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They're home at last.
Jisung enters first, dragging his feet over the threshold as Minho pulls their rolling suitcases in behind them and knocks the doormat askew in the process. The front door latches itself with a satisfying click like a final piece of punctuation: a period that marks the clear division between Tour and, finally, Not Tour. For now.
It feels different this time in a way Jisung can’t quite pinpoint. Maybe it’s the bewildering scale of the events at this stage of their career, so much grander than the last time they were in North America, at some of the most famous venues in the world; maybe it’s the relentless pace they’ve been hopping continents this year, with another still to go. It could be the fact that they’ve been continuing to work on songs—for the comeback after the one they haven’t even had yet, for other future releases that are still to be set in stone—at a rate they hadn’t before, not while overseas. And though he’d had some opportunities to explore the cities (mostly for food) and spend time with the members outside of performing, he felt like he’d been mostly just bouncing between Chan’s hotel rooms to record and write; sprawling, too-hot stadiums; hotel gyms with obnoxious thumping dance music; and unfortunately-timed jetlag naps. It had been fulfilling but draining. He still had lyrics half-written and unfinished melodies tugging at the corners of his brain that were begging to be made real. His fingertips itched for his guitar. His stomach rumbled for a proper meal. The rest of his body ached for comfort and familiarity and bed—their bed.
In barely a week’s time they'll be off to Europe. But right now, at this very moment, they’re home.
They both let their luggage drop where they stand in the entryway. Jisung toes off his shoes and feels Minho’s forehead land with a thump between his shoulder blades.
“You good?” he laughs, as though he's not just as exhausted.
“Mm,” Minho mumbles, unmoving.
“We’re home, jagiya,” Jisung tells him, like it’s new information. When Minho doesn’t respond, he flexes his shoulders to jostle his head.
Minho lets out a monosyllabic noise of complaint and wraps his arms around Jisung’s waist, drawing their bodies together, and presses his cheek to his back. He locks his grip on his own arms to eliminate the possibility of escape.
Jisung places his hands over Minho’s. “Big baby,” he chides softly, before gently rocking them from side to side. “Come on, we’re sooo close to being out of travel clothes and being clean and fresh and horizontal.”
“Mm,” Minho says again, his voice a little distorted by his squished cheek. “Shoundshgood.”
“And then I need to work on that track,” Jisung continues. “I know I can finish—eugh!” He’s almost winded by the sudden pressure on his abdomen like an affectionate Heimlich maneuver.
“No,” Minho says firmly, tightening his hold. “No work. Only rest.”
“But I just need to—”
“No!” Minho squeezes him harder in protest. “No work. Our time now.” He lifts his head only to stubbornly press a kiss between Jisung’s shoulder blades.
Jisung pats Minho’s hands urgently. “Hyung, you’re going to make me throw up if you keep squishing me. And I will make you clean it up with no regrets.”
That gets the hold to loosen. Jisung turns in Minho’s arms and loops his own loosely around his neck, meeting his tired eyes with an empathetic look. He understands Minho’s feelings without the need to hear the words. It’s what they do. “I know,” he says, “I’m tired too. But as soon as I—”
Minho cuts him off with his mouth. It’s just a chaste pressing together of their lips, an implied request, but it stops Jisung in his tracks all the same.
They haven’t been able to share so much as a peck since the previous morning—night? Day? What timezone are they in again?—when he’d quietly snuck out of Minho’s hotel room in the early hours before the members and their sizable traveling crew had risen.
They’d long since adjusted to the time difference after being on the road for so long, but the occasional restless night still managed to find them on tour. And on the last night, instead of the hours-long talks about everything and nothing that are just as common on the road as they are at home, Jisung had roused Minho with a press of his mouth to his neck and a whine, helplessly rolling against him with need. Minho had responded by pulling him closer and slipping his hand between them. They didn’t get much sleep after that.
Jisung had kissed him one more time before dawn, slipping away to the pristine, untouched bed in his own assigned room before anyone could knock and tell him to get up and pack. It was a touring routine the two of them were experts in by now. The important people knew, but not everyone, and sometimes a little covert room-hopping was the best way to avoid non-staff suspicion while on tour.
“We’ve been working nonstop for weeks,” Minho reminds him when he pulls away. It’s the first fully cohesive thing he’s said since the Toronto airport; he hadn’t felt the need to waste his drastically depleted energy on something so unnecessary as speaking full sentences when it wasn’t important. Stopping Jisung from working himself to death the second they got home? That was important. “The track will be there when you wake up, and we don’t have any schedules tomorrow. You can work on it then. Chan will understand. Just relax tonight.”
