Work Text:
“God, hyung is so weird.”
Jeongin sits spread out on the cafe booth bench, elbows propped up on the table, staring at his phone with a frown.
“Which one?” Jisung chuckles at his own joke as he takes another messy bite of his burger. As delicious as they are, someone should really figure out a better way to eat them that doesn’t involve haphazardly scattering half the ingredients over the plate.
He licks the side of his hand to collect some escaped sauce and makes eye contact with a younger woman nearby, who gives him the most intense stink eye he’s ever seen. It has Jisung turning away in shame and hastily smearing a napkin over his lips.
“Minho-hyung.” Jisung focuses back on Jeongin. “What is this even supposed to mean?” Jeongin whips around his phone screen, and Jisung leans in closer to read their chat log.
You
[photo]
you were right about the soft buns here
waaay better than the place near our old dorm
Annoying hyung #2
🌝🕴️🛃🤽♂️👺🕤🦵👣🧖🦪🤼👁️🗨️🧊🤳
You
you are deeply disturbed
idk what hannie-hyung sees in you
Annoying hyung #2
‼️😡🤧⏲️🔥
You
blocked.
Jisung scoffs, “That’s nothing, you should see the weird shit he does with me.”
Jeongin takes a sip of his coffee with a vague grimace.
“No one wants to see the weird shit you two do together.”
“Hey!” Jisung’s cheeks flare with indignation. “It’s not like that, and you know it.”
He receives a noncommittal shrug in response and another pinched look.
“I don’t know, hyung. You’re the only one he doesn’t have a filter around.” Jeongin suddenly leans forward over the table to stare pleadingly at him. “Can you tell him to be normal? He always listens to you.”
Jisung chuckles smugly at his desperation, taking an obnoxious slurp of his own drink.
“Minho-hyung doesn’t listen to anyone.”
“Are you dumb?”
“Ya!” Jisung rears his arm back in a threatening gesture. “I’m still older than you, you brat.”
Jeongin flinches back and laughs, curling away from his fist. The girl from before huffs dramatically and pushes her chair back with a screech. She gives their table an unrestrained dirty look as she walks past and leaves the establishment with a slam of the door.
“Okay, okay,” Jeongin puts his hands up in a placating manner, “but you have to know that Minho-hyung is completely whipped for you, right? You’re the exception to literally every one of his rules. He’ll do anything, as long as it’s you asking.”
The bustling noise of cafegoers fades into the background as Jisung thinks about the statement. He’s heard this theory countless times before, from all their band members (and even Minho’s mom, once), but he’s never paid enough attention to how him and Minho interact to notice. They are close, obviously, and they care about each other. But isn’t that the case for all of them? Surely, there’s a line, even between him and Minho. Right?
A plan starts slowly formulating in Jisung’s mind as he stuffs the final bite of his burger into his mouth.
“Anything I ask him to, huh?”
Step one of Jisung’s five-part plan is simple. So simple, that Jisung almost bails on the whole thing from the ridiculousness of it all.
See, Lee Minho is notoriously known to hate putting away dishes. He’ll clean them, no problem, but putting them away, for some strange reason, makes him want to rip his hair out. He’s weird like that.
Jisung, on the other hand, would rather die than succumb his freshly painted fingernails to leftover food mush and dirty suds. You know, like a normal person. So that’s how they’ve got a nice system going – Minho cleans and Jisung dries and stores.
Today, though, Jisung is going to make Minho put away the dishes. He’s seen this play out before in the old dorms, where even Felix was denied getting out of dish duty. Felix, of all people! Seriously, Minho ran that place like the army. So, Jisung isn’t very optimistic about his own chances.
He steels himself and walks into the kitchen, where Minho is already rolling up his sleeves and diving into the pile of soiled cutlery in the sink.
“Hyung.”
“Hm?” Minho hums, lathering up a spoon and holding it out for Jisung to take.
Jisung doesn’t grab it, instead reaching over to turn off the sink. The affronted look Minho gives him almost makes him lose his composure, but he stays strong, jutting out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout.
“Hyung,” he starts again, now with a slight whine, “can you do all the dishes today?” He sways back and forth slightly with his hands clasped behind his back in a way that he knows makes him look cuter and bats his eyelashes. On any other grown man, this level of aegyo would probably be embarrassing, but Jisung knows his assets well enough. And more than that, he knows Minho’s weaknesses.
