Archive of Our Own

Jisung likes Hyunjin, he thinks, except he has an incorrigible habit of sticking his nose in things.

The fridge, covered in Hallmark cards of every occasion, he cocks an eyebrow at but ultimately ignores. The detailed and color-coded whiteboard calendar he peruses but must not find interesting enough to comment on.

The handwritten note left on their otherwise empty coffee table, remarkable penmanship reminiscent of a Dear John letter, seems to pique his overly healthy interest, however, and he plucks it off the coffee table.

“Do you have a military boyfriend, or what?” Hyunjin asks, squinting at the formal script in an attempt to decipher it.

Changbin laughs, utterly oblivious to the violation of privacy. He’s oblivious to any of Hyunjin’s faults, given that Hyunjin is more than willing to give him the time of day and also sleep with him. Honestly, Jisung can't say he faults him—with all of Hyunjin’s pesky nosiness, he’s probably also the most attractive person Jisung has had the privilege to lay eyes on in person.

“I told you Jisungie and his roommate are weirdos,” he says, hooking his chin over Hyunjin’s shoulder and also reading Jisung’s private communication.

“This is from your roommate?” Hyunjin says incredulously, then seems able to work out the salutation at last, through all of Seungmin’s ridiculous and unnecessary flourishes. “Oh—Dearest roommate—Christ Almighty, how the fuck do you read—?”

Jisung snatches the letter back with what is surely a sour look on his face. Yes, he also has trouble reading Seungmin’s writing when he leaves him a note like this. Some vestige of a penmanship class he’d taken back in college and been insufferable about—or was it calligraphy…?

“Sorry,” Hyunjin says, managing sheepishness as Changbin pats his shoulder, as if Hyunjin reading Jisung’s private communication is anything but his own fault. “Love confession, right? Been there, that's rough—”

“It’s not,” Jisung says confidently, without even bothering to read the thing, though he does hold the letter up to his eyes to try to parse the writing.

Changbin latches on to something different. “Wait—what do you mean been there—?”

“Fuck,” Jisung says. “We’re out of eggs. I’ve got to run to the supermarket—”

“Wait,” Hyunjin says, shaking his head and holding up his hands as if to pause Jisung. “Your roommate left you that note to tell you to go buy eggs? A text wouldn't have sufficed?”

Changbin turns to Jisung, Hyunjin’s plethora of love confessions apparently put on the back burner. “Do you even have his number?”

Jisung blinks, trying to think if he'd ever gotten it in case of emergencies. He doesn't think so—he does have Seungmin on Instagram, a platform neither of them use frequently. But if Jisung were to, say, end up in the ER, he guesses he'd try to contact Seungmin there, rather than muster up the postage to mail a letter to his own apartment.

“What do I need his number for?” Jisung grumbles, oddly defensive when it comes to his weird roommate. Or—maybe Jisung is weird, too. Maybe they bring out each other’s weirdness. Maybe they exist in a perfect flow state of weird, together. There’s something beautiful in that.

Anyway, he reaches for his coat, knowing it will be easier to go to the supermarket before he settles down and also knowing that Seungmin will be a grouch if he comes home and doesn't have an egg to fry for his bibimbap.

“I’ll be back in, like, five,” Jisung instructs, patting his pockets down to ensure he has the vital combination of phone keys wallet. “No snooping through my stuff,” he says sternly, though he feels certain that Hyunjin is going to traipse over to his fridge in his absence, to read the Hallmark cards plastered there, too sentimental to discard.

“You didn't need to buy a full dozen,” Seungmin remarks later that night, wrinkling his nose at the carton of eggs Jisung had purchased. “I mean, it's almost the weekend, so we’ll do our full grocery shop—”

“Should have put it in the note,” Jisung says absently, sprawled across their couch and pulling 10th place in Mario Kart.

“Didn’t I?” he wonders, and plucks the thing off the table, where Jisung had left it.

He hadn't thrown it out—yeah, he's stupidly sentimental. It just feels wrong to throw it out. A note Seungmin had left him. He keeps them all stuffed in a drawer in his room. If Seungmin knows, he has politely declined to comment on it.

“My bad,” Seungmin apologizes, perusing the note and seeing no mention of how many eggs to buy. “I must have thought common sense would prevail—should have remembered who I was writing the note for.”

“Fuck off,” Jisung responds automatically. He considers throwing the controller at Seungmin, getting absolutely shafted by baby Mario as he is. Is he even old enough to drive a go-kart? “For that, you should make me dinner.”

“Fair enough,” Seungmin responds placidly. “One egg or two?”

Living with Seungmin is easy, Jisung thinks. He keeps things organized—the color-coded calendar, the weekly grocery trips. Jisung hadn't realized how much better it is living with a modicum of organization than whatever he had been doing pre-Seungmin.

He hopes that, in return, he's a good enough roommate for Seungmin. He thinks he is? He’s never been late on the bills, he always runs the little errands Seungmin requests of him, and if he makes a late night run to the convenience store for ice cream, he always picks up a little treat for Seungmin, whether he asks for it or not.

It’s a good thing they have going, he and Seungmin, he reflects as he crosses the finish line in 11th place. If Seungmin weren't in the kitchen ensuring he was making enough bibimbap for Jisung, too, he'd probably poke fun.

They're old souls. Or—Seungmin is an old soul. Maybe Jisung is just a chameleon, blending to match whatever Seungmin likes. The thought should bother him, he thinks, as he considers choosing baby Mario for the next race.

Except—he thinks it doesn't bother him. Blending to Seungmin’s preferences, he means, not baby Mario’s smug baby face. That does bother him, and he's too disgusted to play as him.

He likes whatever nonsense he and Seungmin have going on—the long-winded and formal letters, the Hallmark cards for every occasion. Once, Seungmin had gone on vacation with his family to Jeju and legitimately mailed Jisung a letter with updates, a Polaroid of Seungmin on the beach, and a tangerine keychain. The stupid thing hadn't even beat Seungmin home, and it had been Seungmin himself to toss him the letter a couple nights after his return, postmarked from Jeju and all. All three items are tucked safely in Jisung’s desk drawer, a testament to Seungmin’s commitment to the bit and Jisung’s perpetual amusement from said bit.

From anyone other than Seungmin, he thinks he'd find his little idiosyncrasies annoying. But they're just—they're Seungmin. Dry humor, deadpan, irony. Jisung gets it, he thinks.

And he likes to think that Seungmin appreciates Jisung letting him be a little goofy, a little weird—though he's never put it in so many words, and probably won't.

It had begun with the tragic death of Jisung’s goldfish, Lt. Surge. Chan had gently suggested that Misty would be a more appropriate name for a fish, a veritable water type, but Jisung thought the gold suited an electric type. And Lt. Surge is a cool as fuck name, anyway. The goldfish was a dude, anyway—Jisung thought. He never quite managed to figure it out.

The real reason he was attached to the stupid goldfish and its stupid name was, unfortunately, an ex. The guy who had him fucked up in college had won it at a local festival, and although the relationship had long since soured, Jisung kept carefully caring for Lt. Surge.

Until he'd come home from work one night. It had been a whirlwind week, and only Tuesday. Seungmin had moved in over the weekend, and been so busy with work that Jisung had hardly gotten to talk to the guy. Jisung had been horribly late for work that morning, since the train was rerouted and no one thought to inform Jisung—

And he’d come home to Lt. Surge belly up. He hadn't cried, or broken down, like he'd often thought he would when thinking of the demise of a 48-hour carnival goldfish. But he'd stared at him for a good few seconds, like he might start swimming again, like his stupid pet was capable of such a trick as playing dead.

But he'd felt upset. Maybe it was stupid, to be upset over a goldfish. But it was the last remnant he'd had of that stupid, toxic college relationship and—and Lt. Surge’s demise meant the thing was truly gone. And that was scary.

Jisung couldn't bring himself to flush the thing. He’d carried the fishbowl out to the living room and sat on the couch, contemplating it like a crystal ball, the limp, upside-down body of his goldfish.

And he was still sitting there in quiet contemplation when Seungmin came in from work with a sigh, his fingers already working to loosen his tie.

He’d stopped short on seeing Jisung, eyes flickering between his new roommate and the dead goldfish floating in a fish bowl.

“Um,” Seungmin had said. “You have a goldfish…?”

“Had,” Jisung corrected glumly. “Lt. Surge is no more. He's swimming in the big fish bowl in the sky.”

Seungmin had blinked rapidly, absorbing the illogical name of the fish, and then nodded. “I’m sorry about that,” Seungmin had said. “Should we—is a funeral appropriate?”

For the first time, tears pricked Jisung’s eyes, and he used his sleeve to wipe his suddenly dripping nose. A funeral, he pondered. A funeral not just for the fish, but also for the chapter of life that Jisung is apparently still mourning, a fact he hadn't confronted until the death of Lt. Surge.

“A funeral,” he wondered. “Yes… let’s have a funeral.”

Seungmin nodded, tightening his tie again—Lt. Surge deserved the proper decorum, naturally.

They convened in the bathroom, bowl held precariously over the toilet bowl. Seungmin led them in an appropriately somber dirge, half-pieced together from memories of church and funerals in his youth. Seungmin held his hand as they sang what must have been mostly on pitch.

“I’d like to say a few words,” Seungmin then announced, and extended his hands for the fish bowl. “May I?”

Jisung was silent in passing the fish bowl to Seungmin, who cradled it in front of his torso.

“Lt. Surge,” Seungmin announced in mock solemnity—Jisung could just see the cracks, the barest smile threatening to break through. “I regret that I was unable to get to know you prior to your untimely passing. Your unusual name speaks to your persevering spirit, and we are comforted knowing that you are in a better place.”

Jisung sniffed. “The big fishbowl in the sky.”

“Yes,” Seungmin said, the façade cracking a bit more. “The big fishbowl in the sky. Swim on, little buddy.”

Seungmin passed the bowl back to Jisung, obviously expecting a sort of eulogy.

Jisung peered down at the goldfish. A remnant of a life gone, now forever. He’d been happy then—he'd thought—but he's happy enough now. A job that pays the bills, a solid group of friends—and, apparently, a roommate very tolerant of nonsense.

Maybe he didn't need to be distraught over the death of Lt. Surge. It wasn't the death of a fish, but the dawn of a new era, a happier one, or at least one with more possibilities.

And Lt. Surge is a fucking stupid name for a goldfish, anyway.

“Good riddance,” Jisung had declared, pouring the contents of the fishbowl into the toilet, fish and all. He turned to Seungmin—it seemed only appropriate to allow the new beginning to rid his life of the old. “Would you do the honors?”

