Archive of Our Own

It was a Wednesday.

Deal Day.

And apparently every single person in Seoul desperately needed three bulgogi triangle kimbap for the price of two. Of course, there was no planning behind this offer – there never was – and their supply had sold out before Jisung even clocked on. By the end of his eight hour shift, his eyes were attempting to dig their way out of his skull.

Eighteen more minutes, he thought. Just three more groups of five minutes, then three lots of sixty seconds. But the clock’s incessant ticking had slowed to a crawl.

In the space of only one afternoon, Jisung had been spat at, a drink thrown at his head and called just about every slur in the book. He’d also been told off by his manager, Mr Park, for not “respecting” his customers – as if they were affording him the same luxury. It was one thing after another, and it had been slowly building all day. 

The overhead lights had become radiating beams of agony. There was a small fibre hanging off his eyelashes he just couldn’t get off. The fans continued to sweep his overgrown permed curls over his forehead. His upper lip kept beading with sweat, the heater turned up slightly too high against the mild autumnal night. The same track played for the fourth time, its backtrack filled with the same tinny triangle that wound his shoulders up closer to his ears with every beat. 

It was all just a bit too much.

And now a giant order of banana milk had just come in, one hundred and fifty bottles worth already sweating in their crates. Despite Jisung explaining the various benefits to wearing noise-cancelling headphones – there were a surprising amount of studies dedicated to the use of music as a balm for overstimulation – Mr. Park was still a stubborn mule of a manager, and insisted that Jisung be exposed to various forms of torture while stacking. Jisung packed as many away into the fridges as he could, wiping off his hands on his khakis in between. Each one was swivelled so the labels faced the front in perfect alignment. It was only when he’d made it through the third box that a cold sense of dread washed over him.

Fuck.

He’d been stacking them out of order.

The newest bottles had to go to the back. The old stock should be at the front. There were only two minutes left on the clock.

He leant back, swearing softly. He combed his hair back, only for it to be swept across his forehead once again. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes. A shadow passed overhead. It took every ounce of his waning energy not to sigh out loud.

“Before you ask,” he said, eyes still clamped shut, “we’re out of kimbap. I’ve already checked the back. The next batch isn’t being made until tomorrow morning. You can get a coupon at the front. Anything else?”

“Jeez, Jisung-ie. I don’t even get a ‘hello’?”

Jisung froze. He didn’t even have to look up to know that voice.

“Minho-hyung,” he breathed, “uh. Sorry. It’s kinda been a long day.”

Minho nodded, hiking his overly large dance bag higher onto his shoulder. “I can imagine.”

He looked amazing. As usual. Straight out of dance practice in track pants and an oversized hoodie, scuffed sneakers worn down at the toes, Minho could even make a tracksuit look like a fashion statement. His freshly purple hair was pinned back by a black beanie, peaking out in wisps at his neck.

Those damn feline eyes stared down at him with a mixture of amusement – and something else that puzzled him. Probably disgust. Jisung was still sprawled on the shop floor, hands sticky with remnants of spills past. 

He looked around Minho, neck craned, hoping to see his step-brother’s curly mop not far behind him. “Where’s Chan-hyung?”

“He’s stuck at the studio for the night. Didn’t you see my text?”

Text? Jisung fumbled for his back pocket and slid out his phone. He swiped away his lock-screen – a four-cut of him and Felix, a few sojus deep and huddled together in matching teddy-bear headbands – to scroll through his notifications.

There were two texts from Minho – “Hey Sung-ie, idk if Chan told you, but I’m walking you home tonight. See you at 11:00” and “I’ll come find you” – as well as multiple apologetic messages from Chan, promising to make it up to him. The first text had come through at eight. Ample warning. Jisung had been stuck behind a register at the time, his phone out of sight.

He looked up at Minho, worrying his lip.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Minho said. “Just me tonight. I hope that’s okay.”

He didn’t seem annoyed with Jisung for missing his text. He just kept looking at Jisung like he was inspecting a museum exhibit.

It made Jisung feel squirmy. He couldn’t keep eye contact without having a minor crisis at the best of times, but with Minho… it was even harder. He took his glasses off – round, wire-rimmed things with embarrassingly thick lenses – and cleaned them on his polo. Minho was easier to process if he was an amorphous blob.

“You didn’t have to come pick me up or anything,” Jisung said. “It’s just something Chan likes to do. I’m okay to head home on my own.”

He tilted his head. “I know you are,” he said, and he sounded sincere, “but I forgot my keys back at the studio. Chan said he’ll bring them to your place as soon as he and Changbin are done mixing. I thought I could just hang out at yours until he’s home. Is that cool?”

Jisung’s throat went suddenly very dry. “Yeah. That’s cool. Totally cool.”

Minho fixed him with a small smile. Completely unreadable. He was like a stone wall. Or more like a ridiculously gorgeous sculpture. He jerked his head behind him. “C’mon. You’re done here.”

He was. The clock read two minutes past eleven. Jisung looked down at the unfinished stock, bottles sitting unpacked in their boxes, the fridge humming in wait.

“Um,” he said, slowly. “I have to finish putting these away first.”

Minho’s face softened. “If you want to. But I think it’d be okay if you leave. You’ve done your hours.”

Jisung felt a lump start to form in his throat. His eyes burned. “Mr Park said we’re not allowed to leave anything unfinished.” His voice came out shaky. He cleared his throat. “I could still be a while. You should probably just go home.”

