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It shouldn’t be this difficult, but it always is.
It shouldn’t take Minho by surprise every time either, yet here he is, begging his racing heart to settle.
The two best friends have been doing this for years, indulging in nights spent tangled together in one of their beds watching anything and everything until the early hours of the morning. A fresh wave of goosebumps blossom across Minho’s arms and he can't tell if it’s from the air conditioner cycling on above their heads or the way Jisung presses closer into his side. He can’t even hear the droning dialogue coming from the television hanging on the wall at the foot of Jisung’s bed anymore. All sound in the dark bedroom is drowned out by the pulsing pressure in his ears that matches the pounding in his chest.
“You ok, hyung?” Jisung’s voice breaks through the white noise as he gazes up at Minho with dark brown eyes alight with galaxies of color. Minho blinks a few times and swallows, momentarily forgetting how to speak. He nods, and quickly directs his attention back to the screen. A subtle chuckle from the younger man in his arms has Minho suspecting he didn’t play that as cool as he’d hoped.
It has been a while since they’ve done this; moving dorms and living separately for the first time in years has them treading in unexplored territory. What was once second nature and easy, now requires an added layer of consideration. They aren’t only a room away anymore, and Minho feels like he has to have an explanation on hand every time he has the urge to visit the other dorm.
Was their time spent wrapped in each other purely out of convenience before? Why has it been so long since they’ve done this? Minho had given Jisung the space to invite him over, and he hates to admit how excited he’d gotten when Jisung finally called him up asking to hang out two weeks after the move.
Minho chances another glance down at the man tucked closely into his side. His heart aches at the sight of Jisung’s plush cheek pressed up against his chest, his whole face painted in technicolor lights. His gaze wanders down the slope of Jisung’s perfect nose to his peony pink pout. It’s slightly open in a little ‘o’ as he watches the movie, completely absorbed in the plot.
Minho gets lost for a moment or ten, he wouldn’t know, as Jisung’s cotton candy tongue darts out and wets his own lips, coating them in a glossy sheen of spit that has Minho reflexively swallowing. The sudden noise startles Jisung who looks up at Minho, eyebrows raised in surprise at seeing the other already looking at him.
“We can turn it off if you’re not enjoying it anymore,” Jisung suggests, resting his head back on Minho’s chest and grabbing the arm that's around his shoulder, pulling it closer so that Minho is fully encompassing him. Jisung presses his body flush against Minho’s side and rests his hand on Minho’s sternum, right above the organ in the center of his chest that threatens to burst out of his body.
“No it's fine,” Minho manages to reply, clearing his throat. “It’s getting dark though, we should turn on a light.”
“Next episode,” Jisung whines. “Too comfy to get up yet.”
They have been in this position hundreds of times and it never gets any easier for Minho.
He’s so close.
It’s not even unusual, but the way every point of contact feels like touching a livewire betrays just how much it still affects him. Minho indulges himself momentarily, dipping down and inhaling deeply the scent of the man in his arms. In his embrace. He drinks in top notes of lavender shampoo and woodsy-citrus perfume before being hit with the intoxicating basenotes of dried sweat and something unmistakably and uniquely, Jisung.
Minho and Jisung have been inseparable since they met. Theirs was a bond formed quickly through shared interests and an uncannily similar sense of humor. The other members often joke that when they’re together they shut out the rest of the world and live only in a space inhabited by the two, as if speaking a dialect only they understand.
Conversation has always been easy between them and skinship even moreso. When they are alone, it's not unusual to find them nestled into each other’s sides with an arm around the other’s waist, or a head resting on a shoulder. It feels innate. Second nature. As if they are opposite magnetic poles pulled together by an invisible force.
When did it start to hurt? When did every touch feel like it meant something, and every look held so much weight? Why has Minho been able to find a way to numb every other type of pain except this one?
To his credit, he tried.
He filled his time with work, practice, and exercise, but those things only tired his body. The exhaustion helped him sleep, but even in sleep his mind plagued him with fantasies and what-ifs.
He considered dating once the ban was lifted, but everyone else was just a face or a body. How could he try to fit someone else in his heart when the hole left there is the exact shape of someone else?
