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Hyunwoo didn’t know what to expect when he realized he loved Minhyuk.
The urge to tell him that he loved him more than a friend lingered in the back of his mind; every touch, every glance made his heart hammer recklessly against his sternum. He hoped Minhyuk wouldn’t hear it when a comforting silence lingered in the air. His friend focused on doing a quick painting into the mini canvas kit that stayed with him at all times. There was a fat, rounded bird perched atop of Hyunwoo’s windowsill. He wasn’t sure of the bird’s name, but Minhyuk seemed excited, so he watched as those long, delicate fingers etched a lovely image of the blob of feathers.
Hyunwoo wished he was the blob. The muse. He would be the center of Minhyuk’s attention. He couldn’t believe he was jealous of a bird. Still, birds couldn’t make Minhyuk laugh as hard as he did.
“Hyunwoo, I think we should watch a trashy romcom tonight.” Minhyuk said, eyes still fixated between the canvas and the bird. The golden hour lighting cascaded onto his wispy fringe that fell adorably over his forehead, the ends poking at the edges of his black framed glasses. Hyunwoo wished he could run his fingers through it to put his heart at ease, forget everything and only focus on Minhyuk humming in delight under his touch.
His friend pivoted his head, a smile crept at the corner of his mouth. Hyunwoo blinked. Embarrassment prickled at his edges from being caught staring. “Did you hear me?”
“Yes,” Hyunwoo answered flatly. Too flat. “we should. What do you have in mind?”
Minhyuk shrugged. “What do you think?”
“We always end up watching A Cinderella Story.”
Minhyuk scoffed. “That’s not trashy romcom, it’s a masterpiece. Any film major moron who doesn’t agree clearly doesn’t understand the Hilary Duff cultural influence.”
“Then maybe we can also watch The Lizzie McGuire Movie?”
Minhyuk slammed his brush onto the windowsill, accidentally scaring the poor bird away. Hyunwoo laughed at his immediate reaction. It’s one of Minhyuk’s all-time favorites.
“You know me so well.”
Minhyuk loved to talk during the movies, but Hyunwoo didn’t mind. He’d always recite the script at his favorite parts.
Sing to me, Paolo. Minhyuk matched Hilary’s voice perfectly, and he’d look at Hyunwoo each time. He wouldn’t dare sing back, but birds sang all the time. Maybe Hyunwoo needed to be more like a songbird. Minhyuk liked to draw or paint them all the time. He knew what kind each of them were, where they are native to, and what foods they liked.
It was a ridiculous thought. Hyunwoo just wished he knew how to stop sweating whenever Minhyuk would rest his head on his lap, brown hair sprawled, warmth accompanied his thighs. Hyunwoo’s hand hovered over Minhyuk’s hair for a minute until he quickly drew back.
God. No. Minhyuk had noticed.
“Do you need to reach over for the snacks?” Minhyuk asked.
“No. I’m fine.” Hyunwoo’s stomach grumbled loudly next to Minhyuk’s ear. His friend chuckled as he slowly sat up. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you your favorite. I saved some hot chips in the pantry.” He stood, Hyunwoo avoided eye contact and hummed pathetically.
Minhyuk leaned over, blocking his view of the television. “Is there something wrong?”
Hyunwoo felt his eyes flickering between nothing and the corner of Minhyuk’s frame illuminated by the blues glowing from the screen. He wanted to pull him in, and kiss him, let him know that didn’t want hot chips.
“Can I tell you something?”
“Of course, anything.”
“I like you.”
Minhyuk grinned widely, familiar, but Hyunwoo was sure that he misunderstood. He looked up at his friend again.
“I like you, too, silly. You’re my fri—”
“More than a friend, Minhyuk,” Hyunwoo pulled anxiously at his own fingers, his heart pounding relentlessly inside his ears. It was like a grim reaper knocking at his soul with a heavy fist. He might die of humiliation. “I—I don’t know. How else to say it, I’m sorry. I—”
“Hey,” Minhyuk crooned, he sat back down, hand softly traced down Hyunwoo’s shoulder. He didn’t realize how tense he was until Minhyuk calmed him with a gentle touch. It always worked. When Hyunwoo felt an anxiety attack coming, or whenever he got overwhelmed, his friend always knew how to pull him back to earth. He didn’t know his eyes teared up until he blinked. His skin felt hot, head pulsing as Hilary Duff belted, this is what dreams are made of off the speakers.
Minhyuk’s thumb carefully wiped the single tear away from Hyunwoo’s cheek. The tip of his finger coated with dried paint traveled down to the edge of Hyunwoo’s jaw, tilting him to face the other. Minhyuk’s eyes gleamed with love, his two front teeth poked out into a wide grin. This adoration was familiar, but somehow, more unmasked. Loose. Hyunwoo always loved that smile and the uneven blink of his. “I can’t believe you right now. Confessing to Lizzie McGuire, of all films.”
Hyunwoo sputtered into a wet laugh. “I don’t know why I did that.”
“It’s all right, I—” Minhyuk halted his sentence when his gaze fell on Hyunwoo’s lips. Words tugged at the back of his throat, but his mouth couldn’t move at his will to form a response. Minhyuk pulled him closer, his eyes fluttered shut, those plush lips flushed against Hyunwoo’s bottom lip. It was clumsy. Minhyuk’s nose bumped into his philtrum and their glasses collided. They both laughed, gasped for air, until they slipped them off and tried again. It was silly. Hyunwoo held his hand for the last kiss on the couch. Their long fingers intertwined, Minhyuk squeezed them as they melted into each other. Hyunwoo felt like he could sing, he could fly. How wonderful it was to feel his love in the way he craved.
Feverish hands pawed at one another. They eventually tumbled into Hyunwoo’s bed. Tangled limbs, gentle touches, bare skin grazed. More and more sweet kisses. It was their first time, but they took it slow. No rushes, no pressure. Questions and laughter when they’d bump noses or knocked knees again. Minhyuk hummed when Hyunwoo carded his fingers through his hair.
Minhyuk’s hands, those hands.
They created things as beautiful as they felt. He molded Hyunwoo’s heart over the years to fit perfectly into his own.