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Sincerity moves heaven.
At least that’s what Jisung was once told—eight years old, fingers tacky with the caramel-filled chocolate he’d been allowed for the day. A treat strategically saved for cartoon time. He even took the time to place its shiny wrapper on the coffee table, careful to not sully the carpeted floor. His mother might’ve been proud, had she been looking.
Fingers messy and sweet, the television running at an acceptable volume. The cartoon he’s been watching gets interrupted by another advertisement. There’s a strong-jawed man on the screen this time, stepping out of a sleek, posh vehicle. He runs an easy hand through wind-tousled hair, adjusts the sleeve of his suit with a calculated tug. Both his eyes and the advertised car shine blindingly as the camera pans just so. Then his unwavering smile, aimed at Jisung.
Then-Jisung turns to his mother, who hasn’t yet raised her eyes from the plate of unsorted cilantro in her lap. The good ones get placed in a plastic bowl, the bad dropped into a plastic bag.
“Eomma.” He points a chocolatey, greedy finger at the television. “Can I have one when I grow up?”
This gets her to look up. She regards the posh car and suited man with careful neutrality. Then her son, sticky-fingered and hopeful on the carpet.
“If you want something, Jisung-ah, you need to be sincere about it.” She inspects the cilantro in her hand, deposits it into the plastic bowl. “Jiseongimyeon gamcheon. It means if you put your heart and soul into what you earnestly desire, the heavens will be moved to help you. It can be for anything—a good grade, a kind friend, or a fancy car like that.”
Then-Jisung was young and foolish. He’d heard Jiseong in the proverb and figured it had some incontrovertible connection to him. Not quite ‘if one’s sincerity is utmost’ but ‘if it’s Jisung, the heavens will be moved.’
A funny child, he was. His mother had to explain that the ji in his name was for knowledge or wisdom, the seong for fortress or castle. Nothing to do with utmost sincerity. Maybe they should’ve named him better.
Ah, whatever. Jisung doesn’t really mind. He was too busy committing those words to memory, reciting them ceaselessly in his head. A time-tested spell to grant his wishes. Wisdom passed down the generations. It had to work.
Never mind that he hadn’t been pointing at the luxurious car. Not at all. His mother didn’t need to know.
.•°:✧⋆.°
Tweenhood gifted Jisung two things: a best friend named Lee Felix and a diary the same color as fresh cilantro. Good for health, free of rot—the kind his mother would deem worthy of the plastic bowl. Helped by a divine hand, saved from the plastic bag.
Jisung wanted to be worthy of his wishes, so he took it as a sign. Ran to the ends of the earth with it. Felix never tried stopping him, because he too was painting his sneakers the colors of the horizon. Shoelaces tied without a destination, ends falling loose. Needle and thread, stitching themselves into loops and knots. Not a single pattern in mind.
Jisung wanted to be sincere enough for the heavens, so he picked up a pen. He’d been given a sign—a sign! Why shouldn’t he write his desires down? They needed to be seen. Only then could they come true.
They did, for a while.
I want to score a ninety on the next math test. Granted.
I want my teacher to compliment my science project. Granted.
I want to go to the same high school as Felix. Granted.
I want to sleep for more than six hours tonight. Granted, barely.
Until one day, the heavens deemed him unworthy.
I want to go to the same university as Felix. Denied.
I want to start liking girls. Denied. Jisung isn’t quite sure why he tried.
I want to make at least three new friends in college. Denied, though Hyunjin and Changbin have enough audacity to fill up an auditorium.
I want to have my first kiss. Denied. Until intervention.
The hopeless romantic in him wanted his first kiss to be a heat-of-the-moment thing. Cheeks aflame, fireworks exploding, butterflies aflutter. The realist in him knew better—he’d need practical experience to pull off such a feat. No perfection without practice, and all that. It wasn’t like anyone in his linear algebra study group or poetry club was dying to kiss him.
And so there was intervention. In the form of one Lee Felix.
A year and a half into university, Felix didn’t visit Jisung with the intent of giving him practical experience, but it’s funny things ended up that way. A tube of chapstick, several bouts of laughter shared throughout. Detailed, informational lessons—perfecting the head tilt, options for hand placement, how to deepen a chaste kiss. And while no fireworks went off during the affair, there was a Hyunjin and Changbin shrieking in the corner of the room. Just as loud and explosive. Cinematically dramatic.
All things considered, Jisung supposes things couldn’t have gone much better.
That night, Felix occupied Jisung’s desk and pulled out a ballpen. Then his cilantro-green diary. Jisung watched as his last wish got crossed off. As Felix turned to him with bright, sincere eyes.
“You are worthy, Jisung-ah. Give the heavens some time. They’ll come back around.”
Then-Jisung wondered if guileless sincerity could ever prevail against reality.
Then again: what can he do but try?
.•°:✧⋆.°
Jisung’s tried. Seriously, he’s tried.
Sure, he had no luck during high school because he hadn’t developed proper social skills or a gaydar, but that’s not the case anymore. He’s grown since then, goddamnit. He’s even kissed a guy! Surely that should count for something!
Never mind that his last crush was in his senior year of high school, almost three years ago. Never mind that said crush was a straight guy Jisung liked for much, much longer than he should’ve. If he tells himself enough times that he was only walking the homosexual rite of passage, maybe he’ll believe it.
(Hyunjin, prince of dramatics, tells him to stop being dramatic. Apparently you can’t rush true romance.)
But at what cost? Jisung was willing to give up the inherent romanticness of a first kiss if it meant he could someday kiss his first boyfriend with more confidence. But he’s still a hopeless romantic at heart, so dating apps are out of the question. Changbin has enough horror stories about people he’s met through such means—he’s not keen on adding to the list.
As a last-ditch effort, he scoured each of his classes for a potential interest. No luck. The one guy who’d piqued his attention was cute for a good three minutes before his girlfriend sidled up next to him, booping his nose. Which escalated into aggressive forehead-booping and hushed giggles from both parties until Jisung physically retched and moved five rows back. Even he has standards for PDA!
Which goes to say: he’s tried and he’s tired. But years of trying hasn’t whacked enough sense into his hopeless, romantic self.
Why? Jisung loves love. He loves it so goddamn much. The day he switched out comic books for romance novels, he never looked back. He’s the guy with the extensive manga collection. The guy watching dramas in the dead of night, getting overly attached to the characters. Replaying confession scenes like they’ll help him ace his classes.
He knows everything about love, yet nothing at all.
But god, does he want to know.
The daydreams are as vibrant as they are intangible. The ones at night, even worse.
He wants to know when it’s like to hold hands in the rain. To kiss under fairy lights. To cuddle in a blanket fort, a pillow fort, anything. To share a homemade meal. To tell secrets under the stars. To have his heart pound and know that he can cause the same. To love and be loved back.
Jisung has tried, and he’s tired, but he’s also the most stubborn person he knows. Sincere, maybe.
He wants Felix to be right. He wants to be worthy. Seen. Loved.
Back at his desk, his fingers are curled around the same ballpen. His cilantro-green diary, flipped open. He writes.
I want someone to love.
.•°:✧⋆.°
A lot can change in six months.
Seo Changbin can graduate early and move to a new city. Hwang Hyunjin, having committed to a study abroad program, can board an airplane bound for Paris. Lee Felix can get caught up in life’s responsibilities, busy enough that he doesn’t pick up the phone on weekdays.
Jisung is lonely, and it’s only the beginning of winter. Frigid air, harsh gusts of wind, no one to snuggle up next to. The cold weather only makes him lonelier.
The loneliness only makes the daydreams more vivid. They’ve synthesized into one daydream, actually. One person.
It started when Jisung was walking home from a fast food joint, a paper bag containing his dinner—two cheeseburgers—clutched against his chest. The only warmth he was afforded at the hour, with his threadbare jacket hanging uselessly off his shoulders.
Frigid air, harsh gusts of wind, no one around. Just the empty sidewalk and the usual tangle of overlapping thoughts.
It’s so damn cold I’m so damn hungry let me get home quick please please—
Then a soft voice, cutting through the brainfog.
Come on, Jisung-ah. Hold my hand. Let’s go home.
Jisung knows that no one was there. That his brain made up the voice to keep him company. Keep his frosty hands and lonely heart warm.
And yet. Jisung foolishly extended his hand, pretended someone was there. Told him to take him home, stay for the winter. He did.
He’s there whenever Jisung needs him. In the stuffy library while Jisung crams for exams, in his room while he’s buried in coursework. Checking in on him, gently encouraging him. Jisung can’t see what he looks like, but he imagines a pair of kind eyes. A private smile he saves for Jisung alone.
If Jisung allows himself to indulge a little further, he’s probably really freaking handsome. Much out of Jisung’s league. But he adores Jisung, so he doesn’t see it that way. He also makes Jisung laugh, in small and unexpected ways. And he likes some of the weird things Jisung likes.
