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When Minho is twenty-three, he and Jisung are invited to Chan and Sana’s parabatai ceremony.
It takes place in Idris, under the eyes of the Council that makes sure everything goes smoothly—that it’s completed without a hitch.
It’s a sight to see, something beautiful that fills Minho with indescribable warmth, but what’s even better is that Jisung is right next to him, brimming with happiness.
(Minho spends most of the ceremony sneaking glances at him—at the fire reflected in his eyes, fully focused on their friends being bonded for life.)
Afterwards, in Sana’s family manor, Minho is debating whether he’s feeling like drinking another glass of wine or trying the sparkling pink champagne when Jisung appears next to him again.
He doesn’t look anxious per se, but there’s something nervous in his expression, something shy that makes Minho forgo all the plans of having another drink.
“What’s up?” he asks, trying his best to sound casual. Not alert. He’s always alert when it comes to Jisung, so keeping his heart at bay and stopping it from deciding for him to jump into protecting Jisung from everything and everyone is one hell of a struggle.
Jisung purses his lips, on the verge of saying what’s on his mind, but right before he opens his mouth, he decides to take ahold of Minho’s hand instead.
He intertwines their fingers clumsily and pulls Minho through the room. Minho lets himself be pulled, no questions asked.
Chan and Sana have invited half of the Shadowhunter community to celebrate their union, so getting out of the crowd takes a moment and too many excuse me s to count.
Jisung opens the first door they encounter when they step out into the hallway and drags Minho inside.
It looks like a library, dusty and spacious. Without being asked to, Minho lets go of Jisung’s hand and takes a seat on the edge of the table sitting in the center of the room.
Jisung seems more confident when he turns back to face Minho. Gone is the shyness—now, he’s following him further into the room silently and pausing just in front of him.
Whatever it is that has caused him to shine this way, Minho thinks that it suits him. Jisung should always look this bright—confidence is a beautiful look on him.
“I’ve been thinking,” Jisung finally says, turning the simple silver ring perched on his thumb.
There it is, the slight shyness; it shows in his habits, slipping through the cracks, easy for Minho to pick up on.
When Jisung takes a little too long to elaborate, Minho huffs out a laugh and prompts, “About?”
“I think. . .” He trails off, dragging his lower lip between his teeth, and something about his expression, something about the situation they’ve found themselves in, makes Minho’s pulse skitter. “I think you and me should be parabatai.”
Minho’s pitiful heart shatters.
Small smile falling off his lips with a crashing sound, he scans Jisung’s face in search for ingenuity, but finds it overflowing with sincere want instead.
His throat goes dry and a choked-up sound leaves his throat, pathetic and wounded.
The lack of Minho’s actual response clouds Jisung’s bright eyes with confusion. Then, his shoulders slump and face glazes over with hurt.
“You. . . don’t want to,” he says blankly, taking a step back. The heels of his Chelsea boots make a sound that pierces right through Minho’s ribs.
His hand flies uselessly to grab him, to keep him right here, close, where he belongs, but Jisung slips away.
“No, I—” Minho’s tongue betrays him once again, tying itself into knots as he scrambles to find a way to say, I can’t put myself through that. I can’t let myself extend this torture.
“You said you wanted one before,” Jisung tells him, voice pained. His eyebrows are drawn together in confusion, like he can’t quite comprehend why in the world his soulmate would refuse to form an actual tangible bond with him. “I remember.”
Minho feels like he’s just learning to speak. “I—I just. . . Things have changed.”
Jisung scoffs bitterly. “What has changed?” he asks, now with a fire burning in his eyes, wild and dangerous, even for Minho. Especially for him. “ We have changed? You—”
“No, Jisung, don’t put words in my mouth—!” Minho interrupts, voice growing stern despite the effort he puts into not letting his emotions bleed into it.
“What has changed, Minho?”
Jisung repeats the question, but Minho doesn’t have an answer. Or, rather, he has an answer that’s too raw, too untamed to let it ambush Jisung with all its force.
Minho stays silent. He snaps his mouth shut and lowers his gaze. For all the demons he kills on a daily basis, for all the fear he pushes away and stores in coffins that he buries in a cemetery he doesn’t visit, Minho is one hell of a coward.
