Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Han Jisung does not pine.” Han Jisung insists, pointing a very grave and aggressive finger at his best friend, who forgets that he’s supposed to react. “I’m not a piner, I know nothing of pining. If anything, I’m the one inciting the pine, being the receiver of the pine.”

Minho gives him a look. One of his blank looks that could mean literally anything, if not for the very specific vibes he’s putting out. They’re rude vibes, too. Incredulous vibes, ye-of-little-faith vibes. He’s laid across Jisung’s couch, legs now stretched out where Jisung had been sitting a minute ago. That was before a car horn beeped and ultimately ruined Minsung’s Monday Movie Mornings, because the sound was unfamiliar, and the last time Jisung heard a car noise that was unfamiliar, Mina got robbed.

Minho hadn’t and still doesn’t appreciate the pure terror of this moment, which no doubt led him to the horribly misguided idea that Jisung is pining for some stranger out in the parking lot. So when he gestures to vaguely all of Jisung with a handwave, as if that was enough to win his argument, Jisung tries not to hold it against him.

“You’re a stalker, then.” Minho offers. Which might be fair. Might be closer to fair, anyway. Jisung might be using two figures to gently separate his blinds enough to peek through, and he might be watching the every move of a suspicious car, which is not moving at all really, and that might just be something close to being something that might be something stalkerish. Perhaps.

Jisung blanches, “That requires a pattern of behavior!”

“You would know.”

“Yes, because of all my adoring fans! Who are generally well-meaning but just can’t get enough of my incredible humor, my astounding charisma, my—”

“Humility?”

Jisung throws a wild look over his shoulder, wide-eyed and beyond serious. “I make the hearts of many swoon, hyung. I collect people’s gluttonous little feelings about me like a museum curator, an archivist.”

“A Goodwill donation attendant.”

“You’re mean,” Jisung informs him simply. He doesn’t back away from the window, though, which only proves Minho right. “Mean and wrong. I have so many love letters I could reconstruct a tree.”

“A pine tree?”

Jisung exhales a long-suffering sigh, “You think you’re funny, which is the worst part.”

The object of his attention turns out to be a man. Which—embarassing, but whatever. He comes out of the apartment building’s office with a key, maybe. It looks like he’s struggling to slip it onto his lanyard, anyway. It’s hard to tell from the eighth floor, but he looks tall, and with black hair that thick, he’s gotta be around Jisung’s age. Which—not embarrassing, actually, very cool and good, in fact. Hopefully.

“We’re going down there,” Jisung decides. It comes out like a threat. He's already begun practicing the man's name in his head: Minsu-ssi, good morning! Welcome to the building, Chanhee-ssi! Yes, of course, Jihoon-ssi, the mail room is just over here!

“What?” Minho says, bringing Jisung back from his thoughts. “To confess? Are you serious?”

“Christ, I’m not confessing, you weirdo. He dresses like a celebrity. Look—for fuck’s sake, he’s wearing jeans.” They’re black skinny jeans too, like it’s 2012 and he’s late for his Austin & Ally cameo. “He’s got a flannel tied around his waist in the year of our lord, hyung. Who does he think he is?”

“Jeans are so normal,” Minho says. “And dressing like a celebrity is usually a compliment. That, plus gazing out the window like a neglected maiden, equals you pining.”

“You're bullying me, this is bullying.” The man starts pulling boxes out of his trunk. “I could sue you, y'know. For harassment.” He piles them on the sidewalk instead of bringing them up one at a time, which is a choice. “You come into my home and make baseless accusations. I'm so tired of it, hyung.” He drops one and the contents spill out into the parking spot next to him. “Like, I'm actually sick of you.”

“Which one of us is the mean one again?”

“God, and his car looks so expensive. I kinda want to key it? It's all black and shiny and has, like, four doors. I don’t even know what it is, that’s how nice it looks.”

This interests Minho about as much as everything else did. Which is not at all. “Nice enough to bite?”

Jisung grimaces, “You know that’s not a phrase.”

Jisung slips off the window bench and starts towards the front door, officially fed up. Minho stays lounged across the couch, pretending to play on his phone, but he follows the movement with his eyes. When Jisung starts slipping on his shoes, Minho finally realizes he is, in fact, being serious.

“What are you gonna do, say hello?” Minho scoffs. Apparently the thought is ridiculous, which is insulting and motivating in equal parts. “Like to his face?”

“Oh shit, hyung, that's a really good idea. I think I'll give that a go!”

“Jisung—” Minho starts, reaching for the remote like he was going to pause the movie and follow after him, but then he collapses further into the couch when the remote proves to be out of reach. “Okay, whatever, go make friends.”

“Wh— you’re not coming? You have to come. You're already sitting up and putting your shoes on, so you might as well come.”

Minho glances down at his languid form, expression a little confused as he searches for truth in anything Jisung just said. “You're mistaken.”

“Hyung!” Jisung whines, seconds away from stomping his feet.

“He's your crush,” Minho says, waving him off. “You deal with it.”

“What? No! I could die!”

“It's unlikely that you'll die.”

“I could get kidnapped and held for ransom!”

“That is even less likely. Didn't you say he had a biteable car?”

“I never said that! And, seriously, I mean, I could—” his voice cracks, “I could ruin it. I could go down there and— and—! I live in an apartment full of old people, hyung! The closest tenant in age is Chaeyoung-noona, and she's thirty-four. That's a one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten-year age gap. Ten! I can't be friends with someone a decade older than me! I've tried! All it gets me are head-pats and containers of kimchi! Which are demeaning and delicious respectively, but still. I actually still have some, if you want any.”

Minho quirks a brow, his first real sign of interest since they started the movie, “Is it spicy?”

“Oh no, not at all. Don't worry. Here, lemme go get it.”

Minho blinks, “Wait, weren’t we talking about something?”

Jisung blinks back, innocent, reaching down to untie his shoes. “Were we? I don’t think so?”

Minho’s brows furrow as he thinks back, head tilting slightly. Jisung casts a series of magical spells in his head to keep Minho from remembering, but none of them land. “Oh, right. We were talking about how you already have your shoes on and are halfway out the door so you might as well go downstairs and be neighborly.”

“Hyung,” Jisung says again, defeated and edging towards embarrassment. He hates getting his words thrown back in his face almost as much as he hates begging, but every conversation with Minho is a lesson in humility. He barely manages a bit-off, “Please?”

Minho only smiles, unmoved. “You won’t ruin it, Jisung-ah. Go say hi. Don’t make me push you.”

Jisung is quite content to just settle in nice and cozy for a battle of wills, but Minho only tolerates the staring for a couple seconds before he’s rising off the couch. Jisung squawks and escapes out into the hallway, deciding to leave his brain and heart on the inside of his apartment for safe keeping.

“You can’t come back inside until he knows your name!” Minho calls out, voice muffled by the door, and it’s fine. Good, actually. Needed some fresh air, now that he thinks about it. The only thing stopping him from stretching his legs for a few minutes before lying his way back into his own home is his honor, of which he has very little.

So he trots downstairs, a freed man who is normal and autonomous. Technically, Jisung lives in a senior living apartment building. There aren’t a lot of friendship opportunities here because most of the tenants are sixty-five and up, and the handful of folks who aren’t are, at the youngest, middle-aged adults living with said geezers. So, yeah, great for free food, but terrible for knowing someone biblically. Or, well, it doesn't have to be biblical. Knowing someone intimately, domestically. Gastronomically. Someone who understands his lore and bought the disk for his blooper reel.

And it's not that Jisung has no friends! He does! Several! But after high school, they had all spread out across the country, and it's kinda hard to maintain a steady friendship with a guy who lives a couple hours from you. They try—and mostly fail—to meet up every month, but life, y'know? Jisung's lucky Minho even showed up today, an hour's commute is enough to keep anyone from coming, let alone a busy 9-5er like him.

When it wasn't just Jisung, alone in that too-big apartment, the distance never felt so hard to deal with, to stomach. But now that he's the only one walking those halls…

Jisung makes it to the ground floor, so lost in his spiraling thoughts that he doesn't even see the man carrying one box too many. He doesn't see how the man's gaze is curled around the other side of those boxes, how Jisung is right in his blindspot. And so he doesn't see him when they collide, when the tower of cardboard tips, too quick and completely to catch.

He does, however, see the picture frame. Particularly when it shatters all over the pavement. Which—dramatic, to be honest, but not any more dramatic than Jisung's internal meltdown because Jesus Christ. He. Fucking. Ruined it!

Like, fuck! Is that a picture of his family? Fucking fuck, what if they all died in some horrible fire, and that's why he moved into an old folks apartment building? What if all their other photos burned up too, what if that was the last remaining evidence that his grief had ties to something physical, something real? Jisung had half the mind to walk straight back up to the eighth floor and fucking jump!

Jisung's external reaction is considerably more nonchalant. “Oops! My bad!”

The man, who had previously been staring slack-jawed at the fallen frame, suddenly snaps his glare up to Jisung. He refuses to meet the man's gaze, too horrified to raise his head any higher. The glare is rough enough in the periphery anyway, so point taken.

“Oops?” The man echoes slowly, his voice smooth but obviously as pissed as his expression.

“There's a broom in the office,” Jisung offers, putting on his best grin, even though he still can't bring himself to lift his eyes. “I can clean this up and then help you with the rest of your boxes.”

Oooh, he's being so reasonable and polite. If he gives it some thought, maybe this was for the best! What better reason to slip into his life than by literally slipping? This can be their meet-cute! Oh, haha, remember that one time we ran into each other because I'm a clumsy idiot but then we became best friends and moved in together because why be neighbors when we could be roommates?

Literally meant to be.

“Why the fuck would I want your help?” The man spits out. And that's, well. Record-scratch, for one.

The man throws down the box still in his hands, and Jisung flinches as it slams onto the ground. He grabs the boxes that fell one at a time, stacking them once more with an attitude that anybody could read. When he reaches for his broken picture frame, Jisung's voice kicks back into gear.

“That's not—” Jisung tries, his throat almost too dry to speak with. He reaches for a good-natured smile, even though the guy isn't looking at him, lands hopefully somewhere near it, feels the dread bubble up like sweat on his palms. “That's not in the script, wanna take it again from the top? This time with some empathy?”

The man glares at him again, but this time, Jisung meets his eyes. And holy fuck.

“No,” the man bites, and he is beautiful. Like, criminally and completely beautiful. Art-in-a-museum beautiful. Get-this-man-on-the-cover-of-a-magazine beautiful. “I don’t. Just get out of my face and leave me alone.”

Jisung can barely hear him. What the fuck. He has full lips and a beauty mark just under his eye that makes Jisung feel like doing something dramatic. Is he fish gulping right now? Close your mouth, he thinks. His mouth opens. It says, against his will, “My name is Han Jisung.”

His hand extends out towards the man currently holding boxes because he is a fucking stupid dumb idiot, he then stares at that hand as though it had betrayed him as thoroughly as his mouth did.

“Congratulations,” the man says, sounding kinda like he wants to kill him. Which—fair! “Is Korean your native language, Han Jisung?”

Han Jisung does not like the direction this conversation is heading. “Supposedly…”

“Then you must've not heard me!” The man says with enough false cheer to make Jisung flinch under his skin. His eyes are bright with anger, and those pretty pretty lips are turned up into something manic. “I said, very clearly, to leave me alone. I don’t need or want your help. It's very important to me that all of my stuff actually makes it into my apartment in one piece.”

Jisung's eye twitches. As gorgeous as this man is, his attitude is fucking ridiculous. His tone is so far beyond patronizing, it's just downright disrespectful. “You're acting like I took a hammer to your television, dude. It was an accident, okay? A pretty minimal one at that.”

The man scoffs, “Yeah, I don't think you get to decide if breaking my shit is minimal or not.”

“It was a picture frame,” he rushes, speaking faster with every word. “It's not like it's some photo of your dead family who all went up in a tragic fire and this is the last thing you have left of them, right?”

The man looks at him like he's clinically insane, “What the fuck are you even talking about?”

“There's a Daiso two blocks from here, go get another one for some pocket change!” Jisung is not panicking. He is not rambling. Most importantly, he is not ruining it. He is just stating his case, defending himself in a very respectable manner. “And, hey, y'know what? Maybe if you weren't trying to balance the Tower of fucking Pisa in your arms, you could've seen where you were going! And, sure, I bumped into you! Okay! What a normal and common thing that sometimes happens! I feel like offering to clean it up and help you with the rest of your poorly-packed boxes was pretty fucking fair of me, actually! So do you want help now or do you wanna keep being a dick!”

“Han Jisung?” The man says, lip curling up into a snarl.

“Yes?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

And then the man is brushing past him, climbing the stairs at a pace too fast for the weight he's carrying.

Han Jisung (who is now on order to fuck himself apparently) stands there on the ground floor, for all intents and purposes, godsmacked, and stares at the glass shards like they could give him any answers. He's about to turn right back around and march his happy ass back home, but then he remembers Lee Minho. More specifically, he remembers Lee Minho's cats.

When he finishes sweeping up the glass, he makes his way upstairs. Part of him is being all heart-racy at the idea of seeing New Guy again, but the other part welcomes it. Needs it, even. Has a lot more shit to get off his chest, in fact! He doesn't, which is relieving and disappointing both. But he does see a box. A very familiar box holding open an apartment door on the eighth floor. Jisung looks at it for a moment, paused at the top of the stairs as he drags his eyes directly across from this door and its box to his own apartment.

In retrospect, it isn't all that shocking that they ended up on the same floor. Senior living, remember? It doesn't exactly fit well with anything over five storeys, particularly when there is no working elevator, which there hasn't been in over a year. So, again, this time with some wry, with some rue: literally meant to be.

Jisung escapes back into his apartment, his panicked wires and pissed wires crossing and tangling up all confused in his gut.

At the noise, Minho's head peeks up from around the corner. At the look on Jisung's face, Minho jerks off the couch and heads straight toward him, stiff with worry. At Jisung's embarrassed laugh and resounding, “Yikes!” his concern deflates into something Jisung can actually stomach.

Minho gently reaches out as if to touch his arm, “That bad?”

Jisung pretends not to see it, instead turning towards the door to look out the peephole. Sure enough, there goes New Guy down the stairs, leaving his door propped open with a box.

“He's too trusting,” Jisung mutters to himself.

Minho is close enough to hear him anyway. “The new tenant? Is he nice?”

“I want to push him down the stairs,” he answers bitterly.

Minho pats him on the back, soothing his social wounds, “I'm sorry he didn't return your feelings.”

Jisung whacks him away, “Will you quit it with that bit, hyung? I'm gonna flip out on you. T-minus fifteen seconds before I go hog wild. Is that what you want?”

Minho only smiles. “What did he do that was so bad? I wanna take notes.”

Jisung starts counting on his fingers, “Oh, how about make me out to be some stupid asshole who has a lifelong personal vendetta against him but is too incompetent to do any real damage. Or maybe act like he was too good to accept the help of someone as lowly as me, peasant that I am! He literally looked into my eyes, told me to go fuck myself, then spat in my face.”

Minho's eyes widen, then, more concerningly, harden. “Tell me he did not spit on you.”

The back of Jisung's neck prickles with goosebumps at the tone. “Okay, he didn't spit on me. But everything else, though!”

Minho visibly relaxes and leans a shoulder against the door, watching Jisung watch the open apartment. “So, what are you gonna do, then? Plastic surgery? Change your name? Move in with me?”

“Don't be ridiculous, hyung. You'd never let me move in.” Jisung checks the peephole one last time before pulling back with an unholy grin. “You wanna know what I'm gonna do? I'll show you. Hold the door open for me.”

Minho tilts his head at him, too curious to disobey. He props the door open with his foot as Jisung trots across the hall to New Guy's apartment. If he were one of his other friends, like Changbin, he'd probably have written the guy off the moment he was met with an attitude. Like a real c'est la vie! I have better things to do type beat. If he were Chan, he would've given the man some space and tried again the next day, maybe with a new picture frame and an apology coffee. If he were Minho, he would've just caught the frame before it fell, and that's under the great assumption that they would've bumped into each other at all. But, see, he isn't them. He's him. And when Han Jisung sees an open door, he walks through it.

All it takes is one swing of the foot. One swing and the separation of two moments: the box is holding open the door, and in the next, it's not. Magic!

Jisung is back inside the safety of his own apartment by the time New Guy's door closes. And if he flicked the lock on his way out, well, he was just securing the very valuable, not-to-be-broken possessions of his neighbor. That's all.

“You proud of yourself?” Minho asks, amused despite himself.

“Not yet.”

It doesn't take long before New Guy finishes his Herculean climb, which is maybe a tad impressive. Must be those long long legs. The boxes still render his visibility poor, so he bumper-cars right off the door he thought was open, which is satisfying enough on its own. But when he realizes his door is closed, he tilts his head back as if cursing God, and isn’t that just a beautiful red cherry on top?

“Now I am,” Jisung grins, happily watching as New Guy fumbles for his keys with one hand while the other helps his knee balance the boxes against the wall. When he drops said keys, Jisung has to stifle a victorious laugh.

The moment New Guy heads back downstairs for more boxes, Jisung is on the move. He stacked two boxes this time, probably thinking the door had a higher weight class than the singular box. When New Guy finally makes it back up the stairs, he pauses at the sight of his door closed once again. Part of him must've suspected suspicious activity, because his keys are already in his hand. This time, he doesn't bother with the boxes, just leaves his key in the lock to make opening it easier. Naturally, Jisung then takes said keys.

“Jagiya, look at his lanyard. Cats. Is he tryna psych me out or something?”

Minho considers his prize. “At least he has good taste.”

Jisung scoffs. “It's a cheap placating tactic.”

“And I think it's working…” Minho stares at it, slides the cloth around his fingers, shrugs. “You should return it before he comes back.”

“You have the mental fortitude of a wet noodle.”

“You stole a man's house keys because he told you to leave him alone.”

“Shh, hyung, he's coming back!”

New Guy plops his boxes down, hands on his hips as he stares at his new predicament. He ducks his head, irritated just enough to satisfy Jisung without brushing up against his conscience. After a helpless little look around at the other apartments, he starts digging around for his key in his pockets.