Minho watches him carefully, impassively, but his frown eases ever so slightly as he lowers the dripping spoon to his side.
“Are you tired?”
“No.” Jisung steps closer, lays his hands over Minho’s shoulders and fiddles with the apron looped around his neck. “Just lazy,” he sends him a grin to seal the deal, but he has low hopes. There’s no way Minho will take that as a valid excuse, and his bland expression only confirms that for Jisung as the seconds tick by in silence.
He begins to take a small step back, ready to admit defeat and take his designated place by the sink, but before he gets too far, Minho’s shoulders drop, and his features soften, stopping Jisung in his tracks. He sighs and pinches Jisung’s cheek with wet fingers and a gentle smile.
“Fine, go rest.” Then, he deposits the spoon on the drying rack and digs back into the sink of dirty dishes without another word.
A little stunned by his easy acquiescence, Jisung just stands there for a moment, blinking wordlessly. He snaps out of it when Minho sends him another questioning look and replaces his frown with an easy grin. He plants an obnoxiously loud smooch on Minho’s cheek, watching his ears and neck flare red and firmly keeping his attention on the dirty bowl he’s scrubbing.
“Thank you, hyungie,” Jisung sing-songs, waiting for Minho’s grunt of acknowledgement before skipping out of the kitchen.
That was a lot easier than he expected. But, okay, maybe Minho’s just feeling generous today. Despite what others may think, Minho is really a nice guy. But surely, he won’t agree to Jisung’s every whim, right?
Watching reality TV really isn’t as fun alone.
He stuffs his face full of more chips as another contestant reads a tearful confession from their maybe-ex. Jisung was invested at first, but the drama eventually became too stale to deal with by himself. Of course, he could always find Chan to chat about it with him, but their paths never cross long enough outside of work for it to really be satisfying.
Jisung’s eyes drift away from the tears being shed on screen to his phone lying dim on the couch beside him. He blinks it open to see the last text he sent Minho – something about wishing him a good physical training session and to bring back more snacks.
Jisung contorts his body into the couch more, looking more and more akin to a human-shaped pretzel with half his limbs flayed off the edge. Minho would make this fun. Minho makes everything fun. He’d complain about the over-the-top editing and say he isn’t invested in any of the romances but would inevitably throw a fit when they reveal the final pairs. Jisung knows him.
The last scene of episode five closes out just as the front door opens, and Jisung peers over the sofa to catch Minho’s sweaty figure throwing off his shoes.
“Honey, I’m home,” he calls out with a wolfish smile and strides into the lounge. “Watching Exchange again?”
Jisung opens his arms for him to fall into and tackles him into the cushions.
“Yeah, but I’m getting kind of bored,” Jisung drawls, tucking the top of Minho’s head under his chin and breathing out a satisfied sigh.
“So, watch something else,” Minho responds simply, sliding his cold hands under his sweatshirt.
Jisung squirms a little under his weight and winds his arms tightly around him.
“But it’s never any fun without you.”
He basks in the feeling of Minho curled up with him. Jisung loves it when he gets like this – all soft and pliable. It usually happens on difficult days, days where he can’t get a dance move down or hit the right note in a recording session. On those days, he finds Jisung at home, freshly washed and barefaced, and melts into him. They sleep on Minho’s king-sized bed, which Jisung is sure was purchased for the sole purpose of housing the two of them, and Minho doesn’t talk about the demons trying to crawl their way into his mind.
This isn’t one of those days. Minho’s shoulders are relaxed under his fingertips, and his breathing is stable where it hits his chest. Jisung digs his hands into the muscle of his back, massaging the remaining tension out. Minho lets out an aborted noise before sighing through his nose and burying himself into Jisung’s collarbone, breathing him in.
“Stop, baby, that tickles,” Jisung giggles, but doesn’t move away from Minho nosing his neck.
“Mm, no,” Minho drawls lazily and squeezes his sides teasingly.
Jisung doesn’t argue. Maybe he can let this one go. He doesn’t have to budge Minho on everything, after all.
The next day, Jisung crawls out of the comfy cocoon of his bed alone, following the sound of talking into the living room. And there, at the threshold, he pauses.
Minho walks slowly on the elliptical, already winding down his workout. The TV plays in front of him, featuring, you guessed it, a crying couple sitting uncomfortably close together on a couch as melodramatic music plays in the background.
