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“So now what?”
The voice comes from behind Jisung as he admires himself in the mirror, a hand running over the expensive, silky white fabric of his clothes. If he were to sell them, he’s sure he’d have enough to provide food for himself and Bbama for weeks. No stolen bread or digging through trash—proper meals like the feast he’d been served tonight, heaps of delicious, heavenly food he could only dream of before delivered right to the door of the temporary lodging he’d been allowed in the palace.
His eyes slip to the set of sharp eyes staring at his reflection expectantly, the genie still disguised as Jisung’s servant rather than his true, bluish form, and he recalls the question.
“Now what,” Jisung repeats, staring blankly at himself. “I don’t know. I didn’t think I’d make it this far.”
“Neither did I,” mumbles Changbin, shrugging from his place on the end of Jisung’s (huge, luxurious) bed when Jisung turns around to shoot him a glare. The genie scoffs. “I mean, you weren’t exactly Prince Charming, if you get my drift.”
Jisung groans and runs his hands down his face at the memory from earlier today, when Prince Minho, the object of his affections—the whole reason he begged the genie to make him a prince—stumbled upon Jisung making a complete fool of himself in front of the sultan, insulting Minho in the process.
“Why weren’t princely etiquette classes included when I made my wish?” Jisung despairs, trudging over to the bed and flopping down face-first. He could live here on this bed, he thinks. “I feel like they should’ve been included.”
“There’s only so far my magic can go, pal!” Changbin huffs indignantly, prodding his side. “You’ve gotta do some of the work yourself.”
“Right.” Propping himself up on his elbows, Jisung sighs. “Not sure what work’s left to do. I probably ruined my chances already.”
“You said he liked you, right? When you met in the marketplace.”
Jisung scratches his head, embarrassed. “Sure. I mean, I felt like we had… something.”
“Well, that ‘something’ might be your last hope,” Changbin says. “He didn’t look too happy earlier.”
Jisung blinks. “What are you saying?”
“I’m just saying, maaaybe you’d want to consider, I don’t know, telling the truth?”
“Are you serious?” Jisung sits up, frowning. “You’re telling me to, what, let my wish go to waste so I can get rejected? He couldn’t be with me even if he wanted to. Which he wouldn’t. He’s a prince.”
“And you’re not,” Changbin reminds him gently. “If you turn things around and this goes well—what then? He’s gonna find out eventually.”
And the thing is, he knows Changbin is right. But the thought that all this was for nothing is the last thought he wants on his mind; it’s crushing, the likelihood that he’d have to watch Minho slip through his fingers like a fine sand. They may have only spent one day together, but Minho’s smile made Jisung’s heart beat like they were still on the run from the law together, his voice like honey, their connection and easy back-and-forth unlike anything Jisung has ever felt with another person.
Maybe this won’t lead anywhere, maybe it’ll go up in flames and Minho will be furious and Jisung will be imprisoned for his impersonation of a royal—whatever. Jisung doesn’t care. He has nothing to go back to. It would all be worth it, just to spend one more day with him…
“C’mon, Carpet,” he mumbles decidedly, pushing himself off of the bed and ignoring Changbin’s eyes on him as he makes his way to the balcony, the flying carpet floating diligently behind him.
“Be yourself!” he hears Changbin call as he climbs atop the carpet, setting off to search for Minho’s chambers. He’s not that hard to find, Jisung smiling triumphantly when he spots a larger balcony, a variety of beautiful plants spilling over the edges. He remembers them discussing their shared adoration for flowers and can only hope his assumption is correct as he quietly dismounts the carpet, willing the frantic beating of his heart to slow.
“Prince?” Jisung calls out softly. If he squints, he thinks he can make out a silhouette lounging beyond the sheer curtains separating the balcony on which he stands from the bedroom within. “Prince Minho?”
“Who’s there?”
The tone of his voice is hostile, and followed by a deep, rumbling growl. Jisung startles, hand darting behind him to brace himself on the railing. Of course the damn tiger is still with him.
“It’s me,” he says, voice cracking, then clears his throat and tries to take on a more imposing tone. “It’s me, Prince Han.”
This is seeming like less of a great idea by the second, his heart hammering as Minho’s silhouette draws nearer and finally yanks back the curtains.