He tried alcohol to forget, but how does one forget the sun when it shines on you every morning and you feel the absence of its warmth every night?
“Hyung,” Jisung says, running a hand through his hair and bumping Minho’s nose where it grazed his locks, “that tickles.”
Minho breathes out a laugh.
“Sorry Jisungie, just checking the time,” he lies.
“You’re not even wearing a watch, you liar.”
But the sun will burn you if you’re not careful.
Minho inhales shakily, pointedly trailing his fingertips along Jisung’s arm, causing him to shiver. He knows he’s playing with fire and he is ready to be burned.
Jisung shifts, throwing a leg over the top of Minho’s. He can feel the heat pouring from between Jisung’s legs where he’s pressed up against his thigh. His heart lurches violently against his ribs and the pulsing pressure in his ears is instantly back. Jisung is still watching the television, and Minho runs his hand, tentatively, from his arm to his back. He drags his fingers along Jisung’s spine. Catching on the fabric every so often, he strokes haphazard patterns along the ridge between his shoulder blades. The shirt begins to ride up, exposing a sliver of honey skin along the waistband of Jisung’s joggers, right above the swell of his ass and Minho halts his ministrations. He fears if he moves his hand, it’ll find its own way to bare flesh and he knows he's too weak to fight it. Minho’s mind begins to slip down a dangerous slope.
What if he didn’t stop at his lower back? What if Jisung doesn’t stop him? What if Jisung likes it?
“I’ve missed this,” Jisung says, his voice barely above a whisper. Minho almost doesn't catch it, only aware that the other had said anything when the vibrations from his throat against his chest sends a shock through his system like a defibrillator.
“Hmm?” Minho hums.
“This,” Jisung says slightly louder, not taking his eyes off the television. “Missed this, hyung.”
“It hasn’t been that long, really.”
“Felt like it,” Jisung says, and Minho can hear the pout in his voice.
Jisung fists his hand in Minho’s shirt where it lays on his chest. The elder responds by drawing him in closer. Their legs tangle further together and there isn’t a paper’s breadth of space between them. Minho slips his eyes closed, not daring to look down at the bare skin that’s a mere inches from his hand, tempting him. Taunting him.
Jisung’s grip loosens on the fabric of Minho’s shirt, opting to dance his fingertips up and down his torso instead. He runs a featherlight touch over the divet between Minho’s pecs, extending down to his tummy, right above his belly button, before trailing back up again. Minho keeps his eyes firmly shut and focuses on his breathing, acutely aware of the muscle in his chest working overtime.
Minho only notices the ending theme song playing in the periphery of his consciousness when Jisung stills the hand, abruptly sitting up.
“What’s wrong?” Minho asks, his voice gravelly and broken. He blinks his eyes open and looks down at the hand still splayed out on his chest.
“You said we should turn the light on, right?” Jisung replies, pushing himself towards the edge of the bed.
“No!” Minho says, grabbing Jisung by the wrist before he even realizes what he’s doing.
The younger man looks down at him with round eyes, searching his face for an explanation. There isn’t confusion in the look Jisung fixes him with, but something more akin to a challenge. An unspoken question. Minho wishes he didn’t know what that question was.
It was a question Jisung has asked him so many times before without words ever needing to be said.
Will you touch me?
Will you take me?
Will you love me?
Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes! In every way, in every lifetime, yes!
His heart constricts painfully, and he chokes on the words he wishes he could say.
Because he can’t. They can’t. Minho knows this, and Jisung knows this. They had a talk once, years ago, when Minho’s lingering gazes finally showed up on Jisung’s radar and Jisung realized that the somersaults his stomach did when his hyung smiled at him didn't come from a place of purely platonic love. They talked about what they felt, what they should do about it, and more importantly what they shouldn’t do about it. They were under a dating ban, and both agreed they’d revisit their decision to stay just friends when the ban was lifted. The appointed time came and went and they never brought it up. Their careers took off in ways they’d never experienced before. They both silently agreed to focus on work and not do anything that could threaten it. Minho didn’t know where Jisung stood with him, but deep down in some dangerous and masochistic place, he had hoped the playful flirting and searing touches meant something to him still.
