Work Text:
“It’s the chair,” Jisung insists, slouching over his cup of coffee, “my back can’t take the strain of being upright.”
Minho turns the page of his book with a snort. “I’m sure,” he says, “that the chair is the sole reason for your writer’s block.”
“Do you know any other reason?” Jisung asks hopefully because the chair is a recent addition unlike this block that crept in a couple of weeks ago, and made itself home like an unwanted guest. I hate unwanted guests, he thinks with an explosive exhale. He stirs the spoon; watches ripples form and reach outward towards the edges of his mug.
“Maybe you just need a break.” Minho’s eyes are still glued to his book. “Listen to some new music, take a walk, pick up a new hobby,” he shrugs, “just let your brain reset itself.”
Jisung stares hard at the cover of Minho’s book. It’s a new one and it proclaims death and murder in a glossy splatter of blood. He sighs and pokes the spine of the book, his cheek propped on his free hand. “Sounds like work.”
Giving into Jisung’s insistent poking, Minho lowers the book and glares at him. “Your actual work is getting affected because you have not taken a single break this year.”
“But there is so much to do,” Jisung protests, taking a sip of his coffee. It’s hot enough to threaten a burn but cool enough that it doesn’t happen. Perfect.
Minho closes his book and sighs. He is long done with his breakfast, and the remnants of it are congealing on his plate. He places his book to his side and leans forward. He’s dressed for working out and Jisung laments at the fact that his sleeves aren’t long enough to fall over his knuckles.
“You work through weekends,” Minho raises a hand, ticks off this point on a finger, “you have been involved with back-to-back projects. Songwriting and practice are all you’ve been doing these days.” He raises a brow. “And you hate everything about it and feel stuck.”
Jisung tears his eyes away from Minho’s hand and focuses on him. God, his hands are so cute. “I do!” Jisung gasps with a fake sob. “Breaking news: life is even more terrible than previously imagined. Becoming a groundhog now the top choice of profession for one Han Jisung.”
Breaking into a reluctant grin, Minho says, “shut up. Your jokes are terrible.” He pushes his chair back and picks his plate up. “I’m just saying that you should put it aside for the time being and… indulge? Engage in other things, broaden your horizons. Also, give me your mug.”
Jisung stares at the dregs of his coffee with mild wonderment. He hadn’t even noticed that he’s finished it. He hands it over to Minho and stretches his arms above his head. “Maybe I’ll give it a try. I don’t have any pressing deadlines as of now.”
“You do that. Meanwhile, I’ll go and slave away at the gym.”
Jisung gets to his feet and pats Minho’s shoulder as he follows him to the kitchen. “Go, get that hot body, baby!”
Minho sighs in exasperation as he dumps the dishes in the sink. “Bye, loser,” he says as he turns and whacks Jisung’s ass on his way out.
He doesn’t miss the way Minho’s ears have turned pink. When he turns on the tap, his distorted reflection grins back at him. He laughs at it.
───────
“Scoot.” Minho looms over him, dressed in a sweater that’s too big for him and a blanket that trails over his head like a cloak. “Stop hogging the couch.”
Jisung pulls his extended legs towards his chest and scrambles up till his back is pressed against the back of the couch. He squints at Minho as he drops into the freed space. “It’s too early for your Saturday afternoon nap to have ended.”
Minho grumbles as he tucks his blankets around himself. “Had a nightmare.”
“Poor baby,” Jisung says, disappointed because that dratted blanket is still covering his head and consequently his ears. “It’s because of the horrifying media you consume. The youth these days, I swear.”
“You were the one who suggested the movie last night!” Minho turns his head and scowls, but his face is soft with sleep and framed by the fuzziness of his blanket. “You’re the real nightmare.”
Jisung pokes Minho’s thigh with his toe. “And yet you fled to me because of a bad dream.”
“No, I would’ve come to the couch anyway. You just happened to be hogging it like always.” Minho clamps a cold hand over Jisung’s feet and shoves it over the edge of the couch. “Leave some space for me too.”
Yelping, Jisung adjusts his position so that he doesn’t fall. “I don’t hog the couch! My chair’s really stiff, okay?” He can’t find the comfortable position he was in again, so he stands up and settles down again beside Minho. He regrets sitting so close because Minho shoots him a fond look and it devastates him. For a second, he forgets to exhale.
The moment stretches, stretches until it is pulled tight in the space between them. He is suspended in it; a fly caught in a web; a mote of dust in a sunbeam.
Jisung laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “But yeah. Sorry, I shouldn’t – um hog the couch.” He suppresses a wince of embarrassment. “I’ll let you sleep now.”
“Yeah – I,” Minho clears his throat. “Maybe we can go on a walk in the evening. I want to clear my mind of haunted apartments and murderers.”
Jisung grasps this filament of grace with alacrity. “Yes. Sure. I need to buy some stuff, too. So yeah! Great plan.”
He’s being weird, but Minho doesn’t say anything, not even when Jisung very obviously moves back to the other armrest. Jisung's neck is hot and he rubs at it as he adjusts his legs. He focuses on the noise of bickering that emanates from the kitchen. Just like his song, he is stuck too. Stuck and unable to reach out and say what he wants to.
He peeks at Minho over the dark screen of his phone. Minho has his eyes closed but a frown mars his forehead. Jisung drops his eyes to his phone again. He unlocks it and immerses himself in mindless scrolling, chest aching.
───────
He has done his fair share of pining. From brief trickles of interest to all-consuming quagmires of crushes that went nowhere as he sank deeper into them. They were punctuated by instances of reciprocation, thank you very much, but yes – he is not a stranger to pining.
“This is not pining,” Hyunjin comments unhelpfully as they try to get the laundry done without any disasters, “this is just sad.”
Jisung doesn’t know what Hyunjin is referring to when he said “this is just sad.” There are many things in his life right now that meet the definition of being sad. His songwriting endeavors, which have stalled. Working out: boring. Reading: a teetering stack of novels gathering dust under his bed. Movies: predictable.
“I mean,” Hyunjin is saying, “I get that it’s difficult to confess, but you look like a kicked puppy these days...” he waves a hand around, “and it’s actually heartbreaking.” He pauses. “I can’t make fun of you if all I want to do is to cuddle you.”
