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Jisung never has been great with restraint. Sure, he overthinks and catastrophizes every decision he makes, and yeah, he might sullenly mull over his shitty choices for what feels like hours, but those damned quirks hold little relevance to his spontaneous and careless impulses. He wishes they would, of course — because god forbid crippling anxiety be helpful for once — but much to his mortification, there isn’t any cautionary consideration or decision oriented apprehension, once he opens his mouth.
It doesn’t matter that Jisung fears the worst or that he’s absolutely terrified of becoming a laughing stalk, only that his lips have a tendency to spew words that his brain pointedly does not tell him about, more often than not.
It’s how he ended up in a situation with Minho, after all. Acting on impulse, and royally screwing himself over.
It wouldn’t have been such a big deal if it had happened before, but it’s just not like them to have any problems, it never has been; but god, Jisung just had to find a way.
In all their years of basking in each other’s personal space on stage, they’ve never once shared any awkwardness. Not when Jisung pressed himself to Minho and sang into his microphone instead of his own, meeting that entrancing, predatory gaze and inching impossibly closer to those plush, bemused lips each sultry lyric he sang, and not when Minho wrapped around him from behind, chin tucked over his shoulder and lips buried in his neck, idly murmuring the words Jisung tried to sing without betraying his blush.
It wasn’t even awkward when the band invited groupies back to the hotel and Minho’s eyes never left Jisung, regardless of what — or who — they were doing, separately. There just wasn’t any reason for there to be uncomfortable tension, they were too close for that, too close to have anything amok or out of place.
Change was imminent for everything, he knew, but that knowledge only provided minimal comfort, to his unease about unfamiliarity. In what he felt was some outlandish stroke of bad luck, he always felt as if each time he would adjust and grow comfortable with a specific routine, be it in schedules or relationships, everything would change. Before, Jisung felt plagued by instability, cursed to forever be surrounded by the very thing that elicited such unease— but then he’d met Minho.
Minho, the dizzyingly charming, seemingly chaotic but refreshingly tranquil dream-come-to-life that had a conversation with a nervous, jittery Jisung before one of his gigs and made him feel better, all sweet, sure smiles and supportive words, friendly squeezes to his bouncing knee.
Minho, who approached an excited Jisung after the gig, confident, sure, with an ‘I told you so’ demeanor and a sense of entitlement so strong that it should have brought him irritation rather than infatuation, seeking to join his band, of all things. Seriously, the switch up, for one, and what kind of asshole had the nerve to ask that? After a show, nonetheless?
Lee Minho was that kind of asshole, as Jisung was very quickly made aware, but not quite unfondly, still grateful for the words of encouragement. He had almost laughed in the other’s face, incredulous and disbelieving of the preposterous question, but then Minho had spoken again, voice considerably softer, when he said,
“You’re really amazing, Jisungssi. When you’re on stage, all eyes are on you; you’re absolutely captivating, and I don’t want to take that away, or anything—” The brunette had pursed his lips, then, breaking eye contact for the first time, ears flushed red. “I just. I’ve watched you on stage, seen your personality from afar and witnessed it up close, and you’re.. irresistible.
“I want to get to know you, Jisung. Music is your life, so what better way, right?” He took a breath, managed a smile at Jisung’s open mouth, and continued. “You also need a bass player, yeah? Not to be cocky, but I play the bass better than most people I know. Your music is already flawless, but it could be even better; I really think we could surpass the perfection you’ve already achieved.”
Jisung was at a loss for words, genuinely. He probably gaped for a few minutes, at least. Never before had he been so offended, flattered, and endeared by a singular person.
All he could think to say was, “Wow.”
Minho’s lips had quirked into a small, tentative smile, and Jisung offhandedly and treacherously thought he never wanted Minho to frown again.
“Good wow? Or bad, get out of my face, crawl under a rock, and never speak again wow?”
It was basically history from there.
Jisung had spluttered something unintelligible, probably, still baffled by the guy’s confusing kindness and sheer audacity, so Minho took pity on him, offering to buy him a drink. Really, he should have been the one to take pity on Minho, because again, the audacity, but he’s always been pretty shit at taking control, and Minho seemed more than happy to do it for him, so they just.. worked. And they still do.
