Archive of Our Own

Minho is spending yet another weekday cursing his inability to start any of his assignments on time, vibrating from too many triple espresso americanos and trying valiantly to drown out the low chatter in the cafe around him. Curse Changbin for breaking his own noise cancelling headphones and begging Minho to borrow his for some production assignment he has coming up. Minho told Changbin that piecing together samples on Rockband hardly counted as an assignment, then had to sit through a half-hour long rant from his roommate about the art of music mixing and composition, Changbin continuing with his tirade even after Minho had relented and handed over his headphones.

So, now here he is, with some three year old Airpods with shitty battery life and a slowly depleting will to continue participating in academia.

He’s about to give up with the campus cafe and move to the library, its joy-siphoning abilities be damned for the sake of getting an A on this paper, when there’s the distinct sound of microphone feedback suddenly drilling its way into his skull. Minho winces and looks up from his work, finding someone in a barista apron standing on a little platform in the corner near the drink pickup bar, a microphone too short for them in front and a stool placed behind them.

“Hi, uh, welcome to open mic!” the barista greets, cheerily. Minho groans and wonders if he’s a rude enough person to get up and leave right then. He reconsiders after he closes his laptop and receives a handful of disapproving glares from other patrons.

Minho tries not to roll his eyes at people being so defensive over what is essentially karaoke.

“Many of you will likely recognize our first performer tonight,” the barista continues. “So, if everyone could please join me in welcoming Han to the stage!” He starts to clap, and low applause from the patrons follows, while a boy wearing a baseball cap low over his face steps up onto the platform. He has an acoustic guitar slung over his back and he’s practically swimming in his hoodie. When he settles onto the stool his knees knock together and Minho can’t help but find it a little cute.

Then Han does something truly unforgivable, in Minho’s opinion, by taking off his hat and shaking his onyx hair out.

Han is, in Minho’s expert opinion, the cutest boy on the planet.

He brings his guitar over his shoulder and breathes out what looks like a steadying breath before leaning into the mic. Minho has to physically suppress a coo at the way Han’s cheeks puff out as he exhales.

“Hi everyone, in case you didn’t hear I’m, uh, Han,” he says into the mic, and Minho finds it of great offence to his heart when Han bites his lip, his big, dark eyes downcast as he starts to strum.

It doesn’t take Minho long to recognize the opening lines to Take Me to Church and he can’t help but wonder if Han knows how much hope he just planted inside Minho’s heavily barricaded gay heart. He’s gotten into many drunken debates over the blatant queer undertones in Hozier’s music, arguing with straight Commerce majors and needing to be physically dragged away on the off occasion by a disgruntled but thoroughly entertained Changbin.

Han’s voice is also beautiful. It’s melodic and syrupy in a way that Minho finds immediately relaxing. When he glances around at the small crowd of patrons, he notices everyone’s eyes are on Han, many with small smiles that look subconscious, like Han has made a little nook for himself in their hearts as well.

He finishes his first song, glancing up at the crowd and offering a shy grin and sparkling eyes, before starting up on something that sounds like it may have been originally by Sam Smith, though Minho isn’t certain. It hardly matters, though, considering how soothing the lyrics are as they leave Han’s lips.

He finishes up his set with one final song, offering a polite farewell to the crowd before standing up from the stool, flinging his guitar over his back as he exits the stage. Minho turns toward the sound of whispering and shuffling coming from the table next to him, and watches as one of the girls sitting at the table seems to collect herself and stand up, moving towards Han with some very unsubtle encouragement from her friends.

Minho feels ridiculous over the streak of jealousy that runs through him, knowing he’s glaring at the scene unfolding and feeling slightly guilty over it, though not enough to keep his scowl under control. He can’t actually hear any of the words being exchanged, but he watches with mild envy as the girl nervously tucks her hair behind her ear, offering Han a polite smile. She’s likely complimenting his performance, given the polite nod Minho catches as well as Han’s adorably bashful smile.

The satisfaction Minho feels when Han clearly makes a polite but hasty retreat is so concentrated it's probably toxic, and he feels immediately bad about it when the girl makes her way over to the table with a crestfallen expression, her friends offering consoling words and pats on the back.

It’s also ridiculous because it doesn’t mean Minho has any more of a chance with Han than the poor girl did. He could already have someone, or, heaven forbid, he could be straight. Minho would need to have a very personal conversation with God about being deceived via Hozier if that were the case.

It’s only once Han has left the cafe and is officially out of sight that Minho remembers why he even came to it in the first place, checking the time on his phone and realizing he just used up fifteen minutes of precious work time to drool over a boy he doesn’t actually know. Another person steps up to the platform, but the urgency of his midnight deadline pushing at Minho’s back forces him to pack up his laptop, sheepishly exiting the cafe and heading in the direction of the soulless dungeon that is the campus library.

