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The sun is up on the cloudy sky, shooting her rays in futile little attempts to caress the frozen soil down below. They're numerous, warm, but it still doesn’t serve as enough for this winter has been cruel even in its last lingering moments.
Jisung appreciates the fact that she tries to provide him with warmth regardless.
Not long ago— sometime between the four-minute walk from the front of the apartment complex and where he currently stands now, facing a tree his dog chose to sniff at— the surface of his cheeks has turned into a pink mess of frost. All he breathes in is cold air that curls around his lungs uncomfortably, as though it knows it doesn’t bellow there.
Bbama barks once to bring his dad’s attention back to him, and it does wonders in pulling Jisung away from wherever the train of thoughts derailed.
“Sorry, buddy.” he shakes his head, wraps the grey scarf tighter around his neck, and tugs gently on the black leash. “C’mon.”
It’s around nine now, in the morning. On a Saturday. A certain Saturday, in the middle of February. Yeah. You’ve guessed it.
Valentine’s Day.
And, okay, he hasn’t celebrated it once in the twenty years he’s lived. Sure, he did buy some girl— a classmate of his in middle school— a rose at one point, but she had rejected him nicely, and he hadn’t really liked her that much. So.
Yet today, he gets to spend it with Minho.
His oh-so-special Minho, his best friend, his… Well, best friend. Let’s leave it at that.
They decided, a fleeting thought, that they ought to hang out one-on-one this exact Saturday, for no other reason than the possibility of getting free food from a nice place.
Don’t judge them. They’re college students living off part-time jobs with shitty wages.
Currently they’re on break, which is why Jisung is walking Bbama instead of babying him over the phone in a robotized voice the dog wouldn’t recognise. Incheon isn’t far from Seoul, where he goes to college, but.
Minho is in the capital, kilometres away. Either way, they wanted to spend the weekend together, so he’ll be driving over here in a few hours. He decided to spend the first days of his vacation with his best friend, then hop on a train to Gimpo and gone he’ll be. Jisung frowns a little at the idea. He quickly brushes it away.
“You done?” he asks the puppy. As if he’ll grow the needed vocal anatomy just to answer his question.
The dog barks again. Woof. Woof, silly Jisung, feed me.
After doing a few more laps around the park, Bbama starts leading the way towards home. He might be thinking that Jisung managed to forget it in the long time he’s been gone. That’s too sad to ponder over, so Jisung focuses on kicking a small rock out of the way and into the dead grass. Or whatever’s left of what it once was.
Anyway. The date— holy shit, he just thought of it as a date, bad Jisung, woof!--- is at four in the afternoon, hours away.
He’s got things to do. Such as shower thoroughly, wash his hair with his (mother’s) most expensive products, shave his whole body, find clothes, etcetera. There’s a whole list.
Hyunjin, his roommate back at the dorms, might be able to land a helping hand (hopefully not on his butt, because that’s reserved for Minho only). He majors in art, he’s got it. One trouble off his chest.
Briefly, he wonders whether Minho will dress up as well. Doll himself up the way Jisung’s about to. Wonders, somewhere in the depths of his thoracic cavity, if Minho considers their hang out a deal this big, too.
Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows.
“Go on,” Jisung sighs out loud. “Up.” he urges Bbama to jump up the staircase, but he stalls. For whatever wicked reason. Jisung bends down, picks him up, and carries him all the way to the third floor where his parents’ apartment stays unbudged.
Only after the door’s been locked back does he place the impatient mass of white fur down on the brown kitchen tiles. They’re alone, for now. Bbama gets a free pass to nap on the couch. That’s where they’re headed to now; Jisung waving through the entry-way and into a medium-sized room with shelves filled with books across one of the walls.
His back falls comfortably into the crocheted cushions. He turns the TV on, clicking on a random channel he pays no mind to. He’d much rather drown in his own thoughts.
It’s messy, up there in his head. If someone were to take a peek inside, they wouldn’t be able to decode anything. Incomprehensible.
So he tries to organise everything.
Not his mind, no. That would be impossible, for starters.
The living room. There’s not much to clean, given that his mother already did most of the work, but he puts some of Bbama’s toys away in a clear box, vacuums the floor, and stacks his father’s paperwork on the desk fixed in the corner next to the laundry hanger.
Cold air wafts inside through the open window, the commotion causing a few dust particles to sparkle in the light.
By the time he’s finished airing the room, the one-year-old dog has already slipped into sleep, in the one forbidden place: the cracked leather couch.
Eh. Jisung lays down next to him again, eyes closing this time and focus on what the news reporter is presenting at this time of the day. He lets himself relax.
Not for long, though, because as soon as the theme of the news changes, Jisung is jolted by the ringtone of his phone. He grunts, dragging a palm down his face. This better be worth it, he thinks for a second. This better be Minho.
Surprisingly, Chan’s calling. He picks up instantly.
“Hey?”
“Sung-ah,” the man on the other side of the phone speaks in a cheerful voice. “Hello!”
“Yeah?” Jisung sits up straighter, leaning against the backrest covered by a heavy red blanket. This one isn’t crocheted by his grandma. It was bought from a supermarket years ago.
“How’re you?”
“Tired,”
“Ah. Same old story, hah.” Chan sounds like his smile has turned pitiful. “I was wondering whether you’re coming to tonight’s party at Changbin’s?”
Oh; Jisung completely forgot about that. He had been invited weeks ago, but it slipped from his mind when Minho asked to hang out. “Don’t think so. I’ll have to check with Minho-hyung.” he stops to look at the framed photos on his father’s desk. “I’m in Incheon,”
“Oh! Sorry, I forgot you’re back home.” the man pauses. Then, “You seeing Minho today?”
“Yep.”
There’s a moment of silence coming from Chan, until he hums thoughtfully. “Ooh, I see, I see. That’s good.”
“Mhm. I’ll text if we decide to show up.” Jisung runs a hand through his hair. It’s a bit oily, so it sticks in different directions messily. “You can take silence as an answer.”
His friend laughs on the other side. “Sure, Jisung. Enjoy your date.” he ends the call before Jisung can tell him off for making that comment. Ugh. Those jokes are old.
Jisung met Minho years ago, when he was fifteen, on a class trip to an art show performed in Gimpo. He doesn’t remember anything about it other than seeing the most beautiful boy dance on that low, theatre stage like he was born to do it.
In his younger years, Minho was in a dance crew. The team parted ways not long after that night, some members being recruited by big companies, others simply giving up on their dreams. Minho was neither.
