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Lee Minho is trying to kill him.
No, listen, it may sound dramatic, but Jisung is certain of it.
The temperature outside has dropped significantly as winter approached. The dorm’s heaters are working overtime, one degree away from bursting into flames, but the rooms are still frigid. Especially for Jisung, who runs colder than anyone else in the group, apart from Hyunjin. He and Jisung bicker daily about who deserves exclusive access to their thickest blankets and who Felix will reward with the first steaming mug of hot chocolate when he visits.
But Minho, of course, is a human space heater.
Jisung discovered Minho’s Human Torch tendencies when they moved into their original dorms a few years ago. It was during a movie night—‘Doctor Strange,’ to be exact—when Jisung found himself sandwiched between Minho and the arm of the sofa. Halfway through the movie, Jisung tugged off his sweatshirt and would’ve taken off his pants, too, if it were socially acceptable.
Because Minho runs that hot.
So, with the colder months upon them, Jisung bundles up in anything cozy enough to chase off hypothermia. A pair of flannel pajamas, fuzzy socks or slippers. And whether he’s watching YouTube videos or lounging on the couch with a PlayStation controller, he needs a heat source nearby. Just in case his limbs freeze. It becomes a Thing with the members, who take to clowning him and Hyunjin about it, while Minho remains quiet.
Until he offers his bed to Jisung.
No joke: Minho keeps asking Jisung to sleep with him. Ever since they returned from their tour stop in Australia. Well, not ‘sleep with him’ like that, although Jisung wouldn’t mind.
“Don’t be stubborn.” Minho looms in the doorway with his arms crossed, muscles bulging and stretching his shirt sleeves. “You’d be more comfortable, wouldn’t you?”
“Probably, but…”
“But?”
But I don’t think I can handle sharing a bed with you. Not for an entire night. Not when I should go home instead. Jisung copies Minho, folding his arms over his chest, and juts out his chin. “I have plenty of blankets and stuffed animals in my bed. You know, at my place? The one that isn’t here? I think I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe it.” Jisung grins and hopes the old Naruto meme will strike a chord.
Minho thins his lips. No one rivals Jisung’s thick-headedness quite like Minho.
“Hyung,” Jisung huffs, “I promise, okay?”
Even as Jisung says it, he can see past Minho to the bed in question. The fluffy comforter is a welcoming sight, almost enough to make Jisung take back his words. Almost.
“Don’t make me drag you.” It’s not as much of a threat as Minho thinks.
“I’d like to see you try!”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m the most serious I’ve ever been,” Jisung quips with a growing smirk.
In retrospect, he should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve been better prepared. But it was too late, as Minho rushes across the room and scoops Jisung up as if he weighs nothing.
“Minh—”
“You’re such a big baby,” Minho grunts, but he shoulders Jisung’s weight, even if it poses a greater challenge to him now than before, as Jisung bulks up. “I swear. I will not listen to you complain in the morning about losing sleep because you were freezing your perky little ass off.”
Jisung thumps Minho between the shoulder blades with his fists. Perky. Perky. “I would not.”
“You would.”
“Would not!”
Minho hoists him over the threshold and lowers him onto the bed rather than tossing him like Jisung half-expected. His brain shuts down as a weak ‘oof’ leaves his lips.
“See?” Minho tugs at the covers. “Now, burrow in the sheets like a good squirrel before I have to make you do that, too.”
“Ha ha. A squirrel joke, very original. You’ve really invented your own form of affection, hyung.” Jisung obeys Minho’s request, regardless. “Like, a new love language. Aggressively caring for people. Aggressive affection.”
Minho doesn’t dignify Jisung with a response. He turns and, at that very inconvenient moment, Jisung remembers Minho sleeps in boxers and nothing else. Panic floods his throat, hot and overwhelming, and he squeals and covers his eyes.
“Minho-hyung, seriously? A little warning first?” Jisung peeks through his fingers and chokes on his own spit at the sight of Minho’s skin, bronzed from their time in the sun.
“What? We change around each other all the time.
“Yeah, but…”
But what, Jisung? At least Minho doesn’t interrogate him further and pulls down his sleep shirt to cover himself. Jisung knows it shouldn’t be a big deal—for the reasons Minho said. And yet he can’t help but flush with embarrassment after seeing a flash of Minho’s bare torso in the comfort of his own bedroom. It feels too… intimate. Even for them.
“Now,” Minho says with a sigh, “are you going to act weird about this when I climb into bed?”
Jisung lets out an uncomfortable—but totally convincing—laugh. “No. Why would I do that? I’m cool. So cool.”
“Right.” Minho’s tone gives away the eye roll Jisung has earned. “Then scoot over, Mr. Cool Guy.”
“If it’s too tight of a fit—”
But Minho is already there, tucking himself under the blanket and adjusting himself. The thin navy fabric swishes into place, leaving Minho and Jisung alone together in the dark.
It’s a blessing and a curse.
While Jisung no longer has to deal with a shirtless Minho, he’s hyper-aware of everything else. The occasional brush of Minho’s warm skin, his sturdy thighs and calves. His ginger-scented shampoo, body wash, even a hint of shaving cream. Jisung wriggles closer to the edge of the bed—much larger than his bunk in the old dorm.
“Aren’t you cold?” Minho prompts because of course he notices. “I’ve never known you to turn down a chance to cuddle.”
Yes, but that’s when both people are mostly clothed and, oh, neither of them are Minho. Jisung keeps those particular thoughts to himself, though, and squirms back to his original spot.
“No, I just… don’t want to make you feel cramped or uncomfortable.”
Minho hums to himself, his breath caressing the back of Jisung’s neck. Far too casually, he slings an arm over Jisung and curls it around Jisung’s stomach, splaying his fingers. “I’m not cramped at all,” he murmurs, groggy. “There’s enough room for both of us.”
Jisung scoffs under his breath. He’s heard the other members make similar remarks when offering their beds. And, although it’s more plausible than when they slept in bunk beds, that doesn’t make it a practical option in Jisung’s mind.
“Whatever you say,” Jisung replies in a low voice.
“Are you upset about something? You’ve been acting differently ever since we got back.”
Jisung stiffens. Minho wasn’t supposed to notice; Jisung made it his mission to remain nonchalant and normal. As close to normal as possible.
But it’s a huge fucking challenge, pretending their dynamic didn’t shift after Australia. After the store, buying those fucking—Well.
If Jisung is honest with himself, he knows the shift started earlier than their world tour—earlier than just the past year. He’s aware that he’s taken to staring at Minho more often, following his every move and clinging to every word that trickles past his soft lips. Fuck, even thinking about Minho’s lips has Jisung tacking on that adjective, ‘soft,’ his thoughts a tumultuous spiral.
The sun, the sting of chlorine and banana-scented sunscreen.
Everything.
