Work Text:
Jisung is leaning on his forearms on the balcony railing while slowly finishing off his whiskey neat when Minho finds him. Had the other been searching in the first place is unknown to him, but he doesn’t acknowledge his presence right away. Instead, he looks off in the distance where skyscrapers resemble towers of stars and highways are filled with comets at a standstill. The gap between where he is and the city is all black matter.
Minho doesn’t say anything as he approaches and takes the space to Jisung’s right, their sleeved arms touching. His perfume has hints of lavender. He places his hands on the balustrade, and the action pulls Jisung’s gaze to the thin silver band around his left ring finger. Jisung glances away just as quickly. He suddenly wants to jump off.
“I thought you’d left,” says Minho, his words chaining the other to the ground.
That would’ve been the wiser choice. “What can I say, I’m a party animal,” remarks Jisung. Minho’s soft laughter fills the void around them.
“Channie-hyung asked me where you went off to. Didn’t you come here with him and Hyunjin?”
Jisung nods in response. “I’m supposed to leave with them, too.” And yet here I am. He looks up at his friend, making eye contact with him. Age has been good to Minho—his face is more filled out, the subtle lines around his eyes make them appear softer, and his posture is a testament to the confidence he’s built up over the years. But although he’s no longer the adorable boy Jisung had met two decades ago, the same thought still runs through the latter’s mind at the sight of him.
Minho is every magnificent poem in existence.
Jisung averts his eyes first.
“Aren’t you cold?” asks Minho, who has a gray cashmere coat over his midnight blue tuxedo. In contrast, Jisung has discarded his suit jacket somewhere, leaving him exposed to the February air in only a vest, a white dress shirt with a black tie, and a pair of trousers and leather shoes.
“I am,” admits Jisung and takes a sip of his drink, “but physical discomfort takes my mind off of things.”
“What kinds of things?”
You.
Us.
Your wife.
“Nothing. Just work stuff.” Despite the many skills he possesses, Jisung has never learned how to lie, especially not to the man beside him, so each of those four words feels like a bullet leaving his throat.
Minho hums in acknowledgement, making no sign whether he believes or doesn’t believe what he’s heard. He points to the whiskey his friend is nursing. “Is that good?”
“Find out for yourself,” says Jisung before lifting his hand.
In that situation, it makes sense to expect the other person to take the glass. But Jisung has forgotten how unpredictable his friend is. To his surprise, Minho wraps his fingers around Jisung’s wrist, gives it a gentle pull until his lips are touching the rim, and uses his forefinger to press against one edge of Jisung’s palm so the glass tips toward him.
Between the warmth of the other’s skin and the intimacy of the gesture, Jisung forgets to breathe.
Minho consumes half of the dark caramel liquid, his expression neutral the entire time. Once he’s done, he smiles at Jisung, who takes back his arm and rests his elbow on the rail.
“I honestly thought it’d taste better for its price point,” comments Minho. That earns him a soft chuckle from his companion.
“This is a popular brand,” says Jisung, “so if you don’t like it, that’s all on you.”
“Yeah,” mutters Minho, his tone painfully gentle. “It’s on me.”
“Jisung-ah, I’m getting married.”
Jisung turns to the direction opposite of Minho to blink back tears. The bite of the winter air is more pronounced now, and yet it does nothing to cool the blaze ravaging the whole of his chest. He envisions himself somewhere else, someplace warm and safe and loving, but he stops when his brain provides him with images of being in Minho’s arms while words of affection are whispered into his ear.
“By the way,” says Minho, “thanks for coming. When you didn’t return my calls right away, I thought I’d have to get another best man.”
Jisung straightens his posture and slips his free hand into his pocket in a futile attempt to thaw it. “Sorry about that. I was working on five different songs, so I didn’t even have time to sleep.”
“It’s okay. I understand. I’m amazed you were still able to find time for this considering how busy you are nowadays.”
“You’re far more important than any of the people I work with, hyung,” remarks Jisung in a matter-of-fact tone. “Besides, I was starting to experience producer’s block, so I had to take a break one way or another.”
“I’m glad my wedding serves as your breather; the preparations were a headache for me.”
“I can imagine.”