“You’re watching it?” Jisung’s groggy voice croaks. It’s too early in the morning for him to stop the note of awe hidden in it.
Minho whips his head towards him, slowing his pace to a stop.
“Jisungie!” He jumps off the machine and pauses the show just as Jisung walks up to him. “Are you hungry?” He throws his arms over Jisung’s shoulders and smiles disarmingly.
Jisung smirks in return, pointedly glancing towards the television.
“So,” he pulls Minho in closer by the waist, “what happened to ‘I’m not interested in other people’s relationships’?”
Ears going a bit red, Minho lets his eyes wander over his face, gaze softening around the edges.
“I’m interested in you,” his voice lilts teasingly, but his eyes show no sign of joking. It makes Jisung’s stomach flip.
“Well, tell me when you get to episode six, we can watch together.”
“That’s the plan, jagi.”
Today is a bad day, but it didn't start out that way.
When Jisung woke up this morning, the sun was shining brightly through his blinds, birds were singing, he felt like a Disney princess and all that jazz. Washing up didn’t feel like a hassle as it usually did as he swayed his hips to the calming music coming from his phone speakers, mumbling the lyrics around his toothbrush.
When he stepped foot into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, he was surprised to find it empty. It was very much a workday, their busiest one of the week, actually, so the fact that Minho wasn’t already quietly slaving away to make them breakfast was suspicious, to say the least. It was rare for Minho to sleep past his alarm, but in their decade of knowing each other, it has happened once or twice. So, Jisung brushes off his unease and makes his way to his roommate’s door. He doesn’t knock.
Jisung enters the room and is confronted with the soft lump of Minho’s sleeping body still in bed. The curtains are drawn, shrouding the space in darkness, only whisps of dim light peeking through.
“Minho-ya, time to wake up,” he says softly as he climbs his way into Minho’s bed, hugging him from behind.
Minho’s body tenses in his arms, which puts a concerned frown on Jisung’s face.
“Baby, are you okay?” He pulls away a little, peering over Minho’s back to catch a glimpse of his face.
Minho’s eyes are open and empty when they meet Jisung’s. Worry trips its way into Jisung’s chest with overwhelming intensity. Something is definitely wrong.
He pushes on Minho’s shoulder and manoeuvres him onto his back, resting his hands on his neck. He strokes the skin, watching Minho’s eyes close tiredly.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, just…” Minho trails off with a scratchy voice, refusing to look him in the eye.
“Are you sick?”
Jisung slides a hand over his forehead and another over his own. He palms at the skin with increasing anxiety, already thinking of all the excuses he can give their manager to miss the plane waiting to take them to Hong Kong when Minho suddenly opens his eyes. His hand wraps itself around Jisung’s wrist, and the hard line of his gaze makes Jisung freeze in place.
“Jisung, stop. I’m fine,” Minho insists and pushes him away as he sits up. His figure hunches over, as if even that small action takes tremendous effort to do.
It does nothing to abate Jisung’s anxiety. He swallows around his dry throat, trying not to take to heart the harsh tone or the fact that Minho called him ‘Jisung’ and not one of the numerous pet names they have for each other and hating that he kind of wants to cry over it.
“Okay, um,” he clears his throat and tries to pull himself together for his friend’s sake, “why don’t you go brush your teeth, and I’ll make us some breakfast?”
Minho’s gaze softens a bit, and when Jisung starts to stand up, he sluggishly lays a hand on his jaw, stopping him. He strokes it with his thumb slowly, and Jisung recognises it for what it is – a silent apology. This is the reason they work so well; they don’t need to speak to communicate.
So, Jisung takes a deep breath, throws on a charming smile and pushes Minho towards the bathroom to get ready for the day. Just as he finishes brewing two mugs of hot coffee and assembling a (very simple) breakfast for them, he feels two arms wrap around him from behind. Minho’s figure curls around him, soaking up all that Jisung is willing to give him. Little does he know it’s everything. Warm lips press into his shoulder, not kissing, just resting there. It elicits a pleasant buzz over Jisung’s skin.
“Sorry,” Minho mumbles into his shoulder, lips brushing with the soft uttering of the word. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” His voice sounds small and unsure, very unlike him, and it makes Jisung’s chest crack open in pain.
He holds the arms wrapped around him and rubs Minho’s forearm in semblance of comfort.