The night they talked at the bar, Jisung had a really fucking good time, which was kind of unheard of, for him. Public places almost always freaked him out, the overlapping voices, laughs, and infinite sounds swarming uncomfortably in his ears, constricting his lungs and blurring his vision in a building panic until he could hardly think straight. It was even worse if he was with someone unknown, the panic only fueled by the looming awkwardness of conversation topics and pressure to impress, but he hadn’t felt any of that with Minho.
The elder made him more comfortable than he’d ever felt with a stranger, told jokes that made Jisung splutter into his drink from laughter, kept Jisung’s focus on him (when it would inevitably start to drift) with gentle, guiding fingers on his jaw, and even walked with him outside, when the booming speakers got to be too much.
He’d always struggled with making permanent friends, mostly because he lacked the knowledge on how to get past those awkward, obligatory exchanges that led to real friendship, but also because he was– well, he was just weird. Minho says Jisung is normal, compared to his own chaos – which he can’t really argue with, he’s never met anyone as fucking crazy as Minho – but Jisung has just never fully felt in place with anything, any one, not unless the first several moves were made by another.
He thanks god every day, really, for Changbin and Chan’s extroverted, crazily fucking dilligent infatuation with him. And Minho’s weird, outright disregard of those first steps, his habit of simply acting as if they’d been friends for years.
Because it really felt like they had, the more they connected, and before Jisung knew it, Minho was all chummy with the other members of his band, and then it was up to him to decide if Minho could join or not. Even if it wasn’t ever really a choice, considering how helpless Jisung was since the beginning. So Minho joined the band, he and Jisung grew impossibly closer, and just as Minho had predicted, their music improved. So much so that they grew moderately famous for such a small, unheard of band, and their fanbase right along with it.
Somewhere along the lines of cherished late night talks and giddy, suggestive performances, Jisung’s feelings for Minho delved beyond platonic. Or maybe they hadn't been fully platonic to begin with, too drenched in starry eyed admiration and bubbly fondness to even consider the prospect of Minho only being a friend.
Whatever his feelings were were, they’d been driving him up the fucking wall lately, because suddenly, all of the borderline coupley things they used to do were too coupley and were fucking with his head, bad.
It only got worse when their fans started shipping them. Suddenly, everywhere Jisung looked, be it their comments, fansites, or even shirts at their gigs, the tag Minsung was unmistakably prominent. It haunted Jisung’s being, especially when Minho would take note of it either with glee and a happy bright smile, or with irritating cockiness, a mischievous, sultry smirk twisting his lips, when he draped himself over Jisung with overly affectionate words and pet names that warmed him to his core and amplified the screams of the fans.
It was all too thrilling, especially since Minho was just as flirtatious in private, and before he could even think to stop it, Jisung was utterly and helplessly whipped. It’s always in the back of his mind, that itching feeling that Minho is something much more than the others— hell, more than anything, but he does his best to push it down. Jisung doesn’t know what he’d do without Minho.
That being said, he wants to punch Jisung from thirty minutes ago in the face for whatever unspeakable impulse drove him to watch a fan made compilation of he and Minho’s interactions, because once he took note of his painstakingly obvious heart eyes for his best friend, there simply wasn’t any possible way for him to return to pretending he didn’t feel anything for Minho. Not that it really seemed to matter much, anyway, considering his crush was apparently visible to the rest of the world. God, he won’t ever live this down. .
To make matters worse, Jisung and Minho have a livestream planned this afternoon, which is where he finds himself now, very pointedly ignoring the intoxicating scene of vanilla that fills his nostrils, from the man sitting next to him.
He thanks every god imaginable that he’s managed to keep his cool.
Jisung is in the middle of a meaningless tangent when he suddenly pauses, Minho tilting his head curiously beside him, as Jisung holds the phone closer to his face, eyes widening when he recognizes the live’s view count is significantly higher than normal.
“Woah,” he breathes, eyes a little wide as he tilts the screen to Minho, who makes a small pleased noise. “This is crazy,” Jisung chuckles, a bit astonished, as he grins. “Thanks so much, everyone! Hyung, say thank you.”