The open packet of detergent is crushed between Jisung’s fingers. A bit of it has puffed out and now dusts his knuckles and nails. He can smell lemon and the rank odor of old clothes that have been wet for too long. “It’s best to just say it,” he says more to himself than to Hyunjin who is brushing detergent off Jisung’s fingers. “It’s unfair to think that he’ll just know.”
Hyunjin laughs and there is a mischievous gleam to his smile. “The whole world knows. You’re very obvious.”
Jisung elbows him in his ribs and ignores his pained yelp. He measures the right amount of detergent and approaches the machine. “Why don’t you just shut up and help me wash clothes?”
“You’re the one who started bemoaning about your sad love life,” Hyunjin points out, which is a fair assessment. “And as much as it hurts to say this, you’re right.” He makes a show of grimacing. “You should tell him.”
Knowing the answer doesn’t make things easy, Jisung thinks gloomily, as he watches Hyunjin fiddle with the washing machine’s settings. He’d known that he would have to confess the day he had realized that he had a crush, but even a couple of months later, he finds himself tongue-tied. Too afraid of stepping forward and finding that Minho is not on the same page of him. That he belongs to another song and not the love songs that Jisung finds himself weaving sometimes. That he’s farther away and more disinterested than what Jisung has let himself believe.
The machine starts whirring. Hyunjin dusts his hands on his t-shirt, leaving streaks of detergent on the fabric. “Well, that’s done. You wanna get lunch?”
Jisung startles, reorienting himself to a topic that doesn’t have anything to with his sad love life. “Yeah,” he mumbles, heart aching a little more than it did before. There’s frustration prickling under his skin too. “Let’s go.”
───────
“Jisung-ah,” a voice whispers near his ears and before Jisung can open his eyes, feather light fingers are skimming his belly, “Jisung!”
“Gah!” Jisung yelps and scoots till he is pressed against the armrest, his earphones and phone slipping and falling to the floor with a thud. “Hyung!” he complains, clutching his stomach, “how many times do I have to tell you not to do that.”
Minho laughs and ruffles his hair. “As many times as you want, but I’m not going to stop.” He flops down on the space that Jisung has vacated and drags him to his side. “Thank you for ordering dinner for me.” He picks Jisung’s earphones and hands them over.
Jisung grumbles under his breath and he picks up his phone. “I should’ve let you starve.” He’s proud of his ability to snark even though his heart is thundering. Minho’s fingertips are cold against his neck and his collarbones as they brush across his skin. Jisung shivers and pulls up the fabric of his sweater. “Anyway, I haven’t eaten either,” he adds, snuggling just a little bit closer.
“Late night pizza party.” Minho’s voice is softer than it was moments ago. “Sounds fun.”
Usually, Jisung is all for late-night pizzas but tonight it sounds like yet another chore. It had been a long day for him today, filled with dead ends and failed ideas that left irritation and tears burning at the back of his eyes. He slumps, lets his entire weight fall on Minho’s side. “I want to sleep.”
“We can eat and then sleep.” Minho cards his fingers through Jisung’s hair. “Let’s go, Sungie.” He takes his hand off Jisung’s shoulders and stands up. He offers his hand to Jisung.
Jisung lets Minho help him to his feet. There are general sounds of life in the house, but they are confined to the bedrooms. Even with their irregular lives, they try to make it to the bed by four o’clock, if only to give an illusion of having gone to bed. So the living room only echoes the shuffle of their feet on the floor and the noise of wind beating against windowpanes.
The boxes of pizza that Jisung had purchased to soothe his ravaged nerves sit on the counter. A note that he’d written flutters on top of it, claiming the pizza as his and Minho hyung’s and theirs alone. Someone has drawn a dick on the note. He watches Minho laugh at it before he plucks it off and slaps it on the door of the fridge.
“Cold pizza?” Minho raises a brow, holding up one of the boxes.
“Yup,” Jisung replies. It feels like a declaration of friendship: yeah! we love cold pizza. It’s just a silly inside joke, but here is Jisung anyway, smiling because he has another thing in common with Lee Minho.
Minho drags a chair out from the table. The screech of wood against tile is a hammer against Jisung’s temples. With an apologetic look, Minho says, “sorry.”
Jisung waves his apology off and sits down too. He opens his box with leaden fingers. The cheese has congealed on top of the slices. “How was your day?” he asks, picking up a slice.
“Long enough that it is bleeding into another day,” Minho says, already halfway through his slice. “I’m so tired that I feel weirdly energetic.” He huffs a laugh, “you know how after a point you’re just fueled by adrenaline?.”
Jisung nods in understanding. That is a common state for them, a shared experience of surreality. When exhaustion sinks into the pit of their bellies like sandbags and the world warps and shrinks to the immediate present. When everything seems like it’s poised on the edge of something big, but that which looks ordinary in the light of rest and recuperation. Sometimes, Jisung thinks that those nights are the mortar that holds the building blocks of their friendships, that links them, that defines them.
But the numbing balm of exhaustion is missing today. Perhaps it is because of the nap he took on the couch that has made Jisung’s eyes gritty but wide unlike Minho’s which are slipping closed even as he eats. Jisung’s mind has the false clarity of self-loathing, seductive and uncontrollable like the urge to pick a scab. He drops the crust onto his box. “I got nothing done today.” He shapes a zero with his fingers, “absolutely nothing. Whatever I did create is going to the trash tomorrow morning,” he adds darkly, nibbling a little at the dry skin on the corner of his lips as he thinks of the reams of terrible lyrics lining his word document.
Maybe writing with pen and ink made one gentler in appraising oneself. Changbin always says this, but the sterile whiteness of a word document is a critic in a way that Jisung sometimes needs because this is his job. Jobs demand output and consistency and Jisung has nothing to offer on those fronts. “I feel like I’ll never be able to make anything again.” He raises his eyes towards Minho. Finds him watching, and so Jisung looks away. “That I have run dry of my creativity. That I am scraping the bottom of my reserves.”
He wants the tiled floor to melt and to suck him into its cavernous depths. He wants to disappear without warning. He wants to cover Minho’s eyes and ears so that Jisung’s flayed self disappears from his consciousness. He laughs but it is a forced articulation and lacks all mirth.
