Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

storm coming, good husband, bad omen
dragged my feet right down the aisle
at the house lonely, good money
i’d pay if you’d just know me
seemed like the right thing at the time
─── high infidelity, taylor swift

Minho is having a bad day and this banquet is making it exponentially worse. 

He can think of at least fifteen better ways to waste his Sunday away, most of which would actually improve his well-being instead of dragging it down to the deepest pits of hell. A bath is the first thing that comes to mind. A long bath, with enough bubbles to spill out over the edge and make a mess on the floor; the bathroom lights dimmed; an overly sentimental playlist playing from his phone; a snack in his hand, maybe even a bottle of beer. That would be perfect.

But instead, Minho is stuck in the excessively large living room of Choi Kwan, making small talk with more or less influential people from the boards of at least ten different tech companies. He managed to escape the last conversation only because the daughter of the host found someone else to entertain her, and now he’s cooling down in one of the corners of the room, pretending to be interested in the pamphlet he picked up off one of the tables just so that he doesn’t have to talk to anyone else.

No matter how much he wants to, it’s still too early to leave. And he can’t even have one of those fancy, colorful drinks, because he has to drive. God, what a nightmare.

Minho lifts his head to check whether the coast is still clear, and it’s just in time to see Jeong Hyunwoo striding his way. 

In that second, he decides it’s a perfect moment to run off to the bathroom and avoid yet another pointless discussion about investments that are never going to see the light of day.

Fuck this, he thinks, tossing the flyer onto the table. He spins on his heel and hurries away, disappearing between the gathered guests. Thankfully, he manages to make it out of the room without being pulled into a conversation by another vaguely familiar face that he won’t be able to put a name to. 

He hates attending all these events, and even more so he hates that he’s expected to move through them like they’re his natural habitat. He’s been doing it since he turned eighteen. He’s almost ten years older now, and he’s yet to learn how to dominate the immense boredom and frustration that fills him each time he’s forced to take part in them.

Minho lets out a sigh and keeps making his way down the dim-lit hallway. He has attended enough events hosted by the Chois to know that there’s a safe haven just around the corner—a giant bathroom that’s perfect to hide in, even if only for a few minutes.

The classical music and the chatter from the living room drown out the sound of his footsteps—that’s probably why he doesn’t hear anyone coming from around the corner.

He feels the man crashing against him before he feels the wetness on his shirt, how it spreads downward and makes the fabric stick to his body.

Oh, fuck, he thinks, stumbling back, his mouth wide open in with shock and indignation. The front of his shirt is soaked with wine, the stain dark red and angry, consuming the expensive white fabric at a rapid pace. Oh my god.

As if this evening could not get any worse.

It’s probably not a good thing that the first thing he thinks of is that at least now he has an excuse to leave. He can’t just walk around with a stain like that, look like an unkempt fool in front of all these bigwigs.

“Oh my god,” the man echoes, as if reading his thoughts. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

Minho looks up, and sees the sheer terror in his expression. How comically wide his eyes are, how his mouth is forming a perfect O shape. He’s pretty, too, even when he looks this ridiculously mortified, which is hardly fair, if someone asked Minho. Extremely pretty. Offensively pretty.

As soon as he thinks it, blood rushes to his cheeks. The deep shade of red that takes over his skin, from the tips of his ears to his chest, could rival the burgundy stain on his shirt. Which—the man almost drops his glass as he tries to rummage through the pockets of his slacks, most likely in search of tissues. 

Minho takes a deep breath and says, “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

The man keeps apologizing profusely, though. “I should’ve looked where I was going. I’m so sorry,” he repeats. His search ends up futile. No tissues. He looks back at Minho and his shoulders slump. “God, you can’t walk around in this,” he says under his breath. And then louder— “I’ll give you my shirt.”

“Huh?” 

Minho almost laughs. 

“I can give you my shirt,” the man repeats. “It’ll probably fit, and I can wear just the blazer, it’s fine.”

“You don’t have to,” Minho says, but as he pinches the front of his shirt between his fingers to pull it away from his skin, he realizes just how little he wants to drive home like this. 

“I insist. I’ll pay for the shirt, too,” he says, though, frankly, money is the last of Minho’s problems right now. “I’m really sorry.”

Minho sighs. The man looks anxious, like he thinks Minho is going to murder him for a silly accident, so, wanting to avoid sending him into a spiral of worrying as to whom he might’ve showered in wine, he eventually relents.

“I’m Jisung, by the way,” the guy introduces himself, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck as they walk to the bathroom. “I should’ve started with that instead of pouring wine on you. Hah. Great first impression.”

Against himself, Minho grins. Having a drink spilled on his shirt during a banquet is low on the list of the worst things that happened to him, and anything is better than being out there in the living room, so it’s not like he’s going to start throwing a fit. And, well—Jisung’s emotionality is quite amusing.

“I’m Minho,” he says. “Contrary to what you might think, it’s very nice to meet you.” 

Jisung hangs his head low, embarrassed, but his mouth twists up in a smile, anyway. Minho counts that as a personal win. 

In the bathroom, one glance in the mirror tells him the situation is even worse than it was a minute ago. The shirt is completely ruined, and Minho sees no point in even trying to get the stain out. He unbuttons it and throws it into trash. It’s whatever. He has a million white shirts in the closet. He’ll live without this one. 

Once Minho is standing in the middle of the room shirtless, using the wet tissues lying around to wipe his chest and stomach, Jisung wastes no time stripping his own shirt off for him. It’s pristine, probably from a luxury brand, and when Minho puts it on, it’s just tight enough around his shoulders that he has to leave the two top buttons undone. 

Jisung slips into his blazer again then. It’s low-cut, so his chest—and his tattoo, god, his tattoo—is practically on full display, but it looks good on him even without anything underneath. Maybe because he’s not wearing anything underneath. Minho can’t decide.

He might not be looking for romance, but he appreciates eye candy as much as the next person, and Jisung is so obviously charming and handsome. He probably makes older ladies at fundraisers open their wallets. No harm in letting his eye linger.

Minho washes his hands and gives himself a once-over in the mirror, making sure he looks presentable enough to go back out into the wilderness, but his gaze slips to Jisung, standing behind him, staring at their reflection.

Minho turns around and raises an eyebrow.

“You should, uh, give me your number,” Jisung starts, pausing for a second and studying Minho’s face. He must find whatever he’s looking for in his expression because he continues, “So that I can pay for the shirt.” 

His grin is playful enough to get the point across. They both know that it’s not what this is about—at least not only this. And Minho also knows that he shouldn’t. He knows that it’s a bad idea. Knows that he’s supposed to say, I’m married.

But he’s an idiot, so he doesn’t. 

He just shakes his head with obvious amusement and says, “If you’re so insistent, I have no choice but to hold you to it.” 

He asks Jisung for his phone and types his number in, debating whether he should add an emoticon for the ID before settling on just his name. Simple. Their fingers brush briefly as he hands the device back, and a snap of static electricity shoots through them. Jisung’s eyes widen again, so damn expressive and so damn pretty, before he twists his mouth in a grin.

And Minho knows the attraction is mutual.

The thought thrills and terrifies him at the same time.

“Are you going back to the party now?” Jisung asks once all is said and done, when they have no more reasons to stay locked in a bathroom together.

“I think I need another minute before I let these people make my head explode,” Minho says.

Jisung doesn’t manage to conceal his disappointment in time for him not to notice, but before Minho can think anything of it, he’s smiling again. 

“See you there,” he says, taking the empty wine glass off the counter and tipping it in Minho’s direction cheekily. He unlocks the bathroom door and walks out, leaving Minho alone with his dangerous thoughts and a battered heart.

Minho takes his sweet time—scrolls through his phone, sends a crying cat sticker to Changbin (and gets left on read), and thinks about the shape of Jisung’s smile—and he feels less murderous by the time he makes his way back to the living room. Really, he has to purse his lips to stop himself from smiling. Which is ridiculous, he knows, especially that he’s been scowling and frowning all evening. 

