Archive of Our Own

Jisung doesn’t mean to scare him off, really. It’s just that Hyunjin’s crusty ass wouldn’t stop clowning him about it so Jisung had to make a move.

Every day for the past five months this cute boy—a new bookstore clerk that Haneul hired to help him—passes by their tattoo parlor’s window and gives him a wink, flutters his eyes, or does something equally flirtatious and totally inappropriate for the sidewalk in true confident gay fashion. At first Jisung thinks it’s for Chan, because they’d always be sitting together or having a chat whenever it happened. But then it starts happening even when Jisung is the first to arrive and Chan hasn’t even stepped foot into the place yet, and what else could the boy be flirting with, his reflection?

It irritates Hyunjin to no end. Jisung understands that he’s frustrated about being too allergic to flowers to flirt with one of the florists across the street, but frankly, it’s fucking annoying when he takes it out on Jisung and his... admirer. He keeps calling the clerk a thot—which he isn’t! ...Probably.

So here Jisung is, sitting in the reception area among his loser co-workers waiting with bated breath as they spot the clerk in the distance.

Okay, maybe they’re not waiting with bated breath. Felix is frowning at his sketchbook on the sofa, and Chan is sitting on the counter and spacing out. But Hyunjin is watching, and that’s what really matters here.

“Here comes your hoe,” Hyunjin announces, as if they’re not staring at him together.

“Shut the fuck up,” Jisung says.

Today Cute Boy is wearing jeans that look five sizes too tight. The black fabric hugs his thighs and stretches over the curve of his ass like it was made to be there. It’s sinful, and Jisung doesn’t even hear Hyunjin snicker when his jaw drops to the floor. Why is he going to work like this? Is Haneul allowing this? Does Haneul’s bookstore not have a dress code?

Suddenly their eyes meet, and Jisung’s mouth shuts. He gulps. A beat passes before the clerk’s pretty pink lips curl into a smirk. He tilts his head almost innocently, but Jisung can almost hear a voice asking him if he likes what he sees.

(It turns out to be because Cute Boy does say that, voice muffled through the glass.)

They stare at each other for what feels like a hot minute but then Jisung panics, remembering Hyunjin is standing right behind him and judging him, so then he does the only possible thing he could think of to flirt back; he winks.

Scratch that; he doesn’t just wink. He winks, and then he nods his head with a (false) confident smirk. He even blows a kiss as an afterthought. Take that, Hyunjin! Jisung’s got balls. And, hopefully, Cute Boy’s number—

He doesn’t get Cute Boy’s number.

Because Cute Boy, the clerk that they all thought was a confident gay, just turned bright red and sprinted the fuck away. Jisung is... devastated.

Hyunjin starts guffawing the second they all register what the fuck just happened.

Face red, pride stripped from his being, Jisung makes a decision. He is going to punch Hwang Hyunjin.

-

When Jisung finds out that Haneul from next door finally got into Chan’s pants, he’s happy for them. Really. He even forgets about Cute Boy for a little while when they’re all screaming over Chan’s hickey. Then Changbin comes in to the shop and they all have to stop fucking around because Felix has to work.

And Jisung isn’t bitter at all about the fact that they’re making heart eyes at each other.

“I’m single and I’m happy,” Jisung chants to himself. “I don’t need a man.”

“He says as he mopes around when a boy rejects him,” Hyunjin narrates. There’s a look of mock-pity on his face and Jisung is tempted to punch it off of him.

“He didn’t reject me!” Jisung snaps. “He’s just... a panic gay.”

“A panic gay,” Hyunjin repeats flatly. “A panic gay who passes by to flirt with you through the glass every day. Right.”

“You’re just salty that Seungmin doesn’t come out of the flower shop to do the same thing,” Jisung mutters.

“My sweet Seungminnie? He would never,” Hyunjin scoffs, placing a hand over his heart. “He’s too pure, unlike your hoe.”

Bullshit, Jisung thinks, because unlike Hyunjin he’s been to the flower shop and knows for a fact that Seungmin is the devil incarnate when Changbin exists too loudly for his liking. The man’s got the face of an angel but the constitution of a demon. Poor Hyunjinnie doesn’t know what’s coming.

“For the last fucking time, Jinnie, he’s not...” Jisung starts, but cuts himself off. He throws his hands up in an exasperated gesture. “Why do I even bother with you?”

“You’re a slave to my existence and you’re stuck with me forever.” Hyunjin checks his nails. “I’ll buy you a stripper for your birthday, if you’re a good boy.”

Hyunjin doesn’t get a warning before Jisung is tackling him to the sofa and trying to choke him. It’s at this moment, Jisung’s legs on either side of Hyunjin and hands around his throat, that Chan decides to come out of the bathroom.

“Uh,” Jisung starts.

Chan quirks an eyebrow. “Explain yourselves.”

“Dad,” Hyunjin chokes out. “Save me.”

Because it’s useless to keep trying to kill Hyunjin now that dad is here, Jisung (regretfully) releases Hyunjin from his grasp. Hyunjin is overdramatically pretending to cough out his lungs—but, to be honest, it’s a realistic impression, and Jisung only knows he’s acting because Jisung didn’t even fully grasp his neck. And he sticks his tongue out when Chan closes his eyes in exasperation.

“Children, can you please stop trying to kill each other?” Chan says, pushing them apart and sitting between them on the couch. “Let’s talk this through, man to man.”

“Sounds gay,” Hyunjin snorts, and Jisung has to stop himself from snickering. “Jisung’s just sexually frustrated and he’s taking it out on me.”

“You’ve been sexually frustrated for longer,” Chan says, sheepishly as if he’s apologetic. He slings an arm around him and pats him in true fatherly fashion. “It’s alright mate.”

“That’s not the point here.” Hyunjin frowns. “The point is that Jisung keeps sulking about it as if doing nothing will get him anywhere.”

“Oh yeah?” Jisung challenges. “Why aren’t you over at the flower shop with Seungmin then?”

“I’m allergic to flowers, you dumb bitch.” Hyunjin rolls his eyes. “What’s your excuse? Are you allergic to glass?”

“Let’s calm down,” Chan says. “He’s right, though. You have to do something.”

“But I did! And look what it got me!” Jisung wails, head in his hands. “He fucking ran!”

Chan rubs comforting circles into his back, shushing him. “It’s okay, you’ll get him next time.”

“Why does that sound like Jisung is supposed to be jumping him?” Hyunjin says. Jisung reaches over Chan to hit him in the leg. “Hey! What did I do?”

“Exist,” Jisung grumbles. “Why do you make everything so hard?”

Hyunjin has a filthy look on his face. “Well—“

“Oh my god, don’t answer that,” Chan breathes. “Can’t we have one adult conversation without some kind of dirty joke?”

“No,” Hyunjin replies immediately. Jisung agrees, but he’s not going to say that out loud.

“You two need a filter. You’re going to bother our customers,” Chan sighs. “Whenever you get the urge to say something dirty, can’t you just say something cute like, I don’t know, duck?”

“Like that’s any better.” Hyunjin taps his chin. “Hmm, I could go for some duck in my mouth right about now.”

“Craving that big duck energy,” Jisung adds. “Love it when my mouth stretches over a big, juicy duck.”

Chan looks more and more distressed with every word that leaves either of the two’s mouths.

“I bet Chan wants a piece of Haneul’s d—“

“OKAY,” Chan squeaks, standing up abruptly. His face and ears are tomato-red. “I have needles to clean! Goodbye!”

Hyunjin and Jisung watch Chan sprint away into the back room and bump into several different objects. And the reception desk. Something clatters inside, and they’re not surprised to hear a thud and a loud “FUCK!” afterward.

“We should sacrifice him,” Hyunjin says suddenly.

“What?”

“Sacrifice him to Haneul-ssi in exchange for his allegiance to Project Get Jisung Some Dick.”

Jisung shrieks. “Hyunjin!”

“Oh, sorry, I meant Project Get Jisung Some Duck.” Hyunjin slings an arm around Jisung’s shoulders. “C’mon man, think about it—the guy works for Haneul-ssi after all—he could give you so many chances to meet-cute.”

“…Ugh, you have a point,” Jisung mutters. “But since when were you on my side?”

“Since that hoe flirted with you and ran the second you flirted back,” Hyunjin replies. “He’s weak, Jisungie, we have to show him who’s boss.”

“You laughed at me when that happened,” Jisung points out.

“That I did, because it was hilarious,” Hyunjin deadpans. “But you need some dick—“

Jisung smacks him.

“—some duck, then, GOD, why do you keep hitting me today?”

“He’s not just a piece of meat, Jinnie.”

“Wow, you’re in deep and you don’t even know his name.” Hyunjin whistles. “We should call Haneul and ask. You in or not?”

Jisung slumps in his seat. Now that he’s flirted back at the guy he can’t help but feel invested already and... he really hasn’t dated anyone in a long time. And almost everyone in the shopping district is taken! Or, you know, targeted by his co-workers. Except maybe Jeongin across the street, but No One Touches The Baby Demon. He’s too dangerous. And he’s a baby.

The clerk’s got dark eyes. Dark, dark eyes, and dark hair and pretty pink lips and he smiles like he’s keeping a secret. And Jisung... Jisung wants to know what it is. The need burns in him like hot coal and wow, he doesn’t know when he got so invested in this... this window hoe. Windhoe.

(He snorts to himself and Hyunjin sneers at him. As per usual.)

“Fine,” Jisung replies in the end. Hyunjin grins mischievously.

“Knew you had balls, buddy,” he says. Then he’s whipping out his cell phone and calling a number. He puts it on speaker, and the ringing echoes throughout the empty reception area.

Jisung tilts his head. “How do you already have Haneul-hyung’s number? Didn’t they get together like yesterday?”

“I don’t,” Hyunjin admits. “This is Chan-hyung’s phone; I took it when he ran.”

Jisung shakes his head. What an idiot.

“Good morning, baby,” crackles Haneul’s voice, tinny from being filtered through a cell phone. “What’s up?”

“Oh my god, he said baby,” Jisung gushes, unable to contain himself.

A beat passes.

“Hmm, you’re not Chan,” Haneul says. “Who is this?”

“Uh... It’s me, Han Jisung,” Jisung introduces. “We met a few days ago when Chan-hyung gave you a nipple piercing.”

“I’m here too,” adds Hyunjin, leaning a little into Jisung’s space. Jisung shoves him just to be petty. “I’m the other guy that Channie-hyung works with, Hwang Hyunjin.”

“Oh, I remember you two. Hello, then,” Haneul greets. “Care to explain why you have Chan’s phone?”

“My friend really needs to get some dick, and we want to cut you a deal, Haneul-ssi,” says Hyunjin immediately. “Hear us out.”

“What the—I’m not trying to get dick,” Jisung splutters. “I just want to know what that guy’s deal is.”

“What guy? Me?” comes Haneul’s voice. “Sorry, Jisung, you’re cute but I’m kind of banging your boss.”

“So it was a hickey!” Jisung hisses under his breath. Hyunjin looks at him as if to say, of course it was, you dumb bitch, and tilts the phone away from Jisung.

“No, no, Haneul-ssi,” Hyunjin interjects, “we’re not talking about you. We mean the other guy that works with you.”

“Oh, what about him? Is he bothering you?” Haneul asks, no hint of malice in his voice.

Jisung chews on a lip. “Well, yes. But also no.”

“Your employee has been passing by our tattoo parlor and shamelessly flirting with Jisung through the glass for the past five months,” Hyunjin explains. “But today Jisung flirted back, and he sprinted. We need to know this guy’s name.”

“Ah, so that‘s why he was so flustered this morning,” Haneul hums seemingly to himself. “I’d tell you his name, but first—what deal are we supposed to be making here?”

“We want your help with Project Get Jisung Some Duck, because you know the guy better than we do,” Hyunjin says. “Please? You’re our biggest chance.”

“Mmm, I don’t know,” drawls Haneul. He sounds doubtful. Understandable, because as a boss he should have his employee’s best interests at heart—

“Channie-hyung will do whatever you want,” Jisung blurts.

“Oh,” says Haneul, and suddenly Jisung can’t stop himself from blabbering.

“We’ll make him wear a collar,” he adds, and Hyunjin’s eyes widen. “Leather and studded and everything. For one week.”

You sneaky snake, Hyunjin mouths, grabbing Jisung by the shoulders and shaking him, but Jisung doesn’t care because he’s in a gay panic and Haneul is Cute Boy’s boss and Haneul likes Chan and they really need Haneul’s help. Jisung is desperate.

But then when Jisung mentions the collar Haneul agrees so quickly that they should probably be concerned.

“You’ve got a deal,” he says, and Hyunjin is whooping like it’s a personal victory.

“Okay, so, uh, what’s his name then?” Jisung stammers, face red now. Hyunjin is yelling into the cushion beside him, but then he gets up because no way is he going to miss this.

“It’s Lee Minho,” Haneul says easily. “He’s older than you, though.”

“His name is Minho?” Hyunjin gasps. “Holy shit, perfect; he’s a Min-hoe.”

Jisung shoots Hyunjin a glare and hits him with a cushion. “I fucking hate you, Jinnie.”

“Um? Excuse you, I started Project Get Jisung Some Duck.” Hyunjin rolls his eyes. “Haneul-ssi, I’m so sorry about this man’s ungrateful behavior.”

“It’s fine—and you can call me hyung,” Haneul says. “Sorry, I thought I misheard this at first, but you keep saying duck?”

“Chan-hyung doesn’t want us to say dirty things and told us to say duck instead,” Jisung explains.

“Aww,” Haneul coos. “Adorable.”

Chan, with his wonderful timing, chooses this moment to emerge from his hiding place in the back room. Hyunjin and Jisung freeze.

“Jisungie, Jinnie, have either of you seen my—“

He looks at Jisung. Jisung looks at Hyunjin. Hyunjin drops the phone. It thuds on the floor with a beep, signalling the end of the call. “I had nothing to do with this,” Hyunjin blurts. It’s clear from Chan’s glare that he doesn’t believe him one bit.