Jisung scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.
“I always thought we were meant to be,” he says. “This is the worst way to find I was mistaken. That you don’t put as much value in our friendship as I do.”
Minho doesn’t call out for him when Jisung turns on his heel and storms out, slamming the door shut on his way out. He wouldn’t know what to say to make Jisung understand, anyway.
✦
The Seoul Institute—Minho’s home for the unforeseeable future—stands in place of what was once a palace. To passing mundanes, it’s not much more than scorched ruins—a monument of history and a glimpse at the inevitable passage of time.
But once the glamor that shields it from curious eyes is shed, it’s just as majestic as it had once been.
Set against the beauty of the mountains in a secluded area of the country, it serves as a perfect shelter and workspace for Shadowhunters from all across the world.
Minho feels at home here, vastly better than he had back at Sana’s mansion, despite that its splendor and beauty doesn’t differ from the Institute’s. This is his place on earth, one he can’t imagine himself leaving for too long.
Now, though, he steps inside and feels the unforgiving piercing cold seeping into his bones.
Jisung isn’t here.
He should be—he stormed out of the library, and when he gets upset, he can’t stand being around people; he must have left the mansion of Minatozakis, but regretfully he hasn’t come here.
Maybe Minho could talk to him, coax him into calmness or apologize, asking for time to figure out how to convey exactly what he needs Jisung to understand.
Minho doesn’t think he’s ready to say it yet—if he doesn’t have to risk everything he has left, he won’t even mutter a word.
He shoves the worry down his throat, trying to convince himself that not being able to keep an eye on Jisung doesn’t mean that he’s in danger.
Jisung is a perfectly capable Shadowhunter, the most talented of them all—no demon is a match for him, and he can defend himself better than Minho, probably.
It doesn’t ease his anxiety, and nothing will; not until he sees Jisung in one piece, safe and sound, at least.
That doesn’t happen throughout the night.
Minho can barely sleep, both because of the tormenting thoughts of Jisung’s request and because he can’t keep an eye on his best friend when he isn’t there.
It’s a whole night spent on tossing and turning, and when Minho finally drags himself out of bed later than usual, his body feels like it weighs a ton, bones heavy and muscles aching.
“Where’s Jisung?” Changbin asks him the second he sits down at the table during breakfast.
Minho shrugs. The question doesn’t help his sour mood. “No idea,” he says curtly.
And it would be enough were Changbin anyone else. But he’s the person Minho could call his number two—because, obviously, Jisung is his number one: and Changbin seems to be aware of that fact, too.
All it takes is an arch of his eyebrow and the inquiring look in his eyes, and Minho speaks again.
“He’s mad at me.”
Changbin frowns. Takes a sip of his coffee. Tears a piece of his burned toast and shoves it into his mouth. “Well,” he starts. “Do you know why?”
Minho lets his gaze jump all over the place, from the windows to the tabletop, everything just so that he doesn’t have to meet Changbin’s gaze, see as it turns into concern.
“Because he asked me to be parabatai,” Minho says, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. When it’s his fault—his fault that he can’t give Jisung what he needs.
“And you. . .”
Minho tugs at his earlobe. “I said no.”
The dining room falls silent. It’s not heavy or uncomfortable, but Minho’s skin still tingles—it prickles in a way similar to when he’s about to fight a demon, screaming of danger, a warning.
Changbin is silent, but he shouldn’t be. He knows Minho. He knows Jisung. He knows that there’s little they wouldn’t do for each other. Hearing this should be at least a bit surprising.
“Aren’t you going to ask why?”
Changbin shrugs and, as if it’s nothing, he nonchalantly says, “Because you’re in love with him.”
Minho’s throat tightens the moment his brain registers the words falling off Changbin’s lips. He stares at his friend, mouth parted and eyes wide in surprise as he tries to process—why, when, how.
Minho thought he had been careful not to let his affection seem too obvious. But now. . .
His tongue betrays him, tying into a knot that leaves him spluttering nonsense.
“No, I—I just—”
Changbin finds his hand on the tabletop and takes it into his own, forcing Minho to focus on the touch and not on the way his heart feels like it’s about to plunge out of his chest.