The few seconds of silence that pass between them mingle with the muffled sound of music coming from the reception hall. Jisung feels suffocated by the fact that while the world is so wide, many of his choices in life have solely revolved around the person now closest in proximity to him. Talk about pathetic.
And desperate.
Enamored.
When Minho imitates Jisung’s previous stance and puts most of his weight on his forearms upon the balustrade, Jisung’s heart speeds up, seemingly aware of what’s to come. “About your speech,” he starts. “It was…interesting, to say the least.”
“I was born to entertain,” explains Jisung, who hopes that the panic rising in his body doesn’t affect his voice, “so I invoked the humor gods to bless me with wedding-appropriate jokes.”
“I enjoyed those,” says Minho with a highly amused grin, which falters as he says, “but it was the ‘pseudo-boyfriend’ part I can’t stop thinking about.”
“Our friendship blossomed into something beyond brotherhood: a blinding force to be reckoned with, a heavenly body with its own gravity. The more time we spent together, the more confused the definition of our relationship became. Somehow, I found comfort in not quite understanding what we were back then—ignorance, after all, is bliss. But thinking about it now, I find that the most appropriate title for me at the time was ‘Minho-hyung’s pseudo-boyfriend’: I loved him more than the rest, found solace and acceptance in him, except there was no romance. There couldn’t be.”
Jisung takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, pretending that every drop of apprehension in his bones is a tiny particle he could expel with ease. His heart is inconsolable in its haste.
“Was it too much?” he asks, his voice so soft he might as well be talking to himself. “I should’ve sought your approval fir—”
“It tore me apart.”
Minho is an actor. He’d been cast in his first drama the year Stray Kids celebrated their fourth anniversary, and more roles had come for him nearly every year afterward. Upon disbandment only six years prior, the members had taken on various careers, but not before swearing to one another that they’d stay in touch and support everyone’s chosen endeavors. Premiere nights for Lee Know’s films are essentially group reunions, even if each person’s attendance is not always guaranteed.
That’s the reason Jisung doesn’t know what to make of the other’s words: Minho lies and exaggerates for a living.
Jisung sets his glass down on the wide balustrade and returns Minho’s gaze. “Is that your way of saying you didn’t like it?” The delivery is cautious, bordering on fearful.
“It’s my way of saying you should’ve told me those things a long time ago.”
“And what would’ve been the purpose of that?” Jisung keeps his voice steady, a contradiction to his will to exist in that instant crumbling inside him.
A beat. And then two. “Clarity, among other things,” answers Minho.
“Have I ever done anything to make you think I felt otherwise?”
“You of all people should know I’m not good with assumptions,” snaps Minho and stands tall to stare Jisung down. “I asked you once, didn’t I, if you liked me in a different way? What was your answer?”
“That was before—” The rest of the sentence snags in Jisung’s throat and joins every other syllable meant for his friend that he’s never had the guts to sound out. The obstruction scorches and chokes him until he forces himself to swallow it, along with the fear that has rendered his tongue numb.
Eyes wet and glistening, Jisung says, “I don’t know what I am to you anymore, what this is anymore, but one thing’s for sure: I’ve been a fool for constantly giving you permission to break my heart. That stops today.”
He walks away in as dignified a manner as a dejected soul can, every step heavier than the last. His mind plays with the idea of getting on a plane determined by eeny, meeny, miny, moe; escaping to countries with languages out of his grasp; chasing sunrises and sunsets to catch every possible permutation of colors bleeding across the sky. No one would be able to follow him, his footsteps on the sand washed away by the tide, and he would stumble upon the rawest version of himself in the midst of going astray: unheeding and uncaring of love.
Except he doesn’t get that far, not even three feet, because Minho grabs him by the wrist and pulls him into his arms. At first, Jisung feels nothing—neither the wind that blows past nor the fingers caressing the hair closest to his nape—but what he hears next makes him lose his grip.
“You were my first love, Han Jisung.”
If anyone asks about the last time he’d cried in front of someone, Jisung wouldn’t be able to come up with a decent answer. Five years ago? Eight? Does crying in a movie theater count? For him, tears are a mostly private affair undeserving of an audience.
