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The first time Jisung says it to him, Minho surely flushes bright red―at least, he assumes as much from the heat that rises to his cheeks and the way he catches Changbin snickering at him out of the corner of his eye.

It’s a silly little phrase Jisung has started using in arguments lately, to either piss off, confuse, or fluster his opponent―though pissed off is probably the most frequent response he gets. Especially from one such as Changbin, when Jisung continuously sneaks bites of food off his plate until he finally notices how barren it’s become and yells at Jisung. Or Hyunjin, when Jisung crashes his and Seungmin’s dorm and eats the last mini tub of his favorite sherbet. 

Their squabbles are perhaps too often sparked over food.

This time is no different. Instead of stealing food off Minho’s plate (Minho gives up a quarter of his meat to Jisung unprompted anyway) or sneaking one too many sips of his drink, Jisung―who had been the one to invite Minho and Changbin out for food―had forgotten his wallet.

That isn’t the problem. Minho doesn’t mind, truly. He knows how forgetful Jisung is, and he’s happy to buy lunch for his friends every once in a while as long as he isn’t short on cash―just not too often. It’s not a big deal. It makes him feel good, even.

(And maybe part of him likes treating Jisung a little more than anyone else, but he won’t get into why that might be.)

But he’s Minho, and this is Jisung, which means he’s pulling his card out from the back of his phone case with an exaggerated sigh and eye roll like this is the biggest inconvenience of his entire life.

Changbin watches the exchange with raised eyebrows. He probably has more money than both of them combined, but Minho is the one Jisung whines to, and Minho is the one who wastes no time in retrieving his card, feigned annoyance or not. So he lets it happen.

“This has to be, like, what?” Minho wonders aloud. “The fifth time this month?”

“No way!” Jisung says. “Third time tops.”

“That’s still pretty bad, Sung,” Changbin chimes in with a chuckle. Jisung shoots him a glare.

“You’re totally doing it on purpose at this point!” Minho accuses, waving his card at him.

“I am not!” Jisung gasps. “You know I forget to use my big, sexy brain sometimes and―you know what?” In a swift motion, he reaches up and snatches the card from Minho’s hand. “Maybe I’ll get dessert to go, too!”

Minho shouts, diving across the table and making a grab for Jisung in as civil a manner as possible. The trio had chosen to dine outside in the pleasantly warm weather, and the restaurant isn’t particularly busy, so the only witnesses to his affront are the judgmental stares of passersby and an amused Changbin.

“You already ate every crumb of sweets we have back at the dorm, you pig!” Minho shouts, giving up on trying to wrestle the card out of Jisung’s grip awkwardly from across the table and instead circling around to encase him in what must look like a violent backhug. Jisung curls in on himself, cackling as Minho resorts to tickling his sides to loosen his hold, the card clutched tightly at his chest. “What more could you possibly want?!”

“Cheesecake! I want cheesecake!” Jisung cries, breathless from laughter, thrashing about in Minho’s hold as the older tries to pry his arms apart.

“Guys…” Changbin mumbles with a laugh and a nervous wave at someone behind them. “People are staring.”

“Maybe if Jisung would stop acting like a child,” Minho grunts, finally regaining some sense of self-awareness and pulling back to cross his arms over his chest.

“Maybe if hyung didn’t call me a pig and assault me,” Jisung retorts, sticking his tongue out.

“You stole my card,” Minho says, “and you ate all my cookies.”

“You’re still on that?” Jisung gapes. “You had them for, like, three weeks! They were lonely!”

“I was saving them!”

“For what?”

“For when I felt like eating them!”

“Well, you took too long!”

Minho huffs, not even truly angry but getting a little fired up at the thought of his cookies nonetheless. “You are so―”

Jisung puts on his best shit-eating grin. “And they were sooo good.”

He closes his eyes and does a chef’s kiss, which Minho takes advantage of by snatching the card back out of his hand and holding it out of reach.

“You think I’m gonna buy you cheesecake after all this?” Minho scoffs, leaning down to look Jisung directly in the eye while he gives him a pointed poke in the chest. “You are such a little brat, Han Jisung. An ungrateful, selfish―”

“Ooh, you wanna kiss me so bad.”

Minho freezes. Blinks once, twice, three times.

He’s heard Jisung say it plenty of times before, sure, but not to him. Not when their faces are inches apart and his brain is throwing him from the comfort and familiarity of the playful annoyance he often displays with Jisung into a dumpster fire clusterfuck of confusion and panic.

It shouldn’t fluster him. It shouldn’t affect him at all. Jisung is his best friend. They say jokingly flirtatious things all the time; it’s natural. (Not that those things don’t occasionally fluster him, too. But it’s fine. Right? It’s companionable. Platonic.)

But now, staring into dark eyes shining with mischief, accompanied by a smug smile and the cocky twitch of an eyebrow, Minho staring at him completely dumbfounded as he barely registers Changbin’s stifled laughter… Well, Minho doesn’t know what to think.

So he doesn’t.

He pushes it down, files it away in a cabinet in a distant, forsaken part of his mind littered with cobwebs, and flicks Jisung on the forehead.

“Ow!” he yelps, rubbing the spot.

“Now then, if you two are done,” Changbin starts, looking between them with an unreadable expression, “we should get going before we’re forcibly removed from the premises.”

“Yeah, probably,” Jisung agrees, standing and gathering their trash. “Thanks for lunch, hyung!” he chirps sweetly. Minho rolls his eyes.

He buys a slice of cheesecake to-go. “Only so I don’t have to listen to your whining,” he tells Jisung. Changbin mumbles something under his breath which he chooses to ignore. 

Jisung’s resulting smile and the bites of cheesecake he feeds Minho later make the purchase well worth it.

⟨ ♡ ⟩

Minho writes it off as a one-time thing when a week or so passes without Jisung repeating the phrase or bringing up how Minho’s cheeks probably rivaled the shade of a tomato.

That doesn’t mean he forgets and doesn’t live in constant fear of that shit-eating grin, though, and Jisung is sure to remind him of the power it holds.

