Archive of Our Own

By the time Jisung gets home from practice, he doesn’t have the energy to do anything he had promised himself he would. Studying, eating, moving. All the exhaustion washes over him as he steps over the threshold of his bedroom, and for a moment, he needs to just—stay still. Close his eyes. Take a deep breath, hold for five seconds, exhale.

It’s late enough into the afternoon for Richard to have woken up, and Jisung seeks comfort in her presence, his unwavering companion throughout those awful, long nights, the one who always listens when he rambles on about whatever it is that he’s studying. He forces his feet to move to her enclosure in the corner of the room and sinks into a crouch.

“Hi, baby,” he says, but even to his own ears, he sounds flat and lifeless. Richard seems to give him a weirded-out look. Or maybe he’s hallucinating. Maybe she’s just happy to see him back home. “Have you had a nice day?”

Richard stares at him, unmoving.

“Yeah,” Jisung whispers. “Me too.”

The short unilateral conversation with his gecko is the most rest he can get before he needs to get to work. No—he can spare a few more minutes to make himself a cup of green tea to get him through the next few hours. It’s supposed to ease nerves, calm you down. A few weeks ago, his mom thrust the box into his hands, saying, Give it a try. The effects haven’t kicked in since then but maybe, like all things do, it needs time to start working.

He throws his bag onto the bed, then makes his way back out of his room, making a beeline for the kitchen downstairs. His housemates—and teammates—aren’t home; half of the team has gone out to grab dinner in their favorite hole-in-the-wall barbecue restaurant after practice.

Jisung wishes he could’ve gone, but just like at the beginning of the semester, he’s drowning in work. It’s depressing that the most he can do these days is grab coffee with his friends when their breaks between classes align. But that’s why he’s working—to finally be able to do more.

The house is quiet. Jisung is thankful for the peace. He uses the few minutes the water takes to boil to rest his eyes again. There’s a headache building in his temples, pulsating to the back of his skull, but he’s been persistently trying to ignore it in hopes it’ll go away on its own.

Five minutes of doubtful respite, and then he’s back upstairs, kicking the door to his room shut, careful not to spill his tea. He leaves the mug on his desk, among all the scattered papers—his iPad should be there somewhere, he’s sure—and flicks on his salt lamp, then the other lamp standing on the windowsill. Ambient lighting is the only way to go. He grabs his laptop, moves things around so that there’s enough space for him to actually set his laptop down, and finally, finally, he gets to work.

Jisung only takes two breaks: one to take a shower, which he drags out, because fuck, he really doesn’t want to go back to Statistical Physics; the next one is when his housemates come back and Jeongin knocks on his door with a take-out bag in his hands, this sweet soul. Jisung wasn’t expecting and didn’t ask them to bring him something to eat, so he’s touched. He’s so emotionally dysregulated that he almost cries when faced with such kindness.

“Don’t stay up too late,” Jeongin tells him before he leaves, even though they both know Jisung will. He has to.

He can’t believe he thought signing up for Planetary Geology would be fun, but as he’s completing his assignment after having worked on it all week and submitting it just before the deadline trickles away, he’s questioning all his life choices.

He jumps between subjects like that, doing his homework and revising content from the last few classes, trying to stay on top of everything now that he’s slowly beginning to catch up. 

Fuck. Jisung can’t wait for when he’s actually on top of things. Maybe his sleep schedule will fix itself if he has one less thing to worry about.

He wants to laugh at the mere thought. From where he’s standing right now, it doesn’t feel possible.

The thing that got him here in the first place is a long-lasting episode of insomnia—he couldn’t rest, fell behind in all of his classes, and made his usually manageable anxiety reach an entirely new height. He’s always been an overthinker, but the stress has been keeping him up at night with even worse severity now that he feels like such a failure. That, in turn, has made him irritable, shitty at hockey, and his skin has been breaking out for the first time in ages.

Insomnia causing insomnia. Who would’ve thought such a vicious circle was possible. Jisung certainly thought he’d grown out of it.

He has tried everything, from herbal infusions to eye masks and black-out curtains, and despite numerous attempts at holding onto some other solution, there is only one thing helping him sleep.

Minho.

Jisung doesn’t really know much about him, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday night, he can tune into Minho’s university radio program at 11 P.M. and be certain that he will actually get some sleep.

He has a game on Wednesday, and he needs to get some rest. Or, rather, amass the few hours of sleep he can manage and hope they last him for tomorrow, because tomorrow he has classes until late in the evening and more assignments to do. He can’t afford to go to sleep late—or not at all.

He had stumbled onto the show by accident—he was battling one of those nights, but at the same time he was too tired to use that time to study, so he lay in bed and jumped from app to app. He was waiting for results for one of his assignments, too, so he ended up opening their university app—and there, at the top of the page, he saw the banner of the radio, of the on-going program, the last segment of the day. It was curiosity, or fate. He clicked it, and he stuck around for more.

Jisung enjoys the show because the host has the same taste in music as him. When he first tuned in, he expected lo-fi, mellow beats. It’s late at night, after all, even though the program is called Minho’s Playroom. Minho—in his head, he’s on a first-name basis with the guy—plays anything ranging from pots-and-pans music to Japanese rock ballads.

But, most importantly, he talks.

He talks about whatever is on his mind, like the new insanely expensive vending machines in the comp-sci building and his housemate who keeps trying to get him and their other housemate to eat dinner together and fun facts and his cats back home. The cat stories are Jisung’s personal favorite, although he enjoys everything Minho talks about. He’s got a calming, mellow voice, and the ability to tell stories in an entertaining way, despite or because of the fact that he often gets distracted and returns to the moments he forgot, and his stories have no beginning and no end.

The radio also accepts calls, but nobody ever calls—at least no one has since the day Jisung started listening. It’s just Minho talking on and on. Sometimes, though, he reads comments—like today.

“Dear Minho-D,” he reads with solemnity. “There’s this girl in my class and we’re doing a group project together. I didn’t pay attention to her before, but now that we’ve been meeting for coffee often, I realized that I’m fearing the day we’ll finish the work. I’m not sure if I have a crush on her, but I think she’s really cute and we get along well. I can’t sleep because I’m thinking about her, so I guess it might be a crush. Crying emoji, crying emoji. Still, I’m not sure if I should confess. I don’t even know if she likes women, and I don’t want to make things awkward between us. I don’t want her to see me differently. What do you think I should do?”

Jisung pouts, wrapping his blanket tighter around himself. Hearing a queer person chew over the idea of confessing their feelings in fear of something so much more painful than just rejection always makes a dull ache appear behind his sternum.

“Ah. I didn’t know I had become cupid, but I will try my best to answer,” Minho says. He gives a thoughtful hum and takes a moment to really consider his words. “Liking someone of the same gender is always a risk.”

Jisung’s heart skips a beat. Is there a chance that he’s queer as well? Jisung has had a feeling, even though he’s not sure why that would matter. There is just something so. . . different about Minho.

“Do you have classes with her next semester? I’m gonna assume you don’t,” Minho carries on. “Either way, I think that the best course of action here would be waiting. If you’re getting along well, you should continue seeing her even after your project is done. Be brave and confident and ask her to hang out! You might find out whether she likes you back this way. And if you’re not sure by the end of the semester, then confess, and if you get rejected, you can avoid seeing her again. That’s what I would do. Once you start thinking someone is cute, it’s game-over, so you’re in huge trouble and you really need to think this through.”

Despite everything, Jisung chuckles to himself. Minho has such a fun way of seeing things.

“I’m cheering you on,” Minho says. “Let me know how it goes!”

He plays Lucky Like That by SNSD to fill the person who left the comment with positive energy. And even though it’s not for him—even though the lyrics don’t apply to his situation—Jisung selfishly steals the good luck for himself.

Maybe he should leave Minho a comment, too.

Time slowly begins trickling towards midnight when sleep starts to pull Jisung under. He listens to Minho yap on about the latest update of this manhwa he’s reading with his eyes closed, enjoying his indignant huffs and his laughter more than it’s proper.

In the end, he doesn’t even manage to pull out his earphones before he’s falling asleep.

★

The Wednesday game is awful.

★

All Jisung wants when he’s lying in bed that night is respite. He’s been seething with indispellable frustration and anxiety since the game ended, especially after the talk coach had given him.

You either put in the work or you need to find another hobby.

As if Jisung is just being lazy on purpose rather than struggling to juggle all his responsibilities and everyone’s disappointment.

Maybe he should find a new hobby. Maybe he should get up right now, walk into a forest, and disappear forever. Maybe there’s nothing to fuck up there. No. He would probably fall asleep and somehow cause a wildfire and kill five hundred endemic species of fauna and flora.

Fuck. He wants to cry, seriously. He doesn’t know what else to do at this point. No matter how hard he tries, how much of himself he gives gives and gives, all his efforts, whether it’s self-care, his studies, or hockey, are in vain.

It’s crushing.

The only thing he’s looking forward to is tuning into Minho’s Playroom. He has already washed up and gotten comfortable in his bed, earphones in, green tea on his nightstand, and he listens to the interlude music, waiting for the show to start.

Within the first few minutes of the program, Jisung is already distracted from his revolting anxiety.

At least until Minho brings up hockey.

Hockey, of all fucking things.

He has never talked about it before—at least since the moment Jisung started listening. Exuberant prices at his favorite restaurant, his weekend getaway to Tokyo, the fact that he had to become a plumber because his landlord refused to pay for the repair of the sink in his bathroom—not hockey. Never hockey.

That’s why it felt safe to listen to him. None of his topics ever touched the root of Jisung’s anxiety.

He has always agreed with Minho’s rants about their university, so to hear him suddenly talk about how the hockey team got a thirty-million-won upgrade of their fancy ice-rink while other teams, like the dance team, have to beg for scraps and write a thousand letters just to get approved a small budget for new costumes, knocks him off his kilter.

“I mean, if the team pulled the results from last year, I probably wouldn’t be this annoyed,” Minho says. “But as of right now, they’re nowhere near deserving of the preferential treatment.”

Jisung clenches his jaw.

It gets worse from there.

“The whole team seems to be in some kind of lethargy, but the most jarring thing is the lack of energy from their center. Ah, I don’t remember what his name is. But everyone knows who I’m talking about, for sure,” Minho says. And, fuck. Yes, Jisung knows. Because Minho is talking about him. “He was the star of the team, but it seems that since last season, he burned bright and burned out.”

Jisung blinks up at the ceiling, unable to fight the wave of nausea washing over him. The hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach makes him want to lean over the edge of his bed and hurl.

He feels—hurt. Which is stupid. This is just some guy. Some guy talking about something he clearly has no clue about.

“Anyway, I just remembered this because my friend from the dance team gave me a song recommendation,” Minho carries on. ”We went to see the game and she told me, God, that was so depressing, we need to go to a party. And we didn’t, because we both have work tomorrow, but we listened to this.”

Jisung’s brain doesn’t even register what song is playing. He tunes out everything other than Minho’s voice as he said he burned bright and burned out. That’s how it feels. Like a burn-out. Except it’s so stupid to say it out loud. Oh, everyone thinks I’m the best so now I can’t sleep and I play worse than a ten-year-old child. It actually does make him sound like a child.

The sleep he falls into that night is shallow and restless, nothing like what it usually feels like to doze off listening to the program.

He’s in a bad mood on Thursday, cranky and hurt. His ego is in shambles, even though he wishes he could shake it off like it’s nothing. So what if Minho thinks he’s shit? The entire student body thinks the same, probably. Ha. 

Either way, Jisung can’t help it. He even asks his friends if they know the guy who does a radio segment then, the graveyard shift, but they don’t know. Changbin knows someone who works there, but it’s just because he hooked up with the guy once and that was it, his ego got a little bruised when the guy didn’t text him the next day, so he can’t help Jisung locate this Minho person. And, anyway, they don’t listen to the university radio, of course. Who the hell does that?

“Why are you even trying to find him?” Jeongin asks, pulling a lollipop out of his mouth with a loud pop.

Jisung blushes. “Eh. He said something during the broadcast that left me with. . . questions. No big deal.”

On Friday, he lets himself be dragged to a party over at Chan and Changbin’s place, but he leaves before he can even get two beers in. He’s not in the mood for drinking or talking or dancing around. For a second there, when he locks eyes with a pretty boy across the room, he feels almost tempted to stick around, though, but ultimately, he decides to raid their kitchen for a bag of sour gummy bears and head out.

A walk home will be good for him.

“We’ve got a game next week, and I need to get some sleep,” he tells the guys before leaving, when they all wrap their arms around him and, on the precipice of drunkenness, whine for him to stay. 

He doesn’t give in.

The walk home isn’t long even though Jisung drags his feet, trying to enjoy the peace and quiet of their residential area in the middle of the night. When he gets home, he washes up, downs a few sleeping pills, and hopes for the best. It sort-of works, because instead of tossing and turning all night, he ends up sleeping through two of his alarms and wasting away half a day in bed.

That has to count as some wicked progress, no?

Then, on Saturday night, he ends up tuning into Minho’s show again. He doesn’t know why. He should be annoyed by Minho’s comments from last time. He is. He’s hurt. But it’s hard to let go of the habit, the excitement and anticipation that accompanies Jisung three nights a week just before the clock strikes eleven. He still needs to get some sleep.

It’s not like Minho lied, either, alright. That’s the worst part.

As always, when the first song comes to an end, Minho begins the program saying, “This is Minho, broadcasting from the cozy, dim-lit KU basement. Don’t worry, it’s still not because I’ve been kidnapped.”

It’s silly, but Jisung still finds the bit charming. Very Minho-like, he would say if he knew Minho well enough.

Minho launches into a short update of what happened over the last two days, talking about his early-morning runs and the stray cat he fed with Churu and how there’s this grandma at his workplace that he’s pretty sure is genuinely hitting on him, and not for any of her grandchildren. 