“You filthy liar,” Jisung hisses under his breath.

“What were you doing on my phone?” Chan demands, hands on his hips and eyebrows furrowing. Neither of the two answer. Channie-hyung will do whatever you want, Jisung’s mind whispers. We’ll make him wear a collar. Leather and studded and everything. For a week.

When Jisung eyes Hyunjin, the other boy just shrugs as if to say, hey, you said that and not me, and Jisung gulps.

“Chan... Channie-hyung,” he stutters, “can you wear a collar for the next seven days, please?”

For a whole minute Chan just stares at him. And then, inevitably, he flushes red to the ears. “Wha? What? Why? You’re—what? Why would you—why would I wear a collar!”

“This is entertaining,” Hyunjin mutters. “Oh, will you look at the time—I gotta go, now.”

Jisung gapes at him. It’s eleven o’clock—Seungmin’s lunch break on Wednesdays, which Jisung only knows about because Hyunjin never fucking shuts up about it, and he never misses going to lunch at this exact same time for the off chance that Seungmin chooses to eat at the cafe instead of the flower shop so that Hyunjin can flirt with him. (It never happens, but Hyunjin swears that it will.)

It’s routine by now, honestly, but Jisung cannot believe that Hyunjin would bail on him in this critical moment.

“Traitor,” Jisung hisses, but Hyunjin just pats him on the shoulder and stands as he slips on his coat. Jisung watches him hop over Chan’s phone—still on the floor—and whistle nonchalantly as he pushes through the glass door of their shop. Like he doesn’t even care. Jisung wants to throw Chan’s phone at his head.

“Han Jisung!” Chan wails. “Explain yourself!”

“Chan... Channie-hyung! Please do this for me,” Jisung pleads. The next second he’s on his knees in front of Chan, clasping his hands together. “I’m begging you, hyung, I already told Haneul-hyung you’d do it!”

“Do... do what?” Chan presses his palms to his cheeks. If possible, they’re even redder now. “Do what, Jisungie, oh my god.”

“I... we... we told him you’d do whatever he wanted,” Jisung yelps. “And that... um... we’d make you wear a collar for a week. In exchange for his wingman services for me and the clerk next door.”

Chan releases a loud, embarrassed shriek, stepping around Jisung so that he can bury his face in the sofa. The sound is followed by one of the back doors opening, and then Felix is poking his head out. He sees Chan, neck and ears red, face down on the sofa, and then he sees Jisung on his knees, hands still clasped together as if in prayer. Then Felix squints, and he quietly closes the door.

Jisung clears his throat. “Channie-hyung, please? Pretty please? For my love life?”

“I—how do—where... where would I even... get a collar?” comes Chan’s muffled voice. “I don’t—I don’t even own one!”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Jisung chants. “I’ve been to your apartment, hyung! It’s in the bottom drawer of your sidetable in the bedroom!”

Chan lifts his head. Wow, he really is red now. “How do you even know that!”

“That’s not important,” Jisung stresses. He’s red now, too. “It’s not like you weren’t already planning on using it with Haneul-hyung.”

“Jisung, oh my god,” Chan groans, squeezing his eyes shut.

“That’s not a no,” Jisung notes. “C’mon, hyung, can you do it? Please?”

Chan’s long, drawn-out sigh is what lets Jisung know he’s won this round. He’s got his face in his hands again, head hung in... shame, maybe. Embarrassment?

“...If... If I do it, will you clown me over it?” he asks, voice muffled behind his palms.

“Hyung! I would never,” Jisung says. He places a hand over his heart. “How could I ever clown someone as handsome and kind as you? Besides, think of how dashing and sexy you’ll look wearing the—“

“Shut up, please, oh my god,” Chan whines.

“—the collar; Haneul-hyung probably thinks it’s sexy,” Jisung adds. “Did you know he only agreed because I suggested the collar?”

Jisung waits another whole minute, but Chan doesn’t respond to his pokes. “Channie-hyung? Are you dead?”

“I wish,” he replies without missing a beat. “You’re closing up shop every day for the entire week.”

Jisung’s eyes light up.

“Yes! Thank you so much, hyung!” Jisung jumps, pumping a fist into the air. “You won’t regret a thing!”

(Except Chan will, and Jisung can feel it. But that doesn’t even matter, because now there’s a name to match the face that winks at him every day.)

-

The next day, Chan is definitely, actually, undoubtedly, wearing a collar around his pale throat. And he looks good. So good in fact, that when Minho (Minho!) passes by that morning, he pauses—and this time it’s not Jisung who he stares at.

He’s staring, quite openly, at the back of Chan’s curly head. His eyebrows raise in appreciation when Chan turns his face, exposing a bit more of the shiny silver studs on his black leather collar. And then Minho sees Jisung, looking ruffled at his gaze. It may be wishful thinking, but Jisung swears he sees a guilty look pass over Minho’s face, pink lips tugging down at the corners for a split second. But the mirage is gone the instant Jisung notices it.

Minho winks at Jisung. How fucking dare he, Jisung thinks. Then those pretty pink lips curl into the now-familiar smirk that he’s been torturing Jisung with for the past five months, and Jisung gives up. Minho saunters away, seemingly satisfied with Jisung hiding his face in his hands.

Hyunjin whistles somewhere behind Jisung’s shoulder. “Wow, he really is a hoe. What did I tell you, Jisungie?”

“Should I even disagree anymore?” Jisung groans into his palms. “What is the point?”

“You really just stood there and let him do that.” Hyunjin tuts. “You have to show him who the Alpha Gay is. Don’t let him walk all over your squirrel ass.”

“Jinnie’s got a point, Jisungie,” Felix calls out from the sofa. He’s working on a sketch again—sweet sultans for Changbin, if Jisung remembers correctly. They’re supposed to have a session the next day.

“Stay out of this, you’re not single anymore,” Jisung argues.

Felix’s head snaps up and he reddens. “I—I am!”

“Says the person going out with Changbinnie-hyung every day,” Hyunjin drawls. “You think you’re sly, sneaking off with him on your breaks, but the flower shop is across the street, Lix, we can see you picking him up.”

“They’re... friendship dates,” Felix murmurs.

“Right.” Hyunjin narrows his eyes. “Friendship dates. Sitting five feet apart ‘cause you’re not gay.”

“We are gay!” Felix says almost defensively. “I mean—I... we’re gay, but separately, as friends! Binnie-hyung doesn’t see me like that!”

“Sure, Jan,” Hyunjin says. “Because he takes all his friends on friendship dates in the park and buys them coffee when they flutter their eyes at him.”

“I do not flutter my eyes at Changbin-hyung,” Felix insists.

“Are we teasing Felicity?” Chan asks, finally raising his head from where it was previously bent toward his phone. Texting Haneul, probably. On the job, which isn’t very ethical of him as their boss. The studs on his collar catch on the store’s fluorescent light. (Jisung isn’t even surprised at this point that no one seems to care about it.)

“He says that his and Changbin-hyung’s escapades are friendship dates,” Jisung supplies.

Chan scrunches up his face. “Felicity, that’s fucking dumb.”

“Why is this suddenly about me?” whines Felix. “Can’t we go back to giving Jisung love advice?”

“We can’t because the only person in this shop who has a boyfriend is Channie-hyung, and he’s useless,” Hyunjin retorts even through Chan’s indignant hey! “We should ask Haneul-hyung. Lord knows he’s the only functional gay here.”

“Do you have his number now?” Jisung asks, because he does want to talk to Haneul. He just has that motherly sort of vibe despite his numerous piercings, and Jisung could use some motherly reassurance. Fatherly reassurance just makes everything sad and embarrassing, especially if it’s coming from Chan.

Hyunjin shakes his head. “I didn’t save it yesterday. You could go next door and call him over, though.”

“What the—and face Minho? No way,” Jisung stammers. “You do it.”

“No thanks, they’ve got a mini flowerbox inside.” Hyunjin crinkles his nose. “I’ll die if I go in there. Chan-hyung, you go.”

“You guys realize I could just text him, right?” Chan frowns.

They stare at him for a second. “Ohhh,” Hyunjin drawls. “You’ve got a point.”

“What is wrong with you two, honestly, you called him with my phone,” Chan sighs into his palms. He dials Haneul anyway, putting him on speaker.

“Hey baby,” comes Haneul’s voice, and Jisung has to hold back a squeal. “This is you this time, isn’t it?”

Chan’s ears have predictably colored, but he relaxes anyway. “You’re on speaker, love. And yeah, it’s me.”

“Oh, okay; hello everyone. What’s up?” Haneul asks, voice taking on a curious lilt. “Is this about Jisung?”

“It is, and you need to come over now,” Hyunjin answers. “Jisungie needs motherly advice and reassurance, and none of us care enough.”

“What makes you think Haneul-hyung cares?” Felix pipes up.

“Ooh, sick burn,” Chan stage-whispers, giving Felix a high-five.

“I hate all of you,” Jisung says, and he can hear Haneul tutting on the other line.

“I’ll be right over,” he announces. “You’re all a mess.”

To be honest, Jisung couldn’t agree more. But Haneul is already ending the call before he can say anything.

“We’ll finally have a mother,” Felix cheers from where he’s sitting. “Will we finally get some good food around here?”

“God, I hope so,” Hyunjin groans.

“Hey!” Chan shoots them a look. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Your lunches kind of suck,” Hyunjin answers. “Sorry hyung, you needed to learn the truth.”

“But I make them with love.”

“Love can’t feed a family, hyung,” Hyunjin retorts. “There would have to be at least 195 men to produce enough man juice for a single—“

“Duck,” Jisung chants, covering his ears with his palms, “duck, duck, duck, I’m not listening to this.”

“I ended the call for five minutes, and this is what I find here?” says a voice, and it takes Jisung a second to realize that it’s Haneul, piercings glittering as he stands unimpressed at the doorway. Chan visibly brightens at the sight of him.

“Haneul-ah!” Chan calls. He pats the space next to him on the sofa. “Come sit.”

Haneul strides over to Chan and settles into his side, like he’s always been there. They look adorable together, and Jisung isn’t bitter at all.

“Nice collar,” Haneul whispers to him.

“Thanks,” Chan yelps, face reddening. Jisung isn’t bothered, he tells himself. I’m single and I’m happy, and I don’t need a boyfriend.

“Jisungie, your bitterness is showing,” Felix notes.

Jisung sends him a withering look.

“Calm down, children. I’m here now,” Haneul says. “Now, what’s this I hear about man juice?”

Hyunjin perks up. “Did you know that there are five calories in every serving of—“

“Duck.” Jisung inhales. “Duck, duck—“

“Hyunjin, no,” Chan groans. He threads a hand through his hair. “We are not talking about man juice.”

“What are we talking about, then?” Haneul asks, sneakily lacing his fingers with Chan’s. “Jisung, right?”

“We’re talking about his love life,” Felix pipes up. “He’s upset again.”

“And why is that?” Haneul tilts his head.

Hyunjin snorts. “Minho passed by like he usually does, but he checks Chan-hyung out for like two seconds and Jisung’s already moping.”

“Minho did what?” Haneul’s eyebrow quirks. Chan, face flushed, buries his face into Haneul’s shoulder. One of Haneul’s hands ghosts over his collar.

“Please don’t beat his ass,” Jisung sighs.

“No, but, did he still flirt with you?” Haneul follows up.

Jisung runs a hand through his hair. “I guess? He winked and then left.”

“Jisung was being a wuss, and he just hid behind his hands when Minho winked,” Hyunjin adds. Jisung can hear the eye roll in his voice. “We need some kind of game plan, hyung. Jisung needs to prove his dominance.”

Haneul tuts. “Jisungie, you have to stop acting like a wuss; it’s making him more powerful.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Jisung pouts. “I can’t help it if I’m... shy.”

“Don’t be intense, but don’t ignore him, either,” Haneul says. “Just lift an eyebrow at him or give him once-overs if his outfit looks nice.”

“That sounds easy,” Felix chimes. He seems to have finished with his sketch, now, laying his pencil down on the counter. It’s a mechanical pencil. Jisung’s going to have to steal it later. It’s probably his anyway.

“This is coming from you, the kid who almost stabbed Jae-hyung in the ass when he saw Changbinnie-hyung’s biceps for the first time,” Hyunjin says, quirking a brow at Felix.

He frowns. “That’s different. We’ve all been there when it comes to Binnie-hyung.”

“He’s kind of right,” Chan admits. “Everyone’s got a boner for Changbinnie.”

“Can we go back to talking about my issue?” Jisung begs. “I’m in a gay crisis, here.”

“Just do what I told you to do.” Haneul waves his hand. “But I do have an extra plan if you want me to go through with it.”

“Ooh, what is it?” Hyunjin asks conspiratorially. Wow, it’s like they’re talking about his love life and not Jisung’s with how invested he sounds.

“You do tattoos, right, Jisung?” Haneul looks at him. Jisung nods. “Perfect—is your work schedule free on Friday?”

Jisung blinks. “Um. I have an appointment from nine to twelve, but after that I’m free.”

“That’s good.” Haneul nods. “Then, I’d like to schedule an appointment with you.”

“Um?????” Jisung tilts his head. “Why?”

“Can’t a guy ask for a tattoo?”

“I mean, sure,” Jisung says with a shrug. “It just seems random after... all this.”

“It’s part of the plan, trust me,” Haneul assures. “I’ll just send the details to Channie later so that he can inform you.”

“Why not now?”

“Minho’s alone at the store and I don’t trust him enough to not to burn it down,” Haneul explains, standing and dusting himself off. Chan looks disappointed at the loss of contact, but brightens when Haneul kisses the crown of his curly head.

“Ew,” Felix hisses under his breath.

“Fuck off, Felicity. You’ll be doing the same thing to Binnie in a few weeks, I can feel it.”

