Archive of Our Own

+98 days

I’m going to die, but there’s a lot of things I haven’t done yet that I don’t want to do alone.

how much time do you have?

About three months.

+92 days

Sunshine is grim. 

Harsh, and hot, and entirely abrasive. 

Jisung prefers not to leave the house in summer unless it’s well past sunset or he absolutely needs to. The heat sinks straight to the bone, and makes his insides turn to molasses. Cheeks pink, hands sweaty. It’s grim. 

He gets this bone crushing anxiety about it, too. Thinks that sunburn is the worst he could possibly be down. There’s nothing more debilitating. Nothing harder.

The last time they spoke, Hyunjin told Jisung he needs a reality check— in much more austere terms. 

Jisung internalized it. Spent three months allowing it to bother him, and one searching for anything to make it happen. 

He pulls his hood over his head, pushes on his sunglasses, hands shoved into the pocket of his sweatshirt. Hot— sure— but at least he’s not getting a sunburn. 

The piece of paper he wrote directions on is burning a hole in his pocket. Torn out of a quarter-sized notebook, lines all warped from the sweat of his hands, because he mulled over it for so long that he remembered all of it anyway. He put it in his pocket regardless, just in case. 

Jisung didn’t talk to the stranger online for long. They went back and forth a few times about time and date. Exchanged first names. Minho— that’s what his is— the dying man. He told Jisung to meet him at a quiet tea shop in the residential part of town, the table all the way in the back corner. Left once he’s in the door, and another left after that. 

Minho seems straightforward. That’s to be expected from someone that posts an ad stating that they’re dying. He told Jisung that he didn’t think anyone would respond. That he doesn’t use the internet much, and he’d like to meet in person to see if the two of them could work well together for his purposes. 

He must be older. Nearing the end. Health issues ramp up later in life. Loneliness does too. Jisung doesn’t mind. If he did he wouldn’t have come. 

A bird passes too low, just over Jisung’s head. He flinches. Walks a bit faster. Annoying things, they are. There’s a flock that lives near his apartment. They chirp too loud in the mornings, and they steal food from people’s hands in the streets. Always at the most inopportune times, too. Jisung has noticed. 

It’s not a bad walk— just in the opposite direction of the train line. He can’t get around it. Hyunjin would probably make fun of him. Putting in more effort to meet a stranger than he has for anyone worth a damn to him for the past five years. And he’d be right, but Jisung would still get upset about it. Bristley and agitated. 

He crosses the street before an Evangelist can hand him a pamphlet and beg him to dedicate a prayer. It’s all bullshit anyway. He wouldn’t be on his way to meet someone whose time is running out before they’re ready if it weren’t. Hyunjin would make fun of him for that too. Jisung should probably stop thinking about him. Hyunjin would ache to not be thought about— and that’s enough of a reason for Jisung. 

Jisung’s thighs burn by the time he reaches the shop. He wipes his palms on his jeans. The bell dings when he walks in. 

Left. Another left. There’s no one here. 

Or, almost no one— save the man sitting at the table in the back corner, his hands folded in front of him. He can’t be much older than Jisung. Cropped, dark hair parted at his forehead, crisp shirt sitting in straight lines over his shoulders. Jisung hesitates just as he looks up. A flash of recognition passes over his face. He stands up.

“Are you Jisung?” 

“I— yeah,” Jisung forces himself to keep moving, foot catching the leg of a chair on his way. It clatters, and only goes quiet when he presses his hands on it. His cheeks burn. He takes the extended hand he’s offered to shake, and cringes at himself when he realizes his palms are already sweaty again. Minho’s hands are nothing of the sort. They’re soft, and smooth. Dry. Very dry. 

“I’m Minho, thanks for coming.” 

Jisung nods. Minho squeezes his hand firmly before letting go. Taking his seat again. He motions for Jisung to do the same. 

“So, um, how do you know of this place?” Jisung asks. He’s grateful to be able to sit, pressing his hands tight between his thighs to stop them from shaking. 

From closer, it’s clear that Minho is about his age. He’s handsome— very much so— in an untouchable sort of way. Straight nose, sharp eyes, a defined cupid’s bow. He looks sculpted rather than born. Jisung might shrink under the weight of his presence if the situation were different. 

Knowing that Minho is dying ruins the illusion of perfection. 

“I came here a long time ago. I figured tea was a good option— more variety than coffee.” 

“Sure,” Jisung says. He doesn’t know what else to say. He jerks when he goes to take his hood off much later than is polite. 

A soft-spoken older woman comes to take their order. Jisung picks something at random, finger shaking over the laminated menu. He wonders what the woman thinks of them. What they’re doing. Visibly uncomfortable with one another, dressed too casually to be meeting for anything important. Not a date, certainly. The air is too sour. 

“So,” Minho says. He licks over his bottom lip. Jisung can see that the tops of his ears are pink, even through the mop of his hair. 

“So,” Jisung echoes. His eyes slip down to Minho’s shoulder, because looking at him feels too much. He’s not the type. His voice slips before he can think of all the reasons why it shouldn’t, “Can I ask what’s killing you?” 

Minho laughs. A short thing— a wayward hah that breaks the tension between them just a little bit. He blinks. His eyes are intense. Quick. “I’d rather you didn’t.” 

“Alright,” Jisung pulls at the corner of the napkin folded in front of him, fingernail against cloth. It’s certainly not the most interesting thing to look at here, but he’s ruining his other options at a rapid pace.

“Can I ask why you came?” Minho asks. 

Jisung’s stomach twists. He frowns. Does his best to straighten his face when he looks up. “I’d rather you didn’t.” 

Minho smiles. A real smile. It reaches his eyes. “Then, we’re even,” he says. If Jisung were dying, he doesn’t think he would smile much at all. 

“Are you sad?” Jisung averts his eyes for a moment, not wanting to see the moment Minho reacts, just in case he’s offended. A bad habit for someone with a loose tongue. 

Minho just hums. He makes a noise in the back of his throat. Tilts his head a few degrees to one side. “Not necessarily. It’s a different kind of feeling that I can’t really place. Something closer to regret, maybe.” 

“That’s why you need me.” 

“Need isn’t the word I would use,” he says. Smile again, eyes twinkling. “Not healthy to think that way. I’d classify it as a want.” 

“Right.” 

The silence stretches between them, easily shifting into awkward. Stilted. Minho’s mouth opens like he’s going to say something, but then the waitress returns, setting down their cups. The glass clinks against the table, and Jisung mutters a thank you, getting a kind smile in return. 

“So,” Jisung tries again, once the woman has hurried off. She probably felt the tension between them and wanted out too. 

“So,” Minho echoes. He’s spinning a spoonful of honey into his tea with delicate hands. His fingers are well kept, cuticles healthy. That’s a good sign, Jisung thinks. 

“You’re just looking for a friend?” 

Minho’s lips quirk up. “Something like that. A companion. I understand that being friends might be a big ask, given the circumstances.” 

“What sort of things are on your bucket list, then?” Jisung takes a sip of his tea and it burns his tongue. He makes an awkward coughing noise, tears welling in the corners of his eyes, throat constricting as he chokes on the small drink. Minho presses a glass of water into his hand, big eyes watching Jisung struggle. 

It takes a few seconds for Jisung to regain composure, but Minho doesn’t seem thrown. Polite— another positive. 

“It’s nothing crazy,” he continues, brushing past Jisung’s spell without pause. He can probably tell that Jisung wouldn’t want him to mention it. He’s already embarrassed enough. “Nothing like— skydiving— or bungee jumping. It’s silly stuff. Like, staying up from sunset to sunrise. Learning how to make tiramisu. Eating the tiramisu we learned how to make. Stuff that feels very… human-like.” 

“Human-like,” Jisung hums, foot tapping on the tile. 

“Yeah. Simple things that make life worth living.” 

Jisung blinks. All of it is a little bit heartbreaking. Knowing that at the end of it all is death. An end to living at all. 

Minho clears his throat. His tea seems to be perfectly drinkable as he brings it to his lips, taking a long sip. He speaks when he sets it down again, “And, it’s alright if you’re not up for it after meeting me, but I’m also not asking you to decide today. Just… within the next week would be good. I have ninety two days as of this morning.” 

“Sure,” Jisung blinks again, his cheeks warm. He feels bad that Minho thinks he’d waste that much of what little time he has left. Not that he knows if he’ll commit to this yet— but if he does, he won’t take a week of Minho’s ninety two days to decide. “Okay. I’m not— yeah, I can let you know within the week.” 

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” Minho says, strikingly genuine. “I know it’s not the easiest thing in the world. Being around someone that’s got an expiration date.” 

Jisung laughs awkwardly. Winces when he hears it out loud. “It’s a little grim, but I’m not worried about that part.” 

A thoughtful look passes over Minho’s face. He sits up straighter when he realizes he’s been staring for a moment longer than is normal, like he’s trying to puzzle something out. He clears his throat again. “Well, then, why don’t you tell me about yourself? We can see if it’s a good fit.” 

And, Jisung has always hated that question. So open ended. Vague. There’s so many things that don’t mean much at all that technically make him who he is— but, he guesses Minho doesn’t need to know all of that. The scope of their meeting is perfectly narrow. 

“Han Jisung, twenty six years old, currently unemployed— uh—” he presses his tongue into his cheek, the tip still a little numb from being burned. “I read a lot of graphic novels. Watch a lot of anime. I need to get out of the house more.” 

Minho’s mouth curves up into a pretty smile, but he hides it behind his mug, and it’s gone after he drinks. “Lee Minho, twenty eight. Also currently unemployed, you know, given—” 

“The dying thing.” 

“The dying thing.” He shrugs, smile sneaking back onto his face— amused. “I also watch a lot of anime and need to get out of the house more.” 

“You seem so—” Jisung stops himself, pressing his lips together. He doesn’t know what’s considered rude. 

“I seem so…” Minho leads. He leans forward a bit. 

“Happy,” Jisung blurts, before he overthinks it to death. 

“I am happy. I’m alive, and I’m drinking tea. I like tea.” 

“Fair enough,” Jisung lets out the breath he was inadvertently holding. He ignores the burn of his cheeks to continue toying with the edge of his napkin. “Sorry. I’m not— I don’t know how to, like—” 

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” Minho waves him off. “I prefer it, actually, to just pretending it’s not real.” 

“I understand that. I think that’s what I would want, too.” 

“See,” Minho says, putting his hand out, palm up. “You understand.” 

Jisung doesn’t know if he does. Not really. He gets that small part— but he doesn’t understand why Minho, someone his age, at death’s door, would want to spend the rest of his days with a stranger and exploring the mundane. He doesn’t understand how Minho is so nonchalant, nor why he’s so easy to smile. Minho is nothing like Jisung at all— or, he’s much better at hiding his true feelings than Jisung is. 

Once Jisung’s tea cools enough to drink, it tastes good. New. Refreshing. Something he’s never tried before— unnamable. 

They don’t stay for too long. A little over a half an hour. Once they finish their drinks, Minho settles the bill, because he insists he has nothing better to do with his money. Jisung laughs, because it feels like the appropriate thing, and Minho smiles again. 

Their shoulders bump on their way out the door. The birds chirp louder when Jisung’s feet hit the pavement. He swears. They’re taunting him. 

“I can tell you’re thinking too hard,” Minho says. He bumps Jisung’s shoulder with his again, on purpose this time. “Don’t think too hard, just go with your gut.” 

Jisung frowns, his hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie. “I’m not good at that.” 

“I know you don’t understand, but you don’t have to. I’m not asking you to understand,” Minho says. He’s looking at Jisung in that painfully thoughtful way again. Like he knows more than he should. He might just be good at reading people, Jisung figures. 

“I want to understand a little bit. It’ll help me make my decision.” 

“Think of it this way,” Minho says. He sticks his hand into the pocket of his pants, coming back with a coin, shiny and round sitting in the middle of his palm. “Would you bet your death on a coin toss?” 

The light shines off the face of the thing. It wobbles when Minho pushes it to sit on his thumb. 

“No.” Jisung swallows. His cheeks must be permanently red by now. 

Minho nods, pleased with himself. “Would you bet your life on it?” 

Jisung opens his mouth to complain. Tell him it’s the same question— but it isn’t, really. It’s an entirely different question, with different implications. 

“No,” is what he ends up on.

“Now you’re getting it,” Minho says, smile tugging at the right side of his mouth. “Now— call it.” 

“Heads.” An arbitrary choice. Jisung usually chooses heads. His brother would always choose tails.  

Minho flicks the coin into the air. Catches it, turns it onto the back of his hand. 

Tails. 

“Let me know within the week, Han Jisung,” Minho sings. He grins at Jisung, and turns on his heel. Leaves Jisung in the street, just like that. 

A coin toss to render him dead. 

+91 days

Jisung wakes up with a crick in his neck and an ache in his back, hunched over his desk with a well of drool spilling over his arm and onto the papers underneath him. Dark, blooming stains smearing graphite across white. 

How long had he sat here last night— unable to work? Just the same as every night before. Every night for months. Unable to do anything but grow frustrated and unwell. 

He’s been unwell for months now. That’s why he picks up his phone. 

It slides in his palm, because he’s sweating too much in his fleece pants and hooded sweatshirt. About three clicks to open his email. To tap on the phone number, highlighted blue, that’s been sitting unopened since yesterday afternoon. 

Seven in the morning— maybe he should have waited a bit longer— but he didn’t think that far. If he were to wait, he’d probably talk himself out of it. 

“Hello?” 

“Okay, I’ll do it,” Jisung says. Breathes, rather. Then, more clearly, “I think we should do this. Together. If you’ll still have me.” 

Minho hums. A soft noise. His voice sounds higher over the phone. He takes a deep breath. Exhales. Says, “I better clean my house, then. It’s like someone died in here.”

Jisung closes his soiled papers in his hand, stuffing them into his trash can. “Is this the type of joke you want me to laugh at?” he asks.  

“Yeah, kind of.” 

“Okay. Hah. Hah,” Jisung tries to put some more feeling into the second one, but it probably doesn’t land. He tries one more, “Hah.” Nah. Not for him. 

Minho laughs— for real. “See, Jisungie, we already get along. This is going to be the best last three months of my life.” 

+90 days

There are problems that happen coincidentally, and problems Jisung creates himself. 

Hyunjin would always ask Jisung to decide which it was. A Jisung problem, or an actual problem. It sounds harsher than it actually was— Hyunjin cares about him. Or, he did. Jisung doesn’t really know where the status of caring is right now. Another Jisung problem. 

Promising himself into a verbal contract with a dying man and then subsequently feeling regret about it is certainly a Jisung problem. 

Very technically, he could not go. He could delete Minho’s number, and block him, and turn into a ghost of himself for the next however many days until Minho isn’t able to find him anymore. Because he’ll be dead. 

Unnecessarily cruel. Jisung has never been that. He doesn’t want to be that. That’s something he’d like to never be. 

So he gets up, and takes the train to the address Minho sent him. 

A little wayward from the city. At the very end of the line, and a few more blocks after that. Jisung has lived in the city his whole life, and he’s never made it out here. Why would he? 

It’s residential. Quiet. There’s single family houses nearly stacked on top of each other, fenced in yards, and signs that warn to watch for children. People out here have porches instead of a communal stoop— they have garages for their cars behind their houses. It’s all very settled in a way Jisung isn't, and probably will never be. 

Minho’s house is well cared for. It’s painted a fresh shade of soft yellow. He has flowers in a planter hanging under the front window, and a bright white front door. 

Jisung shoves his hands in his pockets as he walks up, climbs the stairs to the porch, only to take one hand out again to knock. A Jisung problem. 

He chews on the inside of his cheek, eyes skating over the lines of the brick under his feet. He can hear some commotion through the door— the distinct, muffled sound of Minho talking to someone. He looks up when the door opens. 

Minho smiles, arms wide. “Jisungie! You came.” 

“I told you I would,” Jisung says, as if he wasn’t thinking about not coming at all just a little bit ago. “Were you talking to someone?” 

“I was talking to the cat,” Minho’s smile doesn’t falter. He just steps out of the way with a flourish, inviting Jisung inside. “She was arguing with me, but she ran off when I opened the door. She’ll be back to argue some more as soon as I close it.” 

“Ah,” Jisung nods, stepping inside. He bends down to untie his shoes, making sure to make himself small in the narrow entryway. 

Minho moves around him like he’s used to it, closing up the door and stepping over Jisung without a second thought. He hums, socks sliding on the wooden floors. “Lee Haru, you demonic bastard— don’t hide now just to make me look silly in front of our new friend.” 

A pause. Silence. Jisung stands up. Minho clicks his tongue. 

“Haru.” 

A long meow sounds from a room over, closely followed by little feet trotting over the floor. A small cat, all white with black only at her ears pops out of the doorway. She sits at Minho’s feet and meows again. 

“I know. Tell me about it,” Minho says. “Say hello to Jisung, he’s going to be here more often, as long as you don’t scare him away.” 

Haru gives Minho two long blinks. She turns her head when Jisung shifts slightly. Meows at him, too. 

“Um. Hi?” Jisung tries. He doesn’t really spend much time with cats— not of his own doing— he’s just never had the chance. 

Meow? — Haru makes it sound like a question. 

Jisung laughs awkwardly when she steps over, giving his foot a sniff. He lowers one hand, and Haru butts her head into his knuckles, much more roughly than a tiny little cat should be able to. 

“Oh, she likes you! That’s good. You passed the test,” Minho says. “The other guy almost got mauled, so I kicked him out before he could start.” 

Haru continues to wind around Jisung’s legs when he stands up. Sticks his hands into his pockets again. “Was there someone else that answered the ad before me?” 

“No, I was joking. I’m shocked anyone answered the ad at all. Double shocked that the only answer wasn’t a creep,” Minho’s eyes drag down to Jisung’s feet, then back up to his face. 

“Unless I’m a creep.” 

Minho tips his head a few degrees to one side, scrunches his face up slightly. “Nah. You’re not a creep.” 

“Okay, I’m not a creep.” 

A nod. Minho waves him further inside. “Let me show you around.” 

Jisung shakes off his lingering nerves and follows Minho down the hall. 

The house is perfectly cosy. Two bedrooms, one set up like a guest room, though it looks like it hasn’t been touched in ages. A kitchen with shiny appliances that look almost brand new. A small backyard, a living room, and a small sitting room in the front with a fireplace. All real wood flooring (Jisung asked). 

When they’ve finished, Minho tells Jisung to sit down at the kitchen table while he makes coffee. Jisung does his best to stare subtly, but Minho is the type of beautiful that demands more than half of his attention. It’s more obvious now than it was before— maybe because Jisung isn’t overcome with nerves from meeting a new person— or maybe because of the mottled sunlight filtering in through the lace curtains. Minho’s house has an abundance of windows, it must be light in here more often than not. 

Minho sits down, humming softly, two mugs in his hands. He slides one to Jisung, cream already ratioed per Jisung’s request. He has a freckle on his nose, Jisung notices then. A single mark on the perfectly rounded tip. Very real. 

Haru settles into a chair pushed into the corner with a blanket folded over the seat, probably just for her. A quiet sort of scene— one that looks like it could be out of a magazine. Jisung suddenly feels like he could be sick if he thinks about it for too long. How much is about to be lost. He’s barely dipped his toes in, and yet— 

“For the record, Jisungie, even if there was another ad-answerer, I still would have chosen you,” Minho says, digging around into his jeans pocket and producing a pen, and then a wrinkled sheet of notebook paper. 

Jisung laughs at the suddenness of it. “How can you say that? You don’t even know who would have hypothetically answered your ad. Maybe it would be someone much cooler than me.” Someone who knows what the fuck they’re doing. 

“I just know things like this,” Minho says. He has this strange quality about his voice that makes Jisung believe him. His hands smooth over the paper, flattening it against the table. “So, are you ready to go over the list?” 

“The bucket list?” Jisung asks, scooching his chair closer, fingers curling under the seat. 

“Mhm,” Minho nods. He lays his hand flat over the page, sliding it between them. He doesn’t seem bothered when his arm brushes Jisung’s. He doesn’t flinch. He smiles up at Jisung, waiting for him to respond. 

“Yes, let’s do it.” 

“If there’s anything you want to do, let me know. We can add it. We have all the time in the world.” 

Jisung stares at the page, neat handwriting in blue ink. “Don’t we have ninety days?” 

“Well,” Minho says. “If we’re being really specific, we have eighty nine starting tomorrow. Today is ninety.” 

“No bungee jumping today?” Jisung asks, heart fluttering against his rib cage. He’s still afraid he’ll say something wrong, make another Jisung mistake. But, Minho laughs. 

He’s light in a way that matches his yellow house and his sunlight mottled kitchen. Jisung wants to help him make the most of his ninety days. Minho is just one of those people he’s going to have to get used to. 

Staring again. He forces his eyes away from Minho’s nose freckle and back to the list. 

“I’m horrified of heights. That’s something you should know about me,” Minho says very seriously. So seriously that it makes Jisung giggle. And then Minho is smiling again. 

Jisung doesn’t think it will take long to get used to him. 

+89 days

Minho wants to take every train line in the city from start to finish. Finish to start. Eight in total. 

A random pursuit, as far as Jisung is concerned, but he’s not really in the position to question what Minho wants out of this. There’s plenty of things on his list that Jisung doesn’t really understand— and maybe he never will. But, maybe, halfway through their train rides, he’ll spontaneously understand the appeal of riding to completion. 

Right now, though, sitting in the very front of the very first car, with Minho’s thigh pressed against his, Jisung doesn’t get it. 

They’re on the green line. The train that crawls out west from the center of the city, where Jisung lives, straight to where Minho does. “Must be fate,” Minho had said this morning when Jisung met him on the platform and told him he lives off this line, too. 

It’s not fate, really. All the trains kind of meet in the middle, so Jisung is equidistant from any of the lines. But, fate is a prettier way to put it. 

The train shakes, making plenty of noise as it coasts down the tracks. About four stops in— he and Minho haven’t talked much at all. Minho is by the window seat, Jisung watching the outside run by through the cut out of Minho’s side profile. 

“What’s your favorite train line?” Minho asks, still staring outside. 

“I don’t know if I have one.” 

“You better have one by the time we finish. That should be enough information to go off of.” 

Jisung breathes. A little puff out. “I guess you’re right.” Then, because the silence is making his palms sweat, “I don’t usually pay attention on the train. I’ve got my headphones in and I’m reading, or whatever.” 

Minho turns, looking at him thoughtfully. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll miss something?” 

“I guess I just figure there’s not much to miss.” 

“Hm,” Minho nods, eyes narrowing slightly. 

He stares at Jisung for a while. Until Jisung twitches uncomfortably, and has to look away, letting out an anxious laugh, rubbing his palms on his thighs. 

“You’re still nervous about this,” Minho says. Not a question. A fact. “Why?” 

“I don’t know,” Jisung laughs again. “You’re technically a stranger. And I’m not good with strangers. And— like— what if you start to hate me halfway through— or, like, three quarters through, and you realize you’ve wasted your time?” 

Fingers curl around Jisung’s shoulder, warm and strong. Minho squeezes, thumb rolling over muscle. “Relax, Jisung. You’re fine. You’re thinking too hard— I just want to get to know you. Take it day by day.” 

“Day by day,” Jisung repeats lamely. 

“Have you ever taken anything day by day?” 

Jisung frowns. He can feel the pin pricks of heat in his cheeks— the right one feels warmer because it’s closer to Minho. His eyes burn a little bit. “No. Not really.” 

“It’ll be good practice. I’m honestly surprised you showed up after yesterday.” 

“Why?” Jisung blinks. He looks Minho in the eye again. They’re practically too close. Minho’s skin is a little dewy, like he’s used moisturizer. His eyelashes are dark, probably soft to the touch. 

Minho shrugs. He’s got the barest hint of a smile playing at his lips almost all the time. Sometimes he’ll give up more than that. “I’m a lot for most people. Thought maybe my list would scare you away. It wouldn’t be hard to block my number and just wait until I’m not around to find you anymore.” 

“What was so bad about your list?” Jisung coughs, choking on nothing. Guilty, almost, about the way Minho thought through the exact same thing Jisung considered yesterday. Unnecessary cruelty. “The tiramisu? I’m only slightly afraid of Italians, you know.” 

“I don’t know.” Minho’s smile doesn’t completely fade, but it leaves his eyes. Jisung wants to rush to clean it up, even though it’s not his fault. “I wouldn’t blame you, though.” 

“I’m not— I wouldn’t do that.” 

“Let’s take it day by day,” Minho says. He removes his hand from Jisung’s shoulder and folds it neatly in his lap. “Still, if you woke up one day and decided that’s what’s best for you, I wouldn’t blame you.” 

“Well, then—” Jisung’s face heats up, his hands curling into fists. He doesn’t know why Minho is so intent to question him now. It seems like something he could have gotten out of the way yesterday. “You have to take it day by day and trust me, too. That I won’t do that.” 

“I’m just letting you know I wouldn’t blame you.” 

“You won’t have to blame me,” Jisung snips. He’s scowling now, hugging his arms to his chest. 

Minho stares at him again, because apparently he’s very keen on doing that. Then, he breaks into a smile. Toothy and big, his eyes crinkling at the edges, a wild little giggle escaping from his throat. He’s so bright that Jisung almost holds his hands up to shield his eyes. 

“I trust you, Jisungie. And, now I know that you’re stubborn. I like that about you.” 

“And you’re annoying,” Jisung grumps, before he can think. He regrets it almost immediately— goes to scramble to fix it— but Minho is laughing again. A full body laugh that makes his shoulders shake and his eyes go wider. 

Contagious. Jisung finds himself smiling too. Turning his head so Minho can’t see it straight on. Minho stomps his feet against the ground one at a time, absolutely delighted, apparently. It’s ridiculous, and cute, and Jisung feels better than he did ten minutes ago, somehow. 

“Ah,” Minho calms down when the train screeches to a stop. “This is my favorite stop.” 

“Is it?” Jisung looks outside. It’s just a normal stop. Raised above the street. 

Minho giggles again. “No. I just wanted to say it was. I never take the train. That’s why we have to take it now.” 

He’s odd. Jisung could have determined that by the fact that Minho was placing an ad like he did in the first place— but, it bears repeating now. 

“You’re odd,” Jisung tells him.

“You’re odd,” Minho retorts, sticking his tongue out.  

Jisung snorts. “Not as odd as you.” 

“I’d never ask that of you, Jisung.” 

“I like that about you, Minho.” 

Minho smiles, and the train starts moving. 

The end of the line is, as predicted, a lot of nothing. 

“Wow,” Jisung says, standing on the platform, staring over the street below. It’s a neighborhood like Minho’s. Just a ways away. 

“That was awesome,” Minho says. He puts his hands on his hips. “The green line is my favorite so far.” 

“What if something happens on the way back? What if we crash and die. Then will it be your favorite?” 

“Then I’ll be dead, and it won’t matter. So, yeah. It’ll be my favorite.” Minho leans over to knock his shoulder against Jisung’s. “You have such a way with positivity, Jisungie.” 

Jisung grimaces, turning around and letting his eyes focus and unfocus on the yellow stripe lining the drop off to the tracks. “I’ve been told.” 

“Let’s play I spy until the train comes.” 

“Okay.” 

Minho insists that they take a pitstop on their way back. He wants to get lunch. He wants to see Jisung’s apartment. 

Jisung tries to argue. He tries to fend Minho off by distracting him with food first— taking him to the really good ssambap place a few blocks in the other direction from home. Minho loves it. He’s very nice about it. 

He still wants to see Jisung’s apartment. 

“I’m dying to see it, Jisungie,” he says. 

“It’s messy.” 

“I don’t care.” 

“It’s in the opposite direction.” 

“I’m good at walking.” 

“You’re manipulating me by bringing up the dying thing.” 

“Is it working?” 

Yes. It is working. It does work. 

Jisung winces as he unlocks the door, letting Minho inside. 

His apartment is dark. The black-out curtains make sure of it. Minho makes sure of the opposite, immediately moving towards the window and yanking back the cover, sending sunlight flooding into the space. There’s dust floating in the air. Blankets shoved up on one side of the couch, leftover from Jisung sleeping there last night. The opposite of Minho’s bright, cozy home. 

“Uh,” Jisung manages. 

“Wow,” Minho looks around. “It’s very you.” 

 “Oh my god, I’m going to die,” Jisung groans. He moves over to where his desk is, trying to clean up the mess there. Half finished drawings and broken pencils. Rings of spilled coffee stuck to the surface. A few pages with tear stains. 

“What’s that?” Minho pokes his head over Jisung’s shoulder. 

Jisung jumps without meaning to. Hisses. “Nothing. Just— work stuff.” 

“What do you do?” 

“So many questions.” 

“I used to work in HR.” 

“That sounds horrible,” Jisung scoffs. Then, “No offense.” 

“No, it was horrible. That’s why I quit. Didn’t want to go out like that.” Minho doesn’t move. His body heat radiates over Jisung’s back. “So, what do you do?” 

“I’m—” Jisung’s throat aches over the words. He’s been having this problem— imposter syndrome of sorts— where he feels like he can’t call himself what he is if he isn’t able to do it. “An illustrator.” 

“Oh!” Minho’s eyebrows raise. Too interested. 

Jisung tries to let him down gently. “Or, I was. I haven’t been able to— fucking— finish anything in months.” 

“But you’re trying.” 

“Yeah,” Jisung scoffs. He swallows back the bile in his throat. “I’m trying.” 

“Then you’re an illustrator. That’s great,” Minho nods. He finally backs away, starts meandering over to the wall, looking at the sparse frames Jisung has hung up there. “I always wished I could do something creative.” 

“I’m not, like, anything special. I just went to school for it,” Jisung mutters. 

Minho ignores him. He’s running his finger along the edge of a picture of Jisung and Hyunjin from last year. Arms slung around each other and massive smiles on their faces. Happy. No Jisung problems to be seen. “Who’s this?”

“Ah,” Jisung scratches his head. “Someone from university.” 

“He looks fun,” Minho glances at him. Gauging his reaction, probably. 

“He’s fun. Was fun. I dunno— I’m not, like, the purveyor of fun.” 

Minho would have to be emotionally inept to not pick up on the tension in Jisung’s voice. He turns to Jisung, and then points to another frame without looking. “Did you draw that?” 

“Oh,” Jisung chews his bottom lip. It’s the stupid drawing that earned Jisung his first A plus in school. A glowing review from his professor. An abstract tangle of limbs and muck forcing their way out of someone’s chest. It’s strange, and depressing, and Hyunjin loves it. “Yeah. A long time ago. I didn’t really want to put it up, but— Hyun— well, someone told me I should. So, I did.” 

“It's nice.” 

“I don’t know if I’d say that. It’s, like, body horror.” 

Minho makes a noncommittal noise. “Well, I’m a professional art critic. So.” 

Jisung forces himself to relax. Loosen the tension in his shoulders. His hands unclench from the papers on his desk. “Oh, is that what human resources is actually about?” 

“Yeah,” Minho says, finally drifting away from the wall. “You didn’t know? We’ve got our hands in every major publication in the city.” 

“Oh, wow,” Jisung whistles. “And you gave up all that power?” 

“I’m very kind,” Minho teases. He’s joking, but Jisung knows he has no reason to. He is kind. “Okay, let’s go. Sorry I forced my way in here. You’re very nice to not tell me to fuck off. I’m just nosy.” 

“It’s fine. I’m taking it day by day.” 

On the way back to the train they walk a little closer together. 

At the end of the trip, Jisung decides that the green line is his favorite so far. 

+88 days

“Reefer Madness, nineteen thirty six,” Minho says, standing in front of the TV like Jisung needs persuading. “A piece of anti-marijuana propaganda gone wrong. Picked back up in the seventies as a cult classic— but we’re not in the seventies yet, we’re in the thirties. And this is one of the worst movies from the thirties.” 

“Okay,” Jisung says. Haru has made residence on his lap, purring loudly, her little paws kneading at his thighs. “Sounds good.” 

“No,” Minho corrects. “Sounds bad.” 

“Right, sounds horrible, Minho. So excited to watch this bad movie.” 

“That’s the spirit!” Minho says, bounding back over to the couch, sitting on the other side. He picks up the remote and hits play. 

There’s two things on Minho’s list that are long term projects— the trains, and the movies. They’re strategically spreading out the dates so that they don’t get burnt out on trains or movies by doing all of it at once. 

The movies, though. Minho doesn’t care to see the best movies. He says everyone’s seen the best, so he wants to see the worst, because it feels more real. He’s using a Wikipedia page to find one from each decade to watch. They’ll finish by the end of the ninety days. Nine bad movies to end Minho’s life. 

So, Jisung sits on Minho’s couch, with Minho’s cat in his lap, and settles in. Minho has a candle burning. Something woodsy and warm that suits fall rather than spring. They’re on the edge of summer, anyway, so maybe it doesn’t matter. Nothing really matters when you’re dying, Jisung supposes. 

Haru purrs, and she butts into Jisung’s knuckles. She doesn’t even know that Minho is dying. It doesn’t seem fair— but, maybe it’s more fair than if she were to know. She’s spent her whole life with him. If she knew, she’d be heartbroken. She wouldn’t be sitting on Jisung’s lap, probably. 

Jisung sniffs, and tries to nudge the cat over to Minho, but she just goes boneless. Blinks up at him. He’s not good at saying no to anything with big, pretty eyes. That’s how he got here, isn’t it? 

“Have you ever smoked weed before?” Minho asks, rolling his head back along the seat of the couch. 