“You don’t have to lie to me,” Changbin says. He’s got this ability to ease Minho’s—and everyone’s—worries, and it works now, too, with how soothing his voice is. “You being in love with him is the only logical reason why you’d refuse to be bound to him as parabatai.”
Most Shadowhunters never have any parabatai at all; so, being fortunate enough to find someone worthy of becoming one’s parabatai is considered a blessing. But the thing is, parabatai can’t ever form a romantic bond—after ages of being kept in the dark about the exact reason why not, it was discovered that such a connection would make parabatai so powerful that it would destroy them.
Minho would love nothing more than to be bound to Jisung for life in the most special way to ever exist—if he wasn’t completely in love with him.
But he is, and he simply can’t risk it.
“He. . .” Minho sighs, rubbing the side of his face with his palm. His head is beginning to pound with a splitting headache. “He can’t know.”
Changbin frowns. “If you’re rejecting him when it clearly means a lot to him, then you should give him the real reason,” he says. “At least that’s what I would do. Explain it. Before he thinks it’s because of all the wrong reasons and it ruins something special and real that you already have.”
Logically, Minho knows Changbin is right. On the other hand, it’s not easy to simply let it all out.
Minho has always had trouble expressing his emotions; now that one of the most important things in his life is at stake and he needs to speak to save it, it’s even more of a struggle.
He can’t predict Jisung’s reaction and that’s what scares him: he usually has Jisung figured out, can read off his face like it’s an open book; but when it comes to a possible confession, Minho has no idea what his reaction could be.
Minho dreads losing him over something as stupid as romantic feelings, but the more rational part of him reasons that if he doesn’t act quickly, he’ll lose Jisung over something even more idiotic.
He doesn’t know what time it is exactly when Jisung comes back, but he hears the door of his bedroom open and shut on the other side of the hallway. Before he can make his mind up and go over there to talk, Jisung’s footsteps sound again as he walks away.
Minho falls back against his chair with a sigh and closes his eyes. He’s been reading for the past few hours, killing time and pretending he’s doing something productive while in reality his Jisung-focused brain could hardly grasp any of the words he’s been reading.
Even with the book pushed away, he can still hardly focus. Alone with his thoughts, he only grows worried that Jisung won’t want to speak with him when Minho finds him—that he’ll build a wall made of pain around himself and Minho won’t be able to break it.
He wants to tell himself that it’s just a parabatai ceremony, that it’s not that big of a deal, that it can’t break their friendship; but he knows that it means a lot to Jisung—that it took a lot of his courage to come up to Minho and ask him to do it together. Minho can’t lie like that—not even to himself.
A gasp of surprise rips out of his throat the moment Soonie jumps onto his lap. Startled, he glares at the cat and straightens his legs so that Soonie doesn’t have to hold onto him too much and doesn’t dig his claws into Minho’s thighs.
“Why’d you scare me?” he asks, hand flying up to scratch the ginger cat under his chin. “Hm? You wanna take the chair?”
He cradles the cat in his arms, scooting him up and standing to free the chair and let Soonie take a nap where he wants to.
But when he lets the cat out onto the seat, he jumps right off of it and—swinging his tail—heads towards the door. Minho stares dumbly, and then. . .
“Oh.”
He rushes towards the door and opens it wide for the cat, even though Soonie could easily slip out through the smaller door flap. Instead of letting him wander off, Minho follows right after him without any questions.
It doesn’t surprise him that Soonie leads him to Jisung.
Minho knows he’s inside even before he enters the training room. His heart begins to race and his palms get uncomfortably clammy. He debates whether it wouldn’t be better to walk away, wait until Jisung isn’t in the vicinity of lethal weapons.
But Soonie meows beside him, his eyes judging, and Minho curses himself for letting the cat sway him—but it’s not his fault that Soonie is just. . . a smart guy. He’s perceptive, understands a little too much for a cat, and consequently decides to play with Minho’s life more often than not.
He takes a deep breath and pushes the door open.
Jisung barely spares him a glance when he comes in, too busy polishing his seraph blade and too busy ignoring Minho’s existence.
Minho can’t even lie. It hurts .
