Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It’s 9:28 p.m. when someone knocks on Hyunjin’s hotel room door.

He’s laying on his back, sprawled across the king sized bed with one leg dangling off the edge. His left hand lazily rests on his belly, where his soft cotton sleep shirt has ridden up to let a patch of shivering skin show. The air had been warm and heavy when Hyunjin had first entered the room, and he had instantly turned the air conditioning on the lowest setting, desperate to get rid of the heat. It’s too cold now, icy in a way that makes his toes feel numb, but he can’t be bothered to get up and look for the remote to turn it off.

Actually, he can’t be bothered to do anything.

There’s a strain in his neck where it’s stretched to the side to allow him to stare at his phone, held in the loose grip of his right hand that is laying on the mattress. He can feel a cramp start to form in his thumb that’s mindlessly scrolling, swiping across the blue screen. The lights are dim, perhaps too dim if the prickling sensation that’s creeping up behind his eyes is anything to go by. He should probably go grab his glasses, or go turn on another lamp. But Hyunjin stays still, perfectly still.

They’d landed in Jakarta in the late afternoon, stepping off the plane into the stifling air of the Indonesian wet season. It’d wrapped around them like a wet blanket, heavy and uncomfortable, a stark contrast to the biting cold of the Korean winter they’d left behind just hours before. Hyunjin had made his way across the airport on wobbly legs with sweat pooling at his hairline, trailing behind Felix, who was still holding his heavy cream coat and tugging at the collar of his knitted turtleneck. As they reached their vans and melted into the seats, Hyunjin wondered how they had managed to keep upright and not crumble before. Even though he shared the ride to the hotel with Jisung, Changbin and Felix, the ride remained silent—a true testament to their level of weariness. Heat has this ability to make just about anyone groggy, to soften your muscles and your bones, and slow down your brain. The fact that they were sleep deprived and their legs still tingled from the eight hours they’d spent seated in a plane hadn’t been of much help. Changbin leaned back in his car seat with his eyes closed, earbuds in. Jisung looked at the blurry streets with his forehead glued to the cold window, condensation forming on the glass. The car’s engine and the surrounding city noise lulled them the rest of the drive.

When they arrived at the hotel, their managers ushered them into a conference room to go over tomorrow's schedule. It was protocol. Well, not really protocol, but a habit they had acquired over the years whenever they were abroad for a schedule. It's better to get over and be done with work before they can finally settle down and rest. The conference room was brightly lit, overly so, the fluorescent lights too harsh against their tired eyes. And as they all took a seat around the large U-shaped table, Hyunjin never resented their protocolling habit more. The room was cool but the air stale, the faint scent of cleaning supplies and printer ink clinging to the walls.

Their manager droned on, running through the logistics of the award show they were attending the next day. It was a lot of what, when and where, a little bit of who. When to wake up, when to get ready, what to wear, when to arrive, where to go, who to talk and smile to, who to thank… Hyunjin drowned out most of it—already familiar with the overall gist of it after years of doing the same thing—and only perked up when specific details about the venue were mentioned. Words were starting to blur together and one look around the room was enough for him to notice his members were struggling to keep up too. Jeongin, on the other side of the table, was trying hard to stifle a yawn while Seungmin was vacantly staring at the torn label of his water bottle. Only Chan, ever the good leader, was nodding along to whatever was being said. Although, the constant frequency of it made Hyunjin think it was more of an automatism than a conscious demonstration of his attention.

When the meeting wrapped up, their lethargy was momentarily broken as everyone stood—chairs scraping against the wooden floor. The members, glassy-eyed and drained of any remaining energy, all filtered out silently and dragged themselves to their rooms.

Hyunjin took the laziest shower ever, leaning against the tiled wall and letting the water wash over him. He slipped into his pajamas and all but fell on top of the bed. Too hollowed-out and heavy-limbed to do anything more than scroll through social media, completely unmoving.

He’s in the middle of watching a tiktok of a guy showing his new shoes, and judging the way he’s suspiciously angling his biceps as he shows them to the camera, when an abrupt knock on the door startles him. His phone falls out of his hand, dangerously close to his face, and he sits up. The notification center slided down when his phone fell, now revealing the time, which is how he knows it’s precisely 9:28 p.m.

“Yeah? Who’s this?” He asks in English.

He wonders who could be asking for him at this hour. Not that it’s particularly late but he’s sure most of the members are already sleeping or making the best of their free time, and their staff doesn’t have any reason to reach out. Maybe it’s the hotel staff. Maybe in his haste to finally get some rest, his tired brain forgot something in the conference room earlier.