“I went to art school, Minho.” 

“Oh, so you did coke, too?” 

Jisung scrunches his nose. “No. Psychedelics were more our speed. Coke is for the architects.” 

“Of course. The architects,” Minho echoes. He purses his lips as he turns back to the screen. Jisung should quit staring at him, but it’s proving hard. Minho doesn’t seem to mind when he looks over again, smiles. “Let's add getting high to the list. I want to do that. You’re in charge of buying the drugs.” 

“‘Course,” Jisung murmurs. He leans over towards the paper sitting next to him on the side table. Minho has asked him to add two things today. Tacked to the end in black ink, Jisung’s handwriting instead of Minho’s. It’s a mess, but it works. 

Get high, Jisung writes, just as a wrinkled old man on screen explains that drugs can be hidden in the heels of shoes (women’s shoes especially). 

+87 days

“Do you even believe in god?” 

“No,” Minho says, rapidly flipping through the bible in his lap like he’s searching for something in particular. “I’m gay.” 

Jisung blinks. He stands up when the people in the pew in front of them do, because that’s all they’ve been doing this entire time. Following whatever everyone else does. They don’t know what the fuck is going on. 

Minho stands with him, marking his page by closing the book around his finger. He looks at Jisung curiously. Leans closer to whisper, “Should I not have told you that? I figured with the shoes you’d be some sort of queer.” 

“I—” Jisung gawks at him, looking down to his ages old checkered vans. They look silly against the marble floors in this church, but, in Jisung’s defense, he didn’t know they’d be going to church today. “I’m bi, if you must know.” 

“Oh, look at that,” Minho peers up to the ceiling. He’s lucky they’re in the back row, he’s not good at being quiet. “Neither of us got smited. I knew god wasn’t real.” 

Everyone sits down again. Jisung squeezes close enough to Minho that there’s no way the old woman in the row in front of them can hear over the priest’s chanting. At least, Jisung thinks it’s a priest. What does he know? He doesn’t believe in god. 

“Plenty of gay people believe in god,” he says. 

Minho doesn’t seem affected. He pretends to sing along to whatever is being sung, still flipping through pages. “But not us,” he says. 

Jisung can’t argue with that.

“I only wanted to come because Reefer Madness inspired me. It was financed by a church group, you know. I wanted to see if coming here would also make me think weed turns people into violent criminals.” 

“Are you serious?” 

“No. I wanted to ask the big guy if he could stop me from dying.” 

“Are you serious?” 

“Not that I think it’ll work,” Minho says. “But, it’s worth a shot, I guess.” 

“You’re ridiculous.” 

Minho giggles— it bursts out of him before he can stop it, and the old woman in front of them turns around to glare. Apparently the priest is at a serious part of the bible, or something. Minho puts his hands together like he’s praying and bows to her, mouthing sorry. She doesn’t look any less peeved. 

Minho says a lot of things, but Jisung is realizing he can always tell which things Minho is lying about. 

Unfortunately, he’s not lying about speaking to the priest. They wait for most everyone to clear out. Stand in the aisle and linger. Jisung’s back is sweating, but Minho seems perfectly content in this place he doesn’t really belong. 

“Hello, sir— if it’s okay to call you that,” he says, when they get to the front. “I’m dying, I was hoping you could pray for me.” 

And that’s how Jisung ends up standing in the front of a church, holding hands with a stranger, and a man he met less than a week ago, with his head tipped down in prayer. 

He opens his eyes for half a second during, only to catch Minho’s gaze, and soft smirk, and squeeze them shut again. He cannot laugh during a prayer. 

Afterwards, the priest pulls Minho to the side and says something to him privately. Minho nods. Nods again. He rejoins Jisung a moment later, and Jisung sees the worried expression on the priest’s face, but Minho smiles. 

“Let’s go!” he chirps. 

Jisung waits until they’re outside to ask, “Do you think it worked?” 

“I dunno. I have a doctor's appointment on Sunday, so I guess we’ll see.” 

One day at a time. Minho is almost too good at it. 

+86 days

Jisung met Minho in a park in the center of the city this morning. On a bench. Minho brought donuts, and coffee, and they watched birds splash around in a manmade pond before getting up and walking to an address in the business district. 

It’s a very swanky building, and Jisung is, as usual, horribly underdressed. He’s wearing cargo pants, and his vans, and a too big t-shirt with the devil on it, because he felt like he needed to undo whatever religiosity Minho shoved them into yesterday. 

“We’re going to see my lawyer,” Minho announces on the elevator. 

“Christ, Minho, you have to tell me these things before I get dressed. I look crazy.” 

Minho squints at him. He’s not wearing anything particularly fancy himself, just a pair of nice jeans and a plain shirt. Still, Jisung looks like his rebellious teenage son instead of his end of life companion. “You look fine. Lawyers meet crazy people all the time.” 

“I’m not crazy! Do I look crazy?” 

Behind them, a man in a suit clears his throat. Probably to remind them that he’s still there. Listening. Minho ignores him. “No, but you sound it now.” 

“God damn it,” Jisung presses the heels of his palms into his eyes as Minho laughs.

They get off at the fifty-third floor. Shiny black tile squeaks under their feet. A sign above reception advertises Kim & Yoon. Jisung is pretty sure this is the sort of lawyer he couldn’t even afford a consult with. He doesn’t know Minho’s money situation, but maybe Minho doesn’t really care to blow it, given the circumstances. 

“How can I help you?” the girl behind the desk asks, her long nails clacking against her keyboard, barely looking up from the screen.

“I’m here to finalize my estate planning documents. Lee Minho.” 

“Alright, you can take a seat, Mr. Yoon will be with you soon.” She gives a wry smile, completely fabricated. 

Minho leads them over to a seating area a few paces away from a line of glassed-in conference rooms. Jisung still feels horribly out of his element. He doesn’t even really know what estate planning is. 

“It’s for all my end of life stuff,” Minho says, like he can read Jisung’s mind. “My will, and power of attorney. All that.” 

“Oh.” 

“You know, you should really get this done too, even if you’re not going to die for a while. It’s good for everyone to have, just in case.” 

“I don’t really have anything worth giving away,” Jisung frowns. “Or anyone to give it to.” 

“That doesn’t matter, it’s more about having a plan for what you want afterwards. Like, if you want to be buried in that crazy shirt like a crazy person, you can specify that.” Minho reaches out to pinch Jisung’s shirt, giggling when Jisung swats him away. 

The sound of shoes clicking across the floor tears their attention from each other. Jisung looks up just as a tall, lanky man walks into the lobby, long hair tucked behind his ears. He smiles warmly, his dress shirt folded up to his elbows. One of those people that probably looks good all the time. Jisung is starting to think that Minho is just surrounded by beautiful people constantly. “Mr. Lee, good to see you.” 

“You too,” Minho smiles, hopping up. 

Jisung doesn’t know if he should be following. This feels private, but Minho is strange sometimes. 

“And is this your… partner?” the lawyer asks. Mr. Yoon, was it? 

“That’s Jisung,” Minho says. He turns back to Jisung, says, “I’ll be quick. You can wait here.” 

Jisung lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, relaxing into his chair. He gives Minho a tight smile and a nod. Watches as he’s led away and into the conference room directly in front of where Jisung is sitting. 

Minho sits down across from his attorney, listening to whatever he’s saying, reading wherever he points his pen. At one point, Mr. Yoon leaves Minho reading over the papers and comes back with two others in tow. All of them sign one at a time. 

If Jisung were dying, he’d probably be bad at it. He wouldn’t know to do any of this. He’d lay in bed, and rot, and let the rest of his life waste away. Maybe Hyunjin would take pity on him and show up. He’d cry, because he’s always been the more emotional of the two of them, and he’d force Jisung to eat food. 

In some sick way, Jisung wonders if Minho is dying rather than anyone else because he’s better at handling it. How unfair. 

After about thirty minutes, Minho stands up. The two others file out, and Mr. Yoon’s hand finds Minho’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. He’s got a wrinkle between his brows, saying something to Minho. Serious. Minho laughs, and nods. 

He’s smiling when he comes to rejoin Jisung. 

“All good, just in case that praying didn’t work,” Minho gives him two thumbs up. 

Jisung rolls his eyes, but he’s unable to keep the fond smile off his face. 

+85 days

On day eighty five, Minho has a doctor's appointment, and Jisung isn’t invited. 

Jisung has been putting the pieces together. Whatever it is that’s killing Minho is medical. He has some sort of operation at the end of the ninety days— that’s why he’s so insistent that he knows exactly how many days it will be. 

There was a second where Jisung, in a frantic panic, tried to look it up. 

High risk surgeries. 

What surgeries have a low survival rate?

Are there surgeries that kill you? 

Yes, the internet said. There’s thousands of conditions and operations that Jisung didn’t even know existed. Plenty of different things to kill a person. Things that have a five percent survival rate. Things that kill before surgery can even test for them. 

He got sick after that. With guilt. Minho didn’t want to tell him, but he’d attempted to chip away at it on his own. Whatever it is, Minho will tell him when he wants him to know. If he wants him to know. Jisung isn’t entitled to anything else.

Early in the evening, Minho texts Jisung. Four messages in quick succession. 

Prayer didn’t work.

Told you god isn’t real. I love being right.

Back to the drawing board! 

Let’s read books tomorrow.

+84 days

Minho is quieter than usual, but he still smiles plenty. 

Reading books. That’s what they do. They sit on Minho’s couch, legs folded up, feet sitting on the cushion between them, and each read the same book. Cover to cover, because Minho’s never done it in one day. 

Jisung keeps peeking over the edge of his pages to look at Minho, and Minho keeps peeking back. 

It’s a fine book. Something that’s meant to change their lives. Neither of them seem particularly changed at the end. Just sort of sleepy. 

At some point, Minho says, “It’s been a week since we met, by the way.” 

“Cheers,” Jisung returns. 

And Minho pours them each a glass of champagne. 

Jisung goes home slightly tipsy, with bubbles in his brain and a burn on his skin where Minho’s hand brushed his while they clinked their glasses together. 

+83 days

They complete a puzzle without looking at the picture on the box on day eighty three. 

It takes all day, and Haru keeps knocking pieces to the ground. 

They’re both half delirious when they finish. Minho can’t stop laughing, because he kept insisting that he thought that the picture had a banana in it when he bought it ten years ago and shoved it in a closet. It doesn’t have a banana in it. Or any fruit at all. It’s some abstract vision of a cityscape. Incredibly ugly. 

Jisung laughs until his sides hurt.

+82 days

Minho can drive. 

Jisung should have guessed as much, considering that Minho said he’s never taken the train before— but it still surprises Jisung whenever anyone has a car. He hasn’t been a passenger in a car in years, probably. He avoids taking cabs like the plague, because he thinks it’s a waste of money. 

It’s a little silly that they have to drive to the end of the train line just to get on, but that’s what Minho wants to do, so they do it. 

Minho waits patiently for Jisung to buckle his seatbelt. He’s very casual about driving. One arm on the wheel, the other on his gear shift. His long sleeve shirt is pushed up to his elbows, casually. He looks like a heart throb from an old movie or something. Jisung forces himself to look away. 

He never learned to drive. Never had a reason. He’s been in the city his whole life. Been on trains his whole life. The perfect foil to Minho. 

They’re taking the brown line today. Selected at random. The shortest route, actually. Minho parks the car near the station, and they tap into the turnstile to get to the platform just in time to catch the next train. 

First car, all the way in the front, making a habit of the seats, Jisung assumes. 

The end of the line just loops, so they don’t have any reason to get off. 

At some point after the halfway mark Jisung must drift off. He wakes up with his cheek smushed to Minho’s shoulder, drooling a little on his shirt. His face heats up as he rubs his mouth. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I guess I didn’t sleep well last night.” 

“It’s okay. I was imagining a meet-cute scenario where a cute stranger falls asleep on me in the train and I miss my stop in order to let him rest.” 

Jisung’s cheeks burn. He doesn’t know what to make of half the things Minho says. He just whacks Minho’s shoulder weakly, and Minho smiles. 

“I’m assuming the green line is better than the brown, then,” Minho says. 

“Brown is a terrible color. Why didn’t they make it the teal line or something.” 

“Teal is just blue.” 

Jisung frowns, resisting the urge to lay his head back down. He’s still sleepy. “I wouldn’t have fallen asleep on the teal line.” 

“I believe you, Jisungie.” 

+81 days

“Aren’t you tired of me yet?” Minho asks. 

“No,” Jisung blinks over the chess board. That’s what they’re doing today— playing chess until Minho wins. Minho is horrible at chess. “Do I give the impression of being tired of you?” 

Minho makes another bad move. “Not really, but I feel like I can’t read you perfectly yet. I can only tell there’s a lot going on in your head.” 

“Checkmate,” Jisung says, moving his queen into position to knock out Minho’s king. “Is it because I fell asleep on the train?” 

“Why am I so bad at chess?” Minho pouts when his king is flicked down. He gathers his pieces to reset them. “No. It’s not because you fell asleep on the train.” 

“I really was tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.” 

“Why not?” 

Jisung swallows. He lets Minho take the first move. The truth is, he hasn’t been sleeping well because he’s too busy thinking about Minho. About how quickly time is running up. He’s worried that it’s not enough, or that he should be doing more. It makes him toss and turn. 

“I don’t know, sometimes I just don’t sleep well. Might be the change of seasons,” Jisung says instead. Another truth, just not exactly spot on. 

Minho closes one eye and studies him carefully. “Alright,” he says eventually. “Just promise to tell me if you do.” 

“I promise to tell you, but I also don’t think it’ll happen.” 

Minho wins his first game of chess at nine o’ two in the evening. 

+80 days

Jisung shows up to Minho’s house in the morning to screaming. 

Shouting, and screaming, and commotion. 

He lets himself in, because that’s always what Minho prefers he do, and stumbles out of his shoes, trying to make sense of what’s going on. A thousand scenarios roll through his head as he tumbles down the hallway. Medical emergency— blood everywhere— dying eighty days before he’s due— and— 

It’s a bird. 

There’s a bird sitting in Minho’s living room, on the top of the armchair, and Haru is crouched close to the ground, waving her tail as she hunts, and Minho is screaming bloody murder at her to leave it alone. 

“What the fuck is going on!?” Jisung tries to touch Minho’s arm to get his attention, but Minho grabs him instead, an iron grip on his wrist. 

“She’s going to kill it, Jisung! We have to stop her!” 

“She’s a cat! Of course she wants to kill it!” 

“Haru, no! You’re not a killer, I didn’t raise you this way!” Minho pleads with the cat. 

Haru’s tail flicks. Her eyes widen. She creeps closer to the bird, and Minho makes another pathetic noise. 

“You grab her,” Jisung directs. “Go lock her in the bathroom, then we can deal with the bird.” 

“She's going to freak out!” 

“It’s that or the bird, Minho! You pick.” 

Minho picks that. He snatches Haru off the ground, ignoring her yowling as he carries her off, muttering some repetition of “I’m sorry, baby, I know, I’m sorry.” 

The bird tilts its head, completely unbothered. It’s pretty. A mourning dove. Red feet under gray feathers. It blinks at Jisung. Jisung blinks back. 

He steps closer, and the bird twitches. He stops moving. Minho comes back then, all huffy and flustered. 

“How did this bird even get in?” Jisung hisses. “It’s not a small bird.” 

“I opened the window and it just came,” Minho hisses back. His cheeks are bright red, eyes wild.

“Which window?” 

“The kitchen. I was making bacon. Do birds like bacon?” 

Jisung squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “Okay. Let’s try to get it back out the way it came. Birds are smart, right? It must know how it got in.” 

“I don’t know anything about birds.” 

“Maybe we should learn something about them.” 

“Okay, I’ll add it to the list.” 

There’s a lot of yelling as they usher the bird outside. 

Neither of them touch it, because Jisung is pretty sure that’s how people get the bird flu. They hold up their arms and chase it back through the kitchen, and after it’s done, and the window is closed, Minho collapses on the floor, laughing maniacally. Jisung sinks down next to him, breathing heavily, head lolling against the cabinets. 

The bird flies away, heart still beating. 

There's something poetic there. 

+79 days

The bird that they saved on day eighty returns on day seventy nine. She starts building a nest in the flower bed attached to Minho’s window. One stick at a time. 

There's something poetic there. 

+78 days

Jisung shifts, the shingles of Minho’s roof bumpy and uneven through the flimsy beach towel he’s laying on. 

They’ve been up here for the better half of an hour, music blaring out of Minho’s phone speakers. Some absolutely unhinged collection of eighties pop and ballads that Minho insists he curated just for today. List item twenty four, sun myself on the roof like a cat, but on a perfectly cloudy day where clouds pass by every once in a while so I don’t get too hot. 

It is a perfectly cloudy day. Blue sky dotted with slowly moving blobs of white. 

Jisung isn’t good at this sort of thing, but he understands the appeal— technically. Sitting still just isn’t his strong suit. He tries his best for Minho’s sake. He doesn’t want to leave before Minho is ready, and he knows that if he climbs down, Minho will follow him. 

Minho refused to wear sunscreen anywhere but his face. He told Jisung that he’s going to die, so it doesn’t really matter if he gets skin cancer, but he’d hate to die looking ugly. Jisung doesn’t argue with him on things like that anymore. He tried a couple times, but Minho is annoyingly stubborn.

There’s a lot of things that Jisung wonders about Minho. Like, why someone like him seems so alone in a very technical sense. Obviously, Minho doesn’t come off as lonely, but Jisung hasn’t heard about anyone else in Minho’s life— if they exist. Jisung feels like it would be a little hypocritical, considering he’s in the same boat. 

Jisung’s brother is older. He moved across the country, and he only comes home for the holidays half the time. He’s got a wife. He doesn’t talk to Jisung except to text him happy birthday. They just don’t really understand each other like that. They were never meant to be friends— and that’s okay. Jisung has made peace with that. 

Hyunjin is a different story. Thinking about it makes Jisung feel sick. He feels guilty, then, when he thinks about how Minho has taken up residence, filling the gaps that were leftover in Jisung’s heart. Minho isn’t a replacement, Jisung knows that. It’s different. But it still makes Jisung feel guilty. 

He’s known Minho for two weeks now. They got used to each other quickly. Jisung figures that in another lifetime he and Minho met much earlier than this. 

Friends on the playground, maybe. Minho a couple years ahead, Jisung feeling proud for having an older friend. Spending all their time together. Maybe they fell out of touch during university, but ran into each other after graduation. In that ssambap place that Jisung likes. They’d sit down and have lunch together, and exchange phone numbers again. It would be easy— because it always has been. And Minho wouldn’t get sick, because if Jisung is picking out the fates he wants, Minho wouldn’t die until he’s old and ready. 

What’s the point, though, of dreaming about something that will never be? Reality is suffocating. Inescapable. Minho is dying, and Jisung just met him. There’s nothing else to do but accept it. 

The closest Jisung has come to understanding how Minho is so happy (almost) all the time. There’s nothing else to be. He can die happy, or die sad. One of those options is clearly preferred. Minho is much stronger than Jisung would have the bravery to be. 

He’s wonderful, and interesting, and odd. Jisung is glad that this is the universe where he happened to scroll the ads online, and happened to show up for tea— because knowing Minho is clearly preferred to not knowing him at all. 

“I hate to ask, but do you have any other friends?” Jisung shifts again, pads of his fingers running against the scratchy polyester of his towel. He turns to look at Minho, but Minho doesn’t turn to look at him. He keeps his eyes closed, face lit by the sun. 

“Sure,” he says calmly. “Kim Seungmin.” 

“Do you still talk to him?” 

Minho makes a noncommittal noise. “I talk to him sometimes. He’s my best friend.” 

“Does he live far away?” 

“No. He lives near you.” 

Jisung presses his lips together. His heart is going faster than it should be. Chasing who knows what. Minho is illusive, but he’s very direct. He’ll answer questions, Jisung just has to ask them the right way. 

“When’s the last time you talked to him?” 

“I texted him this morning.” 

“Oh.” 

“He’s busy,” Minho says. He still doesn’t move, even when a cloud passes by, covering up the sun, taking away his glow. “He’s an attorney.”

“The one you went to see?” A stupid question, because Jisung knows that the one Minho went to see was named something else. 

“No, that’s his partner.” 

“Gay partner?” 

“Wow, you have a lot of questions. No. Business partner.”  Minho snorts, his lips pulling up. When he peeks one eye open, Jisung turns his head back to the sky, avoiding him.

“What did you talk to him about this morning?” 

“Baseball. He likes baseball. Fucking nerd.” 

Jisung squints against the sun, a sliver peeking out on the other side of the cloud. It stings. In another universe, maybe Jisung likes the sun. Now, he’s just afraid of getting a sunburn. Too hot in his long sleeved shirt and long pants. 

“Does he know that you’re dying?” Jisung asks, because he’s just been skirting around that, anyway. Minho must know. 

Minho takes a deep breath. Exhales. He sits up very suddenly, using his feet to catch his weight before he slides down the roof. “I’m tired of this, I’m too warm.” 

“Me too,” Jisung agrees, forcing himself past the roadblock he created. 

“Well, obviously, you’re wearing so many clothes,” Minho says cheekily. Unwavering. He’s good at that. 

Jisung lets out an affronted gasp. “Are you trying to get me naked, Lee Minho?” 

“No, I’m trying to tend to my little flower.” Minho pockets his phone without shutting off his music, dragging his towel with him as he scoots towards the edge of the roof. “Photosynthesis or whatever. I can see that there’s going to be something beautiful in there when you bloom, Jisungie.” 

He flips himself around, sliding onto the ladder, giving Jisung one more grin before disappearing towards the ground. 

Jisung half-scrambles after him, still mindful that he’s on top of a house. He wraps the towel around his shoulders, pushes himself to the ladder. Minho is waiting at the bottom, holding it steady. 

“You’d be better off watering me,” Jisung mumbles, his cheeks hot. He’s sure it’s just the sun, though. “I think I’m dehydrated.” 

“Okay, let’s get you some water, my little angiosperm.” 

“Ew,” Jisung grimaces. 

“It’s the scientific term for flowering plant.” 

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” 

In this universe, Minho laughs in a way that gets away from him, giddy and youthful. It’s enough for Jisung to accept that this is where they’re stuck. 

+77 days

On day seventy seven, Minho and Jisung try meditation. 

They’re bad at it. 

Minho keeps giggling, and Jisung keeps shushing him only to end up giggling too. 

It gives them no answers about life, or themselves. But, it’s nice, either way. 

+76 days

The orange line is… fine. 

It’s a bit gloomy outside. Minho plays music in the car, and he pokes Jisung’s side until Jisung sings along, even though neither of them know the words. 

They sit in the first car, at the very front, and they have to be quieter than usual, because there’s more people on the train. 

At the halfway point, they get off. Go to a cafe and get coffee and croissants, and sit on the street to eat them, because one of Minho’s list items is to pretend he’s sophisticated at a sophisticated cafe. He cuts his croissant with a fork and knife, and crosses his legs. 

A pigeon comes to beg for food, and Minho, in all his sophistication, gives it part of his croissant. 

“It reminds me of the one we have at home,” he says when Jisung scolds him. The mourning dove that’s made a nest in the flowers by the window. They haven’t named it. They haven’t learned about birds yet. 

Jisung feels a swell of something fond in his chest. He can’t push it down, even when they leave and make for the train again, Minho humming to himself as he walks nearby. 

At the end, Minho says, “The orange line. What do you think?” 

“It’s okay. I still like green.” 

“You need to get stronger opinions about the train.” 

Minho plays music on their way back, and he tells Jisung to stay for dinner, so Jisung stays for dinner. Minho is a very good cook. He says he learned in university because he was sick of not knowing how. He’s one of those people that can just decide to do something and then do it. Jisung wants to be more like that. 

Jisung scrubs at the dishes when they’ve finished, because he insisted— and Minho stands next to him, drying them. 

A quiet, companionable silence. They’re good at that kind of thing. 

Minho breaks it after he shuts the cabinet, putting away the plates. “Seungmin doesn’t know I’m dying.” 

“Oh,” Jisung says, utensils nearly falling out of his hand under hot water. 

“I don’t want him to know. I know it’s selfish,” Minho continues. He leans his hip against the counter, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I just know how he’d act. I don’t want to see him act like that.” 

Jisung blinks. He forces himself to move. Shutting off the water and putting down whatever’s in his hand. “I think I get it.” 

“Do you?” 

“Well,” Jisung says. He dries his hands on the kitchen towel. “From your perspective I get it— but from his perspective, I don’t. Or, I do— but I would be angry.” 

“He can be angry at me when I die. I don’t mind that. It will help him get over it.” 

“Minho,” Jisung feels his forehead wrinkle, brows pulling together. There’s a ball in his throat, but he pushes his way around it. “You’re not something to get over.” 

Minho lets out a watery laugh. He’s pretending it’s okay. Jisung can see how shiny his eyes are. “You know what I mean. I just— I can’t tell him, Jisungie.” 

“I’m not asking you to tell him.” 

“I just want someone to tell me it’s okay,” Minho’s voice is near a whisper. Jisung has never seen him so vulnerable. Cracked down the middle and asking for help. It’s unsettling in a way. Important in another. 

“It’s okay,” Jisung tells him. “Whatever you need. I think that’s okay. You know him best.” 

“It’s selfish.” 

“People are selfish. I feel like you have a right to be selfish, given everything.” 

“Okay.” Minho swallows. He nods. He pushes a smile onto his face. “Thank you, Jisungie.” 

“Do you— want—” Jisung cringes before he can finish asking, but his arms are already extended, and Minho closes the space between them. 

He’s good at hugging. He holds Jisung tight, and hooks his chin over Jisung’s shoulder. He smells like soy sauce, because he spilled some on his shirt while he was cooking. 

“You should write him a letter, though,” Jisung says, his voice muffled slightly by Minho’s shoulder. “Before you go. I think you should write him something.” 

“That’s a good idea. Let’s add it to the list.” 

Minho does add it. Jisung sees it before he goes. 

Letters to people I love. 

+75 days

On day seventy-five, they crash a wedding. 

It’s a courthouse wedding, and the couple is perfectly kind about it. They’re beautiful, and young, and wearing pink instead of white. They laugh when Minho says wedding crashing is on his bucket list, and they let Minho and Jisung sit in the front row, because they have no other guests. 

Minho and Jisung whistle and howl when they kiss. 

They take the green line home. A car right in the middle, because it’s not a train day. 

“I always wanted to get married,” Minho says offhandedly at the stop he told Jisung is his favorite on day eighty nine. “Too bad.” 

“Are you asking me to marry you as part of the bucket list?” 

“No,” Minho says plainly. He doesn’t scowl, or frown, he just says it simply. “I wouldn’t do that.” 

“You don’t want to marry me, Minho?” Jisung jokes, but it comes out a little strange. Flatter than he means. Too close to serious. 

“If I don’t die, I’ll marry you,” Minho replies. Plainly, again. He sighs, and leans his weight onto Jisung, putting his head on Jisung’s shoulder. 

“Deal,” Jisung whispers. 

Their mourning dove lays two eggs. She sits on them and keeps them warm. 

+74 days

“When I was a kid, my dad would take my brother on boys trips every year to go fishing,” Jisung says, staring into the pond in front of them, eyes unfocusing over the ripples on the surface of the water. 

It’s still early. Maybe five thirty. The sun is barely peeking over the trees, fog hanging to the ground, all of it basked in the soft pink of the morning time. Minho insisted that fishing must be done at a time like this. Quiet and still. He’s been fishing before— he tells Jisung— but, he wanted to do it once more. 

“Are you not a boy?” Minho asks from his fold up chair. He’s sitting down already, Jisung is just hovering, staring into the pond. Frowning. 

“I would cry every time they baited the hooks, so I wasn’t allowed.” 

“Ah,” Minho looks up at him, and then reaches down towards the tackle box he mysteriously pulled out of his garage this morning. He opens the cover, motioning to the contents with wiggling fingers. A cup of bait, but not one with a lid. All neon, artificial bugs. Stretchy, with different types of tails and fins. “This is a boys trip too, now.” 

Jisung swallows the lump in his throat. Wipes his hands on his pants. Sits down, his chair an appropriate distance from Minho’s. “My dad used to say the fake bait doesn’t work as well.” 

“It doesn’t,” Minho says, matter of fact. “But, I’m not fishing to catch anything.” 

“What?” Jisung watches as Minho carefully plucks one of the fake worms from his cup, sliding it over the hook, avoiding pricking his fingers. 

“I’m not fishing to catch anything, I’m fishing to fish.” 

“That doesn’t make any more sense.” 

Minho grins, getting his rod ready to cast. He’s got bunny teeth— very slightly— but they’re prominent enough that Jisung has started to notice every time Minho smiles. 

“Fishing is an experience, Jisungie. It’s waking up early and coming to sit on the water and think. If you catch something, that’s fine. If not, that’s fine. I let everything go, anyway.” 

Minho catches something. A small thing that flails until it hits Jisung’s palms, scales shiny and wet, glistening in the sunlight. It stares at Jisung with one eye, and takes gasping breaths— dying. 

“It’s going to die,” Jisung says, his voice more choked up than it has any right to be. It’s only a fish. 

“No it’s not.” Minho moves gently, as if he’s taking care of something fragile when he touches Jisung’s hands. He carefully unthreads the hook from the fish’s lip, turns towards the water, and tosses it back in. 

+73 days

No Orchids for Miss Blandish, nineteen forty eight.

The movie ends with the main character throwing herself off a balcony over the death of her gangster lover. 

Death is grim most of the time.

+72 days

8 shots of espresso.

5 eggs (5 yolks and 4 egg whites).

400 grams of mascarpone cheese.

160 grams of powdered sugar.

28 ladyfingers.

2 spoons of cognac

1 spoon bitter cocoa powder.

Whisk, mix, add, dip, layer, let sit for twenty four hours.  

Something like that, at least— Minho is the one doing most of the work, Jisung was fired as sous chef after reading out the ingredients list. 

+71 days

“I don’t think I’ve ever had tiramisu.” 

“I’ve had it once,” Minho says. “I remember liking it.” 

They eat their tiramisu. It’s wonderful. Minho gives Haru a lick of the cream before Jisung can stop him. 

Tiramisu is one of those foods that makes Jisung feel lucky to be alive to taste. It’s that good. Something so random and unique. Maybe that’s why Minho picked it. He seems to know these sorts of things before Jisung does. 

“When I die, you can keep my tiramisu recipe.” 

“When you die, I will be incapable of making tiramisu on my own.” 

Minho laughs at that, but Jisung is being serious. 

+70 days

On day seventy, they learn about birds. 

Their mourning dove isn’t one mourning dove, but two, apparently. Both the mom and dad take shifts— which is nice. Jisung kind of assumed that all birds were deadbeat fathers. 

The eggs should hatch around day sixty. A Thursday. The babies will be horribly ugly for a while, and then they’ll get fluffy and cute. They’ll spend some time in the nest until day forty something, before going off on their own. 

That is— if they hatch at all. It’s a very delicate process. Temperatures need to be right, and maintained, and the babies need to be strong enough. 

Mourning doves mate for life. They’re monogamous. If a bird’s mate dies, it can exhibit distressed behaviors. 

“I hate that this is making me feel sympathy for the evil flock of birds that lives outside of my apartment,” Jisung says, sitting in Minho’s armchair in front of the window, watching the mourning dove snooze on its nest. 

Minho is reading an article out loud from a chair of his own. He laughs. “If it makes you feel better, they don’t mourn their eggs or babies. Only their mates.” 

It doesn’t make him feel better. 

+69 days

“This is going to be embarrassing for me,” Minho says the second they step foot into the art museum. “I don’t know anything about art.” 

Jisung sticks close to his side, moving through the sea of schoolchildren on their end of the year field trips. “Don’t worry, I slept through all my art history classes. I only paid attention in the classes where I got to make something.” 

“Naughty, naughty, Jisung,” Minho tsks. 

“In my defense, Hyunjin paid too much attention and he let me cheat off of him. So, I’d argue I’m smarter than most people,” Jisung says, his fingers catching the hem of Minho’s shirt when someone bumps into him. “You’d be embarrassed if Hyunjin were here. He’d judge you.” 

Minho steadies him with a hand at his waist, drawing them out of the way of the worst of the crowd and into a gallery off the hall. Still life paintings— yuck. Jisung can’t stand things like this. Hyunjin loves them.

“Who is Hyunjin?” 

“Oh,” Jisung blurts awkwardly. His cheeks start to warm, even though he has nothing to be embarrassed about. 

It’s not like he was purposefully hiding Hyunjin’s existence from Minho— he just didn’t want Minho to ask about it. To make Jisung admit that it’s a Jisung problem, and that he and his best friend had such a major falling out that it cost him everything. It just slipped out. Too comfortable with Minho, sharing about his life. He’s always thinking about Hyunjin in museums. 

“That guy you saw on my wall,” Jisung finally answers, because Minho is giving him the space to answer, waiting patiently, his fingers lingering on Jisung’s hip. “He’s my Kim Seungmin.” 

This is where Minho should ask what happened? Does Jisung talk to him? Why not? Just as Jisung had asked Minho about Seungmin. 

But, instead, Minho asks, “Is he as bitchy as Kim Seungmin?” 

“Yes. Absolutely.” 

“Maybe we can set them up. Seungmin needs to get laid, it would be good for him.” 