As has become essentially routine with his assignments at this point, Minho submits his essay exactly three minutes before midnight, hastily closing all the tabs with his sources and shutting his laptop. The library is mostly empty at this point, just one other student on the same floor as him, three tables down and looking almost catatonic. He feels for the girl, and when she glances up at him, clear dread in her eyes, he tries to offer her his most sympathetic smile. She either doesn’t care, or is too far in her own academic distress to notice, because she doesn’t even acknowledge him, instead looking back down at the notes splayed out in front of her like they’re her own personal nightmare fuel.

Given what Minho already knows from experience, they probably are.

Still, an unknown student’s university stress is, quite honestly, not his problem. So, he packs away his laptop, stands and stretches his arms high above his head until he feels the kink in his back loosen, then slings his backpack over his shoulders and promptly leaves the library.

The night is warm, the summer heat still pushing well into late September, keeping the cold waiting out on the porch for at least a little while longer. Minho pulls one of the joints he rolled last night out of the little metal case in his backpack, lighting it as he walks, praying that it’ll settle how wired he feels from completing the last six pages of his essay in the two hours before it was due. He’s taking one of his last hits when he passes the cafe, the windows still warmly lit from the inside, the baristas sweeping the floors and setting everything away. Minho’s thoughts drift to a certain dark-haired boy with bright doe-eyes, and a voice like silk and crackling fire somehow rolled into one.

Minho doesn’t even register his feet shifting to take him to the front door of the cafe until he’s pushing it open, the bells above tinkling as he pops his head in.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” says the barista behind the bar, without even turning around.

“Oh, yeah uh, I know,” Minho stammers. “I was just, uh, wondering when the next open mic will be?”

The barista finally turns around, offering Minho a kind smile as he leans against the counter.

“Looking to perform?” he asks.

Minho raises his hands up. “Oh, no, no. I was just wondering.”

The barista chuckles, and Minho wonders what he finds so amusing.

“We host them every Wednesday, 8pm,” the barista answers. “We just started it last winter, but it’s been a hit so far. I would recommend getting here at least an hour before, though.”

Minho offers his thanks, which the barista gives a polite salute in response to, Minho ducking back out of the cafe and realizing then that his joint burnt out down to the filter. Oh well, there wasn’t much left anyway, and he can feel his muscles loosen and his brain start to slow, and once he arrives home he offers Changbin only a cursory hello before brushing his teeth, feeding his cat, and crawling into bed.

Minho blames the weed on his last thought, before falling asleep, being a vivid image of the vein bulging on the side of Han’s neck every time he would hit a high note.

Minho finds himself once again at the same table by the window the next Wednesday. He’d shown up right after his afternoon lab, absently working on a couple of smaller assignments, but ultimately too distracted at the prospect of seeing Han again. He pathetically hopes that Han will maybe come early tonight and sit down with a drink, but he only shows up when 8pm rolls around and the barista welcomes him to the stage.

He’s in another oversized hoodie and skinny jeans, knees once again knocking together as he introduces himself, starting on another Hozier cover to open his set, and his voice is just as beautiful as Minho remembers. He also tries not to let his little gay heart put too much weight into Han once again picking Hozier to cover, and only mildly succeeds.

He sings four covers that night, Minho only vaguely recognizing the last three songs, but it hardly matters that he doesn’t know them because he finds himself totally enraptured by Han’s presence. He really is beautiful, his dark irises catching the golden light of the table lamps every time he glances up at the small crowd, shimmering like tiny flecks of sparks in a midnight sky. His shy smile when he ends his set is enough to completely disarm Minho, and he nearly throws all caution to the wind and just goes and fucking talks to Han, when another guy beats him to the punch.

Minho watches as a guy that looks about their age approaches Han, introducing himself with a polite handshake and once again, Minho can’t hear any of the exchange. Also, the dude is unfairly attractive. Like, could easily be street-scouted for Versace attractive, with his shoulder length bleached hair pulled back into a ponytail, sharp, narrow jawline and permanent-set bedroom eyes. It’s fucking unfair, and Han seems a little more receptive than he did last week, though Minho catches him ringing his hands nervously in front of himself.

The man leans in a little, ducking down to make himself more close in height to Han, and Minho can’t help but chuckle to himself over the way Han’s eyes go wide and he wipes his palms on the front of his jeans. Minho can’t be sure, but he also thinks he might have gulped, based on the way his Adam's apple bobbed.

Just as Minho’s jealousy begins to crest, Han offers the man a polite smile but a rushed goodbye, and Minho didn’t see anything that looked like it could’ve been an exchange of phone numbers. Except, he only feels smug for a few seconds, before it dawns on him that for Han to have rejected a walking, talking adonis, then he must be taken.