This time around, instead of venturing around the room alone, he locates Yeeun, elegant as she sips from her champagne glass, and joins her in the conversation with her best friend, Lee Yeoreum. Yeeun looks almost displeased at his arrival, like she wants him near just as little as he does her, but she’s subtle enough to not let it linger on her face for too long. 

“Shin Ryujin was looking for you,” she says off-handedly. He might be imagining it, because there’s no way she would pay enough attention to him to take notice, but it looks like her gaze hangs on his shirt, white and simple, but still—different from the one he’d been wearing before. 

“Oh? Did she tell you what she wanted?”

Yeeun shrugs. “It probably had something to do with the app, I don’t know. You should find her before we go home.” 

“Alright,” Minho says. “Thank you.”

With a nod, Yeeun goes back to her conversation with Yeoreum, a small smile making its way to her crimson lips. As little as he wants to be with her, it’s better than throwing himself into conversations about work with people he barely tolerates on a good day. And, well, just standing there grants him a chance to look around without the immediate danger of being approached.

Minho tries to be inconspicuous as he sweeps his gaze over the room, but he’s not entirely sure how good at it he’s being. His eyes slide over more or less familiar faces, never lingering long enough to meet eyes. But—to his utmost surprise—when they finally land on the person he’s been really looking for, Jisung is already staring at him.

The corners of his mouth quirk up when their eyes meet, and then he’s ducking his head like he’s suddenly shy about the fact that he just got caught. Minho keeps staring, shameless and idiotic, and he’s rewarded for his stupidity when Jisung looks up at him again. 

Hi, he seems to mouth all the way from across the room.

Minho schools his expression into something more neutral than the foolish excitement he feels, but he mouths back, Hi.

The world moves around them, the conversations go on against the backdrop of the Moonlight Sonata, and he’s still looking at Jisung, and Jisung isn’t looking away. At least until Hwang Yeji sashays in and steals his attention away, greeting him like an old friend.

Minho has to force himself to tear his gaze away then. 

When he returns home that night, he thinks that he will never see Jisung again. He never has before, he doesn’t recall, so he must have been a plus-one at the banquet, a friend of a friend. Him proposing to repay for the ruined shirt must have been just a fib of politeness, too, especially considering that days pass and he doesn’t reach out. It was obviously a once-in-a-lifetime meeting, and outside the house of Choi Kwon, the world is so big that they will never cross paths again.

Minho also knows it’s for the better.

Although that doesn’t really hold him back from thinking about Jisung often enough for his face to never fade from his memory. It proves to be a liability, since Minho can’t concentrate on a single thing that following week. Work, books, movies, outings with friends—their brief encounter haunts everything he does, and it’s so… foolish. Minho knows that. He knows it’s wrong of him to even entertain the thought, and his brain keeps oscillating between this is bad this is bad and invasive memories of the way Jisung’s mouth took on the shape of a heart when he smiled.

But it’s nothing, in reality. Just something far enough out of reach to entertain his grim days. Something to dream about.

Naturally, he does not think he’s going to see Jisung in the convenience store while he’s grabbing a bottle of Gatorade after an evening at the gym. He thinks he’s hallucinating at first—he’s so exhausted after working out that his mind still feels a bit floaty, and he’s been thinking about Jisung so much that it wouldn’t even surprise him if he started seeing him in the faces of strangers on the street.

He would think he was slowly going insane, but it would not surprise him.

But it’s him in the dairy aisle, with a shopping basket in the crook of his elbow, wearing a hoodie, cargo pants, and sneakers with obnoxiously high platforms, looking like he’s debating between two kinds of yogurt, his eyebrows drawn together in a way that Minho finds offensively cute. (He needs help.)

His heart skips a beat in surprise, and before he can even give it a second thought, he’s strolling up to him and saying, “The audacity of showing your face around here when you still haven’t paid me for my shirt.”

Jisung startles. When his gaze flies away from the yogurt shelf and lands on Minho, though, the realization dawns on him and he breaks into a smile. It’s just contagious as Minho remembers it to be those two weeks ago, his voice still deep and sweet like honey when he says, “Oh, god, Minho!” 

“Hm. So you remember my name, but you didn’t remember to call me about that shirt,” Minho teases. He doesn’t care about the damned shirt, and they both know it. 

Jisung catches on the playful tone easily. “I was waiting,” he says. “Giving you time to forget me so that I can come back when you least expect me and sweep you off your feet.”

Minho feels his body temperature rise a few degrees. He needs to bite his tongue, be careful with what he’s saying, he knows, but it’s so—tempting. To just… He doesn’t know. Be himself? 

“Should I go?” he asks. “Should I pretend I didn’t see you and wait for you to call?”

He takes a step back, but Jisung’s fingers curl around his wrist to stop him. The skin-on-skin contact is—once again—electrifying, except this time it’s not an accidental touch, Jisung is holding him and he’s not letting go even though Minho isn’t moving away anymore. 

He doesn’t remember the last time someone touched him with purpose. To make him stay. Because they wanted to. Jisung’s touch lingers like he really wants to.

“No,” he says, eventually retracting his hand. “Since we’re meeting here, then it must be a sign.”

Minho snorts, amused, but the back of his neck feels the warmth of the shyness lying deep underneath. What is this guy’s business, sweet-talking him like that?

“You go shopping around here often?” he asks, because he’s not above being a fool, either. 

The question makes Jisung laugh, too loud for the four walls of the convenience store, but the sound sends a chill down Minho’s spine. It’s melodic. He wants to hear it over and over again, that’s how much he likes it.

“I live nearby,” Jisung says. “Do you? Come here often?” 

Minho shrugs. “I go to the gym a few blocks away. So I’m just curious if I’d be seeing more of you if I stopped by more frequently.”

Jisung tilts his head to the side and regards him for a moment. Says, “You don’t have to try to figure out where I do my groceries and jump through hoops to find a reason to see me. If you want to, just say it.”

And if Minho wasn’t sure before if Jisung was flirting with him, if he was interested, that definitely seals the deal.

Although he knows he shouldn’t, knows that instead there are a million things he should say— Why can’t he just fucking say it? —what leaves his mouth is a soft, “We should get dinner sometime.”

Jisung breaks into yet another one of his disarming smiles, and Minho knows right then and there that whatever this is, it will leave him in ruins.

✦

That evening with Jisung, time seems to slip through his fingers. They meet at one of the bars in Hongdae, and Minho’s initial plan is to have at least one drink to loosen up before Jisung comes, just in case things aren’t as easy and awkwardness-less as before. However, Jisung is already there when he arrives and, anyway, it quickly turns out he has nothing to worry about.

He and Jisung jump from one topic to another with ease, until every moment seems to blend into one. It’s one long never-ending conversation.

It’s mostly Minho who’s doing the questioning, and if he wasn’t two old-fashioneds in, he would probably see it for what it is: avoidance, of course, and not just the sincere want to get to know Jisung.

“You said you didn’t know where the good places around here were these days,” he points out, recalling their last conversation. “Are you not from Seoul? Did you live somewhere else before?”

“You really want to know all that boring stuff about me?” Jisung asks, swirling the ice around with the straw in his tall glass of mojito. He’s staring at Minho with his cheek propped up against his hand, fully-focused. His eyes are sparkling, and it doesn’t seem to just be the side-effect of alcohol.

“I want to know everything about you,” he says, and once the words leave his mouth, Minho is not surprised to find that he really means it. 

Jisung’s eyes widen for a split-second, but then he’s laughing with ease, and Minho doesn’t even have the time to feel embarrassed about it. 

“I lived here most of my life,” Jisung recounts, taking Minho’s interest for what it is. “But I spent two years in Toronto. I just moved back, so I’m still settling in.”

“Yeah? And what did you do in Toronto?”

“It’s quite a funny story, really. I went there to see my brother, but I ended up staying to learn management from him,” he says, and Minho can’t really be imagining the way he leans in closer when he speaks. “He’s overseeing the Canadian division of our family business.”

Minho hums. He has figured out that Jisung couldn’t have been just a plus-one to the banquet, that he had to be one of them. 

“What branch are you in?” he asks.