“Certainly,” Seungmin responded, and reached over to flush the toilet. Lt. Surge’s lifeless carcass swirled down the toilet, down into the depths of the Seoul sewage system, but Jisung knew his spirit was in a better place, as was Jisung himself.

What followed was slightly awkward silence, Jisung cradling an empty fishbowl. Does he throw it out, or—can you donate a fishbowl? Like, to charity, or an animal shelter—?

“I'm thinking pizza for dinner,” Seungmin interjected. “My treat. Seems it's been a rough day for you.”

“It’s—are you sure? I can pitch in—”

“Plain cheese, got it,” Seungmin said, already strolling from the bathroom and pulling his phone out to order. “Be back in 10, yeah?”

Seungmin was gone, but he was back in eight minutes, carrying a warm box of pizza—and a Hallmark card, which he handed to Jisung.

The card featured a bouquet of flowers and a family of cardinals perched among them. With Deepest Sympathy, the card proclaimed.

“Would you believe they don't make a bereavement card with a goldfish on it?” Seungmin deadpanned, placing the pizza box on their kitchen table.

Jisung flipped the card open—hastily scrawled inside, in a handwriting Jisung would soon know as well as his own, was written, Gone too soon. Sorry for your loss. Swim high, Lt. Surge.

It was—awkward. Weird. Perhaps bordering on unsettling, or psychopathic.

Jisung burst into laughter, genuinely doubling over, hands on his knees.

“It’s—it’s—you wasted, what, 5000 won on a bereavement card for my goldfish?”

Seungmin had an odd expression, somewhere between a smile and a frown. “It was 7000 won,” he informed. “And it wasn't a waste—it made you laugh.”

“Whatever,” Jisung had said, cheeks aching from smiling. He’d stuck the card on the fridge, an inside joke between himself and his roommate. Perhaps the first of many. “I should have told you, anyway—I like sausage pizza.”

“Beggars, choosers,” Seungmin declared. “Eat the cheese and I'll consider sausage next time.”

Home late reads Seungmin’s note, pinned to their calendar with a magnet. Date with overeager guy from work.

Jisung plucks the note from the calendar. Not all of their notes are overly elaborate. Sometimes they really are just notes.

He’s heard of the overeager guy from work, though Seungmin hasn't provided his name. Honestly, Jisung hadn't thought that Seungmin would genuinely go for him. He’d been described to Jisung as something of a pest.

Hovering around Seungmin’s desk, finding excuses for small talk. Is it… predatory? Is Seungmin safe on a date with this guy?

Jisung blinks down at the note, overcome with a sudden urge to crumple it up and lob it at their trash can. He doesn't throw away Seungmin’s notes as a rule, but this one…

Seungmin is not uncautious—quite the opposite. If this guy were trouble and if Seungmin weren’t at least interested in him, he wouldn't say yes to a date.

Just—the infuriating lack of details! Jisung wishes he'd indicated where their date was. Just—you know. So Jisung could make sure this guy doesn't intend to wear Seungmin’s skin as a suit, or something.

Maybe it's a mistake they don't have each other’s phone numbers. No sharing locations, or anything. Isn't that standard practice for first dates with strangers?

Okay, he's not a stranger. Seungmin works with him. And Seungmin is not stupid. Obviously, he didn't feel that he was doing anything risky, and Jisung generally trusts Seungmin’s judgment.

But then what is this uneasy feeling? Something ominous—Jisung has a bad feeling. He's not a superstitious guy, or generally ridden with paranoia, but he heads off to his own job with an unusual pit in his stomach.

He opens Seungmin’s barren Instagram at lunch. Does he message him to ask for details? Would Seungmin even see it?

It's not their relationship, and that's what ultimately stops him. He’s being paranoid—maybe even possessive. He doesn’t have any right to details on Seungmin’s personal life.

He stares at their empty PMs on Instagram, debating sending a message, something he's never done. But he can't do it in the end, he decides. He's overreacting.

The foreboding feeling only worsens after dinner. Jisung is jittery, and takes to cleaning out their fridge. Their place stays pretty clean thanks to Seungmin’s influence, but Jisung’s anxiety cleaning maybe stems from Seungmin. Jisung is a chameleon.

He should make that doctor’s appointment he's been putting off, he thinks. Get back on his anxiety medication. Seungmin is probably having a perfectly decent time with the overeager coworker. If Seungmin were here, and not out at an undisclosed location with an undisclosed person, Jisung would wonder if he needs to be back on his anxiety medication. Seungmin would wryly say that's a question for his doctor, and pencil something new onto their calendar, Jisung’s characteristic pink color: Call doctor. And then, in Seungmin's deep blue: Make sure Jisung has called doctor.

The fridge is spotless—Jisung’s dodgy leftovers tossed and tupperware freshly washed. It’s late—Seungmin ought to be home. But, then again, if he somehow decided to spend the night, how would Jisung know? Would Seungmin communicate via carrier pigeon?

Or this guy was bad news and Seungmin is in trouble. Beaten half to death in an alleyway, or childlocked in the backseat of the guy’s car. Jisung absently wonders if he can find the staff directory for Seungmin’s company online, and find which coworker it is via mere vibe check.

He chews his lip to shreds, and he pulls a hangnail so long he about peels his whole finger.

A walk, he thinks, feeling heat crawl up his neck. A walk in the cool night air would make him feel better—and maybe he'll sight Seungmin walking back from the station. Maybe Seungmin will be up for a late-night convenience store run. He’ll tell Jisung that his date was awful but not inherently life-threatening and he'll stop going on poorly-defined outings with people Jisung doesn't know.

He grabs his coat and pats his pockets—phone keys wallet—before he throws open the door. To Seungmin sucking face with a not unattractive man.

Jisung promptly short circuits. This is not in the list of possible activities for Seungmin to partake in. Washing dishes, cooking food, critiquing Jisung’s lack of video game prowess, bitching when Jisung doesn't fluff the pillows on the couch—but not sucking face with a stranger. Never, not in Jisung’s most wild imagination, could he have imagined Seungmin with his tongue down someone else's throat.

Yet here he is, faced with an impossibility. Seungmin, his roommate and possible closest friend, the one with the driest sense of humor and the most roundabout way of taking care of Jisung, is demonstrating that he has a sex life.

He stands frozen for the perhaps two or three seconds before Seungmin seems to register that the apartment door has opened, and then he promptly separates himself from the guy.

“Um,” he says to the coworker—yeah, Jisung thinks, he looks… pesky. Overeager. Whatever. “I'll see you on Monday, yeah?”

There's an awkward goodbye, and Jisung doesn't think he imagines the slight pink tint to Seungmin’s cheeks as he brushes past him into the apartment.

Jisung clears his throat, awkward, rocking back and forth on his heels. “So—good night?” he checks, as Seungmin shrugs out of his coat, pointedly not making eye contact.

He shrugs, still avoiding Jisung’s gaze. “It was alright,” Seungmin says. “He’s… fine. Nothing special. Don’t know if I’ll bother seeing him again.”

Jisung doesn't know if he would be doing all of that with someone he doesn't know about, but to each their own.

“Oh,” Jisung says. And then, in the prolonged silence that follows, he expertly shoves his foot in his mouth: “Looked like you liked him just fine.”

This time he certainly doesn’t imagine the flush to Seungmin’s cheeks, nor the groan that rises from his throat. “I shouldn't have done that,” he laments, head in hands. “Just—it's been so long—”

“That’s okay,” Jisung says immediately, hands up in surrender. They don't have to talk about this. Like, ever. It’s been a long time for Jisung, too—and for the first time in a long time, Lt. Surge flashes through his mind. An old life, gone. Jisung had said he would move on with the demise of the fish, but had he? What has he done other than go to work and spend time with his roommate? Occasionally meet up with friends when their schedules align?

Maybe he should put himself out there, he considers. With Changbin having gotten together with Hyunjin, he's now the pathetic single friend, and he doesn't think it feels great.

“Sorry,” Seungmin says, flopping onto the couch. “Going too deep into my personal life.”

“No—it's fine—” Jisung quickly reassures, still standing in the entrance with his coat on, like he hasn't committed to not going out. “It's not what I meant, just—I was worried.”

“Worried?” Seungmin asks, rolling to face him and cocking an eyebrow.

“Well—really fucking anxious, actually.”

“What for?” he asks, looking somewhere between confused and concerned.

“Just—” Jisung says, then falters. It’s probably pathetic to admit, he considers. But Seungmin has probably seen the worst of him, anyway. Hell, he'd found him losing it over a dead goldfish three days into living together and handled the entire situation with grace. “I didn't know the guy. You didn't tell me where you'd be. If something went wrong, I wouldn't know you needed help.”

Seungmin switches to obvious bemusement, probably at the thought of Jisung coming to his rescue, a knight in shining armor—fair enough. It's a fairly ridiculous image, capable Seungmin as the damsel in distress and nervous wreck Jisung coming to save the day. “I have my phone,” he insists. “If I was in trouble, I’d just call the emergency number.”

“But what if you couldn't?” Jisung tries. He can't quite grasp and convey the panic he'd felt in the moment. It feels distant now, illogical. Stupid of him. “I mean—should I have been concerned if you didn't come home?”

Seungmin scoffs. “The plan was never to spend the night at his place.”

“So tell me that, so I know to be concerned if you don't come home,” Jisung pouts. He feels… awfully like a dad, or a spouse, or something. This is domestic. He and Seungmin frequently are, but this somehow goes even further.

Maybe something finally gets through to Seungmin—his expression changes minutely. An upturn of his eyebrows, a rounding of his mouth. Something like surprise, or a realization.

Jisung gets a cursory glance at it before Seungmin turns away, glancing at his phone and tapping away in what must be an attempt to look busy. “Well,” he hedges, “if it bothers you, I can give you a better heads-up before I go out with anyone.” There’s a tiny little silence, a pregnant moment in which Seungmin swallows his pride. “You have a point, anyway,” Seungmin admits. “If we don’t text, I guess we need to be more mindful of how we do communicate.”

Jisung nods eagerly, his throat dry. “Right,” he agrees. “Yeah.” He doesn’t need the guy’s birth certificate or blood type or anything, just—maybe a name, a location, and a time Seungmin expects to be home. Is that crazy? Is he being crazy? Are they crazy? He still feels the last skitterings of panic scratching up his throat, pounding in chest and his ears.

“And you,” Seungmin says, having carefully fixed his expression before turning back to Jisung, “are going to call your doctor in the morning and get an appointment.”

Jisung laughs. Nervously. Anxiously. “Ha, what for?” he tries, knowing Seungmin will see right through it.

