Chapter Text
“According to the white oval sticker,
she holds apple #4016.
I’ve read in some book or other
of four thousand fifteen fruits she held
before this one, each equally dizzied
by the heat in the tips of her fingers”
- “I Watch Her Eat the Apple,” by Natalie Diaz
Han Jisung had an obsession, and it reflected in every word that formed from the flick of his fingertips.
It never mattered where the metaphor started because it would always end with Lee Minho.
Lee Minho. Beautiful Minho.
Captain of the dance team, every one of his movements fluid and calculated. His eyes reflected both mischief and wisdom. His beauty was so radiant that the last 100 poems didn’t do it enough justice, so Jisung drafted another 50. He was a dance major, a cat lover, and Han Jisung's roommate.
He felt a bit frantic as he wrote, and Jisung didn't especially love each poem he kept writing and rewriting about Minho; rather, he could never quite describe how causally Minho shifted the entire axis on which the earth spins. The plague yet quiet understanding that everything is changing. It's not scary, but it's definitely terrifying. The intensity of Siken with the comfort of Mary Oliver; the complications of Gluck with the familiarity of Collins.
The words equally for Minho as they are for Jisung. No, more for Jisung. It makes Jisung think of what Whitman famously said:
Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)
The most encapsulating sensation of it comes from Natalie Diaz. Maybe Eve eating the apple was sinful, but what if you wished her to eat 4015 more? Diaz makes you imagine it, makes you crave exactly that. Nothing clarified it more than when she wrote about it in terms of the sharks and the seas and the unfathomable depth of which one drowns without even knowing it's consuming you whole.
Be-loved, is love, what you cannot know is I am overboard for this
metamorphosis, ready to be raptured to that mouth, reduced to a swell
of wet clothes, as you roll your eyes and drag me into the fathoms
To which Jisung can't help but ask: Did you roll your eyes because of her intensity or because of the pleasure? Minho would do both.
Falling. Love.
Yes, it's terrifying. It's also uncontrollable. The words are scrambled inside Jisung's mouth, swirling in his molasses-induced mind, and hardly coherent enough to be reduced to a 300-word poem. Diaz does it, Siken does it, Poe does it too, but that's their truth. It resonates, but it doesn't quite speak the correct words.
Jisung thinks he's a bit melodramatic when he assumes everything fell onto fate's shoulders because laziness might be a more accurate description. Jisung opted for the easiest housing option for his second year: university dorms. Applying to housing during finals season meant Jisung put the lowest possible effort into those forms, deciding whatever happened was between himself and God. Not that he believed in God, but those are semantics. The universe or whatever. Jisung decided that fate must be real after meeting Minho. Fate is a bitch.
On that sweltering, late July afternoon when Jisung arrived at his fateful dorm and was met with the sight of the most stunning man he's ever seen, he nearly passed out. It wasn't just the heat, either, though, that contributed to it.
Jisung was dressed seasonally inappropriately, wearing black sweatpants and his favorite band tee. His hair grew long over summer break, leaving his neck slick with sweat. Minho was wearing jorts, a backwards cap, and a quirky cat shirt. Jisung felt severely underdressed in that moment despite their mutually causal garb. Minho has the ability to make the most casual clothes look high fashion.
Minho's hair was still brown, back before he had Jisung dyed it blond, and it was long, curling around his ears. Minho was sweaty too, but he wore it well, looking like he fell out of a magazine into their poorly air-conditioned dorm.
He was unlike anyone Jisung had ever met, greeting Jisung in an overly familiar manner, helping Jisung move boxes without even asking if he needed the assistance. Despite the initial panic, they almost instantly fell into something that felt like forever. Even their interests matched perfectly: manga, anime, karaoke, quiet weekends in, talking about everything and nothing, and reading.
Jisung found Minho's book collection to be incredibly strange but equally fascinating. Minho had a weird number of self-help books, and Jisung thinks that Minho might be the only person in the entire world who he actually believes reads them. Minho loved non-fiction too, loving the real things the world had to offer. Jisung took particular interest in Minho's collection of off-putting fiction books, all vaguely kafkaeque in nature.
He almost instantly understood that Minho had an easier time dwelling in reality than Jisung did. Even though Jisung loved documentaries and deep conversations on the political and socioeconomic state of the world (thank you Jaden Smith), he only truly found refuge in the safest parts of his mind. He only felt safe when he escaped.
