Chapter Text
The back door creaks when Jisung pushes it open. The smell of fried onions and cigarette smoke hangs heavy in the kitchen–the kind that never leaves the wallpaper. His brother, Jun, tosses his baseball glove onto the counter despite their mother’s warnings; Jisung grabs it and sets it aside.
There are strangers in the kitchen–a man in a brown suit and a woman with a warm smile. They look Korean and they’re speaking softly with his father, who looks unusually sober for a Thursday evening. His mother glances up when the boys walk in and waves a little.
“Jisung, Jun, these are the Lees. They just moved into town,” she says, wiping her hands on her apron, then turns to Jisung. “Go upstairs–they brought one of their boys with them–Minho, he’s your age. He’s waiting in your room.”
Jisung blinks. “In my room?”
“Yes, honey. Go get along.”
He hesitates at the top of the stairs, the house quiet besides the faint noise of adult voices below. A faint creak gives away the presence of someone moving in his room.
He pushes the door open and freezes. A boy sits cross-legged on his bed, flipping through one of his comic books. His dark hair falls neatly over his forehead, eyes soft and curious.
“Hi,” Jisung blurts.
The boy looks up. “Hi.”
“I’m Peter,” he says, unable to come up with anything else.
“Minho.”
“You go by your Korean name?” Jisung asks, suddenly self-conscious.
Minho frowns slightly. “It’s my only name. It’s not hard to say.”
“Oh. I guess…”
“You have a Korean name?”
“...It’s Jisung,” he mumbles, eyes on his socks.
“That’s not hard to say either.”
Jisung shrugs. “It’s what my family calls me, but Mom thought an English name would be better for school.”
Minho studies him for a moment, then nods once. “Jisung.”
Jisung looks up. “Yeah?”
“See?” Minho says simply. “It’s your name.” Then he returns to the comic book, legs swinging lazily.
Something shifts in Jisung–a tiny warmth, shy and unfamiliar.
By the next week, they’re nearly always together. Minho drags Jisung outside and into mischief, things Jisung usually avoids. They ride their bikes through mud puddles, huddle over candy from the corner store, and explore the creek behind the baseball field where Jun practices.
Minho perches on a rock, tossing pebbles into the current. “I used to live in New York,” he says one afternoon. “Right near the city. My dad got a new job here.”
“Do you miss it?” Jisung asks.
“Sometimes. There were theaters there–real ones. I saw the ballet once.” His eyes light up as he says it. “They were strong, like athletes, but they moved like water. I’d never seen something like that in my whole life.”
“Like, with tutus?”
Minho laughs. “Yeah. Kind of. But not just that. The men dance too. They jump and lift people like it’s nothing.” He throws another pebble. “I want to do that someday.”
“You want to be a dancer?”
“Not just any dancer,” Minho says. “A ballet dancer.”
Jisung takes a moment to picture it–Minho in polished shoes, moving the way the creek ripples when the wind shifts. “That’s… really cool.”
Minho turns to him sharply. “You think so?”
Jisung nods enthusiastically.
Minho grins, a little bashful for once. “Wanna see something?”
He stands, brushes his jeans clean, and strikes a pose–one arm curved above his head, the other stretched lightly forward. His face goes calm and focused, like the world has narrowed down to balance and breath. Even out here, with mud at his feet, he looks unlike anyone Jisung’s ever seen.
Jisung’s mouth parts slightly. “Wow.”
Minho relaxes and laughs. “It’s nothing.”
But Jisung doesn’t think so. Minho looks like he’s a part of something bigger–a story no one else in town seems to know.
At school, Minho’s athleticism earns him a bit of popularity with the boys in their class. When they tease Jisung for reading instead of playing, Minho shows up beside him, quiet but solid as stone. No one says much after that.
“You hide too much,” Minho tells him one day, tossing a small stick his way.
“I’m not hiding,” Jisung says, though he knows he is.
“Yes, you are.” Minho pokes his shoulder. “You’re smart and funny. People should know that.”
“They don’t care.”
“Well, I do.”
That makes Jisung look up. Minho grins–all sunlight and certainty–and something inside Jisung uncurls a little. Minho has a talent for doing that.
