Archive of Our Own ^beta

The bench was so cold Minho could feel it through his jeans, his thermal underwear (yes, he'd reached that point of winter desperation), and what remained of his dignity. December in Seoul was shit. December anywhere was shit, really, but especially here, where the Christmas lights seemed personally committed to mocking his bad mood from every lamppost.

11:17 PM. The park was empty except for him and his dwindling pack of Marlboros. He'd been coming here since October, when his roommate Chan decided 2 AM was the perfect time to practice guitar. Minho had considered murder, but the security deposit was too expensive to risk losing.

So: park. Cigarette. Silence.

Until he showed up.

The first time, Minho barely paid attention. Just some guy in a coat three sizes too big, scarf wrapped up to his ears, and what appeared to be a slice of cheesecake in his hands. He sat at the other end of the bench, exactly two meters away, and proceeded to eat his dessert with the delicacy of someone savoring a Michelin-star meal.

The weird part was that he came back the next night. And the next. And the next.

Always with a different sweet. Always with that expression of silent ecstasy while eating. Always sitting exactly two meters away.

Minho wasn't one to start conversations. In fact, he actively avoided anything that smelled like "unnecessary socialization." But there was something deeply unsettling about sharing a bench with a stranger every night for two weeks without even exchanging a "hello."

On the fifteenth night, when the guy sat down with what looked like a chocolate muffin, Minho spoke:

"You know there's a café three blocks from here that closes at midnight?"

The guy was startled so badly he almost dropped the muffin. His eyes, the only thing visible between the scarf and his wool hat, went wide as plates.

"I prefer the gas station." he said after a moment. His voice was higher than Minho expected, slightly raspy.

"The gas station sells gas station food."

"The gas station sells food nobody supervises."

Interesting choice of words.

Minho took another drag of his cigarette, studying the guy more carefully. Now that he was actually looking, he was pretty small. Or maybe the giant coat created that illusion. He wore fingerless gloves, and his nails were bitten down to the quick.

"Minho." he said finally, though he wasn't sure why.

The guy blinked.

"Sorry?"

"My name. Since apparently we're going to keep sharing this bench."

A pause. Then something that might've been a smile under the scarf.

"Jisung."

And that's how it all started.

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"Your cigarette smells like burnt socks." Jisung commented the next night, nibbling what appeared to be carrot cake.

Minho raised an eyebrow.

"Your cake looks like rabbit vomit."

"It is carrot cake. Technically, it's processed, sugared rabbit vomit."

"Charming."

"Thanks, I try."

Jisung pulled his scarf down enough to take a bigger bite. Minho could see his chin for the first time: angular, with a small mole just below his lower lip. The guy chewed thoughtfully, cheeks puffed like a hamster.

"Why do you smoke?" he asked suddenly, mouth still full.

"Why do you eat gas station junk every night?"

"Touché."

Silence. A car passed on the adjacent street, its tires crunching over half-melted snow. The Christmas lights on the nearby tree blinked in an epileptic pattern that probably violated some safety regulation.

"I don't really know." Minho admitted after a moment. "Started in high school because it made me feel older. Now I do it because..." He shrugged. "Because I want."

"Deep."

"Fuck off."

Jisung laughed. It was a strange laugh, too loud and a bit uncontrolled, like he wasn't used to using it frequently. Minho found he didn't mind it.

"My parents think I'm at the library." Jisung said suddenly, tucking the cake wrapper in his pocket. "Studying for finals. Being an exemplary son."

"And instead, you're in a park eating carbs with a stranger who smokes?"

"Basically."

"Your parents would sound great at a meeting with mine. We could have a 'disappointed parents' competition."

Jisung looked at him sideways.

"Yours are shit too?"

"My parents are convinced that studying contemporary dance is equivalent to flushing my life down the toilet. They'd prefer I study something 'useful.' Like engineering. Or medicine. Or literally anything that doesn't involve 'shaking your ass for money,' direct quote from my father."

"Fuck."

"Yep."

"Well, I study music production and my parents think I'm going to die alone in a studio eating instant ramen."

"And isn't that the dream?"

Jisung laughed again, that gangly laugh that made his shoulders shake.

"Totally. Except they also think I'm fat."

He said it so casually that Minho almost choked on his smoke. He coughed, looking at Jisung with disbelief.

"Excuse me?"

"My parents." Jisung shrugged like he was commenting on the weather. "They're a bit obsessive about weight. Well, a lot. My mom weighs me every time I go home. My dad makes comments about my portions. It's... yeah."

Minho didn't know what to say to that. Jisung was thin, even under the monster coat he could tell he was all bones and angles. The idea that someone would look at him and saw something that needed to be "fixed" was so absurd it was almost funny.

Almost.

"That's why the gas station." Minho said slowly, understanding.

"That's why the gas station." Jisung confirmed. "Nobody knows me there. Nobody judges me. I can buy the most obscenely caloric strawberry cheesecake in the world, and nobody tells me I 'should consider a salad instead.'"

"Strawberry cheesecake is sacred."

"Right?" Jisung's eyes lit up. "It's like... it's like heaven and earth came together to create perfection in edible form."

"You're being dramatic."

"I'm being correct."

Minho stubbed out his cigarette against the bench wood, leaving a small black mark next to the other twenty he'd been accumulating.

"Your parents are idiots." he said bluntly.

Jisung blinked, surprised.

"Wow. Thanks for the deep psychological analysis."

"It's free. Today's my charity day."

"How generous."

"I know. I'm practically Mother Teresa."

Another silence, but this one was different. More comfortable. Like they'd crossed some invisible line and were now in familiar territory.

"You should try it." Jisung said after a moment.

"Try what?"

"The strawberry cheesecake. Tomorrow I'll bring extra and we'll share."

"I don't eat sugar after ten."

"You live dangerously."

"And you eat dangerously."

"Touché again."

Minho looked at him. Jisung had pulled the scarf back up, but his eyes were shining with something that could've been amusement or challenge or both.

"Fine." Minho conceded. "Bring your damn cake."

Jisung's smile was visible even through the scarf.

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Jisung wasn't kidding about the cake's obscenity.

The thing was huge. Not "oh, that's more cake than I expected" huge. It was "this could probably feed a family of four for a week" huge.

It had layers, multiple, generous layers of cream cheese that looked softer than clouds, alternating with what could only be described as artisanal strawberry compote (despite coming from a gas station, which defied all logic), all topped with fresh strawberries that gleamed under the park lights like red jewels and definitely had no business looking that perfect in December.

He'd brought it in a clear plastic container that probably cost more than the cake itself.

"Holy shit." was all Minho could say.

"I know." Jisung sounded way too proud. "Had to go to a different gas station. The regular one only has the normal versions."

"There are multiple gas stations in your nighttime candy smuggling route?"

"I'm a man of resources."

Jisung pulled two plastic forks from his pocket (why did he have two forks? Did he always carry emergency utensils?) and passed one to Minho. The cake looked even better up closely, the strawberries glistening under the lights.

"If this kills me, tell my roommate he can have my vinyl collection." Minho said before taking the first bite.

It was a religious experience.

Not that Minho would admit it out loud, but Jisung was right. The cake was perfection in edible form. Sweet but not cloying, creamy but not heavy, with that touch of acidity from the strawberries that balanced everything.

"Fuck." he murmured.

"Right?" Jisung was practically bouncing in his seat. "RIGHT?"

"Okay, maybe you're not completely crazy."

"I told you!" Jisung stabbed his own piece enthusiastically. "It's like angels crying tears of happiness directly into your mouth."

"That's possibly the most disgusting and accurate description I've heard."

"I have a gift with words."

"You study music production, not literature."

"Art doesn't discriminate, Minho."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, passing the box back and forth. Minho noticed that Jisung ate slowly, savoring each bite like it might be the last. There was something almost reverent in how he closed his eyes between bites, completely lost in the moment.

It was... sweet, in a way Minho didn't expect.

"When are you going home?" Minho asked suddenly.

Jisung opened his eyes.

"To my parents' place? In three weeks, for Christmas. Twenty-four hours of 'Jisung, have you lost weight?' and 'Jisung, don't you think that career is a bit impractical?' and 'Jisung, the neighbors' son is studying medicine, did you know?'"

"Sounds horrible."

"It's a family tradition. Like dry turkey and passive-aggressive arguments."

"My parents don't even pretend to be interested," Minho said, surprising himself with honesty. "This year they probably won't even call. Last year I got a text that said 'Merry Christmas. Don't forget to pay rent.'"

"Fuck, that's..." Jisung stopped, searching for words. "That's really sad."

"It is what it is."

"Is it?"

Minho looked at him. Jisung had tilted his head, studying him with an intensity that was a bit disconcerting. His eyes were very dark under the dim light, almost black.