“You’re an idol, Minho”, he would repeat in his head like a mantra. “You can't fall in love, you can't love a man, and you most certainly can’t love your group member.”
He’d learned to live life with a broken heart, held together by stubbornness and bitter resolve. Most days it was manageable.
And then on some days, like today, he is too weak to keep Jisung from tearing it open again. Another fresh wound made by the only one who can heal it. He stares up at Jisung, his gaze hungry but frightened, a contradicting mix of predator and prey. Just this once he hopes Jisung will take the lead. He knows he won't be able to resist.
If Jisung chooses to lead them to ruin tonight, Minho will gladly follow.
Maybe Jisung was right and it has been too long since they’ve done this.
“Hyung?” Jisung asks, eyes flitting down to his own wrist, still wrapped in Minho’s tight grip. Minho doesn’t remove his hand, but responds by tugging Jisung back down, the other flopping ungracefully on top of him with a squeak.
“Next episode,” Minho breathes, his nose mere inches from Jisung’s.
“You said that last time,” Jisung says, eyes lingering on Minho’s mouth. Minho licks his lips, hyper aware of Jisung’s full attention on him now, for the first time all night. The intro song to another episode plays in the background and he freezes, his brain slowly beginning to catch up with his body. They’re breathing the same air and Minho feels lightheaded at the proximity.
“Too late I guess.”
“We should–” Jisung begins, but cuts his sentence short and sits up, straddling Minho’s hips. He doesn't make a move to get off the bed, instead resting his hands on Minho’s sides and staring down at him with an unreadable expression. Minho’s breathing quickens under Jisung’s gaze, both from their position and the uncertainty of being unable to tell what the other is thinking. He is normally so acutely attuned to the younger’s wavelength, but right now he can't help but feel splayed out and completely vulnerable beneath Jisung.
“What are you doing, Jisungie?” Minho finds his voice, and it comes out pitchy and forced. He winces at how wrecked he sounds, the last bit of shaky confidence he had slipping through his fingers.
“Nothing,” Jisung says, his face stoic. Expressionless. Minho’s hands find their way onto Jisung’s thighs that are resting on either side of his hips. His fingertips sink into the soft fabric of his sweatpants, cotton giving way to lean muscle. Jisung inhales sharply as Minho gives an experimental squeeze to his right quad and the sound goes straight to Minho’s core. He can feel himself heating up from the inside out, a flame fanned hot and molten and dangerous.
“It’s getting hot in here, Sung,” Minho whispers, looking up at the air conditioner above them that had shut off a while ago.
“A little,” Jisung says, never breaking eye contact. He wraps his arms around himself, lifting his T-shirt off his body in one swift move. “That’s better.”
Something snaps in Minho’s brain and his body jolts at the sight above him. He pulls his hands away from Jisung’s thighs as if they had burned him, grasping the blankets at his side to ground himself.
“Oh come on, hyung, don’t act like you’ve never seen me like this before,” Jisung chides, rolling his eyes.
The truth is, yes, they’ve all seen each other in every imaginable state of undress in the multitude of dorms, dressing rooms and hotels they've shared over the years. Memories of harmless fun run through his mind; impish fingers finding purchase in ticklish sides. Of unprompted wrestling matches, instigated purely as an excuse to touch each other. Minho can easily recall the feeling of soft curves and hard lines beneath his hands, the roadmap of Jisung’s skin not entirely unexplored.
But roads look different in the moonlight when you’re only used to traveling them during the day, and right now Minho feels like he’s seeing Jisung for the first time.
“Not like this, Jisungie,” Minho says, breathlessly. “Never like this.”
Jisung leans forward, running a hand through Minho's hair, pushing the sweat-damp bangs out of his eyes. His fingers make their way down to the hem of the other’s T-shirt, slowly rucking the fabric up his torso. Minho’s erratic breathing jostles the man atop him.
“You feel like you’re getting hot too,” Jisung says. “Take this off, I promise it feels better.”
