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This is far more Felix’s type of thing than it’s ever been Han’s.
He can hear them— the throngs of people, milling and mindlessly chatting behind the thin white walls that separate them from the crowd. They’re all politely laughing at whatever the fashionista said next to them; their twittery laughter is crystal clear. Han both admired and despised it— the dedication, the fashion, the subtle arrogance that often underlined the first two traits.
Felix nudges his elbow softly, bringing him back to the present. “Hey,” he whispers comfortingly, flashing a warm smile. “You ready?”
Han is absolutely not ready. He’s never been less ready for anything in his life. But he nods along anyway.
“Sure. Let’s go.”
***
He and Felix became house ambassadors for the fashion label a few months ago. Felix was already well traversed in the world of fabrics, but Han? Sure, he was a K-pop idol, he knew some stuff, but just looking at the racks of clothes and runways made him want to sink into a pit of anxiety. That’s why he forced this to be his first event (he couldn’t remember the name Felix had called it, it was a weird word and simple words never stuck in his head at the best of times). Basically, a fashion party— where ambassadors and models wore the outfits and casually mingled with the public, rather than the scrutinization of a runway. Much more calm. Much more controlled.
Well, there was a mini runway— a little platform to display the outfit before the mingling could commence. But it was okay— it was the best Han was going to get.
At least the outfits are divine, he thinks.
He still fondly remembers the fitting for the event. One of the few fitters he liked, Gabriel (not that he knew his name yet) had slipped behind the fitting room curtain to find an anxious Jisung twisting his silver rings around his fingers. He had dark, fluffy hair that curled softly over his ears. His warm brown eyes matched a warmth inside that rivalled anyone he knew (expect for perhaps Felix, that boy is sunshine personified). Smiling gently, he held out a hand.
“Hi— You’re Han Jisung, right? Of Stray kids?” When Han nodded, his smile grew wider. “Pleasure to meet you! You have no idea how excited I am for you and Felix to attend this party— ohmygoodness it’s going to be so fun!”
Jisung felt his lips twitch upwards and he gently took his outstretched hand, surprised by the calloused texture. “Pleasure to meet you too.”
“Now, before we begin, is it okay if I retake some measurements? I think a few of yours might’ve been lost in transit, per se— some don’t look right.”
Jisung flushed. He already knew what’d happened, and it was always a strange mixture of embarrassment and pride. He could’ve predicted Gabriel’s next words with 100% accuracy.
“If you don’t mind, I’ve just got to remeasure your waist circumference? If it’s okay with you, of course.” Gabriel asked tenderly.
Han smiled reassuringly. “Of course.” He tugged his shirt up, ignoring Gabriel’s sharp intake of breath as his rather small waist becomes visible. He glanced down self-consciously— he’d built a bit of muscle recently but was still on the leaner side. Gabriel shook his head and stepped forward, tape measure in hand. The smooth plastic wrapped around his waist, cold on his bare skin.
“Alright, breathe in for me… good… and out.” He complied, watching as Gabriel recorded the number on the exhale. He laughs and lets the tape measure loosen, stepping back. “Perhaps it was right after all…” he muttered.
Han felt his cheeks warm again. “I know… it happens a lot. Um, sorry.”
Gabriel whipped his head towards him. “Don’t you dare be sorry! That is not something you need to be sorry for! In fact…” a wicked gleam came into his eyes, “Now that I’ve got the measurement confirmed…”
Han gulped. “Should I be worried?”
“About yourself? No. About the way people are going to faint once they see what I’ve put you in… absolutely.”
***
He had to hand to Gabriel— the outfit was incredible.
The theme of the night was black and white— all the models would be in black all the guests in white, making it look as though ink was slowly staining a crowd of milk. He was dressed in skintight leather pants plus a loose-fitting black blouse that had billowing sleeves. The sleeves were slitted almost seductively, which was complimented with stacks of gold necklaces and earrings. His hair was masterfully styled, falling over his forehead just how he liked it, and swept up at the sides with a delicate golden filigree crown. The makeup was just as stunning— dark mascara and a sharp cat eye, along with just a little lip gloss. Mostly though, what brought the whole outfit together, was the intricately detailed black corset cinched tightly around his tiny waist.
