Chapter Text
The showcase had everyone on a knife’s edge. That’s what Jisung had been telling himself after his massive crying fit in the studio over some stupid lyrics—it had to have been nerves, so it was nothing to worry about, really.
Still, the news spread quickly enough; Changbin had texted the group chat that 3RACHA would be late to dance practice without giving a reason, which alerted the rest not unlike if he’d sent them a video of Jisung wailing shot in crispy 4K.
Jisung’s own phone vibrated on the desk with the reply, almost instantaneously, so he glanced at the screen over Chan’s shoulder, distinctly aware that he was getting snot on his hyung’s sweatshirt.
Irino: do you need me to come over?
Jisung wasn’t sure what had tipped Minho off, but it only made him cry harder.
When the trio finally rolled in almost an hour into the session, all the members must have already known something was up, if the massive frowns were anything to go by.
There was a short embarrassing interval for 3RACHA to stand at attention as they received a scolding from their choreographer, Jisung still red-faced and puffy, tucked under Chan’s arm, who, for his part, was mostly focused on trying not to vibrate out of his own skin with the effort not to say something rude.
Minho’s eyes were like laser tags. He mouthed: Are you okay? Jisung managed a wobbly smile and nodded, to which Minho nodded back sharply, apparently satisfied.
“Let’s start with formation again, from the top,” said the choreographer after he was done airing out his grievances, sending 3RACHA off to join the rest. He still looked miffed, so Jisung had to shake himself off quickly and jump right into it.
The dance was an old one that they had unearthed for a song Chan had rearranged—since it was something they already knew, the job was made easier by not having to start from scratch, but all the harder in parts that had to be re-choreographed and committed into their memory again before the showcase.
Missing half the practice wasn’t ideal, Jisung was aware, but crying in front of their dance teacher somehow still seemed worse, so he was glad to have sat this one out.
The notebook he used for lyric drafts sat heavy in his backpack and radiated rancid energy even from afar. Jisung sent it a nasty grimace just for the hell of it.
“Jisung-ah,” said Hyunjin when they called a short break.
He was looking around almost nervously, toying with the hairband that was keeping his fringe from falling into his eyes, pushing it back and forth until his hair was a mess.
“In the hook,” he went on haltingly, “I think you missed your mark… just a bit. Be careful or someone will run into you.”
Ah, there it was. Whenever nervous energy lingered around him after a breakdown, it affected everyone in a way that Jisung had become intimately familiar with—the tiptoeing, the younger members steering clear in case he blew up again, all the hyungs hovering nearby but trying to keep it casual, long, long silences.
If Hyunjin said Jisung had missed the mark, he’d missed the mark and that was that—there was no doubt in Jisung’s mind that it had been noticeable, so it couldn’t have been just a bit. What bothered him was that normally Hyunjin would have been blunt about it. Hyunjin worked hard and refused to waste time where it didn’t have to be wasted. But he’d tempered himself.
Whatever sadness still clung to Jisung was quickly transforming into irritation, prickling like porcupine quills right under his skin.
“Jisungie won’t miss his mark again because hyung will be there to kick him back into place like a football, hm?”
They turned to see Minho’s sharp smile as he mimed kicking something, taking a rather imposing swing for a football.
He was wearing the cat-in-a-painting t-shirt again, the one Jisung really liked, slightly damp in places from sweat, and his hair, back to its natural brown, hung all the way in his eyes and down his nose, where it had grown out way past the point of any real intention.
Jisung knew for a fact that Minho owned a hair tie because he’d given him a set himself (with bunnies on them, he’d found them when he was buying shampoo and they made him think of Minho). His hyung had only mumbled something about how it was actually kind of relaxing not to bother seeing from time to time and carried on blind. Weirdo.
Evading Minho with a squeak, Jisung deflated easily, feeling the dredges of distress from earlier ebb away as he let his face arrange itself into an exaggerated pout.
“Hyung would never kick me, he’s not so cruel!”
“I guess we shall find out. Wouldn’t take my chances if I were you.” Another flash of teeth and one cocked eyebrow. Jisung felt a little thrill of excitement roll down his spine. He loved this game.
Looking somewhat spooked but also relieved not to have to do a tightrope walk to deliver feedback to someone that had only recently sobbed until they felt nauseous, Hyunjin retreated towards the water cooler, where some other members were gathered.
Jisung himself felt parched, but the second he turned towards his backpack, Minho caught him by the back of his t-shirt and stopped him in place.
“Sit,” he said softly, “hyung will bring you some water.”