“I’m no doctor, but maybe you’d benefit from being on your medication again,” Seungmin says, turning his attention back to his phone and crossing his legs. “Felix will set you straight.”

“Felix isn’t a doctor, either,” Jisung mumbles sulkily, rebellious—even though Seungmin has a point. Hell, he’d thought it himself just earlier that night.

Still—when he gets home from work the following night, he makes sure to add his doctor’s appointment to the calendar, just so Seungmin knows that he’s done it.

“BP’s a tad high,” Felix notes, pulling the nubs of his stethoscope from his ears and finally releasing the pressure on the stupid cuff that’s strangling Jisung’s arm. “You anxious?”

“I don’t like having my blood pressure taken,” Jisung mumbles defensively, automatically flexing his arm. “Why do you have to check that, anyway? I’m here to ask about meds.”

“Right, I have that noted,” Felix says, shaking the mouse to keep it from going dark on Jisung’s chart. “Just standard. Height, weight, blood pressure. Any other concerns for the doctor?”

“No,” Jisung mutters.

“Does Seungmin know you’re here?” Felix asks, cocking his head. “Like, obviously, I’m not going to break doctor-patient confidentiality, but I just want to be extra careful to not mention it if he doesn’t know.”

“It’s on our calendar,” Jisung says. “You’re fine.”

Felix rolls his eyes. “The calendar,” he repeats, like Seungmin’s organization is ridiculous. “Well, the doctor will be in a few minutes. Tell Seungminnie I said hi.”

“Just text him,” Jisung says, scowling. Everyone else can text Seungmin—but not Jisung. It isn’t their thing. They have a special thing.

“He’s an abysmal texter,” Felix says, wrinkling his nose in disdain. “Guess you wouldn’t know, since you two are busy sending each other love letters.”

Felix leaves before Jisung can come up with a rebuff. And, anyway, he finds that no matter how long he sits there trying to think of a snarky comeback to Felix, nothing sounds quite right to him.

He’s popping one of his new anxiety pills and downing it with water when Seungmin comes in from work, bearing bags of curry.

“It’s not takeout night,” Jisung immediately notes, because they have a strict Thursday-night-only takeout rule.

“Don’t feel like fucking cooking,” Seungmin groans, and immediately zeroes in on the pill bottle on the counter. “Doctor was okay?”

Jisung shakes the bottle in response. “I’ll be medicated again,” he confirms. “Thought I was doing better, but…”

Seungmin shrugs, bumps him out of the way with the curry bags. “Shit happens. We should probably all be taking anxiety pills and antidepressants and low-dose stimulants.”

Jisung doesn't laugh, just slides the bottle in front of their coffeepot so he'll remember to take it again in the morning. “Damn, do you need to go to the doctor, too?”

“Just to quit my job, I think,” Seungmin sighs. “But then I’d be stressed about finances, so I think it's inescapable.”

“Want one?” Jisung offers, pointing at the unassuming orange bottle.

Seungmin snorts and rolls his eyes, shoves a bowl and a plastic container of rice and curry his way. Jisung’s favorite, because they have each other’s favorite takeout orders, favorite treats, favorite drinks memorized.

“How’s Felix?” Seungmin wonders, like Felix isn't his friend. Abysmal texter, apparently.

“Mean,” Jisung sniffs. “Strangled my arm then told me my blood pressure was high.”

“You know he became a nurse because he likes seeing people in pain,” Seungmin riffs in a deadpan, and Jisung nods sagely.

“I believe it.”

Anxiety medication is great, Jisung doesn't remember why he'd gone off it in the first place. He misses his train to work the next morning and doesn't even spiral about it. It gives him a chance to stop at the station bakery and get a coffee and a pastry, and it's really no big deal being a few minutes late.

And then come lunchtime, hit by a debilitating wave of nausea, he recalls why he'd fucking hated his anxiety meds. He spends his lunch hunched over his desk, fist to his mouth, trying to resist the urge to retch and dry heave. He feels miserable but at least he isn't anxious, unless feeling mildly nervous about possibly throwing up counts.

When Seungmin comes home from work, Jisung is on his belly on the couch staring at a wall. He hasn't taken his PM dose yet. Seungmin follows his gaze to the wall as if he might find something interesting there.

“Rough day?” Seungmin wonders.

“Being medicated sucks,” Jisung says flatly. It might be a statement with more vindication if he didn't feel so… suppressed. The nausea has passed—for now—but he still finds himself utterly without appetite.

Seungmin quirks an eyebrow. “Just… give it time, maybe? The side effects will go away?”

They hadn't fully resolved last time. Jisung lost so much weight that his doctor was considering taking him off of them, anyway, if Jisung hadn’t just quit taking them on his own before his appointment. Anxiety meds are evil, he thinks.

“God,” he groans, though he can't quite muster a sensation like frustration. “I’m going to have to go back to the doctor and let Felix strangle my arm again, aren't I?”

“I’ll put it on the calendar to call,” Seungmin offers, already strolling to the kitchen. “I was gonna make noodles.”

“Can’t eat,” Jisung mumbles back, a heavy pit in his stomach filling him up. Usually, it'd be anxiety—but he thinks his meds are making it so he can't even tell that's what it is. Unfeeling.

He skips his PM dose and goes to bed early, seeing that Seungmin has carefully written in pink on the calendar, Call doc about anxiety meds.

“Seungmin says you like seeing people suffer,” Jisung notes as Felix strangles his arm again (and notes a normal blood pressure this time, thank you very much).

“Mm, I do,” he agrees dryly, updating Jisung’s vitals on his computer. “Everyone in medicine does, it's an open secret. Like these meds making you lose ten pounds in a week, have you even eaten this week, moron?”

“I had bites here and there,” Jisung grumbles.

“Well, kudos on less sodium, it's done wonders for your blood pressure,” Felix says. “That said, as a medical professional, sometimes you need to force yourself to eat on medication.”

Easier said than done, Jisung thinks grimly, and Felix cocks his head at him.

“So, the appetite loss and weight loss is obviously a concerning side effect, but you seem… different. Down. Because of the meds or because of other shit?”

“Well, I can’t be anxious if I can’t really feel anything,” Jisung points out.

Felix nods and types notes in his chart. “Yeah, makes sense. Doctor will be in soon, yeah?”

“Yeah, cool,” he mumbles.

He returns home with shiny new medication to try, and Seungmin isn't there. Jisung checks the calendar—there's a monthly staff meeting indicated for today in Seungmin’s dark blue.

Jisung dry swallows one of his pills and trudges to bed.

“I don't think you're supposed to be drinking on your meds,” Felix calls over the general noise of the bar, clutching a beer and halfway in Jeongin's lap.

Jisung looks down at his fruity little abomination, complete with umbrella. “There's no grapefruit juice, I checked.”

“I meant alcohol, dummy.”

“Isn't this the kind of sensitive medical information you shouldn't yell in a bar?” Jisung says sourly, taking a sip of his over-sweet drink.

Jeongin grins. “Wait, wait, I wanna guess what kind!” He squints at Jisung, as if he could determine what's wrong with him via laser vision, and declares, “Anti-anxiety.”

“You told,” Jisung immediately accuses Felix.

“Nuh uh,” Felix says with a broad grin, fondly squishing Jeongin’s cheeks in his hand. “Jeonginnie’s just so smart and perceptive, aren't you?”

“Obviously it's working great,” Jisung grumbles, sinking in the sticky vinyl seat sullenly.

“Nah, you seem better,” Felix says. “You just kind of give shaky chihuahua, you know?”

“I do not,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, you do,” Felix argues. “Minho hyung, Channie hyung,” he says, yanking the other couple from their conversation. He gestures to Jisung. “Shaky chihuahua, no?”

“You know when a bird gets trapped in a garage and dies of a heart attack?” Minho deadpans immediately, bringing his beer bottle to his lips.

“That's mean,” Chan says disapprovingly. He looks to Jisung and opens his mouth, as if to reassure him that he doesn’t give the impression of an anxious mess at all times, but then firmly clamps it back shut, as if he decides he can't say such a thing in good faith. “Good to see you, Jisung. Work okay?”

“It’s fine,” he mumbles, sinking down further in his seat.

“Hey, scoot,” Seungmin says, trying to shoo him out of the booth and abruptly breaking from his conversation with Changbin. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

“I thought you said they didn't talk to each other,” Jeongin notes, turning to Felix.

“What, am I gonna send him a carrier pigeon because I have to pee?” Seungmin says with a scowl. “Blink Morse code at him? Send smoke signals?”

“Don’t get up, Jisung,” Felix says, throwing a hand across the table to halt his scooting. “He needs to stay on brand, this isn't right.”

“You guys know we talk, right?” Jisung says. “We live together. He doesn't write a note for every little—”

But Seungmin has drunk enough to entertain Felix’s foolishness. He grabs the water-stained cocktail napkin from under Jisung’s drink and a pen from his bookbag—because of course he has one on him—and sets to scrawling.

“Seungmin, I’ll let you out,” Jisung says, but Seungmin is intent on his writing.

“No, no,” he insists, making large, elaborate flourishes. “Besides, I know you like them. You hang on to them, don't you?”

Jisung’s face flames, and not from the alcohol. Seungmin doesn't mean to embarrass him, but he puts his head down and hopes no one has locked in on that comment.

And in the next moment, he's slamming the cocktail napkin back down in front of Jisung.

My dearest roommate—

I hope this note finds you well. I humbly request you vacate the booth so I may go void my bladder. Best wishes, and peace be with you.

In your debt,

Kim Seungmin

Despite it all, it makes Jisung crack a smile. He extends his hand for the pen, and when Seungmin deposits it in his palm, he flips the napkin over and scrawls, For sure, dude.

Seungmin shakes his hand and slides out after Jisung; when he walks by, Jisung notes that he's put on cologne. He usually doesn't bother, not even for friend outings at the local dive bar. He’d been at work earlier, was it for that shifty coworker…?

Jisung slides over to Seungmin’s spot next to Changbin, noticing a piece of loose skin by his thumb and trying to rip it off with his teeth.

“You know chewing your nails is a bad habit,” Hyunjin says. Hyunjin probably has perfectly manicured and beautiful nails and has never bitten one in his entire life, Jisung thinks. He probably paints pretty designs on them and they don't even ever chip.

“You know, I have heard that somewhere before,” he responds ironically, though he is shamed into taking his thumb away from his mouth. He resolves to pick at the skin under the table, instead.

“Are you going to start coming to the gym with me and Channie again?” Changbin asks, saving him from Hyunjin. “Minho’s started joining us, too.”

Yeah, he’d fallen off of the gym. It did make him feel good, but at some point he’d decided he valued making it home before dark and in time for Seungmin to offer to cook him dinner.

