Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Jisung is hitting on a girl?”

Everything inside the dressing room stilled, but Minho jolted as if he’d been lashed with a live wire. It was showcase day, everyone was stressed, and Minho had been getting a headache, so he was prepared for an uphill battle. This, however, was not the usual grind. He’d never felt alarm quite like this in his life.

His head snapped up from where he’d been trying to stretch under Felix’s guidance, and his eyes scanned the room with embarrassing urgency. Jisung was nowhere to be seen, but Hyunjin stood there in the door, a painted picture of confusion, his mouth open in the shape of an O.

“Huh?” said Felix, and placed a comforting hand on Minho’s shoulder, as if he’d felt it too—Minho’s momentary flash of terror. Minho was sure it showed in his expression, and it made him want to scratch his face clean off his skull. He could never quite control his reactions when it came to Jisung, a weakness ready to be exploited.

“Yah, Hyunjin-ah,” Minho started when his panic slowly morphed into annoyance. This was neither time nor place for stupid jokes. “What are—”

His voice cut off when Jisung appeared.

“Could you stop looking so shocked?” Jisung snapped, closing in on Hyunjin like he wanted to push him, hands fisted at his sides. “It’s really pissing me off.”

Then there was Chan, grabbing a hold of their collars and strong-arming them into the room. Chan’s face was grave when he closed the door, and the atmosphere tensed further.

It was unnerving. To Minho, the idea of Jisung—his Jisung—flirting with people seemed so far out of the realm of possibility that it didn’t even land at first. Why would Jisung even mention it now? They were in public, on a high-visibility schedule. There were staff all around them. And what girl? No, no—this wasn’t right. It was a misunderstanding.

Jisung was Minho’s. He was—he was. Minho wanted to laugh.

“You’re dating someone else?” asked Felix, his voice wavering slightly.

The laughter died on his lips before it even formed, and Minho nearly leaped out the window. With a sense of dread clawing its way up his throat, he watched his members grow angry, their shackles raised in Minho’s stead, revealing it all—Minho’s feelings, his hopes, his intentions—right in front of Jisung. Were they fucking crazy? No, Minho realized, they weren’t. Only naïve.

Felix’s hand was heavy on Minho’s back, the gesture not unlike one offered to a bereft widow at her husband’s funeral. If Minho had been the type to yell at others, he would have screamed to make them all stop.

And then Jisung started talking. He was saying things that didn’t make any sense, couldn’t, not ever, and Chan still looked so serious, upset, so—Minho couldn’t bear digging any deeper. It was all too much.

“She’s cute.”

That was what did it, in the end. She’s cute.

Minho’s body made a decision on its own: he either left this room right now or started crying, and Minho didn’t cry. There were alarmed voices all around when he stumbled to his feet, feeling like a drunkard as he tried to keep his feet under him. He almost growled at them—this was his heartbreak. It was his, not for anyone else to witness, to be scorned by, to feel sorry for.

“What’s happening?”

Jisung’s voice was sharp enough to make his steps falter, but when Jisung’s hand reached for his elbow, Minho dodged it with a mad swerve. A single touch would have been enough to detonate him right where he stood. Distance. He needed to keep his distance.

And yet Minho couldn’t stop his eyes from wandering. Jisung’s hair was fluffy and frizzy from bleach, a warm honey color, his frame swallowed by Minho’s own hoodie, face round beyond belief but also taut with nerves. He was so small, and soft, so—no, no. Minho’s throat started closing, and he clenched his teeth.

“I’m fine, Jisung-ah,” he forced out in the end, and it felt like eating glass.

Jisung’s gaze was searching Minho’s but nothing could make Minho meet it. Not when Jisung was looking at him with such earnest worry, such deep unadulterated concern, and every ounce of it was like a splinter sinking into Minho’s heart.

It was obvious—Jisung didn’t know a thing. He had no idea what just happened, what had been happening, didn’t pick up on whatever their members had been implying. He didn’t know what sick delusion Minho had been living in. Minho’s vision started tunneling, and his headache turned into a full-blown migraine. The pain pulsated to the rhythm of whatever was currently bleeding inside his chest.

Run. Run.

He offered a weak excuse of meeting his parents and all but sprinted out of the dressing room, stumbling his way through the corridor.

“Whoa, Minho-yah,” said Mingyu, their manager, when Minho ran right into him and then bounced off the wall when he couldn’t regain his balance fast enough. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“Nothing,” Minho gasped, trying and failing not to sound hysterical. “Nothing, I’m sorry, hyung-nim. Sorry.”

Mingyu looked spooked. He tried to reach for his shoulder, but Minho cringed back. “Are you feeling ill? Tell me, so we can—”

“I’m okay,” Minho said, his voice warbly and distorted even in his own ears. “I’ll be—I’ll be back.”

Minho turned on his heel and fled. He didn’t stop until he reached the exit, ignoring all the people turning their heads when they saw the state of him—Minho couldn’t even imagine what he looked like right now. He felt flayed open and raw, his innards exposed for everyone to see. His skin was crawling with the need to hide where no one could find him ever again.

There were security guards and some JYP staff gathered by the exit, and they questioned him. Of course, they did—it wasn’t normal for artists to leave in the middle of their schedule. Minho bowed deeply in a half-hearted attempt to remain professional, but still pushed through anyone willing to stand in his way.

The air outside was freezing cold. Minho wasn’t sure what he was doing—he couldn’t actually disappear. And yet his legs, wobbly as they were, carried him forward until he slipped out of the gated parking lot and joined the sidewalk traffic. With shaky hands, Minho pulled his hood low over his face.

He was in the middle of a big crosswalk when he glanced over his shoulder and saw the crowds of STAY in the distance, gathering in the fan zone on the other side of the arena. They were there to see them. To see him.

Minho stopped in his tracks, which caused a middle-aged salaryman to walk into him. He found it in him to apologize, but continued to stand there, staring at the slowly darkening sky over the venue’s domed roof. He almost wanted to laugh—he wasn’t sure if it would sound like laughter, but the urge was there, sadistic and spiteful. Was his life the plot of some daytime drama?

He wasn’t sure where he was going. At some point, he couldn’t see the arena anymore, and he’d long given up on minding the way. He was distantly aware of his phone ringing from time to time, but he ignored it stubbornly. He suspected it was Chan. What on earth could Minho possibly tell him? Better just say nothing at all.

When he reached the Han River, he found a footbridge stretching over the water from one bank to another. The wind was lashing even more relentlessly as if trying to blow people off the walkway, and Minho made his wooden legs carry him forward until they would no longer listen. His steps petered out somewhere in the middle, where he grabbed the handrail with two fists and stared into the water.

That was it then.

He’d spun his little fantasy, his play-pretend, lived in a bubble of having Jisung to himself like he actually had any claim to him, and now it was time to pay the price. Minho had known it couldn’t last, of course he had, but he—he’d had hope. More than that, Minho had thought he’d had proof. Stupid.

That sickly feeling of being something wrong and misplaced, the one Minho dreaded the most, reared its head from where it had been buried since middle school, and it did so slowly enough to go unnoticed until it was too late to stop it. Minho felt gross in his own body. He felt like a predator.

Jisung wasn’t even gay. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Minho wanted to scream, but that wasn’t an option, so he did the next best thing and bent in half over the railing, taking huge gulps of air to push the tears back into his eyes. His hair was in his face, pushed around by the wind, and he bent even lower, standing on his tip-toes.

He’d never felt pain like this before, and it was terrifying. It made sense, in a way—Minho had never loved in the way he loved Jisung, either, though it felt so pathetic now. Still, he was scared. His chest hurt like he was dying.

Minho wished he’d have stopped it. It was a moot point, he knew that falling for Jisung wasn’t something that could have been prevented even if he’d tried, but he wished it all the same. From the moment Minho had met him—a small angry-looking sunbae that glared him down for no apparent reason—it was inevitable. There was no scenario in which Minho was allowed to be this close to Jisung and not fall for him. And what a goddamn fool that made him.

“What are you doing!?”

Minho startled when someone grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back. His legs tangled together and he almost toppled, but the iron grip on his clothes kept him standing.

“I—what?” he mumbled when he saw the tiny ajumma who had managed to manhandle him away from the railing. She must have been at least eighty, and she was fuming under her knitted hat, her frown almost enough to make Minho’s knees weak again.

“You have nothing to live for?” she shook him around like a ragdoll. “Want me to slap some sense into you? Whatever it is that you’re sad about, it’s not worth jumping over!”

Minho’s body ran cold like an icicle when he realized what the woman was implying. He tried to wriggle away but she wouldn’t let him, so he just bowed weakly. Passersby were starting to ogle them. “I—sorry, I’m sorry,” he managed out, “I’m sorry, ma’am. I wasn’t—I swear, I wasn’t going to.”

“You think I’m stupid, boy?”

“I swear,” he repeated, dazed, “I wasn’t going to jump, I was just—”

“Where’s your family?” the woman asked sternly. “Do you live with your parents? I’m going to call them right now, give me your phone.”

“I live with my friends,” Minho said and attempted to free himself again, but the ajumma was having none of it. He decided not to mention that his parents were in town, and likely already at the venue. “I need to get back to work, I’m—”

“Then I will take you there,” she snapped, and released him, but only to grab his wrist, tight like a handcuff. “Where is it?”

Minho pointed dumbly, just a vague direction, but the woman didn’t need any further encouragement to bodily drag him off the bridge. He was too mortified to try and stop her, momentarily shocked out of his pit of despair. The woman was carrying a bag of groceries, and Minho offered to carry it for her, but she slapped his hand away, very ticked off.

“Worry about yourself, boy.”

It was impossible to tell how long it took her to drag him back to the venue, but her pace had been surprisingly brisk for such a small frail thing. Minho didn’t know what to do with himself when they stopped in front of the staff entrance, and he could already hear soundcheck underway from inside.

“Thank you,” he said, unsure. “I need to go.”

“I better not catch you on that bridge again,” she said, shaking her finger at him. “You’re very beautiful, no point worrying about anything else.”

Beautiful—Minho almost scoffed at her. As if that had ever brought him any luck.

Still, Minho bowed deeply and retreated into the arena, feeling wrung out and numb. He was whisked away by the staff the second they saw him, a flurry of panic, scolding, and rush to put him in his gear so he could join rehearsal.

He let them do whatever they wanted. No one asked any questions, which somehow seemed like Chan’s doing. Minho didn’t even have it in him to feel grateful.

Things took a turn for the worse after soundcheck was over and the Talker camera was circling the dressing room. All the concerned looks from the members were nauseating, which made it even more crucial for Minho to remain unseen. He sequestered himself in a corner away from Jisung, hunched over like a sickly dog.

“How are you feeling?” asked Felix softly, crouching in front of Minho when his hair was pinned up and setting. His expression was nothing but sadness.

“I’m okay,” Minho said, sounding very obviously not okay. And so be it—everyone clearly already knew that Minho had just gotten his heart broken into a thousand pieces, what was the point in trying to deny it? His members were not stupid. Minho had never been subtle.

“Oh, hyung,” Felix whispered, eyes big and wet. He reached to squeeze Minho’s hand. “I’m here. I know I can’t help, but if you need anything, let me know.”

Minho felt a biting need to snap at him but held it in. He was saved from replying when the camera turned, which almost exposed him, so he had to dive under one of the tables and dropped his phone in the process. It clacked against the floor and slid halfway across the room. For a second, Minho was no longer sure if he wouldn’t just start bawling.

“Let’s get some air, hm, Minho-yah?” Chan materialized at his side, his face gentle and neutral, and pulled Minho into a side hug. Clinging to Chan’s jacket, Minho let himself be walked out, pouring all of his remaining energy into shielding his face from the pitying gazes. His throat was so tight it ached.

Chan led him to a secluded part of the hallway, rubbing his hand up and down Minho’s arm, and then gave him a moment to pull himself together. It was taking longer than ever. Minho swallowed hard and closed his eyes against the fresh wave of tears his body was trying to push out.

“Minho-yah,” Chan said softly, and when Minho looked at him, he saw that Chan’s makeup was only halfway done. He shouldn’t even be here. “I know,” Chan went on, looking absolutely crestfallen. “I know. I wish I could do something to make this better. I didn’t want you to find out like this, I’m so sorry.”

“You knew.”

“Jisung came to me for advice,” Chan explained, and he sounded defeated. “I was—I was just as shocked. I know how much you—”

“Stop,” Minho rasped out, stiffening under Chan’s arm.

“Do you want to pull out of the show? I will take it up to management, you won’t have to talk to anyone.”

“I can’t.”

“Let hyung help you,” Chan said, and Minho had to close his eyes again. Chan inhaled sharply when he noticed. “Oh, honey, I—”

“I said stop!” Minho shoved him off, chest heaving, and stumbled back until he hit the wall. It took him a couple of seconds to realize that he’d just pushed Chan. Even under all the anguish and hysteria, he felt cold all over.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled and bowed, bending in half. “I’m sorry, hyung. Sorry. I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” said Chan. He looked sad, but not angry, so Minho’s heartbeat slowed down a bit. “Don’t worry, okay? It’s fine. If it helps, you can just kick me.”

Minho almost laughed, and it dislodged something in his chest. Startled, he looked into Chan’s eyes, feeling like a pot of water leaking through the cracks. Whatever was pushing against his defenses, it seemed to have the upper hand. Minho couldn’t show weakness in front of his dongsaengs, but with Chan, his guard lowered on its own, greedy for—comfort? Help? Minho wasn’t even sure.

“He never—he never liked me back,” Minho whispered, “did he?”

Chan flinched like from a blow, but whatever dark shadow came over his expression disappeared when he schooled his features into something empathetic and careful.

“I don’t know,” he said and reached out to touch Minho’s shoulder, slow, in case Minho snapped again. “He loves you, but—”

“No,” Minho said, voice low against the obstacle in his throat. “That’s not the same.”

Chan nodded solemnly. “It isn’t. I’m sorry.”

Minho was operating on the assumption that the day couldn’t possibly get any worse. But then the show started, and he kept missing steps, the lights were blinding him, and his voice cracked terribly when he was singing his high note. He tried, he tried so hard to keep up, but everything was slipping through his fingers like mist. All he could do was watch as months of their hard work fell apart before his very eyes, and it was all because of him.

Then, the fall.

Minho wasn’t even sure what happened, exactly, just that he crashed into something and then found himself in a heap on the floor. The song ended with everyone out of formation, the cameras didn’t know where to point, so the image on the screens cut off, and then it was over, and they had to rush backstage.

When he sat in the dressing room, drenched in sweat and feeling like an empty husk, he knew one thing for sure—he couldn’t get out there again. Maybe not ever. He was honestly considering ending his career.

“Minho-yah,” Chan said, kneeling in front of Minho with nothing but worry and care in his eyes. “Go home. I will take care of everything, okay? Go and rest, don’t worry about the show. It’s not a big deal.”

“I’m trending,” Minho whispered numbly. Jeongin and Seungmin were already on stage, and Jisung and Changbin were on standby, but Minho had heard them talk. “It is a big deal.”

“Not to us,” Hyunjin piped in and rubbed his hand up and down Minho’s back, his mouth set into a sad grimace. “Go home, hyung.”

“He’ll want to see me,” Minho said, aware that he sounded weak and pathetic, yet unable to stop it. “I can’t—I won’t be able—”

“Go to Daegot,” said Chan. “Your parents are here, aren’t they? Go back with them.”

In the end, there was little else he could do. The staff didn’t bat an eyelid at him leaving early—it seemed that after what had transpired, everyone was expecting him to make himself scarce. Minho had never felt like such an embarrassment in his life.

Me: can you meet me outside, please?

His dad agreed right away. They were probably freaking out after seeing their son blow it on stage in front of thousands of people and had been waiting for a word.

Still, they made a valiant effort not to give into the panic when they waited for him in the parking lot. His mom even attempted a smile, though it faded instantly when Minho’s last steps turned into a run and he slammed into her, hiding his face in her shoulder.

“Aegi-yah,” she gasped and hugged back fiercely. “Oh, my baby. It’s okay.”

Minho squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in through his nose, fighting the onslaught of pain that begged to be released. “I want to go home,” he whispered, and not even a second later he was being guided into his dad’s car, where his mom let him rest his head in her lap.

He felt like a child.

Jisung started texting him before they even reached Daegot—he must have realized that Minho was gone—and it took everything in him to mute the chat and put his phone away. His mom’s hand in his hair was likely the only thing keeping him whole at this point. Even this wouldn’t last forever, he knew.

Minho didn’t quite remember the first night home, just that his parents had been trying to get him to talk, but it wasn’t like Minho had anything to say—nothing that he could, anyway. Their worry had been too much to handle, so he retreated into his room and locked the door. He didn’t sleep a wink.

She’s cute. It bounced around his head with an endless echo. She’s cute. God, Minho had been such a fool.

The next day was less hazy, but that was almost worse. He spent most of it on the floor of his childhood bedroom, avoiding his mom, and cuddling with whichever cat was merciful enough to let him hold them. The members left him alone for the most part—the group chat was still semi-active, just some pictures of homemade food and pets, but no one tried to reach Minho directly.

Well, maybe Jisung had. Their conversation was still muted. Minho found himself drifting to KakaoTalk periodically and had less and less resolve not to check Jisung’s messages each time. He knew it was torture, that it would make him feel worse. But the alternative was to just miss Jisung so much his entire body felt heavy with it, thoughts filled with longing and pain.

Was this going to be the new normal now? Minho pressed his face into Soonie’s fur.

“Are you sure you won’t eat dinner?” asked his mom from the door, startling him. Minho snapped his head up, which made Soonie run off with a disgruntled meow.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Not hungry.”

His mom looked very unhappy with that. Her mouth quirked down, and her eyebrows pinched together. “I spoke to Eunsoo earlier,” she said unexpectedly. “He asked if you wanted to meet him for a beer. I will call him to say that you’re coming.”

Minho frowned. “What? Eomma, I—”

“Just go, Minho-yah,” she said sternly. “I’m sure it will make you feel better.”

In the end, he couldn’t find an excuse that would satisfy his mom, so off he went. The outdoor bar near his house—which was where they usually met when Minho was in town—was quite full, but mostly of aunties and uncles. Minho was dressed in his old high school sports uniform, had a bunch of angry pimples from neglecting his skincare, and his hair was greasy and unstyled. It was a disguise as good as any.

“A bottle of soju,” he said to the ajumma serving the tables.

Eunsoo wasn’t there yet, but Minho couldn’t care less—alcohol would make this more bearable, at least. He opened the bottle without even shaking it first and barely bothered to pour it into a glass. The soju burned all the way down his throat, but it was a welcome distraction.

He’d overdone it, Minho realized with distant concern. He hadn’t eaten a thing all day, and he downed the bottle in a few very quick shots, which distorted the world into a spill of colors and noises. His face was burning—he was probably red like a lobster.

Blearily, Minho reached for his phone to check the time but found himself frozen, staring at his lock screen. It was a picture he took of Jisung eating ramyeon, his cheeks round and full, lips in a pout around his chopsticks. An invisible band tightened on Minho’s throat. He wondered if Jisung was sleeping already.

Going against all reason, he tapped at the screen with clumsy fingers and opened the chat. It was flooded with unread messages, and they felt like a punch in the gut.

MyJisungie: I miss you so much, hyung

MyJisungie: I really hope you’re okay, could you reply? Just once, then you can keep resting

MyJisungie: Have I done something?

MyJisungie: What am I even supposed to do without you?

“Yah,” said Eunsoo’s voice, startling Minho so much that he dropped his phone, and it clacked against the table. Eunsoo sat in the opposite chair with a sharp inhale. “Are you drinking already? What’s wrong with you?”

“Everything is fucked,” Minho said impulsively, words slurring into one. His vision was too blurry to see Eunsoo’s face clearly, but he didn’t really have to. Eunsoo’s flinch was hard to miss.

“Are you talking about the showcase?” Eunsoo asked carefully. “It’s fine, Minho-yah, surely you know that. Idols fall on stage, and it’s not the end of the world.”