His eyes widen and then narrow, brow set in anger. “What are you doing here? I thought I made myself clear—”
“I know! I know. I just thought—”
“Thought you’d sneak into my room?” His hands are balled into fists in the fabric of the curtains, words venomous. “Do you think that’s the way to win me, Prince Jisung?”
“I mean, technically I didn’t actually sneak into your—aha.” He scrambles up onto the railing as he’s approached slowly by a growling tiger, teeth bared menacingly. Jisung glances behind himself, dizzy from the height, but Carpet is still there, at least. It’ll have his back if he falls. Probably.
“Do you really want to get ‘technical’ with me?” Minho asks. “I could easily have you arrested for this.”
“No, please, just—just give me a chance,” Jisung pleads, holding a placating hand towards the prowling feline as he lowers his feet back to the solid stone of the balcony floor.
“A chance to what?”
“To apologize, for earlier.”
Minho folds his arms, raises an eyebrow. He had overheard his father and Jisung discussing him, his hand in marriage as if he were little more than a shiny object. I’m not a prize to be won, he’d snapped before his exit, and the words have been ringing in Jisung’s head for hours.
Of course Jisung would never think that little of Minho; he’s just trying his best to fit in, to fill his role as this imposter prince. He’s in way over his head here, having been scraping by, living on rations and stolen bread for most of his life. He knows nothing about Minho’s world.
Still—it’s no excuse to dehumanize him. He had gotten carried away.
“So, I’m sorry,” he continues. “I-I wasn’t thinking. You’re much more than that―some sort of trophy, or whatever. You deserve to choose who you wish to marry, or not to marry at all.”
Minho studies him, his expression giving away nothing. It seems to soften as he takes small, hesitant steps out onto the balcony, but maybe it’s just the gentle caress of the moonlight across the planes of his face. The sheer, turquoise fabric of his sleeves glistens, golden jewelry glints as he moves, but as exquisite as the intricate decorations on his body are, it’s nothing compared to Minho himself. Jisung feels almost breathless; he’s just so beautiful.
“And you came here, went through all this trouble just to tell me this?”
“I didn’t know if I’d get an audience with you again if I hadn’t.”
“Oh, I’m sure my father would be happy to arrange it,” he says dryly.
“R-Right, but I don’t want to force you―”
“You kind of are.”
“Right,” Jisung repeats. “Sorry.” He grins sheepishly and reaches to rub the back of his neck, uncomfortable under the weight of Minho’s steely gaze while he studies him. Minho’s eyes grow wider as he steps a little closer.
“Have… Have we met?” he asks, head tilting as he squints at Jisung. “Before today?”
Shit. He’s not supposed to be able to recognize Jisung―some enchantment or another Changbin had thrown in with his wish so he wouldn’t be immediately found out. Is it not working? Has it worn off?
“I’m certain we haven’t,” Jisung lies. “I’d remember a face as beautiful as yours.”
“Hmm,” Minho hums, and then he’s donning a smile as he steps even closer. Jisung swallows. “You think I’m beautiful?”
The next thing Jisung knows, he’s caged in against the railing, Minho leaning in way too close—so close that he can smell him. He smells sweet, floral. Like jasmine.
He nods quickly. “Very beautiful.”
“I’m not just beautiful, you know,” Minho continues, a hand skating lightly up the length of Jisung’s arm, giving him goosebumps even through the billowy fabric of his shirt. “I’m also rich.”
Distracted by their proximity, it’s all Jisung can do to nod again, dumbly. “Uh-huh.”
“Heir to the throne.”
“Mhm.”
“I’d be a nice prize for any prince, don’t you think?” He tilts his head, batting his eyelashes.
“A-Anyone would be lucky to have you,” Jisung blurts, mouth moving faster than his brain. “Any prince. Like me, I’m a prince.”
“Right.” Minho smiles bitterly as he pushes off the railing and gives Jisung room to breathe again. “And you’re just like the rest of them.”
He turns to leave. Panic rises in Jisung’s chest.
“I’m not, though! We―I actually…”
Minho stops, turning to fix him with an unimpressed stare.
Changbin’s words ring in his head. Be yourself. Tell the truth.
But Jisung can’t. He can’t. Minho doesn’t want some commoner—no, lower than a commoner—he needs someone on his own level. Even if it’s fake, it’s the only way.
“I… have a magic carpet,” Jisung blurts out in one breath.
“You have a what?”
