Archive of Our Own ^beta

♡

“I think you have a lot of editing to do before you can turn this in.”

Minho lifts his head—slowly, cautiously, because Changbin’s voice is grim and sunken with dread. “How much editing?” he asks.

“Like… 2,000 words worth?”

“But that’s—”

“The entire paper?” Changbin clears his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, I think you should just scrap the whole thing.”

Minho stares at Changbin, expressionless. “This is because I made you do suicides during practice yesterday, isn’t it?”

Changbin’s glasses slide down the bridge of his nose when he leans forward, squinting at the laptop screen. “I don’t even know where to start,” he says. “Your thesis is that Romeo and Juliet was ‘pretty mid,’ you somehow cite four different Jeff Goldblum interviews in alarmingly appropriate contexts, and, maybe worst of all, you call the ending a ‘win for the gays,’ then spend three of your eight pages advocating for the forced sterilization of straight people. I mean, I’m pretty sure those three pages count as a hate crime in at least twelve different states.”

Minho lets out a loud sigh, making his bangs flutter in the air. “I asked you to skim my paper, not write a scathing op-ed in The Atlantic about it.”

“Dude,” says Changbin, pushing Minho’s laptop back to him from across the table. “You’re going to fail a freshman-level writing class at this point. And don’t you have to keep your GPA up to stay on the team? Especially since you’re the captain?”

Minho rolls his eyes into the back of his skull, so that his vision goes blurry and he sees nothing but stars and static. “Right. And as the captain, I’ve just decided that you’ll be doing the next three team laundry runs.”

Listen, Minho’s gotten this lecture from Changbin more times than he can count, and he at least has the energy to count up to double digits on most days, okay? Usually, Minho begrudgingly agrees to watch a Crash Course video or two, or at least try to make it look like he didn’t just copy and paste straight from the analysis section of Sparknotes—but, like the goddamn bloodied martyr he is, Changbin tends to experience the brunt of his hellish moods, and Minho is feeling like the largest, most unlubed asshole on Earth today.

Of course, Changbin doesn’t respond with something petty or vindictive or… well, he doesn’t respond like Minho would. He just tucks his chin into his hands and stares at Minho, curious. “You’re still upset about Chan, huh?” he says.

Minho flinches—because even now, even two weeks later, his memory still feels like a fresh papercut, and his name is something like salt, like lemon juice, like a fucking heel pressed into the wound. Minho’s had his fair share of injuries, scraped knees and sprained ankles and that one time his finger bent way, way, way back, but he’s never experienced any broken bone like the way his ribcage creaked and cracked and crumbled when Chan gently suggested that they see other people.

“I’m not upset about…” Minho’s voice trails off, and he shakes his head vehemently. “I’m not upset, okay?” he hisses. “I don’t get upset. The most I get is mildly perturbed—and trust me. You’re getting me there.”

Changbin gives him a doubtful frown. “You literally can’t say his name aloud without spiraling into a hissy fit,” he points out.

Minho blinks. Once, twice, like the rapid shutter of a camera. Finally, he says, “Bold words for someone doing the next five team laundry runs.”

Changbin sputters, incredulous. Then, his expression softens into the shape of something like sincerity, which is just—ugh. The last thing Minho wants right now is sympathy. With sympathy comes pity, and Lee Minho is not someone to be pitied.

In fact, his life is pretty goddamn sweet, okay? He might as well sweat soda and jizz corn syrup, that’s how sweet his fucking life is. Minho doesn’t need Changbin’s pity—unless it’s for the amount of ants that his sugary sweat attracts during picnics.

“Wait,” says Changbin, fishing his phone out of his pocket, “I think I know something that’ll help right now.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Changbin, but I’ve already seen Hyunjin’s OnlyFans page,” says Minho.

“Hyunjin has an OnlyFans?” Changbin croaks weakly.

“Oh. Huh. I could’ve sworn you already...” Minho shakes his head. “Nevermind. What did you want to show me?”

“Um, can we go back to the OnlyFans thing?” says Changbin. “At least text me the link or—”

“No,” Minho interjects flatly. “We’re dealing with my hapless love life right now.”

“But I—”

Minho makes a long, high-pitched beep noise, like an answering machine. “Please wait three to five business days before submitting another query.”

Changbin frowns. Then, he sighs, evidently dropping the issue. Probably the smart decision. Absolutely nothing makes it past Robo-Minho’s screening process.

“You know Momo? On the cheerleading team with Hyunjin?” Changbin pushes his phone towards Minho, revealing a thread of text messages in a group chat. “She’s pretty tight with some people on the Levanter dance team, and apparently they’re having a big Halloween party this weekend.”

Minho squints at Changbin. “Please tell me you’re not seriously trying to get me to go to a Cobra party right now.”

Changbin scrunches his nose. “Who cares if it’s a Cobra party? It’s still a good place to meet new people—and to stop thinking about this… um, paper.” He scrunches his nose at the last word, like he’s not sure whether this is a proper descriptor for the loose collection of ideas he just read.

Minho can’t help but grimace as well, though for markedly different reasons. (His paper, after all, is pretty freakin’ awesome.)

“‘Who cares if it’s a Cobra party?’” Minho echoes. “Question for you, Changbin: do you think the team would prefer for me to keep my shoes on or off when they tar and feather me at practice?”

He’s being dramatic, maybe, but not by too much. Levanter University is the long-time rival to Yellow Wood College in almost every area, including academics, arts, and (most importantly) athletics. As captain of the Yellow Wood Falcons soccer team, Minho kind of has an image to uphold—and fraternizing with the team’s biggest rival doesn’t really fit into that equation.

Clearly, Changbin doesn’t feel the same way, because he just rolls his eyes dismissively. “Oh, it’s not like anyone on the team would ever find out. I mean, it’s a Halloween party. I doubt anyone will recognize you in your costume, let alone figure out you’re from Yellow Wood.”

Then, Changbin furrows his brow, obviously disgruntled. “Besides, this whole ‘rival schools’ shtick is such ridiculous, chauvinistic bullshit,” he says. “Fucking calm down, Minho. It’s soccer.”

Minho narrows his eyes. “Don’t you dare quote Superbad at me. You know I can’t possibly argue against that.”

“Point is,” says Changbin, “you have two options. Either you actually confront the complicated fuckstorm of feelings left in the aftermath of your breakup—”

“Yeah, that’s not happening,” Minho deadpans.

“—or you do that thing you usually do where you lock all your unpleasant emotions into a tiny little box, then drink and smoke and hook up with one-night stands all over that box until you eventually forget it even exists.”

Minho frowns. “I feel like that metaphor kind of got away from you,” he says.

“Okay, you’re literally failing a 100-level English course,” Changbin says. “Do you even know what a metaphor is?”

Minho scowls. “Seven. You’re looking at the next seven laundry runs,” he says.

Changbin just rolls his eyes. “Right. Well, Hyunjin wants me to accompany him, so it doesn’t really matter to me whether you decide to go or not.” He types something into his phone, and Minho’s own screen lights up with a notification. “But if you change your mind, that’s the address to Ryujin’s place.”

Minho glances over at the text. Then, hesitantly, he screenshots the address, avoiding Changbin’s shit-eating grin. “Shut up,” he says, “I’m just going for the free booze, okay?”

“Sure,” says Changbin. There’s a knowing sheen of disbelief to his voice—and Minho hates it, this feeling of another person looking straight past his skin and into the beating cavity of his chest. It makes him feel like a thing made of holes, of gaps. Something incomplete.

It reminds him too much of the way he’d felt with Chan, and the wound inside of Minho gapes wide open.

“Are you and Hyunjin gonna do couples costumes?” Minho asks, bluntly steering the conversation away from the topic at hand.

If Changbin’s right about one thing, it’s this: he needs a distraction. For now, watching Changbin spiral into Chernobyl levels of radioactive panic at the mere mention of Hyunjin’s name will have to do.

As expected, Changbin drops his phone onto the table with a clatter, ears going blush-red. “Why?” he says, “Would I do a couples costume with him? We’re not? A couple?”

Okay, yeah. After watching Changbin try to string a series of disjointed interrogatives together into one coherent statement, Minho feels a little better about his own love life. Just a little.

“Either way, just don’t do Joker and Harley Quinn. That’s played out,” says Minho. “And, I’m sorry, but I really don’t think you’d make a good Harley Quinn.”

Changbin furrows his brow. “Why would I be Harley Quinn?” he says.

“Well, because I think Hyunjin would want to be the Joker,” Minho says, “and I doubt you’d be able to say no to him.”

Changbin opens his mouth, then closes it again.

For the next hour, they make a silent agreement not to talk about certain sore subjects. Not Hyunjin, not Chan, not the ever-expanding wound carved in Minho’s chest. He can’t help but wait for that wound to close over, to turn into a bloated carapace of tissue—but it stays there, unchanged, shiny and fresh and feeling more and more like something with a missing piece.

♡

From a glance, the party looks like your typical drunken Halloween get-together. There are the usual half-assed decorations littered around the room: a few fake cobwebs here, a handful of plasticky spiders there. Everyone is in predictably skimpy costumes, too, but none of them are particularly impressive.

(Minho sees at least four different people dressed as three hole punches, black construction paper circles taped onto their torsos, which… okay. He thinks The Office should start receiving royalty payments at this point.)

