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Today, at a Truly Ungodly Hour
"Jagiyaaa. It's time."
Minho's voice has a specific gentle lilt to it, the one he uses when he's attempting to woo a timid stray cat.
The rumpled duvet in front of him gains sentience. "No it's not," it says, words muffled against layers of fabric but no less disgruntled.
"You asked for this," Minho reminds him. "'Hyung, I can't write anymore. I suck. I need you to punch the creativity back into my brain with your superior boxing skills. You're also so cool and hot and I am but a bug.'"
A forehead obscured by sleep-mussed hair peeks over the edge of the duvet. "Aah! I don't sound like that," Jisung complains, choosing not to correct the other part. "The me of yesterday was so full of hopes and dreams of working out, but now it's a new day, and it's early, and yesterday-me is dead."
"If you're going to keep eating all the chicken breasts I buy and prep before I can eat them, the least you can do is put that protein to good use," says Minho, who's definitely complaining about it, and definitely isn't going to continue buying extra chicken breasts for them both.
"Hnngh," comes the reply.
Minho wordlessly tosses a pair of boxing gloves at the bed from the doorway. It's a direct hit - because of course it is - eliciting a yelp from the vaguely man-shaped lump.
"Hyung! That's abuse! I'll tell Channie-hyung you're trying to kill me."
"If I wanted you dead, we'd be having this conversation at your graveside," Minho threatens, although his stray-cat-charmer tone betrays him. "I'd be bringing you fresh flowers every day and consoling Yongbokkie, who's a shadow of his former self now that you're gone."
"I'd be a really hot ghost," Jisung responds against the duvet and nestles further into the bed, rather petulantly. His hand shoots out to grab his phone from the bedside table and pull it into the covers like a timid wild animal - all right, maybe a feral cat - grabbing an offered treat. There's a brief flash of light from under the bedding as the screen wakes, followed immediately by a cry of anguish.
"It's literally illegal to be awake this early!"
After a few moments of silence, Jisung hears Minho softly pad out of the bedroom and buries his head under the covers in victory, heaving a sigh and preparing to drift back off into blissful slumber. He doesn't hear Minho return, but the sudden, familiar sound of a packet being torn open close to his head snaps him back to consciousness immediately. There's absolutely no way his hyung has just-
Jisung furiously pushes the duvet away from his face and glares at the little tube staring back at him at eye level, a smear of processed chicken slurry threatening to drip onto the bed. He looks up at Minho, incredulous.
"Are you seriously offering me a Churu right now?"
"It's good protein."
Jisung slaps the tube away but admits he's been bested.
Yesterday, at a Reasonable Hour
He'd left the studio hours ago, but Jisung's frustration had followed him all the way home like a rolling black cloud threatening to unleash a downpour on him, specifically. The words weren't coming; hadn't been coming for a couple of weeks now, actually. A creative block was nothing new - he'd been about due for his annual slump - but one this persistent was really trying his patience. In previous years when he'd struggled with lyrics he'd at least been able to switch gears and work on some production; a bit of auditory freeform had sometimes been sufficient to spark enough of an idea that could pull him out of it.
This time, though? The beats and samples are proving as difficult to mold into art as the words are, and not even noodling on his guitar is bearing fruit. It makes him feel like a failure. Like he's letting the whole group down and ruining the livelihoods of his seven most precious people, who now obviously hate him because he's been fooling them all this time into thinking he had talent. An imposter to be cast out of the airlock.
"I suck," he announces decisively, wrenching the headphones from around his neck and slamming them on the kitchen counter for dramatic effect. His solo early evening walk had done nothing to clear his head, and now it was time to bitch about it.
Minho pauses his chopping and sets the knife down, bracing his hands against the counter. He knows Jisung well enough to understand that what he needs now is a quiet, empathetic ear. He lets him continue.
"I can't write. I can't produce. What am I even doing? I'm supposed to be good at this, right? This is my whole damn thing. Music is my life, hyung." Jisung runs both hands up through his hair, then down his face as he tips his head back and rants at the ceiling. His fingertips catch on his eyelids and he pulls them down for emphasis. "But right now it just makes me want to punch things."
A beat.
"You could."
Jisung meets his eyes. Minho's face is completely passive. He blinks back at him several times before continuing.
"Punching things is healthy. You could punch me, consensually. It might help you."
"Jagiya," Jisung says with a fond huff, and the spikes of his frustration already feel a little softer around the edges. The Minho Effect. "You know I'm not- I'm not into that." His eyes widen as his brain catches up with what his ears heard. "Wait, are you? What changed?"
Minho huffs right back, just as fond, as though he wasn't offering himself to be punched in the face. "Idiot. At the gym. You're always still asleep when I get up and go boxing, so you never come."
He's right - as their schedules allow, Minho's a morning workout kind of guy. Often he'll be awake, functional and living what feels like a whole day before Jisung even opens his eyes, coming home to their shared apartment before the sun has finished rising. He'll be showered and making breakfast (or, sometimes more accurately, lunch) for them both when Jisung stumbles into the world of the living, ready to divulge the latest nonsensical recap of his dream. And Minho will smile as he listens, offering commentary as he slides a full plate across the kitchen bar.