“Ooh,” Jisung coos. “You know you left it in the door, jackass. Go on. Go do the walk of shame back down those eight flights of steps to the office. It's okay, I'll be waiting for you.”

Minho snorts, mostly in disbelief. “I haven't seen you like this since grade school.”

Jisung flicks his eyes over to him and winks. “Glad I can still surprise you.”

When he looks back through the peephole, New Guy is crouched in front of his door handle. He retrieves two needle-like shiny things from his pocket and shimmies them into the lock with a familiarity that is as fascinating as it is disturbing.

“Oh my God,” Jisung says. “He's a criminal.”

“Then what does that make you?” Minho chuckles.

Interested, he doesn't say, because villainy is wrong.

After breaking into his own apartment, the complete maniac, he takes his boxes inside with very little fuss. When he leaves, he flicks out the deadbolt before heading down, finding another new and creative way to keep his door open.

“What is even the strategy here?” Jisung snorts, as confused as he is amused. He continues to yap his complaints to Minho as he walks back over to New Guy's apartment. “I mean, he has to know someone took his keys, right? I seriously don't get it.” He flicks the deadbolt unlocked and shoves the key into the inside lock. “Is he gonna leave his door open forever? Or does he actually think he just misplaced his keys?”

“Honestly, jagi, I don't care. Let's just finish the movie. I need to feed my cats.”

Jisung sighs but complies. Even he can admit that he's losing steam at this point. “This is why you should get an automatic feeder.”

Minho gently shakes his head, “It means more when it comes from me.”

They reconvene on the couch, but Jisung can't pull his thoughts away from his neighbor. As much as he wants to sink into this horror film and block out the world's buzz, he can't help but wonder what New Guy ended up doing. Was he able to pick it again, even with the key jammed into the inside lock? He probably had to wiggle it loose first. Was rattling the handle enough? Did he have to slam himself against the door? Did anyone hear him making such a racket? Was he too exhausted from climbing and descending eight flights of stairs repeatedly?

Minho flicks his ear. “You're still thinking about him.”

“No,” he huffs, rubbing away the feeling of Minho's attack. “I mean, unless you're talking about It-sunbaenim, in which case, yes, very much so.”

“You just missed two jump scares.”

Jisung crosses his arms over his chest, “Well, then, so did you, if you were watching me instead of the movie.”

They both share a significant look, only breaking it when the sound of a toy clown popping out of its music box makes them flinch.

The movie ends about ten minutes later with minimal fanfare, and Jisung knows that's his fault too. As much as they like to call it Minsung's Monday Movie Mornings, they're really closer to Minsung's Monthly Movie Mornings… at best. The last thing Jisung needed to do was waste one of their already scarce hangouts by messing with some nobody. What a stupid miscarriage of their time together. Minho was better off just spending his free day at home.

The apartment is silent as Minho gathers his things, as he ties up his shoes, as Jisung turns off his TV and goes to hover by the door. Minho's face is blank, but Jisung can tell it's a thoughtful blank, rather than a bored blank or angry blank. He's considering something, mulling it over. When they finally meet eyes, Jisung expects anything from a marriage proposal to a triathlon sign-up to a Netflix pitch.

Jisung presses his back to the door, giving Minho more space to shove his wallet and keys into his back pocket. Just as Jisung goes to jerk it open and save himself from whatever Minho is thinking about so hard, Minho stops him with a soft hand on his forearm. Probably not a Netflix pitch then. Still thoughtful-blank. Jisung's heart kicks up to his throat, but he forces himself not to pull away, even if this is about a multi-sport endurance race.

“See you next week?” Minho says instead, like he does every time, though they both know it won't happen.

“Yeah, hyung,” Jisung throws out a smile. “Tell your cats I love them.”

“Tell them yourself,” he says, sliding his touch lower, circling Jisung's wrist with his fingers. “They miss you.”

Jisung chuckles softly, delighted. “Oh, do they?”

Minho's fingers tighten. “Yes. They do.”

He's sweet. Trying to make Jisung feel better after his utter fumble. He wonders if Minho is as apprehensive about what's waiting for them out in that hallway as Jisung is, thinks this reluctance must be mercy too.

“Hyung…”

Minho steps closer.

“Don't you think I went too far?”

Minho lets his hand fall away from him; Jisung grabs his own wrist to keep the loss at bay, but it isn't the same. Minho moves to lean against the wall next to the door, assuming the same position from earlier, with Minho watching Jisung be an idiot.

“No,” he says easily, with a shrug. “But you do.”

He regrets only one thing: putting the key back inside the indoor lock. Because it's one thing to lock New Guy out of his apartment, and another thing entirely to lock everyone out of his apartment. At least when Jisung stole the key, he could give it back if New Guy reacted horribly.

Jisung runs a hand through his hair, “It's probably not a big deal. There are tons of other ways to break into an apartment, right?”

“Right.” Minho nods.

He presses closer, nudging Jisung away from the door with a hand to his hip. Jisung holds his breath as Minho ducks to look into the peephole. Then, horribly, he snorts.

“What? What is it? What happened?”

Minho yanks the door open with a smirk, even as Jisung starts to panic.

“Wait, don't—!”

He pushes the door wide, forcing Jisung to face the consequences of his actions. Which just so happens to be in the form of two fucked-up door handles and a deadbolt, all left like carcasses on his welcome mat. Ahead of him, New Guy's front door is shiny with new locks, and next to it, a note that reads: that all you got?

And that, if nothing else, is a declaration of war.

Chapter Text

Week One

Regardless of the truth, Jisung likes to think he isn’t a petty person by nature. A little spiteful, maybe, a tad unforgiving, perhaps more vindictive than necessary. But nothing he does feels trivial to him—when he reacts, it's to something that matters, something that warrants a reaction… Mostly. Kinda. Except when it isn't.

Except when New Guy catches Jisung singing in the stairwell. Chan had been blowing up his phone all afternoon, trying out different melodies for this track they're working on. Jisung hated practically every demo he sent, but the impatient bastard threatened him with a deadline that would end by the time he made it back to his apartment. So, multitasking.

CB97
Thanks Hannie
What about this for the second post-chorus instead?

Chan sends another audio message, this time with his voice layered over Jisung's for a harmony.

You
If you end the post2 with that v7 moment then resolve it in the bridge

CB97
Resolution to change?

You
Well duh

CB97
You say that like there's no other choice but Binnie said the resolution should be the key change in and of itself
Called it a mod-reso

You
Okay Bon Jovi
Does he actually want to do that???

CB97
He said to do whichever is weirder

You
Incredible
Call me if you can

Chan does, immediately after the message marks as read. “So you want the resolution to lead into the modulation or to be the modulation in and of itself?”

“I can't believe you're even asking me that question.”

“It could be something!” Chan laughs.

“It should be nothing,” Jisung counters.

“Don't tell me you wanna axe the key change all together! Look, maybe if we lean into this disruptive energy by adding some crunchy—”

“I'm gonna stop you right there, because it sounds like you're on your way to making me the voice of reason, and I hate that.”

Chan laughs, “Alright, alright. Gimme something good and we'll use it. Whatever you want.”

Jisung's starting his fifth flight when he finally pauses on the landing, sucks in a breath, and sings the post-chorus into his phone with his eyes squeezed shut. He's halfway through the bridge when the register drops enough for him to feel his feet and open his eyes again, but his voice dies in his throat before he can finish it.

New Guy is looking at him. Which sucks. He isn't even wearing anything special—just a plain black hoodie with athletic shorts and sneakers—but he's still fucking gorgeous. It's so annoying. It actually pisses Jisung off so much that his heart starts to race, his body puffing up like a threatened rodent.

Then, in possibly the most hoity-toity, dainty little sneer on God’s green earth, New Guy says: “Everyone can hear you, y'know.”

Bat. Knife. Gun. Car.

“Wow,” Jisung says, eyes wide and honest. “You genuinely have a talent. Your voice is so annoying that it just gave me goosebumps.”

“Jisung!” Chan shouts from the phone.

“It’s, like, stock-solution annoying. Original-flavor annoying.”

New Guy clicks his tongue, “Big words coming from a man megaphoning his celibacy syndrome to the entire apartment building. I could literally hear you from the parking lot.”

“And, what, you ran all the way up here just to hear me sing a love song?” Jisung scoffs, but he can feel his face heating up. He hadn’t realized he was so loud. “I get that you’re obsessed with me, but I think it’s best to end things here before you drift into stalker territory.”

“Remind me which of the two of us stole the other’s house keys again?”

“I gave them back!” Jisung squawks, then hears Chan gasp, which feels very unnecessary actually! He’s taking the words of this stranger with considerably more faith than he’s putting in Jisung’s character, so fuck him for that in particular! “It wasn’t like that, anyway!”

New Guy nods slowly, half-patronizing and half-irritated. His eyebrows are dipped down like he’s talking to someone too stupid to know they’re stupid, all full and dark and sculpted and—bad, actually. Gross and rude. Oh, shit, New Guy’s been talking, his lip is curling up—since when does Jisung stare at eyebrows? Is he wearing lip gloss?

“It is a miracle that you’re able to repeatedly convince everyone not to call the cops on you,” he informs Jisung dutifully, like he really ought to be careful moving forward.

Jisung rolls his eyes, which makes those brows that he hasn’t been staring at twitch and then furrow. New Guy steps forward, crowding Jisung back against the wall. When Jisung goes to utilize evasive maneuvers, New Guy presses a hand flat on his chest and shoves him back into place. With his other hand, he plucks Jisung's phone from him and brings the receiver close to his lips.

“Listen,” he begins, mouth once again twisted up like he found this all real funny. Jisung is trying very hard not to focus on how all his fingers have silver rings, how the nail polish he thought was black is actually midnight shades of purple, blue, and green. “Because I have a feeling you’re not really paying attention.”

“What?” Jisung breathes. Why is this man all up in his business? God, they’re so close Jisung can smell whatever fruity gum he’s chewing. Who even does that?

“I’m gonna say this as simply as I can make it, okay? Touch my door again, you lose your fingers. Got it?”

New Guy keeps Jisung’s eyes locked in a glare, clearly meaning to emphasize just how serious he feels about…whatever thing is clearly upsetting him—Jisung already forgot. And, honestly, he's always had a difficult time taking things seriously anyway, especially when pretty men who are about as intimidating as a feather threaten him like they’re in West Side Story.

So Jisung laughs in his face.

“Sorry!” Jisung gasps, clutching his stomach. “Seriously, fuck, I’m sorry. Lemme shut up so you can make your cool exit. I just need a second, okay?”

Jisung tries to calm down, but every time he sees the pout New Guy is masquerading as a death glare, it causes a fresh round of giggles. New Guy, to his credit, doesn’t just stomp away. He waits patiently for Jisung to get himself together, standing there like a put-out baby expecting an apology for ruining his main-character moment. Jisung will not give him one.

“Alright, I’m good,” he says, finally able to take a full breath without losing it. “Go forth with your procession, Wangjanim.”

New Guy’s face lights up red, his anger completely clearing out to make room for pure embarrassment. It is possibly the best thing Jisung has ever seen. New Guy tosses his phone back to him so suddenly that Jisung is a fumble away from filing an insurance claim. When he catches it, he sees that New Guy hung up on Chan. Which—rude, but whatever.

New Guy ducks his head and hurries up the stairs, ears cherry-red. The next four flights are climbed in total silence; New Guy doesn't even glance behind him, just rushes to his door and hides in his apartment like the adorable, infuriating little conundrum that he is.

Jisung is still chuckling as he crosses his own threshold, as the door silences the white noise of the world, as he faces the empty, dark expanse of his apartment.

“I'm home,” he says to no one, and suddenly, he is no longer laughing.

~

Week Two

“That's extortion,” Jisung accuses.

Jeongyeon spins him again, this time with more force than necessary. It makes the world warp into indistinguishable streaks, makes his head feel funny. He squeals, pulling his legs up tight to his chest. The office chairs have always been more tape and dreams than anything OSHA would approve of, but Jeongyeon said she'd give him a month free of rent if he falls funny enough. Jisung is still too scared to take the risk yet, but one day…

She makes a disapproving noise, “I don't think that word means what you think it means.”

“Then it's exploitation!”

Jeongyeon stops the chair abruptly, just about flinging Jisung into the air from the momentum. He catches himself on her arms, but at the cost of seeing her judgment up close. “It's price gouging at worst, and no one said you had to go through with it. You could always just be normal and leave the kid alone.”

“No, I'm gonna do it. I need to do it. I need you to do it, in particular.”

She tsks, crossing her arms over her chest. “You should try being friends with him first, don't you think?”

“Noona!” Jisung whines, kicking the chair in an annoyed, defeated circle. “I have! He threatened to bite off my fingers!”

“I'm not so sure about that. Hwa—shoot, what's his name again?” Jeongyeon turns towards the office desk, shuffling through the mess of papers she needs to deal with.

“Ugh, who cares about his stupid name? It's apartment 8D. Just tell him his headlights are on or something. Actually, lemme text you a list of ideas. I've been coming up with them since Thursday.”

“30,000 won and I'll key his car.”

Jisung perks up, “Really?”

“No!” Jeongyeon admonishes like he's the one who suggested it, giving him a look that says he failed a social test just then. When she turns back towards her piles of papers, her whole body hunches inward. “Oh, shit. I forgot to— lemme call Jihyo. Jisung-ah, go away, you're distracting me from work and making me busy.”

“Work!” Jisung scoffs. “I've been here all morning and you haven't done any work!”

“That is entirely the point.”

Jisung crosses his arms. “I'll go away if you do my list of prank calls.”

Jeongyeon points a threatening finger his way. “I will do three prank calls for 30,000 won and you will go away unrelatedly, simply because I said so.”

“20,000 won.”

“50,000.”

“Noona!”

“You wanna make it 60?”

Jisung groans at the ceiling, lamenting this cruel, unjust world. When he leaves, he slaps a 50k bill on the office counter and huffs away because he is a sucker and a child and an idiot most of all.

On his way up the stairs, he half-expects to see New Guy on every landing. He tries to focus on texting out his list of pranks to Jeongyeon, but his nerves keep him from pressing the right buttons. His temper rages against his anxiety, both shooting adrenaline through his body like a lightning strike. The more his hands shake, the more his heart races, the more pissed he gets. Who the fuck is this guy to make him nervous in his own apartment building? He lives here for fuck's sake, he shouldn't be peeking around corridors like he's dodging an alcoholic father!

But then he thinks about his carelessness: about the boxes, the picture frame, the locks. He tries to cling onto that anger, but a chanting wave of why did I do that why did I do that whydidIdothatwhydidIdothatwhywhywhywhy drowns out everything else.

Jisung throws himself into his apartment, breath stuttering in and out of his lungs at a dizzying pace. He clutches at his chest, letting the icy dark of the apartment snuff out his burning frenzy. Embarrassment chases the heels of calm, and Jisung slumps against his front door, letting reality settle in.

“What the fuck is wrong with me,” he mutters to himself, finally blinking his eyes open. They zero in on an all-too-familiar slip of paper. “Oh, fuck right off.”

Jisung snatches it from the ground where it had been slipped under his door, wrinkling the edges with his grip. He mumbles what he reads aloud, “Dear Han Jisung-ssi, it has been reported that excessive noise came from your rented premises at 0325 Seuteurei Kijeu, Unit 8A—this has to be a fucking joke. If you are unfamiliar with our policies regarding noise disturbances, then please refer to—fuck off! Fucking, no way. I wasn't even— when could I have possibly been so loud that—?”

He finishes reading the note, dread settling heavy in his gut. The disturbance in question quotes the lyrics of the song he was singing in the stairwell, time-stamped and all. Anybody could've filed this complaint against him—hell, multiple people could've, if what New Guy was saying about hearing him in the parking lot was true. He feels the pendulum swing between these people are faceless and not real enough to hurt me and oh my fuck shit god no they know they heard they have seen into my soul and have opinions about it, and he can only hope it lands on the former.

The ground almost catches his phone as he fumbles for it, fingers shaking. He dials Jeongyeon's number and tries to put some humor in his voice. It falls flat. “Kinda sick of you to not just tell me to my face that I got a noise complaint.”

He can hear the sound of rustling papers, then a distracted, “Huh?”

“Noise complaint,” he bites. “You're issuing me one. Another one. This is my third this month.”

“Okay?”

“My third, noona,” he stresses, like she doesn't know how important this is. “Jihyo-ahjumma will fine me unless I manage to talk her out of it again, or worse!”

“So be quiet then?”

“Oh, c'mon, this isn’t fair! I was in the stairwell, not in my rented premises,” he says, tone mocking as he quotes the insufferable slip of doom. “And it wasn't even during quiet hours! I barely sang for a full minute, anyway.”

“Make that case to Jihyo, not me. And maybe don't call her ahjumma while you do it.”

Jisung groans, “Noona, what the fuck. Why aren't you taking this seriously? I could actually get evicted if her mood’s bad. I'll have to live on the street and sell all my sneakers. Is that what you want? For me to lose all my drip? For me to be drippless? Undripped?”

The joke doesn't land. “God, what are you even saying?”

Jisung feels his throat tighten. He shouldn't have called. He's bothering her with nonsense, with shit he needs to deal with on his own. He can't expect everyone to just fix his mistakes, or give him a free pass when it's obvious he's being too much. Even if he wasn't home, even if it was the middle of the day, does that mean he has the right to disturb everyone? To scream in the stairwell like it's not a communal space? How stupid can someone be?

Jeongyeon clicks her tongue when he doesn't explain his actions, tone far past exasperated, and it only makes Jisung want to curl further into himself. “Not only do I have no idea what you're talking about, I have more important things to deal with right now. Like I told you when I sent you to your room: I'm busy.”

“Okay, right, but, noona, really quick, I'm sor—”

“Goodbye, Jisung-ssi.”

She hangs up on him. And boy does it sting! Jisung shakes out his hand like the phone physically burned him. He slides down his door, letting the floor hold him up as he reads through the noise complaint a couple more times.