“Oh, live a little, Jisung-ah,” a voice echoed. It was Mrs Choi. She sidled down the aisle, her walker clacking. She sat down on the inbuilt seat with a huff and dragged the crate close to her. “I’ll finish these off. I’ve got all the time in the world. You should go home with this handsome boy before it gets dark.”

Her comment made Jisung’s cheeks flame. He scrambled to his feet. Minho just laughed, giving her a half bow of thanks. Jisung turned to Minho. He looked pretty relaxed. It didn’t seem like he was being forced against his will to walk Jisung home. It would be pretty mean of Jisung to refuse him shelter. Maybe… it would be fine?

“I have to get my bag,” Jisung said. He raised an awkward thumb, jabbing it toward the back room. “I’ll be fast.”

“Sure. I’ll be out the front.”

Jisung turned to leave, but paused, turning back to give Mrs Choi a quick bow goodbye.

She waved him off. “Have a good night, Jisung-ah.”

He scrambled off, walking quickly down the aisles before he slipped into the backroom. It was quiet. The TV crackled with the late-night news. There was the lingering smell of microwave-warmed Chapagetti permeating the air. Mr Park sat at one of the tables, thumbing through a magazine.

“You finished those crates quickly, Han-ah,” Mr Park mumbled. He didn’t look up. He was trying to unstick his pages. “I thought you’d appreciate the over-time.”

“Mrs Choi took over for me, sir,” Jisung explained. He went to his locker, pulling out his messenger bag and stuffing his apron and name-tag inside. He slung his bag over his shoulder, wincing at the pull of his hair beneath the strap. He pried it free. “I have to go. My brother’s friend is waiting.” He shimmied into his hoodie, purposefully three sizes too large.

Mr Park hummed, neutral. Jisung couldn’t decode it. “Mrs Choi is too nice,” he said, finally ripping apart the pages. “See you in the morning, then.”

“Goodbye, sir.”

He scrawled his signature on the timesheet before zipping back out into the fray.

The night air was crisp. The sun had long made its departure, a few stars freckling the smoggy sky. Jisung scanned the parking lot for Minho and found him leaning up against a signpost nearby, his arms crossed.

“Ready, Sung-ie?”

Jisung slipped out his headphones from his backpack, resting them around his neck. They were the over-the-ear kind, noise-cancelling, and plastered in several Pokemon stickers from convenience store salt bread. There were a couple from the Seodaemun Museum of Natural History too. He didn’t want to use them on their walk home, but just the weight of them against his collarbones relaxed his shoulders a few inches.

“It’s about a twenty-minute walk, that okay?”

“Sure.”

The two of them trekked through the carpark, heading west toward Jisung and Chan’s house in Mapo-gu. Jisung led them down the righthand side of the street, where the streetlights created glowing pools over the ground.

As they got closer to the bus stop, his felt his pulse jump. His chest got a bit tight. Humiliation rose up, nausea leaking into his gut. He wound his hands tightly around the strap of his messenger bag until his knuckles ached. He began thumbing one of its enamel pins, circling its embossing.

This is so dumb. It’s just a stop.

But he kept his gaze on the footpath until they finally passed it. Let out his breath.

Minho noticed. He was good at that.

“When did Chan start walking you home?” Minho asked. “I thought you took the bus. It’s way quicker.”

Jisung hesitated, processing his question. “Just a few weeks ago. I – I had a bit of a moment.”

It happened at exactly the wrong time. Jisung’s headphones had been dead, right after a double-shift, and he couldn’t find his WOWPASS. The bus driver hadn’t been sympathetic at all, even after Jisung had started hyperventilating. Everyone was looking at him.  The driver yelled. They were holding up traffic. He had run all the way home, crying, and refused to come out of his room for the rest of the week.

It still made Jisung feel a bit sick just thinking about it. Also really embarrassed.

Minho definitely didn’t need to know about it.

“It’s fine now, though. I actually like the walk. But you know how Chan gets.”

Minho huffed a laugh. “Mr. Protector.”

“Leader Chan,” Jisung agreed.

A car took that opportunity to roar past, thumping music booming, making Jisung flinch and collide into Minho’s shoulder. Minho briefly wrapped his arm around Jisung’s shoulders, before subtly migrating outwards, taking the exterior of the footpath and shielding Jisung from traffic. It was a move that made Jisung’s legs feel like jelly.

“He just wants you to get home all right,” Minho said. “This neighbourhood is pretty safe, but I wouldn’t want you walking by yourself at night, either.”

Jisung looked up at that, his mouth slightly agape, a blush colouring his cheeks. He noticed the tips of Minho’s ears were just a little bit pink. From the cold. Probably. 

“That’s really nice of you, “ he said, “but I’m okay. I can take care of myself. Usually.” He paused, and clenched his bag strap tighter. The backs of the pins pressed into his palm like acupuncture needles, the prickling pain helping him steady his breath. “Um, thank you for walking me home anyway. I really – ” He stopped. His mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls. “I mean, Chan would really appreciate it.”

Minho looked confused, which in turn confused Jisung.

“What?”

Minho was quiet for a moment, before saying, “I’m not doing Chan a favour, Sung-ie. He didn’t ask me to walk you home. I decided that for myself. You get that, right?”

“Mm.” He really didn’t get it.

“I’ve barely seen you since you moved in,” Minho continued. “I thought we could finally get to hang out again. Like we used to.”

“We hang out all the time.”

