Archive of Our Own

re·da·mo
/ New Latin: redamantia /

verb
1. To requite love; to return love with love; to love back.

Oh, to be a wallflower, is the thought that has etched itself into Minho’s mind throughout the evening. And what an evening it has been—one that Minho would escape if at all possible—but he’s been asked to stay by his department’s coordinators, as he’s of interest to investors.

In simpler terms, the college has decided to turn Minho—a top student from the Russian and East European Studies department—into a tourist attraction for men and women who ooze dollar signs.

The committee in charge of putting together the pompous gathering have attempted to quite literally mask its real purpose by calling it a Winter Party and have added, on the digital invitations and flyers, that masks would not be required, but very much encouraged.

After being forced to sit through a dreadfully uninteresting conversation with several investors and a few department members earlier in the evening, Minho had donned his silver mask and slunk as far away as he could. Now he’s standing on the balcony of the event hall, trying his best to ignore the sheer pressure of noise emanating from the room behind him. It’s cold outdoors, the December air crisp and biting, and the perspiration that had originally built up on his forehead from the cramped heat of the indoors has now chilled him.

Minho will bear the cold, as it’s better than the sickening display of boot-licking just behind him.

He itches for a cigarette, wanting to ease his mind with the brief relief of nicotine as he’s unable to physically leave. He fiddles with his mask instead, adjusting it so it lays more comfortably over the structure of his face. It’s terribly uncomfortable, but, in truth, he likes the idea of being somewhat unrecognizable. Anonymous, at least to the people that haven’t seen the higher ups gesturing to him from across the room.

“Not much of a party-goer?”

Minho lets out a startled noise, eyes widening behind the oval cuts of his mask. A figure enters his periphery, their forearms resting on the top of the balcony railing. A man is slightly backlit from Minho’s position, so the color of his gold mask has darkened, and has become muted in shine. “I don’t like social activities,” Minho supplies, his voice coming out a little rougher than he’d expected.

The mysterious masked man hums, his lips twisting up into a little smile. Minho isn’t sure what exactly is so amusing about what he had revealed, so he narrows his eyes in indignation. “Then you must have ties, a commitment, that’s making you stay,” the man says, and turns to look directly at Minho. “You’re of some importance to this department, aren’t you?”

Minho makes no reply, bent on not bothering himself with divulging information to some stranger he’ll never see again. But then he meets the man’s eyes. They’re a brown color, nothing out of the ordinary. They’ve been glossed over by the string of lights hanging about the doorway and windows, yet his pupils still contract, naturally searching for direct light. For a brief moment, when the man shifts just right, his eyes gloss completely gold, and Minho feels foil folding, crinkling, scratching against his skin. It doesn’t last for more than a second, though, and then the brown coloring is restored.

“Who are you?” Minho asks, temporarily misled as he replays goldgoldgold in his mind. What he’d thought earlier doesn’t occur to him in the moment, and the realization of what he’d asked only hits him when he’s given an answer.

To his credit, if the man is at all startled with the question, he doesn’t show it. Instead he fires back his own proposition. “I’ll only tell you if you give me your own name.”

Minho frowns, vexation tingling in his fingertips and slowly working up to his chest. His resolve strengthens. “No deal.”

“I could just ask someone about who you are,” the man says, grinning a little. “This party is based around a language department, and you’ve already revealed that you don’t want to be here…but you have a commitment that’s tethering you. You’re on the losing side.”

Minho sneers at him. “You won’t ask around about me.”

A shift behind the mask—an eyebrow has risen. “And how would you know that?”

“Because you like the idea of a mystery.” Minho glances him up and down, eyes alighting on his dark green sweater and black slacks. “You haven’t made any direct move to proposition me for a night together, and as you haven’t left after realizing that I wouldn’t accept anything of the sort—which was implied in the first thing I said to you—you’re quite patient. What for, I can only guess—clearly something about who I appear to be interests you, or you’re simply very bored with the party.”

“Oh, but I’ve caught your attention too,” the man says, huffing out a laugh at Minho’s indignant snort. “It’s eating away at you that I’m persistent. Given what you just said, I’m inclined to assume that people rarely attempt to start up conversations with you. Furthermore, those who do are even less likely to deny you what you want.”

Whatever miniscule smile Minho had produced disappears into a frown. “You and your opinions are of no importance to me.”

The man’s grin has broadened, and his eyes flicker with flecks of gold, displaying his amusement. Teal and purple curl around him in the dark, silhouetting him in color. The man seems to be almost taunting Minho, goading him with the unhappy fact that he believes he knows something Minho doesn’t. “I’ll figure out your identity sooner or later, and when I do, we can have a proper conversation. You can decide for yourself if I’m easily manipulated—give you what you want—or if I’m something different.”

Then he sweeps from the balcony, throwing one last glance over his shoulder at Minho before disappearing back into the party. He knows what he’s done, he is completely aware of every word he’s uttered and what he has made Minho out to be, all to irk him. Minho is frowning, thoroughly put off—maybe most of all because of the bud of interest threatening to bloom within him.