“Sungie, creativity is not a reserve,” Minho says. He tugs at Jisung’s bare earlobe with icy fingers. “I just think – you’re over-saturated maybe? A little bit burned out. I know it’s difficult but you’ll make yourself feel worse if you think this way.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, grudgingly. He picks at an olive that’s fallen off a slice. “I’m scared that I’ll be stuck like this for a long time.” And I’ll be left behind. He strikes the thought before it can sink its claws into him. Still, it ripples. “It makes me so happy, but these days it is stressful.” Minho’s fingers are resting on the curve of his shoulder now. He tilts his head to press his cheek on them.
Minho makes an amused sound. “Fuck. So cute, Hannie.”
Freezing in response, Jisung tries to pull himself together before he bulldozes the moment like a bull stung by a bee. “Cuteness is all I have left,” he mumbles. Though he is trying for casual, he personally thinks that he sounds like a frog being strangled.
“It’ll take you a long way though,” Minho replies with plain four a.m. fondness coloring his voice. “You’re very cute.”
Jisung rights himself and grabs another slice of pizza to distract himself from the urge to smack the cheesiness off Minho. Smacking it off with a kiss, you know. Because he hates Minho and wants to shut him up. “You just keep me around for my looks.”
Minho’s snort laughter echoes in the kitchen. “Looks and cuteness aren’t correlated.”
Outraged and squawking, Jisung smacks his arm. “You’re such an asshole! I’m –” he whacks Minho again when his laughter increases in pitch, “having a crisis!”
“Okay, okay,” Minho giggles, grabbing Jisung’s hand. “But you set yourself up for that one.”
“You hit me when I was down.” Jisung tugs his hands away and pushes the pizza box away before thumping his forehead on the table. “I’m a husk of my former self who sparkled with creativity,” he wails, but he’s smiling, head turned away from Minho. Not much, but he does feel a little better than he did a couple of minutes back. “What if they pack me up in a box and send me back to my parents by speed post.”
“And what if your parents send you back.” Minho tugs at a lock of Jisung’s hair. “What will we do then?”
Jisung groans. “One day you’ll be suffering and I’ll make fun of you too. Let’s see how much you like it.”
“Really? You’ll hurt me like that even though I have an idea?”
Jisung raises his head and gives Minho a long-suffering look. “What? To tease me more? To laugh at my suffer –”
“So we have a bit of free time coming up,” Minho interrupts. “Remember how I told you that you need to get your mind off things but you chose to continue beating yourself up instead?” He covers Jisung’s mouth with his palm when he opens his mouth to defend himself. “Just listen. So my grandmother spends winter at my uncle’s place. So her house is empty.” He drops his hand. “We could go there for a couple of days.”
Blinking in response, Jisung gropes for words. Not that he isn’t sparking with interest but this unexpected enough that he is thrown off. “You mean… the town? The small, faraway town?”
“It’s more like a village than a town,” says Minho with a nod. “It’s desolate and it’s only for a couple of days anyway. I think it’s a good idea. We can relax for a day, I’ll take you on a walk, throw you off a mountain, then come here and tell everyone that you mysteriously disappeared," he jokes.
Minho somehow always talks about tormenting/murdering the people he loves. Jisung is worried about his taste, but he knows that it is too late to rescind his affection and thus he is stuck pining for a man who is a study on the cute-aggression phenomenon. Whose instinctual response to affection is to bite. God, Jisung adores him so much.
"There are no mountains or hills where your grandmother lives," Jisung laughs. He pauses for a second. “Okay. Let’s go,” he says without thinking more, without asking anything else. “Let’s talk to our managers and Channie hyung tomo – later today.”
Minho beams, eyes scrunching. Jisung’s brain bluescreens at that, an occurrence that is so common these days that he can’t even blame it on tiredness.
“Great!” Minho turns back to his meal. “Let’s hope all goes well.”
───────
They leave early in the morning. Dawn is just breaking and the gray shadows of night-time still pool around Jisung as he walks towards the car, pulling his coat tighter around him. It is dreadfully cold and the air is heavy with early morning smog. Jisung skitters to the car with hurried steps, his bugling duffel bag knocking against the side of his thigh.
He knocks on the window and Minho unlocks the trunk for him. As he stoves his luggage, he wonders what kind of madness is this. But then his hands reflexively slam the trunk closed and the gunshot noise of it snaps all sly filaments of second thoughts that are threatening to bloom. He opens the passenger seat and slips inside. The overhead lights are switched on even though the streetlamps are bright enough that it looks like false sunlight over the glass of the windshield.
Jisung says, “this is so fucking dumb, hyung. The sun hasn’t even risen yet!” just as Minho turns the key and the car begins to rumble. He leans back against his seat and struggles to wear his seat-belt. His hands are numb and refuse to bend to his will.
“Why?” Minho asks, clicking his seat belt into the lock. “You seemed excited when we were planning it. You were the one who said ‘anything you want, hyung!’”
That’s true. But even though he is sitting in the car with Minho’s fingers poised on the key, he still can’t believe that they’re actually going. “That’s because you enchanted me~” Jisung makes kissing noises, “I’m under your spell!”
Minho gags and makes a disgusted face. “I’ll leave on the side of the road if you say anything greasy this early in the morning.”
“Ooh.” Jisung laughs and pats Minho’s cheek with a hand. “Please forgive me~”
“Brat,” Minho grumbles but instead of pushing Jisung out of the car, he turns the keys and the engine wakes to life. “Here we go!” He sounds awed too and Jisung notices a hint of a question in his exclamation. Jisung doesn’t understand why. Out of the both of them, Minho has always been the one to achieve anything that he puts his mind to.
Jisung nods his head hard enough to rattle his brain. “Yeah!”
And so, they leave.
───────
From what Jisung has observed of himself, he knows that his creative output isn’t a steady, predictable trickle. Sometimes he writes in minutes; sometimes a line takes days. Promising ideas burn out like a flare. Passing, mundane thoughts get set to music. Sometimes his fingers aren’t able to translate what’s in his head. It’s an undulation, really, and he knows that he isn’t supposed to mind it, but he hates being stuck.