Just before he plays the next song, he reminds everyone—a whopping amount of thirty-one people listening—that they can call in or write comments in the chat.

“I’m jealous, because people actually call in for the other shows,” he says, and Jisung can’t see him, but he can almost hear the pout in his voice. “I don’t know if it’s the hour, or if everyone’s tuning in and immediately falling asleep so the numbers are skewed. Or if you just like the other hosts more than me, in which case I will quit and drop out and lie down in the middle of campus to get trampled on.”

Against himself, Jisung laughs. Then, he draws his brows together and glares at his own ceiling, annoyed by his own behavior. Fuck.

Fuck Minho and his stupid program and the fact that even though Jisung is trying to be upset with him, Minho is still the only person who makes his tired, hyperactive brain slow down.

After the song ends, toxic till the end by ROSÉ—which Jisung has had on his playlist since it came out, so he’s once again giving Minho a nod for enjoying the same songs as him—Minho says, “This one’s good no? It’s funny, because I heard it at the party I went to last night and my first thought was ah, I need to play this on the radio. Aren’t I just such a good host? I always think about you guys.”

He breaks into a laugh while Jisung’s head spins.

Minho was at the party?

Heart thundering in his chest, he tries to rationalize—maybe there was another party going on last night, maybe it was something else. But for some reason, Jisung doubts it—the only people who would throw a party at the same time as Bang Chan would be the people who weren’t invited, and most people are. And if they’re not, then they must be absolute assholes—which Minho doesn’t seem to be, regardless of his opinions on hockey.

There’s also the fact that Jisung personally added this particular song to the roster for the party. It feels like fate—Jisung just doesn’t know if it’s the universe laughing at him, or the complete opposite.

He wonders if he saw Minho, and he just didn’t realize. After all, he has no idea what Minho looks like.

But he’d left early, so probably not. They must’ve missed each other.

What a shame.

As he listens to the song, his favorite song of the month, Jisung almost forgives him the slight from the last show. Almost. 

Because some time later, Minho says, “The next song will be happier. I have to play it now because next Monday I’m going to another hockey game, and I need a power-up. Also, I might die from boredom and I won’t be able to do the show that night. So, this is Weekend by Taeyeon.”

Jisung’s heart skips a beat.

Minho will come to the game. And he’s already expecting to die from boredom. Wow. Okay. So he must really, really hate them. Either the sport as a whole, or the team—but then why come to the game at all? Does he have nothing better to do with his time? He seems so fun, so busy, always has something new to say, an anecdote to share. Certainly, he can find something to entertain himself with instead of doing something that fills him with such annoyance.

Jisung sits up in his bed.

Fuck this, he thinks. What the hell is Minho’s problem? He doesn’t sound like he has ever been interested in hockey, so however badly the team performs should be none of his business. And yet.

His show has become such a haven for Jisung during those lonely, sleepless nights, but now that he’s hearing about this, he’s annoyed, and so unreasonably hurt. He can’t help it, no matter how pathetic it feels. He’s always been emotional, and it’s only gotten worse in the last few months.

This feels like psychological torture.

As the song trickles to an end and Minho comes back to talk about whatever—at this point Jisung is too distracted to think straight or process what Minho is saying—Jisung makes up his mind.

He copies the number on the screen of his tablet to his phone and, without a moment of hesitation, pulls one of his earphones out and makes the call go through.

The hesitation comes when he hears the dial tone. His heart starts hammering in his chest, but by the time he thinks of ending the call, thinks about what the hell he’s actually doing, it’s already too late.

Minho has noticed.

Jisung hears the surprise in his voice as the call comes in. The dial tone sounds through the speakers, almost deafening through the amplifier of Jisung’s nervousness.

“I really hope this isn’t a telemarketer,” Minho says.

Against himself, Jisung almost laughs. He’s trying to be upset with him, but Minho is so distracting, he can’t think straight.

All his thoughts evaporate when Minho picks up.

“Hello?” he says tentatively, as if he really is expecting it to be a spam call or someone trying to sell him a cookware set through an elaborate scheme.

Jisung’s heart jumps to his throat. He pulls the other earphone out so that he doesn’t hear the echo of the program still playing on his tablet. Then, he says, “Hi.”

Minho’s breath is soft at the other end of the line. “Did you really mean to call this radio, or is this a very strange butt-dial situation?”

“Yes,” Jisung says through a soft laugh. Softer than he intended himself to be. After all, this—laughing with Minho—is not why he’s making a fool out of himself and calling in. “I mean, I did mean to call the radio. I did not butt-dial you.”

Minho snickers. “You have just earned the honor of being my first caller,” he says. “Also, I feel like I have to tell you that this is being recorded for archival purposes. I mean, nobody will ever listen to this, probably, but just so you’re aware.”

“Uhm. Okay.”

Not like Jisung was planning to curse him out, but—alright. Good to know.

“Okay,” Minho echoes. “So. . . What are you calling us with tonight?”

Jisung draws in a stabilizing breath. “What you’re saying about hockey. . . It’s bullshit.”

That’s much easier to say than I heard what you said and, because I’m irresponsibly emotionally attached to your program, hearing you implicitly say that you hate me because I’ve started playing like crap hurt me.

Jisung might be calling a university radio just short of midnight to argue with the host, but he hasn’t gone completely crazy.

Minho makes a kind-of startled noise. Obviously, he wasn’t expecting someone to call about hockey of all things. “Okay, then. Let’s talk about that. Are you their fan?”

“No, I’m. . .” Jisung starts, then trails off. Fuck. He can’t really say, Oh, I’m Han Jisung, the guy you just called a burned-out star. “I’m. . . more than just a fan.”

Minho laughs.

Jisung wishes he could be annoyed by his amusement, but the sound is so. . . sweet and bright, and if he was deeply in the trenches of insanity he would say it makes him think of small, furry kittens and fairies with glittering, fluttery wings, and pink cotton candy. But he’s normal, so it only makes his stomach feel funny.

He’s pathetic.

“Alright, I didn’t know we had such serious fanclubs on campus,” Minho says. “What is it exactly that you think is bullshit, from what I said?”

“A few mediocre games shouldn’t write the whole team off,” Jisung argues, although mediocre doesn’t really cut it. They’ve been awful this season. “Sure, the results aren’t as good as last year, but the team is still in the top 5.”

“Hm. But don’t you think that they should be striving to play even better than last year?” Minho muses. “It feels like they’re taking it easy precisely because they touched success. They achieved this and that, and there’s nothing more to do, so they’re becoming complacent.”

“You can’t seriously look at them and think they’re fine with the results,” Jisung says, remembering his own anger from the last game, the way Chan tossed his helmet to the floor, the deafening silence in the locker room. “I mean, there’s clearly something going on with them. I don’t think it’s right to look at them, a few weeks into the season, and immediately doom them to failure. What if they’re just going through a rough patch? What if the pressure to live up to the expectations and be the best in the league is too much and they have work aside from the team and they can’t sleep out of anxiety and it’s all reflecting in their game?”

Jisung is breathless by the time he’s done speaking, his chest pulled apart by guilt and shame.

Minho stays silent for a moment. “I can sympathize with that,” he says finally. Sincerely. “But it also doesn’t change the fact that it’s hard to watch. And I can only judge what they show me on the rink, no?”

Jisung huffs. Well, yes, he thinks. Still—“Why do you even go to their games if you don’t like them so much?”

Minho gives a curt laugh. “That’s a very good question,” he says. “The truth is, my friends always drag me along. The first game I saw—I was lured in because they said that sometimes, the players lose their teeth, and I wanted to see for myself.”

Jisung laughs, despite everything—his annoyance and sadness and his attempt at remaining somewhat cold towards Minho. Fuck. “That does happen often,” he mumbles, embarrassed. “It happened during the first game of the season, too. But it was the other team, not ours.”

“Ah, see. Maybe if they’d lost some teeth, they’d feel more motivated,” Minho says, laughter lingering in his voice. “Also, it’s not that I hate them. I mean, I’m mostly indifferent. The preferential treatment the university authorities show towards varsity sports, mostly hockey, is what I hate. And then, I think the game’s just boring. I mean, not as boring as football—” Jisung laughs, because, yeah, football is awful. At least they can agree on that. Minho snickers, too, but he carries on smoothly. “But still. They should do better. If they already have to be treated like royalty, they should at least give us a reason, don’t you think?”

Jisung swallows hard. “I’m sure they’re trying,” he says.

He sounds pathetically sad, like a kitten abandoned on the side of a road, even to his own ears. But, fuck, he really is trying, and he knows the other guys are, too. They’re slamming it out at practice, giving every game their best. It’s just now, their best is not what people have come to expect of them.

“Hm.” Minho pauses. Then, his voice a little softer, he says, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t really expecting anyone to feel offended. Sometimes I run my mouth and I forget people are actually listening to what I say.”

Jisung lets out a soft sigh. “It’s fine,” he says. “Maybe. . . Maybe there’s a player listening as well, and he’ll feel motivated to prove you wrong.”

Minho laughs. “Let’s hope so.”

Then, a moment of silence passes between them. Jisung almost forgets it’s not a private phone call, that there’s thirty people listening to their conversation now. Twenty-nine. Just as he thinks it, someone turns off the livestream.

Minho clears his throat. Says, “Alright. Since you’re already on the line, and you’ve been brave enough to call, I’ll give you a chance to choose one song for tonight.” He pauses. “Unless it’s bad. If it’s a shitty song, I’m not gonna play it. I will actually block your number.”

Jisung laughs. He doesn’t say, Don’t worry, we might be musical soulmates. He says, “Point by Yerin Baek.”

Minho makes a noise of approval. “Great choice. Thank you for calling.”

Jisung almost feels compelled to say something along the lines of your show is helping me sleep, so thank you for doing it. But it feels so heavy in the moment—uncalled for or unfitting. He just ends the call.

He puts his earphones back into his ears, returning to Minho praising his choice of song on air again. As it plays, he wonders, like a fool, if Minho is going over their conversation in his head, too. He probably isn’t. He’s probably just surprised someone called the radio—and to confront him, too. He probably thinks Jisung is a weirdo.

Minho spends the rest of the show playing songs from Yerin Baek, interjecting them with random stories and his thoughts, like the spider he has just seen crawl over the keyboard in the studio that’s making him think of how his cat back at home, Dori, likes chasing bugs around the house to eat them.

Jisung wishes he was an unfunny asshole that expresses his shitty opinions in a gruff voice, but unfortunately for him, Minho is the complete opposite.

Still, he takes his remarks to heart. He has Minho in the back of his mind during the next game. He hears his voice saying that Jisung had burned bright and burned out like a vicious mantra.

He still doesn’t know what Minho looks like, but he searches for him in the stands, as if the moment their eyes lock, something electric will travel up his spine and he will know.

He doesn’t find him, of course.

And yet, that doesn’t change the fact that he wants to prove Minho wrong. It’s all he wants—for Minho to stop thinking that he’s a complacent, lazy loser.

To do that, he pushes past his own bone-deep exhaustion and the ache in his skull that comes from spending a few nights too many studying and practicing until late. He’s not sure why the opinion of someone he virtually does not know matters to him so much, but he does his best to show his best side either way.

Everyone in this university could use a reminder that he’s good, really. That he’s the star of the team and he’s been called that for a reason. Regardless of insomnia and academic stagnation.

They somehow manage to end the game on a tie. It’s not as good as winning, but it’s obvious by the result—4:4—that they’ve given it their best. And Jisung has scored two of those points, so when he gets off the rink, he kind of wants to burst into tears.

He holds it in, somehow, but there’s something about finally hearing good job, Jisung-ah from the coach that makes his eyes sting again. Keep it up, he says. And Jisung promises, swears to himself that he will.

Even if it kills him, he will.

That night, as he lies in bed, listening to the radio program, he feels the anticipation buzzing under his skin again. Stronger than usual. His stomach is in knots, even though he doesn’t know what he’s so nervous about.

He waits for Minho to mention hockey, perking up every time a song ends and Minho begins speaking, but minutes trickle by without a word from him. It almost feels like he’s teasing him, dangling the topic just out of Jisung’s reach.

Maybe he didn’t go to the game after all. That’s also a possibility—one Jisung doesn’t want to entertain much, considering he played so well because he imagined Minho being there. Maybe his friends weren’t going and he didn’t see a reason to go on his own. Maybe he found something better to do. Maybe he really would’ve died from boredom.

But then, finally, Minho says, “I don’t know if the guy from Saturday night is listening, but. . . Alright, the hockey team was better this week, but they still weren’t on top of their game. They can do so much better than a tie.”

Jisung suppresses the urge to. . . he’s not sure. Squeal, maybe. Let out a half-indignant, half-excited noise into the quiet of the night.

He grabs his phone and calls in. This time, without a second of hesitation. He’s not sure if Minho recognizes his number, or if he has a feeling it must be Jisung, but the second the call comes through, he launches right into it.

“You know nothing about hockey, do you?” he asks.

Minho laughs. “Nothing. But I have eyes, and I know when a game is bad,” he says. Then, he pauses for a second. “Hi. Do you have a name, secret caller?”

Jisung purses his mouth. If he says his real name, Minho will probably figure out he’s on the team. And if not him, then someone else will connect the dots and say so in the comments. Wait, Jisung as in. . . Han Jisung? The center of the hockey team? That would be humiliating.

“Peter,” he says.

There’s curiosity in Minho’s tone as he asks, “Are you an exchange student? That would explain why you’re so into hockey. Where is it that they love it so much? Eh, Canada? I think it’s Canada.”

“No,” Jisung says, laughing. “I’m just trying to remain secret. Like Spider-man.”

Minho straight-up giggles. Fuck. What the fuck? How is it possible that a grown man can laugh so cutely? Jisung wants to crawl through his phone and eat him alive.

He refuses to linger on that thought.

“Alright, Peter,” Minho says, drawing out the syllables into a sing-song. “So, what do you have to say about the last game?”