“I’ll consider it,” he says weakly. “Um, work's gotten a little busy.” It hasn't, it's the same shit every day.

But Changbin makes a sympathetic little noise and pats Jisung on the shoulder.

“You remember the bird in the garage comment?” Minho asks from across the table, and Jisung knows better than to expect an apology. “Don't you think the gym would help with that?”

He does look frailer than he used to—but, hell, he'd just been on that medication from hell that made him drop weight like crazy. That's not his fault.

“Bird in a garage?” Seungmin asks, sliding back to Jisung’s side. “He’s more like a squirrel.” Then he turns to face Jisung. “You’re in my seat.”

“God forbid you talk to your friend,” Jisung grumbles, but when he looks across the table, Felix and Jeongin are on the verge of being very gross; Felix’s tongue is almost in his ear. “No fucking way,” he protests, gluing himself to Changbin’s side.

“If they suck face in front of me I’ll throw something at them and lose one of my oldest and dearest friendships,” Seungmin insists, and then he's scooting over the top of Jisung’s lap and wedging himself between him and Changbin again.

His cologne smells unexpectedly good—Jisung should ask what it is, maybe borrow some. He’s sure there's an innocent reason Seungmin is wearing it today, and he squashes the little voice that says it's for the weird coworker.

“You’re just jealous you don't have someone to suck face with,” Hyunjin accuses, and Seungmin rolls his eyes.

“I can find someone when I want to,” he insists, and Jisung is again assaulted by the visual of Seungmin kissing the coworker.

He sees it in rich detail—some of it surely invented. He’d glimpsed it for a few seconds, but he swears he can visualize the arch of Seungmin’s back, the way their lips moved together. Hand on his coworker’s cheek, tongue slipping between his lips. Twined together, inseparable.

“Are you okay?” Chan asks, apparently undisturbed by Felix and Jeongin trying to eat each other’s faces at his side. “You don't look well, Jisung.”

“Um,” he says. “Bathroom.”

And as he scurries off, he hears Minho’s voice from across the bar, “Yah, you scared him off with your tongue-wrestling!”

And Changbin’s voice, equally loud—“Have you no decency?!”

The bathroom is single occupancy and vacant. The lock is busted but there’s a hotel bar that Jisung slides shut with trembling hands.

He takes a deep, shaky breath. His heart is suddenly racing and there's heat crawling up the back of his neck. One look at himself in the mirror and he's appalled by how flushed he is. It isn't from the alcohol, hasn't even finished his first drink.

He splashes cool water on his face and tries to focus on breathing, because that's supposed to help. And… looking at the things he can see? Is that a therapy thing?

Sink. Toilet that doesn't stop running ever. Paper towels on the floor next to the overflowing trash can. He recites several phone numbers scrawled on the wall promising a good time and he doesn't feel any better.

This anxiety medication is shit, he thinks. It doesn't even have side effects because it's so worthless.

It just takes time. He stares at the water running into the sink and tries to forget the intrusive image of Seungmin with his coworker. That's a new anxiety symptom, he thinks, the intrusive thoughts—or is it the medication? He’ll have to message his doctor to ask. He has no reason to latch on to this image of Seungmin whatsoever, but he can't shake it, and it makes his heart ratchet up and his palms sweat each time.

When at last he feels pulled together enough to return to the table, Jeongin and Felix have been separated, Minho and Chan now sitting between them, and nobody looks thrilled with the arrangement.

“You okay?” Seungmin murmurs as he slides back in. “Wanna head home?”

“‘m fine,” he says firmly, though he can't quite swivel his head to look at Seungmin. He’s scared of seeing the coworker again.

Seungmin pats his thigh reassuringly, rare physical affection.

Felix is seated across from him, forcibly separated from his boyfriend, and is looking knowingly at Jisung.

“I don't know that these are doing anything,” Jisung comments, rattling his pill bottle while Seungmin puts away their weekly grocery shop.

“Doesn't it take a while for those to kick in?” Seungmin wonders. “No side effects anyway, right?”

Jisung blinks, and the visual of Seungmin kissing his coworker flashes across his vision again. “Are intrusive thoughts a side effect?”

Seungmin straightens. “Do I need to hide the kitchen knives?” he asks, (probably mostly) joking.

“They're not about stabbing you,” Jisung mutters.

“I’m keeping a knife under my pillow, you maniac,” Seungmin says, though this time he's definitely joking. “Anyway, I don't think intrusive thoughts are bad, necessarily. Or do they bother you?”

“Um,” Jisung says, and Seungmin doesn't need to hear anymore. He just turns to the calendar, grabs the pink marker, and writes in for Monday, Call doctor. And then in dark blue underneath: Make sure Jisung has called doctor.

He suppresses a sigh. He can't keep calling off work to make doctor’s visits—maybe he just needs to give this med a little more time. Maybe the intrusive thoughts will taper down and the actual anxiety control will amp up.

“I’m gonna go lie down,” Jisung mumbles, brushing past Seungmin, who has almost finished with the groceries.

“Want me to wake you for dinner?” he asks, and Jisung offers a nod and mumbled thanks.

He closes the door of his room behind him and is reminded that he had told himself he was going to clean today. Seungmin ensures the rest of their apartment is pretty tidy, but Jisung’s room tends to be the exception.

There’s a pile of laundry that needs to be done overflowing from his hamper, and the remnants of last week’s laundry draped over a chair that he hadn't managed to put away. He manages to sweep a few empty soda cans and water bottles into his half-full trash and that's all he seems to have the motivation for.

He falls into his unmade bed—fuck, wasn't he going to wash his sheets today, too?—and opens Instagram. Scrolls through a few posts. Closes Instagram.

Something's off—something beyond the anxiety meds, he thinks. He has a spidey sense going off…

God, wait, how long has it been since he jerked off? It must have been since before this medication fiasco—he's been a little preoccupied, and it makes sense that anxiety and/or medication would sap his sex drive.

And now that he's at last aware of this nagging problem, it's impossible to ignore. He thinks that cumming would probably make him normal again, it can't be good for him to have gone this long without. He’s had a routine, dammit, at least since he was an adult and the teenage hormones at last subsided and allowed him to occasionally think about something other than his dick.

Call him a gross pervert, but it's something of a comfort to engage in this routine again. Something something chameleon—he doesn't know about Seungmin’s jerk-off habits, but he does know that Seungmin has routines for everything. Maybe he's off because he hasn't been following this routine.

He kicks his shorts and boxers off and lets them bundle at the foot of his bed. He’s already half hard from the anticipation of it, an unignorable need now that it's been called to his attention.

He lets out a sigh of relief as he wraps a hand around his base, stretching for the sticky bottle of lube leaking on his nightstand. He feels more normal already, he thinks. He probably doesn't need meds, just to be more vigilant about getting himself off.

Once he slicks his hand up and starts properly stroking himself, he feels certain this is the case. He’d mistaken being pent up for anxiety, surely, and how foolish of him.

He has to bite his lip to hold back a whine—his own hand feels better than it usually does, and he already feels his muscles tightening, like he could release at any time. He might be embarrassed about cumming so quickly, but it's been a while and it's just him, anyway. This is a medical necessity at this point, as far as he's concerned.

Sometimes he fantasizes about specific things when he does this—a faceless chick with big boobs, or the current big Kdrama lead, or, when he was deep in a hentai pit, tentacles—but he thinks he’s too far gone for that now. Now his mind floats in an abstract, focusing on his dick and how good the pressure and friction on it feels without having to ascribe anything particularly sexual to it.

He rubs his thumb along his head on each upstroke, feeling the wet smear as pre-release dribbles out. He knows he's close when his head tips back and his throat opens up—he usually ends up pretty loud when he finishes, even if he tries to keep it quiet—

And then, just as he's sure it's happening, all the tenseness in his body fades—including in his cock. It softens slowly in his fist despite the stimulation, and Jisung’s breath comes hard and ragged.

The fuck? That hasn't happened before. He stares at his now-limp cock in mild shock as his heart comes down, wondering if he’d just blacked out for the actual cumming part. But no—he hadn't even hiked up his T-shirt, and it's entirely clean.

Fuck. Okay, fine, maybe his heart just went too fast and redirected blood away from what was probably more vital in the moment. He'll give it a second and try again. Annoying, but not the end of the world.

Except—he tries a second and third and fourth time, until by the fifth his dick gives up completely and doesn't even get hard. He tries jerking off, he tries humping a pillow. He resorts to his usual vague fantasies—he pulls up his shameful spank bank of tentacle porn.

He can’t cum, a fact that quite simply shouldn't exist as a perfectly healthy man in his mid-twenties.

And once he realizes it isn't going to happen, his mind quickly lands on the most likely culprit—the fucking meds. A quick Google search does confirm that erectile dysfunction is a possible side effect, and he almost goes to the bathroom to flush the pills then and there.

No, this absolutely makes up his mind for him. He can't live like this. He’ll stop the pills and then casually probe Felix to see if he has any days off coming up—he is not going to see his doctor and have to tell Felix that his dick is broken.

He’s laying in his bed despondently, sheets pulled up over his hips, when Seungmin knocks and pokes his head in. “Dinner,” he announces, and very kindly doesn't comment that the room smells very much like sex.

“Be there in a sec,” Jisung promises, staring at his ceiling and wondering how long until the meds work out of his system.

Midway through the week, Seungmin happens to glance at Jisung’s bottle of pills and notices that it seems as full as when he’d last seen it.

“Are you not taking them?” he calls over to Jisung on the couch, again losing at Mario Kart.

“Huh?” he asks, and when he glances away from the screen, he promptly hits a banana peel. “Shit,” he curses, trying to get back on track. “It’s—what, the meds? Stopped over the weekend. Side effects were too much.”

Seungmin hadn't actually checked that he'd scheduled the doctor’s appointment, despite it being written on their calendar. Monday he'd gotten caught at the office too late trying to fix some bullshit his junior had fucked up, and Tuesday they rerouted the trains and it took him forever to get home—

“Did you schedule a doctor’s appointment?”

“I did,” Jisung says, very intentionally not mentioning that said appointment was for a couple of weeks out, when he knows Felix is dragging Jeongin on a long weekend to the coast.

“When?” Seungmin asks, flipping through their calendar. “I told you, we have a calendar for a reason—”

“It’s not for a couple weeks. Um—he didn't have any openings,” Jisung lied.

“You gonna be okay until then?” Seungmin checks.