“We’ve got a chain of hotels around the world,” Jisung says. He twirls his drink around in the glass again, dragging his eyes away from Minho. A nervous habit, perhaps. He doesn’t seem too eager to talk about this particular topic, so Minho doesn’t push.

There’s no reason to sour their evening when it has just started, and it’s so nice. 

“Anyway,” Jisung carries on, “I’ve started missing home, my family, my friends, you know. So I decided to come back and maybe put what I’ve learned over those two years to use. I mean, I’m still only going to be, hm, interning for a while, but having a job of my own will be much more interesting than basically following my brother around.”

“It seems like a fulfilling job,” Minho says, smiling, and he means it. Beats sitting in front of a computer all day, getting premature back pains and stiff joints. “I’m not sure if I could deal with people so much, though.”

Jisung laughs. “That’s the part I dread the most,” he admits. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m quite shy.”

Minho drags his teeth over his bottom lip, biting back a smile. “Really? You seem pretty confident to me.”

For a moment, their eyes catch. Minho grins, feeling satisfaction bloom in his chest when Jisung’s nose scrunches and he ducks his head, but at the same time, his stomach twists. He’s the one getting too confident.

“And you? What do you do?” Jisung asks, taking a sip of his drink and running his thumb across his bottom lip to wipe away the residue. Minho’s focus involuntarily shifts there. To the pink plush of his mouth. He has a ring on that finger, a gold signet, probably a family heirloom, and Minho’s brain inevitably jumps to the band he should be wearing on his left hand, which he isn’t.

His gaze stays on Jisung’s mouth.

Jisung looks at him expectantly, and Minho clears his throat, pretending he hasn’t just gotten lost in space and time and momentary misery. 

“I’m a security software engineer,” he says, leaving Jisung visibly surprised. “I’m also taking care of my family business.” 

“A security software engineer,” Jisung echoes with a soft laugh that Minho wants to bottle up and take home with him. Like a normal person. “Alright, you win.” 

“It’s really not as cool as it sounds,” Minho tells him, feeling his body temperature rise with the way Jisung is looking at him. “Nowadays I’m more oriented towards management, so I mostly oversee our projects and make sure everything is running smoothly.”

“I don’t know, I’m still impressed.” Jisung purses his mouth around the straw of his drink, and it’s obvious he’s trying to hide a smile. Paired-up with the look he sends Minho, it’s more flirty than if he just smirked at him out in the open. God. “So, what, are you responsible for the security of governmental institutions?” 

Minho opens his mouth and then promptly closes it, if only to tease him. “That’s classified information.”

Jisung laughs again. “Seems like I need to get you another drink to loosen your tongue a little bit,” he says, raising an eyebrow, waiting for Minho to nod before flagging down the bartender.

They talk and talk and talk that night. About the music they listen to and the films they watch and about what they want to do one day. See the Snow Festival in Sapporo, hug a sequoia tree, dive in a coral reef. Except neither of them can swim. 

“Yet,” Jisung says. “Neither of us can swim yet. We can learn.”

He tells Minho about all the places he’s been to already, the wonders of the world he’s seen, and Minho finds himself fantasizing about things he could say to impress him. To make his eyes glimmer the same way they do when he says, “I got a black belt in taekwondo.”

They finish their drinks and switch to non-alcoholics, because they can both feel the buzz in their heads but neither of them wants to go home. Their bodies seem drawn together by some kind of invisible magnet, knees touching as they keep turning on their bar stools, almost subconsciously, centimeter by centimeter, until they’re facing each other. Jisung leans in closer under the pretense of wanting to hear Minho better over the low hum of music and the other patrons’ conversations, but they both know it’s all just an excuse. 

It’s almost funny how loose Minho’s tongue gets when he’s talking to Jisung, who’s virtually a stranger. He has never been much of a talker. He likes listening, asking questions, getting to know people. But Jisung is pulling words out of his mouth, and Minho wants to tell him everything.

He doesn’t, of course. His head might be spinning in confusion at the ease with which he and Jisung get along, but he still has inhibitions. This is not the time for fatal confessions.

Still, every time they have the choice to go their separate ways or continue the evening together, they choose the latter. They go from drinks to dinner to more drinks to a walk along the Han River. Minho forgets to even glance at his watch; all he cares about is staying here with Jisung to talk, to listen.

But even this is not enough. He wants to see Jisung again and again. For drinks and dinner and lunch and breakfast. Take him to a record store and watch him pick through all of his favorite albums, because that’s his favorite way to listen to music. Let him choose a movie in the cinema, a horror, definitely, because even though Jisung insists they don’t scare him, Minho can tell there’s something there. A chance to tease him, maybe; a chance to wrap an arm around his shoulders, if only Minho is shameless enough. 

He wants to do a lot of things with Jisung, really. Minho likes him very much even though he shouldn’t be interested in someone this quickly. He shouldn’t be interested in Jisung at all.

The exit of the park they’ve gone on a walk to marks the unofficial end of their evening. Minho would carry on if he could, drag Jisung somewhere else, like to see the buskers or to book a noraebang room all for themselves and sing their tipsy hearts out, but he doesn’t want it to be too much too soon. He wants Jisung to want to see him again.

He doesn’t protest when Jisung turns to face him, his hands shoved into the pockets of his varsity jacket, and says, “I really had a good time today.”

Minho’s stomach ties itself into a nervous knot. “Me too,” he says, his voice so quiet the words almost get carried away by the wind. “If it wasn’t so late already…”

Jisung’s smile widens. He chews down on his bottom lip, biting it back, and lowers his gaze at the ground just for a second or two. “So,” he starts, “there’s a chance that you’ll say yes if I invite you over to my place next time?”

Minho gulps. 

“We could watch a movie…” he trails off with a shrug, acting all nonchalant, but Minho sees the nervousness in his expression.

It makes him more enamoured than he’d like to admit.

He chases his own anxieties away and smiles to put Jisung at ease. “I think there’s a ninety-nine percent chance of me saying yes.”

Jisung lets out a breathy chuckle and tilts his head to the side, staring at Minho intently. “And what do I have to do to make it a hundred percent?”

“Hmm… add food to the mix?” Minho proposes, but in reality, he doesn’t care. There could even be no movie, just sitting in Jisung’s living room, and he would say yes. 

“What kind of food?” 

“I don’t know, surprise me,” Minho tells him, his mouth staying apart with the last syllable. He knows that flirting so openly is pushing a hard boundary, but he looks at Jisung, and he really, really can’t help himself. 

Jisung takes him aback by jutting his bottom lip out in a pout. He’s cute. “I don’t want to accidentally send you to the hospital,” he says, sounding genuinely worried about that possibility. “You mentioned eating good sushi when you went to Japan,” he recalls. “How do you feel about that?”

Minho grins. “Are you going to fly to Japan and bring me sushi?” 

Scoffing with faux annoyance, Jisung says, “You know what I mean!” 

“I know,” Minho agrees, but he can’t not let out a giggle. It looks like Jisung is going to be a fairly easy person to tease and fluster. It’s going to be so much fun hanging out with him. “Sushi sounds perfect.”

Jisung’s expression softens. “Okay, then, I’ll find the best restaurant for you,” he says. “I’m free this weekend, but if you don’t have time now, we can always—”

“I have time,” Minho interrupts. He’ll make time. “Does Sunday work for you? Maybe… five o’clock?”

“Yeah, that works.”

He smiles. “Then we’re set,” he says. “Send me your address and I’ll be there. I hope my sushi will be waiting for me.”

Jisung laughs, nodding. He stares at Minho for another moment before taking a step back. “I should get going,” he says, and he sounds as unwilling as Minho feels. It’s scary, how fascinated they seem by each other; so much that they keep pushing the inevitable end to their night back in time, over and over, stealing just another minute. “Unless you need a ride home? We could share a cab.”

Minho wishes he could happily say yes and prolong their goodbyes once more, but he can already feel the guilty pressure in the back of his head, the beginning of a vengeful headache. 

“No, I actually don’t live that far away from here, so I’m just gonna take a walk,” he lies, a smile that’s gentler than his self-deprecating thoughts curling on his mouth. “But I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jisung agrees. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat and lingers there half-awkwardly. Minho decides that he would probably find something else to say, something more, but there’s someone coming in their direction, so he just bids Minho a goodbye and gets on his way. 