Alright, it was a little hard to breathe, he admitted to himself. Yet one look in the mirror was all it took to convince him breathing was overrated anyway.
Even Felix gasped when he saw him— a real compliment, considering he looked like a fallen angel brought to life. His stylist clearly loved him just as much as Gabriel loved Han’s waist, dressing the sunshine boy in a pleated black skirt, oversized graffiti hoodie and polished knee-high boots. It was a perfect blend of cool and classy— just like Felix.
“Dude,” Felix whistled softly, blue contacted eyes flicking over Jisung’s outfit. “Minho is gonna lose his goddamn mind.”
Under the makeup, Han blushed. “Yeah right,” he scoffed. Felix rolled his eyes. It was clear there was tension between the two— the whole band had noticed it a thousand times over— they were both just too goddamn stubborn to admit anything.
“Anyway,” Han said, this time eyeing Felix up and down, “Everyone’s going to lose their minds when they see you. Especially you-know-who.”
Now it was Felix’s turn to flush. Before he could say anything though, an assistant was calling places, and they had to fretfully make their way into the line with the rest of the models. (At least, he was moving fretfully, Felix was as casual as ever.)
“Everyone remember the plan?” called an assistant. “Line up here. When you enter, pose for your photo, then go mingle in the crowd. Don’t stay with one person too much. Feel free to dance, drink, whatever— but please don’t get anything on your outfits! And remain semi-sober?” There were a few chuckles at that. “Mostly, have fun! This is a party! Show off your outfits— the better time you’re having, the better the outfit will look. Alright, places everyone!”
It was getting harder to breathe. He blamed it on the corset, a convenient excuse. His eyes began to flick nervously over the shuffling models and unconsciously gripped Felix’s hand tighter.
Felix squeezed his hand one last time. “Mate, look at me.” he whispered. He must’ve looked panicked (despite his desperate attempts not to) and gently rubbed his fingers over his knuckles. “You’ve got this, alright? All it is is a few photos and then a party. We’ve been to plenty of parties before. Come and find me if you need to, yeah? And besides,” He eyed him up and down again, “You’ve got nothing to worry about. You look incredible.”
He smiled, the air flowing just a little easier. “I could say the same about you, Lixie.”
The two shared a loving smile. God, Jisung would always be grateful for Felix— that kind, tooth-rootingly sweet ray of sunshine. “I will. Promise. Thank you so much, Lix— now go find your spot.”
Felix grinned and scampered off, further down the line— he would be entering after him. The other models around him hummed with anticipation and adrenaline, softly shaking and bouncing.
Maybe he wasn’t as calm as he thought. The tightness returned to his chest, constricting his airways more than the corset already was. Breathe, Jisung, he tells himself as the ominous walnut doors that separate them from the crowd come ever closer. Breathe. In, out, in, out…
He can’t do this. He’s fully concluded that he can’t do this. What was he thinking, strutting his way into a room full of models and CEO’s and fancy partygoers like he was actually pretty or something. Clearly he wasn’t thinking at all.
Swivelling around desperately, he searches for Felix’s blonde crop amongst the crowd, but he can’t make out anything through the bustling line. He’s being jostled towards those ominous brown doors faster than he would like; the speed is only increasing the speed of his breath; his head is swirling, swirling, swirling; just breathe Jisung bloody breathe…
Then the doors are right in front of him. Beyond them lies the flashing lights, the prying eyes, the all-consuming chatter, the sheer definition of sensory overload. But he’s here. He can’t back out now, no matter how hard he tries.
He only has enough time to place the all too familiar indifferent mask over his features as he’s pushed into the light.
~~~~~~
The drink in Chan’s hand had long ago returned to room temperature, but he wasn’t willing to go swap it for a new one. Not yet. Not when his children would be entering through those walnut doors any second now.
The whole band was here— ever supportive of their younger members. They stood in their own little secluded circle, patiently waiting for their entrance. If the outfit’s they’d seen so far were anything to go by, Han’s and Felix’s were bound to be nothing short of breathtaking.