That lifelong belief breaks down seconds after Minho speaks. Jisung sobs into the same shoulder that for countless times he has fallen asleep on out of exhaustion and leaned against in search of affection.
“I thought the attraction would stop once I knew you better,” continues Minho. “People burn brightest at the onset, don’t they? Your light never dimmed, though; it grew more vivid, more fascinating. Even what few faults you had didn’t discourage me from liking you…and, eventually, falling in love with you.”
How often has Jisung lain awake fantasizing about a certain ethereal man confessing to him? But instead of a glowing, crackling hearth, he discovers only a trail of smoke and embers of what could have been.
Unrequited love is a pinprick compared to the mutilation of unfulfilled love.
“How could you do this to me?” asks Jisung, sniffling and trembling and fisting the lapels of the other man’s coat. “I was alone for years , and those I took a chance on left me. Did I not leave the doors open wide enough? Should I have dragged you in instead of waiting for you to enter on your own?”
“There’s nothing you could’ve done because I was a coward,” replies Minho, his lips so close that they brush against the shell of Jisung’s ear. “I still am.” His hold around Jisung’s arms tightens. “And when I finally overcame my fears…you’d found someone else.”
Jisung pushes Minho away and steps back from the embrace. The confusion and dread in his eyes meet the regret and melancholy in the other’s. “What’re you talking about?”
“Do you remember when I greeted you over the phone when you turned 31?”
“…Y-yes.”
“I was calling from outside the restaurant.”
“Hyung?” Jisung checks his watch. 8:23 PM. “Are you near? I heard the traffic’s bad around—”
“Jisung-ah, I don’t think I can make it tonight. I’m really sorry.”
“Why? Did something happen?” While waiting for an answer, Jisung places his hand over his companion’s and shakes his head at her, giving her the news sans words.
“We haven’t finished filming yet, and we can’t shoot on another day. I’ll make it up to you, alright?”
“No worries,” says Jisung. His hand moves to the folded cloth napkin on the table, his fingers tracing its outline. “It’s not a problem. We should reschedule. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too. Happy birthday, my pretty Jisungie.”
A fond smile appears on Jisung’s face. “Thank you, hyung. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” There’s a pause. “I have to go. I’ll see you soon. Enjoy the rest of your night.”
“I will, hyung. See you.” After Jisung hangs up, he looks at the woman beside him and says, “He has to work.”
“That’s too bad; I was looking forward to talking to him,” she remarks. “So, shall we order, baby?”
Jisung nods. While the food and conversation are excellent, every now and then Jisung glances at the empty seat reserved for Minho and quietly endures the ache in his chest.
Five courses and an hour later, Jisung walks out of the restaurant holding his partner’s hand and waits for the valet. The air is cool on his skin, and the silence is broken only by a dog barking in the distance and several cars going past.
Most of the colors are hidden and subdued by shadows, so a mass of saturation a stone’s throw away catches Jisung’s attention. A barely audible gasp escapes him when he realizes what he’s looking at.
A big bouquet of daisies. Yellow and white ones. His favorite.
“Well that’s unexpected,” comments his companion, who has also noticed the flowers on the ground. “But it’s interesting, isn’t it? Take a photo and it becomes a portrait of a broken heart.”
It takes a second for Jisung to find his voice. “It’s wasteful,” he says. “I’ll get it.”
“It might be dirty.”
“There’s always water.” With that, Jisung lets his partner go and approaches the bouquet. He squats down to touch their soft petals with his fingertips. There’s no card in sight, no indication of origin or intent. Jisung picks up the whole thing with hands shaking at the slightest and returns to his partner’s side. He brings the blossoms closer to his face until they’re touching his nose and allows himself to be carried away by the fresh scent.
“I didn’t know you like flowers,” she says.
“I don’t,” whispers Jisung, closing his eyes, “but daisies are the exception.”
“I was going to tell you everything that night,” explains Minho. “I was planning on whisking you away and starting a new life with you… I’d foreseen so many of the possibilities, and they were perfect.” In that moment, the tears already welling in his eyes overflow. “After some time, I thought I could still try and win your heart—until I saw that you were genuinely happy with her, which was enough reason for me to give you up.”
Jisung had met Kyungmi through a common friend. An accomplished landscape artist radiating charm and wit, she had been nearly everything Jisung could ever want in a partner. Nearly.
