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The concert ends in a blur.
They’re still laughing when they climb into the van, sweat clinging to the back of their necks and adrenaline buzzing too loud under their skin for any of them to sit still. Hoshi is the loudest, as usual, teasing Seungkwan for whatever shenanigans he did during the concert. Seungcheol is smiling like a proud parent, nudging Jeonghan with his elbow. Mingyu’s filming everything on his phone. Jun has his arm around Minghao’s shoulder, babbling about something that Jihoon doesn’t catch—he’s not listening.
He’s watching.
From where he sits in the second row, Jihoon watches the way Minghao’s shoulders rise and fall when he laughs. The way he lifts his hand to push his hair back, damp with sweat and still glittering with the faint remnants of stage makeup. There’s a faint flush under the soft curve of his cheekbones. He’s beautiful. He always is, but there’s something about post-concert Minghao that makes Jihoon crazy.
Jihoon doesn’t drink after concerts. He never drinks after concerts. He usually heads back to his hotel room early, laptop out, earbuds in, still writing demos he’ll probably hate by morning.
But when Minghao turns to look at him—just a glance, a little nod, like you coming with?—Jihoon finds himself nodding before he even thinks about it.
Their hotel rooms are paired off by hallway proximity, but tonight everyone’s scattered. The others make plans to gather in Jeonghan’s room for drinks and leftover convenience store snacks, but Jihoon doesn’t follow.
He follows Minghao.
Their room is quiet when they enter. The door clicks softly behind them, and the buzz of the outside world vanishes. Jihoon exhales. Minghao toes off his shoes and pads across the carpet like he’s in his own apartment. “I brought wine,” he says, setting a dark green bottle on the desk with a soft clink. “Want some?”
Jihoon hesitates. Only for a second. “Yeah.”
He never drinks. Not even when the others pressure him. He always has an excuse—too tired, too busy, his stomach hurts, whatever works. He doesn’t like alcohol,but not with Minghao. It’s different. Maybe it’s because he likes Minghao.
With Minghao, the excuses don’t matter. With Minghao, Jihoon doesn’t feel the need to lie.
The bottle is already open, red and deep and expensive-smelling. Minghao pours into two hotel glasses, not quite wine glasses but close enough. He hands one over without looking.
“Cheers,” he says, raising his glass half-heartedly, already sinking into the couch near the window.
Jihoon clinks his glass against Minghao’s. The sound is hollow.
He sits down slowly beside him, the cushions sinking under their weight. There’s a faint ache in his thighs from dancing, and a twinge in his lower back, but he ignores it. The wine’s warm on his tongue. Slightly too dry. Slightly too heavy. He doesn’t mind.
They don’t talk for a while.
The silence between them has never been awkward. Jihoon’s always been grateful for that. With Minghao, silence doesn’t demand explanation. They just exist quietly with eaxhother.
“You looked good today,” Minghao says after a while, his voice low. Not teasing. Just soft. “In that stage outfit.”
Jihoon takes a slow sip of wine. “Thanks.”
“You don’t think so?”
Jihoon shrugs, eyes fixed on the amber city lights spilling in through the window. “Didn’t really think about it.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Minghao laughs, but it’s fond. “You only think about the sound system and the backing track.”
“You think about the visuals enough for both of us.”
“I do,” Minghao admits, curling one leg up beneath him. “But it’s not vanity.”
Jihoon turns to look at him. “Then what is it?”
“Precision,” Minghao says simply. “Like you with music. You want it to be right. So do I.”
Jihoon feels the truth of it settle somewhere in his chest. Heavy. Familiar. He nods.
Minghao takes another sip of wine. “You’re drinking.”
“You’re observant.”
“You don’t drink with anyone else.”
Jihoon looks down into his glass. There’s no good way to answer that. Minghao knows. He always does.
“I don’t drink,” Jihoon says finally, “unless I feel safe.”
Minghao doesn’t say anything for a long time. The city hums below them. Somewhere in the hallway, someone laughs too loud. Jihoon leans back into the couch and lets himself look at Minghao directly—up close, where the edges of his lashes catch the light, and the slope of his jaw is carved like a sculpture. Minghao is glowing.
“You feel safe with me?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
Jihoon nods. “Yeah.”
The second glass comes quicker. Minghao pours without asking. Jihoon’s not even sure he’s drunk yet—just warm. Just softer than usual.
He’s always been soft around Minghao. Not out loud, not with words, but in the way he listens. In the way he makes time. In the way he never minds when Minghao knocks on his studio door and asks to sit in silence for hours.