“Shut the heck your mouth,” Felix retorts intelligently, slumping into his seat. Hyunjin pats him on the head.

Haneul is halfway to the door, now. Then he calls, “Jisungie?”

“Yes?” Jisung turns.

“Don’t be discouraged, okay?” Haneul gives him a warm smile. “He might like you more than you think.”

With that, Haneul swooshes out of the door and takes everyone’s composure with him.

-

On Thursday business proceeds as usual, and Jisung tries to follow Haneul’s advice to some success. He thinks. When Minho winks at him that morning, he does little more than a quirk of the eyebrow. Minho’s cheeks are slightly rosier in response and his gait stutters a little, as if he wasn’t expecting Jisung to be composed. But he smiles—a little less confident, a little more shy—and Jisung figures he could count it as a personal victory.

The next day—Haneul’s scheduled appointment—Minho doesn’t wink at Jisung. He doesn’t blow a kiss, either. But he’s wearing his nice jeans, the ones that are five sizes too tight, and his oversized sweater, half-tucked into his waistline (somehow), is Jisung’s favorite color. Jisung doesn’t know if it’s coincidence or if Haneul had somehow advised him what color to wear, but it’s a blessing to Jisung’s eyes, and he gives Minho an appreciative once-over.

Nice sweater, he mouths, pointedly avoiding commenting on the jeans. That’s one battle he can’t win.

Minho presses a sweater paw over his pretty pink lips, but his eyes curve into crescents and that’s how Jisung knows he’s smiling. Not to flirt, but maybe, just maybe, because he’s... happy? Aish! Jisung doesn’t know. Minho just... looks nice like that. With the little crescent smile and rosy cheeks and sweater paws—

—and then Minho is walking away with a spring in his step. Jisung watches him go and wants.

“This is almost worse than before,” Hyunjin comments, sticking out a tongue. “It used to be funny but now it’s just gross.”

“I thought you started Project Get Jisung Some Duck,” Jisung grumbles.

“Its goal was to make Minho flirt with you in private, not in front of our shop,” says Hyunjin.

“Isn’t this just an in-between stage?” Chan pipes up from the back. He’s working on a client—some teenager blushing at his collar. “Felix and Changbin are having theirs right now, too.”

“You didn’t have an in-between stage with Haneul-hyung,” Jisung protests. “You were just... suddenly boyfriends.”

“You’re forgetting that Channie-hyung’s been pining for Haneul-hyung longer than we’ve even worked here,” Hyunjin says. “And—I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again—Haneul-hyung is the only functional gay in this entire shopping district.”

“Whatever,” Jisung retorts. “Felix would agree with me.”

“Too bad he’s busy flirting with Changbin-hyung in private,” Hyunjin jabs. “Haneul-hyung better set you two up soon or I’m going to puke my organs out.”

Hyunjin is only saved from Jisung’s impending fist because Jisung’s nine o’clock walks in for her appointment, and Chan’s going to beat his ass if they scare another customer off. Jisung gives him a pointed glare as he moves to the back.

The next three hours he spends absently inking poem lines into some girl’s shoulder, but his mind is otherwise blank. He can only think about Minho’s crescent eyes and the sweater paw pressing against his lips. Jisung knows he was smiling, but knowing the sky turns red and gold at sunset is different from seeing it for the first time. Jisung wants to see that smile.

Jisung is still sitting in the back when Haneul comes in for his appointment at one o’clock. He’s been staring at the wall for his entire lunch break, and he only notices that it’s been an hour because of Haneul’s appearance. His head snaps up when Haneul calls his name.

“Jisungie, you haven’t had lunch yet, have you?” Haneul asks, but judging by his tone, he already knows the answer. He tuts and moves to sit on the chair next to Jisung. In his hand is a paper bag, the telltale aroma of a grilled cheese sandwich wafting heavily from the inside. Jisung’s stomach growls.

Jisung blinks and eyes the paper bag with barely concealed hunger. “Oh, fuck. Guess I forgot.”

“I thought you would, so I bought this for you,” Haneul says, pushing the bag toward him. “Did you like Minho’s outfit?”

“Yeah, thanks mom—wait, why? Did you do that?” Jisung asks, betrayed, as he chomps into the sandwich. Cheese oozes into his mouth and he almost wants to cry. It’s so good.

“I didn’t do anything,” Haneul answers with a sly smile. “I just dropped hints about what you like.”

“I’m not even going to ask how you know about the jeans,” Jisung manages through a mouthful of grilled cheese. They’re quiet for a while as Jisung munches on his makeshift lunch, but then Haneul asks Jisung a question.

“Are you only in this to get into his pants?”

Jisung chokes on his sandwich. Haneul looks almost sorry as he rubs comforting circles into Jisung’s back.

“Hyung!” A cough. “I literally said I wasn’t in this for the duck!”

“Channie isn’t here; you can say dick.” Haneul shrugs. “But really. Minho’s not as... confident as he seems, so I have to make sure you won’t break his heart and ruin my sales because he starts acting like a zombie.”

“I’m... I’m not,” Jisung stammers. “I kind of want to... um...”

“Want to what, Jisungie?” Haneul asks.

“I want to get to know him,” Jisung says quietly. He feels his face warm up, and he must look like a child with his red cheeks and averted eyes, but at least he means what he says. Haneul coos at him.

“That’s perfect, Jisungie.” Haneul rubs his back. “Leave the plan to me, okay? Everything will work out.”

Haneul still hasn’t explained what this “plan” is, but Jisung should probably trust him on that. “Does this mean I should start on your tattoo now?”

Seeing Jisung swallow the last bite of his grilled cheese, Haneul nods. “Channie sent you the details?”

“Yeah, just wait a bit while I wash up.”

Haneul had commissioned him to tattoo a stack of three books on the back of his arm. The topmost book is open, flowers and leaves floating off the pages among suggestions of stars. It’s one of Jisung’s prouder works, and it only takes them four hours.

“Thank you,” Haneul tells him when they finish. “And you’re welcome. You’ll know why in a few days.”

Sounds foreboding, Jisung thinks. If he could say ??????? out loud, he would.

“Um,” he says instead. “Thank you...?”

But Jisung doesn’t have the chance to question him more, because he’s already giving Jisung a final nod and then walking out of the room.

-

Nothing eventful happens over the weekend. Jisung, after nodding at Minho on Saturday morning, spends most of it crying over No Mercy episodes playing on the shop’s TV and shoveling ice cream into his mouth with Felix, who wasn’t out flirting for once. Hyunjin spent the entire time judging them. Chan was just there to support his kids.

The next time Jisung sees Minho should be Tuesday. He never comes by on Sundays and Mondays; Jisung assumes those are his days off. But the next time Jisung sees Minho isn’t Tuesday. It’s Monday. And this is wrong, because:

One, he shouldn’t be heading to the bookstore.

Two, he isn’t heading to the bookstore.

Three, he isn’t flirting with Jisung.

None of this is happening because the bell on the glass door of the tattoo parlor is ringing as Minho’s pale fingers push against the handle.

Minho is in the shop.

Reality instantly feels altered.

Jisung’s eyes widen. Everyone in the shop seems to have paused, watching Jisung with bated breath.

“Hi.” Minho waves.

“Hello,” Jisung chokes out.

(He can hear Felix gasping in the background, but then he hears a clap and assumes Chan must have clamped a hand over his mouth.)

Minho walks toward Jisung with a purposeful gait. Those fucking jeans, Jisung curses to himself as he stands to meet Minho. Minho hits him with that seemingly innocent head-tilt again, and Jisung tries his hardest not to short-circuit.

“I’m Lee Minho,” Minho says when he reaches Jisung. Jisung hopes it’s not obvious that he already knows that. “Are you Han Jisung?”

“That’s me.” Jisung nods, trying his hardest to seem composed. “Can I—can I help you?”

Minho smiles, but it’s not the one that Jisung wants to see. He’s a little disappointed.

“You did Haneul-hyung’s tattoo, right? It’s amazing,” Minho says, pulling Jisung from his thoughts.

“Ah yeah, uh, I did.” Jisung blushes at the offhand compliment. “Did you want to schedule an appointment?”

“Yes, actually. Are you free to talk about it now?” asks Minho. Jisung swears his eyes sparkle when he blinks, but then it might just be the reflection of the fluorescent on his irises.

Pull yourself together, Jisung thinks to himself. “Yeah, my next appointment isn’t for a few minutes.”

There’s a distant, muffled sound, like someone is screaming. Jisung has to take a deep breath.

“Can you come with me?” Jisung asks, feeling his co-workers’ eyes burning into the back of his head. It’s unbearable. “I have to check for a free slot, and I could show you some designs.”

“That’ll be great.” Minho grins (his teeth are really white) and follows Jisung to the counter. Chan hops off of it and whistles nonchalantly to make himself seem less incriminating, but honestly it’s just making everything worse, Jisung thinks, and Jisung watches with a withering look as Chan gathers the rest of his employees into a back room.

Minho’s eyes glint, and Jisung is positive that he knows what exactly is going on. That’s more than Jisung can say for himself. He just wishes his co-workers would stop being embarrassing and unprofessional for ten fucking minutes as he sorts Minho out.

Jisung scratches behind his ear and opens a binder on the counter. Minho is sitting pretty on a stool now, peering curiously over the pictures inside the plastic sheets.

“These are the tattoos we’ve already done, just to give you an idea of what we could do,” Jisung explains, regaining some composure. Tattoos are his thing. He can do this. “Did you have any particular design in mind?”

Minho hums. “I wanted something intricate, but not too big, you know? Something pretty.”

“If you... if you want, a flower tattoo is always an option,” Jisung suggests. “They’re pretty popular around the district.”

“Maybe, but I want it to mean something, too,” Minho says. He rests his chin on his palm and Jisung tries not to stare at the length of his lashes when he closes his eyes. Jet black just like his hair, the color of midnight on a cloudless day.

Jisung blinks. He remembers that when the tattoo parlor opened, Changbin gave Chan a book to inspire him for tattoo designs. The Language of Flowers illustrated by Kate Greenaway. Jisung has used it a few times, for Changbin’s flower sleeve, but now it rests on a shelf in Chan’s apartment.

“Do you know about flower language?” Jisung blurts. “It’s, uh, it’s why the flower tattoos are so popular. I don’t mean to say you’re dumb if you don’t know or anything, though—you’re not dumb, Minho-ssi, sorry...”

Minho lets out a giggle and his eyes (his eyes!) are turning into crescents, and then the sweater paw is covering his smile again. “It’s okay, Jisungie.”

(JISUNGIE???)

“Now I’m embarrassed,” Minho sighs, palm sliding over his cheek. Jisung might be going crazy, because he swears Minho’s blinks are deliberately slow. “I don’t really know what I want.”

“You could always come back,” Jisung suggests. He hopes his cheeks aren’t as red as they feel, or else he won’t be following Haneul’s advice anymore. But then again, Haneul’s advice probably flew straight out the window when Minho walked into the shop.

“Oh, I probably should.” Minho puts a finger to his lip. “Are you free for an appointment next Sunday?”

Jisung opens his timetable. He’s booked. “I’m full that day, let me just check my Monday schedule...”

(If Minho notices that Jisung knows his days off, he doesn’t say anything. He just smiles behind his sweater paws.)

“Oh.” Jisung blinks. His Monday schedule is booked, too. “I’m really sorry, but I’m not free next Monday, either.”

“That’s too bad.” Minho pouts. “Ah, those are my only days off, though...”

“I think my co-worker is free on Sunday.” Jisung doesn’t know why he says it. He wishes he didn’t. “Felix is really talented.”

“But I don’t want Felix.” Minho tilts his head innocently. “I want you.”

Jisung short-circuits.

Several things happen at once. Jisung flushes red down to the neck. His hands fly up to cover his cheeks, but the sudden action causes him to elbow Minho in the face. That makes Minho yelp loudly in pain and clutch his cheek. He loses his balance immediately after he flails, falling off of his stool and crashing to the floor with a loud thud. The sound makes Chan and friends poke their heads curiously out of the back room. They see Jisung. Jisung sees them. Then Jisung jerks, accidentally hitting his forearm against the edge of the extremely solid marble counter. Pain immediately shoots up his arm and he hunches over himself. Now he’s yelping, too, and his co-workers stare at him in shocked silence.

There is a pregnant pause wherein Minho and Jisung are just groaning into the air. Then a beat passes and Hyunjin and Felix are guffawing into each other, clutching their stomachs and slapping their thighs. Chan is still in shock.

“Hwang Hyunjin, Lee Felix, I swear to fucking god I will pull out all of your goddamn teeth if you don’t go back to where you came from right now,” Jisung growls, still clutching himself in pain. Hyunjin looks like he’s trying to say something, but he can’t get any words in between gasping for air. Felix is holding onto his shoulder for dear life, unable to hold himself up. Then Chan, bless his soul, drags them into the back room by their collars.

Immediately, Jisung steps around the counter to where Minho is still sprawled on the ground. He still has a palm on his cheek.

“A no would have been enough,” Minho says.

Jisung groans into his palms. “Oh, god, I’m so sorry.”

Instead of helping him up like a normal person, Jisung crouches down to be at his level. Minho’s dark hair is a halo around his head, and his eyes still manage to shine beneath Jisung’s shadow.

“Are you okay?” Jisung asks softly, real concern in his voice. He hopes he didn’t hit Minho too hard, because now that they’re finally talking, he wants Minho to like him.

“My face hurts,” Minho answers with closed eyes. He opens one to peer at Jisung. “Kiss it better?”

Minho’s pretty pink lips are curling into that smile again. The window smile: vulpine and flirtatious and teasing. Manufactured.

(It’s a pretty smile, Jisung thinks, but he prefers the crescent eyes.)

“I’m just kidding. I don’t actually mean it,” Minho amends when Jisung doesn’t say anything. Then something in Jisung’s chest sinks. If there’s any disappointment in Minho’s tone, Jisung convinces himself that he‘s imagining it. “...We should probably discuss my appointment.”