"I don't know." Minho finally admitted. "I guess I got used to it."

"That doesn't make it less sad."

"And you? Did you get used to your parents being disgusting fatphobes?"

Jisung laughed, but it sounded hollow.

"Touché number three. We should keep count."

"You're dodging the question."

"I'm eating cake. It's different."

"It's the same thing."

"Fine." Jisung sighed, setting down his fork. "No, I didn't get used to it. That's why I'm here, eating my feelings in the form of gas station bakery products with a grumpy stranger who smokes too much."

"I'm not grumpy."

"You literally just frowned while saying that."

"It's my natural face."

"Your natural face is grumpy."

Minho couldn't help it. He laughed. Not much, barely an amused exhale, but it was enough to make Jisung smile in that way that crinkled his nose.

"There it is." Jisung said softly. "I knew you could do that."

"Do what?"

"Laugh. Smile. Make facial expressions that aren't 'I'm considering murder.'"

"I consider murder pretty often. It's one of my hobbies."

"Along with smoking and scaring people away with your charming personality?"

"Exactly."

They finished the cake as the snow started falling harder, accumulating on their shoulders and the bench. Minho lit another cigarette, offering one to Jisung out of habit.

"I don't smoke." Jisung said. "But thanks for offering me lung cancer. It's thoughtful."

"You're welcome. Being charitable again."

"Mother Teresa would be proud."

They stayed there until almost one in the morning, talking about unimportant things. Jisung told him about his final music production project, something about sound layers and frequencies that Minho didn't fully understand but sounded genuinely interesting when Jisung explained it with such enthusiasm. Minho told him about his thesis choreography, a piece about urban alienation that his professor thought was "too pretentious”, but that Minho was determined to complete anyway.

"Sounds great." Jisung said sincerely.

"Sounds pretentious."

"The best things are."

When they finally parted, Minho realized he hadn't thought about his guitarist roommate all night.

He also hadn't thought about his parents, or his finals, or any of the other thousand things that usually kept him awake.

He'd only thought about strawberry cheesecake and the strange guy who ate his feelings at midnight.

He wasn't sure what to do with that information.

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A week later, Jisung showed up with three different desserts.

"Are you okay?" Minho asked, eyeing the collection with something close to alarm. "Did you have a bad day? Should I call someone?"

"I'm testing new material." Jisung explained cheerfully, arranging the containers on the bench between them like a museum exhibit. "We've got chocolate éclair, apple pie, and something the gas station calls 'supreme brownie' but I suspect might just be a regular brownie with delusions of grandeur."

"That's a lot of sugar."

"I had a shit week. My academic advisor says my project 'lacks commercial direction,' my roommate Seungmin won't stop asking about my nightly outings, and my mom called to remind me Christmas is coming and I should 'mentally prepare for family questions.'"

"So, you need therapy and/or a new family."

"Can't afford the first and the second is legally complicated. So: sugar."

"Solid logic."

"Thanks, I specialize in unhealthy coping mechanisms."

They shared the éclair first because, according to Jisung, "you should always start with chocolate to set the right tone." Minho didn't argue. He'd already learned that Jisung had strong opinions about dessert ordering and it was easier to just agree.

"Hypothetical question." Jisung said after a while, swinging the éclair like a pendulum.

"Hypothetical questions are never hypothetical." Minho responded, exhaling smoke toward the sky. "They're just ways of asking real questions without admitting they're real."

"This one is. Maybe." Jisung bit his éclair thoughtfully, leaving a small cream mustache on his upper lip that Minho definitely didn't find endearing. "What would you do if you could do whatever you wanted without consequences? Like, not worrying about money or expectations or disappointing people or the inevitable collapse of all your hopes and dreams?"

"That got dark fast."

"It's late. I get philosophical and/or depressive after eleven."

Minho considered the question while stubbing out his half-smoked cigarette. It was wasteful, but the conversation deserved his full attention. He looked up at the sky where the snow had stopped, leaving everything covered in a pristine white layer that gleamed under the streetlights.

"Is this for a class project or something?" he asked. "Collecting data on millennials' broken dreams?"

"No. It's genuine 3 AM mental curiosity, except it's 11:30."

"The point still stands."

"Not really. The time is pretty important to my argument."

"Your argument is weak."

"Your face is weak."

"That doesn't even make sense."

"Nothing makes sense after eleven. It's linguistic anarchy hour."

Minho shook his head, but he was smiling. Jisung had this ability, pulling smiles out of him like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat, casual and frequent and apparently effortless.

"I'd dance." he said finally, the word coming out softer than he intended. "Just that. I'd dance and I wouldn't care if it's 'practical' or if I can 'pay rent with it' or if I'm disappointing people whose approval I don't even want but apparently need. I'd just... do what I love, and it would be enough."

Jisung was watching him intently, the éclair forgotten in his hand, cream slowly dripping over his fingers.

"That's beautiful." he said quietly. "Really beautiful."

"It's stupid. It's a kid's dream. Unrealistic."

"No, it really isn't." Jisung shook his head firmly. "It's honest. Most people can't be that honest even with themselves. They spend their whole lives pretending they want things they think they should want instead of what they actually want."

"That was surprisingly deep for someone with chocolate cream on their face."

"Multitasking." Jisung wiped his face with the back of his hand.

"What about you?" Minho asked. "What would you do?"

Jisung went silent for so long Minho thought he wasn't going to answer. Then, very softly:

"I'd eat what I wanted, when I wanted, without having to hide in a park at midnight like I'm doing something illegal." He paused. "And I'd make music I cared about, not music I thought my father would like or that would impress my professors. Weird, experimental stuff that probably nobody else would listen to but would make me happy anyway."

"That's not stupid either."

"No?"

"No. It's just... sad that we have to ask hypothetical questions about things that should be basic."

"Welcome to adulthood with strict Asian parents. It sucks. Zero stars. Wouldn't recommend."

"Let's toast to that." Minho pulled out another cigarette but didn't light it, just held it between his fingers like a profane rosary. "To hypothetical lives and parents who don't understand and strawberry cheesecake at midnight."

"And to cigarettes that smell like burnt socks."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"I know. But it's part of the aesthetic of all this now."

Jisung was right, though Minho wouldn't admit it. There was something about these nightly meetings that felt... right. Like they'd created their own little world on this bench, a place where they could be honest about the sad and ridiculous without having to pretend everything was fine.

"My roommate thinks I'm having an affair." Jisung commented casually, finishing his éclair.

Minho almost choked on his own spit.

"What?"

"Yeah. Seungmin. He keeps asking why I go out every night and come back smelling like bakery. I told him I have a secret lover who's a pastry chef."

"And he believed you?"

"Of course not. But it's funnier than saying 'I sit in a park with a grumpy stranger and we talk about our existential problems.'"

"I'm still not grumpy."

"It's still your natural face."

"My natural face is perfect."

"Your natural face scares children."

"Good. Children are annoying."

Jisung laughed so hard he almost fell off the bench. He grabbed the backrest, shoulders shaking, and Minho couldn't help but smile a little. There was something contagious about how Jisung found everything so funny, like the world was a private comedy and he was the only one who understood the jokes.

"You should do that more often." Jisung said when he finally calmed down.

"Scare children?"

"No, idiot. Smile. Makes you look less... serial killer-ish."

"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."

"I have very low standards for compliments."

A group of college kids passed near the park, laughing obnoxiously, probably drunk even on a weeknight. Minho watched them disappear down the street, feeling that familiar pang of something that might've been envy or just exhaustion.

"Do you ever wish you were like them?" Jisung asked, following his gaze.

"Drunk and annoying?"

"Carefree. Like nothing really mattered."

Minho considered the question honestly.

"Sometimes. But then I remember they're probably faking it too."

"Deep."

"It's past midnight. I'm philosophical at these hours."

"Just philosophical? Last time you were 'considering murder.'"

"I can be both. I'm complex."

"You're ridiculous."

"And you have chocolate cream on your nose now."

Jisung wiped it quickly, blushing visible even under the dim light.

"You could've told me earlier."

"And miss your panicked expression? Never."

"You're cruel."

"I know. It's part of my charm."

They stayed until Jisung finished his dessert supply (he'd brought three that night because apparently he was "testing material") and until Minho smoked his last two cigarettes. The cold was biting, nipping at their cheeks and fingertips, but neither suggested leaving.

Not yet.

"Same time tomorrow?" Jisung asked when they finally stood up, knees creaking from sitting so long.

"Do you have something better to do?"

"Definitely not."

"Then yes. Same time."

Jisung smiled, that gesture that crinkled his nose and made his eyes disappear into half-moons.