“I. Have.” Jisung shakes his head, waves it off. “You know what? Let me just show you.”
Minho’s eyes widen as Jisung swings a leg over the balcony’s railing, then another, checking below to wait for a sign that the carpet is ready and then he hops right down. He hears Minho gasp before his head peeks over the edge, lips parted in shock.
By then, Jisung is reclined lazily on his back, hands behind his head, grinning perhaps a bit too smugly as the carpet floats him back atop the balcony to Minho’s side. He sits up and flourishes his hands. “Like I said.”
“What…” Minho reaches out a timid hand, awestruck, eyelids fluttering when the carpet’s tassel meets his hand to emulate a handshake. He chuckles, amazed. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Would you like to join me for a ride?” Jisung asks, hopeful.
Minho seems to actually consider it. “Oh, I… I’m not too good with heights.”
Jisung looks around. “Sounds like an excuse coming from someone with a balcony like this.”
Minho glances out over the edge, across to the city, and hugs himself. “It’s the only way I get to see anything besides palace walls,” he admits quietly.
Jisung feels a pang of sympathy, of longing—he wants to show Minho everything, take him everywhere he wants to go.
“I can show you so much more,” Jisung promises, and he holds out a hand. “Let me show you, Prince Minho. For just one night, and if you’re right and I am just like all the rest and you never want to see me again, that’s fine. I’ll leave.”
Minho ducks his head and hums, running a fingertip along the carpet’s trim. “What are you planning on showing me, exactly?”
“The world,” Jisung answers. Minho seems like he still can’t make up his mind, so Jisung offers his hand more insistently, all but shoving it in his face. “Do you trust me?”
Minho blinks at his hand, eyes round as they slide up to his face. “What?”
“Do you trust me?”
It’s then Jisung realizes he may have royally screwed up, something like realization sparkling in Minho’s gaze. Familiarity, from Jisung’s repetition of the question he’d asked him the day they met, on the run from the guards. Do you trust me? Jisung had asked, once, twice before Minho said yes, and then he grabbed his hand and they jumped.
He wonders if Minho would have stayed with him if he weren’t forced to reveal his identity and return to the palace shortly thereafter—and then he feels like a fool for even entertaining the thought because of course he wouldn’t. He’s a prince. A real one, unlike Jisung who may have just shot his chances.
But Minho doesn’t slap his hand away, doesn’t call him a liar or a fake or even a dirty street rat, doesn’t laugh in his face for thinking he deserves even a moment of his time, so maybe Jisung imagined the recognition in his eyes.
Instead, Minho smiles, and it’s slow and sweet, the first genuine one Jisung has seen since that day they met in the marketplace.
“Yes,” Minho says, and he takes Jisung’s hand.
Jisung beams, tugging Minho up and onto the carpet next to him. He loses his balance, clinging to Jisung’s arm as he gets used to the unsteady feeling.
“Sorry,” Minho murmurs, suddenly shy as he loosens his grip and pulls away.
“It’s okay,” Jisung assures him softly, and the carpet seems to be working in his favor because it takes off suddenly, causing Minho to cry out and wrap his arms around Jisung’s shoulders. Jisung offers a steadying arm around his waist and Minho relaxes slightly into the gesture even as he tenses up while they climb in altitude.
“A-Are you sure this is safe?” Minho asks, voice thin. He cranes his neck to look behind them at the world far, far below, becoming smaller, and squeezes his eyes shut with a small whimper.
Jisung tightens his grip, pulling Minho into his side protectively. “Perfectly safe. Just takes some getting used to. I’m not too fond of heights myself.”
“Then how do you do it?” Minho asks, relaxing slightly when the carpet stops climbing, instead settling into a smooth, slow glide.
“Well, the view makes up for it.”
Maybe he’s talking about the rolling hills and valleys and oceans below. Maybe he’s talking about the wonder in the way the moonlight kisses Minho’s face, so stunning even as he’s cringing with fear. More stunning, perhaps, for the way it shows how vulnerable and human he is. Minho isn’t just some untouchable princely deity—he’s real, he’s here, in Jisung’s arms, and Jisung can hardly believe it’s real.
It takes a moment for Minho to pry his eyes open, and when he does, he lets out a small gasp. Jisung imagines he must be marveling at all the twinkling lights from afar, the way the moon reflects on the sea, but he can’t be bothered to look for himself when Minho is far more captivating.