Jisung toys with the hair at the back of his neck, chewing on his lip. “I don’t really— I’m not— we’re not—” 

“Don’t worry about it, Jisungie,” Minho cuts him off. He squeezes Jisung’s hip once before moving away. Jisung misses the warmth as soon as it’s gone. “Tell me about these paintings of oranges. I want to know about oranges.” 

“Still life sucks.” 

“See, how fun is this?” Minho smiles, hanging close enough that his arm keeps brushing against Jisung’s. “I know nothing, so you get to completely shape my artistic opinions. It’ll be fun.” 

It is fun. Minho is right most of the time.

+68 days

The night before day sixty eight, Jisung sleeps horribly. 

He has a first cousin. Just one. Or, he had a cousin. 

Jisung always got along with her better than his brother— she had the same sort of interests as him. They kept up online, even if she lived too far away to see her often. 

She was a few years younger than Jisung. Last year she went to sleep and never woke up. Her heart stopped, and that was that. No rhyme or reason, no cause of death other than spontaneity. There wasn’t a condition that was missed, or an accident, or some sort of purposeful action. She just died. 

In a way, it was comforting knowing that there was nothing to be done to stop it. In another way, the thought is almost crippling. 

What if it was an undetectable glitch in her DNA? What if Jisung has it too? He could go to sleep and not wake up, and he’d never know that he died. He’s not ready to die. Is anyone ready to die, though? Minho can try to be ready as much as he wants, but Jisung doesn’t know if that’s ever something someone their age can be. 

It’s selfish to think like that, but it still keeps Jisung up at night sometimes. He’s thought a lot about his cousin since he met Minho.

He was thinking about her last night, and that’s why he couldn’t sleep. That’s why he’s exhausted when Minho picks him up. They’re going to see the ocean. A three hour drive. Three hours back. A day trip, and Jisung has created another Jisung problem by thinking about his cousin instead of sleeping. Or— thinking about himself, and how he might die instead of sleeping. 

Minho has sixty eight days to live, but it could always get cut short. That’s the thing, isn’t it? That anyone could die at any time. 

Living is grim much more often than it should be. 

Minho lets Jisung sleep in the car on the way to the sea. He reaches over and presses Jisung’s head down to the window when he keeps nodding off sitting up, and says, “Sleep,” in a way that isn’t to be argued with. 

And, really, it should be harder to sleep in Minho’s car than in his bed. There’s more things to spontaneously kill him— like, oncoming traffic, or this man he’s known for less than a month, or his faulty DNA— but Jisung falls asleep perfectly well with his seat belt digging into his chin and his head bouncing against the window. 

He wakes up when Minho grabs his wrist, just a very gentle squeeze over his pulse point. He wakes— alive— and Minho is looking at him with a softness Jisung doesn’t know if he’s ever had directed towards him before. 

“Jisungie, we’re here.” 

“Oh,” Jisung sits up straighter, rubbing at the inner corners of his eyes with his thumb. His face feels heavily flushed from sleep. Weighty. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sleep the whole time.” 

Minho looks at him funnily. A tiny scrunch of his nose, one last squeeze of his wrist. “Why wouldn’t you mean that? I told you to sleep. You were tired.” 

“Maybe I wanted to spend time with you,” Jisung argues, scrambling to undo his belt and get out of the car when Minho climbs out. 

“You can spend time with me now. At the ocean,” Minho takes a deep breath and flings his arms out at his sides. “What a beautiful day it is to visit the ocean, Jisung!” 

It’s not really, actually. It’s cloudy, and not really raining, but spitting. It’s windier than usual, especially on the shore. They’re wearing jackets, even though they were sunbathing a few days ago. But, Minho is smiling so wide, and he’s so undeniably happy about it that it does feel a little bit brighter. 

If nothing else, Minho is beautiful every day. Not that Jisung would ever be able to say something like that. Too sappy. He’d embarrass himself. 

Minho leads the way like he knows where he’s going, even though Jisung knows he’s never been here before. Neither of them have, they talked about it. 

There’s a worn path down to the beach. A lot less sand than Jisung expected. A lot more rocks. 

“So many rocks,” Jisung says, instead of coming up with anything significant.

“I know,” Minho grins over his shoulder. “I fucking hate sand. That’s why I picked this one.” 

Jisung’s sneakers slip over stone, crunching when he puts his weight down into a real step. Dark brown, and gray, some of them almost black. All of them smoothed from time in the water. A perfectly respectable beach, just not the one Jisung was expecting. 

Minho trudges down near the water, the ebb of waves licking the shore just before his feet. He goes still and quiet, watching the water come close, but not enough to touch. His mouth settles into a flat line, nothing like the smile he’s wearing most of the time. 

Sometimes Minho starts to think like this. It could be in the middle of doing something, or doing nothing at all. He’ll stop, and his eyes go soft at the edges, only the slow rhythm of his breath keeping Jisung from worrying too much. Lost in his own head. He always emerges from the other side eventually, and clings a bit closer to Jisung afterwards. Jisung gives Minho space while he’s thinking, though. Because he’d want the same. 

He stops a ways behind Minho, crouches down to run his fingers over the stones at his feet, knees tucked up to his chest. The blob of his shadow reflects in the darkest ones, surface shiny with rainwater. A vague outline of a head and shoulders, moving against the sheen of the sky. Just the idea of him. 

Jisung picks up a stone that’s deep black, running his thumb over the slight grit leftover from the earth. He looks up when he hears footsteps, Minho coming towards him again, hands in his pockets, easy smile on his face. 

“This is a good spot to sit,” he declares, just before sitting down next to Jisung, letting out a long sigh when he does. 

“I’m not sitting here, my ass will get wet.”

“Sit down, Jisung. Life is too short to not let your ass get wet at a beach without sand.” 

Jisung gives him a look he hopes reads as snotty, but gives up immediately, tipping himself back onto his heels until his ass hits the ground. He keeps his knees by his chest, still not willing to get his ass and the rest of him wet. He’ll only sacrifice one. 

Minho giggles. He’s closer than Jisung thought he was, their hips almost touching. His arm is extended to rest on the ground behind Jisung’s back. A fragile thing, the two of them. It could break at any time. The beauty of life is in the intricacies between that grimness that Jisung is so keen on looking for. 

The ocean is wide, and vast. Expanding over the horizon into the gray of the sky, melting together. White caps on the waves, though they’re not as untamed as they could be. A subdued sort of violence, the calm before the storm. It’s beautiful in an all consuming, scary sort of way. Unknowable and unpredictable. Too big to comprehend. These are thoughts that everyone has, certainly, but knowing that everyone has them doesn’t make Jisung feel any better about it. Any less alone. 

“What were you thinking about?” Jisung murmurs, rolling his stone under the heel of his palm, working out tension that isn’t even there. Something to do. 

“Dying,” Minho answers without hesitation. His eyes sweep over the water, steady and calm. 

“I wondered if you ever thought about it. You always seem so put together.” 

Minho gives him a wry smile. “I think about it all the time, Jisungie. It’s just not always a bad thing. I don’t think it has to be a bad thing to think about.” 

The air tastes like salt. If Jisung were to cry here, he’d melt into the ground like he’s always belonged. Find a place among smooth, round rocks, waiting for the sea to toss him into the same. 

“Are you scared to die?” 

Minho’s arm shifts closer, even though he doesn’t turn to Jisung. His bicep touches Jisung’s back through his jacket, just a solid presence. “No,” Minho says. “Not really.” 

“Are you ready to die?” 

“No,” Minho’s forehead creases before smoothing out on its own. “I don’t know if anyone is ever ready to die.” 

“What do you think will happen?” Jisung’s hand twitches against his rock, fingers slippery. This fragile thing.

There’s a long pause, Minho squints for a second, and then looks at Jisung. “Is it bad to say nothing?” 

“No.” 

Minho nods. “Okay, then, nothing.” 

When Jisung’s cousin died, he thought about this, too. The after. Ghosts, and heaven, or the afterlife. The thing is, it’s more comforting to imagine that something happens later. He understands religion in that way— a yearning to have an answer. But, at the same time, he doesn’t know how much more peaceful it is for the person who’s died to be stuck in an afterwards at all. If Minho would know that he’s dead when he gets to the other side, would he have to come to terms with it? Have to make peace with the fact that everyone he left behind is unreachable? That doesn’t seem better at all. It’s only the people he left behind that have that notion of peace from him still existing. Selfish, maybe. 

“My cousin died last year,” Jisung clears his throat. “I guess, if there is something after, you could hang out with her.” He sniffs, avoiding Minho’s eyes. “She’s cool. She’d like you, I bet.” 

Minho presses closer to Jisung again. “A friend in the beyond,” he whispers theatrically. 

It’s enough to make Jisung crack a smile. “Mhm.” 

“You spoil me, Jisungie,” Minho says. “I’ll look for her if I get there. Do you think she’ll know who I am?” 

“I just assume that’s how those things work. If we’re just making shit up.” 

“You’re right. I’ll talk to you through the mirror when I die, Jisungie. Look for me, alright?” 

“Of course, I’d do a seance for you if you asked.” The honesty of Jisung’s words hit him a second too late. He’s being so serious about it. All of it. 

Minho’s smile reaches his eyes, and then he’s flashing his teeth, and Jisung melts a little further. Closer to the rocks. He’s really in it until the end with Minho. There’s no question in his mind. This isn’t something he could give up on. 

“We should take a picture,” Minho says. “Give me your phone.” 

Jisung is already taking out his phone, per Minho’s instructions. “A picture?” 

“To remember our day on the beach with no sand. I’ll self-timer it.” 

And Minho does. Very carefully. He waves Jisung to stand down towards the water, and he props the phone up, and centers the shot by getting close to the ground. He looks ridiculous. When the timer starts he squeals, runs towards Jisung, catching himself with his arm around Jisung’s waist, the other lifted up like he’s showing off the scenery. Jisung follows suit. 

Minho’s fingers squeeze Jisung’s waist, like he’s trying to tickle him. Jisung looks over, and Minho laughs in that wild way. The ocean nips at their heels, like she’s trying to take them for herself. 

The pictures are good. Minho wants them, even though he’s dying (his words, not Jisung’s). Jisung runs his thumb over the screen afterwards, looking at the images.

They stand side by side on the pebble beach, one arm around each other’s waists, and the other extended to their sides, the ocean behind them and the sky gray. A series of ten, because that’s what happens when Jisung’s phone is on self timer. A slideshow, really, of both of them staring blankly at the camera, and then Minho giggling, Jisung looking over at him, smiling, Minho laughing for real. Jisung doubts he’ll be able to look at the photos without crying in sixty eight days, but for today he can. 

He looks at them carefully on the way home, his head pressed to the window, heart beating in time with the swoosh of the windshield wipers. 

That night, Jisung sleeps fine. 

+67 days

Fire Maidens from Outer Space, nineteen fifty six. Wretched special effects, horribly misogynistic. 

The ever present and horrifying reality that space stretches on forever has haunted Jisung since he was old enough to understand it. He feels small, and insignificant, and impossibly discombobulated. The ocean, but turned up to a hundred. 

“Wow, that sucked,” Minho says afterwards. 

“Yeah,” Jisung frowns. “I don’t like thinking about space.” 

“It’s kind of vast and unknowable, right?” Minho hums. “Like the ocean.” 

Knowing that Minho has the same thoughts as Jisung makes Jisung feel a little less alone. 

+66 days

On day sixty-six, they paint Minho’s front door baby pink. 

By the time they finish, Jisung’s dizzy on paint fumes, and his legs ache from squatting. 

The smile on Minho’s face is worth it. He says that his house looks like lemonade. 

Jisung really likes spending time with Minho. He likes Minho a lot. If he thinks about it too long he starts getting nauseous. Sometimes, when he’s laying in bed at night, he’ll do it anyway, just to feel something. 

+65 days

Minho wants to play the lottery. 

He and Jisung walk a good ten blocks to the nearest gas station, and get two tickets for the big jackpot that’s being drawn in a couple days, along with popsicles. 

They sit on a bench outside and eat quietly. 

Or, quietly until Jisung asks the question he’s been rolling over in his head all morning. He always has at least one with each of Minho’s list items. Minho always indulges him. 

“Is this something where, like, if you had more money you’d be able to fix whatever’s killing you?” 

Minho hums, his lips stained slightly pink from his popsicle, pressed together. His tongue pokes out to collect the spot of juice at the corner of his mouth, and Jisung’s eyes track the movement. “Probably not.” 

“What does ‘probably not,’ mean?” The gears in Jisung’s head immediately start turning. Thinking of ways— if necessary— that he and Minho could make up the cash. Figure it out. But, wouldn’t Minho already have done that if he could? 

“It means that rich people are full of shit,” Minho says, his eyes widening in the way they do when he really believes in what he’s saying. “They can throw me into a cryochamber, or inject me with vitamins, or whatever the hell it is they charge out the ass for— and maybe it would work, but it probably wouldn’t. I just want to play the lottery, I don’t need the money.” 

Of course. Jisung was just being fatefully optimistic.

“The lottery sucks,” he says, even though his ticket is sitting in his back pocket, numbers randomly selected. 

“I know,” Minho sighs. “I don’t believe in it.” 

A drop of Jisung’s popsicle makes it to his hand, the heat dwindling it away before he can eat it. “Do you think that will hurt our chances of winning?” 

“No. We established that god isn’t real. It’s all just up to fate and luck.” 

“We’re probably not the most lucky people in the world.” Jisung lets his shoulders slump a bit, watching another drop of sticky juice roll over his thumb, right at the knuckle. 

“Definitely not,” Minho agrees. “We’ll just have to hope fate is working in our favor, then.” 

+64 days

On day sixty-four, they drive until they reach the end of a road.

They wind up at a dead end in the middle of the woods, a couple hours outside of the city. 

Minho stands in front of his car, headlights shining into the trees, hands on his hips, and says, “Well. That was anticlimactic.” 

“I had fun.” Jisung shrugs, idling a bit behind, just outside the passenger side door, arms crossed. 

When Minho turns to look at him, he’s smiling brightly. Beaming. His hair is a little messy. He’s really, truly beautiful. “You’re right. I had fun too, Jisungie. I always have fun with you.” 

+63 days

On day sixty-three, they lose the lottery.

The lottery numbers are called, and neither of them win anything. 

Minho falls to his knees and puts on a dramatic performance, holding his ticket to the sky and asking god why, why why? 

On his way home, Jisung doesn’t realize he’s smiling until an elderly woman on the train smiles back at him. 

+62 days

“This is so wrong,” Minho whispers from his place at Jisung’s side, staring down at the plate in front of them. 

Jisung took great care to present the treats as appetizing. He shook them out of the plastic ziplock they came in and arranged them diagonally on one of Minho’s nicest plates. Monstrosities. Two of them, unevenly cut, a mix of fruity cereal, and marshmallow, and THC. 

“It smells pretty bad,” Jisung says. “But, I’m kind of hungry enough to not care?”

“Where did you even get these?” Minho lifts his hand lazily in the direction of the plate. 

“I bought it off of Hyunjin’s guy. Still had his number. He only does edibles now, though. Sorry about that.” 

“It’s okay. I really shouldn’t be smoking. Bad on the lungs.” 

“Right,” Jisung nods. “Because it could kill you.” He can see Minho’s smirk out of the corner of his eye. 

“Exactly.” 

“Well,” Jisung reaches over to pluck one of the edibles off the plate. He waits for Minho to follow his lead, pinching the food between his index finger and thumb. Jisung holds his up, smiles as goofily as he can. “Cheers!” 

Minho indulges him— he’s good at that. He taps his edible to Jisung’s, and they take a bite without breaking their eye contact. Jisung almost gags at the taste. Minho does gag. Jisung has to cover his mouth with his hand so he doesn’t spit out what’s in his mouth from laughing, and that only makes Minho scowl as he chews. 

“Oh. I’m so fucking high,” Minho says for the fifth time, or something— Jisung has lost count. 

He giggles, melting further into Minho’s couch, the material rubbing against his skin in a way that makes him feel nice. Soft. Calm. It’s like Minho, almost. Minho fits his couch well. He fits his whole house well, actually. He has a talent for picking out things that are very Minho for his house. Jisung likes it here. 

“Jisungie— I’m really— so fucking high.” 

“I know. You told me so,” Jisung laughs again. His eyes are heavy, but his chest feels light. 

“Are you as high as me?” Minho grabs Jisung’s wrist with insistent fingers. His eyes go wide, searching. He’s so cute like this. All curious. “You don’t seem as high as me.” 

Jisung giggles, and he lets Minho take his hand captive into his lap. “I’m high. I’m just chillin’.” 

Whatever the fuck was in those edibles was too much. Jisung could have cut one in half and he and Minho would have been fine. This is probably too much— but Jisung can’t really take it back now. All he can do is wait it out. Count Minho’s eyelashes and try to estimate the exact slope of his nose in degrees. 

Seventy two. That sounds about right. 

Jisung doesn’t register the sound of a phone ringing until it stops. He blinks, eyes clicking over to Minho’s hand. Minho has called someone, he’s putting it on speaker. 

“Minho? What’s wrong? Why are you calling me?” A slightly agitated voice crackles over the line. A man, probably. 

“Kim Seungmin,” Minho says. “I’m high.” 

Jisung laughs accidentally. Minho is so ridiculous. He beams at Jisung, all teeth and dancing eyes. 

“It is Tuesday, Minho. It is three in the afternoon,” Seungmin snips. 

“I know. Isn’t that crazy?” Minho laughs. 

“I thought you were having an emergency. I can’t deal with this right now, I’m in the middle of a settlement conference and you call me to tell me you’re high?” 

Minho lets out a long huff. A psh noise. “Oh, whatever. I’m trying to share my life with you.” 

“Goodbye, Minho,” Seungmin says bluntly. The phone beeps when the call ends. 

“He seems nice,” Jisung hums. 

That really sets Minho off. He tips his head back and cackles, smacking Jisung’s hand where it’s still sitting in his lap. His throat bobs, and Jisung’s eyes trace the movement. The line of his jaw— maybe one hundred and seven degrees— something like that. His eyelashes are dark, they brush his cheeks when he blinks. Brown eyes. Jisung loves his eyes. They’re expressive— always so bright. 

“I’m high, Jisungie,” he says, quieter this time, tipping his head a little bit to look at Jisung. His lips part with his next breath, and Jisung outlines his cupid's bow with his eyes. Endlessly curious about how someone is born to look the way Minho does. “You stare at me a lot. You’ve been staring at me. What are you trying to figure out?” 

If Jisung were sober, maybe he’d be embarrassed. Right now, he only wants to explain himself. His head is spinning, and he’s been thinking the same thing for an hour now. 

“You look like— someone— well—” Jisung pauses, twisting his hands in front of Minho’s face, trying to find the right words. “You look like a painting. Like someone painted you. You’re— people aren’t usually so… beautiful like that.” 

“A painting,” Minho repeats. His thumb presses into Jisung’s pulse point, just a gentle pressure. 

“Yeah.” 

“Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

“I think you look like…” Minho presses his lips together. A wrinkle appears between his eyebrows, eyes narrowing. Focusing too hard. “A sunflower.” 

“A sunflower.” 

“Yes. My little angiosperm.” 

“That name is crazy. Stop saying sperm.” 

“Sperm.” 

Both of them laugh, then, and there’s nothing and no one to stop them.

+61 days

Jisung wakes up on Minho’s couch on day sixty-one, drooling on his own arm, his feet in Minho’s lap and a crick in his neck. The sun is just rising— it’s too early to be awake. 

He groans, and digs his heel into Minho’s thigh on accident, jolting him from sleep with a gasp. Jisung tips over from the start, rolling unceremoniously onto the floor. Minho laughs at him. Loud and heavy with sleep. His hair is wild, and Jisung can’t stop staring, even as he sits on the floor pouting. 

Minho pokes him with an ice cold toe, and Jisung yelps, flailing further away. 

In his haste to escape, he ends up on his side, back to Minho, facing the windows. He can see their bird arrive. Poking around in her nest. Haru perks up where she’s curled up in her favorite chair, only to settle back down again a second later. 

Jisung squints. She doesn’t seem in much of a rush to sit down. She might have something in her mouth.

“Oh my god,” Jisung blinks. He shoves himself up. “The birds.” 

He nearly brains himself on Minho’s fireplace on his way to the window, but Minho is there to catch him, hand catching the back of his shirt. They’d probably look insane from an outside perspective. Tripping over themselves to sit cheek to cheek at the window, noses pressed to the glass, fingertips hanging onto the sill. 

Nothing else matters when Jisung gets there, though. Slightly out of breath. Two ugly little baby birds sitting in the nest, wiggling around. 

“Oh my god,” Jisung whispers. He feels like he might cry, somehow. “They’re alive.” 

“There’s something poetic there,” Minho murmurs. 

Jisung only sheds one tear, but when Minho asks, Jisung says it’s allergies. 

+60 days

Minho takes a good thirty minutes to pick out a box of hair dye at the supermarket. He looks them all over carefully— twice— just to make sure he’s deciding on the right one. I could die with this color, Jisungie, I have to make sure it’s perfect, he says. 

They walk home with a box of semi-permanent purple hair dye swinging in a bag between them.

Haru meows loudly when the door opens, and Minho meows back. She and Minho talk a lot— back and forth, imitating each other’s noises. They argue sometimes, usually over food. Minho telling her no, and her letting out a long, disgruntled meow in complaint. 

She winds around Jisung’s legs, looking for the attention Minho won’t give her while his hands are full. Jisung can’t resist. He bends down to pick her up, holding her like a baby, because that’s what she likes. She’s very spoiled. 

It’s day sixty today. Jisung keeps thinking about it, because that means Minho has been a part of his daily life for one month. A good chunk in the span of a year— but a tiny portion of his life so far. He knows that a year from now, a month will feel like no time at all. A blip in the timeline. He’ll wish it was longer. He always wishes he had longer with Minho— he just keeps it to himself because it isn’t helpful. For now, though, the last month seems like an eternity, and the next two loom like a blink waiting to happen. 

He feels like he’s known Minho forever. He knows he hasn’t. He feels like he’s running out of air when he thinks that there’s only sixty days left. One month has been forever, the next two will never be enough. He dreads living it, if only because it has to end. 

Haru purrs against Jisung’s chest, looking up at him with bright eyes that look almost too much like her dad’s. 

“What are you thinking about?” Minho whispers, appearing over Jisung’s shoulder. 

Jisung is used to that now, too. He doesn’t jump, he just leans back to bump into Minho, says, “I’m just glad we met. It’s been a month.” 

Minho reaches over to scratch Haru’s head, humming sweetly. “I’m glad we met too, Jisungie. You’re the best end of life partner. I mean that.” 

“Don’t you think it just has something to do with who we are? I don’t think I’d do well with anyone else.” 

“That’s half the fun in it, isn’t it?” Minho touches Jisung’s back when he slides past him in the hall. A short touch that leaves Jisung burning. “The fate of it all, or whatever. I don’t think I would have lasted this long with anyone else, either.” 

“Not even Kim Seungmin?” 

“No,” Minho scowls over his shoulder. “He’s a grump.” 

“I’m a grump.” 

“No you’re not. You’re very sunny.” 

Jisung scoffs. He trails behind Minho down the hall, towards the bathroom, Haru’s tail flicking against his arm. 

It’s been a month, but Jisung doesn’t know if he could have changed that much in a month. He wonders if Hyunjin would agree. If Jisung has made enough progress to redeem himself. Make up for his misgivings, because life is too short, and he knows that all too intimately now. 

“Do you mean that?” he asks Minho— only slightly worried about how pathetic it probably sounds. 

Minho turns to him. Cocks his head a few degrees to one side. Curious. “You make my days brighter. What more is there?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“I never lie to you, Jisungie. I’m practicing radical truth telling before my untimely demise.” 

“Are you?” Jisung winces as he says it. He doesn’t mean to be accusatory— but he wants to know. He wants Minho to tell him the truth. The full truth, anyway. 

Minho’s lips press together. He takes a long breath, eyes stuck to Jisung’s face. Lets it out. “If Seungminnie asked me if I was dying, I’d tell him. But he’s not going to ask me. No one knew I was sick.” 

“Okay. I’m sorry.” 

“You don’t have to be sorry. I want you to know everything.” Minho reaches out, then, and Jisung expects his hand to go towards Haru. Instead, it finds Jisung’s bangs— getting a bit too long— fingertips brushing the hair out of Jisung’s eyes. 

“Thank you,” Jisung says softly, his voice unsteady. He doesn’t know what he’s saying thank you for. Everything, maybe. 

“Can we dye my hair now?” Minho asks gently. He lets a bit of his smile slip into his voice. Curl onto his lips. “I’m dying to dye.” 

Jisung twists his face into a dramatic frown that he’s certain Minho can see straight through. “You’re horrible.” 

“I’m funny.” 

“Only a tiny bit.” 

Minho laughs. 

Jisung hasn’t dyed anyone’s hair since he and Hyunjin were freshmen, determined to stand out on their first day of second semester classes. Locking themselves into one of the single use bathrooms on their dorm floor, a chair dragged in from the lounge, Jisung straddling Hyunjin’s hips as he washed his hair in the sink. 

It was one of those moments that felt more exciting than it probably was— something new, and interesting— before they knew each other all too well. They could be anything. Nothing was set in stone. Jisung had a crush on Hyunjin then, because Hyunjin is everything he’ll never be, and always has been. 

When Hyunjin walks into a room, heads turn. He demands attention. Willowy, beautiful, his hair always growing past his ears. He’s talented, and fun, and he’s interesting. Dangerously so. Jisung wanted to be him, and that translated to some sort of wanting for him— because he was hormonal, and eighteen, and figuring shit out. 

He looked up at Jisung with a dangerous smile, pink slathered into his hair, and Jisung’s heart nearly stopped. But, the next day, the first day of classes, Hyunjin got a boyfriend. He’s always been good at that, too. He holds on, and loves deeply, and isn’t afraid to try over and over again. Hyunjin is a fleeting thing for almost everyone. He moves fast and doesn’t hesitate to jump. Jisung thought he was the exception to the rule. They were different. 

Minho sits on the toilet, and plays one of his shitty playlists off his phone, and bounces slightly as Jisung paints his hair purple. 

“How does it look?” he keeps asking excitedly. 

“Very purple,” Jisung keeps responding, fighting to keep the fond smile off his face. 

He’s wearing gloves, massaging his fingers against Minho’s scalp where he sits on the toilet. The smell of dye stings his eyes and nose, trapped in the bathroom. He’s too busy making sure he gets every spot to notice the door push open— something Haru likes to do. Jumping and smacking her front feet against it so it swings open, letting her in. 

She’s already on the counter, approaching the dye before Jisung notices her. 

“Haru, no!” Jisung panics, he grabs the cat around her belly, only to realize his mistake a moment later. “Ah! Fuck!” 

Minho’s mouth falls open in shock, he looks up to Jisung’s horrified face, and there’s a long few seconds before he starts laughing. He’s laughing loud enough to make Haru start wiggling around, trying to escape Jisung’s grasp. She’s only making it worse at this point. 

“Minho! It’s not funny! Your cat is going to have purple handprints on her!” 

“We’ll match!” Minho says cheerfully. He stands up off the toilet and takes Haru out of Jisung’s hands, careful to avoid the smeared dye. “Go get a washcloth, she’ll be fine.” 

Jisung hurries. He digs around in the closet to find something that isn’t too nice to ruin, rushing back and dousing it in warm water. 

Haru howls when Jisung cleans her up. She howls more when Minho sticks her in the sink and starts rubbing cat shampoo on her, making sure she’s as clean as she can be. Her hair is long enough that none of the dye reached her skin— but she’s so white that there was no chance to save the color. Two big swaths of purple on her sides. 

She sits wrapped in a towel in Minho’s arms, absolutely pissed off, her little black ears poking out of the top. Jisung is a little teary, but she’s so cute. He laughs a watery laugh. 

“Everything is okay,” Minho says. 

Jisung wishes it were. Truly.

Minho’s hair comes out dark, but undeniably purple whenever light hits it. It’s subtle, but pretty, and it fits him well. 

“What do you think?” he asks Jisung, running his fingers through his hair in front of the mirror before turning expectantly to Jisung. 

“You’re—” Jisung has a crush on him. It’s burgeoning. Something small, but hot in the center of his chest. It doesn’t have to grow— he’s always been good at quelling these things. He’s not like Hyunjin. He doesn’t fall easily. He almost prefers it this way— where he can stay in a happy middle spot, fond without becoming too entrenched. Still, there’s no need to lie. “Very pretty.” 

Minho smiles, and he only manages to get prettier. 

+59/+58 days

Staying up from sunset until sunrise is a stupid idea. It makes little sense. A good way to fuck up a sleep schedule. Jisung knows from experience. 

“I was doing this almost every day before we met,” Jisung tells Minho, sitting in lawn chairs with him in the back yard as the sun goes down. 

“Yeah, but you didn’t do it with me.” 

Fair enough. 

Fireflies start coming out. Jisung catches one in his hands, and he and Minho huddle together to watch it glow in the tiny cave he’s created around it. 

The sunset is orange and purple, a few clouds dotting the sky. Jisung takes a picture, just because it’s pretty. His nearly empty camera roll is probably thanking him lately, being fed bits and bobs. Jisung and Minho on the beach. Haru. Haru again. Haru again. Minho and Haru. Haru half-purple. A funny little dog Jisung saw on the train this morning that he wanted Minho to see. The sunset. 

Minho turns on music when they go back inside, nighttime taking over. He slides around the kitchen in his socks and dances. Urges Jisung to dance with him. He picks up Haru and makes her dance along to the beat until she starts meowing at him in complaint. Arguing. 

Jisung gets the urge to draw it. All of it. Minho’s funny little house painted yellow and pink, the birds in the flower bed, the cat dancing in the kitchen. He’s got the itch in his hands to try, but it doesn't feel right. Like he’d be intruding on something so fragile. He doesn’t have to draw everything. That’s one of the problems he’s always had— a Jisung problem. It drives him towards burnout. 

So, he dances in the kitchen with Minho, and lets his hands rest, and doesn’t feel bad about it. 

There’s dew on the grass in the morning, nipping at Jisung’s ankles, air fresh and cold. Birds are chirping. He and Minho looked at their baby birds when they got up, a little less ugly than before, but still helpless in their nest. 

The sunrise is pink and gold. Jisung takes a picture, just because it’s pretty. Between the sunset and the sunrise there’s a handful of other photos. Haru. Minho and Haru. The food Minho made at midnight. A blurry shot of Jisung’s feet he took on accident. Minho across the couch from him, not paying attention at all. The chess board when Minho loses for the fifth time on the most idiotic move Jisung has ever seen. The moon in the sky. Dew on the grass. 

+57 days

“You should just stay,” Minho says, grabbing Jisung’s wrist when he goes to leave on day fifty seven. “I can drive you home to pack some things, and you should just start staying here. It’s not worth it to pay for the train every morning.” 

Jisung’s brain malfunctions. Spits out, “I haven’t been paying, I’ve been jumping the turnstile.” 

“Still.” Minho almost looks unsure of himself, chewing on his bottom lip and averting his eyes. “I have a guest room. And Haru would like it.” He’s nervous. Jisung can tell. He wants Jisung to say yes, and he’s nervous about it. Jisung feels his heart flutter against his ribs. 

“Okay,” he says, giving Minho what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Yeah.” 

Minho smiles back, bigger and brighter. Sending Jisung’s heart off the rails. “I’ve always wanted to have a sleepover.” 

“Then, a sleepover we shall have.” 

They eat popcorn. Watch movies. Gossip, even though they don’t have much to gossip about. A sleepover. 

Jisung sleeps better in Minho’s guest bed than he does at home. Just a wall between them instead of the green line. Jisung feels more at ease like this. 

+56 days

Minho wants the police called on him. 

“You’re crazy,” Jisung says. 

“Yeah,” Minho agrees, jacking up the music on his stereo again. It’s some horrible album that Minho’s dad used to play, apparently. Something old, and incredibly underproduced. Loud. 

Haru is sequestered to the furthest room away from them, a towel stuffed under the door. She’ll be retrieved once Minho is done being a nuisance. 

Minho slides over to the lightswitch and starts flicking it on and off and shouting. Just shouting to shout. Because he’s trying to get a noise complaint. He looks absolutely batshit. Jisung’s cheeks hurt from laughing so much. 

All of Minho’s neighbors are old women— he thinks that will help him out— but it just ends up being a detriment. They all have too poor of hearing to be woken up by his ruckus. 

“Jisung,” Minho shouts, grabbing Jisung’s shoulders and shaking him lightly. “I need you to call the police on me.” 

“Come on, Minho.” 

“Please!” 

“Uh, hi. I’m trying to report a noise complaint. One of my neighbors—” Jisung has to stop talking because he’s smiling too wide. Standing in the middle of the street, watching the lights flicker on and off and Minho’s silhouette jump around the living room. Bass pounds out of the house. “Is having some sort of… party?” he finishes, hoping he doesn’t sound like he’s joking. 

“What’s the address, sir?” 

The cop stares at them blankly. He blinks. “So, can you stop making noise?” 

“Yep,” Minho nods. He’s grinning like he’s won the lottery. Jisung keeps elbowing him, but it only makes him giggle. “Sorry about that, officer.” 

“Alright.” The cop looks them both up and down for a second. “Is it just you two here?” 

“Yeah. We’re just hanging out.” 

“Okay. Don’t let it happen again.” 

“We won’t.” 

The cop nods tersely, and then he’s gone. 

Minho is almost unbearably gleeful the rest of the night.

+55 days

A Place for Lovers, nineteen sixty eight. 

