Archive of Our Own

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

(my) bug
hyung
hyung hyung hyung

me
Yes bug

(my) bug
are you at your seat yet

me
[.jpeg]
Seated prim and proper
You ok?

(my) bug
O.o my hot bf in his hot leather jacket
a bit nervous
but yk like
in a good way

me
You’ve got this baby
You’ve prepared so hard
Smartest boy in the room

(my) bug
stopppp don’t make me blush ><
i have to look sharp and professional

me
Good luck jagi

(my) bug
thank you hyungieeee
see you later :3
i love you

me
I love you more

(my) bug
oh!! also i have exciting news!!!!!

Minho doesn’t get to reply again before the lights on the stage come on. A middle-aged woman with a suit and a tight bun walks across to the podium and the crowd hushes down.

The woman offers a composed smile, hands resting lightly against the polished wood.

“Good afternoon, esteemed judges, participants, and guests. Welcome to the semi-final round of the Regional Academy Debate Championship.”

A ripple of applause moves through the auditorium.

“This round will follow a modified Asian Parliamentary format. Each team will present arguments and rebuttals on today’s motion: ‘This house believes that freedom of speech should have reasonable limitations in modern society.’”

A brief pause—just long enough for the weight of the topic to settle.

“Teams will be judged on content, style, and strategy. We expect not only strong arguments, but clarity, respect, and critical engagement.”

Minho leans back slightly in his seat, arms folded loosely—but his gaze keeps drifting toward the wings of the stage, searching.

“Without further ado, let us welcome our first team representing Apgujeong High.”

And there he is.

Jisung walks onto the stage with his team like he’s done this a dozen times before—because he has. His shoulders are squared, posture easy, gaze already scanning the room to take in the atmosphere. His glasses sit unevenly on his nose, tie pulled a fraction too tight, like he’d fixed it in a rush backstage.

Minho can’t help but smile.

Cute, he thinks.

He would’ve said it out loud too, if Jisung were next to him. It’s always been his own personal hobby—watching his boyfriend fall apart just a little. One look, one word, and Jisung would be tripping over his own breaths, all flushed cheeks and adorable whines. Still the same slightly frazzled, overprepared student who stumbled into Minho’s life two years ago.

Back then, Jisung had been all elbows and nerves too, a second-year junior high student clutching a big notebook to his chest like it might shield him from the world. He’d hovered near the dance studio door for a solid ten minutes before finally working up the courage to step inside, looking like he’d accidentally wandered into the wrong building and didn’t know how to get out.

“You’re blocking the door,” Minho had said, not unkindly.

Despite Minho’s gentle voice, Jisung had startled so badly he nearly dropped everything in his hands.

“I—sorry—I just—are you—” He’d stopped, swallowed, then blurted, “You choreographed that showcase piece, right? From two weeks ago?”

Minho had blinked. “For the tenth grade team?”

Jisung nodded stiffly. 

Minho shrugged. “Yeah, that was me. What’s up?”

Jisung’s grip visibly tightened on his notebook. “Um. It was really good. I thought it was beautiful and moving—and it expressed the intention and the storyline really well,” he said in one breath, like he needed to get it out before he lost his nerve. “I mean—I don’t really know much about dance, but the way you held back the energy before the chorus and let it build was amazing. And the transitions were so clean I almost didn’t notice them at first, which I think is kind of the point? Haha. Anyway. I also liked the way you used—”

He cuts himself off abruptly, like he’s only just realized he’s still talking.

Minho remembers thinking two things at once:

He talks too much.

…He’s so cute.

“Thank you,” Minho had simply said instead.

Jisung nodded. “Yeah, so—I thought—sorry,” he stumbled again, words tangling over each other.

Minho had laughed. “Why are you apologizing? You just complimented my work and gave me the most in-depth feedback I’ve ever gotten outside of my coaches.”

Jisung nodded again. “Right. Sorry. I mean—sorry,” he grimaced.

Minho had just stared at him then, a little amused, a little puzzled—until, after another half minute of Jisung trying (and failing) to string together a coherent sentence, he finally got the point.

Jisung’s classmates had sent him.

They wanted Minho to choreograph their year’s festival performance. They had even racked up a modest fund to pay him.

At the time, Minho had wondered why him.

Out of everyone in that class, why send this nervous, rambling kid?

Later on, he figured it out.

Jisung was known as the youngest debate champion in their school—well-spoken, reliable, someone teachers and classmates alike trusted to represent them. Minho, meanwhile, had built a name for himself as a dancer—skilled, well-known both online and offline, and, as a lot of people have told him, highly intimidating. He’d never fully agreed with that assessment, but apparently, it was enough to unravel Jisung’s usual eloquence all the same.

And he hadn’t minded it much back then.

Not when it meant Jisung kept showing up.

Not when it meant those halted conversations turned into longer ones. Easier ones. Into coffees and texts, and then late phone calls. Until somewhere along the way, he couldn’t remember how he had ever felt content in his life without the sound of Jisung’s giggles or his random ramblings.

Another burst of applause pulls Minho back to the present.

He blinks, refocusing just in time to see Kim Seungmin, one of Jisung’s teammates, step forward. He starts first, laying the groundwork—definitions, framing, the usual. Minho’s eyes call to Jisung’s searching ones, and Jisung seems to find him instantly, a small smile breaking through.

Then it’s time for Jisung to speak, stepping into the spotlight, adjusting his grip on the microphone.

There’s still a hint of nerves—Minho sees it in the set of his shoulders and the way he has to flex his hands once—but it quickly melts away the second he starts talking.

“In contemporary society,” Jisung begins, voice steady and clear, “freedom of speech is often treated as an absolute—something sacred, untouchable. But rights don’t exist in a vacuum.”

Minho leans forward slightly, a proud smile tugging at his mouth.

“They exist alongside other rights,” Jisung continues, eyes sharp now, laser-focused. “And when they begin to harm, silence, or endanger others, they stop being freedom. They become imbalance, and—ultimately—a threat.”

There’s a murmur in the audience—quiet, but attentive.

Jisung moves with it. His hands come alive as he goes on, like he’s guiding the judges and audience through each idea as he lays them out.

He dismantles possible counterarguments cleanly, cites real-world cases, draws a line between censorship and accountability.

Once Jisung has delivered all of his points, he steps back to let the other team take the stage with their opening arguments.

The opposing team starts just as sharp.

The first speaker begins by establishing their stance, outlining the structure of their case with an equally practiced ease.

Then their second speaker steps forward—a boy Minho hasn’t noticed until now.

A bit on the taller side. Slightly oversized blazer. Wholly unassuming at first glance—like someone who could easily blend into the background if he wanted to.

But on the stage, he doesn’t.

He adjusts his round glasses once, quick and absent, and when he looks up, there’s something shrewd in his face.

Assessing.

Aware.

“Proposition would like you to believe that limitation ensures protection,” he starts now, voice calm, almost conversational. “But that assumption depends entirely on who holds the power to define those limits.”

Minho straightens slightly.

The boy doesn’t raise his voice. Instead of rushing or performing for the sake of performing, he is intentionally building a conversation with both the room and his opponents.

“Because once we accept that speech can be restricted for the sake of preventing harm,” he continues, pacing slowly across the stage, “we also accept that someone—some institution—gets to decide what constitutes that harm.”

A small pause.

“Who decides what constitutes harm?” he spreads his hands, glancing briefly toward Jisung. “And more importantly—what happens when that line shifts?”

He continues pacing. Slow. Controlled.

“Today, you may trust the system to draw that boundary fairly. Tomorrow… you may not as much. And when that day comes, the restrictions you defended become the very tools used to silence you.”

By the time rebuttals begin, the air in the room feels a little denser. More charged.

Minho’s gaze flicks instinctively toward Jisung.

And Jisung is smiling now, not necessarily broadly, but there’s something bright in his expression. A spark. He leans forward slightly when the other boy speaks, clearly enjoying the challenge. Matching him. Meeting him.