It was true that Jisung found Minho unfairly handsome, but it was those strange eccentricities and his immense groundedness that drew Jisung further in. They just matched, and everything within their dorm felt perfect. Everything except one thing: Jisung's embarrassingly fat crush and insane obsession with Minho, growing stronger with each passing day.
The more he got to know Minho, the more he fell deeper and deeper.
The way his eyes, normally sharp and feline, turned wide and sparkly when discussing anything he loved. Jisung assumes existence began and ended in those brown pools, and he’s sure they hold the cocktail of life. Every time Minho's eyes sparkle, he believes in magic, too. He’s sure that if he wept, fairy dust would sweep his soft cheeks, and Jisung would collect the glitter into a jar for safekeeping, for remembrance.
His voice, too. The way it grew softer with Jisung; the way he never once raised it; the way he spoke harshly to everyone else. When he sang, it was thick with romance. Embers sank in Jisung's gut, and he worried the sparks would erupt into fire; the fear came too late, fires already blazing, impossible to extinguish.
Jisung does his best to act normal and casual about Minho, but Jisung has never once been normal about anything.
It didn't help that Minho took a deep and personal interest in everything about Jisung. When he learned that Jisung was a creative writing major, he wouldn't stop pestering Jisung to let him read his works. Early on, Jisung let Minho read his older stuff, but Jisung didn't let Minho read any of his new stuff. Minho was starting to grow suspicious.
“Come on, Jisung-ahhhhhhh,” Minho whines, “just let me read one, why are you so cagey about this all of a sudden? If you let me read one, I’ll let you come to my dance recital this weekend.”
"Lee Minho, you bitch," Jisung retaliated, not daring to look up at Minho's pleading eyes. Minho knew that Jisung could never resist such an offer, and he had been begging Minho for months to let him go to a showcase. Sure, he sees Minho dance when visiting him at practices, but Jisung yearns to see the full choreography. Also, okay, heaven forbid a man wants to see his sexy roommate dolled up and dancing on a stage. Maybe Jisung wants to bring Minho flowers and silently show the world that they belong together. Big whoop.
Minho feigned heartbreak, clenching his heart in faux pain, "You wound me, Han Jisung."
They both break into giggles.
“Okay, fine,” Jisung concedes with a puff, “maybe I’ll let you read one tomorrow.”
Minho celebrates by rolling off his bed, launching at Jisung, who is currently pacing the dorm, and wrapping Jisung in his arms. Minho bounces them both while embracing him. He maniacally giggles, and once he’s done celebrating, he smacks Jisung's ass.
His touch is static electricity to Jisung's skin, and the shock of energy reverberates through every single cavity in his body. Jisung realizes that it's probably not appropriate right now to confess his undying loyalty to Minho’s godlike form, so he settles on giggling instead.
It wasn’t until Minho passed out for the night, breath lifting and falling mere meters from his bed, that Jisung realized how catastrophically he fucked up.
Face illuminated by the soft glow of his computer screen, he scrolled through his Google Docs, searching for a poem that wouldn’t be too incriminating. He settled on a more ambiguous one, one full of obvious infatuation, but he assumed Minho wouldn’t piece together that it was 100% about him.
He’ll ask Hyunjin about it tomorrow.
***
“This is so obviously about Minho,” Hyunjin says with a cackle, “but it’s so beautiful, Jisung, you should show it to him!”
“Well, I obviously can’t show him now, dumbass,” Jisung says, words muffled by his hands covering his blushing face. Jisung groans mournfully. Then, he pretends to swoon as he falls back in his chair. "I think I'm growing faint," Jisung says in an obnoxious and fake British accent. Hyunjin cackles, and Jisung decides he should probably ask for some more clarity.“What makes it so obvious? ” asks Jisung.
“Because it’s YOU, Han Jisung, everyone who sees the two of you together understands you’re literally soul tied. You stare at each other like it hurts to look away, like everything else pales in comparison to one another, like you’ve only seen beauty in each other's faces and every other thing in existence is disgusting.”
“You corny bitch.”
“JISUNG!”
“Sorry!” Jisung whines.
They’re definitely being far too loud even for the conversational section of the library if the side eyes are any indication. However, Jisung and Hyunjin were probably too loud for just about every imaginable establishment.
“I’m dead serious, you need to show this to him, and while you’re at it, you should tell him too,” Hyunjin says, in a more hushed tone, sounding mildly exasperated.
Hyunjin always says that. Makes it sound as easy as dropping a couple of words. He doesn’t understand how world-shattering it would be if Minho rejected him.
“You know it’s not that easy for me. A rejection from Minho would tear me apart.”