Minho watches him walk away with an odd feeling nestled in his chest. When Jisung finally crosses the street and disappears around the corner of some building, he pulls out his phone and gets himself a cab back to the apartment. 

Yeeun is sitting cross-legged on the couch when he walks in, reading something on her tablet. She lifts her gaze from the screen to size him up with her stare from behind the glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. 

The few drinks he’s had slowly catch up to him and make his ears buzz pleasantly, and that’s probably why he sounds softer than usual when he says, “Hi.” 

“Hi,” Yeeun echoes, still watching him, as if she can sense his unease, even stronger than it usually is around her. As if his guilt—perhaps unwarranted—is written all over his face. 

It’s late, the clock on the oven in the kitchen reading a few minutes before midnight when he spares it a glance, and although they aren’t the type to give or demand explanations as to where and with who they’re going out, they usually tell each other if they’ll be getting home later than usual. It’s simple decency.

And today, Minho didn’t say he was going out because he thought that, although pleasant, the outing with Jisung would end with a few drinks at the bar. He certainly didn’t expect to spend the entire night in his company.

Minho’s skin prickles with the need to explain himself, even though he doesn’t owe it to her. He feels guilty. Not entirely about doing all of this behind Yeeun’s back, but rather about not being honest with Jisung, and being faced with her as a reminder.

“Sorry,” he says in the end. “Meeting with a friend ran late.”

Yeeun lets out a hum of acknowledgement, and finally seems to be satisfied with her study of him, because she turns back to her tablet. When her eyes are off him, though, Minho’s guilt doesn’t dissipate. He shuffles to his bedroom to grab his sleeping T-shirt and clean underwear, and avoids looking at her as he makes his way to the bathroom to take a shower. 

The atmosphere between them stays tense, and by the time Sunday rolls around, Minho is just happy at the prospect of seeing Jisung again. Yeeun isn’t home, so he sends her a text, letting her know that he’s going out and he’s not sure when he’ll be back. He doesn’t let it rattle him that she leaves him on read but when he gets into his car, the insistent throbbing is back to tormenting the back of his skull.

It gets better when he finds himself face-to-face with Jisung again, though. And then, a different kind of nervousness settles inside his chest. His heart speeds up until it’s pounding in his ears the moment Jisung opens the front door for him. 

“Hi,” they say at the same time, matching grins on their faces. And all Minho can think is, Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. 

As he steps aside to let him in, Jisung’s eyes slide down to the orchid Minho is holding to his chest, an eyebrow raised in question. 

Minho scrunches his nose, feeling uncharacteristically shy. He puts the flower down on the entryway table and busies himself with taking off his shoes and jacket, hoping Jisung can’t see it on his face. 

“You said you were settling in, so I brought you a housewarming gift,” he explains.

“You have too much faith in me,” Jisung says, laughing, but he reaches out to take the plant and studies it with obvious delight. “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to keep this guy alive.”

Minho shrugs, but the look he sends Jisung is challenging. “You’ll have to try your best,” he says. “I’ll be checking in on how he’s doing.” 

Jisung bites down on his tongue as it peeks from between his teeth, amused. “In that case,” he says, “I’ll take care of him as if he’s my own child.”

He seems almost satisfied at the implication in Minho’s words—that he will be around, texting or calling or dropping by under the guise of making sure Jisung hasn’t killed the plant. Like he wants it. Which, well, Minho isn’t shocked by, but it certainly takes a bit of the nervous edge off.

They share another smile, and then Jisung moves, gesturing for Minho to go ahead.

“The sushi was just delivered,” he says as they walk into his spacious living room, colorful and fun and decidedly not empty. He puts the orchid on the windowsill, and Minho sees his smile grow even more pleased as he takes the sight in. It remains bright when he turns back to Minho and asks, “Do you want to eat now?” 

Minho smiles back. “Sure.”

“You can grab the remote, choose something to watch,” Jisung says, shrugging, already crossing the living room, on his way to what must be the kitchen. “I don’t have a preference.”

Minho lets out a hum of agreement, but he doesn’t rush to turn on the television. Instead, he moves to snoop around, just a little bit, to sate his own curiosity, to find out something about Jisung that Jisung might not find interesting enough to tell him himself.

He studies the bookcase, eyes sliding over titles, pleased to see many that he recognizes. Jisung is clearly more into records, though. They take up the bottom shelf, but it looks like they’ve made that place their home because they didn’t fit into the cabinet under the TV. Minho runs his fingers across the spines, even happier now, because their tastes match in the music department, too.

Jisung has a lot of knick-knacks: a moneybox in the shape of an English telephone booth, figures of Howl and Sophie, half-burnt candles, stray shells and seaglass. There are pictures framed on some of the shelves, and Minho wonders who these people are to him—the red-haired girl Jisung has an arm wrapped around that Minho recognizes as Hwang Yeji, the guys he’s lying on the grass with, the cat perched on his shoulder like a child.

He wants to know the story behind every single item, greedy and insatiable. 

He makes his way over to the upright piano standing by the wall. It almost feels sacrilegious to touch its sleek, polished black surface, but Minho can’t quite help himself. 

“Do you play?” he asks, letting his fingers skim along the wood, and then moving to the keys. He doesn’t press them, just feeling them under his fingertips. “The piano, I mean,” he clarifies when Jisung makes a confused noise from the kitchen. “Or is it just decoration?”

“I do play,” Jisung tells him, accompanied by the sound of crumpled paper, cupboards being opened and closed, ceramic against granite countertops. “I like my office job, but it does get boring. I need a creative outlet, so I play.”

“Hm. I don’t know if I can believe that,” Minho says, teasing. He can read Jisung’s affinity for art from every corner of the apartment. “You might have to play me something sometime to prove it.”

“Ah, you want me to play you the guitar, too?” 

Minho physically feels his own eyes sparkle with interest. “You can do that too?” he asks, genuinely taken aback by how something so simple is capable of making Jisung even more attractive in his eyes. Minho is in big, tremendous trouble. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Hm.” Jisung pauses, pondering the question with seriousness. Minho can almost see the crease between his brows, the way he stops unpacking their food just to think it through. In the end, he confesses, “I can’t really handle heights.”

It drags a laugh out of Minho. “I can’t, either.”

Jisung chooses that moment to come back from the kitchen, entering the living room with a tray of take-out sushi in his hand, rainbow titanium chopsticks in the other. 

“Looks like we match well,” he says, smiling. He glances at the television screen, still black, still turned-off, but he doesn’t say anything, even though clearly he can tell Minho has been snooping around. He seems more amused, if anything. “What do you want to drink? Coke, water, juice, wine?” 

Minho moves away from the piano and takes a seat in front of the coffee table where Jisung has set down their sushi. It looks delicious. “Wine sounds good,” he says with a shrug. “Unless you don’t feel like it. I don’t want to drink alone.”

Jisung laughs. “I’ll go get it and you choose that movie, hm?”

Finally, Minho grabs the remote. Netflix opens automatically, so he logs into Jisung’s account and looks through his recently watched titles. The amount of romance reality shows makes him laugh. Jisung must be a big fan of watching other people fall in love—or hot people lounging on the beach and thirsting after one another. 

He sees a few thrillers, even more horror movies, so he settles on one of the newer ones, a classic haunted house, a new family moving in. It will probably be awful, but they’re not here to watch it, not really.

He pauses it before it can even start, waiting for Jisung to come back, and listens in for the pop of the cork. Jisung reappears in the living room with the bottle unscrewed and two glasses in his hand, crossed between his fingers in a way that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. He sits down and starts pouring the wine between the two of them, looking so focused on the task that Minho doesn’t speak just in case he makes him spill it. It’s kind of cute.

As he hands Minho one of the glasses, Minho can’t help but joke, “Thank god I’m not wearing white today.” 