He’s fixing his shirt and patting down his hair when a voice answers back in English, “Room service”.

Hyunjin recognizes the Korean accent drenched in the two simple words and he drags his feet to the door, letting what he hopes is a sigh loud enough to be heard on the other side. There’s a small smile stretching his lips though, and he doesn’t bother trying to hide it as he opens the door.

He’s first faced with a plastic takeout bag, held out right in his face, before it’s pushed to the side to reveal Minho. He has this stupid grimace on his face, eyebrows raised high and a weird smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Special delivery coming through,” he sing-songs as he pushes his way inside.

“I don’t remember ordering anything,” Hyunjin says, closing the door and turning back towards his room.

There's a warmth spreading in his chest, a giddiness that always comes with spending time alone with Minho.

Minho’s making a beeline for the coffee table sitting between two armchairs near the huge floor-to-ceiling windows. “You didn’t need to. I knew you’d be hungry, so I went and got us some food,” he answers. “I’m amazing aren’t I? What would you do without me?”

Starve to death, Hyunjin’s brain provides in tandem with the soft grumbling of his stomach. He’s been hungry for hours now and trying to convince himself of the opposite. If Minho hadn’t come, Hyunjin would have eventually fallen asleep with a headache, phone still in hand, cold and hungry. He doesn’t want to give Minho the satisfaction of admitting it though, so he stays silent.

“It’s weirdly quiet in here.” Minho frowns. “And dark… Cold.” He makes a point to shiver for show.

“I was sleeping,” Hyunjin lies as he walks up to him, making sure to turn off the AC and turn on some lights on the way. “I was huddled under my duvet, finally enjoying my long awaited and well-deserved rest, before you came and woke me up. Bothered me out of my beauty sleep,” he sighs dramatically as he drops down on one of the armchairs.

“The bed’s made, Hyunjin,” Minho replies blankly, not even bothering to turn around from the food he’s taking out of the take-out bag and placing down on the table to look at the bed behind him.

Hyunjin’s facing it. He throws a quick glance at it. The white pristine sheets are still tucked tight under the mattress and the mountain of pillows is mostly left untouched. When he looks back at Minho, the latter has an amused tilt to the corner of his lips.

“Whatever,” Hyunjin rolls his eyes. “What did you get?” He asks as he starts to open the foam containers.

“Something local,” Minho says, pulling out two cans of soda and putting the now empty bag on the floor. “Sate ayam and nasi goreng. I have no idea if that’s how you pronounce it but I figured we couldn’t go wrong with chicken and fried rice, right? To be honest, ordering was kind of an experience. I tried to make myself understandable but the vendor’s English wasn’t that great and I don’t speak a word of Indonesian, so we were both really sorry for ourselves. Anyway, I just ended up pointing at a bunch of things but it felt really rude so I kept apologizing. I think pointing and bowing is universal and he understood. He even gave me this for free.” He holds up a container of what seems to be stuffed pancakes. “I guess the language barrier can ironically bring people together.”

Hyunjin giggles at Minho’s rant. “How are you not exhausted?” He asks, a mix of awe and horror.

He vividly remembers catching Minho blinking like a maniac to fight off the urge to close his eyes when their manager was going over their schedule, just a few hours ago. And now, here he is, in Hyunjin’s hotel room with food he apparently went to get himself, still standing up and very much awake.

“Oh I am, honey.” He hands Hyunjin his set of cutlery. There’s a dangerous smirk on his lips. “But the thought of having dinner with you kept me going.”

Hyunjin snorts, taking the set and focusing on the food laid in front of him, but he can feel a blush warming up his cheeks. Minho is radiating smugness as they start to eat.

It’s nice. Getting to spend time with Minho is always nice, especially when it’s around some food. The atmosphere is a little more subdued than usual. The conversation flows easily, as always, but their banter is softer, less energetic and quick than they’re used to. Hyunjin’s brain is a little too sleepy and his slightly hazed mind can’t manage to counter Minho's sarcasm and teasing with his own witty comebacks. The older seems thrilled, happy to take advantage of the situation. A soft smile that makes his eyes wrinkle appears every time Hyunjin sputters and whines an embarrassed “hyung” at his remarks. Eventually, Hyunjin tries a more violent tactic and decides to go for a direct slap to the arm but it only serves to make Minho smile wider. Quickly, the drowsiness spreads to his limbs and the simplest gestures become too much of an effort. Minho notices the longing look Hyunjin gives to the containers of pancakes on the other side of the table, and he takes half before handing him the rest. All the energy left in Hyunjin is used to nibble on his pancakes, unable to use his mouth for talking. Minho seems unbothered to fill the silence on his own.