The quick change of topic feels like something is clawing at his chest, but Jisung doesn’t know the reason. He tries to swallow his own disappointment.

“...I’m free on the Sunday after next, if you still want to go then,” Jisung murmurs.

“Oh, that’s fine. I’ll come,” Minho says. “Should I... contact you about the tattoo beforehand?”

In all honesty, he should. It’ll give Jisung some time to familiarize himself with the design and sketch it out on paper. But something makes him want to say no. I’m just kidding, Minho said. I don’t actually mean it.

So Jisung shakes his head. It’s entirely unprofessional and stupid and Hyunjin will clown him for it forever, but...

Was Minho kidding when he flirted with Jisung through the window, too? Is that why he ran when Jisung flirted back? Because he didn’t actually mean it?

Jisung doesn’t want to look at him right now.

Thankfully, Jisung’s ten-o’clock walks into the shop, so he doesn’t have to. Wordlessly, Jisung helps Minho stand and tries to ignore the way his soft palm fits perfectly into Jisung’s own.

“I’ll see you in two weeks, then?” Minho asks. He’s got a new smile on. Only one corner of his lips quirks up and it doesn’t reach his eyes at all. Jisung decides it’s his least favorite.

(And then he crushes that thought, because making a list of his smiles will just make everything hurt worse when he never talks to Jisung again.)

Jisung gives him a stiff nod and watches him leave. He ignores the feeling that tells him something is missing.

-

On the days that follow the Incident—as Jisung’s co-workers have dubbed it—Minho never flirts with him again. Minho doesn’t even look at him. He would pass by, hesitate for maybe a second, and then continue walking without any sort of backward glance.

There’s nothing really wrong with it. He is in no way obligated to flirt with Jisung, after all. But it’s off-putting, especially given what he’s been doing for the past five months. It was a lot and suddenly nothing.

It’s been five days of silence from Minho. It’s not driving Jisung crazy. He just feels... disappointed. He’s been moping around so much that he can’t even deny it anymore, and his co-workers have stopped asking about it because Jisung refuses to answer. Business resumes as usual. Mostly. They’re not as loud anymore, and Jisung tells them to call off Project Get Jisung Some Duck, which legitemately makes Hyunjin upset. Haneul is confused, too. It makes Jisung feel bad, so sometimes he forces himself to argue with Hyunjin or mess around with Chan and Felix like nothing is wrong. (And nothing is wrong dammit.)

But when it’s time to close up shop, Felix is suddenly sprinting out of the door and across the street. Jisung watches him buy a bouquet from Seungmin before Changbin walks into the shop. Then Felix gives it to him, and it’s clear what’s going on. The bouquet has some sappy meaning, Changbin is smitten, and they’re probably a couple now. After so many weeks of dancing around each other and going on friendship dates and sneaking heart eyes at each other when they think no one is watching—

Suddenly Jisung is crying.

“Fucking superb, you funky little gays,” Jisung sobs, broom in hand as he watches Felix and Changbin smile at each other.

Hyunjin shoots him a look. “Jisung, what the fuck?”

“Felix is doing great, look at him,” says Jisung. Then he cups his hands around his mouth to yell through the glass. “You’re doing great, sweetie!”

“This is so pathetic,” Hyunjin deadpans. He takes the broom tucked beneath Jisung’s arm and tosses it to the side. “You need an intervention.”

Jisung just sobs harder.

“Channie-hyung!” Hyunjin calls to the back. “We’re leaving early!”

“Jinnie, no, you’ve been skipping cleaning duty for way too long now, why would I let you—“ Chan pokes his head through the doorway. “Oh. Oh no, Jisungie.”

Then there are arms around Jisung’s trembling shoulders, and he’s crying even more. He wails loudly into Chan’s torso for a little while until the tears slow down.

“What’s wrong, Jisung?” Chan croons. “Is it Minho?”

Jisung shakes his head.

“Bullshit,” Hyunjin says. Chan shoots him a look.

“He doesn’t like me.” Jisung sniffles. “It’s just my fault for assuming.”

“Well who wouldn’t assume?” Hyunjin scoffs. “He was winking at you every day.”

“What Hyunjinnie means to say is,” Chan begins, shooting Hyunjin a glare, “that Minho was sending mixed signals and it’s not your fault.”

“Can you just tell us what the heck happened with him?” Hyunjin asks. “So that we can finally get your shit together.”

“I hit him in the face and he told me to kiss it better,” Jisung starts. “But then he said he didn’t mean it.”

Hyunjin lets out a snort, but then he purses his lips when he realizes Jisung is being completely serious. He looks at Chan. Chan looks at him.

“Jisung, I respect your feelings, but...” Chan strokes Jisung’s hair. “Don’t you think you’re overthinking it? Just a little?”

“He’s been blowing me kisses for five months, Channie-hyung, don’t you think that, if he meant them, he’d take any chance to get a real one?” Jisung sighs. “It’s probably why he ran away that time—because he never meant any of it.”

“If you come with me we can make him regret,” Hyunjin says. “Let’s party, Sungie.”

“Hyunjin!” Chan protests.

Jisung mulls it over for a second. “...You know what? It’s okay, hyung, I’ll go with Hyunjin.”

“Jisung,” Chan starts with a warning tone.

“Hyung, I’ll be fine,” Jisung says as he wipes his cheek on his sleeve. “I need a distraction?”

Chan sighs, releasing Jisung from his grip. “There can’t be any drinking. You have an eight o’clock tomorrow, Jisung.”

“We won’t do anything stupid,” Hyunjin promises.

“Okay, okay, fine.” Chan crosses his arms. “Have fun, kids.”

Jisung gives him a final wave before Hyunjin is tugging him out of the door.

“C’mon, you sad, gay fuck,” Hyunjin says. They’re heading to the direction of his apartment. “We’re going to dye your hair.”

-

So.

They dye Jisung’s hair.

And Jisung looks good.

He did look good before. No matter what his co-workers say. He used to have medium blonde strands atop his head, which he liked because they made him look brighter and warmer, as opposed to his natural hair color. But Hyunjin, upon throwing Jisung into his bathroom, shoves a packet of dark gray hair dye into his hands. They have a two-minute stare-down before Hyunjin threatens to shave his head and Jisung reluctantly complies.

For the most part, though, Jisung is glad he agreed to do this. The glint of his freshly gunmetal gray locks looks almost ethereal even in the light of Hyunjin’s shitty fluorescent lamp, and it’s a different look from what he usually has. It’s cool toned, for one, looking amazing against his black hoodie.

Or not, because Hyunjin is pulling Jisung to his bedroom and throwing him on the bed to strip him.

“Hyunjinnie, is there something you’re not telling me here? Should I be calling Seungmin?” Jisung asks but doesn’t make a move to stop him.

“Shut up, loser,” Hyunjin bites. “I’m not taking you to Wonpil-hyung’s gig when you‘re dressed like this.”

The shirt and hoodie are off, and Jisung rubs his arms from the cold. “Wonpil-hyung is playing tonight?”

“His whole band is,” Hyunjin explains. He gets off of Jisung and rifles through his closet. “It’s some kind of celebration because Brian-ssi landed a huge deal or something.”

Jisung furrows his brows. “Okay, but why did we have to dye my hair for this?”

“It’s sexy, and you need to look like a confident gay tonight,” Hyunjin says, matter-of-fact. “You need to meet new people so that you stop acting like a sad fool.”

“Liar.” Jisung squints. “What’s the real reason?”

Hyunjin doesn’t say anything.

“You’re trying to make Seungminnie jealous, aren’t you,” Jisung deadpans, knowing for a fact that Seungmin attends every single one of Wonpil’s gigs. “I can’t believe you’re taking advantage of my emotional turmoil like this.”

“I’m not trying to make Seungmin jealous,” Hyunjin scoffs. “I’m trying to make Minho jealous. Seungminnie has nothing to do with this.”

“You’re a dirty liar,” Jisung says. “And there’s no reason for Minho to be jealous. We just established that he doesn’t like me.”

“If you insist on saying he doesn’t like you, then fine.” Hyunjin rolls his eyes. “But we’ll make him regret.”

“How sure are you that he’ll even be there?” Jisung mumbles. “He’ll probably be looking at you, not me.”

Hyunjin smacks him. “We will be having none of that tonight. I spent good money on your hair, so flaunt it, you look sexy.”

“Okay! Okay, geez,” Jisung huffs, rubbing an arm. “Can you at least give me your black turtleneck, then?”

“You can’t just say that. I have like, five,” Hyunjin murmurs, gaze gliding over his wardrobe again. Then his eyes light up as he pulls two articles of clothing off the rack. “Wear this, Jisungie.”

Hyunjin hands him the black turtleneck that he was asking for and a leather jacket that makes Jisung squint. Isn’t this his...? “Why do you have my leather jacket?”

“You left it here so it’s mine now,” Hyunjin answers nonchalantly. More like he borrowed it and never returned it, Jisung thinks. “Just put the outfit on.”

The soft wool of the turtleneck soothes Jisung’s skin as he pulls it over his head, and the leather jacket fits perfectly when he slips it on. Jisung will never admit it, but Hyunjin is right. He looks good, and it makes him feel a little better about going out.

But the thing about Wonpil’s band is that they don’t do gigs very often. They’re very good, actually, but they’re in different fields so they can’t always be together. Despite this, they have a lot of fans in the district. This means that whenever they do perform, Wonpil’s cafe is packed.

When they arrive, the tables and chairs have been pushed aside to make way for the crowd. The air is thick with the mass of warm bodies already.

Wonpil had redecorated the cafe for the night, it seems, taking down all the floral decorations and replacing them with neon lights. It’s dark, for the most part, the only light coming from the neon and the portable spotlights illuminating the band’s instruments. They sit on a makeshift stage, likely assembled from crates they had in the back. It sounds like they’re doing a mic test, but when Hyunjin drags Jisung further into the crowd the lead vocalist is already making pleasantries.

“How is everyone doing tonight?” he asks. The crowd answers him—Sungjin-ssi, if Jisung remembers correctly—with loud cheers. “We’re DAY6, and this is What Can I Do!”

The song starts with a deep bass line that makes Jisung’s veins thrum. The crowd is already beginning to sing along—Jisung swears he can see Seungmin jamming from the corner of his eye—and it makes him wish he knew the lyrics.

”What am I to you? Do you even think about me?” comes Sungjin’s raspy voice. ”You’re different every time I see you, I can’t figure it out.”

“Oh my god, Sungie, it’s you and Minho’s theme song.” Hyunjin grins. “This is perfect.”

Jisung shoves him lightly on the shoulder as a response, because as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Hyunjin is kind of right. He just cackles and grabs Jisung by the shoulders, eyeing something behind him.

“Let’s dance, Jisungie!” Hyunjin says suddenly, a glint in his eye that can’t mean anything good. Then he starts dancing in the most ridiculous way—doing the macarena to the beat of a rock song—and Jisung can’t help it when he starts bursting into laughter.

Throwing everything he cares about into the wind—caution, dignity—Jisung follows him, and no one even cares when their dancing morphs into some sinful variation of the chicken dance. Hyunjin leans in teasingly when the tempo slows for the bridge, then he’s spinning them so that they’ve swapped positions, and suddenly Jisung knows what was making Hyunjin’s eyes glint.

Minho.

Staring right at them. Hair tastefully disheveled, the pussycat bow around his neck a deep burgundy like it‘s made of pinot noir instead of silk. Red, red, red. Jisung’s throat feels dry. And those fucking jeans again. He looks like a whole meal and Jisung is hungry. Even if he wishes he wasn’t.

Jisung widens his eyes at Hyunjin, but Hyunjin only answers with a wink and an evil smirk. Roll with it, says his expression, but Jisung isn’t sure that he can.

You snake, he mouths, but Hyunjin doesn’t reply and, instead, starts twirling Jisung at the chorus. Jisung tries his best to... roll with it.

He’s doing great, he thinks, because he forgets about Minho for at least five seconds. Then Minho is tapping Hyunjin’s shoulder, and Jisung suddenly can’t roll with it any more. He freezes.

“Hi.” Minho’s lips curl into a grin. A new one, Jisung notes. Sharp and dangerous.

He doesn’t know which of them says it, but there’s a “hello,” that comes afterward, pulling Jisung from his thoughts.

“Would you mind if I danced with Jisungie for a little bit?” Minho asks, tone sickly sweet. He tilts his head innocently and Hyunjin returns it with an equally loaded smile.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Hyunjin says. Jisung realizes then that while Hyunjin probably did plot this meeting, he’s giving Jisung a way out. Amazing, Jisung notes. He’s not a complete snake.

But Minho is eyeing him now. Maybe it’s because his fists clench behind his back when Hyunjin doesn’t let of Jisung. Maybe it’s because Jisung’s never seen him smile like this before, with teeth that look too white and too hostile. Maybe it’s because the guitarist onstage is singing you’re bad, I know it, then why the hell am I chasing you? or maybe it’s because—

“Jisungie,” Minho croons. “Do you want to dance with me?”

Maybe it’s because his eyes soften then, that Jisung says yes.

Minho brightens, and Hyunjin slinks away with a barely concealed wink. Project Get Jisung Some Duck is back, bitch, he mouths, and Jisung tries really hard not to hit him with a shoe.

In the moments between the first song ending and the next one beginning, Jisung takes all of Minho in. Looks over his pussycat bow, his wine-colored poet sleeves, his too-tight jeans and his disheveled hair. Minho takes one step closer, and it’s only then that Jisung sees it.

His eyelids are outlined with burgundy and peach in the shape of a wing, blurring into pale skin at the edges. It’s subtle enough that Jisung wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t this close, but it’s beautiful. Minho looks like a cat, Jisung notes then, with his sharp smile and even sharper gaze. A predatory carnivore, and Jisung is the prey.