Winter digs into the town early that year. The bare trees rattle in the wind like hollow bones, and the ocean smell carries all the way inland. Jisung and Minho still meet by the creek most afternoons, even when their breaths fog the air. Minho skips rocks while Jisung keeps score, counting how many times each one bounces before sinking.
One afternoon, Minho dares Jisung to walk on the frozen edge of the creek. It’s thin and probably dangerous, but that’s never stopped them before.
“Come on,” Minho laughs, stepping carefully onto the surface. “You can hold my hand if you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared,” Jisung insists, but he takes the offered hand anyway. The cold bites through his mittens, and Minho’s fingers are firm and warm. For a moment, it feels like the tiny patch of ice is the whole world, fragile and glittering.
Voices drift down the hill. Two boys from school, bundled in thick coats, are watching them.
“Are you girls skating together?” one calls out, laughing. “Should we leave you a ribbon?”
Jisung drops Minho’s hand immediately. His face burns.
Minho’s expression hardens–not angry exactly, just steady in a way that makes the other boys falter.
“You done?” he says to them, voice calm and cold. When they mutter and shuffle off, Jisung exhales shakily.
“Why’d you let them get to you?” Minho asks once they’re alone.
“I didn’t–” Jisung looks down at the ice. “People talk.”
“People always talk. Doesn’t mean they’re right.”
Jisung nods but doesn’t answer. That night, lying in bed, he tries not to think about the feeling of Minho’s hand in his own.
By the time they’re finishing middle school, everyone in town knows Minho and Jisung as a pair. Minho’s the fearless one–good at sports, good at running, good at everything that’s supposed to matter. Even though everyone knows he frequents a dance academy outside of town, no one dares tease him about it, at least to his face. Jisung’s the quiet one, always trailing behind but smiling when Minho grins at him. People definitely still tease him.
On summer evenings, they meet at the creek again, lying in the grass while the fireflies rise like sparks from the earth. Minho talks about ballet class, about New York, about movement and light and how he’ll make people see something beautiful. Jisung listens and sketches the shapes with a stick in the dirt.
“Do you think you’ll leave?” he asks one night, unable to keep the worry from his voice.
“Someday,” Minho says. “But not yet.”
They fall quiet. Jisung watches the slope of Minho’s cheek catch the moonlight and feels something ache gently in his chest.
He doesn’t think of it as love; at fourteen, he only knows that when Minho laughs, the air feels softer. When Minho’s late to meet him, he can’t concentrate on anything. And when Minho stretches his arms in a slow, effortless ballet pose, Jisung catches his breath every time.
At school, the world insists they start growing up. The girls whisper about dances, and the boys talk about sports teams and cars. The idea of Minho turning into them, into someone distant, feels horrible. Impossible.
Summer edges toward its end, the kind that hums with locusts and stretches into golden evenings. The fair comes to town–lights blinking over the empty baseball field, the smell of popcorn and engine grease mixing in the air. Minho insists they go, saying it’s the last one before high school starts.
Jisung meets him at the ticket booth. Minho’s hair is a little longer now, mostly because he likes how it moves when he dances, much to his teacher’s dismay. He wears his old leather sneakers, scuffed from riding his bike down country roads.
They buy cotton candy and share it without thinking. When the sugar sticks to Jisung’s fingers, Minho reaches out and wipes it off with his thumb, laughing. Jisung freezes for half a second–the laughter, the warmth, the closeness–before forcing a smile. It’s harmless, he tells himself. Minho touches everyone easily.
They ride the Ferris wheel at sunset. From the top, the town looks small and faded–neat little rows of houses and one church spire cutting the horizon. Minho leans forward, elbows on his knees, studying the sky like he’s memorizing it.
“When I’m older,” he says, “I’m going to explore the entire world.”
Jisung nods, though his stomach twists.
Minho glances at him, suddenly serious. “You should come with me.”
The words hang between them. Jisung laughs softly, unsure what to do with his heartbeat. “I’d probably just slow you down.”
“You wouldn’t.” Minho’s voice is gentle now. “You’re the only one who gets it. When I talk about dancing–you actually listen.”
“I like hearing you talk about it.”
Minho’s gaze lingers a moment too long. Then the ride jerks forward, breaking the spell. They laugh again, pretending the flicker between them didn’t occur.
Twice a week that fall, Minho rides a bus forty minutes into Providence for classes at the dance academy–the only one around that’ll take students from their small town.