A few days later finds Minho in the library, bent over a little desk at the end of an aisle. He’s escaped his dorm and unconsciously obnoxious roommate for a quieter spot where he’s able to think a bit more clearly and work with fewer interruptions. Spread out in front of him are a few papers, a Czech-English dictionary for reference, and his phone. Minho has his laptop directly in front of him, its screen displaying a new google document, and a novel propped open to his side. A class assignment—book translation.

Minho loves it.

Shades of lemon twist around him as he reads and types, and he knows that he’s crossed over a line in his mind—he can’t remember what he ate for breakfast, because breakfast’s filter was a hue of lapis, not sand. He remembers eating, but the shape and taste of the meal has become foreign. This loss of detail isn’t alarming to him, not anymore, because it happens so frequently. Memories paired to languages—it’s how it’s always been for him since he first began studying back in high school.

Minho is working through a particularly dense paragraph of the novel when noise breaches his space. Someone is talking, and it takes Minho a minute to compute that it’s English being spoken, not the language he’d been immersed in seconds before. It makes him unsettled, being startled into thinking and seeing in a different language—and, according to how he considers it, a different part of his brain—without time to process the switch, and he glowers in the direction of the noise that is coming from the next aisle over on his left.

Then, someone else speaks, and Minho freezes.

It’s the voice. The voice of the man from the horrid winter party, Minho is sure of it. A rush of something (Excitement? Is this really a thrill?) passes through him and he slips out of his chair, creeping over to the end of his aisle. Peeking around the edge of the bookcase, he peers down the row, eyes catching on three men. Two are wearing dark gray windbreakers with the school’s Ultimate team logo on the left of the chest and the sleeve. The other is in a plain blue sweater, apparently not an athlete. Only one of the men is facing towards Minho as he talks with his friends, a guy with dark hair and soft features. He looks approachable, or as approachable as an athlete (in Minho’s experience) can be.

Minho listens to them talk, waiting for the particular voice to speak up. When he hears it, deep and freckled with amusement, coming from the man facing him, Minho withdraws in a panic, accompanied by dread from the reality of his current situation. The voice has a face and a life story now; he isn’t just a figment from a to-be-forgotten night. In the swirl of rampant thoughts, Minho must make some kind of noise, either a rustling of clothing or an unchecked breath from his own lips, because suddenly three sets of eyes are on him.

He tries to play it off by looking down and attempting to make it seem like he hadn’t been meticulously observing these men, and it seems to work—for two of the three. But the man from the party fixes his eyes on Minho, brows pulling together just slightly as if attempting to puzzle him out. Minho withdraws, ducking back into his own aisle, and hurries back towards his bag, but he doesn’t get very far before a voice calls him out.

“You’re that guy from the party, aren’t you?”

Well.

Minho swivels around, coming to face the man who is now just a few paces away. He doesn’t speak, as he isn’t versed in how one should act in this scenario.

His silence isn’t off-putting, apparently, because the man is smiling. Just slightly, but it’s there. “I’m not mistaken, am I? Give me that much, please.”

Nothing in this interaction has been posed as a question that doesn’t already have a viable answer. Minho must have left some sort of impression on this man if he bothered to remember his voice—a dedication, however small, to a stranger. He doesn’t want to think about why he’d so unconsciously stored away the sound of this man’s voice, leaving him—much to his dismay—equally incriminated. “Why should I give you the satisfaction of a reply when you already have that answer?”

The man’s smile expands, and the air around him glows a rosy color for the briefest of moments. “To be completely honest, I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“The chance of it happening was low.” Minho isn’t sure why he’s bothering with small talk. Why should this man be any concern of his?

How can he possibly explain this foreign thirst for information about the person in front of him?

A phone alarm goes off and the man digs the device out of his pocket and shuts it off before it draws unwanted attention to them. “That’s my cue—class in ten.” He pauses, eyes flickering over Minho’s frame. It makes Minho want to fold in on himself. His mouth feels gritty, like he’s being forced to swallow sand. “Can I persuade you to come have coffee with me sometime?”

“There’s no explainable purpose for that.” Minho turns around and shuts his laptop before shoving it and all of his papers into his backpack. He misses the almost fond roll of the eyes and matching smile sent in his direction. “You should be on your way.”

“If you don’t want to meet, at least give me your name.”

Minho considers as he straightens up and turns around, leaving a pause between the request and reply. “Weren’t you going to figure that out for yourself?”

He realizes as he passes by the man to head to the door that his last question was anything but a firm rejection. If anything, he’s only added fuel to the fire—made the chase more interesting.

The chase.

Is he the prize?

What could Minho possibly bring to the table? To a friendship? To something more?

He’s lost as to what the man’s motives are, but in truth, he’s more confused about his response to them.

“Your name is Minho.”

Minho startles so badly that he nearly knocks his coffee cup right off the rickety little table he’s seated at. Looking up, he finds the man from the party staring back at him, wearing the same coat Minho had last seen him in, and holding his own drink. Truthfully, Minho had forgotten about the man, or at least pushed him to the very recesses of his mind, too busy with classes and projects to spend his free time mulling over their last encounter. And that, he concedes, is the reason his reaction to the other man’s reappearance was so great. “You again.”