Maybe they’ll get a stuffed dinosaur and Jisung will call it something ridiculous like Duke Edward Harold Lawrence the Eighth and it’ll be so ridiculous they’ll keep the name. Maybe they’ll keep the dinosaur in their blanket fort. Maybe they’ll cuddle to sleep, tell secrets under the stars.
Ah. He’s extrapolating too far. His diary looks to be weary from how much he’s written.
He caps the pen. Falls into a dream-infested slumber.
.•°:✧⋆.°
“Lixie.” Jisung drawls into the phone. It’s a Sunday, so Felix picked up. “He’s everywhere.”
Felix isn’t on video call due to his aging phone's shitty battery life, so Jisung can’t see the scrunch of his eyebrows. But it’s definitely there.
“Who’s everywhere?”
“My imaginary boyfriend.”
If Felix were a better friend, he’d tell Jisung to snap out of his delusions and roll in the patch of freshly-mowed grass outside his apartment building. But he won’t, because he’s a terrible person. The only one willing to play needle to Jisung’s thread of tomfoolery.
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
“I mean yes, but also.” Jisung fills his chest with a sigh, releases it loudly. Felix knows exactly what he’s trying to get at, but he’s stalling on purpose to watch Jisung stew. The sadistic punk. “It’s bad. I think. Aren’t there better coping mechanisms for unwillful singleness out there in the world?”
“Of course there are.” Felix says, very patiently. “You’re smart, Jisungie. I have no doubt you already know what they are.”
The punk, unfortunately, is also perceptive.
“But that’s not why you called me, is it?”
Jisung sighs again. Quieter, this time. “Of course not. I should receive an award for the stupidest and gayest man alive. I don’t want to get rid of my imaginary boyfriend.”
Felix giggles at this, delighted. Finally spoonfed what he likely deduced two seconds after he saw the name accompanying his ringtone. “No one’s telling you to get rid of him.”
“No one?”
“No one on this end of the line. If you called Changbin hyung, this conversation would’ve ended ten seconds ago. Hyunjinnie hyung might’ve heard you out. Maybe.”
“Touché.” Jisung doesn’t comment further. He did call Felix for a reason.
“But Jisung-ah, riddle me with this.” Felix clears his throat, a mischievous tune seeping into the deep tenor of his voice. “Let’s say—ah, I don’t know. The heavens came back around, and the last wish in your diary got granted. You meet someone like him—maybe while walking down the street, maybe in a future class. Or you stumbled into a parallel universe.”
“A parallel universe?!”
Felix barrels on, undeterred. “Imagine that you meet someone like him, and he’s also interested in you. Would you be able to handle it?”
Well. That’s certainly an unexpected question.
“Of course I would, Lixie.” Jisung puffs out his chest, although he knows Felix can’t see. “I’ve only been dreaming about this since what, forever? Don’t tempt me with such beguiling fantasies. I might just go looking for a parallel universe portal.”
As if he would ever throw an opportunity that grand. Hah.
Felix giggles again. “Whatever you say, Jisungie. Just don’t fall too hard when you find one.”
Whatever he says, indeed.
.•°:✧⋆.°
Mandatory lectures on Friday mornings have a special place in hell. But so does Jisung, so he attends them.
He’s groggy. God, he’s so groggy. He somehow managed to set his alarm to go off a full hour before he actually needed to get up, and once he had awakened, there was no going back. At least he hadn’t run out the door with half-assed hair and mismatched socks.
Far from that, actually. Crazy what waking up early does to a person.
Sleepy but determined, Jisung had taken his time getting ready—scrubbing facial cleaner into his skin, running a proper comb through his hair. He’d even bothered accessorizing, switching out his daily silver hoops for the mini gold earrings he treasures.
A quick glance at the weather app revealed warmer temperatures than usual and clearer skies—a mercy! And so the usual knee-length coat got swept aside, replaced by a plain white tee tucked into light denim jeans. Plus the daisy-patterned sweater vest he couldn’t stand to safekeep until spring. A light indulgence.
He feels cute. He looks cute. And that had been enough to power him through the bus ride to campus and the first forty minutes of lecture—until the grogginess hit.
Stumbling out of the lecture hall now, he adjusts his tote bag and makes a beeline for the bus stop. This mandatory morning lecture may have a special place in hell, but at least it’s the only class he has today. There’s still time until lunch, so he can head back to his apartment and nap before figuring out what to eat. The food court at the nearby mall seems appealing, given that he’s already dressed up.
Ah, decisions for later. Nap first.
The security guard standing outside the lobby of his apartment complex greets him with a close-lipped smile. Jisung nods politely in turn, walks up to the double doors.
The entry doors both have windows, so Jisung can observe the bustle inside. There’s a group of students scrolling on their phones while waiting for an elevator, presumably from his university. A girl in a hot pink jumpsuit is chatting with her friend, who’s laughing and smoothing out her striped pajamas.
Sunrays strike the back of his neck as Jisung grips the steel door handle and pulls. Steps inside.
It’s an immediate feeling. Something is very, very wrong.
Jisung blinks a couple times to no avail. Both the jumpsuit girl and her friend have completely disappeared. The crowd by the elevator is noticeably smaller, with students fiddling with umbrellas instead of their smartphones.
When Jisung looks outside, it’s completely overcast. Pouring rain.
What the fuck?
Stepping up to the double doors again, Jisung peers through the windows and makes eye contact with the security guard under the awning. Their uniform is the exact same. The person wearing it is completely different.
What the actual fuck?
Panic building in his throat, Jisung makes another scan of his surroundings. An elevator must’ve just arrived, for the small crowd from earlier is filing into it. There’s now a man, likely around Jisung’s height, leaning up against the wall by the stairwell door.
Jisung doesn’t mean to stare longer than necessary, but goddamn. If he was the one who had come down in the elevator, Jisung has no doubt that other people were staring too. Sharp eyes, sculpted nose, full lips. Wrapped up in a black coat that emphasizes the cut of his shoulders, a light gray sweater underneath.
He’s really freaking handsome. Much out of Jisung’s league.
And now he’s looking up under the curtain of his bangs. At Jisung.
Oh fuck—
“Jagiya!” The guy calls. He’s still looking at Jisung. “What are you doing over there?”
Jisung’s heart, not used to hearing that word unless it’s Hyunjin joking around, gives a pathetic kick. Its rhythm only grows more erratic as the guy abandons the wall to start walking towards him, pastel blue umbrella in hand.
Wait. He’s approaching Jisung.
Whatthefuck whatthefuck—
“Yah.” He comes to a full stop in front of Jisung’s frozen stature. Blinks multiple times. “Jagi, why aren’t you saying anything?”
Jisung, realizing he still has control of his limbs and face, shuffles in place. Opens and closes his mouth a few times before he finds something apt to say. Never mind that he still has no idea what in the ever-loving fuck is going on.
“Um, hi?” Jisung manages. He absentmindedly tugs at the collar of his sweater vest. “I think you might have the wrong person.”
Never mind that he doesn’t really want to be the wrong person. Whoever’s dating this guy is a lucky bastard.
Handsome-sweater-man, furrowing his brow, presses the back of his hand flush against Jisung’s forehead. Jisung barely has the time to react before he’s drawing it back, eyebrows knitting together further.
Then he takes in the whole of Jisung’s appearance, his dry shirt and jeans. Contrasted by the rain pounding outside.
“You told me that you needed one, how did you—” He abruptly cuts himself off, blinks a few more times. He looks at the umbrella in his hand like it might offer answers, back at Jisung. An indecipherable look of recognition passes over his face.
“I…” Jisung scratches the back of his neck, looks out the window again. “Honestly have no idea.”
A couple beats of silence pass between them. Then the sound of rustling fabric.
“Nevermind that.” The guy says abruptly, wrestling out of his coat. Jisung's jaw unhinges, just a bit. “Han Jisung, I can’t believe you dressed so lightly for this kind of weather. Take this.”
Jisung, stunned from the guy’s antics and hearing his full name, goes into autopilot and mindlessly accepts the offering. He’s barely gotten both arms through the sleeves when handsome-sweater-man grabs his elbow, starts leading them towards the elevators.
Waiting for a lift, Jisung is given a moment to process. To think.
There’s…a ridiculously handsome man standing next to him. Around the same age, if not a year or two off. He called him jagi and Han Jisung, and gave him the coat off his back. He’s more appropriately dressed for the weather, which had metamorphosed from pleasant sunshine to pouring rain. The security guard standing outside had been a completely different person, as well as the people waiting inside the lobby.
Ah. He’s dreaming, isn’t he?
He has to be. This is textbook dream logic.
But which parts of his day were fake? When had he fallen asleep? The bus ride to his apartment complex is a viable candidate, but so is the last ten minutes of lecture. As well as the bus ride to campus. He’s infamous for falling asleep anywhere and everywhere.