Minho blinks at the camera.
Jisung giggles, fond, and brightens further when he gets an idea. (Spoiler alert, it’s an absolutely horrible idea. Thanks a lot, impulse.)
“Hmm, I think I’ve got a challenge. Get us toooo.. 15k, and we’ll do something real special! How’s that sound?”
Full transparency, Jisung has no intention of doing anything ‘special,’ but in his utmost defense, it simply isn’t possible that their views could go from 10k to 15k in the span of five minutes, which is the remainder of their stream time.
It’s unrealistic, and that is precisely what makes it fun.
Reading aloud the suggestion, ‘You and Minho should kiss,’ aloud wasn’t as fun because it made Jisung’s heart stutter in his chest, but the situation was ultimately funny as a whole, so he was able to swallow the emotion lodging in his thrust with a small laugh.
“Sure,” he forces a grin. “Why not?”
Minho lifts a brow at Jisung’s strained smile, but nods, nonetheless.
That being established, Jisung must have seriously underestimated how much their fan base wanted to see him and Minho kiss, because the view count and flurry of excited comments only creep higher with every breath he takes, and the amused huff of laughter that leaves Minho’s lips isn’t helping in the slightest.
Which leaves him in his current predicament, nervously sweating and paying worried glances to his friend, who’s only watching him with dark, glittery eyes and a small, mischievous smirk. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Nervous, Jagi?”
Jisung swallows, tearing his gaze from the screen to send a weak glare Minho’s way. It falls through the second he meets Minho’s eyes, to absolutely no one’s surprise. He finds himself lost in those liquid pools of bemusement more often than not.
Of course he’s nervous. Fuck, how could he not be? He just said he would kiss Minho. Jisung, just said he would kiss Minho, the literal love of his life, but whatever. He fears he may faint at the mere thought. Jisung really, really hadn’t thought this through, and that’s only made more apparent, as the view count continues to rise, and Minho’s smirk grows wider.
It’s much too hot, he realizes belatedly, tugging fruitlessly at his collar, as he tries to desperately steady his breathing.
The view count nears closer, climbing to 13k, 14.5k, and finally, finally 14.9k.
Jisung feels like he’s going to explode. His hands are sweaty, his mind is a mess, his are eyes blown wide in panic, and just god why did he do this, everything is going to be ruined, and — and then Minho leans over and presses their lips together.
He doesn’t quite feel conscious, he finds. It’s almost as if the firm, warm pressure of Minho’s pillowy lips against his own is some beautiful figment of his imagination, a blissful dream he’s fallen into; except Jisung is conscious, and Minho is kissing him.
It’s short and fleeting, a chaste press of their lips for a few seconds, at best, but Jisung’s lips are still moist when Minho pulls back, and the slight hint of cherry is heavy on his tongue when it darts out to swipe across his lips. His throat goes dry. Minho’s carmex. That delectable, godforsaken cherry chapstick that Jisung has watched him apply for years.
It’s always been agonizing, watching the gloss spread across Minho’s lips, even before Jisung knew what he felt for him. He was always filled with some inexplicable urge to taste it for himself, whether it was through actually borrowing the stick, or taking the moisture straight from Minho’s lips, himself. Perhaps that should have been a sign, but, well, he supposes he doesn’t have to fantasize about it anymore, because chaste as it was, he got it. Because Minho kissed him.
The recognition makes Jisung’s brain implode all over again.
His turmoil must be clear on his face, because he’s ripped from his conscious by a soft, familiar breath of laughter. Jisung braves a glance up, swallowing nervously as he prepares for whatever emotion might linger in Minho’s expression, only to find that the elder is smiling. His plush lips are split into such a beautiful grin that Jisung’s heart pangs in his chest, his eyes glinting with something that Jisung recognizes to be fond amusement.
It makes Jisung want to scream and rip his hair out whilst simultaneously kissing the living daylights out of him.
He doesn’t get to do either, unfortunately, because suddenly Changbin is popping in the room and yelling at them to stop polluting their image with a large smile on his face, and with a horrified start, Jisung is reminded — with much mortification because his eyes have not left Minho’s lips for what feels like hours upon end — that they’re still on camera.