His eyes wander lazily as each new model confidently walks into the room, standing on the edge of a mini runway for a few photos before dripping into the crowd. The concept was masterful— having all the guests in white and models in black made it seem as though dark paint was slowly swirling into a bucket of undyed glue, contaminating and staining. From a birds eye view you could frame it and call it art.
Jeongin sighs faintly over the pounding music. Chan snaps his attention towards him immediately, grinning.
“What? Bored already, Innie?”
He shakes his head wearily in reply. “Not at all hyung. But I wish Felix-hyung and Jisung-hyung would hurry up already! I’m sick of waiting.”
Chan scoffs. If Jeongin was getting impatient, surely that was an indicator of just how long they’d been standing there. Thankfully, they didn’t have to wait much longer.
On his left, Minho suddenly tenses. Chan smirks— he knows immediately who’s just walked in. Eager, he looks up to the runway, and the breath is almost knocked out of his lungs.
Because his child— his baby Jisung, his first stray kid— looks absolutely stunning. His silhouette is both flowy and fitted against the harsh white lights, the golden crown makes him look like some sort of ancient olympic champion. The true statement, however, was the corset— Chan had never seen Han in one, and by god, the stylists were surely going to include a multitude of corsets for Jisung in the next comeback. Does he even have a waist?
Around him, the members are exhaling softly— and with good reason. All except for Minho, who’s incredibly stiff. He smirks, but it falls off his lips the second he sees Jisung’s eyes.
His gaze is panicked, trapped— he masks it well, but Chan has been around him long enough to see through his immaculate veil. His anxiety has probably overridden any other coherent thought, making his boots tremble ever so slightly on the polished floor.
He needs to make eye contact with him.
In situations like this, it could either go one of two ways— Jisung will fearfully search the crowd, looking for Chan and the other members. In which case, Chan will be able to make eye contact with him and calm him down. Otherwise…
Sometimes Jisung gets wrapped up in his own head. He’s seen it over and over, in too many different forms. While he was out of the deep end now, there’s still a big chance that he’ll just subconsciously refuse to look for them— keep his suffering internal until it drives him over the breaking point. And if that happens… there’s nothing Chan can do to help.
He hates that. He feels so useless, so hopeless— like such a failure. After all, what good of a leader is he if one of his members instinctively rejects him?
He forces a deep breath of air into his lungs. He must stay calm— be the strong leader Jisung needs right now. Frantically, he waves his hand in the air, drink long forgotten.
Jisung’s eyes are glazed. He’s walking toward the end of the platform seemingly in slow motion. He’s not searching for them.
He’s not searching for them.
No, no, no…
Thankfully, Seungmin sees his furious waving and puts two and two together— he’s far more intelligent than any of the members give him credit for. He raises two fingers to his lips, and wolf whistles over the din.
The haze snaps over Jisung’s gaze as his eyes (and many others) fall on the group. Theres a brief flash of happiness before he locks his gaze with Chan. He can see everything— the panic, the overwhelm, the doubt— and his heart breaks. Ever so slightly, Han shakes his head.
Chan nods encouragingly, ignoring the swirling in his gut. You’ve got this, he mouths, smiling gently. Jisung blinks rapidly, the trepidation still firmly in place. He mimes taking a deep breath in, then out, hoping the younger will follow. It takes two more of these before he sees his chest rise and fall in response. Chan grins wider.
That’s it, he thinks. In, out, in, out.
The corners of Jisung’s lips twitch. Chan breathes a sigh of relief, proud— he’s worked him out of potential disaster. But then Han’s gaze falls on Minho.
Shit.
Like with before, this could go one of two ways. Minho’s and Jisung’s relationship has changed over the past few months, shifted in ways none of the members are brave enough to point out. It’s clear something needs to happen soon, or Han will burst from pining and Minho from jealousy.
Han could freeze. He could freeze up entirely on them up there, all alone, petrified of Minho’s gaze. Or…
His lips twitch into a smirk. His eyebrows lift a little, almost challenging Minho. With renewed confidence, he swaggers forwards. Chan breathes a sigh of relief, retraining himself from almost bursting out laughing at the absurdity. Minho huffs, dropping his gaze (but not for very long, Chan notices) and finally, after an eternity, Jisung makes his way off the platform. He immediately makes his way over to the members, that smug smirk lighting up his round cheeks.