“Who’s your favorite princess?”

“Mulan.”

“Mulan isn’t a princess,” Jisung says through a mouthful from their second bag of popcorn. They’re having a Disney movie marathon, as responsible college students do on weekends when they have a load of assignments due in less than 48 hours. “She can’t be your favorite princess if she isn’t a princess.”

Minho gasps, affronted, grabbing for the remote and pausing in the middle of Tangled, right before Rapunzel and Flynn enter the kingdom for the first time. It’s Jisung’s favorite part and Minho knows it. He’ll surely complain, but Minho decides right then and there that this conversation needs to be had.

“Hyung,” Jisung whines on cue, “this is my favorite part.”

“No, we need to talk about this,” Minho says, swatting Jisung’s hand away when he reaches for the remote. “Mulan saved the entirety of China and you’re going to deny her the title of princess?”

“Yes, because she’s not a princess.” Jisung rolls his eyes. “Yeah, she’s awesome and badass, but technically she’s just not!”

“She’s an honorary princess,” Minho states with conviction. “Just like Pocahontas, Elsa, Meg, Jasmine…”

“Whoa, hold the phone.” Jisung sits up, fixing him with a stern gaze. “There’s a lot to unpack here. First of all, Elsa is a princess. If anything, Anna is the honorary princess.” Minho opens his mouth to argue but closes it; he had forgotten where Frozen 2 left them despite having just watched it with Jisung some months ago. “Megara married a literal demigod, so―”

“Demigod and prince are not the same,” Minho says, frowning. “You’re saying Meg deserves to be a princess but Mulan doesn’t?”

“I didn’t say that, I’m just saying she’s closer to being royalty than Mulan is. Even Pocahontas is the chief’s daughter…”

Minho gawks at him, offended by the utter disrespect. “She saved China! She’s besties with the emperor! She married Li Shang, have you seen him? He might as well be royalty―”

“Let me finish!” Jisung interrupts, clearly not convinced by Minho’s rambling nor interested in hearing how hot he thinks Li Shang is. “Jasmine? Jasmine is totally a princess. What are you talking about?”

“I mean, since you want to be technical about it,” Minho huffs, “she’s the sultan’s daughter. Which makes her a sultana.”

“They literally call her princess in the movie! I will put on Aladdin right now if you don’t believe me.”

“I don’t care! Technically, she’s the sultan’s daughter!”

“The sultan is basically a king anyway!”

“But he’s not.”

“What do you have against Jasmine?” Jisung demands, pouting.

“Nothing! I think she’s a great princess―”

“Aha! So she is a princess!”

“Yes, just like Mulan,” Minho says with finality, only slightly prickling with childish irritation at having his choice of favorite princess invalidated. He reaches for the remote to resume the movie only for Jisung to swipe it from his hand.

“Jisung…” he groans, throwing his head back and hitting the couch with a thump.

“No,” he says, “not until you admit I’m right and tell me who your actual favorite princess is.”

“I told you, it’s―”

“Mulan doesn’t count!”

“Look up ‘Disney princesses’ right now,” Minho says. “I promise you will see a lineup with Mulan, Pocahontas, Anna, the whole honorary shebang.”

“It’s fine if they’re grouped with them,” Jisung says. “It’s just that they aren’t princesses. I need you to accept that and admit that I’m right.”

“Mulan can be whatever she wants to be!” Minho fake-cries, limbs flailing like a child throwing a tantrum.

“No, she can’t!” Jisung yells back, hitting Minho with a throw pillow. “Who’s your favorite princess? Who’s your favorite princess?”

“I already gave you my answer!” Minho hits him back twice as hard, kicks him for good measure. “You’re so fucking annoying.”

Jisung flings another pillow at him, knocking over their half-full bowl in the process and sending popcorn and kernels flying everywhere on their freshly-vacuumed floor. Minho clenches his teeth to prevent a string of curse words from slipping out and sends Jisung his best death glare, watching his wide-eyed look turn into a sinister smile.

“Ooh, you wanna kiss me so bad.”

Minho takes no time to contemplate the fluttering in his chest before he’s lunging at Jisung, who squeals and dodges, running off with pleas for mercy and promises that he’ll be right back with the vacuum.

In the meantime, Minho entertains the thought, imagines what it might be like to grab him by those annoyingly cute cheeks and kiss him right on his obnoxious mouth. It’d certainly be a convenient way to shut him up. He wonders if he might have had the courage if Jisung hadn’t dodged, if Jisung allowed him. Probably not.

He can only hope his face isn’t red from the scenarios his brain provides by the time Jisung is settling back down next to him with a fresh bowl of popcorn.

“Did you have enough time to reconsider your favorite princess?” Jisung asks, thumb hovering over the play button. Minho sighs.

“I did.”

“And?”

“It’s you,” Minho says. “Now play the damn movie.”

Jisung blinks, and―is Minho imagining the pink tinge of his cheeks?

His alleged big, sexy brain seems to have stopped working momentarily. Minho tilts his head, intending to take full advantage. He smiles sweetly. “Did you hear me, princess?”

Jisung blinks again, eyes widening before he forces out a scoff and turns away, wordlessly pressing play on the movie.

Minho will have to remember that for later.

For after he finishes his five page essay on why Mulan deserves to be regarded as an honorary princess, perhaps.

⟨ ♡ ⟩

Days pass, and with essays and princess arguments long forgotten (aside from a few more spats involving Mulan and the lack of appreciation for Simba’s daughter Kiara, too), Minho’s entire body tenses as he becomes completely immersed in the little rectangle screen in his hands. He’s just passed two racers and claimed first place. After countless attempts, victory is finally within his reach.

If he wins this round, he’ll beat Jisung’s high score for this map and Jisung will have to do the cleaning for the week as per their agreement. Minho doesn’t mind the cleaning duties falling on his shoulders most of the time, but it’s nice to make Jisung suffer sometimes. Just a little bit. Plus, he’ll have bragging rights, which is always nice.