Light it up for me, brighter, more, please
Light it up for me more brightly, even the dark night
Doesn’t scare me if I’m with you
Even if I’ve seen it a hundred times, I still lack so much
The scars of the wounds that covered my heart
As if only you could notice them
You were so warm when you hugged me tight
I guess I teared up for a moment, because it was the first time
I’ll protect you. It’s okay to hurt.
I’ll embrace the wounds you shed
To me, you’re already a sin
I can’t refuse because you’re sweeter than evil
You can burst into flames, you can wound me next to you
If you like, I can be anything
Yeah, you can hurt me, I don’t care, yeah, you can burn me
Unlike those who run away from you, I’ll embrace you
Sydney, Australia
“You didn’t have to stay behind with me.”
They’re the first words out of Jisung’s mouth once they reach the pool. At this hour, the sun has reached its peak, warming Jisung’s skin and forcing him to shield his eyes. He squints through his sunglasses at Minho, who was wise enough to sit under an umbrella.
Minho purses his lips, dissatisfied. “I know.”
“Yeah?”
Minho’s voice drips with pride. “Jagi, you’ve never forced me to do anything.”
The pool itself, barely a foot away from their lounge chairs, is standard size for a hotel with a deep end way out of Minho and Jisung’s comfort zones. A pile of styrofoam noodles and inflatable floaties sits off to their right, along with a stack of clean towels and bins for the used ones. Most of the clientele are gone, out grabbing a late lunch or sightseeing in the city. Luckily, any families there are either too preoccupied with their screaming kids or legitimately don’t recognize them.
“I—” Jisung slumps deeper in his chair; Minho has a point. “Well. Still, I don’t want to keep you from having fun with everyone else.”
Minho hesitates, and when he speaks, any casual lightness seeps away. “You didn’t. You don’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“Completely.” Minho cocks his head to the side. “I’m not sure what gave you the impression I’d rather be at the beach, where it’s even hotter. With less shade, I might add. Oh, and not to mention the,”—he winces—“people.”
It’s laughable to think of the extroverted Minho that Jisung met as a teenager. Not that Minho was ever a social butterfly, by any means, but he wasn’t socially awkward either. While Jisung had been an absolute nightmare before they debuted, Minho had attracted plenty of attention while maintaining that cool indifference that enticed curious people (like Jisung).
Sometimes, when Jisung dwells on it for too long, he blames himself for the switch in Minho’s demeanor. If they never became close friends, would Minho have become this quiet? Would he still enjoy meeting his friends for a night out whenever they were in-town rather than staying in?
No, Jisung always decides. That’s the pandemic’s fault. Not mine.
His mind circles back to that dangerous train of thought, convinced he had a hand in Minho’s introversion. It’s not like Minho doesn’t seem happy and not any less than before, when COVID-19 disrupted everyone’s lives. But that doesn’t mean Jisung’s brain misses an excuse to beat up on him.
You changed him! Punch. You keep him from having fun! Punch. You’re the one to blame! The finishing blow.
“Jisungie?” Minho’s face comes into view. There’s a white splotch on the end of his nose, definitive proof he didn’t sufficiently apply sunscreen. “Listen, if I wanted to join them, I would’ve.”
“Yeah.” Jisung pries his tongue off the dry roof of his mouth. He shimmies and plasters on his usual ‘nothing to see here’ grin. “Can’t escape my charms, hm? Can’t bear to be away from your jagi for even a day?”
Minho rolls his eyes and sinks back into his seat. He does a shitty job of concealing a smile, tilting his head away. “I could go a week without you. A month. I have when they let us go on vacation.”
“And you miss me every time.”
Minho’s voice goes soft, and Jisung blames it on the overbearing heat, melting Minho’s stoic mask. “Of course I miss you, idiot.”
Jagi. Idiot. Sometimes Minho slips into the routine of calling him ‘baby’ in English. Each pet name—because they are pet names—hits like a punch in the gut. Terms of endearment still elicit a flurry of butterflies in his stomach years after Minho picked up the habit.
Before he realizes, he’s springing from his chair and almost stumbling into the fucking swimming pool. Minho rises and rushes to Jisung’s side, fear flickering in his gaze. A hand lands on Jisung’s waist and he just about swallows his tongue.
“We—Let’s go shopping.”
Minho gawks at him but doesn’t retract his arm.
“Shopping,” Minho deadpans. “What, right now?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
“Uh, because we’re in shirts and swim trunks? And the others will wonder why we left when we wanted to stay at the pool? Where it’s, and I quote, ‘quiet.’” Minho narrows his eyes, and the fingers on Jisung’s side twitch like they want to squeeze. As it is, the warmth of his touch, his calloused palm through the fabric, makes Jisung’s skin tingle. “What’s up with you?”
“Nothing!”
“Obviously.”
“Can’t a guy want to shop? It’s the middle of the day. And I want—there’s something I wanted to look for.”
“Right now?” Minho’s brows crawl up his forehead, skepticism oozing from his pores.
“Yes, right now.” Jisung motions at Minho’s bag on the concrete. “Grab your stuff.”
“I don’t like this.”
“It’s fine. Plus, it’ll benefit you, too.”
Minho’s brows somehow crawl higher up his forehead. “Oh?”
Jisung wastes no time calling one of the staff members who stayed behind. The poor dude who answers seems skeptical, just like Minho, but doesn’t shoot Jisung down. With a small sigh, they instruct Jisung about where they’ll meet before hanging up.
Ten minutes later, Jisung and Minho are climbing inside a nondescript black minivan. The staff member, Yujun, glances back at them as they buckle in and pull down their face mask over their chin. “So, where am I taking you?”
Jisung smirks. “I’m impressed you agreed without knowing that first.”
“Han-ssi…”
“Okay, okay.” Jisung motions for them to lean in, which, to his relief, they do. He drops his voice to a whisper. “Don’t say anything. I haven’t told Minho-hyung yet.”
“Wh—”
“Please?”
Yujun sighs, but nods. Jisung recites the name he glimpsed leaving the airport, having Googled it in the safety of his room, and Yujun types the address into the GPS navigation. To their credit, there’s an attempt to remain covert, contributing to the blockade Jisung has created with his body.
“What is this? Something confidential?” Minho sounds close, and Jisung can’t help but flinch. That doesn’t mean he’s giving Minho the space to peek and spoil the surprise. “Jisungie!”
“I told you,” Jisung squeals, “you’ll find out when we get there!”
“We both know that never ends well.”
“That’s a flat-out lie!”
“Yeah? Ask anyone else in the group. Literally anyone.”
“None are as much of a pain in the ass as you.”
“The hypocrisy—”
“Would you like me to put on music?” Yujun’s flat voice and flat expression shut Minho and Jisung up. They settle back into their seats, mumbling apologies under their breaths, and Jisung sheepishly offers to hook up to the van’s bluetooth.
Once he does, though, he realizes he’s made a grave mistake: he has no fucking clue what to play.