Minho laughed sharply. He pushed his phone away to rest his forehead against the table, feeling something dreadful grow inside his chest, taking up space like a tumor. He wasn’t sure why then, exactly, but he felt himself reach his limit. The walls he’d been using to keep the flood contained finally fell, and though he tried to shovel his heartbreak back in, it was unstoppable.

Minho found that he no longer cared.

 “I never should have—” he cut himself off when he heard how wet his voice sounded. His nose started running. “Why am I so pathetic? W-why did I—”

“Whoa, hey, Minho,” Eunsoo reached over the table and tried to drag him up by the seams of his blazer. “What on earth are you on about?”

“I was never even an option,” Minho said, voice shrill enough to earn them a few disapproving glances. He lifted his head aggressively and barely even registered that his cheeks were stinging in the cold, wet all the way to his chin. His chest was heaving, his hands trembling, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. Was this what panic attacks were like? “I wasn’t—I wasn’t even an option.”

Something seemed to click. Eunsoo’s confusion morphed into shock, then into sadness, then, finally, into something that resembled anger. He grabbed Minho’s phone, his chat with Jisung still open, and scrolled through the messages. Minho didn’t try to stop him.

“Come on,” Eunsoo said gravely. “Let’s get out of here, hm? You’re too drunk for this.”

Minho let Eunsoo gather him from the table and lead him away from the bar, but walking was a challenge. His legs kept buckling, and the ground was made of jelly. Minho’s chest was heaving, too, and it took him a few minutes of being dragged down the street to realize that he must have been crying. It certainly sounded like it.

“Stop, stop,” he choked out and wriggled out of Eunsoo’s hold. He swayed towards the nearest fence and braced his hands there, feeling adrift. His stomach was churning, nausea crawling up his throat. “What is…wrong with me?”

“Minho,” said Eunsoo in that same heavy tone. “Nothing is. You’re fine. It’s gonna be okay.”

“But I love him,” Minho said, and it sounded like a sob. “I—I don’t know how to stop.”

Then, he dropped down to his knees and started gagging. His head was splitting as he heaved, and his vision swam like underwater, so he pressed his hands into the grass. Nothing came up, but his stomach wouldn’t settle.

“Jesus,” said Eunsoo, alarmed, and reached under Minho’s armpits to drag him up. “Let’s go before you pass out in here. Just hold on, yeah? Hold on.”

Minho woke up hours later, staring at a ceiling that wasn’t his own. His body came to very slowly, revealing layers of exhaustion, and the most vicious hangover Minho had ever had. He needed to breathe through waves of nausea and pain before he could even attempt to lift his head.

He was in bed—Eunsoo’s bed, he realized. He was still dressed in his tracksuit pants from last night, but the shirt he was wearing must have been Eunsoo’s. When he looked around his friend’s bedroom, still dim in the early morning light, memories from last night started resurfacing, and he cringed so hard he nearly rolled off the mattress.

“Hm?” said a groggy voice from somewhere Minho couldn’t see. “You okay?”

When he leaned out, Minho found Eunsoo sprawled on a futon in the middle of the room, squinting up at him.

“Why are you on the floor?” Minho asked.

Eunsoo scoffed and propped himself up on his elbows to rub the sleep off his face. “Where was I supposed to be? With you on my single bed? I’m good.”

Minho laughed faintly and then gathered all his limbs to rest against the wall, curling into a ball. He felt disgusting. “Why’d you take me here? It was closer to my house.”

“Yah, Lee Minho,” said Eunsoo, and crawled onto the bed to sit next to him, looking rumpled and tired himself. “How could I bring you to your mom like this? She would have fainted if she saw you.”

“So you presented me to your mom instead?”

“My mom was sleeping. Don’t worry, I preserved your dignity.”

Minho hummed. He tested his hands to see if they still worked, grabbing fistfuls of his pants and releasing them a few times. Eunsoo was watching him, and Minho wanted to melt and seep into the floor. Being looked at felt like an attack.

There was no room for shame in their friendship—they’d done plenty of embarrassing things together. But this was different, somehow. Shame burned in Minho’s chest, mixing with heartbreak into something caustic, eating away at his flesh.

“Are you feeling any better?” asked Eunsoo after a long beat of silence.

In a momentary rush of frustration, Minho looked Eunsoo in the eye and frowned. “How do I even get back to work?”

“You just do,” Eunsoo said. He straightened his back, expression gentle but eyes still darkened by something Minho couldn’t decipher. “I know it feels impossible but trust me, working will help. And even being around him—it will get easier the more you do it.”

“Will it?” Minho asked, voice quiet and vulnerable against his will.

“Would it be better to never see him again?”

Minho flinched, and there was a sharp stab of pain going through his heart. “I think,” he said under his breath, “that would kill me.”

“Well, there you have it.” Eunsoo slapped him on the arm and leaned back with a sigh. A pause, then: “If it makes you feel any better, he had me fooled as well. Jisung seemed so smitten—I thought it was basically official. That kid should really get his goddamn act together.”

Minho’s eyes widened—he hadn’t expected it, but he supposed it brought some comfort. At the very least, it proved that he wasn’t the only idiot around. “It’s not his fault,” he whispered.

“Whose is it then?”

That was an easy question. Minho sighed into his hands, feeling frayed at the edges, unstable, but at least no longer hysterical.

“Mine,” he said.

He’d always been too quick to fall.

Chapter Text

Minho sensed that something was wrong while still in the recording booth. His singing was going fine—as well as it could, anyway, given the circumstances—but his eyes kept drifting to the window, where 3RACHA sat by the directing table with one of the JYP sound technicians.

“Last part,” said Chan into the mic with an encouraging smile. “Fighting!”

Minho responded by bowing, too polite to ignore Chan completely, though he might as well have had. His gaze was glued to Jisung, who sat in a chair by the wall, seemingly consumed by his notebook, and looked like he was about to vibrate out of his own skin.

Jisung’s hair was still damp after the dance practice they’d just finished, a mix of sweat and frizz, which created a honey-colored halo around his head. Even in the dim light of the studio, Minho could easily trace each stress-line on Jisung’s features, and the slight unhappy curve of his mouth. The hoodie he was wearing was rumpled and had a fresh-looking coffee stain on the front.

How many coffees had Jisung had today? Minho wasn’t sure, and he didn’t like it.

They hadn’t been spending time together like before. It was fully reasonable, of course, Minho couldn’t be trusted not to come apart at the seams the second Jisung mentioned Hyeri—they’d had enough close calls already—so he needed to stay away. It felt like slowly severing a limb with a dull knife, but Minho had gotten used to pain. What was the alternative? Explain to Jisung why his best friend was suddenly acting like a lunatic? Hardly a better option.

And yet it still hurt, especially after Jisung had picked up on it. Minho felt like a villain.

“Good job, Minho-yah,” said Chan when Minho left the booth, and Changbin sent him a thumbs up. Jisung barely lifted his head.

“Thank you,” Minho said absentmindedly. “Good luck with the rest of the recording.”

It took immense strength to stop staring and leave the room, but he managed. It was fine—Jisung hadn’t asked for his help, which meant he didn’t need it. Maybe it had been okay to hover before, to care just a bit too much, too intensely, to insert himself into Jisung’s life like it was also his, but not anymore. Minho was a friend. He needed to start acting like one.

He had a fitting for this week’s Music Core outfit, and he shuffled all the way there like a sleepwalker. It was always fairly pleasant to see their wardrobe noonas but showing up with a black cloud over his head to every appointment had eventually garnered some attention. He countered their questioning gazes the only way he knew how—by staying polite, neutral, and donning his best professional smile.

“Oh, Minho-yah,” said one of the assistants pinning up the dress shirt they had him try on, “have you lost some weight? Congratulations!”

He almost laughed in her face, which would have been very rude. Minho had always fought with his weight like it had a mind of its own, always one step ahead, the kilograms going up at the mere mention of calories, filling up his face in a way that didn’t favor being photographed. He hated dieting with a burning passion but did it dutifully because that was simply how things were. He’d known what the job entailed when he’d signed up for it.

Still, Minho hadn’t been trying lately. He’d forgotten to weigh himself, and he hadn’t been going to the gym nearly as much as he should have. If he’d lost weight, it was all thanks to the stone at the bottom of his stomach rendering his appetite as good as gone. He couldn’t recall when he’d last eaten a full meal and didn’t feel nauseous by the end of it.

It was ironic. If Minho had heard this about any of his dongsaengs, he would have lost his mind. Thankfully, he only had himself to disapprove.

After the appointment, it wasn’t even a minute until he stumbled into Jeongin and Seungmin, who must have finished their parts and were headed to the elevators. They were talking, and Minho only heard the tail end of their conversation, but it had his head snapping up anyway.

“I think he’s just tired,” Jeongin said, his voice quiet and uncertain.

“I think he’s about to explode,” countered Seungmin bluntly. “Chan-hyung looked worried, too.”

Minho ran up to them the rest of the way and grabbed Seungmin by the elbow. Seungmin’s eyes widened, startled.

“Jisung?” Minho asked and found the confirmation in Jeongin’s grimace.

“He’s recording already,” Seungmin said and regarded Minho critically. “Don’t worry about him, hyung. He has other people to rely on, you know? Think about yourself.”

Minho’s ears burned, but it came second to the sting he felt in his chest. Maybe it wasn’t his business. Maybe he wasn’t welcome, considering his pathetic little feelings that Jisung had no obligation to consider. But Minho’s entire life, his every waking thought, were made up of thinking of Jisung, worrying for him, caring about his happiness. It wasn’t something he could simply turn off, even if it came with suffering.

He’d always choose hurting himself over seeing Jisung be hurt.

“Don’t tell me what to do, Kim Seungmin.”

Seungmin raised his hands in defeat. “Fine, go torture yourself.”

Minho sent him one last glare and stomped off in the direction of the studio. When he entered, trying to be quiet so as not to disturb the session, it was just to see Changbin giving Jisung some directions. Changbin’s voice was much softer than usual.

“Oh?” Chan whispered, looking over his shoulder with his eyebrows raised into his hairline.

Minho shook his head instead of replying and retreated to the very back of the room, trying not to distract Jisung any further. Jisung looked like he was unravelling in real time, his eyes were red, hands shaky as he scratched at his arms through the sleeves, and he was walking in place to release the energy building up in his body. Minho knew these signals. It wasn’t good.

“You said pool instead of fool in the second line, Han-ah,” said Changbin after another attempt. Even before he finished, Minho knew that this was going to be the last straw. He watched Jisung’s face screw up as he ripped his headphones off. Then, he burst into tears.

“Fuck, no, no—” gasped Changbin, already raising from his chair.

“Stay,” Minho snapped, harsher than he’d meant to, but at least it had the instant effect of freezing Changbin and Chan in place without any objections.

Minho went straight for the booth and let himself in. Jisung was standing in the middle of the room with his arms pressed to his sides, sobbing, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth open to gasp for air. It was always so awful to see him in the throes of panic—it made Minho want to start screaming, too. But if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was how to take care of Jisung.

With steady hands, Minho tugged Jisung’s hood low over his head to limit the light and then squeezed him into his own chest. He expected Jisung not to even know who was with him, but he hoped that familiar touch and pressure would ease his senses. It worked to soothe Minho, too. There was only one thing his body wanted to do when Jisung was distressed, and it was to have him in his arms.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, cheek pressed to the side of Jisung’s head. “You’re okay, aegi.”

When Jisung finally hugged back weakly, Minho exhaled and guided him out, holding Jisung’s head against his neck to make sure no one would look at him when he couldn’t control himself.

“I’ve got this,” he said to Chan, who looked like he was going to implode with worry. “Keep recording.”

“Are you sure? We can ask to—”

“No need, hyung. You can text me later. We’ll be fine.”

Minho already had a plan. He knew that Jisung couldn’t be seen, and there was a staff bathroom on the other end of the hallway that had a lock—he’d used it once to wash his pants after he’d spilled half a cup of ramyeon when Jisung made him laugh.

He led Jisung out of the studio, using his hand to shield Jisung’s face, just in case they stumbled into someone. And stumble they did, though it wasn’t that much of a concern. Seungmin and Jeongin were coming back from the cafeteria with Felix in tow, drinks in hand, and they froze mid-step when they saw the mess that was Jisung, huddled under Minho’s arm.

For reasons Minho couldn’t understand since this was none of his business, Seungmin squinted at them with disapproval. Still, he urged Jeongin and Felix, who were looking quite panicky, to keep walking and let them pass. Good—at least Seungmin knew when to shut up.

Minho dragged Jisung into the bathroom and locked the door behind them. In the small tiled interior, Jisung’s cries seemed louder, and Minho cringed at the sound.

He needed to do something to break Jisung out of his head, and it was always a very delicate dance, every movement at risk of being the one to send Jisung even further down the spiral. Jisung couldn’t say what he needed when he got like this, couldn’t set boundaries where they were necessary. But Minho felt, somewhat selfishly, that he had an instinct for it.

Maybe it was just being hyperaware of everything Jisung, including the way his mood changed even slightly because Minho’s feelings had no other outlet. Maybe it was because Jisung was Jisung, and Minho was simply made to understand him, even in things he couldn’t really comprehend.

 “It’s okay, baby,” Minho said gently. It was very bright, but he couldn’t find the switch, so he gave up and left the lights on. He tugged Jisung to the sink and swiftly grabbed his waist to lift him onto the counter.

Jisung’s voice hitched at the movement, a brief moment of uncertainty, and then the tension started to bleed out of his body. He still looked distraught, eyes swollen, cheeks wet and flushed, stark against the rest of his face, which was drained of color. His shoulders were shaking with each exhale, but he slumped forward easily and wrapped his arms around Minho’s neck.

There was something in the middle of Minho’s chest, embedded so deep it was impossible to tell where it came from, that resonated like a tuning fork in moments like these. It was horrible, and yet the privilege to be there, to know what was needed, to be needed, was something Minho would never take for granted. He could make this easier on Jisung. Everything else paled in comparison.

“Hyung’s got you, hm?” he murmured when Jisung’s crying started to subside. “You’re fine.”

Eventually, Jisung calmed down enough to stop clinging, though he didn’t pull back. If anything, he relaxed against Minho and started fiddling with the tag on Minho’s shirt, which was a good sign. Minho let him decompress and rubbed his back in even motions, feeling the faint knobs of Jisung’s spine under his fingers even through the thick fabric of his hoodie. It made Minho want to drag him closer, but he was already standing between Jisung’s legs, had his nose pressed to Jisung’s hair, and that seemed like enough. It had to be.

Minho should have known that being this close to Jisung would come at a price. By the time the panic attack had fully dissolved, Minho’s defenses were already halfway down, tentative, testing how hard it would be to act like normal again. He suggested Jisung should go home, and managed to make it sound light, like he would with the rest of his dongsaengs.

Confidence was hubris.

“Will you come with me?” Jisung asked.

Minho blinked hard, helpless to stop himself from flinching. No, he most certainly wouldn’t. Under no circumstances could he take Jisung to his empty dorm and expect not to do or say something stupid along the way. It was like staring at bait being dangled in front of his face, seeing the hook, and still falling for it. Minho was smarter than this.

“Please?” Jisung added, voice softer than before, his face falling at Minho’s apprehension.

“Sure,” Minho said after a painfully long pause. “Let’s go, then. We should grab some food on the way back.”

They walked instead of taking a cab, and it made Minho realize that this was probably how mistakes usually began. Jisung smiled when he found that it was snowing, his most lovely heart-shaped smile, and his eyes were wide as he stared into the sky. When snowflakes landed on his face, he scrunched up his nose with a huff, and Minho had to look away. Something was pressing against his chest from the inside, and he found it hard to breathe.

They walked with their arms linked, and it took everything Minho had not to ruin it somehow. It was nothing they hadn’t done before, nothing he wouldn’t do with the other members, but Minho’s mind was vicious, constantly trying to carve more wounds into his heart.

Was this how Jisung walked with Hyeri?

He didn’t even know how many dates Jisung and Hyeri had gone on, but it didn’t matter. Minho’s self-discipline had always carried him forward, but against this—the image of Jisung with someone else, sharing intimate moments that used to be theirs—it was always going to lose.

“You’re quiet,” said Jisung when they stopped at a red light. He squeezed Minho’s arm through his jacket. “Am I annoying you?”

“You could never annoy me,” Minho said, aiming for something light and dismissive, not exactly sincere, which was how it ended up. He huffed. “Unless you start doing aegyo, then I will be annoyed.”

Jisung snarled, the effect of which was dampened by his red nose and slightly crossed eyes. “You wish I was doing aegyo for you.”

When they got home, it was almost as if nothing had changed. Minho supposed it never had—not for Jisung, at least—but for Minho it felt jarring. He’d expected a battle, a pathetic overflow of awkwardness and sorrow, but his body knew what to do before he told it to. After they ate and settled in to watch some anime, they naturally fell into familiar patterns.

Jisung’s room was pleasantly dim, no longer a minefield of clutter after they’d cleaned up, and the rug they were sitting on was soft to the touch. They were pressed shoulder to shoulder, their legs wrapped under one blanket, and the laptop was set on a pillow so it would be easier to see. Jisung listed against him, his head nestled under Minho’s chin and hand resting loosely on Minho’s stomach. Minho let himself enjoy it. Just a bit—it couldn’t hurt.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked, and his voice came out too soft again. He almost added something to lessen the impact, something stupid to make Jisung laugh, but Jisung was faster.

“Very,” he sighed, and he sounded so content. Minho’s heart soared, still trapped in the depths of its delusions, feeling pleased and proud to have made a difference, to be a source of warmth for Jisung. Minho unfurled further, let his muscles relax.

“Good,” he hummed. Maybe this was okay, Minho told himself. Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as he’d imagined.

He was wrong. It became apparent the second the autoplay froze in between episodes, the screen went black, and Jisung’s anxiety spiked again. It all happened so quickly—one second, they were cuddling, pretending things were like they used to, and another it was pitch black, and Minho was being roped into talking about dating, about Hyeri, about closeness. Minho wished he could disappear.

And then Jisung asked: “Have you ever kissed anyone, hyung?”

For a second, Minho was seventeen again, sitting in a shabby hotel room in Japan with his friend from the dance crew, his hand against Minho’s jaw, tilting his head back. Then, just as fast, he imagined Jisung with his lips pressed to Hyeri’s, Jisung’s fingers in her hair, and it felt like swallowing acid. He must have made a sound because Jisung glanced at him nervously.

Minho wanted to get up and leave, but his legs wouldn’t move. He was fairly sure his hands were shaking, so he balled them into fists. “Why?” he choked out in the end.

It was too dark to see Jisung’s face clearly, too intimate, too quiet. Jisung’s eyes flitted away. “I’m just—curious, I think,” he explained. “Have you?”

“I… I have, yes,” Minho admitted, his voice below even a whisper.

“Would you show me?”

Ah. So that’s how it ended.

Minho’s mind emptied, every coherent thought as good as gone. The only thing he could still tell with surprising clarity, despite the strangling grip around his throat, and the gray spill eating away at his vision, was that this—all of this—wasn’t fair.

“I don’t know who else would—help me,” Jisung went on quietly. “And if I try, then maybe it won’t be as scary anymore. With you, it wouldn’t be scary. You know?”

“Jisung-ah,” Minho said, short and sharp, trying to stop this while it was still possible. It felt like wading upstream, every force pressing against him, dragging him two steps back for every step forward with cruel intent. Distantly, he felt anger, mixed with something else that Minho couldn’t really place, far away but still there, banging against the glass like an animal in the zoo.

It wasn’t fair.

Jisung sat there tugging on his sleeves, his gaze frightened but also determined. Minho’s eyes floated down to Jisung’s lips and lingered there until he squeezed them shut. His throat worked around an invisible obstacle, and the sound of him swallowing was so loud it almost drowned out Minho’s pounding heart. When he opened his eyes again, they drifted right back to Jisung’s mouth, hypnotized.

