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The air reeks of oil and rust, filtering in through mile-high skyscrapers and high-speed railways to cast yellowish beams of light on whoever is unlucky enough to crawl through the labyrinth alleys of downtown Neo-Seoul.
Young children, disheveled and soot-covered, make the best of their lives running in and out of the narrow pathways, while the older humans and cyborgs trudge through each morning trying to scrape by enough credits to last another night. In the spaces between the clangs of turning metal and cackles of laughter, heavy silence rings in the echoes of city life.
Two people, however, are on a mission. Or, one of them is, and the other is just happy to be pulled along.
“Hyung, can I at least ask where we’re going?” Jisung teases as Minho drags him through the gasoline-stained sidewalks.
“Nope,” he responds cheerfully, and Jisung rolls his eyes.
A few minutes later, they’re standing in front of Minho’s workplace, one of the massive skyscrapers that are scattered through Neo-Seoul, used primarily for interstellar communication and broadcasting waves of subliminal radio propaganda into the city.
As the sun begins to dip below the skyline and casts the world into smudged watercolor, turning the city into shades of gold and rust, Minho stares into the iris scanner to unlock the front door before pulling Jisung inside the building. To be honest, he really hates his job there. All of it: the menial labor, the hunching over a screen for eight hours a day, the prickling feeling of dozens of cameras pointed every which way, the stench of his supervisor’s breath whenever he makes an inappropriate joke.
He’d rather be dancing—maybe in Neo-Seoul’s official dance team, or maybe teaching at his own dance studio. But. His job at the broadcasting tower pays a good amount of credits, more than enough to support the two of them.
Jisung’s a photographer with a focus on capturing images of the dirtier parts of the city, revealing the dichotomy between the ground-dwellers and the filthy rich who lived up in the sky. And it’s important work, of course—he’s received numerous awards for his photojournalism—but it’s difficult to find a steady income when he’s exposing the only people wealthy enough to employ him.
It doesn’t matter though, not to Minho. He sees the way Jisung grips his camera almost fervently, the way his fingers twitch imperceptibly whenever he comes across a particularly good location for photos, as if he’s planning out the composition and lighting in his head. He knows that Jisung’s eyes carry the whole galaxy in them whenever he takes a photo that he’s particularly proud of, so he’ll bear the grueling hours and dissatisfaction with his job for the younger.
While he was perfectly fine working to provide for the two of them, Jisung had expressed his frustrations in the past, leading to many years worth of arguments within the thin walls of their apartment.
Why can’t you just quit? Jisung had nearly screamed during one argument last fall. Dance, do something you like, hyung. I hate seeing you hate your job. It’s too much work, and you’re clearly unhappy. Don’t do something you don’t want to for me.
His hands were shaking, knuckles stained red from slamming them on the table, clenched into fists so tightly his fingers were white. Jisung had glared, tears in the corners of his eyes, and Minho had fought the urge to just take him into his arms and protect him from the rest of the world.
Jisungie, he said instead, unfurling his boyfriend’s shaking hands and interlacing their fingers together. It’s not too much work. Not if it's for you.
That night, Minho pretended not to notice the way that Jisung curled even closer towards him than normal, slotting their legs together and pressing his back to Minho’s chest. And Jisung pretended not to notice when Minho’s nose nudged against the top of his head as he whispered, We’ll talk about it later, Jisungie. We’ll figure it out.
But Jisung, sweet, caring Jisung who always looked at Minho like he hung the stars in the sky, wanted to pitch in a few extra credits whenever possible.
So, it was almost expected when, a few weeks later, Jisung reluctantly revealed to Minho over their kitchen counter and two cups of spicy ramen that he had been slipping away to secret shops in the evenings.
Decades prior, after the filthy rich had escaped the rusted, decrepit surface to live in massive ships in the sky, the elite grew tired of materialistic items. After all, with billions upon billions of credits, they could afford to buy anything— even immortality, at a price. The only thing they couldn’t buy back was their humanity, so they came back down to Earth to take even that from the rest of the world.
Tell them a secret, something you’ve never told anyone else, and you’d be compensated with an according number of credits.
Secret shops began popping up as a result of the new industry, inserting a middle man so that the wealthy wouldn’t have to leave their extravagant mansions anymore.
Instead, if you’re short a few dozen credits, needing an extra meal for your family or a new mechanical replacement for your hand, slip inside a secret shop and reveal a secret.
The uglier the secret, the more credits received, because those in the clouds loved to delight at the simple lives of ordinary citizens, loved to pretend that they were still human, trading secrets with each other over champagne glasses and spider silk robes.