He’s talking about a strange stall he saw near the place he bought their food when Hyunjin catches sight of himself in the reflective surface of the glass table. His eyes zero-in on the metal glinting on his eyebrow arch. He tries to get his attention back to the conversation—or more so, to Minho’s monologue—, but he can’t help but get distracted. The pain is still fresh, sharper when he thinks about it. His hand often reaches up to touch it, to graze at the cold metal and feel the bar under his skin.

He got the piercing on a whim, desperate to do something to his face, to make it less… perfect.

It’s strange, growing up pretty. It’s not something Hyunjin ever really voices in fear of coming off as narcissistic and vain. Still, it’s strange. Strange when it’s all you’re known for as you grow up. All you’re seen as. It’s strange when you realize it’s the only reason most people try to get close to you, try to befriend you. It makes your stomach drop when you’re just a teenager and you notice most people don’t really bother getting to know you. They don’t need to. You don’t need to get to know something you find beautiful to love it. You don’t need to understand it on a deeper level. Its beauty is enough on its own. (But someone who loves a flower for its petals without caring for its roots doesn’t have any love to give once autumn comes.) It’s strange finding out other people’s love for you is so conditional. It hangs by a weak and insecure thread.

It’s strange, but you learn to adapt, to accept.

You practice your smiles and know your angles. You perfect your hair and iron your clothes. You perfect yourself. You have to. Even more so when it’s your looks who get you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity handed to you on the streets. You have to be perfect, so they keep you. You have to look perfect to buy time until you get to be more. And even then, you still have to be perfect. Perfect your skills so that it overshadows the plumpness of your lips and the softness of your hair. Perfect, to make up for the fact that they still might not love you for who you are, but there’s a chance they might love you for how hard you work.

Perfect, so it’s enough.

It’s strange growing up with the idea—so deeply rooted in yourself—that your worth resides in your looks. It’s even more strange having to unlearn it. It takes a big shovel and a lot of digging. It obviously leaves some mess behind.

It leaves the occasional lingering doubt and insecurity that maybe there’s some truth to it. The doubt that urges you to make sure there isn’t. The urge to taint your perfect beauty, hands shaking with the need to claw at your skin, to chop your hair and cut yourself shabby bangs, to get weird tattoos or pierce holes in your skin. The urge—the need, to be anything but pretty, and still… be loved.

So, Hyunjin walked into the piercing parlor impulsively, decided on a barbell to the right eyebrow and sat down before he could change his mind. He got out happy. Delighted. But there’s been this lingering doubt, still. At every new haircut, new clothing style or new makeup—or lack thereof, every change or add-on to his looks, there’s this nauseating possibility that maybe, this time will be the time his insecurities are proved to be true. That if Hyunjin is not pretty, he is not loved.

Tomorrow will be his first public appearance with the piercing. Tomorrow, everyone will see and be the judge of it. The insecurity makes his stomach knot and turn painfully, enough to make him unable to eat his last pancake. The dough becomes thick, all the sugar and fat surfacing and coating his tongue.

He hands it to Minho, who gives him a weighted look but stays silent, and excuses himself to the bathroom under the guise of his nightly routine. He takes twice the time it normally would. He meticulously applies his skincare, covering every inch of his face. The cool serums and creams on his skin grounds him as he massages them in and forces himself to take deep breaths. He brushes his teeth until the acidic taste rising in the back of his throat is gone.

Once he exits the bathroom, he finds the table clean, the food containers gone and their trash carefully discarded. Most of the lights are off, apart from the two bedside ones, and Minho is lying like a starfish in the middle of the bed.

“This bed is amazing,” he sighs, completely relaxed, eyes closed and a pleased smile on his lips.

“You have the exact same one in your room.”

“This one’s better,” Minho objects as he sits up on his elbows. “This one is yours and will have you in it.”

“Shut up,” Hyunjin banters and hits Minho’s legs when he reaches the foot of his bed. “Leave some space for me if you’re so desperate to have me in bed with you.”

The double entendre doesn’t go unnoticed by Minho, who laughs, loud and sharp. “Anything for you.”

They throw the ridiculous amount of decorative pillows on the floor and pull the duvet until they can slip under it. When the lights are off, Hyunjin tightly closes his eyes and tries to chase after the sleepiness that was coursing through him only a few moments ago. The knot in his stomach is still tight, the feeling of impending doom caving his chest, and Minho’s stare boring his side profile is unnerving.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

It takes a moment for Hyunjin to register that the sentence is coming from Minho and is not his internal voice trying to appease him. Once he does, his eyes open and he turns on his side, towards Minho. An arm instantly slides under his neck while another moves until a hand rests on his forearm.