“What’s worse,” Hyunjin asks, “reaching for something unimaginably beautiful while risking potential, yet temporary, pain, or to experience the torture of silently longing for the rest of your life, wondering what could’ve been if you had the balls to say something.”
“I hate it when you’re right,” Jisung says with a sigh, “it’s still really hard for me, though. He’s everything to me, and..." Jisung trails off, pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts, "and I’m not even sure if he’s gay.”
“HAH,” Hyunjin lets out a sharp, loud laugh that makes Jisung wince. The people at the table next to them move, and Jisung can only send them an apologetic wave. “You’re such an idiot sometimes, bro. For one, he’s CLEARLY gay, he’s obsessed with your ass for god sakes. He even talks about it at dance practice, like, why is he dreaming of pouncing you while we’re dancing? Like hello?”
“At dance practice!?” Jisung can't help the hysterical laugh that he lets out. He tries to ignore the growing annoyance of the other people surrounding them.
“YES! Literally all the time, 24/7, he’s a freak, and everyone already thinks you guys are dating. ALSO, he’s clearly so in love with you. He’s literally evil incarnate at dance practice, but when you step into the room, he morphs into a love-sick kitty. It’s honestly kinda hard to watch. Like, bro, stand up, you’re embarrassing me." Hyunjin thinks for a moment before asking, "Have you guys seriously never talked about celebrity crushes before? Or, like, past romance stuff?"
"Ughhhh," Jisung groans, "one time I called Lee Do-hyun handsome and he pouted and sulked for 5 minutes." Hyunjin smiles so widely, probably thinking of using the information as blackmail.
"What do you mean by sulking?"
"Like, he stopped cuddling with me, turned away, and he didn't speak until I brought him pudding from the fridge. That's when I started calling him 'big baby."
"Aww," Hyunjin exclaims. Then his face warps, "actually, no, ew. It's gross how in love with you he is."
In all honesty, Jisung knows that Minho reciprocates everything. He’d be, as Hyunjin said, stupid not to notice, but that does nothing to ease his fears.
“If he’s so clearly infatuated with me, why hasn’t he said anything?” Jisung huffs.
“He’s probably messing with you, not gonna lie, he probably likes seeing you flounder around him. I don't know. He may want to give you more time, too. You haven't been with a man before, and you came to the gay realization stuff only last year. I still stick by that he's mostly just messing with you.”
“Hah, you’re probably right. Whenever I get flustered, he grabs my neck, stares me in the eyes, and he says, ‘You’re so cute, what am I going to do with you?’”
“You fucking freaks, that’s exactly my point, he’s in love with you. At least let him read the poem.”
“Fine,” Jisung sighs in defeat.
“Tell me how it goes later, Hannie,” Hyunjin says, squeezing Jisung's cheek, ignoring the glare that Jisung sends his way.
He’s fucked, totally and completely fucked
***
Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Jisung meets up with Minho after his dance practice so they can walk home together. However, today his lecture let out early, his professor announcing to the class, “You introverted losers need to get out and live for once, enjoy your Friday!”
After catching a stray from his professor, he decides to spend his extra 30 minutes at his favorite vintage book shop. Jisung's prized possession is his poetry book collection, ranging from transcendentalism to contemporary. He doesn’t care about the time period--he is more concerned with the way the words move him.
He walks through the narrow valleys of the shelves, and his senses are filled with the scent of old books and dust. As he approaches the poetry section near the back of the store, the lighting turns a deeper shade of yellow, almost golden. When he reaches the poetry nook, he lets his finger skim the paperback spines of the books, enjoying the crispness of aged paper.
His eyes fall on a Wislawa Szymborska collection called View with a Grain of Sand. He remembers reading her work for one of his classes, so he picks the book up and flips to a random page. The poem he lands on is called “True Love.” It establishes a critical perspective on the notion of true love, one that leaves a sour taste in his mouth, until he reaches the last two stanzas:
Let the people who never find true love
keep saying that there’s no such thing.
Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.
He lets out a sigh of relief. That's always appreciated, a small surprise. One that gets you thinking, second-guessing. He finds himself wondering what insightful comments Minho would have about the ending. He always sees things through a perspective that Jisung finds himself enamored by. His thoughtfulness is what makes him his true love. Jisung smiles to himself, elated but scared to acknowledge Minho as his truest love, his soulmate, yet having not even a glimmer of a doubt.