He slumps back into his seat, groaning with his head back, not caring how absurd he looks to other patrons in that moment.

He shoots a quick text to his best friend, Seungmin, to lament his unfair life.

Minho tries to remove thoughts of Han from his mind by getting back to his assignments. He’s not even mildly successful.

Minho wishes he was better at keeping shit to himself because now that Changbin is at the cafe with him, as it nears closer and closer to 8pm, he realizes his roommate will be able to see right through him when Han eventually performs. He still has just under an hour to prepare for his inevitable embarrassment, and he can only hope that Changbin won’t do anything truly humiliating like try and force Minho to talk to Han. Still, it’s nice to have company, even with his internal panic going on.

Changbin was Minho’s first friend on campus, starting the same year even though Changbin was a year younger, since Minho had taken time off after finishing high school. They had clicked almost immediately over their general disdain for Frosh Week icebreakers and residence competitions, and had spent most of orientation week playing pool in the residence lounge and drinking beer inconspicuously out of water bottles. Minho is so glad he chose hanging out with Changbin over playing tug-of-war against the rugby team or waking up at the ass-crack of dawn to do cheer-offs against the other residence groups.

Now, though, he has some mild regrets over not just joining in on two-truths-and-a-lie with some overzealous Frosh Week leaders.

Suddenly, Changbin speaks up and pulls Minho out of his inner turmoil.

“Oh shit, is that Hyunjin?” he asks, and Minho follows Changbin’s line of sight to the same gorgeous blond that struck out on Han last week.

Minho turns back to Changbin, shrugging. “Fuck if I know, I’ve never met the guy.”

Changbin either didn’t pay attention to what he just said or doesn’t care, because he ends up answering his own question.

“It totally is him. Damn, no wonder Chan’s so in love,” he muses.

Minho frowns, completely lost as to what the hell Changbin is even talking about. “I’m sorry, what? Who’s Chan?”

Changbin finally pulls his attention away from the demi-god and back to Minho.

“Chan was that TA I really hit it off with last year, remember?”

Minho only has a vague recollection of his name, but he does remember Changbin gushing over his cool fourth year Early History of Music TA who had actually taken the time to listen to some of Changbin’s samples, admiring Changbin’s natural talent for lyricism. Minho likely forgot his name due to drowning out Changbin’s nonstop outpouring of praise over his TA. He was like a little fanboy, almost, and it would have been endearing if Minho hadn’t had to hear about the man nearly every weekend for a full semester.

“Vaguely,” Minho answers. “But what does he have to do with that Hyunjin guy?”

“Chan’s got, like, the most hopeless crush I’ve ever seen, on him,” he explains. “Like, I think I’ve seen Hyunjin’s Instagram account more times than my school email.”

Minho whistles, low. “Damn, sounds like he’s got it bad.”

“Yup,” Changbin says, popping the P. “Doesn’t help that the dude posts, like, three times a week, so every time I go record with Chan he’s got, like, six new pictures to get all moony-eyed over.”

Minho offers Changbin his best attempt at a sympathetic look before taking a sip from his iced americano. The ice long ago melted, so it’s a little watered down, but it still hits the spot.

The same barista from previous weeks, who Minho has come to learn is named Jeongin, steps up to the little platform in the corner. Minho hadn’t even noticed them push the tables aside and set up, so the playlist from the stereo speakers going quiet as the feed was switched to the mic caught him by surprise.

“Welcome to another open mic, everyone!” Jeongin announces, with the faux-saccharine tone that Minho knows is a consolation prize for working long enough in customer service.

The patrons give an enthusiastic little cheer, many closing their books and laptops to focus on the stage.

“Our first performer tonight is a regular, as I’m sure you all know him, so please join me in welcoming Han!”

The cheer this time is louder and no less enthusiastic, and Minho once again is completely awestruck by Han and his pigeon toes and full cheeks.

“Wait,” Changbin whispers from across the table, and when Minho turns to look at him, he finds Changbin peering at Han like he's assessing him. “That’s Jisung!”

Minho just cocks his head to the side. He doesn’t know a Jisung and as far he’s aware, Changbin has not once mentioned a Jisung, but Minho also has a bad habit of tuning Changbin out when he mentions too many names Minho doesn’t know.

“Chan’s roommate,” Changbin explains, voice hushed so as not to disturb Han’s (Jisung’s?) little introduction. “He comes around sometimes when we make music. Him and Chan are super close.”