Minho clenched his fists again, feeling shaky and out of breath. His voice of reason was thready and distant, distorted like a song played from an old vinyl, but it was there. No, Minho told himself, not in a million years. He couldn’t do this. He needed to leave and do it before his body would no longer listen. If Minho kissed him, he would be using him.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t do this.

But Minho’s hands flexed, trying to grab. His heart ached a new ache, longing, reaching. His mouth opened, not to breathe, but to taste something. It would be wrong, so very wrong—for Minho, the kiss would be real, and Jisung didn’t know that. But Minho found himself so overwhelmingly desperate that his inhibitions weakened.

Then, it hit him. If not now, then when? Jisung wasn’t his. Minho would never get a chance to kiss him ever again. If not now, the words echoed, then when?

“I’m sorry, I know,” Jisung said, starting to spiral. “You can just—”

“Okay,” Minho said.

Jisung’s mouth opened. “Okay?”

“I can—I can show you,” Minho whispered.

It was haunting to see disaster approaching with such incredible precision yet being unable to stop it. They were closer now, somehow, and Jisung’s knees were touching Minho’s. Minho’s eyes roamed Jisung’s face greedily, startled by the way his eyelids fluttered when Minho’s hand reached for his neck. There was an electric current running under Minho’s skin, his core seized in a bruising grip by the need, the anticipation, the hope. Time seemed to slow down.

“Stop if you—if you don’t want to go on,” Minho said, and his voice came out rough. “You can push me off.”

“It’s okay,” Jisung said softly, glancing up at Minho through his eyelashes.

Minho wished he could explain to someone, anyone, what it felt like to see Jisung when he looked like this—flushed pink all the way down the delicate column of his neck, lips parted, eyes round and doe-like, his hair mussed after Minho had run his hands through it. It shouldn’t be allowed. The sight itself felt like Minho was breaking the rules.

Jisung went willingly when Minho touched his cheek, feather-light, and angled his face up, just like someone had done to him when he’d had his first kiss years ago. Minho’s pulse was thrumming in his ears, and he could feel Jisung’s quickened breath against his skin when he leaned in, which made the hairs on his arms raise. Minho saw his hand tremble but couldn’t make it stop.

When their lips touched, there was a second when Minho stopped existing. He was there, he felt the touch, warm, delicate, anxious. But his mind shut down and stayed down until Jisung hummed and kissed back.

Minho’s body reacted on its own. His hand reached for Jisung’s neck, pulled him closer, firmer, and he let himself get lost. Minho sighed when the apprehension melted away, and their lips meshed together perfectly, his thumb stroked down Jisung’s cheekbone. Jisung followed his every move, clumsy but eager. When he reached for Minho’s sweater, holding him at the waist, Minho sighed again.

It was almost surprising to hear the voice of reason resurface, faint but incessant, telling him that it was enough. He should pull back. They’d kissed, he’d done what Jisung had asked for, even if it was only a thin veil around Minho’s own desire. He had to pull back.

But he needed a few more seconds. Just a bit longer to pretend that this was real, that Jisung was his, not Hyeri’s, that Minho could have him still, and be his in return. His hands turned desperate at the thought, sliding into Jisung’s hair, tilting him back, Minho’s lips chasing his. Minho’s control was slipping, and Jisung wasn’t pulling back—why wasn’t he pulling back? Why were they still kissing?

Then, Jisung’s laptop awoke from its slumber and started blearing the opening to the next episode. The noise nearly had Minho jumping through the roof, and he fell back on his hands, feeling stiff with terror and cold all over. He was gasping, the reality of what had just happened dawning on him in crushing waves. God, what had he done?

“Shit,” Jisung mumbled as he dove to close the laptop. “I’m sorry.”

“I need to go,” Minho said, struggling to stand with the way his legs were wobbling.

Jisung’s eyes went wide, alarmed. His lips were red, red from having been kissed, and Minho wanted to jump out the window. “W-what? I thought you’d stay,” he said. “Are you—”

“I’m fine,” Minho snapped. He was about to leave when he was struck by the horrifying realization that this kiss, the only kiss he’d ever get to share with Jisung, was going to be Jisung’s blueprint. The thought of Jisung kissing Hyeri with the same lips, the same openness, the same gasp at the touch, was too much to bear.

 “Don’t—” he said and stopped himself when his voice came out choked, “don’t kiss her like that.”

Minho didn’t wait to hear Jisung’s reply and fled. The dorm was still empty, so no one questioned his mad dash to the door. He didn’t even put his shoes on, just grabbed them to deal with in the elevator. He sprinted into it seconds before it closed with one of the neighbors already inside.

The woman seized him up nervously when she saw him stand there in his socks and with his face all kinds of wrecked. Minho caught a glimpse of himself in the elevator mirror, glassy-eyed, blotchy, panting, and the sight almost pushed him over the edge.

“Sorry,” he whispered and crouched to slip on his sneakers. His hands were trembling so badly that he couldn’t do the laces properly, so he just stuffed them into his shoes and hoped for the best.

But there was no best anymore. He’d ruined it—all the effort to maintain their friendship, to keep the group intact, to preserve whatever was left of his own heart. He’d gone and smashed it into a thousand pieces.

When he reached his own dorm, having walked the entire way in a trance, the feeling of Jisung’s lips on his had still not faded, leaving a permanent imprint of Minho’s mistake where he could always feel it. Everything else had evaporated, leaving only dread.

“Hyung?”

Minho flinched. Seungmin must have been watching something in the kitchen—he had one earphone in and was holding a cup of iced americano. He poked his head out, likely just to say hi, but his expression faltered, and his eyebrows pinched together.

“You okay?” asked Seungmin, disappearing for a moment and returning without his coffee, hands braced on his hips. “What happened?”

Minho clumsily stepped out of his shoes, and let his jacket drop to the floor. He stood there, arms slack by his sides, looking right into Seungmin’s eyes as if searching for something. There was nothing, Minho knew. Nothing that could possibly fix this.

“I fucked up,” he whispered before he managed to stop it. Seungmin looked taken aback as if he hadn’t been expecting Minho to actually speak. “You were right.”

Seungmin’s sharp analyzing gaze softened into something worried and sad. It wasn’t pity, but it was close. It felt like a metal grater against Minho’s skin.

“Come on,” Seungmin said simply. He reached for Minho’s wrist and towed him to the living room, where they sat on the sofa without turning on the lights. Minho lowered his head until it landed in his hands, and he grabbed fistfuls of his hair, trying so desperately to erase the feeling of Jisung touching him in a way that wasn’t meant for him.

“I didn’t actually think you’d listen to me,” Seungmin said and placed his hand in the middle of Minho’s back. “You’re too stubborn for that.”

 “I don’t know what to do,” he admitted softly. He wanted to take it back the second it left his lips, but it was too late. He cringed, squeezing his eyes shut so hard he saw spots.

“I know,” Seungmin said, sounding less unruffled than usual. He leaned over Minho’s back, not hugging, but rather draping himself over him, his cheek pressed against Minho’s shoulder blade. “Me neither. I’m sorry, hyung.”

They sat like this for a while, no longer talking. It was always a tightrope walk, navigating around what Minho could allow, what he could bring himself to accept from his members, but Seungmin seemed to know it well. He didn’t pry, didn’t offer solutions, didn’t berate him. It felt a little like being approached while locked in a cage, every shadow a possible threat, every touch, no matter how gentle, backing him into a corner. But sometimes it was worth it not to bite.

Minho knew self-destruction when he saw it. The kiss felt like a brand, the pain it left vicious and aimless, striking with deadly precision where it hurt the most, and yet, despite everything, Minho would have done it again. If the choice was between this and never getting to kiss Jisung at all, it wasn’t even a choice in the end.

Chapter Text

Minho felt like a coward. He’d been staring into the MBC dressing room mirror, trying not to move while his stylist touched up his makeup, and found that he didn’t recognize the man in the reflection. His face was painted, hair styled to the nines, his outfit pressed into perfection, and yet Minho looked a husk.

Minho wasn’t someone who ran from things—definitely not from Jisung—and that made it all the more shameful. He’d long stopped mourning his compromised morals and ruined self-esteem, but the pain he’d felt when Jisung’s eyes met his after Minho had pushed him away made it easy to remember. Jisung’s chin trembling, the shock at being rejected so visceral, so palpable, were like a lump of hot coal pressed against Minho’s sternum.  Minho had made him leave in the middle of practice—he’d made him cry.

Some fucking hyung he was.

“All done,” said the noona with a smile. He didn’t return it. “I think they’ll be calling you for rehearsal soon.”

Minho nodded absently. The pre-recording for Saturday’s Music Core episode was just a cute little song with Sullyoon and Jungwoo, a special MC stage, but even for this, Minho felt unprepared. His hand reached for the lyrics that he’d propped against the mirror but landed on his phone instead, where he found the messages he’d been reading over and over again for the last hour. His shoulders curled in as if preparing for a blow.

Bin-ah: Hyung, I know this fucking sucks, but try to chill it with Jisung, okay?

Bin-ah: If you cut him out like this, I swear to god, he’s gonna kill himself

Bin-ah: let me know if I can help you, yeah?

It wasn’t even Jisung’s fault, and yet here Minho was, effectively punishing him for Minho’s own mistake. The kiss felt like a curse. It lingered like a parasite, made him unable to exist in the same space as Jisung knowing what he’d done, knowing what it meant, constantly spilling over the rim with the feelings that nobody wanted or needed. What now? It kept ringing inside his head, the same question time after time: what now?

“Oppa,” said Sullyoon with a smile when they gathered just off stage, waiting for the setup to be completed. She was wearing a dress matching Minho and Jungwoo’s pink overalls, and her hair was in pigtails. “Do you have some more schedules after this?”

“This is my last one,” he replied quietly. “You?”

“Minho-yah, it’s too forward to ask a lady where she’s going after work!” said Jungwoo, and Sullyoon slapped him with her script, laughing. Minho couldn’t find it in him to even smile.

“Sorry,” he mumbled and could tell without looking that the others frowned, confused by his reaction. What could he possibly tell them? If they’d known what a sad excuse of a friend he was being, they probably wouldn’t even want to work with him.

The recording went quickly, which was the only good thing about it. Minho felt like an absolute maniac faking a big smile for his closeup shots—it felt like trying to bend joints in ways they didn’t go with the way his face fought against it. He hoped it wouldn’t look as bad as it felt, or the whole thing would have been for nothing.

When he was back in the dressing room, haphazardly wiping off makeup while the wardrobe noona helped him get out of his outfit, Minho’s energy was running dangerously low. Still, he grabbed his things and made his way to the producers’ office to thank everyone, and then did the same with their backup dancers. It was just getting through the motions, but at least Minho could fall back on his discipline at work, if nowhere else.

By the time he got into the car and pulled out his phone to stare at Changbin’s messages some more, trying to find new ways for them to hurt, he was surprised by a couple of missed calls from Chan. The urge to ignore it was there, almost spiteful, but Minho forced it down.

“You called,” he said bluntly into the mic when Chan picked up. “What is it?”

“Minho-yah, can you come over?” Chan sounded stressed, and kind of like he was doing something else at the same time. “Now, if you’re free.”

Minho’s stomach clenched, and he pressed his hand against it. “To the studio? What’s going on?”

“Home,” Chan said through a weary sigh. “Hannie’s sick. I didn’t want to call, I’m sorry, but it’s such a mess. His fever is really high, I couldn’t get a doctor for today, I can’t talk him into drinking anything, and he won’t stop crying. And he’s… he’s asking for you. I don’t think he’ll settle if you don’t come, at least for a bit, yeah? Please.”

For a moment it was quiet, and Minho held his breath. Then, he dropped the call and turned to the driver. “Can we go to the other dorm instead?” he asked.

“Sure,” said the man with a quirk of his eyebrows. “An emergency?”

Minho chose not to answer for fear of snapping at him.

They weren’t far at that point, and the detour barely took an extra five minutes. Minho still had his handbag with the script and extra clothes he always took to MBC, and he lugged it to the elevator with the strap slipping off his shoulder, sweat dripping down his back from how hot it got under his jacket. His face was pale when he saw himself in the mirror. It was lined with guilt.

He was still typing in the code to the door when it opened, revealing Hyunjin. He looked upset, his eyebrows knitted together, and his lip trapped between his teeth.

“Channie-hyung said Jisung’s asleep now,” Hyunjin explained when Minho was taking his shoes off, holding Minho’s bag for him dutifully, even as he shifted from foot to foot on his spindly legs. “But you should probably wake him up, maybe feed him something.”

“Thanks, Hyunjin-ah,” said Minho, and gave Hyunjin a pat on the head, which Hyunjin accepted with a surprised blink.

Minho found Chan in the kitchen, hovering by the medicine cabinet with his phone held against his ear by his shoulder. His cloudy expression smoothed out minutely when he saw Minho, though he still reached up to drag his hand through his already messy hair.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” said Chan into the phone before putting it away.

“Who was that?” Minho asked.

“Mingyu-hyung. He’ll get us a home visit for tomorrow—they have some doctors on retainer, so it’ll be faster.” Chan stopped his nervous fidgeting long enough to shoot Minho an analyzing look. “I was—um. I’m glad you came.”

Minho didn’t reply. Instead, he took a glass from the cabinet, filled it with water from the dispenser halfway, and then topped it up with the kettle, which was still warm. He needed it to be the right drinking temperature for someone whose throat was probably very sore.

“What meds do you even have here? Should I go to the pharmacy? I think it’s still open.”

“This should be enough if he can stomach it.” Chan produced a box of over-the-counter fever reducers that looked quite beat up. “We go through those quickly with Jisung in the house—Mr. Han Health,” he said with a faint chuckle.

“Yeah,” Minho said softly, “I can imagine.”

“Are you—” started Chan when Minho turned to leave, but he cut himself off. Minho glanced at him and found his expression troubled. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Minho said, almost a reflex at this point. He should get it tattooed on his forehead to save himself some time.

“Can I talk to you later?”

Minho flinched. What was Chan expecting, asking questions like this—honesty? In that case, Minho wanted to say, no, he couldn’t talk to him, not today, not ever. But this wasn’t really a choice. Minho knew that Chan was persistent when he wanted to be, and he rarely backed down once he’d set his mind on something. Even if Minho fled, he suspected Chan would still find a way to get his point across, somehow.

“Sure,” Minho whispered, getting more and more acquainted with the feeling of being resigned to his fate. “let’s talk.”

Jisung’s room was dark, bar the light coming in from the hallway, and Minho nearly tripped on Jisung’s hoodie that lay abandoned on the rug. Jisung’s bag, Minho found with a pang of unease, had been tossed into the dresser, knocking over Jisung’s knick-knacks, and leaving a vague indent in the wall in the shape of its metal buckle. The sight stopped him in his tracks.

But then his eyes landed on Jisung, who was curled into a ball on the bed, shivering even in his sleep. His skin was flushed an unhealthy shade of red, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, and he was holding a pillow against his chest. He looked so miserable. For a second, Minho felt like crying.

“Jisung-ah,” he said softly as he landed on his knees by the bed, leaving the glass on the nightstand. He gingerly touched Jisung’s face, first his cheek, then his forehead, and felt his stomach drop. Jisung was like a furnace. “Baby, let’s get up, okay?”

Jisung made a noise, but it wasn’t exactly coherent. Minho decided not to wait until he got a response and slipped his hand under Jisung’s shoulders, lifting him off the mattress and into a sitting position—as close as he could get to one, anyway. Jisung whined in alarm.

“It’s okay, aegi,” Minho soothed, slipping behind Jisung to let him list against his chest. Minho’s hand landed on Jisung’s sternum, feeling the heat as it radiated off of Jisung’s skin even through the fabric of his damp t-shirt. “You need to take some fever reducers before you can sleep, okay? Hyung will help you.”

“Hyung,” Jisung mumbled wetly, and Minho flinched when he realized that he was crying. He reached for Jisung’s face and wiped the tears with gentle hands, lingering just for a second to stroke his cheek in a way Minho knew Jisung liked.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he murmured. He placed the pills in Jisung’s hand and urged him to lift it to his lips. “Here, you also have to drink some water, hm? A lot of water, if you want to get better.”

It was five sips, Minho counted, before Jisung pushed the glass away. It was not a great result, so Minho tried to encourage him to drink more, but Jisung quickly turned his head with a grimace.

“I can’t,” he said.

“Okay, you can have some more later.”

“Don’t go,” Jisung rasped suddenly. “Please.”

Minho was surprised he didn’t gasp at how much it hurt to hear Jisung like this and feel his hands trying to grasp at Minho’s sleeves to keep him in place. He allowed himself a moment to tighten the arm that was wrapped around Jisung’s chest, pull him flush against his own, and press his nose to Jisung’s neck. Minho’s entire body was lighting up like fireworks, but it didn’t feel good—it felt like something stolen and wrong.

When he slipped out from behind him, Jisung made a devastated noise that Minho wanted to erase immediately. He guided Jisung to the pillow and then slipped under the covers next to him, wrapping his arms around Jisung just like he’d used to. They slotted against each other perfectly, and Jisung’s body instantly deflated, tension leaving his muscles the second he pressed his cheek to Minho’s chest.

“I’m not leaving,” Minho whispered into Jisung’s sweaty hair. “You can rest now. Hyung will be here.”

Jisung went boneless in no time. Minho was still holding him close, rubbing his back under the covers and keeping still, but Jisung was gone to the world. His fever had lowered somewhat, at least enough to let him sleep, but it was still high—Minho was feeling clammy just from sharing Jisung’s space.

He checked Jisung’s cheek again and frowned. He couldn’t risk waking him up, so he reached for his phone instead and opened his chat with Chan.

Me: bring a bowl with cold water and a washcloth

It sounded brash, but he couldn’t be bothered with pleasantries when he was texting with one hand—his phone was too big to hold like this. And it wasn’t even necessary, Chan arrived minutes later, carrying the bowl and a steaming mug.

“He just fell asleep,” Minho said quietly, raising just enough to rest his back against the headboard. Jisung slid down without complaint, which landed him on Minho’s stomach, where he immediately cuddled into Minho’s shirt. “He’s not going to drink anything.”

Chan had a sad little smile on his face when he approached and dropped everything on the nightstand. He leaned in, and Minho was startled when he didn’t reach for Jisung but Minho instead. Chan smoothed the hair back from Minho’s face with a soft touch of his fingers, and Minho flinched, blinking fast.

“The tea is for you,” Chan said, nudging the mug towards Minho. “Call me if you need anything else, yeah?”

Minho stared at him until he left, half-confused, half-choked up, which was a deeply unsettling mix. He busied himself with wetting the washcloth to then place it against Jisung’s neck. He ran his hands through Jisung’s hair when his shoulders curled in at the contact until Jisung relaxed again, focused entirely on his slowly rising chest.

“I’m sorry,” Minho whispered at some point, having sat in darkness and silence long enough to stop feeling real. “I’m really sorry, Jisung-ah.”

By the time the sun started rising, casting a cool glow on Jisung’s messy room, Jisung’s fever had gone down considerably, and Minho found it safe enough to slip away and make himself coffee.

He stopped to fix the things on Jisung’s dresser, lingering only slightly when he grabbed a framed picture of the two of them that Jisung had displayed among his anime figurines. They were makeup-less and grinning, their masks lowered to their chins and cheeks pressed together, raising the Pokémon-themed drinks they’d gotten at a pop-up store in Hongdae.

Minho put the frame back with care but turned it the other way. His hands were shaking, and he flexed them until they stopped.

He padded into the kitchen feeling woozy from lack of sleep. Right away, he found that he didn’t know how to operate the other dorm’s coffee maker. He was standing there, glaring at it, until he heard footsteps coming from one of the bedrooms.

“I’ll make you some,” said Chan’s voice. He didn’t sound like he’d slept, either, and he was still dressed in his clothes from the night before, though far more rumpled now.

Minho stepped back, and then they both watched the coffee drip into a cup, slumped and tired. “He’s a bit better, I think,” said Minho after a moment. “He’s still asleep.”

“Good,” Chan said with a sigh. “It hasn’t been this bad in a while. It’s probably the ice skating that did it.”