“She taught me how to appreciate the little things,” says Jisung slowly, gently. “And she was kind, so kind that she endured three years of feeling second to you.” He bites his lower lip at the memory of an ordinary day spiraling into a chaos of emotions, accusations, and, like bated breath bound for release, separation. “I couldn’t understand why she’d felt that way when I’d tried so hard to show her she was my priority…and then she—” Jisung fails to contain the bitter laugh that jumps out of him. “She told me to check my phone calendar and the pieces of paper scattered around my home studio. I thought it was nonsense, that it was just her agitation speaking, but…”
“Do you know when my birthday is?” Kyungmi asks, her eyes red around the edges.
Jisung frowns and blinks at the spontaneity of the question. “I-I’m terrible at recalling dates.” As soon as he hears himself say those words, he’s certain that the relationship is over.
“What about my favorite color, or my favorite band?” Her hushed voice drive spikes into Jisung’s heart. “Those might be too difficult for you. Okay, when’s our anniversary?”
“Kyung, what is this? Why—?”
“Without the reminders you’ve set and the information about me you’ve so diligently written down, you wouldn’t know who I am,” says Kyungmi as more of her tears cascade down her cheeks. “But that Minho? I could ask you what he ate for breakfast and you’d answer as though he’d eaten it in front of you.”
“That’s not true.”
“You order me cider every time we go to the movies. You send peonies to my office when I’m stressed out. You give me all the hot sauce packets when we’re eating pizza. You got me an opal ring for Valentine’s last year. You—”
“What’re you getting at?!” snaps Jisung.
“Those are all HIS preferences, NOT MINE!” shouts Kyungmi for the first time since they’d gotten together. Jisung’s blood runs cold. “Your mind is so preoccupied with him that there’s no space left in there for me, and unfortunately, the same goes for your heart.” She sobs once before saying, “Jisung-ah, I’m tired of being nothing more than a notification. A sticky note. A fucking passing thought. I’m done playing substitute. I’m ending this now because if I do it any later I’ll despise you.”
Jisung lowers his gaze to the ground and starts shaking his head repeatedly in denial of the absurdity of their circumstances. It had all been so simple once—clasped hands in the dark, childish insults melting into sweet nothings, full paragraphs exchanged through smiles and eyebrow twitches, relentless physical attachment for shapeless reasons. Love had been in and around and between them, woven into every page of their story, so how could the conclusion be bereft of it?
“I don’t want this,” says Jisung, his utterance hollow. “I don’t want this fixation on something I can never seem to have no matter what I do.” He raises his right hand and clutches the left side of his chest. “But this is you in here, hyung. Instead of a heart, I have you. You’ve made a permanent residence of me and I…I can’t be free of you without destroying myself.”
When new tears rack Jisung’s entire body, Minho closes the distance between them, intertwines his fingers with those of the other’s free hand, and presses their foreheads together. Despair and loneliness soon drain out of Jisung, more so as lingering kisses land on the wet trails on his cheeks. He wipes his nose with the handkerchief offered to him, its lavender scent calming him down.
“Jisung-ah,” says Minho while peering into Jisung’s eyes, “this isn’t what I want for you, either, but you’re wrong about one thing.”
Unease instantly becomes evident on the younger man’s features.
“You’ve always had me, and you always will. Nothing can ever change that, not even this ring on my finger.” Minho then takes both of Jisung’s hands and places them over his heart. “And this is you in here, too. You keep me alive, Han Jisung, you. It’s your name that resounds in my chest, your laughter that flows through my veins. You are my existence.”
Jisung’s chin trembles as he looks deep into Minho’s eyes, expecting falsehood but getting overwhelmed by the sincerity in them. Still, he fights down the urge to be so easy to accept. “You’re saying those words to me like you don’t already have a wife,” he spits.
At that, Minho lowers both of their hands without letting go and says, “Yes, I chose to marry Eunjung. I dated her at first because my parents kept asking me about grandkids, but I’ve learned to love her, and I’m sure she’ll be a great mom.” He pauses to wipe away his tears with one hand, although they’re replaced almost instantly. “Even so, my feelings for her don't come close to how much I’ve loved you all these years. This marriage... It’s a contract. As naïve as it sounds, I haven’t stopped believing that my happy ending is with you. I’m not asking you to wait for me; I’m asking you to forgive me because…because I’m leaving you again, and I don’t know when I can come home to you. I’m sorry, Jisung-ah, I’m sorry.”