Han starts up on his first song, which Minho finds he doesn’t recognize, but a couple other patrons are mouthing along, so he assumes it’s just far too indie for him to have heard before. He knows, rationally, he shouldn’t make assumptions about someone he’s not spoken a word to, but he can’t help but think Han’s the type to have a Spotify playlist of artists with under ten thousand monthly listeners.

Han’s voice, as usual, is beautiful. Minho deliriously wonders if the sound of Han singing Hozier will be what he first hears when he reaches the pearly gates.

It’s as Han’s finishing up his second song that Minho notices Changbin smirking at him. He turns to glare at him, questioning, but Changbin just offers a knowing look in Han’s direction, his smirk widening.

“This’ll be my last song for the night, everyone,” Han says, and the crowd of patrons offers a collective whine of disappointment at that. Han chuckles, shy but grateful, a small smile taking residence on his lips as he begins his final song.

Minho isn’t paying any attention to Changbin, so when he feels a smack on his upper arm he startles, yelping loudly enough that some nearby customers turn to glare at him.

“What the fuck was that for?” Minho whispers through his teeth.

Changbin waggles his eyebrows, tilting his head towards Han, then obnoxiously making kissy faces.

Fuck. He’s been caught.

Minho only offers Changbin a glare before turning his focus back to the stage, trying to school his expression into something neutral, but based on the looks Changbin keeps sending him out of the corner of his eye, he hypothesizes that he’s not doing a very convincing job of acting only mildly interested.

Jisung fiddles with tuning his guitar between songs, and Changbin speaks up, Minho knowing damn well he’s been waiting for an opportunity to grill him.

“You’re smitten, dude,” he comments, the same infuriating smirk still present.

Minho rolls his eyes. “How could I be smitten when I’ve never even spoken to him?”

Changbin raises a pointed eyebrow at him, and Minho caves, partly because he knows there’s no getting out of this and partly because he wants this conversation to end.

“Ok, fine, I think he’s cute,” Minho admits. “But it doesn’t even matter, anyway. He turned down that real life Prince Charming,” Minho gestures towards where Hyunjin is sitting and looking effortlessly gorgeous.

“So?” Changbin asks.

“So, what hope do I have?” Minho gripes.

Changbin gives him a look like he thinks Minho is quite literally the stupidest person in the world. He’s not sure what exactly he’s done to deserve it.

“Do you ever listen to anything I say to you?” Changbin complains.

Minho shoots him an offended look, readying an objection before Changbin speaks again before he can.

“Jisung’s roommate, and best friend, has a massive crush on Hyunjin,” he explains, and he’s using that tone like he’s explaining quantum physics to an eighth grader.

It clicks, finally, for Minho. Of course Han - who Minho thinks he should probably start referring to as Jisung - would turn down his roommate’s crush, it’s just common courtesy.

Still, the new info only makes Minho feel marginally better.

“He’s never shown an ounce of interest in me, though,” Minho mutters, crossing his arms petulantly.

Changbin rolls his eyes. “You also sit at the table that’s essentially as far away as possible from the stage.”

“So?” Minho says. “This place isn’t very big. He doesn’t even look at me.”

“He doesn’t look at anyone,” Changbin counters. Which Minho has to concede is true. Jisung’s gaze is usually downcast while he sings. Minho doesn’t know if it’s because he’s shy, or if he’s just fully immersed in his music, but either way he rarely looks up at the audience except when greeting the crowd.

Minho just offers Changbin a reluctant shrug, picking up his long finished drink from the table and swishing around the remnants of ice, dutifully ignoring Changbin’s smug look.

Jisung starts on his next song, and Minho can’t help but giggle into his palm when he recognizes One Direction’s Fool’s Gold coming over the sound system. He tries to occasionally force his focus away from Han, making a point to glance out the window, Changbin smirking like he knows exactly what Minho is playing at.

When Minho brings his focus back over to Jisung, though, his breath catches when he realizes his gaze is directed his way. When their eyes catch, Jisung immediately looks down at his feet, a shy smile fighting with the shape his mouth makes around the lyrics.

It was so fleeting Minho is sure he imagined it. He glances at Changbin to see if he noticed anything, but he finds his friend looking down at his phone, absently bopping to the music while he texts someone. Minho sighs, disappointed at not getting a second opinion, and he eventually comes to the conclusion that it had to be his overactive imagination when Jisung finishes his last song without glancing his way again.

There’s an iced americano paid for and ready for him when he arrives the next week. Jeongin wordlessly points in the direction of his usual table by the window, the americano set next to a little paper RESERVED sign, clearly written by hand and folded in a haste.

Minho shoots Jeongin an inquisitive look and just receives a shrug in response, though the sly expression he’s wearing suggests he does actually know who bought the drink for Minho but was sworn to secrecy by said mystery person.