But the music, rhythmic trap with low, thrumming basslines that burrow deep into Minho’s skull, is different from the mix of Top 40s hip-hop and EDM that usually plays at Yellow Wood parties. Minho doesn’t recognize any of the faces either, all those sweat-misted bodies blending into one writhing mass as he watches from the couch, unimpressed.

Yeah. This is definitely a Cobra party.

He’s a few drinks in, and the tropical-colored concoction that he’d helped himself to generous helpings of is definitely getting to his head now, making him feel woozy and weightless and generally placated at an otherwise mediocre party—but it doesn’t take long for his mind to wander into the well-trodden territory of Fuck Seo Changbin, which is situated right between the exit ramps of Why Don’t I Have Better Friends and Seriously, Fuck That Guy.

So, here’s how Changbin stabs Minho in the chest, all “Et tu, Brute?”-style:

The first red flag pops up when Minho notices that Changbin and Hyunjin are virtually inseparable the whole car ride, Hyunjin finding every excuse he can get to have a hand on Changbin. The moment they get to Ryujin’s place, Hyunjin is immediately pulling Changbin into the kitchen, insisting that he just has to introduce him to this one friend of his. When Minho sputters in protest, dreading the prospect of braving a Cobra party all on his own, Changbin gives him a look that practically screams, Dude. Please. Take one for the team here.

“We’ll come find you when we’re done,” Changbin says. Hyunjin is still clinging to his arm as he pulls him towards the kitchenette, and Changbin looks a little like he’s died and gone to heaven. Impossible, considering that he’s definitely going to hell after violating the Golden Rule of “Bros before hoes.”

At Minho’s affronted expression, Changbin adds in a pleading tone, “It’ll be, like, ten minutes, tops.”

It is not ten minutes, tops. It’s been nearly twenty minutes, and Minho has been sitting on the couch for so long that he thinks his limbs are starting to calcify. He’ll probably have to be buried at this very spot, still attached to the stained sofa.

Here lies Lee Minho, his tombstone will read. For dying in the line of wingman duty, he earned the Purple Heart. No, scratch that—he was so goddamn heroic that we invented a new medal for him. Yeah, we’re calling it the Turquoise Spleen. So, Changbin, if you’re reading this: fuck you.

Minho has just started planning out his funeral flower arrangements when he hears someone say, “What’re you supposed to be?”

He turns towards the voice and finds himself face-to-face with… well. With a guy who’s trying way too hard. Seriously, his costume is just all over the place. He’s got on a black, sleeveless crop-top with a long cloak draped on top, the cheap, glitter-dotted fabric reminding Minho of the night sky. He is dripping in twilight, actually, from the pointy witch’s hat perched atop his floppy, pitch-black hair to the adornment of smooth, Stygian gems decorating his wrists and fingers.

Minho flicks his gaze back up. “Take a wild guess,” he drawls.

The stranger gives the cheap, crooked cat ears on Minho’s head a dubious once-over. “Douchebag who couldn’t be bothered to come up with a Halloween costume?” he ventures.

“Wow,” Minho gushes with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Are you psychic? You should get your own show.”

He squints at Minho. “Okay, I sat down because I thought I recognized you from my Econ lecture,” he says, “but I think I’d remember if I had class with Time Magazine’s Asshole of the Year.”

Minho squints back, just because he can. “And I think I’d remember if I had class with bargain bin Belle Delphine going through her goth phase.”

At that, the man looks almost comically offended, mouth dropping open in disbelief. “First of all,” he says, “my name is Jisung. Not… that. And second of all: I’m a witch. Obviously.” He says this with an unbelievable level of disdain, as if Minho’s inability to glean this conclusion confirms the fact that he must have two brain cells.

“Ah.” Minho thinks he might be a little drunker than he’d assumed, because he can’t stop himself from glancing down at the exposed patch of skin that peeks out from under Jisung’s crop top, letting his gaze linger on the blank canvas of his stomach for just a beat too long. “Of course. I’m sure all the local coven members dress like this,” he says.

“So, Mr. Douchebag Who Couldn’t Be Bothered To Come Up With A Halloween Costume—”

“Please,” he interjects. “Mr. Douchebag was my father. Call me Minho.”

Jisung’s lips curl up at the corners, and Minho sort of understands the whole witch get-up now, because the way that Minho’s stomach flutters at his smile must be some kind of dark magic.

“Okay,” Jisung says, “Minho. What’re you doing, sitting here all alone? You some sort of loser who doesn’t have any friends?”

Minho stares up at the ceiling. “Well,” he says, “I guess it’d be accurate to say that I have one less friend now than I did at the start of the night.”

Jisung furrows his brow. “...That’s not because you killed them, right? Because you have to tell me if you did. Otherwise, this is entrapment.”

Minho makes a sound that’s stuck between a laugh and a snort. It’s completely unattractive and probably one of the lamest things anyone at this party has done so far, but his new witch companion just grins.

“Not yet, no,” says Minho. “He just ditched me for some ass. Which would be slightly less insulting if said ass in question wasn’t virtually concave and also attached to my other best friend.”

Jisung makes a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat. “Bros before hoes just doesn’t have the same gravity as it used to, huh?” he says.

Minho fixes a deadly serious expression on him. “That is exactly what I’ve been saying.”

Suddenly, Jisung’s brow creases in concentration. Minho resists the urge to reach forward and smooth out the wrinkles in his forehead—because that’s weird. It’s weird and definitely not socially acceptable to do something like that with a guy you just met, even if he smiles like he is spun from witchcraft and carries a sky full of constellations on his shoulders.

Without warning, Jisung shoots his hand out and says, “Hi. I’m Jisung.”

Minho blinks dumbly at the outstretched hand for a few seconds before he realizes that Jisung is offering it for him to shake. “Um,” says Minho, “yeah. I know.”

“I know you know,” Jisung says, rolling his eyes, “but if we’re gonna be friends, we should at least properly introduce ourselves to each other.”

Minho squinches his nose. “Friends?” he repeats, saying the word like it means bull testicles or Hepatitis C.

“Yes. Friends.” Jisung is starting to sound a little impatient, as if he can’t believe how long it’s taking for Minho to grasp this. Minho wouldn’t be surprised if Jisung just downgraded him from two brain cells to only the one. “You said you have one less friend now than you started the night with, right? So, if we become friends, it’ll even out.”

What with his major in computer science and all, Minho fancies himself pretty good at math, and he’s almost certain that’s just not how the calculus shakes out. Still, he can’t stop his lips from twitching into a crooked, tight-lipped smirk. Maybe Jisung isn’t dabbling with black magic here, but with physics, with magnets and force fields and gravity. The thought is sort of reassuring; Minho knows how to deal with science—the cold, impersonal kind, at least, the kind dealing with galaxies and inanimate lines of code. It’s just bodies that turn him nervous and thick-fingered.

“You’re cute.” Minho watches as Jisung’s face turns blush-red, rosebuds blooming on his cheeks. He doesn’t know whether Jisung’s face feels as hot as it looks, but when he takes up his offer of a handshake, his palm feels like it has been left out in the sun all summer long to grow loose and warm. “Okay, Jisung. We can be friends. At least for the night,” he says.

The handshake feels like a promise, and Minho almost wishes they’d linked pinkies instead. If not to feel Jisung’s finger hooked around his own like an anchor, a vow to stay frozen for the time being.

Jisung lets go of Minho’s hand and says, “Who’s your friend anyways? Er, ex-friend, I mean. Maybe I know him.”

Minho hesitates before answering. It’s not like Yellow Wood students are officially barred from attending Cobra functions—but, well, there’s sort of a thrumming, unconscious agreement that the two schools’ party spheres stay firmly delineated. He doesn’t know how much school spirit Jisung has, but he’s not really in the mood for conducting a social experiment to find out.

“I don’t think so,” he replies vaguely. “He’s not really into the party scene on campus.”

“Ah,” Jisung says, “so, he’s lame like you?”

Minho stares blankly at Jisung. “I know we’re friends and all now—but you really jumped straight over the friendly small talk phase into the unwarranted antagonisms, huh?”

Jisung shrugs. “Eh. I hate small talk.” His smile resurfaces, the one stitched together from stardust and sorcery. “I kinda have the feeling that you do, too.”

Minho lets out a sharp puff of laughter. “I’m not that easy to read, am I?”

“Oh, God no,” says Jisung. “I mean, I still haven’t decided whether I actually like talking to you, or if this conversation just has me in some Stockholm Syndrome-like vice grip.”

“Flattering,” Minho says dryly.

“Well, morbid fascination is still fascination, right?”

Minho feels his lips curl into a mirror image of Jisung’s. “Sure.”

He’s about to excuse himself to the bathroom; he’d been avoiding it all night, always irrationally afraid at large parties like this that he’ll somehow contract syphilis from the toilet seat, but the multiple drinks that he’s been chugging all night are finally making their presence known. Before he can say anything though, Minho feels his phone vibrate in his pants pocket. Once his eyes adjust to the phone screen and he’s able to read the notification, he lets out a single, “Fuck.”

“What happened? Did the pregnancy test come back positive?” Jisung screws his features into a crude imitation of seriousness, propping his chin up on his knuckles. “TelI your ol’ pal Jisung all about it.”

Minho rolls his eyes. “No, it’s my friend—y’know, the one you oh-so-graciously replaced. He just Venmoed me $30.” He pauses to grimace before finishing his thought. “His note says to spend it on an Uber home.”