The brunette doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest, offering a sweet smile and wave to the device before suddenly concluding the stream, leaving the screen saver as Jisung’s wide eyed, shocked expression as the ending image. Asshole. He fucking knows Minho did that on purpose. The elder’s evil laugh (soft giggle) tells him that he did.
With a tentative lift of his eyes, Jisung confirms that Changbin left the room the moment he entered, leaving he and Minho are alone again, but actually alone this time, since there’s no camera. Neither of them have moved from their previous positions, so they’re still sat side by side, shoulders and thighs pressed together in what should be a platonic fashion, but Jisung’s treacherous brain can’t help noticing that the size differences between their thighs is so stark.
Minho’s are large and thick with muscle, firm, hard, and dutifully sculpted from years of dancing, while Jisung’s are on the smaller size, devastatingly average in nature and appearance, which makes the contrast all the worse, because Minho is so big and Jisung is so tiny, and shit, does he have a size kink?
Whatever worthless epiphany he’s having is interrupted by Minho stretching, both arms above his head with a soft yawn. One of his curled fists bonks Jisung in the cheek. Jisung feels like there’s a bird flying around his head to enunciate his brain damage but he still finds it cute. And catlike. Minho is a lot like a cat.
“Do you wanna get out of here?”
The blonde blinks, cheeks reddening even further, because okay, he’s not insane, right? The connotations behind those words are very evident, right!?
But Minho only grins and nudges his shoulder. “I have a craving for sugar. What about that cafe?”
Jisung can only nod slowly. Oh, he’s fucked.
*
They go to the fucking cafe.
Jisung really almost wishes they didn’t, because of all the dishes Minho could have ordered, he ordered pudding – like he always does, Jisung is just emotionally distressed and in need of something to blame – which of course meant that some would linger on Minho’s lips the entirety of the meal, which just, in direct correspondence, guaranteed that Jisung’s eyes would linger on said lips.
Minho definitely noticed, if his playful, lidded gaze and small smirks conveyed anything, but he didn’t actually speak on it until they’d finished up, after he offered his last bite to Jisung, with an unfairly seductive, “Say ah, Jisungie. Eat it all, okay?”
He did, in fact, eat it all– but his eyes still drifted back to the painting in front of him, which is why Minho prompted the tease he did.
“Is there something on my face, Jisung-ah?”
He sighs on instinct, just because Minho still looks pretty, even while trying to humiliate him. Even prettier, actually, but he’s about had it with the epiphanies today.
“Beauty?” he offers helplessly.
Minho laughs, despite the utter stupidity shrouding his words, and it warms Jisung’s heart. “Besides that, honey.”
His warmed heart promptly does a flip.
“Just a bit of pudding there.”
Minho hums, contemplating, then smiles. “Will you get it for me?”
Jisung glances around the table, tongue heavy, only to find that there aren’t any napkins. Thank god.
“We’re out of napkins,” he says gratefully, unsure if the relief coursing through his veins is any noticeable. Jisung couldn’t get close to Minho’s lips without malfunctioning on a normal day, and he especially couldn’t handle it today.
The elder only quirks a brow, though, messied lips tilting into a small smirk. “Do you need one?”
Fuck his life.
Jisung takes an unsteady breath. “I, uh. I guess not?”
Minho waves a hand, encouraging him to get on with it. Oh, he’s screwed. He is so fucking screwed, how is he—
“Jisung?”
Well. Hesitating has got to be weirder than flat out refusing, so here goes nothing, he guesses.
His hand is unsteady as he leans forward, such a pining, muddled mess that he thinks a small gasp slips his tongue once his thumb makes contact with Minho’s pouty lips. It’s unsurprisingly uneventful, because all he’s doing is being a bro and wiping pudding off Minho’s mouth, but the moment feels so charged, all the same.
Maybe it’s the way Jisung freezes, smitten, utterly addicted to the buoyancy of Minho’s lips. Or maybe it’s the fact that his eyes don’t leave Minho’s lips until the smirk unfurls beneath his thumb — but most likely, it’s because when he finally braves a timid, weary look up, Minho’s gaze is dark and lidded, interested at first glance, but something else entirely, in nature.