Still, Minho isn’t one to turn down free caffeine regardless of not knowing who it’s from, and he trusts Jeongin enough after seeing him working at the cafe for the past month that he’s pretty sure the barista wouldn’t let some random stranger poison him.

He settles down at his usual table and picks up the americano, taking a sip and realizing it’s exactly how he likes it, all the way down to the added bitterness of an extra espresso shot. There’s also a little note written on the sleeve.

You’re gorgeous :)

He looks up and scans the small gathering crowd of patrons to see if anyone is looking at him, but no one seems to be paying him any mind, all caught up on their own conversations or work. No one seems to be paying extra attention to him, no hopeful looks being thrown his way, so Minho gets no hints into who his admirer could be.

Minho half-heartedly works on an essay he has due in a few days, completing a couple of pages before ultimately giving up and closing his laptop, scrolling on his phone through his socials while waiting for open mic to start.

It isn’t long before Jisung is stepping up to the stage, guitar across his body as he settles onto the stool, leaning into the mic.

“Uh, hello everyone, many of you all already know me,” he greets. “Just in case you’re new here, though, I’m, uh, Han.”

Minho doesn’t like making assumptions, but Jisung does seem a little more nervous today than he has at previous shows. He always comes off as a little shy, but his voice was extra quiet during his intro, the mic barely amplifying it, and he’s awkwardly fiddling with the tuning knobs on his guitar as he gets set up.

The biggest tell, though, was Jisung looking at his feet during his entire introduction. Minho’s always seen him look out above the heads of the audience, cheeks flushing but expression determined, his slightly anxious smile the only thing giving away his shyness. It’s a strange turn, Minho thinks, for Jisung to suddenly turn so visibly shy.

Jisung’s slightly off behaviour is immediately forgotten by Minho once he starts to sing, though, his voice melodic and syrupy over the sound system, eyes downcast gracefully, looking peaceful. Minho realizes almost a full verse in that he’s barely been paying attention to the lyrics themselves, instead getting lost in the tone of Jisung’s voice and the beautiful shape of his mouth around the song.

Once Minho starts to really listen in to the words being sung, though, he has to suppress a giggle, because Jisung is singing a reconstructed, acoustic version of 34+35 by Ariana Grande. However, it stops being funny when Jisung glances up, gaze directed at Minho when he gets to the part about keeping it open like a door.

🎵 Come inside it.

Shit, no, this is not the time and place for Minho to be thinking about coming inside anything, certainly not the boy currently singing on a stage across the landscape of wooden tables and chairs and half-empty coffee mugs from Minho.

Half of him wants to get up and leave, and the other half knows that’s rude as hell, given Jisung is literally in the middle of a performance. Jisung finally shifts his gaze away from Minho, and it’s only then that Minho realizes they were locked into eye contact for at least a solid ten seconds. He doesn’t want to dissect it too much, feeling himself getting his hopes irrationally high, but he’s thought about Jisung nearly everyday for the past month, thought about finally approaching him, maybe catching him after his set to see if he’ll sit down for a coffee.

Minho is a coward, though, and also terrified of being publicly rejected the same way Hyunjin and the earlier girl were, doesn’t need the mortification on top of the heartbreak.

Heartbreak. Jesus, he’s been watching too many romance dramas.

Minho catches Jisung glancing at him throughout the rest of his set, but thankfully his other songs aren’t as suggestive as the first was, so Minho is able to spare himself the embarrassment of popping a boner in the middle of a cafe. Minho moves to stand once Jisung thanks the crowd and steps down from the platform, but he hasn’t even pushed his chair all the way out before Jisung has disappeared around a corner that leads to the back entrance, Minho just catching a glimpse of the head of his guitar before it follows behind Jisung.

Minho doesn’t get it. Usually, when boys make eyes at him, whether at a club or a house party or even that one time in the line at McDonald’s at 2am, it ends in him getting into their bed. He’s got a 100% success rate. Or at least, he did, until Jisung dipped after eye fucking him while lyrically asking Minho to cream-pie him.

Un-fucking-believable.

There’s another Americano ready on his usual table when he arrives the next week. Jeongin once again doesn’t give him any hints as to who ordered it.

“What if I give you five dollars?” Minho bribes. Jeongin only offers him a cocked eyebrow in return, shooing him over to his table, Minho sitting down sullenly and taking a sip of his drink. He pulls out his laptop and gets, for once, an early start on a report for his psychology lab.

He’s actually making steady progress on his report when Jeongin’s voice comes over the speakers to announce the beginning of open mic, though, the person he introduces to the stage first isn’t Han, but instead a brunette girl Minho recognizes from previous weeks.

She’s talented, her voice sweet and melodic, but she has one fatal flaw, and that’s the fact she isn’t Jisung. Minho supposes he could just be late, though, and performing in one of the later slots.