He didn’t want to debut and become an idol. He wanted to live a simple life, go to college, work hard, and enjoy himself to the fullest.
That’s what he had told Jisung when he returned from backstage during another kid’s talent performance, when they bumped into each other outside of the venue for a quick air break. Jisung had felt a bit too hot, cramped inside with all of his classmates, and Minho had gone outside to speak on the phone with his mother, apparently.
They had introduced themselves. Jisung remembers embarrassing himself, he was filled with nerves, an anxious child since birth. Minho pretended not to notice and took the lead in the conversation.
Only after the spectacle ended did they exchange phone numbers and bid goodbyes. Of course, Jisung got scolded badly by the teacher, who remarked that she’d get in trouble because of him. Jisung tucked his chin into his chest, sat down in the bus, and looked at Minho’s contact until the screen got blurry. He didn’t regret missing the other performances done by teens who clearly out-excelled him.
Presently, Minho remains his closest friend.
A little smile appears in the corner of his mouth. They’ve come a long way— from only talking on the phone, occasionally on videocall, to living remotely close to each other back in Seoul, at the dorms.
Jisung sighs. He scratches between Bbama’s ears the way he’d do to Minho’s three cats, one by one requiring equal attention.
Seeing that the clock is ticking, he decides to go shave now, feeling restless. He starts with his face: he smoothes it by getting rid of his grown-out stubble. Continues with the rest of his body. The process bores him, he sometimes wishes he had the money to go to monthly wax-appointments. Maybe once he gets a job at a stable place.
It’s thirty minutes later when he’s done, skin feeling great. He likes the softness of it when it’s spotless. He prefers it that way.
Since he skipped breakfast, he heats up some leftovers from last night’s homecooked meal. Back at college, all he gets to eat is fast food, because neither he or Hyunjin can cook. There’s times when Minho brings him a warm meal made by himself, but that’s rare, because time is scarce when you have to study.
At the smell of chicken breast, Bbama scurries into the kitchen, jumping excitedly next to the table. Jisung huffs, not giving in. He picks up his phone, lays it horizontally against a tall glass of water, and puts a documentary to watch. The TV noise from two rooms away fades into the background. Bbama’s whining does too.
What he’s watching is a ten-minute video of fun facts about planes. It’s interesting enough to keep his mind off the ticking clock, and how in no time he’ll be with Minho again, after not having seen him for.. Maybe two days. It’s been too long.
Unfortunately, an ad pops up as soon as the last word is spoken, and he turns off his phone in annoyance. He glances around the kitchenette— a gas stove, the one his mother would use to warm up the milk she’d use for his hot cocoa when he was seven, the four chairs that were once all occupied, the see-through curtains framing the windows that overlook what was Jisung’s primary school.
Being back home is nice, even if the place stands as a graveyard for memories.
He slacks off after breakfast, chilling on the couch and napping for what feels like a short period of time, when in reality it’s been hours. He wakes up sweaty, shirt clinging to his torso, droplets washing down the sides of his neck.
It’s uncomfortable. He jumps into the shower, rinsing off the drowsiness. Shampoo invades his closed eyes, feet slip because of the suds from his lavender-scented body soap. He curses under his breath, skin burning from the hot water. It’s a pleasant feeling, though. No matter if his flesh turns an angry red.
Jisung leaves the steamy bathroom in a towel tightly wrapped around his waist, making his way down the hall to where his childhood bedroom is. The walls are still a light shade of green, some marine stickers plastered all over the walls, fluorescent stars glued to the ceiling.
Cosy. His sacred safe place. Mangas decorate the bookcase near the window, anime figurines standing proud here and there.
Inside the closet, worn-out clothes hang. He’s outgrown them a long time ago. Still, he found space for some outfits he’s packed from the dorm, and he looks through those to choose one for today.
Pointless. He decides to facetime Hyunjin, desperate for some advice for his first… date? Hang out.
“Hyunjin-ah,” Jisung’s already whining to selfishly gain some pity. “Help me. I need you to help me.”
“Hello to you too,” Hyunjin rolls his eyes, whole face on the screen. “What’s up?”
“I’m going out with Minho-hyung. I don’t know what to wear. I’m so lost.” he sits down on the edge of the bed, eyebrows doing a little dance until they settle in a begging position. “Please.”
“Ooooh,” his roommate whistles impressively. He makes those innuendo-teasing eyes. “On Valentine’s day?”
“Yeah, well! It’s a Saturday. So.”
“Sure. Okay,” Hyunjin turns more serious. “What clothes do you have with you? No wait, first, where are you guys going?”
“Um,” Jisung recalls Minho telling him about a new all-you-can-eat type of Japanese restaurant having opened at the start of January. He tells Hyunjin exactly that. Adds, “so it’s pretty casual, I guess.”
“Alright. Show me your clothes.”
Jisung flips the camera with a click, now facing his open two-door closet. He lets the long-haired blonde skim through every piece with his eyes until he hums.
“First, I say those flared black jeans that make your ass look good. Hyung’s always liked them on you.”
Oh. Jisung blushes furiously. He glares at Hyunjin, but the camera is still towards the said pair of pants. “Shut up. He never said that.”
“Yeah, no. Only twelve times.” he scoffs in reply, shaking his head. “Wear them anyway.”
“Fine,”
“For upper body, hmm,” Hyunjin eyes everything for a third time. “Something white. The flannel shirt?”
“It’s not ironed,” Jisung resonates. Wouldn’t that be too formal to wear?
“You’re an adult. You can iron your own shirt.”
“I’m lazy,”
“Jisung.”
“Fine. I’ll see what it looks like.”
He does just that, still on call with Hyunjin. He finds the iron, plugs it in, and tries to turn the wrinkles into fine lines. He manages, after a few minutes. Hyunjin reminds him to unplug the scorching-hot machine.
“Alright. Belt? Do I use the Diesel one?”
“You can,” he gets in response. “It matches. You wanna tuck the shirt into the pants?”
“Yeah, maybe at the sides. On one side, I was thinking.”
“Try that.”
Jisung leaves his outfit on the bed, putting on his boxers, phone facing the constellation-dotted ceiling. He flexes his muscles in the mirror for maybe a minute before Hyunjin interrupts his routine of admiring himself.
“You got make up with you, right?”
“No?” Jisung narrows his eyebrows, setting the phone on his white desk, supported by the wall. “Why would I?”
“To make yourself look more presentable and less like a walking corpse?” Hyunjin throws, like it’s logical and not objective.
“Hey! That’s mean, Jinnie.” he places his palm over his chest in artificial-hurt.