"Good. Because I'm thinking of trying apple pie tomorrow and I need a second opinion on whether it's better warm or cold."

"That's the dumbest question I've ever heard."

"But will you come?"

Minho shrugged, shoving his hands in his coat pockets.

"I guess someone has to save you from your questionable life decisions."

"How heroic."

"I know. I should get a medal."

"I'll nominate you for one."

"Appreciated."

They parted with a casual wave, Jisung heading toward the dorms and Minho taking the long way to his apartment. The snow crunched under his boots, and the air smelled like that particular mix of cold and pollution that was Seoul in winter.

Minho realized, as he walked, that he was smiling.

Just a little.

But still.

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The apple pie turned out to be better cold.

They decided this after forty minutes of debate that was probably too intense for the subject matter but was also one of the most fun moments Minho had had in months.

"I can't believe we're actually having this conversation." Minho said, though he was grinning so wide his cheeks hurt.

"It's a matter of extreme importance." Jisung insisted, gesticulating with his fork like it was a laser pointer in an academic presentation. "Temperature affects texture, flavor, the complete experience. It's science. There's chemistry involved. Food physics. There's—"

"It's not science. It's a preference. A subjective opinion."

"Preference IS based on science. On taste receptors. Thermal conduction. On—"

"You're completely making things up right now."

"I'm being logical and reasonable."

"You're being ridiculous and pretentious."

"I can be both. I'm complex. We discussed this. Remember?"

Minho laughed, shaking his head with affectionate disbelief. Jisung had started stealing his phrases, his speech patterns, his little verbal tics. And honestly, Minho didn't hate it. It was... cute. In a weird, intimate way, like sharing clothes or knowing each other's coffee orders.

Except they hadn't gotten there yet. They didn’t even have each other's phone numbers. They didn't even know each other's full surnames. They were strangers who met every night at midnight in a park and shared desserts and trauma.

It was absolutely ridiculous.

It was perfect.

It was mid-December now. They'd been meeting on the bench for almost a month and a half, and at some point, Jisung had stopped being "the weird park guy" and become simply "Jisung."

And Minho knew things. So many small things that had accumulated like snowflakes until they formed a complete landscape:

His coffee order (Americano with four sugars, "yes, four, don't judge me").

His favorite color (dark blue, "like midnight blue, not baby blue, there's an important difference").

His biggest fear (disappointing his parents, "though I already did so, you know, fear realized").

His favorite food (anything with cheese, "it's my only real personality trait").

The thing he hated most (the sound of people eating loudly, "it's sensory, I can't help it, makes me want to crawl out of my skin").

And other things too. Smaller things, more intimate in ways that didn't involve words:

How Jisung bit his lip when he was thinking, concentrating on something.

How he hummed unconsciously when he was comfortable, little melodies that didn't exist anywhere except in his head.

The way his eyes lit up when he talked about music, about sounds, about how frequencies interacted.

How he burrowed deeper into his coat when he was nervous, wrapping himself in fabric like it was armor.

The way he laughed, too loud and a bit uncontrolled, like joy was something he didn't know how to properly regulate.

Minho wasn't sure when he'd started noticing these things.

Wasn't sure when he'd started caring about noticing these things.

It was unsettling.

It was... something.

"Question." Jisung said suddenly, interrupting Minho's thoughts that were going to dangerous places.

"Those never end well with you."

"This one's good, I promise. Genuine. Important." Jisung turned to look at him fully, legs crossed on the bench like they were in an informal therapy session. "Why did you choose contemporary dance? Of all things. All possible paths. Why that one?"

Minho blinked, surprised by the question.

"You really want to know?"

"Wouldn't ask if I didn't. That's my policy. Zero small talk. Only deep conversations or complete silence."

"That's a weird policy."

"I'm a weird person. Surprise."

Fair enough.

Minho took a moment to organize his thoughts, find the right words, decide how much honesty was appropriate for a Tuesday at 11:30 PM.

Apparently, all of it.

"I saw a performance when I was fourteen," he started slowly, his voice softer than usual. "My mom dragged me to a dance show because her friend had a son who danced and she wanted to support him or something. I thought it was going to be the most boring thing in the world. You know, tutus and classical music and people jumping in ways that looked painful."

"Understandable. I thought that too."

"But it wasn't." Minho paused, remembering with a clarity that still surprised him after all these years. "It was... it was like seeing emotions converted into movement. Like everything you couldn't say with words, all the rage, sadness, joy, confusion, the complete chaos of being human, could be said with your body. And the piece was about alienation, about feeling alone in a crowd, and I was sitting there, fourteen years old, feeling exactly that but without words to express it. And then this dancer expressed it for me. Showed it. Made it visible."

Jisung was watching him so intently that Minho felt a bit exposed, a bit vulnerable, like he'd opened up more than he meant to.

"What?" he asked, maybe too defensively.

"Nothing. Just..." Jisung smiled, small and soft and something that might've been admiration. "I've never heard you talk like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you actually love something. Like something matters to you deeply. Like you have passion that isn't disguised as sarcasm or cynicism."

Minho felt something warm in his chest, something uncomfortable and pleasant at the same time, like drinking hot chocolate too fast.

"It's because I do love it." he admitted quietly, almost inaudible. "It's probably the only thing I genuinely, really love. Which is pathetic when you say it out loud. Like, my whole life is this. I don't have hobbies. Don't have real friends. Just dance and a bench in a park and you."

"It's not pathetic." Jisung shook his head firmly, with conviction. "It's fortunate. It's rare. Most people never find that. Spend their whole lives searching for something they care about that much and never find it."

"Did you find it?"

"With music, yeah." Jisung smiled, but it was sad around the edges, like a faded photograph. "It's just... it's complicated. Because music is what I love, but it's also what I use to try to prove my worth to my parents, and those two things don't always align. Sometimes they directly oppose. Like, I want to make experimental weird music but they want me to make 'practical' and 'marketable' music."

"That's shit."

"Yeah. It is." Jisung sighed. "It's like love has conditions attached. Like I can't just love something for loving it. It has to serve a purpose. It has to be useful."

"Your parents don't deserve your music."

"That's... surprisingly sweet."

"Don't tell anyone. It'll ruin my reputation as a grumpy murderer."

Minho pulled out his pack of cigarettes but stopped before taking one, turning it over in his fingers.

"Can I ask you something?"

"As long as it's not about my weight, my life choices, or why I still live with a roommate I don't like."

"Why do you keep trying to please them? Your parents, I mean. If they make you so miserable, why keep trying?"

Jisung went very still. For a long, uncomfortable moment, Minho thought he'd crossed a line, asked something too personal too soon, that this was the end of their nightly meetings because he didn't know when to keep his mouth shut.

But then Jisung sighed, long and tired and so deeply sad that Minho felt the weight of it in his own chest.

"Because I still have hope, I guess." he said finally, his voice small. "That someday they'll look at me and see who I really am, not who they want me to be. Not their ideal version of a son. Just... me. Jisung. The real person with tastes and opinions and a body that doesn't need to be corrected." He shrugged. "It's stupid."

"It's not stupid."

"It feels stupid. Feels like I keep knocking on a door that's never going to open."

"Most important things feel stupid. Love feels stupid. Hope feels stupid. Caring feels stupid. Doesn't mean they are."

Jisung looked at him, surprised, eyes wide.

"Was that... comforting? Did you just comfort me?"

"I don't know. Did I?"

"I think so. But coming from you it sounds more like an accidental insult with good intentions."

"It's my specialty. Comfort with sarcasm. Should offer professional services."

"You're terrible at comforting people. Zero stars. Wouldn't recommend."

"Never said I was good. Just said I'd try."

Jisung laughed, that gangly sound Minho had come to associate with these nights, with this bench, with this strange intimacy they'd built. He leaned back against the bench, his shoulder touching Minho's, looking up at the sky where snowflakes were falling lazily like feathers.

"You know," Jisung said after a long moment of comfortable silence, "this is weird."

"What specifically? Need more context."

"This. Us. Whatever this is." He gestured vaguely between them, his hand drawing invisible patterns in the air. "I don't know your last name. Don't know where you live exactly, just the general direction. Don't have your phone number. Don't know your birthday or your zodiac sign or what kind of music you listen to. Don't know any of the 'normal' things you know about people."

"But?"

"But I know you have a scar on your left knuckle that you got in a dance class when you were sixteen because you tried a move that was too ambitious and hit the floor. I know your favorite color is black because 'technically it's the absence of color and that's philosophically interesting.' I know you hate Christmas but secretly like Christmas lights because I've seen you looking at them when you think I'm not paying attention."

"I don't like the lights."

"You're lying. I've seen you stare at them with that expression."

"What expression?"