Jisung groans. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

Minho laughs, taking a sip of his wine, letting it linger on his tongue for a moment, sour, slightly sweet, before he breaks into a satisfied smirk. “Never,” he says, making himself comfortable on the sofa, sinking into the pillow behind his back. Jisung’s eyes are still on him, and it makes a pleasant warmth spread through his chest. He feigns disinterest, tries so hard to conceal just how much he’s enjoying it, and points out, “The apartment looks lived-in for someone who is just settling in.”

When Jisung invited him over, he expected boxes lying around, bare walls, empty shelves, furniture still missing. Meanwhile, things already seem to be in their rightful place. 

“That’s because unpacking everything is all I’ve been doing these days, really,” Jisung says, laughing. “And the rest of the place is a mess. I just shoved all the remaining boxes into the spare room so that you wouldn’t see it.”

“Kind of defeats the purpose if you tell me about it, doesn’t it?” 

Jisung drags his teeth over his bottom lip. “I don’t know. Now that you’re here, I feel like you wouldn’t judge me for my mess.”

“You’re right,” Minho says, lips poised over the rim of his glass. “I wouldn’t. Mess makes it look more like home. I don’t like artificial cleanness.”

The kind of cleanness that haunts the apartment he shares with Yeeun. Not because either of them is insistent on making sure every surface is spotless. It’s just that they barely use the space they share. Minho sticks to his room, Yeeun sticks to hers. Even the kitchen serves for washing the dishes, not cooking. Not very often, at least.

“I’ll give you a proper tour when everything is in its place,” Jisung says, and he looks at Minho for confirmation, like he’s not sure whether Minho would want to come over again. Like Minho didn’t say that he’d check up on the damned orchid. Minho smiles in response, which Jisung clearly interprets the right way. “I’m still figuring out where to put things. It’s a big apartment, way too big for me, but it was standing empty after my brother left, so it felt logical to move in here instead of looking for a new place.”

“I like it,” Minho says, even though Jisung didn’t ask for his opinion. “I mean, you’ll fill the space with your things, and as long as you’re comfortable here, it’s home, right?” 

Jisung hums, a soft smile curved across his mouth. And then—“Anyway, let’s eat. I’m getting hungry just looking at all these fish!” 

The movie turns out to be just as bad and cliché as Minho thought it would be, but where he would have already turned it off if he was watching it alone, the commentary he exchanges with Jisung like a well-oiled machine makes the experience fun. The movie is bad, but the company is awesome.

And, well, the food is amazing, too. Minho wishes he could fit more into his stomach, but after what feels like his twentieth salmon hosomaki, he needs to put the chopsticks down and rest. Jisung eats another nigiri or two and joins him, boneless against the couch, a hand pressed against his belly. 

The movie goes on, images flickering by on the giant television screen, but Minho finds it hard to pay attention when Jisung stretches and puts his arm on the backrest behind Minho, barely touching him, but in a purposeful way. Like he’s trying to gauge Minho’s reaction, give him space either to pull away or move closer.

Minho knows what he’s doing, and he hates how much he’s enjoying it, this cliché first-date move. He tips his head back, leaning into Jisung’s touch. It takes all of his might not to do more. The alarms sounding in his head are louder than the screams of the protagonist being murdered in the movie. Don’t do it, they blare. Don’t move. 

And Minho knows, but he still wants. To turn his head to the side, press his mouth against the line of Jisung’s jaw, feel the shade of his stubble against his skin. To drag Jisung into his lap, slide his hands under the fabric of his striped long-sleeve T-shirt, touch the warmth of his lower back. 

To risk everything just to find out just how fun danger can be. 

But then, the familiar guilt settles in, and even though it feels like heaven to play with fire, when Jisung leans in to kiss him, Minho has no other choice but to pull away. 

Jisung’s face flames instantly. “Sorry, hyung,” he says, brushing his knuckle against the tip of his nose, nervous, embarrassed. “I must’ve misread the situation. I thought you wanted this. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Minho says, his throat tightening around the words he needs to say. He wishes he didn’t have to, but he really, really likes Jisung. He can’t deceive him any longer. “I really want this. I do. It’s just—There’s something I need to tell you.”

Jisung’s momentary relief slips away, turning into confusion. He lets out a puzzled chuckle. “That sounds… serious.”

Minho swallows harshly over the lump in his throat. Even though he turns to face him, he can’t quite meet Jisung’s gaze when he says, “I have a wife.”

A beat of silence passes, and then, when the words finally register in his brain, Jisung is jerking away like he has just gotten burnt, jumping to his feet and away from Minho. So far away.

“Whoa, I—”

“It’s not like that,” Minho interrupts immediately, before Jisung can say anything else, accuse him of something that Minho isn’t.

But he has never explained it out loud. He has never talked it through with another person—not even any of his friends. He didn’t have to, because they just knew. And he didn’t want to, because it would entail facing their unwanted advice, pitiful propositions, and insurmountable sadness. It was better to say, It’s just what it is. It’s for the better. Let’s not talk about it. 

And now he doesn’t know where to start.

Jisung’s face is harsh and stern, and it’s obvious that he doesn’t care where Minho starts, that he doesn’t care about anything else that might leave Minho’s mouth. He crosses his arms over his chest defensively, staring Minho down.

“I don’t care what it’s like,” he says, uncharacteristically cold. “You should go.”

Minho’s chest constricts, but it’s not like he was expecting anything else. He can’t be entirely heartbroken because he knew it was going to happen. Anticipating Jisung’s reaction takes away some of the sting. 

It still hurts like hell, though. 

“I will,” he promises, his eyes pleading. He doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t want to leave like this, not when Jisung thinks he’s the most disgusting person in the world. Minho needs to at least try. “But, please, just hear me out.”

Jisung shakes his head. “I don’t care if you’re bored of your marriage, or you’re insecure and you need validation—or—”

“It’s not real,” Minho cuts him off. Jisung’s mouth falls open in confusion, but before he can find his words, Minho continues, “Our parents arranged the marriage to make the merger of our companies more solid. My family was struggling, and it was the only way to keep the firm in our hands, so I agreed. We are not actually a couple. It’s all fake.”

Jisung looks at him like Minho has gone insane, which can’t be that far from the truth.

“What?” he asks, his voice small, equal amount shocked and disoriented.

Minho knows Jisung is well aware that when it comes to them, heirs to large conglomerates, arranged marriages of convenience aren’t uncommon. Sometimes they’re signed off even before the two people involved start attending elementary school. At least in this regard, Minho is lucky. He made the decision, even though it wasn’t really what he wanted. 

He married someone he doesn’t love to save his parents from bankruptcy. Worse things happen.

They didn’t want to lose the firm, something that their family has been building from ground-up for generations. Their situation was so bad that even the marriage didn’t save them entirely—they had to make do with owning only fifty percent of the company, and that was already a generous offer on the Jangs’ part.

But it was better than nothing.

It was better than losing everything.

He tells Jisung that. Tells him everything, the words coming out of his mouth rushed, desperate. From the disbelief when they had told Minho the company was losing the totality of what they’d invested in it over the course of decades, to the desperate There must be something we can do, and the looks his parents had shared over the bills scattered across the kitchen table.

Minho offered his own money, but even if his parents had been willing to accept it, it still wouldn’t have been enough. The Jangs want to merge, his father had said one day. But the relief was crushed with a simple, There’s one condition. 

Their marriage wasn’t grand. There was no beautiful white dress, a traditional ceremony, no gorgeous venue, or love-filled vows. They met in the City Hall and signed their lives off with a few strokes of a black pen. Just like that.

It didn’t echo through the community, either. It hit the news outlets, and people were speculating on the nature of it all online, connecting it to the plummeting stocks of Lee Electronics, but it was nothing like the other weddings, taking up the front pages, circulating through the entire country. It’s not a surprise that Jisung never heard of it, even though he was the heir to the Han family empire, if he’s been in Toronto all this time.

Once Minho finishes his story and closes his mouth, for a long, terrifying moment, the apartment remains shrouded in silence.

“Say something,” Minho begs, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze unwavering. He tries to swallow the lump in his throat, but it refuses to go away.

Jisung’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows like he’s dealing with the same problem. In the end, he whispers, “I don’t know what to say.”