A terminally ill woman that meets a man by chance and has a love affair with him for her last ten days alive. He finds out, and sticks with her until the end. Handled terribly, directed worse. 

A bit too on the nose. 

“Wow, that was a bit too on the nose,” Minho says afterwards. 

“Did you pick it on purpose to try to send me a message, Minho?” Jisung jokes, his stomach turning over. 

Minho looks at him innocently. “No. Why? Do you want to go to Italy?” 

Jisung rolls his eyes. He knows they both know that’s not what he meant. 

Neither of them push it further. 

+54 days

The purple line is deceptively fast for the amount of ground it covers. Sort of an express track from the further neighborhoods into the city. Jisung likes that. He also likes the color purple. 

Minho wears a purple shirt to ride the purple line with his purple hair. He keeps giggling about it, and Jisung keeps rolling his eyes. 

They have fun on the purple line, but Jisung thinks it’s more about the company than the train itself. 

Still, it shoves the purple up in his rankings. Just below green.

+53 days

One thing about staying in Minho’s guest bed is that Minho can wake Jisung up whenever he pleases. 

Like, for example, at seven in the morning, standing over Jisung like the reaper, Haru in his arms. Both of them staring at him with their big, wide eyes. 

“Wha?” Jisung mumbles, dragging his blanket up over his face. 

“We’re cleaning the garage. Get up.” 

“Huh?” Jisung groans, still half asleep. “Why?” 

“It’s on the list. Number eighty two.” 

“Did you just add that?” 

“Yes. This morning. Let’s go.” 

“I feel like this is a scam,” Jisung says, slowly wrapping up a garden hose in his hands. Minho pulled his car into the alley and started throwing shit on the floor, separating everything into donate and keep piles, directing Jisung what to do and where to put what. “Everyone hates cleaning the garage.” 

Minho clicks his tongue, tossing a spare roller skate over his shoulder. “It’s a right of passage, Jisung. It means I really like you if I let you help me clean the garage.” 

Jisung stares at him, and Minho stares back. Neither of them break. 

“Are you gaslighting me?” Jisung asks, green rubber stiff under his fingers. 

“No. I’m dying, Jisungie,” Minho sighs, throwing his hands up. “Would I really gaslight you?” 

Jisung takes a picture of him crouching on the dusty floor, digging through a box of gardening tools as retribution. 

+52 days

“I think I can see the big dipper.” 

“You can’t see shit, we’re way too close to the city.” 

“Okay. Let’s look at that instead,” Minho huffs. He picks himself up from where he’s laying on the roof and starts climbing up, over to the other side. Jisung cranes his neck to watch him go. Minho plops down on the other side, facing the city, skyline poking over the tops of buildings and trees. 

Jisung sighs. He makes sure his sneakers have good grip to climb, using his hands to get over the peak of the roof. Minho wanted to stargaze, but he wanted to do it on the roof, and Jisung doesn't argue with the list. The list is sacred. They just can’t see any stars from here. 

Minho sighs when Jisung sits down. He scooches a little closer, just to lean his head against Jisung’s shoulder. Sighing again. “The lights of the buildings kind of look like stars.” 

“Kind of,” Jisung agrees, trying to stay still so Minho doesn’t feel too disturbed. He’d bend over backwards for Minho to be comfortable. He wants to be comfortable for Minho. “I’ve never been in the tallest one. I know it’s a tourist trap, and I’ve lived here all my life— but I’ve never been up.” 

“Me either.” 

“You’re scared of heights, though.” 

“Maybe I wouldn’t be if you held my hand.”

“Sap,” Jisung snorts, his heart jolting in his chest. 

Minho says things like that sometimes. He flirts a little bit. It’s got to have something to do with how often they see each other— how close they’ve become. A fun game at the end of the world. Jisung is happy to indulge. He’s holding down the sparks in his chest, because there’s nowhere for them to go. It’s just Minho. 

At this point, on day fifty-two, Minho is Jisung’s best friend. Jisung never thought he’d say that, but he has now. It’s a Jisung problem, really. Along with the inkling that stargazing at artificial stars with Minho’s head on his shoulder is strangely romantic. 

Romance is just another thing, though. It’s an emotion. A feeling. Jisung can’t describe it, and he’s not experienced. This is the sort of thing that makes people cry at the end of movies. Stargazing at artificial stars with a beautiful, dying man on his shoulder. The narrative is cursed by untimely death. Fate. What have you. 

Jisung feels raw being a player in the game. A piece, living through things he only thought happened in films. Raw, painful. His throat hurts, something unbearable crawling up it. 

What makes the end of those sorts of tragedies so sad is the story to get there. Jisung just doesn’t think it's worth skipping out on the story in order to dull the sadness at the end. He’s greedy. He wants every second of Minho’s time that he can be afforded. Minho is his best friend. 

Minho doesn’t hold his hand, then, but he does loop their arms together. Sighs again. Says, “This is nice.” 

“It is,” Jisung returns, blinking the tears from his eyes. 

“Don’t be sad, Jisungie. I’m right here.” Minho tucks himself closer. Squeezes Jisung’s arm. He must be able to hear the scratch in Jisung’s voice. He knows Jisung just as well as Jisung knows him by now.

That’s the problem, is what he wants to say. But Minho isn’t a problem. This is a Jisung problem. 

Instead, he doesn’t say anything at all. 

+51 days

On day fifty one, Minho wants to go to karaoke. Jisung doesn’t really do things like that, but Minho is Minho and Jisung is Jisung, so they go. 

It’s a bar rather than one of those places with separate rooms. Jisung parks himself at the bar and tells Minho to have fun, and Minho seems to understand fine. Jisung isn’t really the ‘singing in front of others’ type, no matter how many times Hyunjin has pushed him to be. 

Minho makes fast friends with some girls that are willing to sing up tempo renditions of girl group songs with him. The girls keep feeding him shots, and fawning over him, and Minho clings the drunker he gets. Flushed from his neck to his ears, giggles running away with him, his hair messy from his hands running through it too many times. The purple comes out under the low lights at the bar. 

“One more song,” he begs Jisung, just before the place is going to close. “Sing it with me.” 

And Jisung does, because Minho is Minho. 

He laughs more than he sings, but it doesn't really matter. Minho is happy. He talks about it the entire way home, Jisung leading him with a steady hand at his waist. 

They take the green line, and Minho rests his head on Jisung’s shoulder. 

When they get back, Haru meows, and Minho meows back. He stumbles through kicking off his jeans and getting into bed, and Jisung averts his eyes from staring. 

“Are you okay now?” Jisung asks, setting water on his night stand. “Ready for bed.” 

Minho makes some sort of noise that Jisung takes as agreement. He looks up at Jisung, eyes glassy, curious as always. 

“I really like you, Jisungie.” 

“I like you too, Minho,” Jisung says, patting the blankets pulled up over Minho’s chest. It’s awkward, but when isn’t Jisung awkward? 

Minho smiles as well as he can while sloshed. It’s crooked. Endearing. “I wish things were different.” 

Jisung chokes on his tongue. It takes him a second to reboot. Voice cracking around his whisper of, “What do you mean?” 

It doesn’t matter. Minho is already asleep. Jisung holds his fingers under Minho’s nose, just to feel his breath. Because he’s paranoid, and a little stupid. Minho is breathing. Just asleep. Eyes shut peacefully. 

He’ll be just as pretty in death as he is living. Like a painting. 

Jisung forces the thought out of his head. It’s too grim. It makes him upset. He wishes things were different, too. 

+50 days

Minho is still afraid of heights when Jisung is holding his hand. 

He nearly breaks Jisung’s fingers squeezing him. It’s not romantic, because Minho is sweating, and trembling, and Jisung is at risk of losing blood flow to his appendages. 

As soon as they’re on the ground, Minho drops his hand. It’s not romantic, and Jisung’s crush stays lying dormant in his chest. Fond and happy, just how it is. 

“Well, now we can say we did it!” Minho says cheerfully. Then he turns around and vomits in a trash can on the sidewalk. 

Jisung rubs his back, already pulling out a pack of gum from his pocket. 

It’s not romantic, but that’s probably for the best. 

+49 days

Minho decides he wants to win the lottery before he dies, so they buy scratch offs. 

They don’t win anything, so they buy another set. 

Jisung wins, but Minho doesn’t, so he buys one more. And another. Another. 

He wins a tenth of what he’s spent, but he wins, and he laughs in that wild way that Jisung loves so much, where he sounds half-crazed and out of his mind.

+48 days

At Long Last Love, nineteen seventy five. A jukebox musical romance with a much happier ending than the last movie they watched. It’s not horrible. Just a little campy. Maybe Jisung just likes love stories. 

“I felt like we needed to make up for the terrible love story from last time,” Minho says. 

Yes. Jisung does like love stories. “I like love stories.” 

“Me too.” 

Haru hops off of Jisung’s lap and screams at them, just because she can. His purple hair is scruffy from where Jisung has been petting her for the last hour. 

“What?” Minho asks her. “You’re very needy, you little gremlin.” 

Meow. 

“Meow,” Minho imitates. He waves at Jisung. “Tell her, Jisung.” 

Jisung has never argued with Haru. That’s Minho’s realm. But, Minho is looking at him like he’s expecting something big, and Jisung feels the urge to perform. “Meow?” 

Meow. Haru replies. 

Minho scoffs. Shaking his head. “She’ll never learn.” 

If they were in a musical, this is where the next song would start. 

+47 days

On day forty seven, the first baby bird leaves. 

They wake up in the morning and it’s gone. It was getting big, had all of its feathers. A food hog, from what Jisung could tell. The parents would bring plenty, but one of the two would always eat more. That’s why it left first. One of those things— the life cycle. 

Jisung sits near the window and stares at the other baby. It’s not unwell, but it’s not particularly well either. It’s smaller and more shy. Left alone. Jisung feels bad for it. He wishes he could intervene— do something to help. 

“Do you think he’ll make it?” Jisung murmurs when Minho comes to bring him tea. They’ve been drinking a lot of tea. Jisung has grown fond of it. 

Minho hums. He bends closer to the window, studying the baby. “We’ll have to take it day by day. We can bury it if it doesn’t.” 

Jisung doesn’t want to bury it. He doesn’t want the second baby to die. He wants to stomp his foot and tell Minho the same— stubborn. No. It’s not dying. Jisung doesn’t want it to. 

That’s not how life works. Sometimes things die before they’re ready. 

+46 days

On day forty six, Minho goes to the doctor, and Jisung sits at the kitchen table and waits for him to get home.

Minho takes a nap when he does. Haru sleeps curled up at his feet, like she can tell something is wrong. 

Jisung feels lonely when it’s just him and the bird. 

+45 days

“It’s time to meet Kim Seungmin,” Minho says on day forty four. Ominously. Wearing a baseball hat and a nondescript, light blue t-shirt. 

“Ominous,” Jisung says, chewing the food Minho made him for breakfast. 

Minho isn’t eating, he’s just pacing around the kitchen, wringing his hands. He sits down when Jisung kicks out the chair and pointedly looks at it, raising his eyebrows. Minho sighs, setting his forearms on the table. “He can’t know that I’m dying.” 

“I’m not going to tell him you’re dying,” Jisung says. He swallows. Minho is chewing on his lip. He’s really nervous about this. 

“He’s going to think you’re my boyfriend,” Minho says. 

Jisung blinks. “Okay.” 

“He’s annoying,” Minho warns. “And stupid.” 

“I like him already.” 

Kim Seungmin is… well— 

Jisung can’t really get a read yet. Seungmin refuses to give Minho a hug, because Minho purposefully wore the opposing team's colors to this baseball game, just to piss him off. Minho laughs delightedly when Seungmin scowls at him. He laughs harder when Seungmin hits him. 

Seungmin sticks out his hand and gives Jisung a firm, professional handshake, despite the fact that he’s decked out in team gear and drinking a beer. A paradox of vibes. Jisung follows along as Minho and Seungmin talk. Catch up. He gives them space to themselves, but Minho is always there, touching Jisung’s arm to keep him close, or engaged. Seungmin keeps watching that, too. Sharp, curious eyes— completely different from Minho’s curious face. 

Busy with work— that’s the consensus on why Seungmin rarely sees Minho. He seems to keep up, though. He knows that Minho quit his job, but he thinks Minho is still looking for a new job. He asks how Jisung and Minho met, and Minho says they met on the online ads forum, and Seungmin makes a face. 

Once the game starts, Seungmin is completely enthralled. He’s yelling, and standing up, and making comments about how plays are total bullshit. 

Minho does his best to annoy Seungmin the entire time. Jisung thinks it’s funny that Minho would say that Seungmin is annoying, when all he’s seen is Minho being a menace to Seungmin. 

They’re like brothers. Jisung didn’t think it was something he was worried about, but he finds himself feeling relieved. 

At the seventh inning stretch, Minho gets up from between them to go to the bathroom, leaving Jisung and Seungmin alone. 

Jisung isn’t good with strangers. 

“So, are you fucking him?” Seungmin asks dryly, arm slung over the back of Minho’s seat. He doesn’t even look at Jisung when he speaks. 

“What?” Jisung coughs. Laughs awkwardly. “No.” 

Seungmin eyes him. Looks Jisung up and down. “You don’t have to lie to me. Really.” 

“I’m not lying to you.” 

“Mhm,” Seungmin nods. He clearly doesn’t believe Jisung. “Whatever. I’m not really the type to meddle— just don’t fuck him up. I’m sure you know how great he is.” 

“I—” Jisung stumbles. He could keep denying. Telling Seungmin the truth that he doesn’t want to believe. But, he’s telling the truth anyways when he says, “I know.” 

“Good,” Seungmin says curtly. He takes a long inhale through his nose. 

Jisung looks at him for a second, trying not to stare. He feels almost guilty about it. Like he’s playing a prank Seungmin doesn’t know about. Dishonest. Seungmin is sitting here, in the dark, and he doesn’t even know. Minho will be dead in forty five days, and Seungmin doesn’t know. 

There’s something nice about it, Jisung guesses. Seungmin seems stressed with work. He’s high strung, obviously. He cares a lot about Minho. Jisung knows that Minho just wants everything to be the same for the end— with Seungmin at least. Jisung can respect it, even if he could never do it. 

He’s rolled it over in his head. If he found out that he was dying— Hyunjin would be his first call. Even now, when they’re distant. But, especially before. Jisung would never have the patience to keep it to himself long enough to work out a plan to live out the end the perfect way. He’d panic, and overreact, and call Hyunjin. They’d cry together, and Hyunjin would try to figure it out, and fail. Jisung would be depressed. 

It would be sad. Jisung is glad he’s not the one dying, but he also hates that he isn’t. 

He’d take it from Minho, if he could. If someone had to, and he got to choose. Minho has so much— he’s so much. 

Jisung is glad that he isn’t the one dying, but he’d also take that burden from Minho if he could. He wouldn’t be glad about it, but he’d be glad that Minho gets to live. Minho is great, just like Seungmin says. He’s everything. 

“Are you crying?” Seungmin asks, very bluntly. He’s very blunt, but not in the same way Minho is. They make sense together. 

“No,” Jisung laughs, sniffing and sitting up straighter. “Sorry, I have horrible allergies in the summer.” 

Seungmin accepts that as an answer, crossing his arms, tapping his foot. “So, do you know anything about baseball?” 

“Nothing.” 

And Seungmin tells him. It’s an olive branch. An offering. Jisung takes it, even though his head spins trying to keep up with everything Seungmin is saying. He listens even after Minho comes back, and pushes a giant pretzel into his hands, and another beer into Seungmin’s. 

He doesn’t ask what he missed, he just settles in and steals a portion of Jisung’s food, a smile on his face. 

“I like Kim Seungmin,” Jisung decides on the train home. 

“That’s good,” Minho says. His head is on Jisung’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to pressure you, but I thought maybe you two might be friends after I’m gone.” Minho pauses. “Well, forget I said that. I don’t want you to be guilty if it doesn’t work. Like, only be friends if you want to, not because of me.” 

Jisung’s heart goes a little faster than normal. He hopes Minho can’t hear it. 

“Seriously, Jisungie,” Minho sits up, and Jisung misses the weight of him immediately. “Sorry I said that. I really don’t want you to feel pressured to hold onto something because you think I want it. If you do that, I’ll scorn you from the afterlife.” 

“It’s fine,” Jisung says. He’s not worried about the guilt. Not now, at least. He probably would have spiraled about it afterwards, if Minho didn’t correct himself— it’s just that he doesn’t think Seungmin will like him much after the fact. Knowing that Jisung sat next to him and let him talk about baseball, and didn’t tell him that Minho is dying. “I’ll be fine.” 

+44 days

Sometimes, Minho doesn’t want to do anything at all. 

Day forty four is one of those days. Jisung has a feeling it has something to do with Seungmin, but he doesn’t ask. 

He figures it’s okay to let Minho do nothing at all, because they’re more than halfway through their list, and there’s not much proactive to do when you’re dying, except to die. 

+43 days

On day forty three, Jisung wakes up and the second baby bird is gone. It didn’t even give him the chance to say goodbye. 

There’s something poetic there.

+42 days

“This is crazy. You’re crazy. We can’t do this.” 

Jisung’s worries are drowned out by Minho’s maniacal laughter. The clank of his belt as he pulls it off. 

Minho lured him here on false pretenses. He said he wanted to see the river in the moonlight, so he drove Jisung to a secluded portion on the edge of town where the water is still, and started taking off his clothes. Jisung should have known when Minho brought towels with him.

“You don’t have to come with me,” Minho says, wiggling his pants down his legs. “But I’m going.” 

Jisung lets out an incredulous breath, but his mouth goes dry before he can complain about anything else. Minho’s legs are very bare, and very much in front of him— and Minho is taking off his shirt. Jisung tears his eyes away.

“Fuck you, I’m going too,” Jisung says, already wrestling with the button on his jeans.

His finger keeps slipping over the metal, hands shaky. He shucks down his pants. Pulls off his shirt, breath catching for a moment when he surfaces to find Minho completely naked in front of him. Soft at the edges, smooth skin, hip bones, and Jisung doesn’t look further, because he’s trying to be respectful. Very respectful of the most gorgeous man in this universe— a title Minho certainly deserves. Jisung blushes from his ears down. He hopes the moonlight doesn’t show enough of his cheeks for Minho to notice. Minho just grins, and then turns to run for the water.

“Wait! You’re cheating!” Jisung yelps, tripping over his boxers when they’re halfway down his legs, trying to catch up. He catches himself with fingertips in dirt, shoving forward with his legs to splash into the water after Minho. Minho’s loud laughter rings out across the opening.

It’s a steep drop off after the bank. Jisung’s foot slips, and he ends up completely underwater, flailing to find the surface. This water must be filthy. He’s probably going to pick up a parasite and die, and Minho will be to blame for challenging him to a skinny dip in the middle of the night.

A hand wraps around his bicep, pulling him to air. Jisung gasps, his hair plastered to his face, covering his eyes. Minho giggles at him.

“Don’t laugh, I almost died.”

“I’d never laugh about something like that,” Minho lies. He drags Jisung a bit closer to the bank, where he can put his feet down. Brings a hand up to move Jisung’s hair from his eyes.

Jisung pokes out his bottom lip, river water rolling over his tongue. Minho is so near to him. He hasn’t stopped touching Jisung, just a light hold on his arm, keeping him close. Jisung can see Minho’s collarbones pooling with water, reflecting light from the moon. Minho is smiling— of course— he’s always smiling.

“We’ve done it.”

“Done what?” Jisung asks, forcing his eyes away from Minho’s lips. There’s water rolling down his chin. Slow moving drops.

Minho licks over his bottom lip, smirk tugging up one side of his mouth. “Swam in the river without clothes on. It’s list item seventy.”

“Why can’t you just say skinny dipped?”

“Doesn’t sound as pretty.”

Jisung huffs. The water around them makes soft noises, every twitch of muscle making ripples. Jisung was so sure he was being still. He feels frozen. Captured under Minho’s gaze on his own free will. Nowhere else to be.

"What do you think our birds are doing?” Jisung breathes, because he doesn’t want to let his thoughts run away further than they’ve already strayed. The seed in his chest that he’s kept locked down, threatening to split across the middle and sprout something new. He can’t be allowed that. It would end up killing him. Poisoned from the inside out.

“Probably sleeping,” Minho nods up towards the sky.

“Do you think they’re okay?”

Minho’s forehead crinkles, but he doesn’t quit smiling. His thumb presses into the soft skin at the inside of Jisung’s arm. “Why wouldn’t they be?”

“I don’t know. I think I’m becoming more pessimistic as I age.”

“I think you’ve become brighter since we met, Jisungie.” Minho squeezes his arm one last time and then backs up. Pushes himself to float on his back in a way that leaves only his head and his toes poking above the water. He looks ridiculous. Cute. He reminds Jisung of Haru for no reason at all. “I’m being honest again. Could you tell?”

Jisung sinks a bit lower, so he’s submerged to his shoulders. He hopes Minho is right. He wants Minho to be right.

It’s not like he’s changed much since they met. Has he? He barely remembers anymore. Before Minho was a lot of days bleeding together, and nights staying up failing to work. He hated himself, and he hated himself for his fight with Hyunjin. He might still hate himself now— he just hasn’t thought about it much at all. He’s been too busy waiting for Minho to die. Hoping Minho doesn’t.

“I trust you,” Jisung says. “You’re the only one that sees me every day.”

“Haru sees you every day too. She’s been whispering in my ear at night. Jisungie is so happy lately. Jisungie looks pretty when he smiles.”

There Jisung goes blushing again. “She didn’t say that.”

Minho looks at him very seriously. “She did. Are you calling my daughter a liar?”

Jisung shakes his head, something terrifying crawling up his throat. He thinks it’s from that tiny seed he planted between his ribs on day fifty two. Artificial stars and a crush that was never meant to get bigger. Sprouting. Vines weaving up his windpipe.

He’s always been good at ignoring things like that. Hyunjin is the one that falls fast, not Jisung. Jisung has trouble attaching to people. People have trouble attaching to him. A Jisung problem.

Life is so fragile. The birds they watched through the window could be dead now. They could be alive. Today— for now— he and Minho are both here. Together. Hearts beating.

That’s enough. Jisung doesn’t need any more. 

+41 days

The blue line sucks. 

It’s too long. The car they’re in smells weird. 

“I hate the blue line,” Jisung decides at the end. “The purple line is so much better.”

Minho smiles like he’s won the lottery. Which he did, on day forty nine, technically. “Thank god you understand me, Jisungie.” 

+40 days

On day forty, Minho and Jisung plant flowers where their birds had trampled them from repeatedly landing on their nest. 

Minho unhooks the basket from the window and sets it in the grass. He taps on the window at Haru inside, and Haru meows at them, muffled by the glass. She looks angry through the glare.

They went to a gardening center earlier in the day, picked out the best flowers. All pink, of course. To match the door. There’s a mix that neither of them know anything much about. The man who helped them seemed sure that they would be perfect. Told them exactly how often to water them. He didn’t even flinch when Minho said, “We need some flowers for outside our house.”

Of course, he could be thinking they’re roommates, or friends, or brothers. So many things. But, Jisung would like to imagine that he assumed something else. Something more. Something Jisung never thought possible for himself, given everything.

He’s never been good at relationships. All the ones he’s had have ended in him being dumped. A mismatch in one thing or another. Jisung wasn’t trying hard enough. But, with Minho, even though they’re not anything, he thinks maybe in another universe they could be.

Dangerous thoughts to have. Jisung doesn’t even have a full fledged crush. Just a little one. He’s fond. That’s all.

Still, he doesn’t mind if other people think otherwise. It’s an ego boost. Minho is beautiful, and bright, and magnetic. The fact that Jisung could be his partner, in anyone’s eyes, is enough for him.

Even on his knees, up to his elbows in potting soil, carefully arranging the flowers in the bucket. His tongue pokes out as he focuses. Jisung is a little mesmerized by it. The easy air that Minho demands follows him. The flex of his arms and the freckle on his nose. His hair shines bright purple in the sun, and his cheeks are flushed from working.

It hits Jisung hard, then— like the feeling of a football being launched straight at his chest and sending him sprawling on his ass, wind knocked clean from his lungs, disoriented and dizzy— how full of life Minho is.

The picture of being alive, in every sense of the word. Complex, and unique, and living. Warm, and human, and alive. Alive. Minho is bursting at the seams with life.

Jisung thinks he might be sick. He chokes on nothing at all, and it sends him into an embarrassing little coughing fit. Hunched over, tears welling in his eyes from the force of it. Minho hurries to pat his back, eyes wide.

“Jisungie, woah. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Jisung croaks, a few tears spilling over. He knows they’re from a bit more than just the coughing. “Sorry. I forgot how to breathe for a second, I guess.”

Minho hums like he understands. Jisung thinks maybe he does. He thinks Minho knows more than he lets on, but he keeps quiet because he knows that’s what Jisung wants.

There will never be anyone else like Minho for Jisung. There will never be anyone else like Minho, period. Jisung doesn’t know how he’s supposed to cope with that. Maybe he isn’t. Maybe he just needs to accept it.

+39 days

Dünyayı Kurtaran Adam, nineteen eighty two. A film that shamelessly and gratuitously rips clips and sound effects from popular science fiction movies and attempts to pass them off as its own. It’s ridiculous. Silly. The two main characters definitely have some sort homosexual tension. Or, maybe Jisung is just projecting.

“I think they’re gay,” Jisung says.

“Oh, definitely,” Minho agrees.

Maybe Jisung isn’t projecting. Maybe he is, but Minho is projecting too. He doesn’t know which is preferred. 

+38 days

On day thirty-eight, Minho wants to stay up for twenty four hours straight.

Jisung used to do this in university. Not for fun, but because he was always behind on his projects. Stuck in the studio for hours at a time while Hyunjin slept on the desk next to him. Hyunjin always finished his projects on time, but he’d stay behind with Jisung anyway. He was always carefully protective like that. Afraid Jisung would break if he left him alone for too long.

They start at six in the morning. Stay up until six in the morning.

Ten games of chess, of which Minho wins two. A dozen new photos for Jisung’s lonely camera roll. Too much coffee. Dancing— because Minho insists it will wake them up. (It doesn’t, it just makes Jisung whine more). Minho dozes off while standing up at one point, and then Jisung laughs so hard he cries.

At six in the morning, they get in bed. Minho’s bed. Minho on the right and Jisung on the left, Haru curled up between their legs, and they go to sleep.

+37 days

On day thirty-seven, they stay in bed all day. Six in the morning to six in the morning. The time they spend sleeping after their all nighter counts. 

“Before we met,” Jisung says around noon. A frozen meal Minho got out of bed to pop in the microwave sitting on the bed between them. “I would do this all the time. Just bed rotting, because I had nothing better to do.” 

“That’s why you answered the ad,” Minho says. Not a question, just a fact. A puzzle piece fitting into place. 

Jisung swallows his bite of food, leaning back on the pillows. “Yeah. I think so.” 

Minho turns to Jisung, legs folded neatly in front of him. Thoughtful, as he so often is. “I placed the ad because I didn’t want to die lonely. I know you asked me at the beginning— what’s killing me— but, that’s not really the thing that matters. I placed the ad because I didn’t want to die lonely.” 

“I answered it because I was lonely,” Jisung says. “So, so lonely.” 

“And now we’re not. Neither of us are lonely.” 

“I’ll be lonely when you’re gone.” Jisung’s words ring out slightly too loud. Hanging in the air between them. The unsaid thing that neither of them have been willing to touch. It feels important, though. In the grand scheme of things. This isn’t fair for either of them. Minho has to die. Jisung has to live without him. It’s tragic on both sides.

Minho rolls his lips together. He slides his hand across the space between them, but pauses before he makes contact with Jisung’s hand. Jisung wishes he would just do it. If he did it, Jisung could allow himself to indulge on Minho’s behalf. 

“I think you should call your friend,” Minho says. Clears his throat. “Hyunjin.” 

“I—” Jisung starts, ready to argue without even thinking about it.

“It doesn’t have to be today. Or tomorrow. But, just, sometime— before I go.” 

Jisung turns his face to the ceiling. He swallows thickly. He should call Hyunjin. He needs to. He misses him. It’s just too sore today. And it will be tomorrow. And maybe for the next week. Eventually, though, Jisung will get used to the idea. Before Minho goes. Sure. 

“Okay. That’s a good idea.” 

Minho seems satisfied with that answer. He lets his fingers brush over the back of Jisung’s hand, but he doesn’t hold on.

At five in the evening, with just over twelve hours left to lay in bed all day, Minho and Jisung lay facing each other, talking about everything and nothing at all. 

Everything left to know. 

Minho’s parents died too young. In a way, Minho feels at peace with that. He was close with them. His mother was kind. His father was warm. 

He met Kim Seungmin in university, similarly to how Jisung met Hyunjin. Jisung tells Minho about meeting Hyunjin, too. About how hot they burned until Jisung hit a wall. How Hyunjin would pick him up and dust him off, lighting him back up just to hit another wall again. 

It was inevitable that Hyunjin got tired of that. Jisung tells Minho that. He tells Minho that he answered the ad because he needed to figure out how to get back up by himself. He spares the gory details. The things Hyunjin said that cut too deep to be untrue. Selfishly, Jisung doesn’t want Minho to think poorly of him.

Minho tells Jisung about how he’d always get picked last at recess, because the kids thought he was weird. They were probably right, Jisung says, but he’d still pick Minho first, if he had the chance. Minho laughs.

And once they’ve run out of things to talk about— or, at least, they’re too sleepy to continue running their mouths— lying on their sides, facing each other, just breathing. Minho’s face is shadowed in soft light, his cheek slightly smushed against his pillow. Beautiful. 

“I wouldn’t mind doing this more often,” Minho says. 

Jisung knows what he means. Spending time like this, together. Jisung wouldn’t mind it either. He aches for it, actually. All these things he can never have. Laying in bed with Minho. Waking up next to him. Knowing him forever. It hurts, like a shot taken out of his chest, wind whistling through the hole left behind, freezing him to the marrow of his bones. 

Some things aren’t meant to be forever— they’re meant to be until the end of the line. Like the train. There’s always an end of the line. Everyone always has to get off. Forevers are a luxury they don’t have. They have thirty six days left. 

“Me too,” Jisung says, quietly. His voice doesn’t shake. He’s taking it day by day.

+36 days

On day thirty-six, Minho and Jisung walk past a bar advertising an open mic night on their way back to the train from a park Minho wanted to visit. 

Minho pulls Jisung inside, and sits them at a table in the corner. He doesn’t want to participate, apparently— he just wants to watch other people embarrass themselves. Jisung gets secondhand joy just from being near Minho’s smile these days. Today is no exception. Minho is nearly bouncing up and down, so happy to be in this moment. 

Jisung’s leg keeps jiggling under the table, restless energy with nowhere to go. He’s chewing his bottom lip bloody, listening to other people sing. 

He excuses himself to the bathroom during a gap. Stops by the bar on the way back. Ends up on the tiny stage with a microphone in his hand, because he’s feeling reckless and desperate to make Minho’s smile be the result of him and him alone.

“Uh, hey,” Jisung says into the mic. It squeals. He winces. “I’m Jisung. This one is for— well— my friend who’s going to die with the shittiest music taste known to man.” He chances a look up and finds Minho beaming, eyes filled with stars— non-artificial. 

Jisung cues the bartender to start the track he asked for. Never Tear Us Apart by INXS, one of the shitty eighties songs on Minho’s shitty playlist. One of Minho’s favorites. He has it on almost every shitty playlist he makes. 

Hyunjin will die when Jisung tells him about this. He’s been begging Jisung to sing in public for years. Jisung has staunchly refused. But this is for Minho. It’s different. 

His voice shakes on the first line. He laughs into the second. Corrects himself. Ignores the eyes on him, squeezes his shut. He’s heard this goddamn song enough to know it by heart. The swoops in his voice matching the music. He’s a good singer, he just doesn’t care to do anything with it usually. 

Then he lets go. Tips his head to the ceiling and lets his body bounce along with the song. Making a fool of himself, because when else is he going to be able to do this? He’s alive, and he’s here, and he’s dancing around on a makeshift stage singing his heart out for the boy he wants to impress— and this is just— it. This is all he’s got. 

The song ends, and Jisung stands, arms at his sides, out of breath. He smiles, and folds himself into a deep bow. 

Only then does Minho stand up and wolf whistle. He screams, and cheers, and makes a fucking fool of himself in return. 

Jisung feels alive.

+35 days

Minho compares almost any animal he sees to Haru on a day to day basis. 

“Jisungie, look, that squirrel looks just like Haru. How cute!” or, “Oh, look at that fish, that’s what Haru would look like as a fish.” 

Going to the zoo is a new sort of challenge. Minho gasps and coos. He declares that anything cute looks like his cat. He says a moth with purple wings looks like Haru, because she has purple on her sides, too. 

It’s stupid, and harmless, and Jisung really, really likes Minho. 

He’s choked up by vines and leaves, all sprouting out of the seed in his chest, nowhere else to go. Wrapped around his heart, threatening to suffocate him. 

“Jisungie,” Minho whispers in the rodent house. “That one looks like you.” 

A baby capybara, sticking close to her mother’s legs. She’s unbearably cute in a way Jisung could never hope to achieve. 

Jisung pokes Minho in his side, and then leans closer to him, just to suck up some of his warmth. Small things he’ll get his fill of while he has the chance.

+34 days

Minho is tired on day thirty-four, but he pretends he isn’t. 