"Like they're pretty but you don't want to admit it because admitting something is pretty is admitting you care about something."

Minho didn't have an answer for that because it was too accurate, too close to the truth.

"It's weird." Jisung continued, his voice softer now. "But good weird. Like, I can't explain it, but this is probably the happiest part of my day. Literally. The highlight. The moment I look forward to. And it's sitting on a frozen bench at midnight with someone I barely 'officially' know."

"That's incredibly depressing when you say it out loud."

"Or romantic, depending on how you look at it. Perspective."

"Definitely depressing. There's no perspective that makes it romantic."

"But you come too, right? It's your happy moment too?"

"That's different."

"How is it different?"

Minho wasn't sure how to answer that. Because Jisung was right. This was weird. It didn’t make much sense in conventional terms. There was no logic that explained why two strangers would sit on a frozen bench every night sharing desserts and trauma.

But it was also the only thing that had made the last six weeks feel bearable. The only thing he looked forward to. The only thing that made him smile.

"I guess it's the happiest part of my day too." he admitted finally, voice so low the wind almost took it. "Don't make me repeat it. It's humiliating."

Jisung turned to him so quickly he almost fell off the bench, eyes very wide.

"Really?"

"Don't make me say it again."

"No, no, it's fine." Jisung was smiling now, that full smile that made his whole face light up like Christmas lights. "Just wanted to confirm it. For my fragile ego. To know I'm not alone in my weirdness."

"Your ego's fine without my help."

"My ego's made of papier-mâché, anxiety, and irrational hope. It's structurally unsound."

"That's unexpectedly specific and architecturally concerning."

"I'm an unexpectedly specific person with many construction metaphors."

The snow started falling harder, accumulating in Jisung's hair, on his shoulders, on eyelashes that were surprisingly long. Minho had the strange, inappropriate urge to brush it away, to touch, to close that two-meter distance they'd religiously maintained for weeks.

But he didn't.

Not yet.

Instead, he lit his delayed cigarette and sank deeper into his coat, trying not to think about how Jisung's shoulder was pressed against his, warm even through layers of clothing.

"What are you doing for Christmas?" Jisung asked, his breath forming little clouds in the cold air.

"Same as always. Probably nothing. Maybe watch a movie that'll make me feel less alone. Or more alone. It depends on the movie."

"You could do something. Something you actually want to do."

"Like what? Pretend I care about Christmas? Buy decorations? Bake cookies?"

"Like... I don't know. Watch a movie you really like. Eat too much without guilt. Have an existential crisis but a productive one. The options are endless when you're an unsupervised adult."

"All of those sound terrible in different ways."

"Then you're doing it right. Christmas is about misery lightly disguised as cheer."

Minho smiled despite himself.

"What about you? Besides the twenty-four to forty-eight hours of sponsored family torture?"

"I'll probably invent an elaborate excuse to escape to the gas station. Buy the biggest strawberry cheesecake they can legally sell. Eat it in the bathroom while pretending I'm on the phone with my 'academic advisor' who needs to discuss 'urgent program matters.'"

"That's sad, pathetic, and brilliantly specific."

"It's my Christmas tradition. I've perfected the art over years."

"You need better traditions. Or therapy. Probably both."

"Suggestions for the first? Can't afford the second."

Minho thought about it, really considered it.

"You could... I don't know. Do something you actually want to do. Even if just for one day. Even if your parents don't approve. Even if it's 'impractical' or 'disappointing.'"

"Like what specifically?"

"You're the one with imagination here. I'm just the grumpy cynic with emotional commitment issues."

"You're still grumpy and now you also have commitment issues. It's an upgrade."

"And I'll carry it with pride to my lonely grave."

Jisung shook his head, smiling at his lap like Minho had said something profoundly funny instead of depressing.

"Sometimes I wonder what you'd see if you could see yourself from outside. Like I see you. From this external perspective."

"Probably someone who needs better life choices and a therapist with a lot of patience."

"No." Jisung looked at him directly, serious suddenly. "You'd see someone who's honest even when it's hard. Someone who doesn't pretend to be something they're not just to make other people happy. Someone who smokes too much and frowns constantly, but who also cares more than they admit. Someone who's kind in weird, unconventional ways."

Minho felt his throat tighten a little, an uncomfortable pressure behind his eyes that definitely wasn't tears because he didn't cry, especially not on park benches at midnight.

"You're being too kind. It's suspicious."

"I'm being honest. There's an important difference."

"It's the same thing when it makes me uncomfortable."

"It's not. Kindness is optional. Honesty is chosen."

They looked at each other for a long moment, snow falling between them like silent confetti, like mute witnesses to something neither of them knew how to name. There was something in the air, something dense and charged, like being at the top of a roller coaster right before the drop.

Jisung broke eye contact first, looking down at his lap, playing with the edge of his scarf.

"Anyway," he said, his voice a bit higher than normal, a bit shaky. "I should go. I have finals tomorrow and should probably pretend I care. Or at least study enough not to catastrophically fail."

"Yeah. Me too. Early rehearsal. My professor's going to yell at me about my 'lack of dedication' probably."

They stood up simultaneously, shaking off the snow that had accumulated like powdered sugar. For a second, Minho thought Jisung was going to say something else, something important, something that would change the complete dynamic of whatever this was.

But he just smiled, that half-shy gesture he'd started making when he was nervous or unsure.

"Same time tomorrow?"

"If you survive your finals without completely losing your sanity."

"I promise to try. Don't guarantee success but I'll try."

"Appreciated. Your effort counts even if you fail."

Jisung left first this time, but stopped after a few steps and turned, his dark silhouette against the white snow.

"Hey, Minho?"

"What?"

"Thanks. For... you know. For this. For listening. For being here. For being you."

"I haven't done anything special."

"Exactly." Jisung smiled. "That's what's special."

And with that, he was gone, his small figure disappearing into the snow and shadows, leaving only footprints that would be erased by the next snowfall.

Minho stood there a moment longer, staring at the empty space, feeling something in his chest that could've been warmth or could've been panic or could've been something completely different that didn't have a name.

He wasn't sure which was worse.

But as he walked home, hands shoved deep in his pockets and his coat collared up against the wind, he realized he was smiling.

And that he'd been smiling a lot lately.

And that probably meant something.

═══════  ₊˚⊹♡🍰🍓♡⊹˚₊  ════════

Jisung didn't show up the next night.

Minho told himself it didn't matter. That Jisung was probably just busy with finals, or studying late, or had decided that sitting on a frozen bench with a grumpy stranger wasn't as fun as it used to be.

He told himself that while waiting until 11:30.

And then until midnight.

And then until 12:15, when he finally admitted Jisung wasn't coming.

He smoked three cigarettes instead of two, leaving three new black marks on the bench.

Went home feeling strangely empty, like someone had removed something important from his chest and forgotten to fill it back in.

Jisung didn't show up the next night either.

Minho gave it until 12:30 this time, kicking at the accumulated snow on the ground, checking his phone even though he didn't have Jisung's number, looking toward the dorms' direction like Jisung might materialize through sheer force of will.

Nothing.

Or the night after that.

By the fourth day, Minho seriously considered the possibility that he'd done something wrong. He mentally replayed their last conversation, searching for the exact moment where he might've ruined everything. Had he been too direct? Too blunt? Too... himself?

Maybe he'd scared Jisung off with his honesty.

Maybe Jisung had realized Minho really was as miserable as he seemed and decided to cut his losses.

Maybe this always had an expiration date and Minho had just been too stupid to see it.

By the fifth day, Minho gave up on dignity and went to the gas station.

It was different at night, with fluorescent lights buzzing at that frequency that made you feel slightly sick, and a bored employee behind the counter who didn't look up from his phone when Minho entered. The place smelled like stale coffee and that chemical cleaning scent that never really cleaned anything.

The dessert section was exactly as Jisung had described it: a chaotic mix of bakery products of dubious quality with expiration dates that were more suggestions than rules. There were muffins that looked like they'd been baked during the Neolithic, brownies wrapped in plastic that would probably survive the apocalypse, and cakes of various sizes that defied food physics.

Minho found the strawberry cheesecake in the bottom corner, smaller than he expected but still with those gleaming strawberries Jisung adored with almost religious fervor.

He bought it without thinking too much, without questioning why, without admitting to himself how pathetic it was.

Back at the bench, alone, the cake tasted different.

It was still good, but something essential was missing. Maybe it was the company. Maybe it was the fact that eating cake alone at midnight in a park was just depressing without someone to share the absurdity with.

Maybe it was that the cake tasted like it should but felt completely different.

"This is pathetic,. Minho said out loud, to no one in particular, to the empty night.

The park didn't answer.