Just as he’s rounding the final turn with the finish line in sight, the second place racer is gaining on him. He swears and threatens them under his breath. This is his win.

“I swear to God…”

They’re in the final stretch, he’s still in first place, almost there, and―

The game on his screen is overtaken by the black background of an incoming call.

Minho shouts in exasperation, slamming his phone down on Jisung’s bed. “I was so close!  Who the fuck is calling m―”

He angrily flips his phone back over to read the caller ID. Restricted number. He sets his jaw as he lifts his head to glare at Jisung, who is pretending to be very interested in something on his screen at the other end of the bed.

“You son of a bitch.”

Jisung blinks innocently. “Huh?”

“I’m gonna kill you.”

Jisung shrieks as Minho flings himself at him. “What did I do?!”

“Restricted number?” Minho demands, making a grab for Jisung’s phone with the intent of checking his recent calls to confirm his suspicions. “You are so predictable, Han Jisung. I should have known you would sabotage me!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he wails, holding his phone just out of reach.

“Show me your recent calls right now.”

“That’s an invasion of my privacy!”

“You invaded my victory!”

“That doesn’t even make s―” 

Minho interrupts him by digging his fingers into the younger’s sides in the way he knows will make him cry from laughter. Jisung convulses and scream-laughs beneath him, his free hand making a poor attempt to seize Minho’s wrist while his legs flail about uselessly under Minho’s weight.

Minho pins his hand down and tickles him without mercy. “Admit it! Confess your sins!”

“I didn’t! I―M-Minho I don’t know what you’re―” He squeals, barely able to form words between his almost pained laughter. “Fine! Fine!”

Minho pauses. “Fine what?”

“I did it! I called you!” he pants, wriggling his wrist out of Minho’s grip to place it over his own heaving stomach. “I would say I’m sorry, but―” Minho flinches at him like he’s going to start all over again and Jisung yelps. “Okay, okay! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

Minho folds his arms, still pissed at having his game interrupted and victory foiled, though his rage has admittedly been dampened just a bit by the sound of Jisung’s laughter.

“You’re such a sore loser,” Minho scoffs.

“I’m the sore loser?” Jisung asks incredulously. “I’m the one who has the high score!”

“The high score that I was about to beat!” Minho retorts.

“You don’t know that! You could’ve lost at the last second!”

“I was about to beat you and you know it! Why else would you sabotage me, you shit?”

“Coming close isn’t the same as winning.” Jisung sticks out his tongue. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Minho wonders how such an infuriating little prick ended up being the one to capture his heart.

Minho grabs a free pillow and hits Jisung over the head with it. “Then why’d you call me, huh? Admit it. You’re scared. You know I’m competition.”

“Why would I lie like that?”

“Because you’re a liar,” a thump, “a cheater,” thump, “a sore loser,” thump, “and a fraud.”

“Ooh, you wanna kiss me so bad.”

Maybe Minho just isn’t used to it yet, the teasing that hits just a little too close to home. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s now very aware he’s still straddling Jisung from when he had been tickling him. Maybe it’s the sight of Jisung’s toothy grin smiling up at him from the pillow, brown hair messily fanned around him and eyes sparkling with amusement, stirring something deep in his chest.

Whatever it is, Minho is not proud of the way he instantly flushes at the words. He slams the soft pillow in Jisung’s face a final time, for payback but also to block his blush from view, before slipping off of him and reaching for his phone to replay the map.

“I’ll kill you if you do it again.”

Jisung bites his lip. “Are you flirting with me right now?”

Minho abandons his phone, flying at Jisung with a pillow once again and eliciting a scream. He’ll have to beat the score and rub it in his face later.

For now, he decides making Jisung pay for his crimes is a much more urgent matter.

⟨ ♡ ⟩

Jisung does end up having the cleaning duties relegated to him when Minho finally beats his score uninterrupted, but he lucks out in the dishes compartment since they mostly order takeout for the week and end up going to Chan’s for dinner with their friends at the end of it.

“My mom forgot the word for hot dogs,” Chan says, sitting down across from them with his plate. “She just asked me if she made enough ‘long sandwiches’ for everyone.”

Minho, in the midst of taking a sip of his drink, nearly chokes from laughter. “Cute.”

“I mean…” Jisung stares at the hot dog on his plate thoughtfully. “If you think about it, it kind of is a sandwich.”

Minho turns and gives him a skeptical look. “No, it’s not. Look at it.”

“I am!” Jisung says. “And what do I see? Meat, between bread, with condiments. A sandwich.”

Minho shakes his head fervently. “No, no, there’s only one piece of bread.”

“Subs are like that too!” Jisung protests. He’s practically on the edge of his seat now, hot dog in hand to wave in Minho’s face. “Look at it! It’s just a mini-sub.”

“Subs don’t have entire sticks of meat shoved in them, Jisung.”

“The shape of the meat doesn’t change anything, Minho.”

“Brace yourselves,” Jeongin mumbles from the other end of the table. “A catfight is about to break out.”

“Please,” Hyunjin groans, “can we eat together in peace for once?”

“Hey! Stay out of this if you don’t have anything useful to add,” Jisung snaps, but there isn’t much bite to it.

“I think you both have valid points!” Felix laughs nervously. “Let’s call it a draw?”

“Isn’t it more like a taco than anything?” Changbin mumbles, turning his hot dog over in his hand pensively.

“Minho’s right,” Seungmin says, shocking everyone. Minho thinks something in the universe must have shifted. “Just because it’s meat and bread doesn’t classify it as a sandwich.” 

“See?” Minho gloats. “Even Seungmin agrees with me.”

“You guys are so wrong!” Jisung says, voice going up an octave. “If it were bigger and the meat were sliced you would instantly recognize it as a sub sandwich. Which is basically what it is.”

“But it isn’t,” Minho retorts, exasperated. “It’s a hot dog. If I asked for a sub sandwich and you brought me a hot dog, I’d end you.”