“Well, find some. Lix taught you how to put on make up, didn’t he?”
He had, months ago. Felix is Hyunjin’s best friend, Chan’s boyfriend. He’s good with make up, and at pretty much anything, to be honest.
“Like, glitter and stuff?”
“Mhm. Your mum has to have some.”
“Dude. I’m not going through her stuff. She’ll kill me.” Jisung frowns.
“Not if she doesn’t find out,” Hyunjin simply shrugs. “Just some eyeshadow and highlighter. You don’t need blush, you’re already red enough whenever Minho’s with you.”
“True.” he mindlessly agrees. “Wait, what?”
“Bye, Jisung-ah. Say hi to hyung for me.” and he hangs up, just like that.
Jisung debates on calling him again to cuss him off. Decides against it when he sees that it’s almost four and he’s still naked.
In the end, he does look through what must be his mother’s make up bag on the bathroom counter. He sees a lot of stuff he doesn’t even know the name of. The glitter, or highlighter, comes into view. He puts that aside. Looks for eyeshadow. Finds a brown pallet.
Here goes nothing, he digs his pinky into the darkest shade, running the pad of it all over his eyelid. Wipes it off with wet wipes five times because he looks like he has a black eye.
After maybe four minutes of struggling, he places the eyeshadow in the corner of his eye, and with a straight brush with black powder on it, he smudges it until it looks somewhat right. Repeats the whole process on the other side.
Near the caruncle of his eye, he swipes a large amount of white glitter, adding it on the tip of his nose as well.
When he’s done and looking into the mirror, he grins. He doesn’t look half as bad as he expected to.
Minho calls when he’s struggling to pull the tight jeans on. Jisung answers, voice faltering. “Yes?”
“Hello, Jisungie,” he sounds happy. “I’m downstairs.”
Oh shit. Jisung grunts, zipping up the pants. He tucks the white button-up shirt into them, only a bit so that it’s remained baggy and not sticking to his skin, then locks everything in place with the black belt.
“Jisung?” “Sorry,” he puffs, grabbing his jewellery from the desk. The silver rings go around three of his fingers, and the bracelet brackets his wrist. The necklace, with a small cross on it, rests below his collarbones. He sprays on so much perfume that he ends up choking. He waves his hands around in the air. Grabs a lip balm, blueberry scented, and smears it all over his lips.
“Should I climb up?”
“No! No,” Jisung grabs his black leather jacket, wrapping it around himself and pocketing the lip balm. “I’m coming down now. Bye.”
The butterflies in his stomach are eating at its walls, starving. He kisses Bbama goodbye, not before filling his water and food bowls, and locks the door behind him. He descends the stairs slowly because his right foot doesn’t fit quite well into the boots he chose to wear.
When he gets outside, he spots Minho’s dark car stationed in front of the apartment complex. He jogs up to the passenger side, claiming his spot with an exhausted sigh.
After his pulse slows, Jisung turns his head to meet Minho’s kind eyes and a small bouquet of flowers.
“Oh my god,” he breathes out, eyes switching from his hands to his eyes. “Who are those for?”
Minho’s smile falters for a second, then a giggle breaks free. “Are you serious?” he nudges the flowers towards Jisung.
“Yeah..?”
“For you, Jisung-ah.”
“Me?” Jisung looks confused. He doesn’t know what his face is doing— it feels like his muscles are fighting each other, some wanting to smile, some to pout, others to make his eyebrows furrow.
“You don’t want them?” Minho tilts his head. Crimson paints his ears, down his neck.
“I- I do!” he finally kicks himself awake, settling comfortably against the seat and buckling his belt. Then, he takes the bouquet, laying it across his lap. He notices one of his legs is bouncing, and it feels too stress-free to stop it. “They’re beautiful. Thank you, hyung.”
“Don’t mention it,” the driver checks his mirrors before pulling the car out of park and driving away, GPS already working out the route.
Red roses. Those are reserved for— for couples— aren’t they?
Jisung smells each petal, worried he might say something stupid again if he opens his mouth.
“So, we’re finally trying out this place.” Minho covers the silence. “I’m excited. I haven’t had sushi in what feels like years.”
Truly, it’s only been like two weeks, Jisung knows because they were together when Minho ordered three rolls at his dorm. He simply nods along.
“I’m craving some, too.”
“How was the ride back home?”
“Boring,” Jisung exhales through his nose, looking out the window. The city blurs. “The train was packed. Had to sit with some grandmas. They talked my ear off about how useless this generation is.”
“Oof. I’m sorry I couldn’t drive you.” Minho takes his right hand off the wheel, giving Jisung’s thigh hidden under the flowers a quick pat. He rests it on the gear, afterwards. “Maybe next time.”
“It’s okay, gas is pricey.”
“Worth it if it means you get home safe,”
His stupid heart jumps from the middle of his chest up to his thyroid, then falls back into its place, tugged by some strings holding on for dear life. Jisung gulps. “I appreciate that, hyung.”
“Mhm.” Minho returns a toothy-grin, not taking his eyes off the road.
Music envelopes the car, a soft melody buzzing through the speakers. Jisung recognises the song and starts humming along at one point.
They don’t talk for the rest of the ride, but it’s not uncomfortable. It never is. With Minho, his mind gets mushy— in a good, safe way. He doesn’t really have to think, or do anything other than just indulge in whatever new weird topic Minho opens. It’s easy, being with him.
His chest, though, feels a bit off. He thinks it’s excitement for going to a new place, the nerves that come with entering an unfamiliar zone. But there’s butterflies flapping their wings inside his stomach, climbing up his oesophagus. They’ve always existed.
Usually they aren’t as troubling. Today, they’re restless. Jisung ignores that completely.
Minho parks the car effortlessly, killing the engine. He turns to look at Jisung with a crooked twitch of his lips, eyes shining in the reflection from the lights of the restaurant. “You look good, Jisungie.”
“Oh,” a surprised sound escapes him. He flushes. “Thank you,” Jisung mutters quietly, hand on the door. “You too. White suits you.” He eyes down Minho’s full-white outfit, baggy jeans and a compressed t-shirt that makes his muscles pop out.
“Thanks.” Minho hums, reaching in the backseat to take his dark brown jacket. “You can leave those in the car,” he nods towards the roses.
Jisung places the bouquet gently on the dashboard, then reaches properly for the inner door handle.
Before he can push it, Minho has already jumped outside of it. Cold air engulfs him when his door gets pulled open, but Minho’s hand is there to warm him up.