The Christmas lights blinked indifferently.

A stray cat passed by, looked at him with what seemed like judgment, and continued on its way.

Even the cats thought it was sad.

He finished the cake anyway, out of pure stubbornness, and then sat there smoking until his fingers were so numb he could barely hold the cigarette.

When he finally stood to leave, his legs were stiff, his feet completely without sensation.

He walked home slowly, taking the long way, delaying the inevitable return to his empty apartment where Chan was probably practicing guitar or sleeping or doing whatever normal roommates did.

The snow crunched under his boots.

The air smelled like strawberries, but only because Minho was imagining it.

On the sixth day, Jisung finally showed up.

Minho was in his usual position, bench, cigarette, expression of existential misery, when he saw a familiar figure approaching from the dorms' direction.

Jisung looked tired. More tired than normal. With darker, more pronounced circles under his eyes, like bruises. His hair was messier than usual, like he hadn't bothered to comb it, or maybe he'd tried and given up halfway.

But he was smiling, that shy, apologetic smile that meant he knew he'd been absent and felt bad about it.

"Hi." he said, sitting in his usual spot carefully, like he wasn't sure if he was still welcome, like Minho might've given his space to someone else in his absence.

"Hi," Minho responded, trying to sound casual and probably failing spectacularly.

"Sorry about... you know. The last few days. Almost a week. Sorry about the week."

"You were busy. It happens."

"Yeah. Finals were absolute shit. Like, catastrophically bad. Almost failed music theory, which is ironic considering I'm studying to be a music producer." Jisung was talking fast, nervous. "And then my mom called three times in one day about Christmas plans and when exactly I'd be arriving and if I'd lost weight and I had a small breakdown about whether I was wasting my life and if I'd ever be enough and..." He stopped, taking a deep breath. "Yeah. It's been a week. A very long week."

"Sounds horrible. Genuinely."

"It was." Jisung pulled something from his backpack. It was a bigger box than normal, more elaborate. "But I'll make it up to you. Strawberry cheesecake. Family size. The best they have. Went to three different gas stations to find it."

Minho felt something loosen in his chest, something that had been tight for days.

"That's too much sugar even for you."

"That's why we're sharing. Like always. Like it's supposed to be."

"You're assuming I forgave you for abandoning me for almost a week without explanation?"

"Did you?" Jisung looked at him with hopeful, vulnerable eyes.

Minho took the fork Jisung offered him.

"I guess so. But only because you brought bribery in dessert form."

"Excellent, because I really bought this hoping you'd say yes and if you'd said no it would've been incredibly awkward and I probably would've cried."

"You're ridiculous."

"I know. It's part of my dysfunctional charm."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, finding their familiar rhythm easily, like almost a week hadn't passed, like it was the night before. Minho noticed Jisung looked more relaxed now, his shoulders less tense, his breathing calmer, like this bench was the only place where he could really exhale.

"I missed you." Jisung blurted suddenly, not looking at him, studying the cake like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

Minho almost choked on his bite.

"What?"

"The last few days. I missed you. This." Jisung gestured vaguely at the bench, the park, everything. "It's stupid, I know. It's only been a few days. But I missed this. I missed you."

Minho didn't know what to say. His brain had completely stopped functioning somewhere between "I missed you" and the way Jisung still wouldn't look at him, like he was terrified of the response.

"Me too." he said finally, because he couldn't not say it, because it was the truth and truth seemed important here.

Jisung looked at him then, eyes very wide.

"Really?"

"Don't make me repeat it."

"No, it's fine. Just... okay. Good. Great. That's... great."

Jisung was blushing now, Minho could see it even under the dim light, a flush that spread from his cheeks to his ears.

"Finals are over." Jisung said after a moment, clearly trying to change the subject. "So, I have two full weeks before going home. Two weeks of total freedom without academic responsibilities."

"What are you going to do with them?"

"Besides this? I don't know." Jisung smiled. "Probably sleep late every morning. Work on my personal music project. Eat all the cheesecake I can physically find. Avoid my mom's calls."

"Sounds like a solid, well-thought-out plan."

"What about you?"

Minho shrugged.

"Same as always. Practice choreography until my legs fall off. Smoke too much. Consider murdering my roommate. The classics."

"Your favorite hobbies remain constant."

"Consistency is important."

Jisung looked at him sideways, with that expression that meant he was thinking something but wasn't sure if he should say it, if it was appropriate, if Minho would react well.

"Spit it out." Minho said. "Whatever you're thinking. I can see the wheels turning in your head."

"It's just..." Jisung played with his fork, spinning it between his fingers. "What if we did something? During the holidays. Something that's not sitting on a frozen bench comparing our traumas."

"Like what specifically?"

"I don't know. We could... see the Christmas lights together. Or go to a normal café at a normal hour like normal people. Or, I don't know, do something ridiculous like ice skating even though neither of us knows how and we'll probably end up in the ER."

Minho stared at him, processing.

"Are you asking me on a date?"

Jisung turned completely red, a blush that was probably visible from space.

"No. Maybe. Is it? I don't know. Do you want it to be?"

"I don't know. You're the one who suggested it."

"Well, do you want it to be? A date?"

"Do you want it to be?"

"I asked you first! That's the rule. The person who asks first gets the answer first."

"That's not a real rule. You just made it up."

"It's my rule. I just created it. It's binding."

They stared at each other for a long, ridiculous moment, both blushing now, both clearly with no idea what was happening but too committed to the conversation to back down.

It was absurd.

It was perfect.

"Fine." Minho said finally, giving in. "Let's do it."

"Do what exactly? I need clarification."

"Whatever you're suggesting. A date. Or not a date. A hangout. An event. Whatever. Let's stop being weird about it."

Jisung was smiling now, practically radiant, that full smile that made his whole face light up like a Christmas tree.

"Okay. Yeah. Great. Perfect. Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow's Christmas, idiot."

"Oh. Right. Day after tomorrow then."

"Day after tomorrow I have early rehearsal. My professor's already mad at me."

"How about in three days?"

"Three days works. It's feasible. Doable."

"Perfect. Excellent." Jisung was practically bouncing now, with so much energy the bench was shaking. "We'll meet here at eleven. And then... we'll do something. Whatever. We'll improvise."

"That's an incredibly vague plan."

"It's the most solid plan I've made in my life."

They finished the cake with a strange energy between them, something nervous and excited and absolutely terrifying. Minho only smoked one cigarette that night, too distracted by how Jisung kept smiling at his lap, by how their knees kept "accidentally" bumping, by how the air between them felt charged with something new.

When they parted, Jisung surprised him completely by hugging him quickly.

It was awkward, his arms wrapping around Minho for a second and a half, barely enough time for Minho to process what was happening before Jisung let go and ran off with a "see you in three days!" shouted over his shoulder.

Minho stood there, completely stunned, smelling vaguely of strawberries and that cheap detergent Jisung used that somehow smelled like home.

"Shit." he said out loud, to the empty night, to no one.

Because suddenly everything made a lot of sense and no sense at the same time.

Because apparently he had a date.

With Jisung.

The guy from the bench.

The cheesecake guy.

The guy who made him smile without trying.

"Shit." he repeated, but this time he was smiling.

═══════  ₊˚⊹♡🍰🍓♡⊹˚₊  ════════

December 28th was chaotically perfect.

Jisung showed up fifteen minutes late, breathless and with his hair still damp from a clearly rushed shower, water drops occasionally falling from the tips.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry." he gasped. "My roommate hid my keys as a 'joke' and I had to search for twenty minutes and I found them in the freezer because Seungmin thinks he's hilarious and—"

"It's fine." Minho interrupted, though he'd definitely been nervous during those fifteen minutes. Definitely hadn't been checking his phone every thirty seconds even though he didn't have Jisung's number. Definitely hadn't considered leaving thinking he'd been standing up.

Jisung smiled, relieved, breathing hard. Minho noticed he was wearing a different sweater. One that looked new, without any of the stains or holes that characterized his usual clothes. One that was dark blue, his favorite color, Minho remembered, and fit him better than his usual monster coat.

He'd dressed up for this.

For Minho.

He wasn't going to think too hard about that or his brain would explode.

"So," Jisung said, still a bit breathless. "Where are we going? What's the master plan?"

"I thought you had the plan. You're the one who suggested this."

"I suggested doing something. The specific details, the logistics, that was your responsibility as the invitee."

"I don't think that's how dates work. I think there are protocols. Social rules."

"Ah. So it is a date? Officially. We're confirming that."

Minho felt his face heat up.

"I... shut up. You started this."

Jisung laughed, clearly enjoying Minho's discomfort way too much.

"It's fine. Don't worry. I have an idea. A really good one. Follow me."