“It doesn't make any sense,” he mutters, thinking back on his morning. When would Jeongyeon even have time to deliver this? She would've had to slip it under his door when he was picking up their breakfast. But why do that? She's served him a complaint right to his face before, it isn't like her to be so passive aggressive. It could've been one of the other office noonas, but why wait until their day off?

He stuffs a hand into his hair, tugging at the roots. The last time he racked up three noise complaints in the same month, Jihyo chewed him out for an hour, then another hour when he convinced her to not give him a well-deserved fine. Minsung’s Monday Movie Mornings used to be called Sungho's Sunday Screenings, but that almost got Jisung evicted within the day, so they switched it to when most people would be at work.

If he didn't have such a shitty pattern of behavior, this wouldn't matter. Jihyo has always been more patient and forgiving than she really ought to be, but there's only so far anyone can be pushed before they push back. He's at a loss. So he does what he always does when he doesn’t know what to do: he calls Minho. Even though he knows better, even though he knows Minho can't pick up because he's in the middle of a work shift, even though he knows he has no right to be hurt when Minho has a real reason to ignore him.

Jisung calls anyway, Minho doesn't answer, Jisung gets hurt anyway. Because he's a sucker and a child and—

Jisung drops his head into his hands, “An idiot, most of all.”

~

Week Three

“What are you doing?”

Jisung flinches so hard he just about drops to his knees. With the tape dispenser in his mouth, he can't curse at Changbin for scaring him, but he does make a bunch of rude noises.

He finds the buzzer for apartment 8D and shoves a marble into the button, quickly taping over it multiple times to keep the buzzer pressed down. Cackling in victory, he races inside the building, escaping into the mail room for a hiding spot with a good view of the foyer.

Once he's safely under cover, he retrieves Changbin from his flannel's chest pocket, and shushes him. “You can't sneak up on a guy like that, hyung.”

“We're video-chatting, Jisung, I'm physically incapable of sneaking up on you.”

Jisung glares down at the phone, “How was I supposed to know when you were gonna unmute yourself? You seemed way more interested in flirting with your barista than spending quality time with your dongsaeng. For shame.”

Changbin raises an unimpressed brow, “And what exactly were you doing while I ordered coffee in a very polite and platonic way?”

“Nothing,” he answers too quickly. “Just pulling an innocent prank on my neighbor.”

“He says, like a liar.”

“To the other liar!” Jisung yips back.

Changbin scowls at him in all his eight-pixel glory. Jisung thinks there's a pretty good chance that his hair is brown, but anything else is up for grabs. “Is this the same neighbor you robbed and humiliated?”

“Jesus Christ,” Jisung groans. “I hate it when you and Channie-hyung talk about me when I'm not there. You guys make me sound like a psychopath.”

“Oh, so you didn't rob and humiliate him? Because I heard it on pretty good authority that you robbed and humiliated him.”

“I may have lightly borrowed something without asking and somewhat teased him to a moderately embarrassing degree. I wouldn't go so far as to call it robbing or humiliating, okay? That's a bit dramatic.”

Changbin scoffs, “Yeah, and I wouldn't call a prank at six in the morning innocent, but what do I know?”

“Nothing. I'm acting out a little. It's whatever.”

“I thought you were worried about getting evicted? Isn't it a little risky to be acting out already?”

Hah! Worried? Jisung isn't worried, he's resigned. It's not even a matter of if, but when! A few days—a week, at most! Jisung's already started looking at other apartments, to no real avail. He's so doomed that it's laughable. Every time he walks in and out of the building, he practically masquerades as a ninja, trying to sneak past the front desk without getting caught by any of the office staff. Each exit and return has been a game of Will Today Be The Day I See An Eviction Notice On My Door?

This morning alone sent him into a spiral, as a noise complaint rested on his welcome mat, this time simply for laughing. He can't even remember the last time he laughed! He's been too preoccupied with tiptoeing around his apartment and wincing every time a floorboard creaks! Because this isn't his fourth noise complaint, oh no, this is his seventh.

Usually Jihyo just sends three a month, then comes to give the tenant her usual Cure or Quit conversation. But she must be making some kind of point about just how much slack she cuts Jisung nowadays, how much slack they've all been cutting him. God, he's so doomed. Doomed as fuck. Mega ultra doomed. Doomed times infinity.

Jisung thumps his head against the wall, trying to knock the thoughts out of himself. “I've accepted my fate, hyung. Got another formal notice this morning about how disturbing my existence is. I figure it's just time to wild out at this point.”

“Damn, another one?” Changbin sucks his teeth. “You really need to talk to Jihyo-noona.”

“I'm too busy evading her wrath.”

“Then talk to Jeongyeon-noona.”

Jisung shivers, “Yeah, I'm much more busy evading her wrath in particular. I pissed her the fuck off the other day; she does not want to deal with me for the foreseeable future.”

Changbin sighs like an old, judgmental father. “Jisung-ah…”

“Whatever you're about to say—don’t. I know already, trust me.”

“I trust you with so many things that aren't this.”

This being life, apparently. This being creating and maintaining friendly relations with the people around him. This being handling himself alone for the first time in a very, ridiculously long time. Yeah, Jisung thinks, I wouldn't trust myself either.

Jisung grins at him, “Trust me or not, drop it anyway. It isn't your problem, right? Let a couple weeks pass and this'll just be a funny story I'll tell you over drinks.”

Changbin shakes his head, “First round'll be on me, I guess.”

“This is why you're my favorite hyung.”

“Y'know, that’s the second time you've lied to me this morning. I hope this isn't a bad habit you're forming.”

Jisung hears rhythmic thudding as someone comes down to the ground floor, which is significantly more interesting and important than whatever Changbin is saying. “Shh, hyung, he's coming!”

New Guy bursts from the stairwell, jaw set and face so enraged Jisung almost feels bad. Almost. He's in a t-shirt and shorts, with a towel around his neck that only confuses Jisung for as long as it takes him to see how wet New Guy's hair is.

“Oh, gross,” he mumbles. “He takes morning showers.”

“Weirdo behavior,” Changbin agrees.

The smack of his wet sandals disappears as he marches outside to the intercom. Jisung lets loose another triumphant laugh, grabbing his mail as he catches Changbin up on the prank he just successfully pulled.

Changbin, unsurprisingly, chooses empathy when it would most annoy Jisung. “Don't you have better things to do than harass this guy?”

“No, actually, I really don't,” Jisung snaps, aggressively shuffling through his mail. “Since when did everyone become buzzkills, anyway? Like, what happened to supporting your friend's hobbies?”

“I don't support grown men acting like toddlers,” Changbin replies cooly, like he's actually any better in any way and not being a big fat hypocrite right now.

Jisung scowls at him, “God, I bet you're fun at parties.”

“At least I'm invited to parties.”

“Sorry, can they put a rush on your order, hyung? Since you insist on being a Rae Dunn mug from 2015 and apparently it's all No Talkie Until I've Had My Coffee.”

Changbin's face comes real close to the camera, squinting. “What?”

“You're actively ruining your interpersonal relationships due to caffeine addiction,” Jisung informs him. “And I'm gonna have to organize an intervention at this point. Which is wild considering you don't even like coffee.”

“I drink coffee all the time.”

“That's the part you have an issue with? I didn’t even say any different, hy—”

“There you are,” a voice growls out from behind him, and for the second time within the hour, Jisung flinches hard enough to yeet his soul from his body.

“—ung,” Jisung finishes with a wince. He slaps some polite delight onto his face and turns to meet New Guy in the eyes. “Howdy, neighbor!”

“What the fuck is your problem with me?” New Guy hisses, cornering Jisung against the mail wall with an arm blocking his path. Jisung ducks under it, creating some space between them, but New Guy grabs his forearm and yanks him closer. He twists Jisung's arm until his empty palm is facing up, then slams the offending marble into his hand.

Jisung wrenches himself free, “Christ, what is with you? You can't just trap me and throw me around like a rag doll! What are you, some kind of thug?”

“Maybe if you'd stop trying to weasel your way out of actually talking to me, I wouldn't feel the need!”

“Feel the need?” Jisung echoes in a squawk. “You wanna touch me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

New Guy scoffs, head tilting back like he was asking God for patience, but Jisung can see his ears turning pink. “Says the guy who can't seem to leave me alone for longer than two days straight.”

“Me? Leave you alone? Like you're not the one who put a donation box on the front desk for a Han Jisung Anger Management Fund? What, did you think I wouldn't see it?”

New Guy shrugs, expression serene, “You could be illiterate.”

Jisung thinks evil thoughts at him. Mean, malicious, menacing thoughts.

“Don't act innocent, asshole.” New Guy pokes him hard in the chest, accusatory. “You've been messing with me too. Or are we just gonna ignore the scavenger hunt I had to do with my clothes in the laundry room?”

Jisung snorts despite himself, guilty.

“How about the flyer you put up on the bulletin board?” New Guy ducks lower, catching his gaze in a glare that only makes him laugh more. “You remember, right? The one that said I was hosting a catered Golden Girls trivia night?”

Jisung was particularly proud of that one. He stayed up, peeking through his peephole as a small crowd of grannies formed outside New Guy's door. Watching him try to figure out what was going on and talk them all down was so hilarious that he had to stuff his face into a pillow to keep from being too loud.

“I thought you could use some company?” Jisung smiles.

New Guy laughs, but there's no real humor in it. He goes to grab his mail out of his slot, but then his hand meets a wall of tape covering the entire opening. And Jisung, the soldier that he is, should've been given an award for how well he held back his laughter.

New Guy rips the tape off, balls it up, and throws it into Jisung's mail slot with more power than necessary. When he turns back onto Jisung, it's with some fire. “I know this will be really hard for you, but don't. Just don't do that. Don't think about me, completely eject me from your thoughts. Let your eyes glaze over anything to do with me and apartment 8D, like none of it exists, okay? Think you could give that a shot for me? Or is even that too hard for you to manage?”

Jisung rolls his eyes, “My God, you ever think that maybe I'm retaliating against you? Paying you back for shit you did first?”

“Retaliating?” New Guy scoffs. “What did I even do to you? Other than send those fake noise complaints.”

Jisung stills. So quickly and so completely that even New Guy pauses, sensing the shift in energy like a storm on the horizon.

“You… didn't know that was me?” New Guy guesses.

Jisung feels like he's about to go crazy. Medicated crazy. Straitjacket crazy. Clawing-at-the-walls crazy. And he knows that's crazy stigma, but he might actually get locked up after this. He has no control over his expression, his tone, his words—he says, voice unrecognizable, “You're so fucking obsessed with yourself that it makes me sick to my stomach. You think you're some blameless victim in all this, like you haven't made living here a fucking nightmare! Or does pounding on my door like you’re the FBI in the middle of the night suddenly not count as doing something to me? What about leaving that cardboard cutout of some creep on my fire escape? I almost called the fucking cops when I saw its sillhoutte out my window!”

“It’s JYP,” he mumbles, like a kicked dog.

“What?”

“The cutout, it’s of Park Jinyoung. The idol guy.”

“I don’t give a fuck who it is!” Jisung snaps. “I don’t even care how you got it there! I’m a little more concerned with the fact that your pranks have me terrified in my own home! The only upside to being too scared to sleep is that it’s given me plenty of time to look for new apartments! I’ve been dodging Jihyo-ahjumma and Jeongyeon-noona for over a week now—”

“Ahjumma?” New Guy echoes.

“—convinced that I’m gonna get evicted for all those fucking noise complaints you apparently faked! So yes, actually, I would definitely call what I’m doing retaliation! Though I’m pretty sure there’s a big difference between me putting tape all over your mail slot and you giving me midnight panic attacks!”

New Guy’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline, and Jisung, who can’t really feel his face at the moment, is still pretty sure that it mirrors his own expression.

Silence is what follows. Not because Jisung ran out of steam—his throat is still raring for some more yelling—but more because what he yelled wasn’t exactly the lecture he had in mind. He was aiming for something more insulting and haughty, what he got was somewhere closer to whiny trauma-dumping. Which—yikes! Embarrassing! Double embarrassing when he remembers Changbin is still on the phone!

When his vision finally clears enough to see in front of him, he sees guilt, clear as day, pass over New Guy's features. His mouth opens, then closes—his brows furrow before he resolves himself to speak, voice quiet, “If it's so hard for you, then quit fucking with me. Let’s let this be the last time we speak face to face, agreed?”

Jisung just glares at him, too stricken to find his voice.

New Guy takes his silence as resignation, and leaves him alone with his thoughts… and Changbin. He can’t say how long he stands there before Changbin clears his throat, tugging Jisung back down to earth.

“So…” Changbin says. “That what happened with Channie-hyung too?”

Jisung shrugs, still feeling very far away. “Yeah, pretty much. If I had a nickel for every time one of my oldest friends bore witness to me getting shoved against a wall by my neighbor who then confronted me about which of us is more evil, I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it's happened twice.”

“What?”

“Phineas and Ferb.”

“What?”

“Oh, never mind, hyung.”

~

Week Fourr

The days that follow are quiet. On all sides. Jisung doesn’t see New Guy, doesn’t hear him or hear about him. He doesn’t talk about him, either. He doesn’t talk at all, really. Not to Jihyo, not to Jeongyeon, not to Minho or Chan or Changbin.

But that’s fine. He’s said enough.

Chapter Text

Jisung is lighting a candle when someone knocks softly on his door. Technically, the candle is for a sconce, and that sconce is one of two hung up on the wall separating the front door from the living room. This is all to say that Jisung was already right by the door, so when he answered it within seconds of the first knock, it wasn't about eagerness so much as proximity.

New Guy blinks at him, one hand still raised to complete the typical succession of three knocks, the other hand holding a bag of takeout.

He says, as if caught, “This isn't from me.” Then, as if he can't help himself, “Wow, you look like shit.”

Jisung's mood plummets at the sight of him, even despite the free food. With the hand not still holding his lit candle, he snatches the bag out of New Guy's grip, only for New Guy to lean over to grab another bag of food leaning against the wall just out of sight.

Holding the door open with his body, Jisung jerks his head in the barest of welcomes into his home. After New Guy slips his shoes off, he follows Jisung straight back into the kitchen, depositing both bags of takeout onto the counter.

“It's from Nayeon-noona,” he explains. “She caught me on my way up, asked me to deliver these to you. I couldn't exactly say no. I was originally gonna leave them at your door, but you answered too quick.”

Jisung just stares at him.

“What?” He asks, wiping his palms down his dark-wash jeans. “We moved on to silent treatment or something?"

“You're the one that said we shouldn't speak face-to-face again,” he drawls. “Oh, and, by the way, you can leave now.”

New Guy rolls his eyes, but heads for the door. On his way out, his eyes sweep across the living room with interest, before that interest inevitably makes him pause. Jisung had made what could be described as a nest. He pushed his couch and arm chairs to form a seamless curve opening out towards the TV, and in that semicircle, he situated every blanket and pillow he owned into something of a conversation pit. New Guy considers it for a moment before looking back at Jisung, who is still holding a lit candle like a Victorian maiden.

“Are you… What are you doing?” New Guy asks, suspicious. “Your apartment looks… cozy.”

Jisung puts his free hand on his hip, “What, did you think I lived like an urban futurist?”

“No, I just—wait, what? What is that? No. No, you just don't seem like the type to randomly light a candle, is all.”

“You know literally nothing about me.”

New Guy snorts mirthlessly, “Honestly, I don't think I've ever gotten to know someone faster.”

“You don't know, though. This could be a ritual, or self-care. Or a self-care ritual. I could've missed my electricity bill this month. I could be cursing you and your family.”

“Are you?” New Guy asks, lifting a perfect brow.

“No,” Jisung sniffs, “but I could be, is the point.”

“Right…” he says slowly, awkwardly, in a way that makes alarm bells go off in Jisung's brain, that brings out his fix-it genes. But he doesn't want to fix it. He wants to make it worse. He wants to make New Guy walk straight into the ocean.

New Guy continues speaking for no fathomable reason, “Then if not witchcraft, what are you doing?”

Jisung groans. He knows better than to get physical with this jackass, even if all he wants to do is push him out of his life for good. “A friend's coming over for my intervention, if you must know. Not that it's any of your business. I figured I should make it nice for him. Can you leave now?”

New Guy steps closer to the door, but ignores him otherwise. “That must be tough. Has your friend been going through this for a long time?”

Kinda not the point? But whatever. “I mean, I dunno really. A month or so, I guess. It depends on when he noticed.”

“That's not so bad,” he says lightly, but his eyes are big and full of something Jisung should probably be trying to read. “It's good to confront people early about these kinds of things. Even if it's difficult.”

Jisung fills his own eyes with something New Guy should definitely take a look at. “Still seems like an ambush to me. He's lucky I know it's coming, because showing up at my door uninvited and unannounced is rude and upsetting.”

New Guy doesn't pick up on the subtext, so they end up just staring wide-eyed at each other like idiots. Then he says, “What do you mean by lucky? Aren't you the one who planned it?”

Jisung squints at him. “Why would I plan my own intervention?”

The second round of staring is a lot more baffled and frustrated than the first, and yet still no greater insight is gained from it.

New Guy says, choosing his words slowly and carefully, “We really don't know how to talk to each other, do we?”

“Nope.” Jisung replies, popping the P.

“Well, are you…” New Guy gestures vaguely at him. “Doing better?”

Jisung narrows his eyes, “Yeah, I'd actually be right as rain—tip-top, even, just super! I would be fully over the moon, absolutely tickety-boo—!”

New Guy at least catches on to this, “Right, yeah, okay.”

He ducks away, heading straight for the door to try and outrun the embarrassment of this conversation, but Jisung isn't done with him yet. “There's just this one guy, you see! Oh, wow, how I'd be downright copacetic if only he'd leave me alone.”

New Guy pauses with his hand on the door knob, expression tightening. He bites his lip, so visibly conflicted that they'd use his face as the standard for which to teach others how to look conflicted. He opens his mouth, takes a breath—and, oh, dear god, if it isn’t bated as fuck, so Jisung braces himself. For some grand confession of hatred or guilt, maybe. For a slighted, insulting comment that would bounce around Jisung’s brain like the DVD logo for the rest of the day, perhaps. Or, actually, for nothing, apparently. For him to just bite his lip and chicken out, like a little coward.