Except the next performer comes up on the stage after her, and it’s not Jisung, and neither is the guy after them, or the next girl, and then Jeongin is stepping up on the stage to announce the end of open mic.

Minho feels silly for being disappointed, but he had spent the better half of the past week working up the courage to approach Jisung after his set, had even come up with the perfect one-liner to hopefully sweep Jisung off his feet and into a blissful future of marriage and babies. Or, ok, that’s a bit much. He really just wanted to get in Jisung’s pants. Or Jisung in his pants.

Both would be preferable.

He’s just packing up his stuff to walk home through the chilly night when the bell above the door jingles, and with it enters loud giggling. Minho looks up, spotting two boys walking in, and only realizes once he’s noticed their clasped hands that one of the boys is, in fact, Jisung.

His face is unreasonably close, in Minho’s opinion, to the cute, freckled boy next to him while he laughs.

Minho’s pretty sure it’s not anatomically possible for his heart to deflate, but either way it feels like it has. His chest physically aches, which he knows, rationally, is pathetic. He doesn’t know Jisung, not even remotely, and yet here he is, feeling all melancholy over seeing Jisung holding hands with someone that isn’t him.

Then, just as Minho is swinging his backpack over his shoulder and attempting to escape unseen, Jisung turns around and looks right at him. A small smile forms on his face, and he looks almost timid, eyes wide and uncertain. Minho feels his face flush, offering Jisung a tight-lipped smile in return before making his swift escape, the bells above the door jingling mockingly as he leaves.

That night, Minho schedules himself a therapy appointment with his cat over a large pizza and at least half a bottle of Chianti.

His cat, Dori, doesn’t give him any helpful advice on how to deal with heartbreak, but the pizza is at least good enough to momentarily distract him, and the half bottle turns into a full bottle, and Changbin comes home from what was likely a late-night session at the studio to Minho staring vacantly at reruns of Grey’s Anatomy on the TV.

He spots the nearly empty bottle on the coffee table and sighs, stepping through the archway into the living room and plopping down onto the couch next to Minho, tucking him into his side.

“All right, why are you a full bottle of wine deep on a Wednesday night?” Changbin asks, prodding at Minho’s stomach with the hand that isn’t around his shoulders.

Minho just shrugs. He really doesn’t want to have this conversation right now, really just wants to wallow in his misery over a boy he’s never even exchanged a single word with, but is sure the universe has cruelly decided is the love of his life, anyway.

Ok, maybe he did drink too much wine.

“Come on, man,” Changbin prods. “You can’t just polish off my favourite red without me and then not tell me why you look like someone told you Dori doesn’t love you.”

“The boy I like is taken,” Minho mopes, slumping down further into the couch. He kind of wishes it would just swallow him whole. At least if he ends up being digested by a sofa he doesn’t have to think about cute boys ever again.

He also wouldn’t have to do midterms, which is a nice, added bonus.

Changbin makes a vaguely bemused sound, and when Minho glances at him, he catches the way Changbin’s eyebrows are pinched in the centre of his forehead.

“Jisung?” Changbin questions.

Minho just nods solemnly.

“Are you sure?” Changbin asks.

“Well, he was holding hands with some boy,” Minho grumps, tossing his hands up. “And they were giggling. Giggling, Changbin! Isn’t that disgusting?”

Changbin chuckles next to him, but pulls Minho in tighter to his side anyway, consoling.

“They could have just been friends,” Changbin explains.

“And holding hands?” Minho says, in disbelief.

“Jisung is a very, very cuddly person,” Changbin says. “It’s very possible.”

Minho turns to Changbin to glare at him. “How do you know Jisung is cuddly?”

Changbin puts his hands up in surrender. “Chan told me! Don’t worry, I’m not cuddling your man that isn’t at all your man,” he teases.

Minho shoves him, but he can’t help but laugh, a little bit, at his own ridiculousness as well as at Changbin.

“He’s just so cute,” Minho sighs, tipping his head back on the couch.

Changbin studies him for a moment, and Minho can’t help but give him a perplexed frown.

“You’re normally so confident when it comes to guys,” Changbin comments.

“I know!” Minho exclaims. “Which is why this is so annoying!”

“Look,” Changbin says, tone final. “Next week, just work your magic, ask if he’s single. I’m pretty sure he is.” Minho is about to chime in before Changbin interrupts him. “Regardless of what you saw today” he tacks on.

Minho pouts to himself, before throwing his hands up, conceding. “Fine, but if I get rejected and humiliated, we’re going out and you’re paying for all my drinks.”

Minho really doesn’t want to be at the cafe. He arrived an hour before open mic, as usual, and sat at the table in the far corner by the window, as usual, but his stomach is turning and he can barely focus on the assignment in front of him.