“Ice skating?”

Chan’s eyes widened. “His—um, his date with Hyeri. You didn’t know about it?”

Something low in Minho’s stomach burned like the flame of a lighter held against flesh. It must have shown on his face because Chan’s expression softened, which made Minho’s skin crawl with the need to lash out.

“Jisung and I don’t talk these days,” he said flatly, and it hurt to admit but also satisfied his morbid desire to use it as a needle, poke it in to see how Chan would react.

Chan nodded slowly, and his gaze dropped to the floor. “Let’s go to the living room, yeah?”

They did, even though Minho’s body urged him to head for the door and leave. He only took a few sips of his coffee and was already feeling his stomach clenching, which made him mildly nauseous. Minho sat a purposeful distance away from Chan, but Chan scooted closer when he noticed. Minho fisted his hands, staring straight ahead.

“I know you’re hurting,” Chan said, and Minho tried not to bristle at that. “But he’s hurting, too, Minho-yah.”

“I can’t help it,” Minho forced out through clenched teeth. “Do you think I want to hurt him?”

“Of course not.” Chan reached for his wrist, but Minho yanked it back sharply. “I never said you did, honey, I just mean that this cannot go on. The longer he stays in the dark, the longer you have to struggle. If he knew how you feel, he would understand.”

“It’s easy for you to say. What am I even supposed to tell him?”

“The truth,” Chan said, still so gentle it made Minho want to vomit. “You just need to talk.”

“And say what, Chan?” Minho’s voice was getting lower with unreleased tears, cracking on every word. Chan couldn’t stop himself from draping his arm around Minho’s shoulders, and Minho let him this time, too exhausted to break away. “I literally can’t even look at him. This—this is too much.”

“Minho-yah,” Chan chided, “I know this is hard.”

“Do you? I wish none of this ever happened.” Minho bent in half and listed against Chan’s side, covering his face with his hands. “It’s not fair,” he whispered, saying it out loud for the first time. “Why does—why does she get to have him? Why not me?”

Chan hummed, and his voice sounded thick, too. He gathered Minho into his arms, squeezing him against his chest, and rested his chin on Minho’s head. Minho anchored himself on Chan’s sweatshirt, hands in a death grip around the fabric, and fought against the riptide of sorrow trying to sweep him away from shore.

“I really don’t know,” Chan said. For the first time, it seemed, he had no more advice to give.

In the days that followed, Minho couldn’t quite recover from this conversation. It felt a bit like Chan had dug in too deep, left a tear somewhere Minho couldn’t reach to patch it up, and he was now slowly losing air. Why not me? The words wouldn’t leave his mind even for a second. He knew—he knew why. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

Then, there was an unexpected turn. It was almost surprising to be surprised, given everything that had already gone down, but Minho had been too lost in his silly little feelings to notice something brewing right under his nose. It slammed into him like a ton of bricks.

The moment he sensed a change was when the group met for practice on the first day Jisung was back from sick leave. Minho had been watching him, an instinct impossible to suppress, and it wasn’t hard to tell that he was acting strange. All session he’d been staring into the ground, straying from the other members, his movements stiff and uneven. It put everyone on edge.

The rest of 3RACHA approached Jisung multiple times, trying to talk him down from the edge, but it did nothing. He looked combative, his eyebrows drawn together, jaw working, and lips pressed into a line. Like the Jisung of their youth, who had carried reserves of anger and indignation far bigger than his little body could handle.

Worried, Minho wondered what had happened. He wished he could just ask, but it was a privilege lost to his mistakes.

“Jisung-ah,” said their choreographer after they called for a break, “your movements aren’t sharp enough in the hook.”

Jisung bit his lip and nodded, arms pressed to his sides. “I’ll try harder.”

“Don’t feel discouraged, okay? Maybe Minho can run through this with you. He’s already got the moves down.”

Minho flinched but picked himself up from the bench. “Yeah,” he said dumbly. “I can.”

“I’ll do it on my own.”

Everyone seemed just as thrown as Minho at the tone, dismissive, venomous, and it showed in their shocked expressions. Jisung didn’t even look at him, just turned on his heel and went to sit down by the mirrors, immediately pulling out his phone. Minho stood there, blinking, and tried to brace against the cold wave of dread rolling down his body.

He wasn’t sure which of the fucked-up things Minho had done to Jisung broke the camel’s back, but he knew anger when he saw it. It was—scary, almost. Jisung had never been mad at him before, and it rewired Minho’s brain on the spot, making him want to tuck his tail and run. His friends were all around him, but Minho felt completely alone.

“Let’s eat together,” said Hyunjin the second practice ended, and Minho was hovering by the console without purpose, staring at nothing. Hyunjin sent him a smile, strained as it was, and hooked his arm on Minho’s. “Gopchang?”

Minho couldn’t even find his mouth quick enough to refuse. He was still loading, locked inside his head, when Hyunjin towed him out of the room and then out of the JYP building. He wasn’t saying anything, but his grip on Minho’s elbow was steady and solid. It was cold out, and the clothes under their jackets were still damp with sweat, but Minho felt the sting like it came from very far away.

“Do you want a coke?” Hyunjin asked after they sat down in a nearby restaurant. He’d taken over the ordering process without questions, and let Minho just sit there like a zombie, which was reasonable—it was the extent of what Minho was capable of at that moment. Hyunjin scrunched his face as he scanned the menu, and his legs stretched so far under the table that they were basically under Minho’s chair.

“A beer,” Minho mumbled after a moment.

Hyunjin’s gaze was sharp when he looked up, his eyes round like two saucers. “A coke,” he opinioned after a moment of consideration.

The food arrived soon, and they started eating in silence. Minho mostly pushed the food around his bowl, lifting some to his mouth and then lowering it again without taking a bite. The smell was too intense, too overwhelming, and his stomach was twisting into knots.

“The best piece,” said Hyunjin and placed a perfectly golden chunk of gopchang on Minho’s plate. “Eat, hyung,” he added, softer this time.

Minho caved, even though the food tasted like cardboard. By the time they were mostly done, Minho had returned to his body at least enough to take off his jacket and slump in his seat, trying to avoid Hyunjin’s eyes.

“Do you have any idea why he’s mad?” asked Hyunjin after a long beat of silence. “Did something happen?”

“I kissed him,” Minho said impulsively and was immediately slapped in the face with reality when Hyunjin’s expression shifted into one of absolute shock. “He wanted me to show him how to do it,” Minho went on in a strangled whisper. “I—I agreed.”

“Why?” Hyunjin asked, horrified, covering his mouth with his hands. “Hyung, why do you do that to yourself?”

Minho resisted the urge to drop his head into his hands. “Yeah,” he said with a hollow chuckle, “beats me.”

“And you think Jisung’s angry because of the kiss? Did he—did he react badly? He asked for it himself.”

“I avoided him,” Minho said with a shrug. “I can’t even look him in the eye.”

Hyunjin reached across the table and grabbed his hand. Minho’s skin burned, itching to pull back, but he didn’t have the heart to hurt Hyunjin’s feelings when he looked so genuinely upset on Minho’s behalf.

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

Minho almost laughed. Did he? It would have been nice to have someone else deal with his mess, clean it up while he sat back and licked his wounds. But Minho didn’t do that. He never let others fix his problems, and he certainly never used his dongsaengs as lifeboats in a shipwreck he himself had caused.

“I’ll be fine, Hyunjin-ah.”

It was a bold statement. Later that night, Minho reached a point where he was spread so thin that he could no longer cover the gaps. He’d been sitting at his desk, the door to his room locked, staring at the lyrics for a song they were recording tomorrow yet unable to force himself to practice. His hands were starting to shake, and it came to him slowly, the descent into hysteria, but once it was there, it was impossible to stop it.

He was going to lose him. One way or another, Jisung was going to disappear from his life and Minho would not live through it. It had already taken a devastating toll, the distance, the lying, his feelings getting in the way, but to have Jisung hate him? No, no—he couldn’t do that.

Minho rose so abruptly that his chair tipped back, eyes roaming the space with wild intensity, and heart pounding in his chest. When his gaze snagged on the collage of 4-strip pictures over his bed, most of which were with Jisung, he crawled over the mattress and started ripping them off the wall. One more minute of looking at their happy faces and he would simply throw up.

The last one came off without a piece, which stayed under the tape. Minho stared at the torn-off corner through a blurry film of tears and crumpled, slumping in the middle of the bed like a puppet with its strings cut. With clumsy hands, he reached under his pillow and pulled out the hoodie he’d been keeping there. It was Jisung’s, a faded blue, worn and soft to the touch, with a picture of a manga strip on the front.

It didn’t even smell of him. Minho had washed it when Jisung left it at his dorm, which somehow made it worse. Still, he pressed his face against the fabric and held it there until he was sure he wasn’t going to sob. Then, he pulled the hoodie over his head and curled up on top of the covers, tugging the sleeves over his hands. He’d never felt weaker in his life.

Minho came to work unshowered, wearing the same hoodie he’d slept in, and with a sense of panic looming over him wherever he went. It was pathetic—being afraid to face Jisung, the man he was in love with, his most precious friend, but he couldn’t help it. He expected another attack, and it left him exposed because he couldn’t defend himself when even he wasn’t on his own side. Jisung had every right to be angry. The only thing Minho could do was to take it.

That was why when he arrived at the studio for his recording session, he was already a mess. He’d been dreading this, aware that Jisung would be there, watching him in the booth like a test subject under a microscope while Minho had to produce passable vocals for a song that was going to land on the album.

“Jump right in, Minho-yah,” said Chan with a smile, which did little to soothe him. Jisung sat there with a dark shadow draped over his features, pointedly scribbling in his notebook.

Minho was setting up when he noticed a change. Changbin was supposed to direct the recording, but it was Jisung sitting by the mic for some reason, and he was staring straight at Minho, his eyes hooded and impassive, one eyebrow raised. Minho flinched, and his core tensed, prepared for a blow.

“Well,” Jisung said, “go on, then.”

There it was. Minho had never heard Jisung use this tone with him before. It was full of vitriol, measured, clearly aimed to land where it hurt. It felt worse than if he’d just admitted he hated him, somehow. Minho dropped all of his notes, and when he crouched to pick them up, he stayed there for a moment, trying to pump air back into his lungs. It burned like breathing inside an oven.

Once he was done, Minho left the studio in a daze. He stumbled into the practice room, hoping it would be empty so long before their session, but had the misfortune of running straight into Jeongin, who was already warming up. Minho ground to a halt, wondering if the world was shaking around him, or if he was just imagining it.

“Hyung?” Jeongin said, startled by the state of him. His eyes went wide, and he scrambled to his feet. “W-what happened?”

“Nothing,” Minho whispered and wobbled to the bench, where he slumped and lowered his head until it was between his knees. He was getting lightheaded. “I’m fine.”

Jeongin materialized on the floor before him, trying to duck in to catch his gaze. Jeongin’s face was pale and long with worry. “Do you need me to call someone?” he asked. “Are you feeling ill?”

“I’m fine,” Minho gasped. He didn’t feel fine. Nothing was fine.

“What’s going on?” said a new voice, alarmed. It wasn’t even a second until someone was hugging him from the side, and Minho whined at the contact. It was Felix—Minho recognized him by the way his embrace turned bruising, far stronger than it seemed possible for someone as tiny as him. “Oh, hyung. Oh, no. Just breathe, okay?”

“I’m fine,” Minho choked out again. He didn’t want to be touched, but also craved it, somehow. The mix turned painful when nothing else made sense.

“You are,” said Felix with conviction. “Of course, you are.”

Felix and Jeongin suddenly stilled, and Minho realized someone must have come in. Judging by the tension, it was Jisung.

“I’ll be back, okay?” Felix whispered, giving Minho one last squeeze before he let him go and cut through the room to the door. Minho didn’t look up immediately for fear of meeting Jisung’s eyes, but when he did, they were already gone.

“Don’t worry about them,” said Jeongin with a small smile. He settled next to Minho and bumped shoulders with him, which didn’t feel as all-consuming and staticky as Felix’s hug, but still soothed the itch under Minho’s skin. He couldn’t say it out loud, but he wanted Jeongin to know he was grateful. He bumped back.

By the time they were dancing, Minho was no longer on the brink of exploding, but it was a small improvement. He could tell something happened between Felix and Jisung—they were staying far apart, and Felix looked shaky with anger, which wasn’t a common sight. The second practice ended Jisung fled the room, very nearly slamming the door on his way out.

“Ignore him,” said Felix, who’d been hovering around Minho with Jeongin like it was their job now. His voice was low, charged with something, and eyes a bit wet. “Let’s do something fun at home, yeah?”

Jeongin nodded and reached out to grab the edge of Minho’s sleeve with two fingers. “Let’s, hyung.”

Minho wanted to crawl into a hole and die, but that was not an option. “Okay,” he mumbled.

The fun ended up being watching a movie on Minho’s beat-up laptop, sitting on his bed with their legs drawn into their chests. The room was mostly dark, and the movie they chose was something Japanese that Minho hadn’t seen, too convoluted to follow when only half-paying attention. Felix had brought some snacks from his room, but all three of them were supposed to be on a diet, so they were mostly untouched.

“Hyung,” said Jeongin quietly, and they both turned. He nodded at Felix, his eyebrows pinched close. “Maybe you should get some rest, hm?”

It wasn’t that late. The reason Jeongin saw it fit to dismiss him was that Felix was radiating such inconsolable sadness and hurt it was getting a bit hard to breathe in his presence. He wasn’t even watching the screen, just staring off into space, hands gripping the fabric of his pajama pants and face twisted into a grimace.

“Yeah,” Felix said, voice rough, “sorry, I’ll head to bed.”

Minho didn’t think that was fair. If Felix needed comfort, he should stay here, where he could receive it. But Jeongin and Felix clearly had an agreement that they didn’t need his input for—they’d placed themselves on guard duty and didn’t want Felix’s big emotions to disturb Minho’s fragile composure. They thought him weak. Minho couldn’t even argue—that’s what he was.

“Aren’t you going to bed?” Minho asked when the credits rolled, and Jeongin reached out to close the laptop.

“Could I stay here?” Jeongin asked shyly, fiddling with his fingers. “Not on the bed with you or anything—on the floor. I’d bring my comforter.”

Minho stared. “What do you think will happen if you leave me here?”

“You’ll be sad.”

“I’m not sad,” Minho said, just because it felt like he had to. “I’m okay.”

Jeongin’s expression turned tense, and his mouth quirked down. “I see.”

“But you can stay if you feel like sleeping on the floor, it’s not like I’m gonna stop you.”

Minho watched him settle to sleep with a tug on his heart, unsure what to say, so he said nothing. When they switched off the lights, he turned towards the wall, listening to Jeongin fiddle with his charger cable, which didn’t quite reach where he was still scrolling on his phone.

“Hyung,” said Jeongin suddenly, minutes or maybe hours later. “You should tell Jisung-hyung you’re in love with him.”

Minho tried to stay still, hands gripping his blanket, but his chest constricted painfully. “Yeah,” he whispered after a beat.

He closed his eyes against the feelings crowding his head, trying to burst the borders like a flood, and breathed through his nose until it no longer felt like the air wasn’t reaching his lungs. It took some time for the dust to settle, but once it did, it revealed resolve.

“Yeah,” Minho said again. “I will.”

Chapter Text

Minho heard about what had happened at the other dorm simultaneously too late and too soon. He’d barely slept, which left him feeling shaky and nauseous, but he ignored it with stubborn endurance and snuck out long before Jeongin as much as stirred. Like a specter, he shuffled through the dorm, made himself some way-too-strong coffee, and dressed in whatever workout clothes he could find. Then, he left.

Once Minho had made up his mind and set the timer going, determined to fix all that he’d broken, he had a very short window to mold himself back into something he wouldn’t be ashamed of. It was a tall order, but Minho had already been living through his worst nightmare, which made everything else pale in comparison.

He needed—a charge, maybe. He remembered his grandpa starting an old tractor with wires clipped onto another car to jump-start the engine. Minho didn’t quite know how to replicate this procedure on himself, but that wasn’t going to stop him.

When he entered the gym, a whirlwind of caffeine, determination, and low-simmering hysteria, Minho went straight for the cardio machines, which were largely abandoned this early in the morning. His hands were trembling, an echo of last night, but it was nothing a truly murderous workout couldn’t fix.

Minho would concede that self-destruction wasn’t his drug of choice, but he could see the appeal—it felt almost too good. Drenched in sweat, with his earbuds in, and face set in a concentrated frown, he kept going even after it was clear that he should stop if he wanted to leave this gym on his own two legs. He would still need his body later this week when they got back to practice, but it was easy to ignore. Minho could physically feel the stringy lines of panicked thoughts arrange themselves back into something—sane. Still painful, but sane.

He was listening to a workout playlist that Changbin had shared with him at some point, and which Minho had never played, since his regular exercise was done with a PT. It was filled with Western music that Minho had no interest in, but the bass was loud, pounding in a rhythm strong enough to carry him forward even when his energy dipped below what would be considered safe. At least this, Minho thought sourly, he still had some control over.

After two hours of pushing himself to his absolute limits, he was finally chased off the bench press by a concerned-looking gym employee.

“Do you have anyone to spot you?” asked the man bluntly, critically eyeing the numbers on the weights Minho had chosen. “I don’t mean to offend, but it seems like a lot for your build.”

“Huh?” Minho mumbled and attempted to pause so he could sit up. His arms quivered when he tried to place the bar back on the rack, and the employee had to rush in to stop it from landing directly on Minho’s windpipe. “Sorry—” Minho gasped, “sorry, thank you.”

“I can’t let you keep going, sir,” said the man with a very serious grimace. His expression was not unlike that of a parent who had to clean the scraped knees of a child they had just warned not to run around recklessly. “This is very dangerous.”

Sufficiently chastised, Minho wobbled his way to the changing room on cotton legs, every muscle in his body burning like it’d been doused in acid.

As an idol, he’d been warned to avoid showering in public spaces, where anyone could recognize him and potentially take compromising pictures without him knowing, but Minho was willing to risk it. He couldn’t go home in the state that he was—he wasn’t even sure if his legs would carry him that far if he didn’t give them time to decompress under some hot water.

Could his life get much worse, anyway? If someone managed to snap a pic, at this point, Minho would probably just let them have it.

When he was getting dressed, having forgone drying his hair because his arms couldn’t possibly stay up this long, Minho realized that he’d taken Jisung’s faded hoodie to change into instead of literally anything else—preferably something from Minho’s own closet. It hadn’t been on purpose, which only magnified the nagging suspicion that the universe was trying to mock him. Minho pulled it over his head with a sigh.

When he arrived at the dorm, it was to the murmuring sounds of a serious conversation. Minho dropped his gym bag by the door and shuffled towards the living room with a frown, stopped in his tracks just behind the corner when he heard Seungmin’s tense voice.

“That’s so dangerous,” he was saying, “is he insane? It could have ended very badly.”

“He’s distraught,” answered Felix. “I don’t know what to do. Everything just keeps getting worse, and we can only watch.”

Minho stepped into the room with a distinct feeling of a stone landing at the bottom of his stomach. Seungmin, Jeongin, and Felix were all crammed onto the same sofa, huddled close together with their shoulders pulled taut, and they flinched when he showed up. Their heads snapped up in unison.  

“What happened?” Minho asked sharply, ignoring their eyes roaming over his still-flushed face and damp hair.

“Hyung,” said Felix softly, and his eyebrows pinched closer. His face was set in a way that betrayed nerves and sadness—big, turbulent, but distinctly different than last night. The others were still in their pajamas, but Felix was already dressed, and he was wearing a shirt that Minho knew was Jisung’s, because he’d gifted it to him himself.

Minho’s chest contracted painfully, like a fist wrapped around his ribs.

“Sit down for a bit,” Felix said, “okay?”

“No,” Minho snapped, ignoring the way his legs trembled under him. “No, just tell me.”

He didn’t miss Felix’s hands gripping the edge of the sofa like he was trying to leave tears in the fabric. Felix closed his eyes with a sigh. “I went to the other dorm last night,” he said, and Minho’s expression must have shown something because the others frowned as they watched him.