“Let's just talk later,” he mutters finally.

“Or never!” Jisung calls out as New Guy slips out into the corridor and swings the door closed.

Alone at last. Or, well, alone for now, anyway.

All the muscles in his body relax as he locks the door behind him. The last thing he needed right before an emotionally-taxing intervention was an emotionally-taxing confrontation immediately prior. He takes a grounding breath to steady himself, filling his lungs as far as they could go, holding the air close to his heart, then letting it ease out of him.

He deals with the candles first, lighting the last ones needing to be lit and situating the ones needing to be situated. The living room glows with all the warm, soft lights, and it makes the blanket nest look so inviting that Jisung can almost convince himself this won't be one of the worst days of his life.

He deals with the food next, sending Nayeon a lengthy message marking his oaths of duty before he packs it all away into his refrigerator. She tells him that if his friends don't come visit him to finish all that food, then she'll be having words with them and their parents. Jisung promises her the loyalty of his bloodline, may the Han family serve hers for generations to come. She laughs, which was the whole point, and it makes Jisung feel warmer than even a belly full of hot food.

He deals with himself last, when everything is neat and perfect and where it's supposed to be. A shower, for one. His favorite pajamas, for two. Three through seven pertain to self-care and hygiene, because Jisung is incredibly well-behaved, and the last few are all about being in the middle of an activity by the time Chan arrives.

It's not that Jisung is trying to lie to him, or hide how low he's been. It's more that Bang “Christopher” Chan is a chronic and extensive worrier. He already has so much on his plate that when he comes to stage Jisung's quarterly intervention, it only makes Jisung feel worse. So, yeah, he feels like shit, but the least he can do is take the right steps before Chan tries to shove his feet into shoes, lace them up, and move his legs for him.

He settles on putting on the movie Extreme Job, since he's been meaning to watch it and he knows Chan likes comedies. He fast-forwards about a third of the way through, then pauses it. When Chan arrives, he'll see that Jisung was in the middle of something and say some dumb shit like, oh sorry if I'm interrupting, and Jisung will be all like, oh hyung you could never. He'll ask what the movie's about, Jisung will start to explain and then cut himself off to say, how about I start it over and we watch it together?

They'll watch the movie, they'll laugh, they'll spend enough quality time to satisfy Chan, and the vibes will be so good that Chan won't want to bring the mood down by starting a difficult conversation. He'll see Jisung smiling, he'll see his fresh hygiene and neat apartment, he'll see the fridge stocked with food, and he'll see that Jisung is doing just fine. Or, at least fine enough to not need an intervention.

Another knock comes from the door, this one firmer than the last. Jisung takes a breath. Showtime.

He mimes pausing the TV so the timing will feel normal, letting himself casually come to his feet and stroll to the door. He opens it, putting on a smile and—

“Oh,” Jisung says intelligently. “You're not Bang Chan.”

Minho blinks at him.

“No,” he agrees. “I'm not.”

Jisung blinks back.

“No offense, hyung—happy to see you, actually—but why are you here?”

“It's Monday?” Minho raises a brow, stepping across the threshold and inviting himself in. Jisung checks the date on his phone as Minho kicks off his shoes and looks around, lips pulled together in a silent, surprised ‘O’. Jisung finds that it is, in fact, a Monday.

After assessing his surroundings, he narrows his eyes at Jisung. “Did you kill someone?”

“I don't think so?” Jisung replies, too distracted by the fact that he wholeheartedly thought it was a Wednesday to actually register what he said. That must be why Chan isn't here, the timing isn't right yet. Then, “Wait, what kinda question is that?”

Minho tilts his head at him, eyeing him curiously. He takes a step closer, Jisung takes a step back, but his heel catches on the wall. He pitches backward, unbalanced, and Minho shoots a hand out to cushion Jisung’s head from thumping against the wall.

They blink at each other, Minho’s eyes wide and unreadable, Jisung’s eyes probably just as wide but infinitely more readable. Which—fuck, he shoots them away, managing a chuckle as he rebalances himself.

“Is this shojo?” Jisung asks lightly, amused and nauseous both.

Minho’s fingers lightly tug at his hair, “Wet.”

“I just showered,” Jisung explains softly, pushing off of the wall in search of breathing room. “No other reason. And who do you even think I killed? With this clean, innocent body of mine?”

“I just didn't think tenants had to market their own apartment. I mean, isn't that like telling someone to hire their own replacement just before they're fired? So I figured you must've killed someone.” He points at the blanket nest, “This is nice.”

“You can get in if you want,” Jisung offers, gesturing grandly as he leans his elbows against the back of the couch. “And that has nothing to do with anything. Tenants don't do any of that in any capacity, even if their lease ends early for whatever reason. I don't know where you got that from.”

Minho shrugs, unconcerned as he considers the nest, probably debating the comfiest arrangement, which gives Jisung time to consider him in turn. He's got on a black t-shirt partly tucked into loose light-wash jeans, dark hair fluffy, dark eyes a little out of it. Which is typical nowadays, Jisung reminds himself, Minho's early bird genes have been fucking with his late shifts. He's probably exhausted.

Exhausted but dressed up, Jisung thinks to himself, watching the candlelight glitter off Minho's earrings as he starts rearranging the nest for his needs. The outfit is simple, sure, but it's more than he usually does for their movie dates, and effective all the same. Even as he meticulously situates the heaps of Spider-Man blankets and mismatched throw pillows, he looks picturesque.

“Hyung,” he calls, rounding towards the front of the couch and watching the way Minho’s gaze trails up the pattern of his pajama bottoms, over his ratty One Ok Rock t-shirt, the way they settle on his face and stay there. “Have I asked you to marry me yet today?”

Minho hums, shaking his head as he sits back on his knees. He gestures towards the empty space next to him, inviting Jisung into his own blanket nest like a Let's Make A Deal host. And Jisung, known for his obedience, nears with every intention of plopping down into the plush and promptly passing out.

“You can ask when you get me a ring,” Minho says, and Jisung makes the grave mistake of looking at him.

The original plan was so simple: walk over, crack a joke about how the roles are reversed, how Minho should be the one proposing if he's gonna be on his knees. What happens is closer to being set on fire. What happens is Minho tilts his head back, the column of his throat pretty and bared as he keeps his eyes steady on Jisung's. What happens is the candlelight softens his edges, makes him glowy and hazy, makes that curious blink say why am I not tucked up next to you yet?

It's Jisung's fault for getting too close, for towering over him, for liking, maybe too much, the way the world looked when Minho had to bend his head back just to keep his gaze. Jisung thinks about his grandparents’ rings hung on a chain around his neck, he thinks about how good Minho would look, staring up at him, princess lips parted, if he pulled them out and said I told you so.

Jisung's pulse jumps. He needs to get out of this. Escape. Abort mission. But casually. In a very smooth and natural manner.

“Who says I don't already have one?”

Minho gives him a slow once-over that Jisung refuses to think about whatsoever, “I don't see one.”

“Then what’s that?” Jisung asks, pointing towards the nest. Minho breaks eye contact to look down towards the blankets, gullible. “Oh, thanks for your bow.”

Frame one: Jisung towering over Minho with a shit-eating grin.

Frame two: Jisung flat on his back, Minho’s palm flush against his chest with a deranged, victorious smile in his face.

“Hyung,” Jisung manages, gasping for breath, equal parts victorious and flustered. “I think we’re a shonen now. Unless you’re about to kiss me. In which case, feel free to make me eat my words.”

To Jisung’s absolute horror, Minho's eyes flick down to his mouth. He's lucky he bumped the air conditioning cooler back when he was expecting to have an emotional meltdown. Dutifully, he makes note of the way his body is seizing with embarrassment, all red and stupid, and figures that this isn't all that far off from what would've happened if Chan came here to talk about their feelings. Which Jisung has none of, to be clear. He's actually known for his apathy and stoicism above all else.

“Jagiya?” Minho calls.

Jisung squeaks in a very nonchalant and cool way.

“Lost you for a minute there.”

Jisung scowls, “Well maybe if you didn't suplex me onto my fucking low-pile nylon, you wouldn't be talking to a concussion patient.”

“Dramatic,” Minho says, because he is the meanest person on the planet. “You fell on the pillows.”

Jisung looks away, pouty. “I almost lost my life.”

“You lost your breath at most.”

“I'm about to lose my mind,” Jisung threatens, squeezing his eyes shut when being normal about his good pal, his BFF, his Biblical Foundations of Freedom, proves to be too difficult…

Which lasts, like, two seconds, because Minho is quiet for a beat longer than Jisung can stomach. He peeks his eyes open practically immediately, braced in a preemptive wince, only to find Minho already staring at him. Or still staring at him. He doesn't know which is worse.

“What?” Jisung asks, a little unnerved.

“Wanna go out?” Minho asks, a little too casually.

Jisung is half tempted to go get some silver and salt and start speaking in Latin. What in the actual fuck is going on. It's like Minho just tried to jumpstart his brain with the cables reversed. Who even does that? That's so ridiculously stupid and unsafe, he expected a lot more from his diligent Minho-hyung. And wasn't he trying to abort mission, anyway? Like truly get the fuck out of here. Where the fuck is Houston? Why the fuck is it so hot in his apartment right now?

“With you?” Jisung clarifies for literally no reason.

Minho snorts, “No, with Yeeun-ahjumma—” Jisung shivers, that is not funny. “—of course with me. There's that new secondhand shop a few blocks from here, and I need to pick up some ties for this work thing.”

“Work thing,” he echoes, still sprinting to catch up.

“Yeah, it's this karaoke-dinner thing. I was gonna bring Channie, since I figured you wouldn't wanna go, but he bailed. Which actually reminds me, I'm supposed to ask if you wanna go to that chicken place downtown to meet Chan's reason for bailing on me.”

Engine stalling. Does that metaphor still work? The battery already blew up, so, no, right? Crossed that burning bridge. He pushes away, needing to sit up and drain out all the blood rushing to his head, needing to pack up his heart in a box labeled ‘stupid’ and tuck it up under his ribs where no one can find it.

“Why are you inviting me to one million things at once?”

Minho shrugs, “You're less likely to say no to all of them. For fear of breaking my heart.”

“That's so fucked, hyung.”

He at least has the decency to look shocked. “So you'll go?”

Jisung gives him a world-weary sigh, “Just send me the details.”

“To which?”

“To both,” he says, just to see Minho light up. Just to see his gummy smile and crooked bunny teeth. He's so cute it makes Jisung want to throw a chair, and, if he's being honest with himself, he could use the pick-me-up—

What the fuck. No. No, wait. Jisung must be losing his touch. Or out of his mind, or just plain stupid. It's also possible that he just never understood Minho in the first place, because he genuinely cannot fathom why Minho's expression drops, why his brows knit together, why he suddenly looks some mix of pissed off and anguished.

“What? Hyung?”

Even more confusing is what comes out of his mouth, “Are we not close anymore?”

“What?” Jisung repeats, sputtering. “Hyung!”

Minho looks around the living room, pouty. “You cleaned up your apartment. You took a morning shower. You're saying yes to stuff I know you want to say no to.”

Jisung is at a complete loss at this point.

“So,” he says, counting off on his fingers. “You want me to be messy, stinky, and rude?”

Minho blinks. “I mean, yeah.”

God, is he that much of a slob? Even New Guy made a comment about it being out of character, despite the fact that he knows nothing and was shoving his nose where it didn't belong. And it's not like he's never taken a morning shower before, he's been known to dabble!

“Can't it be argued that I could be trying to woo you instead? Getting everything nice, wanting to spend more time with you? Y'know, putting my best face forward.”

Minho's expression turns severe. “You really did kill someone, huh?”

“Hyung!” Jisung can't help but laugh. “Who would I have even killed?”

“Your neighbor, maybe. Maybe he tried to come here this morning to patch things up with you and it went so poorly you had to take his life.” Minho says this with such incredible seriousness that Jisung has to keep himself from laughing all over again.

“That's… oddly specific.”

“You could've killed Changbin. Through deceptive means, no doubt, but it could've happened.” Minho continues, shrugging. “Or maybe anyone else on your list.”

Jisung scrunches his nose, “I do not have a list.”

“You don't?”

“You have a list, I do not and have never had a list of people I want to kill. You wanna know why, hyung? Do you? Because that's fucking insane, is why. That is genuinely arrestable behavior. If anyone has a Murder To-Do List, they need to set it on fire immediately, because it can and will be used against them in a court of law. Are you listening, hyung? Are you hearing me right now?”

Minho rolls his eyes, “I wouldn't actually kill them.”

“Them?” Jisung echoes. “You mean the people on the murder list you definitely have?”

“You're about to be next,” he threatens, raising a fist in warning.

“Hyung, if you kill me, you better not get caught. You’re, like, one of three people that’d actually show up to my funeral, despite the fact that we’re apparently not close because I lit a candle and washed my ass.”

Minho’s pout is devastating. “What else am I supposed to think? It’s not just that, you know. You've also been—” Minho's eyes dart away. “You've been brushing me off every time— whenever I…”

Jisung feels panic shoot through him like a live wire. Making Minho feel unwanted is a cardinal sin.

“You were supposed to be Bang Chan!” Jisung blurts. Minho's face shutters blank, completely unreadable, and Jisung is already rushing to explain himself. “Everything I did, it was for him. Or—no, it was for me. Supposed to be for me. For him for me.”

Minho holds up a hand to cut him off. When he finally speaks, it's very careful, “You're trying to woo Bang Chan.”

“No!” Jisung shouts. “No, just—no. That's not—no, okay?”

“Lady doth protest too much.”

Jisung's face contorts in pure agony, “Who even taught you that?”

Minho swats at his knee, “You did, idiot.”

“Idiot? You're the one who learned a Shakespearean phrase from some delinquent with a GED instead of befitting scholarship. For shame.”

Minho laughs, giving him another swat.

“Stop hitting me!”

“Then stop distracting me! We're in the middle of an argument!”

Jisung gasps, “Our first fight as a couple.”

“It’s about to be our first fight as exes if you don’t explain this Bang Chan mess.”

“How polyphobic of you, hyung.”

Minho swats at him again, this time punishing instead of playful. “There is a very big difference between cheating and polyamory, Han Jisung.”

Han Jisung knows that, thanks. Though he’s honestly never really thought about polyamory all that much, mostly because he’s yet to experience monogamy. He figures he really ought to give one partner a shot before jumping to multiple, if for nothing other than to avoid the mind-warping trauma of getting unconsensually cucked in his own fucking truple. He’d probably die on the spot. And not in a little way. Big Death. Capital D. His ousting tribal meeting off the island would be unanimous, embarrassing, and—if he has anything to say about it—sensationally melodramatic.

“So you’d be fine if I wanted you both?” Jisung challenges, just to be a little shit.

Minho tilts his head to the side, expression confused like he should already know the answer. “Jisung, I’d let you do just about anything you wanted so long as you didn’t go behind my back to do it.”

Which—cool. Fine. Super normal. Jisung’s heart is still in a box labeled ‘stupid’ and there’s really nothing he can do about that, so weirdly touching moments with his bro just slide off him like water off a hydrophobic box labeled ‘stupid’ with a heart inside.

“Sorry, are we actually dating?” Jisung laughs, a little nervously. “Why are we having this conversation like we’re seriously together?”

Minho frowns, “You don’t wanna do bits with me anymore either. It’s confirmed. We’re not close.”

“Hyung, what the fuck. God forbid I wanna go with you to a work event.”

Minho’s eyes go wide, “Exactly.”

This is probably the part where saying something sincere and vulnerable would immediately remedy the situation. Like, for example, I would do literally anything you asked because I struggle with boundaries and you are a very, very pretty man. Or maybe, just to throw something out there, I’m just as scared as you are that we’re growing apart so if spending time with you means I have to go to a function with strangers and manners then so be it.

Instead of that—instead of anything like that, even, he says, “Bang Chan was gonna give me an intervention today.”

Understanding clears all the worry off of Minho’s face, which sucks and rocks at the same time. His eyes tilt up in thought, “Wouldn’t it have been on Wednesday, though? The timing is a bit off.”

Jisung nods eagerly, “See, I thought it was Wednesday today.”

It’s not that Bang Chan’s interventions are public events. It’s just that they have a bit of a system about these kinds of things. It starts with regular communication back and forth, then Jisung's replies get shorter and less frequent, then he stops replying altogether. After a few days, Chan asks Jisung's other friends and the office noonas how he's doing. If they’re also getting ghosted, then Chan will stop messaging Jisung for a while to give him some space. If by the fifth day Jisung doesn't reply, Chan stages an intervention.

This usually happens three or four times a year, and it's been going on since they were teenagers. So Jisung knew he must've gotten the dates mixed up, because the day Chan stops checking in on him is the day he's done for real.

“Ahh, so it’s like that…” Minho looks down at his hands for only a moment, before snapping his gaze back up to Jisung, shameless. “So you actually want to go? To both?”

“If you lemme go put on some pants, I’ll even go with you to that secondhand shop.”

Minho pulls a face, “Oh, no, I don’t actually have to pick up ties. I was just trying to think of something you’d hate to do.”

“Dude,” Jisung snorts. “Of all the things in the world, you chose buying ties? Is that really what you think of me? Not getting a colonoscopy, or helping you with your taxes, or delivering a baby, but going to go purchase fabric from a shop like three blocks from here?”

“Delivering a baby? Really?”

“Well,” Jisung chuckles bashfully, tucking some hair behind his ear. “I know it’s a little early since I’m not even showing yet, but—”

This time, when Minho tries to swat at him, Jisung is ready. He grabs his wrist and yanks him closer, using his loss of balance to spin him around and make him plop backwards into Jisung’s lap. He wraps his legs and arms around him to keep him from escaping, though Minho barely gives an honest attempt before going dead-man limp.

“Hitting a pregnant woman is so fucking evil, hyung.”

“I would know if you were pregnant,” Minho mutters.

“Weird hill to die on, but okay.”