“It’s beautiful,” Minho whispers, trembling hands still clinging onto Jisung tightly.
“Mm,” Jisung hums, smiling dopily. Minho catches on to his staring, rolling his eyes but smiling and pulling away a bit. He quickly allows himself to be drawn back into Jisung’s orbit, linking his arm with Jisung’s.
“I will push you off,” he threatens.
“What did I do?!” Jisung gapes. “Carpet would never let that happen. Right, buddy?”
The carpet raises its two front tassels as if to shrug.
“Wow,” Jisung says dryly. “Everyone’s against me, huh.”
He thinks he doesn’t mind being the butt of every joke ever made so long as he gets to hear that soft laughter leaving Minho’s lips, floating through the thin air. He’s sure it isn’t just the height making him feel lightheaded, either.
Chasing the feeling, Jisung huffs. “Have fun conquering your fear of heights alone, then!”
“Hmm.” Minho holds him a little tighter. “Maybe I’ll keep you around until we’re back on solid ground.”
“And then what?”
“And then I’ll feed you to Soonie.”
“Oof.”
“But… maybe I can be persuaded to change my mind,” Minho says, reflections of the stars twinkling mischievously in his eyes. “If you impress me.”
Jisung gasps in mock offense. “You mean to tell me you’re not already thoroughly impressed by my rugged good looks, princely charm, and my flying magic carpet?”
Minho gives a shrug, corners of his lips twitching up. “Eh.”
“I see, I see. Well.” Jisung lightly pats the carpet. “The night has only just begun, my prince.”
On cue, the carpet takes off, Minho letting out a startled cry as he clings to Jisung’s arm with both hands. “Where are we going?!”
“To see the world!” Jisung shouts into the wind whipping around them as they shoot up through the clouds, diving in and out. Minho’s laughter is loud and almost hysterical, a mixture of fear and joy so pure and unadulterated that it spreads to Jisung’s lungs, too, despite being used to the carpet’s tricks by now.
There isn’t much conversation to be had at the speed they’re flying through the air as they dip down below the clouds to survey the beauty of the land below, but the way Minho’s grip tightens, the way he’ll excitedly point something out, smile lighting up the night, more than makes up for it.
Jisung has no idea how far they’ve flown when they finally slow down enough to actually hear and look at each other, the carpet floating them gracefully mere inches above a moonlit lake, and when they do, Minho bursts into laughter that he unsuccessfully tries to hide behind his palm.
“What?” Jisung asks, cocking his head to the side and grinning dumbly.
“Your hair.” Minho snorts.
“Hey!” Jisung whines, reaching up to smooth it down. He’d long since abandoned his hat, stuffing it under his crossed legs for safekeeping. “Yours isn’t much better, you know! Careful, a bird might mistake it for a nest.”
Minho’s hand pats around the crown of his head, chuckling when he realizes the abuse it’s endured from the wind. “Is this how you intend to impress me, Prince Han? With insults?”
Jisung blanches; he’d gotten so comfortable with Minho that he’d forgotten his place, forgotten the part he’s meant to play. “N-No, of course not. Please forgive me, Your Highness, I—”
“Whoa, whoa, I’m teasing,” Minho interrupts him with an amused grin. He slips his fingers into Jisung’s matted mess of hair and, with some effort, combs them through. Jisung might forget how to breathe. “I much prefer your insults to stuffy palace formalities.”
Jisung exhales when Minho pulls his hand away, turning to something on the shoreline that’s caught his attention. “You really don’t like it there, huh.”
There’s a huff of a laugh as Minho plucks a pretty, white flower from a bush they pass, but it’s humorless. “That’s like asking a bird if it likes its cage.”
Oh, Jisung thinks. That’s… a dismal way of looking at it. He supposes he could never fully understand what Minho’s life is like, whether he’s enchanted to appear as a prince himself or not, but the whole being married off thing is enough for him to get the gist of it. But still, there are so many advantages to it, ones that Jisung has always dreamed of having, a luxurious life, a safe one—
His thoughts come to a hasty halt when Minho reaches for him again, tucking the flower he’d picked behind Jisung’s ear with a soft smile. Jisung places his own hand over it, caressing the delicate petals and grinning dazedly, cheeks warm.
“At least you have me to bust you out, right?” he asks once he’s found his voice again.