The younger man's eyes suddenly light up in realization. "Oh, that's right! You can punch the creativity back into my brain!"
"Sure, something like that," Minho says, and opens his arms.
Jisung accepts the invitation, hooking his arms under Minho's and resting his palms on his upper back, pressing a kiss into his neck. "You're so smart, Lino-yah."
Minho holds him in the same manner before smoothly dropping his hands to the curve of Jisung's ass and squeezing appreciatively. "Hm. Hope you're ready to get up early."
Jisung gently rocks them both from side to side as he speaks softly into Minho's ear. "Mmm. You wouldn't do that to me."
Today, Still at an Ungodly Hour But a Little Later
"See? That wasn't so hard."
Jisung steps back to get a better look at Minho's face, sweat already beading on his forehead. Minho's looking back at him over the boxing pads he's holding up, impossibly fond, as if Jisung isn't fighting for his life.
They've been at it for fifteen minutes, tops.
"This is impossible," he whines, attempting to wipe the sweat off his forehead with his arm but only managing to smear it around a bit.
"Think of it like new choreography," Minho offers helpfully, ever the teacher. "One that you might actually remember."
"Harsh, hyung," Jisung says. "I'm not usually learning brand new choreography at 6am. Why does this have to happen now, again? None of the other guys start this early." He adjusts the velcro strap on his left glove awkwardly, as if the oversized mitts had any kind of dexterity. "I've got no problem working out after noon, like a normal person. I like working out like a normal person."
"It's the price you pay for this expertise." Minho raises the pads again and winks, which is supposed to be alluring, but he usually ends up kind of squinting both eyes at the same time, so the effect is more endearing than anything. It's one of Jisung's favourite Minhoisms. "It's easier if you get it out of the way first thing - that way you have the whole rest of the day to enjoy."
"Ugh," Jisung grunts, lifting his fists to either side of his face again in preparation. "I hate it when you make sense."
"I love you too, little baby," replies Minho. "Now let's try the first combo again. Do you remember?"
Slowly, deliberately, Jisung drives his left glove forward into the pad Minho's holding to his right, then draws it back as he does the same with his right glove on the opposite side, recounting the moves out loud as he goes. "Uh, jab? Cross jab cross... left hook?"
"Close. It's a slip after the first cross, then a second cross, then the hook. Try it again and I'll guide you through it."
Jisung makes another attempt, calling out each move as he does them to help him remember, with Minho on the other side of the pads mouthing along with the words as he receives each hit. Although the younger man is an experienced gym goer, up until now he's tended to focus on strength with his ride-or-die spotters Chan and Changbin. And despite the years of professional experience as a dancer, he's always struggled with his coordination; sometimes his body and brain get inexplicably disconnected in the middle of choreo he's performed dozens of times before and he suddenly can't remember left from right. Add to that his lack of sleep today and, well. He's not exactly feeling the smartest right now.
But while Minho is always the first to spot and react to Jisung's dance malfunctions, he's also a patient and empathetic teacher, never making anyone struggling to get the hang of a movement feel less than capable. He's got the whole gym booked for himself as usual at this hour, and the privacy gives Jisung the space to work through his self-consciousness as he learns a new skill and distracts his frustrated brain.
"Nailed it," Minho tells him after a successful series of punches. He tosses the pads to the floor and moves over to the heavy bag hanging from the ceiling, positioning himself to demonstrate the next combo.
Jisung is paying attention, he promises. It's just that even in baggy gym clothes, t-shirt beginning to cling to the muscles of his back with sweat, Minho is really hot. The aggressive overhead lighting casts shadows along the definition of his upper arms as he drives his fists into the bag, the thuds echoing off the walls.
"Okay?"
Oh, he's done. Oops.
Jisung blinks away the afterimage of those powerful shoulders slamming forward and sees Minho staring back at him expectantly.
"Yes. Got it. I got it," Jisung squares up, ready to strike the bag himself. He positions his feet in the stance he definitely remembers accurately from twenty minutes ago and lands a determined hook - then instantly loses confidence and looks at Minho sheepishly, who raises a single eyebrow.
"You were looking at my ass, weren't you?"
"No! I wasn't!" Jisung protests, incensed.
Minho blinks a few times in rapid succession, saying nothing.
Jisung presses the oversized gloves to his forehead in shame. "It was your shoulders..."
"You're insatiable."
"I'm sorry, hyung," he says with a whine. "I didn't realize my boxing coach would be the hottest guy alive."
"Wow, Jisung-ah." Minho can't control the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "I'm telling your boyfriend."
"Noooo! He'll try to feed me cat treats again!"
It takes three additional demonstrations - that Jisung concentrates very hard on, thank you very much - but he's able to perform the next combo with only a few notes.
"Don't forget to rotate your rear foot when you come back for that right hook," Minho says. "The power's going to come from your hips, and it'll make the whole thing flow naturally."
"You just like watching my ass move," Jisung teases, swinging his hips from side to side. "I know what you are."