“It’ll be okay,” Minho starts again. “They’ll like it. Most will. Some won’t. But they’ll stay. And those who won’t, weren’t welcome in the first place.”

It’s simple words, short sentences slurred softly in the dark. It’s all Hyunjin ever needs to hear.

The arm that’s not nestled under him like a pillow snakes around his waist and tugs him impossibly closer. Their legs tangle, Hyunjin’s own arms flush against their chests. Minho leans until his lips land on Hyunjin’s right brow, just above the metal piercing his skin. He leaves the softest kiss there and leans back the slightest, remaining so close.

“I’ll stay,” he whispers against Hyunjin's shivering skin.

They’re surrounded in darkness but this close, Hyunjin can still make up the outline of Minho’s features. His eyes are half-lidded, heavy with a fatigue that’s catching up to him. His mouth is half-open, breathing so softly, his chest moving against Hyunjin. He’s driven to try to match their breathing, to make his ribcage expand and close in tandem with Minho’s.

It’d be easy to lean in, to close the tiny space separating them. Easy to make their lips touch, kiss in the same delicate way Minho kissed his eyebrow just now. It’d be easy. Natural. Right.

They don’t bridge that gap tonight. They close their eyes and burrow under the blankets, falling asleep in each other’s arms.

It's nothing unusual, going to each other's hotel room when they're abroad, or even falling asleep in each other's arms. The sneaking in hotel rooms is not unusual, still quite recent. At least, more recent than the rest.

It started with the bickering, a foolish game of cat and mouse, like two kids clumsy in their attempt at befriending each other. Grabbing attention with snarky remarks and death glares, finding excuses to spend time together and pretending to hate every second of it. Their need for closeness was disguised in finger flicks, playful jabs and tickles.

But as time passed and their friendship settled with confidence, it morphed into something more mature. They started sneaking out of the dorms for late night snacks, opening the door to many hang-outs involving food and conversations that stretched into the early hours. It brought something new to their dynamic, a new depth. Layers of what so far had remained easy and lighthearted peeled back to reveal something more profound, forging a bond that wasn’t there before.

The soft banter and gentle teasing remained, but it wasn’t used as a pretence to ease into a still tentative and awkward relationship anymore. It became more apparent when they ended up in different dorms, floors apart. Yet, seeing them together in one dorm or the other was normal—sharing meals, cooking, watching movies. Most times, they simply enjoy each other’s presence as they do their own thing independently in silence, this inexplicable need to gravitate around one another.

Something shifted when they woke up next to each other for the first time, not because of circumstances or exhaustion, not because they had to, but because they wanted to. And then came the hand holding and the butt grabbing, touches that lingered and mischievous smiles. Everything played off as playful again, this time to not face what it would mean otherwise. But no matter how hard you try to conceal it, it’s hard to ignore. How eyes soften and twinkle. How smiles widen and breaths shake. How the teasing takes on a different flavor, more charged, and the arguments, although rare, cut deeper than they used to.

And there’s an exhilaration that comes with toying around the line of something that has been building up for years. There’s a comfort, an ease in the way things are. But hearts don’t beat and leap for friends. And maybe “friends” is not enough anymore.

Like a spring that stretches on for too long and doesn’t let summer come, or blooming flowers that never give fruits, in the fragile and tender happiness, Hyunjin feels stuck.

He feels frustrated waiting for something that seems to never come.

It’d be easy, natural, right to move forward and take the final step. To commit to the touches, the looks and feelings that are already there. To the nights they share and the outings they call “dates”. They’re so tangled in each other. It wouldn’t take much to close the last millimeters of space and fall into the more they’ve been circling around for years.

Everything changes on a random Tuesday in February.

Hyunjin is sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, in the space between his bed and his closet, a suitcase open in front of him, when the door suddenly opens. He almost breaks his neck from the abrupt twist of it as he looks up to find Minho waltzing into the room. He frowns, he’s pretty sure he’s alone in the apartment right now, remembering his three housemates mentioning going to the gym, and he’s certain he didn’t hear anyone ring the doorbell.

“Jisung let me in,” Minho explains to his confused and questioning look. “We literally bumped into each other when he went out right before I even got to knock. Said something about forgetting a shaker and then ran away.”