“You were with us,” Minho said dumbly. “We were watching a movie.”

“After that.”

Minho’s throat worked around the lump that started to grow inside it. “You went to talk to Jisung?”

“Not originally,” Felix said with his mouth curved down. “Channie called me after midnight to ask if I’d seen him. They were really freaked out—he didn’t say that he was going anywhere, he just disappeared, and they couldn’t get a hold of him for hours.”

Minho blinked back to reality after a momentary trip underwater to the sound of his dongsaengs all talking over each other, their voices alarmed, and eyes blown wide. He realized that he’d stopped breathing and that his hand was fisted in the front of Jisung’s hoodie like he was about to faint. He felt like it, too—his heart was all the way up his throat.

“No, no—it’s okay,” Felix said, materializing in front of Minho to put his hands over Minho’s trembling fist. “He’s home now. It’s fine. He’s fine.”

“What did he do?” Minho managed out, and his voice sounded throaty. “I mean—”

“Nothing bad, really.” Felix’s face became clouded, and his shoulders slumped. “Changbin-hyung says Hannie might have dissociated or something—do you know what that means, to dissociate? He was in a bad headspace, and he said he needed to be away, so he wandered around. But nothing happened.”

“Why? Why would he—”

“Hyung,” said Jeongin, soft but not one bit hesitant. His expression was gentle and earnest. “He thinks you hate him.”

Minho should have known this couldn’t last. Ever since the showcase, every day was just another step towards an inevitable conclusion—the looming prospect of Minho’s feelings turning into rot, a blight, destroying everything they touched. There was a part of him, something primal and frightened, which begged to do nothing, to keep lying, to stay hidden behind the walls he’d built, even if the holes were starting to show. It was safer and less likely to hurt.

Just until recently, Minho would have caved. His love for Jisung was his own, unwanted as it was, and he kept it close like a stolen treasure, something dangerous, tainted, shameful, but his all the same. He carried it where Jisung wouldn’t see it because that had seemed like the only option—to protect himself, of course, but most of all to protect Jisung. What right did Minho have to insert his love where it wasn’t needed? To put strain on Jisung’s relationship with Hyeri, when staying away could save them the pain?

How stupid he’d been.

“I have to go,” Minho said under his breath. The core-deep trembling that had taken over his body was fading but still far from being gone.

All three of his members seemed to catch on in a flash. Their expressions shifted in different directions—worry, surprise, uncertainty—but it was all lined with understanding.

“Yeah,” Felix whispered.

“Are you sure?” asked Seungmin with a frown. “Maybe you should wait until you’ve calmed down a little.”

Minho quickly shook his head, feeling stiff and robotic. “If not now, then—I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do it.”

“Are you—” asked Jeongin softly. “Are you okay?” His question came and went, unanswered.

Felix’s mouth quirked down. He reached for Minho’s hand to squeeze it. “Hannie is at the company,” he said. “He booked a studio, so you should catch him alone. You can do it, okay? I know you can.”

For fear of saying something too vulnerable, too revealing, Minho just clenched his teeth and nodded.

 The way to the company was a blur. In his head, there was an endless string of this is it, this is it, this is it, and it made him want to kick and scream. Minho had been dreaming of this moment, preparing himself, waiting for the best opportunity to confess his feelings with bated breath, because it had seemed like there was only one possible outcome—to be loved back. Having to go through with it when the opposite was true felt like a cruel joke.

Instead, his confession would be a last-ditch effort to keep their group from falling apart. A desperate attempt at carving out infection in hopes that whatever was left would be able to heal afterward. Minho was lucky to have just enough backbone to power through. He would do anything to save Jisung from being hurt any more than he’d already been, but the fear of rejection was there, raw and overwhelming.

And yet, he thought hysterically—what if? It was the devil speaking, Minho knew, but that did nothing to stop the delusions from taking root. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

When Jisung opened the door to his studio, he looked shocked to see Minho anywhere in his vicinity, which made perfect sense, but still stung.

Underneath the surprise, there was anger, Minho could see it easily—Jisung’s eyebrows were pulled close, his eyes narrowed, and lips pressed into a line. He looked tired, too. His skin was pale, hair hidden under a beanie that he’d pulled low over his face, and the bags under his eyes only half-obscured by the glare of his glasses.

“What are you doing here?” Jisung asked, not quite snapping, but close to it.

Minho took a nervous breath, trying not to betray that his seams were slowly coming apart.  “I heard you—I heard what happened last night. I wanted to see if you were okay.”

Jisung let him inside and closed the door. They stood several feet away from each other, stiff, and uncomfortable. “Well, I’m okay, as you can see,” Jisung said. “And nothing really happened.”

“I wanted to apologize.”

Silence. Minho’s heart was already racing, his lungs refusing to expand, and it took every ounce of his will to force his body into compliance.

“Why?” Jisung asked finally, and his voice was low, slightly choked up. It lanced through Minho’s heart like a skewer.

“I can tell that you’re angry, Jisung-ah,” Minho said slowly. “I don’t know how to fix that, but I know you have every right to be mad. I fucked up, and I’m sorry for leaving you in the dark. For avoiding you. I was… I was too scared to face you and I thought I could protect you if I kept away, but it ended up doing the opposite and that’s the last thing I wanted to happen. I shouldn’t have treated you this way and I regret it very badly.”

Jisung’s guarded expression rippled under a wave of something strong, heated, and his eyes turned glassy. He swallowed hard, and his hands flexed at his sides. Minho had to count his breaths before the sight dragged him under like a riptide.

“Yeah,” Jisung whispered, “you should.”

Minho nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said gently.

“Well, fine. Whatever.” Jisung’s gaze turned icy again. “Is that all you wanted to say?”

“No, it’s not.”

Minho’s hearing was coming and going now, and his hands were slick with sweat. He wiped them against his jeans shakily, trying to set his face into something that wouldn’t seem hysterical, and pouring all of his remaining energy into holding Jisung’s gaze. He needed to look at him. He needed to do this right, despite everything, despite feeling like a loose cannon, spinning out and destroying everything in its path.

Jisung deserved better.

“The real reason I came here is to explain,” Minho went on breathily. “Why I did that. What’s been happening with me. I should have done that from the start but I just—well, you’ll know once I tell you.”

“Okay,” Jisung said after a long, uncomfortable pause. “Then tell me.”

“I love you.”

No. Minho balled his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms so hard it stung. No, this wasn’t it. “I’m in love with you, Jisung-ah.”

The second he said it, the studio melted around him, sounds and colors draining until he was left suspended in a void. Minho could hear himself speaking, he was making sense, he was saying all the things he’d prepared, but it might as well have been a recording played through a speaker.

Jisung looked—shell-shocked, almost. Minho’s vision was distant and unreliable, but the overwhelming sense of confusion radiated off of Jisung in waves. Why are you surprised, Minho thought desperately, the words echoing inside his head like a scratched record, why couldn’t you see it?

It was belated, and fueled by panic, but still rang true—Minho felt like he’d always been overflowing, made up entirely of his love for Jisung, breathing it like air. How could have Jisung not seen it?

Then, the fog dissolved as if it had been sucked into a vacuum.

“If you need to stay away,” Jisung said, “then—then do.”

Minho’s diaphragm spasmed like he’d been punched, and he tried not to gasp, tried to hold whatever sound tried to claw itself up his throat, but wasn’t sure he’d managed.

Of course.

Minho had never cried in front his members. It was a simple fact—Minho wasn’t someone who cried, period, but especially not in front of those he was supposed to take care of. His members relied on him, needed him to be strong, and he’d made it a matter of honor to do just that.

There was no shame in tears, but Minho preferred to steer clear from expressing his emotions in a way that could be seen easily, in a way that attracted attention, that earned people’s pity, and made him feel small.

This was perhaps the worst time to be bested by pain, but Minho found that there was little he could do. He stared into the ceiling and blinked fast, clenched his jaw against the painful grip around his throat, but the tears still came, burning hot. He felt one spill over his cheek and it left a streak that felt like a line of exposed nerves.

He should have known. He had known, really, but that changed nothing in the face of what felt like years of foolish hope turning against him all at once, ramming into him with enough force to leave nothing in their wake.

“Well, that’s the extent of it,” Minho said with a chuckle when he noticed Jisung’s wide eyes and alarmed expression. “Hyung is very sorry. Please try not to worry too much, okay? It’s fine. We’re fine.”

Then, Minho left, and Jisung didn’t try to stop him.

Minho found himself stumbling down the hallway, pressing the cuff of his hoodie against his nose in hopes of holding off the flood. Everything felt like it was shaking, especially his legs, so he slumped against the closest wall and tried to catch his breath. It kept hitching in his throat wetly, and the tears were blurring his vision as they pooled in his eyes.

It was midday, people were working—someone would find him if he stayed like this, but he didn't know what to do. 

He wanted to run. It was instinctive, to disappear somewhere no one could find him and lick his wounds until his pieces mended back together. Hide, so he couldn’t be seen, and so his pain wouldn’t be perceived. But this—this was too much even for him. Minho had a feeling that if he’d left the building now, he would just walk into traffic. He needed—help. He needed help.

Minho pulled out his phone, clumsily scrolling through his contacts on KakaoTalk.

Me: are you in your studio?

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

Bang Chan-ssi: I am

Bang Chan-ssi: what’s up?

Minho pushed himself off the wall, his gait wobbly and uneven, and started for the elevators. There was someone already in one when it arrived on his floor—an employee from the corporate office, it seemed like. Minho pressed himself into the corner and shielded his face with his hands, hoping that the man wouldn’t hear him sniffling. And if he did—so be it. Humiliation seemed like a faraway concept at the moment.

When he reached Chan’s studio, Minho barged in without knocking and found Chan and Changbin recording something. He’d effectively ruined their take, and Changbin looked ticked off at first, ripping off his headphones with an imposing scowl. His expression shifted instantly when he looked at Minho’s face. Whatever he found there must have been startling.

“Minho-yah,” said Chan, rising from his chair in alarm, his eyes wide. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Minho wanted to shout at him, lighting up with anger, but couldn’t open his mouth because it felt like he’d start sobbing. There was something feral that reared its head inside his mind, and it urged him to flee—this had been a bad idea. He couldn’t do this, he needed to be alone, away from their prying eyes, from their worry, their questions.

He was already turning on his heel, but Chan lunged and snatched Minho’s wrist, his grip steely, unyielding.

“Aegi,” Chan said, so soft it ached, “don’t.”

Minho’s face twisted, he could feel it, and the lump in his throat doubled in size. The tears won in the end, and any semblance of control slipped through his fingers like smoke when he was forced to let them fall.

He wasn’t sure what to do with himself at first, and Chan’s devastated expression made it all the harder. Minho’s breathing edged into full-on crying bit by bit, even as he tried desperately to claw his way back. His chest felt like it was being ripped open from the inside, revealing something ugly, jagged, not to be seen.

“Come here,” Chan whispered and tugged him into a hug, which Minho resisted feebly. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

It was unfortunate to see Changbin over Chan’s shoulder and find his dongsaeng close to tears himself. The second their eyes met, Changbin rose from his chair and reached for Minho’s face, swiping some of the tears away with gentle fingers. Minho gasped like it hurt and ducked away to hide in the fabric of Chan’s t-shirt.

He couldn’t be looked at like that—like he was an animal wounded beyond saving. He couldn’t.

“Oh, hyung,” Changbin said wetly and circled them to plaster himself against Minho’s back.

It felt suffocating, the pressure coming from all sides, and all the nerves in his body fired confusing jumbled signals. It was too much, he didn’t want to be touched, he didn’t want to be held, but also needed it, or he’d simply fall apart.

Minho managed to compose himself with nothing but shame as his fuel. When he squirmed, Chan and Changbin pulled back, though he could tell they weren’t eager to do so by their lingering hands.

“Keep an eye on Jisung,” Minho said, and his voice sounded warbly and unfamiliar. He cleared his throat forcefully. “He might spiral, so just—just watch him.”

“You told him,” said Chan, not even a question, and Minho would have been surprised, if not for the scene he’d just made. He wondered briefly what Chan would incur from Minho’s reaction. Only one thing came to mind, really.

Minho nodded stiffly. “I’m going to stay away from him for—I don’t know. As long as it takes,” he said, and Chan hummed his assent even after Changbin’s expression turned dark and cloudy. “I’ll get over it. You don’t have to worry about me.”

At this, they both frowned, but Minho ignored them pointedly. He rubbed his face dry with his sleeve, a bit too aggressively for how he was supposed to take care of his skin, and reached for the door. “I mean it,” he went on, now sharper, icy. “I don’t want your worry.”

It wasn’t a realistic request, of course.

Still, the following days weren’t as impossible to bear as he’d expected. Now that he had all the facts in front of him, Minho found it quite easy to compartmentalize. Jisung hadn’t magically grown to love Minho while dating Hyeri, of course, he hadn’t, and Minho was glad to know it. Minho’s feelings were what they were, unrequited, and he had to deal with them on his own. The air was finally clear, at least, and the only thing left to do was to salvage whatever he could.

Get over it. It sounded fairly simple. It felt impossible, but he could try—Minho was good at trying. He loved his members, he loved Jisung, and he loved Stray Kids. He could stuff his feelings back where they came from and hope they’d die there if that’s what was required of him to repair the damage he’d done.

And so, that’s what he did. Minho worked diligently, stayed away from Jisung if he could help it, tried to be a good hyung to his dongsaengs, a good member to the group. If he never stopped long enough to think, he found that the pain became muted, which was the best he could hope for.

All of this meant nothing, of course, in the face of Jisung, who was angry, indignant, and annoyed by absolutely everything that had to do with Minho.

“Can you stop being a dick?” Minho heard Seungmin ask, which was simultaneously completely out of character, and somehow the most logical reaction to recent events.

They were filming SKZ Code in the snow, and Minho had just about finished begging Hyeri—because it had to be Hyeri—to let them change pairs because Jisung and Minho couldn’t work together. He felt wrung out and ashamed, followed closely by six pairs of eyes that were filled with pity, which was almost worse than having a fight on camera.

At first, Jisung had stormed off to fume somewhere on the far end of the set. It made sense—they’d gotten an earful from the director, who had called them out on their truly despicable teamwork and complete lack of chemistry, which was on Minho, after all. Minho didn’t know how else to apologize, so he just let him be.

Once Jisung finally joined their tent to grab some hot coffee from the thermos, he was instantly accosted by Seungmin, and it was obvious that another fight was imminent.

“Can you mind your own business?” Jisung replied sharply.

“Stop,” Jeongin said, stepping up and angling himself between them with an anxious grimace. “We’re at work.”

Seungmin conceded—he was never one to argue, really—and managed not to cave even when Jisung scoffed at them.

Minho ducked away, hoping no one would see the crack in his composure. He’d taken off his hat, and the cold was nipping at his ears, but it was sobering. He dropped into a crouch a safe distance from the rest of the crew and put his hands in the snow, chasing after something that would replace the searing pain radiating from his heart.

“Hyung.”

Minho flinched. There was a crunch of winter boots against snow, and then Changbin materialized at Minho’s side, crouching next to him. Changbin’s expression was set and darkened by a shadow Minho couldn’t identify, but his eyes were gentle.

When he noticed Minho’s hands, bright red from the cold, he reached for one and pulled it out of the snow, squeezing Minho’s fingers so hard his knuckles popped.

“I’ll talk to him,” Changbin said after a long beat of silence. His voice was low and clipped.

“Don’t,” Minho mumbled. “it’s not his fault.”

“Like hell it isn’t. He’s acting like an asshole, and someone should slap some sense into him.”

Minho very nearly started crying again. He held it in, biting down on his lip so hard he probably wiped all the lipstick off with his teeth.

“Changbin-ah,” he started, and then paused, gathering himself. “I think… he’s disgusted with me.”

Changbin made a throaty gasp of shock. He tugged at Minho’s hand, which made Minho sway into his side. Changbin’s arm snaked around his shoulders, squeezing him in with all the power of Changbin’s enormous biceps. “He isn’t,” Changbin said, but it came out weak. “There is nothing to be disgusted by, hyung-ah.”

Minho choked out a laugh, though it sounded like anything but. “I’ve been considering going on hiatus.”

Changbin stiffened. “Huh? What are you talking about?”

“Jisung’s like this because of me. What else is there to be done?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Changbin’s expression hardened into anger. “As if I’m going to let you put your career on the line to protect Jisung’s tiny little ego. I swear to god, this is—”

“Changbin-ah,” Minho said, cutting him off. “It hurts to be around him.”

“Oh,” Changbin whispered through a pained grimace, and his voice dropped into a whisper. “Hyung, I’m sorry. I’m sorry it’s like this. But—please don’t go, okay? It’s so unfair, but—don’t go. We can figure this out.”

Minho plastered on a smile. “I won’t,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

Then, it all came to a head when they were recording the dance practice for their title track.

The atmosphere was tense, their new usual, but Minho went into it feeling like he had a good enough grasp on himself. He made a point of not looking at Jisung, not out of spite, but to maintain a façade that wouldn’t make his members worry. He laughed along to Seungmin and Jeongin’s banter, did some dance challenges with Felix and Hyunjin—it was okay. Until it wasn’t.

Minho couldn’t even tell how it happened. The choreography was demanding but at this point basically polished into perfection, and his spatial awareness was usually impeccable, so the accident blindsided him completely. He was dancing one second, and then falling another, with just enough reflexes still functioning to twist himself before he cracked his head open on the floorboards.

He still hit the ground hard. It came to him with some delay, the sound of his face connecting with the floor, and it was followed by gasps and shouting when the music cut off.

The pain in his skull was far worse than he’d expected, and maybe that was what left him feeling so dazed. Minho felt almost drunk, the world around him slow, uneven, and the lights in the ceiling so bright they were like lasers. Something hot trickled down over his lips—blood? Surely not.

Minho blinked, and then Jisung was there, holding Minho’s face in his hands.

“Hyung,” he gasped, “oh my god.”

Jisung’s eyes were blown wide, hysterical. Why was Jisung looking at him like that? Minho opened his mouth to ask, but he immediately forgot his words, and all it did was make him taste copper. He was starting to feel nauseous, the floor swaying as if they were on the sea.

Then, something else happened. Minho wasn’t sure what—he flinched when Jisung raised his voice, and then again when the others responded with more shouting.Oh, right—the rest of the kids were still around. Minho felt like he should have been picking himself up, trying not to freak them out, but couldn’t quite locate all of his limbs.

When Jisung was gone, and with him the hands on Minho’s cheeks, Minho made a tiny panicked noise in the back of his throat. It prompted someone else to drop down in front of him. All the commotion seemed to have died down by then, leaving only murmurs.

“It’s okay.” If Minho blinked hard enough, he could tell that it was Felix, kneeling before Minho with a grave expression, and one hand raised as if he wanted to touch, but wasn’t sure where. “Just breathe, hyung.”

“Mingyu-hyung is on the way here, and he’s already called an ambulance,” said Changbin when he floated into Minho’s field of vision, wobbly like a picture cast on a thin veil of mist. He reached for Minho’s shoulder and squeezed. “You with us, hyung?”

“…ambulance?” Minho felt his own mouth mumble.

Changbin cursed under his breath. “God, he’s a fucking mess.”

“It’s okay,” Felix repeated with emphasis.

It wasn’t. Minho frowned and then jolted when it made his head pound even harder. “Where’s Jisungie?”

Silence. Minho’s nausea returned with another powerful wave, and he groaned as he fought through it. Before he even recovered, someone was holding his jaw and not-so-delicately rubbing a piece of cloth against his mouth and nose, which made him sputter like a cat being given medicine.

“I’m sorry, I know,” said Seungmin’s voice, gentle but firm. “You have blood all over your face, it’ll get tacky and feel awful. You also shouldn’t be eating it.”

The very idea of eating felt offensive. Still, to Minho’s credit, he managed not to vomit until he was already in the ER, which was a small blessing, but a blessing nonetheless.