Look, even he knows that you catch more flies with honey, and being nice and kind to oneself is paramount for health and well-being and consequently for productivity. But every time he finds himself straggling, fear seizes his heart. Especially when he’s stuck like this in both his personal and private life.
On the radio, a singer croons about eternal love. Minho is focused on the road ahead, limbs loose and easy. He’s sitting in sprawl and even with Jisung’s lack of driving knowledge, he can tell that Minho drives well. Or maybe he isn’t and he just fulfills Jisung’s low standard of being left alive at the end of a drive. He is gorgeous and Jisung’s stomach is beginning to knot.
Once, Jisung had tried to be furtive as he sneaked into Minho’s room, but the screeching hinges of Minho’s door had given him away.
Minho turned his head to look at him, his face lighted by the steady glow of his phone. “Can’t sleep?” he had asked, face all shadows, but voice soft. At that point, they had known each other for a year and Jisung had trusted him with most of his dark secrets already. Confiding with Minho always made it easier to breathe.
Jisung had nodded and shut the door, wincing at the way it had screeched. Sometime in the intervening years, someone had oiled the hinges and it didn’t creak anymore. But back then it was an omen of either Minho or Jisung crawling into the other’s bed.
“My brain wouldn’t shut up,” Jisung had muttered as he slowly made his way towards Minho’s bed, trying not to wake the others.
“Did you want me to hit you on your head?” Minho had snorted and then flicked on the lamp. Someone made a hissing noise, Jisung can't tell who it is. “Careful, we can’t afford you losing your toes.”
Jisung stumbled onto Minho’s bed. He sat on the edge of his bed, still unsure though Minho had told him that he didn’t mind cuddling with Jisung. He rubbed his neck, embarrassed by the thought of being the first to reach out. “Um.”
“Yeah?” Minho sat up against the headrest, the sheets covering his bare chest. “Are you going to take up offer, Jisungie?”
Jisung played with the string of his hoodie as he tried to remember what Minho had said. His awkwardness had chewed away at the memory trail and left him blank. He had settled for a laugh and then shifted until he was right beside Minho.
Perhaps understanding that Jisung had no idea of what Minho had said, or because he was exhausted, Minho had switched off the lamp. Plunged into darkness, Jisung found the words that he was too shy to say to Minho’s face.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me these days.” Jisung focused on wrapping himself in the sheets. It was fake busy-ness. They were in the middle of summer and it was too hot to wrap himself in the sheets completely. “I didn’t mean to mess up like that during practice.”
“I know,” Minho had said and had smiled a little. It was a smile lighted by the dimming light of his phone and quite eerie, but comforting in its unexpectedness. “We all have bad weeks.”
Jisung studied him. Minho looked a little tired, but wide awake. As awake as Jisung was; as awake as only stress could make one be. “I know that we can’t afford any errors –” he twisted his finger in the sheets, “but yeah.” He had lost his words again. “I’m trying.” Trying to move from one day to another without making a fool of himself. Trying to become better as expected. Trying to not drag the others down with him.
Minho tilted his head, then patted the space next to him. Jisung scooted closer, unsure as ever. Heat radiated from Minho’s body and he hummed as he pressed his thigh against Minho’s thigh. Minho allowed it. Hyunjin always said that Minho was too soft with him and for him. Jisung had never known what to say to that because he harbored a particular sort of fondness for Minho within his heart too. Not more than the affection he felt for others – just different.
“I don’t really know what to say,” Minho had said, “I can only tell you that we’re all here to help you and that you shouldn’t feel like you’re,” he gestured at Jisung, “wrong or embarrassing for messing up while learning.”
What if he asked, “but would you remain if I constantly messed up?” He wondered what Minho would say to that. But it seemed unfair to make him answer hypothetical situations that weren’t his responsibility. “Thank you,” is what he said instead.
“I think everyone gets stuck sometimes.” Minho’s eyes were trained on Jisung. Unable to look back for the fear of being seen despite what the darkness concealed, Jisung kept his gaze on the wall. “Sometimes we get unstuck ourselves, I guess. And sometimes there are people to walk us forward.”
Clenching his top of the sheets, Jisung considered this in silence. He didn’t know what to say in response. There were half a dozen questions he had. Many more flippant remarks. An ocean’s worth of fears that was beating against the walls of his mind. “I hope I become unstuck,” Jisung said, a prayer and a period to stop the conversation.
“You will,” Minho had replied, shifting and rolling to side, facing Jisung. He spoke through a yawn. “It’s just a matter of time.”
Jisung hummed, closing his eyes. He fell asleep before he said good night.
Back in the car, Minho is grumbling about something that Jisung doesn’t understand. A bad driver, he surmises, by the litany of familiar curses. The sun is weak and its light is filtered through a curtain of gray clouds. Cars and houses blur past him and the radio jockey gleefully announces celebrity gossip. Minho’s curses peter out.
Jisung uncrosses his legs and stretches them under the dashboard. Rubs a finger over his aching lower lip that he has been biting, feels the cracks and the indents of his teeth. He is woozy and a bit stunned – the effect of an intense, sudden inward journey – and it takes him a moment to reorient himself to the rumble of the car, to their journey.
“You looked like a startled fish,” supplies Minho as they pull up behind a car when the traffic light turns red. “You were just staring off into space like this.” He crosses his eyes and opens his mouth a little to mimic Jisung.
It’s an exaggerated expression and it makes Jisung laugh. He doesn’t bother with a reply and instead whacks Minho’s chest. “Shut up! That’s your expression when you think.” It isn’t but even if it is Jisung would find it as endearing as he does now. God, he’s whipped.
Minho gasps, offended. With three years between them, Jisung thinks of the times Minho has helped him walk forward, walked with him onward. Always in his unobtrusive, slightly huffy way. Even as Jisung unsticks himself from whatever has his feet bound to the ground, he thinks that he’s always known that Minho was hovering around somewhere. A steadying presence who sometimes flicked your forehead to keep you on your toes.
He plucks at the side of his seat, chest thrumming with an immensity that startles him. Three years ago, he had called it a soft spot – a fondness – and had never bothered to look beyond it. Or maybe he had watered the seeds of it without knowing and it had been blossoming all along. Either way, Jisung is still in the same place as three years ago except now he has a name for what he feels.