Or maybe he hasn’t woken up at all today. Maybe his alarm was set correctly, and it’s yet to go off. It’s a frightening thought, but not an impossible one.
Either way. He’s here, and there’s an absurdly attractive man standing next to him. And he addressed Jisung as jagi and he gave him the coat off his back because he was underdressed for the cold. And they’re now presumably going to his apartment, if not Jisung’s.
Holy shit. Holy shit. Jisung is lucid dreaming. He’s dating this guy. Best of all—he’s become cognizant of the fact that he’s dreaming, so he has full control over himself. He chooses what happens in this dream. And this dream has granted what he’s been trying to manifest for years.
Let’s say—ah, I don’t know. The heavens came back around, and the last wish in your diary got granted. You meet someone like him.
Have the heavens moved for him? Not completely, or this would be real life. But this is a fine enough consolation. Jisung will take what he can get.
Would you be able to handle it?
Another glance at the guy reveals that he’s still there. Still much out of Jisung’s league, but he probably adores Jisung, so he doesn’t see it that way. Oh god. Oh god.
The ding of the elevator’s arrival, while relatively quiet, startles Jisung out of his wits. His shoulders fly up to his ears, arms going stick-straight, body freezing up. Then he mentally slaps himself. What a way to make a first-ish impression.
“Sorry.” He apologizes meekly, averting his eyes to the opening elevator doors. “Must’ve gotten caught up in my thoughts.”
When the guy doesn’t respond, Jisung risks his crumbling dignity to look at him. And oh—he’s stifling a chuckle. He notices Jisung's eyes on him almost immediately, tries to conceal his amusement behind his gray sweater sleeve. But it’s too late. Jisung catches a glimpse of the soft slope of his smile regardless.
It’s unfair, how fast his heart melts into an enamored little puddle. Who gave this guy the right to have such intimidating features but such adorable laughter? It’s so unfair.
Jisung can’t keep up, mentally or physically, it seems. By the time he’s back in working order, the guy is already in the elevator. He raises an eyebrow, like, Are you coming or not?
Stupid question. Jisung scrambles in after him. Watches as the elevator doors slide shut, locking them inside together.
It suddenly occurs to him that neither of them have pressed a button.
“Have you already forgotten what floor your hyung lives on?” Sweater-man teases, reaching across for the seven on the panel. Jisung lives on the fourth, but he figures that’s not relevant here.
Hyung, he’d said. So he’s older than Jisung—which, yeah, makes sense. Jisung would’ve assumed so otherwise, but the confirmation is convenient. At least he can address him somehow.
“Of course not, hyung.” Jisung counters, testing it out on his tongue. It’s nice. Comfortable. “Though shouldn't you be pushing the buttons? It’s your apartment.”
Oops. Maybe Jisung should be more careful with his words. But then again—hadn’t the guy been laughing at him when he got spooked? Surely they’ve reached this level of familiarity.
“You’re standing closer to the panel.” He points out, clucking his tongue. His eyes are on the floor number display, watching as the numbers change from three to four. “Better watch your words, Jisungie. I might start pushing your buttons.”
He finally meets Jisung’s gaze, a mischievous smirk spreading across his face. Switches the umbrella into his other hand, using it to poke Jisung’s side.
So that’s the playing ground they’re on. Jisung can work with that.
“I thought hyung was supposed to be taking care of me.” He bats his eyes, a giddy thrill shooting up his spine. “Don’t tell me that you can’t push a few buttons.”
The handsome bastard only smiles back. “Right. Anything for my jagi.”
.•°:✧⋆.°
The charged energy between them seems to dissipate when the elevator dings again, signaling the seventh floor.
Jisung thinks to mourn it, but then he sees the elder unlocking his apartment door, pushing it open. Suddenly there’s a thousand other things to focus on.
The place is noticeably bigger than Jisung’s apartment, though he presumes it’s because it was built for more than one person. The first thing he notices is the cream-colored couch in the living room. It’s piled with pillows and assorted stuffed animals, mostly of cats and prankish-looking rabbits. The kitchen, located on their right, is organized and well-maintained.
Jisung already feels at home.
The couch looks extremely soft and inviting, so he doesn’t bother fighting the urge to dash over and flop onto it. After placing his Converse on the shoe rack and hanging his tote bag on a dining chair, of course. He's eager, but not a terrible guest.
“You look comfortable.” The elder comments lightly, removing his own sneakers and lining them up next to Jisung’s. He drops the umbrella and his wallet on the coffee table in front of Jisung, begins trekking further into the house. “Stay here. I need to use the bathroom.”
Jisung hums in response, watches him disappear down the hallway. Wriggles further into the couch's cushions. Damn. It really is as comfortable as it looks. If only there was a way to transport this into his own apartment.
He’s taking in the other house decor—the cat-themed analog clock hung on the wall, the collection of barbells in the corner of the room, the fluffy pink rug at his feet—when he realizes. His hyung—whose name he still doesn’t know—left his wallet here.
One upward glance reveals that he’s nowhere in sight. Even if he saw Jisung looking, he wouldn’t mind, would he?
Jisung flips open the wallet, sees his identification card at the very front. He slides it out, holds it to the light.
It’s unfair. How does this guy manage to look good even in his ID photo? But—nevermind that. Jisung needs to know his name first. He squints at the text next to the picture.
Lee Minho.
Ah. A fairly common name, but not overly so. And the more Jisung thinks about him—his bright eyes and elegant nose, the amused curve of his mouth—he realizes it suits him quite well.
A further glance reveals that he’s a few years older than Jisung, almost definitely out of college by now. If he got a job straight out of university, he’s approaching two years in the workforce. But then again, he could also be approaching two years of graduate school. What does Jisung know?
Speaking of which. There’s a photograph of him, Jisung, nestled in the other side of the wallet.
It’s a candid photo. This Jisung, bright-eyed and laughing, is sitting on a checkered picnic blanket in a grassy field. He’s holding a melty chocolate chip cookie in one hand, pointing off into the distance with the other. There’s a faint smudge of chocolate on the edge of his mouth, like he’d taken a bite of the cookie and got too distracted to wipe it off.
He looks so damn happy. Jisung has no doubt Minho took the photo in secret, reached over to thumb the chocolate off his face. Maybe even kissed him on the cheek.
Jisung’s heart aches and he doesn’t know why.
He shakes the feeling off, slides both items back into place. Shuts the wallet and sets it next to the umbrella.
The quick-handed shuffling reminds him that Minho’s coat is still haphazardly draped across his back, so he folds that up and slides it onto the table as well. There’s no need for it anymore; the apartment'a living room is significantly warmer than the lobby downstairs.
It’s just in time for the sound of socked footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Jisung is sitting with folded hands when Minho returns. He’s in the same gray sweater and black pants as earlier, but his hands are full. With a giant gecko plushie.
“Richard got displaced while we were cleaning the living room last night.” He explains, depositing the creature on Jisung’s lap. “She missed you.”
Jisung, stuck between how adorable the stuffed animal is and the absurdity of the situation, wraps his arms around it. He looks up curiously at Minho.
“We didn’t name her Duke Richard Harold Lawrence the Eighth?”
Minho blinks a few times. Then he breaks into a pitchy giggle, the kind that makes his eyes scrunch up cutely and his head fold in towards his chest. Unfairly endearing.
The ache in Jisung’s heart takes a thread and needle to itself. Mending.
“No, her name is just Richard.” He corrects, ruffling her fuzzy head. Then a gentle pat on Jisung’s head. “Have you eaten yet?”
Lunch. Right. It’s lunchtime, and Jisung was supposed to go to the food court at the mall because he’s already dressed up. But now he’s here, and it’s pouring rain outside.
“Not yet.” He admits. The longer he thinks about food, the emptier his stomach feels. He’d eaten an apple and some oatmeal in the morning, but it’s all been digested.
“I’ll warm up some kimchi-jjigae then.” Minho says, easy as anything. “It’s technically leftovers from last night, but my jagi doesn’t mind, does he?”
Jisung holds Richard to his chest, lets his heart stumble. He doesn't know if it’ll ever stay calm while he’s here, with Minho, but he doesn’t mind. He’s missed this feeling. Wants to wrap it up and keep it forever pulsing in the confines of his chest.
“I don’t mind.” Jisung finally responds. There’s a smile crawling up his face. He doesn’t bother fighting it off. “Thank you, Minho hyung.”
.•°:✧⋆.°
Jisung didn’t know the depth of his hunger until he fit a heaping spoonful of the leftover kimchi-jjigae in his mouth. Now it’s a bottomless pit.
“Holy fuck, hyung.” He swallows, immediately gets to shoveling up another bite. “I think I’m growing a second stomach. This is so good. Where did you get it from?”
“I made it, dumbass.” Minho retorts, huffing like anything else is unthinkable. “And slow down. You’re going to burn your tongue.”