The man settles into the seat across from Minho, much to his annoyance. He frowns, conveying his displeasure, but is met with only a grin. “I happened to be here behind you in line, and heard your name get called when your order was ready.”

Minho’s reply is silence, once again unable to carry on much of a conversation. He feels in over his head with the amount of work that has been stacked on him, both for his own course and his TA assignments. His head is swimming with color, and he doesn’t trust himself to speak—not when his mind can’t settle on a language. This rarely happens, being lost in his own headspace, and usually only when he’s under heavy stress.

“I’m Jisung, by the way.”

“Okay.” Minho pointedly looks back down at the book he’d been reading—in truth, mostly just staring at—before this unwelcome interruption. There’s a few seconds of silence, and then his coffee cup disappears out of his peripheral vision. Some scratching ensues, and then Jisung places the cup back down, exactly where it had been.

Then his presence is gone from Minho’s table, followed by the noise of the bell at the door.

Minho glances up and out the window in time to watch Jisung cross the street and disappear around the corner of the block. Then he studies his coffee cup, eyebrows raising. Jisung has written his phone number just below where the barista had scribbled Minho’s name. It’s cliche, and horribly so.

He doesn’t put the number into his phone before he throws the cup away on his way out the door.

Jisung, for whatever reason, caught onto Minho’s daily coffee schedule and has shown up every day for a straight week. At first Minho found it alarming, and would fixate on his book until the man left, but as the week progressed, he began to pay less attention to his book and found himself listening to Jisung’s conversation instead. Though Minho did his best to conceal his shifting focus from Jisung, he had caught on, and began asking a scattering of questions that ultimately made Minho put aside his book so they could converse in full.

“So you’ve been away this past fall? Studying abroad?”

Minho nods slightly, keeping himself focused on his hands and the warmth of his coffee cup between them. “Czech Republic.”

“Wow.” Jisung has a certain air to his voice, something Minho can’t quite place, but doesn’t entirely dislike. “So my guess from the other day of you being in the East European Studies program was correct?”

Minho nods again, not bothering to elaborate.

“So that’s why you were at that party. The big donors were there, and the school wanted to show your department off, using its best students.”

Exactly.

“Why were you there?” Minho counters. “You study biology, correct? An aspiring medical student?”

Jisung tilts his head, looking all too interested. “How did you know that?”

Minho rolls his eyes. “The keychain on your backpack is the crest of the university hospital. It wasn’t a big leap from there, as biology is a common choice for pre-med students, and this college has a good program for it.” He pauses to breathe. “You’re in a completely different department, so why were you at that party?”

“I have a friend in a program and she invited me along,” Jisung explains. “And yes, I’m on a pre-med track.”

“You’re choosing a difficult course,” Minho muses, more in his own head than projecting into their conversation.

“Like language is any easier,” Jisung combats, but his voice is soft, as if he’s sanded down the corners of his words that could’ve been left sharp. “How many languages do you know?”

“I studied in high school and my undergrad degree was language-focused, so a fair few.”

“You won’t give me details?” Jisung doesn’t look put off by Minho’s lack of clarity, only more interested. Minho had been right about him being addicted to mystery.

Minho huffs, a thread of annoyance tugging at him. He doesn’t like explaining himself. “You can surmise from what I just said that I speak Czech, and fluently or close to fluently, given I’ve studied abroad. I told you that I also studied language in high school, which, by deduction, means I either studied Spanish or French, as they’re the most common courses offered at that level.”

“Given you handed me all that information, why don’t you tell me what you studied during your undergrad?”

Minho squints at him.

“Okay, I’ll try out your fancy deduction,” Jisung says, grinning. “You’ve told me you’re a graduate student, but I’m guessing you’re only one or two years into your program, which means you probably haven’t studied anything but Czech for this degree. Since a fair amount of people don’t stay at the first college they attend for their grad studies, you most likely didn’t study anything to do with East European language until you came here. The first time I saw you here at the coffee shop the book you were reading was in French, not translated, so my bet is that you studied one or multiple romance languages for your undergrad.” He pauses for a moment, tilting his head as he looks at Minho. “But that’s not where you first learned French, no, it was in high school, given your comfort level with it. The book you had with you was a novel, not learning material. You may have started with francophone classes in college as it’s a safe bet, but then you’d have branched out, because your interest in learning is so great.” He gestures to the book Minho has tucked under his forearm against the table. “How did I do?”

Minho blinks, honestly quite astonished. It’s the first time anyone has ever read him so well. “Yes, I studied French in high school and my first year of college, then I went to Italian. I’m in my second year here, so you’re correct on that account as well. You did well.”

“How is it that you’re able to remember entire languages?”

Minho stares hard at the table, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. He knows he’s retreating into his shell quite quickly, the world around him becoming too bright. Jisung must catch on that he’s finished talking about himself because he changes the direction of the conversation, making it mostly one-sided as to give Minho a break.

It’s strangely courteous.

How they’ve gotten to this point, Minho isn’t sure. How he’s allowed Jisung to walk back to campus with him from the coffee shop is beyond his comprehension. Sure, Jisung is tolerable, but the fact that his chatter and gestures with his hands as he speaks doesn’t put Minho off is a fragment to add to the overarching question.