Jisung smiles up at the ceiling.

“It might’ve been a tie, but it was a vicious one. Something they obviously fought for,” he says. “The other team went into this game thinking it would be an easy win, and it wasn’t. You could see that. Even if you know nothing about hockey.”

“Hm. I have to give you that,” Minho says, amusement lingering in his voice. “Maybe there is still a chance for them to turn things around. But then again, one game hardly changes anything.”

“You love being stubborn and contrarian, no?” Jisung asks. He makes an attempt at sounding exasperated, but it doesn’t land right. Fondness is what shines through.

Minho laughs. “I do. But take it positively—I believe in them. I believe they can do better. Isn’t that good?”

Jisung’s stomach flutters. He’s not sure if Minho is fucking with him or not, but it doesn’t sound like it. Maybe he has changed his mind, from poking fun at their awful results to genuinely cheering them on. Maybe with reserve, but—still.

“It is,” Jisung agrees. “We will see if your kind words work better to motivate them than your hate.”

“Yah!” Minho exclaims, laughing, blissfully oblivious to the way Jisung presses his phone harder against his ear. “We’ve already established that I never hated them.”

“Right, right. You were just indifferent,” says Jisung. “Now, you almost sound like a fan.”

Minho huffs. “No way. They have to do better than that if they want me to be their fan. As an impartial spectator, I’m still not entertained.”

“An impartial spectator,” Jisung echoes, unable to hold back his laughter. He quickly settles down, glancing at the door of his bedroom, when he remembers what time it is. He doubts his housemates are sleeping, but he shouldn’t be cackling so loudly when it’s almost midnight. “You’re full of it.”

Minho makes a scandalized noise. “How dare you insult me on my own radio show? Rude,” he says with a potent scoff. “I was going to ask you to give me a song to play, but I’ve changed my mind, Peter.”

And then, he hangs up. Just like that—no beating around the bush.

Jisung pulls his phone away from his ear, gawking at the dimming screen, then scrambles to put his earphones back in. For a moment, a split second, he’s afraid he actually managed to offend Minho, but when he returns to the program, Minho is laughing away, delighted to have teased him.

“Ah. Sorry, Peter. That’s just how I show affection, and you’re one of my most dedicated listeners,” Minho says. He has no idea that Jisung’s stomach flips. “Just for you, I’ll play EXO’s Peter Pan. Don’t go anywhere.”

Jisung isn’t planning to.

★

Jisung’s heart skitters to a stop when he hears Minho’s voice on campus.

He and Jeongin are waiting for Chan in front of the Phy Edu building, sipping iced-americano through fun, heart-shaped straws. Life needs a bit of cuteness, that’s the philosophy Jisung is implementing from now on. They’re supposed to pick Chan up and head to practice together, since it’s on their way, but Chan is taking forever sucking up to his professor after class or whatever it is that he always does.

Jisung is bored. 

His nose is buried deep in his phone; he’s absentmindedly scrolling through a fight that erupted in the comments of an anonymous forum post complaining about the half-naked pictures plastered all over one of the dorm buildings featuring—as everyone is speculating—at least two members of the varsity baseball team. Apparently, they’ve been screwing over some very vindictive girls—multiple of them at the same time. The comments are calling it peanut-gate.

Jisung is about to leave a like on one of them when he hears it.

That familiar laugh.

Over the course of the last few months, he has engraved the sound in his memory. He would recognize it anywhere. The high-pitched giggle punctuated with that airy, prolonged ah at the end.

His head snaps up, eyes widening as he glances around, almost frantic in his pursuit. He wasn’t paying attention; he doesn’t know where the sound came from, who made it. The guy walking past? This way? That way? Or maybe the one sitting on the bench, wearing a snapback, smiling at whatever some girl is showing him on her phone?

His entire body seizes up.

He knows he must look crazy, looking around and almost breaking his neck in the process, because Jeongin asks, “What are you doing, hyung?”

His eyebrows are drawn together in worry. They live together—he knows that Jisung doesn’t sleep. Maybe he’s thinking that his insomnia has now evolved into daytime hallucinations. But no—after their last game, Jisung felt relaxed enough to finish his coursework without feeling like a total failure, and now he’s more-or-less caught-up. He’s not entirely on top of every single class, but he’s doing better. Sleeping more, too.

Still, he can’t tell his friends about Minho—about their late-night banter and his odd attachment to the guy’s voice. It would make him sound insane.

Hyunjin once made fun of him, asked who Jisung was talking to in the middle of the night, and Jisung had to play coy, because there aren’t many things more embarrassing than arguing for the honor of your hockey team with the host of your university radio show.

Jisung gives one last look over the courtyard, but nobody stands out to him and he doesn’t hear the laughter again.

Fuck. Maybe he is having hallucinations.

He gives Jeongin a shaky smile. “Nothing. Just. . . Just thought I heard something.”

★

They play the next game against Kwangwoon University, over in Nowon-gu, so he doesn’t expect Minho to come. Twenty minutes in the subway on a Tuesday evening is probably too much commitment for someone who doesn’t actively like hockey.

Still, Jisung plays as if Minho is watching. And personally cheering him on, but that’s even more humiliating to admit. Even just thinking about it in his own head, he cringes.

They take home a 7:4 win, which—after all that suffering—feels beyond exhilarating. They might as well have won the entire league. A celebratory party is immediately called for Friday, but all Jisung can think about is how finally, he can go to sleep and feel relieved.

Minho brings hockey up during the next program. Says, “I heard we won. What a shame that a game so exciting happened on the enemy turf. Or perhaps that’s better? I’m sure the other teams were excited to crush us when they played on our campus.”

Just like the last time, Jisung doesn’t even hesitate before calling in. He doesn’t introduce himself, either.

“Were you there?” he asks, holding his breath in anticipation without even knowing.

“No. I had work,” Minho says. And Jisung expected this, he knew, but he feels the disappointment press against his sternum all the same. “And, anyway, sorry, but I don’t trust the team enough to risk wasting two thousand won on the subway fare and hours of my life just for them to end up losing. That money can get me at least one fishcake skewer.”

It’s embarrassing just how easily Minho can make Jisung laugh, especially that he is, technically, insulting him and his team.

If he was any more embarrassing, he would say something stupid like, Come to the next game and I’ll buy you all the fishcake skewers you want. Still, he has some remnants of dignity left in him, so he bites his tongue.

“Have you considered you might be the one bringing the team bad luck?” he teases instead, grinning to himself in the dim-lit comfort of his own bedroom. He wishes he could see Minho’s face when he pokes fun at him, when they talk.

Minho scoffs at the other end of the line. “That’s just rude,” he says, but the amusement seeping through his voice tells a different story. “You need to make up your mind. Is my ranting motivating them, or am I a jinx?”

“Both, I’d say. You should try not coming to the next home game too. We should test the theory.”

That’s what Jisung tells him but, in reality, the thought of Minho not being there makes him want to protest. Throw himself to the ground and scream. He’s gotten used to the idea of him in the stands; of showing off for him even though Minho doesn’t know Peter is on the ice, and Jisung doesn’t know what Minho looks like.

“No. If they lose, I need to be there, and if they win, I also need to be there,” Minho argues.

Jisung laughs. “And you’re trying to tell me you’re not a fan?”

“Yah, I’m gonna hang up on you again,” Minho threatens, but it falls flat, because he’s the one who keeps the conversation going. “You know, I kind of am excited. We might have a shot at beating Yonsei after all.”

Hopefully. 

“Ah, so the thing that can get you to really cheer for the team is a vicious, long-standing rivalry with another school,” Jisung says, amused.

Every time they play against Yonsei, it’s an event. People wear red all week. They paint tiger stripes on their faces and post tons of funny videos online taunting the other university. Losing a game like that is not an option.

“Yeah. Listen, I might not be a sports fan,” says Minho, “but when something like that happens, I do feel the spirit of community possess me.”

Jisung laughs. “I feel like this is a wide-spread phenomenon,” he says. “We never struggle to fill out seats when we play against Yonsei, even outside of Ko-Yon Jeon.”

There’s a pause at the other end of the line, but before Jisung can let his thoughts linger on it, Minho is speaking again, distracting him with words much worse than anything he’s ever said before.

“And, anyway, I heard that Han Jisung scored five of those seven goals,” he says, sounding impressed. “Could it be that our star is shining again? I’m glad if that’s the case.”

Jisung blushes, ducking his head shyly. And it’s stupid—Minho doesn’t know he’s complimenting him, and Jisung is still getting flustered.

“Uhm. Yeah. He seems to be doing better,” he says. “Obviously, he’s nothing without the team and their assists, but when he’s energetic, it seems to pull everyone forward.”

“Should I take credit for that?” Minho jokes.

Jisung breaks into another laugh. “Yeah. Sure,” he says, putting up a sarcastic act while his thoughts swirl around the words yes, you should, you’re helping me so much and you have no idea, I want to prove myself to you, I want to show you I’m not a failure.

COMMENT:
ming.deul: can you two stop flirting. . . people are trying to sleep here. . .

★

The sunlight streaming through the library window right onto Jisung’s notebook full of half-finished equations feels like it’s mocking him. He wishes they’d stayed outside, where no movement out of the corner of his eye pulled him out of his thoughts, but it was impossible to focus at the picnic tables, so they changed the venue.

What for, he asks himself now, when instead of studying, his friends only seem distracted.

Changbin is pretending to be resting his eyes but he’s full-blown napping. Hyunjin is pretending not to eat to abide by the rules, but ducking his head into his bag to take a bite of his croissant makes him look like an idiot instead. Jeongin is on his phone, smiling like a fool, probably flirting with that girl he’s been getting to know.

And then there’s Jisung.

He taps his foot against the floor, looking around with something akin to anticipation. He can’t help it. He knows that the studio where the university radio broadcasts their shows from is in the basement. He’s not sure why he expects Minho to be around, though. At this time of day, on a Tuesday. He doesn’t have a program now—not even tonight. Minho isn’t going to be here. And even if he was, what would be the chances of him choosing to show up here, of all floors, of all nooks? And how would Jisung even know it was him? 

But the feelings raging through Jisung don’t adhere to any logic.

After hearing Minho’s laughter that one time, he has begun paying more attention to his surroundings when he’s on campus. It doesn’t seem like much, but he’s on his way to reach the absolute peak of madness. His friends have repeatedly asked him if he’s running from someone or avoiding a failed hook-up, bringing up that girl who latched onto Chan last year and acted like his groupie. He could only laugh.

He once heard someone call out Minho oppa! and almost tripped over his own feet. There are, statistically, probably at least two hundred Minhos enrolled in KU. Fuck, there’s even one in his Statistical Physics class, if not more. He doesn’t really know most of his classmates’ names; there’s just too many of them, alright.

The point is, Jisung has been trying to find out who Minho is.

His friends don’t know him, as it has already been established, and the name is pretty, but generic enough for nothing to come up when he searches him up on Instagram. He even looks through the followers of the Anam Tigers’ account, just in case Minho happens to follow it. It doesn’t feel very likely, considering his attitude towards hockey, but regardless of the fact, Jisung still imagines Minho watching one of those stupid reels they film, dance challenges and whatnot.

He imagines Minho seeing him and thinking he’s pretty. That he’s charming and has a sweet smile, despite all the recent mishaps on the rink.

Fuck. He’s developing a crush on a guy he knows nearly nothing about, isn’t he?

Of course something like this would happen to him. So many people want to go out with him on the sole premise that he’s on the hockey team, but his heart sets itself on the one guy who doesn’t like hockey at all.

Still, there is a flutter of excitement in Jisung’s chest at the prospect of hearing Minho’s voice—his funny stories and honest thoughts. Even his mean quips. He has always liked listening to him, but now that he calls in and they actually talk. . . It feels real.

Like Minho is real.

Jisung does call in almost every time, encouraged by the fact that Minho keeps bringing hockey up, almost as if he’s dangling a bait in front of him, waiting for Jisung to bite. Even when the team is on a break and there are no games to comment. I’m trying to catch up on my hockey knowledge, he will say. Is calling each other a beauty really a thing? What does it mean when someone freezes the puck? Why can’t they just play longer, like in football? 

Sometimes, he doesn’t even realize when their on-air conversation strays away from hockey and ventures into the territories of literally anything else. Movies, school, housemate misadventures. When it’s not about sports—or hockey, at least—they get along really well.

And every time they finish talking—often because someone reminds Minho in the chat that he hasn’t played a single song in over ten minutes—and Minho returns to the microphone, his voice is still full of laughter.

It feels almost as good as winning a game does.

★

Before they begin their on-ice stretches before the next game, Jisung sees Jeongin wave to someone with a dashing, toothy grin. The stands aren’t yet filled completely, so when Jisung curiously follows his gaze, it isn’t hard to figure out who he’s greeting.

His eyes land on a girl—dark hair pulled into a low ponytail with a few loose strands framing her face, full lips upturned into a smile, and her eyes big and glimmering as she gives a shy wave back.

“Is that her?” Jisung asks, slinging an arm around Jeongin’s shoulders. He doesn’t even pretend to not be staring. “The girl you’ve been talking to?”

Jeongin tries to shake him off, pretending to be hassled by Jisung’s affection. He’s still smiling and his cheeks are getting progressively redder, though. He’s always been one to blush easily. It’s sweet.

“Yeah, her name’s Minju,” he relents. “We’ve been on a date.”

Jisung gasps, staring at him with disbelief. “What? And you didn’t tell me? I thought I was your favorite hyung and your favorite housemate. How could you not have told me?”

“Didn’t wanna jinx it,” Jeongin mumbles. He doesn’t deny that Jisung is his favorite, which is a kind of information Jisung happily tucks away to marvel over later. Take that, Hyunjin. “Also, I didn’t want you guys to tease me. It’s embarrassing.”