When it’s his turn again, Jisung speaks eagerly.

“If the possibility of misuse invalidates a system,” he counters, “then by that logic, no law should exist at all.”

The boy across from him tilts his head—just slightly—and for the first time, a small smile touches his mouth too.

Not mocking.

Not dismissive.

Intrigued.

Jisung cracks his neck, rolling his shoulders a few times to shake the lingering tension out of his body.

He’s done this dozens of times—has gone under the spotlight and delivered his team’s arguments as succinctly as possible, has debated a lot other teams, has won and lost.

And he loves it.

Loves the rush of it—the way arguments snap like a choreographed rapid fire in real time, the way his brain feels like it’s moving faster than everything else around him. Loves the structure, the strategy, the fight of it, where every word matters and every second counts.

The motion had caught his attention from the moment it was announced—freedom of speech should have reasonable limitations in modern society. It was the kind of topic that could be argued endlessly without ever reaching a definitive conclusion.

Where does protection end and control begin? Who gets to decide? How do you defend something without unintentionally justifying its abuse?

They’d spent hours upon hours on it—him, his teammates, and their coaches—arguing, refining, tearing apart their own logic just to build it stronger. Jisung had gone home with his head buzzing more nights than he could count, still thinking about phrasing, about framing, about how to make something so complex sound undeniable. Had yapped about it countless times to Minho who had listened to him enthusiastically.

He’d loved every second of it.

A small exhale leaves him, gaze drifting almost unconsciously to the other side of the hall.

The opposing team had been exactly what people said they were—sharp, composed, astute. Not loud or provocative for the sake of it, and definitely far from messy.

You could tell that every argument had been well thought-out. Every rebuttal calculated.

He shifts his weight slightly, fingers still tingling faintly with leftover adrenaline, and lets his eyes flick—just briefly—toward their second speaker.

The boy with the round glasses.

Off stage, he looks… different.

Much less composed, maybe. A little more human around the edges—awkward, even. There’s a faint smudge of ink on his fingers, and his tie is noticeably off-center.

But the way he delivered his arguments had been—

Jisung presses his lips together slightly, thoughtful.

Good. Annoyingly good.

There were brief moments where Jisung had actually needed to pause and adjust, rethink his phrasing on the spot. Not because he didn’t know his material, but because the way the other boy framed his points forced him to approach it differently.

It had been fun. Challenging in a way that made something in Jisung light up.

“Hey.”

The voice is quiet—unsure—and it pulls Jisung out of his thoughts.

He blinks.

“Han Jisung, right?”

The boy he’d just been thinking about is standing right in front of him now, close enough that Jisung wonders how long he’s been there.

“Oh—hi!” Jisung’s face brightens immediately, a wide smile breaking across it. “Hey. That was really fun…” he racks his brain for the boy’s name “...Jongho-ssi?”

The boy nods, returning a small, slightly nervous smile.

“Congratulations,” he says, offering his hand. “You and your team were amazing. We learned a lot from you guys.”

Jisung takes his hand without hesitation, grip warm and easy.

“Thank you,” he says, a little breathless from the leftover adrenaline. “You guys were really good. Like—seriously. That point about shifting boundaries?” He shakes his head lightly, impressed. “That threw me off for a second.”

The boy’s smile grows, just a little—pleased, but trying not to show it too much.

“I’m glad,” he admits, glancing down briefly before looking back up. “I was hoping it would.”

There’s a small, tentative pause.

The boy adjusts his glasses, a faint crease forming between his brows like he’s working through something in his head.

“I—um.” He chuckles softly. “I actually wanted to ask you something.”

Jisung tilts his head, still smiling, open. “Yeah?”

Another pause.

Then, a little more quickly, like he’s decided it’s better to just say it before he overthinks—

“Would you maybe want to… continue the discussion sometime?” he asks, words careful but sincere. “Outside of competition, I mean. I think it’d be interesting to hear more about your methods in approaching these topics.”

His fingers fidget slightly at his side.

“Over coffee, or something,” he adds, quieter now. “If you’re not… too busy.”

Jisung blinks, taking a second to process—unsure if his opponent just asked him on a date or simply suggested a friendly coffee.

“Oh, I—”

“Hey, baby.”

The familiar voice slips in smoothly right by his ear. Jisung doesn’t even have to turn his head before Minho’s there, one hand settles at his waist, firm and grounding.

There’s a slight shift in the hall. Nothing blatantly obvious, but noticeable enough if you’re looking for it. Small groups of people glance over, conversations dipping for a second before picking back up again. Jisung is used to it. Minho’s always recognizable like this—carrying the same effortless presence people are used to seeing on stage or in performance videos.

Jisung brightens instantly. “Hyung—”

But Minho doesn’t look at him.

Not yet.

His gaze is fixed on the boy in front of them.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything important,” he says, tone even but edged with something cooler than usual.

Jongho straightens a little, immediately alarmed. “Oh, I was just—”

“Asking him out?” Minho finishes for him, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

It’s not really a question.

Jisung stills.

The boy hesitates, clearly caught off guard. “Well—Kind of, but I didn’t mean— I was just asking if he’d like to—”

“He’s taken.”

The words land flat. Unfriendly.

Final.

Jisung’s eyes widen slightly. “Oh—”

Around them, a few glances flicker their way—quick but barely hidden. A student nearby looks over for a second before dropping her gaze back to her phone, like she hadn’t been listening in. 

It’s not a scene, but it’s enough to make the boy freeze, shoulders visibly stiffening. 

“I—” he starts, then stops. Swallows. “I didn’t know. Sorry.”

His voice is quieter now. Smaller.

But Minho doesn’t stop.

“And what made you think he’d want to go out with you anyway?”

That—

Jisung gasps, head snapping toward his boyfriend in shock. “Hyung!”

The boy flinches.

It’s quick, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. His gaze drops, ears flushing red, the thin confidence from earlier folding in on itself.

“I’m really sorry,” he says again, more hurried this time. “I didn’t mean to—to overstep or anything, I just thought—”

“You didn’t know,” Jisung cuts in quickly, stepping forward a little, pulling himself out of Minho’s hold without thinking. 

“It’s okay, really—you didn’t know. It’s not your fault,” he adds, shooting Minho a look before turning back to Jongho. “I’m sorry. That was—he didn’t mean it like that.”

Minho goes very still beside him.

The boy shakes his head quickly. “No, it’s—no, it’s my fault. I should’ve asked first, I just—” He exhales nervously. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t look at Minho again.

Only at Jisung, warily.

“Congratulations again,” he says, hurriedly now. Then he steps back, quickly retreating like he wants to put as much distance from them as possible.

“Sorry,” he repeats once more under his breath, before turning away and scampering off in the other direction.

Jisung watches the boy disappear into the crowd, the back of his school’s dark blue blazer slipping out of sight in seconds.

He frowns.

“Hyung.”

Minho doesn’t answer right away.

Then, like nothing happened at all, his hand finds Jisung’s waist again. “Congratulations, baby. You were amazing,” he says.

Easy. Calm. Like the last thirty seconds didn’t just happen.

Jisung blinks. “What?”

Minho finally looks at him, expression softened now, the sharpness from before tucked neatly away. “The debate,” he says. “You were great.”

A beat.

“Brilliant as always. I knew you guys would win.”

And normally, that would’ve been enough.

More than enough.

Jisung would’ve lit up, would’ve leaned into it, would’ve let himself bask in that quiet kind of praise Minho always gave him so freely.

But—

“Hyung,” Jisung says again, slower this time. “What was that?”

Minho’s expression doesn’t change.

“What was what?”

Jisung stares at him. “Don’t do that.”

A pause.

“I’m serious,” he continues, brows knitting. “Why did you say that to him?”

Minho exhales softly through his nose, like this is already more of a conversation than it needs to be. “He was asking you out.”

“I know that,” Jisung says, a little sharper now. “I figured that out after you announced it to the entire room.”