He laughs and prods at Jisung all day. Watches over Jisung’s shoulder as Jisung boils corn on the cob for them, and then as he grills it. Minho has never had it before. He wanted to try.

They use enough butter that it drips down their hands as they eat. 

“Thank you for today, Jisung,” Minho says when his cob is bitten clean. “I felt very human.”

+33 days

Jisung’s great, great aunt dies on a Monday. The funeral is on a Wednesday. Jisung receives a call from his father for the first time all year, asking— no, telling him— that he’s expected to be in attendance. The rest of his family unit can’t make it, so it’s important that someone does. 

Minho insists that he’s okay with coming along. He wants to, actually. He adds, funeral that isn’t mine, to the end of his list. And Jisung can’t argue with him about the list. It’s sacred. 

So, he and Minho rent suits. Minho’s is powder blue, Jisung’s is dark brown. Minho wanted to match, but Jisung knows his father will be hearing about this, so he’d rather not be skewered for his color palette as well as his bad attitude. 

They take the train, because it’s a habit at this point. The middle car. Green line, transferring to the purple line to head north. It would be faster to drive, but they like the train. 

They look silly on the train. Buttoned up, hair done properly. Minho’s purple is still hanging on, though it’s duller than it once was. Jisung keeps telling him he’ll attract a honeybee with the amount of color he’s got on his person. Minho just seems delighted by that fact. 

They get off the train at the end of the line, and walk to the funeral home. A brick building smushed between a church and a liquor store. On par for Jisung’s family. 

There’s a few people lingering outside, all vaguely recognizable to Jisung, though none of them attempt to talk to him. He doesn’t mind, he doesn’t remember anyone’s name. He holds the door open for Minho, getting a strong blast of freezing cold air from inside that makes his eyes water. 

Funeral homes always smell strange. Probably to keep away the lingering scent of death. This one smells overwhelmingly of artificial roses. As if a cheap perfume is being pushed out through the vents, making everything sting. Jisung feels itchy immediately. Minho sneezes. 

Jisung doesn’t know how these things work. The last funeral he went to was for his cousin, and that was the other side of the family. The energy was different. He cared more to be there. 

He shuffles to the end of the line, waiting to look at the casket. An odd sort of ritual, really. Everyone taking turns staring at a body. Waxy skin and painted face. For people who pray, maybe that’s fine— but he and Minho don’t believe in god. And, at the same time, if he doesn’t participate, he’ll be frowned upon. Shouldn’t the dead be left to rest instead of subjected to a parade of people who are probably only here because they have to be? 

Pessimistic. Jisung is just pessimistic because his best friend is dying. 

If Jisung were to die, he wouldn’t want anyone that doesn’t care to talk to him to be there. It could be just Minho and Hyunjin. Minho could bring Seungmin, if he wanted. They could stare at him if they want, but that seems grim. Standing there, talking about whatever Jisung didn’t get to do. Whatever he did. 

Hyunjin would cry, and then he’d make some teary joke about how Jisung would make fun of him for crying. Jisung would, for the record. 

The worst part about all of this, though, is the fact that maybe she’s here with them. Spirit hanging above her casket, waiting to be released. Judging every person that comes to stare. Becoming frustrated with the ones that never cared to check up. 

Jisung doesn’t deserve a place at this funeral. Most of these people probably don’t. But, is that better for Aunt Sooyeun than being alone as she lays in her casket?  

Minho motions Jisung to step up with him. They stand shoulder to shoulder, looking into the shiny black shell they’ve wrapped his great, great aunt in. She looks peaceful, but it would be hard not to with a natural death. The chalky foundation on her skin sticks to the tiny hairs on her face. She was old. Very old. 

“Sorry you died,” Jisung murmurs. He doesn’t know what else to say. 

Minho elbows him. “Jisung, you can’t just tell people you’re sorry they died.” 

“Why not? She can’t hear me.” 

“What if her soul is hanging in the ceiling?” 

Jisung tips his head up towards the paneled ceiling. The bright lights shining over the platform they’re standing on. “Aunt Sooyeun, I’m sorry I said I’m sorry you died. I hope you get to escape the ceiling soon and go somewhere better than this.”  

“You’re bad at this,” Minho hisses.

“What would you say?” Jisung hisses back. 

Minho clears his throat. He adjusts his tie. From the outside, it probably looks like he’s overcome with emotion. Crying, maybe. He takes a deep breath. Says, “Rest in peace.” 

Jisung stares at him. Minho’s lips press together in a tight line. He nods, and then grabs Jisung’s elbow and leads him away, making room for the next people to approach. 

They go and sit in the back row of the chairs lined up in the room. No one pays attention to them. None of these people would earn places at their funerals either. 

There’s speeches, and finger foods, and Minho sneezes again because of the smell of the place. There’s talk of how everyone will miss Aunt Sooyeun. Talk of how god knows when it’s someone’s time to leave. What a shitty idea. Jisung hates things like that. It’s just another way to cope. 

Sometimes people just die. All the time, actually. It’s not chosen by god, or a destiny that some are meant to fulfill— people just die. That’s it. 

Jisung excuses himself to the bathroom after the service. He holds his hands on the edges of the sink and stares at himself in the mirror. The red flush in his nose from getting worked up. The stiffness of his hair, brushed off his face and sprayed still. He looks like an imitation of himself. Pretending. 

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. Then, a little louder, “Fuck!” 

A man comes out of the stall, eyeing him. Jisung might have met him before. He doesn’t really know. 

“Sorry,” he says, giving an awkward little wave before making his escape. He wants to get out of here. He’s tired. He doesn’t want to think about the pitfalls of dying anymore. 

Minho is against the wall, waiting, trapped in a conversation with Jisung’s uncle. One of the only people Jisung knows well enough to speak to, ironically. 

He slides up to them, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

“I was a friend of Sooyeun. I saw her at the corner store every day,” Minho is saying. 

“Right,” Jisung’s uncle nods. He looks skeptical, but he doesn’t push. His eyebrows raise when he sees Jisung. “Oh, Jisung, you’re here. Good. Do you two… know each other?” He waves his hand between Jisung and Minho. 

“Oh, we just met today. On the train, actually. I asked the other guy in a suit if he was heading here,” Minho lies easily. Stories rolling off his tongue. “I have a good feeling we’ll become fast friends, though. Your nephew is a very interesting young man.” 

Jisung’s uncle hums. The three of them stand in stilted silence for a handful of seconds afterwards, until his uncle pats his hands on his thighs, says, “Well, I’ve got to continue saying hello. Good to see you, Jisung.” 

Jisung gives him a tight smile. He waits until his uncle is far enough away before he turns back to Minho. “Let’s go. I’m sick of this.” 

“Oh, thank god. I almost told him I’m Irish, I don’t even know why. It was just about to slip out.” 

“Okay,” Jisung cracks a smile. Minho is too good at getting it out of him, no matter how dramatic he’s being. He loops his arm with Minho’s, and they escape out the back. With the smokers. One of Jisung’s cousins he can’t remember the name of staring after them as they slip away, cigarette burning in her hand. 

Jisung doesn’t feel like he can breathe until they’re back on the train. First car, just because. Minho takes off his jacket and slings it over his arm, pulling his white dress shirt out of his slacks, huffing when he sits down. He lets Jisung have the window. 

“I’m not having a funeral,” Minho announces. “It’s so grim.” 

“What’s going to happen to you?” Jisung asks, not moving his head where it’s resting in his hand, staring at the city passing by. 

“It’s all drawn up. My attorney will take care of it. You don’t have to worry about that.” 

“What if I want to?” 

“Jisungie,” Minho says softly. Jisung still doesn’t look. He just closes his eyes. “You’ll know when you can come see me. All of that is accounted for too. You can lay on my grave and stare at the sky. That’s all I need.” 

“Alright. As long as I’m not left out of it.” Jisung sniffs. “I’ve come to care about you a bit too much, Lee Minho.” 

Minho’s hand finds Jisung’s knee. Warm and firm. He squeezes once, and doesn’t move his hand afterwards. “I’ve come to care about you a bit too much, too, Han Jisung.” 

+32 days

Super Mario Bros., nineteen ninety three. 

“We used to have this on VHS when I was a kid,” Jisung says, scooching slightly closer to Minho under their shared blanket. They’re not quite cuddling, but they’re not not cuddling either. Sitting with their thighs pressed together, using the jacked up air conditioning as an excuse, as if they couldn’t just go turn it down. 

“No way. Maybe it was fate that brought you back. Brought to me just to watch this shitty movie again,” Minho sighs. He uses the exhale to melt closer to Jisung, leaning into him. Closer to cuddling than not.

“No, I think fate works for the city. They’re making so much off our train fare.” 

“The mayor has fate on speed dial? Should we ask for a takeback on the death thing?” Minho fits his head into the crook of Jisung’s neck, making himself comfortable. 

“It’s just as bad an idea as asking god, I guess,” Jisung murmurs. His hand is laying half in Minho’s lap, half in his own. He doesn’t dare move it. Fragile things. 

“Okay,” Minho hums. “We’ll send an email tomorrow. I’m still slightly afraid of Italians, so maybe this will fix me.” 

“If the tiramisu didn’t cure you, I highly doubt this will.” 

It doesn’t.

+31 days

They have their suits on rent until Saturday, so they decide to get a bit more use out of them.

Seungmin is involved, because he’s the only person either of them know that has connections in high places. He’s the only person either of them know at all, really. Jisung hasn’t called Hyunjin yet. Seungmin calls in a favor, and gets Minho and Jisung a reservation at an obscenely fancy restaurant downtown. One of those places in the top floor of a high rise where dress code is mandatory. 

“You owe me,” Seungmin tells Minho. Minho laughs at him. 

They get dressed separately. Get ready separately. Minho shouts from his room when he’s ready, “Jisungie! I’m prepared for the big reveal!” 

It’s ridiculous. Stupid. It feels like prom, or something. 

They meet in the hall. Minho pretends to stumble at the sight of Jisung, catching himself on the wall with one arm, legs shaky beneath him. So stupid. Jisung is so, so fond of him. He can’t quit smiling, smacking Minho in the chest. 

Minho rights himself with an equally bright smile. He straightens his lapels. Brushes his hands over the front of Jisung’s jacket. Says, “You look great, Jisungie. Very handsome.” 

“Shut up,” Jisung has to look away, blush crawling up his neck. “You look good too. You always do.” 

“I do?” Minho perks up goofily. A dog chasing a bone. 

“You know that.” 

“Ah,” Minho clicks his tongue. “But, I like when you say it. Come on, we’ll miss the train.” 

They won’t. The train comes every ten minutes. But Jisung is happy to take the excuse. 

Minho picks Haru up, gives her a big kiss between her ears, and then they’re off. 

They don’t miss the train. They make it perfectly on time, actually. Sit in the middle, squeezed into each other’s space. Minho’s hand edges closer to Jisung’s lap but never quite makes it there. 

And on their way to the restaurant, Minho’s hand lingers at Jisung’s lower back, keeping him close in the throngs of people in the shopping district. 

He holds the door for Jisung. He talks to the host for Jisung. He pulls out Jisung’s chair for him. And, oh, Jisung realizes. This feels like a date. 

Minho looks at him from across the table, and raises his fancy glass of expensive champagne, and his eyes sparkle, and this feels like a date. 

Jisung’s heart stutters. He manages to raise his glass, and drink, and his eyes don’t leave Minho the entire time. 

In another universe, maybe, this is a date. A normal one where no one will die at the end. Before anything can turn into love. Minho smiles at Jisung like he’s something precious, and Jisung blushes. Their feet knock together under the table. 

Dangerous to think that way. Jisung doesn’t know if he cares anymore. What else is there to care about, anyway, if everyone is going to die eventually? Shouldn’t he take it day by day for now. Hold onto the good before it goes away? 

At the risk of deepening his own pain, he thinks he can afford to indulge. 

Bubbly. Jisung can feel the champagne in his chest like that. Hot and exciting. He laughs, looser than normal. Eats steak that costs more than his grocery bill for the week. Minho looks at him like he’s something precious. He flushes from the alcohol, and blushes from the attention. 

It’s a good date. Probably the best Jisung has ever been on. 

Kim Seungmin has already paid their bill. He left a note with the waiter that the waiter refused to read out loud, but passed off to Minho instead. 

Enjoy your date, assholes. 

On day thirty one, just before midnight, Jisung and Minho tumble into the entryway of the house in a flurry of limbs and laughter. Tipsy— just a little bit. Minho catches Jisung when he trips over his shiny shoes, a hand, warm and firm, on his waist. 

He hauls Jisung upright, says, “Careful, Jisungie.” 

“I’m clumsy,” Jisung murmurs, clinging to Minho’s shoulders. He’s far enough away to look at Minho in full, but close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of him. If they stopped breathing so heavily, he’d probably be able to hear his heart. 

Minho is beautiful. He’s handsome— very much so— in an untouchable sort of way. Straight nose, sharp eyes, a defined cupid’s bow. He looks sculpted rather than born. Jisung might shrink under the weight of his presence if the situation were different. 

Knowing that Minho the way Jisung does— like a best friend does— ruins the illusion of perfection in exchange for knowledge of it. Minho is perfect, Jisung decides. He’s all things good, and lovely, and special in this life. 

The clock on the wall makes a soft clicking noise when it ticks over to midnight.

+30 days

On day thirty, just after midnight, Jisung realizes— with shocking clarity— how badly he wants to kiss Minho. 

+29 days

Jisung can’t stop staring at Minho’s lips. 

The pink line is nice. Jisung likes the color pink. He’s in a good mood. Minho is too. 

Jisung can’t stop staring at Minho’s lips. 

When he talks, and when he doesn’t. Just, all the time, really. 

What are the optics of this? Falling in love with a dying man.

Love seems a bit much, doesn’t it?

Does it? In different circumstances, maybe, but then again, he could say that about anything at all. In different circumstances, things would be different. So, what are the moral implications of this thing? Jisung can’t tell anymore. He’s staring at Minho’s lips again.

What would happen if he gave in?

So many questions. Fragments of a complete picture. Twenty-nine days left. What if Minho doesn’t want to kiss Jisung back? What if he does?

Wouldn’t it hurt more?

Does Jisung care?

Is it better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all?

How cheesy. How dramatic. How thought provoking.

“What are you thinking about?” Minho asks him, reaching up to brush Jisung’s bangs out of his face. A habit. He does it often. Does he do it as an excuse to be closer? Is Jisung projecting?

“Oh,” Jisung frowns slightly. It must come off more like a pout, because Minho laughs at him. “So many things, Minho.”

Jisung blinked. He started taking things day by day instead of looking ahead. His insides became overgrown while he wasn’t paying attention. Winding around his bones and pushing between the cords of his muscle. Vines twisted into his veins, thrumming with his bloodstream.

Is it too much?

Is it selfish to want more?

Is it worth it?

Could it possibly get worse?

Why, why, why, god, why?

Jisung hates to be melodramatic, but this might be the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. It might also be the best.

No. Minho certainly is the best. He’s known that for a while.

Can it be both at the same time?

What’s the point of living if not to live?

Minho’s hand twitches in his lap, like maybe he’s thinking about moving it. He doesn’t. Is he scared too? Does it matter? What’s the point?

Well.

“Minho,” Jisung says, close to a whisper.

“Hm?” Minho pays such close attention. He’s warm, and lovely.

“Tell me to take it day by day,” Jisung requests, at the edge of going mad. “Please.”

Minho’s nose wrinkles. He smiles. Jisung’s heart pounds in his chest, strong and fast. The cadence of butterfly wings. “Take it day by day, Jisungie. As it comes.”

“Thank you.”

“Anything for you.”

What is that supposed to mean?

Does Jisung really need to have an answer for anything?

No. It’s impossible, anyway. Lots of things are impossible.

Jisung stares at Minho’s lips. Minho catches him staring. He smirks, very slightly, before looking out the window again.

That has to be a good sign, doesn’t it?

Is it a good sign that the dying man Jisung wants to kiss wants to kiss him back?

The pink line is good for thinking. A nice companion to green. 

+28 days

“What if you don’t die?” Jisung asks, on the last legs of hope, trying to convince himself that it’s okay to ask for what he wants. 

“There’s always a chance,” Minho says. Sleepy. He’s sleepy, carding his fingers through Jisung’s hair as Jisung lays in his lap. “It’s very slim.” 

“Why don’t you focus on that?” Jisung hopes he doesn’t sound like he’s begging. 

Minho’s hand pauses in Jisung’s hair. He opens his eyes, looking down at Jisung, sadness blatant on his face. His fingers trail down Jisung’s jaw, palm resting on his cheek. “I don’t think it’s helpful. Do you?” 

“I don’t know,” Jisung swallows the lump in his throat. “I trust you.” 

“Okay. Thank you.” 

Jisung rearranges himself, then. Before Minho can start petting him again. He sits up, turns so he can lean against Minho instead of lying on him. Shoving Minho to lean back further. He lays his head on Minho’s chest and listens to his heartbeat, steady and strong. 

On day twenty-eight, Jisung thinks about what he’d risk if he let himself have this for real. 

+27 days

On day twenty-seven, Jisung breaks down. 

He’s carrying a plate to the kitchen, and he trips. It shatters. He starts crying. Not just a little bit of crying, but full on, gasping for air crying. 

Minho rushes to him, eyes searching, running over his hands looking for cuts. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Are you hurt?” 

“No.” 

“What is it—” Minho pauses, his brow furrows. Both he and Jisung are sitting on the kitchen floor, broken plate scattered around them. 

A fresh round of sobs takes over. Jisung barely manages to get the words out as Minho cages him in. Hugs him tight, like he might break into a million pieces too. “I don’t want you to die.” 

“Oh, Jisung,” Minho breathes into Jisung’s neck. A moment later, Jisung can feel wetness against his skin. Minho is crying too. 

They sit there, in the middle of the kitchen, crying, until they’re finished. 

Afterwards, Minho holds Jisung’s cheeks in his hands, thumbs swiping over the mess of tears under his eyes. 

“I know, Jisungie,” Minho says. His voice waivers. Unsteady. His eyes are rimmed red, and his cheeks ruddy. “I’m sorry.” 

“No. I’m sorry,” Jisung shakes his head as much as he can while being held steady. “I don’t want to make it sad.” 

Minho smiles then. A soft curve of his lips. His thumbs press into Jisung’s cheekbones. “No more crying for a while, huh?” he says. “We’ve got a long time left, anyway. Almost a month.” 

It’s a lie. A placating story. They have so little time left. 

Still, they both choose to pretend. 

Jisung nods. “Yeah. We have all the time in the world.” 

+26 days

The cemetery manager is a very nice man. He treats them with care, sitting across from them at a large, oak desk telling Minho about his options. Minho is insistent that he pick out his own plot. He wants to look himself.

“This spot might be good.” 

Minho steps onto the grass, turning himself around and unceremoniously getting to the ground. He lays flat, arms stiff at his sides, just like he’s been doing for every burial plot they pass that he decides he might like. Jisung standing above him, at his feet, hand over his eyes to shield the sun. 

“Yeah,” Minho says. He takes a deep breath. “This one is good. Come see.” 

“I don’t really want to get on the ground, Minho.” Jisung tries not to frown, but it’s hard. He’s not exactly having an easy time here. He feels foolish for even thinking that. But, Minho can be so flippant about it. Jisung’s heart just feels a little heavier in his chest than it should.

“Jisung,” Minho says. He fixes Jisung with a look. A no arguing, I’m the one who’s dying look. “Get on the ground.” 

Jisung sighs. 

He gets on the ground. Makes a little noise of discontent when his foot slips. Minho lets out a long, content breath. He tilts his head to smile prettily at Jisung. Trying to melt him into complacency, probably. It’s working.

“See, there’s a perfect gap in the trees from here,” Minho says, pointing towards the sky.

Three large trees are nearby, but their branches don’t quite meet in the middle. A big patch of sky left open. There’s puffy white clouds dotting the sky. A carousel across bright blue. A slight breeze in the air. A beautiful day. Jisung shuts his eyes and lets the sun hit his face for a moment.

“That cloud looks like Haru,” Minho says.

Jisung peeks one eye open, face scrunching up. “Which one?”

“That one,” Minho points. Jisung tries to follow. “It has two points. Its ears. It looks exactly like her.”

“I see it,” Jisung says. He spots the one Minho is talking about. He wouldn’t have made it a cat in his head, but he can understand where Minho is coming from. Minho thinks about Haru all the time, it’s only natural.

Minho beams. He drops his hand back down to his side. It brushes Jisung’s knuckles. A touch that’s not really there until it is. Careful fingers wiggling underneath Jisung’s. Tepid, but certainly real. Not an accident. Jisung’s breath catches in his throat, he goes a little dizzy. Opens his palm further to give Minho room.

Their fingers fit together nicely. Laced together, one after another. Jisung can’t breathe. No, he can. He’s breathing. Alive. This is a thing that’s very human. Giddy over holding hands. His heart threatens to choke him, and he’s smiling, beside himself. He can’t stop smiling. He bites his lip to try to stop it, but it’s no use.

“Now you do one,” Minho urges, squeezing his hand.

Jisung bites his lip when he looks at Minho, only to find him smiling too. They’re idiots. Laying on the grass in a cemetery, staring at the sky. Jisung lets out a nervous giggle. Minho smiles wider.

“That one,” Jisung says, breathlessly. He points out a blob in the sky, forcing a shape out of it. “A snail.”

“A snail. I like that.” Minho lets out another long, content sound. He points out another cloud. “That one looks like Haru.”

“Yeah,” Jisung agrees. He giggles. It spills out of him like a bottle of pop shook up before it’s cracked open. Minho’s hand is soft and warm. It’s not big, but neither is Jisung’s. A good fit. Maybe they were sculpted with the same mold when they were created. Details added on afterwards. Minho makes Jisung have silly thoughts like that. “That one looks like Haru too.”

It doesn’t, but it makes Minho laugh, and that’s what Jisung wanted.

“Thank you for coming out here with me,” Minho says after a moment of silence. His thumb runs over Jisung’s knuckle, soft and insistent. A reminder. “Thank you for doing all of it with me. I’m having the best time, even when I shouldn’t be.”

“Anything for you,” Jisung murmurs. His eyes drop to Minho’s lips. An accident. He can’t quit doing that. He blinks. Looks back up. Minho looks back. “I’m having the best time too. No regrets.”

“None,” Minho agrees quietly.

The breeze picks up. Jisung’s cheeks are hot from the sun and Minho’s attention. He blinks a few times, a soft shiver running down his spine for no good reason. He’s not used to being paid such close attention to— he’s always hated it— but with Minho it’s different. With Minho, everything is different.

“We need to go back to the office before it closes. I’m kind of getting close to the buzzer on this one,” Minho says.

“You are.”

“I was afraid this would make it feel too real.” Minho sits up. He doesn’t let go of Jisung’s hand when he stands. He just uses it to help Jisung up.

Jisung stays close. He won’t allow himself to be the reason Minho let’s go. He fiddles with his sleeve where it lays on his wrist. “Does it?”

“It’s real, sure. But, you make me feel brave, Jisungie.” Minho gives him a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He points to the burial plot with his free hand. “Note down this number, it’s the one I want.”

“Ninety-two,” Jisung reads the little picket sign.

“Ninety-two it is,” Minho nods. “How exciting.”

Minho holds Jisung’s hand for the rest of the excursion. Under the desk across from the cemetery manager, and on the way back to the car. It’s a beautiful day. 

+25 days

Minho wakes up and decides that he wants to finish the bad movies. All two they have left. The two thousands and two thousand and tens.

“I don’t want to spend the last twenty days of my life watching bad movies, Jisungie. I want to spend them with you,” he says. And then he says, “But, we have to finish, obviously. So, let’s do it today.”

The Master of Disguise, two thousand and three. 

Minho holds up his arm automatically, waiting for Jisung to slide under it. Jisung fits in like he belongs.

They haven’t talked about it. They’re taking it day by day. An exercise in skirting the edges of something big. It’s scary, and exciting, and it makes Jisung ache a bit.

Yearning is a very human thing, after all.

The movie is one of the better ones they’ve seen. It’s campy, stupid, and funny at the very least. Offensive, sure, but it’s not depressing. The bar is on the floor.

Haru takes up residence on the unoccupied side of the couch, stretching her legs out in the most horribly cute way, as if to say she’s happy with the recent development of cuddling too. So long as she approves, Jisung supposes, everything will be fine. She’s a smart cat. 

Minho relaxes further into the couch for the second film. 

Birdemic: Shock and Terror, two thousand and ten. (Their mourning dove would never do that to them.) 

He drags Jisung back with him, holding him close. Begins drawing gentle, lazy patterns into his hip halfway through that renders Jisung almost brainless and jellied under his hands. He doesn’t manage to pay much attention to the plot— not that there is one worth paying attention to. 

The credits roll, and Minho makes no move to get up, or to push Jisung away. He just hums. Turns off the TV. 

“I’ve always liked birds. Sad to see them demonized like that,” he says. 

“I’ve always hated them,” Jisung murmurs, letting his eyes shut. He’s sleepy. If he were a cat, he’d be purring under Minho’s careful petting. “They’re too loud, and they’re mean, and they steal things. There’s a flock outside my apartment that I can’t stand.” 

“Oh, I’m sure they’re not that bad,” Minho chides lightly. 

Jisung shrugs as much as he can from his position. “I guess I haven’t seen them in a while. They could have turned it around.” 

“There’s a good positive attitude, Jisungie,” Minho says, and then there’s a soft pressure on the crown of Jisung’s head. Almost like Minho kissed him. Jisung doesn’t dare move. Minho doesn’t mention it. 

Another of life’s mysteries. 

+24 days

“We did bad movies, now let’s do good ones,” Minho declares, hands on his hips as he stands in the middle of the living room. “What’s your very favorite movie, Han Jisung?” 

Jisung sits in the middle of the sofa, hands folded in his lap. “Uh,” he says. “Howl’s Moving Castle?”  

Minho’s lips make a cute little ‘o’, his eyebrows raising. “Are you sure? Why do you sound unsure.” 

“No, I’m sure,” Jisung waves him off. “Sorry, I was just surprised. I’m sure.” 

The surprise on Minho’s face shifts into something unbearably smug. Full of himself. “I knew we were perfect together.” 

Jisung barks out a surprised laugh. “Excuse me? What makes you say that?” 

“My favorite movie is a Ghibli, too,” Minho chirps, no less smart than before. He’s really milking this one as a win, apparently. 

“Let me guess,” Jisung’s eyes drift to where Haru is sitting on her favorite armchair, licking her paw. “The Cat Returns?” 

Minho gasps. “How did you know?” 

Jisung widens his eyes, pointing at Haru. 

“Lee Haru,” Minho shakes his head. Sighs. “He’s figured us out.” 

And, how is Jisung not supposed to get butterflies over things like that? Minho is so— Minho. He’s spontaneous, whimsical, and fun. He’s predictable, and simultaneously completely unpredictable. In the best way, of course. 

They play rock paper scissors to decide which movie to watch first. Minho wins. He’s very proud of himself. 

If Jisung could find a way to rig a game of chance, he’d do it for Minho in a heartbeat. 

They lay on the couch, Minho lying back against Jisung’s chest, between his legs, playing with Jisung’s fingers where their hands are twisted together on his stomach. Jisung’s heart takes on a normal beat. Content. He could get used to this so quickly. He already has.

Falling in love is a very human thing, after all. 

+23 days

On day twenty three, Minho has a doctor’s appointment and Jisung isn’t invited. 

Afterwards, they lie on the sofa with their legs tangled together and don’t do anything at all. 

Minho seems more gloomy than usual. 

Jisung worries. 

+22 days

On day twenty-two, it’s pouring rain. 

Unrelenting and mean. Fat drops of water pounding against the pavement in an onslaught, fast and hard, no sign of letting up. The storm rolled in overnight, and neither Jisung nor Minho had been paying any attention to the weather yesterday. Too busy feeling gloomy. 

A cosmic joke, maybe. Or, god punishing them for being nonbelievers. The tears they didn’t shed yesterday coming down all at once, plaguing their final whispers of time together. 

Minho and Jisung sit on the couch, upside down, blood rushing to their heads as they listen to water smack against the roof. Jisung gets dizzy first, and sits up. Minho laughs at him and claims his victory. 

They play chess. 

They watch The Cat Returns again, because it’s Minho’s favorite, and Minho is dying. 

They order in, and eat, and stare out the window into the rain. 

Sometime in the evening, when the sun should be setting, Minho makes a funny noise. He’s been pacing around the room for the past few minutes as Jisung draws patterns in his breath in the fogged up window. 

“What?” Jisung asks, dotting the nose on his smiley face and turning over his shoulder. 

Minho has his arms crossed. Warring with something in his head. His tongue presses into his cheek— but he must decide to go for whatever it is. “Do you trust me?” he asks. 

“Yes,” an immediate reply. “Of course. Why?” 

Jisung is met without a verbal answer. Just Minho waving his hand frantically, begging Jisung towards him. And Jisung goes, because it’s Minho, and he just told him he trusts him, anyway. 

Minho grins when their hands meet. He laces their fingers and takes off, leaving Jisung to stumble behind him, trying to keep up. Laughing, as far as they get down the hall— and then shrieking when Minho pulls him straight out the front door. 

They don’t even have shoes on. Footfalls soaking Jisung’s socks through, the rest of him already dripping. “Minho, what the fuck are you doing?” he wails, but Minho is still moving. 

He drags Jisung into the middle of the street. Stops there. Turns around and directs Jisung by the shoulders to stand square in front of him. “I thought of something I want to do.” 

“Outside? What the hell—” Jisung gasps, water streaming down his face and stopping him up. He could probably drown out here if he tipped his head back. “We’re going to get hit by a car!” 

“No one is out!” Minho laughs a little maniacally. Wild. His eyes are wide, cheeks flushed. He’s smiling— the slightest hint of nervousness to it. 

“What is it, then?” Jisung stills. His heart rabbits in his chest, drawing a bit closer on instinct. 

Minho’s teeth drag over his bottom lip. He’s soaked. A wet cat. He doesn't seem to mind. He’s too focused on Jisung, locking him into his attention. Jisung nearly forgets how to breathe, automation won out by whatever possesses him when Minho looks at him. 

“I want to kiss you in the rain.” 

“You—” Jisung begins. His body loses any feeling of weight as his brain restarts. “What?” he finishes. 

“Can I, Jisungie?” Minho asks, softer. Closer. He reaches out to touch— hand sliding up the side of Jisung’s neck, settling under his jaw, fingers pressing into his hair. 

“Oh,” Jisung says. Idiotic. He’s stupid about Minho. For him. He lets his hands squeeze into Minho’s shirt, water gushing out between his fingers. “You want to?” 

Minho’s thumb runs over Jisung’s cheek. He’s only a breath apart from Jisung now. The inbetweens of moving are fuzzy, but he knows that he’s clinging to Minho now, afraid of what will happen if he lets go. “I do.” 

“Okay, I do too,” Jisung breathes. Then, Minho manages to steal whatever air he has left. 

It’s short of perfect, because most humans are. Minho moves in, and Jisung does too. Too excited, he comes in too hot, knocking into Minho as their lips meet. Minho’s hand winds around to hold him at the small of his back, and he smiles into Jisung’s mouth at the force they crash at.

Jisung drags Minho closer, bowing over backwards slightly in a desperate bid to pull him in. Minho holds him steady. Follows his lead. He kisses Jisung like he’s thought about it for years. Hungry but measured. Needy but slow. Taking his time. He takes his time with Jisung— just as he has since the very start. Even though he doesn’t have much time to take. 

Minho makes a pleased little noise when Jisung opens up for him. Head tipping to the side, nose pressing into his cheek. Each time Jisung tries to go too quickly, Minho slows him down by pressing on the hinge of his jaw, keeping him grounded. They have time. For this— they have time. 

In all his life, Jisung has never felt like he’s in a movie. He didn’t know Minho for most of his life, though. A damn shame, really. 

Everything fades out until it’s just Minho. Minho, and his tongue sliding against Jisung’s. Minho, and the way he holds Jisung. Minho, and the way he kisses like he’s in love. 

One of Minho’s fingers slips, rucking up Jisung’s shirt a bit when it resettles, leaving two fingers on the bare skin of Jisung’s back. Jisung would happily wear them like a brand, if Minho had the power. 

Nothing else matters but them. Nothing else matters. 

Jisung forgets that it’s raining at all until he shivers. A full body, shuddering thing, starting at the marrow of his bones and moving to the roots of his fingernails. 

Minho squeezes his hip. He pulls away, breathless and beautiful. His cheeks and lips pink, hair plastered to his head. He smiles. All of it Jisung’s doing. The first art piece Jisung’s created in months. His favorite one. Ever. He’s sure he’ll never top it. 

“That’s my favorite thing we’ve done so far,” Minho says. 

Jisung can feel himself blush. He swats Minho’s chest, failing to keep the idiotic smile off his face. “Shut up.” 

“I won’t,” Minho giggles. He surges in, catching a kiss on the corner of Jisung’s mouth. “You don’t want me to.” 

“Never shut up,” Jisung agrees. “I’m so wet, Minho.” 

“Don’t you think we’re moving a little too f—” Jisung smacks him before he can finish his thought, and Minho tosses his head back and laughs without restraint. Jisung’s cheeks hurt from the way he’s smiling. 

Minho holds his hand all the way inside. He holds his hand as they drip on the floor and send Haru flying down the hall when she gets splashed. 