“Wow. So romantic, hyung-ah.” Jisung chuckles, holding tightly onto him. He doesn’t know why he suddenly feels dazed. Heady, in a way.
He can’t stop smiling. His cheeks are starting to hurt.
“For you, anytime,” Minho tries to wink. He can’t. His eyes do a pathetic double blink, and Jisung breaks into giggles, which makes Minho giggle, and soon they can’t even walk normally towards the entrance because they’re laughing.
Eventually, they make it to the glass doors, and Minho holds one of the two open. Jisung bites down hard on his plumper lip.
The table they choose is by the tall window, facing some bushes that might bloom into something beautiful in spring. They hang their jackets on their chairs that are facing each other, finally settling down.
It’s pretty empty. Well, it is a new place, not yet discovered, so. It makes sense that they, plus the other two groups of people, are the only customers at the moment.
Before they can start another nonsense conversation, a young waitress walks up to them with a smile on her face. “Good afternoon!”
Out of the two, Minho is more extroverted; he takes the lead, nudges Jisung’s leg that started bouncing under the table with his foot. “Hello. We’re here for the all-you-can-eat service.”
“Great! So, we have two menus to offer today for our AYCE option, as it is Valentine’s day,” she starts, script well-learned. Jisung’s interest is suddenly piqued, hands dropping the tissue they started shredding.
“The day-to-day one, which is 25K won,” she’s not looking at either of them as she speaks, attention strictly on her notepad. Jisung doesn’t think she’s reading anything off it. Probably simply zoning out. “Then the couples one, which you can only sign up for until six tonight. That one’s free. Any wasted food will be charged.”
Minho doesn’t even think about it. “The couples one, obviously.” he says. Obviously. What?
Jisung tries so hard to keep his face straight. He feels himself start sweating, the place suddenly too hot. Is there no AC?
“Alright, wonderful! I’ll bring it in no time.” She's walking away, and Jisung breaks character.
“Hyung. Really?”
“What?” Minho shrugs it off, but he’s a bit pink in the cheeks too. Maybe it is warm inside here. “It’s free food.”
“But– no one will believe us! What if they, like, get mad and sue us for lying to get free food?” he frowns. Is he being unreasonable, or cautious? He’s seen this happen in a movie before.
“Then we better make it believable, jagi.”
One butterfly tears the first layer of Jisung’s heart and chomps on it hard enough for it to hurt. His eyes go wide, a bit off-centre, and he feels like all the blood pumps inside his brain. His mouth opens to retaliate, to say something— but the waitress is back with a small menu.
“Here it is. Feel free to call me over if you need anything.”
“Hannie,” that definitely doesn’t sound like honey, Jisung’s breath hitches for a moment. He focuses back on what Minho is talking about. “Look, they have katsu. You want some?”
His tongue has forgotten how to be useful, apparently, because it feels as heavy as lead against the back of his slightly crooked teeth. He pinches himself back to reality. “Sure,”
Minho takes the blue pen and makes an X in the box next to pork katsu. He begins reading the whole menu out loud, listing off all the sushi rolls they have. The options are pretty scarce, but that’s a given since it’s all for free. Jisung can’t be mad that he can’t find his favourites.
“Okay, so far we’ve got shrimp tempura, spring rolls, tonkatsu, california and salmon avocado rolls. Want anything else, Jisung-ah?” He raises his eyes off the paper to check with Jisung.
“Can we get an eel roll too, and a dynamite one?”
“‘Course, baby. Anything for you.” Minho smirks at the table, marking those too. “Dessert? They have fried cheesecake.”
“Please? And pudding.”
At the mention of his favourite sweet, Minho lightens up even more than he already was. “Fuck yeah.”
Maybe they’re being greedy with everything they’ve chosen to order, but they’re both hungry. Jisung just hopes they’ll be able to pull this off without raising suspicion.
They’re not dating. Jisung’s dreamt that they are a few times, but in reality, they’re just… best friends. That’s how it is.
And Minho only said it because it’s free food. Otherwise, he would’ve picked the normal menu. It wasn’t that expensive to begin with.
Now they have to convince everyone that they’re in a healthy relationship. Holy shit, what if someone asks for how long they’ve been together? What if the manager comes out and warrants proof?
Beads of sweat trickle down Jisung’s face. Minho notices how distressed he is once the waitress walks away with the signed menu, currently on her way to take the drinks Minho ordered while Jisung was internally panicking.
“Sung-ah? Are you okay?” his smile doesn’t die down, but it isn’t as powerful as it was when he suggested they’re here as a couple. “Are you uncomfortable?”
No. Not at all, actually— Jisung never felt that around Minho. He doesn’t think he ever could. Minho is like a fresh breath of mountain air, the first dip in the cold ocean during a hot summer. “Never,” he shakes his head.
“You look like you’re about to shit yourself.”
Jisung pouts, slapping Minho’s sneaky hand away. It reaches out for him again, and this time he reminds himself that he needs to act. He allows their fingers to intertwine. His are sweaty. “I’m… I don’t want to mess up.”
“It’s okay if you do.” Minho is quick to comfort, rubbing his thumb on the back of his palm, pressing gently on his knuckles. “But you won’t. You don’t have to play pretend. Be yourself, Hannie.”
Alright. He can manage. “Okay.”
Minho smiles reassuringly as their drinks are placed in front of them, pulling away once the girl has noticed their hands.
“I got you a strawberry lemonade,” he hands Jisung his extra packet of honey. “Got myself some green tea. Saw it’s good in the reviews.”
“Thank you, j– hyung.” he clears his throat. He needs to relax. The table closest to them might bat an eye and call over the owner.
Realistically, that wouldn’t happen. Jisung still worries at his bottom lip.
“Oh, baby,” Minho tears his stare away from the waiter behind his chair, cleaning a table. “Don’t ruin your lips like that. Only I can.”
Oh my God. Jisung is both shocked and amused. Who says that? How can he say something as stupid as that with a straight face? Even the waiter closes his eyes for a second, looking like he’s taking a moment to himself to unhear that.
“You are ridiculous.” Jisung huffs once he’s back behind the bar, away. “Utterly ridiculous.” yet his mind has effectively been taken off overthinking.
“You like it.” Minho’s eyes glimmer beautifully, the whole Milky Way shown in them. He had once told Jisung that they’re just a mirror, and Jisung is seeing his reflection when looking him in the eyes like that, and that was probably the most romantic thing someone’s ever said to him.
“Yeah.” he agrees, wrapping his lips around the straw. The plastic turns sticky because of his lip balm; he’ll have to reapply it later. “Absolutely.”