He flips a couple more pages to a poem titled “A Large Number.” The poem is devastingly beautiful, capturing the fleetingness of time along with the incomprehensible emptiness experienced within a single lifetime. He finds himself wanting to grasp every moment of life. One line in particular stands out to him:
Life lasts as long as a few signs scratched by a claw in the sand.
“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, before shutting the book and placing it under his arm.
He thinks of these 30 liminal minutes, fleeting, with the sight of Minho on the other end. He thinks of Minho, and how he won’t always be here, not unless Jisung takes advantage of this fateful time. Their time together doesn’t even account for a blimp in the entire scale of the universe, but this microcosm of existence is all he’ll ever know. He decides the risk is worth the reward. Death is a risk, life is the reward. Minho is synonymous with life.
***
Jisung tries to enter the practice room without calling attention to himself, but once Minho spots him, he stops the music and shouts in a sing-songy voice, “My Jisungie is hereeee.” Minho gives Jisung a once-over and approaches him like he's starving and Jisung would be the perfect meal.
He pulls Jisung into his arms, breathing him in. Minho whines quietly so only Jisung can hear, “Baby, I’ve missed you.”
It’s that familiarity, those pet names, that drive Jisung mad every day, “You always say that, baby, but I saw you literally 6 hours ago.”
“Oh? You’ve been counting? It doesn’t look like I’m alone then. My poor baby missed me, too?”
Jisung is probably bright red by now, but he stuffs his face in Minho’s neck and lets out a squeaky little “yes.”
Minho pulls back slightly, grinning widely, with something deeper, more complicated behind his feline eyes. “Are you finally going to show me your pretty poems tonight, dear?”
Lost in his eyes, Jisung simply nods in response.
“Can you guys please stop eye fucking each other? We have to finish this dance, Minho,” Hyunjin says dramatically, Felix giggling mischievously at Hyunjin's call out.
That's when Jisung realizes he's been hanging onto Minho's neck for dear life, and he slowly draws away his arms. Minho huffs and gives Hyunjin a terrifying glare, one that Jisung's happy to have never been the recipient of.
Jisung distantly hears Hyunjin doing a monologue, "We approached them with nothing but RESPECT. Jisung was so sweet and willing. the big headed bitch on the right had the craziest attitude..."
Jisung would laugh at Hyunjin's antics if he weren't so absorbed in Minho. Minho would probably be actively slaughtering Hyunjin if he were chronically online enough to understand the reference.
“I’m sorry, Jinsungie, give us five more minutes, okay? Can you do that?”
“Mhmm,” Jisung hums in response.
“Good Boy,” Minho says, and suddenly Jisung feels like he's about to choke on air. He’s sure that he's burning up like a tomato. He's certain Minho loves to see him all hot and bothered over the smallest things. “I can see your tiny waist through that flannel. I just want to grab you and take you home. Fuck, you're driving me crazy, baby,” he whispers to Jisung before groping his ass and resuming the music, acting as if he didn’t just turn Jisung's entire world upside down.
Jisung quickly opens his notes app and writes down every thought that he's sure he’ll use as inspiration for writing later. Lost in tapping every lingering sensation down into his phone, Jisung hardly notices when the music stops five minutes later. However, when he feels a presence, he looks up to see Minho's wide, cat-like eyes staring back at him. Anyone else would find it mildly intimidating, but Jisung thinks it's incredibly adorable.
“What-cha typing over here?”
“Nothing important,” Jisung says, looking away, not feeling capable of handling the intensity of having all of Minho's attention.
“Always so secretive with me, Hannie baby~" Minho coos, "it's so cute when you keep your thoughts hidden away from me. You make me want to dissect each and every single one of them out of your brain. I’ll figure it all out eventually.”
Ugh, Jisung loves it when Minho gets all weird and poetic with his words. The promise of truly knowing Jisung is what tickles him. Before Jisung can even reply, Minho is pulling him up by his waist. His hands linger there for a second before winking and reaching for his hand. That's when he sees the bag.
“What’d you get, darling?” Minho asks as they walk out of the building, starting their journey home.
“Just a book from the bookstore, it's nothing special really.”
“Come on, Hannie, give me the details. I love it when you talk poetry to me," Minho lifts his eyebrows flirtatiously.
“Uh okayy, it's a book by Wislawa Szymborska, she's a Polish author, so all the poems are translated. However, they’re also quite beautiful and thought-provoking. She also wrote a lot of political pieces about living in the aftermath of war and destruction and stuff. We read some of her stuff last year in my world poetry class. I flipped through this book in the shop, and I was really drawn in by her world perspective; it's quite representative of my own.” Jisung explains while Minho listens carefully, nodding along.