Sometimes, when the weather’s good and his parents are too busy to notice how long he’s gone, Jisung catches the bus with him. He sits in the observation room, sketchbook on his knees, pretending that he’s drawing for an art assignment instead of just wanting to capture the way Minho moves–the lines his body makes when he leaps, the elegant clarity when he lands.
He never tells Minho how those sketches fill the pages of his notebook at home.
Minho always finds him afterward, hair damp from sweat, face glowing. “How’d I look?” he says, grinning slyly.
“Good,” Jisung answers, trying to sound casual. “Your pirouettes are getting better.”
Minho laughs a little breathless, nudging Jisung’s knee with his bag. “Yeah? Guess all those bruised ankles were worth it.”
Even when he isn’t at the academy, Minho practices endlessly–in his bedroom, by the creek, sometimes even on the cracked pavement behind the library. Jisung keeps sketching him wherever he goes. He jokes about becoming Minho’s “official artist,” and Minho teases him about charging admission.
Still, there’s something sacred about those moments–the quiet rhythm of graphite on paper, the soft slap of Minho’s shoes across the floor, the way everything in the world seems to fold down to just the two of them.
By winter, they’ve built their own rhythm. School, the academy, the late afternoons spent drawing and practicing until the light fades. Minho’s joy always seems to spill over, and Jisung soaks in every second of it.
Sometimes Minho catches him staring.
“What?” he asks, smiling.
“Nothing.”
“You’re weird.”
“You’re weird.”
But later that night, walking home beneath the streetlamps, Jisung pulls his sketchbook close and flips through the newest drawing–Minho mid‑turn, frozen in a single, perfect breath of motion–and he can’t help but think that maybe being weird isn’t so bad, as long as it means seeing Minho like this.
Jisung starts spending more time at Minho’s house than his own.
At Minho’s, the air always smells faintly of jasmine tea and chalk dust. His mother, a semi-successful painter, keeps her easel near the window, light spilling over jars of brushes. His father, who teaches at the local college, calls both boys the dreamers, and smiles like it’s a good thing to be. And his older brother, Young-soo, though quiet, was a lot nicer than Jun ever was.
When Jisung arrives for dinner, Minho’s parents treat him like family–offering him kimchi stew and asking about his grades without judgment. Sometimes his mother gently asks if things are alright at home, and Jisung just nods, grateful she doesn’t press.
After dinner, the boys head up to Minho’s attic. The record player hums softly as Minho moves through careful stretches, his expression focused and free. Jisung sits on the old carpet beneath the window, knees tucked up, sketching the shapes Minho makes with his body. He doesn’t tell Minho that watching him feels like breathing after holding his breath too long.
“Come on,” Minho says. “You should try this move.” He pulls Jisung up from the floor, much to Jisung’s dismay.
“I can’t dance.”
“You don’t need to. Just move. Like this.”
He steps behind Jisung, guiding his arms upward. The record clicks softly, a slow waltz filling the attic. Minho’s hands rest lightly on Jisung’s shoulders, adjusting him until the pose feels right. For a moment, Jisung forgets how to stand still.
Minho laughs, stepping back. “See? Not so hard.”
“Easy for you to say,” Jisung mumbles, trying to hide the flush in his cheeks.
It gets late, so Jisung stays over–he does that a lot nowadays. They sleep in Minho’s room, sharing his twin bed like they’ve done since they were children. They joke and whisper long after lights-out, trading secrets about classes, bullies, and the future.
Sometimes, when Jisung can’t sleep, he listens to Minho’s quiet breathing and counts the seconds between each inhale. It settles him, like a lullaby only he can hear.
Jisung wakes from a dream he can’t remember. It’s early, the night just barely getting brighter. It’s this magical time of day that Jisung loves the most, when Minho’s by his side and the fog of sleep seems to take over his hesitation.
Jisung turns and buries his face into Minho’s back, reveling in the warmth. He spreads his fingers over Minho’s stomach, runs them through the soft hair under his belly button. It’s warm and firm and perfect.
Minho stirs, and Jisung holds his breath. Achingly slow, he inches his hand back onto Minho’s hip bone. The skin is smooth and the bone pronounced; he can feel it dip down into his abdomen. Minho’s breathing stays at a constant rhythm, so Jisung sighs and un-tenses.
