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It's barely morning when Minho finally slips through the door. The hour where the world is quiet and cold, not a soul walking the streets anymore — or yet.
Jisung has been asleep on the couch for so long his neck hurts, curled around one of Minho's throw pillows as if it could replicate the warmth of his presence, his scent. It's almost a little embarrassing, honestly. The way he yearns for Minho when he is away.
The familiar sound wakes him; keys settling on the counter, the faint sigh and the sound of a coat thrown off. Footsteps, slow and quiet. Lee Minho trying not to wake the universe. Jisung blinks himself halfway conscious, lifting his head just enough to see into the kitchen.
Minho stands there in the half-light, hair damp either from a shower he must've taken at the studio or sweat from a long day, his shirt hanging off one shoulder. His face is washed out and tired, the kind of tired that makes him softer, more real, more…unreal, all at once. The kind Jisung has seen so many times whenever Minho came home this late, whenever he had spent weeks on set. It broke Minho down beautifully. Made him real.
Jisung's breath catches. Even groggy, even half-awake, some part of him stirs with that same ache he always feels around him.
When Minho notices him, he smiles a tiny, tired smile. Something familiar.
"You're awake…", he mumbles softly.
Jisung swallows. "You got home late again, Hyung."
Minho walks over, setting his mug down on the coffee table. "Long shoot. Didn't mean to wake you.
"You didn't", Jisung lies.
Minho settles beside him on the couch, one knee bent, turning so his body faces him fully. He smells like rain and dust and his expensive cologne. Jisung hates how his chest tightens with the familiar scent of him. His eyes wander. Minho looks like a dream someone tried to sculpt by hand; too precise, too delicate at the edges, too much presence stuffed into such a small a space, such a small frame. Into just one man.
He knows he is lost. He knows he's been lost. He already sees Minho through a lens no one else can touch, no one else would ever feel. He already treats him like something sacred. Even when he is teasing, even when he's being a menace. Even when he is mean and tired and broken down after work.
These moments aren't rare. Minho waking Jisung after he falls asleep on the couch, his voice so soft Jisung thinks he might have dreamed it. Minho cooking for them both without a comment, as if he just sensed Jisung hadn't eaten. Minho running his hand down the back of his neck when he is anxious and tired — and Jisung swears it relaxes and calms him in a way nothing else ever will. Minho looking at him like he sees every thought Jisung doesn't want to admit. Like he knows.
Because he does.
Jisung starts to think things he shouldn't. Things that sound like worship. Not "Hyung is amazing", but "Hyung is inevitable."
Because when Minho dances, it looks divine. When he performs, it feels mythic, sacred. When he smiles, fully smiles, Jisung has to look away because it feels too much like staring into the sun.
He's never said it.
But deep in his chest, in that stupid, pathetic part of himself he hides, he is convinced that if there are gods, none of them could be as breathtaking as Minho is on an ordinary Tuesday morning.
And maybe it's the hour. Maybe it's the exhaustion. Maybe it's love rotting a hole straight through his usually rational and careful brain.
But he whispers before he even thinks;
"Hyung…are you a god?"
For a moment, everything goes still. Minho blinks, his head tilting slightly like a curious cat. And then he laughs, soft, warm, low in his chest — and steps closer.
"A god? You’re still dreaming, Jisung-ah."
Jisung shakes his head. His face is flushed now, eyes wide, vulnerable in a way he only gets when he's exhausted and there is nothing else but Minho unraveling the most sensitive, honest parts of him.
"Hyung. You walk around like you're made of something I don't understand. You're not like other people. At all."
He pauses for just a moment, glancing up for a second, as if catching too long of a glimpse at Minho would get him arrested. Pull him out of this dream.
"It's like the world just moves around you. Like you're not part of it. Like you're above it. I don't know how else to explain it. Sometimes…sometimes I look at you and…I don't know if I am supposed to speak. Or bow."
Minho sets his mug down on the table again. Slowly sinks down to his level. Kneels in front of the couch so their faces are close — too close. His raw, bruised fingers brush over Jisung's jaw, slow, deliberate, and his smile is dangerous.
"If I were", he starts, his thumb stroking the corner of Jisung's mouth. "Is that something you'd want?"
Jisung's breath stutters. It feels dangerous to look Minho into his eyes. He can't look away. Minho's voice drops even lower, fully velvet, mostly sinful. Illegal.
"Would you worship me?"
Jisung stops breathing. God, he's gone.
The answer slips out of him without thinking, without shame, without air.
"Yes."
Minho's eyes darken with amusement, with warmth, with intrigue. It's hard to tell. He is an actor, after all. He slowly leans forward, resting a hand on Jisung's knee, just enough to make his pulse trip over itself.
"Lay down."
Jisung obeys him. Instantly. It feels like second nature to him. Minho sinks to sit on the floor beside him, gently but firmly guiding Jisung's head into his lap like it's the most natural thing ever. Runs a hand through his hair, slow and certain. Time stops for them here.
"If you're going to pray to something", Minho murmurs, his soft voice like burning heat against Jisung’s skin.
"It shouldn't be an illusion."
His fingers trail down Jisung's jaw again, and he swears it leaves a burning hot mark on his skin, burning through his flesh. It's hot. It's icy. It hurts so good.
"At least worship something real."
Jisung closes his eyes, his breath unsteady as he sinks into his Hyung completely. When he fails to respond — or even breathe, Minho laughs quietly. That breathy, almost-smile he reserves for the rarest moments within their shared home. His hand slides down from Jisung's hair to the curve of his neck, thumb stroking a calm line there.
"Sleep", he says. "I'm here."
Jisung finally breathes out in what feels like it’s been hours, breath warm against Minho's thigh. The sun finally begins to rise, lighting Minho like something holy.
And as Jisung drifts, he is nothing but a worshiper who has made it to the altar at last, draped across the lap of a god who pretends to be human. If heaven has a doorway, it feels awfully akin to Lee Minho's lap. He sinks like he is sliding into heaven itself, held in the quiet hands of whatever Minho truly is.