It was incredibly embarrassing to heave into a little cardboard bowl while his manager awkwardly hovered by the bed. In a moment of clarity, Minho had tried to send Mingyu on his way, but was told that he wouldn’t leave him alone.

Minho didn’t necessarily need anyone with him, he wasn’t dying, but the hospital had offered to call his emergency contact, and that was his mom, so he instantly refused. Minho didn’t want to worry her. When pressured, he asked Mingyu to call Chan instead—which proved to be needless, since he’d already been on his way.

A mild concussion, they said. It didn’t feel mild—Minho’s head was exploding any time he as much as moved his eyeballs, and the world was yet to stop swaying, but the doctor assured him that it was normal. He was put on bed rest, made to promise he wouldn’t work, and that he would drink a lot of water. Then, they gave him some painkillers strong enough to make him drowsy, and off to the dorm he went, slumped against Chan’s shoulder in the cab.

“Is Jisungie okay?” he asked blearily, voice barely above a whisper.

“He will be,” Chan said after a beat. His hand had been gently sifting through Minho’s hair, but it paused for a moment. “Don’t think about him, and worry about yourself, okay?”

Minho thought it was a cruel thing to ask. Don’t think about him? He could barely recall a time in his life when his every thought wasn’t filled with Jisung, didn’t revolve around him in some shape or form. If he stopped thinking about Jisung, there would be nothing left.

And yet, despite everything, the following days were surprisingly calm. Minho was forced to accept being doted on by his members, unable to fend them off, but it didn’t bother him as much as he’d feared it would. Felix was cooking things that would be easy on Minho’s stomach, Seungmin bought him a few new books, since Minho had to stay away from screens. They were good kids.

Jeongin, for the most part, was just crying. Minho had tried to intervene, unable to stand the sound of it as it filtered through the walls, but was immediately sent back to bed by Seungmin, who appointed himself Minho’s watchdog.

“Let us handle it,” he said flatly. “Rest.”

Eventually, something changed. Felix and Seungmin had been taking turns sleeping on a yoga mat by Minho’s bed each night, despite his insistence that he wouldn’t flee the house under the cover of darkness, or perish from what could now be described as a mild migraine. He’d stopped expecting Jeongin to join in, and it must have shown in his face when he finally did because Jeongin’s cheeks turned pink.

“I’m sorry, hyung,” he said softly, shuffling in with his pillow and comforter under one arm. It felt a lot like the last time Jeongin had slept in Minho’s room, and Minho wasn’t sure what to think about that.

“Why are you sorry, hm?” Minho said, putting away his book, and sitting up just enough to see him better. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Jeongin grimaced but chose not to push. He started settling down, fiddling with his bedding, and then dropped down suddenly, wrapping his arms around Minho’s middle. He pressed his cheek against Minho’s chest. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Aw, aegi,” said Minho, feeling a bit too shaky to fully veer into sarcasm, but trying nonetheless. “Why are you being so sweet, huh? Want hyung to vomit on you?”

Jeongin pulled back with a grimace and lied down as if none of this had ever happened. Minho watched him for a moment with a small smile, and then settled down to sleep, too.

When he woke up, his head was hurting significantly less, which was a nice improvement. It was already bright outside, and though he was still only halfway there, the half that was present felt like something Minho could recognize.

He crawled out of bed and tried to wobble to the toilet, and then instantly tripped on Jeongin, who was still fast asleep.

“Ah, hyung!” Jeongin whined, grabbing whatever part of him Minho had stepped on. “Fuck me—ugh.”

“Yah, language!” Minho snapped blearily, itching to smack him across the head—no one had asked them to sleep by Minho’s bed like golden retrievers. Minho righted himself against his desk chair, joints cracking. “Fuck.”

“Hey,” Jeongin grumbled, sending him a groggy frown. “How’s that fair?”

“You want fair?” Minho shook himself off and loomed over Jeongin with his hands curled in like claws. “Stand up, so I can push you. Let’s see how you like it.”

Jeongin looked less intimidated than he looked relieved. He was smiling as he reached for Minho’s hand, using Minho as leverage to get back to his feet, and there was a strand of hair standing on top of his hair, which made him look like an apple.

This wasn’t what Minho expected to see when he was trying to threaten someone, but he let Jeongin have it. Minho hadn’t been the best hyung lately.

When they ventured out into the kitchen, they found Seungmin already there, still rumpled and in his pajamas, fiddling with the coffee maker. In true Seungmin fashion, he said nothing, just waved and instructed them to sit, then served Jeongin a cup of freshly made americano, and Minho some herbal tea, since he wasn’t allowed caffeine.

They slumped around the table, and the boys started chatting idly, not trying to involve Minho, which wasn’t unusual. Still, with the way they minced their words and danced around topics, he recognized it for what it was—a feeble attempt at restoring a sense of normalcy after Minho had sent the whole dorm into crisis mode. Minho supposed it was better than having to speak.

His tea was still warm when his phone started buzzing. To his utter surprise, he found Sullyoon’s name on the screen, and it made his eyebrows shoot up.

“Oh?” said Seungmin after he leaned out to see for himself. “What does she want?”

Minho shrugged and answered the call. “Yoona-yah,” he said, “everything okay?”

“Oppa,” said Sullyoon, and she sounded if not distressed, then at least ruffled. “I’ve heard what happened, I hope you’re feeling better.”

“I’m all fine, don’t worry.” Jeongin and Seungmin sent him critical looks, but he ignored them. “Did you want something?”

Sullyoon was silent for a moment. “I actually called to ask—well, about the rumors. You know, about us.”

Minho felt a distant pang of worry, but he tried to squash it before it spread. “You don’t have to worry about those. The best way to deal with stuff like this is to ignore it.”

“I know, only—” Sullyoon cut off, and exhaled. “I spoke to Jisung-oppa, and it made me wonder if I’d done something wrong.”

Minho blinked, staring into the wall. “Hm?” he said after a long pause.

“He asked if we were dating, so I assume that’s what he meant. I mean, what else, right?”

“He—” Minho’s eyes opened so wide his head immediately started pounding, the pain flooding him like a bucket of cold water. He took a breath, and it sounded sharp, whistling. “I’m sorry, Yoona-yah—he said what? I don’t think I follow.”

“He asked if there was something between us,” Sullyoon said, slower this time.

“You know what,” Minho said, voice barely louder than a whisper. “Let oppa call you back, okay?”

“Oh? Okay, I—”

Minho dropped the call before she even finished her sentence, and was brought back to reality by the sound of his chair scraping against tile. He didn’t recall moving but found himself standing already. Seungmin and Jeongin were looking up at him nervously, wide-eyed.

“I need to go,” Minho said numbly, and marched out of the kitchen, headed straight for his bedroom. Hurried footsteps followed him hot on his heels.

“You’re not supposed to leave!” Seungmin exclaimed.

Jeongin tried to catch Minho’s shoulder when he was pulling on a sweatshirt. “Hyung, can you tell us what happened?”

He ignored them with such ease it was like they weren’t there at all.

Minho was reaching for a pair of sunglasses to hide his black eye when he caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror, and it startled him into a momentary stop. His eyes were depthless, two black rings lined with fire, and Minho was honestly surprised that the mirror hadn’t just cracked.

Minho knew anger well. He dealt with it far better than other big emotions, knew how to channel it out before it consumed him, how to pour it into something that could handle the onslaught. But this—this was unlike anything Minho had ever experienced before. All the misery and pain he’d been choking on suddenly grew teeth and started snapping their jaws like rabid animals.

So, that’s what this was for Jisung, then—a game? He’d rejected him, broken his heart, made him feel worthless, a nuisance, an obstacle, and then started toying with his life? Meddling with Minho’s relationships like he had any right to do so? No, Minho didn’t think so.

And if his heart ached, betrayed, Minho wasn’t going to let it stop him.

Chapter Text

“Minho-yah,” said Chan exasperatedly, using the only time Minho physically couldn’t run away from him—the car ride.

They were on the way to a Season’s Greetings photoshoot, a pretty inconsequential schedule that Minho was hoping would end quickly. He’d checked the script, and he wasn’t listed for any group shots with Jisung, which was lucky. He would have asked for a switch, but he didn’t want to further attract the staff’s attention to the toxic tension within the group—it was detectable anyway, like a rancid smell.

“Could you at least tell me what he did?” Chan asked, attempting to touch Minho’s arm, and then withdrawing quickly when Minho yanked his hand back with an angry, sharp inhale. “Jisung was hysterical after you left.”

Minho tried not to cringe. Going to the company against the hospital’s orders and yelling at Jisung until he cried had not been Minho’s original plan. There had barely been any plan to begin with, but even so—the end result was an explosive haze of emotions that Minho wasn’t sure he could fully endorse in hindsight. It helped to remember that it was what Jisung deserved, but only barely.

“I couldn’t get anything out of him,” Chan went on, quieter this time, “I just want to help.”

It was commendable of Chan to keep trying—annoying, too, but that was a given. Chan’s very-normal-and-not-suspicious appearance at their dorm this morning to take Felix’s place in the car was just another attempt. But Minho had been evading him for days now and didn’t plan to stop. He would step out of a moving vehicle if that’s what it took—a fact Chan seemed to be distinctly aware of, given his haste.

Minho didn’t like being pressured.

Instead of saying anything, he jerked his head to point to where Seungmin, Jeongin, and Felix were all cramped in the last row, glancing nervously at the noxious cloud of stress hovering over their hyungs. When Minho met their eyes, they scattered instantly to pretend they hadn’t been looking, but that train had left the station.

Minho knew that Chan was desperate, but he needed him to get a grip. Minho was not going to bare his soul to satisfy Chan’s savior complex, let alone in front of a worried dongsaeng audience.

“Minho-yah,” Chan said again, voice worn out to the bone. He raked his hand over his hair, which was already a storm cloud of frizz at this point. “Please, work with me.”

“I am,” Minho said, his tone sour and flat. “We are literally headed to work.”

Chan’s eyes narrowed, his eyebrow twitching like he was about to explode. Minho watched him take deep breaths to compose himself, feeling an interesting mix of satisfaction and fear. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever made Chan angry but if today was the day, Minho would take it gladly.

“He’s really beating himself up over this,” was what Chan chose to say after he regained his composure. “If you could just—”

Minho’s gaze snapped to him with such incontrollable fury that Chan flinched back, startled. “If I could what, exactly?” he asked, voice low, a warning.

In a flash of hurt and viciousness, he almost spilled it all—what Jisung had done to cause this, how messed up it had been, how humiliating, how—no, no. Minho’s shoulders dropped, and the red haze receded from his vision.

He couldn’t do this.

He didn’t want the members to hear, for their opinion of Jisung to be tainted, even if Minho’s had been. He didn’t want anyone else to turn away from him, especially when Minho himself could see him struggling. He couldn’t—he couldn’t.

“I won’t cause problems,” Minho said in the end, defeated. His voice came out weak. “I just don’t want to—I don’t want to talk to him. I need time, okay?”

This seemed to make a difference. Chan nodded solemnly, his neck stiff, and turned back in his seat. He didn’t mention the topic again.

For the most part, it wasn’t impossible to stay away. Jisung was doing half the job by slinking about dressing rooms and sets like a ghost, avoiding everyone altogether. Choosing to use this to his advantage, Minho poured himself into work, trying to replace all the thoughts in his brain with script lines, lyrics, and scene directions.

Only, Minho wasn’t quite sure where to go from there. He’d never been this angry with anyone, not really, not like that, and especially not with Jisung. The burn of it came and went, an alternating current, and the waves of heartbreak it came with felt like a physical sensation—like a punch to the gut coming every few minutes, and yet always unexpected.

Why would Jisung do that to him?

It didn’t make any sense, and it hurt. Surely, Jisung already knew that Minho was gay. He should have known that. And if not, if somehow Minho hadn’t made it clear enough, Jisung should at least have a sense that Minho was still in love with him.

Was this all a joke to him? Was Minho a joke? Did Jisung really think that Minho had ruined their friendship, fractured the group, chased himself into a corner all to—what, kick some dust around his secret relationship with Sullyoon? Minho wanted to scream.

At least Sullyoon was easygoing enough to let this go. The initial fear that this fiasco would make her believe that Minho, six years her senior, was trying to come onto her had settled some but still lingered. If he thought about it, the anger always crept back in, fresh as ever. Minho didn’t know what to do with it, so he just kept it—maybe if he had enough, it would transform into a solution.

His resolve was tested when they were on their final dry runs for the MV shoot. A break had been called, and Minho was instantly accosted by Felix and Jeongin asking to take them to the vending machine because they wanted something sweet. Still panting and dripping with sweat, Minho relented, and then dutifully bought them each a drink.

“Not even a thank you for your hyung,” he grumbled as they chattered along on the way back.

Felix pursed his lips. “I can give you a kiss,” he offered. Minho grimaced.

“I’m good,” he said. Felix laughed.

When they returned to the practice room—hot, humid, and filled with cooling-down backup dancers—Minho quickly separated himself from the others and went for the only available seat on the bench to slump in. People were on their phones, so it was mostly quiet, but he still put his earbuds in. He was tired, more than physically.

As he was fanning himself with his beanie, trying not to catch anyone’s eye lest he was forced to hold a conversation, Minho’s attention drifted to a phone lying next to him on the bench. It was one of the many things spilling out of a gutted backpack—water bottle, headphones, some loose papers, toothbrush. It was Jisung’s, of course. Easy guess.

Minho looked around, but Jisung was nowhere to be found. He fought with himself for a moment, hands opening and closing on nothing, but ultimately gave in and started fixing the mess. He folded Jisung’s towel, placed his things back inside, and then zipped the backpack up again, the tips of his fingers tingling uncomfortably.

He was just putting Jisung’s phone on top when it vibrated in his hands, and the screen lit up with a notification.

Hyungie: yah Jisung-ah, you’re ignoring my texts AGAIN

Hyungie: do I need to buy a bubble subscription to talk to my own brother??

Minho didn’t mean to read the messages, it just happened. From all the pending notifications hidden behind them, it seemed like there were many more texts Jisung was ignoring. Minho didn’t like this knowledge. He sat there with a deep sense of wrongness burrowing into his gut, gripping Jisung’s phone so hard the case around it creaked.

Eventually, he put it down, afraid that someone would see him. Still, his hands itched, so Minho grabbed his own phone and started scrolling through his contacts on KakaoTalk with a grimace he could physically feel tugging on his features. He felt foolish—and yet. He started typing.

Me: Jihoon-hyung

Me: It’s Stray Kids’ Minho

Minho stared at the texts like he wanted to burn holes through the screen. He’d never exchanged any messages with Jisung’s brother. He wondered if Jihoon even had Minho’s contact saved. He swallowed hard and tried again.

Me: Jisung is having a hard time. Call him when you can, okay?

Minho closed his eyes, his jaw clenching until his teeth hurt. When he heard the phone chime and Jihoon’s name popped up over Soonie’s face on his lockscreen, he immediately swiped the notification away and resolved to never read whatever it said.

It would have been easier not to care.

When the MV shoot began, Minho could sense disaster approaching. The magnitude of this project was overwhelming for everyone, even if they were on top of their game. Jisung looked like something dragged up from a grave, all jittery, and ashy, his eyes red and hollow. Whenever their gazes met, Jisung flinched back like he’d been punched.

How was this fair? Minho couldn’t even get angry without triggering some kind of catastrophic response that had the potential to impact the whole group. He felt like a villain—had been from the start—and didn’t know how to retrace his steps back to when it had been easier to keep the sorrow inside, hidden from view. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to.

“Remember,” the director was saying after they’d finished rehearsals for the first group scene, “the camera will be coming in low from that end, so be mindful, yeah?”

“If it were to hit anyone, it’s gonna be Hyunjin,” said Seungmin, and Hyunjin cackled loudly.

“Don’t jinx me!”

Minho zoned back in when someone bumped into him as they were shuffling into formation. He glanced over his shoulder and found Jisung looking at him like a deer caught in the headlights—if deer were normally this pale and trembly. Jisung’s golden, meticulously styled hair was being defeated by the sweat pearling on his forehead.

Minho could swear Jisung had not been this clammy and translucent just ten minutes ago. He frowned, and it had the immediate effect of scaring Jisung away in a flurry of wobbly footsteps. Minho clenched his fists and tried to focus on the dance.

They barely started the second take when Minho saw it happen. The run was ruined already, if only by the fact that Minho had not been looking at the camera, and instead staring at Jisung. Just before the pre-hook, Minho stopped dead in his tracks, almost tripping up Felix, and watched Jisung’s legs buckle.

It was Minho’s worst nightmare—he was too far to make it. His distress must have alerted Chan because he was already looking at Minho when he turned to him, wide-eyed.

“Jisung!” Minho barked over the music, voice sharp, and that was all Chan needed to blink into action. He was just behind Jisung at the time, and he swooped in low, catching him mid-fall with an audible oof when he was pressed into the floor by Jisung’s dead weight.

There were gasps, shouting, and then the music cut off. Minho’s heart was up in his throat, and he found it hard to breathe when he saw Jisung’s pale face completely slack, his head propped up against Chan’s thigh. He was already mid-step when someone grabbed him by the back of his shirt and yanked him back.

“They’ve got him,” said Seungmin with a stiff shake of his head. “Don’t.”

Minho almost bit his hand off but was interrupted by more commotion when Jisung came to. He looked so awful, sprawled on the floor, shaking, his eyes searching for something against the glare of the set lights.

“Everyone, take a step back, okay?” Chan said when he noticed the twist in Jisung’s expression. “Let’s not crowd him. Hyung-nim, have you called an ambulance?”

Mingyu, looking panicked himself, was already pulling out his phone. “One second, Chan-ah.”

 “No ambulance,” Jisung mumbled, voice barely there, “I’m fine.”

“You collapsed!” said Felix, just barely managing not to ruin his makeup by crying. His lower lip was wobbling.

“I’m fine.”

“He hasn’t eaten a thing,” said Seungmin, making Minho flinch. “That’s probably why. Low sugar.”

“Aegi, do you even know what happened?” asked Chan gently.

A pause. Everyone stilled, watching as Jisung’s frame shook under another powerful shiver. “I fell,” he whispered in the end.

Minho yanked himself free of Seungmin’s hold and sent him a venomous glare when he reached for him again, which had Seungmin staggering back, hands raised. Minho stomped across the set and knelt by Chan’s side, dealing with everyone’s loaded stares by refusing to acknowledge them at all.

Chan’s eyebrows went up, but he didn’t make it in time with questions before Minho slipped his arms under Jisung’s back and knees and lifted him off the ground. Jisung’s clothes were damp to the touch, and the trembling felt like a continuous vibration. When Jisung’s head lolled against Minho’s collarbone, Minho tilted his face to give him more room.

“He’s cold,” he announced, voice still low with anger, and tinted by worry.

Minho carried Jisung off to their dressing room, distinctly aware that he was being followed, yet unable to care. It was dim inside, and he chose not to flip the lights on, setting Jisung on the small leather sofa in the corner. He tried to balance being gentle and not letting his hands linger because they shouldn’t. It was a tightrope walk.

Still on his knees, Minho reached for his puffer jacket, which was on a nearby chair, and draped it over Jisung, whose eyes had fluttered closed at some point. He was startled by the touch, and Minho almost reached for his hair to soothe away the tension from his face.

“Here, hyung,” said Seungmin. Minho found him standing right next to them with Chan and Felix. He was holding a box of strawberry juice, and it had the immediate effect of making Minho feel awful for snapping at him earlier. Seungmin didn’t look like he minded, at least—his expression was worried, but calm, and earnest.

Minho jabbed the straw into the box and carefully lifted Jisung’s head off the sofa just enough to make sure he wouldn’t choke. “You need to drink,” he told him. “It will help.”

Jisung looked extremely dazed, but he listened. He was no longer quite as pale, but the difference was too small for comfort, and Minho had to use every muscle in his body to stop his fingers from sifting through Jisung’s hair.

When Jisung tried to squirm away, Minho frowned. “You need the sugar,” he told him sternly. “Don’t fuss.”