Jisung softens in the face of his shyness. How adorable. Jeongin is pretty much anti-situationship and anything that isn’t a well-defined, committed relationship, which is why he always groans and calls the rest of the guys trash when they share their adventures of sleeping around and jumping from one flower to the next. This is clearly a big deal to him.

Jisung gets him—he’s a romantic, after all, and he attaches way too easily for his own good—but he can’t really speak since he’s had his fair share of adventures. Whatever. He went into every bed hoping for a spark, that instant connection of souls, a zing up his spine.

Surely, Jeongin would understand.

The fact that he’d never felt anything more than curiosity—which, twice, even bloomed into a few actual dates—is another thing.

“I would never tease you,” he says, jutting his lips out in a pout that turns into a grin when Jeongin gives him a doubtful look. “Maybe just a little. But—listen, you know I love romantic stories, so I want all the details. We should buy soju, watch a movie, and you can tell me all about it. Promise I’ll keep it all a secret.”

“Tonight?”

Jisung falters.

Tonight, Minho has his program, which Jisung can’t miss, and he knows that if he and Jeongin put on a movie, especially with alcohol involved, they will spend the whole night talking.

“Ah, I can’t tonight,” Jisung says, hoping there won’t be any prodding questions.

Of course, Jeongin asks, “Why not? You’ve been acting weird lately. Do you have plans with someone?”

Jisung lets out a laugh. “Silly,” he says, flicking Jeongin’s forehead. “I’m just gonna have to sleep the game off. But how about tomorrow?”

Jeongin narrows his eyes, studying Jisung’s face for a moment, but he ultimately decides Jisung isn’t lying—which he actually isn’t, when you really think about it—and says, “Alright. Tomorrow it is.”

He looks towards the stands again, and Jisung is compelled to do the same, eyes flitting from the fond look on Jeongin’s face—fuck, it’s so cute!—to the girl. She isn’t even looking their way anymore, and he’s still staring so fondly. She’s talking to the guy sitting beside her, and it’s obvious he’s teasing her because she knocks their shoulders together and raises her fist, threatening to punch him. Then, they simultaneously look in the direction of Jisung and Jeongin again.

Jisung blinks.

He feels like he has seen him somewhere, this guy. But then again, he doesn’t have a good memory when it comes to people’s faces. He might be in one of his classes, or they might’ve passed each other on campus. Maybe he saw him looking back in the mirror when he went to the restroom. Who knows. He’s pretty, though; Jisung can tell even with the dark green snapback obscuring a bit of his face. But, well. It doesn’t matter if he’s pretty, because he’s not Minho.

Ugh.

Fuck, seriously? Jisung is such a loser.

Somehow, he makes it through the game without thinking about Minho much. Well, not more than what’s proper and good for him. He doesn’t come back out on the ice after getting slammed against the boards at the end of the second period, but he doesn’t need to worry, because they win that game, too.

It’s awful that his first thought is, Finally a winning game that Minho saw. Of course, he can’t be sure Minho is actually in the stands—he said he’d come, but something might’ve always come up, and it’s not like they have the means to communicate outside of the radio.

Minho could always call him, if he wanted, though. He has Jisung’s number, after all.

(He tries not to let it bum him out too much that he hasn’t yet.)

But Minho did see the game—he says as much during the program. As usual, he talks about other things before getting into it, waiting until he has Jisung at the edge of his seat. Well, bed.

“Ah, this is the first win of theirs that I’ve seen this season, so it was pretty exciting,” Minho admits. “Peter is probably listening to this and laughing, thinking he’s been proven right, but that still doesn’t mean I’m a fan! It’s just nice to be a part of a cheering crowd.”

Jisung grins. He already has his phone in his hand. He’s been ready to call since the show began, really. When it comes through, he says, “I don’t know what’s worse. You being a bandwagoner or a conformist.”

Minho laughs. “I’m neither,” he says with conviction. “I’m just glad the team seems to be making progress and stepping away from whatever the hell was going on at the beginning of the season. What do you think?”

“It was an entertaining game, but a tough win,” Jisung says. He almost lost his mind watching the last period from the bench, he was so nervous. “I think that a lot of the teams in the league now think that we’re easy to beat, so we have a lot more to prove. A reputation to build back up, and that won’t happen with just two games.”

Minho hums in agreement. “But now it’s obvious that there’s effort being put into the game, and that wasn’t the case at the beginning of the season. Even as a hater, I can’t say that you’re still slacking off, Jisungie, which feels like a huge progress,” he says.

It makes Jisung laugh. A hater, sure.

He’s a fan, but in denial.

He’s also right, and Jisung feels it on an individual level, too. Even though he got taken off in the second period, his goals still put the team in the lead, and after all the misses and disappointment, it felt good to score again. It felt good to have it count for something.

Jisung’s ribs still hurt from the impact of getting thrown against the boards, but he’s already used to getting roughed-up on the rink, so the routine after coming back home was familiar. Ice packs, Tylenol, rest. He has barely moved since then.

“Ah, you’re being really kind all of a sudden, it’s kind of scary,” he says, laughing.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence at the end of the line.

And then, with audible disbelief, Minho says, “So it really is you.”

Jisung pauses, drawing his eyebrows together in confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re Jisung. Han Jisung.”

Jisung’s breath catches in his throat. “What?”

“I called you Jisung, and you didn’t correct me,” says Minho. “You didn’t even notice.”

Jisung opens his mouth, but words refuse to come out. He doesn’t know what to do. He should defend himself, maybe. Lie. Say, No, I just didn’t pay attention to your exact words. I misheard. It’s not like that. But that would feel even more humiliating, if the truth were to come out eventually.

He rolls over onto his side, buries his face in his pillow, and lets out a silent scream. His heart is hammering in his chest. Fuck. Fuck. This is humiliating.

What does he even say now? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what to do.

He lets the silence linger for too long. Long enough for Minho to speak up again.

“Yah. Did you hang up on me?” he asks.

“No, I—Ah—I’m still here,” he says, mumbling. He really wants to hang up, though. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Is it?” Minho asks, genuinely curious—or concerned, Jisung isn’t sure. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to embarrass you. I just wanted to test the theory.”

“But. . . how did you know?” Jisung swallows harshly. “How did you figure it out?”

“I have magic skills of deduction,” Minho says, obviously trying to diffuse the tension. Like he knows Jisung is about to throw up, and he’s being kind enough to distract him from it. “No, but in reality, you have a class with one of my friends. He recognized your voice. And, well, your way of defense feels very personal. Like I struck a nerve.”

“Well, you were mean to me specifically, so.”

Minho hums. “Sorry about that,” he says. “I should’ve been more careful with my words.”

“No, it’s—it’s fine,” Jisung says. “I mean, I did feel offended, but more than what you said, I was hurt that you were the one who said it. Your show is like a haven to me, because I’ve been dealing with insomnia and anxiety and when I tune in, I can finally sleep. And then one night you talked about how I was a disgrace.” He lets out a curt laugh. “Nothing you said was wrong, really—the team could play better, we looked like we were slacking off, we were embarrassing on ice. The fact that it hurts to hear is an entirely different thing. And I’m not saying this for—for sympathy, or anything, but I was struggling so much. It was kind of a wake-up call, motivation to just get my shit together, what you said. To let the criticism build me up instead of tear me down. I just wanted to. . . impress you, I guess.”

“Wow,” Minho whispers. “I actually wasn’t expecting you to have been listening to the program before this. I thought you might’ve heard about what I’d said from someone and decided to come fight me.”

Jisung laughs; it comes out a little softer this time around. “No. You might’ve been joking when you called me your most dedicated listener, but it’s really not that far from the truth.”

“Hm. I’m honored,” says Minho, a hint of a smile in his voice. “Especially that, from what I’m hearing, I actually should take credit for those wins.”

He’s obviously joking, but Jisung has already humiliated himself beyond belief; it won’t hurt to own up to his embarrassing confessions.

“At least for my goals,” he says, laughing.

Minho giggles at the other end of the line, and Jisung feels—stupid. He wants to roll over onto his stomach and kick his feet, twirling the non-existent cord of his phone around his finger like in the movies.

“Hm. No, but, I’m very happy to hear that the program has been helping you in some way. This is gonna sound cheesy but—good job!” Minho says.

Fuck. Jisung squeezes his eyes shut until various technicolor shapes dance across his eyelid, trying to contain his emotions. He’s shy, but so happy.

“Thank you. I’ve been doing my best trying to get back in shape,” he says. A moment of silence passes between them after Minho gives him a hum of acknowledgement, and then Jisung remembers something. “Although, I have to say, it’s not fair. That you know who I am. Your information isn’t available anywhere. I’ve been asking everyone I know and looking for you on social media, and I still don’t know anything about you. I don’t know who you are, Minho. Don’t get me wrong, but why is your name so generic?”

“Ah, wait ‘til you find out the rest of it,” Minho says teasingly. “Also, hm. You’ve been looking for me?”

Jisung feels heat rise to his cheeks. He’s glad Minho can’t see him right now. “If you know who I am, it’s only right that you tell me who you are, no? I mean. Shouldn’t we. . . continue the conversation in person?”

He toys with the hem of his pajamas, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. His heart is pounding, thrashing around in his chest.

Minho laughs, and the sound loosens the knot forming in Jisung’s stomach. It sounds so sweet. “Alright. But I don’t want to give it to you so easily. I mean, you definitely didn’t make it easy for me! Should we make a bet?”

Jisung’s eyebrows shoot up. “What kind of bet?” he asks.

“Let’s say that if you win the next game, if you score at least three goals, I’ll tell you who I am,” Minho proposes. “Actually, I’ll wait for you after the game so that I can tell you in person.”

Jisung holds his breath. “And if I don’t?”

“Well, Han Jisung,” says Minho, pronouncing every syllable of Jisung’s name with an audible smile. “I thought we’d already established that you need to have more faith in yourself.”

Jisung laughs. Yeah, Minho is right. He’s already motivated to do well, and with the additional weight of this reward, he might actually win the game all on his own. Just him against six other guys. He’s not even a goalie, but he could do it, he’s sure. He’d do everything.

“Alright, then,” he says, cheeks aching from all the smiling. “Where will we meet? How will I know where to find you?”

“You need some time to cool down after the game, no? So let’s meet an hour after the game, in the Central Plaza,” Minho says. “It shouldn’t be too crowded so soon after the game. I’ll bring coffee and wait for you at one of the picnic tables. How does that sound?”

Jisung’s chest feels a little tight. Will he actually find out who Minho is? He’s been wondering for so long, it doesn’t actually feel real.

“It sounds nerve-wracking, to be honest,” he admits. “I mean, what if I can’t find you?”

“You will. And if you start looking around like a lost kitten, I’ll come up to you and save you.”

Jisung laughs through an embarrassed whine. “I can’t wait.”

“Me too,” Minho says. His voice sounds so gentle that if he spoke any softer, he’d be whispering. “Alright, Jisungie. I think we’ve taken too much air time with our conversation and I’m gonna have to play a song before they fire me. Do you have any recommendations?”

Jisung doesn’t want to dwell on how good his name sounds coming out of Minho’s mouth. His stomach twists and does a somersault.

“Hm. Taeyeon’s Happy? That’s the mood I’m in right now.”

Minho laughs, like he understands—or maybe even feels the same. There’s something akin to shyness audible in his tone as he says, “Perfect. As always, thank you for calling in. I’ll see you soon, Jisungie.”

“I’ll see you.”

Jisung swallows hard as he disconnects the call. His heart is still hammering, pulse racing in his ears.

He can’t believe Minho figured out who he was—and that he wasn’t put off, or thought it was embarrassing of Jisung to defend himself like that and lie about it. That instead, he wants to see him in person.

This has to be a dream—that’s what he tells himself.

But he pinches the skin of his arm between his fingertips, and he doesn’t wake.

★

Jisung isn’t sure how he makes it to Friday.

His heart is working overtime, pounding every time he as much as thinks about Minho. The worst thing is, he thinks about him all the time. The only time he isn’t distracted by the vision of them finally meeting in person is when he’s on ice—but that’s because he’s focused on giving every practice session his all to actually let the meeting happen. He even stays behind after everyone else leaves to train more.

Despite the nervousness, he’s excited. Pumped-up for the game. His good mood is rubbing off on the rest of the team, especially that he’s been so reserved and quiet these past few weeks.

Changbin laughs at his newfound excitement in the locker room. “What’s going on with you?”

“I just have a good feeling about today,” Jisung says. 

The beginning is tough; the SNU team is vicious and confident, and they make it obvious right off the bat that victory will not come easy. It takes a lot of pushing and a few too many failed attempts, but Jisung’s heart races when the first puck finally lands in the net.

Three goals—that’s what Minho wants. Sometimes, especially during games like this one, even one goal feels like too big of a challenge. But Jisung ends the game with four to his name, and the Anam Tigers win 7:5.

The joy is unlike anything else, and not just because he has just earned his team one of the most important wins of the season. He feels momentarily embarrassed; it’s strange to be so happy to meet a guy.

He goes through the post-game briefing and cool-down exercises with his mind racing, not even a second of respite. MinhoMinhoMinho, his thoughts chant. Who cares about some stupid game? Blah, blah, blah. The guy he has a debilitating crush on is waiting for him with coffee.

He still has to catch the shuttle bus down to the Central Plaza, so he moves quickly. Shower, perfume, getting dressed, more perfume. He spent a lot of time last night throwing his closet upside-down trying to find something to wear—cute and stylish but not exaggerated—and settled on a plain black T-shirt, a purple flannel, and a pair of light denim pants for contrast.

He definitely did not go for the T-shirt because it makes his chest look bigger, and it’s definitely also not the reason why he wore a necklace long enough to rest on his sternum and draw attention to that particular area of his body.

That would be ridiculous.

But, well. Even though Minho already knows what he looks like, he wants to make a good impression.