Jisung is about to open his mouth with another appeal when Minho adds, “Please?”
One of their suitcases, unbalanced where it was set down behind them, tips over with a thud like it’s as exhausted as they are. As far as signs from the universe go, it was a little on the nose.
Jisung heaves out a sigh in fond resignation. “Okay,” he agrees. “But only because you gave me the little abandoned kitten eyes.” He drops his gaze to Minho’s lips before pressing his own kiss there in a quiet promise.
Minho’s eyes crease when they part, all warmth. “Yesss. I love winning.”
Jisung shoves him playfully in response and steps out of his hold. “Don’t push it. I’ll get you when you least expect it.”
Minho hums in amusement as he kicks his shoes off, unconvinced.
Jisung’s already on his way towards the bathroom and tugging his shirt over his head when he calls out, “Hey, we have that rice left. Easy dinner!”
Minho freezes. Suddenly he’s the most alert he’s been in 24 hours as he casts his eyes worriedly towards the kitchen. “Jagi,” he replies gravely. “I made that two days before we left for Seattle. I thought you ate it that morning.”
“Nah,” Jisung says casually, stepping out of his sweatpants and leaving them on the floor for a more awake version of himself to deal with later. He grips the bathroom doorframe with one hand, swinging himself inside and out of sight without a care in the world, and keeps talking. “I thought it’d be good to save it for when we got back.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Minho takes a calming breath. “Jagiya,” he says again. “You knew we were going to be gone for six weeks. That’s not going to be—oh, god, I don’t even want to think about it.”
“Chill!” Jisung yells out in English through the open door as he rummages around for a fresh towel. “What do you think I am? I put it in the freezer before we left. It’s fine.”
Minho tips his head back in relief. “Oh, thank god. For a second there I thought…” He trails off when movement catches his eye: across the apartment, Jisung’s head has suddenly appeared in the doorway, eyes wide.
“Hyung,” he says quietly.
Minho stares back. His stomach drops as realization sinks in. “Han Jisung. Did you plan to put the rice in the freezer the morning we left, but got distracted?”
“That may have been what happened, yes.”
“And so the leftover rice has been sitting in the fridge for six weeks?”
Jisung nods solemnly. “I believe that may be the case.”
“Oh, no.” Minho steadies himself on the wall. “Okay. It’s okay. We can deal with this. We’ve dealt with worse.”
“The pasta incident?”
“The pasta incident.”
Jisung squeezes his eyes shut at the memory. “Can we deal with it tomorrow? I’m so tired. You’re so tired. We need to shower. We should go to bed. I already agreed no more work today. Cleaning out the fridge is also work. Basically.”
Minho looks towards the fridge. It looms in the kitchen, humming peacefully, horrors contained. Waiting.
“Okay,” he breathes out. Jisung has already lost one battle today and Minho is both a pushover for him and too tired to argue, as much as the idea of rotting food in his perfect kitchen makes him want to crawl out of his skin. One more night isn't going to make a difference at this point. “I’ll order us something instead. But first thing tomorrow, we’re cleaning it out.”
“I love you!” Jisung sing-songs as he turns on the shower.
“You're not getting out of helping!” Minho yells back over the sound of the water. He pulls out his phone and taps open a delivery app.
In the bathroom, Jisung strips off his boxers and steps inside what is, already, the best shower of his life. Hot water on his bare skin after more than 15 hours on a plane feels positively sinful, it's that good. He stands under the spray for a couple of minutes, turning his face into it, letting it soak his hair until it flattens across his eyes. He takes a deep breath. The steam is already beginning to clear his poor sinuses that took such a beating the past couple of weeks: back-to-back colds, fresh seasonal allergies apparently making themselves known in every new city. And though his muscles are finally relaxing now that he's home, part of him aches for his usual gym—hotel facilities hadn’t exactly been consistent with their equipment—but that can wait for tomorrow, too. Now it’s just him, the water, and soon, a long-awaited nap.
A pair of hands suddenly cupping the swell of his ass sends him abruptly crashing back to awareness.
“One day you’re going to do that and I’m going to slip and crack my head open in here and you’ll have to scoop my brain back in,” he warns calmly, neither opening his eyes nor turning around.
Minho presses his naked body against Jisung’s back and slides his palms up to his chest, fingers spreading across the skin. “Wouldn’t be hard, there’s not much of it.”
“Rude.” Jisung pushes back against him. “Why couldn't you wait for your own shower?”
“Didn’t want to,” Minho says simply into his shoulder, lips brushing the skin. He plants a kiss there. “Waste of water. And I missed you.”