Hyunjin nods, still a bit startled, and watches him make his way to his desk in the corner of the room. It’s a mess over there—well, it’s a mess where Hyunjin’s sitting too. Piles of both folded and messy clothes carpet the floor around him. It’s a different kind of mess on his desk, more… artistic? There are paint brushes and pencils strewn everywhere, an open sketchbook covering the stained surface of it, and more books piled dangerously near the edge. Next to an old candle, where the warm vanilla and musky scent of the dripping wax is embedded in the wood, there’s a glass of dirty water. The colors of the paint mixing into a now murky greyish blue. A few sketches cover the wall, pinned by tarnished gold thumbtacks to a cork board stuck to the wall next to a white pegboard. On it, shelves and storage baskets are weighted down by bottles of paints and inks, watercolor palettes, pens and alcohol markers.

When Minho reaches the desk, Hyunjin notices he’s holding something wrapped in kraft paper in his right hand. He closes the sketchbook, wipes the eraser dust with a swift hand movement, and puts the brushes and pens to the side, making space to put down what he’s holding.

Hyunjin’s heart skips a beat and settles, soft warmth spreading through his chest as Minho loosens the string holding the kraft paper together to reveal flowers.

Minho brings him flowers once a month. He couldn’t explain why it really started, but he could tell when.

Hyunjin has always loved sketching and painting flowers. He often buys fresh ones to serve as reference for his art and decor for his room. He remembers buying some with Minho once, impromptu rushing inside a flower shop he saw as they were taking a walk outside. Minho huffed but let himself be dragged in. He stayed close to Hyunjin in the shop, following behind him awkwardly with curious eyes but his arms glued to his side, as if scared to make a mess. He asked many questions, Hyunjin answering passionately as he went around the shop to look at all the flowers.

1. He was rarely set on buying a specific type of flower before stepping inside a shop, usually picking things that he found pretty. (Although, he had recently bought a book and started to learn about flower language and their meanings.)
2. He never bought much, only two or three main flowers and a bit of decorative smaller flowers or foliage.
3. He didn’t need to buy them often, preferring to keep them for a while as he enjoys painting them both fresh and wilted.

The month after, when he came home after a day of practicing at the company, he found fresh flowers on his desk that hadn’t been there in the morning. When he asked about it, Chan shrugged and said Minho and Felix had come over earlier. They never brought it up, but the fresh flowers also appeared the next month and the month after that, although, this time held in Minho’s hands. Still, they never mention or talk about it.

Hyunjin’s heart surges as he watches Minho grab the light pink vase sitting on his desk, next to the candle and the dirty glass. It’s a blown-glass vase Hyunjin found in a thrift store, the large round body narrowing near the top only for the glass to fall like ruffles around the opening. Minho takes the vase out to the kitchen, Hyunjin sees him through the wide opening of his bedroom door. He takes the old and wilted flowers out and throws them in the trash. Then, he moves to the sink, emptying the vase, rinsing and cleaning. He refills it before he comes back to the desk.

Hyunjin stares, entranced by his every move.

Minho puts the vase down next to the kraft paper and grabs scissors from somewhere in Hyunjin’s mess. He cuts the stems, hands working carefully but with the practiced ease of someone who’s done this many times before. When he’s done, he finally picks up the flowers and foliage laying on the paper and puts them in the vase. Hyunjin doesn't see what type they are, Minho’s back now hiding them from view. There seems to be a lot of arranging and fumbling, from the way his arms move and his shoulders roll. He cranes his neck from side to side, admiring his work from different angles until he lets out a pleased sigh and turns around.

Hyunjin is staring, he knows. He’s been staring all this time, stunned and so greatly enamored. He’s still holding in his lap the crumpled shirt he was in the middle of folding when Minho appeared. He hasn’t spoken a word since, yet. The soft music playing from his speakers—something slow and indie, a little entracing—is the only thing filling the silence as they stare each other down.

Minho tilts his head to the side, his eyebrows raised in an unspoken question. There’s an air of defiance or challenge to it, but his ears are red under the soft strands of his hair.

“Nothing.” Hyunjin shakes his head, breaking eye contact and losing the staring contest.

Minho snorts, triumphant.

Hyunjin goes back to his mess, smoothing out the wrinkles he just made on the shirt he’s holding and folding it in his lap. He’s pondering over which pile of folded clothes it should be added to—the one that’ll go in his suitcase or the one that’ll go back in the closet—when Minho walks up to him. He pushes to the side a few clothes thrown haphazardly on the floor with his right foot, and sits down on the newly found space with one knee up.

“Why are you packing so many clothes?” He asks with a frown. “You’re only leaving for a few days.”