It hurts like hell, and he knows it must hurt Jisung even more—because Minho left him no room for imagination, and he probably now thinks that Minho doesn’t love him enough to be bound for life with him.
Minho loves him too much to do that.
He closes the door behind himself and presses his back against it, not daring to invade Jisung’s space when he’s already irritated. He waits. Waits. Waits. But when Jisung finishes polishing his blade, he cuts through the air with it, and his name rips out of Minho’s throat uncontrollably.
“Jisungie—”
Seeing him from the side, it’s easy to notice how tightly he clenches his jaw. “Fight me.”
“What?”
“Spar with me,” Jisung says. “Did I stutter?”
Minho’s heart cracks at the sharp edge of his voice, and he wants to say no. He doesn’t want to fight with Jisung or train with him—he wants to talk. But he’s getting a feeling that Jisung won’t stick around if he says so, so Minho grabs a wooden staff and takes his position.
Jisung stares him down with clear interest; maybe he did think Minho would back off. After all, he knows this isn’t Minho’s usual weapon. Arrows and a bow are.
Still, he plants his feet firm on the floor and waits for Jisung to do the same.
They’ve done it a million times before, spending whole days on practicing together and taking on missions side by side, but it still amazes Minho how talented and skilled Jisung is.
Stance never wavering, he attacks, and it’s like dancing. He moves with ease, light as a feather, fast and precise as he strikes, channeling all his irritation to knock Minho off his feet. He isn’t aggressive, because it simply isn’t in his nature, but Minho wouldn’t be surprised if Jisung decided to beat his ass.
Minho fires right back, not intending to yield just because Jisung is upset; he fights with all his strength until the only sound echoing in the room is the wood clinking and their loud breathing.
Jisung’s eyebrows are drawn together in focus. Lips are pressed together into a thin line. Nostrils are flared as he breathes harshly. His arms flex under his tank-top and successfully disperse Minho’s attention once or twice or ten times.
Minho studies him, pays attention to each of his moves, and yet the one thing he hasn’t been prepared for is for Jisung to rush forward as soon as he puts a bit of distance between them, quick enough on his feet to push Minho back and cage him in with his staff clashing against Minho’s.
Minho lets out a shuddering breath at their proximity. His eyes widen, meeting Jisung’s glimmering ones, and his lips part, desperate to say something—anything. Nothing comes out.
He stares at Jisung, feels his breath on his mouth, and realizes that he wants nothing more than to make things right again. Dizzy with fatigue, though, he can’t hold back anymore, and he does the complete opposite: he drops his staff, surges forward, and kisses Jisung right on the mouth.
Jisung tastes like sweat and like strawberry beer he keeps in the refrigerator in his room for the gloomy days. He gasps at first, and then bunches the fabric of Minho’s t-shirt in his hands, and kisses him back.
Minho freezes.
His emotions spill out, dangerous and wounded, and when he tastes them bitter on his tongue, he regains clarity and pushes Jisung away.
He can’t remember the last time he actually cried, but in that moment he has to squeeze his eyelids shut because of the stinging feeling of tears beginning to pool in his eyes. Minho feels stupid.
He shouldn’t have let his emotions take the lead.
“This is why I don’t want to do it,” he says quietly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Once he opens his eyes and blinks the stinging away, he still can’t look up from the floor, can’t bring himself to look at Jisung and face the realization in his expression.
Minho takes a step back and turns on his heel. Right now, he wants to be as far from Jisung as he possibly can, spend the rest of his night buried under his covers, and curse Changbin out for making him think there had ever been a chance—
Jisung’s fingers wrap around his wrist. “Wait,” he breathes out. “Please. Please, don’t go.”
Minho closes his eyes. He has already accepted that he can’t say no to Jisung; that there’s only one thing in the world he could ever refuse him.
It’s not without reluctance and fear rising in his chest that he turns back around. Coming face to face with Jisung’s glimmering eyes and plump lips and rosy cheeks, Minho forgets how to breathe again.
How can he ever get over Jisung when he’s so beautiful inside ou—
Jisung kisses him.
He drags his hand to the back of Minho’s neck to pull him closer and slot their mouths together in a kiss more delicate than the one they shared mere moments ago.