Minho twists his head to look up at him, pout devastating even as he tries for a glare. “Who even gets a colonoscopy with their friends?”

“How about me, for starters? I’m not getting one without you there, so you better get over this prejudice quickly.”

“Fine, whatever,” Minho says, settling back against him with a sigh and flapping a hand towards the television. “Let’s just watch the movie and take a nap. I don’t wanna think about colonoscopies until my forties.”

“Truer words, hyung.” Jisung slaps a hand around the couch behind him, searching for the remote. “The movie came out a couple months ago, I think. It’s a comedy. Want me to start it over for you?”

Jisung internally face-palms. ‘Want me to start it over for you?’ and ‘How about I rewind a bit and we watch it together?’ are two very different questions. Actually, more than that, they are two very different, unnecessary questions considering he doesn’t need to pretend to be in the middle of something anymore.

Minho, expectedly, declines. “You don't have to go that far.” Then, unexpectedly, asks for something worse. “Just gimme a quick recap and you can press play.”

Jisung has no idea what this movie is even about, let alone the content of its first half hour. He says, “Yeah, sorry, I dunno why I even asked that, I didn’t watch it.”

Minho lets out a long exhale. “Why am I not surprised?”

Chapter Text

Jisung brings the bags of takeout to the studio, which just about earns him a medal of honor. When he sends Nayeon a picture of everyone eating well, she replies with this three-pixel gif of a cat wearing a party hat and doing a little dance. Jisung changes her contact name to Nayeon-halmeoni immediately afterwards, which only makes Nayeon send more horrible gifs.

Once everyone gets a plate, he starts loading up his own.

“So,” Eunjee says, leaning back against the couch with a satisfied hand on her stomach. “You joining JYPE yet or what?"

Eunjee was the first producer he worked with outside of 3RACHA projects. To say he was new to the scene would be a gross understatement—Jisung was a brash, unsocialized little shit, and was truly one bad day away from going full hikikomori. He wasn't even just a rookie to producing, he was a rookie to being a person. A teenager who knew more about the upcoming anime season than how to talk to another human person.

He was praying for someone nice and agreeable, someone who'd take care of him and make the process run smoothly. Frankly, when he was first hired, he was hoping to just do it all himself and move on, but if he had to work with someone, he wanted someone amenable. Instead, he got the most severe woman on the face of the planet, who, upon seeing Jisung for the very first time, said, “I know a brat when I see one.”

That project taught him a lot about the industry, and perhaps more importantly, a lot about himself. He earned Eunjee's begrudging respect and strange affection by sheer force of will, charm, and talent. Which typically amounts to nothing more than her tripping him in the halls and demanding 7/11 runs. It also, occasionally, less frequently, if at all really, amounts to her being the first in his corner.

She's one of the very few reasons why Jisung would actually consider joining JYPE, but even he doesn't hate himself enough to go through with it. One of those other reasons is probably traumatizing rookies a couple floors down from them as they speak, but Jisung doesn’t want to think about him right now.

“You're only asking that because I brought you food, aren't you, sunbae?” Jisung clicks his tongue and shakes his head as if disappointed. “It's not like I have the money to do this regularly, so don't bother wasting your breath on little ol’ me.”

She laughs, more charmed than insulted by his sass. “How could you accuse me of such a thing? I just want to see our Jisungie as often as possible. Especially when he brings us such nice gifts.”

He snorts, “Yeah, I prefer freelance, thanks. But the next time you're skimped out on millions of won in royalties, I'll buy you a drink.”

She kicks at his ankle as he comes to sit next to her. “Says the idiot currently refining, what, eleven demos? For the company? How many of those will even be a tenth recognizable by the time those meat-heads are done going in a different direction?”

“God, don't remind me,” he mutters, the food suddenly bitter on his tongue. “I just need to make my own group, produce and record all their songs, get rich, and die.”

She raises her cup of juice, he toasts it with a piece of chicken.

As the day starts to pick up, Jisung goes about gathering his things. He arrived at the company earlier than he would've preferred, but as a slave to the bus schedule, he had little choice. Usually Jeongyeon-noona would give him a ride, but he still hasn't managed to face her yet, let alone for a favor. So he set up shop in the staff's lounge, laying out the food across the kitchenette and snuggling up in an arm chair for the morning. If the booths and practice rooms weren't always booked out, he would've hid in one of those, but alas.

He makes polite conversation with the staff as he goes about packing away his life (his laptop, notebook, and headphones). The crowd is transient at best, but too many of them know him by name for him to risk being rude, even if he's worried about the state of his social battery.

It's during one of these mind-numbing sessions of pleasantries that a voice booms from the hall, the sound echoing into the lounge like a heavenly proclamation. “Han Jisung!”

Han Jisung whirls around, suddenly on his knees. “God?”

“Oh, get up,” God snaps, also sometimes mistakenly known as Park Jihyo. Some staffs chuckle as she yanks him to his feet, but there is nothing humorous about the fire in her glare. She dusts him off and straightens his shirt, all with the intensity of a very pissed TSA agent, before putting her hands on her hips.

Ah, this is his cue to speak.

Jisung gives a soft, awkward bow of his head, “What wonderful weather we're witnessing—” Hm. Weird. Alliteration. Bad mouth feel. “—don't you think so, noona? Wow.”

Not his best work, but certainly better than falling back down to his knees and begging not to be kicked out into the cold, cruel streets. It probably would've been more effective if the lounge had windows from which the weather could actually be witnessed, but when has anything ever worked out easily for him anyway?

“You look pale. And skinny.” Jihyo accuses, completely ignoring him.

Jisung feigns a schoolgirl blush, “So you're saying I'm ready to debut?”

She's quick to turn her laugh into a scoff, but Jisung already knows this lecture is his to win. “I'm saying you're not eating enough.”

“But look at all the food I brought today,” he says, gesturing around the table. A few of the staff give him some whoops of appreciation. “Doesn't that mean I'm eating well?”

“Could be,” she allows. “Or it means you're handing out all of Nayeon's food so you don't have to eat it yourself.”

Great. They've been talking about him.

He sighs, “So you're conspiring against me, too, huh?”

Jihyo cocks a brow, unrepentant. “Oh? Is that what we're calling it nowadays? I can never keep up with the new slang.”

If Jisung could look straight into a camera and get a zoom-in on him mouthing the word ahjumma, he would.

“But if conspiring now means a group of people getting together to take care of a mutual dongsaeng, then, yes, I am conspiring against you. In the name of your general well-being.”

The more Jihyo talks, the more Jisung becomes aware of the group of people politely pretending not to eavesdrop on their conversation. This is mortifying for quite the selection of reasons, but chiefly because the grown man most people in this room unironically call ‘J.One’ is currently getting (rightfully) chewed out by a woman in braided pigtails and a shirt that says I Put The D In Her with two framing sheep.

Jisung had not noticed the shirt before because he was too scared to break his assailant's gaze (mountain lion rules) but now he can't seem to look away from this, either.

“Stop trying to escape the conversation, Han Jisung.” Jihyo says, waving a hand between his eyes and the sheep’s.

“Sorry, noona, I just can't believe you went outside, in public, where people could see your face and this shirt attached to the same body. I swear to god, this is a physical representation of Lee Minho trying to talk to normal people. I mean, good lord, what is it even trying to say? That whoever you're putting the D into becomes a herd of sheep? Am I reading that right? Or is the joke that there is no D in her, because you don't have one to give? But then why sheep? Please explain.”

“I lost a bet,” Jihyo states, though her words are each separated from one another, as though she couldn't bear saying them as a string of words in one sentence: I. Lost. A. Bet. “I only came here to drop off Chaeyoungie's laptop charger.”

Jisung scrunches his nose. “But the cable bucket—”

“It's for her Satellite A,” Jihyo cuts in, deadpanned.

“Ah, The Primordial One.”

Jisung is afraid of many things—of most things, one might even say—but of nothing more than Son Chaeyoung's antediluvian apparatus of doom. That laptop has diagnosable PTSD, and it's a little sick of Chaeyoung to still carry that thing around like it's not a war veteran. There isn't even a charger that fits it in the cable bucket, which is truthfully saying something considering Jisung once lost a Ring Pop off his finger while he was digging around in there. He still hasn't found it, that's how many cables there are.

“But since I'm already here,” Jihyo starts, trying to shake the dread and shame from her mind. “We need to talk.”

Panic surges up his throat so fast he gets dizzy. That phrase is a danger phrase. Raise the cannons type shit. Them's be fightin’ words, as it were. Jisung locates the nearest window in his mind's eye memory of the building's floor plan and starts calculating the drop.

He grabs the back of his neck, giving her a sheepish smile when he realizes she would catch him well before he'd make it to the window. “Can't we talk later, noona? I kinda have to do my job, y'know?”

“Oh, this won't take long,” she assures him, expression so serious that Jisung feels his entire nervous system light up like a Christmas tree. “I already know exactly what I need to say.”

A small chorus of ooooh and he's in troooubleee sound as Jisung follows Jihyo out of the room, heart rabbit-quick and jaw clenched. He expects her to just take him to the stairwell, or some secluded corner for some privacy, but instead she walks him down the practice room hall.

After reading the names of who booked the current time slots, Jihyo finally picks the third door from the end, giving it a soft knock. A moment passes before a little head pops out into the hallway, revealing a young girl that Jisung doesn't recognize.

“Jihyo-unnie,” she says. Then, when her eyes catch on Jisung, she bows. “Ah, hello, Han-sunbaenim."

Shit, she knows his name. Jisung tries to comb through his memories for any sight of her, but nothing comes to mind. Ugh, he should've paid attention when Jihyo was reading the booking sheet. Hopefully they've never properly met.

Jihyo frowns at him, “What happened to J.One?”

Jisung starts tapping at his pockets like he lost his wallet. “Oh, he's around here somewhere.”

The girl snorts, though she's quick to sober herself. “Can I do anything for you?”

“Do you mind if we borrow your practice room for a couple minutes, Yuna-yah?” Jihyo asks sweetly. “We won't take long, I promise.”

Yuna! Jisung almost slaps his forehead. He's pretty sure she's a member of the rookie group that just debuted, though he's blanking on that name too.

The girl is quick to agree, letting them take over the little room, though her expression looks caught between shocked and confused, which only makes Jisung more on edge.

“Noona,” he mutters once the door shuts behind them. “Wasn't that a little messed up? She was in the middle of practicing.”

“Explain quickly, then.”

Jihyo takes a seat at the piano bench, crossing her legs and looking up at him with an expectant expression. Jisung just stands there for a moment, more than a little lost.

“Uhhhhh—” he begins, looking around aimlessly, “—hhhh?”

She throws him a bone. “I haven't seen you in over a month. Do you know when the last time I've gone that long without seeing you was?” The bone smacks him in the face and steals his lunch money.

“...No?”

“Right,” she says. “Because the last time was before I met you. Since then, I've gotten first-to-second row seats to Jisung Meets World every day of my life. If you hadn't paid your rent—on time, might I add—I would've scheduled a wellness check.”

“What do you call this then?” Jisung mutters.

The look she gives him pulls out a quick apology.

“I don't want sorrys, Jisung. I want to know what's going on.”

Which is as reasonable as it is impossible.

He shrugs. “Nothing's going on. I've just had a busy month.”

“You've barely left your apartment,” she counters. “I checked the lobby cameras.”

“What? Ew, noona.”

“You're avoiding me. Admit it.”

“Noona—”

“Admit it!”

“Alright!” Jisung huffs, throwing his hands up. “I was avoiding you.”

Her entire face crumples, like she somehow wasn't actually expecting that to be the case. Like she was being dramatic on purpose, so that the real reason wouldn't seem as bad in comparison. Jisung wants to march out into the desert, die of thirst, and get his body picked apart by vultures until he is an unrecognizable spread of gore in the middle of nowhere. He's already on his way, shriveling into himself like that could hide him from the guilt.

“Jisungie… I am so, so—”

“It wasn't anything you did!” Jisung rushes, hands thrown out towards her. “It was just a misunderstanding on my part, but then when I realized it was all a misunderstanding, I had already been avoiding you for a noticeable amount of time, and I didn't know how to explain why I had been avoiding you, so I avoided you more until I could figure out how to word it, but when I had something that might work, I realized I had avoided you for a lot longer than the severity of the reason I had initially avoided you for, which made me worried you wouldn't believe me even if I did try to explain, and so I just kept on, well, avoiding you, I guess.”

Jihyo stares at him for a moment, digesting.

“Sorry,” he adds belatedly, awkwardly, like it physically hurts.

“And you…” Jihyo trails off, trying to find the words. “Did all that… why?”

“Honestly, your guess is as good as mine.”

“But what actually started it? What misunderstanding?” Jihyo presses.

He barely manages a shrug, “I dunno, I guess I just thought I was on the verge of getting kicked out. And I figured that if we talked, my big mouth would finally seal the deal.”

Her expression snaps from heartbroken to stern in the matter of seconds. Jisung changes his mind about his odds of winning the lecture, and now only prays to leave the room with his dignity intact. Which—doubtful, probably already a lost cause.

Jihyo crosses her arms over her chest, “Have I ever evicted you before?”

He blinks at her. “Well, no, but—”

“Have I ever even threatened it?”

Crazy, crazy eyes. He can't bear to look at them, but he also can't escape them either.

“N-no, but there's only so much—”

“Do I seem like a woman of my word, Jisung-ah?” Jihyo interrupts, patience thinned. “Do I come across as someone who says what she means and handles business?”

He snorts softly, “Lightning would strike me down if I said otherwise, noona.”

“So when I looked your grandmother in the eyes and promised her I would take care of you, did you think I was kidding?”

There had been a pretty steady air of humor since the conversation started. With Jihyo's intensity being exaggerated and dramaticized to, ironically, make everything feel less serious. Jisung appreciates things like that, especially since he knows Jihyo would rather just speak candidly about these kinds of things. She really is conspiring against him.

Bringing up his grandma, however, made whatever amusement he felt shrivel up right then and there. Which, judging by Jihyo's own shift of tone, seems to be the point.

“Jisung-ah,” she continues softly. “There is nothing you would do that'd make me evict you.”

He grabs at his necklace, “I could—”

“Would,” she repeats firmly. “There's nothing you would do. And I'd like to think that you know I'd come talk to you well before an eviction notice.”

“I know, noona.” Jisung says, and he means it. Somewhere in this stupid brain of his, he really does know that.

“Good,” she says, slowly coming to her feet. “You want a hug?”

Jisung has no control over his bottom lip. “N-not really.”

“Oh, is that so? ‘Not really’ like you genuinely don't want one, or ‘not really’ like you're too embarrassed to want one?”

“Like I don't want to suddenly burst into tears at work, ‘not really’,” he mutters.

Jihyo starts cooing baby noises at him, though Jisung can tell it's all affection and not teasing. Good thing, too, because Jisung feels rubbed raw. Clearing the air is probably supposed to be satisfying—get everything off your chest, bond from a conflict well-handled, move on closer than ever—but Jisung just wants to crawl into a steaming pile of shit and get sifted over a large plot of farmland. Talking is so hard and miserable. Jihyo, like, knows things about him. Understands him. Cares about him, for fuck's sake. And all she gets in return is some rude dumbass who couldn't even bring himself to greet her because of a thing he made up in his head.

Jisung sighs, “Yeah, I think I need to call it a day.”

“It’s only noon, though?” Jihyo chuckles, eyebrows dipping when Jisung doesn’t laugh with her. “You want a ride home?”

If Jisung burdens this woman with one more thing, he will projectile vomit everywhere. It will be horrifying and dangerous. Lives will be lost. The janitorial staff already have it out for him because of the thing with the raccoon, so he really can’t risk much else.

“Nah, I think Changbin will actually skin me alive and bury me under the persimmon tree if I flake on him again.”

Her expression blanches, “The one in the courtyard?”

“With Joro the Jealous, yeah.”

A firm knock makes the both of them jolt in their skin, too caught up in talking about spiders and murder to take a sudden noise in stride. Before either can gather themselves enough to answer, the door cracks open, revealing a very angry Bang Chan.

His expression clears immediately upon seeing them, instead washing with confusion and concern both. “Jihyo-noona?” Chan chirps curiously, then tilts his head at Jisung. “Hannie? What are you two doing in here? Yuna-ssi had this room booked, y’know?”

“Right, I’m sorry, Yuna-yah,” Jihyo says, slipping past Chan out into the hallway. Yuna looks a little mortified, which is usually how people react when Chan advocates for them in a very blatant way. “We’ll get out of your way.”

“There’s no point,” Chan says bluntly. “We’re scheduled to record with them right now. I’m actually here to tell Jisung that he’s late.”

Yuna looks like she wants to strangle Chan, “It’s really no problem, unnie—”

“No, he’s right. I’m so sorry.” Jihyo takes up Yuna’s hands in her own. “I won’t waste any more of your time, but let’s talk later and I’ll make it up to you. Does that sound okay?”

Yuna shoots Chan one last look before refocusing a smile on Jihyo, “Really, it was nothing. Barely a few minutes…”

“Oh,” Jihyo tilts her head, affecting innocence. “So you don’t want apology pizza?”

Yuna’s eyes sparkle, which is answer enough.

Chan leads them down to the recording booth after Jihyo bids them a sheepish goodbye, Jisung with his head hung and Yuna daydreaming about pizza. He tries more than once to apologize, but Yuna is about as interested in hearing it as Jisung is in saying it.

“So,” he tries instead. “Pineapple on pizza, huh?”

“And jalapeños,” she adds eagerly, forgivingly, nodding. “It’s the perfect combination of sweet, sour, spicy, and savory. Like eating a meal with all the food groups.”

Jisung squints to himself, pretty sure that logic doesn't check out, but, “You know what? Hell yeah.”

The rest of Yuna’s group is waiting for them outside the studio, muttering to each other in a mix of half-sentences and pointed looks that only comes with knowing someone too well. Jisung recognizes the way they bend towards each other, the way Yuna slips into their ranks, the way they unconsciously make room for her. It's a mirror of Chan, laughing at every word out of Jisung's mouth like he was a Pez dispenser full of serotonin; it's Changbin, needling him into taking a break when he neglects bodily maintenance for too many hours in a row; it's Minho, understanding every wrinkled edge of him without a word. When Jisung doesn't ruin everything, when he doesn't piss off and confuse everyone in his life, even he can be part of such intimacy.