Thankfully, Jisung only revealed rather meaningless secrets at those stores for a few extra credits here and there to lessen the financial burden placed on Minho. Regardless, Minho made him promise not to go back. It was all too easy for those in poverty to get drunk off the instant boost in credits, even while knowing they were carving out another chunk of their selves for the elite.
Now, as they stand in the lobby, Jisung gapes at the high ceiling and sleek glass walls, and Minho can already see the gears turning in his head as he envisions an imaginary photoshoot. Something about reflection, perhaps. While he’d love to stand and watch Jisung get lost for hours in the world around them, he had a date planned for the rest of the evening and wasn’t planning on wasting the night on the first floor.
Delicately (always delicately whenever he was with him), Minho wraps his fingers around Jisung’s thin wrist and pulls him into the glass elevator, pressing the button for the highest floor.
To be completely honest, Minho had agonized over this date for the past few days. After all, he worked on the 10th floor, no higher or lower, and although he had access to the top floor, even thinking about how far up he was planning on taking the two of them nearly made him sick.
Deep breaths, he thinks. Don’t think about how goddamn high up we’re going. Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down.
Jisung, of course, notices Minho slowly paling into a rather concerning shade of off-white, and squeezes the other’s hand.
“You good, hyung?” Jisung’s whisper was nearly lost over the whirring sound of the elevator.
Not trusting himself to speak, Minho nods jerkily and lets out a shuddering exhale. Jisung, bless him, doesn’t even wince when he feels his bones being slowly crushed by Minho’s iron grip.
Finally, the glass doors open with a ding, and the two step out onto the building’s highest floor, a large room surrounded by glass walls. On one side, Minho had set up a makeshift blanket fort after work.
Minho inches forward, trembling as he moves at a snail’s pace towards the amalgamation of throw pillows, office couches, and blankets he had smuggled up. Thankfully, Jisung doesn’t mind, taking the time to squeeze his hand in reassurance and look around at the dim room.
When they eventually make their way over to their cozy fortress, Minho almost flings himself onto the floor, shooting Jisung a playfully scathing look when he giggles rather adorably at Minho’s dramatic actions.
“You’re cute, hyung,” Jisung laughs when Minho makes grabby hands at his boyfriend, then gasps an “Okay, I get it!” when Minho gets too impatient and wraps his arms around Jisung’s small waist to yank him down onto some pillows.
“Shut up and help me set up this feast, Jisungie,” Minho says in response to Jisung’s playfulness, pulling out a variety of convenience store delicacies from his bag. Jisung laughs, bright and clear, and reaches over to help lay out their extravagant dinner; in no time, several samgak-kimbap litter the floor, along with Jisung’s favorite brand of chocolate cookies, Minho’s honey butter chips, and a pack of cheap beer.
While Jisung opens the first can of beer for the night, Minho fiddles with a remote for a few seconds, grinning triumphantly when one of their favorite dramas is projected onto the glass wall. They’ve watched it way too many times to count by now, but the two of them somehow never get sick of it.
As the drama fades into background static for him, Minho finds himself turning towards the other. There’s a grain of rice on the corner of Jisung’s mouth, Minho thinks absentmindedly after a while. Then, when he sees Jisung’s eyes still glued to the screen, he wonders how long he’s been staring at him. At least a few minutes, for sure, but Minho wouldn’t be surprised if half an episode had gone by without even realizing it.
Smiling gently, he plucks the grain of rice off, waggling his eyebrows when Jisung looks at him with a sheepish smile, tinged with the slightest hues of exasperation and embarrassment. It’s cute.
Even though Jisung’s able to recite the lead actor’s lines alongside the drama, the plot’s good, and the acting never fails to have them in tears by the end of the final episode. When the main leads kiss for the last time before the projection fades to black, Jisung leans over and pecks Minho on the cheek.
When he retreats, Minho raises a single eyebrow, a questioning that’s all? left hanging in the air.
“Well,” Jisung replies, because he always knows exactly what the other is thinking, “I suppose we can’t be outdone by the drama.”
“No, I don’t suppose we can,” Minho says with a slight smirk. “Guess you better kiss me some more, then.”
Jisung rolls his eyes for the second time that day before leaning in again.
_______
By the time they part, lips bitten swollen and red and shining even in the dark, the moon hangs high in the night sky.
“Wait,” Minho says while catching his breath, because he’ll be damned if Jisung’s perfectly kissable lips distract him from showing his boyfriend the main part of tonight’s date. “Look outside, Jisungie.”
Jisung turns his head and gasps. They’re up high enough that they’re just slightly above the lowest hanging clouds, with an unobstructed view of the night sky. Here, tucked away in their blanket fort paradise, they can escape the pollution and everyday noise of Neo-Seoul. For once, there’s no array of neon lights flooding the streets, no groan of the railway as it snakes across the city, no slightly acrid odor of the mixture of garbage and oil making their noses scrunch in disgust.