His knee is jerking up and down the whole ride, and by the time he gets off at the bus stop, his hands are clammy. He pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, unable to control the light tremble in his limbs.

Fuck. He’s really going to meet Minho after months of only hearing his voice three times a week. It’s actually happening.

His heart is pounding with the promise of it.

He makes his way over to the corner of the plaza where everyone always hangs out on days that the weather is nice. He’s afraid, for a moment, that—despite the fact that he knows people are still around the rink or already on their way to celebrate the win—the area will be crowded.

Most of the tables are empty, though, and if there are people, they’re sitting around in groups. There’s only one person sitting alone. A guy wearing a navy blue crewneck with a brand name embroidered at the front in white and a snapback to match. There’s a silver chain hanging from his neck that glistens in the remnants of the spring sun.

Jisung’s stomach flips at the sight. He slows down.

Is that Minho?

He looks up, lifting his gaze from the screen of his phone. Jisung almost jumps when their eyes meet. The effect the guy has on his nervous system is immediate and intense.

It has to be Minho.

He grows even more sure of it when the guy lifts his hand, propping his elbow up on the tabletop, and wiggles his fingers.

Jisung’s legs resume walking before he knows it, before he can even think about it. As if Minho is beckoning him over with a spell, or the charm in his smile.

Fuck, he’s really handsome. Broad in a way that suggests he doesn’t skip a work-out even though he frequently whines about having to do it on the program. He has a sharp nose and big, gleaming eyes that seem to pierce Jisung right through to his soul. There’s mischief in them, but also so much softness. His mouth is full, naturally pouted, kind-of triangle-shaped, like that of a bunny. Nobody can blame him for thinking about kissing Minho immediately, not with lips like that.

And then, the longer he looks, he realizes that Minho is the pretty boy from that party from weeks ago, the one that caught Jisung’s eye—and also the guy that was sitting next to Minju, the girl Jeongin’s been going out with, at that one game. 

Wow. Fuck.

Fate, he thinks, but even though Jisung is romantic and a frequent hyperbolist, it feels too grand. However, a pleasant kind of warmth spreads through his chest because clearly, Minho would turn his head either way, whether it’s for his looks or his voice or his personality.

When he finally comes to a stop next to the table, his legs feel like they’re made of cotton.

“See?” Minho says, the corner of his mouth upturning in a smirk. “I told you it would be easy to find me.”

Jisung feels breathless when he says, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Minho echoes. His voice sounds softer in real life, that’s Jisung’s first thought. The second is that he might die. “Congratulations on the game.”

Jisung laughs. “I feel like at this point you really should take some of the credit, so. Congratulations.”

Minho’s grin is just as sweet as it is dangerous. He tilts his head to the side, staring. It makes Jisung’s entire body tingle with warmth. He’s screwed like he has never been screwed before, he knows that two seconds into this. . . meeting. Whatever it is.

It’s awkward for just a moment, because Jisung doesn’t really know what to do with himself so he hangs there, shy. If Minho’s expression is anything to go by, though, he finds it cute rather than embarrassing, so he tries not to let his thoughts eat him alive.

Minho nods at the bench Jisung’s standing by and slides a plastic cup of iced-americano across the table. “I got you coffee, like I promised,” he says. “I also brought cake. Chocolate and cheesecake. I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I went for the safe choices. I hope that’s okay.”

Jisung’s heart thunders. He slides his duffel bag off his shoulder, setting it on the bench, and then steps over it to sit down. “I like both, so it’s more than okay,” he says. “You now have to promise you won’t think I’m boring because I enjoy a safe choice.”

Minho grins. “I don’t think you need to worry about that.”

They stare at each other for a moment, but Minho’s eyes are dark and alluring and almost amber in this light. Jisung can’t quite bear the eye-contact for too long. He feels like he’s being trapped by a siren.

“So,” he starts, his gaze flitting all over Minho’s face. He has a mole near the tip of his nose. Cute. And he’s wearing lip tint. It’s a bit smudged and uneven, and because of that, even more charming.

“So,” he says. “My name’s Lee Minho.”

Jisung’s eyebrows shoot up. When he’d called Minho’s name generic, he didn’t realize he’d had to have been searching for someone named like one of the most popular actors to ever come out of this country.

No wonder it was impossible to find traces of him online.

“I know,” Minho says, as if reading his thoughts. “My parents were visionaries.”

Jisung laughs. “I was actually beginning to think you took on an alias and you weren’t actually called Minho, that’s why it was so hard to find you.”

“It’s partially the common name, partially the fact that I don’t use it on social media,” Minho explains. “Give me your phone.”

Jisung doesn’t even know what Minho intends to do when he pulls it out and unlocks it, so he just hands it over without clicking on any of the apps.

Minho opens Instagram, switching tabs to check out Jisung’s profile. He scrolls through his feed for a bit, clicking on random pictures and making noises like hmm or whoa and then laughing when Jisung starts whining, half-heartedly and unconvincingly saying, No, oh my god. 

Once he’s satisfied, he searches his own profile up. Jisung is glad he had the forethought to delete his search history. It’s glaringly empty. Though he’s not sure what that would do, considering he’s already told Minho multiple times that he’s been tirelessly looking for him all over the internet.

He can’t read upside-down, so it’s only when Minho opens his own profile and slides his phone back across the table that Jisung sees his username. t.linosaurus.

Fuck. 

“I love dinosaurs,” he says stupidly. Like, an embarrassing amount. He has Richard, whom he often calls his tiny dinosaur daughter. He has T-shirts with dinosaurs and gacha toys and he even took a trip down to Suwon once to eat tyrannosaurus-shaped tiramisù. The fact that Minho’s username is related to dinosaurs only makes him rethink his previous stance on all of this being fate’s doing.

It must be.

Thankfully, Minho just laughs, making something electric rush down Jisung’s spine. That breathy sigh he lets out at the end is one of his most charming attributes, almost reason alone to fall in love with him.

Jisung looks back down at his phone. He fights the urge to scroll through Minho’s profile. He notes the year written in Minho’s bio—he has two years on Jisung, which, to some extent, explains the air of confidence around him.

Jisung can only see a few posts on his feed, among them a mirror selfie—which he does not want to think about at the moment—and pictures of his cats. He talked about them during the program multiple times, but that didn’t prepare Jisung for how cute they are.

He clicks Follow on Minho’s profile and thinks, Finally. He’s going to spend all night staring at his pictures, he’s not even embarrassed to admit it.

Minho is watching him when Jisung locks his phone and flips it over so that it’s screen-down. He doesn’t want to be distracted, although it feels like it’s the other way around; like Minho is the one distracting him from everything else.

Right now, it doesn’t seem that there’s anything capable of tearing Jisung’s attention away from him.

“Now that your search for me has concluded,” Minho says, “should we eat?”

“Mhm.” Jisung takes a sip of his coffee through the straw. It’s perfect. “Yes, let’s do that.”

Minho reaches into the brown paper bag lying on the table to pull out two plastic forks and napkins. Then, he moves on to opening both cake containers. The dessert looks mouth-watering.

“Which one do you want?” he asks.

“Hm.” Jisung shrugs, twirling around the ice in his cup until it rattles. The condensation makes his fingertips burn. He doesn’t really care about the cake, even though it’s a sweet addition. “Do you wanna just share?”

Minho smiles. “Yeah, alright.”

They leave the cakes in the center of the table and taste each of them. Jisung almost melts right then and there, they’re both delectable. He’s a connoisseur of cake, so he would know. 

When he tells Minho as much, adding that he needs the exact address of this café because this is all he’s going to be eating for the next ten years, Minho laughs, blushing—Jisung swears he’s blushing—and tells him he’s glad he likes it.

“I’ll send you the address on Instagram,” he adds.

They go through the same conversation they had on air the last time they spoke. Minho remains in disbelief that all this time, Jisung was actually defending himself, and Jisung is still incredibly shy about the fact that he’d called into the radio to do it in the first place.

Thankfully, it’s easier to believe that it’s nothing to get embarrassed about when Minho says it to his face.

“I think it’s kind of charming,” he says. “Because you weren’t just defending yourself, saying, No, wait, you’ve got it all wrong, I’m actually so cool and you’re an idiot for not seeing my genius. You were defending the whole team. It was cute.”

Jisung ducks his head, laughing. “I guess you could take that as cute.”

Minho hums. He keeps watching Jisung with a soft smile, sometimes sharpening it into a smirk when he realizes just how flustered it makes Jisung to be stared at with such audacity. They’ve known each other for, what, half an hour—at least in person—and he’s already got Jisung all figured-out, it seems.

He puts the straw in the corner of his mouth to drink, which Jisung finds unfathomably adorable, and says, “So. Why did you start playing hockey?”

“Uhm. My brother used to play it through high-school and university,” Jisung says. It’s a boring answer, all things considered. “I remember going to every game, watching him and thinking he was just so cool. Even when he came home with his front teeth missing. I wanted to be like him.”

“Ah, the legendary teeth-gate,” Minho laughs, propping his chin up on his hand. “Have you ever lost one?”

Jisung scrunches his nose. “Yeah. Thankfully I usually just get my ribs hurt, but after I lost my front tooth, I ended up getting veneers. I was skeptical, but they don’t look like veneers, that’s what everybody tells me,” he says. “Although they also say they miss my crooked little tooth, so there’s that. You win some, you lose some.”

“Ah, I’m sure it was super cute,” Minho tells him, pouting a bit, as if he wishes he’d seen it. Maybe one day, Jisung will whip out a photo album for him. Maybe he will get to. “But they do look natural. Probably the first fake teeth I’ve seen that don’t look uncanny.”

Jisung laughs. “Do you have siblings?”

“No, I’m an only child,” says Minho. “Unless you count my cats, which my parents do treat like their own kids, so I guess you really could.”

“Ah, do they?” Jisung asks, grinning.

“Hm. I moved out early, so they had to fill out the gaping void,” Minho laughs. “No, but, seriously. The cats even have their own room while my room has turned into a storage room with a bed that most of the time is covered in stuff.”

“My parents adopted a dog when I moved out, but Bbama just sleeps wherever. If he even sleeps at all, he’s so energetic. Your cats sound so spoiled, hyung.”

Minho pushes out his chest in feigned defensiveness. “Of course! They deserve to be! They’re the best,” he says. “Also, they have a baby stroller. Granted, I was the one who bought it when I brought Dori home, but I was just trying to be funny. I was like, Mom, these cats are the only grandchildren you’ll ever get from me. I’m gay.”

Jisung bursts out laughing so hard his knee kicks up and knocks against the underside of the table. “Oh, fuck,” he says, cradling his leg to his chest. Minho’s eyes immediately widen, fingers twitching like he wants to help, somehow, but Jisung shakes his head, a stupid, huge smile on his face. He’s fine. It’s fine.

“Mind you, I’d come out years before that, so it wasn’t really a coming-out,” Minho carries on, now that he knows Jisung hasn’t accidentally broken his kneecap while laughing. God, how embarrassing would that be. “But then my dad sent me pictures from the park of my mom pushing the stroller around, so the joke turned into a real thing. So maybe I should say that no, I don’t have siblings, but I do have three kids.”

“This whole single-dad thing looks good on you, though,” Jisung says, his stomach flipping pleasantly when he sees Minho tug at his flushed earlobe. It’s a poor attempt at flirting, but clearly, it’s working. “But, you know, I also have a daughter. Except she’s a gecko, not a cat.”

Minho’s jaw drops.

“Are you serious? I love lizards,” he says, his eyes practically glimmering. “I thought I’d have to take away a point from you for seemingly being a dog person but this alone gets you on my Top Five people list. If you let me see her.”

Jisung laughs. “I’ll even let you feed her if you’re not scared of crickets,” he says, feeling warmth creep up to his cheeks. Thank you, Richard, he thinks. “I do prefer cats, though. By the way.”

“Ah, sure.” Minho grins. “You’re just saying that now because you know I have three.”

“I’m not!” Jisung argues, and although he’s also acting with the ulterior motive of impressing Minho and getting into his good graces, he’s being truthful. “I’ve always wanted to raise one, but my parents never let me.”

“Well, I’ve always wanted to raise a lizard,” Minho says, sticking out his tongue at him like a little kid. “Every now and then I go down the rabbit hole and watch tons of YouTube videos about them.”

“Stop, hyung. I’m gonna start thinking that you only like me because of her,” Jisung jokes.

“Not true,” Minho says, laughing. “I also like you because you’re a hockey star.”

Jisung shows Minho tons of pictures of Richard and also a video of her ripping bugs apart because Minho insists he needs to see her. Then, they talk about university and their hobbies and whether or not the bubble tea shop on campus gives everyone food poisoning.

It’s surprisingly easy to hold a conversation, even though, technically, they’re two strangers meeting in person for the first time. They jump from topic to topic without Jisung realizing any change is happening, just like they did when they talked on-air.

Conversations like that are the best, and feeling an immediate connection with Minho fills him with a sense of relief. It also feels strange though, liking someone so instantaneously.

When they finish eating their cake, Minho asks if Jisung wants to go on a walk, take the Squirrel Trail up to the Main Library.

Jisung doesn’t really care what they do as long as he can drag this meeting out in time, but he can’t say that, so he just says, “Yeah, let’s go! Maybe we’ll see one of the cats too.”

There’s this superstition that if you see a squirrel, you’ll have good luck. It’s exceptionally dire during the exam season, but everyone is on the lookout all year long. And if you happen to see a squirrel with the person you like, you’ll become a couple and stay together for a hundred years.

Jisung crosses his fingers behind his back, out of Minho’s sight. Just in case.

They do see a squirrel, a dark-furred one, right when they step onto the winded path. The fact that it happens so quickly makes Jisung’s heart skip a pathetic beat. Once again, he’s uselessly reminded of fate and destiny and the best luck.

There are no campus cats around, unfortunately, but as they stroll down the path, they see even more squirrels frolicking atop the tree branches, so they’re both satisfied.

