Work Text:
What to give to someone who has everything? Minho's boyfriend is literally a millionaire. An apartment, a vacation house, expensive guitars, cheap guitars. Twenty-thousand-won T-shirts from Amazon — and a nine-million-won watch. A laptop, a phone, a gaming console, every type of headphones — Jisung has it all.
Minho is almost as wealthy (well, maybe without all those songwriting royalties, but still), and he could buy his Sungie anything — but every year he's stumped by the question of what exactly to look for. But he hopes he's guessed right, because the main gift for him is Jisung's happiness.
On Christmas Eve, they need to work with their stylists — and because of their busy schedule and a photoshoot for cards, they have to go home separately. He gets home just an hour before midnight — and the tight, anxious coil inside him loosens a little, because his Hannie is already home — and has decorated the apartment for Christmas. Crookedly attached garlands hang from the high ceiling, each door adorned with figures made of shiny tinsel. The bedroom smells of those expensive cinnamon candles with the crackling wooden wick, and from the kitchen comes a melodious voice.
Minho loves it when Jisung sings like this. Not into a microphone, not perfectly hitting every note, but just under his breath, quietly and huskily. It feels more honest, more intimate, more tender — he doesn't use this voice for tracks very often, but for Minho — all the time. Some ancient foreign rock song is playing, which means Jisung is cooking — he has a playlist for every activity. It's funny and cute.
Smiling, Minho heads to the kitchen and stops in the doorway, watching the beautiful man he has the honor of calling his boyfriend. The music is playing so loud that Jisung hasn't noticed his arrival yet, so he unabashedly tosses the spatula right onto the stovetop, humming to himself:
Oh, my love, we've had our share of tears
Oh, my friend, we've had our hopes and fears
Oh, my friends, it's been a long hard year
His funny red hair is pulled into tiny ponytails. Hot oil splatters right onto the Balenciaga hoodie, long since become a homewear staple, and his legs in worn-out shorts move slowly to the beat.
Minho is a lucky man, to be allowed to see this.
He tiptoes up quietly from behind and places his hands on the tiny waist, already prepared for a startled shriek and new splatters of oil:
"Sh-shit, hyung!" Jisung pouts jokingly and weakly thumps him with his fist, picking up the spatula from the pan with his other hand — it seems they're having fried pork for Christmas. Minho should probably pray that someone else marinated it, like Chan. "How long have you been here?"
"About five minutes," Minho starts to sway the other's body to the music — slowly, steadily, just like his man was dancing before. His chin rests on Jisung's shoulder, the freshly dyed hair still smells of chemicals. "What are you cooking?"
"Pork in wine," Jisung seems not to notice he's singing the words to the melody, dancing along with Minho. "A couple of side dishes, some desserts too."
"You want me to gain weight, lose a bet and have to shave my eyebrows off, I get it," Minho purrs. "Want to take a break, and I'll finish up?"
"You'd still be cute even without eyebrows, babe," Jisung smiles and pokes a finger at Minho's favorite sweatshirt. "Go change then."
Minho opens the wardrobe in the bedroom and carefully lifts that sweater, the one neither of them likes. Inside it is a small envelope — and it looks untouched. So, his curious little mouse still hasn't found his gift.
He wonders what Jisung will give him, but not too worried — the other could just give him this dinner, and Minho would already be happy. But as for his own idea — god, how he hopes he guessed right! Jisung is kind and would never in his life say it's nonsense, but what if he doesn't like it? What if Minho misinterpreted that recently overheard conversation of the 3racha, where all three of them were wistfully talking about the stars?
He makes himself calm down and goes to the kitchen — however much Jisungie's efforts for cooking might delight him, this could end quite badly.
Forty minutes later, in the bedroom, right on a small table in the middle of the bed, sit two plates with fragrant meat, puddings, and side dishes. They have a performance tomorrow, so there's little salt and no alcohol at all — cherry juice, similar in color to wine, has already dripped onto the bedspread. But it doesn't matter — what matters is that they're sitting nestled together, occasionally touching each other's juice-sweetened lips tenderly, and the clock shows one minute until Christmas.
"Minho," Jisung is so soft, already melted from the kisses and tiredness, the fire reflecting in his eyes — they have a YouTube video playing instead of a fireplace. "Do you think next year will be quieter?"
In response, only a thoughtful hum escapes his chest — the schedule only exists for six months, and those are packed to the brim. No one in the group wants to work less, especially since the whole military enlistment chapter will start soon — but nobody cancelled short vacations either.
Speaking of vacations — the clock on the nightstand beeps, marking midnight, and Minho, with a magician's gesture, produces a small envelope from under the pillow. Jisung, in turn… Opens something on his phone and looks up with a surprised and joyful expression:
"What's this, baby?"
"A present, you pabo," Minho snorts. His hands aren't trembling with excitement, and his voice is even — but he is nervous. "Will you open it?"
"Yeah…" Jisung holds out his phone, where an audio player is open. "Open mine."
Minho looks in surprise at the screen, where there's no cover art and nothing at all except a title — and he understands. It's a song. Jisung has given him a song — and it's called "Raining stars" His finger hovers over the play button — and Jisung places his hand over Minho's.
"Remember, in August… You went to your parents' and saw the meteor shower — and I couldn't, because I was here, and it's too bright here? And you couldn't get a good picture…" He lifts his shining, tender eyes. "I wrote this back then."
The envelope crinkles slightly under his fingers, and Minho laughs — loudly, happily.
"I remember, jagi. And I also remember you saying something about it to Chan not too long ago — so I decided that would be my gift."
He presses the button. A soft melody fills the room, and that same husky voice of Jisung's, just like in the kitchen — and Minho never cries, but there's a lump of tenderness in his throat as he listens to his incredible man from the phone's speaker and watches in real life as the other examines the tickets with a smile.
"I've wanted to go to Hokkaido for so long… But why early January?" — and here Jisung can't hold back, and his voice trembles. — "It'll be cold."
"The stars are better visible in Hokkaido, and there's a meteor shower on January 3rd," Minho grunts as Jisung climbs into his lap, showering his whole face with light, hurried kisses. "Something about the Quadrants, I didn't really remember."
The table with the food wobbles a little as Jisung kisses him for real. The song in the background starts to play on repeat, and Minho tries to memorize it down to the smallest detail — he couldn't have imagined a gift that would mean more to him. The tickets are still clutched in Jisung's fingers, and he keeps looking at them in awe whenever he breaks away from his lips.
The garlands, crookedly stuck to the ceiling above their heads, shine like stars.