“Just because you wouldn’t want one doesn’t mean it applies to everyone!”

“No one thinks of a hot dog when they want a sandwich! You wouldn’t go to a sandwich shop for a hot dog.”

“Just because it’s a sandwich shop doesn’t mean they have every type of sandwich.”

“No sandwich shop on earth would sell hot dogs!”

Jisung’s chair is fully turned towards Minho now as he leans in, getting in Minho’s face like it will intimidate him or force him into compliance. “Oh, is that a universal truth? Do you know that for certain? Cite your sources please.”

“Okay,” Minho says, not backing away. “Here’s my source: I’m not an idiot.”

“Are you sure? You look like an idiot to me.”

“Takes one to know one, I guess.”

“Ooh, you wanna kiss me so bad!”

Minho blinks rapidly. Jisung’s nose is scrunched up so cutely when he says it, somewhere between playfully argumentative and genuinely riled up, a flickering fire in his eyes, and his face is so close―

Minho internally curses himself because for crying out loud, the last time he should be getting flustered is in the middle of a heated debate over the classification of a hot dog as a sandwich―in front of all their friends, no less. But not for the first time, he finds himself wondering what it would be like to end their petty squabbles with a press of lips, to finally silence Jisung’s annoyingly loud mouth and kiss him so silly he won’t remember why they were fighting in the first place.

He hurries to recollect himself, stealing a chip from Jisung’s plate as a distraction and sticking his tongue out when the younger frowns at him. “Keep dreaming, idiot.”

“I may be an idiot,” Jisung says, “but I can appreciate a hot dog for what it is. Which makes me less of an idiot than you.”

“For what it is? It’s a hot dog. That’s what it is!”

“Alright.” Jisung claps his hands together, finally backing out of Minho’s personal space to turn to the rest of their friends, half of which had begun to ignore them and carry on with their meals while the other half watched the show. “Let’s have a show of hands. If you think a hot dog is a sandwich, please raise your hand.”

Jisung proudly throws his hand in the air, followed by a more tentative Felix and, probably out of pity, Chan.

“And if you think it isn’t?” Minho prompts though he’s already won by default, raising his hand. Seungmin, Jeongin, and Hyunjin follow suit. Jisung pouts.

“Hey, wait,” Hyunjin says, looking confused. “Who didn’t vote?”

After a moment, seven pairs of eyes find their way to Changbin, eating his meal unbothered. “I still think it’s a taco.”

“It is not a t―” Jisung puts his head in his hands.

“Okay, okay, fine.” Changbin rolls his eyes. “I’ll take Jisung’s side.”

“Aha!” Jisung shouts.

“Biased!” Minho accuses. “I don’t buy it, not from you or Chan. This is favoritism.”

“Deal with it, babe,” Jisung says, clapping a hand on Minho’s back while he leans back in his chair like he’s hot shit. “We’re tied now.”

“Thank God that’s over,” Hyunjin says before Minho can argue.

Felix laughs into his drink. “What’s next? Fighting over whether or not cereal is a soup?”

Laughter rings around the table. “No way,” Jisung says, at the same time as Minho says “It is.”

They make eye contact, eyebrows flying into their hairlines at the audacity of the other’s opinion.

“So a hot dog isn’t a sandwich but cereal is a fucking soup?” Jisung gawks.

“Cereal and milk is a solid in a liquid. It’s soup.”

“Oh, so if you asked for soup and I brought you cereal it’d be perfectly fine?” Jisung turns his logic back on him.

“Yes!” Minho replies. “I love cereal.”

“I’m gonna cry. I’m seriously gonna cry right now.”

Across from them, Chan puts his head in his hands. “Felix…”

“My bad,” Felix says while Minho and Jisung carry on with their argument and exasperated sighs resound around the table.

“Can cereal be considered a salad?”

“Shut up and eat your taco dog, Changbin.”

⟨ ♡ ⟩

Minho learned a long time ago that it isn’t a good idea to get drunk with his best friend slash possible (but now definite) object of his affections.

Jisung is an affectionate drunk. Like, the climb in your lap and nuzzle your neck and kiss your cheeks type of drunk. Minho knows from experience―from his heart hammering in his chest and nights spent lying awake, whether he’s on the receiving end or silently fuming with something as he watches it happen to one of their friends.

It’s too much, to have Jisung all over him, pressed against him, warm and loving and needy. At the same time, it’s not enough, and Minho is weak. It would be so easy, too easy, to make a wrong move and watch helplessly as years of friendship crashing down around them. To lose the most important person in his life. So he makes a resolve to not land himself in that position when it can be avoided.

When it comes to Jisung, though, he’s never had much of a strong resolve.

“Come on, hyung,” Jisung begs him. “It’s been a while since you last partied! I planned it all out, Chan and Seungmin are gonna drive―and no, they don’t mind, they both have to be up early anyway, plus we all figured you deserve a break from being the D.D.―and it’s my birthday weekend! I want you to have fun.”

“I can have plenty of fun if I don’t drink,” Minho argues weakly, his resolve crumbling. It’s true that he hasn’t had the chance to let loose in a while―not that he minds all that much normally, because at least then he gets to avoid confusing feelings involving his best friend (well, he can avoid them more and be less tempted to act on them when he’s sober). But it’s always fun to let go, have a night out with his friends and leave his worries to the wind.

Jisung frowns. “Really? I know what it’s like to be the sober one around a bunch of inebriated degenerates. It can’t be that fun. Unless you’re Seungmin.”

“Do you know what it’s like?” Minho scoffs. He can’t remember a time when Jisung was the sober one. He has a point, though; while there is some appeal to being the sober friend, like watching your friends make complete fools of themselves and retaining the memories afterwards, there’s a sense of being left out that he’s never been too keen on experiencing.

“Yes!” Jisung huffs. “But seriously! It’s been so long. I wanna have fun with you.”

And when Jisung gives him sparkling, pleading puppy dog eyes and juts out his lower lip on his birth weekend, how can Minho refuse him anything?

Which is what lands him in his current predicament.