They sit down on one of the benches half-way through the trail, talking about their classes and extracurriculars and, most of all, gossiping about Minju and Jeongin. It turns out that, since the very beginning, she was one of the friends dragging Minho to all hockey games, except she had the ulterior motive of going there for Jeongin; Minho makes Jisung promise he’s never ever going to tell him that, though.

When they can laugh about their friends like that, it’s the best. Comfortable and fun, like they’ve known each other their whole lives.

Minho twirls the remainder of ice around his cup as they talk, and Jisung selfishly hopes they never finish their coffee.

He doesn’t want the day to end.

When they finally do move on and start walking again, it feels like they’re both dragging their feet, though. Jisung is almost tempted to ask Minho if he wants to do something else, like grab dinner, maybe, whether it’s at one of the nearby restaurants or a convenience store, Jisung doesn’t care.

He doesn’t think Minho would say no, but at the same time, Jisung doesn’t want it to be too much too soon. He might overdose on his Minho-time and have a heart attack and drop dead and never get to enjoy it again. That would be tragic.

So when they end up by the library building, he decides he’s alright if they part ways now. As long as Minho agrees to see him again. As long as he lets Jisung send him pictures of Richard and pretend there are no hidden agendas included.

“You know what?” Jisung asks, coming to a stop decisively, “I think I deserve a reward for the game I played.”

“This—” Minho says with a teasing grin, gesturing around them, “—is your reward.”

Jisung laughs. Shrugs. “What can I say? I’m greedy.”

He doesn’t usually move that fast. He just doesn’t want to drag his feet. If there’s something here, he wants to find out. And fuck, it feels like there’s a whole universe right in his reach.

“Go out on a date with me,” he says. 

Minho’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re into guys,” he says. It’s meant to be a question, Jisung is sure, but it comes out flat.

It’s Jisung’s turn to be taken off-guard.

“Excuse me?” he chokes out. “Why are you surprised? I was, like, openly flirting with you! Not just today! Ever since we first talked!” 

“Wouldn’t be the first straight guy to do that. I’m pretty charming,” Minho says, giving a weak attempt at a wink. Both his eyes close, and what comes out is a silly, however very charming, wink. It softens the blow of Minho’s horrifying presumption. “And I’d rather not assume. Better keep my expectations low and be positively surprised.”

Jisung pouts. Then—“Wait, does that mean you were quietly hoping I was into guys?” he asks, grinning now. “More importantly, does that mean you’re saying yes?”

Minho pauses for a moment, as if he is considering, but Jisung already knows he’s going to say yes. There’s a curve to his mouth and a glint to his eyes that tells Jisung just how much he enjoys toying with him this way.

He’s lucky Jisung likes it, too.

“Yes,” Minho says. “Sweep me off my feet.”

★

The excitement and the post-game exhaustion make Jisung fall asleep the second his head touches the pillow that night. He dreams of Minho. Of course he does. The dreams are colorful and sweet, even though he doesn’t remember what exactly happened in them by the time he wakes up.

He allows himself a lazy morning in bed, rolling over from one side to the other and dozing on and off until his eyelids don’t feel like they’re glued together anymore. It’s noon when he finally decides to get up. When he grabs his phone, he sees that Minho has sent him a funny reel on Instagram. That alone brightens his day in an inexplicable way.

He spends a while thinking of what to write in response, but ends up sending your sense of humor is just one of a kind heh. Simple and vaguely flirty, as it should be. He wants it to be natural. Minho already seems to like him, after all. He doesn’t have to make a fool out of himself to get his attention.

It’s harder than usual to wait until Minho’s program starts that night. Hyunjin and Jeongin both go out, so Jisung has the entire house to himself. Which means he puts music on the speakers as he heats-up his leftovers from yesterday’s take-out and takes a long bath with the door unlocked. Wild stuff.

He plays around with Richard, letting her out of her enclosure so that she can climb all over him and explore the world outside. Like a good dad, he relays all the sweet things Minho had said about her, buttering her up before the two of them meet. He really hopes it happens soon.

Then, finally, once Richard is safely back in her tank, Jisung makes himself comfortable in bed and rewatches a few episodes of Nana while he waits for Minho to start. He could technically tune into the radio earlier, but the voice of the person who broadcasts before Minho grates on his ears. No, thanks.

Two minutes before 11 P.M., Jisung gets an unexpected message on Instagram. Are you listening tonight? asks user t.linosaurus. He blushes instantly, feeling shy even though nobody can see him in the privacy of his own bedroom.

Obviously, he responds. I’m your most dedicated listener. Do I have to remind you?

Minho doesn’t respond—not like he has the time, really—but he sounds happy when he finally comes on air.

Is it weird that Jisung notices? From the start, he plays upbeat songs and says that this week has been great—the weather is nice, his mom sent him pictures of his cats, and one of his most despised classes got cancelled. Even though he doesn’t mention Jisung or hockey at all, Jisung still hopes he’s part of the happiness.

At one point, though, someone in the comments actually asks about whether Minho ended up keeping his promise of meeting Jisung.

Minho laughs, and it’s obvious he’s going to play coy even before he speaks. Still, Jisung isn’t quite prepared to hear what he’s got up his sleeve.

“Hm. He stood me up,” Minho lies. “He’s an awful person, actually.”

Jisung gasps. He grabs his tablet, fingers slamming against the screen with vigour. He writes in the chat, NO I DIDNT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Minho notices, of course. It’s exactly the reaction he wanted, clearly, because the sight of Jisung’s indignation makes him laugh even harder.

“No, I’m just lying because I want to keep him to myself,” he says, and even though he’s only teasing, Jisung’s stomach gets taken over by wild, fluttering butterflies. “He’s cute. Really fun to be around. And he has a lizard! I mostly like him for the lizard.”

Jisung lets out an embarrassed laugh as a stubborn warmth creeps up to his cheeks.

Liar, he types in the comments again.

The chat moves slowly—barely at all—so Minho sees that message immediately, too. Laughs even louder, and does not bother to defend himself.

“No, Jisungie is really, really nice,” he says instead. “I can’t tease him too much because he might not invite me over to see Richard and that would really kill me.”

Jisung scoffs with exaggeration even though he knows Minho is only kidding. He can tell as much by the sound of his voice, the laughter underlining every word he says. The fondness.

“Don’t be upset with me, Jisung-ah,” Minho says. Jisung’s nervous system is still not used to the way his name sounds coming out of his mouth. He shivers. “I’ll play you a song. Anything you want.”

7PM by BSS, he writes in the comments. He hopes Minho looks a little too much into the choice.

★

Jisung finds himself in the café where Minho works through a complete coincidence.

He goes there under the guise of studying, but in reality he just can’t stop thinking about that cheesecake he and Minho had. He remembers the name from the plastic coffee cup and decides to visit it—blissfully unaware that Minho works there.

He almost trips over his feet at the sight of him behind the counter. They’ve been exchanging messages back-and-forth every day, but it’s an entirely different thing, seeing him in person.

Minho is idling. It’s late into the afternoon, so there aren’t many customers around. His eyes snap in Jisung’s direction when he walks in, and then widen when the recognition settles in. 

His mouth softens into a smile that makes butterflies take flight in Jisung’s stomach.

Fuck. He’s fucking fucked.

He makes his way over to the counter, feeling like he’s floating on a pink, heart-shaped cloud. He’s gliding through the world with a smile on his face. The sun is still up. Birds are singing love songs. There’s no traffic. Life is beautiful. Life is worth living.

“Who would’ve thought our humble coffee shop would attract the star of our campus,” Minho says, giving an exaggerated bow. His forehead almost touches the counter. “We’re honored to have you.”

Jisung laughs with embarrassment, glancing around to see if anyone is hearing this madness. 

“Oh my god, stop. Please,” he says, pushing at Minho’s shoulder. He doesn’t want to think about the firm muscle under his fingertips, tangible even through the layer of clothing. He’ll dream about it instead.

Minho straightens up with a grin. Clearly, teasing Jisung is truly one of his pastimes. As if that hasn’t been made obvious.

“I didn’t know you worked here,” Jisung says, fiddling with the strap of his bag.

“Mhm. The radio doesn’t pay well and I have three children to feed.”

“Wait.” Jisung raises his eyebrows. “They actually pay you?”

Minho laughs. “No,” he says. “Which is why I’m here, ready to make the best coffee you’ve ever tasted. So, what can I get you?”

Jisung asks for an iced-americano and a slice of cheesecake, asking Minho about his day while he waits. He’s leaning against the counter, practically drooling all over the place as he watches Minho pour ice into the glass. His arms look edible in this fitted black T-shirt.

He almost wants to stay and eat his cake there, standing by the damned counter, but Minho is at work, of course. And Jisung has things to do, too.

He can glance at Minho sometimes. As a reward.

He finds an empty table in the corner, sets up his laptop, and puts instrumental music on his headphones. He’s come here to work, but he’s surprised when time passes and he realizes he has actually managed to focus long enough to finish his pending assignments and send a slightly passive-aggressive message to his group project chat asking when they’re going to start working on their presentation.

Jisung from a few months ago, the Jisung who was drowning in coursework and his own anxious exhaustion, would never believe the things he can do now.

He leans back in his chair, sipping the remnants of his coffee through the straw, just in time to see Minho stroll in his direction. He smiles, then pulls his headphones on when he realizes Minho is actually walking to him, not just past him.

“Can I sit with you?” he asks, hand poised on the back of the chair across the table.

Jisung smiles, inviting him over with a nod. He closes his laptop to get it out of the way and tidies up the space a bit. He should get going soon, if he wants to make it to his evening practice on time, but he’ll stick around a bit longer if it’s with Minho.

“Has everything been to your liking, sir?” Minho asks, punctuating the question with one of his signature winks. Blinks, then.

Jisung grins. “It really was the best coffee I’ve ever had,” he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “And the cake. . . It would’ve been better if I had a certain someone to share it with, but it was still really good.”

Minho laughs because, obviously, he knows that the certain someone is him. The tips of his ears are red from embarrassment at being flirted with so shamelessly—even though he’s doing the same exact thing. It’s quickly becoming one of Jisung’s favorite quirks of his.

He’s so cute and lovable.

Jisung could stare at him all day. He wonders if Minho would let him, or if he’d roll his eyes and pretend to be annoyed, tell him to just cut it—

Minho clears his throat. “Hey, so. . .” His eyes flit all over Jisung’s face, then down to the table, where his index finger is drawing circles into the wood, and then back up again. “Is that date still happening?”

Jisung’s heart trips over itself.

“Yes. It is. Of course,” he says, but then panic surges within him. “Wait. Do you not want it to be?”

Minho shakes his head. “No, it’s just.” He scrunches his nose, as if he’s embarrassed. “It’s been over a week and you haven’t mentioned it, so I was wondering if you’ve forgotten about me, is all.”

Impossible, Jisung says in his mind. I can’t stop thinking about you. You’ve rotten my brain.

“No, it’s—it’s that I’m planning. I want it to be. . .” He trails off, looking for the right word, but only special and perfect come to mind. Still, it feels like a bit too much. Minho is looking at him with such fondness, though, it pulls the truth out of him. “I want it to be so fun that you don’t hesitate before wanting to go out with me again.”

Minho ducks his head, smiling. His eyes are glimmering with unabashed joy when he looks back up. “I don’t think that will be an issue,” he says. “Don’t stress yourself out, hm? I’m sure we’ll have fun. Whatever we end up doing.”

★

The date isn’t over-the-top or extravagant. They could go to a restaurant, maybe even something on the fancier side, or catch a late screening of a horror movie at the cinema, but all Jisung wants is to talk to Minho, really.

Which is why he organizes a picnic.

On a gorgeous Sunday afternoon, he goes out of his way to prepare everything in the park and waits for Minho to meet him there. He’s glad he brought two electric hand-fans because he’s sweating from nervousness and the sun.

He really wants Minho to like it. Him. He wants Minho to like him. Beyond thinking that he’s hot and funny, which Jisung knows he is. He wants Minho to hear him speak and lean in to hear more, even if it’s utter nonsense.

He sits cross-legged on the blanket he stole from Hyunjin’s room (because he wasn’t going to take any of his own outside to a public park, duh) and keeps an eye out for Minho. Luckily, despite the weather, there aren’t many people idling about; Jisung sees him the second he appears on the horizon.

His heart leaps to his throat in tandem with his hand that shoots out to wave, just in case Minho hasn’t noticed him.

Minho pauses in his step. He looks taken aback now that the picnic spread is in his field of vision, and briefly, Jisung wonders if this isn’t too cheesy. Maybe he should’ve waited for their second date to bring out the romance.

But then—

“I told you you had nothing to worry about,” Minho says as he sits down. He’s smiling, his cheeks flushed red. Not from the heat, Jisung’s sure. “This is already perfect.”

Jisung’s face practically splits in two with the force of his smile. He’s beaming. “Ah, I’m glad,” he says. “I was worried it would be too much.”

“Mhm.” Minho pushes his sunglasses up to the crown of his head. “I’m gonna have to somehow beat this for our second date. You’re setting the bar really high.”

He looks pretty. He’s wearing a pair of black flared pants and a gray-ish T-shirt, a color that looks surprisingly beautiful against his skin. His lobes are adorned with various silver earrings that glisten in the sunlight. And there’s that lip-tint again.

Jisung almost doesn’t register his words, he’s so busy staring at him. It’s annoying just how pretty Minho is.

“Does that mean I’ve already charmed you enough for you to want a second date even before the first one has begun?” he asks, grinning.

Minho rolls his eyes half-heartedly. He reaches for the container of blueberries and pops a few into his mouth. Then, he says, “Ideally, by tomorrow night, we’ll have gone on five hundred dates. But we can’t do that, so let’s just take our time enjoying this one.”

Jisung laughs, but he shares the sentiment. He doesn’t want to waste any minute, but all the same, he wants to take his sweet time building this relationship. It’s a dizzying sensation. It’s pure greed.