He’s known for a long time that he’s not like his peers. He’s aware of the way boys catch his eye more than girls, but no one has ever come close to Minho.
Every time he’s with Minho, he needs more. Even now, his heart is bursting at the feeling of Minho’s skin against his palm, and yet it’s not enough. He wants to feel every inch of him, to trace every dip and curve on his body.
He cuts those thoughts off before he puts himself in a compromising position, opting to let the warmth coax him back to sleep.
A few hours later, as they wake, Minho turns and wraps his arms around Jisung, pulling him into his chest.
A knock at the door startles them apart.
“Boys! Breakfast!”
.
.
.
Jisung balances a box on his hip and fumbles his keys at the front door. The house still feels a bit unreal–clean white siding, a wide porch, tall windows winking with late morning light. The east coast wind nips at his ears as he finally gets the lock to turn.
A streak of orange fur darts through his ankles the moment he steps inside. “Hey, Soonie,” Jisung laughs, nudging the cat back with his foot so he doesn’t trip.
The entryway opens into a high-ceilinged living room, sunlight pooling over polished floors and stacks of cardboard boxes: KITCHEN, BOOKS, STUDIO (FRAGILE), marked in his careful handwriting. The faint echo in the room tells him he hasn’t filled it with enough life yet.
He sets the box down with a soft grunt and stretches until his back pops. Soonie hops up on a sealed box labeled VINYL & GEAR and biting the cardboard like it offended him personally.
“You and me both,” Jisung says. “No idea where anything is.”
His phone starts buzzing from somewhere inside the chaos. He digs through a half-open box until he finds it wedged between a keyboard and a bundle of neatly coiled cables. “Felix” flashes across the screen.
He clicks to answer. “Hey Lix”
“Jisungie!” Felix’s voice bursts through, bright and warm, threaded with the sound of clinking glasses and background chatter. “How’s unpacking?”
Jisung snorts and sinks down onto the nearest box. “I’ve barely started and I already wanna quit.”
Felix laughs. “You should see this place. Hyunjin’s in some ridiculous shirt, Changbin’s pretending the cocktails are too sweet while stealing everyone’s. You’d love it.”
Hyunjin’s voice yells something unintelligible in the background; Changbin protests loudly.
“I wanted to come,” Jisung says, and he means it. “The closing date wouldn’t budge, though. Apparently when you sign your soul and a stupid amount of money to a mortgage, they expect you to show up.”
“Well look at you living the high-end life,” Felix teases.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jisung says, rolling his eyes. “It’s definitely bigger than my last place. And I got a good deal.” He glances toward the studio door. “They remodeled one of the rooms for me. Proper soundproofing and everything.”
“See? Next thing I know, you’ll be eating caviar.”
“Gross.”
Noise swells again on Felix’s end, then fades as he moves somewhere quieter. “Hey,” he says, softer now. “For real, though… I’m proud of you. You’ve worked hard for this.”
Jisung scrunches his face. “It’s just a house.”
“It’s your house,” Felix says. “Officially out of the city. That’s big.”
“You’re too sweet.”
“Can’t help it.” Felix pauses. “Maybe next year we can celebrate there. You realize we’re almost at the big five-oh, right?”
“Don’t say it.”
Felix laughs. “Seriously, we should do something together. Joint birthday. I’ll come over, Hyunjin and Changbin have been dying to see you. We’ll scream into your fancy microphones.”
“A proper mid-life crisis.”
“Exactly,” Felix says, delighted. “We’ll make it an album.”
Jisung looks around at the bare walls. “Joint birthday sounds nice,” he admits.
“It’s a plan,” Felix says firmly. “Alright, I’ll let you get back to unpacking. Don’t break anything expensive.”
“Will do. Have fun, Lix.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The call cuts, and the house falls quiet again, just the tick of the old clock he brought and the distant hum of the fridge.
Jisung slips his phone into his pocket and looks toward the studio. “Okay,” he tells Soonie. “We’re gonna need some music.”
He rummages through a box until he finds an old portable radio–scuffed, antenna bent, but still functional. He could hook his laptop up to the speakers, but today, the ritual of tuning stations feels right. He plugs the radio into an outlet, twists the dial past static and snippets of talk shows until a throwback station comes through clear.