Jisung is going on about one of his classes, something chemistry-related, and although he’s quite aware that Minho isn’t listening, clearly lost in his own head, he soldiers on. It’s baffling. Jisung isn’t afraid of Minho’s silence, and instead fills the pocket of space around them with incomprehensible words that replace dull, faded plum with radiant orange. Setting sun. Hints of green on the horizon.

Minho believes it comes down to these questions. What is so particularly interesting about Jisung that makes Minho captivated by him, more so than anyone he’s previously met? Why does he want to be seen, be known by Jisung? He puzzles over them, unable to formulate a proper answer.

When they come to a stop in front of Minho’s building, he is forced to draw himself back to the present. As his vision focuses he finds that Jisung is looking at him, amused. “You have no idea what I asked you, do you?”

It’s accusatory, it can’t possibly not be, but it’s coated in something sugary. Butterscotch. Minho feels warm. “No.”

Jisung has the good temperament to laugh, and not to bully or cause pain. “I was asking if you’d come to my ultimate game on Thursday. It’s a home game, at four-thirty in the afternoon.”

Oh.

This is unexpected.

Or is it? They’ve been acquaintances for a while now, and Jisung has talked about his sport and team many times, though Minho has filtered out a great deal of it. Plus, it’s a school event, open to all students if they wish to stop by the field.

“Why should I?”

Something flashes across Jisung’s face, but then it’s gone, replaced by another smile. Minho sees the blush of peaches and the crispness of fresh mint around them. “Because you’re my friend.”

Minho’s eyes widen and he unconsciously brings his arms up to hug himself, making a barrier between them. The downward flicker of Jisung’s eyes means he’s noticed Minho’s change in stance, but he doesn’t say anything about the action. Instead, he pushes his hair off of his forehead, letting it fall back through his fingers. “I don’t need an answer now. Just think about it, okay? And let me know later—I’d like it if you came for a bit.”

Minho nods sharply, but he lets his arms relax. “I can’t contact you, though.”

Jisung looks hard at him, face blank, but then he cracks a smile. “You never saved my number, did you.”

Minho shakes his head.

“Can I put it in your phone? Then you can choose whether or not you want to use it.”

He’s giving Minho control, that much is clear. Something warm and frothy tingles in Minho’s veins.

He hands over his phone silently and watches Jisung make a contact profile for himself. It’s simple, just his first name and number. Upon handing it back, their hands brush, and Jisung’s slips down and cradles Minho’s for a moment. Minho flinches away, the quick movement nearly making him lose his grip on the device. Jisung draws back a bit slower and when Minho looks up, he finds that Jisung’s eyes have turned dark, ebony, and searching. Hunting for something in Minho that he is afraid to give up.

“Don’t,” is all Minho says—all he can say—and then he escapes, pulling open the door and rushing inside the building. He feels the heat of Jisung’s stare on his back through the glass doors, and finds he can only breathe properly when he turns the corner and is out of sight of the entrance.

He’s shaking. It’s just a tremor, not nearly as bad as it had been earlier, but it’s still present. Minho can’t stop pacing, either, as his mind spasms and the filter overlaying his world shifts again and again. It makes him nauseous, how quickly the code of his mind is being altered, and the nicotine patch he’d slapped on an hour ago has done nothing to take the edge off.

He walks over to his desk and finds the box of patches. He sticks a second to his skin, on his forearm just below the first.

Minho isn’t sure which language he’s thinking in anymore. He sees French accents but his memories are hidden in a thick haze of cornsilk and sage. He’s lost and terrified, reverted back to nothing more than a frightened child.

Through the density that has stopped up his mind like thick cotton, he’s decided that it comes down to this: There’s a space around Minho that remains empty. When anyone enters that space, whether by walking up to him or by reaching past him, he’s acutely aware of the distance between his body and the intruder. In the past, counselors have informed him that what he experiences is difficulty allowing natural shifts in spatial boundaries to take place. If it can be explained so simply, in just two words, why is physical contact so intense for him?

One of his clearest memories of the bubble affecting him was when he won a debate tournament in middle school. His mother had reached out for a hug in front of Minho’s teammates, and he had stepped away from her. He realizes now, as he couldn’t all those years ago, that the expression on her face when her had son refused her touch was sadness.

Being touched is uncomfortable. So why should Minho be expected to feel anguish about it? He doesn’t want to be touched. He isn’t going to grieve over that fact.

He’s never been impaired by his dislike and distrust in physical contact, so it shouldn’t matter.

He’s been touched before by accident, of course he has. He’s touched fingers with people when handing over books or school supplies, and while it makes him uncomfortable, he’s never reacted to that category of touch like this.

Explosive. Wild. His world is tipping and he can’t seem to stop it.

Minho could feel the calluses that had built up on Jisung’s hand from years of frisbee against the back of his own. He could feel how warm Jisung’s skin was. Being so close to Jisung had made his heartbeat speed up, and he’d felt nauseous to a point where his vision had become blurred with a vignette filter of black. So, given those symptoms, Minho must have been nervous. But nervousness isn’t disgust. And he can’t be disgusted, because deep down, he wants to touch Jisung’s hand again.