“You like me so much, Jisung-ah.”
“I’m head over heels for you, hyungie,”
Jisung does not know why that came out so naturally, why his shoulders suddenly feel a tiny bit lighter. Why Minho is looking at him like that. Like he’s as precious as his three cats.
“And I’m so disgustingly in love with you, jagiya.” Minho stutters halfway through the sentence.
“‘S that what you told all the boys you take out on dates?” Jisung makes his voice small lest someone hears and gets suspicious of their lie. He’s only teasing him. Minho’s only been on two other serious dates, and neither went on for long enough to work out, unfortunately. Fortunately.
“Only the pretty ones,” he attempts a wink again.
This is not play-pretend. They always taunt each other like this, flirting casually, sending air kisses in each other’s direction. Jisung feels way more relaxed. This is them.
What if it’s not enough?
“Here’s the tempuras, sushi’s still in the making. Would you like me to bring the katsu now?”
“Yes please,” Minho politely answers for Jisung.
“Coming right up.”
“I like this place so far.” Jisung compliments.
The atmosphere is nice. It’s quiet, save for the low chatter coming from the kitchen, barely there with the piano instrumental playing on low volume. The lights are yellow-ish, dimmed, and there are plants hung over big shelves and in corners. The windows face short bushes and the parking lot.
“Me too. But I like you more,” Minho sounds like he actually means it. That does something terrible to Jisung’s pumping heart.
“Ah,” Jisung is so flustered. “Don’t say something like that. I’ll kiss you.”
Minho’s lips quirk up in a smirk. “Is that a promise?”
“You’ll take it like one anyway.”
They only drop the conversation because the pork katsu is placed down in the middle with a side of rice in a medium-sized bowl. Minho takes a knife and cuts the meat into two pieces at Jisung’s request. Of course they’re sharing. When are they not?
“Oh, this is so good,” Jisung praises with his mouth full. He’s never one to shy away from Minho. “Mmm.”
“The rice is pretty dope.” Minho says. He’s a dedicated gym rat, he eats rice the way he breathes air. Jisung laughs.
“You’re the rice expert, I trust your word.”
“I will not disappoint.”
Whatever he’d do, Minho could never disappoint Jisung. It’s simply impossible. As his best friend, Jisung cares too much about him. Like, way too much.
Next they try the shrimp with the spring rolls. It’s paired with a drop of teriyaki sauce. Can’t really go wrong with that combination. Jisung loves teriyaki.
He’s a foodie. He loves stuffing his cheeks full with all kinds of food. Japanese is one of his favourites, specifically sushi. That explains why he almost shouts in excitement when the waitress brings four plates with five sushi pieces on each.
Minho watches him with the softest expression, leaning on his hand on the table. When he knocks out of his dreamy gaze, he grabs a pair of chopsticks and splits them, handing them to Jisung, who smiles and returns the favour.
“I wanna try their special roll. The dynamite one.” Minho says.
“Here, hyung,” Jisung grabs one piece and places it on the older’s plate.
“Though you’d feed it to me for a second there,” he pouts, picking it up himself. He hums pleasantly once it’s in his mouth.
Jisung doesn’t wait for him to comment on the taste, eager to try it on his own.
It’s really good; there’s crab meat and salmon with cream cheese and some sort of spicy sauce. It doesn’t burn his tongue in that unpleasant way, so that’s another plus. Jisung can’t really handle spice.
Fun fact— he hadn’t known Minho loved spicy food until a few months prior because he never ordered anything of that sort when they were together. Jisung likes to indulge in prideful thoughts, and therefore he believes that the reason for that was because they always share their food with each other.
Ah. Minho is so special. He’s perfect, really. He has the sharpest of features. A defined jaw, a straight nose, strong figure. But his face remains soft, smooth, whenever he’s with Jisung. His eyes get mellow, and his lips turn pouty. His voice gets the slightest bit higher, too. Not in an irritating loud way. In a happy-to-be-with-Jisung way. It’s reserved for him, and him only.
“Jagi, you’re not gonna eat?” Minho has already devoured six different pieces from all the types they’ve ordered. He motions to one of the plates. “This one’s great. You’ll love it, I’m sure.”
Jisung has known for years that he loves Minho. It wasn’t all that hard to figure it out— they talked every day on the phone, met on the weekends. Then when high school ended for Minho, he got his license and went to college in Seoul. Jisung followed one year later, enrolling into the same college, different major. He didn’t get a license because Minho had his, and he had become his personal driver anyway.
In the present, he still silently considers that he does not need one.
“It is good,” Jisung agrees, staring back at Minho because he just looks so pretty with his bangs framing his face and skin shining. His nose freckle is visible even from this distance. Jisung could point to it with his eyes closed, probably. He takes pride in knowing his hyung that well.
“I’m getting full,” Minho whines after seven minutes spent enjoying the different flavours of sushi. “Jisung-ah.”
“I’m definitely getting a terrible stomachache after this,” Jisung cries out because he loves the worried look on Minho’s face. “Worth it, though!” he pops another piece into his mouth, sighing around the taste exploding in his mouth.
Minho can only fit one more before he stops himself. He puts the chopsticks down, declaring the battle lost. “The pudding..” he sulks. Definitely plans on paying extra for it.
“Hah!” Jisung childishly grins at him, pointing his own pair in Minho’s direction across the table. “I win. I’m tougher.”
“You’re the toughest, baby.”
“Damn right.” he proudly fawns over himself, having finished swallowing the last bit. They’ve cleared the table, and it’s been almost two hours. Just in time for the offer to end.
In the long time they’ve sat here at this table, more people have walked inside. Some lovers, some friends, a married elderly couple.
“I’ll go to the bathroom real quick,” Jisung announces, sipping the remaining lemonade. He sits up, chair scraping against the hardwood floor, and looks for a toilet sign. Once he finds it, he waves to Minho.
When he’s washing his hands with cold water, he thinks about Minho’s warm palms. When he reapplies his scented lip balm, he thinks about Minho’s lips, and almost slaps himself for it.
But he can’t even blame himself. It’s Minho, his best friend of five years. He’s his special person. Someone he can be himself with.
For as long as he’s inside this place, he can play pretend, toy with his own emotions. For as long as he stands here, with witnesses in every corner, he can love Minho as his boyfriend.
That must be the explanation for why he feels his heart tug uncomfortably in his chest when they exit. Minho paid for the drinks, the extra sauce, and the desserts that the staff had to pack and give it to-go because neither of the two could eat any more. Jisung feels bad.