“You just saw me,” Jisung says. “Like, two minutes ago. And all day. Every day. Even on tour. We live together.” He draws his hips forward to break their contact, then drives them back to collide with the other man’s crotch. He does it a few times, wickedly, sensing Minho’s cock stir with interest and feeling more than a little pleased with himself. “Say what you really mean.”
Minho gives Jisung’s pecs a gratuitous squeeze, pushing his own hips further against him as he does so. “I missed this.”
Jisung lets his head fall to the side to give Minho better access to his neck. “Shower sex? Jagi,” he breathes out affectionately. “We fucked in the shower in Chicago. Remember? We broke the—”
“Just missed being close,” Minho mumbles over him as he kisses his way up his jaw. “Is that a crime now?”
“Not in this jurisdiction, you know that. What happened to being tired?”
“Always have an extra power reserve for you.” Minho drags his teeth along the shell of Jisung’s ear, so close the wet sounds of his mouth are audible over the shower. “Gonna complain about that too?”
Jisung reaches his hands behind him to grip Minho’s ass, fingers digging into the flesh and holding him in place. “You think this is me complaining? Sometimes it’s like you don’t know me at all.”
“Hmm. I know you like this,” Minho bites down on Jisung’s ear with just enough pressure to make him shudder. “And I know you like this.” He shifts his right hand until his fingers brush against Jisung’s erect nipple, which he pinches to elicit a gasp. His left hand slips down slowly, taking the time to explore the subtle dips in the muscles of Jisung’s abdomen, the steady fall of water making his smooth skin even more slick.
A moan slips out, unbidden, from Jisung’s throat and he bites his lip to try to keep the next one in. This feels so good. The long hours of travel after an exhausting tour leg must be making his body feel extra sensitive. Or it could be the jetlag, an encroaching fog tugging at the edges of his consciousness and making things feel dreamy and distant, like he’s watching it happen to someone else. (And it's really hot.)
Or maybe it’s the fact that no matter what he’s doing, how he’s feeling, or the context: Minho’s touch melts him. Takes all the tiredness and the stress and the weight on his shoulders and reduces them all to nothing, narrows his focus to the present moment. Just feel this, his body wills him. You don't need anything else. Only the thrill of having the full attention of his favourite person in the world.
Minho’s hand starts exploring the expanse of skin below his belly button, featherlight touches, curious and questioning. Jisung digs his fingers into the flesh of Minho’s ass in protest. The action pushes Minho’s erection against the cleft of his cheeks and a jolt of need runs through him.
“Aah, hyung,” Jisung whines. “If you’re gonna be like that we’re definitely about to waste a lot of water. Think of the—aah,” he arches his back, “—think of the whales.”
Minho hums against his neck. “Point taken. What would you like, jagi?”
“First,” Jisung says, “you’re not wet enough.” He uses his hold on the other man to maneuver them until Minho’s the one under the spray, careful to keep their bodies pressed together as they move. He lets go and turns to face him, ensuring he’s getting thoroughly soaked, and smooths his own hair out of his face. This also, of course, gives him a much clearer view of Minho’s cock. He looks down appreciatively. “Much better.”
Minho rubs water out of his eyes and tries to peer back at him through bleary vision. “You're lucky you're cute and I’m nice.”
Jisung places each of his hands at the sides of Minho’s face. “If you were nice,” he says, “you wouldn’t make me clean out the fridge tomorrow.” Before Minho can form an undoubtedly combative response, Jisung pulls his head forward and plants a kiss on his lips. He breaks away just far enough to ask, “Are we going to actually shower, or would you like to do something about our little situation down there?”
Minho casts a glance down between them where Jisung’s hard length is brushing his own. When he looks back up and meets Jisung’s eager expression, he raises his eyebrows. “Both?”
“Works for me, as long as this is first,” Jisung says, letting go of Minho’s face to snake a hand down. The corner of his mouth twitches up into a grin the second his fingers brush against Minho’s cock: the other man’s sharp intake of breath was audible over the water. “I’m still really tired, though, and I know you are as well—”
Minho opens his mouth in denial, but Jisung doesn’t let him speak.
“—so is just this okay?”
Minho rests one hand on Jisung’s waist while the other slips down between them in understanding. “Of course, jagi,” he says gently. “Always okay.”
With water cascading down on his back, he wraps a loose fist around Jisung and begins to pump him—slowly, to set up their rhythm, but with less of their usual buildup given their depleted energy. Jisung reciprocates, resting one arm on Minho’s shoulder. Their movements are languid and tender; Jisung watches their hands work each other for a while before he looks up and draws Minho in for a deep, reverent kiss, fingers sliding into the short hair at his nape. Minho uses the hand on Jisung’s waist to tug him closer and position them both under the spray.