On any other day, Minho’s firm embrace would’ve brought Jisung a rush of elation. However, unlike the countless instances he’s been in the older man’s arms, this one is constricting, a palpable farewell.
“I’m sorry,” whispers Minho over and over to the point that it sounds like a desperate prayer.
Too exhausted to weep, Jisung hugs Minho back and cries in silence. He commits to memory the softness of Minho’s hair, the anguish scratching his voice, the strength of his frame, and how snug their bodies are against each other. The fight in him is whittled down with each repeated apology he hears.
“Hyung,” says Jisung, “we should stop this chase.” He feels his friend tense up. “The more we try to catch up to one another, the more futile our attempts turn out to be. I don’t know why that is, but it would be better for us to just…let things be.”
Minho takes a second before pulling away, revealing his flushed face and cheeks moistened with tears.
Jisung uses a dry section of the handkerchief on him and gives him a smile. “When we were still in Stray Kids,” he continues, “we never made any real effort to be together, and yet we barely left each other’s side. Maybe that’s what’s naturally meant for us. Our place and time aren’t here and now, but they exist; we only have to live our own lives and wait for them to manifest.” Although he could admit that he would rather cling to what little hope he has left than let go of it all, he doesn’t. He can’t.
A heated debate seems to have been triggered in Minho’s head judging by the faraway look in his eyes. He snaps out of it when Jisung lightly pulls at his left earlobe.
“I have to go,” says Jisung, repeating the other’s past words. “I’ll book myself a car; Channie-hyung and Jinnie will understand. And you... You should be celebrating with Eunjung-ssi.”
“Right,” sighs Minho. He gapes at the other, hesitant, before blurting, “Goodbye, Jisung-ah.”
“Goodbye, Linoring.” The old nickname causes the corners of Minho’s lips to subtly curve up, much to Jisung’s satisfaction. Jisung then heads for the door.
“Ya, Jisung-ah.”
Stop. Blink.
“I love you.”
Jisung examines his emotions. There’s no hurt, no resentment, only gratitude and a murmur of hope. With a genuine smile, he looks back at Minho and says, “If it’s you, hyung, it’s forever.”
“Thanks, hyung. I love you!”
“You know, someday you’ll get sick of telling me you love me.”
“You’re wrong. Watch me do it forever.”
“Oh yeah? Are you 100% confident you’ll succeed?”
“It doesn’t matter if I’m confident or not; it’s still going to happen.”
“And why’s that?”
“Simple: If it’s you, it’s forever.”
Minho slaps a hand over his mouth when the memory hits him, retriggering his tears.
Jisung doesn’t see it happen as he has already gone back inside the reception hall. After a quick word with his companions, he grabs his jacket from the back of his assigned chair and takes his leave, heading down the imperial staircase before exiting the two-story building.
He follows the paved driveway leading to the gate and gives the two security guards there a shallow bow before walking out. The nearest bus stop is close enough to be seen with the naked eye, so he heads in that direction while going through the rideshare app on his phone.
A black sedan pulls up in front of him minutes later. Wanting to be alone with his thoughts, Jisung sits in the back of the vehicle instead of going for the shotgun seat. Thankfully, the driver has the good sense to fill the silence with soft music playing on the radio.
The downhill road is peaceful, lined with a thick layer of trees on either side as well as light posts at regular intervals. Since he knows he’s going to be lulled to sleep soon, Jisung pockets his phone to prevent himself from dropping it. What he’d expected to be empty space, however, is occupied by a surprise passenger: Minho’s handkerchief.
Jisung stares at it and contemplates if he should give it back. His drained mind doesn’t allow him to come to a decision just yet. He unfolds the cloth to neatly refold it four times and hold it against the lower half of his face. Leaning back, he closes his eyes and shuts the world out. There is only him, the delicate melody in the air, and kaleidoscopic visions of a lavender garden in full bloom.