Work Text:
🏀
“You did great during the game.”
The voice is familiar and makes Jisung pause mid-dribble. He grips the basketball with both of his hands, and he takes a quick breath; as familiar as the voice is, it still makes something stir in him. A feeling that's not entirely unfamiliar, but is undefinable anyway.
He grunts; a curt response but it's all he manages. He glances over his shoulder, briefly locking gazes with the newcomer before he starts dribbling again. He jogs towards the basket, and when he brakes, he proceeds to raise his arms in a casual arch. When he lets go… it’s a perfect shot.
“For a while during that game, I thought you were going to upstage me.” The newcomer flashes him a grin, sly and almost feline in nature, despite the crooked front teeth that were reminiscent of rabbits.
Jisung shakes the automatic ‘Cute,’ that enters his thoughts, focusing on catching the ball after it bounces back towards his direction.
“Almost?” He turns, one eyebrow lifted as he fixes a penetrating glare at the other boy — also known as Lee Minho, graduating third year and vice captain of the school’s basketball team.
Also known as the bane of Jisung’s existence.
Okay not really his existence — more like the bane of Jisung’s puberty if he’s to be honest. He just thinks it isn’t right that Lee Minho is that beautiful and that good at basketball. God’s clearly unfair, and whatever.
With the school year about to come to a close, the basketball team had held a game earlier that afternoon – seniors against freshmen and juniors. The traditional last match—the so-called passing of the torch—before third years hung up their jerseys and they left high school for good.
It wasn’t a surprise that Jisung, being the rising star and freshman ace that he is, was chosen to be marked by Minho, one of the strongest players in the team.
For the most part, Jisung is really good at focusing on the ball once a game begins – his body practically moves on instinct whenever he runs the length of the court, naturally controlling the ball and always racking up not just points, but also assists. Still, despite his acutely honed focus on the game, it never really stops him from feeling Minho’s penetrating stare on him; doesn't stop the electric buzz that runs through him every time any part of Minho’s body grazes against his.
All this considered, it's a lucky thing they're on the same team for games that actually matter.
“One on one?” Jisung asks, exhaling quietly and not waiting for an answer before he throws the ball at Minho.
The older boy’s feline smile transforms into an attractive smirk, and Jisung feels the back of his neck start to heat up.
Jisung had grown up with a ball practically attached to his person. His father likes to tell anyone who would listen that Jisung had gone straight for a ball during his doljabi, while his mother swears up and down that there were no sports balls involved during his 1st birthday ceremony. Either way, Jisung grew up with a love for the game, and a natural affinity for the sport. In middle school, he had led his school’s team to a division victory, and once he stepped foot in high school he had figured it would be more of the same; just more of him minding nothing but ways in which he could develop the talent he was born with. The plan was to keep focusing on basketball until he lands some kind of athletic scholarship in university, which in turn would start a career track in professional athletics.
And then he attended try-outs for the basketball club and he laid eyes on Lee Minho for the first time ever.
Puberty? Suddenly very real.
The first time they played a one-on-one match, Jisung had caught Minho one morning, hours before class was meant to start, practicing by himself in the gym. Full of himself, and still coming off the high from being the star player in his old team, he had approached Minho with no reservations and asked him to play with him.
For someone who had grown up inhaling basketball, it was easy to observe that Minho was more skill than talent — nevertheless, Jisung lost that game, 12 points to 3.
Minho catches the ball instinctively, but he doesn’t budge from where he’s standing; he can feel Minho studying him and it makes Jisung want to curl unto himself so he could protect himself from the intensity of his vice captain’s gaze.
So he does what he does best; he stands up tall—the tallest he can manage anyway, all hundred and sixty eight centimeters of him—and puts on the cockiest grin he can muster.
Sure, he's naturally good, but he also always plays better when he puts on confidence.
“Well?” he challenges, lifting his chin; his bluster turns a little more real when he notices the corners of Minho’s lips twitch; when he notices the tips of Minho’s ears turn scarlet.
Jisung thinks it’s nice to know that he has as much of an effect on Minho, as Minho does on him. That wasn’t always the case. Sure, the two of them had formed an easy rapport on and off the court—unsurprising for two people whose lives revolve around the same sport, at least that’s what his friend Seungmin, tells him—but underneath that natural camaraderie has always been simmering chemistry, stewing and building up, and threatening to explode.
(Truthfully, Jisung is tired of keeping all that in—but he'd digress. Right now, he has a game to win.)
The older boy once again passes the ball back to him, his clear way of accepting the challenge that Jisung presented to him just a minute or so ago.
“First to twelve,” Minho announces.
Jisung dribbles the ball and jogs towards him, only stopping once he’s only within inches of Minho’s face. This close, he notices all the subtle movements in Minho’s expression—the way his jaw locks as his breath hitches, the way his lips quiver, and the way his eyes narrow.
Jisung holds his breath—they’re so damn close. It takes almost all of his resistance control to keep himself from actually pulling Minho closer and letting their lips touch.