“Well?” he asks, a little timidly, the only indicator of his former anxiousness after the sudden burst of Minho-teasing-induced-confidence. The members are quick to shower him with praise.
“You did so good Hyung!”
“You rocked Hannie!”
“We’re all so proud of you,” Chan says, smiling proudly. He’s met with other affirmations from the members. Except—
“Eh, I’d say it was average,” Minho shrugs. Yet there’s a hint of an awestruck expression on his lips. Han grins teasingly.
“Oh yeah?” He cross-legged spins, giving them a full 360 of the outfit. Dude, it’s impressive, Chan thinks. The stylist really knew how to emphasise Han’s best physical features— the sleeves alone are something else. Clearly, Minho thinks so too because he suddenly has to clear his throat.
“Mmm,” is all Minho manages. Chan almost bursts out laughing again.
“Oh look, it’s Felix hyung!” says Jeongin, diverting their attention from the two oblivions. Just like Han, he’s stunning— but in a more cool guy fashion style than prince. The bright white lights make him appear if he’s walking out of heaven, almost forming a halo behind his blond locks.
This time, a different member tenses behind Chan. Hyunjin gasps softly, and Chan smiles at their little oblivious family.
~~~~~
Jisung should not have that much effect on Minho. He didn’t expect it— and definitely tried to push against it. But against all odds, he does— shit, the sheer sight of the squirrel boy in a bloody corset is driving him mad.
The grip he has on his glass right now could rival weightlifters. After Felix made it off the runway, he and Han only stayed for a moment in their little Stray Kids bubble before they had to mingle. With every new person Han talked to, something flashed inside Minho— something hot, something dangerous, something wild.
He didn’t like it. The arms touching Jisung without thinking or purpose; the invasion of Jisung's personal space (not that Han seems to mind, but Minho sure does); the claps on the back. It’s all too touchy. They’re too close to his Jisung and he doesn’t like it.
But he restrains himself. That was one thing he was always good at— stopping himself or the members before something went too far. He silently praises himself for all those years of practice as Han moves to the dance floor.
The damn dance floor. This boy truly will be the death of me.
“All good there, Hyung?” comes a voice from his left.
“Yep,” he replies, unable to tear his eyes away from the way Han’s starting to sway amongst the throng, a sunshine Felix bouncing their hands between them.
Fuck. I’m such a goner, he thinks.
He can practically hear the eye roll. “Hyung,” Changbin says, insistent, forcibly turning him around to face him.
Minho blinks, dazed. “Yes? You alright?”
“You’re aware of how obvious you’re being right now, right?”
“What?” He says, genuinely shocked. Okay, maybe he was staring a little, but who could blame him when that darned stylist had put Han in a corset of all things? At least he has the decency— no, the restraint— to avoid Jisung for the majority of the evening so far. He didn’t know how he’d go if he got within arm’s reach… would he finally sweep the squirrel boy into his arms or would he make a fool of himself? Terrified of the second option- the far more likely one, he has to remind himself, Han definitely doesn’t feel the same— he stayed out of it. Avoidance and restraint were the better options.
“Hyung, seriously,” Changbin moans. “You’re pining so hard right now I can basically smell it.”
Minho takes a deep breath in. “You liar. You can only smell sweat, wine, and some ridiculously expensive perfume.”
“And your pining. Come on, you’ve been standing here for ages. Go and dance with Hyunjin- see look, the sucker’s finally making a move.”
Sure enough, the younger was, weaving his way through the crowd towards the sunshine twins. They did look like they were having fun…
No. Restrain, Minho, restrain yourself.
He shakes his head and Changbin sighs. “At least unclench your jaw. I think it’s worrying Chan-hyung.”
Minho scans the room for Chan. He finds him standing with Jeongin, eyes already on him. He gestures— a ‘come over’ signal.
Normally, he would oblige. He’s their leader after all. But this is more of a friendly ‘come over’ signal than a ‘I have something important to tell you.’ And he knows, he just knows what he’s going to say. He’s said it a thousand times before.
You need to sort yourself out, Minho. Inter-band relationships never work, especially in K-pop. Just go over and talk to him, for gods sake, sort yourselves out before you’re in too deep.