Pleased, a growing spot of warmth in his chest, Jisung hummed in accord, slid down the mirror and planted himself on the floor.
From there he could watch as Minho ventured to grab Jisung’s water bottle, held it up under light to see how beat up and murky it had become since Jisung had last cleaned it (it wasn’t this week, and not the week before, that much he was sure of), then made a disgusted grimace at him from across the room.
With a chuckle, Jisung watched Minho make a beeline for his own bag, where he pulled out his own bottle, took it to the cooler to top it up and circled back to Jisung, the grimace still in place.
“I don’t even know what to say.”
“It may surprise you, but I’m aware,” said Jisung. “Do continue.”
“We can share mine for tonight,” Minho replied, his nose wrinkled as he passed him the bottle—navy blue and lightweight, like the bottles people used for camping. “I’m taking yours home so that I can clean it. How have you not died from some sort of poisoning?”
“I believe the bacteria is what keeps me strong.”
“I believe you are a bacterium.”
When Minho was reaching for the bottle again, he impulsively grabbed a hold of Minho’s wrist and rubbed his face against it, sweat and all. Minho made a big fuss by yelping and yanking his hand back, but his show of disgust was significantly diminished by his other hand, which had shot out to cup the back of Jisung’s head so that he wouldn’t smack it against the mirror as he recoiled.
Jisung hummed in approval when Minho took this opportunity to delicately card through Jisung’s hair, even though it was, arguably, even more sweaty. It felt nice, the familiar touch of Minho’s fingers, but for some reason it triggered something, too.
Jisung felt it happen in real time, this pang behind his sternum, the lyrics in his notebook alive again, red and screaming, that same all-consuming sadness. Jisung’s smile edged down despite his hardest effort to keep it on, so to hide it, he rubbed his cheek against Minho’s other arm to elicit some kind of reaction.
Minho pulled back slowly and gently, fingers just barely touching Jisung’s cheekbone, feather-light, then gone.
“Drink, jagi-ya,” Minho said with a sad little smile, “hyung has to go talk to Channie, but you just rest. It won’t be long until we go home.”
Jisung nodded and watched him walk away, trying not to act sullen.
Minho cornered Chan by the console, and they were speaking in low voices—probably about Jisung, given their squared shoulders and pinched expressions. The thought alone would have been excruciating if it wasn’t Minho, so Jisung just sat back with a sigh and let it happen.
It would likely save him some time explaining. Maybe it would save him explaining all together—an option he strongly preferred—since Minho always knew when to pry and when to leave him be.
As if on cue, Felix materialized at his side and took his hand, pleating their fingers together. Jisung relaxed slightly, letting his head wilt against Felix’s shoulder.
“Want me to make you hot cocoa tonight?” Felix asked, playing with one of Jisung’s rings.
“You’ll come to our dorm just to make hot cocoa and leave? Or are you renting the sofa for this purpose? We don’t have cocoa in our house, by the way, just chocolate flavored protein powder.”
“Yah!” Felix laughed and tugged on his hand. “You’re staying with us, aren’t you?”
“Huh?” It was the first time Jisung was hearing of this. “I am? Why? Since when?”
“I thought you’d stay with Minho-hyung.” Felix looked deeply confused, which seemed rich, given that Jisung was the confused one.
It’s not like Jisung had some sort of an instruction manual where it said that after a meltdown, he must hide under his hyung’s bed, or it wouldn’t count—and even if he did, which he did not, it’s not like his members had a copy of it on hand.
It was even more outrageous that perhaps Felix had a point, and he was going to stay with Minho, since in his mind, for no particular reason, he’d already been anticipating crawling into Minho’s room like an earthworm seeking wet soil after rain.
Jisung just didn’t appreciate being read like that, thank you very much.
“Let’s get back to it, boys!” said their choreographer, and everyone scrambled to rejoin practice.
The rest of it went by rather smoothly, if only because they went overtime to make up for the beginning and the teacher clearly wanted to go home already.
After they cleaned up and had a quick huddle with their manager to go over an itemized schedule for the showcase, which had just been sent over by the local staff, Chan locked the practice room and off they went.
Jisung tried not to act like a disgruntled baby when they were piling into cars, and no one batted an eyelid when he headed for the one going to the other dorm despite providing absolutely no explanation or forewarning.
Minho even held the door open for him so that he could get in first and take the window seat, while Minho took the middle, smiling when Jisung grumbled something that only half-resembled words and reached out to grab Minho’s hoodie sleeve. He tugged until Minho’s hand found its place in his lap and Jisung could squeeze his hyung’s arm to his chest like a stress-relief toy. Minho went easily and started petting along the outer seam of his jeans. The itch under Jisung’s skin dissolved bit by bit.