“...and for all the folks who miss the Swinging Sixties,” the DJ says cheerfully, “here’s a sweet classic to brighten your day–’Sugar, Sugar’ by The Archies.”
The bright, bouncy guitar riff spills out, warm and syrupy.
Jisung goes still. The cardboard he’s holding suddenly feels far away.
Sugar… Oh, honey honey…
The sound wraps around him and warps his vision, and suddenly he’s sixteen again, in Minho’s bedroom.
.
.
.
The record crackles softly as it spins on Minho’s player, the sound just loud enough to drown out the rain tapping against the window. The room smells like laundry soap and pencil shavings, like the faint citrus of Minho’s aftershave he’s started stealing from his dad. Posters of ballets and movies crowd the walls, their corners curling.
Jisung sits cross-legged on the bed, notebook balanced on his knees, pencil smudges on his fingers from half-finished sketches of Minho at the barre.
Minho is on the floor by the record crate, flipping through sleeves with a frown. “We need something good,” he says. “The rain is making me sleepy.”
“Some of us have homework,” Jisung mutters.
“Some of us are avoiding homework by drawing my face for the hundredth time,” Minho shoots back without looking.
Jisung’s ears burn. “I draw your feet too.”
“Oh wow, my feet, I’m honored.” Minho pulls out a record with a little triumphant sound. “This one.”
He drops the needle, and the opening riff of “Sugar, Sugar” fills the room.
Minho’s grin spreads slow and wicked. He turns to Jisung, eyes shining.
“What?” Jisung says, already feeling trouble on its way.
“Dance with me.” Minho stands and holds out his hand. He rolls eyes when Jisung hesitates. “Come on, Hannie. It’s just me.”
The nickname makes something flutter in Jisung’s chest. Minho grabs his wrists and tugs; he stumbles off the bed, nearly tripping over a stack of music magazines, and collides with Minho’s chest. Minho’s hands close around his shoulders, steady and warm.
“Sugar… Oh, Hannie, Hannie,” Minho sings over the lyrics, grinning.
“Stop,” Jisung begs, half laughing, half mortified.
“Nope.” Minho starts swaying them side to side, an easy, silly rhythm. He continues to sing and spins Jisung in a lopsided circle; they knock over the stack of magazines and begin to laugh. The rain outside drums harder, like applause.
Abruptly, Minho lets go and strides to the window. “Look at that,” he says, pressing his palm to the fogged glass. “It’s pouring.”
“That’s what rain does,” Jisung replies weakly, still catching his breath.
Minho ignores him, eyes alight with some new idea. “Let’s go outside.”
Jisung stares. “Outside… where the water is?”
“Outside where the water is,” Minho confirms. “Come on. Dancing in the rain? That’s straight out of a movie.”
“We’ll get soaked.”
“So?” Minho’s already at the door, grabbing Jisung’s wrist again and pulling. “You’ll dry eventually.”
They barrel down the stairs. Minho calls a quick “We’re going out!” toward the kitchen.
“Don’t catch a cold,” his mother yells without looking up from her canvas.
The back door swings open and the rain slams into them—cold, heavy, relentless. In seconds, Jisung’s hair is plastered to his forehead; his shirt sticks to his skin. He squeals. “Minho!”
Minho just laughs, tipping his head back. He spins out into the yard, sneakers splashing through forming puddles. “Come on, Hannie!”
“You’re actually crazy!”
“Probably!”
Minho grabs both of Jisung’s hands this time, fingers lacing through his without warning, and pulls him into a clumsy box step. One-two, one-two, feet slipping in the wet grass. Water splashes up their shins; their jeans cling and squish. Minho is beaming, eyes crinkled, rain running down his face like melted glass.
“You’re going to get sick,” Jisung says, but he’s laughing, chest tight with something beyond the cold.
“Oh Hannie, Hannie,” Minho sings again, louder, spinning them both in a messy circle. “You are my candy boy, and you got me wanting you–”
Everything slows.
The gray sky, the blurred edges of the trees, the soft outline of Minho’s mother in the window–all of it fades to the feeling of Minho’s hands around his. The warmth of his grip despite the chill. The way his eyes sparkle maniacally as he laughs.
Jisung’s heart bumps hard against his ribs. He could say it, he thinks dizzily. Right now.
I love you.