Minho falters briefly, but doesn’t have to be told twice. He sits up slightly, unceremoniously tugging his sweaty shirt off with Jisung’s help. It finds its way into a pile of clothes in the corner of Jisung’s room, forgotten the second it hits the floor. Minho’s full attention is on Jisung, entirely unsure of where to focus, as his gaze bounces all over the younger man’s face and body like a frenzied game of pinball.
“Yeah,” Minho concedes, leaning back on his elbows and fixing Jisung with a heavy-lidded stare that makes the younger man visibly flush. “I guess that’s better.”
God, what happens now?
The two are locked in a standoff, neither willing to make a move. Minho is about to lose his nerve and play the whole thing off like he’s done so many times before, when they are both startled by the air conditioner cycling on above their heads. Jisung jumps at the sudden sound, noticeably shivering as cool air pours over them like a bucket of ice water. Minho’s own body still burns from the inside out, but he doesn’t miss the ripple of goosebumps that wash over Jisung’s skin, more pronounced in the shadowy, flickering light of the dim bedroom.
“Well that didn’t last long,” Minho says with a smirk that contrasts the disappointment in his eyes. Still propped up on one arm, he reaches up with the other and runs his warm palm over Jisung’s forearm. His skin is cold and electric and alive . Minho smooths down the fine hairs standing on end, rubbing tenderly in reverence as the goosebumps begin to fade. If allowed, he could spend hours worshiping every inch of Jisung’s perfect body and still not feel like he’s conveyed how precious he is to him. Minho feels his thoughts taking a turn down a dangerous path again, and he rubs harder. Rough. “Put your shirt back on, you’ll catch a cold.”
“No,” Jisung says sharply, catching Minho’s wrist and pulling it away from his arm. “I’m fine.”
“You’re freezing, I can see you–” Minho begins, but is cut off by Jisung shoving him down fully on his back, leaning over Minho so that their faces are mere inches apart again. He takes one of Minho’s hands and guides it to his bare side.
“It’ll turn off again soon. Keep me warm until then.”
It’s a challenge, more than a demand. Jisung is giving him an out, as well as an invitation. Minho is terrified of accepting, but his hands move on their own and grasp the tiny waist hovering above him, pulling Jisung flush against his body. Jisung lets out a barely audible huff as he sinks into Minho, forming to his body like a second skin, and Minho wishes he could draw him even further inside himself. He would dig out a spot inside his own rib cage to keep Jisung safe and warm if that's what it took.
“Better?” Minho says, rubbing Jisung’s back briskly, hoping it will distract the younger man from the feeling of Minho’s heart beating beneath him. Against Jisung’s own chest. Against another heart that feels like its speed might outmatch his own.
This was a bad idea.
“Yeah,” Jisung says, burying his face into Minho’s neck. A full body shudder rips through him as Jisung’s words sear his skin, hot and wet. “Don’t stop.”
Unable to see much from where he lies underneath Jisung, Minho closes his eyes, all of his focus on his hands. He’s dreamed of having Jisung like this. So close, so pliant. Eager fingers trace his spine, committing to memory every dip and rise of the muscles and bone beneath them. He can feel Jisung softening under his touch, the tension in his shoulders melting away and with it, a contented sigh that dampens Minho’s shoulder where Jisung’s lips brush against his skin.
No longer having to put up a facade, Minho noses at Jisung’s hair, greedily inhaling the familiar scent. His head swims and he loses himself, completely overwhelmed by the situation in which he finds himself. The fragrance of Jisung’s shampoo, the same one he’s been using for the last couple of years, transports Minho back to the first time they shared a bed together. He remembers waiting for the sound of soft, even breathing to signal that Jisung had fallen asleep before he’d leaned in and, much like tonight, been greedy and let himself take . Even if it was all pretend. For a moment he had let himself be possessive over the one thing he knew he could never have.
He had let himself lie next to the boy he’d been pining after for almost a year and pretend for just one bittersweet moment that the head of hair he was nuzzled into belonged to him. He let himself pretend that the warm body that was pressed into his side belonged to him. And before turning over and blinking away hot, frustrated tears, he let himself pretend that the precious heart inside the chest that rose and fell in peaceful slumber belonged to him and no one else.
