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It is not enough to hold Jisung in his arms right now, Jisung’s back to his chest. It is not enough to place his hands on the soft plaid covering Jisung’s front. It is not enough to hear Jisung’s breath slow and quicken erratically from where he has placed his face next to Jisung’s mouth.
Minho brings his forearms a little closer together, squeezing Jisung’s middle. He wants to squeeze until Jisung’s breathing returns to normal. Maybe if he squeezes a little tighter, Jisung’s worries will explode into bits of confetti and neon smoke.
“Min.”
Minho’s hands stop in place. Jisung’s voice, even from this close, sounds small. He thinks back to the malnourished tabby he saw when he visited the animal shelter last week. The kitten’s orange fur was matted and her spine was prominent enough to poke fractures at Minho’s heart.
“Min,” Jisung whispers again. “It hurts.”
Panic heats up the back of his neck, and he slowly unwinds his arms. “Sorry, was that too –”
He stills when he feels soft, firm hands holding his wrists in place.
“Not you.” Jisung sighs and Minho sighs with him. “I meant,” he lets Minho readjust his arms and leans his head back against Minho’s shoulder, “everything. It all hurts.”
Minho does not respond because he does not know how to. He knows there are words for these situations, and if he dug around his throat for a little longer, he would find them like the paperclips he found at the bottom of his desk drawer, but he doesn’t want to dig and mull and use his mouth to speak. He just wants to hold and let time pass over their hunched forms until their skin and bones erode into something he can’t hold anymore.
He closes his eyes and squeezes again. Jisung’s hair tickles the side of his jaw. Minho leans towards the top of Jisung’s head and breathes in. Jisung must have washed his hair yesterday because it smells like his favorite shea butter shampoo.
Minho rests his nose on his crown. Another inhale.
He can feel Jisung’s breathing beginning to match his own.
Another inhale. More shea butter. Another inhale.
On his next breath in, Minho nuzzles his nose into the soft hair. Jisung giggles.
“Do I smell that good?” He asks quietly. His voice is no longer pinched and bruised, just tired.
Minho makes a show of sniffing loudly, the movement fluttering Jisung’s hair. Jisung giggles again. He pretends to gag. “When’s the last time you showered?”
Jisung squirms and throws his head side to side. “You’re making fun of me now.”
“And you’re invading my personal olfactory space.”
“Contrary to popular belief, using big words does not make you smarter.”
Minho looks down and sees Jisung smiling. “Sure, okay, derail the conversation, Mr. Stinker.”
“ ‘Derail’? Are you carrying around a thesaurus?”
He shakes his head, knowing Jisung can feel the movement. He knows Jisung can feel the smile he presses into his hair, too.