It’s not that deep; Jisung knows it isn’t. He could shuffle the Stray Kids songs in his music library and leave it at that. Unbidden, his gaze drops to a familiar name. His thumb hovers over the track, bottom lip caught between his teeth.
“Well?”
Jisung yelps, flicking a glare over his shoulder at Minho, who appears unbothered. Smug, even—the cat who caught the canary. The metaphor fits Minho better than any other living creature on this Earth.
“Hold on, hold on.” Jisung mindlessly scrolls, but the name of the track blinks back at him, taunting. “Do you… Is it okay if I play a song of mine that just released?”
“Of course,” Minho says, the teasing lilt gone from his voice. “How recent?”
Too recent. Jisung bites his tongue and sucks in a breath. “They just posted it a couple of weeks ago.”
“Then, yeah,” Minho says. “I’m surprised you even asked.”
If only he understood why. Explicit permission or not, Jisung still hesitates to press play. Everyone has likely heard it, their fans, their haters—the finished version. He’s panicking over nothing, or at least that’s what he tells himself.
I’ll protect you. It’s okay to hurt.
I’ll embrace the wounds you shed
To me, you’re already a sin
You’re already a sin (Yeah)
The intro echoes inside the van, much louder in the confined space. The way ‘sin’ pounds against his skull and slithers across his skin, into his ears. With every line, the urge to explain himself to Minho becomes stronger and stronger. Unbearable.
‘It’s not what you think,’ he should say. ‘I can explain.’ ‘I wrote this after watching a drama with the other guys. It inspired me.’ Or simply, ‘These lyrics are meaningless.’
Cement seals his lips shut. He can only sit in silence while every condemning verse filters through the minivan’s speakers and, more unsettling, is Minho’s silence.
It’s the loudest silence Jisung has ever experienced in his short twenty-three years alive.
And it drags, and it drags and it drags until the last word of the recording pulses through the walls. Jisung’s hands clench into fists in his lap, nails biting into his skin. He makes a conscious effort not to seek out Minho’s gaze. Witnessing Minho’s reaction to a song that might as well be Jisung’s bleeding heart served on a platter, ready to be dissected and studied.
Or devoured.
An eternity passes, trapped in the van with Minho, before someone speaks. “You just finished this recently?” Yujun asks.
Jisung can’t decide whether he’s upset or elated that Minho didn’t speak first. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean. It took some… fine-tuning.” Jisung pauses. “Unless you guys think—”
“How long did you work on it?”
A shiver rockets up Jisung’s spine, and he straightens to full height, wetting his lips. “Few months.”
“Huh.”
Minho’s noncommittal response makes Jisung want to tear all his hair out. In fact, if not for Yujun, he might have begun yanking. What the hell does ‘huh’ even mean? Does Minho hate it? Does he think it’s cringe? Fuck, did he connect the dots and now he’s uncomfortable?
Jisung peers out the passenger side window and struggles to calm down. Anxiety curls its ugly claws around his brain, his heart; plucking his nerves like guitar strings. As a songwriter, you learn to expect a level of vulnerability required by sentiments you do (and don’t) express in your work. But it doesn’t make it any easier.
“It sounds incredible,” Minho murmurs, barely audible from the back seat.
Jisung flinches but is quick to cover it with a chuckle. “It’s rough in a few places or whatever, but I’m thrilled you like it.” He catches Yujun watching out of the corner of their eye, but they don’t make a sound, returning their attention to the road.
The remainder of the car ride passes in heavy silence. Jisung returns to his original idea, shuffling his personal Stray Kids playlist. Familiar lyrics and beats fill the van, attempting to wash away Jisung’s prickling nerves and overactive imagination. He trains his gaze on the towering buildings outside, shrinking in size, and meandering pedestrians enjoying the pleasant weather.
It’s okay if the song ruined everything—that’s Jisung’s conclusion. Because it’s obviously too late to scrap it or take it down. Perhaps the fission in their relationship was inevitable. At least Jisung has this last opportunity to pretend.
Yujun pulls into a relatively empty parking lot fifteen minutes later, and Jisung internally rejoices. He doesn’t think he could deal with crowds right now, regardless of whether they’re fans.
“I’m going inside with you,” Yujun directs at both of them. “I’ll stay towards the entrance unless you need me.”
They grab their masks and step out into the blaring sunlight. Jisung dons his sunglasses, too, and longs for the beanie he left at the hotel. Leaned against the driver’s side door, Minho tilts his head back, shielding his eyes from the sun. Jisung watches his eyes narrow and nose twitch like a rabbit. Endearing.
“Tiffany,” He recites and looks to Jisung for confirmation. “Is this the right place? You didn’t mean to take us to the mall?”
“Maybe later.”
“You must be joking…”
Jisung is no stranger to luxury jewelry stores, and yet he gapes at the staggering front entrance, craning his head to take it all in. Silver metallic walls bracket each set of glass doors. Yellow lighting peeks from the intermittent breaks in the walls, spaced like leaves. The store name, in gleaming white font, sits at the highest point of the corner building and above each of the multiple entrances. Jisung, Minho and Yujun enter through the doors on the corner side, stepping into the well-lit space.
The front door shuts behind them, the bell’s tinkling tapering off into silence. Inside, it’s laid out like a typical jewelry store. The glass cases arranged in a loose circle in the heart of the space contain beautiful pieces glimmering under the fluorescent lights. There are several closed cases along the wall, as well, with ornate shelving, and Jisung spots a staircase that leads to the second floor. He breathes in the distinct scent and, for a moment, forgets the reason he dragged Minho along.
“Nice place,” Minho murmurs, so as not to disturb the handful of people shopping. “Where’d you hear about it?”
“I, uh. Noticed something during the drive from the airport.
Minho scoffs, but not unkindly. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Shut up.” Jisung elbows Minho in the side, and darts away, predicting the retaliating swat. “It’s fancy, isn’t it? Geez.”
“Geez,” Minho parrots and smirks, crinkling the skin around his feline eyes. Jisung’s insides melt in the most cliche way. “Why are we really here, though? You wanted to look for something.”
Fuck. Jisung darts a glance at Yujun, as if they can prevent this conversation from going any further. As if poor Yujun could throw Minho off the scent after he’s caught a whiff of blood in the water. He won’t quit until he’s sniffed out the source.
Yujun shrugs, then. ‘You’re on your own.’
Fair enough. Jisung peers through his lashes at Minho and finds him staring back, eyes dark and narrowed. It pierces Jisung, trepidation coursing through his veins like molten lava.
“I… Yeah.”
Minho blinks, the fluttery kind so characteristic of him. “A man of many words today.”
It’s a trap, of course. Jisung should’ve been better equipped, knowing how long Minho has existed in his orbit.
“Sorry, I just—I’m wondering if I—,” Jisung rambles, breathless.
Minho saves him the trouble. “What did you have in mind?” Minho quirks a brow. “A new necklace, earrings…?”