It looks like he wants to devour Jisung.
Jisung would let him.
“Hyung,” the blonde whispers, barely a breath.
He swallows, pained by his attraction and the weight of Minho’s attention, but before he gets the chance to say something, anything, Minho is batting Jisung’s hand away and abruptly standing to round the table. In a flash, Minho is in front of him, pulling him up from his seat and placing a firm hand on his jaw to angle his wide, disbelieving gaze up, and then Minho’s lips suddenly and blissfully meet his for the second time that day.
Idly, Jisung can’t help but wonder if he’s dreaming once Minho’s mouth moves against his, unyielding in purpose and so, so wonderful in execution. Jisung feels his lips part when Minho’s fingers curl in his hair, anchoring him to reality, and then he’s really kissing Minho; smooth slides of their lips and quickened breaths between them a remedy to all his troubles.
It feels like he’s floating, like he’s weightless and lost in the current of Minho’s sweet breath. He could kiss Minho forever , Jisung realizes, melting into the elder’s hold as his thoughts drift even higher in elation. He very well could in theory and he certainly wants to, but oxygen — damn it — is still vital, so he and Minho inevitably separate.
Jisung expects his world to crash down on him, to feel the impending weight of bad decisions and unwanted feelings, and see the regret and disgust in Minho’s eyes— but he doesn’t. Instead, it’s only still. They’re both panting slightly, breathing each other in, and though their lips forwent their connection, Minho’s hold on Jisung hasn’t wavered.
Jisung thinks he’s pretty good at reading Minho by now, but he can’t quite place the look in his eyes. Dark and dangerous, deep like an endless pool omitted from light, yet so, so incredibly fond that the flimsy guise of darkness falls and reveals nothing but endless warmth and adoration; deep, but no longer threatening.
The knowing embrace of darkness that makes way for gentle light.
It’s underwhelming yet all too much, and Jisung doesn’t really know what to say, but he thinks it’ll be alright, because it’s Minho and Minho never gives him any reason to stress. Even when they’ve both just risked the very thing they cherish so much: each other.
Minho’s stuttered breath brings Jisung back to the present, and a gentle thumb caressing his cheek causes his newly opened eyes to briefly flutter shut. “Jisungie,” Minho breathes, so soft he wouldn’t have heard it if Minho weren’t so close. He purses his lips, doesn’t continue for a moment, and that’s more than alright, because currently, Jisung doesn’t feel very real.
It’s all too blissful, too perfect. It’s unbelievable and hardly realistic, but Minho’s sweet perfume fills Jisung’s nostrils and his vanilla breaths fall on Jisung’s lips, so he knows it’s real— but the perfection is still unnerving, because as the silence stretches on, he feels like their perfect, fragile little bubble of meaningful looks and warm lips could be so easily shattered, his heart destroyed in a lightning blink, but Jisung holds onto the hope that it will be okay, because again, it’s Minho, and Minho always makes things okay.
Jisung tenses still when the elder opens his mouth, awaiting, but Minho never ends up speaking, because all at once their names are being called from across the cafe, and before Jisung can even mourn it, their bubble breaks.
Minho’s hand stills on his cheek, but before he can think to drop it, Jisung is stepping away, ashamed, flushed bright red and thinking so loud because everything chose now to fall and crash and burn. Shit. Shit. Everything is ruined. Oh, everything is just ruined. His career, his consistency, his entire life, honestly, but most importantly, his friendship with Minho, because it all makes sense now. The moment didn’t feel real because it wasn’t, not for Minho, anyway. Minho kissed him in the spur of the moment. He doesn’t actually have feelings for Jisung, Jisung doesn’t know why he thought Minho did, in the first place.
He doesn’t think he can lose Minho. Jisung really can’t lose Minho— but it’s inevitable, because there isn’t any way Minho would continue being friends with someone who has feelings for him, and there’s no doubt that Minho knows because Jisung is so obvious.