“There’s nothing wrong with you. We all have bad days,” he whispers into the quiet morning, feeling Minho lean his weight into him even more.
He lets them stand there for a second longer before grabbing the food and leading them to the table. Minho is sluggish in eating his breakfast and remains quiet throughout. Just being quiet isn’t out of the norm for him, but when you’re a certified Lee Know expert like Jisung, you learn to decipher every lack of dialogue as the thousand-page tome that it is.
The rest of the day goes by in a similar manner. They sit together on their flight to Hong Kong, and Jisung sticks close by his side in the waiting room at the venue, frustrated when they separate to go on stage. More out of habit than anything, he feels his stage persona take over as they move centre stage to do the end-of-year awards show performance they’ve been practicing for months.
It goes by quickly yet also feels impossibly long as the crowd is less urging them on like usual and more sitting politely with quiet, bobbing heads. Idols should really take themselves less seriously during these awards shows, in Jisung’s humble opinion. Have some fun for once. He can already picture the videos circulating social media with their band’s excited and dramatic dancing from the sofas later.
As the last notes of the song play out, and they turn to quickly clear the stage for the next artist, movement catches his eye. With his own personal Lee Minho radar, Jisung picks up on it in immediately. His friend is limping his way off stage, trying to keep up with Jeongin beside him, but every movement makes him flinch in pain. In an instant, Jisung is by his side, arm gripping his waist in a way one could call overprotective.
Minho doesn’t acknowledge the gesture until they reach the curtain, where he crumples into Jisung’s side and allows him to fully support his weight. They lag behind the group, slowed down by Minho’s pained gasps. It doesn’t take long for Chan to notice he’s missing two kids, and he whips around curiously, catching Jisung’s worried gaze.
“What happened?” He rushes to Minho’s other side, hand on his back, then shouts for their manager to get EMS and leads him towards a chair at the edge of the hallway.
“Twisted my ankle during the last dance,” Minho hisses through his teeth as he sits down, knocking his head back. His jaw tenses in frustration, obviously less than pleased to be slowed down like this.
Jisung rubs the back of Minho’s neck to massage some of the tension out before he can explode. It does little to help if the angry huff of air he lets out through his nose is any indication.
“Do you want to go back to the hotel? I can tell Manager-hyung–“
“No,” Minho interrupts, staring firmly at the ground. “I’m fine.”
“Minho–“
“Bang Chan,” Minho interrupts. They stare off for a moment before Chan sighs and walks away to find their manager with a shake of his head.
Jisung continues his light scratches against the Minho’s nape, growing a little anxious at the tension in the air. He crouches down to be level with his gaze, but Minho refuses to look at him.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Jisung starts. “You need to rest your foot.”
Minho buries his head in his hands with a groan, and all Jisung can do is pull up a chair beside him and pull him into his side. There’s no way to fix the situation, but he can at least provide some comfort. Minho isn’t usually big on physical affection, but he melts into Jisung without hesitating, like something is tugging on his chest to keep them close. Jisung understands. He feels it too.
Later, after paramedics have checked over Minho’s ankle, and they all return to the hotel, Jisung invades Minho’s room, pushing him to sit on the bed. He orders him to stay there in the most menacing way he can, which is to say not at all, but Minho listens with a roll of his eyes anyways. Jisung scampers around the room, getting Minho a fresh pair of underwear and pyjamas, ignoring his embarrassed whine from the bed.
Minho hates being babied. Jisung knows this, but that doesn’t stop him from running a luxury hotel salt-infused bath and helping him hobble to it. He sets the clothes neatly on the toilet lid and hovers in the bathroom long enough for Minho to give him a look.
“Do you want me to stay?” Jisung asks, shifting between his feet.
Minho’s face flushes pink.
“I’m a grown man, Jisung,” he responds, sits on the edge of the tub and begins stripping his clothes.
Jisung doesn’t look away, but he feels his own cheeks grow hot.
“I–I know that! I just thought maybe you’d like some company.”
Minho’s thumbs are hooked into the waistband of his underwear when he pauses, quirking a brow at him. When Jisung still doesn’t look away, he sighs and pulls them off, wordlessly reaching for Jisung’s hand. He helps Minho get into the bath, watching the tension slowly drain from his shoulders.
After a moment of quiet, Minho asks, “Well? Are you getting in or not?”
