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The first rays of sunlight peak through the curtains, and Minho sees them reflected on the wall in front of his bed. Every other minute the silence in the room is broken by a passing car outside, a constant reminder that it is way too early in the morning for him to be up.
Minho hadn’t slept for a single second.
Throughout the night, he stared at the clock on his bedside table and watched as the red light turned it into two, then two-thirty, then three, and so on. He wasn’t entirely sure if time moving slowly was a blessing or a curse.
Minho couldn’t even blink for more than a second, which confirmed that the wetness around his eyes didn’t have anything to do with sleep. He rubs his face with the back of his hand and pretends that nothing happened. He just hadn’t slept.
But how could he sleep, knowing that what he wants more than anything, the one thing he craves, will never be true?
Minho wants long walks by the riverside.
Coffee dates with one dessert and two spoons. To hold hands just because. To make eye contact unafraid of showing too much. He wants touches in public that last more than a second.
Kisses that mean something.
He wants to yell to the world his true feelings—and not say a single word to anyone, at the same time.
He wants to, at least, be able to choose.
But Minho knows that he can’t have any of that.
What he can have, is this:
Jisung lies next to him in bed, naked. His body is protected only by the thin white blanket that Minho threw on top of him during the night, when he was starting to curl up into a ball to protect himself from the cold—because god forbid he scoots over to Minho for warmth, right?
Just as jittery as he is during the day, Jisung also is at night, moving too much during his sleep, which is how he ends up lying on his stomach, his back completely outside of the fabric already.
A soft breeze blows through the tiny opening in the bedroom window, moving the curtains and creating different patterns of light on Jisung’s skin.
Minho studies it.
The tan flesh is slightly reddened on the parts that he ran his nails across.
Minho didn’t realize at the time that he was being so careless, since he was too focused on keeping Jisung as close as possible while he could. He remembers how Jisung’s back muscles feel beneath his fingers and knows what it feels like when Jisung tenses up.
He also knows exactly what it is like to have Jisung—and not have him all at once.
But at least he has this.
He might not be able to look Jisung in the eyes and say what he truly wants, but he can look at him through lidded eyes when no one else can.
He might not be able to say that he is Jisung’s something, but he can be the one who makes him fall apart once a week in cries of pleasure.
He might not be able to tell Jisung that he loves him—
That’s it.
He shouldn’t dwell on it. He simply can’t tell Jisung.
Minho has to convince himself that this, whatever this mess is, is enough.
Because Jisung doesn’t want more. He doesn’t do relationships, he once said.
Also, Jisung doesn’t like him like that.
So Minho decides that it is enough.
He would rather have half of Jisung than not have him at all.
Even if it is selfish of him. Even if it hurts when Jisung walks out of his apartment without kissing him goodbye. Even if it hurts to hold back the words of affection that try to fight their way out when they are tangled in bed every Saturday.
He would rather ache for Jisung than feel fine without him.
Minho often thinks that love is liquid. Not as in Zygmunt Bauman’s meaning of liquid love, no, Minho has his own interpretations.
It is liquid in the sense that, once inside of us, we no longer have control over where it goes. It runs through our veins like alcohol—fast and with purpose—but unlike it, it doesn’t wear off within a few hours.
And that is extremely dangerous right now because the cracks in his heart are getting bigger.
And cracks usually come followed by leaks.
Minho already noticed a few leaks here and there. A fond look that was caught on his friend’s video; a lingering hand on Jisung’s waist. He stops it as soon as he realizes it, though. He covers his actions with a scoff and a joke, and all is well again.
He knows he is leaking right now, too. But Jisung is asleep, so he is safe for now.
He indulges.
At first, he runs his fingers through Jisung’s hair—currently blonde. He is always changing it, claiming it as his rebranding every time, and asking Minho his opinion. Never once had Minho not liked it. And despite the excessive bleaching it goes through every two weeks, it is still surprisingly soft to the touch.
He slides his hand down to Jisung’s nape, admiring the almost invisible thin hair that grows there. His fingers skim over the skin of his neck, afraid that a not-so-gentle touch could wake Jisung up—but still not able to resist the urge.