Jisung lets out a snorting, start-and-stop laugh at that. “Sorry,” he says when Minho frowns at him, sounding about as apologetic as someone brushing a mosquito off their arm. “I just—you gotta admire the hustle, right? I mean, the dude really reverse Julius Caesar-ed it up in here tonight. He saw, he conquered, and he came.”

Minho gives Jisung a reproachful stare. “With each passing moment, I regret more and more my decision to stay on this couch,” he says.

“Aw, you don’t mean that,” coos Jisung. “I don’t think you have the patience to put up with things you don’t like.”

Jisung’s grin goes sharp, and Minho feels its pointed corners cut clean through his chest. This, like the patient, adoring smiles Chan used to give him, makes Minho feel like a thing made of gaps—but it doesn’t make him feel empty. Quite the opposite, really: there’s something about the feel of Jisung’s fingers slipping into the newly made fissure as he rips Minho’s rib cage wide open that fills him up, that makes him feel too, too big.

Minho can’t tell which is scarier: feeling hollow, or feeling so completely full that he thinks the blood in his lungs might overflow and pour out onto the floor, pooling at his feet.

“Hey,” says Jisung, “I have a proposition.”

Minho blinks. “Oh, wow. I’m flattered, but I kind of have a policy against hooking up with people if two or more of the involved parties are in costume. Trust me, it always gets weird,” he says.

Jisung gives him a strange look. “What? No. That’s not what I was gonna say.”

He leans forward a little, and Minho finds himself mirroring the action. Like gravity, like the planets. An action, then its equal and opposite reaction. “There’s this really great Chinese carryout place nearby—like, a ten minute drive away,” says Jisung. “Their fries are literally orgasmic, and dirt cheap, too.”

Minho squints. “...And this concerns me how?”

“Well,” Jisung says, “I’ve got a car, and you’re thirty dollars richer than you were at the beginning of the night.”

Minho clicks his tongue against his front teeth. “I was half-joking with that hooking up comment, but I’m starting to get some real mixed signals from you, buddy.”

Jisung frowns at him. “Do people usually proposition you through invitations to eat Chinese food?” he asks.

“No, but I sure as hell have been waiting for someone to,” says Minho.

Jisung lets out a loud, abrasive laugh, one that lacerates Minho’s insides, leaving the flesh all scratched up. “Truly, the stars aligned for us to meet tonight.”

He says this in a teasing drawl—but Minho has been thinking about stars all night, has been resisting the urge to reach out and smooth his hand over the endless expanse of night sky draped over Jisung’s shoulders. Star-crossed lovers, Shakespeare called those two punch-drunk kids in fair Verona. Minho had rolled his eyes when he first read the phrase—God, teenagers had been unbearably emo back in the 16th century, too—but as Jisung stares at him with eyes like bright, white balls of gas, Minho thinks he might understand a little better.

“Thank God for those stars,” says Minho.

♡

Minho doesn’t think he’d describe the fries as “orgasmic,” but thirty dollars buys enough plastic takeout containers filled with those little heart failure sticks that it probably wouldn’t have mattered if they tasted like lightly salted dirt. Besides, the buy is worth it just to see Jisung… be Jisung. Minho hadn’t known that Jisung could get even more hyperactive than he already was—but he is practically vibrating with energy when they sit side-by-side on a parking bumper to share the fries, twin pairs of knees drawn close to their chests.

“Are you sure you’re not drunk?” Minho asks doubtfully, taking advantage of the break that Jisung takes from his rant about the top five video game characters he would want to live on a desert island with in order to inhale a worrying amount of fries.

Jisung squints at him, cheeks bulging. “Are you sure you are?” he counters, spraying flecks of food onto the sidewalk as he speaks. “You look about as sober as my Uncle Kangho during an AA meeting.”

“I can hold my liquor,” Minho says simply.

“Fuck,” Jisung says, swallowing his mouthful of food. “You’re not just holding your liquor—you’re running that shit all forty yards to the endzone. Three linebackers just tried to stop you, and you bum-rushed every single one. I mean, one of the dudes has a concussion now. His mom is crying in the crowd because he’s not getting up. He may never play football again.”

Minho blinks. “... Is that a compliment?”

Jisung shrugs and stuffs another fistful of fries into his mouth. “It should be.”

Despite Jisung’s disbelief, Minho knows that he’s definitely drunk. Sober Minho would never agree to spend thirty dollars on seven greasy containers of mediocre fries just because a boy with a star-spun smile asked him to. Sober Minho doesn’t do the whole food-sharing thing either, even when he’s got a ridiculous excess of it, because there’s something weirdly intimate about the act that he’s never quite been able to wrap his head around.

Mostly, though, Sober Minho would’ve realized much earlier that all this is a hundred times worse with a Levanter kid, a Cobra.

Jisung looks like he’s about to continue his desert island tirade, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows the fries in his mouth and holds a finger up—but before he can, he jerks his head to the side and sneezes loudly into the crook of his elbow.

“Gross,” Minho says when Jisung sniffles wetly afterwards.

Still, Minho’s eyes rake over the paper-thin cloak draped over Jisung’s shoulders, the exposed, goose pimpled skin of his arms and abs. Minho casually shrugs his own bomber jacket off.

“This is why I don’t do Halloween costumes,” says Minho. “I mean, I understand why all you painfully average-looking people put in the effort—but I look hot no matter what I’m wearing, so what’s the point.”

Wordlessly, Minho places the jacket around Jisung’s thin frame. The gesture seems to stun Jisung into silence—which, as Minho has discovered, occurs as often and for about as long as a solar eclipse. Minho watches as Jisung’s fingers curl tighter around the jacket, hugging it close like a second skin.

Then, a small smile creeps onto Jisung’s lips. It’s different from the blinding supernova in his eyes before—more like the hazy light of Mercury as it passes by Earth, hurtling hundreds of thousands of kilometers as it stays impossibly still in the night sky.

“You’re getting really good at this whole ‘friend’ thing,” Jisung says, tilting his head to the side as he looks up at Minho from his hunched stance. “And here I thought you might be an advanced android sent here to test how long it takes for an AI to start gaining sentience.”

Minho frowns. “If you get snot on my jacket, I will shove my cyborg-arm so far up your ass that you taste metal for weeks,” he says.

“...Yeah, I guess I shouldn’t rule the possibility out yet.”

Minho lets out a quick exhale of laughter. Idly, he pulls his phone out to check the time, then sucks his teeth in frustration. “Damn. It’s almost midnight already. I should probably get going.”

“Let me give you a ride,” Jisung offers, barely letting even a beat of silence swell between them. It is so unbearably enthusiastic, so sincere, that it makes Minho feel raw and blistering.

“You don’t even know where I live,” Minho says. A pretty weak rebuttal, considering the way Jisung raises his brow in response.

“Hi, time traveler from 1985. Welcome to 2021!” Jisung chirps cheerily. “We have this cool new thing called Google Maps. You’ll love it. It’s just like a physical map, only all you have to do is type in an address and—oh, do you know what typing is? Shit, yeah, I have a lot to catch you up on. So, you know typewriters? It’s sort of like—”

“Alright, George fucking Carlin,” Minho interjects in a flat voice. “I get it. You can stop running through your tight five now.”

“What, do you think I’m gonna kidnap you and sell your organs or something?” says Jisung. “Trust me: with how much I’ve seen you drink tonight, no one wants your kidneys.”

Minho scoffs, slightly offended. “Oh, please. You would kill to have kidneys as pristine as mine.” He stops, then shakes his head. “That’s beside the point. I just…”

His voice trails off when he realizes the real reason he doesn’t want Jisung to drive him home. He lives right on the Yellow Wood campus—and he still doesn’t know how Jisung is going to react to the news that he goes to Levanter’s biggest rival school. “I can just call a ride,” he says instead, already unlocking his phone to open the Uber app.

Jisung scrunches his nose up. “And you think you’re less likely to have your kidneys harvested in that situation?”

“Yeah,” Minho says as the app pings him to say that his driver is arriving in eight minutes. “Jamal here has a 4.92 star rating.”

When Minho looks up from his phone, Jisung is staring at him with these big, puppy-dog eyes. Oh, God.

“Alright, spit it out,” says Minho. “Why the hell are you looking at me like that.”

Jisung blinks, and that fog of dismay floating over his face dissipates. “Like what?”

“Like you just figured out what your mom really meant when she told you that she was sending Fido away to live on a big farm upstate,” Minho says.

Jisung’s cheeks are already red from the bite of the autumn wind, but now, they flush even darker still. “I mean,” he says, chewing on his chapped bottom lip, “I was kind of hoping we could stay in touch, or something? You don’t have to give me your number or anything—but a Snapchat would be nice, at least.”

Minho feels the stitches in his chest tear open, one by one, exposing that wound above his heart to the frigid October air. Jisung… wants to keep in touch. Really, Minho’s not accustomed to people wanting to see more of him; it’s usually quite the opposite. Maybe all that hair flopping over Jisung’s ears has impaired his hearing, and he doesn’t understand just how little Minho has to offer him.

“Why,” Minho says, the single syllable coming out too flat to be a question. “Why would you want to keep in touch with me.”

Jisung stares at him, eyes wide. “Why not?”

Minho leans in, furrowing his brow as he stares Jisung straight in his eyes. “Look at me, Jisung. Like, really look at me.”