Minho's eyes drop to catch the movement instinctively, drawn to that infuriatingly slim waist.
"Yeah," he admits brazenly, looking back up to see Jisung running his tongue along his top teeth for absolutely no reason at all. "You should kiss me about it."
Jisung begins to step towards him, but Minho holds a hand up. "Later," he says, and the way the other man's face falls is downright comical. "Let's get your groove back first."
Last Year, During the Bad Time
The last slump was probably the worst one to date.
It was early summer, and the bright, warm days did nothing to alleviate the pressure Jisung felt on his shoulders. Every day he'd wake up, remember he was supposed to be a contributing member of a glittering global phenomenon, and pull the covers back over his face in resignation. The afternoon sun peeking around the edges of the blinds, incessantly cheerful as if it wasn't trying to shine on the worst person in the world who didn't deserve to be warm, was an insult. In the safety of the dark he could pretend time had stopped, and he didn't need to feel anything; didn't need to think about how many people were relying on him to create. To perform.
To be HAN.
He'd disappeared yesterday, and the shame was pulling at his insides. Despite what they'd all said when he'd finally returned, having hoped to have snuck in without being noticed and questioned and fussed over, he knew for a cold hard fact that they were mad at him. Why wouldn't they be? He was ruining everything.
His phone buzzed.
Right?
minho-hyung 💗💚
There's an iced Americano and a slice of the best
chocolate cake of your life with your name on it and
if you don't come and get it I will staple you to the ceiling
minho-hyung 💗💚
❤️
Jisung stares forlornly at the beads of water chasing each other down the side of the cup, wishing it was raining in place of this beautiful, relentlessly lovely day. It feels illegal for the weather to not match his mood. His hands are buried in the pouch of his grey hoodie, hood pulled up over his head in petty meteorological defiance. No stupid weather is going to tell him how he should be feeling.
Minho's across from him at their favourite table, tucked away in the back corner of the patio. A slice of double chocolate cake sits untouched between them. The umbrella casts a protective shadow as they share their usual comfortable silence, shielding them from view. Jisung finds his eyes landing on a beetle making its way up the honeysuckle that climbs through the trellis next to them, a tiny being on a determined path to somewhere new.
"I want to get better," he says, finally.
Minho nods. Permission to continue at whatever pace made Jisung comfortable.
There had never been any pressure between them, no expectation to perform. It was one of the things Jisung loved so much about Minho's company, about him. They could just be.
"But I'm not sure I know how to do that," he goes on, drawing his hands out from the pouch to play with a loose thread on his sleeve.
"I'll help you, if you want," Minho says softly, without judgment.
Jisung bites his lower lip and nods, just a little, in thanks. "I think I'd like that."
The beetle has made it to a flower and crawls inside. Jisung thinks about how nice it would feel to be a little bug settling in between the soft petals of a new home, safe and hidden, with permission to exist however it wanted. Do beetles want things?
Minho studies his gaze, considering, before looking at his drink. He slides his finger along the side of the cup, tracing a path into the condensation. "Chan says we can live together."
Jisung whips his head towards him at the words, and it's the fastest he's moved in weeks. "What?"
"The new dorms," Minho explains. "We get to be in twos. We can be together, if you'd like."
"I'd like," comes the reply. "I'd like that a lot." Jisung resumes playing with the thread, a little shy at his own enthusiasm. "If you'd like."
Minho smiles back at him. "I would." He reaches across the table and finds Jisung's hand, pulling it from its thread-unraveling endeavor, squeezing it gently. "Now eat this cake before I push your pretty face into it."
Today, After
"Ugh, finally," Jisung says, feigning more exhaustion than he's actually feeling. His arms are burning and his core feels overworked, but it's the good kind of burn, like when they're coming offstage at the end of a tour: physically tired but buzzing with the energy of a job well done and the promise of a well-earned rest. He pulls the gloves off and unceremoniously drops them to the floor with a soft thud.
Minho takes his hands and begins unwinding the wraps. When he's done, he drums his fingertips playfully across Jisung's palms. Jisung looks at their hands and feels the ghost of a new melody taking shape somewhere in the back of his brain, so faint he can't bear to acknowledge it for too long in case he scares it away. He thinks about his guitar on the floor of their bedroom, where he left it. It's under a pile of laundry.
"Well, did it help? Are those brain juices flowing anew?"
"Hmm... potentially. I might be able to get something started today," he muses. "I think I should try a few more sessions though." He leans in and presses his lips to Minho's. "To be sure."
The other man makes a big show of wiping the sweaty kiss away with the back of his hand. "Gross. You're my worst student."
Jisung beams at him, eyes shining. "You love meeeee."
There's a slight chill in the air as they leave the gym, the autumnal sun doing its best to peek through the changing leaves on the trees lining their short walk home.
"So, same time tomorrow, coach?" Jisung quips, slinging the towel over his shoulder with as much swagger as he has the energy for.
Minho scoffs, but his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Sure, bright and early. With no complaining."
"I would never."
They shuffle home together on the dappled pavement, bumping shoulders.