Minho lets out a shuddering breath. “I just—I’ve never done this, if you’re wondering. I’ve never even thought of sleeping with someone after we got married,” he says. “But I don’t love her. Even if I wanted to, I could never be able to. Her, or any other woman.” 

He thought that Jisung was in disbelief before, so he’s not sure what to make of the look on his face now. He’s staring at Minho like he cannot fathom the words leaving his mouth. Like, in his eyes, Minho has completely lost his mind.

“You’re gay?” he asks, sounding almost heartbroken. “And you still agreed to marry her?”

“It felt like I had no choice,” Minho whispers. “I just wanted to save my parents.”

He braces himself as Jisung takes a sharp breath, but it already feels like a losing game. Jisung’s expression remains guarded. More sympathetic than disgusted, but—still. Guarded. 

“I’m sorry you have to go through this,” he says. “I really am. It’s horrible enough to be forced into a marriage you didn’t want, and to have to do it when there’s no chance of ever falling in love with that person sounds like an absolute nightmare. But it’s still—” He sighs. “I can’t be a homewrecker.”

“There’s no home for you to wreck,” Minho says under his breath, tearing his eyes away from Jisung because even though it’s all Minho’s fault, it hurts to even look at him.

He knows it’s over. He knows that at this point he has lost—beyond this obvious attraction—the first person who he felt comfortable around that wasn’t one of his friends of tens of years. This instantaneous, easy connection that he isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to replicate.

He knew this would happen, but a part of him was still foolish enough to hope. 

He pushes himself off the couch. Jisung’s eyes follow his movements as he grabs the glass of wine and downs the remainder of it in one gulp, but he doesn’t say anything. That’s good. Minho thinks he would die if Jisung told him to get out again. He’ll do it. He just doesn’t want to hear it.

“Sorry for making things…” He makes a vague gesture between them, lost for words because there isn’t an expression capable of describing the absolute regret and shame he’s feeling. “I’m sorry.”

Jisung doesn’t say anything to that, and Minho can’t blame him, but it stings.

God, what’s wrong with him? He wants to hit something. He wants to hit himself. He should’ve told the truth the moment Jisung alluded to wanting his number back in that damned restroom. He should have shown him the gold band around his finger. Which—funnily enough—he isn’t wearing at the moment. He never wears it outside of formal events.

Minho turns to leave. 

It pains him, but he understands where Jisung is coming from. He respects his decision, even though he wishes it was different. Still, he’s an idiot, so he hopes that this is not the end. That even though they can’t ever be anything more, Jisung will have it in him to forgive Minho enough to be his friend. 

Because—Fuck. Minho wants him in his life like he has never wanted anything else. He wants to go out for dinner and learn what food is Jisung’s favorite, if he prefers salty or sweet, if he likes fruit because he looks like he does—like he really loves strawberries and honeydew. Minho wants to watch awful movies with him, lounging on this comfortable couch, and think of them fondly despite how bad they are, because Jisung will find a way to make him laugh until his stomach hurts, he’s sure. He wants to poke fun at him if he ends up killing the orchid, and praise him until his cheeks are red if he doesn’t. He wants to hear him play the piano and the guitar because he might have no proof of it, but he’s sure Jisung sounds better than Chopin, than Mozart, than anyone who has ever touched an instrument, really. 

He wants so much, and all that desire is filling every crevice of his chest, pressing against his ribs from the inside, threatening to break every bone. It physically hurts him, which is ridiculous, because Minho has known this man for, what, three weeks? Four? Has seen him twice before tonight.

But that’s the point. He doesn’t know him, and he’s dying to.

And with how stupidly he has played this, he might never get a chance. 

Minho makes it to the entryway, torn between dragging his feet and running off like the ground is burning beneath his feet, and starts putting on his shoes. He doesn’t even get one foot in before Jisung is cursing and calling out his name, saying, “Hyung, wait.”

Minho turns back around, his heart hammering in his chest even harder than before, to find him in the doorway already, expression clouded by a myriad of conflicting emotions.

Above all, Jisung looks like he wants to say something. He even opens his mouth to speak, but in the end, instead of saying anything at all, he steps closer, right into Minho’s space, and pulls him in by the front of his sweater, crashing their lips together.

Minho makes a noise of surprise against his mouth, but he’s starved, he’s greedy, and his body acts before he can think. His eyelids slip shut, his body melting against Jisung’s, and he kisses him back. 

He’s sure Jisung can feel his pulse skyrocketing when his hand settles on the side of his neck, his thumb brushing against Minho’s jaw and coaxing him into tilting his head to the side to deepen the kiss.

Minho’s fingers dig into his hips, dragging him even closer, pulling him forward even though it makes him stumble. His back collides with the wall of the entryway, but even then, he doesn’t break the kiss. He licks into Jisung’s mouth with fervor, desperate, gasping when Jisung slots one of his legs between his, pressing his thigh against Minho’s crotch.

He’s afraid of the spell breaking, of Jisung coming to his senses, of pushing him away, so he kisses Jisung until his lungs are burning with the effort and he physically can’t anymore. 

When he pulls away, he still doesn’t put much distance between them. Their noses are practically touching. He can feel Jisung’s heavy breath on his face, against his mouth. He could count his eyelashes if he was any more insane than this. If he was able to open his eyes and look at him, that is.

But he has to. It won’t go anywhere if he doesn’t make sure this is exactly what Jisung wants, that he knows exactly what he’s signing up for, and to be certain, he needs to see his face. 

His eyes flutter open. And then, into the deafening silence of the apartment, he asks, “Are you sure?” 

“No,” Jisung says, breathless. “But right now, I want this. I can regret it later.”

Minho swallows harshly. “I don’t want to do this if you’ll feel guilty,” he says, forcing his body to work along with his brain as he pulls away to give Jisung more space. “I don’t want you to regret.”

Jisung uses the grip he has on the side of his neck to pull him back in. “Then make sure I don’t,” he says, and before Minho can say anything else, he’s smashing their mouths together again. 

And Minho might not be entirely convinced, but Jisung is eager to prove to him just how much he craves this—his touch. He lets go of Minho’s neck in favor of grabbing one of Minho’s hands from where it’s resting on his waist and bringing it down to the curve of his own ass.

Minho doesn’t need more encouragement. 

His other hand joins the fun, and he uses the grip he has on Jisung to bring his hips forward, grinding against him, making him gasp into the kiss. It’s the sweetest sound, this small moan he lets out into the space between them, and Minho sinks his fingers into the flesh of his ass even deeper to pull it out of him again.

His head spins when this time around, Jisung moans louder. Like he knows that it’s exactly what Minho wants to hear.

“Bedroom?” 

“Down the hallway,” Jisung gasps in between kisses. “Door’s open.” 

Minho hums. He hikes Jisung’s thigh up, bending down just enough to make what he wants to do clear. Jisung understands him without words. He jumps, wrapping his legs around Minho’s hips, digging his fingers into the muscle of his shoulder in a way that sends a shiver running down his spine.

Minho feels his hard cock pressing against his stomach as he fixes his grip on Jisung, keeping one hand on his ass and wrapping the other arm around his waist to pull him even closer. His head spins. He pulls away from Jisung’s mouth to focus all of his energy on getting them to his bedroom without tripping over his feet, but that’s even worse, because the moment he does, Jisung starts trailing kisses across his cheek, his jaw, pressing his perfect lips into the skin of his neck, where his pulse is hammering—as if Minho’s heart has kickstarted itself back to life after a year of dormancy.

Minho locates the bedroom easily, nudging the door open further with his foot. In different circumstances, he would want to look around, study the decor and the trinkets and ask Jisung about every little thing he sees. Right now, his curiosity is quelled by the need to touch him.

He lies Jisung down on the bed, one knee braced against the mattress, but Jisung is holding onto him so tightly that there’s no way Minho would be able to let him go even if he wanted to. He’s dragged down by the back of his neck, Jisung’s fingers tangled in his hair. 

He props his elbow up on the bed next to Jisung’s head and dips down to kiss him properly, slotting their mouths together, Jisung’s plump bottom lip caught between his. Despite the overwhelming sense of need and urgency, the kiss is slow. Gentle.