“I’ll pay you back at home,”
Minho turns back to glare at him. He opens the passenger door for him, inviting him inside his car. “Don’t even think about it.”
“But hyung,”
“Get in, and stop speaking nonsense. I’m not hearing you out.”
“Fine,” Jisung says, petulantly. He makes his pout more visible once they’re both seated in the car, lips shiny.
“Don’t do that. Don’t look at me like that.” Minho sighs, buckling his seatbelt after setting everything on the backseats, and nudgesJisung’s shoulder so that he does so as well.
“I’m not looking at you like anything. In fact, I’m not even looking at you.”
“Jagiya,” the brunette shuts his eyes closed, then blinks them open. He turns the heat up because it’s freezing inside as it is outside. “You can’t be serious.”
“Just drive. Wanna go home.”
“Not until you stop being upset.”
Jisung mumbles something under his breath that has no business being spoken out loud. Minho knows better than to plead for him to repeat, so he simply pats his thigh and copies his posture, both sulking.
“Yah, drive.” Jisung scowls.
“Nuh-uh.”
“Oh my God, Minho-hyung. You can’t be for real right now.”
“I am as for real as you are.” Minho dares to reflect his expression, staring back at Jisung.
“You’re so stupid.”
“You’re stupid.” he retorts aimlessly, a smile fighting to break his faux-nonchalance.
“I wish you could kiss me stupid.” Jisung couldn’t have controlled himself if he tried. As soon as he realises what he’d just said— holy fuck, he didn’t just— he looks away in horror.
Minho stops moving, ceases breathing. He’s watching Jisung, his whole body turned in his direction, and Jisung is too scared to look back at him, so he continues staring out the window at the passing cars on the road.
Yeah. Jisung is stupid. There should be idiot written all over his forehead.
“Don’t wish for things you can’t handle.” is what Minho settles on saying, a minute after pure silence.
Jisung sees that as competition.
“I’m not a coward.” he might be a dumbass, but he really is not a coward. Well. When it comes to most things, he isn’t.
Is he?
“Then say that again,” Minho fixes him with a weird stare. There’s something to his eyes— a new constellation of some sort, Jisung can’t figure it out in the car’s lighting.
“That I’m not a coward?”
An amused scoff. “No. What you wish for.”
“Uh,” Jisung might actually be a coward, in the full sense. He’s starting to sweat, and the feeling in his chest has amplified since lunch.
“Jisung. Jisungie,” Minho reaches out a tentative hand, as he would to a feral kitten. Jisung doesn’t attack. He accepts the warmth that comes with it. “You can’t just say stuff like that and expect me to be normal about it. You know I’m not normal about anything ever.”
What even is going on? There’s… everything feels charged. There’s a pressing tension in the air that’s never been around before.
“I don’t want you to be normal about it, hyung,” Jisung ends up mumbling. “Normal is not you.”
This time, their eyes lock, both of their pupils blown, almost covering their whole irises, turning brown into black with want. This is what it is, right? Want. Jisung wants Minho. Is it reciprocated?
“Jagi,”
“Hyung.”
Minho’s heavy stare moves lower, to Jisung’s parted lips, then back to his eyes, not knowing on which one to land. Jisung gave up on figuring that out a long time ago. He watches him, the acne scars, the pores scattered across his face, the shape of his top lip.
A hefty, cosmic pull pushes them together into a diffident kiss— a brush of mouths, noses bumping into one another, breaths shared between the warm space. Jisung’s body is tilted over the console in the middle, knee digging into the plastic. His hands are placed awkwardly in his lap, gone boneless at the proximity.
From here, he can smell Minho’s citric cologne, something sweet layered over his body soap. Jisung fights himself not to lean lower and take a profound whiff of his neck.
Thankfully, Minho is there to guide him, moving one of Jisung’s arms and propping it over his own shoulder. Jisung’s fingers contract, twirling the short hair on his nape. His other hand remains where it is.
“Okay?” Minho whispers, hushed, vibrating against Jisung’s parted lips. He’s right there. If he leans in as much as one centimetre— they’ll touch. Once more.
And he has the nerve to ask if this is okay, like Jisung isn’t shaking with how bad he wants it.
“Are you going to kiss me, Minho-hyung?” he stammers. If it were anyone else, not Minho, he would’ve considered himself pathetic, but. This is someone who knows him inside out.
“If you want me to,” his palm cups Jisung’s rosy cheek, thumb delicately working over it. “I could.”
“Why don’t you? I wanna,”
The tension is tangible in an unnerving way. Jisung might genuinely start trembling if Minho doesn’t close the gap soon.
“Jisung-ah,” Minho closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, exhales it directly in Jisung’s awaiting mouth because they’re that close. “I’m going to explode.”
“Do that after you’ve kissed me properly.” he whines. What’s else there to do?
Okay— Jisung did demand to be kissed, yet as soon as Minho’s lips slot against his and his other hand wraps around the side of his neck to hold him in place, he shrieks, fireworks popping behind his heavy-lidded eyes. Oh my God. He’s— he’s literally kissing Lee Minho right now. Fully.
Before he can make a fool out of himself for the nth time tonight, Jisung’s shoulders droop, hand becoming more steady on Minho’s nape, lips no more useless, now instead moving gently, slowly, fitting so right between Minho’s own.
How is he supposed to go back to normal after this? Minho is holding him tightly, thumbs caressing skin, mouth flavoury and slick when his tongue prods instinctively.
He tastes exactly how Jisung expected him to. Intoxicating. He fears he’s ruined his taste buds forever tonight. They’re picky.
When he was a bit younger and didn’t believe in relationships, he found making out— exchanging saliva, licking into someone else’s mouth— disgusting. But as Minho does just that, exploring Jisung’s mouth, the line-up of his teeth, stealing his breath, he finds it hot. Lovely. It makes him shiver. The domesticity of it.
That’s how he realises that Minho’s air is the one that perfectly belongs in Jisung’s expanding lungs.
“Took you long enough, jagi,” Minho’s voice is barely comprehensible because he’s devouring Jisung as though he’s starved.
“Thank you for waiting for me,” he sighs, spit building in the corners of his lips. He pulls away for merely a second to breathe, wipe at his chin, before he’s back to being kissed stupid.
It’s a few moments later spent with Minho’s hands travelling over the hard lines of Jisung’s chest and Jisung, in return, whining high in his throat, when it clicks that they’re in the parking lot of a restaurant and not in private.
Jisung burns, moving back and re-buckling the seatbelt, breathing harshly. He presses the back of his hands on his cheeks, feverish.