Goddamn. So apparently Minho is handsome, thoughtful, and he cooks like a god. Jisung might as well be having lunch in heaven.
“How the hell are you so talented.” Jisung mumbles, reluctantly blowing on his spoon before slurping carefully at the broth.
It’s only slowing down the process of getting the delectable stew into his mouth, but whatever. He’ll listen because burning his tongue will mean damaging his taste buds. And he can’t have that, not when he hasn’t had a meal this delicious in a long time.
“It’s not all talent.” Minho contends, rubbing at the tip of his ear. When Jisung peeks closer, it's tinged red. “The secret is in very fermented kimchi. And adding pork belly and extra tofu, which I know you like. Or, well. Most people do.”
Jisung doesn’t address the fact that Minho has his food preferences mapped out with freakishly thoughtful accuracy, down to his low spice tolerance—it’ll send him into another spiral. Instead, he wolfs down another spoonful and focuses on the high bridge of his nose.
“Still.” He insists. “You made this, and you made me really happy with it. That’s all I’m thinking about.”
Minho’s ears seem to burn redder. Jisung is growing addicted to the sight.
“Mm. Good.” Minho settles on. His socked foot finds Jisung’s under the dining table, knocking lightly into his ankle. “Eat as much as you want.”
Jisung does. He even starts getting worried that he’s not leaving enough food for Minho, but a peek inside the pot reveals that there’s more than plenty left. Which means…either Minho meal preps for multiple days in advance, or he’s used to Jisung coming over and stealing his food.
Or...it’s for his housemate, or another friend. God. Jisung doesn’t live here. He doesn’t know what happens here or why. He could ask about Minho’s social life, but it doesn’t feel right. Like it’s something Jisung should already know everything about, be actively involved in.
His thoughts get interrupted by a moving figure half-blocking his vision.
“Jisung-ah.” Minho’s waving something in front of him. It’s a spoonful of tofu in kimchi broth, topped with shiitake mushrooms. “Open up.”
“It’s okay, hyung, I ate a lot.” Jisung argues weakly. The Jisung in his heart and stomach wants that bite badly. Fed to him with domestic tenderness.
“It has your favorites.” Minho frowns, not giving in. “Come on. Say ahh.”
Watching Minho lean across the table reminds him that there’s not much space between them at all. That Minho barely has to move before there’s two fingers at Jisung’s jaw, nudging his mouth open. The other hand slips the spoon into his mouth, warm broth and savory ingredients melting onto his tongue.
The clack of Jisung’s teeth bumping against the steel spoon is too loud. So is the click of his throat as he swallows, heartbeat thundering in his chest.
Minho hasn’t leaned back. He’s still in Jisung’s space, watching him with a thoughtful look. The empty utensil dangles idly in his hand.
He’s so close. He’s so close. Jisung looks at his full lips without meaning to, finds that he doesn’t want to look away. There’s a pleased smirk painted there, like Jisung had reacted exactly as Minho wanted him to.
“Ah, you’re being messy again.” Minho murmurs, private in the space between them. He reaches over, thumbs away the broth lingering at the corner of Jisung’s mouth. Then he drops a chaste kiss onto Jisung’s cheek, lips soft and warm against his flushed skin.
When he withdraws, his eyes are twinkling.
“That’s better.”
Jisung realizes that he may as well be the tofu in the pot. Cooked beyond belief.
Minhos’s eyes are still twinkling. He places the spoon in Jisung’s empty bowl, grabs the entire thing. Leans out of his space to stack it on top of his own bowl. And then he’s carrying them to the sink, leaving a flustered Jisung to clutch at his chest like an idiot.
Turns out Lee Minho is handsome, thoughtful, a godly cook, and knows how to send Jisung’s heartrate through the roof. Who would’ve known?!
Jisung grabs the pot, rushes over to the sink. His cheeks are still tingling, the ghost of Minho’s lips left behind. It’s all he can do.
There’s only a few dishes to be done. Minho won’t let him help, so Jisung resigns himself to wiping down the table and sinking into the couch again.
It’s still as brain-numbingly comfortable as earlier. If he adjusts his positioning just right, he can lie down fully and rest his head on one of the frilly pillows. Legs sprawled, Richard hugged to his chest.
Jisung always gets sleepy after a good, filling meal. Food-induced coma. He can’t stop it. And he’d planned on taking a nap after class, hadn’t he? He’s so comfortable right now. Falling asleep would be so easy.
Wait. Fuck.
Would falling asleep here mean waking up in real life? He can’t be sure. Jisung’s brain is fucked up enough that he’s had the experience of waking up within a dream, experiencing the dream itself, and then waking up in his actual bed. Dream-ception.
That could very much happen here. But there’s no way to guarantee it. If Jisung wakes up in real life, Minho will be gone.
Fuck. He can’t have that. Not now, not when they’ve only shared one meal together. Jisung’s grown accustomed, attached. He can’t leave now. He won’t have it.
Trying to keep his eyes open feels the same as fighting to keep them open. Food-induced coma. He can’t stop it. He’s so sleepy, and he should really get off this comfortable couch, but his eyes are drooping and—
“Jagiya.” Minho’s pat-patting him on the chest. “Are you asleep?”
Caught just in time. Jisung attempts to wrench his eyelids open, but it’s too difficult. He keeps them closed, responds with a sleepy grunt.
Minho huffs quietly, a fond sound. “If you’re going to nap, come to my room. I’ll bring Richard along.”
“Don’t—wanna sleep.” Jisung mumbles, barely getting the words out. He tightens his arms around the gecko plushie. “Hyung might not be there. When I wake up.”
This seems to give Minho pause. Though only for a moment. He has a response ready before Jisung can drift off to unconsciousness.
“Of course I’ll be there when you wake up, dummy. Where would I go?”
Jisung pries his eyes open, and—oh. Minho looks genuine. Sincere.
Jisung wants to believe him.
“‘Kay.” Jisung loosens his grip on Richard, bats his eyes. Just because he can. “Can hyung carry me there? Please? Too sleepy.”
Minho scoffs this time, but he doesn’t provide any words of denial. Jisung yelps when he feels one arm snaking around his waist, the other under his knees. And then he’s being lifted up and away, Richard balanced precariously on his torso.
As it seems, the barbells in the living room have been put to use. Extensively.
It’s effortlessly attractive, the way Minho carries him without trouble. Like he’s light as a feather, just another stuffed animal in the house to throw around.
(Jisung shoves that thought into a folder and locks it in a hidden drawer. If it lingers in the forefront of his mind any longer, it’ll become a pressing issue.)
They approach a room at the end of the hall, the door already slightly ajar. Minho uses his foot to kick it the rest of the way open, angles his body so that Jisung’s legs don’t knock into the doorframe as he enters. A thoughtful gesture.
Inside, Minho’s room is nice. Quite nice. Jisung can’t think of a better descriptor through the sleepy fog, but he’s quickly growing fond of it.
There’s more cat-themed accents on the walls, small figurines on his desk. A pile of thick books, some textbooks, sitting next to a charging laptop. (A graduate student, then. Unless he’s studying alongside work.)
Jisung gets whirled around, dropped onto a full-sized bed. He giggles as he bounces on the mattress, Richard still in his hands. Minho looks down at him, amusement written in the lines of his face.
“Was that a smooth enough ride for you, princess?”
Jisung gawks at him, thinks of using Richard to smack his shoulder. Decides that she doesn’t deserve such treatment.
“Hm. Smooth as a pumpkin carriage, I suppose.” He smoothes his hand over the covers, which are as invitingly soft and comfy as the sofa. Grins dopily. “Though I’m feeling a lot more like Sleeping Beauty than Cinderella right now.”
Minho considers this, invisible gears turning in his head. Swiftly, he takes Richard out of Jisung’s hands, who sputters and tries grabbing her back. Unsuccessfully. Slow reflexes caused by lingering grogginess—Minho’s already put her on top of his desk chair. She stares blankly at them both.
“Hey, I was going to hug her to sleep!” Jisung complains.
“And I’m going to hug you to sleep.” Minho threatens. Jisung wonders if he’s being serious. “Turn around. There’s more plushies behind you.”
True to his word, there are four more stuffed animals lined up against the wall, on the far end of the bed. How many are there in this house? Jisung is secretly impressed. There’s got to be enough to fill a pillow fort.
Amongst the four, a brown, round-eyed creature with a singular tooth catches his eye—his best guess is that it’s a quokka. He immediately reaches for it, fits it into his arms. Looks for Minho’s approval.
“That one’s always been your favorite.” Minho murmurs, almost as if it hadn’t been intended for Jisung’s ears. He lowers himself onto the bed, scooches closer until their shoulders are touching. “Are you gonna sleep now?”
“Mm, yeah.” Clutching the quokka is making him sleepy again. So is Minho’s body heat, radiating in waves from where their shoulders are connected. Maybe he was being serious about hugging him to sleep.