Jisung's "idea" turned out to be the nighttime Christmas market near the Han River.

It was exactly as cheesy and cliché as it sounded: stalls selling hot chocolate and roasted chestnuts, lights hanging from every available surface, Christmas music blasting from speakers that probably violated noise regulations, and an improvised ice skating rink where people constantly fell in an infinite loop of physical comedy.

It was horrible.

It was too festive.

It was exactly the kind of thing Minho usually avoided with every fiber of his being.

He loved it immediately.

"This is ridiculous." Minho said as Jisung dragged him toward a stall selling horrific Christmas hats that should've been considered fashion crimes.

"I know." Jisung held up one with reindeer antlers that blinked with LED lights. "That's why it's perfect. It's so ridiculous it circles back around and becomes cool."

"That's not a real philosophy."

"It's my philosophy and it's binding."

"I'm not wearing that. I have standards. Dignity."

"Not even for me?" Jisung made puppy eyes, with his eyes very wide and his bottom lip sticking out in the most manipulative pout Minho had seen. "Not even to make me happy?"

"That's completely unfair. You're using dirty tactics."

"Is it working?"

"...Yes."

"Excellent."

Minho sighed dramatically.

"You're literally the worst person I know. The most manipulative and terrible."

"But you know me, so that says a lot about your life choices and your criteria for relationships."

"I have no defense against that."

He put on the stupid hat.

Jisung looked so happy it almost made sacrificing his dignity worth it.

Almost.

They bought hot chocolate, too sweet for Minho, perfect for Jisung, from a stall run by an older lady who smiled at them suggestively when she handed them their cups.

"You two make a cute couple." she said, winking at them.

Jisung almost spit out his chocolate.

Minho just nodded and walked away before his face got any redder.

They wandered between the stalls without any particular direction, no rush. Jisung stopped every five meters to examine something: blown glass ornaments, snowman-shaped candles, hand-knitted scarves that probably cost the equivalent of Minho's monthly rent.

"Are you actually buying anything or is this just sport?" Minho asked after the tenth stop.

"Just looking. Buying is for people with functional money. I have dysfunctional money that barely covers ramen and gas for cake emergencies."

"Fair enough. It's a valid economy."

At some point, while Jisung was examining a set of cups with cats drawn on them that were objectively adorable, their hands brushed.

It was completely accidental, just a brief touch when they both reached for the same cup simultaneously, fingers colliding in the cold air.

But neither pulled away immediately.

Instead, slow, almost cautiously, like he was testing limits, Jisung linked his pinky with Minho's.

"Is this okay?" he asked quietly, almost inaudible over the market noise.

Minho's heart was doing something completely stupid and inappropriate in his chest. Like it had forgotten how to beat normally and was improvising badly.

"Yeah. It's okay. More than okay."

By the time they reached the skating rink, they were holding hands completely.

Not just pinkies linked.

Full hands, fingers interlaced, palms pressed together.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like they'd done it a thousand times before.

Like they'd always been destined to get here.

"I don't know how to skate." Jisung admitted, looking at the ice with genuine concern, like it was a personal enemy.

"Me neither. Not even a little."

"This is going to be an absolute disaster. We're going to end up in the hospital."

"Probably. Almost definitely."

"Should we do it anyway? Despite the obvious consequences?"

"Obviously. It'd be cowardly not to."

It was, in fact, a disaster.

Jisung fell immediately, not gradually, not with warning, just feet-up falling like gravity had personally increased its force just for him, dragging Minho down with him.

They spent more time on the ice than on it, laughing so hard people started watching them with a mix of amusement and concern. Like they were witnessing a disaster in slow motion but an endearing one.

At one point, Minho tried to help Jisung up, extending his hand with good intentions and zero skill, and only managed to make them both fall again, this time with Jisung landing directly on top of him with an ungraceful "oomph."

"Sorry, sorry, sorry." Jisung gasped, but he was laughing too hard to sound genuinely sorry, his face inches from Minho's, so close Minho could count his eyelashes if he wanted to.

"You weigh more than you look." Minho groaned, though honestly he didn't mind at all. Could've stayed like this indefinitely.

"Did you just call me fat? On our first date?"

"I just called you dense. There's an important scientific difference."

"That's even worse. I'd prefer fat."

"Technically it's a compliment. Means you have good bone density."

"That's the weirdest way to flirt I've ever experienced."

"I'm not flirting. I'm being factual."

"You're terrible at dates."

"This is literally my first one in two years. Give me a break."

They finally gave up on skating after twenty minutes and exactly zero progress, with bruised knees, sore elbows, and cheeks aching from laughing so much. They sat on a bench near the rink, watching other people fall while they recovered and restored their battered dignity.

"That was horrible." Jisung said, still smiling.

"Completely catastrophic. A total failure."

"Want to do it again next year?"

Minho looked at him.

Jisung had his nose red from the cold, like Rudolph but more endearing. His hair was completely disheveled, messed up by the multiple falls. There was a chocolate stain on his chin that had been there for the last half hour. His new sweater had a tear in the elbow, probably from the ice.

He looked disastrous.

He looked perfect.

"Yeah." Minho said, and the word came out softer than he intended, more honest. "I want to do it again. Next year. And the one after. And every year after that."

Jisung's smile softened, becoming something more intimate.

"Good. It's a date. Multiple dates. An annual date series."

"The best date series."

They bought strawberry cheesecake from a stall, because of course there was a cheesecake stall, because the universe clearly had a sense of humor, and ate it while walking back toward the park. There was no rush. Neither of them wanted the night to end yet.

The air was cold but not unbearable, and the snow had stopped, leaving everything clean and bright under the city lights.

"Hey," Jisung said when they reached their bench, their special bench that now had meaning. "Thanks for this."

"I didn't do anything. You planned everything. I just fell repeatedly."

"No, I mean... thanks for coming. For trying. For giving this a chance." Jisung gestured vaguely between them. "I know this isn't your thing. You know. People. Dates. Feelings. Emotional vulnerability."

Minho laughed softly.

"You're the most ridiculous person I know. The most dramatic too."

"That doesn't answer my point. You're evading."

"My point," Minho said, turning to look at him directly, taking courage, "is that maybe it's not my thing usually. Historically. But with you... I don't know. It's different. You're different. This is different."

"Different good or different weird? I need specifications."

"Different good, idiot. Very good. The best kind of different."

Jisung was smiling now, that full smile Minho had come to know so well, that he'd come to expect, that he'd come to need in ways he didn't know how to articulate.

"So this is official? We're... something? Do we have a title?"

"Do you want to be something?"

"Yeah. Definitely yeah. Absolutely yeah."

"Then we're something. With a title. Official."

"What kind of something? Because there are many categories."

"I don't know. The kind of something that eats cheesecake at midnight and falls on ice rinks and probably has communication problems but tries anyway."

"That's the best kind of something. My favorite."

"I agree. Completely."

They stayed like that, sitting closer than they had before, shoulders touching, hands interlaced, sharing warmth. The snow had started falling again, falling softly over them like a blessing, like silent confetti for their small private celebration.

"I have to leave day after tomorrow," Jisung said softly, his voice smaller. "To my parents' house. For a full week of festive misery."

"I know. You told me."

"It's going to be horrible. Worse than horrible. Catastrophic."

"Probably. Almost definitely."

"But I'll come back. After the week. And then we can do this again. Whatever this is."

"I like that plan. It's a good plan."

Jisung rested his head on Minho's shoulder, cautious at first, like he wasn't sure if it was allowed, and Minho didn't push him away. Instead, he wrapped his arm around Jisung's shoulders, pulling him closer, inhaling that smell of cheap detergent and strawberries and something that was uniquely Jisung.

"This is weird," Jisung murmured against his shoulder.

"In what sense? Be specific."

"In the sense that two months ago, I didn't even know your name. You were just the grumpy guy from the bench. And now you're my... whatever you are. My person. My something."

"Boyfriend," Minho said, testing the word on his tongue, feeling it, deciding he liked it. "If you want. If that works."

"Yeah? That's what we are?"

"Yeah. If you want. If you agree."

"I want. Definitely want."

They stayed until almost two in the morning, much later than usual, until they were both shivering from cold and could barely feel their extremities. When they finally stood to leave Jisung didn't let go of his hand.

"See you when I get back?" he asked, squeezing Minho's fingers.

"Here. Eleven o'clock. Like always."

"It's a date. Another date. The best date."

Jisung stood on his tiptoes and pressed a quick, soft, almost shy kiss on Minho's cheek before running off, shouting a "goodbye, boyfriend!" over his shoulder that made several people on the street turn to look.

Minho stood there, completely stunned, touching his cheek where Jisung's lips had been, feeling the ghost of contact.