He pauses to let him do just that, watching as the blush under Jisung’s cheeks spreads to his neck, his ears, like paint swirling around in water. “What you’re seeing right now? That’s all you’re gonna get from me. I mean, you’re probably thinking, ‘This guy’s a bit of a shit, but I don’t like judging a book by its cover. I bet he’s got a heart of gold underneath all that!’” Minho puts his hands on Jisung’s shoulders. “There is no gold. The cover is made of shit, the pages are made of shit, and the actual contents of the book are just the word ‘shit’ written over and over again in Comic Sans font. It’s shit all the way down, my friend.”

Jisung gets a perplexed expression on his face. “I think you’re mixing your metaphors a little,” he says. “Or a lot.”

“Unsurprising,” says Minho. “I’m failing English.”

Jisung hesitates before cupping Minho’s cheek with a hand. Any other night, with any other person, Minho’s instinct would be to jerk away, and maybe finally utilize his black belt in taekwondo. Instead, he barely even flinches—just lets Jisung’s frozen fingers warm up from his body heat.

“Well, for what it’s worth,” Jisung says, “I think there’s probably more to you than just… uh, shit. Didn’t a famous astronomer say once that everyone is made of star stuff? Because all the carbon and nitrogen and oxygen in our bodies were created billions of years ago?”

When Jisung smiles next, his eyes curve into two crescent moons against that twilight face. He says, “I think it’s true. I can see the origins of the universe in you.”

Minho feels his own face get hot against Jisung’s ice-cold hand. The line is so unbelievably cheesy that Minho thinks he should burst out into laughter—but he doesn’t. He just stays there, frozen, that wound in his chest split wide open.

“There’s no balcony, you know,” Minho finally blurts out.

Jisung blinks. “...What?”

“In Romeo and Juliet,” Minho says in a rush, like a cut that refuses to clot. “There’s no balcony in the balcony scene. The word ‘balcony’ is never mentioned. Not once. In the original play, Juliet just appeared at a window. We only think it happens on a balcony because that’s how it’s shown in movies and stuff.”

“I… don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”

Minho swallows thickly. “I think that sometimes,” he says, “people really, really, really want the balcony. Because it’s tidy. Because it’s romantic. But sometimes, there just isn’t one. And most of the time, telling yourself that it exists a million times over won’t make one appear out of nowhere.”

They’re both quiet for a moment. Then, Minho feels his phone buzz in his pocket, and he quickly pulls away from Jisung.

“Oh. My Uber’s almost here,” Minho says, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as stiff as he feels. Brittle, stick-straight bones, with a spine that feels like it’ll snap at any moment. “I’m gonna just…”

Minho lets his voice trail off as he starts to get up from the parking bumper. Before he can make it all the way up, Jisung grabs his wrist. His fingers, warmed from the heat of Minho’s body, are no longer ice-cold. Minho glances over his shoulder in surprise and says, “What—”

“Not everyone wants a balcony, you know,” Jisung says. “Maybe I like windows just as much.”

Jisung might’ve been onto something with the whole mixed metaphors comment, because Minho’s head hurts a little from trying to keep up with all this figurative language. He doesn’t think he understands what Jisung is saying, not completely, but he shakes his head anyways, a sudden side-to-side that makes the cheap cat ears affixed to his head go slightly askew.

“I really hate poetry,” Minho confesses with a harsh huff of laughter. He gives a gentle shake of his wrist to wriggle out of Jisung’s loose grip. “So, you’re not exactly scoring any points with me when you say stuff like that.”

Jisung frowns. “Well, you’re the one who started all the weird metaphors,” he says.

That’s because Minho’s a hypocrite. That’s because Minho can’t ever say what he actually means without obfuscating it in layers of pretense and poetry first, despite asking everyone around him for exactly that. Because while Minho is scared of reopening his wounds, he’s even more terrified of letting them heal and fade into bumpy, bloodless scars if it means he has to ask someone for help.

“Bye, Jisung,” says Minho, stuffing cold-numb fingers into his pockets as his Uber pulls onto the curb. “It was nice being your friend for a night.”

Jisung says something in response, but it’s so quiet that Minho barely catches it. He only makes out the fact that it’s two syllables: fuck you or yours too or liked you. Minho knows that he can’t stop himself from turning over the possibilities in his head on the car ride home, but he tries his hardest not to wish for any one of them.

♡

“You look like shit.”

Minho is mid-stretch when he glares at Hyunjin from underneath dark, heavy lids. “I’m not in the mood today, Hyunjin,” he warns him.

“No, really,” Hyunjin barrels on, displaying as little regard for his own well-being as Minho’s come to expect from him. “You look like a whole separate tier of shit. Like, if shit had its own digestive system, you would be the end product of whatever that process looks like.”

Minho has halfway untwisted himself out of his stretch before Changbin is holding him back with an arm on his chest. “Okay, let’s all… calm down here,” Changbin says with a nervous laugh.

“Sorry,” Minho and Hyunjin say at the same time, neither one of them sounding very remorseful. When Changbin looks away for a brief moment, Minho sticks his tongue out at Hyunjin, and Hyunjin retaliates with a ridiculously exaggerated impression of the gesture.

“Hyunjin kind of has a point,” Changbin says when he turns his attention back to Minho. “I mean, are you okay? You look a little… uh, bedraggled.”

Minho stares at him, disdainful. “You know, just because they’re called ten-dollar words doesn’t mean you get paid that much every time you use one,” he says.

“He’s being nice, you emotionally stunted asshole,” Hyunjin quips. “You know that’s just his own pretentious way of saying that you look like shit, right?”

Minho scowls at him. “Yes, Hyunjin,” he says. “I’m perfectly aware of that fact. But thank you so much for reminding me.”

“I don’t think you look as bad as… um, what Hyunjin said,” Changbin interjects. “But, yeah. You are kind of giving off the vibe that you’re suffering through the beginning stages of a brain parasite.”

Minho sighs and rubs the heel of his palm against his forehead. “I just didn’t get home ‘til kinda late last night.” Then, he shoots Changbin a pointed look. “Because someone ditched me at the party.”

Changbin lets out a sheepish laugh, the tips of his ears going red. “Um. Sorry,” he says.

“Made the right choice, if you ask me,” Hyunjin says at the same time.

Minho bolts up. “Hey, hey, hey,” Changbin says, pushing Minho down again. “I… really am sorry about that. But, um, something came up.”

“Yeah it did,” Hyunjin says, waggling his eyebrows.

“Oh my God,” Minho says, feeling his soul seep out of his body. “I think I liked it better when you guys were stuck in homoerotic purgatory.”

“Anyways!” Changbin says loudly. “Let’s change the subject!”

Hyunjin’s lips pull into a shark-toothed smile. Oh, geez. This couldn’t be good. “Momo told me that she saw you cuddling up with some cute twink on the couch. Said you guys left the party together.” Hyunjin’s expression is practically feral now, gossip-hungry and insatiable. “What’s that all about, Romeo? Could a certain Juliet be the reason you didn’t get much sleep last night?”

Minho massages at his temple with two fingers. He can’t tell if his budding headache is from the sleep deprivation, his hangover, or Hyunjin’s general presence—or maybe it’s from all this goddamn Shakespeare. “It’s nothing like that, you perv,” he says. “He’s a friend I made at the party. We got some carryout together. And that’s literally all we did.”

Of course, Minho doesn’t mention Jisung telling him that he must be made of star stuff, doesn’t mention trading warmth between their bodies as easily as breathing. He certainly doesn’t bring up how his immediate instinct to seeing Jisung sneeze and shiver had been to give him his jacket—

“Oh,” Minho groans, burying his face in his hands. “Fuck.”

Changbin makes a small, concerned noise from his side. Hyunjin says, “He’s finally having a brain aneurysm. Who had November in the betting pool?”

Minho is so fucking mired in the realization of what an idiot he is that he doesn’t even acknowledge Hyunjin’s comment. “I gave him my jacket, and I forgot to ask for it back,” he says mournfully, lifting his head from his hands. “My favorite bomber jacket. The black one with all the patches on the back.”

“Dude, no,” Changbin says. “That jacket is so sick. And you were gonna give it to me if you died a tragically early death, too.”

“Wait, what?” Hyunjin says with a frown. “I’m pretty sure Minho said he was leaving that jacket to me.”

“Uh, no. He told me years ago that—” Changbin stops, finally noticing Minho’s death glare. He clears his throat. “I mean. Do you remember the guy’s name? Maybe I could ask Momo to ask Ryujin if she could get in contact with him.”

Minho feels discomfort, with its dull, blunted edges, worm its way underneath his skin. “Um,” he says, “I don’t know how much he’d want to talk to me. I didn’t… exactly leave him on the best terms.”

Hyunjin gives a low whistle. “Is this tea?” he asks.

Minho rolls his eyes. “Extremely lukewarm and heavily diluted tea,” he says.

“Yeah, that’s still categorically tea.” Hyunjin must be really desperate for gossip today, because despite his perennial complaints about getting grass stains on his cheerleading uniform, he takes a cross-legged seat on the field so that he’s at eye-level with Minho. “C’mon. What’s his name? What’d you do to him? Oh, or what did he do? The library is open and I’m ready for you to read him to filth.”

Minho massages his temples again, using both hands this time. “I regret introducing you to RuPaul’s Drag Race,” he says.

“In all seriousness,” says Changbin, “it’s probably still worth it to pass his name along to Ryujin. If you’re uncomfortable reaching out to him, I can just facilitate all the interactions between you two.”