Against his own will, Jisung’s eyes flick to the ring case, and Minho follows the movement. When his gaze returns to Jisung, curiosity flickers in his pupils. He’s devastating right now as he stands in the middle of this luxurious store with wind-tousled dark hair, grown longer than usual. A tan was beginning to spread across his skin, while the point of his nose looks red. And his attention is on Jisung—as if he earned it.
“A ring,” Minho states, doesn’t question. He moves closer as more shoppers glance in their direction. The person at the entrance might as well have ‘manager’ or ‘bodyguard’ painted on their chest—a dead giveaway that Minho and Jisung aren’t average clients. “What’s the occasion?”
“I, uh…”
Where the hell has Jisung’s voice gone? He’s been tongue-tied in front of Minho before. It happens more often with Minho than anyone else, even the random crowds they perform for across the world, a sea of writhing and shouting strangers.
“No occasion,” Jisung half-lies. “I’ve just been in the market for a new one, I guess.”
“Pfft. ‘Been in the market.’ Okay, boomer.”
Jisung flushes. “Hey! Also, you know how I love shiny things. And you do, too!”
“Yeah, yeah, okay. I get it. Let’s find you a ring, then.”
Jisung and Minho approach the front counter, Jisung trailing after Minho. His thoughts are a cloud of lyrics, echoes of the track from the ride over, and Minho, Minho, Minho.
Still, he follows. The ring cabinet showcases a variety of gemstones and band sizes. Jisung traces his fingers over the top of the case, studying the way the silvers and golds glimmer under the lights. Flickering and tinting the satin underneath every color of the rainbow.
“Wow,” Minho murmurs. “I might have to take it back. You have taste.”
“What—Well, I’m flattered, but I wasn’t sure what the inside would be like.”
“It’s a Tiffany store, Jisungie.”
Jisung can hear Minho’s grin and elbows him in the side. He doesn’t flinch, accepting the contact. A standard exchange—natural.
Then, his eye catches on a ring towards the center. Perched on a platform, the mannequin’s pointed finger placed higher than everything else on display. A simple silver band at first sight but, upon closer inspection, Jisung notices a trio of clear gemstones, possibly diamonds. And there, nestled nearby, an inscription. ‘Always.’
“You find something?” Minho shoulder presses against Jisung’s, a comfortable weight that, here, makes Jisung’s heart do somersaults. “You’re wearing that… look.”
“Look?”
“Yeah, you know.” Minho clears his throat, the first sign of embarrassment since they met this morning in the hotel lobby. “When your eyes grow big, dinner plate-sized. And your mouth shapes into an ‘O’ like you’ve taken a bite of something sweet? A donut, piece of cheesecake…”
Minho trails off, and Jisung waits for Minho to elaborate further, to backtrack. But he remains silent, leaving Jisung to read between the lines. A tactic that often bites Jisung in the ass.
“Oh,” he says. Because what else can he say?
“Is it that one?” Minho points at a thick silver band toward the back, nestled between a massive emerald ring and a simple gold band. His voice comes out scratchy, a contrast to his confident deflection. “It reminds me of a few you already have, though.”
“No, not… Not that one. It’s…” Jisung taps the case above the ring he’s been ogling. “About the same thickness. Or thicker? The diamonds, I—I don’t know if they’re real. How many carats. And the inscription…”
“Always.”
Jisung wheezes on his next exhale and sucks down every word, dragged to his core. Always. Always.
“Yeah,” Jisung murmurs. “Always.”
Silence drops into the space between them. Light chatter from the other shoppers breaks it up, filling the lull in the conversation. ‘He would love this,’ a woman several feet away says to someone who looks like they could be her sister. ‘Check the price, go ahead. Check…’
He would love this, Jisung thinks, zeroing in on the small piece of jewelry. That damned inscription. He can picture it now, the silver against his light skin. That same silver against Minho’s—
“Hi there!” Chipper and piercing through the silence, a salesman materializes out of thin air. His name tag appears to say ‘Noah.’ “How can I help you two today?”
Yujun, the absolute saint, jumps in. “He’s looking for a ring,” they translate into English, patting Jisung on the back.
In the blink of an eye, the salesman, Noah, becomes a hawk stalking its defenseless prey: Jisung. “Oh? I assumed, what with you eying this case. But you know what they say about assuming.”
“Right,” Yujun deadpans.
Noah’s joke—was it a joke?—falls flat, but he doesn’t appear put-off by the miss. “Great, just fantastic.” Jisung catches the way he’s subtly sizing up the three of them, swim trunks and all. Trying to piece together the abrupt puzzle they’ve sprung on him. “A ring, alright. I see you have several already. And is that Gucci, I see?”
Jisung nods. Speaking English makes him skittish, but he has a decent grasp on the language. Plus, living with Chan and Felix has helped. He’s eavesdropped on plenty of their conversations backstage, reminiscing about Australia and their childhoods. Or more specifically their ‘vegemite’—‘I miss it so much, bro.’ ‘Bro. Same.’—and long days at the beach.
Noah’s eyes brighten with the confirmation. Trouble, Jisung decides. Greed masked as kindness.
“Well, I will admit the bands in this case may be as expensive as that piece,” he says. “Anything catch your eye? Anything you’d like to look closer at?”
Minho taps the glass, just as Jisung did earlier. “Here.”
Jisung tries not to gape, mostly (hopefully) succeeding, and a peek at Yujun confirms they feel the same.
“Oh, uh.” Noah blinks at Minho, only just noticing him there. “Of course! Let me…”
As much as Jisung tries not to stare at Minho, he can’t resist. He’s drawn in again, oblivious to Noah, pulling the mannequin hand from the display case. It isn’t until Yujun clears their throat that Jisung looks back to the counter, eyeballing the piece of fine jewelry.
“You have fantastic taste,” Noah says. Jisung glances over at Minho. See? What’d I tell you?
“Can I…” Jisung licks his lips, anxiety clawing its way up his throat at the first English syllable. “Try it on?”
Noah can’t be all that bad. The corners of his mouth lift into a soft, genuine smile as he presents the ring to Jisung in a bizarre imitation of a proposal. Jisung accepts it, palms open to receive the ring. He holds it up to the light and scrutinizes the curvature, the shine. Overall appearance. At a glance, it appears like it’ll fit, but Jisung can’t be too sure. His fingers are smaller and thinner than most of his group-mates—save for Minho and Felix.
“Careful,” Yujun hisses. They clearly aren’t thrilled by the prospect of cutting a ring off Jisung’s swollen finger.
“I know, I know.” Jisung slips the band onto his ring finger. Slow enough that he can sense resistance before it’s too late. And, to his delight, the ring fits like a glove. “Oh, wow.”
“Today’s your lucky day, sir,” Noah announces with a light chuckle. “Although, we have plenty of sizes in stock.”
And Jisung—his mouth has a habit of working faster than his brain. Words tripping and tumbling over each other to reach the surface first. In English, no less. “I’ll need one more. The same size.”