“Hyuuuung,” Jisung drawls, his breath tickling Minho’s neck where he’s pressed against him. Soft lips brush against Minho’s skin and make him shiver. 

Minho is in a lovely, floaty place somewhere just near the threshold of drunk as he lazily runs his fingers through Jisung’s hair in the booth of the nightclub, humming along with the music. Jisung is a little more far gone―but not as far as Felix, who Minho watches the club’s blue and purple lights wash over in the seat across from them, having promptly fallen asleep after, in his words, “boogying too hard.”

“Wanna dance,” he mumbles.

“Can you even stand up, Jisungie?” Minho laughs, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.

“‘Course I can!” Jisung insists, pulling away to prove his point. Minho keeps a careful hold on his wrist, just in case, but he manages to stand anyway. “See? Let’s dance.”

“We can’t leave Felix by himself,” Minho protests thanks to the sliver of protective rationality left unswayed by his intoxication. He wobbles as Jisung tugs him to his feet, just as Chan approaches from the dancefloor.

“I got him.” He grins as he passes, taking a seat by Felix. “You guys go have fun!”

“Thank you Channie!” Jisung calls, dragging Minho towards the swarm of bodies on the dancefloor. They bump into Hyunjin who turns around looking ready to fight (as if he could hurt a fly) before he recognizes them and relaxes.

“Oh, he can walk!” Hyunjin smiles, raising his voice to be heard over the music. Jisung promptly flips him off and drags Minho to an open space in the crowd before stopping and looping his arms around his neck.

“Oh,” is all Minho says, wondering where to put his hands. Jisung’s memory is shit enough on its own, but drunk is another story, and Minho is grateful that Jisung probably won’t remember the way he flusters.

“I-It’s not really that kind of song, Jisungie,” he says, settling his hands on his waist anyway with a dopey smile.

“I don’t trust my legs right now.” Jisung gives him a dazed, sheepish smile that makes Minho’s heart skip a beat. This cannot be good for his health.

“Here,” Minho offers, removing his arms from around him in favor of holding his hands instead. “I won’t let you fall.”

“What if I already did?” he says, swaying closer.

“Huh?” Minho’s brow furrows as he huffs out a confused laugh. He’s been with Jisung all night, glued to his side, and hasn’t seen him tumble once. “You’re drunk.”

“‘M not,” Jisung says, gripping Minho’s hands in return and bouncing around to the beat gracelessly. “I want another drink. I can still hear myself think.”

“That’s a surprise,” Minho says dryly, though he has a goofy smile on his face that comes with the giddy feeling of either the alcohol, Jisung’s closeness, or a combination of the two. Jisung uses their linked hands to hit him in the shoulder. “I think you’ve had enough.”

“Nooo,” he protests. “Just one more. For my birthday?”

“You can’t use the birthday card forever!”

“But it’s my birthday! It’s only once a year!”

“Your birthday was three days ago. And you’ve gotten me to do things for you all week by saying ‘but it’s my birthday!’” Minho sweeps Jisung’s hair out of his eyes fondly. “I have to draw the line somewhere.”

“Well draw it after one more drink!”

“Jisung―”

“I won’t use it again,” he insists. “Pleeease.”

Minho does his best to shut him down, to tear his gaze from the spectrum of lights that shine in Jisung’s eyes, the flush of his round cheeks, the pouty lips that Minho wants so badly to swoop down just a few inches and finally―

No. No, no. Bad train of thought. Bad drunk Minho.

When Minho doesn’t respond, honestly having completely forgotten what Jisung even said that he’s meant to reply to, Jisung slides his hands back up and around Minho’s neck.

“Minhooo.”

“Really, Jisung, I think you’ve had plenty―”

“I don’t care. Please? I’ll do anything. I’ll―I’ll do dishes for a week.”

“No you won’t.”

“I’ll do your laundry.”

“And ruin all my clothes.”

“I’ll do your homework.”

“Hell no.”

“I’ll sweep and vacuum and mop and―”

Minho laughs at his persistence. “You really won’t. You’ll forget this conversation tomorrow and I’ll be stuck taking care of your hungover ass.”

“I won’t! I have a great memory!” He scrunches his nose up petulantly. “Maybe I’ll be taking care of you.”

“That’ll be the day.”

Jisung’s forehead collides with Minho’s chest, easily sending him off balance and stumbling backwards into a stranger. He hurriedly apologizes while Jisung burrows into him with his head, groaning and begging. They receive no shortage of strange looks from around them, as if these people have never seen a drunk man acting like a toddler before. 

“I’m never drinking with you again,” Minho says, an empty threat. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah right,” Jisung just scoffs, lifting his head to look Minho in the eye. “You wanna kiss me so bad.”

Where Minho’s heart would normally threaten to leap out of his chest, where his face would turn beet red in response to Jisung’s words, he only feels the distant thrum of that fire in his veins. Like he’s burning up, but too far gone to properly feel it.

His eyes travel to Jisung’s lips, upturned in a little smile, like he somehow knew the effect he’d have on Minho. The smile slowly fades when he registers the intensity with which Minho’s gaze rakes over his face, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

It would be so easy to kiss Jisung like he wants, to kiss him breathless, until they’re both even more senseless than they are now, inches apart and silently waiting, pleading for the other to make a move.

There must be dozens of bodies around them, but in Minho’s world there is only Jisung. The beating of his heart drowns out the bass and when he swallows it feels like the whole club might hear it, might hear what he’s thinking, might know the feelings that overwhelm his mind until he can’t think straight, can’t think about anything but the boy in front of him.

“What if I do?” Minho breathes.

Jisung’s pupils are blown wide and without hesitation he leans in closer. Minho is powerless to stop him, even if he wanted to. He’s rooted to the floor with the rational part of his brain completely eclipsed by the need to feel Jisung’s lips on his own, to hold him closer than ever before and see if their lips slot together so perfectly as they do in his dreams.

He doesn’t get to find out.