His composure shattered into a thousand pieces when Jisung’s gaze became lucid enough to actually meet Minho’s, and Jisung’s expression shifted into something vulnerable, searching.

“Hyung,” Jisung mumbled. His hand reached for Minho’s sleeve, his movements clumsy, desperate, and Minho was snapped out of whatever haze had wrapped itself around him as if someone had poured a bucket of cold water over his head. He needed to get away.

He shook Jisung’s hand off and got back to his feet, his heart shriveling up at the sound Jisung made—soft and devastated. Minho had to clench all his muscles, or he would have started cracking like an old clay pot.

“You’ve got this,” he told no one in particular, his voice choked and thready. He dove under their intense, worried stares like they were projectiles, and pushed his way to the door on wobbly legs. “Let him sleep for a bit and give him something to eat. He’ll be fine.”

Chan took a sharp breath. “Minho-yah—”

“I’ll check on the others.”

Then, Minho fled. He stopped only when he was at the edge of the set, with most of the staff scattered on an emergency break, and stumbled into a corner where he hoped he wouldn’t be seen. He crouched behind one of the big lights to cover his face with his hands. He felt as if there was a wild beast shredding his insides with every breath.

Coward. He should have stayed. But also—he couldn’t. Not if he hoped not to lose his mind. Minho felt a familiar burn in his throat, the onrush of grief that never truly left and almost laughed at how helpless he was against it, his very own feelings turned into a knife he could only ever grab by the blade. It had always been this way—stupid little Minho, just a bit too attached, a bit too devoted, too all-consuming. Too much.

If he wanted to get over Jisung, perhaps first he should learn how to love less.

Somehow, they managed to finish the shoot without extending the schedule, which seemed like a miracle. When Jisung rejoined the next day, he was doing markedly better—so much so that Minho wasn’t really sure what to make of it. Still, it worked in their favor. With the group back as eight, they got the job done and returned to the relative calmness of their everyday life.

Minho, for his part, couldn’t escape the feeling that something was looming, and it made him volatile.

While out on a convenience store run, he stopped in front of the other dorm’s building and stared at the nighttime sky over the rooftop like it could tell him something he didn’t know. Jisung’s window was facing that way, and the light was on. Minho wondered if Jisung was feeling better. If he’d been crying.

Clutching the plastic bag with instant ramyeon he’d bought for the house, Minho pulled out his phone and dialed the most recent number. His hands were numb from the cold, his jacket just a bit too thin to linger outside, and his breath created clouds around his face. The signals felt hours long.

“What’s up?” asked Eunsoo’s voice. He sounded wary like he was expecting a crisis. Maybe he wasn’t wrong. “You okay?”

Minho turned on his heel and headed for the small park nearby, which was almost entirely empty this late at night, bar the occasional dog walker. He marched through the grass aimlessly, trying to find a way to respond without imploding.

“I think he might be gay, too,” Minho said in one gasp, his hand holding the phone trembling with how bruising his grip was. “Or—I don’t know. But he’s into men. Just not into me.”

And that was infinitely worse, wasn’t it? The thought that Jisung could love him, but didn’t, was incomparable to knowing that it had never been an option. Minho felt the tide of despair rise around him slowly, inch by inch, until he was drowning. His breathing started picking up, and given Eunsoo’s sharp inhale, he’d noticed.

“What makes you think that?” Eunsoo asked soberly. “Is he not dating that woman?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Minho snapped, frustrated. “I just—I just know. I can see it.”

“Okay, Minho—listen. This has nothing to do with you. You can’t control his feelings, you can only control yourself.”

Minho almost ended the call but stopped himself at the very last second. The sound of his teeth grinding together could probably be heard over the line.

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Stop getting angry with me,” said Eunsoo flatly. Then, he sighed. “Fine. If you really think he’s gay, then he’s definitely in love with you.”

Minho barked out a laugh so hysterical that an old woman walking her Pomeranian looked at him with reproach.

“Funny.”

“Minho, I swear to god—if I was gay, I’d be in love with you. If my grandma was younger, she’d be in love with you. I’m pretty sure Taerae’s hamster is in love with you.”

“I’m being serious—”

“So am I! You called me to hear my opinion—take it or leave it.”

In the end, Minho did drop the call, just because he was too annoyed to continue. He stomped all the way back home, forced to take the long way to avoid walking by the other dorm for fear of triggering something unstoppable.

“Did you get the tteokbokki?” asked Felix the second Minho stepped through the door, and had just enough luck to be himself and not Seungmin, or the bag Minho threw his way would have been aimed at his head.

“No,” Minho shot back without looking and cut through the flat like a missile.

He burst into his room, slamming the door shut, but the silence only magnified whatever chemical reaction was taking place inside his brain, so he threw himself on the bed and pressed his face into the pillow to scream. Someone must have heard—there was a knock on the door soon after, but Minho ignored it stubbornly.

“I’m fine!” he shouted, and the knocking ceased. Good.

The crimson haze receded some when he felt his phone vibrate in the pocket of his sweatpants. Expecting Eunsoo, Minho clumsily unlocked the screen, only to find Jisung’s name there. It startled him into sitting up.

Jisung-ah: Hyung, hi. I wanted to tell you that I spoke to Yoona. I apologized for what I did, and I will apologize to you, too, when we see each other next. I hope you’re feeling well and that you eat all your meals.

Jisung-ah: You don’t have to reply. Sleep well.

Minho stared, blinking hard, and his body felt suspended between reactions, no clear winners in sight. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but he forced himself to put the phone away and take a deep breath.

This was fine. Jisung could apologize—Minho wanted an apology, after all. Only, what was the nervous ache in his chest? Why were his hands sweating? He wiped them down his pants forcefully, frowning into the darkness. Sleep well. Unlikely.

And yet, he slept. He must have, because he woke up feeling utterly confused, unsure who he was, where he was, and still wearing the clothes from the night before. He squinted around his too-bright room until he located his own wrist to look at the watch. It was 1 PM. Minho had never slept in this long in his life.

The sky was cloudy but bright, and he could hear winter birds singing outside, somewhere close to Minho’s windowsill. Minho grimaced, rubbing his face so hard he saw stars, and groaned into his hands. He wasn’t sure what he could possibly do to salvage this day. At the very least, he didn’t have to go to the company—their recording session was scheduled for tomorrow.

Minho managed to shower without having to face other human beings, but his luck ran out there. He needed to leave his room if he wanted to eat—and he did want to, or he’d end up binging on something that would destroy his diet when his self-control inevitably weakened.

Hoping to find the dorm empty, he ventured out, feeling distinctly like a feral animal lost in the middle of the city. Not even ten steps into the hallway, he heard murmuring voices and closed his eyes against an onrush of frustration. Did those kids never leave the house?

When he peered into the kitchen, uncomfortable and exposed, he found Seungmin, Jeongin, and Felix hunched over a phone that was propped against the saltshaker in the middle of the table. They were watching something with concentrated frowns.

Minho narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing?” he asked, and they flinched in unison.

“Oh, we—” Felix moved his hands around as if vague gestures could substitute words. His expression was tense.

“Listening to the radio,” said Jeongin haltingly. They were both glancing at Seungmin, clearly waiting for him to say something, but Seungmin only stared. His lips were pressed into a line.

It wasn’t immediately clear why listening to the radio would warrant this type of ridiculous behavior, but Minho got there in the end. The volume was low, but when he focused hard enough, he could hear it—Jisung’s voice, unmistakable.

“It’s a song about wanting to be in love but worrying that you’re never going to have the opportunity,” he was saying. “Realizing that you’re falling behind, and there is nothing you can do about it. I—I don’t know. I’ve been changing direction a few times—love is a complicated subject.”

Minho was frozen like a statue, arms pressed against his sides, the world around him slow and distorted. He’d forgotten Jisung was supposed to be on Dekira today. It had been on Minho’s calendar at some point, but he’d removed all mentions of Jisung from his reminders one desperate night when he’d been on the verge of diving out the window.

He didn’t even know when, but his body made a decision to flee. He was already turning on his heel when someone grabbed his wrist and pulled him back.

“Hyung,” said Seungmin, lying halfway across the table with how far he was leaning out of his chair. “I think you should listen.”

Minho scowled at him. He wanted to listen, but he was scared—was it not obvious?

Still, the weight of three expectant stares was enough to unglue his feet from the floor. He squirmed away from Seungmin’s hold and snatched the phone from the table, finding that the video stream was on. He could see Jisung, dressed in cozy oversized clothes, sitting in his chair with a beanie low over his face, nervously twiddling with a pen.

“—it’s not just about not knowing how to find love,” he was saying, “it’s about… missing it. Like, it’s been there, right by your side, but you never realized. And that feeling, this need for something—it was actually love as well. So, it’s two people who love each other, but never at the same time.”

Jeongin covered his mouth with his hand, and Felix gasped. If there was any air left in Minho’s lungs, he would have probably done the same. As it was, he just stood there, stunned into silence, the edges of his vision going gray with the effort it took just to stay upright.

“Ah, I know the feeling,” said the host in response. “And then it’s too late?”

“I guess so,” Jisung said, and he lowered his face. His voice turned quiet, thoughtful. “It’s just that by the time you know you’re in love, this other person has become tired of waiting. Never been in love before, been by it more, always a miss—misfire. These are the lyrics. Well, some of them—it’s a work in progress.”

Seungmin took the phone back when the conversation was cut short by another song coming on and muted the stream—it was bound to end soon, anyway, it’d been going for over an hour at that point. The silence was so profound that Minho could hear himself swallowing.

“I—” he choked out, feeling out of breath. He forced himself to look at the others and flinched back violently when met with their blazing expressions and flushed faces.

“Hyung,” Felix whispered, “call him.”

“He’s still on air,” said Seungmin soberly. “Wait until it’s over.”

“Well, text him, at least,” urged Jeongin.

Minho plucked out his phone and opened the chat with Jisung, all the letters on the screen blurring into a shapeless blob. He thanked autocorrect for catching on because his hands were shaking too much to type accurately.

Me: What the fuck

Me: What the hell was that?

That was likely not what his members had in mind when they said to text Jisung, but it was all Minho had to offer. Urged into action by a jolt of electricity, Minho left the kitchen and stumbled back into his room, trying not to bounce against the walls like a pinball.

“What are you going to do?” asked Seungmin from the door. His face was unreadable.

“Kill him,” Minho said breathily, grabbing a random hoodie, pulling it over his head, and looking around the room for his keys. “I don’t know.”

“The stream ended!” called Felix from the kitchen.

Minho found his keys under the desk, where he must have thrown them last night, and without even bothering to get back to his feet, he dialed Jisung’s number. It kept ringing, and ringing, and then went to voicemail. Minho cursed and opened the chat again.

Me: Han Jisung I’m losing my mind

Me: Pick up the goddamn phone

He grabbed his bag from the chair, crawled back to his feet, and made a beeline for the hallway to put on his shoes. Seungmin, Jeongin, and Felix followed him around like ducklings, not saying anything, but emanating questions in fiery waves. He left them without answers—it wasn’t like he had any.

As he was running down the stairs, for lack of better ideas, he called Chan. When Chan didn’t pick up either, he tried Changbin.

“Is Jisung coming to the studio?” asked Minho the second Changbin answered.

“He’s at the radio,” said Changbin with confusion evident in his voice. “Why?”

“The broadcast already ended,” Minho said with an impatient huff, barreling onto the sidewalk like a stick of dynamite rolling down a hill. A group of schoolgirls sent him a weird look, and it was probably justified. “He’s not picking up.”

“He’s probably on the way, then—”

“He said—” Minho cut off when his throat spasmed, and he closed his eyes, remembering Eunsoo’s words. “He was talking about me. About us. I think he’s in love with me.”

A beat of silence. “I’m sorry, what?” Changbin choked out.

“Help me,” Minho said and could sense Changbin’s shoulders tensing even without seeing him.

“Hyung, breathe. If he’s at the company, I’ll find him. In the meantime, try the dorm—he was supposed to go home after.”

Minho thanked him curtly and ended the call, starting down the street on wooden legs. By the time he reached the other building he was breathing hard, but at least some of the shaking had gone away. He barely stepped into the lobby when his phone started ringing. Jisung.

He picked up clumsily, fumbling with the touchscreen. “Han Jisung,” Minho snapped into the speaker, “what is—”

“Hyung,” Jisung cut him off, “hyung, where are you?”

“Literally in front of your front door!”

“The dorm?”

“Where else?” Minho barked. “If you refuse to see me, I’m going to blast music through a speaker under the window until I get arrested.”

“Just get inside, okay?” Jisung said, surprisingly calm. “I’m not there yet, but I’m on my way. Don’t get arrested.”

“On your way? I thought—”

Minho was slapped in the face with beeping when Jisung hung up on him. He blinked at the screen in disbelief—he was really going to kill him.

When he entered the dorm, he could smell spices and grilled meat—someone must have been eating lunch. That someone was Hyunjin, as it quickly turned out when he leaned out of the kitchen. “Oh, hyung?” he blinked at Minho with big wary eyes.

“Eat your food,” said Minho, trying hard not to snap, but likely failing. He stepped out of his shoes and cut through the flat straight to Jisung’s room. Hyunjin’s hurried footsteps followed.

“Jisung isn’t home,” he rushed to say, “he has a schedule.”

“I know. I’ll wait.”

“Did you—did you need something from him?”

“I’d say so,” Minho murmured, flexing his hands. Hyunjin looked like he was ten seconds away from calling reinforcements. “It’s fine, Hyunjin-ah,” Minho said. “I’m fine.”

“You—you don’t look fine.”

Minho’s gaze sharpened, and he narrowed his eyes.

“I’m fine,” he repeated slowly, and Hyunjin quickly backed off.

When the door closed, and he found himself alone, he was hit with the mortifying realization that things had changed. Not literally—the room looked more or less the same, including the mounds of clutter and some dirty dishes, but it felt different. The only thing out of place was the framed picture of the two of them that Minho had left facing the wall. It was now on Jisung’s bedside table, angled to the pillow. Minho’s heart started pounding.

As he waited, the hysterical energy that had fueled him all the way from home slowly evaporated, and it left Minho feeling hollow. He sat on the bed, back straight, stiff, and tried to look at nothing, to touch nothing. His hands were clammy, and he wrung them together so hard they hurt.

It’s two people who love each other, but never at the same time.

Was Jisung out of his mind? When had there ever been a time in which Minho didn’t love him? It made Minho angry—angry that no, there hadn’t been, and that Jisung didn’t know it. Minho couldn’t stand feeling lost like a child, and yet here he was. He groaned into his hands.

When he heard the front door open, he shot back up just in time for Jisung to burst into the room like a tornado, all tussled, flushed red, and winded. His eyes were impossibly wide and desperate as they roamed Minho’s face, searching. It was like being touched by something hot just enough to burn.

Minho felt the urge to retreat into his shell but fought through it. “Han Jisung,” he said weakly, and then frowned. “Wait, did you run here?”

There’d been a time when Minho thought Jisung was his. He’d lived in a bubble made of hope, just close enough to bask in Jisung’s light, to get a taste, but not enough to reach for him because the fear of losing what little he had had been stronger. Minho made friends with being afraid. Jisung wasn’t his, but he'd thought that if he stayed still enough, he would make a place for himself by Jisung’s side the way water could slowly carve stone.

That fear—the fear of never getting to have Jisung at all—was nothing in the face of being kissed like Jisung had been starving for it since the very day they’d met.

Chapter Text

Minho came to his senses when he was hovering over Jisung on his elbows, and their mouths were locked in a kiss that seemed just a bit too intense. He’d been in a sort of haze, an undisclosed high that had washed away his inhibitions, but the mist began thinning when his body ached for more, grew hot, wanting—no. Dangerous.

“Hyung?” gasped Jisung when Minho broke the kiss and, for lack of better ideas, simply collapsed on top of him like a human blanket. Jisung’s hands went up at first but then started rubbing Minho’s back in circles, gentle, soothing.

Minho felt tears well in his eyes again, so he squeezed them shut, hiding his face in the pillow next to Jisung’s head.

Jisung smelled like the perfume he always carried in his bag, citrusy and fresh, which was a startling realization. Minho hadn’t been aware he’d missed it this much until the scent reached him again, and it felt like a punch in the gut. Jisung’s hair was fluffy against Minho’s cheek, too soft. There was an urge to burrow deeper, disappear somewhere in the crook of Jisung’s neck, but Minho swatted it away like a mosquito.

“Are you okay?” Jisung went on quietly. “Is something wrong?”

I’m so in love with you. What was Minho supposed to do with this? It had settled in his mind after Jisung had said it, with all the grace of a shipwreck reaching the bottom of the sea, and Minho knew it wasn’t a lie. But knowing and believing were a different thing. Knowing that Jisung chose Minho over Hyeri was not quite the same as believing that he’d made the right decision.

“I don’t know,” Minho whispered.

“Okay,” Jisung hummed and moved his hand to sift through Minho’s hair. His voice sounded a bit breathy, though Minho wasn’t sure if it was from the pressure of being under Minho’s dead weight or from the kissing. Maybe a bit of both. “You’re okay, baby.”

Minho wanted to laugh. He wasn’t sure how to explain that he was simply waiting for the other shoe to drop. It felt like having one of those dreams where you knew you were dreaming, and that whatever you did, whatever you had, would be taken from you the moment you opened your eyes—not sure, not sure, not sure.

“Baby,” Jisung said again, a bit whiny now. “Talk to me.”

“No,” Minho grumbled into the pillow. Then, he almost set himself on fire when his stomach decided to use this intermission to rumble so loudly it could probably be heard all the way in Hyunjin’s room.

“Aw,” Jisung chuckled. “I think we should order some food, hm? Someone’s hungry.”

“Shut up,” Minho said, finally lifting himself off to crawl back and sit where not a single atom of him was touching Jisung, mindful of how to position his legs—for absolutely no reason at all. He was scowling, but it didn’t elicit the desired reaction. Jisung’s eyes were crinkled in a smile.

“Did you not have lunch?”

“I didn’t even have breakfast,” Minho said purposefully, trying to check Jisung’s reaction. His chest tingled when Jisung frowned.

“Hey,” he said, “it’s so late, what the hell?” He reached for his phone and started rapidly tapping on the screen. “What do you want to eat?”

“I don’t know,” Minho said, wondering why he was being this contrary, but not hard enough to actually do anything about it. He felt—uncertain. On edge.

Jisung took it in stride. He sent Minho a small smile. “Let’s have japchae, then. I ordered some with Channie-hyung the other day and it was very good.”

Minho wasn’t sure what to say, so he said nothing. While Jisung was busy ordering, Minho’s brain lit up with a sudden realization that they hadn’t been alone in one room for—weeks, probably. It was an uncomfortable thought. He gripped the fabric of his sweatpants nervously, feeling almost resentful that it happened—that they’d been apart because getting here took time. He tried to shake himself off, but some of the sadness lingered.

Minho was startled out of his head by Jisung’s voice.

“What are you thinking?” Jisung asked. When Minho looked up, he found him sitting closer than before, his legs folded under him on the comforter, and his eyes earnest and doe-like.

“Hm?”

“I can see that you’re thinking something,” Jisung went on quietly and his hand reached out to Minho tentatively.  Minho caught it in his before he’d even made a choice to do so. Jisung’s fingers were cold and a bit clammy, which sobered Minho instantly—Jisung was stressed. He was getting nervous because Minho sat there like a sullen toddler.

“What about you?” Minho asked, trying to uncoil. He rubbed Jisung’s hand gently, hoping to work some warmth back into it. “What are you thinking of?”

“That I’ve missed you,” Jisung said after a short pause. “So, so bad.”

Minho swallowed, and it came out loud in the silence. “I missed you, too,” he told him.

Jisung plastered on a smile, though Minho could tell it was a bit strained. “Do you want to watch some anime while we wait?”

Somehow, it was exactly what Minho needed to hear. He let his shoulders drop and nodded, feeling some of the disembodied sadness wash away like chalk under the rain.