The sky is dazzling, ink black and splattered across with billions upon billions of tiny stars. For an instant, it’s so easy to forget. Here, Minho isn’t an office worker trapped in a nine-to-five job distributing propaganda from the government; here, Jisung isn’t a struggling photojournalist torn between his desire to pursue his passion and his overwhelming guilt at his reliance on others.
They’re just Minho and Jisung.
When Minho turns his head to the left to see Jisung’s reaction, he’s struck with overwhelming fondness. The starlight catches on the fullness of his cheeks, the slope of his nose, his recently dyed silver hair. His mouth is slightly open, the way it is always is whenever Jisung sees something that he’s amazed by, and Minho almost coos at the way his front two teeth peek out cutely from beneath his top lip. Almost. He’s not that whipped.
(He actually is that whipped.)
Eventually, Minho finds himself just looking at Jisung’s eyes. They’re wide with awe, and Minho swears he can actually see the Andromeda Galaxy reflected on his eyes. The way Jisung stares at the stars, Minho muses, is the same way he looks at Jisung.
As if he is always seeing something beautiful for the first time.
In a way, Jisung is a star to Minho. Fiery and bright, Minho has always known that he could never look away or escape falling into his orbit. The way that his smile curved into a heart, the way that he laughed every time like it was his first and last, with his whole body thrown into it, the way Jisung always knew what Minho was thinking and never once judged him for being strange or off-putting—it was only a matter of time before Minho to develop feelings for the other. Despite his best efforts to think, No, Jisungie doesn’t see you as anything more than a best friend, it had always been so, so easy to fall in love with the stars.
For years, Minho was just content to bask in the star’s warmth, always looking but never touching, fingertips never quite reaching stardust. But one evening all those years ago, when Jisung had grasped Minho’s hands, fingers shaking slightly, looked him in the eyes, and asked if he could kiss him, Minho touched starlight. And he never looked back.
And now, looking at the way that Jisung’s eyes flit across the wide expanse of the windows, trying desperately to remember the way the stars fall in place, Minho knows he’ll never be able to escape Jisung’s gravitational pull.
Then, Jisung blinks, and he stares back at Minho, and for an instant, Minho’s thrown off guard because Jisung’s looking at him the same way he looked at the stars just moments prior.
“Hyung—” Jisung cuts himself off, as if he doesn’t have any air left in his lungs. He takes a deep breath in. “Hyung. Thank you.”
The corners of Minho’s mouth curl up into a smile, a small, slight one that he reserves only for Jisung. He loves him so much, Minho thinks, and as he sees Jisung’s eyes flit across his features, as if he too is trying to remember Minho painted and washed in moonlight, he knows Jisung feels the same way.
Minho almost says something entirely too cheesy for his taste, then catches himself and replies, “Your breath smells like cheap beer.”
I love you, goes unsaid.
“Hey, you’re the one who bought it!” Jisung laughs in disbelief. “It’s not my fault that you’re a cheapskate with terrible taste in alcohol, hyung!”
I love you too.
“Whatever,” Minho says, and pulls Jisung impossibly closer.
Jisung looks up at Minho and blinks lazily, a smile spreading across his face like he can’t stop himself. “Hi.”
“Hey yourself,” Minho says, and then closes the gap between them.
They kiss slowly, because for once, they have all the time in the world. Then Jisung, the cheeky bastard, slips his tongue inside Minho’s mouth and he gasps, grasping Jisung’s shoulder to steady himself. When Minho pulls away to nudge his nose against Jisung’s neck and pepper kisses across his collarbones, Jisung giggles softly before pulling him back up to kiss him all over again.
Jisung loops his arms around Minho’s neck, hands tugging gently at the hair near the nape of his neck, and Minho swears the room spins. Because no matter how long they’ve been together, how many kisses they share, kissing Jisung feels like coming home.
Jisung tastes like cheap beer and chocolate, and Minho wants to tell the Korean National Space Exploration Force that they don’t need any more interstellar expeditions, because he already knows what stardust feels like. It’s the heat of Jisung’s cheeks whenever Minho brushes his thumbs across them and the heat from Jisung’s thighs when he swings his leg over Minho and straddles his lap. It’s the taste of shitty alcohol, the way Jisung gasps and smiles against Minho’s lips.
Kissing Jisung is like drinking moonlight, and with the stars still stamped across the back of Minho’s eyelids every time he closes his eyes, he feels himself falling, falling into Jisung’s orbit again.