“Minho, I–”
A jagged crack of lightning slices the sky, followed almost instantly by a thunderclap that shakes the ground. Jisung yelps and ducks instinctively; Minho flinches, grip tightening.
“Okay, maybe this is how idiots die,” Jisung gasps.
Minho barks out a startled laugh, already hauling him back toward the house. “Retreat! Before your mom kills me!”
They stumble inside, dripping all over the mat. Minho’s mother appears with towels, scolding them, but her eyes are fond. She pushes a towel into Jisung’s hands, clicks her tongue at their soaked clothes, and shoos them upstairs to change.
Hours later, after they’ve dried off and the record has stopped spinning, Jisung heads home in borrowed clothes, his own damp ones in a bag. The rain has slowed to a steady drizzle, but he’s still wet by the time he steps through his front door.
His mother looks up from the sink and gasps. “What are you doing? Don’t drip everywhere!”
“Sorry,” he mutters, shuffling out of his shoes.
“Go change,” she says. “And strip your bed. It’s laundry day.”
He trudges upstairs, skin prickling as he peels off the last damp layers and pulls on dry clothes. His room feels quiet after Minho’s bright chaos, the air heavier.
The feeling lodged in his chest hasn’t faded; it’s only grown more insistent.
He quickly sits at his desk, pulls out a clean sheet of paper, and uncaps his pen.
Dear Minho,
The ink looks too dark, too real.
He writes anyway. Slowly at first, then faster: about how everything feels different now, about how Minho makes him feel like the world is bigger and safer at the same time, about how he has, helplessly and incessantly, fallen in love with him. The word looks terrifying on the page.
“Jisung!” Jun’s voice echoes down the hall. “Have you seen my striped blue shirt?”
“One second!” Jisung calls, heart racing.
He glances at the letter. It’s not finished, but it’s already too much–names, feelings, the word love underlined by a shaking hand. Panic spikes.
He looks around quickly and shoves the letter between his mattress and fitted sheet, then hurries to help his brother.
It takes ten minutes to find the shirt in the wrong drawer, argue about whose fault that is, and escape. When he comes back into his room, a new set of blankets are neatly folded at the foot of the bed. The mattress is bare.
No letter. Mom.
His pulse thunders in his ears as he bolts down the stairs.
His parents are in the kitchen, faces tight. The letter lies open on the table between them.
His father’s jaw is clenched so hard a muscle jumps. His mother’s eyes are red; she’s clutching a dish towel like a lifeline.
“Appa–”
His father lifts the paper, shaking it. “What is this?”
Jisung’s mouth goes dry. “It’s–”
“Minho’s a good boy,” his father spits. “You will not drag him into this.”
“It’s not–”
His father’s palm slams onto the table. The sound makes Jisung flinch. “You will not shame this family. Do you understand?”
His mother covers her mouth, whispering his name. Tears slip down her cheeks.
“We’ll call my cousin in the morning,” his father says, voice cold as stone. “Down south. You’ll stay with them.”
The words barely register. All Jisung can see is the letter in his father’s hand–his heart, exposed and shaking. His father turns toward the fireplace, arm already moving.
“No!”
Jisung moves before he thinks. The paper leaves his father’s hand and hits the flames; he lunges after it, thrusting his hand into the fireplace. Heat roars over his skin, pain bright and instant as he grabs at the curling edge of the letter and yanks it out.
He stumbles back, clutching the half-burned paper. The skin of his palm screams. The room smells like ash and scorched flesh.
His father wrenches him away from the hearth. “What is wrong with you?” he yells.
The first hit sends sparks across Jisung’s vision. His mother cries out, begging him to stop, but the sound is distant, underwater.
Jisung curls around his burned hand, fingers still clamped around the blackened scrap of paper. He had managed to save most of the words from burning, but it doesn’t matter now.
The confession is ash.
Everything hurts.
.
.
.
Jisung’s thumb rubs absently over the small, pale crescent scar at the base of his palm. It’s barely visible now, just a smooth, lighter patch of skin most people never notice.
The radio has already moved on to another song.
Soonie rubs against his ankles, demanding attention. Jisung lets out a slow breath and curls his scarred hand around Soonie’s body, grounding himself in the weight of it, in the here and now.
“Well,” he murmurs to the empty room. “No more of that channel.”