“I like having options,” Hyunjin shrugs. The shirt ends up on the pile destined for the suitcase. “Options are important. You never know what to expect. Weather changes, wardrobe malfunction, a last minute schedule or–”

“Or you just get the urge to change outfits three times in one day?” Minho interrupts, his tone teasing but affectionate.

“Exactly,” Hyunjin agrees with mock seriousness.

He nods once, firmly, and goes to put the pile of clothes who didn’t make the call back in his closet before coming back. Now, sitting on his heels in front of his open suitcase, he just has to figure out how to make everything—clothes, accessories, shoes—fit inside.

“You know,” Minho starts, “I’m pretty sure you could be wearing a trash bag and Donatella would still be head over heels for you. Ready to slap a medusa logo over it and make you walk down the runway.”

Hyunjin giggles, “You’re probably not even exaggerating.”

But he knows what Minho is trying to say. What the seriousness of his features, the straight line of his shoulders and the hint of reassurance in his tone means. But he’s not anxious. A little nervous? Yes, of course, but not anxious. And maybe, the dreadful apprehension and panic will find him later, once he’s on the plane tomorrow or once he’ll step out of the car to a sea of photographers at the entrance of the show. But he doesn’t think so.

For the most part, it’s excitement that courses through him, soft and buzzing. He can feel it in the tip of his fingers, busy rolling t-shirts in tight cylinders to better make them fit into his luggage. He’s excited to attend a Versace fashion week show for the first time as brand ambassador. To discover a new world and meet new people. To be part of something. He’d been scared at first, petrified at the prospect, but Donatella has been so confident and determined in her choice. So sure of herself and of him, that it didn’t take much to convince him he deserved it. That he could belong.

“It’s not… I’m not–” Doing this because I’m scared to not please. “I like fashion and having options. Most of the outfits are for my own privy eyes. I like to parade around my room and throw private catwalks for my own satisfaction.”

The last part is said jokingly, making Minho chuckle.

“Hope your hotel room has the biggest mirrors,” he jokes back, but the sigh of relief that escaped him before and the way his shoulders relaxed tells Hyunjin he understands.

The older eventually pulls out his phone to mindlessly scroll on it while Hyunjin focuses back on packing. He starts with the easy parts, the stacks of too thick sweaters and pants placed without much thought. Then, he tackles the trickier items. The shoes boxes, accessories and his toiletry bag have to be placed more strategically. Hyunjin squints at them for a while, assessing their shapes and the free spots in the suitcase. He rotates them this and that way, making them slot together and fit with the rest like pieces of a puzzle or Tetris blocks. He’s left with the shirts thin enough to have been rolled on themselves, and he tucks the tight cylinders of fabric along the edges of the suitcase.

Everything fits perfectly. There’s no fabric puffing out, begging to be released, and no plastic awkwardly bending and slightly deformed by the overload of things. Hyunjin has a pleased smile on his lips, thinking about how easy it’ll be to close the suitcase. He’s already hearing the satisfying sound of the zipper closing in one smooth movement when he notices the small pile of clothes and 2 pairs of sunglasses forgotten near Minho’s feet.

The disgruntled groan he lets out makes Minho raise his eyes from his phone to send him a half-judgemental half-amused look. Hyunjin glares back as he tries to rearrange everything he carefully and perfectly just packed to make some room, pouting exaggeratedly in the process.

He puffs, frustrated as he pulls out one of the neatly packed sweater stacks and places it back on the floor next to him. He nudges a shoe box to the right, creates just enough space to wedge the sunglasses between it and a pair of leather pants. The edge of one of the cases juts out stubbornly, almost mocking, Hyunjin ignores it. He foolishly decides to unroll the shirt previously tucked between the suitcase and the pile of sweaters now next to him. Maybe if he flattens it out it’ll magically leave more space for the two remaining stacks of clothes.

He takes the pile at his side and shoves it inside. He squeezes it to the side so that it only takes up half of the spot. He presses it down so that it doesn’t protrude from the rest of his stuff and makes it impossible to close. He’s putting all his strength in the effort, up on his knees with his arms locked and rigid. His entire body works to stop the clothes from spilling out as he huffs and puffs and struggles.

Minho has long discarded his phone to observe in silence, trying hard not to laugh telling from the glint in his squinted eyes and the tight pinch of his lips. Hyunjin is a little glad he’s not making light of the ridiculousness of the scene and laughing at his expense. He’s glad until Minho suddenly shifts from his spot and grabs the piece of clothing resting on top of the pile at his feet. The pile Hyunjin is actively and desperately trying to make space for.

“Hey!” Hyunjin protests and moves to snatch it from him. Minho sits up. Hyunjin reaches over the suitcase but the older stretches his arm out behind himself, keeping the top just out of reach. “What are you doing?!”