“For sure,” Jisung says, and he isn't even anxious when he inches up into third and Princess Peach tries to get him with a red shell. He’s, like, perfectly fine, and that's conclusive proof. “Those other meds didn't even do shit for my anxiety, you know.” And they made him a limp-dicked loser. He’s been trying every day since he stopped, and he hasn't been successful yet, but he figures it's only a matter of time.

But the next weekend, a full and complete week off of his evil meds, he still hasn’t managed to cum. Can a medication fuck his dick up permanently? And if so, shouldn’t that be in big bold letters on his bottle? Shouldn’t the pharmacist give him a heads up?

And maybe he’s freaking out a little too much over it—his sex drive also hasn’t returned to its baseline, so he thinks it doesn’t technically matter, but it just… it feels wrong. It feels wrong and isn’t he supposed to listen to his body?

He’s hopeful it will happen on Sunday when he tries prior to the weekly grocery shopping trip with Seungmin. A full week off and surely the meds are flushed out all the way, but it’s no use. And, ironically enough, it’s starting to make him really fucking anxious.

And, because Seungmin is annoyingly perceptive, when Jisung trudges out so they can head on to the store, Seungmin hands him a sealed envelope. It’s a greeting card, this much he already knows. Usually they don’t bother purchasing them for their silly letters, because that would get expensive fast, but there are occasions in which it is very funny to do so.

Jisung quirks an eyebrow, not betraying his amusement yet, and silently rips the envelope open. When he pulls the card out, there’s a cartoon of a little girl, apparently in a hospital bed, clutching a teddy bear. Get well soon, the card wishes.

“Fuck you,” Jisung says automatically, though he flips the card open. He’s expecting Seungmin’s usual long and unwieldy prose awaiting him, but instead, in his normal handwriting, he’s scrawled, Because I’m tired of you moping around. Jisung automatically moves to smack Seungmin in the arm, but then his eye catches, so small he could almost miss it (surely the intention), an (I miss you).

And yeah, okay, he tears up. Seungmin is important to him and he hasn’t been himself lately (he blames the lack of cumming). Seungmin is also fucking averse to being forthcoming when he cares about someone in return, hence the card. Hence the tiny writing. Jisung wonders if that first card, the bereavement card for Lt. Surge, was possibly because Seungmin wasn’t sure how to comfort his new roommate who was upset for reasons much larger than a stupid goldfish.

“Oh my god, don’t be gross,” Seungmin scolds, frowning deeply as Jisung swipes under his eyes. “I’m making fun of you.”

“It’s the meds,” Jisung insists, though both of them know it’s a front.

“Or lack thereof,” Seungmin says suspiciously.

He sniffs, and carefully tucks the card back into the envelope. He makes a big deal of nonchalantly chucking it onto the kitchen table, because that’s what he needs to do. “Well, let’s go,” he says, because there’s nothing more to say. Seungmin cares about him, Seungmin is worried about him, and while he probably could have guessed as much, the gesture is overwhelming. “You know I hate grocery shopping, let’s get it over with.”

“Come on, then,” Seungmin says with an air of impatience, and sweeps Jisung out the door before him.

They’re a little… quiet and awkward while they’re shopping. Seungmin probably feels embarrassed, but Jisung has no way to reassure him without embarrassing him further.

On the bright side, it means their shopping trip is overwhelmingly efficient. Seungmin even sends Jisung on the front while he goes to the final aisle to grab their final items. Normally, Jisung would be excited—it means a lot more free time on his Sunday, which he would usually spend horizontal.

But for once, he’s kind of… unsure what to do with himself. He hopes Seungmin gets over how embarrassing it is to care about his roommate, because then maybe they could hang out without the slight air of awkwardness that has befallen them now.

But now he’s next up in line, greeting the teenaged cashier who couldn’t care less and depositing his items on the conveyer belt, and there is no sign of Seungmin. He feels for a moment like he’s a kid again, like his mother had left him at checkout to grab one thing really quickly and he felt the weight of the world on his shoulders, like the cashier might scold him.

Ridiculous, he reminds himself, though he catches his head swiveling over his shoulder multiple times. He has his wallet and can pay. If Seungmin takes too long getting the last couple of items, he can get at the back of the line and do a separate transaction for them. He shouldn’t be anxious, and yet he is.

He takes his time punching in his phone number for rewards, and even pretends to mess it up to buy some time. But in the end, with a harried mother wrangling a toddler behind him, he taps his card and takes their groceries to the counter to bag.

Now, he hurries, because what the hell is taking Seungmin so long? Maybe he tripped and fell and cracked his skull open—except surely there’d be an overhead announcement. Maybe someone kidnapped him—nevermind that the exit is fully within Jisung’s line of sight. A million improbable and ridiculous scenarios occur to him, and the fact that they are improbable and/or impossible does nothing to ease the tension coiling in his gut.

He hoists the bag over his shoulder, the last few items thrown in haphazardly, and wades back through an empty checkout line to find Seungmin. It has now been several minutes and he had better have a stellar explanation for making his famously anxious roommate anxious.

What if he can’t find Seungmin at all? What if he’s vanished into thin air? Jisung doesn’t have his phone number to call him. Nevermind that he could easily call Chan or Minho and have one of them call Seungmin—that solution is far too logical. Seungmin will have vanished with no explanation and it will be like he never existed at all and it will fuck Jisung up for life, he’s sure of it.

But when he hurries to the furthest aisle of the store, Seungmin is standing there with packs of microwaveable rice balanced in his hands. He’s talking to someone—and doesn’t Jisung know him? If he imagines his side profile and Seungmin’s tongue down his throat…

“Jisung,” Seungmin says, turning politely to him. “Sorry, I ran into a coworker.”

The coworker smiles and extends a hand. “Nice to meet—”

“We’ve met,” Jisung says, his voice oddly strained.

He recoils at Jisung’s tone, withdraws his hand, and Seungmin’s eyebrows furrow. “Right, of course you have,” he says warily. He turns back to his coworker and forces a sympathetic smile. “We’d better go, but I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah—uh, take care,” he says, and turns away with his basket after a disdainful look to Jisung.

Seungmin puts the packs of rice on the nearest shelf and swiftly turns on his heel, storms down the aisle the opposite direction.

“Wait—” Jisung says, his breath catching in his throat and struggling to catch up to Seungmin with the full bag slung over his shoulder. He’d fucked up, probably. Seungmin cares about work a lot, and cares what his coworkers think of him, and Jisung has just been rude to one. But, to be fair, he’s only ever seen the guy attached to Seungmin.

But then again, why does that in and of itself bother him…?

No time to reflect, Jisung is losing breath and Seungmin is already storming out of the store several paces ahead of him. “Seungmin—”

“What’s wrong with you?” Seungmin asks disapprovingly, waiting until they’re out of the store to confront him. “And don’t mention anything about medication.”

“I—I didn’t mean it to come out like that,” Jisung promises, and struggles to catch his breath. Is this bag heavier than usual or is it because he’s been skipping the gym? “I’m sorry.”

“I made the mistake of going out with a coworker, which was my bad,” Seungmin says, still testy. “And I spend all this time smoothing it over with the guy, making sure it won’t impact our professional relationship, telling him I’m not in the headspace to date or fuck around or anything, and you come out and—”

“I was rude,” Jisung admits, his head swimming. He lets the bag hit the pavement, his arms going noodle-like from lack of oxygen. “I—I—I was rude, and I—I shouldn’t have been,” he huffs, his breath now coming quickly to try to compensate. “But it’s—I’m—the guy was—”

“He’s going to think that I rejected him for you,” Seungmin catastrophizes, and Jisung contemplates a sudden pain behind his ears, wonders if it’s possible to spontaneously suffocate because he is not getting enough oxygen somehow, despite his rapid breathing. Can lungs spontaneously stop working? Is he going to die here, keel over on the pavement while Seungmin is mad at him and then he probably won’t even go to his funeral, much less speak at it or even sing a dirge like he’d done for Lt. Surge and he’ll probably then spit on his grave and run off into the sunset with the stupid coworker—

“Jisung,” Seungmin is saying, shaking his shoulders. “Jesus Christ, Jisung.” He’d been… been saying something about a big deal he has to close with this coworker coming up and it’s all Jisung’s fault but Seungmin had been kissing him, had been shoving his tongue down his throat and seeming pretty into it all things considered—

“Breathe, Jisung, oh my god,” Seungmin says with genuine worry, and his face comes into focus in Jisung’s line of vision, eyes wide with worry and not a hint of anger for the time being.

“Can’t—” he gasps, and his head hurts so fucking bad, throbbing behind his ears. His lungs are working overtime but his brain is still swimmy and he feels so terrible—probably he shouldn’t be allowed out into society, he should just lock himself in his room—

Seungmin is dragging him away—surely he’s making a big embarrassing scene in front of the store which is probably even worse, making Seungmin ever madder at him. He’s kind of a failure of a roommate. Like, he’s a chameleon who can steal Seungmin’s characteristics for himself so he’ll be a more likeable and manageable roommate but at the end of the day he’s still a disgusting slob who can’t put away laundry or remember what day it is or even throw away a water bottle when he’s finished with it. Seungmin doesn’t want his phone number and he’s never come onto Jisung even once even though they live together and Jisung doesn’t think he’s awful to look at and apparently Seungmin loves licking his coworker’s tonsils—

When reality refocuses, it’s to harsh fluorescents and a general buzz of chaos and activity. Hospital, he thinks, squinting his eyes shut with the throbbing in his head. Brain tumor, probably. Or he’s spontaneously developed an anaphylactic reaction to something, the way he can’t fucking catch his breath. Or… is his childhood asthma back??? Fuck, and he hasn’t had an inhaler since he was a fucking kid and how had they even gotten to the hospital without Jisung noticing…?

Chan is here (Dr. Bang, in his scrubs and with his hospital badge on), Jisung notices hazily, though he swivels his head around for Seungmin. Probably he left, and he wouldn’t even blame him, but he catches Seungmin standing off the side of the room, grocery bag still slung over his shoulder and a panicked look on his face.

He’s said something to the nurse (to Minho, same scrubs and a hospital badge denoting him as an RN—Jisung swallows heavily, wondering if his throat is closing). “IV in,” Minho confirms, and there’s someone else that he doesn’t recognize at his head, holding his shoulders down. “Pushing lorazepam.” And Minho’s face edges properly into his field of vision. “Jisung, hey, breathe. On my count.”

It’s almost laughable to think that a breathing exercise would do shit when this is so much deeper than anxiety. This is asthma or anaphylaxis or still possibly a brain tumor—Jisung isn’t ruling it out.