Minghao leans his head on Jihoon’s shoulder.
Jihoon freezes for a moment, startled. Not because it’s too much, but because it isn’t. It’s not unexpected. It’s not wrong. It just is.
“You’re warm,” Minghao murmurs. “Do you ever think about the fact that you’re warm?”
Jihoon huffs a laugh. “No.”
“You are.”
They stay like that for a long time. The wine is half-forgotten, their glasses nearly empty. Jihoon’s shoulder is starting to go numb, but he doesn’t move. Minghao’s breath is even, soft against the fabric of his hoodie.
He wonders if Minghao can feel his heartbeat. If he knows.
“You’re the only one I let this close,” Minghao says suddenly.
Jihoon’s throat tightens. “Yeah?”
“I don’t like people in my space. Not even Jun sometimes. But you’re different.”
Jihoon swallows. “Why?”
Minghao tilts his head up just enough to look at him. His eyes are glassy, but not from the wine. “Because you make it feel okay. Not like I have to perform. Just… okay.”
Jihoon doesn’t know what to say to that.
So he doesn’t say anything.
He just turns slightly, tilts the glass back to his lips, and takes a final sip.
Minghao is still pressed to his side, and Jihoon is still not pulling away. Outside, the city flickers. A song rises in the back of Jihoon’s mind—unfinished, delicate, made of piano and strings and breath.
It starts with the second glass. Always the second.
The first is easy—a slow sip, an excuse to sit down and be still. The second is when things begin to warm, to stretch and unspool. Jihoon’s not drunk, not really. Not yet. But the wine’s in his cheeks now. His limbs have lost their edge, and he’s leaning too comfortably into the couch cushion beside Minghao like he’s done it a thousand times.
Maybe he has.
Minghao’s close. Not touching him—not quite. But his thigh is angled just barely toward Jihoon’s. His elbow hovers near the edge of Jihoon’s wrist. The air between them isn’t just still; it’s loaded. And Jihoon, even tipsy, isn’t too stupid to pretend it isn’t there.
Minghao pours a third glass—he doesn’t ask, just does it—and Jihoon watches his hands.
Long fingers, rings glinting under the low hotel lamp, movements fluid and exact. Graceful in the way Jihoon never is. Graceful in the way Minghao always is.
“You’re quiet,” Minghao murmurs.
Jihoon lets out a breath, eyes flicking back up. “I’m always quiet.”
“Not around me.”
Jihoon doesn’t answer. Because it’s true. Around Minghao, things are different. He laughs more, thinks less, lets the edges soften a little. He doesn’t pretend to hate the spotlight when Minghao’s beside him, tugging him into photos, looping a casual arm around his shoulders like it’s second nature. Because maybe it is second nature—for Minghao, at least.
Jihoon drinks. A mouthful. Then another.
“You’re drunker than usual,” Minghao observes lightly.
“Barely.”
“That’s still more than nothing.”
“You’re annoying,” Jihoon mutters, cheeks red.
“You’re always mean when you get tipsy,” Minghao says, unfazed, smiling.
“You’re always pretty when you’re drunk,” Jihoon says, and then freezes.
The silence that follows is different. Minghao stills beside him.
Jihoon sets his glass down carefully.
Minghao doesn’t say anything. Not right away. After a pause, he turns on the couch, curling one leg beneath him, and says, “Say that again.”
Jihoon frowns, tries to play it off. “You heard me.”
“I did. But say it again.”
Jihoon meets his gaze. Minghao’s eyes are dark in the low light, glinting behind the fringe of his bangs. His lips are parted, wine-tinted, and the corner of his mouth twitches up like he’s daring Jihoon to repeat himself.
He won’t. He can’t.
“Forget it,” Jihoon mutters, reaching for the bottle.
Minghao catches his wrist. Lightly. Two fingers and a thumb, just enough to stop him.
The air cracks open.
Jihoon looks at their hands, then back at him. “Hao—”
“Do you want to kiss me?”
Jihoon’s heart skips. Then stutters. Then slams.
“I—” He swallows. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk.” Minghao says it gently, not teasing. Not pushing. “Not enough to imagine it. Not enough to not notice how you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”
Jihoon can’t breathe.
Minghao lets go of his wrist. Doesn’t move away.
“You don’t let people this close,” Jihoon says, voice low. “Not even Jun sometimes. You said it.”
“I don’t.”
Jihoon’s throat tightens. “Then why—”
“Because it’s you.”
The words ring out like a confession, but Minghao’s voice is so soft, it sounds almost like mercy.