“W–well I actually thought I’d just sit here on the floor with you, but…” he stutters.
Minho looks at him in a way that’s meant to tell him he’s being stupid before sinking further into the water and closing his eyes.
Jisung hesitates for a moment, but just a moment, then moves to take off his shirt. Before long, he’s slamming the bathroom door shut and crawling into the bath behind Minho, pulling him into his chest. He feels him relax even further, and a situation that should’ve been awkward for two friends to find themselves in somehow doesn’t feel that way at all. He could say that about a lot of the things he does with Minho.
They sit there in silence for a long time, until Minho’s eyes start to droop dangerously, probably from the painkillers he took earlier, and Jisung wrangles them both out of the bath and into bed. He lays Minho down and quickly runs to his own room for some fresh clothes, feeling exposed in just his robe as he passes through the hallway. He’d die from embarrassment if anyone from his team saw him right now, half naked, clutching an armful of clothes as he sneaks out of Minho’s hotel room, and feels grateful for JYPE’s policy of blocking off the entire floor for its artists.
“Hyung,” Jisung calls when he returns, crawling into bed beside Minho, “are you sleeping?” he asks, but the question is pointless as he can see his friend’s eyes crack open from all the jostling.
“Almost,” Minho mumbles tiredly. He’s lying stiffly on his back, injured foot propped up on a pillow, his face contorted in discomfort. “I hate this.”
“I know, baby.” Jisung rakes his fingers through his hair, pulling his damp locks away from his face. “Thanks for letting me take care of you. I know you don’t like it.”
Eyes heavy, Minho lolls his head to the side. There’s a softness in them that could be attributed to the late hour, or maybe it’s just the usual way he looks at Jisung.
“I like it when it’s you,” he whispers and lets his eyes finally fall closed. Silently, he finds Jisung’s hand in the dark and intertwines their fingers, leaning their foreheads together.
“Yeah,” Jisung breathes. He’d forgotten all about his little experiment in the chaos of the day, but he files away that little fact now, feeling warmth spread through their hands. Another lenience Minho only gives him. “I like it when it’s you, too,” he whispers, but Minho is already deep in sleep by the time he gets the words out.
Jisung’s next idea is pretty selfish. Well, the whole experiment is pretty selfish when you think about it, but Jisung maintains that Minho is a big boy and capable of saying no if he really wanted to. So, really, it’s Minho’s fault for agreeing to go with Jisung in the first place.
They’re currently standing in a cable car, climbing steadily to Namsan Tower. It’s nearing closing time on a Sunday, so the usually busy cabin now only houses them, a group of teenage girls and a couple huddling together by the window. Minho stands rigidly beside him in the centre of the car, far away from any of the floor-to-ceiling windows. His hands are shoved deep into his jacket pockets, no doubt to hide their trembling.
Jisung feels a little bad. He knows Minho is scared of heights, but he just couldn’t resist asking him to take a cute couple’s photo on the observation deck with the cascading landscape of nighttime Seoul behind them. So, the second Minho’s ankle had healed, he was dragging Minho outside and on a train.
“Woah, look, fireworks!” one of the girls exclaims, pulling the rest of the car’s inhabitants to the far corner to watch the display. Jisung takes their moment of distraction to loop his arm with Minho’s.
“It’s okay, hyung-ah, we’re almost there,” he soothes, gently patting his friend’s arm. With tremendous effort, Minho drags his eyes from the floor to look at Jisung. He’s frowning, and to the untrained eye, he might seem angry, but Jisung knows that’s just what he’s like when he’s scared.
Minho’s eyes don’t leave him until the cable car finally lets them down on solid ground, and he breathes a subtle sigh of relief through his nose. Jisung keeps them pressed together until Minho’s knees sturdy under his weight.
They walk up the dimly lit stairs, passing by monuments with vague interest as they head towards the main deck. Even this late at night, there’s a queue to take photos at the primary observation spot, so they continue their way up to wait for the crowd to dissipate. There, Jisung spots an opportunity.
The space opens into a colourful collage of love locks lining the railings of the deck. A few couples hover around, securing their own locks and throwing the keys away, and to the side, is a photo booth. The second they spot it, they wordlessly veer towards it, excited hands grabbing at each other’s elbows. They mess around with the settings, giving themselves bunny ears and cat whiskers and making a variety of cute and ugly faces in between.