Minho’s eyes have become watery over the tense course of his thoughts. He knows he isn’t sad or happy, so the tears can’t be related to grief or joy. There is only one other option he can think of: he’s frustrated.

He’s crying tears of frustration.

Minho arrives towards the end of the ultimate game. It’s a little cold outside and the metal bleachers are stubbornly refusing to conduct heat, so he curls into himself and fruitlessly wishes he had brought a heavier coat. He doesn’t find the activity below him particularly interesting either, and instead of observing the entire game he keeps focused on the man who has been taking up an abnormally large part of his conscience for the last few weeks.

Ever since Jisung deduced practically the entirety of Minho’s education, he’s been all too present in Minho’s mind. Jisung has somehow managed to capture and hold his attention and interest, and Minho finds it more than a little frightening.

The evening has turned misty by the time the game comes to an end, and Minho, although having only been there for the upper side of twenty minutes, eagerly begins to file off the bleachers with the rest of the crowd. Amidst the shuffling of feet and squeaking of metal, Minho glances down at the field and is surprised to find Jisung still standing there, eyes roving over the stands. Looking for him?

For a terrifying moment they make and hold eye contact, and Minho is hit by a wash of color, so intense that he stumbles and slams the back of his calf into the metal of the bleachers. The man below is smiling now, at Minho, and his insides clench up into an ugly sharp-edged mass.

He drops his gaze back down to his feet and focuses on getting to the ground.

Jisung jogs up to Minho as soon as he’s gotten a few yards from the stands and the majority of the crowd. He’s still smiling, although he appears worn out and tired up close. His uniform is stained with streaks of dirt and bits of dark green, but he seems to be at ease.

“You came.”

“Yes.” Minho glances around, his gaze finally settling on Jisung’s cleats. They’re dirty too, bits of grass caught in the studs. “As you can see.”

“I’ve got to clean up, but are you willing to hang around? We could go out to eat or something.” There’s a lilt to his voice that Minho can’t quite understand.

“Clearly your teammates are expecting you to go with them,” Minho nods in the direction of the ultimate team that is gathering together near the door to the locker rooms on the far side of the field. A few of them are watching him and Jisung, appearing too interested for Minho’s liking. “I’m leaving now.”

Jisung’s face seems to fall, his smile disappearing into something flat and gray. “Can we at least make plans to meet up another time? And not at the coffee shop?”

Minho regards him, almost floored by the request. “Why?”

“Because I want to see you in a different setting,” Jisung says, not alleviating Minho’s confusion in the slightest. “I really enjoy talking with you, and I think you rather like my company as well.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, it doesn’t appear like you’ve ever been to one of these games, and you don’t seem particularly interested in sports. So, unless you have another coffee shop buddy who plays, I’d say you’re here to see me. Meaning you made a conscious choice to spend your evening watching me run around on a field catching a frisbee instead of doing anything else.”

Minho stares at him, his eyebrows drawing together. He needs time to understand this, what Jisung is asking, because they’re just coffee buddies, of a sort. Or are they friends now, like Jisung had said?

“You should go,” Minho reiterates, glancing over at the team.

Jisung goes without complaint.

Minho comes to the next game.

Jisung smiles from the field when he sees Minho, but thankfully he doesn’t wave.

Afterwards, he confronts Minho again, flatly refusing to go with his teammates and instead glues himself to Minho’s side, ignores all of his complaints, and takes him to dinner.

They go to the Thai restaurant both of them know of, the one that is a few blocks from campus. The food is a bit dry but Jisung gobbles down his Pad Thai—a terribly unoriginal choice—and seems quite happy, even when the spice gets to him. He goes red around the eyes as if he’s about to tear up, and Minho isn’t quite sure if he should be alarmed or amused.

It turns out to be quite similar to how the coffee meetings have always been. They talk about classes and Minho listens to Jisung prattle on about sports for a while, but it isn’t unenjoyable. In truth, Minho doesn’t think he could’ve had a better evening.

“So what are you planning on becoming after you graduate? A translator? A diplomat?” Minho snorts at the last idea and Jisung giggles along. “For someone who studies language, you sure don’t like to communicate.”

Minho feels a smile flicker on his lips, unable to stop the tug of mirth. Jisung is teasing him, that much he can see. And he isn’t teasing him to evoke a reaction, one that could be turned against him. No, he’s simply jesting, bent on amusing Minho more than anyone else, including himself. “You were right with the first one.”

“Translator?” Jisung’s eyebrows raise in interest.

Minho nods, prodding at the remaining rice and curry in his bowl with his spoon. “I think I want to translate books. Maybe eventually I’ll want to do something else, but for now working towards becoming a literary translator feels right.”

All of a sudden it’s as if he’s a dog on its back, belly exposed, completely vulnerable. He has doubts about himself, of course he does, but seldom lingers on them, and never speaks openly about them. It’s uncomfortable. His skin stings.

“It sounds perfect for you,” Jisung says, and his voice is low, lower than Minho has ever heard it, and smooth. Silky and red and endless.

Minho nods once, still not looking up.