Jisung licks into his mouth, eager but unhurried in his exploration. He’s a good kisser. Minho could stay like this, nestled between his legs, their lips locked forever, and he would be satisfied. He would be happy. 

But Jisung is good with his hands, too. While his fingers play with the overgrown hair at the back of Minho’s head, his other hand travels to his waist, teasing the hem of his pants. His thumb slips underneath the fabric as he caresses his lower back, and that touch alone—that barely existent skin-to-skin contact—is enough to light a fire in Minho’s chest.

He needs so much more.

“Jisung—” he whispers, unable to conjure any other words, unable to think anything other than I need you. I don’t know if I’ve ever needed anyone as much. I think this will ruin me, but I want it so bad. I want you, I want you, I want you. “Jisungie.”

“Hyung,” Jisung breathes out into his mouth. His hand grips Minho’s ass properly, dragging him forward, grinding up against him with a strangled moan. “The nightstand—”

Minho can’t help himself. He dips down to kiss him again, just one more time, before reluctantly pulling away and pushing himself up to his knees. He pulls open the drawer, eyes sliding over the tangled chargers and headphones in search of condoms and lube. Once he gets his hands on them, he turns back to Jisung, and his heart stops. 

Jisung is leaning back on his elbows, already staring back at Minho. The oranges and pinks of the setting sun soften his features, making him glow. His mouth is raw, deep red, and there’s a mark blooming at the base of his throat that Minho doesn’t remember leaving there.

He looks beautiful. 

And then he sits up, grabs the hem of his shirt, and looks Minho in the eye as he pulls it off over his head. Minho thinks he doesn’t want to see anyone else naked if they’re not Jisung. 

Now, Minho knew he had a tattoo from that night back in the restroom, but he didn’t realize he had another one. A bigger one. Spanning out along his ribs, down to his hip, to his thigh. He touched it over his clothes, and he didn’t realize. He wants to press his fingers against the ink now, trace the letters, find out what they mean, why he chose them out of all possible designs in the universe. 

“Take off your sweater,” Jisung says, the impatience in his voice betraying his attempt at appearing almost stoic. He sounds raw—from all the kissing, from the desire burrowed under his skin. “I want to see you.” 

Minho can’t deny him—not this, not anything.

He tosses the lube and the condoms onto the mattress without much care, and reaches for the hem of his sweater. Underneath, he has another layer, and Jisung knew it from touching his back earlier, but he still groans, annoyed, when he sees the white tank top. It makes Minho smile. He probably shouldn’t find him as cute as he does at that moment.  

“What a tease,” Jisung says, and he’s clearly impatient, but there’s a smirk curved across his mouth when he looks at Minho. It gets replaced with so much satisfaction when Minho takes the top off, too, letting it fall to the floor unceremoniously.

His gaze rakes over Minho’s body, and Minho tries not to grin smugly when Jisung’s mouth parts, when his tongue slides across his lips, hungry. He looks like he wants to touch every crevice of his body, map out the expanse of his skin with his hands, mouth, anything.

Funny, because that’s exactly how Minho feels about him. That’s why his movements are so—urgent. He wants to drag this out, make it last, but at the same time, he might die if he doesn’t touch Jisung already. He might fall apart at the seams under the pressure of his own desire.

Now that he’s shirtless, he sees no use in keeping his pants on. He starts unbuckling his belt, his eyes still fixed on Jisung—that’s why he notices right away how Jisung gulps, watching his hands move. 

Minho drags his teeth over his bottom lip, unable to fight back a smirk. He’s not good at this—at putting on a show—but even though his hands tremble, he’s so eager to impress that he can’t quite help it; he unzips his pants and slides his hand down, between the denim and the fabric of his boxers. 

Jisung draws in a shuddering breath when Minho cups his hard cock through his underwear. 

He only lasts mere seconds. Then, he’s reaching out, grabbing the waistline of Minho’s pants, and dragging them down his thighs himself. 

“Impatient much,” Minho comments, snarky and teasing, although it’s obvious, he’s sure, that he’s practically vibrating out of his skin.

He laughs when Jisung just rolls his eyes, cups both his cheeks in his hands, and drags him into a kiss. It’s much softer than their kisses from before, and so much sweeter, too. Minho gasps into it when Jisung’s fingers start playing with the waistband of his boxers, though, when one of his hands brushes against his cock. 

It’s nothing more than a light touch, something that could be played off as a coincidence in any other context. But it’s so deliberate, a conscious choice to make Minho lose his mind, if the way Jisung grins is anything to go by. 

“Take this off, too,” he murmurs against Minho’s lips before planting a kiss in the corner of his mouth. “I really am getting impatient.”

And what is Minho supposed to do? Say no to that pretty face, that deep voice, this gorgeous, beautiful human? He could never, even if he tried. So, he steps out of his pants and kicks off his boxers and pretends he’s not overwhelmed when Jisung drags him down onto the mattress, willing him even closer.

They’re still kissing when he helps Jisung out of his pants, a little clumsily, but successfully nonetheless. Then, he fingers him open in his lap, reveling in the soft moans and shaky breaths leaving his throat, in the way he whispers Minho’s name, his broken voice begging for more. 

Jisung is perfect, and Minho wants to put the entire universe in his hands. It’s a scary thought to have right before they’re about to have sex, especially that they’ve only known each other for a handful of weeks, but Minho is helpless; this connection escapes his understanding. 

“Hyung,” Jisung whimpers against his lips, his fingers digging into the muscle of Minho’s shoulder. That’s all he needs to say for Minho to finally have mercy on him.

His cock is trapped between their bodies, hard and twitching, so it’s maybe not really mercy when Minho pulls his fingers out and instead wraps them around Jisung’s dick. It makes him gasp and shudder, that’s how reactive he is. 

Every little noise, every change in his expression—Jisung is driving Minho insane. It’s no wonder that he doesn’t tease him much longer; it’s no wonder he’s desperate to give Jisung whatever he needs.  

The world fades away until all that’s left is this: a haze of limbs and skin, Jisung’s body, this bed. Minho keeps kissing him while he fucks him, nestled between his thighs, hands trying to touch everything all at once—his legs, his waist, his pecs, his neck. 

The only thing that makes him feel less crazy about his own desperation is that Jisung is clinging to him just as needily.

Minho discovers a few awful things under Jisung’s caress.

That he spent this whole year thinking that he no longer needed to feel desired. That, in reality, he has been starving for his touch this entire time. That it had to be him, no one else, because when their eyes lock, Minho feels his heart grow two sizes too big for his body, straining against his ribcage like it’s trying to get out and fall into his waiting hands. 

He discovers that having just this one night will never be enough. 

The sex is toe-curlingly good, the kind of slightly clumsy and too eager that has the potential to become seamless with familiarity. Jisung meets his thrusts half-way, enthusiastic, lifting his hips, trying to fuck himself back against Minho’s cock. He’s not overly loud, but he’s responsive, gasping and whining and whispering the sweetest rendition of Minho’s name, and even the slightest noise is enough to make Minho’s heart beat faster. 

He lets out a noise of surprise when Minho sneaks a hand between their bodies, wrapping his fingers around his hard cock, and moans, using the arm he has slung around Minho’s shoulders to drag him down, to kiss him senseless.

Minho can barely think. He can only feel. He kisses Jisung’s bruised mouth. He fucks into him slowly, stroking his cock in tandem with his own measured thrusts, a perfect rhythm that draws the sweetest sounds out of Jisung’s throat. He can’t bring himself to close his eyes, desperate to drink every expression that flickers across Jisung’s face. The pleasure that takes over his features when he brushes against his prostate, making his eyes roll back. 

When he comes, it’s sudden. He clenches around Minho, his fingers sinking into the flesh of his back, pulling him closer—deeper, and a quiet moan in the shape of Minho’s name slips out of his mouth. That alone is enough to make Minho’s hips stutter. He only lasts another second or two, he’s not sure, and then he’s coming too, his vision blacking out. 