“Let's see what you got, baby ,” Jisung taunts as he pulls away.
Minho looks at him, surprise shadowing his features. Score one for me, Jisung thinks — he knows he’s the only freshman who can get away with teasing Minho using pet names. Not even the only freshman, the only team member, probably. The only one, ever, he asserts mentally— hopefully.
Jisung wiggles his eyebrows—anything to get more genuine reactions from Minho; this time, he gets laughter in response. It sounds like melodious bells to him, and it’s his turn to be distracted which allows Minho to steal the ball from him.
Fuck, he curses in his head—under his breath. Score one for Minho, he supposes, quick to run after the older.
Jisung had found Minho attractive since the first time he set eyes on the older. He isn’t blind, and he’s a teenager with raging hormones. He could have learned to accept that attraction, probably. And then he was told that Minho was actually the team's vice-captain—one of the best and most reliable players in the team, and a string of curses had played in his thoughts. It was unfair—how is one that beautiful and good at athletics?
He watched Minho demonstrate drills—watched as Minho played in a practice game with the other third years. He exuded a calm confidence that drew Jisung towards him even more; it was the kind of confidence that came from actual experience; actual ability that is ingrained into every part of his goddamn perfect body.
Every single thing that he’s learned about Minho since then has done nothing but add to his allure.
Lucky for him, he’s gotten somewhat better at handling himself around Minho.
Jisung catches up with the latter halfway through the court—he might be small in stature, but what he lacks in size he has always made up for with pluck and agility.
They go back and forth for a while, scoring points—and occasionally preventing the other from scoring as well.
“You never cease to amaze me, kid,” Minho whispers under his breath as they face off; they’re at 11-10, Jisung leading, and maybe that’s why he allows himself to be distracted.
Minho’s voice is hoarse, and his shirt is sticking to his skin thanks to the copious amount of sweating he’s done during their match — neither of these things help Jisung focus either, and perhaps Minho is aware of the effect he has on Jisung.
“Damn,” he mutters. “Fuck!” Just like that, Minho does a fake, and manages to toss the ball straight into the hoop. It doesn’t even waver — swoosh, it falls through the ring easily.
Jisung just lost. As usual.
“Well, you won,” he exhales in defeat. He looks up, pushing his sweat slick hair away from his eyes, and offers Minho a genuine grin.
Something in his stomach stirs when Minho matches it with a smile just as bright.
It used to be that basketball was Jisung’s only love—his only care in the world. And then this pretty boy came barging into his life, and slowly ranked himself up, placing himself right next to basketball.
The two of them have had their fair share of one-on-one's in the gym. Funny enough, Jisung has never won a single one of them.
Life used to be damn simple before Minho entered his life.
Not that he’ll have it any other way, he thinks, laughing as he tries to step away from Minho who is reaching over to ruffle his hair.
“Stop that!” he whines, only to naturally lean into his touch when Minho’s fingers run through his hair.
“Stop that,” Minho mimics him, snickering when Jisung huffs as soon as he retracts his hand. “You know you’re much more talented than me, right?”
“Of course I know,” Jisung scoffs; he gestures at himself. “All killer, no filler right here.”
Minho snorts. “And yet you never win against me,” he points out.
Jisung rolls his eyes; he can’t argue with that — not when his only excuse is how distracting Minho himself is. It sucks, because Minho isn't even the team captain—and Jisung holds his ground pretty well with the captain. He's proven as much, multiple times in many practice games over the last year.
With Minho, though...
“Are we having an ego-off right now?” he asks instead.
Minho laughs and jogs towards where the ball had rolled off to, and he picks it up. “‘Nother one?” he offers, turning to face Jisung again.
Jisung sighs—pointed and heavy as if the offer is a burden to him, but there’s a hint of a smile on his lips when he nods in agreement.
“Most points in ten!” Minho calls out, tossing the ball back to him. “Ball's yours.”
Jisung passes it back immediately.
“I'll get it when I want it,” he retorts.
“Not gonna be easy, kiddo!” Minho grins.
Jisung snorts. “Try me, baby.”
Jisung likes pet names. He calls his friends all sorts of them—baby, honey, pet, bestie. One time, he called Seungmin ‘sugarplum’ and almost got hit for it.
It used to be because he was bad with names; his head was filled with too much basketball, and even his teammates were numbers in his head. It wasn't easy making friends when he was younger, but he grew out of that eventually. Sort of.
In middle school, the pet names became the equivalent of playground name calling.
In high school, he just does it for fun—mostly out of habit. His friends are used to it anyway.
The first time he called Minho, ‘baby’ had been a mistake. The team had been hanging out after practice, scarfing down burgers and fries and soda at the nearest Lotteria; tired and practically on auto-pilot, Jisung had nudged Minho, not thinking about what was about to come out of his mouth.
“Baby, can you pass me the ketchup?”
He had frozen as soon as he heard himself, because fuck , he just called a senior babe. Not Hyunjin, not Felix—not any of his freshman basketball buddies, but a senior .