But, actually, as whatever they’d put into his IV starts working, he finds it easier to follow the deep, slow breaths Minho is demonstrating. Whoever is holding his shoulders lets go, and Jisung’s head slowly clears—kind of. He thinks whatever they’d given him isn’t fully clearing it, but he can breathe and process oxygen again, and the throbbing behind his ears fades to dull ache.

He turns to Chan, still feeling kind of on the edge of losing it. He’s nodding as he listens to Seungmin, typing notes in what must be Jisung’s chart. “I thought I grew out of my asthma,” he says, his chest tight. His voice is a little raspy, but his limbs feel pleasantly heavy and he isn’t even freaking out about the needle in his arm feeding some liquid into his veins.

“There you are,” Chan says with a reassuring smile. “You scared us a little.”

“I don’t remember what kind of inhaler I used to have but I can call my mom and ask—”

“I don’t think it was asthma, Jisung,” Chan says kindly. “Based on what Seungmin was telling me, it had all the hallmarks of a panic attack, and you calmed down with the lorazepam.”

He blinks, still feeling heavy. “I—no. I’m good. I’m, like. Chill.”

Minho scoffs at his side, fiddling with a machine that seems to be showing his blood pressure and pulse—both high. Felix would say something if he were here, but he guesses he’ll see it next time he has to pull up Seungmin’s chart.

“And what have you been taking for your anxiety?” Chan asks, consulting his chart. “Looks like you’ve switched around meds quite a few times.”

He feels sure that Seungmin has tattled, has told him that he’s not taking his meds. But, like… his dick. It messes with his dick. How is he supposed to take a medication like that when it didn’t even do shit for his anxiety (he thinks)?

“Um—well, I stopped taking it a week ago,” he admits, casting a nervous glance to Seungmin, who nods confirmation.

Okay,” Chan says, focused on the computer. “Was there a reason?”

“Uh—side effects.”

“Sure,” Chan says. “Can I note them here for your chart?”

His face flames red. It’s bad to lie to your doctor, for sure, he gets it, but his doctor is also his friend? And so is his nurse? And his roommate is here? And he’s pretty sure that’s not supposed to be the case, either, so he feels like he’s justified in lying to the doctor.

“Some kind of, like, intrusive thoughts,” he mumbles, and Chan’s eyebrows furrow.

“I don’t think that’s been documented for that drug.”

“Haha,” Jisung says weakly. “I’m a medical mystery, cool.”

“Dr. Bang,” Minho says pointedly, then nods over to Seungmin. It’s weird to hear Minho call him that.

“Seungminnie,” Chan says, apparently picking up whatever Minho is laying down. “The hospital has a pretty sweet gift shop. Greeting cards and everything. If there was ever a time for those weird letters you write Jisung, this might be a pretty good one.”

Seungmin blinks, then looks over at Jisung. “Um, are you going to be okay…? I think I’m getting kicked out.”

Jisung swallows and takes a breath, difficult with the lump in his throat. “Yeah, man. I’m chill. I’m totally good.”

Seungmin lets the grocery bag shift to the floor. “Text me if you need me,” he tells Chan, and not Jisung, because Jisung doesn’t even have his number. He wonders if that coworker has his personal number, but whatever drug Minho had given him is working well, and his heart rate barely reacts to the horrific thought.

Seungmin slips out, and Chan looks awfully professional all of a sudden. “Jisung,” he says. “Intrusive thoughts are associated with anxiety, so that could well be a symptom you’re having,” he says. “But the drug your doctor put you on is well-researched and generally considered low-risk, so I doubt it’s from that.”

“Oh,” Jisung says, peering down at the IV in his arm. He thinks there isn’t actually a needle in there, right? They take it out—right?

“But,” Chan says, and even draws up a stool. Good god. “One of the most documented side effects, especially among men in your age group, is ED.”

“Oh, the old drug made me lose my appetite, but not this one, and it’s not really an eating disorder if it’s from a medication—”

“Jisung, is your dick broken, yes or no?” Minho asks impatiently, taking over the charting for Chan.

“ED as in erectile dysfunction,” Chan clarifies flatly.

“It—I wouldn’t call it a dysfunction—”

“E-rec-tile dys-func-tion,” Minho is mumbling under his breath as he types the words in Jisung’s chart, sounding it out.

“Sorry, isn’t it, like, a rule that your doctor isn’t someone you know?” Jisung asks desperately.

“Well, coming in to the ER the way you did just kind of means whoever is available runs at you,” Chan admits. “But if you would feel more comfortable, I’d be glad to give your case to another physician.”

“Okay, but—it’s been a week. When is the drug gonna be out of my system?” Jisung frets, shooting a hand out to keep Chan from leaving.

“That panic attack you just had is a pretty good indicator that it’s out of your system,” Minho notes, and Chan shoots him a sharp look. “Oh, not that I’m a doctor or anything.”

“Side effects can linger for a while,” Chan says. “And when anxiety is high, it’s common for sex drive and sexual function to diminish.”

“Okay,” Jisung says, and feels something spiking through whatever he’d been medicated with. He starts talking too fast again, not taking enough pauses. “But I’m in my fucking twenties and I can’t have my dick not work. I can’t medicate my anxiety without feeling like a zombie or dropping weight or feeling nauseous or just feeling like the meds aren’t doing shit.”

Minho looks sideways at Chan. “Want me to load up another half mig of lorazepam?”

“We’re not trying to tranquilize him,” Chan says disparagingly. “And it’s a valid frustration. It can be difficult to work out an appropriate treatment plan. Sometimes it’s about managing side effects, which sucks.”

Jisung sniffs. “Are you gonna prescribe me Viagra?”

“No,” Chan says with a smile. “I’m hopeful that symptom will subside as we get you on the proper treatment to manage your anxiety.”

“Can you be a little more confident than hopeful?” Jisung mutters.

“We’re going to monitor you while the lorazepam wears off to make sure you’re good,” Chan says. “I’m going to send you home with a short supply, but it is absolutely not a long-term treatment. How quick can you get in with your regular doctor?”

“Got an appointment for a week from tomorrow,” Jisung mumbles. “Wanted to wait until Felix was gone on that trip, you know?”

“He’ll see it in the chart, anyway,” Minho points out.

“And,” Chan says, glaring again at Minho, “Felix is a professional, and isn’t going to go blabbing about your personal health information to anyone. Nor, obviously, are Minho and I. In fact, we’ll never mention it again.”

“I didn’t agree to any such thing,” Minho insists.

“Don’t you have other patients?” Chan grumbles, though Jisung is aware that Minho takes his job seriously, for all his joking. “Anyway, I have no qualms about sending you home with a week’s worth of lorazepam as long as you seem okay during our monitoring for the next few hours. You seem to have exhausted all of the go-to treatments for anxiety, and I’d hesitate to put you on something less common without consulting your primary doctor, but the lorazepam should manage your anxiety symptoms until you see him in a week.”

Jisung nods sullenly. “Okay, but my head really did hurt when I came in so are we positive I don’t have a brain tumor…?”

“You know it would only take me a second to load up the lorazepam for him,” Minho points out, though he’s exiting out of Jisung’s chart.

“Minho and I will be in and out to check on you, and we’ll send Seungmin back in, if you want,” Chan says, patting his knee. “And I’ll even ban Minho from your room if you’d rather have another nurse.”

“No more talking about my dick,” Jisung insists, frowning at him.

Minho sighs. “Would you tell Michelangelo not to talk about sculpture? Or Beethoven to shut up about symphonies?”

“You are not the Michelangelo of dick,” Chan says disapprovingly.

“That’s not what you told me last night,” Minho says disdainfully, opening Jisung’s door and strolling out to the relative chaos of the emergency department.

“For the record,” Chan says, turning back to Jisung, “he fell asleep on me on the couch by 10PM and complained that I woke him up when I carried him to bed.”

“I actually don’t want to know any details of your sex life, thank you,” Jisung says, and Chan smiles sheepishly before he shuffles out after Minho.

Seungmin edges back into the room within a few minutes. “Um,” he says. “I already got you a get well soon card and I thought a balloon or a teddy bear would be too embarrassing. So I went to the cafeteria but it all looked like ass. And then I thought about an energy drink but I think you shouldn’t drink those when you just had a literal panic attack? But I found a vending machine and—well, here.”

He tosses a packet of cookies at Jisung, the kind old people like, which tracks for them being in the hospital. He looks at it blankly, then drags his eyes back up to Seungmin.

“Uh—while I’m drugged up and not at risk of spiraling,” he says, “I am sorry. I mean, it was careless, but I honestly did kind of mean it that way, but that’s an inside thought. I think.”

“I overreacted,” Seungmin insists, shaking his head. “Don’t even feel bad. Like, frankly, this deal wouldn’t even be happening without me and why would I care what he thinks? He kept doing this weird thing where he was sighing into my mouth when we were kissing. Who does that? Fucking weirdo.”

Jisung gives a weak smile. “Aha. Yeah. Fucking weirdo.” He tries very hard to remember the last time he’d kissed anyone—it was around the time he had acquired Lt. Surge. Fucking peachy. He’d probably be bad at it, too, at least by Seungmin’s exacting standards. The thought makes him feel worse—which is kind of weird?

“So are you mad at me?” Jisung wonders. “Because I wouldn’t blame you if you were and—”

“Jisung,” Seungmin insists, sliding into a chair at his bedside. “I’m not mad. Like I said, I overreacted.”

Jisung nods—not in agreement, but understanding.

But Seungmin continues. “I’m—I’m actually really fucking mad at myself, you know? Like, I know you haven’t been yourself and you’re kind of struggling and I shouldn’t have been so upset with  you, and for what? Being a little rude to a coworker I sucked face with once? God, it’s just—how the fuck am I supposed to find time to suck face with anyone who isn’t a coworker when I’m at work my entire fucking life?”

“Um,” Jisung says. “I mean, I’m not positive I’m the person to ask. And, with the other stuff and you being mad at me—”

“I’m not mad,” Seungmin reassures him yet again, a touch impatient.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Jisung says. “But, like, you shouldn’t walk on eggshells around me? You’re allowed to be frustrated with me. I mean, I didn’t have to go and have a panic attack because I thought you were mad at me.”

“So it was that,” Seungmin says, pressing his lips together.

“Okay, well,” Jisung says, trying to draw his mind back to the grocery store. “It started when you didn’t show up for check out, which was really stupid of me, but you know when you were a kid and your mom ran to get something really quick and wasn’t back by the time you reached the cashier? And then my mind when all these stupid, illogical places—”

“Such as?”

“Like—like you’d fallen and cracked your skull open. Or someone had kidnapped you. Or you just, like, vanished.” He stares at Seungmin, as if trying to discern something. “I’m, like, kind of unhealthily dependent on you,” he self-diagnoses.