“You hiding away in your bedroom while I’m catching up with Chan doesn’t count.”

“I see you for dinner sometimes,” Jisung protested, half-heartedly.

“I meant just us two. Like we used to.”

Guilt balled its fist into his chest. He knew they didn’t. This was by design.

For most of his school life, Jisung didn’t really have any friends. No one else seemed to want to talk about the fact that most dinosaurs actually had feathers and not scales, or dissect the exact time signature of Tiger JK’s latest track and how it had evolved from his work with Drunken Tiger. He had mostly kept to himself, scrawling lyrics on the back of test papers and eating his same soegogi bibimbap as quick as he could so he could go watch YouTube in the library.

So when Chan had brought home Minho – just about the coolest guy without ever seeming to make the effort – Jisung couldn’t have even imagined someone like him wanting to hang out with his best friend’s dorky little tag-along step-brother.

But he was nice to Jisung.

Really nice.

He always asked if Jisung wanted to be their third player when gaming online. He always offered Jisung leftovers of their pizza, claiming they over-ordered but would give him the same half plain cheese left every time. He even taught Jisung some of the moves he’d learned in his dance classes, and never laughed when Jisung’s legs inevitably tangled underneath him. Just offered a hand up and an encouraging, “Nearly got it.”

It was even more confusing when Minho started coming over an hour earlier than when Chan was due to finish at soccer practice. He made it a habit to come into Jisung’s room without knocking (something Jisung would have screamed at Chan for doing, but somehow it was okay when Minho did it) and flop onto his bed to scroll his phone, using one of Jisung’s plush dinosaurs as a chin rest. He wouldn’t be purposefully disruptive, but always shared videos that he knew only Jisung would find funny, demonstrating his imitations flawlessly until Jisung gasped for air.

Once Chan had moved to Seoul, if his parents were ever out for the night, Minho would show up so Jisung wouldn’t have to be alone in a dark, quiet house, and would watch whatever Jisung wanted.

Minho became Jisung’s only friend, and then became his biggest problem.

Then when Minho moved to Seoul, a year after Chan did, Jisung was sad, obviously, but mostly? It was a huge relief. Having a massive, gay crush on your brother’s best friend led to nothing good. He didn’t even know if Minho was into guys. Not that it even mattered. It was better that Jisung just stayed in his room and concentrated on passing school and obsessively working on his lyrics.

Jisung made new friends, eventually. Felix transferred to his high school, barely knowing enough Korean to pass exams but enough to proclaim Jisung as his “Birthday Twin” and share his birthday cake with him. Changbin was less of a choice and more like a meteor crashing into his life, but he became Jisung’s go-to for life advice, and the first person he came out to – terrified of disappointing Chan but just needing to get it out. Seungmin and Jeongin naturally followed. He’d never allowed himself the privilege of imagining he’d have a friend group this tight knit, this willing to spend time with him, and here it was, naturally forming before he could even graduate university.

But on nights where he found himself alone in a silent, empty house, he couldn’t help but miss his very first friend.

“Oh,” Jisung said. “Right. I guess we don’t hang out much anymore.”

At least the pining made for really good song inspiration.

They finally made it off the main road, heading down a side street. The crunch of their footsteps against yellowed gingko leaves filled the quiet night air. When the path started to incline, Jisung tried hard not to huff too much. Minho didn’t seem to notice.

“How was your shift?” Minho asked. “It sounded like a tough day.”

Jisung sighed. He stuffed his hands into his hoodie pocket and shrugged, the movement exaggerated.

”Pretty crappy. We had a sale that went wrong, as per usual. I had to jump on the registers and explain fifty different ways why we didn’t have something in stock to too many annoying people. I hate being on the registers, but it was just so crazy I had to sub in. I didn’t get to do any stacking until an hour before I finished – and that was after a kid knocked over a display of tuna. There were like, twenty tins I had to write off. Kimchi and oil everywhere. I had to skip my break to hose off my sneakers.” 

It was too much information. Jisung was rambling. He knew that. How boring for Minho. 

“But it wasn’t too bad.”

He squeezed his eyes closed. Bit his tongue. Waited for Minho’s reply.

“That sounds terrible,” Minho said. “Sorry I asked.”

He relaxed with a sigh. “It’s okay. It helps to unpack the day. I usually like it okay. It’s pretty monotonous work. I get to move and think about lyrics all day. And I make a pretty satisfying tuna stack, if I do say so myself.”

Minho laughed. “The best in the business. Never before seen. You have a true talent, Han. They’ll write your name in lights: Han Jisung, champion tuna stacker.”

“Okay, okay.” Jisung rolled his eyes. “How was your day? You were at the studio, right?”

“Ugh,” Minho said. He threw his head back dramatically. “Yeah. For the sixth day straight. No wonder I forgot my keys, I’m so damn exhausted. The group’s comeback is in a week and they are so not ready. It’s been hellish.”

“You need sleep,” Jisung said. He could see the tiredness on Minho now – his under-eyes were puffier than usual, his skin a little sallow. “They probably do, too. It’s not easy being an idol.”

Minho nodded in agreement. “Most of the reason I left that dream behind. I can’t live without my eight hours. Or being away from the cats for that long.”

They arrived at a traffic light and both reached forward to tap the button at the same time. Minho withdrew back, gesturing for Jisung to go for it. Jisung pressed it with one knuckle, wiping it against his hoodie.

“You wanted to be an idol? I didn’t know that.”