And then he turned to apologise, only to notice that Minho's face was a cute shade of scarlet, and cockiness had replaced his embarrassment.
“Oh,” he mumbled, holding back giggles. That was the first time he caught Minho off-guard in any way.
He wished it could have been on the court—but he figured he'd take it anyway.
Score one for Han Jisung, he had thought, and maybe that should have clued him in on some things.
It’s only after a couple of minutes that Jisung finally manages to steal the ball; his whiny declarations regarding the 24 second violation is only met with laughter, and each time, Jisung finds it easier to get lost in the sound of Minho’s mirth.
Then again, 5 minutes into the game, neither of them have managed to score. Defense is tight and 6 minutes into the game, when Minho tries to score, he's successfully intercepted by Jisung.
He doesn’t know what shifted between now and the match they had not even half an hour before, but something did. Jisung’s intensity level is at an all time high – for some reason, he feels the pressing need to win over Minho.
Somehow, he actually does it this time.
9 minutes and 10 seconds into the game, he manages to do a fake which gives him the opportunity to run straight to the hoop, allowing him to jump high enough to dunk the ball in.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
The timer they had set earlier is now ringing obnoxiously. Ten minutes have passed, game is over. Jisung wins, 2-0.
He turns to face Minho as the ball bounces off, and he breaks into a huge grin as he flashes a peace sign.
“You’re right,” he announces. “I’m a much better player than you.”
Minho laughs. “I didn’t say better,” he nitpicks. “I said more talented.”
“Same difference,” Jisung argues.
“Not really.”
Minho shakes his head; he picks up the ball that has now rolled towards him. He walks closer towards Jisung, and with every step he takes, Jisung feels the thumping of his heart against his rib cage growing louder, stronger.
“Yes, really,” he mumbles, just to say something.
“Okay, really.”
They’re face to face now, and Minho is smiling wistfully. He’s taller than Jisung by two centimeters—three, at most, and it’s easy to see eye to eye, especially when they’re as close as this.
Jisung exhales shakily.
“Why the hell did you let me win?!” he finds himself asking, a contrast to his confident proclamation from earlier.
Minho’s eyes sparkle, looking taken aback by the inquiry.
“Did I?”
“I'd never win that easily,” Jisung admits with a grunt.
Minho shrugs. “Going away present?” he offers. “A notch for your ego.”
“I’m not going away,” he points out petulantly. “And I don't need a pity win.”
“Yeah. But I am,” Minho points out. “Going away to college. And that wasn't out of pity. Accept the W, idiot.”
“You got into university in the same city,” Jisung huffs.
“Yeah, but it won’t be the same,” Minho tells him gently.
Jisung frowns. “Guess not.”
Minho smiles and hands him the ball. “See you around, Han Jisung. Take care of the team when we’re gone.”
Jisung stays standing, frozen, almost, as Minho turns and picks up his bag where he had left it on the ground by the courtside.
“Sunbaenim, wait!” he finds himself calling out before Minho can exit completely. “Hyung!”
Minho looks at him, over his shoulder, and Jisung drops the ball before he runs to him; Minho fixes a curious stare at him, clearly waiting for him to clarify himself.
“I don’t want a pity win as a going away present,” Jisung repeats slowly.
“You already said that.”
Jisung takes in a deep breath. This back and forth between him and Minho has been going for a while now; for an entire year, almost, ever since Jisung stepped foot in high school. Every time he thinks he’s able to catch the older off-guard, Minho does something that has Jisung stumbling over himself. It’s a push and pull that persists even off the court, and he has never really known what to make of it.
“What do you want, then?” Minho asks, his voice a soft murmur.
“A kiss—” Jisung blurts out; he doesn’t know where that came from, and he feels blood immediately rush to his face as soon as the words are out of his mouth. But if there’s anything that Jisung is good at, it’s flipping around his own embarrassment and turning it into false bluster. “Kiss me,” he repeats, chin lifted, eyes sharply meeting Minho’s.
The older boy visibly recoils in surprise, and Jisung feels triumphant. Three points, Han Jisung, he thinks. But the bewilderment in Minho’s expression is gone almost as soon as it comes—and before Jisung realises it, Minho has leaned in, almost closing the space between them.
Jisung feels his ears ringing, and his heart pounding; he closes his eyes, puckers his lips, and waits.
When Minho’s mouth finally presses against his own, something feels like it explodes in his chest.
“How’s that?” Minho asks softly, pulling away after only a couple of seconds.
Jisung sighs, more frustrated than anything else. He opens his eyes, and looks directly at Minho—only for his breath to be taken away when he recognises the soft shyness mirrored in Minho’s expression.
“Damn,” he mutters; and then he grabs fistfuls of Minho’s t-shirt and pulls him closer to him. “First to twelve,” he declares.
His words don’t make a lick of sense, but they’re kissing again—and it’s that same push and pull between them; except that simmering solution has finally come to a boil.
Jisung would like to think he’s won this, but when Minho’s arms circle around him and pulls him closer— damn, he thinks.
He supposes they both can be winners, then.
fin.