With a start, Jisung clamps his jaw shut and stumbles back a step. It’s made worse by the silence that sweeps in behind his outburst, Noah included. Yujun, however, appears unfazed, and Minho’s eyes have grown murky, distant. A glazed over blank stare that makes Jisung’s pulse skyrocket.
“Oh, uh.” Noah rolls his shoulders and fixes the crack in his smile. “For you and…?”
“Him.”
Him. Noah’s gaze strays to Minho, who hasn’t said more than a word. He doesn’t protest, though, remaining quiet throughout their exchange. Jisung notes a brief twitch of Noah’s mouth. He’s all smiles, sunshine and rainbows, when he refocuses on Jisung. “I see. Of course, I’ll be right back.”
Once Noah disappears from sight, Minho’s soft Korean hits Jisung’s ears. “Is this what you meant? About me benefitting from the trip?”
Jisung grips the edge of the display case. It bites into his skin more than expected. “Yeah.”
“You… You didn’t need to do that.”
“No, I didn’t.” Jisung shrugs, forcing nonchalance. “But I wanted to.”
“Han—”
“I’m serious, hyung. You know me better than that.”
“That’s why I’m worried,” Minho says, voice dropping further and further. “I don’t want you to buy me something out of pity or, shit, I don’t know.”
Jisung swallows his pride and rounds on Minho. Although his expression hasn’t shifted, Jisung has spent years mastering Minho’s Body Language 101. Tense shoulders, thinned lips, and hands buried in the pockets of his athletic shorts. Clear indicators of emotions boiling under the surface—something Jisung is more than familiar with himself.
“I would never do that,” Jisung says, hardening his voice.
“So, this isn’t because you feel guilty? Because I should’ve gone to the beach instead of staying behind with—” A heavy pause. “With you.”
The thought hadn’t occurred to Jisung, honestly, but now… he sees the connection. And his heart breaks for Minho.
“No. No.” Jisung places a hand on Minho’s shoulder, brushing his thumb over the junction between neck and shoulder before retracting his hand. “I want to buy the ring because I want you to have it.”
“You want us to have matching rings, you mean?”
And there it is: Jisung’s worst fear dragged into the light of day. Jisung shares parts of himself with Minho—more than others, than the public, but selectively. Some secrets should remain just that: secrets. Between Jisung and the lyric notebook buried in the depths of his dresser for the sake of secrecy.
“Is that…” Jisung swallows and swears he can taste the lunch he and Minho shared poolside. Although the flavor has gone sour, cloying, like every morsel lodged itself in Jisung’s throat. “Is that okay?”
It shouldn’t be, but it also has to be if Jisung wants to continue as part of Stray Kids. If he wants to maintain his close friendship with Minho. If he hopes to preserve his sanity. Regardless of how terrifying the prospect of a fucking couple item is when it concerns Minho. He may burn Jisung sometimes, when he mentions a fellow dancer or old friend who messaged him or—god fucking forbid—hit on him. Even when he so much as calls someone hot, someone who isn’t Jisung. None of that matters, though, because Jisung would brave an active volcano to keep Minho at his side.
Jisung forgets about Yujun. The ring, the store. Minho holds his gaze from across the short distance. His eyes have gone dark and molten, pink lips mouthing around a handful of heart-wrenching words: “Of course it’s okay.”
A weight lifts itself off Jisung’s shoulders. He’s so relieved at that moment that he’s tempted to wave at the weight as it leaves him. To thank it—‘Thanks for nothing, you asshole.’ For an instant, he can’t control his facial muscles or twinkle in his eyes. And the next second, he’s forcing his mouth into a smaller smile, reducing the likely obnoxious swell of his cheeks.
“You’re in luck!” Noah returns to the counter with a tinkling laugh, and Jisung could fucking kiss him. “I have another of the same style.” He stops mid-sentence when he glances between them and, again, Jisung wonders how strangers must perceive him. Giddy and doing a shit job of hiding it. “So, will these be separate purchases or…”
You already know the answer to that. Jisung bites back the words, frightened by how Minho triggers his recklessness.
“Just him,” Yujun says, swooping into Jisung’s rescue once again. “Thank you for all your help.”
Minho and Jisung mutter ‘thank you’s’ of their own with jerky bows of appreciation. Noah grins from ear-to-ear, and Jisung decides they could’ve dealt with worse. Plenty of people would’ve pegged Minho and Jisung as famous from the get-go. Those types of people snap pictures when they aren’t looking, spreading malicious rumors on the internet instead of telling a simple story of their visit. It makes it hard to trust anyone they encounter these days that aren’t part of their inner circle.
When Jisung offers Noah his card to pay for the set of rings, Minho moves as if to stop him, but drops his arm. Jisung doesn’t have to look to see Minho’s visible wavering.
It isn’t until Jisung has the bag in hand, following Yujun outside, that Minho confronts him. He’s fully Minho in that moment, without the pressure of onlookers. A flare in his eyes, complex and indecipherable. “Han Jisung.”
His full name rolls off Minho’s tongue like a song, like a lyric, and Jisung finds its frayed edges charming.
“Lee Minho,” Jisung parrots. He continues to follow Yujun but halts by the passenger side door, the gravity of Minho’s gaze too much to bear.
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Why?”
“That ring…”
“You said it was ‘okay.’” Jisung knows it’s a flimsy excuse, a bit cruel, and he avoids direct eye contact. “I mean, did you change your mind?”
“No, I just—” Minho huffs. “I should’ve known it would be that expensive. I should’ve paid for my own.”
“You’re not supposed to pay for your own gifts.”
If Jisung didn’t know better, he would think Minho flushes. Pink cheeks peeking out from under the sunglasses he fixes in place. It’s so fucking cute, regardless of whether it’s actually a sunburn.
“Again, you’re out of your damned mind.” Minho yanks open the car door. “If you ever buy me something that expensive again, on a whim, not on my fucking birthday at the very least, I’m kicking your ass.”
Laughter bursts from Jisung’s chest, unstoppable and startled. It sounds like a weak threat to Jisung but certainly not baseless. Minho could snap Jisung in half (and he would thank him).
Unbothered by Minho’s grumbling and Yujun’s palpable exhaustion, Jisung hops in the van. “I’m glad you like the ring, jagi.”
I’m the drought, you’re rain, I’m paper, you’re a poem
Your attention changes the brightness of my empty heart, you’re light
Your arms, my home, my breath, my God
You grabbed me when I was falling fly again
My falling days were sorrow
But after you appeared my lifted mouth corners won’t come down
Why, why, why, don’t wanna go back, back, back
To you, who shines the brightest among others
I’ll give you everything
Every day, every day, every day I can feel you
Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, I can’t wait
Wondering how your smile will brighten and make me laugh this time
- active -
“What would I be upset about?” Back in Minho’s room, the pillow muffles Jisung’s words. “I’m happy to be home. Even if it has been freezing, which I hate.”
