging Minho by the hand, Jisung runs through the halls again. The staff only shake their heads at him. They’re used to his antics at this point.

But then giggles bubble up from Minho’s throat, and when Jisung squeezes his eyes shut it almost feels like they’re weaving through the streets of Costa Rica again, laughter high in the air and mirth filling their lungs. Jisung feels light, so impossibly light, that it’s almost overwhelming how happy he feels.

They stumble into Jisung’s apartment minutes later, giggling and eyeing each other and taking each other in, overcome with feeling. When Jisung looks into Minho’s eyes, he melts.

Snuggled into his sheets hours later with Minho curling into his side, Jisung feels warm. He cards his fingers through Minho’s hair, humming softly in contentment. Minho looks every bit as ethereal and beautiful and enchanting as Jisung remembers and his chest hurts with the knowledge that now, he can have this whenever he wants. Jisung presses a kiss to Minho’s forehead.

He remembers Minho’s face outlined in gold from the light pouring in through the windows of the inn at Cartago. Jisung remembers that same face, nerves obscured by the shadows cast from the sun behind his head; that same face, peering at Jisung through eyelashes wet by the river. He remembers seeing golden skin painted red and blue and yellow inside a church; remembers feeling like he was intruding on something, like he was given a glimpse of heaven that he didn’t deserve; and Jisung remembers eyes crinkling into crescents and laughter ringing high in the air among the flower petals raining down from the sky.

Jisung remembers Minho—sees Minho, sees him and feels him tucked into Jisung’s side. Something washes over him. Something sacred. Something divine.

(Safe, warm, soft.)

(Grace.)

Minho stirs, circling his arms around Jisung. He blinks sleepily at his lover—his lover—and Jisung cups his face. He smiles.

In each other’s arms, their hearts bloom, unfurl.

And they are home.