Sated, warm, Jisung lowers himself into the covers. He has a habit of sleeping on his left shoulder, so he can’t see Minho, only the wall. The sound of rustling sheets behind him fills his ears.
Minho’s shuffling closer. Closer still, until Jisung can feel his warmth from calf to neck. His knees are pressed against the backs of Jisung’s legs, the rest of them bracketed; stomach to lower back, chest to shoulder blades.
Jisung shivers, his body reacting before his mind can catch up. Minho hooks an arm around his waist, drags him more securely against his body.
“This okay? You’re not cold, right?”
Jisung, who hasn’t been held or cuddled since Felix last visited, thinks he might cry. Months of touch starvation bubbling to the surface, oxytocin flowing into his bloodstream like a drug he’d been forced to quit.
“‘M not cold anymore.” He places his hand over Minho’s, where it’s resting against his ribcage. Squeezes. “Please don’t go anywhere.”
“Okay.” Minho’s voice is a steady rumble by his ear. He presses a kiss to Jisung’s nape, lips soft and lingering this time. “Don’t worry. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”
Reassured, Jisung nods. Falls asleep to the light drizzle plinking against the window.
.•°:✧⋆.°
When Jisung awakens, he’s exceedingly warm.
There’s an explanation for it. A brown stuffed animal smushed against his chest, a body plastered against his back—
Holy shit. He’s still here.
A pinch to his right hand reveals that yes, it hurts, and yes, it’s still resting on top of Minho’s. Who’s also still here, breathing lightly against the back of the neck.
Relief plunges into his system.
The rain must have fully stopped. Jisung doesn’t hear it anymore. He also can’t see as well as before—the beginnings of darkness have enshrouded the room. Sometime after the sun has disappeared beyond the horizon, before nighttime has gotten a chance to paint the sky black.
What time is it? Jisung wants to know, but he isn’t wearing a wristwatch. The closest clock in the room is Minho’s phone, if not his laptop. Bothering to know the time would be bothering to wake Minho.
Jisung wonders if he should just go for it. He wants to look at him, spend more time together. Can’t really do that with their current positioning.
“I’m awake, by the way.” Minho speaks into the silence. As if Jisung's thoughts had seeped into his brain. “Was waiting for you to wake up.”
His voice is a little gravely with sleep. Jisung wants to hear it again.
“How’d you know I just woke up?” Jisung asks, just to probe him. Apart from the pinch to his hand, he hadn’t shifted at all. Unless Minho is preposterously in tune with all of Jisung’s tells…well. He probably is. Stupid question.
“Magician’s secrets.” Minho says anyway. He slowly extracts himself from Jisung’s back, the hand wrapped around his waist slipping against his sweater vest before disappearing.
Jisung misses his warmth as soon as it's gone. Has to remind himself that Minho is still within arm’s reach—for now.
Releasing the quokka plushie from his hold, he places it in line with the other three stuffed animals. Rolls over to face the man in question.
He’s sitting upright, rubbing at the corner of his eye. Still ridiculously handsome post-sleep, face aglow with the light emanating from his phone. His hair is sticking up in a few places, and all it does is make Jisung smile like a fool. Fingers twitching with the itch to smooth it over.
“It’s just past 5:40.” Minho reports. He clicks his phone off. Turns to observe Jisung, whose cheek is smushed against the pillow. “Come on, Jisung-ah. Let’s go out.”
“Go out?” Jisung questions, the pitch of his voice rising. The hint of a smirk contained underneath. “I thought we already were!”
Minho picks up his own pillow, brings it down over Jisung’s back. It doesn’t hurt at all, but Jisung still makes a show of flattening his hand over the offended spot, howling in faux pain.
“Ow, hyung! I can’t go out with you if you break my back!”
Minho only smacks him with the pillow again. “Your back is perfectly fine.”
“As if you would know.” Jisung scoffs. “Maybe it’s in shambles and I need you to superglue my bones back together.”
He’s having too much fun. Minho’s lips are pressed in a tight line, but his eyes tell an entirely different story. Jisung wants to keep pressing his buttons, see which ones lead to which parts of his brain.
Minho drops the pillow onto his ass. Slips out of bed and turns on his heel, keeping his eyes on Jisung’s prone form.
“You have three minutes to unglue yourself from the bed, Han Jisung. Or I’ll start thinking of actual ways to break your back.”
Jisung has no doubt he’s capable of such a thing. Barbells in the living room and all. He gives himself thirty seconds to lie uselessly before hauling ass into the hallway.
“Hyung.” Jisung demands, following Minho to the front doorway. “Where are we going?”
They’d practically gotten ready all over again, Jisung mindlessly following whatever Minho was doing. Faces splashed with sinkwater, hair styled back into place. Clothes smoothed out, a hint of perfume spritzed onto the collar of Minho’s beige sweater—he’d changed out of the gray one. Layered it with an espresso-colored overcoat.
In the living room, Minho picks up the black coat Jisung had left on the coffee table.
“Somewhere you probably recognize. It’s near the university, so we’re walking there.” He holds the coat out to Jisung, whose head swims with a flood of déjà vu. “You should wear this again. It gets even colder at night.”
Jisung thinks back to the lobby, to going on autopilot and getting dragged to the elevators. How long ago that feels.
The coat now feels familiar on his shoulders. Safe.
.•°:✧⋆.°
The place is indeed somewhere Jisung recognizes. They pass familiar sights on the way—another towering apartment complex, the sandwich shop Jisung visits when he needs a quick bite. The neighborhood of row-style town homes, the bustling shopping complex lined with cafés and restaurants.
And there it is.
Jisung still doesn’t know what it’s called, despite the years he’s lived close by. To be fair, he’s only been here twice—once during freshman year, once a year later when Hyunjin strung him along. Maybe he should learn the name, since it’s his third time.
It’s an open walk area. Dandelion-colored globe lights hanging above, vintage shops on each side. A wide brick path that leads patrons further into the space, revealing a grassy field with a minimalist stage. Local musicians and buskers perform there occasionally, drawing passerbys in to listen.
Jisung had liked it a lot the first time he came, likening it to an ideal date spot. Somewhere he’d come back to once he had a boyfriend.
Now he’s here. With Minho.
“Jagi.” Minho murmurs. He didn’t say much during their walk, in the interest of keeping the surprise. It’s a pleasant shock to hear his voice. “Do you like it?”
Jisung turns to face him. His heart pathetically trips over itself.
Minho’s handsome face glows gold under the string lights. He runs an absentminded hand through his hair, tousled by the winter wind. Slips his hands out of his pockets to adjust the sleeve of his overcoat with a gentle tug. Both his eyes and toothy smile shine blindingly as he observes Jisung.
Now-Jisung thinks of the boy who sat sticky-fingered and hopeful on the carpet all those years ago. Wonders if he knew this day would come.
Now-Jisung feels greedy and impossible. Like his heart is choking his throat. He has to swallow it down, lest everything comes spilling out.
“I love it.” He knows his eyes are shining, even without the lights above. “I’ve always wanted to come here with someone—with you.”
Minho’s grin widens. He offers his hand, small and precious. All for Jisung to take.
Jisung holds on and doesn’t let go.
The last time Jisung came here, he spent the most time in the record shop. It had been while Hyunjin needed to take a phone call from his parents.
A cluttered yet thoughtfully-organized room, album cover photos dotting the walls. So many well-known artists, so many artists not known well enough. Jisung knows too much from years of loving music and its lovers. So he wanted to prattle about them all. The bored-looking cashier waiting for the night’s end hardly looked like the right candidate, and Hyunjin was still outside.
Minho listens. Listens to everything, long past the point anyone else would’ve tuned out or changed the subject. He raises his eyebrows at surprising facts, nods at the end of intricate tangents. Picks up random items around the store to show off to Jisung, asking if he knows anything about them. Oftentimes, he does.
They don’t end up buying anything. Jisung feels bad about it—shouldn’t he pay his dues for prolonged sound pollution? But Minho asks if he has a record player, and well…that’s a no.
The cashier this time is a tattooed, middle-aged man with beefy arms. He looks kindly at the two of them as they leave, nodding toward Minho.
“Young man! Your boyfriend knows his stuff. Get him a record player someday.”
Minho blinks a couple times, breaks into a shy little smile. Nods back. Jisung feels a blush creeping up his neck, waves enthusiastically at the cashier before dragging Minho back outside.
It’s freezing, but Minho’s coat on his shoulders and the cashier’s words ring warm in his chest. He feels called out, in the best way possible. Real recognizes real.
Imbued with newfound energy, Jisung loops his arm around Minho’s, leads them further down the brick path. They've walked for a good two minutes when a series of colorful somethings catches his eye.
“Hyung.” He points off in the near distance, where four painted trucks are parked bumper-to-bumper. There’s a short line of people trailing out of each one, scarves on their necks and wallets in hand. “Are those food trucks?”