“Long time ago. Sometimes things just aren’t meant to be so other things can happen. If I was an idol, I wouldn’t be walking you home right now. Wouldn’t that be sad?” He bumped Jisung’s shoulder, hard enough for it to jolt a laugh out of him.

“That’s true. And you wouldn’t be choreographing for Chan and Changbin’s stuff.”

“It’s your stuff too, Jisung. Isn’t it your song they’re working on tonight?”

“I guess. Technically. I wrote most of the lyrics. But I won’t get a producing credit until I’ve finished the internship.”

“How much longer?”

“Four incredibly long months.” He kicked a stray pebble, and watched it roll off into the gutter. “Even then I’ll have to apply for the junior producer role. There’s no guarantee I’ll get it.”

“You’ll get it.” 

Jisung could feel Minho’s eyes on him. He risked a glance to the side, and found Minho with a raised eyebrow. Minho didn’t break his gaze.

“Huh?”

“You’ll get it,” Minho repeated, firmly.

“Oh. I don’t know.” Jisung shrugged. “Sometimes I feel bad for taking up space there. The staff look at me and think, ‘That’s Jisung, Chan’s baby brother’. They don’t think, ‘That’s Han, the producer’.”

“Maybe not yet,” Minho admitted. “But they will soon. You’re really brilliant.”

Jisung’s throat ached. His eyes started to burn. “Thanks,” Jisung said, but didn’t trust himself to say anything else.

The lights changed. Minho checked both ways and they crossed together. The street was quiet, just the two of them walking home at this late hour. Jisung traced a hand up and down his bag strap, circling a glittery beetle striped with pink, purple and blue. It had a tiny silver chain that he rolled between two fingers. Minho didn’t have any pins on his dance bag. It was the same thing he’d had for at least ten years now, patched at the corners and its logo faded to a white circle. He just held onto his bag strap loosely and kept his eyes forward, fixed on the path ahead. Jisung looked forward too, but found his gaze constantly drawn back to the man next to him. Minho was pretty in the streetlights, shadows half cast across his face, making his jawline extra sharp and highlighting just how perfect his nose was.

“You still hanging out with Felix?”

Just the mention of his best friend was enough to pull a grin out of Jisung. “He’s busy with dance practice, obviously, but we try and make time every week. Apparently you’ve been making him work hard. He’s always complaining about how tight his hamstrings are.”

“If he’d stretch when I tell him to it wouldn’t be so much of an issue. He’s been a bit distracted lately.”

“Mm?”

“He’s always goofing off with this other guy, Hyunjin. I think they have a bit of a crush on each other.”

“That makes sense,” Jisung said, “given they’ve been dating for, like, three months now.”

Minho stopped walking, dance bag slumping off his shoulder and landing on the ground with a thud. “Uh. What? How did I not know this?”

Jisung tilted his head. He frowned, perplexed. “Yeah,” he said, stretching out the word. “Chan didn’t say anything? Felix has brought Hyunjin around to play Mario Kart with us a couple times. He’s pretty cool. Unfairly beautiful, but cool. They’re totally head over heels, disgustingly – oh, god.” Mortification suddenly seized Jisung, cold flushing down to his toes. “I don’t think you’re meant to know this. Fuck, I take all that back. Pretend like this didn’t happen!”

Minho was already shaking his head, a cheeky grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t think I can. This is pertinent information and requires immediate actioning of awkward duet pairings.”

“Minho,” Jisung groaned. “Please don’t. Please. Just forget I said anything.”

Minho hummed. He tapped a finger against his chin.

Jisung’s knees crumpled inward and he landed in a kneel on the ground. He grabbed his sleeve, eyes overly large and pleading. “Minho, please.”

He cackled. “Jisung. I’m teasing. If you don’t want me to say anything, I won’t. Get off the ground, it’s gross.”

Jisung scrambled to his feet. He shoved Minho. “Don’t joke like that. Felix would be so upset with me.”

“I don’t believe Felix is even capable of such a feeling.”

Jisung rolled his lip between his teeth, eyebrows knitted together. He looked down at his feet, his heart sinking.

“Hey,” he said. Jisung looked up at him. He placed his hand on Jisung’s shoulder. His grip was warm, his fingers slender and short, squeezing him twice firmly. “I promise I won’t say anything. It’s all good. This never happened.” He tipped his head in a gesture for them to keep going.

As they continued walking, their shoulders occasionally brushed. Every time it happened, Jisung felt his arm prickle but he didn’t move away. Minho was looking up at the moon, his breath creating little puffs of cloud lit up by the streetlights’ glow. He was quiet. They both were. The growing silence between them was edging toward an awkwardness that made Jisung want to wriggle. He realised he hadn’t started any of these conversations. He was just piggy-backing off Minho’s superior social skills, probably burning out his similarly introverted energy and being just about the worst company ever. He racked his brain. Up ahead, a tiny shadow darted out, streaking across the road to vault up a fence before disappearing. Perfect.

“How – ”

“So – ”

Jisung’s cheeks grew hot. “Sorry,” he said, quickly.

“No, you go ahead.”

“Uh, I was just going to ask about the cats. How’re they going? They moved here with you, right?”

Minho seemed to light up at the question. His crooked front teeth showed in a broad smile, one slightly overlapping the other. “They’re great, yeah. Want to see a picture?”

“Obviously!”