“Hey, everyone!” Chan greets cheerfully. He opens the door, inviting them inside, where Changbin is setting everything up. He barely spares them a glance, just nodding a quick bow as the equipment hums to life.

The girls stand in front of the couch, lining up but not sitting. Jisung pauses before taking his own seat, but Chan beats him to telling them all to relax. Yeji dutifully takes them through their greeting anyway, and Chan claps, giving them an honest-to-god whoo-hoo! before insisting that they take a seat while everything gets ready.

It's not the first time they've recorded together, but it's been a few months. Politeness is a hard thing to navigate, especially for rookies, and especially when there's been a gap of interaction. Jisung can't help but think about how lucky they are to work with someone like Chan on the regular—a man who'd rather set himself on fire than make anyone well-meaning feel uncomfortable around him.

When it's all ready to go, Changbin and Jisung plop down in their chairs as Chan walks through the schedule with the girls.

“And, like we talked about last time—I know Yeji-ssi and Ryujin-ssi have brought up some lyrics they wanna try out, so feel free to shoot anything our way. These are your songs, okay? Even if we produced them, it'll still be you performing it. Don't be afraid to suggest things just because we're a bunch of old, scary guys.”

A few of the girls chuckle, so Jisung adds: “Speak for yourself, ahjeossi.” Which gets a laugh from them and a playful glare from Chan.

He continues on, discussing recording order and the expectations for what they need to finish by the end of the session. Jisung lets himself tune out, praying that they all decide to leave until it’s their turn to record so he can use the couch for nap time. He's genuinely exhausted after his talk with Jihyo, he's not sure how much more social performance he has in him.

In the corner of his eye, he catches Changbin leaning against his chair. He throws a couple looks Jisung's way before finally ducking behind Chan's back to whisper, “So, where the hell were you? Must've been real important.”

He doesn't even know what exactly it is about the comment that immediately pisses him off. Maybe the insinuation that Jisung was goofing off? Or that he just couldn't be bothered to show up, like he wasn't here hours before Chan or Changbin?

Either way, Jisung's lip curls before he can calm down. “Who cares? I'm here now, alright?”

Changbin really hadn't asked with any sort of attitude, but Jisung's answering one sparks a quick anger in him. “I care, actually. Because you were late to the time that you set.”

Chan says something that has the girls laughing, breaking the ice and trying to make them feel less nervous about the recording session. If Jisung were a better man, he'd be helping Chan out instead of bickering behind his back in a very literal way.

“Okay!” Jisung shout-whispers, all false cheer, not at all a better man. “Then how about you mind your business today, and I'll remember to set all my clocks five minutes ahead. Just so I don't risk wasting a single precious breath of yours, Your Majesty.”

Changbin looks about ready to jump out of his seat. Chan, apparently sensing danger, loudly invites Yeji into the booth with a quick warning glare swept back at the two of them. “The rest of you can go about your days until it's your turn, or you can stay and watch, completely up to you.”

The girls exchange looks, ultimately deciding to give Yeji space to work and use the extra time to rehearse. Once they duck outside and Yeji is behind sound-proof walls, Jisung snorts, “Their media training must be working. What a normal, valid reason to get the fuck out of here.”

Chan gives him a tight look, “Or maybe it was normal and valid because they were telling the truth.”

Jisung shrugs. He realizes he's starting to annoy Chan, and he knows he’s already annoyed the hell out of Changbin, but he doesn't have the fucking wherewithal to fix that right now. So only noncommittal grunts and shrugs from now on, for the love of all things peaceful.

Or, at least, that was the intent. But then Chan had to put a hand on his shoulder and lean in close, sincerity clear and horrible on his face. “Hey, if you're not up for it today…”

“Then, what, exactly?” Changbin cuts in, still pouting from their earlier spat.

Chan takes the seat in between them, putting a hand on Changbin's knee to try refocusing all that attention. “I'm just trying to say that we get that you had a hectic morning.”

“No,” Changbin snaps. “We don't. He was too busy running his mouth to actually explain that.”

“Oh, my god,” Jisung laughs humorlessly. “So what, dude? It's not like I was sitting outside with my thumb up my ass, waiting for the clock to strike twelve so I could be a few minutes late and irritate you personally! Shit happens, let's just move on.”

Changbin sucks in a breath to retort, but his phone starts vibrating in an act of divine mercy. He maintains eye contact, fully intending to ignore the call, though Jisung can tell it’s going against his programming.

“Okay!” Yeji's voice comes through the speakers, startling all three of them and successfully breaking up the tension. She's got the mic adjusted to her height, music laid out on the stand, headphones secure, and two big thumbs up on display. “Ready to go, PD-nims.”

“Great, let's get started!” Chan says, pulling closer to the desk and forcibly breaking Jisung and Changbin's eye contact. He brings up the title on the big screen as Jisung leans back in his seat to waggle his brows at Changbin.

“Go on, answer your personal phone during recording, I don’t mind.” Jisung prods, grinning as Changbin grumbles a bunch of indistinguishable noises of irritation. His expression clears when he sees who’s calling him, though, which is infinitely more interesting than anything else going on.

“Say nothing,” Changbin warns under his breath, ducking out of the room with undeniable haste.

“Where’d he go?” Chan asks, glancing curiously after him. The poor man was too focused doing his job to witness the drama of it all, bless. “Was the call that important?”

“Secret lover situation, hyungie.”

“Ahhhh,” Chan hums, nodding. His disinterest is wholly entwined with the fact that he doesn't believe a word Jisung says, which is fine. Chan, the good boy that he is, turns on the intercom, “Okay, Yeji-ssi, wanna start with the title?”

She gives them another thumbs up, and the session begins.

They are, against all odds, professionals. Recording goes smoothly, especially as the three of them get too caught up in the process to continue butting heads. The girls do well, despite their nerves, and it's obvious, even now, that they're going to go far.

Ryujin is in the booth when Jisung takes over directing, his nap cruelly denied. They're on the second b-side for the first time today, since Ryujin was quicker than the rest to finish her lines for the previous tracks. Jisung had been cleaning up demos for other projects all this morning, so by the time he settles into the middle chair, he can barely remember what the song is even supposed to sound like.

“Ryujin-ssi,” he begins slowly, adjusting Chan's ass-backwards setup because he likes everything to be as far away as possible from each other for some reason. Jisung can barely reach the intercom for fuck's sake. “Where do you wanna start? Any preferences or questionables?”

“Ehhh,” she drones in thought. “There were some harmonies I wasn't sure about.”

“You wanna give them a shot real quick? Or listen to the guide—actually, hold on, do I have a guide? I don't remember recording one.” Jisung clicks around the program, finding one. He's hesitant to click it at first, knowing better than to play an audio file he doesn't already know the content of.

“I did it,” Changbin murmurs, coming back into the studio from a quick drink run. He hands them all out, slipping halfway into the booth to deliver Ryujin's, before taking his seat next to Jisung. “It's not a guide, though, they're just harmonies. I don't think she can reach those notes.”

Jisung plays it anyway, giving everyone a good listen of Changbin's sweet dulcet tones. Jokingly, he says, “Well, whenever you're ready, Ryujin-ssi.”

“Okay,” she agrees easily, quick to join the bit.

Jisung chuckles, pulling up the lyric sheet for her rap as she does some vocal exercises. Then, all of a sudden, after a final clearing of her throat, she starts singing Changbin's harmonies.

Chan sits up straight in his seat, and Jisung meets his eyes, wide and impressed—even Changbin flicks a look up from his phone. It's obvious that she's a rookie, even more obvious that JYPE invested more in her rap than her vocals, but there is definitely something usable here.

He tries to be cool about it to not scare her off, “Oh, very nice. I wasn't recording though, so let's do it again with the MR.”

She nods, “Sounds good.”

Chan reaches for the intercom, no doubt intending to shower Ryujin in compliments, but Jisung grabs his arm before he can press down. “Praise her when she doesn't need to do it again.”

“Compliments are encouraging,” Chan pouts, a little put out.

“Compliments are pressuring,” Jisung counters.

“Actually, compliments are welcome,” Ryujin offers, scribbling casually on her music sheet.

Jisung looks down at the intercom, where Chan had pressed the button despite Jisung's obvious gesture telling him not to. He rolls his eyes, but can't say he's all that surprised.

“PD-nim, can you let that section play on repeat for a moment? I'd like to practice a little before we try recording.”

Jisung does just that, lowering her volume playback to give her a second to find herself on her own. He doesn't want to rush her, but the company really didn't give them a lot of recording sessions to hash everything out. It's a symptom that plagues a lot of big companies, especially ones that prioritize quantity over quality.

Chan ducks out of the room for the first time today, bathroom break imminent, which finally leaves Changbin to Jisung’s mercy. Of which he has very little. Jisung immediately turns on him, smiling evilly. Changbin, apparently expecting it, is already braced in a wince.

“So,” Jisung begins, tapping his fingertips together. “Sorry about being an asshole earlier, wanna tell me about your love life?”

“You mean the one I don’t have?” Changbin scoffs.

“I saw the way you looked at your phone, and if the heaps of dramas I’ve watched have taught me anything about love, it’s that you’re in it.” Jisung reintroduces his dancing eyebrows. “Is it the barista? It’s the barista, isn’t it?”

“Pure delusion.”

“No? Then your personal trainer?”

Changbin’s nose wrinkles, “I don’t have a personal trainer.”

“Obvious.”

“Rude.”

“Then a fellow producer? You don’t really go anywhere else—” Jisung gasps, cutting himself off. “Oh, my god, holy shit, is it an idol? Please tell me it’s an idol, please, please, that would make waking up today worth it. Have you fallen for the seraphic charms of a JYPE puppet?”

Changbin’s eyes shoot wide, “Don’t call them puppets, Jisung, that’s so fucked up.”

Jisung’s eyes go even wider, “I’m right though, aren’t I?”

Ryujin suddenly catches their attention by waving through the window. She then uses her pointer finger and thumb to twist an imaginary dial.

“Oh, shit, sorry!” Jisung turns her volume up. “Sorry, Ryujin-ssi, are you ready?”

“Yes, but I just wanted to say that if I know the idol, I can introduce them to Changbin-sunbaenim, if he needs an in.”

Jisung grins, gesturing towards her. “Friends in high places, it seems.”

Changbin makes a sound of horror, quickly switching off the intercom that Chan forgot to turn off before leaving. Jisung has half the mind to think Chan attempted to prank them, but he doubts he'd trust Jisung and Changbin to not traumatize Ryujin and get them all fired.

Jisung chuckles, throwing a thumb over his shoulder at the booth. “We really need to figure out how to work that thing, huh?”

Changbin crosses his arms tight against his chest, “It's not an idol, okay? I'm not an idiot.”

“Debatable,” Jisung snorts. “I mean, you just admitted you're in love with someone.”

Changbin's eyes widen. “What? No, I didn't. I never said that. I'm just saying the person who called me wasn't—”

“Oh, whatever,” Jisung rolls his eyes, too impatient for shitty excuses. He clicks on the intercom, “Anyway, Ryujin-ssi, if you're ready we can start now~”

“Music cue,” she chimes, shooting finger guns at the wall.

Jisung hits play just as Chan walks back in.

Changbin tries to corral his attention. “Han-ah, seriously, it isn't like that. You can't bring that up when you meet him this weekend.”

Jisung's brow lifts with interest. He stays silent to pay due attention to Ryujin's line, then says into the intercom, “Very nice. Let’s do it again. I want you to try bringing out that huskiness in your voice, like right at the line of it seeming like too much, okay?”

“Okay,” Ryujin nods, turning away for a moment to do some practice attempts.

Jisung turns off the intercom, replaying the music when she comes back to the mic. “Bringing him to meet the parents already, I see. Such big steps so soon?”

“Jisung—” Changbin cuts himself off while Ryujin sings her harmonies, then resumes when she finishes. “I'm gonna need you to be normal about it, okay? He's a lot more sensitive than what you're used to and—”

Jisung interrupts him by pressing the intercom, “You feel good about that take? Because I feel great about it.”

“I'm satisfied,” she says seriously.

“Great. Let's move onto your rap then, okay?”

She hums agreement as Jisung clicks to the correct section. He says, intercom off, “You're acting like I'm gonna dress in drag and do the hula.”

“Nice, Lion King,” Chan says, but he says it in English so it sounds more like noice, loyun keeng. Jisung sends him a no-look high-five. “So are we talking about Hyunjin or Felix right now?”

Jisung gasps, “My god, there's two?”

“Three, technically, if you count Seungminnie.”

“Changbin, you dog!”

Changbin stares at Chan like he was supposed to rally behind him against his greatest foe in armed combat. Instead, Chan has his arms wrapped around Jisung's backrest, chin propped up on his head, Top Ten Anime Betrayals style.

“This is gonna be a nightmare,” he mutters to himself, which is probably true. “I should call it all off.”

Chan bursts into a fit of giggles, moving to soothe Changbin by rubbing his back, even as he laughs in his face. Changbin pretends to hate the attention, and Jisung pretends not to notice him pretending. Which isn’t all that hard, considering he’s supposedly in the middle of doing his job, and, frankly, more than that, now he’s getting a little worked up about this weekend’s dinner. Minho didn’t say anything in particular about it, which probably should’ve registered as a red flag, but Jisung didn’t think he’d have to meet so many new people at once. Especially not potential life partners for one of three of his future funeral attendees.

Jisung groans internally, deciding to deal with the ugly later and focus on making music for now. “Ryujin-ssi, for the next take, I want you to emphasize the pulse,” he says into the intercom. “We switch to cut time for your verse, right? So you really gotta sell it by exaggerating the syllables that fall on the downbeat.”

Ryujin nods, scribbling on her music sheet.

“Felix is an interesting name,” Jisung comments lightly, apparently unable to leave the ugly alone, even for a second. He repeats the name a couple times to contemplate the mouth feel. “He a foreigner?”

“Australian,” Changbin says into his hands, miserable.

Jisung whirls around towards Chan, “Congratulations!”

“Awh, thank you!”

That immediately takes some of the pressure off. This Felix kid will be way more interested in chatting with Chan, especially if he’s bad at Korean. Obviously these Hyunjin and Seungmin fellows still pose their own problems, but Jisung is hopeful he can just fade into the background. He’s good at doing that in big groups anyway.

“I’m ready,” Ryujin says.

“Let’s run it!” Jisung calls, pressing play. He wants to escape into the song, but his mind starts to race with all the possible hiccups looming. He needs more information. “So, which of these fine men do you have the hots for? Or is it all three, you sick fuck?”

“It's none of the above—”

Jisung raises his hand for a quick oath in the face of that transparent lie, “Let it be known that I’m calling you sick not because I’m polyphobic, unlike Lee Minho, who evidently needs to work on himself—honestly, you should be more worried about his reaction to your adorable, albeit greedy, polycule than my own. I’m not the one with a Murder To-Do List and outdated ties, y'know.”

Chan and Changbin share a quick look that would’ve gone unnoticed if they weren’t being incredibly fucking obvious about it.

“Okay, hate that.”

Changbin shrugs, “I’m just surprised it took you that long to bring him up, to be honest.”

“Ooh! Hate that more!” Jisung thinks it’s probably best not to mention his sudden comment about Minho earlier today, because if there’s one person on this earth that Jisung can’t stand to prove right, it’s Seo Changbin.

Ryujin saves him by finishing her verse, taking Jisung’s suggestions seriously and applying them as well as she could. She asks to run it another time for an alternative, so he sets it on loop and tells her to go crazy.

Chan nudges him with his elbow, smile soft. “It's gonna be fine, Hannie.”

Yikes. What kind of expression was Jisung wearing to activate Chan's pacifier protocols? He tries to school it into something neutral, but that only makes Chan bring his chair closer and exhale a very ‘take a load off’ type sigh as he sits.

He puts a hand on Jisung's shoulder, “We already know them pretty well. More than that, we know you pretty well. You don't have to worry about it, I'll take care of everything.”

“Yeah,” Changbin snorts. “He'll take care of everything.”

“Don't be a dick,” Chan mutters over his shoulder.

Jisung is caught somewhere between relieved and insulted. Part of him wants to solemnly place a hand over his chest and admit that he fears he is not yet ready to open his heart back up to others; another part of him wants to exclaim something along the lines of pshaw! or piffle! to express how ridiculous it is that Chan's treating him like a hermetic hooligan. It doesn't matter how accurate it is, he's still gonna be indignant about it! And he can't, for the life of him, just say thank you for the thought and move on, though, so—

“Appa?” Jisung asks, putting a hand over Chan's and squeezing. Then, in English: “We bout to go out back for a lil kick of the footy?”

“Oh, Jisung-ah…” Chan grimaces as he laughs, delighted and horrified both. “Where did you even get that? ‘Cause I know it wasn't me.”

“H2O: Just Add Water.”

Chan tilts his head, “But they never said that in the show.”

Changbin gives him a weird look, “Why do you know that off the top of your head?”

The session timer beeps, alerting the three of them that Ryujin's recording block is coming to an end. Jisung turns her back up, catching her halfway through take number—what, thirteen?—of her second verse.

“How we feeling?” Jisung asks into the intercom.

She comes closer to the window, speaking directly to him. “I like take four, six, eleven, and thirteen.”

“I like one as well,” he adds.

“Oh, I also liked one, but I didn't want to say that in case we end up agreeing on one, making the subsequent twelve a waste of time.”

Changbin shrugs, “That's showbiz, baby.”

“And that,” Jisung points, “was in H2O: Just Add Water.”

“Still no,” Chan says.

“Stihl naur,” Jisung echoes.

Ryujin comes out of the booth, fixing her hair from where it got caught in the headphones. “You don't need anything from me today, right, PD-nims?”

“Just send in Chaeryeong-ssi when you pass her,” Jisung says, saving Ryujin's takes and starring the ones she favored. “I'll let you know if I need any rerecords, but otherwise, that's a wrap.”