Jihoon stares. Something in him is slipping—his mind maybe—but he won’t let it crash. Not now.
Minghao leans forward. Not all the way. Just close enough to hover, close enough to breathe in the same shallow rhythm.
Jihoon’s hand twitches where it rests against the couch. If he moved it an inch, he’d be touching Minghao’s knee.
“You never kiss anyone,” Minghao whispers. “Not even on stage. You pull away before they can lean in.”
Jihoon nods, just barely.
“Is it because you’re waiting?”
He should lie. He should laugh it off, or roll his eyes, or say something cold and cutting like he always does.
Instead, he says, “Yeah.”
Minghao’s breath catches. “For who?”
You. Always you. Since the first time you looked at me and made the room go quiet.
But Jihoon doesn’t say that. He just stares at him, lips parted.
Minghao shifts forward, slow and smooth, until they’re close enough that Jihoon feels the brush of his breath against his mouth.
It’s not a kiss. Not yet. Not quite.
Jihoon’s hand lifts without thinking. He touches the side of Minghao’s face, thumb brushing the sharp edge of his cheekbone. Minghao leans into it. Barely. Just enough to make Jihoon’s heart ache.
“Do you want to kiss me, Jihoon?” Minghao murmurs. “Or do you want to keep pretending this isn’t happening?”
It’s cruel, how gently he says it.
Jihoon’s breath shudders out. “I want to.”
Minghao’s eyes flutter. He’s so close. “Then why don’t you?”
Jihoon’s voice is a scrape of air. “Because I won’t be able to stop.”
Silence. A beat.
Minghao exhales. His forehead presses to Jihoon’s, soft and unsteady.
“I wouldn’t want you to,” he whispers.
Jihoon shudders.
And then he pulls back.
Minghao blinks, startled. The warmth between them rips open.
Jihoon stands, jaw clenched, staring at the window like it holds all the answers he doesn’t have.
“Go to bed,” he says, voice low.
Minghao doesn’t move.
“I mean it,” Jihoon says, more firmly now. “You’ll regret this in the morning.”
“No,” Minghao says, just as firmly. “You will.”
But he stands anyway.
Jihoon doesn’t look at him. He hears the soft sound of Minghao’s steps padding toward the other bed. The rustle of covers. The shift of weight. He doesn’t turn. He doesn't say goodnight.
He stays facing the window, hands curled into fists, breathing like it hurts.
And when the lights click off, the room sinking into darkness, he lets his head fall forward against the glass, eyes burning.
He wants to kiss him.
He wants to ruin himself for him.
But he can’t—not yet.
The room is quiet.
The kind of quiet that comes after almosts—the almost-kiss, the almost-touch, the almost-confession he shoved down with shaking hands and a bitter taste in his mouth.
Jihoon stands by the window like it’s a cliff’s edge. He’s breathing too hard, or maybe not enough. His fingers are curled into the hem of his hoodie, twisting, twisting. The alcohol is still warm in his stomach, but now it’s curling a little sick in his chest.
Across the room, Minghao lies on his side in the hotel bed, eyes open. The covers are pulled up to his chest, but Jihoon knows he’s not sleeping. Knows the silence between them is not rest, but retreat.
He shouldn’t have pulled away.
He should’ve kissed him.
He should’ve said it.
He turns slowly, his body heavy, heart heavier. “Are you awake?”
Minghao’s voice comes soft. “Yeah.”
Jihoon swallows, then moves toward the bed, knees stiff from standing too long. He doesn’t sit down—he sinks, next to Minghao’s bed on the floor, legs crossed and back against the side of the mattress like he used to do when he’d sleep in the studio and crash under the mixing desk.
Minghao shifts, just slightly, enough to glance down. “You okay?”
Jihoon laughs quietly, but it sounds like it hurts. “No.”
Another pause.
“Me neither,” Minghao whispers.
Jihoon rests his head back against the mattress. His eyes close, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. “I didn’t kiss you because I wanted to too much.”
Minghao’s voice catches. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does,” Jihoon says, voice rough. “You don’t understand. I… never want anything. Not like this. Not this bad. I don’t let myself.”
There’s silence. Jihoon can feel Minghao still listening, feel the weight of his attention pressing gently down on his skin.
“I didn’t drink because I liked alcohol,” Jihoon murmurs, “I drank because you were next to me.”
Minghao doesn’t say anything.
“I never let myself be seen unless I’m producing something. Creating something. That’s the only time it feels safe. But with you…” Jihoon exhales shakily, fingers clenching into the fabric of his own pants. “You make it safe. Even when I’m just sitting. Even when I’m not anything impressive.”