Hyunjin gives Changbin a solemn nod. “Wow. I think it’s very noble that you’re putting in so much effort to get my jacket back,” he says.

“For the last time, it is not your—”

“His name is Jisung,” Minho interrupts tiredly, because he’s sure the back-and-forth would continue on endlessly if someone didn’t put an end to it. He seriously cannot believe that these two are haggling over his jacket right now.

Changbin knits his brow together. “Huh. Jisung, you said? That name sounds kind of fami—”

Suddenly, Changbin lets out an impossibly high-pitched squeak, and he claps his hands over his mouth.

Hyunjin’s eyes go wide. “Is this tea?” he says excitedly. “Because this definitely feels like tea. Scalding, keep you up for three days straight tea.”

Minho narrows his eyes at Changbin. “Yeah, Changbin,” he says in a voice like steel. “Is it tea? Please enlighten us.”

Changbin drops his hands from his mouth. “You won’t want me to tell you,” he says. “If I do, you’ll get mad, and then you’ll complain about the fact that I said anything.”

Minho scoffs. “Do you think I have the emotional intelligence of a child?” (He ignores Hyunjin’s quick “yes.”) “Of course I won’t do that.”

Changbin hesitates—but the combined heat of Minho and Hyunjin staring bullets at him probably makes him cave. “Okay, don’t take my word for this,” he says, “but I’m pretty sure Jisung is the new captain of the Cobras.”

Minho is in the middle of a seated stretch, leaning to one side as he grabs onto his toe, when Changbin finishes speaking. He loses grip of his foot and slips, folding clean in half as he teeters forward.

“Like, our Cobras?” Minho sputters. “The Levanter Cobras? As in, our team’s biggest rival right now?”

Changbin gives a reluctant shrug.

A long stretch of silence passes between the three of them. Then, Minho says, “Dude. Why did you tell me this.”

Changbin makes a series of sputtering noises. “What? You said you wouldn’t get mad if I told you!”

“Yeah, but I relinquished all my higher reasoning capabilities to you long ago,” says Minho. “Of course I was going to get mad. You should know this.”

“Look, it’s not that big a deal,” says Changbin, as if he hadn’t been the one to freak out just a minute ago. “I still think this whole school rivalry thing is such a farce. I mean, who cares if he’s the captain of the Cobras? It’s not like you’ll ever see him again, aside from the occasional game. Forget I even said anything, okay?”

“Right,” says Minho, even as a tiny pit of dread forms in his stomach.

Minho feels something wet splatter against his cheek, and he blinks up at the sun. Sometime during their warm-up stretches, the clear, cloudless sky has become populated with fat gray clouds. Not angry or ominous—just waiting. As a few more drops of rain hit his skin, Minho quickly scrambles up to his feet.

“God,” Hyunjin groans. “What’s the point of having a forecast if it isn’t even accurate? I will literally sue the weather channel if I have to dry-clean my uniform again.”

“That’s not how lawsuits work,” Changbin says with a frown. “That’s not how anything works.”

As the two of them half-bicker, half-flirt on their sprint to the nearest building, Minho just stands there, squinting up at the sky.

“Minho!” Changbin calls from a distance. “Hurry up! Coach needs you to help carry equipment in.”

He snaps out of his reverie. “Coming,” Minho shouts back. He gives one more glance up at the sky, at those smoke-colored clouds that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. The pit of dread in his stomach grows into something like an omen, hard and cold and solid.

♡

This is, primarily, a story about smoke.

Here is how it starts:

A group of local high-schoolers sneak onto Levanter U’s soccer field in the dead of night. They are equipped with cigarettes and cheap weed and Fourth of July firecrackers. And lighters—lots and lots of lighters, the flames glowing orange against a starless night sky.

And here is how it ends:

Minho squints at his phone as he watches a grainy video of the field being put out by a group of firefighters, tendrils of smoke curling up to the sky as the last ember is snuffed out.

“I mean,” says Minho, “it’s not that bad.”

Changbin stares at him in disbelief. “You’re kidding me, right?” he says. “The whole field lit up! They’re just lucky they contained it before it spread. People could’ve been seriously hurt.”

Minho shifts in his seat. “Okay, let me rephrase, because I think we’re talking about two different things,” he says. “What I meant to say is the field doesn’t look that bad. I feel like they could still play soccer on that.”

Changbin squints at him, like he’s trying to intuit from Minho’s body language whether he’s fucking with him. “There’s no grass on the field, Minho,” he deadpans.

Minho lets out a frustrated huff. “Okay, yeah,” he says, running a ragged hand through his hair. “But why do the Cobras have to play on our field? Why can’t they just go to a public park or something?”

This, Changbin doesn’t have an answer to. He shrugs and says, “Ditto—but if Coach says we have to share the field with them, then we don’t really have a choice.”

Minho is quiet for a moment, contemplating. “I’ll quit the team,” he announces. “That’ll give Coach Song an ultimatum. It’s either me or his sense of beneficence. It’ll be badass.”

When Changbin looks at him now, there’s a note of pity to his eyes. “Don’t do that, Minho,” he says, gently patting Minho’s hand. “Seriously. Don’t. I’ll save you the embarrassment now.”

Minho narrows his eyes. “Wait. Why am I the embarrassed one?” he asks suspiciously.

Changbin clears his throat. “You’re catastrophizing,” he says, a clunky change in subject. “It really won’t be that bad. Our field is big enough to accommodate two teams, so I doubt you’ll have much contact with Jisung.”

Minho frowns. “I never said I was worried because of Jisung,” he says defensively. “When did I say that?”

Changbin blinks. “Oh. Well, I just assumed that—”

“You know what happens when you assume?” Minho interjects. “It makes an ass out of you and me. But mostly you.”

Changbin sighs, then pushes himself out of his chair. “Okay, Minho. You’re clearly not in a good mood right now, so I’m gonna call a cautious raincheck on today’s study session before I end up with a pencil stuck in one or more of my orifices.”

Minho scoffs. “You know I use pens. Pencils are the coward’s choice of writing utensil.”

When Changbin is gone a few minutes later, leaving Minho alone in the study room, he finds himself watching the video of the fire again. He pictures that group of teenagers leaning in close to light each other’s cigarettes. They must’ve known how incredibly stupid it was to play with fire on a grass field, right? They must’ve.

Even so, Minho feels a twinge of envy for them and their trigger-happy fingers. They’d been reckless, sure, almost moronic—but they hadn’t been cowards, that was for certain.

♡

“Minho,” Coach Song says as he gestures between the two team captains. “This is Jisung. He just started as the Cobra’s team captain this semester—but Coach Zhu tells me that he's been showing extraordinary leadership during this troubling period for the team.”

The smile on Minho’s face is tight-lipped and dead-eyed as he holds his hand out for Jisung to shake. “Nice to meet you, Jisung,” he greets, trying his best not to speak through gritted teeth. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

When Jisung gives Minho’s hand a firm shake, his palm feels just as sun-warmed as it had at the party. “Likewise,” says Jisung.

His grip around Minho’s hand lingers for a beat too long before he finally lets go. Minho is made terribly aware of how cold and clammy his palm feels afterwards.

Coach Song turns to Minho. “I know that we’ve had a pretty fierce rivalry over the years,” he says, a teasing tone in his voice, “but I expect you to give Jisung and the rest of the Cobras the same Yellow Wood hospitality that you would show any other guests. Just because we’ve historically been opponents on the field doesn’t mean it has to be that way during practices.”

Minho nods wordlessly. He tries his best to avoid looking at Jisung straight on, focusing his gaze on Coach Song instead—but curiosity, slow and spiraling, itches under his skin. Jisung had seemed undoubtedly taken aback when Minho first walked into the cramped office, but he’d been quick to blink his shock away and plaster a polite smile on his lips. He wonders whether that veil of normalcy has dropped from Jisung’s face now, finally cracking under the pressure of their proximity, or if it has only cooled and hardened with time.

“I know that it’s going to be a bit of an adjustment in the beginning, sharing a field with another team—but I hope that you two, as team captains, will work together closely to make sure sure that practices go as smoothly as possible,” Coach Song continues.

Minho doesn’t even know what to say in response to this. He isn’t really in a position to object to his coach here, is he? And even if he was, what would he say?

Hey, Coach, fun fact! Jisung and I have actually already met, and I was kind of an asshole to him. So, I’m incredibly uncomfortable with this whole arrangement because I think I might like him a little too much for my own good, and I’m pretty sure he absolutely despises my guts for the same reason. So, see you at practice on Monday, yeah?

It turns out that Minho doesn’t have to reply, because Jisung interrupts his panicked train of thoughts and says, “Of course. I look forward to working with you.”

Minho can feel the weight of Jisung’s gaze on him with that last sentence. Against his better judgement, he flicks his eyes over to look at Jisung square on. He regrets it instantly, because he feels something in the center of his chest unspool like a thread of DNA, multiplying into a million mutations before he can even take a breath.

Jisung is still smiling, but he has a strange, hazy look in his eyes now, a fog of anger or uncertainty or something just as heartbreaking. The smoke before the fire, Minho thinks.

“Yes,” says Minho, feeling the smile on his lips falter slightly. “Me too.”

♡

“Minho. Minho. Oh, for fuck’s sake, Minho, can you slow down for a second? Jesus, how are you walking so quickly? Do you have a goddamn bionic leg or something?”

Jisung is breathing harder than usual when he finally catches up. Minho had heard his footsteps quicken into a jog as he tried to follow close behind.