He fetches a towel and wraps it around Jisung, hands rubbing uselessly up and down the sides of Jisung’s arms. Kisses him again, no rain between them at all. 

“We’re inside now,” Jisung whispers afterwards, testing the waters. 

Minho worries his lip. Jisung’s eyes fall down automatically, following the movement. Pretty lips. Soft. Jisung wants to taste them until the memory is so burned into his head he can’t forget it.

“Do you mind?” Minho asks.

“No,” Jisung’s eyes flick back up to meet Minho’s. “I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.” 

“I like you a lot, Jisungie. Much more than I expected to ever like a stranger. Much more than I probably should.” 

Jisung’s chest constricts. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Smiles— and, he really won’t be able to stop now. “We’re on the same page.” 

“Good.” 

“Good.” 

On day twenty-two, Jisung goes to sleep comfortable, and warm, and thoroughly kissed. 

+21 days

Jisung hasn’t ever started seeing anyone without thinking it would end eventually. He was always so pessimistic about it. A Jisung problem, looking back. 

This is the first time he knows it will end. There’s a date printed on the back of Minho’s head, and Jisung is desperately soaking up everything he can consume before it hits. 

A different kind of pain. Deep, gnarled. Claws sinking into his heart and tearing his flesh into ribbons in a precise and fatal way. Pretty until the end, but inevitably leaving him without anything salvageable. 

There was a time a few years ago that Hyunjin got broken up with. His longest term boyfriend. He was so in love. Jisung had never seen him like that. He’d never seen him as he did afterwards, either. Impossibly distraught. Wrecked. Acting like he was going to die. 

Jisung didn’t get it then. But, he’d never cared about anyone enough to get it then. Now he understands. Even if his situation is a bit more grim— he understands. 

“Good morning.” Minho smiles sweetly when Jisung walks into the kitchen. He catches Jisung by the waist, and pulls him close. Kisses him. Sweetly. He gives Jisung once over afterwards. Says, “You’re thinking ahead of yourself.” 

“Mmm,” Jisung hums, still a bit hazy. He drags his hand through Minho’s hair. It’s almost impossible to think that this will be gone so soon. All the warmth. Jisung is going to be sick. 

Minho catches him by the chin, forcing Jisung’s eyes to his own. “Don’t make yourself sick, Jisungie. We’re taking it day by day.” 

Jisung blinks. He gives the tiniest nod. Puckers his lips a little bit, asking for a kiss that Minho so easily gives. 

Easy. That’s the worst part of all of it. How easy Minho makes things. He’s unlike anyone Jisung has ever known.

An expiration date. Minho sits across from Jisung at the kitchen table, and Haru naps on her chair in the corner. There’s an expiration date on this, and yet, Jisung doesn’t feel any urge to make it go faster. He doesn’t have the craving to jump across the table and rip Minho’s clothes off. He’s too fond of this sleepy pace they have going. He doesn’t need anything more than day by day— he knows it’ll come in time. He doesn’t want to change anything except for the date on the back of the carton. Smudge it out with his thumb and replace it with a number in the hundreds. One that matches his. Something unbearably romantic like that. 

“It’s going to go too fast, Minho,” Jisung says. 

“It is,” Minho agrees. “But, that doesn’t remove the meaning of it. Not at all.” 

It’s a Monday. Jisung has always hated them. Minho makes them better. 

Jisung hopes that some of Minho’s brightness lingers, even when he’s gone. 

+20 days

On day twenty, they happen to be close to Seungmin’s office around lunch time. Just on their way back from visiting Minho’s favorite city block. (Nothing particularly special about it— just a corner at an intersection. But it’s Minho’s favorite, so they go.) 

Seungmin meets them in the lobby of his building. They walk to a place around the corner and sit down. Chat idly about nothing important. Minho holds Jisung’s hand under the table, and when he’s not holding Minho’s hand, his thigh. Always close by. Seungmin’s eyes keep not-so-subtly dropping to look. 

On the way out, while Minho is storming ahead, racing to pick up the bill, Seungmin catches Jisung’s arm. Won’t look him in the eye as he says, “You’re really good for him. I haven’t seen him this happy in a long time.” 

Jisung feels like he won the lottery— which, he did on day forty-one, technically— but this is better. Kim Seungmin approves of him. 

“Thanks,” Jisung says, very cool and collected— dopey smile still plastered to his face. “I hope he asks me to be his boyfriend soon.” 

Seungmin sighs. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his expensive dress pants. “He will.” He sounds sure of it. 

They take the green line home. Minho holds Jisung’s hand, and Jisung rests his head on Minho’s shoulder. They don’t say anything, they just enjoy their time together. 

+19 days

Day nineteen, a concert that they bought tickets for a month or so ago. 

Most people don’t care much to see a washed up eighties band at a shitty venue on a Wednesday. Minho and Jisung aren’t most people. They’re a man with horrible music taste and his hopelessly in love companion. There’s nowhere else they’d rather be on a Wednesday night. 

Jisung wraps himself around Minho’s back for the show, rests his chin on Minho’s shoulder as they sway to the music. As Minho makes friends with a woman standing in the crowd next to them— just like he always does so easily. 

It goes too fast. 

They take the train home. 

In the hallway, kissing. Parting ways for the night— which is becoming harder each day. Minho reluctantly lets Jisung go, only to grab his wrist a moment later. 

“Will you sleep in my bed tonight?” 

Jisung can’t think of anything he’d like more. 

+18 days

Day eighteen is for hiking. 

A nature trail a couple hours north of the city. An overlook. Minho complains every ten steps that his legs hurt. Jisung rolls his eyes. A kiss at the very top. Jisung’s foot nearly pops up, because he’s caught off guard and completely charmed. 

Then, over dinner, a stinging on his cheeks. Looking in the mirror, poking his nose. 

Sunburn. 

Jisung laughs until he cries, because of the absurdity of his life, and Minho doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t try to stop it. 

Minho pulls Jisung into his lap on a kitchen chair and rubs aloe over his burns. So focused that his tongue pokes out. Jisung’s chest burns and blooms with the feeling of it. Like Minho is the sun. He’d happily turn to dust if Minho were the one heating him. 

When it’s time to sleep, Jisung doesn’t even consider the guest room an option. He climbs into Minho’s bed, and rolls into Minho’s open arms. 

+17 days

Day seventeen, watching the sunset on the hood of Minho’s car from a lookout point, cups of lemonade in their hands. 

Foggy windows when Minho drags Jisung into the back seat instead of letting him get into the passenger’s when the sun goes down. 

So much giggling. Minho’s thigh hiked between Jisung’s legs as he presses him into the seat. Uncomfortable and lovely. Jisung doesn’t care that the ridge of the middle section is digging into his back— he cares that Minho’s tongue is in his mouth, and that Minho’s hands are teasing up the front of his shirt, and the noises Minho makes whenever nails drag across his scalp.

“This is so juvenile,” Jisung giggles when Minho hits his head on the roof, and his foot on the window. 

“That’s the point,” Minho says, his lips trailing down Jisung’s jaw, wet and messy. Jisung is on fire, his nerves alight with every place Minho is touching him. “I feel like a teenager with you, Jisungie.” 

“Ah—” Jisung gasps, Minho’s lips attaching to the juncture of his throat and shoulder. Enough to leave a mark. “Ah— Minho—” 

A sharp knocking sends them leaping apart, Minho falling halfway to the floor, wedged between the front and back seats. The bright light that follows makes Jisung yelp, hands covering his face. His heart threatens to jump out of his throat.

Thankfully, Minho seems to be in his right mind. Hauling himself up from the floor, reaching over to roll down the window. 

The cop on the other side has the audacity to look confused. “How old are you two?” he asks. “Come on, get out of here.” 

They blush and giggle all the way home. Juvenile in the most human way. Jisung feels alive. 

He falls asleep to the sound of Minho’s heart, and tries to memorize the pitch. 

+16 days

The days are going too fast. Belly up, legs aching from the sprint. Jisung has the bends. 

He calls Hyunjin on day sixteen, after he and Minho have spent most of their afternoon drawing pictures with colored chalk on the sidewalk. They went to the store that morning, picked up a bucket of the nicest brand. Decorated the front walk, and the piece that sits in front of Minho’s house. 

Minho kept rubbing his arms over his sweaty forehead and leaving streaks of color. He left a dot of blue on Jisung’s cheek when he kissed him. 

And Jisung keeps ruminating on it. This thing with Hyunjin. 

The last time they saw each other, Jisung had been spiraling. Hyunjin came over to see him, to try to get him out of the house. Jisung was tired, and frustrated, and his garbage bin was filled with half completed illustrations that he couldn’t for the life of him make progress on. He snapped, and he let out everything that he’d been holding back for however long. He was angry— not at Hyunjin— but Hyunjin took the brunt of it.

Jisung won’t forget how Hyunjin looked at him. Shocked, and then horrified, and then furious. He didn’t hold back. Didn’t treat Jisung like he was fragile, like he so often does. He looked Jisung in the eye and spoke in a steady, even voice. “Get out of your own fucking head for two seconds and realize that the world doesn’t revolve around you, Jisung. You’re selfish. You won’t let anyone give a fuck about you. I’m the only one left, do you know that? I hurt too, Jisung. It’s exhausting to be the only one that can help you. I’m exhausted.” And then he started crying. He snatched his bag off the couch, and didn’t look back. Said, “Call me when you’re not so keen on being impossible to love, Jisung.”

Harsh, yes. Jisung needed to hear it. He’d funnelled himself into a never-ending cycle. Shut himself up, and relied on Hyunjin to keep him living. It was unfair to both of them. He started going out only at night. He stayed in bed more often than not. He didn’t draw. He didn’t work. 

He answered an ad online, because he was sick of feeling sorry for himself, and he was stubborn, and lonely, and he felt like he owed it to Hyunjin to figure himself out before he came crawling back. 

Now, though, he’s figured out more than he ever thought he could, and none of it was done out of spite. 

So, he pulls his knees to his chest, sitting on Minho’s couch, and calls. 

Hyunjin picks up on the second ring— just as he always does for Jisung. He lets everyone else go to voicemail, but never Jisung.

“Hello,” he says, voice flat. Putting on a front, Jisung is positive. 

The sound of his voice manages to bring tears to Jisung’s eyes. Prickly and hot. Jisung swallows before he answers, so his voice doesn’t shake. “Hi, Hyunjinnie.” 

“Jisung, I made you— oh—” Minho cuts himself off when he sees that Jisung is on the phone. He backs up into the kitchen, the tea in his hand steaming, face a stunning imitation of one of those horrified theatre masks. Jisung almost giggles. 

“Where are you?” Hyunjin snips. Icy. 

“Um. I’m at Minho’s house.” 

“Who’s Minho?” 

“My—” Jisung trips himself up. He doesn’t know how to explain. He doesn’t want to right now. “Friend.” 

Hyunjin makes a noise. “Oh, do you have one of those? I thought you were content with having none.” 

“I do, dickhead,” Jisung snipes back. He takes a short breath. Closes his eyes. “No need to be mean, Jinnie. I called to apologize.” 

“Mm.” Hyunjin sniffs. Melting. Jisung can tell. 

“I’m sorry. You were right. Everything you said, it was right. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and working on myself. I miss you. I’m sorry.” 

A long sigh rings out over the line. Five aching seconds of silence. “I’m sorry too. I didn’t have to be so harsh back then. I keep thinking about it.” 

“You don’t have to be sorry. It’s okay.” 

“Well, I am. Cope,” Hyunjin says, his voice curling at the edges. Softer. “I missed you too, Jisungie. I have so much to tell you.” 

Jisung bites his lip through his smile, looking up through his eyelashes at Minho through the door to the kitchen. He’s sat down at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper quietly, tea cooling next to him. “Me too,” Jisung says. “I’m pretty busy for the next fifteen days or so, but then we should meet up.” 

“I’d really like that.” 

“Me too.” Jisung blinks a stray tear from his eye. “And, I love you.” 

“I love you too, you big dummy.”

How could it be— Jisung wonders that night, his nose buried in the hair at the nape of Minho’s neck— that someone like him could deserve so much love? 

He’s learned not to question fate.

+15 days

“What if I said I want to be a boyfriend for fourteen days,” Minho asks, halfway through day fifteen. 

Jisung decides— right then— to trust Kim Seungmin with his life. “I’d tell you okay.” 

“Okay,” Minho is smiling, and Jisung is smiling too. He aches with how hard he’s smiling. “I want to be your boyfriend for fourteen days.” 

“Good. I want to be your boyfriend for fourteen days, too,” Jisung giggles. “But when we break up, I want it to be amicable.” 

Minho gives him a semi-skeptical look. He squeezes one eye closed. Hums. Says, “Okay.” 

“Okay.” 

“I’m going to kiss you now.” 

“Please do.” 

Minho does. Endlessly bittersweet in a way that burns Jisung’s tongue.

+14 days

Jisung’s never been good at having a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. He tells Minho on day fourteen, because it’s only fair that Minho knows. Lying together in bed, getting off to a slow start. Folded into each other in the middle of the mattress, Jisung playing with Minho’s hands. 

“Who said you have to be good at it?” Minho asks, perfectly calm. “You’re perfectly good at it. You’re doing great.” 

“I don’t even know what boyfriends do,” Jisung pouts. He’s aware he’s whining— he just doesn’t really care. He thinks Minho likes it a little bit. He likes it a little bit when Minho whines. “What do boyfriends do?” 

Minho pushes out his bottom lip and raises his eyebrows, staring intently at Jisung’s fingertips tracing the beds of his nails. “I don’t know. It’s been a while. Go on dates, maybe.” 

“Maybe—” Jisung cringes. He follows through with the thought anyway, because Minho deserves that sappy, horrible sort of romance that makes everyone else cringe, “Maybe we can figure it out together.” 

Jisung is already blushing by the time Minho’s lips meet his cheek. Right on the apple. Minho smiles after he kisses, pressing it into Jisung’s skin. “You’re so good at being a boyfriend, jagiya,” he murmurs, sweet enough to curl Jisung’s toes. Tipping Jisung’s face towards his, catching him in a kiss, measured and patient. Bittersweet. 

They go on their first date that night. 

Italian food, because they both want tiramisu. And because Minho wants to try that stupid thing from the dog movie. Eating the same spaghetti noodle until they kiss. 

It ends with a stain on Jisung’s shirt, and immeasurable embarrassment when their waitress brings them extra napkins. Minho laughs so hard he can barely swallow down his dessert. 

Far from perfect— but it doesn’t feel like they’ve failed at being boyfriends. Not at all. If anything, it feels like they’re doing it right. 

+13 days

Jisung has always wanted to be a public nuisance in this very specific way. 

He never really got it— but he always wanted to get it. An exclusive club he wasn’t a part of, and he couldn’t possibly imagine being a part of. 

One of those people that makes out in the back of a movie theatre. 

Logically, it makes no sense. The entire point of paying way too much to see a movie in the theatre is to see it in the theatre. If he wanted to engage in heavy petting, he’d do it in the comfort of his own home. He thought that maybe if he had more of a voyeurism thing he’d understand. 

Minho makes him understand, though. Because, of course he does. Minho makes him understand things he never could have imagined he’d understand. 

Part of that exclusive club. People in love. Jisung carries it around with him like a badge of honor. He understands. 

And, this is a date, anyway. Their second. A movie date is classic. Respectable. They picked seats in the very back row, and Jisung didn’t think anything of it until Minho’s hand started crawling up his thigh three scenes in. 

After that, Jisung understood. He leaned over the armrest and pulled Minho in by the back of his neck. Swallowed down the surprised noise he let out, and the soft laughter after. The plastic of the cupholder is threatening to bruise his hip, and his neck is strained from the angle. If there was more room, he’d just fuck it all and climb into Minho’s lap— but there’s not. Over the armrest will have to do. 

Someone on screen screams, and Jisung understands. 

He understands a lot of things now. He doesn’t feel so obsessively blue all the time. 

Funny how that works, all things considered. Before he had nothing much to mourn. Wallowing in his Jisung problems, thinking nothing could get worse. Now it has gotten worse— very technically. Jisung’s boyfriend is going to die, and yet, he’s never been happier. He’s glowing. He’s surprised they let him into the theatre with how bright he’s shining. 

Bittersweet. Ah. Jisung hates that. He loves it. He understands. 

+12 days

Minho wants to take every train line in the city from start to finish. Finish to start. Eight in total. 

A perfectly reasonable pursuit, as far as Jisung is concerned, and one that Jisung is now just as committed to by now. He now understands the appeal of riding to completion. They have two more train lines left, and they’re doing them both in one day. 

The yellow line isn’t even really a line as much as it is a branch. It’s attached to the end of the red line, and acts as an express shot from one of the northern suburbs out to the other trains. It’s pleasant. Way too short. The red line, at least, has some substance to it. 

Sitting in the very front of the very first car, with Minho’s thigh pressed against his, Jisung gets it.

It must be fate, Jisung thinks, that the yellow line connects to the red, which connects to the green. And the green connects Jisung to Minho. Minho to Jisung. It must be fate. 

The train shakes, making plenty of noise as it coasts down the tracks. About four stops in— Jisung and Minho haven’t talked much at all. Minho is by the window seat, Jisung watching the outside run by through the cut out of Minho’s side profile. One of his favorite pastimes lately. 

“After this, I’m going to make you choose your favorite train line,” Minho says, his hand slotted soundly into Jisung’s. 

“I know.” 

“You better have one by the time we finish.” 

“I know,” Jisung lets his face sour. How dare Minho question his ability to form an opinion on the train lines like this. Jisung loves the train. He’s come to love it more every time he and Minho ride it together. He’s become one of those people that genuinely enjoys public transit. “I have never in my life paid so much attention to the train as I have in the past three months. I haven’t used my headphones once.” 

Minho turns, looking at him thoughtfully. “Have I been a good influence on you, Han Jisung?”  

“That’s putting it lightly,” Jisung mumbles. 

“Hm,” Minho nods, pleased with himself.  

He stares at Jisung for a while. And Jisung stares back. A challenge he won’t give up nowadays. He’ll take any opportunity to look at Minho. He knows that Minho spends a lot of time looking at him, too. 

“You’re very beautiful, you know,” Minho says. Not a question. A fact. 

Jisung laughs. “That’s funny. I was just thinking the same thing about you.” 

Fingers tighten around Jisung’s hand, warm and strong. Minho squeezes, thumb rolling over bone. “I’ve been feeling so lucky lately.” 

“A paradox, given the fact that you’re dying.” 

Minho smiles a tad dangerously. His eyes hold stars. “It makes every day more interesting.” 

Jisung rolls his eyes slightly. He can feel the pin pricks of heat in his cheeks— the right one feels warmer because it’s closer to Minho. 

“Jagi— baby— Jisungie,” Minho coos. He’s creeping closer. Teasing. He’s so fond of teasing. 

“What do you want from me, weirdo?” Jisung giggles. He looks Minho in the eye again, even though they’re particularly close. Nearly too close to look properly. Minho’s skin is a little dewy, like he’s used moisturizer. His eyelashes are dark, soft to the touch. Jisung tested that this morning. 

Minho shrugs. He’s got the barest hint of a smile playing at his lips almost all the time. Sometimes he’ll give up more than that. “I just want your attention.” 

“You have it every second of every day,” Jisung scoffs through his persistent smile. He’s brimming with joy. Fizzing over. 

“Stubborn,” Minho breaks into a wider smile. Toothy and big, his eyes crinkling at the edges, a wild little giggle escaping from his throat. He’s so bright that Jisung almost holds his hands up to shield his eyes. “I like you so much.” 

Jisung’s joy must be contagious. Minho stomps his feet against the ground one at a time, absolutely delighted, apparently. It’s ridiculous, and cute, and Jisung loves him, but he can’t bring himself to say it. 

“You’re odd,” Jisung tells Minho, for old times sake.

“You’re odd,” Minho retorts, sticking his tongue out.  

“Not as odd as you.” 

“I’d never ask that of you, Jisung.” 

“I like that about you, Minho.” 

Minho smiles, and the train comes to a stop at the next station. 

The end of their list is, as predicted, a lot of nothing. 

It’s funny. As Minho pulls out the wrinkled sheet of paper and ticks off the last item. The last train line. He looks up at Jisung when he’s done, and he blinks. And then they both start laughing, because it was so incredibly anticlimactic. 

Whatever they have has become bigger than the list. More important. The rest of this time is just for that. For them. 

“Wow,” Jisung says.

“That was awesome,” Minho says. 

“With eleven days to spare.” 

Minho barely lets Jisung get out his words before he’s spitting out his next question. The most important question, probably. “What’s your favorite train line?”

“The green line, of course.” An easy answer. It’s only natural. That’s the line that connects Minho to Jisung. Jisung to Minho.

Minho beams. He’s beautiful. “Mine too.” 

“We’re perfect for each other.” 

They kiss at the end of the yellow line, right on the train platform, even though it’s nothing particularly special. Everything feels special when it involves the two of them.

+11 days

For their third date, Jisung and Minho go dancing. 

There’s a jazz bar on the edge of the city that has swing dancing nights. They’re the only two in the place that are under the age of sixty. Jisung loves it. 

Minho orders them drinks, and a comfortable heat settles into Jisung’s cheeks as they laugh, and talk, and lean into each other. Flirty and easy. Real. Like boyfriends— because that’s what they are. 

Jisung wishes they still had their ridiculous rented suits. Maybe, if they had more time, they’d shell out the money to buy them for real. Jisung would go for something brighter, now that he’s done the polite color. Maybe a robin’s egg. Suede. Corduroy. Something obnoxious and special. He wouldn’t even mind the attention it would grab, so long as Minho was there too— in his pastels. What a pair they make.

Neither of them knows how to dance the way they’re supposed to. Minho starts chatting with an elderly woman, and she steals him away for a dance. Jisung sets his chin in his hand and smiles at them as they spin around the floor, smiles nearly blinding. 

By the time Jisung gets him back, Minho has learned a thing or two. He puts his hand on the small of Jisung’s back, talks him through the steps, his other hand clenched in Jisung’s, held out to the side. They’re moving too fast, and Jisung keeps tripping over his own feet, and they’re both laughing. Jisung’s cheeks burn in the best sort of way. 

They dance until the very last song. Until the trombone player starts packing up his things. Minho bows, and asks Jisung if he’d be so kind as to accompany him home, in this accent that’s long out of fashion. 

On the way home, Minho keeps up the act. He spins Jisung around in the middle of a crosswalk and dips him down to kiss him. Something out of a movie. They get honked at. Minho doesn’t rush. He pulls them back up, and loops his arm through Jisung’s, and takes him to the train. 

Jisung wouldn’t have it any other way. If he could stop time today, he would. They still have so many things to do, even though they have nothing much to do at all. 

+10 days

On day ten, Minho has a doctor’s appointment, and Jisung isn't invited.

Jisung paces around the kitchen for a long time. He rummages around in Minho’s drawers until he comes up with paper and a pencil. 

On day ten, Jisung finishes a piece for the first time in half a year, and he likes what he’s created. Endlessly bittersweet in a way that burns in his chest. 

+9 days

When Jisung was young, he used to sit on the playground and quietly tie daisy chains by himself. It’s nicer with Minho sitting next to him, he decides on day nine.

Cross legged in the backyard— fingers twisting stems, breeze teasing through their hair, birdsong in the air. A perfect afternoon to spend together. Jisung finds himself thinking that every afternoon, if he’s being honest, but that doesn’t make it any less real. 

He twists the stem in his hand around, looping the end right under the head of the daisy. His tongue pokes against his cheek as he ties a knot. 

Minho makes a little noise. In his own world. He gets very focused when he’s got a goal in mind. When he doesn't, he’s impossibly spacey— distracted by every movement and sound. But, he set out to make a crown when they sat down, and he retreated into his own head as he worked. 

“Here, Jisungie,” he says. Exhales. Smiles. He holds up his loop of daisies, tied into a flimsy crown, reaches forward to set it on Jisung’s hair. He fusses with it until he’s happy, and then he lets his fingers trail down the line of Jisung’s cheek. “Beautiful.”

Jisung’s heart pitters and patters. He’s been distracted all day. He keeps thinking— maybe— that he ought to do something before it’s too late. 

There’s not much time to dwaddle. Last night, when Minho got home, he looked at Jisung’s drawing and gasped. His eyes lit up, and his fingers traced the edge of the paper. Genuinely amazed. Awed. He gushed. Made Jisung feel proud, and talented, and seen. Afterwards, he gave Jisung a tight hug.

It’s not as if these aren’t things that Jisung has experienced before. Of course not. It’s just different when Minho does them. He pulls from a well of authenticity. Jisung can see straight through him, to the depths of his heart. He can feel the warmth that hangs onto each of Minho’s words. Minho really, truly cares for him. It’s so obvious in everything he does, and says, and the way he holds Jisung. 

Reciprocated, obviously. Oh so reciprocated. Jisung’s heart leaps from side to side and rattles against his ribs, begging to be felt. 

He ought to do this before it’s too late. 

“You said you always wanted to get married.”

Minho looks up from where he’s pulling another flower out of the grass. His lips are parted into a little o, eyes wide. He blinks. Closes his mouth, corners twitching downward. “Jisungie—” he says. Mournful, almost. Not offended, but sad. 

Jisung’s breath catches in his throat, pressure building behind his eyes. “What if we pretend?” he asks. He doesn’t need to tell Minho that he’d do it for real, if that’s what Minho wanted. He’s sure Minho knows. 

The breeze teases their hair, and there’s birdsong on the air. Minho licks over his lips, studying Jisung carefully. He takes a slow breath in, chest rising, daisy twisting between his fingers. Then, a smile. Slow and honeyed. 

“Well,” he says. He looks away, and then back. His lips are twisted up trying to tamper his display of giddiness. “You’d need to propose first.” 

Jisung almost falls over trying to get to his knee. He puts his hand out to catch himself at the last moment, and Minho covers a giggle behind his hand. Jisung clears his throat when he gets upright. Balanced. One knee beneath him, a ring made from a daisy in his hand. 

He feels childish. Not in a bad way— but in an innocent way. Throwing away whatever doubts he has for this quick and intense love. He loves Minho. He knows it sounds ridiculous, but he does. He’s in love. He’s fallen in love. 

Maybe, if they had more time, he’d realize that it isn’t really so serious sometime down the line. But, they don’t have more time, and they’re taking it day by day, and today, Jisung is in love with him. He is. He doesn’t think it will go away. Ever. He hopes it doesn’t. 

“Lee Minho,” he says, smile pulling up one side of his mouth. “You’re my best friend. And you’ve been the best boyfriend for the last six days. So, what do you say?” 

Minho’s eyes crinkle at the sides. He giggles half-wildly. Scooches closer. “You didn’t even ask.” 

“Marry me, jagiya.” 

“Yes,” Minho whispers. When he holds out his hand, it’s trembling slightly. “I will.” 

Jisung’s hand trembles when he slides the makeshift ring onto Minho’s finger. He squeaks when Minho tackles him to the ground and kisses him soundly. 

He opens his eyes when Minho pulls away, propped above him, sun haloing his head— nearly all the purple gone by now. 

For the rest of the day, Jisung has a song stuck in his head that he can’t quite place. Something his mother used to hum to him, maybe. 

It comes to him just as he’s on the edges of sleep, Minho’s arm hooked over his waist, holding him close. You are my sunshine. 

+8 days

On day eight, Minho and Jisung take their last road trip together. 

About two hours south to a sunflower field off the side of a country road. One of those places that was never meant to be a destination, but just became one by happenstance. 

There’s plenty of other couples wandering around, taking photos with the flowers. Minho and Jisung move slowly, fingers brushing over leaves and stalks. Jisung tries to smell one of the flowers and regrets it immediately when something goes up his nose. Minho laughs at him. 

Jisung is wearing shorts, and short sleeves, and he isn’t worrying at all about sunburn. It’s hot out, and he can feel the sun on his shins, and his forearms, and his nose. 

How long has it been since he appreciated something like that, he wonders. Stood in the middle of the dirt and took a breath? Dug his feet into the earth? So many things he was shying away from. 

He finds a gap between two flowers, spins himself around to face the same direction they are. Towards the sun. Tips his face up, and stretches his arms out to his sides. Feels what they feel. No fear of burning. All he can see is the glowing red of his shut eyelids. 

Minho’s laugh precedes his touch. Hands at Jisung’s waist, slotting in behind him, chin on his shoulder. “There you are, my little angiosperm,” he hums. “What did I tell you about blooming?” 

His fingers come up to graze the underside of Jisung’s jaw, urging his head to the side, drawing him into a kiss. Jisung goes. Happily. He smiles afterwards. 

“You’re beautiful when you’re smiling, Jisungie,” Minho murmurs, their noses still brushing. 

Jisung tries again to stop time. A futile pursuit. One he doubts he’ll give up until Minho’s last second on this Earth. 

“I’ve come to enjoy the sun,” he admits, still soaking it in. Greedy and insatiable. 

“The sun loves you back.”

+7 days

Jisung and Minho get married around four in the afternoon in the middle of the living room. A Monday.

There’s streamers hung up on the doorways, and flowers that they picked up from the farmer’s market earlier in the day. Natural light filters through the windows, leaving the room in a golden glow. Minho gels his hair back from his face, and Jisung forgets to put on shoes. 

Lee Haru is the only attendee, and she’s dead asleep in her armchair, sighing at them every time they get too loud and disturb her. 

They stand in front of their bird’s window as they exchange vows. There’s no walk down the aisle, or music cues. They meet in the middle, and hold hands, pink flowers growing in the basket outside. 

“I never thought I’d get to be a husband,” Minho says. He goes first. His eyes shine in the sunlight. “I'm so glad I get to be yours. You’ve made me so happy, Jisungie. I can’t wait for you to make me happy forever.” 

Jisung sniffles. He steals a kiss— because it’s their wedding, and they make the rules. 

“I’ve learned so much the past few months,” Jisung goes next. Nerves bubble in his stomach. “I’ve never felt more alive than I have with you. You make me happy too. I can’t wait to make you happy forever. I think you’ll be making me happy long past forever.” 

Minho kisses him for real, then. He swoops in and bends Jisung back, slips him a tasteful bit of tongue. When they’re upright again, they’re both wearing twin smiles, giddy and lovesick. Minho raises their joined hands. They’re married in the only way they’ll ever be, and Jisung has to accept that. It’s enough. He loves it.

They eat a dinner that Minho prepared, and Minho keeps tapping his spoon against his glass, because Haru doesn’t have thumbs to do it. He keeps calling Jisung yeobo, because “it’s his god given right as Jisung’s husband.” Jisung feels so overfull of joy that he thinks he’s at risk of popping. 

Their first dance is to a song Jisung picks, because he has better music taste than Minho does. You Were Made For Me, Sam Cooke. It plays out of Jisung’s phone speaker as they sway around the living room, close as their bodies will allow. 

A fragile thing. Precious, and fragile. Jisung does his best to thread his atoms with Minho’s. Fusing them together so Minho can’t go. A futile pursuit. One he knows he won’t give up until Minho’s last second on this Earth.

+6 days

On day six, Minho has a doctor’s appointment and Jisung isn’t invited. 

When he gets home, he looks sad. Jisung opens his arms instinctively, and Minho comes. He shrinks. Becomes small in a way Jisung has never seen before. He cries. Sobs, really. Loudly and openly, soaking through the shoulder of Jisung’s shirt, Haru pacing anxiously around the foot of the couch. 

Jisung allows himself to be the strong one today, because he knows Minho needs it. He holds Minho tight, runs his hand up and down Minho’s back and lets him cry. 

Murmurs, “It’s supposed to be our honeymoon, yeobo. Why are you crying?” 

And Minho lets out a watery laugh. Lifts his head up to kiss the underside of Jisung’s jaw. “Sometimes, all there is to do when you’re dying is cry.” 

Jisung kisses his cheekbone. Hums. “Cry as much as you need. I’ll be here until you’re ready to do something else. Or if you’re not. Whatever you want.” 

Minho clutches him tighter, but time still doesn’t stop. 

+5 days

On day five, they get brunch with Seungmin. 

Seungmin doesn’t know it’s the last time he’ll ever see his best friend alive. Jisung doesn’t tell him, but he’s too nauseous to eat most of his food, anyway. 

When Minho tells Seungmin that Jisung is his boyfriend, Seungmin scoffs. He looks at Jisung, pretending to be put out, even though he’s smiling. Says, “I told you so.” 

Minho hugs Seungmin when they leave. Seungmin goes stiff, his arms at his sides and eyes wide. He ends up hugging back, because Minho won’t let him go. He pats Minho’s back, and makes a funny face. Relaxes on his next exhale. 

Minho and Jisung take the green line home. As soon as they’re in the door, Jisung cries. He cries, and cries, and Minho holds him. Runs his hand up and down Jisung’s back and lets him. 

+4 days

On day four, Minho has his last doctor's appointment before he dies, and Jisung still isn’t invited. 

When he comes back home, no one cries, but Jisung becomes an amoeba. Clingy and restless and impossibly annoying. He attaches himself to Minho’s back as he cooks. Hangs off Minho’s arm while they eat. Doesn’t give Minho space to do anything but be nearby. 

Everything is a blur lately. Jisung feels like he’s accidentally sat on the remote, hit fast forward. He’s jamming his fingers into the buttons to try to make it slow down. Rewind. A futile pursuit. 

“It’s going too fast,” he whispers.  

“I know, sweetheart.” 

Minho holds Jisung tighter while the clock rolls over to day three. 