He goes boneless momentarily and sinks, sitting back against his calves. It takes a while for him to come to his senses and feel like he can finally breathe again, but then he looks up, tearing his gaze away from where it’s been fixed on his cock, still buried deep inside Jisung, transfixed by the sight.

Their eyes lock, and for a moment, it’s like they’re waiting for the guilt to crawl into their chests, to coil around their spines like poison ivy. But it doesn’t.

If there was something Minho was hoping to get out of his system, he now knows it didn’t work.

Jisung must share the sentiment. His fingers ghost over the expanse of Minho’s stomach and his chest, to finally land on his shoulder. Then, he uses the grip he has on him and drags Minho down into a kiss, slow and sweet until Minho licks the sweat off Jisung’s cupid bow, making him laugh. 

“Freak,” he says, but he still sounds incredibly fond and amused, so what does that say about him, really?

Minho just winks at him and dips down to steal another kiss from his perfect, bruised mouth. Then, he finally forces himself to get up and throw out the condom. Jisung hums affirmatively when he asks if he should just toss it into the bin next to the dresser, so that’s what he does. He also locates his boxers on the floor and pulls them back on, not wanting to parade with his dick out.

“Can you toss me my underwear?” Jisung asks, pushing himself up into a sitting position on the bed. 

He looks tired. Not entirely wrecked, but close enough for Minho to feel it spark something deep within his chest. It takes him a moment to find Jisung’s boxers in the mess of the clothes, but when he does, he can’t quite help watching Jisung drag them back up his legs. 

Somehow, Jisung manages to blush even harder when he catches Minho staring. It’s not like Minho can talk, really. He always blushes easily, but one glance down at his chest tells him he looks like he has spent at least eight hours out in the open sun. Fuck. 

Jisung drags his attention away from his sun-burnt body when he clears his throat.

“Is it okay for you to… stay the night?”

Minho didn’t really consider what would happen after they’d have sex, but he finds that the question surprises him. A part of him did think that Jisung might want him out of his apartment right away. But the other part is pleased to find that he prefers for him to stay. 

Minho knows he shouldn’t, but his heart trips into a quicker beat, practically begging him to do it. He’s not sure where they’re supposed to go from here, but Minho wants to prolong this night, bask in its glow for as long as he can.

Just in case.

He’s afraid that if he leaves, the spell will break, and Jisung will change his mind.

He’s afraid that Jisung will regret it. Tonight. Him. That Minho will walk out of here and never see him again because the weight of what they’ve done will become too heavy for him to bear. And it’s the last thing Minho wants—he likes Jisung so much already, even if he takes the amazing sex out of the equation. It would hurt like hell to lose him. 

So, even though he shouldn’t sleep over at cute guys’ apartments when he’s got a wife waiting for him at home, he sends Jisung a smile and says, “I’ll stay, but you’re gonna have to get me a spare toothbrush.”

Jisung chuckles, his shoulders visibly losing their tension. “Of course,” he says, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to stand up. The way his arms flex as he pushes himself up makes Minho’s mouth water all over again. Jisung, completely oblivious to the thoughts running through his head, rolls his shoulders, stretching after lying down and getting fucked within an inch of his life, and says, “I’ll show you to the bathroom, come on.”

“Mhm. Thanks.” Minho swallows. “Could I just get myself a glass of water first?” 

Ice-cold preferably. To quench his thirst. Ha. 

“You can grab a bottle from the fridge or the bottom cabinet,” Jisung says. “First from the door.” 

Minho lets out a hum of understanding and asks, “Do you want some?” 

Jisung smiles, pleased at the simplest display of kindness. God, Minho wants to smother him with it. 

Still wearing nothing more than his boxers, he follows Jisung out of the bedroom and watches him disappear in the room just across the hallway—the bathroom. Then, he finds his way back to the living room. His eyes immediately zero in on his phone, still lying on the coffee table, and he realizes that he would’ve forgotten it if he had left earlier instead of staying. Well, that wouldn’t have been easy to explain to people. 

Either way, Minho grabs it and makes his way to the kitchen, flicking on the warm, overhead light even though the city lights spilling into the room through the huge window facing the doorway don’t let the kitchen disappear within the darkness. He wants to study it, though, wants to take it in the same way he has all the other rooms in the apartment. 

To get to know Jisung just a little bit more.

The kitchen is small, but cozy, beige cabinets with dark, wooden countertops winding around one of the corners. There’s a table pushed-up against the opposite wall, two chairs standing at both ends, a vase with flowers that Minho isn’t familiar with set in the middle. It makes Minho smile, this cute little detail. Jisung clearly pays a lot of attention to soft decor like that—little trinkets here and there, something to add color and personality to his home. 

There aren’t many appliances out, either because Jisung still hasn’t furnished this particular room, or he just doesn’t have—or want—many opportunities to cook. The contents of his fridge support Minho’s assumption. He studies them because he can’t quite help himself, alright. Mostly meat, some vegetables. And drinks—more drinks than food, really. He seems like a person who dines out or orders in, and Minho is a fool, so his immediate thought is, I could charm him by cooking. 

He berates himself for it immediately, grabbing two bottles of water from the bottom shelf. He sets one on the counter next to the fridge and presses the other one to his forehead. It still feels like his body is on fire.

Then, he leans against the counter, letting the edge press against his lower back as he unscrews the top and takes a sip from the bottle, shuddering at the cold feeling against his teeth. Salvation, that’s what it feels like. 

With the other hand, he unlocks his phone and does what needs to be done. 

He texts Yeeun, because it’s only fair that she knows where he is. Hey, drinks are running late. I’m gonna stay over at my friend’s place tonight. Within a few seconds, she reacts to the message with a thumbs-up emoji.

Of course, she doesn’t care. Not only because Minho has actually done this before—had drinks and stayed over at Changbin’s or Seungmin’s—but also because she’s completely detached from what he gets up to in his free time.

Jisung is still in the bathroom when Minho finally joins him after depositing their water in the bedroom. They share a smile—or Minho smiles, and Jisung tries, but then toothpaste foam dribbles down his chin and he gets embarrassed while Minho laughs, oddly endeared rather than disgusted.

There’s a packaged pair of toothbrushes balanced on the sink, so Minho rips it open and takes out the pink one. What can he say? He likes cute things too.

He starts brushing his teeth, but he finds even that simple task challenging as Jisung makes it his mission to make him laugh by pulling weird faces in the mirror. Minho narrowly manages to avoid the toothpaste almost flying up to his nose. He perseveres, but Jisung barely holds on when Minho does the same. 

He has to spit the foam out because he almost chokes on it. Once he stops coughing (Minho pats his back, of course, he’s not cruel), he kicks Minho’s butt with his knee, asking, “What are you, an elementary school student?” 

Minho grins at him. “You started it! I was just playing along!”

For that alone, Jisung kicks him again. Minho is a little crazy about him, so he turns around, sticking his ass out to give him more access. 

Jisung laughs all over again, saying, “Wow, you really are insane,” but he goes and smacks Minho’s ass with his palm, so he really shouldn’t be the one to talk. 

Then, when they finally stop bickering like little kids, Jisung tells him to put the toothbrush in the holder next to his own. Of course, it doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but it makes something warm and pleasant spread through Minho’s chest all the same. 

They get back in bed, slipping under the covers, choosing their sides seamlessly, like they are made for each other—Minho on the right, Jisung on the left. They’re lying on their backs, Jisung with an arm under his head. Minho tries not to look, because—fuck, his arms. And he says he doesn’t even go to the gym that often. 

It’s like Jisung is an alien and he was sent to this planet with the sole purpose of ruining Minho’s life. Or making it bearable. The jury is still out on that one.

When his eyelids start to feel heavy, Minho finally turns his head to Jisung. 

“I should probably warn you that I sleep-talk. And I might kick you,” he says. “My friends always say I should wear a straitjacket in my sleep. So, in advance, sorry.”

Jisung laughs. Instead of moving away for safety, Jisung rolls over onto his side and scoots closer. He throws an arm around Minho’s waist, slips his cold, cold feet between Minho’s, and then, blissfully oblivious to the effect it has on Minho’s heart, he says, “Don’t worry, hyung. I can be your straitjacket.”