Minho squints to see where Jisung’s gesturing to, eases up his expression in recognition.
“They are.” He confirms, the words coming out as a wispy cloud. “They only come here on Friday nights, so I figured we should stop by. The food is pretty good, and there’s usually a variety of cuisines.”
Jisung takes this in. Gingerly unloops his arm from Minho’s, who notices immediately. He looks down at him with adorable confusion.
Then he sees the mischievous glimmer in Jisung’s eye. Raises an eyebrow.
“Last one to the nearest food truck pays for dinner.” Jisung challenges, clutching his tote bag with one hand, drawing the other into a precursory fist. Never mind that he’s in jeans—he’s really fucking fast when he needs to be.
Minho barely blinks before he mirrors Jisung’s stance, undoing the lowest buttons of his coat. It falls loose, allowing his thighs to flex in preparation. “Deal. Count us off.”
Jisung digs his back sneaker into the brick, grounding himself. A wild grin splits across his face.
“Three…two…one…go!”
They’re off, speeding into the night. Fortunately, there’s not too many pedestrians, or things would’ve gotten messy quickly.
Jisung’s not sure what he was expecting, but Minho’s scarily fast. They’re both bundled up in sweaters and coats and fitted pants, yet he’s able to keep up just fine.
“Is that all you’ve got, Han Jisung?” He yells, matching Jisung’s stride a few feet to his left. “Did all your muscle go to your upper body?”
“Shut up!” Jisung yells back. He widens the length of his stride, pumps his arms faster. Refuses to let his tote bag get in the way. “Don’t start saying shit until the race is over!”
The finish line, presumably, is where the first food truck’s line of waiting customers ends. They’re almost there. Jisung can see exactly where it is; the unoccupied concrete behind a trio of girls deep in conversation.
He lazer-focuses on the patch of ground, deploys the last of his strength. He’s only a few steps away when—fuck, shit, two guys appear out of nowhere and slip into line.
Jisung reroutes at the last possible moment. Minho must’ve seen the two guys before him, adjusted accordingly seconds earlier. He smoothly dashes into line right after them. Has barely a second to turn around before Jisung is barreling directly into him.
Momentum, too much of it. Minho stumbles back a few steps with the force of impact, has to clamp both hands on Jisung’s waist to get him to still. Jisung reflexively reaches a hand up, grasps Minho’s shoulder to catch his breath.
Managing to pull some oxygen into his lungs, Jisung peers upward. His heart is still pounding from nearly taking out a few strangers, and it refuses to slow down once he realizes how closely they’re pressed together. Chest to chest, heartbeats aligned.
Minho smiles crookedly, pushes a gentle hand through Jisung’s wind-ruffled hair. “Am I allowed to say shit now that the race is over?”
Jisung buries his face into Minho’s thick coat, groans in embarrassment. “Where the hell did those two come from? I was about to win.”
“Mm, I’m sure.” Minho says, not unkindly. His other hand squeezes absently at Jisung’s waist, and Jisung wishes he could feel it better through the layers. “Want me to buy dinner as a consolation?”
Jisung draws his head out of Minho’s espresso coat, shakes his head. “A deal is a deal. I got this one.”
Minho hums like he’s not entirely in agreement, but won’t voice it. He gestures at the food truck ahead. “Let’s figure out what they’re selling first. We can get in a different line if we want something else.”
Jisung squints at the vehicle’s menu boards, attempting to decipher the tiny letters. He breaks into a huge grin when he sees photos of fried chicken—which Minho also seems on board with. They grow closer to the front of the line as orders are taken, and with a better look at the full range of the menu, Jisung gasps.
“Hotteok! Hyung look, they have hotteok!” Jisung hops up and down, tugging on Minho’s sleeve. “Dinner and a sweet treat, hell yeah.”
He gets so caught up in his excitement that once they’ve finished listing off their order, there’s still a stupid grin on his face as he reaches into his tote bag, fishing around for his wallet. More than willing to foot the bill if it means a good meal.
Minho stills him with a firm hand on his shoulder. Hands over his own card.
“Hey!” Jisung pouts, but the transaction is already being processed. “A deal is supposed to be a deal!”
“Don’t worry about it.” Minho pats his shoulder twice, takes his card back from the cashier. “I doubt your credit card even works here.”
Jisung gawks at the nonsensical excuse. How dare he break impromptu-deal code? But—well. Jisung isn’t going to complain about or turn down a free meal. It’d be against broke college student code, or something.
“Fine.” Jisung allows, softening his pout. “Thank you, jagi.”
They find an empty picnic table not too far away, a bag of yangnyeom chicken in Minho’s hands, paper cups with freshly pan-fried hotteok in Jisung’s. Minho must be as hungry as he is, for he doesn’t waste time setting up their eating space, flattening napkins on the table as makeshift plates.
Sitting side by side, they’re able to share the same view. The grassy field and minimalist stage lies ahead, Jisung’s favorite part about this place. A small crowd of people are standing in the grass, clapping and cheering as a song ends.
Jisung notes the two men on stage—one with permed, auburn hair, the other with jet black bangs. Definitely college students around his age. The former is standing behind an electric keyboard, waving excitedly at their audience. The force of his smile makes his eyes scrunch shut, and the visual paired with his orangey hair makes Jisung think of a cutesy fox.
The other stands a couple inches taller, an acoustic guitar in his arms. He’s waving a lot more calmly, but the shimmer in his eyes gives away just how pleased he is to be performing. Jisung finds them both unbearably endearing.
“Hi again!” The shorter one cranes into the microphone. “Thank you so much for the energy. For anyone who just came in, that was our duet ‘Can’t Stop.’ My friend Seungmin will be singing the next song solo, so please give him a lot of love!”
The crowd whoops and cheers; Seungmin smiles bashfully and scratches at the back of his neck. He adjusts his mic stand, leans closer to speak into it.
“Jeongin’s playing the instrumental, so please share your love with him as well. This one is called ‘Stars and Raindrops.’”
Jisung and Minho are sitting a fair bit away, but Jisung stage-whispers like his normal voice will disrupt the performance.
“Aren’t they cute?” Jisung nudges Minho’s side with his elbow, sinks his teeth into seasoned chicken.
Minho hums in consideration as he finishes chewing his bite. His ears perk up as the song begins, Jeongin’s fingers flying over the piano keys. Seungmin’s voice rings clear and wistful as he sings the first line, both hands wrapped around the microphone. Jisung feels his jaw unhinging in real time.
“Cute and talented.” Minho finally says, glancing at Jisung out of the corner of his eye. “You’d fit right in with them.”
Jisung chokes a bit on his food, thudding a fist against his chest until it goes down. Feels his cheeks heating up in real time.
Perhaps being the tofu in the pot isn’t such a bad thing after all.
.•°:✧⋆.°
They’re dancing—Minho’s hands tight on Jisung’s waist, Jisung’s own hands twined around Minho’s neck. Jisung would say he doesn’t know how they got here, but he does.
The food got polished off to the sound of Seungmin’s voice, then Jeongin’s as he performed his own solo. Makeshift plates and paper cups were tossed in the trash, and Minho left briefly to find a restroom.
Jisung, waiting at the picnic table, procured travel-sized hand sanitizer from the depths from his tote bag and rubbed his hands clean. Frowded when he saw the dwindling group of listeners by the stage.
Once Minho returned, he noticed the line of Jisung’s focus. Suggested that they join the crowd.
At first, they stood towards the back, shoulder to shoulder on the grass. Another song was played. Then another. Jisung and Minho clapping at the end of each, sharing private looks in between.
As if on cue, Jeongin announced to the crowd that their next song would be a slower one—romantic. Encouraged people to find a partner, a friend or lover, to dance with.
Dancing turned out to be this: Minho’s hands tight on Jisung’s waist, Jisung’s looped around his neck. Them swaying together to the music, goofy smiles on their faces.
They look like every other pair on the grass, and yet. Jisung wonders if any of their heartbeats are as loud as his, if any of them are sweating out of their pores. If any of them are having the same thoughts he is.
Jisung’s wanted to kiss Minho since he first fed him that spoonful of kimchi-jjigae.
It’s been a recurring want: right before they fell asleep curled together, when Jisung first saw Minho under the golden fairy lights, multiple times in the record shop, catching their breath at the end of their silly race.
It’s more than that, though. Jisung likes Minho so damn much.
He likes his twinkling eyes, the sly curve of his smirk. He likes when he plays along with Jisung’s outlandish humor, dishes out his own share of tomfoolery. When he does a terrible job of disguising his amusement, when he says the sweetest things like they’re a given. When he’s pressed close and Jisung feels safe.
God, Jisung likes him.
He also wants to kiss him. Badly.
Right now, Minho looks unreal between his arms. Like someone magicked from his most vivid fantasies, taken from the pages of his diary. Like someone who can only exist in his dreams.