“Hey, guys.” A familiar voice and a finger tapping his back has Minho jumping and springing apart from Jisung, whipping his head around with eyes wide like a spooked cat.

“Sheesh, my bad.” Seungmin regards him with a raised eyebrow. Minho feels exasperation and irritation prick under his skin at the interruption, though deep down relief floods his chest. “I’m gonna take Lix home. You guys good, or…?”

Minho turns to Jisung, who nods blankly. “We’re good. Drive safe Seungminnie,” Minho coos, doing his best in his state to dispel any suspicions he might have from his jumpy behavior. Seungmin rolls his eyes but can’t hide the smile it puts on his face as he takes his leave.

A tug on his shirt returns Minho’s attention to Jisung. The expectant look he gives Minho, eyebrows upturned, lips trying to form words, sends his heart into another frenzy. He can’t look at it for a moment longer without cracking.

He looks away.

“Let’s get you that drink, birthday boy.”

⟨ ♡ ⟩

Jisung doesn’t seem to remember their almost-kiss from weeks before, and Minho is content to pretend it never happened whenever Jisung brings up that night or Seungmin questions his “weirder than normal” behavior.

That certainly doesn’t mean Minho’s brain lets him go a single day without ruminating on it, though.

Most nights when he wants nothing more than to fall into the sweet oblivion of sleep, Minho is kept awake with the image of Jisung leaning in to kiss him, face flushed from alcohol and bathed in the cool hues of the club lights, eyes and lips shining, inviting, begging him to risk everything on a stupid drunken whim.

It’s burned into the backs of his eyelids and he wonders if it will ever go away.

Nothing changes between him and Jisung, which serves to solidify his belief that Jisung remembers nothing that happened between him downing his fifth shot and waking up to a throbbing headache and Minho forcing water down his throat. 

Minho has to repress his feelings, somehow having grown stronger after nearly getting a taste of what he’s yearned for so long, probably longer than he’s realized―which is harder now but nothing new for him.

His biggest dilemma (aside from the ever-present emotional turmoil) is the way his eyes keep absentmindedly finding Jisung’s lips. When Jisung talks with his eyes on the television screen, when he gnaws at them when he thinks, when he sings thoughtlessly, unaware of his captive audience, and even now as Minho should be taking in the sights of the autumn festival. 

The stars are out, dotting the clear sky without a cloud in sight. Hundreds of pretty lanterns light up the night, strung about painting the area in an orange glow. Various booths line the crowded pathway, colorful banners hung above and between them, housing everything from games to overpriced merchandise. 

Chatter, laughter, and music fills the air, the smell of delicious food fills Minho’s senses. It’s a perfect night by his standards, especially when the occasional pleasant breeze blows by, ushering in the comfortable coolness of autumn, and Jisung’s shoulder brushes against his own.

Beautiful though it may be―Jisung is by far the highlight of the night.

“Hyung?” Jisung waves a hand in front of his face. “Hey, my eyes are up here. God, you wanna kiss me so bad it’s embarrassing.”

Minho’s stomach turns but he scoffs like Jisung hadn’t taken the words right out of his silly little lovesick head.

By now, everyone is fed up with the phrase. It’s far overused; it stopped being funny after the second or third time and Jisung is well aware of the fact, but that only spurs him on to use it that much more.

(Minho still thinks it’s kind of hilarious, but only when he isn’t on the receiving end.)

“You wish,” he says, reaching a hand up to brush his thumb over the corner of Jisung’s mouth. “I was just wondering if I should tell you how dumb you look with all those crumbs on your lips.”

“Whatever,” Jisung responds, taking another sizable bite of his churro as the pair strolls past booth after booth. “You’re in denial. It’s fine.”

Minho rolls his eyes, averting his gaze to instead scan over booths. They had already blown too much of the wad of cash they’d brought along for the night on games, deciding to save the rest for food or anything else but their poor attempts at besting activities intended for kids. Minho did manage to win a little teddy bear he planned on giving Jisung, but had nobly surrendered it to a little girl who was sulking after one too many failed attempts of her own.

Jisung gasps beside him, and Minho already knows they’re about to spend money on something silly.

“Minho, we have to get one.”

Minho follows his gaze to a stall selling handmade flower crowns. He’s about to argue that they don’t need them when Jisung turns to him, eyes bright and wide with excitement, and the words die in Minho’s throat. He lets himself be pulled through the crowd.

“Oh, they’re so pretty!” Jisung fawns, and Minho has to agree, but when Jisung smiles at him he can’t help but think the fake flowers are dust in comparison. He vaguely wonders when he became such a sap. “You’ll get one too, right?”

“Nah, I’d never wear it again ―”

“C’mon,” Jisung whines. “Where’s your festival spirit?”

“They’re buy one, get one half off if that helps,” the girl running the stall supplies.

“It’s a steal!” Jisung insists. “You have to.”

“Fine,” Minho sighs. Like he stood a chance.

“Yay! Okay, what catches your eye?”

Minho hums, gaze traveling over the assortment before him. Maybe he should get the red ones; they’ve got an autumn-y feel to them, and his friends (Jisung included) have always told him how nice red looks on him. He keeps looking, eventually honing in on a pretty combination of white, baby pink, and a light mint that matches his current sweater almost perfectly.

“This one,” he says, gingerly picking it out from the bunch.

Jisung makes an awed noise. “Nice. Here, I’ll put it on you.” 

Minho drops the crown into his open palms and subconsciously holds his breath when Jisung steps closer and lifts it to his head. He shifts it around until he’s pleased with the placement, brushing Minho’s hair into place with his fingers while the latter watches the way his lips part in concentration.

Jisung pulls away to admire his work, Minho’s eyes fluttering back up to meet his.

“Pretty,” he says softly, looking not at the flowers but into Minho’s eyes, gaze lingering. Minho’s heart skips a beat. “Okay, now which one should I get…?”

Minho exhales finally when he turns away, flushing when he accidentally makes eye contact with the woman running the stall, her eyebrows raised at the exchange. Embarrassing.