They exchange pleasantries and bows as she makes her exit. When the door shuts behind her, the quiet cruelly reminds them of all the shit they failed to actually discuss. He could grill them for information about these randos, maybe catch a whiff of the vibe before he steps on its proverbial toes and fucks everything up with his big, stupid mouth.

…Or, he could stew.

Stewing is perfect in all ways except for his cortisol levels. Which—who cares? Didn't ask. It's so much easier to just sit in this base-level panic than potentially elevate it into a full-blown panic. Or worse, a thing. God, does he not want this to turn into a thing.

Chan is still giving him glances (subtle, quick side-eyes—once when he pretended to look at something over his shoulder, another when he was stretching), and Changbin is refusing to look at him at all, so. So. Maybe it already is a thing? Maybe if he acts like he's completely fine and normal, then they'll feel like they're the ones being dramatic for no reason. That tracks, right?

Eh, whatever. He doesn't have the energy to care about this anymore. Especially not when they still have two members to record for. He takes another fat gulp of the coffee Changbin bought him, but what he really wants is a dark room and a nap.

Chaeryeong ducks into the studio, bowing politely, and Jisung decides to hit the ‘fuck it’ button. Chan said he'd take care of everything, right? Might as well let him try! Whatever happens next is Weekend Jisung's problem!

Chapter Text

Weekend Jisung fucking hates Weekday Jisung and everything that he stands for. ‘Fuck it’ button he pressed, only to the express detriment of all things good and peaceful, apparently.

“I'm gonna throw up,” Jisung mutters.

“No,” Minho decides, willing it to be so.

“True,” Jisung says, trying to believe. “That's some loser shit. Who the fuck are these nobodies anyway?”

Minho snorts, the sound coming out a little staticky over the phone. “People well on their way to being our dear friends, so maybe get this all out of your system before we get there, okay?”

“Fucking chumps,” Jisung spits out, staring himself down in his bathroom mirror. “A couple of bottom-feeder bitches just tryna fuck my best friend and leave him to die in some ditch somewhere. I'll fucking end them for that. Evil sons of bitches.”

“I thought I was your best friend?”

Jisung tsks, patient in correcting him. “You're actually my nighttime lover.”

“Ah, right, of course.” Minho sighs, “Any chance of getting prompted to daytime lover?”

“Fuck in the morning and shower at night? Ugh, hyung, you're so right.” Hehe, bars.

Minho makes a little noise that Jisung will never think about again if he cares at all about his own sanity. Before he can come up with anything to say, Minho clears his throat, “If you plan to— to do any of that, any time soon, you're gonna have to hurry up and get down here.”

“Not true,” Jisung manages, forcing the words out. “You could always come up here. We could skip the party and have one on our own. You could cook, and I could watch you cook, and then we can eat and discuss your future at the company. Maybe even outline that promotion of yours. Y'know. While it's still daytime.”

For a long, horrible moment, the line goes quiet. Then, the sound of a car door being opened and closed.

A laugh flutters out of Jisung's chest, “Hyung!”

“Am I coming up or are you coming down?”

It's a threat. The tonal quality of Minho's voice is threatening, at least, sharp and dark. A thrill shoots through him anyway, because there's something wrong with him, even though he knows Minho coming up to his apartment will involve zero daytime fucking. If he's lucky, it'll just be a lot of manhandling as he forces Jisung into his car.

“I wanna come,” he says, and it really is the truth. Despite his nerves, he wants to be a part of this.

“Then come,” Minho says, and who is Jisung to refuse him anything?

“I—” Jisung cuts himself off, grabbing at his hair in frustration.

“Okay, let's break it down. What is the biggest thing that's keeping you from going?”

Jisung groans, “God, you want me to rank them?”

Biggest is a difficult word to quantify here. Is the biggest reason not to go the fact that they're going to a big, bright, busy restaurant that will surely be hotter than the holy asscrack of Helios? Or maybe the fact that a dinner is a social trap, handcuffing him to the table until the bill arrives? Which—fuck, are they splitting? Will Chan treat them all? Worse, will one of the new people try to treat them? Should he refuse it if they do?

Maybe the biggest issue here is that Jisung has no fucking clue how to act around people anymore. Back when he made his only three friends to date, he was a fucking nightmare! He did and said whatever he wanted, and these three dumbasses stuck by him anyway! Now, he's all tongue-tied and stupid and can't take an opinion about cheesecake normally without turning it into a personal criticism.

They're stuck with him, is the thing. And these new people aren't. Whatever they think of him won't be clouded by years of loyalty, it'll just be the plain, knee-jerk truth. Maybe the biggest issue is that they'll see Jisung as he is, not as he was or as he could be, and if they see it, maybe his friends will too.

…But is that worse than the hot restaurant thing? Hard to say.

“No ranking,” Minho realizes. “What's the first thing to come to mind?”

“I dunno what to wear,” Jisung blurts, despite the fact that it makes him sound like a teenage girl standing in front of her closet, twirling her phone cord around her finger as she decides between different colored polos for her movie date. No, no, instead, he's a grown man in the fetal position on his bathroom floor. Much more respectable.

“What are you wearing right now?”

It's not an innuendo, but fuck, does Jisung want it to be. Please, just let him escape this conversation into some stupid fantasy that can't hurt him.

“A zip-up hoodie and jeans,” he mutters, too helpless to even make a phone-sex joke.

“Are you comfortable?”

“I mean, yeah, but what if they dress up super f—”

“If you're comfortable, then what you're wearing is perfect. We're going to a shitty chicken joint, Jisungie, it's not exactly the Ritz.”

Jisung's eyebrows furrow, “Like the cracker?”

There's a brief silence.

Then, “I'm coming up.”

“No! It's fine! I'm fine!” Jisung laughs, pressing a palm to his chest. His heart is in overdrive, but his brain can't quite figure out if that's because of anxiety or Minho. “I just— it's stupid. I know it's stupid, and it shouldn't even matter.”

“You don't think anything should matter,” Minho grumbles.

Jisung snorts, “Things are safer that way.”

“But are they better?”

Jisung squeezes his eyes shut, letting his forehead fall to his knees. How could validating these thoughts make anything better? Like—okay, so it's not that Jisung thinks he's the first person to ever want a happy middle between looking like he just rolled out of bed and looking like he dressed for prom. He does, however, think that he might be the first person to ever fear his friends more than the strangers he's supposed to meet. If he wears a trash bag or a suit in front of those people—who cares? But if he wears a suit, his friends will think he's trying to impress the strangers, or think he's being anxious or dramatic or attention-seeking. And if he wears the trash bag, they'll think he's unwell or trying to be funny or making a bad impression on purpose.

“You look fine. Your face will naturally elevate whatever casual outfit you've got on. Happy middle.”

Jisung glares at his phone. He's almost certain he said none of that aloud. Almost. “You're appealing to my shallow nature, which is manipulative and effective both.”

“You're not shallow, you're just compliment-starved. Hey, guess what? Your face is pretty.”

“And your attitude is horrendous,” Jisung snaps, like Minho had just tripped him and told him to get fucked, instead of, like, the very sweet thing he just said for no reason. Jisung pushes himself out of the bathroom, using this sudden bout of praise-driven hysteria to rush for his shoes and wallet before the dread can resettle over him. “You can't even see what I'm wearing.”

“I'm more than familiar with your wardrobe. Even if you were in your pajamas, you'd be dressed well enough for tonight. Stop pouting.”

“I am not pouting,” Jisung pouts. He laces up his shoes, then grabs his keys as he opens the door to leave. “And, more than that, you little sh—”

Across the way, the apartment door opposite him opens at the same time, revealing New Guy. They stare at each other for a moment, wide-eyed and frozen, before New Guy ducks right back inside his apartment and closes his door.

Jisung grins. “Never mind, I'm so fucking ready.”

“Oh, yeah?” Minho snorts at the sudden change of heart.

He does a little dance out from his threshold, shutting his door with a snap and a smug chuckle. What an absolute win! There's no other way to look at it: he just intimidated the fuck out of his neighbor so hard that the poor man aborted whatever plan he was rushing to meet. Aha! Jisung flies down the stairs, pep in his step and humming a tune on his way out of the building.

Minho is leaning against his car hood, smirking down at his phone as he listens to Jisung's chirping victory. He's wearing a puffy bomber jacket, a white t-shirt, and desert-wash jeans. Jisung doesn't know whether he should fall to his knees in agony or in horny.

“You look so good!” Jisung accuses, distraught.

Minho blinks up at him in surprise, not noticing his approach before Jisung's whine started bouncing between their phones, embarrassing and annoying in matching paces. Minho hangs up, slipping his phone back into his pocket without breaking eye contact.

“I'm… sorry?”

“And I look like a hobo!”

Minho's gaze takes its time, dipping down the length of Jisung's body like cool honey. He says simply, “You don't.”

Fuck. Jisung really is compliment-starved. His face is hot enough to fry an egg, words as thick as a boiled yoke in his throat. “D-don't flirt with me after lying to my face!”

“Jisung-ah,” Minho snorts. He pushes off the hood to come closer, which actually deals physical damage to Jisung's already racing heart. “We're practically wearing the same thing.”

“A jacket and a hoodie are not the same thing,” he mutters, voice as thin as a feather. He turns back towards the building in a poor attempt to escape, but he's caught halfway through.

Minho steps into his space, too close, and Jisung's senses flood with him. He sees: long eyelashes, brushing his cheeks as he watches his own hands wrap around Jisung's wrists—skin burning, sending adrenaline straight to his teeth as Minho pushes Jisung's sleeves up to his elbows. He sees: the pink of his lips, curved up at the ends like he knows something Jisung doesn't, like he can't decide between teasing him or ending him right here and now. Like it's obvious Jisung wants both, wants whatever Minho will give him.

“You smell like Christmas,” Jisung blurts, because that might be the most overwhelming part.

The spice, the smoke, the sweet—like Rudolph with a double mortgage—it gets Jisung halfway to dazed, heady and unsteady on his feet. Minho pauses his ministrations, eyes flicking up to meet Jisung's. If he had the breath to blurt out another stupid comment, he would've.

“Thank you,” Minho murmurs, voice low enough to settle only between the two of them.

Jisung tries to twist everything back into something light-hearted before he actually dies on the spot, “Smell good, dolled up like a model… I might as well stay home.”

Minho chuckles lightly, the breath of it puffing against Jisung's cheek. “Maybe a jacket is a little dressier than a hoodie, but you're wearing all this pretty jewelry…” he counters, sliding one hand back down to tug at Jisung's layered bracelets. The other trails up up up to his chest, his fingers twirling around the end of Jisung's necklace. “Equals out, don't you think?”

Jisung can't raise his eyes from where they're snagged on Minho's cute little hands. He manages only a nod, not trusting his voice, and tries very hard to keep still. Jisung… agrees? It probably does equal out. More than that, it doesn't even matter. He's making a stink out of nothing and he knows it. He just hopes Minho doesn't know it too, doesn't realize this is all hiding insecurities much bigger and weirder than being well-dressed.

Minho tugs lightly on his necklace, “Jisung-ah.”

Jisung makes a noncommittal noise of acknowledgement, too terrified to meet whatever expression must be on Minho's face. His whole brain has whited-out at this point, full emergency shut down, automatic bodily processes only. Blink. Breathe. Swallow. Etcetera. His neurons are desperately trying to send Minho an OOO message, but no such luck.

Hello, his brain tries to project.

I will be out of the office for the foreseeable future. I didn't get fired or anything, I just can't stomach being this close to someone. It feels like you've forced your hand inside my abdomen and started twisting up my insides for fun, which—if it's anything like how Hannah Bahng described, is on par with period cramps. So, thanks for that.

For urgent matters, please contact Kim Dahyun. She won't relay your message to me, but she probably needs something to do, and it's important to keep her busy. Otherwise, I'll get back to you as soon as possible, if at all. Kinda depends on if I survive or not, so let's cross our fingers there, yeah?

Anyway—thanks,

Han Jisung

“Jisung,” Minho calls again, punishing his unresponsiveness with a hand forcing his chin high. Jisung's eyes get caught on his, big and brown and piercing. “C'mon, jagiya, come back to me.”

Did he leave? It didn't feel like he left. He'd sure like to leave. He would've already been out the door if it wasn't for that damn email!

“Please?” Minho adds, searching his eyes for anything to hang onto.

Jisung's fingers curl into the cuff of Minho’s sleeve, tugging, sheepish, hopefully not blushing. “I'm right here. Drama queen.”

Minho's sigh of relief turns into an amused scoff. His face clears in full, and Jisung hadn't even noticed how tense he was until his jaw unclenched, until his eyes softened and his mouth relaxed. What's left is plain, simple affection, and Jisung feels himself lock up all over again. God, his emotions are like a stress ball today: squeeze, release, squeeze, release, squeeze, release.

His eyes skirt away, catching on the building for some reason. He can't identify what caught his attention for a moment, not until he slowly makes out a figure in the doorway. A tsunami of embarrassment washes over him as he recognizes the silhouette, as he realizes the position he and Minho are in.

“What's wrong?” Minho asks, seeing his alarm clear as day.

Jisung shoves himself out of Minho's arms, blood running cold with reality. It's kinda like getting really caught up in an argument about something stupid: it feels so important, so fucking dire that you're yelling and getting very obviously heated—then, suddenly, you remember that you're fighting over who left a fork out by the sink. You sober up pretty quickly, and it feels ridiculous that you got so worked up over literally nothing.

Though that pretty much sums up Jisung’s behavioral palette as a whole. He’s spent his entire life overreacting, but his mortal enemy catching him in the throes of affection might as well be his own personal 9/11.

Jisung ducks his head and barely keeps himself from running to the car. Minho trails after him silently, letting him sit with whatever he needs to sit with. Which he's more than grateful for, the last thing he needs right now is an interrogation.

In hindsight, he really should’ve known better. It’s not like his neighbor was just gonna stay holed up in his apartment all day out of fear of running into Jisung again. Still, Jisung feels his whole body on fire at the idea that New Guy saw Minho and him like that. Not that they were doing anything wrong! It’s just… Minho can be weirdly, casually intimate out of nowhere. That’s just how he is with people sometimes! And Jisung just lets him do what he wants, even if it probably gives people the wrong idea.

Minho puts his hand on Jisung’s thigh, bringing him back down to earth. He doesn’t remember buckling up, let alone Minho pulling out of the parking lot, and yet, here they are, already halfway there. Jisung’s hand finds its way on top of Minho’s, squeezing.

“Chan-ah made a couple friends,” Minho starts softly. He waits for Jisung to look up at him to continue. “That’s why he can’t go to my work thing. He was already invited by my coworker, Lee Felix. You’re gonna meet him today. Him and another guy in the dance team. I’m pretty sure they’re both your age, actually.”

“Oh yeah? They any good?” Jisung asks, just as soft, more to show he’s listening than to actually gain any information.

“They’re very good. It’s a relief to have them helping me out with the trainees.”

“Hoohoo,” Jisung teases, feeling a smile creep onto his face. “High praise from the Tsundere Supreme Lee Minho. I bet they think you hate them.”

Jisung watches Minho’s lips form a pout, “They don’t. Probably.”

“You wanna bet on it?”

Minho’s eyes cut his way, challenging, “You’re on.”

The rest of the ride there consists entirely of Minho guiding Jisung away from the frenetic, proverbial ledge. Part of him feels the distinct guilt of being burdensome, but Jisung tries to ignore it, recentering the event more around Minho than himself. It's not that Jisung is so immature and helpless that he needs to be taken care of, it's that Minho is endlessly patient and kind to those around him. Sometimes. In weird, offhanded ways. In the ways that matter!

By the time they arrive, Jisung feels… okay. Good, actually. Maybe even excited. He doesn't remember the last time all of his friends got together like this, which is a feat considering Minho works full-time at the same company 3RACHA gets most of their commissions. It's different, though—spending all their time together on a company's clock is a far cry from actually hanging out, and Jisung is ashamed to admit that he has no idea what's been going on in Chan's and Changbin's lives outside of work.

Jisung flicks a quick glance at Minho as he holds open the door to the restaurant. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn't even know what's been going on with Minho, either. He knows he's been doing a lot of night lessons, and that they've been driving him up the wall, but not much else. Choochoo! Bad friend alert!

Wait, no, no—it’s not that Jisung is a bad friend or is unreliable, it's that Minho is just… trying not to burden him! After everything that's happened, he's just hesitant to confide in an already unwell man!

…Holy shit, is Jisung a bad friend?

Changbin waves him down when they enter, sitting towards the back with what seems to already be a small crowd. Everyone must've arrived while Jisung was throwing a fit about his clothes. He flags down Minho's wandering attention and they start towards the group.

The first stranger he sees is in between Changbin and Chan, and is, candidly, the cutest man Jisung has ever laid eyes on. Not to be dramatic, but he's pretty sure he might weep. The meaner, fucked up part of Jisung's brain thinks it must be for show—the man's fluffy blonde hair, his oversized sweater, the freckles dotted all over his face—it's all some trick to make him look soft and disarming. Jisung implores his brain to shut the fuck up, but he knows it's a losing battle.

On the other side of the table are two more strangers, completing the set. The one sitting at the end, directly across from Changbin, has sharp features, and Jisung feels immediately inclined to trust him because he looks like he doesn't want to be here. And next to him is an even more trustworthy individual, who may have big puppy eyes, yes, but more importantly, has an undeniable scowl.

“Alright, lemme guess,” Jisung begins, slowing at the head of the table and making a show of putting his fist under his chin in thought. The first stranger is sitting so close to Chan that if not for color, Jisung wouldn't be able to tell which sweater sleeve was his or Chan's, so, “Freckles is Lee Felix-ssi, right? The Australian?"

His eyes sparkle before they disappear completely in a blinding smile, “Right! And you're Han Jisung-ssi?”

What the fuck. Did a subwoofer just fall out of his mouth? Guy's face looks like he's never even jaywalked—his voice, however? Triple homicide.

Jisung looks around, checking if everyone heard what he just heard. “Was that you talking just then? That felt like an auditory hallucination.”