They stopped so Minho could scroll through his photo library. It was filled with dance practice recordings and pictures of delicious food. There were a few selfies at odd angles that were quickly flicked past. Jisung saw a flash of a mirror selfie – a tank top, bulging biceps flexed – and his mouth watered just a little.

It didn’t take long to arrive at a photo of Minho lying down on a couch, his head surrounded by three tabby cats, two orange and one tortoise-shell, like a thick furry crown. Minho was gazing up at them, eyes shining and full of warmth. One had its paw resting on his nose, another had its tail coiled around his neck. It made Jisung feel like simmering soup, all bubbly and warm.

“Cute,” Jisung whispered. He felt Minho shift beside him. He pointed at the tortoiseshell. “That’s Doongie right?”

“Pretending not to be offended at that,” Minho said. He brought up a photo of the three cats perched on a large, pink tower. “This one’s Dori, he’s the youngest, and that one’s Doongie, he sleeps most of the time. And this unit is Soonie.” 

“Jesus. He’s huge.”

“I know right? You should really come over and see them sometime. They’re little old men now, pretty mellow.”

Jisung looked up. His heart was pounding. Minho was still looking through the photos with a half-smile, lit by the soft light of his phone screen.

“I’d love that,” Jisung said, quiet.

Minho met his gaze, quiet for a moment, before giving him a nod. “Look at this one.”

It was a video of Dori being an absolute menace, harassing Soonie while Doongie lounged, tail twitching. 

Jisung snorted. “They’re so funny. Do they like Churus? I can get them half off at work.”

“If you got them Churus, you would be their favourite person. They might even stage a mutiny.”

“Pfft. They clearly worship you. I could never hold a candle.”

“I don’t know. You’re very likeable.”

Jisung didn’t know what to say to that, so he just said, “Did you know cats can’t taste sweetness? They’ll never know the simple pleasure of a baked cheesecake. How sad is that?”

Minho looked a little taken aback. “Huh. I didn’t know that.”

“Also, cat brains are 90% similar to human brains.”

“Fascinating,” Minho said. Jisung looked at him, one eyebrow raised, unsure whether he was being patronising. “No, genuinely. The only cat fact I know is that if I died and my body was left to rot in my apartment, they would not hesitate to eat me. I think about that more than I probably should.”

Jisung screwed up his nose and lightly slapped Minho’s shoulder, groaning. “Yuck. That’s horrible.”

“It’s true though.”

“Doesn’t make it nice to think about.”

“So you’d be sad if I was eaten by cats? Aw, Sung-ie. That’s so sweet.”

“Not listening,” Jisung said in a sing-song voice.

Minho bumped into him, and Jisung bumped him back. Minho scrolled through a few more cat pictures, and Jisung responded with appropriate “ooh”s and “ahh”s.

Minho paused for a moment, clearly thinking. “I don’t think I have you on Instagram. I post loads of pictures of them on there, if you want to add me?”

He hesitated. No one had him on Instagram. He had made a very considered effort so that people could not find him on Instagram. Hyunjin’s follow request had been sitting there un-approved for weeks. There was nothing interesting on there. His profile picture was black. He only posted the odd story. But how could he say no when Minho was asking so directly? Looking at him so openly? It was too awkward to turn down.

And maybe, on some level, Jisung wanted to have Minho on there. Maybe.

“Sure.” He passed his phone over to Minho, after making sure his searches were clear of anything mortifying. Minho typed in his handle, @t.minhosaurus, and handed it back to Jisung, follow already requested. When Jisung got it back, his eyes locked onto the top of the phone screen, and widened. “Shit, it’s nearly one already?”

Minho looked equally shocked. He hiked his bag further up his shoulder. “Let’s get home.”

Luckily, the apartment wasn’t too much further. They drew up to a townhouse-style unit, very narrow with three floors and shuttered windows. Jisung punched in his code, the keypad lit up green, and they shuffled inside. It was just as crisp inside as it was outside, and smelt of Chan’s cedar wood diffuser. They both dumped their bags and toed off their shoes. Jisung opened up the closet, passing out a pair of pink slippers to Minho, which resembled flop-eared bunny rabbits.

They were a gift from Chan’s mum, Jisung’s step-mother, and had been brought with Chan when he made the move from Incheon to the big city of Seoul, followed shortly by Minho who moved when he was twenty. Jisung had been surprised to see the slippers when he finally joined Chan just two years ago when he also turned twenty.

Minho moved his sneakers off to the side and toed on the slippers. Jisung slid into his own house slippers, fleecy and neon green, complete with alien-like antennae. Suddenly, Minho was very close to Jisung, close enough that Jisung could feel his body heat. Jisung looked up, meeting his eyes, holding his breath. To Jisung’s surprise, Minho was the one to break eye contact first.

He lifted a foot, and squished Jisung’s toes with a soft, “boop.”

Jisung’s brain short-circuited. What is happening.

Minho waited, his eyes flicking back and forth between Jisung and his own slippered foot, expectant.

Jisung tentatively “boop”ed him back, which seemed to satisfy him.

They traipsed up the stairs in the dark, bypassing the second-floor bedrooms to the top floor, where the lounge and kitchen were. Jisung hurried around the room, flicking on lamps until the room glowed amber, and unwinding the windows to their full extension. He hoped Minho couldn’t smell the damp of the dirty dishes piled in the sink.