“Sorry. I’m just used to running.” Minho surprises even himself with how stiff his voice sounds. “I play midfield,” he elaborates.

“I know.” Jisung’s eyes go wide. He raises his hands in a defensive stance when Minho blinks quickly. “Er, I didn’t mean that in a creepy way! I just joined the Cobras this semester, so I’ve heard a lot about you from my teammates. You’re, like, kind of a legend.” He lets out a low huff of laughter. “Which is to say that most people on my team hate you at least a little bit.”

Minho can’t stop himself; he cracks a small smile at that. He considers himself to be a pretty chill person in everyday circumstances—but when he gets on the field, his sense of competition completely takes over. Although this has earned him plenty of yellow and red cards over the years, he likes to think it’s one of his greatest advantages as a player.

His smile goes a little uneasy when the full meaning of Jisung’s words sink in. “Do you?” Minho asks.

Jisung blinks. “Pardon?” he says.

“Do you hate me too?” Minho says. “At least a little bit?”

Jisung contemplates for a moment before answering. Finally, he says, “Yeah. A little bit.”

Minho had expected that to be his answer—but he feels his heart drop to the floor anyway, hears it splatter wetly between his feet. “Just a little bit?” he asks.

“Maybe more than that,” Jisung admits, practically pressing his heel into the still-beating muscle on the floor. “I mean, you also did saddle me with seven containers of fries.”

At that, Minho lets out a loud, harsh-sounding laugh. Somehow, he’d completely forgotten about the fries. “...Yeah. I’m sorry about that,” he says.

“It’s fine,” says Jisung. “But if the pigeons living near that carryout drop dead from cardiac arrest in the next few days, I will not hesitate to point fingers at you.”

Jisung pauses, his features twisting into a conflicted expression. He looks like he wants to say something else, something a little weightier than cold fries and pigeons. Minho feels the urge to blurt something out, anything, just to keep whatever heavy words are stopped up in Jisung’s throat from spilling past his lips.

“You still have my jacket,” Minho finally says, the words coming out in a rush.

Jisung furrows his brow. “Oh,” he says, “yeah. I forgot about that. I can give it back to you next practice.”

“No, um,” Minho says quickly, “I wasn’t trying to ask for it back in, like, a backhanded way. I mean, I really like that jacket—but I was the one who gave it to you in the first place, yeah? So, keep it for as long as you need.”

Jisung’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, looking half-charmed, half-insulted. “I own other jackets, you know,” he says.

Minho feels his face grow hot. “That’s not what I meant either,” he says, flustered.

Jisung laughs. “I know. I’m just teasing you,” he says.

There’s that crumpled expression again, like he’s got something dense and heavy resting just above his tonsils, like he’ll suffocate if he doesn’t get it out. Before Minho can say something to interrupt him again, Jisung shrugs his jean jacket off. He folds it into a sloppy square and holds it out to Minho.

“Uh,” says Minho, staring down at the proffered jacket. “No thanks. Acid wash isn’t my style.”

Jisung rolls his eyes. “No, dummy. Take it as an IOU,” he says.

Minho squints and says, “I don’t understand.”

“You told me to keep your jacket for as long as I want,” says Jisung, “but if I did that, I’d never give it back.”

He nudges his brandished arm in the air, impatiently waiting for Minho to take the jacket. “But maybe if you keep something of mine, at least until I give you your jacket back, then I’ll actually have a reason.”

Minho feels his lips twitch into a phantom smile. “You want me to hold your jacket hostage for you?” he says.

Jisung’s expression goes stony. “Show it no mercy, Minho,” he says.

Minho hesitates for a moment before he takes the jacket from Jisung’s hand. Despite the chill of the November air—or maybe because of it—the jacket is still warm from Jisung’s body heat.

Maybe Minho had been wrong, and Jisung holds more than just a few stars in him. Maybe he’s got the entire sun baked into his skin.

♡

Of all the members on the Falcons soccer team, Jeongin is probably the least confrontational. Sure, he’s as hot-headed and myopic as all the other JV members, sometimes a little too focused on being chosen for games than on developing the skills he needs to make it onto the field in the first place—but he’s a sweet kid, and Minho’s always been fond of him.

Which is why Minho can’t hold back his surprise when, during their first shared practice with the Cobras, he sees Jeongin tackling a member of the opposing team onto the ground, knees bracketed around the man’s waist as he scrabbles for purchase on the front of his dirt-smeared uniform.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Minho shouts, yanking Jeongin up by the scruff of his uniform. “What the fuck is going on here?”

Changbin has to help Minho pull Jeongin off of the Cobra by grabbing his arms. Jeongin quickly shrugs Changbin off, but Minho keeps his grip tight around Jeongin’s collar, keeping him from lunging forward at the Cobra currently being helped up from the ground by two of his teammates.

“Jeongin,” Minho says sharply, “what has gotten into you?”

In response, Jeongin spits on the ground. “This fucker was trash-talking me while I was trying to do my drills,” he retorts. “Kept saying shit about how he could see why I was in JV.

“Seungmin.” Minho hadn’t realized how much of a crowd had gathered around them until he heard Jisung’s voice calling out his teammate’s voices in two clear syllables, disapproval thrumming under his voice. “Is that true?” asks Jisung.

“It’s not my fault,” Seungmin shoots back. “The way I see it, he has two options: either he actually gets fucking good at the game, or he stops being a pussy and learns how to take criticism.”

“You motherfucker—”

Minho pulls back on Jeongin’s collar again, holding him back before he can make it another step forward.

“Jeongin,” Minho says in a cool voice. “Just let Seungmin apologize, Then, you can take the rest of practice off to cool down.”

“What? You want Seungmin to apologize first? After Jeongin tackled him to the ground like that?” says Jisung, incredulous.

Minho feels his jaw go tight. “You’re kidding me, right? Seungmin’s the one who initiated it. He should’ve never been talking to Jeongin like that,” he says.

“It’s trash talk,” says Jisung. “You can’t actually be saying that’s just as bad as physical assault.”

“That’s not at all what I’m saying,” Minho snaps. “I’m saying that Seungmin had been at fault first. Nothing would’ve happened if he’d just kept those comments to himself.”

“Oh, so we’re going by playground rules now?” Jisung says with a harsh laugh. “What’s your next argument? ‘He started it?’”

“Well, he did fucking start it, didn’t he?”

Minho doesn’t realize that he’s taking a step towards Jisung until Changbin has an arm pressed over his chest, keeping him from getting any closer. “Minho,” Changbin says in a low, warning voice. “Calm down.”

Realizing that both teams are staring at him now with wide eyes, Minho takes a deep breath. When he opens his eyes again, Jisung is staring at him with this wounded animal grimace, and it makes something break inside of Minho.

“Okay,” Minho says slowly. “You’re right. Even if Seungmin had initiated it, Jeongin never should’ve escalated it into something physical.”

Minho turns to Jeongin and says, “Apologize to Seungmin for tackling him.”

Jeongin blinks, incredulous. “You can’t be fucking serious right now. Why should I have to apologize for—”

“Please,” Minho says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Jeongin. As your team captain, I’m asking you to just suck it up and apologize so that we can continue with practice.”

Jeongin presses his lips into a tight line. Minho can see him running a series of calculations in his head, probably trying to estimate how much trouble he would get in for saying no. Eventually, he lets out a frustrated huff and says, “I’m sorry.”

Under his breath, Minho hears Jeongin add, “For not beating the shit out of you when I had the chance.”

Minho frowns and elbows Jeongin. “I mean, I’m sorry for tackling you,” Jeongin amends. “I shouldn’t have done that. It was wrong of me.” The apology has the stiff, rehearsed quality of someone who probably isn’t very sorry at all, but Minho decides not to push it.

Jisung gives Seungmin a meaningful look. Seungmin sighs loudly. “And I’m sorry for saying that I fucked your mom last weekend,” says Seungmin. “That probably wasn’t true.”

A few of the Cobras titter at that, though they all go silent again when Jisung glares at them. “Try again, Seungmin,” says Jisung.

Seungmin rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I’m sorry for being rude. I shouldn’t have said all that.”

He sounds just as stilted as Jeongin had, but Jeongin seems slightly pacified by the apology. He’s not breathing all that hard anymore, at least, and his face has returned from a flushed red to its normal coloring.

Minho glances around at the crowd that has gathered around the four of them. “Well? What the hell are you all looking at?” he says to his teammates. “Get back to your drills before I let Coach Song know which ones of you have been slacking off.”

And just like that, half the crowd disperses. Soon, the rest of the audience leaves, and everyone drifts back to their original positions. Jisung, too, turns around to accompany a limping Seungmin towards the edge of the field, and Minho finds himself staring at Jisung’s back as he walks away, watching as his body grows smaller and smaller in the distance.

Quickly, Minho turns back to Jeongin. “Hey. You okay? I’ll let Coach know if you need to take the rest of practice off to cool down.”

Jeongin stares at him in disbelief. “What the fuck was that?” he says.

Minho blinks. Yeah, this really isn’t the Jeongin that Minho knows. “What do you mean?”

“Why did you cave to Jisung like that?” asks Jeongin, sounding genuinely hurt. “I mean, you agreed that it was Seungmin’s fault, right? Why didn’t you push harder to defend me?”