Okay, so maybe he hadn’t said those words explicitly. But he’d said them with his eyes. No way was he going to subject himself to that.
His gaze finds Seungmin, leaning elegantly by the bar. Even though Felix and Han are the models tonight, all of the members still look extremely dapper— Seungmin’s in a white waistcoat and matching suit jacket that makes the younger boy look like a prince. He flicks his head towards him, mutters a quick excuse about needing to comfort the younger to Changbin and moves off.
Changbin groans. Forever a lost cause, but he tried.
Minho’s only halfway to Seungmin when a hand encircles his wrist. An all too familiar hand. And when the voice speaks, butterflies erupt in his traitorous stomach. “Minho-hyung! I feel like I haven’t seen you this whole time!” cries that joyous voice that he lives to hear.
So much for staying away. I intended to stay away, as well. Until you were out of this taunting outfit and back to my normal, soft Hannie. He’s not nearly as tempting.
Well, you’re always tempting, Hannie. Just less so when your assets are shrouded by baggy t-shirts.
He wants to keep his gaze lowered but that means he’s looking directly at the corset that’s slowly undoing him. Reluctantly (but also not, because when is anything done for Jisung anything other than far too willing?) he meets his gaze. And by god, Minho almost melts into a puddle of goo on the floor.
Under all the glitz and glam and too tight clothing is his normal, soft Hannie. He can feel the warmth radiating from his deep brown eyes, drowning him in an endless sea of smooth chocolate. He thinks he gasps— he doesn’t know anymore because his ears are filled with the pounding of his own heartbeat.
“Minho-hyung?” Jisung asks tentatively, the smile fading from his lips. Minho cringes at himself, and the desperate need to make the smile return. “Are you okay?”
Snap yourself out of it.
He ignores the delicate fingers still clasping his wrist and the accompanying butterflies, shaking his head to clear his mind. “Sorry. I’m fine, Jisungie- just, you know, occupied with fashion party stuff. Are you having fun?”
He grins, flipping Minho’s stomach over. “Lots. Come dance with me?” He pouts, and Minho doesn’t know if he can resist those puppy eyes.
Resist. Restraint. It’s always to resist and restrain, but what if I’m tired of it? What if I want—no, need— to give in?
Minho is a strong man. But Jisung is his weakness.
“Uh, I don’t know…” he starts, weakly. “Seungmin—”
“Will be fine. In fact, you’ll probably annoy him more by going and talking to him. Better just come dance with me Hyung,” He declares, smirking as he insistently tugs on his wrist. Blatantly ignoring Minho’s trembling attempts at escape (at restraint) he drags the elder into the sweating throng.
The music is pumping, pulsing through the crowd; the place reeks of sweat. Blue lasers glide over the clump of bodies, reflecting off gemstones in Han’s corset that were previously unseeable. Minho gulps— focus, don’t look at the corset— and realigns his gaze with Jisung, who’s glowing from confidence and alcohol.
He sways his hips tauntingly, dragging Minho’s gaze downwards for just a second, a singular second of surrender. “Come on, hyung, dance with me!” He cries.
He can’t dance. Normally, he’s a phenomenal dancer, but right now, stripped bare under Jisung’s lazy gaze? He’s far too stiff. His muscles refuse to move in the way they normally do so he’s left shuffling awkwardly.
That is, until Jisung laces his hands behind his neck. Almost unconsciously, he gives in to the gentle touch- his lips twitch upwards and his muscles loosen, matching Jisung’s rhythm. The song is sexy, slow. They ease into it, finding a comfortable sweet spot. He feels himself grin, his stomach slacken, the butterflies twitch happily. Jisung is his, and his alone.
Jisung is incandescent under the lights, slowly dancing like he came out of the womb bouncing that perky little ass of his. His eyes are happy half-moon crescents, cheeks full like a squirrel and absolutely fucking adorable. Sweat beads down his neck, catching in the hollow at his throat. Minho desperately wants to place his lips there, kiss it away, feel that smooth skin quiver under his caress—
Fuck. He’s such a goner.
And maybe he’s okay with that.
Reason, restraint, resistance, all run from the remarkable region of reverence. All falter in the face of fondness.