He’s barely even touched his drink. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and Minho’s going to need reinforcements in the form of his two closest friends, so, in his desperation, he sends a text to the group.

Minho’s in the middle of typing out a response when he’s interrupted by the sound of Jeongin’s voice over the sound system, once again thanking everyone for coming to open mic before announcing the first performer.

“I’m sure you all missed him last week, so please help me welcome our first performer, Han, to the stage!”

That prompts an enthusiastic response from the crowd, a couple of patrons whistling as Han steps up onto the platform, blushing furiously while he settles down into the stool. His pleased smile is so adorable that Minho might just disintegrate on the spot.

“Hi everyone,” Han greets, chuckling at an especially impassioned cheer from a bulky man sitting close to the stage. “Sorry for not being here last week, I was working on something, so I hope you don’t mind, but I’ll be starting my set with an original piece.”

The crowd offers quiet encouragement, laughing when the same man near the front whistles and cheers, Jisung laughing along with them before putting his fingers to the strings of his guitar.

“Oh, uh, I nearly forgot,” Jisung stammers, and Minho doesn’t think he’s imaging the nervous note to his voice. “This is actually dedicated to someone?” he says it like a question, and then he looks out to the audience and his gaze lands right on Minho, offering a shy smile.

No way. There’s no fucking way.

Jisung continues, holding eye contact with Minho. “This is for the guy who sits by the far window,” he murmurs into the mic. “The one with stunning eyes who I’ve been admiring for weeks now.”

No. Fucking. Way.

Most of the patrons are fully turned around in their seats, the silence of the room suffocating as they all look at Minho assessingly.

Minho can feel the heat rising to his face, pretty sure there’s enough that he could take off like a hot-air balloon. He centres his own gaze on Jisung, trying to, and only mildly succeeding in, ignoring the looks of everyone around him.

“Ok, yeah, I get that,” says a girl sitting close to Minho, and the tension immediately snaps as people break into quiet giggles, thankfully turning their attention away from Minho and back to Jisung. Minho swears he could fry an egg on his forehead with how hot his face feels.

Jisung looks nervous, biting his bottom lip, eyebrows pinched in uncertainty. Minho, through the fog of embarrassment and disbelief, realizes he should probably offer Jisung some kind of response. He can barely think, so all he’s able to do is nod, a delighted grin pulling at his lips, but it’s apparently enough for Jisung, who lets out an audible breath and starts to strum.

He knows he should be paying attention to the lyrics, considering they’re apparently for him, but he keeps getting distracted by Jisung’s shy glances up at him, the way his fingers stutter over the frets for a brief moment when Minho offers him a toothy smile, and the smooth sound of his voice settling deep into Minho’s very bones.

He hears Jisung sing something about rock pools glistening in moonlight, and he thinks it’s possibly a metaphor for his eyes, and Minho suddenly wants to drown in Jisung's voice. He thinks it would be a pretty peaceful way to go.

Jisung finishes the song, the crowd offering encouraging whoops and cheers as he smiles at everyone bashfully before locking eyes with Minho again and offering him a wide smile, big eyes crinkling in the corners with it.

Minho feels some of his confidence come back, and he uses it to push the chair across from him out with his foot, motioning toward the now open chair with his head, smirk directed at Jisung.

Jisung’s eyes go wide and he flushes all the way down his neck.

“Sorry everyone, I think I’m going to have to cut it short today,” he says, slinging his guitar over his back and hopping down from the stool, grin still splitting his face.

Minho still isn’t completely sure he’s not hallucinating as Jisung maneuvers over to his table, apologizing to the patrons of a table he knocks with his guitar, them waving him off while offering reassuring smiles, one even giving him a thumbs up.

Minho knows he’s staring as Jisung places his guitar down to lean against the table and plops into the open seat, and he can barely bring himself to say anything now that Jisung is right in front of him, solid and real and even more beautiful up close.

“Hi,” Minho greets, cringing at how breathy he sounds.

“Hi,” Jisung responds, his fingers fiddling on the table top.

They fall into uncomfortable silence, Minho glancing down into his half empty coffee cup, swirling around the remnants of ice floating in the drink.

“Umm, everyone is staring,” Jisung whispers, interrupting the quiet. Minho glances around them, and sure enough, most of the patrons are looking right at them, some with curious glances and others expectantly and the odd one with envy. Minho chuckles, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of all of this, still not completely sure he isn’t dreaming it all.

“Wanna go for a walk?” Minho offers, tilting his head towards the door. Jisung lets out what looks like a relieved breath, nodding enthusiastically, picking his guitar back up and placing it over his back. Minho rushes to pack away his stuff, slinging his backpack over his shoulder as they move towards the door, Minho holding it open and Jisung offering him a tiny thank you in return.