The radio is playing an advertisement. The light turns green and Minho starts driving again, his argument forgotten. Jisung watches the rush of cars outside his window, skin prickling with a diffident heat. He is exposed in a way that he doesn’t understand. Doesn’t know.
He lets the song on the radio fill the silence.
───────
The air is clear and sweet here. Breathing is just a bit easier. A gathering of birds passes overhead, dotting the pavement with their shadows.
“Let’s get enough for two days,” Minho says. The car makes a clicking noise as it locks. “And something instant for dinner tonight.”
Jisung makes a noise of assent though he’s not focusing. His eyes are caught by the bareness of trees that dimple the sides of the store. They’re stirring in the cool breeze, their branches whispering. He shivers and tucks his hands into his pockets. A cat winds over the knotted roots and disappears. In autumn, Jisung surmises, the cleaning the fallen foliage would’ve been a terrible undertaking.
He’s been walking behind Minho all this while and smiles at him in thanks when he keeps the door open for Jisung to enter after him. The store is tiny but brimming with good and produce. The door closes behind Minho with a soft whooshing sound.
“Let’s get vegetables first,” Minho suggests, lowering his voice to match the stillness inside the shop. Still, a man who is browsing through the stock snacks turns to look at them. Minho picks up a basket. “Let’s go.”
Jisung follows Minho to the counter where vegetables are displayed. The store smells of unwashed grain, of cleaning products, and the not-good-not-bad scent of the air refrigerators. Minho picks a tomato, his fingers covered to his topmost knuckle by the sleeve of his jacket. It hits Jisung that this is the beginning.
Beginning of an impromptu, improbable trip conceived in the dead of the night with an ill-advised pizza demolished to its crust between them. Jisung had never thought that they would do it – take two and a half days off to come to this faraway place just to hide – yet here they are, picking stuff to sustain them at the cottage.
He feels rich in a way he can’t explain. Time to himself is so rare that the cumulative hours of freedom feel endless. Not being under the looming shadow of clock hands ticking away over his head and through schedules is as distant as a mirage. To have Minho’s company during this brief bit of good luck makes him glow with an uncommon warmth. Heats him with a scintillating frisson.
“They said it’ll snow tonight.” Jisung picks a tomato and places it in the basket that hangs from the crook of Minho’s elbow, “or tomorrow morning. I checked the weather report.”
Minho’s gaze drifts to Jisung’s bare neck and then his bare fingers. “Yes. I hope you packed for snow.” He narrows his gaze. “I told you too.”
Packing had been a last minute battle between physics, the things he wanted to bring, the things he needed, and Minho impatiently calling him from the parking lot. He’d been held back at the studio for far longer than he’d anticipated and had been sleep deprived on top of it. He has no idea what’s in his duffel bag except for his toothbrush and his favorite sweatpants.
“Weather reports are mostly wrong anyway,” Jisung flaps a hand, avoiding Minho’s exasperated expression. He’s not bad at packing, okay? Things just got in the way.
Minho huffs, moving and picking up a bulb of garlic. “Then don’t complain if it starts snowing. I don’t care.”
Jisung doesn’t point out that Minho’s I don’t care means that he cares a lot because when he’s truly uncaring of something then he never speaks of it or pays heed to it. Pointing it out to tease Minho feels like a double edged sword. Like saying, I pay attention to you! Unprompted. Even if it isn’t so – he’s sure he is overthinking – the moment has passed and Jisung busies himself in finding the brand of instant rice that Felix uses.
Minho is farther away now. Jisung hums along to the pop song that’s playing over the speakers. It’s one of those sticky, annoying ones that weave themselves into one’s memory in spite of one’s efforts to avoid them. He peruses the collection of off-the-shelf confectionery, looking for something that looks decent. For all his outward coolness, the flush on his cheeks hasn’t disappeared yet.
Clearing his throat to distract himself, Jisung goes in search of Minho, arms laden with groceries. Minho is waiting for him near the front of the shop. His scarf and photochromic glasses hide most of his features, but affection taps Jisung on the chest with a gentle hand.
Jisung drops his contribution into the basket. He adjusts his cap. “Anything else?”
“Nope,” Minho runs a hand through his hair, “I think we have everything. And enough sugar to last us for a decade,” he points at the pastries Jisung has added to the basket. “Do we need so many of them?”
“Yes,” Jisung replies with certainty, “Sugar is the only joy I have left.”
Minho shakes his head. “You said the same thing when you made us stop at that Starbucks.” He pitches his voice higher, “hyung, coffee is the only thing that makes me happy anymore.”
“The list keeps changing,” Jisung sniffs. He tugs at one end of Minho’s scarf as they walk towards the counter. “Joy is fleeting.”
This close, Jisung can see the way Minho’s cheekbones bunch up even though he tries to hide his smile. “How profound! I have found the meaning of life” Minho teases.
Jisung pats Minho’s shoulder. “I’m glad I was able to help you in your dotage.” He gets an elbow to his ribs for his audacity. He squawks and the cashier’s bland smile flickers with annoyance. “Sorry,” he mutters, huffing when he sees Minho’s shoulders shaking.
“Contain yourself, Hannie,” Minho says as he begins placing their groceries on the counter. “I know you’re excited, but still.”
“Shut up,” Jisung hisses, resolving to stomp on Minho’s foot once they leave.
(He doesn’t.)
───────
In all honesty, the view outside the car window isn’t spectacular. The countryside scenery is rendered bare and dry by winter. Rooftops flashed in between trees. The road is narrow, long, and empty. There is nothing to look at outside, and his data pack is shitty. Jisung can’t study Minho, not if he wants his face to telegraph everything. They have been driving for two hours now since they left the store and Jisung is just a little bored.
It’s not that he’s bored of being on this trip. He’s been looking forward to it since the night Minho told him about how his grandmother’s cottage was empty and then had praised it on and on, using pizza crusts to make a map of the place. Jisung had thought that he could kiss Minho then.
He hadn’t but the thought still jolts him to his core.
Minho stops humming under his breath. “We’re almost there.” He switches on the indicator.
“Good. My back is starting to ache.” Jisung laces his fingers and rests them on his stomach. “And there’s nothing to see here,” he nods at the window. “I guess it would be more beautiful during the summer or something.”