Maybe it’s time he finally did something about these feelings. Reason, restraint, resistance can all be damned to hell.
Which is why when Han looks up at him, eyes half lidded and his apple-shampoo scent diminished by perspiration, Minho has a perfectly normal twinge in his gut. Because who wouldn’t be affected by a God so beautiful?
The answer is many. Yet, Minho selfishly hopes he will forever be the only one.
“Minho-hyung…” Han’s voice is stretched, whispering, borderline moaning.
Minho can’t control himself. He rolls upwards in time with the music, fusing their bodies together and revelling in the sound that slips from Han.
“Mmm? What is it, Jagi?”
Han shivers at the nickname. He shivers even more when Minho moves his hands to trace down the length of his arms, touch featherlight. “Do- do you like me like this?”
“What, made all pretty?”
He nods meekly. Embarrassed, he drops his head into Minho’s shoulder to hide his sudden flush. Sparks fly over Minho’s skin; he wants to coo at his cuteness. He overrides his mumbled dismissals.
“Oh, Jisungie. My sweet, soft, baby.” Filled with a rush of confidence, he lowers his face to Han’s exposed neck, gently placing a kiss in the crook where it meets his shoulder. Goosebumps race over Han’s skin. “When are you ever not pretty, my darling?”
Han meant to scoff, but the kiss threw him off guard, so it comes out more like a whimper. “In the mornings after I stayed up too late the night before.”
Minho smiles. “Even then. In fact, especially then. There’s not all this… distraction.”
They lock eyes. Han smirks, teasing, a blush still mildly evident on his cheeks. “What about me right now is distracting, hyung?” he says, fully expecting the elder to back off. Instead, two large hands grip his waist possessively, eliciting a gasp from his already strained lungs.
When Minho speaks, his voice is a low, alluring murmur. “This blasted corset, mainly.” His hands flex protectively, eliciting another gasp.
“Why don’t you take it off then?” he says daringly. The alcohol must’ve gone to his head, he’s not normally this bold.
“In front of all these people? Why, that’s a bit scandalous, don’t you think? Besides,” Minho adds, lowering his mouth to graze the top of Jisung’s ear, revelling in the responsive shudder, “that’s for my eyes and my eyes alone.”
Jisung’s eyes flutter shut, and a moan unwillingly falls from his throat, making Minho’s head go fuzzy. His whole body is hot, quivering with confidence and clinging to the hope Jisung won’t remember this tomorrow.
“Do you like that, huh?” he taunts. Boldly, he shifts one hand to Jisung’s lower back, keeping the other situated on that tiny waist of his. He tugs him into his chest, melding the two together more than previously thought possible. His personal space is gleefully forgotten— thrown blindly out the window as it always is when it’s Jisung. “Do you like when I get possessive?” He pushes on his spine, just enough pressure to make him squirm a little. “Do you like watching me struggle as others plead to put their hands on you? Do you like watching me break?”
“No,” Han whimpers. “I like watching you claim me.”
Fuck. If he wasn’t such a goner already that would’ve sent him tumbling over the edge. Minho growls, clutching the younger tighter. “Jisungie… are you sure?”
In response, Jisung twines his hands tighter around Minho’s neck, lightly brushing the tips of their noses together. How is it that even though he has all of Jisung pressed against him right now that the minuscule contact still manages to set off butterflies? And when he murmurs “I’m sick of playing nice,” Minho snaps entirely.
Who cares about fucking restraint when it’s Jisung?
Snarling, he searches for an exit. Finding one, he releases Jisung from his clingy clutches— melting at the whine he makes— before taking the younger’s soft palm in his own, dragging him towards a doorway. The two jostle through the crowd, and with every passing second, Minho’s vision gets progressively blurrier. He needs Jisung. More specifically, he needs his lips on his. And he needs it now.
The air is crisp as Minho tugs Jisung into the cold night alleyway. The noise of the party blissfully dissipates when the door swings closed, leaving only their rapid breathing to fill the silence. His whole body is thrumming with adrenaline, and he is sure Jisung’s is doing the same.
Just a little longer, he tells himself. Just a little further away from the doorway.