The last photo of the four-cut counts down and Jisung makes the impulsive decision to grab Minho’s head and plant a firm kiss on his cheek. The skin is flushed warm under his touch and turning redder by the second. He giggles when the machine announces the end of their photoshoot, hearing Minho’s flustered face grumble something annoyed.
“You little shit. You’re lucky these photos print inside the booth,” he says, snatching up the four-cut and admiring the last picture with a strange reverence.
“Oh please, even if someone recognised us it’s hardly anything more than I would do on camera.”
“Jisungie, we talked about this. Some things should stay just between us at home.”
“So, what, you’d let me kiss you at home?” he asks without thinking, but Minho’s sputter is enough to send his heart fluttering.
“Maybe if you ask nicely next time,” Minho jokes, but the defensiveness in his voice poorly hides the truth.
“Fine,” Jisung walks out of the booth, fighting his smile, “but I can’t wait that long. You need to make it up to me right now.”
“Do I, now?” Minho’s lips quirk in amusement, confidence returning full force.
“Prove to me you love me by putting a lock on the fence,” Jisung points to the machine nearby housing love locks, then at the hundreds secured along the platform, before defiantly planting his hands on his hips. An automated announcement tells them that the park is set to close in fifteen minutes, and the last couple invading the space slowly trickles down the stairs, leaving them all alone.
Minho looks at him for a long moment with an unreadable expression before finally pulling out his wallet. As he punches the numbers into the vending machine, he says, “You know these are for couples, right?”
“Ah-bup-bup-bup,” Jisung shushes him with wiggling fingers. “All I’m hearing are excuses. Get on with it, hyung.”
As Minho buys the lock, Jisung walks around the perimeter, spotting a place in the far corner and beckoning Minho over. They open the box to a half green, half pink lock in the shape of a heart sitting neatly in the package.
“Aren’t these the ‘Want So Bad’ colours?” Minho questions as Jisung rifles through his bag for a marker.
“See? It’s fate,” Jisung answers absentmindedly, cheering when he finds what he’s looking for. He hands the pen over to Minho and waits expectantly.
Minho rolls his eyes and turns away from Jisung’s curious gaze as he scribbles a message on the lock. He waves it around when he’s done, waiting for the ink to dry before handing it to Jisung.
“Please stay by my side for a long time,” Jisung reads with a widening smile. Minho’s face seems to stay stuck red, and Jisung barely suppresses the urge to pinch his pink ears, but, well, he just got them pierced, and Jisung isn’t that much of a dick. Besides, Minho’s already proved himself enough today. No use flustering him even more.
He secures the lock in the small space on the fence and stands back to admire his work. His hand brushes against Minho’s and slips into it easily, without a second thought. Shifting, Jisung appreciates the way Minho looks shyly back at him, yet refuses to turn away, and smiles, chest filling with something comfortable. He gets lost in the romanticism of it all, in the vague chirping of cicadas, in the way Minho’s eyes sparkle as they reflect the city lights.
Jisung is suddenly drawn out of his daydream when someone clears their throat behind them. Minho’s hand leaves his, and Jisung doesn’t even have a second to mourn its loss before his attention is drawn to the stranger’s voice.
“Well, aren’t you two adorable,” an elderly woman hobbles toward them with a warm smile. “Would you like some bracelets, for the happy couple? It’ll keep your relationship strong until you’re old like me,” she chuckles and holds out two handmade woven bracelets in the palm of her hand.
“Uh–well–“ Jisung starts, ready to tell her she’s misunderstood, when he’s cut off by Minho as the man steps forward.
“Sure,” he answers easily and pulls out his wallet again.
“No, no, none of that, now,” the woman stops him, turning over his hand and depositing the bracelets. “Free of charge for you boys.” Then, she scurries away, leaving them gaping at her back.
Jisung swallows. The emotions flurrying their way through his tummy are getting a little too intense to handle. He eyes the bracelets. Admittedly, they were nice, subtle in design yet created with obvious care.
“Do you think she recognised us?” he asks Minho, holding out his wrist for the other to wordlessly slip the bracelet on. Before he gets the chance to do it himself, Jisung snatches the second bracelet and wraps it around Minho’s wrist. He smiles at the way they complement each other in the faint moonlight and snaps a quick picture to capture the image.