+3 days

It takes Minho all morning to write his final letters to the people he loves. He locks himself in the bedroom, and doesn’t let Jisung come in. Jisung sits on the couch and bites his nails, waiting for him to finish. 

Eventually he does. He comes out with a deep sigh, a big smile, and red-rimmed eyes, with three envelopes in his hand. Jisung isn’t close enough to read the names, but he doesn’t need to. He’s just happy to have Minho back for now. 

Romance isn’t something that Jisung tends to pick up on. Or— more accurately— something he’s really experienced. 

It always gave him a lot of anxiety before. Worried about making the wrong move. Saying the wrong thing.

Predictably, Minho makes it easy. 

They have a picnic for lunch. Minho puts a flower in Jisung’s hair. They go out for a walk and hold hands the whole time. Minho introduces Jisung as his husband to a little girl peddling her tricycle around in the street. 

It’s romantic when Minho cooks for Jisung, and pours him a glass of wine. He lights candles, too. Pulls out a tablecloth. Jisung can’t help but giggle when Minho takes his hand and kisses the back. Nor when he pulls Jisung in to dance after they eat. Spinning around the living room, imitating the dances they have already forgotten from day eleven.

“I had a really great day,” Jisung hums, leaning against Minho’s chest on the couch, both of them warm and sated. The streamers from their wedding are still hung up. It feels almost magical.

“Me too, baby,” Minho puts his hand on Jisung’s cheek, drawing him in for a kiss that leaves Jisung aching for more. Jisung follows his lead, twisting himself around until he can kiss Minho more fully, burying his hands in Minho’s hair. “We’ve been doing a lot of things I want to do,” Minho says, a little breathless as Jisung’s nails scrape against his scalp. “Is there anything you want to do— before I go?” 

Jisung goes still, his breath running a little ragged. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and he knows he probably looks desperate. He is desperate. He’s sitting in Minho’s lap, asking for the world. “How much am I allowed to want?” he asks. 

“All of it.” Minho’s tongue runs over his bottom lip, his eyes going darker. Needy. He’s needy too, his voice has a certain edge to it. “You can have as much as you want.” 

Such a dangerous thing to say when they both know it’s not true. He tightens his hands in Minho’s hair, and Minho lets out a little puff of air. His pupils blow wide. 

“I want you,” Jisung whispers, holding himself far enough back that Minho can’t steal anything. 

Minho takes a shallow breath. “Good start.” He hikes up his legs, making Jisung’s weight shift forward, falling into him. 

The surprised noise Jisung makes is quickly swallowed— replaced by a gentle moan, Minho’s hands sliding down his back, to the curve of his ass. 

Kissing Minho is addictive. Jisung feels addicted. The heat between them is thick, bodies rutting together a bit helplessly from this position. Clamoring around to get closer, but never quite getting as close as they want. 

Jisung gasps when Minho’s lips drag down his jaw, wet and messy. “Take me to bed, Minho,” he says. He’ll beg if he has to, but he doesn’t think Minho will make him. This is for the both of them. They’re both too eager to wait. Like they didn’t realize how much they’d been holding back until the dam burst. That’s how it feels for Jisung, anyway. 

Minho tries to stand up both of them at once, but he doesn’t make it very far. Jisung dissolves into a fit of giggles when he falls back to the couch. Kisses the pout off his face and slides off his lap. 

“No need to carry me,” he teases. 

“I want you to think I’m sexy,” Minho returns, chasing after Jisung with his lips, pulling him into a wobbly kiss. 

Jisung lets him have that. Just long enough before he moves again. One of them has to be goal oriented or they’ll never make it through the threshold. 

There’s a lot of giggling. Stolen kisses. Minho stubs his toe on the wall, and Jisung tries his best not to make fun of the pathetic little pout he puts on as a result. He fails— laughing louder than he should. Minho smacks his ass in retaliation. 

They make it to the bedroom eventually. Shutting Haru out. Minho has to negotiate with her beforehand— begging her not to cry, because daddy is finally getting some. Jisung swats at Minho, and then Minho kisses him so spontaneously that Jisung’s toes curl. 

Minho tries to rip Jisung’s shirt off, and it gets stuck on Jisung’s head. Jisung tries to take Minho’s shirt off, and Minho gets a mouthful of cotton. Both of them are blushing furiously, and smiling wider than they have all day. 

It’s imperfect, and stilted. Sort of funny. Neither of them makes exactly the right moves. That’s what makes it so romantic. Jisung feels like he’s cracked the code. 

Laid out underneath Minho, Minho’s fingers slipping under his waistband, wiggling his pants down his legs, Jisung has never felt more beautiful. He’s never felt so wanted. 

Minho takes his time. He lets his eyes linger. Follows up with his mouth. He kisses every plane of Jisung’s stomach— sinks his teeth into the softest part, right beneath his navel, carefully avoiding even the slightest brush against Jisung’s cock, laying half hard against his hip.  

“Minho,” Jisung breathes, fisting a hand into Minho’s hair, begging his attention. He looks up with shiny eyes. Curious. “Mark me up, please. I want to remember.” 

The noise Minho makes is somewhere between a groan and a sigh. He hitches Jisung further down the bed, settles between his legs, knees on the floor, reaching behind him to fumble through his dressed drawer without looking away. Jisung laughs at that, too. 

“Hush, I don’t want to look away for even a second,” Minho says, smirk curling up at the corner of his mouth. He manages to retrieve lube. A condom. “How do you want me, jagiya?” 

“You seem to know what you’re doing,” Jisung hums, propping himself up on his elbows. 

“Sure,” Minho breathes hot against the inside of Jisung’s thigh. He kisses the spot right afterwards. “But I’m fine either way. Whatever you want.” 

“I want you inside of me,” Jisung says. He’s dizzy with how much he wants it. Seeing Minho between his knees. 

Minho grins. He latches onto Jisung’s thigh without warning, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin, leaving a mark. Jisung’s arms give out beneath him, sending him falling back to the mattress. He focuses on every flick on Minho’s tongue. The strength that Minho is using to part his legs. 

He’s littered with little bruises by the time Minho’s slicked up fingers circle his rim. Jisung is leaking helplessly against his stomach, fingers clenched into the sheets. Minho looks up at him through his lashes, questioning. Jisung nods immediately, out of his mind with desire. 

Minho presses in, and Jisung forgets about anything and everyone else he’s ever known. Just one finger can do that to a man— he finds out. He’s learning so much about himself. Minho keeps kissing his thighs as he opens Jisung up. A careful dance. 

Two fingers, and Jisung arches up against the bed, babbling at Minho to slow down so he doesn’t finish too soon. Minho goes to tease him, but he shuts up when Jisung says, “I want to come with you inside of me.” 

That earns him a fucked out moan against the inside of his knee and a third finger. Impatient. Minho goes easy on him. He lets up until Jisung is teetering on the edge, threatening to fall off at any second. He pulls out of Jisung. Picks himself up and kisses Jisung into the mattress, slow and lazy, Jisung’s legs hooking around his hips.

Minho is still wearing his underwear. His cock strains against the fabric, pressing into Jisung’s stomach when he kisses him. Jisung loves him. 

A funny place to think something like that— but he thinks it anyway. 

Whatever they’re doing is very domestic. It’s normal. They spent the day together, and now they’re making love. Taking their time and getting too excited all at once. Minho is still wearing his underwear, and they’re rubbing uncomfortably against Jisung’s dick, and Minho loves him. 

He almost says it. Almost. When Minho pulls away and lets his thumb drag along the line of Jisung’s cheekbone. Just looking at him for a long moment. 

Jisung has to swallow it back. He can’t be responsible for putting that burden on them right now. 

Minho doesn’t ask him to. He backs up, steps out of his briefs and rips open the condom packet, rolling it on in an easy motion. 

He’s gorgeous. Jisung’s body reacts. He aches for Minho. He wants him so badly— in any and every way. 

“I want to sit in your lap,” Jisung requests. And Minho smiles his pretty, toothy smile. 

It’s imperfect, and stilted. Jisung’s elbow catches Minho’s jaw as they arrange themselves. But it’s real. 

So, unbearably real as Jisung sinks down over Minho, Minho’s hands at his hips helping him pace himself. 

Jisung forces himself to keep his eyes open— tiny gasps pushed from his lungs as he takes Minho in. He only blinks when Minho bottoms out. Leans forward and tips their foreheads together, a little bit sweaty. 

“You feel incredible,” Minho murmurs. 

“You’d say that to any man that lets you hit three days before you die,” Jisung grins. He catches a kiss on the corner of Minho’s mouth, because he’s smiling too. 

“I wouldn’t,” Minho murmurs. He shifts, pushing himself even deeper, and Jisung’s breath hitches. “No one else is quite like you, Han Jisung. You’re perfect.” 

He kisses Jisung before Jisung can do something stupid like say, I love you. Maybe Minho is trying to avoid saying it too. 

Jisung starts moving, rolling his hips in tiny circles— allowing himself to get lost in the movement when Minho spurs him on with a moan deposited on his tongue. Jisung’s hands thread into Minho’s hair when his bouncing renders him useless for kissing. 

He holds Minho close, working himself over his cock, their lips brushing every time he falls back down. Fragile in the most maddeningly intimate way. Jisung can feel Minho inside of him, and around him, and slipping his way into his heart. 

Simple praises stamped into Jisung’s skin, Minho tells him every thought he has, no matter how small. “Beautiful,” he breathes. “Jisungie— jagiya— oh, my baby.” 

A small whine leaves Jisung’s throat when his legs start getting tired, Minho mouthing at his throat. 

“I’ve got you, honey,” Minho murmurs. He holds Jisung close, turns them over without letting them part, so Jisung is on his back. 

Minho hikes Jisung’s legs up before letting one hand trail up his flank, searching for Jisung’s fingers. He smiles when he finds them. Tangles their hands together, bends down to give Jisung’s a kiss. Romantic. 

He takes his time. Fucks into Jisung slow at first, drawing out each whimper and moan like he’s a craftsman skilled in Jisung alone. He angles his hips when he has Jisung cockdrunk and stupid— begging for more. Thrusts hitting quicker, harder. Jisung doesn’t stand a chance. 

His gut coils with his orgasm, eyes stuck open, trapped in Minho’s undivided attention. 

Minho’s hand moves to Jisung’s cock, fingers curling around it, only a few strokes before Jisung falls. Stars in his skull, eyes rolling back, toes curling. 

When Jisung comes, Minho is kissing him. When Minho finishes only a beat afterwards, he moans into Jisung’s mouth. It renders them both unable to say what they’re thinking. Jisung is sure of it. He’s thankful for Minho’s self preservation, because he’s too out of his mind to do the same. 

They lay like that for a bit, Minho softening inside of him, sharing each other’s breaths. Smiling. Of course. Jisung can’t quit smiling. Overcome. Overflowing with fondness. 

“Thank you, Jisungie,” Minho says softly. He kisses Jisung’s cheek. And then the other. 

“No need to say thank you—” 

“For everything,” Minho cuts him off. “Not just this. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” 

Minho pulls out. He ties off the condom and tosses it away. And it shouldn’t be romantic, all things considered. But the earnestness in Minho’s voice can’t be overstated. The weight of it all. The truth. It’s romantic. It is. Jisung is experiencing the purest sort of romance, and he’s all choked up with the feeling of it. 

“You know, right?” Jisung says when Minho returns to clean him up. He grabs Minho by the cheeks. Sits up enough to look Minho eye to eye. “That I could say the same to you? You must know how much I wish I could say to you.” 

The smile Minho gives him is soft. There’s an edge of melancholy to it that Jisung doesn’t want to touch. His eyes are a little too shiny. “I know, Jisungie. You don’t have to say it. I know.” 

Jisung kisses him with everything he has. Rolls Minho’s bottom lip between his, and furrows his brow because he’s focusing too hard. 

What a fragile thing they’ve created. Jisung will never forget any of it. 

He waits until Minho is sleeping to slip out from under his arm. Tiptoeing over the wooden floor, into the hall. He doesn’t stop until he’s at the back door. In the backyard, dropping down to sit in the grass, staring up at the moon. 

Hyunjin answers on the second ring. 

“Jisung? What time is it?” 

“Hyunjin,” Jisung says. “I think I made a mistake.” 

“What do you mean?” There’s a shuffling over the line. Hyunjin is clearly in bed. Sitting up, voice laced with worry. “Are you safe?” 

Jisung chokes on his next breath. His words come out as a wretched sob, “I fell in love, Jinnie. I’m so in love with him that it hurts.” 

“Oh, Jisungie,” Hyunjin’s voice drops lower. Fond, almost. “Love always hurts a little bit. That’s how you know it’s real.” 

Above him, Jisung swears the moon winks in the absence of stars. 

+2 days

On day two, Jisung should be sleep deprived. 

He can feel the dark circles under his eyes. The lag in his movements. He does his best to smile anyway. It’s hard not to when Minho kisses him awake. 

It’s hard not to think about what should be something so beautiful— their first morning together after being intimate— marred by death. Loss. 

Jisung knows almost right away that he’s not going to last the day without crying. He tells Minho so over breakfast. Minho squeezes his hand, and gives him a tight smile, and says, “That’s okay, jagiya. I want you to feel whatever you need to feel.” 

He’s generous like that. To a fault, almost. Giving up all of himself until the very end. 

There’s a lot of lazing around. Wrapped up in one another. 

They listen to all of Minho’s favorite music, because there’s not much time left to appreciate those sorts of things. Look through the hundreds of photos filling up Jisung’s camera roll— well worn by now. 

“Jisungie?” Minho says sometime between lunch and dinner. He’d just gotten up to check on something. He freezes in the doorway on his way back in. 

Jisung sits up straighter. “Mm?” 

“I want you to take the cat.”

“I—” Jisung falters. He shakes his head, and then regrets it when Minho’s eyes go worried. He doesn’t want Minho to get the wrong idea. He’s just surprised. “You do?” 

Minho chews on his bottom lip, nodding slightly. “Is that okay? Does your landlord allow it?”

“It’s fine, I'd be honored— I just hadn’t thought about it,” Jisung nods. He’s nodding so hard his head might fall off. Haru is sitting in her chair, completely unaware of what’s going on around her. How much she has to lose. How could Jisung not think about it? “How did I not think about it?” 

“Oh,” Minho lets out a soft breath. He hurries over. Jisung doesn’t realize he’s crying until Minho cups his cheeks with warm hands. Says, “Don’t cry, Jisungie.”

“I’m not crying.” Minho thumbs away a tear from under Jisung’s eye. He laughs pathetically, a frustrated sob leaving his lips afterwards. All of it bottled up. He looks at Minho— right in his pretty brown eyes. “Haven’t I been not crying for long enough?” 

Minho’s eyebrows knit. Sad. He’s sad too. They’re both so sad. “We can’t cry tomorrow. I won’t allow it,” he whispers. 

“Okay,” Jisung agrees easily. “Tomorrow isn’t today.” 

So, they cry. 

They spend a lot of time crying. Laughing at the way they’re crying. Crying some more. On and off, taking turns, sharing it together. 

Once they’ve finished the worst of it, they pack up Haru and Jisung’s things. Most of them, anyway. Everything Jisung can’t carry home on the train tomorrow. 

Jisung gets into Minho’s car for the last time, and Minho drives him somewhere for the last time. 

Minho draws a bath after dinner. He spends the better half of an hour taking off Jisung’s clothes, one garment at a time, lips dragging over every patch of skin he uncovers. Patient kisses. Learning it by heart, he says. 

Jisung tries to do the same, but he’s much more impatient. He gives up after kissing lines up Minho’s collarbones, letting his hands do the rest of the work. Tracing the soft lines of Minho’s body, admiring every part of him. 

By the time they get in the bath, the water has cooled to a manageable warmth. Minho fits between Jisung’s legs, head resting on Jisung’s shoulder, tipped back. Jisung holds him tight and close. He’s so scared. He’s sure Minho can feel his heart threatening to beat out of his chest, but he doesn’t know how to stop it. He’s never been so scared in his life. 

Minho leans up and kisses Jisung’s jaw, and everything feels alright for a fraction of a second. 

They take their time. Dry each other off. Minho dries Jisung’s hair with a blowdryer, and Jisung does Minho’s. 

It’s late when they climb into bed. Jisung has been sleep deprived all day. He’s unwilling to miss any of it. 

He lets Minho hold him. Tries to force himself to stay awake for as long as he can, like that will stop the clock from turning over to tomorrow. 

He falls asleep with Minho’s fingers in his hair as Minho hums him a song he’s heard before but can’t quite place. One of those from the seventies or eighties that Minho loves so much. 

+1 day

Jisung’s last day with Minho goes about as well as they could hope. It feels like a dream. Jisung feels fuzzy around the edges. Half alive. 

They wake up together. Warm and comfortable. Jisung’s nose pressed to the nape of Minho’s neck, arm and leg slung around him like he’s trying to escape. 

Minho kisses him good morning. He smiles into it, so sweet Jisung’s toes curl. 

There’s more kisses as they get moving. Washing up in the bathroom. Dancing around the kitchen as they make breakfast. A sense of lightness that allows them to ignore the inevitable. The weight of the sky hanging above them, just waiting to fall. 

After breakfast they play chess. Minho wins, and he complains that Jisung is going easy on him, even though Jisung isn’t. Not at all. 

They climb up to the roof and watch the clouds. Pull shapes out. Go back inside and spend time with Haru. Watch The Cat Returns. 

They eat lunch, and drink lemonade, and afterwards they roll around in bed and kiss. Just kissing until their lips are numb and swollen, hair needing to be brushed. Like they have all the time in the world. 

When they get up, Minho gathers the last of Haru’s things and puts them by the door. He turns on one of his shitty playlists and drags Jisung to slow dance in the living room before Jisung can think too hard and start to cry. 

They have dinner together. It goes slower than usual, because Minho insists on holding Jisung’s hand the entire time. 

They spend more time with Haru. 

It feels like a dream. Jisung feels like he’s the one that’s going to die. He thinks maybe he already has.

Seven in the evening. That’s the time Minho suggests. It’ll give Jisung time to get home safely, and give Minho time to prepare for being up early in the morning. 

Haru doesn’t meow as she’s funnelled into her crate. She can probably sense the anxiety in the air. The sinking feeling of dread. 

It happens on the porch. 

“We had a good run, Jisungie,” Minho says. He’s smiling, but his eyes are too shiny. Wet and glowing in the setting sun. He holds Jisung’s arms too tight. Jisung wants to ask him to leave a bruise. Something he can tattoo. 

Jisung feels like he’s suffocating, but the human body has a funny way of pushing through things that feel dangerous. He laughs, watery. “Are you breaking up with me?” 

“Of course, Jisung,” Minho whispers. One of his hands comes up to cradle Jisung’s face, the pad of his thumb catching the bone— just rough enough to feel. “We both knew that you’d never be able to go through with the amicable thing.”

“We did,” Jisung agrees. His arms snake around Minho’s waist. It feels safer that way. Less like Minho is being torn away from him. “I’m not good at these things.” 

“No one is good at getting broken up with.” 

Jisung’s smile feels pained, then. It hurts. A wrecked sob threatens to escape from his throat, but he swallows it down. He’s not crying yet. He’s not allowed. “Is that all this is?” 

“If it’s easier,” Minho murmurs. He leans in, tilting Jisung’s face in his palm, pressing his lips to Jisung’s cheek. Lingering longer than he needs to. “Whatever you need.” 

“I need you,” Jisung’s voice wobbles with fear. A slip of his tongue, tasting the unflinching well of terror in his chest. His heart has never beat so fast in his life. He can feel it in his fingers when they fist into Minho’s shirt too tightly. He’s stretching it out, he’s sure. 

“No you don’t, baby,” Minho says. He shuts his eyes. Leans his forehead against Jisung’s. “You don’t. You want me, but you don’t need me.” 

“It hurts, Minho.” 

Minho nods. His mouth presses into a tight smile. His eyes are too shiny. His voice cracks, “I know. But you’re so strong. You’ll be strong, won’t you? Knowing that this was real.” 

“If that’s what you want.” Jisung’s throat hurts from the strain of speaking through the wall he’s created between himself and his tears. 

“It is,” Minho nods again. He smiles again, this time with teeth. His perfect, bunny teeth, and his pretty, big eyes. “There’s nothing I want more, jagiya.” 

“Okay then.” Jisung tries to breathe but falls short. “No crying. No crying.” 

“None.” Minho laughs. It’s not as wild as Jisung would like. It’s heavy, and sad. He holds Jisung’s face in both of his hands and rubs their noses together before pulling away enough to look at him head on. “Han Jisung, if I don't die, I’ll come find you.” 

“What if you do die?” 

“If I do, and there’s a way, I’ll still find you,” Minho answers. “Every universe. That’s something I’m sure of.” 

“You’re not very good at breaking up.” 

Minho grins. He lets his fingers move back, dipping into Jisung’s hair. “It’s not you, Jisung. It’s me.” 

“That’s a little bit better.” 

“I’m going to kiss you goodbye now.” 

“Please do.” 

Minho kisses Jisung like it’s the last time— because it is. And Jisung has to accept it. 

There’s nothing else to do. They’ve done it all. 

Jisung leaves Minho on the porch, cat carrier clutched in one hand. Haru doesn’t cry. Jisung stops in the middle of the street, right where he and Minho kissed for the first time. He turns around. The sky is gold and pink in the setting sun. Minho standing outside his little yellow house, tears in his eyes. 

He waves, then. Wishes it was a see you later. 

And that’s it. There’s nothing else to do. 

He holds his tears until he’s at the train station, counting his footsteps, talking passively to Haru. Anything to help him dissociate from the reality of the situation. 

When he gets to the station, he freezes up. A shot of panic moving through his chest. Ice cold. He doesn’t make it past the turnstile. He collapses onto a bench outside. He doesn’t think he can do it, even if he sits in the very back car. He won’t make it. 

He pulls out his phone with shaking hands, trying to keep his breathing steady for long enough to speak.

Hyunjin picks up on the second ring.

“Hyunjinnie? Can you come pick me up? I’m at the end of the green line, and I don’t think I'll make it home. And I have a cat now.” 

“I’m on my way. Stay on the line, okay?” 

“Okay. I’m sorry you have to see me for the first time in months as my boyfriend is dying.” 

Hyunjin makes a noise. “Never say sorry for needing help, Han Jisung.” 

“I don’t think I can make it home, Hyunjinnie.” 

“You can. Hang on. I’ll be there soon. Just— hold on, okay?” 

He does. Somehow. He holds on until Hyunjin pulls up, and until Hyunjin pulls him into his car. Until Hyunjin buckles him in. 

He holds on until they get back to Jisung’s apartment, and until Haru is let out to explore. 

Only then does the world come crashing down around him. Hard and fast. Jisung has never felt so much pain at once in his life. Hyunjin holds him, and he doesn’t even attempt to say it will be okay.

0 days

Minho dies on a Monday.

-1 day

Minho is dead. He’s been dead for a day, and Jisung gets up to feed the cat. 

It’s funny, really, how things have slowed since Jisung was left behind. The days drip like molasses. Jisung aches from how much he’s cried. He can’t possibly cry any more, because he’s wrung himself dry for now. 

He gets up to feed the cat when Hyunjin is out, buying him some sort of drink to keep him hydrated. Haru is so confused. Jisung feels like he can’t breathe when he thinks about it too long. 

She blinks up at him with her big, round eyes and black ears. Purple patches on her sides. She keeps asking him where Minho is, and he hasn’t been able to answer. 

He feeds her, though. He can do that. He has to— it’s not a decision. Jisung is half convinced that Minho left her to him just so that he wouldn’t die too. He thinks maybe he would, if Haru wasn’t here to feed. Some day she’ll die too, and then what will keep Jisung alive?

Unhelpful thoughts, Hyunjin keeps telling him. 

Jisung stands in the kitchen and stares down at Haru as she eats her food. He doesn’t feel much at all. He’s too tired. He misses Minho. A futile pursuit, considering Minho is dead. 

The day drips like molasses. Unbearably slow. 

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Jisung still gets up to feed the cat. He’s just as confused as she is, but she doesn’t have thumbs to feed herself.

-2 days

Jisung hates the flock of birds outside his apartment. They won’t shut up, and everything is making him angry since Minho is dead. 

He hates the birds outside his apartment, and he hates the sunlight, and Hyunjin opens the curtains anyway. That makes Jisung angry too. 

Hyunjin has slept in Jisung’s bed with him every night since he picked him up at the train station. He barely lets Jisung out of his sight. He had to help Jisung wash his hair on the first day. He had to put all the photos in Jisung’s camera roll into a locked album so Jisung wouldn’t see them every time he opened the app just to torture himself. 

Jisung had a passing thought that he doesn’t even have a right to be so unwell over Minho. Someone he knew for such a fraction of time. But, no. He’s allowed. He’s not forcing anything— he’s just laying still and letting himself feel. Natural. It only makes him feel more cheated. How much more time they should have had. 

The day drips. A cosmic joke. Jisung has to be careful, because his fragile little bubble has burst and left shards of glass all over the floor. If he takes a wrong step he’s left in a heap, bleeding out and unable to pick himself back up. 

Still, sometimes he feels like a mourning dove. Displaying distressed behaviors at the loss of its mate. He thinks if he were a bird, his tiny bird heart would give out under the weight of the world crumbling around him. 

What a thing grief is. So exclusive to living rather than humans. 

The day drips. 

Haru gets into an argument with Jisung around lunchtime— while Hyunjin is out picking up food. 

She hops on the counter and starts meowing. Long and loud. She won’t stop, no matter what Jisung says. She’s confused. Distressed. She must miss him too. 

“Haru, no,” Jisung says, trying to shoo her away. 

She meows again, it sounds sadder. Like she’s asking why? 

“No, Haru. That’s enough. I— you can’t see him.” 

Why, why, why? She says. God, why? 

Jisung’s next breath hurts. Like the air is slicing down his throat. He starts crying harshly, too fast for his brain to catch up to his body. Boiling over. He argues back, “I'm sorry! He’s not coming back. We just have to live without him!”

He crumbles to the floor then. In a heap. Bleeding out. Gasping sobs rolling through him as he curls in on himself. Unable to get himself back up. 

Haru hops down, and gets right up in his face. She sniffs him. Forces herself into the space between his thighs and his stomach, pressing her head against his body. 

Hyunjin finds them like that. He drops their food on the floor, bags hitting the ground with a soft crunch. 

“Oh, Jisungie,” he whispers— heartbroken. Jisung knows the feeling. 

Hyunjin helps Jisung up, just like he always does. Cradles him until he stops crying.  

When everything is quiet. Haru sleeping fitfully in the bed Minho left her, Jisung too tired to keep it up anymore, Hyunjin brushes his hair from his eyes and says, “We could try to find him, Jisung. Call hospitals. Try to figure it out.” 

“No,” Jisung swallows. It’s nothing he hasn’t thought about before. “That’s not what he wanted.” 

“He could still be alive.” 

“But what if he’s not?” Jisung says desperately. He’s desperate for Hyunjin to understand. Doesn’t he get it? How confusing this is? How it’s tearing Jisung apart— and how much worse it will be if Jisung knows for sure. No hint of hope left. He needs to get there on his own. It’s important that he gets there on his own.

There’s also a portion of him that knows Minho wouldn’t dare leave him without any direction. Jisung knows Minho too well. He knows that Minho will have left something behind. An answer. He knows Minho will have made sure it gets to him right on time. Minho was thoughtful like that. Caring, and kind, and smart. 

“I need to feel this for now,” Jisung says. “I know you don’t understand, but you don’t have to. I’m not asking you to understand.”

Hyunjin presses his lips together. His brow furrows. He doesn’t argue, even if he doesn’t fully understand. It’s only day two. 

-3 days

On day three without Minho, Jisung receives a letter in the mail. 

He knows what it is immediately, because Minho showed him the envelopes after he wrote them. In Minho’s neat scrawl, Jisung’s name and address on the front. He must have sent them before. 

Jisung asks Hyunjin for time to himself. Hyunjin says he’ll be outside the door if Jisung needs anything. 

It takes Jisung forty minutes to gather the courage to open the letter. He does so carefully, making sure not to rip anything— even the envelope. 

It takes Jisung another forty minutes to gather the courage to begin to read. 

Jisungie,

 

Hi. How are you doing? 

I know you’d hate me for even asking, because the answer is probably so obvious. You’d smack me in the chest and tell me to shut up, because I’m being mean again. I can practically feel Hyunjin glaring at me from the afterlife. He’s there, isn’t he? I’m sure he will be. But, I started this letter four different times, and I cried all over the fifth, so I’m just going to commit. 

God, there’s so many things I could say. I ached over this, you know? I’m sure you do. You tend to understand me. Anyway, I decided that I have two things I really need to say. The rest of it all feeds into these two things. I’m going to say them now, okay? Don’t cry too much, jagiya. Don’t be too mad at me for telling you not to cry, either. I can do what I want, you can’t stop me. 

I love you. I’m sorry. 

That’s it. Not so bad, right? Now that it’s on paper. And, give me a second to explain before you tear this up. (I know you won’t, really. You’re too sentimental. You’ll keep it close and read it often. I love that about you, Jisungie.) I’m going to end on a high note, alright? So, just bear with the hurt for a second. You’re going to call me stupid a thousand times in your head. Crazy, too, I’m sure. That’s okay. I can take it. 

I’m sorry, Jisung. I’m so sorry for posting that ad. For bringing you into something that was doomed from the start. I’m sorry that I’m not sorry at all, really, for any of it. 

I never told you that I went back and forth all week before I posted that ad. I hemmed and hawed. A moral conundrum, if you will. I couldn’t decide if it was wrong— from a human standpoint— to bring someone into something so volatile. There’s always the chance to get attached, right? Spending the last days with anyone is bound to make an impact. 

I was feeling a little selfish in my fragile state. I posted it anyway, because I was dying, and I needed to see. The next morning I went to delete it, embarrassed, and you had answered. I felt like maybe fate had something to do with it. I decided to try. If you weren’t a creep, I could be a little selfish. You know what happens next. 

Becoming acquainted with someone— asking a stranger to form a connection with me that necessarily ends in the other party being left behind. It would be tragic for someone who was simply a friend, and that’s the greatest I could even imagine, anyway. Finding someone who I get friendly with for the end. In my wildest fantasies, I couldn’t have dreamed you up, Jisungie. I’m selfish, but I’m not selfish enough to imagine someone so perfect for me. 

And, once I realized, I knew it was selfish to hold on, but I did it anyway. I knew I would fall in love with you. I could tell you were falling in love with me too, and I let it happen anyway. 

I’ve been horribly selfish, Jisungie. I took everything I could and left you behind. And I know that you’ll say that you wanted it too. I know you did, but that doesn’t make me any less sorry. I’m sorry. Even if you think this apology is unneeded, I hope you understand where it’s coming from, and you forgive me. 

I wouldn’t change a thing. Not one thing, Jisung. I had the best last three months of my life, exactly as they were. 

And for the next bit— god, do I love you. 

I was trying to be collected about it for a while. The days ticking by. I didn’t want to rush into something (a ridiculous thing to say when I’m on borrowed time). I wanted you to be okay with it too, obviously. I think it all went perfectly according to our timeline, then. 

Ninety days ago, if you were to ask me if I could fall in love with someone in two months, I’d have laughed. No, obviously not. But, what is life about if not being proved wrong? 

It happened fast. I must've stopped lying to myself around the time we tried out the purple line. I knew I liked you too much. More than friends. I stared at you more than I didn’t— I wonder if you ever noticed that? 

But, anyway, it happened fast. Day thirty-six, when we went to an open mic, and you sang for me. That’s when I knew I was falling. Or, when I realized I had been. I was already halfway down. Falling fast. 

It was around day thirty. Whenever we went to that stupidly expensive restaurant. You looked so beautiful. I wanted to hold your hand, but all I could think about, on endless loop, was that you deserved to be loved forever. I knew then that I wanted to be the one to do it until the end of my forever. 

I just know that I was meant to love you. Every timeline, or universe, or whatever, if you believe in those sorts of things. I feel so lucky, Jisungie, that we had as much time as we had. I feel so sad that it would never be enough. Playing that game doesn’t help anyone. I’m so lucky I got to love you for even a sliver of time. I’d take that over never getting the chance at all, every single time.

I know we never said it out loud, but I love you. I loved you to the end, I can assure you of that. I have no doubt that my last thoughts will be of you. And I know you love me too. Of course, there’s always a margin of error in these things, but I know you just as well as you know me, Han Jisung. I know you love me too, and it makes me the happiest man alive. Or, the happiest man that ever lived. A badge I’ll wear with honor wherever I end up. 

I love you. I love your laugh, and your smile. You look so pretty when you smile, Jisungie. I hope you smile a lot forever. Share that beauty with the world. I love your voice, and how gentle you are with Haru. I love those little complex things that make you who you are, even if you don’t. I’m taking that to the grave with me, so you can’t change my mind. I love how open to experience you are. I love how kind you are. How unfailingly honest you are when you need to be. I love the way you look at me, and I love that I know I’m looking back the same way. I love your checkered vans. Totally gay shoes. I love that you’re thoughtful, and I love that you think so much, and care so much. I just love you. All of it. Good and bad. All of it makes you who you are, and so all of it is wonderful to me. 

I didn’t say it before, and I didn’t write it on my list, because it felt futile. Unimportant. But, I’ve always wanted to fall in love. I never got to do that before. Didn’t think I would. And here you come to shake me all up. You filled my list and then some, Jisungie. 