“Sorry,” he said. “Chan’s been doing so much work at the studio. It’s gotten so gross here. I really need to get my shit together and help out more than I do.” The dining table was a mess. There were creased notebooks and empty iced coffee cups everywhere, and Jisung’s laptop, covered in just as many stickers as his headphones, sat open but dark in the centre. Jisung cleared away as much as he could, adding to the frankly shameful pile of recyclables stacked next to the kitchen island.

“It’s fine,” Minho said. He was inspecting a range of gachapon figures lined up like a teeny army on the bookshelf. “Hey, you hungry? I haven’t had a chance for dinner yet. Do you have anything here?”

Jisung thought for a moment, and realised he was starving too. “Yeah, I could eat. I usually only have ramyeon though. I’m not much of a cook, sorry. But I think Chan has some stuff in the fridge?”

Minho strode over, his slippers rasping on the floorboards, and opened the fridge. “Okay… we’ve got loads of options here. Some desperately needs to be thrown out, but that’s fine.” He hummed, thinking. “How do you feel about kimchi-bokkeumbap? That won’t take long. We can leave a bit for Chan too.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Jisung said. He already had his favourite cup noodle in hand, and the electric kettle was beginning to boil. “I’ll just have this.”

“Do you not like fried rice?” Minho asked. He jutted out one hip, leaning against the fridge door. “I can make something else.”

“No, I do like it,” Jisung said, firmly. “I just… I usually have noodles.” He felt embarrassment creep up, and he picked at the plastic shrink-wrap of the styrofoam cup. He waited for the inevitable judgement. He got it all the time from Chan. Not enough protein. Too much sodium. Bland. Boring.

But Minho just nodded. “Okay. If you really want ramyeon, I won’t stop you. But there’ll be more than enough, if you want some.”

Jisung huffed out a sigh of relief, setting the cup down. “Thanks. Do you want a hand? I’m a great chopper. Well, I’m an okay chopper. I haven’t lost any fingers yet.”

Minho slid out their container of kimchi, handmade by Jisung’s dad, and some wilted green onions. “Yeah, you could chop for me. I need about a cup of kimchi cut into chunks, and half of those green onions sliced thin and round. Oh, and save some of the kimchi juice. Maybe a quarter cup?” He turned around to get the rice started, measuring it out for washing.

The two of them worked in silence. Soon, the room began to smell of spice and sesame oil. Admittedly, it made Jisung’s mouth water. Minho even fried up some eggs to bulk it up. Jisung looked at the pot steaming on the stove as Minho sprinkled gim over the top.

“Wow. Smells great.”

Minho grinned at him. “You can still have your noodles. But you have to help me with at least some of this.”

The cup noodles ended up forgotten on the bench. They squashed onto the couch together, backs to the arms and feet tucked under themselves. Jisung ate with his favourite long-handled spoon. He poked the flawlessly cooked egg yolk, watching it flood over the rice before mixing it in. He brought a spoonful up to his lips, blowing, and took a huge bite. He had to stop himself from moaning. Minho had seasoned it perfectly – it was tangy, slightly salty and had just the right level of punch. His whole mouth filled with saliva. He took another bite, and another, stuffing his cheeks full before chewing. He realised Minho’s chopsticks had gone quiet against the bowl. He looked up. Minho was staring at him with a hint of amusement.

“Wha’?” Jisung mumbled. A few grains of rice dropped to his chin. He lifted a hand to scoop them back into his mouth, sucking them up and swallowing.

“You eat like a squirrel,” Minho remarked. 

Jisung felt heat blaze up his neck. “Uh. Thanks?”

“I’m complimenting you,” Minho said. “It’s cute.” His eyes flicked down to Jisung’s lips briefly and smirked.

Jisung had to stop himself from spluttering, but Minho just resumed eating. With each bite, he made little droning hums of pleasure that flipped Jisung’s stomach.

Why did he have to do that? Did he like making life difficult for Jisung? It was almost like he enjoyed getting Jisung all flustered. 

Jisung took his frustration out on his dinner, finishing his portion in four more huge spoonfuls. He slid his phone out of his pocket, and found a notification. He rolled his eyes.

“Did you see Channie-hyung’s text? He’s still not done with the mix.”

Minho checked his own phone. He frowned. “I don’t think he’ll be home for a while. Sorry to take over your night, Sung. If you need to crash, that’s fine. I can find something to do up here.”

Jisung didn’t feel the least bit tired. In fact, he didn’t think he could sleep if he tried, knowing Minho was just upstairs. “No. I’m okay. We can hang out until Chan gets home. If you wanted.”

Minho shrugged. “Sure. What do you feel like doing?”

“We could…” Jisung looked around the room until his eyes settled on the TV. Easy. Low-effort. They had a sizeable collection of DVDs in a tower beside it, which continued to grow every time Jisung and Felix hit the thrift store in search of whatever affordable vintage designer clothing they could find. “We could watch something?”

“Like what?”

“You’re making me do a lot of the work here,” Jisung complained. He bumped his knee against Minho’s. “Your turn.”

Minho bumped him back. “I’m the guest.”

Jisung sighed loudly and melted into the couch until his legs were sprawled in Minho’s lap and his head rested on the seat. Minho chuckled, and lifted one of his feet to his chest, rubbing at the arch. Jisung watched him do it, a little stunned at how comfortable the motion was.

“Fine,” Minho relented, squeezing Jisung’s calf. “Why don’t we put on a horror? Like we used to? That would always be fun.”