Minho’s leaned his head back against the headrest, chest moving up and down rapidly. “Fuuck,” he puffs, laughs at himself. “I’m supposed to drive back in this state?”
“You said I won’t need a permit.” Jisung jabs, flustered.
“What you might need to do is get into the backseats.”
“Oh?” his pupils dilate at the implication.
“No,” it’s Minho’s turn to whine, rubbing at his eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that. Please, get the images out of my head, I’m not strong enough.” his glistening bottom lip juts out. “You’ll have to walk home. I can’t be near you right now. You are a menace, Jisung-ah.”
“I didn’t even– you freak!” Jisung chuckles, slapping Minho’s bicep.
They need to stop for gas. It’s already emptied in the twelve minutes they spent kissing in this old car that’s grown as hot as a sauna.
“I’m telling you,” he snaps to reality, hand on gear now. “Don’t distract me.”
“I’d never, jagiya,”
Minho brakes the car, looks down at his lap, inhales as much air as possible, then pulls out of the parking lot. “No more talking. Put on some music.”
Jisung is on the verge of opening his mouth to tease the driver again, however Bbama’s been left alone at home for two hours now, and he’s still a puppy with too much energy. He needs to go on a walk again.
Since Minho is sleeping over, they’ll go together.
He chooses a nice hyper song they both know, and the tension from earlier lingers, but dissipates into comfort, vibrating along with the melodic notes.
Stopping for gas only takes five minutes, and Minho leaves Jisung alone in the car. When he comes back, his bangs are dripping with water, and his face is flushed. Jisung eyes him suspiciously.
“You didn’t tell me I look like I’ve been mauled,” he grumbles. “I was wondering why everyone in the station stared at me as if I grew two heads.”
“You looked beautiful in my eyes,” Jisung shrugs. “With what was left of my touch all over you.”
“You’re the worst.” Minho drives with both hands on the wheel. He says it with a smile.
“You love me.”
“I do.”
“Who wouldn’t. I’m amazing.” he grins.
The rest of the ride back to the apartment complex goes normal, nothing out of the ordinary. It’s already dark outside, sky blanketed by scattered clouds. Minho parks the car in the slot bought by Jisung’s parents, since they’re away for the weekend.
On the stairs, Minho slaps Jisung’s butt.
“What? It was right there.” he resonates. Jisung giggles, reaching in the pocket of his jacket for the keys.
“We have to take Bbama outside.”
“That’s fine by me.” Minho waits by the door, because he might not be able to keep his hands to himself while Jisung searches for the prettiest vase to give his roses as a grave. “Get whatever you need, I’ll be right here.”
After placing the packed desserts inside the fridge, Jisung grabs the dog leash. Bbama is already jumping up and down at the promise of a walk.
“Let’s go.”
Down on the street lined up by asleep trees and tall buildings, Jisung seeks warmth. His arm that isn’t busy with the leash reaches for Minho’s, who welcomes him immediately.
“The park?” Jisung asks.
“Wherever you wanna go, baby.” Minho replies, casually. They saunter off between the blocks, reaching an open space that blooms during spring and dies during winter.
They walk in silence, but Jisung’s head is loud.
What are they, now?
“What are we?”
Minho kicks a pebble in Jisung’s direction. “Do we need to label it?”
“I don’t know,” he kicks it back. It disappears into the darkness. “I’d like to know if we’re on the same page.”
“I can assure you that I am in love with you in a non-platonic, romantic, gay way.”
Jisung scoffs in disbelief. He laughs, and they stop when Bbama requires them to. “Continue,”
“Now you’re just fishing for compliments.” Minho bumps his shoulder into Jisung’s, making him stumble. “Ah, jagi, you’re unbelievable. What should I do?”
“Throw me around a bit,”
“If you really want–” his hands are already settling into position to do as he’s told. Jisung screams, breaking into giggles.
“Eh- Hey! No!” he jumps away, the dog barking when he’s jostled too. Jisung apologises to him and snarls at his… at Minho.
“What?” Minho teases.
“Be serious.”
“You started it!” he whines.
“I was joking around,” Jisung shakes his head, waiting for Bbama to finish his business. “You’re crazy.”
“Get used to it.”
He has, a long time ago. Minho’s always been a bit weird. Jisung never really minded it. In fact, he liked that the older could be himself with him, no holding back from unfunny jokes or light-hearted taunts.
“It’s still early,” Jisung mumbles, taking a peek at the time shown on his phone. It’s around seven.
“Let’s keep walking. The weather is nice.”
“Yeah.”
They talk about life back in Seoul. Jisung signed up for a few interviews for a part-time job until he graduates, and Minho tells him that he’s thinking about moving out of the dorms and getting his own flat somewhere near the campus. He likes Chan— his roommate— but he prefers having his own space. He’s already been saving up money.
Well; if treating Jisung to food, cinema dates, and getting him flowers regularly counts as that.
Their fingertips are starting to go numb because of the cold, so half an hour later they call it quits and return back. Jisung frees Bbama, who instantly runs to the water bowl. He whines at it until Jisung fills it with fresh water.
The couch is welcoming when they sit down on it, jackets off. Jisung doesn’t even pretend to glance in the TV’s direction while Minho flicks through endless videos. He’s gawking at his arms.
Minho’s hard work at the gym is paying off really well. He keeps getting bigger and stronger and the butterflies in Jisung’s stomach travel lower.
“Hyung-ah,” he presses irresolute palms into the skin bulging out of those white tight short sleeves surely cutting his circulation.
“Mm?” Minho doesn’t pay any attention to him, keen on finding something to watch on Youtube.
“Your arms must hurt,”
“Nah,” he gives them both a quick look. “They’re fine.”
“You sure?” Jisung watches his index finger slip under Minho’s sleeve on its own accord.
Minho smirks. “You can check them out, if you’re so worried.”
“I am really concerned for your safety.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm,” Jisung wiggles closer on the couch, closing whatever space was left between their thighs. He starts massaging his muscles, hands squeezing at Minho’s brachium repetitively.
“Are you trying to rile me up, ’Sung-ah?” he sends a fleeting glance his way.
“Noo, never.”
A little. Minho looks hot when he’s flushed and a bit worked up.
“You’re so strong. You think you could, like, push me around?” Jisung mindlessly says, fondling the hardness bulging underneath Minho’s skin. He runs one of his palms all over it, feeling him up, because he can.
“Don’t know. Wanna try?”
He gulps. He doesn’t think he’d survive that.