“I don’t think so.” Minho intertwines their fingers again and walks them down to the now-deserted observation area.
Just down the stairs, Jisung knows, stands a security guard waiting to escort them back to the last cable car of the night, but here, they can take a minute to be alone in their own little world. He leads them towards the main photo section, walking Minho backwards towards the railing so he doesn’t see how high up they are, even while Jisung’s own fear of heights protested loudly in his chest.
Minho’s arm grips his waist firmly as Jisung takes a burst of selfies, a little too overwhelmed by Minho’s closeness to really pay attention to the faces he’s making. Later, when he looks through the photos on his phone, Minho sleeping only a door down from him, his eyes catch on one in particular.
They’re nestled together in the picture, city lights sparkling in the background like stars and faces illuminated by the warm deck lamps. But what gives him pause is the way Minho’s face is subtly turned towards him and holds so much adoration, that Jisung’s blush refuses to die until late into the night.
It’s a week later when Jisung finally builds up the courage to conduct his final test. He’s had a straight line of success thus far, but this one could truly be the dealbreaker.
He wipes his sweaty hands on his shorts as he waits for their food to be delivered, venturing through the apartment in search of Minho. A soft, steady buzz draws him to the bathroom, where he finds Minho shaving his chin. When he spots Jisung through the reflection of the mirror, he turns the razor off and pats his face dry after washing the shaving cream off. It leaves the bottom half of his face a little red, which is equal parts a little funny and cute.
Minho glares at him when he catches Jisung looking, quickly slapping on some face cream. He doesn’t turn around as Jisung approaches him, watching in the mirror as Jisung presses his chest into his shoulder and peers over it to scrutinise his own face. He runs a hand over the stubble there, reaching for Minho’s razor.
“That’s mine, you know,” Minho warns, but doesn’t stop him.
“Did you forget?” Jisung looks at him teasingly. “Hyung and I are one.”
Minho shifts closer to look at him properly now with a look that makes Jisung’s breath stutter. His hand places itself on Jisung’s hip, and he opens his mouth to say something when he’s interrupted by the ring of the doorbell. The gentle atmosphere breaks.
“Can you get it? Please?” Jisung bats his eyelashes at him and feels Minho’s hand briefly pat his butt before he turns around to retrieve the food.
Jisung pointedly ignores his own rosy cheeks in the mirror as he abandons the razor and makes his way to the living room. He takes a shaky breath, remembering his plan, and takes his seat at the table. He presses his lips together, smiling sweetly when Minho returns and lays out their assortment of food. When he sits down next to Jisung, his eyes catch on the curl of his mouth, and he reaches out to softly scratch under his gruff chin to let him know he’s being cute.
They eat quietly, a comfortable silence settling over them. Minho takes care to give him extra bites of everything without asking, and Jisung punctuates each action with a soft nudge of his foot as thank you. They curl up on the couch afterwards in front of another episode of Exchange. Jisung ended up being right in the end, because of course he had; Minho didn’t make much effort to look interested in the drama, but he indulged Jisung’s every complaint, eventually even making his own predictions on the contestants’ relationships. It was a lot more fun than watching alone.
As the editors dramatically rewind a scene, Jisung strokes Minho’s leg thrown over his lap, drawing lazy circles into his warm skin. Minho is nuzzled into his chest, expression unguarded and calm. His hand is wrapped over Jisung’s waist and occasionally scratches at his side. It doesn’t escape Jisung that Minho basically treats him like one of his cats. That is to say, he loves him.
“Those two are definitely exes, I mean look at how close they’re sitting!” Minho pauses his ministrations to exclaim. “They obviously still like each other.”
Jisung hums thoughtfully and rubs a spot just over his knee.
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Look at how we’re sitting,” he gestures to their own entangled bodies and feels Minho huff against his neck.
“That’s different.”
“Oh?” Jisung’s voice lilts. “How is it different?”
The tips of Minho’s ears go pink.
“It just is,” he grumbles and tightens his hold on Jisung’s shirt. “And anyway, you and I aren’t exes.”
“No, we’re not.”
The lack of acknowledgement of the second half of the sentence doesn’t go unnoticed by Jisung. Time to enact the final step of his plan.
“But if we were on this show, do you think people would think we were?” he asks nonchalantly, wrapping his arm around Minho’s back to pull him in closer and burying his nose in his hair.