“You’re not a summer guy either, though.” Minho scoots closer, mattress springs creaking softly. “And don’t you dare think you’re getting away with changing the subject.”
“I’m not,” Jisung says. “There’s nothing to talk about! I’m not upset about anything.”
“You can’t fool me like the others.”
It’s true; Minho sees right through Jisung. He always has, ever since that fateful day they met at the JYP building. With his piercing gaze, a young and mysterious Minho silently observed Jisung from Chan’s side. He stood only a couple inches taller than Jisung but somehow felt taller. The baggy sweatpants and oversized t-shirt—while perfectly suited to his dancing style—did nothing to diminish his size or prowess. Meanwhile Jisung, pubescent and angry at the world, glared at him and nearly yelled, ‘I wanna punch your hot face.’ But luckily kept his dumb mouth shut.
Jisung’s fingers curl against the sheets, arms tucked to his chest, and a weight settles across his side. The temperature difference elicits a shiver, Jisung’s instincts forcing him to arch into the touch, and Minho splays his fingers across Jisung’s stomach.
They’re ‘touchy-feely,’ as the members often accuse. Cuddly, brazen in terms of skinship. But Minho is creeping closer to the line they—or just Jisung—set for themselves when they debuted.
“It’s stupid,” Jisung says, resigned to his fate.
“Don’t say that. It can’t be ‘stupid’ if it’s bothering you this much. We’ve talked about bottling up your emotions. It only makes you more anxious in the end.”
Minho isn’t an open book either, but Jisung doesn’t mention that. “Seriously, it’s not a big deal, hyung.”
“Is it about the ring?”
The ring. Oh, the ring. Jisung swears the world, time itself, screeches to a halt. It’s near enough to the truth that his muscles seize up, his thoughts and responses creating a tornado inside his skull.
“No.”
“Okay, more than just the ring, then.”
“I didn’t say that,” Jisung hisses, and Minho shakes with laughter, jostling Jisung where his back presses to Minho’s chest.
“You didn’t have to.” Minho sighs. His breath tickles the nape of Jisung’s neck, raising the baby hairs there. “Fuck, I should’ve stopped you.”
“Should’ve—Huh? Why?”
“The ring, it was too expensive. Too much,” Minho says. “I knew from the moment he read off the price, but I let you buy it for me, anyway.”
Going against every instinct telling him to run, Jisung rolls to face Minho. He struggles to distinguish more than the jut of his lips, slathered in Vaseline, and the glimmering sheen of his eyes. Jisung wishes he could trace his fingers over Minho’s features, memorize them so that he can place every peak and valley even in the shadows—even if he goes blind. Regardless of whether Jisung can see, he pictures Minho’s furrowed brow and clenched jaw.
“You act like I didn’t offer to buy it, hyung,” Jisung whispers. “I told you then, too. That I wanted to buy the ring. That I wanted you to have it. We don’t need to go over this again.”
“Well, I can’t fucking ignore it, ignore the warning signs, when I can tell—” Minho’s mouth snaps shut. When I can tell it’s hurting you.
It isn’t hurting Jisung—if only he could make Minho understand.
“Minho…” Jisung watches as if he’s floating outside his body. His trembling fingers reach out for the ring nestled against Minho’s chest. The chain is another joint purchase from a week later, when Jisung realized he couldn’t bear the thought of losing the ring, desperate for assurance. “It’s not about the ring, okay?”
“So, more than just that,” Miho repeats, low enough that Jisung nearly misses it.
“I mean, I guess it’s related, but—” Jisung sinks his teeth into his lower lip, wincing at the sting. “It’s about… the song.”
“The song.”
“It was released last month.” Jisung chokes on a nervous chuckle. “I played the final version for you then, and I’m… scared. Thinking about how I shared it with the world and you at the same time.”
“I understand about sharing it with the public, but… me. Why me?” A pause. “What song?”
Jisung clamps his eyes shut. “The one I played in the car. When we were in Sydney.”
“Which—Oh.”
Yeah. ‘Oh.’ “I finished it, like, a week before the release. Channie-hyung asked if I would ever tell him my inspiration, but I can’t and—Everyone, our fans, they’ve heard it now. And they’ve gotta know what it’s about without me having to explain. I think… I think the same holds true for you, too, hyung.”
“I’d rather not guess,” Minho says. “If you can… Can’t you just tell me?”
Eyes shut, Jisung rubs his thumb along the ring’s edge. The smooth metal is colder than the ice bucket that is their flat, but even that doesn’t derail Jisung’s current train of thought. The train cars rumble down the track at a breakneck speed, unstoppable and horrifying.
“I wish it were that easy.”
“It could be.”
Jisung shakes his head. “It can’t.”
“Jisungie,” Minho implores. “Please?”
Jisung twitches at the first touch of Minho’s palm against his cheek. Tender and calloused, familiar. It sends an obvious message: I won’t hurt you. Jisung knows Minho would never intend to hurt him.
“If you can promise you won’t hate me after I tell you,” Jisung says, “then I will. Otherwise, it’s better I… I don’t.”
Minho’s fingernails scrape across Jisung’s jaw. “I promise. Okay? Fuck, you’re scaring me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t—” Minho releases a long, shuddering exhale. “Don’t apologize. Just tell me and then… everything will be fine.”
It won’t, Jisung decides with a sense of finality and knowledge there’s no turning back. “The song, ‘Volcano.’ It’s about you.”
Jisung squeezes his eyes shut and hopes that by sheer strength of will alone, he’ll disappear. Sink through the mattress, the floor, and into the fiery embrace of Hell. It would be poetic justice after referencing it in his own fucking song. He remembers scratching the word ‘sin’ into his lyric notebook and knowing how he wanted to construct ‘Volcano.’ How the verses and chorus flow together. Now, it seems like he’s committed that very sin without a safety net to catch him or fake smile to hide behind.
How could he be so stupid? A master of deflection, broken by Minho’s sorrowful expression and gravelly voice. People say the dark can make someone feel brave. As paradoxical as it might seem, given how common it is to fear the dark, Jisung thinks it holds an ounce of truth. But it’s more a matter of feigned anonymity, of feeling like you can say anything without consequence because you’re ‘invisible.’
In Jisung’s case, the dark robs him of brain cells.
“About… me.”
Jisung releases the ring dangling from Minho’s neck, but the firm grip on his wrist makes him freeze. The warmth Minho exudes is impossible to ignore when they’re lying this close beneath the comforter. Heat blazes a path up Jisung’s forearm, but he doesn’t shy away—he could never. Especially when Minho guides Jisung’s palm to his chest, Jisung’s fingers curling around the ring.
“The song is about me,” Minho repeats, as if he’s trying to convince himself. “You wrote it…”
Jisung resists the temptation to pull away, knowing Minho would only catch him. His tongue has turned to useless sandpaper in his mouth. Heavy, gross. All his senses heightened as a rush of adrenaline sprints through his veins.