"Shit." he said again, to the night.

But this time his voice didn't sound annoyed.

It sounded happy.

This time he was smiling so widely he probably looked crazy.

But he didn't care.

═══════  ₊˚⊹♡🍰🍓♡⊹˚₊  ════════

Jisung came back on January 5th, exactly when he promised, with an elaborate story about how he'd survived Christmas dinner.

"It was pathetic." he said, though he was smiling. "Exactly like I predicted. Pretended to be on important calls with my 'academic advisor' three times. Ate strawberry cheesecake hidden in the bathroom like a criminal. My mom weighed me twice. My dad made comments about my portions five times. It was a complete festive nightmare."

"Sounds absolutely horrible," Minho responded, but he was smiling too because Jisung was here, was back, was sitting next to him on their bench.

"It was. But I survived. I'm a survivor. A warrior."

"A warrior who eats desserts in bathrooms."

"The bravest kind of warrior."

They were back at their bench, like they'd never left, like the week of separation had been just a strange dream. Except now Jisung was practically sitting in Minho's lap, not literally but almost, and Minho had his arm around Jisung's waist, and everything felt so natural it was almost scary.

Like they'd always been this.

"I missed you." Jisung said softly.

"It's only been six days. Less than a week."

"Six very long days. Endless. Each day felt like a week."

"Dramatic. Extremely dramatic."

"It's part of my charm. Comes in the package with the anxiety and eating issues."

Minho kissed him then, soft, chaste, nothing like kisses in movies but perfect for them, because he could, because he wanted to, because Jisung was there and was his and everything else was irrelevant.

Jisung made a surprised sound against his lips before melting into the kiss, his hands finding Minho's neck, pulling him closer with gentle urgency.

He tasted like strawberries and chocolate and something that was uniquely Jisung, something Minho couldn't name but would recognize anywhere.

Like all those cheesy things Minho had sworn never to feel because feeling was scary and vulnerability was weakness.

But maybe vulnerability wasn't weakness.

Maybe it was courage.

Maybe it was the bravest thing he'd ever done.

When they pulled apart, both breathless, Jisung was blushing to his ears.

"That was..." he gasped.

"Good? Terrible? I need feedback."

"Very good. Exceptional. Ten out of ten." Jisung cleared his throat. "We should do that more often. Like, much more often. Regularly."

"I can work with that. That schedule works for me."

"How about now? Can we do it now again?"

"You're insatiable."

"I'm enthusiastic. There's a difference."

"It's the same thing."

"It's not but I'm not going to argue because I want to kiss you again."

"Solid logic."

They kissed until their lips were sore and their cheeks were red and the cold was unbearable. But neither suggested leaving, neither wanted to break this bubble they'd created.

They stayed until dawn this time, watching the sky change from black to gray to that pale pink that meant a new day. The park started waking up around them: an old man doing tai chi with fluid, precise movements, a woman with three small dogs barking at everything, the first office workers dragging themselves to their jobs like corporate zombies.

But Minho and Jisung stayed in their bubble, creating their own alternate reality where nothing else mattered except the warmth between them and the lingering taste of strawberries.

"We should go to our respective classes," Jisung said finally, though he made no move to stand up, his body contradicting his words.

"Probably. It's the responsible thing."

"But I don't want to. I want to stay here forever."

"Me neither."

"Should we skip? First class of the semester?"

"It's the first day. Sets a terrible precedent."

"Then we're setting the worst precedent possible."

"The absolutely worst. Our professors would be disappointed."

"Perfect. We're already disappointing them anyway."

They didn't go to class.

Instead, they went to Minho's apartment, empty and silent because his roommate was visiting family for one more week, and fell asleep tangled on the couch, curtains closed, the outside world completely forgotten.

When they woke up, it was late afternoon. Jisung was wearing Minho's hoodie, big on him, the sleeves covering his hands, and Minho was wearing Jisung's scarf wrapped around his neck, and neither could remember how exactly it had happened.

"We're a mess." Jisung murmured, still half-asleep, curled against Minho's chest.

"The best kind of mess. The most functional."

"Does a functional kind of mess exist? That's an oxymoron."

"It does now. We just invented it."

Jisung smiled against his chest, warm and soft.

"I like how that sounds. I like being your functional mess."

"Me too. More than I probably should."

Outside, the snow started falling again, covering Seoul in a clean white layer. But inside, wrapped in blankets and each other, Minho and Jisung were warm.

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Five years later…

The balcony of their apartment wasn't much.

It was small, barely fit two chairs and a small table, and overlooked a view that was more "gray Seoul buildings" than "inspiring panorama." But it had enough space for two people, a box of cheesecake, and years of reimagined tradition.

Minho came out with two cups of hot tea, finding Jisung already settled in his chair, wrapped in not one but three blankets because "winter is my personal enemy, Minho, my nemesis."

"Your husband brings you tea and that's how you thank me, complaining about the cold." Minho said, handing him a cup.

"My husband." Jisung repeated with that goofy smile that appeared every time they used that word, even after six months of being married. "Still not used to it."

"Better get used to it. We signed legal papers. It's permanent."

"The best permanent decision of my life."

Minho sat in his own chair, pulling it close until their knees touched, and placed the cheesecake box between them. 11 PM. Like always. Some traditions were sacred, even if the place had changed.

"Remember when you insisted on going to the park even with a fever?" Minho asked, passing him a fork.

"In my defense, I thought it was just a cold."

"It was the flu. You passed out on the bench."

"It was dramatic. Romantic, even."

"It was terrifying. I almost called an ambulance."

"But you didn't. You carried me home like a romance novel hero."

"You weigh more than you look and I almost died in the process."

Jisung laughed, that sound Minho knew so well now, that he'd heard in thousands of variations over the years. It had become freer with time, less contained, like Jisung had learned it was safe to occupy space with his joy.

"Plus," Minho continued, "they renovated the whole park. Took out our bench. Put in a new one that's probably more comfortable but isn't ours."

"I'm still processing that. Our historic bench, destroyed. They should've put a commemorative plaque."

"'Here two idiots fell in love eating cheesecake.'"

"Perfect. Poetic. Accurate."

Minho leaned in and kissed Jisung softly, savoring the lingering sweetness of strawberry on his lips.

"Though honestly," he murmured against his mouth, "I prefer this. Our balcony. No teenagers yelling at us. No unbearable cold. Just us."

"Are you being voluntarily romantic?" Jisung looked at him with bright eyes. "Without me asking? Who are you and what did you do with my grumpy husband?"

"Shut up and kiss me again."

"Gladly."

They ate in that comfortable silence that only comes after years of coexistence, of knowing each other's rhythms, of knowing when to speak and when to simply be. Jisung moved closer, resting his head on Minho's shoulder between bites, and Minho wrapped his free arm around his waist, pulling him closer.

The apartment behind them was small but it was theirs. The walls had photos of them, at the Christmas market, at their small wedding, on spontaneous trips to Busan. Jisung's studio was full of music production equipment Minho didn't understand but had learned not to touch. Minho's practice corner had its barre and mirror and sweat stains on the wooden floor.

It was an organized mess of two lives fusing.

"How were classes today?" Jisung asked, interlacing his fingers with Minho's on the table.

"Exhausting. I have a new student who thinks he can do triple turns without warming up. Almost killed himself."

"Did you tell him he was an idiot?"

"With more tact, but essentially yes."

"You're improving at diplomacy. I'm proud."

"My therapist too. Says I'm 'developing interpersonal skills.'"

"Your therapist would be proud of that handling," Jisung commented.

"He was. I told him in my session this week." Minho took a bite of cake. "What about you? How's the project?"

"Good. Really good." Jisung's eyes lit up, that light that appeared when he talked about music. "I finished the experimental piece. You know, the one I thought was too weird, too personal. I submitted it to that indie music festival."

"You submitted it? Really?"

"Yeah. I decided that... I don't know. I decided it's okay to make art that not everyone likes. That it's okay to do things just because they make me happy. Like you said a few years ago."

Minho felt pride swell in his chest. He set down his fork and took Jisung's face in his hands, kissing him deeply.

"I'm so proud of you," he said when they pulled apart, stroking his cheek with his thumb. "Of your music, of your courage, of everything you are."

Jisung blushed, that adorable flush that still appeared after five years.

"You're going to make me cry in the middle of eating cake. That's cruel."

"It's romantic."

"It's both things."

"I know. It's that face you make when you try not to show emotions but show them anyway."

They continued eating, savoring each bite. The cake was from a real bakery now, not a gas station. Jisung had found a place ten minutes away that made the best strawberry cheesecake in Seoul, according to his extensive research (he'd tried seventeen different bakeries; Minho had been present for fourteen of them).