Minho makes a thoughtful noise. “Yes. It’s really lush at that time of the year. We used to play endlessly, you know.” He shifts in his seat and bites his lower lip. “My cousins and I created an entire universe whenever we came here.” His lips quirk in a smile. “It’ll be fun.”
Under the interlinked weight of his fingers, Jisung’s stomach flutters. “I hope fun means sleeping till 3 P.M.,” he laughs, “that’s my only dream these days.”
“Oh no, I meant when I leave you out in the cold,” Minho says, “it’ll be pretty easy to do away with you,” he makes a cutting motion near his throat with his index finger, “considering the fact that you’re obviously unprepared for winter.”
“Yeah right,” Jisung scoffs, “keep pretending that you don’t care. We all know that you only talk big.”
“Just wait. You’ll regret being so lazy.”
Jisung pats Minho’s head patronizingly and gets an elbow to his ribs yet again. He doesn’t mind though. After all, he has the truth on his side.
───────
Minho's grandmother's house is well, house-like. Squat and set at the end of a narrow lane, it is half lost in the shadows of the trees that loom in the garden. The hinges of the gate screech as Minho unlocks the padlock and the sound scares a couple of sparrows to flight.
"She's been here for ages," Minho explains as they walk through the shirt walkway that leads to the house. "And grandpa too, but he passed away when I was fourteen."
"She lives alone?" Jisung watches Minho sort through the keys on his key ring as he drops their bags on the ground.
Minho finds the key and he makes an "aha!" sound as he holds it up. His cheeks are already flushed because of the cold, thin wind that's unspooling as the sun goes down. They're in the yellow-grey dimness of a cloudy day. Shadow and light in harmony.
"I mean, someone's always here." Minho puts the key in the lock and drags the door towards him. He turns the key and gives it a solid push until it creaks open. "My uncle or my cousins," he shrugs, "they live near here."
Jisung shoulders their luggage and enters the house. It smells of naphthalene and the insidious scents that all houses have. Jisung settles the luggage on the floor and himself on the seat that's next to the shoe rack. Minho sits beside him and their movements are synchronized as they unlace their boots.
Only the lights in the landing are switched on, two small circular fixtures whose beams are watery and dim as they hit the floor. It makes Minho’s features appear harsher and more pronounced. Jisung traces the swell of his cheekbone with his eyes. “Are you cold, baby?” he asks, tone half joking, half wondering. The heat hasn’t been switched on yet and he doesn’t want to take off his coat. He shuffles closer to Minho.
“You’ll be frozen soon,” Minho threatens, turning away. “We should freshen up.” Minho stands up and stretches his arms above his head. “Let’s go.”
Grinning, Jisung stands to follow him. The walls are covered with art and a side table brims with photo stands. He smiles at a photo of teenage Minho preening at the camera as he waits for him to turn on the heat.
There is an echoing silence in this place, so at odds with their dorm and the places where they usually spend their time. The noise of traffic is muted, filtered by the distance from the road. It’s so peaceful that it feels strange. Like he’s vibrating in a void.
Minho leads the way up the stairs that lead to the first floor. “We’ll be on the top floor,” he explains, arms trailing over the faded, varnished surface of the banister. “You can pick the room you want.”
Jisung nods, distracted by the pinkness that colors Minho’s ears. On the mezzanine, Minho points at the two rooms that stand opposite each other and Jisung picks the one to his right. This room faces the back of the house and looks out on a garden and the threshold of the treeline that leads to the woods. They stand bare and watchful. He watches a magpie hold on to a thin branch that sways in a gust of wind.
“Do you want to shower first?” Minho’s leaning against the door frame, now out of his winter clothes. Perhaps it’s the sudden solitude and the realization that he can relax that is making Jisung so uncharacteristically… needy but he really wants to hug Minho. It is an urge strong enough to make his fingers twitch. “Sungie?”
“Yeah!” he says, startling. His neck prickles and he rubs the back of it, his chilled fingers rerouting him. “You can go!”
Minho raises a brow but doesn’t say anything else. Just walks away after a quick, “okay then.”
The closed door mocks Jisung. He groans and sits down on his bed, planting his socked feet on the ground until he feels the residual chill. “Get it together,” he mumbles to himself. It’s not a big deal, of course, he’s been battling his crush for quite a while. But it was much easier when he was oblivious to it than to possess this insistent knowledge that he is gone for Minho and that it makes him act like a fool.
He drags his bag onto the bed and digs through it to find something to wear. “Just say it.” But there’s no manual for that and he has no idea how to contain himself and not embarrass himself with over-eagerness the first chance he gets.
He sighs and flops onto his back.
───────
Lunch is a quiet affair. They eat their store brought meal in relative silence, feet somehow knocking together under the dining table that has decent foot space. Minho is answering texts as he eats but Jisung has stopped paying attention to the video that’s playing on his phone.
He knows that he wants to tell Minho how he feels, but there are so many logistical issues associated with a confession. How to confess? When to confess? What to say other than Minho hyung if I want to kinda hug you and never let you go because I feel many deep things for you? How to not freeze and make things that aren’t awkward, awkward.
“You know the entire point of this is to relax right?” Minho’s voice scatters Jisung’s thoughts away. “What are glowering into space for?”
You, Jisung thinks miserably but says, “you know – stuff.” He’s as articulate as a child. Jisung picks at his meal instead of focusing on Minho. He blinks when Minho reaches his hand across the table and rubs his knuckles.
“Just let it be.” Minho’s voice is soft and reminds Jisung of lavender for some reason. Maybe he is already losing it out here in the wild and desolation. “Your work can be set aside for a couple of days – nothing is going to happen if you don’t work for a while.”
Jisung knows that. Chan had sent him an update a while ago and it seemed like things were chugging along well. It itches at the back of his mind but this far away from the studio, it is easier to – well, not close the door on it but to draw the curtains. However it isn’t work that’s on his mind right now, is it?
Minho is still speaking. “Your worth doesn’t magically decrease because you weren’t productive or – or because you didn’t create something new.” He punctuates his words by stabbing the air with his chopsticks. “Sure, some people might think that but you have to know that it isn’t the case for others in your life.”