Minho feels the hand he’s got on Jeongin’s shoulder go stiff, frozen. “I just didn’t want the situation to spiral,” he says—a little gentler than he usually would, because he can tell that Jeongin is cut open raw right now. “We’ll be sharing a field with the Cobras for who-knows-how-long, Jeongin. We can’t afford to get into fights with them every practice.”

“So the alternative is to be spineless? To just let them talk shit about us like that?” says Jeongin.

Minho takes another deep breath. Jeongin is just upset right now, he knows this—but the reproachful tone in his voice still stings, and Minho doesn’t quite know what to do with all the hurt flooding out of Jeongin right now.

“Someone had to be the bigger man and apologize first,” says Minho, “and I’m really proud of you for doing that.”

Jeongin shifts his weight between his feet, fidgeting with the hem of his uniform. “I think you’re just soft for that Jisung guy,” he grumbles.

The words come out short, hesitant, like Jeongin’s not sure if he should say them in the first place. So Minho knows to take his insult with a grain of salt, and he knows that Jeongin only says what he does because he guesses that it will cut straight to Minho’s core. Minho is just a little surprised that his guess is right.

“Take the rest of practice off, Jeongin,” says Minho, trying his hardest to keep his voice even.

“What? But I’m fine—”

“I’m not asking,” Minho interjects, firmer this time. “You’re not in the right headspace to be playing a team sport right now. Go cool off, and I’ll see you next practice. Okay?”

Jeongin’s shoulders go sharp as he folds his arms in front of his chest. “Sorry,” he says finally, mumbling the word like it’s something dirty.

Minho lets out a slow breath of a sigh. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s not your fault.”

But even with Jeongin gone for the rest of practice, Minho can’t stop thinking about what he’d said. Soft, Jeongin had called him. Soft, for Jisung.

It’s strange; the word is evocative of comfort, of twilight locks and sun-warmed palms. Soft is the right word to describe Jisung, maybe—but lately, Minho has felt like nothing but hard, jagged edges. Sharp like broken glass. Sharp like something that will leave cuts and gashes if you’re not careful enough.

♡

“Jisung,” says Minho, “can you stay for a bit to talk?”

Although a few players linger in the locker room now, stuffing dirty uniforms into bags as they chat idly amongst themselves, mostly everyone has left and gone home. Jisung is still in the Cobras’ blue and grey uniform when he walks over to Minho, probably because he let his teammates use the showers first. He is covered in grime and grass stains—the marks of either a truly dedicated or an unbelievably reckless player, Minho’s found—and Jisung rubs absentmindedly at a smudge of dirt on his elbow now.

“Yeah, sure,” Jisung says.

Despite the sparse number of people in the locker room, Minho can feel the weight of every pair of eyes that lingers on them now. He sweeps a stony, disinterested glare over the remaining people in the room, and they immediately stop their conversations in their tracks, quickly shoving their belongings into duffel bags as they speed-walk out of the locker room.

Jisung raises an eyebrow. “Was that really necessary?” he asks, sounding endlessly amused.

Minho shrugs. “I don’t like eavesdroppers,” he says.

Jisung snorts. “Okay, Italian mobster from the 20s.” He runs a hand through his hair, a curious smile on his lips. “So, what’s up? What’d you need me for?”

Minho hasn’t showered yet either, and he can feel a thin film of sweat on his skin as he wrings his hands together. “I wanted to talk about the incident earlier today,” he says. “Between Jeongin and Seungmin?”

Jisung is still smiling, but it doesn’t look quite as natural anymore, like his face has frozen in the middle of the act. “What about it?” he asks.

“Well… Jeongin was kind of upset about how the whole thing shook out. Thought it was unfair that he had to apologize first. Especially since Seungmin had been the one to set the fight off,” says Minho.

Jisung furrows his brow, squinting at Minho. “Well, that’s tough shit,” he says, a hard edge to his voice, “but in that case, he shouldn’t have tackled Seungmin.”

Minho feels this conversation spiraling out of his control already, but he can’t quite tamp down his anger enough to keep from stoking the fires even more. “This is our field, you know,” he says bluntly. “You guys are our guests here. The least you could do is treat our team with respect.”

“And the least you could do is keep yourselves from physically accosting our team?” counters Jisung, incredulous. He shakes his head. “Okay. What is this really about? No way are you still upset enough about that to confront me.”

Minho frowns at the implication. “Why does this have to be about something else? What, you think I’m such a shitty captain that I wouldn’t follow up on something that one of my teammates was upset about?” he says.

“You’re twisting my words,” says Jisung. “That’s not at all what I’m saying. It just feels like you’re upset about something bigger right now, something that doesn’t have fuck-shit to do with me or Seungmin or any of the Cobras—and I don’t appreciate you taking it out on me.”

Minho goes stiff, muscles locking up at the joints. Yeah, fuck this. He’s too exhausted right now, too bone-tired, to deal with anything weighter than the Jeongin and Seungmin incident.

“Never fucking mind,” Minho says with a scoff. He walks past Jisung, purposely bumping his shoulder into Jisung’s as he does so—and the reaction is immediate.

“Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Jisung snaps, grabbing Minho’s arm before he can make it any farther. “So this is where Jeongin gets his violent streak from, huh? From the Falcons’ mighty team captain? God, I didn’t think the rumors about you were true but—”

Minho jerks back to face Jisung, then takes a few angry steps forward to close the distance between them. “Shut up,” he retorts. “Shut up right now, and let go of me.”

“Or what?” Jisung taunts. “Or you’ll attack me? Like how Jeongin attacked Seungmin? No, seriously, Minho, what the fuck are you going to—”

Jisung doesn’t have a chance to finish his question before Minho gives him the answer. There’s a loud clattering noise when Minho pushes him against a nearby locker, one hand bracketing Jisung’s head and the other twisted in his hair—not hard enough to hurt, but certainly enough to startle. Jisung’s eyes go wide with shock, and Minho watches as his Adam’s apple bobs with nervous, thick-tongued uncertainty.

“You wanna know what I’m really upset about?” Minho hisses out. “My whole team thinks I’m a pussy because I didn’t stand up to you. They think I have a goddamn soft spot for you.”

Jisung swallows thickly, his tongue darting out for a moment to wet chapped lips. “Do you?” he says, his voice a near-whisper.

“What?”

“Do you have a soft spot for me?” Jisung elaborates, sounding a little more solid this time.

“I—of course I don’t have a fucking soft spot for you!” Minho says in an angry sputter. “I don’t have a soft spot for anyone.”

A small voice in the back of his head says, But you used to, and Minho tightens his grip on Jisung’s hair.

“That’s bullshit,” Jisung says, the heat returning to his voice. “I think your team’s right. I think you’re soft for me. And I think you’re not used to it.”

“Shut up,” Minho says, but the phrase doesn’t have nearly as much bite to it as it had before.

“I think you’re so not used to it, that you’re terrified to do anything that might lead to you getting hurt,” Jisung continues, his words ripping at the seams. “And I think you’re a coward for that.”

And then, like a rubber band being stretched tighter and tighter, Minho snaps in two.

He lunges forward and smashes their lips together, the hand he has by Jisung’s head falling to a possessive grip on his neck. Jisung lets out a small, surprised noise—but he doesn’t push Minho away. Instead, he parts his lips and lets Minho lick hungrily into his mouth.

Jisung tastes like sweat and spearmint and starless skies, and Minho can barely bring himself to pull away. When he finally does, Minho takes a few stumbling steps backwards.

“I—” Minho stammers out, blinking quickly. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Minho doesn’t look back as he runs away from Jisung for the second time. He can’t even bring himself to lick his chapped lips in the wintry air in case it reminds him of what Jisung tastes like.

♡

Minho is surprisingly successful at avoiding Jisung for the next few practices. After the Seungmin and Jeongin incident, both teams make it a point to keep on separate sides of the field; aside from the occasional exchange of dirty looks, practices remain relatively conflict-free.

Of course, this all comes crashing down the day their coaches spring a surprise game on them.

“It’ll be good practice,” Coach Song had explained cheerily. “Besides, we’re sensing a little bit of… hostility between the teams. Nothing a little friendly competition can’t solve.”

That’s how Minho finds himself going head to head with Jisung, the Cobras’ ace player and star forward. And, well, that’s how he finds himself getting absolutely destroyed by Jisung, too.

“Minho. Dude. Get your head in the game,” Changbin says as they’re huddled together during halftime. Jeongin starts half-mumbling, half-humming “Get’cha Head In The Game,” only stopping when Minho glares at him.

“I’m trying,” Minho whines. “Jisung just has such an aggressive offense. I can barely keep up with him.”

“Well, you gotta try harder,” says Changbin. “We’re already down two points. At this rate, we won’t have a chance against them in an actual game.”

Coach Song blows the whistle signaling the end of halftime, and they break out of their huddle. Before they assume their positions on the field again, Minho hears Jeongin say under his breath in a low sing-song, “Soft.”

Minho’s hands curl into a fist. He’d been playing hard defense for the first half of the game, too afraid of letting Jisung slip past the cracks to make any offensive moves of his own—but if his team thought he was being too soft, he’d show them.

Jisung has pretty much had the ball all game, and it doesn’t take long before he’s dribbling it past the Falcons’ defense again. Minho grits his teeth as he darts towards Jisung, determined to stop him before he makes it any further. He tries to take the ball out from under Jisung, an aggressive move that clearly catches Jisung off guard. Jisung stumbles a little, and Minho takes the opportunity to seize the ball and push past Jisung.