Minho’s jaw tightens slightly.

“Well, someone had to.”

“That’s not the point,” Jisung takes a step closer, lowering his voice but not the intensity. “You didn’t have to be mean about it.”

“I wasn’t being mean.”

Jisung just looks at him. Baffled.

“Hyung,” he says, quieter now. “You asked him what made him think I’d want to go out with him.”

A beat.

“That’s—” Jisung exhales, confused. “That’s mean.”

Minho shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. Like it shouldn’t matter.

“He shouldn’t be asking out people he barely knows.”

Jisung frowns again. “That’s… not a rule.”

“It should be.”

“Where is this coming from?” Jisung asks, getting more perplexed by the second. “People ask each other out all the time. It’s not—he wasn’t being weird, he was just—”

“What?” Minho cuts in, sharper now. “Interested?”

Jisung hesitates. “Well—”

“And you’re defending him.”

Jisung blinks.

“I’m not defending him,” he says, slower, more careful now. “I’m saying you didn’t have to talk to him like that.”

Minho lets out an exasperated breath.

“Okay.”

Jisung’s stomach drops slightly. “Okay?”

Minho tilts his head, eyes narrowing just a fraction.

“What? Are you disappointed I stepped in? Did you want to go out with him?”

Silence.

Jisung stares at him.

Actually stares.

“Don’t say things you’ll regret later, hyung,” he finally says.

“Well, you seemed pretty interested,” Minho keeps on anyway, voice cool now, controlled in a way that feels worse than if he’d just raised it. “You said you had fun. You kept smiling at him.”

Jisung’s expression shifts—hurt flashing across it before it hardens into something sharper.

“Now you want me to go around scowling at people too? I smile at everyone, hyung. It’s common decency.”

“Not like that.”

Jisung lets out a disbelieving breath. “Oh my god.”

“What? You’re the one who keeps bringing him up.”

“I’m bringing him up because you were rude,” Jisung snaps, the frustration finally breaking through. “For no reason!”

“No reason?” Minho echoes.

“Yes, no reason! He didn’t know I had a boyfriend, he was polite, and you just—what, decided to embarrass him in front of everyone?”

“At least now he knows,” Minho says.

“Once again, that’s not the point!” Jisung’s voice lifts despite himself, drawing a few glances from nearby students. He lowers it again quickly, but the damage is done. “You could’ve just said it normally. Or, better yet, let me say it.”

Minho doesn’t respond.

Jisung searches his face, genuinely lost.

“Hyung,” he says, softer now. “Why are you acting like this?”

Minho looks away.

“I’m not acting like anything.”

“Yes, you are. This isn’t like you at all. What’s going on?”

“I said I’m not.”

Jisung lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “You’re being unfair.”

“And you’re being naive.”

Jisung goes rigid. “Excuse me?”

Minho’s gaze flicks back to him. “You don’t think before you respond to things like this.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jisung shoots back, eyes flashing. “Next time someone talks to me, I’ll make sure to run it by you first.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you’re implying.”

Another pause.

Jisung swallows, jaw clenched now. “You don’t get to talk to people like that, hyung. Not to someone who hasn’t done anything to you, and especially not because of me.”

Minho’s expression hardens. “I can talk however I want.”

Jisung purses his lips. “Fine,” he says, voice dropping, hurt bleeding through despite himself. “You do that then.”

Another beat. Then—

“Forget it. I can’t talk to you if you’re being like this,” he says. “I’m going home.”

Jisung steps back.

Then another step.

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for him. Doesn’t even say his name.

Jisung lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.

And then he turns and walks away.

Three days passed, and Minho still hasn’t texted him.

No good morning, no casual check-in, not even something small he could pass off as normal. Just—nothing.

Jisung tells himself it’s fine. Everything’s fine. He’s busy enough to not dwell on it, buried in lessons and the final round prep, catching up on readings he’d neglected during competition week. He knows Minho must be just as busy at this time of year. He’s in his last year after all.

Jisung leans back in his chair with a soft exhale, pen tapping absently against his notebook before he lets it fall onto the page. 

But he misses Minho terribly.

His thoughts drift again, unbidden, circling back to the same moment they’ve been stuck on for the past few days.

You seemed pretty interested.

He frowns, gaze unfocusing slightly.

Almost automatically, Jisung starts picking the memory apart again, the way he would an argument—turning it over, examining it from every angle, searching for inconsistencies. He replays the conversation carefully, line by line, checking for anything he might’ve missed.

He’d smiled. Of course he did—he smiles at everyone. Isn’t that normal?

He’d engaged, talked about the debate, complimented the argument because it had been good. Because it had been interesting. That’s what he always does when he meets his opponents.

Nothing about that was new.

Jisung shakes his head, disappointed once again that he still can’t figure out what went wrong.

Because there’s really nothing there. No hidden meaning, no mixed signals, nothing that could’ve reasonably been misunderstood as anything more than polite friendliness. He hadn’t been overeager. He hadn’t crossed any lines.

He’d just been… himself.

And he knows Minho knows that. Or at least, he should.

That’s what doesn’t make sense.

Jisung shifts in his seat, staring down at his notes without really seeing the words. He’s never had to second-guess himself like this before—not with Minho, not about something so simple, so obvious.

Yes, they have their differences, but those have never been a point of tension. If anything, they’ve always fit together in a way that felt almost effortless.

Jisung gravitates toward things that require thought—arguments, structure, the quiet satisfaction of building something precise and airtight. He’s good at it, and he knows he is. It’s never been something he’s had to doubt.

Minho is a bit different.

Less concerned with putting things into words, more instinctive in the way he moves through the world—through movements, through expression, through things that don’t always need to be said to be understood.

And somehow, it’s always worked.

Jisung talks, Minho listens. Minho anchors, Jisung drifts. They meet each other in the middle without having to force it.

It’s always felt steady.

Safe.

Jisung sighs again, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction as his thoughts drift further back.

He remembers how reluctant he’d been the first time his classmates pushed him to approach Minho—how intimidating he’d seemed from a distance, all sharp edges and quiet self-assuredness.

Jisung had heard of Minho, of course. He’d looked up performance videos, comment sections full of praise from fellow dancers picking apart his technique—and just as many shameless comments about how unfairly hot he looked. But beyond that… barely anything else. Some random pics of his meal and hyper close-up selfies, perhaps, but no personal details. Nothing Jisung could use to get a picture of him as a person.

As a result, he had gone in half-prepared, with nothing but nerves and a vague plan—expecting coldness, or even straight up haughtiness.

But he had been wrong.

It didn’t take too long to see how kind Minho was. How gentle he was in ways that weren’t obvious at first, but impossible to miss once you started paying attention. In the way he noticed things, in the way he showed up without being asked, in the unassuming way he took care of the people around him.

And Minho was never mean—let alone cruel.

Not carelessly. Not without reason.

Jisung’s fingers curl slightly against the fabric of his sleeve.

That’s the part that just won’t sit right.

Not the interruption. Not even the jealousy—he can understand that, to a point. He knows Minho can be fiercely territorial at times.

But it’s the way Minho had said it.

Sharp. Dismissive. Cutting in a way that felt unnecessary, especially toward someone who didn’t deserve it.

Jisung takes a quick glance at his silent phone, then he lets out another sigh, long and dramatic.

“Stop that,” Seungmin says immediately. “It’s distracting.”

Jisung glares at him. “I didn’t even do anything.”

“You’ve been moping around for days,“ Seungmin replies. “Stop sighing and start reviewing your closing. Lia’s nearly done refining our rebuttals.”

Jisung looks down forlornly at his phone. “Do you think I should text him first?”

Seungmin groans. “Absolutely not. Leave me out of this.”

“Seungmin-ah, help me.”

Seungmin finally looks up from his laptop, fixing Jisung with an assessing look, like he’s weighing whether this is worth his time.