They walk in silence for half a block before Minho can’t hold it anymore and lets out a giggle, which eventually turns hysterical, no longer being able to walk as he doubles over. He can hear Jisung asking him something, clearly concerned, but he can barely bring himself to stop as the absolute absurdity of not only this day, but the whole previous month, sets in.

He kind of hopes he actually is dreaming, because Jisung must think he’s clinically insane, now.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Minho wheezes, standing back up straight, trying valiantly to suppress his giggles. Jisung’s looking at him, completely bewildered, but he’s still smiling, though it looks a little uncertain.

Whatever, Minho’s just lucky he hasn’t split off in a sprint, so he’ll consider slight uncertainty a victory.

“Ok, ok,” Minho says once he gets some breath back. “I just, this is real?”

“Yes,” Jisung says, slowly, still clearly confused. “Why...why wouldn’t it be?”

Minho reaches out, not even thinking before he’s grabbing the sleeve of Jisung’s hoodie, feeling it between his fingers. He snatches his hand away quickly once he realizes what he just did.

“I’m...I’m sorry,” Minho apologizes. “I’ve just...you’ve been…” He trails off, but Jisung nods anyway.

“I think I kind of get it,” he says. “Like, when you’ve wanted something for so long, and then you get it, and...yeah.”

Minho chuckles to himself. “Yeah,” he breathes.

Somehow, someway, they’ve understood each other. It’s got to be some kind of miracle, considering to any outsider, their conversation would make absolutely no sense. He can barely believe that Jisung, the boy he’s been admiring for over a month now, is standing right in front of him, laughing with him, so close he can see the way the street lights starting to come on glimmer in his dark irises.

“I’m kinda hungry,” Jisung says, giving Minho a hopeful look.

“I know a great shawarma place a couple blocks from here,” Minho suggests, and a whole fucking stampede erupts in his stomach at Jisung’s answering smile.

Jisung is lounging back on Minho’s bed, the soft coral light of the setting sun caressing over his bare chest and the skin of his inner thighs where his shorts ride up, absently messing with his phone while Minho folds laundry.

He’s fucking gorgeous, and it hardly matters that it’s been over six months, because looking at Jisung for too long still renders Minho completely breathless.

“You’re staring,” Jisung muses, not even looking up from his phone.

“And what if I am?” Minho counters, cocking an eyebrow when Jisung looks up at him, grin bright and easy.

“Come ‘ere,” Jisung drawls, putting his phone down on the nightstand and opening his arms up for Minho. There’s a slight sheen of sweat on his biceps from the mid-May heat, gleaming as it catches the light from the window, his head tilted back and a slow smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Minho has the sudden urge to do things to Jisung that he’s pretty sure haven’t been discovered by science yet.

He crawls into Jisung’s space, pushing him so he’s lying down with his head against the pillows, pressing his face into his chest and breathing in his scent.

“I’m so glad I met you,” Minho murmurs, feeling Jisung press his lips into the hair at the crown of his head

“I’m so glad I worked up the nerve to perform Cat Eyes,” Jisung says.

“Hmm?” Minho murmurs, picking his head up off Jisung’s chest. Jisung’s eyes are wide, his face completely flushed, no longer just from the heat of the evening sun.

“Wait,” Minho says, pressing up, hands placed on either side of Jisung’s rib cage. “The song you sang the night we finally met? It was called Cat Eyes?”

Jisung groans, flinging an arm over his face, trying to hide his embarrassment. Minho laughs, pulling his arm away, admiring Jisung’s deep blush before pressing a lingering kiss to his mouth.

“Your eyes were just really pretty!” Jisung defends, mouth still barely a fraction of a breath from Minho’s.

“Were?” Minho counters, faking exasperation.

Jisung wraps his arms around Minho’s shoulders, rolling them so he’s positioned on top, leaning down and nuzzling into Minho’s neck. “You know what I mean,” he murmurs, breath fanning over Minho’s skin and making him shiver.

They spend the evening rolling around in bed and kissing, not letting it go any further because Changbin is home, and they don’t need him hammering on Minho’s door and being a generally obnoxious cockblock. It isn’t until the sun has long disappeared below the horizon that they maneuver their way into the kitchen, Jisung settling down at the island as Minho labours over a pot of noodles, complaining about doing all the work while Jisung just laughs, knowing Minho doesn’t mean a word of it.

Minho’s made a lot of terribly questionable decisions in his lifetime, but as he sets a bowl down in front of Jisung, receiving a kiss on the cheek in thanks and a grateful smile, he realizes he wouldn’t change anything he’s done that led him to this moment.