Minho’s pushed himself to his absolute limit as they round the corner. Unable to stand it any longer, he roughly shoves Jisung against the wall, revelling in the ‘oomph’ he makes.
He places his hands beside the younger's head, testily leaning forward, caging him in. He’s quivering, shaking, drowning in the reflection of the night stars in Jisung’s eyes. A lump forms in his throat and he swallows, heart fluttering as Jisung’s gaze dips there. His lips part softly, setting off an ache in Minho— he wants to kiss those plush lips so-fucking badly. But first…
“Are you sure?” he whispers, voice strained. “Because if you’re not, that’s totally okay. I know that you probably don’t feel the same way about me, and I’m totally okay with that. But every time I see you I can’t seem to look away and when you’re gone there’s this massive hole in my universe. I love our lunch dates, our practices, our talks-but more than that, I love your talent, your wit, your kindness, your humour, just everything- I even love the bad stuff, because it makes you human. I like you when you’re cocky and I like you when you’re vulnerable. I like you, Jisung, as more than a friend, far, far more, and—”
“Minho,” Jisung exhales, clasping his cheeks.
“I know inter-band relationships can’t ever work but I can’t just watch you smile, dance, sing, lick your fucking lips without wanting to—”
“Minho.”
“And I know this is stupid, it’s all stupid, but I’m always stupid when it comes to you Jisungie, doesn’t matter what I do—”
“Minho!” Jisung yelps, clamping one hand over his mouth to stop his rambling. Minho’s eyes are wide, chest rising and falling rapidly. Shit. Did he really just say all that? Oh god, what does Jisung think of him now? So much for restraint.
But in a way, it’s nice to get it off his chest. It like he’s been wrapping bandages around his torso over time, slowly crushing any air. And yes, while the current air is thrumming with tension and minor awkwardness, he feels as though he can take a deep breath for the first time in months.
Well, in good time. He can never seem to quite catch his breath around Jisung. Point is, the crushing weight is gone now, and Minho feels fucking free.
Slowly, Jisung removes his hand, trailing it down his chest with the lightest of touches. “Don’t you think there are better things you could be doing with your mouth right now?” he breathes.
In instant, Minho’s demeanour changes from clumsily confessing to confident cockiness. His eyes flash, that teasing glint returning. “Like what, jagiya?”
“Don’t make me fucking beg, Minho.”
Minho presses Jisung closer to the wall, dragging his hot breath over the other teasingly. “Have you considered I want to make you beg?”
“Oh, that’s just cruel.”
“So’s this corset, darling.”
Han— forever the stubborn person he is— turns his face away from Minho’s and clamps his mouth shut.
They simmer in silence for a few moments, but when Jisung doesn’t say anything, Minho tuts disapprovingly.
“If that’s how you feel, I guess…” He pushes off the wall, feeling Jisung’s body shiver from the sudden rush of night air under his.
“No,” Jisung whines, clutching at his shoulders and forcing him back. “Don’t make me say it, hyung.”
“I need to hear the words, Jisungie. I need to make sure you want this.”
Jisung falters under Minho’s gaze. “When did I ever give you any room for doubt?” he whispers softly. “Please, Minho. Please just fucking kiss me.” His face flushes with the words.
“Are you sure? Because-”
“Oh my freaking god, Minho!” Jisung cries, unable to stand it any longer. He stretches up on his toes and firmly seals their lips together.
Time stops. Minho’s eyes widen. There’s no sound, no smell, no nothing penetrating his other senses. There’s only the adorably scrunched up face of the squirrel boy in front of him, who’s plush lips are pressed to his. His whole world has narrowed to that singular point of contact.
They’re just as soft as I thought they’d be.
When Minho doesn’t move, Jisung pulls away, a delightful blush spilling across his cheeks. He falls back against the wall, exhaling softly. “I- I’m sorry, hyung, I thought—”
“Shut up.” Minho murmurs before bringing their mouths crashing together again.
They’re black and white. So different yet perfectly complimentary. Both unique but made for each other, swirling and combining into a multitude of shades of grey. It’s calm and beautiful and flawless.
Minho forces Jisung’s lips apart, drinking in the moan that he makes like its water and he’s dying in a desert. When their tongues clash together the stars seem to collide, sending sparks racing down their intertwined bodies.