Eventually he clicks his tongue, but relents. “Fine. Listen. If you didn’t do anything wrong, don’t go chasing after him.”

Jisung hesitates. “But—”

“You know him,” Seungmin cuts in. “If he’s not ready to talk, he’ll just get defensive and you’ll argue in circles.”

That’s true.

Jisung slumps forward on the table, pouting. “This sucks.”

“Yeah,” Seungmin says, unimpressed. “Now focus. Final round.”

Minho knows he’s made a big mistake.

He just doesn’t know how to fix it.

At first, he tells himself it’s fine. Jisung needs space. That’s all. They argued—worse than usual, sure—but it’s not unfamiliar territory. Jisung gets upset, Minho gives him time, and eventually things settle back into place.

So Minho waits. Because that’s what he does.

He doesn’t chase or push. Doesn’t crowd people when they’re upset.

Jisung will come back when he’s ready.

He always does.

Except—

This time he doesn’t.

And the longer it goes on, the more that quiet certainty starts to crack.

Minho finds himself checking his phone more often than he means to. Unlocking it without thinking, thumb hovering over their thread of messages before locking it again.

Still nothing. No messages. No missed calls.

Just Jisung’s last text sitting there, unchanged. Minho wonders what good news Jisung was going to tell him. He sounded so excited.

He exhales, tossing his phone onto the bed beside him before dragging a hand through his hair.

“This is dumb,” he grumbles under his breath.

It was one argument.

One.

And yeah—he’s the one in the wrong. He knows that now. Knew it, if he’s being honest, not long after it happened. But at the time—

Minho squeezes his eyes shut briefly, jaw tightening.

At the time, it hadn’t felt like overreacting. 

It had felt like… something else entirely. Something he doesn’t have the word for yet.

Jisung has always been extra busy around tournament season. That’s not new. Minho’s gotten used to it, knows what to expect. The late nights, the possible last-minute cancellations, the constant I have practice, I have prep, I have a meeting with coach.

He’s never taken it personally. Never made it an issue. 

It’s not like Minho has too much free time in his hands either. Between classes, practice, choreographing, filming content with his crew, evaluations, performances, and college entrance exams looming over everything, he also has a packed schedule.

But they’ve always found a way to work around things.

If Jisung’s practice ran late, Minho would wait so he could walk him home. Sometimes, Jisung would show up at the studio with his notes and some takeout, settling into a corner and feeding Minho small bites in between practice. They stayed over at each other’s places whenever they could, just to carve out a little alone time.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was enough. They just had to be patient until whatever busy season was going on passed.

This time, though…

Minho shifts on his bed, hands folding behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling.

It had been harder. Jisung had been busier than usual. More distracted. Their schedules barely lining up unless Minho went out of his way to make them.

Every time he tried to plan something, there’s always something else.

Group work.
Final preps.
Practice.
A big presentation.

Minho never pressed, never wanted to ask too many questions. Because he knows how much all of this matters to Jisung—knows how hard he works for it. And because he knows Jisung always makes time where he can. He always has. Nothing about their relationship has ever been a one-sided effort.

And Jisung still texted him throughout the day. Still smiled at him like nothing in the world was more important. Still leaned into him without hesitation, like Minho is the safest place for him to rest.

Nothing had really changed, so it shouldn’t feel like—

Minho stops the thought before it finishes. Shakes his head once, like that’ll get rid of it. 

“Ugh. Whatever.”

But then that day.

The memory surfaces again, uninvited.

Jisung standing there, bright and animated, smiling at someone else. Engaged. Interested in a way that looked so natural.

So easy.

Minho exhales sharply through his nose.

He still remembers the way his stomach dropped, the way his heart lurched forward with something dangerously close to fear—something he didn’t want to admit to himself.

It was stupid. He knows it now, he knew it then.

Jisung never gave him any reason to feel threatened or be overly jealous. Everyone at school knows about them after all. And if anything, Jisung has always been freely open with his love and affection. Constant in a way Minho didn’t even realize he’d come to rely on.

But that day, Minho had reacted before he could think better of it. Had lashed out and been unnecessarily cruel to a stranger. The admission comes easier now. 

And worse than that, Jisung had seen it. Had looked at him like—

Minho frowns at the memory.

Like he didn’t recognize him.

Minho pushes himself off the bed, pacing once across the room before stopping again. He should’ve said something then. Should’ve called after him. Stopped him. Apologized. Anything.

But he didn’t.

He’d just stood there in his pride and let Jisung walk away like it didn’t matter.

Now it’s been nearly a week, and he hates the way the silence between them has stretched into something wider than ever before. Hates how often he reaches for his phone out of habit, only to be disappointed every time.

He should call Jisung first. He knows he should. But every time he thinks about it, he stops. Because what is he even supposed to say?

Sorry? I didn’t mean it? I was jealous—

They all sound like cheap excuses.

Anything else would mean actually explaining himself and being honest. And he’s not sure he even understands himself well enough to do that yet.

But what if…

What if? 

Minho lets himself fall back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

What if Jisung’s really mad? Not annoyed. Not temporarily upset. But mad. 

The thought sticks, harder to brush off now.

And what if this doesn’t pass? What if Jisung saw through him and decided he didn’t like it? What if Jisung doesn’t want this anymore? 

Minho leaves the studio much later than the others.

Practice had run long, but even after everyone else started packing up, he’d stayed behind—running the same section over and over again until the music blurred into something indistinct and his body moved on muscle memory alone.

It doesn’t help.

Neither does the cold shower he takes in the studio shower room afterwards.

By the time he steps out into the evening air, the tightness that has settled deep in his chest is very much still there, uncomfortable and persistent. He exhales slowly, adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder as he starts the walk home.

It’s irritating, going through his days like this, with an absence that’s impossible to ignore. He’s gotten used to getting Jisung’s updates on every little thing—his random thoughts, the minor inconveniences, the play-by-play of his day—and to giving his own in return. 

It’s stupid, how much he misses him.

He misses Jisung’s voice. The way he talks—fast, lively, jumping from one thought to another without warning. The way his laugh comes easy, bright and unrestrained. Misses the warmth of his body, the way his hand always easily finds Minho’s.

In the meantime, Minho has to make do with shoving his cold hands into his pockets, gaze fixed ahead—but his thoughts drift anyway.

He wonders if Jisung’s been eating properly.

With his schedule, he tends to forget. Skips meals, runs on energy drinks and whatever’s convenient. Minho usually keeps track of that—makes sure he eats something, even if it’s just a quick lunch between classes.

Now—

Minho presses his lips together.

There’s no way to know.

His thoughts shift again, catching on something else. Jisung’s last text before he went on the stage.

also i have exciting news!!!!!

He never found out what that was. Never got the chance to ask. Never even congratulated Jisung properly.

Minho’s hands curl into fists in his pockets.

A younger student crosses his path, glancing up briefly—and then immediately looking away, quickening his pace as he heads in the opposite direction.

Minho barely registers it at first until he catches his reflection in a shop window.

He slows.

For a second, it doesn’t quite click—that the person staring back at him is himself.

Brows drawn tight. Jaw set. Face dark and tired.

Minho frowns slightly then looks away. Unsettled.

No wonder.

His phone rings.

The sound cuts sharply through the quiet, making him jolt. He fumbles it out of his pocket a little too quickly, heart kicking up before he can stop it.

For a split second, there’s only one thought—

Jisungie.

But:

Kim Seungmin.

His expression falls almost immediately, disappointment flickering across his face before it settles back into something flatter.

He answers anyway.

“Hm?”

“I don’t know what’s going on between you and Jisung,” Seungmin says without preamble, “but your boyfriend’s been sick.”

Minho straightens slightly. “What?”

“His parents are away again and he’s, like, dying alone in his room,” Seungmin continues. “I have to leave him now because I’ve got practice and apparently I’m covering for him in the meantime, so. Thought I’d let you know.”

There’s a beat.

“How is he?” Minho asks, worry instantly coloring his voice.