They end up walking around the children’s park east of the restaurant. It’s late and dark enough that only a few stragglers are out and about, leaving them together, alone. It feels as if they’re in a snow globe, just them, and usually Minho would find that scary but not tonight. His skin is still tingling, yet he doesn’t want to run away.

Jisung has become incorporated into his bubble, and somehow it feels right.

“It’s a nice night,” Jisung comments, settling down onto a bench facing a particularly large play structure. Minho follows suit. “You aren’t even wearing a coat.”

Minho looks down at his sweater and then over at Jisung’s windbreaker. He hums, running his fingers over the sleeve of his sweater, smoothing down the fabric over the nicotine patch that’s barely sticking to the skin of his forearm.

He realizes he should’ve taken it off before he left for the game. Now it’s barely clinging on, nearly free to peel away completely.

“I figured you were hiding something under your sleeve.”

Minho startles and rips his hand away from his arm. As he’d been lost in thought he’d been tracing the outline of the patch, giving himself away. He feels something strike his chest, and his cheeks burn—embarrassment? Or is it stronger, something like despair? Whatever it is, it isn’t anything traditionally positive.

He’s drowning in venomous clouds of jade.

Jisung doesn’t say anything. He isn’t looking at Minho, either, just up at the stars. “Are you going to ask about it?” Minho croaks, hardly trusting himself to speak. Everyone who has found out about his reliance on nicotine has had a few choice words to share. For some reason the thought of Jisung reprimanding him feels like a punch straight to the gut.

“I could, because I do have questions, but I won’t.”

Minho frowns at the side of Jisung’s face. “Why?”

“Because I know what it feels like to be pressured into talking about something you aren’t willing to share. You don’t need to justify yourself to me, or anyone.” Jisung looks over at him, and he’s not smiling. He could be, though, with the way his lips twitch up, but there’s something heavy and dark in his eyes.

He looks almost guarded.

Minho gets curious.

He thinks for a moment, taking in as much of Jisung’s face and expression before presenting his deduction. “You have something like this, then. Something similar, but different. Something that you want to keep hidden.” Minho narrows his eyes. “Since it isn’t nicotine, I would guess drugs of some kind?”

Jisung is looking away again, but he smiles slightly, confirming Minho’s guess.

“It’s not recent, or you wouldn’t be on the ultimate team, so a few years back.” Jisung nods at this. “Then the most likely scenario is that when you were in high school you were abusing a prescription medication, given the age range and accessibility.”

“Ritalin.” The single word is a confirmation, but it also leaves Minho more curious than ever. Jisung notices Minho’s hazy expression and smiles, clearly somewhat at ease with this conversation. Minho knows that addiction and drugs often leave people unwilling to talk about their experience, but Jisung looks almost comfortable. There’s a slight clench to his jaw, meaning he probably doesn’t discuss this often, nor wants to talk about it, so why is he, and why in this manner?

“I can see you’re dying to know,” Jisung says good-naturedly. “How about this: I’ll give an answer in exchange for one of yours.”

Minho ponders this for a moment and then nods. Shades of lilac pierce the corners of his vision, urging him to stop, but he’s in too deep. “I don’t smoke anymore, unless I’m in dire straits. I used to, quite frequently. It helps me think. It slows down my mind.” He gestures vaguely to his head. “It all moves so quickly even when I’m not thinking specifically about something, and at times I feel completely out of control.” He thinks of the afternoon when Jisung touched his hand. How he’d been dropped directly into hell. “Nicotine helps. Usually, it’s the only thing that can.”

Jisung doesn’t ask questions, and though he has been listening intently, he treats it all with a gentle touch. “Like you said, I was using prescription meds during high school that I got through a friend. I was so lost and felt like everything was out of my hands, and the pills helped with all of that. God, it felt good to feel like I was doing well—like for once I was winning.” He lets out a small sigh. “But then my friend was on vacation and I ran out and couldn’t get more—I was craving them so bad and was pretty sick from withdrawal. I knew then that I was addicted, and it was terrifying.” Jisung shivers, clearly remembering less than pleasant moments. “I should’ve talked to someone then and gotten myself back together. But I was afraid, both of what my family would say and do, and of the fact that I’d become an addict. So when I was able, I got more pills. I chased the feeling of temporary success.” He sighs then, shoulders slumping forward. “Ultimately what happened was my coach found out, since my performance had been off, and told me to quit or I’d be off the team. He wasn’t cold about it, though. He helped me deal with withdrawal and figuring myself out, but he did make me tell my parents. It was bad.” Jisung’s eyes flash. “I was…I was ashamed. For a long time. Still am, sometimes, but now I’ve made a new path for myself and I’m doing well. I’m happy now, Minho.” He smiles then, it, along with the words, directed right at Minho. He’s gone gold in the lamplight—streaks in his hair, tints on his cheekbones, and of course his eyes.

Minho gets up and walks to stand a few feet away from the bench, angling away from Jisung. No one else is out in the park anymore, and it feels strangely like they’re the only two people left in the world. Two students, one drenched in shadow and night while the other glows and glows.

“Are you ready to go back?”

“Soon,” Minho says, exhaustion dampening the colors in his vision. Interacting so personally for such a length of time is tiring, both physically and mentally.