Minho flashes him an innocent smile. “I’m helping you pack! Options are great but too many options are a hassle.”

“I don’t need your help packing, hyung,” Hyunjin exasperates. “Your definition of packing is throwing random things in a suitcase and hoping for the best.”

“And it always works out for me.” Minho shrugs awkwardly as he slips his arms into the top he just stole. It’s a black mohair cardigan with a white acanthus leaf pattern, an item from the new Versace collection that was sent to Hyunjin. “Come on, you obviously can’t take everything with you. I’m helping you make choices.”

Hyunjin sighs as Minho stands up and adjusts the fit.

“Thank you so much,” the younger says in mock gratefulness. “Now, make another choice. I’m taking the cardigan.”

“Why?” Minho cocks an eyebrow. “You don’t think I look good in it?” He asks as he twirls around.

He does look good. The top fits him differently than it fits Hyunjin. His chest and back are broader, and where the shoulder seams tend to slouch more on Hyunjin, the fabric stretches slightly and makes them fit almost perfectly on Minho. His arms are shorter though, and the sleeves hide more of his hands than it should. It looks nice. He looks nice.

“You look annoying,” Hyunjin says.

“‘Cause it looks better on me than on you,” Minho smirks, raising his eyebrows. “Look! I’m giving high fashion. I’m giving runway. I’m giving Versace.” He makes a show of striking a ridiculous pose to punctuate each of his sentences.

“Hyuuung!” Hyunjin whines, drawling the vowels, unable to contain the laughter in his voice.

He crawls around the suitcase and tugs on the leg of Minho’s baggy jeans. The gesture is only performative, not forceful enough to make Minho actually move. Still, he follows the movement and lets himself be dragged to the floor in a fit of giggles.

“What?” He bursts, his voice clear with joy.

They’re sitting face to face on the floor now, knees knocking against each other. Their laughter, bright and high, rings and echoes in the room. Their separate giggles match and synchronize to make one and only sound that bounces off the walls.

Hyunjin’s cheeks hurt, bunched from the beaming smile that has taken over his features. He’s sure the look on his face is similar to the one on Minho’s.

It’s the late afternoon and the sun is low in the sky, preparing itself to set. It basks the room in warm orange. The light is golden on Minho’s skin, unreal where it caresses his cheekbones. His aegyo sal swells under his sparkly eyes and his lips stretch into a wide smile, showing a hint of pink gums and a row of white teeth. His brown hair is down and messy on his head. He looks so incredibly young like this. So pretty and soft, in Hyunjin’s fuzzy cardigan. It makes Hyunjin’s insides warm and mushy. It makes his eyes almost tear up somehow, overwhelming feelings too much for his body and desperate to spill out.

His hand, still on Minho’s jeans, clenches around the fabric. Minho lets one of his hands slide until his fingers graze Hyunjin’s whitening knuckles.

It’s been eating at Hyunjin for months and weeks. Running through his mind in every direction, he has thought it through. All the ways it could play out, all the possible outcomes. Through and through. He’s turned the situation around in his head a million times, like one turns a rubik’s cube around to try solving it.

That’s why he’s confident when he says it. Because he’s not being careless. Because he’s thought it through, enough for it to feel right.

It still feels like jumping into the void or stepping into the sun, but he knows Minho. He knows them. So, it feels like jumping into the void but knowing someone’s ready to catch your fall. It feels like stepping into the sun, knowing it’ll blanket you with warmth instead of burning you alive.

“I like you.”

He speaks the words around a smile, but his tone is serious. His ribcage shakes with the violence of his beating heart.

Minho tilts his head to the side. “I like you too, Hyunjinie.”

His smile doesn’t leave him but his eyes frown briefly, just for a fraction of a second, perplexed. Hyunjin is only able to track the movement because he’s so intently staring.

“No, I–” He sighs and tries again, inching closer.

Minho’s expression falls slightly to settle into something more serious. His eyebrows knit together, but Hyunjin doesn’t falter. Only inches separate them now. Hyunjin follows the sharp bridge of Minho’s nose, lets his eyes fall in the hollow of his cupid's bow and settle on his parted lips. He can faintly feel the warmth of his exhales on his own. When he looks back up, he swears he catches Minho’s lingering gaze on his mouth too, but it’s gone too fast—in a blink.

The setting sun pools in his eyes making them bright like molten amber. Hyunjin burns.

“If I kissed you, would you let me?” Hyunjin’s voice is quiet but steady, a whisper heavy from everything that has been held back so far.