Minho presses Jisung further into the wall, pushing his thigh between the younger boy’s legs, drawing out a delectable moan. Their hands are roaming, exploring— Jisung tugs at Minho’s hair in a way that makes him want to scream with pleasure. And Minho can finally, finally toy with the blasted corset that started all this in the first place.
He splays his fingers over Jisung’s stomach, roaming up and down and occasionally pinching the sides of his waist. He’s delighting in the responsive shivers and shudders; enjoying making the boy squirm. His hands have grown tired of the corset and slide up to untangle his hands from the nape of his neck. Keeping their mouths interlocked, he manoeuvres Jisung’s small wrists so he can hold both of them in one hand. Growling at the newfound satisfaction erupting in his gut, he pins his hands over Jisung’s head. He gasps and Minho grins.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He leans back to admire him- starstruck by the sheer beauty of the younger boy, chest heaving, pinned right there for him. He’s looks like Minho’s- all Minho’s. The thought makes his possessive side purr in pleasure.
With newfound force they come back together, all respect for Jisung’s outfit and necessary presence at the event forgotten. They are two stars colliding that meld and combine and burn. They fit together so perfectly that from an outside perspective, it’s hard to see how they were ever apart in the first place. Together they make a thousand shades of silvery ashes. It's bewitching. It's perfect. They're perfect.
“Mmm… Minho?” Jisung whimpers when Minho moves onto his neck.
“Yeah?” he says, and god, it’s gone all gravelly. He sounds like a chain-smoker. He hopes Jisung thinks it’s hot.
“Minho,” he pants, futilely trying to wriggle his arms from Minho’s iron clasp. Minho drops his wrists immediately and steps back.
“Jagi?” he asks, a hint of concern creeping into his voice. “Was- was that okay? Are you okay?”
Jisung twines their hands back together, gently, a dumb smile lighting up his face. “Minho,” he breathes, and just the sound of his name, said in such a tender manner, sends his heart down yet another rollercoaster. “That was…” he shakes his head and laughs. “I don’t even know the word for it. Amazing? Brilliant?”
At Minho’s twitching lips, he forges on. “It’s just… we’re at a fashion party, Min. one where I’m the ambassador.”
Oops. That had indeed slipped Minho’s mind in the heated frenzy. He steps back further, taking in Jisung’s swollen lips and flushed neck. Embarrassed, he chuckles, fingering the back of his neck. “Um, yeah, sorry about that.”
Jisung shakes his head. Lightly, he clasps Minho’s cheeks and presses a tender peck to his lips. It’s mellow, compared to the last few minutes. But it still lights fireworks inside of him, delightful sparks that warm his core.
Jisung pulls back, sweeping his thumbs over Minho’s blush blissfully. “Don’t you dare apologise,” he mutters. “Don’t you dare apologise for something I fully intend to recommence the second we get home.”
Minho reddens, eliciting another joyous giggle from Jisung. He can’t seem to help himself and presses another kiss to the adorable sight. “But for now, I’ve got to go back in. Um, is it obvious?”
Minho eyes him up and down. While he’s still stunning (but then again, when will he ever not be stunning to his lovesick gaze?)… it was pretty obvious.
“Yeah.”
“Whoops,” Han says, embarrassed. Awkwardness hangs in the air, but when they lock eyes, it melts away in favour of laughter.
“Come on,” Minho instructs, taking his hand happily. “I’m sure Chan-hyung has some foundation or at the very least lip-balm we can borrow to clean you up.”
“Wow, not a fan of your own handiwork?” Han teases.
“Are you? You’re the one who likes watching me claim you.”
“Ack! Don’t remind me,” he reddens. “Don’t tease me for my weird kink for your possessive side- that’s your own fault, really.”
Minho playfully smacks him, causing Jisung to yelp. He refuses to let go of his hand, so warm and soft and right held his own.
“The opposite.” He says, addressing the earlier question. “I definitely love my handiwork- almost as much as you, apparently.” He waggles his eyebrows, evoking another precious giggle. “But it’s for my eyes and my eyes alone. I intend to claim you far more thoroughly later.”
“Mmm, I’ll hold you to that,” Han breathes.
And he does.