“Oh. Cherry tomatoes,” Minho says, reaching in to pluck one out of the container and toss it into his mouth. “I love them.”

“I know,” Jisung says before he can even think about what he’s saying. He flushes when Minho raises his eyebrows at the words. “You mentioned it during one of the programs. Someone was being annoying about you making chewing noises.”

Minho bursts into laughter. “I remember that,” he says. “I just started chewing closer to the microphone.”

“And you said you always carry cherry tomatoes in your bag as a snack,” Jisung finishes.

Minho’s expression softens. “It’s cute that you remember something so silly.”

Jisung reaches for a sliced peach. “Isn’t it weird, though? That I know more about you than you do about me? Because of the show?”

Minho hums thoughtfully. “You’re just gonna have to catch me up on the things you like, then,” he says with a shrug. And then, without giving him a moment of preparation—“Come on. On three. One, two, three—Go!”

He pulls a startled laugh out of Jisung. His eyebrows are raised, though, his smirk just as encouraging as it is teasing, and Jisung quickly realizes that Minho is not kidding.

“Uhm,” Jisung says, slightly panicking. “Uhm. Okay. Ah, you’re making me nervous, I can’t think of anything right now!”

Minho just laughs.

“You’re cute,” he says, his expression remaining soft with the traces of his smile. “You can start by telling me about uni or what you ate for breakfast or if you’d go to space if you had a chance to.”

Jisung feels heat rise to his cheeks. Instead of answering the question right away, his brain latches onto something else. He thinks about what Minho had said during one of the programs—that once you start thinking someone is cute, it’s game-over. He’s called Jisung that before, and Jisung has called him that in his head a lot, too, but it’s only now that he really understands what Minho meant.

It’s so game-over.

His cheeks burst aflame, and in an attempt to draw Minho’s attention away from that fact, Jisung starts at the beginning.

“I major in Physics, so there’s that,” he says, watching Minho raise his eyebrows in surprise and something akin to amazement. He seems impressed, which only serves to make Jisung feel impossibly shy. “Anything to do with astronomy is always my favorite class, really, and a few years ago I would say, yes, right away, I’ve already packed my bags if you asked me to go to space, but now that I know so much about the universe, it just feels so. . . scary.”

“Oh, so you’re a huge nerd,” Minho teases. “I thought the glasses were just a fashion statement.”

Jisung snorts. “Sometimes. But that’s more of a laziness statement, if anything,” he says. Which is why he’s not wearing them today. He was energized and spent way too much time putting together his outfit. With accessories, there just wasn’t enough space for specs.

“Hm. You look good in them,” Minho tells him. Suddenly, Jisung regrets all his life choices. He should’ve worn them. Next time. And all the times after that. His half-hearted regret must show in his expression because Minho laughs and reassures, “You look good without them, too. But I don’t want to stroke your ego too much, so that’s all I’m gonna say.”

Jisung rubs the tip of his nose with his knuckles, embarrassed. Still, he’s nothing if not a flirt, so grins and says, “No, you should totally keep going.”

Minho lifts one corner of his mouth in a smile that’s supposed to be wicked and sly but only makes him look adorable. “Nope. I have to keep some things up my sleeve for the future.”

Jisung’s heart flutters. Future, future, future. He’s loving being in the moment with Minho—the date has barely even started and he’s already having so much fun—but it would be a lie to say that the thought of doing this again, of doing anything with Minho beyond this, doesn’t make it sweeter.

No oh, I need to be on my best behaviour and impress him and make him like me or else he won’t see me ever again and he’ll tell his friends I’m a total loser. Minho likes him. Minho wants to see him again. The ease this thought brings is irreplicable.

“I wouldn’t wanna go to space either,” Minho says. He lies down on his side, propping his head up on his hand. “Although I feel like if I did go, I would end up summoning an alien with my presence alone. They would feel something shift, you know? I have that kind of gift.”

“Ah, right,” Jisung says with a laugh. “If I was an alien, I would totally feel persuaded to reveal my true self to you.”

He’s joking, of course, playing along to Minho’s tune, but there’s an underlying sincerity in his words. Minho sure is judgmental, but he’s also open and sincere. Jisung feels like he could tell him anything.

Which is an unreasonable thing to feel when he hasn’t really known him that long, but he fails to care.

He feels like he knows him, maybe from the radio, maybe from another life. Jisung is social, but he’s awkward; he doesn’t make friends easily. But with Minho. . . 

Fuck, it’s so easy.

There are things about him that Jisung could never catch over the program, though. Like the fact that he can’t wink to save his life or that when he smiles his nose scrunches up cutely and that he blushes easily despite all the confidence he carries himself with. He’s ambidextrous and particular about everything, including the way his hair touches his forehead.

Jisung is obsessed with him.

After they finish a whole container of mixed fruits and a can of Sprite each, they lie down and watch the clouds drift by.

“It helps the stomach settle,” Minho says with conviction. He could say that the grass is pink and the sun has turned into the moon and Jisung would believe him. “We should go on a walk too. But later.”

Jisung smiles to himself and agrees, “Yeah. Later.”

Minho is a gentleman, so when later comes, he gathers all the trash to carry it to the nearest bin while Jisung packs up everything he needs to take back home. He hikes the bulging tote bag over his shoulder and falls into step with Minho easily as they make a round over the park.

They don’t stop talking even for a moment. From where they live and what kind of insane neighbors they have to how Minho even got the gig at the university radio in the first place. They don’t seem to run out of topics to discuss.

At one point, Minho makes an awful joke. He throws his head back laughing, and Jisung smacks him on the shoulder even though his chest is bursting with amusement too.

Something inside him settles then. His heart trips into a quicker beat, making blood rush to his ears and deafen him for a second, and then slows down into something tame. Comfortable.

In that moment, before anything happens, really, he knows it will be love.

Minho insists on walking him home when they reluctantly decide they should part ways before they get a chance to spontaneously decide to get married right then and there. 

Alright, neither of them says that, but that’s how it feels to Jisung.

“It’s not that far away, and I can take a bus straight home from there,” Minho insists.

It might not be that far away from the park, but it’s in the opposite direction of his home. Though, well. He wants to, and Jisung wants him to, so they continue their stroll through the park gates and down the street.

Jisung’s body is nervous for something to happen. Starved. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, even though he stays talking and talking. He keeps one of his hands on the strap of his bag, the other stubbornly shoved into his pocket. Safe from doing something too forward out of their own volition. It’s not as easy to control his eyes, how they glance at Minho’s mouth every time he speaks. 

Jisung wants to hold Minho’s hand. He wants to kiss him.

It’s silly to be nervous about something like that, but he really, really likes Minho and he doesn’t want to do anything that could jeopardize the relationship their bond might bloom into.

Does Minho even kiss on first dates? Jisung does, but not everyone is like that. Minho looks like someone who would deny him a kiss just to tease him, really, and he would have so much fun with it. It feels stupid to ask, though.

Still, Jisung is working up the courage to do something all the way to his house. He’s not sure if anyone’s home—probably not, they’re always out somewhere these days—but even if they happen to be and see the two of them together, he doesn’t care.

The point is, by the time they’re in front of the gate, he still doesn’t know how to proceed.

The moment just doesn’t feel right. They’re talking, their shoulders brushing with every other step, before Jisung slows into a stop and says, “It’s this one right here.”

Minho compliments the house because he’s kind and sweet. “It looks cozy and taken care of, especially for a bunch of college students,” he says. “And, wow, you even have flowers out front!”

The tension in Jisung’s shoulders eases under the warmth of his smile.

It’s fine if they don’t kiss, he tells himself. It’s alright if Minho doesn’t make the first move. This is just the first date, and he knows, he knows another one is happening. He will surely get a chance to find out if Minho’s mouth tastes like that honey and macadamia lip balm he applies every now and then.

“So. I should. . . probably go,” he says, wringing out his fingers.

He’s usually more confident than this, but despite all the want and excitement buzzing within him when it comes to Minho, he wants to be careful. Too much too fast isn’t good, either.

Minho rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. With his eyebrows raised, he looks at Jisung almost expectantly.

“I walk you home and you won’t even kiss me goodbye?” he asks.

Oh.

Within milliseconds, Jisung’s face is furiously red. Minho laughs at the sight of him.

As always—he should really, really know by now—he’s in over his head when, in reality, he has nothing to worry about. Minho seems to be locked into his frequency—wanting the same things, thinking the same thoughts. It’s scary and relieving all at once.

Jisung crosses the distance between them in a decided stride, even though his heart is already in his throat. He cups the side of Minho’s face with his hand, fingers brushing against the warmth of Minho’s earlobe, and kisses him.

No worrying, no waiting.

It’s not the explosion Jisung expects. It feels, similarly to before, like a puzzle piece falling into place. Something clicking. Beginning to make sense. Minho tastes like honey and macadamia, blueberries and lime, like a late-spring afternoon, like the best kiss of Jisung’s life.

Their lips fit together perfectly, Minho’s plump upper lip caught between Jisung’s. How is it possible that everything feels so right? That they get along so well? There has to be something deeply wrong with Minho, at one point. There has to be.

But he kisses Jisung back with all his might, clearly fighting not to smile into it and break the kiss, and Jisung thinks that maybe, after all this time, he’s finally gotten lucky.

When they pull apart, he rests his forehead against Minho’s, taking a moment to catch his breath and internalize that yes, this has just happened and it is not a very convoluted, insomnia-induced hallucination.

Minho leans back in to kiss the corner of his mouth sweetly. When Jisung snorts to himself, he pulls back to look at him, eyebrows raised, and asks, “What?”

“I don’t know,” Jisung says. “It’s just that I was half-compelled to ask if you kissed on first dates, before this.”

Minho grins. Shrugs. “If the guy’s cute enough.”

Jisung laughs bashfully. “Thanks for walking me home,” he says. He knows he needs to take a step back, because if he doesn’t, he never will. One more whiff of Minho’s rich, vanilla-and-spice perfume and he might drag him inside. Make this date last forever. “It’s. . . greatly appreciated.”

“Anytime,” Minho tells him, still smirking.

Except, he doesn’t let Jisung go just like that. Instead, he wraps an arm around his waist, swoops in, and kisses him again.

Somehow, this kiss is even better.

Jisung practically melts right then and there, in front of the gate to his goddamn house, with Minho’s hand pressed against his lower back and their mouths slotted together. He almost forgets himself and chases after him when Minho starts pulling away.

He catches himself in time and saves himself the embarrassment, thank god.

“I’ll see you soon, hm?” Minho says, so Jisung knows this is really the end of it. His voice is lower than usual, a little raspy from the kiss, or maybe from talking too much.

Fuck. It’s better that he goes. Right now. Before Jisung really, really does something stupid.

“Soon,” he agrees. Preferably, tomorrow morning. 6 A.M. sharp, even.

Alright, no, he’s exaggerating. But he wouldn’t be opposed to seeing Minho after his morning class, if Minho had the time. He’ll suggest that tomorrow, pretending it’s a casual proposition rather than a thought-out need lingering from the night before.

Surely, Minho won’t know.

Jisung watches him turn on his heel and make his way down the sloping asphalt, back to the bus stop on the main road. Just before he’s about to disappear around the corner, though, he turns around.

A smile lights up his disposition when he realizes Jisung is still standing there, watching him go. They lift their hands to wave at each other at the same time, which Jisung thinks is rom-com material, especially when they both laugh about it.

He’s never had anything like this happen to him before.

His cheeks are flushed and he smiles all the way to the front door when he finally manages to unglue his feet from the ground and start walking.

It feels unreal—everything that has happened today. Starting from the fact that Minho agreed to go out with him at all, and that he was equally as excited about it as Jisung. Minho, who is beautiful and smart and knows how to tease, who feels like he was grown in a lab somewhere with the explicit purpose of making Jisung’s life a living hell.

But instead of hell, it’s a picnic in the park and never-ending conversations and the ease that comes with the knowledge that they will do this again. And again. And again.

The worst thing is, Jisung absolutely cannot force his brain to rest that night. He tosses and turns, trying out all his usual tricks that mostly do their job on a regular day, but his thoughts circle around Minho with overwhelming insistence.

He might actually be doomed after all.

He decides to send Minho a text. He’s not sure if Minho will see it, and it feels a little pathetic, but he doesn’t care.

Today

JISUNG

ughh i wish you had a broadcast today i can’t sleep

MINHO

i thought you didn’t have any games until next week

what’s stressing you out

Jisung types out, It’s not that. It’s not stress. I can’t sleep because I’m happy. Because I keep thinking about kissing you, but instead of sending it right away, he rolls over onto his stomach and groans into his pillow. It’s too forward, and too embarrassing.

Minho seems to like it when he embarrasses himself a little, though. When he gets shy, and when that shyness combines with confidence and turns him into a blushing mess that speaks what he thinks even though he’d be better off keeping his mouth shut.

So he thinks, Fuck it! and clicks that stupid arrow.

Today

JISUNG

sorry if this ruins my cool image and you never wanna see me again but it’s true!!! i’m really happy!!! i had so much fun today !!! heh

Minho doesn’t respond for a long moment, but Jisung sees the three dots popping up in the corner of the screen. Then, when his response finally comes, it’s a voice message.

Jisung’s heart skips a beat as he rushes to press play.

“This is Minho, broadcasting from his cozy, dim-lit bedroom, for a change. It’s a special episode, for Han Jisung’s ears only. I heard he sleeps easier listening to my voice,” he says, blissfully unaware of the fact that Jisung’s heart is threatening to burst out of his ribcage. Easier? Jisung’s not so sure now. He might end up at the hospital, actually. ”Well, Jisungie, this is a magic spell to make your dreams full of cats and cheesecake and all the nicest things. Sleep well, jagiya. I’m happy, too.”

Jagiya.