“Mm.” Minho stares out over the water. “If only there were enough room for Soonie on this carpet. We could just run away and—” His eyes widen as he catches himself, eyes meeting Jisung’s before darting away sheepishly. “I mean—”
“Hey, I’m not opposed to the idea,” Jisung says, lighthearted but genuine. “Except, uh. I don’t know if your cat will fit.”
“I knew it was too good an idea to be true,” Minho jokes. Then he sighs, looking down at his fidgeting hands. “I wish things were that simple.”
“Aren’t they?” Jisung challenges. Minho gives him a puzzled look. “What’s stopping you from leaving if you hate it so much?”
Minho studies him for a moment, then scoffs. “Where do I begin? I’m the prince. The only prince. They’d come looking for me. And even if they didn’t, where would I go? I know about the world—I’ve read all about its geography, its customs, but I lack the experience I’d need to thrive in it. I’d be hopeless out on my own.”
“Who says you’d have to go it alone?” Jisung puffs out his chest a little. “I’m pretty well-versed in the ways of the world, I’d say. Street smarts, and all that.”
Minho squints at him for a moment. “Are you trying to tempt me to—what, run away with you?”
“Depends. Is it working?”
“It’s an idea, for sure,” he responds, enigmatic, and stares wistfully out across the lake, the expanse of the field beyond it.
“Sounds like you’ve thought about it before,” Jisung muses after a moment of calm silence. “Running away, I mean.”
“Well,” he says, “I have a lot of time to think about such things. It doesn’t mean they will ever happen.” Then he sighs, waving his hand. “Anyway. We came out to see the world, not to listen to me complain, so.”
“I like hearing you complain,” Jisung says, wanting to thump himself in the head immediately thereafter as Minho raises an eyebrow at him. “Talk, I mean. I like hearing you talk. Keep talking?”
Minho chuckles, shaking his head. “Enough about me. Tell me about you.”
“Me?” His voice cracks on the single syllable as Carpet dumps them as carefully as possible into a nearby patch of flowers.
“You,” Minho affirms, getting comfortable. He picks another flower, one of a soft blue, and absently strokes a hand over it as he speaks. “You know, your country. Your people. Do you have siblings? Pets?”
“Uh, no. No siblings,” Jisung answers, hoping his nerves don’t show and that his avoidance of the first half of Minho’s questioning isn’t too obvious. “No pets. I feed stray cats when I can, when—” when I have food to spare, “when they come around.”
“Oh.” Minho’s eyes sparkle in interest. “And Bbama?”
“Bbama allows it,” Jisung says, unthinking. “He gets along pretty well with…”
Minho’s accomplished smirk finally settles in as Jisung realizes the trap he’s just walked into. He snaps his mouth shut, stomach dropping, face paling. Shit.
“I—I mean—” he tries.
“I knew it was you!” Minho says, bringing a closed fist down on his arm. His expression is somewhere between incredulous and enraged. “How does a change of clothes make you look so different?”
I’m kind of supposed to be magically unrecognizable, Jisung would say if he were to tell the truth. Also, the Bbama you met on the same day you met me in the market is sort of enchanted to be an elephant right now, you know, to make me look like the rich, important prince that I’m actually not, but. Details.
Instead, he swallows, then forces out a nervous laugh. “I clean up pretty well, right?”
Minho narrows his eyes, scoffing in disbelief. “Do you take me for a fool, Prince Han? Should I even call you that?” His voice softens to something dulled by defeat, disappointment at the confirmation that he’s been deceived. “Who are you, really?”
Jisung sighs, running a hand through his messy hair before leaning back on his hands and staring up at the starry night sky. “Okay, yeah, it’s me. Jisung. The ratty stray from the market.” Minho stays silent, waiting for elaboration. “I…”
He holds his breath for a moment, watches the stars twinkle. They’re so much brighter out here. He almost wishes they wouldn’t have to go back.
He glances to his left, where Carpet rests in the grass, intently listening in and gesturing at Jisung as if to say go on, tell him the truth. He knows if Changbin were here, he’d be nagging him, too. The whole spiel―be yourself, and all that.
And then he looks at Minho, eyes wide, shining like the stars. Expectant. Beautiful. So, so lovely, and so far out of reach from a dirty, poor street dweller like himself.
Jisung never stood a chance.