Seungmin hums thoughtfully. “As I said, dying. High fever. Severely dehydrated. Looks terrible. Very tragic. Might not make it.”

“Kim Seungmin.”

“See for yourself,” he says dryly, completely unfazed. “Anyway, I’m leaving in, like, two minutes, so if you care about him not actually dying all alone in his room, you should probably come over.”

A pause.

Then, almost as an afterthought—

“You’re welcome.”

Then the line goes dead.

Minho stares at his phone for half a second, caught between disbelief and concern—

And then he’s already moving.

He turns on his heel so fast he nearly slips, grip tightening around his phone as he breaks into a run. The walk that usually takes him fifteen minutes is done in half the time. Minho cuts through side streets, ignoring the burn in his legs.

His thoughts race faster than he can keep up with.

He’s sick.

He’s alone.

He didn’t tell me.

And then,

He couldn’t tell me.

The guilt makes his eyes sting a little.

Because he should’ve been there. Should’ve known. Should’ve been able to take care of his boyfriend if he hadn’t been so stubborn in his stupid pride.

By the time he reaches Jisung’s street, Minho is panting but still isn’t slowing down.

The familiar row of houses comes into view, lights scattered in warm pockets along the quiet neighborhood, but he barely registers any of it. His pace only quickens, breath coming sharper as he closes the distance.

Minho pushes through the front gate, taking the steps up to the door two at a time. His hand is clammy as he digs into his bag, fingers closing around the spare key he keeps there.

It takes him a second to get it into the lock.

Another to actually turn it.

Then the front door swings open.

“Jisungie?”

The house answers with silence.

Minho steps inside, shutting the door behind him, eyes already scanning the living room.

Empty. No lights on except the faint glow from the hallway.

He moves toward the kitchen next, pace still brisk and purposeful.

Also nothing.

The counters are spotless, untouched—just like it is most of the time. Jisung’s parents are not the type to cook homemade meals, and Jisung himself knows he’s not apt to be anywhere near a knife. If anything, Minho’s usually the one who leaves the most evidence behind when he’s here.

Minho turns down the hallway until he reaches Jisung’s bedroom, door slightly ajar.

He briefly peeks inside before pushing it open silently.

There he is.

Jisung is curled in his bed, blankets half-kicked off, one arm tucked awkwardly under his pillow. His hair is a mess, falling all over his face, and even from the doorway Minho can tell something’s off.

Minho steps inside quietly, setting his bag down at the foot of the bed without taking his eyes off him.

“Jisungie?” he calls softly. “Baby?”

He moves closer, sitting carefully on the edge of the mattress before reaching out, pressing the back of his hand gently to Jisung’s temple.

Warm. But not alarmingly so.

Thank god.

Minho lets out a relieved breath.

“Hyungie…?”

Jisung’s voice is small, sleep-heavy, barely more than a murmur as he shifts under the blankets.

Minho hums softly. “Mm. It’s me.”

Jisung blinks his eyes open slowly, unfocused at first before they settle on Minho. For a second, he just looks at him—like he’s not entirely sure he’s real.

“You’re here,” he mumbles.

“Yeah,” Minho says quietly, brushing Jisung’s damp hair back from his forehead. “Seungmin called.”

Jisung makes a faint noise that might be a groan. “Whatever he told you, he overdid it.”

“I figured,” Minho replies, but his voice is threaded with relief. “Still. You’re burning up. How are you feeling? How long have you been sick? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jisung shifts, pushing himself up slightly against the pillows with a small wince. “I’m fine,” he says, voice still rough. “Just… haven’t been feeling great the past few days. Probably just tired.”

Minho’s brows knit. “Tired enough to get a fever?”

Jisung shrugs weakly. “I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not a good thing, bug,” Minho mutters.

He reaches for the glass on the bedside table, frowning when he finds it empty. “Have you eaten?”

Jisung hesitates just long enough for Minho to notice.

“A little,” he finally says.

Minho gives him a look.

Jisung huffs softly, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t have much appetite.”

“You still have to eat,” Minho says, quieter now but firm in that familiar way. “You can’t just run on nothing and expect your body to keep up.”

Jisung groans, covering his face with the blanket. “Come on. I’m sick. Stop scolding me, hyung,” he whines.

Minho studies him for a moment longer, then sighs softly, reaching up to adjust the blanket instead, tucking it around Jisung’s body a little more securely.

“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard again.”

Jisung smiles faintly at that, eyes softening. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

For a moment, it’s easy. Familiar.

Minho’s hand lingers lightly against Jisung’s arm, thumb brushing absent circles into the fabric of his sleeve. Jisung leans into it without thinking, eyes drifting half-closed again.

The quiet stretches.

And then Jisung opens his eyes again, more awake this time.

“You didn’t call.”

It doesn’t come out accusing. Just a statement.

Minho stills.

“I know,” he says quietly after a beat. “I’m sorry, baby.”

Jisung only hums faintly, eyes slipping half-closed again as he sinks deeper into the pillows.

Minho’s gaze drops to the edge of the bed.

“I know we have to talk,” he says after a moment. “But you need to eat first.”

Jisung doesn’t respond immediately, just watches him through lidded eyes.

“I’m gonna go out to get some stuff,” Minho announces, already pushing himself to stand. “Then I’ll come back and make something. We’ll talk when you feel better, okay?”

There’s a small pause.

Then Jisung nods, slow and drowsy. “Okay, hyung…”

Minho lingers for a second longer, brushing his fingers lightly through Jisung’s hair, tucking it away from his face again.

“Get some more sleep, bug,” he murmurs.

Jisung makes a soft, noncommittal noise before closing his eyes.

By the time Minho gets back from the nearest store with a small bag of groceries and some medicine, the house still feels unchanged—quiet, dim, a little lifeless.

He pauses at Jisung’s doorway—peeking in to find him still fast asleep—then he briskly slips into the bathroom, washing his hands and changing into the spare set of house clothes he keeps tucked away in one of the drawers.

Only then does he head back to the kitchen, moving with purpose. He unpacks the groceries, pulling out other ingredients he needs from the cupboard before rinsing the rice first.

He keeps it simple. Porridge, the way he’s made it before when Jisung was too tired or too sick to eat properly. He adds a bit of ginger, slices it thin, lets it simmer slowly. Cracks an egg in near the end, stirs it through until it disappears into soft ribbons.

It’s quiet work. Rhythmic and grounding enough to keep his hands busy without demanding much thought. By the time he finishes, it’s close to nine. He ladles the porridge into a bowl, steam curling gently into the air.

When he steps back into Jisung’s room, bowl in hand, the scent follows him—warm, mild, comforting.

“Jagi,” Minho calls gently, setting the bowl down on the bedside table. “Baby, wake up.”

Jisung stirs, brows knitting faintly before he lets out a sleepy groan, turning his face further into the pillow like he might hide from the world for just a few seconds longer.

“Mmm… don’t want to,” he whines, voice rough with sleep.

Minho huffs a quiet breath, fondness slipping through.

“You have to,” he says, firmer this time, reaching out to brush his fingers through Jisung’s hair. “Come on. Sit up for me.”

Jisung makes another small noise of half-hearted protest, but eventually listens.

Slowly, he pushes himself up with Minho’s help, movements sluggish and uncoordinated, one hand coming up to rub at his eyes. He leans back against the headboard with a soft exhale, shoulders slumping while Minho slides a pillow behind him until he settles comfortably.

“Okay?” Minho asks.

Jisung nods, still half-asleep.

Minho picks up the bowl, scooping up a small spoonful and letting it cool for a moment before bringing it up, pausing just short of Jisung’s lips.

“Open.”

Jisung obeys easily this time, leaning forward just slightly.

The first bite is slow, careful. He swallows, then settles back again, eyes slipping half-closed.

“Mm. It’s good,” he murmurs.

“Obviously,” Minho mutters, like it’s a given. “Eat a bit more.”