“Hannie-hyung,” said Jeongin once they all clambered inside and were kicking their shoes off, “do you want chicken? Seungmin-hyung and I will be ordering. Minho-hyung, we’ll get you some, too.”
Jisung shrugged his jacket off and was already making his way to Minho’s room. “Thanks, aegi, but I’m not hungry.”
“Order him some,” said Minho sternly, following close by.
When Jisung spun around to glare, Minho grabbed him by the shoulders and frog-marched him into the bedroom, paying his annoyed grimace no mind. “You might be hungry later, jagi, we can heat it up. You’ve only had breakfast today.”
Jisung wondered how he knew that. Probably from Chan. Or maybe he could just sense it on him, Jisung wouldn’t even be surprised.
“You can shower first,” Minho said. “I’ll make you tea, hm?”
“Yongbok promised me hot cocoa.”
“I’ll make him fess up, then.” Minho’s smile was on the mischievous side, but his eyes were gentle. He left Jisung to handle himself and clicked the door shut, which made the bedroom feel very quiet and isolated.
Still, it smelled like Minho—like the Dyptique perfume he used and the oils he sometimes put in his air humidifier, something nice and earthy. The long squishy plush toy that Minho usually slept with was placed in the middle of his bed, which had been made neatly, unlike Jisung’s bed usually was, and covered with a fluffy blanket.
The curtains were half-open, window cracked to air out the room, and every surface nicely organized, down to a little cluster of 4-strip pictures Minho had taped to the wall above his bed, and an even stack of books on Minho’s bedside table, which he read on rotation.
Jisung dropped his backpack by the bed and headed right for the closet. There, on eye-level, was a pile of his own clothes, which had accumulated in the other dorm ever since they’d moved through an endless cycle of random items being left behind in his wake like debris after a storm. He did pick his own underwear from the assortment, but immediately abandoned the rest in favor of digging through Minho’s clothes to find a t-shirt, sweatpants, and a soft hoodie.
It was for comfort, he told himself, even though all of these clothes smelled pretty much the same, since Minho had washed his stuff in the same laundry detergent he used for his own things. Jisung decided not to dwell on it, since comfort was hard to come by sometimes. Minho wouldn’t mind.
He showered quickly, feeling not only exhausted down to the bones but now also cold. His toothbrush was in the cup on the sink along with Minho’s and Seungmin’s, and his contact solution and lens case were in the cabinet, so he didn’t have to look for replacements or dig through his bag.
A new addition was a bottle of moisturizer, the same one he had at home but still brand new, placed in the small basket along with the rest of his things. Minho must have remembered when Jisung complained about using Seungmin’s and then breaking out because his skin didn’t like the change. Jisung smiled softly as he unwrapped the bottle. Silly hyung.
The cocoa was already on the bedside table when he emerged, still steaming and with cinnamon sprinkled on top. A box of chicken had materialized, too, which Jisung swiftly ignored in favor of crawling under Minho’s blanket and grabbing the cocoa to warm his hands.
He’d been sipping at it idly, scrolling through his phone, when the door opened and Minho showed up, hair damp and already wearing his sleep clothes—a comically large blank t-shirt and faded pajama pants with Sanrio characters on them.
“Oh?” Jisung blinked at him.
“The babies are still eating, Innie and Yongbok let me use their bathroom,” he explained, drying his hair with a towel as he made his way to the bed.
Jisung made room for him, kicking the plushie out (natural selection) and scooting against the wall. Minho settled under the blanket with an exaggerated old man-like groan and his back cracking so loud Jisung snorted into his mug.
The bed was a single, so they were pressed against one another, but it was nothing out of the ordinary for them, since they’d been sharing beds ever since they met, and some were smaller than this one.
They occupied themselves with scrolling while Minho’s hair was still drying, shoulder to shoulder, sometimes exchanging phones to laugh at something the other one found.
Once he’d finished the cocoa, Jisung drew up his legs and pressed his feet against his hyung’s thigh to warm them, making Minho squawk and reach into the dresser to give him a pair of socks. Jisung put them on obediently but kept his feet tucked under Minho’s leg. Minho had one hand wrapped around his ankle, so perhaps he didn’t mind as much as he tried to let on.
All the peace and warmth Jisung had accumulated in his core evaporated the second they turned the lights off and made to sleep. He was wriggling without being able to find a comfortable position, and his stomach was cramping—hunger, anxiety; it was anybody’s guess at that point.