“Isn’t it just because I’m the person you see the most?”

Jisung feels he’s on the verge of something, some horrible breakthrough he doesn’t want to have. So he clams up, shoves whatever revelation is on the precipice safely back into a box.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, that must be it.”

The lorazepam kind of makes him feel heavy and sleepy, but he doesn’t have any panic attacks before his next doctor’s visit and his next bottle of brand-new, shiny meds to try.

However, before he can even give his meds an honest week to at least start working, Seungmin throws him for a loop.

“Hey,” he says the day after Jisung’s doctor’s appointment. “Just so you know, I have a date on Friday night. We’re going to that pizza place down the street, I think? I shouldn’t be out long.”

“Oh,” Jisung says, and wishes he had more of the drug Chan had prescribed him. “With who?”

“No clue,” Seungmin admits. “The cousin of one of my coworkers? It’s a blind date, you know?”

That’s good, yeah. No, Seungmin should be able to put himself out there. To go on dates. To get laid. To get a boyfriend—if that’s what he wants. His anxiety-riddled, dependent roommate shouldn’t get in the way of that.

Nope, and Jisung isn’t. He’s better now. He had a panic attack severe enough to necessitate emergency care, and that was rock bottom. He’s different—a new Jisung.

“Good,” he says, and then there’s a significant pause. Jisung’s palms feel sweaty. “Are we sure he isn’t, like, a serial killer?”

“Give me your number,” Seungmin says immediately, walking over with his phone. “I will send you live updates.”

“No,” Jisung says. “No—I’m just being stupid.” Something about Seungmin at last giving him his number for this feels wrong. “Just—um, text Felix or something. That would be better. Share your location.”

“You’re sure?” Seungmin checks, serious as a heart attack. It makes Jisung feel worse. There’s something wrong with him—why is he so preoccupied over his roommate? He’s holding Seungmin back.

“Positive,” he says. “I mean, I’ll probably forget you even have a date. You know I suck at checking the calendar.”

Jisung does not forget about the date. Jisung thinks about the date at least 107 times between then and that Friday. He wishes his stupid meds would start working so he could be normal and chill about his roommate living a normal life. Maybe then he could even go on a date—though the thought itself sends him down a brief panic spiral that has him deep breathing in the work bathroom.

He trudges home on Friday dreading the evening—but Seungmin is there. In sweatpants. Cooking dinner. Not dressed for a 7PM date or prepared to eat pizza.

“Um—didn’t you have a date?” Jisung wonders.

Seungmin shrugs. “I canceled,” he says. “I don’t think blind dates are for me. What if I waste an entire evening on some ugly dude with no personality?”

“Oh,” Jisung says. “Not—not because of me?”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I made too much japchae, you want some?”

“I’m sorry,” Jisung blurts. “I—I don’t know why my anxiety latches on to you but I feel like I’m holding you back.”

Seungmin turns to him for the first time, like he’d been scared to before. “I didn’t really want to bother with a date anyway, Jisung,” he says, which makes him feel infinitely worse, like confirmation.

“Okay,” he says, wringing his hands in front of himself. “But, um—it’s Friday night, we should have beers, right? I’ll go grab some, be right back.”

And he hustles out the door before Seungmin can call after him, before he can question whether he’s even allowed to drink on the new meds.

It’s a quick walk to their usual convenience store, but he’s kind of concerned that Seungmin is going to go after him, so he walks a little further to one he’s only been in a handful of times. The greeting card selection is a bit sparse, but he works through his options.

Condolences—possibly. Happy birthday—absolutely not. Bereavement, congratulations, thank you. In the end, he finds a blank one with a pretty flower design on the front and takes it up to the tired-looking cashier.

“Um—do you have a pen I could borrow?” he asks belatedly, and she shoots him an exasperated look before rooting around in the drawer and passing him one. “I’ll bring it back, thank you.”

“I wouldn’t care if you robbed my till at gunpoint,” she says flatly, and Jisung can’t scurry to the back of the store quickly enough.

Confronted with an entirely blank canvas and a confusing flurry of thoughts, he finds it difficult to begin. So he begins at the beginning, with Lt. Surge and the bereavement card, the one with cardinals and not goldfish because nobody actually cares if a fucking carnival goldfish dies.

From there he finds it difficult to stop, actually. He writes microscopically small, pen moving so fast that his hand is cramping, and he still fills both halves of the card and actually has to flip to the back, writing around the card company logo and the barcode.

It’s… probably incoherent. Possibly frightening. Jisung doesn’t usually feel so strongly, but he feels very unusually strongly for Seungmin, and that must mean something. He feels like he blacks out, writing fervently and intensely but with emotions rather than logic, and he ends when he runs out of space, not when he feels he is done. He has just enough space to squeeze his name in a corner, and then he’s stuffing it in the accompanying envelope without daring to reread it.

He doesn’t think about it as he marches back through the cold to their apartment. He’ll probably ruin their friendship, their roommateship. Seungmin will probably think he’s neurotic, deranged, crazy. But maybe then he’ll decide that he doesn’t need to give a fuck about Jisung and he can go on dates and lick tonsils and get knocked up, or whatever it is he wants to do that Jisung is holding him back from.

When he comes back into their apartment in a flurry, Seungmin is in his coat on the phone, saying, “—text him for me? I know you have his number—No, no, actually, he’s here, Chan, thank you anyway—”

“They were out of beer,” Jisung says, and shoves the envelope at Seungmin. Without waiting for a response or reaction, he marches to his room and shuts the door behind him. He flings himself on the bed and waits for the world to end, for everything to collapse.

It takes a while for Seungmin’s knock to sound at his door. Jisung isn’t keeping track of the time, more staring at his ceiling in dread, but he’d estimate that Seungmin had read his card at least twice, if not a third and fourth time.

“Yes?” he calls hollowly, willing it to be over with. He’s never broken up with someone who is technically only a roommate to him, and it stands to be one of the most pathetic situations he’s found himself in.

Seungmin opens the door and pokes his head in. “It’s okay if I come in?” he checks.

“Yes,” he repeats in the same cadence, and Seungmin sits on the edge of his bed, very politely ignoring the mound of clothes in the corner, the empty soda cans, the general musty smell of the place. Jisung probably needs to air it out since he’s been frantically jerking his shit every day—he still hasn’t cum, but he thinks that’s the least of his worries right now.

“So…” Seungmin begins, but Jisung cuts him off, too full of anxious energy.

“I don’t think it even made sense, probably,” he admits. “It was incoherent, right?”

Seungmin hesitates for a moment. “Not all of it was easy to follow,” he admits carefully. “But—but I got the emotion behind it, if not all of the words.”

“That I’m some weirdo controlling obsessive ball of anxiety who can’t even—”

And then Seungmin has his lips on Jisung’s. It’s not the easiest thing, cutting off his fretting and rambling with a kiss, and he’s horribly confused. But it’s been a while since he was kissed, and Seungmin was right to be picky about how someone else kisses because even with this, just the press of Seungmin’s lips to his, Jisung feels like he’s floating. How can someone be so good at kissing that even this basic gesture is so mind-melting?

“Okay,” Seungmin says gently, drawing back. “That wasn’t how I planned to do it, but you were about to start spiraling.”

Jisung blinks. “You kissed me just to shut me up?” He wishes he would do it again. Should he start rambling? Suddenly he finds his mind utterly blank.

“To shut you up, yes,” Seungmin affirms. “But also because you’re in love with me.”

In… love…? Jisung doesn’t think he knows what love is. “Did I write that?” he wonders stupidly. “Oh my god, I don’t even remember if I wrote that.”

“Not in so many words,” Seungmin explains. “But it’s—god, you didn’t even read it back?”

“I was scared to,” he admits. “I’m in love with you?”

Seungmin’s face softens—it’s almost pitying, a little bemused. “You didn’t even know?”

“Um,” he says. “I get really anxious about stuff involving you,” he recalls. “And—and I think I put in there that I couldn’t stop thinking about you kissing your coworker. It was, like, traumatic.”

Seungmin snorts in amusement. “You did, but it’s not just about that stuff. It’s… the way you talk about me. The things you consider about me. No one… no one else does that.”

Jisung blinks. “Is that bad? Is it creepy?”

“I don’t think so,” Seungmin insists. “I guarantee I could show this letter to anyone in our friend group and they would agree with me. Minho would probably retch.”

“Don’t,” Jisung begs. “God, Chan and Minho already know too much about me from my medical record.”

“I wouldn’t,” Seungmin promises. “But—does it feel right to you? That you love me? Do you think so?”

Confronted with the words so directly, Jisung doesn’t even have to think about it. For once, there is no crisis involved. It’s—it’s right. He loves Seungmin, and it was kind of fucking stupid that he hadn’t realized it before. That Seungmin had to work it out from his rambling and raving.

“Can you kiss me again?” Jisung asks softly. “You’re, like, really good at it.”

Seungmin’s face brightens, and he reaches a hand, curls it behind Jisung’s head. “I can,” he says. “Whenever you want—you’re really good at it, too.”

“I don’t think I can go,” Jisung pouts, languishing in Seungmin’s bed, abandoned. Seungmin had gotten up to get ready for their semi-weekly outing with their friend group. Their originally planned weekly outings end up being more monthly with everyone’s schedule, but no one wants to characterize it as such, so… semi-weekly it is.

“You’re literally fine,” Seungmin says with a roll of his eyes. “You wouldn’t let me go by myself, anyway.”

That’s… probably true. Jisung is trying to work on not being so… attached. His meds have started doing something, he thinks, but he’s still a little unhealthily attached to Seungmin. Seungmin, for what it’s worth, doesn’t seem to mind it. If anything, he thrives in it a little, and Jisung had never pegged him for someone to bask in attention.

“What if Minho says something mean?” he says. It’s the first time he will have seen Minho and Chan since… since it, and he’s being a little irrational about Minho greeting him with the phrase limpdick.

“Minho always says something mean, it’s his personality,” Seungmin points out. “This is about whatever you talked about at the hospital, right?”

Jisung goes stiff. “Um… nooooo,” he tries, but Seungmin has already seen through him.

“Minho and Chan are both medical professionals, they’re not blabbing about whatever you talked about in the ER,” Seungmin assures him. Jisung knows it logically, but… but his anxiety is kind of illogical by definition.

“But Minho knows, and I’ll see it in his eyes when he looks at me,” Jisung frets.

Seungmin chuckles, and returns to bed to straddle Jisung’s lap. Old Jisung would worry about popping a boner—new, medicated Jisung is praying to god he could pop a boner. “I think you’re being a little ridiculous,” he says, and it’s really fucking easy to agree with him when he strokes Jisung’s hair like that. “I mean, you’re acting like you’re impotent or something.”

