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Time went from molasses slow to lightspeed in an instant.
Minho’s feet are in Jisung’s lap, and he just thinks, Oh .
And if Jisung could take back every decision that brought him here to their disaster apartment on a too-old couch that they stole off the curb in front of the next apartment building over, maybe he would.
He would have to give up a lot, sure. He would have to give up this feeling of being known, seen, perceived .
There's still an empty beer in Minho’s hand, the older too lazy to get up and wander to their kitchen where the trash can is. Minho is staring at the television, a horror movie droning on in the background, providing the perfect soundtrack to Jisung’s crisis.
Even if he could go back, maybe he could pick a different school or major or stay in Malaysia instead of coming back home, he doesn’t think it would make a difference.
He feels with startling clarity that Minho would have found him anyway. Minho would have spawned in front of him with that stupid fucking empty beer can and that stupid fucking smile . Changing everything wouldn’t make a damn difference, Jisung thinks.
Not in any of the ways that really matter.
Jisung would still love horror movies. He would still love poetry and anime and the sound puppies make when they’re excited. He would still hate mornings and sugar in his coffee. He would still love the burn of winter air, thin and sharp in his lungs. He would still overthink. He would still want to see the world.
He would still love Lee Minho.
“I can hear you thinking,” his hyung deadpans, stealing a whip-quick glance at the younger. He jabs the ball of his foot against the muscle of Jisung’s thigh, “It’s ruining the mood. I think her head is going to turn all the way around, and I won’t be able to enjoy it if I’m worrying that you’re having a crisis on the other side of our couch.”
It’s more than Jisung was expecting him to say. His fingers are wrapping around Minho’s ankle before he can stop himself. He sucks in a deep breath and turns to face him.
“Have you ever felt like you’re staring down something big enough to swallow you whole?” he asks, and Minho glances over again, longer this time. He traces the soft planes of Jisung’s face with his eyes, studying the ways his muscles tense and twitch under the scrutiny.
Minho stretches out, grabs the remote, and hits pause. The frame is dark, barely lighting them, and Jisung feels both tiny and infinitely huge at the same time.
When Minho turns to face him, Jisung’s breath catches in his throat, “Every day of my life.”
The honesty does something complicated to Jisung’s chest, and his head tips to the side.
“And?”
“And what? That’s the whole statement,” Minho drawls, words slow but sure. Jisung groans, folding in on himself until his face is pressed to his thighs right above his knees.
Minho presses the ball of his foot to Jisung’s cheek , and he jerks back to sitting, glaring over at him.
“Don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who put your face right next to my foot. My foot has been there for thirty minutes. You invaded their space,” He says, and Jisung rolls his eyes, huffing.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that my lap belonged to your feet,” he snaps, and Minho kicks him again, harder this time.
“God, you’re so annoying sometimes.”
“Well, you’re fucking weird . Why do you keep kicking me ?” Jisung demands, and Minho’s eyebrow twitches. He pulls his feet away from Jisung slowly, taking his time drawing back. He doesn’t look upset, but Jisung feels frostbite-cold anyway.
“You like that I’m weird,” is all he says, and Jisung swallows thickly, running a hand through his hair.
“Of course I do,” he whispers, and Minho doesn’t say anything.
They sit there for an eternity, so quiet they can hear the buzz of their neighbor's vacuum. They aren’t done with the conversation yet. Jisung knows that Minho isn’t done because the TV is still stuck on the same frame, a darkened hallway, something sinister looming at the end.
He’s just waiting. He’s waiting, always waiting for Jisung to figure his shit out. They aren’t done because Jisung isn’t done, but every thought is tangled up in his brain, unruly and unyielding, and damn near impossible to pick apart.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says, and Minho leans forward, bracing himself on his thighs, perched there waiting, “Why didn’t anyone tell me how fucking terrifying everything always feels?”
Minho glances toward the movie, “We could put on something else,” he offers, and Jisung laughs, squeezing his eyes shut so tightly he sees aurora borealis behind his eyelids, dancing colors and refracting light.
It’s just like Minho. It’s so Minho he could fucking scream.
“I’m not talking about the movie.”
“I know.”
Jisung is standing then, grabbing the can from Minho’s hand and stalking off toward the kitchen. He doesn’t hear Minho behind him, but he can feel that he’s followed. He always knows when Minho’s eyes are on him.
He stays quiet, still waiting for his dongsaeng to figure out how to say something productive.
Their fridge is covered in photobooth pictures of them and their friends. It’s years of memories, drunk smiles, wide grins, and held hands. He reaches out to touch the corner of the first one they took together.