“We should kiss.” Jisung says instead, and he doesn’t wait for Minho to reply, filling his senses with the touch of his lips.
Their foreheads bump, and Minho smiles so wide their teeth kiss too, which makes Jisung whine in protest. “Stop that,”
“You’re too cute, honey, I can’t.” he leans his head against the backrest, thumbing at Jisung’s sullen lips to mold them back to their heart shape. “What do I do with you, seriously?”
Jisung huffs, pulling Minho’s hand lower to wrap around his ribs. Maybe he’s the hero who can make them remain in their place when his heart explodes. “You’re holding back.” he calls him out. The look in his eyes shows hunger.
“Yeah,” Minho nods, circling Jisung’s waist and pulling him to snuggle in his lap. “I’m taking it slow.”
“Hasn’t it been slow enough?” it’s been burning for years, a candle lit and blown and lit over and over again until its smell became too strong for its own good.
“You’re too impatient.”
His thighs squeeze Minho’s hips, hands clasping onto his shoulders. “I am. I want you so bad, Minho.”
“Kiss me like you mean it.”
That’s all Jisung needs to dig his knees firmly into the couch, lean down, and consume Minho totally. He feels a palm sneak inside his back pocket, fitting securely over his butt. He feels the tip of Minho’s nose press into the plumpness of his cheek. He tastes blueberry on his tongue.
It’s dizzying. Minho isn’t really doing much other than stroking his ass (that’s nothing new, he’s always been a fan of doing that) and kissing back languidly. Against all odds, Jisung is more turned on than ever.
He copies what Minho did to his mouth earlier— licks into it, sucks on his lips until they turn red, drags his teeth against them in exploration.
Wow. He didn’t think he’d like it this much. Should’ve expected it, though, it’s Minho. Of course he loves it.
“Love you,” Jisung’s voice breaks when Minho’s small palm pushes his hips down flush against his. “Oh,”
“Okay?” Minho pulls away for a second to check in with him. Once he frenziedly confirms, he pulls Jisung back. “Love you too.”
“Show me,” he pleads, composure out the window, never to be seen again. He didn’t need it anyway. Minho likes him desperate.
Really likes him desperate, apparently. Jisung whimpers as soon as they connect again, and Minho swears under his breath so many profanities he needs to be silenced with a deeper kiss.
They move, grab, take whatever they need from each other. The living room starts smelling like spring at its peak when everything is blooming and there’s pink everywhere. Sweat runs down Jisung’s neck from overexerting himself by greedily grinding against Minho, and Minho’s started breathing so heavily he thinks he might pass out soon. If he were to, he’d do it a happy, blessed man.
Nonetheless, neither of them considers stopping a solution. Jisung keeps doing his thing, though he’s guided by Minho’s palms on his hips (he’s tired). Minho mouths lazily at the junction of his neck and shoulder, not meaning to leave any marks but not caring much if he does.
Jisung is surprised he can keep quiet. He doesn’t want to ruin the carefully woven intimacy between them. Pleasure builds, Minho sucks his flesh into his mouth, Jisung cries silently in his ear. Tears haven’t brimmed, but his throat constricts like they have.
“Hyung- oh,” he presses a kiss to his ear, then feels something snap, and he has to bite hard on Minho’s shirt to not jerk away from the feeling.
Exhaustion flows through his veins, body flopping on top of Minho’s, arms wrapped around his neck, holding tight not to slide down the couch. He faintly hears scratches at the door. He doesn’t think he can get up now.
“Hey,” Minho pecks his temple, caging him against his chest. “Are you good? Don’t die on me now,” he jokes, breathless.
“I feel like I’m floating.”
Like the butterflies suddenly multiplied so much they managed to lift Jisung off the ground and into the air.
“Want to wash up before you fall asleep?”
“No,” Jisung headbutts Minho’s burning neck. His skin smells wonderful.
“Gross.”
“Shut up.”
“Five minutes, then to the shower you go.” Minho decides, leaving no room for argument.
“Why,” he moans grudgingly.
“You creame-"
"Minhoooo! Do not finish that sentenece! I'll kill you!"
Five minutes later, Minho nudges Jisung awake. Jisung hisses. He feels like tearing his skin off.
“Oh,” he looks down, then into Minho’s brown eyes that are looking back into his with so much love. “You didn’t..”
“Don’t worry. I’ll jerk off. Or something."
“Sounds fun!” Jisung pulls his bangs back, off his sweaty forehead. “Let me watch.”
“No.” Minho chuckles in surprise. “On another occasion.”
“You’re no fun. I wanna help.”
“It’s okay. Truly. Go shower first.”
Inside this apartment, there are two bathrooms, so they each occupy one. Jisung looks at himself in the mirror. Almost doesn’t recognise the man staring back at him. His whole face is red, his lips are so puffy it looks like he got fillers done, there are a few dark spots blooming on his neck, and there’s an annoying strain in his thigh muscles.
A weird feeling settles in his belly. Will— whatever they just did— change things? For the better?
He likes Minho. In a gay way, as he said. He’s always had a little crush on him, but he had to push those feelings down, because it was unethical. Maybe it wasn’t.
From what he can tell, Minho reciprocates those sentiments. So they can try, right? It’s worth trying.
When they’re both freshened, clean, and crammed in Jisung’s bed with Bbama on the floor, Jisung thinks dating for real— not just for free food— doesn’t sound half bad.
Minho drapes his arm over Jisung’s narrow waist, his palm hot.
“Hyung-ah,” Jisung looks at him. Minho is already gazing softly at his face, eyelashes still wet.
“Yes?”
“Would you date me?”
“We’re not already?” Minho frowns, eyebrows furrowed. He seems genuinely confused.
“What?” Jisung’s eyes grow in size, and he’s pouting again. “You never asked!”
“I mean, we were dating at the restaurant, so.”
That’s… right.
“Then we’re boyfriends?”
“Lovers,” Minho kisses him once on the cheek.
Jisung smiles, gummies on show and all. He fully turns around in his hold, sliding his hands up to hold the sides of his head. “I’m happy.”
“Always be, jagiya.”
“As long as you’re on my side,” he presses his nose into his collarbones. “Yeah, Minho?”
“‘Course.” Minho scratches at his scalp. “Happy Valentine’s, Jisungie.”
“Happy Valentine’s, yeobo.”
Spring will bloom alongside their love, and despite winter being inescapable, they’ll watch it sprout and wither before their eyes, because seasons are as ephemeral as they are repetitive, but their hearts will remain beating for a long, written-in-stars time.