Minho cocks his head. “Can I touch you?”

“Okay.” Jisung gulps. “Okay.”

The drummer taps out the beginnings of the next song, and Minho is grasping Jisung’s hands in his—Jisung doesn’t know what he expected—and Minho leads them to some loose version of a polka. He sings why, why, why, into Jisung’s ear and it’s not fair, because he sounds like an angel and looks like one, and why would he ever willingly do this with Jisung of all people?

But then his eyes are crinkling into crescents as he hums I’m so troubled because of you, and there are no sweater paws to hide his grin this time. It’s bright and it’s happy, Jisung notes, and he can’t stop staring even when his eyes start to burn.

”I keep giving you a hint for you to acknowledge me,” Minho croons along with the guitarist, and Jisung lets himself think that he might understand.

Minho twirls him, eyes twinkling, and Jisung laughs as Minho tries to dip him. ”My eyes surely say I like you,” Jisung hears someone sing, but it’s Minho’s lips, mouthing the lyrics, that he sees.

Why don’t you feel it, Jisung continues, don’t you get wind when you see my face?

A laugh catches in Minho’s throat. He looks surprised at Jisung’s voice. They swap positions and Minho dances around him.

”Oh please, somebody help me with my swollen heart,” the vocalist croons onstage, and Jisung feels it. His heart is swollen. If it isn’t, why does his chest feel so tight?

Minho’s eyes glitter beneath the neon and Jisung swears it hurts to look at him, like he’s looking at the sun with no sunglasses on. But even as his eyes sting and burn, his skin is warm with feeling.

The tempo slows for the song’s bridge, Wonpil’s voice hanging sweetly in the air, when Minho leans into Jisung.

“I like your hair.” Hot breath ghosts over Jisung’s ear. “It’s pretty.”

Jisung’s pulse picks up even as Minho leans back to look at him. His eyes—almost glazed over—lock onto Jisung’s dark strands. Jisung feels more than he sees Minho’s slight fingers come up to the nape of his neck, which tickles at his touch.

“Thank you,” Jisung manages. Then, because he’s an idiot with no filter, “your ass looks amazing in those jeans.”

Pretty and pink, Jisung remembers calling his lips. They curl into the familiar shape of a vulpine smile—smile number one—and something in Jisung weighs heavy with regret. The crescent crinkle of Minho’s eyes disappears as he leans forward into Jisung.

“It’s why I picked them, baby,” Minho whispers.

Jisung logs the fuck out.

He goes through the last lines of the song in a daze, and he doesn’t remember what he and Minho do. Maybe they keep mouthing lyrics at each other. Maybe they dance a little closer than they should. Maybe it’s even both. But at the end of it, their foreheads are touching, and Jisung finds himself staring into Minho’s dark eyes. The air feels supercharged around them.

“Does this mean we can be friends now?” Minho says finally, and Jisung tries not to short-circuit.

His heart sinks. I’m just kidding, Jisung remembers. Right. He wants to scream. After all that, all he wanted was to be friends? No wonder.

I don’t actually mean it.

Jisung is about to shove Minho off. But his eyes are sparkling crescents again, his smile genuine and wide—Jisung’s favorite out of all his smiles—and Jisung... doesn’t have the heart to say no.

“...Sure, you dork,” he manages as he leans away from Minho’s touch. He feels like Icarus flying too close to the sun and he’s doomed—

Minho brightens.

—but at least he’s warm.

“...Minho-ssi,” Jisung starts, “this has been fun and all, but I’m kind of tired and I have work tomorrow...”

“Hyung,” Minho says.

Jisung blinks. “What?”

“You keep calling me Minho-ssi.” Minho pouts. “Call me hyung like a good boy.”

Short-circuiting would be really embarrassing right now, so Jisung tries his best to take it in stride. “Okay, Minho-hyung,” he says. “I have to go now.”

“So soon?” Minho asks. He gives Jisung smile number three, the one that tugs only at one corner of his lips and doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sorry, you can go. It’s just a little...”

Abrupt, Jisung finishes but doesn’t say.

“Never mind.” Minho averts his eyes. “I’ll... stay here with Haneul-hyung for a while. Be safe, okay?”

Wait, Haneul-hyung? Jisung’s head whips around. He’s here?

...Sure enough, Haneul is sitting at one of the few remaining booths. That in itself isn’t out of the ordinary. What is, though, is the fact that Hyunjin is standing behind him with a slick little smirk on his face like he was watching the entire thing from the start. Haneul waves at him, and Jisung feels struck. They planned this.

He should have known Project Get Jisung Some Duck would never truly die.

Gross, Hyunjin mouths at him before sticking out a tongue.

Jisung closes his eyes. Deep breaths, Jisung. He doesn’t have the mental capacity for this.

“I’ll see you next week for your appointment then, hyung,” he says with some semblance of a smile. He turns away after giving one last awkward wave, feeling like Cinderella leaving the ball before midnight. He doesn’t look back.

(First Icarus, then premature Cinderella. Jisung wonders if he’ll ever get a fairytale ending.)

-

For the next few days, Jisung shares small waves with Minho through the glass. There aren’t any more winks, or blown kisses, or vulpine lips. There is only smile number three, and Jisung kind of hates it. So does everyone in the shop, apparently.

“I just don’t get it, Jisungie,” Felix mumbles over the screen of Hyunjin’s phone. “You two looked so cute and smitten dancing to I’m Serious.”

The three of Jisung’s co-workers huddle together on the couch. They’re watching a video that Hyunjin took of Jisung and Minho doing the polka at DAY6’s gig. It’s closing time, but it started raining at noon and hasn’t stopped since. It’s still too heavy for any of them to go home without getting soaked, so Jisung opts to sit cross-legged on the rug in front of them.

Jisung is bitter because he and Minho do look cute and smitten, but the thing is that they aren’t.

“Look at this!” Felix crows, shoving a screenshot of The Forehead Touch into Jisung’s face like Jisung wasn’t there. “You can’t tell me he doesn’t like you. This is like, prime gay.”

“Can you not, Lix?” Jisung sighs. “Don’t you think I know it was prime gay?”

“Why haven’t you acted on it then, wuss,” Hyunjin says with a sneer. “I bought you hair dye and styled you for free and this is how you repay me?”

“First of all, you threatened to shave my head if I didn’t dye my hair,” Jisung starts. “Second of all, that jacket was mine. And I remember telling you specifically to call off Project Get Jisung Some Dick.”

“You said dick!” Felix gasps. “Christopher, he said dick!”

Chan puts his head in his hands.

“Excuse you, the official name is Project Get Jisung Some Duck,” Hyunjin scoffs. “And I will never let it die until you stop flirting with Minho-hyung through the window.”

“We have though?” Jisung says. “He doesn’t wink or blow kisses anymore.”

“Yeah but now he pines, and that’s even worse,” Hyunjin stresses. “Something needs to happen. You left the gig way too early.”

“He asked me if we could be friends,” Jisung groans, hands in his hair. “He does all that... and he asks to be friends. He’s hopeless, Jinnie.”

“Maybe you should just give it some time,” Chan interjects. “He could just be... making sure.”

“But it’s so confusing,” Jisung mutters. Felix reaches out to pat him on the head. “I just wanted to know what his deal was but he’s really cute and now I want to date him.”

“Then date him?????” Hyunjin scowls. “Date him, you fucking coward.”

“He just wants to be friends?” replies Jisung. “We had our foreheads touching after a really gay polka and he could have kissed me but no?”

“Maybe he’s just an idiot,” Hyunjin counters. “Seriously, just. Make a fucking move.”

“Don’t you have a session with him on Sunday?” Felix asks. “Binnie-hyung confessed to me with his flower tattoos, it was sweet! Maybe Minho-ssi will do the same.”

“Bold of you to assume that either of them have the brains for that,” Hyunjin says. “We’ll probably have to lock these two in the supply closet before they get together.”

“Don’t do that here,” Chan protests. “I don’t want the shop’s supply closet to get tainted.”

“I’ll text Haneul-hyung, then,” Felix chimes. Jisung exhales loudly in frustration. A phone dings.

“He said no.” Felix pouts.

“Good.”

“Look at this, though, Jinnie,” Felix says, climbing over Chan. He moves to sit next to Hyunjin and shoves the phone in his face. With every passing second that Hyunjin squints at the screen, a growing feeling of dread pools at the base of Jisung’s stomach.

Hyunjin’s eyebrows raise. “Genius!”

“We’re doing it then?” Felix asks, hope in his eyes. “We’re making it happen?”

“We’re doing it, man,” Hyunjin answers severely. “We’re making it happen.”

Felix and Hyunjin stand, uncannily in sync, and they nod seriously at each other. “Forgive us, Christopher,” Felix says to Chan, who looks like he’s questioning all life decisions made up to this point.

Then they’re pulling Jisung up by the armpits, tossing his phone out of his pocket (he’ll thank them for this later) and physically drags him to the door.

“Wait, what are you—“

They toss him in the rain.

“YOU FUCKS!” Jisung screams. “WHAT THE FUCK!”

“Bet you can’t do TWICE choreo in the rain!” Felix yells from the doorway. Somewhere in the background Chan is yelling at a nonchalant Hyunjin and Jisung thinks at least someone is sane in this family.

“You—you fucker! As if you could!” Jisung’s teeth chatter. “Come out here and dance battle me like a man!”

Jisung can barely hear him over the sound of the rain getting heavier and slamming down onto the sidewalk, but Felix shouts an indignant “OH YEAH?” and then he’s yelling something at Hyunjin, and there’s a “FELIX, NO!” tossed in there somewhere, but Felix yeets his hoodie off and leaps straight into a puddle with no hesitation.

“Hit it, Hyunjin!”

One, two, three, let’s go!

Dance The Night Away blasts through the shop’s speakers, and you bet your ass Jisung tears up the sidewalk with his moves. He stomps on the puddles extra hard just to spite Felix and ruin his (clean, white, borrowed from Changbin) t-shirt with flecks of mud. But then Felix does the same, and mud flies directly into Jisung’s mouth.

“Dude, what the fuck!” Jisung spits. “I’ll beat your ass!”

And that’s how he ends up wrestling Felix into a mud puddle at five in the afternoon, rain so heavy that they really, really shouldn’t be doing this. Hyunjin has turned the speakers up so loud that the entire district could probably hear them. He films the entire thing.

Eventually Chan comes outside to wrangle them back into the store, and they sit on the sofa wrapped in towels that smell like mothballs for twenty minutes as Chan lectures them about endangering their health. He’s also shaking in a towel, which doesn’t make him look very threatening, but Jisung has it in him to feel at least a little guilty.

Felix goes down immediately the next day, and he has to cancel all his appointments. Chan tuts at his cellphone when Felix calls him, and Jisung just snorts because of course his baby immune system couldn’t handle the rain. Jisung, on the other hand, is completely fine.

Until he’s not.

Jisung’s fever doesn’t come in until Saturday. He wakes up to a pounding headache that almost overwhelms the rapid chills he feels spreading throughout his body. He groans, calls Chan, and rolls over to go back to sleep. When he wakes up, it’s already Sunday morning, and, predictably, he still feels like Premium Shite.

There’s no way he can come to work today. Yesterday was fine, because he didn’t have anyone booked, but today...

He’s supposed to have a session with Minho today. He groans in frustration when he realizes this, and phones Chan with shaky fingers.

“Hyung,” he rasps. He didn’t realize his throat was so sore. “I’m dying.”

A pause. Chan sighs. “I’m so sorry, Jisung. I should have stopped those two in the first place.”

“It’s okay, just.” Jisung waves a hand. “Tell Minho-hyung he’ll have to reschedule; he’s coming by at ten.”

“...Jisungie, you’re taking care of yourself, right?” Chan asks. “You sound terrible.”

“I didn’t realize,” Jisung deadpans.

“You know that if I wasn’t booked today I’d come over in a heartbeat,” says Chan. “Aish, Jinnie is still looking after Felix.”

“I’ll manage,” Jisung mumbles. “‘S’okay, dad.”

Chan pauses for a minute, but Jisung doesn’t really notice because he’s still half asleep. “Alright. Get well soon, Jisungie.”

Jisung coughs out a farewell and doesn’t think about Chan for another two hours. Then he hears the front door to his tiny apartment open, and Chan is the only one with a key.

“Hyung, go back to work,” he calls, not opening his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine,” answers a voice that is definitely not Chan.

Jisung squints his eyes open, and there he stands in all his deceivingly sweet glory: Lee Minho, smiling with a plastic bag in hand.

“Oh my god,” Jisung groans. “I’m hallucinating.”

“You’re not hallucinating,” Minho says. He hits Jisung with smile number two, eyes crinkling into the crescents that Jisung adores. Unfortunately he has sweater paws again. Evil, adorable sweater paws.

“I don’t like your paws,” Jisung blurts. “They’re hiding smile number two.”

“My paws?” Glorious eye crinkles. “Smile number two?”

“Smile number two,” Jisung echoes. He doesn’t know why he says it, but he’s sleepy again and he just doesn’t care. “Why’re you here?”

“...Chan-hyung sent me.” Smile number three, the corner tug one. Jisung doesn’t like it much. “He asked me to look after you.”

“But it’s your day off,” Jisung mumbles. His eyelids are really heavy now. He doesn’t catch the way Minho’s expression softens.

“And you’re sick, Sungie,” he coos. “Let me take care of you.”

Jisung blinks up at him, backlit by Jisung’s shitty yellow light bulb, and thinks this must be what angels look like. With dark eyes and dark hair, with pretty pink lips and a smile like he’s keeping a secret.

You don’t say no to an angel. Even if he does friendzone you.

“Have you showered yet, Sungie?” says Minho, pressing the back of his hand to Jisung’s neck.

Jisung shakes his head. He hopes he isn’t as red as he feels.

“Can you stand, then?” Minho asks. “You need to shower, or you’ll be sick for days.”