And, well, Minho doesn’t quite know how it happens—but then Jisung is falling onto the ground to the shrill shriek of the whistle.

“Red card, Minho!” Coach Song shouts out.

Minho’s jaw drops open. “That’s bullshit! He’s clearly faking it. I barely even—”

“This is not up for debate, Minho,” Coach Song says in a firm voice. “You’re sitting the rest of the game out.”

Minho scowls, kicking his toe against the dirt with a loud groan. Still, he feels a small twinge of remorse when he glances over at Jisung, who winces as he’s helped up by two of his teammates. Even though he certainly doesn’t look like he’s faking it, Minho can’t help but feel a sharp dagger of cynicism skewer through his chest.

“Go take Jisung to the health center,” Coach Song tells Minho, brow creasing in concern as he looks over at Jisung. “He might’ve sprained something.”

Minho is about to protest again—but he sees the twisting grimace on Jisung’s face, and he swallows his complaints down like a fistful of hard, rounded pills. “Yeah,” he says, taking a few jagged steps forward to close the distance between him and Jisung. “Fine.”

Reluctantly, Minho turns his back to Jisung before lowering himself into a crouch. A few seconds of deafening silence pass. No one moves—including Jisung.

“Well?” Minho says impatiently, flicking his hands in the air behind him. “Hurry up. Before I make you walk there on your own.”

Jisung lets out a little oh of understanding. He hears Jisung limp towards him and, gingerly, throw his arms around Minho’s shoulders. Minho braces himself before placing two firm hands under Jisung’s thighs to support his weight and standing back up with a grunt, Jisung clinging onto his back all the while.

Minho isn’t one to embarrass easily, but he can practically feel everyone staring at them now. The realization makes the tips of his ears go warm. Thankfully, Coach Song barks at everyone to get back to the game, and Minho feels the weight leave his shoulders—well, not counting the literal weight of Jisung’s body.

They don’t talk for a while, which is just fine with Minho. In fact, he thinks he would prefer it if they just never held direct conversation with each other for another seven years. That’s probably the amount of time it’ll take for Minho to get over that moment in the locker room—or at least enough for him to get over the fact that he’s currently giving the team captain of his rival soccer team a piggyback ride.

Jisung finally breaks the silence when they reach the edge of the soccer field. Really, “shatters” might be the more appropriate word, because the aftermath scatters jagged crystals of broken glass beneath Minho’s feet. “I’m sorry.”

Minho lets out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re kidding me,” he says. “You’re sorry? After all the shit I’ve done to you?”

“Yeah,” says Jisung, and his breath ghosts warm over the nape of Minho’s neck as he speaks. “I’m sorry for calling you a coward. I don’t think that’s true.”

Jisung laughs, a bitter note to the sound. “I mean, it clearly isn’t, considering my leg,” he says.

Minho cringes. “No,” he says. “I’m sorry. Really, really sorry. For being a coward. For shoving you just now. For… um. For what I did in the locker room.”

He feels Jisung’s fingers curl against his collarbone. “Which part? The kissing, or the running away?” he asks.

Minho almost tries to shrug before remembering that this is pretty much impossible when he’s got Jisung on his shoulders. “Both were pretty bad, yeah?” he says.

“Well… it would’ve been nice if you’d asked first—but I kind of liked the kiss.”

Jisung’s words are hot against Minho’s skin now. Minho feels the patch of his neck below Jisung’s lips start to itch, and he pictures his own skin turning flushed and ugly.

Minho is quiet for a moment before he replies, “Me too.”

“Then why did you run away?”

Because that had been the scary part, liking the kiss. Because the last time Minho had liked something this much, the last time he’d liked someone this much, he’d ended up with a raw, biting wound carved out in his chest. Because he’s terrified that this time around, he won’t be the only one to get hurt.

“I’m a midfielder,” Minho replies simply. “I run a lot.”

Jisung lets out a bubbling laugh at that, like carbonation, like something sweet and sugary. “I think I might hate poetry now, too,” he says.

“Well,” says Minho, “I’ve always thought Shakespeare was overrated.”

Then, they’re quiet again. “I looked it up, you know,” says Jisung. “The balcony thing?”

“...What.”

“You said there’s no balcony in the balcony scene. In Romeo and Juliet,” Jisung elaborates. “That’s technically true—but only because the word ‘balcony’ hadn’t been invented until, like, twenty years later.”

Jisung leans forward a little, his cheek pressed against Minho’s hair. “They just didn’t have the word for it,” he says, his voice rumbling against the back of Minho’s skull. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there.”

♡

Thankfully, Jisung hadn’t sprained or broken anything—but he’d ended up with a pretty grody scrape on his knee, and Minho treats him to lunch as an unspoken apology. So, here they are, sitting on the parking bumper right outside a Chinese carryout as a steaming container of mediocre fries cools on top of their laps.

“This feels familiar,” Jisung says, tossing a fry into his mouth. “Am I being Punk’d right now? Are you about to unzip your face and reveal that you’re actually Ashton Kutcher?”

Minho nibbles unproductively at the end of a fry. “Depends,” he says. “Who are you more willing to forgive for trying to break your leg: me or Ashton Kutcher?”

Jisung’s lips form a horrified ‘o.’ “Don’t make me choose between you and the Ash man,” he says.

Minho snorts. They eat in companionable silence for a stretch of time—Jisung inhaling his fries like he’s trying to break a world record and Minho taking tiny, close-lipped bites. Then, Minho says, “I still don’t understand why you like me.”

Jisung furrows his brow. “Didn’t I tell you already?”

Minho thinks back to the nebulous explanation Jisung had given him that night, something about seeing the origins of the universe in him. Whatever the fuck that even means.

“Not really,” Minho says flatly.

Jisung hums, considering something. “You just,” he says, “make me feel small. In the best possible way. I mean, you make me feel like the world is so much bigger than I realized. Like, there’s an entire, infinitely expanding universe out there—and I get to take up the same space as you?”

Minho blinks—because, well, Jisung makes him feel small too, fucking microscopic. “And you like that feeling?” he asks doubtfully.

Jisung shrugs, the corner of his lips curling into that supernova smile that Minho doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to seeing. “Yeah,” he says. “I like it a lot.”

Then, Jisung takes Minho’s hand in his. It’s kind of gross: their fingers are slick with grease and oil, and Minho’s never liked holding hands anyways, always hyperconscious of how sweaty his palms get. But Jisung’s fingers curl around his own like the anchor Minho has always craved, and Minho lets himself go still, just for a moment.

“It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way,” Jisung says. “I know you think you don’t have anything to offer me. I still don’t think that’s true—but, well, I’ll wait as long as you want me to.”

Jisung pauses to squeeze Minho’s hand a few times. Like a heartbeat, like a promise. “I was wrong. If that’s what you need, then you’re not a coward,” he says.

Minho feels five phantom fingers, greasy and sun-warmed, wrap themselves around his heart and squeeze hard enough to make it burst. But his heart doesn’t explode. Instead, it keeps beating, Jisung’s hand cradling it close to his own.

“Honestly,” Minho says with a weak laugh, “I don’t even know myself what I need.”

Jisung rests his temple against Minho’s shoulder. “That’s okay, too,” he says.

Minho feels that wound in his chest pulse, warm and heavy. But now he’s anchored to Jisung, their fingers intertwined in an implicit oath—and for the first time, Minho doesn’t react by running away.

♡

“Yeah, I have no idea what Changbin was talking about,” says Jisung, frowning as he pushes Minho’s laptop back to him. “This is the best essay I’ve ever read.”

“Right? Right?” Minho shakes his head. “He’s jealous, clearly. And why wouldn’t he be? His existence is pretty miserable compared to mine. Actually, even not compared to mine. His lot in life is just categorically unfortunate.”

“Guys,” Changbin deadpans, “I’m right here.”

“Even now, I still hear his voice in the breeze sometimes,” Jisung says wistfully. “I can’t believe he died so tragically after falling ass-first into a Porta Potty.”

Changbin sighs, exasperated. “I liked you two better when you were pretending to hate each other.”

“Me too,” Hyunjin says. He’s been squinting daggers at Jisung all day—specifically, at the black bomber jacket draped over his frame. “So, what’s the deal with the jacket? Am I no longer inheriting it or…?”

Changbin shoots him a warning glance. “Hey. Watch how you talk about my jacket,” he says.

Minho shrugs. He fidgets with the sleeve of his acid-washed jean jacket, adjusting and readjusting the hem. “Jisung will give it back when he’s ready,” he says simply.

Hyunjin gives a mournful sigh. “I feel like I’m trying to grab hold of a mirage here,” he says.

“I just had one problem with what you said about the ending,” Jisung tells Minho, ignoring Hyunjin’s puppy dog eyes. “I really don’t think it’s as good as you say it is.”

“Oh, c’mon. Two angsty heterosexual teenagers dying? That’s a win for everyone,” says Minho.

Changbin frowns. “Yeah, I still think you probably shouldn’t say that in an academic paper,” he says.

“Well, it’s a little overdramatic, right?” says Jisung. “Like, did they really have to die? It just feels like a cop-out ending. Shakespeare had no imagination, if you ask me.”

Changbin stares at Jisung in disbelief. “Have either of you ever read a book in your life?” he says.

Minho stares at Jisung too, something in the shape of fondness swelling in his chest. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says, ignoring Changbin’s indignant sputters. “Shakespeare had nothing on us.”

♡