Is Minho insane? He must be. Either that, or he’s absolutely evil, using his wicked ways to wrap Jisung around his finger completely without a second thought only to then ruin his life.

Probably both, if Jisung has to guess. And he’s still into it, so what does that even say about him?

He tries to be normal as he responds to Minho’s message. Heh. Goodnight, hyung.

Now I definitely won’t be able to sleep, though, he thinks. But then he rolls over onto his side, screws his eyes shut, imagines cats and cheesecake and all the nicest things, and sleep takes him away before he knows it.

★

They end up seeing each other after Jisung’s morning class. It turns out that Minho also gets out at the same time, so they get coffee and hang out on campus until they have to get back.

At one point, Jeongin is walking past. He waves, grinning at Jisung, before he registers that the person he’s sitting with is not one of their friends, and by then, an expression of horror has already made its way to his face.

He ducks his head, and before Jisung can even wave him over and say hi, Jeongin dashes away.

Jisung gawks after him, his mouth dropping open.

“What the hell?” he asks.

Jeongin is far from anti-social, and Jisung thought he and Minho would establish a rapport easily, considering they have a friend in common. He’s not sure if they’ve ever spoken a word to each other or if they’ve been introduced, so the reaction—Jeongin literally running away at the sight of Minho—feels odd.

He turns to look at Minho, who’s obviously fighting a battle to stop himself from laughing out loud.

“What was that about?”

Minho cocks his head to the side, the corners of his mouth curving into a smirk. “We’ve gotten acquainted very intimately when I walked into my living room Friday evening and saw him making out with Minju on the couch without his shirt on.”

Jisung gasps, but his mouth is already twisting into a giant smile. How scandalous! He never expected that from Jeongin, of all people. Jeongin, who’s so proper and sweet. Who would’ve thought he’d be slutting it out like that.

And then it dawns on him.

“Wait, Friday evening? So that’s why he was late to practice!” he says, cackling. “And he said the bus broke down, that filthy liar.”

Minho bursts into laughter. “He got so embarrassed, it was kinda cute,” he says. “He almost forgot to get dressed before he ran out. I think he might never come back.”

Jisung giggles, looping his arm through Minho’s to pull him closer. “I have to introduce you guys properly,” he says. “He really, really likes Minju, so it would be a shame if he couldn’t come over.”

“Eh. I’m not that scary,” Minho shrugs.

“No. You’re not. You’re cute,” Jisung says. He turns his head just to dig his chin into Minho’s shoulder. “But you seem to like making people suffer by teasing the shit out of them.”

Minho gives him a grin. Turns to face him so that their noses touch. “Only the people I like,” he says.

Jisung laughs. He knows Minho is talking about him, but—“Good. Jeongin is a really good guy,” he says. If he only says it to shift Minho’s attention away from his reddening cheeks, then it’s only between him and the universe. 

Minho is in class until late hours of the afternoon, but he texts Jisung during his breaks and even goes as far as sending him a selfie in the middle of his class showing his tired but still very cute pout.

Jisung almost dies when he opens the message and needs to take five minutes before he can even begin to formulate a response that doesn’t say, I will eat you alive.

Then, there’s a picture of Minho’s cat—Soonie, he recognizes easily—waiting for him when he gets out of practice that evening, and also a horrendous picture of Minho’s dinner, whatever the hell it is.

Jisung is beyond charmed.

Before he knows it, one date turns into another, then into breakfast and walking each other to class and texting each other all day long. Jisung is strolling around with a smile permanently sewn onto his face, feeling almost foolish with all that joy brewing inside of him, just short of writing Minho’s name with a heart circled around it in the margins of his notebook.

He’s embarrassing, but he has missed feeling this giddy about someone. He missed falling in love head-first. That pleasant, stomach-dropping sensation, a mixture of nervousness and excitement, is something he has come to associate with Minho within hours of meeting him.

On Wednesday, they go out for dinner, treating themselves to a night of sashimi. Then, they go on a walk—to help with digestion, and all that—and before they know it, Minho has to get himself on campus because he has a program to broadcast.

Jisung didn’t even realize it’s gotten so late. He’s had so much fun talking Minho’s ear off that he’s completely lost track of time.

“Can I come with you?” he asks, and his stomach flutters with anticipation even though something’s telling him the answer will be no. Is it even allowed? For Minho to have someone in the room with him while he records? Jisung isn’t sure. He’d never taken interest in the university radio before.

Minho smiles at him, a little feisty. “When I get used to you,” he says, making Jisung laugh. “Now, you’ll only distract me.”

The rejection doesn’t even sting, it’s so sweet. Especially when Minho pulls him close by the lapels of his black denim jacket and leans in to kiss him, only to interrupt himself with a laugh before he can do it, so Jisung gets a lungful of his happiness instead.

“This feels like something straight out of a movie,” Minho says, his eyes glimmering with mirth in the street lighting.

Jisung grins at him. He feels something warm and overconsuming press against his ribcage from the inside. “I like it,” he says. “It should start raining right now to make it even more romantic.”

Minho laughs. “I think this is romantic enough. Don’t want either of us to get sick.”

“Ah. I have a feeling you’d take good care of me, though. If I got sick,” Jisung says, only half-joking. He knows by now that Minho is a skilled cook and extremely doting, and he would like nothing more than to experience that on his own skin.

“I would,” Minho tells him. Their faces are so close now that he’s murmuring. “And you would look cute all snotty and whiny.”

Jisung laughs, giving Minho’s shoulder a weak punch. “I would,” he echoes. “I’m always cute.”

Minho hums. And then, finally, he leans in to kiss him.

Jisung’s knees almost buckle under his weight. His head spins. God, it’s embarrassing how much he likes Minho, how easily Minho came into his life and shook his world.

They part ways when they get close to the campus. Minho heads in the direction of the Main Library, walking backwards for a moment to keep looking at Jisung like they really are in a movie, and once he disappears from sight, Jisung trots to the bus stop.

The program starts after Jisung gets on the bus, so he can listen to Minho’s voice on his way home. There’s that familiar happiness in his tone as he talks, something Jisung has selfishly begun to associate with himself. It can’t be a coincidence that Minho sounds like this every time after they speak or hang out.

He kicks his shoes off in the entryway when he walks in and waves to Jeongin and Hyunjin who are hanging out in the living room. Pulling out one earphone, he stops to talk to them for a while, but when the song Minho is playing trickles to an end, he hurries to say he’s going to bed.

Sorry. He needs to hear Minho talk even if he has already spent hours today doing just that.

He doesn’t call in tonight, just listens, playing around with Richard as the broadcast goes on. As he sits there on the floor of his room, the exhaustion catches up to him. He doesn’t even have it in himself to shower and decides to put it off until the morning. It’s fine. He can just wash his face and go to bed.

By the time Minho is saying his usual goodbyes, Jisung is already fast asleep.

★

They hang out all the time. It’s fun, that honeymoon phase at the beginning of a relationship when all Jisung can do is think about Minho. It’s even better because he knows, he can tell, that Minho feels the same about him.

It also turns out that Jisung becomes better at managing his time and staying motivated when he wants to spend every minute he has with Minho. He’s gotten pretty good at dividing his attention between university, hockey, friends, and his boyfriend, which is funny considering how much he struggled when Minho wasn’t even in the picture.

He’s sleeping better, too, because now, every night he either talks to Minho on the phone until he dozes off, listens to his radio show, or gets a sweet voice message that pulls at his eyelids instantaneously and makes him dream of sweetness.

Minho likes to joke that Jisung clearly thinks he’s boring as hell but they both know he’s just good for him like that.

Minho doesn’t fix him, but he takes away a lot of the weight that has been burdening Jisung to the point of turning his days dull and gray. He provides support and entertainment and motivates Jisung with kisses during their joint study sessions. He’s heaven-sent and then some.

Jisung’s friends keep teasing him, especially after Minho starts showing up at the end of their hockey practice to take him out for dinner or take him home. They get along well, though, when he introduces them. Chan even does that embarrassing thing he always does and tells him, in private, that Minho looks at him like he’d hung the moon. It does awful things to Jisung’s heart, honestly.

Unsurprisingly, Minho charms all of his friends, though. Changbin likes that he works out and Hyunjin likes that he’s really hot. Even Jeongin stops running away from him, once they get past the shirtless episode and Minho swears and promises he won’t bring it up to tease him again.

Minho is caring and funny and sweet. Of course everyone loves him.

When the university festivals start, their friend groups end up merging and having fun together—it’s unexpected, but how relieving.

(Also, Jisung doesn’t expect the radio guy who had ghosted Changbin to be Minho’s housemate and friend, Seungmin, but, alright. Frictions are avoided. By the end of the night, Changbin seems to have stopped holding the grudge and Seungmin has got him wrapped around his finger all over again.)

For the first time in a long while, everything in Jisung’s life feels like it’s in its rightful place. He’s doing well in his classes, he’s winning hockey games, he has cool friends and an even cooler boyfriend and he actually has time to spend with them all. And his daughter is growing so well!

He couldn’t ask for anything more, not really.

When Minho comes over to meet Richard for the first time, they both get shy with one another. Richard refuses to come out of her favorite hiding spot because Minho is a stranger no matter how much Jisung talks about him, and Minho gets really embarrassed about it.

Jisung finds it extremely cute because Minho is sad but he’s trying to act like it’s not a big deal. Jisung has to appease him by pushing him onto the floor, straddling his hips, and kissing his entire face.

“Next time,” he says, “she will surely come out, hyung.”

He’s right, as he usually is. It takes a few more visits, but soon enough, Richard is happy to rest on Minho’s hand or crawl up his arm, her giant eyes looking up at him with wonder. He’s so gentle with her, Jisung’s heart physically hurts. Minho also tells him he’s been watching even more videos on lizards lately, just to make sure he knows how to handle her.

He’s perfect.

Jisung also visits him at the café every Tuesday after class, before his hockey practice. He doesn’t usually study well with people around him, all the noise and chatter, but he finds that it’s where he works best. He can put on headphones, occupy his favorite distraction-free table in the corner, and he doesn’t even need to get up to get a snack. And, well, Minho gives him free refills every time his glass is empty, so there’s that.

The fact that Jisung can also look at him if he needs a break probably has something to do with it, too, but Jisung is just—proud of himself and his progress. He’s come a long way from the beginning of this semester.

“You must really like me a lot,” Jisung quips the first time around Minho brings him a new glass of peach iced tea without even having been asked to. He props his chin up on his hand and flutters his eyelashes up at him, wishing it was appropriate to kiss Minho in public, at his workplace.

Minho gives him one of his charming but awful winks and says, “Hm. I guess you’re starting to grow on me.”

The point is, Minho is always around. He drags Jisung to the gym when he’s feeling exceptionally lazy (which, in turn, always gives Jisung a lot of insane thigh-related thoughts) and hangs out with his friends and they go on so many dates that Jisung learns Seoul anew. They study together, too. Mostly outside, taking advantage of the sunny weather, occupying one of the picnic tables on campus between classes. But Jisung often comes over to Minho’s place under the guise of studying.

Minho, too, prefers renting a house with a few friends, having privacy and a few square meters of grass in the backyard to living in an apartment with no soundproofing or—Jisung shudders just thinking about it—in one of the dorms on campus.

The first time Jisung stayed over at Minho’s place, it was after a game they won. Minho asked if Jisung wanted to go to the party they were throwing, but Jisung told him he wanted to celebrate with him. He didn’t mean to make it sound so suggestive, but he also wouldn’t have minded if that’s where the evening took them.

Except, they watched A Shop for Killers and then talked so long about how Jinman needed a boyfriend in the second season that they forgot to have sex in the first place. They fell asleep wrapped up around each other, blankets kicked to the floor because they felt too warm. 

If Jisung thought falling asleep to the sound of Minho’s voice did wonders for him, he had no idea what sleeping beside him would do.

He felt like a new man.

But it’s the best when Minho comes to their games, that’s what Jisung thinks. He finds that he plays so much better when Minho is in the audience—when he knows that the moment he comes out of the locker room, Minho will pull him into a hug, lift him off the ground, and spin him around like they really are in a rom-com.

He wants to show off, so what.

That hasn’t changed since they started talking. Jisung refuses to be embarrassed about it.

The game with Yonsei is particularly hard on him. They’d been on a winning streak before ending their last game on a crushing, embarrassing loss, and after the season they’ve had, Jisung is worried.

It’s the most important game of the season, if only because of the long-standing university rivalry. They just—can’t afford to lose. It’s a question of honor.

“You’ll do well, jagi,” Minho tells him the night before, when Jisung is lying on his chest, unable to fall asleep. Frustrated. Anxious. “And if you don’t win, it’s not the end of the world. I’ll still be proud of you. You’ll still win the league.”

Jisung cracks a smile. “Promise you won’t call me a burned-out star on the show?”

Minho scrunches his nose, embarrassed to be reminded of that even though Jisung doesn’t really care.

“Promise,” Minho says, craning his neck to steal a kiss from Jisung’s waiting mouth. “You’ll always be my star, hm? No matter if you win or lose.”

Jisung inhales sharply. Minho says those things sometimes, those incredibly romantic things, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He’s so honest and sincere, Jisung is still getting used to it.

“Thank you, hyung,” he mumbles against Minho’s mouth, hesitant to pull away from his kisses. “I’m gonna do my best.”

“Yeah. Exactly. You gotta believe in yourself, Han Jisung. I keep telling you that.”

They end up winning after a vicious fight of a game, though, and it’s an unreal sensation even if Jisung only contributes to one of the four goals.

After the game, he and Minho drop by the massive party at Chan and Changbin’s house for an hour or two, only to then dip in favor of taking advantage of Jisung’s place while it’s housemate-less. They watch Transit Love and Minho makes fun of the contestants to piss Jisung off and they spend the rest of the night rolling around in bed while the guys are blowing up Jisung’s phone, asking him where the fuck they’ve disappeared to.