Felix, the Devil's toddler, apparently, just laughs and offers his hand politely. Jisung moves to take it, softly shaking it with a slight bow despite the utter shock. Definitely a foreigner, though his Korean isn't all that bad.

“I'm not kidding,” Jisung insists. “Your voice alone has more chest hair than I do.”

“That's not really saying anything,” Changbin quips as Felix starts another round of giggles.

Jisung throws a finger at him, “You shut your mouth, shortstop, no one was talking to you.”

Felix follows Jisung's point to look at Changbin, nudging him with his shoulder as his laughs start to slow. He seems to be checking if Changbin is actually okay with being teased like that, which is sweet, even if it implies Jisung is an asshole. Which—chill out, it has nothing to do with you, he reminds himself. Felix's laughs redouble when he sees Changbin is taking the joke well.

Minho redirects their attention, “And this is Kim Seungmin, another ‘00 liner—” he begins, gesturing to pouty-puppy first, then sharp-eyes, “—and Yang Jeongin, ‘01.”

Jisung exchanges some soft bows before frowning, “Wait, wasn't there supposed to be a Hanjin or Hyunjun or something?”

“Hwang Hyunjin,” Chan supplies. He looks past him towards the door, “He's running a little behind, but he should be coming soon. Probably got caught up.”

“He shouldn't be too far behind us,” Minho says, slipping into the seat next to Kim Seungmin. Jisung follows after him, taking the seat at the end of the table on his other side. Not ideal, considering this Hwang Hyunjin person will have to occupy the only empty seat right across from him, but alas.

“So,” Jisung begins after he's settled, leaning forward to skate his eyes across all the newbies. “How does everyone know each other again?”

All three of them gesture to Chan, which immediately explains everything. Felix also, after a beat, gestures to Minho with his other hand, which fares well for Jisung’s bet.

“Jeongin and I are vocal coaches at JYPE,” Seungmin says. “Chan-hyung came by to introduce himself because he thought I was hazing children.”

Jisung's brows shoot to his hairline, and he accidentally makes eye contact with Felix, who looks like he's trying not to laugh.

Chan's jaw drops, “That is not true!”

“Kinda sounds like something you'd do though, Seungminnie.” Changbin snorts.

“It was a severe mischaracterization of events,” he insists, shrugging like anyone's disagreement was a personal problem they needed to work through alone. “He came in, said hi, my name is Bang Chan, can I ask why you have a couple trainees in the cafeteria playing with straws?”

Felix loses it. “Wait, wait—ahaha!—I remember this! A bunch of the kids were gossiping about it later that day, talking about how scary Channie-hyung looked when he found out a vocal coach told them to go sing into straws. You remember too, right, Minho-sunbae?”

“No,” Minho says plainly, and Felix is such a trooper about not letting his expression fall.

Oh, Jisung is so winning that bet.

Chan leans back in his seat, pouty and indignant. “Okay, scary makes my reaction sound a lot worse than it was, first of all. And second of all, there were nine of them, all with these cups of water lined up across the back tables of the cafeteria. Cups that they were essentially just screaming bubbles into, mind you. It was happening when I walked in, and it continued to happen all throughout my meal. I was concerned, okay? I thought they were losing their minds.”

“What song were they singing?” Minho asks.

“IU-sunbaenim's “Good Day”, right?” Jeongin supplies, nudging Seungmin, who nods once in confirmation.

“It's a very common vocal exercise, hyung, I can't fathom why you thought I was bullying them.” Seungmin crosses his arms over his chest as he shakes his head, doing everything but calling Chan a nosy idiot to his face.

“Oh, you can't fathom it, can you?” Chan laughs. “Do you remember what you said after I introduced myself?”

Seungmin purses his lips, “It was so long ago, you see—”

“You said that they needed to practice being humiliated just as much as they needed to practice singing!”

The table bursts out into shocked laughter. Jisung included, though less because of how ridiculous Seungmin's reasoning was, and more because he couldn't believe Chan just won an argument.

Jisung's eyes catch on movement in his peripheral vision, his brain looking out for a server. It turns out to just be the front door opening and closing as a new customer enters, so he barely spares them a glance at first. It's only when they make a beeline for his table that Jisung pays them more attention.

“Jagiya?” Minho calls out as Jisung startles to his feet, all the laughter suddenly dying.

Chan blinks up at him, “You okay, Hannie?”

Jisung makes direct eye contact with New Guy, who looks determined to walk right up to him and ruin this very nice, very fragile get-together between old and new friends alike. So no, Jisung is not alright. If he lets some creepy rando crash the dinner, then there will certainly be no doubt that he's a shitty friend! He rushes out to meet New Guy before he can reach the table, hand on his bicep to pull him away.

“This is fucking ridiculous, dude,” Jisung hisses to him under his breath.

New Guy doesn’t budge, “Listen—”

“No, you listen,” Jisung says, halfway to flipping the fuck out. “I know I made jokes about you being a stalker in the past, but you really didn’t have to go out of your way to prove me right.”

“Wow,” New Guy scoffs, lip curling up. “You really think everything is about you, huh?”

His grip tightens dangerously, but Changbin interrupts whatever threat was bubbling its way up Jisung’s throat. “Uhh, Hyunjin-ah? You guys know each other?”

It takes a second to register the name, Hyunjin, as in Hwang Hyunjin, as in one of Chan’s reasons for blowing Minho off. Then it takes another second for him to connect that name to New Guy’s face, as in the asshole who likes shoving him into walls, as in the shithead who’s been giving him anxiety-induced nightmares. Jisung jerks away, falling back into Minho, who had stood up and followed behind him at some point.

“Y-you’re Hyunjin?” Jisung manages, expression open with shock. “But you’re an asswipe!”

“Jisung!” Chan snaps, and Jisung can hear a chair scraping away from the table.

New Guy—Hyunjin—cuts his eyes to the commotion, jaw set. “And you’re Han Jisung?”

“Don’t act like you don’t already know!” Jisung snarls, regaining his attention. He goes to get back in his face, but Minho’s grip around his wrist yanks him back to a safe distance. “You had to know my name to make all those fake noise complaints, didn’t you? And for the anger management fund?”

Hyunjin lifts a single brow, “Too bad neither of those worked, huh?”

“Hyunjin!” Felix gasps, and when Hyunjin’s eyes flick over at the call, his entire expression drops. All the anger sloughs from him, revealing something distinctly kicked-puppy-esque.

Minho pulls Jisung fully behind him, creating a physical barrier between Hyunjin and Jisung. “How about we all just take a breath and—”

“Hyung!” Jisung squawks.

Minho directs the rest of his sentence directly to Jisung, “—and sit down.”

Jisung’s hindbrain wants to salute and chirp out a, yes, sir! but he manages to control himself and just take a seat like a normal person. Hyunjin follows behind, taking the chair across from him and next to Chan, head ducked.

“So,” Changbin says after a tense moment of silence. His earlier question now repeated with the finality of a death sentence, “You guys know each other.”

Jisung scoffs a laugh, “Yeah, you could say that.”

“We have similar… pastimes,” Hyunjin adds, which shocks a grunt of disagreement from Jisung. “What? You don’t think so?”

“Well, similar is a bit of a strong word, don’t you think? I mean, I personally have never climbed up a stranger’s fire escape just to terrorize him in his own home,” he says casually, pressing his palms to his chest and shrugging. “But who knows, maybe that's just a me thing!”

Hyunjin rolls his eyes, “Guess you're too busy acting like a victim to have fun.”

“No?” Jisung gives a disbelieving laugh. “I'm actually too busy being a victim!”

“You're so full of shit that it's seriously unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“Y'know sometimes, when something's unbelievable, it's because it just isn't true.”

Hyunjin's brows furrow, “Are you calling me a liar?”

“Well, I ain't callin’ you a truther!” Jisung returns.

Pause.

Hm. Did they just do a bit? That was a bit, right?

Seungmin leans forward to look back and forth between the two of them. “Wait, so are you guys friends or not?”

Hyunjin acts as though Seungmin physically shot him in the chest, which is as dramatic as it is a valid reaction.

“They're a work in progress,” Minho answers for them, sending Jisung a look with little room for interpretation, which is fine, but then he sends one to Hyunjin too, which is less fine. Who the fuck is Hyunjin to be receiving knowing looks from Minho?

Realization then dawns on him. Sure, Hyunjin and Minho are coworkers, but that doesn't guarantee closeness. Especially not with someone as strange as Lee Minho. Take Felix as an example, they're obviously not friends, despite Felix's best efforts. But didn't Minho say something weirdly specific about Hyunjin coming by Jisung's apartment to make amends? Didn't Minho say Hyunjin shouldn't be far behind them when they arrived at the restaurant? How did he come to know that? He couldn't have unless he already knew where Hyunjin was coming from (emotionally and locationally), right?

Jisung catches Minho's eyes again, this time with accusation written clear across his face. You knew him? All this time?

No! Minho's eyes say, begging innocence. Not at first, anyway.

You didn't warn me at all. You let me walk into this trap with a smile on your face.

Minho sighs softly, I thought he apologized. He said he was gonna talk to you and figure everything out before the dinner.

The only thing he figured out was how to turn my friends against me!

Jisung—

Jisung looks away, betrayed.

During their unspoken spat, the group’s conversation had moved on to greener pastures.

“It’ll be a fun project, anyway, if we can get enough people to sign up.” Felix says, pouting towards the end of his sentence. “I’m hoping our work event will draw some interest.”

“Well, what about everyone here?” Hyunjin asks, looking down the table with wiggly, suggestive eyebrows. It makes Jisung feel a little ill.

Seungmin shakes his head, “Oh, be careful what you wish for, Hyunjin-ssi. Jeongin and I sing for a reason, y’know.”

“Then you’re already familiar with music and rhythm!” Hyunjin cheers, raising a victorious fist.

Jeongin snorts, “Yeah, maybe, but coordination is another story.”

“Han-ah knows how to dance,” Changbin offers suddenly, speaking directly to Hyunjin, just to be a little shit.

The Han-ah in question gives him an evil stare, but smooths it out when both Felix and Hyunjin look his way. The former smiles when Jisung doesn’t deny his apparent skill, the latter glares with disgust.

Jisung is quick to refuse, “Changbin-hyung is just as good as I am, and is probably a better match anyway.”

“Well, we really could use both of you,” Felix shrugs. “I won’t push though, just think about it.”

God, think about what? He doesn’t even know what they were talking about. Dancing? What for? When? Where?

“Don’t think too hard, though,” Hyunjin derides, scowling. “We don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Jisung snorts, “Oh, I doubt that.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t celebrate it, if that’s what you’re implying.” Hyunjin crosses his legs. “But I wouldn’t exactly cry either.”

Jisung gives him a sweet smile, “No worries. There are other ways I can get you to cry.”

“Sorry,” Felix interrupts before Hyunjin can get over his mock offense. “But can I ask what’s going on between you two?”

“That’s a great question!” Jisung says cheerfully. “What’d you think, Hwang Hyunjin-nim? What’s going on between us?”

“Well, I dunno about you, but I have this really insufferable neighbor that just can’t behave for the life of him!” Hyunjin says, throwing his hand out like he was in the middle of gossiping at a brunch. “And try as I might, I just can’t get him to leave me alone.”

Jisung gasps, covering his mouth. “Oh, wow, really? That sounds awful!”

Hyunjin nods solemnly.

“I can relate though, because, you see, I have the anti-christ living in the apartment across from me, and every priest in the area is too scared to come help.” Jisung gives him a big, harrumphing frown. “I’m just at a loss, y’know?”

Hyunjin scoffs a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re so full of shit, dude.”

“Awh, c’mon,” Jisung tsks. “You’ve said that already! Give us a new one, why don’t you?”

“Aright,” Hyunjin says, leaning forward in his seat, eyes wide. “How about this? You sniveling little—”

“Have we decided what to order?” A server asks, blinking innocently down at them.

“Yup!” Chan chirps at the same time Jeongin mutters under his breath, “Oh, thank god.”

The group orders a variety of just about everything, wanting to taste-test what they don’t already know they love. Jisung’s been coming here for years, and he’s pretty comfortable with just about anything off of the menu, so he lets everyone else go crazy, unbothered.

When the server leaves them to go ring up their order, the conversation naturally picks up about food preferences. Minho and Seungmin get into a pretty heated discussion about intestines, which Jeongin looks to be refereeing until Jisung realizes he’s instigating; Felix and Changbin are debating Hawaiian pizza, despite the fact that they both seem to agree that it isn’t for them.

Chan uses this time to level a very concerned look at Hyunjin and Jisung. “Listen, I dunno what’s happened between you, and you don’t have to explain yourselves to me, but this can’t continue, right? I’m not trying to lecture you or anything, but we’re trying to have a nice dinner, and it’s really important to me that everyone has a good time. I get that you guys have personal issues with each other, and I’m not asking you to fix it right here and now, but can you call a truce for just tonight?”

Jisung crosses his arms over his chest, “Look, I’m ready to forgive you completely. You just have to apologize to me.”

Hyunjin gapes at him, obviously offended that Jisung is making him out to be the only bad guy.

Chan’s brows furrow, “Are you being serious? Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Jisung confirms. “Probably. At the very least, I’m ready to be ready to forgive you, which is close enough, right?”

Honestly, he has no idea how he really feels about it, he’s just running out of insults. An apology could be nice, and Jisung can be very amenable when groveling is involved, so anything is possible, really. He mostly just needs more time to cook up comebacks before Hyunjin decides to have an attitude with him again.

“It’s not a horrible idea,” Chan shrugs. “Maybe you can apologize to each other and let this all be water under the bridge, yeah?”

“Yeah!” Jisung agrees. Or maybe lies. He doesn’t know yet.

“He has a point,” Hyunjin says slowly, looking down at his white-knuckled fists. “And, honestly? I do feel sorry. I've felt sorry since we first met.”

Jisung's lips part in surprise. This is when he sets down his hackles, right? He expected to just get angrier, because any time he imagined New Guy apologizing, a lot of internal rageful screaming followed. But now, in the face of it, he just feels… tired. Maybe this really has gone on long enough.

Hyunjin's eyes flick up to his, and they look nothing at all like a guilty man's. “I mean, my god, it must be miserable being you.”

Felix's head snaps over, his conversation with Changbin dying on the spot, and Jisung decides to think about that instead of the bile rising in his throat.

“Now, hold on, Hyunjinnie…” Chan tries, but Changbin clears his throat, giving Chan a look that only meant bad news for Jisung. The sudden change in vibe snuffs out the other three’s conversation as well, the whole table going silent to hear Jisung and Hyunjin’s next match.

Hyunjin shrugs, unrepentant. “No, seriously, I'm not trying to be mean or anything. I'm just saying that I genuinely feel bad for you. I can't imagine it's very easy to live like you do—just a walking, talking personification of defensiveness. I admit that you're pretty brave for wearing your insecurities on your sleeve, but I doubt that gets you much more than a broken heart, huh? You'd think having your pride shot to pieces would make you humble, but with an ego like that? It’d be easier to drain an ocean.”

Jisung's eye twitches, “Ohh, is that right?”

“Yeah, it is,” Hyunjin confirms with a nod. “Sincerely, from the bottom of my heart.”

“Then I'm sorry too,” Jisung begins, teeth gritted. “I'm sorry that your friends have to deal with a fake-ass bitch who only grows a moral conscience when in better, politer company.” Minho grabs his thigh in warning, but Jisung is just warming up. “I'm sorry that those poor JYPE trainees have a seonsaengnim more interested in manscaping and cuticle care than choreography—”

Seungmin snorts, but he's quick to turn it into a cough, especially when Hyunjin’s face twists up in obvious pain.

“—I'm sorry Minho-hyung had to do back flips to get you to rightfully apologize to me so this dinner wouldn't be a fucking nightmare, just for you to fumble that simple task so hard that you couldn't even look me in the eyes until today! Then, when presented with another honest opportunity to just say two measly little words, you fuck it up again! Now, that's what I call pride!”

“Alright, enough!” Chan says, solidly in scolding-mode.

Jisung scoffs a humorless laugh, “Y'know what, hyung? I don't think it is. This jackass thinks he can come at me anytime, anywhere, and I'm so tired of it!”

“You’re the one always begging for a fight!” Hyunjin snaps, but his voice shakes.

“And you’re the one begging for attention!” Jisung returns. “Walking around like you’re God’s gift to earth, when at most you’re glitter on drywall.”

“Do forgive me,” Hyunjin sneers. “I didn’t mean to disappoint you.”

Jisung laughs cruelly, “Oh, you didn’t disappoint me. You hit expectations exactly. I saw it on you the moment we met—a typical good-for-nothing pretty boy who built his entire self-worth on compliments he didn’t earn and attention he doesn’t know how to keep. Tell me—cause I’m actually curious—once the novelty of your face wears off, what do people, like, do with you? Do they just leave out of boredom, do they dress you up in silly little outfits? I imagine it’s a lot like growing out of playing with Barbies, no?”

Chan slams his fist down on the table, causing everyone to jolt in their seats. Jisung makes the mistake of looking up at him, of getting caught in his eyes. A chill runs down his spine at the anger there, raw and trained on Jisung like a laser optic. He also, more than anything, looks incredibly disappointed. Jisung is definitely being a bad friend right now.

Chan’s voice is very calm when he finally speaks, “That was far past the line, Han Jisung, even for you.”

Jisung gives Chan a beat to call out Hyunjin too, but he doesn't. He just sits there, fuming at Jisung like he was the only one who said something awful, which is such a slap in the face that Jisung feels tears rush to his eyes. He wants to gauge everyone else’s reactions too, see if maybe he really is the villain here, but he’s too scared to.

He swipes at his burning nose, cutting his gaze towards the door. “Fuck this,” he mutters.

Jisung shoves himself away from the table, letting the chair screech against the floors, and shows himself out of the restaurant. When nobody calls after him, he doesn’t even have the energy to hate them for it, let alone be surprised. His mouth got him into this mess, and if Jisung has learned anything over the years of being stuck with himself, it’s that his mouth certainly cannot get him out of it.

Hell, who knows? Maybe this time, nothing can.