“Oh,” Jisung says. “Ha. Haha. Yeah.”

Seungmin’s eyebrows furrow, and then widen in concern. “It’s—oh my god, Jisung, I didn’t—fuck, I’m sorry, that’s not—?”

Jisung doesn’t respond, doesn’t even know what to say. Seungmin has been… has been testing the limits, testing the give to see what Jisung’s boundaries might be. And he’s firmly pushed against anything approaching sex, and he thinks that Seungmin is now adding things up in his mind.

Seungmin’s eyebrows knit together, but he strokes Jisung’s hair reassuringly. “Because of the anxiety?” he asks. “Or the meds?”

“Anyone’s guess,” he mumbles. “Um, treating anxiety is kind of guesswork, I’ve gathered.”

“Sure,” Seungmin says with a sympathetic nod. “It’s—If I ever tried to press you or make you uncomfortable, I’m so sorry. I can back off, and let you work out what you need to—”

“It’s torture,” Jisung admits, plunking his head to Seungmin’s chest pitifully. He hasn’t had anyone to talk to about this, and in the past weeks, he has grown to trust Seungmin enough to tell him his deepest darkest secrets—that time in elementary school he convinced a classmate that chewing gravel gave you superpowers, when he shoplifted a pack of gum and was so racked with guilt he cried every night for six months but was too scared to turn himself in, and, of course, that he had forgotten to return the pen to the cashier the night he’d written Seungmin’s card. “I’ve been so close to cumming almost every day for weeks, and at the end it’s like I can’t.”

Seungmin nods. “Yeah, that’s—that sounds frustrating.”

“Channie said it might be a symptom of the anxiety at this point, but, like, my doctor made it pretty clear that I’ll never fully get rid of my anxiety, so what if I never ever cum ever again and my balls explode or something?”

Seungmin presses his lips together—and then, as if he can’t help himself, he blurts, “This is probably the exact wrong thing to say, but can I try?”

Jisung pulls back from his chest and looks at him in confusion. “When you say try—”

“To make you cum,” he clarifies, voice quickening. “Just—frankly, I really fucking want you, but I’ve been trying to respect your boundaries, but now I’m going to keep thinking that I could probably help and it will probably consume every waking thought.”

The thought of having sex with Seungmin is really fucking appealing. The thought of failing to cum for Seungmin makes Jisung want to die. Ordinarily, the latter thought might win out, but he doesn’t think he’s every had someone genuinely tell him that they want to sleep with him this fucking badly, and he’s going to feel like a massive loser if he doesn’t try.

And Seungmin won’t make fun of him, he knows. Hell, he can probably make Seungmin cum, and he thinks that would at least make him feel good about himself.

“Sure,” he says. “Unless, like, if I say no you’ll beg me a little more for it?”

Seungmin rolls his eyes. “Take your pants off. I’m grabbing a towel and lube.”

It’s so Seungmin, giving a fuck about getting lube on his bedsheets. Jisung does love that about him. He thinks he’ll start doing the same, since Seungmin is so particular about it. He’s a chameleon, but he’s pretty sure that’s not a bad thing.

When Seungmin returns with towel and lube, Jisung is obediently bare. He would be self-conscious about it, but it’s Seungmin, and Seungmin’s eyes glint in a way Jisung hasn’t seen them before. This is a new experience, and an opportunity to find more things to love about Seungmin, he thinks.

He is unusually haphazard in shoving the towel under Jisung’s hips; then he dives straight for his cock, like he can’t get his lips around it fast enough. “Why are you still dressed?” he wonders, though his voice comes all breathy. It’s been… too long since he’s had someone else touch him, and Seungmin’s mouth is almost indescribably better than his own right hand.

He bobs on Jisung’s cock for a few moments to get it hard, and when he pops off, he jerks it firmly with his hand. “Because I’m in charge,” he decides. “And I think you like that, anyway.”

There is an unsuppressable shudder that courses through his body at Seungmin’s words, and Jisung doesn’t even mind the shit-eating grin that spreads across his face in response.

“I thought so,” he murmurs, before dipping back down to take Jisung’s cock in his mouth again.

It feels—unreal. Jisung now realizes that every blowjob he’s ever received has been very unenthusiastic, even if it hadn’t felt so at the time. But now, with Seungmin moaning around his cock and moving his tongue around it in a way that it frankly shouldn’t, he realizes just how lackluster his previous sexual experience must have been.

He’s going to cum. He’s thought so every day for the past few weeks but he’s sure this time. Something in the way his toes are curling and his mind is going pleasantly numb, something in the way Seungmin seems so bound and determined to get him there.

And Seungmin pulls off.

“I was—that was it, I swear,” Jisung whines, propping himself up on an elbow. “Seungmin, I was going to cum, I swear that time—”

“I know,” Seungmin says with a crooked smile. “But it’s our first time together. Wouldn’t you rather cum in my hole?”

Jisung could cum with the words alone at this point, he thinks. A strong breeze—or maybe Seungmin blowing teasingly over the head of his cock.

“You’re a genius,” Jisung praises, staying pliant and still as Seungmin quickly strips and settles himself over top of Jisung. “Did I mention that in the card? It’s one of the things I love about you, is that you’re a genius and you’re always right—”

“You’re going to make me cum, too, right?” Seungmin whispers, ignoring his rambling.

Jisung nods firmly. “Yes, absolutely, anything you want,” he promises.

The tip of his cock presses against Seungmin’s hole—had he prepped? Jisung doesn’t think he’d prepped. Is he just used to it?

“I don’t think you’ll have to try too hard,” Seungmin admits, and there’s a breathy quality to his voice that gives away how turned on he is, if his cock dripping pre-release didn’t already tip Jisung off.

In fact, he grips both of Jisung’s wrists in one of his hands and presses them up above his head. Jisung doesn’t fight it, and Seungmin uses his free hand to guide Jisung’s cock into his hole.

Seungmin’s hole is stranglingly tight, and Jisung’s mind goes pleasantly empty as he sinks down onto his cock. It’s slow and deliberate—Jisung thinks he’d been right that Seungmin hadn’t prepped. He trusts Seungmin to do what he likes best, and it seems he does like this, his thighs trembling as he bottoms out and his breath catching.

“Fuck,” he whispers, rocking his hips in Jisung’s lap. “Jisung, baby, you feel so good.”

Jisung couldn’t respond if he wanted to. There is absolutely nothing left in his brain except for Seungmin, Seungmin all around him. He’s—he’s going to cum, after he thought he wouldn’t be able to, and it’s going to be fast. Ordinarily, it would be embarrassingly fast, but Jisung is pretty sure he would get a pass at least this one time.

“Oh my god,” Seungmin is gasping, already fully riding his cock, rocking his hips up and down the length of it with hardly a moment to let himself adjust.

“Seungmin,” Jisung chokes out, his hands still pathetically bundled over his head. He tries to keep time with Seungmin’s hips, but he’s going so impossibly fast that he can’t possibly keep up. “Seungmin,” he repeats, because it seems to be the only word that he can bring to mind.

“You can cum, Jisung,” Seungmin breathes, riding him harder. “I want you to, Jisungie, I want you to cum in my hole.”

It’s an orgasm unlike any Jisung has ever experienced, and he’s had quite a few in his day. The force of it almost stuns him—it almost feels like he’s blacking out. Dark spots swell to cover his vision and his hips buck up in an attempt to bury himself deep in Seungmin. It feels like it lasts forever—maybe it’s an orgasm to make up for all the ruined orgasms he’s had the past few weeks.

He comes to to Seungmin kissing his face gently, one of his hands now intertwined with Jisung’s instead of restraining him.

“Did you—?” Jisung asks frantically, already peering down. But Seungmin’s torso is splattered with cum, and Seungmin chuckles.

“If I hadn’t, I would still be riding you,” he says, and brings their lips together.

“Can you do it again?” Jisung asks. “I think I can go again, I really do.”

Seungmin actually seems to consider a moment, but then a devious smile splits his face. “We’re running late.”

Jisung blinks, then drops his jaw incredulously. “You’re still making me go to the friend outing? After I rocked your world?”

Seungmin laughs and nuzzles their faces together, Jisung’s limp cock still plugging his hole. “Don’t you want to be able to look back at Minho and tell him to eat a dick?”

The thought is tempting, he has to admit…

But the alternative is that he gets to stay in Seungmin’s bed and maybe cum again, and his limbs feel heavy all of a sudden.

But Seungmin decides for them, because he’s in charge, and Jisung likes that. “Come on,” he asserts. “Quick shower to wash the sex stink off and then we’ll show up fashionably late.”

“Or what if—” Jisung is already trying, but Seungmin puts a finger to his lips to shut him up.

“If you’re good, we can skip out early and come back home for round two.”

“And three and four and five—” Jisung extrapolates.

“If you can cum that many times for me, then fine,” Seungmin says with a grin. “And hey, throw the towel in the wash on your way to the shower, okay?”

“Get me the lightest beer they have,” Seungmin instructs with a peck to Jisung’s lips and a pat to his chest. “I’m going to grab a seat and start heavily hinting at the reason that we’re late.”

Jisung didn’t realize that he was now the designated drink guy, but—but Seungmin is his boyfriend. Oh my god, that’s what boyfriends do. Get each other drinks. He loves being the designated drink guy if it’s for Seungmin, he thinks. And Seungmin (his boyfriend) is settling at their usual table and probably being very heavy-handed in wincing when he sits down, making over-the-top comments about how he and Jisung just lost track of time and the like. Having a boyfriend rocks, why didn’t Jisung think of this before? How was he so stupid and oblivious to the fact that Seungmin is maybe the best boyfriend ever?

“The lightest beer you have,” Jisung reiterates to the bartender, already fumbling for his card, “and the fruitiest cocktail you can make that doesn’t taste like alcohol.”

The bartender’s eyes drag over to their group, then over to Jisung. He’s not usually the designated drink-getter, and maybe the bartender sees that. Maybe he’s going to frown at Jisung and tell him to get a real drink-getter up to the bar.

He doesn’t, because that would be stupid and illogical. Instead, he says, “I think it’s your boyfriend who keeps track of the rewards account for your group.”

Jisung nods. “That sounds like him.” Seungmin signs up for any rewards card at any store that offers it.

“I can look it up for you,” the bartender says, tapping on the POS system. “I just need his phone number.”

“Fuck,” Jisung says, and glances back at Seungmin, who is in a heated but apparently playful argument with Jeongin. “You know what, don’t worry about it. We’ll skip it for this time.”