Here he is again, years later, and the urge to be greedy is back.
And so are the tears.
Maybe it’s the sensory overload, or the memories, or Jisung panting in his ear as he clings to him, but he can’t help the way his throat tightens and his nose begins to burn. He squeezes his eyes closed until lights explode behind his eyelids before opening them and blinking away the tears that blur his vision and threaten to breach his waterline.
“God this is pathetic,” he thinks to himself, as his body betrays him and he convulses with a single silent sob.
“Hyung?” Jisung says, his voice tipped with panic. He tries to look at Minho, shifting to sit up, but Minho wraps his arms tighter around Jisung’s body and holds him firm. “Minho, let me go!”
“No,” Minho replies wetly, barely above a whisper. “Not yet. Please not yet.” One tear slides down his cheek and he curses under his breath.
“We need to talk,” Jisung says, gentle understanding cradling every syllable. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have–”
“No,” Minho repeats, clearing his throat. “Don’t.” His fingers weave into Jisung’s hair and he can feel the tears flow freely, burning rivers down the side of his temples and pooling in his ears. Jisung, still tense under his fingers, releases a small sigh when Minho begins dragging his nails across his scalp, carding through the silken strands.
He doesn’t know what possesses him to do it, but he lifts Jisung’s head with a light tug of his hair. Maybe it’s the years of languishing resolve finally fracturing, or the way Jisung’s breathing has synced up with his own. Maybe it’s simply the wave of nostalgia that floods his nervous system after his fingers kick up a fresh wave of that damn shampoo that finally does him in, he doesn’t fucking know. Or care for that matter. In a second, every bit of caring he had stored in his body after years of repressing finally evaporates and has him tugging Jisung up just enough for them to lock eyes.
Sun, meet Icarus.
Jisung looks down at Minho, eyes equally glassy. A tinge of concern is still visible on his face in the way a small crease now sits between his eyebrows. He lifts himself off Minho enough to rest some of his weight on one elbow, his other hand gently brushing the hair out of Minho’s eyes. He runs his thumb down the side of Minho’s high cheekbone, smoothing out a salty tear track; a confession that reveals more than words ever could. Minho leans into the touch, and blinking, never breaks eye contact. Had he been completely naked he would feel less exposed, and yet there’s no more fear. There should be, but he can’t feel it anymore. I’ve got you, Jisung doesn’t say, but Minho feels it.
“I can’t do this anymore, Sung,” Minho finally says with a weary sigh, exhaling years worth of heartbreak along with his words. He sees the anxiety flash across Jisung’s face and realizes quickly that his phrasing was misunderstood. “No Jagi, not this . I mean that I can’t keep up with the lie. I can’t keep pretending that everything is ok and that I don’t want more with you.”
“Hyung,” Jisung says softly. “We should’ve talked about this a long time ago.”
“We can talk about it now,” Minho says, not even caring how desperate he sounds.
“It’s probably too late.”
“Never, it’s not–”
“What about our job?”
“Yeah? What about it? You think we’d be the first idols to hide a relationship?” Minho huffs. He knows Jisung is just playing devil’s advocate, trying to be the voice of reason, but he can’t help the frustration that prickles beneath his skin and bleeds into his words. Ever attuned to each other and clearly sensing Minho’s distress, Jisung tips his forehead down and presses against Minho’s. They both close their eyes, gathering their thoughts.
“I’m just talking this out with you, please don’t think I’m saying these things because I don’t want the same thing as you.”
“How would I know that?” Minho’s voice is so small that he isn’t even sure if he said it out loud or just thought it.
“You don’t think I want you?” Jisung pulls away slightly, just enough for Minho to see something fragile fracture behind his eyes. “How could you not know?”
Minho doesn’t let anyone see his insecurities, and so it’s understandable that Jisung is taken back by the honesty and vulnerability in Minho's words. Deep down, a small part of Minho knows Jisung still wants him, even all these years after their first confession. They’ve changed and grown, but always closer, never further apart. If anything, the love he feels every day from Jisung is stronger than it was when they held each other that night they agreed to put their feelings on hold and focus on their careers.