Thank you for letting me love you. 

Have you made it this far? I’m sure you have. You love me too, you big sap. Don’t cry yet. Not until the end. There’s still things to say. I promise, I’m almost done, as much as I’d like to talk to you forever, we still have things to do while I’m alive, and you’re waiting for me on the couch right now. 

Now, Jisungie, listen— Kim Seungmin knows where I am. He has all of the details. He has your phone number. He’s loyal to a fault and he won’t give it up until I’ve instructed him to do so— whether that be from the grave or otherwise, though, likely from the grave. 

You know by now, don’t you? What went wrong. It’s just one of those things. The surgery had a twenty something percent survival rate. You understand why I couldn’t bear to be hopeful. And, I don’t want you to get hopeful now, either. I’m afraid that’ll just end up hurting more. I don’t want you to hurt more than you have to, Jisungie. Promise me. 

Kim Seungmin will call you when it’s time. Either way. 

I’m expecting you to lay on the grass with me. Find shapes in the clouds. But, I don’t want you to sleep there, okay? Make sure Hyunjin knows where you’re going. Let him take care of you. If he doesn’t Seungmin has been instructed to intervene, and we both know you don’t want that. He’s bossy. 

Do you remember when you said I’d die with the worst music taste known to man? I’m going to leave you with one. Something I’ve been keeping to myself instead of putting on my playlists,  because it makes me think of you. I’ve started crying when I listen to it, which is embarrassing. Anyway, now you can cry to it too, because I know you will. (They Long to Be) Close to You, Carpenters, 1970. 

You’re my most precious thing, Han Jisung. I wish we had longer, but there’s not much point in wishing anymore, is there? In another universe, I’m holding your hand right now. And that’s okay. This universe treated us well for what we had. 

I’ll see you soon, Jisungie. You make me want to believe in heaven. I love you. 

 

Minho.

Jisung cries so hard that he thinks he might die. He sounds like he’s dying. Wailing, close to screaming, unbearable sobs. Hyunjin bursts in, thinking something else horrible has happened. But, no, it’s just the same horrible thing as before. It just hurts more now. 

He cries until he bursts blood vessels in his eyes, and until his muscles are sore like he’s run a marathon. Until he’s made himself dehydrated. Exhausted. Until Hyunjin is calling someone for help. 

Through it all, though, Jisung doesn’t tear the letter. He makes sure. Presses it flat to his chest with his hands, and holds it still.

He falls asleep when his body gives up on him. 

-4 days

Four days without Minho, a second letter arrives in the mail. This one is addressed to the cat. 

Hyunjin hands it to Jisung with a sad smile. Asks if he wants to be alone. Jisung says no, not today. So, Hyunjin, Jisung, and Haru sit on the couch together and read Minho’s third letter. Jisung knows the third went to Seungmin. All of Minho’s mysteries are accounted for. He would have made sure of that. He wouldn’t want Jisung to think too hard about it. 

Haru, 

 

I would have written this in cat language, but I figured Jisungie could translate instead. He’s very reliable, that one. 

I love you so much, my perfect girl. I’m so sorry that I had to leave you behind. 

Jisung will take care of you. Maybe one day the purple will wash out of your fur, and Jisungie will cry. He will, I’m serious. Be prepared for that, okay? He’ll need extra love. 

You’ll be safe and happy with Jisung. I know you love him as much as I do. Be good. Don’t argue. 

 

Dad. 

“He’s funny,” Hyunjin says, his hands gripping Jisung’s arms so tightly Jisung thinks he might leave a bruise. Like Jisung is going to float away, or disintegrate, or something of the like. 

“He is,” Jisung says. His body still aches from yesterday. He hasn’t been able to cry today. Haru is stuck to him like a leech, because she knows something is wrong. 

“Will you tell me about him?” Hyunjin asks. His eyes are wide and curious. “I want to know what he was like. Anything you can think of. Tell me.” 

So, Jisung does. 

-5 days

Five days without Minho, and a mourning dove lands on Jisung’s window. Not their mourning dove, but a mourning dove. If Jisung believed in god, it might be one of those things that feels like a sign. 

He doesn’t, though, so it just feels sort of sad. A thing he hopes he can get over eventually. Feel happy about a memory rather than so overwhelmingly sad that Minho is gone. 

Around noon, Jisung looks in the mirror and wills Minho to be on the other side, just like he said he would be. But Minho isn't there. Maybe he’s alive, or maybe nothing happened after he died. One of those options is more likely than the other. 

On day five without Minho, Jisung decides to make peace with the flock of birds outside his apartment. 

-6 days

Hyunjin is hiding something from Jisung. 

He’s always been bad at that. He wears his heart on his sleeve, and his emotions peek through whatever façade he tries to put on. Even the serious one that he’s putting on for Jisung.

Jisung sees how often he looks at his phone. Chews his lip, trying to hide his smile. He’s rotten at it. Jisung caught on almost right away, but he was a bit wrapped up in other things to focus. 

By day six without Minho, his body hurts, and his throat is raw from crying. No matter how hard he presses on the bruises Minho left, they won’t stay. They’ll fade away just like the rest of Minho. Jisung is looking for anything to make himself feel some semblance of normalcy. 

Hyunjin has spent most of the day muttering about needing to go home and get some things, closely followed by not feeling comfortable leaving Jisung for long enough to do so. It makes Jisung feel like a baby, but he understands. He doesn’t have a good track record with taking care of himself. 

At some point Jisung falls asleep on the couch, Haru curled up under his arm. He wakes up to the sound of the door. Keeps his breathing even. Refuses to open his eyes. 

“Here,” a distinctly not-Hyunjin voice is whispering. “Just let me know if you need anything else. It’s fine.” 

Hyunjin lets out a shallow breath. “I don’t want to inconvenience you.” 

“You’re not inconveniencing me, Hyunne. It’s inconveniencing me to not be able to help.” 

“You’re ridiculous.” 

“I’m not. I care about you, you idiot.” 

There’s a soft pause. A kiss or two. 

“Go, he’s going to wake up soon.” 

“Alright— alright—” another kiss. 

The door clicks shut. Jisung opens his eyes, shoves himself up, careful not to jostle Haru around too much. He startles Hyunjin so badly that Hyunjin drops the bag of things his boyfriend dropped off and squeaks. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing someone?” Jisung asks, voice heavy with the dredges of sleep. 

Hyunjin’s cheeks go scarlet, his brows pull together, horrified. “It felt insensitive given the fact your boyfriend just died.”

He says it so seriously. Deadpan. He means it, too. Jisung can tell. 

It hits Jisung directly through the chest and knocks loose a wild laugh. Once Jisung starts, he can’t stop. His eyes blur from tears, and his cheeks ache. He laughs until he can’t breathe. Hyunjin looks devastated, and that makes him laugh more. Until he can’t tell if he’s laughing or crying, and Haru is glaring at him like she doesn’t know if she should intervene. 

“He would have thought that was really funny,” Jisung says eventually, when he’s able to get a word out. 

Hyunjin’s shoulders sag. He frowns. Comes over to smack Jisung on the side of the head. “Jisung!” he complains. 

“I’m sorry! I can’t help it. I’m emotional.” Jisung sniffles. He wipes his eyes from tears as new ones bubble up. “How long has this one been around?” 

“Um. About six months,” Hyunjin says. His façade drops for a soft, shy smile. “I really like him a lot, Jisungie."

Six months in Hyunjin’s world is a lifetime. For Minho and Jisung, it would feel like a lifetime too. 

Jisung swallows back the lump in his throat. “Tell me about him? I want to feel normal for a little bit.” There’s nothing more normal than Hyunjin waxing poetic about his love life while Jisung listens. 

So, Hyunjin does. 

-7 days

Jisung has been putting the pieces together. Whatever it is that’s killed Minho is medical. He had some sort of operation at the end of the ninety days— that’s why he was so insistent that he knows exactly how many days it will be. 

There was a second where Jisung, in a frantic panic on day seven without him, tried to look it up. 

High risk surgeries. 

What surgeries have a low survival rate?

Are there surgeries that kill you? 

Yes, the internet said. There’s thousands of conditions and operations that Jisung didn’t even know existed. Plenty of different things to kill a person. Things that have a five percent survival rate. Things that kill before surgery can even test for them. 

Average recovery time for high risk surgery.

How long to wake up from coma. 

Two days to two years, the internet said. There’s thousands of conditions and operations that Jisung didn’t even know existed. Plenty of different things to keep a person inpatient for months on end. Incapacitated, even. 

Jisung got sick after that. With guilt. Minho didn’t want to tell him, but he’d attempted to chip away at it on his own. Whatever it is, Minho will tell him when he wants him to know. If he wants him to know. He’ll do it via Kim Seungmin, in his own time. Jisung isn’t entitled to anything else.

But, at what point is it okay to try? Minho must have known that Jisung would try. Minho knew him so well. He must have known that Jisung would need answers eventually. He said he’d give Jisung answers— it’s just that Jisung doesn’t think Minho knew how horrible it would be to be in Jisung’s shoes. He’s a bit angry at Minho, actually. He’d like to tell him off. 

Jisung curls in on himself, setting his phone on the nightstand. He cries quietly, so Hyunjin won’t wake up, and tucks himself into Hyunjin’s chest. 

-8 days

On day eight without Minho, Jisung is still angry when he wakes up, so he tries to call Kim Seungmin. 

It goes straight to voicemail— like his phone is turned off, or dead. 

He calls Seungmin’s office next. The secretary tells him that Seungmin is out on emergency leave, she doesn’t know when he’ll be back, but she can take a message. 

Jisung lets his finger hover over Minho’s contact for a long time. Shaking. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if someone picks up. Worse, he doesn’t know what he’ll do if someone doesn’t. If the line is dead. 

He’s angry. As he tells himself that, it feels less true. A façade crafted to cope. 

His finger slips. That’s how he ends up calling. He drops his phone in surprise, and his chest tightens so quickly that it’s suffocating him. He scrambles to end the call— but it doesn’t matter. Minho’s phone goes straight to voicemail. Like it’s turned off or dead. 

Jisung throws his phone against the wall. He cries. When Hyunjin comes in to see what’s wrong, he has to rush past Hyunjin to get to the bathroom and throw up. 

Somehow, after he rinses out his mouth and brushes his teeth, with Haru winding around his legs anxiously— Jisung feels a bit closer to acceptance than he was before. 

-9 days

Jisung insists on meeting Hyunjin’s boyfriend. 

He asks to do it at home, but Hyunjin refuses. He smiles brightly and tells Jisung that it’s about time they got out of the house. Makes reservations for a lunch place down the road. 

Jisung gets this bone crushing anxiety about it, too. There’s nothing more debilitating. Nothing harder.

He pulls his hood over his head when they leave, pushes on his sunglasses, hands shoved into the pocket of his sweatshirt. Hot— sure— but at least he’s not getting a sunburn. 

They meet Hyunjin’s boyfriend at the table. A tall kid with a pretty smile and sharp eyes. He shakes Jisung’s hand, and trips over his words because he’s, “Nervous to meet someone so important to Hyunjin.” 

That makes Jisung cry. Because, of course it does— his life couldn’t possibly get any worse. Hyunjin’s boyfriend— Jeongin, is his name— immediately, and very awkwardly hugs him. Pats his back. Tells Jisung he’s sorry, even though there’s nothing to be sorry for. He’s odd. Minho would probably love him.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to be sorry,” Jisung says, pulling himself together enough to sit in his chair. Hyunjin gives him a pitying little smile. Worried. 

“I’m a little sorry. Can’t I be sorry your boyfriend died?” 

Hyunjin gasps, kicks Jeongin’s shin under the table. Jeongin yelps. Jisung lets out a watery laugh. 

He directs his next comment at Hyunjin specifically, “Minho would like him.” 

And, it’s easier after that. They eat, and Hyunjin fawns over both of them at once, making sure they’re both eating enough. Jisung has never seen anything like it with Hyunjin. Not directed towards anyone else, at least. 

It’s nice, but Jisung is still on edge. 

He’s been having nightmares. Or— he doesn’t know if they could count as that— but they’re certainly bad dreams. Minho dying in front of him. Minho coming back, only to die again. And, the worst— Minho running into him on the street, and admitting it was all a lie. That he didn’t care to come after Jisung at all. 

They’re nothing more than dreams. That’s what Hyunjin keeps telling him. Being in public sets him on edge. 

Hyunjin is distracted by Jeongin, and Jisung is staring into the people passing by. 

It’s a bad dream, that’s all. But his heart skips when he catches the flash of a side profile. A coat that looks exactly like one Minho had. Hair a glossy black that could almost have remnants of color in the sunlight— and— realistically it’s not him. But what if it is? 

Jisung would never forgive himself if Minho walked by. This stranger has Minho’s gait, too. He’s getting away, disappearing around the corner. 

A lurch in Jisung’s chest sends him running. Chasing after Minho— because he’s so sure it’s him. He saw his side profile— his jacket. 

“Jisung!” Hyunjin shouts after him, but Jisung quits listening. His heart is too loud in his ears, his breathing too sharp. 

If it’s too late, Jisung doesn’t know what he’ll do. He turns the corner, muttering excuse me’s to anyone he runs into. And Minho is at the other end of the block already. 

“Wait!” Jisung calls. His eyes sting. His head hurts. His fingers make contact with Minho’s shoulder halfway down the next block. He holds on. Says, much more desperate, “Wait!” 

Minho turns around, and it isn’t Minho at all. There’s no freckle on his nose. 

A man, maybe about forty, shaking Jisung off of him with a sour look. A scowl. 

“I’m sorry,” Jisung says. “I thought you were someone else.” 

The man glares as he walks away— faster than before. And Jisung crumbles for what feels like the thousandth time this week. It’s a Wednesday. He used to love Wednesdays. Now he just feels alone.

Hyunjin finds him squatting on the ground, sobbing over the pavement, tears staining concrete. 

“Jisung,” Hyunjin is out of breath, his hair a mess. He directs Jisung closer to the building they’re next to, getting him out of the way.

“This is why I didn’t want to come out. I knew I’d see him in the wind, Hyunjin. I’m going fucking crazy,” Jisung gags on his own tongue. He’s dizzy. 

Hyunjin sits down on the concrete next to him. Not a care in the world for his fanciest pants. He wraps his arm around Jisung’s chest, drops his head to Jisung’s shoulder. “You’re not crazy, Jisungie— you’re just in love.” 

They sit together quietly until Jeongin comes to collect. He’s paid for their food, and he looks so worried for both of them. He’s a good kid, Jisung thinks. He’s good for Hyunjin. Someone to take care of Hyunjin like Hyunjin takes care of everyone else. 

“Sorry,” Jisung croaks when Jeongin helps him up with a solid hand. “I freaked out because I thought I saw my dead boyfriend walking down the street.” 

Jeongin’s face twists up. “Is this the type of joke you want me to laugh at?” he asks.  

Jisung swallows. He hurts. “Yeah, kind of.” 

“Okay. Hah. Hah,” Jeongin tries to put some more feeling into the second one, but it doesn’t land. He tries one more, “Hah.” It’s definitely not for him. 

“We should take a loop around the park before going home,” Hyunjin suggests, twisting one hand into Jisung’s, and his other into Jeongin’s. “It’ll be good for us.” 

Jisung could probably use some sun. He’s been horribly lonely without. 

The thing about being human, Jisung thinks, is that it’s not something that he notices until he’s experiencing the worst of it. 

Minho was good at that. Realizing it for the good instead of just the bad. Jisung wants to be more like him. He was making good progress blooming before Minho died. He’d like to keep it up. 

Yearning, grief, loss— all of them are human things— but so are falling in love, and acceptance, and belonging. 

He’s been so focused on the bad parts of being human. The worst feelings he can feel while alive. It’s not been fair. Selfish, even, to be upset about something dead people can’t have at all. 

Somewhere in the park, Jisung stops crying. He detaches himself from Hyunjin’s hand to pick a flower and twirl the stem between his fingers. He points at a cloud and tells Hyunjin it looks like Haru, and Hyunjin agrees with him, even though Jisung can tell he’s lying. 

Human things. Living. Jisung is tired of thinking about it. But, he’s also glad to know that the good things didn’t end with Minho. 

Standing on the step to his building, waiting for Hyunjin and Jeongin to say goodbye. They kiss, and Hyunjin blushes to the tops of his ears, giggles giddily. Falling in love. Jisung knows what it looks like. 

Jisung has felt so sad, but the good things will be there when he manages to get back up again. There’s some sort of comfort in that. 

He’s been having fantasies. Or— he doesn’t know if they could count as that— but they’re certainly bad dreams. Minho kissing him. Minho coming back, and telling Jisung that there’s been some big mistake. And, the worst— Minho knocking on his door, and telling Jisung he survived. That it was all real, and he followed through on his promise. 

They’re nothing more than dreams. That’s what Jisung keeps telling himself. Being in public has set him on edge. Having a breakdown in the street has set him on edge. 

Hyunjin’s arm around his shoulders as they step out of the elevator and onto Jisung’s floor. Around the corner. Minho is standing in front of Jisung’s door, slumped against it. Jisung must really be going crazy. 

It’s a fantasy, that’s all. But Jisung’s heart skips when Minho’s head turns. A coat that looks exactly like one Minho had. Hair a glossy black that could almost have remnants of color in the sunlight— and— oh. He smiles. 

He winces like he’s in pain as he stands up straight, but he’s smiling. Jisung thinks he can hear Haru crying through the door. 

A lurch in Jisung’s chest sends his legs out from under him. Hyunjin barely manages to catch him before he hits the ground. Jisung’s ears are ringing. 

“What the— are you— him?” Hyunjin is saying. Jisung is trying to get up. He’s dragging himself up on Hyunjin’s sleeves, trying to get closer. And Minho is here. There’s a freckle on his nose. 

“Gentle with my chest, jagiya—” Minho is saying. He huffs when Jisung falls into him, just enough restraint to not send them falling over.

He’s warm. Jisung doesn’t understand. He smells like a hospital. He’s warm, and he’s clearly hurting, so Jisung lets up enough to give him space. Jisung can’t see through his tears, and he can’t hear. He can’t talk. 

“Breathe,” Minho reminds him. So Jisung does. 

“You—” Jisung chokes. He’s dizzy. Vision blotting out. He’s not getting enough air. “Minho.” 

“I kept my promise,” Minho smiles. He’s smiling. Grinning. Toothy, beautiful. 

Jisung crumbles for what feels like the thousandth-and-first time this week. But this time he’s doing it in Minho’s arms. 

Dead weight. They slide down the wall, onto the floor. Minho grunts. He doesn’t complain. He lets Jisung’s hands feel all over him. Something strapped to him beneath his clothes. He’s thin, his cheeks sunken slightly, eyes darker than usual. But he’s alive. Really, truly. He’s sitting on the floor in the hall with Jisung and letting him cry. Soothing him through it, a hand running up and down his back. 

“I love you,” Minho says. “I love you so much that I fled Kim Seungmin to come see you. He’s going to kill me when he finds us.” 

“I won’t—” Jisung hiccups. He’s ruinous. His hands scramble for a grip he can’t quite keep. Never close enough. “I won’t let him.” 

“I know, honey,” Minho says. He draws Jisung’s face into the crook of his neck. “Don’t worry. I’ll never let anything take me from you again.” 

“You better not,” Jisung wails. He feels juvenile. Childish. Sick. Happy. So, so happy. Alive. 

“Um,” Hyunjin clears his throat. “I’m Hyunjin, by the way.” 

Minho laughs, and Jisung can hear it rumbling in his chest. “Hi, Hyunjin. I’m sorry we had to meet like this.” 

“I’ll forgive you, but only because you’re not dead.” 

Not dead. Jisung has to accept that. How is he meant to accept that? Stitching himself up for the past nine days, only to undo it all again. A futile pursuit. 

Reality is suffocating. Inescapable. Minho is alive, and Jisung is too. There’s nothing else to do but accept it. 

“I love you,” Jisung says, his voice startlingly clear. He forgot to say it before. “I love you so much. I’m in love with you. I’m so mad at you. I love you.” 

Minho smiles. His eyes are wet, and shiny, and holding all sorts of non-artificial stars. “I know, Jisungie. I love you too.” 

It’s a very human thing, forgetting how to breathe. 

Jisung feels like he just learned again for the first time in years. 

Minho is unwell. He just had life-altering surgery— of course he’s unwell. 

He admits that Jisung probably did some damage by tackling him, but he promises he’s not mad. He cries when he sees Haru. He kisses her all over her face, and holds her in his lap, and he cries some more when he gets settled. When Hyunjin launches into nurse mode, making sure everyone is safe and comfortable. 

Jisung and Haru refuse to be out of Minho’s reach. 

“Seungmin’s been at the hospital with me. I was out for a day or two, apparently, and then I woke up to him all hunched over and asleep on my bed. He hit me as hard as he could and the nurses threw him out,” Minho says, smiling. A cup of tea clenched in his hands. “He had to negotiate to get back in. It was great.” 

Seungmin shows up shortly after that, with a bag full of medication and a scowl on his face. His hair is a mess, and his eyes are sunken. He swears at Minho, curses him out. Tells Jisung a polite hello. 

“I told you I’d drive you, you fucking imbecile,” Seungmin hisses at Minho. 

“I was fine. I took the train,” Minho says, much too calm for a dead man. 

“Impatient, impossible, insufferable man,” Seungmin shouts. Then he doles out Minho’s pills and gives him exactly the right dose. Flops onto Jisung’s couch with a hand flung over his forehead. 

Jisung is afraid. He doesn’t want to go to sleep at all, even though he’s exhausted. He’s afraid that when he wakes up, none of it will be real. He cries about it. Pitiful little sobs, hands twisted into Minho’s shirt. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Minho soothes. “This is real.” 

That doesn’t make it any less difficult, Jisung thinks. 

He falls asleep with Minho’s fingers in his hair as Minho hums him a song he’s heard before but can’t quite place. One of those from the seventies or eighties that Minho loves so much. 

It comes to him just as he’s on the edges of sleep, Minho’s arm hooked over his waist, holding him close. (They Long to Be) Close to You.

-10 days

He wakes up and Minho is alive. Breathing. Awake. Staring, like he can’t get his fill. 

“I thought you were dead,” Jisung says, chest all stuffed up with cotton, trying to make sense of the assault of emotions. 

“I know, baby,” Minho says. “I’m so sorry.” 

Hyunjin finally goes home. He promises he’s only a call away. Seungmin stops by around lunch and dinner, making sure everything is alright. Both of them are giving Minho and Jisung space. 

Jisung keeps waiting for himself to wake up. He’s afraid to accept it, because if he does, and then he finally wakes up, it’ll hurt so much more. 

-11 days

Jisung cries a lot on day eleven after Minho’s artificial death. 

He’s panicking. Freaking out. Inconsolable. Angry. 

God— he’s so angry at Minho. “How could you do that to me? Why would you do it?” 

“I know,” Minho says in that calm way of his. He lets Jisung get angry. 

“Why would you do it, Minho? You couldn’t have called?” Jisung sobs. He can barely breathe. His head throbs. His eyes ache. “I thought you were dead. I was mourning you like you died!” 

“I know, baby.” 

“Don’t call me that!” 

“Jisung—” 

“Why would you do that?” Jisung crumbles. He collapses, body giving out on him. There’s no one to be angry at. He knows that. He’s being selfish. He just doesn’t know how to deal with the depth of what he’s feeling. He doesn’t think anyone would. It’s too much. “I’m sorry,” he says, when his crying dies down a bit. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me. I didn’t mean it.” 

Minho pulls Jisung to him by the arm. He doesn’t have enough mobility to do more than suggest the action, but Jisung goes wherever he leads. Curls up into his side, right where he belongs. 

“We’ll take as much time as we need to heal, Jisungie,” Minho says. He kisses Jisung’s temple. “We have all the time in the world. I’m not in any rush, as long as you’re okay. We’ll take it day by day.” 

“Tell me this is real,” Jisung requests, voice small. 

“This is real. Of course it’s real. I’m okay. I came to find you. I love you. We’ll be alright.” 

Jisung takes a shaky breath. He lets it out. Closes his eyes. 

He just has to accept it. 

-12 days

“Ask me what I want, Minho,” Jisung demands on day eleven. 

Minho blinks at him from the couch, Haru in his lap. He shakes off his surprise quickly. “What do you want, Jisung?” 

“I want you to ask me to be your boyfriend again.” 

“Oh,” Minho says. He smiles, slow and wide. Sweet. Nudges Haru to get off his lap, which she complains about with a disgruntled meow. Gets to his feet, Jisung rushing forward to make sure he’s stable. 

And then he’s there, face to face with Jisung, hands landing on Jisung’s waist. Smiling. He’s so pretty when he smiles. Jisung is going to look at it for as long as he’s able and then some. 

“Be my boyfriend, Han Jisung.” 

“Okay,” Jisung nods. “I will.” 

Minho kisses Jisung like it’s the first time, because it practically is. And Jisung is happy to accept it. Arms winding around Minho’s neck, body bowing forward as their mouths slot together. Flowers blooming in his chest. 

There’s nothing else to do. They’ve just begun the rest of their lives.

-92 days

It takes a long time to get back on their feet. To heal. 

Jisung still has nightmares. He isn’t able to sleep unless Minho or Hyunjin is sleeping next to him. 

He pays to cancel his lease about a month after Minho shows up half-dead at his door, and moves in with his very alive boyfriend. He’s allowed to come to Minho’s doctor’s appointments now. But, he still has nightmares. 

Minho says sorry more than he should. He whispers it into Jisung’s neck whenever Jisung wakes up gasping— upset. Even though it’s not his fault. 

Seungmin goes back to work. Minho doesn’t. He’s living off of his inheritance for a while— just as he has been since Jisung’s known him. A nice sum of money that his parents left him when they died too young.

They spend a lot of time doing things that they’ve done before. Things they never thought they’d get to do again. Jisung starts working again, because he’s able to do that now. The second bedroom is converted into a studio. They eat much more tiramisu than they should.

There’s bad days. There’s good days. It’s a human sort of experience. 

“I’m so, so happy,” Jisung says on day ninety two, and he means it. Without any caveats or lingering doubts. 

-174 days

Minho gets a new job. A real one with life insurance, and a commute to the office, and a dress code. 

Jisung pulls him in by his tie every morning and kisses him as he leaves. He holds Haru up to the window and makes her wave goodbye as Minho goes to take the green line into the city. 

They’re happy. Content. They have a mundane life in a little yellow house with a pink door. It’s very human of them. 

-238 days

A mourning dove lands in the flower bed outside of the front window on a Monday in the spring. It feels like a sign. Barely a cloud in the sky besides one that looks strangely similar to Haru. 

Jisung almost falls over trying to get to his knee. He puts his hand out to catch himself at the last moment, and Minho covers a giggle behind his hand. Jisung clears his throat when he gets upright. Balanced. One knee beneath him, a ring made from a daisy in his hand, one made of gold in a box in his back pocket. 

He feels incredibly mature, actually. Not in a bad way— but in a real way. He’s certain of this deep and intense love. He loves Minho. He knows it will never go away. 

“Lee Minho,” he says, smile pulling up one side of his mouth. “You’re my best friend. The best partner. I love you. I love our life. So, what do you say?” 

Minho’s eyes crinkle at the sides. He giggles half-wildly. Scooches closer. “You didn’t even ask.” 

“Marry me, jagiya.” 

“Yes,” Minho whispers. When he holds out his hand, it’s trembling slightly. “I will.” 

Jisung’s hand trembles when he slides the makeshift ring onto Minho’s finger. He squeaks when Minho tackles him to the ground and kisses him soundly. 

-365 days

Minho has a doctor’s appointment, and Jisung comes with him. 

He holds Minho’s hand as Minho gets cleared. The chance of recurrence below five percent. 

It’s not out of the question, but it’s incredibly unlikely. They take things day by day, anyway, so there’s not much use bothering with worrying now. 

Kim Seungmin sends them a bottle of champagne via delivery driver. They drink it over tiramisu they made yesterday, and with Haru curled up nearby in her chair in the kitchen. 

-400 days

Jisung met Minho in a park in the center of the city this morning. On a bench. Minho came from work— took an hour off to do this— brought donuts, and coffee, and they watched birds splash around in a manmade pond before getting up and walking to an address in the business district. 

It’s a very swanky building, and Jisung is, as usual, horribly underdressed. He’s wearing jeans, and his vans, and a too big t-shirt with the devil on it, because it felt appropriate. 

“How was your morning?” Minho asks on the elevator. 

“Good. Haru argued with me. She wanted tuna instead of chicken, but I told her she’s not allowed because she’s an addict.” 

Minho laughs. He’s wearing his work clothes. Dress shirt buttoned up. Jisung looks like his rebellious teenage son instead of his fiance. “You look kind of crazy, by the way.” 

“I do not look crazy. You look crazy.” 

Behind them, a man in a suit clears his throat. Probably to remind them that he’s still there. Listening. Minho ignores him. “You sound it now.” 

“God damn it,” Jisung fails to hold back his massive smile as Minho laughs.

They get off at the fifty third floor. Shiny black tile squeaks under their feet. A sign above reception advertises Kim & Yoon— even though Jisung knows for a fact that Seungmin’s business partner got married over the summer, so it should say Kim & Choi. 

“How can I help you?” the girl behind the desk asks, her long nails clacking against her keyboard, barely looking up from the screen.

“We’re here to finalize our estate planning documents. Lee Minho and Han Jisung.” 

“Alright, you can take a seat, Mr. Choi will be with you soon.” She gives a wry smile, completely fabricated. 

“Why didn’t they change the name?” Jisung whispers when they sit down in the waiting area. “Isn’t it confusing to call him Choi and have Yoon on the sign?” 

“Jeonghan said, and I quote, I worked for that degree and that sign, just because I’m married doesn’t mean my god given name shouldn’t be on the fucking sign. Did Mr. Choi graduate from law school and start his own practice? No. Mr. Choi is a stay at home husband, Give me a break.” 

Jisung snorts. He knows not to question Jeonghan, no matter how backwards his logic may sound. The man is decisive and stubborn. He and Seungmin are an unstoppable force when they get drinking together. 

The sound of shoes clicking across the floor tears their attention from each other. Jisung looks up just as Jeonghan walks into the lobby, long hair tucked behind his ears. He smiles warmly, his dress shirt folded up to his elbows. He’s one of those people that looks good all the time. Jisung now knows that Minho is just surrounded by beautiful people constantly. “Boys, good to see you.” 

“You should be treating us professionally, Hannie,” Minho says, lacing his fingers with Jisung’s as soon as they stand up. 

Jeonghan rolls his eyes, waving them along into the conference room directly in front of where they were sitting. 

They take a seat opposite Jeonghan, waiting for him to get situated. 

Jisung asked why Seungmin couldn’t do this, and Minho said that he just can’t. Jisung hadn’t questioned him, because he knows that Minho had worked with Jeonghan before to hide the whole dying thing. Jeonghan took it seriously and professionally, and he didn’t tell on Minho to Seungmin. 

“So,” Jeonghan says, sliding papers across the table. “There wasn’t much to change, as you know, Minho. You’d already left everything to Jisung the last time, so I’ve just added him to the documents, made it go both ways and the like.” 

“Sorry—” Jisung chokes on his own spit, eyes going wide. “You what?” 

Minho blinks, completely unbothered. “What?”

“You were going to leave me everything when you died?” Jisung breathes, fingers clenching so hard into Minho’s thigh that he might bruise him. 

“Of course,” Minho says. He has the audacity to shrug. 

“We came to finalize your papers, like, a week after we met, Minho.” 

“I had a good feeling about you!” 

Jisung scoffs. He makes a series of aborted noises that don’t form any real words. “What about Seungmin?” 

“Seungmin has enough money!” Minho throws his hands up. “He didn’t need it!” 

“You—” Jisung pauses. He presses his fingers to his temples. Takes a deep breath. “You’re crazy. This isn’t a compliment, Lee Minho. You’re insane.” 

Minho’s face goes a little sour. He frowns. “Well, I was right, wasn’t I?”

“I don’t care if you were right!” Jisung laughs incredulously. He fumbles to pull his phone out of his pocket. “You know what— I’m calling Seungmin.”

“Don’t call Seungmin.” Minho catches his wrist, but Jisung shakes him off. 

“I’m calling Seungmin.”

The phone is ringing before Minho can stop him, Jeonghan giggling in the background. Seungmin picks up on the first ring, just like he always does. 

“We’re in the conference room. Come down here.” 

Seungmin sighs. “You irk me, Han.” 

“Come down here,” Jisung repeats. He hangs up the phone. Ignores Minho’s pouty face. 

Seungmin stalks down the hallway a moment later, all perturbed at being bothered. He sticks his head in, looks at each of them judgmentally. “What?” 

“Minho signed documents to leave me everything he owns a week after we met.” 

“I had a good feeling!” Minho tries. A last ditch argument before Seungmin lets him have it. 

“Lee Minho, of all the time I have spent nailing the importance of logic into your stupid, thick skull—” 

Jisung laughs wildly in that way only Minho can draw out of him. Head tossed back and eyes squeezed shut. Happy to be alive. 

-490 days

Minho and Jisung marry on a Monday. 

A terrible day to get married, all things considered. Hyunjin won’t let them forget about it. 

They take the green line to the courthouse, and they wear pink instead of white. 

Kim Seungmin cries. 

Jisung’s vows go something like, “I’m so happy that this universe is ours. I love you.” 

Everyone they love whistles and howls when they kiss.