“Sometimes it feels like I’ll be stuck forever,” Jisung says, dropping his gaze to his plate. He rubs his sore lips then laughs, “that isn’t possible at work because,” he makes a gesture that he hopes encapsulates there is a team of people dedicated to getting the most out of us for profit. “It’s just – sometimes it feels like I’ll be in the same place forever, you know.” He raises his head to meet Minho’s eyes. “Because I get too caught up in my head to move ahead.”
He thinks of all the half finished files in his laptop, discarded because he is too afraid to finish work and find it lacking. How he stammers and retreats from Minho during moments when he doesn’t have to.
“I have told you before that there are people to help you and to be with you,” Minho says, eyes soft and probing. He’s leaning forward and his hand is laced with Jisung’s now. “Get that into your thick skull, Hannie.”
His exhalation is a tangible sound. Minho’s hand is a little clammy but familiar and grounding. “Do you know that too?” he asks, tapping his chopsticks against the rim of his bowl. It’s not the most comfortable position to be in – one hand stretched out and intertwined with Minho’s, chopsticks held in the other – but it’s a safe one. “That there are people to walk you forward and onward if you need it?”
“I know,” Minho’s smile is brilliant and Jisung’s heart quakes. He squeezes Jisung’s hand. “I have found them, I think.”
“That’s good,” Jisung croaks. Minho’s ears are a deep red and Jisung isn’t faring any better. His skin is as hot as coal. He untangles his hand but not without a parting caress.
Outside, the sky is a deep gray even though it’s late afternoon. Gusts of air thrum against the windowpanes, hungry to enter and leech all the warmth. The house is silent except for the clink of cutlery.
“I’m done,” Minho murmurs. Perhaps he too has felt the shift in the atmosphere. The chair screeches as Minho pushes away from the table.
Jisung watches the slope of his shoulder and the line of his back. Sometimes, he knows that certain moments will be a bookmark in his life. Moments that he’ll come back to again and again. This is one of them, and it is another notch in the long list of such bookmarks with Minho. But most importantly, he thinks that Minho is on the same page too. Just a few lines away.
It’s like a hand dragging him out of a quagmire.
───────
That night Minho sneaks into his bed.
Jisung wakes when the mattress dips with added weight and his blankets are tugged to the side. His brain wades away from the lazy, spaced out peaks of theta waves to take in his surroundings, dazed and already sliding towards sleep. He’s in his room and Minho is right next to him, his hair messy and body warm.
“Hi, hyung,” Jisung mumbles, eyes already slipping closed. Minho shifts under the covers and pulls at the blanket. He grudgingly lets go of it to put an end to the jostling.
“It’s snowing,” whispers Minho. He sounds far away even though a part of Jisung’s mind recognizes that he is quite close. “Jisung-ah, it’s snowing.”
Jisung sighs and brings his knees to his chest, snuggles his cheek on his pillow. “Nice.”
There’s a pause.
“You know what they say about people watching the first snow together.”
“Pretty,” Jisung agrees, his mind so clouded with sleep that words make no sense to him. They float through a haze and emerge distorted, and beaten out of shape.
Minho sighs. “You’re a pain in the ass.”
Jisung doesn’t hear it.
───────
On waking the next day, he finds that the backyard is now carpeted with snow.
He thinks that he can taste winter in the air. But that’s his imagination because he’s still in his room, Minho mumbling away in his sleep. Outside the window, snow still falls in a lazy, unhurried drift. The desolation is pristine and so thick that it seems like it is vacuuming all noise into its folds.
The floors hold the chill of a long night, and it seeps past the thick wool of Jisung’s socks. It’s past noon yet sleep calls to him again. Yawning, Jisung stretches his arms above his head and winces when his joints pop at the motion. The lamp that he had flicked on waking is weak, unable to dispel the gloom of the day.
He drops his arms and shuffles to the bathroom before he is lured to bed. As much as he loves sleep, he wants to go out and muck about in the snow too. Maybe, he thinks with a fond smile, Minho’s wishes to off him would come true.
He's forgotten most of his toiletries so he decides to forgo shaving and traipses to the detached bathroom. The house is silent except for its grumblings and creaking. The living room and kitchen yawn like a void below the stairs. Jisung enters the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.
As he wets his toothbrush, memories of last night flood him then and are a distorted, patchy movie in his mind. He remembers waking when Minho slipped into his but after that all that remains are traces of motion - a flicker of annoyance, the blanket being pulled away, his tower of pillows shifting. He knows that Minho had spoken insistently about snow.
The first gush of water from the tap is a sputter. He wets his mouth and grimaces at the way his lips sting. He doesn’t know exactly what Minho had said – he was almost asleep – but his mind insists that he had heard something snow. Maybe Minho really wants to see the snow too. He tries not to smile as he thinks of Minho crawling into bed with him just to tell him about the first snow. He’s so cute and Jisung is so very fond of him.
I’m… content, he thinks as he rinses his mouth. A lot of things are still shitty and there’s a lot of work to do but he’s going to see the snow later and have a warm meal with his best friend. I have that even if I’m stuck.
He sings for the entirety of his shower.
───────
Jisung makes coffee as Minho clatters about the kitchen to prepare their brunch. Jisung is pretty sure that the sweater that Minho is wearing doesn’t belong to him but he hopes that Minho gets to keep it. The deep blue of the fabric suits him. The TV that's in the living room plays the weather report and Jisung half listens as he waits for the coffee to brew. Next to him, Minho slices a tomato in two and begins to dice them. The steady thudding noise of his knife on the cutting complements the weather reporter's excited prattle.
It has stopped snowing now. From the window, Jisung sees kids troop out onto the road, so well protected against the elements in their winter gear that they're waddling. “That reminds me," says Jisung, turning to face Minho. "I brought along enough winter clothing that your attempts to murder me won't work."
Minho looks confused for a second before his brow clears as he remembers. "I'll think of something," he replies with what Jisung assumes is supposed to be a menacing eyebrow waggle.
Fondness envelops him like a blanket. He wants to step across the three tiles that separate them and wrap his arms around him and kiss him a little. A lot. Whatever. "I'll sleep with one eye open then." Jisung pours coffee into two mugs. Billowing steam warms his fingertips. "Since you're such a wily person."