There’s a moment of suspension. Minho’s eyelashes flutter against the top of his sunlit cheeks. Hyunjin’s ears are straining, so absorbed in this moment it’s dizzying. The thundering beat of his heart, the pumping of his blood, how Minho’s breathing deepens and the air thickens. For a moment, a fragile, heart-stopping moment, Hyunjin thinks he has his answer. In the way their shallow breaths mix, and their chests rise and fall in sync. In the way he has to fight not to lean in, a pull so visceral it feels like a hook has curled around his sternum, embedded in his very core and is being forcefully tugged. He doesn’t have to fight the feeling for long because Minho is slowly getting closer, he’s leaning in–

“No!”

The word is a sharp, deafening shout as Minho abruptly stands up, ripping himself away from Hyunjin. The motion is so brutal it makes him flinch. Minho’s chest heaves, his hands stuck at his sides in clenched fists. The outburst echoes in the room like broken glass. When glass breaks, it shatters on the ground and leaves a mess of cutting shards. Hyunjin’s the one still sitting on the floor, frozen, taking all of the damage. His brain refuses to catch up, but his body already has. His heart stopped for a beat too long, and his stomach dropped. A sharp and stinging pain he’s never felt before.

“Wha–” He tries to speak, but the word dies in his throat, too small, too weak.

Minho steps back until his back hits the edge of Hyunjin’s deck. A book topples over and lands on the floor with a dull thud. Water sloshes in a vase. Hyunjin finally gets to see the flowers in it. Striped carnations.

“No,” Minho repeats, this time quieter but no less final. “I think you’re mistaken.”

“Am I?” Hyunjin croaks out, uncertain and broken.

Minho winces, as if the desperation in Hyunjin’s voice is like a physical blow to him. His eyes squeeze shut.

“Yes,” he firmly says, though his voice wavers at the edges. “Yes, Hyunjin, you are. You’re… confused. This–this isn’t what you think it is. You’re wrong.”

There’s something desperate in Minho’s tone, a tremor that betrays him. His features twist, raw and unguarded for just a moment, something fragile slipping through the cracks. And Hyunjin clings to it like a lifeline, ignoring the sting behind his eyes, the burn of rejection curling in his chest.

He feels like drowning, the weight of Minho’s words pulling him under. That fleeting vulnerability is the only thing keeping him afloat, the last gasp of air before the tide swallows him whole. But then, as if catching himself, Minho presses his lips into a thin line, shutting himself off.

“Listen,” he starts, already breathless. “It’ll pass. You’ll get over it so quickly and it’ll pass. And before we know it, it’ll be a–uh, a foolish thing we bring up when we’re drunk and–and laugh about.”

The sentences stumble out of him in stutters. There’s a second where he seems to realize what he just said, his face falling and blanching, and he quickly looks away. Unable to face Hyunjin. Like he can’t even bear to look at him.

Hyunjin’s heart lurches painfully, the ache spreading through his entire body and bile rises in the back of his throat. Foolish? Minho surely doesn’t mean that. He can’t mean it. He can’t mean any of this.

Hyunjin waits, wide-eyed and silently pleading. He waits for Minho to deflate and his lips to curl into a stupid smirk. For it to turn out to be nothing but a terrible joke. Because Minho can’t be doing this to him.

The set of Minho’s shoulders tightens, his jaw clenching and unclenching. He brings a shaky hand to his forehead, letting it rest there as he seems to try regulating his breathing. His nose flares from the deep and loud inhales and exhales he forces himself to take.

The moment stretches for so long. Hyunjin wants to do something. Anything. He feels the world slowly slipping through his fingers, like he needs to catch up before everything gets ripped away from him and he’s left with nothing. He can’t, though, feeling himself drowning more and more.

Minho’s hand falls from his brows, drags down his face, and falls to his side with a heavy sigh. His features twist and morph—the tightness of his jaw, the straight line of his mouth, the frown of his brows, and worst of all, the dark distant look in his eyes. Nothing left of the vulnerable emotions from before, only a mask of cold detachment now.

Hyunjin would scream if he could. He’d throw something, the clothes all around, a punch, a tantrum. Alas, he retracts to the back of his mind, unable to move apart from the twitching of his fingers, unable to talk as his throat constricts around sobs, unable to see as his vision blurs and corners darken. He sinks deeper and deeper. The next words reach him from afar, like sounds travel underwater—muffled, slow and heavy.

“It’ll pass,” Minho says at last, icy and brutally final.

Still facing away, he casts one last side glance Hyunjin’s way, to the first tears rolling down his cheeks.

And then, he’s gone.