Still no answer. Just breathing. Steady. Waiting.
Jihoon’s voice breaks. “You make me want things. Maybe I’m the moon and you’re the stars around me.”
Minghao moves.
The bed creaks just a little, and then a hand touches Jihoon’s hair. Tentative at first. Then firmer, softer, fingers carding through.
Jihoon’s voice drops lower, softer, like a prayer he’s embarrassed to say out loud. “And you’re the stars. You don’t need me. But I only make sense next to you.”
There’s silence. Long and thick and stretching.
Then Minghao whispers, “Say it again.”
Jihoon’s brow furrows. “What?”
“The part about the moon.”
Jihoon’s cheeks flush, even in the dark. “I said I’m the moon.”
“And I’m the stars.”
“Yeah.”
Another beat. Jihoon can feel Minghao smiling now, even if he’s not looking. It’s in the air. In the small shift of the mattress.
“I always thought the moon was cold,” Minghao says, “but you’re warm.”
Jihoon closes his eyes. “Only around you.”
The silence that follows is different now—softer than softness. Like velvet folding over skin.
“I love you,” Jihoon says, quiet but clear.
“I think about you all the time. I write songs and then delete them because they’re about you and I think they’re embarrassing. I memorize your lines before you even record them because I want them to sound perfect. I always stay close on stage so I don’t lose sight of you in the lights.”
He laughs softly. “I drink when you’re there because I know you’ll take care of me if I go too far.”
Minghao moves again—sits up fully this time. He doesn’t look elegant anymore. He looks... real. Domestic even. Sleep-flushed cheeks, shirt sliding off one shoulder, hair a little tangled.
He stares down at Jihoon like he’s never seen him before.
“You love me,” Minghao says.
It isn’t a question.
Jihoon nods.
His voice cracks when he says it. “I love you.”
Minghao doesn’t cry. Not really. But his eyes shine, and his throat moves like he’s swallowing down every ounce of restraint left in him.
“You stupid idiot,” he whispers. “You should’ve said something sooner.”
Jihoon leans his head back into Minghao’s lap, breath shaking. “I didn’t want to scare you off.”
Minghao cards his fingers through Jihoon’s hair again. His touch is slow, steady, tender.
“You couldn’t,” he says. “You never could.”
Jihoon closes his eyes.
Minghao keeps touching him. Quiet, soft strokes over his scalp, as if grounding him, as if saying I’m here, I’m real, I’m staying.
“I thought I was going to have to be the first to say it,” Minghao admits after a long pause, voice slightly slurred. “I was working up to it.”
“You don’t have to anymore.”
“No,” Minghao agrees. “I don’t.”
Another long silence.
Jihoon shifts on the floor and leans his face into Minghao’s lap, cheek against the soft curve of his thigh. He feels Minghao tense for a split second, then relax.
“You really love me?” Minghao whispers. “Not just the idea of me?”
“You. All of you.” Jihoon’s voice is firm this time. “Even the parts I don’t understand yet.”
Minghao exhales, long and trembling. “Then kiss me.”
Jihoon doesn’t move.
“Not now,” Minghao says, smiling a little. “Not like this. Later. Tomorrow.”
Jihoon nods. “Okay.”
“You have to remember this in the morning.”
“I will.”
“You won’t shut down on me again.”
“I won’t.”
“You’re mine now.”
“I’ve always been yours,” Jihoon says softly.
And for the first time, Minghao bends down—not to kiss him, but to rest his forehead on Jihoon’s.
And this time, Jihoon lets him.
“I didn’t want to say it first,” Minghao adds, voice a whisper. “I wanted you to. I wanted to hear it from you. I wanted it to be real.”
“It is.”
“I don’t care if you’re the moon,” Minghao says, laughing a little, “as long as you orbit close.”
Jihoon finally turns to face him.
They’re lying so close now, faces barely apart. Minghao looks a little puffy-eyed, a little flushed, but so breathtakingly beautiful Jihoon could cry.
“Can I kiss you?” Jihoon asks.
Minghao smiles. “Tomorrow.”
Jihoon nods. “Tomorrow.”
But then Minghao leans forward, and presses a kiss to his cheek—soft and slow and so full of feeling it knocks the wind out of him.
“I’ll still want you tomorrow,” Minghao whispers. “And the day after.”
Jihoon exhales, and for the first time in years, he feels like he’s allowed to want.
Allowed to love.
They fall asleep like that. The stars, and the moon, in the same sky.