Minho shouldn’t be real, and yet. Jisung feels real warmth emanating from the back of his neck, the hands on his waist. Can see everything from the red tint in his ears to the shy slope of his smile. Can hear the soft music swirling around them, the light breeze blowing in the limited space between their bodies.
This feels real. He feels real.
It’s all Jisung cares to dwell on.
“Hyung.” Jisung whispers. “Do you think dreams come true?”
Minho’s eyes widen imperceptively. He breaks into a quiet laugh, like he’d been expecting anything but that question.
“Suddenly?” He asks, charmed. “That’s what you’re curious about?”
Jisung lifts one of the hands twined around Minho’s neck, uses it to lightly smack his shoulder. “Yes, hyung. That’s what I’m curious about. Answer the question.”
“Mm.” Minho sways them a bit more, thinking. “It does happen. Sometimes you need to try really hard to make them come true.” His eyes dart to Jisung’s lips, briefly. “Sometimes you just need to ask really nicely.”
Oh, fuck. This was really happening.
“And if I ask really nicely,” Jisung begins. “Will you kiss me?”
Minho smiles serenely. “If that’s your dream, yes.”
Jisung has waited for this for a very long time. He’s waited so long he’s forgotten what it’s like to not be in wait.
“Hyung.” He pleads, gripping onto Minho’s coat. The rest of the words get stuck in his throat. A spark is trailing to the first firework, butterflies spreading their wings. The heat of the moment swallowing him whole.
“Jisungie.” Minho murmurs, amused. But he’s also leaning closer, closer, tilting his head. "It’s okay. I got you.”
The first brush of their lips is light, tentative, like Minho’s making sure Jisung is fully present. But then Jisung gets grabby, tugs at the lapels of his overcoat, and Minho slots their mouths together properly.
All those months and years ago, Jisung thought he’d be filled with exploding fireworks, butterflies in flight. Instead, all that’s left of him is want. A want so deep-seated it engulfs each of his nerves in flames.
Minho’s lips are soft, malleable, like he’d spent some of the time in the restroom reapplying chapstick in preparation for this. Jisung almost wants to laugh, because he’d had the exact same thought—after the hand sanitizer came the lip balm. He needed to be ready, in case the heavens deemed him worthy.
It seems they’ve come back around.
Minho leaves a final peck on the corner of his mouth, pulls back to catch his breath. Gentles them down with warm hands stroking up and down Jisung’s sides.
“When we’re home,” Minho rasps, his ears flushed through. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Promise.”
Jisung’s heart rate spikes at the promise of a later. He wonders if he looks just as ruined, lips puffy and eyes dark.
The last notes of the song ring out into the night. The audience’s applause feels so far away—Jisung can barely register it. There’s a new chill in the air, like separating from Minho had shocked him back to his senses. Too abrupt. Too cold.
A memory, then.
The chill of a different night, a lonely one. Only an empty sidewalk and his overlapping thoughts to keep him company. A voice cutting through the brainfog.
Come on, Jisung-ah. Hold my hand. Let’s go home.
Jisung straightens out the collar of Minho’s espresso coat, disentangles his arms from his neck.
He’s reminded, starkly and gut-droppingly, that Minho isn’t here forever. That there’s a loneliness waiting for him somewhere, that he doesn’t know when he'll be taken back to it.
For now, all he has is a later. And he’ll take it and run to the ends of the earth if he needs to.
“Come on, hyung-ah.” Jisung extends an arm out, knowing someone is there. Someone who makes him feel seen and wanted. “Hold my hand. Let’s go home.”
Minho looks at him for a long, tender moment.
He holds on and doesn’t let go.
.•°:✧⋆.°
Lee Minho is a man of his word.
The walk back home is just as quiet. Jisung almost panics out of his skin when they reach the lobby’s windowed double doors. Would reentering the building cause everything to end? He’s not ready, not yet—
Minho squeezes his hand. Walks them both inside, right up to the elevators.
They reach the seventh floor. Minho has to let go of Jisung’s hand to unlock the door and push it open, but he remains close. A reminder that he’s still there. They make it to his bedroom that way, bags and coats dropped off.
“Jisung-ah.” He says then. His eyes look the same as after they kissed, dark and intent. “Tell me what you want.”
You. Jisung’s mind supplies immediately. Too much—he’s going to need to be more specific.
“I want you to hold me like we only have tonight.”
Minho nods. He brings Jisung’s hand towards himself, presses his lips to each of his knuckles. Circles his thumb over the back of his hand, soothing.
“Anything else?”
“Kiss me again. Please.”
He doesn’t have to ask twice. Minho brings a hand to his jaw this time, backs him up against the foot of the bed. Jisung takes the hint, lifts himself onto the edge of the mattress. He makes room for Minho between his legs, grasps onto his shoulders. Doesn’t realize his eyes have fluttered shut until there’s pressure against his lips and ah—there he is.
Minho clearly isn’t holding back this time. There’s a gentle bite to his upper lip, and Jisung gasps before he recognizes they’re fully making out. He can still faintly taste cinnamon and sugar on Minho’s tongue, can only hope he tastes just as sweet.
The hand on Jisung’s jaw slides down his neck, tangles into his hair. The first insistent tug makes a desperate noise climb up his throat, soon muffled by Minho’s mouth. Jisung tilts his head back, wraps his legs around Minho’s waist to draw him even closer. Hums contentedly when he feels Minho’s other hand at his waist, squeezing without the coat in the way.
The sound of their mouths separating is near-obscene. Jisung thinks to shrink upon himself, but Minho’s already put his palms on either side of his neck.
“Embarrased?” Minho chuckles, leaning in to kiss Jisung’s cheek. “Don’t be.”
“Why would I be embarrassed,” Jisung grumbles, absolutely embarrassed. He tightens the clench of his legs around Minho’s torso to make up for it.
“That’s good.” Minho grins. He nods towards the rest of the bed, where the pillows are unoccupied. “Lie down for me, then.”
Hesitance drains away with few words. Jisung surprises himself with how quickly he complies, unwrapping his legs from Minho and scooting down the sheets. Once he’s far back enough, he lowers himself, the pillows cushioning his head.
Minho leans over him in an instant, two hands bracketing his head, knees pressed against the sides of Jisung’s thighs. Keeping him in place—not that he wants to go anywhere.
Jisung reaches up to cradle the back of Minho’s head. Pulls him back down like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
It starts slower this time. A series of sweet pecks against his lips before Jisung takes initiative, deepening the kiss. He twines both hands into Minho’s nape like when they were swaying in the grass, uses the leverage to his advantage.
It doesn’t last very long. Jisung doesn’t have any way to anticipate it with his eyes closed, but he feels it at once: Minho’s hand wrapping decisively around his right wrist, pushing it down against the mattress. When Jisung only shudders and gasps in response, Minho takes his left wrist, pins it down as well.
The hidden drawer from hours ago materializes and gets flung open; thoughts of the barbells in the living room and getting bridal-carried across the apartment flood back into his mind. Jisung pushes back against Minho’s grip to see how far he can get, keens when he doesn’t even budge.
Familiar heat pools in Jisung’s stomach. Without thinking, he arches up, whines when Minho relocates his hands to his hips, keeping him still.
He wonders if Minho could keep him here, far away from the loneliness, if he held him tightly enough.
“Jisung-ah.” Minho’s voice has gone ragged. Jisung can’t believe he’s the cause of it. “I think you’re going to want to save that one.”
Jisung’s mind can’t catch up fast enough, swimming through cotton. “Save? Save what…oh.”
Minho smiles at him, completely calm. “Yes. You should keep it safe for later.”
“You don’t want it?” Jisung's voice sounds very small.
“Oh, jagi.” Minho’s shaking his head. His thumb rubs comforting circles into Jisung’s hipbone. “It’s not that. I want you to have something to look forward to when we meet again.”
The beginnings of tears prick at Jisung’s waterline, sudden and unprompted. Why is Minho saying these things? He knows they’re not going to see each other again, that Jisung will walk through another set of doors or wake up in his own bed and Minho will be gone. That Jisung will only have fading memories of him left.
“You don’t have to say that.” Jisung smiles with the last of his strength. “It’s okay. I can handle the truth.”
Minho shakes his head again. “That is the truth. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
A glimmer of hope lights up in Jisung’s chest. He isn’t sure if he should stamp it out, lest he gets ahead of himself.
“So I’ll see you again? Here?”
“You will, but likely not here.” Minho brushes the hair out of his face, pats Jisung’s hip. “Hold on. I have something for you.”
Minho scoots back, allowing Jisung to sit up properly. He reaches into the pocket of his slacks, takes its contents into his hand.
The unfurl of his fist reveals them: two woven bracelets.
They’re undoubtedly a pair. One pink and one green, each bracelet carrying accents of the other color. The pink bracelet has a green leaf-shaped charm dangling from it, the green one complimented with a pink flower-shaped charm. They scream springtime and intertwined affection. Jisung can't look away.