“The truth is…” Jisung plucks a flower, brings it to his nose to sniff. Something sweet to mask the ugly lie he’s about to tell. “I am a prince. But sometimes, it’s just… too much for me. I feel trapped. Like I’m suffocating. So I venture out, try to live someone else’s life. Put myself in another’s shoes. It gives me perspective, too, but ultimately I’m just—I’m being selfish.”
Lying, swindling, deceiving—these are the things Jisung is good at, the things he’s had little choice but to master in order to survive, rather than upper class social skills and politics and whatever else he’ll need to maintain this façade. He doesn’t know how long he can keep it up, and he regrets the lie as soon as he says it because he knows it can’t end well, but… for now, it seems to be enough.
Minho’s hardened expression breaks before him, eyebrows dipping in sympathy as he slides a hand down Jisung’s forearm.
“I don’t think it’s selfish at all,” Minho murmurs quietly, slipping his hand into Jisung’s. “I understand.”
Jisung’s heart thumps in his chest as their fingers intertwine, a mixture of excitement and warm, fluttery feelings that make his guilt harder to adhere to.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was you, though?” Minho asks, blinking slowly.
“Uh,” Jisung says, suddenly realizing how close they are, shoulders brushing, fingers entwined. “I mean—a prince dressed as a commoner in the middle of a market, of all places? Who does that?”
He nudges Minho’s shoulder with his own and Minho ducks his head with a giggle, nudging him back. “You’d be surprised, Prince Han.”
Minho rests a cheek on Jisung’s shoulder as his thumb grazes over his knuckles, and Jisung can’t help his own dopey grin as he rests his head atop Minho’s, squeezing his hand. They sit there like that for a while, basking in each other’s presence surrounded by flowers and moonlight and the occasional, soft breeze. Fingertips graze the skin of their hands and it’s all Jisung can do to hope Minho won’t grow suspicious from his callouses, his soft skin a contrast to their roughness.
Before he has the chance to fall victim to the whirlpool of worry that his brain can often be, Minho speaks up.
“I wish Soonie were here.”
“I’m not good enough for you?” Jisung jokes.
“Hmm, no.” Then, a sigh. “He would love this wide, open field.” He snorts to himself. “As if he’d do anything other than flop down in the grass and sunbathe.”
“Right. As soon as he’s done mauling me, probably.”
Minho clicks his tongue. “He’s harmless. As long as you’re not trying to maul me, you’re safe.”
“Try telling that to him!” Jisung whines. “He looked ready to eat me earlier.”
“He just needs some time to warm up to you,” Minho says, and the implications certainly warm Jisung up. “He’ll like you.”
“Yeah? How are you so sure?”
Minho nuzzles into him, subtly. “Because I like you.”
Jisung feels like he’s floating among the clouds, sitting here in the grass with Minho. They’re there until dawn breaks, and a rosy pink bleeds into the sky, talking and laughing about everything and nothing, Jisung weaving flower chains like he’d learned from the kids in town while Minho follows along and they adorn each other’s heads with their messy creations.
They’re lying side-by-side in the grass when the early morning sun peeks into the sky, casting a pretty glow over the meadow and, most notably, Minho.
“Oh,” Minho says as he sits up to gaze forlornly towards the horizon, adjusting the flower crown that’s practically falling apart atop his head.
“Should probably get you back, huh?” Jisung smiles sadly, brushing the grass and leaves off of Minho’s back as he sits up, too. “Soonie will never forgive me for keeping you out this late past curfew.”
Minho nods, chuckling, and yawns. “Poor thing. I didn’t realize I’d left him alone this long.”
Jisung stands, stretching out his stiff muscles before offering a hand and a grin to Minho. “Do you regret it?”
Minho rolls his eyes but smiles as he takes his hand. “Of course not.”
It’s a quiet ride back to the palace—luckily Carpet remembers the way, because Jisung sure doesn’t—where they lean against each other in sleepy contentment. Jisung might doze off a bit, but at least he doesn’t drool on Minho in the process, which he counts as a win. Before he knows it he’s awakening with a nudge to his rear from Carpet, who presents them to the balcony.
Minho slips down first, offering his hand to Jisung. The sun has climbed a little higher into the sky now, Minho gleaming in its golden rays as sleepy, heavy lidded eyes crinkle when Jisung stumbles to his feet, clasped hands keeping him from toppling over.
“Didn’t realize how tired I was,” he says sheepishly, reluctant to let go.