“What exactly is that perspective?”
“I don’t know, hmm, like, um, optimistic in a fleeting sort of depressing way. Hm, that's a bit paradoxical, I suppose, perhaps that kinda sounds stupid haha. It’s hard to put into words.”
“No, that's not stupid at all, Jisungie. Things don’t always make sense; sometimes they just feel right. Tell me more, and let me hold this thing.”
Minho snatches the bag out of Jisung's hand, and he quickly switches it to his right hand. He grabs Jisung's right hand with his left, interlocking their fingers with a firm grip. They let their hands swing between them as Jisung takes a moment to think. The gesture spikes his heart rate and eases his soul. Minho doesn't push Jisung, allowing him all the time in the world to gather his thoughts. Silence between them is always comfortable. Jisung thinks that maybe everything beautiful is a bit paradoxical. Perhaps the most beautiful things make the least sense. He stores that thought away for his writing time later.
“I suppose that it reminds me a bit of my anxiety. Like, my brain is always moving so fast, and the world is passing me by before I can even grasp it... Yet, I feel like the world is also moving impossibly slow. Perhaps I just want to skip to the good part and live in it, but I need to take time to reach it. Does that make any sense?”
“Of course, baby,” Minho says while squeezing Jisung's hand, “every word. I know you have a tendency to get stuck up in that pretty brain of yours, but don’t ever feel rushed or uncertain with me. I’m not going anywhere.”
It’s insane, Minho's ability to read between the lines of each of Hans' anxieties and ease them with just a couple of words. That's why he’s so deeply in love with him. Even after only four months of knowing him, he never wants to imagine a world separate from him.
With everything slowed, as it always is with Minho (as it only ever is with Minho), Jisung takes in everything around them: the comfortable silence (has silence ever been comfortable before Minho? Jisung wonders), the crisp autumn air, the red fallen leaves blanketing the sidewalks, and the warmth of Minho's hand. Minho looks sexy too, which is not atypical by any means, but he’s still embarrassed for realizing it only now. He’s wearing a beanie, baggy grey sweatpants, a loose, darker grey zip-up with a design reminiscent of cybersigilism on the back (Jisung’s favorite to steal from Minho), and a white tank top underneath. Jisung wonders if Minho is aware of how insane these sweatpants drive him, leaving extremely little to the imagination. Sometimes Jisung thinks Minho isn't wearing underwear because there is no way he's just that big. He can’t wait to get a peek at Minho's muscular arms when he takes the hoodie off at home. Jisung tries not to drool at the thought.
Minho must notice the oggling because he lets out a soft laugh before saying, “See something you like, sweetheart?”
“Stoooppp,” Jisung whines, dropping Minho's hand and bringing his own up to cover his face.
“Nuh uh, sweet thing, bring that hand back here,” he says, forcing Jisung's hands off his face and his back into Minhos. “Cutie,” Minho says, pinching Jisung's reddening cheeks.
Jisung needs to change the subject before he explodes, so he asks, “How was practice today, baby?” The reverse-flustering attempt seems ineffective at first, but Jisung notices Minhos's ears tinting pink at the nickname.
Minho coos at Jisung, “Aww, my baby is trying to change the subject. It was good, sweetheart. We are definitely ready for the showcase this weekend, which is a huge weight off my back. These guys can be real fixer-uppers, ya-know.”
Jisung laughs, knowing they have one of the best dance programs and dancers in the county. Minho really is a harsh critic.
“I’m excited to read your work, baby. Are you looking forward to seeing me dance?” Minho asks Jisung as they enter their dorm.
Fuck. Jisung forgot about that part of the deal.
“Yes, I’m super excited! I’ll cheer louder than everybody else, obviously.”
“Mhm, you better.”
As they enter their room, Minho excitedly announces, “It’s time, Jisungieeee!”
"mmm but I'm hungry right now..."
"After." Jisung has never seen Minho this excited before--he's practically vibrating in his seat. Normally, a hungry Jisung becomes a life-or-death issue for Minho, to the point that Jisung purposely doesn't announce his hunger until things get dire. This must be a serious thing for Minho.
“I’m really, really nervous.”
“Don’t be, you're perfect, I’m sure the poem is perfect. Don’t spend so much energy worrying around me, darling.” He says while caressing his hand along Jisung's pink cheeks.
With a deep breath, Jisung unzips his bag and pulls out a paper copy of his poem.
Jisung passes the copy of his poem to Minho, and he closes his eyes as he reads.