He digs in his pocket for the money and pays while Jisung, after much consideration and Minho’s input, settles on one with red, white, and pink flowers intricately woven together. Minho takes his time in carefully arranging it on Jisung’s head, fluffing his soft hair up and finishing with a pat to his cute cheeks.

Jisung beams at him and ooh Minho wants to kiss him so bad.

“We should go find a spot,” Minho says, breaking the trance Jisung’s put him in to check the time on his phone. “The fireworks are gonna start soon.”

“Okay,” Jisung says. “Oh, wait, can we get ice cream first?”

Minho casts a pointed glance at the unfinished churro in his hand, which Jisung quickly shoves in his mouth and offers a stiff grin. “Alright. Let’s hurry.” 

He grabs Jisung’s hand and pushes through the crowd on the hunt for ice cream, and absolutely doesn’t let it distract him when Jisung interlaces their fingers.

Jisung orders double chocolate while Minho, true to his apparent theme for the night, gets mint chocolate chip, and they make their way to the field by the river with each other’s hands still in their grasp and ice cream cones in the other.

Minho spots a clearing big enough for them and they tip-toe their way through touchy couples and rowdy children until they reach it, taking a seat in the soft grass. Before them, past the expanse of people on blankets and lawn chairs and children running around, flows the river, reflecting the lights of the festival and the stars above. If Minho squints, he can just barely see the boat in the distance preparing to shoot off fireworks as he absentmindedly licks his ice cream.

Jisung cranes his neck to look off somewhere to the left, phone in hand. “Jeongin said everyone else is like, way over there.”

Minho shrugs, though he wonders if Jisung is disappointed to only have him to share the experience with. Not that he had any qualms with attaching himself to Minho’s hip for the night. “You wanna go find them?”

“Nah. Hope they don’t miss us too much.”

“They won’t. We have better seats anyway.”

“Yeah, sucks for them,” Jisung laughs.

They fall into a comfortable silence with bouts of small talk, amusedly watching the children around them sword fight with glow sticks or discussing some wild outfit or another they had seen earlier. The air gets cooler as the night goes on, and that coupled with the ice cream ends up with Jisung snuggling against Minho, complaining.

“You’re the one who wanted ice cream,” Minho says. He, for one, is thriving, with both the crisp air filling his lungs and Jisung pressed against him, warming him to his core.

“And I don’t regret a thing!” he huffs, biting off a piece of his cone. “Speaking of which, you should finish yours up.”

“What? Why?”

“‘Cause you’re a scaredy-cat,” he says matter-of-factly. “As soon as the fireworks go off, you’re gonna spaz and make a mess.”

“Oh?” Minho sits up straight, turning to look him in the eye. “I’m the scaredy-cat?” Minho knows he is indeed a scaredy-cat, but it’s rich coming from Jisung, his partner in scaredy-cat crimes.

“Frankly, yes.”

“Please elaborate.” 

“You just are.” Jisung juts his chin out and leans in closer, too close, meeting Minho’s gaze with a challenge in his eyes. “In every sense of the phrase.”

Minho’s eyebrows fly up and he gets a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach that says abort abort abort because this conversation is veering in a suspiciously non firework related direction.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” he asks anyway.

“Take it as you will.” Jisung shrugs, backing away and returning his attention to his ice cream. “Maybe I’m comparing you to a cat. Maybe I’m calling you a coward.”

Minho stares at him, bewildered, before scoffing and raising his cone to his lips for a bite. “I don’t know what you’re―”

Minho’s eyes bulge in shock as his arm is jolted and his lips and chin are met with freezing cold. With the way Jisung cackles, Minho belatedly realizes he had reached over and shoved Minho’s arm upwards, slamming his ice cream right in his face when he went in for a bite.

He turns slowly to Jisung, glowering with enough ferocity to make him cower as he feels ice cream melt against his skin.

“Jisung,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “I… am going… to kick your ass.”

Jisung laughs, recovering from his fear and leaning in, making Minho freeze when he stops inches from his face. He reaches a finger to swipe the ice cream on his chin away before it can drip onto Minho’s shirt, bringing it to his own mouth for a taste. His gaze is glued to Jisung’s lips.

Jisung’s voice is low, his smile devious as he leans in ever closer, their shoulders bumping. 

“Ooh, you wanna kiss me so bad.”

And if Jisung thinks Minho still wants to kiss him after he uses that stupid goddamn line on him for the umpteenth time, tormenting him for months, after he inadvertently plays with Minho’s feelings, after he shoves Minho’s ice cream in his face―

He’s absolutely right.

Minho unceremoniously lets the remainder of his cone fall from his hand and into the grass, using his now-free hand to come up and brush Jisung’s hair out of his eyes and rest on his cheek, silently asking for permission.

Jisung’s breath hitches but he doesn’t pull away, blinking up at Minho with wide, sparkling eyes, suddenly the picture of innocence. His gaze flits down to Minho’s lips, still messy from the ice cream, and Minho subconsciously licks them. Jisung’s mouth twitches into a weak smirk. 

“You look so dumb,” he whispers.

Minho decides he doesn’t care―not about the ice cream on his face, not about the worries and insecurities that have culminated and weighed on his heart, not with the way Jisung is looking back at him―and he breaks into a wide grin. 

If Jisung wants to tease him and shove his ice cream in his face, he’ll have to deal with the consequences.

“Ooh,” Minho says, “you wanna kiss me so bad.”

“Yeah, I do,” Jisung breathes, tilting his head and crossing the space between them.

Fireworks go off. Not literally, although that would be impeccable timing. But at the moment Minho can’t think of anything better to compare the warmth that erupts in his heart to, a breathtaking explosion of color and beauty that illuminates every fiber of his being and makes him feel alive.

He wonders how he managed to deprive himself of something so beautiful for so long.

Jisung’s hand tangles in the hair on the nape of Minho’s neck while his lips part against him, and Minho becomes so lost in him that the world around them disappears. It’s just Minho and Jisung finally proving the truth in Jisung’s stupid little argument―because now the secret is out that Minho does want to kiss him so bad, and he never wants to stop.