He can’t see anything. His eyes burn with unshed tears, but distantly, in the back of his mind, he registers that Changbin is the one who found them. Minho is touching his arm, now, trying to coax him into breathing, but it’s all too much because why is Minho even trying, and why he can hardly breathe, and both Minho and Changbin are worried and just— Jisung can’t take it, can’t handle the turmoil, so he shrugs away and darts from the cafe to their bus that’s parked out front, instantly crawling into his bunk and curling into a ball. He can hear his heartbeat. It’s so loud. Everything is so loud.
It’s hard to breathe for a long time, difficult to calm his racing heart and slow his speeding thoughts, but Jisung does, eventually, counting his breaths and focusing on what he can feel. It’s still a lot. Everything is still a lot, but Jisung can take breaths without feeling pain anymore. His calm threatens to subside when he hears Minho and Changbin enter, but they don’t bother him, thankfully, per Minho’s instruction, likely, so he’s alright for the time being. Blissfully, Jisung slips into a light sleep, and his troubles are eased.
*
When he wakes, the bus is empty, and only an hour or so has passed. He has several messages from Minho, a missed call from Chan, and fuck, a reminder from their manager that they have a gig in an hour. Of fucking course. That’s what the fucking live was for, initially, how did he forget—
Before he can dissolve into another panic, the door of the bus opens and Changbin steps in with a friendly hey, oddly quiet for his boisterous ego.
“Hi,” Jisung says shakily.
Changbin gives him a gentle smile. “Did you listen to Chan hyung’s voicemail?”
Jisung almost groans. “No? God, who still leaves voicemails anymore?”
The drummer snorts, reclining on the small, cramped couch with a supportive shrug. “Chan.”
The blonde snickers, and for a moment, he feels light. But then he remembers, and he’s heavy again. There’s also the impending gig that causes him to rush to his feet, almost frantic, a crazed look sent Changbin’s way when he realizes the man also isn’t ready, but Changbin only stands with purpose, laying gentle hands on his arms with a calming look in his eye.
“What he said, Sung, was that we rescheduled our show.”
And just like that, a ton was lifted from Jisung’s chest. He’s still incredibly overwhelmed, yeah, there’s no fixing that anytime soon — unless Minho were to, like, return his feelings, but that’s impractical — but it’s more than relieving for the moment.
God, Jisung could not perform on stage with Minho tonight. He always looked too fucking good.
Smudged, inky charcoal that accentuated the feline shape of his eyes, a deep red shadow blended with a cloudy gray around his lids to highlight the ferocity of his gaze, and the pretty, rosy line of perfect lips. Minho invaded Jisung’s personal space most times on stage, and typically he fucking loved it, relished in that high even as his head spun from Minho’s presence, amplified by the tang of sweat and exhausted grins, but he couldn’t do that tonight.
Jisung doesn’t think he could resist doing something drastic like kissing Minho, if he saw him on stage.
.. From the look Changbin is giving him, Jisung assumes he knows that. “How come?” he tries anyway.
Changbin blinks at him, exasperated. “You know why.”
Jisung looks at the floor.
“I saw you, you know.” He stills, while his friend continues. “You looked good like that, Ji. Happy. With him.”
Jisung looks up in disbelief, a crazed look in his eyes.
Changbin scoffs. “You think I’m joking? It was about time! You two are annoyingly whipped for each other, it was driving me insane.”
Jisung blinks enthusiastically, beyond confused.
Changbin rolls his eyes, “Come on, Ji. You can’t seriously tell me you don’t have feelings for Minho— friends don’t kiss like that.”
Jisung wants to remark that he and Chan have been awfully close lately, but he resists. Mostly because he doesn’t want to be hit, but also because Changbin is right.
“I do,” he admits quietly, the feeling foreign. “I really do like him,” the vocalist sighs, obliging when Changbin pats the empty space next to him.
“But he doesn’t feel the same.”
The words burn on Jisung’s tongue, but it’s good to say them out loud, to really set them in stone and help his mind understand that—
“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me!” Changbin blurts, looking both genuinely angry and concerned from his furrowed brows.
Jisung startles and looks at him weird, which elicits a wide eyed, tired sigh.
“Jisung” the drummer pleads. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
The utter cluelessness in his eyes must give him away, because Changbin is dramatically falling back into the couch with a prolonged groan within the second.