He doesn’t know if he can stand, because he hasn’t tried. He feels like a zombie with too-warm skin, limbs weak and barely held together. He pushes himself up, wincing at his sore joints. Jisung really should have just gotten up yesterday.

Minho brushes a stray lock of hair away from Jisung’s face. “Clean yourself up, and I’ll make you something to eat, okay?”

“Okay,” says Jisung. Minho ushers him into the bathroom after he picks up his clothes, and then Minho retreats to the kitchen to make food.

The cold water from the showerhead is soothing over Jisung’s overheated skin. It clears his head bit by bit until fragments of their conversation come back to him. I don’t like your paws, oh god. Smile number two.

Who even says that shit?

Jisung, apparently. Sleepy and mind muddled. He slaps himself once as he exits the bathroom.

He has to admit that the shower helps a lot. He feels a lot less like cold toast and more like... fresh toast. Warm, instead of the unbearable inbetween. Still kind of annoying, but not as much as before. He still has that headache though.

A rich aroma wafts through the apartment when he steps out, following it to Minho pouring steaming soup in a bowl. Ow. He’s got a cute pink apron on—his own?—and it all looks so horribly domestic that Jisung’s heart hurts. Then Minho smiles at him, and it swells.

Jisung takes a seat next to Minho at the kitchen island. If his ears are red, he blames it on the fever.

“It’s chicken soup,” Minho informs, setting the bowl in front of him. “I microwaved it myself.”

A laugh escapes Jisung’s throat. It sounds raspy and gross and hurts a little but Minho doesn’t seem to mind. “Microwave? Why the apron, then?”

“I look cute in it,” Minho answers with a vulpine curl of the lips. Smile number one—the first he ever showed to Jisung. “Don’t I look like the cutest house husband?”

“...Sure,” Jisung says in fear of self-incrimination. “Thanks for the soup.”

“You’re welcome, Sungie. You should be in bed soon, though,” Minho replies, smile number one slipping off of his face. “Chan-hyung said you need rest.”

“Soup first.”

Jisung takes the first sip. It’s warm and rich, but it goes smoothly down his throat. It’s a little less sore now, thankfully, and Jisung doesn’t notice Minho staring with his chin in his palm until the soup is all gone. It’s suspicious.

It’s suspicious because he’s been flirting with Jisung for five months through a window. It’s suspicious because he asks Jisung to kiss him better when they finally talk. It’s suspicious because he takes Jisung away from Hyunjin on the dance floor when they lean into each other and holds Jisung’s hands in his and tells him his hair is pretty and calls him baby and touches Jisung’s forehead with his own and it’s suspicious because when Jisung looks at him that night he looks like he wants something. It’s suspicious because he only asks for friendship.

This—Minho staring at his puffy, snotty face like he hung the stars—doesn’t look like friendship.

“Hyung... why’d you agree to come?” He asks suddenly, staring at his empty bowl. “Why’d you... agree to go out of your way like this?”

His throat is sore and talking is torture but the need to know something burns in him like the immune system burning his insides. Why, why, why, Jisung remembers Minho crooning, and why, why, why, echoes his brain. But somehow they don’t sound the same at all.

“Well, we’re friends now, aren’t we?” Minho replies after a minute, and Jisung hates that it’s smile number three again. “Friends take care of friends.”

Again with the friendship. He hopes and he hopes whenever Minho flashes him the vulpine curl of smile number one that there is something more but then he comes and says things like this afterward, smile number three dampening the stars that Jisung knows are in his eyes. How is Jisung supposed to believe him then? What is Jisung supposed to think?

“...Right. Friends,” Jisung spits finally. He’s bitter and sick and tired now and he just wants to black out for a while. “I’m gonna go to bed, hyung.”

He just wants to understand, for once, but Minho isn’t making any of this easy. He doesn’t follow Jisung into the bedroom when he leaves.

(But Jisung wants him to.)

(Expects him to, even.)

(But he doesn’t.)

(And Jisung should have known.)

-

When Jisung wakes up he feels a little better—headache weakening into a dull throb—but it’s dark now and he can’t see a thing. He has to fumble for his lamp switch. The light stings his eyes when he opens them, blinking rapidly, but when they’ve adjusted he sees Gatorade and a glass of water on his sidetable. There’s a baby blue post-it pasted onto the side.

Sungie, drink this when you wake up, it says at the top. You need to stay hydrated so your body gets better!

Then, in script so small that Jisung almost doesn’t see it: I’m sorry if I made you upset.

Jisung doesn’t know if he wants to keep the paper forever in his heart or crumple it and yeet it straight out the window at 700 kilometers per hour. It’s always like this with Minho. It’s never one thing or another, it’s never this or that, it’s this and that and one thing and one more and Jisung just wants him to choose.

He downs the glass of water. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He kicks his blankets off and thinks about pleasure and pain and stalks into the unlit kitchen to get himself more water, and it’s only when he’s turning around that he sees the tiny figure sleeping on his couch.

Minho, one arm tucked under his head, sleeping like a baby. Unfair, really, how angelic he still looks under the pasty yellow light of Jisung’s shitty floor lamp.

He must have fallen asleep at some point after the soup incident. He could have gone home after Jisung stomped off, but he didn’t. He’s still here and Jisung doesn’t know how to feel about it. Happy, because Minho stayed; or angry, because he didn’t leave? Pleasure and pain, Jisung thinks. He can’t describe it otherwise.

Something strikes him then. Figuratively, not physically. Jisung remembers Chan’s book, all the flowers that he’s replicated over and over on paper as he mulls over their meanings. Then Jisung remembers smile number two, the crescent eyes and rabbit teeth, and number three—his least favorite—false and wreaking havoc wherever Jisung is concerned. Pleasure and pain, Jisung thinks again, scrambling to find his sketchbook.

For a while it’s the click and drag of Jisung’s mechanical pencil—freshly stolen from Felix—that fills his apartment. He seats himself in the loveseat next to Minho, who doesn’t stir once for forty minutes. It’s only when Jisung is sketching the final touches on his piece that Minho sleepily blinks himself awake.

“Sungie...?” comes his voice, heady and groggy with sleep. “Why’re you out of bed?”

(Because I saw you there, Jisung thinks, I saw you there and I felt something.)

Jisung considers for a moment if he should answer truthfully or not. But then again Minho is never a yes or no; he’s always a maybe, and perhaps Jisung should be, too.

“Hyung, can I tell you a secret?” Jisung says. Minho looks sleepy and confused, but he still nods. Jisung takes a deep breath. He’s afraid, in all honesty, to find out if Minho will ever give him answers. He’s afraid of the way Minho might look at him if Jisung assumes something and it turns out to be wrong. So he reaches, turns the lamp off. Minho can’t see him anymore.

“Jisung?”

“Can you promise me that what I say in the dark stays in the dark?” Jisung asks, setting his mechanical pencil down where he knows the coffee table would be. He’s finished now, anyway, and the need to talk overwhelms him.

“Why?” comes Minho’s voice. “What’s this about?”

“Minho-hyung, please?” Jisung almost begs. “Can you promise?”

Minho doesn’t answer for a minute, but Jisung thinks he might have nodded. So he continues.

“I think you’re confusing, hyung,” Jisung says to the darkness. He can hear Minho’s breath hitch. “You wink at me and blow me kisses through the window every day but you run when I do it to you. When I talk to you for the first time you ask me to kiss you and then you tell me you don’t mean it.”

“You called me pretty and baby and danced with me to a love song and you leaned in until our foreheads were touching and then you asked me if we could be friends,” Jisung continues, “and honestly, hyung, I don’t know if we can because I can’t see you like that anymore.”

“Jisung,” Minho chokes out.

“Don’t,” Jisung warns. He thinks he feels his eyes watering. His headache is stronger now, but probably not from the fever. “I never know what it is you want from me and it hurts.”

“Sungie, I—“

“No, don’t.” There are definitely tears now. “I can’t even hate you, because every time I hurt, you fucking hit me with smile number two and I just fall apart.”

There’s a pause. It’s only Jisung’s sniffle that breaks the silence, and the rustle of his pajama sleeve as he wipes his tears.

“...You never told me what smile number two meant,” Minho mumbles, and Jisung barks a laugh. Of all things.

“You have a lot of smiles, hyung,” Jisung says then. What I say in the dark stays in the dark. “...Number two is just my favorite.”

A hum. Jisung imagines Minho cocking his head when he says it. “Can I touch you?”

“Okay.” Jisung gulps. “Okay.”

There’s no drummer to start a song, this time, but there is a thud when Minho bumps into the coffee table. Jisung still doesn’t know what to expect. Arms slink around him in a warm hug and it’s Minho again, pressing his cheek against Jisung’s.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Minho whispers. “Promise me it stays in the dark, too?”

It’s the same thing he’s done for Jisung, so he nods, however stiff.

“Me coming here was never Chan-hyung’s idea,” Minho admits. “I asked if I could.”

“...Wow.”

Minho doesn’t let go of him. “He gave me the key.”

“Of course he did,” Jisung answers weakly. Minho gives him a squeeze and Jisung still can’t decide if it’s comforting or not.

“...I care about you a lot,” Minho confesses, breath hitching. “I wanted to be close to you.”

Jisung squeezes his eyes shut. “I don’t think you’re doing it right, hyung.”

“Jisung...” Minho’s voice cracks. “I’m... really sorry.”

Jisung doesn’t respond because he’s not sure if Minho even knows why he should be. His grip is tight around Jisung’s shoulders and if Jisung concentrates hard enough, he can feel a tremble but he doesn’t know which of them is the culprit. Maybe it’s both.

“Sungie, do you...” Minho pauses. Inhales. “Do you like me? Like-like me?”

“In what way am I supposed to like you, hyung?” Jisung asks, because he does like Minho—his smile number one and two, maybe three as well, the vulpine curl and the crescents and the one that doesn’t reach his eyes; doing the polka, touching foreheads; him and all his mysteries—but he doesn’t know if he likes Minho in the way that he should, or if it’s worth it to try and pretend like he doesn’t.

“I don’t know,” Minho croaks eventually. “I’m scared, Jisung.”

“Is that why you ran then? Because you’re scared?” Jisung blurts. “Is that why you told me you didn’t mean it when you asked me to kiss you?”

Minho doesn’t give him a clear answer because he never has and probably never will.

“...I meant it,” he says instead, and it feels like the end of a war. Crumbling. Not because one side wins, but because both sides have surrendered. Jisung—surrendering—slowly curls his arms around Minho. Minho hugs him tighter.

Neither of them break the following silence. They fall asleep like that, Jisung burrowing into Minho’s side, their breaths mingling until the morning and their arms refusing to let go. But when the nighttime fades, the darkness takes their secrets with it, and Jisung wakes up to the warmth of a displaced blanket instead of an embrace. On the coffee table, a baby blue post-it sits.

Sungie, I’ve left for work, it says, and Jisung wants to cry. When he unfolds his arms he remembers his sketchbook and sees the flowers he drew last night on the back of his eyelids.

Dog roses, Jisung’s mind whispers. Pleasure and pain.

It’s Monday, says the calendar.

Minho doesn’t have work on Mondays.

-

Hyunjin looks excited when he sees Jisung push the door to the tattoo parlor an hour later. He had probably caught wind of Minho staying over at Jisung’s through Chan or Haneul, because they’re all conniving little snakes like that. But then he sees Jisung’s eyes, red and puffy, and the grin falls straight off of his face.

“Shit,” Hyunjin curses softly. “Sungie, I’m so sorry.”

The uncharacteristic lilt of his voice makes Chan and Felix look up from where they sit, and suddenly Jisung has three pairs of arms wrapping around him in a bone-crushing hug. The love and affection isn’t helping here, because it feels like Minho’s grip at midnight and it only makes Jisung want to cry more.

“What the fuck, you guys, I’m puffy from the fever,” Jisung tries to say, but it’s barely coherent through the tears that start falling from his face. It’s clear none of them believe him, because Jisung’s fever was already broken when he woke up and he’s overwarm for an entirely different reason.

“Sungie, who hurt you?” croaks Felix, already crying. “Was it Minho-ssi? Should I drop kick his ass?”

“Drop kick your own ass, you gave me this fever,” Jisung warbles back. He pretends his lip doesn’t quiver.

“It was the rain, though,” Hyunjin murmurs.

Felix, tears streaming down his face, clenches his fist. “I will FIGHT the rain.”

”No one is going to fight the rain,” Chan interrupts, shooting Felix a look. “Jisungie, do you want to tell us what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Jisung lies blatantly.

“I think the fuck not you trick ass bitch,” Hyunjin retorts with a scowl, and Felix hits him.

“Hyunjin!” Chan exclaims, scandalized. “Jisungie, we’re so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Jisung sniffles, because at least Hyunjin’s jabs make everything feel a little more real. “Can I have some space?”

They’re off of him in a heartbeat, and Jisung fills his lungs with relieved air.

“You two,” Chan calls Felix and Hyunjin. “Set up the shop.”

(Astounding, Jisung thinks, because for once neither of them complain.)

“And you...” Chan nods at Jisung. “Come sit.”

Jisung doesn’t protest when Chan guides him to the sofa. He rides out the last of his sniffles before he says anything.

“Did he give your key back?” Jisung asks weakly.

“I told him to give it to Haneul after,” says Chan. “Should I not have let him?”

A sniffle. Jisung tries really hard not to cry again. He’s more frustrated than sad and the feeling lies taut in his chest like a rubber band waiting to snap.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Chan adds when Jisung doesn’t reply. Jisung figures that it would be worth it to have another point of view, so he chokes out an affirmative. Chan gives him understanding nods where he deems appropriate, rubbing circles into Jisung’s back as he tells Chan about the night before.

“It’s weird,” Chan murmurs when he finishes. “I texted him this morning to ask if you two were still coming to the shop—“

“Why would you ask that.”