BOOM.

They flinch in unison, teeth knocking against teeth as Minho’s eyes fly open just in time to see Jisung’s terrified expression lit up in red from the first firework exploding overhead.

Jisung grins sheepishly. “Fireworks started.” 

“I see that,” Minho responds, only jumping a little as he watches the next two light up Jisung’s face, awestruck as he stares up at the sky.

Minho likes fireworks well enough, but Jisung’s content smile is infinitely more captivating.

“Whoa, was that one shaped like a heart?” Jisung asks, turning to see Minho not paying attention whatsoever. The smile falls from Jisung’s face as he flusters.

“Um―”

“Stop staring!” he cries. “You’re missing the fireworks.”

“I don’t care,” Minho says, taking advantage of Jisung’s attention to lean in and capture his lips again. Jisung melts against him, bracing himself with a hand on the side of Minho’s neck.

“I do,” he mumbles into Minho’s lips, but still he kisses him. “I wanna watch.”

“Then watch.”

Minho smiles when Jisung grunts and kisses him in response.

“Okay, okay.” Minho pulls away, partially for air and partially so Jisung doesn’t miss the entire show. Jisung whines and chases his lips, making him giggle. “You wanna kiss me so bad it’s sad.”

Jisung purses his lips and nods. “Okay. Yeah. I deserve this.”

Minho gives him a quick peck on the cheek. “Watch the fireworks.”

“Fine,” he sighs dramatically, as if it were a chore. He rests his head on Minho’s shoulder, flower crown tickling his neck, and Minho presses a kiss into his hair before leaning his head on Jisung’s.

It doesn’t take long for Jisung’s hand to find his, interlacing their fingers and cuddling up closer in the wake of a chilly breeze. Minho resorts to pulling Jisung to sit between his legs and wrapping his arms around him to warm him up better while they watch the display of lights, Minho resting his chin on Jisung’s head.

They remain like that until the show ends and the final round of fireworks goes off with Jisung gasping in awe, and then after that when the crowds around them start to disperse. Jisung spins around and barely gives Minho time to react before he’s kissing him again, pushing him back until he’s lying in the grass with Jisung hovering over him. Somehow he can’t find it in him to be embarrassed that they’re being so grossly affectionate in public, not when Jisung’s lips are on his.

“Did I mention how pretty you are?” Jisung asks, adjusting the flowers on Minho’s head as he rolls off to the side, propped up on his elbow.

“Maybe,” Minho breathes, “but you can tell me again, just in case.”

Jisung giggles, lowering himself to kiss Minho sweetly, the lingering taste of mint and chocolate on his lips. “You’re insanely pretty. And you’re such a good kisser. It’s so unfair.”

“I was thinking the same about you,” Minho smiles. He reaches up to run his thumb across Jisung’s cheek and pulls him down for another kiss because he can just do that now instead of dreaming of what it might be like.

Shouting cuts through the air and pops their little bubble of bliss, both boys breaking apart to turn to the direction of the painfully familiar voices.

“Oh my God, is that―”

“Oh, there’s no way.”

“Indecent exposure!”

Minho lets his head hit the earth, already exasperated by the onslaught of teasing that’s about to come their way as their friends approach, catching them in the act.

“It’s about time,” Seungmin says dryly. “Let’s all pretend to be shocked.”

“I’m genuinely shocked, for one,” Jeongin cuts in.

“It finally worked?” Changbin asks Jisung with an amazed smile.

Minho squints. “What worked?”

“Of course!” Jisung puffs out his chest. “Just like I knew it would.”

“Knew what would work…?”

Seungmin clears his throat and extends his hand to the other two.

“Shit,” Changbin mutters, patting his pockets while Jeongin begrudgingly slaps an indeterminate amount of won into Seungmin’s waiting palm. Minho’s face twists into what can best be described as aggravated bewilderment as Changbin follows Jeongin’s lead.

“Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?” he asks.

“We placed bets on whether you two would get together before the end of the year or not,” Seungmin says nonchalantly as he counts the currency in his hands.

Jisung gasps, pointing at Changbin. “You told me it would work! You have no faith in me!”

“No, I do! It’s Minho I had no faith in.”

Minho’s head swims, trying to process all that’s happened tonight. “Huh?”

Jisung turns to him with a pout. “Changbin said that the ‘you wanna kiss me’ thing would work and then went and bet against me!”

“It would work?” Minho repeats, growing more confused by the second. “You were trying to get me to kiss you this whole time?”

“And this is why we bet against you,” Jeongin sighs. “God, you’re dense.” Changbin nods in agreement.

“But―but you say that to everyone!” Minho blinks at Jisung owlishly.

“And you’re the only one who takes it to heart,” Seungmin says. He… has a point.

“So this whole time…” Minho flashes an impish grin at Jisung. “You were projecting. You wanted to kiss me so bad.”

Jisung gapes at him. “I think it’s safe to say it was mutual!”

“Well―yes, but you’re the one who had a scheme to make it happen―”

“And you’re the one who fell for it!”

“If I recall correctly, you still ended up kissing me.”

“Oh my God,” Jisung laughs like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You know what? I take my kisses back until you’re ready to discuss this like an adult. I didn’t go through all this for you to discredit my hard work. You should be thanking me, actually, because without my efforts, you never would have gotten to experience―”

“Ooooh―” Minho starts.

Jisung lunges forward to clap a hand over Minho’s mouth, tackling him back onto the ground in the process. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Minho grabs his wrist and pulls it off, freeing his mouth and grinning up at Jisung. 

“You wanna kiss me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

Jisung doesn’t justify him with a response, only grabs his face and crashes their lips back together, shutting him up in the best possible way.

And with Jisung’s warm body and lips pressed against him in the chill of autumn, a small chorus of disgusted noises from their friends sounding in his ears, Minho couldn't be more grateful that his best friend is such an annoying little shit.

⟨ ♡ ⟩