He can hear Jisung stand up too, but he doesn’t turn around. Instead he lets his eyes close, only to find Jisung painted on the backs of his lids. It makes his hands shake.

“I’ve never met someone like you.”

Jisung shuffles forward before responding. “Hm? How am I different?”

Minho turns around. It’s painful to look at Jisung, a beacon right down the middle of the dark playground, but he does anyway. He thinks about the question for just a moment, because the words are already escaping him.

“You’re someone I can’t see through.”

Jisung laughs at that, eyes squishing up as every dimension of space around him glitters. “Well, I’m pleased to know that I’ve managed to hold your interest.”

Oh no, you’ve known. You’ve known since that day in the library that I’m incapable of looking away.

Minho turns back around and tilts his head up. He focuses on the sky this time, vast and dark. Looking at the endless sky is easier than looking at Jisung, the labyrinth of a man.

A maze Minho has no chance of escaping.

As January turns into February, and the number of weeks with Jisung in his life stack higher and higher, Minho makes a decision.

His passion is language. His life is language. His very being is built from language. Minho’s mind is wired oddly, with the way he separates experiences and memories into colored sections, all tagged with a certain tongue, but it’s him.

And he wants Jisung to know him, though the thought makes him shiver.

So, Minho tells him. They’re sitting on the soft carpet spread over the floor of Jisung’s room, with Jisung flat on his stomach as he flips through a textbook containing an obscene number of fancy medical terms, while Minho is leaning against the foot of Jisung’s bed, immersed in a novel. It’s comfortable both when they talk and when they don’t, but Minho likes the quiet. Just the noise of pages turning to disturb the air.

Every once in a while, Jisung will look over at Minho when he thinks he isn’t looking, just to observe him. Minho, in turn, does the same. And, when he’s sure that Jisung is looking at his book, he begins.

“My brain is separated into chunks.” Jisung looks up from the textbook, confused as to Minho’s sudden speech. “Or that’s how I see it. Four of them: one for each language I speak. They’re colored. English, royal blue. Czech, a warm—not a bright—yellow. French, vermillion. Italian, olive green. It changes how I see, depending on what section I'm in. The hue of the world. My native language is technically English, but when I begin to think and see in Czech, it becomes my first. I may see English words on paper, but in my head they’re yellow and in Czech. If I go to a store for the first time while I’m in the French part of my brain I won’t remember the address or any details about it when I’m thinking in English.” Minho gulps down a big breath of air. “Usually I can converse in the proper language if I’m focused enough—it’s happened a few times in the morning at the coffee shop with you. I’m sure you’ve noticed inconsistencies.”

“Last Monday—that’s why you had an accent,” Jisung murmurs. He looks contemplative, not confused, and a rush of relief surges across Minho’s skin. “It was faint, but I wondered. French, right?”

Minho nods. “Sometimes switching between them is difficult, and if something or someone, like a sharp noise, snaps me into a different language all of a sudden, it makes me tense and jumpy. It’s all so hard to explain, because it’s layered. I can study Czech and not be in the Czech part of my head, and things like that. It’s such a mess that I don’t think people would believe me if they knew. The way I see things—” he shudders. “Colors. Words. All attached to language. It’s unexplainable even to me.”

“I believe you,” Jisung points out.

“Yes,” Minho replies, “because you’re you, and I’m me.”

Neither of them talk much after that, but Minho catches Jisung looking at him every so often. He’s gone soft in the eyes and the lips, which Minho takes to mean he’s being influenced by a need to show affection. He doesn’t, though. He just watches Minho.

What is Jisung to him?

Minho lays awake, staring up at the ceiling. The only light in the room comes from the faint glow of his alarm clock.

Jisung isn’t like anyone he’s met. He’s interesting and warm and understanding. Minho wants to be around him and he wants to be on the receiving end of his smile. He even wants to touch Jisung. His hand, his wrist. He can see himself hugging him, too—not now, but maybe in the future.

He desires Jisung’s companionship and touch in a way he’s never wanted any other person.

The one explanation he continues to circle back to in his head is that he cares for Jisung, in a way that exceeds the parameters of friendship.

Minho sits up in bed, struggling to find his phone on his bedside table. Conscious of his roommate, he grabs a coat and pulls on his boots as quietly as he can, and slips out the door.

Leaving the warmth of the dorm building and stepping into the night air is a bit of a shock, but something is glowing within Minho’s chest and the chill barely registers. He begins to walk in the direction of Jisung’s building and as he does, he clicks on Jisung’s contact and calls him.

“Where are you?” Minho asks in a rush when he hears the call pick up.

“Minho?” Jisung sounds a bit tired. “It’s almost one in the morning, is everything okay?”

“I have to see you,” Minho says, trying not to snap at him. Minho needs to meet with him in person, and quickly. “I’m a few minutes from your building. Can you come down?”

The line is quiet, and then Jisung is agreeing.

“I want to hold your hands.”