But Minho is human, and even he has doubts and insecurities, and he can’t help but worry that he missed his chance.
“I don’t know,” Minho admits. His fingers untangle from Jisung’s hair where they’ve been gently cradling the back of his head, and he cups the younger man’s face. He brushes a thumb over the tiny mole on Jisung’s left cheek and watches the honeyed flesh dip under his touch. Instinctually, he licks his lips and doesn't miss the way Jisung’s eyes dart down to his mouth. They lock eyes again, and Minho feels a surge of bravery press him to say, “I need to know for sure, Jisungie.”
Jisung leans into Minho’s caress, his eyes fluttering shut, leaning down until their noses are touching.
“Ok,” Jisung whispers against Minho's lips before crashing them together in a searing kiss. Minho’s world stutters on its axis, and time seems to freeze. Jisung backs off slightly and is cautious in the way he proceeds, warm lips moving gently and chaste, allowing for Minho to make the next move.
Allowing for Minho to reciprocate.
Minho’s brain takes a second to catch up to what’s happening, and when it finally does, he holds Jisung’s face firmly, assuringly, deepening the kiss. Languid and deliberate, he tastes Jisung for the first time, and his pulse ignites. He tastes like the salt of unshed tears and the gravity of unsaid words. Parting his lips, Minho invites Jisung’s tongue in, hot and slick and every bit as intoxicating as his dreams had led him to believe it would be. Maybe moreso.
Minho’s hands trail down Jisung’s bare sides, grabbing at the exposed skin right above the waistband of the sweatpants riding low on Jisung’s hips. He kneads at the tiny waist, pulling Jisung in again as they kiss with intent. Minho can feel Jisung pouring years of want into every glide of his tongue and roll of his hips. He can feel the longing in the way he nips at Minho’s bottom lip, dragging it into his own swollen mouth and holding it there possessively. He can feel every hope, every worry, every dream and every heartache laid bare for him in the way Jisung’s fingers hold his jaw and tangle in his hair.
Even with the air conditioner still humming above them, dousing their heated bodies with chill air, Minho can feel the slip of sweat between their exposed chests. He slides a hand down, cupping Jisung’s ass over his sweatpants and Jisung groans into Minho’s mouth. The sound rockets through him like a lightning bolt and sets every nerve in his trembling body ablaze, white hot arousal pooling dangerously in the lowest part of his belly.
“Hyung,” Jisung protests into Minho’s mouth. Minho reconnects their lips and pulls Jisung down harder, frantic in the way he clutches at Jisung’s body. Just a single word spoken in the silence of the bedroom is enough to burst their metaphorical bubble and send Minho crashing back to earth. A sickening mixture of nerves and dread immediately extinguish the fire in his gut and he is suddenly desperate for whatever this is to not stop. He’s not ready to talk. If the last couple of minutes were a dream, then he’s too scared to wake up. Once the kiss stops and the words begin, is that it? Will this be the first and last time he has Jisung like this? His heart bucks against its confines and he shivers as cold air cools the sweat on his hairline.
“Minho, please,” Jisung says gently, breaking away and placing small, tender kisses along Minho’s temple and cheek. Minho lets him, closing his eyes for a second more, completely focused on the feeling of rose petal lips on his skin.
“I’m sorry,” Minho says, kneading Jisung’s sides with his thumbs. He opens his eyes and breathes out a pained breath. He’s never denied Jisung anything, and if talking is what Jisung needs right now, he won’t stop him. Deep down he knows this is what they should be doing anyway; what they should've done so many times before.
“Don’t be,” Jisung replies, lifting up and looking down at Minho with nothing but empathy in his eyes. “ I’m sorry. We need to talk though, hyung. Honestly, we should’ve talked years ago.”
“I didn’t think there was anything to talk about. Didn’t think you still felt the same way.”
“How could–”
“I know, Jisungie,” Minho cuts him off. “I didn’t want to see it. I was so set on sticking to our agreement and just dealing with my own feelings alone. I honestly didn’t want to even imagine that you could be feeling the same way.” He reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind Jisung’s ear. “I didn’t want to imagine that you were also hurting. I’m so sorry.”