“—and he said that he’s still going to come for his appointment,” Chan finishes without explaining.

“Why would he leave me a note saying that he’s going to work then?” Jisung massages his temples. “Did he just panic? Oh my god.”

“Maybe he still wants to talk,” suggests Chan, “but you don’t have to if he just keeps hurting you.”

“I... really like him,” Jisung admits. “He’s just... a fucking idiot.”

“...Should I cancel your appointment?” Chan asks, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. Did I make everything worse?”

“No, no, you didn’t do anything,” says Jisung. He inhales. “But don’t cancel his appointment.”

“Are you sure you want to see him? I don’t want to see you cry again.” Chan lays a hand on Jisung’s shoulder. “I want you to be happy.”

“I’ll talk to him again, one last time,” Jisung answers. “If he’s still being unclear and dumb I’ll... stop.”

“Jisung,” Chan says in a warning tone.

“Just once more, Channie-hyung, I swear,” Jisung sighs. “I need answers, but he probably won’t give me any unless I pin him down with my needles.”

Chan, like he always does, eventually gives in. Jisung can see the resolve crumbling on his face even before he speaks. “…Alright, alright. Since he’s paying us anyway.”

“Thanks, hyung,” Jisung says, already looking brighter. His eyes are still puffy and gross, though. Hopefully by the time Minho gets here the swelling goes down so that he actually looks presentable.

Spoiler: it doesn’t.

Because Chan gives Minho the time slot for right after they open, the one that they never use because everyone’s still groggy and gross in the morning and Jisung, today, is especially groggy and gross, because he was crying last night and he just cried again, and now he looks like some sort of gremlin that crawled half dead from a ditch.

(Chan makes bad decisions when he’s excited, Jisung concludes, because he did the same fucking thing with himself and Haneul and now Jisung has to suffer through it, too.)

Minho, however, looks ethereal.

As per fucking usual.

Everyone’s eyes dart to him when he enters, all for different reasons. Hyunjin, because he wants to know which one of them has the balls to make the first move; Felix, because he wants to fucking fight something; Chan, because he’s concerned about Jisung’s emotional well-being; and Jisung, because...

Well, there are multiple reasons.

The first reason is that Minho looks like a prince in his baby blue pinstripe blouse, with his puffy bishop sleeves and messy hair and white wash jeans. He looks untouched instead of vulpine. Pure instead of sinful. Like he’s too innocent to have been running from his feelings all this time.

The second reason is that Jisung is about to stick his needles into Minho’s skin for several hours, and that means neither of them can run away now. From their feelings or otherwise.

(Because Jisung isn’t stupid. There’s no doubt about it, especially after last night. There are definitely feelings.)

“Hi.” Jisung waves.

“Hello,” Minho chokes out.

(He can hear Felix in the background, giggling oh, how turned are the tables, but Chan doesn’t clamp a hand over his mouth this time.)

Minho walks toward Jisung almost hesitantly. He’s chewing his lip and his eyes shine not in the way that Jisung is used to, but it looks like a nervous glint that he’s never seen before.

He remembers last night. Of course he does. There’s no way either of them could forget it, even with the darkness keeping their secrets.

Jisung knows the exact moment that Minho notices his puffy eyes, because his lips part, his eyebrows furrow, and his cheeks color as he averts his eyes. Jisung has to commend him, though, for having the guts to come back here in Jisung’s territory after running away from him in the morning.

“Come with me, hyung,” Jisung manages, turning around and into the back room. “Shut the door behind you.”

Silence engulfs them when they’re alone. Minho stands at the doorway and fiddles with his thumbs as Jisung sets up.

“You can... you can sit down, hyung,” Jisung says. “I’ll be ready in a minute.”

Minho obediently sets himself down on a chair. His (pretty, pink) lips have turned red from his chewing, and he can’t seem to look Jisung in the eye. He looks like he wants to say something.

“I have a feeling you still don’t know what to get,” Jisung says quietly, because while Minho could be nervous for a different reason entirely (see: the night before), the look in his eyes is one that Jisung is familiar with. A lot of walk-ins come in on a whim and chicken out last minute because they can’t decide on something.

Minho looks up, teeth still chewing on a lip. “...Will you be mad if I say you’re right?”

“No,” Jisung answers. “I’m... used to it.”

“I’m sorry,” Minho says anyway, folding his hands together. “I know where I want it, but I don’t really... know what.”

“Do you still want one?” Jisung asks.

Minho blinks. “Well, yes, but...”

“I... I made a design yesterday.” The sketchbook sits heavy at the bottom of Jisung’s bag, settled somewhere beside the tattoo equipment. Jisung steels himself. “I tried to make it, um, intricate and pretty.”

Minho purses his lips. He looks hopeful. “Why?”

“That’s what you said you wanted when you first came here.” Jisung averts his eyes. “Something intricate and pretty. So I... made something.”

Pale fingers press against pink lips, and Minho’s eyes shine. “Can I see it?”

Wordlessly, Jisung bends down and digs the sketchbook out of his bag. He flips to the page where his design rests, all thin strokes and delicate lines. It’s a simple thing, if you don’t look close enough—only an odd cluster of flowers. He passes it to Minho.

Dog roses, Jisung recalls. A half-crown of dog roses and leaves, bunched into a crescent like the shape of Minho’s eyes when he smiles behind his sweater paws.

“Jisung, it’s beautiful,” murmurs Minho, fingers ghosting over the side of the page. “You really made this for me?”

“Who else would I make it for?” Jisung retorts, which is stupid because he designs for clients all the time. But then again, it’s never without prompt.

Minho tilts his head when he looks up at Jisung. “What does it mean?”

Pleasure and pain, Jisung wants to say. He wants to say that it’s the crescent shape of Minho’s eyes when he smiles. He wants to say that it’s the way he feels when Minho holds him and does the polka; the way it feels when he leans close and pulls away so quickly that it leaves Jisung wanting. A small part of him wants to tell Minho in the dark. The larger part tells him to stop running, and he wants to, but he can’t. He can’t say any of that without the needles in Minho’s skin, or else Minho might run again.

“Um, pleasure and pain,” Jisung murmurs instead. “From—from flower language.”

“Pain,” Minho echoes softly.

Jisung breathes in. “Do you still want it, hyung?”

“I’d take anything you would give me,” Minho replies in a heartbeat. “I mean, yes. I want it.”

Something in Jisung is quelled, like a check box being ticked. He exhales in relief.

“Where do you want it?” Jisung asks, taking a pair of black nitrile gloves from one of the containers Chan keeps in the room.

(He pretends not to see when Minho’s eyes trace his fingers as he pulls his gloves on, for both their sakes.)

“I want it on the nape of my neck,” says Minho, tapping the bump at the base of his neck. Jisung does a double take.

“The nape,” he echoes. “Your first tattoo, and you want it on the nape?”

“Yes?” Minho tilts his head. “Why?”

“Hyung, it’s gonna hurt like a bitch,” Jisung says, “especially since you’re not used to tattoos yet.”

“I think I can take it.”

If Minho regrets any of this, Jisung will say he warned him. Jisung motions for him to sit backward on the tattoo chair, and for the second time within the past twenty seconds Jisung does a double take. A tiny gasp escapes his mouth. If he turns his head into just the right position, he’d see the ghost of a vulpine curl pass over Minho’s lips. He heard.

It occurs to Jisung that Minho hadn’t turned his back to him until now. I know where I want it, Jisung recalls.

It also occurs to him then that Minho was probably waiting for this exact moment because Jisung is this close to short-circuiting at the sight of him and Minho, the little snake, loves it.

From the front, his neckline had looked simple enough, stretching from one shoulder to another in a straight line. But at the back it dips into a low v shape—low, but high enough that it would get in the way when Jisung cleanses the area. It’s separated down the middle like a corset and laced together only by a thick, silk ribbon, blue like the sky and sea in the mornings. It pulls Minho’s blouse tight around his torso. Jisung will have to loosen it.

“You can untie the bow, Sungie,” Minho teases, the familiar vulpine lilt of his returning. “Open my shirt a little. It’d be a shame if it gets ruined.”

It would. Be a shame, that is. Jisung supposes he doesn’t have a choice.

If his fingers tremble when they pull the bow loose, it’s none of Minho’s business. If his face and ears flush red when he sees the pale expanse of Minho’s nape, that’s none of his business either. It’s only his business if Jisung pulls the ribbon a little too loose, the shirt falling open across his shoulder blades. But even then it’s not an issue, because Minho only giggles at him when he turns his head.

“Just wait til my needles are in you, hyung,” Jisung mutters. “We’ll see who’s laughing then.”

“Oh?” Minho looks back, eyes glinting. “I look forward to it.”

Jisung doesn’t respond, no matter how red-faced he is. He’ll let the tattoo machine talk.

They’re quiet as Jisung does his preparations, a sort of tension filling the air like a dam about to break. Not a single sound is made until the stencil is off of Minho’s nape and the needle breaks skin.

“Oh, fuck,” Minho gasps, breathy and soft. Jisung can’t see his face from where he’s sitting, but Jisung has half a mind to believe that he’s exaggerating.

“You alright, hyung?” Jisung asks without pausing. “Can you take it?”

“Mmm,” Minho grunts. “I can take it.”

Jisung doesn’t respond after that, trying instead to concentrate on not fucking up. Occasionally Minho would breathe out in soft moans that Jisung tries to ignore, because they don’t sound like pain noises. Jisung holds that thought and tells himself that it might be him projecting, but then the needle passes over the boniest part of Minho’s nape, and suddenly Jisung can’t ignore it anymore.

Minho releases a long, drawn-out moan from the back of his throat, pale neck arching as his knuckles turn white from gripping the chair so hard. Jisung’s hands fly off of Minho on instinct—thank god, or else the tattoo would’ve been fucked—and neither of them say anything for a while. The both of them flush red down to the neck.

“Hyung?” Jisung says, breath stuttering.

“Oh god,” Minho squeaks. “Can we pretend you never heard that?”

And Jisung would, but it’s not an easy thing to forget especially when Minho keeps doing it. Jisung can hear him trying to muffle his moans, at least, but it doesn’t work. It gets to a point where Jisung is stupidly distracted and only barely escapes fucking up.

“Minho-hyung,” he finally calls. “What’s... going on?”

“It’s... it’s none of your business,” Minho snaps, briefly eyeing Jisung. His face is red.

“Why not?” Jisung blurts. “It’s distracting. This tattoo is gonna take forever if you don’t calm down.”

Minho releases a deep sigh. A minute passes before he says anything. “You don’t want to know, okay?”

”But I do,” Jisung insists. “I want to know.”

“You...” Minho pauses. Breathes. “No, okay? You don’t—you can’t want me.”

The words hit Jisung like a dodgeball to the chest. You can’t want me. It doesn’t sound like they’re talking about the moaning thing anymore, but something else. Something left over—remnants from last night’s embrace tucked into today’s words. A sore thing twists in Jisung’s chest.

“I can’t—“ Jisung chokes. “I can’t want you?”

“...No, you can’t,” Minho says, refusing to turn and face Jisung. “So don’t ask about the—“

“No, hyung,” Jisung snaps, putting his tattoo machine down. “That’s not even what we’re talking about anymore, is it?”

Minho doesn’t answer.

“Why can’t I want you?” Jisung’s voice cracks. “How could you even say that? After... after everything?”

No response.

“Minho-hyung, please,” Jisung begs. “Say something. How could I not want you after you’ve done so much to make me?”

“Jisung, I...” Minho sighs. “I’m sorry, okay?”

“Why?” Jisung’s shoulders feel heavy. “Why do you have to be sorry?”

“Because I never should have done any of that to you,” Minho answers weakly. “Can we... can we please get back to the tattoo? I’ll be quiet this time.”

“Oh,” Jisung croaks. “You really didn’t mean any of it then.”

Minho clamps a hand over his mouth. Silence.

“Wow, okay,” Jisung warbles. Picks up the tattoo machine. “Okay, okay.”

If Jisung’s fingers are deceivingly steady when they glide the needle over Minho’s pale nape, it’s none of his business. If Jisung’s face is wet with tears when Minho hides his face in his hands, that’s none of his business either. It’s only his business if he’s crying, too, but even then, it’s not an issue, because Minho doesn’t mention his tears and neither does Jisung.

Jisung thought that if he had his needles in Minho’s skin, Minho wouldn’t run away anymore. But Minho doesn’t stop, and they’ve been running after each other for so long that Jisung is tired. He just wants to breathe.

Maybe it’s time to forfeit after all.

-

The tattoo is gorgeous, of course, and Minho thanks him with red eyes and tear tracks and smile number three once it’s done. Jisung nods stiffly, and directs him to Chan for payment.

Minho is sad. Jisung knows this. But he also knows it’s not his fault. Minho had given him so many mixed signals and Jisung held his hopes so high that it hurt so much more when Minho would crush them time after time. It’s too much. Jisung can’t take it anymore.

He’ll move on. It’s fine. Sure, he’s bawling his eyes out into his hands right now. Sure, it feels like he could never be wanted again. Like he isn’t enough. But it’ll stop. Like everything else does. He just wants to be alone for a while, and once his co-workers see Minho’s tear-stained cheeks, they’ll understand what happened and leave Jisung to sob for as long as he needs to.

Or not.

“Oh hell no,” screeches a voice. “This is not fucking happening!”

A crash. Doors slamming. Chan yelling. Everyone yelling.

Jisung flinches, and then it’s quiet.

“Jisungie,” calls Felix, peeking in through the door. He looks on edge. “Can you come outside? We need you for... duck stuff.”

“Duck stuff?” Jisung echoes. “Why? What?”

“Just come outside, Sungie, it’s important!!!” Felix stresses, beckoning Jisung with his baby hand. It’s not very polite. Jisung is clearly busy.

Felix doesn’t stop with the hand flapping, though. It looks vaguely like a threat. So Jisung, with much regret, stands and wipes the tears off of his face. He doesn’t want to upset his co-workers again, especially dadchan.