“Sung,” he says tiredly but pointedly. “Go talk to Minho.”
Jisung balks at that, eyes widening even at the mere implication of facing him. “What? Are you crazy? No! I’m not doing that.”
Changbin just looks at him. “Get your ass off this bus and talk to him right now.”
Jisung crisses his arms stubbornly. “Or what?”
Changbin smiles a little too menacingly. “Or I’ll post those pictures of you and the banana to our official account.”
Immediately, Jisung pales and jumps to his feet.
“Alright! Alright.”
No way in hell was he taking that chance, he’d rather talk to Minho— but he just can’t. Changbin doesn’t need to know that, though, so he only leaves the bus with an assuring nod, a low guilt eating at his stomach as he escapes.
*
He ends up on a bench in a park he regularly visits with Minho. It was a subconscious decision to come here, he thinks, because once he actually settled, he realized this is probably the first place Minho would look for him. Jisung is right, unsurprisingly, because after a few moments of reflection on his poor decision making, a familiar figure approaches.
“You’re avoiding me,” he says plainly, joining Jisung on the bench. The blonde can only avert his gaze, ashamed.
Jisung’s throat feels thick, like it’s difficult to swallow. He manages a nod, anyway. Minho hums lowly in response. It wasn’t his fault. It was Jisung’s own stupid heart.
He feels terrible for avoiding Minho. The elder struggles with anxiety himself, regardless of how he pretends he doesn’t, so Jisung knows it couldn’t have been a good day for him, which makes it all the worse– but he just didn’t know what else to do. He couldn’t look at Minho any longer without bursting into tears at what he can’t have.
It’s so selfish and idiotic because this could seriously destroy the deepest relationship Jisung has ever had – not to even mention the fucking band – but. Yeah. He doesn’t know what to do. A part of him really hopes Minho does, because he always knows how to help Jisung. Even if there’s no helping this situation, because there’s no way in hell Minho returns his feelings.
Torn from his thoughts by a light touch to his knee, Jisung turns, finally, and is almost shocked to see Minho nervous.
His hands are fidgeting in his lap, devastatingly similar to Jisung’s own mannerisms, and his eyes are downcast, his voice a mere mumble, when he says, “I’m sorry. ‘Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Sung-ah. I just.. I really wanted to kiss you.”
He pauses, then says wryly, “Both times.”
It’s bitter and so obviously not what he wants to say and it hurts Jisung so bad to see him like that, so out of touch with himself. So he’s quick to cover one of Minho’s hands with his own, intent on comforting his friend and ignoring the butterflies that blossom in his stomach at the contact because they’re friends, they touch each other all the time, but Minho’s softly reddening ears make it all the more difficult.
“It’s not your fault, hyung,” Jisung sighs, the tension in his shoulders subconsciously relaxing, just from Minho’s presence, the gentle thumb he runs across his palm. “I was just..” He trails off.
“Surprised?” Minho supplies, quirking a brow, and frankly looking much too attractive for someone that was just looking inconsolable.
Jisung swallows, heartbeat quickening, as he coughs out, “Sure, yeah. Surprised.”
He can tell Minho doesn’t believe him. There’s silence for a few moments, and then Minho is speaking again, curious but determined.
“So what was it really? You kissed me back, jagi.”
Sometimes Jisung wishes his friend didn’t point out the obvious, but if it’ll help alleviate the thick tension in the air, well, he’s not all that opposed to it. Even if he has to..
“Longing?” Jisung says timidly, truthful but hesitant.
Minho blinks at him. Multiple times. Jisung wishes it wasn’t so cute. “Longing,” Minho repeats.
Jisung nods, pulling his lower lip between his teeth.
“As in..?”
The truth weighs heavy in Jisung’s chest, like he can’t breathe unless he confesses his undying love for Minho.
“As in I..”
Minho nods encouragingly.
“As in I’m in love with you.”
The bassist blinks and Jisung’s heart basically explodes.
Well, the cats out of the bag, now. Jisung’s life is ruined completely. There’s no turning back, Minho hates him now, he might as well get it all out before his friend leaves and—
“Oh, thank god.”
It’s Jisung’s turn to blink. “Huh?”