Minho snorts and looks up at him. The soft glow of their kitchen light leaking in casts his skin in warmth, and it dilutes his energy to a low simmer. His pupils are blown wide in the dimness, making his eyes appear impossibly large and black. Their faces hover close, and neither of them pulls away to make distance.
“I think people would think we’re already dating. We’d make terrible contestants. We’d just end up going on dates with each other.”
“So, like we do already?” Jisung ventures to say.
“Yeah,” Minho’s lips twitch and his gaze lowers on Jisung’s face, “like we do already.”
“Except we’re not dating.”
They stare at each other, Minho seeming to go through an internal battle while Jisung fights his own giddy smile. Then, Minho’s expression settles, and his shoulders relax. He ghosts his hand up Jisung’s chest, squeezing the muscle playfully.
“We can change that,” he smirks roguishly enough where the proposition could easily be played off as a joke, but his shifting eyes tell Jisung everything he needs to know.
“Hyung,” Jisung lifts the hand that was resting on Minho’s thigh to caress his cheek instead, feeling it flush under his fingertips, “kiss me.”
Boom, there it is. The underwhelming one-liner Jisung’s been building up the courage to say for an entire week. It had sounded more powerful in his head, more authoritative, but the breathy noise he let out right after negated that completely.
This is it, the ultimate test to see where Minho’s capacity to say yes to Jisung ends. If he refuses, Jisung will laugh it off and bury his head in the sand for the rest of eternity if only to hide his bruised ego. But if Minho agrees, then…
Minho’s eyes darken and flick towards his lips for a fraction of a second, but Jisung catches it. Something close to hope cautiously blooms in his chest.
“So bossy,” Minho chastises. “Did you forget already? I told you to ask nicely.”
Suddenly, Jisung’s rose glasses disintegrate into the laughter that courses its way through Minho, and Jisung has to pull away the lovingly placed hand on his cheek to smack his friend in the chest.
“You’re so annoying, I don’t want to kiss you anymore,” Jisung says petulantly, turning back towards the TV and ignoring Minho’s chuckling beside him.
“Aw, Jisungie, don’t pout,” Minho taps a finger against Jisung’s lips, earning him a snap of teeth. “You’re too cute to be so grumpy.”
“I’m only grumpy because of you.”
“Oh no, well, we have to change that, don’t we? Can’t have my jagi be upset because of me.”
Jisung barely gets the chance to register the pet name before he finds himself with a lapful of Minho, smiling slyly down at him. His hands go to rest on Minho’s thighs on instinct, and he swallows down a particularly disgraceful sound when he registers how close they are.
“Minho…” he whispers, dropping the honorific because he knows Minho will forgive him.
“Shh, baby.”
The second Minho presses their lips together, Jisung lets his body melt completely into the backrest behind him. Feeling boneless, he follows Minho’s lead, tilting his head when he does and tightening his hold on Minho’s hips when the other grips the back of his neck. Minho disconnects their lips after only a short minute, gaze teasing and hungry.
“Is that enough for you, Jisungie?” he asks, and all Jisung can do is leave a tiny whine in the space between them.
Minho’s eyes instantly darken, and he dives back in to capture Jisung’s lips without waiting for a response. He lets Minho guide him into opening his mouth, into biting his bottom lip and tantalisingly dragging his tongue over the sting. Jisung takes and takes and takes. He takes every gentle stroke of his hair and every languid swipe of tongue over his own. He takes until Minho is reluctantly leaning away with a flinch.
“Okay, as much as I would love to continue this, your stubble is really starting to hurt me.”
His cupid’s bow and chin are, in fact, blooming red with irritation, and, in a backwards way, Jisung gets equal parts embarrassed and proud to be the cause of it.
“Sorry.”
He rubs his thumb over the raw skin, hooking Minho in for one last kiss before sliding his hands to his waist and knocking them down to lay on the couch. They spend the rest of the night this way – Jisung stealing kisses despite Minho’s protests, and staying tangled close together, like they were always meant to end up here.
“So, do you believe me now?” Jeongin asks, taking a prolonged gulp of his drink from the dance room floor.
They both watch as Minho comes back into the room, holding two bottles of water in his hands, and wordlessly gives one to Jisung. Jisung places a peck on his cheek in thanks, appreciating his boyfriend’s shy smile that he fails to conceal.
“Yeah, I do.”