He feeds him patiently, one spoonful at a time, waiting between each so Jisung doesn’t have to rush. His hand strays to stroke Jisung’s arm or head sometimes, eyes watching over him attentively.

Jisung eats more than Minho expects.

Not a lot, but enough.

The bowl is nearly empty when Jisung finally shakes his head, turning away slightly before nodding weakly toward the glass of water on the bedside table.

Minho follows the gesture without a word, setting the bowl aside and reaching for the glass. He presses a couple of ibuprofen into Jisung’s palm before guiding the glass into his hands, steadying it there, fingers lingering just long enough to make sure his grip doesn’t falter.

“Slowly,” he murmurs.

Jisung puts the pills in his mouth, then takes a few small sips of water. A quiet, satisfied breath slips out of him as he leans back again, head tipping against the headboard.

“Thank you, hyung,” he mumbles gratefully.

Minho takes the glass from him, placing it back on the table before turning his attention back.

Jisung’s already starting to doze off again. His eyes blink slower, shoulders loosening, body sinking further into the pillows like the effort of staying upright is too much now that he’s eaten.

“Lie down, baby,” Minho says quietly, one hand coming up to guide him.

Jisung shifts clumsily, letting Minho ease him back down, adjusting the blanket over him again.

For a second, Minho thinks he’s already asleep.

Then—

“Hyung.”

The word comes out barely above a whisper.

“Mm?”

Jisung’s eyes are closed, lashes fluttering faintly against his cheeks, but his hand reaches blindly for Minho’s.

“Don’t go,” he murmurs, voice soft, slurred at the edges. “Stay with me.”

Minho nearly melts into a puddle right then and there.

“Okay, baby,” he says quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He reaches for the edge of the blanket and lifts it, slipping in beside his boyfriend with habitual ease. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, but Jisung barely stirs—only presses closer instinctively. 

Minho adjusts himself until he’s half-lying against the pillows, one arm naturally coming around Jisung who immediately curls his fingers into the fabric of Minho’s shirt—as if even half-asleep, he doesn’t quite trust that Minho won’t disappear if he lets go.

“I said I’m not going anywhere, bug,” Minho snorts softly.

Jisung only hums in response, already drifting.

Minho’s hand comes up slowly, settling against Jisung’s side at first, thumb brushing gentle, absent patterns along his ribs, then moving higher to thread lightly through his hair, smoothing it back, over and over again in a quiet, soothing rhythm.

Jisung’s breathing evens out—then deepens. His grip slackens just slightly, though his hand never quite lets go.

Minho watches him for a while but it doesn’t take long for his own eyes to grow heavy, hand continuing its slow path through Jisung’s hair, slower now, more intuitive than intentional.

And eventually, without realizing it, Minho drifts off too.

Morning comes quietly.

Minho stirs—not fully awake yet, but enough to register the warmth pressed against him, the steady rise and fall of someone breathing close.

And then soft fingers in his hair.

Slow. Rhythmic. Absent-minded, almost.

Minho frowns faintly, eyes still closed as he leans into it on instinct, a quiet hum slipping past his lips in acknowledgment.

“Mm…”

The movement pauses for a second.

Then resumes, even softer this time.

Minho blinks his eyes open.

Jisung is already looking at him.

Propped up slightly against the pillows, hair still a mess but his face much lighter than it was the night before, eyes clearer. There’s a small smile tugging at his lips—fond, a little shy, like he’s been caught doing something mid-action.

“Morning,” Jisung murmurs.

Minho squints at him, still halfway between sleep and awareness. “What are you doing?”

Jisung huffs a quiet laugh, fingers still carding lightly through his hair. “Nothing.”

“You’re playing with my hair,” Minho mumbles, voice rough with sleep.

“And?” Jisung tilts his head slightly. “You don’t like it?”

Minho doesn’t answer right away. He shifts a little closer instead, pressing his face further into the pillow—and, by extension, closer to Jisung—eyes slipping shut again for half a second like he might fall back asleep.

“Didn’t say that.”

Jisung smiles a little wider.

The quiet lingers between them, easier in the morning light.

Then Minho opens his eyes properly this time, gaze sharpening as he takes Jisung in more carefully.

“You okay?” he asks, the sleep still in his voice but laced with concern now.

Jisung nods. “Yeah. I feel a lot better.”

Minho lifts a hand, brushing it lightly against Jisung’s forehead.

Checking.

No fever.

He exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing almost instantly. “You don’t feel warm anymore.”

“Didn’t you know?” Jisung says lightly. “A handsome guy with a heart of gold brought me some delicious porridge and ibuprofen last night.”

Minho scoffs, but there’s no real bite to it.

For a moment, neither of them says anything.

Jisung’s hand drifts down from Minho’s hair, coming to rest lightly against his cheek instead. Then, softer—

“I missed you, hyung.”

The words slip out like Jisung has been holding them back for too long.

Minho stills for a second.

Then he exhales quietly, gaze softening as he meets Jisung’s eyes.

“I missed you too, bug,” he whispers back, honest and sincere.

Jisung nods a little, like he expected it.

“Can I say something now?” Jisung asks.

Minho nods, shifting onto his side to properly face Jisung.

“It made me sad… that you didn’t come after me,” Jisung starts softly. “And that you never texted or called me afterwards.”

Minho swallows, gaze dropping briefly to the space between them.

“I know,” he admits. “I should’ve.”

A small pause.

“I wanted to,” he adds, more honestly this time. “I just… didn’t know how to come after you without— I knew I did something wrong. I just didn’t know how to explain it to you.”

Jisung’s brows knit slightly, but he stays quiet, letting him continue.

“I held onto my pride,” Minho says, fingers unconsciously tightening around the edge of the blanket. “But then the longer I waited, the harder it got to say anything at all.”

He lets out a small breath.

“And I know that’s not an excuse. I just—” he shakes his head faintly. “I messed up. I’m sorry.”

Jisung watches him for a moment, then nods slowly, like he’s taking it in, not dismissing it.

“Okay,” he says softly.

The tension in Minho’s body loosens up a bit.

Jisung draws in a small breath, gathering his thoughts before speaking again. 

“But what happened that day, hyung?” he asks, voice gentler now. “What went wrong?”

Minho goes quiet.

Jisung can feel it immediately—the way something in him closes off, just for a second. He knows Minho well enough to know that if he pushes too hard, Minho’s walls are going to build up fast.

“Was it really just because you got jealous?” he tries, carefully.

Jisung notices the way Minho’s jaw tightens faintly.

“I mean, I know you get jealous sometimes— I do too, right? It’s normal. It happens.” He smiles. “But that felt more than simple jealousy.”

A beat.

“I think I’m just… a little confused,” he says more quietly. “Because you’ve never been like that before. Not to someone who didn’t do anything to deserve it.” 

He leans in slightly, resting his head against Minho, the gesture intimate and assuring.

“And I know you, hyung,” he murmurs. “You’re not a mean person. That’s why it didn’t make sense to me.”

A beat passes. 

“Do you want to tell me what it was that bothered you so much?”

The room settles into silence.

Then Minho exhales slowly, like something in him is giving way.

“I was jealous,” he says at last. “Obviously,” he adds, a little drier. “I don’t like it when people get too close to you like that.”

Jisung nods. That part is familiar. Something Jisung knows, has always known.

But Minho doesn’t stop there. His voice dips, quieter now. “But you’re right. It wasn’t just that.”

He hesitates, like he’s deciding whether to say it or not.

“It’s…” he trails off. “Ugh. This is so stupid.” Minho covers his face, frustrated with himself.

Jisung reaches for his hands, gently pulling them away. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Whatever it is, it’s not stupid. Tell me, hyung. I’m just trying to understand.”

Minho nods, drawing in a slow breath, like he’s bracing himself. His eyes flick up to Jisung’s, hesitant at first—but Jisung doesn’t look away. There’s nothing but quiet patience in his expression—open, steady, waiting.