“You know,” Minho begins, his voice ghost-quiet in their minuscule kitchen, “When I first met you… It felt like I had known you for my entire life.”
Jisung whips around, studying Minho with wide eyes and clenched teeth, “You can’t just say things like that,” Jisung argues, and Minho smiles wryly.
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
“That’s why .”
“Han Jisung. I don’t know what you’re so afraid of. It’s just me,” Minho says, his voice hard this time.
It isn’t anger. It isn’t even frustration. Jisung can feel it in his bones, the way Minho’s words soothe like a balm. It makes him want to scream.
“That’s what I’m so afraid of. You looked at me and where everyone else saw… broken or mean or angry or whatever the fuck, you just saw me. And every time I lie or talk or breathe, you see right through me. You’ve seen right through me since the second you met me, and it’s fucking terrifying, hyung. It’s like you know what I’m going to say before I’ve even had the thought. It’s like you waded into my brain and dragged me out, and I don’t know what to do with that.”
His chest is heaving, and Minho just smiles, shaking his head fondly.
“If I know everything you think before you’ve even thought it, why are you so afraid to tell me what I already know?”
Jisung makes a strangled noise high in the back of his throat. He wants to run. He wants to scream and kick and fight and bleed . But mostly he just wants Minho to hold him.
His hyung is moving before his eyes even fill with tears. He tugs Jisung to his chest, cradles the back of his head in his small hands, and hums.
“It’s not fair, hyung. How are you so good at all of this?” he croaks, and Minho shakes his head.
“You don’t have to say it if you aren’t ready. You don’t have to say it ever, Sung-ah. If you were never ready to say it out loud, I wouldn’t hold it against you,” he whispers into Jisung’s temple, a promise that’s firm enough to shake Jisung’s very foundation.
“That isn’t fair,” he whispers, and Minho laughs, petting the hair at the nape of his neck.
“I don’t give a shit about fair. I just give a shit about you.”
Jisung smashes his face into the skin of Minho’s neck, shaking his head and squeezing tight to his favorite person in the whole world.
Oh no , he thinks, Oh no, I’m so in love with him it fucking hurts, and I’m not even brave enough to say it .
“Would it be better or worse if I told you that I love you too?” he asks, and Jisung bites the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder, trying to muffle his scream there. It must not work because Minho flinches at the noise, “Worse then?”
Jisung clutches Minho desperately, holding him like he thinks he’ll leave if the grip isn’t bruising. Minho doesn’t complain, just keeps petting Jisung idly.
“Oh god, what do we do?” he croaks, and Mino laughs.
“Whatever we want. We have the rest of our lives to figure it out, Sung. Whatever is going on in that pretty head of yours isn’t nearly as dire as you seem to think it is. Nothing is different today than it was yesterday. Nothing will be any different tomorrow. We’re the exact same as we’ve always been,” he points out, and Jisung’s spine pulls him straight, taut as a violin string and he blinks at Minho, affronted.
His eyes are red-rimmed, and he shakes his head, “Nothing’s different ? I’m in love with you,” he says, and Minho’s smile is lazy, stretching across his face with the same deliberate ease with which he does most other things.
“Exactly. Same as yesterday. Same as tomorrow. Just because you didn’t realize doesn’t mean you weren’t,” he says, “Honestly, Jisung. You’re such a fucking idiot,” he teases. Jisung groans, dropping into a low squat and hiding his face.
He speaks into his hands, but it comes out so muffled that Minho can’t make it out.
“Get back up here, you’re being dramatic. Can we finish our movie now that we’ve established we’re on the same page? I really want to see her head go all the way around. You’re supposed to be giving me a running commentary on the effects,” he says, and Jisung glares up at him.
“You’re the worst! My entire worldview was just shattered, and you just want to watch someone be pretend-possessed,” he accuses, and Minho beams, turning on his heels and leaving Jisung there in the kitchen.
“Hm, good thing you love me anyway,” he says over his shoulder, and Jisung sighs, watching him go.
Time goes from lightspeed to molasses-slow in a second, the universe giving him plenty of time to soak it in. His heart is hammering in his chest, and Minho’s dark hair falls just right, a touch longer than he usually lets it get. He’s perfect. He’s perfect, and Jisung could die right there on the kitchen floor.
“You coming?” Minho calls when he finally settles on the couch, and Jisung trips in his haste to get back beside him.
It seems like that’s how they always go, Minho leisurely and aware, marching ahead with easy strides while Jisung scrambles to follow after him.
It’s okay though, Minho is always willing to wait.