“When you played it—” Minho hesitates. “Some of your songs—of course they’re not based on personal experience. But when I heard this one, I thought… ‘This is about someone.’ Someone else. Somebody I haven’t met.”
“No,” Jisung says. No matter how many times he rehearsed this conversation, he still grapples for the right words. “You have met him, technically.”
A startled laugh falls from Minho’s lips. It sends pleasant tingles through Jisung’s body where his hand lays over Minho’s sternum.
“I don’t even know what to say.”
Jisung swallows the ball of pain, anguish, disappointment in his throat. “You don’t have to say anything. I just thought you should know. I haven’t been upset, just… thinking. About it all.”
“I mean,” Minho blurts, verging on desperate, “The lyrics… Fuck. Wait a second. Am I… I’m the one who hurt you.”
Jisung’s eyes snap open.
“Aren’t I?”
“No, no, that’s—you haven’t—”
“I have.”
“Hyung,” Jisung says, quick to interject, “I said that I don’t mind, didn’t I? In the song? You would never hurt me on purpose.”
Jisung can hardly discern the frown lines on Minho’s handsome face. They make his chest ache more than anything Minho believes he did wrong. It sucks that Jisung’s words fail him at literally the worst possible time. Does it really matter that he’s a lyricist if he can’t convey his feelings?
Jisung wets his lips and squeezes, the ring digging into his skin. “What about the rest of the song, huh?”
“Jisungie,” Minho breathes, raspy and frail. “You can’t—Not me.”
He ‘can’t’ what? A sudden flare of anger overshadows Jisung’s pain. “What the hell do you mean?”
“The bridge…”
The fucking bridge of the song. Reality slams into Jisung, full-force, and hits him harder than anything thus far.
Jisung remembers sitting at his desk, the lamp turned to the dimmest setting. He was running on a couple scant hours of sleep that night. The visible notebook pages were the gaping jaws of a monster, hungry and ready to consume him. Jisung spilled words on the page, unable to control himself once his thoughts started flowing. Of every section, the bridge required the least editing—not even Chan and Changbin had revisions when Jisung requested their feedback.
An untouched, vulnerable piece of Jisung’s soul was slapped on the page and then vocalized for everyone to hear. For Minho. A revelation, even though it’s far from it.
“What about it?” Jisung summons his courage, but the words come out brisker than he expected. “What are you trying to say?”
Minho shakes his head, more helpless than Jisung has ever seen him. It’s uncharacteristic of the self-assured image Jisung has built up in his mind. Strong-willed, true to himself and his craft. Here, he appears younger, much like the Minho that Jisung recalls from their trainee years. It’s not as if Jisung has never seen Minho break down before, never watched tears streak his pretty face. He has, but this… is different.
“I just don’t… understand?” Minho’s knee bumps against Jisung’s. “You could have anyone in the entire world. That’s not an exaggeration. You have thousands—millions of fans. I give you a hard time, but you know that.”
Jisung only has time to crack open his mouth before Minho barrels on. “And yet you pick me? It—It doesn’t make any fucking sense. You know me. You know… how I am.”
“Exactly,” Jisung cuts in. He can’t let Minho interrupt him again. Not when he’s spouting this self-deprecating bullshit that pierces Jisung’s chest, sharp as an ice pick. “It’s because I know how you are that I feel this way, hyung.”
“Ji—”
“I know you love your cats more than most people,” Jisung says. “I know your second love will always be dancing and performing. I know it’s the little things that set you off. A single missed step in a choreography, cooking a meal but coming up a serving short. I know you have a dry sense of humor. I know you hate crying in front of other people, even us. Stray Kids.” Jisung presses his hand to Minho’s heart, clutching the ring. “I know you have a unique personality that shitty people can’t understand and shy away from. Because they don’t—they don’t fucking deserve you, hyung. Honestly, I don’t think I do, either. But… at least I see you. And I…”
Jisung’s mouth struggles to shape around the words. Foreign on his tongue, save for when he’s spouting it for fan service. They’re words he evades, afraid of their intention and the power they hold. If he ever wants to feel worthy of Minho, though, he owes him sincerity.
“I love you because of who you are.” A reedy chuckle tears through Jisung. “You’ve listened to the song, right? I thought I made that pretty clear.”
“What if it changes things?” Minho keeps the emotion from his voice to an impressive degree. “Chan—”
“We’ll figure that out.”
“Will we?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing, okay? I’m a dumbass if that makes you feel any better,” Jisung says. “I’m just an impulsive dude who dedicated a song to the guy he’s been in love with since he was a teenager. Not a genius. Or a mind reader.
“If you don’t feel that way about me,” Jisung rushes to add, “that’s fine, too. I get it! Like, totally get it. We can pretend like none of this happened, and the song is just another fantasy of mine. I would be cool with that. I’m sure we could—”
“—Jisung—”
“—work past it, eventually. Like, we’ve been able to work through a lot over the years, so I don’t doubt that—”
“—Hannie—”
“—we could look past it. We’re best friends! And I just want to stay close to you, so if that means—mmfh?”
Jisung goes cross-eyed. The hand over his mouth prevents the remainder of his tirade from escaping. Minho appears closer now, eyes shining in the darkness, and Jisung can better make out his thin-lipped expression. But he still can’t get a read on him, and that’s terrifying. He prides himself on reading Minho better than anyone, although now his face is a battleground of emotions.
“Please, just…” Minho’s shaky voice sends a shiver down Jisung’s spine. “For one second? Okay?”
Jisung attempts to jerk his head in a nod.
“I never said I didn’t feel the same,” Minho breathes. “You put the words in my mouth, but that’s not—I care about you way more than I should.” He shifts, rustling the sheets. “That’s why I keep my mouth shut about it. And it’s been getting harder and harder not to blurt it out, but… I don’t want to risk the consequences. For the group.”
If circumstances were different, Jisung would laugh at the irony. They’re on the same wavelength again. Fuck, now that he thinks about it, chances are that everyone in their ragtag little team feels that way. At some point or another, snuffing out any feelings they may harbor. For someone within the group, if Jisung’s instincts aren’t mistaken; he and Minho aren’t alone in this. But Jisung would’ve never thought Minho struggled with concealing his emotions—well, not these emotions, at least.
“But when you bought those rings,” Minho says, “I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to scream, you know? At you. Not because I was angry, definitely not at you, but the circumstances. I couldn’t say how I felt, and I wondered if… you…” A flash of white teeth, worrying at his bottom lip. “Felt that way. About me, too. I’ve thought about it before—hoped for it, honestly. But for you to drop that much money on me, on something the two of us shared, that looks like a fucking wedding band…”
Minho squirms and, this time, Jisung knows he’s closer. Their knees knock together, toes brushing along his bare calves. And Minho’s warm breath tickles Jisung’s nose, ghosts across his jaw. Part of him wants to look away, regardless of the hand holding his head in place, but the other braver part can’t imagine looking anywhere else. At anything more beautiful, more elegant than Minho’s sculpted features, softened by his cupid’s bow and sleek black hair.