Jisung, who has emerged from his building dressed in pajama pants and a hoodie, blinks at him. But he doesn’t say a word, and instead shuffles forward a bit so they’re just a foot or so apart. It’s silent acceptance. Minho draws in a shuddering breath and reaches first for Jisung’s left hand, holding it in both of his own. His skin is warm and beautifully tanned—so different from Minho’s own pale disposition. There’s faint hairs on his knuckles, and his fingernails are cut short, but not picked at all. Shakily, Minho flips it over, exposing Jisung’s palm. There’s lines in his skin, one going straight up the center while two span vertically across the top of his palm. Minho can see the bluish tinge of veins just under his skin, and they’re even clearer on his wrist.

He takes up Jisung’s other hand, liking the weight against his own. The feeling of this is completely foreign, but Minho can see growing used to this. Holding hands.

“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?” Jisung is barely breathing, and his words are hardly loud enough to hear. His pulse is drumming against the part of Minho’s skin brushing his wrist, and it’s far, far away from a resting beat. When Minho looks up he finds that Jisung’s eyes are gold, iridescent, and he’s easily the most beautiful sight Minho has ever had the fortune of seeing.

“I think I’m starting to.”

It’s the largest acknowledgment of his feelings—or feelings in general—that he’s made yet. Jisung notices, because he always picks up on little details, and a flicker of a smile dances over his lips.

And Minho takes the leap.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed, as people tend to do quite quickly, but emotions are very difficult for me. Both in identifying within myself, and in other people.” He looks up from their hands to find Jisung nodding, acknowledging what he’s saying. “I think about other people’s emotions as actions, and in myself I can sometimes identify them by physical symptoms: if I’m feeling something like anger, I can often recognize it from the way I turn red and tense up.” He takes a breath. “But the point is that I have to rationalize everything, which means it takes me longer to work out what I’m feeling, and usually even longer to figure out someone else. Does that make sense? Because I need you to know this if we’re going to continue like this.” He moves his thumb against the back of Jisung’s hand for emphasis.

“What do you need from me?” Jisung isn’t pitying him or making light of what Minho has shared—it isn’t in his words or tone of voice. His eyes are clear. “How can I help us navigate this? Because I want us to grow, and if that means we put in extra work, I’ll do it.”

Us. He’s referencing them as a unit, not singling Minho out.

If he had any lingering doubts about what he wants, they’re gone now.

“Be clear with me about what you’re feeling, and try not to be upset if it takes me a bit to understand. And if you notice a spike in my outward emotions, tell me, but don’t make it seem like you’re dictating what I’m feeling. I may be deficient in recognizing these things, but I do have pride.” Jisung smiles, and Minho smiles back. It’s almost automatic.

“Okay.” Jisung rubs his thumbs along Minho’s knuckles. “Communication. Let’s make a pact: let’s be completely honest with each other. I’ll tell you what I’m feeling so that I don’t leave you in the dark, and you have to promise to speak up if you get confused about something. We have to be open with each other, and help each other understand what we’re feeling and noticing or not noticing.”

“Yes. The Communication Pact. I like it.”

Jisung grins. “Then how about we seal the deal?” He draws one set of their hands away and with the other, hooks his pinkie around Minho’s. It’s Minho’s first time doing something like this, and it feels odd, but he mimic’s Jisung’s actions anyway. It’s strangely fulfilling.

“Thank you for coming here and telling me all this,” Jisung says, and his hand twitches forward, like he’d been about to reach for Minho’s face, but thought better of it. “I know it must have been challenging.”

“I’m tired,” Minho tells him. “It’s exhausting. This. Talking about important, complicated things.”

“How about I walk you home, then? Keep you company?”

Minho snorts, but nods anyway, easily falling into step beside Jisung. It’s peaceful being out together in the dark, away from all other life. Their hands brush every once in a while but neither of them reach to hold hands again. Jisung must somehow understand that Minho wouldn’t be receptive, after the prolonged contact earlier. He needs a bit of space—all of this is sudden.

It takes much longer than normal to wish Jisung a good night, and head up to his room. It feels as though Minho has begun to orbit around Jisung, and now it’s near impossible to break free.

“Text me tomorrow,” Jisung murmurs, displaying a sweet smile, colored orange and crimson.

“I will.” Minho looks down, avoiding Jisung’s eyes because he can’t bear their intensity any longer, lest he turn to ash and dust on the spot. “Be safe on the way back.”

Jisung is quiet then, and when Minho looks up he finds that Jisung appears like he wants to say something, but is holding it back.

“Sleep well,” Jisung ends up saying, his voice low and a bit gruff. “Go on up, I’ll watch you.”

Minho nods and turns away, walking towards the steps up to the door. He glances back once before going inside, observing that Jisung hasn’t moved and is following Minho with his eyes, just as he said he would. He smiles when their gazes meet and Minho feels a bit out of breath.

Up in his room, Minho curls up under his covers and thinks about everything that has happened. He remembers the feel of Jisung’s rough hands and how pleased he had been. As he thinks, Minho finds that he’s tingling all over, and his cheeks are warm. He tentatively prods at this sensation growing within him with his mind, but whatever the feeling is, it’s indescribable. All he knows is that it certainly has to do with Jisung and the words they’d shared.

Fireworks of color explode behind Minho’s eyelids. It takes him hours to fall asleep.