But when he walks out, Felix grabs him by the wrists and pins him to the door in one swift motion. Jisung can see Chan sitting with his face in his hands on the sofa and Hyunjin with his arms crossed from the corner of his eye, and suddenly, Jisung thinks, fuck these guys.

“What the absolute fuck,” Jisung spits, “is going on here?”

“Jisung,” comes Hyunjin’s severe voice. “I am not sorry at all.”

They shove him into the supply closet.

“WHAT THE FUCK,” Jisung yells, banging his fists against the door when the handle refuses to budge. “LET ME OUT!”

”NO!” Hyunjin yells back. “I did NOT pay for your DAY6 ticket and toss you into the rain and take care of Felix’s snotty ass just so you two could chicken out of confessing to each other! Three times!”

“You made me sick on purpose?!” Jisung’s jaw drops. “You sick fuck!”

“Blah, blah, blah.” Jisung doesn’t have to see him to know he’s stubbornly covering his ears. “Get your shit together! Or you can’t come out!”

Jisung hears footsteps receding into the distance, and he has no doubt that Hyunjin got them all to leave somehow. It’s only then that he notices Minho is in the closet, too, sitting on a cushion that Jisung is sure came from the sofa. There’s a blanket and another cushion to his right. The blanket is marked on the corner with sharpie; Plan B, it says. But Jisung doesn’t pay it much attention, because there is Minho and Minho’s gaze is on the floor.

“Hi,” Jisung greets weakly.

“Hello,” replies Minho. It sounds just as empty as Jisung’s chest feels. The awkward silence hangs in the air for several minutes until Jisung’s feet get tired. He sighs.

“Mind if I join you?” Jisung only asks because Minho’s face looks completely blank, and while Jisung has seen a lot of Minho’s expressions, he’s never seen this one and he doesn’t like it.

He can’t just... leave Minho like this. Jisung is tired. From the chase and from the crying and the tattoo on Minho’s nape. But. He has to get that look off of Minho’s face. He can’t help himself. He hates it when people are upset. It doesn’t matter who.

Minho blinks up at him with glazed eyes still. “No, it’s... it’s okay.”

“I’m... sorry if,” Jisung stammers when he seats himself. “If they shoved you in here without your consent.”

“I... it’s... it’s fine.” Minho’s breath hitches. “I’m just... tired.”

“Tired?” Jisung worries at his lip. “What do you mean, tired?”

“Tired,” Minho echoes. “I’m so... tired of my own shit.”

Minho doesn’t explain further even with the look on Jisung’s face. His midnight lashes press upon his cheeks and Jisung gets the feeling that he isn’t there anymore. So Jisung doesn’t respond, and he only blinks up at the faulty light bulb to try and melt the tears off of his face.

“I’m sorry,” Minho says after a while, voice cracking. “I made you hurt again, Jisungie.”

Jisung doesn’t answer, because he’s sure that he wouldn’t be coherent anyway. He hides his face in his knees instead, and Minho doesn’t say anything more. It feels like an hour before they hear any other sound.

Muffled chatter from outside, and Jisung is filled with frustration. “What happened, hyung?”

“I’m a fucking idiot, that’s what happened,” Minho murmurs. “Everything I’ve done to you is a mistake.”

“Why? Why do you keep saying that?” Jisung asks, hands in his hair. “Was dancing with me a mistake? The soup? The cuddling? Were those all mistakes?”

“I shouldn’t have done any of that,” Minho says. His head tilts up—blinking back tears? “I’m... I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry, I’m stupid, I don’t deserve you.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Jisung answers quietly. “Please, hyung... can’t you give me a straight answer for once?”

“I’m not straight,” Minho retorts. It’s a shitty attempt at redirecting the conversation, so Jisung elects to ignore it. Mostly.

“Neither am I, and that’s why we have this problem,” he says bitterly. “What even is this?”

Minho shakes his head.

“Why would you say that you don’t deserve me? Does it matter?” Jisung chokes. “I—I want you, hyung.”

“You shouldn’t,” is Minho’s reply, and Jisung stops trying to hold back his tears. His vision blurs to the point that he can’t even see Minho anymore.

For a while he sobs into his knee and doesn’t stop until he feels a palm land tentatively on his shoulder. Jisung looks up.

Minho—closer, now—eyebrows furrowed and pretty pink lips bitten red. Guilt. Jisung doesn’t know what he should do. But what he wants to do is grab Minho by the shoulders and hug him tight so that he can’t run away anymore, so he does, and he sobs louder.

“Why—why are you like this, hyung?” Jisung warbles, hiding his face in Minho’s chest. “Do you hate me? Is that it?”

A hand comes to rest on the back of Jisung’s head. “Sungie, no,” Minho croaks. “I could never hate you.”

“Then why?” Jisung looks up at him—at his starlit eyes. “Why, hyung? I’m—I’m so confused!”

“I’m a mess, Sungie,” Minho laughs. “I can’t—I can’t put you through that.”

“What do you mean?” Jisung asks. He tightens his arms around Minho as if he’d disappear if Jisung didn’t. “Minho-hyung, I can’t... I don’t want to let you go.”

“Jisung.” Minho squeezes his eyes shut. “Can’t you—can’t you see? I’ve hurt you so much already and it’s only going to get worse if we’re together after this.”

“How do you know that?” says Jisung. “How would you know if we haven’t tried?”

Minho buries his face in Jisung’s shoulder. If either of them actually intend to avoid each other after this, Jisung thinks, this isn’t going to make it any easier, because their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces and Jisung can’t be the only one who’s feeling it.

“I’m scared,” Minho whispers infto his skin like a secret. “Can you turn out the light?”

Jisung bolts to flip the light switch so fast that he almost gets whiplash, and he knows—almost instinctively—where exactly Minho’s body is and how he has to position himself to fit against it.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Minho divulges, leaning into the crook of Jisung’s neck. “I... like you.”

Something in Jisung snaps, and suddenly a wave of relief washes over him. It’s overwhelming.

“Finally,” he croaks. “Finally.”

Because he already knows this. Because they both know this. But Minho has never said it out loud, and knowing the sky bleeds red and gold at sunset is different from seeing it for the first time. Now, Jisung sees and he knows.

“I like you so much, Jisungie,” Minho continues, “I like you so much that it makes me afraid and I keep running and running because how could I ever deserve someone as good as you?”

“Hyung,” Jisung says, because he can’t say anything else. “Hyung...”

“Sungie, you’re the cutest, sweetest, purest person I’ve ever met,” Minho adds. “I’m... just some hoe, and I don’t… deserve you. I don’t want to hurt you and lose you—you don’t deserve it.”

“...You’ve already hurt me,” says Jisung. “But I’m still here, hyung.”

He’s still there, in Minho’s arms. Not because Minho deserves it—he doesn’t. Jisung is there because he wants to be, and he doesn’t want to leave.

“I don’t deserve you,” Minho repeats, voice cracking. “I don’t.”

“Minho-hyung, please,” Jisung begs, not knowing what he’s begging for. He cups Minho’s face with trembling fingers. “Do you... do you want to be with me?”

(Pretty, pink) lips part and close and struggle to speak as midnight eyes blink at the sight of Jisung, hopeful and desperate and wanting. Both of them are wanting, and Jisung is sure it’s hurting them both to keep it hidden.

“I want to be yours,” Minho confesses. Tears roll along Jisung’s palms. “I want to, so much, so bad—“

“Then be mine, Minho-hyung,” Jisung interrupts, eyes shining with hope. “Be mine, and we’ll work through this together.”

“But what if I hurt you?” sobs Minho. Tears. So many tears. “What if—what if I do something stupid again?”

“We’ll grow together,” Jisung says. “We’ll get through it, Minho-hyung, I promise.”

“I’m scared,” Minho says again. Soft palms press against the back of Jisung’s hands. “I’m so scared, I’m—“

“It’s okay,” Jisung croons. He’s crying now, too, but somehow he feels lighter. “It’ll be okay.”

“I’m so sorry,” Minho sobs louder. “I’m so sorry I hurt you and I’m sorry I ran so many times and I’m sorry I chickened out of confessing before you tattooed me and I’m sorry I tried to pretend that I didn’t want you and I’m sorry I lied and—“

Jisung presses a thumb over his lips.

“Shh, Minho-hyung,” he laughs, soft, relieved. “I forgive you.”

“Really?” croaks Minho, and he sounds young in that moment—so, so, young, and so, so, sweet. “Do you really forgive me?”

Jisung leans in, kisses the tears off of his face.

“I forgive you, Minho-hyung,” he says again. “Please. I want you, and you want me, so can’t we just be together already?”

“Are you sure?” Minho whispers. “Are you sure you want me?”

“I’m sure,” Jisung answers, and suddenly it feels like the end of a war again. Minho, tired, presses his forehead against Jisung’s.

“...Okay, I’m,” Minho breathes. Closes his eyes. “I’m yours, Jisung. All yours.”

“Then I‘m yours, too,” Jisung answers, and it feels historic. The end of a war. Crumbling.

They collapse into each other, exhausted, and they fall asleep with the assurance that when they wake up, they will be in each other’s arms. They need time to heal. They’ve hurt so much—especially apart.

(But they’re here now.)

(Together.)

(Warm.)

-

“What did I tell you, Lix?” Hyunjin gives Felix a slick grin. “Told you we’d have to lock them in a closet.”

Jisung glares daggers into the side of Hyunjin’s head. Conniving little snake.

The sun has already set over the sleepy little shopping district, marking closing time for the tattoo parlor. It turns out that Jisung and Minho, exhausted from crying, had slept through most of the day in the dusty supply closet. Chan even had to cancel all of Jisung’s appointments. Minho is lucky because he doesn’t have work today.

Jisung glances down. Minho.

Minho is resting his head against Jisung’s chest, small smile on his face—a new one, number four?—and fingers playing absently with the hem of Jisung’s shirt. His hair is messy and dusty and his baby blue blouse is stained with cobwebs, but he still looks as beautiful as the day that Jisung first saw him. Even better—he looks happier.

“Sungie,” Minho whispers, looking up with his midnight irises.

Jisung blinks. “Yes?”

“I like you,” divulges Minho, eyes crinkling into crescents and cheeks blooming, with pretty pink lips stretching into smile number two. He giggles, and Jisung’s heart hurts. He hides his face with a hand.

Cool fingers pry it off, and Minho is pouting at him. “I thought you liked me, Jisungie.”

“I—I do!” Jisung stammers, flushing red. “I like you.”

“Okay,” Minho says innocently. “Good.”

And then he lays his head on Jisung’s torso again, and Jisung feels warm as Minho’s arms snake around him.

“Ewww,” Felix mocks. “How do we feel about this, Hyunjinnie?”

“Disappointed, but not surprised,” Hyunjin deadpans. “You doubted me, Jisung. But I came through.”

“Shut up,” Jisung snaps with a withering look. “You tossed me into the rain.”

“So? Felix did, too,” Hyunjin retorts. “I’m the best wingman, admit it.”

“Everyone say thank you, Wingman Jinnie,” Felix says, arms opening to gesture at Hyunjin.

“Thank you, Wingman Jinnie,” Minho mumbles from Jisung’s chest. Jisung has mixed feelings about this.

Hyunjin smirks. “That’s right. You’re welcome.”

“Did I raise a liar?” Chan scolds. “You aren’t the best wingman—Haneul came up with most of that.”

“Only the first—uh—two,” Hyunjin defends. “The closet thing was my idea. Did Haneul-hyung’s plans work?”

They technically didn’t, now that Jisung thinks about it. But they definitely helped.

“That’s what I thought,” says Hyunjin smugly.

“But Jinnie,” Felix calls. There’s a sickeningly sweet grin on his face. “This means you’re the only one without a boyfriend now.”

Hyunjin shoots him a withering look.

It’s his only warning before Hyunjin pounces on him.

Jisung watches the ensuing chaos—Hyunjin’s scrawny ass trying to beat Felix’s black belt ass and Chan trying to get them to stop—with a carefree grin on his face. When he looks down, Minho is smiling, too. Number four. Jisung loves it.

It’s not the chaos that Minho’s watching, though. They lock eyes and Jisung feels his heart swell.

”Minho-hyung, we made it,” Jisung whispers. He smiles wider.

“We made it,” Minho echoes. He laces their fingers together. “I was so sure I had to let you go.”

“Well,” Jisung intervenes. “You were wrong. You’re stuck with me now.”

“What a nice position to be stuck in,” Minho giggles. Jisung doesn’t know what it’s supposed to be—an innuendo, a joke? He doesn’t care. He only knows that he has an intense urge to kiss Minho. So he does.

Long fingers cup Minho’s face, bringing them closer. Their foreheads touch and Minho’s dark eyelashes fall shut. Beautiful. Jisung’s lips touch Minho’s skin—

Right on the tip of his nose.

Minho’s eyes fly open in shock, and he gapes at Jisung like a fish out of water. A chorus of disgusted groans breaks out from Jisung’s co-workers, but it’s not their mock-sneers or furrowed eyebrows that he sees.

Instead, Jisung sees dark eyes. He sees dark eyes and dark hair and pretty pink lips, and a smile like it’s keeping a secret.

For the first time since he met Minho, Jisung feels like he knows.

When Minho leans in to kiss him, Jisung doesn’t stop him. His pretty pink lips are soft. It feels like victory, like reward, like running and running after Minho all this time was worth it, because now Minho’s lips are on his and they’re soft and warm and it feels like air being breathed into Jisung’s lungs.

Their foreheads still rest against one another when they disconnect, and Jisung feels soft. Minho’s eyes are the only things that he can see. There’s something that’s making him feel different after that. Lighter, like some nuance of change has just arisen. Then he hums. There’s no doubt about it.

“Hi,” Minho says, lips stretching into a saccharine smile.

Oh, Jisung thinks.

It’s this lovely word again.