He directs his fingers to what caught his attention earlier and lets them run freely across his back. They retrace the steps his nails took earlier. They go down, down, and back up again. They run in circles, squares, and triangles—Minho no longer knows. He just wants to touch. To feel. To love.
He wishes he could tell Jisung. He wishes he could spell it out.
Absent-mindedly, Minho starts doing just that. With the tip of his index finger, he writes on Jisung’s back.
I love you.
He craves to tell him. His mind wanders again, imagining now what it would be like to wake up next to Jisung and kiss him good morning. And good night. And good afternoon too, because who is there to tell him what he can and can’t do in his daydreams? Minho would kiss Jisung without needing excuses.
I love you.
He wants Jisung to know. He needs him to understand just how loveable and deserving he is.
I love you.
Because Jisung is everything.
He is the first thing Minho thinks about when he wakes up, and the last when he lies his head down on his pillow. He is the reason why Minho now cooks for two on the weekends, happily so. He is what inspires Minho to do more, to be more. He wants to be better for Jisung.
I love you.
He wants to give him everything. He wants to watch as Jisung grows, makes mistakes, and learns. He wants to be there to experience all of it, to grow with him, not just as his friend, but as his lover too. He even dares to dream about one day sharing the altar with Jisung—silly as the thought is—while their friends watch them exchange vows. He just wants to love Jisung.
I love y—
Jisung sniffs, and Minho stops immediately, holding his breath.
Time stills and Minho can hear his heart attempting to rip itself out through his ribs. He mentally curses his body for being so alive.
He hopes Jisung can’t hear it too.
“Hyung…?” Jisung hushes, his voice deep from slumber but still as sweet as ever.
Minho thinks about all the times their group of friends played that stupid game where you draw on each other’s backs, and how Jisung never once won those.
His hand stays frozen where it was, just short of Jisung’s hips. Maybe if he remains still for long enough, Jisung won’t notice.
“Hyung…”
He closes his eyes and hopes that Jisung thinks he is asleep. There is a minimal possibility that Jisung figured out what he was doing, but Minho won’t take any chances.
His body shifts with the movement of the mattress when Jisung turns around.
Minho squeezes his eyes harder, a stupid attempt to immediately fall asleep that obviously doesn’t work. He prays to whatever god that he doesn’t believe in to take him anywhere but here.
A few seconds pass in complete silence, and Minho can sense Jisung’s eyes on him as if they burned.
He realizes that the agony of not knowing what is happening inside Jisung’s head is greater than his fear of rejection, so he takes a deep breath and opens his eyes, already prepared for the worst.
His eyes adjust to the brightness, slowly focusing on Jisung, and despite Minho having just released his first breath in what feels like hours, he suddenly finds himself breathless again. The sun has just finished its rising, and Jisung is now surrounded by the soft warm orange that comes with the golden hour. Several specs of dust float around him, only visible due to the direct beam of light, and it almost looks like they are dancing in the air.
Maybe this isn’t the worst way to get rejected after all.
At least he’ll have a beautiful memory of it.
Jisung’s eyes are wide and watery, and he looks at Minho as if he has just seen a ghost.
If Minho squints, he might even be able to see the gears turning inside Jisung’s head, and at that moment, he wonders what Jisung is thinking of the situation he just found himself in.
Minho doesn’t have too much time to wonder because, the next thing he knows, Jisung is kissing him.
Jisung kisses him so softly that Minho could believe he is made of paper. His lips move without rush, not hot and heavy, not as a means to an end, but as if his sole purpose in life is to kiss him.
Jisung kisses him, and it feels like healing.
It takes a second for Minho to register what is happening, and as soon as he does, he kisses back. He holds Jisung’s jaw softly to get him closer, and that’s when he notices that his face is wet.
With his thumb, he gently brushes the tears away from Jisung’s cheek and hopes that kissing him now is enough to stop them from falling.
Minho’s heart is still pounding in his chest when Jisung stops kissing him and puts his hand on top of it. With his index finger, Jisung draws three little English letters in the space where Minho’s heart might be.
ILY.
Minho stares at him in disbelief, and can’t hold back one more tear from falling as he hears Jisung say,
“I love you too, hyung.
I always have.”