They settled back on the bed with Jisung’s laptop balanced on Minho’s stomach, Jisung cuddled into his side, one arm wrapped securely around Minho’s middle, and Minho felt like a piece of a puzzle slotted right into place. There wasn’t enough of him left to ponder things that were best left un-pondered when finally, finally, he could breathe again. Had he been holding his breath all this time? It felt like it.

At some point, Jisung’s thumb started soothing circles into Minho’s hip. Minho realized that he wasn’t exactly following the episode anymore and that his eyes kept drifting up into the ceiling, where his gaze turned unfocused, and his awareness dulled until all he could feel was Jisung’s warmth through their clothes. Minho’s arm tightened reflexively around Jisung’s shoulders to pull him closer, which elicited a soft hum from Jisung.

“Hyungie,” Jisung mumbled.

Minho pressed his nose into Jisung’s hair.

“You’re not even watching,” Jisung went on with a snort.

“I am.”

“Don’t lie!” Jisung shook his head, which made his cheek rub against Minho’s collarbone. “This hyung.”

Minho chuckled, and then, without warning, his smile fell off like a piece of crumbling plaster. There was a sudden stab of something cold in his chest, and he had to brace himself against it.

“Are you—are you still dating Hyeri?”

Jisung choked on air and had to drag himself up to start coughing. Minho lifted, too, and stared at him with a sense of unnamed dread clawing its way up his throat. Jisung’s face was red, and his expression startled, wide-eyed.

“W-what?”

“What I said.”

Jisung’s frown deepened. Before he even opened his mouth, there was a buzzing sound from the intercom in the hallway—the food was here.

“Wait,” Jisung said breathily, struggling to pick himself up with one of his feet tangled in the blanket. Minho helped free him reluctantly, lest Jisung fell and lost his teeth on the carpet. “Just wait, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Minho hadn’t been planning to run off, but perhaps his expression said otherwise because Jisung was watching him like a hawk all the way to the door. He left it cracked just a bit, probably with the intent to listen, in case Minho made a run for it.

With a frown, Minho rewrapped himself in his shell, tugging the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands. He couldn’t remember the last time his mood was this prone to swinging back and forth, but then again—this was uncharted territory. Just last night, all of this had seemed impossible. It felt precarious, like an elaborate trap to make him yearn, make him dig himself a hole, only for the rug to be pulled from under his feet.

Jisung returned with a plastic bag moments later, but he dropped it off on his desk before making a beeline back to the bed. Minho flinched when Jisung lunged and seized his face in his hands, holding Minho firmly in place, his gaze frazzled but steely.

“Yah,” he said with a frown, “of course, I’m not dating Hyeri. Who do you think I am?”

“I’m just not sure—” Minho cut off when his voice came out weak. He swallowed, frustrated. “I’m not sure what’s happening.”

Jisung’s eyes softened, and he stroked Minho’s cheek gently. “I know,” he murmured. “I’m sorry, hyung. I broke up with Hyeri some time ago, okay?”

Embarrassed by his own reaction, but also sufficiently mollified, Minho pulled back and crawled off the bed to start opening the food. If he gave his hands something to do, maybe he could get a better grip on himself. Jisung didn’t follow him, likely sensing that Minho needed a moment without being touched or looked at.

“What did you tell her?” Minho asked, spreading out the containers according to size and shape like he would be graded on it. “If—if you want to talk about it. I don’t know if it’s a touchy subject or not.”

“It isn’t,” Jisung said with a small sigh. “I just told her the truth—she deserved that, at least. I wasted her time and hurt her feelings.”

“…the truth?” Minho had an urge to look over his shoulder, but he was afraid to see Jisung’s expression.

“I said I was in love with someone else.”

Minho’s hands stilled over the food, an electric current of heat running down his back. He jolted when Jisung’s hand appeared over his to ease the chopsticks out of his grip and start unwrapping them. Minho chanced a look and blinked hard when met with Jisung’s bashful smile, and red cheeks.

“It’s the truth,” Jisung said quietly. “He’s right here.”

Minho turned away stiffly, biting down on his lip to stop his own smile from forming. He wasn’t sure if he succeeded.

They sat down to eat on the floor to avoid leaving the room, and Jisung put on one of their favorite Japanese albums in the background, which gentled the atmosphere into something safe and familiar. Minho realized that he’d been starving only when the first bites of food touched his mouth, and he threw himself on the japchae like a madman.

“Hyung,” Jisung said at some point, and Minho had to very carefully look away from him, because there were specks of sauce in the corners of his mouth, and the sight made Minho’s heart squeeze in his chest.

“Hm?”

“You’re—you’re gay, right?”

Minho almost choked on the noodles, managing to avoid creating a medical emergency with nothing but will and desperation. He stared at Jisung for long enough to make him squirm.

“Sorry,” Jisung mumbled, “sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Minho said after a beat, but his voice was clunky. “I—I am gay, yes.”

“Why have you never—um, told me?” Minho’s gaze must have grown heavy again because Jisung scrambled to add: “Not that you had to! Or—ah. Never mind.”

“No, keep going.”

“I just thought—you know. Before all this—before I knew you liked me, or that I liked you, we were friends. We’ve always been friends.” Jisung’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “I guess I can’t blame you for not trusting me with that. It’s a scary thing to share.”

“Sung-ah,” Minho said, pushing his food around the bowl. “It’s not about trust.”

“Then why?”

“I couldn’t tell you I was gay because I was scared it would reveal how I felt about you,” Minho said, and his voice turned quiet at the end.

There was a long beat of silence after that. When Minho glanced at Jisung again, he found his eyes watery, and his lips pressed into a thin line. “All this time?” he asked in a whisper.

Minho’s instinct to deflect, to joke, to hide behind something sharp was overwhelming, but he managed to fight it off. Without it, he felt small and vulnerable, but he supposed that was just a part of attempting to be known.

“Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse. “Though, to be fair, I never thought I was being particularly subtle.”

Jisung visibly cringed. “I did—I did notice,” he said. “But I just thought that you found me pathetic.”

“I do,” Minho snorted. “What that has to do with anything?”

“I thought you were so nice to me because I was a charity case or something. That you loved me just the way I needed because you could tell that nobody else would.”

Minho’s smile faded into nothing, and he put his chopsticks down. “What are you on about?”

“I didn’t mean it to sound bad! It’s not like I thought you were doing it on purpose. I just—I just couldn’t imagine someone like you possibly choosing someone like me. Still can’t, to be honest. You know?”

There were so many things Minho wanted to say at that moment. Thousands of reasons, thousands of moments, a constellation map of events that had led Minho to the place he was always going to be, but found it impossible to put them into words that wouldn’t sound insane.

Instead, he exhaled softly, and whispered: “Silly.”

Later that night, Minho found himself under the covers facing Jisung, dressed in Jisung’s comfortable sleep clothes and feeling warm and content. It was so jarring, so completely at odds with every single evening he’d had since the day it all came crashing down, that he couldn’t even find a place for it.

Jisung’s hair was spilling over his pillowcase, freshly washed and still a bit damp, and his face was shiny from skincare, looking radiant even in the dark. Minho found it hard to behave normally when they were so close—their elbows were touching, and Minho could feel his own fringe move with Jisung’s every exhale.

And yet, he was tired. His eyelids felt heavy like lead, and each time they closed, he had to scrunch his nose to force them back open. It was a battle, and he hated that he was losing.

“What are you doing?” asked Jisung with the softest chuckle. He touched Minho’s cheek with one finger, and Minho grimaced under it. “Go to sleep, hm? You’re dropping off as we speak.”

“I don’t want to,” Minho murmured.

“Why not?”

Minho couldn’t say it out loud. He couldn’t say that he was afraid that, somehow, Jisung would be gone when he woke up. That it would all turn out to be a dream, a hallucination, and he would never get to be this close to Jisung ever again. A spark of hysteria made Minho’s throat produce a sound that was not quite as inaudible as he thought, if the ripple in Jisung’s expression was anything to go by.

“Oh no, what’s going on?” Jisung asked gently, caressing Minho’s cheek, his touch feather-like. “Is something wrong?”

Minho’s hand moved, fingers flexing on nothing, but he stopped it before he grabbed a hold of Jisung’s shirt. Hold me, he wanted to say, but for some reason, the words, despite existing in his head, did not translate into spoken language. He couldn’t say it—he simply didn’t know how.

Jisung had been watching his face with intense focus, and his eyebrows twitched when Minho frowned harder. Jisung’s hand froze against Minho’s cheek.

“I want a hug,” Jisung said with a soft smile. “Can you hold me, hyung?”

 If Minho hadn’t been in love with Jisung before, he would have fallen to his death at that moment. To be seen like this, to be read like a well-loved book was a sensation Minho couldn’t compare to anything else in the world. It was terrifying, but at the same time, the safest he’d ever felt. It was like losing your balance on the stairs, unafraid because there was a pair of arms already waiting at the bottom, ready to catch you any moment of the day.

Minho scooted closer and wrapped himself around Jisung like a vine, pressing his nose against Jisung’s neck, where he could kiss him if he wanted to—and he did. Jisung exhaled, sounding very pleased, and turned until he was on his back, and Minho was sprawled halfway on top of him. Jisung’s arms were tight around Minho’s waist, holding him securely against his chest.

“Don’t go anywhere, okay?” asked Jisung quietly, speaking right into Minho’s temple, his lips soft on Minho’s skin.

Minho’s blissful descent into sleep was halted. “Neither do you,” he said, hoping it sounded like a threat, though his voice was slurring quite a bit.

Jisung chuckled. “I live here.”

“Well, I live here, too. I just moved in, and this is my bed now.”

“Okay,” Jisung said fondly. “All yours, hyung.”

The morning was—something, for sure. Minho woke up groggy and with a distinct feeling that he was late, which he most certainly was, as was evident by the glaring 11:14 blinking at him from his phone. He fell out of bed like a log and ran to the kitchen with half his consciousness still stuck to the pillow.

There, he found Jisung, who was cooking. It was a sight in itself—his hair was still messy, his shoulders looked wide in the shirt he was wearing, and his waist was basically nonexistent, which definitely did things to Minho’s muddled brain. Without even knowing how or when Minho plastered himself against Jisung’s back.

“You left me,” he said after a beat.

“Yah,” Jisung said. “I was literally here making you food.”

Minho’s cheeks grew hot. That was—nice. It was nice. He wanted to kiss Jisung again but didn’t know how to ask for it, so he settled for just being in his orbit. This was nice, too.

After they ate and Minho convinced Jisung to go to Daegot, they trailed back to the bedroom to get dressed. Minho’s hoodie from last night was crumpled and looking far from something that he could let his mother see him in, so they went digging through Jisung’s closet for spares. As it turned out, Jisung had been slacking with laundry even more than usual.

“I’m gonna raid Hyunjin’s closet,” Minho announced when Jisung put him in some truly abhorrent clothes—a sweater with a denim vest sawn into it, and pants wider than necessary by ay human standard. He barely took a step towards the door when he was yanked back by the collar like a child with a baby harness.

“No!” Jisung exclaimed.

Minho could physically feel his hair stand on end, a threatening stripe on a cat’s back. Jisung cowered under Minho’s murderous stare and let him go quickly. “You’re not gonna wear Hyunjin’s things,” he grumbled and then pulled off his own hoodie to pass it to Minho. “Just wear mine and give me the sweater, okay?”

Minho accepted, unable to hold off a grin when he saw Jisung’s blush creep up his neck. “Right, of course,” he said smugly. “I’ll wear your hoodie. Not someone else’s.”

He chose not to disclose how it made him feel, even though the pressure in the center of his chest was begging to be released. What Minho lacked in dignity he made up for in shame—he would sooner die than admit that he enjoyed parading around in Jisung’s clothes because it made him feel wanted. It made him feel Jisung’s, and that’s exactly what he wanted to be.

When they sat on the train, goofing around with the camera, Minho couldn’t help but feel relieved. Things were far more normal than he could have hoped for—they slotted right back into their places, plastered against each other without a hint of awkwardness, two halves of a whole. It let Minho’s lungs expand just a bit more.

The rest of his worries dissolved after Jisung texted the group chat. Minho had been resting his chin in the crook of Jisung’s elbow, watching the responses fly by on Jisung’s screen when his own phone buzzed in his pocket. It was not the group chat—he’d muted it at some point when he was feeling too depressed to participate in silly conversations and was yet to reopen the floodgates.

He leaned away to check and found Seungmin’s name on the screen. There was only one text.

Kim Seungminnie: Good job, hyung.

Minho felt a tempting urge to send him a funny cat picture from the depths of his gallery to deflect, but he’d been on a roll with accepting vulnerability, so he stomped it down and instead chose to leave the message on read. He hoped Seungmin would see it for what it was—gratitude.

When they arrived home, Minho could see the exact moment his mom’s expression faltered upon seeing Jisung. Determined to ignore it, he bulldozed through the conversation without giving her any room to voice comments—whatever they may have been. Minho didn’t want to find out.

Still, it was nice. Mom was elated to see them, and relieved to have some help with shopping since dinner would have to be for four. Jisung was very shy and polite, not quite his usual self, but also not putting on a front. It was terribly sweet, and Minho’s mom clearly enjoyed it, too—Minho honestly felt a bit like looking into a mirror when she smiled. He guessed loving Jisung ran in their genes.

Minho took the money she forced on them, already planning to just put it back in the jar she’d been slowly filling with change, and off they went—without having petted a single cat. Normally, they came running the second he stepped through the door, but they must have been wary of the commotion. Cat petting would have to wait.

Jisung’s nose was red from the cold as they walked to the market, and Minho found it hard to focus on anything else. At some point, his hand made an executive decision to reach out and seize Jisung’s. Ready to pull away immediately, he was eased back into comfort by a strong squeeze, and Jisung’s heart-shaped smile glowing at him like the sun.

Minho’s heart began racing at the sight. He felt like a smitten schoolboy, and heat immediately nipped at his ears. He would probably have to get used to getting disarmed.

They’d been trailing along an empty backroad cutting through the snowed-in fields when Jisung broke the comfortable silence.

“Hyung,” he said softly. When Minho didn’t immediately respond, he went on: “Hyung, are we dating now?”

Minho’s throat spasmed around a gasp, but he managed to smother it. Somehow, it was the last thing he’d been expecting to hear. But it made sense, didn’t it? They were in love—god—so they should be dating. Only, after everything that had happened, Minho wasn’t sure how to proceed.

“I don’t know, Jisung-ah,” he said in the end, aiming for nonchalance. The results were meager at best. “Would you like us to be?”

“I love you,” Jisung said immediately and then frowned. “I want you to be my boyfriend.”

There was a little part of Minho, somewhere right behind his sternum, that was about to make him throw himself into the closest mound of snow. It was made all the stronger by his fluttering nerves, which were starting to show—his hands grew cold, and he had to inhale sharply as if oxygen was running out. It felt like it was.

Then, Jisung squeezed his hand, and the panic subsided.

“Okay,” Minho said, voice barely louder than a whisper. “Then ask me.”

He was startled when Jisung tugged him into a stop and grabbed his other hand. Jisung’s round rosy face was a painted picture of resolve, lined with something else—something Minho couldn’t quite decode, and it gave him pause. Minho held his breath.

“Will you be my boyfriend?” Jisung asked, looking him right in the eye.

Minho felt it right then, probably for the first time ever—this was real. He tried to fight off the tightness in his throat, but it lingered, made it hard to breathe. He wished he could turn this moment into something he could wear, something he could touch whenever he began to doubt. He wished he could show it to himself from the past.

“I’ll allow it,” he said in the end. Jisung’s smile was blinding.

When they got to the market, armed with the shopping list from his mom, the very first stall they walked by happened to be manned by Mrs. Woo, their elderly neighbor. Her face immediately lit up upon seeing him, and she dropped her current client like a hot potato to beacon him over.

“Minho-yah!” she exclaimed excitedly. “Your mom didn’t say you were visiting!”

“It wasn’t planned,” he replied with a polite bow over her table with veggies. “I just dropped in unexpectedly.”

“How sweet of you,” Mrs. Woo gushed. “Have you lost some weight? Goodness, you get more handsome every time I see you.”

Jisung had been frozen by his side, but he snickered at that. Minho smiled, hoping he didn’t look as awkward as he felt.

“Ah, thank you, auntie,” he said and pulled Jisung in by the sleeve. “This is Jisung.”

Mrs. Woo looked him over appraisingly. “Are you also a singer, Jisung-ah?”

“Yes, Auntie,” Jisung mumbled with a bow. “Nice to meet you.”

“I could tell right away! You don’t see pretty faces like that outside of TV.”

When they walked away, heavier by a couple of radishes and some greens, Jisung was still giggling into Minho’s shoulder.

“Hear that?” he said. “I’m pretty!”

Minho couldn’t help but roll his eyes, and if it looked fond, it was nobody’s business. “Duh. I’ve been telling you for years.”

Back at home, they helped with dinner, and then finally played with Soon, Doong, and Dori, which had the immediate effect of settling any of Minho’s lingering anxiety. By the time his dad came back from work, the atmosphere was warm and relaxed, and the food smelled divine.

Jisung fit well in Minho’s home. It was such a wickedly pleasant thought—Minho’s parents had taken to him from the start, and whenever Jisung visited, they behaved just like they would with Minho alone. Jisung, for his part, always needed a bit of time to warm up to the situation, but by the time they finished eating, he was neck-deep in a current affairs interview with his dad, who needed to know everything that was happening in their lives, and he was holding his own.

His mom caught him smiling. Minho couldn’t say he was surprised—he hadn’t been trying to stay subtle, but her knowing gaze was still enough to jolt him back into reality.

“Minho-yah,” she said, “help me clean up, hm?”

“Right,” he said, trying not to sound on edge. “Of course, eomma.”

Jisung and Dad went to watch TV, while Minho and Mom gathered around the sink surrounded by a truly imposing mountain of dirty dishes. Minho wasn’t sure what to say, so he poured all his attention into scrubbing the pots, while his mom stood by with a towel. The sounds of conversation from the living room filtered in through the door, accompanied by loud meowing, courtesy of Soonie, who must have been feeling particularly talkative.

“I’m glad,” Mom said at some point, and Minho flinched so hard he dropped a spoon. It rang against the bottom of the sink like a church bell.

“Hm?” he said, feigning ignorance, though he had a sense of where this was going.

“I’m glad things are okay between you and Jisungie again.”

“They were never not okay,” Minho lied, and his mom mercifully chose not to challenge him on that.

“He makes you happy,” she went on, quieter this time, “doesn’t he?”

“I—I don’t know what you mean,” Minho said, stiffening. Could she tell? Not just about Jisung, but Minho himself? A terrifying thought.

“Minho-yah. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t want to see my child happy?”

“He’s—he’s good,” he said, fighting with the instinct to retreat. When it subsided, he trudged on, trying to give his mom something. “He’s good for me.”

Despite feeling like he had a target painted on his back, the effort was worth it, if only to see his mom’s sunny smile.

They stayed the night in Minho’s childhood bedroom, with their futons pressed close together. Jisung fell asleep almost instantly, as was normal for him, but his arms around Minho were still wrapped tight. It was such a new, intoxicating sensation to be held securely, not to be the one to hold—it made him feel small but in a good way.

Minho’s mind was too charged to sleep, but he let himself lay there, with his cheek pillowed against Jisung’s chest, listening to his soft snoring. When Jisung shifted, and Minho could look at his face again, it was like someone had flipped the lights on inside his head. Without meaning to, he reached up to touch Jisung’s face, his slightly parted lips and his chest constricted as if he’d slipped underwater.

All this time? God, Minho wished he had the words to tell Jisung just how much. To explain that there hadn’t been a time in which Minho wasn’t in love because it felt like he’d been custom-made to find Jisung and mold himself around him, a perfect fit. All this time—of course, of course, all this time. There had never been another way.

Unable to voice any of it, he chose the next best thing and reached for his phone. He opened his chat with Eunsoo and typed the message quickly, then sent it without waiting to see if Eunsoo was still awake.

Me: You were right.