Minho was the only person Jisung knew who could put up with a horror film. Chan couldn’t help but scream, a sound that rattled Jisung’s eardrums. Felix would most definitely faint. Changbin straight out refused, citing the cringey special effects but betrayed by his sweat-dotted forehead. Jisung loved horror, he was a total nerd for it, but he found them hard to watch alone. He had to plug his ears as a shield against the jump-scares, and needed someone to recount the gory bits while he read the subtitles. The last horror he’d watched with Minho had been just before he moved to Seoul. They hadn’t acknowledged the finality of it. Jisung remembered how tightly they were pressed together on the couch, both grasping a blanket so it half-shielded their eyes against a B-grade flick neither would admit was actually scary.

It was hard not to put weight on Minho’s words, he surely didn’t mean it the way Jisung thought he might, but this was the second time in a night that Minho had brought up their old hangouts. Against his will, it sparked just a tiny, misguided, ill-advised bit of hope that quickly morphed into blinking, neon “DANGER”.

“Actually, I am feeling a bit tired,” Jisung said. He feigned a yawn. “We should probably just go to sleep.”

“You scared?”

Jisung froze. Minho was staring at him in his cheeky Minho-way, challenging eyes catching the glow of the lamps. He was baiting him. It was obvious, and still so hard to resist.

“I’m not scared,” he said. “I thought you needed your eight hours.”

“I think I need to resign myself to a sleepless night at this point,” Minho said. He stretched his arms over his head, leaning back into them. “Let’s face it, Chan won’t be back until at least sunrise.”

“Probably not,” Jisung agreed. “You should have just gone back for your keys. You’d be at home all cosy with your cats by now instead of stuck with me.”

“I’m not stuck with you,” Minho’s eyebrows met in a puzzled frown. “I’m having fun.”

The words sat there for a moment, hanging heavy in the air. Jisung’s skin was prickling.

“Having fun,” Jisung repeated. His head was spinning. This was not at all how he thought this night would go. He thought he would be in bed, deep into a quest for a shiny Mew, full of bland ramyeon and waiting for his brother to come home. Something unfamiliar surged up. Hot and urgent. He found himself blurting, “Why are you still here, Minho?”

Minho’s arms whipped back over his head. He looked a bit stunned at Jisung’s sudden brashness, and Jisung wanted to disappear into the couch. He’d never seen Minho caught off guard before. He was always so put together, so relaxed, so assertive. So… not like Jisung. 

He waited for Minho to say something.

Anything.

But the silence continued to crawl.

Thick.

Uncomfortable.

Minho just kept looking at Jisung, eyes big and shiny and full of thought. Finally, he said, “Because I like you. You’re fun to be around.”

Jisung’s brain short-circuited. “Oh.” He paused. Minho didn’t continue. He just looked expectant. Patient. “I – I thought you just liked me because I’m Chan’s little brother.”

Minho blinked. Shook his head. “No. Never. I like you because you’re… you.”

Jisung’s mouth went dry. He forced a cough of a laugh, shaking his head and looking down at his hands twisted into a knot in his lap. He jogged his knee up and down. “You are so weird.”

“I’m not weird,” Minho said. He sounded shocked.

“You totally are.”

“No.”

“Yep.”

Minho paused. “No one’s ever said that to me before,” he murmured.

“Really?” Jisung was surprised. “That’s, like, the number one word I’d describe you as.”

He shrugged. “It’s different with you. I guess I’m not really myself around people I don’t know. I’m kind of quiet.”

Jisung couldn’t really picture Minho as quiet, despite knowing his preference for a smaller friend group. He just seemed so confident, so sure of himself. He was the loudest person in the room, especially when his competitiveness was triggered. He said no to anything he didn’t want to do, but took on challenges like they were nothing. He’d even ridden a roller coaster once just because Chan wanted to, even though he was nauseous and pale with nerves. But sitting on the couch with Jisung in his fluffy rabbit slippers, Minho didn’t seem as assured as he usually was. He had drawn his knees up to his chest, chin propped on top. His huge eyes made him seem younger, almost vulnerable.

Jisung took a breath. He tried to appear as sincere as he felt, despite the thumping of his heart.

“It’s a good thing.” Minho waited for him to continue, so he did, “That’s what I like about you. I like that you’re weird.” His confidence wilted, and he tore his eyes away, focusing instead on working a feather out of a throw cushion. “I get it. I get quiet around strangers, too. I probably come across pretty boring. Or super annoying.”

He felt something warm and soft rest on his hand. He blinked up. Minho had reached out. Jisung could feel himself trembling under his touch.

“You’re weird too,” Minho said. “In the best way.” His shoulders relaxed a fraction, and he tilted his head as he inspected Jisung. “It’s nice – being able to be weird with someone. Don’t you think?”

Against his will, a complete betrayal, Jisung’s eyes flicked down to Minho’s mouth. Minho’s lips were a delight, the top one plumper than the bottom, jutting out just a little. He couldn’t help but notice they were the opposite of his own: full down the bottom, thinner up top. Jisung had never been so thankful for the dim lighting camouflaging the blush blazing up his neck. He pressed the back of his fingers to his nose, dabbing lightly. Sweat was beginning to bead over his forehead.

“I… should probably get changed,” Jisung said. Minho seemed to deflate a little bit. “I won’t be long,” he reassured him, “it’s just that I’ve been in this ugly uniform for nearly twelve hours now. I need to feel a bit more human. Then we can watch the movie.”