Minho swallows.

Then—

“You liked talking to him,” he finally says.

Jisung blinks, clearly not expecting that answer. “What?”

Minho looks away, a glint flickering in his eyes.

“You did,” he says quietly “You were smiling. You kept the conversation going. You were having fun. You—” he gestures vaguely, like he can’t quite find the words, “—you liked arguing with him.”

“I like arguing with a lot of people. That’s sort of my thing,” Jisung says, confused.

“I know.” Minho drags a hand down his face. “I know that. That’s not—”

He pauses, searching for the right way to explain it, then tries again, quieter this time.

“It’s just that… he kept up with you.”

Jisung stills, the confusion on his face shifting into something more attentive.

Minho still doesn’t meet his eyes as he continues. “Not a lot of people do,” he mutters. “But he made it seem easy to go back and forth with you on the stage. And you—you looked like you were enjoying it.”

There’s something tight in his voice now. Something quieter.

“I don’t—” he starts, then stops, jaw shifting. “I don’t have that with you.”

The words hang there, heavier now that they’ve been said.

Jisung’s brows knit. “Hyung—”

“I can’t argue with you like that,” Minho continues, quieter but more insistent, like he needs Jisung to understand this part. “I don’t think the way you do. I don’t catch things as fast, I don’t—” he huffs out a breath, frustrated again. “Sometimes I don’t even understand half the things you get excited about when you talk about debate.” He lets out a small breath. “I love listening to you, I really do, but after a while I don’t know what to say, so I just sit there and nod like an idiot.”

His voice softens again, the frustration giving way to something more vulnerable.

“And I know I’m good at what I do. I’m a good dancer, a good choreographer, and I love doing it too,” he adds, quieter now. “But it’s different. It’s not the same kind of thing. I’m not—”

He trails off, gaze dropping, like he’s still debating whether to say the rest.

Then he does.

“I’m not smart,” he finally says, the words smaller now, stripped of everything else. “Not like you… or him.”

A brief pause, his throat tightening just slightly before he adds, almost under his breath—

“And it scared me.”

For a moment, Jisung doesn’t say anything.

He just looks at Minho, like he’s trying to take in everything he just heard, turning it over slowly instead of reacting right away. Then he takes Minho’s hands again, thumb brushing over his slightly busted knuckles without thinking.

“You really think that?” he asks quietly.

Minho doesn’t answer.

Jisung exhales, something soft and disbelieving slipping into his expression.

“You think I like you because you can keep up with me in academic debates?” he continues, a little incredulous now. “Hyung… I like you because you don’t.”

Minho frowns faintly, like he’s not sure he heard that right.

“And I don’t want or need you to,” Jisung says, voice steadier now. “You don’t overthink things. You don’t get stuck in your head the way I do. You—” he huffs a small breath, almost smiling, “—you pull me out of it.”

His hand lands on Minho’s cheek again, forcing Minho’s eyes to stay on his.

“When I spiral, you’re the one who makes everything simple again. Not in a dumb way,” he adds quickly, shaking his head, “just… clearer. You see things for what they are, and you say them like it’s obvious, and suddenly I can breathe again.”

Minho’s expression shifts, just slightly.

“And you act like that’s nothing,” Jisung goes on, words coming out faster now. “But I can’t do that. I get stuck in all the possibilities, all the what-ifs. You don’t. You just— You always know where to stand.”

He pauses, like he’s sorting through memories.

“Do you remember that time I couldn’t decide whether to drop student council?” he asks. “I was going in circles for days, making pros and cons lists that didn’t even make sense anymore. And you just looked at me and said, ‘You already know you hate it, so why are you staying?’”

A small smile tugs at his lips.

“I was so annoyed at you,” he chuckles. “But you were right. You cut through all the noise in my head in, like, five seconds. It’s incredible.”

His thumb brushes over the side of Minho’s face again.

“And it’s not just that,” he adds. “You notice things I don’t. About people. About me. About the world.”

Jisung’s voice softens further.

“You know when I’m pushing myself too hard, when I’m about to burn out, when I need to stop even if I won’t admit it.” He shakes his head a little. “You read a room in seconds. You know who to trust, when to step in, when to pull away—and you don’t hesitate. You take care of the people around you, you help them without having to be asked to.”

There’s a quiet sincerity in the way he looks at him now.

“You’re incredibly, incredibly smart, hyung. It’s just a different kind.”

Minho feels his ears burn at Jisung’s words. But Jisung leans in a little closer, not crowding, just enough to keep Minho from drifting too far away.

“And the way you think when you dance?” he adds warmly. “You hear things I don’t even notice. You see shapes, timing, rhythm, the bend of a finger—I could never do that. If you tried to explain it to me, I’d probably just stare at you the way you stare at me when I talk about debate motions. It’s exactly the same way around.”

That earns the faintest hint of smile on Minho’s face.

“So don’t do that,” Jisung says quietly. “Don’t decide you’re ‘not smart’ just because your smart doesn’t look like mine or someone else’s.”

A small pause.

“And don’t decide what I value for me either,” he adds, gentler now. “Because none of that—none of that—is why I love you, hm?”

His hand squeezes Minho’s lightly.

“You would never get replaced, hyung,” Jisung says, voice soft but firm. “There’s nothing to replace in the first place. I chose you. It can only ever be you.”

Minho’s eyes sting before he can stop it. He blinks hard, but it doesn’t really help. His gaze drops again, voice rougher when he speaks.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter this time. “I’m sorry I let it get that far.”

Jisung’s expression softens immediately, his grip on Minho’s hand tightening just slightly.

Minho exhales, unsteady. “I just— It wasn’t just jealousy,” he admits, the words spilling out now. “You were so busy this past month—busier than usual. We barely ever had time alone, and even when we did, it was over before it even felt like it started.”

He swallows.

“And I knew it was important, I promise I did. I wasn’t mad about that.” He shakes his head faintly, hoping Jisung understands. “I just… missed you. A lot.”

He focuses on the motion of Jisung’s thumb stroking his hand.

“And so I started thinking,” he admits, almost reluctantly, “what if this is what it’s going to be like from now on? What if you don’t need me as much anymore? Or—” his voice dips again, quieter, “—what if you don’t want to be with me as much as you used to.”

Jisung stills.

“So when I saw you with him that day,” Minho continues, “laughing and talking like that, it just—” he exhales shakily, “it got to me more than it should have. And I handled it really badly.”

A small, helpless shrug.

“I thought I was already losing you, I guess.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then—

“…Oh my god.”

Jisung’s eyes widen, something flashing across his face as everything clicks at once.

“Hyung,” he breathes, almost laughing in shock. “Oh my god, no, no, no—no, that’s not—”

He shakes his head rapidly, suddenly sitting up.

“That’s not what was happening at all.”

Minho looks up at him, confused, propping himself up on his elbows.

Jisung huffs out a breath, running a hand through his own hair. “Okay, wait—this is—this is my fault too. I understand now.”

Minho just stares at him in confusion.

Jisung squints slightly, like he’s trying to piece it together—figure out where to even start.

“So, uhm… around two—no, three months ago, I talked to Park-seonsaengnim and my parents,” he begins, brows creasing. “There’s this acceleration program that lets you advance to third year early—basically skip eleventh grade altogether. It’s not easy to get into, there are a lot of requirements, but Park-seonsaengnim said I qualified and helped me through the entire process.”

Minho blinks at him.

Jisung keeps going, a little breathless now. “I had to take quite a lot of tests for it, some interviews, you know, on top of everything else. That’s why I was so busy. And I got the results last week, the morning of the tournament. That was the good news I was going to tell you.”

A wide, victorious smile breaks through.

“I got in. So if all goes well, I can graduate next year. Just one year after you.”

For a second, Minho just stares at him.

“What?”

Jisung nods, almost bouncing on the bed despite everything. “Yeah! You know how we’ve been lowkey miserable about you graduating first and us spending two years apart yada yada yada?”