Taken by surprise, Minho grips Jisung’s arm to stop his knees from giving out on him. It feels like he’s dreaming when he instinctively tilts his head to the side to deepen the kiss and Jisung’s hold on him tightens.
He has to pull away for air a little too soon than he’d like, but Jisung keeps him close; he presses their foreheads together and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, another and another, even though his own chest is heaving and he’s flushed all over.
“This is why I wanted to do it,” he says when his lungs stop threatening to burst in flames. “I thought—I didn’t think you’d ever want me the way I want you, and. . . I’m desperate to keep you by my side for life.”
Minho can’t believe his own ears. His lips uncontrollably split into a wide smile
“Jisung-ah,” he whispers into his mouth. “Jisung.”
“This is so embarrassing,” Jisung whines, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against Minho’s shoulder. “I hate it when you look at me like that.”
“I can’t help it,” Minho says, suddenly feeling giddy. Delighted. He moves a hand to the small of Jisung’s back, pulling him closer and closer until their bodies are flush together. “I always look at you like that. Changbin makes fun of me for it every day. I—I can’t understand how you. . . how you haven’t realized.”
Jisung groans, lifting his head. “Listen, I can be a little dense when I get too caught up in my own head!” he says. “I feel so stupid now. And—And I’m really sorry for getting so mad at you.”
“It’s okay. I should’ve talked to you about it properly.”
“Yeah, but I shouldn’t have demanded you to make a decision like that right away. And for my own selfish reasons,” Jisung says, shrugging. “And I didn’t exactly make it easy to talk to me.”
Minho can agree with him on that, but only partly. What he’s quite sure of is that they’re both to blame. If they talk it out now, agree that they have mutual feelings for one another, then they can leave it all in the past.
“Where’d you disappear, though?” he asks. “I was worried when you didn’t get back here for the night.”
Jisung chuckles sheepishly and takes a step back, taking ahold of Minho’s hand and pulling him towards the bench in the corner of the room. He leans his head against Minho’s shoulder—definitely so that he can’t take a proper look at his face—and grabs his arm, huddling it closer to his chest.
“I kinda spent the night at Hyunjin’s, drunk and in tears and cursing everything and everyone,” he admits quietly then. “I was so pissed and so sad.”
A guilty grimace takes over Minho’s features. “I couldn’t say yes when you asked me, because I’ve known that I’m in love with you for the past four years, and having the oath keeping me from the last bits of hope that you could ever return these feelings. . .” Minho bites the inner side of his cheek. “It would destroy me.”
Jisung sniffles. He pushes Minho’s hand away when he whips around to see if he’s actually crying; he isn’t, but only because he manages to blink the tears away in time.
He’s always been more sensitive, has always been more expressive, but it doesn’t mean that seeing him tear up tugs at Minho’s heartstrings any less. He hates seeing Jisung sad.
“I love you,” Jisung says. “I love you and—and I don’t want to lose you over something so. . . stupid.”
“The parabatai bond is important for you,” Minho points out.
“Yes, it is,” Jisung agrees, running his thumb over Minho’s knuckles. “But it’s stupid in relation to us. We don’t need it, yeah? Because it doesn’t change the fact that we are soulmates.”
With a slanted smile curled on his lips, Minho pretends he’s thinking about it. Eventually, he shrugs. “I suppose,” he says nonchalantly, acting like his heart isn’t about to jump out of his chest, stuttering out a pathetically erratic rhythm.
“You suppose!” Jisung gasps, mocking offense as he can easily see past Minho’s farce. He tries to scoot away, but Minho manages to tighten his embrace on him in time, pulling Jisung into a bone-crushing hug.
Jisung relaxes into it, laughs, even, and Minho realizes just how much he has missed holding him this way; it’s been only a day, a bit more since they’ve last hugged, but he feels like he hasn’t been able to have Jisung close for ages.
“I suppose you’re stuck with me for life now,” he says, planting a kiss on his cheek, right over the cute mole close to his mouth.
Jisung battles with himself, visibly trying to force back a smile so that he can grumble, “I suppose.”
He fails miserably, but Minho isn’t any better.