Minho hums. “Me either. I’d, um, invite you to stay, but… it probably wouldn’t go over well if—no, when someone found out.”
“Oh.” Jisung feels his neck warm at the notion that Minho even considered asking Jisung to stay, to sleep next to him. And Soonie, who trots out onto the balcony at the sounds of Minho’s voice and rubs up against his side. Jisung stares unabashedly at his smile as he greets his companion. “Uh, that’s okay, no, yeah, I get it.”
“But I had a wonderful time.”
“Me too.” Jisung beams, so tired, so enamored, cheeks so sore from spending all night smiling.
“We should do it again.”
“Mm, absolutely. Just say the word.”
“Mhm. Okay,” Minho says. “Well.”
“Well,” Jisung repeats.
There’s something almost delirious in the sleepy, shy smiles passed between them, the way they giggle quietly, barely able to look at each other.
“I guess I’ll…” Jisung takes a step back, reaching around blindly behind himself until his hand lands on Carpet.
“I take it you don’t want to kiss me goodnight, then?” Minho asks, and Jisung swears his heart must stop.
And his brain, apparently. “W-Well, it’s morning, so.”
“Ah.”
Jisung lets his hand fall from the carpet, glancing warily down at Soonie who pays him no mind, purring as he nudges into Minho’s hand. “And I don’t know if… if your cat will like it.”
“He won’t mind,” Minho insists, giving Soonie one last scratch on the forehead before closing the distance between them, eyes flickering around Jisung’s face. His pretty lips are curled in a small smile, and oh gods, Jisung is half convinced he’s still sleeping with Minho pressed up against his side because how can this really be happening?
But he feels Minho’s soft skin at his fingertips when he presses them into the side of his neck, and the swarm of butterflies that take flight behind his ribcage are unmistakable as Minho’s gaze drops to his lips, long eyelashes fanning over his cheekbones, their noses brushing and then finally, finally their lips connect. Bliss is the only word Jisung’s tired mind can conjure to describe the way he’s feeling with his lips against Minho’s, soft and warm and perfect.
Minho tugs Jisung closer with fistfuls of his shirt and Jisung smiles into the kiss. He thinks maybe he shouldn’t overdo it, pulling away before long, but then Minho chases his lips, kisses him again, again. Jisung breaks them apart with a chuckle and a sigh, a final peck to Minho’s pouty lips.
“You should get some rest,” he gently tells him. “Princely duties await.”
Minho actually whines. “I know, but…”
But Jisung isn’t fooling anyone—at least not as far as how badly he wants to keep kissing Minho goes, anyway—so he captures his lips again, sighing in bliss as Minho all but melts against him. Despite the exhaustion in his bones, he’s sure he could do this for hours—
Until a deep meow and a rough shove to his thigh nearly makes him jump out of his skin, springing apart from Minho with a gasp. He’d nearly forgotten their audience.
“I know, I know, sorry, I’m going,” he huffs playfully, Minho laughing as he pets the tiger’s head.
“Be nice, Soonie. Say goodbye,” Minho urges, reaching a hand out. Hesitant, Jisung places his in Minho’s palm and lets him guide it towards the tiger’s face. He sniffs it, curious, gives it a single lick with his big tongue, rough almost to the point of being painful (perhaps a warning), and then nudges into Jisung’s palm.
Jisung grins, feeling as though he’s earned Soonie’s blessing as he pets the tiger carefully. “Bye-bye, Soonie.”
Then he looks back up to Minho, who’s watching him with something tender in his gaze, and he pets him, too, running a hand through his hair.
“Bye, Minho,” he says more softly, knuckles brushing his cheek. Minho holds his hand there, nuzzles into it with a sleepy hum and a smile, and Jisung’s knees feel weak when he presses a kiss to his palm.
“Goodbye, Jisung.”
He watches Minho go, wiggles his fingers in a dopey wave when he turns around to give Jisung one last smile before disappearing behind the curtain. Then he finally collapses onto Carpet from exhaustion and happiness and… and an underlying sense of… what, dread?
His mind and body are too weary to delve into that now, content to do nothing but bask in the afterglow of undoubtedly the best night of his life. Besides, it’s probably nothing.
But as he drifts off to sleep with thoughts of sweet flowers and sweeter smiles filling his head, he has this nagging feeling somewhere deep down that Changbin is going to kill him.
✨