“I never stopped loving you.”
Five words.
Five words are all it takes for Minho to feel his eyes burning with fresh tears as the weight of that statement punches the air from his lungs. Finally hearing from his own mouth how Jisung has also shouldered the burden of their unspoken feelings makes something crumble inside his chest.
“I just learned how to hide things, hyung,” Jisung continues, sliding off Minho and tucking back into his side. “Maybe I’ve gotten too good at it.”
Minho pulls him in, wrapping an arm around Jisung just as they had done earlier while watching their show. That same show is still playing on the TV as if nothing has changed, when in reality, that couldn’t be farther from the truth. It's almost eerie, the way they lie in silence in the same position, on the same bed, just as they were before. Somehow the world looks different now. Scarier, perhaps. Definitely more uncertain. Minho wrestles with the idea of the certainty of pain being more comfortable than the uncertainty they’re now facing, but he immediately dismisses it. Sure, it hurt to love Jisung in secret. But he’d choose all the fear, hardship and danger that lay ahead of them if it meant he had a chance at loving him out loud.
“So what do we do now?” Minho breaks the silence, voicing what was undoubtedly running through both of their minds.
“I don’t know,” Jisung says timidly, looking up at Minho through his long lashes, mouth twitched up in a smirk. “But I do know that I can’t let that be the last time I kiss you.”
“Jisung,” Minho says solemnly, rolling on top of the other and staring down at him. “I’m being serious.”
“And you don’t think I am?” Jisung replies, looking up at Minho, his chest rising and falling quicker now that their positions have flipped. Minho scans Jisung’s face, waiting for the punchline.
Because there has to be one, right?
But maybe that’s just it, and the punchline all along was the fact that they spent years pining for each other for no reason.
“Weren’t you the one worried about our job just a few minutes ago?” Minho asks, shifting his weight on his elbows. Jisung opens his legs, allowing for Minho to slot between them.
“I’m still worried,” Jisung confesses. “But what’s the alternative? We just keep lying to ourselves? Lying to each other?”
“You do realize, Jisungie,” Minho says, leaning down and planting a quick kiss on his forehead. “If we go down this road, we’ll just be living another lie.”
“At least we’ll have each other. We can do it if we’re on the same page,” Jisung adds with a twinkle in his eye. “Plus, we know at least one of us is good at hiding things.”
Minho looks down at Jisung with his characteristic practiced blank stare, trying his best to look annoyed at Jisung for calling him out on not knowing the other’s true feelings all these years. It only proves to further amuse the younger man, a delightful giggle breaking the tension and shattering Minho’s resolve. How can he even pretend to be annoyed, when his favorite heart-shaped smile is right there, within reach, asking to be his?
The truth is, yes, it will be hard. It might break them. He’s had almost half a decade to run through every possible scenario in his mind of what could, and probably would, go wrong if they ever got together. But at the end of it, he always came to the same conclusion: it would be worth it. Whatever the repercussions, whatever they had to do to keep themselves hidden, it would all be worth it.
Because at the end of the day, Jisung is his sun and he can only flourish so much while living in the shade. With his entire being, Minho craved his heat and his light. He would move planets and stars if it meant a chance at having that; unrestricted and all his.
“It’s going to be hard,” Minho says plainly, eyes vulnerable and hopeful.
“Nothing this special is ever easy, Min,” Jisung replies, his smile softening to something painfully fond. “But I can’t think of anything more worth it. You’re worth it, hyung. We’re worth it.”
And that’s all Minho has to hear before he’s reconnecting their lips, and this time it feels different. Different in the way that a stranger becomes a friend, or a new house one day becomes home . Comfortable. Certain. Safe.
They don’t need to talk any more tonight. There will undoubtedly be much to talk about in the days and weeks ahead. For now, Minho lets himself bask in the radiant glow of hope and possibility. With every bruising kiss, he makes a promise, and in every breathy whimper it earns, a response: I love you, I love you, I love you.