“I got them while I was looking for a restroom, if you’re wondering.” Minho admits, looking down at his own palm. “They’re handmade. The vendor told me she makes each pair with a different pattern, so no pair of bracelets is the same.” He averts his eyes to the side, ears glowing red. “They’re the only ones in the world, if you think about it.”
“They’re beautiful.” Jisung murmurs. “The only ones in the world.”
Minho softly clears his throat. “Green or pink?”
Jisung looks at the bracelets, then back at Minho. Smiles with renewing strength. “I think you know the answer to that.”
Minho chuckles, nods. He places the pink bracelet aside, slides the green one onto Jisung’s wrist. Allows Jisung to do the same, slipping the pink bracelet onto Minho’s wrist.
Looking at their matching hands, the intertwining colors, Jisung feels oddly sentimental. Green and pink and pink and green. As inextricable as leaves and flowers, sprouting after the harsh winds of winter.
“I love them.” Jisung whispers. “Reminds me that springtime always comes after winter.”
“Right.” Minho thumbs over the charm on Jisung’s bracelet, deep in thought. “Just as spring comes after winter, I’ll come back to you. Maybe a little different from the way you remember me, but it’ll be me nonetheless.”
He squeezes Jisung’s hand, draws in a breath. Looks at him with all the sincerity Jisung tried moving the heavens with. “Keep this close to you until that day.”
Jisung squeezes his hand back. Commits every single detail of Minho’s face to memory. “I will.”
And when they’re cuddled together, on the cusp of sleep, Jisung can only hope the heavens are just as sincere as Minho is.
.•°:✧⋆.°
When Jisung awakens, he’s exceedingly cold.
There’s an explanation for it. No stuffed animal smushed against his chest, no one plastered against his back—
His eyes fly open instantly. He’s back in his own bed. Morning light streams in through the sheer sections of his curtains.
Minho is gone.
Fuck. Fuck.
Jisung can’t cry now. He can't. If reality is real and dreams are merely dreams, he only has a few minutes to remember every bit of last night before the memories escape him.
The homemade kimchi-jjigae. The rain plinking against the window. The dandelion-colored globe lights. The record shop, the food truck, the live music. Minho laughing with him, holding him, kissing him. Making him feel worthy, seen, loved—
No, no, no. Too far. Fuck.
Jisung pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a long, steadying breath that comes out gut-wrenchingly shaky. Something smooth bumps against his cheek, and he’s about to ignore it when—
It’s a tiny flower charm. Pink. Dangling from a green, woven bracelet looped around his wrist.
Jisung sits up immediately, winces when he realizes he’s in jeans. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, plain white. With a daisy-patterned sweater vest layered on top.
A scan of the rest of his bed reveals his tote bag on the far end of it, as if he’d flung it aside in his sleep. A look inside it reveals everything in place except for an extra plastic bag—containing his Converse.
What the fuck?
Jisung whips his phone out his tote bag, surprised to see that it’s not completely dead. He checks the date.
Saturday, January XX
Friday already happened.
What the actual fuck?
Suddenly, in freakish clarity, Felix’s voice rings in his mind.
Let’s say—ah, I don’t know. The heavens came back around, and the last wish in your diary got granted. You meet someone like him—maybe while walking down the street, maybe in a future class.
Or you stumbled into a parallel universe.
Would you be able to handle it?
Jisung is a firm believer in science. Of terrestrial and extraterrestrial phenomena being recorded and understood through research—hell, he watches nature documentaries in his free time. But he also likes to think that aliens exist, that the universe is vast enough to support beings other than the ones on Earth. And if the universe is so vast…who’s to say that there aren’t other universes within it?
Wait. If he’s entertaining this…yesterday might have been real. It’s the only explanation for why he’s woken up like this, unless he’s hallucinating in a hospital. The after-effects of a car accident, or someone running him over with one of those godawful electric scooters.
He looks around his room, and it looks…legitimate. Everything in place, except for his diary on his desk, which he swears he flipped shut and stored in its drawer Thursday evening. It’s usually not out in the open, unless he fell asleep writing in it.
Padding over to his desk, he realizes his diary isn’t the only thing out of place. There’s a folded piece of paper inside it, bookmarking where Jisung wrote his last wish. A letter.
Dear Jisung,
I’m sure you’re really fucking confused about what the hell is going on, and trust me, the first few times the entropy of the universe shoved me into another world, I felt the same.
I’ll start from the basics. My name is also Han Jisung. I’m a year older than you. Funnily enough, the name and location of our universities are the same, but our majors are completely different. I don’t know how the hell you’re putting up with your degree, but I’m stoked you love rock music and cheesecake as much as I do. In fact, out of all the Jisungs I’ve learned about in the multiverse, I think we’re the most similar. Pretty cool, huh?
Let’s see….the universe-fucky stuff started the day after I turned eighteen. The night after my birthday party, I couldn’t sleep, and the next night, I was teleported to a house I didn’t recognize. I was only there for a few hours, so I deluded myself into thinking it was a dream. But then it happened again, and again, so I started snooping around my surroundings. I found your diary. That’s when things started clicking into place—that there are other versions of us out there.
I’m writing this because it’ll be the first time you’ll know we switched places. This usually happens at night, when you’re asleep. I don’t know why it happened during the day this time, but I suppose your wishes got to the heavens somehow.
This letter is also to tell you this: I found your Lee Minho.
I was hoping I would. I could feel the loneliness and frustration in your diary entries, and I didn’t know how to tell you that there was someone waiting for you. He just hadn’t arrived in your vicinity yet. My guess is that he only recently moved here for his postgraduate studies.
On Monday, Wednesday, or Friday, at 4:50 p.m., wait inside Collision Café on the west side of campus. I’ve gathered that he comes there to sweeten his mood after some dreadful physics lecture he has thrice a week. I heard him complaining to the dimpled barista about it.
I don’t think you’ll have much trouble getting his attention. I could feel his eyes on me while I was sitting by the window.
Oh, and before I forget. If you need someone to talk to regarding this, look no further than Felix. I had a delightful chat with him the last time I ended up here. He’s a great sleepover buddy. I’m grateful you have him.
Yours in every universe,
Han Jisung
P.S. I hope you had a good time with my Lee Minho. ;) I told him that if he wanted to engage in anything, he had my consent as long as he had your consent. You’re me, I’m you, yeah?
P.P.S. It’s nice when dreams aren’t merely dreams after all, isn’t it?
.•°:✧⋆.°
two days ago, in a galaxy far, far away
He’s otherworldly, his Jisung is. Unbearably cute, wicked smart, and a traveler of the cosmos.
They met two years ago—Minho in his fourth year of undergrad, Jisung in his second. Minho still hasn’t figured out how they got close so quickly, but all he knows is that one day they were poking fun at their disorganized professor, and an indeterminable amount of time later, they were living out of each other’s pockets.
Hanging out with Jisung is easy. Uncomplicated. They talk and goof around for hours, give each other space when space is needed. Collide back together as naturally as the waves of the ocean.
Two months into their relationship, Jisung told Minho that he gets whisked to a different universe every few times a year. That he always has incurable insomnia the day before. It had barely affected their relationship—Minho knows not to sleep over the day after he has insomnia, lest he wakes up in the middle of the night next to a Jisung that's three years younger or six years older than his Jisung.
(Though he won’t deny being curious about the other Jisungs…especially knowing that the older Jisung is engaged to an older him.)
Now, though, Jisung is pacing around the room. He's informed Minho that he’s almost certain the next swap will happen during the daytime, an unprecedented event. And considering the pattern of switches, the next one is with the Jisung a year younger than him—the one most similar to his Jisung.
They took mild preparatory measures: reorganizing the living room, telling Changbin that he’s better off staying at Chan’s apartment for a day. (He doesn’t know about Jisung’s universe-travelling tendencies…just that he might walk into something intimate if he stays in the apartment. It had been enough reason to send him fleeing with his duffel bag.)
Having paced enough, Jisung comes to a stop on the carpet.
“Okay, I think we’ve gone over everything.” Jisung ticks off his fingers, all ten quickly unfurled. “And I did mention that he’ll be here for 12 to 18 hours, that anything that comes with him has to go back with him.” He turns to face Minho, eyes wide with barely-veiled concern. “Right?”
Minho nods, recalls Jisung’s cautionary words from earlier. “Make sure anything he brings with him is attached to his body before the return switch happens, or it’ll get stuck here.”
Jisung gives him a thumbs-up, his shoulders visibly relaxing. “Yup. That’s right. Okay.” He pushes a hand through his mussed hair, releases a deep breath. “Hyung. Keep him safe and happy for me, yeah?”
“Of course.” Minho replies, easy as anything. A response as certain as the push and pull of the cosmos. “He’s you, after all. The one who crossed light years to get to me.”