"That's a terrible strategy, Hannie." Minho waves the spatula at him. "You sleep like a rock and don't even realize that something is happening."
"Don't worry," Jisung winks, "I always know when it's you, baby!" He laughs when Minho cringes and steps away. Maybe in another life, this would’ve been just another day in their existence instead of a planned disruption in routine. A brief one at that. But these are musings that never lead anywhere. So Jisung breathes over a sudden, yearning ache for an alternate life, inhales the scent of coffee and bubbling stew. Studies the creases of Minho’s smile and his familiar, steady presence as he moves around the kitchen, grumbling when he doesn’t find the cooking chopsticks.
“Hyung,” Jisung says, leaning against the counter. “Thank you for everything.” The thing about becoming unstuck is that you feel the wind differently than when you’re at a standstill. His words emerge with the same weight as a confession. His breath is suspended in his throat.
Minho pauses, hand buried in a drawer. The bottom of his sweatpants pools beyond his ankles. “Shut up,” is his reply and it’s such a Minho reply but the grain of his voice is softer, the intonation quieter. “Help me find the chopsticks.” The tips of his ears are red. Then much quieter, “you mean a lot to me, you know.”
It’s easy to say, “you do too.” As easy as pulling Minho towards him and hugging him. The material of Minho’s sweater is scratchy beneath his fingers. “Hyung… I,” Jisung’s fingers tighten around the fabric. He still doesn’t have words, but he has been set in motion because he knows that Minho is right there. He is barging onward only, seemingly unable to stop. Maybe because there’s no reason to force himself to halt. “Hyung, did you know that I’m really good at kissing?” Wind clamors outside, whistling as it flows through the branches. “Do you wanna check for yourself?”
Minho stiffens then steps away from Jisung’s arms even though he whines and tries to fight to keep his hold on him. Maybe he should’ve thought this through a little more. But he has said it and there’s nothing to do except face Minho’s disbelieving look head-on.
“What?” Minho rubs a hand through his hand. His ears are pink and he tugs at his earlobe. “Are you… confessing?”
Jisung shuffles closer, socks whispering against the tiles. His stomach’s knotting and sweat is prickling at his hairline. Still, it’s impossible not to babble at the face of Minho’s wide-eyed look. “Yeah – I mean… I don’t know how else to show my deep adoration than by kissing you on the mouth.” His neck is hot and he cringes but he keeps walking till he’s in Minho’s space again. “Um – you know. If you want.”
“So… you are confessing.” Minho’s mouth quivers with a barely repressed laugh. “Do you want to check for yourself,” he repeats, voice pitched high. His fingers are clenching by his side but his eyes are bright and steady. “You’re something else, Jisungie.”
It’s a bit like being rooted to the ground again but this time it is because of the force of his awe. He can’t believe he is in this moment, but where else would he be? Minho’s cold hands cup his face and Jisung leans up to kiss him, as easy as an exhale.
───────
Jisung tugs at the stubborn zipper of his coat, muttering curses under his breath. He drops his arms when Minho steps in to help him out. “Thank you.” He presses a kiss to the corner of Minho’s mouth. He wriggles his fingers. “And thank you for the gloves and stuff.”
Minho rolls his eyes as he ties his scarf. “You’re lucky that I had the foresight to carry extra gloves and scarves. You wouldn’t have survived otherwise.”
“But I thought you were going to abandon me in the cold?” Jisung teases as Minho switches off all the lights. “Aww hyung. I think that you care for me.”
He yelps when Minho raps him on the head with his knuckles. “You’re dreaming,” Minho’s tone is dry and flat, “wake up.”
“You’re so full of yourself. As if I’d ever dream of you,” Jisung argues though the number of times he has dreamed of Minho is embarrassing. “Even if I did, it’s only because we are together all day and not because I like you or something.”
At the threshold of the open door, Minho gives him a disbelieving look. “You’re just digging a hole for yourself. Now shut up and come on.” The light from outside softens the lines of Minho’s frame. He holds out his hand.
Jisung takes it like he always has. He is soaked through with contentment. He kicks the door closed behind him and marvels at the way the weak, late afternoon sunlight reflects off the snow and casts a blue tinge on their surroundings. He wets his dry lips and inhales the clean scent of snow. He watches his exhalation trail up the air. “Thanks for bringing me here.”
“If you thank me again then I’ll kick your ass,” Minho says, leading the way to the forest line. He squeezes Jisung’s hand a moment later.
The silence is immense. The noise of their footsteps and the trilling of unseen birds scrape at it but fail to make a dent. He doesn’t know when he’ll ever be offered such quietness and contentment again, so he tries to tuck away as much of it as he can in his heart. A small sun for a cloudy day, he muses. A song to soothe his soul.
“You really need some chapstick,” Minho breaks the silence as they near a cluster of pine trees. “Stop –” he pokes at Jisung’s chin, “stop picking at it!”
Jisung does as he is told. He’d not been aware that he has been chewing on the dry, cracked skin of his lips. “Oh,” he rubs his lower lip, “I forgot to bring my chapstick.” He shrugs and begins to walk again. “Doesn’t matter.”
Minho stops him with a hand on his elbow. The cap he’s wearing highlights the evenness of his features in a way that strikes Jisung dead in the chest. He swallows as he traces the movement of Minho’s lips as he says, “I’m wearing lip balm.”
“Oh!” Jisung shifts, unsure of what to make of this very serious proclamation. “Um – can I borrow some?” The smile that he receives is breathtaking but still leaves him confused.
“Of course. Here,” says Minho and drags him into a kiss.
It’s a short-lived one because Jisung is laughing too much to be able to kiss back. “You’re so greasy!” Another gale of laughter shakes him when he catches sight of Minho’s offended expression. “How cute!”
“Pick one,” Minho grumbles, crossing his arms. “Look, if you think that me trying to save your lips is funny –”
“No, no!” Jisung gives Minho a quick hug before snickering against his neck, “your method is definitely working.”
Their breaths mingle and they are still giggling a little too much to focus on kissing but it doesn’t matter. Minho tilts Jisung’s chin up and presses a sloppy kiss on his lips. Jisung is vibrating with delight and as he kisses back, he feels his heart hum a new song.
End.