He grins, a little crooked, eyes bright.

“Well. This fixes that. Or at least makes it easier. This way, I can catch up a bit—and we won’t have to be apart for too long.” He ducks his head, smile turning shy. “We can move in together way sooner, hyung.”

“How come I didn’t know any of this?” Minho asks, his brain still trying to catch up.

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Jisung admits, a little sheepish now. “Like, a good one. For you. Well, for us, but—yeah. It was so hard, though! I hated keeping a secret from you, but I had to prepare for all those tests and I really, really didn’t want to fail.”

For a moment, Minho doesn’t say anything.

The rush of new information doesn’t seem to land all at once—they settle slowly, piece by piece. Him graduating. Two years. Apart. All the quiet, careful plans they’d made around it without ever really admitting how much they dreaded it.

And now—

“You did all that?” he asks at last, still sounding stunned. There’s something unsteady in his voice. “For us?”

Jisung shrugs, suddenly a little self-conscious. “I just… wanted it to work,” he mutters. “I wanted us to work.”

Minho swallows, eyes lingering on him.

“We already do, baby,” he says, just as quietly. Then, after a small beat and softer still, “But you still went and made it easier for us anyway. Thank you.”

Jisung smiles at him, all soft edges and affection in the morning light.

And then Minho’s expression shifts, a cloud of guilt creeping in once he processes everything.

“All that time… you were working so hard,” he says slowly, “and I acted like a complete jerk.”

Jisung tilts his head slightly. “Well, no. You were there for me all the way, remember? You walked me home, stayed late with me at the library, made sure I actually ate real food. And you also didn’t know any of this. It makes sense you were freaked out.”

Then, unable to help himself—

“And the way you said ‘he’s taken’ was kinda hot, actually,” he adds with a small, teasing smirk.

Minho lets out a soft, disbelieving snort, somewhere between embarrassed and relieved.

Jisung plops back into bed, pulling Minho down with him. He lifts a hand, brushing his thumb gently under Minho’s eye.

“Oh, hyung,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. “My big baby, my darling…”

Minho huffs again, but there’s no real protest in it.

“I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to question us like that,” Jisung continues, more seriously. “I didn’t realize I was pulling away that much. I should’ve made more time, or at least tried to explain. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you were losing me.”

Minho smiles, cradling Jisung’s face in his hands.

“I’m sorry I said those things to you last week,” he says in return. “And I’m sorry I didn’t go after you when you left.”

Jisung shifts a little closer, their foreheads nearly touching, noses barely bumping against each other’s.

“That’s okay, hyung. We’re okay.”

Jisung studies his face for a second longer, like he’s making sure everything that needs to be said has been said.

Then—

“Oh,” he says suddenly, like a thought just popped up.

Minho blinks. “What?”

Jisung’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close.

“If we ever run into him again—Choi Jong-ho,” he says, a little more pointedly now, “you’re still going to have to apologize.”

Minho frowns.

Jisung raises a brow, firm but not unkind. “Seriously, hyung.”

Minho pouts, dragging a hand over his face again. “I know, I know. I just—”

“He didn’t do anything wrong,” Jisung reminds him, softer now, but no less determined. “He must’ve been embarrassed. And I think you scared him a little.”

Minho winces faintly. “Yeah. I figured. I do feel bad.”

Jisung’s thumb brushes his cheek again, grounding, not scolding. “I love you,” he says, “and I know you love me. But let’s not terrorize other people about it.”

Minho huffs out a quiet laugh at that, tension finally easing out of his shoulders.

“Duly noted,” he mumbles. “Can’t promise it won’t happen again, though.”

Jisung snorts softly, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

Minho looks at him for a moment, something open and unguarded in his eyes. Then he leans in.

Jisung barely has time to react before Minho’s lips press fully against his, warm and certain, one hand coming up to cradle his jaw like he needs to anchor him there.

He lets out a surprised hum against Minho’s mouth, instinctively leaning into it for a second before pulling back just enough to speak.

“Hyung—” he gasps, a little breathless, “I’m still sick.”

Minho doesn’t even hesitate.

“Don’t care. My healthy saliva might help,” he murmurs before hungrily closing the distance again.

Jisung’s scandalized protest is swallowed almost immediately by Minho’s lips.

Backstage is chaos—people moving everywhere, music still thumping faintly from the direction of the stage, voices overlapping.

Jisung slips through with a small bouquet in one hand and a cool bottle of ion water in the other, scanning the hallway until he spots his boyfriend.

There.

Minho’s standing off to the side, hair damp with sweat, still slightly catching his breath while a staff member says something to him before leaving.

Jisung doesn’t even think about it. He makes a beeline straight for him.

Minho looks up just in time to register movement before Jisung is right there, holding out the flowers.

“For my darling hyung,” he says with a smug grin.

Minho blinks at the bouquet, then at him, a little surprised. “You got me flowers, baby?”

“And electrolytes,” Jisung adds, lifting the bottle slightly. “I’m a very thoughtful boyfriend.”

Minho scoffs, but there’s a pleased smile tugging at his mouth as he takes both.

Before he can say anything more, a familiar voice cuts in—

“Wow.”

They both turn.

Hyunjin’s leaning against the wall nearby, arms crossed, watching them with a look that’s somewhere between amused and annoyed.

“No flowers for me?” he says. “After I also just gave the performance of my life on literally the same stage as him?”

Jisung snorts. “You wish.”

Hyunjin pushes off the wall, strolling over like he’s been personally wronged. “I danced just as hard as him, you know.”

“Debatable,” Jisung dismisses him easily.

Hyunjin gasps, clutching his chest. “I knew you were biased, but this just sounds like targeted discrimination now. Didn’t you hear all the screams for me out there?”

Jisung snickers. “Tch. That was all for Minho-hyung.”

Hyunjin stares at him for a second, then shakes his head slowly. “I guess love really does make you blind, huh?”

He pretends to think it over, then brightens.

“I’m kinda jealous, though. I have no ongoing love interest these days. Do I need to develop a crush on you for some drama, hyung?” He reaches for Minho’s arm—only for Minho to yank it back immediately, glaring at him in offense.

Jisung sees the opportunity and takes it.

“Fuck off, Jinnie. That’s my boyfriend,” he says calmly. “What made you think he’d want to go out with you anyway?”

It takes three full seconds before Minho groans, covering his face with his free hand, while Hyunjin completely loses it, doubling over with loud, unrestrained cackles.

“Oh my god, hyung—” Hyunjin wheezes, wiping at his eyes. “He’s never gonna let that one go. Oh, I love this show.”

Jisung smiles sweetly in response, entirely unapologetic.

Minho frowns disapprovingly at Hyunjin. “Is it funny?”

Hyunjin immediately straightens up. “No, hyung-nim,” he says with somber politeness. 

Then he turns right back to Jisung, expression twisting again. 

“Ugh. Han Jisung privilege is so real. You get to tease him to death but I breathed wrong the other day and he looked at me like he wanted to pluck out my hair one by one.”

Jisung bursts out laughing. “Aww, that means he likes you,” he coos.

Minho looks like he regrets every decision that led him to this spot. But when Jisung glances back at him, there’s a softness under all the embarrassment—fond, a little helpless, but warm all the same.

Jisung nudges the ion water in his hand. “Drink up, hyung,” he says.

Minho rolls his eyes, but listens, taking a sip.

And just before Hyunjin can start talking again, Minho leans in briefly, pressing a quick thank-you kiss to Jisung’s temple.

Hyunjin makes a loud, disgusted noise.

“Ew. Never mind,” he says, already backing away. “I actually hate this show. I’m leaving.”

“That’s right,” Jisung calls after him, not missing a beat. “Stay away from my boyfriend. He’s taken.”

Minho closes his eyes with a quiet, resigned sigh while Hyunjin waves him off, laughter trailing behind him as he weaves through the busy hallway and disappears from sight.