"You know what's weird?" Jisung said after a moment.

"You? Your entire existence? Yeah, I know."

"Funny." But he was smiling. "No, I mean... my parents called yesterday."

Minho automatically tensed. Calls from Jisung's parents were still complicated territory, though it had improved.

"And?"

"And they asked how you were. How we were. They used your name correctly for the first time." Jisung played with his fork. "My mom said I looked good in the photos I posted. They didn't comment on my weight. Just said I looked... happy."

"That's... that's progress."

"I know. It's not perfect. Probably never will be. But it's something." Jisung looked at him. "And my dad asked about your dance studio. How the new project was going. Really asked, like he cared."

"Did you tell him?"

"I told him everything. About your new choreography, about your students, about how you're thinking of opening your own school eventually. And he listened. Really listened."

Minho took Jisung's hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing his knuckles softly.

"I'm proud of you. Of how you handle that. Of how you set boundaries but also give opportunities. You're braver than you think."

Jisung smiled, that soft smile he reserved only for moments like this.

"I learned from the best." He squeezed Minho's hand. "Your parents...?"

"No." Minho shook his head. "But it's okay. I have everything I need here." He pulled Jisung closer, kissing his forehead, then his nose, then his lips. "I have you. You're my family."

"Cheesy." Jisung whispered, but his eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"I learned from the worst." Minho wiped away a tear that had escaped with his thumb. "And I love being cheesy with you."

"I love you so much it's stupid."

"I love you too. Stupidly. Irresponsibly. Permanently."

They looked at each other, and instead of just smiling, Minho pulled Jisung to him, kissing him slow and deep, savoring the moment. When they pulled apart, he rested his forehead against Jisung's.

"Five years and you still make my heart do stupid things." he murmured.

"Five years and you still make me feel safe," Jisung responded, closing his eyes. "Like home. Like I can finally breathe."

They stayed like that for a moment, forehead to forehead, breathing the same air, existing in their small bubble of intimacy.

Minho thought about how much they'd changed.

Jisung no longer ate hidden. He still loved desserts, probably always would, but now it was joy, not escape. It was celebration, not punishment. He'd started therapy for his eating issues two years ago, and while he still had hard days, there were more good days than bad.

Minho quit smoking. Well, almost. He still had an occasional cigarette when stress was too much, but he'd gone from a pack a day to maybe one per week. His therapist called it "significant progress." Jisung called it "my husband stopping trying to slowly kill himself."

They'd grown.

Together.

Not perfectly, they still fought about who left the dirty dishes, still had days where communication failed, they were still two complicated people with complicated trauma.

But they chose each other every day.

That's what mattered.

"Remember our first date?" Jisung asked, leaning back in his chair but keeping his fingers interlaced with Minho's.

"The ice skating. How could I forget. We almost killed ourselves."

"It was perfect." Jisung brought Minho's hand to his lips, kissing each knuckle slowly. "You ended up carrying me to the bench because I couldn't walk from the knee pain."

"And you insisted on buying cheesecake, anyway, limping through the whole market."

"Priorities, my love. Priorities."

Minho smiled at the nickname, still melted a little every time Jisung used it.

"Want to go again this year?"

"Want to end up in the ER?"

"It's a risky but important tradition."

"Let's do it. But this time with protection. Knee pads. Elbow pads. Helmets."

"That ruins the aesthetic."

"The aesthetic isn't worth a fracture."

"Fair point."

They finished the cake while the cold wind blew, bringing the smell of snow that would come soon. Seoul's lights glowed below, millions of lives living their own stories.

Jisung stood up, letting his blanket fall, and extended his hand.

"Dance with me."

"Here? Now? There's no music."

"You're a dancer. I'm a musician. We can make our own music." Jisung looked at him with those eyes Minho could never resist. "Please."

Minho sighed, but he was smiling as he took his hand and stood up.

There was no music except the sound of the city, the wind, their breathing. But Jisung started humming softly, a melody Minho recognized as one of his compositions, and they started moving.

It wasn't choreography. It was just them, swaying slowly on their small balcony, wrapped in blankets and love.

"I love you." Jisung said suddenly, interrupting his own melody.

"I love you." Minho responded, spinning Jisung gently, making him laugh. "Infinitely."

"Even with my cheesecake obsession."

"Especially with that." Minho kissed his temple. "It's part of your charm."

"Even when I'm dramatic."

"Always when you're dramatic. Keeps me entertained."

"Even when I sing in the shower at six in the morning."

"...We're working on that with healthy boundaries." Minho spun him again. "But even that. Even when you wake me up with your off-key voice singing 90s ballads."

"I'm not off-key!"

"Love, you're sometimes off-key. It's a fact. I love you anyway."

Jisung laughed, standing on his tiptoes to kiss Minho deeply, slowly, like they had all the time in the world.

Because they did.

When the kiss broke, Jisung curled against Minho's chest, and they continued their improvised dance, cheek to cheek.

"I prefer this to the park," Jisung admitted against his neck. "It's warmer. More private. I can kiss you without teenagers yelling things at us. Can hug you as much as I want."

"That only happened once."

"It was traumatic. I'm scared for life." Jisung lifted his head to look at him. "But you're right. This is better. Here I can do this." He kissed him softly. "And this." Another kiss. "And this." One more. "Without interruptions."

"You're still being dramatic."

"It's my trademark." Jisung smiled against his lips. "But now I'm your dramatic. Legally. We have papers proving it."

"The best papers I've ever signed."

They stopped dancing but didn't let go, just stood there, holding each other, swaying slightly.

"Do you know what day it is tomorrow?" Jisung asked softly.

"Wednesday."

"Besides Wednesday, genius."

"Your fake birthday you invented to get discounts?"

"No. Well, yes, but no." Jisung lifted his head. "It's the anniversary of when you told me you loved me for the first time. Four years ago. On this balcony."

Minho blinked, surprised that Jisung remembered the exact date.

"You're right. I'd forgotten."

"I'd never forget it. You were so nervous. Sweating. Stammering. It was adorable."

"It was terrifying. I thought you were going to run away."

"Are you crazy? I’ve been waiting for you to say it for months." Jisung kissed him, long and sweet. "It was the best day of my life. Well, until our wedding. And until today. Every day with you keeps getting better."

"That was embarrassingly romantic."

"I learned from the best."

"I'm not romantic."

"You just made me dance under the stars without music. That's the definition of romantic."

"It was your idea."

"But you said yes. That's the point."

Minho couldn't argue with that. Instead, he kissed Jisung again, pouring five years of love into that kiss, all the words he still struggled to say out loud.

When they finally pulled apart and sat back down, Jisung deciding his lap was better than his own chair, they stayed wrapped together under the blankets. Minho traced lazy patterns on Jisung's back while Jisung played with his fingers, kissing each one absentmindedly.

"Do you know what I was thinking?" Jisung said after a while.

"That you want more cake?"

"Besides that. Always want more cake, that's a constant." He smiled. "I was thinking about how five years ago, I was sitting on that bench eating cake alone because it was the only place I felt safe. The only place I could just... exist without judgment."

"And now?"

"And now I have this. Us. This apartment. This life." Jisung looked around their small balcony, their tiny kingdom. "I have you. And I'm not alone anymore. I'm not hiding. I'm just... living. Actually living."

Minho tightened his arms around him.

"Me too. Five years ago, I was just... existing. Going through motions. And then you showed up with your ridiculous coat and your strawberry cheesecake and your completely uncontrolled laugh, and suddenly I had a reason to smile."

"We're being disgustingly sappy."

"We're married. It's allowed."

"Fair point."

They sat in comfortable silence, watching the city lights, listening to the distant sounds of traffic and life happening around them.

"Same time tomorrow?" Jisung asked eventually, his voice sleepy.

"Obviously. It's tradition."

"The best tradition."

"With more cake?"

"Always with more cake. That's non-negotiable."

And so, on their small balcony overlooking the big city, Minho and Jisung continued their tradition.

Reimagined.

Improved.

Perfect for them.

The park bench had been where they found each other. But this balcony, this apartment, this life they'd built, it was better.

It was evolution.

It was growth.

It was home.

THE END

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"The park bench was where we met. But the balcony of our apartment is where we built a life. And honestly, I prefer the second part. It's warmer. More ours. And Minho doesn't risk me getting the flu for tradition anymore. That's true love."

- Han Jisung, in his journal (which he started at his therapist's suggestion)

"Jisung is still dramatic. Still eats too much cake. Still sings in the shower at inappropriate hours. But now he's my husband, and our balcony is our new bench. Everything evolves. Everything gets better. Except his timing for singing. That's still terrible."

- Lee Minho, in phone notes that definitely aren't secret poetry