“I need to know you’re serious,” Minho says, earnest and tinged with something Jisung recognizes as pleading. “Because this… this will be an enormous commitment. It won’t be easy.” A mirthless chuckle. “I’m difficult to put up with.”
“So am I,” Jisung whispers. Minho’s hand has moved, granting Jisung the opportunity to talk. “I can’t believe you act like you’re a scary monster, while I’m some perfect angel, hyung. You and I both know that’s not true.”
“What if you meet someone better for you? It wouldn’t be difficult.”
Jisung walks his fingers up Minho’s throat, and Minho releases a subdued little gasp. Jisung keeps climbing until he can smooth his thumb over Minho’s ear lobe, the tiny hairs behind it, as well as the longer silky strands.
“You need to stop that! I’m not sure how you got it into your head that you’re not ‘good enough’ for me. First off, that’s a filthy fucking lie. And secondly, I can make my own decisions. I chose you a long time ago.”
Jisung could keep going but, before he realizes what’s happening, Minho surges forward, gripping his head from both sides and kissing him on the mouth.
I’ll protect you it’s okay to hurt
I’ll embrace the wounds you shed
To me, you’re already a sin
I can’t refuse because you’re sweeter than evil
You can burst into flames, you can wound me next to you
If you like, I can be anything
Yeah, you can hurt me, I don’t care, yeah, you can burn me
Unlike those who run away from you, I’ll embrace you
Like a volcano
Love at a temperature that can melt when touched
Take me to you, way below to the end of the ground
It’s okay if everything burns down
Even if I go back hundreds of times, my choice is always…
- erupting -
Nothing prepares you for kissing the only person you’ve ever loved.
A mind-bending mix of trepidation and relief, striking from every side. Minho’s lips are soft, and fresh from the shower, his body wash makes Jisung dizzy. He’s quick to shift his hands to the loose collar of Minho’s sleep shirt, gripping it tight enough to rip the fabric if he desired. As it is, he’s sure he stretches it all to hell.
But Jisung couldn’t care less. He wants to crawl inside Minho’s chest and live there. To become a permanent fixture in Minho’s life, in his existence. Jisung never wants to forget Minho’s taste and soothing scent, the smooth texture of his sun-warmed skin. A dream—the amalgamation of his desires. Jisung half-expects Minho to disintegrate into dust between his fingers. There’s an underlying fear that he imagined this whole thing, from Minho’s concerns to his confession to the body next to Jisung in this bed, the universe’s most spiteful illusion.
“Min—” Jisung whimpers, clawing at Minho’s chest, and Minho somehow understands what he’s begging for. With a surprising ease, he rolls them over, Jisung pressed into the mattress beneath him. His weight is a comfort rather than oppressive or threatening. Jisung could get used to Minho’s solid thighs bracketing his own, hands skating up and down his sides.
The kiss grows more desperate, less chaste, but it takes Minho brushing a sensitive spot on Jisung’s hip to make Jisung to kiss with more vigor. A mess of tangled limbs, mingled breathing and soft, wet sounds filling the air as the backdrop to occasional groans and quiet noises.
Jisung can’t get enough.
Minho shifts his attention, pressing a line of wet kisses from the corner of Jisung’s mouth to his jaw. It forces a gasp to burst from Jisung’s mouth, and Minho squeezes his waist. The whole thing, every moment, is too much—too good. And it brings the word vomit with it.
“How are you real?” Jisung buries his fingers in Minho’s glossy hair. He wishes he could reach the bedside lamp and see Minho in all his glory. “‘m not convinced until I can see… you.”
“Mmm.”
“Too pretty not to see you.”
Minho either can’t take a hint or doesn’t give a shit. He pulls away to murmur gruffly: “You see me all the time.” He returns to sucking marks into Jisung’s skin in dangerous places the stylists will scold them for the next time they have a schedule.
“Can I turn on—fuck, will you please let me switch on the light?” Jisung tugs Minho by the hair, but he’s reluctant to stop. He peers up at Jisung through his lashes and honest-to-god pouts. This is fucking unfair.
He relents, though, granting Jisung a handful of seconds to switch on the bedside lamp. Then, he’s on Jisung again, coaxing Jisung into his lap. Their mouths mold together as if that’s their one true purpose. Jisung wraps his legs around Minho’s waist and cards his fingers through Minho’s hair, scratches his scalp, delighting in the whine he wrenches from Minho’s throat.
Minho breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to Jisung’s. “Where do we go from here, Sung? Like, honestly?”
Ugh. Jisung was hoping they could avoid this conversation, at least for the night. That he could bask in the glow for longer. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “We’ll figure it out, though.”
“You…” Minho rubs circles into Jisung’s hips with his thumbs, absentminded and fond. “You believe that.”
“I do.”
“You’re not scared?”
“Of course I am,” Jisung says with a nervous chuckle. “I’m me. But my intuition tells me everything will work out.”
“Your intuition.” A breathy laugh, and Minho’s minty breath mingles with Jisung’s. “I hope you’re right, then. And that you don’t change your mind.”
“As if I could.”
“I… I don’t want to lose you. I can’t let anything ruin our friendship.”
It’s a rare moment of sincerity, of candor, from Minho. Jisung knows better than to take it for granted. “I know, hyung. I’ll stay by your side no matter what happens.”
Minho chews on his bottom lip, a habit Jisung thinks Minho adopted from him. His dark eyes fix on Jisung’s and, there, in the low light of the bedroom, his hair mussed and pajamas rumpled, he’s the most beautiful he’s ever been. “Always?”
Oh god. Jisung suppresses his tears and taps Minho on the tip of his nose instead. “Always, jagi.”
A flash of something—relief, maybe, and affection—dances in Minho’s eyes before he tackles Jisung and rejoins their lips.
I can’t live without you, you’re the only one, even if I die
Even if I’m reborn over and over again, it’s only you
I want to give only to you my heart is burning
When I’m thinking of you, my mind is
Like a volcano
Love at a temperature that can melt when touched
Take me to you, way below to the end of the ground
It’s okay if everything burns down
Even if I go back hundreds of times, my choice is always
So I can melt into you
Hug my body even if it hurts, it’s okay
(Woah) Among the cold and harsh waves
I need your heat you are my volcano
- dormant -
When they wake up tangled together, Jisung doesn’t mention the size of the bed or whether there was ‘enough room.’ Last night’s argument feels like a fever dream, something that happened in an alternate universe. He barely remembers how fucking freezing he felt or why he protested Minho’s efforts to drag him to bed.
And, really, who is he to pass up a chance to snuggle with Minho? It’s the first time he’s managed to stay warm and sleep restfully all winter.
If anything, maybe Jisung should offer to share his bed next.
It’s not like there isn’t enough room.