They part to breathe and water trickles down their noses, dripping off the tips and falling between them. Minho’s hand quickens, just slightly, and Jisung responds in kind; a moan passes his lips as he does. Minho seizes his mouth again hungrily to swallow the next one, groaning into him when he feels Jisung’s hand tighten on his cock. They both speed up, add pressure, slide their tongues against each other’s with increasing urgency. Suddenly Jisung arches his back—breaks away and pants out a hurried “Hyung, I’m gonna—” and presses his body into Minho’s as he comes between them, his hand on Minho stilling as he twitches through his release. Minho’s own follows just seconds later, urged on by Jisung’s beautiful full-body response as it so frequently is.
Jisung’s knees buckle as he rides out an aftershock—it’s enough for Minho to instinctively reach out and steady him with both hands at his waist. Jisung drapes both of his arms around Minho’s neck, breathing heavily and, attractively, inhaling some water in the process.
“Don’t choke,” Minho says. “I want to keep you around.”
“Sorry,” Jisung splutters, laughing at his own involuntary cough. “That was just. Really good.”
Water continues to beat down on both of their heads and smears hair over their eyes as their heart rates settle. They happen to look up at the same time, and though they can barely see each other they both huff out a laugh, breathless and fond.
“So much for saving water,” Jisung quips with some effort, keeping his elbows on Minho’s shoulders as he uses a hand to push his hair back.
“Oh no, the whales,” Minho says dryly. “We’ll just have to skip being clean tomorrow to even it out.”
“Absolutely not.” Jisung kisses him on the nose, reaching behind him for his shampoo as he does so. He presents the bottle. “Do me?”
“I just did you.” Minho knows he deserves the shove, gentle as it is, and takes the bottle from Jisung. “Do me, too.”
When they lived in the same dorm with all the members, shared showers among the group were a decidedly unsexy byproduct of eight stressed young men trying to get ready at the same time with one bathroom. For the two of them now, in their own space, it was an occasional but wholly unnecessary convenience. Seeing each other naked as often as they did still hadn’t lost its appeal but the casual intimacy of helping each other wash—whether it was after sex or just because sometimes they felt like it—soothed part of Jisung’s soul that he hadn’t known needed attention. It felt like another affirmation of their relationship that had quietly slipped in over the years, much like their mutually-assumed sharing of plates at a restaurant: a reminder that they were each other’s person, caring for one another in all ways.
Minho lathers up Jisung’s hair tenderly, smiling at his expression when the scent of macadamia hits them both.
“Mm,” hums Jisung, content. “Now I feel like I’m home. Can’t believe I ran out of this on tour.”
“What was that awful American stuff you ended up getting from the hotel lobby in New York?” Minho asks, wrinkling his nose. “Old Spice… Bearfist? Bearpunch?”
“Bearglove,” Jisung corrects him. “And I see your face, hyung. Don’t knock that shit or I’ll find a way to import the whole collection. I want to try Nightpanther.”
“I will rub this directly into your eyes,” says Minho.
“Sure, okay.” Smiling, Jisung turns into the spray and rinses his hair out before applying his own conditioner and taking Minho’s preferred bottle from the shelf.
Minho silently dips forward for Jisung to apply the shampoo. After a few moments his eyes drift closed as he lets his head go with the movements of Jisung’s hands, gently massaging it into his hair.
“Don’t fall asleep on me, hyung,” Jisung chuckles, lightly scratching at his scalp. He hears a low rumble from Minho’s throat over the water—not quite a groan, but— “Are you trying to purr?”
“Mmnh. Just feels nice.” He keeps his eyes closed as Jisung directs him under the spray before finishing up with conditioner.
“Know what else is nice?” Jisung asks, squirting a rather excessive amount of body wash on them both. “Easy cleanup. Sometimes we’re so smart we scare me.”
Minho gets out of the shower first once they’re done, already pulling on a fresh baggy tee and sweatpants when his phone pings with the delivery notification as though he’d perfectly timed the whole thing. (He had.)
“Nice,” says Jisung, time-blind and oblivious, as he aggressively rubs a towel into his hair before draping it over his shoulders. Minho makes a valiant attempt to grab Jisung’s bare ass as he slides his boxers on. When he fails, Jisung pokes his tongue out in victory. “What are we having?”
“Pork belly,” Minho says on his way to the door to collect it, maneuvering around their luggage in the entryway with cat-like grace. “You kept talking about it on the plane and I couldn’t get it out of my head. You’re welcome.”