Minho let him fidget for a long while, which was honestly impressive, but eventually wrapped his arm around Jisung and pulled him in until they were pressed close together, and Jisung’s cheek was resting on Minho’s chest.The thumping of Minho’s heartbeat was so loud it almost startled him, but it was steady and strong. The sound was far better than anything that went on in his head.
“What’s going on, jagi, hm?” Minho murmured, petting Jisung’s head in even motions.
“I wrote something,” he said in a gasp, as if his heart tried to let the thoughts out before his head caught up and stopped them. “Today in the studio.”
“I bet you did,” Minho mused with a nod against Jisung’s hair. “You tend to do that a lot.”
Jisung laughed breathlessly. His throat was closing up so he took a few calming breaths to make sure he wouldn’t start bawling again.
His notebook, still tucked away in his bag, was like a black hole in the middle of the room, absorbing warmth, light, and any happiness he might have been feeling.
“It made me so, so sad.”
“Oh jagi, you made yourself sad with your own lyrics? Does hyung have to go and talk some sense into your pen? I will, just tell me where it is.”
Another laugh that felt like there were pieces of glass stuck in his throat. He fisted his hand in Minho’s shirt, pressing his nose into it. “Never been in love before,” he said under his breath, “the lyrics I wrote. I couldn’t continue, I felt like the walls were closing in. What on earth am I doing, hyung?”
Minho hummed in alarm, any attempts at joking gone in an instant. The arm that was around Jisung tightened, bringing him closer to Minho’s chest until Jisung was tucked right under his chin.
“I don’t think I understand, baby. This is what made you sad?”
“It made me feel like everything I’ve written so far was just a bunch of bullshit. God, I’m a fraud, aren’t I?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I write love songs, hyung, love songs! That’s my whole brand, my thing, it’s what I do. But I don’t even… I’ve never even loved anyone. I don’t know what it’s like to be in love, let alone be loved. It’s all just ramblings of a silly child that hallucinates fake scenarios in their head and writes them down for others to hear—others who know what love is and can probably tell that my songs are made by a loser with zero relationships to their name. I want to scrub my entire discography clean and never write anything ever again.”
Minho was silent for a long while, long enough for tears to start welling up in Jisung’s eyes and the trembling from back in the studio to pick up again, shivers wracking his body like riptides one after another. It must have alerted Minho because he hummed with urgency and hugged him closer. His heartbeat wasn’t steady anymore, Jisung noticed belatedly. It made Jisung want to sob.
“How do you know,” said Minho softly, “that you’ve never been in love, Jisung-ah?”
Jisung laughed, a rugged ugly sound. “Hyung, I think you know enough about me to piece it together. I never—I’ve never been in school, not really, and then I was a trainee, which is not the time for romance, and also I am me.”
He paused to compose himself. Minho’s arm was feeling a bit like dead weight around his middle now.
“And you know what it’s like for us.” Minho stiffened. “For idols, I mean,” Jisung hurried to explain, though he wasn’t sure why. “When and how would I even find someone to date? Is this really how it’s going to be forever? I feel like I’ve missed my boat, but also like I never even had a ticket in the first place.”
Minho resumed petting Jisung’s hair when he must have felt the dampness on his t-shirt. Jisung hid his face in the crook of his hyung’s neck, now crying in earnest.
“Jisung-ah,” Minho said in a voice that was a bit rough, “I think you might still be surprised. Maybe it won’t be exactly like the love you write about, but I think… I think it will happen for you. Maybe sooner than you think. Maybe it’s happening already. Give yourself a chance.”
Jisung wasn’t even sure if the noise that came out of his mouth was a sob or a laugh, but it did not sound pretty regardless. “Do you know something I don’t, hyung?”
“I know you are very easy to love.”
A whine that had been building in his throat escaped when he slapped Minho on the arm, trying to squirm closer at the same time.
“You’re the only person in the world who thinks that.”
Minho chuckled. His hyung’s heart was rabbiting in his chest much harder than before, but Jisung assumed that came with the territory of putting up with a dongsaeng whose entire spiel was having breakdowns when you were trying to get some rest before tomorrow’s early start.
Jisung forced some deep breaths in and sniffled loudly, settling against Minho.
“Sleep, jagi,” he told Minho, his voice only somewhat wobbly.
“I’ll wait until you fall asleep,” Mino replied with a small shake of his head. It made Jisung want to cry all over again, but he held it in with the explicit intention to drop off into dreamland as soon as humanely possible.
He would not keep Minho up any longer than he already had.
With Minho’s fingers carding through his hair, it was far easier than expected.