Minho held his gaze. He didn’t seem to believe Jisung. “Fine,” he relented, “but hurry. I might fall asleep before you’re back.”

Jisung scrambled off the couch, leaping down the stairs two at a time to get to his bedroom. Fumbling in the dark, he pulled out new socks, a random tee, a fresh hoodie – one with a cat on the front, that Minho had complimented before – and some barrel-legged sweatpants that swallowed his legs. In the ensuite, he mopped up the remains of his nervous sweat with a towel and wetted his hair just a bit to tame the frizzy curls. Deodorant. A dab of perfume. He added a squeeze of toothpaste on the tongue for good measure.

By the time he bounded back up the stairs, Minho had cleared their dishes and set out two glasses of water. Minho gave him a smile, looking him up and down.

“Cosy.”

Jisung worried his lip between his teeth, pulled his sleeves over his hands, and walked over to the DVD tower, busying himself with browsing. “We’ve got loads of options. What about The Ring?”

“Overrated.”

“Hmm… The Wailing?”

“Eh.”

“Maybe The Grudge?”

“Sure.” A beat, maybe ten seconds at most. Then Minho sighed, a single puff of air from his nostrils.

“Okay,” Jisung said, sliding the DVD back, “so not The Grudge. How about Barbarian? I loved that one.”

“I’d be down for that,” Minho said. He sounded a bit more enthusiastic. “I don’t want to force you through something you’ve already seen though.”

“You wouldn’t be,” Jisung said, sincerely. “I love repeat-watching stuff. Especially if they’re this good. Chan couldn’t sleep for weeks.”

“Sounds great.”

“It’s in English. Is that okay?”

“That’s fine. Put it on, Han-ah.”

Jisung loaded the DVD in and turned off the lamps, so the room was illuminated only by the TV’s blue-tinged glow. He turned back to the couch, assessing seating options. There was the armchair, usually his spot of choice due to its optimal cushioning and cocoon-like experience, but it was five feet away from Minho. On the other hand, Minho was sitting near-centre of the couch. He also held the only blanket they had – which Jisung would be needing as a shield against the onscreen horrors. Jisung’s burst of confidence had shrivelled up as fast as it had appeared. He sat on the very end of the couch, flattening himself against the arm and folding himself into the smallest ball possible.

Just the opening credits made him jump. He wrapped his arms around his middle in a tight, comforting squeeze. After a minute or so, he started to get the odd feeling of being watched. He tried to ignore it, but it started to make him more uneasy than the movie itself. He turned his head. 

Minho returned a crooked smirk. “Why are you so far away?” He lifted part of the blanket in offering. “Come closer. We have to protect each other, remember?”

His adrenaline didn’t let him overthink it. He crawled over to Minho, pressing into his side. Minho was warm, and smelt vanilla-y and vaguely woody. Like a forest in spring. He wrapped his arm around Jisung’s shoulders, getting close enough that Jisung could feel the outline of his pecs against his back. Whoa. Minho tucked the blanket up to their chins.

“That’s better,” he whispered. They watched the screen for a few moments, their breath shallow, halting. Jisung could feel his heart pulsing in his chest, its beat rushing in his ears. Apparently Minho could too. “Your heart is beating so fast. Like a little bug. We haven’t even gotten up to the scary bit yet.”

“It’s the anticipation,” Jisung murmured, eyes drifting shut. “Gets me every time.”

Jisung didn’t even realise he had fallen asleep until he heard the click of the front door. He blinked. The room was a blur of light and vague shapes. His glasses were gone. He shut his eyes again, refusing acknowledgement of a new day. He was too cosy to be conscious, enveloped in warmth. He felt snug. Safe. He burrowed down deeper with a heavy sigh.

There were quiet footsteps coming up the stairs, but Jisung was still too under the power of sleep to move. His body felt like a floating cloud.

Then there was a voice, Chan’s, lowered to a whisper, “Sorry, man. I’ll give you a lift home.”

The warmth started to shift underneath him, sliding away until he was lying along the couch cushions. A linen throw pillow was wedged carefully under his head, his feet lifted onto the seat so he was stretched out more comfortably on his side. Jisung snuggled the lower half of his face into his sleeve, and watched the shadows passing in front of his eyelids. He felt a brief breeze before the blanket settled back on top of him.

“Sleep well, Sung-ie,” someone murmured.

A hand came to rest on his hair for just a moment. It made his scalp tingle. Then it disappeared. He heard the door snick shut, and a car start up.

Jisung took a moment to take a grounding, deep breath. He sat up slowly, muscles stiff from his sleep on the couch. The room was empty, the house quiet. Pigeons cooed on the balcony. Traffic slowly rumbled to life. It was early morning. The sun was burnt orange, parts of the room still cast in shadow. He shuffled toward the kitchen, blanket gathered around his shoulders, and guzzled down a glass of water. He peered into the splash back. His hair was a bird’s nest, and he had sleep creases over his puffy cheek. He brought a hand up to his mouth, and it came away wet. Gross. Hopefully Minho hadn’t seen that.

His stomach clenched.

Minho.

Something buzzed faintly. His phone. It continued to buzz, muffled and insistent. He dropped the blanket off his shoulders. He ran his hands over the couch, dipping his hands into the grooves and coming up with nothing but dirt and crumbs. He dropped to his knees. The phone had slid under the couch, its screen lit up with his morning alarm. He swiped it away to reveal a single notification from five hours ago.

A follow request from @t.minhosaurus.

He clicked, “Accept”.