“Sometimes I wonder what I did to deserve you.” Having foregone his own shirt and pants, Jisung reaches out to playfully scratch Minho’s stomach as he passes by with the delivery bag, fingers bunching in the soft fabric of his shirt.
Moments later, once food has been evenly divided between them, they’re settled on the couch with an anime on the TV—some isekai series that Jisung doesn’t even remember them starting. He’s too distracted by what he’s eating to raise any questions about it: he’s not sure whether this meal is breakfast, lunch, or dinner, but whatever it is, it’s hitting the spot in a positively godly manner. Minho could’ve put on a documentary about brachiosauruses and it still wouldn’t have been enough to hold his attention. He reaches over to Minho’s container and takes an extra piece. Minho jabs at his chopsticks with his own but lets him take it. A drop of sauce lands on Jisung’s bare thigh and he whines about it; Minho takes a slice of meat from Jisung’s tray and calls it payback.
The anime continues on in the background, unwatched.
Minho’s in the kitchen piling up their empty takeout containers for the trash and unsuccessfully fighting the urge to make eye contact with the fridge when Jisung belts out a yawn, making a big show of stretching.
“I cannot take being conscious for a single second more,” he declares, throwing his arms over his head. “How are you not falling asleep right now?”
“Go to bed, jagi. I’ll be right behind you,” says Minho, wiping sauce off the counter.
“Don’t be long.” Jisung dumps his damp towel on top of the sweatpants he left on the floor earlier and ignores Minho’s wince. “I’m looking forward to not having to get up at the crack of dawn and sneak out of bed for the first time in weeks. And don’t touch the fridge! I said I’d help tomorrow!”
Minho hums skeptically.
There’s something about finally climbing into your own bed after a long stretch of traveling, Jisung thinks: the familiar impression of his body in the mattress on his side of the bed, the ambient glow from the string lights where the wall meets the ceiling, the clean sheets that feel like the finest silk after so many different hotel beds and their wildly varying ideas of softness. He pulls the covers up over himself and lets them drop against his body, finally still, heavy with exhaustion and a full stomach and post-orgasm bliss. Heaving out a sigh, he lies flat on his back. He’s not even thinking about the track he wants to finish. Everything just feels so comfortable.
Except for his lips, which suddenly feel far too dry.
“Ahh, hyung,” he calls out.
Minho makes a noise of acknowledgement from the kitchen.
“I forgot to take my chapstick out. Can you get it? I think I put it in your backpack.”
He hears Minho make the same noise in confirmation, followed by the sound of his feet padding across the apartment to where they left their luggage near the front door.
“Thank yooou,” Jisung sings, voice fading. He rolls onto his side and bunches one arm under his pillow, unable to fight the temptation any longer. He can stay awake until Minho gets there—he just… needs to blink slowly for a second. He’s just beginning to drift off when the mattress dips beside him and tethers him back to consciousness. “Mm?” he says softly, rolling his head towards the movement and sleepily opening his eyes.
It takes a few seconds for the image in front of him to make sense—but even then, he has some questions. Chief among them: “Baby, why are you wearing your Canada flag sunglasses?”
Kneeling on the mattress in his typical bedtime nakedness, Minho adjusts the glasses on his face. “You don’t want me to keep them on for round two?”
“Round two?” Jisung laughs dreamily, all affection. “I can’t… so tired…”
Minho huffs. “I’m kidding. Here’s your chapstick.” He holds it out.
Jisung just smiles back up at him, eyes drifting shut again, a wordless request written across his sleep-soft face. It’s so unbearably sweet that Minho has to look off to the side for a second before uncapping the little tube. He leans over to gently slide it across Jisung’s lips, then dabs it on the tip of his nose.
“Little baby,” he scolds without a hint of malice. “Can’t do anything for yourself.”
“You love me,” Jisung says, and blindly purses his lips.
Minho indulges him with a peck, novelty glasses sliding down his nose. He catches them before they knock into Jisung’s face and sets them aside for later use, yet to be determined. When he pulls back the sheets and slips into bed, Jisung throws an arm across him instantly and makes a little noise of contentment as he shuffles closer.
“I can’t believe you said I was the one who can’t sleep without holding you,” Minho says, settling a hand on top of Jisung’s wrist. “You’re so much worse than me.”
“Shh,” the other man says, distantly, as he buries his face in Minho’s shoulder. “No one else gets to know that.”
Minho brushes his thumb across the back of Jisung’s hand. “Safe with me,” he says gently, “as always.”
It’s not long before they’re both asleep, breathing slow and synchronized. Minho definitely doesn’t dream about the fridge.