At his side, Minho laughs incredulously, pinching the bridge of his nose in disbelief. “God, you were so quiet, I thought for a second you only kissed me out of obligation. I was so scared that I fucked up.”
Jisung blinks again, impossibly confused.
“Well, I guess I did fuck up since we’re in this position, but it could be a lot worse. Like, you not returning my feelings worse.”
Jisung’s mind goes blank. So Minho— Minho loves him. Minho loves him, and he— “Wait, what?”
Minho has the audacity to blink at him like he said something crazy. “What do you mean, wait? Were you not listening?”
“Of course I was listening, what’s wrong with you!?”
“What’s wrong with me? You’re the one telling me to wait in the middle of my celebration!”
“Hyung, you just confessed to me in the lamest way possible!”
“The lamest way-” Minho looks almost murderous. “I literally kissed you earlier, you little shit! Twice!”
Jisung throws his hands up in the hair. “How was I supposed to know that was a confession!”
“Are you stupid? What kind of friends go around kissing other friends!?”
“I don’t fucking know! Chan and Changbin!?”
After a second of silence, Jisung meets Minho’s eyes, and then they’re both laughing.
“Fuck, Jisung,” Minho smiles after the laughter dies down, looking at him with something akin to muddled fondness. “Did you really not know I liked you?”
“I mean, no? How would I?”
Minho blinks at him like he’s an idiot. “I flirt with you all the time.”
“So do plenty of other friends!”
“I’m all over you on stage.”
“..Fanservice?”
“I’m all over you off stage, too.”
“Platonic affection is a thing, you know!”
“Do you really think I grope you platonically?”
“I don’t know, okay! Wait, that wasn’t platonic?”
“Sungie, how many times have I told you I want to take a bite of your ass?”
That’s where Jisung’s brain short circuits. “Uhm,” he says helplessly.
After a shake of his head and a breath of fond laughter, Minho motions for him to near. So he does, albeit very tentatively because he is feeling very embarrassed — he’s sure he’s bright red — and Minho meets him halfway, cards gentle fingers through his hair, slowly, an invitation for Jisung to stop it if he wants. Being apart from Minho is the furthest thing from what he wants, though. So instead, he leans into Minho’s touch, eyes fluttering when Minho tilts his head forward.
He waits for the warm pressure against his lips, starts to crave it, even, but it doesn’t come. When Jisung opens his eyes, Minho is just looking at him. It’s the same deep gaze from before. That pool of adoration. “You know you’re an idiot, right?” the elder tells him fondly. Jisung’s chest swells with warmth.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “It’s a good thing I have such a capable hyung to take care of me.”
Minho smiles so beautifully that it hurts. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he tells him happily.
“Because the warning was totally necessar-”
Jisung’s giggle is swallowed by a soft gasp when Minho’s lips slot against his, and immediately, Jisung knows this kiss is different.
The first was an unintentional game, serious for them both yet masked under the guise of a joke. The second was undoubtedly real, but it was a risk. For Minho’s unspoken feelings, Jisung’s reaction, and their relationship. It was too charged, too fragile to be true.
But this? Jisung finds himself pondering, unable to resist a smile against Minho’s mouth. This is just perfect. It’s sweet and gratifying, both from the leftover chocolate in Minho’s breath and the happy reminder of their reciprocated love.
When Minho’s lips curl into a matching smile against his, Jisung can’t help but laugh. It’s out of place and definitely a moment breaker, but he’s so happy he can hardly breathe, and when Minho pulls back, his cheeks flushed and his eyes a little dazed, he’s giggling too.
“I really love you,” he tells Minho breathlessly.
The elder smiles and cups his cheeks, pecks him right on the nose. “And I love you, my Jisungie.”
“Yours.”
“Mmm. All mine.”
*
By the time their next gig rolled around, Minho and Jisung were going steady. Their antics on stage were charged like they never had been before, which Jisung might have been partially responsible for. He’d been teasing a lot.
So, if Minho removed his guitar with more force than necessary and approached Jisung with an almost feral urgency so he could capture the vocalist’s lips with his own, then, well, it was safe to say that they and their fans were happier than they ever had been before.